Remembering Gratitude When You’re Not Really Feeling Too Grateful

photo(72)Someone nominated me to take part in that Gratitude Challenge that’s been going around on Facebook over the past week or so and my initial response was, “Fuck you.”

When I first saw the notification from Facebook pop up on my iPhone screen that I’d been tagged in something, I was coming off of a weekend spent by myself and feeling – I’ll be honest – kind of down-in-the-dumps. Which makes no sense because I had a really fun weekend, for the most part.

But I spent most of Sunday, which at least here in New Jersey was a pretty stellar day weather-wise, inside, emerging only for a quick trip to Trader Joe’s. I then started guzzling wine promptly at 5 p.m. and watched Netflix until the kids got home later that night from their dad’s.

And I don’t know if it’s my plummeting estrogen levels at this time of the month, my unemployment status or an as-of-yet undiagnosed case of ADD, but I feel incredibly unmoored and unfocused about what I am doing with my life. And having to fill up my weekend with activities to help me forget that the family that I worked so hard to create is fractured is exhausting.

I’m cranky, y’all.

So I stomped around on Monday gritting my teeth and muttering a lot but woke up Tuesday with a much smaller chip on my shoulder. I started to remember just how good my life really is.

It’s ridiculous, my woe-is-me attitude, really, because in theory I have absolutely everything: my health, four healthy children, a (pretty nice) roof over my head, a brain in my head, thin ankles. I need to stop acting like such a little bitch, moping around and feeling sorry for myself and give thanks.

And so, herewith, the Top 10 Things in Absolutely No Order For Which I’m Thankful:

  1. Call the Midwife: Mom, I know you’ve been telling me to watch the British series for a couple of years but I resisted. But as with many things in life – like that time you told me to pack a rain jacket to go camping with my Girl Scout troop and I resisted and then spent the weekend cold and wet – you are often right.
  2. The Girl Whisperer: The man stands in my family room twice a week and makes me and my girlfriends do more squats and push ups (real ones, like, on our feet) than I could ever have thought possible two years ago. He’s freed me from jumping jacks and running and my back and knees have never felt happier and my legs have never looked better. But more importantly, in the 18 months I’ve been working with him, I’ve never eaten better. I now eat stuff like quinoa and smoothies with egg whites in them as opposed to CheezIts and Doritos. What’s even better is that the healthier eating has trickled down to how I feed my kids, too. I can’t remember the last time I grilled a hot dog, and we should all be grateful for that.
  3. Checking the School Calendar by Chance: Had I not just done that, I would have missed Back to School Night at our middle school tonight.
  4. Turning Off the AC: I am as thankful for and dependent upon air conditioning as the next person but was glad to turn it off Sunday and let the cool air in from outside. I like hearing the birds tweeting and the neighbor’s kids riding their Big Wheels around the neighborhood. It makes me feel connected to the rest of the world without the Internet’s help.
  5. My Trip South Next Weekend: Okay, they might think I complain about them here incessantly, but I had a really nice summer with my two college kids and really miss them. So I’m looking forward to seeing them next weekend and drinking Jungle Juice before a football game. Good times.
  6. My Journals: While some people may dispute the accuracy of some of the stories I tell here, I do have a safe-full of journals in which I’ve been taking notes for the last decade. Sure, there are a lot of holes in some events that have occurred, but I can totally tell you how much I weighed on March 21, 2012 and how many glasses of wine I drank the night before. The journals have also come in handy recently as I’ve tried to tackle some bigger subjects in my writing and unearthed descriptive nuggets like the broken television trapped behind plexiglass at our hospital psych ward and lying on a boat in the Aegean and hearing the sounds of rooster crowing at dawn.
  7. Fortunate Timing: I went paddle boarding on the river Saturday afternoon and even though I had heard on the news that there were storm warnings and my two friends and I heard the thunder while digging through the choppy water, we kept on going. Finally, one of the girls was like, “I think I’m turning around, y’all,” and as we changed direction, we noticed the giant black clouds quickly moving towards us. Luckily, it was only as we were hoisting the big boards out of the water that the gusts of wind really kicked in and white caps formed along the river where we were just paddling frantically moments before. We took comfort in the house margaritas at a nearby bar where we told anyone who would listen about our adventure for hours afterwards. And yes, we totally learned a valuable lesson about the force of Mother Nature. You do not fuck with her.
  8. My Cat: She made me write that.
  9. My Blog Readers: I went for a walk in a nearby park yesterday and ran into a woman I know who immediately started telling me how much she could relate to something I had just written about here. And I’ve gotta tell you, that happens at least once a day, running into someone at the market or at a local restaurant who tells me they read my blog. And if you’re a writer you know that it never gets old. Your ego would never let that happen. I love hearing that people can relate to the things I write about that are going on in my life and that sometimes I even make them laugh. It helps me know that I’m moving in the right direction in my life.
  10. Friends With Benefits: I am blessed with being able to call a ton of people “friend.” They sit on the beach with me and are happy to share their limes and Coronitas. They invite me to their place in Florida and put up with me after one too many Hendricks cocktails. They invite me to their gorgeous beach house – like, on the beach beach house – and feed me things like Halibut Oreganata with Pesto and Peach Macaroon Crisp and then take the time to email all the recipes, just in case. And they nominate me on Facebook to remember all that I have to be grateful for and then graciously remain silent when I act like a bitch about it.

Oh, there’s one more thing! I’m always super grateful when you guys sign up to get my posts delivered right to your inbox. I love knowing I’ve made your life a little easier! What are you grateful for?

When Nothing is Fair at the Fair

Credit: David Hand

Credit: David Hand

It happened around 7:35 p.m. on Wednesday, Aug. 26 this year. That’s the moment when my youngest child – a boy who still kisses me full on the lips and likes to sleep in my bed – looked at me in horror when I suggested we go on a ride together at the annual firemen’s fair in the next town.

“Hey,” I said to him as I handed over the $25 worth of tickets I had just stood in line to buy, “let’s go on the Rainbow together.”

The Rainbow is that platform with two rows of seats that swings out sideways, back and forth, and eventually starts going all the way around in one direction and then switches to the other direction — thus really mixing up whatever’s been sitting in your stomach since dinner.

“I’m not going on the Rainbow with you,” he snarled, recoiling from me as if I’d just suggested we clean toilets together.

“What are you talking about?” I said, looking down at his little face twisted in revulsion. “Everyone wants to go on the Rainbow with me.”

Credit: arlnow.com

Credit: arlnow.com

And it’s true. My daughters always loved going on rides with me when they were younger and we’d make our annual pilgrimage to the fair. They would happily sit next to me as the Rainbow would lift us up and over the fairgrounds or join me strapped in the death cage called the Zipper that spun us inside, outside and upside down while I shouted the “f” word at the top of my lungs. They got a kick out of seeing their mom convinced she was about to die.

I think I am one of the few grown ups who actually likes going on those rickety fair rides. I enjoy spinning around while worrying about the last time the ride had passed a safety inspection or whether the operator was addicted to prescription meds. It’s fun. And I really love doing it with my kids. Near death experiences are always excellent bonding opportunities.

So when my girlfriend and I decided to take our sons and a few other boys to the fair that night, I was looking forward to drinking a beer, eating an ice cream cone and going on at least one ride with my kid. Sounded like the perfect night.

My 11-year-old, however, had a different vision for how our evening would transpire, which mostly involved him roaming around the fair with his posse while I paid for the whole experience and then waited around to drive him home.

And that’s pretty much what happened. I handed him the ride tickets and forked over another $15 for games and ice cream, and he and his dudes disappeared for the night. They had to check in every half hour with the moms by the mini golf course but then they were free to roam around the fair.

But after one such check in, my girlfriend and her husband decided they were going to go on the Ferris wheel with their daughter and I A.) Didn’t want to be the third wheel in such a little car and B.) Am terrified of the Ferris wheel and try to avoid whenever possible. Then I overheard the little dudes say that they were headed to the Rainbow, and I was like, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

I mean, what else was I supposed to do?

We stood on the long line and slowly made our way towards the ride entrance and the boys pretty much ignored my presence. Our turn finally came to climb onto the ride’s platform and we handed over our tickets to the dude and my son led the way to the back row where we filed into our seats and he made sure to place his three friends in between the two of us.

“C’mon,” I said to him as the rest of the row settled in. “Switch seats.”

But my son, the same child who just earlier that day was curled up next to me on a beach towel and would later come home and insist on sleeping in my bed, refused to budge. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.

So there I was, pretty much on the Rainbow by myself and only thankful that the sadness of the event was shielded from most bystanders by the row in front of me. And while I loved being lifted over and around and seeing the lights of the fair below, there is something kind of sad about a 48-year-old woman having that experience solo.

But I guess it’s just the natural order of things. Unless it’s drinking alcohol together (preferably booze that I’ve purchased), none of my kids really want to do things with me any more. They’d rather go off with their friends.

I just didn’t expect my little guy to shun me right there, at, like, 7:30 on a Wednesday night. I thought I’d have more time to prepare for that final rejection.

But I found consolation later in my ice cream cone. I don’t even like ice cream that much but I love the soft serve cones they serve at the fair, which swirl the chocolate and the vanilla together and then get dipped in a bucket of chocolate sprinkles to make a nice, crunchy outer layer.

I sat on a bench and licked the sprinkles dripping down the sides and noticed that I didn’t even know anyone at the fair any more. When my three older kids were younger, it seemed like I’d at least recognize most of the other parents pushing strollers through the dirt and chasing little ones toward the fun house. But now half my kids are in college and the other half is apparently too cool to be seen at the fair with me and I don’t know a soul. It seems after almost 20 years, we’ve aged out of the Rainbow and Zipper.

I popped the last of the cone into my mouth – the best bite in my estimation – and stood up to meet the boys and go home and wondered if there were any more trips to the fair in my future. Maybe next year I’d be relegated to just picking up and dropping off.

I’ll miss the plastic cups full of beer, commiserating with the other parents and of course — that meltingly-soft ice cream cone. But mostly, I’ll miss spinning high overhead under the lights of the fair pressed close to one of my children on a hot August night.

Sweeter than ice cream.

 

 

 

The Under-Estimator

Credit: behappy.me

Credit: behappy.me

This morning, I told the guy that I work out with twice a week that one of my main issues – okay, other than my penchant for wine and hankering for unavailable men – was that I am an under-estimator.

“Calories, drinks, kids,” I told him, “I always just assume I have less of something than I really do.”

(This can also be applied to my weight, the amount of time I spend on Facebook and my monthly AmEx bill.)

Interestingly enough, I employ the opposite thinking with the amount of money I have in the bank. I always operate as if I have more than I really do.

But I digress.

We were discussing the Fitbit that my friend, who also exercises with the man I like the call the Girl Whisperer, just bought and we were kind of teasing her about it.

She’s rail thin, quite fabulous for a girl in her late 40s – or late 30s, for that matter – and she bought the navy  bracelet to help her keep track of how many steps she takes each day and ultimately lose six pounds. Not five. Not seven. Six.

She also synced the device to her computer to input what she eats to help her determine how many calories + how many steps she needs to achieve her weight loss goal.

I was saying that it would be a waste of money for me to get a Fitbit because I’m terrible at keeping track of things and always just assume I’m better than I really am. So like, I’d be good about inputting the salad I ordered at dinner last night but would forget to add the dozen or so French fries I ate off my son’s plate. Like, that shit doesn’t really count, does it? The same thinking applies to food eaten while standing up or intoxicated. Those calories are like the unicorns of eating: magical and nonexistent.

But truth be told, I actually did buy a Fitbit a few years ago when they first came out. I had been steadily gaining weight and blamed it on all the sitting I did working on my computer and at meetings a few nights a week for my all-consuming job. I was still running and working out but assumed that I was just moving around a lot less during my day than I did before I worked full time and just needed to get off my butt a little more.

Enter the Fitbit. I dutifully typed my vital statistics into the computer and starting wearing it around clipped to my bra as I went about my day.

What I neglected to take into account were all those boxes of CheezIts and bags of Doritos I was plowing through late at night watching the Daily Show whilst the FitBit rested on my brassiere and was showered in orange dust.

But then I legit popped a zipper on a pair of jeans – a really cute pair of, like, AG ones from Anthropologie —  that I was trying to squeeze into for a night out and I sucked in my tummy and pulled up the zipper, exhaled and POP! went my pants. Rock fucking bottom. Luckily, my vanity would not put up with this downward spiral and I got serious about paying attention to every single fry and M&M I put in my mouth and just wore those – now repaired – jeans the other night and the zipper went right up and they looked cute. Case closed.

So anyway, now you know. And it wasn’t a matter of walking 10,000 steps a day or counting calories. I just stopped eating shit and got back to my regular self.

It probably all comes down to paying attention, something I’m not always so good at. There’s probably a will power element involved here too, since I tend to go for the immediate gratification and not worry about consequences. But whatever.

I’m still a work in progress, regardless of how many calories, drinks or kids I have. And I’m always looking for unicorns.

Have you signed up to get new posts emailed delivered straight to your inbox? Then what are you waiting for? Just plug your email into the box that says “receive new posts in your inbox” and you’ll get an email every time I post something new. Luckily, I’m lazy so it’s not that often. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forty-Eight

photo-35I knew that my 48th birthday yesterday was a something when it even seemed to give my father pause.

I called him the day before to thank him for the gift he sent, and he mentioned my age and how the calendar on his computer had told him it was “Amy Byrnes’s 48th birthday” and then he says, “Huh” and literally paused.

My father is a man of few words so I could tell that for him to bring it up, he thought my age was a something, too. I think it even made him feel old.

And honestly, I usually don’t really get caught up in my age. I still feel like the same, albeit much smarter, woman who I was 20 years ago. I feel healthy and strong and know that I can still turn heads if I really put my mind to it and wear, like, mascara and stuff.

It’s just that I’m starting to feel, as I near the end of my 40s, that there’s an expiration date on all of this. Things are starting to feel a little less infinite.

For one thing, as much as I didn’t really worry too much about a man’s age initially as I re-entered the dating scene, I’m starting to think that a cap needs to be put in place. I need to draw the line on just how young of a man I am willing to spend time with, which is really going to limit the already pretty limited dating pool I’m forced to deal with.

It’s like that really great line from the movie “The Other Woman,” which I watched last night with my daughters, in which the Lesley Mann character — who is struggling with whether to leave her philandering husband — expresses her horror at the idea of dating in her 40s.

“The last time I was single I was 24 and the dating pool was everyone,” she cries to the Cameron Diaz, not-very-sympathetic, character. “And now it’s like a shallow puddle of age appropriate men who are old and gross.”

Ha.

I’m also starting to feel that I need to get going on all of those things I was going to do “some day” – like write a book or be a famous blogger –because “some day” is, like, right now.

I worry, which I never did before, that I’m getting too old for some things, like going to certain bars on Sunday nights to dance and wearing the cat necklace my 11-year-old gave me for my birthday out in public. I’m concerned about what other people might think about me and whether I can pull certain things off because even though I feel young, my looks are beginning to betray just how old I really am.

And that light I’d been looking for at the end of my parenting tunnel — that time in my life I fantasized about when I still had to wash three little heads under the tub faucet each night and sweep piles of discarded Cheerios and bits of American cheese off my kitchen floor – when they’d actually grow up, is kind of here, too. In no time I’ll watch my oldest turn 22 and graduate from college and send my third kid off to school and things around here are really going to start to change. Even my days as the mom of an elementary school student are starting to wind down, which you’d think – as I’ve had a child in grammar school since 1999 – wouldn’t come as such a big shock, but it’s hard to believe that those days of art shows, band concerts and middle school dances might actually come to an end.

The good news is that I am ridiculously optimistic, like, as hopeful as a golden retriever just waiting for you to drop something off your fork onto the floor, so I know it’s all going to work out. I’m just going to move to new stages of my life while my neck continues its downward spiral as it tries to merge into my décolletage but it’s all going to be okay.

Because what are my options? I have a girlfriend right now who is facing the challenge of breast cancer, so I’m certainly not going to start crying about my sagging boobs. I’m lucky their collective droop is the worst issue I have to deal with in that department.

And even though this was the fifth birthday I’ve celebrated as a single person, I appreciate how it’s forced my kids to take responsibility for making it a special day for me. They bought me great gifts, took me out to dinner and even paid for parking. They also took care of some pesky chores around the house – like putting chemicals in the pool and organizing shelves in the garage – without a peep of resistance. Someone even emptied the dishwasher.

So, am I thrilled about turning 48? Um, not so much. But am I grateful for all of the things I am blessed with here, in the middle of my pretty wonderful life?

You betcha.

Happy birthday to me.

Happy birthday to me.

 

 

 

Gains and Losses

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Credit: Susan Buchenberger

In theory, you would have thought I’d be happy they were leaving.

I mean, I scored a lot of swag over the last few weeks as my next-door neighbors frantically cleaned out their house so they could pull up stakes and move to Hong Kong this past weekend. They needed to clear out for another family in town who are renting their house while they’re gone.

Here are just some of the bigger items that I am the new – and in some cases — temporary, owner of:

  • Sauna
  • Trampoline
  • 2 paddle boards
  • Potted boxwoods
  • Multiple bags of quinoa
  • Not one but three iPhone 5 chargers
  • Trader Joe’s Frozen Mahi Mahi steaks

This is not to mention the two shopping bags full of frozen and refrigerated items, about 10 bottles of assorted alcohol and one final bag yesterday containing everything from Trader Joe’s popcorn to a new bottle of Nivea lotion and Band Aids that I brought home.

I could have also had a cat, dog, bunny and various houseplants, but I drew the line at anything that required being kept alive. I can commit to quinoa but not animals, nowadays.

Initially, when my neighbor Susan started to offer various pantry items to me as she began clearing out her kitchen to prepare to move to Hong Kong for a couple of years for her husband’s job, I demurred. I was okay in the herbal teas and balsamic vinegar department and felt bad taking hers.

But then she told me how she tried to get another friend to take items from her pantry, and that friend also politely declined, and Susan said to me, “All I could think was: For fucks sake, please just take it!”

She needed us to help take stuff off her hands. It made her life easier.

So I stopped saying, “No,” every time she offered me something, which turned out to be a lot since I lived right next door, making it relatively easy to unload giant things like trampolines and saunas. I stopped feeling embarrassed or guilty for taking their stuff and saw it as something that made the giant move to the other side of the world with her husband and three young boys a tiny bit easier.

But of course, all the Kahlua and frozen Mahi Mahi steaks in the world could not make up for how much I was really losing. I told Susan that as we hugged good-bye in her garage Sunday morning as the giant black van waited to take her and her family and their 17 bags to JFK to fly to Hong Kong.

“You’ve been such a good friend,” I cried as we stood their hugging each other and she hugged me a little tighter and I thought about what an understatement that was. How critical her friendship has been to the quality of my life.

She was a major part of the safety net that kept me from falling to the ground during and after my divorce. She always included my youngest child – who’s 11 and around the same age as her boys – in whatever they were doing.

“Does he want to come over to watch a movie?”

“Does he was to stay and eat pizza?”

“Does he need a ride to lacrosse?”

“Does he want to stay at the beach with us?”

“Does he want to go to the movies with us?”

“Does he want to sleep over?”

It was always so easy and made the transition from stay-at-home mom to single working mom a lot easier.

She never said, “No,” when I asked her for a favor, never even hesitated or made me feel bad. She often asked if I needed anything if she was running to Costco or Trader Joe’s, and gave my family more free cupcakes from the cupcake business she ran on the side, than we could ever dream possible.

And she looped me into her group of friends — who have kids around my youngest child’s age — which helped me not only meet a great group of people but let me find a niche after my divorce and needed to find a place to set up my beach chair in the summer. She gladly welcomed me into her circle and had a spicy margarita waiting when I got there.

Her husband, Michael, was just as good. He was the boys’ lacrosse coach and helped us with the complicated equipment and always made sure my son was on his team, which came in handy this past spring when I forgot to pick my guy up from practice and Mike just scooped him up with his own kids to bring home.

“I literally forgot him,” I texted Michael back in May. “WTH is gonna happen when u guys r gone?”

WTH is right.

When I first told my 17-year-old daughter that our neighbors, whose boys she has been babysitting since they moved next door seven years ago, were definitely moving to Hong Kong, she started to cry. “Not my babies,” she sniffled.

But we knew that the move was hard enough on Susan and the boys without us being all weepy in front of them, so we put on a good face. We talked about how exciting it was, this new adventure, and how they’ll be back in New Jersey with lots of stories to tell in a few years.

In the meantime, for the rest of us, it’s kind of like a temporary death. I’ll miss the day-to-day interactions, the ease of having someone just a few yards away who I can ask to borrow an egg or sesame oil or drive me to the hospital if I’m feeling especially crazy. I’ll miss being able to tell my son to go outside and see what the boys are doing and watching them all play soccer on her front lawn for hours on end. I’ll even miss all the pieces of crap they set up in my driveway as they practiced for their future jobs as professional skateboarders and BMX riders.

So when I walked around Costco and Wegman’s yesterday crying after they pulled out of the neighborhood, it wasn’t really for Susan’s family that I was weeping. They were going to be great. I mean, they already have a trip planned to Thailand in October.

To be honest, I was really crying for me.

Because I might have gained a sauna and lots of quinoa, but for now, I’ve lost some wonderful friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 Days of Fun

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This meme pretty much sums up my last 10 days.

Here is the downside of going out nine times in ten days: you don’t really get a lot of stuff done. And while I’ve amassed about a book’s-worth of stories – oh my god, do I have some good stories – I can’t really write about most of them. I mean, you can call me up and I’d share a few of them with you, but I totally can’t put it all out there on my blog. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.

So I haven’t really known what to write about in the meantime. Even the guy I work out with, who was away on vacation last week, laughed when I told him some of my stories this morning and was like, “You haven’t written anything in so long, I knew something was going on.”

My “10 Days of Fun,” as I have taken to calling this party-thon, was a convergence of pre-planned activities that were coincidentally strung together over many consecutive days – including a dinner to celebrate some Leo ladies’ birthdays, a going away party for neighbors and good friends and my 30th high school reunion.

I know.

And there has been dancing, people, lots and lots of dancing and teetering around in high heels and as a result, walking has become a bit of an issue. I woke up Sunday morning and the first thing I said to my high school BFF, who came up from Virginia for the reunion and was lying next to me in bed, was, “My fucking bunions are killing me.”

Sexier words have never been spoken between two people lying in bed together.

But I’ve had a bee in my bonnet lately about going out and having fun. It’s like I’m going through that phase that most divorced people go through when they first taste the freedom of being single, except I’m on a five-year delay. When my marriage collapsed, instead of rushing out to party and console myself in the arms of someone else, I kind of went into hiding. I spent my time drinking wine in the homes of close friends and acting like Greta Garbo. I just hated the idea of people talking about me and didn’t want to add to things already being said. I kept my nose clean and focused on my kids and my new, all-consuming job.

And I think it’s safe to say that that was a good move. I figured out how to be happy by myself and with myself and maintain my dignity during a difficult period. I had fun, but it was more of the go-out-to-dinner or go-to-the-movies kind of fun.

Oh, how things have changed.

I had more fun in the month of July than all of 2011. I have danced to “Rosalita” on a packed dance floor on a hot Sunday night. I stood and ate cheese fries around midnight with high school friends and laughed about how much and how little had changed in 30 years. I squatted with my face pressed next to my oldest daughter’s at the bottom of an ice luge as shots of vodka raced down the chutes and into our mouths. And I kissed a guy in a bar on a dare by a girlfriend and was reminded of just how good chemistry between two people can be.

That kind of fun.

I spent my final night of fun back out with a group of friends from town to celebrate/mourn the pending departure of one of the families to Hong Kong and also trying to recapture all the fun we had at this particular bar the week before. We brought the husbands this time, too, and ate sliders and peeled shrimp on the back porch before heading downstairs to dance and drink mixed drinks out of Dixie cups. Even the guys got in on the act of being my Wingmen and interviewed my potential dance partners over beers. One poor guy had to go through so many rounds of interviews before he could dance with me that by the time he was finished, I had snuck off and found someone else to dance with.

I think some of this non-stop fun is due, in part, to my upcoming 48th birthday but can attribute a lot of my recent shenanigans to just being more open to dudes. I now realize that for a long time, I just wasn’t into the idea of guys and dating. For some reason, it freaked me out. I just couldn’t deal. But then I dated someone I kind of liked and, boom, wanted to do it again.

But I’ve always been a late bloomer. I mean, I started drinking and smoking when I was, like, 12, but some of the bigger things – like developing self-awareness and healthy boundaries – came a lot later to me than normal people.

So, you all will be happy to know that tonight, I will not be putting on eye shadow and telling my kids to make themselves pizza bagels. Instead, I plan on getting into bed early and watching a movie or starting a new book. I might not even drink.

I need to rest up, since I’m out every night for the rest of this week. There are four more weeks until Labor Day, you know.

Maybe we should call this my “Summer of Fun.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer ’14 Highlights: ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ and Egg Whites

I do also go to Costco on occasion, I'll have you know.

Sometimes I go to Costco, I’ll have you know.

My two daughters came into my room this morning to find me lying on my bed, typing on my laptop.

“Mom, are you wearing real clothes?” one of them asked, and she started to inspect the strange pleated pants I was wearing that I bought at Athleta recently and had really taken a cotton to. They’re kind of  silky – a step up from nylon – and an oyster color and are fitted at the ankle and fuller around the waist.

“Yes I’m dressed,” I said, indignantly. “If you’re MC Hammer.”

“Mom, we really think you need to get out of the house,” the other one said. “It’s like your old job all over again except now you’re just doing nothing.”

Then they started to toss a million different activities out to motivate me off the bed (Who do they think they are? Me?):

“Why don’t you go clean your closet?”

“Or maybe organize the crawl space?”

“Volunteer?”

“Go to the gym?”

“Do you want to come to Harmon with me?”

But when I tried to interview them about their collective fear that I am frittering my days away this summer, they immediately stopped talking.

“I don’t want any of my quotes showing up misconstrued, as usual, on your blog,” said the older one, “which you’ve already done, like, a magillion times.”

NOTE TO SELF: Start wearing a wireless device to capture these conversation gems on the down-low because there is little else to write about of late.

With about six weeks left to go, this summer break from school (I hesitate calling it a “vacation” because, let’s face it, kids lying around your house all day is not akin to a week in Jamaica) has been a study in contrasts around here.

While the season started off with a bang – filled with head staples, stitches and matters of the heart – it has kind of evened out into one big yawn.

I mean, the most exciting thing that’s happened in my life this week is that I swapped out egg whites for Greek yogurt in my morning smoothie.

But that might be okay.

I mean, the downside is that I’ve had absolutely nothing to write about, which is a combination of being in a very slow personal news cycle and not wanting to hurt people’s feelings (oh, how all the feelings get in the way of things).

I’ve had my fair share of sustained summertime excitement over the years. In fact, this is the first summer in memory where I haven’t wanted to blow my brains out by mid-July.

In the past, I had little kids to keep busy, and I did so by lugging everyone to the beach each morning. That evolved from me dragging toddlers and infants down to the sand with pack-n-plays and blow up pools to swim team and tennis lessons and playing with their summer friends while I sat and chatted with my in-laws or read.

Certainly not terrible, but kind of mindless and repetitive.

Then the older kids found a social life – along with Four Loko and weed – and were out looking to get it popping 7-nights-a-week. On the heels of all that fun, I went through a divorce and landed a full-time job that kept me busy 24/7. It was relentless, but kind of great, too.

But now that I’m unemployed and the older three kids are busy this summer with internships and part-time jobs, I feel a little adrift just working on my writing each day. And a little guilty.

But then, I came across this quote last night in a book I’m reading called “Spiritual Divorce,” that kind of borrows from AA’s line of thinking about acceptance:

“Without the faith that life is just as it should be, we cannot accept people, places, and things as they are. We will always be trying to change, manipulate, and control the outer world. ”

So I’m trying to embrace where I am, which is really a gift. It’s an opportunity to spend more time with my youngest child – who I’ve spent the last four summers trying to get rid of for work – and concentrate on my writing.  It’s just how this summer is supposed to play out and who knows what will happen next.

In the meantime, the other big news in my life is that – aside from having something I wrote slated to be featured on Scary Mommy in August and another possible local reading in September or October – I am officially obsessed with the new trailer for “Fifty Shades of Grey.” 

I heard the sultry new version of “Crazy In Love” Beyonce recorded for the trailer coming down the hallway from one of the girls’ rooms earlier, and I shouted (from my bed), “Hey! Are you watching Fifty Shades?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“OMG I’ve already watched it twice this morning,” I squealed.

“Ew, mom,” my younger one yelled.

“I’m obsessed,” I shouted back, laughing.

“Stop!” she shrieked. “You need help.”

C’mon. I mean, a girl needs a little excitement in her life. Doesn’t she?

Dating Naked: The End of the World as We Know It

Credit: VH-1

Credit: VH-1

It’s official: The end of the world is right around the corner.

How do I know this? Because I just learned about a new show on VH-1 called Dating Naked, and if that is not a sign that civilization is about to implode, I do not know what is.

I’ll be honest, I have not watched – nor do I ever intend to – watch the show. I am basing everything on reviews I read about it in The Times and New York Magazine. And I still feel dirty.

I mean, isn’t dating bad enough? Isn’t it hard enough to have to sit at a bar and worry about exposing how many kids you have to your date, much less the state of your abdomen?

And, honestly, what woman really wants to see a guy’s junk right away? I mean, no offense, but that’s a visual really best left to the imagination.

For second date fun-and-games on this new show, couples actually have to move around naked and do stuff like roll around in the ocean in a giant see-through ball and body painting (I don’t even have the stomach to tell you which body part one of the gentlemen uses to create, ahem, art).

Credit: VH-1

Credit: VH-1

But of course, these contestants – or however we need to refer to them – are not middle-aged divorcees but generally folks in their 20s and 30s. I guess they didn’t go to 12 years of Catholic school and feel really good about walking around naked. But still.

It takes a lot of courage to put your heart out there, even in a turtleneck. Why would you want to up the vulnerability ante by doing so naked?

And who would want to watch that?

Credit: VH-1

Credit: VH-1

 

 

 

 

3 Things I’m Obsessed With This Week

bravotv.com

bravotv.com

I am an all-or-nothing kind of person. I either REALLY like something or am toally meh about it. As noted in the past here, I’ve applied this philosophy to things like wine and tanning (love) and finding a new job (not so much).

And usually, when I’m really in love with something, I want to tell everyone I run into about it and try to convert them to use/watch/try/wear whatever it is I’m obsessed with. It makes my kids crazy.

Here’s what I’m loving this week and please feel free to share what you’re digging so I can find new things to focus on. Do it for my kids, if nothing else:

 1. Watch What Happens Live

My sister-in-law texted me the other day to tell me Kelly Ripa (ongoing obsession) was going to be on “Watch What Happens Live.” “I don’t know what that is,” I responded and she was like, “WTF?”

Just when I thought I knew everything I needed to know about all-things-pop-culture, this amazing show on Bravo – which is celebrating its 5th anniversary so I am so late to the party – comes into my life. It’s just a super-fun 30 minutes with celebrities drinking cocktails and playing games at 11:00 on weeknights.  It’s hosted by Andy Cohen, who I guess is the mastermind behind all the Housewives shows, which I don’t even hold against him because he’s so adorable I want to be his best friend.

In just the one episode I watched this week, with Kelly and Anderson Cooper (aka: Silver Fox) as guests, I got to hear Kelly ask the Fox repeatedly if he was circumcised and Anderson spill the beans that Andy was a Top (not to be confused with a Bottom and, PS: Who knew that was a thing?).

  1. Essie Bikini Strap

Even though they are attached to my ankles, the only naturally-thin part of my body, I do not love my feet and am loathe to call attention to them. You will not catch me with green or aqua toenail polish on them, but every once in a while maybe a Lincoln Park After Dark if I’m feeling fancy. No, I would rather keep my paws – and my giant, club-like big toes in particular – just kind of clean looking and unassuming. So the pedicure I just got this week with Essie’s Bikini Strap – a nice, pale pink shade – is very pleasing every time I look down at my flipflops and makes me happy. It’s also not too sheer that you can see all the sand stuck under your toenails, which is a plus. I highly recommend it.

It's like the little black dress of toenail polish.

It’s like the little black dress of toenail polish.

 

  1. Rainmaker app

Over the years, I’ve experimented with different types of background noise to listen to as I write. I have discovered that I can’t listen to music with lyrics and I certainly can’t turn on NPR or Hoda and Kathie Lee. Way too distracting. So I was excited yesterday when I saw a tweet about the Simply Rain app. You can moderate the instensity of the shower and even the frequency of the thunder and it’s super pleasing.  I could just sit and listen to it and not even write. Which is what I think I’ll do right now.

http://rain.simplynoise.com

http://rain.simplynoise.com

On an interesting side note, when I was trying to come up with some things I’m obsessed with this week and asked my daughter for ideas — stuff she’s heard me talk a lot about lately — she said, “I don’t know. Yourself?”

 

 

‘How Ugly is This Guy?’: Things My Kids Ask About My Dates

images “Okay, Mom,” said my 17-year-old daughter, totally out of the blue not long ago. “How ugly is this guy?”

We had been lying around our den one afternoon – along with her older sister and best friend from across the street – laughing and chatting about nothing in particular, when she asked her question.

I had just started dating someone and although it was the first real relationship I had had since I split from their dad five years earlier, the girls really didn’t want any details. In fact, the entire subject of this new guy made their faces twist in disgust and brought an abrupt halt to the conversation.

So I was surprised she would ask me anything about him, especially what he looked like.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I think he’s kind of cute.”

She then proceeded to make gagging noises and pretended to vomit over the arm of the leather chair she was draped in. But the neighbor was all over it; leaning forward to get every detail she could about my new dating life.

“Maggie is, like, obsessed with this,” my daughter sniped and she told her friend to cut it out. She made it clear that my dating life was totally disgusting and not cool.

I always thought that by the time I got around to dating, once we were able to brush all the ashes and soot of the nuclear fallout of my divorce off and get on with our lives, my kids would be happy to see me happy.

I am so naïve.

The truth of it is that children, for the most part, are not really that interested in their parents’ happiness; especially when it puts their own happiness at risk.

No, it turns out my kids would rather see me alone, surrounded by cats and stacks of newspapers and back issues of The New Yorker, than with a significant other.

And for a long time, that seemed to be my trajectory. I was really busy with a demanding full-time job and managing the fallout of the divorce – all of the emotional ups and downs – to even think about dating. I had a pissed off ex-husband and three ornery teenagers so I didn’t really feel the need to develop any new relationships. I had enough personalities on my plate to manage, thank you.

But five years after everything imploded, even my therapist was like, “Start dating, already.” And I tried. I signed up for online services and never said “no” to anyone trying to fix me up with someone. I even gave a checkout guy my number, for gods sakes.

But my heart wasn’t really in it.

So, unlike all the glasses of wine and cups of coffee I shared with a litany of fix ups before, I went on a date not long ago with not only an open mind, but an open heart and kind of liked the guy enough to go out again the next night.

And I’ve got to admit, the whole thing came out of the blue. One minute I’m going to meet yet another guy at a bar for a drink and the next, we’ve gone out together seven times in two weeks.

So the kids were annoyed that this new relationship briefly took me away from being on call 24/7 for sandwich making duties and counter wiping. They like the idea of me standing in our kitchen at the ready as they go about their lives. They like to know that I’m around on the off chance that they might need me.

And they’ve been jealous of things that have taken my attention away from them in the past – like my girlfriends and my former job – but nothing compared to the disdain they employed when discussing my love life.

One night, as I rushed around the kitchen putting out taco fixings for dinner before I got picked up to go out on a date, two of the kids were complaining that I was going out with this guy again and I threw up my hands and asked, “You guys, don’t you want me to be happy?”

And the two of them looked at me and said, unequivocally, “No.” They barely blinked before they said it.

My 20-year-old daughter told me she had come home from a summer class the night before and was feeling cranky about the course and when she saw her older brother sitting on the couch watching TV, she asked him where I was.

“Out on a date,” he said.

“AAARRRGGGHH!” was, I think, the response she said she gave him and he immediately snapped back, “Cut it out. Mom deserves to date.”

So, at least a quarter of my progeny can see past themselves and support my love life.

I tried to talk to each kid about it privately. I tried to assure them that I wasn’t going to marry the guy. We were just dating and that if it wasn’t him, at some point it was going to be somebody else.

I told this to my little guy, and he just said, “Face.”

“Face?” I asked. “What do you mean face?”

“I want to see his face,” he told me. “Take a selfie so I can see what he looks like.”

But it never came to that. The relationship lasted the duration of two gel manicures — for whatever reason — but it taught me a lot about myself and what I want. And I think it was a really good experience for the kids. It helped brace them for when I am in a relationship that lasts longer than a month.

No matter what he looks like.