Author Archives: Amy Byrnes

Jan
19
2014

Public Radio Groupie

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IMG_0718Over the past year it seems I have gone from being a fan of NPR to becoming a downright groupie.

I discovered public radio about 15 years ago while scrolling through the dial, looking for something to listen to while driving around in my car on a Saturday or Sunday when the local New York AM radio shows I listened to during the week weren’t on the air.

I had already grown weary of commercial radio – I mean, how many Spice Girls and Boys II Men songs can a grown woman listen to on a drive to the supermarket? – and preferred talk shows that featured interviews with book authors and chatter about what’s going on in New York City.

I even started to turn the radio on in my kitchen as I went about my days folding laundry and cooking chicken nuggets because staying home to care for young children tends to be a strangely solitary experience. Like, you might be surrounded by people, albeit very small ones, but nobody really wants to talk to you. They mostly just want you to wipe their fannies and pour them another glass of milk.

Instead, I took comfort in the radio and spent my days in the company of personalities like Joan Hamburg, Arthur Schwartz, John Gambling and Dr. Joy Brown.

Their conversations filled my days with reviews of the latest Manhattan restaurants, recipes for turkey stuffing involving Ritz Crackers, interviews with the likes of Nora Ephron and Alan Cummings and love advice, like how you should not date until you’ve been officially divorced for one year (Thanks, Dr. Joy. I’m obviously going the extra-mile by waiting over three to jump back in.).

But all my radio friends would take time off on the weekends so one day while driving the half hour trip to my mom’s I discovered WNYC.

Everything was very calm at that station, even the long news pieces on wars, shootings in the Bronx or upcoming elections. It provided a nice contrast to the crying and complaining in my minivan.

But what I liked even better than the news was all the fun stuff playing on the weekends, like “Car Talk,” “This American Life” and the game show “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me.”

I mean, what is cooler than a game show?

Over time, I just kept the car and kitchen radio tuned to public radio and the kids would groan when we’d start driving to the mall and they’d hear the voice of maybe Lakshmi Singh or Soterios Johnson.

“Mom, they sound like they’re on medication,” one of the kids would complain and  start speaking in a fancy monotone and the others would laugh along, mocking my station choice and invariably, their mother.

I didn’t care though. I might not always pay attention to every word that’s being said on the radio but it just makes good background noise. It makes me feel level and I’m hoping maybe I’m actually absorbing some of the endless information in a type of osmosis through my skin and becoming smarter as I drive around New Jersey in my SUV, which is a bit of an oxymoron, I know.

As it turns out, many of the fun shows playing on public radio are recorded in front of a live audience and I’ve weirdly been to a few of them lately.

I spearheaded the first effort, when I heard that the “A Prarie Home Companion” gang would be appearing at The Town Hall in New York. I went with my gal pal and fellow public radio fan and thought it was interesting standing on line in the ladies room before the show began and listening to fans compare how many shows they’d attended.

Note to self: Do not become one of them.

But don’t think I didn’t get excited when the familiar intro to Guy Noir began or clap with glee when the second half started with “Powdermilk Biscuits.”

More recently, a girlfriend asked if I wanted to go into Brooklyn to see her cousin compete on WNYC’s newest game show, “Ask Me Another,” which is hosted by the smart and funny Ophira Eisenberg and let me pretend I was a young hipster living in Williamsburg and not the suburban mother of four I have become.

Then last week, I tagged along with another friend back to Brooklyn to see a grand slam competition of The Moth, which features people getting up in front of an audience to tell true stories without notes (and coincidentally hosted by Ophira, so maybe I’m really a groupie for her). And while the evening’s show was not recorded for broadcast, WNYC has a “Moth Radio Hour” that highlights some of the best stories from performances around the country.

Tonight, I will climb back onto the public radio bandwagon when I go with yet another girlfriend to see Ira Glass of “This American Life” speak at a theater nearby. She reached out to me about a month ago to see if I wanted to get tickets and I was like, “Duh.”

Ira Glass is like the smart, funny, Jewish man of my dreams and listening over the years to his show has introduced me to some of my now-favorite storytellers. I’ve literally pulled into my driveway or a parking spot at the supermarket and sat riveted to the radio, unable to turn off stories by David Sedaris (“Santaland Diaries,” anyone?) and Mike Bribiglia (“D-U-Why?”).

That phenomenon even has a name: Driveway Moment.

When I wasn’t listening to NPR in parking lots or going to see one of their shows this week, I had this to say:

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tumblr_m5b3djsvv01qknpp3o2_250525,600 Something

If I were the mathematical sort, I would try to calculate just how many hours there were between fall and spring semesters at the university that my two oldest children attend.

But as I have a hard enough time counting how many times I’ve squatted on a ball or lifted a weight over my head when I work out, I am going to bypass all addition and assume it’s been around 525,600 (which is a standard measurement of something according to the song from “Rent”). (READ MORE … )

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-1Adding Some Je Ne Sais Quois to Your Breakfast

I have a girlfriend who’s kind of a walking advertisement for the American Dream.

She grew up in working class Philly and was the first in her family to attend college, which she put herself through holding down a number of jobs on campus, and then went on to an Ivy League law school.

Clearly, she did not spend her formative years mesmerized by “Family Ties” and smoking out her bedroom window like some blogger we know. (READ MORE … )

 

 

Jan
15
2014

Adding Some Je Ne Sais Quois to Your Breakfast

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-1I have a girlfriend who’s kind of a walking advertisement for the American Dream.

She grew up in working class Philly and was the first in her family to attend college, which she put herself through holding down a number of jobs on campus, and then went on to an Ivy League law school.

Clearly, she did not spend her formative years mesmerized by “Family Ties” and smoking out her bedroom window like some blogger we know.

Anyway, she moved from working for a law firm in Manhattan to wealth management and rose to the level of managing director, overseeing lots of people and making important decisions before deciding to give it all up for the glamor of staying home and managing her two children instead in suburban New Jersey and finding interesting things to cook in her crockpot.

But despite her very American story, she is quite in touch with her inner French woman. As such, she is thin and elegant and looks chic most days in her neutral ensembles and smart accessories. In fact, she could easily pass as a denizen of the 5th Arrondissement rather than a real housewife of New Jersey.

So when the holidays rolled around, I knew just what I needed to give my dear Francophile and — what luck — I’m already reaping the benefits (a side effect of crafty gift giving).

The author of French Women Don’t Get Fat came out with a follow-up just days before Christmas called French Women Don’t Get Facelifts, which once again argues that cultural proclivities prevent Frenchies from falling into the Botoxed-to-the-gills obesity that we American ladies tend to roll into with age.

I knew my gal-pal would love the book and imagine herself strolling along the Left Bank in an elegant ensemble with her (very chic) crows feet masked by a pair of oversized designer sunglasses.

But while I embrace the idea of going softly into the night and like to believe that my life is too short to waste on bad food and wine (one of the author’s credos), I’m pretty red-white-and-blue at the core and, as such, have a weakness for salty snacks and have never said “no” to a glass of Pinot Grigio (I mean, if that’s all you’ve got, of course I’ll drink it).

However, I have embraced a dish my girlfriend recently shared from the book, which the author calls “Magical Breakfast Redux,” that has helped me find a new way to choke down yogurt without all that yummy-yet-sketchy fruit hiding at the bottom of the cup (my kingdom for the banana flavor). That would be sugar.

It’s pretty much just some hopped up Greek yogurt, and while the combination of ingredients (that you probably already have on hand) is unusual and not what you’d think to mix together, the result totally takes the edge (for me, anyway) off the thick white substance.

And because I know the stuff is full of the almighty protein, which according to my workout guy — The Girl Whisperer  — is the key to helping me shed my plump middle (well, eating Tostitos in bed does not help the cause), I embrace any tricks to help gag the stuff down.

Turns out, this combination is a bit magical and I’ve been enjoying it as an alternative to the never-ending smoothies I’ve been blending in an attempt to start my day on a healthy note (good-bye Honey Bunches of Oats, my old friend).

Try it and let me know if you like it, too, and if a spoonful has your taste buds saying, “Mais, oui!”

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Magical Breakfast Redux (from French Women Don’t Get Facelifts: The Secret of Aging With Style & Attitude by Mireille Guiliano)

1/2 to 2/3 c. Greek Yogurt

1 t. flaxseed oil (I used Olive Oil)

Juice of one lemon

1 t. honey

2 T. raw Old-Fashioned Oatmeal

2 t. chopped walnuts (I toasted mine)

Mix all the ingredients together (the author suggests doing so one at at time).

Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jan
13
2014

525,600 Something

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tumblr_m5b3djsvv01qknpp3o2_250If I were the mathematical sort, I would try to calculate just how many hours there were between fall and spring semesters at the university that my two oldest children attend.

But as I have a hard enough time counting how many times I’ve squatted on a ball or lifted a weight over my head when I work out, I am going to bypass all addition and assume it’s been around 525,600 (which is a standard measurement of something according to the song from “Rent”).

How does one fill all of those hours between final exams and buying new text books, especially when one’s been forbidden to get stoned in one’s own basement?

Hmmm … well, there’s always exercise and then eating things like mashed potatoes in the afternoon or barbeque potato chips at midnight to balance any healthy benefits of that time spent at the gym.

Then there’s the new PS4 console in the basement that the 11 year old got for Christmas, which the older brother has probably logged more hours playing FIFA and NBA games on for hours at a stretch than the gift recipient.

And thank God for “Criminal Minds,” which seems to be like one never-ending episode playing at all hours in my family room and – while I’ve never seen an entire episode myself – I’ve gathered always seems to involve the removal of some poor victim’s eyeball or eyelid and earnest detectives trying to find the bastard who did it.

We’re starting the fourth and final week that the kids are home for break and it’s gotten so boring around here that my 21-year-old son actually volunteered to pick his younger siblings up after school one day last week. He’s also done some grocery shopping for the family and taken his little brother to the barber shop for haircuts.

Not for nothing, but I’ve likened this kid to the big brother on the ABC show “The Middle,” which is a thinly-veiled representation of my life, minus the very tall husband, and frankly I’d like to sue someone for infringing on my hard-won material.

Axl Heck is the classic teenaged oldest brother: He thinks his parents are “lame,” his younger sister a “dork,” and is always walking around in his boxer shorts, a habit I abhor.

Middle1001(I am sorry but at a certain point, even though I spent years toweling you off after baths and wiping your bottom, I do not want to see you in your underwear. We call that having “healthy boundaries.”)

Coincidentally, the TV in my kitchen was turned to an episode of “The Middle” while I was making dinner the other night and one of the plot lines of the show was how bored Axl was between high school sports seasons.

He’s seen in various poses in his boxers complaining to his mother about his plight while draped over the couch or lying on the kitchen floor with his bare legs propped up on the refrigerator.

“Why don’t you try vacuuming?” his mother suggests and before you know it, Axl is not only vacuuming the rugs, he’s working with the attachments and taking the job more seriously than school and certainly his family.

In a later scene the mom is lying on the couch eating popcorn and taunting her vacuum wizard with how she can toss a piece in the air and catch it in her mouth or even eat the popcorn off her shoulder.

“Nailed it!” she cries after gobbling some off her shirt and spilling the rest onto the couch, making her son crazy with the mess.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

It reminded me of how annoyed my older son was when he went to pick his little brother up from school last week during the polar vortex and found himself sitting in the parking lot for about 20 minutes along with all the moms in town in their SUVs only to learn that his brother had wrangled himself a play date and didn’t need the ride.

“BLERGING BLERGY BLERG,” he shouted at me when I called his cell to tell him the news.

He was clearly agitated but I told him to hang out and wait for our neighbor, who still needed the ride, only to learn five minutes later that he was invited to the same play date.

“BLERGIN BLERGIN BLERGER,” my son choked out upon learning the most recent development in the 5th grade social scene. He had clearly lost his marbles at having wasted all those valuable minutes in the parking lot approximately 1/8 of a mile from our house that could have been spent playing Assassain’s Creed or looking in the refrigerator.

He cursed his brother, the little neighbor and me for conspiring to ruin his life and stormed into the house to yell some more before retreating to the basement and the comfort of PlayStation.

Welcome to my world, I thought merrily as I returned to stalking people on Facebook.

I really can’t wait until he has teenagers.

And may they all be girls. Like, four of them, who think he is the most annoying person in the world.

It’s going to be fun. I’ll make the popcorn.

 

 

 

Jan
12
2014

The Basketball Diaries

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DSC00210Oddly enough, basketball has gotten in the way of my blog this week.

No, I do not play basketball. I barely even understand the game, although I’ve had four kids play on travel teams and logged in quite a few hours sitting on bleachers over the years.

Someone tried to explain what “full-court press” meant during a game yesterday, and I think I’m finally wrapping my brain around that, um, maneuver. But I don’t think I’ll ever understand all that fouling. I’m never looking at the right place during play to figure that stuff out.

Currently, my 11-year-old son is playing on both a travel team and a rec team through our town and I’ve got about three games a week to pay attention to.

Not to mention all those practices.

Okay, it’s really not taking up that much of my time and I could probably squeeze my writing in really early in the morning, as is usually the case. If I could just get out of bed.

For whatever reason, that’s been the challenge, lately.

We did have one pretty late night this week, when I took my guys into the city to see the Knicks play the Heat and celebrate Dude Night 2.

I gave the boys the tickets for Christmas and unlike last year, when I tried to research the perfect game to go to and did a lot of Googling of team stats and asking guys I knew their opinion on the matter, this year I just looked for the date that worked for us and bought the tickets.

The boys opened the boxes the I had wrapped the printout of the tickets in with some new Knicks t-shirts, and my older guy was immediately like, “Wow!” when he saw they were “versing” the Heat (because “to vs.” somebody is a very real verb in my house).

“We gonna see LeBron!” he said, high-fiving his little brother and when he saw the confusion on my face, he asked, “Mom, do you know who that is?”

“Of course I’ve heard of LeBron James,” I said indignantly. “Who does he play for again?”

Since then, my older son has schooled me on a few things about the NBA and I came to terms with the fact that we were probably going to just watch LeBron wipe up the Knicks at the game Thursday night, and we were all okay with that.

We ate hamburgers at some pretty sketchy pub on 7th Avenue and walked over to MSG to claim our seats that I paid a million dollars for on StubHub, high above all the fancy people like Katie Holmes, Michael J. Fox and David Duchovney sitting courtside (I only know they were there because the celebs were featured throughout the game on the big video hanging over the court).

So we were amazed and thrilled when the Knicks not only kept up with the Heat throughout the game but pulled ahead in the fourth quarter and won.

It put us all in a great mood for the hour drive home to New Jersey.

We even added the win to our Big Bucket of Memories we started for 2014. On a yellow slip of paper, my little guy wrote: Mom, Max and I saw/went to our first Knicks game win! Agains the HEAT!

I can’t wait to remember that one in December.

In the meantime, we’ve got another basketball game today, this time about a half hour from home, that should eat up much of my beloved Sunday and while there will be no LeBron or Carmelo Anthony on the court, it’s always fun to watch my little guy play.

When I wasn’t watching or driving to basketball games this week, I did manage to pen an ode to my new favorite wardrobe staple.

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photo(92)The Polar Vortex Has Frozen My Sense of Style

By now, we are all well-versed on the potential hazards posed by the record-breaking temperatures that have plunged the country into a deep freeze.

Just turn on the TV for a couple of minutes and you’ll be immediately terrified by the mighty wrath of the polar vortex. (READ MORE … )

 

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I was also excited to have a post featured on BlogHer this week, especially since I was really pleased with how it turned out.

photo 2How Not to Hate Your Teens

If you’re like me, you are finding that it’s not always so easy to like all the people who you’re living with. Much less love them.

At least once a day, I find myself in a combative situation or heated conversation with someone I gave birth to.

I even made that observation aloud to one of them this week, in the midst of one such episode, “This is not how people usually talk to me.”

But he just grunted and kept at it. (READ MORE … )

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And I’d be remiss not to remind all you fine people that you can sign up to get new posts emailed straight to your inbox. You don’t even have to find me through Facebook.

Just fill your email address in the “Subscribe to blog via email” box, which is to the right of this post if you’re on your laptop or if you scroll way to the bottom if you’re reading this on your phone. Just keep scrolling, it’s there. Fill in your email address and then go to your inbox where an email will be waiting that you need to open to confirm your subscription.

Presto!

 

 

 

 

Jan
08
2014

The Polar Vortex Has Frozen My Sense of Style

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photo(92)

Brrrrr. The handy thermometer outside my kitchen window read about 2 degrees early Tuesday morning.

By now, we are all well-versed on the potential hazards posed by the record-breaking temperatures that have plunged the country into a deep freeze.

Just turn on the TV for a couple of minutes and you’ll be immediately terrified by the mighty wrath of the polar vortex.

There’s hypothermia and frostbite to combat and slipping and falling on icy surfaces to be avoided.

Power lines are falling and cars, trains and even airplanes are zigzagging all over the place.

Just this morning, I watched a clip on Good Morning America of cars skidding across highways and one video of a vehicle careening off an overpass and crashing onto a frozen pond below.

But perhaps the most critical issue that has been impacted by the subzero temperatures here in the Northeast is my sense of style.

It seems to have frozen.

I have gone from trying to look cute (well, most days) to trying to stay warm and cozy and I am here to report that those two criteria do not go hand-in-hand.

Case in point: I returned home from picking my little guy up from school yesterday afternoon and tried briefly to sit and work in the jeans and turtleneck sweater I was wearing. That lasted about 10 minutes.

I could not deal with the button, the zipper, the funnel gripping my neck or even my bra.

It’s like it’s so cold outside that I just want swath myself in fleece and eat pot roast.

So that’s what I did.

Since about 3:00 yesterday afternoon, I have been wearing this:

photo(91)

My glamorous cheetah suit even has a handy pouch in front, perfect for holding dirty tissues and your cell phone.

I ate soup in it, did some work in it, wasted time on Facebook in it and watched yet another episode of “The Americans” (which everyone needs to watch) in it and drank wine in it.

I took it off to sleep and put it back on this morning. I suppose I’ll have to change out of it again to exercise later because that would be weird.

When I received the classy Forever 21 jumpsuit as a gift this Christmas, I wore it for a day and then hung it up, considering it more of a gag than a critical new piece to add to my daily wardrobe.

But now I’m thinking that if the weather this winter stays as cold and snowy as it’s already been, it could just become a fashion staple. My go-to work-from-home ensemble.

My older children were a little more skeptical when they saw their mother emerge from her room wearing essentially a onesie.

“You’re a grown woman,” observed my 21 year old.

There could be some downsides, like, I almost had a heart attack when the doorbell rang yesterday afternoon (thankfully just the UPS guy who drops and goes). And then I was slightly mortified when some of the items I was grabbing out of the mailbox slipped and fell to the ground. I had been trying to just reach my arm out the front door so as to not have to expose my neighbors to the horror of the cheetah suit and then found myself dashing down the front steps and diving through shrubbery to grab the errant mail.

Is this what things have come to? If this is what cold weather does to me, I can’t imagine what I’ll be wearing during the Zombie Apocalypse.

Michonne will have nothing on me.

Back in the day, I would be slightly concerned about what I wore to drive the kids to school each morning. What if I got into an accident or was stopped by the police? Forget clean underwear. At the very least, I always made sure I was wearing a bra. Or a very big coat.

But had something gone awry during this morning’s early and icy ride to the local high school, the paramedics would have had to have sliced through this getup:

photo(90)

And it makes me wonder, as I pass all the other parents carting their kids to school, am I the only one who has foregone style, and a bra for that matter, for comfort?

Has style taken a backseat to staying warm for you this winter?

Because God knows, my former sense of style is sitting in the third row today. Wearing headphones.

 

 

Jan
05
2014

Waiting for the New Year to Begin

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My mom bought these bastards, that literally come in a giant tin bucket, online from Hahns Old Fashioned Cake Company in Farmindale, NY. www.crumbcake.net

I’m finding it very difficult to embrace the New Year and all the new things I resolved to do and not to do when it still seems like 2013 around here. Actually, you could tell me it’s still 2011 and I wouldn’t really be all that surprised.

The problem might have a little bit to do with the giant bucket of crumbs that have been sitting on my kitchen counter since Christmas (wherein some evil genius decided to completely eliminate the pesky cake portion of coffee cake and package only the sugary topping) that I just can’t bear to toss in the trash.

It’s hard to resist all their little voices, calling out to me as I make my coffee each morning. I hate to be rude.

But the real problem is that I am surrounded, day in and day out, by people who are still on vacation. My college kids don’t go back for two more weeks and now that the holidays are over, they don’t really have much to do but watch Netflix and play video games.

And make paninis.

Just when things started to get back to normal and the younger two kids returned to school on Jan. 2, a Nor’easter slammed New Jersey and deposited those two back on the couch with the older ones the following day.

So I still feel like I’m in a quasi-holiday, snow day, everyday-is-Saturday state of mind.

I did manage to squeeze a little bit of writing in between using my vacation days this past week to load up – once again – on a bizarre amount of dairy products from Costco, take a quick trip to Delaware to see my dad and play untold hours of Walking Dead Monopoly.

Here’s what I had to say:

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babies pix-1Blast From the Past

As noted on this blog ad nauseum, I pretty much killed 2013.

By now, we all know how I launched a blog, went to a blogging conference, traveled to Greece alone and kind of, sort of, tried to date (okay, not the greatest victory there). (READ MORE … )

 

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photo 2How Not to Hate Your Teens

If you’re like me, you are finding that it’s not always so easy to like all the people who you’re living with. Much less love them.

At least once a day, I find myself in a combative situation or heated conversation with someone I gave birth to.

I even made that observation aloud to one of them this week, in the midst of one such episode, “This is not how people usually talk to me.” (READ MORE … )

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And while I did not actually write this post this week, I did reference it on Facebook and folks seemed to like it. Maybe you will too …

DSC00672This is How I Miss Him

In the almost four years since my ex-​​husband moved out, there have been a few times that I really wished the guy was still around.

Like when it snows. Say what you will, but that man could shovel like a motherfucker. He’d be outside for hours, first clearing the driveway and front walk as the snow was falling and then again later, after the storm had passed. He’d clear a path in the back for the dog to get to a spot to do his business and when he ran out of stuff to shovel here, he’d start in at the neighbors’ next door. He never asked for help and we all stayed warm and cozy inside while he labored in the snow. (READ MORE … )

 

 

 

 

Jan
04
2014

How Not to Hate Your Teens

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photo(72)If you’re like me, you are finding that it’s not always so easy to like all the people who you’re living with. Much less love them.

At least once a day, I find myself in a combative situation or heated conversation with someone I gave birth to.

I even made that observation aloud to one of them this week, in the midst of one such episode, “This is not how people usually talk to me.”

But he just grunted and kept at it.

Not long ago, I posted a friendly link in the Facebook inboxes of my two older kids about a college coed who had fallen asleep (read: passed out) on a front stoop after a night out in freezing cold temperatures and was now facing amputation of one of her limbs due to hypothermia.

I saw it as a cautionary tale that I wanted to share with them so as to avoid future amputations and the need for any prosthesis. God knows their tuition bills are enough to finance.

I had also recently shared a link with my 21-year-old son to an article reporting that smoking too much cannabis can cause man boobs, which he thought was funny.

Apparently, he did not think the frozen girl was funny or valuable in any way because he called me soon after freaking out about it.

“Don’t send me that shit,” the conversation began and quickly ended with me screaming “Fuck you!” into the phone and hanging up.

I promise you: This was never a part of my grand master parenting plan, nor was the moment after I hung up the phone when I had to walk back into the kitchen to find my two younger children – 16 and 11 – sitting on stools and staring at me.

Not exactly the model of conflict resolution I wanted them to see.

Needless to say, the matter was discussed in-depth with my therapist when we next met and she helped me see that while I thought I was using the poor girl’s possible amputation as a teachable moment for my kids, my son viewed it as a message from me that he would be dumb enough to do something like that in the first place.

He was insulted.

And who knows, maybe the day of that terrible conversation I was getting my period, or ovulating or whatever it is nowadays that makes my hormones go a little crazy, which added fuel to the emotional fire.

But historically, he and I are good at pushing each other’s buttons and quickly making the other one crazy. We tend to jump right out of the frying pan and roll around in the fire.

And it’s not just him. I get into tussles with everyone around here. I like to joke that my little guy’s been strapping on his teenager training wheels lately because sometimes there’s that tone in his voice when he has to answer one of my many, apparently, annoying questions, and he’s given some sassy responses lately, too.

Et tu, my sweet young boy?

And while my therapist recommended things like having follow-up conversations with all the kids about the amputation blow up, meditating and making a jar that I put money in every time I act like an asshole (or something like that), I think I have struck upon the perfect antidote to potentially hostile situations with my kids.

Last week I picked up a box full of home movies I had converted to DVDs at Costco and was reminded – at least for a few hours – of how fucking sweet my children were. Are. Is.

Sure, we’ve got boxes of old pictures and photo albums filled with shots from Christmases of long ago. But to actually see the kids in action and hear their little voices – so young and innocent – and watch how we all interacted was wonderful and terrible all at once.

Like, how did we get from there to here?

In retrospect, some of the scenes are classic signs of personalities to come: my older daughter shy and hesitant in the hospital room meeting her new little sister but super-excited for the candy in her Christmas stocking; the little sister – at 4 – decked out in a kooky lingerie-inspired outfit and belting out some made-up song on her Barbie karaoke machine, pausing only to scream at her older brother to stop “annoying” her.

Total diva.

But to me, one of the most compelling moments of those recordings was watching my oldest son open his Christmas presents, circa 2001. He was in third grade and had just turned 9 and apparently Santa really thought he wanted a lot of books that year. But instead of disgust, he happily opened his deluxe Narnia Chronicles set and lifted the heavy Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire tome over his head in victory.

He was that sweet. And I knew just how to make him happy.

Sometimes I tell myself stories about my kids. “He’s always been this way,” or “She’s always been like that.”

And sometimes it’s the truth and other times, it couldn’t be further from it.

But I know that since I watched my son lift that Harry Potter book over his head, I’ve been looking at him a little different over this long break home between semesters. I’m seeing him not in a new light, but the way I used to see him.

The two of us went out to dinner last night and had a great time. The conversation was easy — we talked about everything from Breaking Bad to LeBron James — and there was never any point that I felt like I had to say something annoying, like “Put your napkin on your lap,” or “Use your knife.”

He already knew what to do.

photo 2And I’m reminded that even though he’s a lot taller and hairier than he used to be, inside — and sometimes maybe it’s so deep down in there you’d need an excavation crew to find it — he’s still that same sweet boy I knew all those years ago.

And I’m glad I found him again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dec
29
2013

A Very Gosling Christmas

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IMG_0005Even though my days of getting fancy gifts are on hold right now – there were no diamond studs under the tree this year – I still got some pretty amazing presents for Christmas.

And because, according to my therapist, I am to view all challenges, hardships and difficult people in my life as gifts – here to help me learn about myself and grow – receiving less-expensive items has taught me a lot.

First, the people in my life know me really well and give me amazing presents. And second, great gifts don’t need to cost a lot of money (first witnessed last year with the amazing deck of cards my daughter made me).

Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t say “No” to a Cartier watch. But for now, I’m happy to settle for opening amazingly-thoughtful things.

There were definitely some themes to the gifts I was given: Of course, it was a Very Gosling Christmas this year and I got not only the probably-soon-to-be-best-selling book 100 Reasons to Love Ryan Gosling (I am partial to #29: He can do the Dirty Dancing body lift and #99: It is biologically impossible not to love Ryan Gosling) from my daughter, but a pair of earrings from my BFF featuring the young actor’s scruffy face and giving new meaning to the term “stud earrings.”

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Only on Etsy can you find such treasures.

Who thinks to make these things?

I got lots of stuff with my name or ‘A’s on them, like notecards and pillows, a makeup bag and not one but two cool bracelets.

And speaking of makeup bags, this one from my gal pal was pretty funny:

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My kids totally nailed their gifts to me.

I got the Walking Dead version of Monopoly from my older daughter that I’ve already played twice and a sticker of the cover illustration from The Giving Tree to put on the back of my laptop and makes it look like the boy is plucking the apple from the tree.

My oldest son gave me a stuffed zombie that you can pull apart and see its guts. Sweet.

My little guy gave me a pair of silver heart earrings, which I was told he hand-selected and I am tempted to make a joke about what a stud he is, but think that might come off as really creepy.

And my younger daughter gave me a fleece cheetah-print onesie so that I could now work from home without the annoyance of pesky yoga pants waistbands digging into my muffintop. I spent about 36 hours wearing it after Christmas and can attest to its comfort but am concerned that it seemed to raise my body temperature 10 degrees, leaving in a bit of a perpetual sweat during its wearing.

I liked pairing the outfit with a scrunchie atop my head and am concerned that if I started eating Cheez-Its in bed with the suit on and drinking wine, I just might be single forever.

So for now, it’s hanging on the back on my bathroom door. (I thought about posting a picture of me wearing the suit, but decided that no one, especially potential love-interests, need to see that selfie).

But I loved how thoughtful my gifts were and how much the people I love really “got” me.

And that is really the greatest gift of all (besides the Cartier watch). Right?

When I wasn’t opening presents or running around in my onesie this week, I was busy blogging about my fondness for dudes and that sometimes the Elf on the Shelf inspires kids to remember the true meaning of Christmas.

Check it out ..

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I ♥ Dudes

Dear Men of the World,

I learned an interesting thing about how it seems I am perceived by you fellas – as a divorced lady – when I hosted a party the other night. (READ MORE … )

 

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photo(86)Sometimes, Elves are Okay

I went to my annual cookie exchange the other night and as we sat around the hostess’s kitchen island eating the salad she prepared to balance out the fondue and Trader Joe’s wontons we’d been feasting on earlier, someone pointed to the elf perched high atop the cabinets.

“That’s Steve,” out hostess said brightly and picked up her iPad. “Wait, you’ve got to see this.” (READ MORE … )

 

 

 

 

 

Dec
25
2013

Sometimes, Elves are Okay

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photo(86)I went to my annual cookie exchange the other night and as we sat around the hostess’s kitchen island eating the salad she prepared to balance out the fondue and Trader Joe’s wontons we’d been feasting on earlier, someone pointed to the elf perched high atop the cabinets.

“That’s Steve,” out hostess said brightly and picked up her iPad. “Wait, you’ve got to see this.”

She had taken a picture of the note her 10-year-old son had written to Steve earlier in the season and as she read the note aloud — that wondered whether elves had specific tasks up in the North Pole and wished Steve a happy Christmas with his friends and family — her eyes filled with tears.

“He’s really the one that deserves all the presents,” she said at the end, wiping her tears away.

And the pureness of his letter — it’s innocence and sweetness — made me misty too.

So, my gift to all of you this Christmas is this little sparkle of a note that reminded me that sometimes kids really do want more than PS4s or Skylanders.

Sometimes the very best things don’t come from Amazon or Zappos.

It’s hiding right there in their hearts.

Ho, ho, ho.

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Dec
23
2013

I ♥ Dudes

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IMG_1041Dear Men of the World,

I learned an interesting thing about how it seems I am perceived by you fellas – as a divorced lady – when I hosted a party the other night.

Initially, I did consider hosting an all-lady event – a luncheon, say, or a gathering on a Thursday night. The kind of party that included low-carb appetizers, pretty pink drinks and plenty of conversations about hot flashes and insomnia.

We middle-aged ladies are sexy, I know.

But I decided to go with a Friday night cocktail party and, to me anyway, that seemed to signal an equal-opportunity affair. That seemed like the kind of party you didn’t need to have a vagina at which to have fun.

I even went so far as to include – on the little envelope that magically spun around when you opened the invite online – the names of both members of all the couples I knew.

There it was: Kathy & Rob. Susan & Michael.

But I guess because I am without a more manly half right now, the assumption was that boys were not invited because many women showed up stag. Husbands were left home to watch the kids or just stay out of their wives hair so they could get gorgeous and come over and have fun.

But I think it’s interesting that folks assumed I could only be friends with the female-halves of all those couples.

Let it be know then, for once and for all, that I like dudes. I really do. Look, I even gave birth to two of them and that’s helped me like you guys even more.

In some ways I am even like a dude: I am totally into zombies, vampires and all-things Game of Thrones. I am prone to indiscriminate cursing, am not much of a crier and love getting my neighbor Michael’s old issues of Rolling Stone.

See? If I only liked sports and was better at math, you’d think I was one of you.

Now, I’ll admit that when I was married, my husband was kind of the buffer between me and all the guys that we knew. We’d go out with all our other couple friends, and inevitably, the boys would sit at one end of the table and the girls at the other. So I never really spent much time talking to the men at our gatherings because I was so busy comparing pregnancy and potty training stories with the ladies.

But honestly, I don’t even think I was interested in talking to the guys anyway. I wasn’t interested in hearing what you boys had to say. Maybe I just assumed you were all alike – macho and self-serving – and I didn’t really need any more of that in my life.

But now that I am single, I feel like I see you boys in a whole new light. Who knew you had thoughts and feelings, just like me?

I’ve developed some great friendships with members of your species and have had terrific conversations about not only zombies and vampires but about books and current events. We even have talked about life and love, just the way I do with my girlfriends.

And one of the most satisfying things that has happened along the way is that a bunch of you have started reading my blog and tell me that you really like it.

Cool.

My neighbors had a party the night after mine and a couple of guys were there whose wives had come solo to my shindig. “I didn’t know I was invited!” the guys told me.

So boys, now you know. I like talking to you as much as I like talking to your wives. Because people can be smart and interesting and funny and it doesn’t matter what’s going on in their underpants.

Party on, dudes,

Amy