Posted by Amy Byrnes

Lest my readers think that all I do is fold yoga pants all day long, I’d also have you know that I watch a lot of television. As such, I consider myself a bit of an authority on what’s available for your viewing pleasure these days because if I’m not watching it, one of my four kids most definitely is.

As you might have read on Facebook, in between kitten videos and all that fake news, the holidays are upon us and you’ll need a reason to take extended breaks from all that family time and alleged good cheer. And it seems these days saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to catch up on my show,” is passing as a valid excuse for why we can’t (FILL IN THE BLANK):

A: Make dinner
B: Get out of our yoga pants
C: Shower

Okay, I made that last one up because when I try to avoid bathing for extended periods my children start to complain. But you get my drift. Having a “show” can be helpful for a lot more than just passing the time. It could literally save your life (cue dramatic bom-bom-bom).

I thought I’d introduce shows that aren’t necessarily the ones that everyone is talking about. Obviously, I’m totally committed to a lot of them. I’m completely up-to-date with “Game of Thrones,” “House of Cards” and “The Walking Dead” (btw: What is up with this season? Enough with Negan already. Somebody please bash in his skull.). I watched all of “Mad Men,” “Breaking Bad” and “Gilmore Girls” (btw part 2: I wish I could insert emojis here to really express how crazy I thought the ending was.). And I’ve kinda stalled on a few shows I really loved for a season or two but just can’t finish, like season two of “Bloodline” and “Transparent” and season three of “The Americans” and “Orange is the New Black.” And I didn’t get all the way through season one of “Girlfriends Guide to Divorce,” “Odd Mom Out” and “Crazy Ex Girlfriend,” so I don’t know if that says something about the shows themselves or my struggle with follow through.

But there are a bunch of great shows that I watched and totally loved that are a little more off the beaten tv track. So, in no particular order:

Westworld (HBO): I have a very smart girlfriend who is really resisting this one because she’s tired of all the gratuitous misogeny on shows like “Game of Thrones.” She just can’t watch one more woman get raped right there on her tv set. I get that, but then I read a really interesting piece about why that’s not completely nuts and maybe kinda feminist and it made me feel better about liking these kinds of shows that flaunt all that violence against women. Anyway, yes, WestWorld has lots of sex and violence but it’s also chock-a-clock with amazeballs acting and ideas that are making me reconsider everything I’ve thought about life up until now. Like, I’m pretty sure I’m a robot. Confused? Just start watching and you’ll be having all sorts of existential thoughts, too.
This Is Us (NBC): Missing “Parenthood”? Here’s your antidote, being slowly dribbled out one-week-at-a-time on network television. But it’s so sweet and poignant that I can forgive the old timey notion of weekly television and advertising and look forward to each week’s installment. Plus, it has Jess from “Gilmore Girls” who’s a lot less annoying on this show than he was as Rory’s n’er-ds-well boyfriend.
The Crown (Netflix): I think I’d be as obsessed with this gorgeous series even if I wasn’t going to London in a few weeks. Not only is everything beautiful – the actors, the settings and everyone’s lovely and very proper British accents – but history lessons have never gone down so easily. The London Fog? WHO KNEW? Churchill was selected twice as prime minister? Who knew that one, either? Well, not me anyway. Might even watch again.
Stranger Things (Netflix): As a person with the TV viewing habits of a 13yo boy trapped in a 50yo woman’s body, this series checked every box of things that I love: monsters, kids riding around on bikes, Eggo Waffles. It’s set in the 1980s and is such a loving homage to the era and the Steven Spielberg-take on it. All my kids watched and loved it including — especially — the 13yo boy who watched it twice and follows all of the kid actors on social media. You’ll thank me.
The Fall (Hulu): As a single woman who often finds herself alone at home, I don’t even know why I’m watching this one. So. Damn. Creepy. But my very cute manager at the legging factory was raving about it so I was like, “Well, she’s a very nice girl and we seem to like a lot of the same stuff so I’ll give it a go.” Yikes. It’s about a straight-up serial killer roaming around Belfast (it’s a BBC production) and the detective who’s trying to nab him. But the nut job is the guy who starred in “Fifty Shades of Gray” and the detective is the very amazing and badass Gillian Anderson. I’m about halfway through season two. Please come hold my hand.
Jessica Jones (Netflix): Talk about badass. This one has all the bad stuff: sex, violence (lots against women and even a hand in a blender towards the end). But I still totally loved it, especially, or maybe because of, David Tennant who plays the very evil – yet kinda sexy and amusing – villain. It’s based on Marvel Comics characters and somehow ties into “Luke Cage” and “Daredevil,” which my daughter could tell you all about but I don’t pay much attention to. It was super fun to watch but, as with most of these shows, make sure your kids are in bed before you press “play.”
Sherlock (PBS): I was never a huge Benedict Cumberbatch person. Like, I kinda didn’t get it. But then I watched “Sherlock.” He’s very appealing as the pretty crazy detective running around London and figuring out the most convoluted mysteries. And his trusty sidekick, Watson, is played by Frodo Baggins so what’s not to like there? Really fun and yet another super-evil villain (MORIARTY YOU BASTARD) and I can’t wait for the next installment to come out, which is New Year’s Day on PBS.
Catastrophe (Amazon): Romantic. Hilarious. Devastating. Catastrophe, a British import, is all of those things. It’s what happens when a sexy one-week-stand results in a pregnancy and the ensuing messy thing we call marriage. And love. But the lead actress also does the writing for this as well as Sarah Jessica Parker’s “Divorce” on HBO, which I also happen to really like.
Mozart in the Jungle (Amazon): Two words: Bernadette Peters. Need more? Okay, behind the scenes at a financially struggling NYC symphony and the ensuing romances, politics and backstabbing. Really fun and, bonus!, Season 3 just came out this week.
You’re the Worst and Love (FX and Netflix): I’m pretty sure these are the exact same shows but somebody didn’t tell their respective networks. And it’s kind of weird because I really liked “You’re the Worst” and did not like “Love.”
Master of None (Netflix): All I have to say is that you know it’s a good show when you have legit romantic dreams about Aziz Ansari.
Unreal (Lifetime): I don’t know if I’d watch another season of this behind the scenes look at a Bachelor-like reality show because I don’t think the producers could get any worst in the name of ratings. But if you’re a reality tv person (which I am not), it’s fun to get a look of what might be going on when the cameras aren’t rolling. Plus, I’m obsessed with the tattoos the two female leads get at the beginning of season two. Badass.

What’s in your queue? I’m hot to watch “Poldark” and maybe finish up some of those shows I left hanging mid-season.

Or, maybe I should just read a book for once, because I just bought this and this.

What are your faves? Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below and new posts will arrive without you having to remember to look for them. Everything should be this easy. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagramand (what the hell) Pinterest.

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Nov

2016

Friday faves: Athleisure Edition

Posted by Amy Byrnes

As some of you may know, I recently took a part time job folding yoga pants at a popular store known for selling stylish athleisure clothing. But between buying stuff for me and my two daughters, I have pretty much just given all the money I’ve made so far back to the company. You’re welcome, Gap.

On the one hand, the company gives a very generous discount and we all needed a little wardrobe updating and on the other, I do have one kid still in college and an insatiable cat to feed. I need to keep my fiscal wits about me.

But there have been a few pieces I’ve added to my wardrobe that I really don’t know how I’d been living without before. I say this not only because the styles fit my casual lifestyle but also because they’ve kind of become my uniform. Like, I’m not really sure what I used to wear before I brought them home.

Here are some of my faves:

If you stop by my house most days after 5 p.m. and before 10 a.m., you will find me wrapped in my Cozy Karma and, in all likelihood, I will make you feel the soft fleece at the hem of its sleeve, which lines the entire interior of the sweatshirt and insist you go and purchase one for yourself. Plus, I really like saying “cozy karma.” A lot. It also comes in a bathrobe-like style in a darker gray that I fondle whenever I’m at work but have managed to resist, mostly because I know my daughters will yell at me if I buy it.

The other piece that’s getting quite the workout since I brought it home is theis baby. Their super-soft and cut generously and in that M.C. Hammer style that I’m endlessly drawn to. Slip these suckers on and it’s Hammertime, sister.

Less you think I’m always dressing the part of the shlub, I’ll have you know I do dress up on occasion. Well, sort of. I’ve been loving these Wanderer cargo pants (which I boughtin both colors) and think they’re super cute dressed up with this sweater and these fab boots I bought at Madewell this fall or with this striped JCrew top and my slip on Vans. I even like them with my Nikes. What’s nice is that the fabrication on the front of the pant is kind of nylon-y but the backs are a stretchy panel with little pockets on the butt. I dunno, they’re just v cute.

I flew to Denver last month to be a panelist on a show called Moms EveryDay (more on that later) and wrapped myself in this yummy cardigan for the flight. I love how soft the fabric is and that it has those awesome thumbholes in the sleeves and when you pull the shawl on the front around you it’s pretty much like you’re wearing a legit blanket. With a collar. The kids and I are going to London between Christmas and New Years (more on that, too, another day) and I totally think this is just the thing to wear on the overnight flight with a tshirt and leggings (loving these muffintop-friendly tights) and maybe these Dansko boots.

Are you an Athleta shopper? Let me know what you love, which is actually probably a terrible idea because I don’t need additional retail enabling. Then again, it will give me something else to think about while I’m folding.

Feeling the love? Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below and new posts will arrive without you having to remember to look for them. Everything should be this easy. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagramand (what the hell) Pinterest.

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WHAT I WATCHED WEDNESDAY

Nov

2016

Hope & Change

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Our new house is right around the corner from our town’s middle school, which is so close I’d be ashamed to have someone see me get in my car to drive there. Our old house was pretty close too, but now instead of crossing a busy county road and cutting through a town parking lot – past the public tennis courts – to get there, our new route to school takes you through the quiet streets of my neighborhood past about a dozen neatly-kept homes.

I bundled up Tuesday morning to make the five-minute walk to school to help out with the student version of Election Day. Along the way, I counted exactly one Trump sign and one Clinton sign decorating neighbors’ front lawns.

But if you drove around this small town, you’d find mostly Trump signs. It didn’t surprise me when I started to see those navy blue signs crop up on lawns this summer. Even though we’re in New Jersey, a traditionally blue state, our neck of the woods bleeds red politically. There are a lot of Wall Streeters around here. Not a lot of diversity. Pretty conservative. So folks tend to support Republican candidates. I mean, it was kind of a big deal a few years back when a Democrat was elected to our historically all-Republican borough council, even though the man could not be less controversial.

Which leaves me in the minority around here and that’s hard because I really like being a part of the majority. I really like doing what everybody else is doing. Being part of a collective. A community. That’s why it felt natural to join a sorority in college and when I’m searching for something on Amazon I use the “most popular” filter. I want to do what everyone else is doing,

This character trait definitely influenced my very first presidential election back in 1984 when I’d just turned 18.

I was pretty clueless back then, a couple of months into my freshman year at a fairly big state university, but I did have the wherewithal to procure an absentee ballot. This ingenuity also came into play when I figured out how to get someone to buy me and my roommate a case of Busch Light our first night in college (which we had to lug about a mile home in her father’s Army duffle bag). Somehow my excitement over our vice presidential candidate cut a swath through all the thoughts of beer and boys in my brain and I was ready to support her and the other guy on her ticket.

But as I went about filling out my ballot in our dorm room one night in October with the vice presidential debate playing on our small television – long before cable became de riguer in dorm rooms and reception came through carefully arranged antennas and positioning the set just so – my roommate and I started talking about the election.

My roommate had very different opinions about the candidates and as the conversation progressed, I started to become less sure about my decision. This is long before I learned I could easily be talked out of or into anything. Before I embraced the courage of my convictions. Instead, I went along with her. I nodded my head as she derided my candidate and, as Ms. Ferraro stood onstage in Philadelphia and broke through the first of the glass ceilings here in our country, I checked the box for Ronald Reagan.

And I can’t tell you how bad I have always felt about that knee jerk decision.

Sure, we’d learn later that her husband turned out to be a bit of a crook. But, ladies, you are either old enough to know now or will someday learn – either the hard way through personal experience or over wine and tears with a girlfriend – that we can’t be held responsible for our husbands’ actions. They do not define us. And sometimes – a lot of times – we do what we have to do for our families. We smile and swallow bitter pills and smooth things over and sometimes, that can work forever and other times, you just can’t stuff one more pill into your mouth.

But I digress.

Right or wrong (and really, is there ever really a “right” or a “wrong”?), I should have gone with my gut and been proud of that decision. Just like my roommate should have felt proud of her own and very different take on that long ago election.

The middle school had sent out an email a couple of weeks ago looking for volunteers to help the kids with their own presidential election and I quickly signed up for a morning spot and joked to my kids that I was going to secretly engage in electioneering. Honestly, I really just love saying the word “electioneering,” but it would be nice to sway some of those budding baby Republican voters in the meantime.

The teacher running the “election” for the school divided the eight of us parents up into groups of two to help with each grade’s voting and I ended up at a voting booth set up at the top of a stairwell outside the double doors leading to eighth grade’s floor with a very nice dad.

The first wave of students came through and I looked their names up on their class list and helped them sign their ballots, which they then brought over to the very nice dad who took their ballots and directed them to the laptop set up behind a screen to vote. We explained to the kids that the process was just like the one their parents would experience that day when they went to cast their own vote in the election and I felt a sense of civic pride sharing that info with my fellow young Americans.

We made small talk with the kids as they stood on line and waited their turn to vote. We asked them about how sports were going and marveled at how they’d grown and eventually the stairwell was empty again.

It turns out, we had a lot of downtime in between classes coming in to vote during their social studies periods so we filled the time with very pleasant conversation. The nice dad is a former member of our town’s borough council, so we talked a little bit about town stuff but mostly we talked about our kids. We compared notes on the differences between boys and girls lacrosse programs in the area and, because of his work in law enforcement, he shared some of his concerns about Internet safety for our kids.

The very nice dad told me about how I could monitor the battery use on my son’s iPhone to see just how much time the 13yo spent on various apps. He walked over to show me how to get to that bit of data using his own iPhone and I noticed when he got to that screen that he’d been spending a majority of his mobile time on the Fox News app that day.

He noticed it too and laughed and said he’d been checking election results all morning and then we talked about our kids some more. That was the only time the real presidential election ever came up. Up until I saw the Fox News thing there was nothing about our conversation that led me to believe he and I weren’t on the very same page.

I thought about that a lot on my walk home after I finished my shift at school. It’s the perfect time of year here in the Northeast and the weather on Election Day really pulled out all the stops. The sky was a clear blue with big puffs of white clouds and the leaves crunched under my sneakers as I walked along the sidewalk towards home. Even the political signs seemed quaint and part of the whole quintessential small-town diorama.

I thought about how much we really are all the same, regardless of the apps on our phones and signs on our lawns. We want to be good parents and keep our children safe and live in safe communities. And we want what’s best for our country.

But sometimes it’s the means we adhere to in the getting there – the keeping kids and families safe and our communities and country great – where we begin to disagree. Where we seem to hit snags.

And this is where tolerance comes in, along with a big dose of respect for our differences in all areas. I can disagree wholeheartedly with your decision to not use a playpen for your one-year-old – personally, I don’t know how any young mom can expect to poop or wash her hair without one – but I need to respect that decision. Plus, my kids are grown now – with varying results – and I can poop and flat iron my hair til the cows come home.

My friend Dan loves guns. I do not understand them and think they are an extension of the male … ego. At any rate, we’ve had a few conversations on the issue and I’ve come to the conclusion that we are never going to change each other’s minds about it. We agree to disagree and are still friends and I really respect his stance because I respect him as a person.

Then there’s my friend Robert. Another one I don’t always see eye-to-eye with on the issues. He’s a former Army guy and I remember having very heated discussions back in the 1990s about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (a position he tells me he has come to rethink). But we’ve both softened over the years and have started to see things in less black-and-white terms. And he’s a voracious inhaler of information, from all news outlets. He says he listens occasionally to a New York Public Radio talk show I told him about and on election night toggled between Fox News and MSNBC.

We still have conversations about topics we don’t agree on but in the end, respect each other’s points of view and move on.

On Wednesday morning, I woke up to a nasty text from one of my brothers (I have four), which was interesting because the only time he ever reaches out to me is to attack my perceived political leanings. Like, even on my 50^th birthday.

In that birthday exchange, in which he derided me for writing about being a Democrat – not that in the three or four years I’ve been publicly writing about my life has he ever mentioned anything else I’d ever shared –he asserted my candidate was a “scumbag.” He ended the long tirade with some smiley-faced emojis, as if that would take the edge off his assault.

I brought the whole incident up with my therapist during an ensuing session and she pointed out how angry my brother seemed to be. She said that we could not ignore that such a large segment of the American population felt so disenfranchised by our government and reminded me that people were totally entitled to their feelings.

So that’s how I framed that interaction. I felt compassion for my angry brother and closed the door on that issue.

Until Wednesday.

At 1:53 a.m. he texted a tweet that Trump had been elected president and a rant about how Attorney General Giuliani would prosecute Clinton “for her many crimes.”

“What a disgusting piece of garbage,” he ended.

And I have to hand it to my brother, he was able to get me more upset and sad about something other than that Trump was to become our nation’s president. Not an easy task.

But in the end, I decided – with a little help from some friends who talked me off the ledge – that that type of vitriol is not what I want in my life. Being intolerant of others – who they are and their opinions – is not who I want to be.

I mean, my own mom voted for Trump, as did my brother’s wife and, well, my mom is my mom and my sister-in-law is probably the nicest person I know. For reals. I keep waiting for her to show her evil side and so far, I just see her as a wonderful wife, mother, daughter and sister-in-law. I love them and respect their opinions and would never even consider wrecking our relationships over something over which we ultimately have no control.

My mom and I didn’t talk for a while in the 1990s because of politics and I never want to go down that road again. I love her too much and my life is too short.

And I know in my heart that we are all just boats against the current – the quagmire of politics and the great highs and lows of this one big life – and all we can do is beat on, whatever that looks like. And we need to remind ourselves from time to time that we are all, each and every one of us, struggling.

And respect that.

(PHOTO CREDIT: http://www.kxro.com)

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Oct

2016

Ridiculous Situations That Make Me Laugh

Posted by Amy Byrnes

I leased a new car recently – a gorgeous silver Subaru Outback named Sheila, who’s never been barfed in or had a can of Pringles potato chips explode in her backseat – so thought I’d take a few minutes out this morning to quickly set up a monthly automatic payment plan for her and check that puppy off my to-do list.

I am all about autopay. In fact, were it not for those types of setups, which eliminate my unreliable memory from nagging things like paying my mortgage or various utilities on time, I’d be – at the very least – sitting in a cold, dark house if not in debtors prison right now.

I actually cut up my credit card from The Gap not long ago because using it – even though The Gap showers you with reward points and there’s nothing like getting $30 off a mound of $60 worth of clothing at Old Navy – requires me to remember to pay the bill in a timely fashion. And for whatever the reason, I am absolutely terrible about doing things on time and The Gap has no patience for procrastinators. They start calling your house, like, the second that you’re late.

I learned the consequences of that behavior the hard way when I was trying to get a mortgage not long ago. Apparently, being a sporadic payer can (and will) bite you in the butt. It turns out, creditors don’t look kindly on those who mean well but can’t make payments on time. They turn around and report you to higher authorities, which can wreak havoc on your credit.

So, like a good girl, I learned my lesson and tried to set up all recurring payments automatically to avoid these dramatic situations. I mean, I already have an ex-husband. Do I need any more drama in my life?

I quickly logged onto the Chase site (who my lease is through) and plugged in all my info — social security number, routing number, blood type – and waited for the site to verify my checking account. After two failed attempts I heeded the kindly advice that popped up on my screen and called my bank.

I told the whole story to a very nice woman named Colleen at Wells Fargo (where I do my banking) who was very patient and let me go on and on only to then tell me when I was through that she’d have to transfer me to another department. Deep breath.

Then I told my tale to Justin, who was having a hard time figuring out just why I was transferred to him in the first place, and kept asking if I’d leased the car through Wells Fargo. No, Justin, no. I just want you to help me pay the nice Subaru people. Eventually, Justin told me he could not help verify my checking account and I should call the leasing people at Chase.

So I called that 800 number and went through all the prompts until I had to start shouting “representative!” and ended up with another nice gal named Ivy. But, alas, before she could even listen to my story, Ivy needed to verify that I was who I said I was and told me I’d have to answer a few questions in order to do so, which always makes me nervous. I worry that, even though I didn’t need to study and know all the right answers about myself, that somehow I’ll give off the vibe that I’m trying to put one over on someone. That I am up to no good.

But I really thought Ivy was just gonna toss me a few softballs and we’d be on our way but instead she threw a curveball right at my head (okay, sports metaphors might not work for less-than-sporty writers).

She asked me to choose from a list of options who I have my mortgage through and that’s a tough one because I’ve already refinanced the mortgage on the house I bought at the beginning of this year and each time that company has quickly sold my account off to some completely random company. Like, it’s not a big name like Chase or Wells Fargo but more like Jimmy John’s Sandwich and Loan Shop. Like, are these people licensed and equipped to handle anything heavier than salami, I ask you?

So, I hesitated when Ivy finished her list of options, which included D: None of the Above, and eventually picked A: my initial mortgage company and Ivy told me I’d done good and some bells went off in my head and we moved onto Round 2: my employment history.

IVY: Please select a company through which you’ve been employed.

ME: Okay, I’m game.

IVY: A: Home Shopping Network. B: Touched By an Angel

ME: (Burst out laughing) Is this for real?

IVY: (Trying to keep it real) Yes.

ME: (Wiping tears from eyes) No. Like, is my daughter there making you say these things?

IVY: (Really trying to remain professional and move things along) No, ma’m.

ME: (Still laughing) This is like a crazy game show about myself. Okay, what’s C?

IVY: C: Apple. Or, D: None of the Above

ME: Okay (Trying to regain composure), I really want to say “Touched By An Angel” but have to go with, “What is ‘D: None of the Above’ for $1,000?

But Ivy really wasn’t finding the same kind of humor in the situation that I was. She didn’t think that a round of Amy Jeopardy before helping make my lease payment on time was remotely funny. I mean, in this age of credit card account hacks and Wikileaks, I appreciate all the big monoliths’ due diligence in securing my personal information and taking it all so seriously. While, to date, I’ve managed to refrain from snapping any selfies of my various bits and pieces unclothed or in compromising situations, I’d hate to have any of my secrets end up in the wrong hands. I’d hate to have the public privy to confidential emails I’ve sent regarding how much I hated our last book club book or evidence of all the shit I order off Amazon Prime (to wit: the Tekton set of three rubber mallets I ordered earlier in the month). Because that would be embarrassing.

In the end, Ivy couldn’t help me set up my auto pay either and forwarded me to another very nice woman, named Christina, who answered the line all jolly until she asked me how my day was going.

“Actually, Christina, not great,” I told her, and then launched into everything I just relayed to you, minus the rubber mallets. “I know none of this is your fault,” I told her, “but I’m just really frustrated that something that should have taken five minutes has eaten up 45 minutes of my morning.” (Like I was expected to perform brain surgery or help feed hungry refugees as soon as I’d paid my car lease. I am a very important person.).

Christina was pretty much all business after that. We jumped over Double Jeopardy and went right into the final round of account authentification and I made a payment for this month, which is a relief because I really like the shiny new Sheila. I’d hate for the RePo man to come take her away from me; just when I was getting used to driving a car with good brakes that didn’t carry a faint smell of sour milk during the summer months.

So I’m good at least through Thanksgiving but, sadly, at some point will have to rely on that noggin of mine to remember to pay next month’s bill. In that case, who knows how long we’ll be enjoying riding around swathed in that new car smell and working air conditioning? I might want to hold off getting too spoiled until I get that automatic payment account set up to keep the Chase hounds at bay.

All of this is to say that if you see me riding a bike down the highway in December holding what looks like a big bag of presents, you’ll have a fairly good idea what happened. Or, more accurately, what didn’t happen.

Are you forgetful? A procrastinator? Or, perhaps, just plain losing your mind? Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below and new posts will arrive without you having to remember to look for them. Everything should be this easy. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and (what the hell) Pinterest.

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Aug

2016

I’m 50, Dammit

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Credit: Dominique Browning (I think) http://www.slowlovelife.com/

Well, it totally happened this weekend. Some time while I was sleeping and probably in the midst of dreaming about snakes or giving birth, something far more sinister occurred.

I turned 50.

Yes. I know. It’s true. And contrary to popular belief – er, that is, what I assumed was going to happen – it did not hurt one bit. There was neither pain nor hair loss nor bleeding.

I just got out of bed and started my day.

And maybe that’s where my 50s will be different from my 40s. I turned 40 in the emergency room of our local hospital, which is a story for another day, but needless to say, I was less than thrilled. But that night kind of set the course for the rest of the decade. In 10-years’ time, I’d change pretty much everything about my life. Oh, sure, I still want to lose 10 pounds and remain a dedicated procrastinator – I defy you to out-procrastinate me – but most everything else about my life has changed.

I ended my marriage, got a full-time job, started a blog, sent three kids to college, sold my house on my own and bought and renovated a new casa. I even went out on some dates and am way blonder than I was as a young girl of 40.

Are things perfect? Absolutely not. Have I figured this whole life thing out? Please, on a daily basis at least 1.3 of my children is mad at me.

But I like to think that I’m a work in progress. And even though I’ve figured out what some of my issues are, like not feeling good enough and the aforementioned procrastination, it doesn’t mean that I’ve gotten a handle on things. I get snagged thousands of times each day.

That’s why I’m in therapy.

But in a weird way, I’m kind of looking forward to what the next 10 years brings. There’s still so much I want to do. So many places I want to go. People I need to meet. And stuff I need to work through.

I hope I stop caring what other people think about me and start accepting people for who they are rather than who I really want them to be. Because getting on top of that shiz will free up a lot of time I would have used to fret and, as we all know, I am not getting any younger.

Honestly, I’m just glad it’s over. The day had been looming for about 18 months and I just needed to get it behind me. It was kind of like wanting to not be pregnant any more and just have the baby already, without all the crying (okay, I cried a little).

But so far, my 50s are going quite well. I spent the weekend celebrating and being showered with all the attention a needy Leo demands. There were lunches and dinners and cocktails and so much dancing that my feet feel like they just turned 60. Friends and family proved how well they knew me by giving me perfect gifts, like the stack of rings from my mom that I’d been lusting after to an autographed copy of Nora Ephron’s I Remember Nothing from my pal who takes such good care of me and a weird amount of booze from everyone else.

But maybe the best part of my birthday weekend was getting to spend a big chunk of it with my four children, who had no choice but to go along with it and act like they were having fun. We took the bus into Manhattan and I sat next to my oldest child, who is sometimes hard pressed to even say hello to me, and listened to him talk pretty much nonstop about his job during the hour’s ride in. We ate a delicious lunch in the Theater District that included thin, salty French fries and big pitchers of perfectly-proportioned mimosas, light on the juice. And when the check came my three oldest children surprised me and footed the bill.

Then, because it was literally (okay, not literally) 1,000 degrees on Saturday in New York City and felt like we were walking through the inside of an oven set to broil, we walked very slowly over to the Barrymore Theater to see “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time,” which we loved. We tried to go to a rooftop bar in Times Square afterwards that proved slightly challenging to locate and when we finally found the place, discovered everyone in our group needed to be 21 to enter so my highly disgruntled party and I found ourselves back on the hot, hot streets of New York. And instead of Googling the perfect place for post-theater cocktails, we ducked into the closest bar and drank cold beers and ate chicken wings while the 13yo sprawled out on a couch and watched the Olympics and everyone was happy. When we finally arrived home that night, we all went our separate ways and that did not make me one bit sad. It was time.

By my calculations, I held the children captive for nine hours, which is about eight hours and 55 minutes longer than our usual time we spend together as a family. And I guess if it took turning 50 for me to get that kind of gift, the gift of my children humoring me and going along with my one-big-happy-family fantasy, then it was totally worth it. Plus, I’ve got enough tequila to last me until I’m 60.

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May

2016

Where Does the Time Go?

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Credit: https://unsplash.com/

Time management has never been my strong suit. I begin most days well-intentioned, with big plans to DO THIS and DO THAT, which mostly degenerates into watching videos on Facebook and taking quizzes to determine who was Rory’s best boyfriend on the Gilmore Girls.

So I was really struck by a recent piece in The New York Times called “The Busy Person’s Lies.” The author, Laura Vanderkam, is a time management expert who’s written a few books on the subject and suggests that we often think we are busier than we really are. In the essay, she shares her experience tracking her own activity for a full year, which included writing, extensive travel to give talks on time management and giving birth to her fourth child.

And I was like, what is my problem? My fourth child is 13 and I have a hard enough time just getting to the food store, much less traveling for work or writing a book.

I have come to understand that I need structure in my life and without it, I flounder. I can’t have too much time on my hands and find the more I have to do, the more productive I become.

So, when I left work to care for my first child many moons ago, I had a lot to figure out. With just a newborn at home and tons of hours to fill in the day, I’d often spend much of it shuffling around the house in my pajamas carrying my little crybaby and waiting for his dad to get home.

But then more kids came and the crybaby got a little older and the days became more structured. Breakfasts and coloring and story time at the library, mid-day naps and maybe a walk around the neighborhood followed by chicken nuggets, tubbies, a story and then – blissfully – bed.

When the older kids were in high school, I went back to working full time and although things were bonkers – four kids in four different schools – it was kind of impressive what I was able to accomplish each day. Not only was I doing the regular parenting stuff – making meals, food shopping, back-to-school nights – but I also launched and managed a local news site — reporting on and writing, like, five stories each day — and attending grand openings, school assemblies and municipal meetings a few nights each week. Somewhere in between all that I also started a blog.

To get that job, I had to take an intense three-hour long writing test, which happened to fall the day before Thanksgiving. I went up to my office (really a desk pushed next to my bed), instructed my children to stay out of my way, ploughed through all the writing, was told I got the job, came downstairs and started cooking Thanksgiving dinner for 20 people.

No sweat.

Fast forward three years and a company-wide layoff later and I found myself once again with not only hours of unstructured time each day but also wondering how I ever managed to fit a full-time job into all my mothering duties.

But now, about three years after that conference call layoff, the kids are that much older and self-sufficient (well, in theory, anyway). Now that a year of moving and renovating a new house is behind me, I kinda find myself floundering again. I mentioned this to my friend Dan the other day and he said, “I hear that a lot from my clients who don’t have jobs. They can’t seem to get anything done.”

Bingo.

But I don’t really want a full-time office job. I mean, I do, don’t get me wrong. But I still have a seventh grader and three months to fill during the summer. There’s only so much Netflix I’m willing to let him watch each day.

I really want to develop freelance opportunities and work on a bigger writing project and am tired of trying to figure out how to squeeze that in between cleaning the kitchen and trips to Trader Joe’s.

According to Vanderkam, the first step is keeping track of how you spend your time, which I started doing a few days ago and it’s been an interesting exercise (you can print out or download a spreadsheet here). I’m trying to approach the process with positive intentions and not as a way of beating myself up.

Vanderkam, whose most recent book is aptly titled I Know How She Does It, writes, “Keeping a time log is not about figuring out how much time we waste. It is about making sure we are not telling ourselves stories about our lives that are not actually true.”

I mean, I know that being a single mom with four kids can be time-consuming, especially in the summertime with everyone at home. There are a lot of distractions. But I also know that I could manage my time a lot better. Like, do I need to check Facebook every 15 minutes? I think not.

Working from home can be challenging, but rather than scrolling through photos of kindergarten graduations and cat videos — and man, I love a good cat video — I’d really like to concentrate on more productive activities. Like, maybe writing or starting a meditation practice. Or food shopping, for that matter.

“Just because you know where the time goes doesn’t mean that you need to punish yourself for wasting it or feel bad about spending it the way you do,” Vanderkam said in a recent interview with KJ Dell’Antonia for the NYTimes Well Family blog. “Are you happy, or not? If you’re happy, celebrate that. There’s nothing wrong with sitting on the porch drinking a glass of wine and staring at the trees.”

Vanderkam was able to keep track of her days in 30-minute increments for an entire year. That’s 8,784 hours. And she had a newborn. How hard can it be for me to do it for a week?

I’ll keep you posted.

Do you know where all your time goes? What are some of your time management tips? Share in the comment section below.

When I’m not trying to figure out where all my time goes, I write about being a mom to grown, and almost grown, kids. Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

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May

2016

Best Audiobooks for Long Drives With Teens

Posted by Amy Byrnes

It’s graduation season, so in preparation for my final journey eight hours south to the big state university my two oldest children have attended over the last five years, I downloaded a couple of audiobooks to help make the time hurtling down a major interstate pass as quickly as humanly possible.

Over those years of driving down for orientations, football games and settling kids in for fall semesters, we’ve listened to a number of excellent books but it’s been a challenge trying to find something that appealed to every passenger in the car.

Okay, let’s be real. When I first started visiting the school about six years ago, I picked stories that interested just me, as I’d come to terms with the fact that I would be the only one listening. I had three teenagers, after all (and one very cute 7yo).

I knew that all of the teenagers along for the ride would be reclining in the back of our SUV, thoroughly ensconced in whatever loud music was blaring from their white headphones. As soon as I turned the key in the ignition, the children would slip into their own worlds and spend the following eight hours intermittently napping and taking Snapchats of themselves — framed by whatever geotag we were passing through — while some misogynistic lyrics blasted into their young ears. (Okay, there probably wasn’t Snapchat six years ago but you get what I mean).

So I listened to Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken which, at about 8 hours long, was perfect for one leg of the trip. Not only was the story of overcoming insurmountable challenges incredibly inspiring but I also learned a lot about the Pacific theater part of World War 2, in particular Japan’s deadly attacks in China. Like, who knew?

For an ensuing trip, I decided to really go for it and downloaded the second Girl With the Dragon Tattoo book (The Girl Who Played With Fire), which clocked in at 18.5 hours. This is when I discovered that some books are better to read than listen to. Number One, I do not have the attention span for all of that storytelling and it was so long I had to finish listening upon my return while driving to soccer and making dinner. And Number Two, while all those Swedish names of people and places were easy to differentiate while reading, you could tell by sight who or where the reference was, but listening was a whole different story. I couldn’t discern a Blomvkist from a Lundagatan and I have been known to speak the Swedish language.

Eventually, through some kind of miracle, the kids started listening along as we drove. We all enjoyed Tina Fey’s Bossypants, and while she totally embraces the “F” word, which probably wasn’t the most appropriate language for my elementary school child, I loved her kind of Smart, Girl Power message and figured that would outweigh some of the naughtier language. And honestly, that’s probably what kept the kiddies listening, thinking they were kind of getting away with something.

And our love for Tina set us down the road to listening to a bunch of humor audiobooks on long drives up and down the Eastern Seaboard. We loved Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please and Jim Gaffigan’s Fat Dad. We listened to both Mindy Kahling books and Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance. Of course, Nora Ephron helped us pass the time during one trip with her essays from I Feel Bad About My Neck. And I discovered Mike Birbiglia listening to This American Life and downloaded his poignant and hilarious album Sleepwalk With Me. We seriously laughed our asses off.

We listened to some kid/teen-centric books as well. My little guy and I enjoyed Wonder driving down to move his sister into her new apartment one August and my two daughters and I adored Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl and Elenor & Park. Maybe a little too much.

But listening to books during long drives was not a novel (get it?) idea for my children. When they were young, I was always popping in a cassette – and later a CD – for us to listen to while driving. We loved Roald Dahl’s Magic Finger and Fantastic Mr. Fox and thrilled to Shel Silverstein’s slightly creepy, thoroughly wacky readings of his poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends.

One of my favorite family stories is the time we were all heading out on a long drive home from skiing and I popped in Mary Pope Osborne’s child-friendly version of The Odyssey, which was greeted by groans from the back seat. My oldest was probably around 12 or 13 and was way too grown up and cool to be subjected to his mother’s campaign to create lifelong readers in her children.

He grumbled and eventually settled down to hear about Odysseus’ struggles with wooden horses and one-eyed giants and as the first disc ended, I heard, “Wait, that’s it?” from that too-cool-for-school son in the back seat. Too old, indeed.

That same son – who, at 23, is an avid reader and counts East of Eden, which he read last summer while commuting, as one of his favorite books – was my travel companion for this weekend’s graduation festivities, so I kept him in mind as I perused iTunes to download stuff to listen to and kind of think I killed it.

Driving down, my son, 19yo daughter and I listened to The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime – clocking in at 6 hours – and then couldn’t stop referencing the story throughout graduation weekend. We joked about the lovable yet often frustrating main character who has Asperger’s and mimicked the British-isms sprinkled throughout the story. I think the rest of our family, who was not in our car, was kind of annoyed by our going on about the story but yesterday, the graduate started reading it and I might encourage my youngest to do the same. Great story.

For something completely different, our drive home was filled with the beautiful and profound thoughts on what makes a life worth living in the gorgeous memoir When Breath Becomes Air. An excellent contemplation of life and death written by a 36yo neurosurgeon before he succumbed to lung cancer and about 5 and-a-half hours long. Lovely.

My son and I listened to the end of Paul Kalanithi’s beautiful words and quickly followed up with a Game of Thrones podcast chaser to finish out our trip, thus balancing the heaviness of the memoir with the airy ponderings on the fate of Winterfell.

I will miss having a reason to trap my children with me for such large chunks of time and getting to listen to stories together. More than the stories – though I do love them – it’s the shared experiences I’ve enjoyed so much over the years. The inside jokes. The references to pet rats and dead dogs and sisters for sale.

However I will never miss I-81 or stopping to use sketchy restrooms in the middle of nowhere. Some experiences are best left in the past.

When I’m not driving up and down the East Coast, I write about being a mom to grown, and almost grown, kids. Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

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Apr

2016

Would You Like to See My Ektorp?

Posted by Amy Byrnes

The Ektorp out of the box.

This winter, on top of pulling up stakes and moving from my old house and renovating my new one, I also learned how to speak a new language.

It’s called “IKEA.”

In fact, I’ve become quite fluent.

I know how to say “Liatorp” and “Malm.” I’ve mastered a few pronunciations of “Hemnes” but struggled a bit with “Beddinge.” But “Ektorp” was a breeze.

We ended up needing to buy a bunch of furniture when we moved into our new house because our old stuff was just too big. This 1929 Tudor has smaller rooms than our former 1969 Colonial and thus requires furniture with smaller profiles. It is neither sectional- nor footboard-friendly.

Enter the Swedes. They know how to streamline furniture. You just have to put it most of it together.

So I made an initial trip to the closest IKEA in January about 45 minutes up the NJ Turnpike on an exploratory mission. My girlfriend and I took a lot of pictures and notes of things we thought would work in the new place.

In March, my two younger kids and I returned and bought a bunch of things to stuff in a car and then we scheduled the really big stuff — like the Ektorp sofa — to be delivered a few days later. We bought the sofa, my 13yo son’s bedroom furniture (bed, dresser, desk), a futon for my older guy and a dresser for him to keep his clothes/hold the TV in the basement, and a really cool chair for my new office. We also got my little guy some really cool stainless steel shelves and giant wave picture to hang in his new room. And we ate meatballs and watched the planes takeoff and land at nearby Newark Airport because, like, when in IKEA.

I’d bought a bed from IKEA for my younger daughter for her 16th birthday a few years ago, which she put together herself over the course of three days, but hadn’t been back to the monolith since. But that daughter was home from school for spring break and chomping at the bit to assemble furniture. Can you imagine?

She barricaded herself in a room and slowly put together all of our new furniture. About a day into it she came to me crying that her hands hurt from all the screwing so I benevolently bought her a power screwdriver at Home Depot the next day. The only item she didn’t get to was my office chair, which required precisely 4 screws to be fastened, and took me about 2 days to complete. The guy who hung the subway tile in my kitchen watched as I struggled one afternoon and when he came back the next morning to grout, laughed, “You’re still fighting with that thing?”

Overall, I am thrilled with my IKEA purchases. I mean, I don’t need fancy. I like things that look good and are priced right (which is why I am obsessed with Target). And I know IKEA stuff can last because the table and chairs my first husband and I bought right after we were married for our apartment in Hoboken followed us with four children to three houses over about 15 years.

Apparently, you get into trouble with IKEA stuff when you take one of their pieces apart — like a platform bed — and then try to put it back together again. Not a great idea.

But luckily, as I am never moving again, this will not be an issue. My Malm and my Ektorp will be standing long after I’m gone. But if they’re not, I’m going to need to find someone to put the new stuff together for me.

FYRKANTIG!

Behold, the Ektorp!

Malm platform bed with two big drawers underneath …

The rug is also IKEA.

Hemnes desk and 5-drawer dresser …

Ekby Mossby stainless steel shelves: I told him to go on Posters.com and find something that spoke to him. “That speaks to you?” I asked when he showed me the monkey and he shook his head in the affirmative. “Interesting,” I answered.

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Apr

2016

Public Apology

Posted by Amy Byrnes

To the Good Samaritan who helped my 13yo pick up a case of Costco water bottles (because I cannot be satisfied with the paltry 32-pack at a grocery store and need the warehouse-sized 40 bottles) off Branch Avenue around rush hour last night:

I’m sorry I’m an idiot. That I was in such a rush to get my son to lacrosse practice and get back home in time to get picked up by my girlfriend to go out to dinner, that I forgot to close the back of my car. That when I discovered the kid we were picking up to carpool was stuck at a track meet and no longer needed a ride, I sped out of the driveway without pushing the little button inside my car to automatically close the back door. I had popped open the door in a preemptive measure to get my carpooler in the car as quickly as possible. I’d hoped he’d throw his gear in the back and jump in.

And it wasn’t until I was racing down one of the main arteries through town towards the practice field at the high school that I noticed the interior lights overhead were still on. “That’s weird,” I thought, and then thought, “Shit.”

It was then I regretted not bringing in the giant 40-pack of waters after a trip to Costco on Monday. But it was raining. And I’d already carried in about 100 pounds of milk and paper towels. And, I mean, what’s the point in having two sons if not to get them to haul giant packages of water to the basement? And I don’t know if it’s because I instinctively hit the brakes when this clicked in my brain or if those waters were destined to hit the pavement but in an instant, I saw in my rearview mirror the familiar blue-labeled bottles bouncing and rolling across the road behind me.

And honestly, my initial instinct when I pulled over and saw the debris scattered on this very busy thoroughfare that was thankfully deserted at that moment as a train had pulled into the station, bringing traffic to a halt (which is funny because I can’t tell you how many times in the last 20 years I’ve cursed goddamn NJ Transit for the very same inconvenience that had now ironically become a strange blessing). And I was dressed for dinner and wearing snug fitting pants and heels. And earlier in the day I’d gotten a cortisone shot in each of my big toes to relieve the arthritis that has of late relegated me to a life of Birkenstocks and Vans. I just didn’t want to add to the spectacle of the water bottles in the street by teetering around in tight pants and my fancy new heels (Clarks, but still).

But how could I just leave? How would that work? Would oncoming traffic simply drive over the bottles? Would the town’s DPW have to come out and clean it up? And how long would that take? Would I be guiltily driving by the bottles for the next few weeks? When a deer was hit not far from my old house, its carcass sat on the side of the road – that my children had to walk past on the way to school – for days before someone authorized for that type of disposal came and hauled it away. And would the local police deduce I was the drop-and-run litterer and come knocking on my door to arrest me?

I worried about all of the fallout from the literal fallout from my car and in an instant you were there, scooping the bottles off the road. I don’t know where you came from, maybe you were in the middle of a run, but you ran across the street and started to clean up my mess. And in an instant, my son was out there, too, grabbing as many bottles as he could and throwing them in the back of my car.

I thought about making a joke about being a crazy, menopausal woman rushing around as you threw bottles into the back of my truck but you didn’t really seem open to jokes. And I really did contemplate coming out to help but, I mean, the shots and the heels. But the two of you made quick work of it and in no time, as traffic slowly drove around our little circus, the bottles were off the road and you resumed whatever it was you were doing before you made the decision to help.

So, I just want to thank you for that. For coming to the rescue of some crazy white lady rushing around in her high heels strapped to her arthritic feet while all that plastic – talk about a carbon footprint – spilled out of her SUV. I hope something good happened to you later that night. I hope the universe, impressed by your goodness, paid it forward towards you in some really awesome way. And I also hope that when you recounted the incident later that night, maybe to your wife or girlfriend, that you were kind. That I didn’t come off as too much of an asshole. And finally, if I did, I hope you’ll accept my apology. I’m sorry I’m an idiot.

Humbly … Amy

Okay, maybe I’m a bit of a jerk. But still, it’s funny. Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

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Apr

2016

I’m From Jersey

Posted by Amy Byrnes

https://www.etsy.com/listing/162339014/new-jersey-dictionary-print-new-jersey?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=new%20jersey&ref=sr_gallery_6

It wasn’t until I went away to college that I learned firsthand that New Jersey, and its denizens, were a joke. Like, even my new roommate who hailed from Baltimore — BALTIMORE! — sneered at any mention of the Garden State.

Apparently, it was an embarassing place to live.

Even when we gather now as legit grown ups, there’s always some put down of my home state by my college friends and sometimes the person throwing the insult actually grew up in New Jersey. We went to high school together but after college she moved outside D.C. so I guess there’s a statute of limitations imposed on Jersey. You can disavow yourself of any relation to the state as long as you skeedaddle before you have to start paying taxes.

For a while, I dreamt of getting the hell out of Jersey, too. There’s just so many assumptions made about those of us who live here by those who don’t and for a long time, I really cared what other folks thought. I hated having the taint of Jersey on my skin.

I had a big interview for a PR job at Gucci years ago in Manhattan and the elegant Italian woman conducting the test-a-tete was astounded I grew up in the Garden State. “You don’t sound like you’re from New Jersey,” she observed, and this was long before Snooki and the Housewives gave the rest of the world the impression that we awl tawked liyk dis and ran around drunk pulling each other’s hair. I mean, I gave that shit up after college.

Following my divorce, I dreamt about moving with my youngest child to the city when the older three kids graduated from college. But as time went on, it became clear that my situation was not that cut-and-dry. It turns out, just because your child completes his or her’s higher education does not necessarily mean they’re relocating. Sometimes they’re still living in your basement despite a diploma.

So when I was looking to downsize a bit I realized a 2-bedroom apartment was really not going to work and I quietly wondered how long I would be trapped in the wilds of New Jersey.

But it was a conversation I had this fall with another college pal that helped me see that my thinking was twisted. She and her husband had relocated to Long Island and she said it was hard to make friends because she commutes to work every day and didn’t have kids in the school system to help forge those local connections.

“It’s nice that you’re a part of a community,” she said to me, and I was like, “What is my fucking problem?”

I have everything I need right here. My family. My friends. A lovely town. I’ve also got the beach, pork roll, proper pizza and bagels, Bruce Springsteen and a cool new national park that’s got an Alexander Hamilton bent and I mean, who’s cooler than that fly founding father these days?

This is where I live. It’s where I’ve raised my four children. Practically my whole family is a quick drive away and I’ve come to appreciate the real Jersey part of Jersey. The Goombas. The accents. The Turnpike. That opening sequence of the Sopranos? You better believe you’ve got yourself a gun baby. Bada bing!

It’s all part of the charm of the state. It’s what gives it its color. The same can be said for where you live, too. Whether you hail from Long Island or Boston or Savannah or Minnesota. Or even Baltimore. I don’t want us all to be the same. Shiny and hoity-toity. Let’s celebrate our differences and not make assumptions.

And on Sunday nights in the summer, there’s no place on Earth I’d rather be than dancing to Rosalita and being in love with a Jersey girl surrounded by friends in a crowded bar about a block away from the beach because, it turns out, down the shore everything’s alright.

Hey! You from Jersey? Doesn’t matter! Sign up to get all of my latest posts sent right to your inbox by typing your email into the box below. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

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Amy Byrnes

life in fits and starts

Category Archives: Uncategorized

Friday Faves: The Binge Watch

Friday faves: Athleisure Edition

Hope & Change

Ridiculous Situations That Make Me Laugh

I’m 50, Dammit

Where Does the Time Go?

Best Audiobooks for Long Drives With Teens

Would You Like to See My Ektorp?

Public Apology

I’m From Jersey