Posted by Amy Byrnes

Yup, that’s my mug along with a roundup of some of my very best qualities on HuffPo Divorce.

I was going to start this post out by saying that I’ve learned lately that to get what you want in life, sometimes you really need to grow a pair (cahones, man) and take risks. But then my inner-feminist was like, “Seriously? Do you have to have a weiner to put yourself out there?” Of course, we all know that the answer is, “No.”

There are plenty of timid men and courageous women. Balls have got nothing to do with it.

I do have big boobs though and since there are two of them, maybe we’ll go with that instead.

At any rate, whether it was balls or boobs at work, I got up the nerve a few weeks ago to email Arianna Huffington to tell her I’d love to be part of the HuffPo bevy of bloggers. I stole the idea, because I’ve had about 12 original thoughts in my entire life, from the super-smart and brave Amy (I pretty much love every Amy) over at the blog Using Our Words who did the same thing to get on HuffPo a while ago and wrote about it here.

I’ve made a concerted effort to try to get myself on other sites besides this one lately and had submitted a few things to Huffington Post but never heard anything back. Seriously, crickets.

And I love Arianna. I’ve listened to an interview she did with Nora Ephron in 2006 at the 92^nd Street Y and a book she wrote on, ironically enough, Becoming Fearless and think she’s not only smart and ambitious but a champion of other women as well. I proabably spent two days, on and off, working on the email – I mean, just what do you say to Arianna? – and finally hit the send button with a trembly finger.

And then I waited.

I probably hit the refresh button on my inbox a grillion times over the next few days to find only updates from Twitter and American Express (PS AmEx: can you please stop writing to tell me how much I’ve spent since my last statement?).

And of course, right when I’d forgotten all about it, around 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, I checked my emails and there, would you believe, was a note from Arianna herself. It was short and sweet but she thanked me for thinking of them and hooked me up with an editor and wished me all the best.

Naturally, I screamed. And then I called my mom.

So what is it like having something posted on Huffington Post? Well, the first piece brought a lot of shout outs and hallelujahs on social media from folks I already knew but not much else happened.

But another essay that went live Friday had very different results. Like, it doubled my highest traffic day ever and also brought with it some of the meanest things ever said about me from someone I haven’t been married to. But it also brought emails, comments and Facebook messages from people from all over who have been down the same road. People who reached out to say, “Yes. Right. Me, too.”

Too legit to quit.

And that’s what writing is really all about. Being heard and connecting. Knowing you’re not alone in all of it. Being a part of something bigger than yourself.

And, really, what better place to do all that than the Huffington Post?

Wait, I forgot to tell you that I also got to write a piece for The Stir at CafeMom this week about my all-time-favorite TV show, The Gilmore Girls. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Get thee to Netflix where all seven seasons are currently available for streaming and see you when you’re done in a few weeks.

An ode ot Rory and Lorelai on The Stir.

Sign up to get all my posts sent directly to your inbox to read at your leisure. Like when you’re trying to stay awake until your 16-year-old comes home on a Saturday night. Just plug your email into the “receive new post in your inbox.” Seriously, all the cool kids are doing it.

You can also follow me on Facebook and I’d love to meet you on Twitter.

Oct

2014

In Defense of Renee Zellweger

Posted by Amy Byrnes

I don’t know about you, but I’d almost forgotten about Renee Zellweger, she of Bridget Jones and Chicago fame. But that probably should come as no surprise since I consume a steady diet of Hollywood’s newest and hottest starlets fed to me through my dedicated reading of People and Entertainment Weekly magazines and watching schlocky Extra and Access Hollywood on TV most nights (Mario Lopez and Billy Bush are like the Dan Rather and Walter Cronkite for the celebrity set). There’s always somebody newer, hotter and fresher to admire and scrutinize.

So Zellweger’s name caught my eye yesterday as I was scrolling through Facebook but the picture I was looking at didn’t quite match up to the actress I remembered. The woman didn’t even look like she could be a sister, much less a cousin, once-removed of the Oscar-winning actress.

: Zellweger in 2010 (Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons)

: Zellweger in 2014 (Photo Credit: People)

Not 24 hours later and Zellweger, 45, is everywhere: the aforementioned Extra and Access Hollywood breathlessly reporting how her appearance at an awards ceremony set off a firestorm of speculation about the extent of work she has had done to her face. The story is all over the Internet and the Today Show (ack, what happened to the Today Show?) could not get enough of this very important issue. Matt Lauer even had Bill O’Reilly – there to discuss his new book on Patton – give his two cents on the issue (probably the only time I’ve ever agreed with the old gasbag).

“They’re not reporting on the issue,” noted my very smart friend, “they’re creating the issue.”

I wonder what the great newsman Ben Bradlee, longtime editor of the Washington Post who died yesterday, had to say in the end about what is considered news nowadays. Scroll through the home page of Today.com and you can read all you want about “Best Baby Bump Style” and “4 Moves to a Great Butt” (I shit you not), but find not one word about Hong Kong or ISIS.

But I digress.

Women in their 40s are fucked and we don’t even talk about anyone in their 50s so I guess we just slink off somewhere to pluck our chin hairs and wait to shrivel up and die.

And you don’t have to be a movie star to feel the pressure to hang onto youth and beauty for as long as possible. Even unemployed mothers of four living in suburban New Jersey succumb to a multitude of treatments to stay fresh. To look the way I do requires gel manicures, pedicures, haircuts/color/straightening, waxing of brows/lip/bikini area. Then there’s the monthly facial, the guy who comes to work out with me at my house twice a week and my face may have seen a needle a time or two.

That’s not even counting all of the lotions and potions sitting in a basket on my bathroom counter that I smear and splatter all over myself to encourage my skin to retain whatever elasticity it has left.

And I make jokes that I have to keep myself together since I’m single and have so many kids. That I have to have one thing – other than thin ankles – going for me.

I said as much to my girlfriend this morning as we discussed Zellweger while squatting with 20-pound weights (the irony). “Yeah, but I do all that stuff too,” said my pal, “and I’m married.”

Even the great Anna Quindlen – my long-time professional and personal hero, who famously wrote, “The life span of women in our society is divided into three stages: pre-Babe, Babe and post-Babe” – has admitted to using Botox (like it’s a narcotic or something).

Another pal and I were talking not long ago about Botox and how she was told by a friend that she better start including the procedure in her maintenance schedule or she was going to look like shit compared to everyone else.

“Why can’t we all just agree not to go there?” she moaned.

But, as Zellweger has proven, things are going in the opposite direction. Botox is just the gateway procedure leading to the harder treatments like lasers, fillers, eye and neck lifts.

Why can’t we all just channel Meryl Streep, who called our push for actresses to stay young “Victoria’s Secret Syndrome” in a 2008 Good Housekeeping article?

“I just don’t get it. You have to embrace getting older,” said the now-65-year-old actress. “Life is precious, and when you’ve lost a lot of people, you realize each day is a gift.”

Society tells us that we’re nothing if we’re not babes and I can tell you, at 48 and wallowing in the final days of my own babedom (or maybe the beginning of the decay), it’s fucking scary. It’s not only how we’re defined but, for many of us, how we define ourselves.

So I get why Renee Zellweger felt the need to do whatever it was she did to herself. I like to think that I’ll let my looks go softly into the night, but who knows? Maybe I’ll be led astray and succumb to the shiny promises of Juvaderm and blepharoplasty.

At least I won’t have Mario Lopez talking about me on TV if I do.

Oct

2014

I Went to Buy a Car and Had a Baby Instead

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Twenty-two years ago today, I bought a car. Or at least, I started the day buying a car and ending up having a baby instead. It all happened so fast.

My husband at the time and I, babies ourselves, had just moved to the suburbs and were in the market for a second car as we prepared for parenthood. I had already started my maternity leave – unable to cope with the long train ride in and out of the city each day – and he was off for the Columbus Day holiday.

And so, much like Columbus whose journey brought him to an unexpected destination, we set sail that day in search of an extra set of wheels and ended up in a hospital room with me barfing up a giant meal hours before giving birth.

Note to all expectant mothers: Do not gorge on prime rib whilst in labor. You will live to regret every fork full. Please. Trust me.

Here’s what I discovered on that day all those years ago: Being a mom is hard.

For months, I had envisioned all sorts of happy scenarios as I rubbed my growing belly and religiously devoured “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” but none of it prepared me for the reality of actually having the baby. I had been so focused on the birth that I was not prepared for the day-to-day slog of parenting. For sitting around and watching it cry and poop all day.

And so I had my truly excellent natural childbirth (no drugs, yo), bringing my 7-pound son easily into the world, and then everything went off script. He couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t expel the pesky placenta. We both labored until he was whisked off to the neonatal unit and I was wheeled into the OR.

I ended up on the sad-mommy floor, the section of the maternity ward that shielded moms whose pregnancies had gone awry from all the happy families cooing over their newborns with rooms overflowing with balloons and doting grandparents. It was like being in the Land of Misfit Toys, where for one reason or another, our square-wheeled babies couldn’t come join us for a snuggle in our hospital beds.

The baby’s health was so unstable that the hospital had a nun come and perform an emergency baptism on Day 2. Talk about grim.

For many years afterwards – long before I had to end my marriage or had a child slip into the darkness of depression – the hardest thing I ever had to do was leave that hospital five days after giving birth without my baby. I had to leave him there, alone in an incubator with tubes running down his throat and wires attached to a shaved patch on his tiny head. And that, my friends, sucked. I was a mess.

And of course, the rest happened so fast. The baby quickly recovered and in less than a week, he was home and crying all the time and making me wonder what the hurry was getting him out of the hospital in the first place. While he was there, I had been religiously pumping breast milk at home so that when he could finally be fed, I would be more than ready to accommodate his little thirst. We immediately began passing thrush back and forth to each other, which for him meant yeasty white patches inside his pink mouth and for me it meant searing pain across my left breast. Like the thing was on fire.

So, here’s what I learned 22 years, three more babies and one less husband later: I was reading the wrong how-to manual all those years ago. “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”? That’s completely misleading. Moms-to-be should read something like, “You Don’t Even Know What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

We all set sail into unchartered waters when we become parents. We think we are clever, with our courses clearly mapped and plugged into the GPS of our lives. But kids are tricky and bring with them lots of variables, their insecurities and emotions are the winds and tides that can blow us off course in a heartbeat. So we often end up standing on the shores of some strange land — nowhere near where we expected to be — much like Columbus landing in the Bahamas rather than Asia.

But here’s the thing: As much as I was so sure 22 years ago that my life would follow a certain trajectory, I’ve discovered that even though I’m far from where I thought I’d be, it’s better in the Bahamas.

Sign up to get all my posts sent directly to your inbox to read at your leisure. Just plug your email into the “receive new post in your inbox.”

You can also follow me on Facebook and I’d love to meet you on Twitter.

Oct

2014

Terror in My Bedroom

Posted by Amy Byrnes

WARNING: THIS POST IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.

Here’s my usual early morning routine: I hit snooze on my iPhone three times and as the fourth round of the annoying harp music tries to rouse me, I drag myself out of bed, use facilities, weigh self — and either congratulate self on showing self restraint the day before or curse that bag of vegetable sticks I paired with the nice bottle of Tuscan red — and head downstairs to make coffee. I feed the cat — who I am pretty sure is legally blind because she skitters frantically in front of my feet and knocks into objects as I make my way to her bowl — and measure six teaspoons of half and half into my coffee (which somehow is the perfect amount) and head back upstairs to write for a bit before I make breakfast for the kids.

I did all that Friday morning and as I eased myself back under the covers and went to set my mug down on the nightstand next to my bed, I saw this:

Twisty.

That, my friends, is my new, absolute worst nightmare. He/it was featured on the premiere of American Horror Story Freak Show Wednesday night and thankfully he was not standing next to my bed but his image was tucked under the glass on the top of the skirted table next to my bed.

Good morning.

Holy fuck.

I had told my daughter, that bitch, that the clown had kept me up the night before after we sat and watched the 90-minute first episode of this season’s AHS. We had sat on my big red sectional downstairs with our pal Punky to watch it but I spent most of the time with my thumbs plugged into my ears and the other eight fingers curled over my eyes. For a while I had turned my head away from the TV towards the girls and tried to gauge when the clown’s horror was over by the look of terror on both of their faces.

“That was so stressful,” Punky said later as she was leaving, right before she darted across the street in the dark and we yelled at her to watch out for the clown hiding in her driveway.

I went to bed that night and promptly woke up two hours later thinking about Twisty, about the first scene of the season opener and how he brutally attacks a young couple picnicking. As he repeatedly stabs the guy, the girl gets up from the blanket and starts running away, but keeps stumbling — just like the dreams I have when I’m trying to run away from something. And just like in a really bad dream, the clown gets up and starts to chase her and it’s like she just can’t move forward and he’s getting closer and closer. Terrifying.

You said it, Bart.

So I guess my 17-year-old was annoyed when I ended up going out to dinner Thursday night (a lovely date with my girlfriend that included wine, filet mignon and her driving me all around that is going to be tough for any future date to outdo) she was annoyed and decided to make me pay. I guess having to boss her little brother into the shower and bed was a real burden. So she set her evil plan into action.

After I found Twisty next to my bed the next morning, I headed downstairs to get our day started. I opened the fridge and was greeted with this:

The horror of diet tonic water.

I went to get out stuff for breakfast and found this in our Kirkland egg container:

Twisty hiding in the egg carton.

“You b@#%h,” I texted my daughter.

“LOL,” she wrote back from the comfort of her bed.

“I AM GOING TO GET YOU,” I threatened.

“Good luck,” she said.

And then, as is the case when people in my life have damaged me in one way or another, I did what came naturally.

I made her pancakes.

I am really sorry to have burdened you with this.

Sign up to get all my posts sent directly to your inbox to read at your leisure (usually they’re not so terrifying). Just plug your email into the “receive new post in your inbox.”

You can also follow me on Facebook and I’d love to meet you on Twitter.

Oct

2014

4 Ways to Waste Time on the Internet Today (You’re Welcome)

Posted by Amy Byrnes

It’s rainy here in New Jersey today, super wet and dreary outside.

I love it.

It means that soccer is canceled and I can lie in bed and read my copy of Lena Dunham’s new book (reviewed here by my friend Brooke at Carpool Candy) I ran out and bought yesterday afternoon at my favorite book store guilt-free. And I’ve already bought a ticket to see “Gone Girl” later this afternoon (so excited). But don’t let me fool you, I’ll probably end up spending a lot of time trolling the Internet, too. It’s just what I do.

As is the case, I’ve come across a few items of interest — rabbit holes, if you will — that I thought you might like, too.

You’re welcome.

1. As has been well-documented on this site, our neighbors moved to Hong Kong this summer for a few years. I’ve never thought about Hong Kong, much less China, much before they left and it’s weird now that the U.S. media has non-stop coverage of the protests going on over there, alternated with the whole Ebola thing. Hopefully the latter does not somehow crop up in my life as well. My daughter sent me this Vlog Brothers video this morning that I think does a super job explaining what’s going on in Hong Kong in just about six minutes. Highly educational.

2. I showed this one to my 11-year-old son the other day and now we can’t stop quoting this video.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3sKdDyyanGk

3. The first time I ever heard Mike Bribiglia I was in my car listening to This American Life and the story he told was so funny and poignant, I ended up sitting in my car in a Marshall’s parking lot for about 10 minutes waiting to hear the end. I saw him perform live in the the town next door last night and it had me thinking about Bribiglia’s need to always be right. Enjoy.

4. And this is just hilarious: http://news.distractify.com/megan-mccormick/one-woman-just-got-the-tinder-message-of-a-lifetime/?v=1

Want to stay up to date on every little thing I think and feel? Of course not, neither do I. You can, however, sign up to get all my posts sent directly to your inbox to read at your leisure. Just plug your email into the “receive new post in your inbox.”

Sep

2014

Derek Jeter, One More Time

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Credit: Wikimedia Commons

My son came into the kitchen yesterday afternoon and took a look at the small TV on the counter, tucked into the corner between my toaster oven and colorful collection of knives, and asked, kind of surprised, “You’re still watching this?”

He and I had turned on the Yankees game an hour earlier to catch Derek Jeter’s last turn at bat Sunday at Fenway Park and while the 11-year-old lost interest and drifted off to play outside, I kept watching.

Now, if you’ve spent any time reading my blog and gotten a general sense about the type of girl I am, you know that it would be much more likely to find me watching the Food Network or Oprah’s channel rather than a major league baseball game. In fact, I had a hard time finding the game on Verizon Fios (who knew the Yankees had their own network?) and couldn’t tell you where ESPN channels fall in my extensive selection of cable channels.

But I discovered Jeter literally in the bottom of the ninth of his career while watching a Gatorade commercial and have been kind of enamored with him since. And I don’t think I’m alone. When I wrote about my new obsession last week I got more traffic than usual to my site and noticed my guy friends, who normally don’t “like” my blog stuff on Facebook, showing their approval for the subject matter. This could possibly be the incentive I’ve needed to start paying more attention to sports in general.

So I watched Jeter get up for his second turn at bat Sunday and get that infield single while I baked treats for my son to bring to his cross-country pasta party the next day but then kept on watching even after The Captain bowed out of the game. I watched as the Yankees drove in run after run while breading chicken cutlets for dinner and then kept the TV on to watch Jeter’s post-game press conference.

“Why are we still watching this?” moaned my teenaged daughter as we ate our chicken and sweet potatoes while Jeter talked about what it was like to take the pinstripes off after his final game in the majors and how he always tried to treat people the way he wanted to be treated.

As far as my kids were concerned, it was like they were trapped in a really weird scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers because my behavior lately has been far from normal. I wouldn’t be surprised to find them poking around in the crawl space searching for my pod. Apparently, it’s disconcerting for them to see their zombie-loving, bookworm of a mom acting like a sports fan. It’s out of character.

I sat on my bed Thursday night after I got home from a wake to watch the last few innings of Jeter’s now-famous final game in New York and grinned from ear-to-ear when he drove in the winning run. I had called my daughter into my room as he came up to bat and — softy that she is — she started to cry when his ninth inning walk off single won the game and his teammates rushed onto the field.

I’ve combed the Internet to read everything I could find about Jeter and am now a walking encyclopedia of Derek Jeter miscellany including what’s up with that glittery necklace he wears under his uniform and the name of his personal masseuse. And on Saturday night, when one of the girlfriends I was hanging out with suggested we watch the movie “Moneyball” – and even though I’d already seen it once and was in a more of a “Crazy, Stupid Love”-y kind of mood – I said, “Great idea.” It put the whole 2001 “Flip” into perspective.

I even raced over to my local book store one day last week when they got another shipment of Jeter’s new book for kids called “The Contract” – “inspired by” Jeter’s childhood and the contract he signed with his parents that included things like “Be a role model” and “Respect yourself” — for my little guy. I will read it out loud to him if necessary.

I grew up watching baseball and spent many a warm summer night outside playing running bases with my three brothers. In fact, it’s really the only sport that I totally understand I think because I actually played it (or softball, rather, and not very well) as a kid. I have more than a basic grasp of the rules, which is more than I can say about offsides in soccer and whatever is considered a foul in basketball.

So the game makes me slightly nostalgic and I get it when a few times during “Moneyball” Brad Pitt’s character asks,” “How can you not be romantic about baseball?”

And I am, deep down, a hopeless romantic.

I want happy endings and for true love to conquer all. I want to believe that most people are inherently good and that everything will work out in the end. I am optimistic to a fault.

So the whole Derek Jeter thing – the entire arc of his story from his dreams as a kid of growing up to play for the Yankees to the storybook ending Thursday night – jibes with everything I want to believe in. And even better, he’s the one thing — in the face of Middle East air strikes and troubling news out of the NFL — everyone seems to be able to agree upon. It’s like those first few days after the Sept. 11 attacks, when — even though everything was beyond terrible — we all banded together as Americans. I love that we can all get behind Jeter, that he can unite us like that.

I know, I’m really romanticizing him.

But, I mean, Red Sox fans cheered for him yesterday and chanted his name. Even Justin Timberlake, whose wife is counted among Jeter’s notable list of famous ex-girlfriends, tweeted The Captain his support:

JT just might be my other favorite class act.

“He was what we want baseball to be, and sports to be,” writes Mike Lupica today in the Daily News of Jeter and I think that sums it up best for me. He gave us all hope.

So who knows if I’ll show any interest in the race towards the World Series or whether I’ll tune into the YES Network next season (if I can still remember where it is). But I’ll definitely be keeping an eye out for Derek Jeter.

I look forward to watching whatever he does next.

Sep

2014

My Top 5 Days of the Year

Posted by Amy Byrnes

They’re the days that I look forward to. The ones that make slogging through the other 360 kind of worth it. And today was one of them.

My Birthday: Even though I am now closer to 50 than 45 and some people I know are shocked by my alleged ability to reproduce, I still totally love my birthday. I love the attention, that my kids are generally on their best behavior and that presents are involved. I am all about the swag.
Christmas Day: I grumble throughout the season, complaining about the decorating, the holiday cards, the cost of the whole shebang. But on Christmas morning I wake up as excited as I did when I was a kid although now I love watching the kids open all the gifts I spent so much time shopping for and picking out and wrapping. I don’t even care any more about what I get, which is good because I think last year or the year before I got garbage pails. Legit. Two new garbage pails with bows. But I needed them and they were bought with an incredible amount of love and I think of that every time I drop a big bag of cat poop into one.
December 26: It’s the one day of the year I don’t feel guilty about sitting in my pajamas all day and doing nothing. I am also all about doing nothing. Okay, maybe I eat a lot of stuff like this.
Thanksgiving: I am obsessed with the parade and get goosebumps every time Al Roker cuts the ribbon at the start. Cheesy, I know. But the best part of the day is working for hours with my daughters as we peel the potatoes, slice the apples and wrestle the giant turkey into the pan. We are an amazing team. The second best part? Leftovers.
The Day My Pool is Closed for the Season: Really, the reason for this whole post. It happened this morning, when a pool guy named Steve showed up with a handful of ninjas and had the sucker shut down and covered in about an hour. I love looking out the window every chance I get and seeing the big green cover stretched across the gaping money hole called a pool. “Didn’t you enjoy it this year?” asked The Girl Whisperer as I was celebrating the closing between push ups and I did have to pause and remember some of the good times we had in the thing this summer. The times we all sat in the hot tub and sipped wine and a certain night not too long ago when the girls and I stripped off our clothes and jumped into the deep end and screamed at how cold the water felt on our bare skin. And then how the girls screamed when I got out to jump in again. The horror.
‘Tis a beautiful site.

Sep

2014

Remembering Gratitude When You’re Not Really Feeling Too Grateful

Posted by Amy Byrnes

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

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

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

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

I’m cranky, y’all.

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

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

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

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

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

Sep

2014

When Nothing is Fair at the Fair

Posted by Amy Byrnes

Credit: David Hand

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

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

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

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

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

Credit: arlnow.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mean, what else was I supposed to do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweeter than ice cream.

Sep

2014

10 Books That Shaped Me

Posted by Amy Byrnes

I generally try to avoid all of those email and Facebook chain letters. I’m always flattered when someone includes me in a group of friends whom she thinks would be inspired or uplifted by the message but try to dodge them all the same. I feel bad, but what can I do?

But now I’ve been asked by two girlfriends the Top 10 books that have inspired me over the many years I’ve roamed this planet — like the dinosaur that I am — and I am having a hard time resisting the urge to share. I mean, what narcissist who reads a lot wouldn’t want to bore you with the books that have made her tick?

So, Denise Swanzey and Staci Seltzer, thanks for letting me remember the books that have helped shape the weird person, weirder mom and navel-gazing writer that I’ve become.

1. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.: Judy Blume

Boobs, periods, boys: They were mysteries back when I first read the book in fifth grade and they continue to stump me almost 40 years later. Perhaps it’s time for a re-reading.

2. To Kill a Mockingbird: Harper Lee

The only good thing that came from leaving my tiny Catholic grammar school after my parents’ divorce and moving an hour south was getting to read this book in the public school I attended in 8th grade. Up to that point, the only stuff I’d read for school came out of a box on a giant glossy card (ugh that discouraging SRA Reading Program). I couldn’t believe my good fortune that I got to read an actual novel for English class (because it was English and not Language Arts back then).

3. Childhood is Hell: Matt Groening

Long before The Simpsons debuted on The Tracey Ullman Show, I adored Groening’s subversive “Life is Hell” cartoons in The Village Voice and stumbled across this collection while browsing a midtown Manhattan bookstore during my lunch hour from my low-level job as a glorified secretary at a women’s magazine. I spent the afternoon doubled over in my cubicle covertly reading about the “16 Types of Dads” (Fun Dad, Fear Dad, Lord Dad) and “Your Pal the TV Set” (“Is TV the coolest invention ever? Well, DUH.”). It’s now become one of my 11-year-old’s faves and that makes me feel like I’ve succeeded as a parent.

4. Bossypants: Tina Fey

I’ve read it twice and listened to it countless times during car trips up and down the Eastern Seaboard. My teenaged daughters adore it and I even let my little guy listen to it and am convinced the strong feminist ideas mixed with Fey’s deadpan humor totally override her liberal use of the “f” word. I think he’ll be a better man for it and will know how to use the term “motherfucker” in the right context. Score.

5. The Middle Place: Kelly Corrigan

My college girlfriend Honeypot — aka The Senator — sent me a copy of Corrigan’s first book long before I knew I wanted to be Corrigan. Her memoir about the place we find ourselves in mid-life between our parents and our children, with a little cancer thrown in, showed me that there was a place for people who wrote like I did.

6. The Twilight Series:

I gobbled up the first three books in about a week and mostly during a trip I took out west with my three sisters. I even had to stop at a bookstore near my sister’s home in Marin County to pick up book #2 and found myself often referencing vampires and their proclivities throughout the trip. And somehow, the series in a weird way made me want to end my marriage and find a dude that would take care of me like Edward. I am still accepting applications for that position.

7. The Honeymoon’s Over: True Stories of Love, Marriage and Divorce: Original essays by 21 writers

I read and re-read this collection of essays during the turbulent final years of my marriage and they helped me feel a little less alone. The writers showed me that there could be life on the other side, and you could even write about it.

8. I Feel Bad About My Neck: Nora Ephron

Funny. Self-deprecating. Shrewd.

Shards of brilliance: “Never marry a man you wouldn’t want to be divorced from.”

And: “When your children are teenagers, it’s important to have a dog so that someone in the house is happy to see you.”

I mean, what’s not to love?

9. Wild: Cheryl Strayed

I read Strayed’s memoir about going off and finding herself while I was sailing around the Greek islands and, well, finding myself. Enough said.

10. Eat, Pray, Love: Elizabeth Gilbert

Okay, obviously I’ve got a thing for chicks going off and finding themselves. But, as chronicled in detail here, listening to Gilbert read her memoir for a few weeks this spring really helped set the stage for a lot that happened in the heart department this summer. I highly recommend it.

Page 9 of 17« First ‹ Previous 5 6 7 8910 11 12 13 Next ›Last »

Amy Byrnes

life in fits and starts

Category Archives: Uncategorized

I’m on HuffPo, Yo

In Defense of Renee Zellweger

I Went to Buy a Car and Had a Baby Instead

Terror in My Bedroom

4 Ways to Waste Time on the Internet Today (You’re Welcome)

Derek Jeter, One More Time

My Top 5 Days of the Year

Remembering Gratitude When You’re Not Really Feeling Too Grateful

When Nothing is Fair at the Fair

10 Books That Shaped Me