Cake Flop

I thought I'd get a head start on Thanksgiving and start baking today.  I've been planning to make this new cake recipe that has my taste buds standing at attention because of it's glorious chocolate, caramel deliciousness.  At the very least, the photographer was a freaking genius. Anyway, I have been hoping to debut this cake at Thanksgiving with the appropriate appreciation and maybe a nod or two to my skillful preparation?!   I carefully prepared this cake recipe from SCRATCH and I even SIFTED the flour.  Seriously, who takes time to sift the flour before putting it in recipes?  It's not like it doesn't get shaken around in the bag when I bring it home from the store and Max pretends it's a toy.  Did I mention that I sifted the flour?  Yes, and because the recipe author likes to make a lot of work for aspiring would-be cake bakers he/she also recommended that you sift your sugar, cocoa and baking powder.  I did exactly as the recipe asked--it could have been the Ten Commandments--I followed it so faithfully.  It took a lot longer than opening a cake mix box,  I can tell you.  I followed all directions except one teeny, tiny, wee, little, small, minute little sentence: "Let cool for 15 minutes and carefully remove from baking pan."  So 15 minutes turned into 3 hours. Has the recipe author ever heard of children?  Apparently not, since he/she has time to sift.    My cake stuck to the pan not unlike when you glue your fingers together with crazy glue.  If this ever happens to you and you look up what to do on Wikipedia just know that their solution is a complete and utter lie. Yes, Wikipedia lies!  Not to mention a waste of your time.  Hmmm.  Kind of like sifting.  You are sunk.  Your cake is ruined.  You might as well cry now instead of prolonging your misery with false hope.  There is NO hope.  Your cake is dead.  It is a crumbly mess.   All you can do now is eat half the pan and console yourself with the fact that at least it tastes good and grumble about all that sifting you did.


(Please excuse my writing, I have to take myself out of the equation there at the end because I can't really admit that I ate half a pan of cake to console myself, now can I?)

Poop.

A versatile word in my family.  It can be at one moment a source of extreme hilarity or at the next a heinous insult. "Mommy, (insert name here) called me a poop-head."  It is often tagged on to the end of words and mentioned too frequently at the dinner table.  It is also Max's favorite punch-line to any joke he might tell.  "Garble, garble, gook......(wait for it)....POOP!"  And then he and whomever he is telling (so long as their surname is Reynolds) are rolling on the ground giggling like they ate cocoa-puffs with skittles on top and shot of Root-beer for breakfast.   Max loves the scandalous nature of the word as observed by his ear-to-ear grin after over-hearing my conversation with a tender-eared three-year-old playmate:

Girl: Sister Reynolds!  Sister Reynolds!  Max says BAD WORDS!!!
Me: Really?  What did he say?
Girl: (hushed tone) Poop.
Max:  POOP!

I. CANNOT. TAKE. IT. ANYMORE.  Last night, I informed my brood that if anyone so much as used the word poop outside the bathroom and in the wrong context they would be paying me a dollar for each violation.  So far, I've made three dollars off of Max and he has cried about me taking his "moneys out his piggy bank".  I know I'm mean, but the potty talk has to stop sometime or they will turn out like their Dad.

Case-in-point:

Earlier in the day:

R:  Tell Max his Dad said poop in a can.
Me: I will not tell him that!
R:  Why not?!!!

(A few hours pass)


Me: Btw- anyone who says poop in our family has to pay me a dollar.  New rule.  I'm planning on making a lot of money off you.
R: Poop in a can.
Me: $1 in my wallet.  I might start charging you more.
R:  Hahaha
Me: You laugh now!  Wait until you are broke! Then I'll be laughing.  And don't even think about asking me for a loan...
R: Shoot, this will be tough.

Soon, I'll have a new pair of shoes....and hopefully they'll be cured of a bad habit.

Dearest Blog,

I am avoiding you.  Sigh.  I cannot keep up with laundry, bills, groceries, blah, blah, blah and blog about it too. Here, look, see what I mean...the following is my schedule yesterday (yes, yesterday while you were mercilessly teasing me and calling my name.  Why haven't you posted Max's birthday pictures?  It's been over a week!  Don't you love him as much as the rest of the kids?  You manage to post their birthday pics on time.  What kind of Mother are you? Ack, the torture! )


6:00 a.m.-- Good Morning, Max.  Time for a pee-pee and Mom to put on clothes.
7:00a.m.-- Let's have a mad dash around the house looking for lost socks, missing shoes and that darn shirt.   Make three lunches, feed 4 children breakfast, listen to some whining, explain why we don't kick soccer balls in the house,  HAVE YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH YET!!??
8:20-Big Kids out the door, hopefully with their lunches, water (with ice, of course), healthy snacks (cause just lunch isn't enough), shoe laces tied, hair combed, and Jackson with new shirt since the first one didn't survive breakfast.
9:00- Gym.  5 miles on the treadmill.  Fast.  Well, everything is relative.
10:00-- Grocery store, gas and bank. Don't forget to drive to CVS because Albertsons doesn't have what you need.  CVS doesn't have it either, of course.  Max uses the bathroom at each place.  Nothing makes me move faster than "Poo-poo, Mama."
11:30--Home.  Unload groceries and feed the Max-man.
12:00--Lunch.  Decide I need a vacation and start researching before I realize that I should be prepping food for my food group dinner, finishing up the laundry and calling my visiting teachee's to set up an appointment (Only two more days!).
12:30--Spend half an hour convincing Max that naps are good.
1:00--Give up on nap.  Make pizza dough and let rise. Work on sauce and start baking cookies.  Make salad. Try and do a crap load of dishes.  Field a few phone calls and texts from Hubby who is out of town.  Wonder why people always have crisis that involve me on Tuesday?  Why not Monday?
3:30--Jackson doesn't arrive on school bus with sisters.  Piano teacher arrives to give Ella lessons.
3:45--Run Kate to activity days and meet neighbor who agreed to  pick up Jackson from school.  Run him and neighbor's kid home.
4:00-Homework, snacks and general chaos.
4:30-- Half an hour on phone with School district because bus wouldn't bring Jackson home because it was "too crowded" leaving my first grader without his sisters, alone and scared!
4:45-- Still on phone, run to pick up Kate from Activity days early so she can make piano lessons.
5:00--Pick up Ella, Jackson and Max.  Take them to park for soccer practice.  Drop off Kate for piano lessons.
6:00-Rush home from soccer practice because Kate is alone.  Start making pizza like a crazy woman.
7:20-Deliver Neighbor's dinner and start to eat our own.
8:00- Kitchen a wreck with flour everywhere, pizza sauce smeared on cabinets, quizzing Kate on times tables while ordering other kids to get ready for bed.  Max asleep in his high chair.
8:20- Max in bed, Jackson still needs to brush his teeth and has spent twenty minutes talking about, well, I can't even remember.   Ella annoying Kate.  Kate crying. "I want my Mommy."  Enough.  Everyone to bed.  NOW!
8:30-Prayers, skip scriptures and stories and straight to bed. Carry six cups filled with water out of Kate & Ella's room.
8:45- Clean kitchen, wipe counters, wash all the dishes that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher.  Go through all the papers from school, sign stuff, finish laundry, pick up toys, clean tooth paste off Jackson's bathroom mirror.  I"m not going to say a bad word.  I'm not!
11:00- Go to bed.  Set alarm for 5:30a.m.  Try not to fall asleep while praying.


The End.

The mother of melt-downs--mine.

With a title like that, I feel like I must set the stage a bit, you know show you why I felt the need to melt. My day started at 5:30a.m. with an hour long sweat-fest at the gym. It seemed like the way to go since exercise had be nil over the weekend and eating had been in the abundance category. I arrived home at 7:10, in plenty of time to make breakfast, pack lunches, search for lost socks, argue the merits of brushing vs. mouthwash, explain in detail what was in their lunch for the day, find the lost homework stashed in the bathroom and gel the hair.

It's my turn to drive carpool and it is an auspicious day for it, as the roads in the neighborhood are closed for a slurry seal. What is that you ask? I think it's just more asphalt but really I couldn't care less because it's kept the neighborhood association off my back for a week, and that means they haven't had time to notice the dead plant in my front yard. It's number 97 on my list of things to get done in my lifetime, in case you were wondering. Actually, this slurry seal is more than a little annoying as I have to park a couple streets away. That means dragging the neighborhood children to the bus the old-fashioned way: walking.

I rush because I have to get home to shower the stink off me before I take Kate to the doctor at 9:30a.m. I also need to wipe Max's nose, fix his wayward hair and change him out of his pajamas that have soggy Golden Grahams glued in various locations. I shower, apply a coat of mascara and lip-gloss and manage to stick the milk in the fridge before we leave. We are late.

Max said poo-poo as I was buckling his car-seat so we retraced our steps at lightening speed. A successful plop was made and our lateness was solidified.

We wait, wait, wait while Max checks out the floor with his tongue, names all the colors in the room, turns on and off the light switch until time out, climbs on the chairs, rips the paper on the table, plays cars, kicks the wall, and sings songs. Katie is diagnosed and it's not one of the two horrible diseases that I was sure (from my internet research) she had. I am relieved and so it's back in the car to drive her across town and back to school.

After a quick stop at the pharmacy, it's time to go home and feed Max lunch. I only have a half-hour to get him to eat before his nap. This may seem like plenty of time but really, you probably don't have a toddler who feels that eating at meal time is optional. Why eat what's placed in front of me when I'm perfectly capable of opening the fridge whenever I'm hungry or climbing the shelves in the pantry for the good stuff? He eats satisfactorily and I wrestle him down for his nap because he has (drum roll) his very first speech therapy appointment.

I have been anticipating this for a month. I have! You see, I am frustrated. My sweet, yummy Max is clever and I can tell he has a fabulous personality but I can't understand him. I want to be able to write down all the cute baby things he says and thinks but really most of the time I have no idea. The clock is ticking, he's getting older (almost 3) and I'm missing how he is discovering and understanding the world. This is a gigantic tragedy in my book and I really want to get him some help.

I have prepared for this day. I have negotiated with Robert to be home (not easy) AND to pick up the neighborhood kids from the bus stop. He's more than willing to do these things but it comes at a busy time for him and I realize that I am not going to be able to hold him to his end of our only gone 3-nights-a- week deal (this week) because of this. Sigh. More time to blog and blog and bore everyone with my stories. I have looked up the address, map quested it and am ready to go. I even wake Max up early from his nap so I can arrive on time.

I get lost. Really. It's in a part of town that I rarely venture. I blame Map Quest but I'm not positive it's the map. A recipe for disaster in my family is Robert at the wheel and me in the passenger seat, map in hand, directing. I frustrate Robert with my creative interpertations of maps, signs, roads, etc. He always asks, " But WHY did you think that?" I can't explain it. It always seems like a reasonable option at the time.

Anyway, I made so many u-turns with my car, I was starting to get sick. I called to let them know I was running a little late. I apologized and even laughed with receptionist about Map quest. Two minutes later I pull into the parking lot and my phone is buzzing. It was her. The receptionist but without the friendliness in her voice. She's all business now.

"I'm afraid we are going to have to reschedule your appointment. You are 15 minutes late and we can't accomodate you now."

"Whaaat?" I sputter. "But I'm here. RIGHT NOW."

"I'm sorry, we need the full hour to do an evaluation of Max."

"Okay, so can we do half of the appointment now and then I can come back later. I just drove a long ways to get here. I left in plenty of time, I just got lost."

In her best screw-you voice she answered, "You were late and not we can't do half now and half later. It doesn't work like that. We are on a tight schedule and have an appointment at 3:30p.m."

"Okay, could we see if this next appointment would mind starting a little bit later since I am HERE NOW?" I ask.

The conversation begins to deteriorate from there. She is unwilling to do anything to help me or be sympathetic to my situation. I get really upset and before I start to cry I tell her in my wobbliest voice that we will have to discuss this later. She answers, "Fine," and slams the phone down like I deserve to live life without speech therapy because I was 15 minutes late. I start to cry. I think about the day I've had, the week, the busy, busy, the awful, awful and the unfair. I sob. I get home and scare the crap out of Robert. He can't understand why I am so upset. I can't explain it to him. Except that I really just want to clean my car alone. In peace.

I want to scrub the dirt off the seats and wipe the windows because you see, I feel like I am my mini-van. I am dented, scratched and need a new paint job. On the inside, I'm not much better. I have kid finger prints, clutter and a broken windshield wiper. So he watches the kids and I clean. It's cathartic and practical as I am the one driving tonight for our monthly GNO and I am embarrassed for anyone, even a friend, to see the state of me and my mini-van. Thank goodness I had a night off. I think that if I hadn't, Robert might have had genuine cause for concern. And yes, I do realize there are bigger problems and worse days, but that line of reasoning has yet to work on any of my kids in the middle of a melt-down. The same holds true for me.

Am I a bad person if I wish that receptionist a couple of bad hair days and a huge zit on her nose?

Max strikes AGAIN!

Hi,

I am posting this while hiding under my bed with the covers over my head. No, not really but I do wish that Harry Potter's invisibility cloak truly existed and was in my possession for a few hours today.

How is that you can watch your two year old every second as he benignly plays and the minute you glance at another one of your children he is in mischief so deep there is no way out but utter embarrassment? Embarrassment for you that is, your two year old will think the whole affair is great fun.

Let us just say that a fire alarm was pulled at a public place that contained a hundred or more people. This one teeny fire alarm was somehow connected to about 200 flashing lights and 50 more fire alarms that were all going off in unison. If that wasn't enough warning that a two year old was not properly being watched by his mother, a recorded voice over the PA system announced that everyone needed to evacuate the building immediately. I had to make a counter announcement to the lady at the front desk that the chaos was nothing more than a two year old desiring to see what would happen when he pulled the red lever. Oh, and was she irritated. Apparently, she had no clue how to stop the sirens, lights and general noise-making. (I also don't think she has ever had a two year old.) Luckily, the humiliation only lasted about twenty minutes and thankfully the fire department did not arrive. (Although, on second thought, that might not have been such a bad thing. A little eye candy amidst ear-popping, mind numbing noise might have been nice, a silver lining even.)

A few other parents gave me a conspiratorial smile but I could not see the humor. I'm sure I will... in a few decades. As for Max, he was chastened for a moment at least. I'm pretty sure when he told me a few minutes later that he needed to go pee resulting in a dry pull-up and a successful potty moment that he was apologizing.

Adventures in Religion

I walked in confident that everyone knew that I had purchased my boots at Marshall's, my shirt at the Gap and well, I picked up my jeans at the ward Christmas swap two years ago. The sales girls looked me over with a practiced eye and let me walk by. Normally, I might have felt awkward enough to turn around and walk out of the over-priced department store and return to the Target-corner from whence I came. But today was different, I had a little nugget of gold in the form of a gift card in my purse, a wedding in a week, a full fledged dress emergency and knowledge I would not return to this haven for all things pricey for many haute couture seasons. I made up mind while fingering a Louis Vuitton purse that I was going to enjoy this experience. How hard can it be to spend someone else's money? I picked up dresses with price tags that would normally bring a good gag reflex. I twirled around the racks while designer names I had never heard of before swirled around in my brain. I soon became dizzy and overwhelmed. Where was that familiar red dot? So when the sales lady asked if she could help me, I enthusiastically agreed. She was skilled, I will give her that. She took my measure in a glance and picked the absolutely perfect dress. I tried it on and it was true love. I felt skinny. I am not over exaggerating here. It was if I had met the perfect man, well almost perfect man. He, I mean, it was a couple inches too short. It was Jr. High at the Valentine's dance all over again--dancing with boys whose eyes were the same level as my chest. (Perhaps, the reason for my sudden popularity?) Curse my height! I knew I would never love another dress like this one. I expressed this to the kind but confused sales lady--Linda.

"You must have it. It was made for you!" she exclaimed.

"I know" I said, sorrowfully.

"Well, what's the problem, then?"

"It's too short."

"Really? With a pair of heels and some hose it will look fantastic."

Oh, how do I explain to my sweet Linda that no pair of hose will cover 2 inches of white garment hanging out. (I triple rolled them before Linda came into the dressing room.) How could I explain the horror of the temple matrons when I walked into the sealing room literally wearing my religion. I mumbled something about small children and bending over. Linda, smelling a disappearing sale, quickly suggested we call a tailor to see if the dress could be lengthened. It was the exact same feeling I felt when I realized the boys had finally grown and now I was looking at their chests. I grinned and said, "Okay."

Apparently in expensive department stores they don't want to give you much time to think/change your mind because the seamstress arrived almost immediately. With middle eastern european gusto, she explained that the dress could be lengthened a little bit but couldn't understand why I would want to change a beautiful dress. I believe the word, "matronly" came out of her mouth. Aghast, I explained about the bending, etc. Never, ever say the word matronly to a thirty-something!! Seriously, offensive. "It will be fine with hose." Did these two consult before they came in? Were they in cahoots? Nazi seamstress then demanded I try on the dress. I agreed but she would not leave the dressing room. I was mortified. There was no way I was displaying my religion. I had to ask her to leave the room while I changed. She gave me a weird look but complied. Could this experience be any more embarrassing? "It looks good. Why you change?" Finally, I explained about my religious undergarments, etc. She looked at me like I was a member of the Taliban. Nevertheless, Ms. Tailor decided she would help me.

I am now the fortunate owner of the dress, lengthened, of course. However, I may be scarred for life.

What the?!?!?!?

Holy Crap!  It's May!!!

A picture I've been saving for a whole post.  Not going to happen.  This is Max photo boothing himself.  Notice I am swooping in to save my computer from the abuse it has surely been receiving.  Love you, Puter.

A May a long time ago. Before wrinkles.  Before I knew what my babies had eaten by the smell of their poop.  Yeah, those WERE the days.  

Oh, and pictures from our events are coming soon.  I just have to charge the batteries to my dead camera, then upload the pics, think of clever, entertaining things to say and then write about a thousand posts and wah-la you will be caught up on our April.  Maybe by June?

Poo

I don't think I've been this embarrassed in quite a while.   Max got a hold of my phone and texted my neighbor.  It wouldn't have been so bad, but the conversation went like this:

Neighbor:  Thanks so much for being willing to help out.

Me:  No problem. Poo

I explained (hours later...when I noticed!)  but you know she's thinking how does a 18 month old type "poo" on a phone. Sometimes you really have to hate predictive texting.  And to answer the next question, I don't often type "poo" in my phone.  Really.  Well, maybe a few times.  But not to my NEIGHBORS.  I PROMISE!!  

Are titles really necessary?

Sometimes I feel like my bun is a metaphor for my life.  I am wound tightly, secured into place with a stretchy but ever-circular band--not much escaping.   Then one day there has been too much. Too much.  And it all comes undone.   Today, I am undone.  But still, I can't quite let it all go.  I have been plaited, weaved, twisted and secured by even more ties today.  I hope that I can stretch enough and that it doesn't hurt when those black coils snap back.   

The fabulous and glamorous life of moi...

The hubby's evening:

(Gwyneth Paltrow, Chris Martin, Bono)

My evening:

+

Do I need to say more?

It's a good thing you are cute!

Dearest Max,

You drowned my iphone today.  And had the worst, indescribable diaper issue today during my cycling class.  Didn't you care that I ate creme brulee last night and a creme puff?  I don't even want to talk about the iphone.  I need some time.  

Your Mother.

A tale of a crazy woman and her neighbor's library card.

"Where's Max?"  I find myself asking this question in a panic more times than I want to admit during the day.  Sometimes to Kate, Ella or Jackson and sometimes out loud to myself.  There are times during the day when 30 seconds has gone by and I realize that I have not been aware of him; plenty of time for him to run out the front door, shut his fingers in the back door, empty out a kitchen drawer, find the butter knives, crawl up the stairs and climb in the bathtub fully clothed and turn on the water, flush (insert object here) down the toilet, re-program the cable, erase all the phone numbers on my cell.  You get the idea.     

I was innocently searching the freezer for something palatable for children when out plopped my gigantic, Costco sized bag of mixed vegetables onto my head and all over the floor.  It's nice being covered in mushrooms, baby carrots, snow peas and red peppers but it's even nicer when they are frozen.  I groaned and mumbled a few things that I won't share.  I grabbed the remaining veggies and lugged them outside to my not-quite-so-stuffed-with-oversized-veggies freezer.   I had just barely secured the culprits in my freezer when out came Jackson to see what I was up to.  He greeted me with these lovely words, "Don't worry, Mom.  I locked the door so Max can't come out."   Now this wouldn't concern me except I knew that all the other doors were locked and I did not have my keys.  Jackson had unwittingly locked us out and locked my 16 month HOLY  TERROR alone in the house. Panic, panic, panic!  I ran as fast as my heeled shoes and dimply bottom could take me down to my neighbor's house.  I'm not sure I was even coherent when I tried to explain what had happened.  My nice neighbor, let me in and I called a lock smith while she ran up with her baby to see if she could jimmy the door open with a her Clark County library card.  I quickly followed.  I could hear Max crying.  I grabbed the library card and bent the thing to all heck and back, but was able to pop the door open.  I saw my little Max's face: red, blotchy and wet.  He grabbed me and said, "mamamamama."  I realized that I would rather wear boy-short bikini bottoms (a nightmare, believe me!) & an unpadded bikini top (the horror!) with a snake draped all over me (Hate snakes. HATE!) than not be able to get to Max when he needs me. Then I proceeded to embarrass myself by starting to blubber in front of my neighbor.  

 I like to sometimes pretend that I am someone who has her act together.  You know, not a hair out of place, that sort of thing--right out of a Jane Austen novel.  I'm thinking Emma Thompson in Sense and Sensibility but with more cleavage and a hat with a feather in it. Like a frying pan smacking me in the face, I am reminded that image is not real.  Not even close.  So maybe I should just give it up and admit that my bra is roomy, my laundry is piled to the ceiling (at least the stuff that made it to the laundry room), my windows are covered with finger prints, I spent too much money last month, I forgot to pay my electricity bill, my heels are scaly and my toes still have black nail polish on them from Halloween (gross, I know!), and my car needs to be washed and has needed to be washed for weeks.  And now I can add to that list that I sob in front of the neighbors.  Not dainty little tears-- big fat, blow your nose kind of slobbery blubbering tears of relief.  Maybe my fantasy needs a little tweaking (I'm keeping the cleavage). Maybe I do.  I don't really care as long as I am there when my children need me.  

(I'm trying to end this blog in a Grey's Anatomy sort of fashion.  You know, where they make more meaning out of whatever happened in the episode and sum it up in a tidy fashion at the end with a syrupy deep thought.  But really, it's over-kill at the end of the episode that leaves you running for your remote so you don't have to listen to it?  How'd I do?  

Crap, I just confessed that I watch Grey's Anatomy, huh! (Only occasionally, in my closet, with a blanket over my head.) I'm really giving away too much here.  Next, I'll be talking about The Bache....)

Argh!

Today has been a purple-nail-polish-all-over-my-cream-couch kind of a day. (!)

Caca

I know I haven't blogged for a while and now I can finally explain why. I didn't want to let it be known in bloggy land that I have been alone for the last three weeks, well as alone as you can be with 4 kids. (All you stalkers, murders, robbers you missed your chance. My husband is back and he has some big guns. Interpret that as you like.) Anyway, this has been a pretty crappy couple of weeks. (Insert a lot of complaining HERE.) This is what happened:
1) Nail in foot of a child. Mix-up in Dr. office resulting in screaming, unhappy child thinking she will have to have shot. Happily, no shot just nail in the foot and 30 dollar co-pay in Doctor's wallet.
2) 4 kids plus one mom with strep throat. Lots of antibiotics. Lots.
3) One child with hives. Blame placed on antibiotics.
4) Same child, diagnosed with Acute Rheumatic fever. Which includes 2 visits to the cardiologist, 6 vials of blood being drawn and 15 years on an antibiotic.
5) One child poked in the eye with scissors. Thankfully, child scissors and after a nice, long visit to the eye doctor child completely satisfied with the experience due to bendy, roll-up eye shades. Child fine, so Mom satisfied too.
6) 2 more eye doctor visits resulting in one more child with glasses.
7) I forgot to mention one child with Scarlet Fever. How could I forget that you ask? Well, re-read the list. That ought to explain it.

And just today, because we haven't had enough fun already, child diagnosed with walking-pneumonia and on breathing treatments every 4-6 hours. Sister feeling jealous so woke up this morning with fever. Brother not to be outdone, also running fever and baby, who doesn't like to be left out, was found sucking on sick sister's sippy cup.

Good times.

Crow's feet

I came home from a concert last night after seeing my husband talk to a sexily clad woman he knows from work-- I inspected myself in the mirror and discovered crow's feet.  Nice, huh. 

135 MacDougal St. #3A

When I first walked in, I sat down on one of the double beds provided for married students attending NYU and cried.  I couldn't decide what to cry about more: the shit-brown walls(pardon my language, but that really was the color!), the 480 square feet, the tiny closet, the big cockroach in the bathtub, the elf size stove and refrigerator, the three floors I had just walked up, the glaring lack of any appliance that washes, or maybe the fact that I had overpacked just a wee bit.

(Entertaining friends)

 

And yes, that is the whole apartment! Robert grew to love the place, but I never did.

When we went back to NYC a few weeks ago, we walked by our old apartment on MacDougal.  I was elated to see that I was proven correct--the building was about ready to fall down--it was boarded up and everything. I felt vindicated!  And I got to tell Robert that I was right about our old hell-hole of an apartment.  I felt giddy!  That is, until I read the sign.  Well, I'm off to google asbestos poisoning...

Gym Rants

People, please tell me why, oh why you would wear a Victoria Secret half-cup push-up bra, with a sheer, sparkly, sequined top to a weight lifting class?  But of course, if you did, your outfit wouldn't be complete without a few large rhinestone bracelets and don't forget to flash the poor flat-chested woman behind you.  Let her know what it looks like to have boobs and remind her that her sports bra is just for show.  Thank you for the view today sparkly-topped well-endowed woman.  I can't wait to see what you have on next Wednesday.

And a special dedication goes out to my favorite Spin Class instructor who while at least forty, calls himself "Hops", and let all of us spin-crazed women know up-front that while he is a player and a flirt, he does not date people from the gym.  (And, sadly, yes he was being FOR REAL.)    I, for one, am truly relieved.  I might have been tempted to leave my husband of 11 years for you, Hops.  Your thoughtfulness is truly appreciated.  I'm going to go cry into my sugar-free sparkling water now and wonder about what could have been.   At least I know that tomorrow, I will get to hear more about how you never have to wait in line at the airport, like regular people.  And maybe you will tell the story again about how you met your close, personal friend the director the of the DMV.  I can't wait.