A Pirate Looks at 30

There is a box of summer clothes I just pulled down from the attic in the spare bedroom. Sitting on the floor, looking through it, I realized so much about me has changed. I found babydoll shirts bragging about my (fictional) membership in the mile-high club, proclaiming "I Need Supervision", and one with strategically placed shiny pink dice that I got from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas. That is my summer wardrobe. Or was. That isn't me anymore. I am someone new. I am someone old. I am 30. Today is my 30th birthday; and as I look back through the years, through the clothes in that box, I can see all the different colors, shapes, and sizes in my past. There are bright, colorful things...extra large, crazy things...dark, ugly things...and quite a few sarcastic "Fuck you"'s in there. So many of my favorites have gotten worn, others are threadbare and ragged. Some even have holes in them, those lost hours I can't remember. But sitting on the floor, pawing through the past, I find there is very little I can let go. Even that silly shirt with the leather lace-up front, and that cute bikini my mommy hips will never let me wear again. But maybe I don't want to let them go. Maybe I like remembering my good days and bad days, my fat days and skinny days. There's plenty of room in the attic. And I can always move some things around if I need the space. So that box will go right back up there, skinny shorts and all. Who knows, maybe someday my daughter will find a few things in there that fit her as well as they once fit me.

Shameless Self-Promotion

The New Jersey Moms Blog is up and running today. Stop by and say hi, if you have a chance. I'm a contributor (which totally weirds me out that anyone would actually seek out what I have to say, as opposed to running in the opposite direction and actually using the "block" option on their site), which is kind of exciting for me. But there are also a lot of other "legitimate" writers on there, too, like Gwendolyn Gross, so please drop by.

Screw you, Earth!

I am either a really bad blogger, or a poor time manager. I think probably a little of both. I just don't have enough time! Most of my time is spent with the Bebe. Then I work a couple days, and then there's a gazillion other things to do around my 80-year-old house, and then there's about 9 months worth of sleep to catch up on...where does the time go? 

Anyway, this is my Earth Day post. That was like, what, 4 days ago? Whatever. Know what I did for Earth Day? I single-handedly doubled my carbon footprint and was directly responsible for the suffocation of some cute fuzzy wildlife by carbon monoxide. Want to know how? I forgot my damn wallet. 

And I realized this after I had just dropped the car off at the garage. Fan-fuckin-tastic! I am now stranded in the city with no way to get into work (ID is in the wallet), eat, or bail my car out. I can get money from our Credit Union because they know me there, except it's across town, and I can't get across town since I'm cashless. I was actually very close to tears. So, I got a guest pass to get into the station, then texted the Hubs to let him know of my stupidity.

Flashback to several hours earlier, at the Y. My purse was inside my gym bag, which is the norm for me. However, on this particular day I had to pay for a card to use the tot drop, so I pulled out the wallet. And since I had the Bebe on my hip, I just threw the wallet back into the bag without paying much attention to where it landed. Needless to say, it ain't the purse!

My Hubs, who is really well on his way to Sainthood at this point, says he will bring it to me. He will drive 15 miles into New York City on a Tuesday afternoon that's waning dangerously close to rush hour, in an SUV, with the Bebe, for a transaction that will take less than 2 minutes.

And he did. I got my wallet, and he had the joy of crosstown traffic in NYC. So my contribution to Earth Day was to necessitate an extra trip in a gas-guzzling SUV, in traffic, thus ensuring the fumes could really accumulate and mingle with the exhaust of thousands of other vehicles belching toxic gases into the air over Central Park. All because of a wallet. It's great to be me.

  

The Damn Dog (or how I learned a new respect for time well spent)

The Dog ran away. He ran away on the day the Hubs and I were to meet my mother and her husband in the city for dinner. We had been planning this for months. This is the one time all year my mother will be in New York. And the damn Dog runs away. Before all this happened, I was outside pruning an out-of-control hydrangea bush. Checking the time, I realized I was going to miss my train into the city if I didn't move my ass. So I rushed inside to take a shower. I hear my MIL calling for The Dog. Apparently he had wandered off while I was otherwise disposed with the friggin bush. Idiot Dog, I thought, figuring he would come running, as he always does. I hopped into the shower, ransacked my closet looking for something to wear. It is 75 degrees outside, and I have nothing that will fit my post-pregnancy body (helloooooo hips!) since I haven't been shopping in more than 17 months. I actually went into the attic in an attempt to find something, anything that will fit. So now, I am cutting it really close. And I still have to dry my hair and at least make an attempt at makeup. As is the norm for me, I slam myself together, grab the keys, and run out the door. Get to the train station, get a ticket as the train is pulling up. I just make it. Yay!!

Oh shit, The Dog. I called my MIL, at home watching the Bebe. Said devil Dog has not returned. Shit shit shit shit shit. I text the Hubs to let him know. He is already in the city, stuck in midtown, having left for the restaurant immediately after work. He begins to have a conniption/panic attack/freak out/bout of nausea. Shit shit shit. He is unable to return home, since it is rush hour and he is in Manhattan. I am on the train. Now, I am not going to dinner when the Husband is having a freak out. That just begs huge blowup in front of my Mom at a fancy restaurant. I tell him to go on without me, and I get off at the transfer station, and hop the first train back.

Home. Change clothes. Angry beyond belief, yet concerned for The Dog's well-being. Take The Other Dog with me on the great search. I get about 100 yards from the house, calling, and a boy yells, "Hey, you looking for a dog?". The Damn Dog has been camped on the neighbor's deck for hours. The neighbor's! They had been taking care of him. The daughter had even slapped a leash on him and paraded him around the neighborhood, looking for his owner. They were in love with him. They had even considered adopting The Dog if they didn't find his owner. At that point, having gotten over the immense relief at finding him, I would have been happy to comply.

My night was ruined. No fancy dinner in the city at my favorite Mexican restaurant. No spending time with my mom.

But, as I mused later, it was really my own fault. It took me just 5 fucking minutes to find him. If I hadn't been so rushed, if I had spent those 5 minutes before I left, I would have just been a little late to dinner, instead of missing it entirely.

Just 5 minutes, and my evening would have ended differently. And this is how I learned that every second counts.

Martini, anyone?

See, this is why I'm a Grey Goose girl.

Playdate Paranoia

If you've never had the joy of experiencing this, I can only liken it to stealing that first smoke behind your parents' garage, only with less of the thrill and more of the absolute terror of being caught. Suddenly it was my turn to host the play group, and the panic set in. See, I live in an "affluent" (rich) town, in an "affluent" (rich) county, and these BerCo moms have some high standards. No one in our group has the million-dollar palace, but each home has its own touch of money. One has an exquisite living room with glossy maple floors and a marble fireplace. Another has a gorgeous kitchen with a skylight showing off a vaulted ceiling, rich tile floors and granite tops. Then there's me. I live in an 80-year-old Tudor. The battens on the outside are peeling paint, copper trim is oozing green down the side of the chimney, the original pine floors are buckling in places, not to mention the creaking that's loud enough to wake the dead (and the Bebe). House envy is an ugly thing. Add to that lawn envy, (we seriously need a landscaper to re-do the entire front yard) and you've got at least a dozen new gray hairs.

The weekend before the dreaded day, as I was on my hands and knees wiping down the baseboards, it occurred to me -- dear God, I can't make coffee to save my life! This could be the straw the breaks the camel's back. At 10 in the morning harried moms must have coffee. I don't even drink that much coffee, and I always have 2 cups during the meeting. This, is a very bad thing indeed.

I made sure to have mini-muffins (store-bought of course, what do you take me for?) and strawberries on hand, and the husband, God love him, bought fresh bagels and cream cheese the morning before PG-Day. Here goes nothin'.

PG-Day. The Bebe is cooing in her crib, so I rush downstairs and vacuum (and not a cursory vacuum, I'm moving furniture around here), pull out cups and dishes, then run back upstairs to feed the Bebe. She goes back in the crib, I hop in the shower, get out, give the Bebe a bath, then dry my hair -- we've got 20 minutes to go. Run downstairs, carefully arrange strawberries and muffins and bagels cut into quarters, hit "On" on the coffeemaker. (The husband has once again come through and set the thing up for me ahead of time). Sit down to give the Bebe her oatmeal, and the frickin doorbell rings. One of the moms is way early. Fabu. So everyone arrives, remarks on how much "character" the house has, how they love the open floor plan, yada yada yada. So we eat bagels and mini-muffins, drink coffee, and chat about mommy stuff...2 hours flies by and suddenly I'm closing the door and the house is empty.

Remember when you lost your virginity? Hosting the play group for the first time was kinda like that. A whole lot of buildup and anxiety only to end up saying "That's it!?".