On Being Pregnant

(Where to Begin.)

While I could spend thousands of posts explaining in minute detail what it was like to be an emetephobic pregnant person (in sum, it wasn't pleasant), I'll leave those curiosities to late night blog perusals and, instead, use this opportunity to tell you about the recent onslaught of Coloradan Miller Moths.  My sister (a mother of two) reminded me today that amongst the many pleasurable symptoms of pregnancy is the obvious increase in hormone level which, as she described, makes otherwise manageable emotions hard to control.  So when I returned home last night to what I've recently come to dread as prime time Moth Madness (-for those east coasters reading this, these supposedly harmless moths only appear at night after dark with beastly bodies and gigantic antennas), the tears flowed effortlessly upon realization that brushing my teeth in the unlit bathroom meant war.  And so now I blame the need for my brave roommate to remove anything furry and flying, be it 5pm or 5am amidst a wakeless slumber, on "hard to control" hormones rather than my life-long fear of anything creepy and crawly, and my tearful insistence on standing in the corner or hiding under the blanket as completely justified at the expense of our 10-month journey filled with joyful (and joyless) surprises.  Enjoy!

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On a Must-Read for All You Fiction-Lovers

(Excerpt from the Attached Article.)

DO you want to know what it was like to have Philip Roth as a professor?

I’ll tell you.

...

Precisely when it was time for class, which I seem to remember was 2 o’clock, he entered the room. He’s a very tall, lanky guy, and he walked in a stooped way, his face appearing through the doorway before the rest of him lurched in, leading with his head like a well-read giraffe. He wore a lightly starched oxford shirt of small blue-and-white checks, pressed khaki pants with a brown leather belt, and brown wingtips, an outfit he would wear to almost every class. He barely looked at us or made eye contact, but murmured a hello, then sat down in his chair, crossed one long leg over the other, and slowly unbuckled his watch.

That’s as sexy as it got.

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On (the Return of) Orange is the New Black

(And Misc Television Binges.)

As I mentally prepare for my upcoming television binge of Orange is the New Black beginning June 6th (upon its returns to Netflix-woohoo!), I am slowly wrapping up all the television shows I swore off just weeks ago.  After forgoing a month of Grey's, I tearfully celebrated Meredith and Christina's dance moves in the season finale and vowed that I'll be back for (spoiler alert) Jackson's baby in the fall, while simultaneously contemplating how I could ever forswear my devotion to these longtime television companions.  Tyrion's (likely optimistic fate) keeps me excited for Sunday nights in spite of the potential onset of work week blues, and, oh!, how I'll miss Don Draper's humble yet magnetic superiority over Peggy (Did anyone see them dance, btw? Oh man!). Saddened by these sudden goodbyes, I've no doubt that we'll all quickly  bounce back (approximately two hours in to Piper's resumed turmoil) from this shift in companionship, as we do with the passing of each season-both on and off screen.  Enjoy!

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On All the Cat Ladies Out there

Allergies Galore.

If my eyes didn't swell and my throat threaten to close at the sight of a feline fur ball , I'd jump on the bandwagon with all the Cat Ladies out there, collecting and cuddling the cutest of furry friends.  Instead, I’m forced to purr at a distance, a reaction often confused with disinterest or disdain when – in fact – I love all things fluffy and would do anything to nuzzle their faces with my allergic immune system and unleash baby talk like it’s my job.  And so it goes for those of us allergic to (wo)man's (dogs included here, too), forever envious of those who can indulge and consistently bursting with love from the side lines.  Enjoy! 

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On May 26th

Happy birthday to AR on this 3-Day weekend!  This blog will resume tomorrow, Tuesday, May 27th.  Enjoy the holiday, ya'll.

On Unexplainable Intrigue

What We Don't Know.

We're intrigued by our differences, how the other half lives, the cultural quirks and unexplained scars above lower lips that deepen when they smile.  We want to know what it's like to be them, to hear stories we don't relate to until 2am when the wine wears off and our eyelids droop with ease. We want to save them from themselves, and ourselves too, by finding common ground amidst chaos, where two souls should but don't quite ever meet.  Enjoy!

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On Being (Virtually) Liked

Like me or else...

... I'll have no confidence in my ability to post iphone-altered photographs.

(... and selfies!)

... I'll feel like I have no "real" friends.

... I'll question your loyalty to my daily activities that you are likely doing at exactly the same time.

... I'll know you don't think my baby is as cute as yours.

... I'll resent you for not caring about my dog or my recent yoga commitment or my latest quinoa-inspired veggie salad.

... I won't "like" yours back.

... my Monday will be ruined.

... I'll never post again.

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On the Pressure to ...

[insert major life decision].

With each birthday, passing milestone, and facebook post in which other people's lives seem significantly more fulfilling, vibrant and fierce than our own, the pressure is on.  And yet we need to remind ourselves that Instagram photos purposely add an unrealistic glow to half empty glasses and mundane life experiences that we're too busy capturing and not actually enjoying anyway, and that perhaps we're all racing to catch up to expectations that only exist in our minds.  So bring on the cake and the candles and sing me that birthday song as if it's my last because this next year will be - should be - about what I want to make it of it and not what the world around me expects me to do.  Enjoy!

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On Sayin' Thanks

(Via Snail Mail.)

With weddings, (grand)babies and birthdays flying around (the majority of) our generations, the ritual of the "thank you card" is far from lost.  With creativity ranging from pre-printed, photo-infused collages to handmade Elmer's Glue masterpieces (I like to personally throw in an ode to my typewriter), snail mail is licked, posted, and sent.  A gem among daily bills, it's a good feeling to be appreciated, after which most cards are likely tossed into a dusty drawer or recycling bin and never actually spoken of, but not without a moment's reflection on the good deed it followed.  Enjoy!

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On the First Day of Camp

The Dreaded Swim Test.

For some of us less experienced swimmers, the worst day of camp was always the first.  The dreaded swim test loomed over the spring months leading up while everyone else excitedly gathered camp supplies off thorough checklists.  The community pool became the practice ground for game day, as parental units were instructed to rate (on a scale of passing to not passing) how well the most recent version of the crawl (ugh, the crawl!) went down, with strict rules not to look away even once.  And then it arrived - "four laps of the stroke of your choice" (a choice!) - with jittery but prepared nerves and a side stroke that could easily win gold. Enjoy!

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On Being An Ei(se)nstein

Circa the 1990s (at Summer Camp).

Her name was Carla Eisenstein and I kept getting her mail.  On most days, I returned it without a second thought, but there was definitely an occasion or two where my excitement for a letter from a friend or family member resulted in me ripping open the wrong envelope before I gave it the necessary second glance. And it was only when I accidentally discovered a check - from her grandmother or more distant relative, I assumed - that I realized the implications of my ways. Federal prison flashed before my pre-teen eyes as I debated what to do - hand the check in and, in turn, myself, risking life imprisonment (hey, I was only thirteen; what was I supposed to think!) or get rid of the evidence before anyone saw my suspiciously guilty fear?  To be honest, I can't tell you what happened, partly because I don't remember and also because I fear what might still happen (though I do know my bank account didn't get $15 richer!), but I will say I was quite relieved to learn that my nominal doppelganger never returned to camp again.  Enjoy!

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On Two Days in Denver

Attending two days of professional development in Denver, CO, this blog will return on Friday, May 16th. 

On Happily Missed Connections

Love to Hate (On You).

No thank you to the guy who cut me off in the merging lane while the rest of us waited patiently in traffic; and also to the person leaning on the subway pole during rush hour when the rest of us are just as tired and uncomfortable as you are; and to the person whose cell phone call might as well have been on speaker as you recounted bland details of the guy who stayed over last night and, no, he probably isn't going to call you-ever; and to the moms who think they rule the crowded streets of Brooklyn and running lanes in Denver, with their orange Bobs (CO) and Park Slope lattes (NY) and annoyingly good-looking yoga pants; and to the public restroom-users who forgot to flush, the pizza consumers who left crumbs on the table, the dog-walkers who don't clean up, the ATM users who can't get it right the first, second and third time, the litterers, the armrest hoggers, the cat callers...

No.Thank.You.          

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On (A) Mother's Day

"Two Peas in a Pod."

My mom and I are more similar than we're different; let me count the ways.  We love to cook-for ourselves and others-the same spaghetti and meatball recipe (though hers is by far superior), various salads with beans and vinegar, and chocolate cake with or without filling as long as it's moist and rich.  We exchange recipes when inspired, and save them in handmade albums for a rainy day. We interrupt conversations out of excitement rather than rudeness, but can handle constructive criticism when asked to listen more thoughtfully.  We write things like novels (her) and blog posts (me) and blog post comments (her) because the written word is an inspirational means for (our) self-expression, inspired by our shared passion for novels.  She loves mysteries, myself a literary fiction fan, but occasionally the twain shall meet (-try GIRLS by an author whose name I can't remember; don't worry, she'll comment with details!).  We like to shop, sunbathe, do our nails, exchange skin care products, nail polish brands, favorite television shows, celebrity gossip, and give relationship advice when the situation allows.  We forget obvious things like this blog's URL (her) or what happened in the movie last night (me) or where we parked the car (both of us) but we always have great intentions and we're equally excited when we finally remember.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, thanks for being the other pea in the pod!  

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On Attending a Local Conference

Conference time in Colorado; this blog will return on Monday, May 12th.  (Also, Happy Mother's Day!)

On the "Ardent Doubter"

When Prayer Helps.

Even for those of us on the extreme end of non-believing, there still come moments when whispered prayers are a necessary hope.  Often in the midst of unexpected crisis or fear, promising unrealistic life changes (including but not limited to giving up smoking, being eternally kind to siblings, eating vegetables at every meal, and never talking trash again) feels like a fair trade for the immediate dissipation of the sudden onset of discord.  And yet once the storm passes, all bets are off, as lifestyle and atheism seamlessly transition back to the woes and ways of the agnostic (and ardent) doubter where people and places exist without explanation or guidance.  Enjoy!

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on family traditions

welcomed routines.

bagels on Sunday
birthday candles
finding the matzah
spaghetti and meatballs
inappropriate jokes
the Sopranos
the Catskills
bbq chicken
science fair projects
lighting the menorah
Coney Island
Prospect Park
chocolate covered marble cake
coupons
winter clothes
knishes
Ocean Parkway
broken pipes
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens
BAM
homemade chicken soup
rubber cement
the smell of sawdust
fresh cheese
Sahadi's
ice cream
stories about great great (great) Uncle Einstein
...
(what're yours?)
 
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On Playing Poker

My (Very) Bad Attitude.

By now, most friends (and avid blog readers) know that it's probably better to play with me than against me because, for whatever reason I can't begin to explain, it's over board games and decks of cards that my atypical demons come out.  I'm the sorest loser of them all (ask anyone related to me, in-laws included) but the minute my luck changes for the better, I pull out my myriad of gloating dances moves and unnecessarily boasting banter.  I'm trying to change my ways-for the sake of my marriage, friendships, and kin-but each time I lose a round (including in a recent poker game with friends and croquet with family), the world closes in and life (literally) feels completely worthless. (Any suggestions?)  Enjoy!

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On Dreading the Rollercoaster

A Coney Island Legend.

I"m not an amusement park fan-atic so suggesting a day-long trip to Coney Island is my idea of a fun time if and only if it involves laying on the beach for no more or less than two to four hours.  Throw the suggestion of the Cyclone in there and I'm out faster than the Coney Island-bound F-train.  So it baffles me when I think back to less than a decade ago when my mother and I (of all people!) opted to go on the pitch black roller coaster at Universal Studios (at the time, I think it was called Magic Mountain but I could be wrong).  It came up in conversation recently when we both marveled over the strangeness of this decision, and she recalled quite quickly that shortly thereafter, she fought the urge to be sick. My remembrance is quite different - a head jerk here and there but, otherwise, completely blank, perhaps because this really is my idea of a day worse than hell and I'm not even sure it was actually me.  Enjoy!

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On My (Floundering) Telelvision Addiction

Click, Click, and CLICK!

I'm not a couch potato, per se, but get me talking about the latest television drama and you'd think it was my second home.  Lately, though, something has changed.  It's not that I don't look forward to the latest updates from Hank Moody (Californication) or Nurse Jackie (er, Nurse Jackie) but my attention span for characters who are whining (or joking) about the same things year after year is less than optimal.  In fact, in the last three weeks, I've officially broken up with some seriously long-term relationships including (but not limited to) Glee, Grey's Anatomy, and Modern Family.  And these decisions were not made lightly or without hesitation.  After all, I've been drooling over Dr. McDreamy for years, and I love me some Lea Michele show tunes! But how many times can I deal with Rachel's Broadway anxiety and Christina indecisiveness over Dr. Hunt? (He's too good for her, anyway). And, quite honestly, I cannot, never could, and never will stand Lily Pritchett-Tucker. Even David Duchovny is starting to wear on me (Hank has another kid? Pu-lease!), and I accidentally missed the last two episodes of Downton Abbey before it was taken off demand, which is never a good sign and will take too much work trying to remember what happened to whom whenever it eventually returns in five years (though I was totally into the blonde chick's story). And I found myself overly grateful on Wednesday night when I realized I hadn't been taping Don Draper's most recent sob story (-I had three episodes to catch up on and the two that I saw were totally satisfying, btw; those of you who quit should really go back and finish).  Still, what's next?  I'm not optimistic, though I am (semi-joyfully) dabbling with The Americans (calling all Felicity and Brothers & Sister's fans!) and it ain't bad.  Hart of Dixie was meh, at best, and would do for a very rainy day, if that.  And I keep hearing that Sherlock aims to please but still don't know how to track it down (-we don't have hulu, it's not on demand, and we just canceled the Netflix DVDs for all the reasons listed above).  My "couch potato" days are not over, I assure you, for fear that water cooler and potluck conversation over the next five years will be solely limited to weddings and babies (please no) but it's seriously floundering due to something along the lines of Hollywood's lack of creativity, our addiction to cell phones, our fleeting attention spans, and what else? Who cares. (Also, any suggestions?) Enjoy.

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On the Coloradan Bagel

(Almost) No Point.

When a Denver friend offered to take me out for breakfast on my birthday this week, I jumped at the chance.  Gladly taking an "early lunch" on the second (perhaps least exciting) day of the week (Tuesday), there seemed no better way to spend the morning.  And our options were limitless on where to go, though I kept going back to my favorite (comfort) food: the bagel.  The only problem is I'm a New Yorker, born and raised, and bagels to me have a deeper, more historical meaning than anything inevitably produced in the Mile High City (where altitude destroys all good things flour).  But, in the end, it didn't matter.  Even a "Rocky Mountain" bagel is better than none, smeared with straight up plain cream cheese so as not to spoil the savory delight of "everything" from salt to poppy seeds to sesame seeds coating the exterior.  Was it as good as a Brooklyn bagel?  Never! But it was good enough, and the best birthday breakfast I could have asked for given our mileage from sea level.  Enjoy! 

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