Um…This is not the LEAST Materialistic Post I’ve Ever Written…

Consider that fair warning.

So, as we all know, I like….stuff. I like makeup, and bags, and cute dresses, and I have no problem admitting that, since hopefully, I have other redeeming qualities to make up for my, shall we say, acquisitive side. Since I started writing for BeautyHacks (which, let’s face it, is basically my dream side job, if ever there was one), I realized I’ve written LESS about makeup, etc. here, since I feel like I should be saving all that stuff up for my posts. Well, seeing as I just posted something there this week, AND I already have my next post lined up, brace yourself for an ONSLAUGHT OF PRODUCT TALK, people.

As I mentioned a few days back, today is my 28^th birthday, and MAN, have I been spoiled by my family. J took me to my favorite restaurant last night, where I consumed vast quantities of bread, inhaled an exquisitely prepared steak, and was reunited with my love, the dirty martini. (I have missed you, friend.) I also had the dubious honor of devouring a chocolate fondue dessert entirely by myself. (I ask you, what kind of person doesn’t like chocolate fondue? There is fruit! And brownies! And cookies! TO DIP IN CHOCOLATE. Can you please explain to my husband that it is NOT NORMAL? As punishment, he now has to live with the knowledge that he’s married to a woman who can and will eat all of a dessert MEANT FOR TWO PEOPLE.)

I can’t be too upset with him, however, as we had a lovely night out, and I received an incredible gift from him for my birthday. Mind you, I JUST had a baby a few months ago, and received a beautiful piece of jewelry from him then, so I really wasn’t expecting anything at all. Perhaps a nice card, and a barrel of cheese balls from Costco, and I would have been content. Seriously.

Well.

He went ahead and got me My Dream Coat, the Burberry toggle duffel coat. I have lusted after this item—which, to me, is like the Platonic ideal of a coat—for lo these many years now, and now it is mine. Classic, guaranteed to be in style FOREVER, and perfect for NY winters.

Isn’t it cute?

Oh, wait. That was the self-timer picture I took before I realized that perhaps the dirty martinis had gotten to me, and it would be best if I involved J in my photo shoot. While totally blurry, this WILL be the cover of my forthcoming debut album. Doesn’t it just have that look? No? HUMOR ME, THEN:

Anyway, J happily obliged:

Ah, much better. Even though I am munching on a strand of (apparently delicious) hair, you get the idea.

As if that wasn’t enough, I also received from my in-laws this beautiful Marc Jacobs black leather clutch from Saks.

Lovely on its own, and also a classic item, BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE! Said bag was filled with INCREDIBLE MAKEUP. It's called the "Polished Face Kit."

Clockwise from left: Chanel Sublimage cream, Yves Saint Laurent Touch Blush in Number 2 (heh), Dior 5-Color Eyeshadow Compact in Tender Chic, Nars The Multiple in Copacabana, Giorgio Armani Gloss in Number 16, and Guerlain Le 2 Two-Brush Mascara in black.

I haven’t tried everything yet, but so far I am obsessed with the mascara, which has a regular side and a small brush side for corners and lower lashes…

….as well as the blush, which is really natural-looking and a cinch to apply. I’m completely aware of the fact that this isn’t cheap, in the technical sense, but when you consider the price of each of those products on their own, as well as the cost of a Marc Jacobs bag, the whole thing is a (RELATIVE) bargain, and I would be trying very hard to justify its purchase, had it not been given to me as a birthday gift.

AND THEN!

T gave me this lovely drawing.

I think he thinks of birthdays as tangible, edible THINGS, as evidenced by the quote on the bottom. uhH Interesting.

AND THEN!

I got my Birthday Bag from my parents. The Birthday Bag is a grand tradition in my family. When it's your birthday, in addition to your “real” gift, you receive a bag filled with trinkets, and your favorite cheesy/guilty pleasures. It’s like our version of a Christmas stocking. (Or what I imagine a Christmas stocking might be like, seeing as I have no actual experience with them. Am I on target? Even a little bit?) The Birthday Bag started back when I was dating J, and brought him up to the lake house. (His birthday is August 25, so we’re up there for his birthday every year.) However, it being his first summer with us, at the time, my mom had no idea that it WAS his birthday (my bad!) and—seeing as she and I were in Walmart at the time—out of desperation, she began madly scrambling to throw together a bag of stuff he might like to give to him as a birthday gift. It was a huge hit, and thus, the Birthday Bag was born. We’ve been doing it for everyone in the family ever since. Here are the contents of my Birthday Bag:

Some items of note include the NY Times trivia book I’ve been wanting, TWILIGHT CHOCOLATE (Well played, Godiva), some incredibly shitty literature (yay!), and the 30-Day Shred . Now, I wanted the 30 Day Shred because people were raving about it on Twitter, and I don't want to lose weight, I just want everything to be a bit…tighter. Yet as I stood there last night, holding the DVD box, I had one immediate thought. And it wasn’t “Wow, I haven’t exercised in a bajillion years! Hold me!” or “Where does one purchase a free weight?” or even “Yowza, that Jillian Michaels has a good body.” All those thoughts came later. No, my thought was simple. It was, “WHO THE HELL GREEN LIT THIS SHOT AS THE COVER PICTURE?” Because Jillian has that unmistakable look. You know the one:

The look like she’s been to the Joey Tribbiani school of “smell the fart” acting (thanks, Not Perfect!). I mean, seriously. Am I supposed to trust this woman now?

Anyway, it’s been a WONDERFUL birthday so far, and so as to mitigate the abject consumerism and fart references that pepper this post, I’ll close with this: My twenty-seventh year was incredible. J and I had our second child, I excelled in my career, I spent lots of time with good friends, and I laughed. A lot. I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better year. I mean, the only thing that could've used some improvement was totally my doing, and it's the fact that I think I need to be more proactive about certain things. I feel truly blessed in so many areas of my life and if 28 is even HALF as amazing as 27 was, I will be a lucky, lucky girl.

So George Gershwin, Olivia Newton-John, T.S. Eliot, and Shamu Walk into a Bar...

First and foremost, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your comments on my last post. Did you ever write something and actually cringe as you hit the “publish” button, such is your fear of the responses? That was one of those times, since I knew I was being brutally honest about a topic that has the propensity to be controversial. (I mean, my god, I’ve read comments elsewhere that said if a woman is planning on working after she has kids, then she shouldn’t bother having children.) I was therefore grateful for the respectful tone of all of the comments. Whether you agreed with me, disagreed with me, or brought up a different perspective, there was not a rude statement to be found. So thank you once again for listening to what I had to say, discussing what can occasionally be a touchy subject in a completely rational and insightful fashion, and letting me know that I'm not the only one out there who feels the way I do.

So! Let’s move on, shall we?

My birthday is on Friday, and I’m going to be 28. While I have no problem getting older, as I was telling a few friends earlier this evening, I am getting panicky that I now have one year less to get my ass on a “Top 30 Under 30” list. Well, not my actual ass. It’s nothing to write home about, honestly. But you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any such list on which I would belong, but just knowing that I’m running out of time makes me panicky. If that makes any sense at all.

I am, however, one year closer to my surprise Roaring Twenties-themed 30^th birthday party! For those of you keeping score at home, despite the fact that I'm not really a big birthday person, and the fact that I don't relish me-centric parties…(Oh, GOD. Who do I sound like? “I don't like attention! Or parties in my honor! Make me immortal! Ow, I’ve electrocuted myself on this downed wire. Don’t get me birthday presents! I hate them! Drat, I seem to have stepped in a bear trap. Make me immortal! Oh, no! I’ve fallen down. Again.”)…I’ve inexplicably become OBSESSED with the idea of a Great Gatsby-type surprise party in honor of my 30^th birthday, complete with a jazz band, costumes, and copious amounts of gin, or as I plan on calling it at said party, "moonshine." (Yes, I KNOW they're not necessarily the same thing, but it's MY imaginary party, dammit.) It is SO WEIRD, people, and completely out of character for me. As I mentioned last year at this time, I have no idea how anyone would go about throwing someone a surprise, themed costume party, but I suppose my loved ones still have two years to figure it out. (I’M KIDDING, loved ones! Sort of.)

In other birthday news, do you share your birthday with any cool famous people? Because I DO NOT. It’s me, Olivia Newton-John, George Gershwin and TS Eliot. (UPDATE: Confiance informs me that she also shares my birthday. AS DOES SHAMU THE WHALE. HAHAAAAA.) I mean, could you imagine me going out for a birthday dinner with said famous people? You know, putting aside the fact that some of these people are technically…dead.

Olivia: Come on, gang! We’re going to be late! And my skintight leather pants are getting uncomfortable! Has anyone seen Danny? Not like I CARE, or anything, I’m just curious, is all. [Fluffs her giant hair.]

Gershwin: I invented the folk opera, bitch. Don’t rush me.

Me: What the hell? We’re Libras, you guys! Where’s your sense of balance and diplomacy?

Shamu: Glaaaaaaargggggg!!!!! *splash* [insert whale-like, Wookie-type noises here.]

Eliot: Um…right. So, whales live in the water. My poem The Wasteland discusses water. And when my poem The Wasteland is read with my notes, the water and thunder take on a deeper significance. Through reading the notes, it becomes clear that I meant for the first part of section V to represent the journey of Jesus’ disciples to Emmaus, the approach to Chapel Perilous, and the present decay of Eastern Europe. OBVIOUSLY. [This is taken from an actual paper I wrote in college. I have no recollection of said paper, and I think it’s obvious that I did not and do not have any clue what the fuck I was saying.]

Olivia: Tell me about it….stud.

Me: Olivia! You are SIXTY YEARS OLD. Grease was a long time ago.

[Gershwin starts playing the opening bars to “You’re The One That I Want.” Shamu starts singing along.]

Eliot: Oh, for the love of God, Gershwin! YOU’RE NOT HELPING.

And….scene.

What I’m trying to say is that my famous birthday cohorts are sort of…well, lame, and I’m always jealous of the people who share a birthday with, say, Brad Pitt or JFK. Instead of this motley crew. Which, yes, INCLUDES A BELOVED NATIONAL TREASURE OF A WHALE:

On the bright side, at least I know my (early) birthday dinner tomorrow night will be markedly better than my imaginary one. My mom is watching the kids, and J is taking me out to my favorite restaurant in the city. There will be steak, and there will be wine. Also, I believe there will be presents. I cannot wait.

It's Who I Am

This post was going to be an Illustrated Gossip Girl Primer, complete with T’s Fisher-Price Blond, Squinty, Mom-Lady Person swathed in my beaded necklaces (Serena) and the Weird, Glowering Brown-Haired, Hat-Wearing Man lurking in a skeevy fashion beside her (Chuck), but I couldn’t find adequate stand-ins for the rest of the cast amongst the piles of itty bitty doll people littering my living room, so instead, your stuck with this: a “real” post. (At least until I find suitable doll people.) So, here! Have a little brutal honesty to kick-start your Friday:

I am not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom.

I say this plainly, matter-of-factly, and humbly, in the manner of who has been through some sort of war. A war fraught with literal crap, vomit, and more than a few tantrums in Target. I have spent the past thirteen weeks on maternity leave, and the past week in particular watching both kids myself all day, every day (my nanny is on vacation), and while we’ve had a lot of fun together, it has also been incredibly draining, in more ways than one.

I return to my job tomorrow, and I will do so happily, by which I mean, tongue-kissing my office desk and having Impure Thoughts about my neatly-arranged filing cabinets. Because as I’ve mentioned in the past, I firmly believe that I’m a better mother to my kids when I work.

I’ve been thinking lately about what that says about me. (And please note, this post is in NO WAY a judgment of any mothers' decisions to work or not, but simply my thoughts on my own decisions related thereto. AND THAT IS ALL.)

Since I had T and returned to work over two years ago, the time I spent with him was by and large fantastic. Because in sum, I had a half-hour with him each weekday morning, and two hours with him at night (as well as the weekends, of course). I really cherished all of that time, because it WAS limited, and as such, I was preternaturally patient (if I may say so myself), and had a boundless supply of energy when I was with him. We had a good thing going.

When I realized my maternity leave this time was going to fall out during the summer, I was really excited. I had visions of us giggling together nonstop and frolicking in assorted meadows. (Well, not meadows, so much as local parks, but whatever.) While we did have our fair share of that this summer, I must say, being at home was really hard for me. And if I’m being honest? REALLY honest? It was probably not 100% awesome for my kids, either. When I was home with them, I wasn’t myself. I found myself much less patient with T than I usually am, and was occasionally, um…slightly reclusive. I’m not well-versed in the Laws of the Playground, and just the thought of approaching a group of “established” moms, (i.e., not ones who, like me, are only around for a few months) made me break out in hives. And I don’t even GET hives. I missed the feeling I had before, where almost everything T did was cute and fun, and I wasn’t having thoughts like, “WILL YOU JUST MAGICALLY TOILET TRAIN YOURSELF ALREADY, MY GOD.” Or “THIS WHINING IS GOING TO BE THE END OF ME. NO, SERIOUSLY.” I was also—dare I say it—a bit resentful of J, who got to leave for work each day, and would come home with the relaxed, patient attitude I used to have.

I worry that this makes me sound selfish, but I guess, in a way I am. I truly like going to the office each day. Yes, the subway I take to get there is full of actual deranged people, and it’s no fun getting your new white pants ruined by a sloshing mud puddle, but the act of commuting, that time to decompress and totally space out, all alone, is something I NEED. And (I will take a page here from How I Met Your Mother and disguise identifying factors about my career with the term “ninja”) I like interacting with grownups, fellow ninjas, who respond to logic and reason, unlike certain people to whom I gave birth. I like using my ninja training and yes, even attending business meetings of or related to the ninja milieu, to keep abreast of issues facing us ninjas. I mean, there was a LOT of ninja-related shit that went down this summer, but I was only tangentially aware of it. And while that bothered me, at the time I was still wearing last night’s spit-up-stained pajamas at 4 in the afternoon and attempting to wrangle an overtired infant, so I had bigger, more immediate problems to deal with. Like, just who the hell had I become?

I love my kids dearly. (I don’t even want to say “more than they’ll ever know” because I hope that if we do our job right, they’ll be fully aware of just how much we cherish them.) But I also enjoy my job, and I don’t think the two should be mutually exclusive.

I think it was fitting that today—my last day of maternity leave—I witnessed my kids engaged in something that made my heart nearly explode from the cuteness of it all.

I had left both of them in T’s room for a minute so I could wash dishes, and came back just in time to see T pulling Lo’s seat towards him, saying “Come closer, baby sister! Look at my house!” I was so touched by it, and I’d hate to think that there would ever come a point that I’d be inured to moments like these. Which, knowing myself, I might, if I was with them 24/7.

I know I’ll be missing some special things now that I won’t be with the kids during the day, possibly moments like this, which saddens me. But the trade off is that the time I do get to spend with them will be (mostly) all good. I never want to take any part of motherhood for granted, and to make that happen, I need some distance from my kids. For better or for worse, it’s who I am.

Total Randomness (And a Review)

1. I just started a review blog. If for no other reason, go there to check out the oh-so-original title of said blog. (Seriously, your mind? IT WILL BE BLOWN.) And to say hi. Oh, and also to see my very first post, where I review Mr. Clean Magic Erasers for BlogHer. Yes, I was compensated, but I did Photoshop a picture to make me look like a housewife from the 1950's AND color on my beige walls to test their efficacy, so be a lamb, and go! Read!

2. It's official: I apparently cannot hear the song "Final Countdown" without gesticulating wildly and prancing about, a la Gob in Arrested Development. YES, EVEN IF WE'RE IN PUBLIC, PEOPLE. J is so lucky to be married to me.



3. I've seen this book twice in the past week. Mildly disturbing title, is it not? 4. You know what else is disturbing? That in the past week, I've had more than one person come to this blog looking for "Charlie Sheen barefoot." Are there fetishists for this? And if so, are they more turned on by the fact that it's Charlie Sheen, or the fact that he's barefoot? And I defy you to tell me which option is worse.

5. I mentioned it in the comments on my last post, but in case you missed it, thank you all so much for your suggestions on how to rid the car of the UNGODLY BARF STENCH.

6. Lo says hi, and to that she is a big fan of Grinning Widely. 7. T says he's going to keep touching the possibly malaria-carrying sprinkler with the sitting water and Mosquito Party USA every time we go to the park, and he doesn't care WHAT YOU THINK. And also, that he may or may not throw up in the car again when we're least expecting it.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

And the Award for "Most Copious Use of the Word 'Barf' in One Blog Post" Goes To...

I genuinely don't know which is worse: The tear-inducing Wave o' Barf Stench that hits you when you set foot in my car lately, or the fact that after a few minutes, you don't even notice it anymore. But…I'm getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning:

I think it's pretty obvious that I adore my son. He's sweet, well-mannered, blows me away with his brilliance on a daily basis, and I find him to be quite cute. (Granted, he's mine, but whatever.) And he's had a big week, what with his starting school and all.

There is, however, one thing that he’s been doing lately that--while I feel bad for him--sort of makes me want to run as far away from him as possible, ideally to some tropical island with my husband, fruity, rum-heavy drink in hand. T has started—um, how do I put this delicately? Hurling all over the damn car every time we're in it for more than five minutes. It happened for the first time a few days ago; we were all driving along, and he asked me to open his window. As I was attempting to do so, I heard the unmistakable sound of someone gearing up to barf. "NOOOOO!" I shouted, all slo mo-like, as I quickly grabbed a plastic shopping bag that lay at my feet and miraculously managed to get it under his chin just in time.

I caught it all…and then proceeded to drop the bag on the floor. If there is anything worse than a small child barfing all over himself, it's A BAG OF SAID BARF SPLATTERING ALL OVER THE INTERIOR OF YOUR CAR.

I made sure that T was okay—and he was; it was really just carsickness—but the odor rapidly became unbearable, to the point that J and I were driving along with our heads hanging out the window, not unlike golden retrievers, gasping desperately for fresh air. Truly, we are kind and compassionate parents.

We stripped T down, threw his clothes in the barf-coated bag, and attempted to do what we could to get rid of The Odor Situation in the backseat. We were scrubbing like there was no tomorrow, but it was clearly beyond our limited capacity. This was no ordinary barf; it laughed heartily at our weak organic cleaning products, scoffed at the air freshener we borrowed, and gave the finger when we brought in the twin big guns of Shout and Zout.

We were clearly in need of an exorcism. Failing to find an old priest and a young priest willing to tackle the job, we drove around in search of some industrial-strength cleanser to work its magic on our car’s interior.

We wound up at a sketchy store selling sundry car accessories, and began rifling through our options. And although we didn’t need one per se, I felt compelled to buy one of these babies. You know because who doesn’t want an imitation car phone antenna?

J talked me out of it, as there was serious business to attend to, and we cracked down in hopes of finding something to fix the awful stench in the car. We sniffed all manner of scented merchandise in the store, trying to find something less offensive-smelling than toddler barf. (And you might think that’s simple enough, but have you smelled car air fresheners lately? NASTY.) Easier said than done, my friends. I’m fairly certain the people behind the counter thought we were high on a very potent drug cocktail as we made our way through the scented beads, fringed, floral-scented crosses, and pine tree-shaped deodorizers, sniffing thoughtfully before proffering our analyses of the product in hand. Just like at a wine tasting, except: (a) no wine, (b) you're continually finding yourself woozy from the chemicals; and (c) I'm fairly certain no one at a wine tasting compares its bouquet to "a funeral home, mixed with the perfume of an old, diseased whore." So, um, not like a wine tasting at all.

We were losing faith, but then I found it--the Wall of Awesome. “J!” I shrieked happily, “Come quickly! Look at this! Super Sheets! You stick them under the seat and they emit a ‘pleasant, subtle aroma’ throughout the car! If we stick them by the back seat, aka, the scene of the crime, it will totally get rid of the smell!”

Unfortunately, “pleasant, subtle aroma” is code for “Yeah, all of the Super Sheets smell just as shitty as the rest of the products here.”

Except for one of them.

I had been going down the line, and was pretty much gagging at the overpoweringly-fruity scent they all seemed to possess, when one caught my—nose? It actually smelled pretty good, and I was pleasantly surprised. I looked down to see the name of my future purchase.

OHMIGOD.

I was at a crossroads—did I become the person who bought a car deodorizer named Sex Forever--complete with intertwined male/female symbols, mind you-- or did I sack up and just pay for a carwash?

We got the carwash.

It wasn’t cheap, but it definitely made the horrifying stench dissipate somewhat, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had survived. It was over.

And then came yesterday.

I had plans to take the kids to visit my family in NJ, and to get a haircut. It was the first time in a while that I’ve been doted upon in a salon, so I was feeling relaxed, carefree, and quite happy that I’d gotten a new, fresh style.

After arriving back home, I packed up the kids and we left for NJ. I’ll admit it, I was doing that thing that everyone does after getting a haircut, swinging my hair to and fro, admiring it in every reflective surface…I was feeling good.

Let me tell you, though, nothing will bring you down faster from your new haircut high than a toddler getting carsick. Again. This time, there was no one else in the car to play Barf Catcher, and this time, it seeped into the foam lining of his carseat. Lovely!

Have you ever tried to operate a motor vehicle in which someone just became violently ill? While driving in the pouring rain, so you can’t really open the windows? And manage to avoid throwing up yourself? Suck it, Michael Phelps! I DESERVE EIGHT GOLD MEDALS FOR THAT SHIT. (I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, Michael! Come over to my place and fetch me things from high shelves! Preferably in that half-wetsuit thing!)

Yes, truly there is no faster way to go from this:

"I'm so happy! And serene! Hooray, new haircut! Tra la laaaaa!"

To this lovely shot of me elbow-deep in the cleanup process...Gaze upon my ethereal beauty, people, and just try to restrain yourselves:

Oh, and that bag I'm holding? It's his barf-covered shirt from the first carsickness episode. WE INADVERTENTLY LEFT IT IN THE CAR WHERE IT HAD BEEN FESTERING FOR THE PAST FEW DAYS IN A SEALED PLASTIC BAG OH MY HELL THE STENCH.

Once again, I did what I could (J is away on business, and missed the second barf explosion. HOW LUCKY AND CONVENIENT FOR HIM.), but still, we are faced with a formidable task before us. And so, I leave you with a song. A song of cars, a song of despair, and above all...barf.

Barf Aroma

(To the tune of "My Sharona")

Ooh, my car is reekin’ now, it’s reekin now;
What’s gonna knock out this barf aroma?

Ooh, it makes me wanna hurl, wanna hurl.
Truly can’t handle this barf aroma!

Never gonna win, give it up,
Such a smelly car. Should be cleaning up with a touch
of ammonia. My my my i yi WOOOO. B-b-b-barf aroma!...

Wish me luck.

If Football's Not Your Cup of Tea, The End of The Post Contains Some Adolescent Poetry

So, Heather B. came to visit me.

Well, not me, so much as the World Champion New York Football Giants. BUT STILL.

You see, about a month ago, J came into some incredibly good tickets for the NFL season opener at Giants Stadium, which took place this past Thursday. He decided to take me and one of his best friends, and then, in a move easily guaranteed to win him Husband of the Year, he offered me the last ticket, and told me to invite a friend. The decision of who to take was simple. As some of you may recall, Heather and I have a long and storied history of sharing the joys and frustrations of Giants fandom together, and I could think of no one better to invite to the game with us.

In addition to being a fellow Giants fan, Heather is kind, insightful, and consistently cracks my shit up. And as I mentioned to her during our chat in the third quarter (aka, The Boring Quarter Where Everyone Loses Steam and Stops Paying Full Attention to the Game ADMIT IT, YOU TOTALLY DO THIS, TOO), I love that she and I can move seamlessly from an in-depth critique of the Giants defense to extolling the virtues of this J. Crew dress or this Lush scrub (her recommendation) without missing a beat. In short, she’s a fabulous friend.

We’ve been counting down the days, and I was like a kid on Christmas (Hanukkah?) morning once Thursday rolled around. Heather and I met up in the city and after a shopping excursion, we went back to my home. There, we attempted to play Wii (FAIL), I fed her a dinner fit for my toddler--complete with veggie soy nuggets and ketchup, and no, I am not kidding--and she met my kids for the first time.

If she ever comes back, it will be to see my children, and not for the food.

(Pictures courtesy of Heather)

J arrived home shortly thereafter, and we all headed off to the game. I know that not everyone cares about football, so I’ll simply say that it was a great game, and a fabulous start to the football season.

While Heather and I were in the city, I’d also picked up Sarah Brown’s newly-released Cringe book. It is HILARIOUS, and inspired me to dig through the ginormous bag of old diaries and journals my mom had foisted upon me when I was last home.

OHMIGOD.

There were many, MANY rambling entries detailing the trials and tribulations of my woeful, middle-class suburban upbringing and the attendant drama related thereto. (“They think they can tell me that I can’t go out after 9 on a school night? Well, guess who just snuck out and went to Walgreens with XXXXX? We got sour candy and Snapple, and then he took me home.” SCANDALOUS!) Among these entries, however, I discovered The Most Awesome Thing I’ve Ever Written. By which I mean, The Poem That Makes Me Die a Little Inside Every Time I So Much as Glance at It.

That’s right—I had an honest-to-God poetry stage. I was 16, and apparently involved in the most heartbreaking love triangle THE WORLD WOULD EVER KNOW. Because I love you, and because hey, it's almost Monday, and Monday generally sucks, I am posting the poem here to start your week off right.

Please note that: (a) I have no idea what the last two lines are (Part of the poem? A separate entry? It's a mystery.) and (b) the song I'm referring to in the twelfth line down is from a Boyz II Men song. I AM UNIRONICALLY QUOTING BOYZ II MEN OMG.

You're welcome, people.

Lusty Turtles, Sneaky Children and Other Tales from my Vacation

Well, hello! I’m, back from our annual end-of-summer vacation. As many of you know, I really, really look forward to this time of year. Each year at the end of August, we go up with my family to a little lake house in Pennsylvania. There, we relax, swim, barbecue copious amounts of meat, attend county fairs, eat the freshest corn EVAH, lounge in our hot tub, drink, and play board games. (Drunk Taboo is the best game in the world, and don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.) It’s admittedly corny as hell, but we really have a great time together. And of course, you know I feel strongly that no vacation there is complete without a trip to the local bar for a little thing I like to call Vacation Karaoke Night. There is nothing quite like throwing your heart and soul into a musical performance for a bunch of men who look vaguely like extras from Deliverance. I mean, there is an actual spit bucket in the bar. A SPIT BUCKET, PEOPLE. A BUCKET IN WHICH PEOPLE SPIT.

Anyway, I was all fired up to bring the proverbial rawk when my brother and his girlfriend had the foresight to actually call the bar and find out which night was karaoke night.

The answer: NEVER.

Apparently, karaoke night was no longer an organized event there; instead it was at the owner’s whim. My brother inquired if this whim would perchance strike during the week and a half that we would be there, and the answer was “no,” as the owner hadn’t felt much like singing lately. Because clearly, he hates joy.

Naturally, my entire family had LOADS of fun with this, insinuating that my abysmal performance the year before was what made them stop karaoke night. I’d have argued, but…well, they may have had a point. Though I was bummed about the situation, I told myself that I wouldn’t let it get in the way of us having fun.

And then my camera got stolen.

Not the big, expensive one, but my beloved little point-and-shoot that I take with me everywhere. We were out at combination mini-golf course/movie theater/ye old tyme ice cream shoppe when it happened. We were all enjoying sundaes when I spotted something so completely awesome that I had to whip out the camera: PRETZEL ICE CREAM CONES. I adore the combination of pretzels and ice cream, and couldn’t believe that someone had thought make an ice cream cone out of them. I snapped the picture, and attempted to replace the camera in my bag whereupon I either: (a) dropped it (doubtful, as I’d have heard it fall) or (b) one of the emo teenage hooligans seated behind us stole it (much more likely). We looked everywhere, but the camera was gone. As were the teens. While I’m annoyed at having to get a new camera, I’m far more upset about the lost pictures and videos. Teenage hooligans! If you’re reading this, I’M NOT MAD AT YOU. You can keep the camera! Just return the memory card to me! Pretty please? I WILL BUY YOU SOME EYELINER AND SKINNY JEANS!

The only other issue we faced was that T refused to sleep in a bed alone (not that I blame him, as he still sleeps in a crib at home), so after a few standoffs, we gave up and just let him sleep with us in our bed. Which begs a question for the co-sleepers of the world: HOW IN THE HELL DO YOU DO IT? Perhaps it’s just my child, but regardless, each night, my sleep was disrupted by T administering swift, yet powerful kicks to many--if not all--of my vital organs in his sleep. He was like a tiny, unconscious ninja. When he wasn’t busy kicking me, I’d hear J yelping in pain as T flung himself about in his sleep, smacking J in the face and kicking him in the stomach and other, more sensitive places that I shan’t mention here, for I am a LADY. (A lady who, in a few moments, will be talking about Really Inappropriate Turtles, but a lady nonetheless.)

One morning, we were so thoroughly exhausted and battered from the nightly pummeling that we didn’t even hear T get up and leave the bedroom. Because, hey! A kid can do that when he's not in a crib! Do you know what else he can do? He can take advantage of his sleeping parents by purposefully and soundlessly sneaking into the kitchen, pushing a chair over to the counter, and climbing up to retrieve a ginormous box of assorted chocolates. He can then scamper off with said box to the living room couch, where he can proceed to devour a shit-ton of chocolate, at which point his parents awake, realize that he's gone, and discover one extremely guilty-looking toddler rapidly shoving a few last pieces into his mouth in a very chipmunk-esque fashion. Long story short: T will be sleeping in his crib until Junior High. The kid cannot be trusted. I mean, really, just look at his expression. I have a feeling he's gonna give me a run for my money.

I don’t mean to sound negative about our trip at all, by the way. Other than the thievery, bruised kidneys and dearth of karaoke, vacation was great: It was J's birthday while we were up there, and I got him the Wii (by which I mean, I got US the Wii), which we've been playing pretty much nonstop. My parents were extremely gracious about babysitting, so we got to go out at night, and we saw TWO MOVIES in one week. That's more than we've seen in the past six months. J got to golf a lot, I found the World's Most Perfect Black Dress...

...and the kids had a fantastic time. Lo was an absolute pleasure; she loved the mountain air and slept beautifully (seriously, this is the only picture I have of her from vacation where she's awake)...

...and T loved exploring all the new places.

He couldn’t get enough of the nearby train museum…

the lake…

…or the local zoo.

Yes, intensely alarming signs aside...

...the zoo is fun for the whole gang! Parents, kids…and turtle fetishists alike!

You see, while there, we happened upon turtles involved in The Physical Act of Love (Friends? Anyone?) at the Turtle Town Inn. Mind you, this is not even the first time I’ve seen this, but it was definitely more risqué, as far as turtle lovin’ goes. For one thing, these kinky creatures couldn’t even wait to get inside the Turtle Town Inn before getting down. As we walked closer, we saw that this was no ordinary coupling. It was a TURTLE THREE-WAY.

And a fourth turtle was WATCHING THE WHOLE THING. Look at him! HE'S TAPING EVERYTHING!

Sinners.

We capped off our trip with a family portrait, another one of our vacation traditions. I get a little teary-eyed (in the good way) looking back at the pictures from the past few summers, and seeing how my little family has grown over the past few years.

Even I have to admit; it's a better tradition than karaoke.