On Adulting: Here's the Thing

Been having trouble lately deciding what it’s most appropriate to worry about. I mean, this adulting shit is off the charts sometimes, right? I said to my mom the other day, “I’m just doing way too much adulting lately.” My mom is over 80 years old and a woman who started having kids at 19, completing her herd at 39 (with moi). She’s like, “what’s that?” To this woman the prospect of not adulting is inconceivable; it’s all she’s ever done, and pretty much without a single complaint. It must be insane to her to see the age of “adulthood” continuously increase with each decade. It was 20, then 25, then 30 for me (ish) technically (when I had a baby) and it seems to be approaching 40 for the infamous generation we call Millennials. And most of my Generation X set, we go through the motions of adulting but 80s Rock, fast cars and keg parties are still very close to our hearts. Closer by the minute. And by adulting (which is underlined in red because it’s not a word), I don’t mean just having a job. Kids can have jobs. Jobs are easy. They can even make good money. But true adulting, it involves heartache, pain, caring way too much, keeping other people fed and alive, and worrying. Lots of worrying.

So on that day last week, I woke up with a plethora of worries in my head. All of them, ending in complete and utter devastation - all of it hanging on decisions I make. Human trafficking. What junior high school will be best for my son? The Twighlight Zone of a country we live in. What if we make the wrong decision? Guns. How do I pay for my 15 year old’s college if she doesn't get a scholarship? Have I fed my kids too much food made with GMO corn? Have I over-parented my kids, rendering them incapable of making their own decisions? What if they end up in bad relationships? My aging parents. When I calm myself down about these things with temporary solutions, then it becomes about me. Does my husband think I’m a total nag and just fake like he likes me? Am I producing enough at work? Do I have job security? Am I not giving my kids the attention they need because of work? Why don’t I write or do anything creative any more? Why aren’t there enough hours in the day? And then, we get to the the superficial shit. Should I be lifting weights or will it bulk me up? Should I do less cardio and more yoga? Do I need to be using Retinol? Do I need to intermittent fast in order to lose weight or should I eat 6 meals a day? Keto? Paleo? Should I just stop eating altogether? When am I going to frame all those damn pictures I had printed. Will I ever get to go to Italy?

And it’s totally possible for that to all happen within a morning or sleepless night. It’s exhausting, right?

So about adulting, it’s a real bitch but we can do this and I will never apologize or stop defending my God-given right to bitch about it at happy hour with my friends. #nopills #justwine #friendship

Wine will kill you. Or I will?

(warning: use of profanity: moderate) 

So, when I signed on to be involved in this HBO Documentary over four years ago called Risky Drinking (the title was then unknown), I had no idea it would spark hate mail on my innocent little blog, one not unlike many other mom or food blogs out there that talk about wine and the craziness of raising kids and totally real and normal shit like that. I was given no money; just hope that maybe I would connect with more like-minded readers and I could sit around and write all day. I was not thinking those readers would be recovered alcoholics hating me because I can still drink and they cannot. 

Let me clarify one thing: I am just like millions of other women (and men) around the goddman world who drink wine. Big fucking deal. Every now and then, a martini. Maybe a craft beer from a local brewery. I'm a grown-up. I'm sorry to tell you that everyone who does this are not all "alcoholics." I get up early, I work out 6 days a week, I take care of my family, I feed them healthy food, I maintain an organic garden, I work a job, I have friends, I enjoy life. I'm #winning and I'm sorry if it makes you angry. But just face the fact that other people can, do and will drink. And many of us, not to drown sorrows or suppress childhood traumas. We just do, because we can. To celebrate, to unwind, to TASTE it (yes it pairs nicely with food). We do once a week, on Wednesdays or every damn day. It's none of your goddamn business and it's not up to you to decide. Sure it's a "drug" (sure, it is and must be used with caution) but you tell us it will "kill us." (tell it to my 84 year old dad who has smoked since he was 14 and drinks vodka and Miller High life for the last 50 years).  Big Macs will kill you too. Your RX drugs will kill you. Do YOUR thing. Don't drink. Live and let live. But don't write on momblogs that "Your life will not be long-lived" (Thanks Eric Furst) and berate a blogger's blog (Bill W) just because they like wine. Why are you so goddamn pissed off, be honest with yourself. Deal with your self and stop your goddamn BULLYING! (yes, I'm going to hell too for saying goddamn so save your shit for someone else).

Just to RE-CLARIFY: I was told the film was about "the spectrum" of alcohol use. About "moderation." I was told it's definitely not about "T-totalling" and it's not about Alcoholics Anonymous or anything like that. I was NOT told I would start receiving hate mail from these supposedly Christian AA members, cowardly using the handle "Bill W" or maybe other false names. Maybe real names. Who knows. 

So if it's not that I get to drink but you think I screwed over a friend in the film; that I found an alcoholic to "out," give me a fucking break. I'll tell you again: the HBO producer had read a blog post I wrote and contacted me via Facebook, she came to visit me (and see just how bad a lush I was I guess. I disappointed as she filmed me doing my motherly, wifely and work duties like a boss despite the fact that I drink wine). Maybe as option B, she asked if I had a happy hour group, which I did and I invited that group to meet her. I did not leave anyone out, as any of them would probably be fiercely angry had I not invited her.  I was a bit apprehensive but I extended the invite to all and all had a choice whether to participate. They all did.

If you watched the doc you will know what happened. I've read many things written about our "mom happy hour" segment which many people seemed to relate to. I've received many nice comments about myself, but here on my blog there seem to be people with a need to degrade me, doom me, or blame ME for other peoples' actions.  Is that why I get these rude comments like from Bill W and a couple others? They feel a need to place blame? They think I purposely tricked a friend into saying things they would later regret? Maybe someone else did but I was not involved and it baffles the fuck out of me.

I took my blog down recently due to this hate mail then I thought, "why are you being such a pussy?" It's just one or two cult members, after all. And today I wake up to "Your life will not be long-lived, I guarantee it" from "Eric Furst." At first I thought, oh yes, he either assumes I am some raging alcoholic hiding vodka in my drawer or he's just telling me wine will kill me. Along with the plant based organic food I eat from my garden while I'm doing yoga. Then I thought, wait, surely these fanatics aren't sending DEATH THREATS to all people who drink? Cuz i know I'm not the only one! Death to wine lovers everywhere! You can find tons of them all over Instagram BTW!  I googled ole Eric and found an email for that name in MD, and if it's indeed him I've invited him to an adult conversation. Eric: I got an out-of-office reply so I'm sure you're having a wild time on a beach somewhere, but give me a holla upon your return and we can shoot the shit, deal?

Basically, I'm just fucking livid and sick of it that I get threatened and insulted by these people who hate, and for what? WTF did I do to you? I don't owe an explanation nor do I need to qualify myself.  Go smoke your cigs (killer drug) drink your coffee (also drug) and eat your donuts (really?) at your meetings and live and let live, for god's fucking sake. 


I Am Sylvia Plath

Christmas break can often be a mini version of summer break in that by the end of it, parents are at wit's end, kids are bored and moping, having lost any interest in the hundreds of dollars of STUFF they got under the Christmas tree. Oh and the money! They get shittons of money! And did I mention, the parents, conversely, are now BROKE. They have also probably gained 5 or 10 pounds, had no time for themselves to like, be healthy or sane, and they're ready for a vacay from vacay but can't afford it. The holidays were fun, yes but the magic of the holidays are gone and reality sets in and well, you know. Or you don't!  At least that's how I'm feeling and the vibe in my house currently. And I realized all of this because I am leaving to go to yoga that I haven't been to in weeks and the guilt hangs heavy and the kids are whining for Chick Fil A breakfast biscuits and well, yoga and guilt don't mix. SO this reminded me of this Chick Fil A/ mom going a lil cray post I wrote back in the day when I had little ittle bitty kids and we went to Chick Fil A a lot.. I was a complete basket case most of the time but man, I miss those days...somehow. Here goes (written c. 2010):

I'm pretty sure the manager at Chick Fil A thinks I'm a mother on the edge. About to pull a Sylvia Plath, as I have mentioned it enough times that if I did it now, everyone would just think I'm crying wolf.

"What? He walked in and her head was literally in the oven and the kids' bedroom doors were duct-taped shut? So he laughed, decided they must be safely quarantined from harm and decided to jump on his dirtbike and ride it at top speed around the neighborhood, since he never gets to do that without the kids wanting a ride. He came back an hour later and her head was still there. So sad. I heard she was obsessed with Sylvia Plath long before she even had kids; she read The Bell Jar like five times."

As I'm sure you assume, I refer to Sylvia Plath in good fun, in jest. My life isn't that bad.

Anyway, the first time this manager identified my Plath-ness, I was taking Becks to lunch there while Izzy was at school. Just the two of us, mommy-toddler date. So cute. Right. It was just one of those days. He was totally defiant, wouldn't eat, only wanted to play on the outside playground and decided, once out there, that he was going to the car for something. We had a few minutes of arguing about it and hand gestures that I'm sure all the people inside could deduce there was an argumentative toddler. "I'm going!" he yelled, and I was all, "yeah sure you are," thinking I would just jump up if he got inside, and went back to my iphone to play my turn on words with friends. Next thing I know he'spulling open the glass door open that weighs a ton, and it's almost slamming back on him when 3 employees run to his rescue, and glare straight at me, Shitty Mom. "This is really heavy and could slam his little fingers!" "Oh I know! I'm sorry I didn't think of that! Sorry." The pleasant-faced blonde manager comes up to me and and pats me on the back in an I Pity You sortof way. "I know it's hard. I had two. But enjoy it, it doesn't last long." Thank you, words of wisdom from wise woman. She kept standing there and talking and I seriously thought she was casing me out to decide whether or not I was a candidate for S.C.A.N. I thank her and we leave. I get to the car and without thinking, back up. Straight into the Dodge Charger that I had watched, earlier, park nearly diagonally in the parking space behind me. But I couldn't go forward because of the line of 20 cars dyin for some Chik fila. I had already forgotten, that's how brain-dead I am. I bash into the Charger.

EFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!! I picture a horrid dent that Chris is going to demand we get fixed immediately and spend God knows how much because he is so obsessed with aesthetics (despite that it's a 1997 Landcruiser) and I get out, crying. To my surprise, I have no dent and the Charger only has a little scuff, and possibly a cracked side headlight.

I'm frantic about what to do, can't hit and run, so I leave Becks in the carseat, lock the car and run inside, right into Nice Lady manager. She finds the people and brings them out to see the damage. My perfectly good karma helped me out here, because the Government Agent said it was the govt's car anyway, and the other light was already cracked. I was like, "soooo, what should I do?" and wondered if I should offer her cash, which I didn't have...or to write a check? for what? bribery? We stood there long enough and she sensed my poor sweet frantic momness enough to say "Don't worry about it." I wanted to hug her but I didn't. And the Nice Lady manager was visibly relieved for me, thankful I wouldn't go home and wail on my toddler's poor little white booty or even worse, stick my head in the oven.

We see her again at a benefit for a girl from Izzy's school. She sees me with the whole family, and we seem stable and happy enough. Maybe she lost her concern.

Then a few weeks later, yesterday, I take both kids to the crowded Chick Fil A. Becks is sliding off my hip because he refuses to walk, and both of them look like rugrats with their crazy curly red unbrushed hair. She comes up to me just as Becks turns over his napkin with ketchup all over it and spills a drink. "How are you?" she asks in a seriously concerned tone. "Let me get you another one. I'll get them another fruit cup too. Are you not eating mom?" as she looks down at my wasit to see if I'm starving myself. "Anything to drink?" Umm do you have wine at Chick fil A? I mean the woman thinks I'm seriously on the brink I guess. She's so sincerely concerned for me I wonder if I should ask her if she'll take me in a couple days a week so I can have time off or maybe score me a year's worth of free nuggets and chocolate milks..?


{Inside} Mom Happy Hour PODCAST!

This whole HBO experience helped me see that there are more ways to get your message out and be creative than just your little ole' blog. PODCASTS are where it's at! So I'm launching {Inside} Mom Happy Hour, the first topic of which will be a discussion (over wine of course) about women and drinking, with the other women featured in the Risky Drinking Documentary on HBO (at least the ones that drink). So, you should check it out! Moms are much more interesting than you may think....

You can find future podcasts on the {inside} Mom Happy Hour podcast page!

Here's the link to the documentary trailer: http://www.hbo.com/documentaries/risky-drinking/video/promo.html?autoplay=true


Thanks For Watching Risky Drinking on HBO!

Or if you didn't, here's the trailer. It will continue to be shown on HBO, HBO Now and HBO GO:


I had already screened it, but watched with close friends last night and got feedback from others - I will definitely say what people are taking away from it is whether they should take a closer or more serious look at their drinking. During the holidays it is about 10x harder, at least for me. Our families celebrate holidays with drink, our friends get together and drink, and it's next to impossible to *not.*. People gift me with wine, we have parties, we do have fun. We also feel like shit by January 1!  But, like I say in the doc, "it's not like we're gonna get together and play bingo." ... (laugh here).

If you watched/watch it, comment what you took away from it? And last but not least stay tuned for the podcast we are doing today with the ladies from the film and a couple others who were involved in the filming or watched it. 


Defense, in Hindsight, for SAHM's everywhere.

{WARNING: Excessive use of profanity and defensiveness herein}

SAHM def: Stay At Home Mom

I’ve been full of piss and vinegar for a few weeks now, and I’ve been saying what I think way too much. Is that part of getting older? Maybe. PMS? Quite possibly. So I thought I’d use that piss and vinegar to get something off my chest, that goes many years back. Let’s call it part of a cleansing process.

This morning, rushing to get ready for work (for my salaried, flexible job in which I make my own schedule -  don't hate), after making lunches and smoothies and finding homework, and yelling to brush teeth etc. etc. etc.... this thought came to my head.

Here’s how my life's fairy tale has gone (note: I don't regret a single minute):

I finished my masters classes at 30 only to get knocked up within a year. I had been working for a magazine, selling advertising. When BabyDaddy and I found out daycare would be oh, about 2/3 of my measly salary, we decided I would stay home, pinch pennies and raise the kid. I pinched the shit out of those pennies. My life was small, my circle was small, my wardrobe nonexistent. But guess what? That friggin' kid was happy and is now a phenomenal girl, a straight A student, a competitive dancer, in gifted and talented, but most importantly a kind and GOOD person. Better than you, I’ll bet. Damn sure better than me.

During those years I tasted chicken fucking nuggets for Walmart gift cards (food science research at the university), I sold shit on Ebay and Craig's List and I did freelance writing gigs when I could get them. Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes, I got a paycheck over $1000 for a project and thought I was rich. I did my damnedest to contribute financially (I also wanted to buy magnums of Yellow Tail) and I was 100% child rearer and home maker. My phenomenal person was still in preschool when, as I was using the Basal (HIPPIE) method to NOT get pregnant, I got knocked up AGAIN. So there I was, 2 kids, one salary, and 2 days of preschool a week so I could do my freelance, grocery shop,  maybe hit the gym or walk outside so at least I wasn't fat in my sweatsuit. Whatever. My life, still small. My wardrobe, just sweatsuits.

I defended my masters, 5 years late when I was 6 months pregnant with my second surprise. In an ice storm. When he was still a toddler, I completed a cookbook to benefit hunger relief with a friend/partner, published and sold it. It wasn’t a lucrative project but I got to write and meet some pretty fantastic people in the process. Then, the second phenomenal kid went off to kindergarten.  I started going out for girls happy hour. That same fall, the book led me to a job with a food magazine. My circle was growing and my life branching out beyond the perimeters of my house, the Library and Target.

It wasn’t until then that I finally saw some respect, from certain (or most?) people in my life. The respect that had been silently missing started to replace the disrespect thought or spoken behind my back. I never got respect for forfeiting a career I had gone to school seven years for, but I got respect once I had J–O- B. I still didn't make much money but it seemed to satisfy people that I had to get out and beat the streets. Maybe they needed to know I was struggling. But the fact is that staying at home in your sweats not showering all day feeding short people is often more of a struggle than being "in the real world." I guess they wouldn't know that. However, the fact that I wasn't bound to AN OFFICE seemed to make said employment questionable to many. Still not quite LEGIT enough. You have to get all Tom Versus The Volcano fluorescent-lit suicide office to REALLY have a JOB it seemed. 

All the time I was innocently at home, I may not have realized how much the people I’d had in my life were judging me. FOR RAISING MY OWN KIDS. Especially women who had jobs, who paid for daycare. Or in some cases, men who didn’t have jobs but had women who did have jobs. Who paid for daycare. These men were available to pickup from school and take to activites and shit. Gee that's so convenient. My husband, he was not. 

I knew there was disrespect when as a stay home mother I heard “What do you do all day?” and comments about having time to cook on my facebook pics of a nice dinner. I cooked at least 5 nights a week.  I thought, you make time for what’s important to you, mutherfucker. Feeding my family well had always been important to me. I made ice fucking cubes of food, for your information. I made goat milk formula when I was no longer breast feeding. I MADE THE GODDMAN TIME. I made time to take them to the library and do shit with them instead of sending them off to some asshole at a daycare. Yeah I was frazzled and wearing sweats but goddammit, I am glad I did it. 

I realized even more that I was judged when I heard comments later like, “Wow you really got on the ball when your kids went to school” and shit like that. "Got your shit together." Oh, excuse me but did I NOT have my shit together raising two children full time, feeding them 3 squares a day and teaching them Goddamn Spanish!? Really?  Well, DUH. They are IN SCHOOL NOW which means no daycare costs and 8 hours a day free to work so YEAH that was the plan, asshole- getting them to school age and starting my super late career!  What did you think I was doing, trying to get out of working by pushing out a few puppies, to be 10-20 pounds heavier, covered in puke, snot and flying food all day every day, looking like an unshowered piece of shit when my poor husband got home at 6 PM from doing hard labor thinking "Shit, why didn't I work later?" Yeah, that sounds like a plan a person with a graduate education would make. Sure. It was a total SCHEME to just not work. Fuck paying back that student loan! I would rather run around barefoot in sweat pants and be broke as shit with greasy hair, for sure.  You Dicks.

And now, I see women who had kids, worked during that precious age when their little personalities and values are forming, sending them immediately off to daycare. Then I’ve even seen the women STOP working when the kid goes to school full time.  Whats the logic there? I’ve seen many women go to great lengths to get rid of their kids. To stay away from them. And yeah sure there are obviously situations where they HAVE to work so shut your mouth trying to tell me that happens. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the other.

So Guess what?! I don’t need anyone’s fucking respect and they can curse themselves for name- calling and shit talking me in the past. Because now they know they were assholes. My kids are both EXEMPLARY people in (almost) every way, I have a flexible job for a great company (with health and dental)in which I can make my own hours and not even have to wear heels that fuck my feet up, and get paid a salary, and goddamit I have earned it. Earned it with every goddamn bite of chicken nuggets and every stupid piece of crap I boxed up for Ebay and every Craigs List Killer I escaped, I earned it. In addition to working every day I still cook scratch dinners, keep a blog and clean my own house, and Yes I’d rather be ranting like this on a blog and writing all day long, pissing people off, instead of "working" but guess what I’ll eventually earn that too. I know I will. And when I do I'll Netflix binge and watch SOAP OPERAS AND ELLEN just to piss people off and maybe buy a box of Bonbons (where the fuck do you get those besides at Christmas when my mom makes them anyway?). Oh, and I WILL drink wine whenever I goddamn well want to. Because I will have earned it.

Hatas gonna hate.

SO to that sorry excuse for a man (who is now divorced and still running around in knee high white socks and Kmart tennis shoes) who called me WORTHLESS for staying home TO RAISE MY CHILDREN, guess what? I am WINNING, baby. Are you?  How are your kids, you jerk?

And I guess that's all I have to say about that.


Supermoms Make Me Barf. What?

{From a couple summers back}

Let's just face it; I make it no secret that I'm no Supermom; after all, I cuss and I drink (I say that as if other adults don't). I don't always keep up with my turn for soccer snacks or when games are or parent-teacher conferences or dance recital protocol and I don't sign up to be homeroom mom any more (I did that - class parties are ridiculously lame). The mountains of papers that come home Every Friggin' Day I can hardly sift through. I realize it's picture day at the last minute or that there's a school assembly or field trips due to this fact. I don't slack on purpose; but I do manage to pull things off most of the time. Sometimes I think I disappoint the kids by not going to PTO meetings just because they got a sticker on their shirts about it but y'know what, they'll be okay. Better than okay. My mom never entered that school; she drove the car up and picked me up and she never was homeroom mom and I turned out okay. Kindof.

I try, but I'm just not out to impress. And honestly, when I see my fellow mothers flaunting their uber-mom and Stepdford-wifey skills on Instagram - crazy gourmet morning cupcakes on birthdays and fancy-ass school party snacks and intricate crafts they found on Pinterest and dressing their kids like they're in a Zulilly ad every day, I barf a little bit in my mouth. Call me jealous, call me what you want. But I do.

So now, it's summer. And guess what? I have no plan. Zilch. The fact is this is going to bite me in the ass because although I do contract work and set my own schedule, I do have to work outside the house. So I'm scrambling to set up pool dates and Grandma days and classes and not have to spend too much money doing it. I'm sitting here looking at this pile of crap on my kitchen counter top and can't even decide what to tackle first, and Beck wants me to come outside to watch him bike in the street, where the college kids haul-ass down the hill. To top all this off we're moving by the end of July and I'm supposed to be packing. So in addition to all this, I feel GUILT for not having a kickass activity to accompany and entertain the kids everyday. Last week, the first week of summer, I wrote off as kid week. We did a museum, fancy lunches, biking, swimming and the library.  I think that was pretty good but now, I've set a precedent and I realize I still have shit to do. A shitton of shit. They complain that they're BORED And I checked myself. I realized I was NEVER ever entertained back in the 70s and I walked my block and looked at rocks and made quick sand and mud pies for the mean girl on the block and played in the turtle pool because hardly anyone had an in-ground and drank from the water hose. I rode my bike repeatedly, no-hands, around and around that circle drive. My friends and I wrote our names in wet concrete. We were normal kids. We barely ever went on a family summer vacation. We invented the Staycation and just did what we did and summers seemed to last forever. It wasn't so bad. It was perfect, actually.

So I came across this awesome blog post on Facebook.. and it was perfect. Check it out, and stop feeling bad about not being Summer Supermom and realize that your kids, too will survive. I'll bet you had one of these childhoods too.

Superawesome job,  http://4boysmother.blogspot.com/!


Time Warp to May 7, 2009

This week, my husband has been out of town, in a remote location where he gets crappy service and when I call for help or to complain, all I hear is "unta-gleeten-glotten-globen." (you're suspicious, aren't you?) This business trip just happens to coincide with the week that my newly-two-year-old decides he wants to show me the meaning of The Terrible Two's. Izzy never had them, it was more like the Terrible Fours with her, and he's a boy, so it could only be worse. I mean, like ten gazillion times worse. He's starting the detachment (it's really separation anxiety but I call it this!) anxiety thing with me, and he doesn't want to go to sleep - ever. He must be entertained at ALL times, and of course, when he is, it's only for 2 minutes. You know the drill. The kicker is that, unlike sweet and gentle girl that I am accustomed to, he is INSANE. He climbs, he plows, he bangs, he dumps, he destroys. He is MALE, hear him roar.

So, in the spirit of the Owen Wilson narration part on the movie Marley & Me, I am substituting Becks for the dog here. Read it really fast.

Last night: After we read 5 books and he had a mac-daddy head, foot and back massage with Burt's Bees lotion, Beckham screamed bloody murder until I sang "Let it Be" twenty times. He finally accepted the Beatles version on his stereo and allowed me to eat my dinner at 9 o'clock. Like an infant crying out for his middle of the night feeding, he awakened at 1:34 a.m. crying out "Momma Momma Momma. Da-eey(Daddy) at work? Wan call Da-eey!" Until I went in and gave him the treatment again. Then, YAY, my 2 year-old "slept through the night."

Today: Beckham poops right before leaving for pre-school and it comes out of a gap in his diaper and on to the rug and down his leg. I forget to pick up the turd on the rug and come home to greet it with my foot. I take the kids to a friend's to play outside and he immediately says "Wan go car," and sits on my lap in a lawn chair, right in front of a swingset and sandbox, as I try to get sun on my white-ass legs, as his sister steps in dog pooh. We get home and I had taken his diaper off so he could practice peeing in the back yard while he eats his ice cream. I suddenly find poop on the back deck. The poop deck. Again, it's down his leg and on his foot and I hose him and the deck off. Then, Beckham takes his cup of melted ice cream and dumps it onto the deck. Next he gets his head stuck in a chair. He tries to saw my leg and computer screen off with his toy chainsaw. He falls down in the spilled ice cream and hurts his knee.

I apparently like to write about pooping: http://momwhodrinksandcusses.blogspot.com/2008/04/dear-birthday-boy-you-pooped-on-my.html

Beck watches Fern Gulley with Izzy and I after dinner, snuggles up right next to me on the couch. He has no idea what's going on, he just wants to be there. He tries to eat all my sweet potato. He gets a big puzzle and sets it on my lap and tries to work it. "Mommy, c'mon," he says. He wants his milk and we read read read. Thankfully, tonight, when I lay him down and turn on "Let it Be" on repeat he says "Call da-eey," and when I return from getting my phone for Daddy to say goodnight, he is out. O.U.T. (Wipes sweat off forehead)

The kid is wearing me out but damn, he is cute, and I know I'll miss it when he stops being such a little titty-baby. Or maybe he won't stop altogether, and that's preferable, really. I'm just a bit worn out right now, giving praise to single mothers - nay, mothers- everywhere. I did that here, too: http://momwhodrinksandcusses.blogspot.com/2008/01/just-gimme-my-goddman-chicken-caesar.html

Waiting til 9:30 for my mozzarella, tomato and arugula salad, and glass o wine was worth it.

So This is Forty


I’ve been writing a lot about age lately. Thinking about it. Putting effort into staying healthy, young, energetic. Mostly, young. After all I live in a country in which age is a plague that we try to inject away and fight tooth and nail. Where old people seem to make younger people angry, simply because we know it’s our future. Well, if they're lucky enough not to get struck down early by a heart attack or cancer or maybe an overdose that happened because we were trying to numb ourselves to the fact that we, too will get OLD.

I just read this essay (that a lovely, intelligent, non-crazy friend/colleague shared on Facebook) on being over 40 that, like this other piece* that inspired my previous post, on cutting ties that may or may not be written by Meryl Streep (see below), that I was reaaaallly pissed I didn’t write myself. Sometimes another writer just nails it like you only wish you could.

*I fucking love this:

 “I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.” – Maybe or maybe not by Meryl Streep         

It’s about how, once you hit this god-forsaken age, shit really does change. It’s not about bullshit like gray hairs and joint pain, but real shit. About how your mind changes about yourself and about people around you and you don’t have time or make time to put up with bullshit anymore and it’s so goddamn liberating. Of course, as is my point, they say it a lot more eloquently than I do.

Here it is (and no I’m not jelly) at all that the bitch writes for the New York Times): 


I don’t think it happens to everyone; just the lucky ones. Some are damned to a life of bitterness, insecurity and insanity due to aging. But for some of us, getting older is actually kinda cool. We actually do take our shitty decisions, bad ideas and dramatic problems and see a flip side. We ditch bad relationships (why do you think there are so many divorces at around 40?). Learn from them. Y’know, we kinda grow up. But not all the way. Just enough to play nice with the parents at PTO meetings and to behave through a school Christmas play in which our child didn’t but should have gotten a speaking role. To sit at parent teacher meetings and act like we know what the fuck the Benchmark is. To goto fund raisers and not be incredulous that someone bid $10k on a wine dinner for 4, just so their kids get shooed into the private school. To sit with “colleagues” and use words like “productivity.” To use restraint at weddings with an open bar...

Maybe we’ve been pretending this kind of stuff since our 20s but now that we’re older and wiser, people actually buy it.  Sometimes it’s just plain funny that they do. We’re so old now that we can fool just about anyone, so there’s the upside, if you’re into that kinda thing. 

But the thing is, everyone else is just winging it too.




Wine: Bringing UsTogether on Social Media

I am that person. I guess I've earned it and maybe even worked hard for it. Or my liver has. But I am that person who, when people that I haven't seen since high school or possibly only know VIA FACEBOOK, think of ME when they see, say a lawn chair wine glass holder, a bathtub wine glass holder, an article about how drinking a glass of red wine is equivalent to working out for an hour (this is TOTES true BTW), and post it on my page. I mean, I guess I have really established myself as a wino on social media. But I suppose when you have a blog entitled momwhodrinksandcusses you really aren't trying to hide anything are you?

So no- I'm not offended, I'm rather touched, and I guess I could be known for worser things. At least people think of me. Any press is good press? Social media, if it has one great quality, truly has the ability to bring people together that otherwise would never meet or never see each other again in their lifetime. (Of course due to recent events we know it can tear people apart too.  I have a "friend" that I met through blogging, and now keep in touch via Facebook, who is one of my 80s rock n roll soul sisters, that I have NEVER met in person, but I really think I will someday. I am now amused daily by a guy from high school that I probably didn't say two words to while we were in school together. I'm also able to connect with my kids' friends parents this way - it's like a private look into each others' lives where we can determine if we need or want to ask each over other for drinks or just drop the kids off and leave it at that. Or if we even want to let our kids hang out at all...  

So no matter how many annoying fresh-Botox selfies and statements on "blessed"-ness I must endure, I think social media, if used in a semi-mature way, really can bring people together. And for me it usually  starts with wine...

Cheers people!