TMZ? try TMI

yeah. my hair was not curly and my nose was a little smaller,
but otherwise—C and i had the exact same look at that age. 

i have to be brief, but: i've been thinking lately that if celebrity journalism went away completely, say, tomorrow, the world would probably be a better place.

do we really need to hear another Mel Gibson rant? do we really care what Lindsay Lohan is eating in prison? couldn't those brain cells be used to store more useful information?

and, come on—yes, Chelsea Clinton has been a relatively public figure since the early 1990s, but she's never been involved in any scandals, hasn't taken a reporting gig for the Today show, hasn't written her 'memoirs' or posed for Playboy or done anything other than go to college, start a career and get engaged. the hoopla surrounding her wedding—and the secrecy of it—is making me shake my head. can't the poor girl get married in peace? lots of people have $2 million weddings every year, i am sure. (my father would probably contend that i did—or at least that it felt that way!) considering all the hell the press gave Chelsea back when she was an awkward teenager (kindred spirits, we were! only children, braces, no discernable style, etc.) i think they should just let the gal get married and move on with their lives.

side note: this morning Michael and i were in the car on the way to work and remarking at the lack of traffic on 57th Street. i mentioned that two nights ago, the same area was a nightmare because Obama was in town. "and he's not even going to Chelsea's wedding," i said. Michael said, "no? why not?" i said, "he wasn't invited! jeez, even we invited Obama to our wedding." (we did, just for fun.) and Michael said, "well, that's probably the real reason he's not going—if he didn't go to ours, it wouldn't be right for him to go to Chelsea's."

ex-actly!

anyway, i'm just really over the celeb frenzy in general. i miss the days when US was a boring magazine about movies and TMZ was not yet a glimmer in its creator's eye. i know people are scoffing: it's all in fun and it's just a break from reality. but people—that's what trashy novels and TV sitcoms are for, no? let's let actors and singers and former presidents' daughters fade just a little bit more into the background, eh?

i can't imagine anyone out there needs a break from real life in the form of listening to another angry rant by Braveheart. if you do, you may be in far bigger trouble than Mel...

mbm

lately

a stunning, tranquil night at Kismet

yeah, so. not doing too well at this blog thing lately. obviously.

work has taken over my life. or, it had taken over my life until last week. this week i've been determined to live a more balanced existence and...so far so good. we'll see how long it lasts.

today on my lunch i went for a mani/pedi (exhibit A of my more balanced life) and picked up the August issue of Glamour to flip through while my toes were being tended to. the editor's letter was about how we Americans get seriously gypped in the vacation department. apparently Italians get something like 45 vacation days a year. the average in this country? thirteen.

i vented about this last week on facebook. i currently receive 10 vacation days a year. i work my butt off most weeks—very rare is downtime these days—and 10 vacation days seems a meager 'reward' for all the time i spend in the office. it's a meager reward for anyone who spends time in the office. and we all know that weekends are generally sucked up by all the things at home we meant to take care of during the week but didn't get around to because we were working too much.

so that leaves...10 vacation days, during which to relax, unwind, play, travel, sleep, etc.

NOT FAIR.

Michael actually gets about six weeks vacation every year—but that's because he works weekends and holidays and 16 hours every Sunday. it seems a fair trade to me. one of his weeks off was last week. we had an opportunity to use a family member's house in Fire Island for a few days and man, did i want to go. only problem was, things at work were crazy.

to make a long story short, initially i didn't think i could take any time off. i felt bad about it, guilty, like i was shirking my duties. meanwhile, co-workers are jetting to other countries  and spending weeks at the beach and living it up in Hamptons.... thankfully, common sense and rationale prevailed and i took my two damn days off at the end of last week and thank god i did.

Fire Island, for starters, was beautiful. (i'd never been there before.) the town of Kismet, where we stayed, was quaint, quiet, serene, relaxing, peaceful. i spent a lot of time on the beach thinking about how i want my life to be. what kind of person am i? i never thought i'd be the type to be defined by my job (unless/until that job is writing novels). am i on that track right now? am i neglecting other areas of my life to devote more to my career? but without that devotion to my career, will i ever get ahead? because getting ahead means getting paid and getting paid is a necessity when you're trying to buy a house in New Jersey (more on that another day).

so my brain was swirling and crashing like the ocean i kept gazing at—rip tides and currents galore. what i kept coming back to was, "when i'm eighty-five, what will mean more to me? that i became a Vice President of something-or-other, or that i had a beautiful, loving family and lasting friendships and that i'd seen many places and things and met many people?" i don't think i have to tell you what my answer was.

the emotional event that i mentioned a few entries ago, that i promised i was writing about (and i was—just in my head...never made it onto the screen), was the passing of Michael's grandfather. Angelo was—in all senses but blood—my grandfather too. he was a wonderful, warm, funny, thoughtful and vibrant man, who had a brief battle with an aggressive cancer and then was gone, in as peaceful a way as any who loved him could have hoped for.

his absence has left a humongous void, but Angelo's eighty-plus years of life made such an impact on so many people that his presence is still felt.  in the week after he passed, i heard many times and from many people that Angelo always said he didn't need to win the lottery—he was rich in the only way that mattered. he had a family he loved, and who loved him.

i wish it were easier in this day and age to keep that mindset. is it only me who feels like it isn't? i think this is an issue i'll be tackling for years to come. then again, so far this week i haven't left the office later than 7 o'clock, which is good for me. and, hey, i'm updating the blog at long last. and i'm already thinking about getting away again, even for a few days, somewhere, anywhere, at the end of next month when Michael has another week off.

maybe it's the start of something good...

mbm

timeless

a few weeks ago a friend broke up with me. that's the best way i can explain it, since that's exactly what it felt like. i was told that i wasn't making enough time for the friendship, that i didn't care enough and that it was senseless to continue being friends. 

there wasn't a whole lot i could say in return, since, for me, friendships aren't so black-and-white. i have friends i've rarely been out of touch with and i also have friends with whom i lost contact for years. i have friends i talk to nearly every day; others i connect with once or twice a year. and it all seems to work. people grow up, their lives change, their jobs get busy, they have marriages and babies and families to attend to. my general friendship philosophy is, "hey, i'll always be here. you know i love you, i know you love me. we'll do what we can and it'll all be good."

anyway, i was thinking about this break-up on friday night. a bunch of friends i first met in grade school (or earlier) were at my parents' house for a last-minute get-together. until last year we hadn't seen each other for, on average, 15 years. and yet there we were, sitting around the table with drinks and food and fairly constant laughter. we definitely indulged in some gossip about erstwhile classmates and told stories from our shared ancient history. but we also talked about life now—jobs, married life, getting pregnant, raising kids. 

later, those of us who were left moved to the hot tub. some of these people were in my kindergarten class. some were in the same cap and gown as i was on our high school graduation day. some were at my eighth birthday party, some were at the same senior prom after-party. as we sat and sweated and kept talking, the thought that kept running through my head was: how cool. i think it's awesome when people can come together easily—no worries, no expectations, no agendas. you just get together because you've known each other for a long time and you know you'll enjoy yourselves. it's as fun and uncomplicated as that.

and isn't that how all friendships should be? 

mbm

why to have a husband

since you'll be apart for the july fourth weekend (damn work schedule), you make a point of having a date night now. some quality time is definitely in order. you meet at a fun little pub-type restaurant you both love and chat away over drinks and an appetizer order of hot wings. all is going swimmingly. (he doesn't even mind that your conversation is periodically interrupted by you slinging obscenities at the television on the opposite wall, on which the Yankees game is being broadcast though you can't really call it a game, can you, if your team doesn't hit). anyway, all is going swimmingly until you bring up the topic of coming up with a plan. you know your fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants husband considers "plan" a four-letter word, but you love plans, you live to plan and you thought bringing it up over drinks and wings would make it less serious. and it's not truly difficult until you start talking about moving. ahh, moving. that delicate, tender, sore-spot of a subject. the truth is, you've both been all over the place on this and it's probably why it's so difficult to talk about. that doesn't, of course, keep you from trying to talk about it.

needless to see, dinner concludes in silence and folded arms on both sides. it's time to head to the movie theater, which is right across the street. Toy Story 3 seemed like such a good idea earlier, but it's now the last thing you want to see—a light-hearted kids movie when you're on the verge of tears (stupid, frickin' hormones). "you just go see it, i can't. i can't sit through this movie now," you tell your husband and thrust the pre-printed ticket into his hands. of course you don't mean it and part of you wonders why you're saying it, yet it's one of those things you can't not say in the moment. it's like a placeholder for what you really want to say (which is something along the lines of, "if i knew it would lead to this, i would have saved the 'plan' talk for another time"). he gives you the are-you-for-real look and says, "c'mon, let's just see the stupid movie, okay?" but you shake your head, turn away and insist on staying on the sidewalk. he flaps his arms in a blend of defeat and frustration and heads into the lobby.

the next 30 seconds are spent having an internal debate with yourself: will he really go see the movie without me? no, he wouldn't. but what will we do if we don't see the movie? go home and fight? go home and be silent? how awful and idiotic will this seem tomorrow? go inside, you big dope. go inside.

so you go inside. he's heading to the escalator and you walk toward him. if he sees you coming, he doesn't acknowledge it. you ride up the escalator a step behind him. you pass through the ticket-ripper and head to the correct auditorium. he chooses seats toward the back and you flop down your stuff (because even though you're not still angry, the adrenaline is still flowing and you're not ready to be all humble yet). "you want something from the concession stand?" you ask, hastily. he responds, "no" in a similar manner.

you return five minutes later with one Diet Coke and one bag of Reese's Pieces (which you chose over all the other candy because you know he loves them). once the previews are over, you tear open the bag and offer him some. he shakes his head. (he's still playing hardball, clearly.) the ubiquitous Pixar short film starts—called Day and Night about, well, daytime and nighttime discovering each other, their stark differences and the unique and magical things each has to offer. it takes them a while, but at the end they totally dig each other. it's not your favorite Pixar short, but it's cute. as the credits roll, you offer your husband the Reese's Pieces one more time. just as you're turning to him, he turns to you and says, with that trying-not-to-smile smile you love, "that was us." he finally digs into the candy as you let out a laugh. then you lean in and kiss him, officially ending the cold war, and settle back into your seat for the movie.

it's your second time seeing Toy Story 3, so your mind wanders a little at various times and all you can think is how wonderful it is to be married. if this fight had happened a few years ago, you would have gone home, probably solo, and there would have been louder arguing, definitely a long stretch of silence. hell, it could have gone on for days. but marriage—well, one of the many things you've learned in the last seven months is that hardly anything (maybe nothing at all) is worth being so miserable about. the bottom line, which has been there all along but is so crystal clear now, is that you love each other. completely, totally, incurably. 

you'll always be night-and-day different on certain things, but let's be honest—sparring is half the fun. 

mbm

your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidante...

it's been so long since i've written i'm guessing i've taken a huge hit in my readership. just in case there are a few of you out there, i'm still here. there is a reason i've been absent for the last few weeks—i'm working on a piece about that reason, which i'm not ready to post yet because it's emotional and delicate and i need to get it right.

but i thought i'd write today nonetheless—about The Golden Girls. last night i was home alone (hubster works Monday nights), sitting in a mostly-dark apartment (we now have two window air conditioners, and if you have both running and then dare to turn on the microwave, hair dryer, iron or the wrong lamp, the fuse goes. i wasn't about to risk having to trek down to the basement on my own so i erred on the side of caution and used as little electricity as possible. thus the dark.) anyway, i was flipping through the channels and for some reason stopped on an episode of Golden Girls. i haven't watched the show in years, literally. maybe a few minutes here and there, but not a full episode since i was in my adolescence. (the show became inexplicably, wildly popular with college kids a year or two after i graduated. i still don't understand that trend, but i digress.)

the point of this is—i flipped to the WE network just as one episode was wrapping up (Dorothy finds out she has chronic fatigue syndrome and rips her doctor a new one in a restaurant since he'd told her she was just old; also, Sophia gets their exorbitant dinner bill paid for by putting salt in the $430 bottle of champagne they ordered and then complaining about it—brilliant!) i watched the end of that episode and i wound up watching the next two. i was transfixed. actually, i was incredibly comforted. i was taken right back to the many Saturday nights i watched the show with my Gram (who i insisted back then and still insist today is adorably similar to Rose). the characters, the banter, the canned laughter, the sets, even the incidental theme music that plays during scene transitions—it was all so wonderfully familiar and soothing.

sometimes i guess you just catch the right thing at the right time. after the last few difficult weeks—and a somewhat uneasy day yesterday—i was more than happy to take a trip down memory lane last night with those crazy Girls. 

even if i can't get that damn theme song out of my head today...

mbm

mrs. terrible

i am sometimes a terrible wife. (because i can admit that, i hope that makes me less terrible. because everyone is terrible sometimes, right?)

anyway. yesterday i had a very long day at work and by the time i got home around 9 o'clock the PMS goblins had majority rule in my brain and i pulled my occasional Fort Knox routine. (in short: no matter what technique is used to gain access, i make it absolutely impossible to get in.) i sat at the kitchen table and ate the pizza i picked up on my way home while reading the latest issue of Women's Health. Michael was on the couch catching up on Modern Family and (understandably) laughing his way through what i think was the season finale. it was hilarious but i refused to 1) let on that i was paying attention to anything other than my magazine or 2) crack a smile.

after it was over, Michael spent a while in the kitchen washing dishes—after putting on the Yankee game for me—and still i sat in silence, half-reading, half-watching the game. any questions he asked me i answered in five words or less. (right now, if my mother is reading this, she's having flashbacks to life with me circa 1992.)

eventually i got up, packed my gym back for the morning, got ready for bed and said a somewhat petulant goodnight to my husband.

i had barely gotten into bed with my book when i heard from the living room, "oh god! oh shit! Megs, you are not gonna like this!" the first thought that went through my head was: he spilled something on the laptop. (he'd been working on it when i'd said goodnight and his outburst had a panicky tinge.) so i was prepared to throw a fit when i walked back into the living room to see what was so wrong.

"it's a waterbug," he told me, standing in the middle of the room peering under the bookcase where the thing, i assumed, was lurking.

without breaking stride i turned right around and went back into the bedroom. "waterbug" is just another word for roach in my opinion. perhaps to an entomologist they're different, but not to me. i hadn't seen one in the apartment since last summer and that was rather traumatic. i was certainly not in the mood to deal with one last night.

i crawled right back into bed like the chicken i am. maybe 30 seconds later Michael yelled, "could i get a shoe maybe? so i can kill this thing?"

for the record, i did glance first at my collection of shoes in the closet. and while, yes, i do have a rather extensive collection of size-8½ Converse, the rest of my footwear is either flimsy or delicate. and god knows i did not want bug guts on the bottom of any of them. meanwhile, right there on the bedroom floor were Michael's blue Converse, the ones he's been talking about replacing anyway. so i grabbed one, chucked it into the living room without looking and hopped back into bed.

a few beats passed and then: "did you have to pick one i wear everyday?" he was, you could say, a bit exasperated.

jerk that i am, i was under the covers and trying my damnedest not to laugh. (what is wrong with me?) i was, in my defense, also feeling so thankful for having a man around to do these things. a year ago, i would've likely been alone when the bug attacked and would have had to frantically call Michael on his cell while running around my apartment shuddering and hopping and shrieking.

anyway, the "waterbug" was successfully eliminated from the planet, the sneaker was cleaned of bug parts and Michael actually laughed at the fact that i threw him his favorite Converse over any other shoe available.

he kissed me goodnight again, told me he hoped i felt better in the morning and went back out to the living room. me? i went to sleep—but not before saying a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that our marriage is legal and binding and, barring something truly drastic, he's stuck with me for life.

i also vowed to not be terrible again for a very, very long time.

mbm

this is my life right now...

every 10 minutes i'm applying cold sore medication to my sun-exposed lips (i mistakenly used store-brand lip balm at the beach yesterday, not realizing it was only SPF 4) in the hopes that i can prevent myself from looking like a Herpes Monster later this week.

i've got a colony of pimples popping up along my jaw line, the likes of which i haven't seen in 10 years. i'm a chronic face-toucher, too—i do it mindlessly and even more often when i'm stressed—so the colony is sure to keep growing.

i'm double- and triple-booked at work, declining meetings to attend other meetings, declining those other meetings at the last minute to work on projects with deadlines five minutes from the time they were assigned.

i keep catching myself hunched over my keyboard, every muscle in my back clenched to the point where i must resemble Quasimodo. every time i catch myself this way, i take a deep breath and relax, shake it out. and it works. for about three minutes.

last week my mother had knee-replacement surgery, Michael's grandfather was admitted to the hospital, and between the two of them (and the two of us) i think we spent at least 50 percent of our time in one hospital or another.

at the end of this week our plan is to finally dive into the deep end of home-buying. well, at least the exploratory stage of home-buying. i can only speak for myself when i say that the prospect is both thrilling and terrifying. but mostly terrifying.

all of this makes me all the more grateful for yesterday. 

yesterday, Michael did not have work—i can't remember the last time he was off on Memorial Day. we woke up (late, for us) to a beautiful sunny day on the east end of Long Island, made a run to Dunkin' Donuts and headed to the beach. we spent the afternoon talking, reading, listening to baseball. before heading home we played a fun (and highly competitive) round of mini golf, hit some balls in the batting cages and consumed approximately three gallons of ice cream at Carvel. 

we lasted one exit on the heaving LIE before Michael said, "Megs, I promise you we'll get home tonight, but it's going to be an adventure."

with that he eased the car onto an exit ramp and we eventually made our way back to Brooklyn via Route 25A, a road that we've meandered along many times before. it's a scenic route, even at night, and as we rode along—with a perfect mix playing on Pandora—the chaos of last week and the stress i knew would work its way into my brain and shoulders and forehead this week were far away.

it was just my husband and me, in the happy bubble that is our scrappy 1996 Ford Explorer, enjoying the last hours of a pretty perfect day.

sure, it would be great if i could feel so peaceful all the time. say, right now, for example. but that's not how real life goes. i get that. and those peaceful times would not be nearly as treasured or appreciated if they weren't so starkly contrasted with the chaos.

at least that's what i'm telling myself. and at least the weekend is only four days away.

mbm