see what i mean?

my weekend was a bit of a bummer and i woke up early this morning feeling a little out of sorts. i forced myself to the gym and was contemplating asking my Gram for a raincheck and spending the day on the couch. but i knew nothing good would come of it and so i got on the bus to New Jersey.

my visit with her was, as always, comforting and entertaining. and today there was a bonus: my Aunt Val stopped by with the boys toward the end of the afternoon. i gave Scotty his birthday present and got to hang out with him and Henry for a bit, which always does my spirits good.

the best part? i was squished in the backseat with both Scott and Henry (per Scotty's request) as Aunt Val drove me to the bus stop. when we pulled into the parking lot Scotty said, with a sigh, "it always gets quiet when you leave the kids."

"what?" i said.

"it always gets quiet when you leave the kids," he repeated. i must have had a puzzled look on my face because he went on, slightly exasperated: "we get sad because we want you to stay."

oh yeah—my heart did the Grinch thing and quadrupled in size.

of course, three minutes later Scotty stood up in the minivan, bent over and—in his words—"really ripped a good one" in my face.

ahh, boys.

but it worked. when i got off the bus at Port Authority a while later, i felt 110 percent better.

love my family. even the ones who fart in my face.

mbm

the coolest

Scotty as an eight-year old

my cousin Scotty is nine years old today. hard to believe, yet i can't remember what life was like before he was around. he's one of my most favorite people to hang out with ever—between his  brilliant comic timing, wild imagination and boundless energy, he's truly the awesomest kid i've ever known. even though he'll be bouncing on a variety of things later this afternoon with his friends (that's how kids get their party on these days) and i'll be stuck at work, i'm wishing him a birthday as cool as he is and another year filled with crazy-fun adventures. 

love you, kiddo.

mbm

how to be a good person 101

i came across this story a little while ago and it's completely breaking my heart. 

having made it through high school (albeit remarkably unscathed), it's unfathomable to me that a girl so young would take her own life. can things really be that bad when you're fifteen? apparently they can. 

i know teen suicides happens all too frequently and for a variety of reasons and it's always tragic. i just find Phoebe Prince's story especially troubling because she was seemingly relentlessly tortured by other girls at her school—via texting, Facebook, in the hallway. it continued even after they knew she had killed herself, in the form of nasty messages left on the message board of her internet memorial. and i just want to know—or maybe i don't—what goes on in these mean girls' minds. are they showing off for each other, yet secretly ashamed of how they behave? are they mistreated so badly at home that lashing out at innocents is the only way to ease the pain? is it possible they're just truly, to-their-cores malicious? whatever the reason, it's absolutely wretched. 

earlier this week i started re-reading a book i bought a couple years ago, You Can Heal Your Life. the author, Louise Hay, is a fervent believer in positive thinking and i was feeling the need for a refresher. despite some loopy language and a few new-agey ideas i don't fully subscribe to, i think the book is amazing. just reading it for 20 minutes on the subway eases my mind. i highly recommend it.

anyway, Hay mentions in the book all the ideas people carry around with them—mistaken, misguided and outdated beliefs about themselves, most of which are developed in the early years of a person's life. these ideas are propagated by parents, teachers, siblings, friends. and when you're that young, you believe everyone else knows better than you so you take everything to heart and the next thing you know, you're an adult who walks around thinking everything from i'm ugly to i'm stupid to i suck at softball to i always have to clean my dinner plate. such negative ideas become ingrained and then—if they're not corrected—are passed on. 

Hay writes in one of the chapters that she never understood why students are forced in school to memorize things like battle dates from hundreds of years ago yet are not taught basic, practical things like how to balance a checkbook, how to be a good parent, how to deal with emotions. maybe those are lofty subjects to throw at a middle- or high-schooler, but i like her thinking. and especially after reading about Phoebe Prince, i think educators should place equal emphasis on learning the usual things (science, history, spelling and math) and learning about the things that shape a person's character—like how to have empathy, how to be a better listener, how to develop integrity, the fact that it's always so much easier to be kind. 

yes, these are things that should fall under a parent's jurisdiction but let's be honest—many parents have less and less time to spend with their kids these days, let alone the mental energy and opportunity to teach them important life skills. if kids spend most of their time at school, why not just build it into the curriculum?

very few people can rattle off details about the Battle of Bunker Hill—hell, most people don't know how many continents there are—so it's not like we all need traditional schooling so damn badly. i'd rather live in a world where people aren't afraid to be nice to each other than with people who can name the capital of Belarus. 

i sincerely hope the Powers That Be—from school principals to the education czar—rethink some of our archaic ideas about a proper education. it's time to stop punishing bad behavior after it happens and make a serious, legitimate effort to influence good behavior from the start. because by the time kids start bullying other kids, it's too late. 

the loss of Phoebe Prince—and all the others who've been shown no mercy by their peers—cannot be in vain.

mbm

broke: a true story

in conjunction with the speech President Obama will give tonight, in which financial  matters will likely play a very large and looming role, i have a little story i'd like to share.

once upon a time there was a girl. she was 22 and had a new job, a new apartment—and a new credit card. her dad said it was important to build credit, now that she was out in the real world, and that buying even one CD a month (it was that long ago—CDs were the newest form of music available) and paying off the balance in full was an excellent way to start.

so that's what she did. very small purchases, every month—balance paid in full. this went on for an entire year. she was off to such a successful, responsible start, it's hard to believe what came next.

because she could no longer stand living in the suburbs and passing through the Port Authority each day (twice), she moved herself into the city. her salary had gone up only a minimal amount and she had no business paying the kind of rent she was now paying (to share a studio!) on the Upper East Side. but it was pretty much her only option at the time—at least it felt that way—and, hell, she was young. so she dove in.

it wasn't long before the walls started closing in on her. suddenly one whole paycheck was wiped out each month, simply to keep a roof over her head (and that was with a little help from her dad), which meant that soon she was using her credit card for a lot more than CDs.

not a good idea, of course, but the girl was in her early 20s and with a new boyfriend—not to mention living in Manhattan, a dream she'd had since she was little—she couldn't very well stay home all the time.

new clothes, manicures, gym membership, dinners out, books, DVDs, concert tickets, shoes—all of it went on the credit card. whatever cash was leftover after the rent check went to non-fun things like commuting costs, bills and groceries.

as the balance on the credit card increased, so did the weight on her shoulders. her magazine salary was paltry, no hope of rising anywhere near what she needed to get her balance down, and she was trapped. completely stuck in the cycle of spending without saving, buying without truly having the means. she felt guilt, shame, panic, dread. she was completely uninformed about APR rates and had not yet discovered Suze Orman. instead of asking for help and advice, she made minimum monthly payments and otherwise practiced avoidance.

two years later she finally fled Manhattan for the cheaper pastures of Brooklyn, but the damage was already done. six years later, she's still paying for the sins of her 20s. she's no longer living paycheck to paycheck—and has long-stopped abusing her credit cards—but the money she could be saving for things like a trip to Ireland, a house, the super 120s jacket and trousers she's dying for from J.Crew, is all going toward her debt.

and, quite frankly, it sucks the big dill.

the end*.

*for those of you out there just starting your grown-up lives—or those of you in high school or college who will be out in the real world before you know it—i hope you will remember this cautionary tale. if you can't afford it, don't buy it. if you can't afford it, don't rent it. the Port Authority is not that bad. (and don't ever get a job at a magazine.) 

favorite

work was busy today, plus it rained like 46 inches, it's monday and i'm exhausted. the post-in-progress i meant to finish tonight will have to wait until tomorrow. in the meantime, i had to post this. i've been poring over my wedding photos for three days. this one was taken at the end, just as the band was finishing "New York, New York." it basically sums up the whole day. (my insincere apologies for those of you who are sick of me blathering about it.)

photo by tyler boye

mbm

i'm with coco

i met Conan O'Brien twice. the first time (pictured below) was on my twenty-second birthday. i was a senior in college and Kerri and i had tickets to a taping of his show. we were devout fans of Late Night—and also both single and each secretly harboring a deep belief that we were a perfect match for Conan. we were wildly attracted to his totally awkward, self-deprecating ways—we knew no guys at school who were so adorably dorky—and i, of course,  was drawn to his tallness and pasty white skin. basically, there was no other place i'd rather spend my birthday that year than studio 6A at 30 rock.


bolstered by the fact that it was my birthday and i weighed thirty pounds less than i had a year earlier and that i actually wasn't failing any classes for a change, i decided to be bold. i forget how it happened exactly (hello, it was eleven years ago) but toward the end of his pre-show schtick with the audience, i asked Conan if he'd take a picture with me since it was my birthday. and, because he's Conan, he agreed. i was on cloud nine for days. 

he bears an unfortunate resemblance to Grandpa Munster here, but in person he was dreamy. 

the second time i met him was a year-and-a-half later, after a performance of The Vagina Monologues. Kerri was there for that, too—in fact, i nearly broke her hand when Conan sat down in front of us just before the play started. i think i watched him more than the actors on stage—especially during the part when the audience is encouraged to yell a word generally considered the worst thing you can call a vagina. (Conan refrained.) 


afterward, as we were waiting to meet the star of the play, Calista Flockhart (Ally McBeal at the time), Conan wandered out onto the sidewalk in front of the theater. again, this is many drunken-weekend-filled years ago so i forget the details exactly, but i think i wanted to pay Kerri back for the fact that she took the picture of Conan and me but never got one herself. so i said something like, "hey, Conan, will you take a picture with my friend?" i'm sure i babbled like an idiot to him, said something inappropriate or embarrassing, but he did take the picture and couldn't have been nicer or funnier. 


(in retrospect, i can't believe we didn't follow him when he left shortly thereafter. that seems like something Kerri and i definitely would have done. hmm. we really blew that one.)  


anyway, this crap NBC pulled is ludicrous, but i'm sure Conan will be better off, wherever he lands. i have my fingers crossed for New York. i really wouldn't mind bumping into him again someday.


mbm

zoom...

i had to stop for a minute on my walk to work this morning, as a truck backed into a loading bay, and the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes wafted over and transported me like a wormhole back in time about 29 years. 

i'm in my gram's garage on Hershey Road, with its oil-stained cement floor and crudely-built wooden shelves filled with my uncles' various junk—tools, motorcycle helmets, old games, baseball gloves, Frisbees, etc.

the late-afternoon sun is filtering through lush green leaves on the aging oak trees that line the yards and bow over the street, making the block feel like a safe, secret place, separate from the real world.

my cousin brad and i grab my uncle matt's skateboard and trek up the sidewalk—it feels like a serious hill to our little legs, though it's actually an extremely subtle incline. we reach the corner of Hershey and Lenox and arrange ourselves on the skateboard, seated. (it's nearly impossible now to imagine how we both fit on a two-foot skateboard, even as gangly pipsqueaks.) one of us sits in the front, cross-legged, the other kneels behind, sneakered toes dangling off the back of the board.

then one-two-three and we're off, rumbling down the old, cracked sidewalk, in the cool clean shade of the trees. we make it almost to Gram's driveway, veer into the grass and tumble off the skateboard, shrieking.

then we do it again. and again. and again.

i love how smells take me back, so vividly, to exact moments in time. i have similar visceral reactions when i smell freshly-cut lumber (i think of the summers when my dad would rearrange his brick patio and the big piles of sand he'd have handy in the driveway and how i played gleefully in those piles with my Matchbox cars) and french fries on cold nights (i think of Gram treating me to Happy Meals on the weekends i'd stay with her when i was little) and a certain shampoo i've been using lately at the gym (which takes me back two years to my vagabond summer when i crashed on the couches of friends and relatives and lugged around travel-size everything in my duffel).

anyway, it was nice this morning, for five minutes, to relive those times with my cousin, to remember exactly how thrilled i always was to take those skateboard rides, to be in such a magical place as my Gram's neighborhood—a little memory lane escapism on a nothing-special winter weekday morning.

mbm

don't leave me!

OK, i have to admit something embarrassing. i'm experiencing a weird post-wedding side effect and i'm sharing it here in the hopes that someone else has experienced it too.

i miss my people.

by "people" i mean vendors, though i hate using the word "vendors." it sounds so impersonal, so business-y. because my vendors were all really awesome—more like friends, in my delusional mind. so they're my people. and it's weird to me—you choose these individuals to play a huge part in pretty much the most amazing and important day of your life. there's months of planning, tons of consulting and e-mails and meetings, then the big day and afterward... nothing.

i should have seen this coming. i have two MO's when it comes to people: either i hang back and you never get to know me or i get attached to you and you'll never be rid of me. years could go by when we won't communicate and then i'll come across your e-mail address or phone number and wham—i'm all back in your life, wanting to catch up, hang out, be friends again. if i like you, i have the hardest time letting go. it will take me months to get over Matsui being an Angel now. maybe longer.

anyway, for some reason—almost two months later—it's hitting me that i'm done working with people i came to like very much. and i have separation anxiety.

the other day i was on the subway and passed the 34th Street/Herald Square stop and thought of Leslie, our dance instructor, because we always got off at that stop for our lessons, and i sort of missed her and the whole dance lesson thing. yeah, it was exhausting and sometimes stressful, but we all pretty much laughed the entire time and, hey, i know how to foxtrot now.

also, i'm plotting a trip to see our band when they play a gig at a bar in Philly in February. why? well, aside from the fact that they're awesome, i bonded a little with our bandleader, Nick, over the Yankees. that's sort of a bond for life.  

and then—then!—i got an e-mail this morning from my photographer saying he was putting the discs with our photos in the mail. and i felt a little sad. our photographer is awesome—cool guy, amazing talent, we all clicked right away (no pun intended). now the only other thing left to do is to choose images for the album, which we basically do on our own. no more hanging out with Tyler? sad!

basically, i want to add these people to my circle of friends so we can grab a drink whenever i'm in town. is that so crazy?

yeah, don't answer that.

i better resolve my attachment issues before we seriously start looking for houses. otherwise, those poor real estate agents will have no idea what hit them.

mbm


photo by Tyler Boye

unrequired reading

so there are lots of benefits to being married—they reveal themselves to me on an almost-daily basis.


yesterday, for example, it was the glorious realization that i don't have to read what i think of as "men 101" articles in women's magazines anymore. i was at the gym and the girl on the elliptical next to me had an issue of Glamour open to a story called "The Field Guide to Guys." i may have groaned out loud when i saw it. it was, from what i could spy, a breakdown of an array of guy stereotypes—the preppy guy, the outdoorsy guy, the workaholic guy, the hipster guy.


barf.


i used to read those stories all the time—what turns a guy on, makes a guy tick, what makes a guy happy, what a guy really wants, what a guy's really thinking, what a guy wants you to think he's thinking. even when i was not-single-but-not-married, i read them. just in case there was some invaluable nugget of information i hadn't stumbled across yet, some brilliant tidbit yet uncovered, the holy grail of understanding men.


right. they were all the same drivel, equally unhelpful but always with a newer, catchier, sneakily compelling coverline. i was suckered every time.


well not anymore! i cancelled my Glamour subscription a few months ago and feel relieved now when i see Cosmo, Self, Elle and all the others on the newsstand (O is my exception—i will never give up O). i think: ahh, a bunch of things i don't have to worry about anymore. thank the lord.


of course, it's not like being married comes with a handbook or is so easily deciphered all the time. i'm now susceptible to a new genre of articles. the first story i turned to in this month's Real Simple after the coverline grabbed me was "What Makes a Marriage Last?"


yep, still a sucker. just with a different last name.


mbm

"thanks from aruba"

in case i never mentioned it, i finally sent the Yankees hat to my friend Javier, our horseback-riding guide from Aruba. i found his card today when i was cleaning out my wallet and e-mailed him to see if he had received the package. his response is too great not to post:

Hello Cowgirl, hope you and your family are ok.
i received the hat two days ago,thanks for that especial gift,it was really nice of you to sent it!!!!!  you make me so happy,
i will send you a picture wearing the hat like the real yankees fan!!!!!!!!
 Thank you once again!!!
I will see you and your husband in november!!!!!
Take care..byee..
Go YANKEES!!!!!
Javier.

mbm

saturday night

i just watched Parenthood for the first time in, oh, a lot of years. (last time i saw it, i knew it wasn't an electric ear cleaner, but i didn't know exactly what it was.) anyway, i put it in my Netflix queue because it's turning into a TV series in another month or so, starring (among many others) Lauren Graham (who, if i haven't mentioned here before, is near the top of my list of People I Wish I Could Be or At Least Be Friends With—everyone has a list like that, right?). the show looks promising and even though it's just "inspired by" the movie, i thought i'd gear up by watching it  again. and this time i cried at the end. before the credits were over i texted Michael (who's stuck at the office) "i wanna have a baby."

ha ha ha ha ha!

i've been flying solo all day—someone called in sick so Michael is doing double-duty at work—and this is what happens. being left to my own devices this long is never good. the brain gets going and there's no one to stop it. 

for example, earlier, mostly out of boredom, i went to see Leap Year. predictably, i spent most of the movie trying to think of creative ways i could save money so we can get to Ireland this year (hmm—perhaps cutting back on $12.50 tickets to silly romantic comedies is a place to start?). then i was fantasizing about living in Ireland, living in lots of  different places (including that planet where the blue people live in Avatar). seems like a good option when you don't know where to live—live everywhere!

but then came Parenthood and i swear Michael is going to be—sort of is already—exactly like Gil Buckman. and so my thoughts were off in a very different direction. (holy jeez Steve Martin is a genius in that movie.) and so i'm sitting here on the couch with a looping brain on a Saturday night. questions: a million. answers: zip.

but i guess it's not a bad thing. it's like what Grandma said toward the end of the movie: 

"you know, when i was 19 grandpa took me on a rollercoaster. up, down, up, down. oh what a ride! i always wanted to go again. it was just interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited and so thrilled all together. some didn't like it. they went on the merry-go-round. that just goes around—nothing. i like the rollercoaster. you get more out of it." 

(a few seconds later, when Mary Steenburgen throws the Dopey ears at Steve Martin and says she loves the rollercoaster and thinks Grandma is brilliant? that's so me.) 

mbm 

beyoncé and the american people: some thoughts

is she happy?

i saw a quote from Beyoncé Knowles the other day in the elevator (which is equipped with a screen that broadcasts news, odd facts, weather reports and lots of ads so that riders have something to look at other than each other). in the quote, Beyoncé said:

"It's definitely time to take a break, to recharge my batteries. I'd like to take about six months and not go into the studio. I need to just live life, to be inspired by things again. I'm going to do random things. I want to go to restaurants, maybe take a class and see some movies and Broadway shows."

and i thought, what i wouldn’t give for six months off to recharge my batteries. nearly everyone i know could stand an extended break to gain some perspective, figure things out, rest, enjoy life, get inspired. 

because i really think that’s part of the problem, why people aren’t happier than they are, why certain things never get accomplished. most of us are so mired in the day-to-day it leaves little time to look at the big picture, to think about what we really want, what actually matters. to make anything truly amazing happen.

Michael and i watched part one of that PBS series, “This Emotional Life” on DVR last week. it was so interesting and sparked a long conversation between us about the meaning of life (just the thing you want to discuss right before bed). and i haven’t really been able to stop thinking about it since. 

on one hand, i don’t think there really is significant meaning to life. i think it’s pretty arbitrary. We’re born, we’re here, we die. the end. and if that’s truly the case, what we do with our time here isn’t, in the grand scheme of things, all that important. Meaning—if we don’t have the best job, awesomest clothes, biggest house, coolest gadgets, nicest hair, tightest glutes, etc—who cares?

On the other hand, since we are all here, for whatever reason, we should try to make the most of it. Meaning—if we don’t have the best job, awesomest clothes, biggest house, coolest gadgets, nicest hair, tightest glutes, etc—who cares? That’s not making the most of it, in my book. That’s distracting yourself from the real things.

i was in a work meeting yesterday and someone mentioned an article they’d read about all those job-interview clichés. for example: a potential employer sizes you up within the first 10 seconds of laying eyes on you and you spend the rest of the time either living up or living down to their assumptions about you. stuff like that. the discussion centered around how useful and great such clichés are. and it took a lot of self-control for me not to say, “that’s such bullshit!” why are we taught as kids not to judge a book by its cover if, 20 years later, that's exactly what we'll be trained to do?

this kind of stuff gets me fired up. people are so backwards! and it's no wonder. we're faced with a constant barrage of mixed messages sent by people, companies, organizations only concerned with themselves: here, you want a house? let us pay for all of it and more and then jack your mortgage rate up so high you lose everything, not the least of which is your self respect. take time to breathe and practice yoga or you'll die from stress—but only after you nail that promotion at work. do NOT accrue credit card debt but your kids MUST have that video game system! drink coffee—don't drink coffee! have a glass of wine—no! no wine! eggs are good—eggs are bad! no carbs—all carbs! sugar makes you fat, but Splenda gives you cancer. take this anti-depressant so you stop making everyone around you miserable but call your doctor if your face swells up or you grow an extra hand or your erection lasts longer than 24 hours.

COME. ON.

if i could have one superpower in the world, it would be the ability to give everyone perspective—permission to loosen their grip on the steering wheel just a bit. i'd tap that gal on the head with my magic wand and say, “hey, no one cares what kind of jeans you’re wearing. how about you go volunteer some time at an animal shelter?” then I'd tap that fella at his desk and say, “hey, you, you’re on your eighty-fifth hour of work this week—how about making some time for your kids?” i'd tap everyone in Penn Station and say, "stop shoving. there are seats on the train for everyone."

the first person i'd tap, though, would be myself. don’t want to sound all high-and-mighty here. because, trust me, i do not have it figured all out in the least. in fact, i think it’s nearly impossible to figure it out. that's my point, that's the source of my despair. none of us can take six months off (except for you, Beyoncé, i know you're reading) because we need those hours at work to keep our jobs to keep our paychecks coming to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads. the harder we work, the more money we have but the less time we have to enjoy it. the less we feel like we're living.

and i just feel panicked when my brain goes like this. even Beyoncé—who sings and dances and lives with Jay-Z for a living—gets burned out, feels uninspired, isn't completely fulfilled. what the hell does that mean for the rest of us?

i think it means that the American Dream needs some serious tweaking. 

mbm (<--- the next unibomber?)

ps: i meant to add to my Core Fusion entry that though the studio was lovely and well-lit, there was an odd smell the entire time. it seemed like perhaps someone wasn't wearing deodorant but i seriously doubted any of those women would forget something like deodorant. about halfway through i realized it was me—my pants smelled like onions, because i'd worn them when i was making chili on Saturday. just another layer of horror to my Core Fusion experience.

well that was humbling

i almost died Monday night. and the headline would've been: DEATH BY CORE FUSION.

the scene went something like this: as i gripped the ballet barre and tried to balance on my toes while keeping my thighs parallel to the floor, watching my legs tremble so severely you would've thought i was being Tasered, i pictured myself just crumbling to the floor, curling up into a ball and drifting off into oblivion.

at that moment, it seemed like a helluva better option than the torture i was enduring.

last spring, my friend and co-worker Nicole began taking classes at Exhale Spa, a combination spa/yoga studio/wellness center/torture camp. she talked about how hard the classes were, but was seeing pretty amazing results. over the summer i came across a sale on gilt.com—five sessions at Exhale for much less than they usually cost. i was in the thick of wedding planning then and feeling the need to center myself—via yoga, perhaps—so i purchased the sessions with the intention of taking the classes between then and the wedding.

alas, i was too stressed and crazy to make time for yoga. (isn't it ironic?) but, hey, that's what Januarys are for. so, finally, i reserved a spot in a class Monday night called Core Fusion—a little yoga, a little ballet, a little Pilates. i was a little wary but mostly intrigued. i was also entirely too confident in my fitness level.

the class was brutal.

for starters, Exhale is a wee bit intimidating. i'm used to my loud, smelly and florescent-lit New York Sports Club where ESPN and VH1 are on all the TVs and everyone wears ratty sweats and old tee shirts and it's all OK.

Exhale is dimly-lit, candle-scented and filled with skinny, well-coiffed women in clingy yoga pants and sports bras that lift and separate.

if Nicole hadn't been with me, i probably would have turned around and gone home.

still, even if i didn't look like i belonged, i felt like i at least would be able to keep up. the class couldn't be that far off from Total Body Conditioning, and no one is tougher than David.

about three minutes in, i realized how very wrong i was. the instructor had us doing planks and we weren't allowed to wear sneakers so my stupid gym socks had no traction on the carpet in the room (everyone else was wearing official Exhale socks that had little rubber bits on the bottom) and i was already sweating profusely.

the torture continued for 57 more minutes—the aforementioned barre work, some crazy ab stuff and yoga positions that reminded me why i've stayed away from yoga thus far. (everyone else was doing Happy Baby so elegantly; i felt like a baby elephant.)

needless to say, i've been walking funny ever since. it's incredibly humbling, especially since Nicole went back for the same class last night! i need serious support to sit down at my desk; i look like Frankenstein walking down the steps to the subway because it hurts to bend my legs. when Nicole asked me if i wanted to take another class with her, i would've laughed if my abs weren't so sore. 

i do have four sessions left on my gift certificate and i'm not one to shy away from a challenge. we'll see how much longer it takes for me to bounce back from this pain. perhaps i can gear up for round two next week. 

or maybe i'll use the rest of the gift certificate for a facial instead...

mbm

sweet surrender

as if i'm not trying to do enough already—research home-buying, cook more, be more diligent about writing, save money, chart my fertility—i decided the other day that i need to get control over a substance over which currently i seem to have none.

sugar.

i made this decision about noon on Saturday when, after sweating like a champ in my Total Body Conditioning class, i ate a whole wheat bagel with peanut butter for breakfast. doesn't sound so bad, right? there's protein in peanut butter and at least the bagel was whole wheat. problem was, i chased the bagel with about 25 caramel-filled Hershey's Kisses.

why? because i am a sugar addict.

at least that's what my research has shown so far. i can't remember the last time i let a day go by without some kind of dessert, after lunch or dinner—or usually both. just last Friday, when i went out with the girls for pizza and wine, i was the only one who ordered dessert—a cannoli, and i finished the whole damn thing by myself.

i was born with this wicked sweet tooth, i'm convinced. it was inherited from my father, who is almost worse than me. (he could write his own blog entry about his eating habits over the holidays—not that i'm in any position to judge, but he was having dessert after breakfast, strolling oh-so-casually by the cookie jar in the kitchen and oopsie! those oatmeal raisin cookies just leaped into his hand!) but the genetics excuse only gets me so far. it's time i come clean and take responsibility for my own sugar-junkie actions. 

they have a long and scandalous history.

between fifth and eighth grade, i would regularly throw out my brown-bag lunches and instead spend 35 cents on the Little Debbie snack cakes sold in the cafeteria. during high school, the majority of my lunches (all purchased in the cafeteria) consisted of a soft pretzel with mustard and at least one (but usually two) freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

in college? HA! the first three years are a blur of Friendly's sundae cups, gummy peaches, peanut butter M&M's and Entenmann's anything. even senior year, after i'd finally stepped on a scale and realized i had to stop the insanity, i still indulged in slices of chocolate cake available at—of all places—the on-campus Sbarro's.

but wait, there's more.

back when i worked at Seventeen, i went across the street to an upscale deli for lunch every day. i would get turkey, tomato and mustard on whole wheat (hold the cheese), a bag of baked chips—and a chocolate chip cookie the size of my face. at my next job i developed an addiction to triple-chocolate brownies sold at a nearby food market and had one after lunch at least three times a week. since i started my current job, my treats have run the gamut—Harvest Cookies from Pret to black &  white cookies from a gourmet market to whatever calls my name in the candy aisle at Duane Reade downstairs.

and let's not forget my brief, torrid affair with a strawberry cake last March.

seriously, it's a wonder i'm not 350 pounds.

still, i'm determined to beat my addiction. i've been able, in the past, to satisfy my sweets cravings with just a bit of dark chocolate (which has health benefits, dammit!). granted, those stretches lasted only days—soon enough i'd be jamming a dollar bill into the vending machine at work, trembling with anticipation as i watched the bag of Skittles or Peanut M&Ms (or, i admit, sometimes frosted Pop Tarts) drop down into the bin.

but this time i'm really determined. i found a reasonable plan of action on wholeliving.com and i'm going to give it a shot. i'm making progress already—instead of my usual three mini Peppermint Patties after lunch today, i only had two. (one of the first rules of breaking a sugar addiction is to cut back slowly; go cold turkey and one is liable to turn into a raging B-I-T-C-H—i would never do that to Michael!)

so we'll see how this goes. i'm thinking that if i don't try to get the situation under control now, someday those Little Debbie indulgences circa 1989 will come back to haunt me and i will be 350 pounds. and no amount of strawberry cake would ease that heartache.

mbm

my gram and i go way back...

a few days ago i started reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility. normally i wouldn't share that kind of information here—mostly because i know right now people like my mother, other family members and some friends are either gasping, squealing or yelling WHAT??!? at their computers. 

relax, folks. i'm just researching alternatives to the pill, since i'm fed up with consuming the added hormones. i want to know my options and this book is pretty much the best one out there. (and when it is time to add a face to our new little family, i'll be that much more informed and ready to roll.)

anyway. one of the author’s strongest beliefs is that women don’t know enough about their operating systems, so to speak. we basically act like squeamish, giggling 12-year olds anytime the subject of “down there” comes up and, unless a serious issue arises, our knowledge rarely goes beyond what we learned back then. it’s perfunctory at best.

she has a point.

so i’ve been learning a lot, enjoying the refresher course. and then today, on the bus ride back from visiting with my Gram, i read something that i know i knew in the recesses of my brain, but seeing it in print, especially today, sort of blew my mind.

since baby girls are born with all the eggs they’ll ever release (unlike boys who grow their stuff along the way), technically our maternal grandmothers carry us, too. translation: when Gram was pregnant with my mom, i was a teeny tiny egg inside my teeny tiny mother, who was inside my wonderful (not so teeny tiny at the time) Gram.

how cool is that?

yeah, OK, it technically wasn’t me in there. the egg from which i eventually sprouted needed the assist from my dad. but still—i read that bit just moments after i was once again contemplating how awesome it is to have the kind of relationship i do with my Gram: easy, funny, comforting, conspiratorial.

i always knew i had a lot of her in me. pretty neat to think she once had a bit of me in her, too.

mbm

match game

really?

a few friends have recently taken the plunge into e-harmony with varying amounts of trepidation. it's bringing up shudder-worthy memories of my experience on the site. (i'm thinking it's OK to talk about it now that i'm married.)

a couple summers ago, when i was momentarily flying solo and trying to figure out a lot , a lot, a lot of things, i was nudged, persuaded and encouraged to give e-harmony a shot. the commercials made me queasy (and i now hate that natalie cole song) but i signed up anyway, if only to appease the masses.

actually getting onto the site is a huge undertaking, as some of you may know. there are approximately six thousand questions you have to answer, about yourself and your beliefs and your interests and your habits, most in the form of a rating scale—i.e. do you agree with the following statement strongly, somewhat, not at all, etc.

after a while all the questions and all the options blur together on the screen and you have no idea who you are or what you want so there's little hope of conveying it coherently to any potential suitors. (it reminded me of those  career surveys they used to make us take in high school—as if at 15 we had any idea about real life and what we might be interested beyond snagging fifth period lunch and how to get our uniform skirts an inch or two shorter without getting in trouble.)

anyway, it took several hours, but i survived the process of putting myself on e-harmony. i also endured the rigmarole of communicating with potential matches—first comes multiple choice questions, then short answer, then the essay. then you can progress to e-mail and/or the phone.

i have to note that i forced myself through the entire process. it went against every instinct and gut feeling i had, but i thought i was just being a big chicken about moving on with my life, so i did what i could to keep the nausea at bay, dutifully logged in daily to answer and send questions and finally got myself to an actual date with an e-harmony match.

on paper, this fella seemed like my prince charming. he was an english lit professor at a small liberal arts college, he'd taken classes from and become friends with my favorite writer in the world, and his e-mails were witty and typo-less.

hours before the date i was feeling on the verge of a nervous breakdown. the whole scenario was just too nerve-wracking for me. but i got myself ready and drove myself to the restaurant where we were meeting and sat on the bench in the lobby waiting for him to arrive. my stomach flipped over every time the door opened.

finally he arrived, taller and cuter than his e-harmony pictures let on, and seemingly  more nervous than i was. so i let myself relax just a little bit. 

that initial meeting and saying hello in the lobby turned out to be the highlight of the date.

for the first 15 minutes, he sat across from me and memorized the menu. at least i  assumed that's what he did, because he didn't look up once. we were at a brewery but he ordered scotch on the rocks. while we waited for our food, he got to telling me that he'd recently been left by his fiancée, who decided he make enough money as a professor to support them. he was in the process of trying to sell back her engagement ring to the jeweler. i hmm'ed and nodded, being the good listener that i am. we tried to talk about books, but where i was reading Kate Atkins and Julia Glass and Alice Munro, his obsession was Nabokov. when he asked me what kind of stories i wrote, i felt as if i was being evaluated, or graded.

when the bill came, he looked at it, sucked in a sharp breath and said, "oooh. pricey."

i offered to pay, but he sucked it up. he invited me for a drink in a town about 25 minutes away. i agreed, but on the drive there (we were in separate cars) called my mom from my cell and told her that i was dying. "i could just peel away at this intersection and he'd never know!" i said. we both laughed and i said i'd just go for the stupid drink and be done.

we got lost on the way, and at one point he pulled into a dark, deserted parking lot and i almost threw up from the onset of acute fear. what if this guy was nuts? what if he'd planned this all along? i honestly started sweating and checked to make sure the door was locked in case he got out of his car. instead, he rolled down his window and apologized for missing a turn.

right.

we ended up at a little wine bar and continued the plodding, uber-serious conversation for a few more hours. i'm not kidding, at a few points my eyelids were so heavy i thought i might fall asleep right there at the table.

when it was finally time to go (bars close early in PA!) we walked to our cars and he gave me a hug goodbye with what felt like spaghetti arms but then suggested i come out to his college for a party the next weekend. he made me promise to text him when i got in and that was that.

i remember very clearly driving home and thinking only of Michael. it was such a crystal clear, aha moment for me. sometimes—all of the time?—the people who seem the most right for you wind up being totally wrong. and the people who seem to be as different from you as night is from day are actually pretty damn perfect.

i missed Michael so much on that drive home. for so long i'd focused on what wasn't working, i'd forgotten all the really, really good things. that night i thought of our dates in the early days, how goofy they were, how much we laughed, all the stupid things we did together and how much fun we had.  

"that's what i need," i said out loud to no one.

lucky for me, the universe agreed.

so despite the slightly dreadful date and all the futile hours i spent on that friggin' complicated website, i got something really great out of the experience. i told my friends who are currently in the e-harmony trenches that even if they don't wind up meeting their everlasting love online, it could very well help them zero in on who and what they don't want. which i'm pretty sure is a necessary step to finally finding who and what you do want.

mbm

say cheese

i decided to follow through on one of my resolutions (so far i'm experiencing about a 50 percent overall success rate) start a new blog related to photography. it's nothing splashy or, as of yet, especially compelling (way to sell it, meg!) but i'm having fun with it and thought i'd spread the word. 

here's the premise: i'm taking one photo a day and posting it to the site. an idea no one has ever had before! but, hey, it's a work-in-progress and once the deep freeze resides i might actually be able to take some pretty cool pictures. (side note: yesterday morning on the F train this woman had a pup in a puffer coat. it was the funniest, cutest thing i've seen in a while. i was trying to come up with a way to inconspicuously snap a photo with my iPhone, but before i devised a plan she got off the train. ahh, the trials of a novice photographer.)

anyway, check it out if you feel so inclined. and thanks for your continued interest in my silly little life. 

mbm