Astoria Mama

Don't Jinx It

2010-01-05T17:18:00.000-08:00

My avid readers will know that I am not fond of New Years Eve, or any regimented form of fun which will make my upcoming birthday a bit blurgh. However, I think finally I can articulate one of the single most annoying things about New Years Eve. It's the constant barrage of comments like "Lets hope its the best year ever!" and my least favorite and most lazy magazine cover story ever "New Year New You".

Why don't you go and fuck yourself? No, really, why don't you? The best year ever? Seriously? The woman who "waited" on me in Starbucks this morning was so seething with hatred for every single person standing in the line, including most lovable me, that really 2010 is all but shot in terms of "best year ever" for me. I know, its only day 5 but she was just plain rude.

"New Year New You"? Here's the new me - I will no longer be helping any blind people cross streets/board trains/find platforms. Sorry. I'm sure there are really a lot of nice blind people but so far any of the ones I've attempted to help in New York City have been aggressive and best and Blackberry thieves at worst. Yup, took my blackberry straight out my bag! So while my ass stays the same size, my attitude is certainly shaping up to be the worst its been in a long time.

New Year New Me - believe it punk.

Tongue

2010-01-03T17:27:00.000-08:00

As depressed as I was (and probably always will be) over New Years eve, I managed to pull myself up by my bootstraps and head out for dinner with the girls. We've given ourselves the moniker "The Real Housewives of Astoria", but really they would NEVER make a show about us because we discuss how to get great deals at Disney World and why our kids 3rd grade teacher makes us use loose leaf. Not exactly riveting tv viewing.

I forgot about my depression basically as soon as I knew I was being picked up. My husband waved good bye out of the window ("Bye Dad, don't wait up" I yelled). And that was it. We ate, drank and laughed for 3 hours straight. I have been so blessed in my life by the most wonderful women. I have friends that I have known for about a million years and that I will be friends with until the day I die. And I have friends that I have known for a much shorter period of time, but of which I have no doubt will be with me until the day I die. I know these are women who will support me, laugh with me, cry with me, and always tell me when my ass looks too big in something. Basically all the corny crap that you'd like to think you are too cynical and long in the tooth to care about, but suddenly realize is all that matters.

Got to go back to work tomorrow. But so do we all. The kids go back to school tomorrow. But all our kids do. I love it. A misery that becomes a joy. Because it is shared. Because we have each other.

I'm glad New Years is over. And I'm so excited for all the fun I will have with darling friends both near and far this year.

"Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends"

PS - Why is this post called tongue? Oh, they know. They know.

I Hate New Years Eve

2010-01-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to remember a time when I enjoyed New Years Eve. I can't. For as long as I can recall I have had an almost pathological aversion to any kind of regimented fun. And New Years Eve has to be the top of the list when it comes to regimented fun . I'm a fly by the seat of my pants gal as you all know. I thrive on spontinaity. It's one of the things that I miss the most about my pre K (pre kids) life. You go out for a "quick" drink. You come home 2 months later with a dual citizenship and a spaniel puppy named Corky. That my friends, is fun. Fun sans frontiers.

Being told repeatedly that this year is going to be "the best ever", watching prepubescents snogging FULL TONGUE in front of a TV camera, and hearing all those damn "we had a tough year but somehow we made it" stories. Oh. My. God. Husband has to hide all sharp objects and buy extra Clos du Bois.

It starts at around 9:30. That's when people start wondering what the time is. "How long do we have?". Until what exactly? Until you can wow a whole room with your math prowess (you can count down as well as up!). Stop asking me what the bloody time is!

New Years Day, while everybody else nurses their hangovers, I work hard to crawl out of the deep depression that I have been sucked into by repeated conversations about weight loss, smoking, drinking, meat, chocolate, pork pies. Really? That's what the New Year means to you? Planning an entire year with no pleasure whatsoever?

Thankfully its over now for another year. I can now get back to my jolly happy go lucky self! And look forward to a great night out with some girlfriends. With NO PRESSURE at all to have fun, safe in the knowledge that with such a great group of ladies, how could I not? Cheers!

Happy New Year

2009-12-31T15:08:00.000-08:00

So intent am I to keep my new year resolution to write every day, that I'm actually starting the day before I'm really supposed to. Gold star, top of the class for me. How can I possibly write every day? Now I've made such a huge and sweeping proclamation on Facebook (is there anything more public?), I'm going to have to figure it out. Right now the way I have managed it is to pretend that I'm playing music on iTunes, but really I've just stuck the Arctic Monkeys on SUPER LOUD so that even if a small child needed any sort of aid at all, was trapped under anything heavy, or being carried out of our apartment by a mutant android, I wouldn't hear it because a) I'm writing (a very noble cause) and b) the Arctic Monkeys are really loud, even when you don't turn the volume up to very loud.

So this will be my method for a while. Pretending I'm doing something else, so nobody suspects that I'm secretly in the corner blasting music and chasing my dream.

Happy New Year everybody. Feels good to be back.

I'm Coming Out (I Want The World To Know)

2009-10-03T17:15:00.001-07:00

Well, not coming out. But coming back. Very soon. As soon as I can. I promise. It's been too long. I'm ashamed of how long its been. And now that my husband is being approached by the New York Times, I feel that its only appropriate that I start being really competitive and a big bitch and try to steal his thunder. Hello? It's about ME!

So I'm back. Or will be. Shortly. I've missed you all so much.

Watch this space.

I'm No John Updike but.....

2009-01-30T08:59:00.000-08:00

....this is what I was trying to say about books and reading the other day. John Updike of course said it much better than I ever could.

http://www.salon.com/08/features/updike2.html

"When I was a boy, the bestselling books were often the books that were on your piano teacher's shelf. I mean, Steinbeck, Hemingway, some Faulkner. Faulkner actually had, considering how hard he is to read and how drastic the experiments are, quite a middle-class readership. But certainly someone like Steinbeck was a bestseller as well as a Nobel Prize-winning author of high intent. You don't feel that now. I don't feel that we have the merger of serious and pop -- it's gone, dissolving. Tastes have coarsened. People read less, they're less comfortable with the written word. They're less comfortable with novels. They don't have a backward frame of reference that would enable them to appreciate things like irony and allusions. It's sad. It's momentarily uphill, I would say.
And who's to blame? Well, everything's to blame. Movies are to blame, for stealing a lot of the novel's thunder. Why read a novel when in two hours you can just go passively sit and be dazzled and amazed and terrified? Television is to blame, especially because it's come into the home. It's brought the fascination of the flickering image right into the house; like turning on a faucet, you can have it whenever you want. I was a movie addict, but you could only see so many movies in the course of a week. I still had a lot of time to read, and so did other people. But I think television would take all your day if you let it. Now we have these cultural developments on the Internet, and online, and the computer offering itself as a cultural tool, as a tool of distributing not just information but arts -- and who knows what inroads will be made there into the world of the book. "

Fuck Gwyneth Paltrow

2009-01-28T10:20:00.000-08:00

I hear that Gwyneth has a new website, where she regales us mere peons with advice on where to buy the best qunioa or how relaxed she feels chilling on her sofa in Balenciaga.

Listen love. Life is tough enough with having the likes of YOU guilt us out because we don't feed our kids exclusively on fucking organic, born free, college educated grilled salmon. I really hate celebrities sometimes. It's so easy for them. Oh wait, no its not. She's a 'WORKING MOM' too you know. It's hard for her. Why, just the other day one of the nannies asked for the day off. The horror! Poor Moses and Apple were left alone with the other three.

OK, I admit that I am beating up on Gwyneth too much, because this diatribe is really intended for all those self-righteous celebrities who like to tell us how they live their lives. Here's how I live my life; I wake up, I suck it in, I suck it up, I head to a job that sucks my will to live, I go home and sometimes to spice things up I steal from Sephora. Ok, there's lots of wonderful stuff in my life, but you don't see me starting a fucking website about it and shoving it down peoples throats. Well, apart from this one. But you know what I mean.

I used to like GP. Then she started hanging out with Madonna. And lets face it, that's the kiss of death for most people. Now she dresses like she's on her way to a lesbian S & M club to pick the kids up from school, and works out for 3 hours a day. The best thing you can say about Gwyneth is that she's married to Chris Martin, and he's great. I can't reconcile that somebody like him has any interest in hanging out with people like his wife or Madonna. I'm sure it won't be long before he's caught in a McDonalds somewhere with a woman wearing clothes from the Gap. Poor guy.

Don't get me wrong. I'm really a happy sunny person. But I'm no Rachel Ray. And I think that everybody is very pleased about that.

Remember books?

2009-01-13T09:36:00.000-08:00

I had a thorough clean out in my apartment after christmas to make room for all the newly acquired shit that I have to accommodate. Amongst the boxes I took to my local Salvation Army was a box of books, mostly cookery, some kids and a few novels. I was told by the surly volunteer at the door that "we don't take books". "Why not?" I ventured bravely (she was very surly and I ran the risk of having my face smashed in). "Because they don't sell". I told her plainly that this was the SADDEST thing I had ever heard. Ever.

What the hell is happening here? Virgin Megastore in Times Square has closed down. Nobody buys CDs anymore. Everything is downloaded, its all a bloody MP3 now. That's sad. No more albums. No more album art. No more checking lyrics in the sleeve. Is he saying Oranges are the finest fruit? Oh, aren't you just fine without me. See! How can you check that stuff without an album sleeve? It's not the death of music, its the death of CDs.

I cannot fathom the demise of books, but I can almost feel it in my water. Amazon Kindle is making a push and when I tried to get Cider with Rosie from the New York Public Library I was told that I could download it! What? I don't want to download it. I want to feel a book in my hand, I want to smell the pages, I want to turn the pages. I want to READ A BOOK!

Reading is vital for all of us. This is not a socio-economic thing I'm talking about. It isn't just rich people who should read. It's everybody. Even people who buy second hand books at the Salvation Army. In fact, I'm pissed at the Salvation Army. Given our current economic climate, its unsurprising that book sales in this country are down a whopping 20% according the the American Association of Publishers. We need second hand books. We need the library. We need as many sources as possible so that people can KEEP READING. A country spiralling out of fiscal control is no excuse.

C.S. Lewis so rightly said "We read to know we are not alone". Will we, as a race, just implode as we become more and more isolated from one another? I feel like reading has become this nice little hobby that only certain types of people can do. When Sarah Palin was asked what she read she couldn't answer. And for a lot of people this was ok. "Hey, we're not looking for a bookworm, we just want to make sure that nobody can ever have an abortion". It's totally shocking and unacceptable to me. I dislike Sarah Palin for so many reasons, but mostly because she represents this growing faction that bemoans "intellectual left wingers" like they're the enemy. For the last eight years we've had a president who is such a dimwit he's had to make words up to fill in the blanks where an actual word might go, had he known which one was available to him. I wonder, what was the last book he read? As Christopher Hitchens pointed out, we should be very suspicious of anybody who is so utterly and openly contemptuous of the educated and the cultured, and whose only visit to the library each year is to weed out books that are deemed "against God"or that propagate "ungodly" behavior.

Obviously I'm upset that books aren't selling at my local charity shop, or anywhere else for that matter. So I want to impart that books are the most wonderful things and that many of them have changed me and my life always for the better. As my daughter starts her new book club, a new circle of book lovers is born. Keep reading. "You don't put your life into books. You find it there."*

* Alan Bennet: The Uncommon Reader

Last Published December 1???????

2009-01-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

Now its January 9th. So its been over a month since I wrote anything on my blog. My blog has become, like the gym, just one more thing to feel excruciatingly guiltly for neglecting horribly. If this blog were my child, I wouldn't be allowed it anymore. I'd be right up there with Nixmarry Brown's mother for evilness. Poor poor blog. All it ever wanted was to be written. Nurtured. Made into a book. The simple dreams of a growing blog.

I'm doing my best. Well, ok, I'm not doing my best, I'm doing the sort of absolute minimum I can get away with. And that's just not good enough for my Capricorn high achieving temperament. So here and now I promise to write much much more. When I can. When time permits. Whenever possible.

I have a fan base. It is two people. Three if you include my husband. I could push it to four but my mother doesn't have much time either these days. My goal is to have a readership of ten by April. Is this possible? I'll report back to you dear reader (s) and let you know.

Please Mind The Jumper

2008-12-01T17:14:00.000-08:00

Suicide is selfish. Isn't that what they say? You take your own life without the slightest regard for the aftermath of regret, resentment, guilt and sadness that your actions have inflicted on those left behind. I've attempted suicide. Well, ok, that's a bit strong. I went out one night and managed to inhale an entire bottle of Frangelica. It felt a lot like a suicide attempt. It is the very thought of the messy aftermath that would always stop me in my tracks.

Nowadays though, I am stopped in my tracks. Literally. By selfish suiciders who can't take it anymore, and jump in front of a subway train. During rush hour. Hello? I don't want to come off as cold here but really? 8.30am? That's the hour that you deemed just right for your moment of judgement? So not after 10am then, when I'm already in the office and you could just quietly do your deed and thousands of commuters need not be affected?

I know what you are thinking. What a cold hearted bitch. And yes, you are right. I am. But I haven't always been. I became this way from riding the New York City subway. Because if riding the New York City Subway teaches you only one thing it is this - it is every man for himself. There is no room for manners, no room for "oh please, after you" on the MTA. It is do or die. Survival of the fittest. Get your elbows out and your friggin' backpack off your back. Breathe in and get to know the 400 pound guy from Co-op City, he's gonna be your BFF for the next two stops.

It's of course unbearably sad to think that somebody is so depressed, and feels like they have no choice at all but to throw themselves in front of a moving train. Plainly that is just awful. But look, we all feel suicidal on the subway at 8.30, especially when somebody jumps and fucks up your commute. Just wait until after the rush hour. Who knows? You may feel a whole lot better then too.

Thought for the Day

2008-11-06T11:50:00.001-08:00

If you are so concerned with hygience and need a very thin piece of paper between your ass and the toilet seat when you go to the bathroom, then why don't you dispose of it afterwards? I can't fathom the mentality of somebody who has this "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" thing going on and can't even fucking piss without making sure that a sterile toilet seat cover is safely wedged between her and the bog.

But then you lose yourself don't you? Then you become all "crack ho mom of six - who gives a shit?" and leave it there for somebody else to find. Newsflash: you love your ass so much you wouldn't dare to put it on a strange toilet seat. But I don't ok, so I don't need the remnants of whatever you did in the stall before me, still in there when I go in.

Explain that to me. I don't get it. But before you explain it to me, just pick that shit up and flush it or dispose of it or whatever the hell you want with it, but stop leaving it on the toilet seat for people like me to find.

Your self appointed Royal Ass, is a total pain in MY ass.

Does My Ass Look Fat In this Ass?

2008-11-05T11:18:00.000-08:00

Are you a woman who is overcoming depression by taking prescribed medication? I can recommend several therapies that don’t require any drugs that can really help. Exercise, beautiful scenery, being at one with nature, being on the receiving end of a random act of kindness. But I cannot fathom how shopping for a new pair of jeans will do anything other than send you spiraling back down into that deep dark chasm from which you have spent months climbing, often with only the use of your own nails as leverage.

I mention this because as I lay about the other night eating bon bons in my fluffly slippers, watching TV, there was an ad for Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.

Yes, it probably can. But not shopping for a pair of fucking skinny jeans. First we see this wretched looking woman, a single tear falls slowly from her tired looking eye, the strain of her melancholy clearly visible in the bags under her eyes and the faraway look of helplessness on her face. THEN she takes Cymbalta. Et voila! She’s in a boutique smiling as she picks out a pair of jeans. Damn! If that’s what happens after you take Cymbalta we should all bloody well be on it!

Last time I went shopping for a pair of jeans was about 6 months after the birth of my second daughter. I got them from a shop where the sizing is really big, so if anybody asks I can say “my jeans are a size 4” and I make a point of this because if you check the label they are a size 4. But in an actual proper place, they are probably a 6. Alright, an 8. But they are not a 10 ok, so back off. Plus I have 3 kids!!! Oh, sorry, I thought you were attacking me and judging me and thinking how fat my ass was. It’s not by the way. Just check my jeans.

Anyway, my point is this. Don’t try and get me to think that the idea of happiness and life after depression is buying jeans. It isn’t. In fact for most women nothing is more fear inducingly depressing than buying jeans.

Oh wow. Now I get it. Sneaky. Buy the jeans. Get depressed. Take Cymbalta.

Aren’t pharmaceutical marketers just so clever!

Sweet Memories ( or any would be fine)

2008-10-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

I used to have a razor sharp memory. I mean I could remember licence plate numbers from cars that my parents drove when I was growing up. And I could remember important stuff too like when I had to be somewhere, or even where I had to be.

My memory is shot. It's shit. It's almost entirely non existent. Of little consolation is the medically proven fact that HcG, the pregnancy hormone that is responsible for almost every intolerably awful thing that can happen to you when you are pregnant, has worked its magic again. So just when you thought the worst thing about HcG was not being able to go more than 7 minutes without peeing, or apres birth when levels of this hormone dip so low you are convinced that you will never enjoy sex again (or even have it, let alone enjoy it), it reminds you who is in charge once more.

I say consolation because of course the good news is that I don't have early onset althzeimers. My sister can stop calling me Iris, and my husband can stop plotting his week long Madden tournaments thinking that I'll be too "out of it" to understand that these aren't my family but are in fact a bunch of over-age football obsessed morons high on Pabst and cheese curds.

So it isn't my fault. It's the hormones fault. But that just doesn't translate into the real world, where, as a wife, mom of three and professional I have to remember countless things all the time. I've tried lots of different ways to remember stuff too. Outlook, my blackberry, a calendar on the kitchen wall, a calendar on my home computer, a paper diary in my bag. All to no avail. I've written lists (grocery, to do, kids names, best looking guys in High School Musical in desending order) but its pointless. I don't remember where the lists are, or what I was writing it for, or frankly what the point of anything is. I just can't remember.

I do however, find it a fascinating quirk of the human brain, that your memory can suddenly come alive at the most useless of times. Remembering that your daughter has a bake sale as you leave the house on the morning of the bake sale is no good to anybody. In fact, I'd rather not be reminded of that at all. Remembering that you didn't call your mother in law back to tell her what size feet your 3 year old has is probably something you should recall AFTER your husband has finished kissing your neck and nibbling your ear. (You're going to have to trust me on this one - mood killer).

So what am I meant to do? I'm open to suggestions, but short of walking around like Alan Alda in "Hannah and Her Sisters" recording everything into a mini tape recorder ("Idea for movie.......") I'm at a loss. I may have had flashes of genius to solve this problem, but I can't remember any of them anyway. Hell, this was meant to be a blog about something really important. I just forgot what that thing was.

I Hate NY

2008-10-16T10:51:00.000-07:00

No, its not a typo. I used to "heart" NY. Now I hate NY. And although I know that New York has changed considerably since I first moved here, I have to admit that it is I who has changed a whole lot more.

The biggest change is that I now have children, three of them to be exact. So all of those things that I used to love about New York - the theater, late night movies, great dive bars, fabulous gay bars, trashy 80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars, art galleries - yes, all of those things are now but a distant memory.

I am also (shriek with horror) more than ten years older than I was when I first moved here. So I can scratch the "80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars" off the list anyway (loud, crude, allergy to rubber and intolerance for bitchy queens).

I've noticed lately how rude the people are. Ok, I didn't just notice that. New York is famous the world over for its abundance of impatient and hostile residents. I enjoy the brusque manner of the counter guys at Katz's Deli as much as the next person. What I can't stand is that there are so many sodding young people here. Where the fuck did they come from? And what do they expect to find here? As I have learned the sidewalks are not paved with movie deals, publishing deals or any other bloody deal for that matter.

Oh my God. I have just realized something. I'M GETTING OLD. It's happening. I can't stand young people. They get on my nerves with their boundless energy for gay bars, museums, art galleries and late night movies. And they are really annoying me with all their childlessness and freedom. So this is why people move to Westchester! It's not for the great school system (although I hear its spiffy). It's so that we don't have to live with the daily reminder that our lives did not pan out as we had once hoped, and that with children in tow for the next 18 years, its going to be pretty damn close to impossible to get our lives back on track!

These young people all have age appropriate airs of entitlement and are just oozing with ambition, ambition that they still have time and energy to fulfill. And its turning me into a curmudgeonly old bird. Just like a REAL New Yorker.

Hey! Fuck you! I'm walking here!

Now you see me (Now you don't)

2008-10-04T17:15:00.000-07:00

Kids are really fast. No joke. You might be childless and reading this (in which case, can I refer you to some other websites), and you're thinking "They can't be that fast, they only have tiny weeny little legs". Think again my friend. Those legs are short and stumpy, but when in motion, freakishly quick. I mean circus sideshow fast.

Case History One (in a series of over four thousand instances of close calls): Rite Aid, Hair Care aisle. Holding my then three year old by the hand. Sure John Frieda is a little more expensive, but I bet its good. Still holding child's hand. Where is the conditioner that goes with it? Still holding child's hand. Why can't I ever just find stuff and get the hell out of a store? Why does everything take so damn long? CHILD GONE. That fast. Gone. Not in this aisle, or the next aisle. Now I am that mom that I said I would NEVER be (you know, the one you have in your head before you actually become one), screaming at the top of my lungs but still trying to appear calm and in control.

I have always been lucky. These situations have ended well for me. In that case my daughter was pulling boxes of Trojans and Durex off a display near the pharmacy. I got lucky. Again.

Tonight, coming home from an event at my daughters school, a little boy cycled passed us saying 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy". I thought that was vaguely odd, but nothing else. Two minutes later a man ran passed us yelling and crying "Have you seen a boy on a bike?". I felt like shit that I hadn't stopped the boy and said "Where's your Daddy?". I really hope that situation ended well. The boy was cycling towards a main road. And I didn't stop him. What is wrong with me? I just didn't want to interfere with a little kid I guess.

It takes a village to raise a family. I learned a really important lesson tonight. Stick your nose into peoples business. The worst that could happen is that somebody will tell you to stay the fuck out of their lives. From now on I'm going to risk that. I would really want somebody to do the same for me.

I really hope that little boy found his Daddy.

What's Up With My Boy?

2008-09-23T17:44:00.000-07:00

Somebody asked me today; "What's up with your boy?"

This could be anybody. I have many "boys" in my life. My husband? Nobody refers to him as "my boy". I certainly haven't since the day we had a joint bank account and matching Costco cards.

Aaron Rodgers? But he did great. And I don't consider him "my boy" yet. He has to earn that. Clearly he's on the road to "my boy" status, but with the Cowboys loss still so raw, he ain't "my boy".

Brett Favre? He was "my boy" and everybody knew it. He was "my boy" in EVERY sense of the word. Ok. well, not every sense of the word, but close enough. And surely if it is real in my imagination, its real enough? Like an ex-boyfriend who gets fat and rejected by everybody he hits on, this week I deny that Brett is "my boy". Shoulda stayed on the farm.

So what's up with my boy? OH, THAT BOY! George Michael. Now HE is my boy! What? He got arrested in a mens room? Again? Hey, fuck you, its the FIRST time this year, back off. And what's up with my boy? He's a pop star! He's a gay pop star! He is absolutely expected to get arrested in mens rooms. And if he doesn't have any crack on him at the time, then I sure as shit want to know why.

What? You're appalled? Listen, I want my pre-K teachers to be crack free and spend as little time as humanly possible trying to get "intimate" in a park restroom. But my 80's icons? Go crazy! Have unprotected sex while high on crack cocaine til the cows come home. Please. As Bill Hicks once commented on a presidential nod to The New Kids on The Block "Hey Government approved rock and roll, we're partying now!"

When I saw George Michael in Dallas he was amazing and the crowd just lapped it up. I have never been at a concert with more atmosphere before in my life. And feeding off that love, at one point right in the moment he said "Do you forgive me?". Huh? For what? Maybe its me, but I have never ever felt that he is somebody who needs forgiveness from me or anybody else. Even Kenny, his main squeeze who tolerates all this stuff ,doesn't have that power. He is who he is, and everybody loves him just the same.

So in answer to your question "what's up with your boy?", nothing. Absolutely nothing. He is perfection on a stick. Well, on crack and on a stick.

It's All Going To Shit Today

2008-08-15T18:30:00.000-07:00

Good days. Bad days. That's the way it goes. Well, its easy to say that. It's another to mean it. Especially when you are trying to raise a young family. It's Friday. It's the end of the week. We're all exhausted. My three year old has been, and remains, very poorly. My seven year old is already bored senseless by the Summer holidays and the lack of contact with other seven year olds that are obsessed with Zac Ephron and my seven month old is on the verge of becoming a crawling machine. I just saw a commercial on TV for The Olive Garden and I have been struck by how little my family resembles the one enjoying their pasta and breadstick for $6.99.

I'm an intelligent, forward thinking, open minded young(ish) woman. And yet, in my weakest moments I feel ashamed that I haven't created more of those bullshit "family" moments that are continuously sold to us in the media. They are timed perfectly, at the very moment when mommy and daddy will be at their weakest. After 830pm when, after lengthy battles, the kids are finally in bed and we get to flop down on the sofa and grunt at each other with a glass of wine in our hands, and pretend we are enjoying quality time, instead we get ridiculed by these images of the perfect family and they make me feel horrible and inadequate. Which I understand is the whole point. Go to Olive Garden and you too can be a great parent! How can a commercial for The Olive Garden have such an effect on me. I mean, its not even a good restaurant for christ sake!

In TV land a great family tradition is sharing crummy food. In Real Nagler land, a great family tradition is shouting "get your hand out of your diaper!" and "honey, not that cup" and "in a minute, let me deal with the baby" all at the same time while yelling down the phone that I don't want to give any more money to the Obama campaign (every night people!). It wasn't supposed to be this way. I thought I would be swaddling my new baby in soft pink cashmere and she would coo contentedly in my arms, while my next baby tickled her feet and giggled and my eldest child would be cooking gourmet meals and cleaning the house (just kidding). The reality of three children has been quite different to anything we ever imagined. If you think that having one kid reveals how little you knew about anything, try having three. It's beyond crazy!

It's so crazy that today it is going to shit. They all sleep soundly and happily in their beds right now, and I sob silently over a bloody Olive Garden commercial and wonder why I'm not more like the nineteen year old woman dressed like a forty year old mother, with an abundance of patience when 20 liters of fruit juice is strewn across the floor. By the way, while still holding down a very busy full time job. It's just one of those days, and I'm glad its over. I can hit the sack, sleep it off, and try again tomorrow. One of the greatest gifts that we can all enjoy. The chance to start anew.

How am I going to make this work?

Free Brett Favre

2008-08-09T17:59:00.001-07:00

I have a new lease on life today. Gone are my tears and overwhelming feelings of hopelessness, betrayal and resentment over Brett's trade to the Jets. I'm British for God's sake. When we were huddling underground in train depots did we give up? When we have to make one sausage last a month, did we give up? When we had to fashion our carpets into clothing for an entire decade, did we give up? NO, WE JOLLY WELL DID NOT!

We joined forces. We borrowed curtains from neighbours (yes, the English spelling) and we made a bloody decent outfit. Even if it was grey. Or gray. Up until now my MO has been to pretend that this just isn't happening, and to set fire to anybody I see wearing a Jets shirt with "Favre" on the back. (It's not a Favre jersey. A Favre jersey is from GREEN BAY). But now that I've seen the press conferences I see it all so clearly. He needs me. He needs US. We must free him from this hell. He wanted to play football for Green Bay. And those treachorous bastards traded him to the New York Jets (the football equivalent of chopping off your head). Hold tight Brett, we'll be right there!

In case you don't quite comprehend the enormity of this trade let me offer you some perspective. This is like having Tom Hanks teach a drama program at Summer camp in the Poconos. This is like having Steve Schwarzman work the counter at Commerce Bank. This is like having Dustin Hoffman dressed as a turkey outside a butchers shop in a mall at Christmas. In essence, this is WRONG. But don't despair my green and gold loving friends. We can overcome.

First of all, pretend it isn't happening. It's the Jets, so really who cares about them? We'll be glued to our Packer games, Aaron Rodgers doing extremely well and not disappointing at all. Before you know it the Packers will be in the playoffs, and then the Superbowl, and then the season will be over, and Brett will be back home (where he should have been all year) and then we won't have to pretend that he's dead to us anymore. We can go back to reminiscing on all the good times we had with our original QB1. We can pretend it never happened. And the Jets and their fans can spend the rest of their lives with their mouths wide open in AWE at the greatness that momentarily touched their lives.

Oh Brett. If only.............

Oh Brett

2008-08-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

Throughout my mostly sleepless night I knew exactly how I was going to write this blog. I had so much to say. I did, after all, have two very symbolic (albeit short) dreams. The first involved a large snake, which in dreams according to hippies** everywhere, signifies deception. I feel deceived by this whole sorry affair and the way the Packers organization dumped Brett like a hot potato. The second involved the contents of my wallet being stolen, the wallet being the Green Bay Packers and the contents, “the heart” if you will, being Brett Favre.

I’m surprised by how hard I have taken Brett’s retirement, and how saddened I’ve become by the subsequent fall out of his return. I guess you don’t know how much you really love something until it’s gone. And like a lover who has been replaced by a recovering crack addict with four kids by four different fathers, I feel a bit insulted by the trade to the Jets. I mean, the Jets????? Of course, if you are a Jets fan you are going to be thrilled. You might actually win a game or two this season. But I’m not happy. Brett is a Packer. He’s not a Jet. Well, on paper he’s a Jet. And in September at Meadowlands he’ll be a Jet, but to me at least, he’ll ALWAYS be a Packer.

I’m also surprised by my husband’s lack of emotion to the situation. It was, after all, him that introduced me to the Packers and nurtured my deep love for the game and all things green and gold. Ten years ago I thought an interception was something that only happened in movies like “Top Gun”. He keeps talking about the future of the Packers and how he’s going to wear his Rodgers jersey and how he is 100% behind Rodgers and all that sort of grown up, mature totally objective and together stuff. I realize that if we were to ever break up he would be very “Demi and Bruce” whereas I’m much more “Kim and Alec”.

So that’s it. This is how the story ends. Along with so many Packer fans, who have wondered for so long, the guessing game is over. Like any break up, I ask myself over and over again “how did we get here?” and I know that there are answers to that question, namely Brett’s decision to retire. And the speed with which the organization moved on. But Brett’s moved on too and so must I.

But like any painful break up, I can only remember the good times. And there were many.

** Please don’t comment on how you are not a hippy even though you believe in the interpretation of dreams. That is after all one of the defining characteristics of a real hippy. That and “healing” with pebbles.

Take A Seat

2008-08-06T09:07:00.000-07:00

There is a golden rule that must be obeyed at all times. Did I say “golden rule”? Well then I understated it. I meant a rule derived of a metal so precious, platinum would bow in its wake. A rule embellished with Graff diamonds and deep sea pearls. A rule of such enormity and such significance, it makes the US Constitution seem like a cartoon version of US Weekly. And this is the rule of which I speak;

NEVER EVER EVER MAKE ANY REFERENCE WHATSOEVER TO A WOMAN BEING PREGNANT IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM (OFFERING SEAT, ASKING ABOUT CRAVINGS OR SUGGESTING ALTERNATIVE LABOR PAIN MANAGEMENT TIPS) UNLESS YOU CAN ACTUALLY SEE A BABY’S HEAD EMERGING FROM HER VAGINA.

That’s the golden rule. And you’re welcome. Remember it.

When I was quite early on in all my pregnancies, it was fun to witness people bumble their way through some pathetic attempt to spark conversation with me about my pregnancy but be unsure about whether or not they were on the right track. In line with my evil sense of humor I’d say ‘Oh, I’m not pregnant” and watch them cringe with embarrassment and look awkwardly at their feet, until I finally admitted that yes, ha ha ha, I was indeed knocked up.

More interesting times at the end of each my pregnancies, when I was the size of a Honda Civic (the old, bulky ones, not the newer sleek models mind you). This is the time when NOBODY noticed my pregnancy, particularly on busy New York subway trains where the presence of a stomach approximately 50 inches in circumference stuck in your face doesn’t distract you at all from that riveting14 word article in Metro NY.

But bugger me, there is NOTHING fun or interesting about somebody offering you a fucking subway seat 4 months AFTER your baby is born. Nothing. In fact, I’d hazard that it is less painful to shove a garden rake up your ass. Sideways. I have been offered a seat on public transportation no less than 3 times since I returned to work. And I find it utterly soul destroying. I’m in my pre pregnancy trousers for crissakes! I am so depressed about the expectations.

A very large part of the problem for me is that generally we as a society have such a distorted view of motherhood, thanks in large part to the revolting celebrity culture that has overridden our media for the last 10 years. I feel so embarrassed to admit this but yes, there have been times when I have compared my self to a celebrity and its just ludicrous. The cover of one of those magazines is how Halle Berry looks the way she does 4 weeks after having a baby. Erm, clue; tummy tuck, liposuction, dietician, personal trainer, nanny, personal assistant and billions of dollars.

For us mere mortals, getting to the gym is a tiny victory in itself. After about 3 hours sleep (and I’m talking a week here, not a night) the next miracle is having the energy to step onto an elliptical, and after that stay upright long enough to get a decent work out in.

But more than that, it’s the idea that our bodies are ugly, unattractive, that we are a disappointment or a failure if we look basically like women do and should look after having a baby. I think that a lot of women feel shame because of what happens to their bodies during and after pregnancy. And its because instead of congratulating women, supporting women or celebrating women for the incredible and miraculous changes that occur as their child grows within them, our society judges them in a competition that they didn’t even enter with the likes of Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie.

Obviously this is a huge topic, and hugely personal to me, as a mother of 3. I’m very fortunate to have a husband who reminds me often of what I already know deep down. My beauty isn’t in my perfectly flat stomach or my skinny jeans. It’s in the uncontainable joy I express on my face each and every time I watch my children playing, laughing, learning and surviving another day in this crazy world. And I never feel more beautiful than when I am with my girls, being their Mom. Stomach, thighs and all.

I Heart George Michael 4 Ever

2008-07-18T17:39:00.001-07:00

I just went to see George Michael. In Dallas. Overnight. Yes, it's true. One of my oldest (and I mean by age, I barely know the guy) friends called me and said "George Michael. Box Seats. You're coming". It seemed like such a great idea. What could possibly go wrong?

I bravely left on Sunday morning. I'm very scared of flying and think it is both unnatural and for the most part unnecessary. I mean, boats and horses were fine for centuries weren't they? I hate taking off, I hate the landing part, and I really hate that whole "flight" part in the middle. You know the part where you pretend that you are just at home chilling with a copy of The New York Times, instead of facing the bleak reality that you are ten million feet up in the air in a decrepit old hunk of metal with a nasty old middle age bitch barking orders at you and a foreign exchange student with schvetzing issues to your right.

Through sheer tenacity, laughing in the face of God and his evil acts designed to thwart my path to darling George, I arrive in Dallas. After 8 hours of travel. I made it! To Dallas! To see George Michael!

Already feeling like a teenager who had climbed out of her bedroom window (going out for a drink is one thing, leaving three children overnight is a whole other ballgame), it was exhilarating to know that there was no time to "freshen up" and I had to wiggle out of my jeans, and into my frock in the car! What larks!

Was it worth it? Oh my yes. George Michael was incredible. His voice was the best its ever been, he has such great charisma and stage presence, and the crowd adored him. I had no voice for 24 hours afterwards, because I wanted to be really sure that he knew that I loved him. Really sure. So I shouted it. Loud. About every 3 minutes. It was one of the best nights of my life! And I got the mug to prove it.

There is a poster in my gym that says "I'm 36 but my body is only 29". That is how I felt. "I'm 37 but with George I'll always be 16".

Technaphobic and Proud

2008-07-15T12:34:00.000-07:00

I have a really great husband. People are often surprised when I tell them that, because I think that the “norm” after a number of years is to be disillusioned with marriage, angry and disappointed when expectations and realities finally clash. But I don’t feel that way. Sorry, I should say, I don’t feel that way YET. I don’t want to be too smug because there is something going on right now that certainly has the potential to put me on a park bench with the “Bench Bitches” and slag my husband off all day and night.

He has turned into such a techie. That’s not new. I married a geek. I know that. The problem is that I can’t keep up. I’m very old fashioned believe it or not, and I really do have a hard time with all this new technology. I have a blackberry and I have an i-Pod and a cell phone. But I don’t know how to use any of them. I get the most basic functions out of all of them, you know, like a phone call, yet hubby knows all about “apps” and “gigabytes” and “html”. What?

I never thought I would be this person. I thought that I would always be current, relevant and very groovy. But alas, I have become the woman who squints as she tries to see the small numbers on the radio in her minivan. Yikes. Even my seven year old has snatched the mouse away from me saying “Mommy, I’ll do it” as I bumble my way through an online Fresh Direct order.

One of the worst things about this sorry situation is birthdays/anniversaries or any other time when I am expected to come up with a gift. It used to be so easy. But not anymore. No more CDs “Honey, I can download that”. No more books “Honey, I can download that”. No more movies “Honey, I can download that”. No more glorious box sets of entire TV shows “Honey, I can download that”. Even a chess set seems moot as I watch my husband battling it out over many weeks with opponents across the globe.

Impending gift giving scenarios now require such creativity on my part, I’m thinking of signing up for some classes. Not on line classes obviously. I wouldn’t know how to work the “thing” or do the “thing”. I’m thinking more basket weaving or whittling. Gifts that can’t be downloaded. Gifts that have a meaning that exceeds any megabyte limit and can blast through the powerful security of any firewall. Gifts that come from that funny, old fashioned place that we used to call the heart.

Texas Chainsaw Swimsuit Massacre

2008-06-25T18:54:00.000-07:00

There is nothing more terrifying, nothing that will guarantee blood curdling screams, nothing more likely to make me consider suicide than the words "Oh, you must come, and bring your swimsuit, there's a pool!"

You know that anybody who says "Bring your swimsuit we have a pool" is either a) nineteen years old, b) high on crack or c) Brazillian. I am not any of those things so wearing a swimsuit in public is not a prospect for which I can brim with excitement or enthusiasm.

This year it is particularly challenging for me because I am facing my first summer after delivering my third baby. Three! After one you can ALMOST get your pre baby body back. After two you learn to love certain curves and the way your hip bones never did quite go back to the place they were at the beginning of your twenties. After three you are pretty much fucked. That's not to say that I completely hate my body. I mean, it looks great when I get involved in some pretty clever layering and "ruching" around my waist. And J-Lo made an entire career out of her huge ass. But it is with some sadness that I have to announce I will never wear a bikini again. Unless I develop early onset althzeimers, in which case I'll be the one in the gold lame thong bikini dribbling in the corner and you all have absolute permission to drown me immediately.

When you are chasing around after 3 children, you have to do it "the right way". That is, not dressed like you are about to be photographed for a Pirelli calendar. It doesn't work. "Tarquin, get that shovel out of your sisters mouth please." So I've been half heartedly shopping for something that I can wear on the beach this year. Its all so depressing really. Do I need "Anxiety Zone" padding or support? Oh my God, yes I think I do. A one piece? Noooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What sucks is that after 3 children my husbands body hasn't changed at all. Oh the miracles of nature. So while I cower behind a deckchair somewhere donning my best lightweight boiler suit, he can beat his (unchanged) chest and admire the bikini clad (and enticingly childless) throng that ALWAYS insists on gathering for a sodding game of volleyball about 6 feet from us. "Do you mind if we put our net up here?" "No not at all, that would be GREAT."

There is a silver lining of course. New York City does not require a swimsuit often and before we know it, its going to be winter, a season that I do so well. Everything covered up, just as mother nature (after 3 kids) intended.

Discrimination in Plain View

2008-05-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

America is really weird. Just when I think I'm starting to settle in and feel at home, something else comes along to perplex me. I am English. We like to keep things simple, not too much fine print with us.

I know that when you are applying for and interviewing for a job, your potential employer is not allowed to ask you things like "Are you married?" or "Do you have children?" or "Do you enjoy showtunes of the 40s and 50s?" - questions that almost anywhere else in the world are considered 'conversational' and 'charming', in a getting to know you, awkward kind of a way. Not here. Here they are considered sinister and incriminating. In order to navigate the dark and seedy world of job interviews when the answer to any of those questions is YES one must develop a steely and cool exterior akin to a captured solider behind enemy lines, so as to not reveal your secret penchant for love, the continuation of the human race or Louis Prima.

So what's so confusing? I thought the point of that, in a really ass backwards way, was so that you could not be discriminated against based on your gender, marital or family status, sexual preference, age or race etc. And yet. AND YET. The number one most important job in the country (nay, in the free world right now) has daily been reduced to an argument over whether or not we should have a woman, a black man, or an old man, in the White House?

Fucking hell America. Make your bloody mind up. Can we discriminate or not? I just want to know so that next time I interview somebody I can crap on and on for hours about how earth shattering it would be to have a woman in the job, not making coffee or operating switchboard.

Blimey.

Duchess of Crazyland

2008-05-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I worked for the Duchess of York, and I never really talk about it. But this week she's all up in my face, because her show "The Duchess in Hull" is airing on TV in England. This idea came to her several years ago, either while she was fucked up drunk or the next morning when her sensory processing prowess was thrown clear out of whack. The idea was/is that she, the guru of all things awful like poverty, obesity and terrible dress sense would spend a week with a "fat" family and help them see the error or their ways and spew some mindless "spiritual" shit in their faces, they would immediately give up deep fried mars bars and begin a new life complete with yoga at 6am and organic artichokes.

I don't think that I'm alone in my cynism. I wish I could say it came from a good place. But really, everything she does is motivated by self promotion as a means of making money to either pay off huge debts or support an embarrasingly over indulgent lifestyle.

Her first "hurdle" with this family was to explain who she was. None of them knew who this posh person was standing in their council house. At first you might wonder how anybody these days can not recognize a "c" list celebrity such as her, but understand. This family is POOR. That means little to no tv, no magazines,and certainly no squandering money on newspapers (rags or broadsheets). "I was married to Prince Andrew. Diana was my sister-in-law. The Queen was my mother in law". WAS is the watchword here. WAS. WAS. Oh, think the family. So you WERE somebody. Good. Did you bring any money with you? Or opportunity for us to travel, or see the world or open our minds to new cultures and experiences? No, right, just you then.

My sister tells me that at one point she is sitting at the kitchen table with the Mom of the house who is smoking and overweight and obviously poor, and says to her "You and me - we're the same". FOR GOD'S SAKE, ISN'T THERE A LAW AGAINST THIS PATRONIZATION OF THE POOR AND UNEDUCATED BY THE RICH AND RETARTDED? If this woman had been fortunate enough to receive any kind of education, any kind of opportunity in her life, she may have been in a better position to respond:"Yes, we both have a vagina now fuck off out of my house you useless sack of shit".

The family was chosen well. Poor. Misguided easy victims. Probably a bit of money in it for them. The very idea that this woman can pop into this family's life, pay a little lip service about being overweight and unhappy, then fly back to New York to prop up the bar at Fredericks is nauseating. And I'm not alone. Google some of the press from TV critics in the UK. There's a reason she lives here. Everybody in England has got her number. Keeping up the royal connection to keep herself relevant. It's shameless. And smart. Because without it she has no relevance whatsoever to a current discourse on just about anything; poverty, education, obesity. Anything really.

The idea of affluent people preaching THEIR lifestyle choices to people that basically have NO easy choices due to their unenviable circumstance is maddening in and of itself. But to make a TV show out of it is cruel and unusual punishment. Stick your raw organic almonds up your bum and let the rest of us get on with the business of making ends meet the best way we know how.

Our dreams might be dashed. Our self respect however, is still very much intact.

It's Not My Fault

2008-05-09T09:35:00.001-07:00

I walked passed a Lenscrafters last week and thought I'd pop in to get my glasses tightened. Simple enough. A kindly twelve year old took my glasses for me (I assumed he worked there because of his badge, but was SHOCKED at how young he was. Or maybe I'm getting really old. Maybe I should report Lenscrafters to the City for their breach of child labor laws. Anyway I digress). He told me that before he adjusted my glasses I should know that "if anything happens while they are being adjusted, it is not Lenscrafters reponsibility".

Yes it fucking is. If I go into an store claiming to specialize in all things optical, and give them my glasses to adjust because they specialize in all things optical, and my glasses break or get cancer, ITS THEIR FAULT. Am I wrong? I don't think that just because before you do something you prefix it with "We are not responsible if X Y or Z happens" it should relinquish you of all responsibility. It's ludicrous. I argued this point for several minutes, realized the time and just thought hey, I feel like living dangerously today, I'll give them to the employee of the store that specializes in all things optical and hope for the best.

Grow a pair Lenscrafters. And everybody else who claims no responsibility when things that they do go wrong. If I have a brow lift (please darling hubby, may I?) and it gets fucked up it would only be MY FAULT if I had asked a cobbler to do it. Or a marine biologist. Surely if an accredited, qualified plastic surgeon does it, and I look more like Tom Brady than Giselle Bundchen, its his fault.

Don't blame me if this blog is shit. I only wrote it. It was YOU that was reading it.

Happy Mothers Day You Bunch of Idiots

2008-05-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

I have noticed how Mothers Day is this sort of "Dumbass Fest" for women who have been fortunate enough to have a surly, ungrateful brat gestate in their body for almost a year. I get coupons each week from Borders, and this weeks are "Great Movies For Moms!". Yes, if you have only recently mastered the English language. I am a mother, and this Sunday is "my day", but I won't be celebrating by watching a discount copy of The Runaway Bride. Admittedly I won't be celebrating by watching any Ingmar Bergman either, but it doesn't mean I've had a complete labotomy.

As a working mother, I'm looking forward to a day doing absolutely nothing at all, but if Hallmark is to be believed, I'll be lying on my sateen sheets with babys breath in my hair while I patiently sing 48 versers of "The Wheels on the Bus" (for the 48th time).

Get real Hallmark and all you other fuckers who cash in on my special day. If you want to see any of my husbands hard earned cash this weekend, then start selling shit we ACTUALLY want. Very large bottles of booze, very long nights out with our friends, very long nights in with our husbands ;-) and a dinner date with Brett Favre.

The MTA Blows Chunks

2007-09-05T08:02:00.000-07:00

Words can't express my frustration with the New York City subway right now, in particular the N/W line which has got to be a contender for the worst line in the history of the New York City subway. If there is a worse line than that, I am so sorry for anybody who has to ride it.

I know I should probably go easy on the MTA. Let's face it, they've only had OVER A HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS to perfect the system, not to mention millions in tax payer money, and the fares that you and I pay to ride the shit heap system. I understand that they had to spend a huge amount of money on the marble bathrooms at the MTA corporate headquarters downtown not to mention all the entertaining they have to do. I get it.

But is it so much to ask for a train in the morning. During rush hour. Please, we'd be so grateful if you could just get a train on the platform. And one that leaves on time, and doesn't have to wait for another one to arrive, and could we get the sick fucking passenger off the train and just move on. And while we're doing that, could we fix all the doors so they open and close when they are supposed to and don't just suddenly stop working mid journey. Could we fix the speaker systems so that when the train is going to go express and miss my stop I would hear it from any car, and not just the lucky winner bonus sound system car that I am of course, not in. Could the MTA employees on the platform be armed with Tasar stun guns so that when somebody holds the train up by sticking their foot in the door, like they are the only person that has somewhere to be at a designated time, they are given a gentle tap on the shoulder and left in a pool of their own urine on the platform. In fact can we all be armed with Tasar equipment, so when those bastards that try to get on the train, you know, before everybody has gotten off the trian, try to perform their death defying "Ladies and Gentlemen, look how many people you can fit in a New York City Subway car before people start turning blue from lack of oxygen", we can stun them into submission too. Oooh, I love that idea. Number 7 riders, you know who you are.

Just small changes but I think they would make a big difference.

Marriage Hiatus

2007-08-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

I don't know if its that I forget what football season feels like, or if I am so deeply traumatized by it, that I somehow manage to erase it entirely from my memory during blissful Spring and Summer seasons with hubby, but I've been rudely awakened to the fact that it is once again upon us.

Preseason games have started. And with it, in our house at least, a slew of extra curricular football activities that seem to somehow fill a void that can only be filled by ACTUAL NFL games, that start in September. I compare it to a heroin addict, who until his needle can be filled, makes do with A LOT OF POT.

The "pot" part of the analogy begins in August, when Madden hits stores. Not that Madden hasn't been a permanent fixture of course. But Madden 08 has new features like "more lifelike plays" and it makes pizza. Also in August is the FANTASY FOOTBALL DRAFT. In case you don't know, I have been assured repeatedly by my husband that yes, this does require him to spend about $100 on various fantasy football magazines, research various players on line for hours at a time, and completely immerse himself in football reports from training camps across the country via Rich Eisen etc. on NFL Network. There was a time in my house when you switched on either of our TVs and you got Noggin or Nick Jr. Now, BOTH TVs seem to be permanently tuned to NFL Network.

And to prove my husband's tireless addiction is unrelenting, this year, just when I thought I caught a glimpse of him without his Packer t-shirt on (and slapping the veins on the inside of his arm in readiness), he informs me that he has joined a fantasy football league at work. Great. How much worse can it get? How much more of my husband can I lose for the next few months? Was I so cruel, so bad in a past life, that I must endure not one but two fantasy football leagues?

Clearly, I was Genghis Khan in a previous life. My husband is also scheduled to participate in the 2008 EA Sports Madden Challenge. If he doesn't win it, then there must be some fucked up, jobless, wifeless, lifeless dudes out there that literally play Madden all day.

Did I say Genghis Khan? I meant the bastart love child of Adolf Hitler and Genghis Khan. Hubby also does a Packer podcast! Yes, once a week, he gets to sit in a room with his best Packer buddy, drink beer and talk about nothing but the Packers for 3 whole hours! With somebody who knows what the fuck he's on about!

So right about now, he feels like he's been given methadone. But there's not long to wait before the real deal starts. For me that's such a treat, I can get down to the business of actually enjoying some real football games, eating way too many brats, and this season, thoroughly missing alcohol. And of course, being the shoulder for my husband to lean on when he discovers that a quarter of his fantasy drafts have early onset osteoporosis, or illegal hamster racing farms in Iowa. And I can't pretend I don't look forward to getting a brand new husband at the end of each season; pumped, fulfilled and raring to spend endless months of Sundays with me at Ikea.

I Love You Brett Favre (But I Love My Husband More)

2007-08-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

Wooo, yeah, my fourth blog, hand claps, high fives, woooo woooo........oh, wait, no, I can't do this. Its really hot today. Really really hot. And I'm from England. Where it rains. A lot. And in the Summer you still need a jacket in the evening. Civilized weather.

In lieu of having an experience outside of my office I would like to talk about Brett Favre. Unfortunately it was not Brett who chatted me up on Monday. Would my life be different if it had been? I can tell you, unequivocally, no. Because Brett Favre is fantastic, and gorgeous and heroic, and throws football with broken thumbs. And I love that. Excuse me, show me a woman who doesn't. Sure, he's had his "issues" but that just adds to the appeal. Bad boy made good. And he's getting on in years, and his beard is turning grey. God, the man just keeps getting better.

But I know somebody else like that. And that's what I'm going to talk about. How I am married to my very own "Brett Favre".

My husband played football in school (so did Brett)
My husband has 2 daughters (so does Brett)
My hubsand is fantastic and gorgeous (so is Brett)
My husband plays football every single day on his playstation (almost like Brett)
My husband is focused mentally and physically for the start of the season by reading every single football website/blog/magazine available so that he can be at the top of his (fantasy) game and maybe win a case of beer (just like Brett who's been training probably not even that much)
My husband has maintained his weight from last year (almost the same as Brett's beautiful 220 pounds)
My husband is married to a strong, supportive, fiercely loyal woman (exactly like Brett)
My husband knows that his football career may be coming to an end so he's working on broadcast stuff (just like we know Brett must be)

As quoted in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel today "He's made the committment to do everything he possibly could to get himself ready for the season. His work ethic makes this program work". They mean Brett by the way, not my husband.

Try this experiment. Instead of looking at you husband tonight over dinner, and wondering why in God's good earth isnt' he more like John Stamos or whoever floats your boat, try and find the similarities between hubby and the object of your desires. They are there, bubbling under the surface just waiting to be discovered. And they are all yours.

Leave My Tits Alone Bloomberg!

2007-08-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

Hat tip to my hubby for alerting me to the latest in the great, huge, enormous conspiracy to return to an era when men controlled women. It seems that all the decision making that women do by themselves these days, is beginning to irk the powers that be. Namely Mayor Bloomberg, who has decided that instead of spending his time making sure that children can go to school and not get shot or that there is actually a teacher there for them, he has decided to spend his time making breast feeding mandatory.

Full disclosure; I did not breast feed either of my children. That is my decision, and one that I made alone. I didn't even discuss it with my husband. Its my body, its my decision. I am thrilled for anybody that wants to breast feed, and I am equally happy if you don't. Actually, I've just realized, I dont' give a shit if you breast feed your baby or not. As long as you feed the damn thing, that's grand!

Apparently only a quarter of New York moms choose to breast feed their babies at the moment, and Bloomberg doesn't like that. I'm sure that there are a number of variables that go into the decision to breast feed your baby or not. And in New York City, there are even more challenges. For starters we are walkers. We walk everywhere, we ride the subway, we ride the bus, we take cabs. Most people don't have there own cars. Its not like we are at the mall when Junior suddenly starts to wail so we can hop out to the carpark and sit in the back of a spanking clean minivan.

In New York City, Junior wants to be fed and you are on the subway (ugh, a disgusting place in terms of hygiene and privacy at the best of times. Did you know that there was a study done where they took samples from the subway and found FECAL MATTER!!!!). Junior wants to be fed in Barnes and Noble ("There is a strange man staring at you in personal growth"). Junior wants to be fed while you are eating. I've seen the way diners look at a breast feeding mother. She may as well be re-enacting the final scenes from Scarface, the look of terror and disgust on people's faces. ("Say hello to my little friends")

If Bloomberg really wants to help babies and children in our fair city then he should start with decent bloody childcare and after school programs. He should start with healthy, nutritious meals for children in schools instead of fried fried food with some fried food on the side, he should get kids moving by making sports (as in running, football, soccer, tennis, swimming etc. not throwing a bean bag in a hole) mandatory at least twice a week.

What he should NOT be doing is telling me, or anybody else, how and what to feed my baby. That is too personal and it feels like the beginning of a much larger issue. What's next? "Woman contradicts husband, sentenced to seven years".

He's being a cheap fucker, and as always the first people to feel the pinch are our children. You shouldn't stand for it, I won't.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

You Old Bag

2007-07-31T12:54:00.000-07:00

What do you carry in your purse? OK, now you have thought about that, here's another question for you; What do you carry in your purse that you have actually used in the last 6 months? If you are anything like me, it aint much.

I have recently started suffering from such acute back pain, mostly in my shoulders so I have decided to downsize what I cart around with me all day. My husband has recommended this as a great preventative measure for about five years, and refusing to heed his advice before now has left me with a gait similar to that of Igor from "Young Frankenstein".

First to go is my Filofax. And its a small Filofax! But its sleek leather cover is almost ruptured by years of diary pages and addresses for people I don't even know anymore (If anybody knows who Rusty is, or if you are Rusty, get in touch. Who the hell are you?). Six years worth of family pictures that nobody ever sees because the thing is too damn heavy to pick up most of the time, and old newspaper articles that I've cut out thinking "Oooh, that's great inspiration for me when I write my book", that have remained neatly folded since their date of publication.

I know I know, I'm turning into one of those weird old ladies who keep everything because "it might come in handy one day". I just mustn't keep it in my bag anymore. It might come in handy, that's true. It probably will NEVER come in handy on the N train at eight o'clock in the morning.

The next department to be downsized by my newly indiscriminate hand is my make up bag. I don't know why I carry around my "anti aging under eye cream" or my "Baggage Handler Anti puffy eye gel" or my huge tiramisu lip balm or hand cream for that matter. I think it just makes me feel younger to know that its in my bag, because it sure as shit isn't making me look any younger. If I'm lucky during the day, I might remember to powder my nose (compact is staying) and retouch my lipgloss (I've allowed myself one lipgloss per day, rather than having a selection of colors in a selection of shades in case the look I want at 2pm is different to the one I chose at 9am).

No more carrying magazines around with me either. Husband and children be damned, I'll have to read them at home. How much did the latest Vogue weigh? I don't know for sure, but I felt less burdened when I was 9 months pregnant. Anyway, who actually READS Vogue? You look at stuff you can't afford then hit Zara for the copies.

The only dilemma I have now is which bag should I use. I do have a bit of a bag fetish, and size queen that I am, they are all large bags. I never like little bags. I don't know how women get away with leaving their house all day with bags half the size of the pencil case I carried in school. And as my pregnant belly grows, I feel like a large bag offsets my size somewhat.

This will be an exercise in self-restraint as I try to keep my contents to a minimum. I just hope I don't get stopped by anybody doing one of those "What's In Your Bag Can Reveal So Much About You" type articles. Because now my bag reveals that I am a completely hell driven control freak, who takes no prisoners (including lip gloss), a manic tidy-upper, without many plans for the day.

Oh wait, I guess that is pretty revealing.

Pregnancy Discrimination New York Style

2007-07-30T08:31:00.000-07:00

Somebody tried to pick me up on the Subway stairs this morning. I mention this not to illustrate a point (I am v. attractive despite my advancing years and shitty hair do), but because I was discriminated against for the second time in this, my third pregnancy. Let me explain.

I recently started a new job, and took the controversial step of NOT disclosing my pregnancy. Why? Because I had been offered a job previously, told them I was pregnant and they dropped me quicker than you can say FMLA. I am happy to report that those discriminating fuckers hired their second choice, and she hasn't worked out and they now want me again. Anyway, back to the Grand Central Terminal Romeo.

On the stairs, Cipriani side of 42nd Street, it went something like this;

Man: "Good morning. How are you doing today?" (I don't remember exactly what he said because I was still feeling miffed that I didn't have the latest US Weekly with exclusive pictures of the Beckham's welcome party in LA)
Me: "(Inaudible grunt)"
Man: "Is that a wedding ring?"
Me: sigh "Yes it is."
Man: Still undeterred "Oh, you're married?"
Me: "Yup, and this is my 4 month pregnancy bump"
Man: Screeching dust tracks down 42nd Street.

Jesus christ. I already feel like the creature from the Black Lagoon thank you very much. My body has been entirely taken over by my progressing pregnancy, I can't wear the clothes that I usually wear, I can't eat the food I like to eat, I can't consume the amounts of wine I like to consume, I can't even say "Terms of Endearment" without bursting into tears, and as if that wasn't bad enough now it seems that, in my current condition, I'm about as fanciable as a pork pies on yom kippur.

My marital status didn't throw him off the scent. But impending motherhood did. Very quickly. I was once again struck by how little people think of pregnant women, and mothers. To most people, particularly in a buzzing metropolis such as New York City, we are "weird", "alien", even "boring". We represent something that is not even close to the mental image that most young people have of their lives in New York. Glamour, success, decadence, frivolity takes one look at waddling, food stained, eternally exhausted Costco addict and freaks out. "That'll never be me" they seem to say (ok, maybe there's a little projection, but really, only a tad).

Well, I just want you all to know this; I'm even more glamorous, successful, decadent and frivolous now that I'm a mother, then I ever ever was before. I have confidence, poise, direction, pathos - things that I never had until I had children. I am a multi-tasking, problem solving, grocery coupon clipping fool and I can lose at Candyland several times in one weekend, and walk away with my dignity intact.

And that's not even the best thing. Sure I complain about my body, because I'm not 20 anymore, but my body has done amazing things. Really outstanding things. I have won races, I have ridden horses, I have travelled around India, I have moved continents and I have given birth twice. Anybody who has given birth knows that that is one hell of a feat. As I write this, a new life is gestating away, quite happily in my brilliantly clever womb. And just for you, Mr. Grand Central Terminal Romeo, I also wanted to add that my libido could match that of any healthy seventeen year old youth, in fact, its probably even better than that.

So the next time you are on the street, or on the subway and you see a pregnant woman, right before you offer up your seat, take a quick look at that incredible creature before you, and basque for a moment in her reflected glamour and boundless sexiness. And hope that one day you'll get to be with somebody so amazing.