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Congrats to Heidi and Rebecca!  You’ve each won a copy of See Mom Run, with essays by Mom 101, NYC Single Mama, Twinfatuation, Role Mommy, Momma Said, me(!) and many more.

Didn’t win but still want to read it? Buy it, why dontcha?  Just click on the little book icon just over there on the right, and pretty soon, you’ll be laughing and reading.  Still not sure?  Save $2 per book by entering discount code SMR2.

I promise it’ll make you laugh.

Tomorrow, BJ’s warehouse opens in Flushing.

To any of you outside of NYC, this might not seem like a big deal.  But, here in NY, land of the shoebox apartments,  big box stores are a big big deal. And groceries are really, really expensive.

So the addition of a BJ’s to the city is a pretty big deal.  It’s cheap, it’s huge, you can maneuver your cart around without breaking someone’s toe, and THEY TAKE COUPONS!!!!  So not only do you save 30%  to begin with (the amount they estimate an average consumer will save per visit), you can clip  coupons, too. Plus (and most importantly)- unlike some other warehouse stores I won’t mention – BJ’s sells items in sizes that will actually FIT into a NYC apartment.

(Not something you out there with your big houses and big garages, and walk-in pantries, and extra-fridge in the basement-types really think about when you grab a vat of Tide and a 24 pack of paper towels, now is it?)

So a new BJ’s is a big deal.  But for me, BJ’s will always be about movie stars and chauffers.  Why, you ask?

Read on.

My kids went to nursery school with the child of a very famous director. (VFD)  One day, at a playdate at their house (no shoebox for the VFD. He and his family lived in a 10,000 square foot town house), I noticed that  (walk-in) snack closet held giant sized boxes of every kid-snack every created.

“Do you go to one of those warehouse stores?” I asked. Incredulous.

“I love them!” answered the VFD’s wife. “I’m going tomorrow.  Why don’t you come with me.”

“I’ll drive” I offered.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s all taken care of.”

The next day, VFD’s wife and I dropped our kids off for overpriced fingerpainting, and drove to BJ’s.  In her chauffer driven car.  Once we got there, the chauffer walked through the store with my new money-saving friend, and took things off the shelves for her.

“Peter,” she said, “We need tuna fish.”

And Peter would bend down, pick up a ten-pack of Tuna fish and place it in her cart.

When we finished shopping, Peter went and found boxes for us.  Peter packed our boxes. Peter loaded them into the car.  And she and I went to Old Navy to browse.

Over the course of two years, every few months, VFD’s wife and I went to BJ’s, to Costco, to Stew Leonards – always with a chauffeur.

One day, I left the store to see John with the White Mercedes waiting for me. Thing was, we had driven up with Peter, in the black Mercedes.

Seems VFD’s wife had bought too much to fit into one car, and so had called the second chauffeur, to bring the second Mercedes, to take me and my stuff home.

And that, dear bloggy friends, is how famous people go discount shopping.

p.s. Here’s the info, if you want to check out the Grand Opening tomorrow.  The new BJ’s is at 131-07 40th Rd. in Flushing, NY.  For the Grand Opening there will be lots of food, balloons, face painting, a DJ, giveaways, and more.

Do you have your iperiod? Do you need an ipad?

Read this and LAUGH!!!! Really. Click on it.  It is SOOOOO funny.

http://thatgirlblogs.com/i-must-be-on-my-iperiod/

Walked In On…

So my daughter “walked in on us” the other day. Funny since (sorry hubby) it’s not like statistically speaking, there are a whole lot of chances for that to happen. (so sue me. kids. work. blog. puppy. life. oh, and swine flu. my uber- excuse for everything. )  It happens to every parent, I’m sure. (Though if it happened with me and my parents, I must have VERY successfully blocked it out.)

Anyhoo, I guess we got lucky, as we were still in what I will delicately refer to as the “planning stages.”  And under the covers. And, needless to say, in the dark.   (seriously, have you read anything about me and my body image?)

Plus, hubby reacted perfectly.  Instead of jumping so high he hit his head on the ceiling, he casually greeted her with a “What are you doing out of bed, sweetie?”

She wasn’t falling for it. “What were you doooo-ing?” (you have to draw out that “dooo” sound and lilt up on the “ing” to get the intonation. Try it. Got it? Good.)

I decided to let hubby handle it.

“You caught Daddy kissing Mommy.”

Brilliant! Not a lie….just not exactly the truth.

“Naked?” she asked.

“I’m naked,” I said (and please, spare yourselves the mental picture.  It ain’t pretty.  Remember: under the covers, under the shield of darkness.) ‘But Daddy is still wearing his pajama bottoms, see?”

“Why are you naked?” Yeesh, won’t this kid give it a rest?

“I was on my way to the shower when Daddy started kissing me.”

“Do you do this….usually?” Evidently she was NOT ready to give it a rest.

“Well, it’s really cozy under our new comforter.  Why don’t you come in with us?”

“Naked?” ahhh, heading towards giving it a rest.

“OK!”

And with that, hubby got up to get ready for bed, daughter whipped off her nightie and got under the covers, I got a chance to cuddle with my little girl, and all was right with the world.

Crisis averted.  Innocence maintained.  And lock purchased.

Please, please, leave a comment telling me I’m not the only one who may have scarred her child for life.  This happens. Right? Right? Right?

Oh, and please don’t mention to hubby that I posted about this.  This would NOT make him happy.  No, not at all.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if two hyphenated last namers got married?  Like, let’s say Harrison VonHarrison-Lundquist married Muffy Worcester-Wolfe. (All names are completely fabricated. If anyone out there has either of those names, I’m sorry…in so many ways.)  Would they name their children Maximillian and Genevieve VonHarrisonlundquist-Worcesterwolfe???

Notice the last names I’ve fabricated.  Not so very ethnic, are they?  Jews don’t hyphenate.  Take me, for instance.  My maiden name is Rabinowitz, my married name is Friedman.  I considered hyphenating for about twelve seconds.  And then I realized I’d be Nancy Rabinowitz-Friedman; I might as well introduce myself has Nancy Double-Jew.  Twice the guilt!!  Twice the neuroses!   So when I got married I just decided to get rid of my middle name, Jean, and replace it with my maiden name.  That way, the clerk explained, I would legally be able to use either my maiden name or my married name. If I hyphenated, he told me, I would always have to use both names.  Quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

For a moment there, I considered going with a one-name moniker:: Madonna, Cher, Bjork, Elmo.  I tried Nan – but that sounded like a pug-nosed, perky cheerleader.  And I feel pretty confident with my big-nosed, sarcastic, pessimist persona.  I thought  I could take my new initials, NRF, and call myself Nerf.  Only that sounded like a squishy ball, and frankly, I didn’t need any name-based reminders of my physique.

Maybe my husband and I should have combined our names to create a new one. We could have been the Friedowitz family, or my personal favorite, the Rabinimans. Then again, maybe not.

So I stuck with the old switcheroo – sometimes one name, sometimes the other.

What’s in a name?  A lot.  If there weren’t, there wouldn’t be websites devoted to helping us choose names for our kids, or forums online for women deciding whether or not to give up their maiden  names.  Hilary Rodham Clinton wouldn’t be, well, Hilary Rodham Clinton.  She’d be Hilary Clinton or Hilary Rodham.  Not both.  Names are complicated.  Maybe that’s why Elizabeth Taylor never changed hers.  Imagine if she had, she’d be Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky. (I think she stayed Taylor not for the celebrity, but because somewhere in her mind she knew she’d one day marry a man named Fortensky – and she just couldn’t bear to called that.)

Once we had kids, it got a bit complicated, but I figured it out. Generally, anything professional – writing, producing – I used Rabinowitz.  Personally, I used Friedman, since I wanted to share a name with my kids. Aside from getting doubles of every catalogue in the universe, it’s worked out pretty well for the past 12 years.

But this fall, when I decided to publish as Nancy Friedman for the first time. I don’t know why I did it. I guess I just figured that at this point, I’ve pretty much stopped working, and most of the people I know, know me as Nancy Friedman. So why not publish that way?  Plus, I think it kinda bugged my husband that everything else I’d ever written had been under my maiden name. And I wanna keep him happy.

Now is where the giveaway kicks in (yep, you had to read this far to find it!).  I’m giving away two copies of the new anthology See Mom Run, edited by Role Mommy Founder Beth Feldman. It’s a collection of essays by moms…including me.  And it’s really, really, funny.  I promise. Just leave a comment below with your “dancer name” for a chance to win. What’s a dancer name? It’s the name of your first pet, follwed by the name of the street you grew up on.  If you were a stripper, it would be the name you’d dance under — hence “dance name.”  I’d be Honey Whig.

Hey — maybe I should publish under that next time!

Good luck!

Contest ends Friday, January 29th at 11pm.  Must be 18 years or older. US residents only. Two winners will be announced Saturday, Jan 30th.

A burst pipe.  A caved-in ceiling.  Soggy rugs.  Yep, that’s what happened to my weekends.  Until I had a brilliant idea and turned a homeowners nightmare into a couple’s dream!

Read all about it here.

Those of you with small children, take heart: one day, you too will be able to go on bike rides with your family. One day, you too, will be able to take your children to a restaurant sometime after 5:30pm. One day, you won’t have to supervise playdates, or clean those little sippy cup straws, or wipe anyone’s anything.

Yes, it’s true. The baby days will be over and you will enter a new phase with your family. A phase in which you can reason with your kids, hang with them, even. Family outings will not be of the barely tolerable Chuck E. Cheese variety, but will be to do things you all enjoy – like skiing, or seeing PG movies, or really, anything that doesn’t include insipid music, costumed characters, and a “theme.”

When you reach that blessed day, when your kids stop having to go potty at the exact moment you’ve passed the last rest stop for 50 miles, DO NOT DO WHAT I DID.

What did I do?

I went and got a brand new baby. One with whom I’ll never be able to reason, or have a coherent conversation. One I’ll never be able to take him to any restaurant, any time. And I will forever be cleaning up his poop. Because I got a dog.
Read the rest of this post, and find out why I can’t believe I got myself into this at NYC Moms Blog.

You Need a New Bra!

I have big boobs. That’s just a fact.  And lest you think I’m bragging about it, let me tell you the truth about big boobs: after you have children, after you nurse children, after gravity takes its toll, after forty, big boobs are saggy boobs.  Perky and 36DD are simply not words you hear together, unless some major surgery and some sort of foreign gel or liquid is involved.  So when I go bra shopping, it is not about fun,  fashion and sexiness.  It’s about hoistin’ those babies up.

Until today.

Because today,  I went to the new {intimacy} flagship store on 62nd and 3rd and had a fitting by none other than The Bra Whisperer herself, {intimacy} Founder and Chief Bra Fitter, Susan Nethero, (a five-time Oprah guest. FIVE!). And man, was it amazing. Turns out, I was wearing the wrong size.  Evidently, while my boobs may be gigundoid, I need a 32, instead of a 36.I am petite!

Susan Nethero

(that alone made it worth the trip across town.  Me? Petite? Ha!) Turns out, wearing the right bra can make you look taller and thinner.  Turns out, just because I’m huge, doesn’t mean I have to wear boring lingerie.  I can hoist ‘em up and look good doin’ it.

First,a  few facts: {intimacy} is a lingerie store renowned for personalized service, expert fitting, huge selection (mostly high end – don’t say you haven’t been warned), and excellent, knowledgeable customer service.

Second, in the spirit of full disclosure, I did get some lovely free lingerie from Susan and the folks at Intimacy during my visit, but as usual, they didn’t tell me what to say or obligate me to say anything at all. And I’m the kinda girl who just won’t say anything if I don’t have anything nice to say.

Third, you need a new bra. Continue Reading »

For quite some time now, I’ve been blaming my total lack of video-gaming ability on my age.  I am so bad at Wii that according to my Wii Fit, I should be stumbling all over the place, barely able to walk and talk on my cell phone at the same time. But I don’t really care what the Wii Fit says, because I just tell myself (and all of you), I’m past forty!  It’s chronologically impossible for me to learn this stuff.  So what if my son has shown me 47 times how to play The Legend of Starfy, and I still can’t get past level one?  So what if I get trapped in the same damn room in Fossil Fighters every time I try. Or if Super Mario Brothers for me will forever be Mario, Renzo, and Bob, the tennis counselors at my camp?  Age, for once, is on my side. I am not of the generation to master vidoe games of any kind. Put that in your remote and click it.

And then I heard this: baby boomers and seniors are playing video games.  A lot.  Believe it or not, more than 25 percent of all video game players are 55+ per www.theesa.com.  And not just older people…but OLD people.  See that picture?  That was taken at a senior centers where Nintendo, as part of a month-long program, brought video games for seniors (and their grandkids) to play.

Did these people use their age as an excuse? You can bet they did.  But then, guess what?  They started loving it.  They’re playing, they’re starting Wii Bowling Leagues.  They’re good at it.  Which is all fine and dandy for them, but what does it say about ME?  I cannot hula Wii style, or ski jump, or balance those little friggin balls on the 3D platform.  And apparently, it’s not my age, it’s ME! These old people may be getting exercise, being social, connecting with their grandkids but me,  I’m just a spaz.

Gee thanks, Nintendo.

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Full Disclosure: While I have received goods from Nintendo in the past, no goods, services or pay was received in conjunction with this post.

After months of excuses, real (moving, swine flu, pneumonia) and not (too busy, too tired, too many other things to do) I went back to working out this week. Monday was 45 minutes on the treadmill. A puff of the old inhaler and I was good to go.
Tuesday was…oh yeah, didn’t make it to the gym on Tuesday . (see unreal excuses, above)
Yesterday was Yoga at the brand-spanking new and oh-so beautiful Pure Yoga on the West Side (still un-sceney and uncrowded. Enjoy it while you can.)
And today was Nia.
For those of you who don’t know, Nia is…well, it’s hard to describe. I think of it as guided creative movement. It’s not really dance…but it sort of is. It’s not “aerobics” but it can be very aerobic. It’s not Yoga, but there are elements of Yoga and Tai Chi and Modern Dance. There is also a lot of talk about being in touch with your body, and about a sense of play. I’ve written about it here, if you want to know more.
ANYhoo, normally, Nia class makes me feel great, invigorated, and pretty damn good about myself. But today…not so much.  Because today, my instructor decided that we should spend the whole class feeling sexy.

Huh?

I’m exercising, buddy. I’m wearing an old Alvin Ailey T-shirt, I have no make-up on, I’m sweating, I’m barefoot, I’m worried that since I’ve done nothing aerobic in two months that my pneumonia compromised lungs will collapse… and you want me to feel sexy?

I don’t feel sexy.  I don’t even want to think sexy.  All I want to think about is what I’m gonna eat when this is over.

To make things worse, he kept on using the idea of a puppy as an image. As in “scoop your arms as if you were picking up a puppy.”

Picking up, scoop and puppy. What do those two words make me think of?

You guessed it, picking up my puppy’s poop. In the living room. In my son’s bedroom. Everywhere, it seems, but outside.

So between the sexy talk and the puppy I did NOT feel empowered and invigorated. I felt sweaty and decidedly unsexy. And I kept on smelling poop.  Please, please, let the puppy not have pooped on something I’m wearing.

Ah well, enough complaining.  Time to go walk the dog.

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