So I wasn’t at all surprised when she decided that, you know, since she had so little going on in her life (did I mention the two kids, the husband, and the beautiful house in the ‘burbs?), that she decided to start a magazine.

Project You.  It’s all about women, and pursuing your passion while raising your family.

Except for my essay in the mag – it’s about how sometimes (just sometimes) I meet kids that I don’t like.

Yes.  I’m just that evil.

If you want to read it, click here, then turn to page 13. (you can read it online, or print it out and read it magazine style.)

One more thing: If you think that you recognize your own child in the piece.  Well, you’re wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I LOVE your child. Really.

That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

The comment came from a guy named Ed.  And this was his opening line.

So you ended up being just a mother.

Just another mother, like a chimp, a cow, an elephant, a whale, just another mother, like an insect, or an octopus, or a worm. Just another sad mother.

The guy had me laughing already. What a jokester he must be.  And quite a laugh at family gatherings.

He went on to give his insightful commentary on how others must feel about my motherhood.

Your kids will not thank you, your husband will not like you, your own mother will pity you for making her own same mistake.

Just another mother.

Somehow, I don’t think he and his mom have the best relationship.  I’m very intuitive.  That’s how I know.

Next, the lovely Ed waxes poetic about “parental-brain-atrophy-syndrome” (ooh!  ten dollar words!  can my mom-brain take it?!) I won’t bore you with his entire oeuvre, just a summary.  I’ve biologically dumbed down my brain. My life is “dirt and feces.”   Blah blah blah. Again, just guessing here, but do you think that our friend Ed may have some slight socialization problems?

Motherhood, according to Eddie-poo, has doomed me to “a life of dandruff and diseases, vaccine and lice, high school and drool.” Poor Ed.  Sounds like his High School years were pretty tough.  What with the drooling and all. Kind of makes it hard to get a date. I can imagine the phone call:

“Hi, Susie?  This is Ed?  You know, from your science class?….What? Yeah, that’s me.  The one with the bib.”

When you’re in High School, you hate your mother,  and you have a drooling problem, chances are, you didn’t get a prom date.  Which may explain this next choice tidbit from my friend Ed’s comment.

You lost your dignity through your open legs, first inwards and then outwards, first-in-first-out, garbage-in-garbage-out, a boomerang of boredom.

Wow.  I don’t believe I have ever heard a man describe sex in quite that way. Especially the penis as garbage analogy. Most men I know think of the penis as the pinnacle of perfection, the private part of pleasure, the….well, perhaps I’m getting carried away. But the comment does make me wonder if Ed’s lack of a prom-date problem may have led to him missing out on sex all together.  Which would explain a lot.

After a bit more poetic rambling about my “loss” and how I’ve chosen “prison voluntarily” (guess his Mommy dearest kept him locked in his room most of the time. Thanks, Mom, for keeping away from the rest of us as long as you did!), he devolves into crazy Virgin Mary inexplicabilities.

“…Virgin Mary you are not, because Mary was not a Virgin, and you are not a Mary.“

Huh?

This last line really bummed me out.  For while he may be a psychopath, Ed is no dummy.  His psychotic ramblings up to this point were positively literary! Also, how crazy do you have to be to find MARITAL sex sinful?  Poor Ed. Destined to a life of unrequited love for an inflatable girl.

In fairness to Ed (though why I think he deserves fairness is beyond me), his comment ended up in Spam – which means he didn’t necessarily direct it at me – just at any blog having anything at all to do with motherhood.  Though I guess I’m not really helping Ed out here.  This means that he sent this psychotic crap out to a number of women.

Yikes.

And some of them might not have found him quite as amusing as I.

Ed winds down with this serial-killer-esque gem:

You were manipulated into just another life wasted on the heap of trash of a lost humanity dedicated to popular procreation and proletarian proliferation, to please the leaders of a domain of plebeians.

Hey!  Ed knows all about alliteration.  What a positively perfect position for a psychopath who preaches to parents!

Although this whole last passage makes me wonder if Ed even knows where babies come from.  “Popular Procreation?  Well, yeah. Of course it’s popular. It’s sex.  And here’s a newsflash for you, Ed: most people come from the  procreative act.  Except of course, you, Ed. (now now – we don’t want to upset to upset the crazy man!)

Ed ends with this little gem.

Good bye, sad mothers, good bye, old cows, with dried-out utters and distorted hips, good bye, and so alone you all will die.

Good bye to you, too, Ed.  Goodbye to what’s left of your sanity.  And hello crazy-hood!  You’re finally where you belong.

I just hope there aren’t any other people wherever that is.  Because, you know, they might all have…..MOTHERS!

]]> http://fromhiptohousewife.com/2010/08/18/a-psychopath-left-a-comment-on-my-blog/feed/ 10 nancyjrab smoking guy http://fromhiptohousewife.com/2010/08/16/seeing-a-broadway-show-hair-and-hygeine-tips-for-the-uninitiated/ http://fromhiptohousewife.com/2010/08/16/seeing-a-broadway-show-hair-and-hygeine-tips-for-the-uninitiated/#comments Mon, 16 Aug 2010 13:16:00 +0000 nancyjrab https://fromhiptohousewife.wordpress.com/2010/08/16/seeing-a-broadway-show-hair-and-hygeine-tips-for-the-uninitiated/ ]]> A few weeks ago my fellow blogger and  Blogging Angel, Rebecca Levey from Beccarama.com, took me to see A Little Night Music on Broadway.

Catherine Zeta Jones starred in the cast of this revival when it opened.  And after seeing her inexplicably Tony winning, bird-trapped-in-a-plastic-bag body language performance of Send in the Clowns on the Tony broadcast, I decided to wait until the new cast – headed by the inimitable Bernadette Peters – took over.

Boy am I glad I did.

The highlight of the show – perhaps of the Broadway season, is hearing Peter’s sing that signature song. Remember when you used to hear Send in the Clowns as a kid? I  was always thinking “Clowns? Huh? wha? Are they going to the circus?”

Ah. The innocence of youth.

Now, as a forty something it takes on new resonance.  And Peter’s does it justice, seeming to age on the stage, when she realizes her youthful love was too long ago to salvage. Watch her perform and witness a Broadway legend seal her place in history.

Luckily, Peters is sitting just about center stage when she sings the song, otherwise, I may not have seen her at all, since the woman in front of me clearly stopped at the store and bought a Bozo the Clown wig to wear to the theatre that night.

This was not just a head of hair in front of me. It was a triangulated, bright red, dense mass of curly hair hitherto unseen except in the nether regions of Ronald McDonald’s long lost sister.

Had the woman never seen a ponytail holder?

That was all she needed.  Just a little piece of elastic to stave off the frizzy wall that blocked my view of the entire left side of the stage. During the song “My Wife,” sung by the under-appreciated Alexander Hanson – (he is charming, handsome, and completely winning as Peters’ lifelong love interest) there is a fair amount of mugging by Peters, who is decidedly UNinterested in hearing about her former lover’s child bride.  But I didn’t see any of it.  I just heard the laughs.  Bozo blocked my view COMPLETELY. (And, just for the record, I am not exaggerating for comic effect; I saw ZERO that went on stage right (my left.))

Beccarama and I moved seats during intermission, only to find ourselves behind a woman who must have been about six feet tall, and had her hair piled high on top of her head.

This was passive aggressive theatre going at it’s peak.

If you’re just tall, it’s one thing.  No one likes to see Yao Ming scooting his way into the row directly in front of them, but it’s not like there’s a whole lot he can do about being circus-freak tall.  But if it’s just your ginormous hairdo, here’s a tip: TONE IT DOWN.

Tickets aren’t cheap (although, full disclosure: Beccarama  received the tickets from the show’s PR department.  I received my ticket because her sister got an ill-timed (for her) stomach bug.) You and your Hairdini aren’t the only ones who want to see what they paid for.  Plus, it’s just RUDE.  Don’t think for a minute that anyone thinks you’re oblivious:  we know just what you passive aggressive hair bullies are up to. And it’s got to stop.

While I’m at it, here are some other tips for you, if you’re planning on going to the theatre on your next trip to NY:

1. Brush your teeth. Sounds obvious, but you’d be amazed. Ditto deodorant.

2. This is not your living room.  Keep your comments to yourselves. Theatre is LIVE, people.  You may not comment on the goings on on stage to the person next to you the way you would were you watching, say, The Real Housewives of New Jersey. (who, by the way may not even be live themselves – just well drawn cartoons.)

3. If you must smoke, give yourself at least a few moments to air out before you take your seat.  Nothing spoils the illusion of being in the African Jungle, or the royal court like the stench of old cigarette smoke.

Of course if it’s a Mamet play, smoke away.

4. If you sleep, do not snore.  I know what you’re thinking : how would I know I‘m  snoring if I’m asleep?  I don’t care. Snoring is disrespectful to the actors and the people around you.  Tie a rubber band around your wrist, and if you feel yourself dozing off, give yourself a good hard snap.

5. If you MUST have a tuberculosis attack the second the lights go out, at least cover your mouth.  Why does the coughing begin as the curtain goes up? Passive aggressive anyone?

6. No canoodling.  Keep your head on top of your own shoulders, not snuggled up against your date’s.  You’ll be blocking someone’s view. And making them sick from the cuteness of it all.

7. Finally, a list of the most obvious ones – but clearly, people need to be reminded: no texting, IMing, phoning, browsing the web, filing your nails, flossing your teeth (I saw that once. Disgusting.), eating your sandwich or making out with your girlfriend because this is your seventh weekiversary.  Get a room.

Follow my rules for Hair and Hygiene when you go to the theatre, and you, too, can have a wonderful time.

Just don’t sit in front of me.

Today, I’m continuing the saga as we enter The Dinner Hour!! (cue scary music)

The Southampton Hospital Benefit is so huge, so gigantic, that it can only be held in a tent.  Nine hundred people were at this benefit.  And not one of them knew or cared who I was. Typical day in the life.

After the hors d’oevres free cocktail hour, we entered the dinner tent.  Our table, #79, or as I like to call it, The Jewish Table, (why the Jewish table?  I’m guessing that our dinner companions, the Kaplans, the Fienbergs, and the Goldsteins were Jewish. Just a guess.) Anyway the Jewish table was in the back.   But haha on them, because the back was also where the food was, and since we’ve already established that at a party, Jews eat – well, good luck to them getting any rubber chicken!

I could write about the long lines for the buffet dinner.  I could regale you with stories of  how the aggressively white crowd got down to the strains of Brick House, played by a band of 60-something white guys. But the real story of the dinner took place at table #79, where the first person we met was a bleach-blonde, fake breasted, poufy lipped, heavily eyelined and even more heavily jewel encrusted woman of an indeterminate age.

After all that surgery, it was hard to tell.  I’d put her anywhere between 35 and 55. Only her plastic surgeon knows for sure.  She introduced herself:

“Hi. Do you know anyone single?  I’m going through a divorce and I’m getting $50 million dollars in the settlement.  So the guy has to worth at least half that much. Got anybody?”

Well, you had to hand it to her: she wasn’t coy.

BBB (bleach blond bimbo) went on to tell us how she had a driver, an assistant, and two boys who were living with their father.  She grilled the men at the table about their friends.  Were they rich? Could she have their number? Did we know that the diamond earrings she was wearing were three carats each?  At one point, Mr. Kaplan, a charming, funny man in his seventies, looked at me over her flat-ironed head and mouthed the words “Help Me!”

Help him?  Why of course not!  I needed fodder for my blog post!

I spoke to BBB’s date – her mother. “Who’s gonna take her seriously?” she moaned. “She tells everybody everything! Me? I’m not like that. I’m quiet, private. Ever since my husband died.”

And then, quiet, private Mom told me the totally unfunny and truly sad story of how her husband had been killed in a car jacking. Not to be insensitive (did you ever notice that when people start a sentence with “not to be _____” they’re about to be totally and completely _____?”  but what a buzz kill.

Meanwhile, BBB hounded my husband. At nearly 50,  and the youngest man at the table, he must have seemed her best bet for a kill, date. “Gimme your business card!” she yelled at him over a very loud rendition of Kool and the Gangs Celebrate.

“No!” my husband yelled back, and – and I’m not kidding here – physically ran from her.

So she descended upon me: “Your husband won’t give me his business card.  He thinks I want to break up your marriage.  I would never do that!  Never!” Well, that was a relief!  I mean, any man who is interested in me – a size 10 (eight on a good day), ethnic looking, ivy educated, left-wing upper west side Jew – well he’d be bound to go for a girl who looked like she was an “air quote” dancer.

“I know!” she squealed! “let’s be best friends! What’s your name?”

Luckily, I was saved by the Blackberry: “Ma!” she said “It’s my assistant! The driver is here with the Bentley.” then, to my husband “I have a Bentley.”

“You have a Bentley!!” my husband suddenly grew animated. “We have a Bentley!” And then he showed her a picture of our Bentley, that’s him there. The Shelter dog from Arkansas.  BBB was not impressed. She stormed off.  But me and my husband?  Well, we’d had the time of our lives! I guess society ain’t so bad after all.

Not because of  my saggy knees, or brown spots, or my elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades.  No, I am old because I am horrified by what “young girls” are wearing. (plus, I refer to anyone under thirty as a young girl – I’m old for sure!)

With summer-like weather upon the city, (though this week things seem to have cooled down) everyone is letting everything hang out.  Manhattan is suffering from TMI of the body: and frankly, I don’t want to see it!

I mean, is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently one is tempted to insert a coin, grab your arm, and go for the jackpot?

Did I miss the memo that said your skirt must be so short that when you raise your arm to wave to your friend across the street, you reveal a thong so deeply wedged in it reappears on the other side?

Did someone forget to mention to me that tank tops must be worn below the bra line, so that all you need is a glass of mead and some rotten teeth to accurately approximate a Medieval serving wench?

Did I neglect to read the e-mail about displaying one’s love handles at every opportunity? Or the one about how the low-hanging pants once exclusively associated with plumbers have somehow become a fashion trend?

What ever happened to keepin’ it covered? If you’re twenty-something, well, OK.  I don’t love it, but at least you’re twenty something. It’s the thirty, forty, even fifty-somethings wearing belly shirts that really get me.  Here’s a newsflash:  I don’t care how fit you are:  unless you’re a supermodel, a movie star or a porn star, once you’ve given birth, nobody wants to see your stomach.

Plus, the flesh on display is not always taut – even when it is young.  I suppose I should think it’s great that these girls feel confident enough about their bodies that they don’t care that they’re muffin’-topping it around town.  But I don’t even like seeing the svelte ones so scantily clad the mother in me wants to run across the street and hand them a robe.  Why on earth would I want to see the pudgy ones busting out of their hip-huggers?

When I was a teenager, Preppy was in.  We must have looked ridiculous, a bunch of frizzy haired Jewish girls in multiple polo shirts with the collars turned up, as if we thought the real Wasps might not notice we were poseurs if we piled on the polos with aplomb. Our look was Wasp-wanna-be.

Today, Preppy for men is still in, but for young women, the look, evidently, is now “hooker with good highlights.”  For example, the other day in Zabars I saw a polo-wearing college boy with his short-short wearing, bra displaying, tummy flashing, $400 haircut sporting girlfriend. It looked like a casting call for a new movie: Preppy and the Parentally-supported Porn Star.

I know it’s judgmental.  I know I shouldn’t care what others wear.  But I do care.  I care because I don’t want my daughter thinking that objectifying herself is a good thing.  I don’t want my son getting the idea that women are adornments, or sex objects, or are there for his viewing pleasure.  And in case you think that sounds like I’m abdicating responsibility for raising him right, think about this: pit a mother’s admonitions to respect girls against an actual, buttocks flashing female…and guess who wins.

Look, I’m all for women reveling in their sexuality. But reveling and revealing are two different things. This physiological TMI offends me as a woman.  It sets a bad example for my kids.But mostly, it makes me hope and pray that the fashion cycle keeps turning, and the Preppy look returns to prominence by the time my daughter hits puberty.

Because by then, if she tries to go out of the house looking like a runaway who’s fallen in with a bad pimp…well I’ll be too old to do anything about it.

As I was on my way to the gym:
“I so admire you, Nancy.  I could never leave the house looking like that.”

As I was entering a dressing room to try on bathing suits:
“Are you gonna fit in those?”

As I was saying goodbye to a mother who had come to my apartment to pick up her child from a playdate:
“Is this space adequate for you?  With two children? You find this adequate?”

As I was discussing a family issue with a  relative on my husband’s side:
“Well, you’re an outsider, so you can’t really understand.”

As I was debating putting up bookshelves in my kitchen:
“Well if you want it to look like a cook book shop in here, go ahead.”

As I was putting a meal in front of my nine year old.
“It’s OK Mommy, but it’s not the best.”

As I explained to a stranger that I only had one dog.

Well that’s just ridiculous!  He deserves someone too! That’s selfish! You’re a selfish woman!

What’s going on, here?  Since when did I become a punching bag for everybody in town?

I know, I know, these are stressful times, and people are on edge.  But honestly, do they all have to take it out on me?

What’s really freaking me out is that these comments are coming from people who are supposed to be my pals, my buddies, my support system. Good thing they’re not my adversaries.  What would they say then? Plus, all of the comments (save the one from my OWN SON) come from other women.

Why is it that women often hurt each other more than they help each other? The woman in the bathing suit situation, for example, might have said something like “Oh – I hate trying on bathing suits! Good luck! I’m sure you’ll look great.”  Thereby commiserating, supporting, and positively reinforcing me all with a few phrases.  Instead, she went for the kill.

The woman with the problem with my (perfectly adequate, thank you) apartment might have said…well, how about NOTHING!!!!!  Just “thanks for the playdate” buh-bye. What makes people think I want to hear their opinion about my life, my clothes or anything else they choose to pick on.

But I learned long ago that you can’t make people say what you’d like them to say — or not say.  I can, however, in the hindsight of the blogosphere, say what I wanted to say (but didn’t) to these perfectly nasty women.

To the mother who endlessly (and snidely) comments on what I’m wearing:

Well, not all of us are so shallow that we only care about how we look.

To the friend (friend!) who is concerned about my bathing suit size
I’m going to try these on and see.  But it’s nice to know your foot fits into your mouth without a problem.

To the “omg, you live in a hovel” mom:
It’s plenty roomy as long as you and your superiority aren’t taking up space.

To the family member who thinks I’m an outsider:
You mean I’m not one of the family? Great!  Now I won’t have to see you again.

To the cook book hater:
I’ve eaten at your house, honey.  Trust me, you could use a trip to a cook book shop.

To my kid:
You don’t like it?  Don’t eat it. (Actually, I did say that one. Yay me.)

To the stranger:

Well, really there was nothing to say. I honestly believe she was crazy. And when you’re truly off-kilter (perhaps the purple hat with the large feather plume should have tipped me off) the only comeback is to smile and walk away.

Bottom line?  Well, it may be an old cliche but it’s a good one: if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say it.  And I’d add my own: And if someone has something not nice to say, zing it right back at ‘em!

Why else would I have cut off my hair, gone Pole Dancing and and taken a trapeze class all in the last month? Yep, that’s me on the trapeze…though not me (I mean , seriously) on the pole.

I think it all started with my 7th annual 39th Birthday. You know, one birthday nearer to “closer to 50 than to 40.”  One birthday closer to “invisible to men under the age of 70.” Closer to a serious debate on whether or not to get Botox. Closer, let’s face it, to the complete demise of my face. Is it just me, or is it true that every year, the day after your birthday, you develop a new physical flaw?  The day after my fortieth, I noticed my first age spot. The day after my forty-first: two little creases between my brows.  Forty second? Wrinkly knees.

Hair cut?  It’s a wonder I didn’t shave my head like Brittany Spears.

My mid-life crisis management began simply enough, I had a (free) facial at the Dermalogica store in Soho. (Which I wrote about already. Read it here.)

My next plan was to distract myself.  So I had a party.  Or – to be more exact, Nintendo had a party that just happened to be at my house. (Full disclosure: Nintendo sponsored the party, paid for the food, the party favors, and demo-ed the Wii’s internet capabilities and relationship with Netflix.) Mind you, it wasn’t a birthday party, which only serves to remind you that you’ve aged.  It was a Wii party.  Though that comes with it’s own set of problems.

See, while in life I think of myself as relatively coordinated (as long as balls, bats, and nets are not involved), in Wii world, I have bad balance, no hand eye coordination, and would never, ever have been issued a driver’s license.  My kids, on the other hand, (who will not be issued driver’s licenses for another seven years,) cruise along the Wii highway with ease.  This makes me think that were  I younger, I would just pick up a Wii remote and win the Indy 500. My Wii incompetence is indicative of my advanced age.

But the Nintendo people knew their audience.  For the kids, they downloaded a game onto the Wii  that seemed to me to be more complicated than Health Care Reform, but that my kids instantly picked up. For the adults, they downloaded a Quiz Show type game that required  virtually NO Wii skills whatsoever!  I even won.

I felt younger already.

Still — that birthday was looming, and I needed something more drastic than cutting off my hair or treating my enlarged pores.  So I went pole dancing with a friend at  Sheila Kelley’s S Factor, because. let’s face it, nothing says sexy like a 45 year old woman swinging from a pole.

How did this happen? I’ve joined this new site called Groupon which, once a day, emails me a group coupon for something in NY (FYI: they may have the service for your city, too.). Sometimes it’s restaurants, or spas, or flowers.  But this time, it was pole dancing, and with the same “I don’t know what I was thinking” spirit in which I posed for….art photos as a gift to my husband for our tenth anniversary, I signed up.

Sheila Kelley’s S Studio in NY (they are all over the country! Go Figure!) is all about women.  Empowering women, making them feel safe and in control of their bodies and their sexuality. They take all this very seriously.  But while trying to follow my incredibly perfect-bodied instructor Barbara’s instructions to touch my “body and discover something new about it,” I found it hard not to giggle.

My body has been around for 45 years.  With the possible exception of my stomach – which has been off limits to all human contact since 1977, I’d say it’s all been discovered.  Still, I was there, so I “explored” myself.  Though, something tells me I wasn’t supposed to discover (or pay attention to) the newly acquired fleshy inner-tube around my middle, or the sudden crepe-i-ness of my arms. I was still exploring, even if I was tempted to abandon ship and mutiny against Captain Age-a-lot.

There was more to it than just self-loving in public. Pole Dancing, evidently, is an art. You have to warm up. You have to learn a particular walk. (I almost fell over — but that’s just me.) You have to writhe just so. You have to stick out your butt.  A lot. And most important: you have to be able to STOP giggling.

I did.  Mostly.  I strutted and walked and gyrated with the other mom-aged women in the class.  I did the very loosely choreographed free dance, which included rubbing myself up against a wall and then sliding down it, crawling across the floor, and standing up – butt first – from a squat position. I even learned my first pole trick: The Firefly.  But I can’t tell you what it is, because Sheila Kelley Students have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Suffice it to say that the best thing about  Pole Dancing ( I don’t know why I feel like it should be capitalized.  It just seems THAT big!) was that I got to do it in a room with no mirrors (all the studios are mirror free) so I can let myself believe I didn’t look ridiculous doing it.

Had I been able to see myself, I no doubt would have run from the room in horror.  But as it was, I felt the teeniest bit sexy, swung on the pole, and had fun. (Though the bruises on my legs lasted a week.) Would I sign up for more?  Barbara gave the sales pitch after class: if we signed up for the series we’d learn more tricks! We’d feel sexier!  We’d hang upside down from the pole!  We’d learn lap-dancing!  That was it for me — you have to LEARN how to lap dance? I needed another adventure.

Trapeze.

But to read about that, (and see more pictures) you’ll have to come back tomorrow for part 2.

Here’s how.

6:50 am – Wake up. Stumble into bathroom. Throw on workout clothes. (It’s a fact that just wearing the clothes confers exercise points, whether or not you make it to the gym.

7-7:35 am – Say “get dressed, brush your teeth, eat your breakfast” over and over and over and over as if it were a mantra, instead of just a daily battle to get the kids out of the house.

7:35-7:45 Walk kids to bus, realize we are late. Run to bus. Marvel at how, once again, neither of my children has seen fit even to say goodbye before getting on the school bus.

7:45-8:30 Walk dog. See? That’s exercise….ish.

8:30-8:45 Shower/Dress

8:45-9 Coffee, breakfast, email. Multi tasking is my friend. Except when I spill my coffee on my computer as I email. Then mulit-tasking is a multi cursing, multi-hours on the phone with customer service enemy.

9-10:30 Do breakfast dishes. (yes, email takes priority over dishes in the sink.) Make beds, straighten up. Notice the kitchen floor feels sticky. Don’t want to know why – just mop it. Ditto for the Dining Room, which needs sweeping and mopping.

10:30-11:15 Get Fresh Direct delivery. Open up pantry to put everything away, and nearly get killed in the avalanche of cereal boxes, pretzel bags, and precariously balanced cans of Organic canned tomatoes that falls on my head. Re-organize pantry. Find food I probably should have thrown away in 2007.

11:15-12:15 Research our next vacation: Africa. Ok, I admit, this is the fun part. A bit overwhelming, perhaps, but fun. We are going on a big trip for my husband’s 50th birthday, and I’m responsible for putting it all together. The number of companies offering Safaris is astounding. And each one looks better than the last. Hey, somebody’s gotta do it.

12:30-1:30 I forgot to mention that during the entire day, I’ve been short of breath. Seems my lovely swine flu/pneumonia experience has left my lungs a little less than perfect. Spend this hour at the Dr.’s office taking a lung capacity test, reading ancient magazines in the waiting room (I think I saw an advertisement for that food I should have thrown away in 2007!), and being handed a handful of prescriptions. Fun Fun Fun.

1:30-2:15 Walk the dog again. Take him to the Pet Store to buy more poop bags and more training treats. Use said poop bags on the way to the pharmacy with the dog to pick up my prescriptions.

2:15-2:30 realize I haven’t had lunch. Eat, standing up in front of the refrigerator: a tangerine, a hunk of cheddar cheese on a piece of leftover Challah, and a chicken leg.

2:30-3:00 Receive package with new bedding for my bedroom.( Note to readers: do not get new bedding just before getting a new puppy. Your new bedding will instantly become old bedding, and you will need to get new new bedding way too soon.) Take dog stained and chewed old-new-bedding off the bed, replace with new/new bedding. Spend at least seven minutes trying to figure out if it’s worth saving old-new bedding, and if so, where I can store it. Decide to toss it. Dog pee and puppy-teeth sized holes just don’t say “sleep comfortably” to me. Call me crazy.

Hey look! It’s 3:00 already. Time to get the kids, start dinner, help them do their homework (the evening mantra: sit down and do your homework/sit down and do your homework, sit down and…), etc. etc. etc. See how busy my day was? And see how much nothing I did? A lot of nothing. Plenty of nothing. And after a day like that, I’m not so sure that nothing is plenty for me.

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I remember the olden days when my children would cry and carry on when I left the house to go out. “Don’t go Mommy! Don’t go!” And when they would rejoice at my return, running to the door to smother me with kisses….even if I had only gone downstairs to get the mail.

But alas, they are only memories.  Now, when I leave, I’m lucky if they look up from their book, or – let’s be honest here – one of their many screens.  Instead of “Don’t go Mommy.” I get something that’s a cross between a grunt and a goodbye.  Kind of a good-grunt. When I return, I wander around the apartment until I find someone. “Um, hello?” I say. Instead of kisses I get…well, I get nothin’.

That’s what dogs are for.

Read the rest of this post on NYC Moms Blog!  Click here.

1. Last Saturday night, hubby and I went out to dinner with (child free) friends.  The time of the reservation? 9:45.  The place?  The hip and fabulous Chop Shop in the Meat Packing district. What made it GlaMOMous other than the time and locale?  I was NOT the oldest woman in the place. Whoo hoo!

2. I was a lady who lunches and saw a Broadway Show, Time Stands Still, with Laura Linney, Alicia Silverstone, and Eric Bogosian. (they were in the show, they didn’t see it with me.)

3. I had my hair done by hair-dresser to the stars Creighton Bowman.  Or as he likes to be known, Creighton Bowman for Tres Semme.  Yes.  My hairdresser has a sponsor.  And he does movie star hair.  On real movie star heads.  Check out his website. Plus, in case you were wondering, he really does use Tres Semme.  I guess I always thought that celebrity sponsors only used their products on camera.  Turns out, Creighton (at least) uses his sponsor’s products in real life, too.

4. I met with my dog’s agent.

You read it right.  My dog, Bentley, has an agent.  And while he’s not ready for prime time yet…we’re getting there.  And before you get all upset about me exploiting my dog for profit — he’s a DOG! Get over it.

5. I had a massage in a lovely little town upstate that seems like just the kind of place celebs would go to be left alone.

6. I met Cody Linley (teen heart throb/Hannah Montana star) at a launch party for a new Wii game by Sega. (Click here to read all about it.)  And ok, ok, maybe that’s not exactly glamorous.  But my daughter was with me and she thought it was the height of celebrity.  So there.

7. I saw Kelly Ripa at the supermarket.  Which, I do believe, is the definition of GlaMOMous.  Because who, other than a mom, would be at the supermarket in the middle of the day?

8.  I went to Barneys.  True, I was there to return some clothing to the children’s department that was a gift, and that didn’t fit.  But still – it was Barney’s.  Talk about glam – even the  sales people look like movie stars. (Ok – those of you not in NY – is Barney’s a totally NY thing?  Or is it everywhere?)

I thought I could get to ten things.  Really I did.  But alas, no can do.

Still – not too shabby for a stay at home Mom.  Feeling better about myself already!