white stick with two pink lines
One
shriek of excitement
One
soon-to-be daddy yelling, "Pee on something else! Pee on something else!"
One
blip on the ultrasound screen
One
tiny thud of a heartbeat
One
tear rolling down my cheek
One
hand squeezing mine
One
million kicks inside of me, a World Cup match in utero
One
month of eating only water ice and grilled cheese
One
ton of money spent on cocoa butter
One
rare March snowstorm
One
trudge through the snow while in labor
One
last walk into the hospital as just the two of us
One
first walk out of the hospital as a family
One
month of sleep deprivation
One
gummy smile
One
giggle
One
"Da-da"
One
"Ma-ma"
One
shiny new white chicklet of a tooth
One
clap of chubby little hands
One
shake of the head
One
bop to the music
One
wet baby kiss on my cheek
One
belly crawl
One
baby singing in the back of the car
One
"Love you"
One
curious finger pointing at everything
One
baby becoming a little boy
One
birthday cake with
One
candle
One
year
One
phenomenal journey.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Never Judge a Book By Its Cover
Ash Wednesday brings back memories of my second year in law school. I was in the thick of a grueling schedule, tired of lifting books that felt like two tons, no longer phased by the young men on the subway, selling incense and "fine body oils," and bootlegged movies.
I was feeling like a slacker. The only extracurricular activities that I was involved in were Hangman, Tic Tac Toe, and M.A.S.H, which my buddy and I played on my notebook in every class, in between taking notes until our hands went numb.
Then, one day, a guy in class told me about some Irish Law Society, looking for new members to join. They hosted happy hours, networking activities, and even a professional mentorship program. They seemed all welcoming, so I signed up.
Weeks later, I received a letter in the mail, informing me that I was paired up with a state court judge, who was to become my mentor. I called my dad to tell him the exciting news.
He cautioned me, “Well, you’d better tell the judge that you’re Jewish.”
“Dad, WHAT are you talking about! You really think religion is going to come up in our conversation? Plus, it’s none of his business what I am!”
Wednesday came. As I walked five blocks to city hall, I passed many people with ashes on their foreheads. Ash Wednesday? Interesting timing, I thought.
I entered the judge’s office and was greeted by large Irish flags and a group of sweet young women, named Patty, Theresa, Sinead O'Connor. Patty led me into the judge’s chambers and within minutes a wild, ruddy-faced, white-haired, stocky, fifty-something judge cruised in and took his seat across from me, with Patty seated to my right.
“Judge, would you like some coffee?” Patty inquired. It was clearly their morning routine.
“Nope, givin’ it up for Lent!" he declared. That caffeine is just not good for you, you know?” Patty nodded sweetly.
I nodded too, shifting in my seat. The judge smiled and looked across the desk at me. “So, what are you giving up for Lent?”
He literally didn't even get my name or introduce himself.
What am I giving up for Lent? What am I giving up for Lent? What is Lent? I thought to myself, frantically.
Now, seriously, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended to be giving up for Lent: Lima beans, vegetables, pork. But I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge.
There was dead silence in his chambers. Patty and the judge stared at me, waiting for an answer. I took a deep breath.
“Well, my answer is . . . going to surprise you.”
Dead silence.
“I’m Irish . . . but I’m Jewish.” I smiled at the judge. Total confusion swept over his round face.
Dead silence.
Then the judge snapped back. “Well, what is your Irish side giving up?” He winked at Patty, feeling very wise and witty once again.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended my "Irish side" to be giving up for Lent: soda bread, Guinness bear, sausage. I thought about telling him my "Irish side" was giving up Jesus, but I thought that would surely ruin my chances of securing him as a mentor.
I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge, nor myself.
"What's my Irish side giving up? Um . . . nothing.” I replied, somewhat apologetically.
He stared at me blankly. He just didn't get it.
The judge and Patty looked at me oddly, and then the judge broke the awkward silence, “So, where do you go to school?”
“Temple,” I exhaled, “and that’s as in law school, not synagogue!”
The judge kindly offered me a summer internship, but I already had a job at a plaintiff's firm, so I had to decline. He invited me to come watch the proceedings in his courtroom whenever I wanted to pop in. He was extremely generous with both his time and his advice once our awkward meeting hit its stride.
Unfortunately, I only saw my "mentor" one more time, when he was singing a spirited version of "That's What Friends Are For" at the Irish Society's holiday (or should I say, Christmas) party. But, I will never forget that judge and I wonder if he will ever forget the Irish Jew (who's still not giving up a damn thing for Lent). I certainly never expected that I would teach a judge a lesson about not prejudging other people. Leave it to the slacker . . .
I was feeling like a slacker. The only extracurricular activities that I was involved in were Hangman, Tic Tac Toe, and M.A.S.H, which my buddy and I played on my notebook in every class, in between taking notes until our hands went numb.
Then, one day, a guy in class told me about some Irish Law Society, looking for new members to join. They hosted happy hours, networking activities, and even a professional mentorship program. They seemed all welcoming, so I signed up.
Weeks later, I received a letter in the mail, informing me that I was paired up with a state court judge, who was to become my mentor. I called my dad to tell him the exciting news.
He cautioned me, “Well, you’d better tell the judge that you’re Jewish.”
“Dad, WHAT are you talking about! You really think religion is going to come up in our conversation? Plus, it’s none of his business what I am!”
Wednesday came. As I walked five blocks to city hall, I passed many people with ashes on their foreheads. Ash Wednesday? Interesting timing, I thought.
I entered the judge’s office and was greeted by large Irish flags and a group of sweet young women, named Patty, Theresa, Sinead O'Connor. Patty led me into the judge’s chambers and within minutes a wild, ruddy-faced, white-haired, stocky, fifty-something judge cruised in and took his seat across from me, with Patty seated to my right.
“Judge, would you like some coffee?” Patty inquired. It was clearly their morning routine.
“Nope, givin’ it up for Lent!" he declared. That caffeine is just not good for you, you know?” Patty nodded sweetly.
I nodded too, shifting in my seat. The judge smiled and looked across the desk at me. “So, what are you giving up for Lent?”
He literally didn't even get my name or introduce himself.
What am I giving up for Lent? What am I giving up for Lent? What is Lent? I thought to myself, frantically.
Now, seriously, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended to be giving up for Lent: Lima beans, vegetables, pork. But I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge.
There was dead silence in his chambers. Patty and the judge stared at me, waiting for an answer. I took a deep breath.
“Well, my answer is . . . going to surprise you.”
Dead silence.
“I’m Irish . . . but I’m Jewish.” I smiled at the judge. Total confusion swept over his round face.
Dead silence.
Then the judge snapped back. “Well, what is your Irish side giving up?” He winked at Patty, feeling very wise and witty once again.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of all kinds of things that I could have pretended my "Irish side" to be giving up for Lent: soda bread, Guinness bear, sausage. I thought about telling him my "Irish side" was giving up Jesus, but I thought that would surely ruin my chances of securing him as a mentor.
I just couldn't bring myself to lie to the judge, nor myself.
"What's my Irish side giving up? Um . . . nothing.” I replied, somewhat apologetically.
He stared at me blankly. He just didn't get it.
The judge and Patty looked at me oddly, and then the judge broke the awkward silence, “So, where do you go to school?”
“Temple,” I exhaled, “and that’s as in law school, not synagogue!”
The judge kindly offered me a summer internship, but I already had a job at a plaintiff's firm, so I had to decline. He invited me to come watch the proceedings in his courtroom whenever I wanted to pop in. He was extremely generous with both his time and his advice once our awkward meeting hit its stride.
Unfortunately, I only saw my "mentor" one more time, when he was singing a spirited version of "That's What Friends Are For" at the Irish Society's holiday (or should I say, Christmas) party. But, I will never forget that judge and I wonder if he will ever forget the Irish Jew (who's still not giving up a damn thing for Lent). I certainly never expected that I would teach a judge a lesson about not prejudging other people. Leave it to the slacker . . .
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Keep the Beat
A few weeks ago, I sat among 5,000 people at the funeral for my friend's father, a music icon. The funeral was a spectacular tribute, complete with stirring gospel and R&B music, and no shortage of heart and soul to go around.
I had never in my life attended a funeral where I tapped my foot along to the music, smiled at the person sitting next to me, or felt so inspired. I sang along to "This Little Light of Mine" with two hundred joyful people in the church choir.
They had spunk.
Exuded spirit.
The congregation knew how to celebrate a life and how to give a proper send-off.
When the charismatic reverend reflected on the long successful career of the dearly departed, Teddy Pendergrass, he spoke of the early days, long before superstardom, when Teddy played drums for Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.
"He played the beat for someone else!" the reverend shouted. "Imagine that!" The reverend imitated a drummer tapping a drum with his sticks. There were several dozen 'Hallelujahs" and a couple hundred "Amens."
"Let me saaaaaaaaay it again! He kept the BEAT for SOMEONE ELSE!" The middle aged reverend jumped up and down wildly at the pulpit, while the crowd roared.
"Now let me ask you, how many of YOU keep the beat for someone else... so that THEY might shine?"
I thought about how many people in my life have kept the beat for me; all of the people who continue to keep the beat for me. And I thought about the people for whom I have kept the beat and for whom I continue to keep the beat.
On this day of love, and the days to come, I am going to remember Teddy Pendergrass and the incredible gifts he gave to the world.
And I'm going to remember to keep the beat. For my husband. For my son. For my parents. For my friends. For my lonely neighbor. For the child I have not yet met who needs an advocate. For children in Haiti. For people around the corner and around the world.
What could be a better Valentine's Day gift to the ones we love than simply to keep the beat?
I had never in my life attended a funeral where I tapped my foot along to the music, smiled at the person sitting next to me, or felt so inspired. I sang along to "This Little Light of Mine" with two hundred joyful people in the church choir.
They had spunk.
Exuded spirit.
The congregation knew how to celebrate a life and how to give a proper send-off.
When the charismatic reverend reflected on the long successful career of the dearly departed, Teddy Pendergrass, he spoke of the early days, long before superstardom, when Teddy played drums for Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.
"He played the beat for someone else!" the reverend shouted. "Imagine that!" The reverend imitated a drummer tapping a drum with his sticks. There were several dozen 'Hallelujahs" and a couple hundred "Amens."
"Let me saaaaaaaaay it again! He kept the BEAT for SOMEONE ELSE!" The middle aged reverend jumped up and down wildly at the pulpit, while the crowd roared.
"Now let me ask you, how many of YOU keep the beat for someone else... so that THEY might shine?"
I thought about how many people in my life have kept the beat for me; all of the people who continue to keep the beat for me. And I thought about the people for whom I have kept the beat and for whom I continue to keep the beat.
On this day of love, and the days to come, I am going to remember Teddy Pendergrass and the incredible gifts he gave to the world.
And I'm going to remember to keep the beat. For my husband. For my son. For my parents. For my friends. For my lonely neighbor. For the child I have not yet met who needs an advocate. For children in Haiti. For people around the corner and around the world.
What could be a better Valentine's Day gift to the ones we love than simply to keep the beat?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Alias
There is a warrant out for my arrest.
I am so not kidding.
I received in the mail yesterday my "last notice before arrest."
What is my alleged offense?
Marrying a man who exceeded the parking meter limit in a car registered in my name. Shouldn't HIS name be on the warrant?
I told "Timmy Tickets," (AKA my husband) to deal with this matter immediately before I'm pulled over, handcuffed in front of my baby, and thrown into the back of a police car. I mean, seriously, i could wind up in the slammer.
To avoid this outcome, I am contemplating reviving one of my many aliases which I have acquired over the years.
Some viable options are:
1. Baby Boots - This was my "handle" or code name when my family had a CB radio in the late '70s. Every December, my parents, AKA Mr. Sunshine and Foxy Mama, would take my sister and I out of school for 2 weeks, promising our teachers that we would get an "educational experience" on our vacation. Oh yes, we got an education. While talking to truckers over the CB radio on our way down I-95 to Miami, we learned about "lot lizards" (hookers) and "latrine lips" (truckers with dirty mouths).
2. Stace Face - When I was a toddler, my mom's best friend from high school used to shriek this nickname for me at the top of her lungs when she'd see me, terrifying me, even though she was just 4 foot 11, even in her trademark 3 inch red spiked heels. I was so scared of her that I once cannonballed into her swimming pool before I knew how to swim, just to escape her hugs.
3. Mother Fish - When I was around 6 years old, this nickname used to make me so upset that I would tattle to my mom ever time my sister uttered the words, "You wish, Mother Fish!' My mom insisted that my sister stopped using such offensive taunts. My sister creatively changed it up to, "You wish, Potato Knish!"
4. Electric Rollerhead - Can you imagine an arrest warrant out for "Electric Rollerhead," parking meter limit violator, menace to society?
5. Fernanda Barrosa - My phenomenal fake ID that my sister's college roommate slipped to me when I was sixteen. The girl in the photo had black curly hair, bright blue eyes, and was a whopping 26 years old (the oldest possible age I could have ever imagined). It was PERFECT. Until I got busted with it in a bar at Cornell...and then again, at Dave and Busters in Philly. "No hablo Englais" did not work twice.
6. Brown Bear - This was my pregnant alias, according to my husband, who claimed that I was in hibernation the entire first trimester. I would sleep for approximately 15 hours a night and then wake up saying, "Well, I'm awake now...."
7. Wonder Woman - Just let the cops try to stop me once I put on my tiny wonder woman costume, cape and all, and run around outside in a season far from Halloween, which I have been known to do for the amusement of others.
8. Two Pound Ninety - This was my alias while I lived abroad in London for a semester in 1996. I used to scream this out in my best Cockney accent when my two roommates would call out "roll call." "4 pound 30" and '6 pound 70" were their aliases. Must have been the hash.
9. Senator Heenan - Very distinguished moniker given to me by my favorite law school professor every time he would call on me to inquire about mens rea. The LMPD wouldn't mess with a senator, would they?
10. Old Lady Jenkins - "But officer, you must be mistaken! Old Lady Jenkins is a law-abiding, early to bed, early to rise, model citizen. She would never be anything less than ultra vigilant about a parking meter expiration. You must be looking for Old MAN Jenkins, my husband, bad ass bandit to meter maids near and far. Yes, he's the outlaw who swore he would pay the minor violation months ago. He's a clever one, Officer, you need to know. He sometimes goes by the alias, Simcha, the name of our rabbi's husband, which he pronounces like "Simka" from the Lion King (because he's still working on his Hebrew "chah" sound). Officer, he's still getting speeding tickets in the mail from Rome from our honeymoon TWO and half years ago. Need I say more? He's your man!"
Here's hoping one of my aliases will work or that my baaaaaaad husband will resolve this matter asap. My next blog entry may be a letter from jail, much like MLK's Letter from Birmingham Jail. I'm sure the other inmates will come up with all kinds of new names for me behind bars. Wish me luck.
I am so not kidding.
I received in the mail yesterday my "last notice before arrest."
What is my alleged offense?
Marrying a man who exceeded the parking meter limit in a car registered in my name. Shouldn't HIS name be on the warrant?
I told "Timmy Tickets," (AKA my husband) to deal with this matter immediately before I'm pulled over, handcuffed in front of my baby, and thrown into the back of a police car. I mean, seriously, i could wind up in the slammer.
To avoid this outcome, I am contemplating reviving one of my many aliases which I have acquired over the years.
Some viable options are:
1. Baby Boots - This was my "handle" or code name when my family had a CB radio in the late '70s. Every December, my parents, AKA Mr. Sunshine and Foxy Mama, would take my sister and I out of school for 2 weeks, promising our teachers that we would get an "educational experience" on our vacation. Oh yes, we got an education. While talking to truckers over the CB radio on our way down I-95 to Miami, we learned about "lot lizards" (hookers) and "latrine lips" (truckers with dirty mouths).
2. Stace Face - When I was a toddler, my mom's best friend from high school used to shriek this nickname for me at the top of her lungs when she'd see me, terrifying me, even though she was just 4 foot 11, even in her trademark 3 inch red spiked heels. I was so scared of her that I once cannonballed into her swimming pool before I knew how to swim, just to escape her hugs.
3. Mother Fish - When I was around 6 years old, this nickname used to make me so upset that I would tattle to my mom ever time my sister uttered the words, "You wish, Mother Fish!' My mom insisted that my sister stopped using such offensive taunts. My sister creatively changed it up to, "You wish, Potato Knish!"
4. Electric Rollerhead - Can you imagine an arrest warrant out for "Electric Rollerhead," parking meter limit violator, menace to society?
5. Fernanda Barrosa - My phenomenal fake ID that my sister's college roommate slipped to me when I was sixteen. The girl in the photo had black curly hair, bright blue eyes, and was a whopping 26 years old (the oldest possible age I could have ever imagined). It was PERFECT. Until I got busted with it in a bar at Cornell...and then again, at Dave and Busters in Philly. "No hablo Englais" did not work twice.
6. Brown Bear - This was my pregnant alias, according to my husband, who claimed that I was in hibernation the entire first trimester. I would sleep for approximately 15 hours a night and then wake up saying, "Well, I'm awake now...."
7. Wonder Woman - Just let the cops try to stop me once I put on my tiny wonder woman costume, cape and all, and run around outside in a season far from Halloween, which I have been known to do for the amusement of others.
8. Two Pound Ninety - This was my alias while I lived abroad in London for a semester in 1996. I used to scream this out in my best Cockney accent when my two roommates would call out "roll call." "4 pound 30" and '6 pound 70" were their aliases. Must have been the hash.
9. Senator Heenan - Very distinguished moniker given to me by my favorite law school professor every time he would call on me to inquire about mens rea. The LMPD wouldn't mess with a senator, would they?
10. Old Lady Jenkins - "But officer, you must be mistaken! Old Lady Jenkins is a law-abiding, early to bed, early to rise, model citizen. She would never be anything less than ultra vigilant about a parking meter expiration. You must be looking for Old MAN Jenkins, my husband, bad ass bandit to meter maids near and far. Yes, he's the outlaw who swore he would pay the minor violation months ago. He's a clever one, Officer, you need to know. He sometimes goes by the alias, Simcha, the name of our rabbi's husband, which he pronounces like "Simka" from the Lion King (because he's still working on his Hebrew "chah" sound). Officer, he's still getting speeding tickets in the mail from Rome from our honeymoon TWO and half years ago. Need I say more? He's your man!"
Here's hoping one of my aliases will work or that my baaaaaaad husband will resolve this matter asap. My next blog entry may be a letter from jail, much like MLK's Letter from Birmingham Jail. I'm sure the other inmates will come up with all kinds of new names for me behind bars. Wish me luck.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Superspinner
Dear "pregnant" chick in Sunday morning spinning class,
I am on to you. I don't believe for a second that you are actually pregnant.
I suspect you snuck into a dressing room at the nearby Mimi Maternity store, strapped on the prosthetic pregnant belly, and slipped out the front door of the store. From there, I believe you decided to throw on some bike shorts and sneakers and head to the gym just to make everyone believe that you are some superhuman being.
I don't buy your act.
No pregnant woman in her right mind would hop on a bike for a grueling hour, only to ride absolutely nowhere, in a room filled with sweaty men and women, some of whom might potetnitally harbor the H1N1 virus or worse.
If my instincts about you are misguided and you are, in fact, actually "with child," I think you might be mentally unstable and I would like to tattle to your doctor about your dangerous extracurricular activities.
Didn't your doctor warn you about the risks of exposing your unborn baby to booming techno music? Aren't you concerned about exhaustion? Falling off the bike?
I'll tell you one thing, if you go into labor in the middle of spinning, while I'm pedaling along to the Black Eyed Peas and glancing at the clock every 10 seconds, I am not going to stand in as your midwife.
Nor doula.
Nor doctor.
Nor nurse.
Nor Lamaze coach.
Sorry. It's not that I'm a heartless pseudo-cyclist, I just would rather not participate in another birth at this time. I hope that you understand.
I am simply trying to get back into some sort of shape, move my muscles a bit, and bop to the music.
In between cursing the creator of spinning, bruising my butt on the rock hard bike seat, gulping down water, and trying to avoid eye contact with the flawless instructor, screaming my name for "encouragement," I have you directly in my line of vision. And I don't appreciate it.
What worries me the most is that in a couple of months, I'll see you again, without that bogus bump. You'll gallivant into spinning, jump on a bike like Lance Armstrong, and you may even have somebody else's baby (or it could even be a doll that cries real tears and pees in a diaper) strapped to your chest in a Baby Bjorn. Everyone will be looking at you in awe, thinking, "Wow, look at her, she just gave birth 72 hours ago, isn't she amazing?" But, I'll still be in the back of the class, huffing and puffing up a hill to nowhere, not buying your shenanigans for one minute.
Okay, so here's your final chance to come clean. That's not a baby in there, is it? That protruding belly button doesn't even look real! Let go of the charade, lady. Otherwise, I'm not coming back to spinning class.
(You may think that I'm just looking for an excuse to get out of spinning ever again. If that's what you think, you're absolutely right).
Yours truly,
the lazy ass in the back of the class, shooting you dirty looks
I am on to you. I don't believe for a second that you are actually pregnant.
I suspect you snuck into a dressing room at the nearby Mimi Maternity store, strapped on the prosthetic pregnant belly, and slipped out the front door of the store. From there, I believe you decided to throw on some bike shorts and sneakers and head to the gym just to make everyone believe that you are some superhuman being.
I don't buy your act.
No pregnant woman in her right mind would hop on a bike for a grueling hour, only to ride absolutely nowhere, in a room filled with sweaty men and women, some of whom might potetnitally harbor the H1N1 virus or worse.
If my instincts about you are misguided and you are, in fact, actually "with child," I think you might be mentally unstable and I would like to tattle to your doctor about your dangerous extracurricular activities.
Didn't your doctor warn you about the risks of exposing your unborn baby to booming techno music? Aren't you concerned about exhaustion? Falling off the bike?
I'll tell you one thing, if you go into labor in the middle of spinning, while I'm pedaling along to the Black Eyed Peas and glancing at the clock every 10 seconds, I am not going to stand in as your midwife.
Nor doula.
Nor doctor.
Nor nurse.
Nor Lamaze coach.
Sorry. It's not that I'm a heartless pseudo-cyclist, I just would rather not participate in another birth at this time. I hope that you understand.
I am simply trying to get back into some sort of shape, move my muscles a bit, and bop to the music.
In between cursing the creator of spinning, bruising my butt on the rock hard bike seat, gulping down water, and trying to avoid eye contact with the flawless instructor, screaming my name for "encouragement," I have you directly in my line of vision. And I don't appreciate it.
What worries me the most is that in a couple of months, I'll see you again, without that bogus bump. You'll gallivant into spinning, jump on a bike like Lance Armstrong, and you may even have somebody else's baby (or it could even be a doll that cries real tears and pees in a diaper) strapped to your chest in a Baby Bjorn. Everyone will be looking at you in awe, thinking, "Wow, look at her, she just gave birth 72 hours ago, isn't she amazing?" But, I'll still be in the back of the class, huffing and puffing up a hill to nowhere, not buying your shenanigans for one minute.
Okay, so here's your final chance to come clean. That's not a baby in there, is it? That protruding belly button doesn't even look real! Let go of the charade, lady. Otherwise, I'm not coming back to spinning class.
(You may think that I'm just looking for an excuse to get out of spinning ever again. If that's what you think, you're absolutely right).
Yours truly,
the lazy ass in the back of the class, shooting you dirty looks
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
From Totally Metro to . . . Totally Retro
Two mesh body sponges hang side by side in our master bathroom shower; one purple, one blue. Neither one is mine.
My Laura Mercier french vanilla body wash is kicked, but for two drops. I haven't used it in weeks.
Someone has been using my sleek black bottle of hair spray and my gigantic round brush to comb his hair.
That's right. I said it. HIS hair.
My husband has a problem. He is totally metro. Sexual, that is.
His eyebrows have a nicer shape than mine. He smells of luxurious soaps, lovely colognes, expensive hair products. He has loads of primping tools, including a Mangroomer, for eliminating hair in hard to reach places, like the back. He sometimes uses my Degree Ultimate Control Deodorant for Women.
Although he was totally metro when I first met him, 3 years ago today, I feel partially responsible for the metro mania that has swept our household.
My man's metrosexuality hit an all-time high when I took him to a specialty soap store in NYC, called Sabon. He rolled his eyes in protest of browsing through yet another soap store, but he indulged me and followed me in. After quickly picking up a few of my favorite things, I met him at the cash register. He was smelling a chunk of brown and beige glycerin soap.
"What do you think of this?" he asked casually. I took a whiff.
"Yum, I love it! What is it?
"Dulce de leche," he read from the label on the packaging. "I'm going to grab a couple of bars."
Within a week, Dulce de leche was dripping from his pores and he was contemplating how Sabon could create other products in the same delicious scent.
"Babe, I emailed the the product development team at Sabon today," he announced one afternoon.
"No you didn't!"
"I did. I suggested that they make a Dulce de Leche candle too."
"Who ARE you?" I yelled, in hysterics.
My man was a mad, mad metro.
And it didn't stop there. He started saying to his buddies over the phone, "Dude, I got this great new soap, you have to try it...." WHAT?! After dining out with friends , he would lean in close to one of his college boys and whisper, "Remember that soap I told you about?" and then slip him an extra bar of Dulce de Leche the way someone would slip a dime bag to a friend.
When friends or relatives would come visit us from NYC, they would bring along pounds and pounds of Dulce de Leche soap at my husband's request.
I thought this was more than I could take. But, then a few weeks ago, something happened.
My metro man came home from Rite Aid with Old Spice body wash and cologne. Let me say it again. OLD SPICE! I wanted to take his temperature. I asked to check his Blackberry for evidence of an affair with some cheesy 50 year old woman with feathered hair. I wanted to know what the hell happened to my metrosexual husband who would ordinarily turn his nose up to such a putrid retro product.
He dismissed my fears, laughing. "I wanted to try something new, that's all. It reminds me of my dad."
"First of all, your dad is ALIVE, and he doesn't even wear Old Spice!" I complained. "It's awful."
"Just give it a chance," he said, slicking his hair to the side like an extra on Mad Men.
"You know I have a nose like a blood hound! PLEASE go back to Dulce de Leche, Laura Mercier, Kiehls....your usual cast of characters. I can't take that Old Spice smell!"
The next day, after he left for work, I grabbed the red family-size bottle of Old Spice body wash from the shower and hid it in a kitchen cupboard while on my tippy toes. He would never find it there.
"Where's my goddamn Old Spice?" he pondered with a western drawl, the second he came home and saw me giggling.
"I don't have a clue," I laughed.
"Come on, give it back, it's starting to grow on me."
"No, the only thing growing on you is all that hair on your chest! You look like a '70s porn star!"
"It's a new look for me," he laughed.
"A small animal could be burrowing in there and you wouldn't even know it!"
Somehow the purchase of Old Spice changed everything. My husband went from totally metro to totally retro. It was like I was married to Burt Reynolds circa 1975. I know, I know, he was a sex symbol. But that was 1975!
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I quickly started to miss my husband's well-groomed eyebrows, his gelled spikey hair, his clean-shaven face and body.
I thought a weekend in NYC might do the trick. In the middle of a restaurant in Bryant Park, my sister mentioned, "There's a small Sabon store over there with the other shops." My husband's face lit up.
"Let's go check it out."
There were 100 people crammed into a store the size of my bathroom.
"I'll wait out here," I told him, "but take your time."
I smiled at him through the frosted window. He asked the sales girl to hold up a whole bar of Dulce de Leche soap, the length of my leg.
"Should I get the whole thing?" he mouthed to me.
"Yes!"
And, with that one purchase, my husband went from totally retro straight back to totally metro.
My Laura Mercier french vanilla body wash is kicked, but for two drops. I haven't used it in weeks.
Someone has been using my sleek black bottle of hair spray and my gigantic round brush to comb his hair.
That's right. I said it. HIS hair.
My husband has a problem. He is totally metro. Sexual, that is.
His eyebrows have a nicer shape than mine. He smells of luxurious soaps, lovely colognes, expensive hair products. He has loads of primping tools, including a Mangroomer, for eliminating hair in hard to reach places, like the back. He sometimes uses my Degree Ultimate Control Deodorant for Women.
Although he was totally metro when I first met him, 3 years ago today, I feel partially responsible for the metro mania that has swept our household.
My man's metrosexuality hit an all-time high when I took him to a specialty soap store in NYC, called Sabon. He rolled his eyes in protest of browsing through yet another soap store, but he indulged me and followed me in. After quickly picking up a few of my favorite things, I met him at the cash register. He was smelling a chunk of brown and beige glycerin soap.
"What do you think of this?" he asked casually. I took a whiff.
"Yum, I love it! What is it?
"Dulce de leche," he read from the label on the packaging. "I'm going to grab a couple of bars."
Within a week, Dulce de leche was dripping from his pores and he was contemplating how Sabon could create other products in the same delicious scent.
"Babe, I emailed the the product development team at Sabon today," he announced one afternoon.
"No you didn't!"
"I did. I suggested that they make a Dulce de Leche candle too."
"Who ARE you?" I yelled, in hysterics.
My man was a mad, mad metro.
And it didn't stop there. He started saying to his buddies over the phone, "Dude, I got this great new soap, you have to try it...." WHAT?! After dining out with friends , he would lean in close to one of his college boys and whisper, "Remember that soap I told you about?" and then slip him an extra bar of Dulce de Leche the way someone would slip a dime bag to a friend.
When friends or relatives would come visit us from NYC, they would bring along pounds and pounds of Dulce de Leche soap at my husband's request.
I thought this was more than I could take. But, then a few weeks ago, something happened.
My metro man came home from Rite Aid with Old Spice body wash and cologne. Let me say it again. OLD SPICE! I wanted to take his temperature. I asked to check his Blackberry for evidence of an affair with some cheesy 50 year old woman with feathered hair. I wanted to know what the hell happened to my metrosexual husband who would ordinarily turn his nose up to such a putrid retro product.
He dismissed my fears, laughing. "I wanted to try something new, that's all. It reminds me of my dad."
"First of all, your dad is ALIVE, and he doesn't even wear Old Spice!" I complained. "It's awful."
"Just give it a chance," he said, slicking his hair to the side like an extra on Mad Men.
"You know I have a nose like a blood hound! PLEASE go back to Dulce de Leche, Laura Mercier, Kiehls....your usual cast of characters. I can't take that Old Spice smell!"
The next day, after he left for work, I grabbed the red family-size bottle of Old Spice body wash from the shower and hid it in a kitchen cupboard while on my tippy toes. He would never find it there.
"Where's my goddamn Old Spice?" he pondered with a western drawl, the second he came home and saw me giggling.
"I don't have a clue," I laughed.
"Come on, give it back, it's starting to grow on me."
"No, the only thing growing on you is all that hair on your chest! You look like a '70s porn star!"
"It's a new look for me," he laughed.
"A small animal could be burrowing in there and you wouldn't even know it!"
Somehow the purchase of Old Spice changed everything. My husband went from totally metro to totally retro. It was like I was married to Burt Reynolds circa 1975. I know, I know, he was a sex symbol. But that was 1975!
.jpg)
I quickly started to miss my husband's well-groomed eyebrows, his gelled spikey hair, his clean-shaven face and body.
I thought a weekend in NYC might do the trick. In the middle of a restaurant in Bryant Park, my sister mentioned, "There's a small Sabon store over there with the other shops." My husband's face lit up.
"Let's go check it out."
There were 100 people crammed into a store the size of my bathroom.
"I'll wait out here," I told him, "but take your time."
I smiled at him through the frosted window. He asked the sales girl to hold up a whole bar of Dulce de Leche soap, the length of my leg.
"Should I get the whole thing?" he mouthed to me.
"Yes!"
And, with that one purchase, my husband went from totally retro straight back to totally metro.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Be My Guest
Whenever a massive snowstorm hits, I think of three things.
First, 302. 302 was the number that meant Lower Merion Schools were closed. Snow day! When I was growing up, my sister and I would huddle in her bedroom at 6 a.m., crowded around her pink Sony clock radio and cross our fingers that the radio announcer would say that magic number. If we heard 302, we knew we could go back to bed, watch TV all day, go sledding, bake cookies, sip hot chocolate, or anything else we chose. (Remember the days before computers and the internet?). It was glorious.
If the radio announcer called out, "300, 301, 303, 304," we would sigh audibly and head into my parents' bedroom, our heads hanging low. Very quickly, we would prepare a plea deal.
"Mom, school's open, but it's gonna be TERRIBLE out today. I mean, seriously, EVERY other school in the state is closed!" Sometimes we exaggerated.
"The roads are icy, that treacherous BLACK ice, ya know, it's downright dangerous out there." Two powdery inches lay on the ground.
My parents giggled sleepily. They had always taught us to think creatively and argue a position with persistence and flair. My mom would roll over and respond sleepily: "If there's more than 6 inches of snow, you can stay home." By far, the coolest rule my mom ever devised. I would take out a ruler (and sometimes tilt it) and often find 6 inches of snow on our wooden deck out back. AMAZING.
The second thing that I think of when it snows is being in labor at home in the middle of a huge snowstorm last March, curled up on my sofa, watching the movie, Milk, with my husband, not knowing that our lives were about to change forever just 12 hours later.
Whenever it snows, I also think about how my grandparents came to stay with me for a night when they got snowed in at the Philly airport in February 2003.
My mom called me in a panic, "Gram and Grandpop are stranded at the airport!" My mom was known for her creative flair and tendency to exaggerate also.
"What do you mean STRANDED?"
"They sat on the stupid runway for 4 hours and all they got was a bag of pretzels! Now the whole airport is shut down and there's a 2 hour line for a taxi!
The most serious part of this story, the four hours with only pretzels, was not lost on me. "Mom, didn't they pack sandwiches?"
I could not fathom any family member of mine boarding a plane without first picking up/preparing Boars Head turkey sandwiches on rye bread or perhaps a sesame bagel. A good plane outfit was first priority. Sandwiches, second. Photo ID/passport, third. If my grandparents boarded that jet to Miami sans sandwiches they were just asking for trouble.
"Forget the sandwiches, Stacy, do you know anyone with an SUV who can go pick them up?"
I hung up and made several calls to friends, but nobody was venturing out in the blizzard. There was already a foot of fresh snow on the ground and more expected. I called my mom back to tell her the bad news. "It's alright, they're in line for a taxi now," she told me.
"Oh, good." What a relief.
"And they're coming to your apartment, because it's the closest to the airport."
Panic.
"Wait, what?"
"They are going to sleep over."
"In my tiny little STUDIO?"
"Yes, they can't get home to Wynnewood, they can't fly down to Miami until tomorrow at the earliest. And, listen, they don't have anything with them except their carry-on bags. Not even winter coats."
I jumped out of my bed and started "grandparent-proofing" my apartment. I grabbed the long cords from my blow dryer and hair iron and wrapped them up frantically, as they now presented a tripping hazard. I plucked stray sweaters off my walk-through closet floor. I made sure my area rug was not curling in any corner. I scooped a stack of 10 pound law books from my floor and placed them with a thud on my wooden desk.
Next, I pulled out a sponge and scrubbed my minuscule black and white '70s tile bathroom, a far cry from the gigantic marble bathroom that my grandparents called their own in their North Miami Beach condo, where they had been headed before the storm hit.
What would they think of my tiny apartment that could have fit easily into their bathroom? You could practically do the dishes in my kitchen sink while laying in bed. That's how small is was.
I started to think of the positives. My building was right ON Rittenhouse Square, not too shabby. But you would have never known it by the view of the imposing red brick wall from my two windows. If you stood exactly one inch from the windows and you craned your neck approximately 90 degrees, you could make out a sliver of park life below. Nobody ever stood that close but me.
My grandparents' condo was located on an island, which Sophia Loren, a resident herself, had dubbed "the Florida Riviera." Their home had a sweeping wraparound balcony that overlooked the glistening Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Hundred foot yachts would cruise lazily by all day long and manatees would pop their heads out of the water happily.
I started rifling through my drawers for clothes that could double as appropriate pajamas for my grandparents. I found a pair of men's scrubs and an XL Budweiser University of Michigan shirt, tattered and well-lived in by my friend, Eric, for 4 years of college. My grandfather was 84 years old, had fought in WWII, and here I was trying to dress him up like a frat boy. I found some large sweatpants and an oversized Harvard sweatshirt, which I thought, in my delusional state of mind, would be perfect for my grandmom,.
I pictured Gram's pink silk robe hanging idly in her Miami condo, wondering what the hell happened to their plane.
The screeching sounds of my next door neighbor singing her heart out and pounding her piano keys flooded my apartment.
"Not again!" I yelled to myself.
"Oh, the weather outside is FRIGHTFUL!" she howled off-key.
My grandparents had a neighbor in Miami who sang too. Whitney Houston.
I put on my ipod and found some Billie Holiday. I cranked the heat up to 75.
I was sure that my grandparents would arrive in foul moods, exhausted and stressed out. Instead, a happy knock struck my door.
"Who issssssssss it?" I asked, feigning ignorance, like they used to do when I knocked on their door as a little girl.
"Mailman!" my grandmom hollered back in a gruff male voice.
The party was ON!
"Yay, you made it!" I greeted them, opening the door. They stood there with light sweaters on, snow-covered Gucci loafers, and huge grins on their faces. Gram's vibrant red hair was sprinkled with snowflakes. "Are you guys okay?" My grandpop held up airplane size bottles of gin and vodka proudly in each hand.
"We brought the cocktails, sweetie pie," my grandpop laughed, giving me his usual bear hug. "We asked for more bottles while we were sitting on that stupid runway," Gram admitted. "Do you have any mixers, doll?"
Within minutes, I was mixing cocktails, mashing tuna, toasting bagels, and, for the first time in my life, hosting my grandparents.
"Sorry my place is so small," I said.
"It's cozy in here," Gram gushed.
"I can sleep out at my friend's house, so you guys can have my bed," I offered.
"You're not going ANYWHERE!" my grandpop boomed in his military tone. "You'll sleep in bed with Gram, I'll sleep on the sofa." And that was that.
After our little cocktail party, we watched the Weather Channel to find out we had 19 inches of snow outside. Of course, you could barely see it from my apartment windows.
Gram was tired. She emerged from the bathroom wearing my oversized Harvard sweatshirt and sweatpants. "You look like a college girl!" She giggled. She soon fell asleep in my bed under my warm down comforter, while watching, What Women Want (of course, this was years before Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic diatribe made headline news).
My grandpop and I stayed up late. He refused to wear my college frat boy outfit. "I've never worn pajamas in my entire life," he declared. Okay. He was a tough cookie. If he didn't want to wear the pajamas, I was not going to argue.
He told me war stories, starting each tale with his signature, "True Story...." He told me about the odd jobs he had growing up, like driving a hearse when he was only 15 years old and without a driver's license. We talked about our family. I told him how glad I was that after some time he had opened up his mind to accept and love my dad, even though he had started out life with a different religion. He patted my hand and smiled.
I covered him with the colorful mohair throw blanket. He was sitting up on my green leather sofa, loafers off. "I feel so badly that you have to sleep like this. You should be in your cozy bed in Miami," I told him. He shook his head.
“Sweetie Pie, we are THRILLED to be here!” he responded.
And I was thrilled to have them.
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