Chipped Nails and All

In an effort to spice things up in my life, I’ve decided to paint my nails. Far less drastic than a tattoo or new hair color, but still it is something. I used to shy away from nail color because it would chip and I never felt like I got that blush paint off my fingers.

Now I wear that deep wine color, shades of gray, and this week Little Brown Dress. I once chose a gray based on its name, Smoking Hot. With the polish nearly dry, I received a compliment from a 24 year old.

It took me a little bit of time to adjust to the polish on my normally bland nails but now I am not as distracted by the color specks in my peripheral vision. Today four fingers are completely painted, three are mildly chipped and the remained are in worse shape. Even if I attempt to remove the polish myself I always feel like I leave a trace of color on the edges. So at this stage with polish approaching a week old, I must decide if the color should stay or go. Five less than perfect nails should be my tipping point.

And so I bid adieu from the dustbowl of my apartment to the bathroom to remove my little brown dress of color.

I Want One!

Look at this cool bike with a kid attachment. That’s the Zigo and the company is giving away three new bikes. And I get three entries into the contest by blogging about it here.

I can’t remember how I first heard of the Zigo but last year I entered another contest. I had to write a short essay on why I wanted one. The deadline was January 1st PST so after celebrating New Years Eve I returned home to polish my essay. After all one of my resolutions was to write more so it made sense to spend the first few hours of the new year entering a writing contest.

I wrote about biking with my dad, hanging with my kids, missing my mom, coping with my dad’s health issues and my big mouth which I would use to plug the Zigo. I did not win. A parent of a handicapped child in Australia won one bike which was okay. A New York family won as well which was less okay, but still fine in the end. I have my kids, my health and have somehow been managing to get from Point A to Point Z without the Zigo, although it would make things more convenient. But this new contest is not why I *should* win the Zigo, just about my entry. So wish me luck. And if I do win, you will definitely know.

Dusty Impatience

I’ve been talking about building a bathroom for the upper level of my apartment for so long that even I was sick of hearing about it. After meeting with nearly half a dozen architects, I was so unimpressed I assumed I’d meet with the next dozen parsing each one for an idea and then draw the plans on my own. Then I found a *fabulous* gay couple and hired them.

Picking out the tiles for a 5 by 7 bathroom is daunting. I’m not sure the last time you have gone to a tile place but the choices are overwhelming. My gay crew helped me actually make a decision after one day of visiting several tile shops, not an easy feat as I’ve been debating what type of drain to buy for at least a week.

The entire renovation process reminds me of my mom. We designed my downstairs bathroom after at least five trips to the tile stores. She loved decorating, remodeling, renovating and had definitive opinions that she would share even when unprompted. Perhaps this is why I do not trust my taste. And so I defer to my architects on everything.

Naked vs Naked

The other afternoon my husband wooed me into having sex. Having been married for four years, and together for seven his version of seduction involves him stroking his penis and saying, I have something for you.

With this prompting I’m supposed to strip down and suck his cock. At least in my husband’s fantasy. If my lame excuses of headache, just showered, have my period, all dressed up, running late, not in the mood — all of which I’ve memorized and can recite in one breath — then we do it. Another seducing technique involves the location of the kids, this time they were playing nicely or watching television.

So with nominal objection from me, he pulled out my silver knee high boots with a three inch heel to wear. Ten minutes later the kids run into the bedroom laughing. My husband, for a reason still unknown to me, decides it is okay for the children to see me naked with metallic boots, but not him and runs to the bathroom. The kids, ages three and just shy of two do not ask questions of my appearance, just wonder where dad is. He shouts from the bathroom for them to listen to me, still shielding his nudity.

Not sure where the story goes, we finished up after I set the kids up in front of the tv, just a funny anecdote of a married mom of two trying to stay relevant.

Fingernail Fairy

The transformation of normal human being to a doting mom is rapid. I am no longer repulsed my poops or vomit and rather expect to find said stains on any given outfit. As a proud mother, I enjoy almost all things related to My daughter, even folding her miniature clothing. Some activities such as trimming her nails pose a challenge, but I nonetheless motherly duties call.

One night, my daughter was so content naked on her changing table. I gathered my nail clippers and began snipping away. Never had I been so successful and confident in trimming her delicate nails. She would not be able to scratch herself for weeks. Then, as I was about to remove the sharp corner of her index finger’s nail, she jerked. I snipped. There was blood. Perhaps I put her finger in my mouth, I don’t recall. Once the pain traveled through my daughter’s nervous system to her brain, her mouth fell agape. Her eyes squinted and her face turned a shade of red found only in lipsticks. She stayed frozen in this position as the pain registered.

Just because I’m Wrong Doesn’t Mean you are Right

I’m loathe to admit that I made a poor choice, but when called out on it, I confessed to my friend that I did smoke a jay in the bathroom at the gallery hosting her lovely birthday party.
Mea Culpa.

I owned up to it and offered to cover the fine, which I later learned included mistakes by a caterer and was covered by the excess liquor and she subsequently refused.

This was the first party of hers that I brought my own joint, at every other function someone has shared one with me. This doesn’t dismiss my behavior. Nor does the fact that I did stop taking my medication and have not been acting like myself. It was not a reflection on her, just me.

If only I lived in a state where I could consume medicinal marijuana without inhaling.

The exchange ended with my friend, telling me via email and citing a stupid comment I made five years ago during a bridezilla moment that led to us not talking for a few years, this is a big deal and she wants to put our friendship on hiatus. “I need to prioritize and focus on some of the very important relationships in my life, and that means recognizing those in which there has always been mutual respect.”

Don’t Try This At Home

Without considering the consequences, without consulting a professional, without enough thought I stopped taking a medication.

Two years ago this week my son was born. Two years and six weeks ago I lost my mommy.

While never verbalized, I kept thinking, you took the wrong parent. As if life were a chess game and I could will my opponent to take the knight. Save my queen. A girl needs her mom.

My sister and I would communicate this thought. An alternative loss, another person whose demise would have been more manageable. No less painful, just more manageable. But life does not give you that option.

Man Plans; G-d Laughs.

I know it is supposed to be hard. Aren’t I luckier having had a mom whose absence is so pronounced and devastating than recovering more quickly?

My Sister and I shared a secret satisfaction in discovering other people’s tragedies. John Travolta, Natasha Richardson and one’s within our community: cancer, wrong choices or bad luck, another family suffering reminded us life is equally unfair.

A depression alleviating poem by an alcoholic

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

– by Charles Bukowski

—thank you LLB for showing me the post on your site

Password protected propaganda

In my vain attempt to find out why someone visited my non advertised discreet blog, I was able to track how a reader found my site.

There is the occasional cross post, an incentive when I first joined the now defunct NYC Moms Blog. Then there is the random blog that directed two people in one week. Some website that included me enough to entice two readers, however briefly, to read my work, maybe you are one such reader.

So I clicked. The portal showed a car with a brick paint job. The black brick motif extended to th wheels and hubcaps. In the photo a woman with an umbrella observes the unusual car. The site fancies itself a portal, and other than “password” and “ebook” I did not recognize any words or the language. Among the tags, I only identified Israel twice.

At first I thought this could be a terrorist site that lures recruits by visiting their blogs, and given said fear, I closed the screen.

Respect the lingerie

Have you seen Burlesque?

It is smoking hot. Christina looks great. Cher can no longer emote. The plot is lame, dialogue is weak but the dancing! the choreography! the costumes! It is the most erotic PG-13 film I’ve seen in ages. I smiled through each performance on the screen.

You don’t see any more skin than you would at the beach, but the scantly outfits are beyond smoking. And after telling my husband how turned on I was leaving the theater…mid afternoon on Thanksgiving day and driving home with his parents, he gave me permission to buy anything I wanted from the film. Only that pearl number that was removed with a simple slip of the hand on stage was not for sale on the internet.

While waiting for my pseudo stepfather at Bloomingdales the other day, I slipped down to the lingerie section to see what was erotic and justified paying retail. I beelined it to the Agent Provocateur department. While few items titillated my fancy, I was aghast at some of the prices. I did manage to find a fantastic discounted number in my size. A black lace bra with a zipper in the center and two gold buttons, and a matching thong (they were out of my size in the coordinating boy short).

Despite the chronic pain in my back, I could not resist showing my husband, then modeling it with the tags still on. Things heated up. The candle helped. And when my husband wanted to pull the bra to the side enjoy my embarrassingly shrunken breasts, I reminded him this was new lingerie and he had to be gentle. I did try to unzip the center but it was stuck on a seam.

He held the candle by my body, pouring hot wax on my body. As erotic and excited as I was, this was my first set of Agent Provocateur lingerie and I did not want to ruin it before I even had an opportunity to remove the tags. Even though I was blindfolded, every time he tipped the candle pouring the hot wax on to my body, I reminded my husband my body was his, the lingerie was not.

I had to trust him. He is my husband. And I was blindfolded. And worrying about the state of my underwear during intercourse is a real buzz kill.

An amateur porn film later, I took off the bra and thong and saw wax! Brand new wax hardened on my mesh Agent Provocateur set. I love my husband very much and as fantastic as the sex and foreplay was, I was furious. I wrote a note telling him he had to remove the wax.

Ashamed as i am to admit, I even considered returning it to Bloomies as it still had the tag on. What would I say, “I didn’t notice the wax when I bought it?” I could blame it on my husband, who upset at being accused of breaking the one forbidden act in bed, told me to buy a new set.

After seething, I opted to do nothing. The set lays in his drawer. He can try to remove the wax (I’m reluctant to ask my nanny to help) or not. He can break out the set one night when he feels horny and wants me to feel sexy. I am trying to be zen about the entire affair, take deep breaths, remember that it is just lingerie and replaceable at that. Although, i’m not inspired to replace it with an equally smoking coordinating outfit. Should my hubby try to surprise me…well I won’t argue. Although maybe I’ll pour hot wax near his crotch.