What to Bare

February 20, 2009

Because of an excruciating pain in my left buttocks I splurged on a massage. Left alone in the small room, I wondered what clothing to keep on and what to remove. Since I did indeed have pain in my butt and I expected the masseuse to massage there, shouldn’t I remove anything that interfered?

So there I stood, pain shooting down my leg debating whether to take off a ratty pair of underwear I should have recycled ages ago. What do men do? Do boxers or briefs influence their decisions? I opted to drop my draws. It’s Manhattan and I am sure that the masseuse has seen everything, including men who try to seduce her.

About two minutes after making the decision, I regretted it. She was rubbing my tush and I felt air in the center and moments when her hand became uncomfortably close. I’m a new mom who, lately, rarely showers before my scalp starts tingling with grease and that crippling pain shooting down my leg making me limp was far from sexy. Remember that Sex and the City episode when Samantha was disappointed after all of that locker room talk that her masseuse did not hit on her? Well, I was not looking for any hanky panky just relief nor did I have delusions of attraction. I imagine she was completely naked for her experience.

After the massage my body did not feel much better but I answered my question of how much I should bare. As much as I am comfortable, which today is not everything.


I Want to Look Good

February 17, 2009

I’ll admit there is a vain vein in my body which can easily manifest itself by looking good on the outside.

I went to a birthday party this weekend for a one year old with my 17 month old and 3 week old. My smile grew as people commented on my physique (of course I know hoe to dress to accentuate the right parts).


Playing my cards

February 12, 2009

I wrote this a few weeks after my mom passed. I imagine I’d want some sort of record of my thoughts during this tumultuous time.

When my mom was originally diagnosed with her second bout of breast cancer she was not afraid to play the cancer card.  Yes, she had cancer and no, she would not let it inhibit her lifestyle but when push came to shove she would remind people that she did have this awful disease growing inside her.  She rarely reminded her kids that she had cancer, often it had to do with sharing her car or having us over for dinner.  Upon her most recent diagnosis of a more advanced and severe cancer, she would tell operators of her condition in the hopes of having a late fee waived or  service expedited.  Other times she would remind us of her cancer as a joke.  “Not bad for a woman with stage VIII cancer,” she had said just months ago at my brother’s wedding, referring to her two stage IV cancers that should have taken over years ago. 

Just a few weeks ago she was stuck in a 1940s style hospital in the south of India and I could tell she was slightly enjoying the adventure.  The funkiness and primitive equipment would have frightened most people, but my mom spoke of how nice the nurses, who were called sisters, were and the how even her hotel manager was helping her with faxes.  By the time she transferred to the hospital in Delhi, she was becoming tired with being in India but still remained positive and praised the hospital staff.  As she directed me on how to handle her affairs in New York, from paying the mortgage to making sure her airline miles were reinstated, she encouraged me to tell people that she was in a hospital in India, and play up the diseases if necessary.  So I did, with a secret smirk.  If she was going to be laid up, I might as well take advantage of the nominal perks that come with it. 

I smiled with her across the telephone thinking that she would be home shortly and this entire adventure would be reduced to an anecdote. I fear that soon it will be my anecdote.

With an air ambulance waiting on the tarmac to bring her home, my
mom passed away. In the two weeks since the awful news, I have used her
passing as an opportunity to take a step back from a few
responsibilities, and not always with a smirk. When trying to get oil
delivered to her house, I told the operator that between my sister and
I, we had three kids, three dogs, were twelve months pregnant and were
mourning our mom while disguising a smile. Later, when I was
rescheduling my daughter’s pediatrician appointment and struggled to
commit to a time in the afternoon, I held back tears as I explained my
predicament.

My grandmother, who is holding up surprisingly well, is worried that
she may not be able to give her building staff their Christmas bonuses
on time. I told her if there was ever a year to be late, this was it,
and no one was going to turn down a cash gift. Perhaps she is trying
harder than me to stay with her routine and move forward. I know I
can’t push away my problems and responsibilities, but that doesn’t mean
I have to tackle them immediately. Hence, blogging has taken a back
seat to taking care of my basic necessities that remain a struggle.
With this tragedy, I have a grace period and a few leniencies that I
know my mom would want me to cash in.


Grace Period

February 11, 2009

My father has asked me on multiple occasions whether or not I’ve started exercising again. “It hasn’t been six weeks yet!” I remind him. Then I mention the old wives tale that some women steer clear of stairs, a luxury that eludes me because I live in a duplex apartment with the bathrooms on the lower level. I’m not even supposed to pick up my toddler, but I do.

At the three week point during my first pregnancy, I was slowly becoming able to walk without leaning on to the stroller for support. this round, I am doing much better perhaps because the delivery was significantly easier and because I don’t have the luxury of indulging my desires as much as I did.

As my husband laments that I need to return to society and do things that make me feel good like exercising, I remind him that like sex, exercise is off limits for six weeks at a *minimum*. I will pat myself on the back for my body returning to a passable form. I’m in my old jeans – not the skinny ones but still. I can see the definition of my obliques from my abs and I’m excited for that to become more defined. Of course looking at my body feels so insignificant, especially when I find an inordinate amount of comfort in a sweet fresh baked cookie.

I may be rambling…but at least I’m posting.


New Fashions

February 1, 2009

My husband and I walked around with matching puke stains on our shirt yesterday. A thought I should remember when I am tempted to buy a new shirt.
* Everything is on sale and all of the sales girls tell me how great I look for having a 12 day old baby at home, but I digress.

I will confess that it took me a few hours to acclimate myself to the fact that I had a son and not another daughter, but we’re in love now so it’s okay. But I still struggle with his private area, perhaps in the same way that my husband was initially hesitant in caring for our daughter. I just don’t know boys’ anatomy as well, which is perhaps how I ended up with two kids in the first place.

Yesterday when I was changing my son, he peed directly in my face. I was so shocked, I did not think fast enough to cover his penis with the diaper. Fortunately, he’s so young and his bladder is so small, so there is time for me to learn.

When some poop leaked out of his diaper later and onto my hand I couldn’t help but laugh. With the trend of having babies, feces must be the new black.