on being twelve

My skin is currently experiencing a mid-life crisis. I hadn't thought that nearing thirty was any big deal (it is the new twenty, after all) but apparently my skin feels otherwise, and in a last ditch effort to re-capture my long lost youth, it has decided to break out slightly more than normal. Okay, a lot more than normal. My chin looks like a war-zone. While I obviously would have preferred my skin to do something more prosaic, like buy a new sports car, or start busting out some new slang terms, I must deal with the crisis at hand, and as I looked in the mirror this morning I thought "hmmm. I don't think I've had this many pimples since I was twelve......hmmmm, twelve......." and then I had this flashback to where I was twelve.

When I was twelve, I weighed in at about 90 pounds, soaking wet and with clothes on. I was a big milk drinker, firmly believing what the milk commercials had told me: "Billy might not like me now, but I'm drinking my milk......", and just waiting for my chestal area to fill out. It never happened. Anyhoo. In my journal I would catelogue my feelings about life, thoughts on the classics, and muse over my future occupation.......okay, so that's kind of not all true. I really did have some fairly deep thoughts, but mostly I talked about boys, and how I really wished I looked like Judy Garland (see below paragraph: I was REALLY into old musicals.). An actual entry in my journal: "I have made up my mind to be as glamorous as possible." Yikes.

I had two great loves: candy, and old musicals. I would save up my babysitting money, walk to Albertson's to buy a box of Froot Loops and some Snickers bars, and hop over to the video store to rent Meet Me in St. Louis, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Summer Stock......you name it, I rented it. I would then try to rope my brothers into watching them with me. ("No, this is a really good movie!! It's, uh, got some fighting in it! I know you'll like it.") I was largely unsuccessful. Also, I had a really big crush on Gene Kelly.

Three life altering events took place the year I turned twelve: I was allowed to wear makeup (yessss!!!) I was allowed to get my ears pierced (double yesssss!!!) and my period started, which as we all know is not really that much fun, but my mom did buy me a new purse, and I finally got to bust out that starter kit I got in the fourth grade after my mom and I watched that video with the rest of my class that had the girl from Annie.

Ahhhhh, good times. I've enjoyed this trip down memory lane, but I'm pretty happy that I'm not twelve anymore. Being twenty-eight has some perks: seeing as I have a job that pays quite a bit more than previous baby-sitting gigs, I can now afford to buy a LOT of Snickers bars (yessss!!), and I'm married (quadruple yessssss!!!!), and Paul could TOTALLY kick Gene Kelly's trash. Gene really could tap, though.

Also, about wanting to look like Judy Garland.....yeah, that was before I found out about all the drugs and stuff. Then I decided I wanted to look like Vera Ellen . She didn't do drugs, did she?

Anyone Else But You - Michael Cera and Ellen Page

Paul, I lurve you. I loave you. I luff you. Basically, I heart you forever. Exclamation point.

cold shower of death

I've always had a good relationship with our shower. Sure, sometimes she takes a little while to heat up the water, but I'm patient, and I'll go eat my cereal while she wakes up. That way, I get fed, and Shower can take all the time she needs to get my water nice and piping hot. Now, maybe she was having an off day, maybe Paul just spent too long in the shower (investigation pending), maybe I somehow offended her (does she not like the clean shower stuff I spray afterwards? wrong scent?), either way, this morning when I turned on the water for the shower, it was decidedly lukewarm. Did I panic? No, of course not. I quite patiently poured myself a bowl of cereal, and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, I'm definitely going to be late for work, and the water is now wavering between lukewarm and slightly chilly. I start to panic. I call Paul.



"Paul? I needthephonenumbertothecabthewaterisstillcoldnothappytakingacabtowork."



I don't know why, but I don't think he understood me the first time, so I repeated myself, got the phone number to the cab company, and started bargaining with the shower.

Okay, Shower, I said, how's five more minutes? You've got five whole minutes to get nice and hot, okay?

I perch on the edge of the toilet seat, hand under the chilly water. Five minutes pass. Nothing.

Okay, Shower, I'll wait five more minutes, I say.

Nothing.

At this point, it becomes glaringly clear that I am going to be forced to take a cold shower. All reason departs from me at this point, and I start a bitter diatribe directed specifically at the shower, and generally at my apartment, which has decided to conspire against me.

Oh, boy. I'm going to have to take a cold shower. I can't believe this. I hate the cold. I really, REALLY hate the cold! You've got to be kidding me, Shower. I - OH MY GOSH!!! THE HEAT ISN'T EVEN ON!!!! I'm supposed to take a cold shower in an apartment with no heat?? I HATE YOU, SHOWER!!!

I remove my robe. I am naked and freezing and pacing in my heatless bathroom, and I am about to hop into a cold shower.

Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Okay, I can do this. I can do this, IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis okay I'm going in-

OH GEEZ!!! OH GEEZ!!! SWEET MOTHER, THAT IS COLD!!! OH, SHOWER, REALLY? REALLY, DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH?

I am yelling at the top of my lungs. I would feel bad, but at the moment everyone else in my building is taking a nice hot shower, (see? reason is completely gone.) so I want them to hear me suffering.

I manage to lean back far enough while washing my hair to avoid getting completely soaked with the freezing cold death water, but then it's time to for the soap. I stand in the shower, wet hair plastered to my neck, shivering as I glare at the bar of soap. I swipe the bar of soap all over in record time, and am now presented with the problem of washing off. My first instinct as I face the freezing cold evil death water shooting out at me from the showerhead of pain is to cross my arms in front of my chestal area to somehow keep slightly warm. While this is completely ineffective, it does make me feel a little better.

I keep my upper arms plastered to my body, and use my hands to splash water in my general direction.

This isn't working.

I surrender to the freezing water.

OKAY FINE, I'M WASHING OFF!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?? AAAAHHHHRRRGHH!! THIS IS REALLY NOT COOL, SHOWER!! I THINK I AM HYPOTHERMIC!! OH MY GOSH, I'M TURNING BLUE!!! I AM REALLY UNHAPPY RIGHT NOW!!! OH, GEEEZ!!!

Okay, done.

I step out of the shower feeling a sense of accomplishment akin to what I'm sure new mothers and olympic champions often feel- no one has ever done this before. I dry off using three towels, bundle up in my robe, and although I am abismally late, I take a few minutes to sit on the couch and recover from my post traumatic stress disorder. I somehow manage to get ready in 30 minutes (see, Mom? I can get ready fast!), and in a cab. Miraculously, I arrive at work a little early.

Maybe I'll bring Shower one of those cute little scrubby poofs to hang from the spout. I feel a little bad for yelling at her so much.

overheard

On the subway:

"They call it right-sizing now, not down-sizing. Right-sizing is the new buzzword."

Awesome.

i have not yet perfected the art of time travel

Last night, we took a cab home from the Upper East Side.

Paul opens the door, I slide in, reach for the seatbelt, and realize that the previous passenger has left their Blackberry. I pick it up, marvel at the bright shiny phoneiness of it, and try to figure out how it works. Too many buttons. Afraid if I push the wrong one it will explode. Paul takes it from me, the phone rings, and Paul answers. He hears:

"Mom? Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom. Mommommom. Mom? Mom? Mom."

Paul tries to answer "I- no - not - hey- I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER! YOUR MOTHER LEFT HER PHONE IN A CAB."

"Oh. She's coming up the stairs. I'll tell her." the kid hangs up. Another ring. Paul answers. He hears:

"Hello? Hello. Hello. Hello? Hello. Hello? Hello? Hello."

Paul tries to answer: " Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Geez, stop saying hello! IF YOU SAY HELLO ONE MORE TIME I WILL HANG UP THE PHONE."

"So-rry. My kid's phone isn't working properly. Hello? Hello?"

The phone call ends. At this point, Paul has a splitting headache, and hands me the phone, since clearly it is my turn to be Nice and Polite, and it is Paul's turn to be Grumpy and Impatient. We take turns. It works well for us. The phone rings again. This time, I answer, and very nice Upper East Side Lady is telling me how glad she is we found her phone, and can she pick it up.

"Let's see, I'm at 59th and Park, so it might take me a while to get to you, and I'm going to Connecticut tomorrow. Can I come on Sunday, when we're on our way home?"

"Sure, but I'm at church from 1:00 until 4:00, so you can't come during those times."

"How about 2:00?"

"Um, no, we won't be home then. You can come before one, or after 4:30."

"Oh, okay, great." At this point, I assume that it is clear that during the hours of 1:00 and 4:00 we will not be home. My assumption is incorrect.

"How about 2:30?"

Okay, I know, three hours of church is a long time, but surely the concept is not so foreign as to cause a complete breakdown in one's concept of time, is it? Thank you for agreeing. I explain once more that what with not being home and all, 2:30 is actually not good. I am thinking she has just about grasped that when I become aware of the fact that Paul is yelling at our cabbie, who has not gotten off the FDR when he should have.

"You should have gotten off!!"

"You told me not to!"

"I told you not get off at the bridge! I SAID 181st!"

"You have to go like you're going to the bridge to get to the 181st exit!! You didn't want me to get off, and that's why we're in this mess!!"

At this point I have an epiphane: the cabbie is right. Since I am completely directionally challenged and almost never know where I am or where north south east or west are, I was quite pleased with myself, and felt like I needed to share.

"Paul, he's right."

Oops. Not the best time. Right.

Paul shoots me the Boerem Look of Death, the cabbie thanks me for my endorsement, and I continue attempting to explain my inability to be in two places at once to Upper East Side Lady. She decides to leave right away, and I, bolstered by my newfound sense of direction, tell her how to get to our apartment.

We part ways with the cabbie, who has by now realized the subtle connection between feelings and wallets, and made up with Paul. Upper East Side Lady arrives shortly thereafter, and in a fit of good will insists Paul accept a crisp $20.00 bill for his troubles, no doubt part of her charitable campaign to make certain that people who live above 80th are able to buy groceries.

really?

I have just learned that Paul finds monkeys to be quite funny.

Go figure.

popcorn

Andrea: The healthy popcorn isn't as good as the other popcorn. I want the other kind instead, okay?

Paul: Look, just because you have estrogen and your heart is protected, it doesn't mean you have to rub it in. Do you want me to die?

Andrea: No.......sorry.