To anyone who has a Facebook status bitching about kids on planes, has banged on internal walls of an apartment building in response to the 2 am wails of an infant, knocked on a door to "see if that baby is ok..." (yes this has REALLY HAPPENED) this is for you. From the completely overwhelmed, embarrassed, and exhausted parents who you ignorantly assume aren't "doing our jobs." Feel free to respond. If you dare.
In a nutshell: FUCK.YOU. You need to know, here and now, that in any public situation where they are misbehaving beyond reason, there is NO ONE on this planet or any other that has a stronger desire for my children to pipe down than I do. Do you think I LIKE listening to kids scream on planes? No. I fucking hate it as much as you or anyone else. When my infant is inconsolably hysterical in the middle of the night because she's cutting a tooth or fighting a fever, do you think I get off on that? No. It sucks beyond belief. Hearing your child scream in pain is the most horrifying, heartbreaking, helpless feeling a parent can have. So if we interrupted you watching Jimmy Kimmel or you're gonna be SUPER sleepy for your Sunday brunch and weekly pedicure, I'm SUPER sorry. Except I'm kinda not that sorry. I mean, WHAT do you want me to do that you think I'm not already doing? Hm?
When your seat is being kicked on a cross country flight, you have no idea the amount of Goldfish crackers and coloring books and Buzz Lightyear and bribes and bottles going on behind you to make it stop. It's humiliating. No, it's beyond that. The stress is enough to dislocate my jaw. And add to that the fact that at any moment my little seat kicker could crap up her back, down to her socks. Then I have to deal with how to figure out how to change not only a poopy diaper but a complete outfit head-to-toe in a space barely big enough to change a tampon. Wanna trade lives? No? Then suck it up and order another double Jack and Diet Coke. At least you CAN. Society and medical research tends to look down upon publicly intoxicated mothers traveling alone with a toddler whilst 6 months pregnant. So that kinda leaves me in a bit of a pickle now, doesn't it? Still mad about your seat being kicked? OK, that's valid. But no way you're half as mad as I am for having paid FULL PRICE for an airline ticket for someone who has not yet mastered the skill of wiping her own ass. K?
Oh, and if you see a mother in the grocery store seemingly doing nothing as her child is in a full backbend over the cart, yelping at the top of his register something that sounds like "Sponge Bob cooooooookies!", it's because if she opened her mouth and said what she was really thinking, said child would promptly be taken away by Social Services. So she puts on a neutral face and presses on with her list. So just go grab your Lean Cuisines and your Oreos and mind ya bizniz. Then go home and turn on your TV and watch WHATEVER YOU WANT. You know what she gets to go home and watch? "Caillou." Do you know who "Caillou" is? If you do not, my jealousy for you is suffocating. Search it on YouTube. I challenge you to sit through 5 minutes before wanting to gauge your eyes out with a washable marker.
|Nora Bella at her uncle's wedding. On her best behavior.|
Look: Living in New York City (let alone being a mom in NYC) can make you hate everything. I have about 673,421 pet peeves and probably encounter between 17 and 138 of them on a daily basis. Just trying to get my kids from point A to point B. I hate when people eat yogurt on the subway. I hate when fat people take elevators when the handicapped and people pushing double strollers need them more. I hate when people stop in the middle of the sidewalk to text or say "Goodbye" to a friend. ARRRRG. Move to the SIDE. Sheesh. It was one of those days when I had just a few simple errands to run with my girls. A few simple errands, ha! Trying to navigate the island with 2 under 2 puts the schlep to Mordor to shame. The city was just eating me alive. Defeating me. I had just barely made it before the doors of the uptown A train squeezed what was left of me to death. I just looked around. So over it. So grossed out. By everything. EveryONE. And then, in the midst of my tsunami of a day, a ripple of peace and understanding washed over me...
Why don't we all go through our day, EVERY day, unselfishly comprehending that we have no idea where each other have come from, where one another are going, and what we're going to do when we get there? If we give everyone around us the benefit of the doubt and assume and accept that they're doing the best they can in the circumstances they're given from day to day, maybe they'll do the same for us. We're all just trying to survive. Just trying through another 24 hours when the odds (and other's bowels in some cases) seem to be against us. Maybe if we realized this we'd all be a little bit happier. And that joy would no doubt trickle down. So how 'bout you get over my double stroller and my screaming kid and I'll get over the fact that you think it's ok to wear a denim button down and pleat front pants. Come to think of it, maybe that yogurt lady on the subway is on her way to her 3rd job. She has no time to sit for dinner and she's making a conscious choice not to get McDonald's. Maybe that fat guy just had knee surgery because he just started working out after 30 years off sitting on his ass watching Maury Povich and eating fried chicken. He normally takes the stairs, enduring the pain. But today, with the crummy weather, it was just too much so just this once he decided to take the elevator. And JUST maybe, the couple parting ways in the middle of the sidewalk not letting anyone by on a Saturday afternoon on the Upper West Side, are sisters. They haven't spoken in 9 years and they just ran into each other visiting their terminally ill mother in the hospital and decided to go for lunch.. I mean, really...what do I know? Well, I do know one thing: Drakkar Noir smells like shit and I can think of not a single sob story that would make it ok for you to wear it in public over the age of 14. Please stop.
This is a new section called THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX. I recently (in the past few years) have gotten into baking. Never really liked it before. I went through a nesting period while pregnant with Nora. Cleaning...organizing...? Not so much. Baking? Yes. I became obsessed with baking cookies. There was a reprise of this when I was prego with Pats last Christmas. Don't worry- as the holidays grow closer I'll do a whole cookie series! Anyhoo- I always bake my cookies from scratch and stir by hand. It was part of the nesting. Cupcakes and brownies: I almost ALWAYS start with a box. When mixes are on sale 10/$10 I stock up! Then I add and subtract ingredients and make them my own. My Mother-in-Law actually gave me an awesome cookbook on the subject. In this series, the recipes are my own and I will now share them with you. Cause I'm cool like that.
DARK CHOCOLATE BOURBON BROWNIES
The perfect indulgence after a beat down kinda day. Plus, there's booze in them! Follow the recipe on the box, subbing bourbon for the water and coffee for the oil. These were the measurements in the recipe I used today. Your mix might vary a bit.
1 box of your favorite brownie mix
1/4 cup bourbon (I really think it should be bourbon as opposed to whisky or scotch, but the brand of bourbon doesn't matter too much.)
2 tbsp brewed coffee (doesn't make it taste like coffee, just bumps up the chocolate flavor)
4 oz semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a small dish, reserve about 3 tbsp of the brownie mix. Combine remaining mix, egg, bourbon and coffee until moistened. Don't overmix. Coat chocolate chips in the reserved mix. This keeps the chips from sinking to the bottom. (This is a great tip. For other recipes you can coat in a bit of flour. It works great for any kind of chips, raisins, craisins, etc.) Fold chips into batter. Pour into a greased or sprayed 8x8 glass or metal pan. Bake for 24-26 minutes. I personally always lean to the underdone side for brownies, then pop them in the freezer. Over cooked brownies are one of my pet peeves. Go figure.