There's something about October. And I've always kind of liked it.
The wind is always just a little bit eerie. Everything just a touch greyer. Except for an occasional spot of orange pumpkin on a brownstone.
But this year? I'm so over October.
Why did I ever think this month was the best one ever? It's the start of cold-and-flu season and never-ending coughing. The start of mice-looking-to-warm-up-and-get-in-your-apartment season. And now this weekend, it's going to snow. Seriously. The nerve of snow to show itself before November! Totally rude.
What next?
Ghost talk.
Yes. It has happened. A. has asked me if I believe in ghosts.
Now. You might think the best and easiest way to end this conversation would be to say "no such thing as ghosts." Only...who am I to say there aren't? Lots of reasonably intelligent people have had ghostly encounters. I have had one or two questionable ones. And let's be honest...if the ghost we are talking about is a deceased loved one, then maybe we want there to be ghosts after all. I personally would like to think there are one or two of them hanging around looking after us.
You think ghosts might like to babysit?
Anyway, I've had two questionable ghostly encounters. Here's one. Years ago, the husband and I were staying at a very remote inn in Scotland. Neither of us slept a wink that night. He had gotten attacked by midgies (little Scottish bugs)and was in the midst of a miserable allergy attack. I kept hearing strange noise like someone pacing in the hallway. But every time I opened the door to check, no one was there. Husband said "old building." I said "ghost." I mean, if you were a ghost, wouldn't you totally pick Scotland for haunting? Nice and gloomy.
And of course, I googled the inn once we got home and sure enough it did have a resident ghost. Hmmmm. Though when I googled some more, it seemed like pretty much every building in Scotland claimed to have one. Maybe it's good for tourism.
So. When A. asked me if there were really ghosts I said "some people think so." When her eyes widened, I said "but probably not."
So what do you think? It's almost Halloween. Tell me your creepiest, kookiest ghost tale. What have you got?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Yay for boobies
If you are male and the title of this blog post excited you, you may want to stop reading right now. I'm serious. Stop. Right. Now. It's not what you think. It's not sexy. I promise.
Oh well. You've been warned.
Never in my life have I thought so much about my boobs. Not because they are so amazingly fabulous. But because I am breast feeding. And therefore as a working mom, always pumping. If I am not pumping, I am thinking about when I need to pump next. And where I can do it. And how I can keep it cold.
So you see, I am a bit obsessed.
This was especially apparent on my first business trip since going back to work after maternity leave. What made it especially challenging? I forgot the battery pack to my pump...meaning anywhere I had to pump, I had to plug it in. Nightmare.
This meant that while I thought I might wind up pumping in the airplane bathroom, I did not. Instead, I just stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, watching my boobs swell up like Pamela Anderson. I had to wait until I was back to the hotel for a marathon pumping session while watching a marathon of Sister Wives. Strangely addictive and horrifying at the same time.
Luckily, most of my time on the trip was spent at casting sessions, where I could excuse myself to pump in a very clean and tidy bathroom. Unfortunately, this also meant I kind of had to take over the bathroom for about a half hour, which meant everyone knew what I was up to. More talking about my boobs. I was starting to bore myself.
In case you are wondering, pumping itself can get pretty damn boring. Sometimes I talk on the phone while doing it or go on the computer. I read. I write. Other times, I do exercises. Yeah. I do. Standing up while pumping. You can totally do plies. Squats. Whatever. If I am stuck in a bathroom, it is better than staring at myself in the mirror since I will inevitably spot a new gray hair. Which makes me wonder if I am too old to have a new baby (too late!) and too old to be pumping. But still. Pump I do.
I can't help it; the boy is eight months old and still loves it. Our girl was never a super big fan of it and pretty much gave it up at around nine months. The boy, however, loves it. I would say that is one of his main hobbies in life. It's good for him. It's good for me. So this is why I do what I do.
Plus did I mention it burns a ton of calories?
Worst place I have pumped since going back to work? Probably in an Amtrak train bathroom that hadn't been cleaned in about 50 years. Worst experience? Being walked in on at the office while doing it (should have locked the damn door and he was more horrified than I was). A sign that I no longer give a crap about modesty? Allowing other people in my office while doing it (I was totally covered up and it was only once and the sound was pretty much humiliating for everyone and no, I don't recommend it).
As I type this, I'm sitting on an airplane, counting the minutes until I get home and don't have to pump. When I can feed a real live baby. So I can retire the pump for a day or two. I'm starting to feel like it's my boyfriend, which is not a good sign.
Oh well. You've been warned.
Never in my life have I thought so much about my boobs. Not because they are so amazingly fabulous. But because I am breast feeding. And therefore as a working mom, always pumping. If I am not pumping, I am thinking about when I need to pump next. And where I can do it. And how I can keep it cold.
So you see, I am a bit obsessed.
This was especially apparent on my first business trip since going back to work after maternity leave. What made it especially challenging? I forgot the battery pack to my pump...meaning anywhere I had to pump, I had to plug it in. Nightmare.
This meant that while I thought I might wind up pumping in the airplane bathroom, I did not. Instead, I just stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, watching my boobs swell up like Pamela Anderson. I had to wait until I was back to the hotel for a marathon pumping session while watching a marathon of Sister Wives. Strangely addictive and horrifying at the same time.
Luckily, most of my time on the trip was spent at casting sessions, where I could excuse myself to pump in a very clean and tidy bathroom. Unfortunately, this also meant I kind of had to take over the bathroom for about a half hour, which meant everyone knew what I was up to. More talking about my boobs. I was starting to bore myself.
In case you are wondering, pumping itself can get pretty damn boring. Sometimes I talk on the phone while doing it or go on the computer. I read. I write. Other times, I do exercises. Yeah. I do. Standing up while pumping. You can totally do plies. Squats. Whatever. If I am stuck in a bathroom, it is better than staring at myself in the mirror since I will inevitably spot a new gray hair. Which makes me wonder if I am too old to have a new baby (too late!) and too old to be pumping. But still. Pump I do.
I can't help it; the boy is eight months old and still loves it. Our girl was never a super big fan of it and pretty much gave it up at around nine months. The boy, however, loves it. I would say that is one of his main hobbies in life. It's good for him. It's good for me. So this is why I do what I do.
Plus did I mention it burns a ton of calories?
Worst place I have pumped since going back to work? Probably in an Amtrak train bathroom that hadn't been cleaned in about 50 years. Worst experience? Being walked in on at the office while doing it (should have locked the damn door and he was more horrified than I was). A sign that I no longer give a crap about modesty? Allowing other people in my office while doing it (I was totally covered up and it was only once and the sound was pretty much humiliating for everyone and no, I don't recommend it).
As I type this, I'm sitting on an airplane, counting the minutes until I get home and don't have to pump. When I can feed a real live baby. So I can retire the pump for a day or two. I'm starting to feel like it's my boyfriend, which is not a good sign.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
In case you're wondering...
It's pretty much impossible to feel cool when you're walking around with breast pump parts.
Not that my goal in life is to be cool. At all. However, I do work in an industry where you don't want to be a complete dork. Unless you're doing it ironically, of course.
And carrying your breast pump parts to the kitchen to clean them well, nothing ironic about that.
Just embarrassing.
That is all.
Not that my goal in life is to be cool. At all. However, I do work in an industry where you don't want to be a complete dork. Unless you're doing it ironically, of course.
And carrying your breast pump parts to the kitchen to clean them well, nothing ironic about that.
Just embarrassing.
That is all.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Living the wild life in Brooklyn
I don't like critters. Sorry my vegetarian friends. But I don't. So sue me.
That's why I chose to live in a city environment. Too many snakes and frogs and lizards in Florida for my liking. And in college, too many random gators. Yes, I know, ha, ha...I went to University of Florida, what could I expect. But seriously, the campus was crawling with the real ones. Anyone else remember the baby gator living in the pond by the student union? And I never understood why anyone went on romantic walks around Lake Alice....how romantic would it be if you stepped on an alligator? No thank you.
I realized once I got to the city that it has its own share of wildlife. Namely, the dreaded mice. When I first got here, I stayed in the NYU dorms where they had so many of them, you literally had to step over them. Then there was that mouse I accidentally toasted in our apartment over on 14th Street. After that, I thought it was a good idea to get a cat. It was. Didn't see any mice for about a dozen years.
But mice are nothing compared to raccoons, as it turns out.
So we have a lovely roofdeck that's perfect for watching the sunset on summer evenings. One night, A. went upstairs with a popsicle, my husband and my sister's boyfriend. She came running downstairs, claiming to see a raccoon. Ha, ha, I said.
Really, she insisted. My sister's boyfriend snapped a picture to prove it. We figured it was just lost. Visiting. Wouldn't happen again.
The next day my husband went upstairs to check on the roof deck. Our raccoon friend had apparently invited a few friends over. They were taking a sunbath. These tough Brooklyn raccoons saw my husband and basically gave him the finger.
Our neighbor went upstairs to check out the situation and snapped a photo of one of the raccoons in our chimney. You know. Making itself right at home.
A: I think raccoons are cute. I'm glad we have a new pet.
ME: This is not a pet. This is a dangerous animal.
A: No, it's not. SHE POINTS TO A PAGE IN HER SNOW WHITE BOOK. Look. This raccoon helped Snow White.
ME: Snow White's an idiot. She took a poisoned apple from a witch. Please don't try to pet the raccoon.
A: I KNOW THAT!
This is followed by an eye roll. Awesome. Love those eyerolls.
It was time to call in the big guns. A trapper. Of course, this is NYC and everyone is trying to make a buck. All the trappers know that the city folk cannot possibly handle something like this themselves. Heck, we can't even carry our own groceries...how can we be expected to catch a wild beast? You'd be surprised the numbers I was quoted. Our fellow coop neighbor found the cheapest guy in town. Mike the Trapper. He placed and baited the traps. And lo and behold, the first night out, he caught something.
He came the next day to pick up the raccoon. I wasn't sure what to expect. A big strapping guy in a plaid shirt, perhaps? He would most certainly have a beard. Don't all trappers have beards?
Instead, a little old guy came huffing and puffing up our steps.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: You need an elevator.
ME: Yes. I know.
I was a bit worried Mike the Trapper was going to collapse.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: You're pretty. You Italian?
ME: No. Sorry.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Too bad. You're almost pretty enough to be Italian.
Now what is the proper response to this?
ME: Let's go get the raccoon.
We went upstairs. The metal trap was moving around on the roofdeck. Inside, a 20 pound beast was thrashing around, teeth bared. Mike the Trapper looked terrified.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Oh sh*t.
He picked up the trap by the handle.
ME: Um...you're not going to open that thing are you?
The raccoon growled.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Well, I guess I shouldn't release it.
ME: Definitely not.
The raccoon was now trying to pick the lock open with its teeth.
ME: Maybe you should bring it downstairs.
Mike picked it up. The raccoon continued to hiss and spit and basically act like Linda Blair. This guy wasn't going down without a fight.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: I think it might be rabid.
ME: Okay, then. Let's get it out of here.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Lots of raccoons around here. And bats.
At this point, we are near our apartment. A. poked her head out.
A: I want to see the raccoon.
ME: No.
A: Can we visit it at the park sometime?
ME: Maybe.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: I'll be back tomorrow with more traps. Are you sure you aren't Italian?
Still not Italian. Still hate critters.
That's why I chose to live in a city environment. Too many snakes and frogs and lizards in Florida for my liking. And in college, too many random gators. Yes, I know, ha, ha...I went to University of Florida, what could I expect. But seriously, the campus was crawling with the real ones. Anyone else remember the baby gator living in the pond by the student union? And I never understood why anyone went on romantic walks around Lake Alice....how romantic would it be if you stepped on an alligator? No thank you.
I realized once I got to the city that it has its own share of wildlife. Namely, the dreaded mice. When I first got here, I stayed in the NYU dorms where they had so many of them, you literally had to step over them. Then there was that mouse I accidentally toasted in our apartment over on 14th Street. After that, I thought it was a good idea to get a cat. It was. Didn't see any mice for about a dozen years.
But mice are nothing compared to raccoons, as it turns out.
So we have a lovely roofdeck that's perfect for watching the sunset on summer evenings. One night, A. went upstairs with a popsicle, my husband and my sister's boyfriend. She came running downstairs, claiming to see a raccoon. Ha, ha, I said.
Really, she insisted. My sister's boyfriend snapped a picture to prove it. We figured it was just lost. Visiting. Wouldn't happen again.
The next day my husband went upstairs to check on the roof deck. Our raccoon friend had apparently invited a few friends over. They were taking a sunbath. These tough Brooklyn raccoons saw my husband and basically gave him the finger.
Our neighbor went upstairs to check out the situation and snapped a photo of one of the raccoons in our chimney. You know. Making itself right at home.
A: I think raccoons are cute. I'm glad we have a new pet.
ME: This is not a pet. This is a dangerous animal.
A: No, it's not. SHE POINTS TO A PAGE IN HER SNOW WHITE BOOK. Look. This raccoon helped Snow White.
ME: Snow White's an idiot. She took a poisoned apple from a witch. Please don't try to pet the raccoon.
A: I KNOW THAT!
This is followed by an eye roll. Awesome. Love those eyerolls.
It was time to call in the big guns. A trapper. Of course, this is NYC and everyone is trying to make a buck. All the trappers know that the city folk cannot possibly handle something like this themselves. Heck, we can't even carry our own groceries...how can we be expected to catch a wild beast? You'd be surprised the numbers I was quoted. Our fellow coop neighbor found the cheapest guy in town. Mike the Trapper. He placed and baited the traps. And lo and behold, the first night out, he caught something.
He came the next day to pick up the raccoon. I wasn't sure what to expect. A big strapping guy in a plaid shirt, perhaps? He would most certainly have a beard. Don't all trappers have beards?
Instead, a little old guy came huffing and puffing up our steps.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: You need an elevator.
ME: Yes. I know.
I was a bit worried Mike the Trapper was going to collapse.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: You're pretty. You Italian?
ME: No. Sorry.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Too bad. You're almost pretty enough to be Italian.
Now what is the proper response to this?
ME: Let's go get the raccoon.
We went upstairs. The metal trap was moving around on the roofdeck. Inside, a 20 pound beast was thrashing around, teeth bared. Mike the Trapper looked terrified.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Oh sh*t.
He picked up the trap by the handle.
ME: Um...you're not going to open that thing are you?
The raccoon growled.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Well, I guess I shouldn't release it.
ME: Definitely not.
The raccoon was now trying to pick the lock open with its teeth.
ME: Maybe you should bring it downstairs.
Mike picked it up. The raccoon continued to hiss and spit and basically act like Linda Blair. This guy wasn't going down without a fight.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: I think it might be rabid.
ME: Okay, then. Let's get it out of here.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: Lots of raccoons around here. And bats.
At this point, we are near our apartment. A. poked her head out.
A: I want to see the raccoon.
ME: No.
A: Can we visit it at the park sometime?
ME: Maybe.
MIKE THE TRAPPER: I'll be back tomorrow with more traps. Are you sure you aren't Italian?
Still not Italian. Still hate critters.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Food for thought
So there's this scene in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer that always sticks out in my mind. It's where Santa has lost his appetite for some reason and Mrs. Claus is saying "eat, Papa, eat!" in a very distinct way that truthfully always reminded me of Goldie in Fiddler on the Roof. Was Mrs. Claus supposed to be Jewish? Or was this some Hollywood writer's clever way of letting you know who was writing the script?
In any case, I know it is a complete stereotype to say that a Jewish mom always wants to feed her kids. I hate to perpetuate this kind of thing. But for me, it is true. When A. started eating for the very first time, I loved the way her mouth sounded as she enjoyed all the new tastes. I have no idea why. I still love that she loves food; really, I have never seen anyone take such great pleasure in olives or sushi or chocolate chip cookies as she does.
And now there is Baby Boy.
If you read this blog at all you know that he was born with an esophagus connection problem that made the start of his life really challenging. Since then, he had to go back to the hospital once to have his esophagus dilated. This made it not quite so narrow and made feeding him sooooo much better. He loves to eat and literally smacks his lips when I come in the room. Baby Boy is so happy and smiley you'd never guess what the first eight weeks of his life were like.
And then one day, it happened. He stole a French fly off Daddy's plate.
Don't worry, he didn't eat it. But it was pretty clear the boy was ready to eat. Our pediatrician wanted him to start slowly so his six-month birthday came and went without any baby cereal or baby food. Although I will admit to giving him a taste of popsicle. He loved it so much, I felt terrible for not letting him finish it. The thing is, his breathing started to sound "wet"...which is something that usually lets us know he isn't swallowing the way he should. So I pulled it away and he yelled at me like well, a baby. He's not much of a yeller either so I knew he was ticked.
Yesterday, we got the thumbs up to feed him baby food. So last night, he got his first taste of pureed sweet potatoes...made even thinner with milk. Just a few teaspoonfuls but man, he loved it. He ate it really neatly too, as though he was not going to waste a drop.
We sat and listened and made sure everything went down the way it should. It's different with him; while I don't want to think of food as the enemy, there is still a chance that at some point in his life, the food will get stuck and we will wind up back in the hospital. This is pretty common with guys like him.
I still love the little noise his mouth makes.
I just want him to love to eat like the way his sister does. He completely deserves it.
Tonight's menu....avocado. As Mrs. Claus would say, eat, baby, eat.
In any case, I know it is a complete stereotype to say that a Jewish mom always wants to feed her kids. I hate to perpetuate this kind of thing. But for me, it is true. When A. started eating for the very first time, I loved the way her mouth sounded as she enjoyed all the new tastes. I have no idea why. I still love that she loves food; really, I have never seen anyone take such great pleasure in olives or sushi or chocolate chip cookies as she does.
And now there is Baby Boy.
If you read this blog at all you know that he was born with an esophagus connection problem that made the start of his life really challenging. Since then, he had to go back to the hospital once to have his esophagus dilated. This made it not quite so narrow and made feeding him sooooo much better. He loves to eat and literally smacks his lips when I come in the room. Baby Boy is so happy and smiley you'd never guess what the first eight weeks of his life were like.
And then one day, it happened. He stole a French fly off Daddy's plate.
Don't worry, he didn't eat it. But it was pretty clear the boy was ready to eat. Our pediatrician wanted him to start slowly so his six-month birthday came and went without any baby cereal or baby food. Although I will admit to giving him a taste of popsicle. He loved it so much, I felt terrible for not letting him finish it. The thing is, his breathing started to sound "wet"...which is something that usually lets us know he isn't swallowing the way he should. So I pulled it away and he yelled at me like well, a baby. He's not much of a yeller either so I knew he was ticked.
Yesterday, we got the thumbs up to feed him baby food. So last night, he got his first taste of pureed sweet potatoes...made even thinner with milk. Just a few teaspoonfuls but man, he loved it. He ate it really neatly too, as though he was not going to waste a drop.
We sat and listened and made sure everything went down the way it should. It's different with him; while I don't want to think of food as the enemy, there is still a chance that at some point in his life, the food will get stuck and we will wind up back in the hospital. This is pretty common with guys like him.
I still love the little noise his mouth makes.
I just want him to love to eat like the way his sister does. He completely deserves it.
Tonight's menu....avocado. As Mrs. Claus would say, eat, baby, eat.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The baby holder
I'm not that kind of woman.
I don't ask to hold other people's babies. Not my thing. Never has been. Don't get me wrong; I always thought kids were cute and fun. But babies? Not as cute as everyone pretended they were. And definitely not that much fun. Way too needy. Kind of selfish, really.
And then I had my first baby and didn't want to put her down. Especially not around other babies, who all clearly had runny noses, stinky diapers and drool. My baby never had a runny nose (honest...didn't get sick her first year though she has more than made up for it since) and she wasn't a big drooler. And as turned out, she was super fun. Obviously, she just had a better personality than all the other babies out there. Those other babies were dicks when they cried. Mine was just trying to communicate with me.
So you would assume after having a baby, I would totally have no problem holding them. Might even crave it as some women claim to do. Nope. Not at all. Anytime I held another person's baby, I felt like I was cheating on my own. And at the same time I was making inevitable comparisons to my daughter...like, this baby is really way too fat UNLIKE MINE. This baby is kind of whiny UNLIKE MINE. Man, I'm glad my baby doesn't do THAT.
And now I have a second baby. And I can't put him down. And I hate to share him with other people. And every time someone else picks him up, I am inwardly critiquing the way they are holding him.
So the next time you ask to hold my baby, please don't be offended if I drop you in a vat of Purell first. And more importantly, don't be upset if I don't ask to hold your bambino. Because really, I just can't cheat on Baby Boy like that. And all my oohs and ahhs and coos, well, they will be rather forced.
I don't ask to hold other people's babies. Not my thing. Never has been. Don't get me wrong; I always thought kids were cute and fun. But babies? Not as cute as everyone pretended they were. And definitely not that much fun. Way too needy. Kind of selfish, really.
And then I had my first baby and didn't want to put her down. Especially not around other babies, who all clearly had runny noses, stinky diapers and drool. My baby never had a runny nose (honest...didn't get sick her first year though she has more than made up for it since) and she wasn't a big drooler. And as turned out, she was super fun. Obviously, she just had a better personality than all the other babies out there. Those other babies were dicks when they cried. Mine was just trying to communicate with me.
So you would assume after having a baby, I would totally have no problem holding them. Might even crave it as some women claim to do. Nope. Not at all. Anytime I held another person's baby, I felt like I was cheating on my own. And at the same time I was making inevitable comparisons to my daughter...like, this baby is really way too fat UNLIKE MINE. This baby is kind of whiny UNLIKE MINE. Man, I'm glad my baby doesn't do THAT.
And now I have a second baby. And I can't put him down. And I hate to share him with other people. And every time someone else picks him up, I am inwardly critiquing the way they are holding him.
So the next time you ask to hold my baby, please don't be offended if I drop you in a vat of Purell first. And more importantly, don't be upset if I don't ask to hold your bambino. Because really, I just can't cheat on Baby Boy like that. And all my oohs and ahhs and coos, well, they will be rather forced.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Pondering
What exactly? What is going through his head as he sits in his bouncy seat watching the whale, polar bear and little snow globe thing-y for minutes on end?
Yes, I know there are more pressing things going on in the world right now. But in our little corner of the planet, this is what I wonder about.
Baby Boy loves his bouncy seat. And we love it to since sometimes it allows us to eat a meal while he is amused. Not an entire one but hey, I am not complaining.
I turn on the toy bar and he stares at it like it is the most interesting thing in the world. What is he thinking? He appears deep in thought. Here are a few guesses:
"Why is it snowing inside the house?"
"What is snow?"
"That whale is wearing a very smug expression."
"If I stare at this whale long enough, maybe it will feed me."
"I think that whale kind of looks like a breast."
"If I keep kicking my legs, maybe I can fly."
"Dear whale: I am going to kick your ass one day."
"Do they really think I find this amusing? Are you surprised I only want to spend ten minutes in this thing? When are they going to get me a Kindle already?"
Yes, I know there are more pressing things going on in the world right now. But in our little corner of the planet, this is what I wonder about.
Baby Boy loves his bouncy seat. And we love it to since sometimes it allows us to eat a meal while he is amused. Not an entire one but hey, I am not complaining.
I turn on the toy bar and he stares at it like it is the most interesting thing in the world. What is he thinking? He appears deep in thought. Here are a few guesses:
"Why is it snowing inside the house?"
"What is snow?"
"That whale is wearing a very smug expression."
"If I stare at this whale long enough, maybe it will feed me."
"I think that whale kind of looks like a breast."
"If I keep kicking my legs, maybe I can fly."
"Dear whale: I am going to kick your ass one day."
"Do they really think I find this amusing? Are you surprised I only want to spend ten minutes in this thing? When are they going to get me a Kindle already?"
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