Brokeback

I recently saw Brokeback Mountain. I need someone to explain to me how this is considered a great movie. I thought Michelle Williams was great, and Anne Hathaway was great - but the guys? I just did not buy it. And I could not understand a damn thing that Heath Ledger said.

Mainly - I did not understand where the love originated from, or why it was so important, since it looked pretty much like a convenience booty call to me.

My friend J told me that I should see it a second time to really get it, but I don't think I can deal with listening to Heath Ledger mumble for two hours again. But I am open to opinions here.

Crash, on the other hand, rightfully won the Oscar as far as I am concerned. Matt Dillon still scares the hell out of me.

More

There is a time -- once your chubby infant develops a neck, the ability to move unassisted, perhaps feed him/herself -- when people will start asking you when you are having another.

And by people, I mean my in laws. And strangers on the street.

I always thought I wanted gobs of kids. This was before infertility, a complicated labor and delivery, a year of nursing, terrifying moments of illness and google searching things like "baby repeatedly slams self into highchair", unexpectedly expensive things like SHOES and DIAPERS -- mainly, a whole lotta change.

A friend told me once that two is the optimal number of children because it gives parents the ability to have "man on man defense". I think this a football thing, but I kinda get it since it seems to take double that to manage one little Chloe.

But another friend talks about her two sisters -- the camraderie of three, the fullness. I have two siblings and it always felt like enough, never too much.

As Chloe becomes more independant, and I get older, which raises the risks of just about everything, I think about having other kids, going down that road again. On one hand, I am thrilled that I will never live the overwhelming ignorance of new motherhood again. A friend with three boys under four years old said that it is easier, that anything is easier, than being a new mom.

My main concern, is that I can not imagine loving anyone as much as I do my Chloe. People who have worried about this aloud have always seemed ridiculous to me - but I totally get it. I feel like we have hit the jackpot with her. Despite all of my fears that something will be terribly wrong, she is perfection in the way that I define it -- meaning, she is the most incredible miracle on a daily basis. The fact that she is wrapped up in a beautiful package that is all her own is icing on the cake. Over the past few months, she is less my baby and more a best friend -- we dine together, laugh together, shop together. My heart swells with each "Ma, Ma, Ma". The thought of playing the odds again is terrifying. And in the manner that I believe that my husband is was my destined partner, that I could never love anyone more or deeper or again, I feel this way about Chloe.

But then I think back on the time before Chloe, when life felt complete and as good as it gets. And while I will always miss that time, our special twosome free of any serious responsibility, I would not trade it for what we have now. I know I will feel this way again, about this time now with just Chloe, when/if we have more kids.

But I can't help wondering what we did to deserve so many blessings, and praying that it's not too much to ask for more.

Past Tense

At home for Thanksgiving weekend, my husband thought it would be amusing to drive past my old high school. It is at the bottom of a deep hill, where the urge was always to speed, much like the desire to race through those four years. A Staples used to share the lot, where we would buy snapple iced teas from the vending machine. The woods surrounding the school were filled with skeletal trees this weekend, but is dense and thick in the warmer months. Once, someone found a dead body in those woods and we all rushed to the windows to look. Later there was an assembly where the principal, a rabbi, chastised us for being so disrespectful of the dead.

High school was an anxious time for me. I entered as a nerd, with patent leather shoes, slouch socks and irritatingly new contact lenses. I was hyper aware of the social strata, and desperately wanted to be accepted. I soon found my niche, with girls that were smart and funny despite the fact that they were not a part of the crew that most of the boys desired. It was my first exposure to the heady, addictive nature of intense female friendships -- the ones that can keep you up at night, or make you cry like a heartache.

As the years progressed, my curls smoothed, lips were glossed and learned that my bony clavicle was actually attractive. Friendships deepened, and not only with girls, but with boys who I called late at night and watched Headbanger's Ball with but never even thought of kissing. I am sure I was an accidental tease, but an Orthodox Jewish day school breeds an innocence that rarely exists anywhere else in a teenage wasteland.

While highschool as a whole was an exhausting and tumultous venture, there are moments that I sometimes miss, and when I do, I miss them hard. I miss the whole notion of sneaking out past your parents, of driving around with loose cigarettes rolling around on the dashboard, only to be smoked at a diner that was filled with transvestites at 4:00 in the morning. I miss my friend Elizabeth's closet, where we would scrawl our secrets in marker on the inside of the door. Her parents were older and calmer than mine, and they would never care that she defiled her closet. I miss mixed tapes, particularly the ones with St. Elmos Fire tunes. I would use a quote from a song on the mix to title the tape depending on the recipient. Tapes were named things like "Walk forver by my side, all my days are yours" and "Hold on to 16, as long as you can". I miss notes penned in class, with loopy handwriting and doodles and dreams of better things. I miss laughing until we could not breathe, which happened once a day at least and often got me into heaps of trouble.

I only have one friend from high school left. And it makes alot of what I miss feel smaller than it really was, much like the school itself, the lockers, the workload, the worries -- the good and the bad -- shrinking with time.

Birthdays are like assholes - Everybody has one.

Five years ago, I realized I really wanted to be a mother when a close friend, C, had her first baby. She told me that she was pregnant outside of the office building that we shared. We stood, huddled together, pondering a fuzzy sonogram printout and imagining how life would change. She said that no one else knew other than her family. She is one of those friends who you believe when they say things like this.

Her son, J, is still the most beautiful newborn I have ever seen. He was the color of a valentine with lips that pursed like petals. A boy so beautiful, he looked like a girl. And still today, five years later, he has the same soft, ethereal quality that he had when he was born.

We took Chloe to his birthday party past weekend at a large indoor playspace that Manhattan parents like me use to quell anxieties about not living in the sprawling suburbs. I have not spent much time around mothers who were not my friends first. I have somehow missed the NYC subculture of Mommy-Mania, where women travel in packs of strollers and designer day care. Mobs of Manhattan moms make me uncomfortable. There is an undercurrent of competition that turns me off and leaves me wondering if I could be doing better.

But when your child is school age and a party means inviting the class, moms follow. So I was privy to more kids than I have been around in a long time. And I am reminded of Samantha on Sex and the City, who calls a baby an asshole. And I realize that she is right. Kids can be assholes. And more likely than not, so is one of their parents. I watched a child berate his mother for offering him juice. Another grabbed toys from my daughter with a force that almost knocked her over. Another pried the fingers of her playmate off a rock climbing wall, one by one, sending her tumbling. All in the name of a party. Are we having fun yet?

And that's just the kids. While some of the moms (like some of the kids) were lovely, there were others who stuffed as many party favors as possible into their purses, took extra cupcakes to go before the candles had even been blown. Impossibly small bodies were squeezed into impossibly expensive jeans as my friend C, hoarse with the exertion of party planning, smiled in perfect hostess form. I holed up near her friends from college, from her husband's business school -- the ones from before -- and held on for dear life.

And then there was my beloved J, the birthday boy, sitting amidst the chaos like the perfect prince. Much like his mother, he is a flower blooming among concrete. The apple does not fall far from the tree. Too bad sometimes the tree, and the apples, are full of worms.

A funny thing happened on the way to...

I was walking down the street, child asleep in the stroller, waiting for the light to change. "What a cute jacket!" someone said next to me. A woman about my age standing beside me, gesturing to Chloe's faux fur. I am accustomed to this by now -- from the moment your pregnancy blooms visibly, you are suddenly open to a slew of commentary from strangers. "Thanks", I say, and lurch forward as the light changes. "I just spent $150 on this and it doesn't fit!" she is saying, talking to me as if we are old friends in the midst of a conversation. I look at her, size her up as I always do in order to gauge the level of "crazy" of the stranger talking to me. Her hair is brushed, glossy even. A diamond engagement ring sparkles. Her pants were a little strange, black checkerboard print, an 80s throwback. But her skin was clear, her sweater clean. Still, I must have been staring back in some state of confusion, since she felt the need to clarify. "Look!" she says, as she bends down to roll up her baggy pants. I instinctively start to panic, afraid of what is going to be unearthed. In the seconds that she takes to pull up her pantlegs I am reminded of the story of a male friend who claimed that a woman on the street lifted her skirt as an invitation for anonymous sex. He denied it was a hooker, and claimed that he followed her home until his legs started shaking as soon as they got through the door and he ran away. I could not run -- I was burdened with a heavy stroller, groceries, and the fear that I would create a spectacle on a busy street. I had to look. At first, I thought she was showing me prosthetic legs of some sort, they were an artificial flesh color. I quickly realized what she was showing me as she held her cuffs above her thighs. Compression stockings. "I am pregnant", she says, and I suddenly notice her small bulge. "And they said I needed these because of problems with my last pregnancy". "Um, yeah, they seem sort of loose", I said, noticing how they sagged in places. "Aren't they supposed to be tight to work"? "Thats what I thought!" she said. I am hoping this conversation will end, but she continues to walk beside me, talking about her baby on the way, the three year old at home. Finally, I see an out. "Is there a Tasti DLite around here?" she asks out of nowhere. This I can handle. I direct her to the ice cream store several blocks in the direction away from where I was headed. "Thanks!" she says. "Good luck," I mutter, and pick up my pace.

I know that all mothers share a special bond -- we readily talk about nipples and sex and episiotimies without a hint of a flush. But when it reaches the point of literally undressing ourselves, perhaps we have gone too far.

Love Hurts

Cheating

My rule when it comes to cheating is simple. Never do anything behind your significant's back that you would not do right in front of him/her. The rabbi who married us drove this point home, along with the fact that love is not a feeling, it is a decision, and to love someone is a contract that you must consistently check on and uphold. It is intended to keep things very black and white. But there are shades of gray.

As a woman in the workplace, in a "sales" type position, I am often on the other end of conversations that could be construed as flirtatious. The men I deal with are much older and likely on marriage #3 or one that has lasted since JFK was in office. My job is to sell them -- not on me -- but on a product, an idea. This requires smiles and compliments and nodding when you don't agree. It requires "thank you" when you are told that you are pretty, even when it has nothing to do with what you are talking about, and when the mere idea that he is looking at you that way makes you want to heave.

And it's not just business. Today on the bus, the driver greeted me with, "do you have a smile to go with those good looks?" and then proceeded to flirt with me for the entirety of the ride. Moving seats would be mean. His face was thick and wrinkled, and his beard salted. He is not a threat to my gorgeous husband, even if he was attractive. And I do not get off on this talk, mainly because it feels desperate and embarassing. I know it does not take much to receive these comments -- some bright lipstick, a tight sweater. I am not a model. And by New York standards of honey highlights and size 25 waists, I am nowhere near. And maybe that's what makes me safe.

But I think of my husband, and how I would feel if he smiled wide in response to a compliment. I know my intentions are pure. They are guilt laden, not wanting to offend. My sister-in-law, who works in a prison, told me that she learned that women who are nice are more likely targets of assualt because they don't want to offend. So they answer directions from someone in a car, or they don't change sides of the street when they are walking near someone who gives them the creeps. They smile back at strangers even when they don't want to.

When my husband is at work functions, does he allow an arm to linger on his shoulder? When his tie is complimented, does he mention that I picked it out? I trust him completely. But that does not mean that I would not be hurt with the accidental carelessness of business banter, or conversations with he woman who sells him coffee who tells him that he does not even look 30.

A female subordinate once asked him: "Is this shirt too see-through?" He knew immediately that there was no good answer. That any answer would imply that he was looking at her chest. So he said, "I think that's a better question for a female colleague" and went back to work. The best answer he could find. And soon after, he fired her. I wonder if he would have been so dismissive if it was a colleague who he could not risk offending. And would I blame him?

Many female friend reference women who are "their husband's friends". From the office, from high school. I don't think I could take this. Maybe I believe, fundamentally, that men will not befriend unattractive women. I know that I could have male friends that I don't find attractive -- but I just don't think it works the other way around. There is something bothersome to me about conjuring up an emotional relationship, albiet a friendly one, between my husband and another woman. What would they talk about? What needs would she fulfill that I can't?

My close friend J is dating a guy who is divorced because his wife cheated on him. She worried recently that he might have jealousy issues, which would be bad because she is a big flirt despite the fact that she is the most committed girlfriend imaginable. Maybe I am wrong, but I do believe that women can dialogue with men, even in a seemingly flirtatous way, even with an ex-boyfriend, with no ulterior motive. Just because we like to be chatty and feel desired. But does that make it okay? And if the tables were turned, how would we feel?

I am discussing hetero relationships here -- but I am sure the same issues exist in gay relationships. Perhaps it becomes even more complicated when you are dealing with two women who may be (sterotypically) more sensitive and less trusting?

I was cheated on once, in my first serious relationship. It happened at his company's Christmas party, after which he called me with the ever dreaded "I have to tell you something"that makes your room suddenly glitter. He had kissed a co-worker who he had been arguing with for months. I should have known -- men generally can not conjure up passion, even bad passion, for someone they are not attracted to. Where women seem to be able to detest quite platonically. Anyway, I had heard what she looked like -- severe, too much eyeliner, combat boots. I had imagined her as ugly, though the thought of him pressed against her at the Marriott Marquis, in a clandestine embrace, was nauseating. I would conjure this up in my mind over and over, just for self-torture. I believe that company parties, like business trips, can engender this type of behavior -- the surreal nature of "unbuttoning" for an evening. Nothing feels real. I married someone who boycotts his own company Christmas party because it is not spouse friendly and he has witnessed this debauchery firsthand. He is not worried that he will be tempted, but is morally opposed to the construct. On business trips, he is home by 10. I wonder if this is part of what attracted us - the importance we place on representing our relationship in an upstanding light. Perhaps it comes from betrayals of our past. I like to think that it is more a commitment to our future -- the paths we choose that are not always friendly or easy but just more right. For us.

Titles

It all begins with the BEST FRIEND. The broken heart necklaces that you wear around your neck, 14 carat gold plated. Until you fight and then find a new one. My first boyfriend gained his title as such when he handed me a rose, and asked if I would be his girlfriend. It was all very romantic until our relationship ended because he was suspended from school for xeroxing his bare ass. Not for the xerox, but for crashing through the glass and breaking the machine.

Titles are important. Whether they were emblazoned across your rugby-style shirt (hello: BENETTON), or a validation that you are in a relationship. They provide a frame to exist within. Without a title, we feel less defined. Sometimes. A and I never discussed "boyfriend"/"girlfriend" and then one day he proposed and that was it. Fiance. Or Fiancee? Those titles were huge. So huge that after proposing on a trip to Antigua, he bit down on his tongue, creating a huge blister that rendered him speechless for the rest of the trip.

I often title myself "infertile", despite the fact that I have a child. Once tagged as such, I will always feel infertile, despite medical interventions that have blessed me with a child and may or may not again. Sometimes I feel guilty, for those who share my title and are still struggling to become parents. Is it wrong to keep this title?

In the corporate world, titles are a big deal. I inherited my title when I joined my company: "Senior Director". It struck me as ridiculous. Over-the-top, isn't Director enough? My predecessor had fought for this title. She wanted to prove career growth. The rest of my title made the sum of its parts embarassingly long, so I would often refer to myself as "Director" to save the inevitable "That's a big title for such a little girl" that happens when you deal mainly with men of 60 years and older.

The "Senior" was removed from my title when I returned to work part time after having a baby. It was an unnecessary move by my boss to send a message. I tried to fight it, not because I cared for the "Senior", but because it was punishing. After 4 years, I had finally earned my title, and because I chose to work part time, I was being diminished.

Some Stay-At-Home Moms prefer the title of Work-At-Home Mom. It is definitely hard work to stay home with your child , harder than any work I have ever done outside the home. But the WAHM title reeks of defensiveness. My sister-in-law, a lesbian, calls straight people "Non-Gay". I guess it all depends where you are sitting.

The title of "Mom" is the most surreal. I am someone's MOTHER. How can I be this, when I still cling to my own? When I refer to myself as "Chloe's Mom", which only happens at the pediatrician, it sticks to my tongue like molasses. Who is this person? I am still working on MILF.

My husband's porn

I found my husband's porn on our computer:

(safe for work)

http://www.electionprojection.com/


Whatever gets you hot....

Bad Medicine

Ok, so here's what I won't miss if I leave New York: The Duane Reade prescription counter. And I think it is limited to Duane Reade, and not all Manhattan pharmacies, but I could be wrong.

For those readers outside Manhattan, Duane Reade is the corner drugstore, on every corner. It's like a CVS, or Walgreens. I personally loved Walgreens while at Brandeis -- I would fill my prescriptions for the Pill or some acne concoction with great ease. All of my "grocery shopping" was also done at Walgreens, which consisted of diet coke, candy corn, Honeycomb cereal and Marlboro Lights. Four years of this -- it's no wonder I ended up infertile!

Generally, I love drug stores. When I leave to allegedly pick up toilet paper, my husband knows I won't be back for at least 30 minutes. I love to finger the cosmetics, hoping for a new find. Peruse the candy aisle and wish that I was not glucose intolerant. Pore over the magazine rack: "REESE AND RYAN DIVORCE DRAMA!", etc. This summer I even purchased flips flops at CVS which my brother swore looked like Prada until they split mid-step after one month.

Duane Reade is a whole 'nother story. Their merchandise is fine, stores generally clean. But the pharmacy, the pharmacy....It's a necessary evil. Be it the pill, prenatal vitamins, penicillin, whatever. You find yourself at the end of a long and ignored line of people whose ailments are always highly contagious in your imagination. You try not to breathe. The line does not move. The singular cashier is rifling through baskets of paper bags, asking again and again for the spelling of names. "When did you call this in?" Sometimes, she will dissapear behind plexiglass, only to vanish for what feels like hours as you are surely acquiring the Bird Flu as you wait. With a last name like mine, you are screwed. K? C? And then the inevitable insurance issues -- "do we have your information on file?" My blood boils, a fist tightening in my chest. I hate the cashier, her frizzy hair, her bad skin, her open bag of doritos, her poor vocational choice. I once made the mistake of wearing Chloe in the Baby Bjorn for such a venture, only to cover her head with a blanket ala Michael Jackson for fear that she would somehow breathe in someone else's toxic virus. No, I don't want to touch that pen which is crawling with cooties if such a things exist.

It takes alot for me to feel rage when there is an US Weekly a few feet away. But Duane Reade does it every time.

Housekeeping

New additions to the blog roll (see sidebar): NYC Web Boy is a fabulous blog for gals like me who care about the political scene, but just a tad more about Marc Jacob's Spring 2007 collection. A friend of a friend who I have met over the years and is just as humorous online as he is in person.

Post Secret: I have mentioned this before. It is a voyuer's (and secret exhibitionists') dream. It's updated every Saturday night at midnight.

My good friend Grahamad is in the spotlight once again. Or is she ever really not?

Littleviews is still there - I have a new article coming out soon about the store, Babies R Us in Union Square.

I also wanted to share a great idea.: A offered his services to a firm looking to conduct research. In return, they offered to donate $100 to the charity of his choice. How great is that? It's even better when you have so many places that you want to donate to, it's hard to choose just one! A great incentive to all of you who are in businesses where you need to nominally compensate others for services.

Happiness Is

When I was young, there was a book about happiness called "Happiness Is".. It was a Peanuts characters book where each character would define happiness. I remember Charlie Brown said that "Happiness is sharing a pencil". I happen to hate pencils -- their impermanance, their inability to create a good solid mark, but, to each his own. My third grade teacher asked us to develop our own Happiness Is book. On one of the pages I wrote, "Happiness is getting to kiss a boy that you like", which I am sure was inspired by Andrew, the boy I liked in third grade. My mother thought it was hilarious, and I was immediately embarassed and made her swear not to show anyone the book. Of course, she proudly showed it to a friend and I was devastated and cried behind a closed door, filled with humiliation.

I think that there was a spin-off book entitled, "Love Is". So today, I can safely say, after nearly a month of Chloe capturing every virus under the sun, Love is allowing your daughter to vomit all over you, four times in an hour. When the disgusting nature of the event overwhelms you, and you start to vomit yourself, you listen to your husband who is screaming "hold it in, hold it in!" because your dry heaves are frightening the baby.

Love is also getting into the shower, the three of you, covered in goop. When everyone is clean and slippery, and the shower threesome you may have once imagined is anything but. Love is this.

Turbulence

Air travel reminds me of field trips of my youth in terms of special indulgences. I grew up in a home with no sugared cereals, with carrot sticks and early bedtimes. Lunch was an onion bagel with tuna fish (now, that's a friend-maker), sometimes an apple, in a paper bag. All crafted by my father, since there is no way that my mother had the time nor the stomach to deal in tuna at such an early hour. I longed for my friend Tamar's lunch, where a white bread sandwich was nestled beside a Devil Dog or Funny Bone (which is a peanut butter relative of the Yodel). And a box of orange drink, not juice.

Rules were suspended on field trip days. My mother would pull out all the stops - a can of soda, bag of greasy chips, tooth numbing candy like Nerds or Gobstoppers. I don't know why she chose to celebrate field trips in this way, but I loved it. My mother is very good at creating celebration out of the mundane, or even the painful. On the ocassion of an abnormal pap smear, she greeted me with deep crust pizza and a shopping spree at Macy's.

Where was I? Field trips. So, as a bus rolled towards a museum of some sort I would clutch a bag filled with goodies that I was never generally able to partake in. This is how I handle air travel. I hate to fly. The lines, the anxiety. The stale coffee grind smell of the airplane. As a child, I would regularly vomit into the bags that they no longer provide. To me, it's all very turbulent. To offset this, I create my own indulgences. I always dress up for an airplane. As a teen, I was convinced I would meet a boyfriend at an airport. I would play it all out in my mind -- our eyes meeting, he would be flying to the same destination as me, and I would abandon my family for a week long romance. So I always tried to look my best when traveling. It never happened, but I still pull myself together to fly. I admire the women who wear the patent leather loafers, the jeans, the crisp blazers and white shirts. The glittering engagement rings, manicures and Louis Vuitton luggage. They touch up their lip gloss before landing. My own spin is far less glamorous but is still purposeful.

And I spend lots of money at the airport newssttand. Unless it's Jet Blue, I can not fly without a thick stack of magazines. I know they are overpriced, and I could buy them in advance, but it would take away from my ritual. I ususally choose In Style and Glamour because they are the fattest, though I never read them at any other time. And I load up on candy and snacks. I easily spend $20 at the airport for travel supplies.

Traveling with a baby, you would think that I would stray from routine. But I can't - at least not until I have to travel alone with her. A holds her, as she squirms for activity. And I bury myself beneath glossy pages, sucking on a Starburst, and silently pleading with him not to talk to me until it's all over.

Museums

Museums remind me of popularity contests. Of walking around with the cool kids, or not. Of hurt feelings, and getting lost. Of haunting darkened rooms and glowing displays. Of gift shops, hunger, and aching feet. Of bad dates -- with feigned depth and reluctant hand holding and stiff conversations.

I never had much patience for museums. I am too ADD for this. Unless they are in tribute, or of photography. I could spend a year in a photography museum.

Today, at the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan, with Chloe and A and my in-laws, I really enjoyed it. One of the many things which take on new meaning through Chloe's eyes. Dinosaur bones and teeth, growling and roaring at the mammals, trying to pick up designs that were carved into the floor. Overpriced food court food -- buttered corn and decadant brownies. Watching her fall into an exhausted sleep so deep that she missed the busride home.

I loved it all.

Poetic Waxing

When it comes to the maintenance of being a girl, there are two extremes and lots of in betweens. There are the women who cut, color, gloss, trim and perfect every part of themselves because they can, to always look their best. And then there are women who don't give a shit -- no makeup, shaving the essentials (or not) -- no products, a medicine cabinet filled with advil and toothpaste and a lipstick that someone forced them to buy.

And then there's the in-betweens, where I would imagine most of us live. I am close to the high-maintenance girl, but not as close as I once was. Recently I have re-connected with an early love for Victoria's Secret -- I finally fit their (albiet largest) cup size again. I love that store. The candy striped bags, the tissue paper, the outrageously heavy perfume. I love the catalogue, the cleavage, the unapologetically sexual marketing. I started wearing Victoria's Secret bras at sixteen, and soon moved on to their pajamas (cotton not silk) and fragrances. As a girl in Orthodox yeshiva, this was the closest I ever got to sexy**. I would cradle my round glass bottle of rose perfume in my floral pajamas and dream of romance. Victoria's Secret now has a line of cosmetics which intrigues me called "Very Sexy" with amazing slick black packaging. I am all about the packaging - a marketer's wet dream.

Where was I? Oh yes. So before I became world weary, I was much more high maintenance. I dared to blow out my curls, to travel long distance for double process color. I wore acrylic tips over my nails. All to magnify the very best me.

I am married to a man who asks for little more than a bikini wax (I will get to that later). So the aforementioned primping became a waste. I started wearing minimizing bras which are impossibly ugly (worse than nursing bras, if it's possible). He never noticed new hair color, so I would just go anywhere to conceal roots. (I should mention here that I will be dead before I will ever go gray). He hates my hair straight. So I cut corners, a more organic me, perhaps. It was certainly cheaper.

Post-baby, I have started to crave these high maintenance rituals. So I find myself back at Victoria's Secret (wondering if their PINK line is too high-school hoochie.) And at the bikini waxers.

A note about the bikini wax. First, the waxer must have an accent, and be old and ugly. Somehow, it's less embarassing. They should never look like one of your friends doing this to put themselves through grad school. Also, take two advil before the rip. It's not like kittens licking, but it's a helluva lot better.

I did the brazilian once. I cannot even speak of it.

**Except for the time I was obsessed with tights/socks that ended right over your knee. Think Alicia Silverstone in Clueless. I would wear those beneath jean skirts. Rebel!!

Fashion Don'ts

In response to my friend Leigh's post on the boots-in-jeans phenomenon, enjoy this NY Times article about my own personal offense: leggings. I love me some leggings.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/02/fashion/02PANTS.html?_r=2&ref=fashion&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

I can't embed HTML. Deal.

Negotiations

My housekeeper just asked for a raise. And much like Berger from SATC, she did it on a post it. To quote: "Next time please leave me $80 because you have many laundry and I work hard."

She added a smiley face.

I should try this with my boss.

Bad Mama

I just put Chloe to bed -- bathed, read to, brushed (teeth and hair!), feeling very smug. I can do it all -- even with husband away and ready to collapse with exhaustion! I sent some email for work, warmed some pizza, still buzzing from my super-mommyness.

And then realized - I never turned off her light.