And I may or may not have eaten my keys while trying to shove my Trapper Keeper into my purse.

So today somebody called me old while thinking they were complimenting me. It was a weird moment that made us all feel awkward until  I started mumbling about Caboodles and Garbage Pail Kids and then changed the subject so we could talk about eating pennies and keys.

It hasn’t been a normal morning.

The trifecta of awesome. 

But the weird part is that the conversation started out with my confident declaration that Trapper Keepers were making a comeback and I was feeling pretty good about the fact that I got in on the ground floor of that invention back in the 80s. Obviously. 

But then some child who snuck into the office and started pretend-working said “What’s a Trapper Keeper?” And then the world gasped and he was shunned.

OR, three other people then looked at me and asked me the same thing and so I tried to shame them with my knowledge of loose-leaf binders with Velcro closures and awesome cats or tv shows on them.

Child: Wow, you went to school in the 80s? I thought you were my age. You don’t look that old!

And then I gave him a half-smile while trying to murder him with my eyes.

However, after that enriching moment, I decided that perhaps I needed to start re-thinking my conversational skills because, while shock and/or confusion overcome many who have decided to converse with me about pretty much anything, I’m starting to notice a pattern of behavior on my part where I think that my thoughts and actions are totally normal. And then I say them out loud. And then I am wrong.

A good example of this is a chat I had with CB and Cousin Nikki recently where I talked about eating keys.

Let me explain.

After our “fun”adventure to Soul Cycle this weekend, some people grabbed healthy wheatgrass or kale or tumbleweed shakes to re-fuel. I, however, decided to save room for a burger and fries later because I obviously know what my body needs to work at its peak performance level.

Anyway, on the train ride home, Cousin Nikki was talking about how the wheatgrass shots tasted like grass clippings.

Me: How do you know what grass clippings taste like?
Cousin Nikki: Everybody knows what grass clipping taste like. I mean, didn’t you eat grass as a kid?
Me, pausing to think about the likelihood of this: Yeah, I guess that’s true. Everyone kind of just knows what grass tastes like.

Pause.

Me: Sort of like how everyone knows what their keys taste like.
Cousin Nikki and CB stare at each other.
Me: I mean, not like you’ve actually eaten your keys, but you totally know what keys taste like if you eat a mint that’s been at the bottom of your purse, and when you put it in your mouth you’re like ‘Huh, this kind of tastes like my keys.’
Cousin Nikki: Um, people don’t do that.
CB: You eat your keys?
Me: No! But wait! Ok, so you know how you just sort of know what pennies taste like? Well that’s what your keys taste like. It’s basically the same thing.
CB: Wait, why are you eating pennies?
Cousin Nikki, to CB: Um, your girlfriend fully eats keys and pennies. We might want to re-think this whole thing.
Me: I don’t eat keys and pennies, just mints that taste like keys and pennies. Also, you guys eat grass!
Cousin Nikki: But everyone has eaten grass!
Me: I totally took your side on that! I can’t believe you haven’t eaten key mints before.
CB: Please stop talking.

Whatever. This is one of those times that I’m going to take a change and put it out there because that’s how I roll. And there’s a not-so-small part of me that thinks that the lovely, devoted readers of this blog will back me up on this one. So c’mon, people, key mints! Who’s with me?

Publishing note: While I typically don’t post on Thursday’s, tomorrow will be an exception. However, it will not be written by me, lovely readers, but rather by a guest blogger who has a slightly different take on the SoulCycle post from earlier this week. So, tune in tomorrow for my first ever GUEST BLOGGER! 

And then I had to look up the definition of fun and realized none of us knew what it meant.

So you know how normally when people celebrate their birthdays it’s usually in the form of having friends over for some drinks and appetizers, going out to a bar to celebrate, or for really big birthday events, going away somewhere for a weekend with friends and family to revel in all of the glory of aging?

Yes, me too. And I encourage you all to plan those events for any of my upcoming celebratory days.

However, as I’m sure you’ll be shocked to find out, I am not friends with normal people. So instead of being hungover on Sunday morning from a night out on the town to celebrate all things birthday, pretending that we’re still in our 20s and becoming “wooooooo!”girls every time a Bruce Springsteen or Journey song comes on, I spent my Sunday morning cursing said friend-who-shall-remain-nameless’s name under my breath as I WOKE UP TO AN ALARM ON A SUNDAY, ate a protein-heavy breakfast, and put on my gym clothes to go to a Soul Cycle spin class in the city.

I’ll give you a moment.

I know, right?!?! However, there was a part of me that was sort of excited to do this because I do like exercising and I do like hanging out with my friends and so this was a unique and potentially “fun” thing for us all to do to shake things up. Though, to be fair, I do understand that I need to use the word “fun” in quotation marks from here on out because I believe I have now changed the entire meaning of the word and should begin to consult my dictionary for actual meanings of words before throwing them around so cavalierly next time.

But ok. After spending two days talking CB down from the cursing ledge of doom he was on for us having said yes to this in the first place, we all met up for this spin class with a smile, some coffee, and constant reminders to our friend about how much we all must really like her if we’re willing to do this. I mean, we’re good friends, not saints, girl had to know about the sacrifice.

Um, but ok. For those of you who don’t know what Soul Cycle is, let me give you a crash course: it’s an upscale spin-only workout facility where celebrities and people who make more money than me hang out to sweat their brains out and then drink kale shakes with a smile because rich people have a different version of what the word “shake” means.

It’s like my version of the word “fun” except their fun tastes like grass clippings.

Anyway, the first order of business was getting all of the stuff in our lockers and getting ready for the class. However, I almost stopped the entire co-ed locker facility group of strangers and friends in their tracks when I went to take my pants off to change into my gym shorts and realized that CB’s cousin was next to me and perhaps I shouldn’t scar him for life with a view of my underpants.

My bad.

In my defense, though, it totally looked like a locker room at a gym where you, you know, change your clothes and stuff. But it was a literal locker room.

"I can't quit you. Let's spin."

So lesson one of soul cycle: don’t take your pants off in front of strangers.

Lesson two came shortly thereafter when we saw Jake Gyllenhall post-workout and got lulled into a celebrity coma of excitement that temporarily convinced us that we, too, could totally do this thing. I mean, if the guy from “Brokeback Mountain” could do it, so could we!

However, after about 30 seconds of not understanding how to clip my special spinning shoes into the totally confusing and not at all intuitive contraption on the pedal, I decided that perhaps I was in over my head. I mean, I’ve taken spin classes for a while now, but I’ve never had trouble figuring out how to use my shoes. Or the pedal. And so maybe that was a bad sign?

And then it started.

First of all, it’s very dark. Second of all, it’s very dark and they’re playing catchy dance music that makes you temporarily forget that you’re using muscles in your legs and butt that God never intended to be flexed. But whatever, it was actually sort of awesome and one of the best workouts I’ve ever done, outside of training and running marathons.

However, I think we all need to just get right on board with the fact that, no matter how catchy the Ludacris song is that you’re playing, there’s not a chance in hell that I’ll be able to coordinate my hands and elbows going one way while I pull and push my body back and forth on a stationary bike of death and pedal while trying to keep the beat, all while trying not to fall off of the bike with my feet still connected.

Also, did any of us for a minute think that that would ever happen? Thank you, I rest my case.

On a side note and totally unrelated to my coordination abilities, I may or may not have accidentally kicked my friend in the leg who was sitting next to me while I tried to remove my foot from the S&M contraption they called a bike pedal at the end of the 45 minute workout.

So, while I don’t need to make this my normal Sunday ritual, I am really glad that we all did it and experienced the ridiculous fun that can come from a workout where there’s a seat RIGHT THERE but you can totally never sit down on it.  And all in all, I think every single one of us kind of killed it in our own way. There were varied levels of spin experience, workout frequency, and overall care towards totally nailing every move between the 12 of us. But there was a lot of laughing, a lot of sweating, and even a celebratory cupcake with a candle brought into the room by the staff during our cool down! (though I cannot confirm whether or not it was a kale cupcake, it did look quite tasty. And thoughtful.)

And that, my friends, is the definition of fun.

Happy Monday, everyone! 

You can all thank me in your own special ways later
for not posting the"after" picture.

Friday Funday Wrapup!

It's either hot or freezing cold where you are, snowing, sleeting, raining, or completely clear, and so that can mean one thing - climate change? Yes.

But also that it must be Friday and we're all completely confused by what has happened to Mother Nature this week and so we need to escape by watching videos and talking about books. Let's get to it.

***


This kid is simply awesome. And makes me want to work to create something awesome. Other than this blog, of course. Enjoy.

***

So this week's Book Club choice is one I wrote about a year ago, but is still quite relevant...at least for me. It's the biography of Steve Jobs, who I found to be both fascinating and infuriating, as you might imagine. But in light of the fact that I just struggled to FaceTime with my niece, and also couldn't figure out the other day how to update the software without basically erasing everything on my iPhone, I thought this was topical.

Anyway, check out the review here, and if you missed the first one from two weeks ago, you can check that one out here.


***

And now for the Video of the Week!

Since this weekend is the Super Bowl between the San Francisco 49ers and the Baltimore Ravens (for those of you who, well, don't care), I thought it'd only be appropriate to make the Video of the Week relevant to that. Also, I'm not the betting kind, but if I were you, I'd definitely put my money on either the 49ers or the Ravens to win this weekend. Just a hunch.

And while I'll spend most of the time watching the commercials and hoping that David Beckham shows up in his underpants again, I'll also be curious to see if anyone can bring it as hard as Whitney brought it back in 1991. And let's leave the Beyonce criticism to the professionals, I'm still too raw from that controversy to really discuss it. Obviously.

Enjoy!

Happy Friday, everyone! 

Hobnobbing with celebrities and goggling what hobnobbing means.

So you guys know how I like to hang out at only the most exclusive clubs in New York that are known for their mystery, intrigue, and discretion, right? Wait, that doesn’t sound like me at all? You are correct. However, that was totally me last night because I was rubbing shoulders with the exclusive A-listers who haunt this club nightly. I mean, that’s just how I roll and quit looking at me like that, guys, it could totally happen.

But ok, to be fair, I didn’t actually rub shoulders with celebrities. But I absolutely sat in the same leather booths that I’m pretty sure, like, P. Diddy and George Clooney have sat in. And in my mind, that means that I’m now friends with the entire cast of Oceans 11 and finally George and I can realize the love that’s been there all along. I’m just guessing, here, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it means.

Also, apparently some big time PR person was in the mix, though when someone said to me “every remotely social person in this town knows her,” I just nodded and smiled and wondered if they could tell that I wasn’t remotely social. And that it’s possible that Beth and I may or may not have once hidden in the bushes in Central Park outside of Tavern on the Green during the red carpet event for Michael Jackson’s birthday party. For two hours. In the dark. Like homeless and/or crazy people.

"I'm a lawyer."

But whatever, we totally saw Michael Jackson and Liza Minnelli and Samuel L. Jackson and Starr Jones before she got skinny and kicked off of The View. It was awesome and we weren’t at all ashamed. Which, let’s get real, shouldn’t surprise any of you. 

Anyway, back to the party. It was an interesting mixture of people, many of whom I’d probably not run into at my local hangouts of CB’s apartment, my living room with my cat, or the Chipotle that just opened down the street. And when I walked in, I was pretty sure I was going to stick out like a sore thumb, stare at my phone a lot pretending to get texts from people who were just as remotely social as I, and hopefully be home in time to watch The Mindy Project. However, I was pleasantly surprised that pretty much everyone was incredibly warm and friendly.

I mean, there was definitely the guy who had a five minute conversation with me, shook my hand way too hard to the point that I thought I maybe let out a little yelp, and then winked at me and clicked his teeth as he walked away. I mean, yes, of course that guy was there.

But there were also just super normal, friendly, funny people who didn’t seem to notice or care that I spent less on my entire outfit than they had on the drink in their hand, and a few of them reminded me of people I actually would spend time with outside of pretend going-to-the-club-on-a-Tuesday-night world.

Also, while chatting with a guy about what we do for a living and other random stuff that you talk about when you don’t know someone at a dark club, I mentioned that I heard that there would be models coming later. He said “I heard that, too. I just assumed you were one of them.” To which I think I actually snorted from laughter and spilled my water on his shoes. And shockingly, he didn’t ask for my number.

But whatever, I’m totally a model and Giselle and I are so annoyed by how the Patriots never support her husband in crunch time and we talk about it all the time over fake-lunch.

So don’t be surprised if you see me in the society pages of the New York Times in the coming days, people. Also, bonus for the Times, they won’t even have to search around to find out who that new “it” girl is because they totally already have my info from that one time I photo-bombed the New York Times photographer's pictures while he was doing a somber photo story about Hoboken in the wake of Super Storm Sandy.

Keeping in classy.

Happy Wednesday! 

On why you should never consider me a real adult and why technology is dumb.

I think I’m only marginally qualified to be considered an adult. And, if I’m being honest, it’s sort of a complete miracle that I haven’t gotten murdered. Or died from natural causes related to eating peanut butter out of the jar. Or from getting trapped inside my apartment. Or by getting killed while waiting to get back into the apartment I locked myself out of.

Basically what I’m saying is that it’s a miracle that I don’t currently reside in an assisted living facility with a medic alert bracelet around each wrist and the title of “Really Awesome Puzzler” given to me by the staff because of my skilz during the recreational hour.

You see, it occasionally occurs to me that some basic adult-like behavior doesn’t come naturally. Like, you know how some people are just really good at doing crafts and stuff to the point that you kind of secretly hate them for being able to create a beautiful centerpiece and personalized name plates for everyone in attendance using a piece of string and a Cheez-it? Well, let’s get real, if that were me I’d just ball the string up in the middle of the table after staring at it for 10 minutes and then eat the Cheez-it and make everyone sit on the floor.

Also, when I say “it occurs to me” I mean that it repeatedly gets mentioned by friends and family during nearly every interaction we have that perhaps I haven’t quite mastered this adulthood thing.

Example #1: While chatting with my girlfriends over lunch this weekend, I was re-telling the really awesome “borrowed vegetable oil from a neighbor” story. However, they realized during the re-tell that, unlike a normal person, I didn’t show up at the neighbor’s door with any sort of container to carry the vegetable oil in. Not a measuring cup or a plastic cup. I simply showed up with two hands and a smile, not even thinking ahead as to how I’d get said oil down the hallway.

Friend: Wait, you didn’t bring your own cup?
Me: No, she just gave me a plastic cup of oil.
Friend, laughing: So you just showed up and, what, stuck out your hands and said ‘just pour it right in here’?
Me, laughing: It literally didn’t occur to me until just this moment now that it’s weird that I showed up asking for oil without anything to carry it in. (pause) Do you think she thought I was a weirdo?
All three friends in unison: Yes.

Example #2: While chatting with CB the other night, I got up and went into the kitchen to get a snack. But since he’s not a snacker, he doesn’t really have snacks at his place, and for that, I think he must hate America. However, we did have a tub of Cool Whip that I bought a week ago when we had brownies (thanks to the borrowed vegetable oil), and so I took out a spoon and scooped some into my mouth while he was talking.

CB: Um, what the hell are you doing?
Me: Eating cool whip. I’m craving something sweet and we don’t have any chocolate.
CB: That’s disgusting.
Me: It’s super low-cal!
CB: What are the ingredients in it?
Me: Water……
CB: Uh huh….
Me: ….sugar….high fructose corn syrup…..
CB: Yeah, you’re basically just eating water and sugar.
Me: And you’re point? It’s only 15 calories a serving! Which I’m not even eating. So it’s like I’m eating air.
CB: Please turn around while you eat that, I can’t watch.
Me, turning around and grumbling: You’re not the boss of me…..

Example #3: Sometimes I’m like a child when it comes to understanding how things work. Except for most children understand how to do things like FaceTime and Skype because they are surrounded by technology at all times and never once had to walk eight miles to school in the snow with no shoes.

Anyway, in my defense, I totally pull off technology all the time. Uh, I have a blog, people. Obviously. But when technology doesn’t work the way I expect it to, I sort of have a brain shut-down and just start randomly turning things off and back on and furiously hitting various buttons so that everything flashes at me at once and then makes a sound and stops working completely.

But because I’m an awesome aunt, I attempted to FaceTime with my sister and niece for her birthday yesterday.

Fact: I have successfully FaceTime’d before and can sometimes even do it on the first try.

Fact: I have never successfully Skyped because it doesn’t make any kind of sense and you really shouldn’t make complicated software like that, computer people.

Fact: While attempting to FaceTime yesterday, my niece mastered a level of a new video game she’d never played before and my sister successfully made an entire meal while waiting for me to figure out how to use my phone.

Anyway, this is what happened

Ok, so really the moral here is pretty glaringly obvious, is it not? Would I like to be a normal, functioning member of society who remembers to bring cups in which to carry things, doesn’t eat sugar water from a bowl, and understands how the shiny, bright object I spent $100 on works? Of course I would, yes. Am I grateful that I have friends and family around me to steer me in the right direction when I’m about to leave the apartment with no pants on to take out my trash? Debatable.

Happy Monday, everyone! 

A not-so-typical Friday post...it's a two-for-one birthday extravaganza!

So I know it’s Friday and you’re probably expecting to see the Friday Wrapup here. And holy cow there’s a lot to wrap up, so keep an eye out next week!

However, this weekend my family is celebrating two very special occasions since it’s my mom and niece’s birthday on Sunday, so I’d be remiss not to highlight that right here on the blog.

I teach her only the finer
things in life. 

And I wasn't kidding about the
sparkles.

And while my niece is becoming a great reader going into her seventh year here on earth, I thought the sentiment might be lost on her and may be better spent in the form of a makeup kit that she’s been asking me for since the fall. And, of course, an awesome FaceTime conversation that I’m looking forward to so that I can hear all about her birthday adventures and – hopefully – cake-devouring. She's the brightest light, she makes me laugh every time I'm around her, and I honestly don't remember what our family was like before Katie came along. I remember holding her in my arms in the middle of the night when she was only weeks old, rocking her to sleep, soothing her when she cried, and staring at her for hours, unable to believe this tiny little person was finally here. 

She's my sparkle partner-in-crime and adds such humor and love and true kindness to our family that I'm just lucky to be her Aunt Becky. Happy birthday, sweet Katie, thank you for making the world brighter. 

However, my mom’s been a stellar reader for quite some time now, and so I thought perhaps this blog might not be lost on her quite as much.

So, without further ado………a very special Friday Birthday Post.

***

So you know how in elementary school you’d have to make various crafts throughout the year in the form of drawings, poems, and – God forbid for my parents – any sort of clay mug or something? Yeah, well, for normal parents, these things were kind of cute and quaint and definitely worth keeping. For my poor parents, those moments when I’d present them with my latest school craft was a time of great restraint, taking a moment to practice the art of asking what the hell it was that I was showing them without crushing my feelings or making me feel inadequate as a potter.

Also, it was the moment that my mom would start crying if I decided to give her one of these made-with-love-but-absolutely-no-talent crafts for her birthday or Mother’s Day or some other event where I’m supposed to show my love via art.  

However, her tears were never out of horror or anger or resentment towards me for presenting her with some useless piece of crap that she should be embarrassed to hang on the refrigerator. Instead, they were tears of joy and heartwarming emotion and a bunch of other stuff that leads you to think I’m totally making this up. But, spoiler alert, I’m not. I mean, if I’m being honest, it sort of became a running contest throughout the years for my sister and me to see who could make mom cry first from joy over whatever gift we gave her.

Also, we’re the best daughters a mother could ask for.

But it’s one of the great things about my mom. Ok, sure, everyone thinks their mom is the greatest, but unfortunately for everyone else, they’re totally wrong. You see, my mom is the one who legitimately thought that the stupid stick figure drawing or popsicle stick Christmas tree ornament was just the best thing ever, and proudly displayed it immediately for all to see. She’s the mom who, to this day, cries every time I leave to fly back East after a visit, even though she totally pretends that there’s just something in her eye. She’s the mom who makes you feel special on your birthday and created the monster you see before you today, hanging birthday banners and baking turtle cakes, Miss Piggy cakes, and Hansel and Gretel cakes way into my adult years when I should’ve been ashamed of myself. But wasn’t.

Pre-meltdown.
But for real, killer tutu, right?

She’s the mom who would drive me to every single violin lesson, tap lesson, gymnastics practice, and ballet class. Though, to be fair, she’s also the mom who left me upstairs in the lobby while she watched the rest of my ballet class perform when I was little because I was being a brat and refused to go on stage after insisting on the new tutu. 

Also, she was totally right. I was being a jerk. My bad, mom, my bad.

She’s the mom who didn’t murder me after spilling red nail polish (more than once) all over my brand new rug or the bathroom floor and would somehow always find me hiding in the really secret spot of right under my bed next to the spill every time. And obviously, she’s the mom who is a total mind-reader with eyes in the back of her head.

She’s the mom who somehow juggled that hubby of her's, two kids, a job, going to grad school, cooking our meals, and remembering which one of us had which field trip that week, all without me ever quite realizing that this was, like, a LOT to do all at once. 

Eh, what can I say, kids are kinda selfish.

She’s the mom who I still call to this day when I’m sick, because all I really want is my mom to make it better. And she’s the mom who knew every crush, even if I tried to hide it, every heartache, even when I tried to fight it, and laughs and cries right along with me during each moment to this day.

She’s the mom I’m proud to call mine, and just as proud to call my friend. And she’s the mom that’s made me feel like maybe I can be a mom someday too, though I can only hope to do it half as right as she did. (I mean, if I do say so myself.)

It’s your birthday, mom, so even though you don’t like the spotlight or ever make a big deal over anything relating to you like you do when it’s about me, I’m going to just go ahead and take over that role for you today.

Happy birthday, mom. Eat lots of cake, blow out some candles, and hopefully this post is on par with the stick figure drawings of my youth so that it brightens your day. 

And, if nothing else, at least I spared you any sort of craft. Now that’s a gift.  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

On how being a woman is WAY better and why CB sometimes drinks whiskey during the week.

So this morning I woke up to a scribbled note by the bedside that read “Mean to men?” and the word “pillow” written next to it, which lead me to conclude the following:  1, I really shouldn’t be allowed to sleep around potentially sharp objects like a pen because I might lose an eye and 2, I’m much nicer in my sleep thoughts towards CB than in my awake thoughts.

Let me explain.

You see, CB has a number of incredible qualities: he’s kind, funny, smart, honest. But he has one quality that has made me contemplate smothering him with a pillow every night of our lives for more than a year now: he snores louder than a fog horn.

And instead of doing the rational, reasonable thing and purchasing nose strips for him or ear plugs for me, I’ve gone down a slightly different route that includes nudging him, rolling him over, and inadudibly yelling his name angrily from the other side of the bed to make sure that he wakes up as much as I’m waking up.

CB: You know, when I snore it means I’m sleeping soundly.
Me: Uh, yeah, but I’m not.
CB: Ok, but does that mean that both of us have to not get a good night’s sleep?
Me: Um, yes. And duh.

Keep in mind that this conversation happens weekly, usually when we’re both really not grumpy at all, and everyone in Hudson County can feel the love.

But the other night, out of the blue, I had an “Eureka!” moment and woke him up from a dead, snoring sleep to tell him my exciting new idea.

Me: I’ve got it! It’s the pillows!
CB: grumble grumble grumble
Me: It’s the pillows! Give me that pillow (yanking the second pillow from under his head)
CB: Um…..
Me: I think you’re snoring because you’re too propped up all night! The nights that you don’t snore are when I have all of the pillows and you just have one. So that’s it! You’ll just sleep with one pillow from now on.
CB: Um…..
Me: Goodnight!

And then he didn’t snore and I was totally right.

However, what I failed to do, is, um, ask him if this was at all comfortable. But because he’s nicer than me in just a general way, he rolled over, went to sleep, and realized that that was probably easier than having this conversation with me for 5 more seconds.

Cut to: last night. We’re going on day three or four of the no snoring phenomenon and it’s working out quite well for me, I must say. But last night, I woke up around 3am and CB was wide awake because he couldn’t sleep, and suddenly I was struck with an enormous amount of guilt.

I'm not an actual witch.
I just play one in my sleep, sometimes.

Me: Do you want a second pillow?
CB: No, this is comfortable, it’s not that. I just keep tossing and turning.
Me: Are you sure it’s not the pillow?
CB: It’s not the pillow.

And then I got up and scribbled the note about being mean because I knew my real-life mind would just forget all about this and I’d never know that I had a moment of pure clarity about how mean us ladies can be sometimes.  

Also, by “us ladies,” it’s possible that I just mean me. But I’m going out on a limb here to say that I’m not alone in this camp?

And I realize that I might get hate mail from people screaming about equality and our oppression over centuries and blah blah blah (bring it). I’m with you, I’ve got it, and if I hadn’t spent too much money on my bra, I’d burn it right there along side of you.

But in light of the fact that every ridiculous sit-com on television depicting a married couple shows the guy as a babbling idiot who can barely tie his own shoes while the woman runs circles around him, I think it’s important for both parties to acknowledge when we’re being slightly less than totally fair to the other. Also, those sit-coms make me sad for a world like that and Tim Allen and Homer Simpson really should have more respect for themselves.  

But I think we’d be remiss not to at least acknowledge some of the stuff we ask of/expect our hairier halves to do.

In no particular order, and on any given day, I will:

• Ask (sort of?) CB to move over so I can take up most of the couch and be cozy while he occupies the square inch in the corner and becomes a human pillow
• Take the pillow from under his head while he’s sleeping (this has already been established)
• Make him either open or close a window, turn on the heat or the a/c, depending on my body temperature, not his
• Ask him (again, sort of) to lift things that I can lift because I’m lazy
• Answer the door when the pizza guy comes because it gives me anxiety (but I totally call every time, so let’s call it a draw)
• Be moody and contradictory when there’s no beer in the house
• Watch anything on Bravo, the WE channel, or the Oprah Network ever

And that’s just the beginning, ladies, trust me. I’ll sleep with a pen again tonight and write down stuff that my conscious mind is way too ashamed to remember while I’m awake.

But am I alone here or do we sometimes take advantage of being the fairer sex? And guys (the whole 3 of you who read this blog) – what do you think?

Happy Wednesday, everyone! 

And then Emma Stone asked to play me in the bio-pic of my life.

So you know how in some romantic comedies, the heroine is this funny, slightly clumsy girl who probably just needs a good brushing of the hair and some trendier glasses and she’d be the belle of the ball? And how the guy is usually the buddy who only sees her as the funny, clumsy, unkempt friend who he’d never be attracted to because he doesn’t understand that he’s actually looking at Julia Roberts under all of that hair and no make-up? But then all of a sudden she has a brilliant make-over and comes down the stairs and he falls madly in love with her?

Yeah, this doesn’t describe any moment I’ve ever had in my dating life, either. And it certainly doesn’t describe the life CB has come to know and love. Except that Julia totally plays me in my day-to-day mind-life. But I digress.

Anyway, the unfortunate truth of it all is that, while people regularly tell me that my life is like a tv show or a movie, they’ve never actually narrowed it down to what kind of movie we’re talking about here. And nobody should ask CB what his opinion is on this because I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have the word “romantic” in it at all.

You see, this weekend we decided to have date night. And even though I’m sure we all remember what CB’s initial idea of a date was, we’ve come a long way. So we decided on dinner and a movie. Except I woke up that day not feeling so great and we were trying to juggle the timing of everything since CB got off of the golf course around 5 and my witching hour of falling asleep during a television program, movie, or conversation is between 9:30pm-7am.

So this meant that dinner was something we’d tackle on our next date night, and I was just fine with that since this left room for Swedish Fish and popcorn. Upset stomach, what? Yeah. I’m like a child. Stomach bug be damned!

Best. Date night. Ever.

Anyway, we walked into the theater just a few minutes before the movie started, and since it was sold out, we were among the lucky few who got pick of the entire first row of seats.

CB: You sure this is ok?
Me: Sure, why not? It just means that I get to see Ben Affleck’s face up close. No complaints here!  

Cut to: 20 minutes into the movie and my eyes are closed because my motion sickness has kicked in so severely that I have considered grabbing CB’s popcorn bag to hurl into.

Me: I don’t think we can sit here.
CB: It’s sold out! There’s no place else to sit.
Me: Ok, but I might throw up on you.
CB: Just lean back and try not to think about it.

Helpful.

Cut to: 20 more minutes and I’m losing plot here because when people speak in Farsi and it’s being subtitled in English, I just think it’s a quiet scene of Ben Affleck’s face with Iranians talking in the background because I can’t see anything.

Spoiler alert: that’s not what it was.

However, I was quite impressed with myself for being able to figure out that the guy from “The Mindy Project” and John Goodman were both in the movie simply by voice recognition. Of course, I may or may not have missed a few scenes after that because obviously my mind started to wander when I began playing the game “Who’s Voice Would I For Sure Recognize in a Movie?”

Which, for the record, I would dominate.

But just around that time is when I felt CB get up for a minute. When he came back, this happened:

CB: Do you mind sitting on the floor?
Me: The floor?
CB: Yeah, there’s a spot for wheelchairs about half-way up in the theater where we could sit and not disturb anyone. And you also wouldn’t have to watch the movie with your eyes closed.
Me: Let’s do it.

And so we did. And it was awesome. 

Also, I highly recommend Argo to anyone who hasn’t seen it and I definitely recommend watching it with your eyes open, if at all possible, because it really rounds out the whole experience.

Speaking of experiences, on the way home I was still feeling a little nauseas because, as I explained to CB, I have “a very delicate system. Also, I might be sick?” and he took this opportunity to explain to me how happy he was that we’ve been together this long and how much he’s looking forward to spending many more date nights with me because being with me means never being bored.

I mean, that was the gist. I could just reiterate everything he said here word-for-word, but then too many people would start fighting him for my love and that just wouldn’t be fair.

"Wait, you want me to play WHO?"

However, the moral of this story is that I think the movie industry is missing out on a gold mine of a plot line here, people! A scene where Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling end up sitting on the floor with jujubes and popcorn kernels stuck to their pants, and Pepto Bismol on-hand just in case she gets sick in a dainty fashion, has the beginnings of the best rom-com ever!

You’re welcome, Hollywood. (call me, Ryan.)

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Happy MLK Day!

Hey guys,
I'll be back to post on Tuesday, but at the moment I'm taking advantage of the extra day off of work to...not do anything!

So enjoy, I hope you're not sitting at work waiting for a post, but if you are, that's what the archives are for on the sidebar! Also, go talk to your boss and tell her/him that they really should get their act together with giving you this holiday off!

See you tomorrow!
B

The Friday Funday Wrapup!

It’s Friday, people! Let’s not waste any time and get right to the wrapup!

***

First of all, I just want to thank all of you glorious readers who took the time to not write me hate mail and, instead, send me great emails, comments, and Facebook posts in support of me and my mental instability when it comes to hearing criticism from people who like British soap operas. (NOTE TO READERS WHO HATE ME AND THINK I’M STUPID: Please don’t email me about how low my IQ is for calling it a soap opera.)

THANK YOU! My readers are the best.

***

So last night I was being all Suzy Homemaker-ish and baking and watching the Karate Kid on AMC. Ok, well I wasn’t actually watching the Karate Kid so much as I was making CB tell me what the extra fun facts were that they post at the bottom of the screen when they do my favorite thing ever in the world called “Story Notes.” I mean, I didn’t want to miss out on one single awesome tidbit related to that movie just because I was in the other room!

Also, CB was really excited about this arrangement and didn’t once put the movie on mute to see how long it’d take me to catch on that he was not paying attention to the story notes and, instead, was reading about how to have a better golf swing in his golfing book.

Anyway, I got to, like, step one on my baking extravaganza and realized that we were out of vegetable oil. So after CB very dramatically flung himself onto the bed in a fit of exhaustion over me saying the phrase “Can you do me a favor?” for the millionth time that night, and then us having a pretend argument over who would or would not go downstairs to the deli to see if they had it, I came up with a very logical, down-home solution.

Me: I’ll just go ask one of your neighbors!
CB: Yeah, that’s a great idea. (did NOT note the sarcasm in his voice at the time, I’d like to point out.)
Me: Ok! Be right back!

15 minutes later.

Me: Doesn’t anybody TRUST anybody anymore? Um also, did you at any point in the last 15 minutes wonder if I’d perhaps been grabbed and murdered by one of your neighbors?
CB: Eh, I popped my head into the hallway a couple of times and you were fine.
Me: I was out of sight for at least 10 minutes because I went all the way down the other side of the hallway that even I didn’t know existed.
CB: Well, I didn’t hear any screaming.
Me: I love you, too. Also, here’s the stupid vegetable oil. It only took me knocking on 24 doors before someone finally answered, even though I could totally hear everyone in their apartments watching tv and talking.
CB: Yeah, this isn’t Michigan. People don’t open their doors to strangers.
Me: So I learned.

But the moral of this story is twofold: (1), someone finally did open their door, give me a giant cup of oil, and it didn’t look weird at all that I was in my furry slippers and pajamas walking down the hallway with a plastic cup of oil – because it’s NEIGHBORLY to do so – and (2), if you’d like to murder me, please feel free to do so when CB is a few feet away inside the safe confines of his apartment, enjoying the peace and quiet, and watching the Karate Kid on mute.

***

For a while now, I’ve been looking for a way to class up the joint. I mean, this is a blog with the word “underpants” in the title, so I’m pretty sure everyone knows what they’re getting into here. But I thought the Friday Wrapup might be a good place to add a little literary fanciness to our days, and so I’ve decided to start highlighting a book blog that my family has been keeping (somewhat) up-to-date for years, now.

Yes, my family has a book blog and yes, there are Tori Spelling books mentioned on there. What can I say, my dad has been a fan ever since he saw Mother May I Sleep With Danger? on Lifetime in 1996 and just can’t get enough.

No, just kidding. He’s been a fan way before then.

Anyway, I’ve noticed in my stats that a few of you are already clicking over to it on a regular basis since it’s in the sidebar, so I thought I’d just spread the word a bit more to those who are interested.  

Also, one might think that I’d choose one of my posts for the first one because, well, it’s my blog and I can do whatever I want. But I’m not. I’m going to choose not only a timely post, but one about a book that I just ordered for myself after reading excerpts of my dad’s copy over Christmas. We were both laughing out loud, so it just might appeal to one or two of you as well!

Enjoy the inaugural (and short – to lure you in…) book post! 

Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin

***

And now, what you wait for with bated breath each week….the Video of the Week.

I chose this video because this morning I went outside of my normal routine – which, given my Rain Man-esque qualities when it comes to rituals, was exceptional – and got my coffee at Starbucks. I got a gift card for Christmas that I forgot about and decided to mix it up a little for a Friday.

Starbucks Barista: Your name?
Me: Becky
SB: Becky….like in that song?
Me: Um……
SB: The “I like big butts” song?
Me: Oh, yeah, like that.
SB: You must get that all the time.
Me: Yeah, except I don’t have a butt, and so then it just becomes ironic.
SB, standing silently with a cup in his hand because there are no words when I forget that not all thoughts are for the outside.

And then I stepped aside and waited for my over-priced iced coffee without feeling weird about that interaction at all.

So, without further adieu…..here’s a classic.

Happy Friday, everyone!!! 

And then Tina Fey and I cried together while listening to Bon Iver.

So last night I was spending my fourth night on the couch watching terrible* television and being sick of being sick, when I decided to check my blog inbox.

Ok, first of all, I don’t know who the R&D team is who figures out what emails should be sent to what person, but boy do they have me pegged. I simply can’t get enough cute notes from barely legal girls who are dying to meet me and offers for a free online subscription to Cialis.

But after totally clicking through on all of those offers, I got to two emails that really made my night. And by “made my night” I mean “may or may not have made me cry and then text Courtney.”

Me: Uh, I’m getting hate mail from people who are apparently insane and love Downton Abbey.
Court: Are you for real?
Me: Yeah. I got called stupid twice. Also, sign that my hormones are NOT in check? I started crying. I’m a crybaby.
Court: Just today you’re a crybaby. Any other day you could tell them to f themselves.
Me: Man, blogging is like dating. You try it out, and when it works, it’s amazing! But when you have a bad date, it’s like you vow never to go out there again. And also sometimes you have to answer questions about wearing lingerie while watching Jag at a dive bar.

Oh yeah, that happened. My 20s were incredible.

So then I decided to call it a night and totally not think about all of the mean things these people said.

Until I got into bed and re-read both of them while listening to sad music and doing that thing where you hold back your cry so much that it hurts your esophagus.

But then I decided to act like a normal human and be rational. I mean, this isn’t my go-to move, rationality, but it’s something that creeps up on me every now and again and boy, does it come in handy! Of course, my rational mind may not look like other people’s, since the first thing I thought of is how people rag on Tina Fey and I love Tina Fey and think she’s hilarious, whereas other people devote their entire waking hours to talking about how un-funny she is.

And since Tina Fey and I fall into most of the same categories when it comes to our comedic bodies of work, it was an understandable go-to move on my part.

But then I kept going over in my head something that this one email said: “You’re clearly not very bright, and when stupid people say stupid things, they should expect others to call them out on it.”

First of all, I took the Jeopardy practice test online the other day and I totally got 70% of those answers correct. Granted, one of them was “THIS SINGER RENAMED HERSELF "SASHA FIERCE" FOR A 2008 DOUBLE ALBUM” and I may or may not have yelled out “Beyonce!” as I made my “suck it” face to the computer and said “Boom.” Still,  though, it counted towards my total correct answers, and for that, I’m sad for America.

But whatever. The second place my rational mind took me to was all of the other emails I get from you guys on a weekly basis that are funny, supportive, and entertaining, and so perhaps I need to just let the haters hate.

Also, I tend to go into “gangsta” mode after crying because it makes me feel like more of a badass who can handle anything while tucked into bed with my cell phone and Bon Iver playing.

Nothing says “thug life” more than Bon Iver. Truth.

"We will cut you."

Anyway, I suppose the real moral of this story is twofold: one, I’m grateful that anyone reads this blog and comments, so if a few people who hate me and my stupid stupidness get in there, so be it. And two, you Downton Abbey folks take this stuff seriously! My bad, PBS, my bad. 

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

*AMAZING

Friday Funday Wrapup!

There are happy hour’s being planned, sleeping in to look forward to, and nobody at all is able to focus at work today. It must be Friday! So let’s get right to it.

***

First, a little house-keeping. Several of you have emailed or posted on the blog wondering whether or not I actually finally bought a coat, and the answer is yes! I know that hard-hitting news like this is what you come to the blog for each week, and so I don’t like to disappoint.

Also, everyone in CB’s family is still speaking to me, so I consider this a win. But basically it went something like this.

I warned CB, his mom, and his sister that I’m a nightmare to shop with and to please not hold it against me and really, now that I think about it, maybe we just shouldn’t go.

They, in turn, ignored me, told me to get into the car, and we were off.

Once inside, I started to feel that weird, clam-y, panic-y feeling you get when you think you might throw up or die. It’s a feeling I’ve grown accustomed to every time I walk into any sort of shopping venue with someone other than me and my bad attitude.

However, within the first five minutes, they’d found a coat that I not only thought was cute on the hanger, but cute enough on me to be like “Yep, let’s go! We found it!” Uh, apparently that’s not how normal-people shopping works.

So, we "shopped" for about 30 more minutes, which basically means that I wandered around, randomly touching coats while CB carried the coat I thought we were buying and his sister tried on a bunch of coats that she wanted. Also, she’s, like, a professional shopper.

Meanwhile, I was basically just waiting to see how much longer I had to pretend-shop before we could leave.

But while I was fake shopping, I saw this red coat that didn’t look terrible, found a mirror, tried to secretly put it on so no one would see me, liked it, and then started to put it back because I don’t know how shopping works.

CB: Wait, what are you doing? Put that back on so I can see it.
Me, wanting to throw up: Oh really? I was just going to put it back.
CB: Just put it on and quit being weird.

Cut to: 10 minutes later we bought that coat and now I’m a happy camper who hasn’t gotten pneumonia from not being able to zip my coat. Win/win.

Thanks, CB’s family!

***

Uh, I may or may not have been this guy on the train this morning when I was listening to my “Friday Mix” (what? You don’t have one of those?) and accidentally sang out loud “…cuz I’ve been trying to work it out, ohhhhh.”

Also, if you don’t understand my reference above, here’s some help. Sorry, mom and dad. And also everyone on the PATH train. My bad.

***

  

And now for the Video of the Week! Basically, I chose this video because I dig this band and this song and so….maybe you will too! Also, it was totally on my Friday Mix. 

Happy Friday, everyone! Go out there and enjoy it! 

Judging other people's joy and why I shouldn't be allowed on Pinterest.

So you know how people who get to be super-old say stuff like “Back when I was young” or “In my day…” and then everyone rolls their eyes and takes pity on the poor old person who can’t get hip to the ways of today?

Yeah, get ready to roll those eyes of yours because this thirty-something old timer is about to lay it down.

Ok. Yesterday I was reading a benign article where the person was asking about etiquette or something, and they mentioned a “gender-reveal cake party.”

Uh, two things wrong here: 1, I was reading something about etiquette? I know, but I like to fit in with the natives sometimes.  But 2, this can’t be real.

So I Googled it.

Holy crap, you guys, we’ve all lost our minds! The first few things that popped up were Pinterest Boards for various “gender reveal cake ideas.” 

Wait, none of you guys reading my blog have done this, right? If so….uh, don’t read any more of this post and perhaps maybe you wouldn’t like me in real life?

Also, I’ve now started a Pinterest Page that totally gives away my gender: a chandelier in the bathroom, hot pink Kate Spade shoes, fancy headboards, and how to make the best White Strawberry-Lemon Sangria.

No, just kidding, that's CB's page.

It's....a girl? Give me a break
guys, I was new. And sleepy!   

But back in my day (there it is!), I’m pretty sure my mom was like “Hey Dave, it’s a girl. Also, pass the lasagna.” But fine, whatever, we all know I like to celebrate pretty much anything, so if there’s, like, a reason to celebrate Tuesday, I’ll probably get on board. 

So I can get down with the idea of being all cutesy and stuff by revealing it to your partner with some clever Pinterest idea that your husband makes you promise you’ll never tell anyone about so that he still gets invited to watch football on Sundays with the guys. Fine, deal, now open your pink flower balloon cupcake and let’s celebrate the miracle of life. 

But come ON, people, you’re going to make your poor friends go to a party where they all have to sit around and wait for a pink or blue cake to come out so they can squeal and be super excited? Oh wait, do you hate your friends? Then that makes sense.

Sidebar: If you’d like to invite me to such a party, I will squeal in excitement, but only if I get the pink or blue flower on top of the cake. I for real love sweets. Truth.

Also, I know I sound a bit militant about this, which is a perfectly rational reaction to something you disagree with, but the moment I read it I figured I’d have some “Amen’s” in the audience. Yes? No? 

Anyway, perhaps the moral of this story is that I’d like to speak for the masses and beg of you who are getting married and having babies to please not make me go to more parties outside of the traditional 114 or so that are currently acceptable.

And I, in turn, promise to forget that I made you make that promise when I get married or have kids because I for real love to party. True story.

Happy Wednesday, everyone! 

Boy Meets Girl.....Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Forty-one years ago today, two crazy kids who barely knew each other decided to take the biggest leap of faith around and said “I do” in front of their friends and families. They’d known each other mere months, were living in two separate parts of the country, and were about to embark on an adventure together to the Middle East where the woman was giving up her career and the life she knew to go be with some guy sporting a bitchin’ moustache and a sense of humor.  

And while they didn’t know they’d be my mom and dad at the time, I’m pretty sure they looked into their future together with hope and excitement for what life had in store for them. Also, I’m pretty sure they envisioned their child wearing pants most of the time, but we don’t always get what we wish for.

My mom is a quiet, kind, intelligent, sensitive, practical gal who was living in 1970s New York City and making it her oyster. She was a young nurse and, if I’m putting together the pieces of her stories correctly, not a stranger to the local pubs in her upper east side neighborhood. Yeah yeah, mom, I get it, you were living the Sex and the City dream before we even knew what that was. Also, if you ever tell me you were a Samantha, I will have to be in therapy for the rest of my life, so let’s just keep the past in the past, shall we?

Meanwhile, my dad is an out-going, funny, intelligent, kind, practical guy who was kicking it up at West Point, finishing up his senior year. I’m sure he was being all sorts of good and behaved and military-like, but also, I believe I’ve seen a picture of him that year on a tricycle with a beer in his hand. So, you know, I’m guessing there was some down time.

And these two crazy kids would never have met were it not for their two best friends, who just happened to be dating each other and, I’m guessing, were tired of their respective third wheels tagging along every time they went to a midnight screening of “Love Story.” OR, they were like “Hey, you’re single, you’re single.  Let’s make a love match.” I mean, I’m basing that on my single days and the requirements for a pairing, so I’m using a little creative license with this part.

But one thing I don’t need to use my creativity for is knowing that, after that first weekend, my mom and dad didn’t spend too much more time apart from then on. They’d met their match. Boom. Let’s do this. 

My dad often tells the story of how he knew my mom was the one when she didn’t kill him (or vice versa) during their “Death Valley” drive to…Texas? Ok, I can’t remember where they were driving to because I’ve heard the story so much by this point that I sometimes miss details here and there. But the gist is that my dad was impressed that this spunky red head he’d fallen for could actually make it through a horrendous drive through the deserts and not really complain, kind of go with the flow, and basically just be a champ about the whole thing.  

Cut to: forty one years later and sometimes my dad will tag along with my mom to the grocery store or something and she’s all like “Dave, seriously, go over there or something, you’re bugging me.”

Ahhh, marriage.

You see, if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ve figured out that I live in a world surrounded by romantic comedies, filled with ridiculously outlandish scenarios that bring two people, who seem to be complete opposites, together in the final minutes. But if you’ve met my parents, you start to understand that it’s because, growing up, I basically saw their marriage as a living, breathing organism of this possibility.

But, you know, without the awesome soundtracks and the good lighting.

And I think it taught me more than any Tom Hanks film ever could.

They taught me that love means compromise. It means laughter. It means saying ‘I’m wrong’ sometimes, and actually meaning it. It means forgiveness. It means communication. It means raising kids and being united even when you totally know I would be responsible with Nintendo if you’d just give in already. It means sacrifice. It means accountability to each other. It means patience. It means sometimes going to bed angry and then making breakfast for that person the next morning anyway. It means going on walks. It means watching “Homeland” together and reading excerpts to each other from books you think they might like. It means taking alone time. It means trusting the other person with your stuff, inside and out. It means loving them even when they don’t love themselves. It means playing Scattergories and having all of the same answers because you two for real have been together forever. It means talking about the weather and listening to the same stories over and over sometimes. It means ebbing and flowing and keeping it going. It means liking each other. It means having each others’ backs. It means commitment. It means giving them some Advil and a cold compress when they’re sick and not smothering them with a pillow because they’re really super annoying when they’re sick. It means watching your kids leave the nest and then finally going on fun vacations without them. It means going to bed at night and looking at that person and saying “Yeah, I’ll still keep ya’.” It means having your pal there every day.

It means forty-one years together and still going strong.

Happy Anniversary, mom and dad. Thank you for teaching me how it’s done.