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Ok, let’s not do THAT again…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 21, 2009| 1 Comment »


My wonderful husband, who I adore 91% of the time, is five years younger than I am. And as we grow old (gracefully) together, it seems those years are just morphing together anyway. I mean, let’s be serious here. Once you have marriage, a house, the yellow lab and two crazy kids, you’re all just keeping pace on the same daily treadmill anyway. If you started at 25 or 30, what’s the diff?

Except when conversations like this come up that make me want to check my long-term care insurance, reach for the Exlax and call it a lifetime.
Youth: Had lunch at the Warren Tavern today.
Aged One: Cool.
Youth: You been there? (Try not to sound so surprised, R. I did actually once NOT have a small child attached to my leg.)
Aged One: (likely over zealous) Oh, yeah! The girls and I used to go there a lot when we were on the young and foolish scene.
Youth: Hmmm.
Aged: Actually, I’ll always remember the Warren Tavern ’cause I was there for the OJ chase. I remember a few of us met up for a few beers after work or something. We were all huddled around the bar watching the tv. Crazy.
Youth: …….
Aged: What?
Youth: …..
Aged: What? Where were you then?
Youth: Well…we had a week off between exams and senior prom and I was…
Oh, dear God. Let’s not try that again.

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Reason #272 Why I Love My Husband

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on September 21, 2009| Leave a Comment »


Each night, Husband comes home from work, changes out of his suit, plays “Monster” on the bed with the boys and then the three of them settle in (on Husband’s lap) for an episode (or three, depending on the Yankees game) of pre-recorded Berenstain Bears. The singing of “Somewhere Deep In Bear Country” and the sound of my pouring a glass of chardonnay (ahhh…) are inextricably linked.

Anyway, an actual conversation tonight.

Big Brother: Daddy? (always waits for the “Yes” even if they are basically linked by skin and clearly in earshot.)
Husband: Yes, W.?
BB: Do you know who my favorite Bear is?

Now, the true answer here is “yes”. It’s Sister Bear. But, Husband isn’t much of a fan of that whole idea so the response goes as follows.

Husband: Hmmm. Let me think. Is it Papa Bear?
BB: No
H: Mama Bear?
BB: No.
H: Brother Bear?
BB: Nope.
H: Lizzy Bruin?
(I snicker quietly)
BB: No.
H: Farmer Ben?
BB: No.
H: Too Tall?
(Amazed. I’m laughing out loud now)
BB: No.
H: Grizzy Gran?
BB: No
H: Queenie?
BB: (Frustrated) DAD!!!! It’s Sister Bear!
H: Oh, Sister. Right.

I just love my husband.

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My munchkin’s Munchkins

Posted in Uncategorized on September 21, 2009| 2 Comments »


Dear Dunkin Donuts Counter Lady,

First of all, I’d like to say that that I hope you have had a good day. I know it can’t be easy dealing with a mixed clientele ranging from the Preppy Handbook to the Farmer’s Almanac. And, for the most part, you do it pleasantly (except when I ask you to toast my bagel, which you clearly HATE to do). Sorry.
But here’s the skinny (pun intended) on something I need to clarify with you.
When I come in every Monday and Wednesday morning with two year old slung on hip, dirty hair in clip and ask for an iced coffee and TWO glazed munchkins…I actually really only want two of the glazed munchkins. Not four, not five (I know, I know .99 cents!) but two. You can even CHARGE me for five but please stop giving me more than two. You see, they’re for the kiddo. He’s jump-out-of-the-car seat PSYCHED bc his bossy, controlling big brother is at school and he’s not. Which means that he gets this special trip with Mom where he gets a treat (TWO, in fact) that he wouldn’t normally get if Big Brother (for whom a munchkin worth of sugar would result in household item breakage in no time flat) was with him.
Wait..where was I?
Oh, yes. So, dear Dunkin lady, when you put four or five or even three in the bag here’s my problem. I can’t give the mini man more than two munchkins. I mean, I’m all for indulging my kids now and then but I already know I’m not winning mother-of-the-year here with the munchkin trip anyway. And, lord knows I don’t want to eat them (ok, well maybe I WANT to but that would pretty much mean weight watchers would allow me to eat three small pea pods for dinner). So, when I get back to my car, mini man strapped in back squawking “munchKIN, munchKIN” from the back and I reach into the bag to hand them back to him, please oh please, let there really only be two. I hate being wasteful. Don’t force me to pop leftovers in my mouth. Don’t force me to throw them out (“there are people starving in Africa” and all — hmmm…are they actually still starving there?). Just give me two. Really. Two.
K?
Thanks, sistah.

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