I Know People Who...

1.About a week ago, a friend of mine gave birth to daughter number two in a car. It wasn’t a random car…it belongs to her in-laws car. Mother and baby were healthy, the father was traumatized and the car is now cleaned. The Burberry scarf that was used to wrap the bundle of joy has yet to be replaced. Hospital personnel were shocked, as this delivery literally right outside the doors of the ER was a first for most, possibly even a once in a lifetime. Talk about a Hollywood moment…and a fabulous story to tell this little girl. 2.A type A friend/colleague of mine has catalogued breast milk in a manner more organized than the Dewey Decimal System. After setting a specific goal, she (obviously it is a she) pumped until she was able to store bags of breast milk in the deep freezer. Each is organized by color and includes the date it was pumped and a “use by” date. I think she could create a pocket sized book called “Storing Breast Milk for Dummies.” 3.Have you ever felt like if you didn’t get to a toilet, any toilet, you might just poop in your pants? Well, sticking with the theme of writing books, this friend of mine could write a “Where to Poop in a Pinch” guide. This guide could direct you to a number of lavatories along the Atlantic Coast. Like Zagats, it would include a rating system. The symbol could be rolls of toilet paper. 5 rolls would be the equivalent of being able to eat off the toilet seat, while 0-1 roll would be equivalent to you not wanting the bottom of your shoes to touch the floor. 4. How many times do we allow people to come into our homes to do some sort of repair or maintenance work? How many times do we find our vibrators missing after a painter has completed painting the living room, home office and bedroom? Of all the things one would choose to steal, this one boggles my mind so much that I wonder if it was part of a dare. What does one do with a used sex toy??? Do you boil it first??? Is this painter a collector of sorts??? I imagine him standing in his painters pants, hands wrapped around this new “find”, looking at his corner curio cabinet. This cabinet would be filled with vibrators, framed butterflies and rare coins. "Hmmm, he wonders. Where shall I disply my newest treasure?" 5.After buying stamps at the corner store, my friend did not expect to have the letters she sent returned to her due to the use of counterfeit stamps. Included with the returned mail was a notice letting her know that her name was now on a federal watch-list of sorts. When returning to the corner store, she demanded her money back as well as a Vita-CoCo for her pain and suffereing. It was the least the corner store jerk could do for her. In case you are wondering, the identity of these people shall not be revealed. You know who you are!

I AM NOT AN IDIOT

I AM NOT AN IDIOT. I might be a little ditzy at times, but I attribute that to sleep deprivation. I might be technologically challenged, but no one is perfect. I might be bitchy, but I am a strong willed, perhaps slightly OCD, Sagittarius. But, alas, I am not an idiot. Day in and day out, my daughter takes her socks off. They are the last thing I put on her before we leave in the morning, and the first thing I take off of her when we get home, if she has not gotten to them first. I myself hate socks too. I take mine off before I even get the sweats on after work. So, I get it. What happens to the socks? They are often used as teethers, leaving them soaked. Additionally, they are just held, I suppose in the way a security blanket would be. Other times, the socks are thrown around the backseat of the car. In stores, they are left lonely and discarded in the middle of an aisle, but are either rescued by me or fellow patrons waiting on lines behind us. I had to buy socks in Old Navy to replace a missing pair, only to find them after I made my purchase. There was no use returning them; you can never have too many pairs of socks. So, when you see me strolling along through a store or the mall, you might be inclined to shoot me a dirty look or shake your head in disbelief. You might be thinking that this woman (me), is a total idiot, completely unfit for motherhood, as her child ISNT WEARING ANY SOCKS!!!!! I am so sick of being on the receiving end of the glares and comments. For example, today I went into the Children’s Place. Quite a few people stopped to say hello to the babe, not one of them commenting on her naked feet. Rather, they took note of how well behaved she was and laughed at her silly sounds and smiles. It was clear to them that a happy baby was in tow, wearing a puffy coat and hat. Her mother also had a blanket thrown over the handle of the stroller. The socks were discarded to the left of Em, but visible next to her arm. Somehow, my gut told me this sockless venture was too good to be true. My gut was right. As I approached the cashier, in a syrupy sweet voice, a woman said: “OH!!!! Look at you!!! Your feet must be so cold!!! It’s too cold to be out without socks.” This translates to: “You poor baby!!! Your mother clearly has no regard for your health and only cares about herself. She is such a dirt bag!!! This is the problem with kids today. Their parents are incompetent.” What I said, through a fake smile and somewhat clenched jaw: “Her socks are right here!! OF course it’s too cold to be without socks!” This translates to: “You fucking idiot!!! Babies take their socks off. Why am I going to engage in a sock on, sock off war with an 8 month old when I am inside a heated store? If you are so concerned with how I dress my child, say it to me, not through my baby in a baby talk voice!!!! Quit judging me. I AM NOT AN IDIOT!!!!!!!!”

Run For the Border to the Land Down Under

Once upon a time, a twenty something girl named Tiffany was a third wheel on a trip to Mexico. Her friend Linda had plans to rendezvous with a guy down there, but wanted Tiffany to come along. Low and behold, Linda and the guy didn’t work out and she and Tiffany’s friendship soon came to an end. Poor Linda. Shit out of luck in the love department, down a friend and most likely eating her heart out, as her happy ending soon turned out to belong to someone else. On his way back from Cuba, an on the verge of thirty year old guy named Peppi found himself in Mexico on a layover back to his home in Australia. To pass the time, he found himself in a bar called Dos Equis. Tiffany and Linda walked in, and knowing a good thing when he saw it, Peppi waved Tiffany over. Since he is after all a guy, Peppi did try to put the moves on Tiffany, but always the lady, she told him, thinking they would never see each other again, she was worth waiting for. After the exchange of numbers, emails, screen names or whatever it is we now do, Tiffany was invited out to Australia. Peppi sent her his address as though she was just going to show up there (Ummm..I don’t think Map Quest is that reliable) . Traveling to Finland to visit his sister, Peppi emailed Tiffany that he was conveniently going to be on her side of the world, so in August of 2010, the two spent a week together in New York City. After months of getting to know each other, Peppi once again put the moves on Tiffany and she kissed him back. That week in August was pivotal in the lives of Tiffany and Peppi; they fell in love. It was just so hard to say goodbye; there was more to this than beers in a Mexican bar and a fun week in Manhattan. Both realizing that their lives were about to change, they had a lot of thinking to do. Before either could make any major decisions, Tiffany boarded a plane to spend three weeks with Peppi on his turf. She met his family, got to know the snakes that lived in the area, and of course, met some kangaroos. At this point, Peppi and Tiffany decided that he would come to the U.S. for a trial period where he would live with her and her smelly roommate in a two bedroom in Stuyvesant Town. *Facts about Smelly (the roommate): •Tiffany found her on Craigslist •Stuy Town offers large spaces at reasonable prices, and Tiffany got a deal on rent (but had to spend any extra money on a cleaning lady and air freshener). • Smelly works in fashion. • Smelly is an avid runner. • Smelly is not an avid shower-er. • If this couple could survive long distance and a dirty roommate, I will predict they will survive anything. Peppi, in preparing for his trip, was on the phone with Tiffany at her Nana’s house (the author’s aunt). While inquiring about what to bring, as the seasons are different from one side of the world to the next, Tiffany’s Nana suggested Peppi not pack pajamas. Why, one might ask? Nana figured that Tiffany would keep Peppi warm at night….. Tiffany introduced Peppi to her family, including her parents, sisters, nephew, aunts, uncles and cousins. The family agreed that Peppi not only had a sick accent, but was perhaps one of the nicest people to ever exist. He immediately became one of “them” (not sure if that is a good thing). After a U.S. government required trip back to Australia, Peppi soon returned in the spring. Tiffany, a twenty something girl, and Peppi, now a thirty something (on the latter end) guy, had to make a move. Which continent would it be? The decision was made. Tiffany would be moving. After Peppi’s parents came to visit during the summer, Tiffany’s family understood that Peppi was one of the nicest people ever to exist because his parents were two of the nicest people that ever existed. If anyone in the Levin-Corbin-Wasserman clan had reservations about this major life decision, they were put at ease buy this family that was so easily likeable and so loving. And there you have it…not THE END, but the beginning. In eight days, we will see Tiffany and Peppi off with tears in ours…tears of joy and hope. Who knew that a third wheel and a guy on a layover would begin a new journey in their lives at Dos Equis, a bar in Mexico? On behalf of all of my family, we will miss Tiffany and Peppi very, very much. I must say (it is my blog), that having a baby has definitely brought some of us closer together, and I find this goodbye will be bittersweet, as, after spending more and more time with Tiffany, I wish we could have spent even more. Emily is madly in love with Peppi (a sucker for the accent), so I know she is going to be devastated when he leaves. But, you can teach an old dog new tricks and I will learn to Skype. I will also get enough Xanax to keep my mind at ease and get my ass to the land down under. Imagine now, we are gathered around and I am giving a toast: Here is to taking chances and believing that love can be found anytime or anywhere. Follow your heart. Don’t be afraid to try something crazy. So, raise your glass to Tiffany and Peppi….

All the News That's Fit to Print?

So, it has been a while. I realize this. My dreams of becoming a renowned blogger are fast slipping away. Is it that I don’t have time? Not really. The truth is,I havent really had much I wanted to expand on. I mean, who wants to hear about the gigantic doody I am anticipating my daughter to make after a bout of constipation? I have had a real lack of inspiration. But, here is a list, in no particular order, about some things that have popped up but just didn’t give me the thrill I was looking for. They are in the form of newspaper headlines that I see running along the front page of the imaginary newspaper in my head: 1. Coming Soon: New Tour at the Museum of Natural History. “Genitalia and Butt Cheeks, A Look Back in Time.” 2. Bump Watch 2011-2012: Part DEUCE 3. 18 Years Later: Busted Bitches from High School, Bitchier and Busted-er (not a word, but I am not a professional). 4. Long Nails on Men, Hot For Spring…NOT (and never) 5. The New Measure of Will Power; Not Stealing Chocolates From Offices Around the Workplace 6. My 7 Month Old is a Bully! 7. Is it Legal? Can an Orange Cone Really Save a Parking Spot, Even it is For the Assistant Cook? 8. Forever 31….Who Wants In?? 9. 5 Signs that it’s a Hangover, Not Food Poisoning. 10. Baby Sleeps Through the Night! Raffle Winner! Scratch off Winner! It’s My Lucky Day! 11. Man Reveals He Has Every Piece of Heart Equipment in His Chest After Spin Class: Interview at 11 12. If I Can See Your Underwear and Butt, They are Tights, Not Leggings.

FOOT SPA and a HOLE LOT MORE

I was in need of some T.L.C. Something a little more special than my normal mani/pedi/eyebrow/ten minutes ten dollars at Beach Nails. With a little time to myself, I figured I would hit up one of the 87 foot spas that have popped up within a 5 mile perimeter during the last year. Then, I would head to the gym and do a little bit of time on the spin bike with my newly downloaded beats on my iPod (which I am pretty sure is considered to be nearly extinct by now).
After hearing that Noble Foot Spa was good, I went there. There was somewhat of a crowd hovering near the cash register, which to me, was indicative of a good omen. I requested a 20 minute foot massage and 20 minute back massage, which, I was told, would cost 43 bucks. Okay, I thought…I deserve it. So what if this will cost more than the 28 dollar, hour long foot spa WITH 20 percent off? Too bad I didn’t know then what I know now….
During the summer of 2010, I went to a foot spa up the road from where I work. My colleagues and I thought it to appear as a creepy operation, but once I was inside, it seemed on the up and up to me. The experience was awesome. I fell into a twilight-like sleep during the foot massage. Then, this magical chair folded down and I turned onto my stomach, only to receive a back massage that once again induced sleep. Keep in mind, I was about 7-8 weeks pregnant, so I was often carrying on like a narcoleptic as soon as I got the chance to take a seat, but I am pretty sure it all felt good. Time has not allowed me to return to said foot spa, but it is still in business; a good sign during these tumultuous and just plain scary economic times. Needless to say, I was anticipating another great experience.
So, my foot spa “technician” got down to business and all was good. He even rubbed this spot located on the knee that feel amazing, but only when an Asian man tending specifically to your lower limbs is rubbing it. Lying in a dimly lit room with no watch on, I calculated that my back rub was soon to start. I was waiting for my F.S.T. (foot spa technician) to get up, lower my big, comfy chair and ask me to turn over, but instead he instructed me to walk to a back room. I had been wondering where the other patrons were headed….
We get into the makeshift massage room, similar to one I had been to at the Russian and Turkish Bath House in NYC (http://www.russianturkishbaths.com/enter.html), but with a lot less light.
F.S.T: You know what to do now?
Me: Ummm..well…I have gotten massages before, but not here.
F.S.T: You take off top, and pants, and clothes. There’s towel. Cover yourself. Call me when you are ready.
Me: Okay.
Hmmmm----I didn’t want a special room massage. Hmmmmm—I am not one to take it all off for a massage. I like a little coverage on my lady bits. Of course, I wasn’t wearing any underwear since I was planning to coach myself through a spin routine and underwear are just a pain in the ass while riding a bike..no pun intended…totally the truth. As a matter of fact, I was just reading in Self magazine that doctors deem it completely ok to exercise sans underwear provided one has some sort of material between their you know what and the exercise equipment. But I digress…I figured that this would not be a big deal, as I would be covered by a towel. The troubling part of this was I am used to a sheet that grants generous coverage, not a bath towel that at this point looked to me like a hand towel hung out on the rack for when company comes over. What to do?
I got undressed, laid down on the table, covered myself and choked out the word “Okay.” My F.S.T. came in and started to massage my back. Ahhh—Awesome. Nothing to worry about. You know the scene in a movie (think Patrick Dempsey in “Can’t Buy Me Love” when his spot gets blown up) when everyone is dancing and the music comes to a screeching halt because someone’s parents have just walked into a kegger or because Cindy Mancini has just told the cool kids at her school that Ronald Miller bought his ticket to popularity for a mere thousand bucks? Well, I had my own version of that, only it was just me and some guy and my naked body on a massage table in Oceanside wearing a draped towel basically covering my shoulder blades.
Thoughts in My Head: OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My ass is out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Wait—you had a baby. 87 people have seen your junk. You got an internal with you father in the room. This is the F.S.T’s job!!!
F.S.T: Rubbing my legs. Now going up my legs. Now spreading my legs apart, as my inner thighs do kiss a bit (I JUST HAD A BABY). Feel fingers dancing around my crack.
Thoughts in My Head: HOLY SHIT!!!! Is “back massage” new code for happy ending in my butthole???
F.S.T: Rubbing my VERY upper thigh near butt. Rubbing my BIG, FAT, NAKED BUTT CHEEKS with fingers once again dancing around my crack AND hole!!!!
Thoughts in My Head: I wish I could call someone right now. This is one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me. Why am I laughing about this? Is this the part when people ask for a happy ending??? Are people getting them right now??? The man I saw walk out from back here while I was getting my feet rubbed looked like he had a little spring in his step…WHY DIDN’T I JUST GET TEN MINUTES , TEN DOLLARS????
F.S.T: Karate chopping my legs and ass. “Okay…you get dressed.”
So I get up and notice that now I need another freaking massage because I got so tense from thinking about the possible violation that was about to take place all because I tried to mix up my T.L.C. time. If you are curious, as my friend Steph was, no, I was not aroused. I was freaking out!!! This was not what I was looking for. AND, I found out that the hour long (I had limited time to fit this and the gym in before I had to grab the baby from my parents) foot spa included the massage on the chair, with clothes on, in front of other people, exactly as I had remembered and assumed it was going to be like. So,
now you all know I don’t wear underwear when I spin and that unless you want a HOLE lot more at a foot spa, inquire further as to what a back massage entails!!!!

Here is My Beef..A.K.A, My Current Bitch List

Where shall I begin?
How about I work backwards from most to least recent?
1. I am a fan of our new place. But, I have two issues with it; spiders and drivers who block the driveway entrance. For some reason, there are a variety of spiders in this area. I suppose that is better than a roach, but I am petrified one of us will get bit by one (EMILY) or one of us will swallow one. I know that there is some folklore circulating out there that people swallow roughly 8 spiders in their sleep per year, but who the hell is really studying this to make this statement valid? No one, but I am still scared. Issue number two annoys me because there is a sign, which in my opinion is not big enough, but nonetheless says in bold, black letter, DO NOT BLOCK DRIVEWAY. I wish diarrhea on those who do block it because traffic gets might congested on my side of the mountain morning, noon and night, especially when a train is stopping at the station nearby. Tonight, one person driving on the opposite side of the road nearest to me stopped to give me room to turn in. So kind (I gave a wave and mouthed an overly exaggerated thank you), but the B in the right lane was smack dab right in front of the driveway. So, being super sweaty from a spin class without any A.C., I did what any logical person would do and turned in, stunning her and her passengers with my lights. I see her mouth “OH MY” to which I replied (through closed windows); “Can’t you read, asshole??” If you live in or near Oceanside and this was your mother, I do not take it back.
2. Staying on the topic of reading, I will just say this once. Don’t sign a contract, whether it is a loan contract, divorce contract, behavior contract or your kids’ class procedures contract without actually reading it. If you try to call someone out on something and you signed your name to a document that clearly states what it is you need to do, SHAME ON YOU.
3. I hate drama. If I look like something is bothering me and you ask what is wrong, don’t be upset if I unleash a tirade on you. You asked so I am not going to sit there and say nothing is wrong and mope. People who do that annoy me.
4. For years, I have dreamed of being ensconced in Missoni. I love patterns, and Missoni is right up my alley. So, over the summer, when I learned that Missoni would be releasing a line at Target on September 13th, albeit a line comprised mostly of acrylic and 250 thread counts, I put a reminder in my phone and scoped out what I thought I might like online. Yesterday morning, I woke up and threw some stuff in my virtual basket and was trying to figure out how I could make it to Targey and back to work in 41 minutes. After viewing Facebook posts and being a victim of the Target website crashing, I knew the prognosis for my one shot at affordable couture was not good. I went over to T anyway, and low and behold, there was nothing. The workers there told me women ran into the store and swiped racks of low end clothes created by high end designers into their red carts with the intent of selling them on ebay. I looked only once, but a forty dollar sweater was up to two hundred bucks and the bidding was still going on. People are pigs. I am just not that desperate.
5. Cindy Anthony, mother of Casey Anthony has proven to be one of the biggest idiots alive. I am so not a Dr. Phil fan, but I am a fan of justice. So, when I heard the Anthonys would appear on Dr. Phil, I put a reminder in my phone to DVR it. I am so angry. This woman is so stupid. Her daughter is a psychotic liar but smart. She knew she could tell her mother anything and she would believe her. What kind of mother doesn’t realize that her daughter has no job? What kind of mother speaks to her daughter on the phone for a month, never once hearing her granddaughter in the background or speaking with her? What kind of mother defends her daughter over and over again and sits calmly while Dr. Phil suggests over and over again that her daughter is a psycho killer?? What kind of mother doesn’t question everything her daughter has told her after she hid a pregnancy for 5 months? Nothing even strikes her as suspicious. I could sell this woman a quarter for a dollar. And, I’m no Nostradamus, but I predict the Anthonys will divorce sometime soon.
6. Stop looking me up and down. I had a baby almost six months ago. I have consistently struggled with my weight and a fraction of my clothing fits, although not the way it used to be. While I fantasized about shedding all 56 pounds of bagels I gained in mere months, I still have a little ways to go and my body is not looking at all the way it used to. To make matters worse, the Gap, my go to store, has been letting me down. I am neither here nor there in any sizes and the sales have been sick. Basically, the clothes are free. I am apparently too buxom for free.
7. I am sure many of you will agree that it is quite vexing when someone less experienced than you, who never has to walk in your shoes, tries to tell you how to do your job. I will leave it at that. .
8. I hate participating in pools, primarily because I lose and am a sore loser. I did join a Survivor Football pool, thinking I would at least make it past the first round. I researched the betting sights and picks and decided that for week one, I would go with the Broncos who were playing the Raiders. The Raiders suck. They never win. Guess who freakin won....OUTS.
9. Rachel Zoe is the skinniest woman in the world and the fact that her show is now airing and picks up where she is six months pregnant and is smaller than me right now really pisses me off. (READ: JEALOUS)
10. If I wanted to look at pictures of food, I would read Family Circle or Bon Appetite magazine. People who post their food creations on FB trouble me. So, I am now going to block them.
Just to clarify, I am not in a bad mood, just a little fired up. I am venting. I feel better now.

Farewell, 3T

It feels like just yesterday, I spent my first night alone in 3T. I slept on the couch with the tv on, as I was not used to being on my own, not used to the sighs and grunts of the Surview Tower (a.k.a Shitview) . Sheba and Gus stayed under the bed for three days I wept out of fear, anger, and an overall feeling of emptiness. I knew that I would be okay, that at 29, I was getting a chance to live on my own. My mess would be my mess. I didn’t have to cook for anyone or tiptoe around someone who was sleeping in. There would be no surprises when I opened the door. The rational me knew these were all positives, but the super emotional, in desperate need of a Marlboro Light, gin and tonic and most definitely an SSRI me, could never have imagined that I would be packing of the life I have made for myself here, first alone, then with a husband, and now as a family with a daughter
REWIND—HOW DID I END UP IN A 7 FLOOR BUILDING CALLED THE SHITVIEW?
My marriage was over. I had to make a move. I had to grow a set, so I did. It wasn’t easy. I feel like I basically reinvented myself in a summer—a single season. My ex and I clearly had no hope and we had to move out of the house we rented. Someone (shot not) had wanted a dog despite the landlord’s request of no dogs allowed. The lease was up. The marriage was up. What to do? After a few starts and stops that included my friends traipsing around Nassau County looking at rentals, I reluctantly contacted Diane Blum, a D list celeb realtor in Long Beach known for her short skirts and general monopoly on the few remaining old balls rental buildings in town. After lunch at Nagahama (READ: spicy crunchy hand roll and A LOT of cold SAKI) with my good friend Lynda, I signed about 58 pieces of paper and handed over money I had saved in case this exact situation were to arise. I will not admit to being psychic regarding this matter. Let’s just say if I didn’t see this coming, you might think I was blind and stupid. I convinced my ex to help me move and hang window treatments (he kind of owed me). He stayed with me while cable was installed. But, night fell, as it always does, and it was time to put on my big girl panties (I hate that word- panties) and act like an adult.
Marriage and divorce doesn’t make you an adult. In my opinion, getting through your first night alone in your new apartment after never being on your own, without begging your ex to come back or calling your parents crying, makes you an adult. The next day, the sun rose as it always does, and I gave myself a pat on my back. As the new girl on the third floor, I made friends with a guy named Ralph and another named Andrew. Small world…Andrew was my personal trainer years back and had lived with his ex in 3t, my new home. Gross fact…he informed me that he and his ex had sex in every room of 3t, my new home. Good thing I’m OCD when it comes to cleaning. Thanks to my sister, she introduced me to Wendy, also divorced and living on the fifth floor. The two of us clicked right away and I thank God for having had her in my life at that time. She was exactly what I needed. No one else I knew was going through what I was. I felt that no one could really understand how I felt..empty, a failure…With Wendy, I could talk it out or cry it out. Usually we did this with drinks and a lot of VERY loud laughing through the halls of the Shitview.
I believe that here, in apartment 3t, I grew up. I became a more confident woman. I was supporting myself. I was relying on myself. And you know what? Despite how bad I felt, I cannot deny that I was simultaneously feeling damn good. One day I walked out of the door of 3t married (on paper), a few days later I walked in divorced. One day I walked out of the door of 3t single, a few days later I walked in married. One night I walked out the door with a tiny heart beating under mine, a few days later, I walked back in as a mother.
WHY IS IT CALLED THE SHITVIEW?
Now the Shitview is called that for a reason. This building is old and rundown. Layers of paint on the walls tell the tales of tenants past. The parents of a friend of mine lived here when they were first married. My friend just turned 34. A colleague of mine used to live here. When I describe my building as the ugliest one on the boardwalk, people know it right away. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when weatherproofing at the ocean hasn’t been done properly or possibly ever. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when the woodwork that meets the floor isn’t meeting the floor and I could pass notes under it to the neighbor next door. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when you have to vacuum your wall. And don’t let anyone ever tell you that their building hasn’t any water bugs (a fancy term for fucking roach). My building just has ones that are bigger than your fist. (Fortunately, not in 3t). This building will at some point be leveled and turned into a co-op or condemned by the department of health. Either way, it is old and failing. It needs help. Despite this, I feel a little sad that I am leaving. I have literally outgrown this place. Thankfully, I haven’t outgrown it in the manner in which I can only be covered in a sheet, have to be hosed off when it is time to bathe and then be fork-lifted out after a wall is removed because I am too big to exit through the door. Of course if that were true, the news would be here and people would be outside posting pics of me on Facebook.
I began my time in 3t with just two cats. I had ample closet space. I leave here with two cats, a husband and a baby. My closets now resembles a scene from a movie where someone stuffs things in and shuts the door in one instance, CUT TO NEXT SCENE, and then the door is opened by an unsuspecting character and everything topples out. This is my life.. neat freak, OCD, pushed over the edge. Tonight, while comforting a crabby baby, I began to cry. I looked into her eyes and thought how I could never in a million years imagine that I would be packed up and ready to go, about to embark on a new phase of life with my family; a husband who loves me despite my quirks (bitchiness) and a beautiful daughter who I can only hope takes life by the horns and gets everything she wants out of it. Life is by no means perfect, and people who tell you that theirs is, in my opinion, have something to hide. But, an imperfect situation has led me to this place and to this time.
And tomorrow, I shall bid farewell to 3t—the place where my broken heart mended.

Judgment Day

You’ve all heard it; the sound of bloody murder. You’ve all judged. I know I have. You’re eyes dart about the store, airport, or any multitude of places with human thoroughfare. There---over near the fresh produce in the supermarket. There---in line at the Gap. There—on the boardwalk. What do you see? A mother and a screaming child. In your mind you wonder why she can’t shut that ki

d up, or, she should just give him some candy or buy that toy. How wrong we are, people, to think like this. I learned my lesson yesterday.
What should have been an afternoon of slight leisure turned into a series of events that made up a shit show. The plan was to walk all 4.4 miles of the boardwalk. This walk would combine female bonding with exercise and upper body tanning. An hour and a half later than the originally scheduled liaison, I had finally made it onto the boardwalk. Accompanying me was a friend and her daughter, a potential sister in law and her friend and my B.F.F/Reason for Living, Emily. This little estrogen-laden group is strolling and talking and suddenly my “chatty”, raspberry blowing munchkin has a mood swing that turned the weather from sunny and bright to dark and dismal.
Emily was going to stay home with Josh, but ended up coming with me due to a change in his plans. I did not instruct Josh to include the diaper bag or a bottle with its accoutrements (Mother of the Year) nor did he have the foresight to pack it anyway (men). There went any quick fix to the potential problem (dirty dipes, empty belly).
In all honesty, it was too early for Em to eat and she had not had such a solid nap, but being an infant and being the daughter of Queen Moody, anything was possible. After only walking for about 20 minutes, I knew I had to turn around for home. Crying, crying, crying….all the way home. As we exited the boardwalk, Emily immediately calmed down and returned to her “chatty”, raspberry blowing munchkin self. None of what happens next is at all exciting. But what happened during the six minute walk that seemed like my perception of a climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro changed my judgmental way of thinking and gave my former judgmental self a good tsk tsk and a talking to. While Emily was at the height of her freak out (I think she was just sweaty or simply acting like a baby, go figure), a tall, shirtless man between the ages of 23 and 30 stared at me with an accusatory glare that insinuated I had either:
a. just kicked the crap out of my child
b. chose to ignore her crying
c. was more interested in tanning
I usually look away if someone is staring at me in a way that makes me feel creepy, but he had just crossed a line. I recall hearing that in order to teach a dog who is boss, you hold their stare until they look away. In my effort to make the Dog Whisperer proud (we are all animals), I did just that. I locked eyes with this dude. He held my gaze. As we passed, I turned my head and continued to hold his gaze. He did the same. This was happening in a matter of seconds, all to the tune of Mass Hysteria blaring from a stroller. At this point, another man approaches and starts to dirty look me too!!! “ENOUGH!!!” a voice screamed in my head. Suddenly, I hear myself saying, “BABIES CRY!!!!!! STOP STARING AT ME IN JUDGEMENT!!!!!” Guy number two then started laughing, which I interpreted as a reality check for him, as he was thinking I was just an insensitive bitch who didn’t care about her child.
For the record, I did take Em out of the stroller a couple of times and naturally, she ceased her lung exercises, but she did not have a hat and I didn’t want her little keppy getting burned. I hate admitting this, but it was somewhat difficult to maneuver a stroller one handed while holding a 17 pounder at the same time. I am still working on that move.
I would like to take this time to apologize to any woman I deeply sighed at as I expressed my disgust towards them for not doing something to try and shut their kid up. I wasn’t a mother then. I misunderstood.

NOTE: While the picture is from when Em was about 46 seconds old, she still has that face when she cries. She has also reverted back to implementing a shriek intermittently between her usual cries that she had when she was in the hospital after she was born.

Parking Spot 15

I am a rule follower. My husband, not so much. After years of putting it off, I purchased a parking spot in my apartment building’s garage. For $150 a month, I have decreased my stress level, saved money on gas, and no longer have to stalk innocent people walking to their cars.
Living in Long Beach, a town that hugs the Atlantic Ocean year-round, is a unique experience. A virtual ghost town in the winter and an overpopulated hot spot in the summer, parking is one of the town’s biggest issues. Other issues that I personally believe rival this one are the corrupt police and carefree bikers that ride through town with a death wish. I live in the eastern part of Long Beach. It tends to be more residential and removed from the heart of town. Because of my absolute location, parking is cut throat not just among the residents which include a return of Snow birds and seasonal renters, but amongst the people who have the nerve to come to the beach, especially during the weekends. There have been times when I have driven around for an hour in search of a spot that required me to change into hiking boots so I could ease the trek back to my apartment, as Havainas are not exactly the most sensible hiking shoes. SO RIDICULOUS.
The weekends seemed to be the major thorn in my side; I was a hostage in my own town, unable to go the gym or do any number or mundane errands for fear that I would never find a parking spot if I left. It was time to take the plunge and I am still not over how much less frustrated I could have been all of these years if I would have just had the damn parking spot all along.

So now, imagine how my husband must feel when he is circling the neighborhood for a place to park. Two weeks ago, he had had it. So, he parked in Parking Spot 15. I told him not to, as he had parked in someone’s spot before and had a giant orange sticker on his car warning of a future towing and an impound. The best part of that story was when I went down to move his car and the owner of the spot was down there too, ripping me a new one. Good times. About a month ago, my super, Johnny, calls me asking if I knew who was parked in the (at the time) vacant spot next to mine. “Oh—maybe Josh. I told him not to park there. Is there a problem?” Of course, a new resident was about to move in and Johnny, ever so helpful, was showing he or she where their spot would be. Talk about being a good neighbor—there was a silver Honda Accord with a banged up bumper already in the spot that this person had started paying rent on. Let’s call this strike two. Now, getting back to Spot 15. The following day, I see that I have a missed call from Johnny. I call him back and the building manager answers, referring to me as Mrs. Shapiro and not Ms. Wasserman as my lease reads. Hmmm…I wonder how he knew that…So, he asks: “Was your husband parked in the garage last night?”
Me: Yes, but I told him not to.
Building Manager (with creepy, ringlet ponytail): Well, the tenant who owns the spot was very upset.
Me: I am sure. My husband never listens to me. I am not sure if you listen to the women in your life, but clearly, Mr. Shapiro does not.
Building Manager: If this happens again, your husband’s car will be towed and impounded.
Me: Okay—that is fair. It is not his spot. I apologize.

How did this guy know my married name? I then recalled filling out paperwork that included the license plate info of any cars that would possibly park in spot 14 (mine) and who they were registered to—me… Lisa Shapiro.

The day after this, I receive one of those annoying “Sorry we missed you” postcards from the mail carrier in my door. And no, there is no way the guy was sorry—he won’t even make eye contact with anyone and farts like a beast every time our paths cross in the lobby. Any time I get a notice that a registered
letter is waiting for me, I immediately think it is the IRS. They are hot for us (my husband, me by default).

As usual, the post office has a long ass line and they cannot locate the letter. When they finally find it, the return address is “Parking Spot 15” with the address of my building. No name, no apartment number. Written in improper letter format with HORRIFIC grammar, is a letter explaining how this person, lives in the city full time and the one day he or she was coming here to meet with a contractor, they could not park in their spot. As a result, they drove around for an hour looking for parking. I, Ms. Shapiro, was warned that my vehicle would be towed and impounded if it happened again, as it was their right to park in their spot.

I totally agree. But, I was PISSED!!!! Here is why:

1. The car is registered to me, but I did not park there. I hate taking the blame for something I did not do.
2. On a weekday morning, no matter what the season, there is ample parking. This person did not drive around for an hour.
3. Their grammar was horrific and therefore, I cannot take them seriously. If you are going to bring out the big guns, use the grammar check device on the computer.

4. My husband did park in this person’s spot—100% wrong. The verbal warning from the building manager was enough. Did I mention they placed a nasty note in Josh’s windshield (well earned). Did they think that by sending me a letter that cost $15 overnight and certify, I would be shaking in my boots? For all intense purposes, Josh was wrong, but I do not believe parking in someone’s spot renders a certified threat of punishment. A bit over the top, even for me.

AND, here is the main reason I was pissed:

5. This person, knowing my name and address, including my apartment number (FYI—if you ever decide to visit, my former married name is on listed on the building registry), did not have the balls to sign their name on the letter. SERIOUSLY a WIMPY move.

My mature response, prior to writing this very mature blog rant, was to write my own counter attack on a ripped piece of paper and in large black marker. Why a marker? A parent once told my friend that her use of a Sharpie while grading made her appear scary and mean. Yes—true story---markers are scary, especially when used by teachers in schools. But really, it was the only writing implement I could find and in an effort to channel my irritation at my husband and the post office for taking so damn long, I wrote a note to Wimpy Parking Spot Owner 15. I felt much better after. Then, I threw it out. After all, this person knows where I live.

So much for following the rules.

The Long Gone Boxers

I miss you.

My Swollen Heart

I will make this short and sweet...

A few weeks ago, I had an echocardiogram. DON'T PANIC. I am fine. My doctor (the illustrius Dr. Halper of RVC) probably saw an opportunity to milk my health insurance and issued it as a preventative measure. I wonder if the sonographer saw how swollen with love my heart is...

I am so overcome by the love I feel for my daughter that it overwhelms me to the point where I could cry.

Her smile is the brightest light

Watching her discover the world is beyond fascinating.

Four months. B.E. (Before Em), four months seemed like an eternity. Now, it is a mere blink of the eye.

I have only been a mother for seventeen weeks; a member of an exclusive club of women who have been privy to a secret I am so gratful to finally be in on.

I finally know the meaning of true love.

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

As full as my closet and drawers are, I generally find myself reaching for the same favorite pieces of clothing. This even applies to undergarments and makeup! About a year ago, I was cleaning out my underwear and sock drawer, only to discover that I had socks older than my middle school students. In fact, they were from middle school. You probably assume they were threadbare, but no, apparently I was unhealthfully hording socks from a time in my life where my feet were the smallest part of me. I wonder what a therapist would say about that…I also discovered some underwear that had not been worn in years. Perhaps some of you might remember patterned, satiny undies with thin elastic on the sides? I believe what was symbolic of these was my transition from a cotton, pastel, Warner’s wearing girl to a sexy-ish satin wearing young woman. Alas, I decided it was time to stop being ridiculous and throw out these remnants that I clearly would never wear again. Ordinarily, I donate my old/too tight clothes, but I had to draw the line somewhere.
Last night, I donned a favorite pair of boxer shorts to bed. They were from the Gap, circa 1989/1990. Predominantly red with plaid in green, blue, yellow and purple, they were originally intended for a man. Some of you might remember that at one time, it was acceptable for a girl to wear men’s underwear as outerwear. During my beach bum days at Malibu , I would wear the old school Hanes over my bathing suit; white with a blue or green diamond pattern of some sort and butt sag like I dropped a mega deuce. Soon, however, the Gap began to make boxer-like shorts for women and this former fat girl (a little fat right now—I just had a baby!) was all over that elasticized goodness like white on rice. I had two favorite pairs, both hunter green, with stripes. While on a trip to the Hamptons with my friend Erika, we went into a t-shirt store and I bought a white t that said “West-Hampton Beach Lacrosse” in hunter green writing and a pair of crossed lacrosse sticks in the center. Of course, it matched perfectly with both pairs of hunter green pseudo boxers. I could now rotate that shirt with my hunter green pocket t and white v-neck!!
But then, I began a new romance. One day at the Gap (I would DIE if the Gap ever went out of business), still obsessed with boxers, I stumbled upon a two for twenty deal on men’s “lingerie”. A pair of navy boxers with yellow, green, white and red stripes and the illustrious red plaid pair were soon placed in the blue and white plastic bag and faster than you could so go, two new outfits were born. Of course, I wore both with a white v-neck and pocket t. I am not quite sure what happened to the navy pair, but I know they are long gone. So last night, while I was laying in bed picking the red plaid boxers out of my nether-regions, I came to a decision. It was time to get rid of the boxers. Back and forth I debated this in my head. In fact, I am still debating taking them out of the garbage when I get home later today. They are ripped and worn. They are loose enough that at times, they slide down my hips so I have to roll the top. They are the first thing I tried on after I came from delivering Emily and the first that fit. They have been with me through high school, college, break-ups, divorce, good times and bad. They are the ultimate pair of boxers, once an outfit I wore in public, and now my former, favorite pj bottoms. They are no more. In fact, I cannot even bring myself to render these boxers as a rag for cleaning.
R.I.P red, plaid boxers. Thank you for being there for me during the best of times and the worst of times.

Now I Know Why Uncle Joey Will Have to Take Emily to Disney Movies

I have never been gaga over Disney. I mean, maybe I was, but I don’t recall ever seeing pictures of myself dressed up as a princess for Halloween when I was little. I don’t know when the Disney store came into existence, but I know that I have never had a desire to enter it. I do know that I had a Fozzy Bear stuffed Muppet, but a Muppet is different from Goofy and Donald Duck. Having a daughter has created the possibility that I might need to invest in all things Disney as well as attend children’s animated films. I suppose this is not even a possibility; it will be my reality.
Right before the winter recess, our elementary school used to gather in the auditorium for a holiday song sing-along which I loved. I’m not sure if that came before or after the showing of Disney’s Fantasia, which I think I liked but really, what kid doesn’t like getting out of class right before a vacation? I have seen Bambi and am scarred as a result of it. I think that movie was ahead of its’ time. But beyond that, I have a mental block. I cannot understand women whose dream wedding is all Disney. On one of the last episodes of Oprah, she sent a couple on a destination wedding to Disney. I swear the girl was more excited over that than the actual engagement. While doing a little research for this blog, I stumble across a landscaping company in Naples, Florida that actually creates extreme lawn designs a la Disney. If you don’t believe me, click here: http://www.lawnservicenaplesfl.com/p/disney-themes-backyard-design.html . Then there is the HG TV show called “Our Yard Went Disney.” I am a reality tv junky, but this makes me cringe. If anyone ever wanted to send a message of hate my way, make my yard go Disney. That would be the equivalent of a burning cross.
A colleague and friend of mine, Joe, loves all things Disney. I accept this. I might have to draw the line if he shows up to work in Mickey Mouse ears or a Mickey Mouse tie, but I have faith that he will not. Previously, a woman I worked with wore Winnie the Pooh shirts and overalls to work. The days she wasn’t wearing that, she wore her Pindar t-shirt. I simply cannot endorse adults wearing cartoon/Disney character clothing EVER unless they are in Disney, let alone to a middle school. Promoting alcohol is also not the best move. But I digress. Joe has accepted that he will be responsible for bringing Emily to see Disney movies, hence earning the name, Uncle Joey. About a month ago, Emily tried to nurse on Joe, and since she doesn’t just do that to anyone, I think she wants him to be her Uncle. But I digress again.
While shopping for maternity clothes at Motherhood/Pea in a Pod, I came across Minnie Mouse shirts. Are you effing kidding me??? Were these made for pregnant teen moms??? Is there really a market for this??? These shirts pissed me off so much that I began to wonder why I had such disdain for mice at all.
Reason 1: When teaching kids the plural of mice, there is always one or two in the bunch who shout out ‘meece’. NOTE: There are only one or two who shout it out. How many are thinking it? Certain grammar and spelling issues really piss me off.
Reason 2: Somehow, turning a rodent into a cartoon is just not appealing to me. Are there cartoons about gerbils and hamsters?? I know insects aren’t rodents, but are there shows featuring fun loving and cute roaches?? Antz the movie---didn’t see it. Bee Movie—Seinfeld was in it so suddenly being a bee was funny?

Reason 3: MICE ARE GROSS.
In college, it was completely acceptable to live in Section VIII housing, a.k.a. the Glenmont Development but lovingly referred to as G-Spot. G-Spot was composed of students from Towson University sharing 3 bedroom apartments turned into four by simply throwing up some drywall in the living room and putting a curtain up in the kitchen. Rent, at least for me each month, was about 156 bucks—not too shabby. The other residents of G-Spot were extended Indian families living throughout their apartments in sleeping bags. I swear. I am not making this up. You know the saying, you pay for what you get? Well, for each apartment, you got a mouse, if not mice. First, we heard scratching in the wall. Then one night, screaming erupted from the living room. No, it was not a hallucination or a flashback, it was a mouse. Fortunately for us, one of our roommates, Laura, was able to bring her cat, Lily, in to live with us. Lily was badass. No more “hallucinations” of Mickey or Minnie.
Well where the hell is Lily when you need her? This week, summer school had to temporarily relocate to a neighboring high school. We had to schlep over supplies and snacks and set up shop in the faculty room. The room had round and rectangular tables, a sink, refrigerator, bathrooms and computers---basically all we really need for a short stay away from home base. For those of you who have always wanted to know what the innards of a faculty room look like, wonder no more. They generally have tables, chairs, a fridge, possibly a copy machine, phones from the 1980s that have sticky keys and smell like bad breath, crumbs on the table, a water fountain, soda machine and old flyers. Generally, faculty rooms are not very clean. When 75-100 people share a space, there tends to be a mess. For example, the microwaves look like someone exploded Mt. Vesuvius inside. There is old toast stuck in the toaster and spilled gook and an overall coating of grossness inside the refrigerator. There are often mysterious smells that you notice when you walk in from the hallway, yet get used to the longer you spend in there. On Tuesday, someone noticed mouse poop around the toaster oven in the faculty room. GROSS. Guess we are not making toast…. I didn’t think it could get any grosser until yesterday. Mickey or Minnie or both or an entire family nibbled their way into the boxes of animal crackers, graham crackers and pretzels we had for the kids’ snacks. They clearly had a party; there was shit everywhere. One of the mice seemed to be literate, as he or she left their calling card on a students’ reading folder. I dry heaved twice yesterday once today. I felt violated. I felt like I was being watched. I just know that somewhere in that room, little beady eyes were pinned on us, willing us to leave behind a morsel or two for later and possibly hoping we would leave behind a bottle of Pepto.
If Walt Disney really was cryogenically frozen and is thawed out in my lifetime, I really hope I have the opportunity to chat over a cup of coffee (even if it has to be in Disneyworld or Disneyland) and ask him why he chose to make rodents that hide in walls, eat your food and crap all over the place symbols of joy and fun for children and adults alike. So now, my fervent hatred of Disney characters has been renewed one thousand fold and it looks like Uncle Joey will be sharing a popcorn with his new niece.
**Please note: I will certainly embrace Emily’s love of Disney characters if it manifests. I will bring her to movies. I will bring her to Disney. I am capable of putting my feelings aside for the love of my daughter. HOWEVER, I will NOT wear a shirt with Minnie on it.

ONLY ME: A Short Tale of a Typical Happening on a Typical Day of My Life

My Blackberry was freezing and I kept hitting the mute button. Being the technical non-savant, the only way I could fix these issues was by taking the battery out of my phone. Annoying. I found that I had a free hour Monday afternoon when I arrived at my tutoring job to discover that the boy I tutor was unable to share a fascinating hour with me reviewing long division and order of operations. His loss; we were going to have a fun filled afternoon of working on a New York state math assessment from 2010. So, instead of making money, I spent it. I picked up a birthday present for my friend Lynda and then meandered into the Verizon store next door. I wanted to double check that I was eligible for an early upgrade. Sure enough, I was. I wanted to keep it simple. No iPhone for this girl. I went with the latest Blackberry despite the rumor that a touch berry might be out soon. I just mastered the QUERTY keyboard so I found no reason to wait for the next big thing. While waiting for my info to transfer from the frozen BB to the new one, I made small talk with the man helping me. He commented that we were the same age. He asked if I had kids. Yes, a 4 month old. I asked him if he had kids while staring at the unbelievable amount of chest hair exploding from his short sleeved collar shirt. I wondered if he was hot wearing a sweater and all in 90 degree weather. Yes, he too had kids, a 5 and 7 year old.

Crickets, crickets.
Me feigning interest in a History Channel show about fishing boats.
Me listening to a high school boy try to understand that the iPhone plan was more expensive the flip phone plan he currently had.

"I have noticed that people around here wait a while to have children. You are 35. Your baby is 4 months old. You are okay to start trying for another one again."

Yes---he said that.

"I am still working on losing the baby weight from my daughter."

"Why lose the weight now when you will just gain it back? Have another baby soon and then you can be done."

Yes--he said that.

"Where are you from", I asked, trying to change the subject from my reproductive activities to something more neutral.

"India."

Crickets, crickets.

At last, my phone is uploaded. He then shows me that my pictures are all intact. Of course the one that comes up is of a colleague of mine, Joe, shirtless at the beach. The picture was taken at a volleyball game and sent to me in an effort to end the debate over whether or not Joe shaved or had a sweater. Apparently he is back to shaving.

My caring salesperson then shows me that my calendar is also still intact. Of course the appointment he pulls up says: "GYNO: IUD CHECK".

Uncomfortable laughing. Crickets, crickets.

Why I am Not Housewife Material

If you follow me on Facebook, you are well aware of my committed relationship with reality television, primary shows airing on Bravo. I will say that I have been unfulfilled by Miami Social, Millionaire Decorator, and NYC Prep. However, my biggest disappointment was a tie between the Real Housewives of D.C. and the Real Housewives of Miami. Despite this, my DVRing has been faithful because when it comes to accidents, I too engage in a little rubber necking.

Over the years, my co-workers and I have tossed around the idea of how our workplace would make for great reality programming, but working in a school would mean major red tape that would just be too sticky to cut through. FYI—we would not have the cameras following students, just our own interpersonal relationships and issues. Clearly, our self esteem might be a little too good considering we believe we are that interesting. But since that is just a pipedream, I have spent a little free time between scrubbing the 85 parts that make up a Dr. Brown’s bottle and changing the kitty litter to determine why I could never be a Real Housewife of anything on Bravo.

Reason #1: I LOVE makeup. I have invested in professional grade brushes and watch how to videos on YouTube. My friends and I discuss the latest products at length and are having a makeup party in August. But, you will catch me with zero makeup at the gym, lounging on my couch, and at the gas station. I noticed this past Sunday that I did not even brush what had previously been my slicked back hair into what I call my “Summer Bun” (thick curly hair pulled back in a perma bun due to extreme heat and humidity causing a Jew fro of epic proportions; possibly requiring its own seat on an airplane). When I caught sight of my pube -like frizz in my rearview mirror, I realized I had officially embraced motherhood at the most unglamorous level.

The real housewives are RARELY caught on camera without makeup and if they aren’t wearing any, they are about to get it applied by a make-up artist. Due to financial hardship, Theresa Guidice has unfortunately had to apply her own this season, but I must say, she has definitely been watching the YouTube instructional videos too! Speaking of exceptions, Alex McCord neglected to brush her hair the entire first season of the RHONY, but now her hair looks amazing! I guess she figured out that hair and makeup are essential to the role she has been cast in. I just do not understand how these women have the time to get that made up. I am sure they are instructed to have the hair and makeup done up, but seriously?? Who has the time? I race out of my house every morning with some level of wet hair and the occasional lack of mascara. Clearly, I don’t qualify.

Reason #2: I LOVE jewelry. My preferences are diamonds and costume jewelry. I have tons of bangles, rings, and necklaces, but I NEED more!!! Have you noticed that the Real Housewives are dripping in diamonds or wearing gigantic earrings or necklaces? I am surprised that the Countess and Lisa Vanderpump don’t have hunchbacks due to the excessive weight pulling down on their necks. To me, it is a miracle that Kyle Richards hasn’t had to have earlobe transplants because the posts of her enormous earring have sliced her pierced skin in half. After a half hour of wearing a neckpiece the size of armor and earrings big enough to be used as winter coat hooks, I am done. Not to mention the fact that I can count the number of diamond based jewelry I own on one hand. I am just not rich enough (that is another reason but no one wants to hear someone bitch about financial woes during a major financial crisis).

Reason #3: I am too fat to be a housewife. I just had a baby. At some point, this statement will lose its credibility, like when Emily turns 10. But, these women who have young children barely work and therefore have the time and money to work out nonstop. Some of the women have admitted to having eating disorders at some point or another ( Gretchen Rossi, Alexis Bellino). This poses a problem for me, as I like food too much to stop eating it and hate throwing up too much to binge and purge. I cannot afford a personal chef and without the release of Sonja Morgan’s toaster oven book, I am not adept enough to cook healthfully in the toaster oven.

Reason # 4: I do not have a book deal or a published book. If I did have a book, it would not be a cook book, rather, a list of numbers to call for take-out or a list of foods that can be boiled in water and called a meal. Maybe somebody will stumble across my blog and deem it good enough to compile into a book, but for now, this is as good as it will get.

Reason # 5: I’m really real. These lips---mine. These boobs—mine. My spare tire (I just had a baby)—mine. I have had no plastic surgery or Botox—yet. I am not against it at all. I plan on having a tummy tuck within the next five years and by then I hope it can be done via laser. The closest thing I have ever had to plastic surgery was my contemplation of removing what I thought was a skin tag. Miraculously, the tag disappeared as my pregnancy progressed and I was psyched. Anything hanging off of skin is gross. However, I will still look myself. Did anyone catch the old pics of Marysol’s mother, Elsa?? Dear God!!

Reason # 6: I work. FULL TIME. As much as Jill Zarin and Ramona claim to work, they are often lunching. The only woman who I truly believe works full time is Vicki G. from the O.C. However, once she finds herself in a relationship that finds her love tank full, it will be interesting to see how many hours she puts in at the office. I realize that the editing team shows you what they want you to see, so I suppose if I was in a reality show based out of my workplace, they would probably show me sitting at lunch, in room 230 for my morning “view” session, or in the hallway talking. If smoking wasn’t so passé and illegal to do indoors, you would definitely see me cranking butts in the faculty room. Nonetheless, These women do more shopping and “eating” at restaurants than I could possibly do.

Reason # 7: I don’t have a full time nanny or a team of nannies. I have a very helpful family who accommodate my spin schedule and assist me at the beach. During the work day, my babysitter is very flexible. Josh and I make sure we each cover each other on the weekends so that he can golf and I can mani/pedi. But I certainly do not have the luxury of a full staff, nanny included. Plenty of my friends have live in help; we did growing up when my mom returned to work. But these situations are not quite as glamorous as what is portrayed on television. My friends are all capable of handling their children ALONE in public and can function doing mundane tasks like laundry and food shopping. That is not to say that if we could afford a live in nanny and had the room to do so, I wouldn’t consider it. But she would have to also cook and clean. I might as well make the most of the situation.

Reason # 8: I speak proper English. This is mostly directed at the RHONJ. The most recent offender, Melissa Gorga. She can afford Louis Vuitton but calls it Louis BATON. She spends 50 g’s on a party for Jesus’ birthday, and has the guests place their presents in the liBERRY. She is not worthy. Danielle Staub constantly used the singular woman to refer to a group of women, plural. There is more to report on, but the more I think about it, the dumber I get.

And there you have it folks. I am a whole other breed of housewife. I will keep watching the ladies of such and such a city and sort of hope Andy Cohen will put together a Real cast from Pierre, North Dakota. I mean, how much do we really know about that state, let alone Pierre?

Find a Penny??? Where???

A penny saved is a penny earned. –Ben Franklin

How many of you pick up pennies? I do. And don’t start thinking it is because of the stereotype that Jews have earned. If I see a penny heads up, I grab it. I like to think it is a penny from heaven; a little note from my Nana to remind me that she is watching over me. I don’t believe in the saying that if I find a penny, I should pick it up so that all day long I will have good luck, BUT for the benefit of those who do believe that, I will flip a penny over if it is tail side up. I suppose my superstition about not picking up a penny unless it is heads up makes someone else’s day.
Yet, I feel that there are less and less pennies in circulation. I don’t know this to be a fact, as I have yet to contact the U.S. Mint. But, more and more, I am finding that if I am at a store and my transaction adds up to, let’s say, $21.99 and I hand over $22.00, all that I am handed back is a receipt. Has the penny lost its’ value? Listen, I can live without the penny, but I will say that there is joy in giving exact change. So many times the change section of my wallet is loaded down with pennies, so when the opportunity arises, I will count out up to ten or so cents in pennies. When I owe 21 cents, I like being able to round out my change situation with that cent. Sometimes, I grab or give a penny to the little trays labeled with “Give a penny, take a penny” by a cash register. They do come in handy after all. Yet, how can I keep doing this if I am not getting my change back?
As annoying as I am sure it is for storekeepers to count, isn’t there some charm and sweetness to when a child has saved up all of their hard earned change to buy something they have had their eye on, even if it is 50 bucks worth of pennies? How can I teach my daughter to save her pennies for a rainy day if she can’t collect them? With all of the gypping I get during my errand and shopping runs, I can’t even give her my change! As it stands now, we have a loose change jar at home. Do I prefer quarters to pennies? Of course! But those pennies do add up as many of us could probably attest to after a visit to the Penny Arcade. The point is, money is money. A penny saved is a penny earned. When clerks and cashiers deny us that one cent, they are denying us the opportunity to save, or in the very least to teach our children the value of saving. So, be bold, not embarrassed, to ask for the change, even if it is just a copper disk. It is yours. You worked hard for it and during a time of major economic downturn, we should value hard work and savings. You never know when it will be a rainy day.

Things that Currently and/or Continue to Annoy Me

1. Bad Breath. If you are trying to figure out why friends and colleagues inch further and further away from you during conversations or simply small talk, take note of the red flag.
2. Bike riders who just ride without heeding the rules of the road.
3. Long Beach motorcycle cops who ride as though they are emulating an episode of Chips. Like bike riders, heed the rules of the road. Be role models. You are not above the law.
4. Leg Sweat. This is new for me. Not only am I dripping sweat from the usual places (forehead, neck, back), now my legs sweat too. This brings me to…
5. Hormones. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.
6. Uncorrected lisps. REALLY??? How could someone have let that get past 4 years of age??
7. Politics that encroach upon social situations. Let’s focus on the fact that education system is going down the toilet, people are out of jobs, other nations hate us….blah blah blah.
8. Extended waiting periods at a doctor’s office. Last week Em had an appointment. We waited an hour. She is an infant. She dropped a deuce of epic proportions and I had to change her in the stroller. Then, she missed her feeding. How do you do that to a baby and tell the mother they are understaffed? One more chance Pediatric Healthcare of L.I….one more chance!
9. Stickers on cars. Not bumper stickers---stickers. Get your kids a sticker book.
10. People who touch a baby’s hands. Baby hands are so precious and cute. Everyone loves to feel like the baby is “holding” their hand. That grip…it’s a reflex. Babies put their hands in their mouths. I don’t know where your hands have been so keep them to yourself.
11. A baby is not a football. Let him/her be.
12. An oldie but goodie---at some point, your wedding pic as your profile pic gets old—in my opinion, it has an expiration date of a year and can make an appearance on your anniversary. I get it---you think you looked amazing that day, and you probably did. But enough is a enough.
13. The commercial for yellow, fungally screwed up toenails complete with animated eyes on the toe. GROSS.
14. The commercial for trans-vaginal mesh. REALLY????? I love topics revolving around body parts, bodily functions, etc….but this is really going too far.
15. Late night infomercial about the life changing effects of Viagra. Go to a support group, call a help line, or have a night out with the guys.
16. People who just cross the street despite oncoming traffic. Today I was driving down Park Ave. in the Rock in my mother’s Corolla. Mom—your breaks work!!! How do I know? Two idiots carrying their yoga mats to Bikram were so psyched to get their Zen on, they basically walked in front of your car. That mysterious smell in your car…a little poop might have come out. When I screamed at them through the closed window “Are you effing kidding me???” they both held up their hands in apology. Thanks for the heart attack jackholes!
17. Another oldie but goodie: Shape-Ups. Despite Joe Namath’s plug, the majority of people I see in these shoes are still big. They might have great calves, but they are not a replacement for exercise, nor are they shoes to work out in. I hate them and am still angry at myself for nearly purchasing Fit Flops. I figured they would compliment my exercise routine.
18. The Mob Wives. They are such trash. What annoys me even more is my faithful viewership.
19. Celebrity themed shows such as Celeb Rehab. Amy Fisher---celeb because she tried to kill Mary-Jo. Michael Lohan-daughter is Lindsay. Steve Adler—more famous for being on Celeb Rehab at this point.
20. Dramatic Facebook status posts that generate the following comments: “Are you okay?” “What’s wrong?”
Examples of such posts: “I am so upset.”
“It happened again.” “This was the worst day of my life.”

If any of these items apply to you or someone you know, get over it. I can deal with the fact that I might be annoying too.

First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage: RE-DEUX

Today I was out to lunch with the husband, my daughter and some friends. I noticed a familiar face…my ex husband’s wife. Crap….where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And there was my ex husband. In the midst of an animated conversation, I blurted out; “Oh look! My ex husband is crossing the street!” AWKWARD!!! I am not sure if either saw me and quite honestly, that would have been a strange interaction. But, without the destruction of my first marriage, I would not have been sitting outside of Sutton Place with my husband, daughter and some friends. I secretly thanked the current Mr. and Mrs. H for making my life a living hell, as brief as it was because where I literally was today is a much happier place to be.
This brings me to the Re-Deux---the second time around. Last night, we attended the wedding of my good friend Robyn and her now husband Rob. Yes, two Robs. Both Robs have previously been married as well. In a quick side-note compliments of small worldliness/Jewish geography, my sister once hung out with Man Rob. He bought her a Red Bull. The end….Back to last night. During their beautiful and lighthearted ceremony, I was waxing nostalgic over life’s way of throwing shit in your face only to see just how you manage to clean that shit off. I imagine that me and the two Robs were excited to walk down the aisle the first time. I know I was, but I also know I was so nervous, almost to the point of getting sick and with my 20/20 vision that allows me to see so accurately into the past, I recognize that those nerves were really apprehension and a voice screaming in my head not to do it. Cest la vie. Without making that “mistake” of a first marriage, I would not have been sitting next to Josh listening to the Robs take their vows.
I mean, can we ever be sure if our relationship decisions are the right ones? No, but we choose the paths we take. I remember when Lady Rob came to grips with the fact that her marriage was over. It was as painful and heartbreaking for me to watch her go through the pain and anger as it was for me to have actually gone through it myself. But I knew she would get through it. That Rob—she is a tough one. Through a set up, she met Man Rob and after months of referring to him as a friend, she realized he truly was a friend AND the love of her life.
Because our work crew is silly and love any excuse to wear identical shirts while traveling in a pack, a group of us girls got together for a RE-DEUX celebration. And you know what? It was a true celebration. How many people are that fortunate to have the chance to love again; to pick up the pieces of something that was shattered, toss some of those pieces away but keep the ones that helped to get you to be the person you now are? People assume that those who have been through divorce are damaged goods. Maybe that is true, but I certainly don’t think damage can be limited only to those coming off a divorce. While I was on J-Date, there were many guys who poo-pood divorcees. There are so many of us out there, male and female, for whatever reason who walk down the aisle toward who they believe is their future, only to put them in the past. We are the ones who understand what marriage is about or at least what it shouldn’t be (not to say that those of you who have only been married once have it wrong…go you!) and only want what we didn’t have.
So mucho mazel to the Robs and their RE-DEUX. You have shown so many of us love lives. AND, you threw a great party. My feet are freakn’ killing me!

From Lisa to BO…a Metamorphic Disaster

Tied with a multitude of pet peeves in the numero uno spot is body odor. I just don’t understand it. If others are experiencing nasal rape from someone’s sweat glands, how is it that person isn’t bothered by their own stench? Are they immune? Do they lack a sense of smell? Do they simply not regard hygiene as a necessity? Is this a cultural issue?
So many questions, and no answers. Yet, guess who smelled like yesterday’s gym clothes with a side of grilled onions? ME!!!!!!!!!!!!
Horror of horrors. I am gross. I am my own pet peeve. Following the birth of baby E, I was not informed that my hormones would be so out of control that I would continue to sweat like a pig and SMELL!!! Perhaps if I read up on these issues or asked more questions, I would have been better prepared to deal with the consequences of making fun of smelly people. For years, I have used Hi & Dri Powder Fresh deodorant. It costs less than a dollar and can only be purchased at Harmon Drugs or, on occasion, the Dollar Store (where, side-note, nothing is really a dollar). It is a no frills deodorant I discovered sometime during high school after I suffered the trials and tribulations of overactive sweat glands that had me looking like I ran 47 miles up and down hill by the time first period started. I was just sweaty though, not smelly. Prescription deodorant was painful. After I plowed through every deodorant under the sun, including men’s, I tried Hi & Dri. It was a Christmas miracle, or what I least believe would be the equivalent to one considering I light the menorah. Recently, I recommended this deodorant to some friends and they are hooked too. How could they not be? Helen Keller had Anne Sullivan, armpit’s have Hi & Dri. IT IS THAT GOOD. In fact, if I were to learn that it was being discontinued, I imagine I would freak out like Elaine on Seinfeld when the Sponge was no longer going to be an option for birth control (http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=288892985899). I am that loyal…and this is deodorant we are talking about.
Yes, loyal, despite the fact that Hi & Dri is failing me. My hormones are so crazy that they are trying to turn me against my beloved little pink roll on bottle. So much so, that the other day at work, I caught a wiff of myself. Appalled, I sniffed again….you know the move….lift arm shoulder height and turn head to the side while pretending to wipe the side of your face on your sleeve, only you are inhaling what you hope is smelly good scent, not BODY ODOR!!!!
Fortunately, I have back-up in my glove compartment and desk. I also have alternative deodorants that apparently appeal better to a body that is simply not itself just yet. So, if you see me, or possibly smell me first, remember, it’s not hygienic neglect, a lack of sense of smell, or a cultural issue; it’s my hormones.

I'm Nice

Motherhood has softened me. Last night, I went to see Bon Jovi for the first time at Nassau Colliseum with Lady Rams. This was my first official night out since having Emily. It was also the first time I have worn pants with a button since September-ish. I was taken by surprise when I went to pull my pants down a la elastic style and they wouldn't budge. I was also taken a bit by surprise when my parents told me it was about time I threw on some pants that didn't have the word "sweat" preceding the word pants. It is too bad I didn’t have on sweat pants. The Coliseum was, to quote Lady Ram, Mahoney, "hot as Haiti!" I could have used my sexy sweats to absorb the sweat and to ease my climb to the top of the stadium in a way that my temporary big girl jeans could not do.
Why so freakin hot? The theory is that Jon B.J. must like it hot so that his pipes are at peak performance. This theory finds its roots in the one other experience I had at MSG to see Celine Dion (I like her, shut up....it's the power ballads). I am known around these parts to procure the worst tickets at the best prices for concerts and plays. So, for Celine, it should come as no surprise that I bought tickets along the last row of MSG, just to the right of the hot dog stand. Between the sweat and smell of Oscar Meyer, it made for an interesting sensory experience. Apparently, Celine, the diva she is, required there to be no air conditioning on so that her vocal cords gave the audience the best bang for their buck. Jon, too, must be a diva. My knight, present for both of these musical experiences, reminded me of this.
Let's return to last night. We arrived at the concert just in time for Bon Jovi to take to the stage. We easily found our section and began the trek up to row S. It is important to note that week five of no gym has begun to loosen up my muscles. I decided yesterday would be a great day to try a kettle bell workout. For those of you unfamiliar with what I currently consider to be the equivalent to water board torture, the movements are based on one's core and legs. Having been benched by child birth and wholehearted devotion to both my couch and watching reruns on Bravo with my infant, I must say, I threw my body into shock. Last night, walking up 467 steps did not help. As we ascended the stairs, the air grew warmer and considerably more tainted by stale cigarette smoke left behind from the days when smoking indoors was not considered taboo. Thank God I did not blow out my hair; it would have been curly halfway into the opening song. Dripping with sweat, we approach our seats. After joking about how no one could possibly be in them considering they were AWFUL, there were people in them. Of course, I have to solve the problem since it was seat 7, my seat. Now, ordinarily, I would have been totally obnoxious. I mean, my ticket clearly proved this woman was in my seat and hers proved she was not in her own seat. No argument, right? Not to mention, her seats were in the row in front of us..one row closer to Bon Jovi's breath!! Her argument: the usher brought them there. Rather than get all nuts, I said the usher must have been confused. She kept saying the usher this, the usher that. I continued to blame him and showed her my ticket. FINALLY, she apologized and scooted with her husband to the row ahead of us. The non-mom me would have told her to get the F out of our seats. Why was she still going on about this?? It was 97 degrees and my friends and I were literally on top of each other with expanding hair (totally Jersey in the 80s). My theory behind my calm behavior was I had facts to back up my claim AND, I do not want to be Emily's psycho mother. I had the foresight to think about the fact that a person can now say; "This is how you act, a mother??" Crap---I am growing up.

Happy Birthday

PLUGGED UP
I had been looking for a tongue in the toilet for weeks. Not a real tongue, the mucus plug that a friend told me resembled a tongue. No dice. I was beginning to panic. There was no way I could birth a child into this world on April 1st, my official due date. That date screams “bad omen”. I informed Josh that if it was 11:59 PM on April 1st to please, please, please tell the doctor to leave the baby in until the clock struck midnight. Of course, had I known what labor would have been like, I would not have given a shit what day it was.
So on Tuesday, March 29th, I headed over to my weekly doctor’s appointment with the news that I was still one centimeter dilated (booo) and that my mucus plug was now residing in the garbage can post the so much fun internal exam. “If the plug falls out, doesn’t that mean labor is hours or just a few days away”, said I. “Nope. It means nothing” said my doctor. So, I left there with an appointment scheduled on my anniversary. Perhaps I had a feeling, but after I purchased the bag of artificially flavored Bachman’s popcorn I had been craving, I decided to head home and chill out rather than go to the gym. I had been to spin the night before and quite honestly, at 39.5 weeks preg, my uterus just could not take it anymore. Right before I finally settled down for the night, I mentioned to Josh that maybe I should bust out the shower curtain. Shower curtain, you ask? Another friend of mine told me that in the weeks leading up to her due date, she spread a shower curtain under her sheet and draped one over her cloth car seat. The OCD in me loved this idea, so I promptly purchased three from the dollar store. Josh and I had been listening to a crunching sound every time we changed positions from the onset of week 36. I had a curtain in the packaging in my car (cloth, camel color seats) and one for the couch (very expensive, a while it is scotch guarded, I really didn’t want to play with fire). Call it women’s intuition, but talk about a good call. I dozed off while watching Million Dollar Listing. Around 10:30, I awoke with a start. Josh looked over from his spot on the couch and asked what was wrong. Half asleep with a very warm sensation downtown, I looked at him and said that I was not sure. I stood up and was greeted with a leaky substance crawling down my leg. I was wondering if I peed myself, but pee was not clear. In the midst of this detective work, I get a text from my work husband/knight in shining armor and inform her to hold on a sec—I think my water broke. I then text Rita, who had been on high alert and of course, there is no response, as she chose that day to have her Blackberry die. Josh began looking up water breakage on the internet with the query “how do I know if my water broke” and I then decided to call the good doctor. “Yes, it has broken, go to the hospital.” Of course, I had to wash the floor and shower (thank god) before I could go. At this point, Gus was hiding and Sheba was meowing her distress meow---I suppose they knew it was time too. But was it?
LET’S BACK UP
The previous Friday, I fully hit bottom and wore a velour sweat-suit and sneakers to work. At 9 months pregnant, things shift and while my weight was relatively stable at this point, my clothes were not fitting quite right. There was not a chance in hell I was spending any more money on maternity clothes and I just did not feel like rotating the black and brown pants again. That morning, I felt dizzy. I don’t get dizzy. Dizzy is a sign of preeclampsia. OCD/neurotic walked her ass to the nurse to get her blood pressure checked. Well, it was elevated for me but by no means a red flag. Suddenly, the nurse has me seated drinking water, the door is closed, kids are kicked out and arrangements for me to go home are being made. Long story short, despite rumors that I gave birth in the backseat of my chairperson’s car, I was given a clean bill of health from the hospital which is where I was sent for observation, etc. I had never been in a hospital before, so the bright side to this was I now knew where to go when I was in labor and I also knew where to park.
THE SAGA BEGINS
After a 20 minute car ride sitting on a shower curtain, we arrive at the hospital. This marks the start of a party without pants on that lasted through about 2:30 PM Thursday. After I was admitted and examined, I was hooked up to an IV that would remain attached until Friday (April Fools!) I was hooked up to fetal monitors that checked on Emily’s heart rate and my contractions. FYI—I had been having contractions, real and fake, inconsistently for a few weeks. This should come as no shock, but that is how they remained until modern medicine interfered. So, into the wee hours of the night, my father showed up and was present for an internal. I had no sleep, and by 4AM, had not dilated at all. I was supplied with medication that would supposedly “help” the situation. After a sleepless night, my doctor paid me a visit and told me to eat and shower. This was great news. I was starving and had greasy hair which was not the norm for me; I had blown it out a few days prior and clearly could not work another day of the look. On top of that, I had zits like a 13 year old compliments of my pregnancy hormones. Lets flash forward to hour 24: STILL NO BABY. STILL ONE CENTIMETER DILATED. WTF??? I am beginning to see a C section in my future. I am sick of wheeling around my IV. I am sick of wearing wires from monitors. I am sick of having to check and measure my pee. I am sick of having to pee. I am sick of having to explain to Josh that while I just peed, I have to pee again. Every time I fall asleep, my blood pressure gets checked. I want to wear underwear. I feel that my body is failing me and I am desperate to meet my daughter. At this point, I have no dignity, as three rotations of nurses, nursing students and residents have seen my junk and I am laying on “chuck pads” (wee wee pads). By the middle of night/early morning of March 31st, I am in pain. The nurses kept asking me what the pain is on a scale of one to ten. Not knowing, I say a three. Bullshit a three. They want to give me some narcotic that will make me sleep, but my baby girl is too sleepy so Plan B is set into motion as per my doctor’s partner’s orders. Momma gets Pitocin and an epidural. Momma also gets an actual bed, not a glorified cot.
HOME STRETCH
As predicted, as soon as I get the epidural, I begin to itch all over. Yeah, right…don’t scratch!!! The pain of the contractions (NOT A THREE) has been alleviated and I doze. I am sure I am having a baby today, Thursday, March 31st. By 11 AM, I have finally dilated to an eight. Soon, I am a nine. Soon, I am in agony. The change in Josh’s pockets keeps falling on the floor and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I demand he empties his pockets. In the meantime, I am being given oxygen because they baby doesn’t have as erratic of a heartbeat as the nurses would like to see. Then Jersey Shore comes on. While listening to that ridiculousness, a resident comes in to examine me again and is claiming that the baby’s head is not as low as stated earlier. I growl at her that it is in fact that low, while writhing on the bed and asking (begging) for more drugs. Suddenly, I need to push. It is just something you know. I am dying. The pressure is out of hand and that is with the meandering presence of an epidural. Now, the doctor on call from practice is not my own. BOOOOO. The doctor was performing a C section and I simply could not wait for him to be done with that business. The nurse who was with me was given the go ahead for her and Josh to assist me in pushing. Wait----this was it? No scrubs for Josh? No stirrups? And the Jersey Shore is on?? I demanded that the television be shut off. There was no way I was chancing bringing a life into this world with Ronnie and Sammy brawling in the background. After what seemed to take forever and a slight attack on Josh for instructing me on how to breathe, the doctor arrived. (Side-note: OBGYNs are like celebs with a cameo appearance. They make a guest appearance, do what they have to do and are gone). My cheering section had gone from 2-3, and suddenly I noticed a few other nurses milling around in the background. While I was pushing, I kept my eyes closed. I don’t know why. The doctor said “Lisa, open your eyes” and there was her head. I was psyched---she was almost out and this show was almost over. Of course, I did scream “Get her out!!! AAAAHHHH!” Apparently, screaming is a waste of energy and frowned upon. FINALLY, at 13:25, hospital speak for 1:25 PM, Emily Dylan Shapiro was born. It only took 36 hours, start to finish!
I must say, that I have never felt so weak and so strong at the same time. Preparing for a marathon would not have prepared me for labor, and I do not regret not taking a single class to become more informed for this event. My anxiety would have gotten the best of me if I knew too much. In this case, ignorance was bliss. Did it hurt? HELL YEAH!!! I am not even a little ready for spin class. But it is true what they say about how the memory of the actual pain fades. It dissipates as soon as you hold that baby in your arms and she looks up at you, not knowing what she sees, but knowing you are her mother. I have never felt so full of love before. I did not know I was capable of feeling that much love. My heart explodes and I well up just looking at this tiny person. I feel so blessed.
THAT WAS NOT THE END
Right before I started to push, I had a slight fever. It was slight enough to render Emily a stay in the NICU for two days. When she was born, she had my fever, and my own fever was gone. Another long story short, Emily had to stay in the hospital for seven days. She had a spinal at one day old. Both of us were on antibiotics. Leaving the hospital and coming home without my daughter was the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. I felt empty and so sad and afraid for my two day old in the hospital. Fortunately, Emily was and is okay. For the most part, her stay in the most expensive babysitting service’s graces was a precaution. Now, she is home and I am sleep deprived but I could not be happier. I had no idea that being a mother was a huge missing piece of my life. Nothing prepares you for it at all, and I am not sure that I could ever say with confidence that I would have been ready for how much my life has changed. In a heartbeat, nothing but this baby mattered. Everything else is crap.

Inspiration?

Who doesn’t love a pregnant woman? Apparently, most people do. As this 40 week venture comes to a close, hopefully sooner than later, I have to say that I am overcome with emotion. Much of it is hormonally fueled, but there is a huge piece that is truly attributed to the kindness of others. Let me explain.
About an hour ago, Natalie, the Wednesday night spin instructor was leading us in a post class stretch. All of the instructors wear head-mikes (“the better to hear you with”), and suddenly I hear, “Are you leaving, Mommy?” She was referring to me. Natalie then went on to share with the 25 people in the room that I deserve a round of applause, as I am a week away from my due date. 50 eyes and 25 sweaty bodies turn and clap for me. Natalie then goes on to say that it has been incredible to watch me grow and share this time with them each week; that I have been so dedicated. I was so touched and am still welling up thinking about it.
Coincidentally, Natalie’s niece is a student in one of my classes (no, not special ed). As I approached the door that would lead me into 9th period today, ‘S’ was standing there with ‘J’, both of them wearing huge smiles. “We got you a present!!! Open it!!” The most adorable onesie with an attached tutu and matching headband was in the Denny’s bag. So sweet…I mean, these kids cannot drive and I know they are not bike riding to the store to buy their teacher a gift. The fact that I impact them enough to convince their parents to drive and purchase something for little old me (not so little right now) once again brings tears to my eyes (hot mess…I’m a hot mess). It wouldn’t be middle school if the boys did not accuse the girls of being kiss-ups….
Earlier in the day, another one of my students handed me a box. The card said “To Mrs. Shapiro, the best teacher.” What happens next? Crying and laughing in the library because, you guessed it, I was so overwhelmed with emotion. I also began to see, to really see, that my life was about to dramatically change. I realize that a baby is a huge change, but for 13 years, work has been my baby. I just cannot wrap my head around all this!! I also began to wonder and hope that my daughter would love and respect me the same way some (note: some) of my students do. I have a feeling that when she is 12-14, she will hate my guts, but that is normal. I can take it. I subject myself to that world on a daily basis.
Finally, a few weeks ago, a woman at the gym approached me and said; “You’re an inspiration!!! How do you still workout???” My response was that it is just a part of my day and that I have been doing it for years. I mean, let’s be real. My pace is slower as per the doctor’s orders, but it is a part of my life. When I was an overweight 13 year old, cupcakes were a part of my life; I would never have imagined this to be a topic of conversation today. The thing is, I don’t think of myself as an inspiration, whether it is to fellow patrons at the gym or to my students. I just go about my business. And maybe that is why, hormonal or not, I cannot seem to help but feel like a celebrity right now, slightly more famous than Kathy Griffin, giving an acceptance speech for an award. If you saw what I looked like now, this celeb is lacking the glitz and glam, but I hear applause, I see smiles, and very soon, I might even see my feet.