My Neuroses

Jun16Decisions, Decisions….
Tonya

Recently, on FB, I read some inspirational little ditty about “being the sum of one’s experiences” and me, being the kind of gal who hates optimistic musings, I blocked that FB friend because, really, I’m more of a glass is half empty and filled with cyanide sort of person and I hate it when people rain on that parade. Except now I can’t stop imagining myself as some amalgamation of my own decision-making. And from what I remember – there are a lot of hazy moments – it’s mostly poor decision-making. I guess not in a selling-my-body-for-crack-rock sort of way, so there is that, but it’s still questionable:

- There was my gang member boyfriend in high school. And while, yes, I know, teenagers shouldn’t even be allowed to choose breakfast cereal due to their crazed hormonal states, I’m not sure that breaking up with your first boyfriend because he’s doin’ 2-5 in the clink is really the same as letting some jock, playboy get to 3rd base.

- Then there was the clothing-optional, vegetarian co-operative (read: drug fueled hippie commune) I lived at in college. Certainly fun, but probably not the best for my G.P.A., although I was getting 2 art degrees so, really, it’s not as if the extracurricular activities interfered with all of the studying I had to do. Perhaps, though, if I had put down the peace pipe, I would’ve realized that I was most definitely NOT cut out to be a struggling artist. I’m a neurotic, overly-sensitive, germaphobe, who’s most certainly not cut out to live in the trenches, existing solely on the belief that art can change the world.

- And recently, I got rid of cable. It’s true. I thought I’d get more done. I’d finish my Pulitzer-prize winning novel. I’d become a yogi master and a meditation expert. I’d finally read Ulysses all the way through…and get it. The simple stuff, really. But it has quickly become apparent that all is not as it should be. Instead of mornings watching NY1 I now rely on podcasts and the hope that my 3 year old’s mouth will be so full of bagel he won’t be able to make a sound for 3 minutes.

Alas, most morning info sessions now go a little like this:

“Today in Pakistan, officials…” “…need chocolate cake? Because I like chocolate. It is my favorite.” “It has been confirmed that Gabrielle Giffords has been released with…” “…10 dinosaurs. They eat meat. Except for the brachiosaurus he eats plants. I don’t like green stuff so I must be a T-Rex.” “President Obama has…” “…colored on my table. It was an accident. And I colored on my shirt. That was an accident too.”

Also, I realized that without cable my confidence in both myself and my mothering has fallen dramatically. Unable to compare any daily activities to those of Snooki, a RHNJ, or some family desperate for the guidance of Supernanny, I’ve lost my way. How am I supposed to congratulate myself for making it through an entire day without throwing a table across the room or vomiting all over some policeman’s shoes?

At least there is the comfort of knowing there are some things I properly resisted:

The M.C. Hammer Tramp Stamp

Totally a picture of my back side.

The Kickin’ Kid N’ Play haircut

I do look good though. Could be the dope jacket.

The Chance to Rock Bret’s World

Perfect example of the crazy shit that gets created when there is no cable.

One of my best decisions to date has been to join the fabulous ladies over at The Mouthy Housewives! They, on the other hand, may view their decision a little bit differently…

Filed Under: Life Lessons, Milestones, My Neuroses
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Apr25When the Summer (Makes Me) Come Undone**
Carrie

I’m going to be a spoil sport here. A debbie downer. A whiner. A glass is gone, let alone half empty kind of girl. Mock me if you want. But don’t come crying to me when you’re having a break down right around Fourth of July, OK?

Summer isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it is looming large, threatening to arrive any day now and it’s shaking its sweaty fists in my face and its breath smells like barbecue. I already feel nostalgic for September.

I can hear you booing. You think I care?

Last Wednesday, it was a beautiful day here in Brooklyn–sunny and unexpectedly warm. Drunk from Vitamin D, I went directly to the park after school with both of my boys–on a whim. Let’s just say, I really wouldn’t advise just “hopping over to the park after school” without a back up plan and some extra muscle on hand. Forewarned is forearmed. Consider this my shot across your bow.

After months and months spent indoors, your wardrobe is not ready for its closeup. Sure, shed your parka–but to what end? Maybe you’ll be a bit more comfortable in the temperature sense, but you certainly won’t feel at ease once you realize you are wearing dirty pants, mismatched socks, beat up clogs and a sweaty turtleneck.

Congratulations! Now that you’re strutting your sorry self around in public, you’re going to have to count on running into people you know. And, because you look like total crap (apologies), you better have something interesting to say to compensate for what you lack in aesthetic appeal. I beg of you–prepare yourself! What do you plan on saying to your neighbor after you blurt out (with spit coming out the side of your mouth) “OHMYGAWD…It’s such a BEAUTIFUL DAY?”

You have spent the winter negotiating with terrorists, making concessions that no person with any shred of dignity or sense of justice should ever have to make. But you did it for a temporary peace in that ninth hour of indoor play on that third day of snow. Your children own your ass now and they know it. And thanks to the warmer temperatures, the rest of the world will know it, too. Onlookers will see you being marched to the ice cream truck by your three-year old. They will tsk-tsk under their breath as you fork over $3.50 for an ice pop that you could buy at the grocery store for 50 cents. And finally, they’ll arch their eyebrows as they watch the cataclysmic aftershocks of the sugar rush that ensues 15 minutes later.

But you know what–who cares what people think?? It’s a BEAUTIFUL GODDAMN DAY and the only thing that matters is that you and your kids are enjoying it. BUT. But. But. You skipped Playground Spring Training. You have lost all muscle memory of what it feels like to hurl yourself through the air, grabbing the ankle of your toddler who is about to catapult himself over the side of a rail up in the playground sky while you hold your other child on your hip. You are not nearly flexible enough to pull one child off of a stranger’s child as they duke it out for the pole position on the curly slide. You do these things, because you must. But you will need pain medication and a cocktail when you get home.

So, cheers to Spring, Summer’s welcome mat. But let us meditate on Summer’s sobering, looming threats before we celebrate. Sunburn, sweat, ice cream tantrums, heat waves, park bathrooms, stroller fits, playground pandemonium, parenting on display and fashion unzipped. In the words of Michael Conrad on HIll Street Blues: “Let’s be careful out there.”
** with apologies to Yo La Tengo

Filed Under: Fear, My Neuroses, Summer
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Mar22Lunch of Champions
Tonya

I’ve reached a new low in my culinary undertaking:

Yes, Lunch, Snack #1 and, even, Snack #2 are all foods made for toddlers. I have stooped to stealing my son’s food because I’m much too busy (ok, maybe, lazy) to make any actual food. In my defense the 2 mashup packages (lunch and snack #1) contain veggies so there’s no way on earth P would ever touch them. As for snack #2, please don’t tell him I ate his apple slices.

I’d love to say that this has happened because I’m watching what I eat, you know, taking to heart that Kate Moss saying: “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Except, I’d be totally and utterly lying given that:

1) Apparently, she’s never had cake. No one who’d ever had a cupcake would say something so ridiculous!

2) Kate Moss is a coke whore and, frankly, I can’t afford that habit.

3) After this picture was taken I ate a Snickers bar and, later that evening, an entire pizza.

So, really, I’m just very very very cooking-challenged, i.e. lazy and completely phobic of the kitchen. If you’d like to donate to the Help Tonya’s Family Eat Properly Fund simply send a chef to my house, one whose willing to also go to the grocery store…I hate that too.

Filed Under: ad hoc LIFE, Food, My Neuroses
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9 Comments

 
Mar21My Trash, My Treasure
Carrie

As regular readers here know, I had a minor crisis a couple of weeks ago when my laptop acted like a slatternly wench and made away with all my data without so much as a “maybe we could get coffee sometime.” Well, gladly, the story has a happy ending! For a nominal fee (err…I mean a mind-numbing notable fee), all of my data has been recovered!

In the interim, I spent two weeks recreating files. For the files I couldn’t recreate, I went back to the drawing board. I tried to see the loss as an opportunity to make stuff that was even better than the originals. I kept on thinking (through the tears and hysteria) of the writer Maxine Hong Kingston who lost the only manuscript of a novel in the Oakland, California fires of 1991. She mourned, but recovered by writing something she felt was better than the original.

Maxine Hong Kingston, I ain’t, so I was tremendously relieved to get all of my files back last week. But you know what I found out? I spent a whole lot of money getting back a whole lot of nothing. I would say that 10% of what I paid to get back was important. The other 90%? Weird garbage. Drafts. Downloads. Roads to nowhere.

My computer is choking with files. I am buried alive in my data. I don’t know what I have. The only thing I do know is that I need to have it, whatever it is. The problem is–it’s not just my computer. My house is overflowing with information and papers that are impossible for me to throw away. Behold–these monuments to minutiae, these records of irrelevance, this stuff I can’t throw away:

IMPORTANT!

Lots and lots of cd’s and dvd’s of panicky backups made in the dead of night. Most are from 2003 and 2005. They are named helpful things like “IMPORTANT! Carrie Harvey” and “THIS IS IT!” Thanks to myself for labeling them so usefully. I also love the floppies. Maybe if I send them in a time machine someone from the past working in a data processing plant will be able to tell me what’s on them?

I'M READY TO GO!

Should my husband plan an impromptu trip to Central Asia and our internet service is down, I can grab a book off of my shelf in the blink of an eye and be armed with the best travel tips (past their fresh date) around. Need to find an editor’s cheap eats pick (now closed) in Naples circa 2004? I GOT IT! Let’s go!! Move it, move it, move it!

ENLARGE THIS! (AT SOME POINT...)

If an acquaintance of mine from 1996 should call me in search of some pictures for a slide show on the occasion of his 40th birthday, I’m his gal! I have lots and lots of unlabeled, slightly damaged negatives from 1995-1999 that are just waiting for their moment in the spotlight.

IDEAS 'R US

You know why I’m smart? Because I don’t ever need to have an original idea again. I save all of my notebooks, so on the off chance somebody asks me to come up with something, I just have to peruse through years of illegible, half-assed explorations to get me started. Even though I have never actually referenced one of the 73 notebooks that I have stashed in a drawer, that doesn’t mean the day isn’t going to come when I will MAKE IT RAIN with stuff (stuff spelled $$$tuff) I dreamed up on the F train, OK?

CONSIDER IT...FIXED. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Someone, somewhere is worrying about what will happen if they suddenly forget how to operate their ceiling fan. They bought it at a Salvation Army (where I donated it 6 years ago) and its operating manual was missing. Now, all they have to do is track down and interview a dozen or so former Salvation Army employees from 2005. One of them will be able to provide them with a visual description of me. A couple of police sketches and 3 neighborhood canvases over the course of several years later and—BAM! Just like that, the guy will be in possession of a Hunter Douglas fan operating manual. And that’s what it’s all about folks–keeping the ceiling fans of the world running.

HERE'S A CASSETTE. IT'S NOT LABELED. LET'S SPEND THE DAY TRACKING DOWN AND BUYING A CASSETTE PLAYER TO LISTEN TO THIS TAPE (WHICH COULD VERY WELL BE BLANK.)

Undeveloped disposable cameras. Unlabeled blank tapes. Defunct electronics. They are not garbage. They are poetic vessels of undiscovered potential and discarded dreams. OOOh. That sounds like a cool idea. I’m going to scribble that in a sketch book and shove that sketch book in the back of a drawer. In 2048 someone will read it and say “Wow, that chick was deep.”

Alas, did this blog entry teach me that I have too much useless stuff? Yes. That I hold on to things like a psychopath on Hoarders? Yes. After the photo shoot for this post, did I gather up all the junk, and with a smug smile and a knowing peaceful grin that speaks of closure and life lessons, throw it all away? No.  I shoved it all back into a canvas bag, which I then crammed into a drawer in a filing cabinet in the back of a closet in a room that I rarely go into. You’ll thank me one day.

Filed Under: Disorganization, Fear, Insanity, My Neuroses, Uncategorized
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14 Comments

 
Mar9Every Time I Open My Mouth I Annoy Myself
Paula

We were on our way home from an especially exciting birthday party this weekend that involved multiple bouncy castles when June said “that was a really good birthday party.”  It was totally true, it was an excellent birthday party.  But there was something a little bit Paris Hilton about her tone that suggested “I’ve been to a lot of parties in these parts and I’ve seen a lot of things and yet, I’d have to give that one an A.”  June has been lucky enough to attend some great parties at the tender age of three.  Living in New York City means living in small spaces with annoying things like neighbors who might not appreciate ten screaming toddlers ruining their afternoon plans to read the New York Times Style Section while recovering from a massive hangover.  Birthday parties are therefore held at “party spaces” which are insanely fun if you’re three, and sometimes even if you’re 39.  After the Paris Hiltonesque comment I turned around and looked at June and said “When I was your age I was lucky to play musical chairs at a birthday party. What a jerk!  Seriously, shut up!  What’s next?  Did you walk ten miles to school in the rain wearing an outfit made out of dirty paper towels?  I’ve increasingly found myself making ridiculous comments such as:

At my husbands favorite sushi restaurant where my daughter actually ate soba noodles and green tea ice cream (they don’t have chicken nuggets, or I assure you that’s what she’d be eating instead):

“I didn’t even know what sushi was until I was about 27!  I had never even heard of green tea ice cream!  And she’s having it for dessert at 2 like it’s a god damn oreo!  THIS IS CRAZY!”

After my daughter showed me her triangle pose which she learned from her yoga teacher at her pre-school:

“OMG!  Peter!  Did you see this??  It’s an actual yoga pose. . . YOGA.  Like for real. . like actual yoga. . . . not some made up kind for babies!  OMG OMG OMG.  I didn’t even set foot in a yoga studio until I was 27.  Seriously. . . . and now babies do yoga.  Unbelievable.

At my friend Billy’s 30th birthday party in the West Village which featured an elaborate four hour multi-course Italian lunch for twenty where my ten month old daughter ate exactly one bite of prosciutto.

Cured meats!  Peter!  She’s eating cured meats!  Prosciutto!  Did you see that?  Did you?  And she liked it. . . she really liked it!  (I now admit it’s possible the prosciutto was swallowed completely by accident).  She is totally going to be into food (flash forward two years she hates food).  Seriously, I didn’t even taste prosciutto until I was about 27!  And she’s having it at ten months!  Martha Stewart has eaten here!

We are eating vegetable lo mein at Mr. Wonton our local Chinese.  June is given a pair of “practice children’s chopsticks” by the waitress.  She manages to eat her noodles with them and is insanely pleased with herself.  Naturally I have to open my big fat mouth.

“Peter.  Is our child actually using chopsticks?  Those are CHOPSTICKS IN HER HAND.  Do you have your phone?  TAKE A PICTURE NOW.  That is soooo New York.  Maybe we should go to dim sum sometime???  Not kidding, I could not even use chopsticks at all until I was like 27.  Seriously.  Until I was 27 I totally needed a fork.”

This child is happily using chopsticks to enjoy some veggie lo mein.  Little does she know she’ll soon want to use them to stab her mother in the eye.

As you can see, 27 was obviously a pivotal year for me.  However, it’s also clear that I need to GET OVER IT.  Otherwise my child is going to hate me – as I can barely stand myself right now.  I’m basically just excited for her – she gets to do so much!  But I don’t need to ruin it by constantly reminding her of, well, how incredibly dull her mother’s life was until she was 27?  I’ll just picture us when she’s 27. . . happily eating dim sum together with chopsticks, and maybe that thought will teach me to keep a lid on it.

And since there’s a theme of NOT shutting up here. . . hey – VOTE FOR adhocMOM over at circle of moms!  You can do it every day!  Please?  I’m asking nicely. . . .

Filed Under: Food, Insanity, Motherhood: The Job, My Neuroses, Rants
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