Cups, Yeah

I'm nervous that EJ has the worst cups at daycare. When I got divorced, people were lovely and gave me a ton of hand-me-down items, including sippy cups. I felt a little weird about the cups and almost threw them out...errr, recycled them, but I was then able to buy a Nars eyeshadow I was crushing on, so everyone won.  Needless to say, a few of EJ's cups are a little scratched and might display some discontinued cartoon characters, but you know what?  They are clean and he doesn't know the difference.  Besides, I think it's good to teach children the value of a dollar when they're young.  Last month, I tried to modernize EJ's collection and added a colorful value-pack of cups into the rotation.  However, there was one problem.  For six cups, there was only one cover, and of course, it's gone. So, as I packed his lunch for today (stayed tuned for that gem), I was forced to turn into McGyver mom and put plastic wrap over the mouth hole.  Only it wasn't even the name-brand Saran wrap that will hug the lid tightly and actually wrap it, it was America's Choice and I had to use a huge piece and almost mummify the top. What will his teachers think?  

Love, Toddler Style

Shocking news. My son EJ, at eighteen-months-old, received Valentine's from his classmates at "school." What??!!  He is very busy learning where his nose is, and I see those other drool monsters when I pick him up (no one seems to have the nose thing down), so WHO among them has the time to put pen to paper and write thoughtful Valentine's messages? Two of the toddlers even attached their Valentine notes to organic fruit pouches!  Unreal.  So, I sat EJ down on the bench outside of school and talked to him about social standing and fitting in.  I told him that every class has a deadbeat, and I didn't want him to take on that role.  I think he got what I was saying because he jumped up to chase a butterfly.

As I walked past the group of mothers congregated near the playground, slurping down one of the pouches he'd received, I hoped that EJ had really learned his lesson.

Notes from the Hospital

You don't learn to be grateful for what you have until life knocks you on the ass.  I've tried to be zen buddha during the good, quiet times of my life and display an attitude of gratitude, but somehow the minutia of the daily grind takes over and I'm back to logging how many almonds I've eaten, complaining about traffic or the weather, and fretting over the theme for my son's second birthday party...in August.

My mom has been in the hospital for a week.  She's been in and out of the ICU, in and out of tremendous pain, and in and out of consciousness. As my sister and I have ridden this horrific wave with her, we've forgotten the frivolous and been immensely grateful for the small stuff: a deep breath, a hello, a full opening of the eyes, a bowel movement.  My mom is now on the mend, but life for her will be different, at least for a little while, if not longer.

In all aspects of life, people have it much better and much worse than you.  I'm always very aware of this fact, and use it as motivation during times of complacency and solace during times of pain.  I was feeling particularly bad about my mom's situation yesterday morning.  I needed to walk, I needed a breath, I needed to look out a window and remind myself of the outside world.  I left the ICU, and standing at the elevator, a middle-aged gentleman struck up a conversation. We exchanged pleasantries and shared the whos and the whys of our visits.  He was there for his father-in-law who had Leukemia.  We got to the lobby, said farewell, and I took five minutes to snap myself out of my pity party.

I left my mom just before ten last night.  Out in the hall, I pressed the elevator button and closed my eyes.  When I opened them, that same man was there.  He gave me a half-smile, just as a woman around the bend broke into loud, anguished sobs.  "That's my sister-in-law...he died," he murmured.  I muttered my condolences and kept my head down as he stifled his grief through floors 3, 2, and 1.  We were both visiting loved ones.  His was gone. Mine was not.  I drove home, and rather than feel sad about the immediate future, I felt appreciative and thankful that I would get to do the hospital shuffle again tomorrow.  Bring on the bad coffee.  Bring on the uncomfortable chairs.  Bring on the redundant questions and relaying of the same story over and over.  Bring on the tubes and the monitors and the charts and test.  We are lucky. 

I've read that a miracle is no more than a shift in your perception; a choice to see a situation differently and find the joy in it.  As this week begins, I wish you a miraculous Monday.

Red Flags

I'm here to help.  So today, rather than give the play-by-play of my seven-month run with the dashing, pretentious boyfriend, I'm going to share some of the warning signs I noticed but chose to ignore.

[I watched the Kristen Wiig, SNL perfume skit in preparation for this post, so at the end of each line, imagine the narrator whispering "red flag" to warn that someone is bat sh** crazy].

RED FLAGS:

• He is 38 and NEVER (ever) puts down his phone. (RED FLAG)
• He texts more than a 13-year-old girl, and that is his preferred method of communication with you.
• He checks in everywhere on Four Square...important places like Valero gas stations, Starbucks, etc.
• He stalks Instagram...first thing he does in the morning and last thing at night.
• The first thing he does after asking you out is update his Facebook status.

• He often reminds you of how he dated a Jets cheerleader for a hot minute. (RED FLAG)
• None of his relationships have lasted longer than two months...and he's been divorced for five years.
• But he thinks you'll last longer because you are "older" and "smart."

• He is shorter than you but always justifies why that's good... (RED FLAG)
• Otherwise, his ego would be too big.

• All of his friends are much younger than him, incredibly wealthy...and live with their parents. (RED FLAG)
• He and the aforementioned friends talk about gluten...A LOT.
• They hang out at polo matches in white shorts. Some wear fedoras.

• He doesn't get you a birthday card or gift after six months of dating. (RED FLAG)
• But he does acknowledge verbally it's your birthday and reminds you of the expensive  meal he sprang for. 

• He's so controlling about cooking that the one time you make a side dish, he gives a thorough critique... during the meal. (RED FLAG)
• He sends a follow-up email with more suggestions for the side dish the next day.
• Two days after that, he reminds you it could've used just a little more salt.

• He keeps a lot of clothing in the trunk of his car. Full outfits. (RED FLAG)
• Upon reflection, you only remember a rotation of seven different ensembles.

• You've never been to where he lives. (THAT'S A MAJOR RED FLAG)
• You've never even been given an address...he has a PO Box.
• He may have mentioned once he didn't have a kitchen?

Online Dating: The Sharks Circle

Disclaimer: I think I fall into the attractive subset of society, but am fully aware that I only float some people's boats. So, I do realize that the impressive initial online response I received had more to do with me being "fresh meat" with mildly symmetrical features than being "gorgeous."

Before creating my dating profile, I looked at a few other chicks' to get an idea of what to do.  Big mistake. I felt about a hundred years old.  Frantic thoughts flew into my mind. What happened to the world while I was married? Should I be taking pucker-faced selfies in front of a mirror? Why does everyone look sexy all the time?  Does J. Crew make deeper v-neck tees?

I knew I had to stop trying to make my profile match that of my single female peers and gave myself ten minutes to just write it. It was short, to the point, and mildly snarky/ironic to keep the idiots away.  I found three recent pre-pregnancy shots and hastily cropped out the ex-husband. Then I pressed "post," closed my computer, and went to take my napping baby on our daily walk to Dunkin' Donuts (his idea, not mine).

On the mile trek there, my phone started pinging nonstop. By the time I reached the high-class coffee establishment, I had fifty messages in my inbox.  I felt like a supermodel.  A fall wedding would be nice.  Then I looked at the messages:

Hey u. what's up (about twenty of those).

Your a milf.  (totally offended by his use of the wrong your!)

What idiot would leave you with a goddamn baby?!  What you got, a wooden leg or somethin? Call me (516) 324-****.  -Anthony (my favorite)

So, when I received a somewhat coherent email from a dashing-looking single dad in Connecticut, I felt like I had hit the lottery and responded.  We met the next week and so begins the story of the pretentious boyfriend.

Dating: Let's Do This

To add a shred of class and dignity to the Maury Povich-esque end of my marriage, I waited until I was officially divorced to venture into the dating world. So, the day after I signed the final papers, I said out loud to no one in particular, "I'm ready to date now."  In my novice, naive dating mind, I felt like Moses on the mountaintop, the echo of my voice reverberating throughout the valleys of single men. Hours passed in silence. No suitors appeared at my door with flowers in hand.  I knew I had to take action.

I frequent three places: the gym, work, and Whole Foods.

First, up the gym.  I put on eyeliner.  I combed my hair.  I wore a shirt that wasn't oversized and ancient, and I strapped on my padded sports bra.  (Side note: I tend to furrow my brow, so I decided to try to always have a pleasant expression on my face. In hindsight, my "pleasant" expression is a creepy half-smile.)  A few workouts later, with not even as much as a polite smirk from any male, I gave up. It doesn't help that I have a poor-person membership that only leaves me a three-hour window to workout, so the odds weren't really in my favor to begin with.

Work.  I'm a teacher and work with all women, none of whom seemed to know anyone worth setting me up with.

Whole Foods.  This seemed promising.  I want a future partner to enjoy food shopping, organic food, and join me in salivating over everything in the prepared foods section. Unfortunately, I'm a bit compulsive and always arrive at Whole Foods just as it opens.  I never stopped to think that this might limit potential dating opportunities; I was too focused on bringing my best-looking reusable bag, wearing non-elastic pants, and displaying my "pleasant expression." Within five minutes in the store, I realized it wasn't going to happen.  I was the youngest person of the seven women there.  I'm also too crazy of a produce shopper, and in my fervor of searching for bad spots on fruits and interpreting sell-by dates of lettuce containers, I forgot to be cute. At least my son and I got the freshest apples and spinach in the joint.

I was confused.  A whole week had gone by and no boyfriend.  What gave?  I then realized what I had to do: venture online. Gulp.

Welcome, Welcome!

I think the world needs another "my life is fine, but sort of a clusterf**k" blog, so here I am. Here are a few basic things you may want to know about me:

1. I am 35 and the mom of a two-year-old son, EJ.

2. I've been divorced for a little over a year, and guess I had one of those starter marriages you hear about (<5 years).

3.  I always wanted to be a writer...but am a teacher...who blogs.

At the very least, I'm hoping my accounts of the fiascos I encounter on a regular basis can make you feel a little better about yourself, give you something to connect to, or mildly amuse you.  And, it doesn't matter if you're laughing with me or at me either; I won't know the difference.  

When I think of my journalism training from college, I know I'm supposed to hook in my reader and then leave them wanting more.  I'll keep that in mind going forward, but let me now dangle some trailers of my bumps in the road: a cheating husband and the worst end to a marriage of anyone I know (I couldn't make the story up if I tried), my cancer-survivor mom is my roommate (stories for days!), I had to re-enter the dating world (creepsters galore!), and I'm the mom of a sassy three-year-old (we could go on that one alone).  I will see you very soon.