From the monthly archives:

October 2011

Why Me?

Last year, Jeff had pneumonia. He was feverish and sore and tired and all around completely miserable. As the doctor gave him instructions for the next few weeks, he pathetically moaned, why me?

I have to sleep alone?

I have to stay home?

I have to be quiet?

What did I do to deserve this, he cried.

Yesterday, I too, was diagnosed with pneumonia after a couple days of feeling crappy culminated in shortness of breath that scared me enough to get my ass to Urgent Care. After my x-rays and blood work, the doctor sternly gave me my orders:

Stay in bed as much as you possibly can.

Don’t allow your husband or children in the bed with you.

Don’t share food or drinks with anybody.

Take lots of long steam showers.

Talk as little as possible.

Take lots of naps.

Beware that the Tylenol with Codeine will make you “loopy.”

Just do as little as you possibly can for as long as possible.

Do you have any questions, he asked as he was finishing up my chart.

Yes, I responded, with glee.

Why me? What did I do to deserve this?!

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On Dancing

I don’t dance.

I don’t like it, I’m not good at it, and I’d pretty much rather be doing anything other than getting down on the dance floor.

Seriously.

Taxes, a deep cleaning at the dentist, a 45 minute long call with Comcast over the fact that I have not had reliable internet service all year. These are all things preferable to dancing for me. It’s simply not my thing, just like drunkenly belting out all the words to Broadway show tunes might not be your thing, and there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that fact. (Although, really, you haven’t lived until you’ve performed Phantom of the Opera with six drinks in you and poor pitch. But, I digress.)

The problem is that the entire world seems to think that dancing is my thing, and I’m just not aware of it yet.

All of my life I have battled the people who yank me on the dance floor and tell me to lighten up. To less loose and feel the music. People who bring me drink after drink after drink so I can really have fun under the hot lights and pounding music. People who drag me over— against my will— forcing me to “have fun.” People who bump me and grind me and make me think of moves meant to knock them over, sending them landing flat on their asses, just so I can plant mine back in the chair, where it happily belongs.

What is it about dancing that makes everyone think that anyone not participating is missing out?

See, believe it or not, I know myself pretty well by now.

I actually want to be sitting in that chair, sipping my drink and chatting with the other non-dancers. I want to be matte when everyone else is shiny and dryer sheet clean when everyone else is sweating buckets. I want to have conversations in a quiet corner and not have to scream my head off and I want to maintain my sense of hearing and feeling in my feet.

What I don’t want to do? Is dance.

Period.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Just because I’m not dancing, doesn’t mean that I’m not having fun or that I’m sad or pathetic or need desperately to be cheered up. In fact, I’m perfectly capable of having a good time. A great time. That great time just isn’t found on the dance floor.

No matter how hard the world may try.

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Halloween Vodka

I have decided that there is no reason for kids to get all the treats on Halloween. What about us? Don’t we deserve some fun, too? Other than overdosing on candy, of course.

Yes, yes, we do.

I still haven’t gotten over last year’s fascination with candy vodka, and got inspired last week after a trip down the candy aisle. I think — actually I know — that I had way too much fun with this Halloween Vodka…

Just take any sugar candy and separate by color…

… and soak it in vodka for a few days, shaking periodically. If there’s any gunk floating, drain it out with a coffee filter. My bottles came from Ikea, but mason jars work, too.

So easy, and so fun. (Especially if you taste it.)

Don’t you wish you were trick or treating at my house?

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Very Grown Up

“I just can’t believe how very grown up I look now!!”

– Lily, upon getting her ears pierced.

Me, neither, my baby. Me neither.

(And, for the record, I had to wait until I was 13 to pierce mine. Lucky girl.)

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Two Spoons

Remember back in the days when you and your spouse were merely dating and sharing a dessert was the most romantic way to end a meal? You’d settle on a single dessert along with two spoons, to savor, together. Feet would intertwine under the table and lips would sensuously lick chocolate off of silver. You’d gingerly take a bite, careful not to take too much, in between deep conversation. The last bite would always remain on the plate, because it seemed rude to take the last one and you were each too considerate to dream of such a thing. It was delicious and satisfying and you just couldn’t get enough of it. The dessert and the company.

And, then you got married. And, though romance isn’t entirely dead in marriage, it most definitely isn’t found on a plate of molten chocolate cake.

Or, at least in my marriage it’s not.

When Jeff and I split a dessert these days, it’s more of a race to the finish line than an enjoyable indulgence. We may as well have our hands tied behind our backs and be head butting each other in order to be titled the winner. Most times, I can barely even taste the food I’m inhaling, I’m just shoveling in it my face fast enough to ensure that he doesn’t eat it all before I do. Our dueling utensils fight for the biggest bite; we’re merely one step away from spitting on the plate to claim it as our own.

If it were up to me, I would simply ask for two plates and cut the dessert in half from the beginning, you know, like we would do if we split a main course of fish or chicken. That would make sense, right? It would be equitable and civilized and so much more enjoyable. But, dessert is supposed to be shared for some bizarre reason, clearly the brainchild of a still smitten single person.

We become barbarians, forgetting that a few minutes ago when we placed the order, we were too full to each get our own and only wanted a bite. And, we vow not to share again next time, because neither saving five bucks nor a few hundred calories is worth seeing this side of each other.

Until the next time we go out for dinner, and we do it all over again.