Being the other woman to addiction is worse than being the other woman to an actual woman. Because being incoherently passed out on the bathroom floor will never be prettier than you – it’s not funnier, it doesn’t even have a better personality – but it will always win. You can’t compete.
Every day I put 10 M&Ms in two cups - one for each kid. Every time they fight or act up, they lose M&Ms. However many they end the day with, they get to eat BEFORE breakfast in the a.m. Candy BEFORE breakfast? Heaven to a kid. If they make it to the end of the day with all 10 M&Ms, they get a mini Reese’s cup too. Today is the first day they both got Reese’s.
My daughter and mom were playing Barbies as I left this a.m. Think my mom’s Barbie is asking my daughter’s if she’s found Jesus yet.
I was smoking a cigarette outside my office today when a fella came over and asked for a light. Not an uncommon interruption in NYC. I’m not an asshole all the time, so I obliged. Grateful, he told me to hold on and began fishing around in his satchel (man purse — murse, if you will) like a Grandma searching for a Werther’s. I stood by politely, wondering how lending someone a lighter had made me a prisoner on a public sidewalk. His arm completely disappeared into the murse like a modern-day Mary Poppins, before he withdrew it, holding a bottle of shampoo.
"Here," he said, handing me the shampoo.
"Umm, okay. It’s shampoo," I said.
"Yup. Shampoo. It goes in your hair."
"Cool. I use shampoo. Thanks."
"Thanks for the light!"
"Have a good one."
Six years ago I was holding my father’s hand while he died.
In those first few hours, days, weeks, I forced myself through it by embracing the idea that “it gets easier.”
It doesn’t. Six years later and it hasn’t gotten easier and I’ve accepted that it never will. It never gets easier. You just get better at pretending you’ve healed. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it just raises your tolerance to them.
I’m okay most days. I always miss him, but focus on when he was alive, the memories, the good stuff. Those are mine forever. They’re alive.
It’s just this one day. It’s just a fucking day and it doesn’t mean anything more or less than the other days — he’s still gone all of them: Yesterday, tomorrow, today, it doesn’t change. Every day I’ll continue breaking the record for the longest I’ve gone without seeing my dad just by waking up.
But this day won’t let me shake it. He died today. Early tomorrow morning, technically, as kids from the nearby college began spilling out of bars surrounding the hospital. I drove home as the sun rose, cursing it for being an asshole by being so beautiful.
I can’t remember my own family member’s birthdays without Facebook sending me a reminder, but I’ll never forget this date. It’s my Alamo. It’s my Dre.
Made a napkin holder to celebrate America’s birth. Like our forefathers did.
Just made bacon-wrapped cheddar meatloaf. I’m not the type to ever post recipes, actually I’ve never posted a recipe anywhere before, but this was so good, I feel like it’d be a disservice NOT to share the magic I concocted here. So for those interested in creating orgasms on their tastebuds, here’s my recipe:
Using my hands like our ancestors, I mixed however much ground beef comes in a non obese-sized package, a few squeezes of Ketchup, some salt and pepper and a few handfuls of cheddar cheese, which I cut off a block and then ripped apart with my hands because I didn’t feel like dirtying the cheese grater.
After thoroughly mashing this mixture in my hands and completely grossing myself out, I rounded it into a loaf-ish shape on a (foil-covered to avoid heavy lifting with the dishes later) baking sheet. I then wrapped the loaf completely in uncooked maple bacon and popped that baby in the already-preheated-to-350-degrees oven. I cooked for 50 minutes. And then probably about 10 minutes more because I got distracted by the Internet. Then I turned the broiler on to brown the bacon for a couple of minutes. 3 maybe? Long enough for me to tell the kids to go wash up and to stop carrying the cat around in a laundry basket.
And, boom! Taste bud euphoria/artery cloggage.
Please tell me posting recipes on the Internet doesn’t mean I’m becoming my mother.
Celebrating the DOMA ruling in LEGO City.
I was so excited that I wanted to wake everyone but I channeled it into writing a note for them to see first thing in the a.m.
… is that you can see a stunningly happy-looking couple getting married 10 feet away from a girl puking in a trashcan who’s 10 feet away from a group of nuns crowding around an unfolding train schedule 10 feet away from a dude shoving the receiver of a pay phone down his pants 10 feet away from a father jumping just in time to catch his stroller-bound toddler son’s balloon as it floats to the vaulted ceilings 10 feet away from an angry dude in a suit yelling into a bluetooth headset 10 feet away from a group of hipsters staring at their phones 10 feet away from a woman with MY GAWD the hottest ass you’ve ever seen or have at least seen today 10 feet away from officers standing guarded with their puppy partners 10 feet away from a throng of people retreating back to the suburbs, away from the city that never sleeps, and that you can still feel completely alone.