jesus doesn't love us

I started this blog when I was still in my thirties. I will be in my thirties for another hour. I know better at this age than to judge myself or anyone else on the basis of age, but well, call me shallow, say I'm missing the point, and I don't mean that you should ever really do that, but I am freaking out a little about turning forty. The mortality of it all.

I didn't so much freak when I was hitting thirty. Thirty-five smarted, but at thirty, I still thought I had a decent shot at turning into Madonna, or at least into Madonna Junior, back in the day. What a child I still was, but in an endearing way. Which reminds me of one of my recent self-improvement goals, to overcome my tendency to flagellate myself into a bruised pulp. So far my efforts bear fruit. I'm easing my internal dialogue into a kind of maternal tough love. I call it my inner bitch-warrior.

i will miss you, crazy neighbors

The doorbell just rang. It was our neighbor, Brunhilde* dropping off gifts for the kids! She handed me these giant babies, wrapped ever so thoughtfully in a wrinkled plastic grocery bag, shouting over the pre-recorded laughter of one of the dolls, that "the girl won't stop laughing!" How sweet! I can't wait to run into the kids' room in the middle of the night because the dolls are giving them nightmares. "The boy is for your son!" She shouted, as I barred her possible entry with my body.

In the park the other day when we happened upon each other, Brunhilde declared that Stella, "the way she smiles! Will be famous one day! And that one," she said, pointing a dusty crooked finger at my son, "That one is skeptical! He will be a doctor!" I think Brunhilde was confusing skepticism with the dirty look Hamish was shooting her for trying to get him to shake her hand.

After this proclamation my son knotted his thick pointy brows and kicked the dirt, growling. When I knelt down and asked what was wrong he told me, "I don't want to be a doctor!" and, broken up over the idea that Hamish took our elderly, hygiene-challenged neighbor's prediction seriously, I reassured him that he could be anything he wanted no matter what anyone says, like a spaceman rock and roll superstar, which I believe is his current career choice. I also gently explained that some doctors play rock and roll and save kittens. I don't want to completely shut out the possibility.

Hamish is quickly learning the aggravating lesson that some people virtually overflow with infinite misinformed notions of how others should live their lives and sometimes they happen to say these things out loud. Maybe they're like farts, these smelly, gassy nuggets of unsolicited opinions, because Brunhilde, at least, talks out of her ass, bless her creaky, crazy, well-meaning heart.

So thanks for the scary laughing baby dolls, friendly neighbor.

handicapped spot

There was this woman at the grocery store this morning. It was my second trip to the grocery store this week. Apparently, spending two-hundred and forty dollars at Fairway does not cover a week’s worth of meals and does not include staples like toilet paper, seltzer and whipped cream. (A special shout out to Hamish for sitting on the Kozy Shack and the grated cheese! Go honey! Easily replaced. I mean, where else do you put a three and a half year-old when there’s a one year-old in the passenger seat?)

things that make the heart beat faster

While I was stuffing sandy sheets into the Maytag this morning, my elderly upstairs neighbor admitted to me that the reason she stays in the laundry room while her clothing spins is because she has a bad heart. She thought I must be asking myself this question, that I was judging her. It's heartbreaking. I do this myself. I could list you thousands of examples, but don't want to travel down that road at the moment.

chasing angie

I finally went and did it. I bought a pair of skinny jeans and now I feel a little thick in the thighs. Go figure. Bryan warned me. "That look flatters no one!" Did I heed his word? Of course not. I have to stick my ass in the fire to learn the burn. But hey hunny, this dose of self-loathing only cost me fifty dollars, reduced from one-sixty-eight!

super

Once upon a Christmastime, there was an old toothless man who wore the same smelly threadbare clothes and frayed baseball hat every day. He was the superintendent of my building and lived in the basement apartment, his thick concrete walls painted the color of sunflowers, which was a surprising slice of sunshine in his otherwise gray existence. A lion among mice, that color was. But this story isn't about the colors of his walls, which I happened to spy some years ago. This story is about how I was so mean to him today that I reminded myself of a business tycoon, and felt hope for the first time in weeks.

the killing tree

Just a quick note to let you know that our building's superintendent has yet again assembled and lit our fake (!) Christmas tree in the courtyard, replete with musical lights that sound like a dying alien. WHY must our tree make sounds? Can we not brim with joy and wonder from purely visual beauty? I've been sleeping with a pillow over my head for days. I could and should and probably will complain, going the proper route of leaving a (well-written!) note in the suggestion box, but I will also steal into the night with cotton wadding and duct tape. Now where did I put that black ski mask?

bananas

Aaahhhh! Feel like I'm running too fast this morning. Dragged Stella to Banana Republic, parked miles away so I could have a brisk morning rush through Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights and spill orange juice all over the stroller.

You see, Bryan called yesterday and asked if I'd like to go to Hillary Clinton's birthday party tomorrow night at Tavern on the Green. Would I? Can you say 'Babysitter'? This is what is so great about living in New York City. His boss can't go, so here we are more than happy to fill two $1,000 seats.