Picture this “hypothetical” scenario:
You leave work to pick up your hypothetical 8-year-old.
You speed walk 30 blocks and 5 avenues, in 34 degree weather, instead of taking the subway.
You do this because the subway was delayed underground the day before and it nearly made you late for after school pick up.
And the thought of being late for after school pick up puts shivers down your spine.
Aside from several new blisters (thanks Tory B.) and a rather strange interaction with a fellow pedestrian who appeared to be offended by the fact you were multitasking (apparently speaking to your mother on the phone is a crime), you get to school without incident.
You even get to school with time to spare and rejoice your hypothetical kid isn’t the last one there.
You’re ready for a hug or a happy “Hi Mama!”
Instead your kid could care less you’re there. Her first question is “What’s for dinner?”
It’s then you realize she’s more like her father than you originally thought.
She hands you her backpack, her latest art project (you’re guessing this is a misshapen turkey but don’t want to vocalize this thought in case you’re completely off base), her lunch box, her hat, and her umbrella.
As you juggle these items, in addition to your own purse, laptop, gloves, and coat, she trots off towards the school exit without a care in the world.
It’s then you realize, she is a clone of her father.
You get home.
You unload the 15 pounds of stuff you’re carrying.
You see your hypothetical husband and you wait for a happy “Hi Hypothetical Person! How was your day?”
Your husband looks up from his computer for a second to say hello. Then he goes back to work.
A second later he looks up again and asks, “What’s for dinner?”
And that’s when you realize you wish you were back at work.
Where people appreciate you.
And don’t ask you what’s for dinner.
I have many things to be thankful for this year:
First and foremost, Ali survived Sunday’s Arctic blast.
And although it was rather touch and go for a few moments, I survived Maya’s horrifically bad mood on Sunday.
Oh, and Ali organized our collection of paper bags under the kitchen sink.
Talk about an unexpected surprise.
We’ve also eaten some fairly decent food lately, none of which had to be cooked or cleaned up by me.
And most importantly? We are in New York. And I’m not sure about the rest of my family but I Love It Here.
Thankful is an understatement.
Last Friday night – right after concluding a very long work week and right before collapsing in bed at 9:30 pm – Maya asked me to pick up orange juice so she could have it at breakfast.*
Because clearly her weekend consumption of Vitamin C should top my list of priorities.
Which it apparently does. As evidenced by the fact that I woke up on Saturday morning, bright and early, with one thing in mind: Must. Get. Maya. Orange. Juice.
As the lines at the NYC Trader Joe’s have been known to form OUTSIDE the store, I threw any sense of fashion out the window as I put on whatever I saw first.
Time was obviously of the essence.
I got to Trader Joe’s one minute after it opened and secured – are you ready for this? – the very last freshly squeezed orange juice. The last one!
And then, when I turned around triumphantly, another, even more amazing thing happened. The nicest person in the world stopped to tell me that she:
- Is a fan of my blog.
- Enjoys my random posts.
- Liked my jacket.
- Thinks I am a good mother.
- Is glad we moved to NYC.
Sorry you had to see me in the state you did M. (Ali thought you might not want to be named!), but thank YOU for making me feel (for five minutes at least) that I exist for reasons other than to supply Maya with sugary drinks. You made my weekend.
*I’m sure you may have guessed – the juice is still sitting in the fridge. Unopened.
The last 7 days have been extraordinarily busy work-wise.
This is why I’ve had little time to ponder why Ali’s super fashionable earmuffs are working my last nerve. Or why, despite having at least 15 drinking glasses, there is never a single one available when I feel like a drink of water.
Maybe we could conclude that my lack of inspiration this week is due to my extreme thirst. Not sure.
I’m too dehydrated to focus.
Which is why I’m about to blog about something as interesting to you as watching paint dry: The coat I bought last week.
My new coat:
- Is Green
- Is Long
- Is Warm
- Is Wool
- Fits me Perfectly
- Was Reasonably Priced
So what’s the problem you’re wondering? Why are you rambling on and on about your coat, Ameena?
Well here’s the problem: The designer is Jessica Simpson.
It seems surreal that I now own something designed by Jessica Simpson and I’m not really sure why. I mean I don’t dislike Jessica. Although I don’t particularly love her either. I mean, who divorces Nick Lachey?
(Although his latest “projects” have me wondering a little bit less).
So if I’m indifferent about Jessica why am I troubled that her name is scrawled over the inside of my coat? I have no idea. But I have no idea why Ali isn’t bothered by his ridiculous-looking earmuffs either.
So I’m thinking that many questions just don’t have answers…
I just learned, from a reader, that I’m “overly fond” of bullet points.
So I’m obviously confused that someone is concerning themselves with my use of bullet points. Especially as:
- I didn’t realize bullet points could be overused.
- I had no idea that something so insignificant could trouble someone.
- I am a productive member of society. And that should count for something (grasping at straws here).
And when it comes down to it, my bullet points do nothing but benefit my readers. This thanks to the fact they provide:
- An appealing visual sense.
- The summarization (is this a word?) of my posts about nothing in particular.
- The ability to expeditiously scan my posts about nothing in particular.
In any case, I’m not going to deny that I like bullet points. And here’s why:
- Bullet points feed my need for Order and Neatness. And we’ve already established that I’m all over that.
- Bullet points allow my posts about nothing to be far more considerable. From a length standpoint at least (note “Etc.” above).
So I’m thinking that instead of being reprimanded? My overuse of bullet points should be:
Last Monday morning I woke up to the sound of a sniffle and the slightest hint of a cough.
These sounds put the fear of God in me.
Now if these sniffles had been originating from Maya’s room I would have been okay. I’d have bundled her on the couch with the iPad, the TV, a receptacle for the impending vomit, and I’d have called it a day.
But the sounds were not originating from Maya’s room. They were originating from our room. So obviously, things were much worse.
Ali : “Can you pick up 8 lemons, Sudafed, and peppermint tea?”
My Running Commentary : 8 lemons? Are we preparing to battle the bubonic plague for @#$’s sake?”
What I Really Said : “Sure, no problem.”
The next few days followed in a blur of :
- half cut lemons and seeds all over the kitchen counters,
- towels and tea bags from makeshift steam sites in the kitchen and bathroom,
- and remarkably absurd questions like, “Where can I buy soup?”
On Sunday morning I woke up sick.
Not unexpected when one is forced to clean up the lemons, seeds, towels, and tea bags, from one battling the plague.
Nobody cared. Also not unexpected.
If anything, I made muffins, scrubbed the trash can (self-inflicted punishment), and continued to field more absurd questions like, “How do I prevent you from getting me sick again?” and “Do you think the flu shot would be a good idea now?”
I swear, I can’t make this stuff up.
Not too long ago, someone (we’ll call her Anonymous) made a comment along the lines of: if I couldn’t make my husband a sandwich then I shouldn’t have gotten married.
Talk about stating the obvious.
I mean, of course Ali should have known better than to marry me. For so many reasons, the least of which is my lack of cooking skills / dislike for cooking.
Still Anonymous, I’ll allow that when I make the flipping sandwich, I do so grudgingly. And truthfully? I couldn’t, for the longest time, quite put my finger on why.
Until last week, that is.
When Ali made his way back to NYC after 12 days away on “business.” And proceeded to send me an instant message from one room away (hate that) requesting a lunch (hate that) on a day we were both working from home (hate that too).
I silently cursed. But as I slapped some turkey between two slices of bread I thought of your comment and wondered why Ali’s request felt like such an imposition.
And here’s what I came up with:My husband has an MBA. So why can’t he slap turkey between two slices of bread?
And here’s what I also came up with:
I will make the sandwich. Sometimes, when the stars are aligned, I’ll even slice an apple and put it on the side! But I will be annoyed about it. The whole process. I will probably curse. But it will get done. Ali knows that. I know that.
The system works for us Anonymous. It works.