Let’s remedy that, shall we?
Problem #1: Ali had too many coats for our “walk in” closet. (I’m not kidding when I say he has at least 4 times the number of coats I have.)
Resolution #1: I cleared out a section of Maya’s closet to house his collection.
Problem #2: Ali determined Maya’s closet was “too far” to walk to in order for him to retrieve his coat. (Our apartment is all of 1,200 square feet – NOTHING IS TOO FAR HERE.)
Resolution #2: I purchased a coat rack and set it up next to the front door.
Problem #3: Ali determined that several of his coats were “too heavy” and posed a great risk that the coat rack would fall. So he’s taken to throwing them on the floor.
(Seriously, he comes in to the apartment, takes off his coat, and literally flings it across the living room floor.)
So I think we can all conclude that I’ve been pretty patient. I mean, I really think I deserve high marks not only in “Creative Closet Solutions” but also in “Maintaining Patience When Any Other Wife Would Have Lost Her S@#$.”
And yet, I found the energy to come up with Resolution #3!
Resolution #3: I pulled a muscle shifting the hanging shoe racks to one side of the hallway closet, secured two extremely durable hangers, and hung Ali’s heaviest coats in the hallway closet (a mere 3 yards from the front door).
Guess what Ali did today? He took his coat off the hanger, went to work, came back from work, flung it across the living room floor, glanced at me and said “I need to be reminded that certain coats should be hung in the hallway closet,” and cracked open his laptop.
Resolution: Ali and his coat need to become Delta’s problem. STAT. There is no other resolution.
I was such a broken record between December 19, 2014 – January 1, 2015 that I was even annoying myself.
No, my nagging was actually related to Maya’s sugar intake.
Okay, so you’re probably thinking, my God Ameena, do you ever let up on the poor kid? It is/was the holidays and she is/was in London. Can’t you cut her some slack around the chocolate and clotted cream?
Plus, why are you allowed to carb-overload on scones but she can’t have an extra helping or two of dessert?
Well my answer(s) are as follows:
- I fully believe in a having a double standard when it comes to children.
- Whereas I can eat 1/2 a scone and be completely satisfied, Maya’s tolerance for ice cream can rival that of a 200 pound lumberjack.
- This is a serious problem as she is lactose-intolerant.
- You can guess what results when she feels sick.
- You can also guess who has to deal with the fallout when she feels sick (Hint: It’s not my husband).
But after one too many lectures from my husband about giving her a break, I went against every fiber of my being and let her use her “best judgment.”
Which led to Maya eating 18 scoops of ice cream in one sitting.
Which led to a stomach ache.
Which led to me cleaning up the pleasant aftermath between the hours of 10:00pm – 12:00am on December 31, 2014.
On the bright side, I suppose that even if it was from the bathroom floor, at least I can still say I rang in the New Year in London?
Since my last post…
- Ali returned from L.A., flew to D.C., came home to inform me that I have brittle hair and need to do something about it, and then left for Boston.
- The Takeaway: Pantene isn’t cutting it anymore – my hair is in a bad place. And my husband still needs to learn to filter.
- Maya had a holiday party with 3 of her friends. I put together cute holiday gift bags (if I do say so myself) complete with matching earmuffs, matching T-shirts, holiday pens, erasers, and more. It’s been 5 days and Maya’s gift bag is still sitting in the living room, mostly untouched. And when I dropped Maya at school this morning we spied a pair of the aforementioned earmuffs abandoned and headed for the lost and found.
- The Takeaway: My gift bags clearly made a huge impression. On me.
- Since nobody else wanted to venture out into the cold to hit the grocery store this weekend (I needed help carrying the bags), I took a stand and decided not to go at all. Thus our fridge is currently empty except for one banana, ketchup, mustard, jam, M&Ms, and frozen fish sticks. (And milk of course. We always have milk as you know.)
- The Takeaway: I’m very much regretting my “stand” and will continue to regret it as dinner approaches.
- The Takeaway 2: I inevitably suffer when I try to make others suffer.
Ali is returning from Boston tonight, to a home with no food, a daughter who has no appreciation, and to a wife who has brittle hair.
I almost feel sorry for him.
When we return from a trip of any kind, there are two Very Pressing Matters that need to be addressed ASAP:
#1. How do we ensure that there be milk for Ali’s tea and cereal? And not just any milk, but lactose-free organic 2% milk.
(Although 1% will also do in a pinch. Because Ali is low-maintenance like that.)
#2. How can I minimize the amount of time that Ali’s suitcase will block the front door? Because:
- It WILL block the front door. For at least 24 hours.
- My subtle hints to unpack will go unnoticed.
- My not-so-subtle hints to unpack will go unnoticed.
- I will lose my @#$% and the suitcase will finally be partially emptied (of course).
- I will lose my @#$% again and the suitcase will be 97% emptied (it’s never FULLY emptied, just FYI).
- The suitcase will eventually be rolled back into a closet. At which point I will cringe because I will be picturing the 1 billion strains being transferred from the filthy suitcase wheels to my Swiffered floors.
Anyway, since I left for Los Angeles after Ali did, I proactively resolved Pressing Matter #1 by making sure to purchase and place an unopened container of the approved variety of milk in the fridge for my husband.
Unfortunately, we are going on 36 hours and Pressing Matter #2 is still pending, as evidenced by the fact that I’m still staring at, and climbing over, Ali’s suitcase.
I’m about to lose my @#$% AGAIN (a new record for me).
Which means things will get done. But which also means that my floors are about to be bacteria ridden….
I guess one can’t expect it all?
My mom’s OCD has been in full force lately, and I’m definitely seeing the brunt of it.
For example, just this past week alone my mom went ballistic and accused me of:
- Dropping cereal all over the kitchen when I was pouring it into my bowl.
- Dropping cereal on the dining table and on the floor under my chair because I wasn’t focused while eating.
- Eating cereal with too much sugar (obviously my dad took me to the grocery store).
- Eating three bowls of the offensively sugary cereal in a span of ten minutes.
- Leaving the cereal box on the dining table. Along with my bowl. And a splash of milk for good measure.
My mom’s theory is that I’m either misbehaving because I’m high on sugar (27 grams of sugar at breakfast will do that to you) or because I’m getting older and testing those boundaries again.
The correct answer is: none of the above.
The truth is that I do (or don’t do) things because I’m straight up lazy in most aspects, with the exception of striving to find ways to get my dad to let me do things my mom won’t approve of.
In any case, this latest escapade provided my mom with some much needed motivation to invent “new consequences” for my cereal (and other) offenses.
And these consequences go way beyond taking away TV time or library visits.
No, she’s become far more creative than that!
My mom’s latest punishment is having me write essays about why I did “X” and why I won’t do “X” again, and what the consequences will be if I do.
So far I’ve had to write two essays. One about how I won’t ever be rude to a family member on FaceTime again, and I’m forgetting what the other one was at the moment, but it likely had to do with me forgetting to do something.
Suffice to say that I hate writing essays.
One essay that I wouldn’t mind writing, however, is “How Ultimately She’s Just Hurting Herself Because It’s Her Hard Earned Money That’ll Be Paying My Therapist.”
About 10 days ago, when I found myself pushing my Trader Joe’s shopping cart with one finger, it occurred to me that I fear germs a bit more than the average person.
If I’m being honest, this thought also occurred to me when, on our flight back from London last month, I utilized the plastic bag my earphones came in to fasten my seatbelt.
I think the turning point, however, was when I considered using hand sanitizer to clean my mechanical pencil. It was then that I realized I needed to learn to be one with germs.
So I tried to stop using my sleeve to open doors (Success rate = 72%), picked up Maya’s backpack without fear (I’m lying), and even ate at restaurants without first reviewing their restaurant grade (Truth: I spotted one “B” grade at Kati Roll Co. and went to Le Pain Quotidien instead).
And so it should come as no surprise that 48 hours into my decision to embrace bacteria, I got food poisoning from what I previously considered one of the best pieces of snapper I’d ever consumed.
The snapper knocked me out for approximately 72 hours straight. I lost about 10 pounds and gained several more gray hairs.
I recovered, however, and told myself it was an isolated event.
And 36 hours after that I came down with a fever, cough, and sore throat.
I recovered and told myself it was NOT an isolated event. And then I went back to using my sleeves, my hand sanitizer, and I will obviously never, ever again order seafood on a Monday.
The experiment is over.
Approximately 2 years ago I purchased two new lamps for our master bedroom.
I made this purchase in an effort to make our hideously old-fashioned master look marginally better to potential renters.
(In case you weren’t aware, home décor is NOT my strong point).
The lamps (Ralph Lauren by way of HomeGoods) looked pretty good, but every time I passed by them I thought, “I really need to remove the price tag.”
I thought about this:
- As a potential renter came back to our place for a second look.
- As that particular renter came back to sign a lease.
- As we (or rather, I) packed up the lamps for the move from LA to NYC.
- As we (or rather, I) unpacked the lamps in our NYC apartment.
- As we (I’ll spare you) packed the lamps again for a move across the city to our new apartment.
- As we unpacked the lamps in our current NYC apartment.
- As we filed a claim with the movers for breaking one lamp.
- As we placed the newly mismatched lamp on Ali’s side of the bed, and threw what was deemed my broken lamp into the trash.
- As I walk by the lone remaining lamp in our new NYC apartment.
- As I wrote this really meaningless post.
Now that there’s only one lamp I’m hoping I can find the energy to cut off one HomeGoods tag, as opposed to the two that somehow seemed like an insurmountable task.
In the meantime we’re just keeping things classy.