I love London. I love everything about London.
Except the prices (although I guess I can’t complain about the current exchange rate).
And the fact that the drizzle sometimes never seems to end (which means my hair is even more uncontrollable than usual.)
Oh, and the fact that Ali and Maya help out EVEN LESS than they do in NYC.
Not sure why they think that being in London gives them a free pass, but they do.
They throw their stuff everywhere, they don’t put their dishes away, they expect me to do laundry every 5 minutes, and at one point I even scraped something sketchy off the kitchen floor.
(Nobody took responsibility for the sketchy item so this is still a mystery.)
Ali and Maya left a day earlier than me (somehow the three of us are never on the same flight). This led to me embarking on another fury of laundry, cleaning, and organizing.
And after the dust settled, and I sat back to enjoy the quiet and very orderly flat, all I could think about was the fact that I actually missed them.
So I guess I can’t live with them, but can’t live without them?
I don’t spend much money on clothes, shoes, makeup, purses, or my hair (which is evident).
This is because all of my money goes towards flight change fees.
Last week I changed my return flight from LAX to JFK twice. First from Wednesday to Saturday, and then from the red eye to an afternoon flight.
I obviously like to have options.
Also, I was flying solo, so I figured why not live on the wild side and actually take a daytime flight so I could catch up on a few movies? After all, if I wasn’t on Maya-barf-patrol, I could relax, right?
Well this brilliant plan turned my 5 hour flight into an 11 hour flight as we circled the skies around JFK for hours, for reasons still unknown to me. And then we ended up landing in Philadelphia because we had no more fuel to circle the skies around JFK.
But here’s the worst part: As we sat on the tarmac at Philadelphia for what seemed like an eternity, the kid in the seat in front of me threw up EVERYTHING HE’D EVER EATEN.
Also for what seemed like an eternity.
And as any person with Emetophobia (intense fear of vomiting) knows, the only thing worse than seeing/listening to your vomit-prone child throwing up, is seeing/listening to someone else’s vomit-prone child throwing up.
Especially while stuck on a plane on the tarmac in Philadelphia.
We are getting on another red-eye tonight to London, and for the first time in a long time I am not making a SINGLE change to our flight. This is in hopes that I can get through the trip without seeing or hearing vomit.
Wish me luck.
It was approximately 1,000 degrees on Sunday.
And since the thought of plugging in a blow dryer actually made me nauseous, I decided NOT to to straighten my hair.
I knew this was a mistake as my hair air dried and I watched it grow Chia Pet style.
I also decided it was too hot to put on my contact lenses. (I realize this makes no sense, but logic and reason are usually the first to go for me during Ramadan.)
I knew this was a mistake when I looked in the mirror and saw flashbacks of my dreaded high school years.
And yet I idiotically still decided to leave the house. Mostly because it was Ramadan and I had to kill about 12 hours.
Even worse? I decided to go shopping. (Again, mostly because it was Ramadan and I had to kill about 12 hours.)
This was also a mistake because I felt hideous, and nobody should go shopping when they feel hideous.
So I quickly pulled the plug on that expedition and instead wandered around trying to figure out what to do with me and my puffy hair.
Ultimately I ended up at the library. The beautiful library where people didn’t look twice at me, my hair, my glasses, or my Lululemon pants.
So I suppose it all boils down to this:
I shouldn’t avoid hot tools. Or my contact lenses.
But when I stupidly decide to do it again – because my laziness often takes precedence over my appearance – I should just head straight to the library.
Two posts in two days?
I know. It’s far too much sarcasm for one week. But I couldn’t let today go by without mentioning it’s our 16th wedding anniversary.
(Don’t worry, I’ll keep it short and in bullet form.)
- It’s hard to believe that 16 years ago today we thought we were old enough to get married.
- I still wish I hadn’t spent a small fortune on a dress that didn’t fit me very well, and that I’m never going to wear again.
- Ali left his socks on the floor everyday of our honeymoon. He left his socks on the floor last night. He will never stop leaving his socks on the floor. I have yet to come to terms with that.
- I have also not come to terms with the word husband, which still sounds strange to me. (I won’t even get started on the strangeness of the word daughter…)
I asked my husband if he had any thoughts for the blog on it being our 16th anniversary: “It’s our Sweet Sixteen,” he said before he walked out the door without a goodbye.
And that about sums it up.
I took Maya shopping on Sunday.
She hates to shop. I hate to shop. So why go?
- Maya had a violin recital this week, for which she needed black shoes and a white shirt. (Even I, who couldn’t care less what Maya wears for the most part, was embarrassed that she sported her purple Nike’s at the last violin recital.)
- Much of Maya’s every day wardrobe has seen better days.
- I’m tired of Ali’s incessant comments about the holes in Maya’s clothes.
- It was raining and I figured what better way to pass the afternoon?
As we traipsed around the city looking for clothes a few things occurred to me:
Maya doesn’t like anything with flowers on it.
I don’t like anything that isn’t predominantly navy or black.
Maya doesn’t like anything I like.
I don’t like anything she likes.
Maya’s clothes are often the same price as my clothes.
We both need a personal shopper.
After many tense hours all we managed to agree on was a pair of black shoes and 3 cardigan sweaters. (Helpful for the upcoming summer months, I know).
Maya’s violin recital was yesterday. And while her new shoes looked fabulous, and she played really well, all I noticed was the glaring hole in the knee of her black pants.
S@#$. And @%@^.
My Mother’s Day was spent on a flight back from Atlanta.
During this trip, I stared at beautiful Instagram shots of mothers and their children in fields of lavender (I’m not making this up) reading captions like, “My life was nothing until little ____ was born.”
Here’s the truth: I admire those who feel like this but I do not feel like this.
As a matter of fact, my Mother’s Day entailed a flight back from Atlanta* where I recall having more than my usual quota of disagreements with Maya.
(*Incidentally, we had a great time in Atlanta. Great hotel, great food, great weather. I don’t want this post to be totally negative – just like 98% negative.)
I lectured Maya about mixing her clean and dirty clothes in her suitcase, “For God’s sake, it’s not like this is the first trip you’ve ever taken – you know better. Now I have to wash EVERYTHING because you were too lazy to get a plastic bag.”
I also believe I whispered on our flight (in that scary – I’m-About-To-Lose-My-S@#$-Lethal-Whisper) that “I can’t be responsible for what might happen if you kick me or my purse one more time.”
But the icing on the cake was the fact that Maya did absolutely nothing to mark the day. She didn’t even give me a card.
For a minute I wanted to blame Ali, as this is how I get through most things that anger me, but then I realized that:
- Although it may often seem like it, I’m not Ali’s mom, so why should he worry about Mother’s Day?
- Plus he was traveling prior to Atlanta so he couldn’t exactly facilitate anything.
- And at 11-years-old Maya is old enough to know better.
Frankly, it’s been a week and I’m still annoyed. It’s like not like I asked for a designer handbag or something…I just wanted a card.
So in summary, Mother’s Day = a day with tons of Hallmark-created expectations and very little delivery.
Especially in my house.
About 3 months ago, I asked Ali to pick up laundry detergent.
I specified he needed to visit Duane Reade and only Duane Reade.
I instructed him to purchase Ology detergent and only Ology detergent.
I encouraged him to take a photo of our nearly empty bottle so as to avoid confusion.
Then the craziest thing happened!
Ali brought home the right detergent. And not just that, he bought TWO bottles because they were on sale.
I commended him for his forward thinking.
Two weeks ago Ali found himself at Duane Reade again – honestly, he’s there every other day – where he picked up 2 additional bottles of detergent.
Because they were again on sale.
When he returned home with this unexpected surprise, I was a bit concerned with our inventory levels but swallowed my storage fears and instead commended him (again) on his forward thinking.
Yesterday Ali came home with 2 additional bottles of detergent.
This brings our current inventory to 5 bottles of detergent (one just finished) in an apartment with no storage space. None.
Sorry, but I can no longer celebrate Ali’s forward thinking because I do believe he keeps buying detergent just so he can watch me stress out about where to store it.
Because what could be more fun than continually hauling heavy bottles of detergent home with the main purpose of annoying your wife?
Not much I guess.