she’s nothing like me
Have I mentioned how much I disliked school? This is mostly because I was super skinny and had frizzy hair and kids were mean to me.
You’re probably thinking, “Cry me a river Ameena. It was like decades ago. Time to move on.”
Yes I should move on. And yet, my scarred psyche must analyze for a second, if for no other reason than to help me get to my point (which I assure you is below).
At Fig & Olive (one of my favorites!): Gazpacho (me), Crabcakes + Poached Eggs (Ali), Crostini (Maya), Pot de Creme (Ali), and Granola (Ali)
- Elementary School : We moved to a new neighborhood where I knew nobody. My teacher went by Dr. B and was scary. A little kid started calling me Amino Acid. I hid out in the library as much as possible.
- Jr. High School : I stupidly decided to have principles and refused to let some kid copy my homework. He made my life miserable by shoving me into the lockers every chance he got. I hid out in the library as much as possible.
- High School : My hair got frizzier. I got even taller and skinnier. I had braces and my sister’s hand-me-downs. Every day I had heart palpitations about who to sit with at lunch. The one plus? The library was huge! I spent as much time there as possible.
- College : I moved into an apartment at school. A neighbor took pity on me, introduced me to a blow dryer, and showed me how to use a brush. Aside from a roommate who kept stealing my food things were good! And then after spending one particularly fun evening studying at the library I was mugged at gunpoint. (How’s that for irony?)
Maya in her new pink jacket, at Fig and Olive, fearless Maya walking to her first day of school, Maya and Ali at PJ Clarke’s.
The good news: The working world is 100 X better than school. Love it. Wouldn’t go back to school if someone paid me.
The other good news? I’m finally ready to make my point, and it is this:
That Maya, despite being brought up by a clearly maladjusted mother, loves her new school, already has lots of friends, loves her teacher and her after school program, and thankfully has good hair without the need for hot tools.
And all I can say is thank God that she’s nothing like me as a kid. Nothing.
because it’s a race
One of my husband’s goals in life is to not spend one second more than necessary at the airport.
And in his effort to make this happen, he plans, devises strategies, and inevitably angers and annoys his fellow travelers (me and Maya) beginning 48 hours prior to departure (PTD).
Ice cream at Fortnum and Mason, Tea at Paul, Scones at Fortnum and Mason, Pudding at Harrods
The following is based on our departure from London last week:
- 48 Hours PTD – Ali discussed, at great length, the cost / time benefit of taking a cab to Heathrow versus the Underground or car service. He consulted Amex. He consulted relatives and friends. He consulted neighbors. He decided on a cab.
- 23.59 Hours PTD – Ali was the very first person to check in online. Because it’s a race.
- 12 Hours PTD – Ali Ignored the fact that clothes and computers were scattered around. Everywhere. And that there was a slim possibility they’d all fit in his carry-on.
At St. James Park, Big Ben, Maya mesmerized by a swing at Heathrow Airport
- 8 Hours PTD – Ali contemplated the fact that the Underground is cheaper and less likely to see delays due to the inclement weather. He consulted Amex. He consulted relatives and friends. He consulted neighbors. He decided on the Underground.
- 4 Hours PTD – Ali watched as I packed all his clothes and computers. He said annoying things like, “I was just about to do that,” and “That’s a nice shirt. Make sure you don’t wrinkle it.”
- 3.5 Hours PTD – Ali noted that the rain had stopped and insisted that 3 people in a cab is only slightly more than 3 people on the Underground. He re-revised plans to take a cab and then (absurdly) said, “We should go to Hyde Park one last time.”
- 2 Hours PTD – We finally left for the airport at my insistence. En route, Ali complained that we’d get there too early and have too much time to kill.
Back to NY in time for Fashion Week! Lots of pretty girls walking around, along with a man in a whole lot of Versace.
- 1.25 Hours PTD – We arrived at the airport with less than the recommended two-hour window. Ali complained about the lines and wondered if there was another secret line that airport security kept unknown from the general public.
- 1 Hour PTD – Ali exchanged boarding passes for pool sticks and start playing pool with Maya. He ignored the loudspeaker as it repeatedly advised travelers on VS 045 to head directly to the boarding gate.
- 0.75 Hours PTD – Ali raced to the gate, all the while screaming at Maya that we were NOT on a Sunday walk, and why can’t she hurry up?
- 0.50 Hours PTD – We all collapsed on the plane. Ali said super annoying thing #542: “See? I told you we’d get here just in time.”
Nobody can accuse us of not knowing how to end a trip on the right note….
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 
a definition
Are you also afflicted by Running Commentary?
Example : A husband leaves his plate in the spotlessly clean kitchen after dinner.
Dinner at Bice. Food was just okay, but the best part was that I didn’t have to move a single dish.
Example : An 8-year-old asks one too many ridiculous questions including (but not limited to), “Mama…which socks should I wear today?”
Lobster Salad @ Bice (I don’t recommend it), Lunch @ Greek Kitchen, Homemade Biscotti(!), Shrimp @ Serafina
Example : A family of four obliviously walking their dog (all in a row) on Columbus.
I might have to move dishes, but at least I’m doing it in this fabulous city.
Treatment for Running Commentary : A cure has not been identified for this genetic disorder. Treatment is also limited. Experts suggest that those afflicted take deep breaths and try to ignore. And when all else fails, seek the help of a professional.
(Which I obviously need to do…)
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