the beach
It’s been perfect beach weather here in Los Angeles…80 degrees…cloudless sky…no wind.
Any normal mother would take advantage of the weather by packing up sunblock, a bathing suit, some snacks and her kid, and driving 10 minutes west to the beach.
Except that this normal mother swore up and down not too long ago that she would never, ever take her kid to the beach again. Ever.
Picture this…it’s 2008. Maya needs to go potty. I’m in flip-flops, Maya is in flip-flops, and the only available bathroom is covered in inches of sand and water and God only knows what else. There is no soap. There is no toilet paper. There are no seat covers. There are bugs. And lots of gross people milling about.
Did I mention there is no soap?
Stuff splashed on my feet. I still have no idea what it was. It splashed on Maya’s feet too as we waded through what can best be described as muck. And Maya had to sit on the dirtiest…my God forget it. It’s too terrible to rehash. I get shivers just thinking about it. I’ve blocked it out of my mind. For good.
The bathrooms in Turks and Caicos are spotless. Too bad the island is an 8 hour flight from here...
After we left the beach that day I scrubbed Maya up and down for about 10 minutes in the hottest water she could stand. And then I did the same to myself. And I told Ali to do the same even though he was nowhere near the bathroom. He knew better than to point out my flawed logic.
Call me inflexible. Call me crazy. But until Maya masters the art of hovering we will not be going to the beach again.
Ever.
i am raising 2 children
My husband is a smart guy.
He has an undergraduate degree in Economics and an MBA in Marketing. He can connect a DVD player, a receiver, a tuner, and 3 speakers, and program a remote control accordingly, in under 5 minutes. He knows HTML like the back of his hand and he can attack a computer virus in mere seconds.
And yet his logic, or lack thereof, astounds me.
There I was last Sunday, just minding my own business, when Maya rushed over in a panic yelling, “Mama, I locked my key inside my jewelry box and Dad is lighting a fire to open it.”
Now, Maya is prone to exaggeration…but Ali has been known to play with fire and I wasn’t leaving this one to chance. So instead of ignoring her like I usually do, I sprang into action like I was headed Bloomingdale’s on Friends and Family Day.
And what did I find? A flipping crime scene, that’s what.
Among several matchbooks, a box cutter, two kitchen knives, a wrench, and a hammer, I found my husband lighting matches to melt a heart-shaped lock. Because clearly the challenge of opening a $10 cardboard jewelry box is worth setting the house on fire.
“I do not want you playing with matches Ali,” I lectured as I confiscated the matchbooks. “I mean it.”
I am raising two children. You all realize that, right?
i am tire(d)
Someone wanted Ali and I dead last week, as evidenced by the fact that between our two cars we literally blew through three tires in two days.
Having to replace tires is annoying for a variety of reasons, but mainly because:
- Aside from picking up Ali’s socks, I hate nothing more than to be inconvenienced, and
- Paying for such frivolous things as tires dips in to my Bloomingdale’s fund.
So the first thing I did when I found the nail on Monday was to call Ali at work and say, “There’s a nail the size of my head in my rear tire. Can you come deal with it?” (Note – I don’t play the damsel in distress card often but I think it’s fair that since I do everything else I consider all car-related activities Ali’s territory.)
Anyway, on Tuesday night I got a call from Ali that he’d hit a pothole and not just one but two of his tires popped. Knowing that Ali loves his car even more than me I was terrified at what was going to happen next.
But instead of flipping out and swearing up a storm (as I would have) or leaving the car for someone else to deal with (as I would have) Ali calmly called AAA, turned on his Mi-Fi and laptop, and started working as though he wasn’t sitting in a teetering car at 9:30 pm at night, in a less than savory area of Los Angeles.
And that my friends is why I continue to put up with Ali’s shenanigans. Because I figure it’s in my best interest to live with someone who manages to maintain calm when faced with chaos.
After all, he does have to deal with me everyday.
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 