Monday evening I tweeted how having a husband meant never (rarely) having to shovel.
Because he came with a snowblower — and he enjoys using it.
Before I was hitched, I lived on my own in a house over in Guilderland. The road was a dead end and, as a result, not as wide as your average street.
When the town plow came down, they’d push 80 percent of the slop to the right side (naturally) leaving those of us on the east side of the street with a heap of crunchy, crusty, icy, hardened snirt to dig out. No matter how many different types of shovels I bought, none were enough to tackle what felt like a pile of concrete at the end of my driveway. Even my neighbors who had snowblowers struggled. Continue reading
I don’t care for cats.
Forget that. If we’re being honest, I kind of hate them — but I have good reason.
They can kill me.
And it’s not their claws or teeth that would do the deed, but their fur. Bottom line: I’m severely allergic. Continue reading
I’m obsessed with the cleanliness of bathrooms. This became particularly challenging while pregnant when I used everything from a stump in the woods in Maine to what amounted to a hole in the floor at a gas station in the heart of Brooklyn to a clogged (and rather scary) toilet at a McDonald’s outside of DC to relieve my ever full-feeling bladder. A BJ’s-sized package of Clorox Wipes would not have been enough, in those situations.
But those are the places I can’t control. At home, I can, and I like “our bath” — AKA the master — to be ours. It’s not for guests, or delivery people or anyone else who is in our home.
I want to be able to leave things out (like the squirt bottle post-delivery) and not worry about the fact there may be a glob of toothpaste in the sink because R is oh-so-good about not leaving the water running when brushing his teeth. Plus, a bathroom is a “personal space,” almost more personal than the master bedroom, and I don’t want to share.
Apparently, George Constanza’s former friends felt the same way.
I am, for now, a stay-at-home mom. Sure, technically I’m on maternity leave. But, other than FLY 92, I’m not working for a paycheck, which means I’m (at least temporarily) part of the Pinterest-loving SAHM club.
One thing I am doing during my career hiatus is spending plenty of time on social media (feedings every three hours will do that to ya) and I see so many stories debating the merits of being a stay-at-home parent versus a mom who goes into work each day.
Each, it seems, believes their choice is the toughest one. They lament and complain and get defensive and finish each diatribe with “but it’s so worth it” as if that disclaimer somehow makes the whining acceptable.
I’m going to dare to go the opposite direction and say my current situation is the easier one. Here are 11 reasons why. Continue reading
I’m addicted to Pottery Barn the way some people are obsessed with chocolate, or John Deere. When I see the PB in Crossgates has changed their display for the season, my heart races knowing that means the sale section will be robust.
Our decor is, predominantly, Pottery Barn (and, these days, PB Baby/Kids) so when we needed a sectional-type sofa for the media room, that’s where I turned. On delivery day, it snowed — hard. We’d gotten a good eight inches with several more predicted. R wasn’t home, and our road — and driveway — hadn’t been plowed.
When the delivery guys tried to get up our road, they got stuck, and called me to share their predicament. Continue reading