Thursday, June 12, 2014

Guess Who's Feeling Sorry for Herself?

I normally try to steer clear of talk about women "having it all." It stresses me, I don't get it, it's all relative to what "it all" is to each woman. Whatever, I'm out.

But some days it smacks me in the face so hard I have to join the conversation.

I fell asleep at the reasonable hour of 10pm last night on my couch, mouth hanging wide open, next to my poor husband who I haven't spent time with in weeks. We vowed to watch a few minutes of TV together before going back to our respective home work stations - him editing, me writing - before our usual bedtime of midnightish.

Woke up this morning with guilt and a touch of fury that I fell asleep before finishing the work I really needed to have done. After my shower, I felt ambitious and thought I could do that little bit of writing in the kitchen while the boys had breakfast. Unfortunately I couldn't find a place for my computer on the counter because of the dirty dishes everywhere.

Fine, so I have to load the dishwasher. Nope, dishwasher's full of clean dishes. Fine, I'll unload the dishwasher first. Wait, haven't actually fed children. Bagels in the toaster, back to the dishwasher. Can't squeeze past the open dishwasher thanks to the bag of trash we left on the floor after forgetting to take it out. Also pizza boxes. We're a frat house.

Fine, scoot that stuff out the way. Oh look, a puddle under the trash bag. Fine, get another trash bag to cover the leaky one. Wait, bagels for the boys. Ben has to have the top half and doesn't like the Nemo plate, keep it straight lady. Cream cheese and veggie sausages in place, boys are eating. Crap, no fruit to give them. Ah well, they'll survive. Scurvy isn't a thing anymore, is it?

Okay, unload the dishwasher. Load the dishwasher, piling up pots and pans for later. I don't even remember cooking with these pots and pans, where did they come from?

There's no way I can actually get to my work even after all of this and my hair is drying into its usual summer 'do (very reminiscent of Martha Washington) and my bangs are already taking on that angle that only ladies with cowlicks can understand. If I don't dry them just right, it looks like I've slammed my bangs in a door.

I look over my kingdom and start to cry just a tiny bit.

I'm a neglectful mother of two boys who start their day with half-assed breakfast and give me annoyed looks every time I say "Can everyone just be silent for two minutes? NO? Do you not know what quiet is???" They have been exposed to a string of obscenities that I only hope they're smart enough to use to delight and impress their friends instead of getting us all in trouble with their teachers.

I'm an exhausted employee. I have my dream job, but there is too much going on at the moment and nothing can give. So it takes over my life and I find myself feeling guilty and mad at myself because last night was actually the second night in a row that I fell asleep before I finished what I needed to do. At least last night I didn't fall asleep fully dressed with makeup on and contacts in.

I'm barely a wife. Our marriage often consists of rolling our eyes at each other behind the kids' backs, but these days it's more weird looks from Marcel and me apologizing for being crabby because it's not his fault. It's never his fault.

Lean in? I don't even know what that means because I don't want to read the book or the articles about the book or the criticism about the articles about the book. I don't have it all, I won't have it all, I can't have it all. I have no clue what "it all" is. I get a tiny bit bitter taking life advice from someone with nannies and a retirement plan that isn't deciding between whether the Peace Corps takes old people or a suicide pact.

But mostly I'm not looking to lean anywhere, except right over that trash bag so my tears of self-pity can blend in with the mystery puddle on the floor.







Sunday, May 11, 2014

Things I Thought When I Got a Massage

I love massages, like lurve them, love them. I am not one of those people who are creeped out by strangers touching them - bring it on.

But something I've never shared with anyone is the bizarre thoughts that go through my head while I'm getting a massage. Not those kind of thoughts, you perv! Just stupid thoughts.

Do you guys actually fully relax when you're getting a rubdown? Did you just cringe at the word "rubdown" like I did? Eek.

Anyway, I got a 90 minute massage a week or two ago. While, physically, a 90 minute massage is heaven, my brain went into overload.

Here are the few things I remember:

(5 minutes into the massage, my massage therapist asked "Are you all right?" in a curiously concerned tone) Hmmm, that's weird. Do  I not seem relaxed enough? Am I doing this wrong? CAN you do this wrong? I am literally lying flat on my face - HOW AM I DOING THIS WRONG?

How much should I tip for this? math, math, numbers, confusion ... okay, that should do it.
Awwww crap, I'm using a gift card. I still tip on the full pre-gift card amount, right? RIGHT? Oh no.

(as she pulls the sheet down my back and tucks it into the top of my panties) 
Don't you panic, self. There is absolutely no chance that there is toilet paper or anything else magically stuck to your butt. You are a grown woman with advanced hygiene practices, self, why do you always worry about this?

Oooooh, the feet are my favorite part.

So wait, what did I decide on the tip? Oh right, tip on the full amount, not the discounted amount. How much was that again? math, numbers, math ...

Oh, I forgot to take my wedding ring off. Ah well, no big deal.
Wait, I hope she doesn't think that I didn't want to leave my ring on the little table because I think she might steal it! No, there's no way she'll think that.
I should say something. No, that would be weird.
(in the most super casual voice ever) "Oh, did I forget to take my ring off? Sorry. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!"
Well, that was awful.

I should tip her more for thinking that she might think that I think that she'd steal my ring.

[I either fell asleep for a chunk or went into full zone-out mode because my thoughts stopped for once in my life]

Ahhhh, the scalp is my favorite part.

Is she massaging my jaw? How has this never happened before?

I should ask if I could book a massage therapist to just play with my hair for an hour. Nope, don't ask that. Maybe that's more a hair stylist situation anyway. But hairstylists require small talk and I'm no good at that. And I always walk out looking like I'm about to host the evening news ... in 1995. No relaxation there. Maybe it's not a creepy question. Ehhhh, nope, just going to keep lying here in stony silence.


So that's about it. When my massages end, I go through my routine of turning down the water she offers me the first time, but then accepting it when she offers it again when I go to pay. I gulp it down like Napoleon Dynamite, then silently stress even more about the tipping situation. Can I put it on my card? Will I have to schlep the cash to wherever my massage therapist is or can I just leave it at the desk? Do the front desk people hate me when I don't book another massage immediately? I'm pretty sure they hate me anyway. They look like they hate me. Smiiiiile at them so they hate you less. That made it worse. Why are there three of them anyway? How many people does it take to book this crap? I'm a jerk. Let me take my greasy, loosey-goosey self out of here.


Saturday, May 10, 2014

Don't be Tardy to the Hardy Party

MOVIE REVIEW TIME!!

If my blog was the cheap public access cable TV show, ala Wayne's World, that I imagine it to be, it would have the worst movie review production music. The words "sassy" and "funky" would come up often, and it would probably have a "bippity bah wowow" sort of breakdown like the Full House theme song.

But whatever, I'm not bitter, maybe people don't even get public access shows anymore. Whatever.

On to my eloquent review of the most recent movie we've seen (also known as the ONLY recent movie we've seen), Locke.


If you are not in the mood to read through a lot of rambling and exclamation points, here's the short version of my movie review:  A*W*E*S*O*M*E 

The unabridged review:

If Tom Hardy doesn't win every best actor award, I will start a brutal letter writing campaign. Keep in mind that I write letters for a living and I am not above wielding my pen for evil once in a while. Academy voters, beware.

I really, truly want you to go see this movie. It's different, it's unusual, it's Tom Hardy in a car by himself for an hour and a half. If that is not enough for you, you obviously are not familiar with Tom Hardy. Forget his weird Bane accent in that Batman movie - if his face had been visible, we all know no one would have complained about the bizarro accent.

Tom Hardy in this movie has all the aspects I find most attractive in a man that is not my husband:
1. The willingness to wear a nice sweater 
2. Exposed manly forearms under the sweater
3. A gravelly voice with a non-Bane accent (Welsh in this case)
4. Tom Hardy's face

The movie is literally him getting in his car after work and making a decision that will change everything, then making phone calls to the people in his life as he's heading to his new destination. It should not be compelling, it should not be thrilling (there are multiple conversations about pouring concrete, for heaven's sake), it should not be entertaining in the slightest, but it is. 

Dude can act, let's just leave it at that. I don't really want to tell you any of the plot because it's so much more fascinating to watch it roll out - some pretty normal situations and a pretty normal guy, but it keeps you riveted.

And for those of you who are Sherlock fans, but who are with me in thinking Moriarty is the true star of the series, you'll be pleased to know that one of the voices on the phone is Andrew Scott in his full range of freaking out greatness. He allllmost steals the show here too (and with just his voice this time), but seriously it's Tom Hardy in a sweater for an hour and a half so there's nothing else to say.

The sweater, the forearm, the face.
If my raving is not enough to convince you, then note that after it ended Marcel said, "I really didn't want to like that movie ..." and sighed. It's reeeeaaaalllly good, and totally different than anything I've ever seen.

I have only two complaints: one, that it sometimes feels like a giant BMW ad. But, to be fair, the whole plot unfolds in the car so that's going to happen; and two, it's only playing in independent theaters. I have nothing against these places or their artsy fartsy patrons, but it's always so quiet that I can't chomp my popcorn with abandon. Yes, that's a legitimate complaint in my life. 

Movie review out.