Is the significant male in your life all full up on flasks, hilarious golf socks, and those whiskey ice cube things that nobody ever actually uses? Could he use, perhaps, something that isn't underwear (although let's be real: all men, everywhere could use some new underwear)? Some suggestions, below.
Happy December, a.k.a. the month in which you *actually* shop for holiday gifts, despite the fact that your feed has been filled with gift guides since September. First up: Hostess Gifts That Aren't Soap, because while sure, these are excellent non-soap options for the next party you attend, they also work for kiiiind of everyone. Friend, neighbor, mom, in-law, office party Secret Santa thing: Done.
The mode I'm in right now can be most succinctly described as "Forgive Thyself." I haven't been to yoga in months. I'm sending my kids to school with Lunchables, leaving my bed unmade, forgetting to ingest anything but coffee until mid afternoon more often than a living human being reasonably should, and most certainly not drinking the physician-recommended amount of water.
I am getting through the day. One day at a time.
But, you know: this should probably change. Like, soon. And so I have decided that the Forgive Thyself Era may last until January 1st, at which point I will be changing All Of The Things. Here is a shortlist of plans that I have, which I am putting here so as to be held accountable.
In February, I am going to Asia for two weeks. It’s for my dad’s birthday; he and I are going to fly through Hong Kong and Jakarta, then spend a week scuba diving off of a live-aboard boat in Indonesia.
It sounds amazing. Obviously. And the original purpose of this post was to crowd-source; ask you guys where we should eat, what we should do, and so on. But every time I try to write about this trip, I get stuck. I don’t want to write about it. Because even though I know that whining about the opportunity to experience what is quite literally the trip of a lifetime is hardly a cute look…the truth is that I don’t want to go.
I spent this past week away from my children. Our agreement (all formally signed off on by lawyers and such, GOOD TIMES) is that we switch off Thanksgiving breaks, and this - our first year - was Kendrick’s year. I figured that since they were going all the way to Ohio, it made sense for him to take them for an extra couple of days, so they could get in good grandparent time and not have to rush too much, but what that ended up meaning was that I was apart from my kids for an entire week. And it was too much. For me.
I would like my skin to look like this girl's, please.
I have very dry skin; I've whined about it ad infinitum over the years. And I've upped my efforts to combat all that dryness - oils and actual (if only intermittently applied) skincare regimens and such - but one thing I've never really given much thought to is my makeup. As an example, I've been using the same MAC powder foundation since I was in college - but recently it's occurred to me that patting all that matte product onto my skin may be having...kind of the opposite effect of what I'm looking for.
But coverage is important to me, because in addition to being dry, I am also an uncomfortably red human being - rosacea, blah blah blah ugh - and have not-infrequently been asked by people who see me without any makeup on whether I am actually, literally sick. (This is a swell confidence-booster, as I'm sure you can imagine.)
I'm in New York. First order of business: Stealing my mother's favorite H&M sleep shirt to wear with my leather jeans.
We joke a lot about moms and wine (mommy juice, etc etc) - but coping mechanisms associated with the stresses of parenthood are real, and serious, and look different to everyone. This is a fascinating piece on food addiction and motherhood. (My Food Addiction Helps Me Survive Motherhood, via Not Safe For Mom Group.)
All I want for Christmas is a pair of quill earrings from Meghan Markle's favorite jeweler. Eeeeee.
Last year, right around this time, I was walking downtown on my way to visit her mom at her office, and wandered by a little pop-up holiday shop. I hadn't really been planning on browsing, but then I saw what one of the booths was selling, and instantly screeched to a full stop like a Bugs Bunny cartoon (or, if we’re being generationally thematic, a Tiny Toon Adventures character).
If you did not grow up in the Northeast during the 1980s, there is a decent chance you have no idea what Freezy Freakies are. But if you did, you are PUMPED right now. I have so many feelings about these things. We’re talking intense, visceral sense memories, wherein I can actually physically revisit the joyful experience of watching the invisible unicorn appear out of thin air. (Freezy Freakies are made using thermochromic ink, which is translucent when warm, and turns bright colors when cold. But we can pretend it’s just straight-up magic; that’s more fun.) But your memories are also likely filled with intense longing and angst - even rage - because your parents probably thought they were expensive and wouldn't buy you a new pair when you left one in the park, except Cynthia had TWO pairs and it WASN'T FAIR.
Guess what?
This is a place I can tell you - from the bottom of my heart - that I never, ever thought I'd be. I grew up with parents who were married, and still are. My friends' parents - nearly all of them - were married, and still are. Kendrick's parents too. Married. For life.
So even though divorce is apparently something that happens to half the couples out there (at least), I never thought it would happen to me. Because I never saw divorce as an option; not even close. No matter how bad things got - and from time to time, they did get there - I honestly couldn't imagine ever pulling the trigger, so to speak. I imagined saying those words as the equivalent of setting off a bomb in the very center of our home: an unthinkable. A tragedy.
And then I did just that. Blew us to pieces.
OK, so I don't exactly know who Cardi B. is. I know she's a singer, but couldn't tell you any of her songs. I have a vague memory of her being a...Real Housewife, maybe? Or some kind of reality person? And then...getting in a fight with...someone? Who didn't think she should be a singer?
Pendant Lamp | Table | Blanket | Bed | Rug
Here is a nice - but also slightly vexing - thing about my kids' new bedrooms: They are huge. Like, twice the size of their last ones. (Thank you, Gods Of Real Estate That Isn't Located In Silicon Valley.)
And like I said, that's nice, and they love them, but those cavernous, popcorn-ceilinged (why) rooms presented a bit of a decorating conundrum...which was compounded by the fact that on moving day, I discovered that neither of their beds could be removed from their old bedrooms without being disassembled. And since both of those beds were from Ikea (his; hers) and thus required Herculean disassembly and reassembly abilities, and because the idea of having to do all that Herculean dis- and re-assembling on the exact same day in which I was upending my entire life was less-than-appealing, I just sort of...left them there. (Kendrick came and got them later; don't worry, I didn't bequeath The Ikea Problem to the new owners.)
