Tuesday, March 31, 2009


We were on vacation last week, at my parents' house in the Catskills, with lofty plans to drive to the Niagara Falls for a few days. I also managed to sneak in some time to fume over the fact that Husbandrinka has never read my blog. No doubt because he's seething with jealousy.
"You know what would be fun?" I asked him one night-"if we could make a TV show out of my blog."
Within a day, he had written a treatment for a proposed sitcom based on "Motherhood in NYC".
"How did you know how to do this?" I asked.
"I know stuff," he watched me read it.
"This Husband, the heart and soul of the family, as it says here, sure seems to be the focal point on the show."
"Well, it's just a rough sketch."
"And what is this "homosexual confidant" who drops in all the time, saying hilarious things? Is that John? He never "drops by"."
"He calls all the time, that's the same thing."
"It is not the same thing. John and I don't drop in on each other because we're both too drained to go anywhere. So the phone is perfect. Except for having to pick it up and dialing and shit."
"You can't have two characters just talking on the phone all the time."
"Well, not all the time, but having him drop in makes him sound like Mr. Bentley from The Jeffersons. And insane."
"That's what makes it FUNNY." He says "funny" in the way that you would if you were speaking to a child who has yet to acquire speech.
As I'm pouting he uses a very unique to Husbandrinka method to try to cheer me up. He suggests that I bring my laptop on our car trip so that he can dictate some episode summaries to me. No, no need to run to your nearest opthamologist (unless it's time for your check up, of course, I can't really give medical advice. Although you should definitely have that mole looked at), Husbandrinka really did tell me that he was going to dictate an episode of a sitcom, based on Motherhood in NYC, which I write and which he has never read, to me. Because apparently the biggest appeal of the blog is that it is well typed.
"Oh, fuck you, already," I told him. "I can't believe you think you're going to cocktate to me."
"You can't use that kind of language on television," he says.
So any sitcom producers out there--if you hire Husbandrinka, you'll get a head writer and network censor all rolled into one, a real savings in this economy.

While we're driving to Niagara Falls, I spend the first three hours in steely silence. Finally, I can't take it anymore. Because the bad thing about giving Husbandrinka the silent treatment is that (a) he has no idea that I'm doing it and (b) he thoroughly enjoys the silence, which makes it more like an early birthday present than a punishment.
"Ok, let's brainstorm," I tell him as I power up the HP mini, which is feather light, (assuming that feathers weigh what the Vivienne Tam mini weighs).
"Well," he says. "Let's think of what funny things happened to our family--oh, how about the cat adoption?"
"The cat adoption isn't that funny, the near-adoption is funny," I tell him, referring to the near-miss of adopting a brain-damaged kitten.
"Right--so get this down: After badgering the Husband for a kitten, he agrees, reluctantly. Mother in law takes children to look at kittens-"
"MOTHER-IN-LAW?" I hyperventillate. "What mother-in-law? Your mother is "mother-in-law", my mother is "mama". Everyone knows that."
"Fine. Mother takes children to look at kittens."
"Mama. Porca Miseria"
"That's not very nice."
"Va fongul."
"Do you want to do the episode synopsis?"
"Yes, but you keep trying to wedge yourself as the main character."
"It should be that they go and adopt a brain damaged kitten and then there's all sorts of crazy stuff and when the family calls, despondent, they find out that the cat has brain damage. That's what makes it funny."
"That's not what happened, though." I briefly remind him that what made it funny was that the kids really wanted the kitten which the adoption coordintor would not let us have because of their policy of adopting out two kittens together only, but then, ironically, the adotion coordinator seemed to reconsider because with our good fortune, the ktiten that the kids selected was suffering from brain damage, which was the exact moment when I realized that we must do everything in our power to ensure that the brain damaged kitten was not coming home with us.
"That's too talky," he says. "A sitcom is a situation comedy. You need a situation." (ok, am I the only one who thought that sitcom was a comedy that you watched while sitting down? Because I wasn't going to mention that to Husbandrinka).

Seriously, he just wore me down emotionally. So I did the only thing that I could--I wrote a script based on his concept based on my post, which he hasn't read. Stay tuned.

Hey! How come you haven't entered the Thomas stage show ticket giveaway? Because you hate children? Because you hate fun? Stop being a hater! Seriously, folks, can you enter this giveaway, tweet it, blog about it, sky write it. Because I think Thomas may go rogue on my ass otherwise. Thanks! You're the best! love you! If you tweet, blog, etc, leave me a comment on the Thomas post and I'll double/triple enter you in the giveaway.

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Sunday, March 29, 2009


I'm back from vacation! Thank you all for making my guest bloggers feel so welcome. While on vacation, Husbandrinka, the kids and I drove from upstate to Canada, to see the Niagara Falls. Which reminded me of the driving that my parents and I did one summer, many years ago. I believe that this is what people in the mental health industry call flashbacks.

When I was about 15 years old, my parents and I took a car trip to Canada. I was born when my parents were very young, barely out of their teens, so I assume that by the time that I was a teenager they were good and sick of this parenting shit and decided that the best way to dispose of me and recapture their youth was to kill me with boredom. A drive through Canada was the perfect weapon. I suspect it's the culprit in a few cold cases.

We drove from Montreal to Prince Edward Island, because my father remembered reading "something fascinating" about it once. Of course he couldn't remember what he'd read about it, but when I suggested that it was the birth place of Anne of Green Gables, he rejected it. "No, but It was very fascinating," he told me. Ten thousand times along the way.

If I had to guess how long the drive took, I'd put money on five years, although Google maps insists it's only eleven hours. Maybe cars are faster now. During the time of sitting alone in the backseat and looking at the backs of my parents' heads, I'd invented a few alter egos for myself, planned my funeral and wondered who'd show up, decided that it would be fun if David Bowie were my boyfriend and would pick me up after school in his car so those fucking bitches in my class could die of envy, and wrote a few award winning novels in my mind. By that point, we'd driven approximately twelve miles.

I was so bored with the trip that I decided that the only way to spruce it up was to take up smoking. I'm not sure how the idea came to me, but once it fixed itself in my mind, I knew that as an award winning novelist and the love of David Bowie's life, I had to light up and soon.
I asked my parents if we could stop at the next rest stop.
Now if you're ever on a car trip with my parents, you should know that that lunatic astronaut lady who drove a kazillion miles to see or kill her beloved's new flame wearing Depends was probably trained by them. They do not believe in rest stops.
"Why you need to the stop?" mama asked me and since I didn't think that "I'm working on a nicotine addiction" was the answer that would make them acquiesce and pull into a rest stop, so I pled stomach.
"Stomach what?"
"You know, bathroom," I quasi-moaned (by the way, all these conversations are approximate. If you think that I'm really quoting dialogue from decades ago, I must advise you that you are super gullible and shouldn't be making any investments. As a matter of fact, you should probably have a legal guardian to make all your decisions for you. I suggest myself.)
"Bathroom what?" Mama asked. Somehow in my quest for a smoke, I'd forgotten that mama and papa did not believe that things such as taking a shit were private and were up for family discussion.
"I have diarrhea," I threw her a bone.
"What diarrhea?" She became alarmed. "You had it already? I don't smell it, do you?" she asked papa.
"I'm driving," papa said, cracking the window.
"I didn't shit in the car!" I yelled. It was a miracle that I'd survived so long without smoking in this family, "but my stomach hurts and maybe I have to have diarrhea soon. If you don't mind!"
"Maybe it's not diarrhea, maybe you have your menses. When did you menses last?" mama asked.
"OH MY GOD! I can't believe you are humiliating me by talking about menstruation in front of MY FATHER!"
"I really not listening," papa said. "Did someone say something?"
I seethed in the back seat but afew minutes over we pulled into a rest stop.
"Don't go with any strangers," mama warned. "What if they offer candy?" I asked. I'm proud to say that we are celebrating thirty years of making that joke. Neither one of them got out of the car.
I chose my cigarettes quickly--Virginia Slims because they sponsored the Viriginia Slims tennis tournament and I was such an avid tennis fan that my adoration of Martina Navratillova temporarily lesbianized me.. Menthol, obviously, because it sounded more delicious than non-menthol. I lit up in the bathroom and inhaled. Of course I inhaled through my nose because breathing in the smoke didn't appeal to me, but I liked looking at myself in the mirror holding a cigarette. I rubbed my temples for effect, and then panicked that I'd set my hair on fire. Yes, this was the life. I had my cigarettes to get through this hell of a trip. I rinsed my mouth out for a long time and maniacally chewed a stick of gum before returning to the car.
"I was right," I told mama. "It's a good thing we stopped."
"Unfortunately" my stomach acted up for the rest of the trip, so we had to make frequent stops.
Soon the novelty of my new addiction started to wear off. Shouldn't smoking be more fun?And the whole rigamorole with the mouth rinsing, it was like a full-time job or something. Why don't they make it more kid friendly, like including some bubble gum in every pack? Fuck. So after a few more stops, I decided to give up cigarettes. And I did. Back then we were tough and didn't need all this handholding and patches.
I just quit cold turkey.


Friday, March 27, 2009

Guest Blogger: My Lovely Daughter

For the finale of family guest bloggers, I interviewed my 10 year old daughter. In the middle of the interview, I realized that I am no Katie Couric and switched to the Proust interview that Vanity Fair uses in every issue on their last page.

Here she is!

M: How would you describe me as a mom?

D: Questioner. You always ask a lot of questions.

What's my best quality?

Your jokes.

What's my worst quality?

D: Your questions.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

WHAT? That doesn't make any sense.

Well, what makes you happy?

Spending time with little Nicki.

What is your greatest fear?

That I end up fighting in World War Three. I can't think of anything else, so just put that there.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

What does that mean?

That you don't like in yourself?

That when I was eight years old, I still liked to pick my nose.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

What does "deplore" mean?


Oh. (giggle) Ok, so um, MOMMY! Let me think. MOMMY STOP THAT STOP TYPING WHILE I'm THINKING.

That they're allowed to do other things that I'm not. Like staying home by themselves, wearing make up, blah blah blah

What is your greatest extravagance?

What's that?


What's luxury?

Something that you don't need, but enjoy.

My kitten.

What is your current state of mind?

I'm happy. And I'm tired of cleaning my room.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

What's a virtue?

A good thing.

Oh. American Idol.

On what occassion do you lie?

When I feel like it. Especially if I'm dealing with old people.

Why do you lie to old people?

Louise (Alzheimer great aunt) doesn't know that her daughter is dead. I don't want to tell her, she'll start creeping out.

What living person do you most admire?


Are you just saying that because I'm asking you?

No. I've many people at the top of my list.

Like who?

My family, especially dedulya [Marinka's papa]. Because he's fun and he buys a lot of cool stuff, like a monkey bar.

What is the quality that you like most in a boy?

Well..it depends. If you deal with my dad, how he can be silly.

What about boys your own age? (throwing holy water on daughter)

Some of their jokes can actually make me laugh sometimes.

What quality do you like most in a girl?

Pretty, and funny and nice.

What words or phrases do you most overuse?


What or who is the greatest love of your life?

My kitten. So far.

When do you think you'll get married.


How many times do you think you'll be married?

What kind of a question is that?!

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Guest Blogger: Mama

I called mama. She wasn't overly enthusiastic about being my guest blogger, but finally, she agreed to let me interview her. "So long as it's not too stressful".

Marinka: Just please speak English.

Mama: Oh, crap.

Mama, what do you like most about America?

Och, not again.

What do you mean not again?

Because someone just asked me about this recently. I love everything. If you want the answers to questions, speak to papa.

I already spoke to papa. Let me ask you, how are American women and Russian women different?

American women they're fat.

Russian women are skinny?

Of course. They skinny and they dress better even they don't have this abundance of what you have, this cosmetics and everything.

How do you know the word "abundance"?

I learned it from TV. Everything that is good in me, I learned from TV. All my vocabulary.

What is your favorite TV show?

Two Men and Half.

How come you don't use the computer?

I don't feel necessity yet. I'm ok. I 'm reading books.

Do you remember when I was a teenager and I asked you what fellatio was and you told me the only thing I should put into my mouth is a fork and a toothbrush?

How smart I was!

Why did you say that?

I don't know, It's not kosher. I still have same advice for young girls. And I don't think young girls ask their mothers.

Who should they ask?

They should ask, maybe their priest or rabbi? No, you have to ask mother, but what can you say to young girl?

Any words of wisdom for my readers?

Enjoy life.

What kind of people do you think read blogs?

I can't say.

You can!

Since I'm not enjoying computer, I can't relate to blog, so I can't say who be enjoying. If you're enjoying, it's a fun. I consider it a waste of time.

Thanks, Mama!

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

I'm on Vacation! And a Segregationist!

My fears:

1. Death
2. Breaking every (oh hell, any) bone in my body
3. Seeing my children hurt
4. Crowds
5. Heights (specifically, ski lifts)

So clearly the first order of business on vacation should be for me to go skiing with papa and my children. Husbandrinka was enjoying a cartlige tear, that lucky bastard, so he couldn't come with us.


The last time that I'd skied was in 1995. I still have the ski suit, a one-piece number that is very Austin Powers (I've never seen the movie, so I'm using Austin Powers to mean "dated loser"). So papa says, "you can wear your old suit" and I say "of course I can't wear my old ski suit. The last time that I had it on, I was twenty five years old and had a body of an eighteen year old. Now I'm forty one with a Haagen Dasz addiction and a body of a Jerry Springer guest." But he won't back down, and then mama gets in the mix and says "I wearing that ski outfit other day, it fit me and I am in sixties." So I avoid the obvious question of why my non-skiing mama was wearing my ski suit and go into my room to wrestle with the one piece monster. I get it up over my hips and as long as I don't inhale, and don't mind walking around with my zipper open for full frontal ventilation, I'm fine. The problem arises when I try to pull the suit over to upper torso. Of course "problem" is not in my vocabulary because my glass half full (of shit) personality absolutely forbids it, so I tie the suit arms around my waist, and parade into the living room.
"You were right, it fits!"
"I knew it!" mama cries before she sees me, "I knew you didn't gain as much weight as I thought you did." And then she sees me and her expression changes into something that I'm fairly certain that Hitchkock wanted to elicit from Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene. "My God," she gasps, "what happened to you?" Which I don't know about you, but that's the kind of start to a vacation that makes me want to run screaming and fall at my boss' feet so as to avoid vacationing again.
"I tell you what happened to her," papa ministers from the couch. "It is called caloric intoxication and the whole coutry is suffering."
I am, of course, looking for a noose at this point.
"What is in that pocket?" mama points to the buldge on my side.
"That is called fat," my father preaches to the chorus.
"Oh, please," I reach into my pocket and dangle the moth-eater packets in front of them.
"This is tragedy" my parents wail as I fill my sagging pockets with rocks and walk towards the pond.

The Day:

I am completely terrified of dying.
And of breaking something/everything.
I'm afraid of getting stuck on a ski lift.
I'm afraid of the ski lift being weighed down by my ass, and plunging down.
Oh yeah, I'm also afraid of my children getting hurt.
I look smoking hot as a walking sausage in mama's ski pants.
I buy a ski lift ticket and ask if I can get a paramedic to come up with me.
The cheap-ass antisemites don't offer this service.
I ski, I don't die.
I don't even fall.
I'm feeling very gold medalist.
My seven year old son tells me that I do too much pizza and not enough french fries.
I assume that he's dropping junior acid and plan to have The Talk with him, but my daughter then explains that "pizza"=snow plowing and french fries=parallel skiing.
My seven year old son asks me why I'm such a slow poke.
I start to explain but he zooms by and I am talking to myself.
My daughter tells me that she's sick of the baby slopes and wants to do a more fun run.
I tell her that at my age, I shouldn't take too many risks.
Sixty three year old papa agrees to take my daughter on an more advanced slope.
I start to relax and enjoy my run.
Something rushes past me.
What the fuck is that?
Snow boarders? When I skied last, we didn't know what snow boarders.
My knees hurt just looking at them.
"It's a thrill" one of them tell me as we wait for the lift.
I can't believe that they're allowed to take the lift with the normal skiers.
It's called a ski lift, not a snow boarding lift.
As a matter of fact, the whole mountain is a ski mountain, not a snow boarding mountain.
And you know what would be a bigger thrill yet?
If they snow boarded with a stick of dynamite in their mouth,
And a game of Russian Roulette waiting for them at the foot of the mountain.
Hell, have bareback sex with dubious strangers, it's all the rage.
By my fifth run, I'm a segregationist. I plan to devote my life to making sure that skiers and and snow boarders have different mountains to ski/snow board down.
But first, I must have some hot chocolate. Irishized, preferably.

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Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Guest Blogger: Papa

Marinka calls Papa on his cell phone.

M: Hi, papa, everything is fine, I wanted to ask you to do a blog post for me.

P: (Russian words, expressing malcontent).

M: First, you have to speak in English, and drop a few articles for effect.

P: I was just booking vacation to Krem.

M: To the Kremlin?

P: No, to Krem. How you say English? Krem.

M: Crimea? Isn't there a war there?

P: War? No war. Beach.

M: So back to me, what is your favorite childhood memory of me.

P: The elephant. I still have material evidence of that. It was very good day when we were both home (Marinka's note: I was at home because I had some deadly illness and I was bedbound, but I'm glad that papa thought that it was fun watching me on my deathbed) and we made toy elephant from scrap made from mama's overcoat. It was white and had lace. I still have it and the trunk was bitten off by someone.

M: That is precious. I remember it, too.

P: Another time was when you jumped under bus. It was nice. We standing on the bus stop to go to swimming lesson, because you were sickly child (Marinka note: AHa! The elephant has come home to roost!) you were about seven, an idiot already, waiting for bus and as the bus was pull over, you jumped right in front of you and I grabbed you by the collar and I should have killed you right there.

M: Did you ask me why I did it?

P: What can you say, you claimed Fourth Amendment.

M: You mean Fifth?

P: Yes, a Fifth. You couldn't really express yourself. Still puzzles me. Very unusual child. After that, I told you that I was going to go away for a while, because I wanted to move to America and mama didn't want to.

M: I remember that. You told me that you were going to move to Africa to help sick children.

P: Yes, but instead of Africa to help sick children, I was going to come to America and be big Jew. Go to synogogue with other sons of Abraham.

M: That's a lovely memory.

P: I think so also.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Guest Blogger: Young Ladrinka

So for my first guest blogger, I decided to ask my seven year old son if he would like to say something to the blogosphere. And he said "no." Luckily I'm one of those mothers who feels that since I gave him life, he owes me big time.

Marinka: Well, you have to.

Young Ladrinka: (in monotone) My mom is the best mom in the world and I love her so much.

M: That's so sweet. Why don't you tell a funny story?

YL: My mom pooped on the cat.

M: A funny true story.

YL: I'll get back to you.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Vacation Sedation

Breaking News! Julie B won the Wizard of Oz tickets giveaway! Congratulations, Julie! And don't forget to enter the Thomas giveaway. The instructions are to your left, just click on Thomas! Go ahead, do it! If you're like me, it'll be the most exercise you get all weekend.

Next week, I will be on vacation. But don't worry, I have a full week of posts lined up for you. Guest bloggers so fun and exclusive that if I told you who they are in advance, I would have to kill you. And I can't be running around killing you because, like I may have mentioned, I'm going on vacation and I don't have time to dig a mass grave.

We're budget vacationing this year at my parents' house in the Catskils. The pros are that we can bring Nicki and that it's super cheap. The cons are that last spring break we went to PARIS. Fortunately, as you may know, Paris is a moveable feast, so next week it will be relocated to upstate New York. Sucks for people who really are going to Paris, of course.

Also, I'll be whining nonstop at Secret Spineless Whine, so this may be a good time to skip on over there and subscribe to its feed. Because whines are like snowflakes and no two are the same.

Although I plan on reading blogs while I'm away, for some reason it takes decades for comment forms to load, so I'll be commenting telepathically. Please put your foil hats on, so as to better receive my signals.

Have a great weekend!

Friday, March 20, 2009

Labial Whore

Dedicated to my beautiful and crazy-funny friend Heather. And not just because she wrote about labia before I did.

The other day, John called me a labial whore.
It was just a term of endearment, so to speak.
As soon as he called me that, he asked "wait, what is labia?" and I had to explain that they were gynecological lips. He pretended to faint, as gay men sometimes do when labial issues are discussed.
"It's not nice to call people labial whores," I told him, because I prefer that people are sweet and polite to their fellow human beings at all times. That's just the kind of person I am.

So, a few days later, John and I were talking on the phone and he told me that his friend David explained to him that there was the major labia and the minor labia, so it was basically just like the baseball leagues. And then John said something that will haunt me always:
"Does this mean that women have four labia?"

Jesus. The labial quartet does sound like a mouthful, doesn't it?

And since I believe in genital equality, I wanted to share what my kids and I saw at the Metropolitan Museum of Art today. Oh, don't worry, a full account of that trip is coming. But for now, we saw this:

Want a closer look? Coming right up!

Is a dick shield really necessary? And if it is, why does it have to be in the, as the tourists admiring it alongside us, asked "happy all the time" position?

Oh, and on a different note, don't forget to enter the Thomas giveaway! And the Wizard of Oz giveaway is still going strong!


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Meow and All That Shit, by Nicki

Hello, people.

Here is my story:


Three other kittens in litter, none look like me.

Suspect mother is whore.

Separated from my mother.

Never knew my father.

In shelter.

Dewormed (I don't remember being too warm!)

Given shots.

Probably heroin.

Am addict.

Uterus removed.

Ovaries removed.

Stitched up with green thread (ready for St. Patricks!)

Relaxing at shelter, hoping for a quick death.

Find out from cage-mate it's a no-kill shelter.

Ask for more pain pills.

Fall asleep.

See Family of Horror approach. Freckle Face, Bald Spot, some yammering kids and some ancients.

Freckle Face calls The Ancients "mama" and "papa". What is this, The Waltons?

Freckle Face tells Bald Spot, "Just don't be yourself. Let me do the talking."

Suspect Freckle Face doesn't have any trouble talking over everyone.

Freckle Face can't shut up. "Remember, you love cats and are enthusiastic to adopt," she hiss-coaches Bald Spot.

Kids are cute but a little too yappy for my taste. Hello, some of us are ovaryless and are trying to rest!

Avoid eye contact at all cost.

Pretend to be asleep.

Pretend to be dead.

Ignore all cooing and "OMG, I LOVE THAT ONE!"

Flatten ears to indicate inability to hear.


Perk up ears because flattened ears are apparently considered adorable.


Wonder why they think that cats are gender neutral.

Feel offended and belittled.

And objectified.

Shut eyes tighter than ever to make this nightmare stop.

Review "to do" list for upcoming week, number one, petition shelter for poison pill.

Cage opens.

I am lifted.

Like an animal.

Girl holds me and sniffs my fur.

Boy pets me.

Help me.


"We want this one!" They chant.

Lose all hope.

Adapt to life with them

Forced to blog when Freckle Face "doesn't feel inspired".

Worry that Freckle Face is insane.

Impressed with self for writing a whole post.

Prepare self for doubters who'll say that "a cat couldn't have written that all by itself."

Hate doubters.

Plan revenge.

Pen manifesto.

Reminder from Freckle Face:Don't forget to enter The Wizard of Oz giveaway! Info here!


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Accidental Brunette

So guess who I trapped into doing a blog post exchange with me? Kelcey of The Mama Bird Diaries. Kelcey is a fellow New Yorker and I've been lucky enough to meet her. We even attended a fashion show together. I mean, we attend a fashion show once a week or so, but this time we went together. Which is why I mention it. Anyway, one of the things that Kelcey and I share is blonde hair. Ahem. Below is her hairfession. Mine is at The Mama Bird Diaries.

My natural hair color is dirty blond.

But I've been highlighting it for years in an effort to make it more "blond" and less "dirty."

Several years ago, in a burst of au natural euphoria, I decided all that bleach might be an unhealthy addiction. So I spoke to my very fabulous and super hot colorist Robert about dying my hair back to its natural color. He scowled deeply, shook his head and suggested a golden honey strawberry instead.

But I insisted.

So he turned me into a dark brunette. Robert was either a little passive aggressive or not very good at following directions.

The next day I flew out to California. My boyfriend and I were driving down the gorgeous Pacific Coast Highway and then attending a lavish wedding in LA at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

As we drove down US Highway 101, my boyfriend (coincidentally also a brunette) and I had the following conversation...

"Wow. Look at these incredible views. It's unbelievable," my boyfriend exclaimed.

"I hate my hair."

"I love your hair. And those Redwood trees. Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

"I really hate my f-king hair. Don't you hate it? It so awful. How could you not hate it? Of course you hate it. It totally washes me out. God, I look so pale and sickly."

"No, I really like it. I can't believe how high up we are. These cliffs are crazy. Look at the coastline."

"I can not believe how much I detest my hair. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm an impostor. A really ugly haired impostor."

"I think you look hot. Are you going to look out the window at all or just stare into the sun visor mirror?"

"The mirror obviously. As if I have a choice."

Since my boyfriend was in some kind of insane denial about my tragic hair situation, I decided to call my colorist Robert for help. This is kind of like calling your local Girl Scouts rep to help you get off the Samoas but I was really desperate.

He told me to wash my hair with Tide to get the color out. So that night, at the motel, I had a very long evening with a gallon of Clean Breeze Tide. But no amount of scrubbing, rinsing and drying did anything. I was despondent.

We finally arrived in LA and I immediately went to the hotel's super cool, swanky hair salon. I got highlights that very day.

But I still didn't look completely like me. So a few days later, as soon as we arrived back in New York City, I had my hair highlighted again.

My commitment to excessive hair chemicals has never wavered since. Although I no longer wash my hair with Tide. Because there's just something weird about having your hair smell like clean laundry.

Don't forget to enter The Wizard of Oz giveaway! Info here!


Tuesday, March 17, 2009


One of the things that Husbandrinka and I have been wanting to do with our kids is volunteer work. Husbandrinka thinks that it was important for them to learn to give back to the community and grow up to be caring human beings and I think that it was a good idea for them to be someone else's problem for a few hours each week.

Unfortunately we weren't seeing eye to eye about the best volunteer opportunities for our children. Husbandrinka was thinking along the lines of helping the homeless and I was thinking of something less hardcore. I mean, the homeless are so...without a home. Isn't that a little extreme for young minds? I mention this to Husbandrinka and he says, "Ok, so you want them to volunteer with people who feel that their apartments are too small?" which makes it sound like I am a small-minded person who doesn't get the point of volunteer work, so I automatically become defensive. "You're in love with someone else, aren't you?" I ask him. "What are you talking about?" He says. "I didn't hear a 'no'," I fume. "I'm not playing this game," he tells me, but the great news is that he seems to have forgotten about the whole homeless thing.

So I asked my kids what kind of volunteer work they are interested in. My daughter said that she wanted to work with homeless animals. I'm not sure what kind of work she envisioned, perhaps we'd chase stray cats down the street. I asked, with great trepidation, if she would want to work with homeless people and she said no, animals were cuter. My son, in a testament to my parenting skills and the values that I've instilled in him, didn't know what "volunteer" meant, but after I explained the concept, he said that he would be willing to teach underprivileged kids how to play the Wii.
Then my daughter had a great idea. She was going to knit hats and scarves for poor people. In Africa. Fuck.

Finally, Husbandrinka had it with these high level negotiations and signed himself up for the soup kitchen.

"Good for him," my mama said. "He should see how the other people are live, to appreciate all that you have."
"Exactly," papa said. "And after the soup kitchen, he should go to morgue, to get more fuller appreciate."

Five minutes later, mama called me in a state of alarm. "He knows not to eat the soup, right? It may be the poison."

So now Husbandrinka is doing volunteer work. On behalf of all of us.  Because I'm still exhausted by the planning stages.

Don't forget to enter The Wizard of Oz giveaway!  Info here!

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Monday, March 16, 2009

We're Off to See the Wizard!

I was recently contacted by some theatrical people to do a giveaway on this blog for theater tickets to the Wizard of Oz which is opening at the Madison Square Garden next week. Immediately I thought that I'm so not that kind of a blog, but then I figured maybe some people would enter the giveaway because they thought that it was a giveaway to see OZ, that show with the hot prisoners. Because I suspect that my readers skim a lot out of a sense of self-preservation.

The giveaway is for four tickets to see the live stage performance of The Wizard of Oz at Madison Square Garden (in NYC, duh) on April 4th at 11 am. I'm sure that the show will be tons of fun and the best part? You don't have to think of ways to entertain your kids on Saturday morning! And it's free! And you get to be all "I'm a winner!"

To enter this giveaway, leave me a comment and tell me the first play/movie/tv show that you remember watching as a child. If you have no memory whatsoever about which play/tv show/movie you saw as a child, I encourage you to lie. Because that's what passes for creativity around here.

I will announce the giveaway winner on Saturday, March 21st.

Good luck, and for those of you who don't win (technically, losers), or those who wish to see the show on a day other than April 4th at 11 am, or who know down deep in your soul that you will need to see the show repeatedly, click here for a 15% discount on tickets.

Blogging the Resurrection

Ann of Ann's Rants has been hosting "blog posts that you may have missed" over on her blog and I am lucky to have an old post of mine recycled there! It's a post that's near and dear to my heart (I'm getting sentimental now!), and I hope you'll go there to check it out!

I am not a religious person, although I have a back up plan to convert to all the major religions on my deathbed, just in case. I think it's because I grew up as an atheist in the Soviet Union. Thanks a lot, uncle Lenin! I am not apologetic about it, it's my personal history and it's no more or less valid than anyone else's. But you should know that whatever flaws or shortcomings I have are directly attributable to it.
I was thinking what it would have been like to live during a certain time in history and blog about it. So I chose something mundane and uncontroversial.

So, if you read my post two weeks ago last Friday, you'll know that I was fuming that Husbandrinka and I were stuck in this huge traffic jam over the weekend because, get this, there was a crucifixion going on and everyone was rubbernecking. I got totally car sick from all the stop and go traffic. Fucking Romans.

Well, there's more. Apparently, he rose. You know, JC, not Husbandrinka. And I'm all like, great, I just know that General Hospital is going to be pre-empted again because of this and Husbandrinka is all "How can you think about a stupid soap opera at a time like this? This is really important, it's going to change the course of history." Really, Husbandrinka, history? A resurrection, and the whole world's going to change? And they say that we womenfolk are hysterical. So this is just a quick blog post, but I hear they're putting together a whole book about it. Like who's going to want to read that stuff? Toodles for now! By the way, has anyone heard from Judas? He hasn't posted on his blog since "The Seder: A Meal to Remember" last week.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Week in Review

On Wednesday, I got an email from my friend Braja telling me that she was leaving for the airport in half an hour. On Friday morning, I came across the terrible news that she was in a horrifying car accident on the way to the airport. From the updates, it appears that her prognosis is positive, although she still has to undergo several surgeries, but her husband has more extensive injuries. I've been thinking of Braja all day. How lives can change in an instant. How much people that we've never met in the flesh mean to us and how fucking fragile life is. It's almost unbearable. Well, it is unbearable, but I didn't want to get all cliche on you. Please do whatever it is you do--pray, send good thoughts, have a martini, watch Rock of Love Bus. The latest update is that it will be six days before Braja is out of the ICU. I suppose it's too much to ask for the hospital to have WiFi.

* * *

Disclaimer: I never know when to start these weeks. On the one hand, I'm doing the post on Saturday, so I should start it on Friday and take it through Saturday. On the other hand, I'm actually writing the post on Friday, so maybe I should do it from last Thursday to today (Friday?) And yet (I refuse to say "on the third hand" for moral and political reasons. Don't ask. It's too painful), who can remember what happened last Thursday? So I'll start on Sunday:

Sunday: I can't remember that far back.

Monday: Young ladrinka tells me that he had "a really weird dream". I feign interest and ask him to tell me about it. "It was that my friend Psycho married his butt." "That doesn't make any sense," I break every parenting rule to raising well-nurtured children. "Yeah," he tells me, "that's because it's a dream."

Tuesday: I pick up my daughter from school and we go bathing suit shopping. For some reason, the bikinis at Old Navy have padded tops. Yes, children's bikinis. Because what 10 year old doesn't need cleavage?

Wednesday: Husbandrinka has a sore throat. Will it develop into strep? I'm on edge of seat. Also on window ledge.

Thursday: Papa stays at home with the kids while they have a piano lesson with a new teacher. "It went well," he told me. "I think the teacher is, well, the same as your friend Sandy."
"My friend Sandy? You mean the piano teacher is a dermatologist?" "No," he says and looks over to where the children are a few feet away from us. "I don't want to say the word, but I think she is like your friend Sandy. And her friend Molly." He opens his eyes extra wide and suddenly looks a lot like Ramona on Real Housewives of New York. Oh, I get it. He doesn't want to say "gay" in front of the children! I'm very tempted to keep feigning ignorance to see if I can actually get him to spell it out more without saying "gay", like "Your friend Sandy and her friend Molly, and how they perform cunnilingus on each other" because that would super fun. And not just for Sandy and Molly.

Friday: I'm writing this post! What, that's not enough? You need something else to happen on Friday? Ok, selfish. In response to my post about ruffled shirts,this was emailed to me:

So now, apparently I'm unpatriotic and an enemy of the people. I'll be preparing for my stay at Gitmo.


Friday, March 13, 2009

Post Partum Post

After my son was born, I developed a mild case of insanity, although the technical term may have been "moderate insanity" or postpartum depression, for the purists. Everything made me cry.

Papa tried to comfort me.

"You waited a long time to have baby and your hormones are confused. You are like a person who never had the cake and now you went to the cake festival and ate very many cakes. And now you are sad. If you had baby at twenty like normal people, you would feel happy now."

Mama tried to comfort me.

"Having the baby is so important and everyone is so happy. Feel cheerful."

Husbandrinka wasn't without wisdom, either.

"All women are nuts after they give birth. What's for dinner?"

My baby was very cute but had a huge nose.
"Well, at least we know he wasn't switched at birth," my anti-semitic friend John told me as he goose-stepped around the nursery.

He also didn't seem to eat a lot. (My son, that is. John's appetite remained healthy).

"Ok, I'll meet you at the office in a few hours," my gay pediatrician told me one Sunday. He put him on the scale. "He's gaining weight normally," he reassured me. "These kids will give you a fucking nervous breakdown if you let them. That's why I'm on the pill."

But what really put me over the edge was that I was convinced that my son was a dwarf.
"Look at his legs," I told papa. "They seem short."
"He's the baby," papa said.
"Don't his legs look short?" I asked mama. "In comparison to his body, I mean."
"All the men have short legs," mama said. "That's why they look so unnatural. You never noticed this before?"
"I'm worried that he's a dwarf," I told Husbandrinka, "although he is in the 95th percentile for height."
"That's a very rare condition," Husbandrinka told me. "Tall dwarves."

I honestly don't know how I survived with these people around. I think it was my inner strength and wisdom that saw me through.

Public Service Announcement:  Postpartum Depression is no laughing matter. If you or someone you love is suffering from this condition, you should read Down Came The Rain. Because it helps to know that someone more beautiful than you'll ever be went through this shit, too.  And also, see a doctor.  The more you know.

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Thursday, March 12, 2009


Apparently I don't have enough problems because I got this email BREAKING NEWS ALERT from a local clothing store letting me know that ruffle blouses are all the rage in the spring and that I should get one or drop dead. I really have to question what the fuck is wrong with people.

I am no fashion icon, but this is who this type of blouse would look good on:

1. No one.
2. Ray Charles' wife, to Ray Charles.
3. Barbie.
4. Miss Understood (drag queen).

Please add your own suggestions for people who can wear this shit. I just hope that it comes with matching ruffle pants. Because that would certainly be ass enhancing.


Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Everything is OK. Except If You're Reading This, I'm Probably Dead

I've recently met a new friend and we email each other a lot. I love getting her emails, except every few days she drops one of these:
something really shocking happened, but I'll tell you about it later. Bye!
The fuck?
So I retaliate:
If you continue this leaving-me in-suspense tactic, I may become a Xanax addict to help me deal with the anxiety.

which, between us, would be hard because I've never taken a Xanax in my life, but I'm sure I'd be a quick study.

But I also get it. Because when I was ten years old and in summer camp, I would write letters like this to my parents:
Dear Mama and Papa:

Thank you for the sacrifices that you made to send me to Surprise Lake Camp. It is a very surprising place. I have no friends. Everyone thinks that my poison ivy scars are from beatings that I got in Russia. I may have told them that I was beaten by local anti-semites. Sadly, another girl seems to be getting similar "Jewish scars" as she's recovering from poison ivy. Also, something bad happened to me, but I don't want to worry you so I will tell you about it later. And now I must end my short and sad letter because I want to cry, I miss you so much. Your daughter, Marinka

I can only imagine the phone conversation that occurred when my Broken English (no relation to Marianne Faithful) parents tried to call the camp.
"The Marinka, is she ok? We are receiving letter of alarm."
The reason that I can "only imagine" this conversation is that I am sure that it did not take place. And the reason that I am sure of this is because my parents told me. "What is point of the calling?" they asked me. "If you could write a letter, you were ok." Damn it! Why didn't I get myself dismembered just to show them?

But my letter of alarm set the tone for all our future communications. Mama will call me and say, "Is everything ok? Yes? Good. Here, too. I was going to make some borscht, should I bring some over?"
And I learned that whenever I call my parents, I have to preface each call with, "Hi, everything is ok, I just wanted to-". It is so ingrained in me that over the past decade I have actually made the following phone calls to my parents:

"Hi mom, everything is fine, but we lost all our money in the stock market."

"Hi, everything is ok, but my father-in-law has colon cancer."

"Good morning, everything is ok, but I have no will to live left." (Disclaimer: This was during the TV writers' strike, no need for alarm. Unless they strike again, in which case, send me a poison pill).

So, I sort of wonder what the purpose of "everything is ok" is. And so does Husbandrinka.

"Your parents called to say that everything is ok and that would you call them back, please?" he lets me know when I come home from a night of debauchery.
"Isn't it reassuring that they tell you that everything is ok?" I ask.
"No," he tells me. "Why can't we assume that everything is ok unless we hear otherwise?"
Why? Because you married into a family of Old World lunatics, I want to scream. But instead, I pass out gently into the night.


Tuesday, March 10, 2009

My Endodontist Does Not Understand Me

My endodontist does not understand me. I go to get a root canal taken care of and he gives me an injection that would numb a respectably sized elephant and when he leaves the room to see another patient while I enjoy the anesthesia, I immediately feel my throat close up and I am pretty sure that I am dying. I consider getting the receptionist's attention, because she is right outside of the office where I am savoring my last few breaths, but at the same time, she is on the phone and I don't want to interrupt her. So I texted Husbandrinka.

"I think I can't breathe," I pound out on my piece of shit phone. And then I wait for the rescue team to arrive. Ten minutes later, I realize that I texted his GSM phone, which he uses in Europe so that I can rest assured that as soon as he lands in Frankfurt on Wednesday, he will know that I am breathless.
"I think I can't breathe," I re-text his U.S. phone. And then I sit staring at my phone to see how long it would be before he texts me back and remind myself that a watched pot never boils (is the same thing true of microwaves? Because maybe we can update that expression. To be more modern and shit.)
Husbandrinka texts back: "I'm sorry to hear that." He certainly is good at keeping calm.

Finally, my breathing evens out and I lay back in the chair, thinking deep thoughts. I am a very profound person and try not to let a lot of time pass in between engaging in some cerebral gymnastics. Especially if I'm in some forsaken WiFi-less trap. Seriously, how do these people work? What if there's some kind of a breaking dental news in the middle of the afternoon--how will they find out about it?

Anyway, I'm having deep thoughts, along the lines of what if I die during the root canal, how will my family go on? Of course, Husbandrinka will remarry immediately, someone younger and fresher, and as I plan their wedding, I am completely enraged and think about what kind of person would remarry so quickly. I don't understand how I could have shared a life with him, a life that is now over. Because I am dead. It will be tough for my kids, of course, but kids are resilient. And I'm sure their new stepmother will shower them with Wii games and Sims discs that will soften whatever sadness they feel. That fucking whore. I can't believe that she's going to buy my children's affection this way. And she'll probably take over this blog, too. My pride and joy. Watch the readership to "Whorehood in NYC" double as Whorinka starts posting. And then I think about the endodontist. How would he feel if I died mid-root canal? I wonder if he'd ever worked on a corpse before. Because that kind of thing can really fuck you up. Unless your job is doing autopsies or something, and then you really shouldn't be working on people's teeth.

So then it's my turn, and my mouth is totally numb and the drilling starts and I wince (because I would prefer a less harsh sound), and he asks, "do you feel pain?" and I shake my head, but what I am unable to say, because my mouth is now a dental instrument showcase, is that although I do not feel pain, I am actually feeling pre-pain, which is something that very sensitive (and possibly insane) people feel in anticipation of the pain. I tried to relay this sentiment with my eyes, but it may backfire because he asks me if I need to use the ladies' room. Which I do.

Everything ends painlessly and uneventfully, so that's good. And yet, I feel like he and I really didn't get to know each other. Like he missed the opportunity to get to know the real me. And I never had the opportunity to tell him about the pre-pain concept, which I suspect will be the next big break-through in dentistry. I mean, who doesn't want a dentist that guarantees that the treatment will be pre-pain free?


Monday, March 9, 2009

Mama's cellphone

Mama got a cell phone a few years ago and for the first few months papa and I kept calling each other nonstop.

"Where is she?" I would ask. "She is not answering her cell phone."
"I don't know," he commiserated. "She never answers it. We should have just gotten her a toy one instead."
We would call and call and she would never pick up.
She called me at the end of the day.
"It looks like I have fifteen missed calls," she would say. "Did you try to reach me?"

I tried explaining how to check her cell to see whose calls she missed, but it was eaiser to explain thermonuclear energy to a kitten.

"Only a few people call me, anyway," she defended her ludditeism. "I'll just call everyone and ask."

After a few months, mama realized that she heard the ringing better if the phone wasn't at the bottom of her purse.
"Hello? HELLO?" she'd yell into the cell with such an urgency that I wanted to deliver some earth shattering news, as opposed to "hey, I'm at Whole Foods and Arctic Char is on sale. Is that the fish that made me shit out salad dressing?" (sidenote: if you go to that link, which you absolutely should because it is one of the most hysterical things that I've read and also, incidentally, happened to me, do not, under any circumstances miss the second comment. Because when I have a bad day, it's my "go-to" comment and it always cracks me up).
"It's me," I would announce.
"Yes, what is it? What do you want?" Mama considers cell phones to be for urgent communication only, like the coming of the Messiah or a Bloomnigdale's unadvertised White Sale.
"Nothing. I'm in line at the store waiting to pay and I'm bored."
I say "bored" before I remember that mama has banned that word since the mid-80s. Mama is a workoholic and a universal improver. She's the type of person who will assess any situation in record breaking time and give you various suggestions as to what you should do to improve it. In my case, "any situation" is "my life" and she has many helpful hints. Such energy does not understand boredom.
"What classes are the kids signed up for?" she asks me.
"Piano, karate."
"Daughterella should be taking tennis lessons," she proclaims.
"Tennis lessons? They are so expensive and this isn't the economy to-"
"You democrats are always whining. Blame the economy, blame the government for your laziness. I didn't hear a peep out of you about the economy when you liberated all those clothes from Saks ."
"I need clothes."
"Yes, we all need clothes. What, am I a nudist now? What you need is to lose some weight. Then clothes will fit better. You know, fat really ages you. You don't want to look older than you are."
"Listen, the line is really moving now, I better go!" It's amazing what a boredom buster mama can be.
"I bet it's moving. Moving is great exercise!"
"Give everyone my love," mama says and as I start to hang up, I hear her starting to say something else. Of course. Because that is what mama does. After all goodbyes are said and you are hanging up, she'll add something so that you have no choice but to call her back. What? You think that you do have a choice? Good luck to you with that, you insane optimist.
So I call back and say, "You were talking while I was hanging up again."
And she says,"It's nothing important. Just dress the kids warmly, it's cold."
"OK, thanks." I am determined to stay on the line until she hangs up and as she does, I remember something key that I wanted to tell her. "Hey, mom-" click. I call her back.
"Listen, mom, I read the worst article the other day-"
"Oh," she is suddenly excited, "I think I read the same one! Was it the one about famine overcoming the United States and how people will turn to cannibalism?" I look around Whole Foods. The lines are unusually long and the people in front of me do look really tasty.
"Er..no, it was about how fingernails become more brittle as we age. Is that true?" I am suddenly starving.
"You read some real crap," she says. "Let's hang up on three."
"Ok, but you do the counting," I tell her.

And it's a good thing that she does, too, because the hunger is making me lightheaded.


Saturday, March 7, 2009

My Grandfather's Girlfriend

My grandfather immigrated to New York from Russia when he was in his seventies, and immediately started making up for lost time. Having been a proud member of the Communist Party during his prime, he decided to give religion a try. "I really like it," he told me. "Except for the whole God business. Who believes those fables, anyway?" We suspected that what he really liked was the senior citizen's luncheon at the synogogue.

At the time, my grandfather was working as a Home aide (or "homo aide" as he pronounced it) to a man who was about 4 months older than he was. He wanted to work, he said, because he did not want to be a burden on anyone and would not accept any charity. Apparently not wanting to be a burden to anyone did not include his charge who my grandfather regaled with tales of his accomplishments in the Soviet Union until the poor man begged for the batteries from his hearing aid to be removed.

One day, my grandfather introduced us to his girlfriend. My problems with her were threefold: 1. She seemed to be the same age as I was. 2. She looked exactly like Raisa Gorbachev. 3. She greeted me with the news that she had psychic powers. Normally any one of these would send to me a warm bath with a hairdryer, but I think that the combination of all three stunned me into a will to live.
"I was married before," she told me. "And we had a puppy, his name was Dick."

She told the story in Russian and "Dick" isn't a Russian word, so I never figured out why they named their dog Dick, except that maybe she was indeed psychic and was thinking years ahead to my blog fodder. "So one day, Boris goes for a walk with Dick and he lets him off the leash, and Dick is white and it is snowing and Dick disappears. So, he comes home without Dick. And I say where is Dick? and he says Dick is gone. And I say, Go and find Dick. Do not come home without Dick."

I swear, this woman who did not speak three words of English used "Dick" in every fucking sentence for a few paragraphs. And because I have the mentality of a ten year old boy, I kept encouraging her, with questions like, "So, wait, who was missing?" and "I'm confused, he came home without what?"

It was a beautiful introduction to a woman who at the time, as one day we would learn, was already his wife.

Also, I have a post up on NYC Moms Blog this morning. I just don't want you to feel like I'm doing things behind your back.


Friday, March 6, 2009

The Bluest Eye

So everyone is mildly hysterical because there is a fertility clinic in New York that is offering designer babies. If you are like me and are excited by the idea of your baby coming home with interlocking Chanel C's or the Louis Vuitton fleur de lis on its ass, let me tell you that you're in for a whole lot of disappointment because according to these morons, "designer" means the ability to choose eye and hair color. Eh, what do you want, we're in a recession.

And yet that's not what the outrage is all about, shockingly. Apparently, people are upset about the whole "master race" and "eugenics" thing. Because clearly that's the great threat that is facing our country.

Am I alone in not being able to figure out why anyone gives a blue eyed devil fuck about this? I mean, the fertility clinic drector announced that within the next six months they'll allow parents to be the choose their children's eye and hair color. Where's the outrage about the six month delay? Are they getting color swatches or what?

So, I decided to quiz Husbandrinka about this and asked if we could have chosen our children's eye and hair color, what would he have chosen and he says, "dark". Clearly, this is an attack on this blue eyed, dyed blonde. So, wanting to be open minded (which is so fucking overrated, by the way), I ask "why" and he says "because it's genetically superior." "Like what the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask him and he says, "What part of genetically superior are you struggling with?" and I say, "But don't you like my blue eyes?" and he says, "they're fine, but genetically inferior." So needless to say I am seething and say, "why do you get to decide what is genetically superior and inferior?!" and he says, "Yeah, I didn't decide that, it's just how it works." Which totally implies that I don't suffer from intellectual superiority.

So parents, rush out and get your blue eyed designer babies now! Because we've been genetically inferior long enough.


Thursday, March 5, 2009

This is What It Sounds Like When Men Cry

I can't stand it when men cry. I've seen my husband cry twice--first was when our daughter was born, he teared up (when our son was born, I did the tearing--hello, episiotomy!) and when his best friend was diagnosed with bile duct cancer. Those tears I understood, and not just because I love him. But watching the Bachelor weep hysterically in deciding between two whores made me mildly nauseated. And it made me want to sign him up for the Marines or something. Oh and don't be all "your poor son, you won't let him express his emotions." Please. My son has built a Wailing Wall in his room so that he can mourn all the Wii injustices properly. It's grown men I'm talking about. Grown men who are a little too in touch with their feminine sides.

Also, I can't stand it when men eat sweets. I think I inherited that from my mother who is fat-phobic and once referred to a man, with derision, as "a sweet eater". I assumed that it was some kind of code, but she told me that she'd seen him at a party eating cake. "Disgusting," she said. I fully admit that this doesn't make sense, and yet it irritates me to see a man eating dessert. I assume that it's either because I feel very competetive about the volume of desserts out there and want to make sure that I have enough, but I am not ruling out the possibility that I may be insane, too.

Oh, and I took over Vodka Mom's blog today. And to express my graditude for letting me guest post, I misspelled her name. I think that her poor readers are going to go on a hunger strike until she comes back or something. Which will leave many snacks for me, so win-win!

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Update Post

Ok, so there are a few things that I need to update you all about although I'm worried that calling this post "update post" makes it sound boring and many people will skip it, so maybe I should have called it "How to Make Your Penis HUGE!" except I suspect that most of my readers are either female or hung to their knees, or maybe both, so what's the point of that? (By the way, one thing I know for sure is that if I were a man, regardless of my shlong size, if I kept getting all those "increase your penis size" spams, I'd be totally paranoid and flaccid.)

So maybe "Update Post" is a pretty good title after all.

First of all, Nicki is insane. What's unfair about this, besides the obvious fact that I am living with a fucking lunatic cat and I brought her into my own home myself is that for the first two weeks that we had her, she had a completely different personality. Which makes me think that either she was addicted to Xanax at the shelter and has somehow managed to wean off of it, or that my family makes everyone insane and after a few weeks of living with us, you, too can lose your marbles. Come on over!

(Oh yeah, symptoms of her insanity include biting the hands that feed her ((and occasionally tries to strangle her (((btw, I'm assuming that if you have parentheses within parentheses that this is what you're supposed to do, right?))) )), racing around the apartment at dangerous speeds and meowing when she knows perfectly well that I am not yet ready to awaken. oh, and P.S., Husbandrinka asked me if cats can be trained 'through a system of incentives'. I'm having a contest next week and the winner gets to break it to him.)

Second of all, through no fault of my own, Roy Orbison is not blind. Last week I wrote that Roy Orbison was blind and after several people commented "OMG! I had no idea that he was blind! This blog is so educational!"(comment exaggerated for effect and for convenience) I googled "Roy Orbison blind" and was sad to learn that he was actually sighted and just really liked sun glasses. And seeing eye dogs. So the lesson that we all learned from this is that I am not an expert on who is blind and who isn't.

Third of all, my son has a third tooth loose. As you may recall, he likes naming loose teeth after Star Wars characters. So we already had Chewbacca, and R2DTooth (although it kills me to admit it, this was Supermommy's idea. Oh, what? That didn't link back to her? Sorry.) So now there's a third loose tooth and we couldn't come up with another Star Wars name for it, until the very last moment and then we came up with Loose Skywalker. I'm very worried because he has approximately 300 more teeth that will at some point become loose and then what the hell am I going to do? And if you think that think that this sounds insane, I'd like to remind you that my son has lived with us his whole life.

Fourth of all, yesterday was a huge snow day in NY and so papa chose that day to drive from upstate New York back home. And while he was on his way, he called me to say, and I swear that this is true, "I want you to read Shalom Alechem." Ok, so first of all, I've already read some Shalom Alechem. And like, why? Why does papa call me at 8 am with this request? So of course I respond with "And I absolutely insist that you read some Danielle Steele!" I've never read Danielle Steele, but the thought of papa reading it is really fun. And then I spent the rest of the morning worrying that papa was going to die in a car accident and I'd have to spend the rest of my natural life reading Shalom Alechem.

Fifth of all, one of the things that I love about Twitter is when someone links to a post that they loved. Because due to my discriminating taste, I follow approximately 10 million blogs and can't always get to every one of them. But the one Tweet that I don't get is "OMG, check out this blog! You'll cry your eyes out and attempt suicide after reading!!!!" Seriously, does this make anyone want to read it?

Sixth of all, over the weekend I asked my son about his friend Macbeth and he said "he's not my friend, he's my arch enemy." I haven't heard that expression in ages and now I can't stop saying it. It makes for really awkward conversation, especially with arch enemies.

Seventh of all, if you just read the phrases that are in bold, you missed a lot of important information and are now my arch enemy. Also you're probably confused why I have two paragraphs with arch enemy in them.

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Monday, March 2, 2009

Mortification Urination Monday

After my daughter was born, Husbandrinka and I decided to have another baby. Except I couldn't get pregnant, so I did what any normal person would do--panicked and bought an ovulation kit.

So the way that this particular ovulation kit worked is that I had to pee on a stick every morning and it was going to tell me when I was pre-ovulating. It seemed really simple, so I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Except after 30 days of peeing on that fucking stick, it was still showing me that I wasn't ovulating. And I could tell, by the carcasses that I left in my wake, that I was in an intense period of PMS. I was enraged.

So, I did what any normal person would do and called the 800 number on the ovulation box for assistance. Seriously, if you think that the recession is bad and unemployment sucks, but at least you're not on the phone with hormonal women trying to get pregnant. And when I say "hormonal women", I mean "me".

I tell the woman who answers the phone the problem: I've been peeing on the stick for a month and it's not showing that I'm ovulating and she says, "let's take it from the top." And, really, what can you say to that? "I was born at a young age. Then I moved here from the Soviet Union. Then I met Husbandrinka. Then we had our daughter. Then I couldn't get pregnant. Then I bought your motherfucking kit and I've been peeing on the stick and it's not showing me that I'm ovulating. I can tell you more about the immigration process if that would be helpful." So she says, "maybe you will ovulate tomorrow." I am so on to her. Because if that was my job, I would totally say that, hoping that the nonovulater would call back the next day, when I'd be off from work. But no. I knew that I wouldn't be ovulating tomorrow because I was in the midst of full blown PMS and like an idiot, I told her that. Seriously, in the history of speech no conversation has ever improved from telling someone that you are PMSing.
So she got down to the nitty gritty with me.
"How long do you pee on the stick?" she asked.
"Well, I don't know. Several Mississippis, easily," I explained that it varied day to day, if she caught my drift.
And then she let me have it.
"You're only supposed to pee on it for three seconds," she told me. "You're flooding the pee stick."
Flooding the pee stick. This meant that I couldn't even pee properly, which left the number of things that I could do well in the single digits.

"You're not going to believe this," I called Husbandrinka to tell him. "I've been peeing incorrectly."
"I am not at all surprised," he said.
It's a good thing that we can laugh about it now.


Sunday, March 1, 2009

The One Where I Save Your Friendship

I am blogging at NYC Moms today (hey, I thought that I was NYC Mom!), so please read my post there! It can save your life. Or at least a friendship.