How To Make Your Husband Insane

So Husbandrinka, the kids and I are driving home after a lovely three day weekend at my parents' dacha and because it has been 12 minutes since my last meal, I ask Husbandrinka what he thinks we should have for dinner.

And he says, "Well, we ate a lot all weekend, so why don't we just go to Gray's Papaya and get a couple of hot dogs?"

And I'm all, "If you want to gorge on hot dogs, just say so, don't act like it's some new diet food or something."

And he says, "How long is this menopause going to last?"

And I say, "As long as you keep saying inane things, so I estimate approximately forever."

And we drove in silence for the next three minutes, which I suspect he kind of enjoyed.

And then a Kinks song came on, which he loves. And I remembered my passive aggressive trick which I haven't used in like ages. This is advanced shit, people, so don't try it at home.

When someone is listening to the song that they love, sing along with the lyrics, but translate them into Spanish. For some strange reason, it makes people absolutely insane. And if you're not that great in Spanish, try Spanglish. It's fun and easy.

Like I did.

Here are the lyrics:

Come dancing,
Come on sister, have yourself a ball.
Don't be afraid to come dancing,
It's only natural.

This is what I sang:

Come-o bailando!
Hermana, tengo yourself un pellota!
No teine meiedo para bailando!
Solamente natural!


See? It totally keeps you on your feet by exercising your brain, so I'm pretty sure that it fights Alzheimer's too!

After that the rest of the ride was spent in silence to the Nth power, interrupted only by my thanking Husbandrinka, profusely, for taking the scenic route, because I certainly didn't want to get home early after being away for three days and kids being cooped up in the car forever only enhanced everyone's mood.

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Make Your Bed

So the other day, I was daydreaming about Husbandrinka's demise and wondering about the men that I would start dating after an appropriate waiting period. Would I get a boy toy and become a cougar? Or would I hook up with a geriatric kazillionaire? It's hard to say, because who knows which way the winds of love will blow. And besides, I'm in mourning.

But then I started to seethe and fume because I knew that no matter who I became involved with, we'd have the same problem that I've had with every person that I've ever shared a bed with.

The top sheet.

Because the world is divided into two types of people--the sane, who prefer the top sheet not tucked in underneath the mattress, and the insane, who like to recreate the feeling of being restrained in an asylum and want the top sheet tucked in so that their feet are trapped and don't get any oxygen. (There's also a third type of person, ones who like rye bread, but I can't even get into that level of emotional instability.)

And I seem to attract the people who like being trapped in the sheet.
It took me years to get Husbandrinka to see the error of his ways.
"It's cozy," he may have argued. ("May have" because who the hell can remember? The insane sheet ramblings of many all merge into one huge ball of nonsense.)

"Cozy?!" I shrieked. "Your feet need to move around at night and be free! They need to breathe!"

"Feet breathe?"

"Of course feet breathe! Otherwise they die." I was becoming a little less confident as I went along, but I didn't want to lose momentum. "Like those women in China."

"That's foot binding," suddenly he became a historian.

"Yes, but that's how it starts. They make little girls sleep with the top sheet tucked under the mattress and then they get used to less mobility. It's a slippery slope."

Thank goodness I had history on my side.
But I'm not sure that I have the energy to go through the whole magila with a new partner.

Vows

For about twenty seconds, pre-Husbandrinka and I considered writing our own vows and then we were like, "eh, let's just use the traditional ones because they seem to cover everything and besides, we're busy and lazy". Over the years, I've started to see the errors of our ways.

Don't get me wrong, traditional vows are fine if you and your beloved are on the same page, but if you're on the different floors of your local bookstore, the traditional vows aren't going to do shit for you.

For example. Love, honor, whatever. Ok. Got it.

But there's a lot that's implied. And if there's not total agreement about what's implied, it's going to lead to what I will call a spot of marital discord.

One of the things that I say is implied is that if you find something or someone annoying, your spouse must agree, no questions asked, or if they are asked, they should be asked in quiet and deferential terms. I happily do this for my husband. Sure, it's not that much of a stretch for me because I find everyone highly annoying, but still, it's the principle here.

And you'd think that he would return the favor.
And yet he won't.
Because he hates me and doesn't respect the institution of marriage.

Like the other day, we were driving somewhere and while we were at a red light, I looked over and saw a mom, dad and a teenage daughter on the sidewalk, each one with some kind of frozen drink from Starbucks. And they were all sucking the drink from straw. Simultaneously. OMG, how annoying is that?

"Would you look at them!" I alerted Husbandrinka. "So fucking annoying."
He looked over and shrugged. "Doesn't bother me one bit."
"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "The three of them standing there, in some kind of a synchronized slurping event? That's totally annoying."
"It's not against the law to have Starbucks," he maintained.

Fortunately, the light changed shortly thereafter, but I continued to seethe for hours.
Because what is the fucking point of marriage if you can't be co-annoyed by the same things.

No wonder family values are suffering in America.

The Husbandrinka-Nicki Relationship

It's hard to sum up Husbandrinka's feelings towards our cat Nicki. If this were Facebook, I'd put "It's complicated" under their relationship status. On Twitter, I'd have to say, "Deep regret that she was born". But this is a blog post, so you expect more. Unless you've read this blog before, in which case, hooray that your expectations have been adjusted.

Husbandrinka did not want to get a cat. But we finally prevailed and on most days, he agrees that Nicki is a good fit with us. There are times when he goes positively animal activist on me, like when we are in the car:

One of the joys of travelling in the car with Nicki is not only listening to her scream bloody fucking murder from her mortgage payment carrier, but also having Husbandrinka ask "so, why, exactly, can't we let her out so that she can run around in the car?" I was so taken aback when he asked me this question, that the only thing that I could think to answer is that it violates a social contact between you and me, with the rest of the universe as third party beneficiaries with enforceable rights. Because if you let the cat loose in the car, you are insane and are a menace to society. First step, letting cat out in the car. Second step, cannibalism.

But Husbandrinka isn't persuaded by things like social norms, so I had to come up with some alternatives.

"She'll be able to escape!" I pointed to the opened-a-crack window by Young Ladrinka.
"We can close the windows," Husbandrinka the Sudden Animal Rights Activist suggested.
"Well, but it's also that she may jump on the driver unexpectadly and we'd have an accident."
"What, she's going to jump on the steering wheel?"
"Or on your head. She could startle you."
"You startle me all the time with your bullshit and I'm driving ok."
"She could pee in the car and we'd never get the smell out."
"Oh."

Now I'm worried that he will find some cat urine smell removal system and I'll need other reasons why we should keep the cat safely confined in the carrier. Any ideas?

Achoo

Husbandrinka had a cold.

"Achoo!" said Husbandrinka.

Marinka tried to be sympathetic. "God Bless You!" she said. "And God Bless America."

Husbandrinka didn't stop Achooing.

"Please stop," Marinka suggested.

"Achoo." Said Husbandrinka. And then blew his nose.

"Speaking of an elephant stampede," Marinka said, "It's been a while since we've been to the zoo." (Blogging with integrity disclosure: Marinka didn't really say anything about the zoo. she just wanted to work in that Husbandrinka blowing his nose sounded like an elephant stampede. Also, if Husbandrinka reads this, Marinka may be SuddenlySingle, so please try to think of who you can set her up with. Her requirements are modest: Handsome kazillionaire.)

"I think I don't have a cold," said Husbandrinka. "I think I have allergies."

Marinka recommended Dr. Sneezy to Husbandrinka. Dr. Sneezy was their daughter's allergist.

"Is he a pediatrician?" Husbandrinka asked before going. Marinka reassured Husbandrinka that Dr. Sneezy saw people of all ages, shapes and sizes. Although everyone that Marinka saw in Dr. Sneezy's office looked to be under the age of 12. Or a midget.

"I have news," Husbandrinka said when he came back from his appointment.

"News!" Marinka exclaimed. Marinka believed that no news is good news and NEWS! is disaster.

"I have a dust mite allergy and am allergic to trees," said Husbandrinka. "We will have to make lifestyle adjustments."

Lifestyle adjustments included:

* Buying a $900 vacuum cleaner to suck up the dust mites, because regular vacuum cleaners give dust mites clemency.

* Buying new pillow/duvet/mattress covers so that the bedding industry in the United States does not have to ask for a bail out.

* Chopping down every tree in Manhattan, and depending on the wind patterns, in New Jersey and/or Brooklyn.

* Buying a lot of other things which translate into Marinka not having a new fall purse come September and possibly dying her own hair, instead of having a homosexual doing it for her.

Marinka looked through catalogs that Husbandrinka brought home. Catalogs like Allergy Control Products and Mission: Allergy.

Marinka grew sad. "It's almost easier to get rid of my dust mite collection," she thought.

Marinka called Gay Friend John to share the news.

"Husbandrinka is allergic to dust mites," Marinka told him.

"Everyone is allergic to dust mites," John counseled.

"He is also allergic to seasonal trees," Marinka confided.

"I am not allergic to seasonal trees," Eavesdropping Husbandrinka rolled his eyes. "I am allergic to trees and have seasonal allergies."

"Yes, seasonal allergies," Marinka repeated. "Like Christmas and Thanksgiving."

John was worried: "Are you ok, Marinka? Is there anything that I can do to help?"

"Thank you for asking, John," Marinka said. "I appreciate your kindness."

And then they wished each other good night and hung up.

Because if there's one thing that Marinka is allergic to, it's bad manners.
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If you are in the NYC area and would like to join me (with kids!) at the Bronx Zoo tomorrow, Friday, August 7th from 11 am to 1 pm for fun-filled, kid-centered activities, including taking in some exhibits, a Q&A with a representative of the National Association of School Nurses about flu (including the swine flu!) and more excitement, please email me at MarinkaNYC (at) Gmail (dot) com.

Motherhood in NYC: The Pilot

Recap: If you're too drained to read yesterday's post, which I totally relate to and respect, Husbandrinka and I discussed turning one of my posts into a sitcom. Based on his guidance, I prepared this script!

Motherhood in NYC: The Sitcom.
"She Ain't Misbehavin', She's Brain Damaged!"

Exterior shots of NYC to let viewers know that the show is set in NYC. In case "Motherhood in NYC" is too subtle.

Interior. Apartment in Manhattan. Like Different Strokes, but more recession-friendly.

A 10 year old girl comes skipping into the kitchen, where Husbandrinka, the patriarch, is reading The New York Times.

Girlchild: Daddy?

Patriarch: Yes, honey?

Girlchild: Daddy, I would really like to have a kitten. They are cute and cuddly!

Patriarch: We have discussed this before. You and your brother really want a kitten because they are cute and cuddly. However, I do not want a kitten. For they make a mess and have an erratic personality.

Girlchild: Please, daddy!

7 year old boychild runs in, carrying a baseball bat and maybe a football.

Boychild: I would like to have a kitten, too. They are very cuddly and cute!

Patriarch: (throws up hands) I give up. Children, you may get a kitten. Your Russian grandmother, babushka, will take you to adopt one. Against my better judgment.

Kids: Yay!

Opening credits.

Daniel Craig as Husbandrinka!
Adorable Unknown (female) as Girlchild
Adorable Unknown (male) as Boychild

and special guest star: Linda Hunt as Marinka


Interior Pet store.

Mama (dressed in Russian national clothes, or maybe a fur hat): Here we are, kids, ready to adopt a kitten! Although we are at a pet store, they do not sell kittens. They are for adoption. Let us wait in line. Like I used to wait in line for bread in Russia in the coldest of winters.

Boychild: waiting in line is boring! I think I'll jump around!

Mama: Well, this is a pet store, you little monkey! Go right ahead! Na zdorovye!

Boychild jumps up and lands on some woman's foot.

Cranky Hag: Ow! In my day, kids were seen and not heard!

Girlchild: In your day, kids were not heard because of the roar of the dinosaurs!

Adoption agent: Well, what a multigenerational and international family you are! Have you selected a kitten?

Kids, in unison: THAT ONE!

Adoption agent: Aww, that's little Sundance. She's adorable and completely sane! Congratulations.

Kids: Yay!

Mama: I'm sure that Sundance will be a perfect addition to your family! Nothing can possibly go wrong!

COMMERICAL.

Angelina Jolie walks into a war-torn refugee camp.
Hi, I'm Angelina Jolie, an Oscar winning actress, a UN goodwill ambassador, and most of all, a mother. Whether I'm on location to shoot a film or on location to expand my family, I always have my HP Vivienne Tam mini computer with me. Because I never know when the inspiration to write a letter to the editor will strike, or when I'll need to leak some news about Jen still being single and childless to the tabloids. The Vivienne Tam mini is portable and fashionable. And it beautiful. Like me. And Shiloh. I love the Vivienne Tam HP mini so much, I named my youngest daughter Vivienne!


Interior: Family living room.
Marinka is on hands and knees washing the floor. The kitten, Sundance, keeps trying to grab at the rag that she is using.

Marinka: Sundance, you silly puss! Stop that.

Girlchild: She is just playing!

Boychild: Leave her alone, MOM! And you missed a spot.

Marinka: Oy, children, how you talk to me (writer's notes: explore possiblity of Marinka breaking into a Fiddle On the Roof-type song)

Children: Whatever. Oh my god! Sundance is now biting the bottoms of our Levi's stonewashed jeans!

EVERYONE IN UNISON: SUNDANCE!


Interior: Bedroom.

Patriarch: Marinka, have you seen my wallet?

Marinka: No, not since you gave me my weekly grocery allowance earlier in the week.

Patricarch: I left it on the dresser, and then Sundance was jumping around here--
Patriarch and Marinka in unison: SUNDANCE!


Interior: Living Room. Doorbell rings.

Patriarch: Who could that be?
Door opens, John comes in. He is wearing a bright pink scarf and a tophat

John: Hi ho, everyone! I was just in this turkeyneck of the woods and thought I'd pop tart in to check in on you!

Kids: YAY! John!

Patriarch: Marinka is not here today.

John: Where is she, shopping? Mani-pedi? Women! I don't know how you put up with her, Husbandrinka!

SUNDANCE runs in and jumps on top of John's head.

Everyone in unison: SUNDANCE!

John: WOMEN!

Interior: Dining room;

Patriarch: You know, call me crazy-

Kids: Hi, CRAZY!!

Patriarch: as I was saying, call me crazy, but I think there's something wrong with our Sundance.

Girlchild: What do you mean? She's cute!

Boychild: And cuddly!

Patriarch: Well, she hid my wallet. Girl child saw her drinking from the toilet, She bit everyone's jeans. This isn't normal kitten behavior. Now, your mother had to go on an emergency trip and won't be back for a few episodes, I mean, weeks, but I think we should go back to the place from whence Sundance came and have a conversation.

Intrerior pet store. Kids and Mama are back, with sad faces.

Mama: Sundance seems to be, excuse me, how to say, like Krushchev at UN assembly in early 1960s.

Adoption agent: I don't understand, Sundance has been banging on the table with her shoe?

Mama: Darn these cultural misunderstandings. I feel like I need vodka and caviar. No, I mean, Sundance seems like a crazy.

Adoption agent: This is a very serious allegation.

Boychild: She poops outside the box!

Mama: Hush, boychild!

Girlchild: Mommy says poop is natural.

Mama: Oh, you Americans!

Adoption agent: Oh dear! I've checked the adoption records and it looks like we forgot to tell you that Sundance has brain damage! So sorry!

Mama: Well, now at least we understand why she acts like that!

Kids: Brain damage! Yay!

Ending credits...

Next week on Husbandrinkahood in NYC: With Marinka away, Husbandrinka will play! Who will steal his heart? We can't tell you, but she is younger and thinner than Marinka! (But then, who isn't?)

Treatment

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.
"Whatever."
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."
"Mama. Porca Miseria"
"That's not very nice."
"Va fongul."
"Rude."
"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.

Volunteers

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!

Things You Should Probably Discuss

This is the problem, as I see it. When people are dating, they are so focused on the "getting to know each other" crap and the "falling in love" nonsense that they completely lose sight of what is important. And that is if the two of them decide to have children, theyhave to make sure that they see eye-to-eye on some issues. And I don't mean like should Bitsy take ballet or piano, because that shit you can decide on as it comes up. I'm talking about the stuff that doesn't need to be said.

For example, "children should not be put in a labor camp."

"Beating kids is bad."

"Saying 'if you don't do what I say, I will die and then you will feel guilty forever' is an effective but not favored form of discipline."

If you don't have someone who agrees with you on these issues, right off the bat, you're doomed. Because having to explain to someone the WHY of it is sort of like defending your very way of life and no one likes to come under attack like that.

Recently, my 10 year old daughter came back from a fabulous birthday party with a goody bag that had more makeup in it than the Avon flagship store.

"How cool!" I thought. Because the mom who hosted the birthday party routinely sends make up for me in a goodybag, because let's face it, I'm everyone's favorite face charity case (once I was at a glitzy salon with a superfancy friend and her eyebrow stylist insisted on doing my eyebrows, free of charge, because, I'm guessing, he couldn't stand looking at them for one second longer.)

So, I assumed that the make up was for me. But no, it was for my daughter.
"You can't have this make up," I said, pulling the bag towards me.
"Oh yes, I can!" she tugged it back towards her. What's with kids and their superhuman strength these days?
So, I launch into this whole lecture about how little girls do not wear make up and Husbandrinka pipes in and asks, "why not?"

Seriously? Why not? So I tell him, offstage whisper-style, that I'll explain it to him later, because I think that saying "because our daughter isn't a fucking whore" is sort of unchildfriendly, but he says, "Why can't you tell me now?"
So I smile that totally fake smile and say, "Oh, because it's so pretty, I want to use it myself!" while humming Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" (unrelated sidenote: It's always bothered me that the least attractive man on the planet sang a song about a beautiful woman. Like maybe he should be less obsessed with physical appearance, if you get my drift. Being blind and all). Of course I'm humming "Pretty Woman" because that implies "whore" Julia-Roberts-style, but Husbandrika hasn't seen that movie and just thinks that I've apparently had a nervous breakdown that manifests itself in humming random songs while stealing from children.

What I'm saying is that this awkwardness could have been totally avoided if on our first date instead of doing the Getting To Know You Meme, I would have asked, "so, makeup on prepubescent girls--where do you stand?" Sure it's awkward, but so worth it.

Romantic Dinner Conversation

Topics that Husbandrinka and I Discussed While Out At Dinner on Valentine's Day Eve


1. The tragedy of the Continental flight which crashed in Buffalo.

2. How we fly Continental to North Carolina all the time.

3. How if you fly a lot, it's only a matter of time.

4. How the house in New Jersey where Husbandrinka grew up was built on the site of a factory that made glow-in- the-dark watches.

5. How no, he made a mistake. It was the site of a glass factory, the field where he played soccer was the former site of the factory that made glow-in-the-dark watches.

6. How he might have shared this information with me before he impregnated me twice.

7. How he was sure that he'd told me, but I never listen.

8. How he doesn't understand why I'm so freaked out about this. Wasn't I a Chernobyl survivor myself?

9. How no, unlike the watches, I don't glow in the dark, and Chernobyl happened like 10 years after I left the Soviet Union and for crying out loud, if he thought that I'd survived Chernobyl, didn't he wonder why I never ever talked about it? I mean, I talk about everything. Jesus Christ.

10. How unfortunate it is when Valentine's Day coincides with my PMS so that I overreact to casual dinnertime banter.

Bonus: How when I commented that next time we should get to the restaurant before 7pm to take advantage of the recession-friendly prixe fixe, Husbandrinka took my hand in his and gazing into my eyes warned, "but then we'll be on that slippery slope to the early bird special."

This is why I want to grow old with him. (And no one else asked me).

Name This Tooth!

So the other day, my 7 year old son pointed to the empty space where his tooth used to be--top, front and center--and said, "He was my best chewer, I miss him!"

I asked him what the tooth's name was and he told me to guess. This is what passes for "family time" in NYC.
I guessed "Chewy" which I really thought was an award-winning guess.
"Nope," he said. "But close."
"Chewer?"
"Nope."

(An aside: saying "nope" and "yep" sounds really smug and annoying.)

"Chewster?"
"Nope."
"Chewbacca."
"YES! How did you know?"
"I'm really smart. Hey, let's see if dad can guess."
"Ok."

. . .

(another aside.  "..." stands for my son and I walking to find Husbandrinka.  Please do not think that this was done in silence.   "Can I have a new Mario Super Sonic Wii game?" "No."  "Why not?" "Because no." "Because no is not a reason. Give me three reasons." "Because you don't need it, I can't afford it and the stores are closed." "I do too need it, you can charge it, and you can order it online."  ""You want it, that's different from needing it, I still have to pay for things that I charge."  "So you admit it's only two reasons, since you can order it online?" "Yes." "Well, I said three reasons, you lose."  See?  ... is so much simpler).

...

"Honey, guess what the missing tooth's name is."
"What are you talking about?"
"See, he's missing a tooth. Guess what its name is."
"Why does a missing tooth have a name?"
"You don't name your teeth?"
"No."
"Weirdo."
"Dad, I'll give you a hint.   It's sort of like Chew."
"Biter?"
"Nope."
"I don't know."
"Come on, honey, guess."
"Fangy?"
"That's nothing like Chew. I'm going to give dad another hint: Think Star Wars."
"Chew Wars?"
"Oh, that's nice, look, I don't know what the solution is and maybe Israel shouldn't have gone into Gaza, but to call it Jew Wars-"
"I said Chew Wars."
"Oh. That makes no sense."
"That makes no sense? And naming teeth makes sense?"
"Yep."

As You Probably Know, I Have Model-Good Looks

It's amazing the kind of shit that you can slip into a conversation if you preface it with "as you probably know". Because everyone is secretly a know-it-all and wants to nod maniacally and agree "of course I knew that already! duh!" Really, try it sometime.

Husbandrinka tried it on me the other day with a "as you probably know, I'm a perfectionist." It's a good thing that looking stupid has never bothered me, so I chocked on whatever I was drinking and then said "YOU? A PERFECTIONIST" and then laughed until I developed laugh lines of a woman twice my age. As you probably know, I have the skin of a newborn. (The FBI is investigating).

(By the way, when I told John this story, his response was "how can he be a perfectionist, he married you, didn't he?" I'm not sure that I will forgive him. But as you probably know, I have a big heart.)

So husbandrinka and I had a standard fight about whether or not he was a perfectionist and then we compromised on that he is a perfectionist at work and he doesn't like to burden his family with his perfectionism, so that's why I've never seen this side of him. I may be paraphrasing here a bit, but as I often tell him, if he wants to tell his side, get your own blog.

So a few days later, he is working from home and suddenly I hear "FUCKING SHIT!" (part of the reason that I hear this is because I am sitting right next to him) and I ask what's wrong, because as you may know, I am a caring soul and love to help people and he's fuming because the documents he needs are at the office. Because I love to strike when the iron's hot, I ask him if that is part of his perfectionism--having the wrong documents. So, I figure that I have a slam-fucking-dunk, and that he will bow to my wisdom, say touche and offer me some champagne to celebrate my verbal victory, but instead he says, "this is why I don't like to talk to you--you take things out of context."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T LIKE TO TALK TO ME?"
"Nothing."
"YOU HATE ME."
"No."
"That "no" didn't sound convincing."
"I don't hate you."
It's a good thing, that as you know, I don't like to dwell on things.

Dear Everyone

Dear Bouncer in Trendy Bar-Type Place That I Don't Usually Go To:

When you ask me for ID and I say "really?", please don't look at my face and say, "oh, you're right, never mind."

Dear Husbandrinka:

When I casually mention "why don't we just all commit mass suicide and get this holiday shit out of the way?", there's no reason to ask if I'm "insane and/or suicidal". It was just a thought. It's like I'm not allowed to have an opinion around here.

Dear 10 year old daughter:

Just because I asked you to make your bed doesn't mean "this is going to be the worst vacation ever!!!!"

Dear 7 year old son:

You really are not getting the PSP-2 game system. No, I'm not just saying that so that you'll be extra surprised on Christmas. And "worsest mom"? Try English, kid.


Dear In-Laws:

Thank you for coming to stay with us for the holidays. Because I am still trying to recover from the time that I flew around Christmas-time nine years ago. And I don't think that my marriage can survive another one of those "God, we Jews are so much smarter than you guys"/"Oh yeah, let's check out flights to Palm Beach around Passover, shall we" discussions with Husbandrinka.

P.S. And thanks in advance for the excellent blog fodder!

Husbandrinka Capped Me!

A few weeks ago I got an email from my husband. Something about financial documents that I was supposed to have delivered to some bank person while he was away and now they're missing and some vague reference to financial ruin and COULD YOU FIND OUT WHO SIGNED FOR THE PACKAGE BECAUSE I DIDN'T MAKE A COPY AND CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS.

Yes, he actually all capped me in the email. Why doesn't he just pour kerosene on me while I'm asleep and light the match?

A few minutes later, I got a follow up email from him that never mind, it was some other documents that the bank was missing. But it was too late. Because as soon as I read the FIRST EMAIL I immediately replied by notifying him that effective immediately, he was on email probation.

"What does that mean?" he emailed back.

I had to temporarily lift the email probation to explain, "It means that you are no longer allowed to email me."

And then he didn't respond. It almost killed me because I imagined him sitting at his desk, head in his hands, swaying back and forth, saying, "why? WHY?" and berating himself for sending THAT EMAIL. I hoped that the good people in his office were keeping an eye on him, so that if he became truly despondent, they would intervene and call for help. And also that while they were keeping an eye on him for the sake of his safety, that they were recording him so that I could enjoy a screening at some point.

It was a little awkward when he got home that night.

"How did you survive?" I asked.

"Survive what?" he asked.

"Email probation."

"What's email probation?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT IS EMAIL PROBATION?! YOU EMAILED ME TO ASK AND I TOLD YOU THAT IT MEANT THAT YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO EMAIL ME."

"Oh. I didn't read your email."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T READ MY EMAIL?"

"I was busy."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WERE BUSY?"

"I had to work. Why was I on email probation?"
"BECAUSE I CANNOT STAND WHEN PEOPLE YELL AT ME, EVEN IF IT'S IN AN EMAIL. IT'S REALLY RUDE, AND STUPID AND GOOD GOD I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS. I CAN'T AND I WON'T!"
"Oh."
Email probation is now over because I have a big heart and couldn't let him suffer like this. Besides, everyone else I know has already blocked my email.

To Be in NYC or Not to Be in NYC, That is the Question

Update: I'm featured on Neurotic Mom!

Recently, I found out that the lovely Kelcey from The Mama Bird Diaries is considering leaving NYC. Something about kids needing trees to climb, but I suspect that she hates me and wants to be as far away from me as possible. Whatever. Not to be one-upped by her, I can now reveal that every once in a while, Husbandrinka and I have conversations about possibly leaving New York City and moving to the suburbs.

I immediately start hyperventilating and then we agree to make a "pro/con" list, and approach it like adults. Like adults who make "pro/con" lists while breathing into a brown paper bag. If "breathing into a brown paper bag" is another way of saying "guzzling vodka."

Invariably, Husbandrinka provides the "pros", I provide the "cons" and our list looks something like this:

Pro: We can live in a house instead of an apartment.

Con: I will instantly become an alcoholic.

Pro: We can have a backyard.

Con: I will dabble in pills, as well.

Pro: We will save a lot of money.

Con: Not with all the booze and dolls that I'll be buying.

Pro: We will have more space--a basement, a cellar!

Con: I will fashion a noose in the basement. Or maybe in the cellar. Probably both.

Pro: Our children will ride their bikes up and down our tree-lined street as our neighbors look on and wave.

Con: Look! My wrists are practically slashing themselves!

Pro: We will get away from the noise of NYC.

Con: What about the noise that is coming from the voices inside my head? You know, the ones chanting ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?

Pro: We don't take advantage of what NYC has to offer.

Con: Exactly! That's how we save money!

Pro: Our kids can have a traditional American childhood.

Con: Shouldn't that go into the "con" column?

Pro: There are a lot of teenagers in the suburbs, so there's plenty of cheap babysitting.
Con: Why are you sitting there instead of packing?!?

Popular Extinction

Here is my advice: If you ever come up with an award-winning theory, contact the Nobel committee directly, and don't run it by your spouse first. Especially if you're married to my husband. Because he will make you doubt yourself which in turn will diminish your bliss. Trust me on this.

Recently I came up with a theory that people who were popular in high school are now extinct, like dinosaurs and ...some other things that are extinct. None of the friends that I have now were popular in high school, moreover none of us knows anyone who was popular in high school. I was so excited by my theory that I started preparing the deposit slip for the advance on my award-winning book on the subject and wondering what I was going to wear when I appeared on Oprah.

But then I decided to share the good news.

"Guess what?" I asked Husbandrinka. "I came up with a whole new theory of social relations. Want to hear it?"

"No," he mumbled.

"Haha," I said. "how about after you're awake?"

"No," he said.

Fortunately I'm one of those people who never bought into the whole "no means no" crap that swept college campuses in the 80s. I always look into the person's eyes to see if they really mean "no" or if they are playing hard to get and mean "ok, if you want". Unfortunately, because my husband was sleeping with his soul windows shut closed, I didn't get any special insight into his eyes and was forced to go by what I call my seventh sense. My seventh sense is a gift that allows me to know what people want, despite any visual or verbal cues that they give. I am hoping that New York soon will codify it as a defense, along with insanity, to most crimes.

"Ok, here it is. The people who are popular in high school burn out and are no longer around after college, if they make it that far. That's why we don't know anyone who was popular in high school and none of our friends do either."

"That's stupid," he said. I assume that he was sleep talking.

"You think that I'm wrong?" I challenged.

"I was best friends with Monica and she was the head cheerleader, popular and she's still around."

"How come I haven't seen her in years?"

"Because she's living in Milan."

Oh.

Well, that doesn't mean that she's not extinct. I mean, I haven't been to Milan in years, so maybe it's just code for "a total loser" or something.

"Besides," he is suddenly Mr. Chatty, "have you ever considered that maybe you and all your friends were unpopular kids and now you're unpopular adults so that's why the popular people don't hang out with you?"

"No."

"Something to think about, huh?"

"I guess."

And this is how a dream dies. Or more specifically, gets murdered. I'm thinking of starting a support group.

Economization

There are times that I feel like Lucy Ricardo, but unfortunately it's never while I'm looking in the mirror.  Usually it's when I am sneaking shopping bags into the apartment, so as not to unnecessarily alarm my husband.  Last week it was when the Visa bill arrived in the mail and I remembered that I had become Suddenly Patriotic and single handedly gave our economy a huge boost, via Saks Fifth Avenue. In a way, I had no choice. I work near Saks and I have a lunch hour. Plus, they were having a sale. I don't need a burning bush to tell me what to do next.

This led to my husband and me having a conversation that I may or may not have passed out twelve seconds into, but not before hearing words like "budget" "recession" and "careful with discretionary spending".  Personally, I see no need for that kind of language between adults, but whatever.  Apparently, the economy is in bad shape and I am on a budget.  But not on a budget with numbers and balancing, but more of a spending freeze type of thing, where my credit cards and I are having a trial separation.  And I am totally on board and not just because I would have agreed to anything to make the conversation end.

I remind my husband that I am from the former Soviet Union, where people made a turnip stretch all winter during the war. Of course that was a few decades before I was born, but what am I, a historian now?  The point is that I am of good strong Russian stock that can withstand hardship and do it with bravery and a stiff upper lip (as soon as I get it Botoxed).  The only glitch is that the next morning I realize that I am totally out of my kazillion dollar an ounce perfume and momentarily feel like Anastasia when she faced the Bolsheviks.  

Then to make matters worse, I talk to a friend of mine who's one of those financial types and I'm not even sure what her job is.  My strong preference is for people around me to have job titles that I understand, like "doctor", "teacher," "prostitute", but she doesn't seem to care about my preferences.  She's a financial something or other and she tells me that she read a book, called The Financial Apocalypse which she suggests that I not read because it will give me nightmares, but which she will summarize for me, because that's relaxing. 

So, according to her, the book predicted many of the things that we've already seen, like major banks closing and the Fannie and Freddie collapse and that the other fun thing that the book predicts is that the United States government will default on its loans and that our currency will be worthless. Not worth less.  Worth nothing.  For some reason, this alarms me, so I ask her what the book suggests we do, because I am now convinced that The Book knows everything and will lead us out of the darkness and will probably get me a bottle of that perfume.  And she says that we need to buy gold bars which sounds good in theory, but I'm thinking that it's going to be really, really hard to justify to my husband, what with the spending freeze and all.  Can you imagine if he notices that I'm stockpiling gold in the closet?   But then it hits me, and this is where Warren Buffet may want to pay attention--if our currency is going to be worthless, shouldn't we all be charging the gold bars on our credit cards, because when the economy totally collapses, no one will care about credit card debt, but we'll have gold.  And with the gold, we'll be able to get perfume!  And that's the real silver lining.

Super Secret Topics That I Will Never Blog About, Ever

A few years ago I was having dinner at my favorite NYC restaurant. John makes fun of me because Husbandrinka and I always go there. And also because John makes fun of me always, for no good reason. It's very painful. The restaurant is a block away from our house, so it's convenient, it's where we had our first date, so it's romantical and it's where Husbadrinka looked into my eyes once, when I was sure that he was going to propose and said, "You know, I've been thinking, and it's really hard for me to understand The New York Times' attitude towards Israel," so it's chuck full of precious memories.

So, we were eating there and I see that Yoko Ono is sitting at the table next to us. She was there with her son and a younger woman who I guessed was the son's girlfriend, but the only reason that I recognized Yoko was that she was wearing those enormous sunglasses. At night. Indoors.

I'm assuming that she wears them for the sake of privacy, to go unnoticed, so if none of her minions have the balls to tell her, I will. Wearing those sunglasses at night and indoors is exactly what makes you get noticed. It's exactly what made me whisper to Husbadrinka "Yoko Ono, six o'clock" and he said, "What?" and I said "Ono, Yoko over there," motioning to her table with my right eyelash, and he said, "I have no idea what you're talking about," and I had to stand on top of our table, naked, and bellow, "YOKO ONO IS SITTING OVER THERE WEARING SUNGLASSES, JESUS CHRIST, HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE HEARD ME?!" Seriously, you try doing that and not spill that martini. And all this could have been avoided if she just wore normal glasses like a regular person or if Husbandrinka attended any one of those telepathy for couples classes that I'm always trying to enroll us in.

I mention this because as I keep blogging, I've been wondering if there are any topics that are really off limits for me. I mean, there's the usual, I won't blog about work, the intimate details of my friends' lives that I assume they wouldn't want publicized and I'm trying to be sensitive to the fact that Husbandrinka is a private person. But I also wonder if identifying an "off limits" list is sort of like donning those Yoko Ono glasses.

Oh, what the hell, she looks great in them. And besides, aren't we all attention whores?

So here is my list of Super Secret Topics That I Will Never Blog About, Ever, So Don't Even Ask.

1. Anyone's job. Except people who I don't know and who do their job badly. Hello, Starbucks cashiers!

2. Sex. Except if I have something interesting to say about it. This excludes Porn Sunday, of course.

3. My children's diaries. Because one doesn't keep one and the other one keeps it locked up. But I'd like to think that I have enough integrity to respect other people's privacy. (God, that looks pretty all written up like that).

4. Spanking. I'm talking about children, not perverts, here. Not that people who like to get spanked are perverts, mind you. I have had so many discussions about whether spanking is a good method of discipline and they never go well, so I'm not going there again. Unless I run out of stuff to blog about, and then I'm all over it.

5. Thermonuclear power. I have no idea what that is, so blogging about it would be awkward.

Other than that, I'm an open book. Which may not be the best news for the people that read this blog.

But I promise not to go all Yoko on you.

Stroke Me Tender

Disclaimer:  I have a fucked up sense of humor. In no way am I mocking people who suffer from heart disease. I am mocking my own hypochondria. Lovingly.

I don't want to alarm you, but Oprah and I are having some issues. For example, I was enjoying the October O (the magazine, not a monthly orgasm, you perverts), learning about enhancing my bliss, when I came across some jarring news. Apparently, if you have migraines with auras, you are more likely to have a stroke and absolutely everything, including hiccups, is a warning sign, so you may as well go to the Emergency Room, fill out a toe tag and wait. The bright side of this is that you don't have to worry about your IRA. Or anything else for that matter.

So the bad news for me is that I've been having migraines with auras for approximately forever. It's a really weird thing where suddenly I will have trouble seeing out of one eye, and the things that I see will look like they've been painted by Dali. In other words, you probably shouldn't get too attached to me although you may consider advancing my next 20 birthday gifts.

So, when I read that, I put the magazine down and shared this news with Husbandrinka.  Or maybe I didn't put the magazine down, who can remember this crap?

"I think I'm dying," I told him. "We need to make preparations."

"I will not remarry until a respectable period of time has passed," he answered automatically.

For the first few years after I trapped him, I was obsessed that if I died in childbirth or by overdosing on Haagen Dasz Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream, he'd marry someone before the autopsy report was filed.   His new bride would be prettier and younger and more alive.  Which would be mortifying to me in the afterlife, as I tried to blend in with all the cool corpses.  But that was years ago, and I am much more secure now. I don't give a shit what those postmortems will think. Although the fact that he appears to be so accepting of my death is very troubling and is making me think that I've been too lax in paranoia relationship maintenance.

"I may be having a stroke," I told him. "I get those headaches and Oprah says that if I also start hiccuping, I should present myself to medical authorities. Since I assume I'll be busy having the stroke, you will have to do it for me."

"O.K."

"O.K. So what's our plan? Because we work in different places, so how will you know if I am stroking?"

"Stroking what?"

"Stroking. I'm pretty sure that's ER talk for having a stroke. Because they probably won't have the time to say, 'Marinka is having a stroke', they'll just say 'Stroking. Code blue!' to save time."

"Is this like the other time when you thought that you were having a heart attack?" he asks, and I suspect that he is considering laughing.

It's true in the summer of 2007, I was convinced that I was having a heart attack.

This flashback is brought to you by Enchanted Memories of a Hypochondriac:

"I'm dying!" I told Husbandrinka from the couch. "My chest hurts and I am convinced that I'm having a heart attack.  Boy, it sure is hot this summer of 2007."

"Should we go to the hospital?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Do you think that there will be a long wait?"

"It's Saturday night in Manhattan, you get your standard gun shot wounds, bar fights-" Suddenly he's Sipowitz.

"I don't really feel like waiting." I readjust myself on the couch. "Could you maybe call St. Vincent's and NYU to see who has the shorter wait? Or maybe ask them what time we could come in that won't be so crowded?"

"Are you insane? You don't call the emergency room to make a reservation. If you're having a heart attack, we should go now."

"Ok, ok. Burp. Oh. Hm, I seem to be feeling better.  Can you take the ice cream out so that it can soften?"

(By the way, the line of the night went to my father who was consulting with me over the phone and asked, "When the pain stopped, did you by any chance see the image of the Virgin Mary?" and when I said that I didn't, commented, "that's too bad. We could have made a fortune.")

But this whole thing got me thinking.  

I think that if you're going to break the news to someone that they are candidate number one for a stroke, you should do it in a way that won't give them a fucking stroke.  Like gently.  With some images of waves gently tossing a sea shell on the sandy beach in the background, instead of the opening scenes of Natural Born Killers.  And I really think that as the owner and queen of the magazine, Oprah could have done a better job of preparing me for this news.  She could have invited me over to her house, given me a few of her favorite things or a million and then, as we called Gayle to let her know that she's been replaced as Oprah's best friend, she could have whispered it in my ear. 

I hope that we both can learn from this experience.

The Details Are Not Important. And the Devil is in Them.

This morning, Husbandrinka and I interrupted our state of marital bliss and had a fight. As most of our fights are, it was very stupid and he was completely in the wrong. The details are not important, what's important is that you back me up completely and be available to testify in my defense before a Grand Jury. Thank you.

OH, Ok! I'll fill you in, but wow, are you nosy!

Last week, I was blow drying my luxurious (and as far as I know, lice-free) hair in my bedroom. What? The lice? More on this later on the week, when I stop vomiting. Anyway, since we're in a recession and do not have a power strip, I had to unplug the lamp to plug in my hair dryer. And then when I unplugged my hair dryer, I didn't plug the lamp back in because I was busy solving the current economic crisis, or irrigating the Sahara or possibly I saw a shiny object. As I said, the details are irrelevant.

So, this morning, Husbandrinka goes to turn on the light, and apparently because the lamp is not plugged in, the light does not turn on. I point this out to him, in my best Joe the Plumber manner. And you know what he says? He says "you should plug it back in, since you're the one who unplugged it and it is your responsibility." Exhibit 1, ladies and gentlemen.

I know many girls dream of being brides. I dreamed of my husband giving me an opening by telling me that I'm not doing my job, so that I can point out all the things that he has not done. I am so excited that my moment has come, except now I am like Cindy Brady on that quiz show where she is hypnotized by the red light and just keeps staring at it, unable to speak. Except I don't have those pigtails that she had and I'm not lisping, nor am I wearing a miniskirt. I am also not a prepubescent fictional TV character, but perhaps you get where I am going with this.

This is my big moment and the only thing that I can think of is, "Well, when you take your dish in to the sink, you always leave it in the sink and it is your responsibility to put it in the dishwasher!"

And guess what he says? I'll give you a hint: it is the most infuriating thing that a man can ever say this side of "are you getting your period or something?". He says absolutely nothing, just goes along doing what he was doing. In the dark, but still.

So I resolve right then and there not to plug in that lamp, ever. EVER. I am enraged and engorged. With rage. As a matter of fact, I think I'll unplug every other lamp in our apartment and take the batteries out of the flashlight for good measure. But then I change my mind and plug it in, to prove that I am the rational one. And I call him to show him. See? I plugged it in! Yay, me.
He looks at me as though I were crazy and says, "Well, now you have something to blog about." Like I'd ever blog about that.