On Friday night, after a lovely dinner of lovely Indian food with some lovely friends, my bra promptly exploded. You know, as bras do.
You didn’t know? Right, me neither. Because bras don’t actually do that. At least 99.999999% of the time you put on a bra, you can expect it to not implode. But as I’m sure you’ve learned by now, odds are not my friend.
Unfortunately, this was not a fun, flirty fembot type bra explosion. That would’ve been awesome.
No, this was more of a horrific, confusing turn of events, because at first, it appeared as if my boobs themselves were the source of combustion.
We came home from dinner and when I went to the bathroom sink to wash up, I promptly noticed that my shirt was drenched in the chest region. I wish I could say I was wearing black, or any dark color for that matter, thus making it less obvious/mortifying. I was not.
“Oh, that’s embarrassing, I’m leaking milk” I thought, before my brain cells, wading through the sea of tequila I’d consumed, came up for air and informed me that I had stopped breastfeeding my baby 8 months prior.
Eric, cued by my ensuing screams, came racing to the bathroom to see what was happening, but quickly lost interest once he realized I had ripped off my bra in panic, not invitation.
Utterly confused by the sheer volume and odd consistency of the unidentifiable liquid, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that I must be experiencing some weird, unfounded symptom of early onset menopause or early onset death.
Luckily, a quick google search confirmed that oily liquid exploding from your boobs is pretty fucking weird, but probably not an emergency and also probably it’s definitely not coming from your boobs, you idiot. Check your bra.
Further googling revealed that some push up bras are made with packets of oil inside them, and while EXTREMELY RARE, they CAN burst, and then leak. Everywhere.
Bra-blast is more likely to happen if the garment is very old, so this is definitely not my fault because I bought this bra only like two decades months ago, guys!!!
I think I wore it to prom.
So, ladies (and/or men. No discriminating here!), this is a PSA to update your lingerie. You never know when it might attack.
Me (inspecting the artwork in Nora’s backpack): “Hey! You crossed out my name on this drawing and wrote Dad’s name instead?! You like him better than me?!”
Nora: “Mommy, no! That would be mean!”
Me: “I know I know I was just teasing.”
Nora: “It’s just that I thought I was gonna make just a messy scribble scrabble picture so I made it for you but then I started working hard and the picture turned out really beautiful so I made it for Dad instead.”
K well that’s actually way more fucked up than the thing I said.
When I was in PreK, I said “damn” in class and my teacher, Mrs. Marx, washed my mouth out with soap. It was absolutely traumatizing and I will never forget the taste of those pearly pink generic-brand suds on my tongue.
I gagged. I cried. Pretty sure I puked. But more than anything, I was extremely embarrassed. I despised Mrs. Marx for the rest of the year.
Now that I am older, and have the experience of being both a teacher and a mom, I can look back and see with clear vision what Mrs. Marx was doing. She saw a reckless kid, and, rightfully so, it worried her. Kids need boundaries, and she wanted to create some for me. She knew I would have an easier time in life if I understood the consequences of my actions, took behavioral expectations seriously, and generally tried to fall in line with societal norms. She was trying desperately, in her own way, to help me.
So shout out to Mrs. Marx— now that I have matured and gained the wisdom of perspective, and am raising a PreK child of my own, I see exactly what you were doing, and you know what? IT DIDN’T FUCKING WORK YOU SICK TWISTED CUNT.
So, I have to say– I never in a million years thought I would be that mom who goes to Disney World and experiences that cliched sense of magic upon entering the park with her kids, but we took Nora and Sophie a couple months ago and as it turns out, guys, I was absofuckinglutely right.
From a young age (because I was crotchety wise beyond my years), I swore up and down that once I became a mom, there would be ONE AND ONLY ONE trip to Disney World with my kids, and it would happen when all my children (back then I thought I’d have 4 or 5, because I was very stupid) reached an age where they would actually remember and appreciate the trip.
This would serve two purposes: 1) not blowing a crapload of money on something that wouldn’t even be long-term remembered, and 2) me not having to do that shit twice.
I know I sound like a complete grouch and definitely in the running for non-mom of the year, but guys I’m an introvert and it’s fucking DISNEY WORLD. It’s chaos and noise and the kind of go-go-go energy that makes me want to find the nearest bunker and bury myself beneath a mountain of ammo and canned goods.
So guess who couldn’t fucking WAIT to go?
This guy!
At some point when I was not around, which is truly when he does his best work, Eric promised Nora that we could do a “quick, easy trip” (no such thing) to Disney World during our 2-week winter vacation in Florida (my parents have a house in Palm Beach. Because we’re basic). I came home one night to Nora spastic-leaping into my arms, psyched as fuck, yelling, “DADDY SAID WE CAN GO TO DISNEY WORLD!!!!!”
I pulled Eric aside for the “I really wish you had consulted with me first” whisper-lecture, the venom in my words masked by a wide, fake smile and sugar-sweet tone, so as not to tip Nora off to the fact that I was going to indeed murder her father in his sleep that night.
But the damage was done. Disney was promised, Nora was beside herself with glee, and I was surely not going to be the grinch who stole Magic Kingdom. I put Eric in charge of all the logistics and planning, and basically took myself out of the entire equation other than promising I would show up (my basic approach to motherhood in general), and I would do it with a smile on my face, no matter how many extra anti-depressants I had to stash in my Minnie Mouse fanny pack.
I bitched about the trip for the entire 2-3 months leading up to it, to anyone who would listen, but it was always met with the same pat response from my friends: “I know, it’s SO expensive and it’s a LOT, but I’m telling you, when you see the look on Nora’s face, it will all be worth it.”
Actual footage of the look on Nora’s face:
And I know what you’re thinking…ok, that’s one photo, you caught her in a bad moment, it’s a long day at the park, etc etc etc let’s defend that innocent little lavender-bespectacled cutie.
No guys. She was cranky as fuck almost the entire time we were there. Here is more actual footage of her “enjoying” the huge parade that, thanks to our “amazing timing, Nora!” started as soon as we entered the park. Literally all her favorite characters up close and in one place.
And that, my friends, is the look of someone who has never been more giddily excited to see anything EVER. But next to Eric is a freaked-out, totally overwhelmed little girl who doesn’t understand what the hell is happening, and wants to cry tears of confusion and overstimulation (which, don’t worry, she promptly did! I harnessed my own tears into a silent, internal soul-weeping, though, because maturity.)
No amount of parental hyping could sway her mood. We tried ice cream (worked for the entire 2 minutes she spent eating it, then immediately backfired in both her mood and pants), we tried stickers (mayhem when they lost their stick– thanks for nothing, Science), we tried reminding her how fortunate she was to live this life she gets to live (weird she wasn’t capable of that perspective, which I gained at approximately age 32).
Nothing worked. This kid was NOT having it.
At some point we came up with the brilliant idea of having her put on her Elsa costume, certain that a little princess flair would cause the tides of rage to turn.
No. But at least we now know what Elsa would look like in a mug shot, still tightly clutching her murder weapon.
I want to say things perked up in time for a festive dinner in the park, but here we are at 4:45pm “happy hour…”
The good news is that when we got to our hotel room, and encountered the awesome bunk beds that Nora specifically INSISTED we pay extra for, she was too scared to sleep in them and instead shared the king bed with Eric, while Sophie and I slept on the couch.
Anyway listen, guys, this post isn’t meant to be an “I told you so” to Eric (I already did that to his face. Repeatedly). I don’t actually relish being right in this situation. I am in fact very fortunate to be married to a man who is generally optimistic, is a total doer, and is ordered to happy to put in the planning and logistical work to make awesome experiences for our kids. If not for him, we’d end up doing way too much of my preferred activities (sitting; laying).
And at the end of the day, I can only look back and smile. I’m not sure we made the happiest memories, but Disney World turned out to be the location of Nora and Sophie’s first-ever communal nap, which is arguably its own kind of magic.
Me: “No no. Just Sophie. I couldn’t get on board with the name Sophia. To me, Sophie is a name for a sweet, happy little baby, while Sophia reminds me of the Golden Girl’s character, who was a total grouch and always had this judgy, fuck-off look on her face like–”
My youngest brother, Zack, married a wonderful woman named Julie in July 2022. Below is the speech I gave at their rehearsal dinner. It will become quickly obvious why I was not asked to speak at the actual wedding.
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Hello everyone, my name is Emily and I am Zack’s older sister. Older, but not old-EST, sister. That would be Steph. Steph is the one who is old.
For further context, my husband, Eric, will be officiating the marriage ceremony tomorrow, and since he has paid the great state of Connecticut $7 in order to obtain a “minister’s parking permit,” I guess that makes me the minister’s wife. Which makes the amount of cursing I’m about to do feel super weird, and I’m sorry.
As many of you know, Zack is the youngest of four children, and for those of you who are familiar with math, you understand that four is a fuck-ton of children.
Four kids is particularly excessive when it’s clear your parents were done, mentally and energy-wise, at two. Mom and Dad were already exhausted when the third, Jeremy, arrived, and by the time Zack was born, they had completely thrown in the child-rearing towel. It’s unfair, though, to say that Zack was raised by wolves, in that it’s insulting to wolves.
If you look back on the huge archive of home videos my parents recorded in our youth, you will see the births, first crawls, steps, words, and generally all major milestones in my, Steph’s, and Jeremy’s childhoods. What you will NOT see is any evidence of Zack’s existence. Then, suddenly, after a long gap in video recording, he makes his home-movie debut, at roughly age 3. What happened prior to age 3, no one knows.
Zack was left to fend for himself, which explains why on brother-sister camp visitation days I’d find him roaming the perimeter of Lake Winnipesaukee in a bathing suit that wasn’t his, wearing one teva, covered in weeks-old temporary body tattoos and smelling like washed up pond scum. It also explains the ‘fro hairstyle he rocked all through high school as DJ Cue, the creepy trunk of worms he kept in our basement, and the fact that he owns nary a shirt with sleeves.
What it does NOT explain is how he landed someone like Julie.
Which leads me to the thesis of this speech– how DID Zack land Julie?
I have a 3 year old at home and, you know kids, how they’re cute but pretty dumb? Well recently Nora heard us talking about “Uncle Zack’s wedding” and she asked me “but who is marrying Uncle Zack?” And please note, Julie and Zack have been together since before Nora was born, stay at our house together often, and one is rarely seen without the other.
“Well,” I asked Nora, “Who do you THINK would be marrying UncleZack?”
“I have NO idea” she replied, echoing all our sentiments.
“Well, who is he always with?” I asked.
“Oh- Aunt Julie!” she answered excitedly.
“That’s right!” I said.
And then, after a long contemplative pause, she asked “But who is MARRYING him??”
Because even this doe-eyed child, at the ripe age of 3, knowing essentially ZERO things about the world, deduced, quite reasonably, that there was no CHANCE her exceedingly normal and lovely Aunt Julie would choose to marry her under-showered, over-tanned, crazy Uncle Zack.
So why DID Julie choose Zack? To unpack this, I’m going to list a few popular reasons why a person would choose to bind her life to someone for eternity, and see if we can pinpoint Julie’s exact mindset when she agreed to marry a man whose feet, on a good day, resemble oven-roasted cauliflower**.
Number 1: Did Julie choose Zack because he’s charming?
To dispute this theory, allow me to tell you the story of how Zack and Julie met. My siblings and I were in the car on the way to our cousin’s wedding when I saw Zack perusing Julie’s dating profile. “She’s cute!” I declared. Write something good.”
“I’m just gonna write ‘hey’” he replied, at which point I told him if he wrote “hey,” I would throw his phone out the window to be shattered like the soul of any human who thinks “hey” is a good opener.
After suggesting that I quote “calm my tits,” Zack asked if I had a better idea. We happened to have just stopped in the middle of upstate nowhere and purchased some random roadside dried fruit (hashtag pre-covid), which led to a debate over the all-time best dried fruit. It was a LITTLE out of left field but totally authentic, so I told him to tell her of our argument, and ask her which dried fruit SHE thinks is the best. Of course, this worked like a charm.
And even though Zack weirdly and aggressively declared that her answer of “apricot” didn’t count because apricots are only available in dried form, which is, you know, abso-fucking-loutely not true, it’s this extremely charming little question that sparked their love story.
And it was MY question.
So no. Zack is not charming.
I am, though.
Number 2: Did Julie choose Zack because he’s romantic?
Another story comes to mind. After a long process of designing the perfect engagement ring, Zack finally got the finished product in hand, and then asked my advice on how to propose. At the time, Julie was in Florida with her entire family. I told him it would be awesome if he took a spontaneous flight to Florida and proposed in front of those closest to her. I said it’d be super romantic if he declared that once he got the ring in his hand, he simply couldn’t wait a second longer to start his life with her.
To which Zack responded, “yeah…she’ll know that’s not me. Whatever dude, I’ll just do it in the apartment.”
So no. Romantic he is not.
Number 3: Did Julie choose Zack because he is physically irresistible?
A few months ago Zack texted me, and I quote, “Dude. Be thankful you didn’t get Dad’s hemorrhoid gene. I got a real boysenberry goin here.”
He’s resistable.
Number 4: Did Julie choose Zack because he comes from a good family?
As you can already tell by how many times I’ve said “fuck” in this speech….no.
Let me tell you a little story which I think perfectly illustrates the juxtaposition between Julie’s polite, sophisticated, thoughtful nature versus our family of straight up bozos. A couple years ago while vacationing with us in the Outer Banks, Julie worked hard collecting a bevy of shells on the beach, which she then meticulously arranged next to the dining room table for everyone to enjoy. We all know Julie’s amazing eye for detail. It was a true work of art.
Later, Julie entered the living room visibly annoyed– which is rare form for Julie, so I knew something must have really pissed her off. I asked what was wrong and she explained that she had laid out all these shells for decor, and then when she left the room, (air quotes) *SOMEONE* (which was Julie’s polite way of saying “Jeremy”) just threw a bunch of empty take-out trash over them. She didn’t see it happen– only walked in later to find her shells covered by a pile of greasy Duck Deli boxes.
It was impossible for her to understand how anyone could be so clueless. I nodded in agreement and assured her of two essential truths– yes, her frustration was warranted, and yes, Jeremy is an idiot.
And I know this may seem like a small, random example of the kind of shit Julie has to put up with when dealing with our family, but I think about this incident ALL THE TIME when I contemplate how Julie is going to survive a lifetime of us.
I also think about it all the time because it was actually me. I threw the boxes on the shells. Honestly, Julie, I didn’t even notice they were there, and then when I saw how upset you were I was too scared to fess up, so I did what I’ve been doing since age 6– I lied and blamed it on Jeremy.
So no– Zack does not come from a good family.
All kidding aside, I’ve known Zack since his first day on earth. And I can assure you, Julie, from the bottom of my heart, that in picking Zack as your life partner, you have made an extraordinarily okay choice.
But no, despite how much I love to mess with him, in reality Zack is one of my favorite people on earth. My first instinct when he was born was to be fiercely protective of him (because, as noted earlier, no one else was), and he and I have maintained a very unique and deeply bonded relationship ever since. I’ve given Zack advice on everything from career (which he ignored, rightfully) to dating (which he took, wisely) and to this day he still turns to me in moments of doubt and paranoia, which for Zack is all of the moments.
At some point, he will realize what the rest of my family picked up on long ago- I know nothing! Zack is, in fact, the one who knows things. And does things. He is the family knower and doer, and believe me, we need one. We honestly could not live without him. And I mean that literally, because we would straight up starve.
But I also mean it figuratively, because he’s proven to be so much more than just the family dingleberry. The truth is, we know exactly why Julie chose you, Zack– you’re hilarious, you’re thoughtful, you’re real, solid, good human to the core. You’re incredibly intelligent but in the least intimidating way possible, and you’re all heart.
And the great thing about you, Julie, besides your warmth, sweetness, sophistication, and just overall incredibly-pleasant-to-be-around-energy, is how you enhance all of Zack’s best qualities. As your partner, he is his best self, but at the same time, and this is what I love most about your relationship– you absolutely allow and encourage him to be 100% himself, in all his absurdity. And of course, he in turn allows you to be YOURself, in all your glorious and endearing nerdiness.
So cheers to this amazing couple– may they double down on their love as consistently as Zack doubles down on butter. May their desire for one another last as long as it takes Zack to get to the point. May Julie love Zack with as much unbridled passion as she loves bricks.
You two just keep doing you. And Zack, my baby brother, from the bottom of my heart, congratulations on landing this most fabulous, gorgeous, kind, patient, phenomenal woman. You will have, undoubtedly, the most beautiful life with Julie.
Just don’t fuck with her shells.
**(It was an unfortunate coincidence that oven-roasted cauliflower was on the menu that night)
I know I made it seem in my last post like Sophie is getting the classic second-born shaft, but I am here to reassure you that we have made every effort to treat her and Nora equally. Eric and I are both second-borns, so we understand the importance of making the second child feel just as important as the first.
For example, when we did a newborn photo shoot for Nora, people commented that we wouldn’t do the same for the next kid, but JOKE’S ON YOU GUYS.
Last week I saw Funny Girl on Broadway, which I HIGHLY recommend because despite the cringy plot (really quite bad), Lea Michele’s performance absolutely blew my mind to the extent that I’m able to earmuff the rumors that she’s a card-carrying mean girl/bully/everything I hate about people/society/the world. They’re only rumors, after all, and they’ve only been verified by every single person she’s ever worked with, so obviously filing it under fake news. *adjusts headphones of convenience*
Anyway, as I do whenever I see a Broadway musical, I’ve been obsessively playing the catchiest song over and over again in my car to a degree that is certainly diagnosable as a mental condition. (But seriously, other people do this blast-a-song-and-scream-the-lyrics-on-repeat-thing, sometimes actually acting out the words with dramatic hand and head motions, right? What’s that? Yes, but they’re 9? Kkkkk.)
This ritual of playing a Broadway song ad nauseum has pretty much been my MO since seeing Rent in middle school, and I’m always so excited when I get a new opportunity to be weirdly obsessive. It’s my (arguably sad) idea of fun.
But you know what ruins fun?
Children.
Especially Even the ones you birth!
It is rare that I am in the car without one of my half-pint humans nowadays, so my opportunity to blast a song and weird-out is limited. Sophie’s fun-ruining is more manageable. She’s only 1, so her idea of crashing the party is simply to scream at the top of her lungs until you start desperately searching the car for an eject button (to eject/kill MYSELF, guys, not the baby! Jesus.)
After 13 months of her car screaming I have developed some semi-useful coping mechanisms such as day dreaming that I am anywhere but here on Earth, tearless crying (also known as soul-crying, which is far less satisfying than classic, outward sob-crying, but gotta keep those eyeballs unobstructed because hello I’m driving a small child and SAFETY), and praying to a rotation of gods (I’ve now sampled all religions, and it turns out there is no god who will rapid-fire respond to an SOS emoji text).
But Sophie isn’t actually the problem, because her age/obliviousness and the above coping mechanisms allow me to at least semi-pretend it’s not happening. You think a 4-year-old is going to let you get away with that shit, though?
The fuck she’s not.
Me: (plays “Don’t Rain on my parade”)
Nora: “Mom, what’s this song about?”
Me: “A girl chasing after a man her dream!”
Nora: “Was this song in the start of the show or the middle or the end?”
Me: “Middle.”
Nora: “But why?”
Me: “Because that’s how the person who wrote the show wrote it.”
Nora: “Did the girl who’s singing write the show?”
Me: “No.”
Nora: “Then who did?”
Me: “I…don’t actually know. But I can look it up later.”
Nora: “But why don’t you know?”
Me: “Because I don’t know everything.”
Nora: “Does Dad know everything?”
Me (laughs): “Definitely not.”
Nora: “Why’d you say ‘definitely not?’ Why’d you say it like that?”
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