Tag Archives: style

Getting Our Ducks in a Row

Last year, while on our annual family vacation in the Outer Banks (moment of silence to mourn the fact that we will be missing this year’s trip, which of course makes us sad but it’s obviously for a very good reason– so my vagina can be torn in half), Eric stumbled upon these two ducks in a novelty store.

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Not sure if I’ve mentioned this before (every third post), but Eric loves animals. Obsessed. The obsession is mostly focused on dogs, but he really does not discriminate. Just yesterday I was forced to watch a minutes-long video of a kangaroo on a golf course, sniffing a ball and then slinking away, which elicited a slightly amused chuckle from me, and a maniacal cackle-giggle from Eric, who couldn’t help but repeatedly yell, “I mean, just look at him hop! Look at him! Hoppin’ away like a little hoppin’ machine!”

So he came across these ducks last year and, as you can imagine, absolutely could not in any way control his excitement because a) THEY’RE DUCKS! and b) they happen to have our names. Without even thinking to look at the price tag he grabbed them and declared, “This probably goes without saying, but we need these.”

Now, sometimes I am wiling to be indulgent of this animal addiction, such as last week when I purchased this giraffe toilet paper holder for our bathroom and named it Jaben, after our South African safari guide, for no other reason than I knew it would make Eric smile and think of me with gratitude every time he sits on the pot, which is important in a marriage.

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Other times, such as when he purchased this Corgi welcome mat without my knowledge, IMG_0530.jpeg, I threaten to burn the product should it be anywhere in my direct line of sight (rug has since been moved from front door entrance to his side of the bed, halfway tucked under the bed frame. I can technically still see it when I use the bathroom or clean the bedroom (once a year) but placing his feet on that rug first thing every morning makes him so happy that I don’t quite have the heart to burn it, so it stays. For now.)

As for the ducks, I took one look and said, “We really don’t need more clutter in the apartment.” He stared back at me, expression blank, and then, after 30 seconds of careful contemplation, formed his astute counter-argument: “BUT THEY SAY OUR NAMES!”

I was not convinced, and reminded him of the concerted effort we had been putting into de-cluttering our tight living space, already occupied by a ceramic hedgehog, a camel carrying a dowry, three llamas (two from Abu Dhabi and one Peruvian, and may god have mercy on your soul if you can’t tell the difference), four elephant figurines, a life-sized corgi pillow, and the aforementioned corgi mat.

“Ok, ok, you’re right,” he conceded. So I gave him a warm smile and soft kiss on the cheek to show appreciation for his sacrifice, directly after which he walked up to the cashier and purchased both ducks.

So fine. Now we have these ducks.

But ever since bringing them home, something has bothered me about them (like, aside from the fact that we have the world’s most unnecessary wooden birds taking up our tight, NYC living space), and I haven’t been able to place my finger on it. Then yesterday, almost a year after purchase, I finally figured it out:

THEY’RE WEARING THE WRONG NAMES.

Yes, those were the name tags they were wearing in the store, aka the names the artist thought were accurate and appropriate for each duck. But if you look closely, you’ll see this was a classic mix up.

The one wearing the Emily tag is a short, stumpy, spry little yapper. Literally has NO LEGS. Its lips are open, chatting away, likely about something related to a dog walking by or an hours-long, in-depth retell of “the weirdest dream I had last night.” Eyes are open wide with wonder, like it can’t wait to discover what the day will bring– a kangaroo on a golf course? A corgi playing in a puddle? A squirrel having a good scratch? THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!

This duck is clearly Eric.

Meanwhile, who is this excitable little Eric duck yapping away to, and clearly being tuned out by? (And to be clear, it’s not a purposeful, spiteful tune-out–  this lanky duck is clearly involuntarily stuck in a thought-loop, berating itself for something embarrassing it did 12 years ago and wondering if the gaggle of geese who witnessed the transgression are still talking about it).

That’s right, this long, chicken-leg-limbed yet too-large-footed figure is clearly Emily duck, staring into the abyss, silent, minding its own business and probably confused about something. If you look closely, its dark, beady little shell-shocked eye screams inner panic attack and the stiff, craned neck says “Hi, I am uncomfortable.” This duck is also the color of pee, which more literally represents what I spend half my time needing to do.

So I switched the name tags and now all is right with the world.

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Best purchased we* ever made.

*we = really 100% Eric, against my will, but now that I’m amused by them, I will take half credit for their discovery and purchase because MARRIAGE.

 

Things Should Be Called What They Are, Part 1

So I actually have two stories that fall into the “Things Should Be Called What They Are” category but I will post the second one at a later date because I’ve learned that when one post gets too long, you people don’t read it, even if I’ve done my damnedest to keep it entertaining throughout.

But fine, you guys are lazy and busy. I get it. I don’t read stuff either. Because Instagram! And texting! And staring at walls blankly whilst in the grips of crippling anxiety!

Anyway a few months ago I was working on my baby registry with my sister, when I noticed something was missing from her list of newborn essentials.

“I’m no expert, but doesn’t the baby need, like, clothes?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she answered, “But Mom will get you all those things when she takes you for the layette.”

“Oh, ok, cool,” I said. And then, the second she left the room, I googled, “What the fuck is a layette?” because seriously WHAT THE FUCK IS A LAYETTE.

I’ll tell you what the fuck a layette is– it’s buying stuff.

That’s it.

There is absolutely no reason for it to have a name other than “we’re going to go to a store and buy some shit the baby can wear for a few months so she’s not always naked and so your neighbors don’t call the police.” I guess referring to it as a “layette” makes it sound fancy and whimsical, but I personally found it unnecessarily confusing and, for lack of a better word, dumb. And to be honest, it caused me a bit of anxiety, like there must be something wrong with me and it must say something about what kind of mother I’m going to be if I don’t even know what a layette is. Which I know is crazy and totally over-analyzing but hi have we met?

But ok. Layette. Free stuff! 52a0e87bb80b3b54af4cff0f2a2266bb (for me. Stupidly expensive for my parents.shrug_1f937)

So I gave my belly a gentle pat and whispered, “Don’t worry baby girl, I’ll have this shit all figured out by the time you get here,” which was obviously a lie but luckily she knows zero things.

My mom and I went to Lesters on the Upper East Side, where you make an appointment to have a person walk you through what you’ll “need” (in quotes because we all know the only thing newborns NEED are diapers and a boob). Having already done this with my sister, my mom warned me that the saleslady was going to be pushy and try to get us to buy a bunch of unnecessary crapola, so let’s just be as practical as possible. This is easy enough for me– I am generally the queen of practical. What amused me is that my mom was giving me this warning, as when it comes to buying stuff she is about as practical as she is speedy (that’s funnier if you know her and have ever tried to walk alongside her. It’s literally impossible to stay at her snail’s pace if you have more than one working leg.)

So we’re halfway through the layette, and I’m being a total Practical Patty and turning down the more ridiculous items being presented (“Oh, that’s something I throw over my shoulder that she’s going to repeatedly barf on? It’s literal purpose is barf collection? Yeah I’ll take the plain, cheap rags then and forgo the patterened organza and no I don’t need it embroidered because WHAT IS HAPPENING”).

Mom was also totally behaving herself, aside from a few absurd comments such as suggesting that this onesie I picked out was “really more for a boy”:

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Me: “Why do you say that, dare I ask?”

Mom: “Well, the animals at the bottom. They’re boy animals.”

To be clear– these. She meant these:

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I nodded and tried not to be disturbed by the fact that my mom lives in a world where a girl can’t possibly sport a monkey in a bee t-shirt riding a polka-dotted crocodile, and quietly placed it in the “definitely buying this with your money” pile.

Mom was also confused by my excitement over this get-up, also found in the boys section (because as we all know, fruit is gender-specific), but honestly what is NOT exciting about YAWNING BANANAS HAVING A HEARTY MORNING STRETCH?!!

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If you can’t appreciate a sleepy banana waking up to greet the day then your soul is dead and I’m sorry.

But my favorite part, in terms of Mom reminding ME to be practical, was when the saleslady presented us with baby’s “going home from the hospital” outfit choices. That’s fine, I can get on board with purachsing something cute and special for this moment, but I drew the line when she tried to pair it with a $75 matching blanket.

Me: “Oh, I really don’t need the blanket. I already have some blankets.”

Lady: “Yes, but this one MATCHES the outfit.”

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Mom: “Yeah, it’s cute, I like how it matches. Look how cute that is.”

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Mom: “Why don’t you just get it?”

Me (confused, thinking the plan was to be practical seeing as though SHE TOLD ME THE PLAN WAS TO BE PRACTICAL): “Because, again, I have blankets. Plenty of blankets. And it will be August.”

Saleslady: “But what about for a picture? It’s nice to have a matching blanket and take a nice picture.”

Mom: “Yeah, for a picture, it’ll be cute if it matches. You can put her on the blanket in the matching outfit.”

Me: fckery.gif

I did not get the blanket.

And personally, I feel my mom owes me $75.

But all that minor nonsense aside, the layette was a surprisingly pleasant expereince. I say “surprisingly” because generally I hate shopping and making decisions and being overwhelmed and doing stuff that isn’t on my couch.

But I totally recommend it for all you first time moms out there. Let me be clear, though– I’m not recommending “doing a layette,” I’m recommending what it truly is: “getting some shit for your newborn and letting someone else pay for it.”

I guess “layette” looks better on the Lester’s signage.

P.S. Thanks again Mom I lovvvvvveeeee youuuuuuuu!!!!!!! 2c469354-bcfa-488f-bd41-a860f9f87e38-596-0000001613c064d72c469354-bcfa-488f-bd41-a860f9f87e38-596-0000001613c064d72c469354-bcfa-488f-bd41-a860f9f87e38-596-0000001613c064d7img_8546-5

 

I Am Who I Am

For my bridal shower a while back, a friend got me a gift certificate to Journelle, a high-end lingerie shop that sells incredibly sexy pieces. Think this:

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Last night I realized I still hadn’t used the gift card, so needless to say Eric was excited to hop onto the website with me and peruse their merchandise.

I bought these:

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SIDE POCKETS!!!! img_7492

 

 

 

 

 

The problem with being crazy is that when you do something “crazy,” everyone thinks you’ve gone crazy

And yes, I’m allowed to refer to my mental illness as crazy but no, you are not. Unless you too have a mental illness, and if so, well then, my crazy kindred, I suggest pouring yourself a specialty drink I like to call “The Crazy Kook’s Cocktail” (spoiler alert: it’s wine straight from the bottle) and enjoying the following texts because I’m sure you’ve had to have similar conversations with your loved ones, which are on the one hand extremely sweet because you know they care, but at the same time make you want to throw your wine-bottle-cocktail against a window because AREN’T I JUST ALLOWED TO BE QUIRKY WITHOUT BEING INSANE?!

For context, I have been weaning off my Prozac (with the VERY close monitoring and responsible care of my therapist) so I think everyone around me is on extra high alert. But (remarkably) I feel totally fine. Well, totally fine for ME. I have an innate baseline functioning status of “meh.”

For more context, please know that I did not just wake up this morning and arbitrarily decide to hack off my hair (although if I did, I still don’t think that’d be insane). The decision to donate my hair is one I made over 5 months ago, and I have since been growing it out, itching for the day I could finally make the cut because I was starting to look like a mermaid (the washed-up on shore, tangled in slimy bramble kind, not the Ariel-singing-on-a-rock kind). So while the “do it yourself” aspect was somewhat spontaneous, the intention to lop off almost a foot of hair had been planned for a while now.

Finally, for clarity, I don’t blame Eric for being initially alarmed. (He also wasn’t the only one– I got an immediate text from Zack, and the only reason I didn’t get one from Mom, I’m sure, is because she is golfing/mahjonging/chardonnay-ing and hasn’t seen the post yet). I know Eric’s concern comes from a place of love (and straight up alarm, because he sort of committed to a long life with me– sucka!). But it is a frustrating byproduct of mental illness that if you do something “kinda weird” while feeling good, it’s a sign you’re losing your goddamn mind.

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So in the end, all is fine, espeically beause we got to remininsce about Eric’s mullet.

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Also, in hidsight and in fairness, I suppose my intial presentation of the situation in that first text was confusing and alarming, but I guess I overestimated how immune Eric is to my eccentricity.

Regardless, in the future, I’d like to spend less time defending my crazy and more time enjoying the fact that what I did was kind of weird, and being weird is awesome. I feel great!

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#ShorthairNOWdontcare (thanks to Jose at Aveda Salon, who actually said I did a pretty decent* home job so SUCK IT).

*He reined in the word “decent” and replaced it with “not terrible, and next time don’t” after he saw how excited I was by his compliment.

 

 

Here’s How to Take a Great Idea and Ruin It

I thought cutting off all my own hair, alone and by myself, while listening to Kesha’s “Praying” would be super therapeutic (and it was! For exactly 5 seconds), since the only other time I cut my own hair was in the middle of the night when I was 6, after which I promptly blamed my brother, so I never got to really bask in the glory of my work.

Newsflash: There is no glory. I look very very bad.

Turns out there is a reason hair dressers do this for you. One reason is that THEY KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING. Another reason is that they have a straight angle, and can therefore cut the hair evenly. As you can see in the haphazard-looking nubs above the hair bands, I did not accomplish this. It looks like someone cut my hair with a samurai sword.

The good news is that some child, through the nonprofit Children With Hair Loss, will receive a lovely 11-inch wig, which is a small price to pay for me looking like a gnome.

Now, Jose at Aveda Salon, you better hold on to your hat. Our appointment today will be more therapy than haircut.

#iwasonlysupposedtocut8inches #oops #shorthairdontcarefreakingthefuckout #shorthairDONTDOTHISATHOME (oh, you would never do this at home, because you’re smart and rational? HOW NICE FOR YOU.)

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This Isn’t Even Embarrassing It’s Just My Life

As I’m leaving an hour-long tutoring session…

Kid (to her mom): “Mom, you always say I have to take those off (points to nape of my neck) but Miss Emily didn’t!!”

Me (confused): “Wait, what?”

Parent: “Something tells me Miss Emily did not know it was there. And I was going to try to let her leave without embarrassing her, but I guess that’s not happening now.” (opens drawer, grabs scissors, cuts this off my sweater and hands it to me):

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Quit While You’re Ahead

Me, to Eric, after a friend commented that my loose “sack” dresses (the only thing I wear in summer) make me look like a grandma: “Does it bother you that I dress comfortably and not sexy?”

Eric: “Babe, are you kidding? Of course not. Wear whatever you want.”

Me: “Awww, that’s sweet. You’re the best.”

Eric: “Yeah. You think I even notice what you wear? I’ve never noticed once.”

Nope stop talking.

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