Potty mouth...

I can't... no wait...let me start over.

I won't... stop swearing.  

A "Gosh Darn It" when I accidentally drop my $200 hairdryer on the bathroom floor doesn't fit nearly as well as a "F-cking D-mmit all to H-ll."  

I actually like to swear. It lets me express the magnitude of how I feel. And sometimes my feelings are bigger than an "Ooooh shoot!"

Like yesterday, when a certain young man on the street couldn't be bothered to hold the door to Duane Reade for Oliver and me. He let the door slam into my stroller and woke Oliver up from his nap.  I felt a "Hey thanks, A$$-Hole!" was completely appropriate. 

Or, like last week when I was in the grocery store, and I asked the woman who was stocking the food where the Kosher Salt was. She replied with a snarky, "How the hell should I know." To me, only a f$cking whoresack could act like that to a customer.

I don't just use swearing for insults. I use them to express my feelings as well.

For example: Stub my toe = F-CK!!!!! Can you really just say oops?

I come from a long line of cussers.  My Mom, my Dad, hell even my Grandma swears with the best of them. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like an 88 year old woman calling a taxi driver an A$$ Hole for aggressively taking a yellow light.

Brett has asked me tone this habit of mine down before Oliver starts to talk.  

I'll try. I want to be a d-mn good mother. I really do think it's important for me to model how a lady acts since eventually hopefully Oliver will find one to marry. 

But I know, and Brett knows, and you know, there's no changing a leopard or zebra's dots or whatever the f-ck they have.  

I'm gonna burn in h-ll.

Father time, Mother Nature, and whoever else is in charge of the weather...

Yesterday NYC had the most shitacious weather. 

 

It wasn't snowing.  

It wasn't raining. 

It was pissing slush.

All.

Day.

Long.

Even Oliver was annoyed. 

Here's his face to prove it. 

He's sick and tired of being bundled and unbundled.

And frankly, I'm sick of it too. 

Memo to Springtime: Get here fast, or Mama S'mores is moving to Hawaii.

Who do I think I am?

I am a city-living, dining out, beauty routine junkie who can't live without getting her mani/pedi's and brow waxes. I know the latest jeans to trot around town in (Denim Leggings), the juiciest lip glosses to frost your lips with (T. LeClerc) and the most amazing stiletto in town to sum it all up (Balenciaga Fishbone Slingbacks).  

The other day, Brett remarked how domesticated I have become.

Domesticated? Could he have hurled a bigger insult at me?

Fine, I haven't worked in a few months. So what if I have time to frequent the grocery store and clip some coupons. Cooking is a good thing and it saves so many calories. I can watch my carb vs protein intake and make sure I'm getting enough daily vitamins and minerals. So what if I see this as a healthy new obsession...my nails and hair will for sure prosper from what Brett calls "domesticated."

Okay, fine. I've decided I like the living room organized as to how I go about my day. I want the kitchen pots stacked properly and our bed made in the morning. I don't think it's bad to not want left over shaving cream bits or toothpaste in the sink. I want things put away. I had dinner ready as Brett walked in the door last night. Yup. I sure did. And, I have the whole weeks dinner menus already planned and prepped. I started a database of weeknight recipes so that Sunday grocery store runs are efficient as hell. Don't even get me started on how I do the laundry.

These are no small things. I'm not a natural housewife.  

I admit, there are days when I haven't been so graceful while working at my new gig, and sometimes, I've even been resentful that Brett gets to go to work in the morning. But I really have to give it up to my husband for sticking by me through this most unexpected time.  He's a champ like no other and goes above and beyond for Oliver and me on a daily basis.

Domesticated or whatever, I'm getting my hair highlighted this weekend. 

Old habits die hard.

Check your kids homework...

My friend Vinny sent this to me in an email yesterday.  I found it hillarious.

After the picture, there was a letter to the teacher from the Mommy.

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it.  

Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole.  It is supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot.

From now on, I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in. 

Sincerely, 

Mrs. Smith

My life has changed 002

For as long as I've been the special lady in Brett's life, I've wanted him to have fun and memorable birthdays. They were always very easy to plan. Brett loves looking and feeling dapper so I usually gifted him shirts from Barneys and goodies from Kiehls. A solid steak frites satisfies Brett's tummy like nothing else, and since there's no dearth of french bistros in NYC, dinner was always filled with possibility.

This year, well, things are a bit different.

Instead of waking up on his birthday weekend and lolly-gagging around the apartment until noon, we were up, just as we've been up every morning, at 6:45 am. At 7:30 we were getting spit up on and at 8:30 we had already done the laundry. By 12:30 we were getting spit up on again and at 2:30 we were at Barnes & Noble with the rest of Tribeca and their sticky kids. 4:00 came and we were home and showering, getting ready for our big date night out. 

At 5:45, 15 minutes before our babysitter got to our apartment we were showered, dressed and ready to rock. Our instructions were clear, written down, and within 3 minutes, we were out the door headed to the subway. No friends, no Oliver. Just us. Brett and me. Let's talk about us. Us, us, us. Let's flirt, steal a few kisses, be coy, and pretend like we're on a second date. Giggles, swooning, dreaming...yum.

For this to work however, the first step to success meant we had to get out of the neighborhood because I am so damn sick of Tribeca I could die. So, off to Brooklyn we went. We were at the restaurant by 6:45 and we hung out at the wine bar around the corner until they called us. Wine. Perfect. I love you.

After downing my volcanic, earthy, dry red in 10 minutes we sat there talking about how everything in our life has changed. Instead of giggles, swooning and dreaming we laughed at Oliver's most current habits: his meat-head like grunts when he wants our attention, his want to walk even though he can't even flip over yet, and how he furls his brow, just like his daddy, as if to say to the other babies, "What the f$ck man?"

We watched a couple flirt... they were clearly on their 2nd date.  Amateurs. 

It was 7:30 when our name was called and while ordering dinner, we realized most of our friends probably hadn't even showered yet- it was still too early for their night to begin. By 8:45 we were paying the check and all we wanted to do was get to the subway and crawl into bed. 

We were home by 9:15, a full 45 minutes before we were expected, but it was freezing outside and it's not like we could just walk around. A movie would end too late, and coffee was not an option. So we just cut it short and called it a night. 

As we entered our building three adorable girls in their late 20's passed us on their way out. They were coiffed, slicked and glossed, all ready to jump start their night. They were probably going to the newest restaurant in the West Village.  They had loads of perfume on and they were oh yeah, oh yeah, working it. Brett and I were in bed by 9:45.  

As Brett whispered thank you for the best birthday ever, I laughed and said, yes, it was a perfect Saturday.

I could spend everyday with my boys.