June 14, 2018 § Leave a comment
I should have known. I should have known by now that God punishes those of us who have lived long, fruitful lives, birthed babies, and decide to act like it’s 2003 again.
A few weeks ago I got invited to a party in LA on a Saturday night. Somehow the stars aligned and I found myself in Beverly Hills at a fancy hotel drinking cocktails at 7pm.
I was so very, very happy.
When we arrived at the party I made the intentional, mature decision to stick with one drink for the night. No mixing. I stuck with that rule. We danced. We drank. We socialized. We drank some more. The night was so fun.
The next morning was so not.
…because it turns out that drinking JAMESON for 6 hours straight is not the best move for a mother of three who is sleep deprived, out of drinking shape, and clearly suffering some sort of residual effects from a previous head trauma.
Like, seriously. Life is choices.
We woke up at 9, about 5 hours after we went to bed. After spending 20 minutes making sure my head wasn’t actually going to explode all over my fancy hotel pillow, I called the front desk to ask if they had any Advil. They told me there was some in the “first aid kit in the mini bar”.
This was a lie. And after 10 minutes of crawling across the room trying to first find the mini bar (it was not, it turns out, in the safe, which is somehow where I kept ending up) and this mythical first aid kit, I called back and they clarified, oh no, no Advil on site.
But there was a Target a few blocks down the road. It had Gatorade and Advil.
In an act of pure willpower, I pulled myself upright, put my shoes on, and made it out the door. I had to take a break on the way to the elevator.
I also couldn’t find a hair elastic. I had to hold onto the ground to keep from falling over. Moments like this captured on film are a great way to remind yourself about who your real friends are. F U Juliet.
I didn’t see this coming because our fancy hotel room had, of course, wonderful climate control, but it was about 500 degrees outside. And very, very sunny.
Our hotel was located on La Cienega. For those of you unfamiliar with LA, La Cienega is one of those quintessential six lane thoroughfares you find in LA that is essentially a highway, except there are traffic lights and it winds through miles of strip malls and car dealerships instead of being a designated freeway.
It was hot. It was bright. It was loud. It was completely exposed. It was, without a doubt, the longest four blocks of my life.
i call this one “hell is la cienega”
I had to cross various intersections of La Cienega 5x. I almost lost my life 5x.
I am pretty sure that this walk took more out of me than either of the Half Ironmans I have completed, or any of the marathons I have run. This was a physical and mental feat of epic proportions.
But finally….FINALLY…I arrived.
I walked in, head pounding, stomach revolting, pajama pants clinging to my sweaty legs. Please God, I prayed, please don’t let me puke in Target.
I found the Gatorade. It was cold. I cracked it open in the aisle and poured that nectar of the gods down my throat. And then on my way to find the Advil, I realized that I was in the Beverly Center Target, aka the BEST FUCKING TARGET ON THE PLANET.
Even in my horrific, confused, mummified condition I couldn’t fight it. The racks of clothing, the kitchen appliances, the shark-themed onesies, the rows and rows of mugs (!)…all of it.
Did I have the wherewithal to go to the dressing room? Of course not. Did that stop me from throwing random articles of clothing and accessories into my basket? Of COURSE not. Did I absolutely need that pineapple-shaped teething ring for the baby? OF COURSE I DID.
…and before I knew it:
Let me tell you what that is not a picture of. That is not a picture of *just* a Gatorade and Advil.
And that, my friends, is how I ended up with this incredible pair of pants.
June 5, 2018 § Leave a comment
Meet Monty Don. My new favorite TV personality and show on Netflix.
Contrary to what the above picture suggests, the show is not about a man that hides or lives in the bushes.
Apparently horticulture plays a different role in England. I learned this because once Netflix decided to point me in the direction of Monty Don (real name), and then took note of the fact that I binged it straight out of the gate, it has since continued to recommend a plethora of other British gardening shows. Much like cooking shows in the US. England even has a world renowned diploma courses in gardening, run by this lady.
It is serious business across the pond.
Monty Don is (arguably) the biggest celebrity horticulturalist in England. (Don’t go around spouting this as fact, there are lots of other British shows with exactly this format starring other A-list horticulturalists, it could be a contentious issue. I don’t know.) And there are some serious fangirl/fanboy moments when he surprises people at the door to tell them that he is there to guide them through the process of re-landscaping their garden. That alone is reason enough to watch.
But Monty Don is great because unlike other shows that bring in teams of landscapers to completely transform a yard, he provides basic tips for how and where to plant, prune, and nurture your garden, but leaves it up to the gardener to build it on their own. It’s very DIY, which means the episodes span over the course of a few months, but there is something refreshing about watching a labor of love that results in the beautification of just a small spot of earth.
I also can’t get over the way that Brits say “oregano”.
May 7, 2018 § Leave a comment
Tonight on Overheard in the Bathtub:
“EDDIE! DRINK THE POTION! TURN INTO A WOMAN!”
May 1, 2018 § Leave a comment
I just want to live a life where I NEED one of these.
April 24, 2018 § Leave a comment
A few years ago I installed some random free meditation app on my phone. It was a stressful time, and I scheduled it to send me a push notification me at the witching hour: 7am. 15 minutes before I was supposed to have everyone fed, dressed, packed, and in the car to make it to school drop off/work on time. A reminder to breathe instead of explode.
It didn’t really work, but I never took it off my phone. So I still get the notifications at 7am.
This morning, as I was in the process of trying to figure out why my foot kept sticking to the bottom of my pant leg (mysterious, still unidentified brown goo, source unknown), while simultaneously yelling instructions across the house at my four year old who was letting me know that “EDDIE IS CUTTING THE BABY AND DADDY’S PHONE WITH HIS (plastic) KNIFE!!!!!!”, my phone dinged on the dresser next to me.
No shit. Thanks for the reminder.
March 15, 2018 § Leave a comment
When you let your 4 year old go on Amazon with you and tell her she can choose the new shower curtain.
Also, unicorns aside, I had no idea that $60 shower curtains were an actual thing.