First dance class

Na na na na, hey hey hey.....

Quick shout out to my bud, my Supernanny, and Everyone's Favorite Archeologist, Thomas. He left this morning on a three-week trip, and I'm already hyperventilating, not being able to Skype him every five minutes to discuss my three-year old's tantrums and my menstrual cramps. (Wow, no wonder you packed up your shit and ran off to Asia.)

Oh, TØ, you're a trooper.

I don't know what I'm going to do without you, but I can't wait to hear all about it!! :)

If it's free, it's for me

I've been wanting to visit Miami Childrens' Museum for a while. We drove down this morning with my friend "Schmaria"* and her daughter, Deborah. Debo and Malena are best friends, and like to walk around holding hands and screaming with joy.

The day was absolutely gorgeous. There was a blue, blue sky over us as we drove through Miami over to Watson Island. We parked, and were excited to discover that there was free parking.

Woo hoo! We saved THREE BUCKS!

We gave the kids a snack and headed into the museum, not realizing there was a major childrens' festival happening at the museum today. Everything was free, and there were all sorts of activities, and people on stilts, and creative things for the kids to do. It was fantastic.

We couldn't have gone on a better day. The kids had so much fun, and Schmaria and I always totally dork out together. I love Schmaria. We were sitting in a small playground at the museum, watching the kids run around, and I had just gotten us Pepsis out of a machine. Schmaria looks up and yells, "Hey, look! A Pepsi plane!"

Mind you, we've both worked in travel for years. We both currently work for online travel agencies.

I said "What?!" thinking, well, we're at the port in Miami, anything's possible....

She says, "Yeah, it was a plane with the Pepsi logo on the side!"

I thought for a second, and then threatened to call her boss.

A Pepsi plane.

She does have a point. Korea, you MAY want to speak with your marketing people about rebranding opportunities.... :)

* not her real name.

An Unleavened Week

My kid attends a Jewish daycare. It's the best in the neighborhood. Although she's been there for almost two years, I still smack myself in the forehead every Passover when we need to pack lunches that do not contain anything made from leavened bread. I forgot last week, and had to make an emergency run to the supermarket last night. $87 later, I'm fully stocked for the remaining four days of school. (I panicked, and bought every kind of tortilla, potato and matzah in the supermarket.)

The school had a mini seder last week where the kids sang a few songs, and the parents brought in some food. I tried to get there early, but I was bringing veggies and dip, and I hate cutting up the vegetables the night before. They get dry. You could pack them in water in the fridge, but then you still have to drain them, and when you run them through a salad spinner, they get all disorganized.

You had no idea I had such domestic OCD, did you.

By the time we got there, the parking lot was so choked with minivans, I had to park on the grass. It was like Woodstock, but for Passover. It was Pesachstock. Which doesn't really roll off the tongue with any great delicacy.

I would have taken photos, but I needed the batteries for something else and forgot to replace the ones in my camera. The kids sang a song about Pharoh waking up with frogs in his bed, and frogs on his nose, and frogs on his toes, and then they sang "the frogs were JUMPING, JUMPING EV-RY-WHERE!" and a room full of two and three-year olds got up and started frantically jumping in every direction, and I was kicking myself for being the worst parent in the world for not recording this moment.

Today's lunch was matzah brie, sugar snap peas, peach slices, and mozzarella cheese. I took a photo so I could look back at this next year and remember what the hell I did.

Matzah Brie:

(The "brie" is pronounced "bry", not like your favorite soft runny French cheese. Although brie in a brie, .... hmmm. I don't know if there's a real market for Nouvelle Jewish with a three-year old.)

I've heard that brie (the Hebrew one) means "to scald", which would explain the hot water in this recipe, but I've also heard that it just means "fried", which also makes sense. And I'm too lazy to ask anyone. Sometimes food doesn't really need a name. Ask Jackie, who grew up eating "You'd Better Fucking Eat it Because I Made it For You", which is a really nice crispy spaghetti fritatta, heavy on the parmesan, that my mother used to make when I was little.

4 pieces of matzah

3 small eggs

boiling water

oil, for frying

salt & pepper (I use Jane's Krazy Mixed-Up Salt instead - my kid isn't too big on the pepper)

Some people prefer the sweet version, but I like mine basic. If you want the sweet version, omit the salt and pepper and treat it like french toast. You can add sugar, jam, or whatever else floats your boat.

Break up the matzah into two-inch sized pieces. Place in a strainer, and pour the boiling water over the matzah to scald and soften. Not too much, or it will be too mushy. Let drain. I dry it a little more with a paper towel.

Heat the oil in a medium-high frying pan.

Beat the eggs, add a little salt & pepper, and add the drained matzah, coating with the egg mixture.

Fry in the oil until a golden brown on both sides. Season to taste.

I'm coming to the realization that it's no easy task to find a man willing to date a woman with a three-year old. I don't really get why, though. She's the easiest thing on the planet. She's kind. She loves to have people around.

So the decision for now is, I'm not dating. I sat at a friend's dining room table the other night, and my friend's mom was giving me the Mom Advice that now that I'm not looking, "the right man" is going to show up right out of nowhere!

And I said, "No!! The reason I'm not looking - is because I really don't want to FIND anybody!"

I find myself believing less and less in that "right man". As I slowly (SLOWLY!) edge towards 40, I find it hard to meet someone who appreciates my strength and independence but can get around my inability to ask for help, even when I really do need it. I may be a tough rhino, but I need someone to see through that and throw their arms around me and take care of me sometimes, too. I'm trying to raise my girl with a little more softness. She doesn't need to be as tough as me. I've finally realized that my mom was tough on me so that I could be independent and take care of myself - something probably she wished she had in herself.... however, I think men sense this self-sufficiency in me. Yes, I can change my own tire/oil/timing belt. I can make a lovely lamb dinner for 12 with a nice risotto on short notice. I clean as if I came from a long line of Mexican housekeepers. (Funny, that.) I can do everything on three hours of sleep when needed. And although we'll never date again, I'll sit with you at your 12 step meetings, because I don't believe in not standing by someone's side when they're down. But just because I CAN do it all doesn't mean I want to. Relationships go very quickly for me from "baby, I'm going to buy you a car" to "where's my pants?".

I don't care where your pants are. Buy me a car.

But maybe, to men, my three-year old is just a hindrance. Maybe she's more work than other men are ready for. That's fine. I don't give a crap what anyone thinks. I look at this teeny child, who sings on command, and dances around the living room, and my heart just fills with love. She just wants to spend time with the people she loves, and she wants to play, and she wants to be read to. Her vocabulary is crazy, and her social skills are incredible. So maybe her being three is a dark mark in my datingability, but for me, there's nothing I'd rather do than slow down and enjoy every minute of her beautiful life. I'm the only mother she's ever going to have, and it's my job to make sure she grows up with this smile on her face and a sense of confidence from knowing that her little life was my priority.

Maybe someday, she'll buy me a car. :)

I would have finished everything on my tasklist...

This week has been running at a crazy pace.

Work is super busy. I love my job, I love working from home, and I love the people I work with. I work with a team of bright, driven professionals, and it makes such a HUGE difference when you’re not surrounded by idiots.

Trust me, I know.

I also took on some extra freelance work recently, which totally ate up my weekend, but brought in some extra cash. Yay, cash.

However, this morning, when my kid accidentally spilled Cheerios all over my bedroom floor, I realized my brain was already automatically quantifying how important it actually was to me to not have Cheerios on the floor.

What my brain came up with was “not so much”.

Yesterday, while under deadline, the electricity in my neighborhood mysteriously went out. Middle of the day. Perfect weather. No reason, other than the fact that I was under deadline, of course. So I had to shower, pack up all my stuff, and head over to the library (because it's almost impossible to get a seat with an outlet at Panera Bread) where there is free wireless. There is also a lot of free seating. I was surrounded by homeless people with gas. I don't know what the point of the added gas was, again, other than the fact that the universe truly was enjoying itself while fucking with me yesterday.

Since I had no electricity at home, I took advantage of my county tax dollars at work and brought all my electrical appliances with me that needed charging. Not, like, a large blender or anything, just two cell phones and an iPod. My laptop looked like a one-man band with all the attachments hanging off of it, but since I was the only one at the library yesterday who bothered to shower, my electrical usage and outward appearance thereof really was the least of my worries.

At some point today, I'm going to attack several large piles of laundry and the collection of dirty dishes in my sink. Not because I want to. Just because we've hit the wall on clean underwear and forks.

Tune in tomorrow, when I'll be back at the library, drinking out of a paper bag with my new crew.

Everyone has a breaking point.

Tonight, I'm working through a pile of freelance work. My daughter is spending the night at my parents’ so I won’t have to get up early to take her to school in the morning.

It's a beautiful night. I've had the window open all evening.

At midnight, I decided to take a little break, and pulled on a jacket and started to walk around the block.

The warm, quiet night reminded me of a time a hundred years ago, when I was living in Manhattan, and working for a large-ish architectural firm. There was a shy young architect at the company who I never spoke to at work, but wound up quietly kissing in some dark corner on a couple of occasions when we found ourselves at big parties. If you knew both of us, you’d never put us together, but I thought he was very sweet, and apparently, liquor permitted him to approach me.

One summer night, we were at another big downtown party at someone’s loft. It was an amazing New York evening, with noisy, bright people, twinkly little lights, great art on the walls, and all of Manhattan at our feet. Late into the evening, without really speaking, we somehow decided to sneak out together. He was drunker than me, and far too drunk to steer his bicycle, so I climbed up onto the seat in a pencil skirt and his jacket, and tipsily tried to reach the pedals while steering the bike towards his apartment in Alphabet City.

I eventually built up a fantastic velocity, and was laughing and pedaling and bumping over cracks in the sidewalk while he ran behind me, street after street, laughing and hollering my name.

“HOLY CRAP, MARY! I’M GOING TO FALL AND DIE!”, which only made my stomach hurt from laughing harder.

We whizzed past an older man sitting on a brownstone stoop. The man watched me, ponytail flying, pushing the bike pedals with the tips of my shoes, the guy behind me, arms flailing, not getting any more sober, both of us laughing, him screaming out hysterical things from time to time.

“Women, boy!” the man cheerfully yelled. “We always chasing them!”

He laughed while I determinedly turned a corner and the architect, still running, bellowed “You’re not kidding!” over his shoulder.

It was small snapshots like that of my previous life that, years later, when trapped with a baby in an unhappy and financially destitute relationship with her dad, made me feel like my life as a woman was over. Until recently, I worried that motherhood had swallowed me whole.

But tonight, I walked down the street at midnight, under the palm trees. I thought about the girl on the bicycle. And I thought about the broke and terrified new mother, with way too much fear and responsibility on her shoulders. I suddenly realized that it was midnight, I'm working at stuff I love and am actually really good at, and through a lot of hard work, and several conscientious and difficult decisions, I am right back where I need to be. I just needed to match my head up with the fact that these snapshots are just snapshots in time, not long-lost memories. I've been right here all along. I'm still here.

At that very moment, I felt just as pretty, free, and complete as I did as a single woman in New York, a hundred years ago. At this point in my life, even as someone's mother, anything can and will still happen. Because I'm still me.

And as absolutely corny as this sounds, I realized that even though I've been ready to meet the right man in my life for a while, I never needed someone trying to catch me to feel that way. I just needed to keep pedaling.

OH, ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!

Ambre. I don't believe it.

Wait. Let me backtrack. First, I don't believe I've been watching Rock of Love II with Bret Michaels for... however long it's been on. Every single stinking show. What I couldn't catch live, I TiVo'ed, because there's nothing I enjoy more than ripping through commercials with a fast-forward button.

NOTHING!

Part of the draw of watching the show week after week was that there was an eliminated contestant every night, and an end in sight. It was like having a really bad heroin problem, but knowing the exact day someone was going to stage an intervention and throw your ass in rehab. You love the sweet H, but you're also really, really looking forward to the day you can puke it all out of your system.

I don't even LIKE rocker boys. I can't STAND men with long hair. Long, schmong, I can't even remember the last time I dated a guy with HAIR, PERIOD.

Bret Michaels. I don't know what's come over me. Maybe it's the lipstick. I do appreciate a nice gay boy. But when Poison was big, I was... making fun of people who liked Poison. And listening to the Sex Pistols, ripping holes in all my clothes, and raging against the suburban machine. With appropriate and heartfelt teenage angst. Not 80's hairsprayed, stonewashed-jeaned stupidity, mind you. Bret Michaels. Jesus.

But now I'm 36, and glued to the TV every Sunday at 9pm. There, VH-1, I just did your demographics research for you. I'm your target market. Not only will I devote my life to your show, I'm gearing up for Rock of Love III, The Death of Ambre, when I will be dragging my whiny and unwilling gum-cracking middle-aged girlfriends to the next auditions. And we'll all be wearing hooker heels and screeching about our careers.

Personally, I'm excited that out of that roiling chlamydic sea of plastic-boobied strippers, his 44-year old ass chose the 37-year old with a job. Hooray for the old chicks.

But, oh, Daisy. You were my pick. You pint-sized whore with lips that could have held countless potato chip bags together, how I loved you. Feisty and dumb. Every time you opened your mouth, it was like watching a platypus suddenly burst into conversation. Not sure of the language, can't really get the consonants out of that duck bill of yours, but absolutely determined to try and speak.

You, egg-laying, otter-footed semi-aquatic mammal, I will miss you most of all.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like a 5-star hotel room.

Although I love the flexibility of working from home, my day can be a lot more high pressure than it seems. Sure, I get laundry done. I get to walk around the block when my eyes glaze over from staring at the monitor. But I also run a lot of reports at 11pm and send out a lot of catch up emails at 2 in the morning, because the computer is RIGHT THERE. And who doesn't want to get a jump start on the next day? I also get some "Sorry to bother you..." calls from hotels on Saturdays. I try not to pick up.

But sometimes, it all pays off. Like this past week, when we had a team meeting in Miami. And a hotel partner gave us a great rate on some 5-star rooms. My room had a hardwood, pressed bamboo floor, and a gorgeous orchid on the desk. The bathroom was the size of my apartment, and when I filled up the tub, the water came up to my neck. It also had jets. Which can create an uncontrollable mountain of bubbles, in case you didn't know that. FYI.

My room overlooked a golf course. And I could link my iPod to the alarm and listen to my music on the balcony in my fluffy slippers, with a cup of tea from my clear Bodum teapot.

There were orchids all over the property - next to the pools, hanging beneath the trees, lining the walkways - there were orchids everywhere. It gave me a renewed appreciation for life in south Florida.

That is, if my real life came with 24-hour valet parking and maid service.

But then I get to come home and spend a Sunday wandering around Ikea with my munchkin, eating meatballs and picking out candles.

Which is pretty cool in itself. :)