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Grown-ups don’t hide in the kitchen


Maybe I’m nuttier than normal this week, but I have to get this one off my chest. I’m not generally mean and I’m certain that with this post, I’m challenging thirty seven different rules of karma…


Dear Unnamed Person, (who does a very important task for me and whom I see EVERY day in my building),

I am happy you are in my life and I am grateful for the role you play in it. We would be hard-pressed to get by without your evening visits.

But I must tell you, that now, when I hear you getting off the elevator and heading toward my apartment, I hide in my kitchen so I don’t have to see you. It’s like when my mom would hustle my sister and me into my bedroom so the religious people walking down the street wouldn’t know we were home. (Though now, as a grown-up, it seems like it would have just have been easier to have answered the door and said, “No thank you, we’re good on religion.” But the hiding actually was fun.)

Of course, I can’t explain to you that I hide so I don’t have to see you because now that I’m visibly super-sized pregnant, you ask me every single day, “How are you feeling?” And you say it with such a big smile and happy, excited voice and I can even now hear the womanly-kinship as you revel in my pregnancy — but it makes me crazy so please stop. (I bet you are one of those fans who stand at mile 23 of the NY Marathon and yell, as the runners begin the final slog through the hills of Central Park, “You are so close! Almost there!” Rest assured that 3 miles isn’t almost there.) You see, just like those runners who don’t need to be lied to about how much more of a race there is,  I don’t need to discuss how I feel every day, because I’m big as a house and very tired, and you and I are essentially strangers.

Maybe tomorrow you can just smile at me and wave from the door, and I’ll do the same in return. Or I may just stay in the kitchen. I can’t be sure.

Anyway, thank you for all your hard work. See you tomorrow.

– lamemom

Apr 27, 2011

The crazier the better


As my husband believes, there could be one crazy in the room and he or she will find me. They come from miles away to be near me. This afternoon in the dog run, it happened again.

I noticed her when she walked in because she was with a puppy and she looked a little bit elegant, among the other cold December day dog run clientele.  She had the pre-requisite big sunglasses, furry hat and long-but-not-sloppy down coat. And perhaps because I was in gym clothes (that I possibly wore yesterday), I was pleased to see someone a little bit pulled together. As I do, I smiled hello when she reached the bench where I was sitting, but I didn’t strike up a conversation or take off my sunglasses or do anything really inviting.

She sat on the bench nearest where I was, motions to my black exercise pants (original, I know) and began, “Ha. I had on some pants like that yesterday. “ I knew immediately we were in trouble, and she continued, “but I couldn’t get them down in time when I had to go and I accidentally peed all over myself. ” Then she used hand gestures to show me that she was wet all over after the “accident.” I have small children, I thought to myself, I know what gets wet when one pees oneself.

Horrified at her confession, I laughed louder than necessary and said something inane about it being a typical Monday. I didn’t know what else to do. Let me clarify:  it wasn’t the peeing on herself that horrified me, it was that she began a conversation with a total stranger about it.  Some of my mom friends joke about how they pee when they laugh since they have had babies, and my close friends share all kinds of embarrassing tales – sadly fewer since we stopped drinking our dinners – but she didn’t know me at all. We weren’t at a prenatal yoga class, a mom’s group or even a bar – all places where lots of women share.  We were sitting in the park waiting to pick up our dogs’ poop.

She chatted happily along about what a relief it was that she had another pair of gym pants to change into and how it seems to be harder to “hold it” the older “we” get.  That riled me up, her use of we. She looked WAY older than I do, didn’t she? I didn’t see much of her face, but her hands…  (Needless to say, I’m Kegeling as I type and putting sunscreen on my hands the second I get up from my desk.)

Maybe she thought she knew me, I hear that I look like a lot of people. Or maybe she just needed someone to talk to. I might talk all day long to my friends about barf or pee or the like, but if we’re strangers, I’ll not scratch that surface. But I’ll listen while you tell me your about yours, and maybe that afternoon, I’ll write all about it.

Filed under Dogs, NYC
Dec 8, 2010

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