I hate/I love

My husband and I recently celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary. I forgot, he forgot, we all forgot, so it wasn’t much of a celebration anyway, but I did do a little happy dance the morning after when I actually remembered, because we have made it 9 plus years (if you count 200 years of dating) through a lot of ups and downs, mostly up….4 flights of stairs in our elevator-less building. There are a lot of things he does that I hate and love, yes, I know hate is a strong word, but if you seriously tell me that there is nothing your husband or wife does that you don’t hate then you’re straight up lying. And I know I drive him crazy too but we’re not talking about me…

I hate that you “accidentally” gave away 2!!!! of my favorite boots because you thought they were for donation just because they were sitting in my trunk for 4 months. I WAS going to get them resoled eventually.

I love that thanks to you, hopefully a very well deserved woman (or two) is walking around with a very stylish pair of boots.

I hate that you threw my favorite black bra in the washer and it came out in 2 pieces. That mesh bag is not ON TOP of the washer for decoration purposes…just an FYI.

I love that you actually did laundry without even having to ask you. Bonus: I love that you now have to see me in my other favorite bra…no, not the pretty lace ones, the nude colored one. Not that sexy huh??

I hate that you left your VERY WELL paid, AMAZING hours as an office manager to go to culinary school.

I love that you dared to follow your dreams and that I now have a professional chef cook for me…for free ;)

I hate that you leave at 4:30 am and I don’t get to see you in the mornings anymore.

I love that you don’t care that its 4:30 am, because you’re ecstatic to go cook for the next 14 hours. Bonus: I love that since you don’t see me dressed for work, I can sneak in new clothes without you knowing I went shopping ;)

I hate that even though you leave before the roosters even wake up you still come home past 8 pm.

I love that you rush home every night just to try to catch your daughters awake.

I hate that sometimes you come home past 8 pm and the girls are already sleeping.

I love that sometimes you come home past 8 pm and the girls are already sleeping….and we get at least 20 minutes of silence, just the two of us…before I obviously pass out.

I hate that you’re not at all afraid of my death stare when I’m mad at you.

I love that you’re not at all afraid of my death stare when I’m mad at you.

I hate that you turn yourself into a 6 year old boy when you’re playing with the girls and jump on the bed with them while I panic and try to catch them every time they fall. Also when you wrestle. They are NOT made of rubber!

I love that you play with them as if they were boys, because not everything can be princesses and glitter, especially when I keep finding it up their noses. Bonus: I love that you know all the names of their My Little Ponies and that you make girly voices when you’re playing barbies.

I hate that you’re not honest when I ask you if the 5 extra pounds I have gained make me look ugly.

I love that you pretend not to notice my weight gain. Probably because you know it will make me cry, laugh and scream all at the same time. And I already know you avoid me like the plague every time I get my period and cry, laugh and scream for no apparent reason.

Sorry I forgot our anniversary, that’s why I’m writing you this post. I’m sure you’re sorry you forgot too and that’s why you’re taking me shopping.

photo

preach

 

35 going on senile

I was talking to my 6-year-old daughter about which medical schools she would like to apply to when she’s older, omg not really we were talking about sidewalk chalk but a mom can dream, when she suddenly paused and asked: “What are all those stripes on your forehead?” I swear that 35 years of not moisturizing and smothering my face with SPF just bitched slapped me, because those stripes she was talking about are the wrinkles that are adorning my forehead. Nicole Kidman would SO not approve.

"You're right. I would SO not approve."

Stop judging me Nicole Kidman!

Up until now, my daughters had only noticed the “beautiful freckles” on my face, and by freckles I mean sun spots.

My freckled face as seen by my super talented daughter.

My freckled face as seen by my super talented daughter.

Never in my life have I worried about the obvious fact that I am getting older; not when I turned 18 – OMG like I’m totally old; or when I turned 25 – what’s a quarter of a century anyway?; or when I turned 30 – 30’s is the new 20’s that’s my motto. But 36 is creeping up on me and I’m NOT all too happy about it. The only comfort I get is that the people I hang out with are 3 and 6 years old (seriously, I need grown up friends), and really, the age perception of kids is a beautiful thing, specially when they think I’m 25 and trust me, I’m NOT about to correct them.

I am convinced that I’m aging at supersonic speed, all within 6 months, last time I checked I was not celebrating my 35th birthday, now in a few months I’ll be 36 which rounded to the nearest tenth is 40 which practically makes me a middle-aged woman, and no, I’m not ready to start antiquing. My gray hairs are growing like weeds, not only do I see a new one every day, but they have completely invaded my head and I can’t keep up with the tweezing. And because of the constant tweezing I now think I have carpal tunnel and in need of urgent surgery.  I had 3 slices of pizza the other day and my stomach got so swollen the thought that I was pregnant and probably about to give birth in the bathtub even crossed my mind. “You need to stop eating like a college student” says my husband, of course he does, because he cooks like the Culinary Gods and I cook like a 5-year-old and if it were up to me I would live on Ramen Noodles. So basically, eating my daughter’s leftovers and complementing them with Oreos isn’t going to cut it anymore because my old, old digestive system can’t handle it. I also sometimes have this for lunch:

vending machine

Skittles count as fruit right?

Besides the fact that my body is probably a geriatric one, the other day I was trying to open my front door with the car keys, I even pressed the panic button to see if the door would just swing opened. It didn’t. I call my daughter 18 different names before she says “you know my name is Antonella, YOU named me.” Alzheimer is it you knocking?? CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE DIAGNOSE ME?? Oh, and I have TMJ. I saw my symptoms online so it must be true.

So if you’re looking for me this summer, you can either find me at the dermatologist getting a chemical peel or frantically rubbing my face with lemons, getting liposuction because God knows I’m too lazy to hit the gym, at CVS stocking up on boxes of hair color and at the geriatric psychiatrist for weekly evaluations and if all else fails just come knocking on my door at the retirement home.

Bingo anyone?

I'm the one wearing the pantyhose.

See that empty chair? They’re already saving me a spot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*After carefully reviewing the costs of all these procedures, I have forcefully decided to age gracefully.