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Archive for February, 2012

What you do when the Maid goes Away…

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:40 PM
Wednesday, February 29, 2012

First, cry. Okay, just kidding. I didn’t cry. But when my husband and I decided that we couldn’t afford our twice-a-week housekeeper (who was our kids’ nanny for the past few years, too) I did feel like I had just been punched in the gut. Okay, fine, punched myself in the gut. You see, we don’t have our parents or close family in town, so when it comes to ‘family’ help with the kids, our maid/nanny was as good as it got.

Um… honesty check. My ‘punched in the gut’ feeling had nothing to do with the fact that she was close to our kids. After all, she’s still in town and is still available to babysit here or there for them.

No – My gut was twisted because now I would be responsible for our entire house staying clean.


Alrighty, then! Now that I’ve got that out of my system, I’d like to share with you penny-pinchers out there some fantastic tips for making the most out of a housekeeper-less house.

  1. 1. Choose your children’s dresses wisely. As in, don’t let your girls wear the fancy dry cleaning/hand-wash ones. And as you bring that cotton stretchy dress towards your youngest and her face screws up and she cries, “NO! I want to wear a DRESS!” you just flash that Stepford Wife smile, shove it over her head and shout, “Where’s the baby, where did she go?!”
  2. 2. Who even looks at your son’s school pants or your daughter’s school skirts? No one will notice they aren’t ironed, right? As long as you iron their shirts! Right? RIGHT?
  3. 3. Give your kids extra “Light bucks” (earn 26 and they get a free dinner out with mom or dad) for every time they go out of their way to help clean. Strip them of a Light buck every time they refuse to clean up their mess.
  4. 4. Don’t sweat. (Seriously. Because if you sweat, you can’t wear it again.)
  5. 5. Use paper plates and bowls. Consider calculating the money you are spending on paper plates and bowls, but then – quick! – go check your email! (So all you really had time to consider was how much you hate doing dishes.)
  6. 6. Notice how dirty every surface of your house is, start cleaning it all, get overwhelmed, get attacked by killer worms, then go to your computer. You will succeed to apply to 100x more jobs in just one sitting than ever before!

So there you have it, Readers. I don’t recommend quitting (like I did recently) or being fired (like I’ve done in the past) when you don’t have another job lined up. But it happens (or – um – you make it happen, if you are the one who quits), and when it does… now you’re prepared.

You’re welcome!


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I think I'll just have my son wear a nice wide scarf over the shirt, then no one will notice the wrinkles! RIGHT?????

Worms are NAST. E.

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:37 PM
Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Dude. That title is NOT a metaphor. I am horrified by worms. And caterpillars. I would classify my horror as a phobia, since logically, I should not be terrified of a tiny squishy thing. But I am. Terrified.

Last night we decided that until I and/or my husband finds a new job, we (don’t have an income and therefore) need to cut back big time on any extra expenses. And while I’ve always vowed to myself, since college, that I would sooner pay a housekeeper at least once a week and go hungry than have to clean my own floors and toilets and do my own hand wash and ironing… I agreed to cancel our previously twice-a-week housekeeper’s services, altogether.

For now.

So, for now… I’m cleaning. I’m laundering. I’m hand-washing and ironing. (Or, I will be… tomorrow. Really!) And today, I got really ambitious. I took out the mop.

Now, I’ve probably only mopped a handful of times in my life. And once I finished, I immediately blocked out all memory of the traumatic event. So today, I couldn’t remember… exactly what WAS the process to proper mopping?

I poured some Fabuloso into a bucket and added water. The fumes from the Fabuloso made me want to sneeze and puke and itch, which in turn made me seriously consider buying some of those expensive yet “healthy” household cleaners. But then I remembered we didn’t have extra money for luxuries like toxin-free soap, and I’d better just suck it up.

Next, I looked for the mop. It wasn’t in the cleaning supply closet, next to the brooms and the Swiffer (these I do occasionally use, when I absolutely have to). Then I remembered – the mops were outside by the garbage bins in the driveway! Lord knows why our housekeeper kept them out there – maybe because they got so wet?

Didn’t matter. I knew where they were & I was one step away from a sparkly (if toxic) kitchen floor. I grabbed the prettier one (the red one vs. the green) and brought it inside. As I dunked it into the bucket, I immediately noticed the mop was broken – I may not be a “Mop Expert” but I know when you slide that plastic thingy up, it’s supposed to take the moppy-thingies up with it and kind of ‘wring out’ the water. You know? Well that didn’t happen at all.

Great. I was already getting annoyed at my now-fired housekeeper (oh, how quickly we turn) for keeping a broken mop at all. But I was already invested, and I wasn’t about to go switch for the green one now. So I started mopping the kitchen floor even without the plastic wringy-thingy working. And you know what happened?

First, it worked.

Then, I noticed little black things getting spread across my kitchen floor. I was puzzled at first, because I hadn’t remembered those on the floor… and then I realized, the mop had actually spread the black dirty things on the floor. Must have stuck to the mop from the driveway.

Great, I thought. Now what do I do? Keep going, and hope the Fabuloso cleans the black things before the black things overtake the clean floor? Stop everything and get a broom? But wouldn’t that just make everything more dirty, since the floor was now wet?

And that’s when I saw it. No, excuse me, dear readers, not it. THEM.


Small, wriggly, and ALIVE. ON MY KITCHEN FLOOR.


I am not joking.


Now if that isn’t proof this GrownupGirl wasn’t meant to do housework, I don’t know what is.



I literally almost vomited and I only just glanced at this image before copying it for this post. Why do I do this to myself?!

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We are Beautiful, No Matter What They Say

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:53 PM
Monday, February 27, 2012

I’m as bad as anyone.

I dislike the oddly proportioned faces of some of my older women friends who have had plastic surgery. To me, their tight cheeks and poofy smiles that curve at the ends look more than a little like The Joker from Batman. It is jarring to look at.

But then again… I saw Sheryl Crow on TV not long ago, and I found myself fixated on a patch of skin on her face, above her lip. It looked… a little loose. The whole episode, that’s all I could look at: poor Sheryl Crow’s loose upper lip skin. Sheryl Crow, who has the rockin teenage body of a precocious 12 year old. Sheryl Crow, who courageously fought and won her battle with breast cancer. Sheryl Crow, whose rock & roll goddess status puts my 2 year attempt at being a singer/songwriter to shame.

I’m growing older. Soon, my upper lip will loosen a bit from its original place.  Or my neck will – isn’t that what I hear most older women groaning about, the dead give-away of their bodies, their necks?

I reaaaalllly don’t want surgery. I don’t like the way it looks on other women and I am terrified of the process, the pain, the recovery. I don’t want Botox either. I gave birth naturally just so I wouldn’t have to deal with drugs. How can I justify injecting myself for cosmetic purposes with some crazy Bovine hormone?

It’s a good thing my husband loves my boobs just the way they are. A less supportive husband might have helped me turn an insecure moment into a date with Doctor Boob Job. It seems cool to have bigger, sexier boobs. But I’m not convinced fake is sexier, when it comes right down to it. And I can’t fathom the process – surgery, pain, recovery… In my last job as editor-in-chief of an online magazine (yes, I quit recently, & no I don’t feel like writing about it, and YES I am looking for a new gig so put the word out there, readers!) – I edited a lot of first-person blogs written by models, young and old. Two of older, ex-models wrote personal stories about how they were traumatized by botched boob jobs.


Conclusion? Without judging other people’s choices (I 100% don’t judge the choice, but I usually don’t see the beauty in the post-surgical faces/bodies either), & if I am real with myself, I know that – deep down – I want 3 things.

  1. 1. To believe I’m beautiful.
  2. 2. For others to think I’m beautiful.
  3. 3.  To feel this way no matter what my age.

Sheryl Crow, you are beautiful! I blame it on the lighting guy.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

She is beautiful, no matter what they say. And they say a lot. No, not her boobs, other people. Okay, true, her boobs say a lot too.

Flashback Friday! (Adventures in Hollywoodland)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 3:20 AM
Friday, February 24, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Adventures in Hollywoodland – the BLOG

I had some really excellent jobs after I graduated at the top of my class from Yale. There was my summer in DC, bartending. There was that waitressing gig where my boss thought he was Johnny Rotten. There was that very first job I held in LA, working as an assistant for a big executive at Atlantic Records, a young, hot, ex-ICM agent who liked to scream and throw things and who fired me four months into it for crying on the job.

And then there was the time I worked as an assistant for “Albert.” Albert (not his real name) was a creepy ex-Freudian therapist-turned producer. The ONLY reason Albert had gotten a job as the “Producer” in this pretty high level management company where he had just been hired before he hired me, was because his best friend was the head of a studio, and the managers were getting old and I guess that made them exceptionally naïve.

Albert talked in a low, fake soothing voice, just like you would imagine a creepy therapist would sound. He was bloated, with blotchy white skin and womanly fingers. He would make me sit across from him most days, “rolling calls.” I was instructed to listen to each call on mute, so I would sit there sometimes for hours, listening to him drone on, unable to take my eyes off his bloated, pasty cheeks and his smooth, tapered fingers.

Albert had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He would use the company’s hard-earned cash to option obscure stories that he thought somehow could get made into smash hit movies. He would talk all day to other slimeballs about nothing interesting, and the rest of the time he would try to impress me with disgusting stories of him frequenting the Monkey Bar or some other gross place where he would go with his more powerful friends to try and pick up chicks.

After a while, it became clear that Albert was going nowhere fast. With his blessing, I started interviewing with other companies. Albert agreed to help me give me a great recommendation if I found a better option, so when I interviewed with a producer who knew Albert, I was happy to have him call Albert to check my references.

Imagine my shock when the call came, and I stayed on the call, on mute as I always did, and I heard Albert slander me – tell lie after lie about my work ethic, my abilities, my accomplishments.

Like an angel, my cousin called me on the other line at exactly that moment, and she gave me the solid advice not to quit, but to stay and let him fire me if he dared, so I could at least be eligible for unemployment.

“How could you do that?” I confronted him. “You told me you would give me a recommendation. How could you lie like that?”

“You weren’t supposed to listen into that call,” was the best he could come up with.

I kept accusing him of lying about me, which he couldn’t deal with, and he did wind up firing me. I heard he got fired a while later, having spent the company’s entire coffers without a single production to show for it.

But hey… that’s show biz!


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Would YOU trust this guy to make the next Titanic? Me neither.

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Period Underwear

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:36 PM
Thursday, February 23, 2012

Wait a minute – if you are a GUY and you are still reading after the title…? I think maybe you skipped the title. Do me a favor – go back, READ THE TITLE OF THIS BLOG, then catch up with me tomorrow for this week’s flashback treat, k?


Now that we’re alone… ladies, can we talk? About the reality that is Period Underwear? You know you know what I’m talking about. The granny ones, yeah, the ones with the holes that you bought from Target like ten years ago, because who’s going to spend money on Period Underwear?

Anyway – did any of you ever try those Pad/Underwear dealies that were on sale a few years back? I think Kotex made them. PS – they were AWESOME. Disposable Period Underwear! True, I’m sure they were God-awful for the environment and they clog up a small bathroom trashcan quick… and yeah, at work if they got really soggy it would be a major pain in the ass to bring, like, a diaper-sized underwear with you to work to change mid day.

But still. I liked ‘em.


Whew. Sorry, girls. Like I’ve said before, I’m all for equal rights for women, but until a man bleeds for one week straight, every single year of his life from age 12 on, out of his penis…?  Some things they will just NEVER understand.


Yeah, I always leak past my tampon (don’t even get me STARTED on the OB no-applicator ick factor) onto my underwear, so I always have to wear my Period Underwear AND a pad, and it’s just a lot to deal with.  And once I’ve bled onto my underwear – let’s say I’m at work – NOW what am I supposed to do? Just take them out and throw them away? And risk bleeding directly onto my jeans/legs/tights?? Or stash them in my purse, wadded up inside an entire paper towel roll’s worth of sheets, so I can TRY to wash them out at home & salvage them – but let’s be honest, ladies, does that ever even really work? Or, just keep them on and try not to think about how the dried blood is in such close proximity to your thighs and lady parts all day long?

Maybe the Kotex disposable period underwear was a waste of – um – what was that made out of anyway… plastic? Paper? You know, landfill stuff. But on the other hand, washing out bloody underwear also wastes a lot of water – another precious resource, right? A girl just can’t win in the eco-period war.

Wait! Ladies, where are YOU all going??  If you’re running to the store to snap up those nifty period underwear, they don’t make them anymore! Maybe we should start a movement! Write letters! Protest Kotex headquarters!



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

O, Holy Grail of Period Underwear - where art thou when one needs thee most? Sniff!

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Where’s Baby, Where did she Go… To the R Rated Movies? WTF??

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:09 PM
Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Where’s the Baby, where did he go…

…to the movies?


Safehouse: (n) The R-Rated moving starring Denzel Washington and Ryan Reynolds that I spent 2+ hours gripping my husbands arm, wringing it out like a wet towel and slapping his shoulder just so he could UNDERSTAND how exciting and scary and adrenaline-fueled this movie was.

Safehouse: (n) The movie where I saw a mother take her THREE YEAR OLD SON.

Pardon my French, folks, but that is some fucked up shit.

Maybe I should be grateful that it wasn’t Halloween 3? Then again, I don’t ever go to horror movies, so for all I know, there are whole Kindergartens taking field trips to those types of movies.

My husband tried to give the mother the benefit of the doubt – he told me maybe the kid was four. I said, yeah – or, maybe he was two, since our two year old is about his height. (Granted, our 2 year old is an Amazon.)

Either way – WTF??????

It took ME a good 5-10 minutes after the movie just to calm down and remind myself that the movie was a movie and reality is reality. Our subconscious minds don’t know the difference. The subconscious mind of a 3 or 4 year old is about 1000 times more malleable.

And I promise you, I’m really not the kind of mother who rides around on her high horse all day, judging other parents. Granted, I USED to be that person… BEFORE I actually had my own kids.

I’d be at the grocery store or whatever, and when I’d see a mom wailing on her kid – screaming at them or even landing a solid whack on their behinds… And I would be SO self righteous and judgmental of that mom (in my head). Like, “I would NEVER lay a finger on my child!”

Yeah, right.

Cause then I had a child.

And then I had another child.

And, parents – you know that feeling, how you want to physically hurt any child who dares to lay a finger on your precious child? Yeah… now, imagine seeing your older child wail on your younger child. Suddenly, you want to go crazy on the child who hurt your child… but that is ALSO your child.

Uh-oh…. Exactly. My internal wires get all messed up and yes, I have wound up on more than one occasion (even in public) screaming at my kids or even giving one of them a pretty solid whack.

So it is from down here… very low to the ground, not anywhere NEAR a high horse, where I kneel down and plead to the mamas and papas taking their babies to R-Rated films…

Leave the baby home.

Nuff said.



Parents - is this REALLY the image you want to float before your little pumpkin's eyes as he or she drifts off into a nightmare-filled slumber?

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Eyes Wide Open

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:59 AM
Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Alcohol  = seduction device. Alcohol = depressant. Alcohol = addictive. Alcohol =


My system is so bizarre. Yes, too much alcohol makes me throw up and get hung over and gain weight like any other red-blooded American. But why in the world does it make me wired? Aren’t people supposed to pass out after drinking?

Lord knows my dear husband doesn’t have a fight to pick with our bed after a few glasses of wine. And I don’t recall alcohol being particular ‘stimulating’ for me in my drunken youth – though I co-sponsored my drinking days so often with mind-numbing pot that perhaps I mistook my heavy slumber for alcohol-induced when it may have been in fact, sticky-wicky induced.

But that all said… it does seem rather strange, that in the two times in December when I drank a bit of alcohol – a large glass of vodka/soda being the one instance (at my office party) and a small glass of white wine plus one very bourbon-soaked eggnog (at my friends’ Christmas Eve party) – I proceeded to spend the entire night alert, awake, and yes, completely wired.

Okay, as I’m writing this, I’m remembering that those two incidents also both occurred on Saturday nights, and- on nights following me drinking a Starbucks VIA coffee at around 3pm.

But then there was my friend’s dinner party last Saturday. I don’t think I had coffee in the afternoon. At around 7:30 I drank one giant cocktail (a Cosmo, if you must know, and yes, it was delicious). Everyone else had about forty glasses of wine on top of their one cocktail. We lingered until after 2am, smoking (them), drinking (them – after the Cosmo I dried up) and talking (all of us).

By the time we got home, it was almost 3 am.

By the time I fell asleep, it was around 4:30.

I’m not saying I’m going to mix myself a martini the next time I need to pull an all-nighter…

Or am I saying exactly that?

That’s for me to know, dear readers. And for you to know, too – once I start the 4 am drunk-Facebook posting.



Had a delicious Cosmo the other night at this uber hip Mexican restaurant with a pornographic name - no, not Pink Taco, the other one: The Red O.

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Flashback Friday! (Muscle Spazz)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 10:44 AM
Friday, February 17, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Muscle Spazz – the BLOG

We don’t appreciate what we’ve got until it’s gone.

NO, I’m not talking about breaking up with people or losing grandparents.

I’m talking about full usage of our body.

Colds, flu’s – don’t get me wrong, they suck, especially the ones that make your body ache so much you are sure you are actually dying.

But the upside of colds & flu’s are that– barring death – you know what it is and you know it will run its course.

Not so clear cut is the debilitating yet mysterious leg muscle spasm. Tonight, I was wrenched out of a fitful sleep by the most painful shin and calf spasm of my life.

I’m no stranger to muscle spasms, or “Charlie Horses”, as they are affectionately called by people who obviously do not have the same low pain threshold I do & can therefore joke about these nightmares of muscular terror. But ½ way through my 2nd pregnancy (I generally would get Charlie Horses about every other night when I’m pregnant), I realized that when my calf muscle would cramp unexpectedly into a tiny little bouncing ball of pain, if I shot out of bed and stomped on the corresponding foot, it would disappear as quickly as it came, and no one was the worse for it except my husband who by that point would have awaken, scared out of his wits that I was under attack from a lead-footed burglar.

None of this prepared me for what I had tonight (twice, so far). It was the double shin and calf spasm, each a foil to the other, so that if I stretched my calf my shin muscle, crafty sliver of a muscle that it is, would spasm & contract painfully, and if I stretched and massaged my shin, my calf would contract. Damn this devious duo! It’s 2:14am and I already was pushing the levels of my bedtime by succumbing to both House AND Gossip Girl instead of sleeping at a reasonable hour, and then dealing with my middle daughter’s pee-pee in the bed situation and then dealing with my baby daughter’s wake up in the night for no reason situation.

(Quick props to my DVR. O, those devastating old days of missing House just to put my first child back to sleep for the twentieth time… How did I survive?)

Then after sleeping for just a half hour, my son – the one child who can be trusted to sleep soundly through the night until one of his sisters wakes him at 6am – came into our room and asked to sleep in our bed. I knew his room still smelled like urine from his sister’s recent spill, so I caved & let him join us. Back to sleep… and a half hour later, up again with the incomprehensible Chinese torture spasms that were my shin & calf. Back to sleep again, and another 15 minutes or so later – up again with the same torture, only this time they refused to be tamed.

I limped over to the computer to research muscle spasm remedies (My kingdom for a banana!) and found myself writing this entry.

Ew, disgusting. Just to be sure the muscles stay calm, I took one website’s advice & drank the only electrolyte drink I had in the house – apple flavored Pedialyte. No WONDER my daughter wouldn’t touch that stuff with a ten foot pole of vomit, even after hurling everything else solid or liquid she had downed.

Na. Sty.

The coolest thing I just read was a short-term solution to cramping: pulling on your upper lip with thumb & forefinger. Huh?

Readers! Help! What else can a sister do in this situation? And don’t tell me send the boy back to his bed – I wouldn’t want to sleep in that pee pee cesspool either. And don’t tell me to clean up the pee pee – It’s almost three in the morning!

Miraculously, the muscles haven’t got into spasm since I sat down. Could writing really be a remedy to Charlie Horses?

In the meantime, I hope this is…



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
P.S. Editor’s Note: Haven’t had muscle spasms since this original blog! (Knocking on lotsssss of wood….)

Those crazy Upper East Siders. Making me stay up all night to catch up on their shenanigans!

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Fight Like a Girl

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:37 PM
Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Normally, I’m a big fan of not altering language in order to be politically correct. I don’t like hurting peoples’ feelings, and I wouldn’t purposefully use demeaning language, but I wholeheartedly support freedom of speech and obviously I’m a proponent storytelling and using language to entertain. I love comedic writing in particular, and I think it would be sad indeed if everyone conformed to a standard of speech just to be sure not to offend a certain group of people.

At the same time, I’ve always considered myself a feminist. Possibly, it’s because I was raised in an unequivocally feminist environment – my mother and sister were proud self-labeling feminists, my school, Georgetown Day, practically gave you college credit for being a card-carrying feminist (I was president of the Women’s Issues group one year – AKA, padding the extra currics for college acceptance!) and in college I continued to follow in my big sister’s footsteps by volunteering at the Yale Women’s Center.

The English language makes it difficult to be gender-inclusive when talking about people in general… “he” is usually the easiest default when talking about a person. It gets too messy to start saying “he or she may decide to take his or her blah blah blah…” This used to bother me more when I was younger, but not so much any more – so either I’ve just gotten used to it or I’m less “radically feminist” than I used to be… or both.

But something happened the other day that really did bug me. My 5 year old daughter started karate class a couple of months ago, and already she is amazing at it & totally dedicated, taking class three days a week and practicing at home. Her teacher is a woman, and I was particularly happy that she had such a cool ‘girl’ role model for her chosen sport – a sport which, like most, is usually male-dominated.

Anyway, the thing that bugged me? Racheli proudly showed off her latest punch (twist at the wrist – JAB! RETRACT! Sucker never saw it coming.) then boasted that she doesn’t “punch like a girl.”

Excuse me?

I asked her to elaborate, and she did: apparently, her teacher told them all that they’d “better not punch like a girl” and Racheli, ever the good sensei-in-training, took it to heart. She told me proudly she punched like a boy.

In other words, her (girl) teacher was drilling it into my 5 year old (girl)’s brain that a GIRL PUNCH IS LAME.

Says who?????

My 5 year old punches like a pro, and… SHE’S A GIRL. Duh.

Time to get a new lexicon, people!

I’ve written about my beef with the word “woman” (which is why I named this blog The GrownupGirl) and now I have another war to wage: let’s all stop telling girls and boys ‘not to fight like a girl,’ okay? Because if my daughter is any indication, girls can be pretty rad fighters.



Yeah, that's my daughter, doing the splits. Like a GIRL. Suck it!

Be Mine

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 3:30 PM
Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Valentine’s Day is ridiculous. Maybe I’m still traumatized from when the love of my 15 year old life, Chuck, broke up with me on Valentine’s Day – he did it over the phone and I never even got a chance to give him the collage/vision board I had made for him, full of cut-out magazine pictures of couples in love, words that spelled out my devotion to him, pictures of us together, etc.

Chuck was cute and not exactly the brightest bulb in the lamp, and I think I actually had already fallen out of love with him by the time he broke up with me, but still… the fact that he did it on VALENTINE’S DAY… not cool, Chuck. Not cool.

At least now I have a husband whom I can force to get me gifts and flowers and chocolates, etc. to commemorate the day. And my mother is so sweet – she always remembers to send my 3 kids cards and chocolate. But this day always sucked when I was single and I still feel a pang of commiseration with those not-yet-hitched.

Plus I’m superstitious. Maybe it’s the Chuck thing, but I’m always on high alert around V-Day, wondering if I or my husband will turn particularly needy (me) or moody (him) and ruin the whole darn charade. I did have a boyfriend once who went crazy (in a good way) on V Day for me – took me to a fancy dinner, fancy hotel, champagne, jewelry… but this boyfriend was also a pothead and a narcissist, and I think it may have been more about “him doing a romantic gesture” than him actually making the day special for us.

And yet…

There is a Disney Princess inside me who longs to be surprised and showered with flowers and gifts, swept off my feet and into a fancy restaurant/hotel/destination getaway. Especially now that I’ve found my Prince (vs. some pothead/narcissist/none-too-bright kid). Give me a reason to wear a fancy dress, an excuse for more sparkle, and a memory that will supplant, for once and for all, Valentine’s Day as the Day I Got Dumped.

It’s never too late…



Me N My Valentine

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