A Dog Mom Is Still A Mom (And Other Fears)

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If you’ve ever met me or my Instagram feed, you know that my greatest aspiration in life is to be a stay-at-home-dog-mom (some of us dream bigger than others, okay?). I always had dogs growing up, so I was always “a dog person” as they say. I never cared for cats – who likes an animal that pees and poops inside? Yes, humans poop inside, but at least we use something that flushes. Luckily, I developed a cat allergy in college, which I believe my body may have spontaneously willed, to make hating cats easier and more socially accepted.

But it was when I adopted my first dog, Brooklyn (a hand me down from my future sister-in-law who decided a spastic, needy, obsessive buddy was not the ideal furry friend right after having a baby), I immediately fell in love as I am equally needy and obsessive. This bundle of joy wasn’t just a family dog that I barely took care of, except let it go on the furniture when my mom wasn’t looking. This was my dog, my responsibility, my BABY. She was all I talked about. “I can’t go for a drink after work, I have to let the dog out.” “I can’t have you over, she gets upset when she has to share me.” “I can’t wear black, she sheds at an alarming rate.”

A year later, I got scammed into adopting another dog the day before Thanksgiving. He was a little black and gray thing and they claimed he would be 100-lbs fully grown – perfect for a studio apartment that we’d already outgrown! Long story short: don’t go to the ASPCA “just to look,” and don’t go with a person who is adopted and claims “they don’t have a real family,” so “they need this puppy, especially because it’s Thanksgiving”. We named him Melo (after Carmelo Anthony, which later backfired when someone asked “why, because he’s black?”) I hated him at first because as soon as I took it home (my fiancé conveniently had to run to work immediately after the adoption process was over), it took a giant shit on my carpet. Granted, it was a $20 IKEA rug, but do you know how annoying it is to to go to IKEA without a car? You have to carry the giant rolled-up, no-handle rug to the ferry, then to a train, then you have to drag it the 6 blocks to your walk-up apartment. It’s very sweaty, very Ellis Island. I wasn’t doing that trip again. But then, exhausted from his massive bowel movement, the little guy fell asleep and curled up his little paws and he had me.

A mother of two children under the age of 2, my schedule was packed. I literally became an Upper East Side mom, frantically scheduling my life around them. I had them both in obedience class – but separate ones, because of their age difference, so I was shuttling them to different classes at different locations on different days. I had to find them a proper daycare facility and Melo came with a lovely set of worms, so he was on medication and I had to inspect his poop every day to make sure those fuckers were getting passed. Thank god I was in between jobs, I don’t know how I would have done it if I had an actual job. I would have been forced to hire a nice Trinidadian nanny, something I’ve sworn I’ll never do. Not because I’m racist (remember my African-American dog?), but because what if they call her mommy??).

Once they were both pooping normally (and outside) and were marginally obedient, I begrudgingly went back to work (ah, the plight of being a new mom!). But I missed them terribly! I still do. I am completely obsessed with them. My fiancé has taken a backseat. I get home from work and it goes: greet dogs, give them kisses…say hi to fiancé and that he’s in Brooklyn’s spot on the couch. I leave for a few hours and I miss them and wonder what they’re doing (probably just sleeping, but I don’t know. What if they’re eating their blankets, or crafting?) I thought about getting a nanny-cam to watch them all day. I still don’t like going out – how can I go out to a bar when I have those furry faces with sad Sarah-McLachlan-Please-Love-Me eyes, pleading with me to snuggle them?

Now that I’m a grown-ass lady and don’t live with my mother, my dogs are allowed on all the furniture. Which…I regret a little now. Not because of the hair situation, but because they take everything over and I don’t have a place to sit. It’s like having Dom Deluise and John Candy as roommates. We had to upgrade to a King-sized bed because we didn’t fit on a Queen. I got a chair for the living room for more guest-seating, but Melo commandeered it as soon as I got it inside and hasn’t left since. One time I tried to sit on the chair (BECAUSE IT’S FOR PEOPLE) and he jumped on top of me, so he could sit on it. Which would be cute if he wasn’t now 70-lbs and caused substantial leg bruising (not all his fault – I’m pale and bruise like a banana).

Everyone thinks their dog is the cutest, but…my dogs are the cutest dogs. If you looked through my phone, you will not find a nudie pic, but you will find thousands of pictures of my dogs. I signed up for this thing called GrooveBook, where they take your photos each month and send you a book of 100 printed photos. So basically every month, we get 100 photos of our dogs sleeping in various positions. And yes, each month I add a new one to my cubicle. And no, I am not embarrassed.

The point is, I don’t know if I can have kids. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I want a whole army of them. But I’m afraid that I’m going to be a totally crazy mom. If I’m this obsessed with my dogs, what am I going to be like with an actual child that looks like me? (Well, hopefully they get my fiancé’s eyes and skin tone, and my nose and red hair. Worst case would be his nose, my under-eye circles and a boy with red hair – not cute). You can put a dog in a cage for 6 hours, and I still hate leaving them. You can’t put a kid in a cage, unless you want to get them carted away by CPS, and they’ll probably still turn out like “Dexter”. How can you ever go anywhere alone? Are kids allowed in my Kickboxing class?

I fear I’ll be one of those moms that refuses to leave their children with anyone else and starts to resent their husbands. My fiancé already thinks I won’t let him hold his own children (likely). Or even worse…what if I like my dogs more than the baby? Most babies come out super mushy and weird-looking, which means my dogs will be cuter for at least the first two weeks. Will people think I’m a terrible person if I post more pictures of my dogs for that two weeks than my misshapen offspring? (I’m 87% kidding).

Furthermore, if I’m overly-protective of my dog, I think I’d put a hit out on anyone up who did anything to my kid. A few months ago, Melo came home from daycare with a scratch, and I called them screaming and crying asking how they let this happen (never mind the waiver I signed that said whatever happens, too bad). After demanding to speak to the manager, then the owner – well after hours – I was granted a free Veterinary consultation first thing in the morning just to get me off the phone. When the scratch healed by the morning, I was too embarrassed to even call and cancel the appointment. If my child ever comes home with a scratch I’ll totally be that mom that calls another parent to tell them what an asshole kid they raised. I can’t imagine how many PTAs I’ll get kicked out of.

Listen, before my parents think I got knocked up before my wedding, let me clarify that I am not currently with child. But every time I look into Brooklyn or Melo’s eyes and tell them they are the most perfect, precious angels in the whole world, these are my fears. One good thing I remind myself of is the fact that having thousands of photos of your child is more socially acceptable than dog photos. And my kid will be allowed on the furniture, but won’t shed as much. Unless it gets my fiancé’s Italian body hair genes.

New York Myths You Should Be Aware of Before You Get Here

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I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but NYC is not as magical as Woody Allen makes it look. I’m a transplant from Wisconsin, and had no idea what I got myself into when I came to NYC. I moved the week after my college graduation, having visited the city on a family vacation years prior. All I knew was that I wanted to work in TV, I lived in LA for 2 months the summer before and hated it, and NYC was really the only other option.

When I first got here, I had no idea where to go or what to do, so, like many other city newbies, I spent my free afternoons in Times Square avoiding people trying to sell me tickets to comedy shows (okay I bought 2 tickets ONE TIME!). Or was I the only one who did that? Wait, don’t tell me. Seven years later, the thought of willingly being in Times Square for a period longer than a subway transfer makes me break out into a shingles rash. But, as a 21-year old with all my belongings in a U-Haul and a spotty resume that included “Proficient using a t-shirt gun,” all I knew was:

  1. This is always the spot they show on TV and in movies to let the audience know “we’re in New York!”
  2. Broadway is here
  3. Every subway stops here
  4. There’s at least 2 “Tasti De-lites” in 6 blocks, and fro-yo is the bomb.

The point is, you’re tricked into thinking Times Square is awesome and teeming with high-profile people rushing to get to their super-cool jobs, not a bunch of tourists trying to push their way into the Disney Store or American Eagle to stock up on cheap American skinny jeans.  So, as a public service, I have compiled a list of NYC myths that you should all be aware of before you try and look for Carrie Bradshaw’s West Village apartment. Why? BECAUSE IT’S ACTUALLY ON THE – MUCH LESS HIP – UPPER EAST SIDE. Okay here we go:

1. Most of Everything You’ve Seen on Gossip Girl

Thank GOD Gossip Girl came out after I already moved here, because that one would have done a real number on me. First of all, it makes the Upper East Side look so fucking posh, you can’t walk outside, let alone attend your exclusive private school, without a full couture getup. In reality, the UES fashion is really more yoga pants, less off-the-runway.

Second, yes, this neighborhood has a lot of designer stores, they are outnumbered by frozen yogurt places (which I am now over. Look, I’m a real New Yorker, complaining about stuff!). It’s also been under construction for years because they’re putting in a new subway line, so the ground shakes a few times a day, there’s dust everywhere, and lots of rodents have been displaced and are currently looking for a residence in apartment buildings.

Finally, the Upper East Side is actually covered in kids under the age of 15 and fro-yo joints. And I know this because I live above two fro-yo joints (yes there are 2 fro-yo places separated by 2 other businesses– both sushi restaurants, which by the way, outnumber Starbucks 6-to-1 up there), and every Friday and Saturday night, the sidewalk is standing room only, and it sounds like it’s a Sorority Rush party from 6-10:30pm. Thank God these kids still have decent curfews. (Also a lie Gossip Girl told me! Not everyone gets to spend a week sleeping over at Chuck Bass’ Empire Hotel suite having sex and making business deals. Can we also talk about how he owned a hotel at 16? I don’t even know how to digest that story line. I can believe Blair dated a French Prince, but owning real estate before 45 in NYC? No. I didn’t get my own cell phone until I was 19.)


2. Serendipity III Is Lame

The restaurant made famous because apparently celebrities like it, and because of the eponymous movie starring Kate Beckinsale and John Cusack. I get it, the “Frrrozen Hot Chocolate” the size of a Jacuzzi is fun. But it’s really like going to “Bubba Gump Shrimp” because there’s one in just about every major city, so it’s really not even that “New York.” (It’s true, Google it!) Plus the wait is absurd. Do you really need to wait two-and-a-half hours to sit next to a preteen couple on their third date, while you eat 5 spoonfuls of said Frrrozen Hot Chocolate just to end up feeling like you need to barf? Just get a slice of pizza and an Orange Crush. It’s really more authentic and probably healthier.

Oh, and remember in 2007 when it shut down for months because it failed a health code inspection after they found rats up in there? Is that really a place you want to buy that $1,000 sundae that’s “The Most Expensive Dessert In The World?” I’ll just grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Chunky Monkey” and call it a day.


3. “Tiffany’s” Is Just Another Jewelry Store You Can’t Afford

Audrey Hepburn made millions of girls and women everywhere think that standing outside Tiffany’s holding a croissant and paper cup of coffee was just about the most romantic thing one could do in the city. Lemme tell you something. She only stood there long enough to house that croissant because it’s really not terribly exciting. This is one of those times you take a picture outside imitating Audrey, then you walk in, are super impressed, then spend 2 minutes realizing you could never afford anything in there. Then you go to the GAP as if they have different clothes than your local GAP in Waukesha.


4. Food Carts / Street Food: Eat At Your Own Risk

The new Food Truck fad was really good for NYC eating on the go. And a lot of them are amazing. Go to those ones. Do not go to the traditional hot dog / pretzel / ice cream guy. They are on every corner and look super authentic, but did you ever think about how long those hot dogs have been marinating in that water? Kids, we call them “dirty water dogs” and they taste just about as good as they sound. Don’t even get tempted to nosh on a soft pretzel. They have also been sitting out on that cart for probably days, based on how stale they are. Here’s a fun story: apparently feeling famished during a walk, my dog once jumped up and stole one of those pretzels. She spit it out. If my dog – who has picked up and actually chewed gum she found on the street – won’t even force one of those down, please don’t even think about giving it to your children. You know what’s even worse? The Hot Nuts lady. They smell amazing, and you should absolutely get an Instagram pic of you in front of the “Hot Nuts” sign, but again, don’t eat.


5. Pedicabs Are A Terrifying Rip-Off

These bicycle-cabs look like a fun way to get from Times Square to Macy’s. But think of how terrifying a cab ride can be with a cabbie who has zero regard for traffic laws or other vehicles. Now think about how scary it would be to weave in and out of traffic on a bike – i.e. with no walls to protect you – while cars honk at you and generally regard you as an annoyance on the road.) Now put those two together, and you’re in a pedicab. I rode in on once and I’ll never do it again. It was like being a passenger in that game “Crazy Taxi,” where you get more points for running into people and cars, except you’re not an avatar, you’re a real person hoping to make it to point B alive and in one piece.

Problem 2: they are expensive as shit! They charge you $5 per person just to get in, then it’s like $2 per block ($4 for a “long block”). PER BLOCK. So that’s at least $20 for 2 people to go 10 blocks. You can take a real cab from SOHO to 86th Street for $20. Listen, you might be contributing to global warming, but at least you won’t be late for your Body Pump class.

The one fun thing about pedicabs though, is watching these little European guys try and bike uphill with two overweight people in tow. Talk about a leg workout. Now that man may deserve the $4 a block.


6. Winter Is Too Cold To Be Scenic

Guys, it’s cold as balls in the winter, and this is coming from someone who spent 20 winters in Wisconsin. Don’t even think of seeing the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, either. It’s like Ellis Island in 1932, only people are even ruder and you’ll probably get elbowed in the boob trying to shove your way into a good photo-op spot. Watch it on TV, it’s a better seat and your boobs will remain unscathed. And don’t even think about ice skating. Trust me on this, I taught ice skating in Central Park for 5 winters. After 15 minutes you feel like you’re on one of those “Climbing Everest” documentaries, wondering if your fingers and toes have turned black from frost bite yet. An adorable romp in the park is not worth possibly losing appendages!

Now, unlike Wisconsin, the city does not have sidewalk plows, so after a good snowfall, you need a dogsled to get to the bodega or subway. The last thing you want to do is stroll through the city in your Uggs (which….aren’t snow boots, guys. They’re not even waterproof. Let’s use our noggins), while you climb up the snowbanks that form at the pedestrian crosswalks.

And you know how snow gets really dirty and isn’t pretty anymore after a few days? In NYC, it takes about 45 minutes before that picturesque snowfall becomes black snow so gross you don’t even want your dogs to pee in it. Speaking of pee….


7. Summer in the City Is Fun, But It Also Smells Like Hot Piss

While things like the Central Park Zoo, Coney Island, Governor’s Island (lots of islands) are fun, it’s also hot as balls in the summer. And in a city where you don’t get to run from your Central Air-Conditioned house (unless you have millions, you will not be living in an apartment with central air. Get used to huddling around your window-unit), into your air-conditioned car. We walk a lot here. So you’re looking at a summer of sweating until you get to the subway, then waiting on a subway platform that’s about 20 degrees hotter and exponentially stuffier than above ground. I imagine this is what a summer in Guantanamo Bay is like, but at least they have snacks in prison. By the time I make it to work, I need another shower. (The most horrifying feeling? Waiting for the train, then feeling that bead of sweat fall from the base of your next and drip all the way down into your butt crack. Welcome to NYC!).

Also, because of the large homeless population, the subway stations and streets reek of pee so badly it almost burns your throat. I’m just saying. I’d aim to visit Spring and Fall. Skip the other seasons altogether.

I’m pretty sure this post will be used by the New York City Board of Tourism, with all the lovely imagery I’ve created. But I’m just trying to keep it 100 and manage your excitement levels. It’s not all “Devil Wears Prada” and “Manhattan.” It’s more “Midnight Cowboy” and “Kids.” I’m really just trying to keep you from spending 2 months in Times Square and gaining 10 lbs of fro-yo weight. Happy travels!


Hey Readers! If you’ve learned something you’ve always heard about New York is a bold-faced lie, I’d love to hear it! Comment below 🙂

When Harry Met Sally…He Never Actually Called

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PHOTO: True love is stealing your sister’s child together to take her on a ride in a rickety African safari jeep.

Guys, it’s time to put my money where my mouth is. I got engaged. But don’t worry, this blog is not going to turn into a wedding blog (maybe something else I should have added to my list of “Wedding What Not To-Do’s).  So instead of boring with you with the minutia of my wedding planning (spoiler alert: haven’t started and generally avoiding), let me regale you with the story of how I met my betrothed, Anthony (name NOT changed because when you marry a writer/comic, everything is fair game for material). It may be my favorite story to tell, because it never lives up to people’s romantic expectations when they ask “so how’d you two meet?”

I had been doing stand-up comedy for about 2 years. I started after I took a class at “The World Famous Comic Strip,” (which now isn’t so famous and smells like stale beer and forgotten dreams. But they like to remind you it’s where comedy legends Jerry Seinfeld and Chris Rock started, so you forgive them for the “C” Health Code rating). Since then, I often performed on their “new talent nights,” which was mostly people who also took the class, and there were always new faces coming in. One night, a particularly cute face walked in: Anthony.  He was super Italian looking, albeit a little short. My immediate thoughts were:

1. That’s cool he’s really Italian, because I’m 25% Italian, but tell people I’m 50%, so dating someone really Italian would help raise my authenticity.

2. He’s a little short, but when I casually walked next to him to measure our  height difference, I could tell he had at least an 1.5” on me, which was enough.

3. There’s no else remotely attractive in this comedy club.

I decided then that I would have a crush on him. Playing it cool (for probably the first time in my life), I introduced myself and then hosted the show. I think I introduced him as starring in “In The Mix” with Usher, which embarrassed him, but absolutely tickled me, because…it’s a movie starring Usher.

A few days later, I got a Facebook message (seriously, if you’re waiting for any hint of romance, just stop now. This is dating in the 2010s. Although a Facebook message is exponentially better than a Tinder swipe, so let’s keep things in perspective), saying something like: “You’re really funny, I can tell you’ve been on this tip for a minute. Maybe you can help me with my jokes some time, and I’ll buy you food or booze.” I read it and immediately got excited, because HE ASKED ME ON A DATE! Now before you judge me for my immediate excitement for what really wasn’t even a real dinner invitation, it was a long dry spell dating in the city, okay? I’m from Wisconsin and I did (okay, do) not have one ounce of NYC swag. I didn’t even last on Match.com longer than the trial membership period. I quickly responded I’d love to help him, and gave him my number.

[Fun side note here: I found out much later that when Anthony saw me perform onstage, his first thoughts were:

1. She’s brilliantly funny (I may have jazzed that up a bit.)

2. She’s wearing flannel. She might be a lesbian.

3. If she’s not a lesbian, I want to date her seriously, not just do a pounce-and-bounce.]

Perhaps I should  have played it a littler cooler, because a year went by and he never called me or sent me another lame Facebook message about our “date.” I started to think this was not a “date,” but just a plea for joke writing help, because he was telling jokes about wearing adult diapers (yes. Really.).  At that point, I wasn’t just mad that we didn’t go out, he didn’t even follow through on getting help for his stand up material?! Probably the worst part of this rejection was, for that year, I’d see him at least every other week when we performed on the same shows. We never spoke about meeting up, and I fluctuated between ignoring him and being chatty & finding opportunities to hug him.

Just about a year later, we both got invited to a fellow comic’s Passover Seder dinner (neither of us are Jewish, but feel that we’ve celebrated enough Jewish holidays with friends we should be considered at least 30% Jewish). That night I decided I’d ignore him. But Anthony decided he’d flirt hard. I tried to act like a total dick and called him names other than “Anthony” ( Andy, Albert, Andre, Anders, etc). He did not pick up on this, or perhaps just wasn’t phased, and pushed on. I left the dinner with a group of 3 other male comics to record our podcast (although he has since told me he thought I was just leaving with 3 guys for what could have been group sex), and made sure NOT to say goodbye to Anthony. He caught me at the elevator and asked me out. Again. Then asked for my number. Again. Like a damn fool, I gave it to him, and he discovered he already had me in his phone, under “Jordan Comic.” The slaps in the face just kept coming. Not only did he have my number and chose not to use it for a year – even for a booty call – but he saved me under the “First Name-How I Know You Because I’ll Forget” name? Now I was livid. I pressed the “door close” button and yelled “bye, Antonio!!!!”

Anthony texted me the next night, and to my dismay (but really, delight), he was very charming and my crush was back on. I coincidentally had tickets to the Tribeca Film Festival that Friday night, so I invited him to go. It was a date.

Cut to Friday afternoon and he texted me that he “had the flu” and wanted to “reschedule when he was feeling 100%.” This fuckin’ guy. Continuing to act like damn desperate fool, I said I also had tickets for Saturday, so if he was feeling better, we could go then. [Another fun side note: Anthony claims he feigned an illness because he “wasn’t ready for a real relationship” and “knew I was the marrying type.” Well done, sir, because playing with my emotions is definitely the right way to treat your next serious girlfriend.] Luckily, I did not listen to anyone’s advice, and went on the date.

Long story short, we saw some avant-garde film that was all the color red and I think a woman cut her own fingers off at one point. I still don’t know what the fuck it was about. I was worried the date was a dud because of the self-mutilation, until Anthony stood up during the Q&A and asked the director when we could expect a wide release and “if he smelled an Oscar.” I’ve never laughed so hard while simultaneously being afraid of getting beat up. He didn’t kiss me until he walked me home (okay, extra points for actually taking the train with me, and walking me to my door. Who does that? Besides date rapists, I mean.) I then questioned if he was, in fact, a date rapist, because he asked to come into my apartment “to check out the architecture.” Don’t you fret, readers. I still was acting like a moron and let him right in. Luckily, he only assaulted me with an aggressive kiss, then I swiftly bid him adieu, because I think at that point, even I knew how many poor decisions I was making. Minutes after he left, I got a text saying “Sorry if that was too much tongue. I swear I’m a better kisser than that. I think that movie got into my head.” By that point, I was already a smitten kitten with mittens, so I was not swayed by some overly-curious tongue action.

I think we’d all know I’d be a huge liar to say “and it’s been smooth sailing since.” But I will tell you, I did finally help him write better jokes and the adult diaper bit is banned from seeing the light of day again. He’s still the person that can make an awkward situation hilarious by asking stupid questions, and he always makes sure I get to where I’m going safely. And when I’m angry, that guy can still win me back with a well-placed, adorable text message. As for our wedding, I’m 92% sure he won’t text me the night before to reschedule.

True Love Is…An Email Intervention

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It was a few years ago, when I was just a early 20-something with a bucket of dreams and an affection for the hours of 5-8pm, where drinks were half off. Not that I was a blossoming alcoholic, but when you make $700 a week working on a gameshow in NYC, a girl can’t afford to pay full price for anything. One of the girls I worked with still lived on Long Island with her parents (like I said…we made $700 a week, so being able to live at home was actually pretty fucking awesome. Paying $1,500 a month in rent to live in a studio the size of a jail cell was not fucking awesome), and she invited a few people from work to spend St. Patrick’s Day bar-hopping on Long Island, then have a good old-fashioned sleepover.

I met my friend, Mallory, at Penn Station to house some Taco Bell before we caught on our ride on the Long Island Rail Road (as you do, in Penn Station). Being the diligent, someone-should-always-know-where-I-am-in-case-I-get-brutally-murdered gal I am, I emailed my dad in-between $1.50 tacos to let him know where I was going. He replied immediately with the following – and this is a direct quote:

“Help your father out, please? Do I have to worry about your frequent comments about drinking, getting drunk, and alcoholism? You know, alcoholism does run in [my] side of the family!”

Now, maybe the old man was concerned about my well being, but this has to be the lamest intervention EVER. Although I would like to state for the record that you haven’t seen peer-pressure until you’re at my parents house at 5pm and you don’t have a G&T in your hand. Or at least one of those Milwaukee microbrews my mom bought “just for you.” My question, however, is this: just how concerned must you be that your favorite daughter is on a hard-and-fast downward spiral that you’re like “ehh, I guess I’ll shoot her a quick email and remind her of our family’s alleged rampant alcohol abuse.” I’d guess marginally less concerned than you’d be if you were compelled to send, I don’t know, maybe a text saying “Alcoholism runs in the family. Be careful and lmk if you need rehab or whatever.”

Listen, I already have a dollop of the Youngest Child Syndrome, so to me, that email was just a challenge to garner as much as my father’s attention as possible. What would I have to have done to warrant an actual phone call? (I’m not even going to wonder what action would prompt an actual face-to-face. After all, he lived in Wisconsin, so that would just be silly). Maybe a Tweet of me, face down in vomit? An Instagram selfie of me and the cop who’s hauling me off for public intoxication?

In the long run, I settled on doing nothing because I’m still too much of a goody two-shoes to actually willingly illicit anger from my parents. Plus, once I got to Long Island, the bartender wouldn’t even serve me. I showed him my Wisconsin State ID, and he laughed, saying it had to be fake “because no one is from Wisconsin.” Oh, but people DO live in Wisconsin, kind sir with leprechaun suspenders on! Besides, um, me, there is  one man who lives there, who would have really fucking enjoyed your karmic refusal to serve. But for the record, my friend snuck me beers all night, so Me: 1, Dad: 0.

Prom Date, Revisited

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I don’t have a terribly embarrassing high school yearbook photo, and I never skipped outdoor recess to play Dungeons and Dragons in the library. I was witty and got along better with adults. Cute, but didn’t have any interest in wearing full makeup to school, slash…ever. I didn’t even known how to use it, as evidenced by the one day I DID attempt to use some concealer to cover the dark under-eye circles my father so generously passed down; my mom politely informed me that it wasn’t supposed to look like a nude-hued football player’s eye black.

So when it came to being asked to the Prom, let’s be honest here, I didn’t have any real prospects. There was one boy. We’ll call him Spencer. He was in my AP Biology class, got better grades than I did, and wrestled for the school in the Under-132 lbs category. By no means a “catch” by high school standards, I was pretty sure he was going to grow up to be one of those Maury Povich “Nerds to Knockout” success stories. So I felt pretty good about getting in on the ground floor of a future hottie. Plus he was way smart and I knew hot jocks grow up to own used car dealerships and nerds grow up to invent things like Facebook or Spanx. So enlisted my friends to not-so subtly encourage him (OK, fine, make him) ask me to Prom. But I also offered to go Dutch because I’m not a total sociopath.

The night was fine.  We went with a group of other unlikely couples. We got our awkward photo, where his hand is placed precariously just below my left breast and we both look sufficiently uncomfortable standing butt-to-crotchal region (My dress was also handmade by my crafty mother. Later shortened to attend some other function in college. Let’s here it for Midwestern thriftiness!) I think we went out to dinner, then piled in Ben’s car (i.e. his mother’s Subaru) to get to the venue downtown. I danced the whole night to Eminem and Britney’s greatest hits, and Spencer…well I don’t know what he did the whole time, because he had no interest in “grinding” on me, as the other sweaty youths were doing.

He later dropped me off at my friend Kaitlin’s house where the gals were having a sleepover. Spencer bid me goodnight with a half-hearted wave and a “That was fun.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the recreation of “A Walk to Remember” I was hoping for (I didn’t become mysteriously ill and no one proposed!!??), but I went to my Senior Prom, had fun with my friends, and my date was definitely going to be a real catch in 5-10 years. And since I was his Senior Prom date, that gave my precedence over any other 2-bit whore he meets in college who tries to marry him.

Flash forward 5 years. I was home visiting my parents and as luck would have it, my high school bestie, Carolyn Ashe, was also home. So we met at a local watering hole for a drink, to gossip about people who gained weight, dropped out of college already, accidentally got pregnant…as you do. All of a sudden Carolyn said, “ohmigod, is that Spencer?” It was! And, spoiler alert! I was totally right. He was tall, well built and totally adorable. (Lesson to high school girls: meeting men is a marathon, not a sprint. Put in the work early and hope for the big payoff. The hottest guy in school, by that time, married his high school girlfriend and they already had 2 kids. “Friday Night Lights” isn’t just a TV show, it’s a cautionary tale, kids). Carolyn confirmed that he did, indeed, grow into his looks and gave me the green light to flirt.

Spencer saw that Carolyn and I are blatantly pointing and rubber-necking to get a better look at him, and being the more mature one (which I knew he would be! Totally nailing it!), he walked over to greet us. We exchanged hellos, how-are-yous, why-are-you-in-town-because-it’s-not-a-holidays, all while I’m thinking of the best way to slyly sneak in “Listen, I know we never hooked up on Prom night but I can make it up to you, tonight.” While I was thinking of ways to not sound like a date-rapist, I suddenly heard my future husband say “…finished seminary school and now I’m at a parish in Minnesota.” Umm what? Seminary school? In my good ear??? It sounded like you said you said the only wedding ring you will ever wear is to signify your marriage to God. Without much to commiserate on that one, Carolyn and I quickly wrapped up the conversation and he sauntered back to his table that I can only imagine was full of other do-gooders.

A Priest?!?! My mind reeled as Carolyn and I laugh, but I couldn’t help but think: this is my fault, right? I broke the cardinal (no pun intended) rule of Prom! I didn’t even kiss him, and now he’s gone and joined the cloth. One lousy Prom night with me and this man gave his life over to Jesus? I wasn’t a cool, self-aware kid at all! How could I have missed this glaring mistake? Were there signs? Did he offer to turn my water at Applebee’s that night into a wine cooler? I can’t remember!

So my plan didn’t exactly “work out,” but I still think the most important take away here is that I was totally right! Take that, more popular girl whose date still works at the Sendeck’s super market! My guy might be a priest, but that’s better than bagging groceries when you’re flirting with 30!!! Granted, I should have done more Facebook stalking to see who got cute, but didn’t come out of the closet or dedicate their life to Jesus. Thank God I was such a prude in high school and, more importantly, didn’t ask him to hookup in my mom’s minivan that night. I can sleep soundly knowing he didn’t have to do 5 Hail Mary’s to save my slut soul.

“Today I Marry My Best Friend” and Other Wedding Cliches to Avoid

Standard
I’m going to be upfront and start by saying, no, I am not engaged. But my boyfriend recently told me – whilst shoving fistfuls of Craisins into his mouth – that he wants to impregnate me. Safe to say that my fairy tale is imminent, so I better start planning ahead.
 
I’m in my late twenties, which means in the past 7 years I’ve gone to about a hundred weddings and spent so much money on gifts I could have put up a down payment on a nice little condo. But at said hundreds of weddings, I have also witnessed a few wedding cliches that I would like to avoid like Mexican tap water:
 
1. Overly Creative Engagement Photos
I understand you want your “Save the Date” card to be so fucking adorable and original that every guest will feel honored to be invited to your gala. But let’s remember that your Save the Date will be thrown away immediately. So don’t waste your money on a 3-day photo shoot and photoshopping the Millennium Falcon in the background. And we already know you’re nerds. We’ll come to your wedding anyways. (Use the money to buy yourself that $600 pasta maker you nonsensically registered for. No one else will.) But we WILL 100% text you the day before your wedding for that venue information.
 
2. Flash Mobs and Choreographed Dances
I think this goes for proposals, entrances and receptions. It was cool in 2004, but at this point, it’s really no longer a “surprise” or original. It’s actually really annoying. And no matter how supportive your friends are, no one wants to participate in 5 hours of mandatory dance rehearsal to learn the hand jive. And the ones that do? They’re just trying to steal your thunder. Leave them in a gross coral bridesmaid’s dress and just relish the attention you’ll get regardless of your showmanship.
 
3. Saying “I’d Die Without You”
So maybe no one says this verbatim in their vows, but I’ve heard many a-couple say this. Usually of the child-bride variety. You may think this is very Romeo-and-Juliet-romantic, but I think most psychologists would agree that it’s more like a serious codependency issue that should be addressed toute-suite. Let us remember from freshman english that Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy. Some friendly neighborhood priest sold a couple of kids poison in the name of a love-suicide pact, and that’s what we should all aspire to? I don’t think so. I think a weird tattoo, or a simple “love ya, boo” would suffice as far as proclamations of love go.
 
4. “Today I Marry My Best Friend…”
Perhaps on EVERY wedding program ever. It goes without saying you have to be friends with your spouse otherwise you wouldn’t want to binge on “House of Cards” in-between scheduled sex nights. Plus, your sig-other is the one you’re allowed to tell the secrets that you were sworn to secrecy not to tell. This, by default, makes them your bestie/Road Dog. Although if I were really marrying my best friend, it would be a lesbian wedding and my mother would have won that bet she had with my father. 
 
5. That Wedding Photo of Just Your Left Hands
To show off your rings, of course! Ugh, I get it! You’re hitched. This is what binds us, blah blah blah. Who honestly wants a picture of their hands? I have my father’s large knuckles and a big wood-carving-accident scar on my left paw. I do not need these facts further immortalized. Please don’t tell me you’ve actually hang that up in your home, either. You look at your own hands a thousand times a day, I don’t understand why you need a photo of them hanging in your foyer to remind yourself what your ring looks like. And if it’s hung up next to your “Save the Date” card, then just don’t ever invite me over. It’s the best for everyone.
 
6. Arms-Up Cheering When You’re Announced
I know you’re excited to walk into your awesome reception. (For the record, if it’s not open bar, it’s not awesome. Ditto for post-dinner drunk snackies). But you didn’t just win the Super Bowl. You won an eternity of picking up someone’s boxer briefs with questionable stains on them. Just walk in like you have a shred of dignity. 
 
7. Mother/Son & Father/Daughter Dance
I just think it’s awkward to sit and watch normal people (i.e., not cast members of “Dancing With the Stars”) sway side to side for 4 minutes and act like it’s the most touching thing you’ve ever witnessed. And if you’re doing it to that Hawaiian ukulele version of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” you officially have the most generic, boring 4 minutes of your guests’ lives. No one even likes the ukulele, unless you live in Williamsburg and own one. And then no one likes you, anyways.
 
8. Playing “YMCA” Like It’s 1987
I would say any “group dance” kind of song is a big N-O. But this song, in particular, is over. Please stop acting like that stupid arm thing is fun. It’s really not. And even if you think it is, what do you do for the 12 verses in between? It’s not like you know the words. So, no thank you. 
 
9. Throwing the Bouquet
I almost didn’t include this one because everyone already knows this is embarrassing for everyone. No need to draw attention to your single friends. Everyone will know how to find them, anyways. They’re the ones alternately drunk-sobbing in the bathroom and grinding on any man who looks under the age of 65. Unless you have a rich uncle, then age be damned. Mama’s too pretty to work full-time. 
 
10. The “Find the Garter” Game
The man-version of the bouquet but arguably worse. Why must we all watch the groom climb up his new wife’s dress and pull off a purely ornamental garter? Unless she’s wearing stockings, a garter is ridiculous and probably itchy as hell. Besides, we all know you’re boning later and we’re already playing along with the “for the first time” charade. Spare me this uncomfortable display of foreplay. There are children here.
 
 
So, when my personal prince charming stops audibly farting long enough to propose with a diamond he probably bought from a sad divorcee on eBay…I will know what I want to avoid on my big day. My game plan? Do it quick and dirty and just get to the part where my dad does Jaeger-bombs and my Aunt Helen tries to booty-pop all over my husband’s friends. Oh and collect a shit-ton of gifts. You bitches owe me.