Last night I went to bed at 10pm and was sound asleep just moments later. At 11pm Mr. G called me from the airport. He was on one of the last flights back from New York City before a(nother) blizzard. I might have cursed at him. I might have panicked about a lack of sleep. I might have been a terrible wife… or I might not have (though probably I did).
I woke up at 3am, took a fast shower and hopped in a waiting Towncar to go to Fox News’ LA Bureau so I could talk about Valentines Day. Apparently there is a subset of America who believes that we’re coddling children by asking that five year olds bring Valentines Day cards for the whole class or for none at all. I found this segment to be baffling and I wasn’t sure what point Elizabeth was trying to make.
I was back in bed by 5 and then up again at 7 to get Alexander off to school. I slept like a baby last night, in fits and spurts.
I knew that this is how it would be when Fox called and I know that part of being on TV at 4am is scheduling a nap midday so it’s not like my day is ruined. My day is just altered.
Earlier this week I went and tried one of those kooky foot massage places. I’ve never been to one before but a friend mentioned one in town and said it was like $35 for an hour and it was terrific. She also said it was clean. I won’t go to a salon for a mani-pedi because I’m convinced I’ll die from some esoteric foot fungus I get there. I am not the ideal candidate for discount massages.
Except this was good. So good.
First off you’re led into a room with about a half dozen recliner chairs. The room is dark and there are men and women laying on the chairs, men with their shirts off (these masseuses don’t make nearly enough money) and everyone with their pants rolled up. Your feet are soaked in warm to hot water while your shoulders are rubbed and then your feet are dried off, the chair goes back and the massage begins.
I don’t know how the massage goes because I promptly feel asleep and woke only a few times to the sound of my own snoring. The lady who rubbed my feet giggled and said something about, “You sleep.” In a heavy accent, Vietnamese maybe? I didn’t care. My $35 plus tip earned me the right to snore like a lumberjack’s saw.
I’m headed back this afternoon for more foot rubbing and napping so that I can somehow get through this day. It’s a $45 nap in total and if I can get some quick deep sleep I stand a decent chance of being not-a-monster to my family tonight and Mr. G might actually be happy that he’s home. Again.
Am I the only blogger on the planet with kids over the age of five? Does anyone recognize that children have free will, that they leave the house and buy things with money we’ve given them or that they’ve earned?
Also I love that folks are like, “I would NEVER pay my children for anything. If I want to discipline them I just take away their video games.” Listen, I don’t care what currency you use, if you’re giving or withholding things to or from your kids there’s a currency involved. Life is full of transactions. I pay for grades. Klum pays for smoothies. Y’all pay for something. Just admit it.
At 4.30 this morning a car came to pick me up. Whenever I do TV appearances I decline the car service because typically I’m going on Prime News or Jane Velez Mitchell and I go straight from taping to the grocery store or to pick up kids. This morning I’d have cried or crashed (maybe both) if I was required to drive myself 10 minutes to the TV studio and back.
So I played princess.
And at 4.30 a lovely man pulled up in front of the house, cheerily greeted me and we pulled away. I felt compelled to make small chat so I did but I was beyond tired and managed only to chatter about traffic and the lack of it. After I’d filled the silence adequately my driver waited a few moments and kindly said, “I’m Geraldo. It’s nice to meet you.”
I hadn’t asked his name. I’m not that person. Of course none of us ever think we are that person but we are all that person, we just fight it and at some points in our lives or days we fight it better than others. Geraldo kept me company on the way to the studio and then waited for me. He is a kind and gentle man.
I did quick makeup and fortunately my hair was already fine from the night before so I took my seat, put in the earpiece and the producer had me do a count for him. Meanwhile I was in the booth with the LA producer and we were talking about the volume in my ear. The NY producer asked me if I was okay with all of this and I said, “Yes.” Thinking of course that he was talking about the volume in my ear and then he was like, “So you think it’s cool for everyone to take Adderall?” And I got a giggle because it’s obviously not okay and I’m easily amused at 5am when I’m wearing a blazer on top and pajama pants on the bottom.
We finished our segment and then I stripped out of my blazer and shell and returned to my cozy sweats so I could curl up into the backseat of the car that waited for me downstairs.
When we pulled up to the house I grabbed the only cash I had to tip sweet Geraldo and found six dollar. Six measly dollars. Before napping today I’m going to stuff a $20 in an envelope and send it off to Diva because that’s just embarrassing.
I had the misfortune to stumble across an article titled Don’t Bring Her to the Gym. The overall misogyny was bothersome, but what was more troubling is that at some point maybe two or three years ago I’d had a really nice series of email interactions with the author James Fell.
Unfortunately Mr Fell, in his Onionesque article, thinks that bringing your significant other to the gym has the one benefit of providing her with the opportunity to do something about the hail damage on her ass.
I’m not going to address the obvious points here. I’m not going to note the fact that Fell sounds like a dinosaur when he refers to women as babes. I’m not going to mention the fact that said babes are likely half his age and don’t appreciate the ogling. I’m also not going to dwell on the fact that we women don’t want to compare ourselves to each other, we just want one man to love us so deeply that he thinks we are the most beautiful woman on the planet even when our tummys swell with their babies and our breasts drop from having fed them.
I will say that Fell is right when he says that bringing your significant other to the gym will distract you from your workout, and that training your significant other is probably a bad plan. I also agree that guys need guy time, but equating the gym to church is akin to equating a bench press to insight. Although Fell may have tremendous strength of body, I’d question his strength of character.
In real life significant others do see one another at their worst. Mr. G. often sees me after a tennis match, a day in the garden or just a long hike with the kids. In real life women sweat, it’s okay and it’s not a scary event for a real man.
What Fell doesn’t seem to understand about the hail damage on my ass is that it was proudly acquired by birthing and nurturing two magnificent human beings. Every wrinkle and every seeming imperfection is a testament to my character, and for all of us women whose bodies have grown and shrank, all of us who don’t have the incredible luxury of a photoshopped life we all look great. Our bodies are here to serve a purpose, a strong body is the perfect vehicle for a strong mind.
Here, Mr. Fell, is my hail damaged ass, please feel free to kiss it.