Crap…Tired…Part Two

A little etiquette question. Is it bad manners not to go to the baby shower of my husband’s boss and his wife?  Ok, you might need a little more information.  I don’t love parties. I really don’t love party games.  I don’t want to guess how big Mom’s stomach is or pass balloons between my knees to between strangers’ knees or see who can empty a baby bottle fastest. And it’s worse when I don’t know anyone. Half the time my husband doesn’t know anyone. Why does every women my husband has ever met feel obligated to invite him to their baby showers? Why are men invited to baby showers anyway?  I just don’t wanna go. Don’t wanna. Don’t wanna. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but my husband feels obligated to accept every invitation and that it is a question of honor when his woman isn’t at his side.  I briefly considered lying; “Oh no! They just added a rehearsal on Saturday! Darn!”, and then hiding out in Starbucks all afternoon. But I told the truth.  And while in one breath he said I’m not obligated to go, in the next he made it very clear that it was important to him that I do. Why. Why is it so important?  And why am I so resistant? It’s a few hours out of my life that would make him happy. Why am I so stingy with my time? What do I think I will be missing? Why is absolutely nothing to do so much more appealing than a party, or a class, or anything that involves getting out of my pajamas? I can’t even truthfully say it’s because I need to work, to create. I do, certainly, but I wouldn’t. I’d lie around, watching hours of 2 Broke Girls, and playing every incarnation of Candy Crush. Candy Crush. Candy Crush Soda. Candy Crush Jelly. WTF? How many incarnations is this ridiculous game gonna have?  And how did I get to the sullen teenager phase of my life and stay there? Fine, I’ll go. But not without a lot of eye-rolling and heavy sighs. Who’s the baby now?

On the Fence     carynjune 





Ho. Ho. Holy Crap, I’m Tired. 

It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m scrolling through my phone trying to find somewhere to bring in the New Year. Truthfully, I don’t love going out on New Year’s Eve. But I sort of feel like I should. It’s New Year’s Eve, man. It’s a special night! Saying Goodbye to the old year and all its good times and all its crap, and welcoming the New Year with all its promise and all its crap, not to mention most of last years crap. But crap or no, there is something comforting about getting to start over. It’s the New Year. It’s in CAPITAL LETTERS. It must be celebrated! So let’s partay!!!! Or…let’s have a quiet, romantic dinner someplace. Just the two of us! Or…I could cook us a special dinner with a bottle of wine! Or…we could order a pizza in our pajamas and pass around a bottle of tequila until you fall asleep 10 minutes before midnight while I watch Ryan Seacrest pretend to be Dick Clark. Let’s face it. Going out on New Year’s Eve is not all its cracked up to be. (See that? Capital letters. You can’t even write New Year’s Eve without autocorrect capitalizing it. Try it. Can’t be done.) Reasons not to go out on NYE:

  • It’s expensive. I read that the Olive Garden in Times Square is charging $400 a person because of its proximity to the festivities. Nope. I don’t care if I can see Ryan Seacrest’s nose hair.  It’s still Olive Garden, people. 
  • You have to get dressed up. Nope. Can’t do it. 
  • Everybody out there is crazy and drunk and liable to puke in my vicinity. Nope. That’s why I don’t have kids. Or pets. No. Just no. 

The fact is, New Year’s Eve is about endings and beginnings. Friends and Family. Finishing what you start and starting something new. Giving up what doesn’t work but not giving up on your dreams. Endings. Beginnings. Celebrating the year. Celebrating you. In your pajamas, a slice of pizza in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other and a lampshade on your head.