notes to self

like every other twenty-something american woman, i, too, am obsessed with gwyneth paltrow. it's become a bit of a cliche, hasn't it? yes, she's beautiful, has an insane body with an equally covetable wardrobe, and hangs out with beyonce, jay-z, and baby blue on the regular. that's all great. but the reason i really want to wear her skin is for the same reasons that i love ina garten, the barefoot contessa: her cookbooks are unapologetic food snobbery at it's best. note to self: cooking and eating your way through her cookbook, however, will not guarantee that you will look like gp or will have the carter's stopping by for dinner. and i think it's time to come to terms with it. so, just go have a glass of wine, pick up people magazine's 'most beautiful women' issue (she's on the cover, naturally), and watch great expectations. again.




in case you were ever wondering what a small but sturdy children's cardboard book thrown straight to the face by your daughter would feel like- whose arm apparently rivals one of roger clemens' fast balls while he was doping- now you know. note to self: always duck.

it's come to be my understanding that new york city playgrounds are like high school all over again. note to self: remember this the next time you think it's acceptable to let your kid take the empty tampon box that she's been playing with for the past two hours to the playground with her. especially when she's good at shoving it in other kid's faces sharing. it's not exactly the best way to make friends with other moms. but it is a very efficient way to get asked if you're the nanny. bitches.

you know those parenting that books tell you to not freak out if your child falls down or scrapes their knee because it'll just freak them out even more? well. note to self: it's probably okay to freak out a tiny bit when you hear your child slam herself into a shelf, fall, scream out hysterically, and then when you run over to assess the damage, you notice blood pouring out of her nose onto the floor. yes. this happened to my as-of-yet-scar-free baby last night. and a little freak out most definitely occurred. followed by an impromptu call to the local wine store for delivery. update: it isn't broken. but she does have a faint bruise smack dab in the middle of her face. and i'm hungover. i can't wait to see what the playground moms have to say about that today. bitches. 

note to self: you're never leaving new york (sorry, mom). they deliver wine. to your door. in seven minutes. and that's just all there is to it. especially after a day like yesterday.

and speaking of wine... note to self: while soaking in an epsom salt detox bath, it might defeat the very purpose of taking a detox bath if you're drinking a glass (or three) of what gave you the need to detox in the first place. but then again, when you've had a book thrown at your face, you've come to terms with the fact that you'll never be gwyneth paltrow, your child has basically broken their face clear off, and you've been judged up and down by snoody old moms on a new york city playground, maybe you've earned the right to do whatever the fuck you want?

cheers!