And the Oscar goes to...

Let me just say, getting three kids off to school in the morning with a champagne hangover is one of life's least pleasant experiences. And doing it with burning resentment, since you were expecting your equally hungover spouse to be helping you, but he is less-than-useless due to his recent hockey-related injury, doesn't make it any easier.*

So obviously, the Oscars were last night. The Oscars are like my Super Bowl. The DVR is set and checked, then rechecked. Elaborate trays of finger foods are prepared, beverages chilled and glasses washed. Toys are cleaned up and any children who can not sit silently, or comment quietly on red carpet fashion are banned from the room. Pre-game starts at 6:00 with E!'s Live from the Red Carpet, as H and I fill out our at-home scorecards** and we watch until the bitter end.

Personally, I think this years' Oscars were boring as hell. Listening to James Franco and Anne Hathaway make jokes about being given the hosting gig in an effort to reach a younger demographic, wasn't funny, it was pathetic. And no, Anne, I wasn't distracted by your lack of hosting skills by your eighty-five wardrobe changes or your giant teeth. I will admit you can sing though, which was a surprise, and at least you did something other than sit there like a lump, as your cohost did, his only shining moment being when he walked out in Marilyn Monroe drag.

Let's talk about the Kirk Douglas for a moment, shall we? What a wonderful actor, but why, for the love of God, do producers think we want to see former screen heartthrobs struggle to form sentences? I'm also looking at you, Dick Clark since your produce your own New Year's special, yet you think we all want to watch you sweat trying to count backwards from ten before January 2nd. Kirk Douglas is not even an actor from my generation. How depressing it must be if you used to get all wet in the panties for this guy and now he looks like the Crypt Keeper. I flash forward mentally twenty years to George Clooney in a wheelchair, breathing through a stoma, and I die a little inside.

And speaking of George Clooney, where the hell was everyone? The Oscars without Clooney is like Christmas with no Santa. I know he's now a United Nations messenger of peace, brainwashing the people of Sudan into giving America their oil with his rugged good looks, but isn't there something in one of his contracts requiring him to show up at the Kodak Theater wearing a classic tuxedo to make witty remarks to Ryan Seacrest every February? And what of his boyfriend Mr. Pitt? No Angelina and Brad? She gives me a rash, and I think she tricked Brad into marriage with all her dirty-girl hotness, and then turned into The Crazy Woman Who Lived in the Shoe, but they are a red carpet staple. I was devastated there was no Jennifer Gardner. Someone from her husband's movie, The Town, got nominated and where is she? Not caring so much that Ben wasn't there, but I missed her and her strong jaw terribly. And what about Jack Nicholson? It just isn't the Oscars without some presenter making disturbing references to his sexual conquests after which we are treated to closeups of him in the audience, creepily waggling his eyebrows.

Even though last night's show was one of the more boring ones, I walked away with the same feeling I do every year. After seeing all the stars in real time, without the benefit of airbrushing or professional lighting, I realize most of them are pretty ordinary looking. Very attractive, sure, but I see people on the street in my daily life who are just as good looking as Halle Berry (who I do not get). On the red carpet, you see the flaws that all we women are concerned with. Back fat, bat wings, pooching stomachs - you see what is hidden clever poses and Photoshop in most photographs. Scarlett Johansson (who I really, really do not get), while still tiny, looked like five pounds of baloney in a three pound bag (see above). Amy Adams should fire her stylist after the way her arms looked like ham hocks in that sequined monstrosity.*** I have a message for the women of the world - YOU TOO CAN LOOK LIKE A HOLLYWOOD STAR IF YOU PAY THE RIGHT PEOPLE.

I think the Oscars should be required viewing for all women so, even though we are watching in our pajamas, eating too much French cheese and cupcakes, we can know we are as attractive as the women we put on such high pedestals. We just live in a world of bad lighting and unfortunate viewing angles. Which is a helpful thought to hang onto the next morning, looking at your haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror after staying up too late to watch all this nonsense.

*I'm so glad #1's ice skating lessons inspired him to play pick-up hockey Friday nights to relive his glory days resulting in what we think might be a ripped hamstring.
**At this point, H also begins cheating and visiting betting websites and researching the movies we haven't seen. I prefer to go with my gut. I solidly kicked his cheating ass this year.
***And speaking of stylists, Cate Blanchett desperately needed one. What the hell was all over that dress? Mentos?

Puttin' on the foil, Coach.

It seems all my posts this week are going to be inspired by events over the long weekend. Today is no exception.

Sunday, I gave H my Valentine's Day gift to him - tickets to the Rangers/Flyers game at Madison Square Garden*. H almost also received a quick blow to the head when he asked, "Oh, is W (childhood friend) coming with me? Is that why you asked me for his cell number last week?" Um, no, idiot, that was for help with the DVD player. I, the mother of your children, who used to go to games with you before you got me knocked up three times, am going with you.

I bought the tickets on StubHub and even after checking the MSG map repeatedly, I had no idea if they were good seats or not. The "handicapped accessible" seemed promising though, as perhaps they had extra leg room. We arrive at The Garden, find our seats and, there's extra legroom, alright. You know those folding chairs they put right behind the rail at the top of each section? Those were our seats. As and added bonus, ours were literally right in front of the concession stand. I started panic sweating, envisioning the fight I would inevitably get in when some Ranger-jersey-wearing skank in gold lame Uggs and giant hoop earrings pushed up against my back holding two very full souvenir cups of Coors light precariously over my head screaming, "LET'S GO RANGERS!".** (Can we all just agree, ladies, that wearing a sports jersey is just so very unflattering after the age of thirty? If you are so in love with a team that you simply can not attend a game without one, can we at least set some ground rules? You can not wear a jersey and heels. You can not wear a jersey and carry a giant, glittery purse. At least try to look sporty.) Anyway, the seats wound up being pretty great, actually. The beer line never got too long and since I was the one getting up to get H beers***, waiting in that line, it was nice not to have to brave the crowd to try and get a full cup back to him.

During the game, I realized I had forgotten how much I like hockey. Sports hold very little interest to me, but doing anything without the kids is fun, especially if beer and hot dogs are involved, so I go when the opportunity presents itself. When I am at a hockey game though, I actually watch. Hockey is so vastly superior to other sports in so many ways, I'm surprised more people aren't into it like football (or as my brohter in-law calls it, Football: The Worst Show Ever).

You have go to love that it's indoors. How can you beat that? It's hard to look cute when you're getting skin cancer at a Yankee game, or freezing to death at Giants stadium. I'd say hockey is the perfect date sport (yeah, yeah basketball, I hear you. You're OK too) since you have to wear a few layers ,but not too many that you look like Randy from A Christmas Story.

Another thing I love about hockey is play is pretty much non-stop. Football makes me want to pull out my own finger nails with all the waiting between plays. It's a game people, not Operation Desert Storm, throw the damn ball and run. As a child, watching the clock tick down on a Sunday Jets or Giants game, desperate to watch anything other than football on my family's one television, only to have the clock stop for the tenth time in five minutes nearly drove me to insanity. A hockey game is three quick periods with minimal breaks in between. Half-time show? I love when The Rangers have Pee Wee teams play between periods, with their giant helmets and little bodies, they look like live bobble-head dolls, but they play for all of five minutes, the Zamboni (which I am desperate to drive) cleans the ice and it's game on. This proves, in my opinion, what great athletes hockey players are. Did you enjoy your little rest Mr. Quarterback? Did you get a nap in?

And speaking of athleticism, I think hockey players are the most skilled professional athletes out there. They are playing a game, while doing something considered a difficult sport on its own - ice skating. How about basketball on a pogo stick, or football on a unicycle? Anyone can run in all different directions, try skating backwards while trying to handle a puck.

It's not just the game, but the culture of hockey that I love. Most of the players are shy, farm boys from the snow-bound states, Canada, or Russia. They don't take themselves too seriously. I haven't heard of any side-line reporter scandals in the NHL, have you? To my knowledge, no one in the league has recently shot himself accidentally in a night club. OK, I'll say what you're thinking. If hockey is such an innocent sport, then why are so many players missing teeth? Yes, hockey is the one sport other than, you know, boxing, where fighting is encouraged. While, technically, the NHL has tried to crack down on the brawls, it can not be prevented. Hockey without fights is like football without obnoxious end zone dances - something we know is wrong, but secretly enjoy.

Perhaps my perspective is a bit skewed since H actually plays hockey. In fact, I had never watched a game until I went to a college with a great hockey team and too many intramural teams to count (even my sorority had one, which was really just a bunch of us holding on to the boards with sticks in our free hand while the other team kicked our asses). H still laughs remembering my comment during one of my first games, "Aw, isn't that denfenseman nice, giving his stick to the forward after his just broke?" I guess that's what they're taught to do or something. However, the effect of H in his goalie pads can not be discounted from our budding romance. I still sort of have a thing for it, and if they didn't smell like a dead body, they would definitely be making an appearance in our amorous activities. Fantasies aside, hockey is part of the culture in our house. We quote Slap Shot a little too often (see the title of this post) and H is over the moon about the fact that #1 has finally, finally learned to ice skate so we can get a stick in her hands. She has a leg up, grow up with a dad who can skate backwards, but having given her my eye-hand coordination, I am a little doubtful. Our only other hope is Little Man, since #2 cries when she sees the ice.

Even if none of them wind up playing, hockey will be a big part of their lives. H was just contemplating whether they were too young to watch Miracle, the movie about the 1980 Olympic gold medal hockey team - the drunken tomfoolery in several scenes earned it a big "no" from me. I do hope H continues to play long enough for his kids to see a game (considering the adult leagues play way after their bedtime, that is a long ways off). If that is the case, his pads are so old and disgusting he might need to buy a new set. Hmmm. Those might come in handy before their first use....


*Odd sidebar - we ran into the monk who married us on the street after the game. Weird
**This description is based on an actual woman sitting three rows in front of us.
***Can we say "best wife ever"? When H asked why I was being to so nice to him, other than the fact that I love him and the poor guy rarely gets to see live sporting events, I reminded him my interest in the game could in no way match his and if we were to ever go see, say, Sex and the City Live, I'd expect him to wait in line for champagne as payback.

Everything I needed to know, I knew in third grade...

During the long weekend, which only made me wish for summer more, having all the kids home, H and I sat down to have a movie night with the girls. We have them including Little Man too, but rather than sitting on the couch snuggled together, it becomes a scream-fest involving repeated shouting of, "SIT DOWN, LM!" and the girls whining, "Can you get him out of the way of the TV?".

We sat down to watch The Bridge to Terabithia, breaking my read-it-before-you-see-it rule, which would have come in really handy, since never having read the book myself, I didn't know one of the main characters dies in the middle of the movie causing me to mouth to H, over the girls' heads, "What the fuck?". Waterworks, aka as #1, handled it well though, unlike Toy Story 3, which has been banned in our house since we saw it this summer. And while it did teach me to read the preview in its entirety before watching a movie with your children, what I came away with was a vow to be more of my nine year-old self.

For my male readers, or for those of you not fortunate enought to have a girl in the eight to twelve year-old range in your lives, this time is probably the best in a girl's life. The early childhood years are behind her and she has mastered the basics that once held her back - reading, riding a bike, jigsaw puzzles with more than twelve pieces. She is reading books that expose her to knew ideas and she is coming up with a few of her own. Everything she does she does with gusto, becoming fuly obsessed with horses, writing, or drawing.

The world is the nine year-old's oyster. She can be anything she wants to be. My oldest currently wants to be a teacher and a vet on the weekends. And also, a mom, which I am glad she lists as an occupation. Nothing is impossible. She has not yet learned about compromise and sacrifice for the sake of others, which seems to come with territory of womanhood.

The nine year-old's body is a strong powerful tool to get her around the world she is ready to conquer. No longer held back by the unsure steps of a pre-schooler, she runs with abandon, feeling her heart pound just for the sheer joy of it, as coltish as the horses most of them so dearly love. Her body hasn't yet become something to change and shape and mold, wishing parts bigger and smaller as the case may be. Her body is to be lived in, not to be looked at.

I look at my daughter and I want for her to keep growing and learning, but in so many ways I wish she could stay just as she is right now. In many ways, she is wiser than I. Her passions drive her and each day is an adventure. She is confident in her being, not questioning her choices or what she is doing. She is just fine the way she is. And then, in the blink of an eye, it can all change.

So this week I have tried my best to put the Swiffer away and write - and not feel guilty about it. Rather than sprint intervals, I ran at whatever pace felt good this morning, listening to music that made me smile. Which included Lady Gaga's new single "Born This Way". You could almost see a nine year-old writing these lyrics, "I'm beautiful in my way, 'Cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way."

Most of us women start out as strong, confident little girls, who are excited to take over the world. She's still in there if you look. Wouldn't be amazing if you let her out?

The best-laid plans

"OK, so I take #2 to gymnastics at 9:00, you drop Little Man of there with me at 9:50, leave the van and take the Jetta, then get #1 to ice skating at 10:30. We'll all meet back at the house at 12:00 for lunch. Then LM has a birthday party from 1:00 to 2:30. I'll go there while you take the girls grocery shopping for the dinner party."

This is an example of the conversation H and I have almost every non-summer Friday, planning the suburban assault that is Saturday. He hates it, and after a playful slap to the back of the head (I didn't hit you that hard, crybaby) has learned to keep his mouth shut about it, as without this level of preplanning, with three kids, we would get absolutely nothing done.

One particular Saturday, we were trying to go to local aquarium, where during the winter months, if you do not beat the crowd, you will spend the vast majority of your morning stuck behind a stroller parade of screaming children with no hope of getting close to the glass for the seal feeding. H and I had discussed departure time the night before, ensuring our early arrival, yet he was still lallygagging around, with me by the front door screeching, "Where is everybody???", since I am the only one who realizes teleportation has not been perfected yet and we actually need to leave on time. We all get in the car, H and I in various states of annoyance with each other, when he says, "You really need to relax."

Ensue whisper fight, where we speak low enough for our voices to be camouflaged by the sounds from the DVD player*. H asserts I make everyone miserable trying to stick to a schedule. I assert he has no idea what it take to plan a successful trip for five people and maybe he'd enjoy standing in line all day with the rest of the slackers who can't get their shit together and get on the road. He says, "Just admit it. You're high-strung and sometimes it's tough to deal with." My response? "I will admit nothing except I am awesome and I get stuff done!" At which point we both laugh and the fight is over.

I did wind up apologizing for being a harpy, and H apologized, saying he realizes my plans do always result in our being head of the crowd and having a more pleasant day, but this argument is an example of how those of us who plan are looked down upon by society. The "cool" way to be is laid back and fun. Schedules are for nerds. Don't be so uptight. Meditate. Be in the moment. Oh, really? Being ahead of the moment got us fed and into the first meet-and-greet with Rapunzel at Disney, instead of having to wait for forty minutes like The Get-Up-Latersons whose kids are now whining for breakfast. Getting places, like the aquarium, early, ensures we sail through the food line and are already leaving the cafeteria, when the masses get there for lunch at 12:30, instead of waiting in line with three starving, and subsequently decreasingly patient, children.** Sure, I'd like to take each day as it comes and not have to think, but things take time, exponentially more when you involve kids, and if nobody is charting the course, the boat's going nowhere.

It's not just life with kids that needs to be planned. Almost everything in life works better with some planning - big and little. Guess what? More people can come to your party if you get your invites out in a timely fashion! You might get good seats to that concert if you get up early the day they go on sale! Wanna buy a house someday? Money doesn't fall out of the sky. Stop buying designer bags you can't afford and going out to dinner and start putting some green in the bank.***

I know I sound angry, and it's because I am. Planning makes life smoother and everyone more comfortable. Did D-Day just happen? Look at New York City as a, literal, concrete example. Ever try to drive downtown? It's like being Mr. Magoo. Once they discovered urban planning? The lovely grid system. I realize I could take it down a notch (or ten), and not everything in life can be planned for. That was a super-fun thirteen months, trying to get pregnant with #1. Over-planned sex? Not hot.

I am here to say, planners everywhere, you are awesome! You get shit done! You might aggravate the hell out of your loved ones, but they'll thank you later. And as for your famous quote Mr. Lennon, "Life is what happens when you're making other plans"? Life doesn't happen unless you make some plans.

*The car trip to the aquarium would be more than the, agreed-upon, hour and a half required for DVD use since I figure a kid can just stare out the window and be with her own thoughts for that long, or invent some dumb backseat game with her siblings. You should see #1 time it just to be sure when I say someplace is too close to watch a movie.

**Never mind their father, who often forgets to eat himself before he leaves the house. I now carry emergency cheese sticks.

***That message is to H and I in our 20's. Idiots. One time in my life I didn't plan.

Ugh. Or should I say Uggs?

So remember the quippy comment I made a few weeks ago about the gal sitting next to me on the flight to Disney? Well guess what #1 asked me for this week. Yup, a pair of Uggs. Here we go...

As you know, I do not think Uggs are attractive, nor can I understand the fact that they cost as much as my Christmas shoes, when they essentially look like wads of shearling wrapped around one's feet and calves. But here in New Town, as in most suburban towns, Uggs are part of the girl-living-in-suburbs uniform, worn with an oversized shirt and either skinny jeans or leggings. I had avoided the situtaion all together by steering my eldest away from the display of knock-off Uggs at the Skechers store. Those, while less expensive, were even more hideous, with their fake Ed Hardy embellishments and light-up soles. They're like Uggs in Vegas. Alas, my efforts could not over come the subtle daily influence of every female between the ages of eight and forty-eight sporting a pair (Uggs on anyone over the age of 40? Please see "Trying to Hard"). So Monday night, while I was making dinner she asks, in the sweetest, quietest voice, "Do you think I could get a pair of Uggs?"

I realized at that moment I was, yet again, going to have to let her express herself sartorially in a manner with which I did not agree, nor was it inappropriate in anyway, giving me an easy out, as with miniskirts. What I now had to struggle with was whether to get her the real deal or a pair of knockoffs. My daughter went on the explain her best friend has a fake pair and that would be totally fine with her. What to do, what to do.

I am all about knockoffs. My Tory Burch purse is a knockoff purchased at the preschool bazaar (apparently, counterfeit goods are a great way to make money for education), and the Christmas shoes of which I speak are basically fake Manolos. So I have no issue with buying things pretending they are the real McCoy. And did I really want to spend three times what I would normally, for a pair of boots that wouldn't fit next winter?

Texting H, for his opinion was useless since he just shot back, "Get them", not going through the emotional acrobatics I was. He did not ask himself, for instance, what are we teaching our child about the value of money, buying an item for which a more reasonably priced substitute could be obtained? Were we already raising expectations for brand name items at such a young age? Were we supporting the herd mentality?

So I called my resident expert, S, who has a twelve year-old. She reminded me of Dr. Spock's wise words, that part of childhood is wanting to fit in to some degree. So that assuaged my fears about the herd part. It was not a terrible thing to let my kid fit in about something so benign, knowing I have the cell phone, Facebook, curfew debates ahead of me. S also reminded me that my eldest sees me enjoy nice things, especially shoes, so how could some of that not rub off? Good point. Now what about the money?

Talking it over with H that night, he basically asked me if he's working hard so we can have nice things, doesn't this sort of qualify? And as for Uggs being the gateway drug to designer clothes, he reminded me that we simply wouldn't let that happen. You can have Uggs, but you will still get your jeans at the Gap, and your way too sparkly t-shirts at Children's Place, thank you very much. H is also what one would call a "quality consumer". He would rather wait and save his money to buy the house, car, or gigantic TV he wants, than have one of inferior quality we're just going to be marginally satisfied with and wind up replacing down the road anyway. He reminded me of his favorite shopping maxim, you get what you pay for. Not having done a side-by-side comparison of Uggs and knock0ffs, I hoped this theory as applied to sheepskin footwear.

So in the end I ordered them, and Zappos had them at our door the next day (love that!). I left them in her bed and when she got home, told her her room was a mess and she needed to do something about it. I have to admit the squealing I heard from her room, followed by the thundering down the stairs and knock-me-over hug was pretty gratifying. Later that night, we sat on the couch and she and I talked about what a special treat they were and how she had to take care of them. We also talked about bragging and name brands and how to brush it off if someone asked her if they were "real". About how it's not what you wear, but who you are that counts.

All of this caused by a pair of boots. I never expected so many little parenting interactions and decisions to be so loaded. But then again, nothing about parenthood is exactly what I expected. I did, however, expect my daughters would appreciate good shoes. Damn, they still are ugly though.

Good Will Dating...

Dear Matt Damon, and Ben Affleck,

I am writing to publicly shame you for the disservice you have done to women all along the Eastern seaboard. After watching The Town last night, I must call you out for creating an urban myth so suddenly pervasive, it is causing single, educated women anywhere in the vicinity of Boston, to seek out any good-looking man in his twenties, wearing an Adidas track suit, a Red Sox cap or a Notre Dame Fighting Irish leprechaun tattoo - preferably all three. I am talking about the mythical creature that is the brooding, yet sensitive, Southie Man..

Matt and Ben, you started it all way back in 1997, with Good Will Hunting, by creating the character Will, an emotionally tortured genius struggling with his identity. Is he a Harvard-level scholar, or is he a knuckle-head who sits around hole-in-the-wall bars watching Bruins games? Oh, and he's cute and has washboard abs. We all swooned as he courted snobbish Minne Driver. Ben, you kept it going in The Town, having shaved of more than few pounds (I'm sure because my totally in shape BFF Jennifer shamed your ass onto the treadmill), and looking quite good, to play a bank robber from Charlestown who is so sensitive, he falls in love with the woman he and his cronies kidnapped during a robbery. It seems the panties of intelligent, socially conscious women drop like empty beer cups at a Sox game around this particular species of man.

This mythical creature is akin to the one created by the likes of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Could this person exist? Sure, there are plenty of extremely attractive, drug-free hookers who will only kiss men they love - I'm sure if Julia hadn't met Richard Gere she would've just started charging extra for that service later down the road - but is it the rule rather than the exception? I don't think so. But Prius-driving, liberal arts-college-attending women everywhere hold out hope after dating overly-polite, conflict-averse men who are in touch with their feelings who they met in their Gender Studies class, that somewhere there is a hot, wicked-smaaaaht Southie , who just chooses to work in construction, and is so adorably jealous and masculine, he will sweep them off their feet by threatening to beat the shit out of that guy who keeps trying to friend her on Facebook (see photo). This myth is so pervasive, so common, one douchebag I met in a Boston bar actually told me he was from Lowell with the same you-are-totally-going-home-with-me swagger as if he had told me he drove a Ferrari.

So thanks for nothing, Matt and Ben. I'd throw your cronie Mark Wahlberg into the mix, but our sitter canceled and we didn't get to see The Fighter. He might get a pass though, since his character's romantic interest is a tough-talking, hard-drinking, fist-throwing redhead from the same neighborhood*. You two are off living your lovely lives, with your wives and kids, having poisoned the minds of young women everywhere. You owe it to the world to make a movie in which one of these romances results in marriage. We need to watch these tough guys chafe under the yoke of domesticity, arguing over the fact that a track suit is not, in fact, appropriate attire for Back to School Night in Newton, where the well-heeled girlfriend-turned-wife will insist they live, and hitting kid with a belt is not "tough love". She will question what the hell was really so wrong with that writer who sent her poetry who worked in the coffee shop and he will spend his Saturdays screaming, "Will you shut up? The Sawks are on!"

What do you think? Coming to theaters in 2012?

Love,
MM

*Upon seeing the porch-fight scene involving the girlfriend's (wife's?) family, H turns to me and say, "Look, it's your family!" Smartass.

Welcome to The Mom-i-day Inn

SCREEEEEECH!

That was the sound of the van tires as I finally, finally, dropped all three kids off at school for the first time in five days. Between #1’s sore throat that kept her home Monday, Little Man’s double ear infection, and yesterday’s ice storm, I have had at least one of my offspring around me pretty constantly, asking either for juice or to play Wii, for the past three days.

Today being Thursday, S is was with LM so I could go to the gynecologist in the morning. It was my annual appointment, and after passing nine pounds of human out of my lady bits, an internal exam* seems like a manicure, so it wasn’t anything to stress about. I did leave feeling old this year though, having been given instructions to begin taking baby aspirin every day to prevent a stroke, since I have migraines accompanied by aura (which basically means, I go blind in one eye when I get one - very convenient when caring for kids), and a prescription for my first mammogram. H almost blew my ear off, calling to respond to my text, informing him of the new method of medical torture I would have to endure, asking, ‘YOU HAVE TO GET A WHAAAT?”, thinking I had found a lump.

Sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting to have our I-just-had-my-hand-up-your-vagina recap, I noticed all the pamphlets for laser hair removal and spider vein treatment. It seems all doctors these days are trying to horn in on what was once the territory of plastic surgeons and dermatologists and trying to get time-strapped patients to take care of that pesky mustache while getting their annual Pap smear. This got me thinking about two more combo businesses I have come up with lately.

You all already know of my dream, bookstore-wine shop-bakery, but during my massage at Disney, I came up with another idea. For those of you who have had a massage, you are familiar with the feeling afterward, when they tell you to “get up slowly from the table”, and you wipe the drool off your lower lip, blinking, even in the dimmed light. By the way, am I the only one who almost drools on the floor when she’s lying face down during a massage? True, I am a bit of a mouth breather when asleep, but I can not be the only one who has had to suck a string of saliva back up in to my mouth to prevent It plopping onto the toe of my masseuse.

Anyway, the masseuse meets you in the hallway with a cup of water and you are so out of it, you sort of bumble along next to her, back to the locker room, trying not to walk into the walls. You try to remember the combination to the locker, or remember where you put the dumb key on a rope thing, then fight your way back into your clothes as, no matter how long your post-massage shower, your oily skin makes sticking your arm back into your shirt like trying to fit a sausage into its casing. Clothes on, valuables collected, you are thrust back into the harsh light of day to face the world. Yuck.

My business combines a spa with a clean, luxurious, no-hookers allowed, by-the-hour hotel. Instead of having to join the real world right away, you can pay a hundred bucks for two hours in a hotel room with a king-sized bed with high-end linens and a bathroom with a giant tub. Let’s face it, the only thing one is equipped to do after a massage, is sleep, so why not make a profit? You can also get gourmet room service to end your day with some good food and a bottle of champagne. Genius!

My other idea is not so much a combination of businesses, but does require your booking a separate service, so it applies. Here’s the idea. Those of us with small children know how exhausted we are come the weekend. We need a few hours with no one asking us to put on another episode of Team Umizoomi, so we book a sitter and plan a night out with our spouse. Problem is, we parents are so tired, we don’t always want to go out and get dressed up and stay up late. Sometimes we want to sit on our couch and watch TV, unmolested, in the middle of the day. Or, as is the case with H, some crazy people find cooking relaxing, and want to cook a meal in their own homes without little bodies crawling up your leg.

My business idea is yet another hotel, but these are all beautiful apartments with gourmet kitchens, intimate dining rooms (to prevent people from using them for big parties and screwing up the nights of other guests), and living rooms with crazy entertainment centers and giant, comfy couches. These hotels are meant to be like your home, but better, cleaner, quieter, and totally devoid of toys. So book a sitter and leave your house so you can cook, watch TV, take a long shower (with shaving your legs and everything) or nap in a home-like environment. You can rent by the hour (again, no hookers please!), or by the day.

So who’s ready to invest? I think it’s sort of sad that none of my business ideas involve anything ambitious, like global finance, or meaningful, like education, but center instead around books, booze, sweets and sleep. But necessity if the mother of invention and, currently, I am lacking regular access to all those things that I consider necessities.

*Which is made exceptionally awkward by the fact my gynecologist looks exactly like Greg Kinnear and listens with such intensity, I swear to God, he is looking into my soul. Ask H, even he agrees the guy is dreamy. Dr. E is the only other man I shave my legs and armpits for.