Archives for category: Life

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I love TV. I am unapologetic about it. I don’t understand people who “don’t watch TV,” just like I don’t understand vegans. To each their own, but I love it…always have.

Food Network is my go-to channel. It is the first channel I check when I am looking for something to watch, and it is the channel I usually drift of to sleep watching.

A month or so back, my husband and I had to reconfigure our cable package. The sweet deal we had for the past two years had run out, and to keep all the same channels we had would’ve boosted our bill to over $200 bucks per month.

Uh, no thank you.

So we reworked things to give us a lower bill, but in the crosshairs were a lot of channels our family really loved…Nickelodeon, all the sports channels, and *gasp,* Bravo. I watch A LOT of Bravo programs. A new season of Real Housewives of NYC had just started, as well ad a new season of Southern Charm. I was sick about that, but bit the bullet.

We invested in a Roku and got a Hulu subscription. I thought this was the perfect solution – I could still enjoy Bravo and a plethora of other TV shows. I binge watched “The Handmaids Tale”…worth the subscription price alone. Hubby fell back I love with “Hill Street Blues,” and my daughter and I began watching “Top Chef” back from season 1.

However, Bravo? That was a problem. They don’t carry the current season of RHONY, and they don’t carry Southern Charm at all. The high price of cable had cock-blocked me from watching two of my faves after all.

Yesterday I switched on the TV to see what Food Network show I was going to indulge in when I got an error message on the screen. That channel was not available.

WHAT????????

I immediately called our cable provider, who proceeded to tell me that their plans had shifted over night. We had lost Food Network, The Weather Channel, and a few other who-gives-a-fuck stations.

I flew into a panic….This was too much for me to bear. Food Network on Hulu only runs specific shows. Ina and Giada? Gone. Pioneer Woman? Gone. Brunch at Bobby’s? Gone.

I was not going to take this lying down.

So I called back and thankfully got a really nice woman on the phone who helped me pick a package that was in our price range, and restored ALL our channels.

Bravo? Got it. Food Network? Got it. Nickelodeon? Got it. The Weather Channel? Got it. ESPN? Got it. I feel human again.

I spent all last night catching up on season 10 of Real Housewives of NYC last night, and Friday night I will binge Southern Charm and America’s Next Top Model.

We are still going to keep our Rokus and our Hulu subscription, because in my opinion, the more TV the better. Old episodes of The Brady Bunch and I Love Lucy are now at my disposal. And there’s no way I can do without seeing what happens to June and the other handmaids.

Thank goodness they cut Food Network yesterday. That cloud definitely had a silver lining.

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I pack my lunch almost every day, and even if I buy, I usually eat at my desk. This leaves me open to every single person I work with seeing what I have for lunch, and even worse, seeing me eat it.

Ugh.

I have a few co-workers who are fairly obsessed with what anyone and everyone is eating for lunch. Every day, one of them will come up to me with my food spread before me and ask, “What’cha got there?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but it kind of irks me because I’ve always been a private eater. I don’t like eating in front of people at all. The beauty of my last job was that while the room my office was in was home to several agents, they were almost never there, so I could eat in relative privacy every day.

My office now? I’m surrounded by coworkers at all times, and my desk is small. So, my food has to sit to the left of me (because my mousepad is to the right of me) and is in plain view of every person who walks by. I don’t know why I should find this bothersome, but I do…especially if I’m eating soup.

So I’ve toughened up, and become used to people looking at my food, and looking at me eating said food. It’s a fair price to pay to work at one of the best companies I’ve ever had the to honor to call my 9-5 home.

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This past weekend my youngest daughter spent the night at a new friend’s house. I asked her to text me the address so I could familiarize myself with how to get to the house. I wrote down the directions, and at the very end wrote the address.

As I drove to pick her up on Saturday morning, with my other daughter as my co-pilot, we arrived at the correct street and went about trying to find the house. From the map I’d looked at, the house appeared to be one or two houses down the street. But the address I’d written down took me to a cute little house a bit further down the road.

It had a blue door and a flag post with the American flag and a US Marine flag flying. I went to the front door and rang the doorbell. A nice older gentleman answered the door, and I said, “Hi, I’m Sasha’s mom.”

He replied, “Well, hello! Won’t you come in?” He called to his wife, who he said was in the kitchen making soup. I exclaimed that I love soup, and I was greeted by a pleasant woman. We shook hands and I said, “I’m Sasha’s mom.”

She looked bewildered and said, “Sasha, Sasha….who would she be?”

My heart sank. I asked her, “please tell me there was a sleepover here last night with your daughter and my daughter.” She laughed and said no.

I was at the wrong fucking house.

I apologized profusely, totally humiliated at having made the error, but they were so nice, and said no apologies needed. I skulked back to my car and admitted my error to my daughter, who couldn’t stop laughing for quite a while. After checking my phone I realized I’d managed to Google Map the correct address, but wrote down an address 10 numbers down the street.

Typical Tracy.

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My 16 year old daughter just experienced her first real Valentines Day. And it’s largely in part to a conversation my husband and I had at the grocery store.

We were checking out, and as I saw a package of crab cakes scan up at $5.99, I turned to my husband and said, “$5.99 for crab cakes?” This started a rather lively conversation with the cashier, a handsome, tall fellow, about the quality of the crab cakes, and whether we should even bother purchasing them.

My husband then asked him if he were working while in college, and he informed us he was a junior at our high school.

This adorable boy is a junior at the same school my sophomore girl attends? So, I asked him if he knew her. When her name sparked no recognition I said, “you might have seen her on ‘In The Know,’” which was the school’s news program.

He said, “Oh, is she blonde?” To which I replied, “yes.”

We paid for our groceries and left, and I thought to myself, why can’t cute guys like that ever show an interest in my daughter? Well, little did I know that this small exchange would lead to my daughter falling head over heels a week later.

Because when we got home I mentioned our conversation with my girl, and asked her if she knew a Chris who was a Junior and worked at the local grocery store. She knew who he was, and the next day at school approached him at lunch to apologize for her crazy parents. Apparently this sparked in interest in young Chris, and they continued to talk the entire week.

The following Saturday, my daughter accompanied me to the store, and Chris happened to be working. He spotted her and immediately shouted out a hello to her with a wave. I did a double take and said to her, “Hey, that’s the guy I was telling you about! Are you friends now?”

She admitted they had been talking, while blushing profusely. By the time we were ready to check out, he was out rounding up shopping carts, but they managed to exchange a few words (and a few hugs), and I thought to myself….hmmmm…could this be something?

They texted all that night, and the next day, he came over to “hang out.” He greeted me with a hug, which I have to admit, I liked. They played ping pong and looked at yearbooks, and after a few hours they were hooked on each other. They’ve been dating ever since.

Chris is a super sweet boy, and so far, mom approves of him. He’s extremely kind to my girl, shows her tons of attention (which none of her past crushes seemed to do), is very affectionate, and hugs us all whenever he comes and goes.  I’m so happy that she finally found a guy worthy of the title “boyfriend.”

For Valentines Day, he gave her roses, a stuffed fox, some chocolates, and had his dad, who is a professional chef, cook them dinner. She said the food was amazing, and so is his family. Everything is like a fairly tale. So far.

I really hope this romance lasts for her. She’s given her heart to him, and I don’t know how easy she would get over a bad break up. But, I don’t think I have to worry. I don’t read him as a player – I think he’s more a steady, one girl type of guy, which is good.

Sometimes she will turn to me and say, I can’t believe this all started because you guys were arguing over whether or not to buy crab cakes. Love works in mysterious ways, that’s for sure.

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Back when I was unemployed in 2013, the dentist told me my youngest daughter would need braces. Gee, thanks. I’ll hop right on that.

She has been begging for braces ever since she was in 6th grade. One of her front teeth is crooked, and she’s positive that one singular tooth is the cause of every miserable thing that has ever happened to her in school.

Problem is, braces are like a car payment – I took her to 3 different Orthodontists for consultations and prices, and  braces, it seemed, just wasn’t in our budget.

Until now. We were able to pay off my car, which freed up some money, and we decided to invest in our daughters future, and her smile. This past Wednesday, even though most  of her friends have already had their braces off, my little girl got some metal in her mouth.

She was excited, but also really nervous. Her dream was coming true, but she had just started dating a new guy at school. A guy she is really crazy about. And my poor little dear was afraid he’d take one look at her braces, and hit the bricks.

The first time I saw her with her new mouth, I was relieved. They were so little! I kept envisioning these giant metal Marsha Brady type braces that covered the whole tooth. She didn’t see it that way, though. She was in pain, and adjusting to the fact that her lips were going to look different for the next two years.

That evening her boyfriend came over. And you know what? He loves them. Her whole school loves them too. She got a lot of encouraging remarks her first day back with her new braces and I think it was a real relief for her.

I’m just relieved we are finally getting her tooth, and eventually, her massive overbite corrected. Although I have to admit…I’m going to miss my little Beverly D’Angelo lookalike.

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Stop obsessively using this ^^^^^^ .

I am convinced that we, as Americans, use too many antibacterial products. That is why year, after year, after year the CDC claims that the new strain of the flu is “the worst in a decade.” Maybe that’s because when you kill every single little germ in your environment you have no chance to build up resistance.

We have a ginormous bottle of antibacterial gel on our table at work. Several times everyday,  I see a majority of my co-workers pump a handful of gloop into their palms and clear away all the germs. (Ha! one of them just did it as I write this.)

And you know what? Every. Single. One. Of. Them. has been sick so far this year….coughing, sneezing, you name it. Why? Because they’ve killed every germ that could’ve possibly entered their body, thus denying their system to build up any sort of immunity.

The last time I used antibacterial gel was when I was in a supermarket and got chicken juice from a poorly wrapped package of meat on my hands. Yes, for that I’ll make an exception. But to feverishly bathe your hands in gel is wrong, as is to compulsively spray every surface of your house with antibacterial cleaners.

I use none of these products, and I have to tell you, I’m rarely sick. I may get a little bug from time to time…sore throat or runny nose that lasts a day or two, but I can’t remember the last time I was laid out on the couch with tissues and a thermometer.

Sometimes a little germs can be good – in the long run.

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For Christmas my children bought me a DNA kit from Ancestry.com, and I was super excited. My father came through Ellis Island from Czechoslovakia, so there was no doubt that half of me is Slavic. But my mom’s side has always been a bit of a mystery.

We were always told mom was English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh and French. It was a list I learned to memorize early on. Her families roots go back to Brigham Young, so she always just considered herself “American.”

So when I spit into the little test tube and mailed back my DNA sample I was excited to know I was finally going to get some concrete answers as to my maternal heritage.

Yesterday the results came in. And what I discovered was that Ancestry.com’s DNA test sucks. Call me naive, but I was expecting to see a categorized list like: you are 50% Slavic, 12% English, etc, etc.

Instead this is what I got:

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A map with a vague list of countries my DNA could be linked to. 54% of me most likely came from Belgium, France, Germany, Netherlands, Switzerland, Luxembourg, and Liechtenstein. And 29% of me could have hailed from Poland, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Austria, Russia, Hungary, Slovenia, Romania, Serbia, Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, Lithuania, Latvia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, or Croatia.

Can you believe they get away with charging money for this shit? This is all stuff I already knew.  My only solace in all of this is that my kids bought the kit when they were having a 50% off sale, so they didn’t get swindled for the full amount.

I plan filing a complaint with the company – they should at least be aware that I am deeply disappointed in their “services” even if my kids can’t get their money back.

Complaining when I think I got cheated is in my DNA – somehow that didn’t come back in my results either.

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I only get my hair cut about once a year. The reasons behind this are many…money being the main contributor. I don’t always have $40 plus tip to throw away on my hair. But when I do splurge, I want to walk out of the salon like a new woman with some serious kick-ass hair.

After a haircut is supposed to be the time your hair looks its best – styled to where you know you are never going to be able to replicate it. You should feel like a rock star all blown out and beautiful.

Yesterday I returned to my usual hair joint, Salon Druknya in Charlottesville, despite the fact that one of the women there positively butchered my bangs a few months back. Well, let me tell you, It will be the last time they will get a dime of my money.

I was very specific about what I wanted. My bangs to be the focal point, and to use lots of layers to frame my face. Rather than just bangs and hair, I wanted it all to blend together seamlessly.

The glasses came off and my haircut began.

She only cut my hair for what seemed like 7 or 8 minutes and began to blow dry. She hadn’t touched my bangs yet. hmmmm. I thought back to a haircut I once got in my hometown at this salon called Arthur Zo. The gal at that place cut my hair for what seemed an eternity. Could I really be done so fast?

She used no rounded brush. No wide curling iron. Once my hair was dry she trimmed my bangs and declared me done. I put my glasses back on to see a very plain, very uninspired me in the mirror. There was no wow. No volume. Just me with pencil straight hair and bangs that were a tad too short.

I must interject here that I cannot speak up for myself easily at all, especially not face to face. While I was woefully disappointed in my cut, I said it looked fine and got up to pay. Leaving the salon, my hair had no swing. No bounce. It just fluttered in the wind as I dejectedly walked back to my office.

I had hopes that I could style it my own this morning, in an attempt to improve the shapeless cut, but even that was a fruitless. I’m stuck in frumpland until it grows.  There’s nothing else I can do.

Except one thing. Find a new salon. For me AND my daughters. Salon Druknya didn’t just lose me. They lost my whole family.

ikuBEGN2Sfe3Oxes0wYv_eggrolls.jpg1Time for another New York City story. I got a million of ’em!

On our rainy Saturday, after tooling around Central Park, we decided to head down to Chinatown for lunch. Brian and Sasha were hankering for some egg rolls – the last time we had been in NY my friend John had ordered us some Chinese for dinner and I had one of the best egg rolls EVER. I think they were banking on a similar experience.

We had no clue where to eat or where to go once we got there, but we found a place that looked promising. It had ducks hanging in the window, so we decided to give it a shot.

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We looked at the menu. No egg rolls. Brian asked the waiter if they had egg rolls, and he said they didn’t. Brian tossed the idea around the table of leaving and finding another place, but it was cold and rainy out, and I’d already started drinking the tea the waiter had brought.

Rather than leave, we decided to order a few small things and then go in search of egg rolls elsewhere. We ordered some fried rice and spare ribs, and once we began eating, I wish we had ordered more food. It was fabulous.

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There was a family of 8 that came in and sat at the table next to us. They ordered about 7 dishes of food, and I sat watching them longingly as they dished them out to one another. We left, still in search of egg rolls.

It had gotten colder and was raining, so we going to find a place fast. A restaurant around the corner had a picture of an egg roll in the window and that’s all I needed to get out of the cold.

They didn’t have egg rolls. They had spring rolls, which would’ve been fine, except they only had vegetable spring rolls, and hubby don’t do veggie spring rolls. But we were already inside, so we ordered some dumplings and chicken skewers.

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Again, the food was killer.

While we were waiting for the food, my daughter looked up the history of the egg roll. We surmised that it was unlikely we were going to find egg rolls in Chinatown. The food here is too authentic – and egg rolls, while yummy, are not authentic Chinese.

I was fine with that. The food we sampled at lunch was something I’ll always remember. It was warm and comforting on a day that was wet and raw.

Then we walked around the corner and got some pastries at an Italian bakery. That was the cherry on the cannoli.

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Last week we spent 2 days in New York City. There was a lot our family had to accomplish, and on our last night, at the request of my very bookish daughter, we stopped at this charming book store on Columbus.

It was an awful night weather-wise in the city – rainy, windy and cold – so browsing around this cozy, charming bookstore was even more delightful. It was just my daughter and I…hubby and my youngest opted to stay by the car.

In the back of the store there was an old gentleman sitting across from a woman with a little dog. They were chatting…or rather she was talking. As I meandered through the aisles looking the books and the kitschy knick knacks, I could hear her droning on about how her parents raised her the right way…weekends at museums, culture, art, moving on to a second conversation about how WASpy certain neighborhoods were getting.

My daughter had to pee, and I found the bathroom in a little alcove behind where the woman and man were sitting. After she went, I decided to empty my tank as well. When I went to flush the toilet, rather than the water flushing down the toilet, all it did was rise to the rim.

Yikes! Luckily there was a plunger next to the toilet. It’s an old building with old plumbing, so I shrugged and attempted to unclog the toilet. I plunged for a good 2 or 3 minutes, but the water never went down. Oh well, I tried.

I left the bathroom to go tell the man behind the counter when the dog woman said, “I’m going to use the bathroom before I head home.”

Ruh roh.

I turned to her and said, “You might not want to go in there. The toilet is stopped up. I’m going to report it now.”

She looked at me and went into the bathroom anyway. Ok…it’s not like I didn’t warn you. When I went to tell the dude behind the counter, he was helping someone, so I stood waiting, browsing books until I could talk to him.

The woman, holding her little yippy dog, comes out from the bathroom, approaches me and says, “That toilet is really backed up. There is water on the floor and the water is up to the rim.”

I say to her, “I know. I tried my best to plunge it…”

Before I could finish my sentence, she looks down at me and says, “Do you think it was right to clog the toilet like that? Do you think a clogged toilet is a good thing?”

To say I was flabbergasted was an understatement. This pretentious, self-righteous bitch as insinuating that I PURPOSELY clogged the toilet.

I look at her straight in the eye and said, “No, I do not think that a clogged toilet is a ‘good thing.’ It’s an old building. I told you the toilet was clogged.”

She turned and approached the check out counter, placing her purchase down, and says, “I just want to let you know that your toilet is clogged. I can’t conclude with any certainty how it got clogged” – at this point she looks over her shoulder at me, and continues – “I’ve been coming here for years, and rarely have to use the bathroom. I find it disappointing that it was clogged on the rare occasion I needed to use it.”

After she side-eyed me, placing blame at my feet, I gave her the double fuck-you-middle-finger flip off behind her back. I’m pretty sure the employee saw it though.

She continued to complain, saying “it was the end of the day, so it’s understandable,” and he informs her they had been having trouble with the toilet all day. She then picked up her purchase and walked into the cold night.

I was furious. This was one time I wished I we’re a person who can deal with confrontation. I would have liked to have gone up to her, got respectably in her face, and asked her if she had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than to berate a mother from Virginia over a stopped up toilet.

When we were leaving and paying for our purchase, I apologized to the store employee for being the cause of him having to listen to the bitchy dog lady whine about the bathroom. I told him I tried my best to plunge the toilet, and he looked at me and thanked me for trying. This was obviously something privileged, rich-bitch dog lady would never stoop to do.

I’ll tell you one thing though. She is lucky my husband was standing by the car. Had he been there to witness her treatment of me, he would have reduced her to tears in a matter of minutes. It would have been an encounter that would’ve haunted her for years.

She might have felt good about belittling me, but that yippy dog yenta dodged a bullet that night. No, not a bullet…an Italian F-bomb is more like it.