I am not a cook. There was a period where I tried, and by tried I don’t mean I just made pasta and called it a day, but that I found seafood recipes that sounded simple and delicious, bought the ingredients ahead of time and prepared meals for me and the man I would come to call my spouse. He was polite about it at first (though there was more than one occasion where we had to throw the meal out and order in), but he finally politely asked me to please stop.

That said, I always thought I could bake a mean chocolate chip cookie. I did it with my mom as a kid, and I did it (decades later) with my own kids.  So all in all, I’ve probably baked cookies 10 times in my life. Maybe 12.

Tomorrow is older kid’s birthday and I decided that I would do what 98% of other people do and bake (and not buy) her cookies to take in to school to celebrate. (Note: Spent $30 on chocolate chip cookies for younger kid’s class on his birthday. Even I thought that was kind of lame and I will throw money at any potential difficulty I see heading my way.)

Here are the things that have happened since this home-ec decision:

After making sure I had all the ingredients, I discovered that our brown sugar was hard as a rock. There is a store on our corner that sells brown sugar, but I was determined to use *this* brown sugar. I googled it and what do you know? There are ways to soften the sugar/ Mt. Everest of granules I was dealing with. Also, I am clearly not the first person to encounter this situation which is often the case when I cook. The solution to rock-hard sugar involves microwaving it with a moist paper towel for 20 seconds. Except in my case, it was more like 100 seconds, but lo and behold, it worked! Or it kind of worked. I did notice there were some hard chunks left, but I thought – so what?

Here’s what: Making cookies with pebbles in the mixture is not a good idea. I learned that the hard way.  Feeling smug about knowing exactly where the beaters were despite not having used them in possibly the year we have lived in this apartment, I attacked the sugar/butter/salt mixture. I admit that almost right away, I heard some weird sounds (like something inappropriate slash terrible going into a vacuum cleaner), but I ignored and persevered with the task at hand. Realizing their sound effects were not enough, the beaters started to protest further by coming out of their sockets. I ignored that attitude problem and shoved them back in. Nine year-olds do this, I told myself.  Then the sugar and beaters worked together and decided that they didn’t really care that 9 year-olds can make cookies. This was me, and things were different. Moments after being pushed back into their rightful location, the beaters said “fuck it” and just gave up altogether. As in, they stopped working. Completely. Together, in cahoots.

I was not going to let the stupid, attitudinal beaters defeat my mission, so I decided to use sheer manpower. I work out, people. So I used a spoon and my biceps/forearms and maybe triceps and pecs to mix in the eggs and flour/baking powder.  As a PSA of sorts, this gets four all over your entire kitchen/apartment and involves using your abdominals.

But the ab/arm work paid off. The mixture was (mostly) smooth. I looked around pleased, making sure the beaters knew I was the boss. Then I saw the chocolate chips which still needed to be mixed in. That was not pleasant as I was already stretching post work-out.

In conclusion:

I still won –  the cookies got did.

If anyone complains in any shape or form about any of the above – state of kitchen/taste of cookies OR insists the beaters still work (and gets them to function again), I will go crazy Rambo/Shining style on their heads.

People better compliment the hell out of these cookies.

The batter still tasted fabulous.

Oh NYT, really? Did you really need to have an expose on the manicure/pedicure industry?

It’s not like I thought that these women in the backless stools were paid well, because let’s face it, they’re performing a task I do not want to do myself. And they’re *my* feet/hands.
(As an aside, my feet are actually not so bad. But I’ve taken a look around many a mani/pedi place as well as in my barefoot Barre burn classes, and let me tell you: There are a lot of unkempt feet out there). But I thought these women at least made minimum wage. And that their pay did not depend on customers showing up in the dead of winter.

But now what? As I see it I/we have five choices, and I don’t really like any of them.

1) Ignore the article and pretend I never read it (I won’t do this, but I want to).

2) Convince myself that by getting a pedicure, at least the woman will get paid something for the day (yeah, I know, I know).

3) Tip the shit out of the pedicurist herself.

4) Go to insanely priced salon where hopefully the employees are paid better. I checked the Mandarin’s website and since some of their spa treatments are $1,000 (really), am guessing this might not be my best idea.

5) Do it my own damn self. Which would require me to learn how to apply nail polish better than my 9 year-old can.

Maybe I should stop reading the paper.

How am I the only person in my home who knows how to properly load a dishwasher? Seriously, what makes a person decide to place a bowl in the dead center of the bottom rack of an empty dishwasher? Or to put largest plate you own in the top rack? Or to wash 16 water bottles at the same time?

While we’re at it, can you please do a quick rinse of heavily caked dishes so that the dishwasher doesn’t smell like Indian food in the morning? You know who you are.

Back a thousand years ago/last century when I was in grad school, I made a fabulous group of friends. That may have been the best (and only) thing I got out of that experience, but that’s a different post entirely. Shout to to Columbia though! Really, thanks for the chums, they are awesome.

Anyway, one of these friends introduced a phrase she had used in college: UTFITSIS (pronounced ufe-a-teesis). Though we couldn’t take credit for coining that gem, we acted like we had, and we applied it to any appropriate situation. And there were many appropriate situations. What is UTFITSIS you ask? Under The False Impression That She is Sexy. Use it, people. You are welcome.

Things I don’t understand at the gym:

1) Getting worked up if “your” spot is taken. It’s a gym. You don’t own part of it. I get that you like a certain section of the room. So do I. But sometimes other people like that same section. And they get there first. Move on and don’t a) shoot me dirty looks, I didn’t even know it was your spot, okay? and/or b) pick your spot so close to mine that I am forced to move or think you are a lunatic with no sense of space or both

2) Teachers who are consistently late.

3) Teachers who are on time/early but still start class late.

4) Men who don’t see the need to lauder clothing or apply deodorant.

5) People who stretch out before a class by showing you that they can do a full split. I got it, you’re flexible.

6) Women who apply lotion (liberally) naked, often with their foot up on the bench.

And finally, for the love of god if you’re going to wear short shorts, please make sure I can’t see an ass cheek or any part of your nether region.

Listen. I like farm to table as much as the next guy. I do. I like the concept, I like the crispness of the ingredients, I like feeling like I am buying local and all that. But if you are going to charge me a hefty sum, I also would like to be full while enjoying the freshness.

The restaurant called to confirm our reservation. Friendly lass on other end of receiver wanted to know if anyone in my party had any dietary restrictions or allergies. I told her one of us (that would be me) doesn’t eat red meat or duck (or pork which was her follow-up question. Is it really unclear that pork is in fact red meat? My host family in Paris tried to argue this with me in 1992. I thought they were just being french and/or obtuse). There was no alarm in her voice as I listed my restrictions.

Arrived at restaurant. Was asked again about restrictions/allergies. Repeated schtick.  Again, no flash of concern appeared in waitresses’s eyes. Opened menu. We had two choices. We could pay a large amount of money for a 6 course meal where three if not four of the dishes were red meat or we could pay a slightly smaller large sum of money for a 4 course meal where two of the three “large”  plates were meat. The 3rd entree option was “parsnip steak.” In my book, parsnip is a garnish. Or to be generous, a side. But the waitress sold me on it, assuring me of its savory, filling and unique qualities, practically winking at me as a private signal that I was ordering the best entree on the list.

We were then brought an amuse-bouche. One plate had two baby carrots (approximately 2 inches long) with the leaves still attached (dwarfing the carrots themselves with their 8 -10 inches of greenery). The other plate had two similarly proportioned radishes. We were encouraged to eat the leaves of both vegetables. I watched as table after table picked up a microscopic carrot, took a nibble (as an actual bite would have finished the root in one shot) and looked approvingly into table-mates’ eyes saying things like “mmm! delicious” and nodding knowingly at one another. Let me refresh: This was a baby carrot. It was good. It was not life changing. The leaves were fantastic if you like things like taste like dirt.

I ordered some sort of mushroom/cauliflower burritos as my first course. I wish someone had let me know that this dish would be cold and that “burrito” did not involve any sort of carbohydrate. Second course was “farm fresh egg” over asparagus. That was delicious and flavorful. Main was….well, it was a parsnip. It rivaled the carrot in smallness and had what looked like the sauce meant for steak au poivre on the side. It was not good, people.

The restaurant tried to make up for it, they really did. Like a hot guy who is used to being sweated and not doing the sweating, they seemed a little surprised at the rejection. But they pulled themselves together and really did try to make me happy, which apparently included presenting me with three deserts which were moderately tasty.

If you’re wondering about the spouse’s meal/opinion about the food, he had no issue (though he did find the carrot situation amusing).

Today is my 10th anniversary which means I still haven’t been married as long as my divorced parents (they made it to 13.7 years). This feels unfair as it takes away from the gravitas of the decade mark. But here I am. I can’t help telling my husband “wait, you took my 30s” to which he says things like “only 10 years? But it feels so much longer.” We’re romantic like that.

Anyway, now that I have these 10 years behind me, I feel it is my right to give unsolicited advice. Here is what I’ve learned in 10 years:

1. We look a hell of a lot older than we did in our wedding pictures.

2. His sneeze which once sounded kind of manly and self-assured to me (really, I thought that) now requires me to close as many doors between me/him scream-sneezing as I can. I may have also yelled “UGH” or “Ay, with the loud” from time to time.

3. The first year was the hardest. I did not have that newlywed bliss — starting on my honeymoon when spouse got “food poisoning” (quotation marks necessary) on plane and I spent first day and half wandering Rio on my own and feeling sorry for myself (did not feel remotely sorry for him, incidentally). The rest of the year was no joyride either; It did not help that I was pregnant for 8 of those first 12 months. It was a low point when I cried outside Fairway because I was too overwhelmed by the choices in front of me (how the hell should I know what I want for lunch or what fruit to buy?) but a slightly higher point when husband went in and dealt for me.

4. Just because you debate the seemingly endless virtues leaving spouse when you have a 3 month old baby doesn’t mean you should do that. You will be happy (some months/years later) that you didn’t.

5. The last year – or two or three – have been the best. That’s when you start accepting the man for the man. That he really gets you. That he will reassure you that you don’t have MS or spinal cancer or salmonella every time you ask (which may or may not be daily). That he actually loves your kids as much as you do. That he is a good guy even though you feel homicidal from time to time.  That god love him, he will never be the tidy/organized guy you dated. He will change the toilet paper once out of every 20 times (leaving empty roll conveniently on sink counter), put 3/4 of the dishes in the dishwasher (claiming not to see the remaining 1/4) and leave stubble in the sink. He may also leave closet doors wide open, blaming the domesticated animals for the grievance (he actually one said, “I closed it all the way, the cat must have opened it somehow.”).

6. While you may not feel the heart-beaty fluttery feeling ever again, it sure is nice to have someone love you no matter what. He will touch your lower back just like you like it and tell you you smell good when you know you don’t. He will pretend not to notice that your body is changing. He will take your hand and kiss it when you aren’t expecting it.

And that is all. If you thought I was going to do 10 things for 10 years…not so much.