That’s really the only way to describe it. And the rain certainly hasn’t helped matters; rain rarely ever does. It’s fitting, though. The first week I started my job at Canadian Family, it rained the entire week. I remember coming home on, I think, day 3, collapsing on my bed—soaking wet from subway to-and-from walks without an umbrella— and tearfully telling my husband that I should probably just throw in the towel right then and there and then falling asleep in my clothes before 7pm, So, yes, seeing as this is my last week, it’s only fitting that it hasn’t quit raining for days, and I’m tearfully collapsing into my bed each night.

The last week at a job is confusing. I quit the job on good terms, so I wasn’t escorted out of the building with all my worldly possessions in a brown cardboard box like fired people do in the movies. I gave a formal 2-weeks notice and am serving out the two weeks right now. I still enjoy the people I work with, and I’m still just as dedicated to creating the same amount of quality content as I was two weeks ago, BQ (before quitting). But, you know, the department is moving on without me, as it should. They are hiring new people. (Hey! Want my job? The listing is up!) They are making plans for the newAli. They are having meetings, without me. They are whispering, about my job. They are doing things, that don’t involve me. And it’s all par for the course. There’s an air of apology in the air from all sides, but there’s no faults. This just is. Awkwardness. For the next couple of days.

(I highly recommend not quitting your job.)

(Or taking the cardboard box walk-of-shame route, it now makes a lot more sense to me,)

While I’m still working on my job pumping out lots of content, I have already started my new job. And I am loving it, but hoo boy, there’s lots to do! My days are spent on job #1. My nights are spent on job #2.

So, basically, I AM SPENT.

And, in the midst of all of this, my superstar is taking the stage tonight to play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

If you had guessed that anything and everything is making me emotional right now…you’d be spot on.

Weeping, I am.

You know what’s really sexy? Spontaneous tears on the subway at rush hour!

Because, you know, when you are super extra emotional, you know what’s awesome?

Text like this:

Oh yes. 7:02am.

This is what I see.

(And you know, I was all set to send you over to see this amazing video my amazing husband made to urge you to donate to his Movember cause. It really might be the best Movember video you will ever see. But now I’m not so sure anymore.)

And yes. I am guilty of buying the jeans. But they were a necessity.

(And yes, I DID fit them into our budget, but the man was at hockey and was asleep so I hadn’t had the chance to explain that there was a big return to the Gap and there WAS actually room in the budget for the jeans and since I have been walking around in jeans that are 2-3 sizes bigger than what my body should be wearing, it was high time I did something about it. And you know what? Buying them made me feel REALLY good. I needed that this week.)

So, yes, tears. On the subway, surrounded by wet passengers who tried to look away. But couldn’t look away.

Here’s the thing, though. Throughout all of this weirdness and confusion, I am the happiest I have been in a really long time. This is all just a strange means to an amazing end. I know it. I just have to get over this bizarre little hump we’ll call the LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER, and the road before me will be golden. Yellow-brick, even.

You should pray that you aren’t sitting beside me tonight when these walk out onto the stage…

…I’m predicting a good old ugly cry.

And my head told my heart: Let love grow

I have been purposely setting my alarm even earlier than the time I actually need to get out of bed. Since I need to crawl my sorry ass out of bed at 5:45 each morning, I have been setting the alarm for 5:15 and hitting the snooze button. More than once.

But my heart told my head: This time no. This time no.

There’s just something wonderful about those nine-minute increments. I turn over into my normal sleeping position. Half on my stomach; half on my side. One leg up and bent, flamingo-style. Arms wrapped around my pillow; hugging it. I can’t explain it, really, this sleep position of mine. But snuggling back into my bed for nine minutes at a time is blissful.

We’ll be washed and buried one day my girl. And the time we were given will be left for the world.

For me.

The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague. So let the memories be good for those who stay.

But not for the poor guy who doesn’t have to wake up at an oh-my-god-it’s-early hour and who bolts out of bed every nine minutes thinking something is wrong or we are getting broken into or someone is sick or the dog needs to go out…and yes, it’s just his wife falling back asleep with Mumford & Sons.

I am awesome to live with.

Except, that, it kind of sort of is almost exactly all of time. The beginning years of our marriage enjoyed such fun times as not having any money and having three babies in 4.5 years. We argued about VISA bills, and they were presented to me in such dad-like fashion, with yellow highlighter markings through all of my frivolous expenses. I threw many “YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!”s his way. And we had a really awesome and exciting way of fighting that included the stink eye and the silent treatment. But somewhere along the way, we stopped doing that. We started stressing less about money, we started sleeping more. We stopped arguing and ignoring, and there hasn’t been a stink eye from anyone other than our preteen daughter in ages. We have hit this great place. I go to sleep happy at night, I wake up happy in the morning. I absolutely love my life.

Until I get onto to Twitter and see that my lovely husband of 13 years has decided to use Twitter to tell me that he has turned my 8-year-old son into Lloyd Christmas.

The resemblance is uncanny, really. And I can’t help but wonder what kind of hairdressers he is visiting in New Brunswick. Because seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

My son has this amazing mop of fabulous hair. It’s messy, it’s long, it’s all over the place. But if you have ever met my son, that is the essence of him. He’s messy and all over the place. We made this exact mistake last October, and I could barely look at this boy who they tried to convince me was my son. I didn’t even recognize him.

Go ahead and get all high and mighty.

YES. It’s just hair. Yes. It will grow back.

Yes. It’s not like he shaved it completely off.

Yes, Kristin, it most definitely could be worse. (Related: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!)(Also related: I really need that.)

Yes, there ARE people who are worse off.

Yes, yes yes yes. All of your points are valid, of course.

It still doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be upset or angry or disappointed that my husband of thirteen years should have known better. It does, however, make me happy to know that while other couples have actual, real problems, my husband and I fight about haircuts. I’m guessing it’s probably a good sign for our future; for what we’ll argue about when we are older and grayer and droopier and wrinklier and we spending out old age sitting on our white porch. Haircuts.

SIGH.

Double sigh.

I had better start teaching him how to break up street fights and how to do THE LIFT. And maybe one day the ladies will forgive him for the Lloyd Christmas haircut the same way we forgive Ryan Gosling for Breaker High.

(Photo credit: Gav Martell)

Hot cocoa.

Its mention alone can warm your soul during winter, spring, summer or fall. It conjures up such great childhood memories. But why does it have to be so darned expensive? The store-bought price will not be the only thing swaying you from buying it once you try the recipe below. The taste of this homemade mix stands head-and-shoulders above anything you might rip open from a pouch.

If you’ve ever seen the film Chocolat you’ll have some idea of the rich, creamy treat that borders on chocolate indulgence. Feel free to change the quantity down to a few teaspoons to make a drink you are more accustomed to.

(The cayenne is there to help release the flavour of the cocoa. You can thank the Mayans for that little trick.)

Now go put on your PJs and slippers, grab your remote, and enjoy a cup of this good, good stuff.

************************************

Gav Martell’s Famous and Amazing Hot Cocoa Mix

Ingredients:

2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup cocoa (Dutch-process preferred)
2 1/2 cups powdered milk
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 pinch cayenne pepper, or more to taste
Hot water

Preparation:

1. Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and incorporate evenly.
2. In a small pot, heat 4 to 6 cups of water.
3. Fill your mug half full with the mixture and pour in hot water. Stir to combine.
4. Seal the rest in an airtight container, keeps indefinitely in the pantry. This also works great with warm milk.

Him: What? You need to ride my post?

Me: Well, thank you for that.

Him: For what?

Me: For reminding me that I wanted to write about what it’s like to live with a man.

Him: What? Where do you want me to put my hand?

Me: EXACTLY.

_____________________

Me: Are we out of pears?

Him: What’s that you said? A quickie upstairs?

_____________________

Me: Are we getting take-out?

Him: Of course we can make out. Come over here.

_____________________

Me: Give me a second…I just have to ask Ilana a question.

Him: What’s that about your ass?

_____________________

Me: I’m almost ready to go, I just have to put on my face.

Him: What do you want to put on my face?

_____________________

Me: I want to watch that movie. Remember? I can’t remember the name of it. Oh, come on. Remember?

Him: Oh right. I think it’s called Conquest. Jenna Jameson is in it. I remember you saying you wanted to see that.

_____________________

Me: I really, really love my job.

Him: You love blow jobs? That’s so funny…so do I!

_____________________

I cannot make reference to the size of anything or the shape of anything or the, um, hardness of anything without it ending in a “why thank you!” or a “that’s what she said.”

I cannot walk past my husband without fending off an ass grab or a boob grab.

I cannot use the word BALLS without there being some sort of 12-year-old follow-up joke.

I cannot make a reference to the word “behind” without some sort of ass retort.

I cannot imagine it any other way.

Although I could do with fewer tit grabs.

(“What did you say, baby? You need a tit grab?”)

But when it’s Milwaukee? There’s just this like spark of pride in my hometown. I can’t help it. I mean, the first time my now-husband came to visit me, I made sure to take the long way just so we could pass Roger Dorn’s house.

So, this was a nice surprise.

You know what else was a nice surprise? Having a post-anniversary anniversary. You see…on the 17th, our 13th anniversary, the most romantic man in Canada and I went to work, and then we went for a barbecue birthday dinner at his sister’s house. (PS. The dinner was lovely. It was really nice to get together with the whole mishpacha to eat really, really good food, but it wasn’t exactly the ROMANTIC evening I was expecting; nowhere near it. Also, there was no cake.) And then, after the dinner, he went out to play his Tuesday night hockey game and then ended up staying to play another game. I was asleep when he got home.

So, the next morning, I told him how disappointed I was. And then I tweeted about it. Of course I did. And then I got a text telling me that my tweet would have been slightly more sting-y if he hadn’t arranged for our nanny to babysit so we could go out for sushi and to see Bridesmaids. (I guess we celebrate on the 18th now. I’m okay with that. I never say no to sushi of funny films.)

And it was funny. Really funny. It was not, however, as nonstop giggle-inducing as The Hangover, or my most favorite Apatow joint Anchorman. But, you see, the beauty of a female-led chick movie made with non-leading ladies is that you get these lovely laugh-out-loud, pee-in-your pants moments from strong and hilarious ladies like Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy, but you also get a story with some heart, and not in a total typical chick flicky cheeseball way either. This is not Julia Roberts or Jennifer Aniston, you guys. No. This is physical comedy at its best. The only thing missing was Leslie Mann.

You see, Wiig’s Annie is seriously the saddest and most hilarious person at the same time. Her career is over, her British brother-and-sister duo of roommates are ridiculous, her love life is in the toilet, and her best friend has moved on to a bigger and better and fancier country-clubby life in Chicago and we have to sit and watch her life unravel while she tries to hold her shit together to help her childhood bff plan her wedding while causing more chaos than support.

But, you know, she gets to have weird sex with Jon Hamm,

NOT DON DRAPER

so maybe she’s not quite THE saddest of all time. But it was super emotional nonetheless, a fact I wish I had known going in to see the movie that is being buzzed around as the funniest movie ever.

No one is buzzing around with a much more appropriate “Bridesmaids is great. Make sure you wear depends undergarments and bring a box of tissues.”

You’re welcome.

Thirteen years ago, we were two crazy kids who were not quite 20 and just barely 23 who got married in Wisconsin in what we sometimes refer to as The Wedding That Would Make a Fantastic Reality Show. It was a comedy of errors, to say the least. It’s hard to pick the things that I wouldn’t do differently.

The band? The band. You guys, the band. Apparently, they were a lot more religious than we had anticipated and they brought their own GIANT FENCE to separate the men and the women and refused to play unless the fence was up and all women were on the women’s side and all men were on the men’s side. No. I am not kidding.

The photographer? Where to start. He took about 25 pictures the entire evening, including exactly TWO of the bride and groom together, and in one of them, the bride has her eyes closed. So, that means that there is exactly one professional photo of the bride and groom on what is supposed to be the most special day of their lives, and it’s kind of terrible shot. No. I am not kidding.

The chuppah? I was actually really excited about our wedding canopy. All white, I had requested. Plain, simple, beautiful. Instead of all white, what the wedding coordinators heard was “wrap it in white bedsheets and then decorate it in yellow and white polka dot ribbon and green shrubbery.” No. I am not kidding.

It was almost like everything that could go wrong, just, well, did. And then some more stuff went wrong. The food was bad, the flowers were weed-like, my dress required a last-minute sleeve addition.

I cried an awful lot on our wedding day.

But you know what?

There’s was only one way to go from there. UP.

And that’s exactly the way it’s gone.

Up.

Baby, thanks for lifting me up for the last 13 years. I can’t believe how far we’ve come. I can’t wait to see how far we get to go.

Becca completely captured the essence of ME. She is a genius. It’s like a dress I would wear with a pair of heels and a string of pearls and never want to take off. It’s clean, it’s fresh, it’s perfect.

Speaking of dresses…

(See what I did there? I am the Queen of Segue!)

(See what I did again? Queen? Get it?)

PERFECTION.

I am one of those who loves this kind of stuff. I am a sucker for a good Royal Wedding. You can judge all you like, that’s up to you. And while neither of the Princes are exactly my cup of tea (and I’d probably choose Harry over William if I could just forget about that time that Prince Harry dressed up like a Nazi although later apologized for), I teared up like mad during the ceremony. When William looked at her and said YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL, I wept for the new Princess. Could he have said anything more perfect, right then? Just a moment; a small, private, heartfelt moment during a huge televised-to-billions event.

PERFECTION.

My wedding almost 13 years ago was not a huge public affair. I mean, no one wanted to watch it on tv and you can sure as heck believe that not one person was setting their alarm clock at 4am for me. IMAGINE. But there was a moment like this at my wedding. A small, private, heartfelt moment.

It was just as my now-husband saw me for the first time. In an Orthodox Jewish wedding there is something called a bedeken. It is actually such a lovely tradition, and I was really so happy that this was a part of our wedding. Right before the ceremony, the bride sits in a chair and the groom, accompanied by friends and family take the brides veil and cover her face with it. Her veil remains over her face until the ceremony ends.

He came in close, just before veiling me (is that a thing?) and whispered something to me. There were no lip-readers at my wedding, but I will tell you what he said. I haven’t told anyone for 13 years.

(We had this inside joke that I can’t really even begin to explain, but we met at camp as basicallyinfants, and there was this depot with a giant sign that said SMP and we made a joke that it stood for sunshine monkey princess. It makes no sense, but we were kids, so just go with it…)

“Sometimes you’re my sunshine, and sometimes you’re my monkey…but right now you are very, very much my princess.”

PERFECTION.

As you can probably imagine, it was ridiculous fun. And the only regret I have was not stealing the amazing accessories. The next order of business is traveling to my mom’s house in Milwaukee and pulling my wedding dress out of the box and getting some pictures taken in front of the Renaissance Place, the place where we got married 12. 5 years ago. We have very few pictures from that day…and what we do have is pretty, well, crappy, and that’s being kind. It’s my only regret from that day.

Anyone know any good photographers in Milwaukee?

You can see the rest of the set on flickr, of course.

Now, more than 2.5 years in, I am no longer in love with my IUD. It is no longer the very best thing EVER. I mean, while I still have no more babies, what I DO have THE RETURN OF THE PERIOD, complete with proactiv-needing skin, cramps galore, and PMS that might make my husband leave me. Brilliant.

So, not only is having my period back in my life annoying as hell, it also makes for some fun situations.

Take this lovely bathroom-time conversation between Miss Isabella and me, for example.

“WHAT IS THAT MOMMY?”

“It’s nothing.”

“WHAT IS IT OH MY GOD IT LOOKS LIKE A PEN!”

“It’s nothing.”

“MOMMY WHY ARE YOU PUTTING A PEN INSIDE YOUR PAGINA? OH MY GOD MOMMY! DADDY IS GOING TO YELL AT YOU BECAUSE PENS ONLY BELONG ON THE TABLE!”

“No, baby, I am not. It’s called a tampon.”

“IT LOOKS LIKE A WHISTLE. IS A TAMPLON A WHISTLE, MOMMY?”

“No, it’s not a whistle. I promise.”

“WHAT IS IT?”

“Ask Daddy.”

Yes, Isabella, you ask Daddy about the tampons and I’ll ask him when he’s going to get his vasectomy already because I am so done with this stupid Mirena.

In fact, I am having it removed today. I hope the threat of having Martell baby 4.0 will be enough to send him to have his nuts vasectomized.