Not Tonight Honey, I Have To Return My Library Book

Sometimes when I'm in a penny-pinching mode, instead of laying out cash for a book I'd like to read, I borrow it from the library.

Makes sense, right? My town library is called The Rye Free Reading Room. Free being the operative word. Except in my case.

Because even though I'm always like, this time I swear it will be different, it never is. Inevitably I fail to return my library books by the end of the three-week reading period. And then, when I do finally drag my sorry ass in, our very nice library lady is forced to fine me. And then I get all pissed off. Not at her. At me.

You see, once I miss the due date, it's all over. It could be weeks before I bring the book back. Even months. And my brilliant exercise in thrifty erudition all of a sudden gets very expensive. I've ended up owing in late fees the actual price of the book. I've even lost money.

That being said, the latest book I took out, The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D., is due tomorrow. Now, I finished it about two weeks ago. Do you THINK I could have returned it then instead of waiting until the last minute?

Of course not. And tomorrow, the day that the book is due, we're expecting a blizzard. So if I don't bring it back today there's a very good chance that I will be too snowed in to bring it back tomorrow.

But I AM going to bring it back today. REALLY. I promise.

Before I do, however, there are a few little tidbits that I learned from this eye-opening book that I wanted to jot down. Perhaps the single most important is this: I am NOT crazy.

It's just that every month we ladies are forced to take a ride on a hormonal roller coaster. Now the ride to the top is pretty great. It's the best part of the month. Our brains are fueled by rising estrogen levels which means we're in peak verbal and emotional form.

But mid-cycle, after those hormones plummet and that car comes crashing down, welcome to crazy town. Where it can be a struggle just to speak in coherent sentences. Let alone not act on the urge to strangle your loved ones. Then bury them in the backyard.

I don't know about you but every single month when I'm in the throes of heavy-duty PMS, I'm always all, oh my god, what is wrong with me? I really AM an evil person! Then, surprise, surprise, I get my period (sorry if that's too graphic, male readers!) and it's like this big fucking revelation. Oh! That's why I felt like stabbing PB with a kitchen knife!

So, thank you, Dr. Louann Brizendine! I've read countless articles on these "womanly issues" (better, men?). But none of those explanations were as user-friendly as yours. My mantra next month will be: It's not me. It's my hormones!

The second most important piece of information I got from this book has to do with sex. And guys, I know for sure that you're more than happy to pay attention to this part and gals, you could give a shit. That's because a woman has sexual thoughts maybe once a day. A man, on the other hand, once a minute. I repeat. Once a minute.

So, thank you again, Dr. Louann (can I call you Louann?). Now it's completely clear to me why I look at PB like he has four heads when he tries to put the moves on me in the middle of the day. I have other things on my mind. Like kids, what I'm going to make for dinner, whether Brangelina is really breaking up and returning my damn library book!

Basking In My Birthday Glow

Here's a tip. Instead of celebrating your birthday just once, on the actual day, I HIGHLY recommend spreading the festivities out. Preferably, for as long as you can. Without it starting to feel obnoxious. (You know who I'm talking about.)

Example: My "pre-birthday" festivities began this past Friday night. It just so happened that my brother Reggie and his partner Farm Boy were in from Minneapolis for a conference. And since my birthday was just a few days away, the Frederick side of the family decided to make it a party.

And party, we did. My Dad and I broke out the Irish Whiskey. And we're not even Irish! PB cooked a delectable dinner that we ate around the fireplace then we feasted on the BEST chocolate cake I have ever had in my life. And, believe you me, I KNOW chocolate cake.

My mother bought this cake came from a little bakery in my hometown of Hawthorne, New Jersey, called Just Desserts. Now, Hawthorne sits in the shadow of the big city (as in New York City). It has one main street that is barely a main street with a move theater, pizzeria, stationary, liquor store and, what the hell, throw in a laundromat for good measure.

But this cake from humble Hawthorne, New Jersey? The "Chocolate Silk Cake" to be exact? Can stand up to any fancy New York City cake. In a heartbeat. The inside is moist with just the right touch of denseness. The icing is chocolaty and rich but not too sweet.

This cake is so good that I would just like to say, for the record, I will never again consume a cake that doesn't come from Just Desserts! I repeat, I will ONLY eat cakes from this bakery, god dammit!

In addition to my IV infusion of silky chocolate, Friday night included a guest appearance from my vivacious and beautiful friend Lila who always manages to be the life of the party.

Then, my sister Ginger, never to be outdone, ended the evening by demonstrating some pole-dancing moves she picked up from a bachelorette party she recently attended.

But wait. That's not all. Because today, on my actual birthday day, I woke up to find Big Man and Little Man in the kitchen cooking me up an egg- white omelet (Ah ha! That's why Big Man asked me yesterday what my favorite breakfast food was!).

And because it's my special day, I got all daring and poured my daily shot of orange juice, not into my regular juice glass, but into a stemless Riedel wine goblet. It's my party and I'll have my O.J. in a stemless Riedel wine goblet if I want to!

Aside from the morning presents and cards from the boys, today is going to be pretty low-key. PB's in California on a shoot. I might brave the frigid February air and take a walk down by the Sound. Then there will be the usual after-school flurry of homework and hockey practice.

But I'm fine with that. Because my birthday ain't over yet. I have this Friday to look forward to. I'm having lunch with my "yoga girls" --a group of us that met in yoga class and have been celebrating birthdays together since our kids were in elementary school (some of which are now in college!).

Plus, I definitely have enough leftover chocolate cake to see me through to the end of my birthday week.

My "Almost" Julia Roberts Hairy Armpits Moment

This past Saturday night I had a break from reality. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a frosty cold one after a marathon day of watching rec-league hockey, I attended a fancy-shmancy dinner-dance/benefit.

Which meant I had to transform myself from someone whose usual attire is a full-length puffer-coat and mud-encrusted UGGs to some high-heeled, makeup-wearing stranger. Not an easy feat.

So when I got into the shower to blast off a day's worth of rink residue, I figured it was high time I shaved my armpits. Especially since the dress I was planning to wear was sleeveless.

Now, I am a regular shaver. In the summer. In the winter, my attitude about body hair is what they don't know won't hurt 'em. So seeing it was winter, which meant I was out of practice, I figured it might be a good idea to do some quality control after my shaving session.

As I peered into my magnifying mirror to examine my newly-shorn pits, I was fully expecting to see maybe a missed patch of stubble or some razor rash.

When, QUELLE HORREUR!!!

Poking out the side of my underarm were straggly strands of pit hair! I swear to god, one was at least an inch long! How could I have missed that? I was headed for a Julia Roberts moment.

(Remember when she showed up at some film premier looking like she was transporting a small rodent in her arm pit? No? Well, let me refresh your memory.)

Jeez Louise. Her pit hair is so long it even has a part. But I digress. Julia didn't seem fazed by it. I guess, when you look like Julia Roberts, what's a little pit hair? Or a lot, for that matter?

I, on the other hand, wasn't going to come close to looking like Julia in my sleeveless sheath. So I got to work. With hands still trembling from the shock of what I witnessed underneath my arm, I shaved off the wiry strands.

Then, arms plastered firmly to my sides, I went off to the ball. Determined not to raise either one. No matter how many adoring fans I saw.