He took her downstairs, made her pumpkin pancakes and set up the ridiculous skate park toy “Santa” bought for her that he and I semi-argued about in the days before Christmas. (Along the lines of, “What possessed you to buy that? I thought you agreed to our spending limits. I understand you wanted to get her something special just from you, but this? It’s … stupid. Actually, it would have been the perfect thing to buy back in June; wish you would have thought of it then,” etc.)

(And now that I’ve looked it up so I could link to it, I see he lied to me about the price. He is such a marshmallow where she’s concerned. And she loves the damn thing, of course.)

After I got up, we went to Starbucks, drove by my favorite lot in a neighborhood we’ll never afford and then went the park where we walked as Tink rode her bike.

The two of them then took a nap while I made a brownie pudding to take to a New Year’s Day dinner later.

It was a perfect day. And the next time we’ll be able to do it is Jan. 1, 2011.

Technically, we could do it Nov. 25, 2010 — the next day the restaurant will be closed. Or Dec. 25, 2010, but Thanksgiving and Christmas are full of cooking, brining, roasting and other obligations that they’re hardly restful days for my husband.

He was managing to take one or two days a month off, but he hasn’t had one since early October. And those have been Tuesdays, anyway.  We can’t have a leisurely family day on a Tuesday.

I don’t know why I’m writing about it. Maybe it’s bad juju to start the year off with a post like this. There’s probably little to be gained from focusing on the negative. I shouldn’t expose my family to smug reminders that we “chose” this.

So! Positivity is is. Broooownie puuudding.

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1. That I gave an ABC unprecedented access to my daily personal and business routine over two days and despite my legendary thoroughness, I forgot to add a rider that I receive the Barbara Walters soft-lighting Vaseline-on-the-lens treatment.
2. That that ex-cheerleader Rachel Ray wasn’t even upset about what I said. Why, when Julia Child called me “nothing more than a working-class Polish girl with good bone structure who refuses to give up that WASPy surname even though her husband divorced her for her assistant years ago,” I had the decency to go on a 10-day eating binge and then stay out of public until I lost most of the weight. I was brought up properly.
3. That I stayed up to attend a crowded midnight screening Friday, even going so far as to willingly embarrass myself by being the only one over 30 in the theater, and nobody even fucked.
4. That I get up at 4 a.m. with a dedication that borders on monastic to work out with light weights as is recommended for postmenopausal women, and those sugar hams with hairdos Paula Deen and Ina Garten not only nearly outstrip me in book sales and ratings but are beloved by all of America. A nation of hams in track suits, so why am I surprised?
5. That no one has ever acknowledged that that Diane Keaton movie where she ends up dating the business tycoon who dated her daughter was based on me. Ever. It’s not even one of those “widely known secrets,” either, like how “Heartburn” is really about Nora Ephron and Carl Bernstein. And do you know what? I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment to do full-frontal while Jack Nicholson leered. And another thing? That kitchen in the film was BLATANTLY copied from my third-renovation kitchen at Turkey Hill.
6. That no one has stepped forward to loan out their uterus to my daughter, when she so has bravely gone public with her quest for a baby. Any child born to my daughter will live a life of rarefied privilege and that fact we don’t have thousands of healthy young handmaids on our doorstep just shows how indolent the youth of America has become.
7. That I served five long months inside and I’m not afforded the same respect as 50 Cent. I am not some 45-day-sentence Paris Hilton celebutante.
8. When I think of the number of employees I could have berated, fired, threatened to fire or humiliated in those five months, I, oh … I … I’m sorry. I need a moment.
9. That I have to make insipid small talk with Jessica Simpson and fend off lecherous come-ons from Donald Trump every time we film one of those Macy’s commercials. It gets so bad I actually look forward to getting a contact high from Carlos Santana.
10. That I have to make a gluten-free version of my celebrated stuffing this Thursday because of an ungrateful niece who chooses now to develop celiac disease.
11. That Diddy won’t be my cub.

Read the day’s other lists over at Anna’s:

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Once upon a time
but not so long ago …

When my baby godmama (Tink’s godmother. But you were able to figure that out, right?) got married, she had a band for the reception but also hired a DJ to spin some wax while the band was on a break. Since the DJ wouldn’t be filling much time, she crafted a carefully curated list. This gal isn’t the kind to leave much to chance, least of all her wedding.

Among her brief but lovingly crafted playlist were both “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Like a Prayer,” which were played back to back, if I’m not mistaken. When the Bon Jovi song came on, the bride strode out to the center of the dance floor at the Hiland Park Country Club, arms over her head all triumphant-like, belting out the ’80s anthem as everyone danced around in praise of her steeped-in-irony choice of this paean to the poor. We were so edgy in our love of this metal-lite ballad. (Can you imagine?! A ballad! Sung by acid-washed Jerseyites! At her wedding!) We wept from our hipness.

The happy couple joined forever that day wouldn’t  come any closer to understanding the plight of Tommy (he formerly of the docks) and Gina (she of the diner), but as I listened to the song on my way home from Type A Mom in Asheville tonight, my mouth fell open upon realizing how much it described us currently.

(Yes, I sometimes listen to Hair Nation on Sirius. It’s somewhere between Jam_ON, 1st Wave and Lithium on the dial, and you’d be surprised to find just how many Motley Crue song lyrics you know, just from being alive on the planet during that time.)

Chuck and I must have absorbed the comforting bromides Tommy tells Gina, because we find ourselves saying things like “We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got” and “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not” and “We’ve got each other, and that’s a lot for love” all the time. When I cry in the night, Chuckie often whispers something like, “Baby, it’s OK …. someday.” Except we don’t rhyme nearly so much. Or overuse the talk box.

Tommy and Gina would be so proud.

When our friends and family are cruel enough to ask how things are going, we give ‘em a hearty “At least we haven’t gotten a divorce!” complete with the jabby elbow gesture. And then we laugh and we laugh. And then one of us reminds the other that neither of us can afford a divorce attorney. And then the mood goes suddenly dark for the rest of the evening. (Hmmm.)

Back on that Saturday in June, I never thought we’d come to have such kinship with the song or its working-class heroes. I was just a college-educated wise ass impressing everyone with my knowledge of a cheesy song as I danced from my position of privilege. Man, were those ever the days.

I can only pray, that when this is all over and the relentless stress of managing all our money threatens to tear us apart, that we remain as tight as Tommy and Gina.

Bon Jovi – Livin on a Prayer

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