Things That Made Me Nauseated In My 1st Trimester

January 28, 2016

Now that I’ve done and had my baby, I feel it might be safe to recount my experience with the first trimester of pregnancy, just for fun. My nausea set in around 5 and a half weeks and didn’t let up until 14 and a half. “Morning” sickness is a lie, as I felt horrible all day long, the worst of it at night. (OH GOD, THE NIGHTS.) I remember scrambling to leave work early so I could brave the subway and get home before the worst of it hit because hoo boy, the subway when you’re not feeling well, RIGHT?

It was a horrible feeling. I tried hard to be grateful, considering how easily I became pregnant, but I could only keep up the “THIS IS TOTALLY FINE!” attitude for so long. Around week 8, I started actually vomiting instead of just dry heaving which really kept the experience alive and interesting for me. There were too many nights where I lay on the bathroom floor clutching the toilet and crying, wondering how much longer I would feel so bad. The trick of “morning” sickness is that eating actually makes you feel better for awhile…but eating when you feel nauseated is very, very hard to do.

But that’s over now. And I have a sweet little baby now. In the grand scheme of things, 9 weeks of feeling like you’re suffering from a terrible stomach virus is a small price to pay, right?


So, without further ado, here’s a list of

Things That Made Me Nauseated In My 1st Trimester:

– vegetables
– brushing my teeth with a toothbrush
– brushing my teeth with a baby toothbrush
– thinking of brushing my teeth
– the smell of raw tomatoes (which I was told do not have a smell. LIES!)
– the thing I was craving and walked many blocks to order and bring home only to find after three bites that it was the most disgusting thing I had ever ingested
– my prenatal vitamin
– the grocery store
– thinking of all that gross food that lives in the grocery store
– a few pages of Glamour magazine containing beautiful illustrations of healthy recipes to cook for dinner. tonight!
– whatever that horrible person just microwaved for lunch at work
– the subway in the morning
– the subway in the evening
– walking outside sometimes (Seriously. *walk outside* *start dry heaving* J: WHAT IS IT!? WHAT IS IT!? Me: Just…the air…)
– fruit except for apples
– the entire beautiful meal my sister cooked for dinner on vacation, then subsequently all the other things my mom tried to feed me after that so I just cried and cried into a bowl of noodles about how I was going to probably feel nauseated forever someone please make it stop help
– coffee
– the headache I got from not drinking coffee

Things That Did NOT Make Me Nauseated In The First Trimester
– cheese
– apples
– walking outside sometimes
– yoga and the hour after yoga, where I felt GREAT
– peanut butter
– blueberry muffins

There is no graceful way to end a post about all the things that made you puke. So. Bye.


Hey Neighbor.

January 24, 2016

Hi! How are you guys? Just living next door to us, as usual, right? Ha.

Oh. The baby? Yeah.

Well. I wouldn’t call it CRYING. She’s not really a crier…it’s more like…yelling? Like loud talking kind of? But she’s a baby so it’s just kind of constant screeching? With some moaning mixed in?

Yeah. I’m sorry about that. Is it all the time? Yeah, it’s most of the time. I mean, she’s…spirited! That’s what we’re calling it these days! A SPIRITED CHILD! I have one! It’s awesome! No. Really. NO REALLY SHE IS SUPER AWESOME!!! She just has a lot of feelings. Which is surprising to no one, right? Because I have feelings?



The new album? Adele. Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s just. The baby LOVES IT. You put on “Hello” and the child immediately calms and crawls over to the speaker and just stares at it longingly. Then when Adele wails on the chorus, the baby just goes CRAZY. She just smiles and have you seen her smile? Probably not because she screams a lot but trust me when I tell you she has the GUMMIEST smile. It’s incredible. It’s SO CUTE. Well. It used to be gummy. Now she has two bottom teeth. They’re brand new. That’s why she was up 6 times last night. HA HA I’M SORRY YOU HEARD THAT.

No, seriously. Six times.

Yeah. I mean. She’s not much of a sleeper. Ever? No, not really. Not ever a sleeper. She’s got serious FOMO, as far as we can tell. Just wants to be hanging out with everyone all the time.

What? Oh. How am *I* doing? Considering I haven’t slept in 8 months? HA HA THAT’S A REALLY GOOD QUESTION I DON’T KNOW. I mean, we kind of hit a groove and she WAS sleeping through the night. Sort of. I mean. Up once or twice. But that’s cool, right? That’s okay. You don’t have kids. You’re not supposed to know what’s normal. Hell, I HAVE A KID AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S NORMAL. I’m pretty sure ‘sleeping through the night’ is one big ruse though and no kid actually is supposed to be doing that until like, age 2, but everyone makes it sound like you have a complete monster if your child is waking up more than once past 8 weeks old and it just kind of riles me up a little because anytime you run into ANYONE who knows you have a new baby, the first question they ask is HOW IS THE SLEEP? and you’re like Jesus Christ, I have a new baby HOW DO YOU THINK THE SLEEP IS!?!?!?!?!?

Sorry. I’m yelling. I didn’t mean to yell. I guess that’s where the little one gets it from HA HA!

Okay. Well. Have an amazing night. What are you guys up to?

Pizza and a movie? That sounds great. I’m probably doing the same. Except I’m going to fall asleep 20 minutes into the movie at like 8:30 because you know, the teething, I’m a little bit tired and honestly no movie is better than sleep nowadays, HA.



Thanks for not ever saying anything about how much the baby cries yell-talks. I know you can hear it. I mean, you share a wall. GOD KNOWS I CAN HEAR IT.

So, thank you.

And I’m sorry.

But trust me when I tell you that despite her yelling and her teething and my sleep deprivation, she is the BEST.

No, seriously.

The best.

Emma Watson

September 25, 2014

Killing it. Her passion made me cry.


June 15, 2014

I have had so many ideas for blog posts. So many things I’d rather talk about than this. However, as much as I’d like to tell you I ran a half-marathon or had a great vacation in wine country, this issue seems to be much bigger than me and I think I will regret not being able to address it. So, here goes.

A few weeks ago, J and I traveled to Napa and Sonoma for a vacation with his family. While we were gone, I was blissfully unaware of the shooting that happened at UCSB, the subsequent campaign #YesAllWomen that spread around social media and then the backlash to #YesAllWomen that was basically men saying “No, you’re wrong” in various ways. It was only when I returned home from California that it came to my attention and I was horrified. I clicked link after link, reading about so many women and their experiences, their viewpoints on what had happened in Santa Barbara, misogyny in our society, men refusing to acknowledge any of it, how enraged and tired we are. I can’t come close to articulating what so many women already have. The only thing I can do is share my own experience and join in the chorus of voices.

I was about 14 years old the first time I was sexually harassed and made to feel unsafe and small. I was performing in a play at a local community theatre, the cast a mixture of other kids and adults. A man in his 40’s named Bob would constantly crack comments backstage about how I looked in my costumes and to call me when I turned 18 and how far away was that and did I want to date him now? It was framed as a joke but I knew in my gut that it wasn’t. I never could find words for what it was so my cheeks would burn and I would smile uncomfortably and attempt to move anywhere that Bob wasn’t. Eventually another adult (female) brought it to the attention of the director and Bob was told to stay away from the kids. Because that’s what I was: a kid.

The second time I was sexually harassed, I was a senior in high school traveling alone on an airplane. Smushed up against the window for a two hour flight, the man in the seat next to me made comments about my looks, what he thought were my best assets (ass, number 1, tits number 2), asked if I wanted to sleep with him when I landed because he and his wife had an open relationship and he was going to a hotel on business. He looked visibly pleased at my discomfort, spilling details of his sex life, inching as close as possible to me. I did not know that I could call for help. It did not occur to me to press a button and involve a flight attendant. I felt trapped and ashamed. At 17, I did not have any tools, any words, any recourse, any understanding that I was entitled to my own space. I was amenable, always putting others ahead of myself, even at my own expense. I was not able to travel in public without being disgusted with the details of a stranger’s sex life, details that were offered to explicitly make me submissive and uncomfortable.

I have told maybe three people about that experience since it happened roughly 13 years ago. The shame of it still stings even though I did nothing wrong. And also, let’s reiterate once again: I was still a kid.

As an adult woman, I could write pages and pages about men inserting themselves into my space whether or not I wanted them to. Physically, verbally, it is not an exaggeration to say that it happens every day. It doesn’t matter if I’m out for a run on a hot day in a pair of shorts or bundled up in the middle of February in a winter coat, gloves and boots. It is not because of any characteristic that I specifically possess. It is simply because I am a woman.

The man who accosted me walking in Chelsea one night, who told me I’d look really hot if only I took off my glasses.

The man who yelled at me as I left the yoga studio. “Keep doing what you’re doing, NICE ASS!”

My male scene partner for my first and only Harold audition at UCB, who made the game of the scene a situation where he just threw insults at me, finishing the scene by calling me a “cunt”. In front of everyone. Because it was funny, right? Actually it was not. I never auditioned again.

A male yoga student who cornered me when class was over and made sexual comments to me that left me so uncomfortable, I went home in tears and he was asked to not come back to the studio. Turns out I was one of many female teachers he had approached.

Men trying to touch me on the subway or whispering something crude while nodding slyly and smiling.

My co-worker at a former company who would stop by my cubicle and make comments about my lipstick, about my legs, about my clothes, telling me I was dressed inappropriately for work, sharing intimate details about his divorce and his dating life. I was still not in a place where I could speak up to his face. But with the encouragement from others, I took it to HR. I had e-mails from him in my inbox that said “Please don’t tell anyone the things that I discuss with you”. I forwarded them on. Soon after that, I left the company for other reasons. As far as I know, he still works there. He was asked to attend a weekend workshop in Connecticut entitled “Employee Etiquette: How To Treat The People You Work With.”

I recently cut all my hair off. Over fifteen inches, gone. I had many reasons for this, my therapist blanketing all of them with a need for change, a need for power, a need for agency over my decisions. When my husband asked what prompted the idea, the reason that came truthfully tumbling out was “I’m sick of men staring at all my blonde hair on the subway.” And it’s true. So I hacked it all off. I guess you could say I hit a breaking point. And while the length of my hair shouldn’t matter and the onus shouldn’t be on me to change myself, the power it has given me is unbelievable. I tell anyone who will listen how empowered I feel, how masculine, how strong, feelings that are mostly alien to me.

My inability to stand up for myself is perhaps its own separate issue and it bleeds into all areas of my life, not just this one. As a child, as a girl, I was never told that I had a right to my body and my space. I was not given words. I’m also an extremely emotional and highly sensitive person which means when I was younger, my feelings would overwhelm me and make it very hard to communicate. This is why I’m really good at staying silent in scary situations, why I’d rather slump down in my airplane seat than call for help or tell anyone to stop. It’s a straight up dangerous way to be.

Now, I practice. I have phrases in my toolbox that I have rehearsed so if I need them, I can use them. My husband is the one who encouraged me to create them. We sat together one evening and made a list of things I could say. They are simple and I feel silly even admitting it but the power it gives me to have something to lob back is indescribable.

“Don’t touch me”, I said loudly to a man recently who was standing on the running path with his arms outstretched, laughing with his buddies, drinking a beer (on a running path? Cool, bros!) offering a high five or a grab, who knows?

Don’t touch me. This is making me uncomfortable. I need you to step away from me. I don’t care.

The last phrase meaning, I don’t care that you like my hair or not (awkward male co-worker who said I looked like King Joffrey! Funny! But also, ????) I don’t care that you think I’d be hotter if I took my glasses off. I don’t care that you’d like me to smile as I walk by. I do not exist to make you happy, newsflash. I don’t even know you.

I’m not sure men need to practice these phrases. My husband admits to me that he barely thought about what women go through on a daily basis until he met me and we had many conversations on the subject. And why should he? He walks where he likes to walk, whether it’s dark or light outside. He’s unaccustomed to strangers shouting crude things at him. He doesn’t need to wonder if the person behind him while he walks home is following too close. He doesn’t need to cross the street to be sure. He’s never slipped his keys between his fingers like a weapon, thinking a stranger might be lurking somewhere nearby.

The messages are clear: The only thing that matters is how I look. How I look is fair game for commentary, from anyone. I am not safe in public. I am not entitled to space or respect. Because I am a woman, I have to be constantly vigilant because there are predators out there who want to invade my space and my body. After all, as women we are told ‘do your best to not get raped’ instead of telling men ‘DO NOT RAPE WOMEN’, kind of fucked up, no!?

So, those are some of my experiences and by no means are those even half of them. Every woman I know can speak similarly. Because #YesAllWomen. And yes, I am completely aware that it’s not all men but the tricky thing is, how do I know? If we’re alone in an elevator, how do I know what kind of guy you are? The point is that as a man, you NEVER have to think about the type of person who is riding in the elevator with you and I do. That is the point. The playing field is nowhere near level. You need to understand that or this conversation can’t go anywhere and nothing can improve.

I’m waving my arms like crazy over here because at 31, I’m finally feeling empowered to take up space, to chop off my hair, to speak back to the men in my life who enter my space without my permission. I’m raising my hand and I’m pushing that call button like crazy.

I think we all deserve at least that much.

More reading, if you need it:

The Most Powerful #YesAllWomen Tweets

A Gentleman’s Guide to Rape Culture

Why Is It So Hard For People To Get That Elliot Rodger Hated Women?

I Am Not An Angry Feminist, I’m A Furious One

Hurricane Sandy

November 4, 2012


A hurricane hit my dear city (and me).

As you might have heard, it hit us hard.

(Famous last words from my boss on Friday before the storm “Everyone is freaking out for nothing. This will be NOTHING.”)


The city is recovering because it is the freaking best city in the world.

I am recovering too but it’s going to take some time. My body and my mind were put under some seriously stressful circumstances.

I was staying in the East Village at my fiancé’s apartment when Sandy came to town. We were planning on moving him to our new apartment in Long Island City, Queens on November 1st so his apartment was more than half-packed up already. The move was postponed to Thursday due to the damage. We were a few blocks from the ConEd transformer explosion on 14th St. and FDR. We heard the explosion on Monday night. Then the power went out and stayed out until we moved on Thursday in the dark, using headlamps, wrapped in a few layers of sweaters and snuggies due to the rapidly falling temperatures.

We arrived safely in LIC Thursday night to find that we did have power in our new building but no hot water due to the basement flooding and the boiler frying in the salt water.

As of yesterday, we can finally take a hot shower and our subway line has been restored so we can travel as needed.

We know other people (including my parents) are not as lucky. They are out on Long Island without power, heat, cell reception still.

But my family and friends are all safe and all have their houses/apartments and belongings intact.

I am lucky to be alive. Lucky that our apartment didn’t flood. Lucky that we had food and water and each other, even in the dark.

I’m going to try to document in detail what we went through later (the generosity of strangers, my sweet little 1998 Ford Escort driving us through the darkened streets of Manhattan up to where there was light and heat and power, the mouse that kept us up all night in the old apartment trying to eat our food after we went to bed, sitting in the freezing cold waiting for the movers who showed up two hours late).

For now, we are safe. We are getting back to a routine. I am back to work tomorrow. Never thought I’d be so happy.

Hope all of you are okay out there, this was a rough one.



October 22, 2012

My boyfriend got down on one knee on Friday night in our new apartment, amid unpacked boxes everywhere, and asked me to marry him.

No elaborate sunset top of a skyscraper rose petal fancy dinner skywriting Jumbotron proposal for us.

It was absolutely perfect. Exactly how I would have wanted it if I had to choose it myself.

Just the two of us, me of course completely taken by surprise, hair wet from the shower I took after yoga class, no make up, bawling my face off once I realized what was going on. He in his gym shorts and sneakers, underdressed to make sure I didn’t suspect, smiling up at me with so much love that I will remember that look on his face for the rest of my life.

If our marriage is anything like that, the two of us plain as can be, standing together laughing and crying and hugging in the middle of a huge disaster area, well. I think we are going to be very, very happy.

More details later but for now, just know that I can’t stop crying, can’t stop beaming, can’t stop staring at the beautiful diamond on my finger.

Oh, life is just the absolute best right now.

I’ve Been Laughing About This For Days At This Point.

July 11, 2012

#36. Take My Dad To Nashville; Sing Along To Country Music In A Bar At The Top Of Our Lungs

August 11, 2011

We went to The Stage down on lower Broadway in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. The band was fantastic and took a ton of requests, eventually singing Garth Brooks’ “Much Too Young (To Feel This Damn Old)”.

Dad and I hollered along to the lyrics we knew and made up the ones we didn’t.

We also witnessed a middle aged woman dressed in barely anything named Angela who kept buying people drinks, announcing to anyone who was listening that she was going to die ‘one happy motherfucker!’ and grinding inappropriately on the dance floor.


It was super awesome hilarious.

Behold, Angela:

Behold, two of the cutest people ever:

The End.

99 Bottles of Beer

July 8, 2011

What’s up for your weekend, you guys?

I am heading to Vermont with the twins which I am excited about. I am typing this while sitting in the backseat with them, reminded of car trips from my youth with my siblings. Little persons tapping me and going ARE YOU TICKLISH? ARE YOU TICKLISH?


All I’m missing is my Gameboy and my pillow person and it’s 1994.

Twenty minutes into the trip, Owen asked me why violence exists.

Dudes, this is gonna be a longass car ride.

Also Owen, it’s common knowledge that violence exists because someone long ago was in the backseat with someone else who repeatedly kept asking them ARE YOU TICKLISH? ARE YOU TICKLISH?

Soon after, gunpowder was invented.

The end.

Road trips are also great because I’m eating French fries. This is notable because my boyfriend and I just finished a 3 day juice cleanse. Rather, he did. I got 3/4 of the way through one day and was like WAIT. CHEWING STUFF IS BETTER. I kept it to raw fruits and vegs though so these fries are amazing. If only a 6 year old weren’t poking me with his croc. I WILL TURN THIS CAR AROUND. JUST YOU WAIT.

What’s up with you guys? Fun road trip stories? Juice cleanse stories? Summer weekend plans? The weather in Vermont looks cool and breezy, much better than humid smelly full-of-cockroaches NYC and I’m on the last book of the Hunger Games trilogy so my life is pretty great! And you?


May 2, 2011

It’s my little brother Jem’s 21st birthday today.

Hard to believe the little chubby big-eared baby boy is officially an adult. And can drink alcohol for the first time in his life.


Jem is a total maniac and the funniest person I know.

On our way back from our cousin’s wedding last August, we were held up in a little traffic so Jem hopped out of our car to visit some cousins in the car behind us.

He hiked up his black socks and his gym shorts and thus went to hang out dressed like the old Italian  men who wander around my neighborhood in this exact outfit plus a pinkie ring.

Jem, you are the most ridiculous thing that ever happened to our family and that’s saying a lot because…we were a whole lot of ridiculous already.

Welcome to legal adulthood.

I am super proud to be one of your sisters and look forward to so many more moments of you being an old Italian gangster.

We love you! CHEERS!