​We are a baseball family. We love the Mets and often head over to Queens to see them play.  For years, Adam and I went without the kids but as the girls are getting older they also want to come to games. When we had an opportunity for just the two of us to go to the game – we took full advantage. And by that I mean, we took the train so that we could get fall-down drunk while we ate hot dogs and soft pretzels and watched the boys play.   The game was a little slow and so we created and played a drinking game that had us chugging or swigging based on what the player was doing or what play was made.  A strike out - take three swigs, a walk – take one giant swig,  a pop-up – chug for 10 seconds, a home run – finish your beer.  Get it?  These were just a few of the rules and by the time the game ended, I had no idea who won or what stretching I may have done for the 7th inning.  Adam told me I was trying to show him how I could do a backbend using the handrails of my seat.  I asked him how it looked – he told me not very good. Whoops!  But as you may gather, when a curvy, 40-something-year-old believes that it is acceptable to do gymnastics in public – that 40-something-year-old is drunk.  And so was Adam which made it a very good idea that we had taken the rail.  Flashforward to the point where we are running through Penn Station to get our train to Jersey.  Of course, thanks to “breaking my seal” around the 4th inning, I had to go to the bathroom before we headed home. I ran to the toilet and got ready to do my thing when I heard a person crying in the stall next to me.  I peeked under the divider and saw two, old, bare feet and a number of tattered nylon and plastic shopping bags. It was clearly a homeless woman. Once I finished, I walked over to her door and lightly knocked on it – she stopped crying to say “yes?”.  
“Hi.  Um, are you okay”, I asked her.
“I’m fine.”
I have no idea why I asked this next question, but I’m blaming Miller Lite. 
“Does your family know where you are?” 
“My children live on the other side of the country” she responded sadly. 
“Oh. I’m sorry.  Do they know you are here like this?” 
“No they don’t. Hey honey, do you have any money to spare?” 
And the truth is, I didn’t in this day and age of debit cards and in being married to Adam who does not like me to have extra cash that I will use on something he thinks is stupid (like wine or clothes or shoes or makeup…). 
“I’m sorry, I really don’t have any”, I told her.  
Then I had a brilliant idea as I reached into my sweatshirt pouch and pulled out a bag of peanuts that I had left over from the game.  I took them out and got on my hands and knees on the floor in front of her stall.  
“You can have these, if you’d like”, I offered and I slid the bag under her door. 
Just as her hand was reaching down to take the peanuts – I quickly yanked the bag of nuts back in my direction like it was “Hungry, Hungry Hippo” game play. 
“Wait!” I said with a hint of panic “You don’t have a nut allergy, do you?” 
Long pause.
“Honey….that is the least of my problems.”
Fair enough.  And I slid the bag back under the door.

My friend and I took our kids to the movies. Between us we have three girls and two boys.  Or rather - three walking hormones and two daredevils. In a range from the ages of 7 through 10, there are five of them beside us - and a thousand Minions in front of us.  So what mother wouldn't try and sneak in a little beverage or two to find some personal enjoyment in a situation that was set up to be quite the opposite.  Between fights about who was sitting next to who, who had more snacks, one fallen bag of popcorn and a spilled Slurpee, we were screwed way before the 15-minutes of trailers even began.  But in fairness to our beastly, little gang, once the movie started, they were all behaving. It was my friend and I who were the two to get us in trouble.  With the lights dimmed and the movie well underway, I opened the first small bottle of wine. It was a travel-size, personal bottle.  We had four, four ounce bottle between us and a long way to go.  As I opened the first bottle, the metal casing around the twist-off cap made a loud cracking sound. To an avid drinker like me, I would have guessed what that noise was from the back row of the theater - but no one seemed to notice.  Glug, glug, glug our glasses filled.  This all sounded so loud and so familiar to me - but again, not one person paid any mind to us. Woo-hoo!  We sat there with our chilled Pinot G's watching the movie, periodically checking our texts or popping online to shop (OK, the second part of that was me. But how could I not? I was comfy, I had my wine, and my kids were quiet and preoccupied. This was fantastic!) Naturally, just as I was about to hit send on the order for a new (must have!) pair of shoes - one of the kids had to go to the bathroom. As I stood up, I totally forgot about the two empty wine bottles on my lap.  They didnt just crash to the floor as I rose from my seat. No - that would have ended things. Instead they rolled....and rolled...and rolled. Making a clattering noise along the way.  They stopped at the front - literally right up to the screen. I couldn't have done that again if I tried....it was nearly seven aisles! People turned to look to see where the bottles had some from. If I wasn't holding my breath, I'd would obviously be me since I could probably start a fire with a sharp, alcoholic exhale.  My oldest daughter would be the other thing that would give me away since she pointed at the bottles and yelled "Moooooom."  OK. So much for discretion.  I whispered to her that they weren't mine but everyone knew they were. I swear even that one-eyed little yellow character was looking down from the screen at us.  Just as my friend and I were whispering frantically about what to do, feeling like we did when we were five years old and getting in trouble, a loud part of the movie grabbed everyone's attention. We let the moment pass....and it passed throughout the final hour of the show.  When the lights came on we dared not move.  Beside us, the kids were yammering  that they wanted to leave. We needed to wait and walked out of the empty theater before the staff came in to clean the place. As we were walking out, I tossed my purse high onto my shoulder where the two remaining mini-bottles of wine were kept for the duration of the movie.  The bottles in my bag clinked loudly together as one of the staff was walking by me with a sweeper set. He and I both paused for a beat.  "Do you have any recycling?", he asked.  "Nope. I'm good" I said. And my friend and I hurriedly left with the kids, saving the remaining drinks for the drive home. Just kidding. Not really. Yes I am. We opened them once we were in my driveway and the kids were babysitting themselves in the house, causing havoc of uncertain proportions (thank you movie food!). Forget the movie, I'd give our parenting "two thumbs up."

When Ella was in first grade, every Monday she had to write in a journal about what she had done that weekend.  Every other month, the teacher would then send home the journal for the parents to read. The Monday after Super Bowl in the year that the NY Giants won, my jaw dropped a little while reading her story about Adam having a party to watch the Big Game.  She had started off with all the regular details – friends and family were over, everyone was wearing red, blue and white,  there was a ton of food and a cake shaped like a football.  It all painted a picture of a nice and vanilla Super Bowl party.  The closing to her story made me cringe as I imagined what the teacher might be thinking when Ella shared the detail that when “Dad’s team won, he sprayed ‘bear’ all over the house.”  Yes, this was true.  Adam had acted like our home was a locker room and he was literally on the team when he shook up a bottle of beer in each hand and sprayed it around while screaming with joy over the win.  I was just praying that with her spelling error mistaking bear for beer, the teacher might go so far as to think he was spraying “cheer” around the room or “bear” hugs – or something that didn’t make us seem like a bunch of drunk, nut jobs with sports fever.  As I signed the bottom page of her story to show that I had read the journal entry, I thought that I probably couldn’t even imagine the things that the teacher got to read – Ella’s journal alone could give her a weekend recap full of crazy.  It might have been like “Quick Strips” through the eyes of a child.  Eeek! That’s scary stuff.  If she starts drawing naked people with weird hands and feet on her stories, I will have to step in and start doing some damage control…..