Today's a lazy day. Gray and cold and dreary in typical New England March-ness. I went to my usual list of bloggers in search of easy inspiration. It came to me from Mary-LUE, who tagged a few specific peeps for a meme, and then opened it up to Everyone. Well, I'm one of the "every," so I'm playing. Here goes:
1. Go to Wikipedia and type in your Birthday Month and day only.
July 30
2. List 3 Events that occurred that day.
1619 - In Jamestown, Virginia, the first representative assembly in the Americas, the House of Burgesses, convenes for the first time. I like the idea of sharing my birth date with this one.
1954 - Elvis Presley makes his debut as a public performer. Any friend of Johnny Cash is a friend of mine.
1975 - Jimmy Hoffa disappears from the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox restaurant in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, a suburb of Detroit, at about 2:30 p.m. He is never seen or heard from again. The mysterious 7/30.
3. List 2 important Birth days.
1863 - Henry Ford, American industrialist (d. 1947). You'd think that being born under the same stars would mean I'd share at least some of his efficiency and organization. But, no.
1947 - Arnold Schwarzenegger, Austrian-born American actor, body builder, and Governor of California. Another loveable Leo.
4. List 1 Death.
1898 - Otto von Bismarck, 1st Chancellor of the German Empire (b. 1815) This is the only name I recognized.
5. List a Holiday or Observance.
Vanuatu - Independence Day (formerly Anglo-Frech condominium of the New Hebrides). Vanu-what?
6. Tag 5 other bloggers.
I'm not going to force this on anyone else, but if you share the Wiki-love and are looking for some random facts to disseminate, then by all means, pick this one up. Okay, maybe I will force it on somebody: Linda, it's a meme that seems like a good match for you.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Boss Gets Demanding
After racking up almost two years on the job, The Boss is now comfortable in her position. She no longer feels the need to impress The Partner and I with her even-keeled temperament and sense of humor. Confident that we're not going to hit up Monster.com for new opportunities, she has taken to ruling with an iron fist. In fact, she throws herself onto the floor and flails the clenched metal of her hands roughly every five minutes. It's tantrum time in the workplace.
I would be better prepared for all this if she hadn't been so darned nice up till now. Consistently pleasant. A joy to be around. As a newborn, she mostly slept and ate. As an infant, she slept, ate, and rolled around a little. Once mobile, she toddled with grace and dignity. Now she is four months removed from the nefarious age of two and suddenly decides she wants a head start on the villiany.
And as her subordinate, I have every reason to believe my performance review is going to suffer. It will look something like this, I imagine:
Oh, well. It's not like I was going to get a raise, anyway.
I would be better prepared for all this if she hadn't been so darned nice up till now. Consistently pleasant. A joy to be around. As a newborn, she mostly slept and ate. As an infant, she slept, ate, and rolled around a little. Once mobile, she toddled with grace and dignity. Now she is four months removed from the nefarious age of two and suddenly decides she wants a head start on the villiany.
And as her subordinate, I have every reason to believe my performance review is going to suffer. It will look something like this, I imagine:
Ability to retrieve juice and cookies in a timely manner - does not meet expectations
Sensitivity to the unspoken or indecipherable whims of superiors - does not meet expectations
Oral presentations (i.e. reading the same book fifteen times in a row in order to stall bedtime) - does not meet expectations
Manual dexterity (pick up, put down, pick up, put down, pick up, put down) - does not meet expectations
Oh, well. It's not like I was going to get a raise, anyway.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
More About Moms Having Sex
Actually, this post has very little to do with moms and sex. But I am getting addicted to the Statcounter spike I've encountered ever since I employed those two terms in relation to each other a couple days ago in the title of my response to the Real Moms meme.
Yesterday this blog experienced the single largest number of unique hits it has ever known. All because of moms having sex.
What is it that a famous anthropologist once said? "Never doubt that a small group of moms having sex can change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."
I mean, if that's not the truth.
I'm going to go do my part to change the world.
Yesterday this blog experienced the single largest number of unique hits it has ever known. All because of moms having sex.
What is it that a famous anthropologist once said? "Never doubt that a small group of moms having sex can change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."
I mean, if that's not the truth.
I'm going to go do my part to change the world.
Monday, March 19, 2007
One For the Books
After many months of secrecy, I can finally release the story of my just-printed book. This past Saturday, I attended the launch party for a new publishing company. Its first line, titled One True Romance, is a series of real life romances about engaged couples. It fits into the wedding planning market alongside photography as videography as a permanent marriage memento. Picture you and your other half on a Harlequin for all your friends and family to read.I wrote the inaugural tome. Yup, I said it. I wrote a book. It is 120 pages of Boston-based reality, outfitted with all the trappings of a traditional romance novel. My name's right on the cover. My words lay prettily throughout. It is the centerpiece for the publishing venture's marketing campaign.
How 'bout them apples?
The best thing about writing a book is that it proves I can, well...write a book. What was once daunting to the degree of paralysis is now attainable. This particular effort was creative non-fiction, but it shows that my lifetime dream of weaving an imagined series of events into the pages of a novel doesn't have to remain subconscious.
As I try to come up with a plot, a bunch of characters, and a setting for the formless novel I've known I wanted to write since I was five years old, I can hold this little book in my hands and leaf through proof that I know how to tell a story. I know how to make a reader care that I'm telling it. I know how to put experience on a page so that it sticks.
As long as I keep writing fiction and don't hide behind the easy truth of these commissioned stories, this whole experience might be my biggest step yet toward becoming the author I've always wanted to be.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Not Buying It
The sale of our home fell through already. To all of you who told me from the beginning to be positive and upbeat about the whole process, and for those who tried to convince me that negativity does not sell houses, I respond with a hearty I told you so.
Looks like optimism doesn't cut checks, either.
I am just glad I only wasted about two weeks thinking things were actually going well.
On the buying side, we actually put an offer in on another house right before our own sale fell through. There was a Hubbard clause on the bid and we are still waiting to hear if the owners will entertain such an uncertain prospect. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't care anymore. Que sera, sera. We have a roof over our heads and solid walls surrounding. Everything else will eventually fall into place around us.
But there is something I can be upbeat about. Almost a month into the game, I am still managing to keep a clean house. It's all about momentum--that's what a friend/commenter once told me. "Cleaning - and the maintenance thereafter - is a product of momentum, not motivation," he said. "Once you have cleaned, you need to leverage that sense of accomplishment to another chore relatively soon."
And so, I'm off to fold the laundry. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Looks like optimism doesn't cut checks, either.
I am just glad I only wasted about two weeks thinking things were actually going well.
On the buying side, we actually put an offer in on another house right before our own sale fell through. There was a Hubbard clause on the bid and we are still waiting to hear if the owners will entertain such an uncertain prospect. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't care anymore. Que sera, sera. We have a roof over our heads and solid walls surrounding. Everything else will eventually fall into place around us.
But there is something I can be upbeat about. Almost a month into the game, I am still managing to keep a clean house. It's all about momentum--that's what a friend/commenter once told me. "Cleaning - and the maintenance thereafter - is a product of momentum, not motivation," he said. "Once you have cleaned, you need to leverage that sense of accomplishment to another chore relatively soon."
And so, I'm off to fold the laundry. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Friday, March 16, 2007
VisualDNA As I See It
I discovered this VisualDNA thing over at Whirlwind's blog today. I clicked on a picture that most represented me in a bunch of different categories and, voila, there was my personality, deconstructed. According to my VisualDNA, I:
~ Like to think differently, always from another perspective.
~ Have a high sex drive and appetite for "lurve."
~ Love to be in charge of where I'm going--the freedom of choosing my own direction.
~ Like to unwind after a long day--nothing beats relaxing the shoulders, loosening the tongue and letting the day go by.
~ Think of technology when I think of freedom.
Ah, technology. The freedom to bore untold numbers of people with my personality.
You know you want to do it, too.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Buying the Brooklyn Bridge
Now, I'm no control freak by any means. I'm pretty damn go-with-the-flowy. But the process of selling our house is driving even me crazy. Though we accepted our first offer after the house was on the market for just a week, that by no means indicates a smoothness to the proceedings.
I spoke this afternoon to our real estate agent, who informed me that our buyer is having trouble finding financing. As is the case with many home seekers looking in our starter price range, he needs 100% financing. On the heels of recent news in the national media outlets about mortgage lenders going belly up because of so many people defaulting on such loans, it's become more and more difficult to procure them. This buyer has a tiger of a mortgage broker working on his behalf, but it's still extremely uncertain.
Combine that with the fact that the buyer has only been at his current job for two weeks, and it becomes even less likely that a loan will come through. And so, we are in limbo. I guess you always are when you're selling your house, but now it's that much more obvious.
Our agent suggested that we not put in an offer on the house we're currently considering until at least next week, when we have a better idea if our own sale is going to go through or not. Frustrating, much? Yes, I think so.
It all comes down to the importance of not getting my hopes up. I wish this was a concept that didn't have to get reinforced every day. Luckily, there aren't any external factors forcing us to move quickly. The Partner's commute to his new job is perfectly doable. We know our house will sell eventually, even if it doesn't go to the first bidders. There are more houses going on the market each day for us to look at, and more buyers coming out with the spring thaw to melt into ours.
Like so many other big picture things, it's the complete and total not knowing that gets to me.
I spoke this afternoon to our real estate agent, who informed me that our buyer is having trouble finding financing. As is the case with many home seekers looking in our starter price range, he needs 100% financing. On the heels of recent news in the national media outlets about mortgage lenders going belly up because of so many people defaulting on such loans, it's become more and more difficult to procure them. This buyer has a tiger of a mortgage broker working on his behalf, but it's still extremely uncertain.
Combine that with the fact that the buyer has only been at his current job for two weeks, and it becomes even less likely that a loan will come through. And so, we are in limbo. I guess you always are when you're selling your house, but now it's that much more obvious.
Our agent suggested that we not put in an offer on the house we're currently considering until at least next week, when we have a better idea if our own sale is going to go through or not. Frustrating, much? Yes, I think so.
It all comes down to the importance of not getting my hopes up. I wish this was a concept that didn't have to get reinforced every day. Luckily, there aren't any external factors forcing us to move quickly. The Partner's commute to his new job is perfectly doable. We know our house will sell eventually, even if it doesn't go to the first bidders. There are more houses going on the market each day for us to look at, and more buyers coming out with the spring thaw to melt into ours.
Like so many other big picture things, it's the complete and total not knowing that gets to me.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Can't Think, Brain Dumb, Inspiration Won't Come
How's this for irony? Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored put me on her list of Thinking Blogger awardees just as my last thought left my head.
Now I don't know what to say.*
*Except for "thank you, Kristen," obviously.
Now I don't know what to say.*
*Except for "thank you, Kristen," obviously.
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Pit Bull Allergy
Next time I even think of bringing both the dog and The Boss on the trip to the veterinarian's office, I hope someone shoots me with a tranquilizer gun.
This afternoon I brought Roxie in for a skin condition that has rendered her itchy and reeking. We were not even through the door when she went all a-twitter, her paws tapping the linoleum at the sight and smell of the two other dogs in attendance. She was gagging against the pull of her leash as I tried to rein her in. Putting down The Boss, I fell into a chair and ordered my other baby to sit. She ignored me. I waited a few beats and said "sit" again. She continued to tap dance and retch. I pushed down her wiggle butt till a connection was made.
Then one of the other dogs must have moved, or yawned, or twitched a whisker. This set Roxie off again, and she darted to the side, almost decapitating The Boss with the taut line of her leash. Hysterics ensued. The Boss threw herself down on the floor and wailed. The dog opened her jaws in a high pitched, stretched out and sad sounding moan that no self respecting pit bull would dare let loose in public. We were ushered with haste, as we always are, to one of the unused examination rooms to sit out the 25 minute wait. Lobby pariahs, every time.
When the vet finally came in, she proceeded to stick long objects into my dog's ears, causing shrieks of pain that sent The Boss right back to Tantrum Town. I guess hearing her companion in pain is yet another thing that puts The Boss over the edge these days. She leaked tears onto my shoulder as I tried to help control Roxie with my free hand.
There were more tears during the rest of the visit, and loud wailing over which the vet had to scream in order to be heard. It was The Boss wailing, in case you thought I'd succumbed to the urge myself. Oh, how I wanted to. But I didn't.
I left (an hour and a half after I arrived) with steroids, anti-histamines, ear drops, and 18 pounds of $40 dog food. One employee walked the dog out and another carried the kibble. I trudged along with The Boss, who was over the last tantrum and was contentedly drooling on my shirt. My veins were tight with the pressure of my blood. My heart was pissed off. I thanked the vet assistants and sunk into the driver's seat, rummaging through my purse for no other reason than to just sit there for a minute.
Next time I'm getting a babysitter.
This afternoon I brought Roxie in for a skin condition that has rendered her itchy and reeking. We were not even through the door when she went all a-twitter, her paws tapping the linoleum at the sight and smell of the two other dogs in attendance. She was gagging against the pull of her leash as I tried to rein her in. Putting down The Boss, I fell into a chair and ordered my other baby to sit. She ignored me. I waited a few beats and said "sit" again. She continued to tap dance and retch. I pushed down her wiggle butt till a connection was made.
Then one of the other dogs must have moved, or yawned, or twitched a whisker. This set Roxie off again, and she darted to the side, almost decapitating The Boss with the taut line of her leash. Hysterics ensued. The Boss threw herself down on the floor and wailed. The dog opened her jaws in a high pitched, stretched out and sad sounding moan that no self respecting pit bull would dare let loose in public. We were ushered with haste, as we always are, to one of the unused examination rooms to sit out the 25 minute wait. Lobby pariahs, every time.
When the vet finally came in, she proceeded to stick long objects into my dog's ears, causing shrieks of pain that sent The Boss right back to Tantrum Town. I guess hearing her companion in pain is yet another thing that puts The Boss over the edge these days. She leaked tears onto my shoulder as I tried to help control Roxie with my free hand.
There were more tears during the rest of the visit, and loud wailing over which the vet had to scream in order to be heard. It was The Boss wailing, in case you thought I'd succumbed to the urge myself. Oh, how I wanted to. But I didn't.
I left (an hour and a half after I arrived) with steroids, anti-histamines, ear drops, and 18 pounds of $40 dog food. One employee walked the dog out and another carried the kibble. I trudged along with The Boss, who was over the last tantrum and was contentedly drooling on my shirt. My veins were tight with the pressure of my blood. My heart was pissed off. I thanked the vet assistants and sunk into the driver's seat, rummaging through my purse for no other reason than to just sit there for a minute.
Next time I'm getting a babysitter.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Still Looking
My hopes have been dashed. My heart, broken. The house I want so badly doesn't want me.
We submitted a low-ball offer and, though we still haven't gotten a formal response, our Realtor gleaned from a talk with the seller's agent that he is unlikely to come down as low as we'd need him to go. It's no shock, really. Our offer was $100k below asking price. The problem is that my imagination went ahead and moved in anyway, throwing open the shutters and slapping down a dog-paw Welcome mat in the brick entryway.
My imagination is a sucker.
We're going to look at two more houses over the next couple of days, and there's one we've already seen that we may very well bid on. The latter is a perfectly lovely; it's solid and unique and full of amenities. It's just that it doesn't inspire any new feelings in me and it doesn't remind me of old ones.
I think the problem is that I'm spoiled. By The Partner. You see, he was the first person I fell in love with, and I got him. I never had to settle for anything less than the perfect man for me.
He totally skewed my perspective.
But he reminds me, too, that the perfect house for me is not necessarily the perfect house for our family. And what's perfect for us may not be all that evident, either. As a new mother/father/daughter combo, we're collectively clueless.
So we'll continue to do what we've been doing: trying to figure it all out. And hoping that when we fail miserably, we can have fun doing it.
We submitted a low-ball offer and, though we still haven't gotten a formal response, our Realtor gleaned from a talk with the seller's agent that he is unlikely to come down as low as we'd need him to go. It's no shock, really. Our offer was $100k below asking price. The problem is that my imagination went ahead and moved in anyway, throwing open the shutters and slapping down a dog-paw Welcome mat in the brick entryway.
My imagination is a sucker.
We're going to look at two more houses over the next couple of days, and there's one we've already seen that we may very well bid on. The latter is a perfectly lovely; it's solid and unique and full of amenities. It's just that it doesn't inspire any new feelings in me and it doesn't remind me of old ones.
I think the problem is that I'm spoiled. By The Partner. You see, he was the first person I fell in love with, and I got him. I never had to settle for anything less than the perfect man for me.
He totally skewed my perspective.
But he reminds me, too, that the perfect house for me is not necessarily the perfect house for our family. And what's perfect for us may not be all that evident, either. As a new mother/father/daughter combo, we're collectively clueless.
So we'll continue to do what we've been doing: trying to figure it all out. And hoping that when we fail miserably, we can have fun doing it.
Friday, March 09, 2007
The Boss Out Sick
It's not too bad a cold, as far as those things go, but The Boss is run down. This morning while The Partner was making toast, he asked me if I heard The Boss coughing last night.
In yet another sign of bad mothering, I had to say no. I slept well.
"She was croaking like a frog," he said.
Today she is not croaking so much as mini-hacking. At breakfast, a Cheerio got mired in the booger glue of her upper lip. She didn't seem to notice as she continued to insert individual "o"s into her mouth. Again with the bad mothering, I laughed out loud.
Right now she's resigned herself to the couch, watching her new favorite DVD, Go Potty Go!. I have high hopes for this cartoon. Between that and the potty song I made up (P-O-T-T-Y to the tune of B-I-N-G-O), I'm saying potty prayers that she'll learn her way out of diapers fast.
Please excuse the poor photography. My artistic flair is limited to words.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Roxie's Recommendation
If any of you are not familiar with Ittybits & Pieces, now is the time to visit the blog. Toyfoto's two most recent posts discuss the death of the family dog, Maggie, and the effect of that loss on the rest of the household.
Bring Kleenex, or, at the very least, a highly absorbent shirt sleeve.
Bring Kleenex, or, at the very least, a highly absorbent shirt sleeve.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Boss Is In
Lately when I look at The Boss, I don't even recognize the little girl staring back at me. She's no longer a novelty in her cute, ill-fitting jeans. Instead, she fills out the denim and runs it ragged. Her face is taking kid-shape. She's sucking up experience and spitting it back out in the form of personality.
The Boss likes to put "back." Blocks are played with and returned to their box. She brings her unfinished cup of milk to the refrigerator when she's done and personally sees to it that the door is shut with a satisfied "closed!" Items she deems unnecessary are relegated to the garbage can. Just now she tried to throw out the newspaper before The Partner got his local fix. She is unlike I ever was: neat and focused. Maybe it's a phase and maybe it's not, but it is wholly unique to my frame of reference.
I suppose it stands to reason that she throws tantrums, too, when life hands her things that aren't easily assigned a proper place behind doors she can shut. Such situations are always exacerbated by the fact that her mind works faster than her tongue, and that my own mind is the furthest behind. She says what she means and means what she says, but I have no idea what she's talking about.
That's okay, though. It's all okay. We'll figure each other out as we go along.
The Boss likes to put "back." Blocks are played with and returned to their box. She brings her unfinished cup of milk to the refrigerator when she's done and personally sees to it that the door is shut with a satisfied "closed!" Items she deems unnecessary are relegated to the garbage can. Just now she tried to throw out the newspaper before The Partner got his local fix. She is unlike I ever was: neat and focused. Maybe it's a phase and maybe it's not, but it is wholly unique to my frame of reference.
I suppose it stands to reason that she throws tantrums, too, when life hands her things that aren't easily assigned a proper place behind doors she can shut. Such situations are always exacerbated by the fact that her mind works faster than her tongue, and that my own mind is the furthest behind. She says what she means and means what she says, but I have no idea what she's talking about.
That's okay, though. It's all okay. We'll figure each other out as we go along.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Another Think Coming
Just when I was beginning to think this whole blog was devoid of thought, none other than Redneck Mommy comes around and bestows upon me the Thinking Blogger Award.
I would be flattered to have received this button from anyone
I would be flattered to have received this button from anyone
but I am tickled especially pink to have been tagged by T, a favorite blogger of mine and a fellow nose-picker on the playground of life. It's all part of the "5 Blogs That Make Me Think" meme started at The Thinking Blog. Thanks for thinking I think, T. I think you think, too.
Not for nothing, but "think" is one of those words that starts to look really funny when you see it written out more than once.
Anyhoo, it is now my sacred duty to pass the torch to five other bloggers I consider especially adept at running their gray matter through its paces. Thinking bloggers. That means different things to different people, but to me the title signifies writers with unique ways of articulating themselves while remaining addictively relatable. As I haven't been able to give my Bloglines its proper consideration for the past few days, I may not be up to date on those who have already been tagged as thinking bloggers. So, if this is redundant, just scratch another notch into your laptop and go back about your brilliant business. And if passing along memes isn't your style, no worries. Just know I'm thinking about your thinking.
Without further ado, here are 5 Blogs That Make Me Think:
Monday, March 05, 2007
Caligula Contemporary
I fell in love today. I am aflutter with waterfront wonder.
The Partner came out at lunchtime to join my mother, myself and The Boss for a showing of a house that had looked appealing in its online listings. It was every bit as unique and remarkable in real life, I'm happy to report, albeit a bit more...spackled. And somewhat moldier. And shifty.
But don't let my realistic portrayal of this home's flaws give you the wrong impression. I'm seriously in love. Attracted as I am to grandiose imperfections, this place is nirvana. I feel like I did the day I first met The Partner in real life after having made his acquaintance via a random, fateful search of AOL user profiles.
For those wondering about the style of the home, I will tell you that I have coined it Caligula Contemporary. Built in the year of my birth, it's an homage to an expansive, party-loving lifestyle. There's a dock leading into a small pond where the owners of adjacent properties shine spotlights while neighbors ice skate (now) or swim (summer, glorious summer). There's a bar on the dock. There's a bar on the first floor of the house. There's a bar in the basement. There's a lot of pink tile and gusseted vinyl. There are huge windows and sliding glass doors opening to a three story deck overlooking the pond. There are rooms of unique shape and layout. I could go on and on, but I am a paranoid, jealous lover, and I do not want any competition.
We* are going to put in a lowball offer on account of the fact that it needs roughly $100k worth of renovations, and that's if nothing really major is wrong. We'll make the offer contingent upon a two week investigation of the property, which will involve an in-depth home inspection and consultation with a contractor.
I don't know if they'll take a low-ball offer. I don't know how lucky we'll be if they do. But I do know that while we were driving home after the showing, I drifted deeply into thought. I didn't notice our buyer's agent look over at me, but I heard the smile in her voice. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.
I gave her a sideways, sheepish look. I was busted. So I admitted it with a sigh.
"I was designing the party invitations in my head."
*I mean, after "we" discuss it this evening.
The Partner came out at lunchtime to join my mother, myself and The Boss for a showing of a house that had looked appealing in its online listings. It was every bit as unique and remarkable in real life, I'm happy to report, albeit a bit more...spackled. And somewhat moldier. And shifty.
But don't let my realistic portrayal of this home's flaws give you the wrong impression. I'm seriously in love. Attracted as I am to grandiose imperfections, this place is nirvana. I feel like I did the day I first met The Partner in real life after having made his acquaintance via a random, fateful search of AOL user profiles.
For those wondering about the style of the home, I will tell you that I have coined it Caligula Contemporary. Built in the year of my birth, it's an homage to an expansive, party-loving lifestyle. There's a dock leading into a small pond where the owners of adjacent properties shine spotlights while neighbors ice skate (now) or swim (summer, glorious summer). There's a bar on the dock. There's a bar on the first floor of the house. There's a bar in the basement. There's a lot of pink tile and gusseted vinyl. There are huge windows and sliding glass doors opening to a three story deck overlooking the pond. There are rooms of unique shape and layout. I could go on and on, but I am a paranoid, jealous lover, and I do not want any competition.
We* are going to put in a lowball offer on account of the fact that it needs roughly $100k worth of renovations, and that's if nothing really major is wrong. We'll make the offer contingent upon a two week investigation of the property, which will involve an in-depth home inspection and consultation with a contractor.
I don't know if they'll take a low-ball offer. I don't know how lucky we'll be if they do. But I do know that while we were driving home after the showing, I drifted deeply into thought. I didn't notice our buyer's agent look over at me, but I heard the smile in her voice. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.
I gave her a sideways, sheepish look. I was busted. So I admitted it with a sigh.
"I was designing the party invitations in my head."
*I mean, after "we" discuss it this evening.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
A Celebration, Etc.
The Partner and I attended our close friends' wedding this weekend. Over the course of the three-day festivities, we stayed in contact with our Realtor, counter offering, re-countering, and finally accepting the bid on our house. The final paperwork has yet to be signed.
While I start to detox from the weekend, here's a picture that, while probably not worth a thousand words, will have to suffice for the purposes of this Sunday night blog post. 
The Partners
Saturday, March 03, 2007
A Saturday Sell?
In a victory for positive thinkers everywhere, I have been knocked off my pedestal of pessimism.
Yes, you guessed it: we got an offer on our house! And a reasonable one, at that.
We're countering this afternoon with a price that meets them halfway.
Of course, I'm not getting my hopes up. Falling from that pessimistic pedestal just means I'm now more firmly grounded in reality. Feet on the earth, expectations in check.
But I'm not gonna lie to ya. I'm pretty damn excited.
Yes, you guessed it: we got an offer on our house! And a reasonable one, at that.
We're countering this afternoon with a price that meets them halfway.
Of course, I'm not getting my hopes up. Falling from that pessimistic pedestal just means I'm now more firmly grounded in reality. Feet on the earth, expectations in check.
But I'm not gonna lie to ya. I'm pretty damn excited.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
A Picture of My First Memory
I know this is my earliest memory because grandma died when I was two. Before that, she was frail on a living room recliner. There were plastic prongs in her nose. There was a long tube. She sat attached. I do not remember being unbelievably small, but I was.
I think they told me to give her a hug. I think I cowered. They pushed against my pull-back. I was crying. Grandma was dying.
I was two.
___
I think they told me to give her a hug. I think I cowered. They pushed against my pull-back. I was crying. Grandma was dying.
I was two.
___
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Good Kids Bad Habits
I read in a book that our children will be the first generation to have a shorter life expectancy than their parents.I ran to The Partner in alarm. I squeaked out the news and asked him what he thought.
He looked at me funny. “I think it means The Boss won’t live as many years as we do.”
I tried to collect myself amidst a series of eye twitches. “I am not asking you to explain the concept to me. I get that. I want to know what we’re going to do about it.”
“You’re the one reading the book.”
Yes, I’m the one reading the book. In this house, I’m always the one reading the book. I’ve loved words on paper since the day I deciphered my first children’s story. But I’ve never been particularly interested in non-fiction and am even less inclined to accept someone else’s idea of self-help. When I signed on to review Good Kids Bad Habits, by Jennifer Tractenberg, for the Parent Blogger’s Network, I hadn’t tried to read a parenting book in its entirety since I threw down What To Expect When You’re Expecting in disgust.
I have, however, cracked the binding on some cookbooks and nutritional guides (Ã la The Healthiest Kid in the Neighborhood by Dr. Sears) and I hoped to find similarly useful information, charts and lists when I started in on Good Kids Bad Habits. The back of the book promised “insightful tips, preventative steps, and kids smarts” to help us parents teach our children to be the “healthiest adults they can be—while still allowing them to be kids.”
Though the book covers everything from nutrition, to exercise, to safety, it is the former category from which I extracted most of the usable information. As the mother of a 19-month old girl, my biggest concerns revolve around finding the best foods to feed her rapidly growing body and mind. I particularly liked the “Keep Your Family’s Diet Colorful” chart, which lists a variety of foods according to color and suggests that you buy at least two items from each color category on every shopping trip.
The rest of the book did not hold my attention, as its focus on the wide-ranging toddler-to-teen demographic lost me when it skewed toward the older part of that spectrum with discussions on things like homework, video game playing, and the kind of outside activities for which my topsy-turvy toddler is not ready. More forward- and big-picture-thinking parents could no doubt learn a lot by reading up on the inevitable challenges of the years ahead, but I ended up bored by subject matter to which I couldn’t relate.
For those who aren’t as literally, spirtually and emotionally procrastinatory as I am, Good Kids Bad Habits is a much more valuable read. However, I do have enough foresight to put it on my book shelf, befitting its status as a reference book that I will most likely go back to as my daughter’s life renders new chapters more and more relevant.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Buy This House
The Partner does not like it when I spout words such as these: "Our house is going to be on the market for a very, very long time" and "All the houses we want to buy will already be sold by the time we get an offer on ours. "He calls it negativity; I call it reality. What he considers optimism is what I look at as lying to oneself. I hate lies.
We knew going into this that there are a few significant factors working against our home's place in the real estate market. Its position on a busy road is one of them. Its two bed, one bath status is another. The fact that it is over 200 years old will probably scare away some people who would otherwise be attracted to the reasonable price.
For all those reasons, I'm inclined to put off our search for a new home until we have an offer on this place. That way I won't get my heart set on a property that someone else will snatch up while wait for ours to sell.
The Partner, on the other hand, believes in the necessity of familiarizing ourselves with what's out there so that we aren't forced to make a rushed decision once we finally do sell our house. He also thinks we should put in an offer contingent upon the sale of our home if we happen to find a place we're in love with.
Well, I refuse to fall in love with another house just to watch some home-wrecker come and take it away from me. It hasn't even been a full week since we started going on showings and already, the first house we looked at (and really liked) sold.
What would you do in such a situation? Put the search on hold or keep looking?
We knew going into this that there are a few significant factors working against our home's place in the real estate market. Its position on a busy road is one of them. Its two bed, one bath status is another. The fact that it is over 200 years old will probably scare away some people who would otherwise be attracted to the reasonable price.
For all those reasons, I'm inclined to put off our search for a new home until we have an offer on this place. That way I won't get my heart set on a property that someone else will snatch up while wait for ours to sell.
The Partner, on the other hand, believes in the necessity of familiarizing ourselves with what's out there so that we aren't forced to make a rushed decision once we finally do sell our house. He also thinks we should put in an offer contingent upon the sale of our home if we happen to find a place we're in love with.
Well, I refuse to fall in love with another house just to watch some home-wrecker come and take it away from me. It hasn't even been a full week since we started going on showings and already, the first house we looked at (and really liked) sold.
What would you do in such a situation? Put the search on hold or keep looking?
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Hairy Situation, Part III
In follow-up to the Great Big Apple Blowout, I give you this photo, taken that evening. It was The Boss's first experience with the clamor of the city and its towering skyline. She was fascinated with "up," only looking street-level when a dog pranced by. Then it was "dog!" and "woof!" My freshly blown-dry hair lifted in the breeze and I admired my daughter's perspective. 
Sunday, February 25, 2007
You, Me and Blogger Makes Free
It sometimes occurs to me how inane by blog is. The thought crossed my mind today, actually, after I left comments on a couple military blogs upon which I stumbled. The soldiers behind those Blogger templates live out tales of heart and guts every day. They share their perspective in a way that's invaluable in the telling. Each post is layers deep.
I came back here after leaving those comments and assessed my last few posts with a more distanced eye. I forced myself to look past my mommyblogging myopia. I tried to find something universal, or at least something that would be even halfway interesting to a person not in possession of two stretch-marked breasts and a blown-out vaginal canal. But I couldn't come up with anyting.
I realize certain people attract a certain audience and that no single entity (with the possible exception of Anna Nicole Smith) is going to interest everybody. But when I start looking at my blog as other, more removed, parties must see it, well, then I start to wonder why even I am still interested.
I'm a mom. A mom who likes to write. A mom who likes to write and hates to clean. A mom who likes to write and hates to clean and wonders what it might be like to have done things differently, or to start doing them differently now.
And I guess that's what it's all about--finding inspiration to do things differently, to make that difference. Because it is important to me to be more than a mother, more than a writer, more than a bad housekeeper. More than someone who wonders when she should wander.
In Afghanistan and Iraq and points all over the globe, there are women and men in the United States military who are larger than life in their dauntless determination and in their sacrifice. Reading the blogs of soldiers in the different armed forces reminds me of that.
And once I get past the idea that they are doing huge things and I'm not, I am more inspired than ever to live more fully, and to a more pronounced effect, the life that the American military has secured for me.
I came back here after leaving those comments and assessed my last few posts with a more distanced eye. I forced myself to look past my mommyblogging myopia. I tried to find something universal, or at least something that would be even halfway interesting to a person not in possession of two stretch-marked breasts and a blown-out vaginal canal. But I couldn't come up with anyting.
I realize certain people attract a certain audience and that no single entity (with the possible exception of Anna Nicole Smith) is going to interest everybody. But when I start looking at my blog as other, more removed, parties must see it, well, then I start to wonder why even I am still interested.
I'm a mom. A mom who likes to write. A mom who likes to write and hates to clean. A mom who likes to write and hates to clean and wonders what it might be like to have done things differently, or to start doing them differently now.
And I guess that's what it's all about--finding inspiration to do things differently, to make that difference. Because it is important to me to be more than a mother, more than a writer, more than a bad housekeeper. More than someone who wonders when she should wander.
In Afghanistan and Iraq and points all over the globe, there are women and men in the United States military who are larger than life in their dauntless determination and in their sacrifice. Reading the blogs of soldiers in the different armed forces reminds me of that.
And once I get past the idea that they are doing huge things and I'm not, I am more inspired than ever to live more fully, and to a more pronounced effect, the life that the American military has secured for me.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
The No Show
It was late in coming, but it's here with a vengeance.
The Boss has learned the word "no."
The shake of her head and her turned away face has been replaced with a chorus of clear negativity. "No, no, no, no!" She says it in the morning when I pick her up from her crib. It's not that she doesn't want to join the world of the waking, as far as I can tell; it's that she likes the sound of her own defiance. She says it when I hold out a cup of the milk she has already expressed a desire for. She walks away. I leave it on a chair at her level. I turn my back and she comes back to get it.
I tell her I'm going to make a phone call. "No!" She bleats. I dial the number anyway. My mother picks up. I ask The Boss if she would like to speak to nana. "No!" she insists as she walks over to me anyway. I put the phone to her ear. The Boss's light breath is the only thing audible on the other end.
"Say hi to nana," I suggest.
"No!" she replies.
"Did you hear that?" I ask my mother.
Mom just laughs.
"Do you think if I ignore it, it'll go away?"
"No," mom says.
The Boss runs of out the room, leaving in her wake another "no" that confirms it.
The Boss has learned the word "no."
The shake of her head and her turned away face has been replaced with a chorus of clear negativity. "No, no, no, no!" She says it in the morning when I pick her up from her crib. It's not that she doesn't want to join the world of the waking, as far as I can tell; it's that she likes the sound of her own defiance. She says it when I hold out a cup of the milk she has already expressed a desire for. She walks away. I leave it on a chair at her level. I turn my back and she comes back to get it.
I tell her I'm going to make a phone call. "No!" She bleats. I dial the number anyway. My mother picks up. I ask The Boss if she would like to speak to nana. "No!" she insists as she walks over to me anyway. I put the phone to her ear. The Boss's light breath is the only thing audible on the other end.
"Say hi to nana," I suggest.
"No!" she replies.
"Did you hear that?" I ask my mother.
Mom just laughs.
"Do you think if I ignore it, it'll go away?"
"No," mom says.
The Boss runs of out the room, leaving in her wake another "no" that confirms it.
Friday, February 23, 2007
A Hairy Situation, Part II
...So, I saw a sign in the window of a mid-town salon. The mid-week, mid-day price seemed like a good one, and I needed a hair cut. The price was ten dollars cheaper than their regular cut and blow dry rate listed next to the door, so I went in. They took me right away.
The hairdresser washed my hair in that relaxing, scalp massage kind of way. I closed my eyes with contentment. A little conditioning later, I was seated at her station. The first indication that something was amiss came when she started combing out my hair and applying some sort of product to the roots. I had never gotten a hair cut where they applied product before they applied the scissors. I got nervous.
Next thing I know, she had sectioned off the upper layers and was brandishing a blow dryer. She powered it on and went to work on my thin brown locks. Finally, it clicked. I was paying $30 to get my hitherto perfectly serviceable coif re-blown. There was no haircut involved. The special in the window said "Blow Dry Special." It did not say "Cut and Blow Dry." Idiot! I shouted in silence. Idiot!
Maybe $30 doesn't seem like a lot to some people, but the numbers swam around my head in 72 point font, bolded. I thought of all the things I could get for that amount of money, and all the things I routinely denied myself. The tears welled up in my eyes as I realized the City had gotten the best of me again. I looked down at the magazine in front of me and focused on "Get a Better Body in 30 Days" so that I could think about something other than the urge to cry.
It was too late to tell her I had actually wanted a cut and I was way too embarrassed to let on that I didn't know exactly what I was getting in the first place. It reminded me of being in Germany on my honeymoon, when I ordered something off a menu I could not understand and was told by the waitress--in gestures, not words--that I did not really want to order what I had, in fact, ordered.
"Yes," I told her. "That's what I want." I nodded my head vehemently. I had picked something and I was committed to it. I cared not a whit that I had no idea what would be arriving on my plate.
"Nein," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Nein," she said.
I stared at her as my face started to droop. My eyes filled up. I relented. "Okay." I pointed at The Partner with a sigh. "I'll have what he's having."
She left with the revised order and my tears overflowed. The Partner stared at me in undisguised amusement and patted my hand. I felt completely out of control. I could not be trusted to order my own meal. I was helpless in a strange land. I sat there with blurred vision and thought that I'd rather eat pig brain with a side of tongue than feel so incapable of making my own decisions.
Back on American soil yesterday, I realized that class can be as much of a barrier as language. None of the salons I ever knew about touted blow dry specials, sans cut, in their front window like it was some kind of big deal, so the concept was completely foreign to me. I should've figured it out, but I didn't. When the hairdresser put down the dryer and removed my black cape, I thanked her and handed her a tip. I trudged out the door into the bleak afternoon with hair that looked no better than if I had stepped out of my own bathroom for free.
The Partner was waiting for me at the hotel. This is the guy who consistently fails to notice any haircut I actually do end up getting. Yesterday in the bar of the Roosevelt, he said "Looks good." I faced him with eyes rolled high in my head beneath sharply raised brows. I slumped in my chair.
"Oh, God. What happened this time?" he asked, that knowing smile already pulling at his lips.
The hairdresser washed my hair in that relaxing, scalp massage kind of way. I closed my eyes with contentment. A little conditioning later, I was seated at her station. The first indication that something was amiss came when she started combing out my hair and applying some sort of product to the roots. I had never gotten a hair cut where they applied product before they applied the scissors. I got nervous.
Next thing I know, she had sectioned off the upper layers and was brandishing a blow dryer. She powered it on and went to work on my thin brown locks. Finally, it clicked. I was paying $30 to get my hitherto perfectly serviceable coif re-blown. There was no haircut involved. The special in the window said "Blow Dry Special." It did not say "Cut and Blow Dry." Idiot! I shouted in silence. Idiot!
Maybe $30 doesn't seem like a lot to some people, but the numbers swam around my head in 72 point font, bolded. I thought of all the things I could get for that amount of money, and all the things I routinely denied myself. The tears welled up in my eyes as I realized the City had gotten the best of me again. I looked down at the magazine in front of me and focused on "Get a Better Body in 30 Days" so that I could think about something other than the urge to cry.
It was too late to tell her I had actually wanted a cut and I was way too embarrassed to let on that I didn't know exactly what I was getting in the first place. It reminded me of being in Germany on my honeymoon, when I ordered something off a menu I could not understand and was told by the waitress--in gestures, not words--that I did not really want to order what I had, in fact, ordered.
"Yes," I told her. "That's what I want." I nodded my head vehemently. I had picked something and I was committed to it. I cared not a whit that I had no idea what would be arriving on my plate.
"Nein," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Nein," she said.
I stared at her as my face started to droop. My eyes filled up. I relented. "Okay." I pointed at The Partner with a sigh. "I'll have what he's having."
She left with the revised order and my tears overflowed. The Partner stared at me in undisguised amusement and patted my hand. I felt completely out of control. I could not be trusted to order my own meal. I was helpless in a strange land. I sat there with blurred vision and thought that I'd rather eat pig brain with a side of tongue than feel so incapable of making my own decisions.
Back on American soil yesterday, I realized that class can be as much of a barrier as language. None of the salons I ever knew about touted blow dry specials, sans cut, in their front window like it was some kind of big deal, so the concept was completely foreign to me. I should've figured it out, but I didn't. When the hairdresser put down the dryer and removed my black cape, I thanked her and handed her a tip. I trudged out the door into the bleak afternoon with hair that looked no better than if I had stepped out of my own bathroom for free.
The Partner was waiting for me at the hotel. This is the guy who consistently fails to notice any haircut I actually do end up getting. Yesterday in the bar of the Roosevelt, he said "Looks good." I faced him with eyes rolled high in my head beneath sharply raised brows. I slumped in my chair.
"Oh, God. What happened this time?" he asked, that knowing smile already pulling at his lips.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
A Hairy Situation, Part I
Where I come from, people under the age of 75 do not employ others to wash and blow dry their hair. Cut it, yes. Color it, yes. But shampooing is taken care of in the shower and blow drying is done in front of the bathroom mirror all by one's lonesome.
I only bring this up because I was in the City today. The big, red apple of a city. The city that has reduced me to tears on more than one occasion, like the time six years ago when I trekked over the Henry Hudson Parkway and onto the Avenue of the Americas to vie for a spot at Time Magazine. Don't get me wrong--it wasn't the failed interview that made me weep. Oh, no. It was the lunch line at a Blimpie's sandwich shop, which was moving too fast for me to intervene before the lineman squirted oil and vinegar all over my salad. I did not want oil and vinegar. I did not want to be pushed along by the next person's tray into the cash register with a dripping, fatty mass of lettuce. I did not want to pay an exorbitant price for a fast food I didn't care to eat. Still, I fumbled through a wallet full of change in search of an elusive nickel while the pressure from the growing crowd bore into my right hip. All I wanted was to slow the goddamn down.
So, today in the window of a midtown salon, I saw a sign...
To Be Continued
I only bring this up because I was in the City today. The big, red apple of a city. The city that has reduced me to tears on more than one occasion, like the time six years ago when I trekked over the Henry Hudson Parkway and onto the Avenue of the Americas to vie for a spot at Time Magazine. Don't get me wrong--it wasn't the failed interview that made me weep. Oh, no. It was the lunch line at a Blimpie's sandwich shop, which was moving too fast for me to intervene before the lineman squirted oil and vinegar all over my salad. I did not want oil and vinegar. I did not want to be pushed along by the next person's tray into the cash register with a dripping, fatty mass of lettuce. I did not want to pay an exorbitant price for a fast food I didn't care to eat. Still, I fumbled through a wallet full of change in search of an elusive nickel while the pressure from the growing crowd bore into my right hip. All I wanted was to slow the goddamn down.
So, today in the window of a midtown salon, I saw a sign...
To Be Continued
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
24/7/40
My status as a lapsed Catholic does not preclude me from milking the Lenten ideals of sacrifice and personal growth for all they're worth. To that end, I will be posting on this blog every day for the next forty. It's sort of a self-imposed NaBloPoMo, only without the prizes that I never win anyway. This time around the incentive is my desire to be a better writer, a more disciplined craftsperson, and a more reflective thinker.
Oh, and Peeps. There will be lots of Peeps at the end. Hard Peeps, exposed to the air and solidified into a carnival of stale sugar.
See you tomorrow.
Oh, and Peeps. There will be lots of Peeps at the end. Hard Peeps, exposed to the air and solidified into a carnival of stale sugar.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Market Price
This is where our family started almost three years ago, in an old Cape that has been housing beginnings for more than two centuries.
We brought our daughter home on a hot July day to a backyard barbecue with friends.
In the spare-room-turned-nursery, she had a place of her own (not that she used it for the first four months).
The seasons changed, and we stayed warm in the cold.
We read books.
The house was never clean.
Today we put our house on the market. I'm boxing up our old beginnings and putting them in storage until they can merge with the new. Life is tidier in this holding pattern.
So we wait.
We brought our daughter home on a hot July day to a backyard barbecue with friends.
In the spare-room-turned-nursery, she had a place of her own (not that she used it for the first four months).
The seasons changed, and we stayed warm in the cold.
We read books.
The house was never clean.
Today we put our house on the market. I'm boxing up our old beginnings and putting them in storage until they can merge with the new. Life is tidier in this holding pattern.
So we wait.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Hibernation
February does not inspire me. There aren't many pages on the calendar that do, but this miserable mini-month is by far the worst.
I bought The Partner socks and corduroys for Valentine's Day. It is just occurring to me now how ridiculous that is. We have known each other for almost ten of these romance-centric holidays and it's come to this. Yet, I'm too lethargic to do anything more than note the absurdity.
Last night I retired to the bedroom in hopes of receiving an inaugural rub-down with the massage oil The Partner purchased, much more thoughtfully than I, for the occasion of the day. I sat up in bed while he removed the tags and stickers from his cords as if mired in mid-winter molasses. He threw them away. He bent over to pick up random debris that had escaped the garbage can. He plodded about the room, removing clothing and accessories and putting everything in its God damn rightful place. I thought of spontaneity and urgency. My face fell. I yawned. He lumbered over to the alarm clock, so pokey.
My head hit the pillow and, well, you can guess the rest. I came back to consciousness this morning with skin that was most decidedly unsupple, and a couple other unsatisfied organs to boot.
I have nothing to say. I have no thoughts in my head. I live in New England and it's February.
I bought The Partner socks and corduroys for Valentine's Day. It is just occurring to me now how ridiculous that is. We have known each other for almost ten of these romance-centric holidays and it's come to this. Yet, I'm too lethargic to do anything more than note the absurdity.
Last night I retired to the bedroom in hopes of receiving an inaugural rub-down with the massage oil The Partner purchased, much more thoughtfully than I, for the occasion of the day. I sat up in bed while he removed the tags and stickers from his cords as if mired in mid-winter molasses. He threw them away. He bent over to pick up random debris that had escaped the garbage can. He plodded about the room, removing clothing and accessories and putting everything in its God damn rightful place. I thought of spontaneity and urgency. My face fell. I yawned. He lumbered over to the alarm clock, so pokey.
My head hit the pillow and, well, you can guess the rest. I came back to consciousness this morning with skin that was most decidedly unsupple, and a couple other unsatisfied organs to boot.
I have nothing to say. I have no thoughts in my head. I live in New England and it's February.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sneak Peek
Warning: If you are married to me, DO NOT LOOK ANY FURTHER! Tear your eyes away from the screen, NOW!
Okay, hopefully we're alone, dear Internets. Here is a sneak peek at the Valentine's Day card I created for The Partner. I cannot take credit for the quote, as it is one he coined himself.
Click here for the link.
Some say the official Valentine's Day holiday is superfluous, and that every relationship should be filled with an entire year's worth of loving celebration.
To them, I say "kiss this."
Okay, hopefully we're alone, dear Internets. Here is a sneak peek at the Valentine's Day card I created for The Partner. I cannot take credit for the quote, as it is one he coined himself.
Click here for the link.
Some say the official Valentine's Day holiday is superfluous, and that every relationship should be filled with an entire year's worth of loving celebration.
To them, I say "kiss this."
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
July Fifth at the Family Fold Redux
For the past several months, I've been participating in what's become a happy tradition--the Blog Exchange. It's that time of the month when my regular readers (all four of them) invariably start to wonder what kind of schizophrenic spell has overtaken me and my writing style. The BE is the brainchild of Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored, who describes it as a place "where blog authors can stretch their writing muscles, discuss and debate timely topics, and gain new readers by placing their post on someone else's blog."
However, after speaking with a few of my friends-turned-readers, I've discovered that not everyone follows the whole "exchange" concept through to the end. They'll read the entry on my blog, but won't click on the link that brings them to the site where they can find my own guest post. To that end, I have decided to repost my latest BE entry right here on home cyber turf. If you've already read it, please excuse the redundancy--but feel free to comment on what you think about the whole BE concept.
And now, reprinted with my own permission:
The readers challenge:
To guess the identity of the famous person
June’s smile was a gaping halo of summertime. She lit me up. I remember that night at the Grand Ole Opry when I told her I’d always wanted to meet her. She said, “I feel like I know you already.” I took her by the hand and she was warm, not hot like the Hell we went through after that.
My sky is June-blue. It’s wide open beyond the hewn beams of the Fold. The clouds take the shape of signs that I’m not alone, not unlovable. Once she said she was ashamed to tell me that she felt it from the very beginning, when I wasn’t hers to love. Then, I was afraid to say it, too. But the fire was there. She wrote about it in a song and the shame turned to pride.
I sang it today. I was hoarse beforehand. I’ve been surprised lately by how old and tired I feel. I swigged some water and apologized. I heard “it’s okay,” and other murmurings. One lady called out to me. She said, “You don’t have to even sing.”
“I don’t?” I looked up and smiled. “Okay.”
They laughed, all of them. And my fingers found the strings. I sang June’s song.
I thank God for June. I love her with all my heart.
It’s July now, and she’s gone.
However, after speaking with a few of my friends-turned-readers, I've discovered that not everyone follows the whole "exchange" concept through to the end. They'll read the entry on my blog, but won't click on the link that brings them to the site where they can find my own guest post. To that end, I have decided to repost my latest BE entry right here on home cyber turf. If you've already read it, please excuse the redundancy--but feel free to comment on what you think about the whole BE concept.
And now, reprinted with my own permission:
July Fifth at the Family Fold
The writers challenge:
Write a post in the voice/style of a famous person (actor, singer, author, whatever). It can be a hot topic, current issue, or just a regular old post.
Write a post in the voice/style of a famous person (actor, singer, author, whatever). It can be a hot topic, current issue, or just a regular old post.
The readers challenge:
To guess the identity of the famous person
My sky is June-blue. It’s wide open beyond the hewn beams of the Fold. The clouds take the shape of signs that I’m not alone, not unlovable. Once she said she was ashamed to tell me that she felt it from the very beginning, when I wasn’t hers to love. Then, I was afraid to say it, too. But the fire was there. She wrote about it in a song and the shame turned to pride.
I sang it today. I was hoarse beforehand. I’ve been surprised lately by how old and tired I feel. I swigged some water and apologized. I heard “it’s okay,” and other murmurings. One lady called out to me. She said, “You don’t have to even sing.”
“I don’t?” I looked up and smiled. “Okay.”
They laughed, all of them. And my fingers found the strings. I sang June’s song.
I thank God for June. I love her with all my heart.
It’s July now, and she’s gone.
Sources:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYFmQK2nOoU
www.johnnycash.com
http://www.carterfamilyfold.org/carterfold.htm
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYFmQK2nOoU
www.johnnycash.com
http://www.carterfamilyfold.org/carterfold.htm
Monday, February 05, 2007
When a House is Not a Home
The wind in my house-selling and -hunting sails has been cut by The Partner's declaration that "it doesn't matter how nice of a house we buy--it's still going to look like a slum once you move in."
But the fear is that I'll return to my own devices once we move into a new home. The Partner asks, with good reason, why he can't expect to live out every day in the kind of clutter-free environment that guests see when they come over. But housekeeping, for me, is like exercising and writing. Even though I know all three acts are essential to my well-being and full of rewards, I have a lot of trouble motivating myself to carry them out. If I have to do any of those things, I will, but if I have the luxury of putting them off, well, I'll do that, too.
I've mentioned before that I'm not the neatest person. Housekeeping is not in my bag of tricks. I leave dishes in the sink overnight. The laundry turns into a moutainous load. Piles of outgrown clothing litter The Boss's bedroom. But I wouldn't call our house a slum. I would call it a place that takes a few hours to make presentable when we have guests over.
Of course, it didn't help my case any when he awoke this morning, after going to sleep mad, to find that he had no fresh boxers to wear.
The good thing about selling a house is that the showings will force me to keep our home in a constant state of clean. There will be no piles of used or unused items. There will be nary a dust ball in sight. The vacuum cleaner and Swiffer Wet Mop will get more use in three months than they've gotten in three years. I've already started boxing up superfluous kitsch and resigning it to the basement.
But the fear is that I'll return to my own devices once we move into a new home. The Partner asks, with good reason, why he can't expect to live out every day in the kind of clutter-free environment that guests see when they come over. But housekeeping, for me, is like exercising and writing. Even though I know all three acts are essential to my well-being and full of rewards, I have a lot of trouble motivating myself to carry them out. If I have to do any of those things, I will, but if I have the luxury of putting them off, well, I'll do that, too. If it wasn't for this latest altercation involving my lazy slum-making characteristics, The Partner and I would be approaching the forth day in a row without fighting. For a couple that hasn't been able to string together two harmonic days in two years, that would've been quite a feat. But now we're back in the same old boat.
I'm beginning to think that pointing that old boat in the direction of a new home isn't going to change anything, and not just because I'm too lazy to paddle.
Friday, February 02, 2007
A Red Retrospective
These are the compiled posts about Red, a woman I first wrote about six months back. There are more related posts to come, I'm sure, but for now I'll step back into the archives for a little Red Retrospective.
80s Flashback
In Bed
The Funeral*
And in case anyone is interested in some slightly more up-to-date information, I am happy to report that Red is going to be a grandmother. How time does fly.
*Since this one was guest posted on another blog as part of the Blog Exchange, I decided to change names to protect the innocent.
80s Flashback
In Bed
The Funeral*
And in case anyone is interested in some slightly more up-to-date information, I am happy to report that Red is going to be a grandmother. How time does fly.
*Since this one was guest posted on another blog as part of the Blog Exchange, I decided to change names to protect the innocent.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Llamas and Limos
The writers challenge: Write a post in the voice/style of a famous person (actor, singer, author, whatever). It can be a hot topic, current issue, or just a regular old post.
The readers challenge: To guess the identity of the famous person, plus an extra gold star on your sticky chart if you can correctly identify all 12 words and/or phrases that are directly linked to this star.
_______________________________________
We passed the 6 month mark a few weeks ago and I feel like I am getting into the groove of this parenting malarkey now, and actually feel like a proper mum not just someone pretending to be one. I spent the first few months convinced that someone would out me as an impostor or child abductor as they stood outside the baby changing room in the supermarket listening to the string of expletives coming from under the door as I fumbled with nappy fastenings and knocked the contents of the diaper bag flying everywhere.
Don’t get me wrong, this is still a fairly common occurrence, I just know now that these things happen to everyone not just me and I’m fairly confident that we will get through the next 6 months and live to tell the story.
Looking back over the last 6 months is really heart warming as the mind plays its old trick and edits out the horrible bits just leaving you with the memories to cherish. I do vaguely remember being curled up in the corner sobbing silently, not daring to move a muscle in case the god damn infernal thing started crying again, wishing for someone to come along and rescue me; but those memories are very hazy and have a not-quite-believable quality to them now.
Looking forwards over the next 6 months is still quite frightening when thoughts turn to the bumps and bruises and running around after her that learning to crawl properly and then walk is going to entail and travelling to England with her alone to visit my family is a terrify prospect. Although the frightening parts about the holiday centre more around the fact that I am taking actual time out of my life in this beautiful place to go to grotty old England – not quite the beach holiday on La Isla Bonita I have been dreaming about but you can’t have everything I guess, and she would only eat the bleeding sand and then spend the rest of the day crying with a tummy bug, so England is probably a better option.
Also coming up in about 5.5 months will be the first birthday party! Like a virgin children’s party planner that I am, I have been day dreaming (yes even at this early stage) pleasant things about who will be there and what we will do and have had my mind blown by the idea that Little Moo will be big enough to eat a piece of her own birthday cake, however, after reading a bit about children’s parties, I thank my lucky star that we don’t live in America, Hawaii in particular, as it has been flagged by www.birthdayswithoutpressure.com as the highest ranking community of extreme pressure when it comes to planning and throwing birthday parties for your children.
The website tell of horror stories of a $250,000 birthday party in Florida for a 7-year old girl, with limos, an adult party with alcohol, the grand ballroom for the kids, helicopter rides, horses, and wild animals; a one year olds party in a Minnesota community with 60 guests where the gift opening took two hours and the party infant slept through most of it and a mother who worked hard to plan a nice at-home party for her eight year old daughter, who announced at the end, “It just wasn’t magic enough.”
No way is Little Moo going to become such a material girl; I’d have spanked her little ass from here to the end of the road and back again for a comment like that. When I was a kid (how to make yourself feel old with just 4 little words) we didn’t have much money and a birthday party meant inviting a handful of your friends over to play games like musical bumps and pass the parcel, the goody bag had a slice of home made cake and a couple of penny sweets in it and the only animal entertainment we had was watching the cat chase the dog around the garden not cougars, llamas and such. Christ, my father would turn in his grave (if he was actually dead that is, which he isn’t) at the thought of so much money going to waste on a bunch of spoilt kids that wouldn’t remember it in a few weeks. Well its OK papa, don’t preach, I have no intention of joining the people that throw these in-vogue parties, I might be borderline crazy, but even I’m not that insane.
Although I do like the idea of the separate adult party with alcohol…and a few llamas couldn’t hurt I suppose.
Yes, I am joking.
About the llamas that is.
If you think I’m going to spend a couple of hours in the company of 6 or 7 small people and a bucket full of E numbers and stay sober, you’ve got another thing coming.
The readers challenge: To guess the identity of the famous person, plus an extra gold star on your sticky chart if you can correctly identify all 12 words and/or phrases that are directly linked to this star.
_______________________________________
We passed the 6 month mark a few weeks ago and I feel like I am getting into the groove of this parenting malarkey now, and actually feel like a proper mum not just someone pretending to be one. I spent the first few months convinced that someone would out me as an impostor or child abductor as they stood outside the baby changing room in the supermarket listening to the string of expletives coming from under the door as I fumbled with nappy fastenings and knocked the contents of the diaper bag flying everywhere.
Don’t get me wrong, this is still a fairly common occurrence, I just know now that these things happen to everyone not just me and I’m fairly confident that we will get through the next 6 months and live to tell the story.
Looking back over the last 6 months is really heart warming as the mind plays its old trick and edits out the horrible bits just leaving you with the memories to cherish. I do vaguely remember being curled up in the corner sobbing silently, not daring to move a muscle in case the god damn infernal thing started crying again, wishing for someone to come along and rescue me; but those memories are very hazy and have a not-quite-believable quality to them now.
Looking forwards over the next 6 months is still quite frightening when thoughts turn to the bumps and bruises and running around after her that learning to crawl properly and then walk is going to entail and travelling to England with her alone to visit my family is a terrify prospect. Although the frightening parts about the holiday centre more around the fact that I am taking actual time out of my life in this beautiful place to go to grotty old England – not quite the beach holiday on La Isla Bonita I have been dreaming about but you can’t have everything I guess, and she would only eat the bleeding sand and then spend the rest of the day crying with a tummy bug, so England is probably a better option.
Also coming up in about 5.5 months will be the first birthday party! Like a virgin children’s party planner that I am, I have been day dreaming (yes even at this early stage) pleasant things about who will be there and what we will do and have had my mind blown by the idea that Little Moo will be big enough to eat a piece of her own birthday cake, however, after reading a bit about children’s parties, I thank my lucky star that we don’t live in America, Hawaii in particular, as it has been flagged by www.birthdayswithoutpressure.com as the highest ranking community of extreme pressure when it comes to planning and throwing birthday parties for your children.
The website tell of horror stories of a $250,000 birthday party in Florida for a 7-year old girl, with limos, an adult party with alcohol, the grand ballroom for the kids, helicopter rides, horses, and wild animals; a one year olds party in a Minnesota community with 60 guests where the gift opening took two hours and the party infant slept through most of it and a mother who worked hard to plan a nice at-home party for her eight year old daughter, who announced at the end, “It just wasn’t magic enough.”
No way is Little Moo going to become such a material girl; I’d have spanked her little ass from here to the end of the road and back again for a comment like that. When I was a kid (how to make yourself feel old with just 4 little words) we didn’t have much money and a birthday party meant inviting a handful of your friends over to play games like musical bumps and pass the parcel, the goody bag had a slice of home made cake and a couple of penny sweets in it and the only animal entertainment we had was watching the cat chase the dog around the garden not cougars, llamas and such. Christ, my father would turn in his grave (if he was actually dead that is, which he isn’t) at the thought of so much money going to waste on a bunch of spoilt kids that wouldn’t remember it in a few weeks. Well its OK papa, don’t preach, I have no intention of joining the people that throw these in-vogue parties, I might be borderline crazy, but even I’m not that insane.
Although I do like the idea of the separate adult party with alcohol…and a few llamas couldn’t hurt I suppose.
Yes, I am joking.
About the llamas that is.
If you think I’m going to spend a couple of hours in the company of 6 or 7 small people and a bucket full of E numbers and stay sober, you’ve got another thing coming.
- Guest posted for the Blog Exchange by Heather
_______________________________________
When not chasing reindeer out of my garden, being chased over our farm by cows or servicing the needs of our 6 month old tyrant, Little Moo, I can usually be found at my blog, Surviving Motherhood, which is where you will find Binky, your usual hostess with the most-ess, today as we partake in this months Blog Exchange.
For more info on The Blog Exchange and to read this month's other blog exchange posts, click here.
For more info on The Blog Exchange and to read this month's other blog exchange posts, click here.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Use Your Words
I've never been a big fan of the word "mommy" employed by anyone who is not referring to their own maternal unit. I don't use the word to describe myself in adult conversation. I skeeve when others do it. I think it's because, in my own eyes, that's not what I am. In my own voice, that's not me. I have a child, yes. I am her mother. I feed her and clean her and do the dishes while she wraps her arms around my knees and says "hug, hug!"
It's in The Boss's big, blue eyes that I am "mommy."
Today at lunchtime she was eating egg and bread. "Mommy!" she said, fried white hanging out of her mouth. "Mommy!" She looked to the window. She looked at the dog. Her eyes darted from side to side as if she was searching for someone. "Mommy?"
"I'm right here!" I laughed. I pointed to myself with an emphatic finger to the chest. "I'm your mommy!"
She started to giggle along with me as she poked a stubby finger into the bib of her denim overalls. "Mommy!" She geared up, poking harder at herself and repeating "mommy, mommy."
"No, silly! I'm mommy!" I leaned in to rub noses and she slapped the tray of her high chair, all spastic and happy.
Yesterday, at the supermarket, I'd wander away from her cart to shove some chicken in a plastic baggie or to crouch down low to see which picante sauce was the cheapest. I'd hear the familiar screech of The Boss as she gibbered into mommy-mode. "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommmmmmeeeee!" It wasn't a needy cry. It wasn't demanding. It was a happy exercise of the voice box that she occasionally switched up with a "Hi!" as other shoppers walked by.
Just as her overzealous use of the word "baby" left me a bit confused as to what the word actually meant to her, I don't know how "mommy" fits into her comprehension. It seems always to come back to discovery and identity, two issues that are never clear. So, I'll just sit back, or lean in for a kiss, and let the m-word babble wash over me without too many questions.
And, remember, it's only cute when she says it.
It's in The Boss's big, blue eyes that I am "mommy."
Today at lunchtime she was eating egg and bread. "Mommy!" she said, fried white hanging out of her mouth. "Mommy!" She looked to the window. She looked at the dog. Her eyes darted from side to side as if she was searching for someone. "Mommy?"
"I'm right here!" I laughed. I pointed to myself with an emphatic finger to the chest. "I'm your mommy!"
She started to giggle along with me as she poked a stubby finger into the bib of her denim overalls. "Mommy!" She geared up, poking harder at herself and repeating "mommy, mommy."
"No, silly! I'm mommy!" I leaned in to rub noses and she slapped the tray of her high chair, all spastic and happy.
Yesterday, at the supermarket, I'd wander away from her cart to shove some chicken in a plastic baggie or to crouch down low to see which picante sauce was the cheapest. I'd hear the familiar screech of The Boss as she gibbered into mommy-mode. "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommmmmmeeeee!" It wasn't a needy cry. It wasn't demanding. It was a happy exercise of the voice box that she occasionally switched up with a "Hi!" as other shoppers walked by.
Just as her overzealous use of the word "baby" left me a bit confused as to what the word actually meant to her, I don't know how "mommy" fits into her comprehension. It seems always to come back to discovery and identity, two issues that are never clear. So, I'll just sit back, or lean in for a kiss, and let the m-word babble wash over me without too many questions.
And, remember, it's only cute when she says it.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Getting My Move On
The Partner and I have finally made the decision to relocate. After three years in our first place, we're ready to set up shop further downstate in a town built on the importance of education and community. As my Internet browser history begins to overflow with Realtor.com and Greatschools.net searches, I'm slowly getting a better picture of what that town will look like. Still, the image is fuzzy. One thing I know for sure is that the implications of any moving decision we make won't be clear until we get there.
The mistake we made in buying our first home was basing the purchase totally on the house itself. We loved it then and we love it now. It has over 200 years of character seeping out of every crevice in its stone foundation. The rooms are spacious, if you don't count the kitchen. It's insulated with history.
Open the doors, though, and there's highway as far as the eye can see. Our own street is a state road running parallel to the Interstate, and it's filled with municipal vehicles, cars that go 60 miles per hour past our driveway, and motorcycles that wake babies and dogs as they thunder up a slight incline. Beyond the road and the highway are schools against which the most vocal of taxpayers rally with a noise that rivals the traffic.
We weren't looking or thinking forward when we moved here as a newly engaged couple with only the haziest notion of family. Even though we figured that we'd be here five years at most as we saved up for something bigger and better, that conservative estimate proved short sighted. We got a canine. Then there was a kid. Three years has been plenty to help us figure out what we want, and maybe more importantly, what we don't want, in our next home--the place where our child(ren) will grow up.
We want safe streets and good schools and neighbors who appreciate the same. It's not enough to call a building "home"; we want a whole community that applies.
It's going to be an exciting search.
The mistake we made in buying our first home was basing the purchase totally on the house itself. We loved it then and we love it now. It has over 200 years of character seeping out of every crevice in its stone foundation. The rooms are spacious, if you don't count the kitchen. It's insulated with history.
Open the doors, though, and there's highway as far as the eye can see. Our own street is a state road running parallel to the Interstate, and it's filled with municipal vehicles, cars that go 60 miles per hour past our driveway, and motorcycles that wake babies and dogs as they thunder up a slight incline. Beyond the road and the highway are schools against which the most vocal of taxpayers rally with a noise that rivals the traffic.
We weren't looking or thinking forward when we moved here as a newly engaged couple with only the haziest notion of family. Even though we figured that we'd be here five years at most as we saved up for something bigger and better, that conservative estimate proved short sighted. We got a canine. Then there was a kid. Three years has been plenty to help us figure out what we want, and maybe more importantly, what we don't want, in our next home--the place where our child(ren) will grow up.
We want safe streets and good schools and neighbors who appreciate the same. It's not enough to call a building "home"; we want a whole community that applies.
It's going to be an exciting search.
Monday, January 29, 2007
When Eating a Pound of Candy is Really Not Safe
I'm sitting here waiting for my dog to yak up slightly less than a pound of M&Ms after I administered 2 tbsps of hydrogen peroxide and 2 tablespoons of milk to bring on the barf.
It seems that Roxie is no longer content with eating the garbage and has taken to climbing onto table- and countertops to find the most illicit of booty. I had been gone for three hours when I came home to find the M&M sack laying empty on the floor. I ran into the living room, fully expecting to find the family pet in the throes of a seizure on her dog bed. She looked up at me with one eye as I stepped through the threshold. There was nothing out of the sheepish ordinary in her gaze. I breathed a temporary sigh of of relief before I got on the phone with the vet.
One sticky note filled with directions later, I was on my way to the store to buy hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. After Roxie lapped up her first dosage of the nasty stuff mixed with milk, she proceeded to run around the yard in happy acknowledgement of the fact that I was out there playing with her. There were no signs of poisoning and no signs of puke. I went inside for another dosage and she lapped that up, too. I'm still waiting.
I blame myself for all aspects of this problem, number one being that the chocolate should've been in a cabinet. I stupidly thought that just because she'd never climbed onto the center of the table before, that she never would. The second aspect is that she needs more exercise. She's getting into all kinds of trouble now that she never did before and the only reason I can come up with is that she's not getting enough exercise. I need to get off my desk chair and into a pair of running shoes. The fact that it's difficult to control a dog and a jogging stroller with my single pair of hands is no excuse. It can be done, and it needs to be done.
If she would just hurry up and chuck, already.
It seems that Roxie is no longer content with eating the garbage and has taken to climbing onto table- and countertops to find the most illicit of booty. I had been gone for three hours when I came home to find the M&M sack laying empty on the floor. I ran into the living room, fully expecting to find the family pet in the throes of a seizure on her dog bed. She looked up at me with one eye as I stepped through the threshold. There was nothing out of the sheepish ordinary in her gaze. I breathed a temporary sigh of of relief before I got on the phone with the vet.
One sticky note filled with directions later, I was on my way to the store to buy hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. After Roxie lapped up her first dosage of the nasty stuff mixed with milk, she proceeded to run around the yard in happy acknowledgement of the fact that I was out there playing with her. There were no signs of poisoning and no signs of puke. I went inside for another dosage and she lapped that up, too. I'm still waiting.
I blame myself for all aspects of this problem, number one being that the chocolate should've been in a cabinet. I stupidly thought that just because she'd never climbed onto the center of the table before, that she never would. The second aspect is that she needs more exercise. She's getting into all kinds of trouble now that she never did before and the only reason I can come up with is that she's not getting enough exercise. I need to get off my desk chair and into a pair of running shoes. The fact that it's difficult to control a dog and a jogging stroller with my single pair of hands is no excuse. It can be done, and it needs to be done.
If she would just hurry up and chuck, already.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Taking Time
Today I arrived what I thought was twenty minutes late to the first class of a writing course I'm taking at an area art museum. Turns out I was actually one week, 6 days, 23 hours and 40 minutes early. I only wish I had taken the time to look a little more closely at the schedule before I lined up a babysitter and got in the car for the first leg of the hour-long round trip.
Admittedly, I have never had a close relationship with the clock or the calendar. It is a mutual disrespect, to be sure. Time doesn't wait for me and I don't bother trying to catch up. It works out okay in day-to-day living (barring incidents like this), but in the grander scheme, we all know who will win the race.
Time is a cosmic middle finger waggling in perpetuity just beyond my line of sight. It was subtle before I had my baby, but now I feel its presence almost as palpably as I do the literal digits being thrust in my direction every time I make an innocent merging mistake on the Interstate. Time has it out for me.
The Boss is 18 months old, and I now have the distinct and harrowing privilege of saying that she is no longer a baby. I look at her toes and I can see that those feet are made for walking. They are not blobs of flesh and fledgling bone designed solely to be tucked into a swaddle, covered in non-reinforced footie pajamas, or adorned in Robeez. Their purpose now is to get her from Point A (her life with me) to Point B (her own life). I stare at those feet in between twitching glances to either side, where I expect at any moment to see Time's hand held up in insult.
On a good day I can look forward. There are exciting milestones to be uncovered on all her walks--into new schools, new cities, new aisles of graduation and marriage. She may walk alongside her own children.
On a bad day, I feel the push. There's no lingering. It's full speed ahead whether I like it or not. The Boss doesn't feel any of it, though, and she moves forward in clumsy definace of the fact that her momentum is not her own.
I suppose there's not much I can do about it. There are only two things that come to mind, really. I can write while she naps, grabbing these fleeting moments greedily and hurtling them in cyberspace where Time can't reach.
And when she wakes, I can tackle and tickle her, delving into the crevices of each toe while she bends back in spastic, twinkling laughter borne of a year and a half of experience.
Admittedly, I have never had a close relationship with the clock or the calendar. It is a mutual disrespect, to be sure. Time doesn't wait for me and I don't bother trying to catch up. It works out okay in day-to-day living (barring incidents like this), but in the grander scheme, we all know who will win the race.
Time is a cosmic middle finger waggling in perpetuity just beyond my line of sight. It was subtle before I had my baby, but now I feel its presence almost as palpably as I do the literal digits being thrust in my direction every time I make an innocent merging mistake on the Interstate. Time has it out for me.
The Boss is 18 months old, and I now have the distinct and harrowing privilege of saying that she is no longer a baby. I look at her toes and I can see that those feet are made for walking. They are not blobs of flesh and fledgling bone designed solely to be tucked into a swaddle, covered in non-reinforced footie pajamas, or adorned in Robeez. Their purpose now is to get her from Point A (her life with me) to Point B (her own life). I stare at those feet in between twitching glances to either side, where I expect at any moment to see Time's hand held up in insult.
On a good day I can look forward. There are exciting milestones to be uncovered on all her walks--into new schools, new cities, new aisles of graduation and marriage. She may walk alongside her own children.
On a bad day, I feel the push. There's no lingering. It's full speed ahead whether I like it or not. The Boss doesn't feel any of it, though, and she moves forward in clumsy definace of the fact that her momentum is not her own.
I suppose there's not much I can do about it. There are only two things that come to mind, really. I can write while she naps, grabbing these fleeting moments greedily and hurtling them in cyberspace where Time can't reach.
And when she wakes, I can tackle and tickle her, delving into the crevices of each toe while she bends back in spastic, twinkling laughter borne of a year and a half of experience.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Justice Calls the Help Desk
Straight from the same region of the state that helped tear apart the fabric of the US Constitution with the seam ripper of eminent domain, Eastern Connecticut can now boast another court case that is shocking in its implications for the average American. Julie Amero, a substitute teacher, was convicted on four counts of risk of injury to a minor for exposing middle school students to pornography on a school computer. The conviction came after she testified that the sexually explicit material on her computer popped up as a result of adware, not from any prurient searches of her own. She faces up to forty years in prison.
The Internet is still a largely lawless frontier. The downside of its freedom is the prevalance of vigilante justice in the guise of the American court system. Lynch mobs are everywhere, kicking the bucket out from under noose-necked citizens and leaving them to strangle in the wind.
Few people in a position to determine the fate of any given defendant truly understand the technology--from detectives at the local police station, to jury members, to United States senators who believe the 'Net is a "series of tubes." Combine that with the fact that the defendants themselves may not be well equipped to navigate the cyberscape (or, as in Amero's case, to shut down the computer), and suddenly this lynch mob turned trial-by-jury becomes a three-ring circus, with each act more ignorant than the last.
I wish I could trust that Julie Amero's case was decided on facts borne out by experts in the field of Internet technology. Instead, I wonder if the case was decided by semantics. The Connecticut statute under which she was convicted states that, on each of four counts, she "wilfully or unlawfully caused or permitted the victim to be placed in a situation that endangered the child's life or limb, or was likely to injure his health or impair his morals."
Wilful. Unlawful. Each word is so thick with meaning that it can stand on its own in court proceedings. But the Internet is amorphous. Many of its definitions are unwritten or untested. My only hope is that everyone involved in the case worked in the most exhaustive way possible to responsibly reconcile these concepts so that the punishment truly fits the crime.
The Internet is still a largely lawless frontier. The downside of its freedom is the prevalance of vigilante justice in the guise of the American court system. Lynch mobs are everywhere, kicking the bucket out from under noose-necked citizens and leaving them to strangle in the wind.
Few people in a position to determine the fate of any given defendant truly understand the technology--from detectives at the local police station, to jury members, to United States senators who believe the 'Net is a "series of tubes." Combine that with the fact that the defendants themselves may not be well equipped to navigate the cyberscape (or, as in Amero's case, to shut down the computer), and suddenly this lynch mob turned trial-by-jury becomes a three-ring circus, with each act more ignorant than the last.
I wish I could trust that Julie Amero's case was decided on facts borne out by experts in the field of Internet technology. Instead, I wonder if the case was decided by semantics. The Connecticut statute under which she was convicted states that, on each of four counts, she "wilfully or unlawfully caused or permitted the victim to be placed in a situation that endangered the child's life or limb, or was likely to injure his health or impair his morals."
Wilful. Unlawful. Each word is so thick with meaning that it can stand on its own in court proceedings. But the Internet is amorphous. Many of its definitions are unwritten or untested. My only hope is that everyone involved in the case worked in the most exhaustive way possible to responsibly reconcile these concepts so that the punishment truly fits the crime.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
A Picture of a Mother and Son
I was pulling out of the supermarket today when I paused in the parking lot to let two people traverse the cross walk. An elderly woman and the man I imagined to be her mentally disabled son plodded toward the store front, their pace naturally matched. He was large, she was small; they were both bent-shouldered over a shopping cart. One of the man's beefy hands joined his mother's on the cart while the other rested on her back.
As I waited, I saw a lifetime of care make its slow way across the asphalt. Though it's hard to tell from a simple scene played out in front of Stop & Shop, I couldn't help but think that the woman's steps were buoyed by a constant source of comfort not available to parents whose children grow up and move out. Maybe she had spent all her years as a grown woman caring for this son with special needs. Maybe, with ninety years rendering her own needs more specialized, the tables were not so much turning as being pushed closer together. But there were no maybes in their familiarity. They were bundled up against the 12 degree temperatures in layers of fleece and shared history. She looked like she might blow away without him. He looked like he might lose his way without her.
Then their walking huddle reached the sidewalk beneath the red and green sign. I put my foot lightly to the pedal and drove off.
As I waited, I saw a lifetime of care make its slow way across the asphalt. Though it's hard to tell from a simple scene played out in front of Stop & Shop, I couldn't help but think that the woman's steps were buoyed by a constant source of comfort not available to parents whose children grow up and move out. Maybe she had spent all her years as a grown woman caring for this son with special needs. Maybe, with ninety years rendering her own needs more specialized, the tables were not so much turning as being pushed closer together. But there were no maybes in their familiarity. They were bundled up against the 12 degree temperatures in layers of fleece and shared history. She looked like she might blow away without him. He looked like he might lose his way without her.
Then their walking huddle reached the sidewalk beneath the red and green sign. I put my foot lightly to the pedal and drove off.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Parent Bloggers Network
In the company of several bloggers I read every day and others whose opinions I look forward to discovering, I have climbed on board the new vehicle of Kristen and Julie known as the The Parent Bloggers Network.
Based on the premise that bloggers are "savvy, intelligent consumers with the ability to influence the online community at large," the PBN will pick up products and services being marketed by entrepreneurs and PR professionals and will drop them off with us bloggers, who will in turn do our best to provide informative reviews. These reviews will be posted on our own blogs and will be linked to in compilation on PBN.
Hopefully it won't be too overt, this occasional infiltration of advertisement into the daily comings and goings of The Boss, The Partner and me. I often write about products and services as they relate to my family (phones, the need for marital counseling, Cadillacs) but the difference with these PBN reviews is that I will have acquired the stuff for free and will probably include more links. If you don't care for the sale, stay for the story.
I'm always looking for stories.
Based on the premise that bloggers are "savvy, intelligent consumers with the ability to influence the online community at large," the PBN will pick up products and services being marketed by entrepreneurs and PR professionals and will drop them off with us bloggers, who will in turn do our best to provide informative reviews. These reviews will be posted on our own blogs and will be linked to in compilation on PBN.
Hopefully it won't be too overt, this occasional infiltration of advertisement into the daily comings and goings of The Boss, The Partner and me. I often write about products and services as they relate to my family (phones, the need for marital counseling, Cadillacs) but the difference with these PBN reviews is that I will have acquired the stuff for free and will probably include more links. If you don't care for the sale, stay for the story.
I'm always looking for stories.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Number Not in Service
In the best of circumstances, I do not relish talking on the telephone. But when it comes to using the phone to track down, coerce or finagle volunteers or sponsors for any of the myriad of non-profit organizations with which I am associated, well, then I use only the most derogatory words in my vocabulary to curse out Dr. Graham Bell.
Today I left one of several phone messages with a person I am hoping to bring on board for a conference I am helping plan. My halting voicemail went something like this: "I am so sorry for bothering you again about this. I feel like such a pain. But our conference is coming up and I wanted to find out for sure if you might, uh, be able to help, uh, I mean, would you be able to, uh, share your expertise with us and..."
Blah. Blah. Blah.
I don't know why I am so averse to asking people for things. In no other aspect of my life do I hold my tongue or feel even remotely inclined to do so. But when it comes to soliciting anything--from advice to services to money--my tone and delivery clearly convey my awkwardness. I don't want to be a bother. I don't want to impose. I want to leave you alone, but they won't let me.
The phone just makes it worse. If I'm lucky enough to actually reach the person instead of their answering machine, I have to contend with shoddy cell phone reception, a screaming child in the background, and a total lack of surety as to how my request will be taken.
Email is a completely different story. I'll ask you for the shirt off your back if I can do it in a carefeully constructed electronic missive. No awkward pauses. No confusion. No hemming. No hawing. If you don't want to give me your shirt, just hit "reply" and let me know. If you are feeling generous, you can throw it into a box and FedEx it to the address I included in my convincing letter. I'll even PayPal you the shipping fees.
Just don't call me, because I don't want to talk about it.
Today I left one of several phone messages with a person I am hoping to bring on board for a conference I am helping plan. My halting voicemail went something like this: "I am so sorry for bothering you again about this. I feel like such a pain. But our conference is coming up and I wanted to find out for sure if you might, uh, be able to help, uh, I mean, would you be able to, uh, share your expertise with us and..."
Blah. Blah. Blah.
I don't know why I am so averse to asking people for things. In no other aspect of my life do I hold my tongue or feel even remotely inclined to do so. But when it comes to soliciting anything--from advice to services to money--my tone and delivery clearly convey my awkwardness. I don't want to be a bother. I don't want to impose. I want to leave you alone, but they won't let me.
The phone just makes it worse. If I'm lucky enough to actually reach the person instead of their answering machine, I have to contend with shoddy cell phone reception, a screaming child in the background, and a total lack of surety as to how my request will be taken.
Email is a completely different story. I'll ask you for the shirt off your back if I can do it in a carefeully constructed electronic missive. No awkward pauses. No confusion. No hemming. No hawing. If you don't want to give me your shirt, just hit "reply" and let me know. If you are feeling generous, you can throw it into a box and FedEx it to the address I included in my convincing letter. I'll even PayPal you the shipping fees.
Just don't call me, because I don't want to talk about it.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Fathers and Mothers
After The Boss was born and the morphine wore off, my midwife came in to sit beside my hospital bed on an institutional glider. She rocked placidly, her hands folded in her lap. First she said I would more than likely develop strong feelings about The Boss's delivery. She said it was okay to feel sad. Then she looked over at my husband, who was holding his daughter's head in his hand, The Boss's lithe body following the length of his forearm.
"The fathers always hold them like that," the midwife said. "It's the most natural thing." She rocked in calm survey of the scene, her back and forth motion carrying the conversation out of the blue.
I looked over at The Partner and saw the innate ease with which he supported our newborn. Behind him, panes of frosted glass muted the summer light. My bedside was dark. I might've sighed with contentment. I might've just laid there.
Looking back on it, I see the football hold as the first proof of protection. It's the bond of body heat fusing father with child. It's a basic connection when there's nothing else in the way. The barriers come later--days later, months later, years later--when life starts to separate from birth.
It's hard to be a family. I remember a picture my friend sent me of her husband with their own baby in the same hold. A tiny head in a huge arm. It looked easy then. Now their daughter is four years old. Now my friend is getting divorced.
The Partner and I are in a rough spot right now--let's face it, we almost always are. So for sanity's sake, I look for things separate from us. I look for links to something solid that we can't obfuscate with common misunderstanding.
That thing is parenthood. It's fathers and the football hold. It's a photographic negative to hold up to the light when nothing else is black and white.
Psssstttt...it's De-Lurking week. This is a time for all you silent readers to come out from under your rock of anonymity. I mean, there must be at least four of you out there. Help give my under-exercised comment box a run for its money.
"The fathers always hold them like that," the midwife said. "It's the most natural thing." She rocked in calm survey of the scene, her back and forth motion carrying the conversation out of the blue.
I looked over at The Partner and saw the innate ease with which he supported our newborn. Behind him, panes of frosted glass muted the summer light. My bedside was dark. I might've sighed with contentment. I might've just laid there.
Looking back on it, I see the football hold as the first proof of protection. It's the bond of body heat fusing father with child. It's a basic connection when there's nothing else in the way. The barriers come later--days later, months later, years later--when life starts to separate from birth.
It's hard to be a family. I remember a picture my friend sent me of her husband with their own baby in the same hold. A tiny head in a huge arm. It looked easy then. Now their daughter is four years old. Now my friend is getting divorced.
The Partner and I are in a rough spot right now--let's face it, we almost always are. So for sanity's sake, I look for things separate from us. I look for links to something solid that we can't obfuscate with common misunderstanding.
That thing is parenthood. It's fathers and the football hold. It's a photographic negative to hold up to the light when nothing else is black and white.
Psssstttt...it's De-Lurking week. This is a time for all you silent readers to come out from under your rock of anonymity. I mean, there must be at least four of you out there. Help give my under-exercised comment box a run for its money.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Sunshine Almost Always Makes Me High
It was 71 degrees in January. I was on the same stretch of highway I've traveled many times before. Sunshine was on my shoulders and the song was on my radio. It was one of those moments when the fact that something is in the air becomes clear.
I've had those moments before, and the feelings have a strange concreteness. With each job interview I've gone on, I know from the car ride there if I will end up taking that position. I've never been wrong. I see a certain landmark, gas station or metal sign and I understand with certainty that it is something I will pass again many times. Beneath a highway overpass in the town where we bought our first home, I saw the words Providence and Worcester Railroad Company on rusty red metal as we traversed northeastern Connecticut in a lazy house hunt. I got the feeling. It was several months and several failed contracts later that we ended up purchasing our small antique cape in that very town. Now I see the sign daily.
This time I have the feeling but I have no idea what it means. I'm not looking for a job. We're not buying a house. Nothing planned is on the horizon. But something is looming there anyway. Driving home from Hartford on a hot winter Saturday, I sat a little straighter as I followed the well-worn path. I looked for new landmarks. And I thought that there is as much excitement as there is fear in the not knowing.
In unrelated news, I am the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas Member of the Week. With 900 mamas on their blogroll, I feel very honored to have earned this distinction. If you voted for me of your own volition, I thank you. If you, like The Partner, voted for me because I told you to, I thank you. I've gotten to know myself better through blogging, and now I've gotten to know so many of you. It has been a completely unexpected delight.
I've had those moments before, and the feelings have a strange concreteness. With each job interview I've gone on, I know from the car ride there if I will end up taking that position. I've never been wrong. I see a certain landmark, gas station or metal sign and I understand with certainty that it is something I will pass again many times. Beneath a highway overpass in the town where we bought our first home, I saw the words Providence and Worcester Railroad Company on rusty red metal as we traversed northeastern Connecticut in a lazy house hunt. I got the feeling. It was several months and several failed contracts later that we ended up purchasing our small antique cape in that very town. Now I see the sign daily.
This time I have the feeling but I have no idea what it means. I'm not looking for a job. We're not buying a house. Nothing planned is on the horizon. But something is looming there anyway. Driving home from Hartford on a hot winter Saturday, I sat a little straighter as I followed the well-worn path. I looked for new landmarks. And I thought that there is as much excitement as there is fear in the not knowing.
In unrelated news, I am the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas Member of the Week. With 900 mamas on their blogroll, I feel very honored to have earned this distinction. If you voted for me of your own volition, I thank you. If you, like The Partner, voted for me because I told you to, I thank you. I've gotten to know myself better through blogging, and now I've gotten to know so many of you. It has been a completely unexpected delight.
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