Ever Hopeful at Thirteen

I was thirteen when she was born; she is fifteen now. My little sister's birth inspired feelings in me that contrasted at every level with my naturally pessimistic personality. I had high hopes for this newborn. I saw possibility in every crease of her hairy, bent-up frame. When I visited the hospital after school got out that day, I sat down wearing a purple paisley shirt, a suede skirt, and blue and white LA Gear sneakers, and I held her.

I wrote her a letter almost a year later.

"Dear -----------,

The day you were brought into the world little sister, was cold and gray, typical January fare. When I woke up that morning--it was the twenty-first, the day I knew you'd be born--I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that that was to be the day. Maybe it was the hushed voices I heard from behind the confines of our parents' bedroom that clued me in to your impending arrival. But I personally think it was more than that. Call it sisterly intuition, call it a psychic premonition. Call it what you will, but let it suffice to say that I knew from the moment I opened my eyes that morning that day was going to be special. All those months of waiting, of enduring mother's exasperating mood swings had come down to this. In just a matter of hours I would be the proud recipient of a little sister. A little sister who was bound to change my life--for better or for worse--from that day forward. Exactly how you were going to change my life, I couldn't and still cannot even venture to guess. But let me assure you that all my doubts disappeared the first time I laid eyes on you.

You were such a beautiful baby! 8 pounds, 4 ounces of cherubic perfection. You were big for a newborn, said Mommy, but you looked awfully small to me. When I first held you, I had to wonder if those little eyes of yours would ever open. But they finally did, and you got your first look at me--your big sister. Scrunching up your face until you resembled an old, wizened tomato, you gave me one last petrified glance before letting out the loudest cry you could muster. It was love at first sight. I decided right then and there that only the best was going to be good enough for my sister.

I can remember the times when you were only a few weeks old that I would try to instill in you early on an appreciation for the finer things in life. Creeping into your room as you began to drift off to sleep, I would pop my favorite Bon Jovi tape into the cassette player and hope that by the process of osmosis, you would begin to develop a taste for it. But you have a mind of your own, I can see that more and more everyday. You, little sis, know what you want and you know how to get it. In the blink of an eye, you can turn on the waterworks, or, just as quickly, flash a smile that is capable of melting just about anyone's heart.

Just yesterday I witnessed you walking for the first time. What a sight it was to see you make that precarious trek towards Mommy, with your chubby little arms outstretched. It was a real landmark, right up there in importance with the loss of your first tooth, your first day at school, your first kiss, your first job...You've got a long line of "firsts" looming ahead of you, little sister, and I can't help but wonder how that life is going to turn out.

A lawyer, a doctor, an actress--I can picture you in any of those positions. You've got a smart head on your shoulders. I can see that now, even though you are not yet a year old. You are a real problem solver, a trait that was revealed once again yesterday when you figured out in a matter of seconds how to make the dangerous descent down the stair in our house that leads from the living room to the kitchen. It may have been only one small step, but as I watched you clutch the railing for dear life and gradually lower yourself from that stair all the way to the floor, it seemed like a momentous maneuver. With that kind of strategy and determination, I think that you will be capable of doing almost anything. Some may say it's too soon to tell, but I know that's not the case. Maybe it is that sisterly intuition coming into play again, or maybe it is just an educated guess. Whatever it is, I'm willing to bet any amount of money that you are going to be someone to be proud of. Someone I will be--and already am--happy to call my sister.

Love,
Binky"

To justify my writing, I will remind you that I was thirteen.

To justify what seems to be the failure of my closing prediction, I will remind you that she is fifteen.

A Piece of Advice for House Hunters

Do not wait until after you've put a contract on a home and had the inspection before you go to the town Web site and discover that a property seemingly adjacent to yours has been zoned INDUSTRIAL.

Kudos to The Partner for even thinking to look at the zoning map, despite the late date. If it was up to me, we'd be moved in, cavorting in the swimming pool, only to notice the crevass of a waste facility or the spires of a power plant manifesting itself next door.

So, we wait to get through the voice mail jungle of the town office in order to find out who owns this wooded property and what the plans are for it.

As if I needed more of an excuse to procrastinate packing.

A Memorial Day for Evelyn

One of my grandmothers--The Partner's father's mother--was a German who immigrated to the United States just before Hitler came to power. She told the story of her arrival often, but more often than that, she talked of the ship that took her back to her homeland a few years later on a short trip with her young American daugher, Evelyn. Imagine a yearning for home and for family. Imagine the soil of your youth beneath newly calloused feet; imagine your father's voice. Imagine leaving, again.

I put her words into mine and let it unfold like this:

"The ship ride back to America was fun, but I still wish we hadn’t taken it. There were parties every night, filled with rich, drunk ladies and handsome men. Life for those few weeks was all rollicking card games and booze.

The ship was Evelyn’s playground. I wouldn't know she was near till she’d sneak up behind me, low and wiggling, and peek out from between my knees. Sometimes, when I retell that trip, it is as if Evelyn wasn’t even there. I should have held her more. I should have caught that head between the swell of my calves and never let go."

Back in New Jersey, Evelyn drowned in a pond. She was six. My grandmother--again, she was not really mine, but my husband's, though I don't look at it that way--grieved for her daughter and for Germany. What had she escaped? What suffering had she exchanged for this?

Our grandmother was 97 years old when The Partner and I watched her die in her comfortable Connecticut bedroom. The Partner's parents let me join in the most private of goodbyes even though I was not yet officially part of the family. It was the first time I saw him cry.

Two years later he cried again, the only other time. We gave our newborn daughter the middle name of Evelyn.

This is our American dream. This is our Memorial Day. This is the life I'm thankful for, in all its stained fabric and unrippable weave.

Full of Craps

The home inspection I referenced last week is history. Luckily, the sale of our home is not. Though the buyers asked for $20k in credits (yes, 20 thousand smackers), The Partner did not waver in his belief that they were not entitled to a penny more than $5k. After several rounds of negotiations, the buyers came around. Toward the end of the process, right before consensus was reached, I was convinced that the deal would fall through. It turned into one big gamble and I was completely out of my element at the high stakes craps table.

But the dice rolled in our favor. The Partner still has his pride and now we have our house. Nevermind that there were times during the stress of it all that I would've preferred my own apartment far away from him. I'm sure he felt the same way about me. At least with the new home, we have more square footage and a couple more acres in which to hide from each other next time life, and our inability to communicate about it, rears its wicked head.

So the packing begins.

Something to Chew On

I am not sure why The Boss decides she is done eating, mid-bite. I am staring at tight lips that keep those last morsels hidden between teeth and tongue. I am waiting it out. I am getting antsy because she cannot be put down for a nap with a gluey mound of mastication hanging out in her maw. I am telling her to chew, or spit, or do something. I am seeing the stubborn set of her father's jaw in her face. I am thinking about the day before yesterday, when two hours elapsed, but a spoonful of peas and carrots remained. I am watching the line of her lips, which sometimes creases into a v of pink baby flesh, but never parts. I am finally squeezing her cheeks. I am covered in dinner vegetable broken down by saliva into a runny cream of corn. I am sopping it off her body and mine. I am holding her hysterical head. I am singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I am moo-ing and cluck-ing and wondering why she must horde food like that. I am asking myself what she's waiting for.


Today's post is brought to you courtesy of the "I am" meme as sent my way by Slouching Mom.

Taking Green To The Bank with the Saturn Vue Hybrid

For two weeks, The Boss and I painted the town red in a 2007 Saturn Vue Green Line. We sat pretty at mid-sized-crossover height as I navigated the "mild hybrid"--meaning the gas engine does most of the dirty work, with the electric motor kicking in only when the car is coasting, braking, or stopped--across the rural landscape of northeastern Connecticut. I don't know where "rural" falls in the city vs. highway miles per gallon assessment, but I imagine it's somewhere between the 27-32 MPG range outlined in the neat, white folder of vital statistics left on the passenger seat when the gentleman from NYC dropped off the car for me to review as part of the Parent Bloggers Network.

The first order of business was for The Partner to correct The Boss when she referred to the shiny, forest-green vehicle as a truck.

"That is a car," he said.

"Car," she repeated.

"Good."

Lacking in 4wd, significant ground clearance or anything with half a chance of eliciting a rush of testosterone, the Saturn Vue Green Line disappointed The Partner from the get-go. As an equally jarring affront to his masculinity, there is no manual transmission option. Matters were further complicated when he first stepped into the driver's seat only to have his knees and elbows bang up against the dashboard, the side door, and the center console. Though tinkering with the seat settings made the arrangement slightly more comfortable, quarters were always cramped where his 6'1", 200 pound frame was concerned.

I'm smaller than my husband, but I have to agree that the Vue Green Line does not feel spacious. And though my fingers are downright small, even I had trouble working a cruise control set-up that seemed designed for Barbie's Dream Hybrid.

The thing I adored most about the Saturn Vue Green Line, however, was the opposite of cramped. It was the rear cargo area. I drive a four door sedan with a regular sized trunk, and the space afforded me there pales in comparison to that of this crossover's rear end. I was able to load my jogging stroller into the back without going through the tedious process of removing all three wheels--and there was still room for groceries.

[What I have to say next merits a disclaimer: the love of my life, the car I drive daily, is a Caddy that Zigs. It's a sporty luxury vehicle with smooth handling beneath a lush interior. It's comes from a line of notorious lemons and it's in our garage/makeshift auto shop on almost a weekly basis, but it is far more dear to me than any inanimate object has a right to be. ]

Relative to what I know and love, the Saturn Vue Green Line--with its 170 HP, 4 cylinder engine--has no pep. Having become accustomed to surviving bad merging choices thanks only to my daily driver's quick acceleration, the Vue's lack of giddy-up almost killed me on more than one occasion. Eventually I got used to it, and I'd go so far as to say the world is probably better off with me driving a car that lacks pep. But the lack of power still makes me sad. The Partner also commented that the handling of the Saturn Vue Green Line was inferior to that of his much larger GMC Yukon. The responsiveness and stability was not what you'd expect when comparing a smaller and more compact SUV to its gargantuan, gas-guzzling cousin.

When it comes to The Boss, however, she usually doesn't complain about things in the automotive realm--and the Saturn Vue Green Line presented no exception to the rule. In a car seat that was strapped tighter than usual into the back seat thanks to the LATCH system my current car lacks, she watched the world go by with attentive eyes. I'm sure she enjoyed the new perspective from a perch higher than that of the mid-sized sedan she's used to.

One of the last things I will mention is satellite radio--uncensored music, talk, entertainment and news coming at you with only a few commercials. The Saturn Vue Green Line offers XM Satellite Radio as an option. If you upgrade to the "Comfortably Safe" package that includes XM, you also get a Head Curtain Side Air Bag, power driver's seat, and heated front seats. For a couple extra hundy, bringing the total to $2k in add-ons, you can get a power sunroof.

The bottom line is...well, the bottom line. With the Saturn Vue Green Line, it's all about clean, green savings. Though the fuel economy is not as good as the similar Toyota Highlander, Mercury Mariner, or Ford Escape hybrid models, the price is unbeatable. Even with the upgrades mentioned above, my personalized Saturn Vue Green Line Line--with a base price of approximately $23k--would max out at $25k.

With decent fuel economy and a highly economical price, the Saturn Vue Green Line is a good choice for those who are just beginning to consider the necessity of taking a less gasoline-dependent lifestyle to the bank.

She Looks Just Like Her Daddy

When I was still in my formative years, skipping with glee through the age before reason, my mother bought me a baseball cap that was bright yellow. The words on the front were "I Look Just Like My Daddy." She purchased it at a tourist gift shop. Because everything was connected in those days, in my mind, I associated that hat with joy. Yellow hats and yellow sun over the ripples of Lake George. Bats screeching through my bedroom at our cottage on the Sacandaga. Terrycloth rompers with zippers, and no shoes. One year nana died back at home while I cannonballed off the dock upstate in New York. In my mind, the water around me is glitter as it arcs toward the shiny azure above, while my scraggly limbs hold tight in a crouch that is sucked into the muddy base of a deeper blue.

I looked just like my daddy on those summer vacations and I was so proud. Twenty-five years have passed and so have those genes--those genes that swallow up fathers and regurgitate them in the form of the next generation. The Boss looks just like The Partner.

I hope one day she will be as thrilled with that as I was. As I am.

Photos courtesy of the best damn photographer ever

Upon Closer Inspection

Today a certified professional is going somewhere no man has gone before (at least not during this home selling process): the land of the home inspection.

That's right. We have a contract. We have co-signers. They have a 3 o'clock appointment with the inspector.

The Boss, the dog, and I are getting ready to make like trees and leave. When we return to the finished inspection, it won't be long till we find out if we have a reason to start packing.

My pessimism is starting to fade to the point that I need to fight to get it back into clearer focus. I do not embrace positivity. I abhor disappointment. So when I look around my house now and see it as something that is on the verge of becoming someone else's, I must banish the picture. I have to remind myself that it is still very much ours. And that's okay, because that's just fine. For the past three years and for now, it's home. It is a wonderful place to be.

If only until June 15.



Edited to add:
I just discovered that someone landed at my blog after typing the following phrase into Google: "women who brought a bra and worms were in it and it ate through her breast."

Thought you might like to know.

Go Potty Go

I'll admit it. The Boss is obsessed with, as she calls it, the "TB." That's television, for those of you not familiar with Boss-speak. She can sit there with her face in front of the boob tube (I guess that would be the "boobie-tube" to The Boss) for hours if I let her. Another admission: sometimes I do let her, like when I'm scrubbing down the bathroom for a house showing or mopping the kitchen floor or blogging.

Generally, she gets a half hour of TV time a day. I've read this is an acceptable amount for the two-and-under set. In case anyone has a problem with that, I'd like to present Exhibit A: The Boss, at 21 months of age, spouting off the phonetics of each and every letter of the alphabet whenever prompted either verbally or with pictures of the letters. Come to think of it, maybe if she saw the abbreviation "TV" in print, she'd realize it's pronounced "tee-vee" and not "tee-bee."

But this is not about the alphabet. This is about potties. One of The Boss's favorite videos is Go Potty Go. When she started watching it several months ago, she called it "Go." Now that her vocabulary is expanding at an exponential rate, she calls it "Go, Go."

She loves the animation of the main characters, Paige and Parker Panda, as well as the various animals parading through the 20 minute production. The Boss keeps a menagerie of animals and their sounds inside her head and, because of this video, the moose has been added to her crew. Some people go their whole lives without encountering a moose, but The Boss has already been privy to seeing one go potty "beside a tree" because he doesn't want "anyone to see."

The DVD is cute, cute, cute. The songs get lodged in my head and stay there (since my brain isn't exactly valuable real estate these days, I don't mind so much). The characters make The Boss comfortable with the idea of sitting on her own potty chair.

Go Potty Go hasn't quite performed magic. The Boss has yet to make any sort of deposit in the bowl--not that I've done much to help her along. During the winter, all her layers of clothing made it too much of a hassle to strip her down and put her on the potty with any sort of frequency. Now that the warmer months are upon us, I plan to rectify (ha) that with a full-on poop offensive (ha, ha). With Go Potty Go as my aide-de-camp, I'm confident that victory will be ours. The DVD will remain in heavy rotation until diapers are a distant memory.

Guest Post: A Financial Guy's Perspective on a Woman's Money

The opinions expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the blog owner.

Women are bad with money

My first thought when approached to write this column was, “Great, how do I address the investments I believe most pertinent to women without appearing sexist?” The answer is I cannot, so I'll do my best and hope I do not get flamed too heavily. In truth, I'll be discussing the most important investment you can make as a man or a woman: your own financial willpower. Sound too tree-hugger pot-smoking hippy liberal chakra-aligning for you? A little too "motivational speaker" for you? It's not, read on.

If you take away nothing else from this article, take away this: your attitude towards spending and the execution thereupon will determine your financial success and stability throughout your life. Saving is actually pretty easy, you just need to stop spending. If you stop spending then you're automatically saving. Simple. In many cases, however, this can require some serious financial willpower.

I disagree with CNBC personal finance reporter Suze Orman, who wrote in her book Women & Money that women have a “totally dysfunctional” relationship with money. Despite a penchant for clothing, single women spend much less than single men (Bureau of Labor Statistics 2004-2005 Consumer Expenditure Survey). But don’t pat yourselves on the back, yet. Just because
you spend less money does not mean you are not still overspending, you are just overspending less than the men. Orman’s approach strokes the woman’s ego; she states “Lasting net worth comes from a healthy and strong sense of self-worth.” I believe high self-worth leads to selfish spending (new Manolos), and low self-worth leads to guilty spending (midnight Cherry Garcia binging). Striking a balance is the real key.


I’m not here to make you feel good about yourself. I’m here to help you pay for retirement, health care, diapers, clothes, insurance, kids and your eventual cryogenic suspension.

Holding back is harder for some than others

There was a study done years ago that focused on children and their willpower (I have been unable to find the original study, if you know where I can find it please contact me). A group of children ages 3-4 were studied. Each child was place alone in a room with a cookie. They were told that the cookie belonged to them and that they could eat it at anytime. However, if they waited until the adult returned and did not eat the cookie, they were promised more cookies. Some kids ate the cookie immediately, some waited as long as they could before giving in to their desire for cookie, and others sat patiently and got their multi-cookie reward. They tracked the kids, and those that resisted cookie temptation performed better in nearly every measurable aspect of their lives (grades, earning power, subjective happiness).

“So what? It’s a cookie.”

The cookie ain’t a cookie, it’s a dollar. It’s a new ring. It’s going out to eat. It’s a new car. It’s a pair of shoes. It’s the Baby Gap. It’s Pottery Barn. It’s Pier 1 Imports. Every time you spend money on material items that you don’t need you are giving up the ability to use that money towards something more productive. This is called an “opportunity cost”. That candle you bought at Pier 1 Imports might have been better spent on a coat of paint for the dining room. The meal you just ate out could have bought a week’s worth of gas (or a month depending on where you eat). That new car might have instead paid for a year of college for your kid, once invested wisely.

Financial willpower

Financial willpower is the ability to look at a consumable – an item, a trip, a meal, a dress – and walk away. If you have strong financial willpower, you buy only what you need or have specifically saved for. When you can go to the mall and buy what you went in for and nothing else, you’ve got it. If you can buy only what you came in for in Home Depot, you’ve impressed this author.

You don’t save money by spending money

Buying an item that is on sale because it is a good deal does not save you money if you weren’t going to buy it in the first place. Buying an extra pair of shoes because you get a third one free does not save you money; you have just paid more money to buy another pair of shoes you were not going to get in the first place. The same goes for buying in bulk. I tell the
following story (from Duck Tales, of all places) a lot:

Scrooge McDuck is taking Huey, Duey, and Louis out for a soda. He buys one small soda and three straws for them all. One of them asks him,

"You're the richest duck in the world, why don't you buy us each a small soda?"

"Or at least a large soda to share?"

His reply? "How do you think I got that way?"

In other words, you don't become wealthy by spending your money on frivolities. If you want to “spend money to make money,” you need to do so intelligently by prioritizing your spending.

Not only are you not the center of the universe, neither is anyone else

Stop treating yourself to little things like candy bars and movie tickets because you think you deserve it every now and then. You don’t. Your kid deserves an education. If you can pay for that, then you deserve a treat. While we are on the subject, your kid does not deserve treats either, not for being cute, not for being young, not for being your daughter/son/niece/nephew, and especially not to stop whining/crying/complaining/etc. When your kid does something worth rewarding, like peeing in the toilet instead of on it or taking out the garbage, then they deserve to be compensated. A lack of negative behavior does not warrant reward, and encourages them to behave badly to get rewards. Stop it.

How our financial willpower is broken down

”It’s only a dollar”: Wal-Mart’s fiercest competitor is not Target, it isn’t specialty stores, and it isn’t grocery stores or big-box chains. Wal-Mart fears the dollar stores. That’s because people who shop there are in the frame of mind, “This is only a buck, I’ll pick it up.” Now think about the dollar store demographic: poor and lower-income shoppers. There is nothing wrong with being poor, the problem is that you don't want to stay poor. If you have a, “This only costs a (small amount of money),” you will join or remain in that demographic.

Gambling: If you play the lottery of buy scratch-off tickets, stop it. The state gets enough money from your taxes. Gambling is designed to break-down your financial willpower. The allure of making fast money offsets the rational side of the brain that says, “Little Lisa needs braces.” It has been proven that the emotional high created by winning a contest/poker
match/lottery/scratch-off ticket is inferior to the low created by losing. You will always feel worse losing than you will feel good winning. Quantitatively, if you feel 50% better by winning you’ll feel 75% worse when you lose. So stop gambling. Now.

Credit cards: Credit cards are designed to reduce your barriers to consumption. No money? No problem! Unfortunately, that is never, ever true. If you have no money, you have big problems, and spending more than you have is the fastest way to get nowhere. If you have a credit card, you may only use it if you pay off the full balance at the end of every month. Carrying any balance will have an adverse affect on your credit score. Carrying a balance will cost you more money in interest than is possible to earn with any mainstream investment. Before you do anything else financially, pay off your credit card. That being said, if you have high financial willpower and savings in the bank, credit cards do have their benefits, like insuring your purchases and deferring payment.

Some off-topic quicktips: Women are subject to some things men are not. You are more risk-averse and you feel bad for people in need. But there are times when you need to take some risk, and others when "people in need" are actually just needy people.

You’re burning money by putting it in the bank

If the only savings you have is through the bank, you are losing money. Inflation typically outpaces the interest you earn in a savings account, CD, and most savings bonds. Checking accounts are for paying bills, not saving money. Open a brokerage account with Fidelity, Charles Schwab, or another discount brokerage that will not charge you an annual fee and use their
money market accounts for cash savings, and low-risk short-term securities for near-term liquid assets. You’ll make a lot more money in interest using a brokerage account, and brokerages often offer a tax-free money market in your state (just ask).

Charity: Donate when you’re dead

As a part of the fairer sex, you are more giving than men due to greater empathy for others. You shouldn’t be. If you, your spouse, and your offspring are all financially secure, having saved enough for college, retirement, paid off the mortgage, and you have a surplus of income beyond your utilities and insurance, then I might consider recommending you donate to charity. Otherwise, concentrate on paying off debt, saving your money, and donating your estate in your Will to maximize the amount you can donate to a worthy cause. You will have reached your maximum net worth by the time you die if you’ve saved properly, and the funds will do more good.

Saving for college

One slightly off-topic parting note for you parents: Your child is unlikely to qualify for financial aid. There are too many people applying for college, stretching thin the pool of financial aid, grants, and scholarships. Your child is special to you, but to everyone else they’re just another applicant. They are not special. As a result, any money left over from paying off your debt, bills, and saving for retirement (in that order) should be plowed into saving for college, preferably in a low-cost 529 savings account. You can invest in any state’s plan, so pick carefully.

Links to additional information on topics discussed above:


Stop buying crap you don’t need

Prioritize your spending

Credit Cards

Paying for college (yours or your kid’s)

Why you should stop donating (and when you should)

About the author

Boz lives in Boston with his wife in a small house on a hill. He is a financial professional of 5 years, and a graduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Boz is Series 7 and 63 licensed. He has been quoted discussing 529 college savings plans in such publications as the Wall Street Journal, Barron's, SmartMoney, and Reuters, among others.

Shiny Happy People

I have a friend who reads this blog and is, understandably, surprised by the community of commenters that many mutha bloggas elicit.

"You've got some enthusiastic supporters out there, huh?" Boz mentioned over lunch this past weekend.

"Um, yeah, I guess you could say that. That's how we mommybloggers are. Supportive. Enthusiastic. Yup."

And so I got to thinking, not just about my own blog, but about this momosphere in general; and how sunshine, in the form of bright rays of light being continuously blown up people's asses, can get to be cloying.

You must know what I mean. Those long rows of comments all praising the hilarity, or the eloquence, or the heart-wrenchinging-ness, or the yes-yes-that's-exactly-the-way-I-feelingness of a given post in a given blog.

I've written my fair share of those comments, don't get me wrong. In those cases, that's the only way I can convey how powerfully someone else's words affected me. With some bloggers, that sentiment is by far my most common reaction. But after awhile it makes me feel funny, mostly because I imagine it makes them feel funny, to be balancing on a pedestal. And that's when I need to get past the fact that this person is hilarious, eloquent, heart-wrenching and/or relatable. I focus on the facts, interacting like I do with my Real Life friends, where grammar, syntax and delivery is secondary to just talking.

I don't read many non-mom blogs, but I can't help but think that the spheres populated mainly by men would have a much different tone. Same with blogs that present a more equal mix of women and men in their readership. I know that The Partner and my aforementioned friend would certainly bring a much different dynamic to the blogs they frequent. More dissent. More straight talk. Less regard for feelings. The latter may sound like a bad thing, but I don't believe it is, necessarily. Sometimes insensitivity is real, and sometimes a real reaction is what's lacking.

All this being said, I do so love this momosphere. I eat up positive reinforcement on one end; I bask in the warmth of sunshine on the other. I would become more than a little neurotic if the positivity ceased completely. I dole it out, too. I truly feel like this community of talented women sharing their thoughts and taking in those of others is largely responsible for my happiness and success as a work-at-home mother and writer.

But, sometimes, it's a bit unreal. That's all I'm saying. Am I alone, here?

Clean Cut

The Boss is meticulous. Could we be any more different? I brush my teeth for a minute and a half, she brushes hers for five. I leave the toilet lid up, she puts it down. I forget to shut a door, she closes it. I wipe my palms on the leg of my jeans, while she insists on a soapy cloth for her "hands, hands, hands!" Her play space is as neat when she leaves it as it was when she first sat down with her books, her pull toys, or her Magna Doodle. Her happy mantra, melodious in its chirring chime, is "put back! Put back!"

I think it's a little early for her opposition to be a conscious reaction to me. And I hope that we're too far along for it to be a phase. I relish the idea of having a neat little person in the house to help compensate for my shortcomings. I am not training her to be my maid, but far be it from me to deny her the opportunity to run a Swiffer duster over all furniture under 36 inches tall.

When my brother was The Boss's age, the day could not commence without him ripping every piece of clothing out of his drawers and throwing it across the room. I am reminded of this whenever we visit his dorm room at college. Now, the piles of clothes are secondary to the odors emanating from them. The Boss does not like the stark, foot-smelling masculinity of her uncle's room. She clings to my leg and whimpers until we take her down the hall to my brother's girlfriend's suite. There, The Boss is comfortable. She runs from pretty blond college girl to pretty brunette, then to me, shouting "hug!" all the way. She plays with shoes and text books. The air is flowery and fruity. Everything has its place.

In that room, I am careful not to blink. If I do, I fear sixteen years will pass me by and it will be The Boss's own sweet smelling room we are standing in. The Boss will be the pretty blond. Shoes will be lined up, textbooks piled high. In the bathroom, a toothbrush and floss will stand in complicity. The toilet lid will be down.

Could we be any more different? I will be unkempt and sweaty. I will wipe my hands on the leg of my jeans. Then she will carefully shut the door behind me, and The Boss's thrilled and thrilling hugs will be hard to come by.

Spring Telegram

Outside enjoying sun STOP No time to blog STOP Regularly scheduled postings will resume Monday STOP

When Life Was Perfect, and My Writing, Far From It

In a previous post, I mentioned a letter I wrote to The Partner to be read on the eve of Y2K--pre-graduation, pre-wedded bliss, pre-baby, pre-wedded non-bliss. A commenter who just might be sorry she asked expressed a desire to know more about this message. Because I love to accomodate the faithful, I will post the text of the letter in its entirety. Please excuse the un-honed grammar, faulty logic, and any and all references to sequoias as metaphors for the enormity of my love. I won't change anything, as much as it pains me.


Here’s a little millennium message for you. I’m going to conveniently disregard the fact that this new year doesn’t technically herald the dawning of the new millennium. There’s still something momentous about moving into a whole new set of numbers, like when the odometer in a car turns over form 99,000 to 100,000. I mean, that’s exciting—does it really matter if the countdown began at zero or one? I’m too impatient to put off all the millennium-related partying and philosophizing on the little technicality that it doesn’t really begin for another year.

Okay, so let’s go over a few key events of the last thousand years. There was that whole black plague thing, the invention of moveable type, the discovery of the New World, the beginning of the United States of America, and the election of Ronald Reagan as president. And then there was the day I met you.

I think it’s pretty cool that this new chunk of a thousand years begins just as we are getting ready to start the new chunk of our lives as grown-ups. I mean, up to this point, we’ve pretty much been kids. Now we’re getting ready to graduate, get Real Jobs, sleep in our own huge fluffy beds and live lives that aren’t dictated or scrutinized by our parents. And here’s this new millennium, like a cosmic metaphor for the less earth-shattering but more personal and equally important changes in our lives.

There are a lot of things I’m leaving in the last millennium—places I used to live, friends I used to have, things I used to do but don’t anymore. I’ll be taking with me only the memories. I had a lot of good times and knew a lot of good people, but I won’t be taking them all with me. In a lot of cases, the memories are good enough. And where they won’t suffice, that’s where I’ll find the people who are going to come with me into the next part of my life.

I’ll be leaving a lot of mistakes, too. And from those, I’ll bring only the lessons learned—and I’ve learned a lot of them. I hope I know enough to make the right decisions now that my choices will be my own and will have more and more of an impact on my life.

So this millennium thing is big on all kinds of levels. There’s the level of you-and-me, which I think is big, too. And, just as this year means so many changes in so many facets of our lives, it means a lot of changes for us. Though, in this case, maybe the concept is more of growing than of changing. Because my feelings for you aren’t different than they ever were, they’ve just gotten bigger. Like, if my feelings were a tree [Editors note: Yes, it says “if my feelings were a tree." It gets worse.] I swear they’d be a fledgling Sequoia—big already, but getting bigger and bigger every day. I know I don’t often tell you how I feel [Editors note: thank God, if that’s the kind of clichéd imagery you’d resort to] and that’s probably not going to change anytime soon, but right now it seems like a good time to let you in, at least a little bit, on what goes on in my head (don’t worry, it’s not that scary in there, really!).

What I think is that my hand fits so perfectly in yours, and my head fits so perfectly against your chest or shoulder, and your arm fits so perfectly around me. Basically, your body is like the big, comfy bed I dream about. Your body is a place I can retire to when I’m happy, sad, tired, wide-awake, busy or bored. But just like I have to wait till I graduate to get the bed I want, I will have to wait till then to have you. There are a few more feelings of excitement, anxiousness and nervousness about waiting for you than waiting for a bed, though.

And it’s perfect the way we get along. Your mom says we don’t have anything in common, but she couldn’t be more wrong. Hey, that rhymed. Anyway, we wouldn’t have been able to talk for hours and hours each night for those six months before we even met in person without having a lot in common. You couldn’t understand me nearly as well as you do if we had nothing in common. I have no doubt that our minds are definitely in sync. It feels so good to have you to relate to [Editors note: What? It doesn’t feel “perfect”? It just feels “so good”? I think you should use the word perfect a couple more times].

So, it’s New Year’s Eve and even more than any typical first night of the year, this one is about looking to the future. That’s really scary to me. I’m not afraid of the future itself, only of getting my hopes up about events I want to happen that may or may not come to pass. I really need to get over that. If I don’t, that big metaphorical Sequoia that is my feelings is going to be really stunted, wanting to grow but being afraid not only of the view from so high up but also of being cut down.

So pass the sparkling wine and let’s make a toast: here’s to New Years 2000, to a new century, to a new millennium, to AOL, to school, to jobs (300 grand a year?!?!?) [Editors note: ha ha], to family, to friends, to big cozy beds, to Sequoias, to Suburbans, and to everything you could ever want, need, or dream of.

I’ll drink to that!

Blueberry Surprise

My family does not know about my blog. The secret was not threatened until TrueBlue came along.

A case of the blueberry juice arrived at my door after I was approached about the possibility of reviewing it on my blog. As a sucker when it comes to free stuff, and with a daughter who's a sucker of juice, I was more than amenable to the idea. Tearing into the case upon its arrival, I stored one bottle in the refrigerator (per the kind gentleman's suggestion to let it chill before drinking) and left the rest of the case in a corner of the kitchen.

Over the next few days, members of my household became well acquainted with the virtues of blueberries in liquid form. The Partner drank it undiluted. The Boss got a half and half mix of blueberry juice and water. When she went to bed, I drank mine with vodka. TrueBlue was a hit.



Then Easter came, and along with it, extended family. The case of TrueBlue remained in its corner, a little more than half full. That's when I made the mistake of opening a new bottle to fill a glass for my mother.

"This is the best juice I ever had!" Yes, that is what she said. No exaggeration whatsoever. It pains me to say it, because...

"Where did you get this?" came next. Keep in mind, she does not know about my blog. She cannot know about my blog.

"Um..." I looked around with a frenzied and twitching face for The Partner. I needed backup. But he was in the other room, tending to a fireplace that was spewing ash all over the room and causing random bursts of the fire alarm. "Umm..." I stuttered, again. "The Internet?"

"Oh, it came from the Internet? A whole case? Was it a good deal?"

"Yeah, it was a great deal!" I sighed with relief. That was totally believable, right? I mean, why wouldn't I buy juice in bulk off the 'Net? Me, who has never had so much as a Costco membership.

"How much was it?"

"I can't remember."

"Where'd you find the deal?"

"Hmm. Can't remember. I guess it just came across in an email or something."

"Oh. I get a lot of those emails and I've never seen this juice before."

I hoped my face wasn't getting red. Why was she grilling me?

"Well, I'll just go in with you on a case next time you order," she chirped. "I don't even usually like juice, but this stuff is fantastic."

Dammit. I listened to the fire alarm go off again and silently cursed The Partner's absence. He'd have been much more mentally quick than I. "It was a one time deal," I hedged. "But, uh, I think you can get a dollar off coupon on their Web site."

She looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows and shrugged, unimpressed. Then she walked out of the kitchen, the ice in her blue glass clinking as she went.

I sent her home with her own bottle of TrueBlue later that night. As she and the rest of my family drove off in the mini van, I prayed that she wouldn't someday take it upon herself to Google "TrueBlue" in search of an "Internet special" and stumble upon this very review.

The Edge of Reason

It was sunny out, which was strange in itself. There was little context against which to compare the brightness after so many months of winter. Odder still was the fact that The Partner was standing on the edge of our property, staring at the roof of our house. He held a hand-visor to his forehead, the shadow falling in a rectangle over two scrutinizing eyes.

I watched him from the doorway until his thoughtful confusion conveyed to my own raised eyebrows. "What are you doing?" I asked him. I stepped outside. There was a towel wrapped around my just-showered head.

"I think I've developed a fear of heights." I'm sure his balls shriveled into themselves just a little bit as he said it. He fancies himself a man's man, afraid of nothing. Able to jump tall buildings in a single bound, repairing faulty chimney construction mid-leap.

"I can't make that step from the ladder to the roof." He shook his head. "I stood up on the final rung for five minutes, but I can't make that final move onto the roof. I'm mentally ill."

I opened my mouth to speak, but no connection with my brain was made. In almost ten years of knowing this man, I never once heard him articulate weakness. Everything was out of kilter.

"It's like my balance is all off," he said.

"I don't know about that. Maybe you were on the right track with the mentally ill thing." Finally, the switch in my cold, hard brain kicked in.

He just shook his hanging head again.

I should've expressed some sort of empathy for him, but my emotions had not had enough time to filter through to the more feeling parts of my torso. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

If I know The Partner (which I thought I did, but which, in light of this most recent event, I am questioning) there is no way in H-E-double hockey stick that he would allow anyone else to do something he should be capable of himself. This is the man who single-handedly removed the engine from inside the maze of my German-engineered car and replaced it with another (without a lift). But I guess, for him, the fear of being crushed by a wayward transmission pales in comparison to falling off a roof. The way I look at it, he'd be more likely to survive the descent from the top of our story-and-half Cape Cod.

I waited for his answer but got none. He just stood there, staring his foe in its shingled face.

So I switched my weight from one hip to another and readusted the soggy towel on my head. Inside that 100 percent cotton enclosure, my mind reeled as I tried to comprehend a world in which The Partner wasn't always, without fail, the strong one.

Hokie Hope

"We have lost the sense of peace that comes with learning."
~ Zenobia Hikes, Virginia Tech's vice president of student affairs

My four breathtaking years in the blue ridges of Virginia were colored by freedom and discovery. They were infused with low mountain air recycled in the exhale of less than a thousand women undergraduates at one of the last remaining estrogen strongholds in the south. On that insulated campus, some found peace. Some found themselves. Some, like me, found a piece of themselves that they would only come to understand later. But almost all of us felt safe to search.

The following is a message from my alma mater, Hollins University, in Roanoke, Virginia:

Hollins University joins colleges and universities across the nation and around the world in extending our thoughts and prayers to the students, faculty and staff of Virginia Tech, and in expressing our deepest condolences to the loved ones of those killed or injured during the horrific events of April 16. Many in the Hollins community have friends or loved ones who are students, alumni, or employees at Virginia Tech.

Please join us on Friday, April 20, for “Hokie Hope” – an alumni-led effort of wearing orange and maroon colors in support of Virginia Tech. This Friday will be an “Orange and Maroon Effect” day, which has been traditionally held for athletic events. Tech alumni invite everyone across the country to be a part of the Virginia Tech family this Friday and wear orange and maroon to support the Tech community.

We want everyone at Virginia Tech to know that they have Hollins’ utmost sympathy and support as they begin the process of healing in the face of this unimaginable tragedy.

Nancy Gray

President

Hollins University

This Old House

Apparently, I should be more specific when I talk about my desire to sell this house.

What I need to be saying is: "I'd really like to sell my home to someone who does not plan to take 200+ years of history and feed it to a wrecking ball."

Yes, we have someone interested in our property. He's a developer looking to take advantage of the fact that the lot is zoned commercial in an area undergoing a booming business transformation. Down the street, a big-box shopping center is under construction. The highway, visible from our property and with an exit less than half a mile down the road, oozes potential profit.

Our house is currently not used in any commercial capacity. We just live there. It was built at the tail end of the 18th century and is filled with well-preserved nods to history. Its tie to the past extends to the appellation of our section of town, which comes from the family name of the home's first inhabitants. Though the house is not registered in any national, state or local registries, it is only paperwork that separates the wood sided walls from historical-treasure status.

I should be grateful that the gentleman contemplating an offer was honest with our real estate agent when he told her that he is seeking approval from the town historic district commission to level the home should he purchase it. He didn't have to tell her. Our ignorance could only be beneficial to his business bliss.

Though I think it's unlikely that the historic commission will grant his request, we need to be aware of the situation so that we can do everything we can to protect the moral high ground from demolition.

V-I-R-G-I-N-I-A

I woke up this morning as wordless as the day before. I watched the news. I unfolded the newspaper. Sentiments swirled. Then dark, tiny print gave way to the color of the comic section.

The Family Circus cartoon of the day featured Dolly, with pencil in hand and and two neat pages of letters spread out before her. Her mouth was an oval of concern as she spoke these words:

"I know all my letters. Now, how do I line 'em up to say something?"

Dolly, that's exactly what I want to know.

Part Two: 60 Minutes at 24/7

Jen, from one plus two, has some questions. I have some answers. Join us for the convergence.

Jen: How do you define The American Dream?

Me: Like this...

American Dream.

Pronunciation: &-'mer-&-k&n, 'drEmFunction: noun

1. A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occuring during wakefulness and sleep that is colored by the United States of America's ever-changing skies, unending landscapes and the short, shared history of our own making.

2. A strongly desired goal or purpose made attainable in the United States of America by those who've come before and secured by those who stay on.

3. A belief in change, and one's power to effect it.

Jen: Describe your perfect five course meal, and the perfect place to eat it.

Me: I've already had the perfect five course meal, at a French restaurant I remember mostly in white light refected off the glass of chandeliers and wine goblets. I was there to celebrate the 95th birthday of The Partner's grandmother. He wasn't my husband at the time, but grandma never acted like I wasn't family.

It was the perfect five course meal, so I should remember what I ate. I don't. I know I tried foie gras, which I told the table I would hate, and I did. Liver in any of its incarnations was not something I could swallow. I know the meal ended with a dessert soufle. I know there was wine throughout. It was rich and red like the center ruby in a princess's tiara.

I know it snowed outside, which made the warmth within even more charged with toasting energy. We drank to a century of grandma, minus five. Her cheeks were plump, and as deeply colored as the merlot she sipped through a smile. When we sang "Happy Birthday," the eyes of every patron were on her vibrant contradiction of so many years. When we stood to leave, they stood, too, and there were well wishes everywhere. They clasped their hands to her gentle touch. And there were wishes they kept to themselves: that they could someday hope to dream of a night like this.

Jen: You have just been nominated to sit on a focus group on global warming. Your first task is to decide what people need to do to reduce our damage to the planet. What is one of your ideas that the "average" person can do to participate?

Me: I would put it out there that having two children who play soccer does not necessitate the purchase of an oversized sport utility vehicle. The same would hold true at a focus group on road safety.

Jen: New Years Eve 1999. Where were you, and what did you do?

Me: The Partner and I were staying with friends at a chalet-cabin in the Poconos. It was not the year he stole the urn. I wrote him a letter that he read in front of me as Y2K turned. I wonder if he still has it?

Jen: Any rock star. One night only. Who and why?

Me: Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse. Because I'm craaaaaazy like that. And because I doubt I could handle more than one night, anyway.*

*The closest I came to such intimacy with Joe Bruce in real life was when he autographed my ass at a Manhattan in-store.

Holding Hands

I scraped my knuckles on the concrete lip of a pool at a Connecticut campground when I was eight. The rural hideaway seemed like the middle of nowhere, then. My skin didn't heal. I thought I'd have the mark forever, but when I searched for it today, it was almost gone.

Now I live an hour away from where I grew up--close to the central nowhere campground that seemed so far away--and I realize my state is small. My skin is wizening in infinitesimal degrees and the folds cover scars. I am almost 29, the age at which my mother had me. After being born, I always noticed her hands. I compared them to my own lineless fingers and found her old. She was not, of course. But 29 separates us still and, with each passing year, the wrinkles deepen.

Take Me Home, Country Road

For anyone wondering about my lack of posting regarding our house selling adventure, let me tell you that no news. . .is no news.

We have a contract in on the house we are hoping to buy, but the attached Hubbard clause expires at the end of the month. The owners have taken the home off the market for now, but will actively market it again if we don't sell ours within the next three weeks. I have no doubt the beautiful bow-roof cape with a pool will be snatched up by one of many families relocating to the area at the behest of one of the country's largest pharmaceutical employers. And we'll be back at square one. I'm just optimistic like that.

I'll be sending my agent updated pictures so that our MLS listing and newspaper ads will look spring-like and new. Beyond that, I'm fresh out of freshness.

Lucky for me, the term "home" offers no lack of cliches and song titles with which to title blog posts as part of this never ending saga. It'll be awhile before I'll really need to get creative.

The 40 Days' Report

Another Easter has come and gone. So has the not-quite-successful Lenten promise that preceded it. On six separate occasions, I failed to light up the Blogger dashboard with my daily reflections. Being, as I am, of the opinion that 34 out of 40 ain't bad, I cannot quite muster up too much disappointment. I blogged a helluva lot more than I would've otherwise. And I did it during the months of February and March, which are perhaps the least inspired pages on my creative calendar. I may not have come through with flying colors, but I came through. I'd like to thank God, The Partner, and whomever invented the Meme.

In related news, I am looking for another gimmick to entice me into blogging on a daily, or at least 6-day-a-week, basis. I have no self motivation whatsoever and must rely on outside sources. That's just how it is.

I imagine what I'm looking for is something like the bikini that inspires dieters to go through months of deprivation so that they can fit into it come summertime. A fashionable, sexy and expensive piece of attire. A blogging bikini, that's what I need. Something that makes me even more invested in paying attention to my, er, body of work.

I thought about signing up to attend the Blogher conference as a possible motivator, but then I had a horrifying flashback to May, 1988, when a Girl Scout sleepover in the belly of the USS Massachusetts battleship left me stranded in an empty cabin because nobody wanted to share a bunk with the girl who had bad hair and no sense of style and whose eyes--all four of them--were incessantly glued to a book.

So the Blogher idea was quickly ruled out.

I'll let you know if I come up with anything else. Your input, as always, is welcome. How do you motivate yourself to blog on a regular basis? How important is consistency to you?

Get The Straight Poop Here

The Diaper Fairy has been dropping by our house monthly since The Boss was born. Our magical nymph takes the form of my lithe, spry and French-accented mother-in-law. She comes, she dotes all day, and she leaves in a flurry of triple kisses, a trail of bulk-packaged diapers in her wake.

It never occurred to me to question the diapers we never had to pay for. So, when The Boss woke each morning, covered from head to toe in thick smelling urine courtesy of fleece pajamas with an uncanny synthetic ability to wick moisture from the middle to all points north and south, I tried to grin and bear it. Or grin and swear it, under my breath.

Imagine my pleasure when a separate fairy descended on our front porch in the guise of the FedEx man. I tore open the box to reveal a package of Huggies Overnights. The plastic wrapped around the thick size 4s promised "unbeatable leakage protection." I rushed them upstairs to the place of honor under The Boss's changing table before coming back down to pour a tall sippy cup of water for the unsuspecting test subject. That night, she went to bed with her thirst quenched and her tush tightly wrapped in extra absorbency.

She woke the next morning, dry. As it was the weekend, I took her back to our bed and plopped her next to The Partner's head. She was butt level with his nose. "Ugh," he said to The Boss. "Who's in town? Urine town."

He could be witty, that man of mine, even when not quite awake. "Yeah, she still smells, but at least it's coming from inside her diaper this time. No leaks. The Overnights worked."

"That's good." He patted the outward dryness of her rump and then rolled over.

I've been using those diapers for the two weeks since, and only once was the volume of her dentally-induced diarrhea (what the connection is between teething and pooping, I don't know, but it exists) too much for the diaper to contain. Since no man-made product in existence could've held that mess at bay, my belief in the effectiveness of these diapers remains unwavering.

Does this mean I am going to go out and purchase them myself? Um, no. But lucky for us, our Diaper Fairy takes special orders. You can bet I'll be placing mine forthwith.

"Oh la la, my poor bebe! Why didn't you tell me zees before? All those nights of wetness! Ze chafing! Ze rash!" I can hear her now, amidst the slamming of her car door and the roar of the engine as she high tails it to Costco to buy Huggies Overnights in bulk.

Why I Vote For Sanjaya

If I may: American Idol is no sacred cow. It may moo like one, but it is not. It drinks from the trough in the barnyard of pop-culture entertainment and waits for the farmers to come milk it for all it's worth.

I don't for one minute believe the show is a "singing contest." It never was. Any show that relies wholly on unrestricted calls from the viewing public is not going to be an honest evaluation of voice, pitch, phrasing, resonance, or any of the other musical terms me and the most of the United States know nothing about.

What we all know is personality. Shock value. Fun. Diversion. Rumor. Intriuge. Good hair. Boobies.

Even before campaigns such as Vote For the Worst, which gained popularity when Howard Stern got behind the old farm tractor of subversion, it was a popularity contest. By definition. Votes got tallied and the most popular won. Not the best singer. Not the most gifted showperson. Just the guy or girl with the most supporters in his or her stable.

This season, I called in my votes to American Idol for the first time ever. I did it because I was finally excited about the outcome. I wanted to participate in the mass market sociology experiment designed to test the meaning of "reality" entertainment. How far would it go? How close to the "best" would the "worst" take it? At what point do those concepts flip? Is there a place where they merge? And, most importantly: what the hell is reality, anyway?

No matter how you look at it, the controversy is good for ratings.

And that's entertainment.

Did You Know. . .

. . .that I'm part Irish and part Polish?

Yeah. I get drunk and act stupid.


Ba-dum-bum.


It's funny 'cause it's true.

The Boss Gets Promoted to Mayor Of Tantrum Town

I don't know what to do with The Boss. Literally and figuratively. Any which way you look at it, smell it, taste it, hear it or touch it, I do not know what to do.

So I improvise. I read to her, a lot. I know I can do that much. We read Dr. Suess after Sesame Street after Happy Baby board book, because books don't cause tantrums. Then we read the "I Love My Daddy" book and my mind wanders to The Partner at work, who's probably right now thinking he has it so tough. Thinking I do nothing at home but shirk laundry duty and post to my blog. Thinking The Boss watches too much TV.

Eventually we leave the book case in favor of the open road. I strap her into her car seat and slink in front of the steering wheel. Since making eye contact only serves to rile the beast, I look ahead. I consult the rear view mirror in a traffic assessment, but I dare not even glance at The Boss. I know from experience that her mannerisms will be calm, her gaze all-seeing. Sometimes she folds her hands in front of her as the countryside rolls by. Other times she sprawls out, her arms hanging over the sides of her seat so that she looks like my dad watching football in his recliner. In my leather lemon of a car, we are relaxed.

Then we come home and again, I'm clueless. She's mad. I don't know how to make her eat or sleep. So I wing it. And maybe she eats. Maybe she sleeps. It's a crapshoot. Which reminds me of the diapers, which are the only easy constant. Then I remember that I should be teaching her to use the potty.

For twenty months she was docile and sweet. I illogically concluded that her behavior proved I was a good mother. Now I realize that I was not good at all. I was lucky.

And I have no idea what to do now that my luck's run out.

On Bosses and Boobs

A few weeks ago, The Boss and I sat up watching American Idol. The oldie-but-goodie singing sensation, Lulu, came out to perform "To Sir, With Love," fake breasts hiked up to fake chin. Her presence commanded The Boss's attention. After staring at the screen for several moments, a smile lit my daughter's face.

"Boobies!" she squealed. "Boobies! Boobies!" Her glee was evident.

I laughed at the clarity with which The Boss expressed herself. Words like "feet," "cat," and "please" are muddled by her lips, but "boobies" comes out with complete artistry. If it was wrong to feel proud, it was even more indelicate of me to consider it the ultimate in flattery when she turned and jammed her pointer finger into my chest amdist a flourish of "boobies, boobies, boobies!"

I'm no Lulu, but if my daughter can find similarities in my own flat rack, who am I to correct her?

The Story of How My Mother Accidentally Ingested My Breast Milk, or The Funniest Thing that Happened while I was in Pittsburgh

Every night Sam gets a proper supper before his bedtime breastfeeding. We have some type of fruit and rice cereal. For those of you who aren't familiar, rice cereal comes in dry flakes, kind of like instant mashed potatoes, and you add the liquid of your choice to make the cereal your desired consistency. Commonly, the liquid is either water, formula, or breast milk. Since I never leave home without my handy dandy breast pump, I use my own milk to mix with the cereal.

At home, Sam sits in his high chair while I spoon feed him and Dr. SOB watches Star Trek. Dr. cannot tolerate the inherent messiness of feeding time and I cannot tolerate William Shatner, so this works out well for the both of us. My parents do not have a high chair, so instead Sam would sit on my lap and my mother would spoon tiny mouthfuls of goo into his chew hole. Occasionally the lad would get rambunctious and start flapping his little arms. During one of these instances, he knocked into the spoon, delivering a small dollop of cereal onto my mother's leg. Without a moment of hesitation, she wiped the cereal with her finger tip and stuck it into her mouth. She then informed me that it tasted sweeter than she would have expected. I was practically busting at the seams. I wasn't sure how she would react, so I tried to be as gentle as possible when I informed her that the sweetness was probably due to fact that breast milk is sweeter than cow's milk. She blanched. I waited, breath held, to see what she would do. She looked around in a wild panic and spotted a 2 liter bottle of soda on the counter. She leapt up, ripped the cap off and began chugging generic caffeine-free diet soda right from the plastic bottle. After a few good pulls on the soda, she set the bottle down, burped quietly and came back to finish feeding Sam as though nothing had happened.

I don't know if we'll ever talk about it, but the memory of my mother eating my breast milk will always hold a special place in my heart.

If you were expecting Binky, then April Fools! She is the guest of honor today over at the Cheese Party, where Amy Jo is the host-est with the most-est. You are all invited to come on by and read the best that she has to offer! Click on over to the Blog Exchange to read the cream of the crop from the whole blog blog exchange crew.

[Note from the proprietress of this site to all the Blog Exchange naysayers (you know who you are) in which I make it very, very easy for you to access my best post, ever: CLICK HERE! ]

Kate Enters the Blogosphere

With the metaphorical microphone passed to me by Mrs. Chicky earlier this week via an Interview Meme, I am carrying on the tradition with a different spin. In addition to interviewing a few bloggers who posted their answers on their own sites, I opened up the line of questioning to interested parties without blogs. Taking advantage of the opportunity was a regular reader named Kate. I am pleased to introduce her to you now.

Me: You are in a room full of strangers--different sexes, ages, ethnicities, backgrounds, professions, familial statuses, etc., are all represented. They want to know who you are. How do you identify yourself?

Kate: This is a difficult question to answer because I need more context. Why am I in a room full of such a diverse group of strangers? Am I mingling and just introducing myself to individual people along the way, or am I addressing a crowd for some reason as a leader/keynote speaker? Even so, I would need to know the reason everyone is gathered. If I am introducing myself to individuals, mingling, then I suspect I would introduce myself with my name, "Hi, I'm Kate L., nice to meet you." Any identifying info to follow would, as I said, depend on the circumstances at hand.

If I am addressing the group in some way, then I still need to know WHY I am addressing the group. The way I identify myself will depend on what brought everyone together. Essentially, I am a woman with multiple identities (my status as a woman being one of my primary ones) and I generally wear different hats in the appropriate circumstances. Everyone of these identities makes me who I am, but only some of them matter to others in particular contexts. The short answer to this question and what I think you are really getting at is what are my identities and what do I see as my primary identities - here is the list:

I am an over educated, under paid lower middle class white woman with a mild physical disability who is a trained sociologist but not a practicing one. I'm a career oriented person, though it took me a long time to find my career. I'm a feminist and a bleeding heart liberal. I'm a mother and a wife and a deeply saddened motherless daughter.

Whew, long list. That's not all of my identities, but I do believe those are the primary or core identities that inform most of who I am and my thought processes and emotions.

Me: Which quality of yours do you most hope your daughter inherits?

Kate: I can not choose just one. Modest of me, huh? Here are my top three:

1) independence
2) empathy
3) intelligence

Me: What is the ideal distance (in miles) between your home and that of your mother-in-law?

Kate: What is the distance between Earth and Pluto? Sorry, all sarcasm aside, probably 60 miles or so. Approximately within 1-1.5 hours driving distance. Close enough to visit once a week or every 2 weeks during day trips (so my daughter can know her Grandmother and my husband can see his mother), but far enough to prevent unannounced visits and to hopefully cut the cord between my husband and my mother-in-law. Or, at the very least help provide a physical boundary in order to promote other kinds of boundaries.

Me: When was the last time you went skinny dipping?

Kate: Last summer. :blush:

Me: You inherit 5 million dollars the same day aliens land and say they're going to blow up the world in two days... what do you do? (You earn extra points if you can identify the source of this question)

Kate: I have no idea what the source is.

Me: Then you must not have seen the best movie of all times--Heathers. You should probably rectify that soon. But not before you go on with your answer.

Kate: Presuming I really and truly believe that the world is going to get blown up in two days, I would take everyone I love to a lovely tropical island where we can be together and at least have a good time together in a warm, sunny place with cocktails. If the world is going to end anyway, then I'm going to spend my last two days on earth with people I love in a beautiful environment partying like it's the end of the world ;)

Me: Thanks so much for playing, Kate. I hope you had a good time here at 24/7. Please proceed to the comment section for words of welcome and encouragement. And don't forget to check out my Blogroll for a sampling of other blogs--some similar, some different, most both--you just might enjoy.

Welcome To Our Open House

What is wrong with this picture? (Besides the fact that I have no photography skills whatsoever?)


Did you get it? Did you?
If not, here's a bit more of the scene:

No, it was not a freak of nature that caused this. No blustery wind, no driving rain. It was The Boss, the dog and I on the way to the park. Well, actually, it had nothing to do with The Boss, except that she was there and could quite possibly have been killed if the porch ceiling wasn't so capable of remaining suspended practically by its lonesome.

I was walking out the front door, helping The Boss down the steps with one hand and holding Roxie's leash in the other. That's when our pit bull saw the cat in the neighbor's yard and bolted toward it. I lurched forward, struggling to hold on as Roxie put all of her 50 pounds, plus the strength of momentum, into the chase. That's when I did the stupid thing for which The Parnter is currently not speaking to me. I grabbed ahold of one of the porch's rickety supports to steady myself.

It broke loose at top and bottom and I went flying forward as expletives and hysterical screams similarly richocheted out of my mouth. I screamed so loud and for so long that my neighbor came out to see what was wrong. I'm sure she expected to see blood and carnage everywhere. That's what one always expects to see when the magnitude of my hysteria is unleashed. It's a good thing I was completely unconscious when The Boss was born, or there would likely have been a scene.

I know now that it was stupid to grab onto something so unstable. But combine my own mental instability with faulty architecture, and that's what we get. The Partner married into this knowing full well what he was getting. I hide behind that mantra often, wearing it like a shield when my inability to act under pressure wreaks havoc. He should never be surprised and he certainly should not get mad. He should be happy that The Boss, the dog and the cat are still alive.

Okay, maybe not the neighbor's cat. I'm sure that would be a casualty he woudn't mind hearing reported.

House of Pain

Charming Historic Cape w/Commerical Possibilities

A taste of old and new. Set on 1 acre; offering 1862 sq.ft. of living wiht beautiful, wide board flooring, soapstone kitchen sink and center chimney with newly lined fireplace in the living room & great garage/workshop!

Will somebody tell me what it is about this home that attracts only the rudest, slimiest and most ignorant of prospective buyers? One freak show at my door is not unexpected, but two, three, four...the parade is endless and wholly unproductive. We had one offer that fell through and another that's falling. Our agent held a showing with another gentlemen who spent over an hour on the property before he told her he hated the house, but loved the yard. Then he said he doesn't much like to mow.

Where the hell do they come from? How many more of them are out there?

We have an open house on Saturday, and I have a feeling I just might find out.

60 Minutes at 24/7

Special correspondent Mrs. Chicky, of Chicky Chicky Baby, is here today with a few hard hitting questions for yours truly. Stay till the end to find out how you can participate in the interviews sweeping the blogosphere.

Mrs. Chicky: Where did you meet your husband?

Me: Funny you should ask. Funny because it's true. I met The Partner via the Instant Messenger function of AOL v. 3.0. As a college sophomore with nothing better to do than send random IMs while I should've been studying for mid-terms, I typed the keywords "Connecticut" (for my home state) and "78" (for the year of my birth) into the member directory search. When his profile popped up, I saw that this 19 year old male, born and bred in Connecticut, attended the same university as a friend of mine. With nothing more to go on than those three apparent commonalities, I fired up the IM. "Do you know so-and-so?" I typed, using my friend's name as a shot-in-the-dark impetus for conversation. "No," he typed back.

The rest is ten years of history.

2. Audrey Hepburn or Katharine Hepburn? Why?

Me: A middle school teacher of mine once told me that Katharine Hepburn was a bitch. I'm sure she didn't use that word, exactly, but the message was clear. Since then, I've heard the same sentiment expressed by many in regard to Connecticut's own famous Hepburn.

In doing a little of my own research, it came to my attention that Ms. Hepburn's mother was a sufragette and birth control advocate who helped found Planned Parenthood along with Margaret Sanger. I read that "the Hepburn children, at their parents' encouragement, were unafraid of expressing frank views on various topics, including sex. 'We were snubbed by everyone, but we grew quite to enjoy that,' Hepburn later said of her unabashedly liberal family, who she credited with giving her a sense of adventure and independence." I find that quite inspiring and am inclined to vote for K-Hep in spite of, or perhaps because of, her bitchiness.

3. Your dream home, the one you would have if money or location was no object, must include one particular feature. What would that feature be?

Me: A dock with a hot tub on a huge, clean body of water that I don't have to maintain.

4. Bad news, you won't ever be a writer (let's suspend disbelief for a minute). But to make up for it you can be anything else that you want. What would you like to be or do instead?

Me: I am quite sure I would fall head-first into the deep end of lunacy if I couldn't write. But so long as there's a cable news outlet looking for an insane correspondent, I'm up for the job. I've been told I have TV-newswoman hair.

5. If you could hop in your car at this very moment without having to worry about anything holding you back, where would you go?

South, with stops in Richmond and Miami to pick up my two best college friends. Then west, to all three of us take the country by storm.

There you have it, my friends. Thanks to Mrs. Chicky for stopping by. I hope the Q & A train won't stop here. If you would like to be interviewed by me, leave a comment below or drop me an email. The offer is open to all my readers, even those without their own blogs on which to post the responses. If you are a reader who would be interested in being spotlighted, I will come up with the questions, take your responses, and put them up in a special post. Blogging, after all, is not just about writing--it's about the community those words inspire.

American Idol, Pre-School Song Writing Edition

My friend's daughter is a pre-schooler who likes to write songs. I think she's got what it takes to go far.

Don't believe me?

You be the judge.

"I ask my mom for a chore,
She says sure, how ‘bout four.
So I do the dishes
And she acts suspicious."

~ Bella, age 4

It's a bit unnerving to feel as if I have to move over for the next generation before I've even taken a seat.

Julie Amero To Be Sentenced Thursday

I've written before about a local court case with international implications. Coast to coast, sea to shining sea, hopping continents and bouncing off satellites in space. Read about it, because it could happen where you are, too. You might think it can't, but it can happen to you.

Here's the meat of the nutshell as I cracked it earlier: "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."

She will be sentenced this Thursday.

There's someone else around these parts who will not face a day of jail time, however. It's a man who sexually assaulted a three year old girl. Under a plea deal, he will get five years' probation. According to the same newspaper that has seen its Web site hits skyrocket due to international interest in the Amero case, the story behind this second travesty of justice is this: "Rockville Superior Court Judge Patricia Swords accepted the plea bargain so the girl would be spared having to face her abuser and recounting the sexual assault...Jones must register as a sex offender for 10 years, but his registration will remain secret to people who visit the state sex offender registry. Information on the list about Jones will be available only to law enforcement officials."

And so, a woman with poor timing and bad reflexes, who allowed middle school students to glimpse sexual images on a screen, will be sentenced, while a man who molested a three year old girl is able to strike a plea deal that guarantees him re-entry into a world where nobody knows about his sick predilections. A world where he can use sex to assault again with nobody, at first, the wiser.

Said the judge in the Jones case to the perp as she let him off the hook: "There is no doubt your behavior … was reprehensible -- perhaps the most reprehensible to come before this court."

But I guess the nature and intent of the crime does not matter. That's all I can deduce from these two cases, similar in nothing but the court system's inability to protect us from harm.

A Girl and Her Binky

When she really wants something, The Boss calls me by my name.

"Bink! Binky! Biiiiiiiiinky!"

She sits in her high chair and bangs on the tray as she imitates her father. I mean, that has to be where she got it from. He's the one who says my name on a regular basis in her presence. As it happens, it's usually when he wants something, too. Or when he's annoyed. Or when he finds it hard to believe that something I said actually came out of my mouth. "In a withering tone" is the best way to describe the most common utterance of my identifier around these parts.

"Binky!" Today The Boss called me out at the supermarket when I strayed too far from her in search of a plastic bag for the chicken. "Bink. Bink. Binky." She stared at me from her perch in the front of the cart, looking all baby blond and munching on a cookie. "Binky!" she repeated, in between bites.

Call me narcissistic, but there is nothing cuter than hearing my daughter say my name. "Mommy" is well and good, but listening to her fledgling spin on the word I've heard every day for my entire life is even better. Emphasizing the "b" and the "k," the word rolls off her tongue like a bubble, then pops. "Biiiin-ky!"

I know I should set clear boundaries. I should discourage her from using non-mom designations. But, really. It's just too damn cute. So I let her get away with it.

Besides, I don't have to worry what other people think. They just assume she wants her pacifier.