24/7

Of the several men painting our house, most are missing teeth and one is missing an arm. The leader of this rag tag home improvement team gives them $10 an hour, paid in cash at the end of each work day, or thereabouts. They lucked out on Thursday. The day's wages were tucked firmly in their pockets before the boss man drove off to a local dive, where an acquaintance of his jacked him at knifepoint for what little cash was left, a cooler of beer, and a pack of USA Gold Menthols. There's a seedy side of life in this town that I don't see through the flimsy metal and tinted windows of a 1989 Dodge Caravan, or a trailer home, or a leaning duplex with shingles and steps that are rotting. During a visit downtown with my daughter in tow, voices from the open-doored bars are garbled by country music and the sizzle of fat in the fryer as I walk by. I inhale the aromatic wind of cheeseburgers and Tabasco, but otherwise I notice nothing. We cross the street to a clothing shop that, m

The blue corduroy suit on my Cabbage Patch Kid doll has lost its elasticity, its Velcro tabs, and two buttons. It is not even fair to call it blue anymore. Newton Vince is his name, and he is approaching twenty-five years old. You need to know this about Cabbage Patch Kids, if you don't already: they come with weird names and each one has a signature on its soft, batting-filled butt. The signer was Xavier Roberts, the creator of these pop culture precursors to Tickle Me Elmo, the kind of product that could cause Christmas-time brawls in the toy aisle when only one was left. Newton Vince has a rubbery, talcum scented plastic head of perfectly round proportions. The globular effect is carried through in the tiny “o” of his mouth, which closes around a plastic pacifier that can be removed and inserted at his owner’s discretion. Newton’s eyes are round, too. Big and blue, overlooking a tiny nose, as rubbery and powdery smelling as the rest of that sweet head. I was five years old when

I have this habit of ignoring the voices in my head. I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that sometimes those voices are the articulation of my gut instincts. The other day, my voices were telling me this: Are you sure you want to paint your house that particular shade of blue? It looks lovely in the Sherwin Williams color book, but isn't it possible that it might take on more of a purple hue when slathered all over your house? And Maybe you should spot test it first, just to see? But listening to the voices requires work, and it's so much easier just to rely on blind faith like the martyr that I am. Today I came back from the grocery store to a house that glistened majestically in the autumn sun. My sigh was carried by the shrug of my shoulders. Oh, well , I said. I thought this might happen. My mom says I never listen. My husband says I don't hear. Lest they think that I am selectively ignoring them, I am submitting for public record the fact that I don&

Red vacuumed every day to Motown on the record player. Sometimes she'd get up on the coffee table, belting out "I Will Survive" to the subtle static of steel on vinyl. Her three children ran through the living room, unaffected, in a circuit that took them from bedroom to kitchen to sun porch to muddy yard, and back again. Their tracked-in dirt disappeared in a quick sweep of the Electrolux. Nothing was dirty or disorganized if it was within her control. I was the stray, the "summer sister." Red's middle daughter was my best friend. My mother dropped me off at the beginning of summer vacation and I stayed there for weeks, until a doctor's appointment or a trip to Lake George reuinited me with my given family. I never missed home. Each day at Red's was structured by mealtimes. We ate cereal for breakfast, each child dumping leftover Os or flakes down the toilet. There were never any remnants in my bowl, though. I was a plate cleaner. Red loved that abo

I propose a new game for playgroup moms who decide to get together after hours. In the MOMS Club to which I belong (please reserve judgement at least till the end of this post), we call these monthly get-togethers "MOMS Night Out." An ideal MNO, in my mind, is one where each mother must take a shot every time she talks about her child(ren). Two shots if it's a story we've all heard before. Three shots if it involves poop (granted, I myself would probably rack up a bit of a buzz on this one since I can't resist a well recollected crap caper). Half a bottle of Jagermeister in one swig if we have to hear how many gold stars your daughter earned today in pre-school. I know many mothers. I know their children. I am familiar with the eating and excreting habits of 40 kids under the age of 5. I am perfectly happy being a vessel of such information. The stories are often enlightening, entertaining and useful. But in casual discourse, we're always moms. Is it too much

When The Boss is mad, she invariably thrusts out her lower lip in a square pout and presses her face to the floor--from a sitting position. Other times, I find her asleep in her crib, one foot pressed against her ear. Flexibility is just one example of how far removed babies are from their grown up counterparts. Another is vocabulary. Though I suppose it's convenient to lump every animal, vegetable and mineral into one category called "dog," it's not very descriptive. Yet another example is a child's utter lack of discernment when it comes to what she will put in her mouth--though I suppose it can be argued that gumming rocks, sticks, solidified dog poop, loose change and live wires is not significantly more enlightened than smoking cigarettes. Not that I would personally make such an argument on the grounds of being hypocritical. Anyhoo. Occasionally I watch The Boss taking in and pointing out the world around her and I wonder, "who are you?" Then, the

Someone wants to know exactly what is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest me. This random foray into the desk and the psyche of the blogger is called a meme . For lack of any other definition that I can even begin to comprehend, a meme is " an idea, project, statement or even a question that is posted on one blog and responded to by other blogs ." To reiterate, for the purposes of this particular meme: What is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest you? Well, funny you should ask, Amy ! I just happened to be looking for some hilarious blog fodder. I should've known I would find it on page 123 of The Romance Writer's Phrase Book , which happens to be sitting before me in a brown wicker basket filled with other accoutrements of the writing life. Please do not ask why I own The Romance Writer's Phrase Book , which purports to be "the essential source book" for all things romantic and no

This morning, upon waking, I assumed my rightful place on the porcelain throne. Imagine my surprise when the usual view of sink and tub was interrupted by this: How sweet to see The Boss's foam letters sticking to the back of the tub in this message of morning cheer. Since I wasn't the one who left it there, and since The Boss can't spell, there was only one person left whom I could logically assume was the source of this tub talk. Logically, I said. Don't think for a minute that it didn't cross my mind that the sentiment came in the wake of a friendly poltergeist's midnight dip. It seemed about as likely as The Partner pulling off something so darned romantic. "Awww," I shouted to The Partner, who was on the computer in the den. There was no reaction. "Awwwwwww," I shouted again, louder. He peered in the bathroom. "Did you do that?" I pointed, all giddy and smiling. "Oh, that." His look was such that I knew some good smar

Today a local donut and coffee shop will put up a "closed" sign that won't turn to "open" tomorrow. The owners of that independent purveyor of jelly donuts and joe are looking at the end of a 30 year era, one characterized by friendships forged at the counter and a quality, no-nonsense menu. The good stuff. We all know how franchises are sucking up the little guys into a vacuum powered by the cheap electricity of convenience. Here, it's Dunkin Donuts. In other realms, it's WalMart or Barnes and Noble or Home Depot . They uniformly lack history, a deficit from which it is hard to salvage good service or community ties. The Boss and I put over 15,000 miles on my car in the short year she's been alive as we traversed this small corner of our state, taking in the realities of rural New England. There's a quiet beauty in farms, orchards, wineries and fruit stands. There's melancholy in abandoned mills. The hills roll with the lilt of a practiced

After writing an entire post about the virtues of speaking one's mind, I realize I have nothing to say. I must have jinxed myself. I'm always doing that. I wrote about the joys of breastfeeding approximately three days before The Boss up and weaned herself. It often happens that I am driving down the street when it occurs to me that I haven't gotten a speeding ticket in quite some time. Two blocks later, blue and whites are inevitably flashing in my rear-view. Why do I even bother thinking, let along writing? Life would be a lot easier if I just flitted from activity to activity, oblivious to anything that isn't laid out in concrete certitude before me. But, especially when it comes to writing, I'm more analytical than that. Not mathematically, but emotionally. I think things like why is anyone going to care how cute it is when The Boss throws her hands up in the air and does a rhythmic shoulder shrug every time Gnarls Barkley's " Crazy " plays on my S

My husband writes letters to the editor; he corresponds with our elected officials; and he speaks at town meetings. My in-laws donate large sums of money to their causes. My mother is a voting official and a veteran of the Women's Army Corps. My father watches Fox News from his well-worn armchair and screams at Alan Colmes. Me? I suppose I've got some causes. But my passion is not so much political as it is practical. It's a palpable presence in my life all day, every day. It's how I make friends; it's why I have enemies. It's the reason I write. It feeds the fire of my fierce American pride. It's the thing I could not live without and it's the reason I'm grateful to those who have died to secure it. It's freedom of speech. I will not censor myself and I will not allow others to do it for me. I find the exchange of ideas to be the ultimate form of honesty and the only way to find truth. It's ingrained in the basic functioning of my brain: I c

After roughly twenty months of coming to terms with the fact that he is a father, The Partner has wholly embraced the squirming, screaming wonder that is The Boss. And she, in turn, has latched onto the concept that she is Daddy's Little Girl. She will allow only him to put her to bed. She hits the crib inconsolable if anyone else tries. Perhaps it's the fraternity songs he sings to her, interspersed with the only slightly more politically correct "Rock A Bye Baby." Maybe it's his strong, calm hold as he rocks her. Whatever it is, I find this bedtime preference as annoying as I do sweet. She's my banshee; she's his bleating, doe-eyed girl. Though he still refuses to change a diaper, I am mostly happy with The Partner's transformation. I've been waiting a long time. A lifetime. When I first got pregnant, he was unthrilled. I figured the sweet reality of it might hit him more when I began to show; but when I popped, his demeanor was unchanged. Then

I have a disenchanted, single friend who recently told me I should feel lucky that I'm no longer in the dating pool. Just to make her feel less sorry for herself, I shared with her a couple stories about married life. She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "oh." If the grass is greener on my side of the fence, it's only because of dog poop and too much rain. I know it's human nature to want what you can't have. To yearn for more. To feel like you're competing with people who don't even realize you're in the race with them and who, furthermore, don't care. It's natural to want to better your situation. To better yourself. And I think it's pretty damn common not really to be happy, ever. I'm saying this from a rational state, not a depressed one. It's a fact that there's a lot of dissatisfaction out there. Most people have major grievances that wipe the Pollyanna smile off their faces with some frequency. Single and marri

Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument. It’s one of those “dog days” of summer. The plants are panting for rain but basking in the sunshine. The meteorologists are backpedaling on their promises for moisture, yet getting off on reporting on the record-breaking heat. It’s the kind of sweat-until-there’s-a-stream-running-between-your-breasts kind of hot. Even in the heat, there are beings lounging in the humidity. Humans, dogs, squirrels, birds, rabbits even chipmunks. Some coexist peacefully, even genially. Others, not so much. Watching the natural fireworks that tend to occur when the heat rises over 90 degrees becomes a regular, though not pleasant, pastime. It’s not pretty. It’s not pretty when the pretty leaves you with no place to go. Words zing through the air like fireflies on steroids, a virtual tennis match of tears, betrayal and love. Past and pre