24/7

Over the arduous, weeks-long process that is the sending out of holiday cards in my household, I often thought of you blog buddies and how deserving you are of the message I mailed out to the friends and family members whose addresses I possess. Since snail mail does not befit our Internet friendship, I hope you will accept the electronic transmission of this year's 24/7 holiday greeting. You all have made this past year richer and more enlightening than I thought possible. Lest you ruin your eyes trying to view my poor attempts at getting the inside of the card to convert to readable jpg format, I will save you some effort by pointing you to the the original post from which I lifted the text, as it appeared here . ___

Merging is a necessary driving skill that one can conceivably go an entire lifetime without learning. By "one," I mean "me." And by "an entire lifetime," I mean "my days are numbered." I've heard rumors that the theory of stress as a trigger for ulcers has been debunked, but if it is in fact true, then The Partner is being overcome by gastric acid as he reads this. My lack of driving skills is the bane of his existence. It is at the very foundation of his puzzlement every time he looks at me. He is the speed-happy connoisseur of all things automotive; I am the Sunday-driving shorty who pushes Cadillacs into the ground. I love to drive. Don't get me wrong. I must get in the car and roll onto the open road at least once a day or I will cross over into crazy. You would think that, with all the practice, I'd have mastered a few vehicular basics by now. But there are curbs, guard rails and store fronts all over the northeast that would pr

We racked up 300 miles in the car this Christmas weekend on visits to the homes of sundry parents and siblings, but I wasn't overtaken by the spirit of the season till I was back home late Monday night, watching Everybody Loves Raymond in bed with The Partner. It's hectic, this business of trying to fit the extended family into our fledgling yet already dysfunctional unit of mother, father and baby. The Partner and I spent the majority of the long weekend vowing to return the gifts we'd purchased for each other as we fought our way from the parking meter at a metropolitan Target to several big box stores, bobbing and weaving through traffic patterns along Route 1. It wasn't the holiday throngs against which we were struggling; it was ourselves. The pressure of trying to please everyone else left little in the way of time or inclination when it came to considering our own marriage. It should be more apparent than it is, the idea that presenting a united front is far mor

The Boss has taken to belting out "baby" at intervals for which I cannot seem to determine the motivation. She learned the word just last week when her grandparents brought her first baby doll. She held it; she kissed it; she fed it a bottle. She called it "baby." Since then, the word has taken on a heightened significance. She looks at pictures of herself as a newborn and says "baby." She wakes from nap screeching "baby" as a way to get my attention. She looks in the mirror and sees a baby. When her father puts her in her crib at night, it's to a chorus of "baby, baby, baby." We first thought she was asking for her doll each time she'd say it. That quickly proved not to be the case. Then I started thinking she was simply babbling to hear herself speak (which, by the way, would be yet another indication that she is almost entirely her father's daughter). But with each passing "baby," the truth became clearer and cl

I just came back from a week-long ski vacation. If you can identify this mountain, you win...absolutely nothing. This view is from the condo where The Partner and I stayed with three friends. That's a total of four skiiers, plus me. I don't ski. I wouldn't touch a chair lift with a four foot ski pole. As they say on Sesame Street (or at least they did 25 years ago when I was watching it): "One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong." I thought that a genuine hatred of all things wintry and snow-based would not be enough to ruin a week set apart from all the demands of real life. I thought that relaxing with a book and then doing some window shopping while the rest of the group hit the slopes would suffice. I mistakenly believed that I'd get some writing done. I was wrong. It turns out I am far too lazy, selfish and hedonistic to embrace a vacation that does not revolve around my own interests and pleasures. Boredom

The Partner and I have a spirited marriage. While other parents talk about their spirited children --and all the inherent extremes of energy, sensitivity, insightfulness, intelligence and discipline issues--I find those characteristics more prevalent in our own wed-locked union than in our daughter. For us, being married is the most difficult aspect of being parents. But that doesn't mean I'm any more prone to giving up on our husband-and-wife status than another mother would be to giving up on her precocious toddler. Nobody said it would be easy. The fact that nobody told me it would be this hard is irrelevant. We fight all the time. We alternately scream and ignore. We forgive on incompatible timelines. He tries to hold my hand when I have yet to unclench the fist at my side. He puts on a good face in public. I, on the other hand, will put nothing or nobody on--when I am done, not a single person is left unaware of the true state of affairs. The nature of this "spirit&q

I'm swamped. Who isn't, right? Since I don't have time to pull together four coherent sentences, I thought I'd bring in The Boss to do a guest post. Not that's she's coherent, either. But she's really cute. With this quick transcription, I will be on my way. Here goes: Hi! Look. Bear. Look. Hat. Dog! Dog! Look. Ball. Thank you. ~ The Boss, age 16 months Photo by Lauren

As part of Mrs. Chicken's Mother of All Memes , I am continuing on the fictional foray that began today at her blog. She started the story. I will add to it. When I am done with my contribution, I will tag someone else from a predetermined list of willing pawns (see below). If you would like to be added to the list, I suggest you ingratiate yourself over at Chicken and Cheese , because I've got nothing to do with organizing this thing. I just work here. Now, without further ado. . . I thought I saw him at the grocery store. It was raining that afternoon, and he had an umbrella. The red and white triangles that made up his portable shelter partly obscured his face, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Those eyes. Huge, blue and empty. When he left me I remember searching their vast cerulean expanse for some sign, some flicker of love. It rained that day, too. Why does it rain when you lose someone you love? My tears left him unmoved. I don’t know why that surprised me. The baby k

ME 1. My obsession with dangerous men began at age 11. The categorical chronology and duration of infatuation are as follows: Wild West outlaws - roughly two years Italian mafia bosses, capos, consiglieres and accountants - a year and a half Race car drivers - three years Members of the armed services - ten years 2. Then I married a management major from Renssalaer Polytechnic Institute. 3. The fact that I implied my fixation with military men is over is a complete bastardization of the truth. But I thought it was only proper to pretend. 4. Then I changed my mind. 5. My husband is not going to be happy about this post. THE BOSS 1. She has long fingers and tiny toes. 2. Half of her food ends up in her hair during any given meal. 3. Her breath smelled like rubbing alcohol when she was born and, in my morphine induced stupor, I would've drunk a whole bottle of the stuff just to keep the scent around. 4. At home, she can fall flat on her face, get a bloody lip and a forehead egg, and b

They say perfection is in the eye of beholder. If I do say so myself, Masked Mom and Mrs. Chicken have impeccable taste. So what if I'm biased? Each of these lovely, generous ladies has nominated a different post of mine for the November Perfect Post Awards hosted by Petroville and Suburban Turmoil . Thanks to MM and Mrs. C for the nod and to the Perfect Post hosts for carrying on this monthly tradition. In this award show, all nominees are winners. That's the part my husband didn't get. "But being nominated means you are put in the running for an award. Being nominated isn't the award itself." "Ah, that's where you're wrong," said I. "This is the momosphere . It's all very Montessori. Negative competition is damaging to our inner growth." "Well, then no one can actually be a winner," said he. "And thus, you are all losers." I rolled my eyes. This was coming from a guy who has a fifth place trophy displa

As the holiday season approaches, the world is filled with many colors that help get us into the Christmas spirit. There’s the red and white striped candy canes, the multi-colored twinkling lights on trees and in yards, gaily wrapped gifts and fancy new holiday clothing for special occasions. All of which we are told that we need so we can celebrate. But, in order to have all of these festive “must haves” there is one color you must have more of than anything else. Green. As in cash. *Cue strains of “Money, money, money, money….MONEY!” from The Apprentice. Yes, green seems to be the most popular color around this time of year, much to the delight of the store owners and the disdain of the consumers. We are trained to open our wallets and spend, spend, spend. And we do, sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes willingly, but all in the name of The Holiday Spirit. Now don’t get me wrong. I loves me some shopping as much as the next girl, albeit not in the throes of The Last Minute Holiday Dash.