24/7

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 part...

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 mist...

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...

"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 A...

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 na...

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.

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. H...

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.

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 b...

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...

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 b...

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. ...

. . .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.

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 fold...

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?

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 s...