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When my friend Kelly was around ten years old, she inadventantly sucked a peanut into her nose. A few seconds later, she stuck out her tongue and there was the peanut, sitting right smack dab in the center of that red pad of taste buds. Sometimes there's nothing funnier than noses. Other people's noses, anyway. My own schnozz is sacred. I operate under the belief that my finger is the only thing that should penetrate the holy cavity. Except for an unfortunate incident with a nasal allergy spray and a couple feigned stabs by The Partner, my right pointer digit, and occasionally my pinky, have pretty much gone uncontested in this regard. Until Nozin . I review products for the Parent Bloggers Network on occasion because I like to inflict my opinion on others just as much as the next person. Usually, I sign up to review products I think I can get excited about. I don't know what I was thinking when I said "yes!" to reviewing a "nasal sanitizer" that comes

We pondered. We calculated. We formulated Plans A, B, and C. We decided to purchase another house before we've sold ours . We reached a deal with the sellers that will get us through the summer without feeling the burn of two mortgages. Come September, all bets are off. If our first home is not sold by then, we will be facing the episode of our lives brought to you by the number two--two mortgages, two house insurance policies, two sets of taxes, two dwellings to vacuum and dust. . . We're taking the gamble because we think this house is the one for us. It's got what I want: a pool, a whirlpool tub, and a spacious kitchen. It's got what The Partner wants: 4 acres, an oversized garage, plenty of parking space, and a garage-sized shed for all his gas powered lawn implements. It's got space for The Boss to grow and the dog to run amok. This is no blind jump into the uncertainty of owning two homes for an indeterminate amount of time. We looked at all the angles and dec

It goes on and on and on and on. . . It's when a song becomes emblematic of a collective time and place and experience that it becomes the soundtrack to memory. It's a perfectly serviceable concoction of notes and instruments that suddenly becomes much more than that, because it is the context around which we will forever frame our ideas of who we were at a given time. A smell of wine and cheap perfume. . . Once the song is set, it becomes the key to everything else about that memory: the aroma, the visuals, the taste and the feeling. It is emotional propaganda. It's goosebumps and a wet pressure behind the eyes. Everybody wants a thrill. . . It seems like disappointment was the most common reaction to the last episode of The Sopranos . There's nothing a collective experience needs more than closure. But such a pretty package does not exist in life, nor did it have a place in David Chase's idea of a dramatically real ending. And so viewers stared at their screens d

The Boss is the epitome of the apologetic female that women's empowerment advocates would like to squelch. She grazes my leg with her fast moving form on her way to the television. "Sorry!" The Boss says. She pushes her doll stroller in its usual circuit around the first floor and bumps a pink plastic wheel into the doorjamb. She is repentant . Her emphatic "Sorry!" is administered with haste to the offended molding. The dog prances right into her, yet it's The Boss who pipes up with "sorry!" Animate or inanimate. Affronted or non-plussed. Giver or receiver. The Boss does not discriminate in her desire to restore balance wherever she perceives it to have been set askew. The thing about raising a toddler is that facts I didn't even know about myself become readily apparent. She must have gotten this "sorry" thing from me. The proof is in the pronunciation. All my life I've been the only person in New England who says "sore-y&q

I was at my parents' house on Sunday when I found myself in the attic, looking for a recycled gift bag in which to nestle the wrench I bought as a Father's Day present for my dad. I could've taken care of that at my own home with my own stash of gift bags, but that would've required forethought. So there I was, at 5 p.m. on the evening of the holiday, pawing through 20 years of used wrapping paper and gift bags my mother had saved, when I stumbled across a box labeled "Junior High School Memorabilia." My junior high school memorabilia. I grabbed the box, threw a bag and some tissue paper on top of it, and carried my loot down the narrow steps. Knowing exactly what kind of hilarity was contained in that tattered box, I brought it into the living room to regale The Partner, my father, my sister and my brother with tales of my pre- and early-teen inanity. After reading excerpts from a few English papers, a journal I kept for history class, and a story that won f

The Partner and I recently filled out elaborate questionnaires regarding our marriage. They were generated by eHarmony Marriage , a spin-off of the popular dating Web site. eHarmony Marriage is something of a counseling program wherein a computer assesses various aspects of your lifestyle and world-view to come up with a detailed marriage profile to help you understand how to build a better marriage. We dove into the lengthy process with gusto. I call their introductory assessment tool a questionnaire , and so does eHarmony, but it is actually a series of statements on issues ranging from communication, to family, to trust, to sex. Respondents must ask all the questions of themselves, as they look at each statement on their computer screens and move a small carat to the spot in the spectrum that shows how much they agree or disagree. 45 minutes after we embarked on first leg of our introspective journey, The Partner and I finished the questionnaire. As soon as both of our responses we

The big news around here is that our buyers backed out on the day of our closing . That was Friday. Today, their agent called ours and asked her to please return their deposit . I may be damn morose after this turn of events, but I had to laugh at that one. They can get their money back when they rip it from the grip of my rigor-mortified hand. So, back to the daily grind that is selling one home to buy another. Five months and three failed offers down. . .how many to go?

The opinions expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the blog owner. That is mostly because she has no opinions of her own on money management, which is why she invited the Financial Guy here in the first place. WHERE TO PUT YOUR MONEY Nope, it's not with me, though that would be nice. Now that you have saved tons of cash , what do you do with all that money? Do you put it in your own personal Scrooge McDuck-inspired money bin? Do you change it all into quarters, fill a kiddie pool, and lather yourself up in moolah? Do you finally hire that hitman to take out the kid that put gum in your hair in second grade? Or, you know, like, invest it or something? Some synonyms and definitions before we start : Securities=Investments, stocks, equities, bonds, mutual funds, 529s, CDs, etc. Equities=Stocks Bonds=Debt, fixed income securities, all the same thing Mutual funds=Portfolios of equities, bonds, or combination thereof Investing is not the rocket science many are led to beli

The Partner and I packed most of three years into boxes and, on Sunday night, sat in front of a stripped down television set-up. We ate pizza off paper plates. On HBO, Tony and his family were moving on, too. We settled in together for the last time. There was Junior's blank stare. There was a blank screen. We sat back and sighed. Life goes on. *** It's not going anywhere fast. The buyers of our house decided one week before the scheduled closing that they didn't like some of the particulars of their loan agreement. They are changing lenders. While we are still waiting to hear the new closing date, we can assume that it will be at least one week later than the original--one week being The Partner's optimistic assessment. Me, I'm not drinking from the same half-full glass. While they push back dates, I push back the fear that the deal will fall through. The agent for the buyers assures us that her clients fully intend to buy our house, but the uncertainty is always

We are moving through with moving, despite our discovery of a large lot adjacent to ours that is zoned industrial . The Partner spoke with a manager at the town office and discovered the wooded property procured its status long ago--so long ago that the manager does not know when, or why--but there's been no action on it. We've decided to take the gamble--laying down our chips and shoving them under the rug, hoping nobody else decides to play. Packing is in full swing and my attention is both everywhere and nowhere. I had a dream last night that I was in love with someone who preferred to be with someone else. Clinging to that dreamboy despite the betrayal evoked emotions I haven't felt in a long time. I woke up with a shocking sense of gratitude for The Partner's presence. In the day to day reality of living, I've forgotten to be thankful for the thrill of having somebody to live with--someone who loves me more than I give him, and myself, credit for. In getting r

I didn’t have a lot going for me back then. My glasses were thick. I carried my lunch to school each day in a reusable nylon bag filled with Tupperware containers that I left in my locker to grow mold indefinitely. I wore sneakers on gym day no matter what the rest of my ensemble entailed, so that seeing me in a suede skirt, nylons and blue and white LA Gear high tops was not uncommon. My nickname was Binky, and I embraced it. Mike O’Flannery was merciless. Each day on the bus he taunted me about things I have blocked from my memory. All I remember is the incessant soundtrack of high pitched mean. He sat in the back of the bus with Dave Wojowiczobrewski and Brutus LaTarte, all sporting the same Megadeth tee shirts and straight black jeans. He probably tried to trip me. Maybe he threw gum wrappers. What I know for sure is that all the little things added up. The junior high fates conspired to stick us together in the cafeteria, too. It was no twisted desire of mine to sit next to him, a

Since I can't seem to summon up the telling of any good stories lately, I'll just point you in the direction of someone who can, and did. Click on this link to revel in the glory of toddler self-discovery. And laugh, laugh, laugh. 'Mell My Winger

You know you need a date with your husband when you have nothing to say to each other. Sounds counter-intuitive, right? Sounds like a waste of time. Sounds like the buzz of other conversations in a restaurant would be deafening against the stare of the emotional stranger at your own table. We need a date, The Partner and I. I realized last night, during our own little make-shift rendezvous with a bottle of wine and a therapy session courtesy of eHarmony's new marriage rehab program , that talking through our lack of communication is what's most needed. It wasn't the relationship exercises, like "Dreaming a Great Dream for Your Marrriage," or how to be a "Considerate Mate," that offered the clearest insights; it was the simple act of sitting down and watching the words come out of each other's mouths, undiluted. We need a date because even though that kind of attention to each other's thoughts and feelings shouldn't be occasional, it is now. I