24/7

I have nothing to say at this time. Like, not a single thing. How I've managed to blog-blather for almost two years now with any consistency (I know I use the term loosely) is a mystery to me. I need some clarity. For bloggers : How do you come up with things to write about on the days when no inspiration is readily apparent? How do you foster the discipline necessary to put yourself out there on the computer screen day after day? If you are cognizant of issues that often/sometimes/rarely block you, how do you write through them? For readers : Taking into consideration all the blogs you regularly digest, what topics do you most like to read about? What style(s) of writing do you appreciate? What makes you come back to one blog and what makes you stop coming back to another? If you'd care to discuss the above in the comment section, I'd be grateful. Your ideas will help keep things lively in my creative absence and just might help get me--and anyone else on the same stalled ...

Last night I told The Boss's paternal grandparents that our little girl is a fan of Johnny Cash. Hearing her favorite artist's name, The Boss's eyes popped wide and her voice piped up. "Johnny Cash is singing Ring of Fire !" she declared. I about swooned at her cuteness. To hear JCs name on the lips of my two year old daughter in a clearly articulated seven word sentence was music to my ears. "And she can sing it, too," The Partner said. "You should hear her and Binky in harmony. If you could call it that. Which I don't think you can." "It's true." I know my weaknesses, and I'm not too proud to flaunt them. I cued up the other half of my duo. "I fell in to a burning ring of fire..." "Burning ring of fire..." The Boss sat in her high chair and chirped with soul. Sometimes in unison, sometimes in echo, we belted out the rest of the chorus. The last two lines were the strongest as The Boss's tuneless p...

There's a new title on my resume, and it is that of "landlord." The house that The Boss, The Partner and I used to live in--the one that's been on the market for 7 months with several bites but no digestion--is now inhabited by a band of siblings between the ages of 15 and 25. The story seems to morph with each telling, but the gist of it is that their mom ran off with her boyfriend, leaving a pregnant 17-year old, another 17 year old (this one adopted) and a fifteen year old without any adult supervision. Their oldest sister, whose name is on our lease, came back from upstate New York to take custody of the children and to move them into suitable housing. A credit check determined that she had none--good, bad or indifferent--but she struck The Partner as responsible and motivated when he met with her earlier this week. A day later, the group moved in. We stopped by on Sunday to make a few repairs and found the place cleaner and more homey than we had left it. There w...

To continue this week’s theme (if a single post in a five day span can be considered a theme) of truth vs. fiction, I submit to you The Boss’s First Lie. It all played out on the beach, atop a blanket spread out over squishy grit. The Boss was on the blanket; her friends were in the water. What prevented The Boss from joining her two young compadres was the fact that she appears to have inherited some recessive clean-freak gene that makes it impossible for her to stand messiness of any kind. The Boss has no tolerance for things in life that are, as she likes to say, “ dir -TY.” With a soft bed of pink-and-white cotton between all exposed body parts and the sand, The Boss observed the world from her princess patch. Particles of silica would not make “icky feet” on her watch; she would not allow the stinging wetness of cold salt against her skin. She just sat. And babbled. And told her first story. Of course the story was about a seagull. Could there be a dirtier bird? They were everyw...

Sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for journalism. Other times, I'm quite positive that I'm not. I am a bad interviewer. I don't like to ask questions that make people uncomfortable. I don't like to push. When I finally coax a flow of ideas from the source, I interrupt with a question that could've waited. I listen to tapes of my interviews and I cringe at every "um" and "uh." I am finishing up an article for a regional parenting magazine about something that turned out to be a very sensitive topic. Grandparents raising grandchildren. Really, it doesn't have to be sensitive--I could write it as 1000 words of fluff and not offend anyone. I could even uplift a few people. But the reality is that walking around the issue in any depth requires the tips of my toes as I wade through un-uttered stories of death, neglect, desertion, drug use, incarceration, physical abuse, mental disorder, and I don't know what else. I don't know because I...

Sometimes when The Boss speaks, I can't help but think of that movie with the name I can't remember and the trailer that I don't think I'll ever get out of my head. It's the one where the guy on the plane goes "you put the wrong em-PHA-sis on the wrong syl-LA-ble." You know what I'm talking about. I know you do. So, anyway, The Boss employs a strange annunciation. She says "wa-TER." Sometimes she doubles up on the wrongness of her emphasis with words like "COM-pu-TER." We hear that one a lot because she has a little stress relieving squeezy toy (my two year old is under a lot of pressure) in the shape of a desktop. She likes to brag about it as she walks around with the puffy foam in her outstretched hand. Sometimes she adds syllables. "Where-y are you?" and "I'm-a gonna get you!" Or she'll try to string a sentence together--admirably, at first--only to be overwhelmed by the process. "Call nana phone...

How hilarious is this? It's The Boss's head on a cartoon drawing as she stars in her own children's book! Wait, it gets even better! It's The Boss's head on a cartoon drawing, plus my head on a cartoon drawing, plus text that is personalized with our names (I erased The Boss's real name to protect the innocent) and our own special term for wee-wee! Woo hoo ! You too can participate in this personalization- palooza courtesy of Imagitales . As described on their site, " ImagiTales are fun, fast and easy to create. Imagine personalized children's books that feature your child's name and face on nearly every page! And ImagiTales are more than just fun - they encourage developmental progress and reinforce positive concepts, like potty training and recognizing colors and shapes." The process involves uploading photos, cropping the heads (their connect-the-dots system is a bit tedious but overall not too time consuming) and inputting a few persona...

I have uniquely bad vision. I am not one of the people who can walk into a well stocked optician's office and walk out with a pair of contact lenses. Mine are always special order. I don't have much in the way of natural eyesight. I've been through a host of eye doctors due to changes in geography. I am always amused by their reactions as they get the first inkling of just how bad things are. My favorite is the one who told me that it's a good thing I wasn't around in prehistoric days, because I would've been eaten by a dinosaur. I call him Dr. Darwin. Then there was today's appointment, when the doctor chuckled that I "have a little bit of nearsightedness." I call him Dr. Hilarious. It was at this appointment with Dr. Hilarious that I realized another troubling element to my eye situation. Since it is likely that I got my abyssmal vision from my mother, and such things are usually genetic--not to mention passed down from the female--there is a goo...

1. The Boss is still sorry . As sweet and contrite as the day is long, she went so far as to apologize to the crows in the middle of the road that were forced to scatter as we drove through. "Sorry, birds!" The Boss chirped from her car seat. "Sorry birds! Sorry!" 2. The Boss still won't say yes , no matter how enticing the prize. The other night when The Partner got home from work, he asked our sweet girl if she wanted a climbing barn . Her response was an enthusiastic and true-to-form "okay!" Not yes . Not yes, please . Just okay . The Partner just rolled his eyes. "Do me a favor, why don't you?" 3. She is still thankful . She began saying "thank you" at eleven months and, except for a brief hiatus, continues to this day. She's actually a bit overzealous. Sometimes she says it when she gives something to me, when all I am doing is taking it and no thanks are in order. I should be the one expressing gratitude. And I do. Th...

Today I broke in our new wholesale club membership with a trip to BJs (whoever came up with that name was either very naive or had a kindred sense of humor). It was there, after I had picked up bulk cartons of fabric softener, weed killer, dishwasher detergent and broccoli, that The Boss became fixated upon a display swingset with an attached fort. It loomed over us in all its wooden splendor. "Barn!" The Boss cried out. "Climbin' barn!" Well, dammit if that isn't the perfect description. My two year old is coining terms. I looked at that little girl in the shopping cart and marveled at the smooth, round face of her brilliance. She began waving her arms over her head and giggling with mad enthusiasm. Soon I was laughing with her and I wondered why everyone in the vicinity wasn't joining in. I could not comprehend that this infectious wiggle of energy was not, for these few moments, the center of every shopper's attention. I wished The Partner had cu...

It is very hot today, which has the unfortunate effect of exacerbating my flea-bitten condition. Last night I spent over three hours on my hands on knees, brushing a fine, fine mixture of Borax and diatomaceous earth into every square foot of carpet in our house. The dust mixed with sweat to form clay as my hair hardened. I was gray. The Partner laughed in between grunts as he hauled furniture out of its place so that I wouldn't miss a single flea fiber. "Now I know what you're going to look like in 30 years," he said. All I could do was smile. Despite a dust mask, there were too many foreign particles in my brain area for coherent thought to flourish. It's the waiting that really sucks. The itching isn't so bad on its own; each tiny eruption is comparable to the bloodthirst of a mini mosquito. But not knowing if our efforts last night will have any effect is what seems to magnify the irritation on my feet, my ankles, my right ass cheek and my hands. From what...

We have fleas. Our new house has been a blessing, but it comes with a curse. Since we moved here we have lost two computer hard drives, been inundated with flies, had to repair two automobiles, and now, become infested with fleas. Apparently applying K-9 Advantix Flea and Tick medicine to our dog faithfully each and every month isn't the guarantee we thought it was. Roxie is a-hoppin' with the tiny beasts of itchiness, and now, so is our bedroom carpet. The Partner discovered a whole colony living in his pant leg yesterday, right before we found an even larger kingdom in our room. I am beside myself. We are itchy and overwhelmed. As our first line of defense, I researched natural ways to rid one's house of fleas. I am off to the store to buy some Borax in the form of 20 Mule Team to pour into a 50/50 mix with diatomaceous earth. When spread over carpets and furniture and rubbed in with a broom, it is supposed to mutilate and dehydrate the offending insects and their eggs. I...