24/7

This is the jacket of the hardcover book I created as a birthday gift for The Partner: Find out more about my wholly satisfying artistic endeavor over at New England Mamas , where I'm hanging out today. ___

5 birthdays 2 deaths--one nonagenarian and one centenarian A 3-in-1 baby shower--congratulations, Dr. and Mr. Boz ! Roughly 108 commemorative desserts consumed in honor of aforementioned events 10 pounds gained this month alone 2 trimesters completed 1 close family friend diagnosed with lung cancer 3 measly blog posts written It's been the big and bumpy beginning to a year that doesn't show any signs of smoothing out. All I can do is try to write about it more.

Yesterday we attended the funeral service for great aunt Sonia at the Russian Orthodox church of which she'd been a member for most of her adult life. The building was onion-domed on the outside; inside, it was all gold, crystal and the most ornate of wood paneling. There were shimmer paintings of the saints on walls and images of them on stained glass. The air was so thick from incense that it reminded everyone just how tenuous the connection is between properly functioning lungs and this mortal earth. I sat in the back, closest to the doors, where I hoped to gasp in some of the morning's fresh, rain-bedazzled air. The casket at a Russian Orthodox funeral is traditionally open. That's what I assume, anyway, based on the sight of aunt Sonia's pancaked features turned up toward the ceiling as she rested on a pillow beneath a cloud of incense for the duration of the ceremony. "Give rest to your servant fallen asleep," the priest repeated as he swung the golden

Yesterday my uncle found great aunt Sonia, age 99, dead on her kitchen floor. It was my mother's brother's weekly routine to check on their spinster aunt. Aunt Sonia had lived alone for her entire life--to the very end, as it happened. She kept herself impeccably. Her makeup and its application was old, not cakey so much as thick and iridescent. She used to be a cosmetologist. On her head were platinum curls. She smelled of perfume dabbed on from the same bottle, one finger at a time, over fifty years. She had wattles under her chin and both arms. She was not soft, though; there was venom and pride in all her angles, all her words. My uncle arrived at the house on Sunday and considered going straight to the garage to give her big, blue boat of an unused car a start, as was his custom. Instead, he went to the back door. He let himself in. He walked into the kitchen, where she was lifeless in a nightgown. He told my mother later that it was a good thing he hadn't gone to star

The Boss recently mistook the word "penis" for "peanuts" and has run with it ever since. This is largely because The Partner and I reinforce her behavior with raucous laughter every time she utters the word. She has even incorporated it into her bedtime ritual with her father. "Goodnight," The Partner will say. "Goodnight, peanuts," she'll reply. "Sleep well." "Sleep well, peanuts." "See you in the morning." "See you in the morning, peanuts." Always, the word is drawn out with a giggle and then emphatically expelled, the emphasis on the last syllable. "Pea-NUTS!" Believe it or not, this reflects an improvement as it relates to her knowledge of anatomy (if not linguistics). There was a time, not so long ago, when she walked into the bathroom while The Partner was taking a shower and asked him if he was washing his vagina.