24/7

Life is predominantly bullshit. If I had to put a figure to it, I’d estimate 95% of everyday living is flotsam we fabricate to keep things interesting. Five percent is truth. That’s where love is, and hate. You have to look in the five to find out if the rest is worth it. Someone told me a marriage is salvageable if there’s love. Period. “Do you love him?” Yes or no. There’s no choice C, no #3. Don’t examine the bullshit; it colors things in sepia. The answer is in the 5%. “Do you love him?” If you say yes, that’s all that matters. Not money, not sex, not a clean house or a job that sucks. All those things are effects. The cause is separate. “Do you love him?” If you say no, that too is an encompassing truth. Ninety-five percent can drive you crazy, but it doesn’t have to. Love isn’t always the answer. “Do you love him?” I do.

The Partner and I have something of a contentious marriage. This is no secret. Most of our fights revolve around the fact that The Partner is right and I am wrong. He had me convinced of this dynamic until two days ago. My epiphany had roots near the mailbox, at the spot where I picked up two packages sitting together in a clear, plastic bag. I looked at the top package to see my name printed on the front. I will admit that I am not totally faultless in this; I did, as I so often do, fail to think my next action through. I just assumed that the two packages were part of one shipment and that both had been directed to me. I opened the first, then the other. One held a hundred Christmas cards of my own design, ready to be served with a salutation and an address label. The other held Arrested Development , the complete series. I didn't scratch my head for long before closing the lid to the box so that I could see it had not, in fact, been addressed to me--though the status of that DVD...

It's no secret. The Partner and I don't always get along. There are times when we contemplate, longingly, life apart. But then I get back to the day-to-day realities of the outside world and I realize that I don't always get along with much of anybody, at which point it's him I drag my lonely ass home to for comfort. That must be, I have to think, why we belong together. It doesn't seem readily apparent when we're screaming at each other about the laundry or other things left undone, but this is the truth that continues to guide us: We can tolerate nobody else the way we tolerate each other; we tolerate each other the way nobody else can.

A lot of Stay-At-Home Mothers like to say that their husbands don't appreciate how much work they do every day. They say these men don't understand how difficult it is to keep one, two, three-plus children working as a functioning unit on a day-to-day basis. I was one of those mothers. I successfully played that card for four years. Today I was forced to show my hand. I left the children with The Partner in the morning and headed out for a conference held by the mom's group to which I belong. I was gone for roughly seven hours. There was much professed joy among the conference-goers about having a few hours away from the children. We ate chicken Caesar salad and chocolate cake. We discussed organizational structure and playgroup etiquette. There was much discussion of the Swine Flu. We went home. I came back to The Partner's declaration that he'd discovered my ruse. "What ruse?" I asked. "The one where you tell me it's impossible to clean the hous...

A group of women got to talking about life insurance coverage. Who has it, who doesn't. I mentioned that my husband, at my urging, finally bucked up and purchased a policy for himself, but that I do not personally have one. The latter fact is based on The Partner's assertion that I have no monetary value, which is a supportable (and sad) assertion once one does the math. I am currently raising my kids and working on a novel; neither gig promises a big payoff anytime soon. Some of these women were confounded by this logic, and probably more than a little offended by the idea that stay-at-home moms are construed by some as having no value. The added cost of child care alone, they said, was enough justification for purchasing a policy in my name. I brought the issue to The Partner before I responded to the group. Not wanting to put words in his mouth, and not wanting to spew out that kind of shit in my own name, I looked for a quote. He chose his words carefully. He knew this woul...

Yesterday I left wet laundry in the washing machine. Today the whole load smells like a SweeTart. Yesterday I agreed to be a speaker at a meeting about emotional support for birthing mothers. Today I tell myself I'll come up with my talking points tomorrow. Yesterday I sat in our green, micro suede love seat while I fed Number Two. I looked down at him between pages of the book I was reading and thought "I need to just watch him, I need to slow down." He slurped a contented tempo. Today I sit in the same love seat, falling into a pillow, still trying to match his pace. Yesterday I found a stash of saved emails and a journal from my college days. The Partner spent two hours reading through my angst, which was all about him. He thought it was funny and sweet. Today is just like yesterday; it's nothing like ten years ago.

Today I interviewed The Boss about her perceptions of me in the hope of eliciting some blog fodder. It worked for Toyfoto when she turned her reporter's notebook on her daughter, Annabel . I did not have similar success. The long list of questions included ones like this, "what do you do that makes your mom happy?" (her answer: not doing something bad ) and this, "what do you do that makes your mom sad?" (her answer: doing something bad ). I almost threw in the towel completely when she cited "vegetables" as my favorite food. The exercise was shaping up to be a bust. I didn't know that The Partner was listening from his home workstation in the corner of the kitchen until question #13 came up. "What's your mom's job?" I asked The Boss. " Cleaning the house ," she replied. I made a self-conscious little tee-hee at my daughter's gross misperception as the background click of the computer keyboard ceased beneath The Pa...

It's no secret that The Partner and I have different attitudes toward sex. He can take it or leave it, while I prefer to take it. He often goes a week-and-a-half to two weeks without showing any interest. Then, suddenly, the testosterone begins to flow. This time it coincided with a deluge of another kind, and the story that resulted is such a sad but illustrative commentary on the state of my sex life that I cannot help but relay it to you here. *** I had just climbed into bed for the evening. The Partner called the dog downstairs for her evening constitutional. I heard the door open. I heard the door shut. I heard "Goodbye" from The Partner's AOL session and I heard him let the dog back in. They both padded up the steps toward bed. I had an inkling that The Partner might be interested in a little romp in the hay. It had been long enough that even he should have been getting antsy. But then I heard the bathroom door shut, and instead of water spilling over a toothbru...

The Partner and I do not do well under pressure. We fought for the entire week before our wedding, came to an armistice in time for the rehearsal ceremony, and were back at each other's throats by dinner. The day of our wedding dawned peacefully, but the honeymoon was over three days in. We have stood back-to-back, with arms folded, for three out of five anniversaries. Valentine's Day hasn't fared much better. Birthdays are hit or miss. Only Independence Day has emerged unscathed. There's no pressure there, just beer and a barbecue and friends who kindly insist that we shovel up the bullshit, stick in a firecracker, and watch it burn a hole in the ozone. The main issue is organization versus chaos. It's common sense versus distraction in the face of shiny objects. It's The Partner's desire for a well oiled machine and my belief that I can get by just fine without lube. This Christmas was no exception. I failed to order the cards in a timely manner. Then I re...

It is 11:43 and I have not yet posted for the day. Since I am participating in NaBloPoMo and am thus obligated to rectify the situation, here is a short recounting of what The Partner just informed me of as we sipped our respective alcoholic beverages: "I remember when I told my mom I was going to ask you to marry me. She said, 'Is she pregnant?'" I guess that says more than I could ever write.

This has been a dog shit day. The Partner is mad at me again. The Boss was in hysterics from the moment she woke until I strapped her into her seat in the pre-school carpool. Later, I drove around in a completely useless 5 mile circle when I couldn't remember at whose house I was supposed to drop off the sweet potatoes for the Thanksgiving baskets my mother's group is donating to some families in town that need them. Lest the previous examples lead you to believe I am being overly dramatic with my use of the term "dog shit," here's the chocolate icing on the cake of my day: our dog pooped in my car. It's not the pit bull diarrhea that's bringing me down. It's not the wasted gas or The Boss's tantrums. Mainly it's the fact that The Partner and I can't get along. Our moments of harmony are random and fleeting. It's always been that way. I could say that maybe we're the kind of couple that thrives on dischord, but that's probably j...

The Partner is reading a book! The Partner is reading a book! I feel like a line of little people, circa 1939, should be wielding large lollipops and chanting it: The Partner is reading a book! This is noteworthy because the main man in my life has not seen fit to peruse the printed page for the past ten years. The impetus for the change is simple: he has a 5-hour round-trip commute each day, half of which is spent on the train. He now has time to feed his brain the old-fashioned way, with words black as licorice on pages that send up the subtle tang of fine, fine wood pulp. It is delicious. I sent him out the door with Nelson Demille's Plum Island in hardcover. It's about a wounded New York City homicide detective looking into murders at the biological testing facility on the tip of Long Island. If you told me I should've eased him into the pleasures of the page with something a bit shorter, or with larger print, or featuring comic book characters, I will admit that you...

The Partner and I found time in the midst of his busy schedule to sit down together to watch a DVD he selected. I asked him to pick it. Sometimes my optimism astounds me. I should have remembered that our differences are never more apparent than when viewed through the boob tube. The movie this weekend was Mel Gibson's Apocalypto . Truly, it would have to be the eve of said Apocalypse for me to willingly sit through this movie. It is not that I am opposed to blood, guts, and nakedness. In fact, some of my favorite movies come from Rob Zombie's red and oozing inspiration. What I can't abide is reality. Once I believe that there is any sense of history or it-could've-really-happened-ness to a film, then I begin to lose the ability to dissociate. I don't like feeling sad and hopeless and convinced that human nature is depraved. I used to. In fact, I watched cable news almost 24/7 between 2001 and 2005. But then I had children and realized that these world ills were one...

The Boss does not take kindly to it when Topher* shatters her "ignore him and he'll go away" mindset with his newborn wail. The scene most often unfolds in the car, where seatbelts, five point harnesses, and the fact that I am driving separate me indefinitely from the two prisoners in the backseat. The acceleration in my sporty little v-6 has nothing on The Boss, whose mental deterioration can go from 0-60 in five seconds whenever she hears him cry. "Mommy, he needs you! HE NEEDS YOU!" Her scream is a rain of spit as she joins in with him--all red-faced, wet and puffy--until their joint clamor builds to a crescendo that will one day either make me drive off the road or wish that I had. Either kid crying alone is tolerable to a hardened mother like myself, but the two of them together in hysterics is an invitation for me to let loose right along with them. I don't know what it is about Topher's baby yelps that tears his sister up. She won't acknowledg...

In honor of the bachelor party The Partner is currently attending, I am re-posting a She Said/He Said written upon his return from a previous weekend of debauchery. It's two years old, but it is still relevant today. Frighteningly so. *** SHE SAID: My husband came home from the Vegas bachelor party determined to put up a strong front. We went to a Memorial Day party on Monday; he went to work and then to play pool on Tuesday; and it wasn't until Wednesday that he finally called in sick to the office. Or, more accurately, he emailed his employers that he would work from home "in between naps." I ran to the nearest Internet portal and looked up the incubation period for the ten most common STDs. HE SAID: My wife doesn't trust me worth a darn. She is still convinced I got some at my bachelor party. I probably should have. At least then, I'd have the bragging rights to go along with the blame. Believe it or not, a bachelor party can be fun without the swapping ...

The sky was blue without a cloud. We were seated on the metal weave of wrought iron chairs. I sipped my coffee non-fat; The Partner took his light and sweet. In the clear air I wondered what he was thinking. Blue tinted sunglasses masked hazel clues. I looked away quickly because it bothered me that I couldn’t tell if he was returning my gaze. I wouldn’t want him to catch me staring. Next to us, four bicyclists were breaking. “When I called him up to tell him, there was complete silence for almost a minute,” I heard a rider say. “He didn’t even ask if I was okay.” It was the one with his back toward me. I tuned out his companions’ responses. I wouldn’t want them to catch me listening. The wind carried voices, but not much else. There was barely a rustle to the startling brightness of new leaves, where the green was almost as undiluted as the blue above. The sun covered us like a lightweight blanket. A girl twirled in dress without sleeves near a bench across the sidewalk. A father beam...

There is a two person whirlpool tub attached to our bedroom. The Partner and I exploit this ultimate form of decadence on a weekly basis. Since last night was St. Valentine's special evening, we were inspired by Chinese food take-out and the exchange of romance-themed card stock to take things to the next level by soaking in the jet stream while talking only about sex. The discussion was guided by the book I've been reading called " Sex Detox: Recharge Desire. Revitalize Intimacy. Rejuvenate Your Love Life " by Ian Kerner, Ph.D. I signed up to review it for the Parent Bloggers Network because it was about sex. I'm easy like that. The premise of Sex Detox is that most struggling relationships or faltering dating-lives (the book is divided into separate detox regimens for couples and singles) can benefit from stepping back from the action and taking time to assess the whole picture--not just where you are sexually now, but how you got there. The workbook-like exer...

The Partner informed me the other day that I am a failure as a wife due to my lackluster attitude toward housekeeping. After listening to an exhaustive list of my failings, I asked him to cite a few of my positive characteristics so that I might have something to cling to as I teeter on the edge of a maritally-induced depression. He thought for a while. Then he told me I was perfectly good as a girlfriend, back when I would visit him at his apartment and then go home again (to my own pig sty). At first I was shocked and appalled by his line of thinking. Then I remembered that he is always right. By forcing myself to look at the issue from his God-like point of view, I saw everything with a strange sense of clarity. He was on to something. Things were better back then. I was a nicer person, more carefree. He was unstressed each evening as he tossed another Skillet Sensation on the stove top. I made my own money. He drove a big, black truck, factory-fresh. We were two autonomous beings ...

. . .Why am I so God damned horny during pregnancy and what the hell is the point? As far as I can see, there is no purpose served by my constant state of arousal. I'm already pregnant. The species is being actively perpetuated. Evolutionarily speaking, I could be sitting around in a chastity belt and a unitard and it wouldn't make one bit of difference. The Partner certainly doesn't appreciate this heightened sex drive. Believe it or not, he thought it was too high to begin with. Now our incompatible libidos are further separated by my protruding belly. I can't even get any in my dreams. As vivid and visceral as these hormonally induced fantasies are, they're still only soft core. It's like this: I'm getting HBO when what I really want is Pay-Per-View. I think I need a technician to come out and fix my cable box. ___

The Boss stayed with my parents this weekend while The Partner and I went up to his old fraternity house. The Partner helped make repairs to the old brownstone mansion (yes, it's a historical treasure, and yes, it's a long, long story how it ended up housing college-aged males year after year). If you are wondering about the extent of its Victorian grandeur, I will say that a few scenes from the movie Age of Innocence were filmed there. After a day of work, we went out for dinner and then to the old watering hole, wherein we re-enacted the days of yore by getting completely blotto. Who says you can't go home? It was almost like being just-twenty, except that nobody carded us and, if they had, we would've been able to show non-fabricated ID. The next morning we continued to uphold tradition by calming our roiling stomachs with grease at the breakfast spot two blocks over. There is nothing like a fat omelette after a night of bourbon and Coke. Absolutely nothing. I was g...