24/7

Of the several men painting our house, most are missing teeth and one is missing an arm. The leader of this rag tag home improvement team gives them $10 an hour, paid in cash at the end of each work day, or thereabouts. They lucked out on Thursday. The day's wages were tucked firmly in their pockets before the boss man drove off to a local dive, where an acquaintance of his jacked him at knifepoint for what little cash was left, a cooler of beer, and a pack of USA Gold Menthols. There's a seedy side of life in this town that I don't see through the flimsy metal and tinted windows of a 1989 Dodge Caravan, or a trailer home, or a leaning duplex with shingles and steps that are rotting. During a visit downtown with my daughter in tow, voices from the open-doored bars are garbled by country music and the sizzle of fat in the fryer as I walk by. I inhale the aromatic wind of cheeseburgers and Tabasco, but otherwise I notice nothing. We cross the street to a clothing shop that, m...

The blue corduroy suit on my Cabbage Patch Kid doll has lost its elasticity, its Velcro tabs, and two buttons. It is not even fair to call it blue anymore. Newton Vince is his name, and he is approaching twenty-five years old. You need to know this about Cabbage Patch Kids, if you don't already: they come with weird names and each one has a signature on its soft, batting-filled butt. The signer was Xavier Roberts, the creator of these pop culture precursors to Tickle Me Elmo, the kind of product that could cause Christmas-time brawls in the toy aisle when only one was left. Newton Vince has a rubbery, talcum scented plastic head of perfectly round proportions. The globular effect is carried through in the tiny “o” of his mouth, which closes around a plastic pacifier that can be removed and inserted at his owner’s discretion. Newton’s eyes are round, too. Big and blue, overlooking a tiny nose, as rubbery and powdery smelling as the rest of that sweet head. I was five years old when ...

I have this habit of ignoring the voices in my head. I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that sometimes those voices are the articulation of my gut instincts. The other day, my voices were telling me this: Are you sure you want to paint your house that particular shade of blue? It looks lovely in the Sherwin Williams color book, but isn't it possible that it might take on more of a purple hue when slathered all over your house? And Maybe you should spot test it first, just to see? But listening to the voices requires work, and it's so much easier just to rely on blind faith like the martyr that I am. Today I came back from the grocery store to a house that glistened majestically in the autumn sun. My sigh was carried by the shrug of my shoulders. Oh, well , I said. I thought this might happen. My mom says I never listen. My husband says I don't hear. Lest they think that I am selectively ignoring them, I am submitting for public record the fact that I don...

Red vacuumed every day to Motown on the record player. Sometimes she'd get up on the coffee table, belting out "I Will Survive" to the subtle static of steel on vinyl. Her three children ran through the living room, unaffected, in a circuit that took them from bedroom to kitchen to sun porch to muddy yard, and back again. Their tracked-in dirt disappeared in a quick sweep of the Electrolux. Nothing was dirty or disorganized if it was within her control. I was the stray, the "summer sister." Red's middle daughter was my best friend. My mother dropped me off at the beginning of summer vacation and I stayed there for weeks, until a doctor's appointment or a trip to Lake George reuinited me with my given family. I never missed home. Each day at Red's was structured by mealtimes. We ate cereal for breakfast, each child dumping leftover Os or flakes down the toilet. There were never any remnants in my bowl, though. I was a plate cleaner. Red loved that abo...

I propose a new game for playgroup moms who decide to get together after hours. In the MOMS Club to which I belong (please reserve judgement at least till the end of this post), we call these monthly get-togethers "MOMS Night Out." An ideal MNO, in my mind, is one where each mother must take a shot every time she talks about her child(ren). Two shots if it's a story we've all heard before. Three shots if it involves poop (granted, I myself would probably rack up a bit of a buzz on this one since I can't resist a well recollected crap caper). Half a bottle of Jagermeister in one swig if we have to hear how many gold stars your daughter earned today in pre-school. I know many mothers. I know their children. I am familiar with the eating and excreting habits of 40 kids under the age of 5. I am perfectly happy being a vessel of such information. The stories are often enlightening, entertaining and useful. But in casual discourse, we're always moms. Is it too much ...

When The Boss is mad, she invariably thrusts out her lower lip in a square pout and presses her face to the floor--from a sitting position. Other times, I find her asleep in her crib, one foot pressed against her ear. Flexibility is just one example of how far removed babies are from their grown up counterparts. Another is vocabulary. Though I suppose it's convenient to lump every animal, vegetable and mineral into one category called "dog," it's not very descriptive. Yet another example is a child's utter lack of discernment when it comes to what she will put in her mouth--though I suppose it can be argued that gumming rocks, sticks, solidified dog poop, loose change and live wires is not significantly more enlightened than smoking cigarettes. Not that I would personally make such an argument on the grounds of being hypocritical. Anyhoo. Occasionally I watch The Boss taking in and pointing out the world around her and I wonder, "who are you?" Then, the...

Someone wants to know exactly what is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest me. This random foray into the desk and the psyche of the blogger is called a meme . For lack of any other definition that I can even begin to comprehend, a meme is " an idea, project, statement or even a question that is posted on one blog and responded to by other blogs ." To reiterate, for the purposes of this particular meme: What is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest you? Well, funny you should ask, Amy ! I just happened to be looking for some hilarious blog fodder. I should've known I would find it on page 123 of The Romance Writer's Phrase Book , which happens to be sitting before me in a brown wicker basket filled with other accoutrements of the writing life. Please do not ask why I own The Romance Writer's Phrase Book , which purports to be "the essential source book" for all things romantic and no...