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03/01 Direct Link
I am a woman, a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, and a friend.

I am a lover, a dancer, an artist, a writer, a singer, a wanderer, a boss, and a peon. I am a bitch, a goddess, a lunch mother, a helper, I am a cook, a laundress, a chauffer, and a maid. I am a confidante, a confessor, a teacher and a student. I am a nurse, a mediator, a referee, and an arbitrator. I am a storyteller, a painter, a philosopher, a poet, and a dreamer.

I am all this, and more. What are you?
03/02 Direct Link
I am stubborn, argumentative, strong-willed, intolerant of stupidity, quick to forgive but long to remember. I am protective, slow to anger, patient, compassionate and loyal to a fault. I am described as loving, witty, bitchy, acerbic, generous, passionate, intelligent and kind. I am at times sarcastic, fiery-tempered, foul-mouthed, long-winded and moody. I am calm, silly, unpredictable, serious when necessary, spirited and sexy. My friends know me to be honest, fair, opinionated and sincere. I am sometimes lazy, sometimes obsessive, sometimes irrational, but always genuine. I am no longer young enough to know everything and finally old enough to admit it.
03/03 Direct Link
I weave my words together; one word, one phrase, one sentence at a time. Sometimes there is a pattern ? a beginning, a middle and an end. Sometimes it's more of a patchwork ? a harmonious, but nonsensical arrangement.

I cast my shuttle back and forth across the page which is my loom. Drawing forth lengths and widths of nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs, prepositions and articles intertwined into stories, poems, love letters and grocery lists. I am the weaver of dreams, thoughts and hopes. I sit cross-legged before my loom contemplating where to start, what thread to work with next.
03/04 Direct Link
What is wrong with silence?
Why do we feel uncomfortable in its presence?
Why can't we validate the idea that sometimes there is nothing to say?
Why do we give in to the compulsion to fill up the silence with shit?
We fear silences.
We wonder what the other is really thinking.
What's really going on in their mind.
So we fill the space with prattling, babbling, insipid chatter.
Instead of embracing silence, we curse it, banish it, despoil it with empty clattering blather.
Why can't we just sit side by side and accept the quiet as comfort, not boredom?
03/05 Direct Link
It was just a smile so why was there suddenly a spring in her step and a dopey grin on her face? Why did this make her feel taller, prettier, sexier? What was it in the stranger's passing approval that boosted her spirits? What she really superficial enough to care what an anonymous passerby thought? Shouldn't she be indignant that he was even looking at her, checking her out, offering his opinion? Was she really vain enough to not only accept his smile, but to dwell on it, take pleasure in it, appreciate it? Yes, she was, aren't we all?
03/06 Direct Link
Is it possible to have bad luck, good luck or no luck at all? It seems that some people have nothing but good luck follow them. They win raffles, they get great jobs even when they weren't looking, people just give them good things. While other people appear to have pissed off some god somewhere since they never seem to catch a break and just when you think they've hit bottom, something falls on their head. Other people go through life having neither particularly good or ominously bad things happen. They just march along. How much control do we have?
03/07 Direct Link
Today is Thursday. I love Thursday mornings if only because it's the one day a week I don't have to make any lunches. It's a small and trivial thing, but a good thing nonetheless. Mondays (tuna sub day) I make two sandwiches, two different sandwiches, two kinds of bread, two completely different food products between the bread. Tuesdays (pizza day) my daughter gets a deli sandwich. Wednesdays (meatball sub day) its my son's turn and he only likes peanutbutter sandwiches. Fridays (pizza day) its my daughter's turn again. Thursdays they both get lunch at school (chicken nuggets). I love Thursdays.
03/08 Direct Link
Today I found the perfect pair of sandals. They are black, of course. High heeled, of course. And sexy as hell. There is something demented about buying sandals in March but I suppose it could be viewed as an act of faith. An act of faith that winter will release it's grasp on New England, turn off the winds, icy rain and snow and return us to the warm and gentle breezes of springtime and eventually summer. An act of faith that toenails will be painted magenta and feet will again feel the joy of being released from booted bondage.
03/09 Direct Link
Am I she and is she me and why the hell do I write about myself in the third person. I don't know. Perhaps it makes it less personal or perhaps it is my secret desire to remain anonymous. It's a rather transparent attempt. I guess she is usually me, though not always. Sometimes she is other people I know, and sometimes she is no one in particular. He is sometimes my husband, but again not all the time. When he is my husband, she is me, always. When I am she there is sometimes no he. I like solitude.
03/10 Direct Link
Sitting in the living room, staring into space, music playing in the background, tea untouched on the table and nothing, nothing, nothing at all comes to mind. Topics, subjects, news of the day, nothing that inspires me to even put pen to paper and try to make something out of letters and words. I sit, stand, stretch, walk around, throw in some laundry, make a bed, sit back down and still nothing. Stand up again, go check email, go check real mail, flip through the newspaper and still nothing. Nothing of substance, nothing meaningless, just nothing, achingly dull, hollow, bland.
03/11 Direct Link
Newbury Street in Boston is a wonderful stretch of land. It is sandwiched between the hip chic South End and the old-moneyed Back Bay. Grab a cappuccino, sit a while and watch the world go by: the nouveau rich are awash in designer gear, the grande dames sashay along walking miniscule dogs on impossibly long retractable leashes. The young lawyers squawk self-importantly into mobile phones while deftly dodging bicycle messengers. College kids staff the stores and cafes along the way, their piercings and haircuts shocking no one. Attitude is what its all about and Newbury Street's got ‘tude to spare.
03/12 Direct Link
The grass is dead in patches, a parched wheat color that contrasts sharply with the impossibly lush green surrounding it. In all fairness, its not really a lawn, it's a yard. We live in the city, so comparitively speaking, it's a big yard, maybe twenty by twenty. In summer it is a riot of reds and yellows, lilies and tomatoes vying for space. In fall it glows in hues of gold, orange and scarlet before fading quietly away. In winter the swingset stands as a solitary guard in a frozen prison keeping watch over the inmates on nature's death row.
03/13 Direct Link
She can't sleep when he's not here. She has the whole bed to herself, all the pillows and covers she could possibly want, and yet the release of slumber eludes her. She misses his body next to hers, the rhythm of their breathing as they drift away together. She can't seem to settle down without his presence on the opposite side. Their dog senses her restlessness and tries to be a surrogate. His unconditional adoration is cute but not what she needs. She misses the snoring that usually keeps her awake. 200 miles away he's awake for the same reasons.
03/14 Direct Link
Spring is a harlot that dances along the edge of winter, enticing, tempting, flirting and strumpeting around. She coaxes the crocuses out of their slumber, she bids the daffodils to peek out from under their covers, she softens the earth with her embrace and confuses the birds with her softly blown breezes. She heralds her arrival in a blast of warmth and sunshine. She caresses the souls who fall into her trap. She nudges old man winter to curl up for a nap and just when he concedes, she changes her mind and stalks away for a few more weeks.
03/15 Direct Link
Ground Zero. It is inordinately warm for mid-March. It is humid. The floodlights illuminate the site like high noon even though it is after eight. People wander about, looking at the work site but not looking at each other. We stand mostly silent just gazing at the empty space where once enormous buildings stood taller than the eye could capture without leaning back. There is little to indicate that anything ever stood on this ground. Most acknowledge the sanctity of this place by their conduct. There are dolts posing for photos and smiling at cameras and crass vendors hawking souvenirs.
03/16 Direct Link
The Tribute of Light. Last night we made two stops, first at Ground Zero and then at the Tribute of Light memorial. Even with the bright lights of New York surrounding us, we could see the Lights from 32nd Street as we walked downtown. They ascend skyward one block over from Ground Zero and on this night they cut through night and punched a hole in the foggy ceiling of the sky as if reaching for heaven. The humidity lent a hazy ethereal blur to the lights and in that moment you could envision the buildings etched against the night.
03/17 Direct Link
I put down the bundle I've been carrying and I refused to pick it up again. I have cried and railed, yelled and screamed at the inequity of it. I have written about it, thought about, talked about it and dwelled too long upon it. It bound itself to me with unseen cords. I cannot carry this burden forever so I gently laid it to rest bit by bit and piece by piece along the sidewalk, each footfall taking me further away from it. I know incisive slivers will fall in hidden places but for now, I go in peace.
03/18 Direct Link
"Let Daddy rest, he threw his back out and needs to relax." I say to the children.

"Why did he throw his back away?" asks the girl child with all the literalness a six year old can muster.

"No, honey, he didn't throw it away, he hurt it lifting a suitcase." I explain.

"Well, that was dumb, he should be more careful." says the wise girl child.

"I told you you shouldn't have gone away for the weekend." says the boy child, annoyed to have been left at home.

I roll my eyes and head off to do the laundry.
03/19 Direct Link
"Why do you always do that?" she demanded, fists clinched and teeth gritted.

"What?" He looked at her with that blank expression that made her want to stab him in the heart with a scissors.

"Leave your wet towel in a heap, BELOW the towel bar. How much effort would it take to hang it up?"

Before he could give his standard weak answer of: "I don't know, it's just a bad habit," she had stalked away leaving him talking to the back of her departing head from which emitted threats and curses in staccato blasts punctuated with stomping feet.
03/20 Direct Link
Drained glasses stand smudged on the disheveled dining table; sentries at attention guarding the remnants of a private feast. Bread crusts, apple cores, rinds from a round of brie, and some naked grape vine stems are scattered about, a cutting board, a knife and two empty bottles of red add to the disarray. There is a stain on the tablecloth, a vestige of an overzealous pouring hand. The wine softened lovers have abandoned their repast, stumbling to the sofa in a tangle of arms, legs and discarded clothing. They are lost in a moment of stolen aloneness and dropped inhibitions.
03/21 Direct Link
She lifted the quilt and crept underneath, naked except for the earrings she always wore. She reached for him though he was sleeping and pressed her body into the gentle curve of his spine. She stroked the soft hairs on his chest and kissed his shoulder gently. Her touch on his thigh drew him into consciousness and he leaned into her embrace. He missed her at night and sometimes falling asleep without her was difficult. She returned after midnight, not so late, but often too late an early riser. His mouth found hers and they kissed softly in the dark.
03/22 Direct Link
I hate pencils.

Pencils are for people who won't make decisions, refuse to make choices and cannot reach conclusions. Pencils are noncommittal. Pencils are temporary. Pencils are smudgy, they fade, they grow dull. Pencils are for people who can't make up their minds. Pencils are indecisive, insecure and lack permanence.

Pens are committed, constant, sharp, true and permanent. Pens are about choices, decisions, selections, conclusions, votes. Pens are assured, confident and sustained.

Pencils are passive, pens are aggressive. Pens say yes or no, pencils say maybe. Pens are black and white, pencils are gray.

I hate maybe, gray and pencils.
03/23 Direct Link
Weekends are too short. For the first time in a long time I woke up feeling good this morning. I felt rested and content and was not unhappy to find that my kids were already awake. The older child had gotten the younger child and himself a bowl of cereal and had made only the smallest mess pouring the milk. Together they sat at the dining room table comparing notes for the Spyro video game they both liked and otherwise behaving in a startlingly civil manner. It was one of those moments you savor for as long as it lasts.
03/24 Direct Link
Finely chop six cloves of garlic and chop one small onion. In a large stockpot heat two tablespoons of olive oil. Add garlic and onion and sauté until the onion is translucent. Add two cans of crushed tomatoes plus two cans of water and stir. Toss in two bay leaves, a small handful of chopped fresh basil and oregano, a shake or two of crushed red pepper and a quarter cup of granulated sugar. Sauté two boneless pork chops until cooked through, slice into small pieces and add to sauce. Simmer sauce for at least three hours. Serve over pasta.
03/25 Direct Link
Weekends are too short. For the first time in a long time I woke up feeling good this morning. I felt rested and content and was not unhappy to find that my kids were already awake. The older child had gotten the younger child and himself a bowl of cereal and had made only the smallest mess pouring the milk. Together they sat at the dining room table comparing notes for the Spyro video game they both liked and otherwise behaving in a startlingly civil manner. It was one of those moments you savor for as long as it lasts.
03/26 Direct Link
Animals are so trusting. I grabbed the dog's leash, snapped it on to his collar, took my car keys and asked the beast if he wanted to go for a car ride. He always does -- today was no exception. Little did he know we were going to the vet. He was due for a check up and needed a kennel cough immunization so he could be boarded while we travel next month. It struck me while I was driving that I could take this animal anywhere and he'd follow me, willingly and without hesitation. Is that love or stupidity?
03/27 Direct Link
I'm really struggling with this month's set. I'm ready for change and distracted thinking about its. It's been a long winter. Even though the weather's been unseasonably warm, its still been a drag. I'm ready for it to be spring. I'm ready for flowers, green grass, sweater days and sandals. I'm ready for longer, brighter days. There really is something to that theory about light affecting mood. As much as I am a night person, I really hate when night begins at four or five in the afternoon. Seasonal disorder or something is what they call it. I am susceptible.
03/28 Direct Link
I am a lipstick junkie. I buy lipsticks constantly and quite often in shades I already own. Lipstick is a cheap indulgence and can completely change my mood. In addition to brightening up my face and drawing attention away from the dark circles under my eyes it can raise my spirits. When I'm depressed, nothing can perk me up like a new slick tube of Ragin' Raisin, Matte Maraschino or Velvet Plum. For really bad days there's British Red, Vamp or Passion. Some people seek comfort in drugs, alcohol or chocolate; for me its lipstick. A little slash of pleasure.
03/29 Direct Link
Today we colored eggs. My eight year old just had to know what happened if you started with yellow, then orange, then pink, blue and purple and his six year old sister had to copy him and so we have two dozen mottled grayish green or bruise colored hard boiled eggs. Tomorrow they are going to their grandparents house to color more eggs, most of which will probably also be murky hued. How did eggs, or for that matter, rabbits, come to be associated with easter? Certainly the easter chicken just wouldn't work, but eggs and rabbits really don't either.
03/30 Direct Link
I am irrationally happy today. Some friends have had a bit of long awaited good news and it has sent my mood soaring. This news is nothing that really affects my life in any way, and yet, I'm so glad for them that the entire day seems bright and good and for a moment all is right in the world. The staid cliché says good things come to those who wait; sometimes you really have too wonder just how long you're supposed to stand on line, waiting. The wait is over and I'm thrilled; sappy, stupid, romantic that I am.
03/31 Direct Link
Another holiday: too many people, too many personalities, the kids too wired from eating easter candy at nine in the morning, the in-laws are in each other's way trying to get the dinner cooked, too much noise and confusion, my sister and her family are here and there is just too much clashing of parenting styles, spousal roles and table manners. I love my family, all of them, but holidays and family just don't mesh. The calendar dictates that TODAY we must convene and get along, why not everyday or any day. Artificial best behavior and contrived togetherness be damned.