November 23, 2011


Thanksgiving Eve.  (!)

Parenthetic excitement.

It's like the energy of such holidays exists between the lines these days.  Parenthood, home owner hood,  career maker hood, hot mama workin' it hood.  We're busy; we're tired.

It's 9:27 pm on the night before Thanksgiving and my husband had a mere half day of work.  Home early with bells on.  And by bells I mean bottles of libations and mixers clanging together in large brown bags in preparation of the official holiday season kickoff: Thanksgiving Eve.  Tasty adult bevs to wash down the short work week and to hydrate for delicious things to come.

Fast forward through this day of pre-festivity list kicking and here we sit: me with my apple cider, vodka and cinnamon and Nico with my flower blanket  on the couch passed out gurgling crickets.

He's cute.  But, he's passed out.  What a bust.  What, I'm buzzed?  No.


I sit here reflecting on this scene... this... scene... And I remember previous Thanksgiving Eves at bars in Boston with fellow peers and friends enjoying one (three or four) too many cocktails and being slightly classy, slightly immature, slightly reckless twenty-somethings and I long for the occasion.    In a nostalgic, I wouldn't really go back there sort of way.  It was fun.  But there were consequences.  Hangover consequences.

This is not to say that tomorrow morning at 6:15 am I won't feel the familiar sluggish headache needing the whiff of Folders brewing with a few Motrin dissolving in the pot of coffee type regret for my cider cocktails, but the responsibility was not the same back then.  I could be an utterly useless douche nozzle all day totally incapacitated by the late night, lots of loud noises and the fun.  Then eat turkey dinner and be full and in a food stupor, drunk on gravy and spinney with pumpkin pies and lie on the couch all afternoon and all night watching movies and assuming a similar position to my husband's champion move tonight.

I'm telling you, 1/3 vodka, 2/3 apple cider and a Tinkerbell's sneeze worth of cinnamon dust and voila- A Thanksgiving cocktail.  Love it.  Another winning combo: hot husband, flower blankey, and a couch and we're all marinating.  We're all just gelling here, makin' it happen; makin' the memories.

Maybe one day in the 'older children' future, I'll long for the cozy days home with plenty of excuses to stay put.  Maybe I'll wish to be snuggled up with my laptop and my snoring husband instead of out somewhere foreign with strangers and bar covers.

Maybe the choice between snugly flower blankey covers and large 'roidey bouncer bar covers is one that's clear cut and easy to make.  Maybe the lines have already been drawn and my holiday excitement is happy to lay in between them for the moment.  Maybe then is then, now is now, and later will bring later.  All I know is there isn't a bar in the world that has my Nug sleeping in the room down the hall, my husband catching flies next to me and my laptop digesting my every thought right at my finger tips.

I'm not where I was, so let's all congratulate me for figuring that clearly "newsworthy" piece of information out.  But, all those nights out I was just looking for the person that was going to pass out early with me.  If I see it this way, I got what I wanted.  And for that, I give thanks.

November 18, 2011

Is it supposed to be 12 o'clock or 5 o'clock?

I need a new outfit to wear that will make me feel great.  This is no easy job for many women including myself.  It's a trepidatious endeavor to try on pants and find coordinating pieces to create the correct ensemble.  I have to be in the right frame of mind to scour the racks, be hopeful in the fitting rooms, and be objective when something makes me look like Oprah on hiatus.

This would be fabulous if this were my only task.  But at this point in my life, I'm also making sure PISH doesn't clear the fitting rooms with her wails of discontent.  The persistent whines are fine at first- she's a kid- but after about 15 minutes of her dedicating her best efforts to make trying clothes on as horrifying as possible- she wins and we leave or I strangle myself with a belt.

Today, after leaving the store with only ear buds for my iPhone (let's hope they at least fit to my approval), we go home, I change her diaper and go to put her down for a nap.  I hand her her 'lovie' that she sleeps with and she dives in to hug it and gives me a fat lip with her palladium plated forehead.

Day drinking is admissible in these extenuating circumstances.  It's past noon here and I'm sure it's past 5pm somewhere in the eastern hemisphere.  

Holy crap.

November 11, 2011

Goodness & Grace

I've come to the conclusion that I need to work on my sense of grace.

I need to filter back into my perspective what is good.  Like... now.  Never being content is not what it means to be motivated and proactive.  Being OK with the conditions of my personal and professional life is not giving up.  I've had it bass ackwards for a long time and what is the point of knowing this and doing nothing about it?

Always wanting more and always needing something else has made it possible for me to accomplish all that I have in the short time that I've been at it.  At 28, I am ready and waiting and hungry and open.  I am married to a great man with a daughter that is a little slice of cupcake heaven.  We live in a nice, cozy, pretty home that we own, but more importantly, that is ours.  I have a masters and am going back to school again.  I have friends that are hilarious and loyal and whom I adore.  Things are good.

But I'm never satisfied.  If it's not one thing with me, it's another.  If I just had this job, if we just lived closer... Blah, blah, blah.  It's this crap that I focus on during the day and I'm just done with it.  I'm fighting the current so often that I'm exhausted.  It's just not worth it.  I don't want to be on my deathbed regretting all of the wasted energy being negative when there are so very many phenomenal things around me.

It's not that I'm corralling a new found optimism.  I shall remain to be the consummate cynic because it makes me laugh at myself.  It's the salty, chippy 'tude that is a bit over the cynicism line and toeing into the bitter that's gotta go.  My life is a series of similar woes because I'm not learning the lessons I'm supposed to learn.  I never take a minute to smell the same dog crap I stepped in last time around.

I'm channeling Bill Murry in Groundhog day.

It is what it is but now I need to take responsibility for my epiphany and do something about it.
I'll allow my cynical, dry humor and what have you.  But I will be free instead of self contained.  I will try to stop being such a control freak about the outcome of everything that happens.  I will allow myself the grace to fall down, to sit down, to run, and to take a leisurely stroll.  I will relish the sites and scenes of this life and be happy I'm the one that gets to live it.  I will give myself the space to find my self.

This is a healthier way to be.   I have a lil' nugget girl that is going to one day turn into her mother.  I have an obligation to her and to the world to be awesome.  Which shouldn't require too much effort.

November 10, 2011

Tabula Rasa

My favorite annual activity has once again beckoned my attention.

I get to set up next year's new weekly planner.

Moleskine's large hard cover red weekly planner with the back pocket and the elastic closure lays to my left, while this years weekly planner lays lovingly at my right.  This years planner served me well.  Lavender Gallery Leather weekly planner kept me together during this very big year.  But I shall not return to the Gallery Leather planner, nay it is the Moleskine that I will work with this time around.

I need the pocket.  I need the elastic closure.  Let's be honest, we all could use a space for our baggage and something with a little give to keep it all together.

And red is racy.  This upcoming year, 2012, is a year of new beginnings.  A fresh perspective, a new path. Pish will be one.  Nico and I will celebrate our 2nd anniversary.  I will find a space for myself professionally.  I will once again own my place and allow that place to be whatever it needs to be.  I will be present, relatively on time, and kept together.

The first stroke of ink on the crisp pristine pages of this new planner is my dedication to what lies ahead.  It will be my confirmation that I'm in and ready to go.  Let that ball drop Ryan Seacrest, this year is my year.

I have to chose the right pen so that my handwriting will look its best.  This is a very particular process and I do not take it lightly.  My penmanship vacillates between that of a chicken and that of an artist.  It can be unruly and scribbly or something you'd find in the Lucidia font family on Microsoft Word.  I hope it's a good day.

Anyways.  I'm just excited about this annual momentous task and I wanted to share it with you.