Occasionally, my husband has meetings in Manhattan that require an overnight stay. I’m not going to go on and on about how this makes me jealous. I won’t call him a jerk for callously stating his night in a mid-town hotel just “isn’t all that much fun” on his Facebook status. I won’t share the details about how I read that insensitive statement moments after my finger inadvertently slipped into a poo-filled diaper.

I just won’t.

But good Lord…I miss overnights in New York hotels.

I miss the days when I was comped rooms at the W or stayed at the Essex House just because I didn’t feel like hopping the train back to Westchester. Life was tough and those were the perks of the job.

I miss the silence.

I miss the Heavenly Bed.

Back when Westin first introduced the Heavenly Beds, Starwood Employees were able to buy the linens, down comforters, pillows…hell, we could buy the whole damn bed if we wanted to. I bought the comforter and the pillows. And they are heavenly, thank you.

courtesy of Westin at Home


So heavenly that three children were conceived under the downy cloak of heaven.

This morning I was fitfully sleeping beneath my Heavenly Bed comforter and thinking that it ain’t so heavenly anymore.

Gwen had been coughing at regular intervals for two hours and by 6:30 a.m., my right eye had begun to twitch. My head was pounding. The cat made her grand morning entrance, demanding I get up and fill her bowl so she could resume another day of compulsive eating.

I tiptoed into the hallway, fed the cat and peeked into Gwennie’s room. Her hair was fanned out on her pillow and her eyes were squished shut in a pathetic attempt to sleep.

“Psssst…Gwennie,” I whispered, trying to avoid rousing the wee beastie (Kate).

Gwen popped up, smiled and held her arms out for a hug. I picked her up and carried her to my Heavenly Bed, kissing her forehead along the way.

She hacked in my face three times. A light spray of germ-filled mucosa dappled my skin and probably infected me, but I didn’t care. I was too tired.

We snuggled into my bed and watched the news together. Gwennie sucked on a mini-melt cough strip and was uncharacteristically silent.

Except for the cough.

I stroked her hair and kissed her head. She hugged my arm and held my hand. Then, during a commercial break she turned her little face up to mine and spoke. Her voice was not unlike what I imagine Marge Simpson might sound like if she was five.

“Mommy, I don’t believe I can make it to school today. I feel like shit,” she rasped.

And so, my middle child – the one who never curses – was lovingly tucked beneath my Heavenly comforter with her head resting on two Heavenly pillows to watch Tinkerbell for the 346th time.

After I fluffed her pillows, I moved toward the door to get Joe ready for school. Something made me pause in the doorway to look back at her.

Suddenly, that bed looked heavenly again.


What We Did To Celebrate 10 Years of Marital Bliss…

So, after I wrote that heartfelt post about our 10th anniversary last Friday, I’ll bet you wondered what we did to celebrate, right?

Okay, maybe you didn’t give it another thought but humor me anyway.

Hold on to your hats people because this is impressive! In fact, I’ll bet you’ve never heard of a 10th anniversary celebration as fantastic as this one was.


A giant pile of dirt was delivered.


I’m not kidding.

Our anniversary celebration was…how shall I say? Delayed.

Besides, you’d have to be a real asshole if you didn’t enjoy a giant pile of rocks, weeds and dirt.



 Click the brown box if that pile of anniversary dirt pisses you off too.Vote for me @ Top Mommy Blogs - Mom Blog Directory

Crash Boom Bang!

“Mommy, how do you spell Poop?” Gwen asked with a giggle.

“P.O.O.P,” I answered just before I realized the minivan was sliding forward on the driveway. Suddenly, we were caught in a slow motion plummet and heading straight for the garage. Brake pumping was not an option.


“Oh, shit!” flew out of my mouth before I could catch it and replace it with the G-rated version. Gwen and Kate sat in wide-eyed, stunned silence then burst into a fresh round of giggles. Kate wiggled with delight in her car seat and clapped while shrieking, “YAY!”

“MOMMY!” Gwen exclaimed, “You crashed into the house! That’s so crazy!” Except it sounded more like this: MOMMY! You cwathed into the houthe! Thath tho CUH-RAAAAAAZY!

I backed up and winced when I saw the damage.

So there you have it. I successfully completed the stereotypical housewife act of driving the family car smack into the garage.

At times like this, I long for magical housewife powers. You know, like Samantha Stephens. If only a simple wiggle of my pert little nose could conjure a (free and talented) repairman. It would be even better if I could twitch my nose and go back in time. Just one minute. That would be just long enough to stop spelling P.O.O.P. and realize that the driveway was covered in a thin coating of black ice. In my defense, the garage is at a bit of an odd angle in relation to the driveway.

Sadly, as far as my life goes, I’m a bit more like Jeannie. Random weird occurrences and havoc tend to follow in my wake. Far too often, my husband is left shaking his head a la Major Nelson. Still, if I had just an iota of her powers, I might be able to stop wreaking havoc and causing bedlam long enough to repair the damage. I would cross my arms, give a quick nod of my head and *POOF* garage fixed..*POOF* new bumper…*POOF POOF* salt on the driveway to avoid future garage/car destruction. At the very least, I could hide in the bottle until Major Nelson, er…Dave, calmed down.

When Dave and I first moved to Boston almost 10 years ago, we were astounded by the sheer number of people in the area who crashed their vehicles into buildings. You name it, they hit it. Walmart, senior housing, someone’s house in the dead of night, Dunkin Donuts… I’m not talking once it a while either. This seemed to happen with great regularity in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Boy, did we ever laugh! In fact, it became a long-running joke. With great superiority, we pointed and chuckled about those crazy ‘Masshole’ drivers.

Today, I became the punch line and it ain’t so funny.

P.O.O.P. That spells poop, Gwen!