DC Metro Mommy Blog

I have a feeling this post may go hand-in-hand with an earlier one wherein I claimed to be aging at a rate not unlike Dr. Marcus Brody in Temple of Doom, when he picks a fake Holy Grail and fulfills the ancient prophecy of the wise knight by hopping on the Express Lanes Towards Death (suffering dreadful agony and split ends along the way). Split ends notwithstanding, this scenario is naturally still in the works as Lord knows none of us are getting any younger, especially me. I've discovered yet another nail in the coffin, though, and I'm hoping some of you can relate. Music, people. I speak of beautiful music. The soundtracks of our youth! The stuff we grew up on! That we shaped and formed

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I started wondering the other day about that whole "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" dichotomy. You'd think this wouldn't exactly be a sudden flash of insight, what with our daily exposure to standup one-liners about the difference between the sexes, and Today show segments/magazine covers featuring some self-proclaimed sexpert with Chiclet teeth tanned to within an inch of her life explaining (yet again) that men are "wired differently" than women. P.S.-WE GET IT. Enough talk about putting the toilet seat down. Christ.

No, what really got me pondering was the verbal stylings of my three year old. So here's the scenario: I have two boys. They are small. My house, as you can imagine,

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I would like to know, O dear readers, if there is anyone among us who can truthfully claim a childhood free of bribery, intended either to ward off some outlandish behavior or be the proverbial "carrot" on the arduous stick of our lives. (I would also like to know if you think that would be a terrific name for a soap opera, because I do). I ask this, in part, to uncover our vast similarities and join together as friends, but mostly to make myself feel way better about those few times I extorted silence out of my raging toddler with a threat to skip the visit to Cold Stone.

Realizing that this post and several others (okay, fine, ALL of them) effectively kill my chances at winning Mother Of

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I have this theory that for each child you have, your body (and that of your mate) will age about ten years in the span of just one. Since I suck at equations (leave it to the person that majored in their own native language), I will assume that with my oldest being nearly three and youngest about one and a half, let's see.......umm......two kids times so many years........I am roughly twenty-two thousand and four years old right now. Translated into square footage, my ass might be about the same size around too, if I ever worked up the courage to let thine eye wander in a dressing room. Or that horrendous funhouse mirror from hell on What Not To Wear.

Ahem. Back to this awesome theory of

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TODAY'S TOPIC IS: Terrible Drivers And Why They Follow Me Every Time I Move. I cannot tell you how many times I have said this throughout my life, and yet every time I relocate there seems to be a larger, more aggressive and increasingly vision-impaired populace all over the roads. Somehow, be it from a secret government grant designed to regulate insurance premiums, or stunt clowns in a Camaro sent out to cause a couple of pile-ups in time for the evening commute, I swear to you that they are everywhere I have ever lived...and no more so than right here in the Washington, DC metro area.

Now before you send me a nasty-gram to explain that you, in fact, live amongst the worst drivers in the

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Earlier today, in an attempt to be one of those go-getter mamas, the boys and I made the (short) hike to the park for some sun and interaction with the rest of humanity. Those of you who stay at home with your kids, you know exactly what I mean. Picture those last ten minutes of The Shining: Jack Nicholson, crazy hair, a severe personality disorder. You get it. See, lately, there's been this overwhelming feeling of "something has to change," like I want to take some real steps to improving the little things around here. The boys are getting old enough to join in the fun, and you can only go to the mall so many times before you're like "ok seriously, there is MORE TO LIFE than hanging out in

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Some random questions I've been pondering lately as I attempt to pack up our many mounds of junk for an impending move:

Where did all of this stuff come from?

Seriously.

We have so much crap.

Why the hell would we have ever moved across state lines with junk mail from 2004, old Halloween candy and a fold-out poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from Muscle & Fitness Magazine especially now that my husband and I have neither muscles or a commitment to fitness? (see crusty candy stash reference above.)

Are Cheerios just really good at hiding under the couch or are they able to fornicate and multiply when I am not looking?

Is that what the little holes are for?

How much Diet Coke can one person actually

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Do all of you remember when your first baby started walking? Well, maybe not walking per se, more like stumbling madly around like Gary Busey on the tail end of a long bender, barking with glee and pawing at people. Sound familiar? Yeah, I had forgotten about that phase. My oldest, at a ripe old two and a half, has long since figured out how to hop down steps and avoid grabbing pots off the stove. He's mastered the no-no spots of the house and is really good at those quick saves before his big melon goes crashing into sharp corners. Most of the time.

So for the past few months I've been thinking, "Okay, sweet, now I can actually hold a mug of hot coffee and drink it. For more than four

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The other day I received a catalog from a very recognizable brand of clothing/outdoor equipment/wealthy post-hippie adornments, and after flipping through with mild interest I came upon this atrocious display of, ahem, "fashion". Mind you, there is no child pictured here but you can bet your nuggets that this lady qualifies as a soccer mom.

Now, come on people. I realize that our foremothers have fabricated (yes, that was on purpose) a pretty awful legacy of Mom jeans and fanny packs that the rest of us now have to live down. Trust me, I remember those days. I have even worse pictures of my own mother circa 1986 with a burnt sienna perm and a McFly puffer vest, all the while sporting those

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My liver has officially put in for disability benefits and is calling it quits. Most likely, this is not because it's put in a lot of work lately, with what it's required to do filtering out the occasional glass of wine or bag of Milanos. (Did I say bag? I meant, um, "serving size"). I'm pretty sure, though, that after all the time and effort and damage exerted during my younger years, poor old Bessie has had enough. Or, at least, she's looking to move into the body of someone without two small children, someone who could handle a shot of booze if there were an active champagne cork aimed at her head, unlike yours truly.

Let's be honest, though...like this is a HUGE surprise. You hear it

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I realized the other day that perhaps my flair in the kitchen has taken a nosedive, and I don't doubt that it's the inevitable result of the "customers" that take up residence at the table. My house is basically a humorous short-order diner that serves wee little patrons with finicky appetites and anger management issues. All this is well and good as my former weekend gig as a bar wench in Boston has me well-equipped for this kind of madness and drink-throwing, but despite my endearing nostalgia for drunk Irish guys (we all love 'em), I can't shake the conviction that we really are what we eat, and eventually all four of us will turn into semi-burned chicken nuggets and buttered noodles.

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So right now I am sitting at the computer typing away. It is 8:45 A.M. I have been up for three hours, plus or minus those several baby awakenings last night for A) nightmares, B) new teeth breaking through, C) bink recovery squad, D) hunger, or E) husband snoring, mouth agape a la Elephant Man. At this point I am resisting the temptation to grab a couple toothpicks from the kitchen and prop open my eyelids like flaps on a camping tent (or maybe just stab my eyes out completely to save for later practical jokes and cheap parlor tricks). Yes, folks, it's the starting gun at the Babies Who Get Up Way Too *&#@ Early Marathon! I am a superstar competitor, after about four cups of coffee.

Okay,

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It occurred to me the other day that despite my wonderful marriage to a responsible, committed husband (who has been pre-beaten and molded by a military academy, for my convenience), I might be in imminent danger of losing him to a "girlfriend" on the side. And not some bar skank with a grown-out perm and numerous STDs that I could easily take in a fight with my Jersey heels and some large friends. Oh no...this one poses a real threat. She lives in my house, for Chrissakes. And I hate to admit it...but she's a pretty piece of you-know-what.

I speak, of course, of the 1971 Dodge Dart that's lying in the garage in pieces, like an autopsy. This is the second of what will no doubt be many cars

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If you are anything like me, you have been justifying your weekly wine consumption by touting some fuzzy facts about antioxidants and heart health, or the ever-popular "at least it's not a vodka tonic." Well, my friend, your energies have not been wasted (although you may have to adjust your version of "moderate intake" down from "an entire bottle"). Yes, I was disappointed too!
Columnist Debra Gordon of Health Magazine explains, the benefits are many. The blood vessels strengthened by a couple of glasses of Pinot improve your heart function, as we knew, and also memory and cognitive function well into your golden years. Turns out my 95 year-old neighbor with the recycling bin full of

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