It Was a Date, at Night

David and I went out the other night on what many of us crotchety, weather-beaten, tired, thirty-something-with-kids types like to call “date night.” I refuse to call it a date night, because no matter how I look in this avocado-smeared t-shirt, I’m cool, man. And 

Because Tin is Stupid

When David and I traveled to Ireland many, many years ago, right at the beginning of our marriage, we went with our family to Sligo, in the northeast part of the country, where one of my most favorite poets was buried. Because, you know, it’s 

Happy Birthday, David

Almost ten years ago, I fell down the stairs at our wedding.  Well, not the wedding itself, but afterward.  We held our reception in Baltimore at Westminster Hall, a vacant Presbyterian Church some wise people thought would look good spiffied up and turned into an 

Gosling Wouldn’t be That Bad

When we first found out we were baking another extra-large bun in this not-so big oven (helloooo, c-section!), I started calling the entity in my belly “B3.” I liked it. The kiddos’ last name starts with B, so it makes sense. And it sounded cool, 

Because A Little Navel-Gazing Never Hurt Anybody

I painted the girls’ nails the other day.  No, not with some chemical-free, child-safe stuff I specially bought just for my daughters’ impromptu mani-pedi days.  You think we play nail salon that often around here?  Nah, this was some old OPI–I think “You’re a Pisa 

And Many More

It’s David’s birthday today, which means that he turns the same age I did three and a half years ago.  Sweet kid, my husband. I’ve told him before that I think he was insane for marrying me at the age he did–he was only 23 

Death by Guacamole

Six years ago, David and I were looking to buy a house that would become our first home–the very one from which I write to you today. It was such a miserable process that frankly I’m not surprised we’re not a) living in separate residences, 

And a Healthy New Year, Of Course (or, Who You Calling a Ho?)

We had so much food.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  It wasn’t Christmas dinner.  It was the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.  There was crostini with roasted tomatoes and mozzarella, and the best pepper dip this side of Harry & David.  There was turkey,