Sometimes I just feel like I need to write. I’m feeling that way right now. Probably what I’ll do is write a bunch of stuff that I’ll eventually delete because it’s probably not fit for public consumption. But it’s the act of writing that is cleansing. If I could sing, I would belt out an aria. If I could paint, it would be a mural. If I could write, it would be a great novel–but alas it is this here blog with its limited readership.

There is probably a better way to release the excess “energy” that seems to be bubbling inside. Exercise would certainly be more beneficial to my health. But it’s 12:15 a.m. It’s not likely that I’m going to go outside and jog. Funny thought though. Can you imagine if I did? People would a) think I’m crazy b) think I just committed a crime or c) wouldn’t bother with me because there’s no telling about a woman who goes jogging at midnight. So maybe I’m on to something. Midnight jogging. It’s dark, no one can see how out of shape you are or if you walk every other block and no one would bother with you because they’d think you were too scary for being out there in the first place. And if you just wanted to ensure that potential assailants (or neighbors) thought you were crazy you could jog in a colonial dress. I just happen to have one upstairs. Now there is an image.

So you can see why I just write.

Blog blog blog
blog blog blog
blog blog blog blog blog
oh what fun it is to blog
blog blog blog blog blog blog blog
hey!

Sorry, it was in my head had to get it out. What else is in there? Queen of Hearts by Juice Newton. I have been downloading new tunes for the past two nights so it’s no wonder there are tunes floating around my head, but I must say that neither of these was on the list. The first (Jingle Bells if you didn’t recognize the beat) just came to me. The second, it has infected my brain and won’t let go. Apparently the words are trapped in some fold of my noggin and must have been touched off by my listening of some of the other doozies from the 80’s that I’ve recently downloaded thanks to my friends Ryan and Danielle.

When was the last time you thought about:

Babe by Styx
Blue Monday by New Order
Evangeline by Matthew Sweet
Goodbye To You by Scandal
Tenderness by General Public

It’s fun to revisit old tunes. I’ve been hit with a rush of memories over some of these songs (not these in particular, but others). I’ll never hear Milli Vanilli without picturing my old roommate dancing in the middle of our favorite college hangout. Won’t hear Rob Base without a nod to an old football game date–who was always a perfect gentleman. True Faith by New Order and I’m immediately suffering the pangs of heartbreak over a certain high school boy.

Certain music, like certain smells, can bring me back to a moment in time within seconds. And the emotions all seem very fresh. I associate music with emotions as it is–even if I don’t have a memory tied to them. I probably should have made my living as a conceptual designer for music videos. Play me a song and I’ll close my eyes and have an image almost immediately. The easiest are the Sunday Night Songs. Those are the songs that recall the mood you’re in on the last Sunday night of summer when you’re laying in the dark with the only visible light being that of the red power indicator on your radio. You can’t sleep because you’ve been staying up late all summer, but you know you need to because you have to get up early in the morning. It’s sort of a lonely feeling as you’re laying there all by yourself with your only company the voice of the late night DJ. Boys of Summer is the most obvious version of the Sunday Night Song, but there are more. You Are The Everything by REM is another. And pretty much anything by Steely Dan.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been provided descriptions of myself by people who I know in varying degrees. I hadn’t solicited any of these remarks–at least directly. And none were unkind. It’s just interesting and thought-provoking to hear what about you strikes someone.

The first was one I’ve heard before–comments on my eyes. I have to say they’re probably my best asset (there aren’t many to choose from). They are blue (fading over time). I have long eyelashes to go with it, so they work. But what also has been interesting is that I also was subjected to a family photo in which my first reaction to my own image was that I don’t know why people comment on my eyes because you can’t really see them. I’ve always felt this way about photos of myself. My eyes I think are only my asset when you see me up close in person. Great, I’m a close up kind of gal. I guess that’s why I never got picked out of the crowd to go up on stage with Bono and have him serenade me. Yeah, that’s the reason.

I have a sort of intensity. Now granted this was used to describe the person I was more than a decade ago, and at that point in my life I thought I was going to change the world. So I can sort of understand it, but the person went on to describe that impression by a quality of mine I don’t think has softened with age. I tend not to suffer fools well. Now granted this is my definition of fool. And I would guess that my definitions have softened. I think, I hope that I have become a bit more understanding over time. It’s just funny, because I never would have thought of myself as intense. I love to be silly, to have fun. I don’t skulk around, wear lots of black eyeliner and only listen to The Cure (have I dated myself?). I love Disney World, dancing to 80’s music and singing at the top of my lungs.

I’m so open–to the point of being intriguing. Okay, this I know about myself. On the outside I seem very open because I’m willing to talk about things and ask questions that many others would not. What most people don’t know–or maybe they do and I’m just kidding myself–is that there is so much inside that I don’t share–at least not with the general public. Certain people see certain sides of me. And I have to admit, there is really only one or two who know the whole thing. And, I’m still amazed they love me.

Friends brought home a new dog today–a cute Labradoodle puppy. Her name is Elsa. This reminded me of Elsie the Cow of Bordon fame. Remember when gallons of milk came in big huge cartons rather than plastic jugs? I associate Bordon milk with that. Which reminds me of Sealtest milk. I think it might have been a Northeastern brand. Same with StateLine potato chips. And Charles Chips–they used to be delivered by a man and came in a big metal tin. Can you imagine a successful business of delivering potato chips to people’s homes? I don’t remember them be THAT good. My neighbors the Clarks used to get them. Mr. Clark was a State Trooper and a nurse. We had two male nurses that lived on our street. When I was little I thought it was odd that there were male nurses. My mom was a nurse and all of her co-workers who were nurses were female. Interestingly, neither of the men who were nurses were working as nurses. I wonder if they became nurses during Viet Nam. I’ll have to ask mom.

Took a drive through my old hometown last week. It was fun to see all of those places. I love both of the towns and could see myself living in either of them again. I just don’t know what I’d do for a living. I love the feel of a New England town. The town green, the one post office, the grocery store where you know the owner. When I was little, Gus DiNova the owner of the only grocery store in town saved my from rolling my mom’s car into traffic. He yelled at me because I had put the car in neutral and was rolling backwards out of the parking lot. I think he yelled because it scared him. But his yelling scared me and I cried all the way home and up into my bedroom. I thought I was in so much trouble. Turns out my mom wasn’t mad at me and now that I’m a mother I realize that she probably felt stupid for leaving my sister and I in the car unattended. But it was the 70’s. I don’t blame her. We lived in the safest little town. I went to a red schoolhouse. No need to think anything could happen.

Okay so I’ve gone from my friend’s new dog to small towns in the 70’s. Didn’t think I’d get that far in two paragraphs–though I’m sure I’m not using completely perfect structure and could probably have used a few more paragraphs.

Trying to add an entry every day again. So sometimes it’s just going to be these random thoughts.

Big day for the boys. They got to use Target gift cards. New buildings for their train set and birthday boy A got a new bike, an iPod shuffle AND a headset for his PS2. Happy, happy boys. As for me? Hair dye, shampoo for color-treated hair and oh yeah, don’t forget the South Beach bars. I think I would have prefered a bike.

Sorry Mamma readers (if there are any of you left) it’s been a while since the last post. It’s summer–what can I say. Life got busy with nothing that I can remember now, but it was busy. Oh yeah, there was a vacation/family reunion which supplied more than enough stories which are best ignored. Been considering a possible change with work–but who cares about that. And meanwhile, my house just gets dirtier each day.

I’d love to be one of those people who kept a perfect house–okay I’d settle for neat. I’ve never been good at neat. I get too overwhelmed and just don’t know where to begin. And if I manage to get one place in order, it all just goes to pot within days. Don’t get me wrong. I like order. I like a clean house, ironed clothes, being able to find things instantly. It’s just that I can’t seem to organize myself in that way. Now at work, I’m neat. Papers are filed, desk is relatively neat, plants are watered. I think it’s because there isn’t too much there to get out of order. The job of maintaining order doesn’t seem overwhelming. But in my house? My bedroom? It’s not pretty. I truly hate this fact about myself. So you’d think I’d do something about it. But I HATE to clean. I’d much rather spend my time doing about a million other things. Like what?

Here’s just a short list:

• reading
• playing with my kids
• relaxing, gardening
• shopping
• surfing the web
• watching TV
• seeing a movie
• visiting with friends
• getting a pedicure
• going to the dentist
• getting a pap smear

You get the point? I need help!! I’ve tried Fly Lady (too much email), books (they’re just cluttering my shelves), my mom (I can’t take the disappointment). Anyone have any good ideas? That don’t involve hiring someone? Right now that’s a discussion with my dh that is going nowhere!!!

Okay, I promise more entries. I just haven’t felt very witty and haven’t wanted to make anyone suffer through my boring observations. Well, there have been a few chucklers, but you all might think I’ve gone off the deep end if I really shared them.

I just put it together today that my co-worker, someone I consider a colleague, was born when I was a freshman in highschool. If he had lived in my neighborhood, I would have been his babysitter. In just a few more years that means I will be working with people I could have given birth to. OH MY GOD!!

I didn’t think I had an age thing. I don’t feel old on the inside. But this has thrown me for a bit of a loop. This same co-worker remarked at my wedding picture the other day that I looked “sooo young” in it. Well, that was only seven years ago. There is probably more resemblance between how I looked in my college ID and that wedding photo than there is between that wedding photo and me today. What have I taken away from this? That I NEED to get the outside of me to look more like the person I feel like on the inside.

Now I’m not talking about plastic surgery (at least not yet–I mean who wouldn’t love their boobs to be where they were before children?). I mean that I need to get in shape, to lose more weight. I think being heavier makes me look older. Or maybe it’s the massive lack of selfish sleep you get to have before you have a family–that does it too. I don’t know. It’s probably a good thing that I figured this out now. I’ve been off my fairly successful new eating regime for a few weeks and I needed something to kick my ass into getting back to it.

My problem is that I just love food so much. I love being in the middle of an oreo cookie milk shake. You know when you still have about half left, so you can carelessly enjoy each sip before you begin to realize there are only a few sips left and it would be just too gluttonous to order a second? Hmmm…I think I have a problem with food. I love it too much.

How many rockin’ moms are there? I mean real rock stars who are also moms. I immediately think of Pat Benetar, and Shawn Colvin but no one else comes to mind. Does Joan Jett have kids? One of the thoughts I had of looking up these bios is whether or not male rock stars bother to list their children on their bios–but I digress (indeed further research shows at least Mick Jagger with a reference to his children on his website).

Anyway, I bring up the rock star mom because I’m wondering if I’m too old to be a rock star. I mean completely ignoring the fact that my voice can curdle milk, it would be cool to be a singer. I prentend to be one in the car when I’m driving by myself. On long trips to college I would belt out the soundtrack to Evita until I lost my voice. What else could one do while driving hours on straight, flat, pine tree-lined roads with no decent radio station around?!

This hitting 36 has started me thinking about things I’m getting too old to be. Which is a problem because I haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up yet. I guess if I keep holding off the decision I’ll be limited by shear age constraints. The problem is that I don’t feel that old. Most days I still harbor many of the same insecurities I did as a teenager–though I think I’ve developed a better sense of humor about most of them. What other choice do I have?

I’d love to have some driving desire to be something. I wish I was one of those folks who knew what they were going to do since their sandbox days. Me? Not so much.

For a woman of questionable faith, I certainly have developed strong faith in the concept that some day I will just get hit with an idea. Interesting irony that I will have to consider later.

It’s my sister’s birthday today. She’s thirty-four, and she’ll always be the baby!

So I had this completely random thought as I drove to work this morning–please, tell me I’m not the only one.

Maybe Freud was on to something. Do you think that our genetic programming to be hunters or gatherers has something to do with the type of sexual organs we’re born with? It makes sense for guys…they are looking around for things to spear. But what does that say about women? Maybe the whole monogomy thing isn’t what we’re supposed to doing. Maybe we’re supposed to be out there gathering. Though even with one man we are of course still gathing–those sperm are just so damn tiny. God is cruel.

Just a peak into the crazy thoughts that flow in and out of my head throughout the day. Scary huh?

Lately my two year-old has started ennunciating p’s at the end of yep and nope. The usual yes and no are now delivered with a decidedly strong ending. I love it! I love the way it sounds and I thought I better write about it here so I won’t forget it. It’s so true that you think you’ll remember everything cute and funny that they do, but you don’t. Thinking about this newest sound made me think about the other sounds they make that I love–and some that I could live without.

Their laughter. I know, it’s trite. But there is nothing like the sound of a true belly laugh, the unselfconscious enjoyment of life that comes from deep down. Typically I find that it accompanies an activity that I prefer they not engage in, but the laughter makes up for it.

Talking in their sleep. How cute are those little words you hear at night? Every once in a while I’ll hear another language from our four year-old as he is speaking Farsi during at daycare. That is even cooler!

Interacting with their siblings. Okay, there is a lot of room here for noises and sounds I would never want to hear again, but I do so enjoy hearing them have a real conversation with each other. Especially the little guys because it always seems like such an adult behavior for such little people.

Crying. This one I obviously hate. Everyone was tired tonight because they missed their naps. Our littlest guy wanted a story before bed, but it was just too late. He cried to the point of coughing, screaming for a story. I knew I wouldn’t teach him anything good by giving in, so I had to wait out the cry. I’m sure I’m not the only mom whose heart breaks at this sound. I didn’t want him to be sad. I wanted to fix it, but I knew in the long run it would only make matters worse. I hate the sound of their crying because I don’t want them to be in pain, to be sad. I guess that’s part of being a mom.

I’m sure I’m missing other sounds. Please leave a comment and tell me the ones you love and the ones you hate.