It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction.
‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it.
And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking.
Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever.
Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.
So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously …Read on

My first true archenemy was neon yellow. Spikes of felt ran down his spine boasting a treacherous array of rainbow colors. This enemy was quite compact. Tiny, in fact. When caught off-guard, he could fit in the palm of my hand. And when I shook him, he jingled. My only justification for that would be that in his last ruthless battle against Good he swallowed Santa and his reindeer whole and all that was left was their sleigh bell jingle. You’d think I’d encountered this menacing fellow as a child, but my enemy and I met when I was an adult on a long Tuesday when my first child was born.This coming Saturday will mark nine years since that day in battlefield with my neon yellow dinosaur (aka, The Birthing Focal Point) and …Read on

Addictions are usually secretive, quiet issues of denial. In my case, it is quite the opposite- a blatant, loud, blusterous announcement: an attack, if you will, upon the doomed many that cross my path in the kitchen. I am out. I am open. I am proud. And yes, I am addicted to vanilla.There are many things that feed my addiction. To begin with, there is the packaging which offers a dizzying array of sizes, from mega-sized containers of pure vanilla gloating proudly from the aisles at suburban superstores to the tiny apothecary-looking glass bottles whose subtle clinking sound as it taps against my mixing bowl brings me back to an unknown era where everyone knew each other’s names and 24/7 was only a tasteless joke on the concept of time and leisure. …Read on