I wonder if other people get as excited about second hand leather jackets bought at stoop sales as I do. Twenty for the jacket and a few extra bucks for a couple of super cool fall/winter caps and I'm all aglow with joy, filled with enough goodness to last the rest of the day.

Plus I have enough diapers and wipes to last the next ninety days, a backup deodorant stick for me and a fully stocked fridge (including 24 ice cream sandwiches in the freezer) so I'm feeling pretty full of it right now.

It's funny how often I let things wane and then wallow in my own self-propelled deprivation. When in the groove of life, when it's all about flow, it's seems so ludicrous to let household supplies diminish, to let caffeine and sugar run my life instead of going running to stay fit and get mentally energized. But it happens. All the time.

Days like today inform me that there is a better way. Just like reading daily affirmations, it keeps me moving in the right direction. It allows me to quiet down just enough, settle into this chair at my writing desk to give it go, take those ten minutes to write as I've promised myself over and over again I would do. Most of the time though just as my ass is about to hit the cushion, the sock drawer begins hollering that it must be rearranged or suddenly the handwashables need to be attended to right this very minute. But today, for right now, here I am. Doing the work that I want to do rather than having my life be dictated to me by....who? Well, by me. But the School Marm, me. Not the gentle love-thyself me. Today it's all about loving myself and my brand new second-hand beaten up brown leather jacket.

And I just showered, gave myself a manicure, I'm drinking an ice cold Red Stripe on a Sunday afternoon. All while the wee girls naps in the next room.

Now this is what I call a perfect day.

The Perfect Mate

The other day I was dining with three friends, two of whom are single and looking. The inevitable topic of finding The Right Guy brought out some of our beliefs about love. One woman, Hermione*, said that she'd rather be alone than settle on something less than perfect. Another woman, Magdalena, chimed in that you just need to find the person who is perfect for you. At this point, I voiced my opinion that I actually don't believe it works that way. That perfect simply does not exist. At which point the third friend who is married, Lilith*, said something like "Yeah, remember I was just saying how I wanted to rip Peter's friggin' head off the other day, he's driving me out of my mind!"

I think that often it comes down to the sort of person you are: tolerability, adaptability, willingness to compromise and your commitment to working at it for the rest of your life. If forever is what you are aiming for anyway.

How deep your commitment is to a person and to the institution of marriage will determine longevity. I'm not breaking any new ground here and yet I'm truly surprised by the number of women in this city who keep looking and looking for Mr. Perfect (no longer Mr. Right) and finding themselves consistently disappointed.

The more I look at my own relationship (together total of 12 years, married 5) I see that it comes down to a few things: Laughing, Talking, Crying, Listening, Compromising. And not necessarily in that order.

You simply find someone who complements you, who you laugh with, can cry with, and who doesn't get on your nerves the majority of the time.

*Ordinary names changed to make it a more interesting read

The Non-Walking, Creeper Crawler

My nearly 14-month-old is still not walking but she's creepy crawling all over the place. That's what my husband and I call her movement style. Sophia kind of looks like Igor, one knee down as she drags the other straightened leg along, jettisoning across the hardwood floor. A master cruiser, she is actually rather graceful despite the Igor reference, moving from coffee table to sofa, crawling along the floor and then over to a chair and up, up, up into my arms. She's super fast and often appears right under foot when I'm at the kitchen sink when just moments before I saw her clear across the living room. Quick and quiet. Except of course when she's yammering on about one thing or another. We assign all sorts of topics that she's enjoys speaking about, pretending she's made a fascinating point about the Obama campaign or about a classical piece of music we're listening to.

I Am A Writer

OK, albeit not a published one.

But I'm a writer.

Can millions of believers in The Secret be wrong?

So what the hell? I'll just go out on a limb (hey no one actually reads this blog anyway so in fact it's not all that risky)

I'm a writer. I'm a published, successful, happy, fulfilled, financially-abundant writer.

There, I said it. Typed it, at least.

So Universe, I'm ready now.

You can go ahead now and summon the Agents.

And bring on the Publishers.

And let us not forget about the zillions of Loyal Readers of my blog and soon-to-be published stories.

Or wait, I think I'm supposed to say it as though it has already been published, right? (Shit, if that's the case then I better start writing)

Yes, that's right, I remember now. It's all about using the present tense. To think, speak, act as though whatever I desire is happening right this instant.

Let's try this again.

Thank you, Oh Wonderful Universe, for the millions of dollars I'm making as a writer.

Right now.

Thanks for the loyal following of so many readers, the countless lives I've impacted with my prose, for helping me to make this world a little bit brighter.

And with all this financial abundance, I'm buying my dream farmhouse up in the mountains right this very second. As I'm signing the contract, simultaneously I'm also signing autographs at the local Barnes & Noble for my latest brilliant book of short stories. I've already closed on my summer home in Greece and currently spend three months each year on Santorini except of course when I'm on location elsewhere for the film I've written, directed and produced.

Wow, I really love you, Sweet Universe. You are very kind and generous. I think I've really gotten the hang of this whole Secret thing.

And I'm really, really psyched to be booked on the Oprah show.

So thanks, Universe.

I won't let you down.

The small print: The thoughts expressed in this piece are strictly those of the author and have not been endorsed by The Universe.

Ode to the O (For Parents Only)

Oh, dearest O

I knew the day would come

I just didn't think it would be this soon

So long, dear beautiful Cheerio

The first love of my daughter's young life

Oh how she once loved you so

You won't be forgotten

What I Won't Miss About City Living

• Hoarding quarters for laundry
• Alternate side of the street parking
• "Sorry, Ladies & Gentlemen. We're being held in the station due to a Sick Passenger."
• City supermarket shopping with a one-year-old (no car, no shopping cart)
• Having a teeny tiny bathroom (with no window) no matter what size my apartment is
• Manuevering a stroller down subway stairways and through turnstiles
• The smelly, scary, insane guy with a kitten tucked into his filthy army jacket barking about the war, abortion, taxes, how he's being followed and would all of us crazy fucking people on the C train just shut the fuck up, he's not crazy, we're the crazy ones

Not Playing Around

I have an extremely low tolerance for forced relationships. Does it make me totally shallow to admit that I thoroughly enjoy and cherish super easy friendships? Maybe it's because I've had various difficult personalites to deal with in my life (read: family) that it has led me to feel so strongly about those friendships that happen naturally and effortlessly. Those people with whom I feel I can totally be my silly, sappy, ridiculously emotional and raw self. The special peeps in my orbit who every single time I get together with them there is such raucous laughter, prolonged witty banter which no one else quite gets, and such honest-to-goodness great fun that it could be days later when I'm riding on the C train and I smile to myself, already reminiscing about our last get together and how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends. Ahhh, if only everyone I knew could offer such richness to my life (and I to theirs, of course. Two way street and all).

So it should come as no surprise that playgroups are fairly high on my hate-to-do list. Not that anyone in particular has a gun to my head but somehow I feel the pressure to attend. Not often, but sometimes. Despite being armed with the simple truth that playgroups suck in my humble opinion, there are times when that little thing called Mother Guilt comes a-banging on my door, and I feel I must answer her call.

The next thing you know I'm bundling up my poor girl and trudging over to go to a playgroup at some random person's house (from a posting on a local parents message board for an open playgroup that afternoon) who I don't know and probably won't like very much. I don't mean to be harsh but as time passes and seems to actually speed up as I'm advancing in age, time is my most valuable commodity and so whom I choose to spend my time with is of utmost importance. Why then would I ever actually choose to sit crossed-legged on the floor of some strangers' house, not being offered a morsel of food or a drop of water, rather than visit with a cherished single friend or have another visit with dear old Grandma? Mostly I blame those damn parent magazines that get me reeling in the first place, all those stories and blurbs specifically designed to make you feel guilty and inferior at every turn. Seriously, my kid eats organic food much of the time, never watches TV, has jazz and classical music playing softly in the background every day and yet still there might be the simplest little line in a magazine about the importance of interacting with other tiny people of similar age and it will get me thinking that somehow my child is not being properly socialized and it's all my fault. Because honestly, when you think about it, how long can a reasonable person continue to delude herself that staying at home all day with her thirteen-month-old, dancing our asses off to Confessions on a Dance Floor (I love you, Madonna) can somehow pass for one of those fancy Music & Me classes?

So every once in a great blue moon, I find myself smack in the middle of a mommy playgroup with a bunch of random mothers and babies of varying ages, when a wave of recognition floods over me that yes indeed these groups really do suck. They're no fun for anyone including my thirteen-month-old daughter whose only desire is to press down on a four-month-old's head just because his face is funny or squishy and feels nice or whatever her reasoning is. And she's totally bummed that I'm stopping her. I swear that I've seen a passing look on her face that says something like "Mom, please. Let's get outta here, head on back home to Madonna dancing and call it day. This party stinks and you know it." (I realize this might seem implausible since she's so young but if my girl is anything she's super expressive.) It's either that, or I spend way too much time alone, lacking sufficient adult interaction thereby having to resort to projecting greater meaning onto my toddler's simplest mannerisms.

So anyway, back to the playgroup. Just as I'm politely waiting for a lull in the forced conversation, silently concocting my escape plan, there inevitably comes that moment when one of the moms makes a seemingly innocuous comment. Perhaps it's a newbie Mom, an innocent who truly doesn't know any better, but singlehandedly she cracks open the seal, the floodgates burst forth and spill all over the parquet living room floor.

What I'm talking about is when one mom comes out with a doozy like "I dunno, I just feel so, um, inadequate sometimes....like, why can't I get little Caleb-Cody-Dashiell-Whoever to sleep and my husband can? I mean, I'm his Mom and I just feel so, uh, like I should be able to do it, like what's wrong with me?" And then like a pack of wild hyenas who have just found their prey, all the others join in, clawing and gnawing away with all sorts of deep confessions and/or rantings. And no matter where the conversation started, it could have been about solving sleep issues or how to switch to a sippy cup, eventually it comes to this: "And geez, what ever happened to having a sex life, right ladies?" A collective ha-ha-ha. As if it's not bad enough that I'm not getting any at home, but I'm supposed to now laugh it off with a bunch of other sex-starved, sleep-deprived mommies. Mental note to self: Cancel Parents magazine. And New Year Resolution #1: No More Playgroups in 2008.

I suppose all of these true confessions come forth as an effort to feel connected with Moms Like Me. But really it only serves to push me further away and I just want to high tail it out of there, buy a large pizza and a tub of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream and go gorge myself. Anything would be better than having to have the I'm So Uncertain of My Mothering Skills talk. I just hate it. And I'm not very good at when it really comes down to it. This of course now leads me to my dirty little secret. The one that I've secretly held even while my girl Ol' Soph was still in utero. Perhaps it's the only thing that I truly know for sure about myself.

I'm a damn good mom. Period.

What?! Did I just say that outloud (well, type it)? I know what you're thinking. But really, I think I'm pretty darn good at what I do. In fact, no job I've ever had in my whole life has ever suited my skill set better than being a Mom. Plus I love my boss, she's super cool and funny and really smart and kind of kooky but in a good way and...well, I could go on and on about her but I digress. Back to my original point here, which is that I really love my job and I think I do it very well. I realize that this is such blasphemy to be so certain and secure in this age of inappropriate confessions on television and questioning every single move we make as parents, but it's just how I feel.

Lest you think that the author here has a split personality, I think most parents would agree that even the most secure among us has her moments of weakness, when doubt comes creeping on in, an uninvited guest but there he is. I'm wondering now if perhaps what I need is a Playgroup Sponsor, someone to call when I'm feeling particularly weak and might resort to using. Someone who will listen to my yearnings (But Sophia needs interaction with other children her age) and then gently remind me that there's another way: Honey, go live your life. Meet a friend. Go out for a cup of coffee. Hell, meet a friend for a cup of coffee. Take a walk. Go shopping. Visit the library, the zoo, a museum, you know do whatever you like to do.

Finally, along these lines, I heard an acquaintance once say that you don't have to sucuumb to only baby-friendly activities once you have a kid. In fact, he said, you just bring the wee one into the fold. That's right, just fold them right into your life. Now, that's more like it.