I just took a look at this blog’s homepage and realized that, first of all, I haven’t written in a while and, second of all, recent posts make it look like I’m waaaaayyy into taking pictures of dogs in costumes. Let’s face it, I am into that, but it’s not like my life’s passion or anything. It could be when I’m retired, I can see that, but I’m 31 for Christ’s sake.

Moving on.

1. I am so excited about the holidays this year. Much more excited than last year, much. I don’t know if it’s because Nora was so young last year, and I was a tired new mom or what, but I can barely contain my giddiness lately. A few people in my neighborhood have already put up the lawn decor and bright lights and I’m all, “Awesome! BRING IT!”

2. There’s not a war on Christmas, guys. Please calm down.

3. I’m equally curious and worried about how much turkey Nora is going to eat on Thanksgiving. She loves turkey and when she sees an entire turkey and realizes that the food comes in whole form (in addition to simply deli meat) she’s going to freak out. Hopefully everyone around the table will find this funny.

4. Fine. I admit it. We’re totally into “The Biggest Loser” and I don’t know how it happened. I also think someone should invent a drinking game where you chug every time someone cries on that show. Although that sounds a little cruel and could definitely result in alcohol poisoning.

5. My father, who obviously knows how to make me happy, sent me some French wine the other day. I’ve been trying to “get into” French wine for a very long time now to no avail, but the time is now, I’ve decided. Wine club, anyone?

I’ve been listening to the song “Daylight” by Matt and Kim a bunch on my iPod while I’m running and, yeah, I know that probably everybody who heard that song played in the ads for the NBC show “Community” downloaded it, and that it’s not cool or novel to like it so much, but I can’t help myself. Catchy, upbeat music has been where it’s at for me the past few months, and while I’m merely inching forward - slowly - in my quest to find worthwhile new music, I am, indeed, inching.

The song has the added bonus of causing me to, happily, think of Joel McHale (despite the fact that I don’t really like “Community” and am glad he’s still got “The Soup”), who I am a little bit in love with, and before you go saying anything, J, need I remind you of the adoration heaped upon a certain business and finance reporter every single weekday morning?

This morning J and I spent a little time working together in a coffee shop we’ve grown to like a lot. For J, working was analyzing a huge screen of complicated numbers, and for me, it was chatting with friends online. Which could totally lead to employment, who knows, right? Leave me alone.

We like this coffee shop because it’s low key and comfortable and there’s always somewhere to sit. They have free wireless and don’t mind if you hang out for a few hours. An added bonus is that they play music that would make you swear you’re back in middle school. And I’m pretty sure they’re not doing it to be ironic. “Here Comes the Hotstepper” by Ini Kamoze. “Kiss From a Rose” by Seal.

This morning’s no exception and we were lucky enough to catch “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips and, of course, I thought about my very favorite memory of that song, and other memories that are warming my heart on this cold morning. My old bedroom, diaries and horseback riding. The best friends I’ve ever had (and am lucky enough to have, still). New notebooks bought at summer’s end and dinner with my family every night. Not being too cool for the pop music station - listening to commercial radio at all - and school dances and passed notes. Frosty mornings in carpool, listening to morning show DJs debate pressing issues, occasional stops at McDonald’s for cinnamon rolls and always, always being late for school.

This morning, as I was playing with Nora on the floor, I looked over to see that Mina (our 10-pound Miniature Pinscher/Pomeranian mix) was finishing off my coffee. Instead of reacting - getting angry or laughing or anything - I just sighed and said “whatever” and went on with things. Maybe she needed the coffee for the long day of business meetings she had planned, I don’t know.

Poor Mina used to be kind of a superstar.

She’d often brighten our day with her antics, which were as hilarious as they were maddening. Like the time she ate her weight in taco meat. Or how she’d hide a bunch of granola bars in the laundry basket in case of a global emergency or something. Sometimes my love for her bordered on abusive, like when I’d dress her up in a purple velour track suit, but my love was, no doubt, strong and steady.

Since the baby, Mina’s been relegated to less than royal status, understandably. I knew that once Nora was born, the dogs would take a hit, although only a small one, as they will always be an important part of our lives. But over a year later I’m sad to say that I think their quality of life has decreased more than I wanted. It’s not that I’m worried about them. They’re healthy, have routine medical care, eat well and sleep on soft dog beds. They chase squirrels and go for walks by the water. It’s just that I know they need a little more. They need a few more walks and a lot more pats on the head.

Cecilia (our 75-pound pit bull mix) has taken well to Nora’s arrival, treating her as she would anybody, as in the dog cannot possibly shower our child with enough affection. Ceece’s love runs so deep that I think, if she could, she’d read Nora stories and put her to bed at night. Since she can’t, she licks her from head to toe when we’re not looking.

Here’s Cecilia with her favorite Labradoodle:

Mina, however, consistently looks at me as though to ask, “This baby is fine, I guess, but when the hell is this charade over?” Her spirit has been slightly squashed and needs reviving.

So I thought I’d pose the question to you, my readers, and ask how you, those with children and without, have fun with your pets. I need a little kickstart to our dog renaissance, and I need a little prodding to take Nora and the dogs on walks together again, despite the circus, and stream of expletives, that ensues. Comments please!

Last week Nora and I took the train down to D.C. to visit my parents for a couple of days (sorry D.C.ers for not getting in touch! it was a really quick trip). Nora and I have made several long-distance trips together, so I wasn’t too worried about traveling alone with her, although I knew it wouldn’t be a piece of cake or anything. Nora isn’t walking yet but she certainly doesn’t like to sit still as much as she used to; our super-easy flight to Rome is a distant, glorious memory.

I want to diverge from the subject for a moment to talk about the guilt that I sometimes succumb to as a mother - the guilt that I think many mothers feel, despite the fact that they should not. The guilt I felt, for instance, when I dropped Nora off at daycare this morning, where a few kids were coughing. And what if she gets the Swine Flu?!? It would be all my fault! Because she could have stayed home with me! Even though I actually do have some work to do today (for once) and even though I know she loves daycare and it is beneficial for her in many ways! Still! Worst mom ever?!?

Jesus Christ. I feel like smacking people when they get like this, and yet…I’m not immune. It’s bullshit, pure and simple. However, these feelings of guilt play a part in this story because on my way to catch the train last week, with stroller and duffel in hand, I stopped to get a cup of coffee, as I hadn’t had any yet that morning.

Guys, I needed that coffee. I mean, if there’s one person in the world who needs a coffee, it’s a mom, especially a mom who’s about to travel five-and-a-half-hours by train with her child who may or may not be (read: definitely IS) in a minor tantrum-throwing phase. Yeah, I guess I could have waited, gotten settled on the train and then bought a coffee in the cafe car, but you know what would have happened by that point? I would have died from caffeine deficiency.

The point is that I got on the train already feeling bad because I was wheeling my stroller one-handed with a duffel bag over one shoulder, holding a cup of hot coffee. Now, I’ve become skilled at this sort of thing. I can wheel that stroller around 90 degree turns while drinking coffee, talking on the phone and walking my two dogs. You know, sort of. Still, to the untrained eye, I’m sure I looked a little overwhelmed.

So I get on the train with my hands full and proceed to look for a seat, which required walking through several cars. Unfortunately, one of the cars was the Quiet Car.

I just Googled “Amtrak Quiet Car” in an attempt to find a definition, and instead found that many have shared their thoughts on the subject with the Internet. Check it out.

The Quiet Car is self-explanatory. You’re not supposed to talk loudly or use your cell phone. I’ve always thought this was a fine idea, until - and here I diverge briefly again - my father’s recent experience on Amtrak. He and my mother, traveling to New York, sat down in the Quiet Car by accident, and my father proceeded to talk on his phone en route. Then, naturally, the inevitable happened in the form of a gentleman who leaned over and said, in a snide voice, according to my father, “Excuse me. Don’t you know this is the Quiet Car?”

My father, always easygoing except when confronted with - to put it plainly - total jerks, replied, “Thank you for telling us. And, by the way, I could do without the attitude.”

Guess what happened next. No, guess. They exchanged more words. Emotions escalated. And…they almost got into a FIGHT. Like, fisticuffs. Seriously.

Right. Um, do you know my dad?

He’s a peace loving guy. Which drives the point home even more:

People who ride the Quiet Car are assholes.

Well, for the most part. My mom claims she had to hold my father back - hold him back! - and that eventually both men calmed down. The Quiet dude got off in Philly, and everything was fine.

In this guy’s defense, my dad was talking loudly on his cell phone. Annoying, I’m sure, but I think a gentle reminder would have done, since my parents - honestly - didn’t realize they were being offensive.

Back to my train ride.

So I had to walk through the Quiet Car to get to less-populated train cars in the back. The guilt reared again. Not only was I carrying coffee and a duffel bag while navigating the narrow aisles of a D.C.-bound train, but if I had realized where the Quiet Car was, I would have entered through a different door. I would have skipped it altogether! Hell, I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. I was already bringing a 13-month-old on a train. For five-and-a-half hours! I was all about charming my fellow passengers into loving my rosy-cheeked, teething-biscuit-covered child. She’s getting her molars and SHE IS DELIGHTFUL!

Anyway, we’re walking through the Quiet Car and I’m pretty much tiptoeing, no joke, because people are sleeping and, no doubt, enjoying their noise-free train experience. There’s a bit of a bottleneck up ahead and, right there, smack in the middle of the Quiet Car, Nora decides to engage in a rowdy bout of whining, that most likely translated into something like “Why is it so quiet in this train car, I HATE IT.”

A few heads turned, although most people chose to close their eyes and ignore us, praying for our quick passage. There was one woman, though, who couldn’t resist dishing out a little judgment, and this woman, who was reclined in her seat and apparently in the middle of a nice nap before we showed up, looked at me then looked at Nora, crinkled her face into a grimace and sighed loudly, although she simply couldn’t believe our audacity. Who the hell did we think we were whining in the Quiet Car?

I am my father’s peace-loving daughter, except, it turns out, when some Quiet Car junkie dares give my daughter a dirty look. How the hell does she know what getting your molars feels like? Her gesture was subtle, but I am almost ashamed to say that I nearly reared back and smacked her.

Almost ashamed, but not quite.

My anger subsided as my bag lightened, and I looked back to discover that a kind middle-aged man had taken it gently from my shoulder, with a, “Let me help you, you’ve got your hands full. I remember those days.” He carried my bag through three cars until we found a seat, and helpfully placed it in the luggage rack. I was incredibly grateful.

We settled in for a rather tiring train ride and I reflected on the two strangers. And on myself, not quite ashamed, because you know what? Maybe my dad should have punched that guy, and maybe I should have smacked that woman.

But instead of making the local news, perhaps better that I came to the conclusion I mentioned earlier, plus a few more. Most people who ride the Quiet Car are assholes. But there are a lot of good people in the world.

Most of all, no parent should have to hold their breath as they worry about that their teething baby might wake up a fellow train passenger, who, I’m willing to bet, didn’t really need the nap in the first place.

And a mother, who will spend that train ride getting cookies shoved down her shirt, and probably could use a few minutes of shut-eye, should get coffee any damn time she wants.

Last night J set up the iCal application on my laptop so that when I opened it up this morning my week was laid before me in startling clarity. This development is a far cry from the pen-and-paper date-keeping method I’ve been utilizing for many years with a decorative datebook, which, by the way, I lose every other day. Sometimes every day. And then I have to email J and ask him, “Have you seen my datebook? I could have sworn it was on the computer desk upstairs.” I find it three days later and realize I’ve forgotten to take the dog to the vet. So I make another appointment, write it down in my datebook, lose my datebook, and forget to take her a second time. No, that really happened.

J, who tends to be a little more organized than me, even entered in A.M. runs three times a week so that he and I would both know they were coming up, and he’d be prepared to watch Nora that morning and I’d lay my exercise clothes out in advance (anticipating the fact that, while I love a long morning run, the thought of it is, at first, daunting, and having the proper attire there staring me in the face is a helpful incentive). This is exactly the level of organization I tend to avoid vehemently, saying things like, “You don’t put ‘running’ down in your datebook, you just do it.” But I’m looking forward to checking out the results of such insanity (common sense). Another plus, I’m far less likely to lose my laptop. Ok, slightly less likely.