The other day I got one of those email forwards – you know, one of those anonymously written messages that sometimes comes with an introductory “This made me laugh” or “So true!” from the sender. These days it’s rare that I get such an email, and it’s even more rare that I read it. But when this one appeared in my inbox, I just had to look, in that can’t-stop-watching-a-train-wreck sort of way. Its title: “Why men are never depressed.” Its first line: “Men are just happier people -- What do you expect from such simple creatures?”

I’ve learned a lot from jazz musicians, but one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is how to listen. And from that, I’ve made a life-changing discovery: that using my ears is key to finding my voice.

Oh, my electric breast pump,
My enemy, my friend.
How I yearn for but also dread
Our insecure attachment’s end.

I had my apartment professionally cleaned for the first time today. This is something I thought I would never do. Right after I gave birth, five months ago, people kept telling me earnestly, “Don’t worry about the housework. Really, it can wait.” Clearly, these people had never visited my house if they thought I was concerned about the cleaning. It’s not like I’m growing penicillin in the kitchen (as far as I know), and that skunky smell in the bathroom is from an actual skunk who sprayed outside the window last night (I swear). I’m very neat, actually, and I’m great about doing the laundry. But the dust bunnies and I have a kind of tacit agreement; it’s akin to the “fish and guests start to smell after three days” axiom, except that the dust bunnies get to stay way longer.