the broken junk drawer

After the hospice benefit

2008-10-15T23:00:00.006-04:00

A return to blogging, borne of the need to divest myself of thought.

See, I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.

I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. Completely sick of thinking about democrat vs republican, bailout bills, out-of-control spending, abortion rights, an unpopular war and an economy that threatens to drift back into the 1930s. I am so tired of trying to figure out college financing, home budgets, career decisions. Should I vote this way or that? What do I do with seething anger over the economic crisis? How can I convey to my kids the enormity of the debt they are undertaking in getting through college? How do I rail against a system that has crushed the middle class, without taking responsibility and initiative?

But, the benefit reminds me that we all will die someday, no matter how much we own, what party we lean toward, which career path we take. In the face of death, all else becomes irrelevant. Small. Well, almost everything.

As I just now settled in to ponder all this on a warm couch manned -- er, beagled -- by an even warmer dog, I was grateful to retreat from it all with my animals. I can come home from the world and pet the birds, and they don't care what my politics are as long as I'm here and I hit the right spot just above the beak. My dogs will curl up in the bend of my knee backs, contentedly oblivious to my status and my ability to buy a better blanket with which to cover us. My Lab was happy today simply to splash in the cool water of an autumn lake, cheerily retrieving sticks regardless of apparent agenda; she cares only that she is not separated from those she loves. My animals eat when they're hungry, bark when they feel protective, go outside with their excretions and always, always show love when they feel it.

I want to live so simply. But my humanness won't let me. That is why I share my life with animals and why -- as I did tonight -- I drink wine with people I love whenever possible, especially when it can benefit others, too.

She's home

2007-11-18T17:23:00.001-05:00

I have a daughter to whom the world just opened itself.

See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.

She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.

In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.

When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.

She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.

Educational disconnect

2007-11-03T20:16:00.000-04:00

Here's an intriguing, thought-provoking piece on the daily lives of college students. Based on what I'm seeing with my high school senior and sophomore, I'm guessing it's dead on -- except for college debt, which I gotta believe will exceed $20k for most students. (I'm still thinking about the video, but the first question it makes me ask is, how have we, in such a "connected" world, become so disconnected?):

Stating the obvious

2007-10-31T00:45:00.000-04:00

As any good writer will tell you: It's always better to show than to say.

*If you don't get what I mean, you'd best not apply for the job ;-).

Where I've been

2007-10-06T10:14:00.000-04:00

No, not "where I've been while not blogging" (hey, summer is a busy busy time around here!) but a map of the states I've visited. Fun to see my travels represented graphically -- and to see where I've yet to go ;-).

Get your map here.

Secret posts

2007-03-25T16:38:00.000-04:00

If it's true and you've never told anyone about it, put it on a postcard and send it to Post Secrets.

In any case, go see what others have posted. It's a must-see!

Today's inspiration

2007-03-12T21:41:00.000-04:00

"To live content with small means;
to seek elegance rather than luxury,
and refinement rather than fashion;
to be worthy, not respectable,
and wealthy, not rich;
to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart;
to study hard;
to think quietly,
act frankly,
talk gently,
await occasions,
hurry never;
in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.

This is my symphony."

-- William Henry Channing

Dopa-me

2007-03-03T00:15:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I watched Awakenings, an amazing 1990 movie starring Robin Williams and Robert DiNiro. It's a true story about a psychiatrist, Dr. Malcom Sayer, who sensed the humanity locked inside his catatonic patients...and in 1969 discovered that they responded to l-dopamine -- and "awoke." Sadly, the drug failed over time, and the lucid periods didn't last.

The brilliance of the movie lay in the parallel drawn between the "insane" and the sane -- and the contrast between appreciation and complacency. It leaves me to question who is really sick here: the patients who, upon awakening, marvel at every little miracle that graces every single one of each of our days...or the rest of us, who take it all for granted. Sure, every now and then we all wake up and realize how wonderful life really is -- but it seems we all go to sleep again, becoming oblivious to the miracle of common things.

Toward the film's end, the doctor addresses his colleagues:

"What we do know is that, as the chemical window closed, another awakening took place; that the human spirit is more powerful than any drug -- and THAT is what needs to be nourished: with work, play, friendship, family. THESE are the things that matter. This is what we'd forgotten -- the simplest things."

I've been feeling dreary lately, and I think maybe I need to wake up again.

Gender error?

2007-02-22T13:33:00.000-05:00

So I signed up for free haircare samples from Sunsilk, but not without a glitch.

After I clicked "submit," I got the following message:

Please correct the following error:

- Invalid Gender

Click here to correct any errors.

I wonder what errors they can correct? This must be good stuff.

Citrus mysteries

2007-02-08T00:22:00.000-05:00

Making mixed drinks last summer, I discovered something quite curious.

Lemon slices float, while lime slices do not.

I don't know why.

Life in a sensory deprivation tank

2007-02-04T19:33:00.000-05:00

True, a fresh winter snow -- the puffy kind that's impossibly light and sparkles blue under the streetlights -- is among the most beautiful gifts nature bestows.

But we get too much of a good thing up here.

And that pristine sparkle always melts into a semi-solid mass of mush, mottled with a color best described as gray-brown, that builds up behind a car's mudflaps and soaks through the thickest boots.

So most of winter is a collage of gray: gray in the sky, gray on the ground, gray on the cars, gray in the brain. No wonder that this time of year, I crave a different kind of natural beauty.

Color. (Tulips. Erratic dandelions. Bright green of springtime leaves.)

Smell. (Freshly mown grass. Unlikely, happily stubborn hyacinths.)

Sound. (Birds! Crickets! Children playing kickball.)

No wonder an art class is such a good idea (particularly) at this time of year. Even just my amateurish sketches help break the bleak spell. And it gets me out into the gray long enough to enjoy time with a friend.

And, of course, friendship is a kind of beauty, too.

Winter distraction

2007-02-02T09:07:00.000-05:00

I'm distracted, unable to focus. Many deadlines this week, but I don't feel like writing. Odd...I only have a couple of things left to write today but I'm stuck in the mud.

Some days, I wonder what I would like to be when I grow up.

Other days, I see that I'm doing exactly what I like.

And come to think of it, not many jobs offer the freedom and space to be stuck, and to wonder, beagle on lap and no commute.

Blah blah blah, who cares?

Okay, perspective check complete. I think I'll go work now ;-).

why I freelance

2007-01-29T21:51:00.000-05:00

It's very cold outside.

My fat little beagle is warm and likes to cuddle. Under a blanket.

My laptop fascinates her.

My notebook fits just so in between the couch cushions.

And so it goes on a snowy winter night.

10 15 things I want to do in the next 100 years

2007-01-27T17:00:00.000-05:00

In no particular order -- except for #1, which is, well, #1:

Live, someday, on or very near a beach, and grow geraniums in pots on my beachside deck.
Learn to like running -- and get really addicted to it.
Visit all the U.S. coasts (except Alaska's). I've seen the mid-Atlantic, the Southeast, the Gulf Coast. Still to see: the Pacific Northwest, the West, the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico and Hawaii.
Become a neat freak.
Learn to draw and paint.
Write a book...maybe.
Get more involved with volunteer opportunities.
Do at least one good deed without fail every single day.
Learn more about working with databases, XML, Flash and other Web technologies.
Take up kayaking.
Make wine.
Get up the guts to let my hair go silver and keep it long.
Own and run an online business selling...what?
Trace my genealogy.
Visit Greece and Sicily, if I can get past the flying part.

Okay, wait. Now that I've gotten started, I see that I have a lot more to list and to do. And ever-less time to do it.

So what's on your list?

Six weird things

2007-01-25T16:48:00.000-05:00

So here are six weird things about me:

1) My favorite place is on or near the water. But I came as close as humanly possible to drowning in an Oneida Lake boathouse when I was a little girl.
2) I love people, but I hate the phone. Despise it. I don't know why, and I wish it were different.
3) I love mornings but I hate to get up early. "So go to bed sooner," you say. But I love the nighttime!
4) I wanted to be a nun when I was growing up. Now, I am not religious in the traditional sense, but spirituality is very important to me.
5) Thunderstorms terrified me as a kid. Now I love them. They completely intrigue me. And they still terrify me.
6) I love liver, onions and bacon.
7) There are a lot more weird things about me, and I never know when to stop writing.

About this post
I was tagged for this "six weird things about me" post by Lisa. Each person who gets tagged then posts their own six weird things and clearly states how this works. And after posting, the person "tags" other people.

When you tag someone, don't forget leave a comment in his or her 's blog that says "you're tagged" -- and tell your friend to read your blog for information as to what it means.

I'm not sure yet who I will tag...not many of my friends have blogs. But most of them are delightfully weird.

It came from the swamp

2007-01-14T22:28:00.000-05:00

I woke with horror this morning to find that a horrible creature had taken up residence on TH's* face while I slept in. A long, hairy, bristly creature that is scaring my kids and making the dogs howl.

Oh, I'd seen it before. It comes around when TH relents to pressure, shaves his winter beard and, um, gets a wild hair to do something goofy.

Family-wide panic ensues. We avoid the Swamp Thing at all cost. We refuse to go into public places with it. We don't feed or eat near it. Kisses are out of the question.

Tonight, we resorted to whatever means we had at hand to eradicate the rodent-beast.

We tried shouting it off TH's face.

My little girl tried to pluck its spiny tentacles one by one as TH napped, but TH defended it with halfhearted swats. He was possessed!

In desperation, my oldest son chased it around the house with duct tape. Swamp Thing merely laughed in defiance.

Finally, we realized it was time for the big guns: We took a photo.

Hey! Could it be? Is that the trimmer I hear up in the bathroom?

For the sake of all humanity, we can only hope.

*TH = The Husband

Pity Party (BYOWhine)

2007-01-07T22:17:00.000-05:00

Oh, lots of people warned me about lots of things when I became pregnant with my first child. But the one detail they left out was that, sometimes, the whole dang deal hurts.

Fair warning: I'm throwing a pity party. If you've had a great weekend full of parenting reward and triumph, I'll understand if you head for the door. That's a whole different kind of party, and invitations are few -- so grab one if it's handed to you, and by God, get good and drunk on all that good feeling over there.

Anyway: See, I want to do this right. I want to teach my kids that goodness is its own reward. That patience brings peace. So does forgiveness, of others and of oneself. I want them to know that we can't place expectations on others without first placing them on ourselves. That self respect (and all that it entails) keeps us alive. That love takes many more forms that we ever imagine, but never dies. And that, still, sometimes bad stuff happens that we can do little more about than accept, and for those times, the very best place to head is home. That "home" will always have an open door, no matter where that is. That...well, I could go on and on, and I only hope I have enough time to tell them what little I know.

That's the easy part.

But then these loin-fruits watch. Criticize. Blame. They shine a vivid, harsh light on all the ways in which I screw up. Sure, it's all part of the natural, healthful and necessary process of separating from one's parents. They yell their apartness, scream their independence -- sometimes deafeningly, sometimes so quietly I can't hear it. Sometimes I listen for a pin to drop and am startled by the boulder that lands too close for comfort. And in the aftermath are the questions that haunt me. Am I understanding enough? Am I too understanding? Am I letting go fast enough? Am I hanging on too tightly? I love them. I would do anything to keep them safe, happy, healthy. No question there. Do I show them in the right ways? Do they see it? Am I strict enough? Too lenient? Am I close enough? Am I too close? Am I too into this? Do I love them too much? Is that even possible?

I know it's all part of the plan, but does it have to hurt so much?

Nobody told me I'd feel so misunderstood. Nobody warned me I'd feel unappreciated. That the people I love most could, at times, be so cruel when I try so hard. That I would feel inexcusably, ridiculously, annoyingly sorry for myself.

Nobody, perhaps, except my own parents, in their own way -- but I was too young to listen.

Yet as I was writing this, the voice of someone who looks like me delivered a sudden, funny story about Something That Happened. And then, another, deeper voice drifted down the stairs: "'Night, Mom. Love you."

Nothing could ever sound sweeter. And gratitude works better than morphine.

But can it find my mind?

2006-11-20T10:15:00.000-05:00

Popgadget: Personal Tech for Women mentions a product for which I've wished (often in obscene terms). Women, rejoice: Finally, no more "Where's the hoozit?" from the men we live with. Forget the tv remote: Now we can all fight for the transmitter.

Which he will lose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SmartFinder, by Evan on devices

"The average amount of time that a person spends looking
for misplaced things over the course of a lifetime is one year."
-- Harpers Index

...The SmartFinder comes with four color coded receivers which can be attached to things like keys, wallets, purses, mobile phones, and TV remotes. They even suggest adhering one to the kids; they're kidding about that (I think). With a remote control transmitter that can send a radio signal through walls and floors to activate the 85 decibel alarm on the receiver, locating items up to 25 meters away, you may never lose your keys again. It doesn't say anything about refrigerator doors, so "Uncle" Rog, who left his keys in the fridge one time, may still be out of luck.

Unlike the "clapper" system I had before, the SmartFinder has a low battery warning. Comes with 2 keyrings and 2 double-sided adhesive pads provided for attaching the receivers to anything.

£29.95 at Girls Shop UK

And the nominee for best tatoo issss...

2006-11-09T22:18:00.000-05:00

"Grass don't grow on a busy street," so they say. Then again, it doesn't grow where there's no fertile soil, either. But I digress.

I found this image here, thrown in rather randomly among little factoids that debunk "lies your mother told you." (If you can't make it out, the tattoo is of a little guy with a lawnmower, mowing...well, you get the idea.) At that site, you will learn that we've given lemmings and elephants too much credit, birds don't cry at weddings, neither Mussolini nor Van Gogh was a true patron of public utilities, 10% is all most of us have, and lots more. Go see :-).

Can I use "wow"?

2006-11-04T22:40:00.000-05:00

From the World Wide Words Newsletter:
*****
"Did you hear about the new world record score in Scrabble? Michael Cresta scored 830 points during a game at the Lexington Scrabble Club in Massachusetts on 12 October 2006. His words included quixotry, which itself claims a record as the highest recorded single turn, scoring 365 points. Quixotry: the state or condition of being extremely idealistic, unrealistic and impractical."
*****
I love Scrabble -- always have, ever since my mom hooked me on the game with all-night sessions when I was about nine. I'm a pretty traditional player and think the use of bizarre two-letter words that only pro players know kind of ruins the fun -- but still, no one in my house will play with me. So I've grown rusty...and completely wowed by a 365-pointer, let alone an 830-point game that apparently used words with some meat to them.

Or maybe I'm just being quixotic?

Cool Thing of the Day

2006-11-04T22:03:00.000-05:00

It's chocolate! What a cool gift. Suedy's Kook-Ki Sushi!

They're there if you look

2006-10-22T15:40:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the crush of daily life and the dullness of routine obscures the fact that my children are growing. Fast. But once in a while, if I am quiet enough, I am privileged to watch a memory crystallizing before my very eyes:

I am sitting here on the couch. Next to me is a fat beagle, smelling of outside and rain, snuggled in as close to me as she can be, snoring. At my feet is my 7-year-old boy, clearly delighting in the opportunity to teach his older brother how to play chess. Across from him is said 14-year-old sibling, lanky frame stretched across the entire room (or so it seems), one foot in manhood and the other, in childhood -- and in this moment, reveling in the excuse to be silly and young. Rain hits the skylights, a comforting sound broken only by chuckles and "Hey, that one can't move that way..." and "What can this guy do?".

Just an ordinary day -- a dreary gray one, in fact. The world is a mess, the laundry needs folding, a gazillion writing deadlines loom, I can't shake this ear infection, and a million little things are wrong. But here, in this moment, everything feels utterly,

wonderfully

perfect.

When your cups runneth over

2006-10-01T19:16:00.000-04:00

I guess you could say this is an article of clothing that can do, er, double duty. If it ever became a fad, what would we call this? The sag bag? The true over the shoulder boulder holder? The breast purse ever?

How to Make a Bra Purse (from WikiHow.com)

Now playing in the Theater of the Addled Brain

2006-09-28T21:55:00.000-04:00

I posted this a while back in my old blog; spending time with friends I love tonight prompts me to post it again....because if you're fortunate enough to have friends like mine, you can never, ever be too grateful.
*******
Ever notice something about memories? Some of the best are just snippets -- random, accidental, everyday moments that etch themselves into conscious permanence.

I got thinking about this today as one such moment came back to me, for whatever reason. It was nothing, really. Just the image of a very good friend sitting on a couch in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight -- that red-gold glow that makes life feel so mellow and grand. When that light shines into another person's eyes, it seems to illuminate the soul -- and in that fine moment, I was grateful for the friendship of the person I was peering into.

When I reach for them, I find so many such freeze frames from the past; strung together, they make a movie of a pretty fine life. Oh, there are other dramas, tragedies and comedies in the library of my memory...perhaps happiness depends on which of these mental movies we play for ourselves most often. The players are the proverbial cast of thousands, but not many are extras, so great are their influence.

If you have blessed me with the gift of your friendship, you are a star with a handprint on my sidewalk. I like that.

Be leave

2006-09-25T20:35:00.000-04:00

In tonight's World News With Charles Gibson, correspondent Robert Krulwich featured an interesting piece on why leaves fall. In simple terms, the weight of snow on leaves would stress the tree beyond its ability to survive. So the tree does what we all should do to people and things that have the potential to destroy us: It basically tells them to make like a leaf and leave. This phenomenon is a bit more purposeful than a passive fall, so Krulwich proposes a new name for this beautiful season.

Three cheers for the self respect of trees -- and for journalists who skillfully boil down the complicated into a piece that's still interesting.

Have a wonderful Get-Off-Me :-).

A quick note

2006-09-20T01:53:00.000-04:00

Just to avoid confusion: I received a request to change this blog's title, as it was identical to that of another blog on a different host. I don't mind, really -- I don't exactly have (or expect) a large readership.

So I've gone from "virtual" to "broken." Or maybe I'm "virtually broken"?

Oh, and my blog, too.

;-)

Se lo costruite (If you build it...)

2006-09-17T20:10:00.000-04:00

From Under the Tuscan Sun, airing tonight but originally based on what sounds like a novel I must read:

"Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. It is an impossibly steep, very high part of the mountains. They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew some day, the train would come."

Hope and faith are wonderful things to run on.

We all float on

2006-09-16T23:12:00.000-04:00

A boy is on my mind tonight, the son of a man who died in a tragic accident this week. He is the friend of my daughter, someone she feels is special and sweet and silly. I've met him only once and I find myself tonight wishing I knew him better. This, so I could tell him that I remember what this is like, that I understand, that the breadth and depth of emotion racing around in his mind are normal and okay. That he will crumble and cry in one moment, and punch a hole in the wall the next. That he will replay the last week, the last year, the last everything over and over again, asking in frustration why his father wasn't just a minute later or a few seconds earlier that horrible morning, until he sleeps at night. And that his faith will come into play like a clutch three-pointer in the last second of a basketball game.

What I really would like to say is that the pain will go away, but I can't. Because I'm incapable of lying.

All I could tell him is that, as in a foot that's fallen asleep, the numbness will turn to a nagging buzz, then almost insurmountable discomfort...but then he'll be able to walk again without realizing he's gotten up. The good days will come to outnumber the bad, and he will heal. With time, he'll be able to remember without the crushing weight of grief. His family will see his father in him as he grows into a man, shaped by the countless lessons he didn't realize his father had taught him. In this he will find the sweetest of surprises: that anyone loved this much never dies.

In the coming months, he'll want to fall back mindlessly into whatever's behind him. And what is behind him is a safety net of friends, many more than he realizes, more willing than he knows, to catch him. I learned to lean on my friends back then, and their steadfastness was a gift I've never forgotten.

I just wish I could do something to help. Say the right thing. Offer a hug.

Maybe it's just the mother in me.

A point to ponder

2006-09-05T22:25:00.000-04:00

A birthday card I saw today posed this interesting question:

How old would you be

If you didn't know how old you are?

Wisdom, 9-year-old style

2006-09-01T09:28:00.000-04:00

"Mom. Boys are drooling, babbling idiots," she said. "Were women always smarter, Mommy?"

She'll change her outlook very soon, of course. But as she teeters on the edge of preadolescence, it can be a decent ballast.

Who knew an old episode of "The Beverly Hillbillies" could bring about such lively discussion?

Red wine moonshine?

2006-09-01T08:44:00.000-04:00

Despite all their efforts through the ages, alchemists just could not create gold from dirt.

However, we just might be able to brew some fine wine from a can of Welch's. I think I'll try it.

Somehow, I think pouring wine from a milk jug just won't be the same.

Somehow, I think no one will care.

Mainly because I have amazing wine-loving friends who are up for most anything.

Birthday present ideas?

2006-07-05T12:52:00.000-04:00

16!
So my little girl turns 16 tomorrow. I have a few little things, but anybody out there have any great gift ideas? (Alas, she's not getting the Jeep she keeps asking for LOL.)

I love her, I love her, I love her.

Mentos and Diet Coke II

2006-07-05T12:12:00.000-04:00

So here, the authors of the video below pose the burning question: "Is it dangerous to drink Diet Coke and eat Mentos?" They answer this with what they call "a cautionary tale."

Oh, and just for, um, ****s and giggles, check out PepsiGirl's other explosive video here.

I have been hanging around my teenage son and his father for far too long.

All-American beagle

2006-07-05T01:58:00.000-04:00

Ahh, to be a fat little beagle in a good country.

Diet Coke and Mentos

2006-07-04T23:44:00.000-04:00

What happens when you combine 200 liters of Diet Coke and with more than 500 Mentos mints? (Maybe a better question is, "Who has time to do this?"

(I've deleted the video embed because it slowed down the page load too much. But if you've never seen it before, you'll find it here.)

Sensible fun!

2006-07-04T23:38:00.000-04:00

"Put your senses to the test," says the Senses Challenge. So go ahead -- it's interesting.

BBC - Science & Nature - Human Body and Mind - Body - Senses Challenge

I scored 11/20..."not bad" but not exactly hypersensitive. I found the visual-distortion questions the most challenging.

But what if you guess?

2006-06-28T13:35:00.000-04:00

It's a bad habit: I have an assignment and I'm doing all I can to avoid its completion. Call it ADD, mental block, or whatever...I hate that I do this.

Today's distraction: the IQ test here. It's quick. Plus, it told me I'm way smarter than average. (I guessed on three of the questions out of sheer laziness, so...maybe not...)

Work avoidance + ego boost. All in all, a worthy timesuck.

Beagles cannot walk on water

2006-06-20T01:26:00.000-04:00

So Rosie the Fat Beagle has a lot of nicknames. The neighbors call her The Slut because she hooks up with their dog whenever she gets loose. She is also known as The Illegal Beagle, The Bugle (have you ever heard a beagle bark?), Dope on a Rope, Fat Dog and Bagel. And while I've long suspected that she's not exactly an Einstein among canines, I learned recently that she is just plain...challenged.

See, we put the solar cover on the pool for the first time a couple weeks ago. She of the limited cerebral cells -- who until this point had been endlessly fascinated with the other beagle staring back up at her every time she looked into the pool -- noticed the change and gradually came to believe that the pool had gelled over into a great blue beagle parking lot. So she stepped onto it. The cover began to swallow her up just as I jumped in, clothes and all, to save my beloved but boob-ish pooch.

As the shaking and exhausted mass of doggie pudge emerged from the pool, the look that our only slightly less-than-human labrador retriever gave her said it all:

Dumbass.

'Scuse me, could you please move your foot? You're stepping on my...

2006-06-15T11:20:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: I am no fan of Joy Behar (of ABC's The View). But I have a writing deadline today, I usually have TV on for background noise, and morning news has devolved into late-morning drivel. This is how the ladies interruptus came to be on my boob tube.

A minute ago, I looked up long enough to hear Behar say:

"Know what I say? If you've got it, flaunt it. Or trip over it."

Ooh, a new guest: Paris Hilton. Unless the show has a segment telling me what she does, exactly, I'm tripping over to the TV to turn it off now. But I'm laughing.

Something to chew on

2006-06-11T08:53:00.000-04:00

Finally, a first post. Seems I spend so much time writing for money that I neglect to do it for pleasure...

Best to begin with a beginning, then. This morning, my seven-year-old presented me with a big good-morning, one-tooth-missing grin. The tooth finally realized it was time to make way for bigger things and got out of the way. A cause for celebration, which in a seven-year-old's world, is something like a dollar in an old glasses case.

Ahh, that tooth -- impossibly white and innocent and glistening with symbolism. It bulged close to the gum's surface when he was just five months old and burst through without fanfare at six. I cried that day because my baby was growing up.

And now my little boy is growing up. Endings and beginnings, sometimes difficult to distinguish from one another, distressing and exhilarating all at once.

Today I feel much like an old tooth.