I Already Wrote Today

Technically I should get a day off from the blog because I spent a few hours (yes, hours!) working on the book today. This is my golden opportunity to be productive, having no youngsters in the house and the hubby at work all day. So that is what I did.

I received some encouragement today from a new source. On Facebook, I joined a group called "Aspiring Writers." I glanced at it yesterday (for the first time after joining about a month ago) and saw there was a new forum thread called "What Are You Working On Now?" I looked at what other people wrote....heck everyone was sharing so I figured why not. So I wrote the basic premise of the story in about 3 lines. I quickly received a question from someone (who has actually written and published books herself), saying she liked the sound of it and asked how it was going. I responded that I had around 36,000 words at this point but have no idea really how it's going.

So she responded to me, saying young adult (or YA, which is what I'm attempting) is generally 60,000 to 90,000 words but that I'm well on my way. She also said 36,000 words would be around 150 pages in the YA world.

I think that is very respectable. I have much more to write in order to finish, but now at least I feel like I can cut out sections I don't like without worrying that I'll have nothing left!

Maybe I was productive today because of the encouraging word from a stranger. I get encouragement all the time from friends and family, but I really need someone from the writing world to talk to.

So there you have it. And by the way, I've been writing here every day, still, for 30 days now. Kudos to me!

What To People Do Who Don't Have Kids?

So we dropped 3 kids off at camp yesterday, and the other one decided to remain on campus working for the summer. What this means is that hubby and I are going solo, for the first time in 19 years! True, last summer we did get away for 3 days to New York without kids, but we have never been alone together in our own house without one or more offspring for more than a couple of hours.

After we dropped them off, we took a very leisurely drive home, stopping in the somewhat dreary town of Meadville for lunch. I wanted to show hubby Allegheny College, where son #2 is applying this fall. We drove around campus, then stopped at a quaint little place called The Artist's Cup for lunch. Then we wandered around what passes for downtown in Meadville, bought some cookies, then drove the rest of the way home, stopping once more at our library to pick up 5 movies to watch this week.

We walked into the house, so quiet, and more remarkably, just as we had left it 6 hours earlier. There were no new dishes in the sink, no new laundry in the laundry room, no more shoes to trip over on the way in. There were no video games being played, no telephone calls taking place. No one was calling "Mom...what's for dinner!" or "Mom, can you take me to Cody's?" or "Mom, can we go to the pool?"

Hubby and I had a nice dinner of leftovers on the deck before the storm rolled in. We drank some wine. We watched a movie (They Shoot Horses, Don't They? which I rented after reading about it in Sydney Pollack's obituary. It received something like 9 oscar nominations, so I thought we'd like it. It's a depressing story, and melodramatic, about a dance competition during the Depression, that was supposed to be a metaphor for life's miseries. If you want to feel happy happy joy joy, rent something else.) We were asleep by 10:00 but first I lay awake (while hubby snored) listening to the quiet. The week to come seemed like a huge void that I would decide how to fill. It wouldn't be filled with doing things for everyone else.

So my question is, What Do People Do Who Don't Have Kids? Do they wallow in the luxury of time to themselves? Do they think of that time as luxury? I don't want to get too gleeful over all this time to myself (which I will have no problem filling, by the way. I have numerous home projects to accomplish, in addition to preparing for our coming week at Chautauqua). We really only have 8 more years until all the kiddies are out of the house, after which I anticipate 20-30 years of empty-nesting. I know I will miss having the kids around.

But just for now, just for this one week, I think it's okay for me to wallow. It's only one week in 19 years, after all.

No Kids...What Now?

So the kids are off to camp today, and my husband and I will soon find ourselves with an empty nest for the first time, EVER, for one week. What shall we do with ourselves?

I plan to write, write, write. By the way I had a dream last night in which I was asking a secretary at the Post-Gazette how I should go about submitting a travel article and she responded by telling me I should study writing, and they didn't just accept articles from unknown people, and that I should read other articles....everything except how to submit the thing. It was one of those frustrating dreams where you just can't accomplish the simplest task.

I have written a draft of the article I plan to submit. Maybe the dream was my unconscious self telling me to finish the thing already. My conscious self has been telling me the same thing.

I plan to clean and organize my home office. There are papers, everywhere. A writing pile. A bill pile. An insurance pile. A kids' school pile. Overlapping piles. Dusty piles. Stepped-on piles. That room might as well have a giant sign with yellow police tape that screams HAZARDOUS WASTE SITE--DO NOT ENTER. Once I clean it out (I may need a backhoe at this point) I'm going to paint it, but I vow not to undertake any cleaning/painting project until I've done my writing for the day. Writing meaning the lonely book I've been working on. It calls to me and I pretend I don't hear.

I plan to do no grocery shopping and minimal laundry.

I plan on packing for our week at Chautauqua...writers week! I'm reading We Were the Mulvaneys (Joyce Carol Oates) in anticipation of the author's talk next week. I plan on finishing that before we go. I had never read Oates before and like it more than I anticipated.

But we'll be lonely without our boys. The outdoor ping-pong table will sit neglected. The playstation turned off. No music blaring from Phil's computer. Noah's car will be missing its teenage driver. No Josh to say "Hey Mom, I was just wondering," or "Hey Mom, I was just curious," or "Hey Mom, what's for breakfast," or just "Hey Mom!"

Sweeney Todd...Don't Bother Seeing It

So we started watching Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. I lasted about 25 minutes. Despite the eminently watchable Johnny Depp, I was not impressed by the singing or the costumes or the sets. It was like watching a dark video game, where the characters have average voices. It's not a happy story either. That Tim Burton has some gothic imagination. I guess the whole project was just lost on me. So Jon is still watching (but he'll be sleeping in minutes, I predict) and I'm here doing my daily duty.

I must confess, Sweeney Todd is not an appealing story in the first place so no matter what they did with it, it's unlikely I'd have lasted to the end. Basically you have a very unhappy barber, who murders his patrons as he's shaving them. Then he cuts up their bodies and gives the meat to a lady, who makes meat pie out them and sells the pies to the unsuspecting public, which gobbles them up. No thank you. I only gave it a chance because of Johnny Depp. If you want to watch him, go rent Finding Neverland. Or if you've seen it, watch it again. He's beautiful, the story's beautiful, the movie's beautiful.

Speaking of musicals, as I type I'm listening to the soundtrack from the Broadway show Spring Awakening. Now that's singing. We saw Spring Awakening on Broadway last summer. Great story, great performances, great music. Every person who opened their mouth had a fantastic voice. Why didn't Tim Burton recruit some of them for Sweeney Todd?

Still waiting for my muse.....

What Did I Do Today?

I am still here, writing little nothings every day. But it is getting depressing because I'm not coming up with anything remotely interesting, let alone literary. So I'm just showing up, waiting for the muse to amuse me.

What did I do all day that caused me not to sit and cogitate and write? Let's see. First problem, didn't sleep last night. Storms. You know how I feel about those. So I was behind the eight ball from the moment of rising. Did go to yoga. Plenty of shopping for groceries and getting kids stuff for camp. Cooking. God I did nothing interesting today.

I can comment on two movies we saw this week. First, Lust Caution, directed by Ang Lee. Well what can I say. If Ang Lee is involved it has to be brilliant. Depressing, yes. Also illuminated for me how much I don't know about history (Japanese occupation of China.) Lots of graphic sex. My husband tells me we rented the R rated version. Apparently there's an unrated version that is more....I could guess but it's hard to imagine any more sex than we saw in this one.

Second, Across the Universe, directed by Julie Taymor. Parts were a little strange. Overall I liked, didn't love it. But the music! I loved the arrangements. I may splurge and buy the soundtrack. And Evan Rachel Wood is a really wonderful actress. (Superlative in Thirteen.) Not familiar with the other lead, Jim Sturgess, but loved him in this. So go rent it. The earth might not move but it is enjoyable. Or listen with your eyes closed.

Obviously the muse is stil AWOL. But I'll keep checking in just in case he/she/it makes an appearance.

P.S. Husband just walked by the room singing "Nothing's gonna change my world..."

Places I Want to Go

Here are some places I want to go:

Portugal. I am going there in October so I can shortly cross that one off my list.

Hawaii. I've heard it's beyond beautiful. One of those places that lives up to all the hype.

Banff. I love the name. Banff. How can anyone not want to see a place called Banff?

Lake Louise. It's near Banff, I think. Who was Louise? I want someone to name a lake after me. Lake Juliet. I think Lake Juliet would attract a lot of interest.

Istanbul. It used to be called Constantinople. Again, the name attracts me. Of course all that byzantine architecture is also appealing.

The Great Wall of China. I saw a picture of someone playing his cello on the Great Wall of China. Talk about cool music venues.

Australia. I love the Australian accent. And people from Australia are somewhat beautiful. I want to see Perth. I want to know what kind of people want to live on the other side of a country.

New Zealand. It sounds green and welcoming. Plus there are sheep.

Grand Tetons & Jackson Hole. A friend from college spent a summer in Jackson Hole and said everyone ate magic mushrooms. Interesting. Although I've heard the scenery is so spectacular you don't need magic mushrooms to appreciate it.

Crater Lake. Yes, I admit I've already been there, but there is a lovely lodge right on the lake, overlooking it, in fact, that I must sleep in. When I visited we stayed in a cabin 7 miles away. I want to be in situ.

Fjiords. Norway or Sweden, I don't care which.

Is Obama Trustworthy?

I try to have an open mind with presidential candidates. The truth is that I am inherently skeptical of anyone who chooses to go into politics, and to reach the highest levels I think you probably have to be just a little bit of a scumbag. You'd have made too many promises to too many people. You just couldn't keep them all. This goes for Republicans and Democrats alike.

Also I am a registered Republican, although I consider myself somewhat in the middle on social issues. I think taxes should be low. I think spending should be restrained. I think the government is more often the problem than the solution.

But all these really smart (or seemingly smart) people are jumping on the Obama bandwagon. I've heard him speak in person. He is charismatic, and seems sincere. Or maybe he seems that way because he is charismatic.

I like what he said about lifting the ceiling on taxes regarding social security. I wrote about that recently. I like what he said about reigning in energy speculators. Market manipulation is happening and the little guys are paying for it.

However, there's the Reverend Wright fiasco. There is something very objectionable about a presidential aspirant having this lunatic fringe religious figure as a mentor and spiritual advisor for 20 years. Obama only ejected the guy after his extremist views were revealed. There is no possible way Obama did not know and understand the good Reverend's views.

There's Obama renegging on his pledge to use public funds in the general election if his rival agreed to do so. His backpedaling is reminiscent of Clinton promising not to raise taxes on the middle class, and shortly into his first term making his "I've worked harder than any time in my life" speech, raising taxes on everyone.

Then I read George Will's column today, in which he refuted Obama's claims about the number of black men in prison vs. college, and a number of his other statements. Obama is spewing sound bites that are factually inaccurate.

Yes, I realize George Will is firmly planted in the right wing. But facts are facts. If Obama lies about things that can be so readily proven, what else is he willing to lie about?

This election reminds me of the 2006 Connecticut election, in which the moderate Joe Lieberman was defeated in the Democratic primary by the radical leftist Ned Lamont. When the general election rolled around, it became evident that the general population of Connecticut had no stomach for the leftist ideology that Ned Lamont represented. Joe Lieberman, running as an independent, handily defeated Lamont by garnering the votes of reasonable people on both sides of the polical spectrum.

Even though I'm no fan of John McCain, I think it's quite possible McCain the moderate will defeat Obama the leftist.

Tonight

This morning's post didn't count, since I wrote it yesterday. Today I've been busy the whole day without much to show for it. There were car repairs, health insurance phone calls, camp phone calls, bills, lots of cooking and more cooking, and laundry, always laundry.

If this sounds tired it's because I am tired. Still recovering from vacation I guess. I'll write earlier tomorrow and try to be a little animated.

Goodnight.

I Hate Lightning

June 22...I wrote this yesterday but we lost internet service in the midst of a big storm so I could not post it....

Anybody who knows me knows that I hate lightning. I've written about this before. But it's on my mind at this moment because I just had to drive through an electrical storm to get home after attending a meeting for non-Jewish women raising Jewish children. The meeting was very pleasant and I met some nice women. I'm sure we have plenty in common.


But when we opened the door to leave, there was the darkening sky, flashing here and there. I immediately confessed my phobia to the woman standing next to me, even though I had just met her. "I'm not afraid of lightning," she said. "But I don't like when my daughter goes out in it."


Driving home, it wasn't raining yet but the sky was lighting up all over the place. I saw jagged bolts begin to crash in the direction in which I was driving. I sunk into my skeleton every time the sky lit up, expecting to be struck at any moment. I kept telling myself it's safe to be in a car during lightning but I don't really believe that. Wouldn't the gas tank ignite? Wouldn't I get electrocuted from the metal frame of the car? Wouldn't it be really really loud and annoying?


What struck me as strangely comforting was the number of other cars on the road. I told myself that none of those people were alarmed by this weather phenomenon, why should I be? Still I braced myself for the inevitable tree that was sure to be struck and fall directly into the path of my car, if not actually on top of the car itself. I began to sweat. My heart was beating faster. As I got closer to home I thanked myself for leaving the garage door open so I could drive right in. I left it open for just that purpose.

It's really my only phobia. It could be a lot worse. I could be afraid of spiders. I could be afraid of crowds. I could be afraid of wide open spaces. I could be afraid of bees. I could be afraid of the television. So I'm going to cut myself some slack and just admit my fear, and stay inside if the skies begin to rumble.

June 19...I Love Writers Digest

I love Writers Digest. It makes me realize that a writer is what I want to be. It confirms that a writer is who I am. I have all the same issues and problems and desires and comfort (or lack thereof) of so many of the writers in that magazine. Besides being a mother, being a writer is the one thing I've done that I really identify with, that I understand, that I'm excited about.

Here's a run-through of the jobs I've had in my life thus far, none of which suited me.

First paying job: summer camp counselor. Liked the responsibility but didn't like the bratty campers. I made $20/week. I still resent the spoiled little twins (age 12) in my tent that refused to eat any food at our table if the black girl in our tent so much as touched a serving utensil. I heard a few years later that the twins' Daddy bought them a BMW--or matching BMWs--when they turned 16. The girls had similar names and claimed their own father couldn't tell them apart. Nice.

Summer after freshman year in college: sales clerk, retail women's clothing, minimum wage. My first experience working with the public.

Summer after sophomore year in college: waitress, county club, Naples, Florida. Under minimum wage, plus tips. So this was how the other half lives. Those golfing ladies were lousy tippers. Was it my fault the only fruit in the fruit salad was watermelon?

Junior year: office worker, Physical Plant, Smith College. Minimum wage. My job was to estimate the amount of time it takes for union workers to complete various repairs jobs around campus. For example, a student would report a burnt-out light bulb in the hallway of her dorm. It took me a while to understand that a job that would take a normal person .1 hour to complete takes a union employee .5 hours to do. And no scheduling of jobs between 10:00 and 10:45. Coffee break. My boss's day consisted mainly of telling me how many cords of wood he'd chopped the day before.

Summer after junior year: sales clerk, upscale women's clothing boutique, minimum wage, Edgartown, Massachusetts. Here I developed an appreciation for fine women's clothing, a trait that plagues my husband to this day. My boss (and the owner) was a charming and fascinating Chinese lady who had three brilliant sons and a brilliant husband who taught at MIT and was reputed to have invented the circuit breaker. The boss used to walk respectfully behind her husband when they went anywhere but I got the impression she was the one everyone really respected. I remember her telling me that her youngest son had fallen in love with a woman 10 years older than he. He'd said, "Dad, wait till you meet her. She's one in a million." After he brought her home, the dad told the son he was wrong. She was one in ten million. I love that.

On Martha's Vineyard I also had a job cleaning a ginormous house once a week for a family with an American wife and a German husband, whose kids spoke English to one parent and German to the other. I thought I hit pay dirt because they paid me $10/hour. Ha!

Senior year: I kept working at the Physical Plant, but it was time to find a "real job". Grad school wasn't on my radar yet. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I only knew that I most emphatically did not want to be a doctor. It never occured to me that I could be a writer.

So get this. I read in Glamour Magazine that paralegal was an up and coming profession for women. This was 1981. God help me, I was taking career advice from Glamour Magazine. Or it might have been Mademoiselle. Either way, I'm cringing even as I write about it now.

So that's what I did. And my roommate, a very smart girl we called Tavs, did the same. We sent out scores of resumes, and received scores of rejection letters, which we taped on the wall of our apartment. Our rejection wall. I wish I still had a copy of that first resume. My job history lacked professional weight, you might say. I had "organizational skills." I had "interpersonal skills." I had "time management skills." What this boiled down to was I had no skills. A major in Modern European Studies and a Minor in Art History I had. But skills? Not so much.

I moved to Boston and worked as a sales clerk (same Chinese lady, in her Boston store) until I landed that coveted paralegal job, where I earned a whopping $11,500/year. Enough to keep me in my cockroach infested but otherwise charming apartment on Joy Street, Beacon Hill.

Then law school. A law clerk at Rax Restaurants. I did more work than the General Counsel, whose job consisted of mainly of kibbitzing, as far as I could tell. Then law clerk at a Columbus firm during the school year for $13/hour. Then law clerk at a firm in Pittsburgh, making $750/week an astronomical sum that my non-lawyer friends found astounding. I first started practicing law at the same firm, making $55,000 the first year.

Five years and two kids later, I started a law practice, which my husband runs now, as I embark on my new career path as a writer. Net income from my writing career thus far: $150. Satisfaction: beyond words.

But back to Writers Digest. Thanks for keeping me motivated. Thanks for understanding me. And well, just thanks!

June 18...Where is Josh?

Still in T&C, no internet access. It's the end of the day--a glorious sunny paradise kind of day--filled with poolside lounging, tropical drinks in the pool at the swim-up bar, water aerobics (it wasn't a day completely devoid of healthful activity), and always food and more food. Jerk chicken, flan, watermelon and mangos, smoothies, chocolate croissants. And don't get me started on the dinner at the fine french restaurant on the premises, Le Petit Chateau.

One thing happened today to give me pause, however. Josh, at 11, has been given a wide berth here. He had the place completely mapped out on day one, and there's no concern of him getting lost. He checks in with us regularly, whereever we are.

But today, after hanging with us at the pool, he left abruptly, leaving his ballcap and glasses behind. After an hour or so, we looked for him. After two hours, we couldn't find him. I returned to the room to shower, while Jon set out in earnest to locate the boy.

For the 20 minutes he was gone, all manner of nightmarish scenarios played out in my head. Madeleine McCann. Natalie Holloway. Creeps. Pedophiles. Nancy Grace. Oprah. Where could he be? Why didn't he take his glasses? Were we too lax? Am I overreacting? Underreacting? We're not in the U.S. Are we protected?

Jon returned with Josh shortly. He sheepishly explained he'd gone to a different part of the beach without telling us. He was sunburnt, and had a great time.

Oh the trials of parenthood. They say "Mom, you worry too much." I think, wait until you have kids. You'll see.

June 17....Yoga on Turks & Caicos

Lest anyone think I've not been writing every day, let me assure one and all that, though I may not have posted it on the blog until now (June 21), I am writing, something, every day here in the balmy Turks & Caicos Islands, where I find myself one of 24 family members communing in honor of my dear mother-in-law's 75th birthday.

I wrote this longhand this week because there appears to be a dirth of internet services. Let me amend that. Internet service exists but only for a fee and the willingness to wait one's turn. (A) I don't like to wait, and (B) I don't like to pay a fee for a service that should be provided gratis with our $600/night accommodations.

And speaking of fees, I did willingly fork over $20 for a one-hour yoga class, because all this lolling around on the beach and at the bar and at the pool for hours on end has made me feel blah, listless, and when you include all the free desserts and beverages available at one's whim, I also feel saftig and just a little bit guilty about not giving my body a little exercise.

Unfortunately for my body, the yoga instructor turned out to be a drillmaster by the name of Natasha, hailing from Russia, a woman with a tiny waist and a tiny taut little physique, except for a completely man-made rack of bosom that threatened to tip her over. I'm not sure which part was more annoying--the fact that the whole point of yoga--the balance, the spirituality, the relaxation, the wholesomeness--seemed to elude the buxom Natasha, or the way she condescendingly lectured us every time we glanced at her when she barked out an instruction.
Well, I'm sorry Natasha, but back where I come from, yoga does not include a "corpse" position, but then I didn't get my yoga chops behind the iron curtain either.

And I'm not joking when I tell you the other lady in the class (there were only two of us--now I know why) stood up in the middle and said she was leaving, explaining that she had come to the class to feel good, and was receiving nothing but pain and intensity. At which point the drillmaster actually insisted that she stay. I half expected the KGB to storm the place and send the pitiful subject to the gulag.

But there you have it. I'm here, I'm indulging myself, but I'm still writing.

Did Einstein Say This?

I read this today, attributed to Albert Einstein. I love it.

Everybody is a genius. But, if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing that it is stupid. - Albert Einstein

He was wise as well as smart.

June 16...Turks & Caicos

Here I sit on the balcony of our second floor room in a lavendar painted building on the lush grounds of the Beaches Resort, Provo, Turks & Caicos. The sky, a color barely distinguishable from the color of the building, is swept here and there with filmy clouds, not nearly dense enough to filter the's sun's bright light, which casts shadows from every manner of tropical vegetation onto the thick emerald carpet of grass below me. The air is very warm, balmy, and smells sweetly of hydrangea.


From this vantage point it's not hard to understand why Turks & Caicos has become the destination du jour for so any Americans, particularly those of us hailing from places like Pittsburgh, which is reputed to have an average of only 59 sunny days per year over the past 50 years. We get tired of the cloud cover that seems to settle over us for days, or weeks, on end. We long for the sunshine. Maybe it's the Vitamin D, but whatever it is, the sun is making Turks & Caicos feel something like paradise.

June 15...Psychic Connections

Have you ever noticed how when you get a new car, you start seeing the same one, everywhere? Or (for the women out there) if you're pregnant, suddenly everyone in your office, or on the bus, or at the grocery store, is also pregnant?

I read in Parade Magazine, that bastion of useless information, that this phenomenon happens when things become relevant to us. Evidently, there's so much information coming at us all the time--think about the sheer number of people that cross your vision in one day as you travel from point A to point B-- that most of it never registers in our consciousness, until it becomes personally relevant.

Like say you just bought a Dodge Grand Caravan in candy apple red. You looked at it, you studied it, you shopped around for it, and finally you bought it. It's relevant to you, so you start noticing it, even though it was there all along.

I was thinking about this in the context of working on my book. I've come across all these little connections that make me think I'm psychically on the right track.

A central element of the story--a house that may have been a stop on the underground railroad--was inspired by the house I grew up in. That much is obvious.

In the course of my research, I wanted to read some first person slave narratives. I could only find them on microfiche at the local library. As I scrolled through the first few pages, I discovered the original book containing the narratives is housed at the Smith College library. My alma mater. Interesting. I'm sure I wouldn't have noticed if the book was at Podunk U. instead of Smith, but still.

Doing some research on an historical figure I used to create a character for the book, I discovered he had a daughter who was one of the first black women to attend Mount Holyoke--the alma mater of my three sisters. Hmmmm. Not likely I would have noticed if she had attended Vassar, is it?

I took my son to visit two colleges--Washington & Jefferson in PA and Marietta in OH. Both admissions offices had books on their coffee tables (not the same book) about the underground railroad and the colleges' connection to it. Would I have picked it up if they had books on gardening instead?

Am I just noticing these connections because they're relevent to me? Or is there some other kind of psychic connection going on here?

All I know is, after months of mentally berating myself for not making better progress on the book, today I randomly picked up my copy of Writers Digest from February 2008, and the issue is devoted to writing a novel.

I realize this should be no surprise because it is Writers Digest, after all. But the very first feature fairly screamed my name. Stop obsessing about writing your novel, it said, and spend 15 minutes every day doing it. The second feature: roll up your sleeves and pound out your novel. The third feature, about rules for a novel-writing group--something I've been meaning to do for months. And finally, 10 steps to rewriting your novel.

That is indeed relevant to me. Either that or the editors of Writers Digest have been following me around. Or maybe the novel writing gods are tired of my internal whining, which they can hear even if nobody else can, so they're planting relevant information all around me so I'll get on with it already.

I Have Been Writing Every Day

I haven't posted anything since June 14 but that is because we were enjoying the sunny climes of Turks & Caicos, where we had no cell phone access and very limited internet access. But worry not, for I did indeed write something each and every day, in my spiral notebook. Tomorrow I will start posting the entries. So I'm still good on the promise to myself, made on Memorial Day, to write every day. I am proud of myself. Baby steps might be small, but they do propel you forward.

I read The Piano while on vacation (Jane Campion). A very good read, a strange and interesting story. It appears from the blurbs on the back of the book that she wrote the book after writing the screenplay (and winning an Oscar for it.) Backwards from the way it's usually done, I believe, but I liked it nonetheless.

Tired from traveling all day today (plus the beach and pool time in the a.m. before departing for the trip home.) Must rest my weary self now.

I Agree With Obama on Something???

A little commentary on the news of the day.

First, I am shocked to discover I actually agree with Senator Barak Obama on something. Today’s paper reports that Obama calls for higher payroll taxes on wage-earners making more than $250,000 a year. Normally I strictly oppose higher taxes on anything.

But here’s the deal. Way back when I was a young lawyer, I was making a pretty decent wage, and there detailed on my pay-stub every month was that bite taken out for social security. Sure, it annoyed me, but it was what it was.

Then one day in June, I think it was, my paycheck was suddenly higher. Did I get a raise nobody told me about? I asked my colleagues, who smiled and said I had capped out on the social security tax. That was when I first learned that social security taxes were only paid on the first so many dollars a person earned. It didn’t make sense to me then, that taxes end on the higher-income earners, but I was happy. More money in my pocket.

Fast-forward to today. My son, a sophomore in college, is making minimum wage in an office job at school. A little perk is that the school is letting him live in the dorm for the summer, gratis. However, the school is reporting as income to him the value of free-rent. So when my son got his first paycheck, not only is there a handsome bite taken out of his meager wages for social security, he’s also paying social security on a percentage of the value of the dorm arrangement, when he hasn’t received an actual dime to pay for it.

Can someone please explain to me why anyone making minimum wage is paying into social security at all, while people making over $102,000 (this year) are not subject to the tax on anything exceeding $102,000?

Here’s my proposal: no payroll taxes on minimum wage jobs. No taxes paid by teenagers (or maybe anyone) earning less than $12,000/year. Obama is calling for keeping the payroll tax on wages up to $102,000, and imposing it on those earning more than $250,000. He doesn’t want to hurt the “middle class” (i.e. me) by imposing the tax on people in the middle (those who earn between $102,000 and $250,000).

Personally, I see no reason why people earning between $102,000 and $250,000 should be exempt. In other words, I say set a floor on the wages subject to social security, and remove the ceiling. It only seems logical. (Notice I don't say "fair". There is nothing "fair" about a progressive tax system. "Fair" would be treating everyone the same, as with a flat tax. But progressive is what we've got, so let's just be consistent and do what's logical.)

More in the news:

On a related subject, McCain says he’s not for privatization of social security. In the same breath he says he supports private savings accounts for young people for social security. This guy wants to be on both sides. I say, have some cajones and take a stand. Personally I think private accounts are a good idea. Over time the return is astronomically higher than the paltry 2% we get from the government. Do we get even that?

On another related subject, Mike Huckabee is joining Fox News. The story says Huckabee “has been mentioned as a potential running mate for Mr. McCain.”

Let me go on record as saying I will stay home on election day if McCain is dumb enough to put someone as ignorant as Mike Huckabee on the ticket. He’s uneducated. He’s a simpleton. He's a freak show. I’d rather live with four, or eight, years of socialist rule under Barak Obama. And I’m a Republican. I voted for Reagan twice, GHW Bush twice, GW Bush twice.

One last thing, completely unrelated. My condolences to Tim Russert’s family. I knew him only as the rest of the public did, from television. But he struck me as a very nice, decent, very knowledgeable and likeable guy. He asked questions of public officials that I would have asked. He understood the important issues. He wasn’t arrogant. He seemed like someone you could have over for dinner. He seemed like a class act. I didn’t even know him, but I feel sad that he died, too soon, too young.

Friday after Body Pump

So here I am, on a Friday after Body Pump. It was a huge effort to motivate myself to get to the gym today, after being AWOL for a week. It's amazing how persuasively I can rationalize not going. I have to do laundry. I have to go grocery shopping. I have to work in the garden. I have to write. I have to return stuff to Wal-Mart. I have to get the boys haircuts. But then I remind myself, the class is only one hour and the benefits will last a lot longer than that. And every time I don't go, it's that much harder to go the next time, and that much easier to persuade myself next time to stay home.

Do other people have these internal discussions with themselves? It's the same story when I know I should sit myself down to do the day's writing. Laundry. Groceries. Kids. House. The kids should get first priority but let's face it, the other stuff can wait.

I'm kind of happy I really looked at my book yesterday with a critical eye, and I feel like the first two chapters are pretty good. Good enough, anyway, to share with someone. I'm sending them to my dear friend and fellow-wannabe author, Ann, who promises to read it and tell me if it's readable. I don't know how I would respond to criticism that it sucks, or it's boring, or it's stupid, or it's too obvious. She would never offer such criticism because she is the definition of gentle reader. I will do that today.

And now this blogging is done for today. I've been extremely faithful to my vow to write something every day, but I have a small preemptive disclaimer about writing on Sunday. We'll be traveling, leaving early in the a.m., and I have no idea what computer access will be in our various locales. I'll write here if I can, but if not here, I'll write on the plane and post it later.

Monocots & Dicots

Josh and I have been walking around the yard looking at plants. He's pointing out the difference between the monocots (like hosta, whose leaves have parallel veins) and dicots (like astilbe, with veins branching out on the leaves.) I never knew that.

One of the greatest joys of parenting has to be all the stuff you learn from your kids. All the places they make you go that you might not otherwise try. Like yesterday, when we were in Lewisburg, Sam took me to look at houses to buy, so he'd have off-campus housing and we could make a little rental income. We saw houses that appeared to be straight out of Animal House. Beer pong tables in several rooms. A refrigerator in one living room, retrofitted to have a keg on tap, 24/7. Mold growing on ceilings. Giant oil drums in the yard. These are not places I'd be seeing without a son to show me. Not that I'd buy one. They looked like fire hazards. Even the air inside them seemed toxic. But still, it was something new.

And Harry Potter. I can tell you for sure I'd never read Harry Potter without my kids to share them with. Same with Narnia. And The Phantom Tollbooth. Loved that one.

On another subject, it must be movie week around here. Last night we watched Dan in Real Life. A word of advice: don't waste your time with this one. As much as I like Steve Carell, this was one thin movie with a dumb plot. Steve plays a single Dad who falls in love with his brother's girlfriend, played by Juliette Binoche. They must have paid her a handsome sum to appear in such a lame film. She was too old for the role, and had no chemistry with any of the men in the movie.

But in the spirit of randomness, I can recommend another movie that I loved, and I'm now reading the book, which is beautifully written. Like a piece of artwork. It's The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Don't ask, just go see the move and read the book. Won't take long, you could probably do both in the space of a day or two. Worth the effort, I can assure you.

I've only got 5 minutes...

I've only got 5 minutes to be here today. I spent the day driving to/from Bucknell, dropping Noah off to spend a few days with Sam. Now Jon is waiting for me to watch another movie, Dan in Real Life. Steve Carell is a very appealing actor and the movie doesn't promise to be very deep, which is good because I'm tired from driving. We took Noah's Saab, which did 27 mpg, much better than my hulking SUV, which I love but shortly will not be able to afford to continue driving if gas prices keep traveling north. Maybe I'll just keep it for snowstorms.

Gotta run...my hubby and a glass of port await....

Sad Garden

My garden looks kind of sad. I think the flora detects my lack of enthusiasm. It's mocking me. It's supposed to be a perrenial garden, mostly. I planted things in there in no particular order, because I have no patience for mapping things out, figuring out what blooms when, which plants get how tall, what colors should bloom in what places. I just plant, plant, plant. Then I fill in the blank spots with impatiens and new guineas. I've done that already, and I put in some zinnias too.

I don't know why I keep trying with the zinnias. I see them in other people's yards, blooming happily all summer long. I remember growing some when I was a girl scout. I must have been trying to earn some kind of badge. They got huge and I was very impressed with my gardening prowess. But I've never been able to grow them since. I'm beginning to suspect my mother, who has ten green fingers instead of just a thumb, secretly nurtured them. She can't help it. It's in her nature to nurture. But I have no luck with them. Whether I plant them from seed, starting off in tiny plastic cups of potting soil, carefully tending the little shoots until they seem big and strong enough to withstand the vagaries of the garden's terra firma, or whether I cheat a little and buy the plants already bursting with buds, I get the same result. They wilt (oops, forgot to add water), they get eaten (chipmunks? slugs?), they get stepped on (dog). After a week or two there's nothing left but a brown withered stump where I wanted giant globular petals.

The garden is planted in a raised bed, supported by a nice retaining wall of wooden beams. At one end, it's flourishing. I've got daylillies and stella d'oro mixed in with huge fuscia peonies. At the border there's lush emerald green sweet william, and right next to that is a giant seedum (autumn joy I believe). The black-eyed Susans are ready to take over when the peonies fade. But at the other end there's nothing tall. There are a couple of stella d'oro, and I was pleasantly surprised to see a healthy coreopsis that I planted last year and forgot about. There's a strange looking variegated seedum which has clearly been trampled on by the aforementioned dog, and floppy remnants of tulips that bloomed gloriously in April before turning into so much detritus, yellow and brown and faded.

Even the reflecting ball is looking rather dull. It's supposed to be a vibrant royal blue, reflecting the sun and whatever colors the garden provides. It seems to have faded, like my dining room carpet, from the sun's rays.

I guess all my garden really needs is a little drama. I could move some bigger plants around so we have some symmetry. I should prop up the variegated seedum so it doesn't look so lazy, like a fat lady at the grocery store who leans heavily on the handle of her grocery cart because she can't manage to stand up straight. Discipline, that's what's called for. I'm trying to exercise it here with my writing. I should try it outside too.

The Savages vs. Margot at the Wedding

I have got to get to this stuff earlier. It's 9:36 p.m. and my brain just doesn't function creatively at this hour. I almost completely skipped writing today. Jon and I put on a movie, Darjeeling Limited, which is quite uninteresting, but I was so unmotivated I decided to keep watching it. I was going to come up with some justification for not writing today, and just write extra tomorrow. But then Jon fell asleep...he's snoring quite contentedly on the bed next to me at the moment....so I rallied, retrieved the laptop from the kitchen, and now here I am, ensconced in bed, the movie on pause, as I tap away at this keyboard, writing nothing of particular interest but nonetheless, writing.

I originally intended to give my little commentary on two movies I watched this week. Roger Ebert I am not, but I do have an opinion. The first movie was The Savages, starring the always appealing Laura Linney and the incomparable Philip Seymour Hoffman. It's about a dysfunctional family, a brother and sister, both writers, who have to put their estranged father in a nursing home because he's suffering from dementia. Not a happy scenario, but somehow those two make the story entertaining, funny, poignant, sad and redeeming all at once. As a viewer, you actually care about these people, even though they can't get their shit together, being damaged from childhood and all. Laura Linney was nominated for an oscar for this role and I hope she wins one some day. She deserves it. And Philip Seymour Hoffman is a phenomenon, in everything. Take my advice and rent every movie he's ever appeared in. You will not be disappointed.

The second movie was also about a dysfunctional family but what can I say. It sucked. The movie was Margot at the Wedding, written and directed by Noah Baumbach. I was intrigued, because Baumbach also wrote The Squid and the Whale (another dysfuntional family! They make the best stories, if done well), which I liked, also starring Laura Linney. Margot also starred Jennifer Jason Leigh, one of my all-time favorites, an actress who should be much more famous and rich than she already is. Oh my god, did you see her in Single White Female? She is simply oozing with talent, even if her choice roles are usually deeply disturbed women. The red flag for me should have been the fact that Nicole Kidman also stars. She won an oscar once, for the Hours (didn't deserve it, in my humble opinion), was also nominated for her role in Moulin Rouge, possibly one of the worst movies ever made. She's been in other really horrible movies, like the Stepford Wives remake and Eyes Wide Shut. The woman can't act. She annoys me. I hoped in Margot that Jennifer Jason Leigh's appeal would outweigh Nicole Kidman's lack thereof. But unfortunately for me, nothing could have saved this movie from being bad, depressing, ridiculous. Jack Black was horribly out of place as the loser boyfriend. He should stick to the School of Rock genre, in which he excels.

I know, no one's interested in my opinion. But if you're ever at Blockbuster and by some bizarre circumstance you have to choose between The Savages and Margot at the Wedding, you know which one gets my vote.

Here for a minute

I'm here for a minute again. It's 9:17 p.m. and I'm feeling thoroughly uninspired. Here are some random thoughts.

Thank God Hillary dropped out. She is one scary specimen. NYTimes front page article today chronicled the undoing of her campaign and made clear what bottom-feeders the Clintons are. I hope Obama is smart enough not to put her on the ticket. If she winds up VP, I'd put some extra security outside my bedroom if I was Obama.

OK that's the only random thought I have for today. I've got to sit down earlier in the day if I'm going to write anything worth reading. I'll try harder tomorrow. But for the record, it's June 8 and I'm still here.

Old Faithful

It's 9:18 p.m. and I haven't had a chance to write anything today. I haven't had a chance to ponder anything to write about. But I promised myself I'd be here, every day, the whole summer, so here I am. I'm faithful, like an old dog, like a geiser, like an elephant ("I meant what I said and I said what I meant, an elephant's faithful one hundred percent!") That's all I have time for...

D-Day...Not in the News

Today is June 6. This is an historic date in our nation's history, indeed in all of modern history, yet I saw no mention of it in our local paper. For you imbeciles out there who rely on the print media for your information, June 6 is D-Day, the date in 1944 when U.S. and British troops landed at Normandy. The objective was to free France, and all of Europe, from German occupation. According to ddmuseum.org, over 3,300 Americans died on D-Day. Total Allied casualties are estimated at 10,000.

D-Day was America's military at its best. Sacrificing everything for the rest of us. I, for one, never forget D-Day. Because in 1987, just after I took the Bar Exam, I spent a few weeks in France, and one day I rented a little Peugeot because I wanted to see Normandy. What I saw there, 43 years after the fact, was an American cemetery, peaceful, serene, quiet, holy. Trees, emerald green grass, and white grave markers on top of a cliff overlooking Omaha Beach.

I walked along the rows, reading the words on the markers. Names of the dead, and the dates of death. June 6. June 6. June 6. June 7. June 6. June 6. June 7. June 7. June 6. June 6. June 6. Row upon row upon row. I looked at the dates of birth and did the math. This one was 18. This one was 19. This one was 19. This one was 18. This one was 20. This one was 19. I looked at the places of birth. Ohio. Indiana. New York. Mississippi. Virginia.

The grave markers were mostly white crosses, and occasionally there was a Jewish star. June 6. June 6. June 6. Looking over the cliffs into the water I could see remnants of ramparts appearing where the waves receded. It was hard to imagine what it must have been like for those young men, who faced long odds of survival on D-Day, so young, so far from home. But if you ever go there, at least you won't forget.

So I wonder today, why is there no mention of D-Day in the paper? I have theory. To recognize D-Day is to acknowledge the profound good the military can do, and the necessity of war, something today's media will never acknowledge.

The Iraq war is not WWII. One can draw parallels but that is not the point. The point is we should, we must, honor those who made freedom possible. To honor those who sacrificed themselved on D-Day says nothing about today's military, and does not serve as commentary on Iraq. To honor by remembering is simply the right thing, the just thing, the only thing we can do for those brave men.

Or I could be reading too much into it. Maybe the editors of the paper really are just imbeciles. They don't even know what they don't know. But I know. And I won't forget.

Thunder and Lightning

So this morning, around 5-ish, I was awakened by a growing rumble of thunder rolling toward our little borough. The birds were singing like crazy. Around 5:30 I heard Josh closing his windows. Like me, he sensed this was going to be a big storm. At 5:45 he tiptoed slowly into our bedroom, not sure if we'd greet him with "It's too early. Go back to bed." or "Come on in and snuggle."

Jon says he gets it from me. And anyone who knows me at all knows that I hate storms. I hate lightning. I hate thunder. And as much as I love to snuggle Josh, I said I was getting up. Our bedroom has a glass door and three big windows, no curtains, blinds or window treatments of any kind. So when mother nature starts it up, I vamoose.

I went downstairs to make breakfast. But first I laid on the couch in the living room, which was getting darker by the minute. It wasn't completely light out to begin with, but whatever light there normally is at that hour was quickly fading.

At six, Jon & Josh came down for breakfast. By 6:15 we were being treated to some of mother nature's drama, as I made french toast (Josh calls it freedom toast) and bacon. Around then I heard Noah in the shower and thought to myself he shouldn't be in the shower during a thunderstorm. But I try to keep such thoughts to myself because people think I'm an alarmist. Thankfully he didn't get electrocuted.

It was getting really loud by 6:30, such that the lights were blinking and the walls were shaking. The windows looked completely black. Josh took his french toast and ate it while sitting on the top step to the basement. This was a logical spot. If he went all the way to the basement and the electricity went out, he'd be in a pitch dark room. By sitting at the top of the stairs, he couldn't see any lightning, though he did feel the rumbling through the floor, and was virtually in the basement, the safest room in the house. If there was a tornado. This wasn't a tornado, but it was one bitchin' storm.

Did I really contribute to this fear his? God knows he's seen me in near-panic mode a few times when we've been driving through some uncomfortably close streaks of lightning. I try to remain calm at home, and just hang out in the middle of the house someplace (the kitchen is in the middle of the house, oddly, and has no windows.)

I guess there are worse neuroses I could pass on. I'm not OCD, I'm not addicted to anything, I'm happily married to my kids' father. We're not poor, we're not starving, we're not maniacs. And honestly, during today's tempest, I remained remarkably calm (and didn't leave the kitchen.) I think Josh almost believed me when I said stop worrying and eat your freedom toast.

Nothing to Write About

Ughh! I have nothing to write about today. I could recount my day for you but it's not thrilling, I can assure you. The best part of the whole day is sitting here at my computer listening to Josh, who's in the bathroom singing. That boy's heart is full of joy and happiness, just as it was when he was a baby 11 years ago. He does have his maudlin moments, like last week when he said he was concerned about dying. When I told him he has a nice long life ahead of him, he replied: Yeah, but I'm 10 years old already. But for the most part, he skips through his day, holds my hand, laughs his head off at silly things, snuggles whenever possible (as long as his friends aren't around.) What could be better than that?

Uncle Cantor's Lamp

That lamp sitting on my desk reminds me of Uncle Cantor. He either gave it to me, like he was always giving me things every time I saw him, or it found its way to my house after he died, leaving a houseful of stuff that we didn't really want to give to the Salvation Army.

I don't know where he got the lamp. Maybe Matilda, his older sister, gave it to him. She spent six years in Japan back in the '70s. The base of it is red, with cartoonish images of geisha women strolling through a garden. They're not very expertly drawn, and they look kind of angry now that I'm really looking at them, but I've always liked the lamp because it reminds me of Uncle Cantor.

I'm not really sure why we called him Uncle Cantor. I'm thinking it has something to do with Cantors in the Jewish temple, but that really doesn't make sense. He was Italian and Catholic. His given name was Ettore, a classy name that he should have used more. Cantor suited him though. Basic and unpretentious. Some people also called him Joe. I can't figure that one out either. Perhaps serendipidously, my mother-in-law's maiden name was also Cantor. So it seemed fitting that our oldest son should have Cantor as his middle name.

A few facts about Uncle Cantor. He was short. Five foot three, maybe? He was my favorite uncle because he was always laughing or dancing, and when he was younger he had these huge biceps that he'd flex at the dinner table while we neices and nephews tried to squeeze them. After I graduated from law school, I lived with him and his beautiful wife Nancy for two months as I studied for the bar exam. They doted on me, both of them. Nancy made me meals, emptied my trash can, asked about my love life, showed me the correct way to iron a dress. If I wasn't back by 5:30 after my class, one of them would be standing in the driveway waiting, as if their mere expectation that I should be materializing any moment would make it so.

He loved my husband (who doesn't?) and liked to put him to work moving furniture around whenever we visited. He used to tell stories about cooking for a thousand men in Persia during WWII. He was always in a good mood and seemed to let any troubles just roll off his back. After I got married, he'd visit us at our first house and always brought a case of something or other he found in the Strip district. Animal crackers. Pretzels. Canned peaches. Flowers. When his wife died of lung cancer the month before my wedding, he gave me an antique hutch that he said she loved. "What do I need it now for?" I remember him saying.

When he was a widower, he never seemed to lack dates. He frequented the Moose Lodge on Saturday nights, and the tale I heard was there was always a line of widows waiting to dance with him. At a wedding once I remember him standing on the dancefloor snapping his fingers, admiring the figure of his wife as she danced around him.

I never asked him why he didn't have children of his own. He would have made a great father. My kids got to know him a little, but Uncle Cantor died when my oldest was just seven, and my youngest wasn't yet born.

So anyway, there on my desk the lamp sits. It doesn't go with anything, and it's too tall for the small space it occupies. But I like having it there anyway.

Almost forgot! Almost...

Whoa Nellie! I was just about to go to bed when I remembered I haven't written today. I turned off my computer already so instead I'm using the laptop, which is plugged in, turned on, 24/7. Don't tell Algore on me.

It's a little early for bed but I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I know I said I was tired the past few days but today I have a legitimate excuse. Around 3:00 a.m. a very loud helicopter flew over our house, so low I could hear the whirling blades and half-expected to hear a voice through a loudspeaker summoning me from my repose: Red chopper one, we're coming in for a landing. Do you copy?

And since we were sleeping with door and windows open to the bedroom, it was loud. Like we were sleeping in a M*A*S*H unit. The noise also roused our formerly quiet and presumably sleeping dog, who proceeded to bark bark bark until we let her out, at which time she tore into the woods, her barking bouncing off the darkened trees, which magnified the decibel of her voice in a manner that the neighbors probably didn't appreciate. I think her objective was to scare off the mean helicopter, which of course was no longer in evidence.

Once we brought her back inside, I couldn't sleep. It was just one of those nights when all sorts of random things go running through one's mind: Did Sam get back to school safely? What should I pack for Turks & Caicos? Did I invite everyone to Josh's birthday party? How are we going to pay for college? When will I get around to planting the remaining flats of impatiens? Why does that Christian lady in my neighborhood ignore me? Should I relist the Blazer on ebay? Who will McCain pick for VP? Weighty matters indeed.

So I tossed and turned, rolled this way and that, until 5:45, when I gave up and instead met my friend Ann for an hour-long walk. Then I spent most of the day on Noah's "photo shoot", where they styled his hair, dabbed some make-up over a few blemishes, and proceed to take 400-plus photos as a starting point for his foray into modeling. It was actually fun and amusing to watch.

I'm too tired to think of anything else to write. I'd like to remind my audience, all two of you, that I'm on Day 8 and I'm still here. I hope that as the month wears on I'll have more interesting things to say, or at least more interesting ways of saying even the boring stuff.

But for now, buonanotte.

I Need Topics

Here I am again. Thank goodness for Outlook and that little reminder that pops up when I check my email. "Write!" it implores me. So here I am. I need some topics to inspire me. But nothing. So I'll just ramble on for a few minutes.

Next month I'm going to the Chautauqua Institution for a week. My very kind brother and sister-in-law invited me because it's writers week and they thought I would enjoy it. I'm going to hear the speakers every day (Amy Tan; E.L. Doctorow; Joyce Carole Oates; Gary Trudeau; and a poet whose name escapes me). I'm taking a writing class while I'm there, one on memoirs and family. They say there will be only twelve people in the class, and I'm a little afraid they will all be much more experienced and better writers than I. I guess I'll find out.

I'm hoping my musings here will exercise my writing muscles at least a bit. Today it sounds flat. I guess I'm just tired. We were up until midnight last night waiting for the boys to get home. This morning I overcame my desire to stay in my jammies all day and read the NY Times and instead went to my 9:00 a.m. exercise class, then came home and planted four flats of impatiens and begonias, then went to the pool for two hours, then went to a neighborhood graduation party until a few minutes ago.

Which reminds me. A guest at the party is a Pittsburgh Steeler, and my son asked for his autograph, since his birthday is this week. The Steeler was a gentleman and graciously signed something for him. I wonder if football players find it annoying to go to a neighborhood picnic and have people ask for autographs. Once I was at the mall buying a particular Steelers jersey for my nephew, and that particular Steeler came into the store at that moment. I bought the shirt and he signed it for me, and the other patrons kept telling me how lucky I was. I thought I was just asking for a simple favor, which he seemed happy to give, but it probably gets old after a while.

Nothing inspiring today. Maybe tomorrow.