First Day of School...Here We Go Again

So today is the first day of school. As in prior years, the kids, though they protest, are more than ready for a little structure after three months of camp, traveling, lounging around by the pool, video games, and me telling them to get out of bed, go weed the garden, play your cello, go outside and get some exercise.

The lead up to this morning was not promising. Though the boys dutifully went to bed at reasonable hours (all three before midnight), I realized as I was getting into bed that the shirt I had promised to have out of the laundry for my son's first day in high school was, in fact, still in the washer. I briefly entertained the idea of rising at 5:30 to put it in the dryer and decided to shelf the notion until morning.

My husband was in bed before me, nursing his ailing back with a combination of muscle relaxer, excedrin and a heating pad from Brookstone that hummed loudly as it massaged his sore flanks. "Nothing is helping," he muttered. "Drink some whiskey," I replied, recalling how nothing else had worked for me when I had a similar ailment ten years ago. Two shots of Jack Daniels, which I downed on the recommendation of a pharmacist client, had done the trick. Hubby decided to tough it out instead.

Lights out, and much tossing and turning ensued. I was tired. If only I could get a good night sleep, I mused, I would rise bright and early, toss my son's shirt into the drier in time for him to wear it, whip up a lovely breakfast belgian waffles and bacon (the request had already been made by our older son, the one who's a senior in high school now), and all would be well.

Alas, it was not to be. Around 1:30, Hubby gave up trying to get comfortable and went downstairs to watch whatever Will Farrell movie he had lately rented for the boys. I slept while he was gone. After he returned to bed somewhere around 3:00, I was again awakened, this time by a loud CRACK coming from someplace in the woods. Almost simultaneously, the little light that we had in the house emanating from various LEDs and the bathroom nightlight was extinguished.

"Great," I thought, "no power." I wondered exactly where a tree had fallen, and if there were at that moment live wires dancing in our driveway. It has been known to happen. Hubby snuggled in close and began to snore. I wondered if he tried my whiskey remedy, and drifted off to sleep.

Later, I was again awakened, this time by the sound of all power surging back into the house. Just as the loss of electricity rendered all the clocks useless, particularly frustrating when one is planning to rise before six, the return of electricty then transforms them into red blinking lights worthy of decorating Snoopy's doghouse at Christmas. "12:00...12:00...12:00..." my clock blinked into my eyes. I knew the boys' clocks would be blinking as well. What really wakened me that time, though was the rebooting of computer central in my office, 8 feet down the hall. The printer makes a particularly noisy time of it.

"12:01...12:01...12:01..." my clock blinked. I grabbed my watch, which thankfully has glow-in-the-dark hands, and squinted. "What time is it?" Hubby asked, temporarily roused from his long-awaited rest. "3:30," I said, and we both dropped off to sleep once more.

In what seemed like minutes later, I heard my son's footsteps as he walked down the hallway and into the bathroom, right outside our bedroom. I wondered what time it was. The night was as dark as ever, and no birds were singing. The shower surged, and hubby and I rose to our elbows. "He thinks it's time to get up," I said, feeling around the table for my watch. "There's no way it's...." I was wrong. It was 6:10.

I grabbed my robe and went to wake my other son, who had to be out of the house by 6:30 to catch the bus down the block. He said he had a good night sleep but wondered why his alarm didn't go off. We looked at it. It was blinking "2:37...2:37...2:37". "We lost power last night," I said. "Sorry honey but you'll have to wear a different shirt today." "No problem, Mom." He's a good son.

I went to the kitchen and there on the counter was a tiny empty bottle of Jack Daniels. "Wish he'd listened to me earlier," I thought, as I threw the belgian waffles together, and made coffee and bacon. And by the time the boys came down to breakfast, all was finally well.

Blackberries

I'm thinking about blackberries. Not the kind you eat sprinkled over cheerios. I'm thinking about those little black devices with lots of buttons that allow their users to be connected, 24/7. I know someone who has two of them, brandishing one in each hand at all times, because she has two high-intensity jobs at the moment. Supposedly she has been directed to keep at least one of them in striking distance until 3:00 a.m. each day. What crisis she might have to deal with at 2:59 a.m. I cannot imagine, but she is in politics so I guess you never know.

My sister says I should get a blackberry. She says hers has actually improved her life, enabling her to keep her hectic life organized, helping to prevent various tasks/obligations/commitments from falling through the cracks.

If you've read a few of my previous posts, you will know that organization is not one of my strong suits. This defect of mine became once more apparent when I realized yesterday that I failed to register my son for the ACT test in September, something I am absolutely convinced I did way back in June. I remember patting myself on the back at the time, thankful that I would not have to worry about the deadline for registration later. But lo and behold, when I checked the website yesterday, August 23, there was no record of his registration. And to add insult to injury, the deadline for late registration was, you guessed it, August 22. And to add one more kick in the pants, the ACT registration office is closed on weekends, so I couldn't even place a phone call to inquire. My best guess as to what happened is that I entered my credit card information incorrectly, so the transaction was never completed. This has been known to happen.

I placed my hands against my temples and squeezed my eyes shut. How could this be? Here I have been badgering my poor son these past weeks to study, study, study, the test is in just a few weeks, then we can stop worrying about it, and now we're looking at another month of him being nagged by me, his incompetent mother, to study, study, study, for an extra four weeks, during which he will also have to go to school and crew practice, all the while working on his college applications and the elusive essay topic that goes along with it.

I pulled out the last six months of credit card bills, on the extremely off-chance the ACT people had billed me but not registered him. No unwarranted charges appeared. So I vented to my sister in an email about my frustrations, to which she responded that I should get a blackberry. "It will improve your life," she said.

Maybe it would. Normally I embrace technology that enhances my life. But I have a kind of knee-jerk reaction when I see people caressing their little fruity devices, paying more attention to the screen in front of them than to the person sitting beside them who is trying to carry on a conversation. It's like talking to a spineless parent whose little brat throws a temper tantrum, jumping up and down screaming "I want candy! I want candy! And I want it now!", and the parent responds by saying "of course you do honey let's go buy some right now!" leaving you alone smack in the middle of an earnest conversation about the war on terror or the price at the pumps or your parents' declining health or the fact that you're drowning and you need them to throw you a lifeline, but alas, they can't because they have to go buy their kid some candy right now.

Ben Stein's column today in the New York Times, entitled "Connected, Yes, but Hermetically Sealed," sums up my feelings exactly. He laments that people have chained themselves to technology, at the expense of human interaction and appreciation of all that goes on around them. "What would we do if cellphones and PDAs disappeared? We would be forced to think again. We would have to confront reality." And, he says, if you try a day or a week without being connected, "you will be shocked at what you discover. It's called life. It's called nature. It's called getting to know yourself."

And that's how I feel about it. I confess I do have an ancient PDA, one that I use for a date book and addresses. And I have a cellphone, but only family members know the number, and I don't answer it if I'm driving. It rarely rings anyway, since I don't share the number with most people. It's for emergencies, basically. It would be nice to have internet or email access when I'm sitting in the parking lot of the school, waiting for the kids to get out of practice or their after-school meeting. But now I use that time to read a magazine or a few pages of whatever book I have stashed in my purse, or if I'm so inclined I even pen a few lines. It's quiet time, and I need that.

I may relent and get a blackberry-like device one of these days. But until then, my kids will just have to suffer through my occasional lapses in performance, and my son will just have to endure studying for the ACT one more month. But first I have to register him.

My Parents' Anniversary

Today is the 53rd anniversary of my parents' wedding. From those two sprung an additional 36 people, counting children and grandchildren. It is remarkable, when you consider that my father's father began as one person, with no parents or siblings that he could claim. I feel very blessed to have my parents, who may not claim to be perfect, but have been quite excellent as parents and mentors, unwaivering in their love and support of all their progeny.

If I may be immodest for one moment, I have received compliments on my parenting skills. I very consciously behave toward my children much in the way my mother behaved toward me. I remember the ways in which she comforted me at various times, and my kids now benefit from her prodigious parenting skills. She's the rock and I never feared the storms of life knowing she was there for me. From my father I learned to show my kids how much I love them. Hugs and kisses. Lots of "I love you"s. Lots of advice. Try to point them in the right direction but don't push them toward it. Be there no matter what.

It's really a pretty simple formula but somehow too many people aren't clued in. Anyway, here's to a 53 year marriage that's still going strong. May I be so lucky.

Not in the Mood to Write

I am just not in the mood to write. Hence the lack of posts the past couple of days. The problem is it's August. When school lets out in June every year, I and the kids are so ready for summer. All we can think about is vacation, the pool, sleeping in, staying up late. I always think I'm going to have all this free time. Which is of course the opposite of how things actually play out these three months.

We do always have wonderful summers. But by around August 10, a kind of restlessness starts to creep in. The pool isn't so exciting any more. I'm annoyed the kids are still in bed at 10:30 a.m. I wish they'd go to bed already when I see the lights still on at 11:30 p.m. Too much extra laundry, extra cooking, extra cleaning up after everyone.

We need structure. Not that anyone is happy about the prospect of rising at 6:00 beginning next Thursday. But I think the kids are ready to use their brains again, and I'm ready for some time to focus on something other than is there enough lunch meat in the house for everyone.

All this puts me right out of the mood to write. I think I've been pretty good about it the past few months, but my poor book sits neglected, in its binder titled "A Work In Progress". The sad truth is that I'm not even sure which room in my house it's in at this moment, that's how pathetic my progress, or lack thereof, has been since June.

Also I just returned from a really boring seminar I attended to get my required hours of continuing legal education. The subject was Elder Law, but the focus of the 3 hours was more on how to deplete your assets so you can get medicaid to pay for your nursing home. Curiously no one seemed interested in the fact that if you're not paying it, everybody else is (i.e. the taxpayers). But I digress.

I'll try to get at least something down on Notes from Suburbia, and pick up the book again on Thursday, when I get 6 hours to myself, instead of 6 minutes.

My Bookshelves

I had about 10 minutes of downtime this morning, when I was waiting to take my son to tennis. I hate downtime, unless I have something to read, and 10 minutes isn't really enough to settle into anything, except maybe a poem, which I was not in the mood for, so instead I decided to put away a few of the many books that are littering the various rooms of my house.

I have some nice built-in bookshelves in my living room, and I keep in them books that mean something to me. My husband doesn't really get this about me. He's a strictly library kind of person, and once he's read a book, he's done with it. I, on the other hand, feel a compelling need to own certain books. I have quite a few books that I read from the library, or books that someone lent me, that I loved so much I simply had to go out and buy them so I can put them on my bookshelf. For me, they're like artwook. I like to hold them, page through them, remember how much I loved reading them. I am loathe to lend them because I fear losing them.

Not that I've read everything on these bookshelves, mind you. I have a number of impressive books that I fully intend to read, someday when I'm stuck in the hospital with multiple fractures that leave me with nothing to do but heal and read for months on end. Books like War and Peace. Moby Dick. Solzhenitsyn's August 1914.

Then there are books I buy for the sheer beauty of them. The Hollanders' translation of Dante's Purgatorio comes to mind. I picked up this gorgeous tome (list price $35) at the Barnes & Noble bargain table for $6.00. How could I not buy it? I also have a number of gorgeous art books from various museums I've visited. On my coffee table right now is Andrew Wyeth Memory & Magic, published in connection with the Wyeth exhibit last year at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. The exhibit left me breathless. I had to own a piece of it, even if that meant only the art book. And underneath that one is the soft-cover Great French Paintings from the Barnes Foundation. If you've never been to the Barnes, I urge you to get in your car right now and go. The Musee D'Orsay in Paris has nothing on the Barnes.

Sometimes I go online to find first editions of books that are special to me, and once in a while I get lucky and find one that is even signed by the author, like when I bought Break, Blow, Burn (Camille Paglia Reads Forty-Three of the World's Best Poems.) I have first editions of The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer, Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon, and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I hope one day to meet these phenomenal writers (obviously not Ms. Buck) and ask them to sign my books.

I try not to be one of those people who buy certain books only because they look good on the bookshelf. I do know people who have books carefully displayed on a small table in the hallway between the bathroom and the living room. "Look at me," they seem to suggest, "I have good taste." But I have a sneaking suspicion that these books have not actually been read, and instead have merely been placed, like a vase of silk flowers or a silver bowl, to be admired and dusted but not actually used for anything.

What am I reading now? I've devoted the summer to Harry Potter and Jane Austen. Books I will keep when I'm done, on my bookshelf.

My Day

Get up. Eat breakfast. Do laundry. Go to gym. Take boys to dentist. Eat lunch. Take shower. Pack & print postage for book sold on half.com. Do laundry. Take dog to groomer. Go to bank. Buy money orders at Rite Aid. Go to post office. Read Harry Potter. Do dishes. Deal with refrigerator repair man. Pick up dog at groomer. Read Harry Potter. Answer email. Pay bills. Do laundry. Make zucchini bread. Order Chinese. Eat dinner. Do dishes. Figure out which trees need trimming. Do laundry. Blog. Watch Curb Your Enthusiasm. Kiss husband & kids. Go to bed.

I Have Skills

I have some amazing skills. Today I fixed the dog's electric fence. Took three days of locating and examining the wire throughout the yard and in the woods, but I finally found the frayed wire, close to the house, where some critter had been working on it. The fence has been out of commission for about six months, but my dog is not the most intelligent of God's creatures, and she never figured out that the neighborhood was hers for the taking until a few days ago, when she must have wandered close to the edge of the yard and it finally hit her that there was no beeping sound to warn her of impending shock should she venture another step forward.

When she did leave the yard, she made a beeline for the neighbor's goldfish pond. She loves the stinkiness, and splashed around until we hauled her out and put her on a long leash attached to a tree. That made her unhappy. She barked at us, particularly when she spied us eating dinner out of her reach. The next day, we let her off the leash, thinking maybe she forgot that she could leave, but alas for us, we had not anticipated the proximity of a certain feline, and the next thing we knew, our dog was racing down the driveway and chased the poor cat up a tree, four houses down. We hauled her home again.

This morning, before again returning to work on the fence, I grabbed her by the collar and attempted to lead her to the leash again. She was having none of that. She dug in her heals and dragged her hairy butt against the asphalt. When I put the leash on her collar, she mistakenly assumed it was time for a walk and started running along with me. Poor mutt, I lead her to the longer leash, still tied to a tree, so I could be sure she wouldn't leave the yard again while we worked.

When finally the light on the transformer in the garage went green instead of blinking red, we put the electric collar back on the dog, and she immediately headed for what she expected to be a "hole" in the electric fence. The collar beeped (it's only a sound; she only gets shocked if she keeps going forward) and she leaped back. "Woof?" she no doubt uttered to herself. She ran to the other side of the yard where she had exited to the goldfish pond before, stepping gingerly one paw in front of the next. Her ears perked up, her expression nonplused. She started backing up, and we knew she was once again contained, constrained, detained. Just the way we like her.

Dirtballs Will Be Dirtballs

I simply cannot let certain news events of the past few days go without comment. Maybe I'm a cynic, but I am always just a little suspect of certain people who attract hordes of followers. I feel like there's a Jim Jones lurking in there somewhere. I'm talking about charismatic individuals who, because of their gifts, are elevated above the rest of us plebians and begin to believe themselves to be truly better than everyone else, deserving of special treatment, no longer bound by the rules of common decency that serve to keep society civil.

I refer to John Edwards, sometime presidential candidate, and Victoria Osteen, wife of mega-televangelist Joel Osteen.

Let's take Miss Vicky first. Before I ever heard of her, I had heard of her husband, Joel Osteen, who runs a mega-Christian church in Houston that is said to attract 42,000 worshipers every week in a stadium cum cathedral. He's also penned some best sellers. These two are living the life. They've got the big bucks, thanks to their gagillions of followers. But televangelist? Can you say Jim and Tammi Faye Bakker? How are these people any different? They pray on people's hopes, fears and misery all the while raking in the dough and living by their own rules.

But that's not the point here. Miss Vicky made news because she allegedly assaulted a flight attendant. It seems she threw a hissy fit back in 2005 because there was a stain on the armrest of her seat. According to news reports at the time, "She violently ran towards the cockpit, scaring everyone around her," said passenger Knicky Van Slyke. "Everyone was terrified about what was going on. And a bunch of flight attendants ran up and had to restrain her. She was banging on the door." (Evidently the pressures of running the megachurch were so great, the family was taking a much-needed break, heading for the slopes of Colorado. Poor babies.)

The thrust of the lawsuit is that she assaulted a flight attendant, who is now suing her on the basis of pain and suffering, etc.

The thrust of my take on the situation is that this little incident merely reveals that this is who Victoria Osteen is. Take a good look. Then follow her and Joel if you want. But it looks to me like this couple's moral philosophy is Do as I Say, Not as I Do. And there's a reason why they call religious congregations the "flock". Baa Baa Baa.

Now the juicy stuff. John Edwards. Where shall we begin? The guy casts himself on the moral high ground throughout his campaign. The son of a mill worker. The lawyer for the downtrodden. The enemy of big mean corporations. Oh yeah, the same guy who lives in a 29,000 square foot house who calls for caps on carbon emissions. And when was the last time a blue collar worker paid $400 for a haircut. Not that I begrudge him that. He has good hair for a guy his age.

And when his wife's cancer recurred, he was nearly elevated to sainthood...both of them were...selfless people that they are. They forgot to mention that John Edwards was cheating on his wife back in 2006, with a total bimbo no less, who then had a child. She was paid hush money by Edwards' good friends and relocated to a cushy pad in California, but the National Enquirer would just not let sleeping dogs lie. They started reporting this back in October, and the mainstream press finally picked up on it last week, even though it was common knowledge in certain quarters of his campaign that he was a lying cheating scumbag.

Now he apologizes ("In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic." I like that. I respect that. This is a shockingly truthful statement considering it comes from a lying cheating scumbag.) But he also says he's not the father of the kid and offers to take a paternity test. Of course knowing that she won't take one, won't allow her daughter to be tested, because then the gravy train comes to a screaching halt.

Meanwhile, his erstwhile devoted cancer-stricken wife is by his side. I think she is. It would be sweet if she dumped him. Publicly. But she won't. Women married to men like him are power-hungry too, and they're not going to let a little thing like public humiliation of themselves and their children get in the way of their ambitions.

Really, John Edwards is revealing himself to be just like Bill Clinton, only shorter. And like Miss Vicky, his behavior simply shows who he really is. Selfish. Narcissistic. A liar. Untrustworthy. A dirtball. Oh yeah, and mean.

Another Busy Day Ahead

It's 8:15 a.m. and another busy day looms. Not that any of this stuff is critical but it's all got to be done. Sticking with the program, I will first ride my bike to the gym...it's another beautiful day here in the Burgh, and we are blessed with so few of them per annum I have to get out there and soak it up. Although thinking about a part-time job at our school library, I suspect they won't pay enough to make it worth the effort, however nice to make a little dent in the tuition bill of Son #1.

And speaking of Son #1, he just got home last night and announced he's going to North Carolina on Saturday to help a friend pick up a car. He is only home for 5 days to begin with and I'm playing the woeful mother. Why do you have to go? Why can't you stay home? I miss you. I have things for you to do. I want to look at you! I must sound like such a nag. I'm sure it's dull for him around here now...as Dad always says, how can you keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree? Thus the conundrum of successful parenting. You spend 18 years loving them, teaching them, pointing them in the right direction, showing them how to be independent. Then, the nerve! they go off and lead their own lives, just as you've always wanted and expected them to do. And here I sit, blogging away about how I just want him home. But go he must, and go he will.

Just a Quickie

Just a quickie today...too many things going on. I'd like to report that I've reached some kind of milestone physically (and I'm not still talking about those gray hairs). I've been riding my bike to the health club two or three times a week since June, with the dual goals of reducing my fuel bill and improving my cardiovascular fitness. It's only about 1 1/2 miles each way, but there are hills. I can always get there without stopping, but the hill on the way back...well let's just say gravity usually has its way with me and I end up walking the bike up the last quarter of it. Plus once I've ridden to the club and worked out for an hour, I'm usually too tired to care that much.

But today! Josh rode with me, and after my workout class, I said "You know, I feel pretty good today. I think I'm going to make it up that hill." He looked at me with all the skepticism of an 11-year old who's seen his mother walk her bike up the hill on more than one occasion. Actually on every occasion, since I had never actually made it up that hill. He said "I doubt it." But today! I am Lance Armstrong, I am Greg LeMonde, I am...oh those are the only two cyclists I know, but you get the picture. I went into the tiniest little gear on my 25-year old Raleigh that I bought back in law school and I went right up, and actually had to stop later on to wait for Josh to catch up. What can I say, I rule!

Morning Writing Vs. Nighttime Writing

Here's the difference between morning writing and nighttime writing. In the morning I'm all energy. I'm clear. I have complete thoughts. Sometimes they are even interesting. One might wonder why I don't force myself to just write every morning instead of waiting until times like now, when it's 10:00 and my bed is calling me. At night, I'm unable to focus. Just want to sleep. Nothing to say. My brain is flat, like this post. I'm only here because I promised myself I would be here.

Things That Make Me Happy

Yesterday I was whining about Things That Annoy Me. Today I shall write something different. Here are some Things That Make Me Happy:

A good night's sleep. That makes me sound like an old lady, right? But truthfully, a bad night's sleep wrecks my whole day, my whole attitude, my very outlook on life. Last night I cruelly put the dog in the garage (with bed and water) when she started up with the barking at 10:30. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was just getting warmed up for another long night of scolding me for leaving her home while we thoughtlessly vacationed, sans canine. I did hear the occasional muffled "woof" but it did not interrupt my slumber. And just to prove that a good night's sleep makes me happy, here I sit, at 8:09 a.m., writing this!

Pouring rain. Yes, I realize that I like to complain about Pittsburgh's dreary climate, like yesterday when it was 85 degrees and dark, in the middle of the day, due to omnipresent cloud cover. But a good soaking rain is just glorious! Right now the yard is just dripping wet, the foliage verdant, the woods misty and dense. My flowers (the ones I haven't killed yet) are standing at attention, their heads no longer drooping, their leaves no longer wilted. And after it rains, for some reason, the birds love to sing like crazy! It sounds like the Amazon out there right now! Maybe the birds are going hog-wild over the worms that pop out of the ground after a good deluge. Whatever the reason, it makes me feel like running around the grass in my bare feet.

Eggplant. Love the food, love the color. I used to have a great wool suit in eggplant, back when I first emerged from law school and trod the corridors of a big city law firm. It had a swirly skirt and a short fitted jacket that said I had attitude and style and was just a tad unconventional for my milieu.

Noah smiling. Actually any of my kids smiling, but Noah is my quiet child. We tell him he's our good son. Never makes waves, never loses his temper. A very even-keeled kind of person. But he only smiles when he really means it, when something makes him very happy or really cracks him up. And when he does, you no longer need light bulbs because the room becomes all aglow.

When someone tells me there is no way I have a kid in college because I look too young. You may think that this is an incredibly shallow thing to make me happy, but when you consider the alternative (you mean you're not a grandmother yet?) these kinds of comments make me feel pretty good.

Phil & Josh playing their cellos together. This thrills me on so many levels. I adore the cello. It calms me. It makes me want to close my eyes and just be. But it's not just the music. When they play together, Phil acts the mentor and Josh the student. While I'm in the next room doing the dishes, I listen to Phil making suggestions, praising Josh's notes, Josh asking questions, then they start playing together and to state the obvious that it is music to my ears doesn't scratch the surface of the joy I feel when those two are together. I know they are friends, and neither of them will ever be alone as long as the other walks this earth.

And last but certainly not least, I have to mention Sam, my oldest. If he ever reads this and doesn't see his name listed as a Thing That Makes Me Happy, he will be, to paraphrase Humperdink in The Princess Bride, very put out. But he knows how happy he makes me. We are of one mind, and when I see him showing his brothers the way through life, well, what else is there, really? I've done my job, and now he's doing his. I am happy indeed.

Things That Annoy Me

Here's what annoys me:

The new Scrabble Beta on Facebook. Scrabulous was user friendly and entertaining. Instead of paying lawyers to stop the genius makers of Scrabulous, Hasbro should have worked out a mutually beneficial royalty arrangement. But they chose to launch their own version, dubbed "Scrabble Beta," which is slow to load, with a tiny board and ugly colors. They're like the music companies who put Napster out of business when Napster did it better than they ever could.

Bed Bath & Beyond, and by virtue of being its clone, Linens and Things. Oops, I meant "Linens N Things." The "N" also annoys me. I keep going in there with the coupons they keep sending me, hoping against hope they'll have what I'm looking for at a price that does not constitute extortion. Usually they don't have what I'm looking for. There's a space for it on the shelf, but they're always sold out. Doesn't matter what it is. Could be a bath towel in white (not exactly an exotic color) or a mattress pad in Twin XL. Could be a wooden spoon. Could be a toaster oven. 99% of the time I leave with nothing. And yet I keep returning, my optimism running high. I guess I just can't believe that they keep getting it wrong. I'm like a dog that refuses to learn from its mistakes.

Those idiots at our local library. You return books and they claim you didn't. Those little fines keep accumulating. Usually they find the books after a couple weeks, but really, how hard can it be to take the book out of the book return, scan it, and put it on the shelf? Plus those library ladies have a perpetual scowl on their faces, as if it was 100 years ago and they were all spinsters, like Mary in It's a Wonderful Life when George sees what things would have been like if he hadn't been born.

My dog. She barked all night last night. Not just for an hour. Not just at 1, then at 4. She barked pretty much continuously from 11:30 to 5:30, with the occasional 15 minute hiatus. I think she was paying us back for going on vacation without her. So now I'm tired and crankier than usual due to sleep deprivation.

Unsatisfactory answers from customer service. To wit: my son is in Peru with a tour company that promises anxious parents that there will be an online tour diary, where we can see pictures of our little kidlets and entries about what they're doing each day. Today is day 6, and nothing. Keep in mind the whole tour is only 8 days long. So I call and say, hey, what's up with the tour diary? Their answer? "Yeah, we're getting a lot of calls on that. We can't find the tour director to find out why he hasn't posted anything." Excuse me, what? Since the tour director is the guy who is leading the tour, one hopes he can be located. But fear not, they have since posted a few entries, and I now have proof (unless it's photo-shopped) that my son stood on the hallowed grounds of Macchu Picchu yesterday.

Costco. Actually I have mixed feelings about Costco. I continue to do most of my grocery shopping there, notwithstanding reports that Costco is a huge financial supporter of the ultra-leftwing moveon.org. But I will admit it pisses me off more when I go there to buy celery (or some other mundane foodstuff) and they no longer carry it, forcing me to make an extra stop at the old-fashioned grocery store, where they will charge me 30% more.

Tomorrow after I've had a decent night's sleep maybe I'll write about what makes me happy instead of what annoys me. One hopes the post will be longer and nicer. If it's not, you'll know the stupid dog is still mad.

I'm Ignoring Myself

You know, I just looked at my post from July 19, where I said I was going to work on something serious every day. I did mean it at the time. But alas, instead of producing the written word, I am getting to be quite the expert on not writing anything at all. I have a million excuses, only a small handful of which have any validity, but here I go again. I will write! Some freaking thing every day!

Actually, I have my cousin Chris to thank for this. He's this amazing writer who mitigates my guilt by saying he likes what I write, and also because he suffers from writing inertia as much as I do, but with much better excuses than me. I appreciate that someone understands my lameness.

Speaking of which, I was just outside watering my pathetic garden. That dry cracked barely living patch of ground struck me as a metaphor for my lack of writing accomplishment over the past few months. I haven't nurtured it and it's dying. So in addition to writing, I decided to nourish my garden as well. I'm going to pay attention to it. I'm going to pour some new dirt on it. I'm going to water it, weed it, and plant some bee balm and more purple cone flowers. It's probably too late to revive it this summer, but by next summer it should be showing signs of life again.