Home Alone

I was going to use the Macaulay Culkin picture that everyone associates with this flick. But I think John Hughes was really recreating this famous painting by Edvard Munch. So why was I striking this particular pose? Hubby is back home after three weeks on the road. And that requires an adjustment on my part.

Gone are the days of the after-work nap which was just before the popcorn and cereal dinner. Dishes were left in the kitchen sink, sometimes for days. The cat box didn't get cleaned regularly (but regularly enough that the cat didn't move out). The mail piled up. In other words, I lived like a guy. It was glorious and now it is over.

The art you see above is my reaction as the garage door went up and my less-than-stellar lifestyle ended. I'm not home alone anymore. Now we play by the rules of marriage where everyone picks up after themselves and no one behaves like a savage. Ugh. I don't want to be a slob every day, but I really do enjoy being the ugly homeowner every now and then.

Now it's over. Now I have to behave again.

March Sadness

Pitt lost and blew up my Southeast bracket. I didn't see the brilliance of Vandy and Louisville losing in the first (well, officially second) round. It was odd to see Rick Patino as a TV pundit so early in the tournament. In fact I couldn't fathom why he was spouting basketballisms on my TV. Oh, right. Morehead State. Sorry 'bout that.

Every year we do brackets in my department at work. I submit two entries: me and the cat. The cat is currently beating me (and a number of my colleagues).

There is no science to how we choose our teams. This year I did mine before a meeting and kept interrupting to ask for opinions. "Duke or Texas?" "Xavier or Marquette? It's like a battle of the Jesuit Catholic colleges." Fortunately they ignored me, which is nothing new if you've been to our meetings.

The cat decided that the NCAA selection committee was omniscient. He picked by seed and the results have been decent. In prior years he picked by mascot, focusing on bird and cat mascots. That didn't go so well but thinking about the birds had him salivating. He didn't pick Richmond either, mostly because their mascot is a spider. (Not as delicious as a bird.)

Last year the person in our department who knew the least about basketball won it all. Another year someone chose the winning bracket using strictly school colors. "Let's see. You can't have two blue and whites playing for the final. Let's put a red and white in there." This confirms that basketball knowledge has nothing to do with bracketology. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And that's what makes it fun. Until my Southeast bracket blows up and that makes me grumpy.

Trip to the Vet

Cat in carrier, the one with the jail-like bars over the door, on the way to vet.

MJ the Cat: meowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeow

Translation: I'm being repressed! This is an outrage! I will poop in your shoes as soon as we get home! How dare you confine me in such a way! I have PETA on speed dial!

Once at the vet MJ goes silent.

What he says: nothing.

Translation: Hey, I'm kinda liking this little cottage. The wire door is adorable. Just gonna cozy up back in the corner here. You can't see me if I can't see you, right? No need for me to get out. Forget what I was saying before.

It takes two humans to extract one cat out of the now comfortable abode.

Lesson learned: None. It happens all over again, verbatum, on a subsequent trip to the vet three days later.

Don't get me started on what it took to adminster his medicine. Scarring (mine) was the result.

Le Walk, Le Trip, Le Splat

I’m told that the French find Americans annoying. Not all Americans, I reckon. Just those other Americans: the white tennis shoe-wearing, loud talking, McDonalds-loving Yanks who give the rest of us a bad name.

I politely greet French people with a “Bonjour” and thank them with a “Merci.” I understand their currency (the Euro); I don’t expect them all to know English. Most of all, I don’t want to bring bad attention to myself as an American. If I act like an idiot, I might bring (more) disgrace on my country. This is my thought pattern when I travel abroad: Be respectful. Don’t act like it’s the first time you’ve crossed the Atlantic. And, for God’s sake, don’t give the French another reason to laugh at us.

With that in mind, let me share a moment from my vacation to Nice, France last month.

Scene: My sister, Donna, and I are crossing an intersection on the way back to our hotel.

The action: We are walking past the midpoint of the intersection where there is a minor (very minor) elevation in the pavement.

The result: I fall with a loud splat into the geometric center of the intersection. (Did I mention that the pavement is in pristine condition?) To my left is a handful of French motorists that are either (1) surprised they are getting a comedy show or (2) feeling pretty righteous about all that’s wrong with America. After taking a few seconds to comprehend what I had just done, my sister helps me up and we make our way to the other side of the street.

Did they really know I was American? Maybe not. But the spectacle I made obviously pegged me as someone who was not French. No self-respecting French person would go splat like that.

Splat [noun]. The act of falling on hands and knees in a comedic fashion. See Three Stooges, Jerry Lewis.

The good news was that I didn’t break any bones. But, once back at the hotel, I saw that my knees were badly scraped and bruised. This resulted in a trip to the pharmacy where I asked for ‘le Bactine.’

More than six weeks later the scrapes have not fully healed, nor has my pride. I still wonder how I managed to trip (and fall) over what was no more than a couple extra molecules of pavement. I can only chalk it up to the thrill of being in the South of France. I'm just pleased I could entertain the French on that beautiful January day.

The Vortex of Unconsciousness

See our couch. This is the nicest, priciest piece of furniture we own. We bought it a little more than a year ago to provide a sense of class (and leather) to our living room. The leather is supple and much nicer than we deserve. The only problem was that we didn’t envision the couch with us (and the cat) camped out on it. Night after night. When you think of the aesthetics of furniture, you don’t often picture how you look littered in that image. Look at the blankets and pillows. This is a lived-in couch. Which is part of the problem.

The beautiful sofa of our dreams is also a vehicle that transports us to the land of dreams night after night. By that I mean we can’t stay awake on the thing.

Take Friday night. By 9:00 pm Hubby, me and the cat are lined up in a display of stupor. Much like the victims of Pompeii, we’re almost frozen in time. Hubby is upright, head leaning back with the remote in his right hand. I am wrapped in two blankets and leaning toward him for warmth. MJ the cat is the only one who appeared ready to spend a good, long time camped out on the leather magic carpet, all curled up and cozy like felines do.

Around midnight I stir because my neck hurts. Hubby opens his eyes and gasps that three hours have slipped by. “How did that happen?” he asks. We are astonished that we were so thoroughly knocked out; our slumber so deep that we thought we were tucked in our own bed. Yes, this is an indication that we have no control over our impulse to fall asleep, as if we’ve been drugged (or have a carbon monoxide problem in our house).

Except the exact same thing happened the previous night.

“We have a problem,” I sighed. “We’re in a rut.”

It’s true. After an early evening of dinner and work chat, there isn’t much reason to maintain any sense of alertness. If you can’t fall asleep with your spouse, what’s the purpose, right? Nothing on TV captures our fancy these days. The sky still darkens early. And the power of the couch yet again drains us of all remaining energy. The cat joins in because he long ago got over the fact that one needs to be productive in the evenings.

Daylight savings time begins in a couple weeks. Will we be less likely to slip into the ether? Until the weather warms up I doubt it. So the Rip Van Winkle family carries on. And let me say that I have a better appreciation of that story than I did as a child. The man was a genius. He understood that there are certain periods in life (winter) when it’s best to sleep away time.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

My IQ has plummeted. Consider the following over the past few days:

• Got a speeding ticket (in a speed trap!) because I was thinking and driving at the same time
• The next day, took Hubby to dinner and cluelessly drove past exit
• At restaurant, got up to use bathroom and walked, with gusto, into the men's room!

"I think I had a mini-stroke," I told Hubby, returning from my restroom adventures.

"I think we should get the check and remove you from public view," Hubby replied. He has not stopped teasing me about the men's room incident. I'm amazed he isn't more concerned about his wife becoming a turnip before his very eyes.

Why am I having these episodes?

A piece of advice. Do not type 'memory loss' into WebMD. Alzheimer's and dementia come up right away followed by 'brain.' WebMD is an amazing tool but can cause a stress-related aneursym if you enter vague symptoms. Instead I used what little brain power I had left to sort through more realistic reasons why my brain was resembling a bag of rocks. (See this link for details about my ongoing problems with antihistimes.)

It's entirely possible that I took one too many Allegra pills. Plus I had allergy shots about the same time. Maybe the combination of a slight antihistimine overdose and the infusion of death-causing allergens was just too much for the noggin. Anyway, I slept it off, skipped the morning Allegra and started to move from amoeba-ness back to human thought patterns.

But Hubby's men's room jokes continue. I see an Allegra-laced cocktail in his future.

Flawless!

The last miner has emerged from the Chilean underground cave where 33 men lived for 69 days. Can you imagine? As this story unfolded over the past couple of months I was struck with one thought. Joy. The men showed joy and grace throughout their ordeal. They were joyful when they were found alive. Joyful when they learned of the plans to rescue them. Joyful as grainy TV images showed us how they were managing and surviving despite such dire circumstances. At one point I wondered if they were having the best party in the world since they looked so full of life. As each man came out of the earth, I was amazed at how good they appeared.

The world came together to help Chile by providing technology, expertise and even Oakley sunglasses. But it was the Chileans that had to execute; and, boy, did they. I kind of wish Chile had been in charge of the Deepwater Horizon drill kill operation. They made it look so easy; as if they rescue miners 2000 feet down all the time.

I couldn't help but wonder how this would have played out had it happened in the U.S. The media/corporate/political circus would have been unbearable. Finger-pointing and Congressional inquiries would almost obliterate the rescue mission. The miners in Chile didn't want to look like victims. They seemed proud of their profession and their country. It never occurred to me to feel sorry for them since they were embracing life one moment at a time. Would we (Americans) have acted with such class and courage?

It's been such a tough couple years for most of us on planet Earth. I thank the country of Chile for giving us all something to be grateful for.

The Other, Other Man I Love

Perhaps the polar opposite of Don Draper is Alton Brown, host of 'Good Eats' on the Food Network. He's not dashing in the same way Don is, but he can do something more important. He can cook.

I became a 'Good Eats' fan because Alton talks about food in a way I understand best -- by explaining the science behind the food. Only a geek can get excited to learn about the Maillard reaction (how food browns during cooking), what the flash point of olive oil is or how a souffle rises. Emeril can get all BAM! on me but Alton wants me to care about the details that make the food tasty.

I recommend his first cookbook, Good Eats: The Early Years, for the recipes and, more importantly, the entertainment value. This is a man whose tongue is firmly planted in cheek at all times. In the age of celebrity chefs and their egos, it's refreshing to have Alton and his nerdish approach to cooking. He also keeps my left brain very happy (see here).

The Other Man I Love

Hubby is number one in my book. But if I had to name a runner up or second place finisher, I could do a lot worse than this man - Don Draper of Mad Men. He's a cad, a drunk, a womanizer and hot, hot, hot. A girlfriend and I were recently discussing his appeal. "He's just bad on all levels, which is what makes him so appealing," she explained.

Ah, the bad boy syndrome.

For centuries women have lusted, longed for and pursued the very men they knew would break their hearts. Over and over again.

Don is the bad boy poster child. He swapped identities with a dead soldier in Korea. He cheated on his wife until she threw him out (not for the cheating but the identity switcheroo). He drinks to excess and is not much of a father to his three children.

But look at him.

Books and articles have been written about why women fall for this kind of guy. Spare me the details. Hubby is the anti-Don and that is the way it should be. On Sunday evenings I get my Don Draper TV fix and move on.

Now gaze at the picture for a few minutes and tell me you don't understand the appeal. I dare you.

Left Brain, Meet the Right Brain

I am cursed with an overactive left brain. Much like an overactive thyroid or bladder in others, the left brain often gets in the way and makes my life hell. While a hyper left brain doesn't lead to heart palpitations or frequent trips to the bathroom, it does lead to linear thinking and causes me to analyze the snot out of anything fun.

In recent years I've declared war on the left hemisphere of my brain. I don't want to annihilate it; I want it to take its rightful place with my other body parts. It shouldn't yell the loudest or be the most dominant organ. Rather it should act more like Belgium and act dignified but not bossy, nestled within my other brain parts.

The left hemisphere is the analytical part of our brain. This is where we do our analyzing and figure out logic. Accountants, engineers and the guys on the The Big Bang Theory have strongly developed left brains. And so do I. Left brainers enjoy Excel spreadsheets, financial calculators and alphabetically sorting their canned goods. This is the region of linear thought. If A + B = C and always will be, so help me God, then the left brain is happy, warm and a bit uppity.

The right brain is the region of creativity and intuition. Have you ever had an idea that just comes out of nowhere? That's your right hemisphere flexing its muscle. If you rely at all on intuition or gut feelings, you can thank the right brain. Artists, writers and other creative types have healthy right brains. Even Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking, the kings of modern science, were creative enough to discover relativity and the string theory.

I have been struggling with the my logical, linear, loud left brain for years. As a writer I have to fight the impulse to analyze and then re-analyze my writing. A common example:

• Think of a topic to write about
• Convince myself I am not qualified to write about this topic
• Spend several hours critiquing my approach to the topic and my total lack of writing skill
• Repeat until I can't put pen to paper

Yes, the left brain is a bully if left unchecked. The fact that I am seriously taking up writing in my forties has everything to do with the detection and careful dismantling of the left brain. It took all these years to realize that my right brain has its rightful place in my head and deserves to be heard. Yes, the left brain gave me the skill set that pays the bills, but my right brain gives me the joy of being creative and expressive.

It's no wonder my head doesn't just hang left under all the weight of the left side gray matter. But with some TLC and exercise, the right side will begin to balance out the left. And I'll continue to explore the creativity that's been inside my head all along. So help me God.

Best Fries on the Planet

At the end of a recent trip to S. Calif I made a quick stop here on the way to airport. What I wasn't able to capture was a pic of me genuflecting in front of the restaurant. This is how fast food should be. Simple. A short menu (burgers, fries, soft drinks & shakes). An impeccably clean restaurant where you could perform brain surgery if you're in a pinch. And the best freakin' fries on Planet Earth made from real potatoes that are peeled, cut and fried on-site.

A generous portion of fries was all I needed before I drove on to the airport. I am sending mental signals/prayers to the In-N-Out gods to start opening chains further east. But for now I'll have to save up for my trips out west, like the next one in a few weeks.

I watched the patrons consume their burger and fries and was almost compelled to shake them by the shoulders and shout "Do you know how lucky you are to have these in your backyard!? Do you thank fate every day for your good fortune!?" But I thought better of it. I don't want to be known as the Midwest Fry Weirdo, but by posting this I'm sure I'm closer to that title.

2 Stupid 2 Own A House

Recently I was overcome with a need to give myself a pedicure. This desire crops up once or twice a year. Normally I let the professionals do their thing while I read some fluffy magazine about celebrities and how they're just like you and me. (Cynicism implied.) But this time I was going to do it myself down to the foot soak.

Our master bath has a jetted tub that sits in the corner all white and shiny. In the two years we've lived in this house the tub has not been used once. It just sits there as a decorative piece. I decided to fire the beast up least enough to soak my tootsies. So I turned the faucet...and I turned...and turned. Not a drop of water rushed out. Surprised and frustrated, I called Hubby into the bathroom. He removed the panel that covers the motor and plumbing. Astonished that there was even a panel, I peered into the tub's guts. Yep, there's the motor. Sure, I see how the plumbing runs to the faucet. We looked for a valve that may have been turned off by the previous owners. And we looked and looked. No valve.

Certainly I am smarter than a porcelain tub. I ran downstairs to see how the plumbing runs into the tub. Since our lower level is finished, there was not much to look at (unless I wanted to remove dry wall). Back upstairs Hubby kept turning the faucet hoping beyond hope that something would happen.

We are two dolts too ashamed to call a plumber who will charge us $5000 an hour to come out, make one minor adjustment and laugh his way into a financially secure retirement.

There should be an exam to pass before you can officially buy a house. I'm sure we would have taken the cram class and bought the Cliffs Notes.

Alive & Kicking - NOT!

Today is our wedding anniversary. For eighteen years we've been living together, loving each other, annoying each other and doing all those crazy things married people do (like falling asleep on the couch, eating together in total silence, telling each other how to drive, etc). At some point today we'll look back on wedding day and think 'What an odd day!'

First there was the style and fashion of 1992. I had poodle hair because the big hair craze of the late 1980s hadn't quite wrapped up. On our wedding day I was sporting a righteous perm for 'just a little of extra body.' Meanwhile Hubby had his porn mustache all trimmed up. Yet I thank God that we married after the era of powder blue tuxes. (1970s, I'm looking at you!)

Second, what you won't find from our wedding day is an official album or staged wedding pictures. Sure, we hired a photographer -- the same one my sister used a few years earlier. But, oddly, he didn't show up. By the end of the wedding ceremony it dawned on my family that the photog was a no show. Fortunately every member of my family had their own camera and started taking pictures like a crazed pack of paparazzi, otherwise we wouldn't have any recorded memories of the day.

"There's no reason for this unless he's dead," my mother hissed.

Good thing that's exactly what happened. While on our honeymoon my sister tracked down the home of said photographer to find that he had passed away not too long before our blessed event.

I don't know if it's good luck or bad luck for a photog to die before your wedding. But we've got almost two decades under our belt to show for it.

Yurts So Good

A hobby of mine is to search the Internet for writing conferences in beautiful locales. What better way to create a reason to go somewhere? Recently I was looking at conferences in Washington state and found a writers festival on Orcas Island in the Puget Sound. The scenery is breathtaking and one needs to take a ferry to get to the island. Awesome!

After I scanned the agenda I took a look at accommodations on the island. There are B&Bs, cute little inns and yurts. Yurts! Now I never thought to put myself up in a yurt to save some cash on these trips. If you're not familiar with the yurt concept, I direct you here. Think of it as camping in the round without electricity or water. You can fit a double bed in there but not much else.

I camped a lot as a kid but have stayed away from it in adulthood. And I can't imagine I would willingly rent something like a yurt, especially while attending a writing conference. Where would I plug in the laptop? How would I write my evening assignments -- quill and parchment? How many people do I need shove aside to get in my morning shower and chow? It all sounds like too much effort. Instead I imagine myself at some quaint B&B waiting for the proprietor to pull the freshly made scones out of the oven.

However, the yurt is much, much cheaper.

Eventually I cast aside this conference (sadly) and chose a class in Los Angeles where I have friends who can offer me free housing and electricity. Obviously I am no Henry David Thoreau.

Trend Setter

Count me as the last human being on planet Earth to begin, yes, begin, reading the Harry Potter series. The first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, was released in the U.S. in 1998. Know how long ago 1998 was? Here are some of the notable events (and tell me if you don't feel old just because you remember them):

• The Monica Lewinski media circus and Bill Clinton's denial that leads to his impeachment
• Europe agrees to establish the Euro
• France wins the World Cup (France?!)
• A gallon of gas cost $1.15
• The hey day of the boy bands (N*Sync, Backstreet Boys, etc)
• Magic Johnson tries his hand hosting his own late night talk show
• The Mark McGwire/Sammy Sosa steroid home run derby
• The Cosby Show is still on TV

Is it any wonder I feel a bit late to the party?

My 11 year old niece is egging me on to read the series. She, of course, has read them all at least once, but she'll take my hand and lead me from the world of the Muggles to Hogwarts and beyond. I'm almost done with the first book and I can see (only 12 years after everyone else) the appeal.

After I'm done I may watch the movie There's Something About Mary which also came out in 1998. I never saw it. So what the hell was I doing in 1998 anyway?

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

Recently a co-worker was mystified that grass produced pollen. "It doesn't bloom," he insisted. Tell that to the poster child for seasonal allergies...namely, me!

I created this sign and put it outside his cubicle while he was at lunch. It promptly came down but I think the point was made.

Now pass the good drugs and flip on the A/C.

World Cup? What's That?

Why do Americans not care about soccer? Sure, we're making a good effort during the World Cup, watching the U.S. games and ignoring the others. Billions of people love soccer. Me? I watched a good chunk of that match with England and couldn't get too enthused. First I didn't understand the rules. (But then explain American football to anyone from another country. Don't you feel silly talking about downs and yards?) Second I have no idea when the match will end. (Americans love to see a countdown clock...in hundredths of a second, please.)

But then I look at baseball. Talk about dull. How much action takes place in a typical game? About three minutes? Hell, the announcers need to be master storytellers to fill the time between pitches. Generations of us have used baseball as our summer background music while we make dinner, clean the house or doze off at night.

Soccer fans, though, are completely engaged for the entire match. How do they do it? Do they have better attention spans than us? Plus they are often plowed so that's a real talent.

Ah, the inferior American once again.

2010 Reading List (so far)

A friend recently asked me why I haven't posted any books for awhile. My 2009 New Years resolution was to blog about every book I finished. In all, I completed 29 and probably started another dozen that I didn't like enough to finish (or I wasn't in the right mindset). I took a year off from New Years resolutions since the 2009 goal was so tasking. I might be an every-other-year-resolutionist.

So, as my laziness shows, I need to list what I'm reading these days. In my journal I do track the books I complete. There are some genres or authors I want to come back to, and I have a horrible memory when I'm standing in the bookstore deciding on a new book. It's as if my mind is erased as I pass through the doors. Thirty seconds before I had 3 or 4 books in mind; now I can't think of one. (This also happens to me when I log into iTunes.) So I'm usually covered in Post-It notes, credit card in hand, concentrating intently on the book(s) I'm there to score.

In no particular order, here are my 2010 books:

Loving Frank: A Novel, by Nancy Horan. Horan's book is considered fiction but uses known facts to tell the story of Mamah Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Up here in Wisconsin, Frank is a big deal, so I was surprised by what a cad he was. Mamah becomes Wright's first mistress before he becomes the iconic architecht. Horan takes liberties with their story since not much is known about Mamah. What is known is that she left her family in Chicago to travel the world with Frank and ended up in Spring Green, WI. The ending surprised me, making me gasp out loud. If you don't know your FLW history you may be surprised as well.

Skinny Dip, by Carl Hiaasen is wonderful romp through the corruption of South Florida. I asked a friend for a juicy but light book for my flight to London in January. This fit the bill. Hiaasen, who also writes children's fiction, has written a number of books that are set in South FL. They are all over- the-top and hilarious. This book begins with a husband throwing his wife off a cruise boat. Surprisingly she does not die and the book tells the tale of her revenge and his motivation to try to kill her. Lots of laughs though the premise sounds gruesome.

The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, is a beautiful, lyrical book that made me want to book a flight to Barcelona. A bestseller in Ruiz Zafon's Spain, Shadow tells the story of Daniel, son of a book shop owner, who becomes enamored with a rare book by a dead author. Someone is intent on burning every remaining copy and perhaps destroying Daniel in the process. The back drop is the brutality of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The book follows Daniel as he grows into adulthood and keeps digging deeper into the past of the author of his favorite book. The terrific translation into English provides wonderful imagery that makes the story float. Though the book is a bit on the long side, the story is fascinating and worth every hour you spend reading it.

I've picked up four books by Elizabeth Berg after reading an article about her in Writers Digest. She is a veteran of women's fiction having published some 22 books. A short story collection, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, was my introduction to Berg. Based on the title alone, I bet most women would want to invite her to their next wine gathering. The Year of Pleasures, her book from 2005, tells the tale of Betta, a newly widowed fifty-something who is desperately trying to live the life she told her husband she would live in his absence. Berg paints such a vivid picture of Betta's new life that I want to look her up and have dinner. Open House, the book that put Berg on the map when it made Oprah's book club, explores another type of loss women face - the divorce they don't want. Perhaps the book I like the most is Berg's take on a writing life, Escaping Into The Open: the Art of Writing True. This honest account of Berg's writing and advice for other writers displays her love of writing. I often tap into her creative exercises to get my right brain in action. (Right brain = creativity; left brain = analysis) My huge left brain often overpowers and beats the snot out of my thoughtful and fun right brain. When I'm struggling with forming one solitary creative thought (those days are more frequent that I'd like to admit), I use Berg's book for inspiration.

Like most American women, it seems, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett early this spring. The story takes place in 1960s Mississippi and is told by the point of view (POV) of three women: Eugenia "Skeeter" is the central white character who is raised by a black maid; Aibeleen and Minny are black maids who suffer the humiliation of being black in the pre-civil rights south while gaining the satisfaction of raising other people's children. If you're from the north and don't know much about the 20th century south, read this book! Stockett was raised by a black caregiver and provides a touching and insightful story about her childhood world.

My favorite fictional dog, Chet, is back with Thereby Hangs a Tail: A Chet and Bernie Mystery, by Spencer Quinn. I'm a sucker for a book told from a dog's POV. Dogs seem so much happier than humans about life. Their needs include a scratch behind the ear and something yummy to eat. The second of the Chet and Bernie books, Tail is about the kidnapping of a prize dog and its owner. Chet is funny, insightful and somewhat Zen in his approach to his job (assistant to a private investigator). If you love dogs don't let this one pass you by. And don't forget the first book of the series, Dog On It (see my review here).

Speaking of dogs, The Art of Racing In the Rain, by Garth Stein, seemed to be required book club reading, which is how I came upon it. Also told from a dog's POV, Racing is a more sober account about a family dog who witnesses the death of the mother and battle the father has to retain custody of his only child. I cried hard at the end. A friend told me that dog books never end well and she won't read them. I guess she has a point. But Racing helps you take stock of your own life. Plus the dog, Enzo, is far wiser than 95 percent of the people I know.

I met Rae Meadows at the Writers Institute at the Univ of Wisconsin this spring. Her fiction workshop was just what I hoped it would be: insightful and hopeful for aspiring writers. I've read both of her books: Calling Out, about a Mormon-approved escort agency (you read that correctly) and No One Tells Everything about a NYC woman who befriends a murderer. Meadow's protagonists both struggle with insecurity and secrets long buried. I can't wait for her next book. If you're female, you'll might find a bit of yourself in her central characters.

Of course sometimes a girl needs a good dose of chick lit. I've been following Allison Winn Scotch (because she has a great name and tells wonderful stories) via her Ask Allison website for writers and in her three novels. The latest, The One That I Want plays with time and space the way her previous novel, Time of My Life, did so well. As in TOML I wanted to grab the main character, Tilly, by the neck and shake her into reality. But Winn Scotch uses a little magic to help Tilly help herself. My favorite Winn Scotch book is her first one, The Department of Lost and Found (see review here). Between her website, Facebook and Twitter, Winn Scotch shows how generous she is as an author and a cheerleader for other writers.

And that brings us up to date. I have several books waiting in the wings including The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that I see being read in every airport I've been through this year. And can I have one of those iPads, please? I drool everytime I see one. I almost mauled a woman sitting next to me on a flight from Detroit to Madison. I apologize. I'm really a nice person once you take the gadgets away from me.



,

Brothers in Cynicism

Last weekend my mother and brother-in-law were talking about a interview they saw on TV with Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. My mom mentioned how touching it was to watch. My brother-in-law raised his eyebrow and said the reason for the interview was to pitch a book (When the Game Was Ours). Yes, it was true that book was the reason behind the media blitz. But as my brother-in-law talked about how celebrities make themselves (and their interesting lives) available for the masses only when they have something to promote, I thought his tone sounded very familiar.

Just like Hubby.

Is it any surprise that Hubby and bro-in-law went to the same journalism school? Is it part of their training to take a cynical view of the world?

I believe the answer is a loud and attention-getting yes.

Hubby raises his eyebrow in the same fashion as I cry when the winner is named on [pick any reality show]. "This was all staged, you know."

Last night we watched the NBA final as L.A. beat Boston. "I bet David Stern told the teams to take it to seven games and make it somewhat close in the end," I replied in my own cynical fashion. All I got in return was bored look.

Can I Post Less Often? Eeesh!

Sorry for the loooong delay. I've been taking a humor writing class. Love it! There's homework each week which is challenging but a good way to stretch my abilities. That being said, there's not an excuse for not posting. Except maybe I only have so many words in me in a given week. Wouldn't that suck? So much for the writing aspirations. I'm sorry. I can only write 500 words a week.

This is an assignment I recently submitted. Hope you enjoy it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I open my eyes and see that once again I am on the floor. Oh, well. The bed would have been better, but I can’t always choose where I sleep. I’m pretty adaptable and can snooze on the couch, a chair (the recliner is my favorite). Heck, I can even stretch out on the lawn in a pinch.

The only light in the room comes through the slit in the curtains, revealing that it is early morning. Excellent! It’s almost time to eat. Wonder what I’ll have today?

I stretch and yawn. Yes, this will be a wonderful morning. So much to do; so much to explore. I hope my friends will meet up with me today. I haven’t seen Sophie in ages. Bernard is a given. He never misses out on a gathering. Sam is a pest but his energy is contagious. I get kicky just being around him. Too bad the others don’t appreciate his drive. Yes, he stole that thing from Twinkie, but Sam didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t help himself. They’re all such good friends. I couldn’t live without them.

Speaking of living, I wonder if that bird out back is still alive. Didn’t look too good last night. What a way to go – a broken wing. Glad I don’t have any wings. The whole flying thing scares me anyway. It doesn’t make any sense. If I run real fast I can’t eventually lift myself off the ground. Sure I can jump real well but not enough to soar through the air. I wonder if birds are some evil spirit and that is how they can fly. Spooky to think about.

I stride into the kitchen for my breakfast. I hate to be left waiting – I get real impatient. As I enter the bright, shiny room I can smell toast, orange juice and the faint aroma of Windex and maybe a splash of stale wine. Through the window I see birds that fared much better than old Broken Wing. They are buzzing all over the backyard. Hey, did they get breakfast already? Before me?

Diana looks over and gives me a big smile. I fell in love with her the moment I met her. You see, I was behind bars at the time. Not a good start for such an intense relationship. But she was able to see past that. Now when she looks into my eyes I feel like she can read my mind. I must have a face that gives me away.

“The usual, Drake?” she asks.

Do I even need to answer that?

She slides the bowl over to me. I don’t know why this routine makes me so happy. I guess I’m easy to please.

“We’re going to the dog park today,” she says. “What do you think about that?’

I bark in appreciation and wag my tail.