This morning, we woke up like any other morning, and coerced the dog down the stairs using a tennis ball as bait. She came down, like all other mornings, slowly. With a look of sadness and agony in her face. We were getting used to that look. It didn’ t move us the way it did when we first saw it, just a few days ago. We knew that the time was coming closer, but always figured it was still an hour, a day, a week away.
So we endured the look. Made pretend we were all in a movie and she was the star — a young victim who had been stricken with disease. The plot was her journey to beat it. And in the movie, she did. But in reality, Sophie’ s story would end differently. She wouldn’ t come back. While we’ d always figured that was an inevitable outcome of the future, we didn’ t think it’ d ever be now. Not today. Not this moment.
“Your sign is when she stops eating,” our friends would say.
But she didn’ t stop. To the contrary, her appetite remained voracious up until the very last second. Until now.
We put food in her bowl and encouraged her to eat. “Go ahead, Sophie, eat. Eat baby. Eat.” She looked at us. “You can do it.” She looked at us. “We’ ll help you.” And we’ d push the bowl closer to her. She’ d look at us. Eat, dammit!” We got stern. She looked at us. “So-PHIE.” She looked at us. “Baby girl, c’ mon, you can do it.” She looked at us. We changed our approach what felt like a hundred times. But still, she did nothing.
“Maybe she has to ‘go’ first,” I say to Dan. Never the case before, but what the heck. She’ s never been terminally ill with cancer before either.
So he took her out to poop. She did. Twice. Surely, she’ s still okay. Surely, she’ ll come back in and wolf down the kibble and the cheese I laid on top of it like a football player in pre-season.
But she walked right past the food to one of her favorite spots in the living room, by the back doors to the deck and gently lied down. She wasn’ t interested in the food. She wasn’ t interested in the ball. She wasn’ t interested in anything but sleep.
I looked at Dan. He handed me the phone. I dialed seven numbers and left a teary message for our vets, who weren’ t open yet. “It’ s time.”
Then, we waited the 20 longer-than-life minutes for them to call us back. “Come in at 9,” Sara, the familiar receptionist said as if she’ d been waiting to hear from us.
When we got there, we were ushered into the treatment room, where our vet, a wonderful woman who looks like the quintessential country doctor, had laid down a soft white cotton blanket. She motioned for us to sit and try to lay Sophie down on it.
“Have you ever done this before,” she asks, playing with her long grey braid, her compassion, one of the things I appreciate most about her, as finely tuned as usual.
“No.”
She explains what we can expect. A long needle, an overdose of a gentle drug they use during surgery, perhaps some “paddling” or “twitching” of Sophie’ s limbs (but subtle enough so only she would recognize it), and then a quiet and gentle passing into sleep. All very painless, she reassures us. For the pet, that is.
We held Sophie’ s face while the doctor and her assistant shaved a portion of her back leg. Dan and I pet her head and whispered how much we loved her and what a good girl she has been. How she’ ll see all the dogs the world has lost — those of friends, family members, even strangers. Like Quincy and Babe and Radar.
How she’ ll be able to run far again. And eat with joy. Stop scratching from allergies. And sleep without feeling like a tractor is running slowly and methodically over her body, like a parasite is crawling up her spine, sucking out the marrow.
We tried to distract her from the fact that Dr. Klosser was feeding her a breakfast that would literally take her breath away.
I don’ t think I’ ve ever cried so hard in my life. Not even when I first felt the mass that would eventually take her life. (And I had a feeling.) It was a cry that took me out of my body along with Sophie. I forgot, at some point, other people were in the room. That somewhere, someone was eating breakfast. Driving to work. Fighting with a friend. Going bankrupt. Taking a bite of a really good sandwich. That, at some point, I’ d have to go home and finish a project for a client.
Everything just stood there — the air, the dog, the time and space of the universe. I felt the life leave the most precious thing ever bestowed upon me: My version of child. One symbol of the bridge that connected this life — here in Bucks County, close to creative inspiration, love and romance, where I’ m living the life I’ ve always wanted — and the life I left behind in Chicago. There, it wasn’ t awful. But it wasn’ t right, either. I was a square peg in a round hole. I desperately needed my edges sanded.
I guess she knew it was okay to go, since the sides of my life are no longer sharp like rose thorns. My world is less solitary. But I’ m going to miss her. That feeling cuts just as deep as ever.
“Is she gone,” I ask, remembering I’ m not alone, hyperventilating. The vet comes over and gives me a hug. “Yes.” She whispers in my ear. I start to sob. “You did the right thing,” she says. “Did I?” “Yes. Too many people wait too long. Sophie wasn’ t going to get better.” “I know.” (Did I?) “You just did what you’ d have to do in a few days.” “I know.” “She’ s at peace.” “I know.” “She was a good girl.” “I know.” More sobs. More hugs. “Are you okay?” “Uh huh.” She disengages. I thank her for being so kind and gentle.
I look over at Dan, who’ s clutching my hand so tightly, I think he may have broken a knuckle. He tries to muster a smile, tears pouring down his face. “You okay?”
“Did we do the right thing?”
“Yes,” he says. “Absolutely. Yes.”
But do we ever really know?
There was a dog in the office when we got there named “Sarge.” He ran around the back desk with a book in his mouth. He seemed happy and flamboyant. Full of life. Funny, we had forgotten what that looked like.
Sarge was big news around here for a while. A bit of a celebrity. A beautiful and strong black lab, he was one of the rescue dogs during 9/11. He had gone missing about a week earlier and his owners, who live in Lambertville, had made several desperate pleas on the evening news for help finding him. They said he was a “hero.” We felt honored, actually, to be in his presence.
But Sophie was a “hero” too. And not just to me, but to all the people who had the privilege of picking up her poop, taking her for a walk, watching her overnight, feeding her their leftovers, throwing her a tennis ball — experiencing all of her beauty.
I’ m going to miss her so much there is a physical pain in my chest. My sweet baby.
Sleep well, Sophie. You deserve it. You were a precious gift. A force of energy that eminated love and light. Thanks to you, I am forever different.
  Share

This morning, we woke up like any other morning, and coerced the dog down the stairs using a tennis ball as bait. She came down, like all other mornings, slowly. With a look of sadness and agony in her face. We were getting used to that look. It didn’ t move us the way it did when we first saw it, just a few days ago. We knew that the time was coming closer, but always figured it was still an hour, a day, a week away.

So we endured the look. Made pretend we were all in a movie and she was the star — a young victim who had been stricken with disease. The plot was her journey to beat it. And in the movie, she did. But in reality, Sophie’ s story would end differently. She wouldn’ t come back. While we’ d always figured that was an inevitable outcome of the future, we didn’ t think it’ d ever be now. Not today. Not this moment.

“Your sign is when she stops eating,” our friends would say.

But she didn’ t stop. To the contrary, her appetite remained voracious up until the very last second. Until now.

We put food in her bowl and encouraged her to eat. “Go ahead, Sophie, eat. Eat baby. Eat.” She looked at us. “You can do it.” She looked at us. “We’ ll help you.” And we’ d push the bowl closer to her. She’ d look at us. Eat, dammit!” We got stern. She looked at us. “So-PHIE.” She looked at us. “Baby girl, c’ mon, you can do it.” She looked at us. We changed our approach what felt like a hundred times. But still, she did nothing.

“Maybe she has to ‘go’ first,” I say to Dan. Never the case before, but what the heck. She’ s never been terminally ill with cancer before either.

So he took her out to poop. She did. Twice. Surely, she’ s still okay. Surely, she’ ll come back in and wolf down the kibble and the cheese I laid on top of it like a football player in pre-season.

But she walked right past the food to one of her favorite spots in the living room, by the back doors to the deck and gently lied down. She wasn’ t interested in the food. She wasn’ t interested in the ball. She wasn’ t interested in anything but sleep.

I looked at Dan. He handed me the phone. I dialed seven numbers and left a teary message for our vets, who weren’ t open yet. “It’ s time.”

Then, we waited the 20 longer-than-life minutes for them to call us back. “Come in at 9,” Sara, the familiar receptionist said as if she’ d been waiting to hear from us.

When we got there, we were ushered into the treatment room, where our vet, a wonderful woman who looks like the quintessential country doctor, had laid down a soft white cotton blanket. She motioned for us to sit and try to lay Sophie down on it.

“Have you ever done this before,” she asks, playing with her long grey braid, her compassion, one of the things I appreciate most about her, as finely tuned as usual.

“No.”

She explains what we can expect. A long needle, an overdose of a gentle drug they use during surgery, perhaps some “paddling” or “twitching” of Sophie’ s limbs (but subtle enough so only she would recognize it), and then a quiet and gentle passing into sleep. All very painless, she reassures us. For the pet, that is.

We held Sophie’ s face while the doctor and her assistant shaved a portion of her back leg. Dan and I pet her head and whispered how much we loved her and what a good girl she has been. How she’ ll see all the dogs the world has lost — those of friends, family members, even strangers. Like Quincy and Babe and Radar.

How she’ ll be able to run far again. And eat with joy. Stop scratching from allergies. And sleep without feeling like a tractor is running slowly and methodically over her body, like a parasite is crawling up her spine, sucking out the marrow.

We tried to distract her from the fact that Dr. Klosser was feeding her a breakfast that would literally take her breath away.

I don’ t think I’ ve ever cried so hard in my life. Not even when I first felt the mass that would eventually take her life. (And I had a feeling.) It was a cry that took me out of my body along with Sophie. I forgot, at some point, other people were in the room. That somewhere, someone was eating breakfast. Driving to work. Fighting with a friend. Going bankrupt. Taking a bite of a really good sandwich. That, at some point, I’ d have to go home and finish a project for a client.

Everything just stood there — the air, the dog, the time and space of the universe. I felt the life leave the most precious thing ever bestowed upon me: My version of child. One symbol of the bridge that connected this life — here in Bucks County, close to creative inspiration, love and romance, where I’ m living the life I’ ve always wanted — and the life I left behind in Chicago. There, it wasn’ t awful. But it wasn’ t right, either. I was a square peg in a round hole. I desperately needed my edges sanded.

I guess she knew it was okay to go, since the sides of my life are no longer sharp like rose thorns. My world is less solitary. But I’ m going to miss her. That feeling cuts just as deep as ever.

“Is she gone,” I ask, remembering I’ m not alone, hyperventilating. The vet comes over and gives me a hug. “Yes.” She whispers in my ear. I start to sob. “You did the right thing,” she says. “Did I?” “Yes. Too many people wait too long. Sophie wasn’ t going to get better.” “I know.” (Did I?) “You just did what you’ d have to do in a few days.” “I know.” “She’ s at peace.” “I know.” “She was a good girl.” “I know.” More sobs. More hugs. “Are you okay?” “Uh huh.” She disengages. I thank her for being so kind and gentle.

I look over at Dan, who’ s clutching my hand so tightly, I think he may have broken a knuckle. He tries to muster a smile, tears pouring down his face. “You okay?”

“Did we do the right thing?”

“Yes,” he says. “Absolutely. Yes.”

But do we ever really know?

There was a dog in the office when we got there named “Sarge.” He ran around the back desk with a book in his mouth. He seemed happy and flamboyant. Full of life. Funny, we had forgotten what that looked like.

Sarge was big news around here for a while. A bit of a celebrity. A beautiful and strong black lab, he was one of the rescue dogs during 9/11. He had gone missing about a week earlier and his owners, who live in Lambertville, had made several desperate pleas on the evening news for help finding him. They said he was a “hero.” We felt honored, actually, to be in his presence.

But Sophie was a “hero” too. And not just to me, but to all the people who had the privilege of picking up her poop, taking her for a walk, watching her overnight, feeding her their leftovers, throwing her a tennis ball — experiencing all of her beauty.

I’ m going to miss her so much there is a physical pain in my chest. My sweet baby.

Sleep well, Sophie. You deserve it. You were a precious gift. A force of energy that eminated love and light. Thanks to you, I am forever different.
  Share

People, are you out there? No, I’m serious. You can talk back to me now! Look at the bottom of the page, no lower, lower, to the right, THERE. RIGHT THERE. Click on Comments. Now, YOU can tell ME what YOU think. This is the beauty of technology — not hackers or viruses or the fact that it cost me $500 to have one of “the Geeks” (as my mother calls them) get rid of Spyware or my friend Brian $150 to fix a sticky key. No, it’s to COMMUNICATE. So let’s try it.
Does anybody else have a dying dog? A skin tag? A theory on the meaning of life?
I don’t want to seem like I’m desperate for contact or anything, but writing can be a lonely craft. So TALK TO ME. Tell me anything you want, except that I look fat in these pants because I haven’t had sugar in SIX WEEKS and, well, I’m a little sensitive.
Okay, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, this week has been its usual insanity. Although, there have been no more nudists in the mix. I feel bad because Marilyn the nudist called me the day after we had our first conversation and I accidentally deleted her number. Well, okay, it wasn’t an accident. So shoot me. I’m going to burn in the fires of hell.
Although, tell me you never “accidentally” deleted somebody’s phone number. Listen, if I had all the time in the world, I’d be having tea with her right now and tomorrow and the day after. Helping her pack for her cruise (which okay, might not take too long) and maybe even driving her to the airport to get to her naked flight. But I don’t have time for new friends. Not right now. That sounds really bad too, doesn’t it, especially since I’m practically begging you to talk to me? But this is business. That’s well just being practical.
I mean, I can barely keep my eyebrows from looking like Tom Selleck’s and my body showered every day. It’s just that I’ve got this here a blog, a whole book to write, several articles to develop and classes to teach. That’s not to mention that fact that I’m getting married, caring for a dying animal, tending to family, managing friends in two time zones, and trying to keep the size of my ass to a reasonable low and toilet paper on the rolls at home. And let us not forget how time-consuming it can be to have a brain that never shuts down.
In fact, I was laying awake the other night wondering why my comforter is always scrunched up at the bottom of my very-expensive duvet, when I was compelled to contemplate some very important issues.
Like the fact that it’s already April and I’m getting married in five months. That I’m already 43 and, in no time, I’ll be 80, widowed, and living in the hopes that my taste buds will return. I can’t believe that there are only seven contestants left in the American Idol competition. (Go Chris.) Sheesh, it was just yesterday we were in auditions.
I mean, life is just whizzing by and I don’t know how to stop it. So, that night, I tried strategizing all options. By 3 a.m., all I could come up with was the desire for a pizza. So I finally took a big swig of Nyquil and allowed myself to fall into a dream state. Until the dog barked and I was up again, this time thinking about word combinations.
And how we’re all so busy that we have to actually combine words to shorten the amount of time we need to take to actually speak to one another. It seems that, in the new millennium, we simply need every extra second we can get.
For example, we no longer have time to say “web log” or “Brad and Angelina.” No, now it’s “blog” and “Brangelina.” “TomKat” instead of Tom and Katie. We must stop and smell the roses (or “smoses”) less than ever in the history of man because we’re using this technique to shave milliseconds off the time we spend doing what technology is supposed to make easier: Communicate.
And frankly, it’s starting to bother me because I want to slow down. I NEED to slow down. I have a headache. My house is TOO clean, my calendar is TOO organized, there’s not enough good old fashioned disarray in my life. I’m keeping up TOO WELL with friends. It makes me jittery to think it’s all so, well, together. If it gets any more together, I”m going to have a brain explosion one of these nights and die.
I mean, responding to medical emergencies and having your new jeans hemmed QUICKLY is one thing. That’s IMPORTANT. But condensing words? C’mon.
Yet, it doesn’t seem like anything that’s going away soon. Like a bad infection, it’s permeating all parts of, okay, at least my life. For example, Dan (my fiance) and I were driving past a house for sale when he shouts out like a crazed killer on the run, “FIZZBO.” Then, he blazes through a red light.
“Oh my GOD. ARE YOU OKAY?!” I can’t imagine why he’s shouting for no reason so I immediately attribute it to stroke or brain aneurysm and wonder how far we are from the nearest hospital.
“No, I just said FIZZBO. You know, ’for sale by owner’ like the sign back there said. FSBO.”
“How is it that you’re too busy to say ’for sale by owner’.” I wonder if no phrase, word or idea is, at this point, immune to condensation. “All we’re doing is sitting in the car. Are you that busy?”
He looks at me like I just threw up on the dashboard.
So I go on. “Is it too much energy to say, ’Oh look, there’s a for sale by owner sign AND turn the steering wheel at the same time. We’ve got the time, you know? We’ve got another good 15 minutes before we get to our destination.” Which, by the way, was Sam’s Club for some frozen salmon and tooth whitener.
“What’s wrong with you.” He looks concerned.
“What’s wrong with me is I’m a writer and it’s my fiduciary responsibility to be the caretaker of words. So, you’re under literary arrest.”
“You haven’t gotten very far on your novel, have you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not, we’re talking words and you’re late on your assignment.”
“I’m not late. It’s just not done yet.” The offspring of Satan, who runs my novel in nine months class, charged us with writing a novel outline, synopsis, sublist, and a bio in four minutes (well, weeks). DOES HE THINK WE HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO?
“Well, have you started it? You haven’t said anything and I haven’t seen you at the computer much.”
“What are you, the novel police? My mother? Are you going to tell me I shouldn’t eat anything with white flour next?”
“Babe, take a breath.”
So I do. And think of the mountains. (The ocean makes me have to pee.)
“I am breathing. I just think we’re all moving too fast for our own good. I mean, time me, how long does it take to say, “for sale by owner’. Ready, go.” I look at my watch.
“I think you need to start writing.” He stops at a light and turns down the radio. National Public Radio. Or “Natio..” (Easier to say than NPR. Requires less lip conformation.)
I hate when he’s right. So I’m going to really hunker down on my novel — the outline, the synopsis, the whole shebang. But you must promise me that, no matter how much it sucks, when it’s finished, you’ll buy it. I BEG YOU.
And so, I give in and let the whole “FSBO” thing drop and the subject of wordinations (word combinations) altogether. In the scheme of things, it’s really not that important. I mean, it’s not the war in Iraq or Dick Cheney’s pellets or a 70 percent off sale at DSW. It’s just that if people like us, writers, don’t at least talk about it, who will?
Clearly, I need to be motivated.
It’s just that I keep coming up with book ideas but then, when it comes time to outline and synopsize and sublistize and shost (share and post on our Yahoo group site) and get it all down on the page, I’m suddenly inspired to cloilet (clean the toilet). Do the laundry. Walk the dog. Google a few old boyfriends. (Called “goyfriending.”)
I spent two hours goyfriending the other day. Such a waste. Precious moments of my life I’ll never get back. And I didn’t even come up with anything. So much for my detective skills¦
I better stick to writing. If only I could get started, but now it’s Spring, and allergy season. A runny nose can be time consuming. You know?
  Share

People, are you out there? No, I’m serious. You can talk back to me now! Look at the bottom of the page, no lower, lower, to the right, THERE. RIGHT THERE. Click on Comments. Now, YOU can tell ME what YOU think. This is the beauty of technology — not hackers or viruses or the fact that it cost me $500 to have one of “the Geeks” (as my mother calls them) get rid of Spyware or my friend Brian $150 to fix a sticky key. No, it’s to COMMUNICATE. So let’s try it.

Does anybody else have a dying dog? A skin tag? A theory on the meaning of life?

I don’t want to seem like I’m desperate for contact or anything, but writing can be a lonely craft. So TALK TO ME. Tell me anything you want, except that I look fat in these pants because I haven’t had sugar in SIX WEEKS and, well, I’m a little sensitive.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, this week has been its usual insanity. Although, there have been no more nudists in the mix. I feel bad because Marilyn the nudist called me the day after we had our first conversation and I accidentally deleted her number. Well, okay, it wasn’t an accident. So shoot me. I’m going to burn in the fires of hell.

Although, tell me you never “accidentally” deleted somebody’s phone number. Listen, if I had all the time in the world, I’d be having tea with her right now and tomorrow and the day after. Helping her pack for her cruise (which okay, might not take too long) and maybe even driving her to the airport to get to her naked flight. But I don’t have time for new friends. Not right now. That sounds really bad too, doesn’t it, especially since I’m practically begging you to talk to me? But this is business. That’s well just being practical.

I mean, I can barely keep my eyebrows from looking like Tom Selleck’s and my body showered every day. It’s just that I’ve got this here a blog, a whole book to write, several articles to develop and classes to teach. That’s not to mention that fact that I’m getting married, caring for a dying animal, tending to family, managing friends in two time zones, and trying to keep the size of my ass to a reasonable low and toilet paper on the rolls at home. And let us not forget how time-consuming it can be to have a brain that never shuts down.

In fact, I was laying awake the other night wondering why my comforter is always scrunched up at the bottom of my very-expensive duvet, when I was compelled to contemplate some very important issues.

Like the fact that it’s already April and I’m getting married in five months. That I’m already 43 and, in no time, I’ll be 80, widowed, and living in the hopes that my taste buds will return. I can’t believe that there are only seven contestants left in the American Idol competition. (Go Chris.) Sheesh, it was just yesterday we were in auditions.

I mean, life is just whizzing by and I don’t know how to stop it. So, that night, I tried strategizing all options. By 3 a.m., all I could come up with was the desire for a pizza. So I finally took a big swig of Nyquil and allowed myself to fall into a dream state. Until the dog barked and I was up again, this time thinking about word combinations.

And how we’re all so busy that we have to actually combine words to shorten the amount of time we need to take to actually speak to one another. It seems that, in the new millennium, we simply need every extra second we can get.

For example, we no longer have time to say “web log” or “Brad and Angelina.” No, now it’s “blog” and “Brangelina.” “TomKat” instead of Tom and Katie. We must stop and smell the roses (or “smoses”) less than ever in the history of man because we’re using this technique to shave milliseconds off the time we spend doing what technology is supposed to make easier: Communicate.

And frankly, it’s starting to bother me because I want to slow down. I NEED to slow down. I have a headache. My house is TOO clean, my calendar is TOO organized, there’s not enough good old fashioned disarray in my life. I’m keeping up TOO WELL with friends. It makes me jittery to think it’s all so, well, together. If it gets any more together, I”m going to have a brain explosion one of these nights and die.

I mean, responding to medical emergencies and having your new jeans hemmed QUICKLY is one thing. That’s IMPORTANT. But condensing words? C’mon.

Yet, it doesn’t seem like anything that’s going away soon. Like a bad infection, it’s permeating all parts of, okay, at least my life. For example, Dan (my fiance) and I were driving past a house for sale when he shouts out like a crazed killer on the run, “FIZZBO.” Then, he blazes through a red light.

“Oh my GOD. ARE YOU OKAY?!” I can’t imagine why he’s shouting for no reason so I immediately attribute it to stroke or brain aneurysm and wonder how far we are from the nearest hospital.

“No, I just said FIZZBO. You know, ’for sale by owner’ like the sign back there said. FSBO.”

“How is it that you’re too busy to say ’for sale by owner’.” I wonder if no phrase, word or idea is, at this point, immune to condensation. “All we’re doing is sitting in the car. Are you that busy?”

He looks at me like I just threw up on the dashboard.

So I go on. “Is it too much energy to say, ’Oh look, there’s a for sale by owner sign AND turn the steering wheel at the same time. We’ve got the time, you know? We’ve got another good 15 minutes before we get to our destination.” Which, by the way, was Sam’s Club for some frozen salmon and tooth whitener.

“What’s wrong with you.” He looks concerned.

“What’s wrong with me is I’m a writer and it’s my fiduciary responsibility to be the caretaker of words. So, you’re under literary arrest.”

“You haven’t gotten very far on your novel, have you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not, we’re talking words and you’re late on your assignment.”

“I’m not late. It’s just not done yet.” The offspring of Satan, who runs my novel in nine months class, charged us with writing a novel outline, synopsis, sublist, and a bio in four minutes (well, weeks). DOES HE THINK WE HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO?

“Well, have you started it? You haven’t said anything and I haven’t seen you at the computer much.”

“What are you, the novel police? My mother? Are you going to tell me I shouldn’t eat anything with white flour next?”

“Babe, take a breath.”

So I do. And think of the mountains. (The ocean makes me have to pee.)

“I am breathing. I just think we’re all moving too fast for our own good. I mean, time me, how long does it take to say, “for sale by owner’. Ready, go.” I look at my watch.

“I think you need to start writing.” He stops at a light and turns down the radio. National Public Radio. Or “Natio..” (Easier to say than NPR. Requires less lip conformation.)

I hate when he’s right. So I’m going to really hunker down on my novel — the outline, the synopsis, the whole shebang. But you must promise me that, no matter how much it sucks, when it’s finished, you’ll buy it. I BEG YOU.

And so, I give in and let the whole “FSBO” thing drop and the subject of wordinations (word combinations) altogether. In the scheme of things, it’s really not that important. I mean, it’s not the war in Iraq or Dick Cheney’s pellets or a 70 percent off sale at DSW. It’s just that if people like us, writers, don’t at least talk about it, who will?

Clearly, I need to be motivated.

It’s just that I keep coming up with book ideas but then, when it comes time to outline and synopsize and sublistize and shost (share and post on our Yahoo group site) and get it all down on the page, I’m suddenly inspired to cloilet (clean the toilet). Do the laundry. Walk the dog. Google a few old boyfriends. (Called “goyfriending.”)

I spent two hours goyfriending the other day. Such a waste. Precious moments of my life I’ll never get back. And I didn’t even come up with anything. So much for my detective skills¦

I better stick to writing. If only I could get started, but now it’s Spring, and allergy season. A runny nose can be time consuming. You know?
  Share

So yesterday, I’m walking the dog around the five-acre circle that is the park just about 10 yards from our townhouse. I’m out for about three minutes when the woman I’ve been watching walk the circle all winter long decides it’s time for us to finally meet.
“Hello there,”  she calls to me, looking like her usual Inuit ready to dive for fresh seal — even though, today, it’s sixty plus degrees. She introduces herself as Marilyn. “Boy, he looks like he’s not walking too well.”  She points to Sophie, who’s limping her way eagerly towards a pile of deer excrement.
“Yes, well, she’s got a bad hip.”  I lie. What’s the point of getting into it?
“That’s why I walk. To keep in good shape.” 
“Oh, well, good for you.”  I smile. I have no idea what shape Marilyn’s in because she’s been hidden under a purple down coat since last September. It looks like something that threw up in the back room of Old Navy five years ago. She pulls off her hood and exposes a head of large black frizzy hair. I tug at my tank top.
“I’m 74 you know.” 
“Wow,”  I say. She looks 74.
“I have a 55 year old boyfriend.” 
“Really?”  If I weren’t engaged, I’d be depressed and on my way out for chocolate.
“Yep. We’re going on a cruise next month. So I have to look good, if you know what I mean.”  She winks and snickers.
Oh dear lord, please erase that mental picture. PLEASE. “Well, again, good for you.” 
“Oh honey, and that’s not the half of it.” 
I smile, tend to the glamorous chore of picking up Sophie’s poop, and think, “Please don’t tell me the other half. I’m tired. I’m having a bad hair day. My butt hurts after an especially hard workout yesterday. The dog is eating droppings from other species. And I’ve got a bazillion uninteresting phone calls to return — the bank about my refinance, the cleaning woman about switching days, the cable company to figure out why they didn’t get last month’s check and who did, Overstock.com on how I can get a now 3,000 pound fully inflated and defective mattress pad back into the tiny box they sent it in. That’s not to mention the ENTIRE NEW BOOK I’ve got to outline by, like, next Monday.”  (I’m taking a Novel in Nine Months Class. Pray for me.)
“See, it’s not just any cruise.”  She’s still talking. The fact that I have my back to her has not lessened her momentum.
I turn around. “I’m sure it’s very special.”  I yank at the dog’s leash to move her back towards the house.
“It’s a cruise for nudists.”  She smiles.
I realize, at that moment, that I live in an alternate universe, where younger people manage cancer and older people strip down for far away adventures.
“Don’t look so surprised. Old people get naked too, you know.” 
“Oh, well, of course.”  Ha! Of course? What do I know about nudists? Who do I think I am? One of Hef’s gals? I don’t even like to get naked for a shower, which, by the way, I do purely out of necessity.
“I’ve been a nudist for years,”  she says, on a roll.
I don’t even know how to respond. So my rule is, when you don’t know how to respond, say something either really dumb or make a statement of the obvious. “So you’re going to be, you know, naked?” 
“Well, that’s the dress code for nudists, sweetie.”  The dog pees.
“So it’s a naked ship?”  Like, she’s gonna get naked on the Promenade Deck with Doc and Isaac and Julie McCoy and Captain Stubing? Now that’s freaky.
“Well, yes. But we’ll be dressed on the plane.”  She unzips her parka.
“Will the captain and his crew be naked?”  She laughs. But I’m serious about an answer. Instead, she unzips her parka. Good GOD she’s not going to get naked right here, is she? I prepare to shield my eyes.
“How do you know the captain isn’t a woman?” 
Listen, I want to say, I didn’t ask for this. I just came out here to walk to the dying dog.
“Well,”  I say, “that certainly must eliminate any temptation to overpack.” 
“It does a lot more than that, honey. You ought to try it.”  Her eyes twinkle.
I smile and look down at the gut jutting out from under my spandex. “Maybe I will some day.”  But I doubt it.
The other day, I was shaving my underarms when I noticed a piece of red skin the size of a rice grain hanging from one of them. When I told my friend Joy about it, she told me it was a “skin tag.” 
“Like a price tag you find on the sweaters at Nordstroms?”  I ask.
“Yep, except it’s skin and it’s hanging from your armpit. It’s a sign of aging.” 
“Great,”  I say. “Thanks for clarifying.” 
Paranoid that I’m the only person I know with an aging skin tag, I call my friend Linda in Chicago since she’s just about the vainest person I know (well, not arrogantly so, just concerned with her own appearance). This, I believe, qualifies her to outline my best treatment options because, if she’d ever gotten one, she’d surely know how to get rid of it. And fast.
“If I were there,”  she says, “I’d sterilize it with alcohol and cut it off with a scissors for you.” 
“What a friend.”  I mean, that’s above and beyond the call of duty.
“It’d only take a second.” 
Thoroughly disgusted, I change the subject to her recent trip to Florida, her father’s new girlfriend and how short-legged women (like myself) shouldn’t wear Capri pants. Twenty minutes later, we hang up and I call the dermatologist to set up an appointment to remove the now all-consuming “skin tag”  that I cannot live with for one more day.
“Is this an emergency,”  the receptionist asks, after first making sure to get my insurance information.
“Uh YEAH. Hello? I’m getting married in five months for the first time in 43 years and I AIN’T doin it with no skin tag.”  Then, I take in short deep breaths and think about the ocean.
So, I get an appointment for the next day. After 45 minutes, the nurse ushers me into a treatment room, takes my blood pressure and leaves me to wait for the doctor. About 10 minutes later, he comes in, swabs my tag with alcohol, snips it off with a scissors (about as much fun for me as a root canal), and thanks me for my business.
Which leads me to conclude this: Sometimes, the best solutions are the most obvious.
So tomorrow, when I want to angst and overthink my book — and tell myself I’m a loser for doing both and how I’ll never amount to anything and how I should just think about getting a full-time job at Starbucks — I’m just going to calmly start outlining a long story on a page and then, I’ll use that as a guide to write. If all goes poorly, I’ve have a shitty first draft in no time. Then, I’ll revise. And, in the end, eventually, I’ll have authored a book.
We’ll see where it goes from there.
I have come to a few groundbreaking revelations since my last post:

THE FIRST

Weddings are supposed to be a time of great joy. Two lovers find their way to a lifetime commitment. “Worlds collide,”  to quote Jerry and George in that great episode of Seinfeld. My mom and dad become his mom and dad, his kids become mine. Brothers find allies in new brothers and blah, blah, blah. Together, we bond around the joy of picking colors and flowers and food and invitations and just the right dresses — and in knowing that we’re all healthy and happy and celebrating a joyous rites of passage for the two ingénues. Yet, in the end, all I can say is this:
My mother is trying to kill me. And, if I don’t stay on my toes, she just may do it. I’m serious. She’s either going to starve me, control me, guilt me, or “it’s no big deal”  me to death. So if you don’t hear from me for a while, please call the Solebury Police Department. I think they have an 800 number.
I’m just saying.

THE SECOND

The meaning of life is structure and good credit. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. It’s not love and personal fulfillment, like they tell you in all the self help books. That ain’t gonna get you a new car, a better mortgage or a Target credit card when you need it. (Which Dan and I did in a BIG way this weekend, when we went to Target to get socks and clip on sunglasses and came out four hours later with new sheets, a light for the back deck, too many tools, and some $500 plus worth of merchandise that did not include socks or clip-on’s.)
It’s not like the 67-year-old cashier at Macy’s, for example, is going to say, “We’d like to give you a credit card and 15 percent off on all the purchases you make today and through the end of time if you can prove to us that you are loved and personally fulfilled.”  No. They want to know if you’re good for it.
And, I’m sorry, but the criteria for writing a bestseller is not to show that you’re loved and personally fulfilled. No, a good book, one people want to read and spend their precious money on starts with a good structure. As does a good life. And folks, it ain’t any more complicated than that.
Trust me.
Until next time.
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So yesterday, I’m walking the dog around the five-acre circle that is the park just about 10 yards from our townhouse. I’m out for about three minutes when the woman I’ve been watching walk the circle all winter long decides it’s time for us to finally meet.

“Hello there,”  she calls to me, looking like her usual Inuit ready to dive for fresh seal — even though, today, it’s sixty plus degrees. She introduces herself as Marilyn. “Boy, he looks like he’s not walking too well.”  She points to Sophie, who’s limping her way eagerly towards a pile of deer excrement.

“Yes, well, she’s got a bad hip.”  I lie. What’s the point of getting into it?

“That’s why I walk. To keep in good shape.” 

“Oh, well, good for you.”  I smile. I have no idea what shape Marilyn’s in because she’s been hidden under a purple down coat since last September. It looks like something that threw up in the back room of Old Navy five years ago. She pulls off her hood and exposes a head of large black frizzy hair. I tug at my tank top.

“I’m 74 you know.” 

“Wow,”  I say. She looks 74.

“I have a 55 year old boyfriend.” 

“Really?”  If I weren’t engaged, I’d be depressed and on my way out for chocolate.

“Yep. We’re going on a cruise next month. So I have to look good, if you know what I mean.”  She winks and snickers.

Oh dear lord, please erase that mental picture. PLEASE. “Well, again, good for you.” 

“Oh honey, and that’s not the half of it.” 

I smile, tend to the glamorous chore of picking up Sophie’s poop, and think, “Please don’t tell me the other half. I’m tired. I’m having a bad hair day. My butt hurts after an especially hard workout yesterday. The dog is eating droppings from other species. And I’ve got a bazillion uninteresting phone calls to return — the bank about my refinance, the cleaning woman about switching days, the cable company to figure out why they didn’t get last month’s check and who did, Overstock.com on how I can get a now 3,000 pound fully inflated and defective mattress pad back into the tiny box they sent it in. That’s not to mention the ENTIRE NEW BOOK I’ve got to outline by, like, next Monday.”  (I’m taking a Novel in Nine Months Class. Pray for me.)

“See, it’s not just any cruise.”  She’s still talking. The fact that I have my back to her has not lessened her momentum.

I turn around. “I’m sure it’s very special.”  I yank at the dog’s leash to move her back towards the house.

“It’s a cruise for nudists.”  She smiles.

I realize, at that moment, that I live in an alternate universe, where younger people manage cancer and older people strip down for far away adventures.

“Don’t look so surprised. Old people get naked too, you know.” 

“Oh, well, of course.”  Ha! Of course? What do I know about nudists? Who do I think I am? One of Hef’s gals? I don’t even like to get naked for a shower, which, by the way, I do purely out of necessity.

“I’ve been a nudist for years,”  she says, on a roll.

I don’t even know how to respond. So my rule is, when you don’t know how to respond, say something either really dumb or make a statement of the obvious. “So you’re going to be, you know, naked?” 

“Well, that’s the dress code for nudists, sweetie.”  The dog pees.

“So it’s a naked ship?”  Like, she’s gonna get naked on the Promenade Deck with Doc and Isaac and Julie McCoy and Captain Stubing? Now that’s freaky.

“Well, yes. But we’ll be dressed on the plane.”  She unzips her parka.

“Will the captain and his crew be naked?”  She laughs. But I’m serious about an answer. Instead, she unzips her parka. Good GOD she’s not going to get naked right here, is she? I prepare to shield my eyes.

“How do you know the captain isn’t a woman?” 

Listen, I want to say, I didn’t ask for this. I just came out here to walk to the dying dog.

“Well,”  I say, “that certainly must eliminate any temptation to overpack.” 

“It does a lot more than that, honey. You ought to try it.”  Her eyes twinkle.

I smile and look down at the gut jutting out from under my spandex. “Maybe I will some day.”  But I doubt it.

The other day, I was shaving my underarms when I noticed a piece of red skin the size of a rice grain hanging from one of them. When I told my friend Joy about it, she told me it was a “skin tag.” 

“Like a price tag you find on the sweaters at Nordstroms?”  I ask.

“Yep, except it’s skin and it’s hanging from your armpit. It’s a sign of aging.” 

“Great,”  I say. “Thanks for clarifying.” 

Paranoid that I’m the only person I know with an aging skin tag, I call my friend Linda in Chicago since she’s just about the vainest person I know (well, not arrogantly so, just concerned with her own appearance). This, I believe, qualifies her to outline my best treatment options because, if she’d ever gotten one, she’d surely know how to get rid of it. And fast.

“If I were there,”  she says, “I’d sterilize it with alcohol and cut it off with a scissors for you.” 

“What a friend.”  I mean, that’s above and beyond the call of duty.

“It’d only take a second.” 

Thoroughly disgusted, I change the subject to her recent trip to Florida, her father’s new girlfriend and how short-legged women (like myself) shouldn’t wear Capri pants. Twenty minutes later, we hang up and I call the dermatologist to set up an appointment to remove the now all-consuming “skin tag”  that I cannot live with for one more day.

“Is this an emergency,”  the receptionist asks, after first making sure to get my insurance information.

“Uh YEAH. Hello? I’m getting married in five months for the first time in 43 years and I AIN’T doin it with no skin tag.”  Then, I take in short deep breaths and think about the ocean.

So, I get an appointment for the next day. After 45 minutes, the nurse ushers me into a treatment room, takes my blood pressure and leaves me to wait for the doctor. About 10 minutes later, he comes in, swabs my tag with alcohol, snips it off with a scissors (about as much fun for me as a root canal), and thanks me for my business.

Which leads me to conclude this: Sometimes, the best solutions are the most obvious.

So tomorrow, when I want to angst and overthink my book — and tell myself I’m a loser for doing both and how I’ll never amount to anything and how I should just think about getting a full-time job at Starbucks — I’m just going to calmly start outlining a long story on a page and then, I’ll use that as a guide to write. If all goes poorly, I’ve have a shitty first draft in no time. Then, I’ll revise. And, in the end, eventually, I’ll have authored a book.

We’ll see where it goes from there.

I have come to a few groundbreaking revelations since my last post:

THE FIRST

Weddings are supposed to be a time of great joy. Two lovers find their way to a lifetime commitment. “Worlds collide,”  to quote Jerry and George in that great episode of Seinfeld. My mom and dad become his mom and dad, his kids become mine. Brothers find allies in new brothers and blah, blah, blah. Together, we bond around the joy of picking colors and flowers and food and invitations and just the right dresses — and in knowing that we’re all healthy and happy and celebrating a joyous rites of passage for the two ingénues. Yet, in the end, all I can say is this:

My mother is trying to kill me. And, if I don’t stay on my toes, she just may do it. I’m serious. She’s either going to starve me, control me, guilt me, or “it’s no big deal”  me to death. So if you don’t hear from me for a while, please call the Solebury Police Department. I think they have an 800 number.

I’m just saying.

THE SECOND

The meaning of life is structure and good credit. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. It’s not love and personal fulfillment, like they tell you in all the self help books. That ain’t gonna get you a new car, a better mortgage or a Target credit card when you need it. (Which Dan and I did in a BIG way this weekend, when we went to Target to get socks and clip on sunglasses and came out four hours later with new sheets, a light for the back deck, too many tools, and some $500 plus worth of merchandise that did not include socks or clip-on’s.)

It’s not like the 67-year-old cashier at Macy’s, for example, is going to say, “We’d like to give you a credit card and 15 percent off on all the purchases you make today and through the end of time if you can prove to us that you are loved and personally fulfilled.”  No. They want to know if you’re good for it.

And, I’m sorry, but the criteria for writing a bestseller is not to show that you’re loved and personally fulfilled. No, a good book, one people want to read and spend their precious money on starts with a good structure. As does a good life. And folks, it ain’t any more complicated than that.

Trust me.

Until next time.
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