If a writer falls in the forest, does anyone hear her dog making fun of her?

If Thoreau fell at Walden Pond, would he have found further inspiration or just assumed the mangled position and enjoyed the silence? I know he wrote about dogs, but I'm not sure he had one faithful companion in particular to call his own and accompany him on his many walks. If he did and had he fell, I bet HIS dog would have immediately gone into protector mode and barked and barked and run for some sort of help without a moment's complaint.

My dog? Not so much.

I couldn't sleep the other morning, and I've had a gnawing frustration about not being able to complete a particular writing/visualization exercise, so I took Sabrina, the 14-year-old crank of a beagle mix, and headed to the forest. Well, the woods.

My condo community is nestled in a little patch of nature and is very nice to be amidst. It's never far from civilization, though. In fact, you're always just a stone's throw from seeing a bit of house or deck from most directions. (Hey, Thoreau wasn't exactly in the wilderness himself, truth be told.) But there are trees and slopes, and a creek, and lots of little critters to ask about life. And now that bug season has subsided, I'm really good outside.

Anyway, I'm a firm believer in the manifestation and "write it down, make it happen" schools of thought, and the exercise I've been working on for well over a month now is this: "What would you like? Visualize your ideal situation one year from now. Know where you're going and take the straightest way there."

I can't count the hours I have stared at this. Every once in a while, I have started writing only to realize at some point into it, that I really don't want what I'm writing at all and return to the proverbial mocking blank page. I don't know what's thrown me off so, but I'm pretty sure it's the whole thing. "What would I like?" Sayyy whaaa? Having been a single mom for so long, that question hasn't even entered my mind, and to be honest, it still throws me for a bit of a loop.

Anyway again, I took the dog and my little notebook to nature in hopes of some transcendental inspiration. Half-way up the second hill, about 20 minutes into things, it was bound to happen. In my own defense, it is acorn-falling season, which makes it even harder to keep ones footing.

I landed on my shoulder. I think. It hurts today in a way that makes me think I may have to give up my shot-putting dreams. My arm and leg are pretty scraped up, so there was sliding, too, I guess.

But while on the ground holding my arm cursing the heavens through the pain, I looked over at Sabrina. She sat down and doggy-sighed and, had she had opposable thumbs, would have started filing her nails. We should be walking, after all, not sitting down. This is how the conversation went as I remember it:

"Seriously? I got my leash on for this? We haven't even been gone 20 minutes."

"Sabrina. I am in pain. Can you not see that or doggy-sense it or something?"

"Um, no, not really. Just get the hell up. You look ridiculous."

"Maybe something's broken and I need help."

"I've lived through two wars and numerous lost squeaky balls. I'm too old to get help."

"Fine. Let me try."

"Yea, you do that. I'll be over here. Sniffing things more interesting."

I'm writing this, so obviously I got up, admitted defeat, and walked home to clean up. Today, I'm still sore and still staring at a blank page. Although, I do have a temporary handle on what I really want: a dog who still gives a shit and, in the words of one of my favorites, grace, eventually. Besides that? A full page. Maybe tomorrow.

Nova Scotia Bound, Sort Of

If you know me at all, you know that I've talked about going to Maine once my Spawn had swum upstream to do whatever it is people in their twenties do these days. I have never had an explanation for it, but it's just always been on my mind. Sort of like a calling. I don't know what's calling me exactly - black flies, snow, lack of jobs - but something still does.

Knowing my current contract is on its last legs and a job I'd had my eye on hasn't panned out, I've started my perpetual search for work. Nothing's happening here in Indiana, and though I will always think of it fondly, we've never really been each other's types, so I've been venturing out. Sometimes, it's overwhelming to have nowhere to be, no ties, no anchor. But most of the time, I like it pretty fine.

Just for fun a couple of weeks ago, I paid $4.80 for an astrological/numerological chart that might give me a hint at where to look. Silly, sure. But believe it or not, my red zone (red indicates a good place for vocation, culture, creativity, and a little romantical acSHAWN, if you know what I'm sayin') was in Nova Scotia!! A hop, skip, and a jump from the Maine I've had my eye on.

So, Nova Scotia, it is. Just one tiny problem. The zone doesn't include a cool town like Halifax. In fact, it's not really over that whole pesky land part. It's in the stinkin' ocean. Okay, all may not be lost. I could buy a boat. I could dock in Halifax and still get my groove on. But I get seasick. Near death seasick, in fact. That's not going to be very attractive for all that creative work and romance.

It did dawn on me that the zone runs north and south, so I could do just fine in, say, the Bermuda Triangle. But the problem I see with that is that I could very well be groovy and nobody'd ever know it.

So much for my $5 plan. Maybe I need to take baby steps and think about something like Chicago for now. I hear it's toddlin'.

Vegas, baby.

I haven't been feeling old enough lately, so I signed up for a trip to Vegas on my first gal-pal trip in well over 20 years. Mission: Tom Jones show at the MGM Grand.

Honestly, I didn't have very high hopes after the 4-hour plane ride with the married couple who apparently didn't know each other AT ALL. They never, ever, EVER stopped talking. The yard, the cars, the neighbors, the basement, the girls, the soccer team, the scouts, the school, the shoes, the shut the hell up. (I was never happier for my iPOD.)

But, once we got through the very confusing hotel check-in process and did a thorough bedbug check, it worked out to be a wonderful trip and one for which I will always be grateful.

I doubt I'll go back in this lifetime (unless Tom makes me), but I enjoyed a lot of things about Vegas. I talked to my son one night and told him that I thought he'd like the town very much. "There are lots of girls with very little clothing on." He said, "Well, duh. It's hot as hell there."

Best Meal: Tao. Period.

Best Snack: Gelato in Ital...I mean, the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes

Best Dessert: Apple Crisp at the Grand Lux Cafe

Best Drink: Still looking

Best Vibe: Bellagio Cafe/Gardens/Fountains

Best Casino: They weren't all the same?

Best People-Watching Perch: The Venetian casino on a Friday night. My neck is still not itself.

Best Surprise: Dior mini-makeovers

Best Moment: The surprise birthday gift from Sheila - the most creative and thoughtful gift ever

Most Memorable Gal Conversation: The Will-Call line at the Venetian

Most Memorable Boys: Boothbay Harbor firemen in the hotel check-in line and the fine, upstanding one helping his elderly mother at the Vegas airport gate

Best Laugh: Deciding that the reason nobody waited on us in Jimmy Choo was because Sheila was wearing her sandals from the Tractor Supply store, not because of my JC Penney purse

Best part of the airplane experience: The man in the middle who reached up and adjusted my air for me on the way home. "Is that good?" "More?" "Here?" It made us laugh.

Best Show: Phantom of the Opera (That dude who plays the Phantom could sell ice to eskimos with that voice.)

And the Best of the Best of the Best brings me to Tom, of course: Oh. My. God. Worth the entire credit card bill. The charisma, the machismo, the sex that oozes off that man. It's just more than this old gal can handle. When he asked, "Is it hot in here or is it just me?", the whole audience shook its collective head and said practically in unison, "It's just you, baby, it's just you." Typical man, though. Wasn't long enough. I just thought I was addicted to him before. Now I've moved on to Tom hoarding. And, no, thank you very much, I do not need nor want an intervention.

Next stop...somewhere sitting down. Maybe even lounging. With Cape Cod Cabana boys fetching us the perfect drinks.

Awfully Quiet, but for a Good Reason

I've been working on a new Website intended to be a supportive community for Post-Single Mothers, like myself. The years right before and after my son left home for college were paralyzing for me, and I'm still a struggling work in progress. In the meantime, I have given the situation a name and conjured up a way to hopefully connect and share with other women in the same boat.

If you have had a child leave home recently (or know someone who has), I hope you'll visit and share your experiences! The Website is here: http://www.psming.com (PSM is short for Post-Single Motherhood)

Life beside Miss Honey's Posse

It’s official. The Universe is trying to tell me something. And it’s one of two things:

•  Don’t you ever tempt fate again by saying something like, “It can’t possibly get any worse than this place.”

OR

•   GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!!!!!!!!

I can’t decide which one to think about first.

I’ve mentioned Miss Honey before, but she became a non-issue for 6 weeks when she was out with her self-inflicted (smoking alcoholic that she is) heart attack. But, she’s been back to work for 2 weeks now, culminating in yesterday’s 10-hour free-for-all.

It was a state government PARTY. At her house (aka, cube). Since my iPod wouldn’t cover it up, I had to hear. They were all giddy about the big department lunch scheduled for 11:30 (when the state bell rings, I have gathered). So, starting about 8:30am, they printed the restaurant menu from the website and had discussions about what they’d order, what they liked and didn’t like AND WHY. “Do you like spinach?” “Well, I like raw spinach like in salads, but not cooked spinach.” “Yea, I don’t like cooked carrots, but I like raw carrots.” “Really? Now, see, I like cooked carrots.”

This spawned other hours-long discussions, you know, as office discussions among productive members of society tend to do, about food shopping, recipes, operating the TiVo, AT&T, golf, unclaimedmoney.com, death certificates, the pub (her haunt) and throwing up but not really being sick discussions.

The one that stopped everyone in their tracks, though, was about crepes on the restaurant’s menu. It confused ‘em. They all asked each other, “What’s a crepe?” “I don’t know.” “Do you know?” “No, I don’t know.” “Well, let me look it up,” Miss Honey said. Which she did and then became the crepe spokesperson. “It’s like a tortilla,” she explained. “Ohhhh,,” they all said in unison. But they all decided they didn’t want to order crepes. Or tortillas.

I had such hope that they’d wear themselves out and be quiet(er) after lunch, but no dice. Discussions after lunch were around the soup, the bill, the tea, the walk there, the weather, mowing the grass, and on and on and on. Until quitting time when they all said things like, “One more day down” and “Will Friday ever get here?” and “What a long day” and “I’m so tired.” Parties can wear out a yayhoo.

By 5pm, I can’t even stand myself. I leave the work trailer for the home trailer. I’ll save this for another day, because I can only handle so much of my own whining. But just this: I complained to the condo’s Board representative about a man whose dog attacked my dog, Sabrina, for the third time last week. The Rep directed me to contact the President (blowing me off by knowing that he’d just blow me off, too). But I looked up the President on the FaceBook. He’s 75 if he’s a day, way too into karaoke and his every other wall post is about either getting drunk at the Blue Martini or having fun on Percocet, which he’s taking for his back, ha ha (his haha, not mine).

I got home last night to a tweet from one of my favorite people in the world, Cynthia Morris, that said, “Your intuition has no agenda other than your ultimate well-being. Always listen to it!”

This morning, I parked my car in the garage lot and prayed. And tempted fate again by realizing I could declare to God and his baby Jesus that, “I will never, ever, ever, in this lifetime sit through another 8-hour day like yesterday. If that means homelessness or a $25,000 debt (I have one more year of college to pay for, which means I need a steady income until August 2011 that provides an extra $25,000 cash), bring it on, you stupid Universe, because I’m just old enough to not give a shit.” (That too old to care thing is new, but I think I’m going to really dig it.)

So, take that, trailer park. My stay here is getting more temporary every day. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Never.

Blog Post Titles are Hard

I don't know how the real bloggers do it. I am hard pressed most days to find anything to talk about in real life, much less write about here. I had no idea my last post was in April. Oh well, not much has changed. (Don't worry, THAT is a good thing.)

But today is a writing day. On a specific project I'm working on. So, here I am. Writing on this silly thing. And washing bath mats. And my ring and watch are soaking in the jewelry cleaner as we speak. My umbrella has rain spots, so that's gnawing at me, too.

And I'm a little sleepy. Sabrina, the dog, is always a problem this time of year. She hates storms, has allergies that make her gasp and cough and snort, and is just cranky (almost 14). So, if she wants to jump off the bed at 2am for a little drink of water, then holler and cry when she's good and damn well ready to get back on the bed again, you better oblige. And toot suite. (She can jump off, but can't quite make it back up at this age. Or maybe she can, and it's a test. Bitch.)

Last weekend, we had stress over a lightning bug stuck between the window and the screen. It must've looked like the lightning of the previous umpteen nights and she wasn't having it. Up, down, up, down. Finally, down. And a pit-stop for a TYlenol PM for mama. I was over it. It was a fucking lightning bug. I explained until I was blue in the face, but no sale.

I was rewarded once again, though. The last time I took T-PM, I hung out with Craig Ferguson. I have mentioned this before. This time...........Tom Jones. No, I'm serious. I've never been happier. I have mentioned my obsession before and since.

We were in his homeland of Wales. He had a castle or something. Beautiful green countryside. He had a few days off between shows or something. Why was I there? I'm not sure. He liked to cook, he liked to lay around and watch movies, he liked to eat, he liked to go for walks, and he liked to talk. So much in common, except, I like to listen, not talk. Sympatico. There was a "thang" goin' on, but I'm a lady and not going into details. He was the age he is now - not the young Tom. So, he was slower, more philosophical, calmer, deeper, and too tired for the Wilt Chamberlain numbers of the past. I must have liked him an awful lot because I was leaving too and I was very sad. Clingy, almost. He wasn't. He was kind and seemed to like me, too, but not in a clingy way. He just wanted to eat dinner, really.

Maybe I'll take a T-PM late this afternoon and hook up with Colin Firth. I am overdue for a visit, he has complained. Now, wasn't this fun? A whole lot of nothing after 2 months of nothing.

Maybe I'll dust the baseboards now. Or organize my desk drawers. I'll close with this: Jorge Cruise is a horrible, horrible man, and I'm pretty sure I could take him in a fight over a piece of sheet cake.

Pacer Fans?

This is a picture from the local newspaper of folks watching Indiana’s professional basketball team’s final game of the season last night.

Well, not really watching, because everybody is looking at the camera.

The folks are actually the team owner, manager and president, which maybe makes it a little less funny, but not really.

A Salute to Hugh MacLeod

Sometimes, I find it pretentious when bloggers post things they recommend, because it can sound all I-know-so-much-and-am-so-cool-and-have-everything-under-control-and-you-can-only-wish-to-be-as-fancy-as-me. But this is different, I swear. Firstly, I’m not really a blogger. I mean, I have a blog, but am I a blogger? gapingvoid.com daily cartoon 3/24/2010 I get the definition connection, but….oh dammit, back on topic. Second, I get distracted. A LOT. How I fit that into my already packed schedule of negative self-talk and procrastination, I’ll never know.

Hugh MacLeod of gapingvoid.com knows me. In fact, he reads my mind every day and takes time to send me a brilliant little cartoon accompanied by some magical words every morning. Thanks, Hugh. Marry me immediately, if not sooner. Even if you do live in an adobe in the middle of nowhere. We can work through all that.

Thing is - and this hurts a little to type out loud - he will speak to you, too. I get a lot – okay, a fair number - of hits and emails related to freelance writing and building portfolios and an online presence, so I hope you might find this to be a fun pick-me-up and addition to your daily creative process, too. He’s all over that procrastination, negative self-talk, and distraction stuff.

Now, where’s my dog’s squeaky ball? I know she’ll want to play ball with me.

Last Spring Break, We Didn't Kill Each Other in NYC

I love the fact that my son has a day planner. He used to make fun of me for writing in mine.

“Why do you have to write everything down?”

“Because I’m old.”

“Yea, true dat. But there are PDAs and computers for that, nowadays. It’s the 21st century, y'know.”

“I spend all day on a computer. I like to hand write things whenever I can. It makes me happy.”

“Whatever.”

And there he goes, writing when rent is due, when his credit card bill is due, when assignments are due, when his dentist appointment is. Sighing with exasperation when schedules change and he has to erase or cross out. It makes me think of us as the two peas in a pod we used to be.

“It’s wacky how you’re not using a PDA for all that.”

“What?

“You used to make fun of me for writing things down in a planner and not using something like a PDA.”

“I never did that. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you did.”

“Whatever.”

“Will you ever stop saying whatever?”

“Will you ever stop making up things about me?”

“Oh, What. Eh. Ver.”

“I’m going back to Bloomington now.”

“Finally.”

(Quite the letdown from last year's Spring break.)

Five Years Like Yesterday

How can it be that it was five years ago when I first came across Clay McKemie and Sean Wilkinson’s beautiful and happy school picture faces on CNN? I remember where I was so vividly. I see my office and my desk, I see the headlines, and I see the dozens of online reports in my head. School trip gone horribly wrong. Missing boys. Florida ocean. Coast Guard.

People still ask me why I felt so haunted by their story. I tell them about my connection to Rome, Georgia, having lived there for five years in the mid-nineties, but more than that, I tell them about my son who was also 15 at the time. I saw his face in theirs. Then, of course, there was the unmitigated gall of Steve Hall, the trip leader who was in the local paper two days after the boys were found dead running around the field and telling reporters at a Darlington soccer game how much fun he was having coaching the team. (Of course, by this time, anyone involved had been told to not discuss anything with anyone by Darlington lawyers. And not talk, they did. As a result, Hall went unpunished for what was so blatantly criminal negligence.)

It worried me that no parent could easily get information about Hall before sending their child on a trip he was leading. So, I posted what I knew and how I felt here.

I get traffic hits all the time from people googling Clay and Sean. I am so happy that they are remembered by people all over the country (and world, actually). I also get a slew of hits from searches about Darlington School, Wasatch Academy and Steve Hall, and each time, I hope it’s a mother investigating and changing her mind.

And I admit that I get a little hitch in my giddy-up when Steve or Chris Hall stop by to check on me. It means that they are thinking of that night, that weekend, that week. Not in the way people with consciences would, of course, but it’s something, and I’ll take it.

Every time my son has a typical life milestone, I think of Clay and Sean. And I think about their mothers and sisters and brothers, who are strong and funny and full of life and love and faith. And who will grieve forever. And I thank God for the Internet because, through all of this, I got to know them just a little.

My Lil' Winter Wonderland

And it's still snowing, though I do see a break in the clouds. Stayed home today to enjoy it and keep my new car safe. We're still in that getting-to-know-you phase, and I'd hate to scare it off with too much responsibility.

 

In My Dreams

Last night, I took a Tylenol PM and here's what happened. I was on assignment to interview Craig Ferguson for some famous magazine. The article's angle was to reveal the everyday man, so it required spending lots of time getting to know him. Another day, another dollar. 

He had a home remodeling project going on and invited me to hang out while he and his friends (one of whom was Gerard Butler poor me) worked on the house. He had recently purchased this huge fixer-upper near his actual residence as a fun project. He hadn’t decided if he was going to move into it himself or just sell it. He said it depended on the market. Yes, it was discussed at this level of detail. I’m an idiot.

I hung out with him for what I think was a week or so. I’d ask him questions and watch him work, sometimes handing him things and answering questions he'd ask me about myself. Some days, we drove to get coffee in the morning and pick up deli for everyone for lunch. We also went to Home Depot, a hair salon, a lighthouse and the arcade at the mall. We barbecued in the empty swimming pool a couple of nights after grueling days of not a lot of working but a lot of mutual interviewing. 

He let me stay in the house at night. There was one bedroom magically and completely move-in ready, so that was dream-convenient. There were no lights yet, so I assume there also was no AC and no heat. The world was of the perfect temperature, I guess, because I was comfortable. There also was a light hazy gray misty color about the atmosphere so I could see around. Must have been some sort of romantical night vision dream machine. We talked about how complimentary it was. 

In other words, Craig and I really hit it off. For obvious reasons. ;) And, as you would expect after a few days of hanging out with me, the relationship crossed the line into animal attraction. Again, duh, for obvious reasons. 

Anyway, I was upstairs in the dream-convenient-ready-made room eating pizza (yet again, for obvious reasons) when the doorbell rang. It was he. In a t-shirt and jeans with his hands in his pockets sporting a puppy dog and 5 o’clock shadowed face all leaning up against the door jam. 

“I like you, ye know.”  Being creative even in my dreams, I came back with, “I like you, too.”

We stared at each other for a moment until I broke the silence with, “You have to go home now.” 

And, with that, I turned away Craig Ferguson. Why, you ask? Something about my knowing how much he loved his wife. And, because I cared about him and his happiness. But mostly because I can’t even do drug-induced dreams right. 

So, he sat in his car in the driveway, hoping that I’d change my mind and invite him back into his house. I watched him from the window while I ate some more pizza, but I didn’t go get him before the alarm went off.

Cursed With Higher Expectations

Wouldn’t you know it - a traffic snarl about a half-mile from where I needed to turn. It was Saturday and the weekend number of cars on the road usually made this particular stretch pretty uneventful, so I assumed there must be a wreck ahead. 

I noticed that all the cars were leaning toward the right lane with their turning blinkers on, which was perfectly normal behavior to get around an accident. But just ahead, I could also see a long stretch of lights and turning blinkers from cars pointing towards me and waiting patiently in the left-turning lane. Not exactly. The real situation involved more diesel truck exhaust. :)

When we finally moved up a car length, I got my first glimpse at the situation. The first thing I saw was a gigantically tall wind wiggler cowboy. Then, dozens of balloons floating from the corners of things. Then, a line of people completely wrapped around the building. Then, a ginormous inflatable Red Burrito Taco Salad out front.

Yes. It was the grand opening of the new Hardee’s in Plainfield, Indiana.

My first and gut reaction was, at it usually is, to poke fun at these morons. I mean, who in their right mind would sit in this line for their turn at a speaker or parking place to get a biscuit? Is this seriously the best they could come up with for a Saturday morning? Then, I got a look at the people waiting in their cars. There were parents and grandparents and children and babies and they were all talking and laughing and oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all. Dang it, they were happy. Why, God, WHY? 

I read this year that the people of Denmark are the happiest among us and the primary reason is their low expectations. Denmark, meet Plainfield. Plainfield, meet Denmark. This happy lot in the middle of what used to be KKK country (a big goal around the office is to retire to some land smack dab in the middle of Martinsville, because it’s the hilly part of Indiana, and to hell with the decades of bad karma) doesn’t ask for much and doesn’t expect much. 

Damn you, Universe, for exposing me to things and cursing me with higher expectations. I know I will never be as happy as these people sitting in a line to see their new neighborhood Hardee’s on opening day. 

When I drove back by at lunchtime (contrary to popular belief, there is more than one road in Plainfield, but I had no idea that the hoopla would last into the afternoon), I noticed that a cop had been called to direct traffic. It wasn’t helping much that I could see and this, of course, opened up a whole ‘nother issue in my head: How can a traffic cop direct stopped traffic? 

Argh. Foiled again. Must stop asking why. Must stop asking why. Must stop asking why. Must stop....

Do This, Don't Do That, Can't You Read the Sign?

I took the picture on the left driving the road to Mount Agamenticus in Oqunquit, Maine, in Spring 2002 to remind me of where and how I wanted to live someday. I took the picture on the right this weekend driving the road into the condo community here in Indianapolis. It’s no New England seacoast situation and the sun wasn't shining, but I think it's uncanny all the same.

My son, he’s no Technical Writer

In cleaning up a home computer the other day, I stumbled upon a folder named “pbj” and had to laugh. I remember it well. Seventh grade. He was so ticked off at this assignment. It took him days to even think of something to write about. He hated English classes, period, but to be told to write a document of instructions about something, anything his heart desired, pushed him over the edge of civility. 

I kept telling him, “Look around the house. There are a million things to write about. How do you connect your PlayStation? How do you play that game you always play? How do you get ready for school? How do you feed the dog?”

“I don’t know how you do this every day. Writing instruction books is so boring. I’d kill myself.” (Aw, sweet, sweet baby. Keep talkin'.)

Here’s what he ended up with:

How to make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

1.Bread.

2.Peanut butter

3.Jelly

4.Together

5.Finished

So proud. I really think he went the extra mile with that “Together” stage. He didn’t have to include that. How helpful to his audience, right? 

An Owl and a Squirrel walk into a branch.....

An owl and a squirrel are having a heated discussion outside my office window. Something about a branch, but that’s all I’ve been able to make out. I don’t think they speak the same language, but apparently, whatever Owl is saying, it’s petrifying Squirrel. He’s yelling back, but even I can tell he’s paralyzed with fear. He hasn't blinked (assuming quirrels blink) or moved. Owl, on the other hand, appears to be washing his face and filing his nails.

Gawd, how I love living in the woods! Well, when the bugs and the bees and the mosquitos and the poison ivy have given up for the season, that is. And the birds stop flying into my upstairs window. Talk about sad. And disgusting. But it has explained the gray and white cat who wants nothing to do with me but loves my front door.

When I go out said front door here at the condo, I’m young again. I’ve recently been invited to “The Supper Club”, a group of retired ladies who meet for dinner every Wednesday evening at 5:30. Kind of late, I know. But it actually sounds like fun and I can pretend to be spry and interesting for an hour.

I’m also excited about the procedures around these suppers. According to the undocumented instructions, I am simply to stand outside in the circle until a car drives by and picks me up (thinking the mailman situation in Funny Farm).

When all of us ladies are in the car, we talk destination. On busy days, I've been told that another car may be required. In these cases, one of the "extras" will volunteer to drive her car and the first car will stop at the second car where the destination discussion will take place. It’s all very hip, very loose, very sixties and I dig it.

But now that I type this, I hope they’re not pulling some prank on the new gal. They don’t know me that well. I might stand out there for quite some time waiting on a trip to food. I won’t think about this anymore.

The picture is not where we are now – it was taken in winter 2003, I believe – but, trust me, her life o’ troubles is about the same.Sabrina has made so many new friends. There’s Mollie and Bear and MyMy and Millie and Jack and Bruiser. There’s a lady we run into a lot on our walks who calls her Samantha, but Sabrina responds anyway. We don’t say anything, because it might only matter in an emergency and Sabrina doesn't really doemergencies anyway.

Squirrel caved. Owl won and now won't stop hooting in a really snotty way. Poor sportsmanship, if you ask me. Sabrina's snoring, and I'm on my own for dinner tonight.

It’s been a good little day today.