I wanted to give a little shout-out to my blackbird, Karl. He gets nervous and chirps, hence the nickname. Today he is 9. Well, technically we don't know his birthday because the people who dumped him at the shelter didn't speak English. We've had him for 8 1/2 years.
He's a great dog, as long as you don't touch his paws (he freaks out and acts as though you've come at him with a machete).
My baby is leaving me in 14 weeks. She and I started touring colleges in May of 2022. When I applied to colleges back in 1988, I was an English major so there were no auditions. Colleges basically just said, "Sounds good. Come on in." I was the first person in my immediate family to go to college and as a whole, I don't think we understood the importance of campus visits and such. I ended up being fairly miserable that first year until I transferred to a school closer to home. For my daughter, I wanted to make sure she had an opportunity to see lots of college campuses so that she had the best shot at figuring out what she wants out of the college experience. I wanted her to look at elements like campus size and location, diversity, activities, distance from home, and distance from the nearest "big city" (since performers often head to larger cities with active theatre scenes after college). Last summer, we began the daunting process known as "getting int
13. That's the number of years I've spent trying to get my child out the door for school. She entered the local school district at the age of four. She is now in her final year, and nothing has changed. When she was little, I would sometimes tug off her pajamas and hand her that day's clothes. My futile attempt to speed things up. She generally chose to remain naked. Now, she simply doesn't get out of bed. I send the dogs in. They hop onto her bed and step all over her, overjoyed, in that canine sort of way, that she exists and once again lived through the night. Grover, in particular, cares not where his paws land. Eventually, once she's crossed the line into "no way to get to school on time," she gets up. Barely, and with a slowness that makes her father's head explode, but she gets up. One of my favorite threats: "leave on time or . . . I'll DRIVE YOU!" Having your mom drop you off at school might be the worst thing that can happen t
The life expectancy for an American female born in 1970 is 74.7 years. My weird health history makes me think that I could be looking at a lower figure. I definitely need to live long enough to see if my husband finally figures out how to put the frying pans away properly. (He puts the largest one on top, which results in me shrieking, "They're meant to NEST, for fuck's sake!") I also need to make sure my baby girl pursues her dreams relentlessly - she might need me on hand to swat away any doubters. Thinking about my own mortality lately has led to a couple of minor revelations. The first involves our home. The three of us (plus two dogs, one cat, and one gecko) live in a fairly standard three-bedroom ranch-style house. We could have moved to something bigger years ago, but we opted not to do so. We moved several times in our younger years (including a cross-country move) and we were pretty much over the joys of moving by the time we bought our home. We've raise