It’s been almost a month since my last confession. I left off shortly before Halloween. Then Sandy came. And the election.
My fingers hover over the keyboard wondering what the hell to write. Sandy was devastating. The election, for me anyway, was a relief. Now it’s Veterans Day and the veterans are being thanked. Thank you veterans. Thank you hurricane clean-up volunteers. Thank you linemen and women. Thank you donators. We give thanks every night in my house. Thanks that we have heat, electricity. Hot water. Food. Health. An internet connection. Coffee. Pie. Snuggly fitted fleece jackets with those neato holes in the cuffs for your thumbs. Poo poo as my mother would say.
I’ve been revising The Housewife and the Healer again. I think it’s my seventh revision. Maybe seventeenth. It’s been fun and rewarding and educational. I shared parts of it with my family over the weekend. The parts that feature the heroine’s mom, I read to my mom over a venison dinner Swamp Chicken made, complete with homemade shoofly pie. Even Spike hung around to hear my story, and laughed like a giddy goof at all the curse words, family bickering and frustrations endured by the cast of fluffy suburban characters.
It was heartening and validating to read aloud what I’ve worked on for two years, and to see the laughing faces of my family. I hope my son will be inspired to struggle through a story of his own one day. I like that the kids have watched me write, get rejected, write some more, get rejected some more, write some more and so on. Enduring the struggle is where it’s at. I’ve quit a million things in my life. I know what it’s like to be a quitter. To feel resentful. To be jealous of successful people for whom the world is seemingly delivered on an engraved silver platter. But nobody has a monopoly on talent and talent is overrated. And aside from the ones gifted with dumb luck, the ones who make it are the ones who keep going. Keeping going is my new thing. I have visions of myself crawling across the finish line, exhausted and bloodied, sweaty and possibly incontinent, reaching out to grab my motherfucking book contract. God, please. I won’t take no for an answer. Lord hear my prayer, etc. L’chaim!
Below, Spike’s ”ninja” costume. I am fully aware that he looks more like an Afghani woman in a burqa. Does he realize this? No. Did he have fun? Yes.
Peaches was a “vampress.” I wish I’d gotten a good shot of the makeup we did that made her look like a goth teen tart. My lord that girl is growing up fast. Lost two teeth in as many days. I love the inner creases of her elbows.
I continue to fall madder and madder in love with my pooch. We’re working on a new trick—shake hands. Such a high aptitude doggie. Again, poo poo.
I spent the better part of last week—far too much time—indulging my ridiculous and dysfunctional fantasy of getting another dog. Nyla wants to be with me always. I could stuff her in a totebag and take her with me everywhere, but I also have visions of rescuing another needy dog, of finding a playmate for her, someone to keep her company while I go to boot camp and Trader Joe’s. Unfurtunately Nyla is not a dog person. She is a people person. Here are the dogs we scheduled meet-and-greets with: Cookie, a labradoodle. My favorite, though kind of drooly. Nyla would rather have been alone, but tolerated Cookie Monster gallantly.
Molly, below. An Aussie shepherd mix. So sweet. Nyla could not get away from her fast enough.
Gucci, below, or as Spike spells it, Goochie. How much cooler is that? Nyla HATED the Gooch. Way too barky.
In my time allotted to procrastinating my writing work, I scour Petfinder and Philly Paws for blackish gray versions of Nyla, so that we may one day have a pair, like salt and pepper shakers of furry, loyal love—loveballs. But the truth is that Nyla does not seem to want to share her queendom, and in the end it’s her call.
poo poo, as my mother would say.