Swim Lessons

Yesterday the little man was sitting on the throne, telling me a story. As I leaned back against the wall while absorbing this riveting tale about Rosie and Railways, I continued to escalate in a descending manner, and my lean gave way to...OUCH. It turns out that the wall that I was so sure would support me leaning against it was not where I had anticipated. Have you ever done this? You think you are stepping onto a flat surface but the step is much lower than expected and your leg keeps going and there is only air? It was like that. Only I started to lean and then it felt like five minutes had passed and I was still in James Bond free fall and then--then my tochis was all wet. Because it turns out I had leaned not into a wall but into a shower stall. There was no wall. There was only an illusion of a wall. I think they call it a shower curtain. So there Little Man was pooping and blabbing and there I was starting to lean and falling into a shower. My booty was now hurting and sitting in a puddle--insult to injury--and my elbow was throbbing.

"You scared me, Mommy!" said the Little Man, finishing up on the porcelain pedestal.

Oh, Son. Scary is not Mommy falling into a shower. Scary is how you share DNA with Mommy.

The saddest thing about all this was that we were at swim lessons for Baby Girl. And let us not even explore the ramifications of how a mother took her two children to swim lessons at the indoor pool, and how one child in appropriate bathing attire jumped into the pool and the other needed to be taken to the restroom and, upon returning from the restroom, only the mother had a wet spot on her behind.

Exit, stage left.

Author Pic

I was thinking about the pictures of authors that are always snugly tucked within the folds of the book jacket, or slapped on the back o' the paperback. We might judge the book by the cover, but whoodoggies, do we enjoy a nice surprise sometimes when we behold the mug of the pages' eloquence. Am I right about this? You're reading along about the antique trade that Maureen Stanton has been sleuthing for years and then you take a peek at her visage and the fact that she shares your last name AND looks like she could be your older sister? Cosmic spooks, that's what happens. The author portraits are the grown-up answer to the high school senior portrait. They are often black and white and posed in such a way as to say, "When I am not busy writing, I wear trench coats and stand in the middle of Italian piazzas and look thoughtful." They are funny, aren't they?

My friend Anna, she of a spiffy new poetry book award, her picture is quite lovely. She is beautiful inside, outside, and now on the back of books.

My other author mate Rachele whose book CANARY is due out on shelves very soon, she has a totally winning author photo. Indisputably awesome.

But you know what you never see? You never see anyone really behaving badly or looking less than impeccable in their portrait. You never see anyone wincing after ripping off a band-aid, or giving tourists a busted look because you have no idea where the museum of carpooling is that they allege is somewhere around here, or eating a doughnut. What's better than a doughnut? If I peeped an author in the midst of doughnut ecstasy, cream filling just oozing out the side of a fluffy pastry, I would probably be instantly converted. That book would suddenly become a must-read for me. I would feel kinship with the author. His or her writing must be as delicious as that confection he or she is sloppily and unabashedly scarfing in a moment frozen in time for all eternity.

Now, really.

Why doesn't anyone ask me to be their publicist?

Not a fan

In no particular order, some things getting my goat lately: 1. Whistling. How can something that is so pleasurable for the person whistling be so irritating for those innocent bystanders of the whistling assault?

2. Group Projects. Has anyone in the history of group projects ever said, WOW, that group project totally taught me so much and everyone carried his or her equal load and there were never passive-aggressive e-mails circulated about who was really the leader and who wasn't quite pulling his/her part together?

3. Ignorance over direct objects. Once a day I hear someone say that something is {insert adjective here} to "she and I." I know people are confused. We're afraid of saying "her and me." It sounds wrong. Because when "she and I" are the subject of the sentence, it should be she and I, just like our parents would correct us in front of our new best friend with whom we were going to the Bay Superette to buy a Flintstone Push Pop for $.50. SHE AND I, your parents would say, NOT ME AND HER. She and I went to the Superette. Correct. But the push-pop is not yummy to I. It is yummy to me. Ergo, it is yummy to her and me.

4. Bradley Cooper. Nothing against him, I'm just not a fan. Overrated. Overhyped.

5. The new Justin Timberlake song. There are moments of win, but it is not a total win and barely fills my cup after a long walk through a desert of no Timberlake.

6. Avoidance. Like how I keep avoiding the delightful task of sending a letter to my Granny. Must be too busy composing cranky blog posts.

7. The expression "Love it!" I'm guilty of its overuse, but really? Do we really love with our innermost being the crocheted tea cozy that makes our coffee mug look like a googley-eyed owl that we saw on Pinterest? Do we LOVE it?

8. Downton Abbey for doing that to me. How am I to live now? HOW?

Know what I do like? These nuggets.