Would you like to donate a dollar to the...

Is it just my particular geography or singular luck that for the past month, EVERY transaction (with the exception of a self-check-out) is punctuated with a twinkly-eyed 17 year-old asking me if I'd like to tack on a dollar for the Good Samaritan Charity?  Surely I am not alone in this? Is it National Non-Profit Passive Fundraising Month everywhere? Because it's starting to give me a complex. And I am pretty pro-philanthropy, as much as someone who is probably a philanthropic cause herself can be. This add-a-dollar-on is starting to add up, however. The teenage cashier is all, I have this script, and I'm all, Yeah, I know it's a script, but it's the Children's Miracle Network. Who says NO to making a miracle happen for a child that only costs a dollar? Teenager is like, Oh, thank you SO much, like I just helped her make a donation quota and now she doesn't have to clean out the McNugget crumbs from the Playland tonight because she met her quota, and I'm all, You're so welcome. 

But then I'm at Bi-Lo on the very same day, and the disaffected teenager cashier is asking me if I want to donate to the Safe Harbor House, and then suddenly this is not even a question of economy or philanthropy, this is a test of gravity where the once disaffected teenager is peering into my soul, knowing full well that I just spent $.99 on an iTune mp3 of "Build me up, Buttercup" by The Foundations when I could have just listened to it ad infinitum on YouTube, but noooo, I just had to possess it for my very own, and now this teen is looking at me and waiting for me to say YES or NO I WILL NOT GIVE ONE WHOLE DOLLAR to the Safe Harbor House BECAUSE I'M A WRETCHED PERSON who spends her money frivolously on iTunes. And the teen is like, Okay, then your total comes to $14.39.

But what I really want to say back to this teen who can't wait to bag my root vegetables and go on his government-mandated 30 minute break is that the thirties are very hard, especially when you thought you were going to get a big payoff from your "investment property" and then you learn about what a real estate bubble really is, and you don't end up making a profit but actually running a total deficit, and that the real irony of all of this is that I'M ALSO LOOKING for a Safe Harbor House.  The teen cashier is already on his break reading a back issue of USWeekly in the break room as I grab my groceries and I want to bawl for all the people who are looking for their Safe Harbor.

*** Later I find a dollar in a compartment of our car and buy my daughter a cherry slush from Sonic. As I'm rejoicing that I found this gratuitous Benjamin in our vehicle, the drive-through cashier asks me if I'd like to add a dollar for the Children of Hope Fund.

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?