“Hungry. Need Help. Will work for food.”

My name is Lola and I'm waiting for my mom to get home.
My name is Lola and I’m waiting for my mom to get home.
My name is Lola and I’m waiting for my mom to get home.

My friend, Alisa, suggested that maybe I could write a book about this dog.  It would be called The Money Pit Dog because, oh my.  She’s limping and the veterinarian mentioned scary words to me today like “surgery” and “money” and “let me check the cost of that.”

(Did I tell you about that incident when Lola the Dog was a year old and ate a bottle of ibuprofen?  That stuff will kill a dog unless you hand over a bucket of gold to the Animal Hospital.)

So now Lola the Dog is limping and has been for quite a few weeks now.  Sometimes she seems better and then, inexplicably worse.  There is no rhyme or reason, only worry.

So we’re going to start her on anti-inflammatory medicine and then, if she’s not better, she’ll have x-rays and I refuse to think about what might happen after that except that if you see a middle-aged woman with a beautiful dog on the street corner holding a sign that says, “HELP!  MY DOG NEEDS SURGERY!” you’ll know it’s me.

That reminds me.  My kids and I once had a contest while we drove around in our mini-van.  We tried to come up with the best slogan to put on a cardboard sign for begging purposes.  (There are a lot of people on street corners around here who beg.  Is it just here?  Because our weather is so nice?  Or are these people everywhere now?)

Some suggested slogans for signs:

“Sick baby.  Homeless.  Help.”
“Need medicine for Grandma.  Help.”
“Need money to surf.  Help.”  (Okay, just kidding on that one.)

What’s your best slogan for a sign?  Best to be prepared just in case you need to beg someday.


“Hungry. Need Help. Will work for food.”

What I did instead of going to the beach on this fine day

My daughter begged me to buy bunk beds at a garage sale quite a few years ago.  We crammed the white metal beds into the back of a van and dragged them upstairs to her room.  She’s had them ever since.

Last year, she thought it would be better to unstack the bunk beds so she’d have two separate beds.  I knew this was a terrible idea because of the lack of floor space but she insisted.  Ever since, her room has been an obstacle course, made worse by the fact that she has an emotional attachment or special memory assigned to everything she’s ever accumulated.  Also, she has a tiny hoarding problem.  (Stuffed animals!  Dollies!  Head bands!)

Recently, she decided she would like to get rid of one bed.  I suggested that maybe we should removed both bunk beds and then move a spare daybed from the boys’ room into her room.  So that was the plan for today.

I am a sequential and thorough rearranger, so I knew it would be an ordeal.  And since there was no school today, we tackled the chore.

Let’s just say that two hours into the seven hour task, she lost steam.  She petered out.  She would have flopped onto her bed while I dug through piles but her room had no beds in it.

But despite her lethargy and my eventual exhaustion, we did it.  We moved the bunk beds into the garage.  I took apart the daybed and then reassembled it in her room.  We sorted and purged (a little) and repacked and restacked.  It’s not perfect, not quite the thorough job I’d hoped to do, but it’s enough.

And now that I’m thoroughly exhausted, it’s time for a new week of school and soccer and lacrosse and work and driving kids around.



What I did instead of going to the beach on this fine day

A complete life

For once, she's not posing . . .
For once, she’s not posing . . .

I’ve spent the last two days with Chatty Cathy chattering in my ear.  At least that’s how it feels.  (Frankly, I’m exhausted.)

On Friday, I invited her to accompany me to the beach to see the sunset.  She quickly accepted my offer so off we went, racing the clock to arrive before the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

Looks serene, right?  It was not.  (Fun, but not serene.)

This child only stops chattering when she is singing.

She makes up songs (“Mom is grumpy . . . Mom is lumpy . . . “) and occasionally she makes me laugh out loud at her quick wit.

That’s all she needs. The reinforcement keeps her going until sometimes I snap at her.  She immediately pouts and I feel exasperated and repentant.

And then she resumes her shenanigans.

Walking on the beach with this kid is not peaceful.  You cannot contemplate anything while she’s keeping up a running commentary.

When I attempt to take a pensive picture of her gazing at the horizon, she busts out the jazz hands.  She jumps and struts and runs from my camera (which is really just my iPhone).

That’s why this picture is a minor miracle.


Today had to buy a birthday gift for her friend, so we went to Michael’s.

It was when we were leaving Michael’s that she told me that she requires four things for her life to be complete.

She wants:

1)  To live in Michael’s since it’s her favorite store and has all her favorite stuff.  (Rainbow loom rubber-bands and decorative duct tape, for instance.)

2)  To become a famous singer.

3)  To have a money tree so she can grow her own money.

4)  To own a “teacup” pig, which apparently is a really small pig that can fit into a teacup.

A girl has got to dream, I guess.  And this girl is dreaming out loud.


A complete life

Quickly, before I go

I wash dishes at breakneck speed, only rarely breaking them.  And I hardly ever cut myself on knives as I swish the sponge over the blade.

When I walk, it’s as if I’m competing for first place.  My kids trail behind me like ducklings.

I read fast.  I type fast.  I drive fast though I haven’t been ticketed for twenty years.

I make snap judgments.  I decide quickly–once I have all the facts.  I watch television after it’s been recorded so I can fast-forward through the commercials.

I’m not sure why I’ve always been in such a hurry, but even back when I was nine I was proud of the fact that I was the fastest girl runner in the fourth grade. I finished my tests first.  I learned my multiplication facts before everyone else in my third grade class.

Traffic lights turn green and my foot is already pressing the gas pedal.  Let’s go!  I’m a toe-tapping, finger-drumming, heavy sigher.  I just can’t quite understand why everyone else is moving so slowly.  Come on, I think.  Let’s GO!

And then yesterday, as I was rushing from somewhere to somewhere else, I had a fleeting thought.  (My thoughts, they flee sometimes, like they’re being chased.)

I thought how aggravating it must be for my kids to have a mom whose default speed is 80 MPH when they are happy to tootle along at 25 MPH.  And I thought that maybe it would be a relief to me to just acknowledge that some people are meant to move along at a less frantic pace.

Some people are meant to linger, to loiter, to meander.

Some people want to take the circuitous route for whatever nonsensical reason.  (I always figure out the fastest route, don’t you?)  It’s not a race.

So I’m going to try to stop judging the slowpokes among us.  I’m going to try to stop yelling at those cars that drive like there’s a Department of Motor Vehicles evaluator in the passenger seat.  I’m going to try to stop sighing at people who just get in my way with their unhurried, impossibly leisurely dawdling.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run upstairs to sleep really fast so I can get a million things done tomorrow.

Quickly, before I go

Bloom where you’re a grown up

I don't even know what this is but it's blooming in my backyard!
I don’t even know what this is but it’s blooming in my backyard!

I remember saying long ago that spring should arrive directly after Christmas.

And lo and behold, here in San Diego County, after Christmas comes spring!  My  Gerber daisy is in bloom as are the African daisies.  I have bulbs emerging in a pot.  Tomorrow it’s supposed to be close to eighty degrees.

Eighty degrees!

That’s not because of spring, actually, but because of Santa Ana winds which start in the desert and rush down the mountains toward the sea.  It’s very dry here–my hands haven’t felt this dry since we lived in frigid northern Michigan winters–and so the fire danger is high, they say.  Aside from that, how about those temperatures?

I’d really like to play hooky and sit at the beach and read a thick novel but, alas, that is not meant to be.

Why?  Because I am a grown up and grown ups have to work and take their kids to school and pick their kids up from school and drive their kids to soccer practice and wash dishes and cook dinner and make sure that everyone has clean socks.

Note to self:  Next time, read the fine print before agreeing to be a grown up.

Bloom where you’re a grown up


This is my birthday month.  I’m turning forty-nine.  Does that sound old to you?  It sounds old to me even though I will insist that “old” people are at least eighty or ninety or maybe a hundred.  But mathematically, forty-nine is practically fifty and fifty is twenty years old than thirty and didn’t thirty seem like a grown-up age when you were thirty?  I’m old enough to have children who are doctors and lawyers and who have children of their own.  (Not that my own children do because they aren’t old enough for such things but mathematically, you know, it’s possible.)

I’m at the age where plain old eyeglasses are no longer adequate.  The eye doctor has set me up with progressive contact lenses.  This last time, he gave me a lens for my left eye that will help me see up close and a lens for the right that sees distances.  The issue is that I see blurry when I’m driving, especially at night.  And I’m the kind of person who will put a hand over one eye and then the next to figure out which eye is not working right.  So if you see a woman driving with one hand over her left eye, then one hand over her right, you’ll know why.  I’m trying to figure out which eye is making things blurry.

I can see up close perfectly fine without any lenses or glasses, so I’d rather see perfectly at a distance.  I can always  use reading glasses to undo what the contact lenses have done.  At night I take out my contacts and wear glasses for distances.  I take them off while I’m reading. I just really want to see the signs when I’m driving.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.  It is, however, awfully complicated.

Yeah, so this is what it’s like being oldish.  You start talking about your ailments and frailties and it’s super boring for you whippersnappers.  But why are you reading an old lady blog anyway?  That’s the question.

I thought it would be fun to use this month to recall moments from days gone by.  I thought maybe I’d start today with my earliest memories and move forward through the years but as fate would have it, I spent all my time and space talking about my eyesight, so an actual story will have to wait until tomorrow.

Try to contain your enthusiasm.  At least I didn’t mention what happens at my advanced age when you cough.  Ha.  (Raise your hand if you know what I’m talking about.)

Now get to bed.  You need your beauty rest!  (Or if you’re reading this in the morning . . . Good morning, Merry Sunshine!  You look so dewy and well-rested this morning!)