books r fun

Now that my kid has entered teenage-dom, I miss the hours we spent all cuddled up reading books together.

Two years ago she tore through everything Judy Blume has written and now she is on a Robert Cormier binge--he writes some pretty wild stuff -- a lot of dark existential content. So she spends a lot of time draped over the living room furniture reading quietly. Which is cool. We have no Playstation or other video crapola in our house -- we have a den lined with bookcases and so she has plenty to read. But I do miss the days of reading "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" for the millionth time.

But do I despair? No, because I still have nieces with whom I can cuddle and read books with more pictures than words.

My youngest niece, who is named after me (she was really named after my mom, but since I too am named after my mom, it really isn't a total lie to tell the sweet little pooh that she was named after favortie Auntie ell, now is it?). Now that my namesake is learning to use the potty, Auntie ell popped in for a visit this weekend with lots of new books: "Once Upon a Potty," "Everybody Poops," and "The Gas we Pass." Of course, my brother wasn't thrilled, but you know what? Payback's a bitch. Love ya, bro!

shit and other stuff

I am avoiding writing right now because it just seems completely impossible. I can write any hard news story thrown at me by my editor with a deadline of an hour ago -- in fact I have four digest pieces due by 7 a.m. that I really haven't even started yet but I know once I make sure the teenager has gone to bed, the dog is in from her final evening's rampage around the yard and I have shuffled to the kitchen for a cup of tea and finally turned on a lamp in here and sat my ass down, I will bang it out in no time.

But this creative stuff that demands imagination? I got nothing. And I am waaaay past deadline. I have done some research, yes, but it perches in a box on the corner of my desk accusingly. I can't bring myself to open it and sift through it. In case Scout stops by anytime soon: Hey chick, the only thing worse than not getting accepted to grad school is getting accepted to grad school. On demand/deadline writing that is news is one thing, on demand deadline writing that actually needs to be good is fucking insane. Who does that and does it well?

I was listening to NPR today on my way to the middle school to pick up Schmoopie, who, much to my chagrin, is the captain of the cheerleading squad, and as I wondered if the cheerleading practice would be over by the time I got there or if I would be forced to sit in the bleachers for a time and and smile artificially as the 13 and 14 year-olds do booty-shaking cheers for my approval, a woman who has recently written a book about a 16th-century female conquistador was being interviewed on the show. The interviewer asked her (the author) where the voice of her novel's heroine came from. Hm? From whence did this lusty, passionate, female conquistador --I think her name is "Inez" spring? The author said "From my womb."

Well, that's it, I thought, I give up. I do feel something flowing from a part of my body into what I should be writing for grad school, but it ain't my womb, okay? Oy.

PS--my boss is a dickless coward. I despise cowardice in men especially. If that makes me a sexist bitch, oh well.