Just eleven more years

Between the ages of twenty and forty we are engaged in the process of discovering who we are, which involves learning the difference between accidental limitations which it is our duty to outgrow and the necessary limitations of our nature beyond which we cannot trespass with impunity.

–W. H. Auden

Where the dollars go

Looking back over my bank account debits from the past two weeks is just such an unflinching mirror: coffee, pie, coffee, pie, coffee, doctor, snow-cone maker (tonsils!), wine, coffee, coffee, pie and sandwich, beer, beer and ice cream, SmartWool tights, tank of gas.

Holidaytimes recap

Thanksgiving with Becca and her beau and K: all the fave staples of a too-full plate, mostly starch, the starch march, White Castle stuffing, from-a-box stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, K’s scalloped potatoes. The food pyramid rejoiced at the cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and Becca’s magazine cover-ready bird, carefully carved, thanks to directions on the internet. Afterwards? Watching Becca’s cats jump into a shopping bag. Devouring pecan pie. Remembering the goodness of Cool Whip. Playing Killer Bunnies. The perfect game for the game-phobic because anyone can win at any time. Even if you are mostly failing in every possible way. Takes the presh off. Also, there are bunnies.


My friend S-JY has been working on a new piece of writing, and she has introduced me to an entirely new kind of arrangement. It goes like this: One of us (usually S-JY) is off somewhere writing, and texts the other person to say “Hey! I’m writing! Come over!” And then I can say “That sounds way better than clipping my toenails and paying the electric bill…” and I pack up my things and join her. Usually it’s a bar or coffee shop, so a beverage is consumed. Coffee. Beer.  (Not both. Not yet.)

I love this arrangement because it reminds me that momentum makes things easier. I can get into a groove and keep on groovin’. And when bored, I can look up and see if S-JY is similarly bored and then we can gab, or if it looks like she’s working then I am reminded: WORK.

The coffee and the beer also help.


… her blog is here, and it’s all about her one-year project to immerse herself and her son Max in the joy of colors, letters, numbers and art. Samantha is one of those friends with wise things to say. Like months after a conversation, a fragment floats to the surface — a book she lent, a glance, a snippet — something clicks into place and a new thought makes sense.

This week

I’m supposed to get my tonsils out on Wednesday. I still haven’t quite come to terms with this fact. And instead I keep picturing myself ripping out the I.V. and running screaming from the hospital. Mostly because of stories like these.