Weekends in fall are reserved for many things earthy and sweet. This one brought proper clothes shopping for Lucas (we've started to call him Luke) and Abigail. While I was away, Phil had emailed me photos of them. And I replied, not with "how cute" or "adorable," but "creepy, they need new clothes. He looks like an accountant, and she looks like a ragamuffin." So, off we went, shopping list in hand. Cable knit sweaters (ooh, or those Irish knotted ones), brown thick corduroys, tweed dresses with leggings, footsie pajamas and faux fur boots.  Speaking of boots, we ventured to Nordstrom on our way to Janie & Jack (my all time fave) to stop at the shoe department for Phil.  Nordstrom, aside from offering free alterations and piano music, has a half-decent shoe department. It's no Neiman Marcus Last Call, but it will do. Shhhhh, don't tell. Identifying a Lacoste sneaker with a velcro strap, Phil said, "Look, Izod," then asked the salesman if they had it in his size. We sat and waited, and my period cramps were appreciative.

"I need socks" Phil explained as he walked toward the stock room following after the associate. Little did I know just how much. If it had been a scene in a movie, you might see me wince. Had it been "You're a Stinky Cheese Man, Charlie Brown," there would've been a brown cloud of dust rise to bitch-slap me across the face. But this was real life, and that, right there, the indescribably rancid smell that bordered on vinegar and smelt roe, simply had me draw in a deep breath from over my shoulder. Then I held it, as if I were in a car, passing a cemetery, believing if I held my breath until we were a safe distance away, I'd have good luck. Phil began to laugh, that laugh you can't help. That moment where you've smelled up a room and not only do you know, but you know the people around you know it. He laughed until he couldn't breathe. Add some serious insult to injury, this was no ordinary salesman. He was old school, sitting on his leather measuring of a stool, pulling stuffed knots of paper from the shoes, wiggling the tongue. He was right there, that close, to the enemy.

Already in the process, Phil swiftly pulled on the "communal socks," wrong on so many levels, and attempted to push his way into the shoes, hoping the quicker he was, the closer he'd be to containing his offense of a foot. Phil looked at me, giggling like a school girl. I bowed my head, shaking it as if my child had just smeared a dookie across the teacher's desk. The associate asked if it felt right.

The shoes didn't fit but the moment did.  This is what makes life memorable. Now go bust a pit on someone you love.

I'm heading off to Houston today, where I'll be speaking at the JCC with ice cream in hand tonight. The woman who runs the program asked if I was open to taking questions from the audience. Could that, she asked, be the format for the evening? Absolutely. I love questions. So in the spirit of them, today I'm open to yours. Got questions? I'll try to answer all of them. Post away.

OOOOPS! I JUST REALIZED TONIGHT THEY WANT ME TO SPEAK FOR 45-50 MINUTES. THE QUESTIONS FORMAT IS FOR TOMORROW NIGHT IN SAN ANTONIO! I totally love winging it anyway. I can talk about myself forever anyway.

ALSO, I will answer all your questions, so if you see one I've skipped over, it just means I haven't had time to respond yet, but I WILL respond. It might just take time.

Update on Phil's Health: He feels fine. He has always felt fine. Symptom-free. He went to the doctor yesterday and returned with a huge arrangement of flowers for me. For no reason. It made me happy and a little wary. What's he not telling me? And in his way, he couldn't answer my questions straight up. He drip-fed me little bits of the appointment throughout the day and night, little pockets of information. What I know: his genetic testing came back negative, except we know that of people who 100%; have this specific genetic defect, only 50% test positive for having it. So it gets us nowhere. His pacemaker is working, hard. All the time. His ejection fraction is low, 45 I think. It's concerning. But we'll see if it's trending down, since his ejection fraction used to be at 65 (though I remember it being at 70, he disagrees). So we're seeing if it trends. He'll need an ablation at some point, but he refuses to talk about it. He's still in atrial fibrillation and at a high risk of stroke, even being on blood thinners. The longer he stays in a-fib, the harder it will be to repair it. His quality of life, they tell him, will take a turn (moreso than usual), if he stays in a-fib, though they don't know when. I asked the doctor what he would do if it was him, or if Phil were his son, what would he tell him to do, and he said, "I'd do whatever I had to, to get out of a-fib." Phil is going to see Natale (a very well known electro guy) next week. We'll see what he says.

What Scent Do You Wear: You can see the perfume I wear by clicking here

I've seen my share of fucked up since moving here to Texas. Aside from the wild obsession Texans seem to have with their own state (etching the state's shape into the windows of their homes, outfitted with a burnt orange longhorns flag), or the star spangled cell phone holders, or the roadside jerkey--I've seen scorpions in my house (in my makeup drawer!), had a coyote in my backyard during daylight, have heard of rattlesnakes being on the trail in my backyard, but this, this I didn't think happened anywhere but in the Brady Bunch Hawaii episode.

I was startled for a moment when I saw a Halloween gag on my window. "Ha, ha," I thought to myself. "Norma got me this time." There, outside my window, she stuck a pipe cleaner tarantula. Then I looked a little closer. HOLY MOTHERFUCKER. It was moving. Right there, on the window, beside my front door. A TARANTULA. Where the fuck am I living? Seriously. Who sees tarantulas?! Pictures of my window and our guest, who decided to be fashionably late for Halloween:

Slightly less troubling, I then googled this creature to see what people were saying about it's death factor if you're jabbed by one of these buggers. Guess what I found? People touting them as great "beginner spiders." As in, what a great pet these guys make. They're totally underestimated. Yeah, I don't know who these people are, these exotic pet owners who prefer reptiles to puppies, but a tarantula is NOT a goddamn pet. Look at it. From this picture, it looks like it has one cyclops of an eye, with a gaping hole in the middle, that I can't help but think of as an ass instead of a mouth. It looks like one of those anal sex porn DVD covers, where they show some gaping ass action as an enticement to buy. Then I watched this video on tarantulas, watching a man who looks like he'd be the type to have a tarantula as a pet, fondle his friend, telling us all about the tarantula nemesis. How thoroughly disturbing. And yes, I'm judgmental. One of my closest friends in college had a pet snake in her dorm room. She once showed up at a judge's house wearing nothing but a trench coat, heels, and her pet snake. He asked her to leave. So would I.

I've always loved this idea: making a fiction collage of each character, complete with the actor prototype in mind. I'm doing it now for the television version of Straight Up and Dirty. I love this exercise, to know the contents of each character's desk drawer, nightstand, or handbag. To create a mood board, or inspiration board, to see visuals, to know of all the chairs in the world, the one they'd pick would look like this, that on a menu, they'd order that. I love the details and quirks, seeing each of their obsessions. Where they hope to travel next, their favorite accessory, a photo of their dog. It's what makes us who we are, all this stuff, or even the lack of stuff. I'm including the real photo of each person, along with an actor prototype, their interior design choices, obsessions, imperfections, things that help define them. Getting their quirks in. It's so much fun. I'll post my own collage later. But in the meanwhile, if you had to create a collage of objects and pictures that told someone who you were and what you liked, what would be tacked up on your collage? What are the telling little details?

This is a list more for me than anyone else. It's a list that helps me punch things into order. Makes me feel like a good mother, even on days when the very last thing I want to do is mother. I obviously realize that what children want most is to spend time with you, doing any old thing. That they're happy in your lap, or even across the room, as long as you're paying attention to them. The last thing anyone has ever accused me of is being rigid. I just want to get it all down, to expose them to "new." Most of their time is spent with them free to explore and spend time engaged in what interests them most. But when they act bored, or out, or even like me, I pull out my list for ideas.

PSYCHO MAMA HISSY FIT TIME: Listen to clit rock and dance like fools singing along to lyrics about being "over it."

BUILDING TIME: Wooden Blocks, Legos, Stacking Rings (Talk about shapes, colors, sizes, and COUNT), Shot Glasses

FREE PLAY: Play with cars and trains (show how they can link and follow roads on play mat). Use dump truck and show how you can fill and empty it. Dolls and stuffed animals: put them to bed, feed them, nurture them, push in stroller, brush hair. Wear hippie clothes and bells on our toes, then see how many people we can stuff into a VW van.

SORTING TIME: Animal Hospital and Farm Play. Otherwise, it's time to reorganize mama's makeup drawer.

SIGNING TIME: Watch Signing Time Video as Lunch or Dinner is being prepared

MUSIC TIME: Play "music together CD" and take out musical instruments (Must be supervised, and I must be inebriated)

ALONE TIME: Can hide under table covered with blanket or in old cardboard box or in that playhouse we have. Or I can just lock myself into the bathroom and pretend I'm busy.

PHYSICAL TOYS: Tunnel time with pulling and pushing toys, ride on toys, tires, boxes. Otherwise, just wrestle them to the ground until they scream uncle.

SCARVES TIME: Play with different colored scarves, see how they float in air, talk about colors, play hide and seek with them, or go to Hermes and shop.

FOLLOW THE LEADER: A parade of follow the leader, and singing sequential songs like Hokey Pokey, If You're Happy And You Know It, Wheels on the Bus and Old MacDonald, helps them learn sequences.

STORY TIME: Read books in Spanish & English, read nursery rhymes (Ideally, turn on a story time lamp) like one of these to start this special ritual. Essential to teaching them how to lie properly. Yay, "fiction."

PUPPET SHOW TIME: Play with finger puppets & regular puppet show. Give Lucas and Abigail old socks with faces drawn on them and teach them how to do puppets. See Story Time for pointers.

PRETEND & PLAY BALL TIME: Catch, throw, roll, kick. When lose attention, teach how to imitate animals: hop like rabbit, tiptoe like birds, waddle like ducks, slither like a snake, do crab walk. Then pick up your self-respect. Do the ASL sign for each animal. Can also repeat or combine this with stories and songs that include animals.

I am hoping to go to the movies today. Get there at the first showing and stay there until about 1pm, given that I have a conference call at 2pm, when the work will start all over again. I'm still sick with a thick cold, so I've decided today is a sweatpants of a movie day in the dark. I do wish a new Muppet movie were out though. I LOVE the muppets, and Piggy for obvious reasons. I actually always loved Sam the Eagle, too. "You people are so immature." Now, though, you can actually Create your own muppet! I want to create one for my office, just to sit on my bookshelf and inspire me to use my imagination. There's nothing like a muppet to add some cheer to your day. I'm off to go look up movie times. If only Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon's Four Christmases was in theaters, I'd be set. I have no idea what to see. Role Models? Zack and Miri make a porno? Rachel Getting Married?

In choosing what to read from Moose now that I'm touring a bit for the Jewish Book Fair, I sometimes leave it until the last minute--you know, gauge the crowd. I'm not exactly going to read a passage about slap bracelets and stonewash to a generation that doesn't know from playing M.A.S.H. (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House). Certain things just don't translate out of context, or out of generation.

Today at the Austin JCC, before I took to the stage, I found a good passage about the time I'd missed a teen nutrition class in Fran Levine's basement and was hurled into the adult world of food therapy for a weekly weigh-in session. Perfect. I'd read about the time I asked Fran for advice on how to deal with the fact that my mother always bought my father a goodie for after dinner, and how it drove me crazy because he'd hide them from me, but I'd always find them. It was a funny scene, in particular, as such a young girl, to be in a church basement somewhere hearing adults confess their eating sins. A woman ate a jar of fruit spread but didn't think condiments "counted." One woman was a Holocaust survivor and couldn't leave food over on her plate. One man got on the scale and said the letters, "M.S" to Fran, hoping she'd deduct three pounds from his weight. He'd seen her do it for other clients before. "Henry," Fran told him, "M.S. stands for menstrual cycle."

Cute story, I thought--you know, to read to a crowd of women who could, whether or not they've ever had body image issues, relate. Except as I read silently, half-way through the passage, I realized, at the bottom of the page a "scene" was coming. Words I didn't want to read aloud just after reciting a prayer over the bread.

"I always find whatever he's hidden and eat some. The other day I found an apple pie in his bedroom dresser!"  I didn't mention the fact that I'd gone in there to grab his Truly Tasteless Jokes book. I'd read passages for detailed scenarios then masturbate to words like "bush," "spread," and "cream."

When it was my turn to address the crowd of over 250 women, I decided instead to read a "dressing room" scene with my mother and skipped the "self loving" moment above in favor of a "self-doubt" moment about fart sounds and pruning breasts because well, people were, after all, eating.

Peach, orange, and pomegranate flavors make up this layered shooter. The trick is pouring (floating) each one in order, slowly over a spoon.

• 1/3 oz grenadine
• 1/3 oz peach schnapps
• 1/3 oz blue curaçao

Drinking game of the night: drink every time you hear the following, "Too close to call," "Record Turnout," or "Historic Election."

Please drink, or at least vote, responsibly.

I pouted when McCain came up to the podium to give his concession speech, not because he lost, but because as he and Palin waved and gave their thumbs up to the crowd, I thought, "It sucks to lose. That has to be so hard." It takes character to lose with grace, even when it's expected and part of the job. It's hard to feel rejection, or loss, or even failure, even if it was out of your hands, even if it had to do with factors beyond your own control. And then to let it go, to wake up the next day, and to simply go on... that's what really makes any of us a success. And for the record, I voted for Obama.

*And to save you some time, here's a photo of Rahm Emanuel.

It's official. After Halloween, the store windows stop. They skip right over Thanksgiving and already have me thinking of the December events, aside from the twin taters turning two. I realize money is tight, that it's hard, that people are losing their jobs, taking less pay, eating home a lot. I know I'll be making scrapbooks as gifts if there's time, but with all I have going on, it's been hard to find time for such arts & crafties. Instead, I procrastinate making fun lists, this one in particular dedicated to my love of New York. It's not finished, but it's a fun start. Except now all I want to do is listen to Christmas music and eat a toasted bialey with a touch of salted, melted butter. Lox are optional. But alas, I have a cold and should instead go watch television, wear socks, and drink salty soup.

See more of my NY NY Holiday

Home from Denver just in time to catch my cat catching my mouse.

Abigail refused to wear her cat ears by either ripping them off her head, wailing, or by throwing herself to the ground, just lying there. If only "just lying there" got us all out of things we didn't want to do.

I'm at the airport on my way to Denver. Scheduling delays. I couldn't sleep last night, worried about the pilot story for Straight Up and Dirty, struggling with whether or not it's the right story to tell, wondering if it sets up the series and tone of the show the way I want it to.

I wonder if it's like a wedding dress. You know, something that when you try it on, you just know it's the one. I'm waiting for that to happen, but with the twenty or so stories I've come up with, I don't feel that about any of them yet. It's why I'm hoping it's less about the story I'm telling and much more in the telling of it.

It's no small task: establishing the characters, and how they fit into Stephanie's life, carving out where the show will live (apartment, hangout spot, office, etc.), all while showing her frame of mind, externalizing her internal struggle, setting up conflicts between characters, defining desires and needs. Her desires can't be vague, either. "She wants to find herself," just ain't gonna cut it. They have to be specific enough that the audience knows the moment she gets what she wants. Or doesn't.

Her opponents (regular opponents, not random men who ask her to go dutch on a date) need to attack her greatest weakness so she's forced to grow. And these opponents have to be necessary, with their own weaknesses and opposing values, yet share similarities with her, too. Each of her opponents has to attack her weakness from a different angle, and in as different a way as possible from one another. All this, and it has to be funny. It is, after all, a half-hour comedy. I might think too much, but I need the answers to these questions before I can think about the funny. I need the bone structure so I know it has longevity. I've actually already worked that bit out and am now left with the task of creating the story I'm going to tell, of all the possible stories in the book. In less than thirty minutes, we need to know where Stephanie is now that she's divorced, what it is she wants, and get a sense of what's in store for her now...and all while referring to myself in the third person.

Then tonight, I'll need to shift gears and speak about chubb rub and chunky-dunking. I'm not really planning on reading from Moose, but I might just slip in a quick page or two, to give the audience a better sense of the book. You know, show, not tell what the book's about. I NEVER know what to select. It's the same issue I have with choosing just one pilot story. There's so much there. So many topics covered, and I only get one chance to convince people to stick around and watch it, or read it. From those of you who've read the books, I'm listening.

My life has changed--not so much that it's unrecognizable, even if I am now in Texas, where they let us rock the vote early (which I just did). But it's changed. I no longer find time to buy music CDs. Instead, when Ray Lamontagne's third album hit stores, I hit the the 'Buy Album' button within my iTunes store. Except, that's not exactly true. In the past (I've been following Ray since May 2004 and have the crappy photos of us to prove it), I'd have been anticipating his upcoming release and would have struggled with the cellophane sleeve the night before it was technically available. And now, I learn it's in stores, randomly, picking my way through the Internet.

I'm now listening to the final track of the album, a song titled "You Are the Best Thing." It's the kind of song I live for. The kind I can sing to, spin, and twirl to, with a bend at the knees. It's a red wine of a song--a grand cru. It's the kind of music that makes you think of storms, where you're visiting some ailing aunt (yours or someone elses), and you're stuck in a house you don't know, but you've found a curtain of space on a screened in porch, and it's somehow okay, even without anything to do. It's the kind of music that makes you savor the smaller moments--the ones you think no one else really has.

Now, it's not just a bottle of wine and a sofa with my bare feet kicked up, a shade of Bordeaux on my toes. It's all that and more. Now it's me on a sofa with a swirl of wine and a daughter with hair in her eyes and a pink hideous flower-shaped purse in the crook of her arm, clawing her way into my lap with a Junior Jellybean Book. I'm no longer listening to backup singers, but giggles in my ear and across the room. It's not just wine in my hands. It's hands on my face, and a nose rubbing against mine. It's a picture book with a muppet holding a stop sign. And I couldn't ask for more than this. This delicious soundtrack of my life.

Do you hear what I hear? Well, you can...

I know you're hurting. I know that pain, the intensity of it. I totally know.  I need to tell you this: advice is what you want when you already know the answer. And you do. You know the answer. You just don't like the answer, and that's understandable.

Intellectually, you know all of it. You know the advice you'd give a friend describing your exact situation. You know what your younger self would tell you to do. Intellectually you know that the pain will eventually dull, that there will be someone else, that you can move on, but in the living, you want time to fast-forward to "over it." You don't want to live through it. It's too painful. You want to feel better, even if it means a band-aid. And yet, you never want to go through this pain again. You want to do anything you can to prevent this from happening again. And the sad fact is, you can't.

You're afraid of the unknown. And so is he. It's why he's given you the mixed messages of let's work it out, let's make this work, then waffles back to, "I just don't think we're happy" and "This just isn't working." He actually knows that part is true. He knows that it won't work, that deep down, he doesn't feel it, yet every time he fears the unknown, fears regret, he reneges and tells you he wants to work it out. Or he hears how upset you are and wants to ease your pain. Or just worries if he's making a mistake, so he waffles. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you already have the answer. It's over. And it stings, and there's an ache, and you feel lost without him. But, you're not.

Just because one person doesn't think you're right for them doesn't mean you need to change. It doesn't mean you're broken or damaged. It doesn't mean you aren't good enough or that you're some failure. It's ONE PERSON. I know you thought he was "the person." But he's not. He's a person. And so are you... your own person. You need to take care of her now. No one died and made him God. Your desperate, "I'll change all those things you wanted me to" attempts need to stop. You want to change something, then change your perspective. Figure out what led you here, and learn from it. Yes, you have shit to work on. We all have things to work on, and with the next person there will still be things to work on, sometimes the same things, sometimes all new anxieties or issues bubble to the top. It's never going to be perfect, but it's not supposed to leave you feeling like shit more than you're feeling like "the shit."   

You do not want him back. What you want is safe. You want what you know. You want what's easy. You feel unsteady and you want a security blanket of promises. Only one person can give you that, and you know who she is. You want to be wanted. You want all those feelings you felt at the beginning. You want to hear that you're beautiful, that you're amazing, that he feels soooo lucky to have found you, that you're clever and adorable and that he can't think of anyone but you. No one will ever compare to you. Ever. He'll never ever stop feeling that way, he's sure! You want to hear all of that, so much, mostly because you're getting your sense of worth from him, not from you. You wouldn't need to hear all that if you knew it, if you felt it, if you believed you were already those things. You need to give that to yourself now, no matter how frightening it feels. It's an ending, but it's also a start.   

DENVER, CO
Thursday, Oct. 30
7:00 PM
$8 Adults
$6 Seniors, Students, Children
350 Dahlia St.
Denver, Co. 80246

AUSTIN, TX-- TEXAS BOOK FESTIVAL
Stranger Than Fiction: Me and My Memoir
Sunday, Nov. 2
2:30 PM
FREE, Open to the public
State Capitol Building
Capitol Extension Room E2.026
FREE Parking locations for the general public are:
Granger Parking Garage, 12th & Guadalupe (west of the Capitol)
Visitor Parking Garage, 12th & Trinity; State Parking Garage @ 14th & Trinity (east of the Capitol)
All State parking lots northeast of 15th Street & Lavaca (north of the Capitol)

AUSTIN, TX
Thursday, Nov. 6 Book Lover’s Luncheon
11:00 AM
$28 General Admission
$25 Students, Seniors, JCAA Members
JCC Community Hall
7300 Hart Lane
Austin, TX 78731

HOUSTON, TX
Wednesday Nov. 12
7:15 Pre-lecture ice cream reception
Free to series ticket holders
$9 JCC Members
$13 Public
5601 S. Braeswood
Houston, TX 77096

SAN ANTONIO, TX
Thursday Nov. 13
7:30-9:00 PM
$10 per person or $30 for 2 tickets and a copy of the book
Barshop JCC/ Holzman Auditorium
12500 NW Military Hwy
San Antonio, TX 78231

ATLANTA, GA
Nov. 20
7:30 PM
$10 Members
$15 Non-Members
Park Tavern
500 10th St, NE
Atlanta, GA 30309

It wasn't that long ago when my evening ritual consisted of chick by way of flick. My girl movies added a sense of comfort to my life. Clicking up a fem DVD let me zone out before sleep, muddling the Sunday thoughts as I slipped into a childhood calm. Now, I watch DVR'd TV programming and cannot sleep until I catch up. I'll never catch up. And now there's too much to cook, too much to design, too much to write, and too much to edit from my wardrobe and diet.

I feel a little lost, or torn, or in between. Like a middle in the mud. Or worse yet, like a Kelly Wearstler hairstyle*. I know it will pass with some sleep and some exercise and then more sleep, and I know it comes down to pushing myself. Reading this, as an outsider, I'd probably beg to differ and offer that what it really comes down to is not pushing so hard. I'd suggest that I let things play out, calm down, realize that there's a rhythm to things, that there's a tide. The truth is that when I awake, I don't like to set a foot out of bed until I've set a goal for myself for the day. I need to set things out before me, to be driven, to feel as if my day brought me one step closer to something other than death.

I get bored and blue when my hand isn't in enough. And when I'm involved in too much, I feel unsettled, overwhelmed, and like a hamburger with mayo, ketchup, and mustard (Dijon).

Work has been exciting, and I love what I'm working on. Brainstorming is by far my favorite part of the process. What I don't love is that I haven't been spending any quality time with friends lately, which isn't what this post is even about. I've been traveling a lot due to meetings and book events, so I've had some great girl time (and dinners) with Leigha, Abigail, Colleen, and Sydnee but I haven't had "home girl" time. I haven't made phone calls or returned any emails. I haven't made dinner plans (and I really want to). I feel like I'm going through something, something they should name in a textbook somewhere. Certainly people will be quick to cough up "selfish" or "clueless," eh, but I'm used to hearing that. The fact is, I want time for it all. I want to have sushi dinner with Lesli and Bonnie. I want to have Lacey over for martinis, so we can, as she suggested, comb through my closet to see what's missing and what's making it. To have Wendy and Wyc over for dinner with the kids again, and to get some more time with Marcy and Joe. I have to have Natalie over already! Maybe I just need to host more play dates that start at 5pm instead of 10am, that serve sake and sushi instead of soda and sanitizer.

At the moment, though, they're all just wants. I don't know when I'll have the time for it all. How is it already October 22?! In only 8 days I'll be in DENVER, CO for a book event, then the first weekend of November I'll be at the TEXAS BOOK FESTIVAL. I'll be at the JCC HERE IN AUSTIN on Nov. 6., then I'll be in HOUSTON on Nov. 12, followed by SAN ANTONIO on Nov. 13. And in just one month, on Nov. 20 I'll be in ATLANTA, GA for another book event. I decided not to go to the Miami Book Fair because there's just too much else going on with TV, and I have no doubt my December will be hell. I turned down another book event in Ft. Lauderdale that conflicted with the kids' birthday, and I wonder if I just say this to make myself feel like I'm doing a good parenting job. Like my canceling and choosing to celebrate the day they were born is supposed to prove something to someone. Clearly my making note of it means I'm insecure about it. But at the end of the day, who the fuck isn't? Who doesn't question her choices from time to time, to reassess, to make sure her values are where she wants them? Every week is different, and some of them leave me feeling weak.

Today I made a list of activities for the kids (I'll post it tomorrow), to keep them stimulated. I realize, of course that what matters most to them is spending time with their parents. And if there's one thing they get, since I do indeed work from home, it's me. Even on days where they don't get me for any significant stretch of time, they still get a few bedtime stories, I still sing to them, and I ask about their day. I'm still here, checking in with them, watching them eat their lunch as I write, clapping for them from the sidelines. It's not an easy game, and as I read the words they sound like rationalizations. Like a string of apologetic words that form incoherent and unconvincing sentences. There will be days like this. Days where I feel guilt. Yet, I still feel incredibly proud of myself. It's not easy making time for it all. For organized closets and new feety pajamas in the right sizes and organizing a playroom and thinking, still!, about a possible new cover for the paperback version of Moose. And now I have to come up with speeches that I'll be giving at book events this and next month. It doesn't end, and seriously, thank God for that.

I feel unsettled and can't help but point to my Libran scales. I realize this makes me sound like one of those new age woo-woo freaks who might as well tape crystals to her body, but I can't help it. My space feels disorganized and unfinished. I realize everything can't be perfect or mine. I realize that children bring disorder. That marriage brings compromise. So I start to make lists and take baby steps toward creating my own spaces, even if it only means wooden hangers all facing the same way. An organized closet, a cleaned out makeup bag, undergarments lined up just so, no longer roped together in a jumbled drawer. I need a sense of order, a sense of everything having its place, and I need a place where I can close a door and find framed art work and scarves, design touches without any purpose other than my liking to look at them.

I need an interior decorator who can create spaces for a family with young children. Who can survey a space and know just the thing it needs and how much it will cost. The thing of it is, I live in a beautiful home. But it's also a house that doesn't lend itself to fabrics and wallpapers (which is what I really love). Wallpaper can certainly date a space, though. We all of us have to do the best we can with what we have, and for me, I think it means doing my writing in a hotel lobby. I wonder if the Driskill has internet access. If only it was also baby-proofed, we'd have a game plan.

*While I think she's absurdly talented and genuinely admire her design aesthetic, there are certain designs that shouldn't be pushed as far.

Of all the spirited, touching, and funny photo entries on StephanieKlein Social (thank you to those of you who shared your photo!)  they've finally been narrowed down to ten (would have happened sooner, but I was traveling. And seriously, it's not easy to cut babies or dogs!). Some were selected for their composition, for the gesture, for the emotional moment captured (you MUST enlarge these to really "get it," for the story told, or for the caption. Only one will win the Johnson & Johnson bag of goods worth over $500, so please vote just once for the photo you think deserves to win. In no particular order, here are the ten finalists (Click on each thumbnail to enlarge.):

1. First Time on Slip-n-slide:

2. First Ride of Our Life:

3. First Game:

4. First Open House:

5. First Best Friend:

6. First "Steps":

7. First Day of my Life:

8. First Ride (Oh, The Joy!):

9. First Photo My Husband Saw of Me on JDate:

10. First Sand of Summer: