Monthly Archives: May 2008

The road not taken

Just think—-had my former fortunes not gone plummeting straight into oblivion, there to stay, firmly entrenched, for what looks like the rest of my days, I might easily have ended up as one of these: a Coffee Snob.  As things stand, I can’t afford it!


Does the world really need another navel-gazer?

I was so intrigued by the Emily Gould piece in today’s NY Times. I have been writing a book in my head for the past five years at least, but haven’t gotten around to doing much more than jot down some notes and type up a couple of pages in WORD. It is a book about my life mostly….and the kids’ lives….the chaotic events….the tragedies and the stupid mistakes…the too too many roads not taken. The way that most people’s lives unravel, I suppose. But I can’t decide if I should make it fiction, using made-up characters but real-life events (isn’t there a name for that genre?) or something more along the lines of a memoir. But then I talk myself out of it by convincing myself that the bookstores are absolutely overrun with memoirs, and who needs another inveterate navel-gazer clogging up the shelves?  The biggest obstacle, in my mind, has always been: How frank could I be without hurting or offending those about whom I am writing? For example, if I write the truth about the kids’ dad and all of his shenanigans, how angry and betrayed would my kids feel? VERY, I am guessing.

 I have finally started a blog, after having wanted to do so for years—but I find I rarely write new entries because I am so reluctant to be completely transparent. And who wants to read a blogger who isn’t transparent?

After consideration, I have come to the conclusion that if I am going to try to get anything published before I die, I should probably stick to writing essays. In a neutral voice. 


Dandelions in the lawn

As I approach our house after work this evening, I can’t help but notice that our front yard is the only one on the street which hasn’t been mowed today. It would appear that all of the neighbors took advantage of the glorious weather to attend to yard duties. Lawn after manicured lawn stretch up and down our cul-de-sac like a string of emeralds. With the exception of ours. As usual.

I had asked Only Son, aged 16, as he was scurrying out the front door this morning, if there was the remotest chance of his cutting the grass any time soon. He mumbled something along the lines of “I don’t know if I’ll have time, Mom. I’m going over to Zach’s after school to work on my car and I’ll probly be too tired when I get home.”

So. Our grass is about three inches too high, and the dandelions are at least three inches taller than the grass. Oh, and they’ve just gone to seed, so scattered amongst the meadow grasses (formerly our suburban lawn) are dozens and dozens of spindly stalks topped by ethereal cotton ball-like appendages. I happen to find them lovely and fairy-like, but I’m afraid that our neighbors—all zealous year-round weed ‘n feed fanatics—might think otherwise. Not that they would ever reproach us on that score. No, we are fortunate to have those rarest of neighbors who, though meticulous about their own gardens, are thankfully tolerant of the neighborhood lawn slackers.

 “You fight dandelions all weekend, and late Monday afternoon there they are, pert as all get out, in full and gorgeous bloom, pretty as can be, thriving as only dandelions can in the face of adversity.”  

                               —Hal Borland

Wait and hope

Here I am at long last, beginning the blog I’ve long dreamed about. So why did I wait so long? Procrastination is by far my worst fault. Perfectionism comes in at a close second. When blogging was in its infancy, I thought it too soon to jump into the fray; now, one decade and several million blogs later, I am reluctant because I fear mine will never be up to snuff.  {sigh}

My wish is that this blog will be the springboard to my new life—the one I’ve only dared to dream and hope for up to this point.

“…all human wisdom was contained in these two words: wait and hope”
                         — Alexandre Dumas