Finally coming up for air, after the last deadline.
I finished the third book, and sent it off to my editor on Friday morning, then furiously cleaned house for the invasion of the swim team on Friday evening.
They came. They ate. They left.
And then, I collapsed. For the last few days, I’ve been watching TV and writing: goofing around with a new idea, and revising an old one.
The rest of my life: in bits and pieces:
My cat, Mohawk, is definitely hooked on mint chocolate chip ice cream. We have a quart, and have been eating it in front of him, and watching his reaction. I think he thinks it smells like catnip. He sniffs. His eyes get round. And then he heads for the nearest bowl, even if it requires climbing onto the top of my head or walking under the dog.
#1 son says, if I know my cat’s favorite flavor of ice cream, it’s time to get a hobby.
#2 son would like to know, if there is a public speaking class in high school, is there a private speaking class as well, where you learn to whisper in dark alleys?
He has watched the latest Stephen Wright special too many times. It seems to be rubbing off on him.
To preface the next item, let me explain that our local high school mascot is the gosling. This is because of the town’s history as a producer of goose liver for fois gras. The process was called noodling: the geese’s feet were nailed to a board and noodles were forced down their throats until they became mutant mega-geese, with huge livers.
I can never decide which is more ironic: that the local school system embraces the concept of nailing your feet to a board and forcing things down your throat (interesting educational theory), or that our team mascot, is both totally wimpy, and celebrates animal cruelty.
Why not just name them the fighting veal?
But this morning, we found this headline about a recent game, on the sports page of the local newspaper:
GOSLINGS HARASSED BY OWLS
My God, haven’t they suffered enough?