By Hook or by Cook

Long before the advent of “The Food Network”, foodies were relegated to grainy public broadcasting channels to get their gourmet fix. My mother watched Natalie Dupree, Justin Wilson, and of course, Julia Child. I watched, too. Well, because it was all that was on. There was only one television in the house. Julia became a sort of lead-in to “American Bandstand”.

As far as I can tell, my mother never actually took anything away from her hours of observation. She never grew her fingernails outrageously long like Natalie Dupree or surreptitiously doused our dinner with several extra shots of hot sauce like Justin Wilson…I gar-on-teeeee! And, the only sauces she served were made from packets she purchased at the grocery store. Despite Julia’s efforts to the contrary, my mother retained the title “Queen of Convenience”.

Given this background, I was delighted to see the first trailers for “Julie & Julia”, and couldn’t wait to see the movie. Unfortunately, my go-to companion for chick-flicks went without me, so wait I did. Until yesterday…

We made a deal, my son and me. I would watch “Up” with him if he would watch “Julie & Julia” with me. We each snuggled under a blanket in our favorite chair and settled in for an afternoon of movies. “Up” was delightful. We both enjoyed it very much. And after a short break during which we broke out a tin of Christmas cookies, we re-tucked our blankets for “Julie & Julia”.

No one ever told me this was a movie about a girl with a blog. No one. I find this incredible since everyone knows I am a girl with a blog. It seems at some point it might have come up in a discussion of the film. But, it didn’t. We even blog on the same site, Julie and I, and still no one made the connection. This irony occupied several frames of film. I’m sure I missed something…

As Julie crafted her first post, I found myself silently critiquing the writing. It was far too familiar, folksy, and awkwardly constructed. Within minutes she had sixty-five hits on a single post! I don’t have a meter on my blog. The idea seems somewhat narcissistic and desperate; as though the purpose of writing is to generate hits. But, I feel certain that I’ve never enjoyed that kind of traffic. And, to date, I’ve never made the Top 10 on Salon.com.

If you’ve seen the film, then you know that Julie’s blog goes on to open other doors, resulting in a book/film deal. And, all the while, I’m doing the math. As disappointing as it is to admit, envy stymied my enjoyment of the film.

I could do a food blog. I’ve considered it several times. I love food, and I’m a good cook. According to the film, matching these talents with my writing skills should produce a one-way ticket to fame.

But there are so many food blogs, and just one Julie Powell. Albeit unwittingly, what Julie had was a hook. Naturally this got me to thinking…

A friend and fellow blogger admonishes “Be a storyteller, not a storyseller”. I hope to find a way to do both.

Reading Backwards

“Right now, I’m not paying an awful lot of attention to what anyone thinks of me, myself included. I find myself in a state of flux, kind of like I’m trying on new dresses to see which one fits me best. Some I take off right away, and some I wear a few days before trying on something new. I’m having fun, I’m being true to me, and I’m actually looking forward to how I turn out… “

I read this last night as I sifted through over fourteen-hundred posts I have contributed to a social networking site directed at baby-boomers. I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it. I should have included dates when I archived.

The site is closing, and upon a suggestion from one of the administrators, and encouragement from others to do so, I spent several hours this past weekend reading, and saving, and reading, and discarding, and reading, and saving some more.

The quote given is just one among many, that when strung together, actually form a journal I never intended to keep. And, in reading, I learned a lot about me…

The words I wrote were true, at the moment. Life robbed them of their veracity, even if the change is only one of nuance.

For example, it remains true that I care little what others think of me, but the pendulum controlling my “state of flux” seems permanently affixed to one side. I’ve discarded all but the most comfortable of dresses, and my ideas of “fun”, and “me”, have changed so much as to be unrecognizable. All of this became apparent on Day One.

By Day Two, I had slogged through nearly one-half of my posts, and a picture began to emerge. I began to recognize a person I really liked, but had somehow lost inside what is now a well-worn, comfortably baggy dress. Reading, at this point, became uncomfortable, as I not only realized what I had sacrificed, but why. It’s never easy to accept folly in our choices. It’s even harder when you think you have overcome, only to realize that you mistook stagnation for success.

I finished yesterday. As the monitor went dark, I walked away smiling. I intend to use much of the content here, in my blog. But, the most important parts I’ll keep for me.

This morning, I changed my dress…

Honorable Mention

“How’s the novel coming?’

It took several seconds for the words to register, intent as I was on reading the comments left on a friend’s Facebook post.

“Which one?” I turned to face the voice, only to find its face buried in a matching monitor. “Currently, I’m working on four…it’s a problem.”

“The one where you were in a contest.”, she turned, distractedly, to face me.

“Honorable mention…but everybody gets that.”, I smiled.

“Oh, my God!” Sylvia laughed with her entire body. “You are such a perfectionist!”

“No, not really. You know if you sing…” Sylvia’s face said she didn’t. “Well, if you watch American Idol, then…you realize that a lot of people can sing. It’s the lucky ones who make it, right?”

She nodded into the hand that held her chin.

“It’s the same with writing. The more you write, the more you realize there are lots of good writers out there. So…you keep doing it, and hope to get lucky.”

Outta My Head

It seems to me that those with an artistic bent tend to dwell within themselves much of the time. Sometimes painters paint what is before them, but very often they wash the canvas with colorful memories. Musicians in training are directed to focus on past emotions so as to imbue their notes with meaning and feeling.

Writing, though, may be the most selfish art. Personally, I find it difficult to write amid activity. It is, in fact, the one time when music can distract rather than accompany. For months in the not too distant past, I found myself constantly scribbling words on pieces of paper that rode in my pockets until I made my way back to my desk, and my computer. Everything that happened around me was fodder. A sentence, spoken by a co-worker, could set off a series of ideas that zinged across my mind until I made a conscious effort to wrangle them and discern if the group could become one thing. The top of my desk often looked as though someone had emptied a wastepaper basket upon it.

Today, my desktop is decorated by one IPOD and two sets of ear buds, a tiny flash drive, my watch, and all the obligatory stuff that usually lives atop a desk. There is but one scrap of paper amid the debris; a business card, with the names of two musicians and one song title I was determined to remember.

At first, I attributed my lack of desire to write to the fact that my PC went on the fritz. Two weeks into that odyssey, I bemoaned the fact to a friend who reminded me that people have been using paper and pen to write for centuries. I knew that. I had even considered it, for a few seconds. I used to write on legal pads. And, I have been known to compose an entire poem while sitting in rush hour traffic, on a page in a spiral notebook I carried everywhere for just such a purpose. Somehow, the thought of scrawling my thoughts on paper just didn’t appeal to me, despite the mocking that went on inside my head. “If you were any kind of writer…”

Ironically, my computer required a new mother board. Two weeks and six hundred dollars later, Roger reconnected me with my blog. Since that time, I have only posted twice.

I’ve thought about writing. I’ve chastised myself for my lack of discipline. I’ve conjured words of positivity in an effort to bolster the thesaurus inside my head. I’ve sat in a focused posture and attempted to will ideas into my brain, and failing that, shuffled my mental “tickler” file to no avail.

Today, as I hung laundry out to dry, I reminded myself to write. I plucked weeds from my garden and twisted the cultivating tool back and forth while wondering if I might have tucked a scribbled idea into the side pocket of my bag. As I returned from the patio where I had sipped a glass of lemonade after mowing the lawn, a thought whispered to me, “You’re not writing because you’re not living inside your head.”

Two weeks of living without a PC had freed me for more tactile pursuits, and in that short amount of time, I switched gears. The realization, however, only begs more questions. Isn’t this a good thing? Aren’t your relationships benefiting? Aren’t you getting more done? You’re always saying you want to be more active. Aren’t you more active? Do you really want to see, again, the looks of disappointment when you say “I’m sorry, honey, I can’t. I’m writing.”?

It is a good thing. My relationships have benefited, and I have accomplished much, including rediscovering a more active lifestyle. And still, I will see just the hint of a pout as I close the door to my office.

A friend shared a photograph that spoke to me, and I promised him a story…

Bookings

I was asked, recently, to list fifteen books that had “stuck with me”. The only directive given was that I not to take too long to answer, but instead, record the first fifteen that occurred to me. It wasn’t an easy task. I never read a book more than once, because I can’t stand the feeling I get, somewhere around the twentieth page, that I know exactly what is going to happen when the protagonist rounds the corner. I like to think this is the reason I struggle to recall book titles, and worse yet, author’s names. What I do remember is plot, storyline, and bits and pieces of the tale that spoke to me as I read.

Compiling a list proved a challenge, but I resolved to follow the rules, and when a title or author escaped me, I searched online with what little information I had retained. The end result proved eclectic, and even as I listed the books, I silently bemoaned the omission of many of my favorite authors. But on that particular day, their books did not stand out, and there was a rule…

Upon reading it over, there were a couple of books I resisted the urge to remove. There is a romance novel on the list. I read romance novels, as most girls did, while in high school. There is a book that enjoyed Oprah Winfrey’s favor before the author was found to have fabricated a story his publisher chose to market as a memoir. As always before posting anything publicly, I considered the reactions of those I care about, and those whose opinions I care about. The two groups do not necessarily overlap. Finally, I reminded myself of the author’s urging not to belabor the list, and posted it as it stood.

On reading it over, I am struck by the number of unique experiences and feelings I associate with each book. Some of them were particularly striking…

One truly would have had to live under a rock to avoid the media surrounding Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love”. At some point I came to feel that, as a woman, this book was required reading. I was hooked before the end of the first chapter. Elizabeth was a woman like me. Actually, she had a lot more money than I have. Other than that though, she paints herself as an “ordinary Jane”, who overcame the kind of desperation most women have felt at one time or another. I am completely cognizant of the fact that had she not enjoyed her apparent wealth, her experiences might not have been possible. Still, I am grateful to her for sharing them, for absorbing the cool of bathroom tile into her cheek right alongside me, and for helping me to believe that complete metamorphosis is possible.

To the best of my recollection, “The Scarlet Letter”, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, was required reading in the seventh grade. It is the first time I can remember being truly affected by a book. I felt such pity for Hester Prynne, who had given herself over to her emotions, and in so doing, sacrificed her life and that of her “bastard” child. The lessons of this book were particularly poignant to a thirteen-year-old girl who seemingly went out of her way to be different, while praying no one would notice.

A friend loaned me her CD version of Anne Lamott’s “Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith”. Being an avid reader, I had never thought to “listen” to a book, but I do have a long commute and my friend was adamant that I would enjoy it. I listened to it four times through before I returned it, and immediately bought a copy for myself and a friend who I knew would experience it just as I had. Four days after I dropped her copy into the mailbox, my telephone rang, very early, on a Saturday morning. My friend was driving in a rain that obscured her eyesight even more than the tears I heard in her voice. “Thank you!”, she sobbed. “I had to pull over. I’m on my way to pick up my son, and the dog just died, and thank you. Thank you so much for sharing this with me.” I knew the dog she spoke of. I too had shed tears, more than once, upon hearing Anne describe the scene in her bedroom, as she brought her son in to see their beloved pet one last time.

“The Reader”, by Bernhard Schlink was literally forced upon me by my friend Joy. In her mid-eighties, Joy still consumes a book a week. As she described the plot, I heard only the word “holocaust”, and immediately decided this book was not for me. Joy insisted, pressing the small volume into my undesiring hands. I was immediately struck by the darkness of the setting, the hopelessness of his characters, and the need.

“Loving Frank”, by Nancy Horan, details the turbulently forbidden love affair between Mamah Borthwick Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Cheney seemingly had it all; beauty, intelligence, a career, a loving husband, and adoring children. At one point, she worked as a translator for a Swedish feminist, in hopes that her benefactor’s doctrine would take hold in the United States. A chance meeting with Frank Lloyd Wright’s wife served as the catalyst that would change all their lives, leading to a violent end for Mamah and one of her children. There are so many aspects to Mamah’s character to which I can relate. And I know, from personal experience, that there is a Frank Lloyd Wright for all of us…

I know the disease of alcoholism, first-hand. My grandmother and mother “drank too much”. My father, though now sober, is an alcoholic, as is his brother. My grandfather was an alcoholic. I married two of them, and now my second son struggles with his legacy. Though living under this cloud all my life, I never truly understood addiction until I read the book “A Million Little Pieces”, by James Frey. Strangely enough, the passages that meant most to me had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. Instead, the main character, who resides, yet again, in a rehabilitation facility, finds himself unable to control his appetite for food. His description gave me real clarity as to the meaning of addiction, the way it works, and how it feels. I shared the book with my son, and replaced it when he lost it in one of his many moves. I hope, one day, it will speak to him as it did to me.

I own a couple of different volumes of the “Tao te Ching”, but Stephen Mitchell’s is the first that came to mind. Basically described, the book outlines the basic principles of Daoism, an ancient religion of Chinese origin that first piqued my interest during a college history class. I am most impressed by the simplicity of the doctrine and abundance of love inherent in it. I garner inspiration from its verses and keep a copy near me at all times.

“We put thirty spokes together and call it a wheel;
But it is on the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the wheel depends.
We turn clay to make a vessel;
But it is on the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the vessel depends.
We pierce doors and windows to make a house;
And it is on these spaces where there is nothing that the usefulness of the house depends.
Therefore just as we take advantage of what is, we should recognize the usefulness of what is not.” (chap. 11, tr. Waley)

“The Metamorphosis”, by Franz Kafka, made a tremendous impact on me as a college student who didn’t even realize dung beetles existed. I remember researching them online, after reading about Gregor’s transformation. Familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of their existence did nothing to quell my horror. Gregor’s existence as a pariah, whose family actually felt relief at his demise, spoke to me.

The last book on my list was “Shanna”, by Kathleen Woodiwiss, a sultry, romance novel featuring the standard red-headed, high-strung heroine, and her dark, tortured suitor. I thought, long and hard, before letting the title stand. I know I was in high school when I read this book because I was, at the time, working afternoons at Dunkin’ Donuts with a woman twice my age. I know this because it was actually this woman that left the impression.

She was slight, almost pixie-like, with a voice to match. Her name escapes me, but I will never forget her face. For reasons she never revealed, she shaved her eyebrows, and trimmed her eyelashes because they were “too long”. I had worked with her for several months, when on her afternoon off, she brought her daughter in for a mid-afternoon snack.

Shanna was about three, with long, wispy, platinum hair and trimmed eyelashes, just like her mother. I remember standing mute, as my co-worker explained the need for trimming. All I could think of was the proximity of a sharp object to the eyes of a child not yet in full command of her body. It was my first encounter with a “single mother”, a “bastard child”, and many other social circumstances my parents would rather I not have encountered. This beautiful child, through no fault of her own, carried an ugly label, suffered needless danger to her eyesight at the hands of a mother obsessed the lash length, and, worst of all, was named for the heroine in a romance novel.

Shanna would be over thirty years old now; her mother, near sixty. I wonder occasionally if Shanna still clips her lashes, and if, as I’ve always heard, they actually grow in longer for the trimming. Did she follow in her mother’s footsteps? Does she paint on her eyebrows every morning? Does she pour coffee while sharing a laugh with the same five men each morning? Did she ever query the origins of her name?

Drawing Conclusions

There may be some people who, on the first day of a serious funk, identify it, and set about rectifying it. Would that I were one of those people.

My first instinct is to quash it. A firm believer in the power of positive thinking, I ignore my ennui and go about my days as though nothing were amiss. And, sometimes this actually works. It doesn’t solve anything, of course, but it can help me get to a better place.

The problem with quashing is that when it doesn’t bring about the desired result my angst is doubled. My original problem is now shrouded in a feeling of inadequacy at my failure to meet it, head on. It becomes a true “elephant in the middle of the room”. Quick! Throw a blanket over it!

It is truly amazing how creative I can be without any conscious effort. I have employed a great number of things to prevent my having to actually resolve to make a change, end a habit, or perform a task I dread.

Social networking is my latest drug of choice. Had you told me three years ago that I might spend hours, daily, in front of my computer monitor, accomplishing nothing more important than sending a bouquet of virtual flowers or participating in a virtual food fight, I would have thought you daft and told you so. I am blessed with a group of caring, intelligent, and highly entertaining virtual friends whose constant company allows me to put most anything on the back burner, and I giggle as it boils over.

A nice glass of wine adds a fresh patina to even the most unpleasant day. Several hours and another glass later, all that remains is an easily avoided memory.

My hobbies, too, provide a place in which I can immerse myself. Of late, I have finished two pieces of needlework, completed three jigsaw puzzles, taken numerous photographs, planted several gardens, and begun a large sketch of a nature scene. When I haven’t been posting my answers to “25 Things About Me”, I’ve been busy.

What I haven’t been doing very much of lately is writing. I love to write, but lately, the thought of it makes me weary. Upon recognizing that fact, I accepted it, and as happens so often when I “Let go…”, the reason revealed itself.

Writing, you see, requires introspection. Even when writing fiction, the writer culls from life experience, emotion, and, thus, evaluation. It’s this last part I’ve been avoiding….

A good friend, upon expressing his intense dislike of a photograph of me, asked what it meant to me. I stumbled over several likely answers before he, tenacious as always, asked me to start again.

“And, make it real this time.”

“I was looking out a window…”

“Uh-huh…”

“…because I’m looking for something. I don’t know what it is. I only know it’s not here.”

“Fine. I get that.”

There was no further discussion of the offending photograph, and the answer satisfied me as well, until recently.

As happens quite often when I refuse to deal with my demons, a virus snaked around my wearied defenses, laying me low. For the better part of two days, all I wanted was sleep. When I awoke this morning, the fever seemed to have broken, leaving behind a revelation.

Age, the time I have spent in what seems to have been a circuitous route to nowhere, weighs heavy upon my head. I am the cliché, looking out a window, asking “Is this truly all there is?”

The empirical knowledge that my experience only speaks to my normalcy gives me no more relief than knowing that missing teeth were a normal part of grade school, or that break-outs were expected in puberty. I never aspired to be normal. Normal is boring. I would much rather be me.

And, there’s the rub; because right now, at a time when I really need me, I’m not very happy with me. I’ve ignored me. I’ve abused me. I’ve neglected me and many other people in my life, in pursuit of avoidance.

In truth, what I have here, inside the window, is very nearly picture perfect. I think its time I drew myself back in.

From First to Last

I’ve had occasion, lately, to consider my “firsts”; my first kiss, my first sleep-over, my first job…

Days after completing the survey, I find myself still considering. While applying make-up, my first pair of boots walk through my mind. They were black patent leather, and the sound of those heels on institutional tile transformed me from a twelve year-old, angst-ridden seventh-grader into a confident, edgy, prepubescent force. While driving to work, I hear the sound of horses’ hooves on pavement as I relive my first carriage ride. It was mid-afternoon. We were in Chattanooga, on streets packed with tourists. But, the fact of him beside me dimmed the sun, stilled the crowd, and isolated our love to a single point in the middle of a busy thoroughfare wherein we were the only two souls that mattered.

I wish I’d appreciated my “firsts” more. I wish someone had reminded me, before I turned back to make sure no one was watching through a front window, that I would be allowed just one first time to surrender to Jimmy’s embrace. I wish someone had been there to whisper in my ear, “This will be your only first date.” It would have been helpful if, before placing her into my arms for the first time, the nurse had looked at me knowingly as she said, “This is your first, and only, daughter.”

I’ve reached the age when thinking of “firsts” leads, naturally, to consideration of a growing number of “lasts”. I’ve birthed all the children I will ever bear. I will never again feel the sweet pull of infant lips upon my breast, or feel the rush of emotion in realizing the miracle inherent in our relationship.

Since the age of twenty-one, sex has been a repetitive act. And, while each encounter offers a new and wonderful experience, nothing is like the first time; the virgin time. As synthetic fibers scratched against my bare back, I wish I’d had the wisdom to consider; is this the right place, the right time, the right man? Are you ready to be a mother?

What if, before you first stepped onto your college campus, a guide stopped you, taking you by the arms? “Stop!”, he might have said. “Stop, and look around. This is the only first time you will walk upon the ground that will change your life. Your next step will forge your destiny. The decisions you make now will determine your life course, because tomorrow will be your second time.”

I enjoyed driving my first car, but might I have enjoyed it more if I knew that I’d never see another one like it? Would I have relished the feeling of pumping the clutch, and finding the gears, if I knew I’d never feel that again?

I will never again reap the harvest from my first garden. I can never again get my first perfect score in English, or Math, or Spanish, or bowling. I have already baked my first birthday cake.

I know there are more “firsts” ahead of me; my first stress test, my first colonoscopy, my first AARP card. And, I hope for more; my first published book, my first trip overseas, my first healthy dill plant. I can’t grow dill. I’ve tried, and tried.

One day, I know I’m going to find just the right spot…

Ordinary Origins

I love to sing. I used to be pretty good at it; good enough to be asked to sing in a band. My stint there afforded me the opportunity to work as a background singer in a local studio, but family obligations sang louder, and I retired my tambourine.

I now perform in very limited engagements. With my IPOD as accompaniment, I sing as I clean, and croon when I garden. And, playing Beth Hart wide open, in my car, has been known to illicit a throaty growl or two. On one such occasion, when my son and I were running Saturday errands, he asked, “Where did you learn to sing like that?”.

I’m an avid gardener, and surround myself with growing things year-round. My vegetable garden satisfies my preference for fresh herbs while providing a variety of fruits and vegetables for friends and family. And, I never met a flower I didn’t like.

For years, my gardens were populated randomly, by an assortment of annuals. Lately though, I’ve tended towards more permanent plantings and the creation of gardening environments, my favorite being an “English Garden”. The space is a constant work in progress, as the drought we’ve suffered for the last two years has taken a toll, but I love knowing that a feeling of peace and connectivity is as close as a stroll through my own backyard.

Last week, a friend and I shared a glass of merlot on my patio, surrounded by a cacophony of pansies in hues ranging from deepest purple to palest yellow. She remarked on their beauty, the way they winked in the breeze, and their fragile strength. “Where did you get your green thumb?”, she asked.

My family has always been appreciative of my writing. They comprise a large block of my readership. It was, in fact, at the persistent prodding of my youngest sister that I began to blog.

I’ve written since I was a young girl, though not always on paper. An ongoing saga, detailing the lives of a homeless, orphaned girl and the brother she cared for, provided pleasant distraction for what seemed like hours and hours as I mowed the front lawn. Recently, I’ve come to regret that I never gave the story permanence. I have attempted, on occasion, to recreate the drama, but only tiny bits and pieces remain in my much older brain.

A high school English teacher took an interest in my work, asking my permission to submit two of my poems to a literary journal. She provided me with a copy of the finished product which was left behind, along with my music boxes, Barbie dolls, and a complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries, when I struck out on my own. I wish now I’d packed an extra box…

Last week, my aunt sent me a nice note in praise of my writing, and for at least the second time mused as to its legacy. “Where do you think that talent comes from?”, she queried. “We don’t have any other writers in the family!” I hadn’t thought to ask that question. I’d never pondered the parentage of my propensities.

Yesterday, as I aimed my pencil at a sketch I’ve been working on, my mother’s unbidden image swam into view. She sat head down, at the kitchen table. Using one of our number two pencils, she transformed a simple sheet of blue-lined notebook paper into a work of art. And there are more memories; of sitting in the back seat of our station wagon and wondering why she wasn’t singing on the radio, and of plants, rows and rows of growing green things. Later in life, she took painting classes, and, even now, her needlework hangs on my walls.

I brought the pencil closer to the paper, angling the point to achieve shading that suggests shadow, knowing it is her hand that guides me. And, I appreciate the legacy…

Gathering Scraps

She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.

“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.

Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.

“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.

Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.

“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.

“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.

The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.

She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.

“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.

“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.

She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.

She smiled her most welcoming smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”

As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.

Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”

The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.

“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.

Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.

Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.

Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.

Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.

The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.

Son of a Blogger

Shane wants a Facebook page.

He began plying me several months ago, just after the school year started. As a sixth-grader, he is now “running with the big boys”.

“Everyone has one, Mom.”, he said with a note of exasperation only attainable between the ages of ten and twenty-one or twenty-two.

“I’m not responsible for “everyone”, Shane. I’m only responsible for you.” This answer has never been particularly effective. I’m not sure why I continue to use it.

“What? You think I’m a baby? You’re treating me like a baby. I’m not a baby, Mom.” The inflection placed upon the last word effectively vanquished every other word he’d uttered. Somehow, he’d stretched a three letter word into two syllables.

“Who among your friends has a Facebook page, Shane?” When all else fails, back them into a corner.

“Valerie.”

“Valerie?” I pretended to stifle a laugh. “Valerie? The same Valerie you described to me as “an only child who gets whatever she wants” Valerie?”

“Well, other people have one, too!” He failed to turn his head before I saw the blush crawl up his cheeks.

Reasoning that there might be safeguards for children on Facebook, I attempted to open a page for my son a couple of weeks later, only to be stopped dead in my tracks upon entering his birth date.

“I’m sorry, Shane. You have to be thirteen to have a Facebook page.” I said in hopes that my monotone would camouflage my lack of sincerity.

“Well then, how do all my friends have one?”, he asked with a defensive tone that assured me he believed they actually did.

Our discussion opened with an appeal to his morality and ended with, “Why did you have to put my real birthday? Couldn’t you just make me thirteen?” There was a cursory mention of MySpace that I quashed without argument.

This morning as I wrapped the flaps of “the world’s softest bathrobe” around my legs before placing them atop the desk, Shane stumbled into my office.

“Morning, Glory!” I say it every Saturday morning in hopes that he will remember, long after I am gone.

“Mornin’”, he mumbled his answer while scratching his abdomen underneath his robe.

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah…I want a blog.”

My carefully arranged feet flew from the desk as I whirled in my chair to face him.

“A blog?”

“Yeah. I want a blog.”

This evening we sat down together, and created his blog. We agonized over the name for at least twenty minutes.

“Do you do this a lot?”, he asked.

“What?”, I answered, as my head lay in my arm on the desk.

“Think like this.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, actually.”

A short time later, we finally arrived at a name we both liked. He chose a template, and I set the privacy settings. When we were done, I gave him the chair.

“Ok, write!”, I said, leaving the room.

Thirty minutes later, he found me.

“I’m done. Check it out. I need your opinion, Super Star.” The moniker drew dust on it’s delivery.

His words were powerful, his feelings palpable. My editorial eye immediately honed in on a couple of awkwardly crafted sentences that upon rereading only added to the poignancy of his statement.

“It’s good, Shane. It’s really good.”

And, his little man’s chest swelled.