Dear Self,

The next time one of your sisters suggests going to the American Museum of Natural History on a day when every school in the western hemisphere is closed, get a good prescription for anti-anxiety meds before you agree to go.

That claustrophobia of yours isn’t improving with age. No, your panic attacks are now akin to a death spiral, making you dizzier and dizzier each time a new group of 10 people get on the already over-capacity elevator.

You should also get your affairs in order, because throughout the day, you will be sorely tempted to grab a chisel from the nearest paleontologist and do yourself in with it.

And if you choose to bring four children with you again? Bring the dog leashes. In fact, restraints of any kind will come in handy. You can put them in your rucksack, right next to the flask of scotch.

Love,

Me

p.s. If you really are considering going back, and if you don’t think your repeat appearance at the AMNC is a sure predictor of the end of days, remember the sight you beheld today: a labradoodle in service as a seeing eye dog. If you don’t recognize that as a sure sign of the impending apocalypse,  I’m really not sure what else to tell you.

Finally. I started this blog in 2008. Finally.

And finally, 2008 is drawing to a close. Finally.

I’ve had so much fun.  So many of you have made me laugh (and occasionally tear up) over these past several months as I’ve read your blogs and as you’ve commented here. I’ve been so honored every time a reader comes back, so happy when anyone leaves a comment. Although I don’t blog every day (and there are times when I go weeks without so much as posting a picture), I’ve got this blog under my skin… if only, for no other reason, the freedom to use whatever words I damn well please without anyone having a hissy fit.

More 2008 in rewingdangdoo after the jump

Click to continue »

It’s a major deadline deadline day for the WingDangDoo. You’ll please excuse me for being less than enthusiastic about the writing ahead of me for the next 97 hours. What’s that? Only 8 hours in the work day? Oh. I guess it only feels like 97.

A new product launch!

Except… it’s not new. It’s recycled. And so are the words I use to describe it.

I dutifully write the copy, carefully timing my work so I send it to editing before the deadline.

There are only so many ways to describe what my product does. I recycle the words, discarding the ones that offend the people whose talents I attempt to describe.

“How can you say that I am a ______? I looked it up in the dictionary. Do you even know what that word means? Your use of that word is pejorative.”

Fine, I’ll find a new word.

A NEW WORD! I find it. I work it in. I sell it to the people whose talents I attempt to describe.Slowly, they buy it.

Shiny and new(ish), the words disappear from my screen. Attach. Click. Send.

Gone.

Until the next time we recycle a product. And the words.

At least that’s when I think this photo was taken. Maybe 1972?

This is me (on the left) and Cheryl. Speedos, hot dogs, swim club. What more could we ask for?

Wait, let me answer that question. A life-long friendship. A memorable 8th grade visit to the horrors of Nature’s Classroom. High school years when we were up to no good. College years spent sharing wardrobe staples (rather than fighting over the last Esprit long black cotton skirt in our size? We split the cost and shared it). Matron of honor duties at each others’ weddings.

But Cheryl? Dude? About that maid of honor business. As you know, I spent a good part of my night going through pictures. I found pictures of me in a poufy pink number at your wedding… and pictures of you in a sexy black sheath at my wedding. Girlfriend, what’s up with that?

Not that it matters. How can I hold a grudge when I’ve got pictures and pictures and pictures like these?

And by the way, how much do you think the City of Stamford paid us to talk about your hair? Because clearly, we were deeply engrossed in that conversation. Who can be bothered looking at the water when there’s so many important topics to discuss?

I love you girlfriend!

A look back to last fall, when the center could not hold.

Scandal and secrecy are like a blanket, covering me with the tales that aren’t mine, the secrets I’ll take to the grave. A career at perilous risk, the careening marriage, a story of heartbreak told deep in the woods as we sat on a footbridge and basked in the autumn sun. It’s safe with me. You can tell me anything; I won’t tell. It covers me, this blanket, keeping me warm against the chill as I seal my lips and keep your secrets close.

Until this secret – lighting the blanket on fire, charring my flesh and smothering everything inside. Incendiary harm. Parents who couldn’t and wouldn’t know until there was hope. A woman who needed her mommy and instead got her sisters, voices across the phone lines as familiar as the sound of rain on the roof. Sisters researching the words, deciphering while we learned. And keeping the secret.

Click to continue »

Nothin’, that is, other than these ridiculously adorable pictures of Talullah and Oscar, hanging out on my son’s bed when they thought no one was around to catch them in the act.

And no, I’m not at all above asking Talullah if she’s a bad, bad girl to get her to tilt her head like so.