Did I happen to mention what I’m doing this weekend? What’s that? Only a billion and seven times?

Oh.

Both sets of footprints are mine.  

We’re voting on names. Leading contenders include:

• Lucky Rabbits
• Lupe Fiasco
• Fuzzbutt Doodlehead
• Magellan
• I Don’t Have to Listen to You

He was a child molester.

End of discussion.

And no, I don’t mean my dog.

(By the way, I neglected to mention yesterday that Talullah has done this sort of thing before. I can’t imagine why?).

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Being a swimmer*, just about the only time I see any coverage of my sport is during the Olympics. August was ages ago already, so I was fairly stoked to find a video of Anderson Cooper racing Michael Phelps for a “60 Minutes” interview.

Sure, Michael Phelps whipped Anderson’s booty, but that’s ok. AC gets mad props for trying.  Also, he’s adorable.

*For any of my swim group friends who may be reading this: I know, I know, I shouldn’t be calling myself a swimmer at this point, but I’m working my way back into the water. Encouragement and threats welcomed.

Have you voted yet?

Go change the world already.

I can hear the pounding of the Meditteranean surf over the white noise of the incessant rain. I have a night of work ahead of me (not hard work, mind you – a cocktail party, then a celebration at a chateau with a French wines theme) followed by a long night of fretting over election returns from afar. I should soon be changing back into my dress, my boots, my raincoat. But the pull of the warm featherbed and the non-stop TV coverage and the internet and the moment I am yearning for is holding me here.

I didn’t sleep well last night, and as a result I can tell you that this poor Sky News correspondent who was in the dark 12 hours ago interviewing people in Times Square is still there. He just mentioned it’s going to be an awful long night. I couldn’t agree more.

This is my third stay at the Heathrow Hilton, and my second time on the way over. Once I stayed here on the way home after an twelve day death march through Europe with a broken rib. Let’s just say I didn’t win many friends that trip.

Regardless, after a long-assed flight over with and older and somewhat chubby American man in front of me leaning so far back in his chair that he was practically in my lap for the better part of seven hours, here I am.  Oscar’s in the lobby is far more appealing than you might think. Pleasing lighting, good beer on tap (tonight I’m sampling a Boddington’s), and a surprisingly decent menu. For a HIlton.  My dining adventure this evening is hicken tikka masala, which is clearly shorthand for “chicken breast tooped with a dash or coriander, a bit of yogurt, and plenty of Campbell’s condensed tomato soup.”

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Don’t they look excited? I’d like to think I have this same attitude: happy, and up for anything.

Unfortunately, I think this is a bit of a better view of me in my post-vacation, return-to-work, back-to-homework-and-endless-soccer-practices state:

I have an appointment this afternoon at Sadist & Associates. And I don’t want to go.

I’ve never been afraid of going to the doctor before. Unlike my youngest, who gets the vapors as soon as we mention the doctor, I’ve never once had a fear of doctors. Unfortunate genetics have left me with an aversion to oral surgeons, but the vision of my toothless future is usually enough to motivate me to man up and go.

You know what’s a bad idea? Booking a double appointment at the pediatrician, forcing your thick-as-thieves children to be in the same room when they get shots. I thought I learned this a few years ago, but we old people sometimes forget. Younger boy starts crying, older boy (who is truly one of the nicest people I ever met, in stark contrast to the rest of his immediate family) starts crying out of sympathy.

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It’s blowing through the trees, in the wake of a tornado watch seven miles away. Rustling the leaves as they hold on so tightly and deny the march toward fall.

The wind rises above the crickets and the ceiling fan and vies for my attention. It’s telling me, listen.

Embrace the sunsets. Roll in them. Taste all forty flavors.

Get outside, it tells me.  These days are few. Squeeze that last bit of sunblock out of its tube and go.