Late the other night, my husband, Arthur, and I were watching one of those true life disaster programs on a high-numbered cable channel. There's not much else to watch at 3 a.m. except for infomercials on real estate investing and making a fortune on eBay.
Today's the day. Black Friday. Many folks were up, dressed and out of the house long before the carrier tossed a copy of The Times on their driveway. Doorbuster sales started as early as 2 a.m. Shopping expeditions have been planned with military precision and some people won't be home again before the sun goes down.
Over the river and through the woods ... and up Interstate -85 to I-95 to the New Jersey Turnpike. When Grandma lives 20 hours away on eastern Long Island, the Thanksgiving trip can be long and arduous.
I'd never heard of Black Dog Syndrome until a couple of weeks ago. I ran across mention of it in an animal rescue website and I was intrigued. It sounded ominous. Black Dog Syndrome. Spooky, like something snarling in the darkness with glittering fangs caught in a shaft of moonlight. I had to find out more.
One of my favorite parts of any story is the epilogue. After all, in real life, most stories don't have an ending, just more story. And so it is with my columns. Here's an update on a recent piece:
In a perfect world, I'd make my living as a writer. In the real world, I pay for my Cheerios by running a resale clothing shop.
Early one morning this week, our daughter, Rachel, was preparing to catch the school bus. We chatted as she searched for her shoes and scrounged in the refrigerator for an orange. She casually mentioned that her backpack was awfully heavy.
Fire up the grill and ice down the beer. It's Labor Day weekend, that clear division between summer and fall. It's time for one last day on the beach or by the pool.
My father was killed in a car wreck in 1980. Though I've lived over half my life without him, one thing I've learned is that a daddy's girl never stops missing her daddy.
Next Monday heralds my 19th first day of school as a parent. It never gets old. It's always a morning that crackles with promise and anticipation.
Earlier this week I went out on a mission to find the perfect dress. I have a dinner to attend in a few weeks and it's not the sort of soiree where my usual polo shirt and jeans attire will do. I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to wear. All I had to do was find it. Three hours and four department stores later, the planets aligned, the clouds parted and I spotted exactly what I needed.
When I read about Abby Sunderland, the 16-year-old California girl who attempted to become the youngest person to ever circumnavigate the globe alone in a sailboat, my first thoughts were of Jessica Dubroff.
I think if our daughter, Molly, were to meet Anne Bruscino, they'd be instant friends. They certainly have a lot in common.
If I had to define my role as "parent," one of the first subsections would be "teacher." My children's educations don't begin and end at the schoolhouse door. Every day has been an amalgam of teaching moments.
Every May, I wait for the call, but so far it hasn't come. What call, you ask? The call to give the commencement address at one, any, of my alma maters, of course.