The Story So Far

I woke up this morning. So far, so good.

Let the dog out, made coffee, played twenty-seven games of Free Cell, checked on the baby robins. Two naked heads poking up from the nest made in an afternoon by an OCD mother, 180 trips to the top of the willow wreath hanging on the back wall of the house. I didn't actually count the number, I Googled it.

I Google everything. I Google myself periodically, to see if I'm still here. Or if I've accomplished anything. So far, not much. I'm still a hasbeen. Make that a neverwas.

My husband's in Scotland, golfing. I'm in my belfry, Googling. My husband sends photos in an email, everyone looks cold. Scotland is no South of France. The course looks more like a moor, I expect to find Heathcliff dashing about. Meanwhile, the sea rages on.

The robins have taken up half the summer. First, find the right spot. Location! Location! Location! Next, build the dreamhouse. Finally, the honeymoon, followed by brooding. Isn't that always the way it goes?

When I was a kid, Summer felt like an actual season. It went on forever, remember? These days it feels like a long weekend. School!/FourthaJuly!/School! Although that weekend can get to feeling reeeeeally long when there's a pre-teenager living somewhere in the house.

Make that lurking somewhere in the house. I'm never quite sure where, I have to call her cell to find out. So near, yet so far. We have a fairly large house, it's possible not to see her for days. Hmmmmm.

My daughter's constant attention to her cellphone shows true compassion. The other day I came up with this brilliant idea: phone clothes. Can you dig it? I mean, the girls all do this bling thing with their phones, sparkly stickers and charms on chains and shit. Why not little coats and sweaters? jean skirts? tank tops? Why not a kilt? I think it's brilliant.

I'd like to see my husband in a kilt. He has great legs, one of the first things I noticed. Back in those honeymoon days. Back when our relationship felt like an actual season. Time just gets accordioned, doesn't it? In and out, in and out. I imagine golfing in a kilt on the moors of Scotland could get a bit like that.

In the old days we used to get up on the machine and Xerox our asses. Well, some people did. These days we Google ourselves. The new masturbation. One of these days I'm going to Google myself and I won't be there. Like my great-grandmother who saw an angel at the foot of her bed, and died. That's all she wrote. Make that Googled.