my stolen screenplay

Rachel is thinking about writing a screenplay. In a recent post, she shares some of her screenplay ideas and asks if her readers have ever had a thought of writing one.

I'm one of those aspiring screen writers who fall under the following category: Think-I-Can-Write-One-for-a-Brief-Exhilarating-Moment-After-Seeing-a-Really-Great-Movie.

The type toward whom authentic screen writers feel complete and utter contempt.

My inspiration, as self-aggrandizing as it is, is likely to occur after I watch movies steeped in emotionally-driven dialog. Especially dialog between women.

Discussing men.

And the plight of women.

As their plight relates to the men in their lives.

Walking and Talking was one. And Lovely and Amazing was another (Alert!! Young Jake Gyllenhaal sighting in the trailer). And Friends with Money, a third.

Or, apparently, anything written by Nicole Holofcener. And starring Catherine Keener.

Because I just now googled Nicole Holofcener and discovered that she wrote all three of these movies. I just love how smart I feel with google and imdb in my back pocket.

So yes, periodically, in a temporary state of half-delirium sprinkled with a fine layer of narcissism, I have been known to consider writing a screen play. But that's as far as it has ever gone ever needs to go.

I did talk with a friend once, at some length, about an idea I had: Women gifted with the power of climbing inside the brains of their male lovers. What would we find? Would we be flattered?

Or horrified?

Or horrified by the brand of flattery?

So wouldn't you know, a couple months after this screenplay-idea conversation with my friend, the Mel Gibson / Helen Hunt movie came out, What Women Want. You know, the one where he plays a womanizer and electrocutes himself trying to put on pantyhose and as a result is suddenly able to act read the minds of the women around him.

I am not kidding. About two months after my incredible idea for a screenplay.

And upon seeing the trailer for this movie I thought, Gah! They stole my idea!

Or, the male corollary of my idea.

And my thoughts ran toward, now when I try to publish my screenplay that I haven't even written one line of nor had a single moment's training in the how-to-of, the producers I present my idea to are going to be all, you so stole that idea from Mel Gibson.

So much for my screen writing career.

How about you, reader? Ever had an idea for a screenplay?

becoming broccoli

The psychological study of the human gustatory system is undergoing some exciting changes. Where gustatory equals taste. Not the study of human wind making, as the name might imply. Taste. As in, taste buds.

One of the most robust areas of gustatory research involves assisting individuals change their taste preferences.

Let's take me, for example. I detest steamed broccoli.

Not a problem in and of itself, right? But the fact is my entire family loves steamed broccoli.

Now, I do happen to love steamed spinach. My entire family, however, hates steamed spinach.

Would you think me paranoid if, some evenings, I believe there's a conspiracy?

My solution, thus far, has been to serve both veggies on the same night. A pain. Two steamer baskets. One cooks in the microwave while the other waits on standby. In. Out. In. Out. All while keeping the gravy from burning.

But rather than this dual-menu method, I want to avoid the whole inconvenience by training either my entire family (n=4) to love steamed spinach, or more plausible, train myself (n=1) to love steamed broccoli.

But is this possible?

Yes, says Dr. Glozell Green of UT-C. I was thrilled when I found a video featuring her study. Quite easy to follow, Dr. Green's experimental module utilizes a single subject, A-B-A withdrawal design. It illustrates the effectiveness of a taste-palatability-improvement program. Where the study participant featured has a strong dislike of cilantro and where repeated exposure sets out to change her strong dislike into a like.

Does this program work?

Take a look and see for yourself while I steam myself a basket of broccoli:

when tree hugging goes too far

Budding trees are a sure sign of spring. There's a Redbud growing in the entrance to my neighborhood. I love it's shimmery, spring-has-sprung pinkness.

Trees in general are especially appreciated in my city. With so many Texas regions deprived of trees, we Austinites are glad we have as many as we do. Some of us moved here expressly for the trees. So it's understandable there are so many tree huggers in Austin who want to save the trees.

But all trees? Any trees?

I consider myself a tree hugger, yes. But not an uber-hugger. I have some sanity my limits.

And my limit is reached when people insist on saving nuisance trees. When they judge those of us who cut down nuisance trees. Trash trees, my husband Sam calls them.

I'm talking about the kind of soft wooded trees that rot easily -- Chinaberry (Melia azedarach L.) and Hackberry (Celtis occidentalis). Trees that harm nearby plant life -- Cedar trees ( Juniperus ashei) and Ligustrum (Ligustrum recurvifolium).

Here's an example of what I mean by uber. City employees come onto a residential property ready to trim or cut down trees interfering with power lines. Uber-tree-huggers raise ten kinds of hell. That's a tree! Don't cut down that tree! The city employees run for their lives cave and leave the trees alone.

Come a big windy rain storm? The preserved trees crash down onto the homeowners house and neighboring houses. They crash powerlines. Entire blocks are out of power.

The ubers then raise twenty kinds of hell. Tree trimmers can't get there fast enough. Restore my power!

City workers paid triple overtime to restore power and clean up fallen trees that should have been cut down in the first place. Homeowner claims are filed and insurance premiums go up. Now you and I are paying for treexuberance.

A drive by reveals most of these fallen trees are Chinaberries and Hackberries.

Could have been avoided with some homework. An understanding of the pros and cons of treedom.

Hackberries make excellent habitat for birds and insects, yes. But they are weak and craggy looking and will fall easily in a storm. Keep the Hackberry if it's on a remote part of your property. Cut it down if it is in danger of falling onto houses and power lines.

But here's the most important part: Replace the cut trees with better trees. Or look for saplings of stronger trees. Cut away nuisance trees to make room for strong hardwoods that grow into beautiful shade trees, fun climbing trees, and yes, excellent habitat for birds and insects.

By cutting down Hackberries and overgrowth of Ligustrum in our yard, for example, we have found fledgling Post Oaks that might not have otherwise made it, especially as there are no other Post Oaks in our yard.

Here's another example. Cedar trees grow wild here. Besides causing terrible seasonal allergies, aka, "cedar fever," they also suck up a lot of water. Cedar trees have dense, sticky foliage that catches and holds rainwater, preventing it from ever reaching the ground. Cedars haven't learned to share.

Some experts have estimated 70-80% is hogged by cedars. Hence, less water for the surrounding trees, shrubs, and ground cover. Cedar trees also emit a chemical noxious to many neighboring plants.

The net result is healthy cedar but parched surrounding area.

Bamburger Ranch in the Hill Country of Central Texas is a living example of the power of cutting down Cedar in favor of allowing natural grasses and friendlier varieties of trees to thrive. The result? Natural springs are flowing again after years and years of bone dry.

So be kind to trees but also be smart about trees. Learn what trees are worth saving and which ones are worth cutting in order to make room for a more diverse, lush landscape. And while you're at it, you're helping keep our homeowner's insurance affordable.

trouble on american idol

This week, two of my favoriteist American Idol contestants sang two of my awesomely favoriteist songs.

Alex (Not-to-be-confused-with-Adam) Lambert, the cutest boy in a blonde mullet EVER, sang Ray LaMontagne's "Trouble." You can see and hear Alex here. He's got this amazing raspy voice with incredible tone.

Lilly Scott, the cutest girl in a blonde mopsy-top, sang Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces." You can see and hear Lilly here. And if you want to hear a more soulful song, Lilly's version of Sam Cooke's, A Change is Gonna Come, can be heard here. Either way, you can't help but fall in love with her unique sound.

But tonight, American voting fans gave these same two contestants the giant Idol finger pointing them off the stage. WTF, Idol viewers? Do I need to whip out my wireless phone and slip out of my Idol voting apathy?

One consolation, Alex lambert is from the DFW area, which I hope means he'll find his way to the Austin music scene one day.

Second consolation, American Idol will no longer be a factor in my evening exercise sabotage. But don't worry, I've got plenty more where those came from.

Like, for instance, if Crystal Bowersox makes it to the Top Ten, in which case I might have to sacrifice my get-skinny-quick-scheme for yet another ten weeks.

Now, if all that isn't enough trouble for you, check out Ray LaMontagne's original version.

stuck in marriage?

Or marriage struck?

After my last post on temporary divorce I worried that some of my readers might question my committment to married life, or at least those who do not get my pathetic attempt at droll wit.

So worried was I, in fact, that I scoured back to the sad beginnings of my blog for an old post, one of my earliest, in order to camouflage my blogger's block shore up any doubts. Because the fact of the matter is, I'm about as emotionally dependent on committed to my husband as I am to inhaling the air around me.

And so here is my repeat post, which, for the record, enjoyed zero comments two years ago. Needless to say, I am hoping for a better comment showing the second time around.

---

For the past several years at Edge, John Brockman has asked scientists and philosophers a provocative question and then posts their answers.

The 2008 question was "What have you changed your mind about?"

One psychology professor's reply reflected on his research. Daniel Gilbert suggested that the decisions which leave us with the ability to change our minds are less satisfying than decisions which are irrevocable.

Not long after he reached this conclusion he went home to propose to his girlfriend. After several years of marriage, he believes he loves her more as his wife than he loved her as his girlfriend.

For me, a longtime married person, its refreshing to learn there are theories out there that support the notion that love can grow precisely because of options lost.

Or make that, the choice to love only one.

---

Because my own personal case study in marriage, my n=1, no double-blind-placebo experiment, has led me to the same conclusion. I felt stark panic considerable uncertainty about the decision to get married. I love him but is he the right man for me? Will it last? Do I really want to make Texas my home?

But once he put the golden band around my finger all doubts fell away. Uncertainty was replaced by a more complete depth of knowing than I ever thought possible.

The divorce rate tells me this isn't everyone's experience. But I do wonder about the satisfaction levels of other irrevocable decisions.

Having a child comes to mind. We all know how powerfully satisfying parenthood can be. I know in my case, I am always awed into silence when an indecisive childfree person asks me whether she should have children or not. My first instinct as a Mom, though not as a psychologist, is to say "You will not regret it. Not even for a half of a trillionenth of a nanosecond. It is the single most life changing and rewarding experience you will ever know."

How about you, reader. Once you put a sealed decision behind you, did your satisfaction grow?

temporary divorce, anyone?

Joceyln's O Mighty post about exploring temporary housing overseas, which may or may not have included a year long divorce, got me thinking uh oh, clear the room.

Yesterday I was reading Mother Jones magazine in my doctor's waiting room. How's that for a waiting room rag? That would not fly in 99.9% of Texas towns, now would it? Reason number 2033 Why I Love Living in Austin.

So in the new issue of Mother Jones I read Nadya Labi's article about the tradition in Iran of temporary marriages. Where a man and a woman can be married by a cleric for the express purpose of relieving their sexual (his) and financial (her) tensions.

Where a temporary marriage can last anywhere from one hour to 99-years.

Where a man is allowed four full-fledged wives and unlimited temporary wives. Where a woman is allowed one full-fledged husband and no temporary husbands but if she is unmarried or widowed, she is allowed one temporary husband at a time. No mas.

Where a man can choose to extend or cut short the temporary marriage, depending on his whim. Where the woman's only choice is to remain married until the end of the contract, i.e., wait and see what her temporary husband chooses to do.

Are we seeing a pattern here?

Where the temporary husbands get to brag to their business associates about how many temporary wives they have, while typically keeping it secret from their legitimate wives. Where the temporary wives don't dare tell a soul because it is considered undesirable and cheap.

Where women seeking temporary husbands can be found lingering outside a certain shrine, identified by their inside-out chadors.

Where we in these wicked United State think this sounds an awful lot like one of our infidel customs.

There was much debate presented about the fairness of these various arrangements. Widowed women with little or no financial options who appreciated a temporary marriage allowed them to earn money as opposed to starving or begging. Who preferred to obey only their temporary husband's sexual demands compared to full-fledged brides who must obey their husband's every demand. Who were glad they didn't have to live with the dude every single solitary day of their married lives.

Yes. I can see the benefits of temporary marriage. I surely can.

This idea plus Jocelyn's post got me thinking about temporary divorce. Where husband and wife live separately for a period of time decided upon by both parties. One hour or 99-years. Joint custody arrangement, of course. Alternating weeks of utter quiet, solitude, undisturbed blogging. No dinners, no dishes, no homework, no taxi-cab service, no policing of computer time.

Weeks of space where we marrieds get to see what life is like without each other. Of sleeping in the middle of the bed or on his side of the bed which you haven't slept on in 18-plus years because he is that determined to sleep on his side of the bed no matter where we are in this world.

Weeks of having full control of the remote. The luxury of changing back and forth between Judge Judy or Women's Lifetime Channel or Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D List or the tail end of a TMC movie because, yes, those last three minutes still make me cry. Without having to listen to his heavy sigh because you can't help it if he can't follow your random train of television viewing thought.

Weeks of no Dallas Cowboys Sunday afternoons. No San Antonio Spurs-only because-they're-in-the-playoffs week nights.

So hmmm, would the temporary divorce take place during the last part of football season when the playoff games go into infinity or during March madness when the tournament games go into infinity overtime?

But aside from the petty gains of a temporary divorce, perhaps something more substantial would take place. Maybe we would grow more appreciative of the many things we do for each other. We might focus more on how much we miss our temporarily divorced spouses than on how much we wish he would wipe the crumbs off the stove top. More on how nice it is to have someone to snuggle under the covers than how annoyed we are by the fact that he is in the bathroom at just the very same minute I need to be in there.

How about you, Reader? Any thoughts on temporary marriages and temporary divorces?

my gripe with homework. and I do have one.

Kids have homework. I get that. It's good for them to practice what they've learned in school so the learning sets in.

What I don't get is homework that takes both parents, four college degrees between us, to figure it out and then teach it to our kid. That when we ask how the teacher explained it we are told the teacher never mentioned this type of problem before. This is new. The first time she's heard of it.

Okay, so maybe she wasn't paying attention. Maybe it was taught and she missed it altogether.

That's where my second gripe comes into play. The evenings when she understands the larger, underlying concept but the homework is presented in a quirky, confusing, hard-to-solve way. Which again, requires one or both parents trying to figure out what the heck the question is even asking, let alone how to derive at the correct answer.

It's those evenings I want to sit down with the writers of the workbook and ask, What were you thinking? Were you at the last fade of your morning caffeine buzz, that point where your head starts to nod and your legs get restless and your mind starts to wonder if what's left on the bagel cart?

Or were you just smoking too much crack?

But let's leave the amphetamine-addicted, hallucinogenic-dropping, educational book developers alone for the time being.

Let's talk about my main issue.

It's the fact that my daughter is lucky enough to have two educated, willing, at-home, sober parents spending concentrated time helping her figure it out.

It's the fact that I'm well aware that too many kids don't have this advantage. This help at home. This step up.

And don't get me started on the projects. The projects where I can tell that the parent and child spent one day together buying twenty dollars worth of nifty, crafty materials at Michaels and then the next day assembling. Or was that Mom assembling for five hours and child losing interest after the second hour? Because that neatly-painted, sequin-studded, velvet-striped catepillar was not a first grader's doing.

My favorite science projects have always been the ones hand-written in #2 pencil standing bravely next to the Photo-Shopped, Excel-Charted, Word-Doc Wonders.

So my question is one that I know concerns a lot of caring parents, educators and therapists:

What about the kids who come from a chaotic, abusive ... nobody's home ... home? How fair is it to these kids that homework can't be completed without help? And they've got nobody at home to help them?

Or maybe they come home to a mom in a drunken rage or a dad hitting a mom in a drunken rage or a grandmother who can't pull herself away from her soaps or an uncle who can't stay out of the kid's bedroom at night.

Yes, my kids get good grades. I'm proud of them and their effort and abilities. I'm proud of myself being an involved parent, especially on those nights when I'd rather be at Antone's jamming to some blues.

But I'm not proud of an educational system that rewards parents who do the teaching. Or workbooks with assignments that require adult-hands-on-deck to decipher.

A too hard assignment leaves out too many kids. Too many kids whose grades reflect not what they can do but what they can't have: a nurturing home life. For that, they've already paid a heavy price. I don't want them paying twice, in the form of substandard grades.

six word saturday

When will weekends last forever? Retirement?

Can you sum it up in six words?

what if we had named you ______ ?

One of Magpie's Musings about naming children made me think about one of the favorite recurring dinner table discussions around my house.

What if we had named you _____?

Throughout most of my first pregancy, my son was going to be Nicholas. Wouldn't be called Nick. Would most definately not be called Nicky. Nicholas.

But then family members got wind and we started hearing about "little Nick" and "how's baby Nicky doing?" Face to face with the potential inevitability (oxymoronic, just a little?) of losing control over the child's name.

So we dropped Nicholas.

In favor of a name with low risk nickname potential.

Although it does have a nickname and I call him the nickname even though he doesn't like it now that he's a teen and has asked me not to call him that anymore. I try. Really I do. But it keeps slipping out. Moms are allowed to use pet names in the privacy of her own home, aren't they? I mean, aren't there some privileges earned for all those months of pregnancy? All those late night feedings? Diaper changes?

When my son learned of his almost-name, he made the ugliest face. Which, of course, leads to the suggestion, "If your name WAS Nicholas, you would have turned your nose at your current name." To which he defiantly says, "No I wouldn't. I'd wish you had called me that instead."

One for Dickens, I suppose. Ghost of Names Past.

Each of our kids, while not named directly after anyone, has a name that has some family significance.

My son's given name is a derivative of Ira. My husband's grandfather was Ira. A horse trader, Ira. When we saw that reference, we knew the name had to be.

Ira was the stuff of myth making. The man who lived the simple life. Cooked on a wood stove. Ate eggs fried in lard everyday but kept a rock hard belly. Sat on his front porch, his gallery in the hill country, and shot deer for his dinner as he rocked in his rocking chair. Ira who did time in the penitentiary for making moonshine during the depression. Story goes he didn't drink it himself. Sold it to feed his ten kids. When Ira was in prison, the moonshine customers came by the homestead with parcels of food for the abandoned family.

My son's middle name is one of the surames on my mother's family tree. I don't know anyone in my family with that name but I like to think he's named after warm, loving ancestors rather than someone reviled. The risk of choosing a name, any name, off the family tree.

I like the tradition of giving the mother's maiden name as a middle name. We played around with giving almost-Nicholas my maiden name (my kept name, as I didn't change my name when I married) as a middle name. But then decided not to blow the whole wad with the first child. First born children come into this world with so much gravitas. Let's save a bit for the second born. This was the plan for three years.

But then we found out we were having twins. What to do? One of them carries the Mom's surname and not the other? Distinct potential of coming back to haunt me in the favoritism accusations.

Both get the same middle name? A little over-the-top, if not George Foreman-esque.

So here's what we did. BabyA's middle name is a derivative of my last name (think John instead of Johnson). BabyB has my middle name.

It seemed like a fair divide. But in the end, nobody has my maiden name. Ah well. There's always hope for a grandchild? (Are you reading this, sweet children?)

As for given names, BabyA's name is a feminized version of her grandfather's nickname. And also a wild woman of west Texas.

BabyB is named after the county where Ira the horsetrader lived. Sam came up with that one. He first heard the name from the niece of a friend. Liked it. And it happened to be the name of the county where Sam has such fond memories of his growing up years.

So then it was settled. All the kids first names came from Dad. All the kids middle names came from Mom. We didn't set out to achieve this end. But there you have it.

And back to the dinner table discussions. My kids love to ask, "what were some other names you came up with?"

There was Audra, Maggie, Molly, Holly, Hunter, Richard. None are family names. Just names one of us liked. These almost-names are always met with some combination of fascination and repugnance.

All in all, I'm glad we stuck with the names we've got. And so are they.

How about you, reader? How did you come up with your kids names? What are your "we-almost-named-you" stories? Do you ever look back and wish you had kept a discarded name? Wonder if this child's life would have been different?

Update: My son read this post and later asked me, Mom! Why didn't you name me Ira?!

green stamp sex lamp

A few days weeks months ago, Mary M. posted on the Women's Colony about her boyfriend's heirloom table lamp. She feared that when he moved in, "that hideous lamp is probably going to be the first thing he carries through the doorway." If her boyfriend is anything like my husband, Sam, he will be carrying his ugly-ass lamp straight to his urn.

On his bedside table, Sam has what he likes to call the sex lamp. It looks like this:

Yes, that's right. You saw correctly. The sex lamp looks like this:

Now, I ask you, is there anything even remotely sexy about this lamp? Of course not. But then, that's not why he calls it the sex lamp.

I laid eyes on this luminary gem soon after meeting Sam. I found it endearing, assuming as I did at the time that it represented his post-divorce poverty. But it remains on his side of the bed to this day, after many years of post-nuptial combined income bliss.

And you only thought you had bedroom decor issues.

Design challenges aside, this lamp has a strong fluorescent bulb. So bright it could light up Yankee Stadium.

Now, if there's one thing everyone in the porn industry can agree on, it's that fluorescent lighting is sexy. Says this highly sensitive person who cringes under the charged mercury vapors.

Be that as it may, I agreed to allow the sex lamp in our shared bedroom when he held it aloft and shouted "from my cold dead hands!" said he planned on keeping it. I agreed in a pleasing manner that succeeded in appearing sincere, even. I agreed because the lamp holds sentimental value for him. He acquired the lamp as a mere lad in grade school. Traded green stamps for it, even. I agreed because my feminist values dictate that home decor is not the sole dominion of women. And I agreed because, as I figured it, old lamps burn out.

But twenty years later? That butt ugly lamp is still burning.

I am finding, much to my emotional detriment, that there is truth in the old maxim: They sure don't make 'em like they used.

So why does he call it the sex lamp, you are wondering? Well, here it is. The bright spot in all of this lamp lunacy. When the sex lamp is turned on? So are my husband's good intentions. And so am I. He likes to see what he's doing when he's working his magic. And work it he does.

Which leads me to my own personal maxim: An agreement made is an agreement kept.

In short, I'm stuck with the lamp.

Until the bulb burns out. Because in this case, I don't believe in fixin' that which is broke.

And now, good reader, PLEASE please leave a comment with your sure-fire, covert means of hastening the demise of an ancient, obnoxious flourescent light bulb.

And if you haven't already, stop by The Women's Colony where this, and other real women sexplorations appear.

leaps better

Leap

by Richard Cardona

Philadelphia, PA

Thanks for all of the well wishes, bloggy friends. I'm not sure if this cold was a mild one, but it was certainly short lived. Maybe it was because I took my own advice, for once, and drank gallons of water. Or maybe all of those zinc lozenges I was sucking on day and night actually worked. Or maybe I was just exaggerating my symptoms all along because of all the peace and quiet perks.

But, the why-come isn't so important. It's the feeling leaps better that is. And relieved this cold did not turn into three weeks worth of annoying hacking cough, like they usually do.

One funny thing that happened during my woe-is-me convalescence. I switched from my usual habit of drinking decaff-mocha-coffee to green tea.

For the past few years, at least, a cup of green tea held about as much appeal for me as a jump into an ice cold lake. But I started drinking it because it was lighter than my coffee-candy concoction, and, bonus points, healthier.

Now that I'm pretty close to back to normal, I've started adding vanilla flavored soy milk to my green tea, something that sounded horrible to me three weeks ago but now tastes reallllly good.

Weird. Tastes come and go for me. I'm used to that. But this is a big switch. Right now it's all I think about. Heating up water for my daily two three four cups of green tea.

How about you, reader? Any radical shifts in food or drink obsessions preferences lately?

cold sung blues

I'm down with a cold. Or at least I'm pretty sure it's a cold, as opposed to an acute case of allergies.

Did I catch it from my husband, who had laryngitis two weeks ago, followed by persistent stuffy nose and cough?

Did I catch it from my neighbor, who had an upper respiratory infection, coughing next to me in my car, reassuring me she was no longer infectious?

Did I catch it from my client, who, just last week, wondered aloud if her symptoms were due to allergies or a cold?

No matter, right? It's got me, whatever it is. Whomever it's from.

I opted to cancel several appointments. Today was a long, full day of too many clients back-to-back. I kept three appointments in the middle of the day. And then, as luck would have it, one of the three kept appointments called to cancel, leaving a voice message, "I've got a cold." Of course, it had to be the middle appointment.

So I ended up seeing two patients. One who was kind enough to come in early. I headed to the office with relief. Two appointments sounded entirely doable. Or so I thought.

Everyone knows my job involves listening. But it also involves talking, in between listening. It was in the middle of one of these, my-turn-to-talk turns, that I found out that my cold is much easier to abide when I keep my mouth shut.

Talking brought on fierce bouts of coughing, sputtering, eye-watering and nose running. Where the intake of breath between coughs brought on even more severe fits of coughing. Undignified and unprofessional slobberring attacks.

Do you know the kind of hacking, tickling, choking cough I mean? The only thing that prevents these cough attacks is to (1) drink one cup of hot tea after another, or (2) continously suck on Moutain Herb Reeeeee-Co-Laaaas.

Fortunately, the cough attacks occurred during my second appointment. Meaning, soon after, I was able to pack up and head home. Very relieved that I hadn't pressed my luck.

So now I'm home, alone in my room, comfortably blogging and blowing my nose and puffing,

gleefully allowing the husband to deal with dinner prep and the kids: their homework, after school pick-ups, their squabbles.

All was well and good until Sam was off playing Taxi-Cab Dad. When I heard this urgent shout,

"Mo-Ommmmmmmmmmm!"

I jumped up, heart racing, laptop-sy-turvy,

"What is it?!" I yelled back.

"Oh, nothing. I just wondered where you were."

Argh.

But other than the one panic inducing interruption? I have to say?

I rather like my quiet exile.

Cold or no.

"Leave Mom alone," I hear Sam telling one of the kids.

(Who among us doesn't liken these words to the sound of heavenly choirs of angels singing?)

"Leave Mom alone. She's not feeling good."

Ahhhhhhhh.

Little do they know my well-kept secret.

That right now?

I'm feeling damned good.