Painted Canvas

As of Friday, the transformation of my dining room-turned-piano room is virtually complete.

In August, I emptied the dining room of furniture and the room became a blank canvas on which to create the room I'd envisioned.

Redecorating this room was not a chore for me. Indeed, it brought me great satisfaction. It's emotionally cathartic to effect a physical change in the environment. And it provided a creative outlet.

This style of the furnishings in this room may not suit my friends, my family, or strangers. But it suits me. And my family seems to like it, too. So it works for us.

Just one more thing to be thankful for this season.

Still Too Early

Thanksgiving was Thursday.
I'm still enjoying the moment.
No gifts to give or receive.
Just family, friends, and food.

I still do not have my Christmas tree up.

Anonymity Revealed

It feels strange when the cover of anonymity is removed.

As a freelance editor for a local publishing company, I mark up manuscripts without ever meeting the authors. Therefore, each project is impersonal. I don't think about the person who put pen to paper. I don't worry about hurt feelings or big egos; I'm concerned only with the quality of the work to be published. The anonymity feels comfortable to me.

But once a year, I attend the publishing company's annual book signing/open house event. During the event many of the popular authors meet and greet customers, sign books, and chat with the general public. I am the editor employed by the company most frequently, so the publisher likes me to attend, too.

Many of the authors working with this small niche publisher know one another. Some teach together at the university. Some are members of the same societies. Some are just friends who like to write in the same genre. The annual event is a reunion for them. They enjoy socializing with one another, talking about current projects, catching up on news of each others' families.

They know who I am. I'm the one who scarred their beautiful, perfect pages.

But to me, they are a group of faces that are paired with names that I mentally match to the books they wrote in the space of a handshake. Then I try to remember the extent to which I edited their books, their "babies." As the fuzzy images finally become clear, I think "Yes ... this is the skillful writer who could tell an interesting story and who had a fine grasp of the English language!" Or "Uh-oh, this is the one who was enthusiastic about his subject, but who could barely string sentences together, leaving me to practically rewrite the book." Just as I remember their manuscripts, I know they surely remember my markups. And I wonder what they think of me.

I find the whole event a bit eerie. On the one hand, the authors are all strangers to me. On the other, I feel I know them well through the content they write about and the passion they bring to their work. Our lives have intertwined for a moment in time; their published work, though conceived of and written by them, is what it is through the influence of my red pen. But we don't talk about the books. Anything but. I feel ambivalent about our connected past, and about my anonymity revealed.

However, my ambivalence turns to relief as a current first-time author -- whom I imagine must feel resentful toward me for the suggestions I sent her after reviewing her work -- seeks me out to thank me exuberantly for helping her to see her book in a new light! She's revising and likes the new version better than the original.

Maybe it's not so bad to have my anonymity revealed after all.

Day of Thanks

Three of the people that I'm most thankful for.

Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly

We don't all have a song written just for us.

Or written just for someone-else-who-has-the-same-name.

But Kelly has a song. Happy Birthday!

Spectrum

Today I chaperoned a field trip. The first-, second-, and third-graders sang to the residents of the retirement center they visited.

Young and old together.

The young don't imagine they'll ever grow old.

Do the old remember having those cherub faces and bright eyes, and being orbs of energy, themselves?

Letters

In recent posts, I've referenced an archival project I've been working on for two years.

Even though I'm very good at saving photos, letters, and memorabilia, I haven't been very good about organizing them and storing them in an easily-viewable format (e.g., photo albums, scrapbooks). So they've sat in boxes.

For this project, I've gathered all such items and relocated them to one place -- our guest room closet -- then separated them into three main categories: photos, cards & letters, and other memorabilia.

Within those categories, I've been filing the contents by date, making note of various occasions and important people recollected with these items. I'm happy to have arrived at the tail end of this organizing phase. Next will come digitizing. Finally, I will store them in labeled photo albums, scrapbooks, and photo boxes on shelves available to the entire family. After all, the reason I've saved these items all these years is not just to be able to claim that I did so; rather, I want our family to be able to peruse these artifacts at will, retelling stories, revisiting old friends or lost family members, remembering vacations, and generally marveling over the evolution of our lives.

Last night, I completed the organizing of old cards and letters that I've saved since elementary school. Although some have been lost or discarded over the years, generally, if someone wrote me, his or her words have been saved.

I've made an interesting discovery: Some of these letters make reference to periods of my life that I actually don't remember. For example, yesterday I read several letters and florists' cards from friends, sent many years ago, with wishes to get well soon. I've been puzzling over this. I don't remember being ill during the time in which the letters were sent. Of course, it could have been a period of emotional distress, not simply a physical ailment. I'm just not sure. It must have been significant enough for my friends to send me letters and flowers.

But whatever it was, as significant as it was at the time, I've clearly gotten over it. Moved on.

However, it moved me to see that, with whatever was troubling me at the time, I had friends who were concerned and who took the time to tell me I was on their minds. That's comforting to know, even if I never remember why I was the subject of their concern.

In the past decade, the number of letters in my archives is much smaller than in the prior two decades. This is despite the fact that my circle of friends has expanded. And despite the fact that I do keep in touch with them, and they with me. The difference is the Internet. These days, we keep in touch more frequently, but more briefly. And even though I save the e-mails, I don't print them out. When I switch from one computer to another, I often don't transfer the saved e-mail messages to the new computer. So, essentially, they're lost.

Since the contents of the letters and e-mails I receive from friends are a reflection of our current lives, they document many events in my life. Some I will remember always. Some I will forget as I move on.

As a saver, I feel fortunate to possess such wonderful correspondence from friends and family. And I feel a bit saddened by the e-correspondence I haven't saved. I can change that, starting now.

But there's nothing like a good old-fashioned letter written in one's own handwriting. I think I'll write some letters today.

Not Yet

I do not have my Christmas tree up yet.

Sexy City Singles, Desperate Suburban Housewives, and Other Caricatures

A few minutes ago I was driving home from my last appointment of the week, feeling a bit of relief and freedom. The mundane task of driving, and the temporary relief from pressing obligations, gave my mind the freedom to wander. So I let it.

Wander with me for a while.

Funny how these mundane moments allow for some of the best ideas. There's a convergence of thought, when all those loose ideas that have been dangling from the folds of the brain all of a sudden find each other and connect in a way you hadn't thought of before. It's that "A-ha!" moment. My husband had one of those moments five years ago -- while mowing -- when he conceived of a new business that he steered to success. (Since that day, he doesn't have a problem hiring out lots of household chores, but mowing he saves for himself.)

I won't go into detail yet about what the A-Ha moment produced for me today (time will tell if it's successful or not), but after that moment, my mind continued to wander.

For some reason, I started thinking about the TV show Desperate Housewives. I was thinking how each main character is a caricature of qualities that we all possess. Specifically, I was thinking which character most closely resembles ME! (It's more fun to shroud myself in some mystery, so I won't say which one it is. But I'll say this: Of the primary four, it's not Gabrielle. Also not Edie!)

Then I wandered to the four female caricatures from Sex and the City. Which one is most like me? Again, not gonna tell you. (But it's not Miranda.)

Continuing along those lines, I thought of the number 4. What other symbolism can be found in the number 4? There's the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, a method of identifying personalities based on four dichotomies. There are four seasons, which also are used as metaphors for stages of life. Four phases of the moon, roughly four weeks in a month, four gospels of the Bible, four sides to a square. Four books in the Twilight series...

What is it about the number 4? Numerologists might give it significance because it's the first composite number. It allows for two sets of pairs.

I think it provides variation without the distraction of too many options. Isn't that what we seek the majority of the time? We like variation to provide respite from monotony. But too many options can lead to a constant spinning of the mental wheels, too much time spent on evaluation of choices, too much chaos. That's fine for occasional circumstances, but not for daily use!

Back to those television characters... From talking with my girlfriends, it seems that most of us can relate mainly to one of the four primary characters in either Sex and the City or Desperate Housewives, although we each possess some qualities of the other characters to a lesser degree.

I know who I am. But who are you?

Nothing

Seinfeld was a "show about nothing."

Today's blog entry is an entry about nothing.

We all have weeks that are busier than others. Commitments involving school, work, errands, parenting, traveling, appointments, and more are like beads strung together and tied around the neck. The tight spaces in between leave room for little else. This has been one such week for me.

Busy periods can be exhilarating or exhausting, or something in between, or both at once. Regardless, they provide fodder for reflection, even if they do not allow actual time for it. Postponed, but not obliterated, reflection comes later.

In the course of the past week, I've considered many events to which I'd like to give further thought. For now, a few scribbles jotted on scraps of paper will need to suffice. I've begun some drafts, though they remain incomplete for the moment. I even tried posting a new blog entry on Tuesday, but it was too raw, too unedited, too ... soapbox, so I removed it shortly afterward. When I have more than just a few moments to spare, I'll be able to synthesize my thoughts, feelings, and observations in a more pleasing form.

I hope that will be soon. For now, suffice it to say that I'm busy living life, participating in the game, observing the people and events around me, and learning all I can. For even in the mundane, the hectic, the everyday world of my life, there is some new insight to be gleaned always.

Soon this nothing will be something.

Purple and Green Polka-Dot Tiger

Whatever you do, do not think of a purple and green polka-dot tiger.

You're thinking of a purple and green polka-dot tiger, aren't you?

My husband teased my son: "Whatever you do, do not think of this as a date."

Thing is, he was already thinking of the night as a date, despite his statements to the contrary.

It all started when my husband and I made plans to go out to dinner with another couple on Friday night. Ordinarily, I'd hire a sitter to stay with our children. But the girls had plans to stay overnight at a friend's house, and our son is almost 11, so it seemed silly to get a sitter just for him. Instead, we invited our friends' 11-year-old daughter, who is also friends with our son, to hang out together while the adults were out. Perfect plan!

So, earlier in the week, I asked my son to clean up "his" room of the basement. That's the area where he and his friends typically hang out because it's stocked with gaming systems, a TV, and Legos. No girlie things -- dolls, stuffed animals, etc -- allowed. I figured the two tweens would want to play video games, but the last time I poked my head in that room, Legos occupied every square inch of the floor, leaving no room for people. Knowing how this clean-up request typically goes, I started early in the week, realizing that it would take several days before he actually made any headway in the room.

Lo and behold, I walked past that room the next day, and found it immaculate! In fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen it that tidy. Hmm.

Then, Friday morning, we noticed our son was spending a longer time in his room than usual. Typically, he needs only a minute or two to change from his PJs into his uniform clothes. Turns out he was making his bed. He never makes his bed! When he joined us downstairs, we asked him why he decided to make his bed that morning. He said, "Well, Mom, you've been nagging me all summer to make my bed! So I was just doing what you've been telling me to do."

"But it's November!" I told him. I'd given up on the nagging for the school year. Interesting.

After he came home from school, while I was busy holding a Girl Scout meeting downstairs, he headed straight up to his room. "I'm just going to clean out my closet, Mom." What???

By now, of course, my husband and I had pretty much figured him out. The friend coming over tonight wasn't just any friend. It was a girl.
A girl. Friend.

He'd told me once that he had a crush on this Girl.Friend when he was in second or third grade, but he thought of her as "Just Friends" now.
Mmm hmm.

So after our friends had arrived with their daughter, and we'd said our good-byes to our two tweens, and we were riding to the restaurant, we adults reviewed the situation. We learned their daughter had changed her outfit before coming over for the evening. She doesn't typically change her outfit after school.

So, evidently, the two of them were kind of thinking of the night as a date. Now, what a "date" means to a 10- and 11-year-old is somewhat unclear. Maybe sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa to play video games? Maybe touching hands? Maybe even a peck on the cheek?

Cute. Harmless. Age-appropriate.

But next time, perhaps we'll have them hang out at the other house. With the older, teenage, high schooler brother as chaperone. Just in case they decide they're more than "just friends."

Expectations

The countdown started one week ago.

Only 7 days! Now 6! 5! . . .

On Wednesday, I told my friend I was so excited that it felt like Christmas Eve.

Finally, 9:30 a.m. on Thursday arrived. I met with the orthopedic surgeon for my six-week follow-up regarding my hip fracture. Bones typically need six weeks to heal; theoretically, my fracture should be healed now. But would it be?

Indeed, the x-ray revealed no sign of the fracture. All signs looked good. Is it too good to be true?

That cautiously optimistic side of me asked Dr W, "But is it really healed? Or are you just saying that because I just told you it feels like Christmas and I'm pretty sure the gift I'm about to open is the one I've been begging for and you don't want to let me down?"

He laughed. "No, it really looks healed."

After a few minutes of my micromanagment and the ensuing discussion about various marks I pointed to on my x-ray, I was satisfied. And excited!

The crutches will be with me for several more weeks as I gradually increase the weight permitted on the injured leg. For the next week, I can place 25% of my weight on that leg. The following week, 50%. Then 75%. When I meet with the doctor in three weeks, it's expected that he'll clear me for 100% weight on the injured leg. Now, that will be an event worth celebrating!

In the meantime, a physical therapist will guide me through exercises that will help strengthen the atrophied muscles in the injured leg.

The past six weeks have forced me to learn important lessons about myself. I've learned that it's okay to rely on a network of caring friends and family. I've learned that I don't have to do everything for my children; when given the opportunity, they will rise to the occasion. I've learned to trust my husband with errands and household tasks that were previously off limits (there's that micromanaging side again). I've learned that sometimes I dive too quickly and too earnestly into deep waters, only to get the bends. I've learned that the cliche slow and steady wins the race, like all cliches, is rooted in a human truth: with patience, I can achieve more over time than I can with recklessness. The list goes on...

Notably, I've also re-learned the importance of setting appropriate expectations. It was not an appropriate expectation for me to run a half-marathon in the time allotted for training. It was not an appropriate expectation that I could resume my pre-fracture activities a mere six weeks after diagnosis. Is it an appropriate expectation that it will take six to twelve months to resume running? And what about my plans to climb a mountain next summer?

I asked Dr. W these questions. Regardless of the answer, I now realize the importance of mentally setting realistic goals and understanding the challenges therein. His answers, based on his professional experience with other patients with a similar diagnosis, lead me to believe that the physical challenges in my Top Ten list are still achievable.

As I begin the slow process of working toward those goals, I celebrate that they're still viable goals. Now, I'll just be a little smarter in working toward them.

Bugs

On Monday, I took my son for a check-up with the pediatrician. On this visit, he was due for a chicken pox booster inoculation. In contrast to my daughters, who have been through myriad medical procedures and handle it all flawlessly, my healthy son is -- let's just say -- squeamish at the mention of anything he considers invasive.

Needles included. (Or especially.)

Well, he got through it with a healthy dose of drama. "Why do I have to get this shot? I don't care if I get the chicken pox!" Well, yes, he would care if he actually got them. I remember my own case of the chicken pox all too clearly. And if he can't handle a simple shot in the arm with a duration of less than one second, then surely he wouldn't be able to handle two weeks of itches that he's not allowed to scratch! No, we don't want those chicken pox "bugs" in our house.

Later, after I picked her up from school, my daughter asked if they were going to get the flu shot this year. I told her I wasn't sure yet. The flu "bug" is one that doesn't cause too much anxiety in our house. No one likes the experience of having the flu, but it's not typically life-threatening. And it's short-lived. And even when we've gotten the flu shot, it still hasn't prevented a new strain of the "bug" to take up temporary residence in each one of us.

That same day, I received an e-mail from the director of a class my daughters attend for one night each week. It turns out a child in last week's class had head lice.

Head lice! That made my skin crawl -- especially since I'd noticed what I thought was dandruff in the hair of one of my daughters over the weekend.

No one in my family has ever had lice, and I've never actually seen a case of it in person, so I had to rely on photos and descriptions I'd found on the Internet. My husband read the descriptions, too, and studied the photos. Then we combed through her hair some more. Is this lice? Maybe. Or is this dandruff? Maybe. Or did she just forget to rinse the shampoo out of her hair? Maybe.

Feeling very ill-equipped to deal with the investigation, we called our friend and neighbor, who happens to be an emergency room doctor. Surely he's seen his share of lice. Fortunately, we caught him on his way to the hospital, so he stopped by our house a few minutes later to check out our daughter.

While awaiting his arrival, I mentally reviewed everything in our house that would have had contact with our daughter's head. Her twin. All their combs, brushes, and hair accessories. All the hats and coats with hoods. Every blanket and pillow. The furniture. The carpet. Their friends. The list was endless! Next I mentally reviewed what the literature said we'd need to do to completely rid the house of the lice. She'd have to stay home from school this week. We'd have to cancel Girl Scouts, and that sleepover. My head was spinning!

Then, the verdict... No, my daughter does not have lice! She's healthy and bug-free! Such relief!

If only there was an inoculation for lice.

13

On that first day, we recite our lines optimistically, with a smile and figurative fingers crossed for a one-sided experience: only the good stuff, please.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

At first, the good stuff is all we see.

A few years later, we glimpse some of the other, and then for a while that's all we can see.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

But then, we see that, like us, these are counterparts to one another. One gives meaning to the other. One places the other in context. Without one, the other loses its significance. They're two halves of a whole.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

The bad stuff cannot be weathered without the foundation of the good stuff to support it. And the joy cannot be experienced fully without the sorrow to give it context.

In thirteen years of sickness and health, good times and bad, joy and sorrow, we've experienced some of it all. I cherish every moment, and especially the one who shares them with me.

Adoptionversary

I never thought I'd own a dog.

But evidently we made a promise to my son (when he was maybe 1 or 2?) that he could have a dog when he was 10. Neither my husband nor I remembered the specific moment we made that promise. But our son did. And a promise is a promise.

So last fall, just before he turned 10, we found Bentley, a 16-month-old bichon-frise.

Today is the one-year anniversary of our adopting him.

And now it's hard to imagine our world without him.

He is cute as can be, loves to snuggle, is serene nearly all the time, is active when the kids want to play with him, is smart (well, as smart as a dog can be), loves us all, and is loved by all. Although I never before imagined wanting or loving a dog, he's brought such joy to our lives, and I'm thankful for that. I'm so glad he's part of our family.

Happy Adoptionversary, Bentley!

The School Game

Today is parent/teacher conference day. I always dread this day.

Although my children certainly have their talents, like all humans, they have their challenges as well. By now, I'm pretty well aware of all of them, and have even articulated them to others, but it's still really difficult to hear any less-than-positive statements about my own children from their teachers.

Uggh!

It's true that sometimes the children don't feel the need to perform to their abilities. Even though we've explained why it's important to learn their math facts or to write neatly or to answer in complete sentences or to turn in their homework on time, sometimes they simply don't care! There's only so much TV you can take away.

When the first-string motivations didn't work, we taught them to play "the school game." It's where you do all the homework and prepare for the exams and write neatly -- not for yourself, because of course you don't feel any of that is necessary -- but to win the highest points in the game and convince all the other players that you care about all those "unnecessary" things.

There are variations of this game, of course: The politics game. The career game. The social game. Et cetera. They'll encounter these sooner or later.

On school conference days, it is I who must play the school game. I smile and take notes and act like their observations (that this child needs to practice the math facts more or that child is too distractible or the other child needs to write more neatly) don't feel like stabs through my heart. "Yes, I see," I say. "What can we do to improve this skill?" "How can we help at home?" And then, "Thank you. We'll work on those. Now, where do you see my child succeeding?"

This is not my favorite game. Only nine more years to play it.

Bridge Reconstruction

"I'm trying not to get my hopes up." Statements like that are usually futile. Whether my hopes are up or down is largely independent of logic or intent.

But still, they're up.

We've started rebuilding that bridge I set fire to a year ago. And so far, we've been able to lay those foundation stones peacefully, without conflict.

Granted, that's just the base. It's essential to the structure, but useless if the bridge ultimately does not span the sides. We'll know in mid-December if the bridge components originating on each side meet in the middle.

With issues regarding the well being and the future of my children, sometimes my emotions overpower my logic. Fortunately, my husband provides the crucial link. With his help, I can see through the fog of emotion to the clarity ahead. And assembling a team of advocates helps tremendously, as well.

So together, our teams will continue to review the construction plans, research the best construction methods, revise and compromise when necessary, assemble the materials and skilled staff, and get to work. When we gather in December, I am hopeful we'll have found the keystone that holds our reconstructed bridge firmly in place for our daughter to cross.

Interpretation

A message for a special person in my life?
A metaphor for the transitional state of our government?
Or simply the status of my front lawn?

The interpretation is yours.
















Sometimes, you just have to stop trying to make it work. Leave behind what once was, plant new seeds, and watch them grow. Although the new seeds might be slow to germinate, they will eventually grow strong and reach upward!

Data Collection

I'm the family archivist. I like to keep track of things. Everything, really.

My husband is not so very interested in organizing or archiving or quantifying or planning. He's more of a live-in-the-moment kind of guy. Not that I'm knocking it! These traits, and more, have enabled him to become a successful entrepreneur. And he's really fun :)

So we balance each other out.

After all these years, he's taught me that I don't have to plan everything. I'm still a planner at heart, but I also realize that, to be happy, I have to be willing to change mid-course if the current plan isn't working. And I think I might have influenced him to believe that occasionally you do have to plan some things. (If we want to go out for the evening, for example, we have to arrange a sitter in advance. Stuff like that.)

Back to the archival tendencies... I keep notes on vacations, down to the room number of the hotel. In addition to photos, I've saved nearly all the greeting cards and letters and ticket stubs and other memorabilia we've collected after all these years. (I'm primarily visual and tactile, so I enjoy seeing and touching objects when recalling specific events.) I've saved all of my old calendars, back to the 1980s. They're sort of a non-annotated diary of my/our lives.

I've tallied how many pieces of candy we gave out at Halloween, and approximately how many children came trick-or-treating. (I know: that's just geeky.)

And now here's an odd one... The other day, as I was changing, I looked at my legs and noticed that one was visibly larger in circumference. To make sure it wasn't just in my mind, I asked my husband if he could see a difference. Sure enough, he could. It was real. Hmm. Remember, I've been on crutches for the fractured hip for 5 weeks now. The left leg has basically just been dangling there, as I'm not to put any weight on it. The muscles in that leg have completely atrophied. In contrast, the right leg has been doing double duty to support my weight all this time. The muscles are taut and firm. Hence, the difference in size.

But just seeing the difference wasn't quite satisfying to me. I just had to quantify the difference. So I got out the tape measure, of course. And I found that there's a 1/2-inch difference between the circumferences of my calves, and a 1-1/4-inch difference between the circumferences of my thighs! (The only thing that would have improved my empirical study would be to have a third leg, a control leg. Alas, I was born with only two. So I could test only the atrophy condition vs the overworked condition.)

To quote from Elton John: Such a sad, sad situation.

Eventually, I'll get back to working out. My strength trainer will help me to gradually improve the atrophied leg muscles so they're even again. It will take many months to accomplish this goal, but I know I'll get there. I'm not bothered by it, as I was a couple of weeks ago. This is merely one chapter in the book of my life.

So. Those are the results of my at-home study. Now I'll get back to organizing and labeling those archived photos...

Halloween Update

I meant to upload these photos as an update to last Friday's post. I guess the weekend was busy, and then I forgot!

This year, we had not one, but two, Hannah Montanas. And a thug :)

Old-Age Romeo and Juliet

"She was my little girl," sobbed the man whom I'd never seen cry before.

My 86-year-old grandfather was devastated when his beloved wife of 44 years passed away. So devastated that he joined her a mere four days later. Is it possible that he willed himself to have that heart attack? Or was his broken heart simply unable to beat without her beside him?

Next April, it will have been 20 years since their deaths. I still think of them so very often. They had been in their forties when my dad was born, so they were a generation older than most of my friends' grandparents. Although their minds were sharp as a tack, they had worked hard all their lives and their bodies had started to become frail and troublesome to them. They may not have been the most physically active grandparents, but they were good people of strong character. I learned much about right and wrong, love, loyalty, and respect from them.

So although it saddened us all to lose both of them virtually at the same time, it wasn't all that surprising that one couldn't live without the other.

In the nearly twenty years since their passing, I occasionally come across stories of other couples who have felt the same way. We are inundated with divorces and infidelities that are reported in the media, but there are those who persevere and who need, love, and want each other despite the tolls of decades.

Ben Folds found just the right words to describe this love in his song, "The Luckiest." Without fail, I cannot help but visualize my grandparents every time I play that song. And when I read stories of others who loved one another so greatly, I can't help but smile that some find a way to stay together, even in the afterlife.

I was young and in college when my grandparents passed away. When I looked at them, I saw the wrinkles and gray hair. But they didn't. To him, she would always be his "little girl," young and vibrant, the way she looked when they met.

Turn On

In a Cadillac commercial, Kate Walsh asks, "The real question is, When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?"

My husband's new car is not a Cadillac, but it's safe to say it passes the test.

I think he's in love. Or lust. With his car.

(By the way, the jilted ex, the former object of his affection, is now looking to hook up with someone new!)

New Cinderella Story

With a metaphorical sweep of wands, the little mice helped clean the house -- banishing the school papers from the fridge, stuffing the file folders and laptop in drawers, erasing the mundane reminders from the chalkboard, relocating the toys and DVDs to their rightful spots out of sight.

More sweeps of the wands, and the appetizers were prepared, the chilled wine uncorked, the evening's signature drinks mixed, the music played throughout the house.

Prince Charming swept the mice off to other mice's homes for the night.

Completing the transformation, Cinderella donned the skinny jeans, the designer top, the makeup and jewelry. The straight hair was curled in tiny ringlets for a "new" look.

Cinderella and her Prince were ready for their guests, a grown-up evening. No pigs-in-a-blanket and juice boxes on the menu.

Enjoying the evening long after the clock struck midnight, and with no familial morning obligations, this Cinderella indulged in the rare luxury of sleeping in. (Other Cinderellas might not consider sleeping until 7:45 am -- 6:45 with the time change -- sleeping in, but this one was satiated!)

After enjoying a lazy morning with her Prince, after the coffee had been drunk and the paper had been read and breakfast had been consumed and the wine/shot/martini glasses had been washed, she looked in the mirror: the fuzzy robe was not luxurious; the slept-on curls no longer looked glamorous, and now felt like an unnatural wig atop her head; she missed her little mice.

A shower straightened her hair. The everyday jeans were slipped on, with a comfy knit top. The school papers were reclaimed. The mice were retrieved. Prince Charming went outside to mow.

Cinderella, her Prince, and their three little mice resumed living happily ever after.