A Wife for Rhett Butler

Obviously when I asked readers to ask questions I should have set some ground rules. Notably that the Namby Pamby was not eligible to participate. True to form he asked:

“When are you going to have kids?”

Great question Namby. Are you available to babysit? No? Do you have a small fortune with which you would like to pay for child care and/or my sanity? No?

Right then, moving right along. Oh look! It is Namby again! He wants to know when we are getting Rhett Butler a wife.


We like boy dogs.

The next dog will be one of large enough size that he can eat Namby in one ferocious gulp.

That or a basset hound that howls every time he comes over without the proper toll, commonly considered to be one bottle of Hendricks gin around these parts.

Anyway, we had been discussing the possibility of children, somewhere, in the future, and then like clockwork an email thread between some friends (who are mostly Moms) touched on the topics of puking children (times five million), children who are teething and then more bodily fluids- stemming from children. Suffice to say: I think a pet turtle sounds nice right about now.

We can name it Scarlett.



Guiding Light

Today, as I’m overcome with what some call “writers block” I’m opening up the comments to questions.

Anything you want to know?

Is there something you’d like me to write about?

 A piece of advice you would like me to tackle, tell you how to muddle through a situation?

(I’m nothing if not good at being slightly bossy and opinionated….)

I’m opening the floor up to all of you. I’ll answer questions later this week and save any post-prompts for future episodes of writers block.

That Flying Thing Called Time

Two years ago yesterday B got down on one knee on the frigid Chicago lakefront and proposed to me.

(It was, in my opinion, too cold to remove my glove and put the ring on. B, interestingly enough, disagreed.)

The Oscars have come and gone. Valentines Day isn’t even on the clearance shelves anymore. It is March 1st. In a few days, Baby Z turns two years old.


He now carries his shoes through my parents room, bathroom and into their closet. He re-arranges my Dad’s shoes and then places his in an empty spot he has created.

“WITH PAPA’S!” he exclaims, before running off and piling his stroller with all of his balls and Sing-a-ma-jigs and taking them all for a walk around the living room, barefoot. His shoes, after all, are with Papa’s.

I had my second annual review at work. It went…very well. Twice I’ve done the sweaty palmed walk to the conference room and awaited the worst, only to be pleasantly surprised. Onward and upward as they say. Onward and upward.

Daylight Savings Time is in less than two weeks. I see more evening visits to the dog park in our future, lakefront strolls and evenings spent on a sailboat.

I’m eyeing dresses in magazines. Trying to decide when will be the right time to take all the wool coats to the cleaners before putting them away. Hoping next week is the week I make it to the gym five times, thus earning myself my first pedicure of spring. Hot pink is on the horizon.

Last night though was all about the cold weather comforts. We celebrated two years with more than twice as many dishes, shared with laughter, bread crumbs, and occasionally yolk drip.  

I have no idea where I will be in two years, but I know the important people will be there, cheering me on with love and high-fives, just as they have for the past two years. Through snowstorms and spring time, good times and bad. There are few things that are constant, but those that are, are so very worth it.

Close But No Cigar

My ability to own things that look remarkably similar, yet are polar opposites, and then try to use one in the place of another is well documented.

That said, this mix-up was…epic.

Don’t be like Daisy.

Throw away gag-gift Play-Doh perfume samples given to you at a conference, lest you smear it on your face.


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