Category Archives: Progression

Into the Woods

Getting ready for vacation is so much different than it used to be. Rob, Scarlett, Otto and I are in Calistoga for the week, a nice drive less than two hours from our house. In short, the perfect,  easy summer trip. But here is a snapshot of our family getting ready this morning:

My sister is over to help me shower. Rob is loading medical devices into the mobility van. Scarlett and her cousin Jack are reading together on the couch, until reading turns into kicking, which turns into yelling, which turns into falling on the floor, which somehow turns into doing a puzzle together. Otto takes this opportunity to climb onto a piece of furniture that is not dog approved. I notice, but say nothing. I am annoyed at my helplessness, my inability to get this act together. The prep takes hours, even though Scarlett packed her own bag, and my assistant set out all my clothes the day before.

My sister cleans out the fridge, and then helps me pack my medicine and a bag of makeup that will never grace my face. But why not bring it? Then we’re finally in the car, looking once again like the Beverly Hillbillies. Read More>

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To-Do or not To-Do

I have a love/hate relationship with my to-do list. If it’s very long and contains complicated phrases like “call allergist for Scarlett” or “deal with insurance”, I feel a little heaviness inside, that weight of obligation. But as I cruise through the items, it’s a great feeling to check them off, to know that I’ve accomplished something.

Like most people, I tend to get more done when I’m busy. It’s so easy to ignore a tiny amount of work, and instead start rabidly watching season six of Pretty Little Liars on Amazon Prime. I mean, I’m not saying I did that yesterday, but I’m sure someone somewhere did. And I just want to make sure you know it was not me. 

There’s a story from my college days that illustrates what happens to me when I’m not busy enough. I was taking a Zoology class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The class began at 11 AM, a perfectly reasonable hour even for a carbo-coma college student who mainly subsisted on bagels and Papa John’s breadsticks. Class was across campus, so I had to ride my bike, but it was a straight shot from my dorm, and nothing to complain about. Read More>

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Stolen Summer

My memories of summer start with heat. In the mornings, coming down to breakfast, hair sticky with sweat. Spending afternoons at the community pool, eating melted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hot fruit, wishing our parents would spring for something from the concession: salty popcorn, Sno cones, nachos dripping with gooey cheese. Evenings, still so light that we could sometimes walk down the block to the library in our pajamas, which felt like some incredible adventure. Then running through the grass, catching fireflies until it was time to go to sleep again, the open windows letting in some breeze, kicking at the single sheet, all that was manageable with the thick air.

I grew up outside Chicago, in a suburb called Oak Park, where many of my family and friends still live. As I got older, summer meant “L” rides to the beach,  the final blocks traversed with a pair of rollerblades, a skill I never quite mastered, so that on the downhill parts, I could almost always be trusted to run into a newsstand.

At the beach, my girlfriends and I lathered ourselves with suntan oil, virtually nothing protective about it, and laid out on bright towels to bake ourselves golden. We met boys, lied about our ages, and once drank spiked kool-aid from a large cooler with boisterous characters we’d only just met. Read More>

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