One Foot In
The relationship Calvin described having with Alice made me terrifically uncomfortable, because I didn’t know any other marriage like his: a marriage made up of two people somehow fundamentally different and permanently in love.
Now I know I have won. I no longer have to say to my friends, “Either I will finish this book, or it will finish me.”
There’s an old adage about how pyromaniacs become firefighters, criminals become cops, and crazy people become psychiatrists. Let’s talk about ethicists.
Mrs. Kuzmier, my fourth grade teacher, told me I couldn’t be a writer.
A good friend is facing a book deadline of her own, and I offered to be her book nag, and so I found myself sharing with her my tips on how to manage writing a book when you’re also a mother. . . .
Writing as intensely as I did at the end of my dissertation is even more exhausting than it was way back then, no doubt because I’m older and busier. I feel sorry for my mate, who has a spouse who currently sleeps upwards of eleven hours a day.
The mate and Bob the Builder pulled off more of the mantle. This, in turn, exposed what was obviously once a chipmunk nest, as well as evidence of what might have been former nests of small birds. They’d been sneaking in through the siding, into this warm space between the mantle and the outside of the house. I tackled it all with barbecue tongs and the shopvac. Thunk, thunk, thunk, went the acorns up the vacuum tube. Then, last week, came the bat.
Apparently a friend of ours had mentioned over poker that his wife had said to him, presumably in a dreamy voice, “Do you think the future Princess Kate thinks about becoming Queen?” I admitted to the mate I had been wondering the exact same thing.
I found myself again caught in the weird situation where I seem to be giving someone the impression that I actually enjoy pissing people off. I don’t, really. I actually don’t enjoy it at all. I kind of hate it.