Category Archives: attempts at humor

The IQ Test (making friends with crows #13)

This is the 13th installment of my friendship with crows.  Click here to start from the beginning.  Watching an excellent PBS documentary about crows, A Murder of Crows, I was intrigued by Anna Braun’s study to test crows’ reasoning abilities. She

The IQ Test (making friends with crows #13)

This is the 13th installment of my friendship with crows.  Click here to start from the beginning.  Watching an excellent PBS documentary about crows, A Murder of Crows, I was intrigued by Anna Braun’s study to test crows’ reasoning abilities. She

Tossing Nuts Out the Window (Making Friends With Crows #11)

While driving my 11-year-old to her before-school chorus class, I spy a solitary crow atop a telephone pole.  I keep a bag of roasted, unsalted peanuts in the car so that if we see any crows while we’re out, I

Tossing Nuts Out the Window (Making Friends With Crows #11)

While driving my 11-year-old to her before-school chorus class, I spy a solitary crow atop a telephone pole.  I keep a bag of roasted, unsalted peanuts in the car so that if we see any crows while we’re out, I

The Big, Easy Surrender (the Thing About New Orleans)

I am a Northern Californian.  Berkeley is in my bones.  I like fecund, overgrown gardens and fog slinking under the Golden Gate.  I like funky cafes, musty bookstores, and trails under redwood trees.  I like people who care enough to

The Big, Easy Surrender (the Thing About New Orleans)

I am a Northern Californian.  Berkeley is in my bones.  I like fecund, overgrown gardens and fog slinking under the Golden Gate.  I like funky cafes, musty bookstores, and trails under redwood trees.  I like people who care enough to

take my breath away

(a la Betsy Lerner, because reading her blog always makes me feel better) Lately, every time I come across this word, my heart does a little herky-jerk:  Submission.  As in the thing a writer has to do if she ever

take my breath away

(a la Betsy Lerner, because reading her blog always makes me feel better) Lately, every time I come across this word, my heart does a little herky-jerk:  Submission.  As in the thing a writer has to do if she ever

glass balls tied in a rope; a found poem

I have just returned from an extended vacation with my family. It feels like some crazy mommy hijacked my body and took me for a joy ride. They finally found it abandoned by the side of the road and brought

glass balls tied in a rope; a found poem

I have just returned from an extended vacation with my family. It feels like some crazy mommy hijacked my body and took me for a joy ride. They finally found it abandoned by the side of the road and brought

Help! Summer is here!

(Shhh…)  Help! My children have hijacked my life. It happens every year in June and lasts until September.  They have duct-taped my laptop shut and cavort half-naked around it, brandishing plastic baseball bats and gardening tools and chomping the air

Help! Summer is here!

(Shhh…)  Help! My children have hijacked my life. It happens every year in June and lasts until September.  They have duct-taped my laptop shut and cavort half-naked around it, brandishing plastic baseball bats and gardening tools and chomping the air

Mothers Group (or Euphenasia)

Setting:  Every Wednesday at ten o’clock they meet at Tot Land, a busy kiddy park packed with tricycles, play tables, and a huge mess of discarded plastic toys. Characters: Prudy (a red-headed Brit who hasn’t slept for more than four

Mothers Group (or Euphenasia)

Setting:  Every Wednesday at ten o’clock they meet at Tot Land, a busy kiddy park packed with tricycles, play tables, and a huge mess of discarded plastic toys. Characters: Prudy (a red-headed Brit who hasn’t slept for more than four

poor me: a brief dip in the pool of self pity

I’ve never entered a writing contest before, mostly because usually they charge a fee (which makes the whole thing seem like a racket) but also because I am a really, really lousy loser.  My husband won’t play pool with me

poor me: a brief dip in the pool of self pity

I’ve never entered a writing contest before, mostly because usually they charge a fee (which makes the whole thing seem like a racket) but also because I am a really, really lousy loser.  My husband won’t play pool with me

20 Random Things About Me

  The following list was one of those Facebook questionnaires that was circling around a couple years ago.  I wrote this list shortly after I first started Facebooking, in that honeymoon period when my friends were all people I really knew

20 Random Things About Me

  The following list was one of those Facebook questionnaires that was circling around a couple years ago.  I wrote this list shortly after I first started Facebooking, in that honeymoon period when my friends were all people I really knew

picking cherries (in honor of v day)

(photo courtesy Sea Moon) It was a special occasion.  It was the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a facial,” he said—“my sister says they’re fun.”  What

picking cherries (in honor of v day)

(photo courtesy Sea Moon) It was a special occasion.  It was the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a facial,” he said—“my sister says they’re fun.”  What

dating myself

It seems that personal relationships are getting more and more complicated these days. I hate to date myself, but didn’t things used to be a lot less convoluted? See, I  just checked my email and found this note: Anna has

dating myself

It seems that personal relationships are getting more and more complicated these days. I hate to date myself, but didn’t things used to be a lot less convoluted? See, I  just checked my email and found this note: Anna has

Fuck You Delta Airlines, You Fucking Fuckers.

It was way past bedtime when we finally got home. I put our girls to bed while John called to locate our missing bags and I was almost asleep when he finally came to bed looking grim. Apparently, because we

Fuck You Delta Airlines, You Fucking Fuckers.

It was way past bedtime when we finally got home. I put our girls to bed while John called to locate our missing bags and I was almost asleep when he finally came to bed looking grim. Apparently, because we

the chorus speaks (chapter 10)

(photo by fotorosso on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/fotorosso/) A week later, Drew is in the shower in her apartment when the phone rings.   She stands in front of the mirror dripping on the floor as she listens to the voicemail message: Hello,

the chorus speaks (chapter 10)

(photo by fotorosso on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/fotorosso/) A week later, Drew is in the shower in her apartment when the phone rings.   She stands in front of the mirror dripping on the floor as she listens to the voicemail message: Hello,

making friends with crows

(photo by cheddar on flickr) My guess is eggs, but my four-year-old Gwyneth thinks they probably like meat and Kenyon, my ten-year-old, says cheese. But if you ask me, eggs, preferably hardboiled, might be the tidiest, surest, and cheapest way

making friends with crows

(photo by cheddar on flickr) My guess is eggs, but my four-year-old Gwyneth thinks they probably like meat and Kenyon, my ten-year-old, says cheese. But if you ask me, eggs, preferably hardboiled, might be the tidiest, surest, and cheapest way

how to make a grown woman cry

(photo by plumpvegan@flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/plumpvegan/) With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922–June 18, 2010), on his birthday. Sometimes, when I’m reading a really, really good book and I get to that part where plotlines converge or characters come together

how to make a grown woman cry

(photo by plumpvegan@flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/plumpvegan/) With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922–June 18, 2010), on his birthday. Sometimes, when I’m reading a really, really good book and I get to that part where plotlines converge or characters come together

hangin’ in the closet

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about closets, both literal and metaphorical. Probably because I started a blog. Writing a blog feels like standing on a subway grate with

hangin’ in the closet

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about closets, both literal and metaphorical. Probably because I started a blog. Writing a blog feels like standing on a subway grate with