Lately I've been reuniting with long lost friends, from college, from my twenties in Boston, and it's been truly wonderful. We're now in our fifties, lots of life experience between us and the road has been rough. Divorce and financial worries have hit many of them.

The writing life

The writing life these days is like scraping together a career in a high school newspaper (even the nonpaying part), all these mediocre mom-writers who go on and on, no one with the time or bother to read anyone elses work, it's all just a bunch of self-congratulatory muck. And now the stay at home dads have joined the legions, mostly writing about travel, or sports, and unless it's been culled and landed in the NY Times, then once again, it's all muck. The problem is, everyone's a writer, no one's a critic. No one is saying "you suck." So all these words fill the blogosphere, the online versions of every which way of print, and suddenly everyone has a self-important byline. A byline plus out-of-check ego is a very dangerous pass toward dilettante.

Missing you

what was I thinking sending Ben off to camp. Once again, can't blame anyone but myself, did I think I wouldn't miss him, that it would be a nice break from the cooking and cleaning, that I'd get to speak with him just once for the entire month. Well, the reality has sunk in, there is no talking to your child during camp. Letters yes, a few bunk mails, maybe twice a week, but it's his voice I miss, holding him, my sweet boy. And truly how is he? He must be homesick, I did catch one picture of him and he looked shy sitting in that canoe with his cabinmates. I want to send him a message that if he's not happy he can come home. That was the bargain, that after two weeks he could decide.

Conceit

Things are rough out there. Times are tough. But what bothers me is that in the midst of all this economic woefulness, there are all these perky blogs written by perky moms about topics they feel entitled to own. Like changing diapers, or cooking a popover or their wonderful husbands. I find the whole rosy picture a big, fat sham. And the moo cow raving commentors are even more annoying. I feel like I'm back in high school with the popular girls-note that most of these bloggers have 'cool' looking photos of themselves, because, well, a fat girl in dumpy clothes just wouldn't do- not for the Huffington Post anyway.

And just for the record I'm no slouch, but I don't sit there talking it up and down about my perfect giggling girl- of course disguised as the embarassingly loud whinner- when we all know, there are people out there with children who are autistic or Downs or simply impoverished. Just keep up the facade and hope it never touches you. Oh and once again, for the record, my child is bright, good looking too, but isn't there just a bit more to life then staring at your child's imperfectly gorgeous navel?

My ten year old son needs sneakers but he only wants the 6.0 Nikes and I can't find a store that carries size 5 and 1/2. So I cut his toenails. So far it seems to be working, although I feel particularly lousy when I see he has gym. But Halloween is approaching and we have other demons to conquer. He's invited a half-dozen friends over and although they probably are expecting 4 large pizzas to arrive at our door, I've decided to spend under 6 bucks and make spaghetti sauce and garlic bread. I'm on a cost cutting mission as you know.

I used to write for the NY Times. They got rid of the regional section and us freelancers and, well, the personal voice...not to mention the editors correcting typos. Welcome to the 21 century.
Recently had a moment to read the new Met Home magazine. Is it me, or does pretention scream out louder these days: "Savoir Flair"(please, save me)-Beth Gross invokes to her husband as the proverbial lightbulb goes on...during months of house-hunting, nothing lit her bulb until she saw a "remarkable empty lot on a lakeside street, that came with an equally remarkable building plan for a David Adler-inspired house," Beth gushes. Give me a break, who is David Adler and why does Beth gush throughout the piece. That's it, getting rid of any subscription that uses the words gushes and 'lit her bulb' more than three times in a paragraph.

Another rainy weekend. Another weekend within the oppressive constraints of our newly tightened budget. Googling "free NJ weekend events." Came up with a WBGO family jazz concert at our local middle school. My son was not too pleased, but since he's ten, short enough to push out the door, he went. It was the Steven Bernstein Band, perhaps you saw us there, my son mostly sulking as they improvised "The wheels on the bus." I loved it.

I used to write about the lack of playdates available for my son when he was six or seven, but now that he's ten, it's actually worse. His best friend across the street recently got into this chokingly competitive private school and studies each afternoon, he's basically MIA. Weekends are no better, the kid never calls, ever.