Friday, July 25, 2008


Today, I rescued a baby possum. Or I didn't. It's hard to say. I heard Girlie's mutt barking his head off at something in the back yard and naturally I ignored it because he's barked that head off every day since we rescued him from the humane society. After a few minutes I went out back and we had our usual exchange: "Marty, knock it off." "Bark." "Marty, come on buddy, let's go in the house." "Bark." "MARTY!!!" "Bark." "Baby want a treat?" And in the house he ran only as I glanced back to where he'd been standing, I saw a furry something in the grass by the hedge. At first I thought that it was the headless stuffed ostrich that is the favorite of my Italian Greyhound, Bella. But it was actually a very small baby possum. Hmmmmm. I got a shoe box and an old towel and scooped it into the box. I gave it a couple of drops of water and it looked at me with grumpiness and fear. It had a twig firmly gripped in its tiny hands. I called the police, animal services, Pesky Critters, the veterinarian, and a wildlife rehabilitation company. They all were either unable to assist, charged a fortune, weren't available, or uninterested. Hmmmmm. At the rehabilitation company's website, I found that like most idiots, I had assumed that the baby had been abandoned. If possible, they should be left alone because mommy will come looking for them. So I took it back to its spot, turned the box on its side and kept my dogs out of the yard. A couple of hours later, it was gone. Poof! Thin air. No sign of foul play, no cats ever come in our yard (dogs, remember?), and I haven't seen any blue herons or other birds of prey around here. Furthermore, it was fairly protected and hidden by the box and the hedge. So Girlie and I have chosen to believe that Possum Mommy came to the rescue and all is well with the world. If you think differently, I don't want to know about it. (Hands over ears) la, la, la, la , la....

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Dr. Who?

The most agonizing decision when you move to a new city is where to send your child to jail. I mean, school. Then, after you've picked a few candidates, you have to apply and wait for a decision (unless you are lucky enough to live where the public schools rock -- we don't). We were sooooo lucky to find a great Montessori school that loved us and Girlie right back. Then I had to find a veterinarian. Not for Girlie, she's next, but for my pooches who have to be boarded when we go on vacation and need a good vet and a good boarding place for that matter. Since we are going on vacation before Girlie goes back to school, that took precedence over finding a pediatrician. Now that's done too. Yay. So then I went trolling for pediatricians in our area. I found one who is a woman doctor and mother of three young girls. Sounds perfect but more importantly, Girlie saw her picture and immediately thought that she looked nice. So we went. The nurse was probably six feet tall, African American and very friendly but Girlie could only see that she did not match the picture on the website. "Who are you?" Girlie demanded, fearful that a switcheroo had occurred. The nurse explained and Girlie relaxed. Then the doctor came in. Now, have you ever been guilty of never updating your ten year old business head shot? I have and I think perhaps our doctor had too. She is a very attractive (more importantly competent) doctor who did not at all resemble her picture. Girlie cried. And cried. And then she wept. It took several minutes to calm her down. She was nervous to begin with and I guess she just thought that this stranger doctor couldn't possibly be as nice as the doctor in the picture. Who knows. Luckily, said doctor is indeed the mother of three young girls and she handled Girlie like a pro. Now Girlie is happy, I have the medical forms for school in hand AND IT'S ONLY JULY!!! I have never been so on top of my game. We may even get a dentist visit in soon.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Dance Fever

Today, for the first time in months, my daughter put on socks. Not for wearing with shoes, however. She only wears Crocs (ugh) in the summer months. She informed me that after a day and a half of playing Dance Dance Revolution (Mario version), she needed to cushion her feet. She's been stomping away non-stop in the back bedroom (now known officially as Girlie's playroom) and like the rest of the house, it has hardwood floors so her tootsies are sore. We've had the game for awhile and I've watched as Girlie and her cousins and friends feverishly "dance" in time with the music. But it's really just stomping. Have you noticed? Kids stomp on the dance mat as if they were crushing giant cockroaches (so she is actually developing a good skill for Miami). No doubt it's great exercise. Hubby and I have had more than one late night dance-off and I've come down late at night and found Hubby sans shirt dancing up a sweat with the blinds open and everything. Sorry neighbors. It hasn't happened in our new neighborhood yet but it's only a matter of time. They've got the fever, my family. Watch out cockroaches.

Monday, July 07, 2008

News and Updates and Fresh Promises

So I'm going to blame moving to Miami for my departure of late from blogging. Now we have been here a month and I'm thinking it's time to get back on the bandwagon. In the meantime: I have been in a wedding as a 45 year old bridesmaid (my daughter co-starred as a flower girl). I have had an art show in Miami. I found an art representative in Miami. My art is hanging at a gallery in Miami (thanks to the show and the representative). I've made new art (see one sample above). My last book, Letters From A Dead Armadillo got a 5 star review on Amazon from Midwest Review of Books. And of course I moved. We didn't sell our old house in Tampa. Instead we rented it to a lovely military couple and their kids for the next three years. Best highlight from the wedding? The lead singer for the Temptations and his latest group performed Motown hits and all the dance moves that go along with it a la The Temptations. It was truly a huge wedding with no detail ignored. One for the record books, my friends.