Long time no blog. Apologies and...updates: So weird that I am 38. Sigh. I'd give myself long odds on accomplishing everything I'd intended to between now and 40, but the good news is, the lead on any post-Pulitzer interview could now be, "Amazingly, she toiled for years in advertising and didn't publish her first novel until the age of 39 (or so)." For now, I toil in advertising-ish things until the muse (read: giant expanse of free time) strikes me. Which I have been warned it never does, in which case I will be a Grandma Moses of "mom"oirs and pithy short stories. Milo is not that weird, but at the peak of his charms. Really, he's a bit of an asshole. But he has this sly, sweet look — you know, the kind the cute guy in algebra gave you just before he asked to cheat off your homework? This is the look Milo is giving to check-out girls and passers-by. There's an outside chance that Milo is cool. He will be applying for some kind of exchange program soon after realizing that no one else here is cool. Sorry in advance, kid.
Lucy: a strong force in keeping Austin weird. Ah, Lucy, I go to her next, not because she is not cool (there's still a chance, baby girl), but because I see her approaching an age where it matters to be cool. And I see her approaching that age wearing a crocheted tail, many layers of costume jewelry and fake eyeglasses. She will be fine (for this week, at least: she's going to art camp).
Jason = more dweeb than weird. For my birthday he gave me a French press and a subscription to The Art of Eating, the indie food mag the NYT calls "erudite" — clear evidence that he not only gets me, but also the person I aspire to be.
We are weird. We are here. Get used to it.