Did you see the article on page 3 of the Globe’s “Sidekick” section? Sorry, I can’t find it online today.
Anyway, it talks about a blog where about 40 moms blog about their kids. It’s http://www.dot-moms.com.
According to the Sidekick article, “… if you think you’ve got what it takes to be a DotMom, you can submit a proposal to the site’s founder and editor, Julie Moos.
Sorry, Iggy, it’s important for my blogging mom friends to know about this.
Where are the sparrows?
Iggy re-stocked all the bird feeders on Sunday. This morning (Tuesday), I noticed that none of them have been pecked at. Not even the wire cage-enclosed feeder that’s the sparrows’ favorite.
Is there a better party in the neighbor? That’s what Iggy usually suggests when the sparrows or squirrels make themselves scarce.
I’ll have to watch the Squirrel Palace to see if the sparrows go there after the squirrels vacate it later this morning. Perhaps, with hulled sunflower seeds so abundant at the Palace, the sparrows are rejecting plebian bird seed mix.
The squirrels have beaten me down.
They’re not coming to me for nuts. Yesterday morning I got no takers when I went outside with three nuts, an ear of dried corn and a jar of peanut butter. So I screwed the corn onto the Squngee, dunked it in the peanut butter, positioned one nut atop the shepherd’s hook and scattered the rest over the icy patio.
Later in the day, I didn’t bother stepping outside. I tossed my nuts from the back door.
I felt surprised to see a squirrel emerge almost immediately. She fastened her mouth around one nut, but kept on sniffing. Squirrels who can only handle one nut often locate more before scurrying into the bushes. Perhaps they leave their scent on them to scare off competitors. Or perhaps they try to memorize the nut’s location for future reference.
Anyway, when this squirrel reached the second nut, she stuffed it in her mouth next to the first nut.
It was Tuna, the two-nutter!
I was glad to see her. She hasn’t been around much lately. Same goes for Pu Shi, the Chinese squirrel.
I miss my entertaining friends.
Wonder why James Frey called it a memoir instead of a novel?
“Memoir Becomes Novel, Secret Remains Secret” suggests that memoirs command a higher price. In the case of Martha Sherrill’s manuscript, the size of her advance fell by one-third when she decided to change it from a memoir to a novel.
I can recommend this blog to writers: The Mechanic & the Muse.
I found some interesting posts on this blog.
There’s a link to a “ly detector.” It will highlight all words on a web page ending in “ly.” Adverbs, watch out!
Then there’s “The Passivator.”
They are both Java bookmarklets — whatever that means. I’d better find out.
Chip Scanlan, the author of The Mechanic & The Muse, also has an interesting posting called “What James Frey Should Have Written.” In this posting, he quotes an example of a good disclosure by a memoirist.
Ms. Magazine’s editorial offices are located in Beverly Hills, Calif. Does that strike you as odd?
How can a magazine that rejects stereotyped images of women live in a location I’d consider so hostile to its point of view?
If you don’t believe me, or if you’d like to submit an article to Ms., click for the mailing address.
My last posting, “Enjoyable Hartford Courant columnist” got me thinking about legs. Fat Charlatan’s comment on the posting raised the topic again.
I remember looking at the legs of one of my high school English teachers. “She’s got hot dog legs,” I thought to myself. Her legs ran up and down smoothly, without misshapen indents and curves.
My legs indent at the knees. They swell out from there — classics of the piano leg style.
Even worse, my legs are prone to “five o’clock shadow.” I’ll bet you thought only men could suffer from that. But my leg hairs are prolific. They sprout like the snakes on Medusa’s head. I can’t ever totally eliminate them. That’s why I hated when my former employer decided to tolerate women’s bare legs during the summer. My secret was going to pop out of my pores.
However, I’ve decided to tough it out. Comfort trumps beauty, I’ve decided. I even wear shorts in the summer.
Sorry, folks. Don’t look too close.
Enjoyable Hartford Courant columnist
I sometimes enjoy reading Gina Barreca’s column online, especially when she spouts sensible lines like this: “When I glance at my legs, I want to remember the places they’ve taken me rather than how they looked when I was 17.”
That quote is from “Looking At My Body With Gratitude Not Disdain.”
I aspire to the viewpoint summarized by that quote. But I often don’t achieve it.
“And seeing Shorty in the cage . . . had not just tugged at Hewitt’s heartstrings but had penetrated her chest and locked both hands onto the big red pump.” — Quote from p. 77 of Sheldon Rusch’s For Edgar (NY: Berkley Crime, 2005).
This made me think of what I’ve said about my squirrels: They’ve sunk their claws into my heart.
By the way, For Edgar is a gruesome, but gripping mystery. Probably the only mystery I’ve read that devotes more than two pages to quoting poetry.
Iggy cannot smile for the camera.
I’ve tried everything. Making funny faces at Iggy. Tickling him when we’re standing side by side for a photo. Saying “try showing some teeth.”
Nothing works.
But Iggy has a beautiful smile in person. That’s part of what attracted me to him.
Meanwhile, I seem to have mastered the knack of smiling for photographers. My mother-in-law claims that she has never seen a bad picture of me. Good thing she concentrates on my face and not on my tummy, hips or thighs.
Iggy has immortalized me in many photos. From the frequency with which he snaps my image, you might think I was Paris Hilton and he was one of the paparazzi going after a big money pic.
Iggy acts as if he’s crazy about me. I’m crazy about him.