Others are equally obsessed with Dorothy Parker.

I joined the library in my new neighborhood today. Brought in a zoning permit as proof of residence because I still haven't gotten around to ordering up a new driver's license. Left said zoning permit at the front desk. My cell rang while I was browsing the audiobook selection. I've gotten back into the deal of listening to books. (Thank you, Manova.) It's not what I prefer and I'm not particularly good at it—a  visual person, I sort of need to see things in print—but I least at allows me to absorb stories while I do the dishes.

"... I forgot to give back your zoning permit," the librarian said apologetically.
"No worries. I'm still here." On my cell. Faux pas. 

So I head back up to the desk, taking a quick detour through the new arrivals. Fiction. And I spot this title: Farewell, Dorothy Parker. How could I have possibly have missed this? I'm sort of obsessed with Dorothy Parker. (Answer: Two kids, one job, three pets. I miss everything.) I checked out the book. It didn't look like the kind of novel I'd typically read. Still, it was about Dorothy Parker. So then I actually checked out the book. It's the normal, printed book. Perhaps someone will read it to me while I do dishes.

Dottie walking with Digs.
Today, I also learned that a friend's friend
 distills "Dorothy Parker" gin. In Brooklyn. 

My admiration for Dorothy Parker started in Mrs. Olson's 10th grade English class with "One Perfect Rose." Among the gushy sonnets and other, less memorable poetry we were reading, this sarcastic bit struck me as brilliant. I was hooked. The love affair continued:

• As an undergrad, I wrote an entire thesis on Dorothy Parker's short stories.
• When I first moved to New York, I made a mecca to the brownstone where she lived on the Upper West Side.
• My friend John Loecke and I would go for cocktails at the Algonquin, fancying ourselves a modern-day "Park Bench." (Except we worked at Ladies' Home Journal and not the New Yorker.)
• I have Dorothy Parker martini glasses (Thank you, Ronda).
• There's a large framed photograph of Dorothy Parker's cat, lounging on Dorothy Parker's bed hanging behind my head—in our living room—right now. (Thank you, Kate.)

But here's the thing: I "loved" Dorothy Parker the first time I read her words. But the more I learned about her, the more this affinity made sense. The woman wasn't just witty; she was awesome. She was a major champion for civil rights. She left her entire estate to Martin Luther King and willed that it be turned over to the NAACP if something should happen to him. (And it did - he was assassinated the year after her death.) She loved animals. If you read her short stories, her empathy is obvious. She "got" people. She demanded authenticity. All of these things are important to me. Could I possibly have read that between the few lines of "One Perfect Rose"? 

No, I don't really know Dorothy Parker - but I do know this: Those people with whom I seem to have an instant connection... I can't think of one time when it was just a superficial spark. Over time, the reasons have always been revealed. I find that fascinating. 

Oversharing has its benefits.

I recently took a Myers Briggs test. Turns out, I'm an extrovert. Shocking.

Extroversion has its benefits, sure—but it's frustrating too. I talk too much.

In kindergarten, this landed me in the "bad chair." (Call it like it is, 1980.)  In elementary school, constant chatter earned me time inside writing sentences while other kids recessed. (I have excellent penmanship.) Whispering through geometry = detention (I hear such places are called things like "thinking rooms" these days). See the pattern?

Still, I can't seem to shut up. I have trouble keeping quiet in meetings. I release brain blurts without forming them into full sentences. I say lots of the wrong things. I think I scare people.

Yet, too much talking//oversharing also has served me well. I know a lot about a lot of interesting people. Opening yourself up invites people to open up on. I make new friends. I get great tips. Support and accountability find me.

Just sharing yesterday's blog, one friend suggested that I should start reading Anna Rosenblum Palmer's Shelburbia. (So glad I did. It's awesome writing: real, honest, funny.) Another friend took me to lunch today and told me it was time to face my fears. He's so right. And I left with an action item: This fall, I'm enrolling in high-performance driving school. I've been talking about it for years. Time to shut up and actually do something.

There are dangers I hadn't even considered. (Shocking, really.)

It appeared in my in-box today: a note from Nixle (basically a police plotter-type service intended for paranoid peeps like myself) announcing that a boa constrictor had been found in my old neighborhood, just steps off the path of my old running route. "Crazy shit happening in the old 'hood, huh?" I wrote to Joanne. "OMG. Can you imagine if you'd seen this on your run?" I zipped off to Renee.

Then, about an hour later, I read about two brothers strangled to death, while they slept, by an African rock python.  The coincidence was bizarre.

My heart hurt thinking about those little boys in New Brunswick, each two years ahead of my little guys. Thinking of their parents. Holy awful shit.

I'm afraid of everything: Great Whites off the coast of the Cape, busy highways, fast-moving traffic. I worry about fluke falls and calm waters that might seduce a confident preschooler into sneaking off for a solo swim. I fear I wouldn't do the right thing if I crossed a bear in the woods with my kid. I worry when I hear how loud the clunk is when an apple drops down from high branches onto my deck. Should we chop down the tree? Surely I hit like that would really hurt a little head. It could even... You never know when danger will descend.

Today's tragic story of the python and the sleeping boys didn't  stoke a fear of snakes (that's actually pretty low on my list). But it did suggest that there are dangers I haven't even thought of yet, something I hardly thought was possible. Good lord.

I am capable of feeling content.

I've been meaning to start a new blog.  I've been meaning to ... blog. To write anything not work-related really. And, actually, inspired by Christina, I was planning to write—just one graph—every day for 30 days starting August 1. Today is August 5. First entry.

Today, J is 5 1/4. Today, I am 37 2/3. Today, Digs is 10. All born on the 5's. I think: surely there's a reason for this connection. And then I think... how do so many 5's pass so quickly? I'm prone to over-thinking, prone to nostalgia, prone to bat-shit-crazy ruminations when hormones and circumstances align in just the wrong way. Luckily that's not today.

Today, I felt compelled to capture my contentment because feeling comfortable standing still, absorbing the awesomeness of what is, happens rarely—if ever.

But as I watched the boys sing happy birthday to Digs...  a typically shirtless Jules presenting him two scoops of cake batter ice cream (his once-a-year treat) on the family's special-occasion scarlet plate...  Kai shimmying, snapping and beaming million-dollar dimples, I was gratefully present... celebrating sweet Demps and two little boys who recognize, much as we do, how incredibly awesome our decade-old Digs is.

"Go time" is a good time ...

... when you prepare as best you can, bring all you've got and convince yourself that what you're showing up with is more than enough. If you tell yourself you're going to rock it (whatever it is), there's a good chance you will. Or maybe you won't... but at least the process won't be so painful. In fact, it's likely to be pretty awesome. 

In a previous life, I spent lots of time and spun lots of wheels trying to make things perfect. I'd study until I'd memorized every fact and anticipated every possible question. I'd revise until I was sure that, having channeled my editor, I answered every one of her/his questions - in the first draft. (Impossible! And I lost much sleep doing it. Better to follow the advice of Anne Lamott: "Shitty first drafts.") I didn't miss classes or rehearsals. I'd taken all of the notes, even recorded lectures. (Um... yup. I was that girl. In grad school at least.) I knew all of the choreography - and helped other peeps with the spacing. When the test began, the draft was submitted, the curtain opened, I pretty much knew how things would go down. 

Anymore, this just isn't an option. I don't have 14 hours a day to work. I skip dance classes because I'm sick - because for the second time this season, the stomach bug has circled through my home. My time is no longer 100% my own, so I often have no choice but to wing "it" (whatever it is). And this often puts me outside of my comfort zone. Thing is, I'm getting cozier out there in the unknown... having had quite a few chances recently to learn that a little prep goes a long way when you combine it with the right perspective. It's forced growth  - and I'm grateful for it. 

About a year ago, I reported a big feature on fear - and overcoming it - and one of the experts I interviewed suggested something something that really stuck: when you start to feel the physical sensations of "nervousness," relabel them as "excitement."  I pulled out this trick twice this week and it worked. For real. The result: less fear, more fun. Fab.

Blogging keeps me accountable.

Anymore, I'm not sure how to keep myself accountable without a blog. 

My goals for my 37th year (still shaping up) will be both bigger and smaller than the goals of my 36th year. I will focus (in the unique way that I focus). I will simplify. All in the name of living a bigger life. 

For one, I will stop the Sunday catch-up work sessions. Effective immediately after I wrap today's essential editing. 

I'm serious. Committed. (Now... back to it, this final Sunday catch-up session.)

366daysof36.blogspot.com

I've abandoned this blog...

But over at 366daysof36.blogspot.com.blogspot.com, I'll be writing about all sorts of things I'm learning. Come on over!