August 2007

Up until about a week ago, Georgia (the whole southeastern US actually) suffered from extreme, exceptional drought conditions. In June, Atlanta imposed watering restrictions, meaning once per week you can water your garden. No one is supposed to wash their car. We’re supposed to be rationing the laundry.

Early July brought some rain, but towards the end the rain died off and in August the temperatures soared into the triple digits. I began walking the dog at midnight because it was cooler. That’s when I discovered all of the midnight watering taking place. Neighbors who we commiserated with by day about the drought and heat were out in baseball caps and dark pajamas pointing a hose at their flower beds with the porch lights turned off.

As Rufus and I passed they turned their backs, and I looked the other way. No understanding nods passed between us, no apologetic glances.

Now I understood why a freshness emanated from certain yards when I walked Rufus in the mornings, why their yards smelled sweet and the ones next to them smelled dead. For every three or four yards where the grass was browned out or even the ivy looked stressed, there was at least one yard where the vinca bloomed profusely and the fescue thrived. Uh huh! Midnight waterers.

Truth be told, I was pissed. And envious.



I had a wonderful job interview today where they asked me a question I’d never thought of for an interview before: “If you could talk with any one person, living or dead, who would it be and why.” Well this interview was going so well that I didn’t think it was odd, but later I realized just how significant a question like this could be.

My answer, as may be obvious, was Abraham Lincoln, though as I told my interviewers, Aristotle was a close second. But the significance of the answer seems relevant from the perspective of this: how do the people in your world that you respect, living or dead, influence what kind of person you are and want to be?

I have spent so many years just trying to make sure I could come up with rent money for me and my girls, that I’ve lost sight of the “idealistic me”. The part of me that wants to be part of something bigger, brighter, important for others around me and maybe the world!

So, it is armed with this new insight, and a reinvigoration of my idealistic side that I will forge ahead and not settle for the first thing that comes along, but will wait until that PERFECT job, that fully engages and challenges me to be a better me and make a better world, comes along! I’m hoping it might be the one I applied for today, but if not, there WILL be one. THAT was worth the 2 hour interview alone!


What do you have trouble committing to? What do you have no problem dedicating your time to? Why do you think that is?
Have you found ways to juggle your time that others might find useful? What was your biggest commitment? What does the word commitment conjure up to you? Does this naff poster sum it up? (ok last part is a joke!).


This post will be short and sweet. Lately I have discovered an amazing character whom I totally worship- doctor Gregory House. What can I say, I have a thing for anti-heroes.




he’s a cantankerous cynic – something I can associate with

he’s a substance addict – warms my heart to see the weakness befalls even the greatest ones.

he is a softie underneath all of this – rouge with a golden heart is simply irresistible

he’s simply sexy and smart, and like good wine he gets better with age.. and he’s in touch with his feminine side








It happened at the sunset hour at one warm spring day in Moscow at Patriarch’s Pond. Two men sat on a bench discussing religion in general, and Jesus in particular. One of them, Ivan Bezdomny, was a poet who wrote a derogatory poem about Jesus. The other one, Mikchail Berlioz, an editor of a highbrow literary magazine and chairman of the management committee of the largest Moscow’s literary clubs, was trying to convince Bezdomny that the core of the problem is not that Jesus was evil but that he didn’t exist at all.

In the fervour of the discussion that didn’t noticed when they were joined by a stranger. The stranger wore an expensive grey suit, spoke with a foreign accent and had a limp. He told them that not only did Jesus exist, the proof of this being that the stranger knew him and spoke to him, but also; to emphasize the proof; the stranger told Berlioz that he will die with his head cut off by a female member of a Konsomol…… (more…)

I have lately slipped in the frequency of writing my blog contributions for which I dearly apologise. Reasons for this being several:


I decided to take a very adult step and start house hunting – a step considered close to lunacy in a property obsessed London

I went sailing with a group of colleagues in Polish lake district, which almost lead to two deaths by drowning and one death by being knocked down with a portable loo (full to the brim) – more about it later

I have spent a night in a castle attending a ghost hunting event – more about it next time since I still shudder remembering the experience


So, a couple of weeks ago I was invited to join a group of colleagues to sail across Polish lake district. No sweat! We rented a couple of boats, the weather was supposed to be beautiful. I was looking forward to getting away from civilisation, enjoying dramatic sun sets, silence, nature and picturesque landscapes. (more…)

“We must, we must, we must increase our bust.”
“We must, we must, we must increase our bust.”

Say it with me now, “Are you there God? It’s me Margaret” by Judy Blume.


I read this book when I was nine years old, the same summer Barbara B. and I were scandalized by seeing Luke rape Laura in the disco on General Hospital – only later to have her fall in love with him – an utterly irresponsible move on the part of whomever was churning out that soap opera, but I digress.

Judy Blume put me inside the head of Margaret and helped me pre-live all that I was anxious about having to go through. Margaret came first, then Deenie, and Blubber. We worked our way through every Judy Blume book we could get our hands on until eventually we found it–the Holy Grail of teen fiction: Forever. Forever came with us on the Girl Scout camping trips, select passages read by flashlight. I liked to boast that I had read the whole book, not just the racy scenes.

When my niece was born, I waited patiently for her to hit the age markers when I could introduce Barbie dolls, The Wizard of Oz, and finally Judy Blume. Sam enjoyed all of these delights with appropriate doses of appreciation doled my way, but the real gift came when she began introducing her discoveries to me. There’s a lovely book called The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen that’s so well written I don’t have to consider my adoration of teen fiction a guilty pleasure any longer.

Ruth, 37, Los Angeles, USA

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