Picayune

Growl, growl.

My to-do list seems endless. My doing-the-right thing list even more onerous. Take work. Yesterday, finally finish a magazine piece I've been working on. Send it off to the editor, who likes it, then boom, immediately start thinking about whether it was right to use the word "new" with someone's job title when he's been in the job over a year. It's so picayune, who even cares? Obviously me, cause late last night, I write my editor to let him know I might have made a mistake.

Then there's my son. Or rather his father. I call to tell him that our son wants to go to summer school. Yes, wants to, like in begging to go, because he's interested in learning, even if it means giving up camp. I think it's great, but my ex's response - what's it going to cost?

Next, I get invited yesterday on an all expenses paid trip to Georgia. Okay, it's just Georgia, but I'm thinking, wow, I could use a little pampering. So I tell my friend Susan about the invite, thinking she'll say, you go girl, literally, but what are the first words out of her mouth - watch it, my friend, as you of all people should know, there are no free lunches.

And take these "internet" men. I mean, am I wrong to not write the truck driver back because I think we might not share all that much in common? Or to stop corresponding with the salesman who sounds smart but has lost his job because of company downsizing. Or with the one who seems very intelligent and has a very good job, but wears a waist-length beard that he's been growing since he was 17.

Who knows? Growl growl. Today, surely not me.