If I had a car I'd drive straight into the window of a bank I owed money to: 5.30.09

I think all parents want their children to be happy. My parents want me to be interesting, quirky, maybe even a little off. But I don't think they want me to be particularly happy. Case in point, when I told them of the Plan B percolating in the back of my planning-obsessed little brain involving additional schooling to add not only more letters to the back of my name, but to actually acquire a marketable skill, their response was...pfft. They reminded me I had financial responsibilities (oh really? thanks.) and already have a meaningful job (eh, not really.) and, oh, always have to remember I've got to support myself on my salary (really? got it. for the last 25 years already.)

But when I mention a funsy little title for a children's book I thought about, my mother tells me to run with it, get one of my artist buddies to illustrate it, and get an agent. I don't get that at all.

It was a very Blanche DuBois moment. Very close to delusions of grandeur, which I've always secretly suspected I inherited from a frustrated poet.

Ironically, it's that same love of books that she embedded in my childhood that makes me so sure I could give Plan B a real run for its money. Or lack thereof.

Sorry to sign back on here with such a rambling, unentertaining nugget. Shrug. I tell you what though, every bright red brick morning and back street harbor dusk this spring has been momentary confirmation that I'm glad I'm back here. Even the frequent opportunity to fume at my parents across our brunch omelets has been its own confirmation.