Mondays are disjointed. You know that.

I have this new job, and I have some other writing things, and I am currently learning coding manymanymany people learned 12.75 years ago, so I'm a little thin on the blogging thing. I look to news, because we can discuss current events! And the current events! Suck!
I'm not even linking to them. Stupid horrible things.

Some days, I read the news and just shake my head - and sniff the sweet air. Other days, I read the news and shake my head - and then slam it down forcefully against the top of my desk, embedding pens into my forehead.

Those are not wrinkle creases. Those are scars.

You know?

Except - they are just wrinkles.

I don't want to hide my head in the sand. I don't want Nuzak. And yet - I don't want to know how awful people can be. I would, actually, rather have people act well, so that there was no lousy news to read.

I'm no journalist. I write entertainment columns, because whether Alec Baldwin does or does not look good in an ascot (I'm gonna go with a cautious "no") is about as investigative as I want to get. And gently suggesting so is about as publically critical of anyone I want to be. The piece I wrote on Dr. Phil made some folk crazeee, and they missed my conclusion, which was that Dr. Phil doesn't, to me, seem to be in better command of his life choices than those of us without a talk show (there must be a few of us not yet conscripted into service).

If I had a talk show (and I do not want one with any fiber of my being. I would have to worry about nose hairs in close ups and sweating on camera and not interrupting people, when I have intermittent interruption issues), I would have a segment where I played with a passel of hyper fluffy duckings, and maybe a spot for the people in my town who bring their bongos down to drum along with the sunset every night, and with them the group of bangled,tatted hula hoopers and then everyone would get warm cookies and an ice cold dirty martini. After the duckings, we'd bring out the golden retriever puppies to play fetch and frolic, and at least two extremely good utterly dirty jokes would be told without apology, and everyone would have to bring their favorite book to swap.

Wait, that's not a talk show. That's heaven.

When my dog, Rosie, died, my daughter, who was three-and-a-half, wrote a letter to her in Dog Heaven. We sealed the envelope without reading it, and it's in a drawer, where it's been for ten years. I wonder what it says.

I should mail it.