Just Shoot Me. No, Really.

"Edit is taking after you," Lex said in reference to Edit's habit of leaving things where they fall from attention span. This from a girl who throws Q-Tips on the floor if the wastebasket is full and then blames me for buying such a small receptacle. "She takes after the three of us," I said, menacingly. Lex opened her mouth to say something then changed her mind. She's growing up, I thought. But not fast enough. "Why do you care what you look like anymore," she shot at me the other day, as I sat innocently at my computer completely unprepared for a roaming age attack.

Tonight I walked the dog through the center of the Ring Road golf course, away from the traffic and the lights. "I should take a flashlight and keep an eye out for stranger danger," I joked to Lex. "Don't do that. You'll draw attention to yourself," she replied, concerned for my safety. "White dog, white parka; I'm not thinking we're so discreet," I said. Still, I left the flashlight at home. Halfway through the park I figured I was worth more dead than alive and made a note to stuff my parka with flares and party laterns the next time I go out. I have to fund their college eduation somehow. Except maybe not so much with Mona. I'm not so focused on continuing her educational experiience. I got a series of texts from her yesterday and today, including a phone call at ten last night as I stood at the local printer shop runniing proofs on a print job. Life was good in the City, it seemed. This afternoon I got, "Let me know when you can schedule me in for extensions" quickly followed by a "Oops. I didn't mean to send that to you!" This isn't starving-student in NYC language. This is different language, the kind where somebody erroneously believes that I'm earning Penthouse wages. Either kind. I haven't made the call yet. I can already hear myself and I hate the sound and I shouldn't have to make the call.

I'm going back out to the park. It's almost midnight.