Yesterday it was so hot here I decided to take the kids to the pool in the afternoon. I wasn't the only one with that brilliant idea. My three neighbors were also there with their kids. During the hourly ten-minute "safety break," during which the lifeguards make sure there are no stray kids floating at the bottom of the pool, adults are allowed to swim child-free. No splashing, no screaming, just peaceful refreshment.

One of my neighbors suggested we race eachother down the two huge curling slides that go up about three stories - with all the kids sitting this one out there was no line. Well, after one race we were hooked. We spent the next eight minutes perfecting our form and race strategies (Frances insists the key to speed is to arch your back so just your heels and shoulders are touching the slide, I think the key is to get on your side to reduce friction). While two of us were racing down the slides, the other two were running up the stairs as the line of waiting ten year-olds heckled us with cries of "No running!" The lifeguards never berated us, we're almost twenty years older than they are, but these kids had no problem dishing out the advice their parents are always more than willing to give them.

Of course, our own children waited down below, cheering us on, and we reveled in their enthusiastic support. Every time we got to the bottom we'd check to make sure our assets hadn't fallen out of our bathing suit tops on the ride down, that our bottoms were still covering our bottoms, and then look to our panel of elementary and pre-school judges to see who'd won. In those fleeting moments while we waited to see who'd be crowned the queen of the slide, I felt like Lance Armstrong competing for the Tour de France - if only the Tour de France required no physical exertion, lasted just long enough for a lifeguard to put more zinc on his nose, and the ubiquitous yellow shirt was replaced with a Hawaiian print bikini.

Here's a chance to read a great summer book and help a good cause. MJ Rose, author of The Halo Effect, has secured pledges from real-life supporters who will collectively donate $5 to the nonprofit literacy organization, Reading Is Fundamental, for each website or blog that links to MJ's vidlit for the book. So, check out the short animated film for the novel at http://www.vidlit.com/mj/ and five dollars will be donated. What a great idea!

And here's a little about MJ's book, which was nominated for the 2004 Anthony Award for Best Original Paperpack. Find out more about www.mjrose.com.
The Halo Effect is the first book in the Butterfield Institute series featuring sex therapist, Dr. Morgan Snow. In each book she struggles with the conflict of preserving her patient's privacy and the dangerous and sometimes criminal things she hears. She sees everything from the abused to the depraved, from the couples grappling with sexual boredom to twisted sociopaths with dark, erotic fetishes and the Butterfield institute is the sanctuary where she helps soothe and heal these battered souls.

The car dealer called to tell me that they got in the car I wanted. I'd told them no black/silver/white or any variation thereof, and no black interior. I swear, that's all they had on the lot. Is everyone afraid of a little color these days? Or am I unduly influenced by an early childhood spent in a sky blue Pontiac and a lemon yellow station wagon (it was the 70's, so my parents have an excuse).

In any case, I went to see the platinum blue car with stone interior and it had more bells and whistles than the space shuttle (for example, it has a fuel gage that works and all of its windows were intact, unlike the shuttle). But the thing is, I have an excellent sense of direction and don't exactly traverse the midwest, so why do I need a video navigation system? To direct me to the nearest Burger King? And seat warmers? If it melts cellulite and firms thighs, I'm all for it, but cold seats have never exactly been up there on my list of serious problems. And do I really need to have the back center console fold down to accommodate a pair of skis when I live in one of the flattest states around? It also had these bling bling hub caps, so I asked if the back of the car pumped up and down when I stopped at a light. Then I told them to nix the hub caps lest my neighbors start calling me J Diddy.

I have carpal tunnel in both hands, so I have to wear these wrist cast/splint-like things that go about halfway up my forearm and keep my wrists from bending while I type. They're flesh-colored so they don't look too bad, even though I have had people come up to me and ask what's wrong. I always feel bad when I give them the explanation, like I've let them down or something. A horrifying car crash or something equally as traumatic would sound much more satifying than explaining that I spend too much time on my computer. I sort of lose their sympathy at that point.

So, the other day my son says, "I wish you didn't write books." Well, let me tell you, some serious working mother guilt set in. My son felt neglected! He wanted a normal mother who baked cookies and sang mother goose rhymes while she rocked him to sleep! I was a total failure!

After I regained my breath, I asked him, "Why do you want mommy to stop writing?" I braced myself for the answers, which I figured would have something to do with how unloved he felt. Intead he explained, "Because then you can stop wearing those arm things and you won't scratch me with the velcro straps when you hug me." Yeah!!! Not only did he feel loved, apparently my hugs were so filled with motherly caring they hurt!

I told him I'd try to be more careful in the future, and said a silent word of thanks that, if my son ends up in therapy it won't be because his mother worked. It will be because he's developed some kind of neurotic velcro phobia.