Last year, I invented a superhero/villain named Dr. Susan, a podiatrist who saves children or menaces society (depending on which version of my legend you hear), and I wrote a song about her:

you wake up again in the middle of the night
you reach for the switch, desperate for light
because the darkness tastes like fear
her voice is swirling 'round your ears
she's waiting on the other side.
you won't close your eyes again tonight.

I know every nightmare's like the last one
you see her coming and you try to run
those flailing arms outstretched
you're sure they're going to catch you
and you're done.
Maybe she'll catch us one by one.

here she comes — it's doctor susan
she's fast as a crane that's 9 feet tall
she's coming for you — you must be losing your mind
what will she do when she finds you?
9 feet's a long way to fall!
she's doctor susan!

but oops! you fall asleep and you dream of her again
she's going for your feet now with a clipboard and a pen
you're frozen in your fear
and all you seem to hear
is that voice running circles round your head
her name is everywhere and then

you wake up again in the middle of the night
you reach for the switch, desperate for light
because the darkness tastes like fear
her voice is swirling 'round your ears
but sleep tight.
She won't won't find you here tonight.

oh, but here she comes -- it's doctor susan
she's fast as a crane that's 9 feet tall
she's coming for you -- you must be losing your mind
what will she do when she finds you?
9 feet's a long way to fall!
she's doctor susan!

Oh, am I tired. Tired like a fattened, erstwhile Olympian. Tired like the poor eagle sent to feast on Prometheus every damn day. Tired like a king of Corinth with a redundant boulder. Tired like something else Greek and exhausting.

Anyway. I have nothing new to tell you, but I did manage to update the other sections of the website. You know, the ones you consistently ignore: the dramatic comedy, the open window, the shipwreck, and island of perpetual bliss. The updates range from barely noticeable to big-big, so do me a favor and check them out, lest I get to feeling a bit more Sisyphean.

Happy birthday to me
I live in a tree
I look like a monkey
Or a nice chimpanzee!

I am 28!

Three Questions by my marvelously peculiar coworker Jay, Three Answers by Me

1. How would you define the word "meaning"?

meaning (mEn´·ing)
v.
To practice malice, spite: The school bully was meaning upon a classmate, until the classmate suddenly grew superpowers and ate the bully's face.

2. What's your favorite sauce, what public monument would you most like to pour it on, and why?

When we moved to Rhode Island in 1987, my family suffered a collective malaise born of the incomprehensible native accent and puzzling, xenophobic disposition. We were friendly strangers in a rude, strange land. One night, we were moping around the house, and my dad (our knight in shining flannel) abruptly ordered us up and dressed. We tidied ourselves pleasantly, in a suburban way, and went to dine at a little place my dad had half-noticed in Newport. Well. We knew we were in trouble when the maitre-d' tactfully offered my brother a tie and jacket.

My dad being the generous sport that he is, we stayed, and I don't know if the meal was so good because it was good, or because it was a ludicrous, decadent treat for no good reason. There I was, in a red cotton skirt, a blue and white striped sweater, like a tacky little flag, eating filet mignon that cost more than anything an eleven-year-old should ever eat.

And it had this sauce. I don't even remember what it was, maybe a red wine sauce of some kind, but I know it was delicious. So delicious that for years after, I would sigh rapturously and murmur, "That sauce!" and they'd all know just which sauce I meant.

So that's the sauce. And I think I'd pour it on the Arc de Triomphe. The Arc de Triomphe is already quite nice, and what isn't better with a red wine sauce?

3. Have you ever imagined me wearing a flamingo suit... if not, why not?

Well, no, but I have pictured you dressed as Dr. Teeth of the Electric Mayhem. So when the Muppets sing "Can You Picture That?" — the answer is yes. Yes, I can. I hope the flamingo within you can forgive me.

I'm getting old. I know, you think I look so young. You think I haven't changed. Look closer. I'm not dancing at the party with a lampshade on my head; I'm in the room below now, cracking the ceiling with a broom handle. My head is going quickly silver. My joints creak.

I went to a concert with Elizabeth the other day, to see Ben Folds, Rufus Wainright, and Guster. (Let me use this quick aside to ask what divine providence granted me a tour with three previously unrelated acts I've loved for years. It's not unlike the day Aimee Mann and Michael Penn joined forces matrimonially — what did I do to deserve that?) There were some people my age, some people older, but the bulk of the crowd was young and whippersnappy. They wore short pants and caps and bounced around with boundless, teenaged energy like foul-mouthed puppies on cell phones.

The concert was amazing. Ben Folds had me on my feet, flailing and making devilhorns, obediently screaming profanities at his command. There's still the glimmer of crazy youth in my heart, doggedly shining on. And yet, I won't pretend I wasn't glad for the relative calm of Rufus and Guster — sitting in a pleasant breeze, resting my old bones.

I interrupted my own zen periodically to glare at the youngsters, who chattered in oblivious conversational tones through the slow, sweet songs. If they'd kicked red playground balls into my yard, I'd have kept them — kept them all — letting them pile up in my locked toolshed, collecting dust and losing their bounce. Who even knew the kids were listening to this music? Ben Folds Five put out their first cd when I was 19 and Guster played at Brandeis all the damn time, when they were fresh out of Tufts. This music belongs to me and mine.

It's hard to believe that it's been so long since I was their age, sneaking into my brother's room and stealing his Pixies records. "Doolittle" came out a good 4 years before I got my hot little paws on it, and now they are me, coming in late to the game and taking it over with their shrill pubescence. I should look upon them fondly, knowing all too well the journey they are just beginning. I should think of the teenagers kindly, remembering the terrified posturing, the desperate independence they are drowning in. But no, I'm going to be the old lady who gives out bad Halloween candy.

Please don't think me unkind. My schadenfreude comes with my advanced age, like cellulite and afternoon naps. I didn't mean to find this funny, I swear I didn't — in the middle of Ben Folds' set, two girls came stomping down the aisle next to my seat. One was atop the other's shoulders, a giggling totem pole, obstructing views with wild abandon. They were dressed identically in tube tops and those unfortunate drawstring abercrombitrocity miniskirts. The one on top looked okay, but the one on the bottom was about 4 Olsen twins across — in other words, not fat, but no little wisp of a thing. As Elizabeth put it, "just because you're 15 doesn't mean you have to dress like that."

And I muttered "trip, trip, trip" to myself, craning my neck to see the stage, naturally never believing my mantra could work. But work it did. Their collective legs stumbled over the step right next to me and they faltered, listing to and fro. In her panic, the girl on top kicked out for balance, taking much of the bottom girl's tube top and most of the skirt with her. They didn't fall, and the crowd laughed, and in retrospect I wish I'd felt bad for them. But I didn't. I laughed, thought "serves you right, jackanapes," adjusted my dentures, and settled in to enjoy my unobstructed view.