Three-minute warning

3-minute-warning

Over dinner with an author/editor/friend the other evening, we began with well-deserved martinis (just for being able to find a date and location that worked for both of us and didn’t involve either of us taking a day off to accomplish this small feat). As women do, we fawned over each other’s hair and clothing and didn’t miss a single detail of accessory choice, nail condition or jewelry. Women do this all the time. Women writers process every nuance of what they see and experience for future columns, blog posts or novels. I swear I have read scenes of my life on pages in books.

We covered the usual general topics for discussion. First was dating. Rather, we lamented the nonexistence of this animal; in fact, we both may very well believe this concept is merely a notion if not downright extinct. It’s not the lack of men as much as it is the lack of time to explore this option. See calendar issues above.

Next, we covered parenting. This was obviously a one-sided conversation as I am neither qualified nor planning to become one of these any time soon. I don’t even mother myself. It’s a good thing I had an egg timer at the table. Most parents will claim that while raising les enfants can be terrible, the years go by quickly while the days are slow. Listening to someone else talk about braces, soccer and drumming sessions (in the house) reminds me that during the three allotted minutes I have to listen to this monologue, I am losing patience with children who are not mine and time that I will never get back.

But I love my friend, so I listen. Kind of.

But then she shares some news that actually thrills me, which I can wrap my head around because I understand it. She’s been working on a book during the past few months when she didn’t have a minute to spare to get together. That’s the real reason she has been so busy. Other than her agent, she hasn’t shared this with anybody. Until now. Her idea is not only timely, but also brilliant. It has bestseller and hit movie written all over it.

Suddenly, I want to adopt her children. Someone will have to write about them, n’est-ce pas?

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