Waiting.  Here’s how you do it:

(1)  Go to the store, aimlessly walk the aisles.  Pick up a bag of potato chips, open the bag, stand in the aisle and eat one chip, put the bag in your cart.  Pay for it.  Throw the bag away on your way out.

(2) Lay on the living room floor with your dogs.  Consider shaving their hair off because it’s too hot in Phoenix to lay with hairy dogs.

(3) Stand in front of the thermostat.  Curse it for it’s inattentiveness to your needs.

(4) Wander.  Mutter.  Look at yourself in a magnifying mirror to see if you’ve gotten any new wrinkles.  You find one.  Mutter about it.  Wander again.

(5) Answer the phone.  Hello.  Have you heard anything yet?  No?  Okay.  Call me when you hear.

(6) Go back to the grocery store.  Buy another bag of chips.  This time, eat them all.  On your way home, wonder if Twinkies and Ripple still taste good together.

(7)  Stand in front of the phone.  Wait.  Wait.  Damnit, wait.

It’s Sunday, 10:30 a.m.  I’ve been awake and up since the sun was invented and I’m sure it must be time — somewhere in the world — for a glass of wine.  A GYNORMOUS glass of wine.  I’m settling instead for a Strawberry Yogurt and a good cry.  I haven’t been able to sleep and  tears come easily to the sleep-deprived, and wine sounds good to the helpless.

Three days ago my sister called with news that my nephew has a bad growthy thing in his private part.  A Lance Armstrong thing, they’re thinking.  He goes to the surgeon on Tuesday to schedule a biopsy and whatever else may be needed.  My nephew lives in Florida; I haven’t seen him since he was four years old and not allowed to have private parts.

My sister asked me to say a Novena right before she asked me why Catholics pray to folks who were most likely boiled in oil three thousand years ago.  I shrugged.  Beats me, I answered.  I told her I’d say a Novena, which I haven’t done since I did one once on a lark 20 years ago and got back just about what I gave it — not much.  This time I’ll give it something.  I dug out an old book of Saints and Novenas from the 1950s when Catholics were into that.  Women wore hats to church too, but that’s another story.  I thumbed through the pages looking for the Saint of Private Parts, but in the end settled on someone whose picture didn’t make him look all wild and googly-eyed.

I’m doing the Novena.

But mostly I’m thinking about a scared young man and his mother who can’t do anything but knot a hanky in her hands and ask her non-churchy Catholic sister to say prayers and light candles.  I’m so bad at this.  What I do better than anything is to Google about growths in one’s nether-region.  To educate myself about options and treatments.  To eat yogurt and wish it was a big old cup of wine.  To stare outside at a few clouds and wonder — IF I sent a good thought into one of them —  would it make it all the way from Arizona to Florida by Tuesday morning?  That’s what I’m good at.  Googling.  Staring at the sky.  Wondering.

But waiting for whatever news may come?  This is more than hard.

Here are my feet.  My happy, happy dancing feet.

I don’t love the UPS guy in any way like I love my husband, but yesterday I luuuved the UPS guy for delivering a NEW LAPTOP and I loved my husband more than describable for surprising me with it.  I suppose Dan felt guilty because he has a laptop with all its portability, while I’ve been fastened to the Big Boy computer in the front room where the summer daytime temperature reaches a thousand degrees Fahrenheit by nine in the morning and only escalates through the day.

But picture me now.  It’s morning.  I’m seated at the kitchen table with air conditioning fluttering across my shoulders.  Later, I might move in front of the TV with a cool glass of iced tea tableside.  This afternoon, you might find me at my favorite coffee joint.  You know, the one with the big tables and comfy chairs where I can join all the other peeps tapping at their laptops.

I’m trying very hard to keep my feet still, but every now and then, they simply break into the Happy Dance.  Kind of like that Hans Christian Andersen story, The Red Shoes, about a woman who can’t stop dancing.

Nah nuh nah naaah, Nah nuh nah naaah, Hey heeey, Nah nuh naaah.

P.S.  The picture above isn’t really of MY feet, but rather a photo courtesy of Brand X Pictures.

I thought it perhaps interesting on this hot sunny summer day to take a tour around a working writer’s desk. If you’d rather ride a mule down the Grand Canyon, or see those freaky statues on Easter Island, or take pictures of the Eiffel Tower or something nice like that, by all means, please go. Really. There’s not a whole lot to see here — just a bunch of paper and stuff.

But for those who find fascination with what a writer might have in her office, then today’s your lucky day! I’ve hired Bob the Tour Guide, so load up and have fun. The bus leaves right now.

Welcome aboard, Ladies and Gentlemen — Bob the Tour Guide here. During the ride, please keep your body parts well inside the windows and stay seated during the entire ride. For those prone to motion sickness or whiplash, note the handy paper bags in the pocket in front of your seat. And no pictures, please. Ms. McCanta is usually in the dark and sensitive to the light of flashbulbs and insightful thought.

All righty then, shall we get started?

As we enter through the standard-sized doorframe, please don’t panic. Your eyes will adjust quickly to the low light, which is intentionally kept at a minimum to discourage the dust mites that often colonize this writer’s chronically paper-filled desk.

Straight ahead, note the framed 6th grade theme paper entitled, “What I Want to be When I Grow Up.” This serves to remind the writer that instead of becoming a nurse like Clara Barton, that famous purveyor of soup, sympathy and sanitation, she instead hovers alone over a keyboard filled with germ-laden potato chip droppings and flecks of dried Twinkie creme. Folks, you might want to wash your hands when you get off the bus … just a thought.

Along the left wall, note the bookshelves brimming with the likes of John Milton, Poe, Eudora Welty, J.A. Jance, and Snoopy the Dog. Also for those on the left side of the bus, you can see her grandfather’s fez just peeking out from between the full collection of Harry Potter and her signed copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. Also you can see her mother’s tobacco pipe, although you might not want to ask about that, it’s a rather sore subject.

As we move toward the desk, we’ll need to make a couple of wide turns around two large sleeping dogs. I’m told neither bite, but nevertheless, we like to observe the wildlife without interfering with their natural habitat. Note how the big white dog lays across the writer’s foot, while the large red dog is directly behind her chair, both cleverly entrapping the writer and keeping her in her chair for the day. Good dogs.

As we move now across the desk, please observe the general clutter typical of a right-brained scatter goof. Just a quick reminder here about those little paper barf bags in the pocket of the seat in front of you. Notice how she’s decorated her desk here and there with crumpled papers, a … oh, my god is that a hair tie? … um, a rock from who knows where, a box of heartworm medicine, and one left shoe. Very artistic. Now, watch as the writer unconsciously taps her teeth with her pen while she thinks about her writerly stuff, thus painting her teeth a nice cerulean blue. Oh, dear … that’s unfortunate. Well, maybe it’ll come off in time.

Moving on, we’ll make a quick stop in front of her surprisingly neat and orderly file cabinet before leaving the confines of the cave. It’s perhaps the only evidence of a thinking brain in this room, and we’re especially careful to preserve its integrity. We’re about to leave now, so I’d like to caution you to shield your eyes as we once more enter the bright light of the normal world.

I hope you’ve enjoyed your trip. Please come back again … and remember to tell your friends and neighbors. There’ll be post cards and souvenirs in the gift shop … do watch your step as you leave, and no we don’t offer refunds because you’re highly disappointed with today’s tour.

Feel free to leave your comments below. I’m told the writer will respond accordingly.

For those following the progress of Wilson the Labradoodle, boy-o-boy did he have a big morning. First day of BIG-BOY SCHOOL. I didn’t know whether to dress him in nickers or long pants, regular or bow tie, cuffed or plain sleeves. After much whining and consternation, we finally decided to go with the casual summer pool-boy clip, accented with the blue collar and matching leash, satin stitched (of course) with his name and phone number. Very stylish. Very metrosexual.

Arriving on time, we hot-footed it across the parking lot because the asphalt’s a hundred-thousand degrees on any given summer day in Phoenix — even at nine o’clock in the morning.

Wilson then joined his classmates — a Saint Bernard just a month younger but already freakishly large, a darkish sort of lap-sitting, face-licking terrier mix of unknown age and origin, and a yellow lab in full-throated exuberance whose owner was clearly nonplussed by the whole event. All darling young doggies.

They widened their little puppy eyes, however, at the entrance of MAX THE ENFORCER, the hugest German Shepard guard dog on the planet who understands ONLY German commands, along with tiny little Alyce, his handler and our instructor. Max entered the room in full Achtung bark, thereby removing every molecule of oxygen in the room. As Max paraded before his underlings, causing dogs and people alike to cower in his massive presence, barking from some place that seemed to originate from deep near the bottom of his tail, he seemed especially to be in Wilson’s face. My little Wilson whose “Mom” nearly made him wear a bow tie to his first day of school. Wilson, I’m quite proud to say, barked right back.

Wilson then proceeded to sit quicker, down better, heel tighter and wait longer than said MAX THE ENFORCER.

That’s our Boy!

After class, we were each given a notebook in which to keep our weekly assignments and record our progress (or lack thereof). Finally, after a withering look from that frightening monster, MAX THE ENFORCER, Wilson was sent on his way to practice walking only … and ONLY … on the left side, as well as sitting nice and waiting so all humans go through outside doors first.

Hey, give me a pocketful of Bacon Bits and Wilson will do ANYTHING.

Still, I figure when the temperature in Phoenix dips below a bizillion degrees Fahrenheit, I’ll be sure to ask Wilson to place his precious patookee on the ground just so I can be a lady. Until then, it’s every dog for himself.

P.S. Clearly no disrespect to German Shepard owners/lovers. Beautiful, beautiful dogs! (But … does anyone know a quick immersion course in German? I just need simple stuff like, No, Max. Please don’t eat my dog. We LOVE you, Max.)

A while ago I wrote a story. It won a prize. A nice prize. A lovely prize.

Now I’m in the long and arduous process of doing what every other underpublished writer does — I’m querying agents. As I watch a query disappear into my local Postal mail slot, I stick on a teensy wish as it goes down the slot that the addressee (or an assistant) will consider the query enough to add it to the stack of letters that will receive a polite response. This is one of those things that’s hard from both sides.

From the writer’s side, it’s query … wait. Query … wait. From the agent’s side, it’s a daily avalanche of hopeful letters and unrequested manuscripts. It’s hard for us all.

Nevertheless, I’ve firmly vowed not to leave my story as just another drawer manuscript. We all have them. But, just like I’ve taken a vow to never forget someone’s birthday, or anniversary, or special day, and just as I’ve recently promised to eat my spinach, do more cardio, keep my glutenous fingers out of the donut bin at the grocery store, not forget to wash behind my ears, say I love you at least once a day, be a sainted mother to my children and the trophy wife my husband deserves. Just as I’ve declared to heaven and my husband to spend time writing actual meaningful stuff every day …

I’ve also made this semi-religious, can’t-break-my-word vow to a group of imaginary friends who live on the pages of this particular prize-winning manuscript to not let them down. Actually, I think they’re sick of me. They want bigger and better friends. They want their Andy Warhol fifteen minutes of fame. Sheesh! They are so DEMANDING.

But, a promise is a promise. So, here’s the deal. The name of my story — their story is, All the Dancing Birds. A while ago I discovered that the domain name, DancingBirds.com was available. Man, I was all over that one. SWOOP! It’s mine … all MINE! Now, my gifted webby guy, Brian Tanaka, is locating an appropriate design to use — something not too flashy, certainly not boring (a no-snoozing zone, I told him), but rather, something dignified and respectful, yet something down and dirty quick so we can get that puppy up and running.

AuburnMcCanta.com will then be used for more practical and professional writerly stuff, along with some shameless self-promotion of current and future works. DancingBirds.com, however, will contain all this fun bloggy stuff, a few shout-outs to folks who share respect for those who live with brain injury or disease (Did I mention I used to have a brain tumor?). We’ll add in all the latest Wilson and Scarlett news (Did I tell you that Scarlett is to be tested as a THERAPY DOG next week? That ought to be a hoot.) I’ll describe my continued efforts to diminish my rather round and intimidating backside, and how I’m coming along with the writing of my newest manuscript.

It’ll ALL be there. Work with me, Peeps. I PROMISE you’ll love it!

When DancingBirds.com. is up, I hope you’ll stop by for a glass of wine because you KNOW I’ll be having one. Come — spend some time with me and chat along as you’d like. It gets lonely out here in Bloggy-Land, you know. Think of it this way — we’re all just little birds dancing as best we can. We’re all just a bunch of absolutely beautiful, charmingly delightful — Dancing Birds!

Don’t you LOVE it? DancingBirds.com. I love it.

See you there soon!

I don’t know a lot, but today I know this:

• A hug from a one year-old is way better than a double shot, no foam skinny latte.
• Missing a meeting to get that hug is worth it.
• Babysitting said one year-old all day deserves a gin and tonic tall that night, no questions asked.
• Making muscles is hard — making fat is easy. Kinda like some ridiculous yin-yang joke.
• If a woman accidentally makes a fart noise in a gym, no one pays attention because they assume it’s from one of the guys.
• A woman in a gym filled with sweaty guys is invisible — Yay!
• Flowers grow crooked in my yard.
• On the day it’s 113 degrees in Phoenix, your air conditioning — without fail — picks that day to quit.
• Poetry falls from a poet’s mind only when the poet isn’t looking.
• Same with fiction.
• Same with non-fiction.
• One dirty diaper cancels out the good aromas from a hot-from-the-oven tray of chocolate chip cookies.
• Flowers stand crooked in my vase, no matter how many times I ask them to stand straight.
• Every man, woman and whatever would be wise to vote for a democrat next time.
• Dogs don’t smell if you love them.
• Children grow up.
• Husbands are really good if they’re good before they become husbands.
• Most every day is amazing.

That’s all I know today. I’ll try to find more things to know tomorrow.

“My life is full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened.”

Michel de Montaigne (French Renaissance Writer)

So, here’s a typical Saturday in the McCanta house. Hubby gets up early (careful not to waken the the sleeping She-Bear), feeds the dogs without making a sound, dresses silently, then hits the golf course by 6:30 a.m. Home by 10:30. What a guy. What an industrious, wonderful silent guy!

She-Bear, however, hibernates until her bladder begins to burst, causing her once petite and widely-admired butt to expand several sizes overnight. Okay, Okay … I’m UP. Ohhhh, but there’s no coffee anymore. Okay, so tell me again the use in living without one’s coffee? Without Lattes? Without Carmel Thingy-Whackies with drizzled stuff on top of its mound of perfect whipped cream?

Youngest Daughter calls with news she’s sold her car. Can I drive her around tomorrow to find a new one? Sure. I love dealership lots and drooling salesmen. It’s the middle of June in Phoenix. Temperature’s expected to be 111 degrees tomorrow. All that shimmering asphalt. Swell. Did I mention tomorrow is Father’s Day?

Scarlett the Retriever spends the day swimming in the pool, with Wilson the Labradoodle circling the edge, barking frantically. Apparently he disapproves of swimming.

Hubby and She-Bear spend the day fidgeting with the air conditioning thermostat. He’s too Cold. She’s too hot. Still lookin’ for just right. Tomorrow will be another story. Above 108 degrees, all bets are off on air conditioning and thermostats. This ain’t gonna be no three-dog night, I can guarantee that!

Hubby and She-Bear follow one another around the house flipping ceiling fans on and off. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

Then I remember the people through the central part of our country who’ve been flooded and tornadoed out of everything. They have no air conditioners to control. They have no fans to fuss over.

I cried today with a woman on the news from Indiana who lost everything. EVERYTHING. She said they only had enough time to grab a change of clothes before their house was flooded. A change of clothes. That’s all she has for her family. A change of clothes. Gosh, that could have been any woman. Any wife. Any mother.

She’s no longer able to be a She-Bear, lounging until the crack of 7:30 am. She doesn’t even have a BED!!!

Ahhhhh.

I think Mssr. Montaigne was very incorrect. Some terrible misfortunes do happen … to real people, to women who would give anything to spend a few extra minutes in bed, to wake to swimming dogs and thermostat wars. To spend a typical Saturday in love with their husbands, to dust their furniture rather than mourn its loss.

I think we should pray for these folks (if we should happen to do prayers) … or hold good thoughts for them … or send them our silly rebate checks … or SOMETHING, damnit!

If I were George Bailey or Zuzu or Mary, I’d be listening for a bell to ring so I’d know another angel got his wings.

Today’s sad news that NBC News Washington Bureau Chief and moderator of Meet the Press (for over seventeen years) suffered a massive heart event today in his office. CPR was immediately initiated, but in spite of heroic efforts, Mr. Russert was pronounced dead after exhausting all means at the hospital.

Yesterday, I added a sidebar called, “Because I Care.” After losing my mother at a young age, as well as, a beloved young stepson to heart disease — today’s death of a person I never met, nor ever even had a chance of meeting, nevertheless brought me to my emotional knees.

We need to take care of each other … and take care of ourselves.

This is our one chance to make life good for ourselves and others around us. Maybe we shouldn’t blow it!

Mr. Russert’s doctor (and friend) bravely informed TV watchers during an interview on MSNBC that only a month ago, Russert passed a treadmill test with flying colors. He was pronounced healthy, although he was being watched for issues relating to a teensy bit of heart stuff. He exercised regularly, had a fabulous attitude, but still Russert had the usual things any high-profile journalist has — stress, bits and snatches of sleep, poor diet — you know, all the things we writers revel in.

So here I am in my little writer’s cave — in the dark with only the glow of my monitor to let me know there’s life out there in the Internets and on the Google.

And I’m sad for the family and friends of a brighter-than-bright man (who I never met except on television). Tim Russert never knew that I was on the other side of the television, sometimes agreeing, sometimes cursing …  but that won’t stop me from listening carefully for the tinkle of a bell. Maybe Sunday or Monday, or so, I’ll hear it. And when I do, I’ll laugh and know that another angel got his wings.

Maybe I should go to church. We Catholics do bells, you know. Maybe I should.

But while I’m thinking that over, fly on, Mr. Russert. Fly on! And, hey … if you see my Mom or my Stepson in the Welcome to the Heart Guy reception line, give ’em a howdy-do from me, will ya? Thanks.

Wilson! Oh, our dear Wilson.

In human time, Wilson’s just six days from turning six months old. In doggie time, he’s now past young adolescence and entering his dirty rotten teenage years. Our lovely, sweet, cuddly puppy has turned Goth … or worse, Headbanger!

There’s not an imported Belgian rug safe in the house. Yesterday, I discovered a section of baseboard chewed to the nubs. Poor Scarlett, our elder Golden Retriever, is stalked and attacked on a regular basis. I spend my days like an eccentric Gypsy woman, muttering chants under my breath while shaking black pepper over the rugs in my house.

Wilson LOVES black pepper. He thinks I’m FRICKIN’ SEASONING the rugs for his dining pleasure.

We have a plan, though.  Next week, Wilson begins training with Sigfried the Horrible. Ve vill haf him trained, or he vill DIE! Well, not really, unless you consider the local PetSmart a dungeon of torture. Beginner, Intermediate, and Advanced Training, here we come! Every Tuesday night for the rest of our natural lives is what I’m thinking.

Uh Oh! Gotta go. I hear a six-month-old puppy chewing something.  Something crackly and forbidden.

Dear Wilson (who thinks his first name is Leave It, his middle name, Noooo!) is going to LOVE his new trainer.  Or Die.