Introducing the newest member of the Gaskell clan:

The Fabulous Miss Zoë

We adopted her from the West Palm Humane Society two weeks ago. Her name is Zoë. (Yes, with the umlaut; the pretension of it suits her). I originally wanted to name her Farrah, but George overruled it. He also refused to consider Primrose, Madonna, Agatha, Harriet, Gertrude and Oprah Winfrey. That left us with Posy, which we discarded as being too fey, and Zoë. So Zoë it is.

We really should have named her Pea, as in Princess and the _____, as Zoë spent the first few nights in residence complaining loudly that her new bed was not plush enough for her liking, forcing one of us to stagger to her crate at two in the morning to stuff extra blankets in around her.

Sam was initially charmed by Zoë’s presence.

“We have TWO Lulu’s now!” he crowed.

And when I explained that she was lost from her home, so now we have to take care of her, he immediately grasped the gravity of situation.

“She is lost, just like Lumpy the Heffalump,” Sam said sadly. “It’s okay, Zoë, I’ll take care of you.”

But the glamour of being the new pug on the block has already begun to fade. Now Sam only pays attention to her when she’s naughty.

“Mama! She’s eating my goldfish!” he shrieks, whipping his snack bowl away from Zoë’s twitching nose.

Or he’ll take my hand, lead me to an offending pile, point at it and announce, “Zoë made a poo in my bedroom. I will not sleep next to that,” before turning on his heel and flouncing out of the room, leaving me behind to scrub at the carpet with Resolve and a wet rag, and marvel at how much of my life has been devoted to cleaning up other creature’s bodily waste.

Oh, well. At least she’s cute, right?

Here’s a fun article that ran in Sunday’s Fort Myers News-Press. It’s all about moi, as Miss Piggy would say, or more precisely, about my experience with genre hopping and picking out a new pen name.

Lulu was outside, taking care of business, when a grandmother walked by with two little boys. The younger of the two boys cowered at the sight of my ferocious dog.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She loves kids.” Then looking at his grandmother, I added, “I have a four-year old.”

While Lulu and the little boys became acquainted, their grandmother looked me up and down.

“You have a four-year old grandson?” she asked.

Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.

“No! He’s my son!” I yelped.

“I didn’t think you looked old enough to have grandchildren,” she said.

Unspoken was the obvious: she also didn’t think I looked young enough to be the mother of a four-year old.

I don’t know whether I should immediately stock up on hair color and eye cream, or just sink into a depression. And just when I was feeling smug after getting carded when I bought wine a few weeks ago . . .

I’d heard rumors swirling that tonight’s episode of Friday Night Lights might be the last ever, and was all set to plunge into a deep, dark depression over it. How is it that shit shows like Ugly Betty and Two and a Half Men succeed, while FNL — the best television show ever (except maybe Northern Exposure, if you don’t count the awful post-Fleischman season) — tanks?

But Entertainment Weekly is reporting that that FNL just may have a future yet . . . if not at NBC, than perhaps at another network.

Fingers crossed.