Writer's Blocks

A few little things, adding up to something....

Jul 01, 2026

An interesting fact about surgery is the utter void that forms in your post-surgery brain. Or, more accurately, how much of your available brain space gets temporarily sublet like a bad AirBnB. The photos are fabulous but the elevator’s broken and the unit’s on the sixth floor. In my case, this is partly due to endless PT, a well-known abbreviation for Physical Therapy. Also a well-known abbreviation for Part-Time, as in Part-Time job. Because that’s what PT feels like.

From the perspective of my knee, the PT’s working. But all that time spent doing it means I no longer have the bandwidth to think about the little things that used to occupy me. Like whether I’m supposed to refrigerate ketchup. And as far as my writing is concerned, quality time spent thinking about little things like that is my happy place.

I don’t exactly have Writer’s Block. Rather, I’m accumulating a growing roster of thoughts and premises that flit through my head and leave before I have the energy to assemble them into something more. (Writer’s Blocks, if you will.) Here are a few.

I was in Manhattan the other day and saw a sign in a park that read “Passive Lawn: No pets or active sports.”

That sign would be so much better if it read, “Passive-Aggressive Lawn: Go ahead. Ruin me with pets and active sports. It’s fine, really. Why would that bother me?”

Scene: Two women sit in a jail cell.

Woman 1: “What’re you in for?”

Woman 2: “Suspicion of murder. You?”

Woman 1: “Reproduced a mahjongg card.”

Woman 2: [Takes a cautious step back.]

Sandwich Generation:

Son: “Mom! Big problem! When I went to get my new license, DMV took the old one.”

Me: “Not a problem. They’ll mail you a new one. You’ll have it in a week.”

Son: “No! Big problem! How am I supposed to get into bars until then?”

Me: “Can’t talk. I’m helping Grandma figure out how to record her TV shows.”

We’re helping my mom move into independent living. While I’m downstairs with my mom, my husband and son are in the elevator, riding down to join us. In the elevator, one of the residents looks my husband over like he’s tonight’s Early Bird Special, introduces herself as “Peaches,” then asks my son, “So, are you visiting your father?”

A healthy specimen of the male variety in independent living is an absolute unicorn.

Last month, I went to an event at our local supermarket, where the head fishmonger demonstrated how to break down a 77-pound tuna—an excellent skill to have if you ever find yourself in the middle of the ocean surrounded by tuna, although it helps if you have a very sharp knife. Actually, it helps even more if you have a head fishmonger in the boat with you and he has a very sharp knife.

The other excitement of the day was a visiting cheesemonger, who cracked open an 88-pound wheel of Parmesan. As I watched him crack the cheese wheel with precision and ease, I asked him where he’d learned his trade. Surely, I thought, he’d apprenticed deep in a cave in Parma, Italy, at the feet of an ancient cheese guru?

“Actually,” he said, “I watched YouTube videos.”

At least it wasn’t TikTok.

Am I the only one who watches House of the Dragon and has no idea what’s going on? The only way I can tell which side anyone is on (and there are SO MANY SIDES) is the fact that every family has radically unique hair. But sometimes even the hair doesn’t help. This proves endlessly frustrating to my husband, as I spend entire episodes commenting on everyone’s hair, congratulating myself that I possess this level of awareness. Until the dragons show up. Dragons, who play a very important role in House of the Dragon (surprise!), DON’T HAVE HAIR. Terrible skin, yes. Hair, no.

Still, there are valuable lessons to be learned. From last week’s battle scene alone (an epic naval battle that features many unidentifiable dragons), I learn (1) if you’re going on a boat, don’t wear armor; (2) if you plan on going anywhere near a boat, don’t wear armor; and (3) you don’t bring a boat to a dragon fight.