I’ve noticed something very strange about life.

It likes to help you keep things in proper perspective.

Take this week, for instance. I am having one of those weeks that’s unbelievably good. Not to sound puffy or anything, but last night I had a reading at a downtown New Haven club, in a new literary event called “Get Lit.” Unlike a reading in a bookstore, where the fluorescent lights are bright and people sit up straight in little chairs and other non-attending folks are elbowing listeners aside so they can get to the books on chair-caning or something…this reading was in a wine bar. There was art work on the walls, and soft lights, and little cheese hors d’oeuvres on platters, and people were sitting in comfy chairs and sipping wine, while I got to sit up on a stool and read a scene from my book that I would never read in a bookstore. It was a scene that involved sex and betrayal and even cussing in a Southern accent. People laughed and clapped and asked lots of questions about the Writing Process.

And as if this isn’t enough, this next Thursday night, I’m having another reading–this one at the Guilford Library. This probably won’t involve wine, but there will be punch and cookies, and nice chairs–and a friendly, hometown crowd to talk to, and some of my very favorite librarians.

I ask you: Has there ever been such a week for a book that’s been out for months already? NO!

So I’ve been looking forward to these two readings for months now, thinking what to wear and what to say and how to answer questions, and what to read, and–okay, I’ll admit it–feeling pretty good about myself for getting to do these two things.

And so what do you think life sends me?

The dog gets diarrhea.

And not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, could-happen-to-anyone-who-loves-to-feast-in-the-garbage-can kind of a stomach upset. Oh, no. He gets four days of diarrhea.

And without putting too fine a point on it, let me just say that there is almost nothing messier than a golden retriever with stomach troubles. Their fur in the back is…well, I shall say no more. I leave it to your imagination.

So, an hour before I leave to go do my reading last night, I am standing on my front walkway in wet sweatpants, trying to bathe the dog’s hindquarters using a bowl of baby shampoo, while he attempts to run away. Then, after chasing him across the yard and dragging him back and making him stay, I have to hold onto his collar with one hand while rinsing his rear end with the hose, which gets both of us soaking wet. And then, when bathing doesn’t even come close to solving the problem, I end up having to chase him with the scissors and a pair of rubber gloves, so that I can cut the yucky parts of his fur away, the parts that will never be clean again.

It was not a pretty sight. I’m sure my neighbors were traumatized by their view of me running down the street with scissors in the October dusk, chasing down my dog who was nervously looking behind him while he ran.

Worse perhaps was that when I got home from the reading, when I was filled with pride and happiness and–well, even MORE pride, yes, I had to get out of my silk shirt and black slacks and high-heeled boots and clean up the carpets and then take him outside and do it all again.

Life has a sense of humor. That’s all I’m saying.