Thinking about my doorbell.

No one really ever "stops by" anymore. The art of dropping in is lost. People don't even (well, with the exception of my family) 'visit' other people anymore. We go for coffee or tea or lunch. Perhaps we've been brainwashed by Starbucks, or perhaps the strongwilled independence we all hone in our efforts to be upstanding, terrorist-hating Americans dissuades us from admitting any desire to just "be" with other people. In my entire life for which I have long-term memories (so that's age 15 on), I can count on one hand the times people I'm not related to have gotten into their cars, driven to my house, and knocked on my door - without calling beforehand. And I must say, it was a welcome surprise each time. I think I was even a little bit flattered - especially when the caller in question was a person of the male persuasion I was either dating or interested in dating. So go forth and drop in on each other, unless you live in Los Angeles, in which case you can't afford the extra gas. There's a good deal at the Shell station on Santa Monica and Federal by the way-- $2.58/gallon.

This afternoon I said to the nine-year-old I nanny, "Ah, I've had this one song stuck in my head all day."
"What song is it?" he asks.
"I don't think you'd know it."
"Well, try me. Sing it."
I look into the earnest little face and start in on the catchy White Stripes tune, "I'm thinking about my doorbell, when ya gonna ring it, when ya gonna ring it. . . " An emotionless stare looks back at me, eyes open wide on a head still waiting for its body to grow into it.
"Well that sounds dumb," he says after a pause.
Yeah, he's right. It does. But I still like it.