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How many of you are familiar with Webkinz? You know, the bigger-than-Beanie Babies, smaller-than-Build-a-Bear stuffed animals that come with a password that lets you log on to a companion web site? If you have young-teenage girls in the house, or even just in the family, I’m betting you’ve seen these animals many times over the years. You might not know they’re special at first glance, but you can identify them by the colorful W stitched into the sole of one of their feet. Some of them are very appealing, some less so, but they’re all equal if your goal is access to the Webkinz web site.

When you log onto the site and register your stuffed animal, you unlock a year of access to all their games and activities. Each animal you register has an online avatar, and there is a care-taking aspect built into the experience. It’s not quite as rigorous as the one for Tamagotchis, where if you don’t feed them they die. In Webkinz-land, if you don’t feed your online pet, well, to tell the truth, I don’t know what happens. I’ve never let anyone’s happiness/hunger score fall below 85. I mean my daughter, my daughter never let anyone’s score fall below 85.

Okay, so it’s out, my not-so-dirty little secret. I am a closet Webkinz fan. For me it’s not because of the animals (although I’m a sucker for anything I can name and pretend is real), I’m in it for the games. It’s a site I can go to for mindless entertainment without worrying about whether or not I’m going to inadvertently download something to my machine, or fall in love with a game that you can only play until you’re addicted and then you have to buy it. The games are just like the ones you find at grown-up sites, but they’re in primary colors.

These little stuffed animals were all the rage some years ago when my daughter was exactly the right age for them. They came in droves; birthdays, bribes, rewards, just-because-I-love-you presents. She was on the computer constantly and all the stuffed animals got lots of attention. Then the unthinkable happened, she outgrew them.

One day I logged in using her password and was greeted with a message that said that the last Webkinz we had registered had now reached a year old and it was time to say good-bye. I panicked. Stop using Webkinz cold turkey? Were they out of their minds? I saw no way out. I grabbed my visiting exchange student and dragged her to the mall where I made her pick out a Webkinz animal, and presented it to her as a present, minus the tag with the access code.

I’m hooked up again for one more year. I know I’m going to expire next summer so in the spring I’ll start planning for the end. I might even pick my least favorite of the animal avatars and see what happens if you let it starve. Then I can call this whole thing an elaborate experiment, rather than what it really is, my guilty pleasure.

Today, I read a piece in The Boston Globe called, Retirement’s soft landings, by Susan Trausch. She talks about how difficult the transition is from doing whatever it is you’ve been doing all these years, to not doing it, even if you are, in fact, doing something. Lots of people look forward to retirement as the time when they can finally do all the things they’ve been putting off because they didn’t have time. (This assumes, of course, that they’ve socked away enough money.)

My father thinks that since I’m not actively looking for a job out of the house, that I’ve retired. He tells me I’m too young to retire. I explain that I haven’t retired. If I hadn’t been laid off, I wouldn’t have been considering retirement. My war chest wasn’t full yet, and there weren’t a bunch of things I dreamed of doing that I wasn’t; except for one.

I always wanted to be a writer, so I decided to take the opportunity of my unemployment to write a book. I spent the first year learning and creating, and for the most part I was happy. As the second year begins, I’m trying to sell my creation, and I’m experiencing rejection. This is not the fun part of being a writer. This is the part that makes you question whether or not you should be looking for a ‘real’ job.

Before you all jump in to reassure me that all the best writers suffered plenty of rejection, let me state, unequivocally, that I know that. I fully expected the same. What I did not anticipate was how debilitating rejection can be. I repeat my mantras, “It’s just one person’s opinion,” and “Publishing is so subjective,” and still I sleep later, nap more, and spend too much time staring vacantly out the window. And last week, I went tilt; I looked at job listings on Craigslist.

There was one job that seemed tailor made for a marketing professional trying to ease into (or out of) work, twenty hours a week, excellent hourly wage, flexible schedule. It had my name all over it. The more I thought about applying, the more panicky I became. It took me a while, but I realized that looking at job listings was a fear response on my part, my version of fight or flight. Coming up with a plot for a new novel was going to be very hard, looking for a job was the best way to run away from the problem.

Trausch said, “Some people call retirement “the pasture,” but it’s really more like an airport and the departures and landings are endless.” Sounds like when you retire you give up the fight, in exchange for a lot of flights. I’m not ready to do that. If living the life of a writer means experiencing rejection, even as you continue to write, then I’ll just have to forge ahead. Besides, who can afford to fly in this economy?

If I want to remember to do something, I write it down. Yup, I use a pen, and a piece of paper. I keep a pad of paper next to the refrigerator for the never-ending list of things we need at the supermarket. When the time is right, I interrupt that list to take it to the market with me, but it starts all over again the minute I get home.

On a typical day, I may consult several lists; things I need to do, people to buy birthday cards for, phone calls I need to make. Heading into the weekend, I usually rewrite several lists onto a single piece of paper, for more efficient processing. I carry a little notebook in my purse to jot down book titles and authors I want to check out. I also use that notebook when I’m out of the house to jot down appointments I make that I want to remember to transfer to the calendar at home. My fear of forgetting to do that compels me to rip out the page with the appointment and put it somewhere obvious, like the passenger seat of my car, until I get home and can transfer it to its final destination.

I keep a little notebook on my desk with ideas for blog posts. If I have an idea when I’m out and about, I put it in the notebook in my purse. You know what happens then.

If my daughter says, “Mom, can you do x for me?” I say, “Write it down.” If my husband says, “Can you remember to do y?” I say, “Write it down.”

If I put laundry in the washing machine in the basement, I put a post-it note on the kitchen table that says “laundry,” so I’ll remember to move it into the dryer. I leave that note on the table until the dryer is done, and the laundry, in its basket on the kitchen floor, negates the need for a written reminder. My daughter uses that same post-it. I wrote a note on a post-it months ago, “kitties fed,” that I put on the counter above their bowls to alert the rest of the house not to feed them again. We all use that one.

My husband sneers at my lists. He thinks I could be a poster child for PDAs. He urges me to use his old iPhone, so I can put all my lists on it and carry them with me everywhere I go. I’ve tried, really. The iPhone that does everything except make phone calls is in my purse, along with my own cell phone. I haven’t made a note on it yet. I keep meaning to. I guess I better put it on my list.