Well, a lot of you have asked probing questions like, What are you doing now? Why are you so busy? Why have you stopped posting so many inane questions on Facebook?

So here I am to clear up the confusion. But to do that, I need to step back in time…to the 1960s. And be warned that some of this story is very sad.

Back in the dark ages when my husband was a young sprout, he befriended another young sprout named Ron. United by their hatred of dressing up and love of music, they began writing and performing songs together. Ron was a musical prodigy, the kind who could pick up any instrument and win a prize. John’s handle on sarcasm and wordplay was tip-top. And they were two of the silliest people alive. Needless to say, they wrote great music together.

Their partnership took many forms throughout their lives, but the salient development came in 1995 when they decided to start a company writing musical plays for elementary school classrooms. Having noticed that everything out there for kids was sappy and simplistic, they thought they could improve on the situation with some better songs and humorous lyrics and dialogue. Of course, they didn’t know if the company would ever go anywhere or make any money, but they had great help from some local teachers who helped spread the word. Some years later, Ron was able to quit his job as a piano teacher and run this company, Bad Wolf Press, full-time.

Initially, the aim of the enterprise was to create musical plays that even “musically timid” teachers could do—they could pop in the CD (okay, cassette tape) and still have a great performance. And while that’s still true, nowadays the plays are also designed to teach curriculum—everything from grammar to math to character education. They not only help students master the material, they also allow teachers to bring music and theater into their classrooms in this test-score-obsessed educational climate.

I came on the scene several years ago as a conference helper and wide-eyed witness to Ron and John’s unbelievable silliness. If you’ve ever experienced a middle school girl’s slumber party, you have some inkling of the nature of this relationship. These two 50-somethings could giggle into the night like nobody’s business. Their partnership was very, very special and a true wonder to behold.

Well, I suppose you see what’s coming. Ron passed away unexpectedly this summer, leaving everyone who knew him in shock and grief. I really can’t describe the profundity of this loss, except to say that the world is now absent a truly exceptional person who was a beloved husband, father, partner, friend, and musician.

At first, John couldn’t imagine Bad Wolf continuing without Ron. It was always the two of them writing together, arguing together, and—of course—giggling together. And Ron’s genius was a big part of the reason that  the company was successful.

But all of us—John, me, and Ron’s wife Kathy—ultimately felt that the company had to live on. It means a lot to us, and it means a lot to teachers and kids. Thousands of children all over the world sing Ron’s songs—as do adults who performed his plays as children!—and we never want that to change.

So, at last, here’s where I come in. I’m the new managerial-type person at Bad Wolf. Eventually that will mean operations, finance, and marketing, but right now it mostly means answering the phones and stuffing envelopes. And that’s because part of the transition meant moving the whole company from its established digs in southern California up to a new headquarters near our home. I won’t pretend it hasn’t been totally hectic, but I know it will be totally worth it. Soon.

Here’s a shot of the new office location. It’s really beautiful and a great place to spend one’s days (even for one who’s used to spending those days at home in pajamas):

As a result, though, I’ve had to close my freelance writing and web development business, including bringing an end to my long-term relationship with the absolutely wonderful company Ewert Communications and the awesome collaboration group at Cisco. It’s been a long goodbye, since I’m still hanging around to help the new people learn the ropes, and it’s been tough. I feel an immense gratitude for the people who’ve treated me so well and sadness that I won’t be working with them anymore.

Lest you think, though, that my professional life is now pretty straightforward, I hasten to add that I still teach my online writing and marketing classes, still peddle my books (hey, S’mores is now available on Kindle and iPad!), and still work slowly toward earning my master’s degree in counseling psychology from Santa Clara University. And, holy croutons, in two months and counting I’ll have a (gulp) new baby.

Bad Wolf will never be the same without Ron, of course. Despite everything we’re doing, John and I still think he’s going to call, that we’ll see him at the next conference. But we hope to do our little company justice in its new incarnation. And I look forward to working every day with my unbelievable husband, whose love and devotion give me the strength to do whatever it takes.

Svetlana “Vetta” Adams was born in Canada around 1996, where she was originally known as Raoul. Sources say that she lived the first seven-or-so years of her life in a household with 25 other cats.

Vetta left this crowded house behind in 2003, immigrating to the U.S. with her daughter, Kismet. Vetta and Kismet lived briefly in a Scotts Valley, California home, where it soon became evident that they were prone to terrorize the household’s other cats. At that time, both felines moved in with Lisa on a so-called “trial basis” in her lavish manager’s suite at Bay Tree Apartments.

Kismet, sadly, met with a tragic end almost immediately, somehow becoming lost on the Bay Tree premises. Though she was found alive three weeks later, she was diagnosed with fatty liver disease and never recovered. Her passing led to the Cat in Freezer incident for which Lisa is now unfortunately famous.

For the next two years, Vetta lived happily as a single cat, befriending Lisa’s boyfriend John and even forcing the cat-hater to admit that Vetta was “different,” a cat he could like.

When Lisa left Bay Tree Apartments, Vetta lived with Lisa’s parents for half a year, once again terrorizing the locals and forcing them to take refuge under the house. Luckily for all, she then moved to her permanent home in Menlo Park with the JEL Family. She was greeted with delight as Emma’s first cat, and soon became affectionately known  as “Fat Kitty” and “Kitties.” Here there were fewer trials in the form of competing felines, though Vetta did have to grapple with the unsettling hardwood floors and John’s unbelievably loud sneezing.

Life was good until 2007, when the JEL Family brought home Vetta’s little sister, a highly energetic and largely terrible puppy named Lu.

Later that year, the JEL Family realized that Vetta’s rapid weight loss could not be entirely attributed to dog-related stress. She was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and spent a few days getting radioactive iodine treatment in a local facility, earning her the nickname “Radioactive Kitty.” Fortunately, the treatment was entirely successful, and Vetta returned to her previous robust weight in no time.

The rest of Vetta’s life proved uneventful. She lived the last three-and-a-half years in comfort, peace, and general elderly good health until earlier this year when she developed a thyroid tumor.

Vetta passed away peacefully on Monday at Mid-Peninsula Animal Hospital. She was approximately 15 years old.

Vetta will be remembered for her prolific dandruff, her husky frame, and her propensity to tap people with a single paw when requesting attention. She was a great cat who will be greatly missed.

Delusion is one of my favorite topics, and living here provides no dearth of material. In Menlo Park, every garden-variety youngster is an über-talented special snowflake.

The latest batch of hilarity came with Emma’s recent basketball tryouts. Auditions of every kind bring underdogs out of the woodwork, but seriously—on what planet do people who have clearly never dribbled a ball go out for a high school basketball team?

Only on Planet Menlo-Atherton, land of the deluded. Emma overheard one of the lousier kids telling a friend that she decided to play recreational soccer this year, giving up the competitive team in favor of basketball. “I think I’m pretty good at both,” she said modestly to another kid.

And then she was axed. Trust me, it was an act of kindness.

I just don’t know what these kids’ parents are telling them. Are these the same parental crazies you see after American Idol auditions, yammering to the cameras about how their tone-deaf children were born to be stars? I just can’t imagine setting my kid up for that kind of disappointment, or—perhaps worse—not realizing myself that my child had no appreciable talent in a particular venue.

Look, we all have talents and we all have flaws. If you don’t tell your children the truth about both, how can they trust you?

So remember how I posted back in May (which seems like two weeks ago, by the way) about how busy the summers always are?

Well, you know, there’s a reason that I haven’t posted anything for two months. Because…just like I said…summers are busy.

I won’t describe all of Emma’s softball tournaments. If you’re my Facebook friend, you’ve heard all the scintillating details already. Overall the team was solidly middle-of-the-road, which is pretty good as far as I’m concerned—though they went out with a 0-4 record at Western Nationals. This is to be expected, however, as middle-of-the-road teams really don’t belong at Western Nationals, which is supposed to take only the top teams in the western half of the country. But John and I seem to be the only parents who appraise the situation with the appropriate level-headed skepticism. All the others seems to have drunk the Kool-Aid, refusing to notice that these “championship” tournaments are designed to rape the wallets of desperate parents hoping to groom their children for college scholarships.

Anyway, that all ended last week, and now we are enjoying a much-deserved week in Truckee. I am currently sitting on a beautiful patio surrounded by a pluot, a bag of popcorn, and four different kinds of gourmet fudge. And my gold-star husband treated me earlier today to an hour with a traveling masseuse. So if this is summer’s end, it’s a pretty good way to go out.

Emma is officially a high-schooler, having graduated from eighth grade last Friday. I had a great time helping her get ready for the big event. She was so ready to be out of that school it was actually a little dire; for the past couple of months I’d kind of been counting down the days on her behalf.

Besides noting that it was, as expected, about a thousand degrees, I’m not going to drone on about the graduation itself (who cares), but I am going to complain (and marvel, really) about one of the kids’ speeches.

Now, first you must understand that the speech-givers were not chosen based on academic success or anything old-fashioned like that. Instead, every eighth-grader had to write a speech using a specific formula (basically, extract a life lesson from a personal experience) and present it to his or her core class. Each class voted on the top few kids, who then performed at an assembly, whereupon mysterious administrators selected four speeches for the actual graduation ceremony.

Here’s what they picked. This kid—we’ll call her Sassy—talked about how her mean, evil parents had made her go live in a foreign country for six months back at the beginning of middle school. Sassy was angry. Sassy was bereft. Sassy loved her middle school more than life itself. And when she arrived at the foreign country, guess what? (I know you think you know where this is going, but stick with me.) The people were nice, but the school was crap. It was old and crumbling and had no technology and there was no such thing as substitute teachers! Sassy couldn’t wait to get home!

And her lofty moral? Appreciate what you have, because the buildings here are amazing (yes, she actually waxed poetic about the buildings), and everywhere else basically sucks.

Now if I thought there was some boldness or courage in the selection of this speech—or even some wee suggestion that helping others less fortunate might be a nice supplement to constantly patting our own backs—I might have liked it more. But I don’t think the mysterious administrators even realized what a butt-kissing, sad little xenophobic speech they picked. It’s just another example of the self-congratulatory Kool-Aid that everyone in this city seems to suck down. Lap it up, folks.

But I got my revenge, don’t you worry, because I sneaked out of the ceremony early to make sure I got some good cupcakes at the reception. After the countless bake sale disappointments I’ve endured these three long years, I really think I deserved it.

So Emma’s middle school has a competition between the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders every year, with the winning grade getting a trip to Raging Waters during the last week of school. I don’t know exactly how they get points, but I imagine it’s kind of like the House Cup competition in the Harry Potter books.

And just as Gryffindor wins every year, so does the 8th grade. Is it because they are older, stronger, wiser? No, it’s because they cheat. According to Emma, “The 7th grade always complains, but then they just cheat the next year.”

Even lovelier, the prime cheaters are those on the Leadership Team (whatever that is), who join said Team solely to cook the books.

This is all so sick, yet somehow I’m kind of impressed.

Summers have always been weird for me as an adult. Somehow I still have the feeling that I’m going to have the whole thing off—maybe because everyone else in my household does (not that I’m bitter or anything)—and I start looking forward to meandering days full of local adventures, relaxing dinners on the patio, evening walks with a well-behaved dog.

Okay, I never delude myself about the dog. But each year, the rest of this fantasy persists, until it is eventually followed by the realization that summers are actually the busiest time of the year, and if we can cram in a single local adventure or patio dinner, we’re looking pretty good.

As it does for many, Memorial Day weekend kicks things off. For Emma, it’s the first softball tournament of the season—a three-day extravaganza in Stockton. She’s playing on the California Spin 16-and-under team this year and actually may be scouted (!) by college recruiters at several showcase tournaments this summer. But lest you think the kid has all the fun, never fear! For the parents, these trips afford plentiful opportunities for enjoying motel hospitality and seeking out undiscovered Sonic Burger restaurants in some of the hottest (and I do mean that literally) locations in Central California.

Sadly, I will not be sharing in the pleasure of this Saturday’s 6am wake-up call, because of course I will be heading to Rock Creek. (For those who may not know, it’s an annual friend and family camping trip that is critical and unmissable. To say that Rock Creek has at least partially defined my being would not be an understatement.) I’ll be making my s’mores and chillin’ like a villain. And with any luck, this year no one in our party will shatter his leg into a thousand pieces.

Besides that, I’m taking one class (which other students have assured me is easy), forcing my husband to go camping for one night (we’ll see if it happens), trying to start volunteering for any organization that will have me (they all seem to have these dastardly waiting lists), and making plans to see some Shakespeare and a musical. In August we’ll take a family vacation in Tahoe, and then, bam! Emma starts high school.

It will be kind of insane. But damn it, I will force some fun into it if it’s the last thing I do.

Today Emma turned fourteen, so of course we all had to take her out for her first drink. I know, I know, it would have been more age-appropriate to let her take her first drive, but she’s been tearin’ up the back streets of Menlo Park for a couple of years now, so we had to up the ante.

Okay, so maybe it was just a glass of lemonade, dinner at Il Fornaio, and dessert at the Prolific Oven (with a couple of chocolate chip cookies for the road).

Tomorrow morning some vindictive dentist will turn my child into a metalmouth. Emma’s being very brave about it, but I have to say I’m still grateful that I never needed braces (and I do wonder if my parents owe me the several thousand dollars they saved). Sometimes I think the saddest thing about not having a biological child is that no one has inherited my amazing teeth (I mean, they are amazing). But I digress. I’m looking forward to seeing the New Emma, and I’m sure she’ll look fine. (And now that I think about it, we should have had caramels and taffy for dessert. Oh, well.)

The fact that she’s fourteen, however, also makes me realize that I really need to update the JEL Family web site with new photos. The actual frame of the site depicts a—what?—ten year old? But geez, that’s hard, and just saying it is easier.

So happy birthday to the Emsk! This will be the first year of high school, a year of new friends and experiences, and just another year of worshiping your stepmother’s incredibly amazing teeth. We love you lots and lots.

Fake Press Releases Expected to Proliferate

MENLO PARK, CA — April 5, 2010 — In a shocking turn of events, lazy blogger Lisa Adams announced that, after a pathetic delay of a year and a half, she will maybe try to think about updating the JEL Family blog more frequently.

The blog, which was launched in conjunction with jelfamily.com in December of 2007, sailed along for almost a year before shuddering to a halt in September 2008.

Due to Adams’ unexpected hiatus, legions of devoted fans were deprived of firsthand details regarding the family’s endless complaints and horrifying summer sports commitments.

“I know, I don’t deserve to live,” moaned Adams. “On the other hand…this was supposed to be a family blog and so far only the ‘L’ is doing any work. Veeeery interesting, isn’t it.’

The “J” and the “E” were not available for comment.

Parents Baffled but Grateful

MENLO PARK, CA — September 10, 2008 — In a shocking turn of events today, Emma Heath received her school picture and found that it did not make her look like a leering, mildly retarded troll.

“I couldn’t believe it,” the seventh grader reported. “I didn’t look that bad!”

Heath suffers from a genetic disorder that causes perfectly attractive people to make ghoulish facial contortions in the presence of a camera. As a result, Heath’s school photos generally inspire cringing and stammering in others.

“She does the makeup picture every year, but it’s never any better than the original,” lamented Heath’s father, who suffers from the same condition and in fact admits passing it on to his innocent child.

Yet sources say the true victim of the disease is Heath’s stepmother, who cannot get a decent family picture to save her life. “With these freaks, it would take a miracle,” she moaned, but feels heartened by Heath’s recent photographic success. “Here, at last, we have some progress. It’s not the best picture I’ve ever seen, but at least she doesn’t look like a leering, mildly retarded troll.”

Heath’s parents report that the picture in question will likely remain unavailable to the public, as school photographers apparently have not embraced the digital age.

“Us, scan this in?” scoffed Heath’s father. “It’s an improvement, but it’s not that good.”