Sunshine on a Spotted Mind

Today I had to remain at home all day. First the handyman was traipsing from room to room, talking to himself and installing ceiling fans and lights, then the appliance guy came to install a new icemaker in the fridge. I puttered around, getting those things done that I've been putting off for more time than I care to tell you about. Oliver kept an eye on the crazed human activity from his bed in the living room.

After the handymand and before the applicance guy arrived, I got a powerful craving for something sweet. Definitely something with chocolate. I couldn't leave, because I might miss the applicance guy and then have to go through the whole rescheduling process, which could take long enough that ice would fall from the sky as the result of hell freezing over (Hell is just definitely only about two cities farther down the valley in the summer.) I inventoried the shelves and the fridge. All I could come up with was a bag of dark Dove Bliss individually wrapped candies and a bag of marshmallows. No gourmet recipes came to mind, but S'mores definitely did. Except that I didn't have graham crackers and I'm allergic to wheat, anyway. Oh, and no firepit or barbeque to toast the marshmallows.

Sugar fanatics will understand the slavering monofocus of a true chocoholic who gets a crazed idea like this. A crazed idea like using rice cakes instead of graham crackers and pretending it tastes as good as the real thing. It seemed reasonable at the time to expect chocolate to melt on a rice cracker and marshmallows to toast on it at the same rate in a toaster oven. (Rational thought does not occur when the cacao-crazed lizard brain takes over.) Unfortunately, the chocolate just barely softened, and the marshmallow burned on top. I pulled the mess out of the toaster oven before the smoke detectors went off (I never forget that my ceilings are nine feet tall and I don't have a ladder to get up there and stop the noise--not that I would climb it if I did.) There was only one thing to do with this disaster: eat the evidence. Which I did.

Thank goodness the workers have done their respective jobs and I am free. Free to run to the grocery store and get whatever chocolate treat I want. But now I'm sated. Slightly ashamed at my lack of any kind of class at all, but sated. Either way, chocolate wins!

Rain in the Desert

My desert hasn't had a serious rain in about six years. That must be why the newscasters got so excited about the 0.50 inch that misted its way toward the dusty earth yesterday morning. I slept in for ten minutes, so I missed it. And 0.50 inch doesn't leave enough evidence to convince a former Northwesterner that "rain" actually occurred.

I did see a bit of a rainbow from my backyard. Seattle had plenty of moisture in the air for rainbows, but often not enough sun to make them show up. My desert has plenty of sunshine, but not much moisture in the air. In either place, when the right amount of both ingredients show up at the same time, the result is magical. I stood on my little step ladder and aimed my iPhone camera over the north wall at the stub of a rainbow hanging beneath the dramatic clouds. I was rather pleased with the results.

Then I noticed the buildings in the lower left corner of the picture. It's the new high school. I've never actually stood on a step ladder to see much of the world beyond my little wall (being short makes it easy to pretend there's no one here but me.) I drove to the school a couple of weeks ago to offer to volunteer in the office. I have to drive south for about 1/2 mile to get out of my complex, then back north to the school. That's enough to totally disorient a person with no sense of direction. I was surprised at what the picture showed me--that the school is only a couple of blocks from me. (That explains why the PA system sounds like it's in my backyard when they have football games.)

I should do the Meerkat thing more often; who knows what I might learn about the street behind me!

Thanksgiving--Chocolate, ice picks, and terror-filled freeways

Unlike many of my fellow boomers, I still have a bright, lively mom, and I now live close enough to her to drive to her house for Thanksgiving--even though it takes 2 hours of sheer terror on the L.A. freeways to get there. I'm praying and invoking the gods of several religions right now, because I'm leaving in about an hour.

I'm taking her a little box of chocolate covered dates from the date farm a few miles from my house here in Indio. Well, it's the date farm store, anyway. The date trees are gone, having been sacrificed to the never-ending march of the suburbs into agricultural land. I would complain about this, but I realize I'm a big part of the problem. The new home my parents moved into in 1951 in Lakewood CA (where I am bound today--Mom still lives there) was built on farm land. "Volunteer" tomato plants showed up in the yard for years after we moved in. A house I moved to in Irvine CA in the 1980s still had asparagus fields next to it. My home in Bothell WA was built on a former cow pasture, with some of the original shade trees in the neighborhood park.

But who knew date palms in a desert whose temperatures sometimes reach 120 degrees F. would be endangered by the voracious appetite for new homes? The Shields Date Store is still at the old location, on the old highway, for people like me who like to grab a bit of history before it disappears forever (because we keep building our homes over it!) The box says "Indio," so I suspect there are still some date groves around here, somewhere.

I bought some fabulous strawberries at a local farmer's market, and decided they, too, should be enrobed in chocolate and taken to my mom, who adores chocolate almost as much as I do. It was not until I was in the process of melting chocolate, preparatory to dipping them and laying them on a cookie sheet, that I realized: 1) the counter spaces in my new kitchen are broken up into such small surfaces I couldn't lay out all my ingredients in one place, 2) my side-by-side refrigerator doesn't have a big enough space for a cookie sheet, 3) I have no waxed paper, 4), I have no cooking spray. I put the chocolate dipped strawberries directly on a plate. Not the smartest thing to do. They look pretty good on the plate, but half of the chocolate stays behind when you try to pick up the strawberry. (Sigh.) I'll just have to put an ice pick next to the plate, the way you put a pie server next to a pie plate. ("It's fun--try it!...The band-aids are in the drawer...")

OK, I've procrastinated as long as I can. Time to put strawberries, dates, overnight bag, and little dog in car. When I worked in sales, they taught us to wiggle our toes and take a deep breath before entering an office on a cold call. Somehow, it got your circulation going and your courage up. I think I'll get in the car, wiggle my toes, pump my fist in the air and holler, "Look out, Suckers, here I come!" That should get me ready for the maze of 10-lane freeways full of crazed holiday seekers. If not, I'll just white-knuckle it, as usual.

I hope your Thanksgiving is just as interesting as mine promises to be (minus the ice-pick, of course!)

Holiday Nostalgia

Getting a nice new life is wonderful--and stressful. Holidays are stressful. Put those two things together, and what do you get? A mishmash of emotions that can wallop you when you're not even looking.

I love seeing the sun play on Shadow Hills each morning when I open my blinds. I carry my sleepy little dog out to his favorite bush to pee, and I rejoice in the birdsong that greets us. We get back into bed and sleep an extra hour, listening to the waterfall through the open window. Thanksgiving is almost here and Christmas is around the corner (facts that flummox me, because it looks like summer out there!), and I'll be with family. It's all good, right?

So, why did I get tears in my eyes when I walked into the aroma of fresh-cut pine trees at Stater Brothers grocery store? It's the aroma of the Pacific Northwest, as dependable there as the sunshine is here. I didn't realize how much I miss it, until that moment. I felt sad in the bakery aisle when I saw the pineapple upside-down cake mix and realized I wouldn't be tasting my friend Melody's homemade-in-an-iron-skillet pineapple upside-down cake this Christmas. It's the little things that get me. The comforts of small familiar things are strung together like cranberries on a Christmas tree. When the string breaks, all those little things fall away, leaving a bare tree. I guess that's where I am now. I have a bare tree and need some cranberries. But it will take time.

I hold Oliver a lot; we both enjoy it. But it doesn't mean I wouldn't like to hold my former tiny black dog and feel his bony little body in the crook of my arm. I'm making new acquaintances, some of whom I think will become friends, over time. We talk and talk, getting to know each other. For the holidays, I sure would like to sit in my old friends' living rooms, sipping wine or tea or Scotch, sometimes being quiet together because we already know and love each other.

It's very American to start over again in a new place. We're all emigrants and pioneers, giving up our familiar comforts and companions for something we hope will be better in some way. My hopes are being fulfilled, but holidays are about celebrating bonds and familiarity--both in short supply when you're "the new girl." When you're in transition, there's nothing quite like the holiday season to remind you what you've given up.

I look forward to stringing together many years' worth of experiences and comforts in my new life. I won't forget--because I can't--the one I just dismantled. I'll hang out with my old family that hasn't seen much of me in the last 20 years, and chat up my new acquaintances at the holiday parties. And maybe I'll indulge myself in just a little bit of holiday nostalgia, quietly toasting my beloved buddies in the Northwest. Skoll!

Metamorphosizing back into a Californian

Remember the Looney Tunes scenes where a character shape-shifts to blend in with its surroundings? (Think Bugs Bunny mimicking a tree, Porky Pig being slapped around and crammed into a uniform to look like a soldier, and Wiley Coyote trying to look like anything but a coyote.) That's sort of what's happening to me right now, so I'm thinking it's best to write down my observations before the metamorphosis is complete. I'm pretty sure I'll get amnesia about my 20 Northwest years. I can feel my inner Californian resurfacing, and there will be no way to stuff her back in the box once she's out.

I'm starting to smile goofily at strangers for no good reason, 60 degrees is beginning to feel chilly, and massive amounts of caffein do not call to me any more. I think the 70 mph sign on the freeway is a minimum speed limit. Yesterday, Oprah interviewed a famous female porn star and then broke for a commercial that showed our local weather person. The porn star and the weather woman looked like twins, and it didn't seem weird to me.

I expect sunshine when I open my blinds in the morning, and I'm starting to forget what it's like to put on two layers of clothing, a hat, and boots just to take the little dog out. I can almost tell apart the neighbors who have shared plastic surgeons and now look like each other. Swimming in an outdoor swimming pool in November has stopped feeling like a magical wonder and now just feels like a delicious luxury for which I will ever be grateful. Palm trees are back in my consciousness.

It's going to take a little longer to get used to the quantities of personal information Californians immediately share with strangers. Seattlites hold their cards close to their chests and sometimes don't change their expressions for hours, even when walking through a group of smiling people. They say it's the Scandinavian ancestry. I think it's the darkness. It's hard to be gregarious when you're struggling to determine if you should be asleep or awake. Sunscreen is the only thing Californians buy in the same quantities that Northwesterners buy caffeine. No little endcap at Walgreen's can contain the length and width of California sunscreen variety--whole rows are devoted to the stuff. I wouldn't be surprised to find that many California newlyweds met at the sunscreen display.

Blue sky, being able to see for miles, and tiny lizards living under my shutters are becoming commonplace in my daily life. I no longer expect hand-numbingly cold water from the cold water tap. I don't know how to turn on the heater in my house and don't expect I will need to know. But those are desert things, not just California things. Being expected to look good while chasing little lizards and drinking tepid water, however, definitely is a California thing. Ah, well. It may a while before I can meet that expectation. Maybe a long while.

In the meantime, I'll just practice saying, "Have a nice day!" like I mean it, and talking to the person next to me in line at the grocery store about my dog's most intimate problems.

Have a nice day, OK?

Palm Trees in Skirts

Urban palm trees have always been a puzzle to me. Who thought tall skinny things with a feather duster on top were decorative? Why plant them? I have to admit, they add a welcome green relief to the unrelenting sand and rock of the desert, but really--palm trees? In the city?

Many years ago I knew a young woman from Pennsylvania who came to live in San Diego for a little while. One day she said, "I've decided I can't be civil to palm trees." And she moved back to Pennsylvania. I didn't get her remark for some time. I think I understand now. They really don't belong in the city, do they? They look so fragile, so tenative, as if they know they shouldn't be there. Deprived of their natural "skirts" of dead fronds (because you really wouldn't want a rat habitat next to your house, would you?), they lose some of their visual appeal (well, I think so, anyway.)

Wild palms are a different story. The Coachella Reserve and wildlife refuge is not far from my home. I stopped by and got this swell photo of real, live, indigineous California Fan Palms. I'd never seen wild palms before. Don't they look nice and sturdy, and...well, confident? Who knew a skirt could be so empowering?

Roses in the Desert!

When I left Seattle, I thought I'd be saying good-bye to roses in public places. I thought a rose garden would take so much effort in the desert that only home gardeners would be willing to give the care and watering required. Happily, I was wrong. (Click on this picture. Do you see them? Not winning any contests--except the one where they survive through 120-degree summer heat--yet they seem gorgeous to me.)

Today, Oliver and I searched for new grass to walk on, since both the dog park and the area around the duck ponds in our retirement complex are closed for reseeding. Our backyard is all rock and desert plants (not his favorite recreational milieu.) My little scruffdog dances and rolls with excitement each morning, knowing it's time to ride in the car to a place of grass. I think there is a law somewhere against refusing to give a sweet, otherwise undemanding dog the one thing that makes him dance, isn't there? So, I pulled out the map and found Miles Park, just a couple of miles away.

This park is completely different from the manicured desert-landscaped grounds of our complex. Miles Park looks like the parks of my Lakewood (CA) childhood, surrounded by homes built circa WWII, with big grass playing fields and covered picnic tables. Workers with lunch boxes arrived in their trucks, greeting friends at the tables. Mothers chased toddlers through the play area. Water sparkled in large Rain Bird sprinkler arces, creating something I haven't seen since I got here: mud. Oliver was ready to tramp right through it. (You can take the dog out of Washington, but you can't take Washington out of the dog.)

And then I saw them--roses! We skirted the patches of mud to walk down the little sidewalk that ran between the rows of bushes. The blooms were small by Washington standards, and had not much aroma, but they were lovely, as only roses can be. If I'd been wearing a hat, I'd have doffed it in respect to the City of Indio gardeners who make this unlikely patch of prettiness possible for all of us to enjoy.

I like desert lanscaping, and I'm prepared to live with it for a long time. But this is such a big move, and everything is so very different than it has been for 20 years, I think finding something familiar just thrilled my heart. I don't have to always be New Susan, Desert Retiree. I can be Old Susan ,who remembers parks with space for imagination and play, and neighborhoods of small bungalows brimming over with Baby Boomer children.

Maybe I'm learning to integrate the various stages of my life. It seems appropriate, somehow. Thanks, Oliver, for the assist. I wouldn't get "out and about" nearly as much if you weren't such a good morning dancer!

The Tax Man Cometh

I love having my own pretty little house with a great view of Shadow Hills, blooming desert plants, and a little waterfall. I love that Oliver has a patio and a tiny back yard to nose around in. The only thing I don't love is the tax bill.

It came last week, with two little payment stubs--one-half due November 1st and one-half due February 1st. I knew it was coming, and I saved money. But somehow, it always knocks the wind out of me whenever I get an official-looking letter from a government taxing agency.

The Riverside County Assessor sent me a supplemental form that showed the correct purchase price of my home. But the tax bill was based on the previous owner's purchase price, which was considerably higher than my bargain basement deal. I asked Bill for advice. "Pay it," he said. They'll credit you later. Don't wait for them to fix it before you pay--their remedy for unpaid taxes is to sell your house!" Duly terrified, I resolved to follow his advice if I couldn't get a human on the phone at the Assessor's office.

I called several times; the first time I went through the telephone tree from Hell only to be told my situation required help from an agent, but due to a system problem I couldn't be put through to one. The next day, I made it through the demonic telephone menu, was put on hold, and was told I was the 12th caller. Then I was the 10th, then...well you get the idea. When I finally got to the first position, the bad music on hold ceased. Then the telephone survey I agreed to take began. "No!" I shouted into the phone, "No survey! Agent! Give me an agent!" The cheery automated system said, "This ends the call. Good-bye." I knew it couldn't hear me. I knew it was stupid to yell at it. But I told it how wrong it was, and that this indeed did not end the matter.

I finally got through to a human (hint: press the button for "I want to pay my taxes.") He was friendly and helpful. When I told him my situation, he said, "Just pay it. They'll credit you the overage on your next installment." [Hand smacking forehead. I coulda just listened to Bill!] I emailed Bill to tell him how smart he is. I mailed the check (certified, with proof of delivery receipt). Now I'm sitting back, playing with my dog and listening to my waterfall, waiting for the government magic to happen. It's all good. I'm sure it is. Really.

The Birds are Migrating

Driving down my street at sunset a couple of days ago, I saw a migrating flock of very large birds, flying high and silent. Mesmerized, I pulled over and got out of my car to wonder at them. The sun made their white bellies glint golden against the blue sky, and their V formation constantly reformed itself. It took me a while to recognize them as geese, based on their shape. In Washington, I usually saw Canada geese flying low, honking to each other. This was beautiful and awe-inspiring, these birds moving with quiet purpose on their long journey south. I don't know what they do when they get there, but I hope they get good rest and lots of food. They deserve it.

The next morning I turned onto the main street of my retirement community and saw a couple of very large motor homes, pulling SUVs, enter the gates. I didn't think much of it until I saw several more the next day. And then some more. Suddenly, I realized this was the migration the other year-round desert residents told me about. The Return of the Snow Birds.

The Return of the Snowbirds means the population will swell until early spring. The pools, restaurants and doctor's offices will be crowded. Stores and banks will have long lines. I'm part of a several-thousand-year-old human tradition: people coming to the Coachella Valley for the winter. Artesian wells, sunshine and warm temperatures drew the Native American tribes out of their mountains and hills long before we discovered its pleasures--in fact, "Indio" means "Indian," the town so named because of the tribes that used to gather here.

Retirees are only the latest nomadic tribe in the area. Their predecessors are still here, offering the new tribe shelter, food, and enertainment. That used to be called Pow Wow. Now it's called casinos. Only the birds still do it the old way. Still, both kinds of migratory flocks are pretty amazing.

Commando Gardeners

As the owner of a dog with colitis, I have plenty of time at my end of the leash to contemplate the scenery and think odd thoughts. Outside my mother's house this morning, I was lost in reverie while Oliver tried his best to do his business.

My attention was jerked back to the present when a small, beat-up pickup truck full of gardening equipment, topped by a large orange water cooler, careened around the corner. Before it even stopped, the doors flew open and three men in large straw hats leaped out. Each grabbed a piece of equipment--a mower, an edger, and a weed whacker--and started the engines in the middle of the street. They ran to the neighbor's yard and edged and mowed at full speed. If lawn care was an Olympic event, these guys would win, hands down. Two of them disappeared into the back yard while one remained to water the flowers under the neighbor's window. The two reappeared from the back yard, then I looked down to check on Oliver.

When I looked up, the straw hats, the equipment, and the truck were gone. No more than ten minutes had passed. Did I just witness a new phenomenen--Commando Gardening? Or did I just imagine it? Oliver isn't talking.

Mojo Criollo and the Cardenas Market

Moving to a new area is fraught with opportunities to take a half a day to do something that used to take a half an hour in the last place you lived. Because in the last place you lived, you knew exactly where to go to get all the weird little things that make your world more comfortable. Like your favorite chicken marinade.

My favorite happens to come in a big bottle--wine bottle size--from the Goya company, and is called Mojo Criollo. No, I don't know what that means. All I know is that it makes blah chicken breasts taste like a fiesta in my mouth, instead of like dry, boring diet food.

I was getting this elixir at the Safeway when I lived in Washington. Wouldn't you think that in Indio, CA, where the population is a much higher percentage Latino, you'd be able to get this stuff just about anywhere? Well, you'd be wrong.

This is where the half-day comes in. My mother's side of the family lacks the brain computer chip that gives people that geographic orientation known as a "sense of direction." I hold them completely responsible for the fact that I have to have written directions to every place I go in a new town, until I actually memorize the routes. The only directions I've memorized so far are the ones to my community clubhouse and the nearest Starbucks. So, going anywhere else takes the usual time to get there, plus 15-30 minutes for getting lost. Multiply that by the four grocery stores I tried, and I think you get the picture. I finally asked my Mexican-American housekeeper to tell me where a good Mexican store was.

All I can say to the Cardenas family, who started a chain of Mexican grocery stores all over Southern California, is: "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" In a store decorated to look like an outdoor market I found my mojo criollo marinade, my favorite fresh tortillas, and a shaker of Adobo (the Mexican equivalent of Laurie's Seasoned Salt.) Signs were in Spanish and English, the music was lively, and families laughed and shopped and ate sweets. I could come to love this.

A huge fake orange tree presided over the produce section, and a faux bank housed the customer service area near the check-out stands.

I think I'm love with the store. I know I'll be back again soon--even before I run out of mojo criollo.

Cahl-ee-fohrn-ya Wine Country, Santa Rosa

Did you know there is yet a place in California where you can drive for hours through rolling goldent hills gilded with live oak trees, where you can drive so close to sparkling lakes you can see fish jump? I didn't.

We drove from east to west through Lake and Mendocino Counties, headed for Santa Rosa and my sister's house in wine country. Two amazing things happened: we didn't meet any truly aggressive drivers (maybe it was the soothing scenery) and we found a Foster's Freeze in a tiny little lakeside town. Foster's Freeze is the most excellent establishment for soft serve ice cream in the world. I didn't even know how much I'd missed it until I licked my first Foster Freeze cone in about 20 years. Any idea of other soft serve ice creams disappeared from my brain. This was it--soft serve heaven! Frances became an instant convert.

We made it to Santa Rosa where I saw my sister's home for the first time. Her husband just retired, and they searched for two years to find the perfect place. It was built in 2004, just like my little home in the desert. It has a red tile roof, just like mine. The walls are painted pale mocha and doors and trim are white (just like mine). The interior of our houses are--improbably and amazingly--like sisters. Except that my whole house could fit in their basement.

My nephew and his wife and the Cutest Baby in the World came up from San Francisco for a picnic with us at Brother-in-law's favorite winery. He loves the view. He loves the wine. He is a member of their wine club, so he gets free tasting and great discounts--which he was able to share with us. Now we love the view and wine, too. Frances and I were good--we only tasted a few, ones we really thought we might like to buy. I bought my mom a nice red called "Poizin", which has a skull and crossbones on the bottle. Brother-in-law joked that nothing better happen to Mom, or the police would be all over me for bringing her Poizin. But mom is still just fine.

Back on Interstate 5, we made it to Mom's house--the house where I grew up. Women live in fear of becoming their mothers, but sometimes there's just no getting around the truth. For example, when someone takes a picture of you and your mother, and you find out you've got the same sun glasses!

Klamath Falls to Shasta and Cottonwood,. Cahl-ee-fornya!

The two-woman, 1-dog traveling troupe drove through what appeared to be high desert after leaving Klamath Falls. Trees were sparser, mountains smaller and more brown. We stopped at a rest stop called "Grass Lake." Odd name, I thought. Frances, of course, investigated the historical sign overlooking a prairie-like meadow while Oliver and I puttered around the pet area. She reported that there used to be a lake at that site, with a hotel and fishing dock. Until someone decided to fish with dynamite.

They probably didn't realize they were sitting on top of lava tubes until the dynamite broke through the floor of the lake. When the lake disappeared, they figured it out. Too late. It did become a fine wetland, now home to hundreds of species of animals--none of which built a hotel or a dock.

Approaching Shasta from the north made me realize that the scenic photos are mostly taken from the south. It took us a while to recognize it, but since it was the only large mountain around, we cleverly deduced that we were looking at Mt. Shasta. I think it was at this point that Frances' camera battery died. Rest stops would be shorter from here on out.

Traveling with a dog in hot weather means you don't get to eat inside in cool, air-conditioned establishments. We found a nice sandwich/pizza place,"The Pizza Factory," at about the same time we found I-5. Oliver and friend shared a seat. The beer, of course, was Oliver's.

My friend, Susan H., lives in Cottonwood, California, along the Sacramento River (or a tributary, or subsidiary, or some other river-like term.) I've been to her house a number of times, but with my lack of a sense of direction and because of the winding, twisting backroads to get there, Susan graciously offered to meet us at the Shasta Oulet Mall in Anderson. Frances and I managed to eschew this outlet mall ("It's HOT!" "I'm tired!") and instead visited the gloriously air-conditioned California Welcome Center.

Oliver was welcomed to California. Doesn't he look excited?

Umpqua

There is a part of Oregon that is so beautiful, so serene, and so sparsely populated that it can bring peace to the most jangled soul. I know, because I am that soul, and that's what it did for me today.

The Umpqua River flows, fat and shiny, through mountains and hills, through farms and elk preserves. You can see it from the road as you drive Highway 138 between Roseburg and Crater Lake. Oliver needed a doggie rest stop, so we stopped alongside the road in this sweet little nature area. Those of us who live in densely populated areas expect to see at least 20 other people in every little park, so having this space to ourselves for ten minutes was a little miracle.

Frances counted the number of sightings of different types of animals--domestic and wild--that we saw. Her final count was 10--just from our car window. We were most excited by the bald eagle that swooped so low over our car we could see every detail on its giant claws. We were most enchanted by the tiny calves trying to keep up with their mothers.

Crater Lake is the jewel at the end of this shiny, flowing necklace. It stunned me with its deep blue, satin-like surface. The literature says it's 2,000 feet deep, 6 miles long, 4 miles wide, and is the result of 12,000-foot Mt. Mazama blowing its top 7,000 years ago. My first thought was, how did they know it was named Mt. Mazama? But that was just to distract myself from the awesome scale of the event that created this caldera. Connecting with a prehistoric volcanic event can be a humbling experience for a 21st Century city girl.


We left the south side of Crater Lake on Hwy 62, avoiding the highest altitude on its east side. The countryside was drier, and mountains give way to hills. No more Umpqua River shining in the sun. I kind of missed it. Still, we delighted in driving for miles along the Upper Klamath Lake. Almost as much as actually arriving in Klamath Falls and finding our Motel 6 so we could get out of the car and flop down on our beds. What a day! What a beautiful, wondrous, eye-opening day! I really DO need to get out of the city more!

The Plight of the Roadtrip Dog

Oliver has his own plush-lined foam seat in the back seat of the car. He loves it. It's a good thing, because not only does it keep him safe (it's belted in, and he's harnessed and attached to it), but he spent a lot of time in it today

Frances scoped out a Sambo's restaurant in Lincoln City that apparently has been there for fifty years. We discussed the ramifications of its name during the civil rights movement of the 1960s; we both remembered restaurants of that chain that didn't make it through those times. The inside of the restaurant is decorated cute-with-gift shop, and the food was outstanding. (I think Frances will be out food scout from here on out.) Oliver waited in the car.

After checking out of the Lincoln City Motel 6, we headed south; our destination being Roseburg. We didn't make it very far. You may know that Lincoln City has an outlet mall, and the state of Oregon has no sales tax. Besides, it was raining, and how much sightseeing can you do when all you survey is uniformly silver-gray and damp? We both made a couple of purchases that made us so happy we almost did the Happy Dance right there. Oliver waited in the car.

Then the sightseeing commenced. We were on the Central Oregon Coast. Sightseeing is mandatory, even (or maybe especially) in the rain. We stopped at Cape Foulweather, so named by Captain James Cook because the weather was so foul when he arrived there. Nothing in today's weather belied that name, and the sign by the giftshop (of course there is a gift shop!) said 100-mile-an-hour winds are fairly common. Not today, thank goodness.We stopped at the Devils Punchbowl, where ocean waves are practically sucked into a hole in the rocks and swirled around in a large depression. Frances took pictures. Oliver had a little walk. Other ocean oddities required stops. Oliver walked with us.

We headed inland at Reedsport on Highway 38, which has some of the quietest, least-inhabited and most beautiful scenery I've ever seen. The Umpqua River flowed fat and silver through lush hills and forests with only an occasional farm. Four miles of the highway is an elk-crossing area, with pull-outs for elk viewing. We hoped to see some. They did not disappoint us. We saw a fine, muscled bull with his harem, holding his head high and looking proud. I didn't really know elk were so big. Oliver stayed in the car.

We took Highway 138 off of 38 to get to I-5 and Roseburg. I did't know there was this much uninhabited land left in the United States. When I get jangled fromt he crush in Southern California, I now know where I will run for peace and quiet. This tree-covered section of 138 filled me with serenity, even just passing through. It was not, however, a great time to need a bathroom. We found a porta-potty next to a dirt road leading to the Yellow Creek boat ramp (thank you, boaters!). Oliver had nice walk and enjoyed the always-available dog facilities.

We made it into Roseburg just in time to watch the finals of America's Got Talent. We were both stunned that the brooding country singer--who until very recently was an unemployed chicken catcher--beat out the gorgeous, cancer-surviving Latina opera singer. Oliver was unimpressed. He tossed his little toy in the air, growled and shook it, and was generally happy to be out of his car seat.

Tomorrow--Crater Lake. Neither of us has seen it. Both of us seem to have some sort of adverser reaction to altitude. It should be an interesting day.

Road Trip to New Life Begins

Stayed up too late Monday night, getting things done before leaving Tuesday morning for my new life in Indio. I kept starting to think, "Why didn't you get this done sooner?" in those disparaging tones that play in the bad tapes in our heads. Then I remembered: "Oh yeah. Just had surgery. Didn't really have enough energy to stay upright for a whole day until last Thursday." OK. Well, then. (Patting self on back) "Good job getting everything done in four days!"

I still had lots of stuff at the Bothell house that I never moved when I went to the Renton condo. Fifteen years of stuff. Next Saturday, Bill is going to ship seven boxes I packed--a big favor, because this way they will arrive shortly after I do, instead of sitting in a warehouse in the desert for a week. I don't remember what all is in those boxes, but I'm fairly certain that being cooked (it's still over 100 there) won't improve their appearance and usability.

Felt sad and heavy as I left. How can I be leaving 20 years of beloved friends behind? Some friends had a going away potluck for me Sunday. Some of us cried. I didn't have time to process it and feel my feelings, because there was still much to be done. Driving to meet Frances for the first leg of the trip, the sorrow set in. Fortunately, the day was sunny and Frances is an upbeat person who finds adventure in everything, so I didn't beome too maudlin. Frances is also a good listener.

First stop, Portland. Frances' brother and his wife live on the Riverwalk where you (and your dog) can dine at an outdoor table under a tree next to the river at McCormick and Schminks, dabbing your lips with cloth napkins. Oliver sat at my feet, next to his own tree. The waitress brought him a stainless steel doggie bowl of water. It just doesn't get any better than this. My mood was definitely improving.

We made it to Lincoln City for the night. We're Motel 6'ing it for reasons of economy and because they accept pets. This Motel 6 was brand new, three stories, free wi-fi. Pretty darned nice for the price. But I "hit the wall" about an hour before we got there and just couldn't make it to the beach with Frances to watch the sunset. She brought us some great photos on her cell phone. I was sorry I missed it, but so grateful for that Motel 6 bed!

Police Shoot Fire Chief...

I knew the recession was loosening its grip when I saw the paper last Friday. I saw it in the headlines. They didn't say "Recession Over;" in fact, they said "Police Shoot Fire Chief after Ticketing" and "Part of Man's Finger Bitten Off at Health Rally." But I knew. I knew things were getting better, because I haven't seen any headlines that tickled my twisted sense of humor in a long time. The papers have been too busy telling us the sky is falling to pay any attention to these weird little stories.

In the first story, the Fire Chief for the town of Jericho,Arkansas, went to court to complain that he'd received two speeding tickets the same day in the speed trap outside of town. It seems this town has 174 residents, no businesses left, and 7 police officers who prey on residents (and, I suppose, unsuspecting strangers.) After the Fire Chief complained to the judge, the police shot him. Right there in the courtroom. He was hit in the hip, is going to be OK, and because he lives in this screwball good ol' boy bad-movie-plot southern town, no one is being charged. Doncha love it?

The second story involves a 65-year-old man who swears he was just driving by about 100 people rallying in favor of health care reform in Thousand Oaks, California. He joined the people on the counter-protest side of the street (just curious, he says). Then those awful people from the other side of the street rushed over, threw punches, and bit off the tip of his left pinky. Doncha think maybe he left out just a wee little bit of the story? Good thing it wasn't his index finger; he wouldn't have been able to do the Scout salute while saying "That's what happened, officer, Scout's honor!"

Tonight, this little headline validated my tremendous powers of observation: "Worst recession since 1930s appears over" It seems the Federal Reserve surveyed businesses and found economic activity stabilizing or improving in most regions.

However, it won't last unless we SPEND MORE MONEY. (Wait, didn't they tell us that when we were sliding into the Pit of Recession and Despair?) It seems our recovery is dependent on new car sales, now that "Cash for Clunkers" (which they deemed a success) is over. Then the report talked about the high unemployment rate, which is expected to keep climbing.

I suspect we the unemployed will not be buying new cars any time soon. So, it's up to the rest of you. Been wanting a new car? Think of it: that great new car smell AND saving the economy. Get something you want AND be a hero! It's so seductive I don't know how anyone can resist.

While you're doing that, I'll do my part. I'll keep scanning the newspapers for these odd little stories. As long as they keep popping up, I think we're doing OK.

Deja Doggie Vous

Little "Scruffdog" Oliver was diagnosed with colitis, and the medication the vet gave him made him sicker. I can't believe this. I've been dealing with a similar affliction--Crohn's Disease--for 24 years, and almost everything the doctors give me exacerbates the condition. I am fortunate in that I am largley able control it through diet. My recent surgery stunned me by actually being successful.

Doctors like to prescribe medications, and they hate it when they don't work. In fact, many of them (who seem to think "M.D." stands for "Minor Diety") try to tell me I'm wrong about my adverse reaction, because "no one ever has a reaction to this." (They haven't met my five sisters, daughter, three nieces and two nephews who also have hypersensitive systems and multiple drug allergies.) What they really mean is that only one or two per cent of the people who take the drug have bad reactions. If you live near me, you are in statistical good luck, because I am the one per cent. So, you might have a better chance of being in the golden 99%.

It's taken me 24 years to get over any reticence about telling doctors they're wrong. I try to be polite, but if being "nice" means allowing them to keep making me sicker because they can't believe statistics could be wrong, I'll be as recalcitrant as I have to be.

It never occurred to me I'd have to do the same thing for a dog. I can't decide out if it's irony or serendipity that my dog has my same weird medical problems. Irony for me, I suppose, and serendipity for him. When I told the vet that the medication made him so sick all he could do was lie around, not eating or drinking, the vet questioned my powers of observation. "This medication is very well tolerated," he said, sounding baffled, and intimating that something else had affected Oliver this way.

The deja vous was so thick I probably shook my head like I'd bumped it on something. I wanted to be nice, really I did. But I know how this dance goes. So I didn't even let it get started. "Well, it's not well tolerated by this dog," I said, unapologetically. "Let's explore other options." And we did.

Oliver got a big dose of the new medication this afternoon. He ate a big dinner and spent his evening rolling on his back, asking for tummy rubs, and tossing his little toy duck around. He looked to me like he was feeling pretty good. But then, who knows if my powers of observation can be trusted?

Sometimes the Forest Comes to You

Amazing things can happen and not even be noticed when we're too busy "living life."

When Bill and I moved into the Bothell house 15 years ago, there were no trees behind it. The builder denuded the slope to build the homes in our tract. The people in the neighborhood behind us were incensed, and the City of Bothell threatened the builder with a lawsuit if he didn't plant the requisite five trees for every one he chopped down. The builder's solution was to send some of his workmen to stick scrawny little trees in the dusty soil, leaving them to fry in the summer heat. Rain came, and the neighbors behind us wound up with a basement full of mud. The city stepped in and planted small but healthy trees and cautioned us to water them well the first year.

I felt voyueristic every time I looked out my window; I could see everything the neighbors were doing in their back yard and even in their house. I walked around to their neighborhood and looked at our three-story house looming over them like a drive-in movie screen. I felt slightly ashamed for causing them to lose their scenic backyard forest.

The city's evergreen trees started to grow, ever so slowly, and the neighbors planted some fast-growing deciduous trees behind them. One summer day, I looked out and realized I couldn't see their house any more.

With the poignancy that comes from knowing you will soon be gone from a familiar place, I put my camera up against the window this morning, eager to capture the view that will no longer be mine.

Well, what do you know. The forest is back.

Trying Oh So Hard to be Good

My loving friends have pointed out that I don't appear to be spending as much time resting as one probably should so soon after surgery. It's true. So now I'm trying oh so hard to be good.

I spent a couple of warm, sunny hours in Woodinville with friend Debby. We enjoyed looking at the bursting-with-health overpriced plants at Molbak's Nursery, then we bought gorgeous fruits and vegetables from the farmers at the Saturday Market. I came home and rested (applause, please!), then fried up a couple of the biggest beefsteak tomatoes you've ever seen, adding onions and potatoes and a couple of sausages. This being a Guy House, there was even a little bacon fat to flavor it all up. I ate a small portion, in keeping with my resolve to eat less, move more, and rest more. The guys were as appreciative as if I'd spent the day slaving over a Martha Stewart recipe. Come to think of it, they probably liked this English blue collar "fry-up" better than they would have like a Martha concoction.

So here is a picture of the rest of my afternoon and evening. See? Even Oliver is bored. He's watching reruns on TV! But we're being oh so good. We're resting.

Eat Less, Move More

I'm having a really down day. It's been two and a half weeks since my surgery, and I've had some good days that led me to expect a continued upward trend. Apparently, the healing human body doesn't work that way.

My sister the nurse told me tonight that it's normal to have good days and bad days after surgery. She mentioned that sometimes when we have good days, we do too much and then don't feel so good the next day (Why does everyone say that to me? Do they think I am a person of little self-control? Oh, wait. These are people who know me. Very well. Oh-kay, then!)

Then she said the words that have haunted me all my life since the first time my mother hauled my rotund 11-year-old body to the doctor's office for some "diet pills." My sister said that since I had intestinal surgery and am now having trouble, maybe I should try eating very lightly for a while, but keep getting gentle exercise. She said "eat lightly and get gentle exercise" but I heard the mantra I've been hearing in various permutations since I was 11: "Eat less, move more." Sounds really simple, doesn't it?

Damn. I was really happy when the doctor let me out of the hospital and said I had no restrictions on what I eat. "Except," he said, "stop when you're full." This is a 45-year-old man who eats right, works out, loves life, and practices what he preaches. I'm a rotund boomer who practices "recreational eating" when lonely, frustrated or bored. I wasn't about to point out that his definition of "full" and mine might be just a wee bit different. But there's no getting around it when you hear it from a sister who knows you and loves you and makes keeping people healthy her life's work.

So, here I am, in the "Guy house," with no one to talk to during the day (oh, and during the evening too, unless you count a few words during commercials), three small dogs who want constant attention, and a kitchen full of guy food. I'm in pain and feel like a limp dishrag and TV has only reruns. The guys have added all sorts of techie things to their TV-surround-sound-on-demand-digital-TV-viewing-stations. The one in the kitchen is permanently set to channel 3, which seems to be the all-Cash-Cab station during the day. So, "eating less, moving more" is a challenge of major proportions.

But then, I'm a woman of major capabilities. And this limp dishrag act is getting very old. I want to go see my friends. I want to go ride a ferry in the sunshine. Mostly, I want to feel better. Maybe I can do the "eat less" thing. I think the "move more" bit will come more easily when I get that right.

Just Why AM I Moving to the Desert?

It is nearly 1 pm on a perfect sunny day. The kind that come rarely in the Northwest, but when they do they make everyone glad to be alive. I just walked Oliver and kept looking at the big, soft green leaves on plants and trees and wondering why I would ever give this up for the desert (the picture at the top of this page is my new desert back yard.)

So, for my own benefit, I shall reiterate the chronology:

1. I am unemployed. Getting a little social security but don't consider myself actually retired.
2. Husband and I decided to split (amicably).
3. Husband bought me out of our nice big house.
4. The money I got was enough to buy just a modest condo in the Puget Sound Area.
5. I suffer from SADS (Seasonal Affective Disorder), which turns me into a total slug in the long, dark Northwest winter.
6. I visited favorite aunt and uncle in Palm Springs area.
7. Housing prices were extremely low there because of the recession, even in a Sun City retirement community with a golf club, two pools, gorgeous clubhouse and untold activities.
8. I saw a pretty little house (1600 sq. ft.) house I could buy. For cash. On my own. In the sunshine.
9. I said "Yessssss!" and bought it.

And that's how it happened. Buying decisions are always emotional, even when the buyer has a list of logical, rational reasons for making them. In my case, logic and reason came later: The house is bound to appreciate because people my age (62) will want to retire when the recession eases. The house is 2 hours from L.A., with its huge pool of Boomers wanting to retire close to their families.

The heat worries me. I can acclimate up to about 105. But it's been 108-118 there the last two months. I need an escape plan (or several) for July and August. 60% of the people in Sun City stay for the summer. I would have thought that 40% would stay and 60% would leave, but it seems people get used to it. And they all LOVE the 8-9 months of the year when it's gloriously sunny while the rest of the country is shoveling snow. Maybe I'll become one of those people. They all seem to be tanned and happy. That sounds good to me!

So, instead of fussing, maybe I should just enjoy these last few Northwest days of summer, and use my energy packing.

Sleepless in Bothell

It's 2:50 a.m. and I'm supposed to be asleep and recuperating from surgery, but I'm awake. I don't like this. I think it has something to do with the leftover Chinese food I ate in front of the TV with Bill and the three dogs. He had tortilla soup he made himself. I would think I'd be the one sleeping like a baby and he'd be the one wide awake. But, not so. I can here him snoring blissfully in his room.

In exactly five hours and twenty minutes, I'm supposed to see my surgeon. I'm hoping he's going to tell me I'm doing so well I can drive a lot. My friends have been wonderful about getting me out of the "Guy House" (house I used to live in but now occupied by husband and his new roommate), but I've got cabin fever. Bad.

Yesterday, Frances and I plotted our road trip to Indio. We plan to leave in my Camry on September 15 with a bunch of maps, one small dog (Oliver), reservations at some Motel 6's and some friend and family homes, and arrive in Indio on September 22nd. I'm excited to start my new life but sad to leave my friends. I could be all dramatic and say that's what's keeping me up--but no, I'm pretty sure it's the Chinese food.

I've always loved road trips. In my current condition, this 1400-mile trip would not be possible without my fellow road-trip lover, Frances. We'll leave Renton early in the morning, stop in Portland to have lunch with her brother, and make it to a Motel 6 in Roseburg for the night. We're planning to head to Crater Lake after that, since neither of us has seen it from the ground (it looks great from airplanes), and spend a night in Klamath Falls. Then we'll descend upon Susan H. in Cottonwood. Susan and I have known each other since we were in second grade. Her mother was my Brownie troop leader, and I had a crush on her brother when I was in 4th grade. She's an adventurer, too. I'm probably about 4 albums behind on keeping up with her worldly travels. We'll fix that on this trip! She has a lovely ranch home on some acreage on the Sacramento River. She and Frances can take nice long walks while Oliver and I sip ice water and look at picture albums in the shade of the patio.

My sister Diane is the next lucky recipient of our company; she lives in wine country in Santa Rosa. We'll stay two nights with her and Stan; she's promised us a little tour of their favorite wineries and a picnic lunch at one of them. Could we refuse such and offer? Well, we could if we were stronger people, but we're not. The siren call of lovely scenery and great wine is too much for us. Two nights it is! We'll have a long day when we leave Diane's (hmmm, better keep wine consumption to a minimum!), heading to my mom's house in Lakewood CA. One night with mom, then off to Indio and my new home. Frances will spend two nights with me, then fly back to Seattle.

I'm getting tired just thinking about it. Maybe I'll try sleeping some more. 7 a.m. is going to come mighty soon.

What I'm Leaving Behind

In three weeks I'm leaving the Pacific Northwest for good.The reality of what I'm leaving behind is beginning to sink in. I mean, I have to leave my hairdresser, for Pete's sake!

I've been going to this guy for 12 years. He's watched my hair gradually thin as my neck gradually thickened, and discretely changed the hairdo ever so slightly to accomodate both. He's done my hair for every job interview I had, every wedding I've been to, and every vacation I've taken. I feel like I should know his mother, invite him for vacations, and know when his birthday is.

One of my fabulous friends (yes, one of those fabulous people who I am also leaving and feeling badly about) drove me to my hairdressers today and helped take pictures of his technique. It was excruciating. I feel certain no one will ever do my hair this well again. (Oh, the drama! I think I'm focusing on something innocuous like a hairdo to avoid the overwhelming reality that I am leaving everyone I've loved for 20 years.)

We took pictures. We wrote down formulas. We said good-bye. I told him I hope to spend my summers in the Northwest. But, still. An era is ending. An era in which I could depend on getting a good hair color and cut every time. An era in which I could pop over and see a friend when I was feeling down. An era in which I could share my opinons with my comfortable old book club, and potlucks with my church people.

People say, "You'll make new friends." And I will. But it won't be these friends, this hairdresser, this book club. It feels right to acknowledge that. I know some truly excellent people here in the Northwest. I'll keep in touch, but I will miss having them in the daily fabric of my life.

In the meantime, I'll post one of the photos of the secret hair technique. What do you think? Will I ever again find someone who can make the back of my head look this great?

The Art of Getting Out of Bed

After abdominal surgery, there is no good way to get out of bed without causing enough pain to send you leaping straight up in the air, if only you were able. If you're really into twisted humor, put a secret camera in the bedroom of someone who is about a week-and-half into surgery recuperation, then show it to all your mutual friends at the next party.

It now takes me only about five minutes of rolling side to side, trying various positions, regretting several, and eventually grunting and groaning my way off the mattress. This is an improvement. Last week I grunted, groaned, and finally called for help after about 10 minutes. Young Geezer didn't wait for the camera trick; he just laughed out loud in real time. (I'm going to get myself a camera. Someday, he's going to need help. I'll fly back up to the Northwest to help him, with lots of sympathy--and a secret camera.)

I'm so proud of my advanced skills that I'm allowing the dogs to loll about with me, reasonably certain I won't crush them with my writhing. Little Black Dog likes to lie to my right, Scruffdog likes to lie to my left, and Little White Dog bounces in and out like the ditz he is. He stays a few minutes, hears something outside and runs to the front window to bark at it, forgets we're here, and goes to sleep on the couch. Then, when one of us moves, he comes running upstairs, barking. He gets to the door of my room and goes: "Hey, you guys are here? When did you get here?"

It's all good until I grunt and groan my way into bed and get all three dogs peacefully around me--only to realize, five minutes later, that I need to use the bathroom. (It's not like my mother didn't tell me enough times as a kid: "Be sure to go to the bathroom before you go!" You'd think I'd be able to extrapolate the message to the present situation. But nooooo...)

Scruffdog wakes from a deep sleep with his usual stunned expression times 2, and looks frantically for the fire. Little Black Dog opens one eye, tenses for action but waits to see if I can indeed swing my leg over him without killing him. Little White Dog, who has sleep aggression, wakes up growling like an old man and starts dancing dangerously near my surgery area. Then he sails off the bed like a sailor who isn't going to go down with that ship, no siree!

After all that excitement, the rolling and groaning to get off the bed seem anticlimactic. Getting back into the bed is a whole other drama. I'll save that story for another time.

Read that Used Parts List

I got a surprise this morning after my post-op visit with the surgeon. He gave me a "Post Surgical Report" with a list of 10 bits and pieces removed and their condition (kind of the way auto shops give back your used parts, I suppose.) Number 10 on the list: "Appendix." Whaaa?

I called the nurse to see if that is THE appendix, the one that often gives people (especially in my family) so much trouble. "Why yes, she said, Yes it is."

Well whaddya know? I got a bonus operation along with my big one. Kewl. One less thing to worry about.

See? It's good to read those used parts lists!

Venturing Out

I have a whole new life. I didn't expect it, I don't know all the rules (I suspect they are made up as I go along), but I think it's going to be a heck of a ride.

The sun always shines in my new life. Sounds rather poetic, doesn't it? Or it could just be that I've moved to the desert. Well, I mean, I'm not really in residence yet, but I will be as soon as I heal up from the scary-but-turned-out-great colon surgery I just had. I'm recuperating in Washington State and will probably head to Indio, CA, in about three weeks. I flew down there and set up my household before surgery because I didn't know how much energy I would have post-op. I'm looking forward to the road trip with one of my adventurous friends, as soon as the doctor clears me for a long drive.

I leave behind: one husband of 18 years from whom I am amicably separated; two small dogs of whom I was ridiculouslyfond for five years; the home I thought was my dream home; 20 years worth of stellar friends and fond memories. I go to: a smaller but newer home in an upscale retirement community; one small dog who bonded to me over the course of the winter when I nursed him back to health after a near-death experience (his, not mine); proximity to family; sunshine 300+ days a year; and lots of new friends I haven't met yet. Oh, and a nice guest room to entice my Washington friends to visit when I have sunshine and they have rain, rain, and snow.

As a result of my surgery, I can eat fibrous foods I haven't been able to have for years and years. I don't have pain in my gut all the time. The sunrise looks more beautiful, and red grapes with skins taste like gifts from the gods. I am truly filled with thanksgiving and gratitude--for all the people who cared and the ones who prayed, and for the doctors and nurses with new technology who facilitated this miracle.

I'm pretty sure this new life will not be perfect. In fact, I'll be living on a shoestring, and I'm moving from a state with 9% unemployment to one with almost 13% unemployment. The last time I heard from a prospective employer was in an email this week telling me a job I applied for 3 months ago would never, ever be mine.

At 62, I have no illusions about who gets preference in hiring. However, being 62 also gives me perspective on myself I've not had in the past. I know I'm a survivor. I know I'm resourceful. I know I'm talented in many ways, and that working a standard job for a company is not the only way to make money. I am comforted by this knowledge. I will make something good happen, I just don't know what it is.

Wow. Amazing how much easier it is to have a positive attitude when I'm not in pain all the time. The nurses were amazed at how little pain medication I used from my self-directed IV pump. I explained that the post-surgery pain was only slightly more than the pain I've lived with for many years.

And now, back to bed with my Percoset to give the body a chance to rev up for the next jump forward. I'm thankful and grateful

In the "D'oh!" Category

Here's a little something I accidentally learned yesterday when I sat in front of the computer for 2-1/2 hours, updating Bemused Boomer:

If you have a seven-inch horizontal surgical incision on your belly that is held closed by 19 vertical staples, it is not a good idea to sit hunched over your computer keyboard for 2-1/2 hours.

I could tell you what the aftermath would be if you did such a foolish thing, but I think you can guess.

Where in the World is Bemused Boomer?

Have you noticed that when you're on a roller coaster, your vocabulary shrinks to about the size of a walnut? You can find expressions like: "Omigod [OMG]" and "eeeeeeeeee" but not, "What a terrifying experience. I do believe I've wet my pants." Well, that's kinda what my life has been like since you last heard from me on a volcano in Italy.

I present herewith a brief synopsis:


Doctor's office, mid-July: "Welcome back from Italy. BTW, you know that operation you were hoping to put off for a year? Not a good idea."
BB: OMG.
Dr.: "You can come for a pre-op August 4, and we can do the surgery Aug. 12."
BB: "Eeeeeeeeee!"

My brain began to spin. Wait! What about my plan to hang out with my Washington buddies until the California desert cools down enough for human habitation? What about patio parties and lakeside picnics and a leisurely move to Palm Springs? Where does surgery fit into that scenario? It doesn't. I needed a Plan B.

OK. Here's Plan B: Move stuff to house in California, set up house, come back to Washington for surgery, recuperate until able to take road trip back to Calfornia. (Hey, I didn't say it was great plan!)

Movers: "Sure, we can help you pack and get your stuff down there, for about a bazillion dollars."
BB: "OMG."
Movers: "It's only a half a bazillion dollars if you do all the packing yourself."
BB: "Eeeeee!"

Thank God for friends of friends (Note to self: try to establish friend network in California ASAP). A friend knew a professional packer whose work load was light. She was able to spare me a couple of whirlwind days.

Packer: "Newspaper? Do you want newspaper ink all over your dishes?"
BB: But I've been saving it for months--it takes a long time when the newpaper is only 10 pages long!"
BB: "White paper."
BB "OK."

It's a good thing I learned to say "OK" early in the game. She whizzed through my stuff with labels and a tape gun big enough to tape me to the wall. Within a few days, she turned my terrifying mountain of rubble into stacks of tidy boxes.

Movers: "We can give you a 7-day window."
BB: "Huh?"
Movers: "We'll drop off your stuff sometime between Sunday and Sunday. The driver will call the day before."
BB: "You want me to wait in the desert for a week? In summer? Eeeeeeee!"
Movers: "OK, we'll give you five days."
BB: "OMG."

Scheduled for "sometime between Monday and Friday," my stacks of tidy boxes arrived on Friday, of course. They were immediately turned back into a terrifying mountain of rubble. Thank God for the army of professional helpers whose sole job is setting up and maintaining the homes of retirees in the desert. The Unpacker whisked things out of boxes, suggested where to put them, and put them there before an "OMG" or "Eeeee" could bubble to the surface of my shell-shocked brain. My main function was handing out water bottles to movers and unpackers to prevent my living room from becoming littered with unconscious, heat-prostrated bodies. We caught a break. It was only 110 degrees outside. (On Thursday, it was 118.)





Unpacker: Don't worry. We'll get it all done so you can go back to Washington and have your operation. Your little house will be all ready for you to come back to!"
BB: Operation? Eeeeeee!

This being a synopsis and not an epic, I will tell you that deadlines were met. I flew back to Washington, stumbled into the hospital on time and full of gratitude for blessed anasthesia-induced unconsiousness. Surgery was successful, and I'm healing quickly. As soon as the doctor says I'm fit to drive (though there are those who would argue that may never have been true,) Scruffdog and I will head south. Probably to spend quite a bit of time lolling about here:


Some may call it sloth--I'm going to call it, "Well-earned rest."

Happy Birthday, America. Have some fireworks!

While my friends were trapped in their homes in America on the 4th of July, trying to keep their dogs calm and wondering who really thinks it's a good idea to let every neighboring pyromaniac shoot combustible material over their roofs, I was being stunned at amazed at one of Nature's best fireworks displays anywhere--in Italy.

Daughter, her Wonderful Boyfriend (WBF) and I rode a teeny little gas-powered golf cart up a narrow and very rough trail on the side of Stromboli volcano on an island in Sicily. Plants whipped our faces and hands as we defied death in our pursuit of Adventure. At the end of the trail was...a restaurant. (Of course--it's Italy!) where one can consume fine food at night while watching lava spurting from the the volcano. We were fortunate to have a full moon to the left of the summit while gorgeous red fireworks burst intermittently to the right. WBF kept saying, "Wow," while daughter captured photos.

Apparently, vulcanologists have a name for the type of constant, small bursts that Stromboli does: they're called "Stromboli eruptions." (Remember: they're vulcanologists, not creative writers.) It's been going on non-stop for a couple of thousand years. Me, I just call it stunning.

We survived the ride back down the mountain, and now it almost seems like a dream. It's one of the most amazing adventures I've ever had.

Oh, yeah. Happy birthday, America. I don't think the fireworks we saw were for you, but you would have loved them.

Achmed Eyes

I'm leaving for Italy tomorrow to see my daughter. I should be asleep. I want to be asleep. But my eyes look like Achmed, the Dead Terrorist , even when I lie down and pull the covers over my head.

Achmed is unaware he is dead, so he keeps talking and threatening people ("I'm a terrifying terrorist.") I seem to be unaware that I'm wide awake. I keep telling myself I'm almost asleep, even while counting every car that passes ("Why aren't those people asleep in bed, like me?") I'm either very excited or really, really tired--and just too dopey to know it.

I spent the last few weeks moving at full speed, doing more things than I did in all of last year. I bought a bargain house in California and did the things you have to do when you buy a house--from 1400 miles away. I'm becoming best friends with plumbers, electricians, and handymen here in the northwest, as I get the condo ready for Young Geezer's renter. I'm listening patiently (OK, bad pun) to the doctors who want to play with sharp instruments in my insides before I move to the desert. I've been movin' and groovin', as we boomers used to say. And hey, man, movin' and groovin' takes a whole lot more energy than it used to!

Having reached the age at which my dad first showed signs of Alzheimer's, I'm ecstatic at this proof my brain can still multi-task in a big way. Yeah, Baby! After a year of unemployment, I wondered if I still have what it takes to manage big projects. It appears that I do. Unfortunately, what I don't appear to have is the ability to stop.

Let's see. I need to sleep like a baby, so what would a kid do? Warm milk? Nah. I'm lactose intolerant. Just stay up? Nope, I'm waay too tired. Hey, wait, I'm starting to get sleepy. Oh, I get it--all I needed was a good, kid-sized whine! Right here on my blog. All ri-i-i-ght!

OK, I'm off to close my Achmed eyes now. (Hopefully, they'll open on command when the alarm goes off in a few hours.) Tomorrow night, I'll be so full of real Napolitano pizza, I won't need a whine to get to sleep (just a little wine.) (Yes, I know I made two terrible puns in one post. No, I don't care. Stop your whining!)

Molto buono!

Come, Vacation on a Volcano!

My daughter loves volcanoes and Italy. I think she would have loved Italy even without volcanoes, but the fact that Italy has lots of those steaming cones makes the place pretty much irresistible to her.

She's lived and worked in Italy for almost two years. I haven't seen her home or met her Significant Other. She thinks it's time I did both. On the barely audible phone call, she asked if I want to accompany them to an island with a volcano (what else?) Sure, I said. It sounds like a nice break from lawyers and real estate agents and unemployment offices. Why spend my savings on food and gas when I could be going to Italy?

The name of the island is Stromboli (and you thought that was just a big, rolled-up sandwich!) Describing it as an island with a volcano is a bit optimistic. Pictures on Google Images show a volcano sticking out of the water with a few buildings clinging to its base. A pretty volcano, and beautiful water, to be sure, but still--mostly volcano. Still OK with me. It has a beach. She likes volcanoes, I like beaches; what could be more perfect?

I'm sparing my savings account from sudden death by leaving and returning midweek, taking "multiple airlines" (read: lots of stops, some with incredibly long layovers), and traveling really light. I plan to avoid jet lag by putting myself on Italy time for a week before I go. I think I'm quite clever. I might not feel so clever when I'm going to bed at 1:00 in the afternoon and getting up at 10pm, though. It's kinda like graveyard shift--but without any co-workers to talk to. Scruffdog is going to be really confused when I start talking nonstop while he's trying to sleep.

I'm only half-way through the first of 10 Italian language CDs my daughter told me to get. I hope I at least get to the part about "Which way to the evacuation boats, please?" I've never stayed on an active volcano before. In any language.
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Rock-Dwelling Cretin Neighbor

This is a "watch rotator." Since I live under a rock and read a newspaper whose ads proclaim two loaves of bread for $1.50, I had never heard of such a device. Having it pop up on the electronic version of the newspaper in the desert where I'm buying a house is probably indicative of the culture shock I am about to experience. (You knew about these things? Why didn't you tell me?)

When you're not wearing your watch, this device automatically rotates it often enough to keep the time and date (and whatever other info your fancy doo-dad considers essential) accurate. If you collect watches the way some women collect shoes, you can get a watch rotator that can accommodate up to eight watches (OK, that's light for shoe-women, but probably about right for watch-people.)

I resent giving up part of the top of my dresser to my "docking station", where my various electronic device suck up juice overnight so they can serve me the next day. A watch rotator would have to prove itself really, really useful to garner any dresser-top real estate. Maybe watch-people have bigger dressers--or a special shelf in a glass display case.

I won't have to struggle with this dilemma. I quit wearing a watch when I started carrying a cell-phone full-time. I don't have to change the time for daylight savings time or different time zones (thereby avoiding the very real risk of embarrassing human error)--and for that, I'm grateful to my wireless phone company.

Can a rock-dwelling cretin who's too lazy to re-set a watch find happiness living amongst people who collect and care for watches like Jay Leno collects cars? (I wonder if he has a watch rotator?) Will I inadvertently look at every one's wrists when I get there? I'm almost afraid to keep reading and discover my ignorance of other items my soon-to-be-neighbors consider essential!

Lil' Stoner Dude

Scruffdog is Lil' Stoner Dude again. He's wearing a Fentanyl patch (major painkilling drug), held in place by a white band around his chest. He mostly just sits and stares. He doesn't want to eat, he won't drink, and I have to crush his antibiotics into chicken broth so I can squirt them down his throat. His big dark eyes are uncomprehending, and he jumps up for no reason to stare at his own butt. (Now, there's a deterrent for anyone thinking of doing drugs.)

His worst yet--and hopefully his last--surgery was Tuesday. It turns out that sometime in his hellish prior life, he spent enough time in a dried-out patch of cheat grass to get burrs (those things that burrow into your socks like living things) embedded deep in his ears and his abdomen. The ones in the abdomen entered in such a way as to make strong men shudder in horror when I tell them. It took the vet two hours of surgery to get them all. He said he'd heard of burrs making their way into the abdomen, but in 20 years of practice, he had never seen it before.

I can't even comment on the people who let this happen; it's bad for my blood pressure. You've seen Mel Gibson play they guy who goes berserk and gets revenge when someone in his family is injured or killed? Well, pump that anger up about three levels of psychosis, and that's how I feel about people who abuse animals. Yep, definitely not good for my blood pressure.

Scruff Dog's stitched-up Frankenstein belly is swollen and bruised. I'm in full-on nurse mode. Last night, the swelling got so bad in one leg he couldn't find a comfortable spot anywhere. Today he got his Fentanyl patch. He's more relaxed, but really, really high. He's doing his "We have to get out of here, now!" routine followed by "Whoa, what're we doin' out here, man?" when I respond by taking him out. I'm exhausted. I'm starting to stare longingly at his drugs--they look almost good to me right now. (Well, except for the part about jumping up to stare at your own butt. Oh, never mind. I can't turn my head far enough to see my butt, anyway!)

Goin' to California in My Mind--and for Real

Scruffdog and I flew on a Jet Blue airplane to California last week. I sat in a seat, he sat under one. He slept a lot; I didn't.

I grew up in Southern California. I've been in the Northwest for 20 years, and my boomer bones are longing for warm weather in winter. I thought I might try the snowbird routine: head south in winter, back north in summer. My California mission was to find an inexpensive winter retreat. But something happened I didn't anticipate. While visiting my favorite aunt and uncle in their "fun in the sun" retirment community near Palm Springs, I found a house. THE house. The beautiful house I could live in year-round, with lots of amenities and people to play with. Kind of like a never-ending school recess. Something inside me said, "YESSSS!!" and I made an offer on it--just like that. No one is more stunned than I am.

I'm trading rhododendrons for bouganvilla, cabin fever in dark winters for cabin fever in really hot summers, and long underwear for gallons of sunscreen. Scruffdog is a hedonist, like all dogs, and loves heat. He's rather pleased with my decision.

While the financial stuff creaks its way through real estate ping pong , I am left to stare out my window at the rain and wonder, "What the hell have I done?" The right thing, I hope. With any luck, I won't have to move until after the summer, so I can acclimate gradually--like the frog put in the pot of cold water over a burner, who doesn't notice the heat until it's too late to get out.

When I was a kid, we used to call people who preferred the desert "desert rats." They were always tanned and inexplicably happy. I hope I'm going to find out why.

Like the Automated Postal Center at your Post Office? Fuhgeddahboudit!

When I mailed a package at the post office today, I asked the clerk a question about the Automated Postal Center (APC) in the lobby. I love those things. They're so handy. But now I wish I hadn't asked.

The clerk said the APCs will soon be torn out of all post offices. Not because they don't work, but because they work too well. My chatty clerk said, "They want customers to come in and see us." When I wondered why, he said, "So we can keep our jobs--the Post Office is laying off 40,000 people." He said that's why they removed the lobby stamp machines (you did notice they were gone, didn't you?)

"But you aren't here at 8 o'clock at night when I need to mail a package!" I said. He just looked at me. It was clear that he had already weighed my need to mail packages after hours with his need for a job, and my need was found sadly lacking. I was defeated. I left, shaking my head. De-automation just seems so wrong. Am I missing something here?

Struggling companies all over America are trying to keep us away from their customer service reps. They direct us to the internet and trap us in telephone trees so complex we never get to talk to a human. But the Post Office, our government in action, wants to give us real live people to deal with--not during hours that are convenient to us, of course--but still, real live people! In fact, they are so intent on giving us those people, they're willing to take away all our non-people options.

It's like watching a film running backward very fast. I think I feel vertigo coming on.

There Never Used to be Anything Cool About Coachella

My mom grew up in border towns in the Coachella and Imperial Valleys. Cool people didn't live there. Nobody lived there who didn't have to. It was really not cool in summer, when the field workers sucked on saltiditos--dried plums coated in salt--to keep from passing out in the heat.

Rich people went to Palm Springs, just over the mountains from Southern California, in the winter. The road from Palm Springs to Indio was long, lonely, and really hot in summer--even at night. What a difference 60 years and air conditioning makes! From Palm Springs to Indio is now one long string of housing devlopments. People live there year-round. My aunt and uncle do, and they love it. My uncle must not remember what it was like when he was a kid. Or maybe he does, but it doesn't matter now, because he has a pool and A/C.

And I hear that Coachella now has a cool music festival that cool people love to go to. I wonder what the saltidito-sucking field workers would think? Maybe they'd get out their guitars and join in. My mom says they mostly sang off-key, like her dad. I'd like to see that.

Truly Desperate Housewives

You wouldn't think there would be a big market for smuggled soap in America, would you? (Shows what you know.)

"Spokane's Soap Smugglers Make Clean Getaways," says the cutesy headline in the Seattle Times. It seems we now have a new breed of criminals--people who want clean dishes so badly they'll drive across the Idaho state line to get phosphate-laden soap for their automatic dishwashers.

The article explains: "Spokane County in July adopted a near-total ban on sales of water-softening phosphates in dishwasher detergent — the first in the nation — in an attempt to slow the flood of pollutants that is sucking oxygen out of the endangered Spokane River, smothering its fish."

Seems like a noble endeavor. Problem is, the soap industry isn't ready with a low-phosphate substitute that actually cleans dishes. It may purport to do so, but it just makes them slippery and leaves a greasy film. We have to wait until 2010, when the manufacturers think they may have a low-phosphate dish washing soap that doesn't evoke cries of "Ewww!" from people as they unload their dishwashers. Fastidious Spokane housekeepers are aghast. They're also driving 45 minutes out of their way to get to another county (and in this case, another state) to buy the good old-fashioned stuff that makes fish die horrible, gasping deaths.

[Interesting note: only automatic dish washing soap requires phosphates to dislodge food and grease. Hand washing dish detergent contains no phosphates, because you provide the food-dislodging power when you scrub.]

My county has no phosphate ban (yet). Maybe I can adopt a Spokane housewife--the way we adopt needy children in other countries--and send her a monthly package of contraband dish soap.

Like having Yoda on My Chest

By virtue of the fact that I am a short-statured person, I see most movies and presentations with about 1/6 of the screen obscured by the backs of people's heads. When I drive my small Japanese sedan, I lose a big chunk of my forward visibility to SUVs. I've kinda gotten used to it.

Scruffdog has kinda gotten used to sitting on my chest when I sit on the couch. It was fine when he was recovering from injuries and was a little limp dog with his head on my shoulder. Now that he's healthier, he doesn't want to miss anything. He puts his rear end on my shoulder and faces forward. All well and good, except that he has extraordinarily large ears for such a tiny dog.

It's a new experience in view-obstruction. Instead of rounded people heads and box-shaped SUVs, my view is obscured by a Yoda head. A Yoda head that shakes vigorously every few minutes and beats my face with said ears. I'd take action to ameliorate the situation, but it turns out I don't have to. Along with Scruffdog's increased health has come increased weight. He begins the slow slide down the front of me within a couple of minutes of parking on my shoulder, and winds up on my lap without any help from me. He always looks surprised.

"Don't look at me, Buddy," I say, "I didn't do anything." Except feed him, of course. But he doesn't make that connection. He is, after all, just a dog.

We Gotta "Cut to the Bone"

Oprah sets such a high bar for excellence on her show that I can only watch it occasionally. I get tired just thinking about doing all those energy-sucking self-improvement projects, so I generally flip to MASH reruns.

I did watch the segment with Suze Orman last week, about surviving the recession. A beautiful couple in Southern California revealed how quickly their carefully-planned financial life fell to pieces. They did everything right, and they represent the people I admire (yes, and sometimes envy) for the prosperity they earned through hard work and self-discipline. It was a revelation to me that people who "did everything right" are hurting just as badly as those of us who are never quite sure we're doing anything right.

Those of us who aren't sure we're doing anything right aren't surprised our plans aren't working out. We're used to it. We're lying low, waiting for a new inspiration (that hopefully doesn't involve serving french fries.) Those poor, stunned people who did everything right, but got slammed by the economy anyway, have to overcome a huge shock before they can move forward. I feel for them, and I hope french fries won't be part of their new reality, either.

Suze Orman told everyone to "cut to the bone"--figure out how to live on half of what you've been spending--and stop looking back at what you had so you can figure out how to work with what you have. She was more directive than Ben Stein on CBS Sunday Morning News, whose recession-survival advice was, "Get a dog."

For once, I feel like part of the clever and accomplished crowd. I cut to the bone months ago (OK, so it wasn't by choice,) and I got a dog. Survival feels like excellence in these circumstances! Maybe Oprah will ask me to share my secrets on her show.

We Only Thought We Came a Long Way, Baby

"No Traces of Women's Faces," reads the headline. Next to it are two pictures of Israel's new Cabinet--one showing the two women who are cabinet members, one without them. In fact, men have been photoshopped into their places. I gasped. I thought Israel, for whom we daily risk the ire of the Arab world, was a little more like us.

It turns out that the Ultra-Orthodox Jewish sects think it is immodest to print images of women. Just like their Islamic brethren--from whom they consider themselves to be so different--they think women should be singled out for second-class citizenship. Oy!

To be fair, the altered photos apparently appeared in only two newspapers, the ones aimed at the Ultra-Orthodox sects. Some other Israeli papers printed both pictures, with the caption, "Find the Lady." OH-KAAAY, then. I am relieved. There are differences of opinions--just like there are here--and good-humored acceptance of those differences (which we sometimes have here).

OK, President Obama. I've stopped gasping. You can keep sending my tax money to our ally in the Mideast. (And maybe go get the "Find the Lady" journalist for your public relations staff!)

Confessions of a Light-Deprived Northwesterner

It snowed here today--on April-fricking-first! The weather is making us all a little nuts here. Be gentle with us about our mass caffeine addiction; it's the only thing keeping us upright at this point.

A friend told me on the phone that she thinks one of the reasons she watches CSI Miami is because of all the sunshine. Coincidentally, while she told me this I had a Merchant Ivory DVD paused on my TV. The movie was filmed in India and drips with color--and sunshine. In it, people are trapped by their destinies, lives are ruined, and there is much haunted staring at the camera. But I callously zipped over all that; I wanted those sunny backgrounds, no matter how much misery I had to ignore to get them. My friend and I are after the same thing--we want the assurance that sunshine still exists somewhere in the world.

I know all of you in other areas of the country are buying cotton summer clothing. I envy you. I, on the other hand, just bought a wool Filson "Packer" hat at David Morgan. It's divine. It stops the buckets of ice water from going down the back of my neck while I wait at my end of the leash for Scruffdog to do his bizness. And I think it's stiff enough to double as a helmet should I fall over while trying to retrieve said bizness from the inaccessible places he prefers. I love my new hat. I'm going to wear it every day until the weather gets too warm. Don't worry; I'll get plenty of wear out of it, because that won't happen for about three-and-a-half months (this is Seattle we're talking about.)

Meanwhile, I've reluctantly put dreams of diaphanous cotton dresses and sandals on hold. No, I don't want to hear about your heat wave, or that you've had to turn on your A/C--unless the complaint is accompanied by an airline ticket for me to join you in your "misery"!

Mysteriously Disappearing Dryer Balls

I really like using those bumpy, little blue dryer balls in my dryer. Clothes dry faster and seem softer. I'm not sure they help the longevity of my clothes, but I do appreciate spending less of my limited time on this planet doing laundry.


The other day, one of them disappeared. Since they often fall out of the laundry pile as I'm moving it, I just figured it rolled someplace and would turn up. It hasn't. I heard the remaining ball hit the floor today when I pulled out a load of towels. It was nowhere to be seen when I looked for it. Very mysterious. Then I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye. A blue and blonde blur.


He won't play with tennis balls. He snubs the toys I've slavishly provided in hopes of improving his quality of his life with a sedentary boomer. Now it turns out I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and just given up my beloved dryer balls. I am, to say the least, bemused.

Got to Keep On Moving...

They tell us boomers that we have to "use it or lose it." (Stop sniggering. I know what you're thinking, but that's not what I mean.) Joints stiffen up if we don't make a concentrated effort to get them moving, vitamins are not optional, and spending too much time on the couch quickly results in a body molded to that piece of furniture and not good for much else.

It's daunting. I'm at the age where I'd like to stop running about, but now it's mandatory! I worked out with a trainer at my fitness center yesterday. By the time she made allowances for my stiff parts and my previously injured parts, I was pretty much doing a sitting and standing routine I would have laughed at 20 years ago. And it was hard to do! I'm getting humility the hard way.

Much use of aspirin made it possible for me to sleep last night. I'm going back today. I think the warm therapy pool will be my first stop.

Jay Leno and the Prez

I TiVo'd President Barack Obama's appearance on the Tonight Show. Well, it was historical, wasn't it? It was the first time a sitting President has appeared on the Tonight Show. (Johnny Carson would have grinned so hard his face would have gotten stuck!)

He bantered with Jay Leno, made his points, and said something I thought was funny and endearing but many Americans didn't. The complaints started almost immediately. That's the thing: he was genuine and engaging, and his guard appeared to be down. I felt like I was sitting there with them, hearing a real conversation. I couldn't believe it. I haven't heard anything like that since the famous Bill and Hillary Clinton interviews at the beginning of President Clinton's first term. I don't think they were ever that candid on TV again; they got smacked around in the press a lot for that.

I hope President Obama doesn't get smacked around by his advisors so badly that he stops being so open. It's refreshing to hear real, not canned, reactions from a politician. Besides, he did a great Jack Benny face when Jay Leno asked him a couple of teasing questions. Now, that's something we definitely want to hold on to!

Mystery on my Doorstep

I'm not quite sure why I put the sparkly silver and blue balls on my front steps. Maybe I thought they looked whimsical. Maybe I thought they distracted the eye from the mossy carpeting some crazed person put on the outdoor steps (in the soggy Northwest? Puh-leez). And they reflected the sun on the rare occasions it showed up.

My daughter bequeathed the orbs to me when she moved to Italy. Apparently, they came with her Whidbey Island apartment when she moved in, bequeathed by a previous tenant. We thought they were sort of mysterious (who made them? what did they use them for?) I was pleased with myself for finding such a jaunty use for them. I knew they were vulnerable in my high-density neighborhood, where kids run and laugh and play on the sidewalks after school. I wondered if the sparkly balls would disappear one day.

I felt sad when I arrived home after dark last night and found the sparkly blue ball missing from the lower step. Despite my determination to consider them disposable, I was fond of them. I hoped someone was enjoying it--or at least, enjoying the mystery of contemplating what it could possibly be used for.

When I took Scruffdog out this morning, the early light struck a pile of sparkly blue bits at the bottom of the stairs. Not enough to have been the whole ball, just a few shards trapped in a depression in the concrete. More mystery! What happened? Did someone break it on purpose? Did someone break it accidentally and try to sweep up, but missed these bits? Why can't I use this evidence to figure out what happened, like Monk, the TV detective?

The asymmetry of just one ball on two steps bothers me (I may be more like Monk than I thought.) What to put there? Something to deter future miscreants, like a little skull or a potted cactus? (Lacks the jaunty factor.) Ah, well. One of my new activities, as an accidentally semi-retired/unemployed person, is visiting thrift stores.

It seems that some people leave items for subsequent tenants when they move, and others haul them off to charity. I'm not opposed to replacing a serendipitously bequeathed item with one I have to find myself-- I'll just look around until something cries out to become my new, jaunty, disposable porch decoration.

No Sleep in my Neighborhood Tonight

A couple of police cars seem to be involved in the world's slowest chase outside my window. A siren at the intersection 50 yards from my bedroom window wails for about 15 seconds and flashing blue lights reflect off my blinds. It stops, and a siren about a block away takes up the cry. Just as I think I might be able to sleep, it starts again. What kind of a chase sounds like that? I envision officers driving alongside a suspect, saying "OK, get in the car. Don't make me use my siren!"

I peer out my balcony door and see bathrobe-clad neighbors standing in rectangles of light on their decks. It's clear there will be no sleep for us until the cops "get their man" (or woman). Go, cops! With such a large contingent of grumpy, sleepless people at their command, the police should just send us out with assorted truncheons and baseball bats. Desperate as we are for sleep, I bet we'd get 'em in no time. But then, we might hurt ourselves in the process.

I know I have some earplugs around here somewhere. It speaks well for the usual quietness of the neighborhood that I don't really know where to look. When I find them, I think I'll just put them in, pull the covers over my head, and and feel gratitude that my city's finest are keeping me safe--though awake--in the wee hours.

My Sleep Number Bed

Have you ever wondered what's inside one of those much-advertised "Sleep Number Beds"? Well, here you have it. The guts of my beloved bed. It cradles me, supports me, and is my haven( for about 10 years now). I really like my bed; I miss it when I travel. It's the bed you long for at 2 am—you can make it softer or firmer with just a touch of a button.

The last couple of months haven't been so great. I sleep fitfully and my back is sore when I wake up. I hit the inflate button, but I don't feel more support. I pondered the problem while in bed the night before last, and wondered in horror if one of the air chambers failed. The next morning, I removed the pillow top and peered inside. It did seem a bit flat. I lay down on the middle and pushed the inflate button. Whoosh. Support. Everywhere. I climbed off and pressed on various chambers. All were functional.

Since I do my best problem solving while prone, I laid down again, in the middle. It felt fine. Scruffdog joined me, and as he has done every night since he came to live with me a couple of months ago, glued himself to my left side. I automatically moved to the right side to give him room.

"Scruffdog." "A couple of months." "To the right side". Uh, oh. I think I see a pattern here.

As you can see, there's not much inflatable support near the edge. In fact, that gray stuff is foam—no inflation there. And apparently, the edge is where I've been sleeping while Scruffdog got the nice, plump middle chambers. Well, he was pretty badly injured when he got here. I wanted to be sure he slept well and didn't get bumped during the night. It worked! He's a feistly little healed-up booger now. I'd better reclaim the middle of the bed, before I become the one who needs special, injured-dog sleeping arrangements.

Just Tell Me What to Think

Along with my breakfast, I'm digesting my daily dose of gloom and doom from the the newspaper. A headline says 4.4M people are affected by cutbacks, unemployment is at 8%, and the sky is falling. (OK, I just threw in the bit about the sky to see if you were paying attention.)

Right next to that is a teaser for an article on page B3: "Irrational Pessimism in the country." The outrageous happenings of the past few months have burned out my double-take response, so I just stared dully. Let's see. Gloom and Doom all around us...pessimism irrational. Oh-kaay. To be fair, the article on B3 was referring to Alan Greenspan's warnings in the late 90s about "irrational exhuberance" for stock when prices were being driven up. It also points out that stocks are about the same as they were then, before the bubble. It's just not as attractive on the way down, I guess.

I think the media is telling me to think all is lost--but maybe not, really. Is someone going to tell me what to think, please?

Meanwhile, I see my friends and family helping neighbors and friends and volunteering in community programs. I see helping hands offered and compassion given--in stark contrast to the way the captains of industry treated all of us over the last decade or so. This is quietly miraclulous. Can a country made up of such people fall into such a deep hole it will never get out? I may be irrationally optimistic, but I think not.

Never mind, don't tell me what to think. I think I'll believe my eyes and my heart.

Scruffdog-Zilla

My dog-whispering friend told me it would happen. I knew something would happen. But now that it's happened, I don't want to believe it. Sweet little Scruffdog has turned into Scruffdog-Zilla! He snapped at Little Black Dog yesterday, then he grabbed the groomer's finger in his mouth (didn't bite, just held it), and today he got downright cranky with the retired guide dog who lives in the neighborhood. Who is this dog?

You know a rescue dog is going to get feistier when he realizes you're not going to send him away. And this lil' guy was so badly injured and medicated when I got him that I knew one day he'd start acting like a dog instead of a stuffed animal. He's still totally focused on, and deferential to, me. (He's not stupid.)

Maybe it's a Sampson effect. The groomer cut off the curly white hair (evidence of a poodle in the family tree) that was adorably growing through shorter brown stuff. Maybe that's where all his cutie-sweetness resided. Maybe it will come back in a couple of months when the hair grows back. Wishful thinking. I know it's now time to find a trainer, which would be OK if he was the only one getting trained. But as any trainer will tell you, the biggest part of training is making sure the owner "gets it" and is consistent. Let's see; the last time I was consistent was...um, never.

He's started whining constantly in the car as some dogs do (other people's dogs) , and right now he is trying to kill his skunk squeaky toy, over and over again. I couldn't even get him to be still long enough for a picture. He's Scruffdog-zilla, stomping through the house looking for things to destroy. Maybe it's the vitamins. Yes, that's it. I'm sure it's the vitamins.

New Doctor in Town

I met my new doctor yesterday. She looks like she just got out of high school. She made a point of telling me that some of my favorite medications are "old school" and I shouldn't use them any more. I liked her, anyway.

She poked and prodded, had me take deep breaths, and murmured "good, good," over and over again. Do doctors ever get wide-eyed and say, "Oh, no!" while checking you? (I didn't think so.)

Then she asked me a question I could've answered easily 30 years ago. Not so much today: "Do you have pain?" ["Well, yeah," I wanted to say, "I'm old!] I hesitated a little too long, making her think I didn't understand the question. How do you tell a lively young thing that pain is ever-present when you are older? That it creeps on you, one little twinge at a time, so that you don't think of it as pain per se; it's just the way your body feels. Every day. You forget it's there until something happens to make it go away for a few glorious moments. I'm not alone in this: I just found out one of my friends looks forward to her colonoscopies because she has no pain for 20 minutes while she's under the sedative. (Yes, I know. We're pathetic.)

Young Doctor asked again. I told her about the new pain, the one that made me decide to come in today. I avoided this visit because I knew it would spawn a mulitude of visits to other, more invasive specialists. I was right. I'm now scheduled for the Grand Tour; three in all.

I'm trying to learn to think positively, so I'll just think about those 20 pain-free moments. (C'mon, admit it--you started thinking about it the minute I said "pain-free", didn't you?) If the NIH heard about this, do you think they would start using it in their ads to inspire us to go get checked? Maybe I should let them know. (Hey, it was just a thought!)

Nearsighted Eagle? Or just Inept?

Retired people have too much time on their hands and shouldn't be allowed to near computers while armed with email address books. They send me waay too many things to read, look at, or respond to. I'm already jealous of their freedom. Why rub it in?

When I overcome my curmudgeonly reaction, however, sometimes I see really amazing stuff. Like the series of pictures of an eagle purportedly attacking a swan in mid air, supposedly taken by a Tom Carver of B.C., Canada.

The photos show a swan flying, then an eagle approaching from behind and grabbing its leg. They struggle, the swan gets away, and falls down into the water, apparently unhurt.

I saw a pair of mating eagles a couple of years ago over Lake Washington. They fly high into the sky, grab each others' talons, and tumble down to the water in an apparent death spiral. I don't think you could see it without having your heart in your mouth. They pull up at the last minute and do it again. If Tom Carver lives in British Columbia, he must have seen this at least once.

I can't help but wonder: was this eagle really an inept hunter trying to catch a meal in the air--or was he just a nearsighted, would-be lover?

Monkeys in the Zoo--People in Cages

I took Soccer Tot to the zoo this morning. I planned a 2-1/2 hour visit, allowing for my energy level and her nap time . But we no sooner got through the gate than official-looking people with walkie-talkies appeared on the path, saying, "this path is closed, please go to the bug house or the bird aviary." When I asked, they said they were having "animal issues." I wondered if something big and dangerous was on the loose, looking for small children to snack on. It turns out a male monkey--a small male monkey--escaped from his habitat and was leading the whole staff on a merry chase.

We went to the bug house, as directed. We walked past the bird aviary, where we saw people crowded into the cage, looking out longingly. (I hope the monkey got a kick out of that as he roamed about. Maybe he was tempted to tap on the glass as payback.)

Soccer Tot and I wanted to see furry animals, but we respectfully looked at each of the bugs so they wouldn't feel slighted. It was OK until someone else's child started having a temper tantrum--loud and long--in the confined space. I was ready to burst out the door screaming, "I'd rather face the monkey!" The official-looking walkie-talkie folks saved my sanity by evacuating us through a service area to a parking lot. They evacuated the whole zoo, filling the parking lot with crying babies in strollers and impatient children saying, "but Mommy why can't we go see the people chase the monkey?" The ever-hopeful staffers kept saying, "it should only be about 10 more minutes." But those "10 minute" increments finally added up to more than an hour, so I asked for passes to come back another day.

As a consolation prize, I took Soccer Tot to McDonald's for a happy meal and playtime on the equipment. While sitting with a Chinese grandmother who leaped up every few minutes to force another morsel into the mouth of her non-stop grandkid, I mused that McDonald's at lunchtime is very much like a zoo, with little human animals climbing and running and shrieking. All it lacked was some uniformed people with walkie-talkies and a veterinarian with a tranquilizer dart. Oh, and people leading me past the garbage cans to the parking lot!

No More Frankenstein Belly

Hooray! For the first time in the two months he's been with me, Scruffdog has no stitches in belly! Little Scruffdog Milagro is a miraculous healer, given enough drugs and a properly-executed surgery. He now has a little pink belly that he wants to have rubbed almost constantly, and he tosses and shakes his squeaky toy for a half an hour at a time. His rapidly growing hair stands up on his head like a spikey 1980s punk rocker hair-do.

Now that he's feeling better and doesn't need to be held and to sleep 23 hours a day, we'll see if I can keep up with him. He scoots along on three legs (the other healed crookedly from a break and he tends to hold it up when he wants to get moving) faster than I can walk. We both need to build stamina--I suspect it will take me longer than him.

If you see a woman flying along at the end of the leash of a little spikey-haired dog, that'll be me. Just wave as we go by!

134 Fishermen Plucked from Miles-wide Ice Floe

I think ice fishermen are funny. The first time I heard about the sport, I thought the person telling the story was pulling my leg. "They do whaat?" I laughed. "Drill holes in ice, then sit there on overturned buckets waiting for fish to pass through miles of water to get directly under their hole so they can catch them?" I thought I was pretty clever to catch him in his tall tale. He looked at me, deadpan, and said, "Exactly."

I know ice-obsessed people do crazy, dangerous things on ice, but this was news to me. I live in Washington State, where people have to be rescued from Mt. Rainier every year. BTW, don't climb Mt. Rainier if you're strapped for cash. If you get stranded, you'll have to pay Washington State for your rescue. A few years ago, Washingtonians stopped being good sports about paying for other people's mistakes.

Ohioans must love their ice fishermen a lot more than Washingtonians love mountaineers. They seem to have no qualms about giving them a free ride. If you and your ice fishing buddies get stranded on an ice floe because you chose to ignore clues that would have alerted a kindergartner of impending ice separation, your rescue will be free. Even if it involves the Coast Guards of two countries and emergency personnel from several states. Think of it: drama! excitement! and a ride in a cool government vehicle--all free!

At least, that's the way it was for 134 ice-fishing-obsessed guys who had to be plucked from an ice floe on Lake Erie last week. They ignored a rapid rise in temperature, rising winds, and a big crack in the ice. They wound up being stuck on an ice floe separated from stable ice by 100 yards of water. Did it scare them? Were they chastened by their enormous screw-up? Nope. Their only lament was that the U.S. and Canadian Coast Guards wouldn't let them bring back their fishing gear. Two of the fishermen wanted to head to the local Cabela's after their rescue to buy more gear and get back to ice fishing. The only clear heads in their households—their wives—vetoed that (probably not quietly).

The Morning Journal of Northern Ohio reports: "The rescue operation cost thousands of dollars and none of the fishermen will likely be forced to cover the cost…"

"To the best of my knowledge, they didn't break any laws," [Coast Guard spokesperson] Lanier said. "Ice fishing is a culture here on the Great Lakes."

Well, then. There you have it. If you are drawn to ice sports but don't have thousands of extra dollars to be picked up by rescue crews, try ice fishing in Ohio. The ride home is free!

Thanks, Joseph Heller

My own personal government bailout--unemployment benefits--is pretty great. I can eat, pay a few bills, and not have to deplete my savings so rapidly. It is, however, a government program, and it's administered with a level of absurdity we regular folks couldn't conceive of without copious amounts of alcohol in our bloodstream.

Looking for work is, at best, grueling. The senator who complained that the stimulus package won't create "jobs," only "work," needs a dictionary--and a smack upside the head. We don't care, senator. We just want it. I'm grateful to Joseph Heller for writing Catch-22 in 1961 and hilariously pointing out the madness of trying to satisfy conflicting government regulations . I'm grateful to Heller for teaching me to laugh at the madness.You should be too; the laughter keeps you from having to see a Boomer woman running down the street, tearing out her thinning hair and screaming.

One of my professional friends invited me to a monthly lunch meeting with high-powered women in business. Women who might need a writer for various assignments. (Stop snickering! Yes I can write professional stuff!) I signed up and paid the non-refundable $55.

Then the mail came. The letter from Employment Security said I had to come in for an appointment on the day and at the time of the businesswomen's lunch. I called and explained the situation. No, they said, I couldn't change the date. Or the time. Or the office, which is 10 miles from my house instead of the one that is a mile down the hill from me. Nope, nope, nope. Just do as you're told. "Oh-kaaay," I said, "Instead of actually trying to get work, I have to come in and talk about trying to get work, right?" The young woman on the phone chuckled. I think she may have read Joseph Heller.

I did as I was told. It's part of my bailout plan. I coulda used that 55 bucks, though.

Your Dog's Brain on Drugs

Scruffdog had to have another emergency surgery on his abdomen. It seems that when a big dog tries to make a snack out of a little dog, terrible things happen to the little guy's interior. Things that give infections many places to hide and fester.

When the vet saw on the X-rays that his broken right rear femur healed crookedly, without being set, and his broken left pelvis healed by itself, he kept shaking his head and saying, "He is one tough little guy!" But the infection was worrisome. Scruffdog went under anesthesia again, and awoke with yet another long line of Frankenstein stitches on his belly.

Memories of 1970s parties assailed me as I watched him do"Drug Dude" things while coming out of anesthesia. He swayed in my lap, peering squinty-eyed as if to say, "Ma-a-an, where are we?" Then he tried to launch himself off the couch with crazy, wide eyes, acting like, "We have to get out of here, NOW!" I put on our jackets and we went out out into the cold night air. He just sat, staring at the moon and musing, "Whoa, Dude! What're we doin' out here?" We did that three or four times (What? You wouldn't have? What if he really meant it one of those times?) Much like the drug dudes of the 70s, he finally fell asleep.

My doggie nursing skills are becoming finely honed. I can put a guaze pad on a tiny leg and wrap it in stretchy wrap in about three minutes. I can swab the dreadful maze of stitches across his tummy and slather them in Neosporin in about two minutes. Twice a day, I work on his little body, using stuff from a shoebox full supplies like I did when I played nurse with my dolls as a kid. But this is serious stuff. So serious, I'm even making him wear the head cone that we both hate. It changes him from Dog 1.0 (chews off stitches) to Dog 1.2 (scrapes leg with cone while trying to get to stitches, then pulls leg into cone and chews on it because he can.)

I couldn't leave by himself, since he was hellbent on turning his underside into hamburger. It's a good thing he's portable. I put him under my arm and took him to church, to the electronics store, the bank, the post office. He got lots of sympathy, which he acknowledged with an owl-like stare. I also learned why Nature doesn't want Boomer-aged women to have babies. Doing everything with one arm while holding a little being in the other is damned hard! (It didn't seem that hard when I was 23.)

I hope he'll soon be walking on his own three feet (yes, he has four, but the crooked leg is usually held close to his body without touching ground), and I'll get my life back. Maybe someday we'll be able to take a walk in a park. Or maybe we'll just wear matching sports caps and root for our favorite teams on TV. Whatever. As long as he keeps hangin' in.

BTW, his new middle name is Milagro--"Miracle" in Spanish.

Who Knew?

My mother is 81 years old, lives by herself, and won't have a microwave in the house. She's certain the "rays" are totally harmful to the human body. (Who knows? She could be right!)

We didn't know her distrust extended other forms of technology until she wound up a rehab facility last week after a minor health incident. The facility has phones only in the hallway--problematic, if the reason you're in rehab is that your legs don't want to respond. One of my sisters offered to get her a cell phone, but she refused. My sister joked that Mother thinks the cell phone will give her brain cancer and she'll die young.

She's working like crazy to get her muscles moving so she can get home--to her cat, her own bathroom--and her corded phone. Who knew this could be so motivating?

And who knew that a Bemused Boomer--mother and grandmother herself-- would so acutely miss talking to her mother on the phone?

Sleeping at the Edge

Everyone who sleeps with a pet knows it will mysteriously gravitate toward the center of the bed during the night . OK, that's a given. Pets are master skoochiers (skoo-chee-er: one who skooches, inch by inch, into your space.) But what I don't understand is how one double bed+one 7-pound dog=no room for me. How does that happen?


When I got Scruffdog last month, he was so busy recovering from his terrible encounter with a big dog--and so doped up--that he didn't move at all during the night. "At last!" I thought. "I've found the perfect dog!" Oh, but but nay. He was just a very sick little dog. He's getting better, bit by bit. And more dog-like. It warms my heart to see him play with his squeaky toy. I love that his appetite is good. But when it comes to my bed, he's messing with the Alpha Female!

OK, I'm going in there right now to show him who's boss. I'm going. I'm determined. Oh, but just look at that little head hidden among the covers! Awwww, isn't that the cutest thing? Maybe I'll just skoochie him over a little, and try not to wake him...

...and that's how it works. All the resolve in the world melts away when faced with an adorable dog face (and they're all adorable). [Sigh.] I guess I'm destined to sleep at the edge of the bed for the rest of this dog's natural life!

Angel Dog

Yes, I know this picture is ridiculously cute. That's why it's here. I haven't felt very amusing lately, and this is my way of making it up to you.

Like the rest of us, Scruffdog has had a tough time of it since November. He's wearing this attractive Victorian collar because the groin wound he sustained (when attacked by a big dog) didn't heal. Then he tore it open last week. The vet cleaned it all out, stitched him up, and sent us home with an array of pills that would do a senior citizen proud. It seems to be healing nicely, but when I feel sorry for him and remove the annoying appendage, he instantly tries to chew the stitches off. The only wayI can be sure collarless Scruffdog isn't chewing himself is to hold him. I'm typing with one hand, and my arms are getting numb. But I'm nice and toasty; it is amazing how warm a 7-lb. dog stuffed in your vest can keep you!

He's a plucky little survivor, a great inspiration for an unemployed and soon-to-be-single Boomer. He thinks the sun rises and sets on me--who wouldn't be cheered up by such devotion? As I care for him, his slow healing reminds me that wounds don't stay raw forever. And that sometimes we find divine hope in the unlikeliest places.

Whatever You Do, Don't Make Eye Contact

Little Scruffdog came into my life last week, from a rescue organization that saved his life in November after he was savagely attacked by a large dog. He weighs seven pounds. I don't know how much the attacker weighed, but I can see from the wounds on Scruffdog's tiny body that the attacker's teeth reached from his butt to the middle of his tummy. The right rear leg sometimes bears weight when he's standing, but he holds it close to his body when he does his endearing three-legged scoot-along.

Within two days of his joining my pack, the skies opened up and dumped several feet of snow all over the Pacific Northwest, a storm that hasn't been seen since--well, since ever. Three feet of snow and a 10" tall dog make for a poor combination any time. If said dog is new to the place, doesn't know the routine, and is injured, anything can happen. I would like to say he is starting to respond to my commands, but it turns out Little Scruffdog has his own sign language and is waiting patiently for me to figure it out.

It only took one accident on the rug for me to realize that when he puts one paw on top of my foot, it's time to go out. Young Geezer took him out into the tamped-down snow on the sidewalk and Scruffdog obliged within a few feet of our yard. When I took him out, he sat quivering in the snow, one front paw up, looking pitiful. (I think one paw up means, "Do I have to?") Try to understand: I'm in full-on nurse mode; I dress his wounds, administer five kinds of medicine, and hold him in my arms while I watch TV (which I do a lot right now, since we're snowed in). How could I drag this poor little creature onto the frozen tundra and demand he perform? I carried him back, apologizing profusely.

I told Young Geezer what happened. "You mean you turned around and looked at him?" he asked, incredulous. Apparently, Young Geezer walks without looking back until he feels enough drag on the leash to know his little charge has found an interesting spot. He knows the big pleading eyes and tiny raised paw will melt the hardest of hearts. "Whatever you do," he said, "Don't make eye contact!"

I might be able to do this. But do I have to?

With Thanks to the Chinese

It's Fall in the Pacific Northwest. Daylight is becoming almost non-existent, as people drive to and from work in the dark. It's hard to be cheery sometimes.

I recently bought a new full-length mirror that was made in China. Having a full-length mirror in my room doesn't help me be cheery. And when the glass slipped down in the frame and cracked within days, I was downright surly.

I don't have a happy history with Made-in-China products. In the last four months, I acquired an alarm clock that rang at the wrong time, a coffee maker that burned coffee (it was cheerfully replaced--with one that heats liquid to lukewarm,) and a lamp whose switch died in infancy so I have to plug and unplug it at the wall socket. I decided not to fight the system on the stupid mirror. I shoved it to the side of my bookcase.

A couple of days ago, I needed to rummage in the corner behind the mirror. I saw something out of the corner of my eye that confused me. A woman wearing my same clothes was moving about. She was probably four inches taller than I am, and 15 pounds lighter. Who the hell was that? (As I said, I've been a bit surly of late.) A second look revealed that my magic Chinese mirror was reflecting a new, improved version of me. Well, all right, then. That's much better!

I moved the mirror to a place I pass more often. Sometimes I walk past it when I don't really need to. I'm feeling much more cheerful these days!

The Thanksgiving Day Newspaper

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Thank goodness I don't have to cook. I'll be too busy trying to open my front door.

The Thanksgiving edition of our local paper is scheduled to weigh about 7 pounds. The newspaper delivery person hasn't quite worked out the best place leave my paper--the bushes next to the porch have been ruled out, the driveway under the pick-up truck is not good, and the middle of the swampy front yard is downright dangerous if you're not wearing hip waders . Yesterday, my paper was wedged against the screen door. I had a hard time opening the door --and that was just a puny little weekday paper.

Seven pounds of retail ads promising Christmas delights--if only I'm willing to get up at 3 A.M. and fight thousands of my neighbors for them--might do serious damage to my screen door (or my back) if I try to strong arm my way out. If you happen to pass my house and notice me at the front window pointing frantically at the front door, won't you please roll the behemoth newspaper off the porch so I can escape?

Thank you.

Chocolate Ancestors

When I was a kid, I thought the See's Candy lady was my great grandmother. I came about this misconception when my dad's mother, Gramma Jo, pulled an old box of pictures out of her closet and showed me a picture of her mother. Once. For about 30 seconds. I got a glimpse of white hair, little round glasses, and a white collar. Gramma Jo was German-American, which partially explains her belief that children should be seen and not heard--and should definitely not touch a person's private stash of old pictures. I never saw that picture again--until See's Candy opened a store in the mall near our house.

All the women in our family are chocolate slaves, so a See's Candy store opening was a major event. My mother and I floated into the store on a cloud of chocolate aroma. I couldn't see over the counter, which put me at eye level with shelf after shelf of beautiful, glistening mounds of chcolates. I was hooked. And there , in a frame on the counter, was a picture of my great-grandma. I recognized the white hair, the little round glasses, and the white collar.

"Mom, Mom!" I cried. "That's Gramma Jo's mother!" My mother was lost in the ecstasy of choosing chocolates. She looked at me with dreamy eyes and said, "No, I don't think so. That's a picture of Mrs. See." I was thrilled. I was related to the See's Candy Lady!

My affection for Great-gramma/Mrs. See grew with each visit to the See's candy store. I envisioned the lady with the halo of white hair and kindly face whenever Grandma Jo mentioned her mother.

When I got older, I asked my dad about his wonderful grandmother. He looked puzzled. "She was tougher than a drill sergeant," he said. "She dragged me to church every morning before school, and smacked me in the head if I didn't pay attention." I asked why he didn't just tell her he didn't want to go. "When Grandma Schussler told you to do something, you did it!" he said, as if the answer was obvious. I was bemused. Who was Grandma Schussler? I thought Mrs. See was my great-grandmother!

It's just as well I never met my actual drill-sergeant, head-smacking German great-grandmother. I rather like my vision of a kindly woman with a ready smile. I've more or less adopted Mary See as my ancestor. Hey, it would explain the chocolate in my blood stream, wouldn't it?

Ve Vill Return Your Coll Widin 24 hour...

I'm trying to cancel my long distance service. I've been trying for six weeks. The service was a great deal 10 years ago, when I set it up with some guy in Utah who seemed to be a one-man operation, giving fabulous rates and customer service. I miss him.

He was bought out by a company whose CEO is now in jail, their customer service is in India, and even my local carrier can beat their long-distance prices. All I have are the phone numbers they chose to divulge to me--numbers that never get me to the person who can actually terminate our ailing relationship. I did get two recorded messages, offering me the opportunity to leave my own message and promising, "Ve vill return your coll vidin 24 hours." A lie, of course--unless "vidin 24 hours" is Klingon for "never." How does one find a private detective? I think I need one.

I made the mistake of allowing the service to bill my credit card directly. Now, my credit card company says they can't stop the bills from being paid until I can prove I told the service to cancel the account. I can't cancel, because I can't find them...

But I have a secret weapon. I am a Boomer, and I remember how to use antiquated methods. I remember how to use snail mail! I shall write a letter. I will keep copies. I will put it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and schlep it to the post office. Then, I will have proof that I want to terminate this account, despite their best efforts to avoid me. My credit card company will accept that. Even a lawyer would accept that.

HA! Take that, you megalithic, multinational, elusive, faceless, so-called "service provider"!

Sometimes, being a Boomer ain't so bad.

Soccer Tot

Baby Girl is now Soccer Tot. Very coordinated and athletic at 2-1/2,she was deemed advanced enough to learn soccer at the YMCA with the 3-year-olds. "Advanced" being a relative term, of course. Beckham has nothing to fear--yet.

I showed up at the big game in a gym overflowing with four running, laughing, talking toddler teams--sometimes chasing the ball, sometimes not. The coaches earned my deep respect for their tolerance for chaos and their ability to explain again and again that no, the goal is not to grab the ball from the other kid with your hands.

My Soccer Tot was so excited to see me that she repeatedly picked up the ball in one arm during practice so she could wave at me with the other as she ran by. Her exuberance began to wane about halfway through the game when the coach gathered the team at the goal. She crawled into the goal, tangling her pony tail in the net. Mom ran out and removed out the stretchy fastener. Soccer Tot grabbed the hair fastener, and ran out onto the court with it when coach returned them to the game. She was too busy playing with it while running to pay any attention to the game. Could drama be far behind? Nope.

Her mom dashed onto the court and took the fastener from her, trying to redirect her attention to the ball. Soccer Tot fell to her hands and knees in the middle of the floor like a wounded warrior. She put her head down on her hands and remained motionless, contemplating the cruelties of life, no doubt.

She eventually got up, walked to the side lines, and crawled into her mom's lap, thumb in mouth.

Beckham would be envious.

Editors Behaving Badly

Two 28-year-old guys from Massachusetts (who must be a real hoot at parties) spent their vacation touring the U.S. and correcting grammar errors on public signs. No one noticed. They proclaimed their triumphs on a web site. Then someone noticed. Federal prosecutors, in fact. It seems the Feds don't take kindly to having 60-year-old historic landmark signs defaced.


CNN called them "Typo Vigilantes." The Chicago Tribune, called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation." I call them editors with too much time on their hands.


I get it; I'm a compulsive proofreader, myself. I can't read an incorrect sign without correcting it in my head. But these guys didn't just do it in their heads: they defaced a 60-year-old, hand-painted sign at the Grand Canyon National Park's Desert View Watchtower. They were tried in court, sentenced to probation and banned from national parks for a year.

They used a marker to cover an erroneous apostrophe, put the apostrophe in its proper place with correction fluid, and added a comma. They did not, however, correct the misspelled word, "emense." They didn't want to deface the sign any more than they had. That makes me crazy. What kind of an editor, having begun to create a symphony of correctness from chaos, stops half way? Oh, yeah. The kind that knows they are not only courting the normal scorn writers heap upon editors, but also time in a jail cell--where I understand there is lots of writing badly in need of good editing. A wisely missed opportunity, I would say.

I Don't Think Nebraska is the Answer

I hope some of my friends don't read the article. The one in the paper that tells about a law Nebraska recently passed allowing parents to leave children at hospitals and ask that they be taken care of. It's intended, of course, to protect infants and small children from being abandoned in unsafe places--but think of the possibilities! That surly, pierced, 13-year-old--gone! That noisy, tattooed 16-year-old--out of your face for good! Legally getting rid of that hyperactive 8-year-old who hasn't slept in two years! Yep, I fear some of my weary friends may be packing their cars to move to Nebraska at this very moment.

Apparently, some parents really did think that way. A 34-year-old father deposited nine children ages 1 to 17 at Creighton University Medical Center -- and then walked away.The Omaha World-Herald reported that the man had a “history of unemployment, eviction notices and unpaid bills – and a psychologist’s determination that he lacked common sense.”

It took a psychologist to point out that this man lacks common sense? Those poor kids! Several of them are at the age where kids naturally think their parents are not very smart--but what a shock to find out that in your case, it's true! I'm sure the state of Nebraska and their concerned extended family will figure out something for them, but I suspect "bewildered" is a gross understatement of their current mental state.

I would say this law isn't working out the way the lawmakers thought it would. I'm sure my beleaguered friends will snap out of it and unpack their cars. After all, they're just suffering from a lack of sleep--not a lack of common sense!

Rats: Foiled Again!

My dishwasher is broken. I'm trying the stoic approach to getting Young Geezer to install a new one. (Me: "dishwasher's broken." YG: "Yup." Me: "I think we need a new one" YG: yup, I'll pick one up after work and put it in when I have time.) I much prefer the whining approach; being quiet and kindly does not come naturally to me. I am not totally lacking in empathy, though. Young Geezer's truly awful job is keeping him obscenely busy lately. Best to wait until they've squeezed his brain dry before asking him to do manual labor in the kitchen.

That's how it came to pass that I have a dishwasher in a box in the garage. In the kitchen, I have "The Drying-Rack-Formerly-Known-as-Dishwasher."

I think I've been patient long enough, but nary a complaint will pass my lips. Alternate tactics, however, are not out of the question--as long as they are done quietly. I now have a drawer full of paper plates and plastic cutlery, installed without fanfare. Enough of this 20th Century dishwashing drudgery!

Tonight, I spied a melon wedge and a container of vanilla yogurt in the fridge. I thought the two would make a nice snack. I headed for the dining room table, clutching a paper plate bearing melon generously covered in yogurt.

Alas! The paper buckled, the melon leaped onto the floor, and a 3-ft. line of yogurt splatted across the carpet. This was not in my plan. I let out a few choice comments--totally forgetting that the windows were wide open. A neighbor pushing a baby stroller looked surprised and picked up her pace.

Here's what I've learned:

1. Use two or three paper plates stacked together to avoid messy mishaps (yes, I do know it's not as environmentally friendly. Yes, I care. No, not enough to wash another damn plate!)
2. Glance at the windows before emitting a string of invectives on warm nights.
3. Scrubbing yogurt out of carpet is even more loathesome than washing dishes by hand.

I rinsed the melon, poured the rest of the yogurt on it, and had it for my snack. What a good girl am I! And, as promised, nary a complaint...

Pretty Money

We actually found time for a vacation this year. We went to a Canadian lakeside resort that forces people to relax by simmering them into limp-pasta pliability in several hot spring pools. It's kind of miraculous--even stressed-out Young Geezer stopped bouncing off of walls by the second day. It's taken 24 hours for my fingertips to stop looking like prunes, but it was so worth it!

Yes, I'm back, sort of. My head isn't quite ready to admit the vacation is over. The weather gods smiled upon us; they gave us glorious sunny warm days (which they owed us, after trying to freeze and drown us most of the summer.) We basked; we soaked, we napped, and we read our books. I even shopped, which is something I don't ususally enjoy. I think it had something to do with the Canadian money.

Spending monochromatic greenbacks always feels like serious business. Those scowling dead presidents fairly shout: "Be prudent! Spend wisely!" I bet those old guys are rolling in their graves since we've started adding tiny bits of color and shine to our bills.

Canadian money, on the other hand, is like a little party in your wallet. Pinks, mauves, artwork, sparkly things--who wouldn't feel good about spending it? And how serious can you be when you're paying for things with "loonies" and "twoonies"? I didn't even try.

I have a few Canadian bills left. I'll put them in our Canadian money jar for our next trip--but not yet. I'm going to admire the pretty money a little more, before I sigh and go back to the scowling old guys.

Young Geezer's Second Income

Young Geezer emailed me from his office today, saying his second source of income has been cut off. He even used an exclamation point. I didn't know he even had a second source of income—should I be worried?

When I inquired, he said, "They took the stamp machine out of the copy room. It was a pretty good source of extra cash -- two 42 cent stamps for 75 cents -- 9 cents profit per purchase. Whoo-hoo!"

We had been getting rich, 9 cents at a time, and I didn't even know it. But he had even bigger plans:

He said, "I was going to make a 'How To Become A Millionaire -- In Your Spare Time' infomercial, detailing how to find and exploit small stamp machines like ours."

Poor guy. Perhaps I'll place a cool cloth on his fevered brow and give him some iced tea when he gets home.

Housework Can Be Really Bad for You

My mom used to make us kids do our housework chores before we were allowed to leave the house each day. She was no dummy; she knew she wasn't likely to see much of us once we escaped. I now know that was good common sense on her part, but at the time it felt like punishment. Housework still feels like punishment to me, and recent news items aren't doing much to change my mind.

For instance, a woman in Maine recently came face-to-face with a the head of a snake while pulling wet clothes out of her washing machine. As a kid, I might have thought that was cool. But she was a grown-up, and the head was attached to a live 8' python. The news story didn't say if she screamed, fainted, or just gave up taking baths and doing laundry. See? this is what I'm talking about. Housework can be really bad for you.


A Wisconsin woman who cleans vacant apartments for a living found a stereo speaker in one of the apartments. She gave it to her son-in-law after her boss told her to keep it. Son-in-Law heard a rattle inside the speaker, pried it open--and boom! Thousands of dollars popped out (better than an 8' python, right?) It turned out to be money from a bank robbery a couple of years earlier. I can imagine that, just for a split second, they thought about all the wonderful things they could do with the money (stop cleaning vacant apartments, for one.) It must have been heartbreaking to give up those brief dreams and turn it in. But they did. See? you can get your heart broken doing housework!


And now... The python is in a shelter, the money is back in the bank, and the bank robber is in jail. Even if housework isn't bad for you (and you won't convince me of that), it might be a good idea to give it up before the excitement causes a heart attack.

My Brain is getting AARPed

When I got that first AARP magazine (it's eerie--I can't remember my own birthday sometimes, but AARP knows when it is!), I threw it away and refused to join an organization of old people. I gave in about five years later, when I started feeling like AARP material. Disturbingly enough, I actually enjoy the magazine.

I didn't realize that reading about my fellow AARPians, who actually spend years planning their beautiful retirements, would put my brain on the AARP track. I now think about walk-in bathtubs, MediCare, and my hope that I'll be able to drive until I die (preferably not while engaging in said activity.) These things had never occurred to me before. Thanks, AARP.

I drive low-maintenance-high-gas-mileage Japanese car, and have for years (many of those years in this same car!) I used to think that one day I might have a Mercedes, but to my dismay, even my dreams are changing. I used to look at Mercedes drivers with a tinge of envy, but now that I have the AARP mindset, I look at them with a tinge of pity.

"You poor people," I think, "Did you even think about your retirement when you decided to spend all that extra money for a status car? You could be driving a low-maintenance-high-gas-mileage Japanese car and putting the difference away for the future!" Only recently has it begun to dawn on me that maybe the the future they saved and planned for included a Mercedes. If you do it the AARP way, it seems, such a thing is possible.

Rats! If only I'd started reading the magazine five years sooner!

I Remembered the Baby, Didn't I?

Baby Girl's mother is a good-natured, patient woman. This is a good thing. She needs a lot of patience--not to deal with Baby Girl, but to deal with me and my efforts to be a dependable, grandmotherly person.

I know I'm not supposed to give Baby Girl "kiki" (candy), so I don't. But she and I each have a sweet tooth, so I'm ever in search for "kiki" replacements. Her enthusiastic response to Costco's latest dried fruit treats ("Just fruit, no preservatives!") felt like a great victory. We ate them with gusto at the free concert we attended today to give Baby Mom a chance to pack for a camping trip. After the concert, we played with the crayons, markers, puzzles, books, and princess dress-up clothes I keep at my house for her. She was well and truly tired after our adventures.

When I returned Baby Girl to her mother, she was glassy-eyed and ready for her nap. Another victory! Her mother would get a couple more precious hours without coloring, puzzles, and demands for kiki. Baby Girl Mom retrieved the car seat and the diaper bag from my car. We chatted, she retrieved Baby Girl as she made a run for the neighbor's house, we chatted some more, then she put the car seat into her car. Much "bye-bye," hugging, "see you tomorrow," and waving ensued.

As I pulled into a supermarket parking lot fifteen minutes later, Baby Girl Mom called. She was laughing. "You remember that I pulled the diaper bag out of your car?" (She knows my Boomer brain is becoming more decrepit each day. I assured her I did, wondering if this was a test.) "Well," she continued, "it seems I didn't remove it from behind your car. It now has a perfect tire track right down the middle of it!" (Oh, good. It isn't a test. I'll still be allowed to take Baby Girl without a chaperone.) "You didn't manage to crush the box of baby wipes, though." I offered to come back and have another go at it, but for some reason, she declined. Whew! I still looked good (I think).

When I opened my trunk after shopping, I blinked a couple of times, trying to grasp the meaning of the accordioned pink and purple nylon thingie in the middle of it. (If you don't use an umbrella stroller every day, your brain might have trouble deciphering what it is. Mine did, anyway.) Ooops. So much for looking good!

One embarrassing oversight doesn't erase two really good victories, does it? I hope not. I'll find out from Baby Girl Mom when I return the stroller. I'm sure she'll understand that no chaperone is required--yet!

Angels, Blue and Otherwise

Seafair is an event that happens every year in the Seattle area, amidst frenzied TV promotion and huge traffic interruptions on the bridges that thread the population together over Lake Washington. It began over 50 years ago with a few wealthy people racing speedboats powered by gigantic airplane engines at the south end of the lake. Now it's totally commercial, with hydroplanes owned by sponsors like Oberto Sausage and Budweiser (which, I'm told, when ingested together constitute the breakfast of true champions.)

I've lived here 19 years and have never been to Seafair. Friday was a the "free day" at the event--which seemed tantamount to an exclusive invitation for us unemployed folks. I decided to check out the one event that appeals to me: the performance of the Blue Angels.

I don't know what it is about fighter planes screaming out of the sky, climbing, falling, turning, and flying with wingtips 18" apart that I find so thrilling. Part of it is just that I love airplanes and flying. Especially flights by military pilots. Many years ago I was a flight attendant on a charter airline that flew worldwide. All our pilots were former military, and those guys could fly into and out of anything. They could take off and land in weather and at airports that made scheduled airlines tremble. They were gods in the air. On the ground, not so much. (But that's another story.) Although I tend to hate crowds, buses, and too much sun, I decided it was worth whatever I had to do to see the Blue Angels perform directly over my head.

I rode the bus two hours each way (no parking nearby--it's a neighborhood, not an amusement park), and walked two miles to the lake's edge (because the highly-touted shuttle bus turned out to be non-existent.) I stumbled along, clutching my heavy lunch and picnic blanket in my non-muscular arms. Despite my current status as a pasty couch potato, I sat in the sun until I was burned enough to stay warm in the Arctic without a jacket. Let it be said that Young Geezer (who has been rebuffed for suggesting activities that weren't a fraction as rigorous as this) was at work, and would have laughed hysterically if anyone had tried to tell him where his sedentary wife was and what she was doing.

Yeah, it was grueling. I was stiff and I couldn't straighten my arms the whole next day. But the sky was blue, the breeze perfect, and the performance was magnificent. I would do it again in a heartbeat to feel that thrill. Maybe I would wear different shoes and carry less stuff. Maybe I would use more sunscreen. But I would definitely do it.

I'll also ride the bus again, soon. I experienced something I don't experience in my car: people. I saw young men in gangsta garb help a blind woman--without being asked. I chatted with people from different parts of the world whose paths I would never cross in a usual day. I asked a couple of preteen boys to give up their seats for two elderly men who boarded in the International District. They fell all over themselves to give up their seats. They just hadn't thought of it themselves, that's all. I've heard it said that there are angels all around us. It sure seemed true that day.

What an amazing world. I think I need to consider getting those clunky walking shoes I've been avoiding, and getting out more. Maybe it's even time to buy a bus pass.

(I apologize in advance to everyone who gets stuck behind my slow-moving self on the bus steps, or when I ask the bus driver questions. Hey, I might not be bus savvy--but I can tell you some great stories about former military pilots, if you're interested!)

How Not to Find Lilliwaup

There are good reasons for city people with no sense of direction to avoid trying to find places like Lilliwaup. The extra three hours that must be allotted for getting lost, for instance… .

I grew up in a city. I live in a city. My idea of long-distance driving is hopping on a freeway with a book-on-CD in the stereo, setting the cruise control, and putting my brain in neutral until I reach my turnoff. The weakness of this strategy became apparent when I set off to visit my friend in Lilliwaup (yes, there really is such a place) along the Hood Canal at the edge of the Olympic Forest. My friend retired to a cool house that has an even cooler deck with a stunning view of the canal and Mt. Rainier. I was really looking forward to a couple of days of relaxing with my friend while admiring the view and envying her (a) retired status (b) cool house with a cooler deck.

If you get off the ferry in Bremerton and successfully exit the city (not a given for some of us), you wind up driving a tiny road three feet from the water and about 20 feet from cabins in varying degrees of habitability. Road junctions look like turnoffs to people's driveways. Missing a junction (as you are likely to do if you are listening to a book-on-CD) means finding yourself in a hamlet you didn't even know existed, far from any road whose name you recognize. It behooves a city person to remember that, though maps are oriented north and south, no such orderliness is imposed on a bunch of peninsulas surrounded by water. And perhaps more importantly, the Hood Canal is not really a canal. It is simply a long, oddly-shaped fjord that just stops at one end. If your destination is northwest, you may have to first go southeast to get there. Which is really sort of a moot point if you don't have a sense of direction and the sky is overcast. Yes, I had a map. No, it didn't help.

I met and entertained lots of friendly locals. Rural folks who drive by landmark and tribal knowledge tend to get a worried look as they try their darndest to help you. You aren't the first city fool they've encountered, and they know your eyes are glazing over. City folks do road names; rural folks do buttes and shipyards--and my favorite: "turn by where the lumber mill used to be." They'd probably be happier to jump in your car and drive you there than to continue pretending the two of you are actually communicating.

I did eventually make it to Lilliwaup--a mere three hours late. My friend broke out a bottle of wine and reassured me that yes, it really is hard to find Lilliwaup if you come on the ferry. "If you come on the ferry?" I cried pitifully, "There's another way?"

She patted me on the back and shook her head. "Why yes," she said, "I-5 south, to 101, to Lilliwaup. We call it 'driving around.' It's how most of the locals do it."

Stoopit Bluetooth!

The days of joblessness are taking their toll. Leaping out of bed and into my workaday clothes gave way about three weeks ago to the struggle to get out of my jammies and off the couch. I have a tendency to have long, soulful conversations with my dogs, and though I adamantly refuse to watch soaps, I'm learning some really weird things on PBS and the History channel. Things that will not insert themselves easily into conversation with humans, should I ever have one of those again. (Did you know each volcano has its own unique voice?)

Those chirrupy little grooming tips in the Living Section of the paper are getting on my nerves ("I freshen up my look by…"). Freshen up my look? Heck, I consider my look fresh enough if I'm upright and most of my hairs are going in the same direction! My interview suit is pressed and ready for an extended tap-dance session, should one be required. If the miracle of a second interview manifests sitself, I'm even ready to overcome my aversion to those temples of vanity known as clothing stores, and come up with a second tap-dancing suit.

Despite my local newspaper's promises of great careers in newspaper delivery, advertising sales, and house cleaning, I'm beginning to think the TV "Chicken Littles" might be right about the sky falling. My recruiter called with an opportunity on the day my cell phone ring tone went silent as a a result of my inept attempts to engage my new Bluetooth headset. Unfortunately, the employer had put the job "on hold" by the time I called back, five hours later. It seems they put out a call for resumes, but the recruiter must submit an electronic Permssion to Represent form dated and time-stamped from the employee for the specific job. Split-second timing is crucial. The employers are getting so many resumes so quickly that they "close" the position the same day. Stoopit Blue Tooth!

My mood is fluctuating between the excitement of the hunt and the urge to stay under my covers in a fetal position. Young Geezer fixed my phone--I now get a ring or a beep when someone calls, so I don't have to pick it up every five minutes and say, "Hello? Is someone there?"

One thing for sure--if I decide to take the fetal position approach, that phone is going under the covers with me!

Cowboys and Indians

When I was a kid, I used to play "cowboys and Indians" with the other kids on Autry Avenue (yes, that really is the name of the street I grew up on.) I had a little red cowgirl outfit, a toy gun, and wore my hair in braids like my idol, Annie Oakley (which is weird, because I am part Mexican, so I'm probably more linked to the Indians than the cowboys.) I liked Annie; she always shot the guns out of the bad guys' hands before she yelled at them. Some of today's macho cop shows could learn something from that.

We probably wouldn't want our kids to play "cowboys and Indians" now. We'd have to call it "Native Americans and European Incursionists"--and it wouldn't be any fun, because now we know the incursionists weren't really the good guys. At least, I thought we did.

Apparently, lots of grown-ups are still playing cowboys and Indians. I was surprised to find a magazine in the library called--amazingly enough--"Cowboys and Indians." If the pictures in this colorful, slick magazine are to be believed, today's cowboys pay more than my annual salary for pictures of historical Indians and cowboys to hang on the walls of their modern day ranches. If they need a ranch, they can go to the magazine's real estate pages to buy one for only $3M to $30M, complete with fountains, spas, and plenty of antler furniture.

Judging from the clothing ads, they must wear multi-colored cowboy boots, embroidered leather jackets, and strands of chunky Native American jewelry on the way to those hot tubs. (I hope the jewelry has a disclaimer: "Warning--do not wear more than three ropes of rocks in hot tub when imbibing alcohol.")

Who are these people that are still playing "cowboys and Indians," I wondered. Did they play at it when they were kids, like I did, and just never gave it up? Is this a nouveau-western movement that we wage-slaves in the cities don't know about?

I got part of my answer when I found a 15-year retrospective of the magazine covers: John Wayne, Sam Shepherd, Sam Elliot, Tom Selleck. Ah, I see. The line between fantasy and reality blurs, as it generally does when Hollywood is involved. I noticed Clint Eastwood was not among the cover boys. Apparently, he is pretty clear that just playing a cowboy for years doesn't really make him a cowboy. Or something. I don't know. I'm just bemused by the whole concept.

Not one to be caught off guard, I threw a serape over a table in the family room in case this western thing turns out to be the latest trend. Maybe I'll get a wagon wheel and a lariat to keep in the garage (if the term "cowboys and Indians" is back, can 1950s kitsch be far behind?)

Practicality 3; Cuteness 0

I'm afraid to visit any more medical professionals. Each time I see one, a little bit of life as I knew it disappears. Take for instance, "cuteness." As Diane Keaton laments in the 1987 movie "Baby Boom," just before she passes out in exhaustion from the rigors of instant single parenthood: "I used to be cute!" A lot of us feel that way.

My foot doctor treats the feet of professional basketball teams, as evidenced by souvenir athletic shoes the size of surfboards in his lobby. This guy can keep the players running and jumping no matter what, but he looked at my X-rays last year, mumbled words like "pronation" and "thin bones"-- then proceded to create orthotics that feel like rocks under my arches. "Oh," he said, "you'll have to wear flats, and they will have to have footpads that are removable." He should have just said, "You will never, ever wear cute shoes again." He sent me to a shoe store that specializes in sturdy shoes. Grandma shoes. I'm mortified. I like walking without limping, of course, but I 'm still suffering from extreme cute-shoe grief.

Practicality, 1; Cuteness, 0.

A couple of months ago, the optician dealt cuteness another crushing blow. She said my jaunty red glasses slide down my nose because I need glasses with nosepads. Preferably rimless glasses. (Nooooooo!" My dad wore rimless glasses, for Pete's sake!) She plopped some springy titanium rimless things on my nose. Gad. I look like my dad. (Doesn't that make you women who are horrified to see your mother in the mirror feel better?) They definitely do stay in place, but I miss my jaunty red glasses.

Practicality, 2; Cuteness, 0.

My handy shoulder bag is going to be the next casualty. My totally unreasonable chiropractor says I need to carry a bag with handles--just because I have knotted neck muscles and a shoulder that is one inch higher than the other. I'll get to it, just as soon as I work through the five stages of grief for my condemned shoulder bag.

Practicality 3; Cuteness, 0.

Try to visulize a woman wearing grandma shoes and rimless glasses, and carrying a carpet bag. Who do you see? Yep, you got it--if I add a hat and an umbrella, Mary Poppins is going to have some stiff competition!

Practicality: the Undisputed Champion

Cuteness: Late and Lamented.

He Got His "Hang Time" Back

I wonder how a little black dog with 8-inch legs can jump up onto a bed that's three feet high? Springs in the back legs is all I can think of. But after his bad fall from the couch last week, Little Black Dog couoldn't jump at all. I thought his flying days were over. However, several days of anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants (and being carried up and down stairs) seem to have healed him.

I feared a spinal chord injury, but it turns out he was just very, very sore and bruised. I'm a Boomer; I understand sore.

The vet said to keep him confined, carry him up and down stairs (he got into that routine waay too easily) and not to let him run or jump. This is a dog who spends most of his waking hours chasing Squeaky Toy and launching himself into the air with a hang time that would make Michael Jordan envious.

He was happy to be pampered for the first couple of days--I sat and held him almost constantly--but then he started feeling better. Now, nothing can keep him in the dog crate, and if I turn my back on him he magically appears at the top of the stairs or on the back of the couch. I pretend to be upset that he's climbing stairs and running, but I'm secretly ecstatic. Little "hang time" doggie is back!

Hunching over a little dog for several days while praying fervently can sure kink up an old Boomer's back. The prayers were answered; Little Black Dog is OK. Now I need to attend to my own sore spots. I wonder if those anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants would work on me?

Life in the Boomer Lane

This morning when I stumbled into the kitchen, none of my small appliances worked. The microwave was dead, the toaster wouldn't toast, and the little TV wouldn't turn on. "Oh, no," I groaned, "Now what?" After the day I had yesterday, I just couldn't face it.

Yesterday was a day from Hell. Little Black Dog did a bad take-off from the couch while chasing Squeaky toy and landed on his side with a thud. I picked him up and gave him a little cuddle, but when I stood him upright, his back legs didn't work; they just went from side to side like a stumbling drunk. I was horrified, because we lost a dog a few years ago to a spinal chord injury that wasn't caught in time. The vet said when a dog starts walking "like a drunken sailor," it's usually a spinal chord problem. Surgery might fix it--but only if it's done right away.

I tore out of the house with Little Black Dog under my arm. It was pouring rain, cracking thunder and lightning, and I was crying--it was like one of those old black-and-white melodramas. I made it to the emergency vet in record time. They whisked my dog to X-ray while getting me dried off and calmed down. After the exam, the doctor said little dog was probably just very sore. She got him to walk a few steps, hunched up in pain, but not wobbling. She sent us home with two kinds of medicines for him (none for me, though I sure could have used some), instructions to keep him confined and bring him in immediately for an MRI if he showed further signs of "drunken walking." (He hasn't, thank God.)

The thunder and lightning continued on my way home. The TV weather people said lightning would continue through the night and lots of people were already without power. "Uh, oh," I said to Young Geezer. "Remember that last big power outage that blew out the digital timer on our microwave?" I handed him the dog and went to the kitchen to unplug all the small appliances.

Yes, I can hear you snickering. No, I don't think it's funny. (Well, maybe just a little.) Now, really--be honest--first thing in the morning after a day like that, would you remember why your appliances weren't working?

Or is this just--Life in the Boomer Lane?

Monsters in the Closet

Children are right. There really are monsters in the closets. Their closet monsters come out at night and threaten to annihilate them. Mine come out in the daytime, reminding me of the detritus of the past ten years crammed in there with them. It's hard to maintain my delusions of tidiness with the voices of unfinished projects, ancient clothes, and weird gadgets ("Stableicers--sure traction snow tires for your feet!") clamoring for my attention. Attention they are not likely to get when I am working 40 hours a week.

But now I'm home during the day. Like crying babies, closet monster voices are really, really hard to ignore. Yesterday's battle with the bedroom closet took all day, lots of sweaty trips up and down stairs, and a journey to unload my full car at Value Village. And yet, it wasn't a complete victory--some of the smaller, weirder items clung to me like leeches, reminding me why I bought them, and promising to be more useful in the future. I'm not a total wimp; I got rid of them anyway. Well, most of them. (OK, half of them.)

If I don't become gainfully employed soon, I'll have to gird up my loins (can women do that?) and wade into the lair of the most fearsome closet monster of all--the dread BASEMENT BEDROOM CLOSET. That's where we put the "We'll-never-use-it-again-but-don't-want-to-admit-it" stuff (like ski clothes that belong in a museum, and linens in all those great 1988 colors.) The closet is huge, and like a faithful dog, it's been accepting our foibles for 13 years. It's hard to admit the time has come, but it has. The basement bedroom closet is finally, undeniably, completely full. The only way out of attacking it is to be gone 40 hours a week.

This shuddering reality sent me into a frenzy of phone calls and resumes to possible employers. Will one of them hire me before the Basement Bedroom Closet Monster drags me into the closet's musty interior, possibly never to be seen again? And do prospective employers respond favorably to terrified begging? Stay tuned, folks.

Do What You Love

I'm done "just sittin'" after being sacked, and I'm filling out reams of paper for the"Unemployment Office," which is called "Employment Security Department" in my state. Oddly enough, that does not make me feel more secure.

People say, "Do what you love, and the rest will follow." Who are those people? I mean, who really gets to do what they love? For money, I mean.

A blurb in yesterday's paper gave a brief history of an Englishman who has been arrested about 20 times in the last 28 years for impersonating a Metro (subway) employee. He puts on a uniform and sweeps stations, helps fight underground fires, and even drives buses and trains when he can. Now, there's a man who knows what he loves! He just hasn't figured out that doing what you love is supposed to result in paychecks, not arrests.

I need a better strategy than his, but I'm not even close to thinking one up yet. I fill out papers, I walk the dogs, I make phone calls, I pet the dogs. It's keeping me upright and moving forward, so far. Today the weather is actually helping--after the coldest recorded June weather since 1893, we have sunshine today. It's warm outside! I'm in the "walk the dogs" phase of my cycle, so I think I'll rummage in the closet for a pair of sandals.

I have no illusions about this being the beginning of a trend, because more cold and rain is forecast for the rest of the week. I'll wear my sandals, but I'm taking an umbrella--just in case they got wrong.

Getting Sacked

I got sacked from my job today. I feel very strange--almost glad, kind of embarassed, but mostly just spacey. I put my keys in the refrigerator and my apple in my purse when I got home. I called Young Geezer to tell him I'd be hanging around the house a lot more (I can already hear him thinking up things for me to do) and then emailed some friends.

One of my writing buddies came over and read me the latest fabulous chapters in his book-in-progress. His story transported me to a lovely beach and into a seaside town. It was a nice respite from the weirdness going on in my head. We talked about pain--mine from failing to learn my job, and his from the death of a very close friend last week. We commiserated, agreed to meet again in two weeks, and decided to "geezer on."

There are lots of things I should be doing, like cruising the Web for my next job, or calling the agencies that have placed me in contract positions in the past. But I think I won't be doing those things right away.

One of my favorite quotes is:
"Sometimes I sits and thinks;
Sometimes I just sits."

I think I'll just sit for a couple of days.

"Hedgehog Brings Fine"

"Hedgehog Brings Fine"--what does that mean? Brings a fine what? Or did the hedgehog fine someone? Ah, sadly, the hedgehog was dead. But the New Zealand man who threw it at a teenage boy, hitting him in the hip and causing him to be stabbed by four hedgehog spines, did indeed have to pay a fine. To the boy.

He paid over five hundred dollars for "assault and offensive behavior," handily avoiding the more serious "assault with a weapon" charge. Apparently, there is no "assault with a hedgehog" law on the books.

Rhodies and Bumblebees

At a certain time of year in the Pacific Northwest, Nature gifts us with more bouquets than we could ever bring into our houses, if we felt such a need. But we don’t feel the need, because the gift is multitudinous and lush, a visual feast everywhere we look. This is the time of year when the rhododendrons bloom.

Nondescript plants that we perceive as green background the rest of the year turn into prom queens for a few weeks, wearing huge puffballs of pink, magenta, red, cream, and even orange. Some “rhodies” are short, not much bigger than their cousins the azaleas, and some are taller than two story houses. Some bloom early in spring and some wait until all the others have exhausted themselves before taking center stage, to mass applause.

Yesterday was one of the three really warm days we’ve had this year. I came home from work and opened all the blinds and windows. What a surprise! Different colored bouquets of flowers awaited me at every window. The master flower arranger set up visual treats everywhere I looked. A fat, furry bumble bee crawled in and out of the pink flowers nearest the dining room window. We had dinner together, he gathering nectar and me gathering fat and salt from my frozen enchilada dinner. I felt inexplicably cheered. There is something just so right about a bumblebee in the sun, going about his business.

Late last night, the rain returned. I couldn’t help looking at the rhodies from my second-story bedroom window and hope the rain would not pummel them so hard they would bruise and fall off the plants. My hopes were dashed, however; it rained hard for a while. The puffballs deflated. Not to worry; it is early in the season yet. There are buds on the plants, waiting to burst forth. And the late bloomers haven’t even come into the wings yet.

Two raccoons fought each other, as they do every night, for the neighbor cat’s food. The bumble bees hid wherever bumble bees go on rainy nights, to fly again tomorrow. Life is ever resilient.

The Weather Service is looking out for you!

OK, it’s official. Seattle people can’t handle sunshine, so the government has to step in. The earnest young weather forecaster on TV this morning said the Weather Service is issuing a weather alert for our area because (don’t be fooled by the fact that it is 53 degrees and misting outside right now) it will be 78-80 degrees by the time we get off work. She said we haven’t seen weather like that in eight months.

The Weather Service is afraid we will bare our fluorescent white bodies and flood the burn wards tomorrow. They are trying avoid hiking trails littered with the unconscious bodies of dehydrated people who foolishly went hiking without canteens. They’re sure we’ll let our children and grandmothers sit in the ferocious 78-degree-weather until they …what? Get a tan?

I think the Weather Service may be just a little patronizing. But then, there’s no telling what the sun-starved hordes will do when the golden orb shows up for more than a half an hour. I think I I'll go look for my 5-year-old, half-used tube of sunscreen. Why encourage them?

Smithsonian Guys and "Sex in the City"

OK, I admit it. I sometimes read celebrity news. (What? Like you don't have any weird habits!)

The deceased TV show “Sex in the City” is still getting press. Yesterday, IMDB (Internet Movie Database) source Wenn News reported Sarah Jessica Parker begged Smithsonian to loan back to her the desk and laptop she gave them when the TV series ended, so she can use it in the upcoming movie. The Smithsonian didn't want to loan it and dared to suggest she use a replica.

Sarah Jessica insists a replica won't do; it has to be the very same desk. She says, "We had to have that desk - as a writer, it's an extension of you." Wait, isn't she just an actress pretending to be a writer? And wasn't that desk just a prop? The lines between reality and fantasy get blurrier and blurrier--no wonder I'm always bemused!

Besides, I don't know any writers who think of their desks as extensions of themselves. They use whatever is at hand when the muse strikes, from blackberries to the backs of napkins. Writers are as dangerous as those distracted cell phone users--maybe more dangerous--because their bodies continue moving when their brains are in whole other worlds. (Lifesaving tip: When you go out with your writing buddies, make sure you drive. They may look like they're in the car with you, but they're not. Trust me.)

But I digress. Ms. Parker did manage to get the desk loaned for the movie. She made "a personal phone call" to the bosses at the institute to make it happen. It's probably a pretty novel experience for the Smithsonian guys to get phone calls from people who actually used the items they collect. (I don't imagine Lincoln calls very often about his desk.)

I guess even Smithsonian guys get a little starstruck sometimes. Still, ya gotta respect them for accurately representiing American trends--even the cult of celebrity worship!

Heard Over the Wall

Those of us who work in cubeland can't see our co-workers, but oh, do we hear them. The more discreet among us never say anything about what they hear. The less discreet can't wait to get into the restroom to burst out laughing and share with their friends. The truly disgusting, those whom you would never, ever want to have know your secrets, are bloggers.

Here's a sample of bits heard over the wall of my cube. No, I don't know the context. No, I can't even make up stories to go with these snippets. Enjoy them (I did):

1. “Ah, that’s too bad. He has such nice teeth. I’ve never seen a dummy that had teeth before.”

2. [Man talking to stay-at-home wife on phone]:“Why don’t you go take [young son] swimming? You both enjoy that. Then go have a nice massage.” (Some women have all the luck.)

3. “Number one son is working at Taco Time. We’re just grateful he’s not sitting around the house anymore. Number two son is trying to decide what college to go to. He’s got scholarship opportunities… .”

4. “You get too many wheels and they just get lost in the junkyard… .”

5. “Crunch, crunch, crunch” (does anyone realize just how far the sounds of eating crunchy food carries?)

6. "So we’re out with Joe in that boat; we knew it had a little dry rot, but I was surprised when the cable holding the dingy behind us ripped out. Then the bilge pump buzzer went off. 'What’s that?' I asked him. 'I don’t know,' he said, 'it didn’t go off the last time we were out.' I said, 'What did you do to fix it last time?' 'Oh, nuthin', he said, 'It stopped by itself.' Well, we didn’t go out on that boat again."

Please Wait . . .

“Please Wait...” It sounds so polite. Why does it make me crazy? Is it because seems like my day is a series of tests of my tiny patience? (I'm failing those tests on a regular basis, BTW.)

My computer said "Please wait..." instead of pulling up my email. I called the help desk and got a series of multi-part menus, each with equally complex submenus. When I tried hitting "0" to see if I could get a human, the recorded voice said, "Please wait..." I tried to copy something on the copy machine and was told it was coming out of sleep mode (was it trying to make me jealous?) and "please wait..."

The bathroom sink made me wait while the automatic faucet decided if it should bless me with water. The electric towel dispenser meditated for a minute before dispensing my 3" paper towel.

I needed instant gratification. I turned to my old friend--the office vending machine. I made visual contact with a beautiful candy bar and started to salivate. After two attempts to get my dollar bill into the slot, I was practically drooling. Then I saw it. “P-l-e-a-s-e- W-a-i-t,” marched slowly across the tiny LED screen. I nearly whimpered when it said, “Please deposit exact change.” I pushed the Return button to get the machine to return my dollar. It didn’t. “Please wait. . . ,” said the LED display.

The cafeteria lady said she could hear me sobbing from down the hall.

Best Use of a Brick

I think it's spring, but I'm not sure. The calendar says it is. Here in Seattle, sunshine is a rare and welcome visitor, even at this time of year. If only there was some concrete way of knowing for sure--daily sunshine, perhaps?--or a maybe brick, like the one in West Danville, Vermont.

Those Vermonters figured out a way to entertain themselves in the dark of winter and find out for sure when that dark winter is officially over. They tie a 65-pound cinder block to a wooden pallet, place the pallet on the frozen surface of Joe's Pond, and bet $1 to guess when it will fall through. More than 12,000 people made bets this year, demonstrating our human need for definitive answers--and proving that people will bet on anything, especially in the dead of winter.

It fell through at 5:25 PM on April 25th this year. Hooray! It's spring in West Danville, Vermont. Now, if I can just figure out if the Seattle sky is a brighter gray a little longer each day... but that would just be deductive reasoning. A brick falling through ice--now that's concrete proof!

Squeaky Epiphany

Every week she visited, and every week Little Black Dog brought his Squeaky toy for her to throw. Every week, she ignored him. But Little Black dog is nothing if not persistent (the word "obsessed" comes to mind.) He believes an empty human hand has one purpose--to throw Squeaky for him to chase. This guest had an opposable thumb and she wasn't using it to his benefit--a doggie sacrilege. The fact that Baby Girl was only six months old did not deter him.

He finally got his hallelujiah moment after perservering for a year and a half. She threw Squeaky, then she laughed a contagious two-year old's laugh and hugged herself with with glee when he chased it--over and over again. It was synchronized hilarity--and I didn't have to throw anything, chase anyone, or bend over to pick anything up. Heaven.

A panting Little black dog finally crawled into my lap and a sweaty Baby Girl cuddled up next to me. That's when I had my epiphany. They were limp with exertion, and I was neither sweaty nor tired. I thought I heard angels singing. I wonder if I could have taught her to do this when she was still crawling? Al Gore is a great guy and all, but this is the kind of energy conservation I can really get behind!

Bestest Sick Day Buddies

I am home from work today, with one of those headaches that demands closed blinds and very little movement, especially of the head. That last part is unfortunate, because it makes TV my bestest sick day buddy. Man, there's some weird stuff on daytime TV! I applaud all my active retired friends who refuse turn it on at all during the day.

I am a sucker for a good sales pitch (or even a mediocre one, delivered with enthusiasm). It's a good thing I can barely move today, or there would be a pile of boxes on the front porch in the next week. I usually hate that guy with the black beard who yells at us and practically demands we buy his weird household products, but today my distended brain thought he made sense. And I would have called Jack LaLane "right now, to get this special juicer offer," if it didn't involve turning on a light and looking at small numbers on a credit card. Fortunately, one of the little dogs stepped on the remote and turned off the TV.

Dogs often have more sense than we do.

What a Weird Night

It's April 18. Why the !@#$ is it snowing? have I errands to run, people to see, and places to go. But here I sit, glaring out the window. Enough winter, already! Young Geezer is walking through the house singing, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire," and telling me what nice November night it is. Someday, he's going to push me just a little too far.

Everyone up here in the Pacific Northwest is really weary of this. Can't Mother Nature read a calendar? It's officially Spring--she needs to get with the program! Flowering trees are tenaciously holding on to their blossoms and rhondodendrums don't seem intimidated by the freezing white stuff, but the tulips were a little shy, and didn't make it out in time for the annual tulip festival.

It's spring, but it's snowing--heavily. Daylight savings time came early and my computer just can't get the time right, despite the fact that I manually changed the time no less than three times. I don't know if it's 8:37 or 9:37. A lunatic is walking around my house singing Christmas songs.

What a weird night.

Pope-in-a-Box

The lunchroom TVs are tuned to CNN with the sound turned off, showing the Popemobile on the streets of Washington, D.C. It occurred to me that in past centuries, dragging a religious leader through the streets in a box would have had whole different meaning.

Brain-Trance

After a hellacious day at the office, some of us use high-calorie carbohydrates to put our brains in a restful trance. It's like our hands are robots, dipping into the bag of cookies or chips over and over, levering them into the mouth with no conscious thought--until the action stops and the lethargic brain realizes it has no idea how the bag became empty.

On the pro side, this behavior generally does not include being in a bar, picking fights with huge drunk people, or crashing the car. On the con side, fat usually ensues (the brain also doesn't know how that happened.)

Either I am doing this at night, or some sloppy people have parties in my living room while I'm in a trance in front of my TV. They leave wrappers and crumbs, even sprinkling them liberally on my chest to make me think I did it myself. I don't know whether to be worried that I'm a total weirdo freak, or to consider it normal for a sleep-deprived, working American boomer. (I'm going with normal, for now.)

A friend confided that she found (gasp!) candy wrappers under her husband's pillow and bags of chips in his nightstand. "He's got stuff just stashed there!" she said, her face scrunched up in disbelief. I was struck by the ingenuity of the man, arranging his brain-trance so he could just fall asleep without having to get up from the couch.

I think I was supposed to say something like, "Oh, that is weird!" But all I said was, "What kind of candy?" Judging from the look on her face, I think I may have claimed "normal" a bit too hastily.

Me Check? No, YOU check!

I generally avoid the self-check aisles at the grocery store. I was feeling cocky tonight because I finally remembered to bring one of the 10 re-usable bags scattered in my trunk and on my back seat. Why not conquer the intimidating U-Check line, too?

Things didn't go well from the beginning. The mechanized voice was sure I was trying to steal something when I put my re-usable bag in the bag dispenser. "Please scan the item before you put it in the bag," it said. "It is a bag!" I told it. The people behind me averted their eyes. "Please scan the item BEFORE you put it in the bag!" demanded the voice. I was trying to scan my little container of Hagen Daz ice cream by then, but it would have none of it. It kept ordering me to scan my first item. The clerk who is supposed to be keeping an eye on the U-Check circus was impatiently listening to a man explain why he didn't do it that way when he was sure the machine wanted it the other way the last time he was in.

I waited as patiently as I could (which, people who know me will tell you, means I was practically jumping up and down.) When she turned to me, I said, "It's telling me to scan my item, but it's my re-usable bag from home..." She nodded, nearly as impatient as I. "That's because it's a scale," she explained. "Oh-kaay," I said, "so what do I do about my bag from home?" "There, I fixed it, she said."

The voice calmed down while I scanned my small items, but when I tried to put the bag in my cart and drag a 1-gallon bottle of water up to the scanner, it got downright cranky. "Put the item in the bag!" "Leave the item in the bag!" It tried several commands, the way you do with a puppy to see which it responds to. "The bag is full!" I told it. The people behind me were ready to jump in and take over just to get me out of their way. I frantically slid my ATM card down the slot. "Please wait for cashier," it said. The cashier was getting ready to use one of those handy plastic bags to suffocate the man who was still trying to tell his interminable story.

"Excuse me," I said, "it won't let me pay." I have never seen anyone roll their eyes so completely back in their sockets without an exorcist standing by. She stomped over to my terminal and jabbed the big red "Pay now" button that I had missed, in my frazzled state. Now I was the one averting my eyes."Oh. Sorry." I said.

As I started to roll my cart away, the automated voice said, "Thank you for shopping with us; please come again!" Muttering like the lunatic everyone already assumed I was, I snarled, "Nope, not me. Not EVER again!"

I think I need to update my shopping skills one step at a time. I'll work on remembeering to bring in parts of my re-usable bag collection each time I shop. But I'm going to stand in line and read trashy magazines while waiting for the real live cashier--who actually knows how to operate the check-out machine. U-Check can wait. Maybe forever.

Teeth is Good

When my body and I were all shiny and new, I had no idea that living a long life involved spending lots of time and money on maintenance. I thought I would always leap nimbly out of bed in the morning, my hair would always be thick and full, and my teeth would only require perfunctory semi-annual visits to the dentist. Oh, if only!

I'm going to the dentist today for lots of injections and drilling that will eventually result in a new crown. It's not my favorite thing, but true to my boomer status, I'll do almost anything that lets me stay in denial about the gradual decline of the organism. I'm grateful for my mouthful of crowns and fillings, and well aware that without them, I'd look like one of those little dolls with dried apple faces.

My current dentist is a tiny woman from Hong Kong. Her skilled hands fit in my small mouth and she works quickly and nearly painlessly. She told me schools were too competitive in Hong Kong, so she had to go to her second choice--Harvard. I love that.

She also made me aware that you can outlive your fillings. What? Did I miss that section in the Human Body Owner's Manual? She's right, though--mine are abandoning me at an alarming rate. She said fillings and crowns only have a life expectancy of 10-15 years. My jaw would have dropped if my mouth hadn't already been propped open.

I'm aghast. Fillings and crowns age faster than we do--and MediCare doesn't have dental coverage! No wonder my Godmother worked until she was over 70. (That, and her strong desire not to be stuck at home with her stone-deaf husband, who refuses to get a hearing aid.)

I'm definitely going to have to figure out a plan to take care of my choppers when retirement rolls around in a half a decade or so. Until then, I'll just stay focused on gratitude--for teeth, for dental insurance, and for a body that can still get itself to the dentist's office!

Lights Out for Buzzwinkle

Alas, Buzzwinkle--Anchorage's ancient, crab-apple- eating, Christmas-light-wearing moose--is no more. He was 13 years old, three years older than most wild moose ever get to be. His old body just couldn't move any more, so last week wildlife biologist Rick Sinnott ushered him humanely into the great moose meadow in the sky.

Residents and wildlife biologists apparently regarded Buzzwinkle as one of their own, and treated him as kindly as they would anyone's drunk old uncle stumbling about. In November, he got tangled in a rope swing in someone's yard, then went to Town Square Park and snagged his antlers on Christmas lights. With Christmas lights still dangling, the mellow moose ambled over to Bernie's Bungalow Lounge and ate a pile of fermented crab apples he found in the courtyard. Then he "assumed a disoriented pose as he began snorting steam and staring off into the distance, apparently drunk," according to the Anchorage Daily News. That's when people started calling him "Buzzwinkle", a title Sinnot affectionately called the "most embarrassing nickname ever given to a moose."

But Buzzwinkle might have had something there. Christmas in Anchorage is very dark and cold. What better way to pass the time than by decorating your head and snorting steam?

You say Goldfish, I say Garibaldi

As a Boomer, I find myself on a precipice over which I really don't want to fall. We boomers might consider ourselves kind of old sometimes, but we like to distinguish ourselves from the truly elderly by thinking we are still somehow "cool." The quickest way to be uncool is to constantly tell stories about the cool stuff you did when you were young. The uncoolness solidifies when you wind up telling the same stories over and over--to the same people!

One of the coolest things I did when I was young in California was to become a SCUBA diver at the age of 15 and continue diving until I left the state 25 years later. I love the underwater world, and I love the kelp forest of southern California and its denizens. I try not to expound on that too much to unsuspecting young friends, because it is in the past--and a hallmark of the truly elderly is that they don't see any new adventure in their futures, so they just talk about the past over and over (well, that's how it seems in the world of the Bemused Boomer.)

I do keep little mementoes and pictures about that remind me of past joy. I try not to point them out to people and expound at length (but its' a struggle!) When I'm feeling nostalgic, sometimes I search the internet for pictures of things I remember (because we all know how reliable the human memory is--especially boomer memory!) I hit pay dirt when I happened onto Divesitedirectory.co.uk. while searching for pictures of Garibaldi, the bright orange perch that play in the kelp and swim right up to divers. (They know they are safe; there has been a moratorium on spearing them since about the 1940s.) I loved playing with the Garibaldi.

I have this photo on the wall of my dark little cube at work. It was recently taken in waters off of Catalina Island, California, by a British diver named Carina Hall (Divesitedirectory put me in touch with her and she sold me a print.) At first glance, you probably see the same thing my co-workers see : a couple of goldfish. I see the glorious blue water of Southern California, the constantly moving golden kelp in a forest that is a nursery for all types critters, and two Garibaldi, who like to nip at divers' masks then dart away. I feel the cool water and hear the crackling shrimp. I feel the freedom of being bouyant in a 3-dimensional world that allowed me to swan dive to the bottom of a cliff to look into a cave and almost effortlessy kick my way back up, spying on thousands of little creatures in their rock homes as I did (it was fun for me; probably a little terrifying for them.)

I suppose that at some point the picture will become such a part of the background I won't notice it much. I've had it up for several months now, though, and I still get that same rush of joy I felt when I was underwater. They say visualizing and remembering great experiences activates the same areas of the brain as the actual experience. I hope so. I need something to hold me over until I go out and create some new adventures!

I Thought I was His One and Only

The first time I met him, he snuggled close and gazed at me adoringly with his dark eyes. "You're my One and Only," those eyes said. Of course, he's a tiny little black poodle, and this was the crucial meeting that determined if we would adopt him and his brother. What else were those eyes going to say (besides "Take me home, spoil me, feed me, make me the center of your universe!")

He curled up on my chest, directly over my heart, gave a big sigh, and relaxed. I was in love. It's been three years and he still makes a beeline for me when I come home, clambers up to my heart, and parks there. It feels very special.

Sometimes Young Geezer takes the dogs with him when he and my brother and sister-in-law go visiting up north for the day. "How does the little black dog do in the car?" I asked. "Oh, just fine," he answered, "He climbs up on my sister-in-law and sits on her chest, just like he does on you."

"Why, that little player!" I exclaimed, "I thought I was his One and Only!" Young Geezer and I had a good laugh. Little black dog knows how to get exactly what he needs--and makes no apology. What a great way to live!

Rainstick in my Ear

I feel like I have a rainstick in my left ear. Rainsticks are hollow sticks full of seeds that make pleasant, cascading raindrop sounds when turned from end to end. The pleasantness, I'm finding, is relative to one's having a choice about hearing it. I'm getting over a cold that seems to want its last hurrah to be in my ears. I have intermittent pain, I can't tell where noises are coming from, and my left ear keeps telling me someone's following me around with a rainstick . I don't mind the sound too much, but I do wish they'd quit following me around with that thing!


My doctor recommended using a "neti pot," a little device for washing out the sinuses. I'm bemused (as usual.) What could be helpful about pouring salt water up my nose with a tiny teapot? A lot, apparently. Gets stuff moving, keeps pressure from forming and prevents rivers of sediment from flowing down the throat. I reluctantly agreed to try this new torment because the alternative was the firehose method--forcing salt water up the nasal passages with a plastic spray bottle. "I've tried that before", I told her, "The water winds up somewhere behind my eyebrows and never comes out". She appeared to be listening--but was probably using all her energy to keep from rolling her eyes--and suggested the neti pot as a less-effective but gentler alternative.

It's too soon to tell if this is working. At least the pain isn't getting worse. I still hear the rainstick following me around, making my world very surreal. I hope the ears are about ready to heal, because tonight half of a filling fell out of my mouth, assuring my presence in the dentist chair first thing Monday morning. I can't face the prospect of dragging my broken teeth and malfunctioning ears to two different doctors on the first day of the week. Maybe I'll just stay in bed with the covers over my head. Yeah, that would work. At least until I got hungry and needed to chew, or heard a noise in the room that could be marauding racoons--or just that darn rainstick following me around.

"Remove Bay Leaf"

I made a pot of chicken soup today because it's ostensibly better for you than tequila--my next choice--when you have a stoopid cold. The mixture did some good before it was even finished; it turns out that standing over an enormous cauldron of steaming soup is great for the sinuses. (See? It's better already. Tequila definitely has to enter the bloodstream to do anything.)

I added ingredient after ingredient, hoping I would actually be able to taste something, but it didn't work. The hot liquid on the sore throat worked well, and soft, overcooked vegetables were easier to swallow than anything except chocolate (which, I found out, is wasted on a tongue that can't taste. Even with great mouth feel.)

When I got to the part where the recipe says, "remove bay leaf,"I stopped in befuddlement. Why do all the recipes say that, without giving us a clue how to do that without risking life and limb? Armed with only a slotted spoon, I stared at the volcanic crater on my stove. A gallon of roiling soup, about a hundred cut vegetables and chicken chunks, grains of rice scuttling about like brine shrimp, and I'm supposed to find a bay leaf? There are specialized gadgets for every other function in the kitchen, why isn't there one for this? I sure could have used some high-tech, bay-leaf-sniffing tongs right about then.

Alas, no such device lives in the Utensil Drawer of Mystery--even if I was foolish enough to risk losing a digit or two by rummaging through it with my bare hands. Like a Neanderthal with a stick chasing a mastadon, I hunted down the bay leaf with my slotted spoon. Not a very clever bay leaf, this one. I've chased bay leaves in the past that would have done the Loch Ness Sea Monster proud on the elusiveness front. This one gave in after only a few minutes of sifting and cursing and only one splash burn on my hand.

This can't be right. A food industry that plies us with tiny mesh bags for our lemon slices surely has something for this recurring danger to cooks all over the world. Am I missing something here? My second choice is starting to look better every minute. Even if you have to fish out a worm from the tequila bottle (eww!), you won't burn your hand doing it.

Early Worms not too Smart

It's the day before Easter, a day before we are all reminded of new life and new beginnings.

It's been a long, long gray winter, and we won't really be reliably done with the overcast until about, umm... July. However, we were graced with enough sunshine today to make us think spring might actually happen (we begin to doubt around the end of February.) The real ray of hope for me, though, was the mass of robins in the park this morning. They fled to the trees when tots bearing Easter baskets searched for Easter eggs hidden either by a large furry bunny or some well-meaning adult human, but not for long.

After the tiny horde left, the robins floated back down to the grass. They looked like an army of field workers, harvesting a crop. Businesslike and busy, eyeing me in between bobs of their heads, they harvested all the worms who were foolish enough to come out that early. Which brings to mind the saying, "The early bird gets the worm." It's too bad worms don't learn from experience and communicate. If they did, wouldn't they tell each other that being a slug-abed is the way to live to see another day?

But worms will be worms, and robins will be robins, thank God. Spring really is around the corner and all is well in my little world.

Good-bye, Codey

Life is full of absurdities, but sometimes it delivers profound, inexplicable sadness. I can make jokes about absurdities because that seems to be the best way to deal with them. I'm a little lacking in coping skills for the sadness quotient, though.

A little red-haired boy and his dad sat next to me in the airplane on my way back from Arizona a few weeks ago. The boy told me his name was Codey and he and his dad were on
their way back to Everett from Hawaii. We looked at a map and couldn't figure out how it made sense to have a connection in Phoenix to get from Hawaii to Seattle. He wore glasses that looked like little goggles and spoke with conviction about mountains and sea turtles, and played his hand-held electronic game. He turned his face toward me after removing his glasses and I was struck by what an angelic little face this delightful, imaginative character had.

People touch our lives every day, and we touch theirs. We may never know who we make an impression on. Codey impressed me; I was sure he would grow up to be an engineer or a designer or a leader of some sort.

But he didn't get the chance. I've been hearing on the news this week about a little boy who died two days after a tragic backyard accident in Everett; it was not until tonight I saw his picture on TV. I felt a horror of recognition and a deep sadness when it finally sank in. My reaction is, "But how can he be gone--I just saw him! And he has so much more to do in this life!"

He did do something profoundly amazing. He told his parents to donate his organs and his body parts so other people could have a chance. At the time of the news story I saw, five people had been saved by the power of his conviction and imagination. More may be touched that way. I don't think anyone who met him could have missed seeing that he was a pretty special kid. But even for a special person, that's quite an accomplishment.

Good-bye, Codey. You did good.

Hey, it works for Greyhounds--why not Grannies?

Newsweek is running a story about a new kind of nursing home in China for empty nesters whose grown kids live in different parts of the world. The facility has web cams in various locations so the residents' families can see them living their daily lives via computer.

My friend has a greyhound who stays at home--mostly on the couch--while she is at work. She installed a doggie cam when he started chewing on the couch and dragging cushions out into the garden. She keeps an image window open at the bottom of her computer screen to keep an eye on him. Her co-workers love it, though greyhounds really are couch potatoes (who knew?) and he doesn't do much in the way of entertainment for his unseen audience. When he starts to chew or drag, my friend calls the home phone and commands him, on the answering machine, to stop. She can see his head whip up, and he stops (well, usually.)

When it's time for me to go to the group retirement home, I'm not sure I want web cams giving away my secrets ("Oh, look--she's stealing chocolate from the kitchen again!") The only thing that would be worse is having someone holler at me on a speaker. It works great for Greyhounds, but Hell, what's the use of getting old and cantankerous if you can't do whatever you want? I hope this Chinese thing doesn't catch on and turn into Remote Granny Control over here!

Why Belly Dancers Dance

My friend Cinderelly is smart and beautiful--and shy. So, I was amazed when she took up belly dancing. What is it about belly dancing that gets people so hooked? I know Cinderelly loves Halloween; she decorates her house inside and out and makes herself and her grown daughters amazing costumes. I've never been to a belly dancing competition, so I went to see her group perform today.

Large silken hangings transformed a hotel conference room into a place of mystery. Sinuous music played on the PA system. Vendors displayed coin-encrusted bodices, chains to wrap around necks and waists, and diaphonous skirts and veils. The most enchanting thing to see, however, was the women and girls in their costumes. Even just walking through the room, they jingled, their hair floated around their heads, and their eyes sparkled. They loved the way they looked and felt, and it showed.

"Do you know why these women dance?" Mistress of Ceremonies asked, "They do it for love of the art form." Someone murmured to her, and she added, "...and for the costumes," then she said, "...and for the bling!"

I greeted Cinderelly after her performance. "Now I know why you do this," I said, "It's 'dress up day' for grown-ups!" She was still kind of shell-shocked from being on stage , but she said, "Yes, it's like Halloween every day!" Snap! The woman is definitely on to something. If we could all find something that makes us feel as joyous as when we were kids who dressed like princesses and as powerful as when we thought we could do anything, we could stay young forever. At least in our hearts.

Bravo, Princess Cinderelly. You're my hero!

U.S.Army Seeks and Destroys...Pigs?

It seems that Fort Benning, Georgia, has a pig problem. Ugly, destructive wild pigs--6,000 of them--are tearing up the woods and scavenging pretty much anywhere they want to (at 300 pounds with big curved tusks, they don't run into many folks who "just say no.") Obviously, the boorish boars gotta go.

The base checked with civilian contractors about getting rid of the pigs, but it cost too much. Then, someone had a flash of inspiration and decided to use one of Ft. Benning’s most plentiful resources—people with guns. Military folks, retired military folks, and civilians who work on base will soon be roaming about, special permits in hand, shooting wild boars at will.

On the one hand, you gotta feel for the pigs. They're probably descended from pigs left to breed in the New World 500 years ago to provide fresh meat for itinerant Spanish explorers. I wish there was another way to deal with this problem. On the other hand, there are a lot more people and a lot less space in the New World now. Wild boars crashing through your yard could give you nightmares, at the very least.

In times of yore, Europeans fought these these pigs' ancestors with bows and arrows and war axes. The boars often won, taking out even the strongest hunters . Today's Ft. Benning hunters have the advantage of modern weaponry, but still, it's gonna be ugly.

This story makes me grateful for my Northwestern suburb where nothing much happens. If I lived on Ft. Benning, I’d wear a bright orange vest day and night, even when taking out the trash (which wild pigs think is a big lunch bucket just for them.) Oh, and I'd take an armed guard every time I went outside, to deal with fleeing, angry wild pigs. Heck, maybe I'd just stay indoors!

Tempe Buttes Sunrise (Part 4 of 4—starts Feb. 14)

Yesterday on the north side of the buttes I found one other vestige of old Tempe—Double Butte Cemetery, resting place of Tempe Pioneers since 1903. It sits between the stadium and the dry river bed, in the foreground of the view from the Restaurant above. I suspect its presence may be the only reason the freeway doesn’t run right next to the base of the butte.

Today I am on the south side of the buttes, with the entrance to the stadium on my right. The sky is just beginning to light, and the moon hangs to my left. Hundreds of birds ecstatically welcome the day, singing and chattering and sailing between the low trees. I watch the buttes as the light becomes brighter and the moon turns to a piece of tattered lace behind me.

The sky is pink at the horizon with a blue band above it, that clear striation you only see in the desert. Both buttes have a matte finish; no light bounces off of them. The sun begins to climb from my right—it would have been behind Great Grandfather as he drove the road between the buttes. A train whistle cuts the air, then the train thunders past. Would he have heard that? I think the railroad came in the late 1800s, so he probably would have.

The smaller butte, on my right, has a shoulder that resists the light moving up its right side. Its left side, in shadow, looms large and dark. On my left, the larger butte begins to glow all at once. It slopes up gently to the left from the stadium, which sits squarely on the old road. A green carpet from recent rain softens the slope that supports wispy brush and cacti in its thin, light brown soil. I think the butte on the right would have kept the opening between the big rocks in shadow as long as it could in my great grandfather’s time, but eventually the soft first light would have captured it.

Within twenty minutes, sunrise is over. The sun is bright and small, creating a silver lining on scattered flat clouds. I pull down the visor of my hat. No more matte finish—the buttes, the stadium, the trees, and the long-tailed dark birds are all brightly lit.

Last night, I noticed several small caves on the north side of the buttes. Today I notice more of them near the top of the large butte on this side. My great grandfather had one “wild child,” a boy who “kept his own schedule,” as my great aunts said. I can imagine him hiding in those caves, creating havoc by throwing rocks and fighting with other boys. He later took up partying, and as an adult even ran tequila across the border during Prohibition. He would have loved the idea of a bar called “Tequila on the Rocks” up where he surely consumed his share of tequila on those rocks.

That boy was my grandfather.

Old Tempe—Only a Place of the Mind (Part 3 of 4—starts Feb. 14 )

I'm back in Tempe, with a Google map route to the road on the north side of the buttes. Clutching my map, with daylight on my side, I'm confident I'll find it this time.

Very little remains of old Tempe. ASU swallowed the barrio in the 1950s, and my great grandfather's home in the 1960s. The ancient canals, first built by native Americans 1000 years ago and re-dug to give life to the nascent agricultural town about 140 years ago, are covered by modern Tempe streets. The church where my family worshipped is now Newman Center on the ASU campus.

The Salt River was finally dammed into non-existence after a huge flood in 1980 took out a bridge and seriously hampered transportation between Phoenix and Tempe. All that remains is Rio Salado Lake at the end of Mill Street, on which my great grandfather's store once stood, but is now boutique stores and restaurants for the college crowd.

The buttes are perhaps the only things I can see that have the same location and shape as in Great Grandfather's time—ignoring, of course, that pesky stadium and hotel in the middle!

I make several 90-degree turns, follow a winding road over a freeway, and pass on-ramps for two freeways. No wonder I couldn't find this in the dark. A valet takes my car on the circle drive between the hotel, restaurants, and spa. There's not much room for a parking lot half way up two tall rocks.

I head for the "Tequila on the Rocks" bar and sit at a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Phoenix. I order a virgin pina colada and a quesadilla and watch the clouds change from pink to blue, then to gray. I see the butte become two-dimensional in the fading light and then turn to a looming dark shape, an absence of light. It probably would have been barely distinguishable from the night sky in Great-Grandfather's time. Today, it is very distinguishable—because the line of lights of the Phoenix airport runs straight into the middle of it.

I sigh happily. I have it—that indefinable sense of connection with old Tempe. I also have a comfy chair and good food. This is my kind of research!

Trying to Find Great Grandfather's Tempe (Part 2 of 4—starts Feb. 14)

I'm flying into Arizona. I'll spend one night in Tempe then I'm off to Yuma to see friends before returning to Tempe for another night.

In the late 1800s, my great grandfather and his contemporaries drove their horse carts between the twin Tempe Buttes to get to the best place to ford the Salt River. My great aunts remembered walking the road to get to a beach at the river's edge. I'm determined to see the route they took. This is made a little harder by the fact that Arizona State University (ASU) built Sun Devil Stadium on the buttes. The old timers are still mad about that.

I'm too eager to find the road to the buttes to wait until morning. I drive my rental car directly from the airport to Sun Devil Stadium, despite not having been blessed with a sense of direction and not knowing where I'm going. (Thank you, Arizona highway department, for big stadium directional signs!)

In the dark, I don’t find the road up the north (Phoenix) side of butte, but I find a back way from the south, where the stadium is situated. Natural formations don’t look natural in the eerie glow of street lights. It seems odd to drive a car to a point between two ancient buttes where, for centuries, people journeyed to the Salt River. Even odder is finding a sign that indicates the space I thought was just the size of a road is actually wide enough for a stadium, a Marriot Resort, and an upscale restaurant.

The stadium is dark and deserted, but the hotel parking lot is alive with well-dressed people laughing and talking. I’ve spent so much time imagining this spot in 1893 that it’s hard to adjust to the reality of 2008. The diners will enjoy an expensive meal and view–the same view my great-grandfather saw for free when he headed for the ford in his horse cart. Of course, there are thousands of lights and a freeway he never saw, but I’m not sure they make the view any better.

I want to see the sun rise and set on both sides of these twin buttes. I want to get a feel for the way the formations may have looked to my great grandfather. I will have to come back a few more times—once, just to find the right road—and twice again for sunset and sunrise. The buttes and this project are larger than I anticipated.

No One Told Me about My Great Grandfather (Part 1 of 4)

My Mexican-American great grandfather was a founding father of Tempe AZ, a fact no one bothered to mention to me until about 10 years ago. He was respected in both the Mexican and white communities in racially prejudiced times. He managed his dry goods store well enough to send his seven children, including the girls, to college in the early 1900s. He went to church every week, he admired and strove to emulate Abraham Lincoln, and a city park is named after him.

But beneath that staid exterior beat the heart of an adventurer. He worked underground as a gold miner to save money for his dreams. He married his best friend's 16-year-old half-sister out from under the nose of her disapproving mother. He dared to give credit to Mormons when they were shunned by other store owners.

I think someone should write his story. I suspect that since no one else even thought it was worth mentioning, that someone has to be me. I've been gathering family stories for 10 years—but everything else will take a lot of research.

Curiosity Saved the Tree

I inherited a Neantha Bella Palm tree (a 3-foot palm bush, really), from someone who was moving. "How often do I water it?" I asked. "Once a week," was the answer, "water it until water comes out the bottom."

I've never gotten water to come out the bottom. I water it, watch the dish under it for signs of moisture, and give up because I don't want to drown the poor thing. Since I'm leaving on a trip for a week and a half, however, I thought I should do it right today. I watered and waited, watered and waited--nothing happened. I emptied the quart-sized watering can into it. I tilted the pot a little and ran my finger around the bottom to see if I could feel any moisture. Not only did I not feel moisture, but I couldn't find a hole! Surprised and curious, I tilted the whole big pot over so I could see the bottom.

Bad idea. Did I mention I just poured a quart of water into the pot? A quart of water that was just waiting to run out the top onto the carpet?

As I was standing on a pile of rags soaking up the spill, I remembered the old saying about curiosity killing a cat. Curiosity caused a big mess on the my carpet, but it probably saved the tree. Other old sayings, about silver linings and ill winds, come to mind--but I will spare you. (You're welcome.)

Where Did I Leave My...?

Young Geezer gave me a book I really wanted for my birthday. It's titled, "Where Did I Leave My Glasses," and the cover photo shows the top half of a woman's head, with her glasses up on her head like a headband. It's about normal middle-aged memory loss. It seems that we Boomers don't know how much of our weird behavior is just age-appropriate, and when we should start to worry. Forgetting keys? Probably normal. Forgetting my phone number? Kind of worrisome!

I finally had time to read last night. I settled down on the couch, pulled the comforter over my lap, reached for my book--and found an empty spot on the end table. Wha-a-? I know I left it there! "Where did I leave my book?" I wondered out loud. I dragged myself to my feet, grumbling, to search the rest of the living room. Then the rest of the house. I couldn't find it anywhere. (This will come in handy at Easter, when I can hide Easter eggs from myself.)

I found it this morning, in my work bag, ready to be taken to the cafeteria at lunch time. What great planning--and how amazing that I don't remember doing that!

Gosh, I wonder if that's normal. Good thing I found the book. I can look it up and see.

The Futon of the Computer World

When I worked in high-tech, the IT guys were special envoys from the gods who had magical powers. They climbed into the ceilings and snaked cable through cube walls to make amazing things happen on our computers. When they upgraded our systems, there was short inconvenience followed by increased performance and productivity.

Not so the government. They send us emails telling us mandatory "upgrades" will stealthily be put on our computers in the dark of night, and the result is "Your computer will take longer to startup and shutdown", and "CD/DVDs or USB drives inserted in your computer will no longer automatically start." To add insult to injury, our homepages on Internet Explorer wil be locked into the internal homepage, which opens at the speed of a tree sloth.

Why would any IT Department make these kinds of changes? "These updates are required to comply with recent government requirements to meet or exceed security controls for all governmnet agencies. " Oh.

No magical envoys are showing up to make my life better--but we will share a clumsy behemoth with a whole bunch of other government divisions. We're the "futon" of the computer world. (Merge a perfectly good couch and a perfectly good bed into a futon and what do you get? A mutant that is no good for sitting or sleeping.) Same principle here: merge a good computer system in one division and a good one from another division, and what do you get? A sloth of a system that doesn't work well for anyone!

Regulations trump efficiency every time. But who are we going to complain to? We are the government--we are the ones who write the regulations!

Yep, we're from the government, and we're here to help.

Analog Brain in a Digital World

I love tiny travel alarm clocks. Or I did, when I knew how to operate them. I'm a 12-hour clock kind of a person who has been late to work more than once from wrongly setting a 24-hour clock. My solution lately is to keep a $5 analog, battery-operated clock at my bedside as my real waker-upper, because waking up is serious business that can only be trusted to a timepiece with only one purpose: to ring when I want it to.

Tonight, I was awakened from a sound sleep by loud beeping in the living room. I rolled over and groaned. I knew right away it was that evil digital travel alarm I bought because it was pretty and promised a timer function (it didn't have one.) It turns out it this demon device has about 25 features controlled by three buttons, none of which says "alarm off" or "set date," like a reasonable clock would do. I stuffed it under a couch cushion because I was tired last night and couldn't figure out how to correct its settings after accidentally squeezing the wrong button. Bad idea.

Tonight's solution wasn't much better, but it is effective. I fumbled with all three buttons until I found one that made the alarm stop screaming. Temporarily, it turns out--it began again five minutes later, after I was back upstairs. "All right, that's it!" I told the recalcitrant clock. I stomped to the coat closet and retrieved my ancient metal toolbox with the unreliable metal clasp. Congratulating myself for remembering to hold the bottom and avoid scattering tools all over the carpet, I successfully manuevered it to the table next to the clock. "We'll just see what you can do without your battery!" I snarled. I think the clock trembled just a little bit (or maybe that was just my astigmatism.) I found the small phillips screwdriver and twisted the tiny screw on the lilliputian battery door until I realized I wasn't getting anywhere. Still snarling, I pried it up with a regular screwdriver and removed its little heart. Add "clock murderer" to my resume, I guess.

Now I'm going back to bed to sleep until my trusty $5 clock wakes me up. The digital clock with its various parts and instruction sheet ("Please to press button 1 for make date...") slumbers quietly in a zip-lock bag. Maybe I can find an unsuspecting friend on whom to palm it off. I'll tell them what a great alarm it has--there's no way they'll sleep through it. I know. I tried.

King of the World

Sometimes I envy gamers, who chase each other around their virtual worlds, fighting battles and razing imaginary countrysides. We writers tend to be odd folks who type furiously at our keyboards for hours to produce a just few paragraphs. Not exactly team players, and definitely not your A-list party folks.

We can, however, get together and write. How does that work, you wonder (if you're not rolling your eyes or snoring at this point.) Tonight a few of my writer friends and I met to listen to each other's latest writing and practice our craft spontaneously. We pulled slips of paper with previously written phrases from a box and wrote about them for five or ten minutes. We timed the writings. The rules are that you don't edit as you go and you have to keep writing, even if you have nothing to say ("I have nothing to say" is popular in this circumstance). Spontaneous creativity can be amazing. Enthralling scenarious often emerge, sometimes even surprising their authors.

Tonight we viewed a one-minute clip of a hot air balloon flying and landing. Three different writers wrote three completely different 10-minute pieces based on what they saw. One was dramatic, one was humorous, and one was touching. Who knew you could have so much fun sitting quietly around a table with notebooks and pens? (I did mention that we writers are odd folk, didn't I?)

So, maybe I don't envy gamers so much tonight. They have to play in the confines of the worlds programmers created for them. Each one of us writers creates our own worlds, like mad scientists, then we sit in our little cubbyholes and mess with our people's lives. We create them, kill them, and manipulate every little detail of their lives. Gamers seem almost benign by comparison, don't they?

Have the Bushtits been There All Along?

People talking on cell phones while driving do incomprehensible things, like crashing into the backs of big DOT trucks covered in flashing lights or wandering off the side of the road. This we know. However, I'm beginning to suspect we may all be that distracted by our busy lifestyles--so much so that we walk and drive right past amazing little bits of nature every day without even noticing.

Earlier this week, I got out of my car (a miracle in and of itself) to mail a letter in one of those blue R2D2 corner mailboxes. Next to the mailbox was a squat, naked tree full of gnarls and stubby branches. I suspect in spring I will find it is a cherry tree, but right now it's just a loose collection of sticks. The tree was swarming with tiny twittering birds whose odd little beaks looked like the tips of nails. They paid no attention to the three similar trees nearby; they just climbed and hopped over and under the branches of this one.

I stood with my mouth open (demonstrating a complete lack of attention to the laws of probability, given that I was standing under a tree full of birds), bemused by the tiny, cute creatures. I've lived here nearly 20 years and have never seen this phenomenon before. The birds paid no attention to me, even though my head was very close to them. They were totally focused on whatever it was they were doing--which was something I couldn't figure out just by looking at them.

It only took a few minutes to find them on the internet. Bushtits (don't you love it?) stick together in groups of 40 or more and eat stuff they glean off leaves and twigs of trees. How have I never seen this before? Too much time driving and too little time walking? Too much time thinking about the next thing instead of being in the moment? Oh, I hope I pay more attention in the future. Those little birds delighted me with their sudden, enchanting appearance. How nice it would be to have more experiences like that!

The Kindest Part of the Newspaper

When I get too beaten down by the horrible bad news in the daily paper, I turn to the one place where I know I'll find kind, loving, sweet words--in the Obituaries. Yes, I know these people are dead, yes I know the people who wrote the obituaries are very sad, but somehow these ordinary people write some of the sweetest (and sometimes most amusing) stuff in the paper.

Today I learned that a 93-year-old Japanese American woman, who was known for crocheting and helping at church events, loved to play basketball when she was in high school. Did any of the church ladies know that? Wouldn't they have been surprised (and loved it) if they had? A lifelong pilot got his love of flying when he was nine and hopped in a bi-plane with a barnstorming pilot and his aunt (who must have been a real character). I love that story.

I often read that someone is survived by a "loving wife." If Young Geezer was to meet his demise when we were in the middle of one of our 2-day brouhahas, would I be able to write that? Or would I have to be honest and say, "...surived by his cranky wife who is still waiting to get the last word"?

Long lists of accomplishments are popular, but the words that always touch my heart are the ones that show how loved the person was. A family wrote about their homeless, alcohol-addicted son and brother and emphasized how hard he tried and how many times he succeeded. Wow. Wouldn't it be nice to think that no matter what a screw-up you think you are, someone loves you anyway and will say good things about you when you're gone? I'd like that. Hey, maybe I'll write the words myself and ask Young Geezer to be sure they make it into my obituary if I "precede him in death," as they say. (Or would he think I'm just trying to have the last word?)