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!