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?