Sunshine on a Spotted Mind

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

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

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

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

Rain in the Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday Nostalgia

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

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

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

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

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

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

Metamorphosizing back into a Californian

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a nice day, OK?

Palm Trees in Skirts

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

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

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

Roses in the Desert!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tax Man Cometh

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

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

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

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

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

The Birds are Migrating

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

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

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

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

Commando Gardeners

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

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

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

Mojo Criollo and the Cardenas Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umpqua

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

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

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

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


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

The Plight of the Roadtrip Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road Trip to New Life Begins

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

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

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

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

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

Police Shoot Fire Chief...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deja Doggie Vous

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the Forest Comes to You

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trying Oh So Hard to be Good

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

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

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

Eat Less, Move More

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Why AM I Moving to the Desert?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepless in Bothell

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I'm Leaving Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Art of Getting Out of Bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read that Used Parts List

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

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

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

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

Venturing Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the "D'oh!" Category

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

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

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

Where in the World is Bemused Boomer?

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

I present herewith a brief synopsis:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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


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

Happy Birthday, America. Have some fireworks!

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

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

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

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

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

Achmed Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Molto buono!

Come, Vacation on a Volcano!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lil' Stoner Dude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There Never Used to be Anything Cool About Coachella

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

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

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

Truly Desperate Housewives

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like having Yoda on My Chest

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

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

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

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

We Gotta "Cut to the Bone"

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

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

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

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

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

We Only Thought We Came a Long Way, Baby

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

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

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

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