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.