At Last, Someone Pays Attention

We've all experienced it: the waiting room with the little chairs pushed up against each other, leaving even less room between humans than the stingy airlines deem sufficient.

You see one empty seat. On it is a purse, a shopping bag, and a jacket. The women on either side of it have their faces buried in magazines. You focus your laser eyes on them. Which of them is keeping your aching feet from relief? Aha! There it is--one of them is working hard to keep her eyes averted, pretending not to see you. Yes! She's the one.

I once signed up for a college class on Cultural Anthropology because the classes I really needed were full. It turned out to be one of the more serendipitous events of my academic career. I learned that people from different cultures have different needs for personal space, with Americans considering 3-1/2 empty feet to be their God-given right. Britishers need up to 4-1/2 feet, and Mediterranean people require only 18-24 inches, according to my professor, who grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Chicago with "garlic on his glasses".

The Prof showed us a movie in which people arranged themselves on benches as precisely as if they measured the space between them. I was convinced the people in my class and I were the only ones who ever saw that movie. Certainly not the folks who plan human containment areas.

But when I walked into the medical imaging office of my local clinic last week, I felt a shock of recognition (see picture above--doncha love it?) Somebody was paying attention! Just look at all that people-friendly space between the seats!

What a relief not to have to pretend I don't see you standing there, needing the space occupied by my stuff!

There Be Dinosaurs Here

Being in my gated retirement community is like living at the edge of an ocean. No waves, of course, (we have that hot, dry desert thing going on) but there is a definite line of delineation between species of air and water.

Species 1: working folks, mostly Hispanic, trying to make ends meet and raise their children. Species 2: wealthy outsiders, mostly white, with a strong sense of entitlement. I live on their side of the line, by freak circumstances involving the current recession..

For the most part, each species stays within their preferred environment. Well, except for daylight hours, when an army of service industry workers invade the compound to clean, polish, trim, and prune the wealthy folks' homes and gardens. I admire the invading army. They work hard and they have jobs--a commodity I still lack.

At a committee meeting today, someone noticed I was wearing scrubs and asked if I'm a nurse. I told them no, not a nurse. I'm training to be a Front Office Medical Assistant (the person who checks you in, verifies your insurance, makes your next appointment, and bills your insurance company.) I told the inquirer that I'm studying Spanish on my own and will take a class at the local community college next semester because I think I need to speak Spanish to get a job in the Coachella Valley. And I would really like to have a part time job.

A woman wearing a golf hat and a pinched expression said, "That's just the way it is now; no jobs for real Americans. You have to speak Spanish."

An actual dinosaur rising up in front of me would have stunned me less. Dinosaurs once ruled the world but evolution changed that. Wealthy old white people may still control much of the country's wealth, but I think they're losing out to the inevitable, just as their metaphorical counterparts did. I didn't tell her I'm half Hispanic. I didn't ask where her grandparents came from. I probably said something lame like, "Oh."

I did, however, think I might be running toward the wrong side of the line at the end of the day.

How to Divide a Lake

The story about the couple who were jet skiing on Falcon Lake on the U.S./Mexico border sent me into paroxysms of bemusement for two reasons: 1) I didn't know we had a lake that sat over the border, 2) I wonder why we haven't divided this lake up and protected our side? The Navy blocked whole California harbors from submarines during WWII--what's one little lake? An outing by a young, exhuberant couple was cut short by violence, and I just can't get over the idea that it didn't have to happen.

Re #1: who thought an open body of water right over the border was a good idea? Didn't they hear that our government wants a fence, not an open lake? After the lake was created, did they send written invitations to the drug lords, or did they just depend on them to figure it out?

Re #2: I remember seing mounds of buoys and chain at the Seal Beach Navy yard when I was a kid. I asked my mom what they were and her answer was like a fantasy adventure tale. She said the Navy used chain link nets strung across harbors on buoys to keep out Japanese and German submarines during the war. I was creeped out at the thought of an enemy submarine rising from the water where I jumped waves and screamed for joy in the summer. I was really glad the war was over.

I remember thinking there was enough chain in that Navy yard to block most of the ocean (my idea of "the ocean" at that time was Belmont Shores in Long Beach.) Why can't we do the same to Falcon Lake? I suspect those chain nets are still in Seal Beach, somewhere under the mounds of grass-covered dirt. (What? You think they're corroded by now? I dunno--some of that WWII stuff was really well-built. After all, it was American made!)

I shake my head like a dog with ear mites and hope this idea of a borderless, open lake between the U.S. and Mexico will make sense to me. But it just doesn't. We should probably ask "The Greatest Generation" how they think we should handle it. After all, they held off half the world--they just might know what to do about violent marauding gangs who use American citizens for target practice.

"Hey, mom, remember those chain nets...?"

The Universe Speaks

My purse was stolen tonight. It was ancient but beloved, dilapidated but functional, and I'd been debating whether to try to find a new one or ask the shoe repair guy to replace the zipper and stitch the hole in the front section one more time. But now the Universe has spoken, and I must find a new purse.

I am very particular about the organization of the object I carry everywhere and use as a file cabinet, lunch box, and communication center. I hate rummaging in an undivided space, and am happiest when there is a compartment for everything. Not easy to find in this era of glitzy "hobo bags" that are as large as airplane carry-on bags. For now, I'll make do with my travel purse, my back-up credit card, and a printed appointment confirmation for my Department of Motor Vehicles appointment (in case I make the unexpected acquaintance of the local constabulary under unfortunate circumstances.)

Worse than contemplating carrying a less-than-perfect purse is the feeling of being incommunicado. My iPhone and Daytimer with everyone's phone numbers, addresses, and some gmails, are gone. If someone isn't in my gmail contact list or on my home phone, I may have lost them for all eternity. Sad. I like my contact people (almost as much as I like my purse.)

I spent the last three hours talking to my bank, credit card company, the police, getting my ancient flip phone charged up, and leaving a message with the locksmith to get my home locks changed. (Yes, I had duplicates of house and car keys in my purse. I've had occasion to feel smugly intelligent about that when I misplaced said keys. I'm not feeling so smart about it now.) Maybe tomorrow I'll have enough energy to set in motion the arduous process of replacing insurance, Costco, and AAA cards--and a bunch of others I can't even think about now.

Have you ever noticed that the number to call for a lost credit or debit card is on the back of the card, not on the bill? I hope you don't have to find out the way I did. One more telephone tree, and I was going to have to have to have a temper tantrum.

But life goes on and I must plod forward, if ever so slowly. Good-bye, battered old leather purse! We had some good times and some truly weird ones. I suspect you'll wind up in a dumpster somewhere with everything still inside you except the cash. So sorry. You deserved better!

I Thought it was Teal...

When you live in a planned retirement community, all the houses and yards are almost fanatically groomed. Not because people are in accord about how homes should look, but because they are all in the clutches of the evil HOA (Homeowners' Association.) If you live or have lived in one of these places, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, you might want to talk to a LOT of people before you consider it.

The rules are strict here. I like the uniformly maintained landscaping and not having cars parked on the street at night. I like that everyone else has to comply, of course, but I'm so darn perfect I can't understand why they want me to follow some silly rules!

For instance, yesterday it was HOT outside and I came home exhausted. There was an envelope in my mailbox from the HOA telling me I have to paint my shutters to maintain uniformity in the complex, and a separate letter telling me I have to replace the bulbs in the placket around my address. And I must do this things in 15 days, OR ELSE! (Or else what, I don't know--but I suspect it has something to do with citations, fines and possible property liens.)

I want very much to be a good citizen (a good citizen with no citations, fines or possible property liens), so I visited the HOA office and asked what manufacturer made the lovely teal paint for my shutters. One of the office Administrators looked up my model and shutter color (green), and told me I need Frazee's Strong Hunter color. "That can't be right, I said. My shutters are a lovely teal color."

The ladies in the Homeowner's Association office looked at me with pity. "Your front door and your shutters are supposed to be Frazee Strong Hunter." (What? That dark color associated with British hunts and sports cars?)

"Yessss," I said, the door IS hunter green, but the shutters are...my voice trailed off as I realized the front door is in the shade but the shutters are in the sun. I suddenly got a mental image of what color Strong Hunter wooden shutters would be after five years of baking in the desert. They would probably be...teal. I got the mental picture at the same time that the HOA ladies started laughing.

"Sorry, honey, your lovely teal shutters probably started out as Strong Hunter, and you're going to have to paint them that color again," said the manager.

I wonder what would happen if I pretended I hadn't asked. If I just go to a paint store and get some teal paint. (Citations, fines and possible property liens, probably.) Ah, well. All I have to do is stick it out for another five years and I'll have lovely teal colored shutters again.

Seattle, Doctors, and Job Training

We were refugees from the brutal heat of the desert, so my little dog and I required very little in the way of entertainment from the friends who hosted us on our four-week odyssey in Seattle. One couple, who were immersed in one of those incredibly stressful life situations that pop up like scary monsters in horror movies, apologized for not being more available during our visit. My mouth probably dropped open in amazement. "Hey, " I said, "It's 115 degrees at my house. I live alone. I'm stuck in the house from 7am to 8pm if I don't want to wind up a pile of bleached bones along the highway. This is heaven!" They appeared unconvinced. Maybe I should try to get them to my desert in summer. They would have no doubt after a day or two of instant sweat and near heat exhaustion each time they ventured outside during the day.

There is no place in the world more beautiful than the Puget Sound region when the sun is shining. I'm glad I had a month there, because even in July and August, sunshine is not guaranteed. A one-week vacation could wind up being a gray experience. I got my share of gray days and rain--enough to remind me why I had Seasonal Affective Disorder when I lived there. I loved being with my friends and I loved the gorgeous greenery and lakes all around. But I was glad to get back to my desert sun, even in the heat. I am a fortunate person; loving two different places and being able to spend time in each of them.

While there, I visited a naturopathic doctor who has helped a friend of mine with a difficult and serious illness. I try not to get my hopes up when someone tells me they can help me with my Crohn's Disease; I've had my hopes dashed so many times. My body is not partial to the introduction of chemicals--synthetic or natural--and all drugs and herbs are essentially chemicals. The one the naturopath recommended is well tolerated and is given in small doses. What could go wrong? (I should have known better than to wonder that.) I've been taking the medication for a month now. It's hard to tell if it's working, but I have been very hopeful. Then, a couple of nights ago, I noticed my skin felt like little tiny bugs were crawling on it about an hour after I took the medication. I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I hoped not to see: little hives breaking out on my face. This is not a new pattern for me. So I shouldn't have been surprised by it. But hope induces selective amnesia, and I'd forgotten about it. Go figure.

The only things mainstream doctors have to offer me to stop the destructive intestinal inflammation are immunosuppressants, which will--as the name suggests--suppress my immune system. "You'd better get a flu shot and a pneumonia shot before you start these drugs," said the doctor conversationally, as if he wasn't delivering truly alarming news.

I just started a training program to learn to work in the front office of a medical practice. I cringe when I think of working face-to-face with germ-laden persons who may not have a clue about infection control (Don't sneeze at the receptionist! Don't cough all over the counter!) Making myself vulnerable with some crazy drug and then going into that situation just seems wrong, somehow. But the medical field is more appealing to me than the only two other industries that are hiring in the desert: retail and hospitality. (My friends know why those aren't a good fit for me. Let's just say I'm...um...kind of a strong personality.)

So there you have it. I'm suffering from PTIO--Post Traumatic Information Overload (OK, so I just made that up. It fits, though.) My life is now officially a suspense story. Will the body hold out long enough to finish training and perhaps even get a part-time job? How long will an immunosuppressant work to keep down the inflammation? (Internet discussion boards suggest five years. At my age, five years whooshes by at the speed of light. I must refrain from thinking, "What then?")

I still believe good things can happen at any time. I'm not as omniscient as I once thought I was, and the Universe constantly surprises. I'll figure out what to do, move forward, and find out later if it was the right decision. It's better than tossing and turning and writing whiny blog entries at three in the morning!

Boris and Natasha

Am I the only one who noticed the weirdness in this picture of the world's most laughable Russian "spies?" Maybe everyone else is too busy looking at the sexy redheaded spy. Or wondering if it's really possible an entire country spent so much money on a few young people who couldn't bring them any information that wasn't available on the internet.

I have a daughter who worked in the movie industry and she taught me to look for the tricks in pictures. Product placement, for instance. Did you notice that every condiment is American circa 1950s and every label is turned toward the camera? Did you notice there is no salad with baby lettuces and oddly colored leaves? (When was the last time you visited a couple in this age group who didn't have one of those salads? And where's the imported beer?)

Manic smiles and 1960s style clothes may reassure the Comrades back home that they are fooling Stoopit American People into believing they are All-Americans, but they wouldn't have made it past my daughter for a minute. We probably need more movie people in the CIA.

Better yet, maybe we need cartoon people. Surely these real life Boris and Natashas could have been picked up by a good cartoon editor. (Unless...possibly all this ineptitude is an act and something more sinister was going on? Out of respect for the Russians, that's what I'd almost rather believe.)

Cheese, or the Lack Thereof

OK, I've been told I'd better blog or you'll all think I'm dead. I'm not dead, but I'm definitely living in an alternative universe. One in which I am not allowed to eat anything dairy, wheat, spicy, salty, or sugary. No eggs. No fiber. Also no raw vegetables, no fruits or vegetables with skins and/or seeds. "What's left?" you ask. My question, exactly.

Well, I can have cantaloupe, bananas, avocados, soft-cooked vegetables, and white rice. I can have chicken breast, turkey breast, and fish--if grilled. A little salad, if it's bibb or Boston lettuce. No coffee, tea (except herbal,) or cocoa. I could create a brave new world in my kitchen and design some sort of diet without all those things. (OK, I'm lying. I tried. I can't.)

SO...I'm searching for alternatives. I've found a vegan mayonaise that I haven't tasted yet. Nix on the white rice bread (dry and crumbly) after I almost choked on a piece of it the other day. It had almond butter (the consistency of epoxy) on it. Crumbs held together with glue. Yum.

I miss cheese the most. I read an article in which Nia Vardolous (of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding") says she lost weight when she "broke up with cheese." If hers was a breakup, well--mine's a divorce. With all the grief and lamentation that entails. Don't get me wrong; I'm grateful to the companies who have spent so much time and money developing alternatives to cheese that supposedly taste like cheese and "melt great!" But I gotta tell ya, the stuff that claims to be soy cheddar just leaves me scratching my head. On what planet does cheddar cheese taste like that? Wherever it is, Scotty please don't beam me up.

So far I've added almond milk, soy creamer, a rice crispy cereal with a touch of cocoa, almond butter, and the aforementioned cheese alternatives (for which I am grateful, really I am) to my arsenal of foods designed to keep me from throwing myself in a vat of enchiladas. I can also have vegetables that steam in the bag. Some of them can actually be steamed to the prerequisite softness in said bag. But sometimes cooking them longer just makes the bag blow up. I'm about ready to bring the hose in for use on the microwave.

So you see? All is well here. I'm still alive, still trying to whack the Whack-a-Mole, and still bemused. C'mon down. I'll make you a quesadilla with some yummy soy cheese. (You're drooling, aren't you? I thought so.)

The Whack-a-Mole Within

I spent the last two hours crying and reading What to Eat with IBD, a book by by Tracie Dalessandro, MS RD CDN (and IBD sufferer herself). IBD stands for "Inflammatory Bowel Disease," I think. Whatever, it includes Crohn's Disease, which was supposed to have much less control over my life after my surgery last August. I spent years of painful trial and error finding out which foods it was OK to eat and which exacerbated the pain and other symptoms of this puzzling auto-immune disease. Now there is this great book that distills everything I learned, and then some. I've tried for the last nine months to forget what I knew, but I was unsuccessful, and it's all rushing back.

"You have no restrictions on your diet now!" crowed the Seattle surgeon on my follow-up office visit after the surgery. He was SO wrong! Inflammation in the digestive tract can show up anywhere at any time when you have IBD. Even removing badly affected areas doesn't mean the inflammation won't just whimsically pop up in that very spot. It's Whack-a-mole, only I don't have a mallet.

Since August I've been joyfully eating things you probably take for granted but that I had not experienced in years: grapes, peas, big salads, sesame seeds, berries, whole grain foods--in short, most of the foods that have been found to be healthy for most of you. I thought they were now healthy for me as well. It's been so nice not to feel like a freak waiting for the Mother Ship to come take me home. I started having pain and fever about six weeks ago. My new desert gastroenterologist informed me on Friday that inflammation has shown up in places it never was before, that I need to stay on medication for the rest of my life--which may be shortened if I don't take meds--despite the fact that I have severe reactions to almost every medication the ingenious drug companies have devised to save your lives.(Would it be bad form to call that Northwest surgeon and tell him just how wrong he was? Yes, I know it would. I just want to yell at someone.)

I've been feeling sorry for myself for three days now. I think that's enough. It's time to go back outside at night and look for the Mother Ship. At least the nights are warm here in the desert, so keeping a lookout isn't such a chilly business. And now I'll slip back into restrictive eating patterns that will lessen my symptoms. Yep, I'm taking responsibility for myself instead of railing at gods and doctors (who sometimes think they are gods.) Maybe it's because I'm old and too tired to make a big fuss. Maybe it's because feeling better is more important to me than insisting I don't have to follow ever-changing rules. Or it could be that I finally recognize that I'm blessed in all the ways that count, among them good health care, caring people in my life, and so much food to chose from that I can eat healthily, no matter what my dietary restrictions.

Actually, this is progress. Only three days of whining and self pity! When I first found out I had Crohn's Disease about 25 years ago, I went into denial and didn't give up foods that hurt me (tomato-based foods, nuts, pepper, spicy foods, etc.) for three years. I was cocky for 20 years thinking I was getting away with something because I didn't seem to have many symptoms without medication and I didn't have to have surgery. But chronic inflammation is insidious and comes after you with quiet persistence until one day it leaps up with a "Bwah hah haha!" and drags you into the hospital.

I thought my reward for going through surgery was that I would get to eat berries again. I guess not. ("No, no, my Sweet--you get to do all that hospital stuff and you still don't get berries and fried chicken! Bwah hah haha!") Actually, the reward was that the doctor was able to remove enough damage to keep the Whack-a-Mole creature from shutting down my digestive tract completely. I could have had the wailing ambulance experience and emergency surgery--which I may or may not have survived. (OK, maybe I should be calling that Northwest surgeon and thanking him.)

Well-intentioned people have been sending me articles and news blurbs and suggesting alternative medicines since I was first diagnosed. I actually tried some things before I realized that natural or synthetic, most of the treatments involved ingesting something--and they all made me sicker. I thought I'd learned not to get my hopes up. But did get them up this time around. Having them dashed hurts. And yet...and yet...these nine months have been glorious. I had a reprieve. I savored the giant, juicy strawberries of California spring. I reveled in blueberry buckwheat waffles. I felt happy and hopeful that my life would be so very different. It was a good run.

Now it's likely that I'll have to eat the same few well-cooked foods over and over to minimize pain and inflammation. If the past is any indication, I'll spend about a third of my time too fatigued to do anything but move from the bed to the couch and the computer. That's just the way it is with auto-immune diseases.

It's not such a bad life, all things considered. Maybe I'll just lie back and read (or write) a good book while doctors search for a mallet to knock out the Whack-a-Mole.

Of Energy Shots and Smog Certs

In an amazing show of efficiency, the AAA -recommended gas station that Smog Certified my car completed the task within their 45-minute time estimate. Lucky for me, because they had no waiting room and it was 95 degrees outside. The guys from the garage graciously placed a folding chair in front of the boxes of beer inside the air-conditioned Mini Mart for my dog and me. They must not like unconscious clients littering the gas pump area.

"What?" I said, "I can have my dog in a food mart?"

"Yes," reassured the clerk, "because we don't have any open food here" (Or anything that can really be classified as food, I thought. But being old and finally getting wise, I said nothing.)

Little Oliver was content with his head on my shoulder and I was left to admire a wall. As I sat there, bemused as usual, I realized what an amazing wall it was. On five 5-foot shelves and three rows of hooks, this wall held pretty much everything people need to live their lives--or survive a disaster. It even had four rows of baseball caps up by the ceiling in case said disaster was a big wind that knocked everyone's USC and UCLA caps clear into Arizona. Instead of getting an earthquake kit, I may just take up residence in the Mini Mart.

The bottom shelf held cans of something called "Energy Shots" (clarify this for me, anyone who has been brave enough to ingest one of these), instant lunches and packaged meals that require no refrigeration. The shelf must have sagged dangerously at some point, because someone cut a broom handle off and nailed it to the center of both lower shelves with its tip resting on the floor. The second shelf had all the things you need but don't think about until you don't have them: toilet paper, bar soap, feminine hygiene products, eye glass repair kits, baby wipes, dish soap, and hand lotion. The largesse of comfort items made the mom in me practically giddy.

Lighter fluid (a must in disaster situations--especially if you have a lighter), pocket tissues, shampoo, mousse, shaving cream, teeth whitener, and toothpaste filled the third shelf. The fourth and fifth shelves were a miniature pharmacy, with cute little packages of everything from band-aids and eye drops to aspirin and every non-aspirin pain reliever known to man. My admiration for the person who stocked these shelves grew by the minute.

The three rows of hooks above the shelves were masterpieces of architecture and ingenuity. Hanging from a variety of industrial and homemade fasteners were knit gloves, playing cards, extra brushes for electric toothbrush thingies (well, what do you call them, anyway?), batteries, lint removers, fun cameras, razors, condoms, hand sanitizer, and something called "Stain Gone."

All this, and beer too. My, my. I was having a great time imagining people gathered round my little wall after a disaster, eating packaged meals, shaving, and listening to battery-operated radios while drinking beer and waiting for FEMA. But then the guys in the garage called my name. My car was ready and it was time to relinquish the folding chair and the great view of the wall.

With many thanks for the great hospitality, I paid my bill and drove out of there in search of a place with real food that isn't preserved in fat and salt for posterity--and future archeologists. The wall is great, but it didn't entice me to buy and consume anything on its shelves. I think it might take a good strong disaster to make that stuff look more attractive to the average female shopper.

BTW, my car passed the smog certification. Just one more step in my metamorphosis back into a Californian!

Energy Shot, anyone?

Gorgeous Trumps Cranky

When the winds started about two weeks ago, I was enchanted each morning to find tiny yellow Palo Verde flowers and magenta bougainvillea blossoms floating in my waterfall pool. It was as if a hostess with a flair for beauty had decorated for a garden party. All it needed was a few floating votive candles. The next day, however, when the soggy flowers faded and sank, creating sort of a dirty looking flower soup, I was less enchanted.

Just now, with the thermometer in the shade of the covered patio reading 90 degrees, I was downright cranky as I scooped the soupy mess. The only thing that can make me crankier is having to replace the $85 pump--again--if the flowers clog it up. It didn't help that the plastic scooper--which resembles a flat butterfly net with no deep pocket--started bending and threatening to fall apart, and the 32-gallon can I got for the yard was too big for my 30-gallon bags. I clamped the bag onto the side of the can with one hand as it grew progressively heavier with the wet mess. I leaned forward to push the scooper across the top of the water with the other hand while being dive-bombed by various buzzing (and perhaps stinging) bugs. I was getting a new and very unappealing perspective on home ownership. Damn, I thought--not for the first time--I'm going to get this waterfall shut off. I thought about calling the City of Indio to trim their stoopit tree that leans over my back wall directly over the little pool.

Then I looked up. Graceful slender green branches with glowing yellow flowers backlit by a brilliant blue sky greeted my gaze. They swayed gently in a small breeze. A smear of white cloud that looked like a giant paint brush stroke added artistic contrast. Damn, I thought, this is glorious. OK, all is forgiven. Gorgeous trumps cranky every time.

I'll get new bigger trash can liners. I'll get a new scooper. And I'll fight the City of Indio to the death if they try to lay a hand on "my" backyard Palo Verde Tree!

Happy Birthday, Aunt Laura!

I'm not sure if this Palo Verde tree is in full bloom yet. I decided to photograph it now, just in case it is. If Great Aunt Laura was still alive, she could tell me. After all, Palo Verde are her trees, which bloomed specifically for her birthday (April 15.) Or so she said.

They grow with hardly any water, and once a year they put on a pretty great show. The desert is not all brownish and cactusy. At this time of year, it's rather pretty.



And lest the lowly oleander feel left out, here is a picture of a small one gracing the front of my Aunt and Uncle's house. In the 50s, southern Californians went crazy with oleanders, planting them in their yards and along highway medians. Then they found out it only takes 5 leaves to kill a cow. A lot of people took Oleanders out of their yards. They seem to be back, though--I guess people aren't trying to keep cows in their yards any more.


Oleander is not as breathtaking as the spring rhododendrons in Seattle, but the blossoms are a lovely and welcome diversion from spikey green things.

Happy birthday, Aunt Laura. Inexplicably, the desert continues to bloom without you.

Tired Recipes

I don't like to cook much. But for some reason, I enjoy looking at recipes in magazines and newspapers. Sometimes I pity the writers for being expected to come up with new and interesting things without overtaxing their readership. Sometimes I actually get excited and think: "I could do that!" (I won't, of course, but I could.) I have a book specially made for stashing clipped recipes, given to me by my niece-in-law almost twenty years ago. She cooks. Apparently she had high hopes for me. I'm not sure exactly when she stopped suggesting recipes I might like, but it seems like a long, long time ago.

Reading my local paper here in the Valley of the Retirees, I'm struck by undeniable proof that I'm not in Seattle any more (as if the non-stop sunshine wasn't enough). Seattle has great recipes to read. Everyone is into fresh and healthy, and the Asian influence makes for fabulous flavors (I assume. Not that I've ever actually made any of the recipes. My foodie friends do, though, and I do my job--eating and appreciating.) My current newspaper presents endless small variations of 1950s whitebread comfort food that put me back to sleep at my breakfast table. A few of the Food & Drink section's headlines for your awe and amazement:

- "Sour cream enhances meatloaf "
- "Skillet Chicken Fried rice" (don't even try to imagine it, my foodie Asian friends.)
- "Delicate dumplings not just for stews"
- "Stuff and grill mushrooms for a savory treat"
- "Creamy banana pudding a southern delight"
- "Drink of the week--Orange Creamsicle "(orange juice! ice cream! And…well, that's all.)

Under those titillating articles are:
- An ad for the grand opening of the Chicken Pie Factory
- Five ads for Italian restaurants
- An article written in breathless tones about Denny's new value menu
- A review of KFC's new Double Down abomination (bacon, cheese, and special sauce between two breaded and fried chicken breasts. They claim it has only 540 calories. I think someone forgot their glasses when they added up the calorie count.)
- An ad for the restaurant--which shall remain nameless--that produced the apparently day-old cheeseburger, above.

Oh, there are plenty of restaurants that serve tiny $30 gourmet entrees that look like stacks of checkers with bits of fancy sliced vegetables balancing on their crowns. If that wasn't more than half my food budget for the week, I might even try them once in a while. But alas, reality encroaches.

I'm trying to eat healthy and lose weight, so I'm actually making most of my own food in my own kitchen. It's kind of boring, but it's working. Because of my low boredom threshold, I have to make things that require few ingredients and not much cooking. To that end, I just bought a barbeque. Now, as soon as I get a propane tank, I'll just slap hunks of things on a grill like some of my friends do. (OK, and the occasional foil bag of veggies.) (Arrrr, arrrr, arrrr!)

I might still daydream about the recipes and photographs of beautifully presented food in magazines, though. A girl's gotta have aspirations!

My Welcome Home Earthquake Today

In 1987 there was an earthquake in L.A. where I was living that scared the beejeebers out of me. I'd been experiencing L.A. earthquakes since I was a kid--usually the rolling, rocking kind. But that one threw us up and down like an energetic housekeeper shaking a rug. I moved to Seattle shortly thereafter, not knowing for a couple of years that Seattle has earthquakes--and is situated between two big volcanoes (Rainier and Baker). As my friend Mel says, "Everyplace has something."

I'm back in California now, living on top of a mess of fault lines--one of them the San Andreas--that looks on the map like the creation of a mad spider. Just a few minutes ago, I felt my first "welcome home" quake. The windows shuddered, the blinds swayed back and forth, and the house felt like it was gliding back and forth on wooden rollers. I carried Oliver to the alcove outside my bedroom, which I had previously scoped out as the best place in the house for earthquake survival. We glided and rolled for about 45 seconds. Then we went back into the office with its tall, unsecured bookcases. Perhaps foolish, because--as we all learned from the news coverage on Haiti and Chile--it might have been just a foreshock.

The USGS Website says it was a 6.9 earthquake in the Baja California delta. I learned at a lecture last week that the fault we have here in the valley is a "separation fault." It is separating Baja from the main section of California bit by bit. If your eye follows the fault upward on the map, it goes through the Salton Sea right to the Coachella Valley. Nice. I hope that "bit by bit" is reeellly s-l-o-w. I've always wanted waterfront property, but not bottom-of-the-sea property!

Ah well. We all live with uncertainty, but most of us choose to ignore it. Southern Californias have a harder time doing that.

Welcome home, Bemused Boomer!

Desert in Bloom

It's spring in the desert. On a good year (read: "when rain falls in winter"), flowers bloom in the parched sand and trees put on their party dresses for a few weeks. Apparently, this was a very good year--more than five whole inches of rain! (above normal, I'm told.) To anyone who lives in an area that is not desert, these purple and yellow flowers might look like scraggly weeds. But what they really are is a miracle. Imagine an area of practically no rain, only sand to grow in, and temperatures in the summer that can reach 120. Then try to imagine something--anything--growing there without irrigation. OK, you don't have to imagine; here's a picture.

Imagine several acres of these as seen from the road--a magical purple mist softening the harsh desertscape. Can you see it? My iPhone camera was not up to the task; I hope your imagination has a bigger lense!

I went in search of wildflowers yesterday because the naturalist who writes for the Desert Sun newspaper said this would be the weekend. In true American Idol/Dancing with the Stars tradition, he gave this year's showing a rating. "It's about a B+," he said. That was good enough for me. I do have to admit that was mystified as I drove about five miles down one country road looking for what he called "a good showing of desert dandelions." I drove and drove, wondering when I would see them. Then it dawned on me that the mounds of dusty green leaves with fat yellow flowers that lined the road were them. I'm not fully acclimated to the desert yet. My Seattle filter is still set to ignore all dusty green mounds with yellow flowers because weeds of that description are ubiquitous in the Pacific Northwest and not worthy of notice. I imagine that will be corrected after my first full summer here, when I expect my eyes will be hungry for the sight of living flowers.

This mesquite tree bloomed overnight, I swear it did. Oliver and I discovered it on our morning stroller walk around the green. The word "mesquite" conjures up visions of cowboys on the range with a mesquite fire, cookin' and strummin' guitars. I've never before come-face-to-branch with an actual living, blooming mesquite tree. Most impressive. This one is on our green, so it gets irrigation, but its cousins out on wild desert do not. They still manage to grow and bloom.

I'm waiting for the Palo Verde tree in my front yard to burst into bloom. A few small yellow blossoms are just beginning to open. My great Aunt Laura used to say the Palo Verde trees bloomed especially for her birthday, which fell on April 15. Some of the Palo Verde trees my the neighborhood were killed by bungling handymen pretending to be gardeners. The trees must be thinned so the wind will blow through their branches without uprooting them. I nurtured mine carefully and solicited the pruning talents of a landscaper who did a beautiful job on a tree in my neighbor's yard. I think I'm about to be rewarded by a full complement of gorgeous yellow flowers. And maybe some bumble bees.

I love bumble bees. I saw some big black ones busily exploring the few early blossoms of the Palo Verde trees in front of Trader Joe's today. Maybe they'll come visit my tree in a couple of weeks.

Try to imagine a nondescript little tree with green bark, its branches covered with glorious yellow blossoms. What? You're tired of this game? OK, I'll get you a picture. On Aunt Laura's birthday.

So Long, Davey Crockett

Fess Parker died yesterday. He was a successful real estate developer and winery owner. But to millions of us Baby Boomers who were at our most impressionable age in the 1950s, he will always be the coonskin-cap-wearing Davey Crockett.

The article in the paper this morning mentioned "The Ballad of Davey Crockett," then reminded us of the words: "...born on a mountain top in Tennessee..." in parentheses. That's all it took. The tune that lay dormant in my brain for about a thousand years leapt up and started playing over and over again. (It just got you, too, didn't it? You're welcome.) I just hope it doesn't have as long a run, this time.

Fess Parker portrayed the Disney version of Davey Crockett as tall and straight, kindly and righteous. We had a lot of those dads in our 1950s TV shows. We all wanted to have a dad like that, and about one in 25 kids actually did. (According to a very accurate study done by a really observant 10-year-old.)

TV gave us Pa Walton and Little House on the Prairie in the 1970s, but it's been kind of downhill since then. Instead of Disney fantasy dads, we have gritty reality shows, Ozzie Osborne fumbling around his house, and evening soaps about dysfunctional cops and lawyers barely able to cope with their personal lives. The closest thing to a kindly, smart dad we have now is Ed O' Neill (formerly of Married With Children) as patriarch of a diverse extended family in Modern Family. He portrays a good guy doing his best despite his human foibles. No coonskin cap and country homilies there.

It's a good thing. Women are no longer portrayed as two-dimensional, pie-baking nurturers, and men don't have to play infallible, gentle fixers-of-all problems. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.

That is not to say we can't indulge in a little nostalgia for our fantasy Disney parents. It was kind of nice to believe life's problems could be solved with some country wisdom and a tramp in the woods. (No, not that kind of tramp. The one where you tramp through the forest with big boots, feeling wild and free.)

So long, Fess Parker. Thanks for the great memories--and all the coonskin caps!

Found Bees

I'm going to write to the news outlets in Washington State that have been reporting for the last year about the missing-and-feared-dead bees in western agricultural areas. I found them! They live under a rectangular green utility cover in my front yard.

My next door neighbor knocked on my door to let me know that other neighbors were commenting and had reported our bees to the Home Owner's Association. She thinks we may have to split the cost of an exterminator, because they're smack in the middle of our property line.

Exterminator? Haven't they heard? We need bees to have food! I like food. I'm happy they're found. Of course--as the other neighbors (who apparently have nothing better to do than drive slowly down the street examining everyone's front yards) pointed out--they might be killer bees or killer bee hybrids. Sobering thought. Would they chase me into my house? Could I shoo them out and admonish them to go pollinate something?

Until this morning, I was blissfully oblivious to the the neighborhood uproar regarding my found bees. I wonder if I could just lie low and let the nattering nabobs (remember Sprio Agnew?) take care of it? Someone already put an orange traffic post on my curb in front of the commandeered underground utility hive. Sorry, bees. You've been outed. There is no hiding now.

I wonder if that's what happened to the missing bees? Did they get themselves killed by developing a fondness for underground utility hives? Ah, well. As long as fruits and vegetables continue to appear in my supermarket, I'm going to assume that somewhere, somehow, some of them survived.

Lost Flock?

Heavy winds blew tree fronds, patio furniture and sand everywhere last night. This desert is at the foot of steeply rising mountains, where wind funnels through the San Gorgonio Pass from the L.A. basin. Traveling through the pass in those conditions is not advised. I imagine flying through the pass would be pretty dicey, too.

Sauntering along at my end of Oliver's leash this morning, I happened to glance up at the blue sky. I saw three groups of white objects swirling about 300 feet above me. They sparkled white, then faded to gray, then flashed white again. It was as if a giant child flung handfuls of glitter in the air. At first I thought it might be bits of paper carried aloft by high wind currents, but I noticed their movements approximated those of fish in a large school. I watched, open-mouthed, as they morphed into large white birds with gray wingtips, apparently moving aimlessly as a group. Every few minutes another bird or small group of birds appeared and joined the swirl. If a strong flyer broke out and headed east or west, several birds followed until they changed their minds and went back to the larger groups.

Were they lost? Did the wind break them up last night? Do they just like to swirl? Whatever, they were beautiful and mesmerizing. I hope they got themselves together or found a safe place to rest. We're having wind again tonight.

The Elves and the Shoemaker

My favorite Grimm's fairy tale is The Elves and the Shoemaker. The elves come out at night to tidy up the poor shoemaker's shop while he sleeps. They make more shoes than possible from his last scrap of leather and have some left over. I thought it sounded fun when I was a kid. I desperately wanted my own elves when I was a single mother. Now I think I have one.

I understand people who say they black out after a couple of drinks and then wake up in different houses, cities, or even countries. After a couple of (alcohol-free) hours in front of the flickering TV screen, I'm properly zombie-ized and ready to fall into bed. But sometimes I notice the time on my bedside clock is oddly later than the time I remember leaving the living room. Those are the nights the elf is busiest.

My elf shops on the internet. I learn what she's ordered when I arise in the morning to find neat piles of papers on my desk and pictures of merchandise on my printer. A few nights ago, she ordered me some new swim goggles. She must have known my old ones are giving me a rash. A big bag of clothes arrived yesterday, each item in two different sizes. Spooky. I'm between sizes right now--how did she know?

I don't why, but she bought a 2-burner gas BBQ last night--$99 and free shipping (Oh, she's good!) I do know I muttered and fussed about stinking up the house when I cooked fish earlier in the evening. I may have sworn never to cook fish again until I got a BBQ. I may have sworn, period!

I'm not unhappy about this weird late-night service. I'd like to get her in touch with the shoemaker's elves, however. They made something out of nothing and had some left over. That technique seems eminently more practical than just whipping out my credit card, doesn't it?

Efficiency

Ads proclaiming a "Free Shredding Event" appeared in the newspaper for about three weeks, inviting us to bring as many as ten file boxes of papers to the Home Depot today (Saturday.) "Ah," thought I, "Now's the time to get rid of 20 years' worth of outdated papers. I'll clean out my huge Boeing Surplus file cabinet and have room for the next 20 years worth of stuff!" (The possibility of not accumulating more papers didn't even enter my mind.)

Feeling proud and efficient, I tried to open one of the four file drawers. No luck. I looked up at the key slot. No key! Then I remembered. A friend sent me one of those internet things designed to inform (or terrify) you. I think the theory is once you have this invaluable information, bad things won't happen and you'll be eternally grateful to the person who sent it. This one was called "13 Things a Burglar Won't Tell You." Reading it caused me to pull the key out of the file cabinet and hide it in a safe place--not my usual sock drawer. (Item #10 on the burglar's list: "Do you really think I won’t look in your sock drawer?') Unfortunately, I have no clue where I hid the key. I looked everywhere I could think of--but then, I'm not an experienced burglar. Maybe I could ask one to come find it for me . It would probably take about four minutes.

I don't know how much it costs to have papers shredded, but "free" sounded much better than whatever the price is. I called Jake the Locksmith. He wanted $70 to open the file cabinet, and another $15 to make keys. EasyKeys.com offered the key online for $10. This was more like it! I could still have my satisfying exercise in efficiency! Unfortunately, the three-day service I ordered might not get me the key until Monday. [Sigh.] Unwilling to pay for faster service, I just hoped for the best.

Oh, joy! The key arrived yesterday afternoon! I put off until this morning the job of pulling the papers out of file cabinet because...well, because I'm a procrastinator. I felt proud and efficient as I purged two file drawers within 40 minutes and filled my used Trader Joe's paper sacks. I jumped in the car and raced to Home Depot.

The lack of a large truck with a Shred-It logo on the side was my first clue. The second was when none of the helpful guys in orange aprons knew what I was talking about. It finally dawned on me--I was at the wrong Home Depot! (I live between two of them.) I felt myself deflating. I'm surprised I didn't fly all over the room backwards as all that efficiency pride whooshed out of me . It was too late, of course, to make it to the other store in time. Head drooping, tail between legs, I dragged myself back to my car.

The Trader Joe's bags are still in the trunk. I guess I'm going to find out how much it costs to have documents shredded. Or, I could hunch for hours over the tiny shredder that straddles the top of my office trashcan. Naw. If it burned up halfway through, I might run screaming from the room. The houses here are only about 10 feet apart and we all have our windows open in the 75-degree weather. My neighbors are sure to call someone official, and I have no desire to meet my local constabulary under those circumstances!

My Best Piece of Exercise Equipment

It turns out all I really needed to start exercising more was a doggie stroller. [Sound of hand smacking forehead] D'oh!

Oliver can only walk a block or so before his damaged back leg starts hurting. He relays this information to me by planting his rear end firmly on the pavement and staring at me. I carried him back from most of our little forays into the neighborhood.

Some of my retiree neighbors have dog strollers for their elderly or incapacitated dogs, but I balked at the idea. It's one thing to spoil your dog at home, where other humans won't roll their eyes and mutter such things as "weird," and "Look at that old lady's dog! She's pushing him, for Pete's sake!" The sheer practicality of the stroller idea trumped my hesitation, however. I ordered one online. Now we walk a mile or two every day. I see the back of Oliver's little head, ears bouncing, while he sits in the sun and sniffs the air. Since I'm not worried about my carpet being peed upon by a stay-at-home dog, I stay out longer. It's a win-win for everyone but the carpet cleaners.

This idyll will end temporarily in about two months when it becomes too hot to walk outdoors in the desert. That's OK; maybe I'll get him a dog spa by then!

Going Back to High School

I forgot how endearing and gross teenage boys can be. And how beautiful teenage girls can be. I remembered in a hurry last week when I started volunteering at the front desk of my local high school. I wanted to do some community service and take a little break from retirees. I got more than a little break. I got a whole new world--one that moves at breakneck speed. I was so worn out after four hours that I collapsed on my couch with my little dog when I got home.

The Attendance Secretary--who handles students who are tardy, injured, or sick--was on vacation. All those kids came to the front office. At one point, one boy was throwing up in a trash can in a corner, and another one tilted his head back in a chair, trying to stem a nosebleed. Between dramatic bouts of their respective ills, the boys chatted with the girl who was being suspended for fighting. They stole glances at the pretty student aids, who pretended not to notice. Parents came to drop off or pick up their kids. School supply salespeople asked to see the Principal. Students asked to see the Counselor.

I filed packing slips by department without knowing the names of the departments or the items on the slips ("1 regenerator." "4 domes." "1 streak plate.") I filed them in a cardboard box in used file folders because California schools don't have enough money to operate. (If they did, they'd hire someone at the front desk and wouldn't need me. Then I'd miss all this fun.) I removed rubber bands from obsolete rolled-up posters so we could use them again.

My newspaper says the state is going to ask teachers to take a 1% pay cut. Who knows what they'll take from the administrative staff. (Maybe the boxes of carefully hoarded used rubber bands?) The TV news said the Governor wants more money for his office. I said a few choice words when I heard that (we old folk tend to talk to ourselves.) He should volunteer at a school, then he'd know where the money would be best spent.

To be fair, the TV reporters probably took the Governor's request out of context. But there is no other context for what's happening at the schools. There, heroic people perform a mammoth job with inadequate resources--daily.

I'm going back, two days a week. It's a drop in the bucket compared to what they need. But I'm tired of being catered to and entertained (I'm not good retirement material. ) I want to do something. Something useful.

I think it's safe to say I found it.

Whippets in the Wild

Somewhere in the world whippets run free in the wild. This according to Ben Walker of the Associated Press. (So why haven't I seen this on Animal Planet?)

You've heard of Chanel, the 2 year-old whippet who won the Hounds class at the Westminster America dog show? Well, apparently she was captured in the wild, because the article in my paper, by Ben Walker, said she was "clocked at 35 mph in the wild". Hmmm, I wonder if she misses it? Visualizing packs of little skinny sight hounds frolicking in the jungle (or was it the plains, Ben?) makes me giggle. Thanks Ben, I needed a laugh today. And congratulations, Chanel.

The article also said a crowd favorite was another sight hound--a greyhound--who chases balls and chews up his water bottle--unusual behavior for that mild-mannered, couch-potato breed. It's good to know my friend Mel's greyhound, Rudy, has a soul mate somewhere in the world. Rudy is a big, goofy guy whose favorite pastimes include dragging pillows outside through his dog door, and suckering other dogs to chase him so he can laugh as he leaves them in the dust. Rudy could probably survive "in the wild"--he loves to chase squirrels and Mel suspects he would even eat them, given the chance. Unfortunately, if a sight hound runs away in the heat of the hunt, he may not be able to find his way home (they hunt by sight, not by smell).

So my advice to Rudy and Chanel is: stay home. Stay with your people and eat that fancy dog food and three kinds of treats they give you. Ignore the Call of the Wild! Play with your 15 toys and leave the stoopid squirrels alone!

Savory Spam Crescents

Some of my friends are disgruntled about the ads that pop up on their email accounts, containing words found or implied in their emails (especially the friend who kept getting ads about burial plots.) I find it vaguely unsettling, like having a smarmy guy in a bus station trying to sell me something he thinks I might need because he was eavesdropping on my conversation with a friend. I don't like smarmy guys, and I don't like eavesdroppers. I love Google, and I'm not happy to find it has smarmy relatives.

The notion of privacy is mostly an illusion, but sometimes I like to pretend I have some. I found it impossible do that today when I opened my email spam folder. An ad popped up for "Savory Spam Crescents--bake 12-15 minutes or until golden brown." Spam crescents? Golden brown? Poor, stoopit Google ad-generating program doesn't have a clue about what spam is in its own technological world. Sigh.

But let's not let that deter us from the promised savoryness. Here's your chance to do something with spam besides curse it.

* Exported from MasterCook *
SAVORY SPAM CRESCENTS
Recipe By :
Serving Size : 16 Preparation Time :0:00Categories : Sandwiches
Amount Measure Ingredient -- Preparation Method-------- ------------ -------------------------------- 10 sl Bacon, cut in small pieces 1/4 c Finely chopped onion 1 cn SPAM Luncheon Meat, cubed - 12 oz 1 Egg, beaten 3 tb Grated Parmesan cheese 2 tb Chopped fresh parsley 2 tb Dijon-style mustard 1/8 t Pepper 2 pk Refrigerated crescent roll -dough (8 oz)
Heat oven to 375'F. In skillet, cook bacon and onion until bacon is crisp; drain. Stir in remaining ingredients except crescent roll dough. Separate each package of crescent dough into 8 triangles. Spread top half of each triangle with SPAM mixture; roll up. Place on baking sheets. Bake 12-15 minutes or until golden brown.

Anyone who actually tries this recipe and then keels over from instantly clogged arteries can't hold me liable. After all, I didn't sneak it into your private email. You opened it yourself!

OK, I'm Ready Now

The in Haiti earthquake coverage, combined with my recent discovery that the San Andreas fault is only a few miles from my home, makes me want to stockpile cans of food, candles, space blankets, etc. (But where to put it? How do you know what part of your house won't fall down? I'm told that isn't a problem in a one-story home--which mine is. Still, if one is making a survival kit, one needs to think of everything.) Storage is a consideration, but it isn't my biggest obstacle. Putting the thing together is.

I've created numerous "preparedness kits" through the years. I gather all the items the media says we need to survive a disaster. I package it according to the current recommendations. (Which seem to change each decade.) I ignore the rolling eyes and derision of those close to me ("Not even in a disaster would I eat that!") I try to keep the kit up-to-date, and sometimes I even succeed for a few years.

Then something life-changing happens, like moving to a different house, and my good intentions get lost in the shuffle. I'm kind of weary of the routine. I'm not sure I have the energy to create yet another viable kit. I'm thinking the canned Spaghetti-Os in the pantry and water bottles in the laundry room might be it, for now.

But, wait--I don't have to start from scratch this time! While sifting through the detritus of my recent move, I found the cute little radio/light/siren combination I bought about 15 years ago. It's powered by battery, hand crank, or solar cell (which wasn't too helpful in solar-less Seattle.) And, it's purple! I love purple!

I thought I'd made a bad purchase when I lived in Seattle because I couldn't crank the handle enough to make the radio work for even a couple of minutes. What good would that be after the batteries died while we waited days for government assistance? Then I noticed the solar cell glinting on the handle. Hey, this is the desert! We got solar energy--lots of it! I took my little purple buddy into the front yard and set it in the sun. I left it there for a number of hours. (OK, I forgot about it.) When I remembered to bring it in, miracles happened.

The light lit, the siren mourned, and I listened to music for about three hours. I feel like a kid who rediscovered a favorite toy. When the "Big One" comes, I'll be able to listen to radio, if it doesn't get squashed by rubble and if anyone is broadcasting. (If they're not, I can amuse myself for hours with the blinking red light.)

OK, I'm ready now. Maybe I'll even get some canned tuna to go with the Spaghetti-Os.

...and thank you for visiting your local DMV office...

I haven't visited a driver's license office in many years. I have the same dread most of us do: I might have to take a test; I will surely have to wait in an interminably long line; and I'll wind up carrying around a truly horrible picture of myself. Whenever possible, I do things online.

Volunteering at the high school directly behind my house, however, requires a California ID. My Washington State Driver's license won't do. Apparently, proof of existence in Washington state doesn't mean I actually exist in California. (I wonder if I would disappear if I lost my WA license while in CA?) Swell. A visit to the California Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) was in my immediate future.

My first overture to the DMV was on the internet, of course. I was able to set my appointment online. Yay--something I recognize as a Good Thing! The office was very full when I arrived, but I was moved fairly quickly through the lines. A man complained bitterly that I was getting preferential treatment. He was told an appointment is a Good Thing (see? I knew it!). I filled out forms, answered questions, and actually got to the front of the line--ready to have my picture taken. But the printer wouldn't work. Then the computer wouldn't work. Then the phone stopped working. Uh, oh. I broke the system!

I felt compassion--and not a little concern-- for the DMV employee who stood on a chair to tell hordes of people in myriad lines that all systems were down in Sacramento. Everyone had to come back later, maybe tomorrow. The bitterly complaining man's face turned bright red and a vein stood out on his forehead. He stormed out the door. A Good Thing, because just then the beleagured employee behind the counter told me my information made it through before the system crash, so I wouldn't have to come back.

As the sunshine hit my bemused face outside the building, I mentally gave hero awards to the DMV employees who braved sullen crowds and continued to work--fairly cheerfully--under such daunting conditions. And I wondered if I really would get the ID card in the mail within 3 weeks, as the man behind the counter said I would. (I did.)

Randy Goat Breaks into Strip Club

A randy male charged down the main aisle of a brand new strip club Saturday night. Not so unusual, you say? It is, when you consider the club hadn't opened for business yet, and the male in question was not human (but you didn't know that, from just the description of the behavior, did you?)

The goat crashed through the glass door of the Coachella club when no one was there, resulting in a call to the police from neighbors and the alarm system. They played the surveillance video, probably did a double take, and laughed their heads off. Then they put away their paperwork and decided not to file a report. ("We don't do animal reports.") A local goat farmer (who takes better care of his goats than this poor creature's owners) says goats are "timid little things." He says the goat must have seen his reflection in the glass and charged. The video shows him walking around, dazed, looking at himself in the wall of mirrors. He must have thought he'd attacked some sort of warlock goat who threw him into an alternate universe. He left before anyone got there and wandered off into the night (much as his human counterparts will be doing when the club opens next week.)

Ah, the vagaries of life in an agricultural community whose urban area is growing faster than zoning laws change. I'm having a little tea party today to cheer up some of my neighbors. (We're in day two of a week of gray, rainy weather. It's hard on desert folk.) We live in a gated community that is zoned and CC&R'd within an inch of its life. I suspect we will not be bothered by party-crashing goats!

Party 'til 3am

I look like hell today, and I feel worse. My head hurts and everything seems a little skewed. Party time? Hardly--unless "poopfests" count as parties.

Oliver must have eaten something he shouldn't have (a category which encompassses everything, except canned food for dogs with IBD, mixed with pumpkin.) It rips my heart out to see him in distress. He strains and strains and just little stinky drops (often mixed with blood) come out his rear end. That went on--out on the patio, on the tile floor (and a few times on the carpet) until 3 a.m. Every time he had an attack of messy spasms, I cleaned him up with baby wipes. When he seemed to get enough respite to get some sleep, I rolled up the rugs in the Master Bathroom, put a dog bed and a water dish in with him, and enclosed all with a baby gate. I got the inside floors cleaned up, put all affected items in the wash with detergent and Pinesol, and passed out on my bed.

There is a public service commercial on TV about disasters called "World Upside Down" that shows a family floating as though weightless, with all their belongings floating around them. The point is that when disaster occurs, everything familiar changes, and you get very disoriented. Apparently, a disaster is not required for me to feel that disoriented; just worry and lack of sleep (which lots of people are experiencing these days--no wonder we're all so bemused.)

So, when the doorbell rang and the mail woman handed me the Priority Shipping boxes I ordered at Thanksgiving for my Christmas packages , I'm afraid I slipped into near-hysterical laughter. I didn't even try to explain. I just thanked her.

Then the nice young man from the furniture store came to exchange the dinette set chair that wobbled. He brought in the new one and set it on the floor. I grasped the back, wiggled it--and it wobbled. I didn't even have the energy for hysterical laughter. I just threw up my hands and told him it was better than the other one and I'd keep it. (I'd learned they don't wobble at all with round, middle-aged people sitting in them. Yes! Another advantage of boomerdom!)

I'd like to go back to bed, preferably before someone else comes to the door. But I have this patio to clean up...

Big Box Store Juggernaut

I don't shop much. I find no joy in returning to stores over and over to wait for prices to drop and to return things I thought I wanted. I tend to look for stores that reliably carry what I want, then I stick with them. When I lived in the Seattle area, I shopped at McLendon's, the fabulous independent Puget Sound hardware store, and Bartell's, my favorite independent drug store. I could buy swim suits (not sun-bathing suits or "resort suits," but real, honest-to-goodness tank suits for actual swimming) any time of year at Sylvia's Swim Shop. Gawd, how I miss them!

It's 75 degrees here in Indio, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. I sure would like to sit out on my patio. But none of the big box stores around here is selling outdoor furniture right now. "Why not?" I asked one of the employees. "We have it in summer," he said. Right. Summer, when it's 118 degrees and touching the metal on a patio chair could give you 2nd degree burns. The high-end specialty patio stores have outdoor furniture, of course. Great, if you have a real budget and are not constrained to big-box-store-type prices. Personally, I'm considering moving my card table and chairs onto the patio. A couple of medium cardboard boxes would make good ottomans, don't you think?

I thought a few indoor plants would cheer me up. I tried to buy terra cotta pots to start some African violets from cuttings. Nope. No pots. Not 'til spring--when it's already 93 degrees here. Guaranteed to shrivel new plants in a matter of minutes.

Pet stores are not immune, either. An employee of a big box pet store told me when she worked at one of her chain's stores in a cold part of Nevada, they didn't carry pet water bowls with electric warmers to keep the water from freezing. But they have "tons" of them at this store, in a city where a nighttime low temperature anywhere freezing causes breathless reports of "extreme" weather on the nightly newscast.

I finally mail-ordered a swimsuit from Sylvia's Swim Shop, because the ones I have are turning to mesh and the stores around here don't get swim suits until...you guessed it: summer. After decades of marketing research, in a country rife with bright people, we find ourselves held hostage by huge selling machines that completely ignore the tenets of customer-oriented marketing. They offer overcoats to people in the desert and dog cooling beds to people in the Sierra Nevadas . Why does this surprise me? Shouldn't I be used to a lack of common sense by now? After all, I did work for the government for a year!

I want to support my local merchants, really I do. If I could only find them. Maybe they were all squashed by the big box store juggernaut. I feel sad--and more than a little pissed off. I don't need an overcoat, dammit! I need a swimsuit--and some patio furniture!

My hand is reluctantly poised over my mouse. The siren call of the internet tells me I can get whatever I want, whenever I want it. The siren doesn't mention what it's like to try to return things to faceless far-away vendors, and it doesn't lament, even for a minute, what taking the sales tax away from my own city does to the local economy. Gad. When did shopping become such drama?