So THAT'S Why they Made Us Buy Flood Insurance!

I should stop going to lectures about the geology of the Coachella Valley. I don't think they're good for my high blood pressure.

In the last lecture I learned my home is built on an ancient lake bed about 48 feet below sea level. The gigantic lake filled and emptied several times; the native Americans say the last time it emptied was about 600 years ago. You can still see the water lines on the hills, which is kind of fascinating. Or ominous, depending on how you look at it. The lake was 100 miles long, 35 miles wide, and 100-200 feet deep.

Tonight I learned that the site of my present home was 100 feet underwater when prehistoric Lake Cahuilla* was full. (*Not to be confused with the current man-made reservoir of the same name, which is totally wimpy compared to its massive bygone big brother.) The lecturer told us how the Colorado River keeps changing course, altering hundreds of miles of landscape each time. Apparently the Gulf of California at one time extended to Sacramento. At other times, freshwater Lake Cahilla covered this area.

"Could it happen again?" I asked the lecturer.

"Sure. If we have a huge earthquake and the Colorado River reconfigures the delta, we'll have something like the tsunami that just happened in Japan."

Not what I wanted to hear.

My friends remind me that anywhere you live has some sort of natural disaster capability. Theirs is a "...you can run, but you can't hide" philosophy. Mine is more Chicken Little: Hide! Hide! The water is coming! (Okay, maybe not just yet. We might have 600 years to find good hiding places. But you just never know...)

I think the news footage of the recent Japanese destruction jolted a lot of Southern Californians. We live with constant admonitions to have disaster preparedness kits and be ready to evacuate on a few moments' notice. Sales of five-gallon emergency water bottles are up; so are chemical toilet and tent sales.

I can see the San Andreas fault from my back door and my house is built on sand (despite the Biblical parable.) This isn't the right place for someone who is worried about geologic unrest. And, generally, I'm not--as long as no one points it out to me. I do what most of us Southern Californians do--rush around updating my emergency supplies after an earthquake gets my attention, then settle back into life as usual.

My aunt and uncle bought one of the first houses in our development. They were befuddled by the requirement to buy flood insurance. By the time I bought my home the homeowners had rebelled against the requirement, pointing out to the Homeowners' Association that we live in a desert, as evidenced by the fact that we get six to eight feet of annual evaporation in exposed bodies of water, but only three inches of rainfall.

I guess I won't mention the ancient lake/earthquake-induced-delta-reshaping/tsunami scenario. One Chicken Little in the neighborhood is enough.

Moneybooker.com, aka Skrill, aka lost in the 70s

If you want to be labeled uncool, just talk about something you're proud of from the 70s. Such an odd era, when guys dressed in ruffled shirts, women rebeled against uncomfortable underwear, and everyone thought they were groovy if they went to "encounter groups" and knew the latest dances. And, of course, there was the women's movement.

The world has moved on and the gains made for women in the 70s are now part of the daily fabric of our lives. Or are they? I think most of us Boomer women who were vigilant in upholding the "Women's Liberation" principles are too tired to do it again today, but I see things that make me wish we still could. Five-inch heels and skin-tight clothes on young women make me cringe, but I'm glad that thanks to the legal gains made in the 70s they're free to wear them without being labeled "sluts" or having it assumed they "deserve it"if someone attacks them.

I thought the title "Ms." had become traditional. I mean, it's had about 40 years of common usage--isn't that a tradition? Today I signed up with a European emoney issuer--Moneybooker.com, aka Skrill--similar to (and better than, according to their press articles) PayPal. I was asked to put a mandatory title before my name--the choices for which were Mr., Mrs., and Miss. I called customer service and was told there was no way for me to sign up without using one of those titles. I told the woman with the lovely European accent that it was discriminatory, because it doesn't give women a choice that doesn't reveal their marital status. I asked her to send my concern to the people in charge, and I signed up as "Mr."

Self-congratulatory as I felt for my clever work-around, I was still baffled. Did "Ms." fall out of usage while I was busy aging and not paying attention? Do any young women go by "Ms."? Do they even care?

I suppose using "Ms." before my name does keep people from knowing my marital status, but maybe now it's revealing something else--that I'm an archaic throwback to the 70s. How very ungroovy!

Writer's Lament

I just finished a short story for my Writers' Guild annual short story contest. The exercise taught me at least one important thing: I'd rather write several blog posts than one short story. Blogging is like chatting; short story writing is like doing a term paper. I had to use words that show the reader what'is happening( instead of telling them;) I have to look in dictionaries, thesauruses (is that a word? See--in a short story I'd have to look it up. Here, I just depend on you to know what I mean,) and the Chicago Manual of Style. I'm exhausted.

When I started working as a technical writer twelve or thirteen years ago, I attended a professional tech writer meeting and was stricken with panic at the thought I might become one of those people I met at the refreshment table debating the proper use of em dashes. (Didn't happen. Turns out I like em dashes, but not enough to debate about them.) I thought fiction writing would be different. But no--today, my critique group had a heated discussion about Point of View in writing. Heated! About grammaresque stuff! And I was right in the middle of it. Damn. I should just get my personalized GRMR GEEK license plate now.

The cool thing about fiction writing is that I get to create my world and characters. The uncool thing is that I have to juggle a lot of grammatical variables to make sure my lovely visions translate into readers' brains. Nothing brings me back to reality faster than having one of my fellow writers say, "I wasn't quite sure what was happening in this paragraph...." What? Why not? It was really clear in my mind!

Cool or uncool, it is true that since I became a writer, I haven't been able to read a sentence without trying to improve it. I almost can't force myself to use text-message-speak. Someone has to physically remove my hands from the keyboard to keep me from staying up all night, editing and re-editing my work. One wise writer told me, "At some point, you just have to say 'It's finished,' and send it off." Wise words, those.

I do my best with blog entries, but they remain easier to part with. One click of a button, and my piece is "out there," published in cyberspace. Easier to deal with at first, but more painful later when I see my errors in the finished product.

You're about to write a smug comment asking why I write if it's so painful for me. OK, I'll go with that. I write because... I can't help myself! There, I said it. I'm obsessed. I love the feeling of words falling into place to form a rippling paragraph of beauty. I love forming the pictures from my head onto paper that then transmits them other brains.

If there is a 12-step program for obsessed writers, please don't tell me about it.