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!)

Confessions of a Light-Deprived Northwesterner

It snowed here today--on April-fricking-first! The weather is making us all a little nuts here. Be gentle with us about our mass caffeine addiction; it's the only thing keeping us upright at this point.

A friend told me on the phone that she thinks one of the reasons she watches CSI Miami is because of all the sunshine. Coincidentally, while she told me this I had a Merchant Ivory DVD paused on my TV. The movie was filmed in India and drips with color--and sunshine. In it, people are trapped by their destinies, lives are ruined, and there is much haunted staring at the camera. But I callously zipped over all that; I wanted those sunny backgrounds, no matter how much misery I had to ignore to get them. My friend and I are after the same thing--we want the assurance that sunshine still exists somewhere in the world.

I know all of you in other areas of the country are buying cotton summer clothing. I envy you. I, on the other hand, just bought a wool Filson "Packer" hat at David Morgan. It's divine. It stops the buckets of ice water from going down the back of my neck while I wait at my end of the leash for Scruffdog to do his bizness. And I think it's stiff enough to double as a helmet should I fall over while trying to retrieve said bizness from the inaccessible places he prefers. I love my new hat. I'm going to wear it every day until the weather gets too warm. Don't worry; I'll get plenty of wear out of it, because that won't happen for about three-and-a-half months (this is Seattle we're talking about.)

Meanwhile, I've reluctantly put dreams of diaphanous cotton dresses and sandals on hold. No, I don't want to hear about your heat wave, or that you've had to turn on your A/C--unless the complaint is accompanied by an airline ticket for me to join you in your "misery"!

Mysteriously Disappearing Dryer Balls

I really like using those bumpy, little blue dryer balls in my dryer. Clothes dry faster and seem softer. I'm not sure they help the longevity of my clothes, but I do appreciate spending less of my limited time on this planet doing laundry.


The other day, one of them disappeared. Since they often fall out of the laundry pile as I'm moving it, I just figured it rolled someplace and would turn up. It hasn't. I heard the remaining ball hit the floor today when I pulled out a load of towels. It was nowhere to be seen when I looked for it. Very mysterious. Then I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye. A blue and blonde blur.


He won't play with tennis balls. He snubs the toys I've slavishly provided in hopes of improving his quality of his life with a sedentary boomer. Now it turns out I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and just given up my beloved dryer balls. I am, to say the least, bemused.

Got to Keep On Moving...

They tell us boomers that we have to "use it or lose it." (Stop sniggering. I know what you're thinking, but that's not what I mean.) Joints stiffen up if we don't make a concentrated effort to get them moving, vitamins are not optional, and spending too much time on the couch quickly results in a body molded to that piece of furniture and not good for much else.

It's daunting. I'm at the age where I'd like to stop running about, but now it's mandatory! I worked out with a trainer at my fitness center yesterday. By the time she made allowances for my stiff parts and my previously injured parts, I was pretty much doing a sitting and standing routine I would have laughed at 20 years ago. And it was hard to do! I'm getting humility the hard way.

Much use of aspirin made it possible for me to sleep last night. I'm going back today. I think the warm therapy pool will be my first stop.

Jay Leno and the Prez

I TiVo'd President Barack Obama's appearance on the Tonight Show. Well, it was historical, wasn't it? It was the first time a sitting President has appeared on the Tonight Show. (Johnny Carson would have grinned so hard his face would have gotten stuck!)

He bantered with Jay Leno, made his points, and said something I thought was funny and endearing but many Americans didn't. The complaints started almost immediately. That's the thing: he was genuine and engaging, and his guard appeared to be down. I felt like I was sitting there with them, hearing a real conversation. I couldn't believe it. I haven't heard anything like that since the famous Bill and Hillary Clinton interviews at the beginning of President Clinton's first term. I don't think they were ever that candid on TV again; they got smacked around in the press a lot for that.

I hope President Obama doesn't get smacked around by his advisors so badly that he stops being so open. It's refreshing to hear real, not canned, reactions from a politician. Besides, he did a great Jack Benny face when Jay Leno asked him a couple of teasing questions. Now, that's something we definitely want to hold on to!

Mystery on my Doorstep

I'm not quite sure why I put the sparkly silver and blue balls on my front steps. Maybe I thought they looked whimsical. Maybe I thought they distracted the eye from the mossy carpeting some crazed person put on the outdoor steps (in the soggy Northwest? Puh-leez). And they reflected the sun on the rare occasions it showed up.

My daughter bequeathed the orbs to me when she moved to Italy. Apparently, they came with her Whidbey Island apartment when she moved in, bequeathed by a previous tenant. We thought they were sort of mysterious (who made them? what did they use them for?) I was pleased with myself for finding such a jaunty use for them. I knew they were vulnerable in my high-density neighborhood, where kids run and laugh and play on the sidewalks after school. I wondered if the sparkly balls would disappear one day.

I felt sad when I arrived home after dark last night and found the sparkly blue ball missing from the lower step. Despite my determination to consider them disposable, I was fond of them. I hoped someone was enjoying it--or at least, enjoying the mystery of contemplating what it could possibly be used for.

When I took Scruffdog out this morning, the early light struck a pile of sparkly blue bits at the bottom of the stairs. Not enough to have been the whole ball, just a few shards trapped in a depression in the concrete. More mystery! What happened? Did someone break it on purpose? Did someone break it accidentally and try to sweep up, but missed these bits? Why can't I use this evidence to figure out what happened, like Monk, the TV detective?

The asymmetry of just one ball on two steps bothers me (I may be more like Monk than I thought.) What to put there? Something to deter future miscreants, like a little skull or a potted cactus? (Lacks the jaunty factor.) Ah, well. One of my new activities, as an accidentally semi-retired/unemployed person, is visiting thrift stores.

It seems that some people leave items for subsequent tenants when they move, and others haul them off to charity. I'm not opposed to replacing a serendipitously bequeathed item with one I have to find myself-- I'll just look around until something cries out to become my new, jaunty, disposable porch decoration.

No Sleep in my Neighborhood Tonight

A couple of police cars seem to be involved in the world's slowest chase outside my window. A siren at the intersection 50 yards from my bedroom window wails for about 15 seconds and flashing blue lights reflect off my blinds. It stops, and a siren about a block away takes up the cry. Just as I think I might be able to sleep, it starts again. What kind of a chase sounds like that? I envision officers driving alongside a suspect, saying "OK, get in the car. Don't make me use my siren!"

I peer out my balcony door and see bathrobe-clad neighbors standing in rectangles of light on their decks. It's clear there will be no sleep for us until the cops "get their man" (or woman). Go, cops! With such a large contingent of grumpy, sleepless people at their command, the police should just send us out with assorted truncheons and baseball bats. Desperate as we are for sleep, I bet we'd get 'em in no time. But then, we might hurt ourselves in the process.

I know I have some earplugs around here somewhere. It speaks well for the usual quietness of the neighborhood that I don't really know where to look. When I find them, I think I'll just put them in, pull the covers over my head, and and feel gratitude that my city's finest are keeping me safe--though awake--in the wee hours.

My Sleep Number Bed

Have you ever wondered what's inside one of those much-advertised "Sleep Number Beds"? Well, here you have it. The guts of my beloved bed. It cradles me, supports me, and is my haven( for about 10 years now). I really like my bed; I miss it when I travel. It's the bed you long for at 2 am—you can make it softer or firmer with just a touch of a button.

The last couple of months haven't been so great. I sleep fitfully and my back is sore when I wake up. I hit the inflate button, but I don't feel more support. I pondered the problem while in bed the night before last, and wondered in horror if one of the air chambers failed. The next morning, I removed the pillow top and peered inside. It did seem a bit flat. I lay down on the middle and pushed the inflate button. Whoosh. Support. Everywhere. I climbed off and pressed on various chambers. All were functional.

Since I do my best problem solving while prone, I laid down again, in the middle. It felt fine. Scruffdog joined me, and as he has done every night since he came to live with me a couple of months ago, glued himself to my left side. I automatically moved to the right side to give him room.

"Scruffdog." "A couple of months." "To the right side". Uh, oh. I think I see a pattern here.

As you can see, there's not much inflatable support near the edge. In fact, that gray stuff is foam—no inflation there. And apparently, the edge is where I've been sleeping while Scruffdog got the nice, plump middle chambers. Well, he was pretty badly injured when he got here. I wanted to be sure he slept well and didn't get bumped during the night. It worked! He's a feistly little healed-up booger now. I'd better reclaim the middle of the bed, before I become the one who needs special, injured-dog sleeping arrangements.

Just Tell Me What to Think

Along with my breakfast, I'm digesting my daily dose of gloom and doom from the the newspaper. A headline says 4.4M people are affected by cutbacks, unemployment is at 8%, and the sky is falling. (OK, I just threw in the bit about the sky to see if you were paying attention.)

Right next to that is a teaser for an article on page B3: "Irrational Pessimism in the country." The outrageous happenings of the past few months have burned out my double-take response, so I just stared dully. Let's see. Gloom and Doom all around us...pessimism irrational. Oh-kaay. To be fair, the article on B3 was referring to Alan Greenspan's warnings in the late 90s about "irrational exhuberance" for stock when prices were being driven up. It also points out that stocks are about the same as they were then, before the bubble. It's just not as attractive on the way down, I guess.

I think the media is telling me to think all is lost--but maybe not, really. Is someone going to tell me what to think, please?

Meanwhile, I see my friends and family helping neighbors and friends and volunteering in community programs. I see helping hands offered and compassion given--in stark contrast to the way the captains of industry treated all of us over the last decade or so. This is quietly miraclulous. Can a country made up of such people fall into such a deep hole it will never get out? I may be irrationally optimistic, but I think not.

Never mind, don't tell me what to think. I think I'll believe my eyes and my heart.

Scruffdog-Zilla

My dog-whispering friend told me it would happen. I knew something would happen. But now that it's happened, I don't want to believe it. Sweet little Scruffdog has turned into Scruffdog-Zilla! He snapped at Little Black Dog yesterday, then he grabbed the groomer's finger in his mouth (didn't bite, just held it), and today he got downright cranky with the retired guide dog who lives in the neighborhood. Who is this dog?

You know a rescue dog is going to get feistier when he realizes you're not going to send him away. And this lil' guy was so badly injured and medicated when I got him that I knew one day he'd start acting like a dog instead of a stuffed animal. He's still totally focused on, and deferential to, me. (He's not stupid.)

Maybe it's a Sampson effect. The groomer cut off the curly white hair (evidence of a poodle in the family tree) that was adorably growing through shorter brown stuff. Maybe that's where all his cutie-sweetness resided. Maybe it will come back in a couple of months when the hair grows back. Wishful thinking. I know it's now time to find a trainer, which would be OK if he was the only one getting trained. But as any trainer will tell you, the biggest part of training is making sure the owner "gets it" and is consistent. Let's see; the last time I was consistent was...um, never.

He's started whining constantly in the car as some dogs do (other people's dogs) , and right now he is trying to kill his skunk squeaky toy, over and over again. I couldn't even get him to be still long enough for a picture. He's Scruffdog-zilla, stomping through the house looking for things to destroy. Maybe it's the vitamins. Yes, that's it. I'm sure it's the vitamins.

New Doctor in Town

I met my new doctor yesterday. She looks like she just got out of high school. She made a point of telling me that some of my favorite medications are "old school" and I shouldn't use them any more. I liked her, anyway.

She poked and prodded, had me take deep breaths, and murmured "good, good," over and over again. Do doctors ever get wide-eyed and say, "Oh, no!" while checking you? (I didn't think so.)

Then she asked me a question I could've answered easily 30 years ago. Not so much today: "Do you have pain?" ["Well, yeah," I wanted to say, "I'm old!] I hesitated a little too long, making her think I didn't understand the question. How do you tell a lively young thing that pain is ever-present when you are older? That it creeps on you, one little twinge at a time, so that you don't think of it as pain per se; it's just the way your body feels. Every day. You forget it's there until something happens to make it go away for a few glorious moments. I'm not alone in this: I just found out one of my friends looks forward to her colonoscopies because she has no pain for 20 minutes while she's under the sedative. (Yes, I know. We're pathetic.)

Young Doctor asked again. I told her about the new pain, the one that made me decide to come in today. I avoided this visit because I knew it would spawn a mulitude of visits to other, more invasive specialists. I was right. I'm now scheduled for the Grand Tour; three in all.

I'm trying to learn to think positively, so I'll just think about those 20 pain-free moments. (C'mon, admit it--you started thinking about it the minute I said "pain-free", didn't you?) If the NIH heard about this, do you think they would start using it in their ads to inspire us to go get checked? Maybe I should let them know. (Hey, it was just a thought!)

Nearsighted Eagle? Or just Inept?

Retired people have too much time on their hands and shouldn't be allowed to near computers while armed with email address books. They send me waay too many things to read, look at, or respond to. I'm already jealous of their freedom. Why rub it in?

When I overcome my curmudgeonly reaction, however, sometimes I see really amazing stuff. Like the series of pictures of an eagle purportedly attacking a swan in mid air, supposedly taken by a Tom Carver of B.C., Canada.

The photos show a swan flying, then an eagle approaching from behind and grabbing its leg. They struggle, the swan gets away, and falls down into the water, apparently unhurt.

I saw a pair of mating eagles a couple of years ago over Lake Washington. They fly high into the sky, grab each others' talons, and tumble down to the water in an apparent death spiral. I don't think you could see it without having your heart in your mouth. They pull up at the last minute and do it again. If Tom Carver lives in British Columbia, he must have seen this at least once.

I can't help but wonder: was this eagle really an inept hunter trying to catch a meal in the air--or was he just a nearsighted, would-be lover?

Monkeys in the Zoo--People in Cages

I took Soccer Tot to the zoo this morning. I planned a 2-1/2 hour visit, allowing for my energy level and her nap time . But we no sooner got through the gate than official-looking people with walkie-talkies appeared on the path, saying, "this path is closed, please go to the bug house or the bird aviary." When I asked, they said they were having "animal issues." I wondered if something big and dangerous was on the loose, looking for small children to snack on. It turns out a male monkey--a small male monkey--escaped from his habitat and was leading the whole staff on a merry chase.

We went to the bug house, as directed. We walked past the bird aviary, where we saw people crowded into the cage, looking out longingly. (I hope the monkey got a kick out of that as he roamed about. Maybe he was tempted to tap on the glass as payback.)

Soccer Tot and I wanted to see furry animals, but we respectfully looked at each of the bugs so they wouldn't feel slighted. It was OK until someone else's child started having a temper tantrum--loud and long--in the confined space. I was ready to burst out the door screaming, "I'd rather face the monkey!" The official-looking walkie-talkie folks saved my sanity by evacuating us through a service area to a parking lot. They evacuated the whole zoo, filling the parking lot with crying babies in strollers and impatient children saying, "but Mommy why can't we go see the people chase the monkey?" The ever-hopeful staffers kept saying, "it should only be about 10 more minutes." But those "10 minute" increments finally added up to more than an hour, so I asked for passes to come back another day.

As a consolation prize, I took Soccer Tot to McDonald's for a happy meal and playtime on the equipment. While sitting with a Chinese grandmother who leaped up every few minutes to force another morsel into the mouth of her non-stop grandkid, I mused that McDonald's at lunchtime is very much like a zoo, with little human animals climbing and running and shrieking. All it lacked was some uniformed people with walkie-talkies and a veterinarian with a tranquilizer dart. Oh, and people leading me past the garbage cans to the parking lot!

No More Frankenstein Belly

Hooray! For the first time in the two months he's been with me, Scruffdog has no stitches in belly! Little Scruffdog Milagro is a miraculous healer, given enough drugs and a properly-executed surgery. He now has a little pink belly that he wants to have rubbed almost constantly, and he tosses and shakes his squeaky toy for a half an hour at a time. His rapidly growing hair stands up on his head like a spikey 1980s punk rocker hair-do.

Now that he's feeling better and doesn't need to be held and to sleep 23 hours a day, we'll see if I can keep up with him. He scoots along on three legs (the other healed crookedly from a break and he tends to hold it up when he wants to get moving) faster than I can walk. We both need to build stamina--I suspect it will take me longer than him.

If you see a woman flying along at the end of the leash of a little spikey-haired dog, that'll be me. Just wave as we go by!

134 Fishermen Plucked from Miles-wide Ice Floe

I think ice fishermen are funny. The first time I heard about the sport, I thought the person telling the story was pulling my leg. "They do whaat?" I laughed. "Drill holes in ice, then sit there on overturned buckets waiting for fish to pass through miles of water to get directly under their hole so they can catch them?" I thought I was pretty clever to catch him in his tall tale. He looked at me, deadpan, and said, "Exactly."

I know ice-obsessed people do crazy, dangerous things on ice, but this was news to me. I live in Washington State, where people have to be rescued from Mt. Rainier every year. BTW, don't climb Mt. Rainier if you're strapped for cash. If you get stranded, you'll have to pay Washington State for your rescue. A few years ago, Washingtonians stopped being good sports about paying for other people's mistakes.

Ohioans must love their ice fishermen a lot more than Washingtonians love mountaineers. They seem to have no qualms about giving them a free ride. If you and your ice fishing buddies get stranded on an ice floe because you chose to ignore clues that would have alerted a kindergartner of impending ice separation, your rescue will be free. Even if it involves the Coast Guards of two countries and emergency personnel from several states. Think of it: drama! excitement! and a ride in a cool government vehicle--all free!

At least, that's the way it was for 134 ice-fishing-obsessed guys who had to be plucked from an ice floe on Lake Erie last week. They ignored a rapid rise in temperature, rising winds, and a big crack in the ice. They wound up being stuck on an ice floe separated from stable ice by 100 yards of water. Did it scare them? Were they chastened by their enormous screw-up? Nope. Their only lament was that the U.S. and Canadian Coast Guards wouldn't let them bring back their fishing gear. Two of the fishermen wanted to head to the local Cabela's after their rescue to buy more gear and get back to ice fishing. The only clear heads in their households—their wives—vetoed that (probably not quietly).

The Morning Journal of Northern Ohio reports: "The rescue operation cost thousands of dollars and none of the fishermen will likely be forced to cover the cost…"

"To the best of my knowledge, they didn't break any laws," [Coast Guard spokesperson] Lanier said. "Ice fishing is a culture here on the Great Lakes."

Well, then. There you have it. If you are drawn to ice sports but don't have thousands of extra dollars to be picked up by rescue crews, try ice fishing in Ohio. The ride home is free!

Thanks, Joseph Heller

My own personal government bailout--unemployment benefits--is pretty great. I can eat, pay a few bills, and not have to deplete my savings so rapidly. It is, however, a government program, and it's administered with a level of absurdity we regular folks couldn't conceive of without copious amounts of alcohol in our bloodstream.

Looking for work is, at best, grueling. The senator who complained that the stimulus package won't create "jobs," only "work," needs a dictionary--and a smack upside the head. We don't care, senator. We just want it. I'm grateful to Joseph Heller for writing Catch-22 in 1961 and hilariously pointing out the madness of trying to satisfy conflicting government regulations . I'm grateful to Heller for teaching me to laugh at the madness.You should be too; the laughter keeps you from having to see a Boomer woman running down the street, tearing out her thinning hair and screaming.

One of my professional friends invited me to a monthly lunch meeting with high-powered women in business. Women who might need a writer for various assignments. (Stop snickering! Yes I can write professional stuff!) I signed up and paid the non-refundable $55.

Then the mail came. The letter from Employment Security said I had to come in for an appointment on the day and at the time of the businesswomen's lunch. I called and explained the situation. No, they said, I couldn't change the date. Or the time. Or the office, which is 10 miles from my house instead of the one that is a mile down the hill from me. Nope, nope, nope. Just do as you're told. "Oh-kaaay," I said, "Instead of actually trying to get work, I have to come in and talk about trying to get work, right?" The young woman on the phone chuckled. I think she may have read Joseph Heller.

I did as I was told. It's part of my bailout plan. I coulda used that 55 bucks, though.

Your Dog's Brain on Drugs

Scruffdog had to have another emergency surgery on his abdomen. It seems that when a big dog tries to make a snack out of a little dog, terrible things happen to the little guy's interior. Things that give infections many places to hide and fester.

When the vet saw on the X-rays that his broken right rear femur healed crookedly, without being set, and his broken left pelvis healed by itself, he kept shaking his head and saying, "He is one tough little guy!" But the infection was worrisome. Scruffdog went under anesthesia again, and awoke with yet another long line of Frankenstein stitches on his belly.

Memories of 1970s parties assailed me as I watched him do"Drug Dude" things while coming out of anesthesia. He swayed in my lap, peering squinty-eyed as if to say, "Ma-a-an, where are we?" Then he tried to launch himself off the couch with crazy, wide eyes, acting like, "We have to get out of here, NOW!" I put on our jackets and we went out out into the cold night air. He just sat, staring at the moon and musing, "Whoa, Dude! What're we doin' out here?" We did that three or four times (What? You wouldn't have? What if he really meant it one of those times?) Much like the drug dudes of the 70s, he finally fell asleep.

My doggie nursing skills are becoming finely honed. I can put a guaze pad on a tiny leg and wrap it in stretchy wrap in about three minutes. I can swab the dreadful maze of stitches across his tummy and slather them in Neosporin in about two minutes. Twice a day, I work on his little body, using stuff from a shoebox full supplies like I did when I played nurse with my dolls as a kid. But this is serious stuff. So serious, I'm even making him wear the head cone that we both hate. It changes him from Dog 1.0 (chews off stitches) to Dog 1.2 (scrapes leg with cone while trying to get to stitches, then pulls leg into cone and chews on it because he can.)

I couldn't leave by himself, since he was hellbent on turning his underside into hamburger. It's a good thing he's portable. I put him under my arm and took him to church, to the electronics store, the bank, the post office. He got lots of sympathy, which he acknowledged with an owl-like stare. I also learned why Nature doesn't want Boomer-aged women to have babies. Doing everything with one arm while holding a little being in the other is damned hard! (It didn't seem that hard when I was 23.)

I hope he'll soon be walking on his own three feet (yes, he has four, but the crooked leg is usually held close to his body without touching ground), and I'll get my life back. Maybe someday we'll be able to take a walk in a park. Or maybe we'll just wear matching sports caps and root for our favorite teams on TV. Whatever. As long as he keeps hangin' in.

BTW, his new middle name is Milagro--"Miracle" in Spanish.

Who Knew?

My mother is 81 years old, lives by herself, and won't have a microwave in the house. She's certain the "rays" are totally harmful to the human body. (Who knows? She could be right!)

We didn't know her distrust extended other forms of technology until she wound up a rehab facility last week after a minor health incident. The facility has phones only in the hallway--problematic, if the reason you're in rehab is that your legs don't want to respond. One of my sisters offered to get her a cell phone, but she refused. My sister joked that Mother thinks the cell phone will give her brain cancer and she'll die young.

She's working like crazy to get her muscles moving so she can get home--to her cat, her own bathroom--and her corded phone. Who knew this could be so motivating?

And who knew that a Bemused Boomer--mother and grandmother herself-- would so acutely miss talking to her mother on the phone?

Sleeping at the Edge

Everyone who sleeps with a pet knows it will mysteriously gravitate toward the center of the bed during the night . OK, that's a given. Pets are master skoochiers (skoo-chee-er: one who skooches, inch by inch, into your space.) But what I don't understand is how one double bed+one 7-pound dog=no room for me. How does that happen?


When I got Scruffdog last month, he was so busy recovering from his terrible encounter with a big dog--and so doped up--that he didn't move at all during the night. "At last!" I thought. "I've found the perfect dog!" Oh, but but nay. He was just a very sick little dog. He's getting better, bit by bit. And more dog-like. It warms my heart to see him play with his squeaky toy. I love that his appetite is good. But when it comes to my bed, he's messing with the Alpha Female!

OK, I'm going in there right now to show him who's boss. I'm going. I'm determined. Oh, but just look at that little head hidden among the covers! Awwww, isn't that the cutest thing? Maybe I'll just skoochie him over a little, and try not to wake him...

...and that's how it works. All the resolve in the world melts away when faced with an adorable dog face (and they're all adorable). [Sigh.] I guess I'm destined to sleep at the edge of the bed for the rest of this dog's natural life!

Angel Dog

Yes, I know this picture is ridiculously cute. That's why it's here. I haven't felt very amusing lately, and this is my way of making it up to you.

Like the rest of us, Scruffdog has had a tough time of it since November. He's wearing this attractive Victorian collar because the groin wound he sustained (when attacked by a big dog) didn't heal. Then he tore it open last week. The vet cleaned it all out, stitched him up, and sent us home with an array of pills that would do a senior citizen proud. It seems to be healing nicely, but when I feel sorry for him and remove the annoying appendage, he instantly tries to chew the stitches off. The only wayI can be sure collarless Scruffdog isn't chewing himself is to hold him. I'm typing with one hand, and my arms are getting numb. But I'm nice and toasty; it is amazing how warm a 7-lb. dog stuffed in your vest can keep you!

He's a plucky little survivor, a great inspiration for an unemployed and soon-to-be-single Boomer. He thinks the sun rises and sets on me--who wouldn't be cheered up by such devotion? As I care for him, his slow healing reminds me that wounds don't stay raw forever. And that sometimes we find divine hope in the unlikeliest places.

Whatever You Do, Don't Make Eye Contact

Little Scruffdog came into my life last week, from a rescue organization that saved his life in November after he was savagely attacked by a large dog. He weighs seven pounds. I don't know how much the attacker weighed, but I can see from the wounds on Scruffdog's tiny body that the attacker's teeth reached from his butt to the middle of his tummy. The right rear leg sometimes bears weight when he's standing, but he holds it close to his body when he does his endearing three-legged scoot-along.

Within two days of his joining my pack, the skies opened up and dumped several feet of snow all over the Pacific Northwest, a storm that hasn't been seen since--well, since ever. Three feet of snow and a 10" tall dog make for a poor combination any time. If said dog is new to the place, doesn't know the routine, and is injured, anything can happen. I would like to say he is starting to respond to my commands, but it turns out Little Scruffdog has his own sign language and is waiting patiently for me to figure it out.

It only took one accident on the rug for me to realize that when he puts one paw on top of my foot, it's time to go out. Young Geezer took him out into the tamped-down snow on the sidewalk and Scruffdog obliged within a few feet of our yard. When I took him out, he sat quivering in the snow, one front paw up, looking pitiful. (I think one paw up means, "Do I have to?") Try to understand: I'm in full-on nurse mode; I dress his wounds, administer five kinds of medicine, and hold him in my arms while I watch TV (which I do a lot right now, since we're snowed in). How could I drag this poor little creature onto the frozen tundra and demand he perform? I carried him back, apologizing profusely.

I told Young Geezer what happened. "You mean you turned around and looked at him?" he asked, incredulous. Apparently, Young Geezer walks without looking back until he feels enough drag on the leash to know his little charge has found an interesting spot. He knows the big pleading eyes and tiny raised paw will melt the hardest of hearts. "Whatever you do," he said, "Don't make eye contact!"

I might be able to do this. But do I have to?

With Thanks to the Chinese

It's Fall in the Pacific Northwest. Daylight is becoming almost non-existent, as people drive to and from work in the dark. It's hard to be cheery sometimes.

I recently bought a new full-length mirror that was made in China. Having a full-length mirror in my room doesn't help me be cheery. And when the glass slipped down in the frame and cracked within days, I was downright surly.

I don't have a happy history with Made-in-China products. In the last four months, I acquired an alarm clock that rang at the wrong time, a coffee maker that burned coffee (it was cheerfully replaced--with one that heats liquid to lukewarm,) and a lamp whose switch died in infancy so I have to plug and unplug it at the wall socket. I decided not to fight the system on the stupid mirror. I shoved it to the side of my bookcase.

A couple of days ago, I needed to rummage in the corner behind the mirror. I saw something out of the corner of my eye that confused me. A woman wearing my same clothes was moving about. She was probably four inches taller than I am, and 15 pounds lighter. Who the hell was that? (As I said, I've been a bit surly of late.) A second look revealed that my magic Chinese mirror was reflecting a new, improved version of me. Well, all right, then. That's much better!

I moved the mirror to a place I pass more often. Sometimes I walk past it when I don't really need to. I'm feeling much more cheerful these days!

The Thanksgiving Day Newspaper

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Thank goodness I don't have to cook. I'll be too busy trying to open my front door.

The Thanksgiving edition of our local paper is scheduled to weigh about 7 pounds. The newspaper delivery person hasn't quite worked out the best place leave my paper--the bushes next to the porch have been ruled out, the driveway under the pick-up truck is not good, and the middle of the swampy front yard is downright dangerous if you're not wearing hip waders . Yesterday, my paper was wedged against the screen door. I had a hard time opening the door --and that was just a puny little weekday paper.

Seven pounds of retail ads promising Christmas delights--if only I'm willing to get up at 3 A.M. and fight thousands of my neighbors for them--might do serious damage to my screen door (or my back) if I try to strong arm my way out. If you happen to pass my house and notice me at the front window pointing frantically at the front door, won't you please roll the behemoth newspaper off the porch so I can escape?

Thank you.

Chocolate Ancestors

When I was a kid, I thought the See's Candy lady was my great grandmother. I came about this misconception when my dad's mother, Gramma Jo, pulled an old box of pictures out of her closet and showed me a picture of her mother. Once. For about 30 seconds. I got a glimpse of white hair, little round glasses, and a white collar. Gramma Jo was German-American, which partially explains her belief that children should be seen and not heard--and should definitely not touch a person's private stash of old pictures. I never saw that picture again--until See's Candy opened a store in the mall near our house.

All the women in our family are chocolate slaves, so a See's Candy store opening was a major event. My mother and I floated into the store on a cloud of chocolate aroma. I couldn't see over the counter, which put me at eye level with shelf after shelf of beautiful, glistening mounds of chcolates. I was hooked. And there , in a frame on the counter, was a picture of my great-grandma. I recognized the white hair, the little round glasses, and the white collar.

"Mom, Mom!" I cried. "That's Gramma Jo's mother!" My mother was lost in the ecstasy of choosing chocolates. She looked at me with dreamy eyes and said, "No, I don't think so. That's a picture of Mrs. See." I was thrilled. I was related to the See's Candy Lady!

My affection for Great-gramma/Mrs. See grew with each visit to the See's candy store. I envisioned the lady with the halo of white hair and kindly face whenever Grandma Jo mentioned her mother.

When I got older, I asked my dad about his wonderful grandmother. He looked puzzled. "She was tougher than a drill sergeant," he said. "She dragged me to church every morning before school, and smacked me in the head if I didn't pay attention." I asked why he didn't just tell her he didn't want to go. "When Grandma Schussler told you to do something, you did it!" he said, as if the answer was obvious. I was bemused. Who was Grandma Schussler? I thought Mrs. See was my great-grandmother!

It's just as well I never met my actual drill-sergeant, head-smacking German great-grandmother. I rather like my vision of a kindly woman with a ready smile. I've more or less adopted Mary See as my ancestor. Hey, it would explain the chocolate in my blood stream, wouldn't it?

Ve Vill Return Your Coll Widin 24 hour...

I'm trying to cancel my long distance service. I've been trying for six weeks. The service was a great deal 10 years ago, when I set it up with some guy in Utah who seemed to be a one-man operation, giving fabulous rates and customer service. I miss him.

He was bought out by a company whose CEO is now in jail, their customer service is in India, and even my local carrier can beat their long-distance prices. All I have are the phone numbers they chose to divulge to me--numbers that never get me to the person who can actually terminate our ailing relationship. I did get two recorded messages, offering me the opportunity to leave my own message and promising, "Ve vill return your coll vidin 24 hours." A lie, of course--unless "vidin 24 hours" is Klingon for "never." How does one find a private detective? I think I need one.

I made the mistake of allowing the service to bill my credit card directly. Now, my credit card company says they can't stop the bills from being paid until I can prove I told the service to cancel the account. I can't cancel, because I can't find them...

But I have a secret weapon. I am a Boomer, and I remember how to use antiquated methods. I remember how to use snail mail! I shall write a letter. I will keep copies. I will put it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and schlep it to the post office. Then, I will have proof that I want to terminate this account, despite their best efforts to avoid me. My credit card company will accept that. Even a lawyer would accept that.

HA! Take that, you megalithic, multinational, elusive, faceless, so-called "service provider"!

Sometimes, being a Boomer ain't so bad.

Soccer Tot

Baby Girl is now Soccer Tot. Very coordinated and athletic at 2-1/2,she was deemed advanced enough to learn soccer at the YMCA with the 3-year-olds. "Advanced" being a relative term, of course. Beckham has nothing to fear--yet.

I showed up at the big game in a gym overflowing with four running, laughing, talking toddler teams--sometimes chasing the ball, sometimes not. The coaches earned my deep respect for their tolerance for chaos and their ability to explain again and again that no, the goal is not to grab the ball from the other kid with your hands.

My Soccer Tot was so excited to see me that she repeatedly picked up the ball in one arm during practice so she could wave at me with the other as she ran by. Her exuberance began to wane about halfway through the game when the coach gathered the team at the goal. She crawled into the goal, tangling her pony tail in the net. Mom ran out and removed out the stretchy fastener. Soccer Tot grabbed the hair fastener, and ran out onto the court with it when coach returned them to the game. She was too busy playing with it while running to pay any attention to the game. Could drama be far behind? Nope.

Her mom dashed onto the court and took the fastener from her, trying to redirect her attention to the ball. Soccer Tot fell to her hands and knees in the middle of the floor like a wounded warrior. She put her head down on her hands and remained motionless, contemplating the cruelties of life, no doubt.

She eventually got up, walked to the side lines, and crawled into her mom's lap, thumb in mouth.

Beckham would be envious.

Editors Behaving Badly

Two 28-year-old guys from Massachusetts (who must be a real hoot at parties) spent their vacation touring the U.S. and correcting grammar errors on public signs. No one noticed. They proclaimed their triumphs on a web site. Then someone noticed. Federal prosecutors, in fact. It seems the Feds don't take kindly to having 60-year-old historic landmark signs defaced.


CNN called them "Typo Vigilantes." The Chicago Tribune, called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation." I call them editors with too much time on their hands.


I get it; I'm a compulsive proofreader, myself. I can't read an incorrect sign without correcting it in my head. But these guys didn't just do it in their heads: they defaced a 60-year-old, hand-painted sign at the Grand Canyon National Park's Desert View Watchtower. They were tried in court, sentenced to probation and banned from national parks for a year.

They used a marker to cover an erroneous apostrophe, put the apostrophe in its proper place with correction fluid, and added a comma. They did not, however, correct the misspelled word, "emense." They didn't want to deface the sign any more than they had. That makes me crazy. What kind of an editor, having begun to create a symphony of correctness from chaos, stops half way? Oh, yeah. The kind that knows they are not only courting the normal scorn writers heap upon editors, but also time in a jail cell--where I understand there is lots of writing badly in need of good editing. A wisely missed opportunity, I would say.

I Don't Think Nebraska is the Answer

I hope some of my friends don't read the article. The one in the paper that tells about a law Nebraska recently passed allowing parents to leave children at hospitals and ask that they be taken care of. It's intended, of course, to protect infants and small children from being abandoned in unsafe places--but think of the possibilities! That surly, pierced, 13-year-old--gone! That noisy, tattooed 16-year-old--out of your face for good! Legally getting rid of that hyperactive 8-year-old who hasn't slept in two years! Yep, I fear some of my weary friends may be packing their cars to move to Nebraska at this very moment.

Apparently, some parents really did think that way. A 34-year-old father deposited nine children ages 1 to 17 at Creighton University Medical Center -- and then walked away.The Omaha World-Herald reported that the man had a “history of unemployment, eviction notices and unpaid bills – and a psychologist’s determination that he lacked common sense.”

It took a psychologist to point out that this man lacks common sense? Those poor kids! Several of them are at the age where kids naturally think their parents are not very smart--but what a shock to find out that in your case, it's true! I'm sure the state of Nebraska and their concerned extended family will figure out something for them, but I suspect "bewildered" is a gross understatement of their current mental state.

I would say this law isn't working out the way the lawmakers thought it would. I'm sure my beleaguered friends will snap out of it and unpack their cars. After all, they're just suffering from a lack of sleep--not a lack of common sense!

Rats: Foiled Again!

My dishwasher is broken. I'm trying the stoic approach to getting Young Geezer to install a new one. (Me: "dishwasher's broken." YG: "Yup." Me: "I think we need a new one" YG: yup, I'll pick one up after work and put it in when I have time.) I much prefer the whining approach; being quiet and kindly does not come naturally to me. I am not totally lacking in empathy, though. Young Geezer's truly awful job is keeping him obscenely busy lately. Best to wait until they've squeezed his brain dry before asking him to do manual labor in the kitchen.

That's how it came to pass that I have a dishwasher in a box in the garage. In the kitchen, I have "The Drying-Rack-Formerly-Known-as-Dishwasher."

I think I've been patient long enough, but nary a complaint will pass my lips. Alternate tactics, however, are not out of the question--as long as they are done quietly. I now have a drawer full of paper plates and plastic cutlery, installed without fanfare. Enough of this 20th Century dishwashing drudgery!

Tonight, I spied a melon wedge and a container of vanilla yogurt in the fridge. I thought the two would make a nice snack. I headed for the dining room table, clutching a paper plate bearing melon generously covered in yogurt.

Alas! The paper buckled, the melon leaped onto the floor, and a 3-ft. line of yogurt splatted across the carpet. This was not in my plan. I let out a few choice comments--totally forgetting that the windows were wide open. A neighbor pushing a baby stroller looked surprised and picked up her pace.

Here's what I've learned:

1. Use two or three paper plates stacked together to avoid messy mishaps (yes, I do know it's not as environmentally friendly. Yes, I care. No, not enough to wash another damn plate!)
2. Glance at the windows before emitting a string of invectives on warm nights.
3. Scrubbing yogurt out of carpet is even more loathesome than washing dishes by hand.

I rinsed the melon, poured the rest of the yogurt on it, and had it for my snack. What a good girl am I! And, as promised, nary a complaint...

Pretty Money

We actually found time for a vacation this year. We went to a Canadian lakeside resort that forces people to relax by simmering them into limp-pasta pliability in several hot spring pools. It's kind of miraculous--even stressed-out Young Geezer stopped bouncing off of walls by the second day. It's taken 24 hours for my fingertips to stop looking like prunes, but it was so worth it!

Yes, I'm back, sort of. My head isn't quite ready to admit the vacation is over. The weather gods smiled upon us; they gave us glorious sunny warm days (which they owed us, after trying to freeze and drown us most of the summer.) We basked; we soaked, we napped, and we read our books. I even shopped, which is something I don't ususally enjoy. I think it had something to do with the Canadian money.

Spending monochromatic greenbacks always feels like serious business. Those scowling dead presidents fairly shout: "Be prudent! Spend wisely!" I bet those old guys are rolling in their graves since we've started adding tiny bits of color and shine to our bills.

Canadian money, on the other hand, is like a little party in your wallet. Pinks, mauves, artwork, sparkly things--who wouldn't feel good about spending it? And how serious can you be when you're paying for things with "loonies" and "twoonies"? I didn't even try.

I have a few Canadian bills left. I'll put them in our Canadian money jar for our next trip--but not yet. I'm going to admire the pretty money a little more, before I sigh and go back to the scowling old guys.

Young Geezer's Second Income

Young Geezer emailed me from his office today, saying his second source of income has been cut off. He even used an exclamation point. I didn't know he even had a second source of income—should I be worried?

When I inquired, he said, "They took the stamp machine out of the copy room. It was a pretty good source of extra cash -- two 42 cent stamps for 75 cents -- 9 cents profit per purchase. Whoo-hoo!"

We had been getting rich, 9 cents at a time, and I didn't even know it. But he had even bigger plans:

He said, "I was going to make a 'How To Become A Millionaire -- In Your Spare Time' infomercial, detailing how to find and exploit small stamp machines like ours."

Poor guy. Perhaps I'll place a cool cloth on his fevered brow and give him some iced tea when he gets home.

Housework Can Be Really Bad for You

My mom used to make us kids do our housework chores before we were allowed to leave the house each day. She was no dummy; she knew she wasn't likely to see much of us once we escaped. I now know that was good common sense on her part, but at the time it felt like punishment. Housework still feels like punishment to me, and recent news items aren't doing much to change my mind.

For instance, a woman in Maine recently came face-to-face with a the head of a snake while pulling wet clothes out of her washing machine. As a kid, I might have thought that was cool. But she was a grown-up, and the head was attached to a live 8' python. The news story didn't say if she screamed, fainted, or just gave up taking baths and doing laundry. See? this is what I'm talking about. Housework can be really bad for you.


A Wisconsin woman who cleans vacant apartments for a living found a stereo speaker in one of the apartments. She gave it to her son-in-law after her boss told her to keep it. Son-in-Law heard a rattle inside the speaker, pried it open--and boom! Thousands of dollars popped out (better than an 8' python, right?) It turned out to be money from a bank robbery a couple of years earlier. I can imagine that, just for a split second, they thought about all the wonderful things they could do with the money (stop cleaning vacant apartments, for one.) It must have been heartbreaking to give up those brief dreams and turn it in. But they did. See? you can get your heart broken doing housework!


And now... The python is in a shelter, the money is back in the bank, and the bank robber is in jail. Even if housework isn't bad for you (and you won't convince me of that), it might be a good idea to give it up before the excitement causes a heart attack.

My Brain is getting AARPed

When I got that first AARP magazine (it's eerie--I can't remember my own birthday sometimes, but AARP knows when it is!), I threw it away and refused to join an organization of old people. I gave in about five years later, when I started feeling like AARP material. Disturbingly enough, I actually enjoy the magazine.

I didn't realize that reading about my fellow AARPians, who actually spend years planning their beautiful retirements, would put my brain on the AARP track. I now think about walk-in bathtubs, MediCare, and my hope that I'll be able to drive until I die (preferably not while engaging in said activity.) These things had never occurred to me before. Thanks, AARP.

I drive low-maintenance-high-gas-mileage Japanese car, and have for years (many of those years in this same car!) I used to think that one day I might have a Mercedes, but to my dismay, even my dreams are changing. I used to look at Mercedes drivers with a tinge of envy, but now that I have the AARP mindset, I look at them with a tinge of pity.

"You poor people," I think, "Did you even think about your retirement when you decided to spend all that extra money for a status car? You could be driving a low-maintenance-high-gas-mileage Japanese car and putting the difference away for the future!" Only recently has it begun to dawn on me that maybe the the future they saved and planned for included a Mercedes. If you do it the AARP way, it seems, such a thing is possible.

Rats! If only I'd started reading the magazine five years sooner!

I Remembered the Baby, Didn't I?

Baby Girl's mother is a good-natured, patient woman. This is a good thing. She needs a lot of patience--not to deal with Baby Girl, but to deal with me and my efforts to be a dependable, grandmotherly person.

I know I'm not supposed to give Baby Girl "kiki" (candy), so I don't. But she and I each have a sweet tooth, so I'm ever in search for "kiki" replacements. Her enthusiastic response to Costco's latest dried fruit treats ("Just fruit, no preservatives!") felt like a great victory. We ate them with gusto at the free concert we attended today to give Baby Mom a chance to pack for a camping trip. After the concert, we played with the crayons, markers, puzzles, books, and princess dress-up clothes I keep at my house for her. She was well and truly tired after our adventures.

When I returned Baby Girl to her mother, she was glassy-eyed and ready for her nap. Another victory! Her mother would get a couple more precious hours without coloring, puzzles, and demands for kiki. Baby Girl Mom retrieved the car seat and the diaper bag from my car. We chatted, she retrieved Baby Girl as she made a run for the neighbor's house, we chatted some more, then she put the car seat into her car. Much "bye-bye," hugging, "see you tomorrow," and waving ensued.

As I pulled into a supermarket parking lot fifteen minutes later, Baby Girl Mom called. She was laughing. "You remember that I pulled the diaper bag out of your car?" (She knows my Boomer brain is becoming more decrepit each day. I assured her I did, wondering if this was a test.) "Well," she continued, "it seems I didn't remove it from behind your car. It now has a perfect tire track right down the middle of it!" (Oh, good. It isn't a test. I'll still be allowed to take Baby Girl without a chaperone.) "You didn't manage to crush the box of baby wipes, though." I offered to come back and have another go at it, but for some reason, she declined. Whew! I still looked good (I think).

When I opened my trunk after shopping, I blinked a couple of times, trying to grasp the meaning of the accordioned pink and purple nylon thingie in the middle of it. (If you don't use an umbrella stroller every day, your brain might have trouble deciphering what it is. Mine did, anyway.) Ooops. So much for looking good!

One embarrassing oversight doesn't erase two really good victories, does it? I hope not. I'll find out from Baby Girl Mom when I return the stroller. I'm sure she'll understand that no chaperone is required--yet!

Angels, Blue and Otherwise

Seafair is an event that happens every year in the Seattle area, amidst frenzied TV promotion and huge traffic interruptions on the bridges that thread the population together over Lake Washington. It began over 50 years ago with a few wealthy people racing speedboats powered by gigantic airplane engines at the south end of the lake. Now it's totally commercial, with hydroplanes owned by sponsors like Oberto Sausage and Budweiser (which, I'm told, when ingested together constitute the breakfast of true champions.)

I've lived here 19 years and have never been to Seafair. Friday was a the "free day" at the event--which seemed tantamount to an exclusive invitation for us unemployed folks. I decided to check out the one event that appeals to me: the performance of the Blue Angels.

I don't know what it is about fighter planes screaming out of the sky, climbing, falling, turning, and flying with wingtips 18" apart that I find so thrilling. Part of it is just that I love airplanes and flying. Especially flights by military pilots. Many years ago I was a flight attendant on a charter airline that flew worldwide. All our pilots were former military, and those guys could fly into and out of anything. They could take off and land in weather and at airports that made scheduled airlines tremble. They were gods in the air. On the ground, not so much. (But that's another story.) Although I tend to hate crowds, buses, and too much sun, I decided it was worth whatever I had to do to see the Blue Angels perform directly over my head.

I rode the bus two hours each way (no parking nearby--it's a neighborhood, not an amusement park), and walked two miles to the lake's edge (because the highly-touted shuttle bus turned out to be non-existent.) I stumbled along, clutching my heavy lunch and picnic blanket in my non-muscular arms. Despite my current status as a pasty couch potato, I sat in the sun until I was burned enough to stay warm in the Arctic without a jacket. Let it be said that Young Geezer (who has been rebuffed for suggesting activities that weren't a fraction as rigorous as this) was at work, and would have laughed hysterically if anyone had tried to tell him where his sedentary wife was and what she was doing.

Yeah, it was grueling. I was stiff and I couldn't straighten my arms the whole next day. But the sky was blue, the breeze perfect, and the performance was magnificent. I would do it again in a heartbeat to feel that thrill. Maybe I would wear different shoes and carry less stuff. Maybe I would use more sunscreen. But I would definitely do it.

I'll also ride the bus again, soon. I experienced something I don't experience in my car: people. I saw young men in gangsta garb help a blind woman--without being asked. I chatted with people from different parts of the world whose paths I would never cross in a usual day. I asked a couple of preteen boys to give up their seats for two elderly men who boarded in the International District. They fell all over themselves to give up their seats. They just hadn't thought of it themselves, that's all. I've heard it said that there are angels all around us. It sure seemed true that day.

What an amazing world. I think I need to consider getting those clunky walking shoes I've been avoiding, and getting out more. Maybe it's even time to buy a bus pass.

(I apologize in advance to everyone who gets stuck behind my slow-moving self on the bus steps, or when I ask the bus driver questions. Hey, I might not be bus savvy--but I can tell you some great stories about former military pilots, if you're interested!)

How Not to Find Lilliwaup

There are good reasons for city people with no sense of direction to avoid trying to find places like Lilliwaup. The extra three hours that must be allotted for getting lost, for instance… .

I grew up in a city. I live in a city. My idea of long-distance driving is hopping on a freeway with a book-on-CD in the stereo, setting the cruise control, and putting my brain in neutral until I reach my turnoff. The weakness of this strategy became apparent when I set off to visit my friend in Lilliwaup (yes, there really is such a place) along the Hood Canal at the edge of the Olympic Forest. My friend retired to a cool house that has an even cooler deck with a stunning view of the canal and Mt. Rainier. I was really looking forward to a couple of days of relaxing with my friend while admiring the view and envying her (a) retired status (b) cool house with a cooler deck.

If you get off the ferry in Bremerton and successfully exit the city (not a given for some of us), you wind up driving a tiny road three feet from the water and about 20 feet from cabins in varying degrees of habitability. Road junctions look like turnoffs to people's driveways. Missing a junction (as you are likely to do if you are listening to a book-on-CD) means finding yourself in a hamlet you didn't even know existed, far from any road whose name you recognize. It behooves a city person to remember that, though maps are oriented north and south, no such orderliness is imposed on a bunch of peninsulas surrounded by water. And perhaps more importantly, the Hood Canal is not really a canal. It is simply a long, oddly-shaped fjord that just stops at one end. If your destination is northwest, you may have to first go southeast to get there. Which is really sort of a moot point if you don't have a sense of direction and the sky is overcast. Yes, I had a map. No, it didn't help.

I met and entertained lots of friendly locals. Rural folks who drive by landmark and tribal knowledge tend to get a worried look as they try their darndest to help you. You aren't the first city fool they've encountered, and they know your eyes are glazing over. City folks do road names; rural folks do buttes and shipyards--and my favorite: "turn by where the lumber mill used to be." They'd probably be happier to jump in your car and drive you there than to continue pretending the two of you are actually communicating.

I did eventually make it to Lilliwaup--a mere three hours late. My friend broke out a bottle of wine and reassured me that yes, it really is hard to find Lilliwaup if you come on the ferry. "If you come on the ferry?" I cried pitifully, "There's another way?"

She patted me on the back and shook her head. "Why yes," she said, "I-5 south, to 101, to Lilliwaup. We call it 'driving around.' It's how most of the locals do it."