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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umpqua

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

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

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

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


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

The Plight of the Roadtrip Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road Trip to New Life Begins

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

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

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

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

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

Police Shoot Fire Chief...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deja Doggie Vous

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the Forest Comes to You

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trying Oh So Hard to be Good

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

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

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

Eat Less, Move More

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Why AM I Moving to the Desert?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepless in Bothell

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I'm Leaving Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Art of Getting Out of Bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read that Used Parts List

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

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

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

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

Venturing Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the "D'oh!" Category

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

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

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

Where in the World is Bemused Boomer?

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

I present herewith a brief synopsis:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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


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

Happy Birthday, America. Have some fireworks!

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

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

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

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

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

Achmed Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Molto buono!

Come, Vacation on a Volcano!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lil' Stoner Dude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There Never Used to be Anything Cool About Coachella

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

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

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

Truly Desperate Housewives

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like having Yoda on My Chest

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

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

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

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

We Gotta "Cut to the Bone"

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

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

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

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

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

We Only Thought We Came a Long Way, Baby

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

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

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

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

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!