Adikshun

I disconnected my TV cable about a month ago. Feeling pleased with myself, I looked forward to the many hours I would have to write, to think, and to interact with my fellow human beings.

Wrong. Didn't happen.

First, I received a gift of a Roku, an electronic box that connects to your TV and makes it possible to watch certain internet stuff on the beloved familiar box in the living room. I love Roku. I can watch Neflix streaming programming on my TV screen, see news podcasts, listen to music, and generally spend as much time on the couch as I did with cable. This, of course, makes my little dog Oliver very happy; his favorite thing is to snuggle up next to me on the couch, secure in the knowledge that I can't escape without waking him. He falls asleep, only moving when he has those odd little dog dreams that make them "run" in their sleep.

This season I discovered I don't even need Roku to watch a bunch of TV without benefit of cable. Both broadcast and cable networks are putting their shows on the web and you can watch whole episodes--every week. This provides me with even more TV than I had with cable, because my cable subscription was for broadcast stations only--no non-network channels. With my super fast FIOS wi-fi and my laptop, I can now spend my whole week watching TV if I so choose. I don't even have to sit in one place to do it; I can carry my laptop with me from room to room. But I won't, of course--or will I?

Just now I made a list of the shows I'd like to follow. OMG! Twenty hours' worth! NOT good. Hard to explain actually doing that without having to examine one's addictive tendencies. I'd like to get outside and do more things, but my part of the desert has been in triple-digit temperatures since June, with only a brief respite that was supposed to be our shift to the Fall season. It's not summer any more--just a"heat wave."A really long heat wave. The net result is the same: a strong aversion to going outside.

SO, trapped indoors. What to do? Clean out that closet? Organize that paperwork? Or watch pretty, well-dressed people solve all their problems in one-hour increments? I like to think of myself as well-organized and businesslike. So why am I leaning so strongly toward the flickering images on a screen--any screen? Could it be (horrors!) addiction? Is it possible that even when Palm Springs once again becomes that lovely warm winter playground for which it is famous I will still be trapped on my couch (or bed, or chair)? The thought is enough to chill my bones, even on this 102-degree day.

But there it is. That incriminating piece of paper. I really like some of those shows. Others are new and sound fascinating.

And that's how it works.

I think I need to get a life!

An Appreciation of the Absurdities of Life is Imperative

What are we looking at here? A raggedy prescription bottle and a tiny wedding cake? Remnants from my recycle bin? Oh, would that we were.

This, my friends, is a company's well-meaning attempt to give good customer service, despite a total lack of competence. It's also, in a weird way, really funny.

A mail-order pet medication company, who shall remain nameless, is supposed to have a note on my dog's records to send his meds in non-childproof containers. (Remember those? You could just twist off the cap without getting red-faced trying to press hard and twist at the same time.)

It seems like a pretty simple request--and they actually succeeded, once.

This time, the pills came in the manufacturer's bottle, which apparently doesn't have a non-childproof model. It was sealed for all eternity from everyone--except clever children--with a large cap. (See this marvel of modern engineering in the picture, bottom right.) I called the company and asked them to send me a non-childproof container, or at least a cap. The Unbearably Cheery Customer Service Rep apologized and promised to send a container.

Today I received a Fed Ex package. It was a sturdy little box that contained about two feet of bubble wrap and a zip-lock bag with one little round cap in it. I was bemused. But not as much as I was when I put the cap and the bottle together. The cap was waay too small. (See picture, lower right. It's on top of the previously mentioned childproof cap.) In fact, it's so small that it could've only been sent by someone who'd never seen the bottle.

So, a Fed Ex trip, a sturdy little box, two feet of bubble wrap and a zip-lock bag--all to transport a teeny little plastic cap. The wrong size teeny little plastic cap. Incredulity short-circuited my brain synapses.

Then I did the only thing I could. I put my hand on my forehead and laughed until tears came to my eyes. Then I wiped my eyes and put my teeny little plastic cap in the cupboard with the bottle. It oughta be good for another laugh tomorrow morning.

Maybe then I'll have enough energy to call the Unbearably Cheery but clueless Customer Service Rep again.

Or not. I could just pour the pills into the old bottle and hand write the new expiration date on it. But I really don't want to try to explain that to TSA when my dog and I board an airplane in six weeks. They might not appreciate absurdity as well as I do.

That MUST be it!

The Desert Sun is my local newspaper here in the desert. It's a skinny little thing, especially in summer after the snowbirds leave and it's just us locals they're advertising to. Having a skinny little newspaper tempts me to read every little article just to have enough reading material to get through my morning coffee.

I recently found a four-inch article (that would have only merited an inch in a larger paper) saying that my Del Webb retirement community made the short list in "Where to Retire" magazine's "Fifty Best Master-Planned Communities in the United States," which has a circulation of 200,000 nationwide. That's a jump up from its 2008 rating in the top 100.

I wonder what changed? The development hasn't added anything major and doesn't seem to be doing anything differently. Oh, but of course. 2009 is when I moved here.

That must be it.

Gorgeous Trumps Cranky

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

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

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

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

Found Bees

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

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

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

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

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

Palm Trees in Skirts

Urban palm trees have always been a puzzle to me. Who thought tall skinny things with a feather duster on top were decorative? Why plant them? I have to admit, they add a welcome green relief to the unrelenting sand and rock of the desert, but really--palm trees? In the city?

Many years ago I knew a young woman from Pennsylvania who came to live in San Diego for a little while. One day she said, "I've decided I can't be civil to palm trees." And she moved back to Pennsylvania. I didn't get her remark for some time. I think I understand now. They really don't belong in the city, do they? They look so fragile, so tenative, as if they know they shouldn't be there. Deprived of their natural "skirts" of dead fronds (because you really wouldn't want a rat habitat next to your house, would you?), they lose some of their visual appeal (well, I think so, anyway.)

Wild palms are a different story. The Coachella Reserve and wildlife refuge is not far from my home. I stopped by and got this swell photo of real, live, indigineous California Fan Palms. I'd never seen wild palms before. Don't they look nice and sturdy, and...well, confident? Who knew a skirt could be so empowering?

Roses in the Desert!

When I left Seattle, I thought I'd be saying good-bye to roses in public places. I thought a rose garden would take so much effort in the desert that only home gardeners would be willing to give the care and watering required. Happily, I was wrong. (Click on this picture. Do you see them? Not winning any contests--except the one where they survive through 120-degree summer heat--yet they seem gorgeous to me.)

Today, Oliver and I searched for new grass to walk on, since both the dog park and the area around the duck ponds in our retirement complex are closed for reseeding. Our backyard is all rock and desert plants (not his favorite recreational milieu.) My little scruffdog dances and rolls with excitement each morning, knowing it's time to ride in the car to a place of grass. I think there is a law somewhere against refusing to give a sweet, otherwise undemanding dog the one thing that makes him dance, isn't there? So, I pulled out the map and found Miles Park, just a couple of miles away.

This park is completely different from the manicured desert-landscaped grounds of our complex. Miles Park looks like the parks of my Lakewood (CA) childhood, surrounded by homes built circa WWII, with big grass playing fields and covered picnic tables. Workers with lunch boxes arrived in their trucks, greeting friends at the tables. Mothers chased toddlers through the play area. Water sparkled in large Rain Bird sprinkler arces, creating something I haven't seen since I got here: mud. Oliver was ready to tramp right through it. (You can take the dog out of Washington, but you can't take Washington out of the dog.)

And then I saw them--roses! We skirted the patches of mud to walk down the little sidewalk that ran between the rows of bushes. The blooms were small by Washington standards, and had not much aroma, but they were lovely, as only roses can be. If I'd been wearing a hat, I'd have doffed it in respect to the City of Indio gardeners who make this unlikely patch of prettiness possible for all of us to enjoy.

I like desert lanscaping, and I'm prepared to live with it for a long time. But this is such a big move, and everything is so very different than it has been for 20 years, I think finding something familiar just thrilled my heart. I don't have to always be New Susan, Desert Retiree. I can be Old Susan ,who remembers parks with space for imagination and play, and neighborhoods of small bungalows brimming over with Baby Boomer children.

Maybe I'm learning to integrate the various stages of my life. It seems appropriate, somehow. Thanks, Oliver, for the assist. I wouldn't get "out and about" nearly as much if you weren't such a good morning dancer!

The Tax Man Cometh

I love having my own pretty little house with a great view of Shadow Hills, blooming desert plants, and a little waterfall. I love that Oliver has a patio and a tiny back yard to nose around in. The only thing I don't love is the tax bill.

It came last week, with two little payment stubs--one-half due November 1st and one-half due February 1st. I knew it was coming, and I saved money. But somehow, it always knocks the wind out of me whenever I get an official-looking letter from a government taxing agency.

The Riverside County Assessor sent me a supplemental form that showed the correct purchase price of my home. But the tax bill was based on the previous owner's purchase price, which was considerably higher than my bargain basement deal. I asked Bill for advice. "Pay it," he said. They'll credit you later. Don't wait for them to fix it before you pay--their remedy for unpaid taxes is to sell your house!" Duly terrified, I resolved to follow his advice if I couldn't get a human on the phone at the Assessor's office.

I called several times; the first time I went through the telephone tree from Hell only to be told my situation required help from an agent, but due to a system problem I couldn't be put through to one. The next day, I made it through the demonic telephone menu, was put on hold, and was told I was the 12th caller. Then I was the 10th, then...well you get the idea. When I finally got to the first position, the bad music on hold ceased. Then the telephone survey I agreed to take began. "No!" I shouted into the phone, "No survey! Agent! Give me an agent!" The cheery automated system said, "This ends the call. Good-bye." I knew it couldn't hear me. I knew it was stupid to yell at it. But I told it how wrong it was, and that this indeed did not end the matter.

I finally got through to a human (hint: press the button for "I want to pay my taxes.") He was friendly and helpful. When I told him my situation, he said, "Just pay it. They'll credit you the overage on your next installment." [Hand smacking forehead. I coulda just listened to Bill!] I emailed Bill to tell him how smart he is. I mailed the check (certified, with proof of delivery receipt). Now I'm sitting back, playing with my dog and listening to my waterfall, waiting for the government magic to happen. It's all good. I'm sure it is. Really.

The Birds are Migrating

Driving down my street at sunset a couple of days ago, I saw a migrating flock of very large birds, flying high and silent. Mesmerized, I pulled over and got out of my car to wonder at them. The sun made their white bellies glint golden against the blue sky, and their V formation constantly reformed itself. It took me a while to recognize them as geese, based on their shape. In Washington, I usually saw Canada geese flying low, honking to each other. This was beautiful and awe-inspiring, these birds moving with quiet purpose on their long journey south. I don't know what they do when they get there, but I hope they get good rest and lots of food. They deserve it.

The next morning I turned onto the main street of my retirement community and saw a couple of very large motor homes, pulling SUVs, enter the gates. I didn't think much of it until I saw several more the next day. And then some more. Suddenly, I realized this was the migration the other year-round desert residents told me about. The Return of the Snow Birds.

The Return of the Snowbirds means the population will swell until early spring. The pools, restaurants and doctor's offices will be crowded. Stores and banks will have long lines. I'm part of a several-thousand-year-old human tradition: people coming to the Coachella Valley for the winter. Artesian wells, sunshine and warm temperatures drew the Native American tribes out of their mountains and hills long before we discovered its pleasures--in fact, "Indio" means "Indian," the town so named because of the tribes that used to gather here.

Retirees are only the latest nomadic tribe in the area. Their predecessors are still here, offering the new tribe shelter, food, and enertainment. That used to be called Pow Wow. Now it's called casinos. Only the birds still do it the old way. Still, both kinds of migratory flocks are pretty amazing.

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."

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!

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.

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?

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!

Teeth is Good

When my body and I were all shiny and new, I had no idea that living a long life involved spending lots of time and money on maintenance. I thought I would always leap nimbly out of bed in the morning, my hair would always be thick and full, and my teeth would only require perfunctory semi-annual visits to the dentist. Oh, if only!

I'm going to the dentist today for lots of injections and drilling that will eventually result in a new crown. It's not my favorite thing, but true to my boomer status, I'll do almost anything that lets me stay in denial about the gradual decline of the organism. I'm grateful for my mouthful of crowns and fillings, and well aware that without them, I'd look like one of those little dolls with dried apple faces.

My current dentist is a tiny woman from Hong Kong. Her skilled hands fit in my small mouth and she works quickly and nearly painlessly. She told me schools were too competitive in Hong Kong, so she had to go to her second choice--Harvard. I love that.

She also made me aware that you can outlive your fillings. What? Did I miss that section in the Human Body Owner's Manual? She's right, though--mine are abandoning me at an alarming rate. She said fillings and crowns only have a life expectancy of 10-15 years. My jaw would have dropped if my mouth hadn't already been propped open.

I'm aghast. Fillings and crowns age faster than we do--and MediCare doesn't have dental coverage! No wonder my Godmother worked until she was over 70. (That, and her strong desire not to be stuck at home with her stone-deaf husband, who refuses to get a hearing aid.)

I'm definitely going to have to figure out a plan to take care of my choppers when retirement rolls around in a half a decade or so. Until then, I'll just stay focused on gratitude--for teeth, for dental insurance, and for a body that can still get itself to the dentist's office!

Hey, it works for Greyhounds--why not Grannies?

Newsweek is running a story about a new kind of nursing home in China for empty nesters whose grown kids live in different parts of the world. The facility has web cams in various locations so the residents' families can see them living their daily lives via computer.

My friend has a greyhound who stays at home--mostly on the couch--while she is at work. She installed a doggie cam when he started chewing on the couch and dragging cushions out into the garden. She keeps an image window open at the bottom of her computer screen to keep an eye on him. Her co-workers love it, though greyhounds really are couch potatoes (who knew?) and he doesn't do much in the way of entertainment for his unseen audience. When he starts to chew or drag, my friend calls the home phone and commands him, on the answering machine, to stop. She can see his head whip up, and he stops (well, usually.)

When it's time for me to go to the group retirement home, I'm not sure I want web cams giving away my secrets ("Oh, look--she's stealing chocolate from the kitchen again!") The only thing that would be worse is having someone holler at me on a speaker. It works great for Greyhounds, but Hell, what's the use of getting old and cantankerous if you can't do whatever you want? I hope this Chinese thing doesn't catch on and turn into Remote Granny Control over here!

Retire in Washington?

One of my retired friends sent me wikihumor (stuff a bunch of people made up) titled, "Where to Live After Retirement". It's a group of tongue-in-cheek lists about various locations. (For example: "You can retire in Florida where...You eat dinner at 3:15 pm," "You can retire in New York where...you think Central Park is nature," etc.) Washington state was not mentioned, probably because people in Arizona don't say to their spouses: "Honey, I'm really tired of all this sunshine, let's retire someplace where it rains a lot!"

I decided that my friends could come up with a funnier Washington State list. I was right. Here are their pithy contributions:

You can retire in Washington where…

1. The phrase "The Mountain is out today" is a weather report
2. There are 27 different names for rain
3. Throwing away anything recyclable is considered a felony.
4. You spend eight hours at work and ten hours getting there and back.
5. Starbucks is considered a sovereign nation.
6. There is a special name for two days of rain followed by a sunny day: "Monday."
7. Salmon is a religion.
8. Thirty days without rain is considered a drought.
9. Loggers have applied for protection under the endangered species act.
10. The main danger at coastal beaches is giant logs, not sharks.
11. Bill Gates and Paul Allen are considered modern-day sex symbols.
12. You never, ever, ever enter a crosswalk until the light is green, no matter how long the street has been empty.
13. You will always be an outsider until you learn to pronounce Puyallup, Snoqualmie, and Tulalip.
14. You will learn to recognize 53 shades of gray.

Wanna retire in Washington?