Penguin lessons...

I don't think I will ever be able to complain about my life again. Kiddo and I saw The March of the Penguins yesterday. I mean, just living in Antarctica is a trick, but the stress they endure to propogate their species is beyond the pale. What magnificent creatures they are, sleek and eloquent, well, when they are standing still. I kept seeing that image of Dick Van Dyke schlepping around with his pants around his knees in Mary Poppins whenever they walked, very funny. After their 70 mile trek to the breeding grounds, they perform an elegant courtship ritual. When the egg comes, things get tricky. Mother must transfer it to Dad, and many don't make it; they freeze instead. That was the first teary moment. The mothers then trek back to the sea, while the fathers tend the eggs through the most God-awful weather on the planet. More eggs bite the dust. If a mother is eaten by seals while feeding, that chick dies, too. And poor Dad, he doesn't eat anything for 4 months! Who thought up this system, anyway? When Mom returns, they do that little transfer, with the chick this time, and Dad waddles off to feed, now more than 70 miles because the ice has spread. Later, both parents get to share in their progeny, for a short moment before they both waddle off, leaving the chicks on their own. The good news is that the sea has come to them, so no long trek. And the new ones get a reprieve of five years playing in the ocean before they begin marching inland every year. Amazing. Well, I guess it beats the cicada, who hibernates for 17 years, emerges, sheds its skin, and enjoys maybe three weeks of life. What is that all about?

Coffee blues...

Now, coffee is my last addiction, since I gave up Diet Pepsi and Cool Whip, years ago. And I am a little picky about what coffee I will drink. I buy fresh-roasted beans at Costco, because it is still warm and smells incredible, plus, it is only $3 a pound. How could it get any better? Well, recently Costco didn't have any of my usual Sumatra, so I tried the Ethiopian, which was wonderful indeed, just different. And the next time, still no Sumatra. Now I was unhappy. And I bought the Columbian Supremo, which I like a lot, too, but it's just not the same. And I thought probably Costco knows I like the Sumatra and stopped making it just to pique me. Then I remembered; once upon a time I worked for a coffee importer. Coffee is grown in the southern hemisphere of our little blue ball, and the new harvest season begins in their summer, which is our winter. So Costco may have just run out of Sumatra beans, and I just have to be patient until the next harvest, and it will come back! Imagine that. This was not about me after all. What a relief!

Vitamins for my superego...

Good deeds are so much fun! I spoke to my first class of drunk drivers last night. This is a public information commitment for AA, and it is a challenging one. Our traditions state that we are a program of attraction, not promotion and we maintain a position of public anonymity. Nevertheless, it is sometimes necessary to inform the general populace of our existence, and so many of these offenders are sentenced to AA meetings, so AA sends speakers in to let them know what we offer, what to expect and what not to expect. I went to my first AA meeting all by myself, and it was a strange and somewhat harrowing experience, stepping off into the unknown. There were all these tough-looking guys milling around the entrance, smoking, so immediately I was forced to run the gauntlet just to get into the room. I came late, just before the meeting, and left early. People looked pretty much like ordinary folks. I worried about being dressed for the occasion till I got there and found that anything would have been appropriate. Some people wore business attire, others work overalls, most casual California clothes, jeans and chambray shirts and pricey athletic shoes. No one wore trenchcoats. They clapped a lot, and men talked about (gulp) their feelings! Not only that, they hugged each other after the meeting. The man I talked to when I called the hotline showed up, and gave me his Big Book and a loaf of bread! The only thing I remembered was the closing chant, keep coming back. That was enough. I did. So I shared this experience with these people last night, none of whom were particularly happy to be there, and I kept it light and amusing but real, too. And my partner, dear Roger, did his fervent story, and was magnificent. And it was a total success; we both stayed sober. And just to make it even more eventful, one young man followed us out and asked which meetings we recommended. The world needs these people to get sober, and maybe one of the thirty in this class will make it. It was a day to remember, for sure.

You can't go home again, not ever.

I drove to the coast last night, down the river road that winds like a tortured serpent along the water. There were plenty of cows to wave at, rusty red Herefords and later, stocky, compact Black Angus. A great blue heron was in the pasture with them, posed on one leg. The deja-vu thing was unnerving. A whole bunch of feelings came over me on that drive: angst, a little regret and finally relief that I would be leaving again in a few hours. I stopped in Duncan's Mills to check out the new emporium and antique shop, which was filled with murky paintings and garage-sale discards, very little that smacked of real antiquity, all priced for the affluent tourists who ply the road on weekends. At river's end, I stood on the cliff and watched the seals on their little isthmus at the mouth, laying in the lowering sun like fat slugs. Lines of pelicans flew in like 747's and congregated along the river there, too. It was all so familiar, and not mine anymore. Then we wended our way up the steep hill to the old house. The garden has bushed out and now truly is a jungle. All that rain last winter and spring didn't go to waste there. I ate dinner there, in the window overlooking the river, at a different table and in a different chair. Somehow I had pictured it as it was when my furniture lived there, as if it would follow me and still be in the little yellow house when I got home. Boo was delighted that he could wander around outside without me hovering over him and spent most of the time exploring his old haunts, a great sacrifice, leaving his usual post under the table anticipating tidbits. At the end of the evening, we drove off away from the sunset and the old friends and the little town on the edge of the world. It is much farther away than I remembered.

If it looks good, isn't it?

I grew up in a picture postcard home, all clean and sparkly. Look in any window from the outside, and it was Hallmark card time, family all gathered in the family room, roaring fire, rosy red wallpaper with cabbage roses rampant, braided rug, and 21 inch Zenith flickering. It was a different story inside, where Dad seethed and Mom bit her finger raw trying to control her rage. Mom's thing was a bottle of Thunderbird in the cupboard that housed the potatoes. She reached for that stuff every night before supper, just a glass or two, never more. Everyone wished Dad would drink. Dinners were a mine field, eaten with haste, which was a shame; Mom was a good cook. Food was one of the few ways we were nurtured, and it is one of my issues even now. So, I reproduced this aura of wonderfulness in my life too, tried to give it that patina of acceptability. It didn't work for me. Wonderfulness is not in the things around me. It is an inside job. I forget that when I pay one of my rare and brief visits to my ex-husband and his wife. They are fine people, and they have a House Beautiful home, decorated and arranged and antiseptically clean, radiating taste and wealth. My house is not like that. I am still in the shabby chic mode we all attained in our first digs: Cost Plus bookcases and cane chairs, hand-me-down dresser and futon sofa. Of course, I have a dynamite Dell and a laptop and a whole bunch of printers and when I have money, that is what I prefer to spend it on. I rent. Sigh. Most of the time, though, I think I am a success in my life. I have a plethora of friends, amazing adult children who I love, a darling little dog and a sweet parakeet, an income that just arrives at the end of every month, and I love going to school and learning; it is a dream come true. So, it might not look like it from the outside or from the perspective of the "American dream", but I am successful here. Really.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing...

And ignorance is even worse. I read in my psych textbook that one researcher found that we have two types of knowledge; fluid, which is our sort of human RAM, that which we use to learn and assimilate new information, and crystallized, the accumulated information of our lifetime. Well, there's good news and there's bad news; the crystallized kind just keeps growing as long as we are alive, and the fluid kind drops off dramatically the older we get. It appears that some of us get older faster, like our elected officials. A ticket to Washington seems to automatically lower their IQ, and send their testosterone levels soaring, too. Power is something that is apparently intoxicating and titillating at the same time. I don't like politics, try to stay away from any opinions at all, and yet, does anyone else think our president has peaked out on his fluidity? Is it just me, or does he look a lot like Alfred E. Neuman of Mad Magazine fame? Since when do our leaders just stamp their foot and give us this I-am-not-wrong-ever crap? It is scary, folks. And even scarier that there are still a lot of people who are buying it. Fortunately, there is Air America. And Bernie Ward. And Bill Maher.

Confessions of a dog show groupie...

Dogs are such wonderful people. My brother and his partner breed wire-haired dachshunds, not the itty-bitty squeaky ones, the standards, stalwart 16 pounders. Wire-hairs are the mellowist of the clan. Around the house, they sprawl all over the place, often on their backs with all four feet waving in the air, like they have on their bathrobes. Their hair sticks out in odd places. Then they get into the show ring and you would think they were on the red carpet. They jaunt along with a see-me attitude. Man, it is a joy to behold. And so, I know when I watch these glitzy dog shows on TV that these are really just somebodys' pets prancing around the ring, all dolled up and putting on the Ritz. The English are a little more pedantic; their animals actually look like everyday dogs. Ours, here in the United States, are groomed to the max. I know that poodle breeders actually use shoe polish or chalk to cover up pink spots after those ludicrous trims they give those poor dogs. And the competition is among the humans, only. The dogs could care less. I watched the Eukanuba National Dog Show the other night, and even though I had to get up early to study for my final the next day, I could not turn it off without seeing the Best in Show winner. And what a hoot, it was Jeffrey, the Pekingese, this waddling clump of tawny fur. The judge said it was because he had the perfect head for the breed. Hard to tell that creature even had a head. And this is about as far away from the original animal, the wolf, as dogs go. I know from personal experience, too, that this is an affectionate breed, and a wonderful companion animal. My friend Joe, master of dear collie-mix, Shadow, said today how very rich he feels. Amen.

Being one...

I have read bunches of spiritual books. In fact, behind me at this very moment is my woo-woo bookcase just bulging with them. It has been an interest of mine for more years that I have been sober, actually, beginning with Shakti Gawain's Creative Visualizations, which caught my eye mostly because I wanted more than anything to create my own universe. I had spent so many years tossed around because of the expectations of the cruel world. Poor me. Later, I read Love is Letting Go of Fear, which sent me on a long journey of studying The Course in Miracles, not a worthless pursuit by any means. At least it helped me stay out of my self-pity for a while. And then The Road Less Travelled gave me a new and better perspective of love and life in general. Eventually, I read The Tao of Physics and The Dancing Wu-Li Masters, books that draw the interesting conclusion that Eastern thought and Western physics have landed us all in the same place, that there is only one thing happening here. The stars are made of the same stuff we are made of, it is all energy delightfully arranged in many different shapes. So I know under all the picayune crap that happens every day around me, I am really one with all these people, even the ones that cut me off on the freeway, even the ones that drive monster trucks with tires taller than me, even the ones who pilot a shopping cart piled with everything they own into the library on a rainy day. Now, that's challenging, to realize that some of what I am one with smells bad, and isn't very attractive. And it is humbling, too. And empowering. I am not a spare part, after all, a leftover without form or function. Somewhere in this web of humanity, I am connected and have a place. Today, I am practicing being a part of the world. Not sure what that will look like, but here I go! One.

Hitler was really nuts...

One of the fun things we got to do in our psychology class was diagnose two really crazy dudes: Hitler, and Van Gogh. The only hint we got was that there were more than one diagnoses. So, I did Vincent first. He was obviously bi-polar, seriously so, with major mood swings from high elation to the depths of darkness. You can see it in his art, too. Some of his paintings explode with color and energy. Others are dark and muddy. He was also an alcoholic, which was like throwing gasoline on his fire. But I didn't know that the poor guy was named for an older, deceased brother, and that he had to pass the graveyard where the first Vincent lay in eternal rest every day of his young life, so he began his life with serious survivor guilt. Personally, I diagnosed him as a borderline personality, which would account for the incident with the ear. Of course, absinthe had a role in that episode, as well. And oh, my, God, Hitler. He was his mother's favorite, and had a terror for a father. He really never had a chance of health. He was obsessive-compulsive to the max. I kept thinking, man, he was paranoid, and settled for a diagnosis of paranoid personality syndrome, with narcissistic and histrionic overtones, who was fixated in the anal period, too. But, no, he was really paranoid schizophrenic, high functioning, until something went wrong. That was his Achilles heel. He could not accept defeat, not even small ones. That is why we aren't all marching around like automatons, wearing swastikas and zig-heiling all over the place. Evil never prospers, not for long, anyway. And I really don't believe in evil, anyway. I do believe in profound sickness, though, now, more than ever.

Holy cow!

Once upon a time, 42 years ago, I got the only A on the English 1A final, a written test on material I didn't read. It was not good enough to get an A in the course as I had kind of been more interested in other things, like drinking and smoking and messing around with boys. Well, today, I made up for that. My score on the final was 97 out of 100, for a cumulative total of 572, and a score of 496 was an A for the course. The old gal still has it! Or, actually, finally got it. Hard work beats sweaty, last-minute guesswork every time. I noticed a few of my fellow students sweating away today. And some barely squeaked by with a B. So the test drive was an overwhelming success. Now to bone up on (gulp) math for the placement test. This is tons of fun, and beats working by a mile. Grace.

Rainbows in the bedroom, slugs in the living room.

My friend Sue gave me a rainbow maker for my birthday. It is this little clear plastic machine with interesting gears and cogs that sticks to the window with a big suction cup and has a crystal dangling from it. A solar cell is supposed to power it up, the crystal rotates and sends little rainbows twirling around the room. I have had it there, dutifully stuck to the window, for almost a week, and nothing happened. Well, the window does get only sporadic sunlight due to the big sycamore tree that (thank God) shades the western exposure, and the box did say full sun, but I thought that was pretty persnickety and probably it was just broken. Until yesterday, when Boo and I were perched on the bed in full study mode, surrounded by books and papers and laptop and a pen to chew on, and I looked up. The whole room was whirling with them, joyous little rainbows. "Look, Boo!", I cried. You should have seen the look on his face; his eyes got as big as sewer lids. The shade came back only moments later, and the show ended. Is anyone else as amazed as I am about little things like rainbows? Imagine, this is what light really looks like, all bright and beautiful. And on a more icky note, where do you suppose that slug who leaves that glittery trail all over the carpet every night hides during the day? I have crawled all around the living room, and cannot find that sucker. What does he eat? How long can he survive there, and oh my God, where will he go to die? Inquiring minds want to know.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...

I'm with Meredith on last night's (rerun) Grey's Anatomy; adulthood is overrated. All these decisions to make, checkbooks to balance, and oh my God, traffic. I can see the allure of dementia, where someone else does the dirty work like cleaning the bathroom. My current headache is that the college keeps bumping me off when I try to register at their weblink. First I thought that maybe I was not in the system to be able to register for more than 9 units. Not so, my counselor, Martha, told me. Then we decided that the computer could not find that I had taken a prerequisite, Eng. 1A (well, it was 43 years ago), so I filled out this nifty affidavit and hoofed across campus to Bailey Hall to stand in line and give it to the harried clerk. He twiddled his keyboard and called out "next", so I figured I was all set. I decided to go home then, and do the deed from my own private keyboard, somehow registering in public right there at school seemed kind of indecent, like I might screw up and someone would see me doing it. This was late in the day on Thursday, of course, and the school is not open on Friday, so another weekend has gone by and I am not registered. Another thing to take care of today, and I still have to study. Tomorrow's my final exam, and I am still murky on Adler and all this really general guessing the experts have done on the origin of personality. Sometimes I think God just loves watching me jump through hoops.

Dog days are upon us...

I had good news the other day; I actually begin this college thing with 30 units of the 60 I need for my AS degree from JC. I had bad news, too; I have to take a natural science, with a lab. So I perused the catalog, and immediately dismissed biology as I have no desire to slice up little creatures, and chemistry, the lab is 3 hours long. Astronomy demanded only one lab a week, but it was 9 hours, from 3 pm till midnight. So I decided to take meteorology. What is more enigmatic than the weather? We have been limping along this summer, for instance, with fog that hung around till 11 am, and suddenly, temperatures soared into triple digits, which was 10 degrees over what was predicted, and we all sat around with sweaty glasses of fizzy drinks, shaking our heads. My old friend at the coast, on the other hand, had not seen the sun for days. I bet he's seeing some now. Well, it could be worse. My friend from Manhattan was talking to an old buddy, and they are dying in NYC. Their heat is mucho different from ours, humid and sooty back there, dry and smelling of sun-silvered grasses here. Today looks like a repeat of yesterday, and that is just as well. I am hunkered down, readying myself for my final and have no time to flit about town. We have double-paned windows that captured the little cool we got in the night. And I actually look forward to learning why we can land a man on the moon, and still not be able to predict the weather.

CSI musings...

OK, I admit it. I watch CSI, reruns, I'm sure, because I am usually way behind the madding crowd about this stuff. Star Trek Generations had been on the air for years before my brother talked me into checking it out; it seemed such a betrayal to Captain Kirk & Co. And I only began watching CSI because I had a couple of hours to kill before Monk, which I used to watch on East Coast feed at 7 pm, and now have to wait until 10 like the rest of the peons. So, isn't it interesting the myriad of ways that people age? William Peterson, who was such a hottie when he was young and nubile, has now become this fireplug kind of guy, a lot like my father was, actually; my mother called him "husky", not fat or even plump, just more solidly packed, like an Italian sausage. I just love his character, so laid back, always professional and terribly sincere. It would be nice to think that if I were to die horribly, there would be this team of experts crawling all over the scene like cockroaches, picking up every tiny piece of evidence to pore over in a lab until every nuance of my death was uncovered. I fear that in real life, where there are daily tragedies that pile up like dirty dishes, no one has the time or money for this kind of investigation and I would wind up a cipher in the big ledger of life. And even though he has spread a little, I still like watching William Peterson. He has some good years before, again like my father, he develops little-old-man butt, where he withers some and his pants get that droopy look in the back.

Ode to the Ziploc Bag.

I don't know how I lived without them. My freezer is full of gallon-sized Ziplocs full of Costco muffins. And I keep my veggies in them, where they stay nice and fresh instead of dissolving into mush in the bottom of their store bags. And whoever thought up those red & blue strips that meld together to make purple deserves a big hug, too. People who are digitally challenged, like me, need little helps like that. There are so many things like that in my life now, things that didn't exist when I was a kid, in the mid 40's. Like television. Not HDTV, just television. I got my first VCR 23 years ago, the first of many I would later own, and my first DVD player came along a mere 4 years ago. I said goodbye to my 8 track player, and my laser disc machine, you know, those CD's on steroids that were the size of a vinyl record. And my turntable is on the fritz, but I still have those stored away, just in case I get a few $$$ ahead and can afford to get it fixed. All my young and tender memories are imprinted on those dingy black discs.

Where no man has gone before...

God beamed Scotty up yesterday. I just caught the end of it on a news channel as I flipped by last night. Well, Bones was waiting for him, I'm sure. Back in the 60's, Star Trek was a phenomenom. And we Trekkies were fanatical about it. Klingons and Romulans and tribbles. Mr. Spock's eyebrow. And Captain Kirk fighting harder to hold in his stomach in that velour top than to save the Starship Enterprise from its weekly peril. He had really snappy sideburns that came to a point, sort of counterpoint to Mr. Spock's foxy ears. When NBC threatened to cancel it, I wrote letters. We missed a symphony to see the second part of an episode, probably the pilot which they cleverly encapsulated into flashbacks (it had a different cast) and featured a lot little aliens with big heads who were actually played by little old ladies. Gene Roddenberry was clever that way. I was fondest of the stories that all took place on the ship. The planet scenes were often pretty cheesy, except, of course, when on a Class M planet, like Earth. I can't remember if Scotty ever got to fall in love. I'm sure he did, though. He had to do something more that fiddle with the warp drive. Anyway, here's a Mr. Spockish salute to our fallen hero: Live long and prosper, dear Scotty.

The truly shocking truth...

I just finished Harry Potter VI, and am as shocked as I can be. Won't divulge the ending, as everyone should have their own copy to relish. I tried to stretch it out, actually taking time to do my life in between bouts of reading. Then the last 100 pages gripped me yesterday, and now I am seriously in Harry Potter withdrawal, again. I can only say the next book is going to be a humdinger. And poor Harry. I had to be seriously nagged before I picked up the first book (there were 4 books out by then), and they were like popcorn. I read the third before the second because I had not paid attention to the order of publication, and forestalled reading the 4th waiting for the paperback. It never arrived, and I bought it with a Barnes & Noble gift certificate I got for my birthday (bless you, Steven). I never pay retail for books. Never. The fifth book was a Mother's Day gift (bless you, Amber). Harry is a bright light in this world where they just made a movie of The Dukes of Hazzard, possibly the worst TV show in the history of the medium. Bless you, J. K. Rowling.

Foggy, inside and out...

That guy's name is Patrick Dempsey. Every so often, my brain kind of burps, and I just have to let it digest for a while before it belches out the information I have requested. It is alarming, sometimes, because I forget the names of people I know and see, often. I have been assured that all is well in there, just a little foggy as time wears away at the grey cells. So far, I have been able to access all the data necessary to take tests. The secret seems to be to do a quick and dirty review just beforehand, and of course, to thoroughly read and outline and study the material first. I take it in little gulps, otherwise I space out and that's a waste. I have two chapters to work on for the final, next week. And they are easy ones, because I already know a lot about the disorders, having personally suffered from a lot of them throughout my long life. Well, I self-diagnosed, but I could have, my life has been such a maelstrom of emotion. Sometimes I worry that there is not any drama happening at the moment. This is a good thing. It just feels like it's not worth getting up if there are no dragons to slay. Anyway, I am glad I remembered that hunky guy's name. Staving off Alzheimer's for another day.

Back to network...

Funnily enough, I was more savvy in my television viewing when I lived on the wild and wooly coast, with my satellite dish and HBO. Life revolved around the Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and I would rather watch re-runs than network television, that abysmal soup of reality (translate that as cheap) shows and sub-moronic sitcoms. Now, I am finding that there is a redeeming quality to some network shows, like House, the adventures of Dr. Gregory House, on Fox Tuesday nights. To begin with, there is Hugh Laurie, that delightful actor I remember best as the beleaguered husband of the flibberdygibbit in Sense & Sensibility, my favorite movie to watch when I am feeling a lack of cultural stimulation, and one of the villains in the real-life version of 101 Dalmations, another I own and reserve for more depressed moments. He has been nominated for an emmy for his portrayal of the wounded and tortured but brilliant diagnostician. I particularly resonate with his angst. Then there is Monk, the obsessive-compulsive detective on USA, Friday nights. Tony Shalub is amazing, the stories are unpredictable and quirky and frequently hilarious. He is another Emmy winner, terribly talented. And yes, I am addicted to Desperate Housewives, despite the fact that the show does not portray women very favorably, well, except Felicity Huffman, who does show some spunk in raising her little hellions. And that led me to Grey's Anatomy, mostly because I think Sandra Oh rocks, and oh my God, what has happened to that actor whose name escapes me (dead brain cell), who used to be this pencil-necked geek with an Adam's apple the size of a bowling ball. He is now all hunked out, bless him. You know, he was in Sweet Home Alabama. It will come to me later. So, hope blooms eternal that reality TV will go the way of the western and mosey west till its hat floats, and creativity will once again reign, hopefully not with another CSI.

Old friend has come to visit...

Harry's back! I stopped by Barnes & Noble at noon yesterday, and got the next to last unreserved copy. I really meant to reserve it, just didn't get down there. Nevertheless, am finding that living my life when Harry is within arms reach is really challenging. I did make my meditation meeting this morning, and will have to take some time to wrap a shower gift and concoct some guacamole to potluck with, while that purple book is laying there, singing its siren song. So far it is amazing, and like coming home again after a long, long trip. After Harry, there is this math primer waiting, and it looks kind of fun, actually. Learning is a wonderful experience at my age. Later. I have to eat to keep up my stength to read every spare moment I have today.

Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.

When I was a kid, in the 40's and 50's of the last milennium, I went to the movies at least once a week. We didn't have VCR's so we couldn't wait till they came out on tape, or DVD. But some old movies did make it onto the tube, network, of course, there were also no premium channels. I loved Bar 7 Theater, the westerns starring Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and my personal favorite, Johnny Mack Brown. OK, you never heard of him, but he was yummy. And there were all those Andy Hardy movies, starring Mickey Rooney, who was the Michael J. Fox original, spunky and very short, which kept him in juvenile roles for a long, long time. Andy was your typical angst-ridden teenager, always in love with some teen heart-throb, sometimes it was Judy Garland in her post-Dorothy mode. They were the ones that would get together and throw an extravaganza of a show in the neighbor's barn, something worthy of a Buzby Berkley film. Andy's parents, Judge and Mrs. Stone, were old. I mean, they were older than I am now. They looked at least 70, though in a kindly gone-to-pot-but-still-well-groomed way. Now, think about that. They would actually have been about 40, maybe 50 if they started really late, and people didn't do that as a rule in those days. So that was what I expected to look like when I reached 40, kind of frowsy and a little fat, wearing tents printed with rosebuds that covered me from neck to knees. I am 60, and I can tell you, I don't look like that now. Well, I am 61, but who's counting. I don't plan on looking like that when I'm 80, if by some grace I get to do that. No Ma Kettle mode for me. Which makes me want to run right over to the gym and sweat.

Dreaming...

After I got done with my dreaded presentation yesterday, and got my scintillating grade, I could sit back and watch my fellow students struggle through theirs. Some really knew their stuff, but were as stiff as boards, unable to utter a word that was not on their transperancy or in their slide show. Another group bypassed this humiliation by making a very inventive video, complete with soundtrack. The subject was consciousness, always a favorite of mine. The most interesting concept of consciousness is, of course, dreams. I loved that the group in the video used a lot of 50's music, like Sleepwalk and the Everly brothers Dre-e-e-e-eam, Dream, Dream, Dream, though only the teacher and I got the joke. In their honor, I had a pip of a dream just before waking: I was in church and making change in the collection basket (we often do this when passing the basket at AA meetings). When I looked at the money, I realized that I had taken a $50 instead of a $5. The basket had moved far away by then, so I was determined that I would give it back. Of course. On my way to do that, I found myself rationalizing, thinking that I had given very generously in the past and the church probably owed me at least this much. Now, isn't that interesting, in light of all the stuff psych class has stirred up about my childhood. I'm keeping my $50. It is only a down payment, after all.

A potpourri of angst...

Sad to say, but another friend has decided do more research about drinking. Some rather rude people would tell her she is having her misery gladly refunded. Well, maybe she didn't belong with us in the meetings, guys. Maybe she will be able to control it and drink like a lady, like Holly Golightly in her Givenchi gown and hat, all elegant and svelte. And maybe she will wind up looking like a rough version of Ma Kettle, too. Life is, at best, a crap shoot. You can load the dice, and it will still come up snake eyes sometimes. And sobriety, with all its myriad gifts, is an inside job. I have been cheering my friend along, you know, rah, rah, rah, surrender! Rah, rah, rah, let go! Whenever that happens, it is an indication that I am more engaged with her recovery than she is. And that never bodes well. So I spent a few moments feeling sad and kind of depleted. Today, I will take care of my sobriety with my favorite circle of wise women out in the wilds of west county, where there is warmth and healing happening. I find that an apt antidote to the rudeness of life that happens pretty much every day. Oh, and my presentation that I was all nervous about, that was supposed to happen yesterday, didn't. It is up first thing this morning. I stopped worrying after seeing the few that went before me. I am going to be fine here. Well, there's the bottom line. All around me may flounder, but I am still sober, still afloat. Miracles happen.

Performance anxiety rears its ugly head.

Today is my presentation in my psych class, 10 minutes on physical and cognitive development in adulthood. You would think I was performing Hamlet (the lead role, of course) for the Queen of England. In the nude. I dreamt about it all night, once dreaming that I totally missed getting to class because I had a fender bender, and had to ride my little bike in heels and my long coat. Honestly, if there is a subject I know better, I don't know what it is. Growing old(er) is a grace and a curse. The class is composed of fresh-faced 18 year olds, and me. Somehow I thought college students were sophisticated and studious. I got that idea from Mademoiselle magazine, which used to publish a college edition every fall, lovely Grace Kelly clones in lots of plaid pleated skirts and crew neck sweaters, clutching books wrapped in college-emblemed covers, all posed on the walkway of an Ivy League university. That was my ideal, to be one of those "women". Then I actually went to college, to visit my daughter at her dorm. When I walked into the lobby, there was a huge mural, on butcher paper, you know, long rolls of cheap white fibrous paper, done in crayons. It looked like a third grade classroom, only because the words were all spelled right, and the drawings were somewhat organized. She told me that during midterms, they all hung around the dining commons in their jammies with their blankies. Not my idea of collegiate life, at all. Part of today's talk consists of a warning about all those things that I did when I was in school (smoking, drinking and sex) that made me quit, so I could return again 42 years later, determined to do it again. So the whole damned thing is just a public service announcement, if you will. If I can get the PowerPoint slide show to play, I will be just fine. If I can get through this, I will be just fine. There is only the final ahead, now, and I am doing swell on the tests, so I am not worrying about that. I just wonder why I am worrying at all.

Menopausal woman's favorite sport...

Playing hide and seek with my keys again this morning. Now, this is nothing new. No, it is not like this never happens and all of a sudden those little suckers up and disappear. We go through this dance together a couple of times a week. I don't like to get up too early, though I wake around 6 and again around 7:30. I like to just stretch out on my 3 inch memory foam and luxuriate in the knowledge that I don't have to get up and go to work. Isn't that what retirement is all about, anyway? So I have about an hour before I have to be at school to find them. This is not fun, either. It produces lots of stress; my sympathetic nervous system gets all riled up. I know they are here, in the house. And I know they are not in my purse or in the pocket of yesterday's capris. Once I found them in the garbage can. Well there was a very good reason they were there, actually. I had been cleaning out the car, and they were in my hand when I dumped all those muffin papers and empty latte cups on my way into the house. And once they went through the wash in the pocket of my jeans. Not a good idea, but surprise, the little zapper thing still worked! Well, I'm off to hunt under the bed, through the closet where they may have snuck out of that pocket, etc. I need a zapper to tell me where my zapper is.

Blood from the turnip time.

I created a graph in PowerPoint for my presentation later this week on Cognitive Development in Adulthood. Easy subject, because there isn't very much, development, that is. Most of that occurs through childhood and adolescence. And on this graph of Intellectual Abilities from Ages 25 to 67, vocaulary skills peak and stay almost the same, as does verbal memory. However, number skills and perceptual speed take a serious nose dive. And I have to take (gulp) math. In fact, I have to take a math placement test, that will probably put me in the bonehead group, so I will have to take two or three semesters to complete the requiste Math 155. Now, I don't mind the science with a lab. I already decided to take meteorology, I really like clouds. And I don't mind the American history, though I have always thought it was the most boring subject in the catalog. But, oh, my, God, I thought all those symbols and stuff were behind me in Mr. Hogenmiller's trigonometry class 43 years ago. I am seriously going to need tutoring here. So I am not doing it next semester, for sure. I think I will save it for summer session next year. OK, I have math anxiety here. Now committing to meditating on the vicissitudes of pi.

Restless, irritable and discontent.

OK, so sometimes things don't go as I would like. Maybe that's a lot of the time. But don't you just hate it when people stomp all over your boundaries? I no longer have 16 foot high brick walls with razor wire on top, like I did when I was so tender even a nasty look would send me spinning with pain, but I do have this barrier that I am acutely aware of, especially when someone just ignores it. The sad part is I have to think about it for a while to see if it really is a trespass or am I over-reacting. I spent so many years fending off blatant sallys of garbage, I have become kind of used to it. Now I know not to spend a lot of time with people who say "You know what you need?" Yes, I tell them, and leave. Perhaps this has me crazed because it has not happened in so very long, and I feel really nuts that there are still people in my life who do this. I thought I had rid myself of all those "difficult" people, bless them, you know, the ones who need me to be something I am not so they can be OK, except I can never quite be it right, so we are continually starting over again, in search of their happiness, and who cares about mine in this mix. Nobody, that's who, because I am not home for the only person I can really please, me. So today I am home, again, not trying to fix anyone or anything else, not even trying to fix me, though I do have this little cold lingering and some things that could get done which would make my life more easy, like laundry and a long walk with Boo. That may happen. Or maybe I will just hole up with my new Patricia Cornwall novel. Sounds like a plan.

Madness, a film.

We saw this film about schizophrenia in class last week. I wrote my review of it last night. This is such a devastating disorder that always begins in late adolescence to early adulthood, usually at college. And they know almost nothing about why it happens, except that it may be genetic, and is exacerbated by stress. I hypothesized (gee, I love that word) that these were individuals that could not deal with the "real" world, you know, that cruel and ugly one out there, once they were cut loose from their parents. They become disjointed emotionally and mentally, so that their conversations are with themselves regardless of who is with them at the moment. There is a scary look about their eyes, a Charlie Manson look. And they are really angry most of the time, frustrated that no one can understand them. About 1/4 do not respond to any treatment. This is an improvement. It used to be 1/3. Prolonged disease causes real physical damage to the brain, especially the hippocampus, a center for emotion. And isn't it interesting that most of them smoke. Nicotine actually has an effect of clearing pathways to make connections easier in the brain. I still miss it, you know, after 16 years. My brain cells could use a little rubber cement, too. Anyway, I came away after this film (we never call them movies in school) feeling very grateful that my family dodged this very horrible bullet. No matter what is going on with me and mine, it could be worse. It could be terrible.

All right already, I'm up!

I have this little cold, and this morning I woke up miserable. I rolled over onto my back, which is a bad idea, because then Boo thinks I am getting ready to get up, and always comes up to lick my cheek and sneeze all over my face. Usually I think this is cute. Not today. My nose was all stuffed up, and I felt like really lousy, so I rolled over to go back to sleep. It was only 7:30 anyway. Then Boo decided he liked the smell of Janet's toast and wanted to go out. Then the workers arrived and began banging away at the emerging house next door. Then the phone rang. Then Boo wanted back into the bedroom. So I got up. I did go back to bed, with my cereal and coffee, for a while. But I was going to buy Lauren Hutton's makeup, only $29.95 and the solution to all my problems, if I stayed there any longer. Now I am dressed, and ready to do, what? Not much, but I'm ready for it.

Strange things are happening...

I have this little cold in my head. It gives me just a bit of a buzz. I'm sober here, really I am! And I have not taken anything, well, except a whole big bunch of vitamin C. It's not entirely unpleasant, and after 3 o'clock, I can dive into bed and slather myself with attention. Just not a convenient time to be sick, like I had to take a test this morning in class, and then meet with a counselor to look at what I should take in the fall. The real challenge was finding the couselling office. It was tucked away in a strange little corner of the Student Center. Actually, this whole day feels like a test. And I think I did well on that, too, despite the murky head thing. Hard to be enthusiastic, though. And probably not a good time to study for a (ick) math placement test. Later.

Jung and crunchwraps, could it get any better?

I am just loving school. This psychology class is sooooo interesting. I am probably fixated in 4 of the 5 stages of development Freud put forth: oral, anal, phallic and genital. The latency period never happened for me at all. All of a sudden, my very crazy upbringing is in my face, again. I thought I dealt with all that in therapy years ago. Sigh. I guess it really never ends, and though I yearn for mental health, I really enjoy some of my quirks, most of which would not be there if I were totally healthy. Like Taco Bell, and those new thingies they call crunchwraps, a bunch of yummy Mexican stuff that includes a crisp tortilla, all wrapped up neatly in a soft tortilla. It can't be too bad for you, after all; it does have lettuce and tomatoes in it, as well as refritos and cheese and sour cream. I just had to get one today, and as luck would have it, there is a Taco Bell right across the street from the college. Isn't that convenient? Oh, and we talked about Jung today. He is just incidental in our text book, mentioned as a disenchanted follower of Freud, along with Karen Horney ( pronounced Horn-eye), who so deliciously debunked penis envy and the Oedipal complex, she is my heroine. But Jung, now there was a guy. He developed the theory of the collective unconscious, that great race memory that lives in all of us, and incorporated spirit into the psychodynamic principle. This was a great idea, as so many of us suffer from broken spirits. I know I did, and healing has become an imperative, because if my spirit is unhappy, so am I, and everyone around me as well. And Jung conjectured that we embody all these archetypes, like earth mother, seductress, eternal youth. He understood that everyone has male and female traits, regardless of gender, the anima and animus, he called them. I just love all his woo-woo stuff. He made my day today, that's for sure.

New and improved Boo today...

Yesterday was one of those blessed days when the air was warm and sweetly scented and stepping out into it was like Dorothy opening the door to Oz. It occurred to me that this was ideal dog-washing weather, and Boo had not had a bath in a few months. The spot where I administered his flea medication was still spiky, sort of punk-doggy. So into the tub he went, not without some protest. A happy half-hour later, after sudsing up with the deodorizing doggy shampoo and rinsing, rinsing, rinsing, our Boo was all sleek and clean. Then I spent the rest of the day picking up the hair that suddenly released its grip on him. Finally, I took him out into the backyard and sat on the lawn on a towel for an hour or so, brushing away. It was alarming, actually. But he didn't wind up bald Boo. It was just a whole bunch of that fuzzy undercoat that he doesn't need, anyway. Now he is shiny and sweet-smelling, for today, that is.

Bananas, Russians and other thoughts...

I got this e-mail about bananas that was mind-blowing. They are good for everything, chock full of great stuff, most of which I can't remember, and it took a while before I remembered to buy some. Then I had to get something to go with them, so I picked up some organic cereal. That didn't quite peak my appetite, so I got some strawberries and Cool Whip, and had a Belgian waffle with all that heaped on top. Now I am bursting with goodness and ready to begin the day. And I just realized I am listening to Russian music on this Independence Day morning. Oh, well. It is quiet and lovely here in the little yellow house. Roommate is off, working, bless her soul. I have studying to do for yet another test, and a presentation to get together, too. Not a bad way to spend the day. It occurs to me that my life is a little boring. Actually, I am thinking of writing a book about how to live with oneself, alone. Because if I am not happy now, all by myself, I will not be happy later, with someone. It is challenging. Solitude need not be loneliness, you know. It can be blessed. Ah, here is the 1812 Overture. That works, what with the cannons and bells and all that brouhaha. Russian fireworks.

It's a long, long, long life, baby...

I feel like a contestant on the Live and Learn Show. My @#$%^& ISP is acting out like a petulant teenager. Well, it was a bargain, you know. And don't I know that bargains are usually shoddily made and ready for the scrap heap with amazing speed. Now I am going to have to change, again, and that is really a hassle and a half. Well, probably not that bad. It really is amazing how little it takes to spin me out of wonder and into angst. A few hours piddling around with PowerPoint did it yesterday. I made this lame slide-show, like my teacher is going to give me extra points for this piece of crud. Sigh. At least my appliances like me. My microwave told me to enjoy my meal. Of course, it was just a defrosted Costco muffin, but the sentiment was pleasant.

Holiday heebie-jeebies...

Every time a siren is heard around an AA meeting, some bozo has to remark "here comes my ride". It's funny, and it isn't, if you know what I mean. Most of these people know intimately what it feels like to be out of control. I want to remember that feeling, so I don't have to do it again, for sure. Holidays are big triggers for me, and certainly, July 4th was a time to celebrate, which equated to drinking, a lot. Beer was made for summer. Wine coolers, too. Sangria with big gobs of fruit floating around in it. Well, at least it was nutritious, right? Now I drink club soda with a splash of cranberry juice. If I am feeling particularly festive, I add a slice of lime. And lots of ice. Ice was kind of a turn-off when the drink was alcoholic, as I remember. On my way home this morning from my home group AA meeting, I saw four police cars, all in this short 2 mile lurch through traffic. And as I turned into my driveway on my peaceful little tree-lined street, a siren wailed by on the busy cross-street just a half block away. So they're out there, doing what they do on the holiday weekend. Like they used to say on Hill Street Blues, "be careful out there". And if you get into trouble, I know some great meetings where you will fit right in!

Surprise in a $8.87 box this time...

It's difficult to be authentic if you dye your hair. I deviated from my usual $17.97 super-special highlighting kit and tried on a "medium reddish brown" this time, which is very close to my once-upon-a-time real color, the one God bought. It goes best with my eyebrows and brown eyes. I guess it was kind of a set. Anyway, it is a little redder than I thought. Violently so. Yet, I like it. I mean, if I am going to do this anyway, it might as well be audacious, right? And, yes, I would like to be brave enough to meet the world in my natural state, but I think what happens as I age is really rude. All kinds of things get taken away, like the ability of my flesh to cling to my bones and that amazing hair color that would fade to red in the summer chlorine bath I gave it. At least I can still put my jeans on standing up. This is a gift of Stan Bennett's Gym. And I still feel really young, inside. We have only one mirror in the house. That's enough these days.

The good news, and the bad...

So, I did well on my test, with a score of 95 out of 98, and if I had not second-guessed myself, it could have been 97. There's a good something to learn right there. Some of this stuff will stay with me all the rest of my life, because I still remember some things from the first time I took this class, in 1963. We had this charismatic professor, Dr. Alvin Hunter, and they held all his classes in the auditorium because so many students were attracted to them. I remember this as being a lot easier than it is now, because psychology is a very young science and has now come into its own, no longer considered "soft", and it is all jazzed up with a lot of information about the biological foundations of behavior, and tons of experiments and observations have been made in the interim, as well. What stuck with me were the body types: ectomorphs, endomorphs and mesomorphs. I haven't run across them in our current text, but when I do, I'm on top of it!

Then, after patting myself on the back about my ability to recall all the minituae of the nervous system, parts of the brain, genetics, I ran off to my 5:30 meeting, and not only left the back door open, again, but the freezer door, as well. Not my finest moment, by far. Well, the refrigerator is a little balky about closing, and I forget that because it doesn't happen all that often. But that back door thing, that's a recurring problem. So I got out my trusty Printmaster disk and made myself a sign for the front door. Let us hope that works. I also know that things I see every day tend to slip off of my radar, as well. Hopefully, by the time that happens, checking the back door will be ingrained in my memory banks. Progress, not perfection.

The thing about style...

After all these years, you would think I would have discovered my style. For a while, in my early twenties, after my first divorce, I was Holly Golightly, urban and coiffed with a Sassoon, very sleek. I even had one of those mega-long cigarette holders, which, after a couple of smokes, made my black and gold Sterlings taste pretty awful. Then I remarried and moved to Hawaii, where I was Hilo Hattie, all muumuued and brown. Shortly after our return to the mainland, I divorced again, and moved to Santa Rosa, where my style sank into suburban mediocrity. After the purchase of my Birkenstocks, I considered doing Earth Mother, but it just never worked out for me, not even when I moved to the coast and became West County Wild Woman. There is too much vanity there to let my hair grow out gray and braid it down my back, and I just can't walk out into the world with a naked face, either. But I do like the student personna, where I can just put one of those dandy clamps in my hair, throw on jeans and a tee shirt and some sandals, and go. No more panty hose. Hell, no more girdle, like I wore in my early city days. Even when I was a student, 42 years ago, we wore wool skirts and Mary Janes to college. Some changes are definitely for the best.

The answer to No. 43 is C. No, A. No, oh hell...

I have now taken my first test, and the teacher lied. She said she would only cover what she covered in class, and then threw in some questions on the endocrine system anyway. I am pretty sure I got all those right. In fact, I am 99% sure of all the questions, except No. 43, which she said she covered in class, but neither my test partner nor I remember anything about it in our notes, and I went back to check, afterward, and I think this is a brain-fart on the part of our 62 year old teacher, bless her soul. Also, she said 89 questions, and there were 98. Oh, well, most were pretty easy, and the few we were tripped up on, one or the other of us remembered. There were only a couple that neither of us were certain about. This was a chapter about neurons and neurotransmitters and brain parts/functions and heredity, little things like that. It was complex and there was a lot of material to assimilate, and a good test of my ability to retain what I studied. Also a good test of my method of studying that I instituted: read through the chapter, then outline it, in sections, with rests in between to eat or go for a walk, or just do anything else but think about it. Then read through again, the next day. I referred to my outline this morning, but did not study any more last night, when the test was put off for another day. I am heartened. My neural pathways are intact, and I can train them to learn, again. So, on to the next step, an appointment with a counselor to map out my curriculum for fall. I am off the launching pad here!

Ah, college...

I studied like a little demon Sunday for a test that was supposed to happen this morning, that didn't happen. OK, we'll see how long this knowledge can last up there in the dark recesses of my aged brain, because I have paper I want to write today. I took notes, both in class and an outline of the chapter as I studied, and I tried to give myself frequent breaks, little snacks and a game of Freecell once in a while, a walk around the neighborhood with Boo, and it worked. I can tell you about resting potential and action potential, the difference in afferent and efferent cells, the function of the amygdala and the thalamus, all kinds of information about the working of the brain, at least what has been discovered and hypothesized. It is still a mystery on a lot of levels, and I think oversimplified in our text. This is the most complex system in our known universe and a source of great wonder. I am so stoked by learning about it. And I am training my neural network to retain what I put into it by means of the marvel of plasticity. And a lot of this is attitude, too. We saw a film today about diseases that cause damage to the brain, and Agnes DeMille, great choreographer and dancer, had a debillitating stroke that affected her motor function. Her discipline and desire were credited with her recovery. Well, duh. Attitude is everything. I'm writing that on my favorite spiritual aid, the PostIt, to stick to my computer here.

All about axons and dendrites...

You know, Boo likes to guess which way we are going when we head out the door. He is always three steps ahead, which means I almost step on him a lot when he guesses wrong. Now, there's a lesson I could learn. I am always trying to study ahead, guessing what the teacher will be covering next. So far, I have been 100% wrong, and am now deciding that I will wait and see, and trust that there will be enough time to study before the tests. Like tomorrow. We already know it will be 89 questions on the brain, the physical site of all my problems, for sure. I actually enjoyed the chapter, and will be reading it and outlining it and testing myself with the handy-dandy CD they gave me with the text. Actually, the text was so expensive, I should have gotten a CD player, too. And since this is our first test, we are taking it with a partner. Mine is Kristina, who will be a senior at Cal next semester, and just keeping her brain going here during the summer. She seems to have a sharp mind, and great study ethics. And I feel especially motivated to be up on the material so I can hold up my end. Sounds like a plan. This is a big milestone on my test-drive of college, how well I can retain the material. I'd hold my breath, but my textbook says that is bad for you.

Tender moments, relived...

I am listening to a tape of a mix my mother made for me, at my request, of Andre Previn's album Like Love, and another 101 Strings extravaganza, music from my young and tender years. You know, though my childhood was often tumultuous and fraught with pain, it was full of music. Dad would bring home new recordings often, Glenn Miller was a favorite, as well as Perry Como and Bing Crosby. There were stacks and stacks of 78's in the cupboard. Later, we got this huge stereo that looked like a roll-top desk, and accumulated a lot of ablums, as well as some of those 45's that were so popular in the 50's. We had all the Rogers and Hammerstein musicals: The King and I, Carousel, Oklahoma, South Pacific. Oh, and Camelot, how I loved Robert Goulet singing If ever I would leave you. And OK, we had Billy Vaughn and Mantovani, too. And I loved them. They were the precursor to my love for classical music. Listening now, I feel very young, and full of promise, like I did when I was 14, all legs and freckles, sunburned from a day at Ives pool, where Nick Boreta, who would be my high school sweetheart, chased me around all day. Summer smelled like lemon blossoms, and sounded like Tab Hunter singing Red Sails in the Sunset or the Everly Brothers or Frankie Avalon. We played statues and Red Rover on the front lawn, and begged for dimes when the ice cream truck drove up our street with its music box jingle playing over and over. I didn't know how sweet it was, then. Maybe my mother is right; it was a more innocent time.

Let's hear it for endorphins!

I am writing my second college paper, on an article about endorphins, and it is only 2 pages, double-spaced, 12 font, but it has me spinning. I picked an article expecting to hear that endorphin is a natural opiate, and is produced when we exercise, giving us that marvelous high, like when I get off that damned treadmill, I feel like I could fly away. But I also read that meditation increases endorphin levels as well. Why? The article did not say, so I went after about 5 more articles, and it seems to be in the breath, though another factor may be prolonged periods of hyper-awareness, a sort of letting-go of everything else but the running or the chanting, or even the Sufi dancing and concentrating on the moment. That's a pretty wonderful thing to know. My favorite endorphin-producing activity is washing the car. I get into the moment, enjoying the sudsy sponge swipes all over every inch of its shiny black body, scrubbing those ill-fated bugs off the license plate, and watching the sunlight play in the spray when I hose it off. I am less enamored of sweeping out the muffin crumbs and dog hair, but I am in such a good mood by the time I get around to them, it doesn't matter. When I am done, I feel euphoric in a mild-mannered way. OK, I'm kind of nuts here, but it's a benevolent kind of crazy, n'est-ce pas? And I sure hope my teacher likes my paper. I have figured out that angle, to follow her instructions and give her what she is looking for. That's a quantum leap, right there.

Frodo and Gandalf and Sam, oh my!

I was feeling mighty low a couple of days ago, just general ennui stemming from self-doubt about being able to accomplish my goal of going to college at this late date, and some very old angst, as well, so I put Fellowship of the Ring in my DVD player and settled in. I was gifted with all three movies, extended version (30 to 50 extra minutes, per movie) by my dear son this Christmas. Frodo is just such a wonderful character, so little, so innocent, so brave. Now, I will admit that I didn't particularly like the first two movies when I saw them at our little Rio Theater. They seemed long, difficult to understand (I didn't read the books) with all those names and places and legends to assimilate. Then the 3rd movie came along and I got it. Oh, Aragorn is the decendent of Isilidor! He is the King of Gondor! Actually, it all got crystal clear when I watched the movies with the English subtitles on. Until then, I thought Elrond was Elron, as in Elron Hubbard. And the music is wondrous, have you noticed? I have a couple of the soundtrack albums as well, and there are all these choral pieces, and boy sopranos, and pan flute, all elvish and vaguely Celtic. So I have made it through the first movie, (it took two evenings to do that) and now will journey on with the 2nd one. I should be done by next Monday; it takes an evening to watch 1/2 a movie. A week of Frodo and Sam, Gimli, Legolas, and that yummy Aragorn, there's something to live for.

Oh, dear...

Lots of little irritations going on here. My new ISP has some glitches, like it balks at sending my e-mails, not a good thing. I never know if my sterling prose has glided away on the wings of the ether, or is stuck on the runway somewhere. There are all these irritating error boxes full of hieroglyphics that pop up all over my screen. I sent an emergency e-mail to support, and I wasn't sure all day yesterday if it had even left my mailbox. Goodness, I might even have had to phone these people! But good news, I got a long and detailed instruction list to fix this error. Of course, the last time I tried to follow their long and detailed instructions, I couldn't even find the program I needed to fix on my disk! So I am longing for those days when I knew where everything was, for Xtree, you know, it was so easy then. Well, primitive, too. I am looking at some rather weighty tomes sitting on my computer bookshelf. Time to read up on Windows and all its myriad vicissitudes. Wonderful.

A little angst, please.

I visited my parents this weekend. Sometimes this goes well. This was not one of those times. Now, I am 61 years old. I have had many years dealing with my mother, who is an unhappy person who seems to think we should all be in that boat with her, especially me. I am a disappointment to her, I guess. And fortified as I am with experience of her nastiness, she still can blind-side me. So I left carrying my very heavy cross, again. The good thing is that it didn't take a long time to move off my pity pot. You see, every so often, I get into that old belief that what she thinks about me is actually about me. It isn't. It's about her, who she is, what she sees and hears, none of which looks like what I see or hear. And that is sad. As angry as I got, I could still feel how awful it must be to be her. And I could be really happy that I didn't get whatever gene triggers her unhappiness. Grateful as hell, actually. I tried on that persona earlier in this life, and it was an ill fit. I prefer to be joyful and dance around a lot. Sometimes, it's really hard work.

Help, I'm having an epiphany here!

Don't you just love that word? Epiphany, sudden and often rude awakening that may or may not be welcome at the time of its arrival. Like last night. My audio tapes are scattered all over the place, but I found a cache of them in the garage and dragged them it to try out the new music machine in the bedroom. Now, some of these tapes are mixes of music made for me by a former lover, and this proclivity was the main attraction this man had for me, his inner sweetness and a shared love for music. Once I put on "Heart Graffiti", I began to sink into renewed grief over this relationship that ended nine years ago! And I remembered too, that this was when my daughter was still living at home, and I missed her, too! I don't even like all this music, oh, no no. None of this makes a whole lot of sense to me, but then, emotions seem to have a life of their own, and music is so very powerful to me. I decided that if it could drag me into despair, I actually can use it to lift my spirit, too. So I am desensitizing all this music, everything from the soundtrack from Dances with Wolves to Buddy Holly's ditties, to the theme from Northern Exposure. Which leads me to another of my favorite words, catharsis. That is what is actually happening here, bringing all that darkness up and out of my id. I used to think I was weaker than other human beings because I felt everything so deeply, like I cried over GE commercials, you know, "we bring good things to light"? Now I think I have a greater capacity for life than most people have, because of this particular attribute. And this is why I am studying psychology, to plumb the depths of the human condition, my own as well. It's got to be a good thing.

And she shall have music wherever she goes...

You know, I am not rich. My income is a little above poverty level for this area, which is very affluent. And I am blessed beyond belief, too. When I "retired", left my employment of 12 years, I was gifted with a $500 Costco card. Boy, it doesn't get any better than that for me as there is nothing I love as much as shopping! So far, I have gotten a table for the backyard, where I plan on sitting with my textbook and laptop to study all summer, when it gets here (it rained today). And I pondered and puzzed, and finally decided on a little stereo for the bedroom, because my other music makers are out in our common rooms, and my housemate sometimes needs to rest, quietly. So now I can retreat to my room, and bathe myself in music, propped up on my multitudinous pillows. Abundance reigns here. Oh, yes, I keep 16 pillow on the bed: 1 to sleep on (it's down), 4 more to prop myself up and lounge with my trash novels, 2 to wear the shams, and 9 throw pillows of various shapes and colors, to spice things up and give Boo his daily thrill when he gets up on the bed, rolls over onto his back, and squirms all around, throwing them all over the bedroom. I still have half my gift money left. And my rebate came from my Executive membership today, another $91.25. Prosperity and abundance. Grace.

The thing about cow lips...

My fathers parents did not believe in higher education, never having experienced it themselves, no doubt. So their 5 sons went into the trades: the oldest and youngest ran an insurance agency, the second and fourth went into the family plumbing business, and the middle kid, my Dad, became a butcher. Dad was extremely personable, at work. At home, he was often irritable and sometimes a ticking timebomb of anger. He ruled by terror. So when we were shopping to get our meat, I was always somewhat confused by the big jolly man in the white apron behind the neat display case, where the hamburger was always in these whipped cream-like swirls. He would give me a weiner, cold, right out of that case. Now I didn't particularly like weiners, but I ate that thing, because I didn't want to disappoint my Dad. Then some evil-minded person told me they were made of cow lips. You know, that didn't phase me. We ate a lot of the cow others didn't: liver, of course, but kidneys and brains, too. Yesterday, in Costco, standing in that ever present line, I began to salivate for one of those huge, plump, juicy ones they sell for $1.50, complete with large soft drink. The line at the food counter was manageable, and I slathered that thing with deli mustard and pickle relish. Boo and I savored every bite. Into each life, let a little cow lips fall.

A whole day of seredipity, whee!

Report from that little old college student, me! I got my first paper back, a review of the first film we saw, "The Mind", a Discovery Channel production. She loved it! Well, I do love to write, and she saw that. Also, she announced that the bookstore had the syllabus they were out of when I bought that very expensive textbook. This was a full week ahead of schedule. Cool. It was raining, and the bookstore was a healthy hike away. I decided I could wait. But sitting at the stoplight, I said to myself, now, you really need to review that thing, so I turned into the main campus. No parking. Unfazed, I took a second loop through, and there it was, as close as I could get to Pioneer Hall. While I was paying for my syllabus and scantrons and super-duper art eraser to correct any booboos on my tests, I asked about returning the first set of textbooks, and found that it was the last day to get refunds. Well, that was fortuitous. So I went home, bagged them up and went back. No receipt. Bummer. I prayed to St. Jude all the way home to help me find that damned receipt. I have a folder called "Misc." where everything ends up. After plowing through volumes of sales tags from Costco, Trader Joes, Raleys, Payless Shoe Source, Target, there it was! And I also found a $20 bill I had wadded inside a Safeway receipt. I would never have found it if it had not been really important to get my $51.30 back.
The whole scenario was as unlikely as they get, and so many things had to fall exactly into place for me to wind up feeling truly blessed. Of course, I could be a little more mindful, and not throw money into the filing cabinet any more. But it was as if that lonely little $20 bill was crying out to be found. So I am oozing gratitude from every pore. Thank you, Universe!

Is it just me, part II...

My new favorite cereal comes from Trader Joes, and is anyone else as in love with a store as I am here? So many good things, and Ben & Jerry's for $2.50 a pint, too! I really want to eat good and yummy at the same time. So I tried this flax seed cereal, with pumpkin seeds, too. I read the ingredients, and most everything is organic, and I couldn't find sugar there, until I realized that "organic evaporated cane juice" just had to be the one. Whatever, it is delicious, not too sweet but not bland either. Except it has all these little black seeds, which I suppose are the flax seeds, and they remind me of (gulp) the itty bitty black bugs. You see, the house on the edge of the world, my previous abode, had magnificent views of the river and the island and the hills and the sea, and flowers bloomed there year round, and a majestic 3 point stag lived in our backyard, but paradise always has a hitch. It took about two years to get them, in a bag of whole wheat flour I seldom used, shoved into the back of the black hole of a cupboard Then they migrated, and were in everything. I had to totally empty everything out, scrub and disinfect, dump a lot of stuff, boxes of crackers and cereal in particular. Now, this is a cathartic and wondrous process, really. I once again knew everything that lived in my cupboards. But the second time they showed up, I was a little peeved. Eventually, Costco came to the rescue, with a huge boxful of plastic containers. Everything that could possibly be vulnerable in my new, bright and accessible cupboards still lives encased in plastic. There is nothing more irritating than setting my tastebuds for that risotto mix and pouring out the sauce mix laden with itty bitty black bugs. Yuck. Give me ants anyday.

Poor Boo...

Moving and changing most of my life was at best disconcerting and sometimes pure trauma. And of course, I projected that out onto my dog. What are our fur people for if not anthropomorphizing every nuance of their existence? I wound up taking Boo with me everywhere I went, my little hood ornament in the back seat. He even went to work, living in the car in the morning (he had lots of shade and water, and a mid morning Milk Bone), and under my desk in the afternoon. Now that work is over and school has started, it was time to leave him home, no guaranteed shade in the parking lot, well no guaranteed parking place, either. And, of course, he had a dandy case of separation anxiety. This comes under the category of troubles of my own making. Sigh. Fortunately, we have a doggie expert on the radio, Warren Epstein, every Saturday when I am out and about doing my errands. Warren said give them a special treat, a pat on the head and leave. And no fuss when I come back either. So the first time, I gave Boo a chew-stick. It is specially treated to be good for his teeth, too. I will never forget the sight of that little black dog sitting in the middle of our front room, chew-stick sticking out of both side of his mouth, terror in his eyes. I left the radio on, too. Probably he didn't need that, but it just seemed a nice thing to do for him. I would want someone to do that for me. He was a trembling mass of joy when I came home, and I just patted him and went about hiding my keys from myself, which I do every time I come home. While I was gone, he burrowed under the 16 pillows on my bed (more about that another time) so he could curl up on the one at the bottom, the one I sleep on. So sweet. The second time, he refused the chew-stick, as if not accepting it would keep me from leaving. Smart cookie, this dog. Milk Bones didn't work, either. Yesterday I bought new and better treats. I'm a smart cookie, too. I don't know who I am training here, me or the dog, but I am feeling more OK about leaving him.

Yet another of life's little jokes on me...

I started school today, one measly class. And I was well prepared, having registered and gotten my parking permit and my textbooks, frugally used. I decided that if I could find the classroom I was ahead of the game. Funnily enough, it didn't have a number on the door like all the others, but I guessed it was 1696 from its position between 1695 and 1697. I'm no dummy. However, the teacher was different. Sad to say, the scheduled teach had an accident, so we got this new one. Good news: I like her. Bad news: she uses a different textbook, and the bookstore had a limited supply of them, together with the syllibus. One of the students came back late from the 10 minute break with hers. I figured, no sweat. I will drop my heavy laptop bag in the car and trot over there after class. All those young people had the same idea and they were swifter than I. I got the book, new, $118. I think they line these texts in platinum or something. But no syllibus. Soon, they said. Not soon enough for this elderly student. Really, it is bad enough to be cast adrift in this sea of budding hormones, now I don't even have all my oars in the water. I will muddle through, I am sure. I wrote my first paper, it was a little long, but fun to do. One thing I have no problem with is expressing my opinions. And I seem to be the only one in the room enjoying this class. All those young faces look consummately bored. Whatever happens here, I can't lose. If I am not cut out for academia, I will find out. And if I do well, I will be launched on my course for the next few years. And I found the classroom, didn't I?

Gifts.

A long long time ago, like 35 years, I went to the opera in the San Francisco Opera House to see Tosca, wonderful lyric opera. We sat in a box (it was a matinee or we could never have afforded that). The diva was singing her swan song. And the tenor was new and upcoming. Placido Domingo. It was a while before I realized how lucky we were to see him when he was just beginning his career. And yesterday it happened again. We heard a young soprano in concert, Hope Briggs. This woman has more than a lovely singing voice, she has a presence that is electrifying. She sang Mozart, she sang Verdi, she sang Massenet, then several spirituals. Already she is being compared to Leontyne Price, which I think is unfair. She is better than that, and her expression of the arias says that she can act, as well, a huge dividend for an opera singer. Opera is a big and glorious thing. To be truly wonderful, it needs to be sung with a lot of feeling, from the little tickling arias in Italian comic opera to the ponderous Wagnerian dirges in the Ring trilogy. It was truly an honor to see her performance. And what a treat for this country girl to spend an afternoon in the big city hearing Bach and Brahms. Just so we didn't get swelled heads over our cultural endeavors, we ended our day at In & Out Burger on the way home. That milkshake was a work of art in itself.

Boo needs a personal trainer!

WE are having delightful spring weather, warm and sunny and the air smells like summer, warm silver grass smell. After a sweet lunch together at Applebee's, our favorite diner, my son and I took a walk in the neighborhood, past all the little houses sitting on huge lots surrounded by very old trees and lots of rose bushes. Boo went with, of course, on his jaunty red leash, and heading out the door, he was a ball of fire, ready to explore the great unknown. A lot of our walk was shady because the trees tunnel the street now that they are in glorious full leaf. Nevertheless, after waddling along pedantically, Boo panted and started to flag, then, on our way back, he just beelined it for a shady, leafy place and flopped down and refused to move. Well, we sat down with him, doused him with the water we had so smartly brought with us, and waited for him to cool down. I thought, what a smart little cookie this dog is. When he is tired, he just stops. I don't do that. I will fight sleep till I am so pooped, I crash and burn. Wouldn't it be great if I knew all my limitations, if I had this inner dashboard of warning lights, like my car has, that would flash at me when I was running out of fuel, or needed to cool down my engine, or was about to emit something I would be sorry for later? Well, actually, I do. I have an AA sponsor, who will always help me read the flashing lights and recommend what I do about that. Kind of sweet. Meanwhile, I need to exercise this little black dog more. Guess that personal trainer is me.

I think my computer just farted, again.

Remember when we were smarter than our machines? I mean, my car does some very interesting things, like all the doors lock 30 seconds after I turn on the key. And when I press the gizmo to open the doors, the inside light goes on, very handy when I am out in the boonies, at night, as I often am. And while it gives this polite little dingdingding if I neglect to fasten the seatbelt before starting the engine, it will eventually swear at me with that dinger if I don't do it till I get on the road. Well, the computer now also has my best interests at heart and is constantly reminding me to upgrade my virus protection, etc. Little windows pop-up at the most irritating times. Recently there was a balloon message from my toolbar saying that there were 17 upgrades ready to be loaded. I ignored it, until this big window rose up like Venus from the sea, with a noise better suited to announce the Second Coming and scared the you-know-what out of me as I noodled around in my mahjohnng game, so I did it, I upgraded. And after it restarted itself, rather rudely, I must say, my wallpaper came up, without my desktop. I knew it, I knew those upgrades were going to be trouble. I don't know how I got my desktop back, I just kept playing around with it and there it was again. I do like the new look of my media player, and now my firewall is installed, whoopee. I hope that is all for a while. My heart cannot take another pronouncement of impending doom.

I'm happy to report that the oven works very well.

Please, no applause, but I baked yesterday. This is a rare and wondrous occurence. The oven in our old Wedgewood on the edge of the world sucked. It just sat there forever warming up and cost a bloody fortune in the propane it consumed, so baking went away in my life for a long, long time. It's back! I was on the hook to bring the goodies for my womens' meeting last night, which usually means a trip to Costco for something yummy like cheesecake. Instead I took two trips to the supermarket, no, not soul-sucking Safeway but our local one at the end of our street, G&G, the one everyone says is so wonderful. First I trooped down there on foot, Boo stayed home. I had my little list with me, and I got everything on it. On the way home, I realized I might not have enough butter. So back I went, after my soap opera, I know my priorities. The cookies I chose were done in three stages, I mean, this was a production. Bake the crust, then bake the filling, then frost the suckers. Lots of sugar and butter, how could you go wrong. And they came out fine and everyone was impressed and I even ate two of them myself, after dining on yogurt to leave the room for all those wonderful calories. I am glad I have not forgotten how to do this stuff. Once upon a time, I was happy-hands-at-home woman, sewing and knitting and collecting recipes right and left. Every meal was an adventure, from Beef Wellington to Coq au Vin. And crepes, ah I just loved making them. There was always a stack in the freezer, little wafers with waxed paper between them, ready to be filled with vanilla creme and topped with cinammon apples or fresh strawberries, or served for dinner filled with ham and mushrooms or chicken curry. Actually, I have fonder memories of the food than the experience. Dusting and cleaning were pretty blah occupations to fill up a day. Unfortunately, they still are, as I am about to find out. Whatever, I brought home a few of those cookies. I will need to work hard to be able to fit them into my daily caloric intake index.

Old friend has come home here.

My daughter gave me a big new edition of Atlas Shrugged for my birthday (OK, I asked for it). I first read this when I was 20 years young and riding the streetcar down Market Street to my job at Travelers Insurance, 555 California Street. I remember plowing through the first half of the book (that's 550 pages, a very big first half), waiting for something to happen. Then Dagny crashes her plane in the valley and it all came together and was absolutely amazing. I have since seen interviews Ayn Rand gave and you have to hand it to her, she lived her heroine's life, lifted chin and all. Her characters are either heroes or slobs, with very few shades of gray in between. I guess Eddie Willers qualifies in that latter category, and she flushes him as readily as she does that slug James Taggart and all his cronies. I adopted her philosophy when I was tender because it felt really good to believe that I was a noble being and totally self-directed. Well, it felt good until I ran off the road and spent a couple of decades thrashing around in a jungle of my own making before running into a brick wall at 200 mph. Still, I read this book every 10 years or so. I could do worse than to not depend on the kindness of others for my happiness and support and be the hero of my own live. And there is a spirit of interdependence there that rings true as well. She just missed the one key that I have found so helpful, God. I want to believe that she led a happy life, dear Ayn. Certainly it was one of deep conviction, one that was born out of deep resentment of the constrictions of communism in her native Russia. I hope to meet up with her someday and ask her about that. She can come to my salon in heaven to lecture to us, along with Tchaikowsky and Buddha and maybe even Jesus.

Get thee behind me, hubris.

I have been fond of saying that it has never rained on my birthday. Well, here it is, the 22nd anniversary of my 39th birthday, and the sky is all puckered up out there. I guess I can handle it raining once every 61 years. Somehow, I expected that when I woke up this morning I would look like Ma Kettle, all gray and lumpy. Or Helen Gurley Brown, a withered cinnamon stick. And I am delighted to report that I am still me, love handles and saddle bags intact, all tan courtesy of Neutragena, bouncing around. I measure my agility by my ability to put on my underpants standing up. As long as I can still do that, I am cooking with gas. My plans for today include ODing on coffee, with a 20 oz non-fat latte from my favorite barista joint, and a croissant to go along with it, then a trip to Sebastopol, my birthplace, to visit my parents and collect my gift, and a quiet sojourn to Barnes and Noble with my laptop and my current Jennifer Cruisie novel (I am reading Fast Women again, I found it in the piles of books under my desk when I retired). This woman of leisure thing is outstanding. And how wonderful that it takes so little to make me happy; a small black and white dog, a 4.5 lb. laptop and a paperback book.

Advice from the sagacious one.

I don't know about you, but I never listened to my mother. Now that I am an old mother myself, I realize she had a lot of wisdom to impart, like moderation. She was a real fan of it. I just never could get that one. If it was good, more had to be better. So I wound up all torn up with my addiction. Sigh. Personally, the best advice I could give anyone is not to give advice, not even when asked for it. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's train wreck, no, not me. I will, however, tell someone how I handled a sticky situation. That I am happy to relate. For one thing, it reminds me that I have in the past, and can again, overcome obstacles that seemed insurmountable at the time. And it gives me bushels of gratitude to remember that. There is something to be said for living here for 60 years. My life has taken me to a lot of dark places, and out the other end of the tunnel into the light, as well. That journey changes a person. My friend Kathleen told me yesterday that I belong to the butterfly clan, as I am an air sign. In the Medicine cards, butterfly is the card of transformation. Well, duh. I have morphed so many times I can't even begin to count; knock-kneed kid to leggy teen to college coed to young wife to young divorcee to young career-woman to wife and mother to single-mother career-woman to wife and stepmother of three to late-in-life mother to divorced single-mother redux to recovering alcoholic to wild-woman artist to my present state of retired re-entry student. Lots of change there. Presently, I feel like I am still in pupa, all curled up in myself getting ready to spring open. Can't wait to see what emerges here. Could be really wondrous.

Lessons from Obiwan Kenobi, etal

I just got back from seeing ROTS (that's Revenge of the Sith for the uninitiated). George really got it right, again. He could have skipped most of the first two movies, Episodes 1 and 2 and gone right into this one, which was once again character-driven and riveting because of it. OK, there was a lot of young-love angst, sad but true. The lesson comes from Yoda, that fear of loss leads to the dark side. Always. Mr. Lucas is a contemporary of mine, one who loved Saturday matinee serials like Flash Gordon and Captain America. For this 60 year old, it felt like an inside joke for a long time, because so few young people know about this tradition. Indiana Jones is another example of this hommage. How wonderful that the adventures continue. I am going to watch the first 3 movies again, to savor the moment. Today's movie made me remember the wonder of seeing the first one. I noticed as it drew to a close, that the music and tone slipped into the next episode with great ease. Nicely done. And, Yoda kicks butt!

Bleeping again.

Part of my stop-smoking day celebration took my to (gulp) the mall. There was a time I would haunt the mall, plowing through Victoria's Secret in search of sales, ditto Macy's and Wherehouse Records. It is rare that I buy anything at retail, you know. I dress out of Costco a lot, also WalMart has the best jeans for me, in long sizes. But I just had to check out Payless Shoe Source, where I found 2 pairs of summer sandals, and Suncoast, because I wanted What the Bleep Do We Know, and could not find it in my usual bargain places. So I settled into my 5 pillows last night and watched it, again, because I made a point of seeing it in the theater originally. Now, I have explored this before. I read The Tao of Physics, The Holographic Universe, Thd Dancing Wu Li Masters, all about the phenomenon that quantum physics has led us back to Eastern thought. It is very profound and mysterious, and I always found it to be very exciting, too. I have this big bell inside me, and whenever a great truth reveals itself to me, it rings with a Big Ben boom, and resonates all through my being. It is ever so much better than getting drunk! I always feel not like I am discovering this truth, oh no, but remembering it, as if I had always known it, and I have come home. I love the scene where Marlee Madsen is drawing blue hearts all over her body. Loving myself has come with a pretty high price, because first I had to hate myself and do self-destruction for 27 years, until it was enough to wind up bleeding, and on fire. That got me to AA, where the process could really begin. Now I am 15 years down that rabbit hole they talk about, and about to go even deeper as I once again burst through that bubble of a comfort zone into a new and unfamiliar world, academia. I think it is time to pick up one of those books again. We truly live in a magnificent and mysterious world. It is a real joy to get up to it everyday.

My last drug.

I cannot claim to be a child of the 60's. I was a grown-up when the flower-power movement began, and some of it rubbed off on me anyway. A little hash, a little psychedelics, a little peyote, some magic mushrooms, all basically organic and soft-core. In the end, it was booze that I loved the best, legal booze. I have put down all that stuff now and live a sweetly drug-free, conscious life, even while having fun, strange to tell. I really thought there would never be any more fun once I stopped drinking. My first sponsor would drag me to AA dances, and make me dance, with her. Have fun, damn it! Well, I did. And I still do, lots of it, and I remember it all the next morning, when I rise sans hangover to begin all over again. Part of this is because I stay immaculately healthy. I eat more than sensibly, eating is fun, too. I found that I don't need to eat a lot to have fun, though. I have more fun when I am more sleek. And it has often occurred to me that my coffee habit may be in juxtaposition with my ethics here. Surely, this must be bad for me, I love it so much. Here is a difficult admission: I have become somewhat snobbish about my coffee. I buy my beans fresh-roasted, so that the aroma fills the car on the way home, and it is almost intoxicating, it is so marvelous. My bag of beans lives in the door of the fridge, and comes out every other morning while I fill my little blue grinder and push down on the button for just the right amount of time, so that the resulting grounds are still intact, not so powdery that they clump in the grinder. I eagerly stand by Mr. Coffee as it burbles and spits out this amazing-smelling brew. The whole kitchen grows fragrant with the smell of coffee. Because I am so very conscious, I can feel the little kick right away. And I love it! Currently, my blend is Ethiopian, because Costco stopped roasting my Sumatra. That's OK. It's not like the difference between chardonnay and petit sirrah, after all.

Mind if I obsess here?

Like my hair, my skin has been a life-long preoccupation for me. Well, I may not be much, but I am all that I think about. I had freckles when I was a kid. They started as this little expansion bridge that spanned my nose, then spread out all over my face. You could tell summer had arrived by my dusting of new ones. As I grew into adolescence, I would get these red spots in the whites of my eyes. The eye doctor told us they were, yep, freckles. I got teased a lot. And as awful as freckles were, they were nothing compared to pimples. I escaped the really pock-marking acne, but pimples came with fair regularity and I haunted the drug store looking for relief. For 40 years. Back when I had really good health insurance, I would visit the dermatologist every couple of years, hoping for a breakthrough. Retin-A helped there, and I could not get my insurance to pay for it because I was over 40, and it was considered cosmetic, even though it really was to stave off pimples. So I asked how best to preserve my skin and his best advice was to wear a moisturizer with sunscreen (Johnson & Johnson Purpose) and never use soap on my face. His recommendation? Dove. I have used Dove since I was about 27. Now, at 61, my skin is relatively pimple-free. Once in a while a rogue blemish invades for a moment, even now. And I have the best skin I have ever had in my life. It is relatively unlined, too, and I am certain this is because it was so oily when I was younger. I keep it slathered with all those wonderful goos out there, with names like Elizabeth Arden's Visible Difference and Olay's Regenerist. My personal favorite is Pond's Dramatic Results. And now, they are not sufficient if they just battle wrinkles. Now, they must be firming, too, because my flesh has divorced my bone, and without aid, would just hang off my face like tired crepe paper. It's a challenge being me.

Is it just me, part two.

Television and I grew up together. I was 5 before we had one. Up till then, I listened with my mother to the soap operas on the radio, Helen Trent, Ma Perkins and Young Doctor Malone, and to The Lone Ranger and Inner Sanctum at my grandparents house because my mother thought they were too scary. Stories on the radio are really wonderful, you know. My kids and stepkids found this out when we listened to them on Sunday nights coming home from grandma's house. Imagination can make them even more wonderful. But I digress. Early TV was incredibly creative, with personalities like Jack Paar, Ed Sullivan, Lawrence Welk, Steve Allen, Milton Berle, Sid Caeser, a whole plethora of sterling talents. Lucille Ball and Jackie Gleason came along, and Jack Benny morphed over from radio. George Burns and Gracie Allen, the list goes on, all super-people, larger than life. Since moving to town, I am once again watching network, no more Sopranos or Six Feet Under, and I really love reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond and Friends, and Judging Amy, wow. But what's with all this prime time "reality" crap? I mean, from a producer's point of view, it must be nice not to have to pay a stable of creative writers and talented actors, not to mention set designers and decorators. And why do that when you can get beautiful young stupid people to roll around nearly naked in chicken guts and eat live bugs for nothing. My question is: who is watching it? Who is ogling the Donald's really disastrous comb-over to endure the back-biting, back-stabbing tedium of corporate politics? Once, I read a science-fiction short story that predicted a world populated 99.9% by morons, because the smart people stopped procreating. Perhaps it has already descended on us, except in the short story, the remaining .01% were calling the shots. It looks like the powers-that-be have descended as well. Even BBC has better shows, tasteless, but far more creative. I'm at the point that I crave the return of the Western, and believe me, they were done to death. At least they were dramatic, and gave us Clint Eastwood, to boot.

Jumping up and down here!

Today is the 16th anniversary of quitting smoking, a day I always set aside to treat myself really well. That usually translates into spending money, but I never hesitate, because I am saving so very much money here by not smoking. Have you seen how much cigarettes cost these days? Back when they were less pricey I had the brilliant idea of spending the equivalent of a year's smoking on myself, until I figured out it would cost me over $2,000 to do that. Now it would be over $3,200, and that's if I bought them at Costco where they are "reasonable". June 2, 1989 was not the first time I quit, there had been 4 previous attempts lasting more than 6 months each, one was 2 1/2 years. But it was the last time. I was done. My chest hurt all the time like a buffalo was sitting on it, and my insides just felt flayed. I never complained because I was well aware this was self-imposed pain. I felt enslaved by this habit. It dictated where I could work, where I went (not the movies, you couldn't smoke there any more), who I hung around with. It was dirty and expensive even then. So I sought help through my doctor, who gave me a patch, not nicotine, they weren't available then, but a drug used to help heroin addicts through withdrawal. Then I targeted my day, burned the last of my Benson & Hedges 100's in the fireplace at midnight, took a week off of work, and suffered for a few days. The physical stuff was easy. It was the psychological addiction that lingered and made me nutso for the next few months. The phone would ring in my office, I would reach for it with one hand and for a cigarette with the other. The grief I would feel in that moment was all-consuming. It took a while to really let go, and now I occasionally still dream of smoking. Well, I did it from age 18 till 45, with little intermitent vacations here and there, usually prompted by a bout of pneumonia. I have not had pneumonia in the last 16 years. No bronchitis, either. In fact, knock on wood, I enjoy really good lung health. I can feel the lasting effects, though, when I hiked up our hill in Jenner, in the shortness of breath that never went away even as I grew physically accustomed to the effort. In the last few years, I have seen many people die as a result of their smoking and I am so grateful for my once-again pink lungs. I think that is worth a trip to the mall for some summer sandals (more shoes), and a 20 ounce latte and croissant sandwich, to boot.

Free at last!

Ah, the wonders of retirement. I have been retired now for 14 1/2 hours, 9 of which I slept, so I am not an expert at it, yet. This is a lot like getting out of school for the summer, and isn't it interesting that it is occurring right at that time. My birthday is June 8, and it always came right at the summer break, in fact, our high school class graduated on my 18th birthday. For many years, I thought I was a summer baby, but a glance at the calendar would have told me summer doesn't start till the 21st, so I was born in the springtime. June is a wonderful time to be born. It is halfway to Christmas, so there is never a dearth of presents. My flower is the rose and my birthstone is the pearl. I have lots of both of those in my life at this moment. I am taking in to Costco another disk of flower pictures that I took of the roses in our garden. They make nifty enlargements for less that $3. I am thinking I will have a show someday, somewhere, so I need to get these babies printed up and framed. Gee, this entry has gone all over the place. Stream of consciousness kind of day, I guess. Or maybe I just need to finish my first cup of coffee before sitting down to write. You think?