The captive audience awaits.

Tonight I will speak to the first offenders again at Drunk Driving classes. I guess they do an extensive program for these people, many, many weeks of two hour sessions. This is just one little pea in their very long pod, listening to an hour of us AA types. I would feel sorry for them if I were still drinking. But here's what I know; for the majority of them sitting there, this was not the first time they drove drunk. And for most of them, it will not be the last, even though they think it will be. They all dodged a pretty big bullet if they didn't hurt anyone or anything. And that possibility looms in the future as long as they continue their drinking. So I give them our spiel, which is not to recruit them, or indoctrinate them. We alcoholics know that would not work even if we did try. Instead, I tell them what AA is, what it isn't (a hotel, a bank, a dating service), what to expect if they get sentenced to meetings, even what to wear (anything they want). And I give them a spoonful of the misery that got me there, and a healthy helping of the recovery I have now enjoyed for 15 years, at such a small price; just 3 or 4 meetings a week, a daily practice of gratitude, and a willingness to help others. Even their sorry asses.

I'm feeling like some snickerdoodles...

I have never really understood this pre-packaged cookie dough thing. Half the fun of baking cookies it to get all the ingredients out, the eggs, sugar, butter, flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and blow it all over the kitchen by revving up the Kitchenaid until it burns rubber. Add some nuts and chocolate chips, et voila! Heaven. And besides, there are no pre-packaged snickerdoodles, anyway. There are only 5 or 6 ingredients to snickerdoodles, and the true fun comes in chilling the dough, then rolling each cookie into a little round ball, then dredging it in cinnamon sugar. The cookies spread out perfectly round with little dimples on top, and are crunchy-chewy yummy. I offered to bring cookies to my Sunday meeting. Maybe it is time to haul out the mixer and spend a happy hour in the kitchen while the fragrance of warm cookies wafts all through the house. What an idea!

If it's Sunday, it must be Desperate Housewives!

OK, I am a slave to network TV. I didn't set out to do this to myself, and yes, I do know how to use my VCRs, well, one of them, but it just seems such a hassle. So I settle into my comfort foam and down pillow with my handy-dandy remote within reach, tea steaming on my bedside table, book in hand, dog curled at my side, and veg out with Susan and Bree and Lynette and Danielle. It is what I live for. This is probably pretty sad, and emblematic of the size of my life these days, which is pretty damned small. Not that I am feeling sorry for myself, oh nonono. I am thrilled at this tiny, sweet existence. My days of going out six nights a week to party and raise hell are so over. Also the days of walking the floor with a colicky baby, or laying awake listening to the Westminster chimes, waiting for a teenager to come home. And ditto the days of waking eight times a night to snores and grunts and tumultuous flopping about of a restless partner. I also don't get up all that early any more. No long commute, six months of it in darkness, one way or the other (I wore out three sets of headlights on my first miniscule Ford). No one lying in wait to heap another task on my bulging inbox. No more lists of tasks to tick off and start all over again, month by endless month. Yes, I will take network TV till 11 pm any day. It is the payoff for getting old. I mean, older.

Freedom?

I think it is ironic that our forefathers originally settled this nation to escape religious persecution, and we are all now just trying to keep for being persecuted by religion. Bush thinks that he can just say, "she's wonderful!" and all the senators and representatives will nod their heads and put this Holy Roller on the Supreme Court. Of course, she is going to wind up there, and it will be interesting to see what happens next. Perhaps we will all wind up in flowing white robes that cover us neck to ankles, and start construction on a new, improved ark to get us through the next big flood, global warming style, retribution for the lasciviousness of wanting control over our bodies and allowing gay people to celebrate their love. Meanwhile, back in the homeland, there is going to be an erotic interactive museum in London. Maybe King George wasn't so bad, after all.

Speed bumps on my highway of life...

Sometimes, my life gets all cluttered up with obstacles. I was so grateful to find a quick and easy way to get to the mall so I could park there and take the short bus to school. Then they began road work on an intersecting street, and it got a little tricky. Yesterday, there was an even trickier detour, and the tiny two block connector street was blocked by yet another piece of heavy equipment, installing windows on a new building. When I got to campus, I was early, since I forgot to stop for my latte on my way, so I took the scenic route through campus, winding around under heritage oaks and the ancient brick buildings and was accosted by a huge backhoe doing something awful to the lawn in front of Analy Hall. Three obstacles is usually my limit for the day. Then, last night, I returned to campus to view a movie, for extra credit in Political Science, Wag the Dog, all about presidential spin, a funny movie with a not so funny ending. It was supposed to be in Neuman auditorium, right there in Emeritus Hall, where I have all my classes, and I was feeling particularly happy because I got a parking place in the lot, something that is impossible during the day, and actually got to use my $60 parking sticker. Except that the movie had moved, to Burbank, all the way through campus. Finding it was a little dicey, like I had to ask a whole bunch of clueless people. Happy to say I persevered and even got home in time for CSI and my William Petersen fix. And, as if to make up for all this hassle, I got a whole string of green lights on the drive home. Can barely wait to see what awaits me today.

War sucks.

Our little town lost its first soldier in Iraq this week. There is a picture on the front page of his widow and baby. By all accounts, this was a remarkable young man and you have to applaud anyone willing to live a military life, even in peacetime. And one could wish for a more noble cause to die for than more gas for our SUVs. But it has always been so; our son's become cannon fodder whenever the leaders cannot resolve their difficulties any other way. Now our daughters join them. And the truth is that we wound ourselves every bit as much as we wound our enemies, since we are all one here on earth. There is nothing gained in the end that requires this kind of sacrifice. All the religions that we pay such devout lip service to could not prevent this awful war. So what is the solution? Well, our leaders need better minds. They should sit in my Critical Thinking class for a while, learn how to think outside that little box they are all folded up inside. One can imagine Bush sitting in his rec room, pushing little tin soldiers around, and feeling terribly important. Better yet, leaders should fight in the front ranks. That would give them the perspective necessary to be leaders. Like Bill Pulman in Independence Day. And we could all watch them on television. Duking Despots, a new reality show. I might even tune in.

Logic, Smlogic.

OK, I know what logic is. But this @$&*#@ textbook has taken a simple concept and muddied up the waters beyond all belief. Hopefully Joel will illuminate this subject today. Certainly, what is logical is true, right? Wrong. And you can take modus ponens and modus tollens and stick it. Please. I have read this stuff twice, and still get all balled up. Who would have thought that a course about thinking would be so murky? I've been thinking for a really long time. You would think I would have it down by now. Like I need an algebraic formula to know what is true or not? Or a Venn diagram? All men are human. All women are human. Therefore, all men are women. Right.

Pardon me while I dissociate...

My head is reeling with the plethora of disorders we are studying in Abnormal Psych. We just finished up anxiety disorders, you know, things like phobias and my personal favorite, panic disorder. I've been there, when the floor drops out from beneath and I was left free-falling into terror. Most people believe they are having a heart attack. I just thought I was dying. In a way, I was; I was so lost and afraid in my early sobriety, without any drug to ease the fear. Now we have moved into dissociative disorders, like dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as mulitple personality. Interesting that this is a phenomenon that exists almost solely in our American culture. It stems from traumatic abuse in early childhood. That says a lot about our parenting skills. I particularly like depersonalization disorder, those moments when we just zone out, like on the road, scary. A whopping 80-90% of the population has experienced this, yet they persist in calling it a "disorder". I think it is just a mini-vacation mode, myself. And then there are the somatoform disorders, like Muchausen syndrome, and hysteria, another favorite of mine. Mood disorders are coming up next. Oh, boy, depression. I could never be a medical student; I would die of some dread disease I was studying before I could graduate.

Garbage...

Monday is garbage day on Wild Rose Drive. There is such a sense of satisfaction on Sunday night, when I patrol the house, searching out all those orts that can be tossed into one of our three cans; recycling, yard waste, and general trash. Often, there is a little debate about which can to use, things like bottle caps; the bottles are recyclable, the caps are not. What is that all about? Anyway, I haul out our neatly bagged gunk and happily re-line all the receptacles for the next week of tossing. A little spritz of Lysol under the sink, and the house is fresh and new. Now, wouldn't it be great if there were a mental garbage day, too? I could sort out all the resentments and rotten thoughts, keep the fresh ones for further mulling, toss the fungus-ridden ones that had gotten shoved to the back of the box and festered there, and start each week with a clean new mind, all sanitized, ready to work out the new kinks life has in store for me. Yes, I think that would be swell. And I wouldn't even have to worry about recycling!

Brrrrrr..

Here comes fall, probably in earnest this time. I had already pulled out all the sweaters and put away the tank tops, so temps soared back up to the 90s again this week, and I wore the tanks I usually reserve for the gym rather than did through the boxes on the closet shelf. I am happy to put them away in their little drawer again. Our weather is fickle. It can turn on you overnight, and frequently does. It can be 100 in the shade during the day, and a chilly 50 at midnight. I took swimming lessons every summer when I was a kid, mostly because it terrified me and it took a lot of summers to get me out of beginners. As I progressed in skill, the lessons came earlier and earlier in the morning, which meant we were in the pool under skys that stayed foggy till 11. It was nice and warm in the water, but when I got out, man, it was c-c-c-cold, especially when I was taking life-saving, at 7 AM, and diving in fully clothed. Ah, but I took it with my boyfriend, and he got to be my hero, slinging me over his shoulder in the fireman's carry. There was nothing as wonderful as a stack of pancakes after an hour of saving each other.

User-friendly spirituality...

I have this designer God that I devised when I was new in sobriety. It says in our Big Book that the time will come when there will be no human defense against that first drink, and I took that to heart. But my Catholic God, the one that seems so benign then threatens to toast you extra-crispy if you even look at Him wrong, just didn't seem to be a good choice for my fervent prayers. So, I created this big soft teddy-bear God, who lounged around in Her pajamas all the time and loved me right now, warts and all. No more spiritual car washes on Saturday so I could be all squeaky clean for mass on Sunday morning. No more priests intervening on my behalf, either. I get to talk right to the Great Spirit, all by my little self. And sometimes, I yell; I figure God is big enough to take it, and better to yell at God than anyone else. That makes crumby Karma, and I want to keep my Karma flowing with the milk of human kindness. I also built my God to be all powerful, and all wise, so I can take any question to Her and have it answered, often in ways I know came from Great Beloved, because I would never think of them myself. Most of my relationship with my Creator is about becoming open to the wonder of this amazing universe we all share here. God does such marvelous good work, making available to me an infinite variety of flowers and trees and yes, bugs. I wonder why She needs so many different kinds of stuff, then I remember how easily bored I am, and I understand.

My spotted mind...

I never saw that movie about the "spotless mind", but I remember thinking that Jim Carrey probably was not Catholic. Not only was everything that was fun a sin, it was a sin to think about anything that was fun, too. I have given up on being spotless. I couldn't even stay spotless from Saturday afternoon till Sunday morning, between confession and communion. I just figured Jesus would have to live with it. Now, I accept that sometimes I am a perfectly awful person, in my mind, that is. Some people are perfectly awful outwardly, and send signals that if you play with them, you are in danger of really getting messed up. But people who are truly perfectly awful are the ones who cozy up to you and pretend to be your friend, then snicker about you with other perfectly awful people behind your back. I am not that bad. I mostly keep my perfectly awful thoughts to myself, and do my best to turn them around, to see that these perfectly awful people are like me, after all, just full of fear and dealing with it in their damaged little way. We are all damaged, I have decided. Life wounds. I am doing my best to get over it, one wound at a time. And still thinking stinky thoughts now and then. Sigh.

Political awakenings...

Our PoliSci professor asked that we give him a paper on our first moments of political awareness. Most of the kids in our class are too young to remember JFK or even Tricky Dick in his third go-round. I, on the other hand, was born when FDR was still in office, and vaguely remember Plainspeaking Harry Truman, who make the truly ballsy decision to drop the A-bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, ending the was with Japan with two very big bangs. I was 5 when that happened. My first awareness of the process came in the 1951 campaign of Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was the general that commanded our forces in Europe during the war. Ike was this totally bald, benign guy who loved golf. He had a little moon-faced wife named Mamie who wore cunning little hats with flowers on them and smiled all the time. His opponent was Adlai Stevenson, a senator from, I think, Illinois, who was bright and articulate. Neither was an appropriate candidate; Ike was too inexperienced in the political arena, and Adlai was an egghead, far to acerbic for the taste of his blue-collar party, the Democrats. My parents were small business people, and felt the Republicans represented their interests. This was before they allied themselves with the Christian right and started to try to legislate our family lives. Anyway, I was a Republican for a long time after that, because it is what I knew. And yesterday in class, I was the only one who had broken with her parents in my political affiliation. Interesting. And Tricky Dick was Ike's Vice President. I never voted for that man, not then (well, I was only 7), not when he ran for governor of California, not when he ran for President twice, and I was still a Republican then. In fact, it is the kiss of death for most politicians if I vote for them. But I always vote, anyway. Even if I am not a college graduate.

Bs are good, too.

I came home early from school today, with a headache and other bodily distresses. Really, it had nothing to do with the B I got on my PoliSci midterm, which was really hard and a bit obtuse, as well. This is going to happen, like, into each life a few Bs must fall. It was more about the workshop in Critical Thinking, where Joel uses most of his time cozied up to Erin, dear luminous blond person who knows how to use those baby blues. Don't think that approach will work very well for me, I am going to have to dazzle with my articulation and clarity. I've already given up on balance, it is not my forte. I am definitely opinionated, as you can see. Anyway, I am taking the afternoon off, once I knock off the piece on my first political memory, a long, long time ago, when Dwight Eisenhower ran against Adlai Stevenson. That was in 1951, for all you youngsters, and Ike was the commanding general of the war in Europe, a real hero, and it was a more innocent era, less mud-slinging, more real issues, though the nation was very prosperous, as a whole, after the war. Guess I will do a little research, too. After my nap.

I think I am in the wrong season, again.

Standing in line for the shuttle bus yesterday in my corduroy fleece lined jacket, I noticed all these young things in their camis with that requisite band of belly peeking out and had one of those moments when I believed everyone else had been issued a manual and I was, once again, hiding behind the door. It was chilly, really. And they did know something, because by the time I trudged back to the shuttle, it was warm. Not shirtsleeves warm, not for me, but not chilly any more. Just one of many instances when I questioned my reality. Like the last trip to (soul-sucking) Safeway for broccoli, and ice cream, of course. The shopping cart had a cup holder. Very handy, as there was a Starbuck's tucked into one corner of this enormous supermarket, as well as a Wells Fargo Bank, not just a counter, a whole bank. Add that to the drugstore and the bakery, and I only need a Gap outlet to complete my happiness. Wonders in merchandising. Anyway, today I am in my cami, with a fleece top over it. Right out of the manual.

I am not amused.

OK, anyone else really disgusted with the Geico Insurance commercials? You know, the ones that show the attorney telling his client, who is about to be executed, that he has good news, he has just saved a bundle on his auto insurance? How obnoxious is that, anyway. In psych class, we saw this nifty film (you don't call them movies, they are educational films; I learned this in grade school) about advertising, and the subtle use of sexual innuendo that objectified women. That is preferrable to this self-serving tripe, like who cares about anyone else as long as I am served. Give me the Harley-Davidson ad, where a series of sweet men get the brush-off at the end of their dates, then we pan to a Harley festooned with a red brassiere, parked in front of a sweet little house from which emanates the cries of passion. There's good old exploitation in action. OK, I am probably watching too much television. What can I say, I have no life.

At the movies...

The best thing about going to the movies is the previews. OK, they put them on DVDs, too, but they may not be current, you know, like they are in the theater. I went to see The Corpse Bride yesterday. Creativity like that deserves my attention, since I gripe all the time about the recycling of old material, like another movie about Oliver Twist? Give me a break! Anyway, Jennifer Anniston has a new film (actually, she has four coming up, and maybe that was a factor in the breakup, like she is very, very rich now) and it looks great. It's hard to go wrong with Shirley MacClaine and Kevin Costner. I could do without Mark Ruffalo, but he seems to be hot right now with the Clearasil crowd. The name of the film sort of slipped by without note, though. Then there's Nanny Macready, starring a heavily disguised, uglied-up Emma Thompson, and my favorite hearthrob, Colin Firth. That looks amazing, all sparkly and magical with adorable children behaving very, very badly. And then, Harry Potter! Boy, this movie looks like a blockbuster. The book was incredibly thick, full of Death Eaters and dragons and daring deeds, not to mention the International Quiddich championship match. I can barely wait for November 18 to arrive. Oh, and the movie was good, too. I liked it better than The Nightmare Before Christmas. There were more completely drawn characters (my favorite was Scraps, the skeleton dog), and even though the plot was a little predictable, it had a lot of charming moments. Three and a half stars from this viewer.

Honorable wounds...

Some breeds of show dogs are allowed to have defects, like scars or rips in their ears, because it is their function to hunt or herd. These are called "honorable wounds". I always liked that phrase. It implys that we are banged up, yes, but it is the process of fulfilling our function that is the cause of our scars. At my age, I think my soul must look like a piece of paper, folded upsmall, and stuck in God's back pocket of Her jeans, that have gone through the wash a few times; all fuzzy and faded and smeared, and frayed around the edges. The neat thing about that process is that I have softened. I no longer need to be all crisp and clean. I can face the world exactly as I am, kind of beat-up and sometimes, plain defeated. Most of the time, however, I feel that I can prevail, even when adversity rips me a new hole in my already battered soul. They say that if you are still here, you are not done yet. I just want to finish this life on a high roll. Please.

What a world!

I was sitting on the shuttle recently, on my way to class, and the young man next to me was ranting about how unfair it was that they had to shut down in November when the mall needed their parking spaces back for Christmas shoppers (though with the current price of gas, I doubt thy'll need that many). Life, lamented this sweet youngster, wasn't fair. Well, no, it isn't. Life is messy and painful and sometimes, downright rude. He was missing the point. It isn't personal. I used to think there was a petulant spirit that followed me around, sort of like that character in Dick Tracy, Joe *&%$@!, who walked around under a personal perpetual thunderstorm. I expected bad things to happen, and would have a pocketful of possible solutions even before the badness fell down from heaven. At the moment, not having a place to park at school looks pretty tame. I have two friends, one who moved to New Orleans, and one who moved to Corpus Christi, both on the run from those horrid storms. Another friend lost his son in a motorcycle accident last week. Strangely enough, these tragedies seem to have tempered these people, to have tested them in a bizarre way, and taught them how very strong we all are when we need to be. In the end, there is always a blessing, yes, even when loved ones die. That friend has learned how much we all love him, and has seen himself as deserving of it. Now, that's a gift.

Thinking lessons...

I just love Critical Thinking, because thinking is a favorite passtime of mine. Our current project is about definitions, which Joel says are often not very, well, definitive, even in the Dictionary. Three of us are working on defining "terrorism". My current one is: Terrorism - Premeditated, atrocious acts of unprovoked violence perpetrated against a civilian population by an organized group of fanatics and designed to instill fear and intimidation with the ultimate aim of asserting a religious belief or political agenda, or as acts of retaliation for presumed offenses. Believe me, I thought a lot about it before I came up with it. Tomorrow, it will be added into the mix with my two comrades-in-thinking, and then we get to defend it in a three page paper. Have I mentioned that this is the hardest part for me, collaberation? I would be happy just to do it myself. There must be a trust issue here for me, like everyone I ever trusted let me down and I don't believe that I deserve to get anything from anyone? You think? Whatever, I don't think my guys are going to lay down and let me do that, so our paper should be verrrrry interesting. And maybe I will get over myself. That would be a good idea.

Oh, dear...

If I begin to sink into that mire known as self-pity, I just turn on the radio. I got used to listening to talk radio when I was working at home. The local talk jocks kept me company in my tiny office under the stairs. Once in a while, I shot them a fax, and a couple of times, I even called them, on the air. Anyway, a newscast is all I need to perk myself up. People are out there crashing into one another, or sitting in gridlock, getting nowhere. Makes my life look really fine, really fast. And today, I got my newspaper I have to take for Political Science. Newspapers are different than radio. There is way too much bad news per square inch. The lead story today is about a man whose daughter took a taxi to the Golden Gate Bridge, left her wallet on the rail, and jumped. She was 14 years old. Now her father has killed himself, too. That is way too much bad news for one day. The depth of depair that exists out there is unfathomable. I think it comes from not sharing the pain with others, from stuffing it down till you are so polluted with it, no light can get in anymore. And we are meant to be creatures of light. Of course, it is too much to be light-filled every moment of every day. But at some point, I need to crawl out of my darkness, feel the warmth of my connection to my species. I guess that is why I am studying psychology, so I can share that in a professional capacity with others, and help them find their own source of light and love. How very much this young girl was loved, and how very little she knew it. We are all so precious, and we just never get to feel it. That is my teddy bear's name, Precious. She reminds me to live in my heart, as much as I can bear. Ooh, a pun. Forgive me.

Midterm heebie-jeebies...

I am back from my first midterm, and I have learned the following:
1. Even though she gave us the study-guide from hell, she will throw in a couple of questions not covered on it.
2. I will mark at least one question I know wrong (I think I caught it in my mandatory review I make myself take before handing in my Scantron).
3. I will get at least one question wrong that I was absolutely sure was right.
4. I will get at least one question right that I was absolutely sure was wrong.
OK, that's out of my system. Honestly, you would think the future of mankind rested in my ability to do well on this test. I am still spinning, axons and dendrites and stressors and neurotransmitters are doing the macarena in my prefrontal lobe. Must decompress, take a bubble bath, and get over myself. But not for too long. I have another one coming up. Midterm, that is.

The boob tube and I.

I am a child of the television generation. We got our first one when I was 5. Not only was it our first one, it was one of the very first ones. No remote. Can you imagine? You had to get up and walk all the way across the room to change the channel! Of course, there were only three, channels that is. It didn't matter. We would watch anything that was broadcast, we were so mesmerized by the idea of pictures that talked, right in our living room. Uncle Miltie and Sid Ceasar, Dinah Shore, and oh God, Lawrence Welk. Color didn't come along till I was 9, and most shows were still in black and white. Bonanza was one of the first to come along in color, and Wonerful World of Disney, my very favorite show. I had Mouseketeer ears and watched "Spin and Marty" on the Mickey Mouse Club. Then, American Bandstand. I was 14 when that came along, and it was still not in color. Still, I love television. My kids grew up with Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. I kind of drew the line with Captain Kangaroo, thought it was moronic, and thank heavens they were too grown up for Barney, that would have sent me around the bend for sure. Last night, I watched the Emmys, and was all torn up that Tyne Daly did not win for her wonderful Maxine on "Judging Amy" and Hugh Laurie is my current heart-throb on "House", he got passed over, too. But my precious, fragile, incredibly smart Monk guy did win, again. And I got to see a lot of bad taste in dresses, which I will delight in slamming with Joan and Melissa later today. Only in America.

Spiritual breathing lessons.

I am reading Plan B by Ann Lamott. Ann writes a lot about her faith, which buoys her through her recovery down there in the Marin County outback, on the fringe of the Mercedes people. Her digs are the beach at San Quentin and the south face of Mt. Tamalpais and Bolinas, quaint, sweet little town on the way to Point Reyes, where herons and elk abound. Last night, I read the chapter about the Church of Eighty Percent Sincerity. Now, that's for me. We have a saying in AA, "progress, not perfection". If I could be sincerely recovering 80% of the time, I would be so much happier. My worksheet, the state of the being, where I chart my moods, shows that I go up and down like a yoyo, but most of the time I rest in that OK mode. Well, hohum. I do want to reach Excellent on occasion. It sounds like the main minister of this religion is attaining it, and he has a grotesque facial deformity. He has found that, when faced with this challenge, he had to really search for his own beauty and worth, and it was not in the right makeup or wardrobe. It blossomed beneath his breastbone, and it shines out all over everyone else, too. Now, that is grace, to be able to look into the mirror at the terrible ravages of circumstance, and let that be a lesson and a blessing to shape your life around. Not that I am asking for a deformity. I am asking to see the same thing in the mirror David saw, God looking back.

Autumn thoughts..

We are losing the leaves on our sycamores down Wild Rose Drive. Of course I knew this would happen, the trees were bare when I moved in here. Just sorry to see them go, though I love fall. At first, that was because I loved school. School was a place where I got noticed and appreciated, not like home. Later, it was the joy of football season. I followed the hapless 49ers for nigh on to 25 years before they even hit the playoffs, only to be bumped out in the league championship game by Dallas (my Dad always says if they gave the world an enema, they'd put the nozzle in Texas). Then, in the 80's, the team took off, and we would scream home from bowling to watch Inside the NFL on HBO and hear all the praise for Joe and the guys. Now, I just enjoy getting out my sweaters and wooly socks and flannel PJs, and watching the light go all golden. I put two more quilts on the bed, ever so much more satisfyingly weighty and fluffy. Last night, I curled up there with Ann Lamott's book Plan B. She is like a female Woody Allen, all insecure and self-involved, rolling around in it. Her's is the way of the iconoclast, with those blond dreadlocks and her pithy faith that buoys her through a life full of supremely personal upheaval. She hates George W., too. And like me, she knows that means she has to pray for him. I love this woman.

Renaissance man.

My son Steven has been doing Renaissance Faire for a whole lot of years, since he was 14. Now, he's a strapping big guy, and all the little muffin-capped maids there fall over each other when he passes their way, with his sword and little beard. He used to wear his hair in a great unruly mane that gave him a mighty mystique, at Faire, but he thought it scared away prospective employers and lopped it off a few years ago. But even sensibly shorn, he is a hunky guy. His Faire personna goes back and forth between British foot soldier and German mercenary, both of which are in his ancestory, so he is entitled. This year, at the Casa de Fruita event, he is German. That means a really colorful outfit with cut-outs in the leather and hat with a lot of feathers on it. I have a picture of him in this costume, atop an elephant, with a flag and his sword crossed over his head (this was at Southern Faire, no elephants up this way, alas). If you want a gander at this mighty man, you can check him out in Renaissance Magazine, Issue #41. My very own dear arquebusier.

The thing about people-watching...

I went to our annual Book Faire this weekend. They hold it in Courthouse Square, that big empty space that used to embrace a really nifty Greco-Roman, marble-halled courthouse (you can see it extant in Hitchcock's Shadow of a Doubt, really worth seeing all by itself). There are all these little white canopies over card tables loaded down with the odd little publishing houses' tomes, chapbooks, hourly performances of literary stories and poems, and my personal favorite, stacks of cheap used books. Many dogs roaming through, so I always take Boo, too. We are a hit with all the kids; Boo is mellow and soft to the touch. I ran into a writing buddy from class, and the teacher as well, who introduced me to her friend as "a really good writer", which gave my ego its daily supercharge. It was one of those amazing Northern California fall days, clear skys, temp in the 70's, tiny breeze. After rifling through the stacks (I bought a couple of mysteries, of course, and Frances Mayes Under the Tuscan Sun (I know, really old and they've already made the movie, but it is still fun to read), Boo and I sat down on one of the benches that had been cunningly painted to depict a Sonoma County scene, and watched the crowd. Book Faire's draw out the all-natural-fiber folks, the one's who wear big clunky Birkenstock's and straw hats that tie beneath their chin. One woman wore lemon yellow cotton, stretched tightly around her girth. From behind, her buns were clearly outlined in their also too tight undies. What amazed me was her attitude, which was audacious, frequently bending over to display this extravanza to all passers-by. I want that attitude. And then there was Emilio, my writing buddy, in his green baseball cap pulled down to shade his marvelous honker. And the woman who was at least 300 lbs, in flappy black tee and shorts, looking positively regal with her thatch of blond curls. What a fascinating variety of expressions of the Divine! We are all so delightfully diverse, and yet all part of this great Universe. Necessary parts. Me, too.

The real scoop.

My greatest sin used to be my refrigerator. I would store leftovers dutifully in plastic containers, only to watch them decompose awfully, and finally, I would breathe through my mouth long enough to clean it out. I have gotten better. Well, there's hardly any leftovers any more. I guess I've just gotten better at portion control. Now my greatest sin is my car. Now, I love my car. It gets me where I want to go admirably. And it used to live at the bottom of a big hill, so that was my excuse for it getting all littered up with stuff. Now, it is just around the corner of the house, in the little carport, still crammed with stuff. There is dog stuff, of course, the leash, water bowl (actually an old Cool Whip container, but it works), brush and towel for emergencies, as well as paper towels for picking up poop, and plastic bags, too. Then there is the gym bag and towel, the writing group journal and exercise book, a box of Kleenex, the spare books I keep for idle moments, when I have to wait somewhere, and an old O magazine that a friend gave me. In the center console I keep spare glasses, a small pair of scissors, my AAA card and gas station receipts, until it gets too full, then I bring them into the house to file with paid bills. The glove compartment (and isn't that just so civilized and old-fashioned, glove compartment) holds my manual, service records, registration and insurance, of course, along with a comb, hand lotion, cologne, air freshener, hair spray, pens and an extra pair of sunglasses. The side pockets are full of CD cases, some actually with CDs in them. And there is a CD holder attached to the passenger side visor. The pocket in the back of the seat holds my sun visor thingy, an umbrella, and God knows what else, because I never look in there. Oh, and my Big Book lives in the car, too. And my cell phone, because I have one of those adaptors to charge it from the cigarette lighter plug. The ashtray is full of change, and down to nickels, dimes and pennies, too. I must replenish it with quarters, for parking meters, you see. Once, I locked my wallet in the office, and was happy to have that change so I could call for help (a per-cell phone moment). I also keep water on board, for me as well as Boo. I don't even want to mention the trunk. I have not seen the bottom of it since I had to disgorge all the stuff by the side of the road to get to the training wheel they call a spare, one flat tire ago. I know there is a backpack in there, and a bag of books that was going somewhere. I am adding a package of cookies to the mix today, my contribution to the noon meeting on Friday. So, that's my true confession for the day. At least it is clean, my car, though it is hard to tell, under all the stuff.

Staying behind the scenes? Not happening here...

It is hard to fly beneath radar. I tend to open my mouth a lot in class, even when I look stupid doing it. I had this dandy topic all mapped out for my narrative argument in critical thinking, and it didn't fly. So, I came home, fuming, and changed it. Because teacher thought otherwise. Well, he must know, right? But isn't that what the class is all about, thinking for myself and not cowtowing to the powers that be? Nevertheless, I need the grade. This is a perfect example of selling out, I'm sure. Well, it could be worse. At least I know I am selling out. Besides, I got an A- on my last paper, the one I fought tooth and nail with my co-conspirators about, to keep my very well-constructed linear design, and not have raised my overall grade to A-, also. Man, that man is a nit-picking freak. When I am done with this class, my writing is going to be pristine, free of redundancy, and thinly-veiled criticism, too.

Oh, for a friendly ear!

Last night, I was channel-surfing, waiting for my sleepy-bye melatonin to kick in, and caught a performance by a male ballet dancer, doing this amazing routine of little interludes in characters like a drunk, an old man, a fairy (I kid you not), a macho man. Well, it was Barishnikov, of course, something from the 80's. He was great, and very powerful. His leaps astonished me. I yearned to yell to someone "Come here! You've just got to see this!" And there was no one else there. Part of me just wants someone to know how very cultured and refined I can be. See, I listen to Mozart! OK, I've got a way to go here.

Back in the dark ages, the early 60's, I saw a film with Rudolph Nureyev and Dame Margot Fonteyn, a performance of Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet. Margot was a little long in the tooth to be playing a 14 year old, but still so lithe and sylph-like, you could forgive her. Rudie, on the other hand, was a joy to behold. When he leapt into the air, he just sort of hung there, in anti-gravity grace. And you'll never see a more gorgeous glutious maximus. That's th polite phrase for bottom. With all that lusty, throbbing music, it was a consummate wonder. Mikail never quite lived up to Rudie in my book, not till last night, anyway.

Oh, well. If there had been someone there last night, he would have been in the other room, watching football highlights, anyway.

Watch out, Arnold, here I come!

I am going to spend a happy hour balancing the state budget today. This is a homework assignment for political science, and I have already decided to raise taxes. Probably an across the board tax hike, because I don't want to favor any interest groups, but maybe beginning at $50,000 annual income, to exempt the really poor folks who don't need any more bad news. I know, that's pretty low, too. Well, maybe this will take more than an hour to figure out. Politics is such a sticky wicket, I don't know why anyone would want to do it, except George W., of course, who seems to delight in it like a kid playing with toy soldiers. Has anyone told him he is not wearing a white hat anymore?

Please pass the humility.

I played bridge last night with our fun and sober over-the-hill gang west county foursome. We can only get together in summertime, when the guys are here. Lucky Peter and Paul winter in more temperate climates. My cards were dismal from the get-go. I had only 3 worthy of opening all night, and only got to play two of them. Since they were measly one bids, I made them both, one just barely. So I was feeling kind of slighted, you know, the bridge fairy just kind of sat on Peter's shoulder all night. Then, before we all toddled off home, at 9:30 pm, Holly reminded us that we should take a moment to savor our moment together. They are so precious, those moments with dear friends, and can end so suddenly. Then I got in my little car to wend my way home on the country roads. Town is always kind of a shock, like a little too bright after that drive, and College Avenue was all lit up like a Christmas tree. When I got a little closer, I saw that all four lanes were shut down by a feeding frenzy of emergency vehicles. This necessitated a detour through a lot of curvy residential streets, until, by some lucky chance, I wound up east of the calamity, and continued on home. This morning's paper told me a young woman, still in her teens, lost her life there, and two more are still in the hospital. Amazing how fast these things can happen, isn't it. There's that old leveler, perspective. Sure helps to know that my troubles are so very small, irritating, but tiny, nevertheless. And my blessings are wondrous good.

My garden needs some work...

A while ago, when I was being all woo-woo spiritual, I found a poem about planting my own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring me flowers. Lovely thought, that. But it also means that I have to tend that garden; weed and water and mulch and prune. Oh. I just took a look and my garden is in really sad shape. Here, it is overgrown and thorny. There, it is all dried up and dusty. The only thing that has the look of constant attention is the bench under the tree. So, I am gathering my spiritual tools and heading out to the south forty for some serious landscaping. There doesn't seem to be a magic wand in the toolchest yet. When do I get that tool?

The state of the being..

I actually started a worksheet with that name. I am rating my physical, emotional and spiritual state daily. OK, I am a little self-absorbed, but my psych teacher says we go through natural cycles, and I am checking to see if that is true, post-menopause, as it is. I have four ratings: E for Excellent, O for Okay, N for Not so hot, and D for Don't even ask. Since the beginning of the month, there have not been any "E" ratings. But only one "D" so far, a day I want to forget. And I got up to grayness this morning, not a bad thing, it's good for the lawns, but it was gray inside, too. Then I opened my e-mail. One was a boogie-woogie animated manifesto of perkiness, that was hokey but fun. One was a Mollie Ivins column sent by my acerbic friend Jim that implored this idiot and all the others out there to pay attention to what our government is doing. Well, duh. Now she tells me. And I am, I am! I am taking the newspaper, and most of the time, reading it! Give me a break. But the best e-mail came from my daughter, who always apologizes for forwarding something. It's OK, honeybun. We all do it. This was the annual Mensa contest asking members to change or add one letter to a word to give it new meaning. My favorite was "decafalon", the grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. I go through that process, a lot. Not today, though. I began my day with a large pancake topped with homemade cinnamon applesauce and Cool Whip, and two cups of my Columbian Supremo. Maybe I will be able to give myself an "E"? Later.

Pole-vaulting over mouse turds...

Small things are my downfall. I studied for the psych quiz, everything except classical conditioning, which I really understood, right? Guess which question I missed. I did get 18/20, so it could have been worse. And today, in poli sci, I just didn't read a question right, or I would have aced the quiz, which was ridiculously easy, after I studied all the constitutional amendments, the cabinet members and looked up the speaker of the house, thinking he would shoot off one really stinky question. So it was 9/10 there. Sigh. Just goes to show, I am only 80% present most of the time. More stuff to get done, like another paper for critical thinking, and one for political science, both due next Wednesday, and a midterm to study for in abnormal psych, though she did give us study questions and that helps, a lot. At the moment, my biggest question is what to have for lunch. I'll write that paper later. And download the reference sources for that other paper. And read chapter 5. Nice to know what's happening next, I guess.

Tardive dyskenesia, federalism and a CSI marathon, wow!

Studied all day yesterday to the CSI marathon on Spike TV. I now am in William Petersen overload, and confused, too. Beard, no beard, beard again! Can't decide which I like the best. Hell, he's just a hunk for the over-the-hill crowd, whatever. I went dashing out to class, only to be let off after the quiz, which took 10 minutes, and another 10 to review and correct. I got 18 of 20, got my unconditioned stimulus and response mixed up. Oh, well. Now to finish final draft of the paper on global warming, which is an Oh-My-God issue, and study for the Constitution quiz tomorrow, too. Really a thing of beauty, that document. We are so lucky our founding fathers, all really young men in their 30's, were into democracy and smart enough to not let the masses rule. Well, they were into protecting their property rights, but in the end it works pretty well. Better than any other government has worked in a lot of instances. Man, I love being free, don't you? I don't love the government, and am working to change that, as I think most of us are, in the next election. What a hoot it is to be able to think for myself, and not have anyone fault me for it. Not something everyone gets to do. So, I'm off to study, once again. Life is so interesting, n'est-ce pas?

Twilight Zone time...

Do you suppose Chief Justice Renquist watched Pat Robertson? Gosh, I hope not. I saw this clip of Pat (Daily Show, of course) where he was praying so hard for openings on the Supreme Court, all squinted up, I thought his what was left of his brain was going to come squirting out his ears. Now, that's a scary thought, God listening to Pat. What would we all look like if Pat was God? Men all dressed in baggy suits and ties, women in skin-tight white blouses and tube skirts, with kick pleats? Lots of makeup and big, big hair, too. Those Christians sure do know how to make a fashion statement, right? This sure is the downside to free speech. Anyway, I was really sad to hear of the demise of our chief justice, even if he did live a prosperous 80 years. Couldn't he have waited till George was out of office?

So much to learn, so little time.

Interesting stuff, psychology. I particularly like classical conditioning. It explains a lot about myself, like why I store all my memories in music. The feelings I was experiencing when I first heard the music (and I listen to it over and over and over) are all there when I hear it today. The soundtrack to ET, for example. I was separated from my husband when I saw the movie, then bought the soundtrack album. There is pain beyond comprehension in that music that I will never be able to scrub away. But I found that I can use this process to help myself, too. My mother gives me perfume, lots of it, all the time. I think I mentioned that I don't wear it any more, too many people are sensitive to it, but no matter. Here, have another bottle of White Diamonds. Well, I like the scent, so I began putting it on at night, as I was getting sleepy. Now it is a trigger for sleep, which is sometimes quite elusive for me. It works great, and I have used up a lot of it. Smells better than the dog, too.

Survivor guilt...

It is just horrid what is happening in New Orleans. I was sitting in my family room, watching Sleepless in Seattle, eating my boneless, skinless sauteed chicken breast with Thai rice, broccoli and carrots, feeling really grateful that all four walls of my little house are around me, no water on the floor, and the power is on, while back east, the people are homeless and have only just begun to get food and adequate sanitary conditions. It is always like that for me. I feel guilty that I have so much, while others have so little. Oh, I will send a donation to the Red Cross, as will so many of those other guilty folks. And that will help, a lot. It sometimes just seems like I should stop for a moment, and reflect on the grace I have all around me, my little dog, the friends and family who are well and also without tragedy in their lives, the sunshine and sweet breeze now blowing in the sycamore trees in front of the house. And I send my prayers for a quick resolution to the despair that has fallen on the gulf coast.

Mental health day.

The seasons are changing. Oh, I know fall doesn't start till the 21st of this month, but tell that to the weather. And everytime the barometer fluctuates, I get a headache. Whatever was God thinking when She gave us sinuses? Who needs these litte annoying holes in their head, anyway? Mine have been throbbing away, probably objecting to the fact that I left my ceiling fan on a couple of nights ago. It was hella-hot. Now it is cold, and that has my head all stuffed up and confused. So I am cherishing the fact that it only hurts a little, and am determined to just lay back today, no where I have to be, till later this afternoon, when I have to do some shopping, and that is more fun than chore. Meanwhile, I am very grateful for my foam matress-topper, my highly scrunchable down pillow, and the little pile of black fur now curled up on both. Wonderful.

My voice got me into trouble again.

We read our drafts in critical thinking yesterday. Now, to be fair, our paper is, well, our paper, and contains snipets of text from all three of us gals. However, I slipped their snipets into the envelope I had created, as I was the one integrating all our stuff, and there were piles of it. I noticed from the other readings that ours was the best organized, a feat I accomplished all by myself. In fact, that was how I was able to take pages and pages of stuff and get it synthesized down to 2 pages, double-spaced, 12 font. When I found that progression, it was easy to insert examples and lead it up to a conclusion. Not bad. But once again, the criticism was that our voices bled through the analysis, and you could tell we were all steamed that the world is going to get fried extra-crispy and George W. is toasting marshmallows. I'll give you odds that soon, the glamor will wear off police and firemen, and begin to shine on the scientists. If anyone can save our collective butt, they are the ones. Anyway, it's back to the drawing board. Everything is in place, we just need to attribute it to the author, and tone down the final paragraph, where disdain and disgust just ooze off the page. Whatever, it was really fun writing it, and I can barely wait till I get to say what I think.

California, here I come...

A few years ago, my significant other's parents visited us from New Hampshire. They were nervous as cats in a room full of rocking chairs the whole time they were here because of earthquakes. Gee. Every year, the east coast gets pounded by mega-storms, so big and numerous, they have to name them, alphabetically. We just kind of shook our heads, and let them tremble, while trying to keep their Chesapeake water spaniel from perpetually cleaning off the top of the coffee table with his tail. Despite what the world sees in the "happy cows" commercials, earthquakes are pretty rare for most of us. And pretty mild, too. There have been two in my lifetime that were strong enough to do major damage, so that's one every 30 years. And the death toll in Louisiana and Mississippi already exceeds the number killed in both those quakes. The world is a dangerous place. Things can change on a dime. Good reason to be really grateful today, and send a prayer to those souls on the Gulf Coast, that this will be the only storm to roar through, this year.

Higher education and I, redux.

I thought I had all this stuff nailed. College is a breeze, just find out what the teacher wants, and give it to him/her. Except that critical thinking is different. Here, I am supposed to think for myself, right? Well, right, and wrong, too. Because I still have to think like the teacher, too, to accomplish my goals, which include a good grade. Our first paper, and there are many in this class, was a short analysis of Mark Twain's essay The Turning Point of My Life. In it, he theorizes that we have no free will, that our lives are predicted by two indicators, temperament and circumstance. All men are watches; some are fancier than others, but watches anyway. Wind a man up, and he will do what he does. He bases his argument on his own experience and extends that out onto the rest of us. Well, it's humorous and pretty pompous, too. And not true, at least not in my experience. The whole thing hinges on temperament being both inborn and unchangeable, the way old Mark's apparently was. Mine was so deeply buried in defense mechanisms, the poor thing was a dead duck before I was five. And a lot of this going-back-to-school thing is yet another attempt to find out who I was supposed to be in the first place, before I had to be everything everybody else expected me to be. And I am still finding that everyone else has an idea of that, still. I actually said what I thought in this paper, and after Joel gave us a little pep-talk about how character-building it is to get a D on your first paper as I sat there cringing, I was relieved to see that he gave me a B+. This was because, despite the explicit instructions not to include any opinion, he could see that my argument was a "thinly veiled criticism". Well, duh. It's critical thinking, right?

My Country, T'is of Thee...

Strange to think that those terrorists who so deeply wounded us thought we would just lay down and die. Certainly they never read any of our history, never knew that we wrested this country from the grip of England and evil King George. I just read our Constitution, and it is a thing of beauty. I can see why people study law now. The Law of our Land insures that we get to keep those things we fought so hard for back in 1776. Our "founding fathers" were young men with great minds. The balance of power they provided for works just as they planned, insuring we will never be swept away by a Hitler. No police state, either. I am learning a lot in Political Science. Everyone should have to take this course. Our democracy is a pluralist system, basically motivated by special interest groups. It makes me happy that I joined AARP, who are lobbying now to stop our current evil George from doing damage to the Social Security system. There is no law that prevents us from electing a boob president of this country. Perhaps it is time for an amendment, the 28th, that requires personality testing of the candidates, so we can weed out the megalomanics like George before they can charm the Heartland and steal elections. Where is Thomas Jefferson when we really need him? All he did was diddle his slaves, the female ones, that is. Otherwise, he was wise and steady and would never send our young men to the other side of the world to attack a sovereign nation on a rumor of threat. I want a president who is smarter than I am. Is that so much to ask?

The thing about Sundays...

Not my favorite day. Once upon a time, my big German grandmother, Ida Mae, would arrive early in her Studebaker to take me, just me, to mass. The rest of my family would still be lounging around in the pajamas, wiping syrup from their French toast off their smiling faces while I was wadding my skirt up under my knees and bearing Grandma's scowl whenever I rested by bottom on the pew behind me. In later years, Sunday was hangover day, trying to smile through pounding pain, which I, after all, aptly deserved. For a while, about at year, I went to church happily every Sunday morning, where Rev. Mary spoke eloquently of an all-loving God, and I would swell up with spirit. Then they began their campaign to buy property, begging me for money, and I stopped going. Now a meditation meeting is my spiritual wake-up call, not until 11 am, though, and bed-changing/laundry/studying take up the rest of the day. Maybe a walk in the neighborhood, later, when it cools down, and then, water the lawn. I woke today to a headache, perhaps an hommage to all those hangovers? Whatever, I am not the happiest camper in the tent this Sunday.

All hail the local fishwrap...

New thing added to morning routine, which till this week included: rise, stretch, pat dog, stretch again, toodle into bathroom, pee, brush teeth, wash face, plug in curling iron, toodle into kitchen, grind beans, brew coffee, toodle back to bedroom, deodorize, dress, make bed (after kicking dog off of it), back to bathroom, curl hair, makeup, find glasses and check for raccoon eye, microwave muffin, pour coffee, toodle into office to write in blog. Whew! That's a lot, and that's just the first 15 minutes of my day. Now, I also have to read the newspaper, which I also had to subscribe to, so before I can sit down here to noodle around, I have to sojourn to the end of the driveway (and didn't it used to land on the porch?) to pick up our local paper. This is a requirement of Political Science, and while I can see his point, I am still a little frosted. Newspapers are often: old news, biased, and full of very bad news I really don't need to know, like the apartment fire that left 16 souls homeless last night, started by carelessly discarded cigarettes, or the Hollywood producer and 9 year old daughter who died in Lake County in very bizarre circumstances. And I am compelled to read the obituaries, because, after all, they are there, and I may know one of the dead people. And now I am not amused by Dr. Dean Edell's rendering of the day's comics, because I have already read them. Sheesh. Forget that I got a student discount. Once this four months has passed, this wrag is history!

Infamy lives on...

I see from my handy-dandy this-day-in-history window thoughtfully provided by my ISP, that today is the anniversary of Krakatoa's big bang. That makes sense to me, as today is also the birthday of one of my ex-gentleman friend's. Now, wouldn't it be nice if there was a drug that could just ply the highways of the hippocampus, where all those memories are tucked away, and selectively cherry-pick away at all that unneccessary data just laying around, taking up space? Like I need this on my mind, all day long. And he isn't the only one taking up room with superfluous information; there are a raft of dates lacking in current significance that I would dearly love to pitch in the circular file. I remember the birthdates of every single man I dated more than twice. Well, except the next to last one, Mr. What-the-Hell-Was-I-Thinking, aka The BIG Mistake. I know it was in May sometime, but the date has evaporated, which you think would be good, except that I keep wondering all month if that is the day. I know, I'm seriously demented here. I am learning in Abnormal Psych that much of my behavior is questionably borderline maladaptive. I'm actually kind of proud like that. There's a lot to be said for doing one's own thing.

I am finally riding the school bus.

When I was a kid, our little town had the only high school in the west county, so 1/2 the student body was bussed in. I always wanted to ride the school bus, but we lived in town. I got to walk to school, or ride my bike, in those interim years when it wasn't a dorky thing to do. As I remember, those years didn't last very long, fourth grade, maybe. Anyway, after the trauma of wasting a lot of valuable gas and stressing out about being late, parking by a No Parking At Any Time sign, and winding up with a $40 parking ticket, I decided to try the shuttle to college. It's one of those short buses, the kind the challenged people always get to ride in. OK, this works for me. I'm sufficiently challenged to qualify. I worried I would not find it; I am a left-brained sort of person (I know this now because we did the test for it in Abnormal Psych, when I intertwine my fingers, the left thumb is on top), and I don't have very good spatial skills. Cannot read a map if my life depended on it. Well, I parked at the downtown mall, turned the corner out of the garage, and there it was! It's just a hop-skip-and-jump from school, and they run two continuously all day, so I don't have to loiter around with the crowds, waiting for it. And I meet all kinds of fun people who are going to college, too. Met a delightful woman, in her 40's (an already a grandmother) who is completing her nursing degree at the excellent nursing school. She also was very enthusiastic about being back to school. These little skills, like finding the shuttle bus, are the really challenging things that give me hope that I am going to conquer the academic world. Oh, and my PoliSci teacher passed me and said hi to me Tuesday, by name! I'm famous, too!

The college rulebook.

1. Everyone wears jeans. Gals wear them tight and low-slung. Guys wear them baggy and low-slung.
2. Everyone has a cell phone.
3. Don't be too early to class, as you will then bump into the end of the class before yours.
4. Try really, really hard not to answer all the teacher's questions. Sometimes someone else actually knows the answer, too. ( And sometimes, you are wrong. Imagine that.)
5. Laugh and smile a lot. People will like you if you do.
6. Notice that there are other older people like you around, and they look pretty dumb if they try to emulate the youngsters' dress, so just be yourself.
7. Whatever happens is what is supposed to happen and it will all turn out fine at the end, so no more worrying yourself into a great big stress pimple on your chin, no, no, not any more.
8. Don't pack up your book bag till class is over. It is rude.
9. If you have to spend every moment of every day studying, school is not an option. There has to be time for play, too. Balance is the key. Well, duh.

Secrets of a antiquarian college student.

I am getting this thing. College, I mean. My first huge hurdle was the parking, and I now have a plan and it is succeeding. Today, my class starts at 10:30. By then, there isn't a space left within 30 miles of school. So I park at the mall by Macy's and catch the shuttle. Now the problem with the shuttle is that it drops us in the middle of the campus, way far away from my building, and my sense of direction is pretty dismal. I had to very carefully pick my way through campus, marking trees and buildings, and pray that I would remember the way back and not flounder around like Hansel and Gretel. And tomorrow, I arrive early enough to get one of the five or six remaining spaces in a lot far, far away. Oh well, I need the exercise anyway. I wrote my first paper for Critical Thinking, and surprise, I thought critically of the narrative we read, a pithy little diabtribe by Mark Twain, called The Turning-Point of My Life. He states, in his inimitably pithy way, that man has no freewill, not a whit. All decisions in life are predicated on two things: Consequence and Termperament. Consequence is out of our control. Temperament is innate and immutable. Therefore, we are like watches; wind us up and we do what we do. I disagree. I am just about the only one in class that does, including the teacher. True, it is a compelling argument. But Twain's whole premise falls flat because he bases it solely on his own experience, which he then projects out onto the rest of humanity. I could write as compelling an argument for freewill, based on my experience. Funnily enough, when I stated this is class yesterday, teacher Joel countered with "what about his examples?" To which I replied "Adam and Eve? Give me a break! Mark didn't know Adam and Eve!" No dummy here. Well, if I am wrong, I am magnificently wrong. But it seems to me that the whole point of Critical Thinking is to think, critically. That means I don't have to buy every snake oil salesman's pitch. And I just don't buy this one, even when stated with eloquence and that biting Twain humor. Sure hope this is the right way to do it. If not, I just shot myself in the foot.

Solo tripping...

There are a lot of wonderful things about living alone. Like, I always know where the scissors are. Of course, if I can't find them, there isn't anyone else to blame, either. And if I decide to have a waffle topped with strawberries and whipped cream, lots of whipped cream, there is no one to shake their head and roll their eyes when I also decide to have mocha almond fudge ice cream for dessert. But the best thing, the very most-wonderful thing, is that I get to practice being happy. It is a fallacy to believe that I will ever be happy in a relationship if I can't be happy by myself, right now. Happiness is strictly an inside job, a decision I make on a moment-to-moment basis. I get to work on that every day now, from the moment I wake with Boo's nose on my cheek to our parting moments when I turn out the light and skootch him over to the other side of the bed. Mornings are busy, four days a week, when I am packing up the red book bag and heading off to school. Afternoons are currently full of reading and outlining and studying, with small breaks often, to refresh the neural networks, let them cool down a little. Evenings that I am not out at a meeting are often television banquets; House on Tuesday nights, Monk on Fridays, Desperate Housewives on Sunday. Really, how very trite this all sounds. But, I am abysmally happy most of the time, really. Walks in the neighborhood, a trip to the gym, an afternoon at the movies with friends, it is really very easy to be happy. Chopping up veggies for a stir-fry, washing the car, folding laundry, stretching out in a bubble bath, all are moments of bliss. And then there is that moment in the afternoon, when I am spread out all over the bed with the laptop, school books, notes everywhere, and the rainbow maker stirs into action, and my room is ablaze with tiny rainbows dancing all around me. Grace.

I think, therefore I am.

During one of my inanity breaks from studying, during which I pledge to do nothing of any redeeming quality, or at least nothing that requires a whole lot of thinking for I am, after all, resting my brain, I watched a rerun of Star Trek, the Next Generation. I just love Jean-Luc and his attitude. "Make it so." Right on! Anyway, in this episode, Dr. Beverly Crusher, that gorgeous redhead, is experiencing that her crewmates are disappearing around her. The captain and officers keep reducing the number of people on board; even Data, who is a machine and therefore never wrong (wouldn't that be lovely), agrees with them. Beverly never doubts herself, which is amazing thing no. 1. But amazing thing no. 2 is that Jean-Luc believes her, too, even though it is not his particular view of reality at the moment. Now, wouldn't it be lovely if we could all experience that kind of validity in our lives? I remember being the one screaming at the top of my voice about elephants in the living room, and everyone else shaking their heads and recommending therapy. Who can say that what they personally experience is or isn't reality until she is validated by another? And shouldn't everyone? Ah, a deep question. I am probably thinking more deeply here because I am becoming better educated. I am even taking a class in thinking. Anyway, Beverly does come to realize that it is she that is caught in the alternative reality, and she takes the leap into the vortex to return to the real Enterprise. I want to be more like her, for sure. Brave and thoughtful and self-assured, even when all around her is disintegrating.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

So I didn't get into that meteorology class and lab, but I am still learning about the weather, in, of all places, critical thinking. I am 2/3 through this very long series of articles from The New Yorker, called The Climate of Man. It is an expose on global warming, and it is not good news. Now, I listen to talk radio, and I surf over to CNN.com once in a while, and I have not heard that the permafrost in melting, so much so that old vegetation trapped there is rotting and spewing methane into our atmosphere. The old earth is hotter than she has ever been in 420,000 years. And George W., who is admittedly not the sharpest knife in the drawer to begin with, keeps pushing legislation to drill for oil, more oil, offshore and in Alaska, so we can keep emitting greenhouse gases to add to the problem. Which is why I never voted for that idiot. Oh, and the original definition of idiot is one who doesn't pay attention to government. I think Geo. fits neatly into this category. Geo. pays attention to Geo. Monte, my political science teacher, has already pointed out that this president has taken more vacations than any other in history. Yeah, even more than are officially documented. I think his intellect is on permanent vacation. OK, so I'm a little stirred up here. Like Geo., I will not be here to reap the real devastation of global warming. No, that will fall on my children, and their children. I do not drive an SUV, but I do think it would be wonderful if they all wore the bumper sticker quoted in the article: Hi! I'm changing the climate! Ask me how! No wonder college students protest. We get to learn things that our media somehow neglects to tell us. OK, I am reading this article from a media source, but let's face it, how many people read The New Yorker? Probably, everyone should. And maybe there are other sources out there I have not been looking at, too. So, I am really an idiot, too. Former idiot. Yes.

Further adventures of higher-education me...

While I was parking next to a No Parking Anytime sign on my second day at college, I met up with a delightful young man who was lamenting about the parking, and said there are 40,000 students enrolled this semester at our sweet, little community college. You know they have taken a page from the airlines, and oversold the spaces. Well, better a ticket than be late for class. My teacher for abnormal psych is a young Vietnamese woman who looks like a 12 year old gymnast. And she is delightful. Plus, she has everyone pegged already. There will be no slackers on her shift. She had each of us introduce one another, as well, but we had to stand in front of the class to do it. Madison, my partner, was a hoot and we were a hit, because we really talked. She is a Harry Potter fan. How could it get any better? The smarmy men with their little black books were still endeavoring to give them away, and not having a lot of success. These kids don't want an antidote to intelligence; they're in school to learn other stuff. Good for them. So I got my parking ticket, $40, but it was worth it. And part of that will be refunded because our political science teacher found that we had been overcharged almost $20 on the text. Another trip to the bookstore, sigh. Oh, and I opened the Campus Trial Pack (for her) I got when I bought my last text book, and found the following items: Thermasilk shampoo; ad for Proactiv acne cream; coupon for Take 5 energy bars; 75% off Cosmo; a "Join the National Guard flyer; AOL disc for 1,175 hours free; Citi VISA application, 0% APR; Dove Body Wash; a package of Top Ramen; and Colgate toothpaste. What a deal!

Separation anxiety? Whose separation anxiety?

Boo and I have this little discourse every morning as I ready to leave for school. He gets more and more whiny the nearer the moment comes, so we have this conversation:
Me: "OK, it's almost time to Mommy to leave. You're a big boy and you can stay here and guard the house."
Boo: "You're not leaving me, again?"
Me: "Mommys go to school. Dogs don't. You'll be fine."
Boo: "You've got to be kidding me!"
Me: (Picking up keys and sunglasses, dead giveaway,) "Be a good boy, now. I'll be back real soon." (Throwing of extra-special bacon treat towards the kitchen, away from the door.)
Boo: "No, no! Don't go!"
Me: "Chill!" (Sound of door shutting)

OK it's a little pathetic. But if you could see the look on his little black face, well, it's heart-wrenching. As I write this, he is sprawled on the floor directly between me and the door. When I leave, I literally slink to the car and back out of the driveway really fast. It's best to make a clean getaway, and ignore any anguishing yelps coming from the front room. When I am home all morning, he curls up on the bed and doesn't move till lunch. I'm sure he does the same thing when I leave, right? Right. I think I will leave the radio on for him today. Yes, that's the ticket.

The view from the inside is different.

I always thought college was so cerebral, the classrooms filled with deep thinkers engaged in, well, deep thoughts. What a surprise to find them filled with kids just trying to fulfill their General Ed requirements so they can progress to their chosen fields of employment. But I digress. Let me begin with my drive to school, one I am of course familiar with after 6 weeks of class this summer. Fall is not summer. The access street to my building's parking lot was, well, a parking lot. I escaped the parade and parked behind Wolf's Coffee, a block away, an escape I found when attending night school there. That meant I got to stand at the crosswalk in my khaki Dockers and sweet little black sweater with all the girls in their raggedy jeans and sweatshirts. Once again, I had lost my manual. Then we all ran the gauntlet of all these old men (even older than I!) in their natty pinstripes passing out the New Testament to all takers, so we could be well armed with the antidote to all that dreaded intelligence and knowledge we were seeking. They all had that vacant, benevolent expression tinged with fanaticism. Very scary guys. I found my first classroom, right around the corner from my former one. Loved the teacher, Monte, perfect name for him. He was the quintessential college prof, hair just a little too long, scuffy beard, a bit on the Pillsbury Doughboy side, wearing cords and a sweater vest. He is passionate about political science, and even I felt somewhat inspired. He had a nifty way of taking roll, by having us fill out recipe cards that included our hobbies and favorite movies (Brazil, a Terry Gilliam wet dream). He read them out, and we all got to know each other, a really good idea. Homework was the first two chapters of the text. And my other Monday/Wednesday class was philosophy 5, critical thinking, conducted by Joel, another fireplug of a guy, more tonsured (well, he's mostly bald) and he wore a sportscoat that had seen many semesters. His method of taking roll was to pair us up and have us introduce each other, another ice breaker. I got to profile Gina, who is related to a famous opera singer, and works on Henry 2, the county's search and rescue helicopter. I told her I often waved at her on the weekly visits to our town on the edge of the world, where visiting people were always driving off the cliffs or into the redwoods. Homework was one chapter of the text, and a narrative argument by Mark Twain. Oh, and everyone in Joel's class was there because of the GE requirement, except me. I love to write, and all our assignments are papers, some that will be done in collaboration with others. I'm not very good at that, so maybe this is what I need to learn. I finished my first day in the bookstore, where I was able to finally shell out $122 for my abnormal psych text (I had the money, they just didn't have the book till yesterday). Lucky me. Anyway, I love both these classes, surprise. Politics are not my cup of tea, usually. Now I will learn all there is to know about our government, and it looks like not all of it will be complimentary. Good to know. I don't have very many compliments for it myself.

What are they doing on the other side of the world tonight?

I was channel-surfing last night to find something to fill that 8-9 PM slot before Desperate Housewives and came on this concert on PBS. It was a little different, as the conductor wielded a violin instead of a baton, and the women musicians were dressed in what I thought were ballgowns, that later turned out to be native dress. Oh, and the music stands had curlicues on them. Very weird. I liked the music in the beginning, classical and well-rendered. But I just knew this long-haired guy in the funny waistcoat was Lawrence Welk reincarnated. And he was in a way. At the pledge break, I found out he was Andre Rieu, the Flying Dutchman, and the concert was being held on the soccor field in Limburg, wherever the hell that is. Andre spoke between the musical interludes, and it was not English, but didn't sound like German, either. I sort of discerned that it was Dutch, from his name. No dummy here. Well, everyone seemed to be having a hell of a good time at this concert. When they played Vienna, City of My Dreams, a thrilling waltz, people swayed back and forth in their seats, the ones that did not get up and dance. The orchestra swayed, too. In fact, the orchestra had a whole lot of fun up there. And the snob in me said, "this is not what concerts are all about." But the kid in me said, "this is what concerts should be like." And wouldn't you know it, Desperate Housewives didn't come on till 10. After an hour of potboilers like the march from Aida, even with gorgeous horses prancing around the field, I was bored with Andre and had to flip over to CSI for my William Petersen fix. But I did flip back during commercial breaks and found that Andre has been all over the world doing his schtick, and has earned enough to live in a nifty chateau. Where have I been?

It's a jungle out there.

That's my life, a Randy Neuman song. Or is it Newman? Whatever. I watched Monk Friday night, of course. Just love that delightfully neurotic guy. Often, he is just funny with a little bit of angst thrown in; I mean it can't be easy to live with obsessive-compulsive disorder, though it certainly is a lot neater than my life. But this time, it was downright tragic. Dear Monk believed for just a second that his beloved Trudy was still alive, and regressed deeply into his disease. It was a moment that was painful to watch, and made me grateful that Tony Shalub's acting ability is being recognized with an Emmy nomination. Anyway, that moment explained a lot of things about why humans go crazy, in all the myriad ways we have. It all comes down to fear of feelings. And as Randy has but it so succinctly, it really is a jungle out there, full of pitfalls and things that want to take a bite out of you, and consume you, soul and all. Somehow I thought that would change if I did, got sober and stopped being my worst enemy. It didn't. We in AA call it "life on life's terms". Whatever way I look at it, it is just rude. It doesn't work to drink at it, or to lock myself away: in a marriage; in a job; in front of the computer; even in motherhood. The beast just waits for me to go shopping. So I teach those who I am fortunate enough to work with that stuggles (also know as feelings) are not bad, just uncomfortable, the way I am uncomfortable when pushing away at the dreaded sled at the gym. And in the same way, I can build spiritual muscles, so that when the stuggles come up again (and again and again and again), I am strong enough to endure them until they (inevitably) pass. Because it seems that it is necessary to walk the gauntlet every so often, so that I can be really grateful for the times when the path is strewn with flowers. Out there, in the jungle.

Into each life, let gratitude fall!

I have been feeling low, physically and emotionally. So it has been time to take care of myself. I do all the right things, and still feel lousy sometimes. It's the weather, I tell myself. Well, it could just be all those years I have piled up behind me, too. So, time to get really grateful. Getting grateful helps me to see what is good about my life, and leave all the little annoyances in the dust, where they belong. So here is a gratitude list for today: my washer and dryer, that let me keep everything sweet and clean, anytime I want; my Boo, last person I see at night, and first in the morning, and dear beyond belief; that wonderful motion-sensitive light on the side of the house that lights my path when I come home late in the evening; my amazing kids; all the bright and beautiful sober friends who are just a phone call away whenever I get especially crazed; my Ford puddle-jumper that zips me wherever I need to be whenever I need to be there; my Higher Power, that spirit that lives within and warms my heart when I get too cold, and helps me stay out of judgement of others, a dangerous (and favorite) place to go; cows, of course, source of (yum) ice cream and let's put it together for Dreyer's, who make a new slow-churned version with 1/2 the fat and 1/3 the calories. Now, there's something to jump up and down about. And I am grateful I still can jump up and down, and put on my jeans standing up, too. Life is good.

Another mystery cleared up...

Those three dots that I am so fond of (see above) actually have a name; they are called an ellipsis, at least I think it is singular, though that is strange, since they are so obviously plural. Whatever. I have finished the little tome on punctuation, Eats Shoots and Leaves. It was laugh-out-loud funny and oh so illuminating at the same time. And I discovered that "hifalutin", or if you wish "highfalutin" actually was not invented by Gabby Hayes in the old Roy Rogers epics. That's one I want to add to my thesaurus for sure. I had to read this book with a dictionary by my side, and the afore-mentioned word was not in my very old Oxford version; I had to look it up online. It was kind of a down day yesterday. I have been feeling like some dread dis-ease was pending, so I was hunkered on the couch savoring re-runs of ER and Judging Amy, with Boo curled up beside me and a Diet Pepsi within easy reach as I read. (I am a Gemini, you know, a double Gemini. It takes a lot to keep me in one place at one time. ) OK, I have now used most of the punctuation I learned about. I am not much of a fan of the dash, but I make up for it in hypenated words, often connections of my own making. And colons are a little stodgy for my taste. They show up more in business correspondence and text books, though the author, Miss Truss, seems to think they are just weightier semi-colons. There's a debate I can skip.

Love of language lives!

My daughter just gave me the best book. It is all about ... punctuation! Yes, those little squiggles and lines that pop up every so often between the words are making a big splash. It's called Eats Shoots and Leaves, and features a panda on the cover. Just look at what happens if you insert a comma; it changes the whole framework, right? Now, I read. A lot. And I will sacrifice good writing for a terrific story, though I draw the line with Danielle Steele, whose every other sentence begins with "but", thus letting the air out of her balloon and leaving it to lay flaccid on the ground. And some writers are really terrific, like John Irving. Yet, he has this love affair with parentheses that drives me nuts. And Joyce Carol Oates is the queen of the sentence fragment. Emphasis only, Carol! OK, I'm picky. I am also a writer, of sorts, and I notice these things. I deliberately omit the Oxford comma, the one before the "and" in a list of things, thinking it is redundant, and my psych teacher would happily re-insert them. It's a matter of style more than rules these days, except when submitting papers in college. Whatever, I am happily proclaiming myself as a fellow stickler and endeavoring to follow the proper use of the apostrophe in all things. And I want you to know that this whole entry was produced with the use on the British "full stop" in place of that old American "period". So there!

Back to the bookstore, part IV, or maybe V

Just back from the JC bookstore, where I accomplished one of two tasks, and bought the second of three books I need for this semester. It appears that my professors are flakes, who could not get their ducks in a row. This was my fourth or fifth trip, I forget. Imagine my dismay when I saw the slot above Sect. 1677 was already empty! How could they be sold out already? And, actually, the books had not even arrived yet! Don't they know I need to have them now, so I can get a jump-start on the semester, and read at least the first few chapters? Of course, I did that last semester, and wound up with a different teacher, and different text, so it was like a total waste of time and energy, not to mention the angst at not understanding every other word. I was reminded by my roommate that this is why I am a student; if I understood it all, why would I bother to learn it at all? Good thinking. And at least the bookstore is manageable, not like the one at Cal, as big as Macy's, the one in San Francisco, where, if I don't take note, I can get all turned around and not be able to find my way out. And these two books together cost less than the one I bought in June. Knowledge is invaluable, anyway. Right. And let's not even mention the fact that my class schedule, which tells me which section I am in and hence which book to buy, evaporated out of my purse. How does that happen?

The Safeway sojourn...

Yes, I went to (soul-sucking) Safeway yesterday. There are just some things one cannot buy at Trader Joe's or Costco. Like Bisquick. Probably Bisquick is not politically correct, but it is the foundation of my favorite breakfast, Belgian waffles with strawberries, bananas and Cool Whip. Ok, you can buy Bisquick at Costco, but only in the 99 year supply size. And no Cool Whip there, at all. Summertime is when I warp into waffle mode. I try to do all my major sinning at breakfast. Somehow I think that calories consumed before noon don't count. I mean, they have all day to diffuse, right? And now is when the really yummy fruits are out, all stacked up in plump little heaps. Like peaches, another waffle-topper. Strawberry waffles are wonderful, but peach waffles are sublime. A little dusting of cinnamon sugar, maybe some slivered almonds, it just doesn't get any better than that. And try finding waffles or pancakes at Denny's or even at your favorite bistro as light and fluffy as Bisquick makes. OK, whole grains are good, but they make lousy pancakes, tough, heavy, sodden things like sponges. Some things are just not meant to be anything but what they are. I'm not even going to mention the Cool Whip, except to say I used to be addicted to it. I knew this because I would get all nervous when I ran out of it. Now, it visits me only during waffle season. And sometimes, it even grows green fuzz from neglect. That's progress.

Let's hear it for the crepe-hangers...

What is it with some people? One advised me that I didn't really have to put my parking sticker on my bumper, thus ruining my paint job, after I had already done so. Another told me, breathlessly, that the salad I had just consumed at my favorite quickie restaurant was treated with chemicals. And then there's my mother, the professional crepe-hanger, who will take any tiny opportunity to tell me how very foolish and stupid I was in any given situation I have the misfortune to tell her about, which is why I restrict my conversations with her to food and the weather. Of course, no one asked me if I wanted their opinion in the first place. Wouldn't it be nice if everyone just said "do you want to hear what I think?" before inserting their foot in your mouth? Oh, it would be heaven. There are few people on earth that I have given that privilege. Well, there's one, and even then, she is judicious in her words. Which is probably why she has my permission to advise me in the first place. So, I am practicing saying it myself. It is my moral imperative to become the person I want others to be. How wonderful am I here, anyway!

It's up again...

That thing about Truth. I was reading my textbook for Critical Thinking, and realizing that other people have pondered this particular question, too. Like, is there a capital T Truth? Or is there just everyone's version of it? And I was thinking, well, yes, there is. You could film it. The camera would be an impartial observer, right? But then, everyone who viewed the film would still filter what they saw through their own experience and agenda, and there we are again, in that murky place known as subjectivism. Sad, but true. My mother and I will never see eye to eye, never. Sigh. Boy, I am really looking forward to this class, where we get to turn everything inside out and blow it up or minimize it, and philosophize about it. I have always wanted to be one of those sagacious persons who sits in the corner cafe and pontificates on the meaning of life. I even have the beret, complete with little pull-tab on top. No more Sterlings, black cigarettes with gold filters, and no more petit sirrah, either, but, hell, espresso works, too. Which reminds me of the time my daughter dressed up as a beatnik for Halloween, all in black and we made her a book cover titled The Wounded Tulip (not original, right out of Auntie Mame), and everyone still thought she was a hippie. Beatniks were much more cerebral than hippies, tres avant-garde and much hipper. OK, so I am all over the place today. Lots to think about here. And not a day to think very much. Back to the seedy mystery novel and my Diet Pepsi. Cool.

It's a Leo kind of thing...

My daughter was born at 6:36 am, 26 years ago today. She is a double Leo, and, true to her sign, has been on fire most of her life. There was an earthquake that morning, centered directly under the hospital. I was not surprised. And she was late; my original due date was July 15. Despite that, she was small, only 6 lbs. 12 oz., a full 2 lbs. smaller than her brother, and I was embarrassed. Nevertheless, I prepared her in case she shot up like I did, telling her how great it is to be tall. She isn't. Instead, she is just the right size, blending in with her peers in a way I never did. Well, her red hair makes her a stand-out, for sure. When her father and I made the ultimate sacrifice and spent a weekend together at Cal Student Orientation, we could always find her in the crowd of students whenever they brought students and parents together. It is a rare and wonderful privelege to usher a new life into the world. And it has been a joy watching her grow and prosper, taking pride in her attributes, and assigning her less desireable traits to her father. Well, I'm pretty wonderful, but not perfect, you know.

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.