Many things to be grateful for...

I went to my favorite coffee house today for a 20 oz non-fat latte, my Sunday morning treat, and there was a woman in front of me that was at least 18 inches taller that I. That would put her well over 7 ft tall. And she was beautiful, slim, long swanlike neck, and in proportion everywhere. But what must it be like? I mean, beds and automobiles are made for people a lot smaller, and where did she get those jeans that fit so well? So I was grateful to walk out, all 5 ft 9 inches of me. At my early morning (10 am, but that's really early for Sunday morning) meeting, a man spoke who had lost his wife to cancer, just two months ago. It was a heart-breaking story of everyday courage, especially for an alcoholic, who did not drink in the face of this tragedy. And I took a deep breath and thanked HP for my health, which I had been grumbling about lately, because I get these irritating sinus headaches whenever the weather changes. Perspective is such a wonderful teacher, don't you think? Now, at home, dog at my feet, homework spread out all over the place, getting ready to get going, any minute now, really. Wonderful to be alive and sober on this crisp autumn day. Yes, it is.

Middle of the night musings...

I am often awake at 4 AM. It is a funny time, too early to rise, for sure. So I toddle off to the bathroom, just in case that is what woke me, then settle back into the cocoon I fashion for myself, full of hope of another 4 hours, sometime soon. Usually, they come, but later, like at 6 AM. So I meditate. Because if I don't quiet my mind, it flits about like a famished mosquito, feeding on every fear I ever could imagine. (Why is it that fears are fifty times more frightening in the night?) Money is high on the fear list, along with rapid aging (I'm going to wake up looking like Boris Karloff in the original mummy picture), schoolwork (a five page paper, two chapters of PoliSci and one of Psych before Monday, oh my), etc. So I shut off the worry works and go to my sanctuary, this pristine house where there is never any dust, or other people, for that matter. Just crystal vases filled with flowers, sunlight through lace curtains, and music everywhere, where I walk about weightlessly in flowing silky robes and rest on poufy-soft upholstery in seashell colors. And before I know it, morning is with me. Sometimes I have not gone back to sleep at all, but I still feel refreshed. Beats pills, any night.

Suffering from bloggitis...

Just have not thought an original thought in days. All the leaves are now gone from our sycamores, and the atmospheric changes make my head ache. I kept schlepping off the school, but not much else has been going on. This morning, I am baking (please, no applause) an apple crisp for the orphans' Thanksgiving dinner I will be attending later. I am too challenged by crust to do a pie. I had forgotten what an ungodly mess this makes of the kitchen, but no matter, I was watching the parade as I peeled, and peeled, and peeled. All the balloons were nose down to the street, on tight rein, so I guess it is windy back in the Big Apple. Later, the National Dog Show is happening, one of my favorite things to watch, and I will be in the kitchen again, making brunch for my big guy, Booboo, my son. I made him a little apple crisp all his own. I know, I am such a good mother. Well, sometimes. Feeling a little of the old holiday ennui, too. My favorite memory of Thanksgiving was the time my mother, grandmother and I finished cleaning up the feast, and sat down with all the liquers from the cabinet in the middle of the table and got royally toasted together. Three generations of boozy broads. Only in America.

Trouble in Paradise...

Ever notice how there is always something calculated to irritate the hell out of you, even in paradise? At the little house on the edge of the world, it was mosquitos. The whole town was a mosquito hatchery. Apparently, no one had even heard the word "abatement". And nothing is as crazy-making as having one of those buzzing little suckers dive bombing you in the dark. That little old problem-solver me bought a mosquito net at Pier One. I think they were basically used for decoration in these environs, but not at our house. There was only one problem with it' on occasion, we would close a mosquito in with us. Then things got really nuts. And did I mention the poison oak? We got rid of it in the garden, but it was everywhere in the bushes. So, you say, just stay out of the bushes! Except then we got a dog. And I got to spend half of every year with itchy red rash from my knees down. Here in town, the problem is noise. Yes, I live on a sweet little street out of the hubbub of city traffic. But there is this constant rushing sound of the freeway one half mile to the east. Not loud, just always noise, running in the background like an uninvited guest. And, man, it is c-c-c-cold here! At the coast, it cooled down, sure, but not brrrrrrr cold. I usually climb into bed early in my pj bottoms, a cami and thermal t shirt, then strip down before turning off the light. Now I add soft little socks and another quilt on top of the four I already have on the bed. And winter isn't even here yet. OK, time to get grateful. Any minute now.

I ideate.

I raked up piles and piles of leaves from our front yard, and tried not to think about how we waited with so much anticipation for them to arrive last spring. Though it looks very bare, more sunshine now comes into my bedroom, and my rainbow maker gets all charged up, so there is a blessing there. My writers' group was kind of sparse yesterday, only one of us brought a piece to read, and it was short, so it got a thorough going-over (not mine, thank HP) and probably more criticism than it would have otherwise. So we gabbed, and I found out one of our members teaches screenwriting at the local college. He invited me to check it out whenever I wanted. Now there's an interesting concept, I could write a screenplay! I always say the movies are, for the most part, amazingly facile, which has led me to believe that movie audiences are, too. But I notice a fair crowd at the smart people's theatre savoring the clever and deep independent movies, like Capote and The Squid and the Whale, movies that are atmospheric and thought-provoking. I could do that, right? Sort of a Ladies in Lavender set in suburbia thing, with a hint of The Graduate thrown in for spice. Sounds like a plan.

It's about time!

My new homepage here at SBCGlobal.net gives me all kinds of tidbits from the news, like Sen. Ted Stevens' "bridge to nowhere" he got out of the pork barrel in Congress for his Alaskan constituents, for a mere $27 million. Are we at all surprised? Ted is 82 and knows how to work the room, for sure. He is the poster boy for term limits. But the really amazing news is that Heidi Fleiss is opening a "stud farm" in the Nevada desert, a bordello for women! How great is that! For only $250, women can buy themselves an Adonis who will adore them, for an hour. I am not sure how well this will play out, though. We women love our Chippendales, for sure, all swarming to put $5 bills in a sweaty jockstrap, but actually pay some guy to do the big nasty? Especially when a trip to the neighborhood bar would serve up a smorgasbord of men who would do it for free, or even pay us, if we so wanted. Maybe truly beauty-challenged women would want this service? But then I am wondering about ability to perform. (Well, forgive me, but I do wonder about these things.) And Viagra makes you blind, I heard. Gosh, that sounds like an urban legend, doesn't it. Anyway, what a world, what a world.

Harry rocks!

It was the best one yet, full of impending doom, magical special effects, and all this wonderful teenaged angst over learning to dance and asking a girl for a date. Herminone grew up to be stunning, Ron sulked in his frou-frou dress robes, and Harry was, well, Harry. That little guy has so much dignity and integrity. I just love that the Christian right is all huffed up about Harry being evil. That'll sell more books and movie tickets than the ads. Honestly, how sad it must be to be that scared all the time.

It's Harry Potter!

We are going to see the new movie today, my little schoolmate and I. All the blurbs and clips show it to be really fantastic, and kind of callow, as well, as Harry goes to his first ball with a date. Of course, I read the book, so I know how that goes for Harry, who is far from a smooth operator, bless his sweet soul. Herminone does infinitely better, but then, girls are aeons ahead of boys at 14. That is a lot of the charm of Harry, the English schoolboy thing, with snakes and magic and looming peril thrown in. I always get all fired up, and after the movie, feel this great emptiness just waiting for more. So I made plans with friends this evening, too, so I can work through my hangover with good company. And maybe watch the third movie on DVD when I get home. Sounds like a plan.

Very interesting...

You know that old adage, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Well, stuff like that happens to me all the time. Like, this woman came into my life, and I was trying to help her. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was studying about personality disorders. Good thing, too. Because what happened next would have been ever so confusing otherwise. Somehow, my stock with this woman, which was blue chip to say the least, suddenly plummeted to a level somewhere below belly button lint. Other clues abounded, that she suffers with borderline personality disorder, a really devastating dysfunction that causes these huge and catastropic shifts in attitude. She's got some paranoid tendencies, and a few histrionic symptoms, as well. Makes me grateful I am just schlepping along with plain old humdrum depression, a little SAD (that's seasonal affective disorder for you who remain uninitiated in things psychological), and fleeting moments of anxiety as deadlines for things like term papers draw near. Oh, and a smattering of procrastination, hence the anxiety. Let's not even go to the alcoholism. Just another symptom, actually, of a wounded soul. One among many, it seems. But, definitely a grateful, wounded soul. I know where my wounds are, and I know how to heal myself. This poor woman may never get through. Makes me glad I found my prayer bracelet. If ever there was a candidate for the big bead...

We're off to see the Wizard!

What was I thinking? Going to school is really hard, and I am really tired. The mid-semester, midterm, term paper blues have descended and I feel like I am carrying the weight of the world around in my big red book bag. OK, I got a B on the PoliSci test. Though I love the teacher, all witty and smarmy in this 60s-ish kind of way, his tests are really obtuse and difficult for me to decipher. And my Psych term paper, well, I have been obsessing over it for months. Now, it's due on Thursday. Mostly written, really, and I have all the research here, tabbed with Post-Its, just need to do the last little bit. Treatment does exist for narcissistic personality disorder. It's just that narssicists don't think anything is wrong with them. If they think anything is wrong, it is with other people. So, they don't ever get well. Actually, they never get reasonable. Narcissism is an affliction of everyone around the narcissist. Interesting disorder. Anyway, once I get through this week, I think it will be clear sailing, right into finals. For now, I will just keep shlepping along like that lopsided camel with my big red book bag attached.

Everything old is new again, part IXXX

Some things are better the third time around. I saw the new Pride and Prejudice last night, and have to report I have not felt that young and juicy for a long, long time. Kiera Knightly, in her brown-eyed brunette personna, was delightful as Elizabeth Bennett, and this new guy whose name escapes me brooded delightfully as Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley was very jejeune, which made Mr. Darcy's concern for him quite justified. And dear June Bennett was this lovely blue-eyed blond, and though Lizzie was quite dazzling, June had an instant appeal. Donald Sutherland played the father without being too sarcastic, considering the flibbertygibbit of a wife he had, played by Brenda Blethyn with sweet dittsiness. It was an atmospheric film, filled with sweeping landscapes and houses that would cost the world to heat. Best of all, the Bennett domicile was somewhat seedy, always reminding us that they are not rich. At one point, a huge pig took a walk through the back door. And rural England was dusty and a lot like Tombstone in the old westerns, just a little more sartorial. The (smart peoples') theatre was filled with old folks, and I mean filled. They packed us in. We clapped. This is one for DVD, as soon as it is released. Cannot wait to see it again. And again.

A November kind of thing...

It's gratitude month. That makes a lot of people go Blecccch! But not I! In fact, after today's class in Abnormal Psych, I have reached new and more wondrous levels of gratitude. We are studying schizophrenia, which affects 1 in 100 people (that's a lot, if you think about it), is incurable, and even the treatments, which are effective about 75% of the time, to varying degrees, can cause potentially fatal side effects. It begins in late adolescence and early adulthood, and can cause horrible hallucinations, delusions, and major break from reality on all levels of existence. And no one knows what causes it. How devastating is that. And I am so grateful that those I love are well and functioning, even if some of us, me included, will limp a little all our lives. There are degrees of misery that I have not known, and that makes my angst over yesterdays Political Science midterm, which I think I blew, bigtime, so not important. Again, perspective rears its head and what a mavelous teacher it can be.

The downside...

I am aging well here. That is not a bragging kind of thing. It is a grateful kind of thing. Even though the calendar tells me I should be old, I don't feel it most of the time. I can still put my panties on standing up, I don't huff or puff going up the stairs at school, there are no aches in any of my joints. That being said, I could wish for a bladder larger than a shot glass. True, I get lots of exercise on my nightly forays to the potty, but really, it's getting ridiculous. Is this worth taking a drug? I mean, I see them advertised during my soap opera everyday, at least two of them, so I can't be the only one with this little deficiency. Not to mention the aisle in (soul-sucking) Safeway with the Depends and Poise pads. That wasn't there all that long ago, was it? It just goes to show, things change, and change, and change.

Leaping into the 21st century here!

I just installed my new DSL. What a trip! The phone rang while I am still online! Is this wonderful or what! Feeling so grownup and sophisticated, I can barely stand myself. Meanwhile, Beany went home this afternoon. This was after we innocently went out the front door to get the mail, and Beany met our neighborhood flock of wild turkeys, who ended up on the roof of the new house across the street. Didn't know those big suckers could fly! So, it's just all so exciting, and yet so much calmer now that the hyper one has left. Onward.

Oh frabjous day!

That's from The Jabberwocky, for those who are literarily challenged. I have broken through the ceiling, and I got a solid A on my midterm in Psych. Not a measly, mealy-mouthed A-, but an A. OK, this is good. Now to study for the PoliSci midterm, tomorrow, where a B will be most appreciated. Politics are a sticky, messy business. How they think they can turn it into a science is beyond me. Maybe it is like Hari Seldon's psychohistory (Asimov's Foundation Trilogy), and predicated on the ripple effect through the masses. Certainly, our system is interesting, and difficult to nail down. You think you have campaign finance reform, and those buggers just wiggle through the first available loophole. Depressing. But, not today. Today I am going to jump up and down for a while, celebrating the opening of new and more vital neural networks.

Repeat after me: I am not a brown-nose, I am not a brown-nose...

I have returned from my ivory tower, once again, fired up by my higher education. We were supposed to bring in a draft of our paper on abortion, now there's a juicy issue to contemplate. I was determined to sit back and let them tear someone else's essay apart this time, but guess what? I was the only one who had done the assignment. And I did it, in bed, cold pills and Kleenex within arm's reach, piddling away on my laptop, sniffling as I went. It was not long enough, but hey, 4 out of 5 pages is better than nothing, which is what everyone else brought. I got shot down, kind of. The essence is there, just too much me in it, as usual. I do have this kind of passion that bristles Joels hackles. Then he did his usual explanation of why some of the grades on the last assignment may dissapoint us, and I got to that trembly stage of fear and loathing even before he handed them back. I thought I found the argument, and based my premise squarely there, so I was mentally preparing a defense, then I got mine and it was yet another A-, which is my grade so far in the course. Sigh. I intend to dazzle him with this next paper. The writing is not the problem. I am the problem. It just isn't in my nature to not feel anything, and that seems to be the gist of this particular discipline, to use reason instead of passion. OK, I can do that. I think.

Once again, into the abyss...

You know how it is. Other people's defects are just soooo glaring and easy for me to see. My own exist in this perpetual murk. However, I get clues from what spins me out about other people. Clever how that works, right? So, yesterday, I went to my very spiritual AA meeting, where all the spiritual giants of the Program meet. It was our first day in a new venue (we got the boot at our old one, by the winery that rented the back of the building, how bizarre is that), and I was feeling kind of disoriented anyway. I brought all my goodies, the cream cheese Danish tray, the muffins and a huge bowl of strawberries, just gorgeous. Beany and Boo were with me; I didn't want to leave them home to bother Janet while I was gone. So I parked in a shady place somewhere on the south 40, carefully guaging that it would stay shady for at least the next hour and a half, rolled down the window and popped the poptop. No sooner had I settled in my seat and this woman comes up to say I'd better be prepared to check on my dogs in a half hour, the sun will move. Gee, you think? Not the first time I have been admonished about how to treat my dogs. And, unfortunately, not the last, because instead of saying MYOB, I defended myself. Old behavior. My whole life has been spent defending my actions to someone, usually my mother, but could be a husband, too. So, this week I am working on not being a wuss, beginning with telling this woman, how sweet of her to think of me, now don't ever do that again. We'll see how that goes.

Deep thoughts...

I had one of those dreadful nights, awake for a couple of hours in the wee hours. Usually equally dreadful things parade through my head, like should I call my mother and the state of my finances. But last night I got to think profound thoughts courtesy of my midterm study guide, things like "tricyclics work by inhibiting the reuptake of serotonin and norepinephrine by the presynaptic neuron". Now, that's an impressive thought. Also jockeying for consciousness were such weighty ideas as refutation by analogy and political socialization. I don't know how any of this will further my intelligence, but it is less threatening than my bank balance at 2:30 AM. In the end, I thought about how dispassionate critical thinking seems to be, dry, dry, dry. But politics are ever so juicy, and current therapy techniques no longer require that stonefaced detachment, but are actually seen more efficacious when filled with positive regard. There's another wondrous postulation. So, perhaps there is a benefit to these midnight meanderings, allowing stuff to bubble up that normally just sits on the back burner and simmers.

He's baaaack!

The Bean in visiting for a week. Who is the Bean, you ask? Beany is Boo's little buddy who lived with us when we lived in the house on the edge of the world. My partner got custody of Beany by virtue of being joined with him at the hip. Little guy just loved the mad-man artist, sitting by him on the bench in the garden, sleeping at his feet when he stood at his easel, even rode in the canoe out to the mouth of the river to pick up interesting bits of driftwood for creating cunning little sculptures. Art-man has gone to Maui for a week to paint plein-air and restock his gallery there, so we got the Bean. Now I remember why I didn't fight for custody. Beany is a terrier mix, translate that to terror, yappy, hyper little bugger. Town has him all flummoxed. He jumps up every few seconds to bark at something, some perceived little noise or twitch. Good news, though. He figured out how to get in and out the doggy door in the back, and bad news, he does it ten times an hour. I have now crawled around the backyard and stuck my nose everywhere he could and ascertained that there are no holes in the fence through which he can wriggle, and yet I still worry. This little guy is used to roaming free and wild up on his hill by the sea. Five more days. Just five more days, while I am studying for a midterm (another one), writing a 5 page argument for Critical Thinking, and a term paper for Psych. Right.

Crazed and confused...

I turned in the dreaded term paper, which is probably going to get shot full of holes and oh well, progress not perfection. Now to work on study guide questions for 75 question midterm tomorrow, then 5 page paper on abortion rights for Critical Thinking, 7 page term paper for Psych5, and another lengthy study guide for midterm in PoliSci, and I am thinking of pulling the covers over my head and remaining there forever, or at least until this semester ends. What was I thinking? This is nuts, and I don't even have a full boat; I'm only at half mast. OK, it's doable, I think. I hope. Just keep putting one foot in front of another. I may not be speedy, but I am reliable. Right.

Welcome to the world, little term paper...

I have just birthed my first term paper, an awesome tome on Proposition 76, just possibly the most dry and boring, not to mention mind-boggling, initiative to come down the pike lo these many years. Even the experts couldn't understand it, and the Governator has virtually abandoned any effort to foist it off on us beleagered voters, well, except to threaten to raise taxes if we don't pass it. Anyway, it was a breech birth at best. And I am all tuckered out and would now like to ensconce myself with my dog, and his visiting buddy Beany, in my soft-as-a-cloud bed with a steamy mystery novel and a large cup of hot chocolate. But, nooooo. I have to keep truckin'. There is a study guide from hell for the Psych midterm Thursday, a thousand page article on abortion (that sounds really exciting) for Critical Thinking and other very exciting projects to do, like clean the bathroom and rake the leaves that have fallen since the last raking, it never ends. OK, off to make some tea, and think about what to eat for dinner. My life. A thrill a minute.

Welcome to the 21st Century!

Back in olden days, in the little house on the edge of the world, we had to wait 2 months to get a phone line. One or the other of us spent half of every workday down at the little store, hunkered down under the pay phone, pleading with or threatening the phone company. Finally, someone came out and ran a line from the pole down on the highway up to our house, and voila! And we were really, really grateful. Now I am in town, and I went to CompUSA yesterday to try to get info on networking my laptop to my PC. Somewhere in that seven year sojourn in the boonies, I became a techo-dinosaur. When I told the friendly compu-geek that I was still using dial-up, he gave me this look of such incredulity, I thought he was going to faint dead away. As a result, I am now about to have DSL installed. Gee, I hope this will be one of those painless transitions, free of angst-ridden, hand-wringing moments of self-doubt, like the ones I experienced as we waited and waited and waited for a telephone, all those years ago. I am used to dialing up the Internet, and flitting around the Web like a fly on uppers.

Welcome to the spin cycle!

School is gearing up like mad. I have a paper due in Critical Thinking on Monday, a term paper in PoliSci on Wednesday, and a midterm in Abnormal Psych on Thursday. I have actually started working on all three, and will be doing that for the next few days. No time to relax after, either, as another term paper is due mid-month, and another midterm coming, too. It has made me question why I thought this was such a great idea. It is all about just putting one foot in front of another, no time to sit by the road and watch the wildflowers grow. So, I ply the vicissitudes of Proposition 76, debate the efficacy of using animals in biomedical research, and wade through substance abuse and eating disorders. It is an intricate dance, and it is amazing how things overlap here. Ideas just keep perking and let us hope they do not upset any of my teachers. I really want to do well, or at least the very best I can do. It is challenging, to say the least. On to homework, a fruitful way to spend my time. I expect to bloom any minute now.

Just give me back my hour...

Now I understand why college students protest. They teach them such interesting things. Like, since the Republicans have been in power, the rich got a lot richer, and the poor got a lot poorer. The oil companies announce record profits, while I struggle to fill up my tiny Ford and consolidate trips to the grocery store where I am paying more for celery because the truckers have to pay more for their gas, too. It has reached a level of idiocy. All because of the morons in the heartland who are afraid Bruce will be able to marry Jeremy and adopt a baby. Or the scientists will use an embryo and create a cure for Alzheimer's. It's the frigging dark ages, people! Let's all bury our heads in George W's sandbox, which is right next to his set of toy soldiers that he is playing with in Iraq, like those are not our precious children. I want to go on record that I never voted for that Bozo, or his father. But then, no one I vote for ever gets elected anyway. But at least I vote. Hell, just give me back that hour you stole from me in April.

The trouble with thinking...

Another paper is fomenting in my fertile little mind. It is the third time I have written this paper. I read the second draft in writers' round table in class and it got shot full of holes, although it was "very well written". Thank God for small favors. Who would have thought that I would fail at arguing? I was born to argue! Look at the mother I got dealt! Taciturn, mean, vitriolic woman, unhappy person no. 18,756,291. Maybe the problem is that I gave it up for lent, about 16 years ago. I just decided not to defend myself any more. If someone liked to argue, I just moved along, leaving them in the dust. There are so many wonderful people in the world. Why hang out with the pickles? And my Critical Thinking teacher is one of those. Well, sometimes I don't get a choice. I am learning so many things in school that aren't published in the catalog. That is the amazing truth about life. You go to school and expect to be able to conjugate verbs and solve equations, but also learn the vicissitudes of dealing with difficult people, a skill I seem to lack. Must run. So many things to think about, so little time.

The wheels on the bus go round and round...

I have this shuttle thing all figured out. First, I park where I can make a quick turn down the ramp and out of the garage, in pretty much the same place every day. Otherwise, I wind up plowing up and down the aisles of cars, pushing that little thingy on the automatic opener, waiting for my buggy to honk at me and reveal itself in the sea of vehicles. Then I stand patiently in line, sometimes schmoozing with the campus police person they station there to continually remind us where to park, like we haven't been doing this for 2 1/2 months already. There are three shuttles running, all with very different drivers. One is the whippet of a woman, very sharp around the edges, and constantly furrowing her forehead, worrying about her charges. She drives the bus with the low overhead, and though she always warns us to be careful, I have bumped my head more times than I care to admit. Then there is the gray-haired, burnt-out bus driver guy, who hates driving a bus almost as much as he dislikes all of us. He never even grunts when I say "thank you", which I always do, nevertheless. And then there is the big, happy-go-lucky Juan Valdez clone who plays classic rock. I just love it when I get to ride with him. We all bounce along with the Eagles or the Doobie Brothers. Very cool. And good news, they managed to keep the service going till semester end. Super.

A walk in the park...

Taking Boo for a walk is a little tricky. First, you can't let him know he's going until right before you walk out the door. So I sneak back to lock the back door, always a challenge to remember, and stop in the kitchen to fill up the special Boo water bottle, and get a plastic bag and 3 paper towels, aka the Boo poo bag and Boo poo picker-uppers. After palming my keys and sunglasses, it is safe to clue him in and reach for the leash. At this point, he becomes this crazed demon, all wriggly and squeaky. Once out the door, he charges ahead, like he knows what direction to go. Boo doesn't like to walk on gravel, and part of the path to the park is not paved, so I have to continually pull him to keep him from jumping off the curb into the 40 mph traffic on College Ave. It is a talent to decipher during his inumerable stops if this is the one that will produce bodily functions or merely a moment to savor the bodily functions deposited by other dogs. One can hope that there will be no deposits requiring retrieval until the last leg of our walk. This never happens. And once he has made a deposit, it is not wise to ditch the poo bag too soon. Boo likes to do his business in installments, hence the multiple poo picker-uppers. So, by the time we reach the park, we are usually already toting a bag of Boo poo. There's all kinds of excitement in the park for Boo to comtemplate, especially other dogs. Guys on bikes can be a little intimidating for him, and there is always a kid who gets all gooey over the Boo. He bears up under all this admiration, well, admirably. He gets a drink out of his special Boo bottle that comes with a drinking trough, $4.98 at Lillian Vernon, and then its time for the second installment. By the time we round the corner of our street again, he is all tuckered out and lagging behind me, panting. We return happily to deposit the poo bag in the garbage, and Boo returns to his post on the bed where he can survey his kingdom in comfort. Another day in the life of the Boo.

God bless Jane Austen...

I watched Pride and Prejudice last night. God bless public television for these classic movies. This one was made in the dark ages of black and white films and starred Greer Garson as Elizabeth Bennett, and Laurence Olivier as Mr. Darcy. I found it stilted. Honestly, even the most carefully cultivated sense of propriety must sometimes become eroded with passion! There people behaved like silly children, even the parents, so that when the younger Bennett daughter ran off with the scoundrel soldier, it seemed no more than a 3rd grade field trip. And what a waste of Olivier’s talents. He was best in films like Wuthering Heights, where he could smolder with barely reined-in lust and fury. Here, he barely stumbled over his love for Lizzy, and she gave him the barest moment of bloodless pondering before declaring her turnabout affection for him. I am looking forward to the newest version, due out very soon, hoping that passion will erupt somewhere in this mess of civility. At last, something worth re-making!

Saturday afternoon at the movies...

I had one of those marvelous encounters yesterday with an old friend. We met for lunch at the world's best Chinese restaurant and schmoozed our way through walnut pineapple prawns and orange sesame beef. Lots of catching up to do over the oolong tea. Then we mosied over to the theater, not the mega-multiplex where one can see Texas Chainsaw Masacre IV or Barbie's Dream Adventure, oh nonono. We went to the smart people's theater, where instead of your brain getting pumped full of fluff and feeling all cottony afterward, you actually get to think about what you saw, and you come out enlightened and enriched with a brain bursting with new thoughts. In other words, the theater that plays the independent films, or the ones the big studios make as acts of contrition for the rest of the tripe they produce. My choice, and I was really dragging my friend to see it, was Proof, starring the divine Gwyneth, along with Anthony Hopkins, Jake Guylenhall, and Hope Davis, who was less white-ratish in this film than I have ever seen her. It was about the fine line between genius and madness, a great cinematic subject in my book. Actually, I think it could have been a better work with better editing, more tension-filled, but all in all, it satisfied my need to feel that I can entertain and elucidate myself all at the same time. We walked out with smug smiles to the parking lot full of vintage Volvos and new hybrids, passing all the other smart people on their way for their helping of intellectual grace.

Everything old is new again, Part 9776

Well, they have resurrected Zorro, again. Man, he should have been embalmed decades ago, after the really lame TV series Disney did with that actor who later became Will Robinson's father in Lost in Space, which they also did a hokey rehash of a couple of decades ago. Guy Williams, that was the dude. The original Zorro was Tyrone Power, and there was a guy worth paying to watch carving Zs in everything and everybody. Then there was a movie serial, one chapter a week, usually 15 in total, then the TV series, then more movies, including George Hamilton as Zorro, the Gay Blade, admittedly original but still, blah, Zorro. And that dear Banderos chap, well, he is yummy, but wasted, just wasted in another black masked-man epic. But that is not the really bad news. They remade The Fog! I actually own this movie on DVD, an honor I reserve for only classic trash, and this movie was right up on the top of that list along with The Thing and Curse of the Demon. Jaimie Lee was at her scream-queen prime, starring right along with her mother, the queen-mother of horror since her outing at the Bates Motel. Which reminds me, remaking Psycho? Give me a break.

I'd like to buy a vowel, please.

I walked through the Coop yesterday on my way to class. That's the student dining room on our campus, also known as the Student Cooperative. There was a foursome playing cards and I thought, how erudite, they're having a 9 am bridge game. Not so, they were playing go fish. So much for the superior intelligence of college students. I played go fish with my brothers when they were 4 and 6 years old. In fact, my poor beleagered mother taught me to play casino when I was 5 to divert herself when she could get both those little brats to sleep at the same time. As we grew up, our hall closet got filled up with board games like Chutes and Ladders, Monopoly, Life, and my personal favorite, Sorry. Sorry was particular fun because you could screw up your opponent's game with spectacular aplomb, and I was certainly into that scene with my little brothers. Later, my grandmother taught me to play Canasta, with three or four decks. That was really dandy. My mother took Risk away from us kids; World War III would rage in our living room every time we played it. And I went through a period of addiction to shows like Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Those are events most fun when shared with another addict, jumping up and down on the couch, yelling out the answers to impress one another. Well, I am just a little competitive here. OK, I am a lot competitive. It runs in my family. Our holiday poker games are still thrilling when I can sucker my now old fart brothers out of a big pot. At penny-nickel-dime, it is never very much money. It's all about rivalry. It never ends.

Right up my alley...

We have come to my particular area of expertise in abnormal psych, substance abuse and addiction. I gave a little presentation about alcoholism from the inside today, and I am happy to say the class listened. Our textbook actually gives a pretty accurate picture of the disease, if it is a disease, which doesn't matter all that much except that it removes some of the horrid shame and stigma from suffering from it. Anyway, AA gets a fair write-up, no big pooh-poohing of our spritual concepts, and seeing as how it was a psychologist who came up with that concept, Carl Jung, that only seems fair. About 80% of the people who exhibit signs of alcoholism never seek treatment or recovery. And that's only the obvious ones. There are all those closet drunks out there, too. And of those few who do look for help, a dismal 50% don't make it. AA doesn't keep statistics, what's the use, most drunks would just throw up their hands and go get a bottle, but I know it is possible to get sober and maintain sobriety, if there is sufficient willingness to do so. There it is, the key, and since most of us have a lot of other psychological disorders going on (I have depression, anxiety, social phobias, and panic disorder in my history, just to name a few), we often don't want to give up the one method of escape available legally. I doubt there is anyone outside an Amish community who has not known at least one person who could use some recovery. Oddly enough, if not self-diagnosed, a person hasn't a snowflake's chance in hell to get better, not with Antibuse, not with carping relatives, not even with repeated arrests and incarcerations. Sad. And how grateful am I? There are no bounds. I am the happiest person in the room, most of the time. Happy, joyous and free.

Thinking...

What a way to start the day, staring at this blank slate and contemplating how very boring my life is. It is gray outside, and nice and cool, thank you, HP. I am tired of summer, want to never polish my toenails again, well, at least not till next June. I am contemplating my day-to-come, classes in the morning, and whipping together a term paper for Political Science in the afternoon. I have got to get going on that sucker, it is due on the 2nd. In the luck of the draw, I got Proposition 76, which is budget reform and as interesting as watching paint dry. Hard to get all fired up about it, except for the fact that there is only one proponent, the governator, and 35 pages of opponents, everybody else in California. I am sure there is a good reason for all this dissent, not the least of which is the systematic destruction of the checks and balances in place in our state capitol, I just can't seem to light my own fire to write about it. Oh, well. It could be worse. Can't think of how, but I'm sure it could. This is happening because I have not read the newspaper yet. Our local fishwrap will provide me with plenty of examples of how very much worse it could be. I need a latte!

Next?

Summer is dying a difficult death this year. Yesterday, it was almost 90 degrees out there; I had to water again, even though it had rained (well, sputtered) the day before. Today we have our marine layer back, and it is cool. Which is better than the weather where my friend Lief lives, somehwhere up in the cheese states, Wisconsin, Minnesota, they all run together for me. Anyway, he says they have two seasons, winter and roadwork. Funny, we have that season, too! It has been everywhere lately, and yesterday, it came to my very own neighborhood! I turned into the driveway before I got to the flagman. I have decided that this must be the end of the budget year for the CalTrans people, and they are scurrying to spend last year's money before the new year begins, but gosh, people, do you have to be parked smack in the middle of my life? The only way to avoid it is to never go anywhere, not even to (soul sucking) Safeway. On my way home the other day, there was a steamshovel parked in the middle of College Avenue and I could not turn left for the easy two block jog to my street, on nonono, I had to take the circle route way way way around, at $2.979 per gallon. Well, I am ready for autumn, crisp mornings, frost on the pumpkins, even Halloween pests at the front door. And an end to the season of roadwork.

I have arrived!

When I see myself in my mind's eye, it is something like this: I am sitting in a venerable coffee house, probably in San Francisco, but it could be in Paris, yes, let's decide it is in Paris. I am surrounded by people of similar ilk, intellectual beings, all done up in their academic togs, rather tweedy in an insouciant way, you know, old, butt-sprung skirts, ascots, berets. We are sipping our lattes and engaged in weighty, consequential arguments, like do animals really have rights and what are the moral and ethical ramifications of using them to determine if a new beauty product will cause skin ulcers or not. It all is reminiscent of the Beat generation. I resonate with Beatniks more than I do with Hippies. The Beatniks thought more and screwed less. Whatever, I am now a part of this argument, courtesy of Joel and the Critical Thinking guys, all mulling and pondering with such incredible intensity. Yes! Bring on Walt Whitman and the road less traveled. Let's all wallow in Walden and Paradise Lost. I lift my espresso in a toast to the examined life. What a hoot!

Good news...

I saw the new George Clooney movie today, Good Night and Good Luck, a treatise on the legacy of Edward R. Murrow. I am old enough to remember Ed, though I liked Person to Person where he interviewed celebrities like Liberace in their homes. Well, I was just a kid, what did I know. This is about Sen. Joe McCarthy and his witch hunt for communists in the 50's, and how Murrow brought him to his knees. It was a brilliant film, engrossing and certainly timely, considering how our current politicians script and manufacture the news that we get to see these days. So glad to know our soldiers all support Geo. W., right? Uh huh. This administration tried to use Sen. Joe's reasoning, when he said only those with communist leanings would oppose his tactics, by telling us that is we oppose the war in Iraq, we are traitors. Now, really guys. What country did you wake up in this morning? Albania? So glad I am learning to think critically, so I will not accidentally label myself guilty of treason for thinking that our leaders are greedy crooks just out to give their cronies another corporate perk, an overnight stay in the Lincoln bedroom.

Perfectly imperfect me...

A while ago, I took a friend with me to help me mat and frame a photo I had taken in our garden. The subject was this amazing pink flower, all lacy and laden with morning dew, sparkling in the sunlight, with rosy buds in shadow beyond, just a jewel of nature. I called it "Fresh", and I was proud of it. Until my friend pointed out that there were little specks of detritus here and there. And I was devastated. She was right. You had to kind of squint to see them, but there were these tiny specks of stuff, three of them, right on my work of art. I framed it up, anyway, and actually displayed it in an art show, because it is still an amazing photograph. And that became my trademark, the notion that nothing is perfect, imperfection reigns supreme. I have a photo of some plums, round, red, just bursting with sweetness. A couple of the leaves are torn, and there is this spider web between the fruits with an itty bitty blossom caught in it. And my favorite Wild Rose picture has an ant on one of the petals. I am more likely to be disappointed if nothing intrudes on my vision when I take photos now. I expect imperfection to rise up and impose itself at any moment, all the time. It is a much more realistic way to live my life, which has been rife with pimples, scratches and bruises, lumps and bumps and jellyrolls. And I am pretty sure that is never going to change.

A potpourri of angst...

Sigh. I bought a box of cereal at (soul-sucking) Safeway the other day, for a number of reasons. It was moderately cheap, sugar was third of the list of ingredients, and it would have cost me twice as much to drive to Trader Joe's for my usual soy concoction with pumpkin and flax seeds. So I came home with this box of Honey Bunches of Oats, with almonds. My first breakfast was kind of bland. The best thing about it was the organic banana I sliced on top, even if it did say it was whole-grain. Then the next bowl was crunchier, and I realized all the bunches of oats had fallen down to the bottom of the box. Duh. So now, every bowl is a crunch-fest. It makes it worth getting up in the morning, almost. Lots of little niggling stuff going on, like my jeans are tight, probably because the weinie workout has been missing in action for a few weeks, so I am dedicated to getting my blooming butt to the gym sometime today. We talked about the flu last night, and I came home convinced my throat was sore and I was headed downhill, healthwise. So vitamins are on the frontline of my battle with the dreaded virus. And my package arrived from my catalog outlet, just some thermal tops and a sweater, no $$ due till next year, and the sweater was too tight under the arms, one of those strange constructions, I guess. So I dutifully pacakaged it up, then realized my mailing tape was somewhere in a box in the garage. I spent a happy half hour out there, unpiling, the repiling only to find the box at the bottom of the very last heap, after a bunch of stuff fell down on me, and is now probably beyond repair, like my little Lexmark printer. Sigh. I did get the sweater off in yesterday's UPS run, took back my library books, and went again to (soul sucking) Safeway, for ice cream, mocha almond fudge, lots of it.

And now for something entirely different...

I heard on the morning show yesterday, as I plowed back and forth between bedroom and kitchen, toting my coffee cup, that there is going to be a Christian sitcom. Forgive me, all you who have been saved, but my take on that faith is that they tend to be a serious, rather gloomy lot. Footloose comes to mind, where the kids were forbidden to dance by the very fervent preacher father. Dancing is too joyous for Christians, and some sects do forbid it, along with movies (too lascivious and tempting), drinking, smoking, even drinking coffee. How awful can it get! Surely laughter is not on their golden plate. I remember the Polynesian Cultural Center on Oahu. The Mormons founded it to finance a university for the children of the Pacific Rim. They came, and worked in the Center re-enacting their culture for the bevies of tourists. They did it swathed in cotton from neck to ankle. It was kind of sad, if you thought about it, these lovely brown people, all covered up, hidden from view like they were stains on the firmament. This is why I am not a Christian, that preoccupation with the body, as if it was a hotbed of sin instead of a vehicle for the soul and a temple of joy. I have no doubt that they will try very hard with this new program, and that it will fail. Laughter just isn't in the Christian tradition.

I think I am losing my mind.

Or it may be mid-semester blues, a new psychological disorder for the DSM-IV or V, coming to a desktop in your town, soon. I am not good at toadying, and it looks like that is the only way to get an A in Joel's Critical Thinking class. Erin did a good job today, telling the little prick that his is an interesting class in a sea of yawning boredom. Little guy got all puffed up at that remark. OK, I'm a little miffed. We got a B+ on our paper, the boys and I, and I think that was probably fair. It was a little disjointed, as we each contributed a portion. But he quibbled, like a rat eating away at a hunk of cheese. Did I really think that it was not just a coincidence than the 9/11 bomobings happen on the date that reflects our national emergency number, 911? Well, duh. Honestly, I hope I get to do one paper on my own, soon, so I can shine out like a beacon from the depths. Oh, hell, if I do, it will not illuminate whatever he thinks is the most worthy of illumination. We will never be on the same page, teacher mine. I don't think that is a particularly bad thing, except for that damned grade thing. Must keep plodding along, and decide if I want to bend over and pucker up, or stand tall and risk getting chopped down. T'is a puzzlment.

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.