Well, that's over...

Every semester so far (and this is my third), I have a feeling of crushing overwhelm. I decide that I am nuts, I will never be able to do this, what was I thinking anyway. Then, one day, I look up and realize I am kicking serious butt. Yesterday was that day. My Western Civilization professor handed back last two weeks of homework and quizzes, and I did spendidly. This may mean that I am actually taking easy classes, but I don't think so. Lots to think about, all the time, and tons of material to absorb. But it appears that all the gray cells are firing away with fair efficiency. No one is more surprised than I.

Picky, picky, picky...

Some things are better ideas than realities. Microwave pizza springs to mind. I had one yesterday. After prying it from its cellophane cocoon, I turned the box inside out to expose this silvery film, then carefully followed the cooking instructions, and wound up with cheese on particle-board. Yuck. And zippers on sweaters, what great mind came up with that? Or perhaps others do not experience the little unravelings that get caught in the teeth? I knew it, it is just me, right? And the shuttle bus thing, meant to defray the parking fiasco at the college while they labor away at a mighty parking garage. It was fine last semester, when hardly anybody knew about it. Now, there is a population explosion. The line for those of us going to 9 am classes winds around the mall garage like a tortured serpent. I barely got on the second bus today, and some were actually late for class, I heard in line for the noon shuttle back. Good news, they got one bus that holds 35 instead of the normal 27, plus standees, of which I was one today. Still, there was an army of backpacked kids, all descending at the same time, from all three shuttles, and getting out of the mall garage became an exercise in military strategy. My little puddle-jumper lost a couple of skirmishes with SUVs before I could aim for the exit. What happened to attrition, anyway? Some of these kids were supposed to drop out by now.

Monday? Again?

I know I am spun out when I forget to eat. Got up with the alarm, and I was grateful to be awakened from this dream where I had (once again) forgotten where I parked the car, endless walking through an immense parking lot. I dressed and put on makeup for the first time in two days. And off I went to make my pitstop at The Filling Station (coffee, not gas) and stand in the long, long line for the shuttle, hoping to get to class in time to bone up on my notes before our first midterm in geology. I got just a fleeting glance, and the test landed on me. It seemed easy, which is never a good sign, I can get pretty cocky and do something stupid. And this was the first time I went through it for a second time and didn't feel I needed to change any answers. I then applied for my Doyle scholarship, which I am now eligible for, having completed 12 units with a 4.0 average, and how happy am I about that! $1,600 always comes in handy. Then back on the shuttle, with the little jowly guy with the bad comb-over (and isn't it sad that the people who need the most love are the most unloveable?). I made crepes with blackberry preserves for brunch, and am now settling down to do some reading for those other classes. We have a nice long weekend next week, 5 days. School is ever so much easier than working.

The Universe returns my call...

So, I set out all dolled up the other day, planning on meeting a friend at the noon meeting then taking her out to celebrate her sobriety birthday. I left early because I needed gas. After filling up, I realized I had locked my keys in the car, not the first time I had ever done that by a stretch. Good news, I was only a few blocks from home, so I let the attendant know my car would be residing there a few moments (in the shade, fortunately, Boo was in it), and took off up the street. Well, a few blocks was actually about 1/2 mile, bucking a fair headwind, and my shoes were far from ideal for a hike. But, good news, I keep a key hidden outside for just such occasions (in the spirit of "know thyself"), changed my shoes and got my spare keys and hotfooted it back. I was a little frazzled around the edges when I arrived, just 5 minutes late, and realized that I had a car key in one of those magnetic boxes somewhere under the car, too. So I decided this whole fiasco happened because I wrote in my journal the other day that I really needed to get more exercise, and the Universe was eavesdropping. Really, Universe, this was a bit obvious. And I will take care of it, from now on. Thanks for the sentiment.

A-pruning I will go...

OK, I pruned the rosebushes, for good or for ill. All my life I have successfully avoided doing anything horticultural, and there I was, on my fanny, looking for those little bud thingies so I would know where to cut. Some canes were woody, so I just lopped them off. Then I hauled the big brown trash container back with me and picked up all the detritus. My friend told me it was a zen thing, and I have to agree. It made me really grateful for my still-flexible body and my strong back. Nothing creepy-crawly emerged from the weeds that I cleared away around the base of the bushes. Boo got bored and went inside, after doing his little woo-woo-woo at our neighbor Dean as he drove by. Now I have to get some mulch and pack it in around the bushes. Oh, and I bought bulbs! I am going to plant those little suckers tomorrow.

Friday morning coming down...

I usually take Friday's off. No school. Well, there's no school Saturday or Sunday, either, but I don't study on Friday, I sleep late, do errands, poop around the house. So, Boo and I slept in until 8:30, I made us pancakes for breakfast with a fresh pot of Columbian coffee, which we ate in bed, and I turned on the Arts channel. I can see the TV from the bathtub, so while I bathed, I heard Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, saw a ballet of cranes (no, not birds, but those big yellow construction thingies, very camp), heard some opera (Manon, so French), and a stirring rendition of Johann Strauss II's overture to Die Fleidermaus (and how unhappy was Johann I that his son so outshone him). But the best thing was this 10 minute vignette of about a million and one movies clipped together with appropriate music, like the theme from the Pink Panther and Jaws. I realized I had seen almost all these movies, including Birth of a Nation and Intolerance, and Orphans of the Storm, too. I really love movies, and consider them our national artform. OK, I might want to exclude some, like Porkies film, or the Ernest opus, but there is trashy art out there, too. But there's also Alfred Hitchcock and Frank Capra, Steven Spielberg and Ron Howard. We have a banquet of movies in this country, and we import all the good ones, too, Like Water for Chocolate and El Paradiso. Anyway, I am starting my day inspired. A little inspiration goes a long way.

School daze...

There are many advantages to doing college at an advanced age, besides the obvious, that my partying days are long past, and I can concentrate on the subject matter ever so much better. I no longer worry about how I look most of the time. If I am tidy, without spots or hanging threads, and my hair is clean, I feel fine heading out the door. I have adopted the tacit uniform of college students; dark sweatshirt or jacket, jeans and athletic shoes. I sometimes opt for my clogs or my little witch boots, and even my Ugh knockoffs. It doesn't really matter, because I am invisible, anyway, to other students. My teachers, on the other hand, often recognize me, as I am their contemporary, and often, their elder. And I am a good student. Well, I should be, it is all I have to do, besides the minimal housework and walking the dog. This semester heated up really fast, though. I am doing my study guide for geology today, and spending Saturday in the library with a bunch of minerals, trying to be able to identify 31 different ones. I already have about 10 of the obvious ones down: graphite (it comes off all over your hands), talc (soapy and pearly), kaolinite (white and powdery), sulfur (bright yellow and stinky), flourite (purple and transparent), halite (salty), calcite (double refraction), hematite (rusty red), quartz (duh), garnet (double duh), corundum (barrel-shaped), magnetite (magnetic, of course), azurite (bright blue), olivine (greenish), pyrite (fool's gold). Wow, that's a lot! Maybe this won't be so very hard, after all. There are a lot that are white or black and look a lot alike, though. Fun to play with, but my hands stink afterward, I noticed. And these are just minerals. Rocks are next, composites of minerals. Next comes quiz in Western Civilization, homework and then big test. And a report due in American History, and a midterm there, too. Well, no one said it would be easy, and of course, I think I should be perfect, which I am not most of the time. I do try, really I do.

One tough brain here...

I used to do this little exercise for my brain, wear my watch upside down all day, or write a letter using my left hand. I read somewhere that would keep my brain sharp, and I was in the middle of a foggy menopause where I often was dazed and confused, and scared out of my tiny mind that I would remain in this permanent state of mustiness. So, I guess it is a good thing that I have now successfully hidden most of my daily necessities, like makeup and curling iron and deodorant, from myself. Oh, I know where they are, I put them there. It is that they are not where they used to be and where I am used to finding them, so instead of one fluid motion with the Extra Strength Secret, you know, open drawer, pick up container, pluck off lid, swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe, like that, now I must march about with this puzzled look on my face until it comes to me that it is in the medicine cabinet now, where it is really handy. Right. There is method in my madness. I am about to add a piece of furniture, a much needed chest of drawers, so must move the secretary desk that has occupied my bedroom for this last year, holding things like makeup and deodorant and hair doodads in its miniscule drawers. I'm sure my brain is thanking me for all this muscle-building. Really.

Monday morning, what a concept...

I woke up 10 minutes before the alarm, which means my internal clock is now set to get me up at 7 am every day, even days when I could sleep in. Sigh. My jeans were tight; I look like an Italian sausage. Cherry pie is not worth it. Time for more exercise, less carbs. I notice that it takes a lot longer for my face to wake up these days. I go to bed looking like a reasonable facsimile of myself, and wake up with a severe case of Basset-hounditis, which sends me running for the Regenerist. And what's with this early morning headache? Not fair, I didn't even get drunk last night. Must be another change in the barometric pressue, outside and in my sinuses. It's sunny, and cooooooold. Boo has not even gotten down from the warm bed yet this morning. Smart little guy. So, the bookbag and I are off to academia, hopefully to absorb some knowledge along with the facts and theories. That's a challenge on Monday morning.

There's good news and there's bad news...

My roommate moved out today. She is a wonderful person, and we got along very well together, but she got an opportunity she could not refuse, and she could not accept it living here. I will miss her. We had the best of both worlds as she was here about half the time, and we both had these busy lives that led us in different directions a lot of the time, but when we could, we laughed and cried together through all those little funny life moments that come up so frequently. Boo will miss her a lot, as she always gave him tidbits, too. And now for the good news; I get to spread out all over the house, put up all the pictures I like, change rooms around, stuff like that. This is far from the first time I have lived alone. I rather like it. I like my own company, and I look at it as solitude, a precious thing, rather than loneliness. I have been my most lonely in relationships. Nothing is more lonely than knowing what might be when it is not happening. So, I am looking at the office, which is half empty, and planning what will fill it up. Life is so interesting. Things just keep changing. And changing.

Exercising my shopping muscles...

I was born with a shopping gene. I got it from my mother. Because we lived in the sticks, we would go to the big city once a year to shop, usually before the new school year. My mother would be jumping up and down till I got up to start shopping. Now, I am not rich, at least, not in money, though I would say I am rich in many ways, but that's for another day. I shop for bargains. I love outlets, Costco, WalMart, Target, stuff like that. Currently, I am in the market for a chest of drawers, and will be making the circuit of furniture stores, including the pre-owned stores (so much more gentile than "used", don't you think) and the bare woods store, too. Home Depot is on that list, as well. I am not above staining or painting a piece of furniture, not at all. So that may happen, too. I usually make a habit of visiting any large item at least three times before purchasing it. I need the initial rush to die down, and time to ruminate on just how happy I will be with this item instead of the money I will have to spend. But this time, I am ready to jump on anything that halfway will meet my needs. My clothing has far outgrown its storage capacity, and I have weeded it as far down as I want to go at the moment. Really, I am rich. In clothing, anyway.

Nothing surprises me any more...

I live on the trailing edge. I picked up Star Trek, the Next Generation in reruns only (make it so, I just love that line), and only recently discovered CSI. Better late than never, that's my motto. Yesterday, I got my first Netflix movie. You would think I would have done this ages ago; I love movies and I love getting things in the mail. It couldn't get any better. So, my first movie was Pirates of the Carribean. Okay, it's pretty old, but I never saw it, and all my friends looked at me as if I were nuts, so I ordered it just so I could say I had seen it, too, if it should ever come up in conversation. Now, I know they base movies on books, and old television series (even lousy ones, like the Dukes of Hazzard), and old movies, and plays that were once movies, even video games. But movies based on theme park rides kind of push the envelope. Nevertheless, Johnny Depp is a genius of sorts, and his pirate captain was worth the whole 2 1/2 hours. I hear there's a second movie coming, even. Wish the ride lasted that long!

What goes around keeps going round, and round, and round...

History is so interesting. From the very beginning, it is about one group of people finding the absolute right way to live, and imposing it on everyone else they can. Most couch their conquest in religion, while consuming the wealth and power of their enemies. Sumerians are conquered by Akkadians, who fall to the Hittites, who are vanquished by the mysterious "sea people", and the Babylonians rise, full of righteousness. Ah, there's the rub. Righteousness. We are still steeping it today, in this enlightened age, because there are still people who know the only right way to live, and claim their knowledge comes directly from the Deity. Man, it is really getting old, people! Live and let live! And get a life, you righteous creeps! There, I feel better.

God bless the garbageman...

Great lumbering, grumbling beasts ply Wild Rose Drive every Monday morning. Today, in their honor, I bagged and carried out all the orts of my life, and lined them up on the curb in their respective containers, where tomorrow, they will be whisked from my life forever. How wonderful is that, anyway? So here's to the sanitation engineer, rough and ready guy that he is, a magician of sorts, if you think about it, and every Monday, my hero.

Long live Pleasantville.

When I was growing up, milk was delivered to your doorstep a couple of times a week, and if you needed cream, you just left the milkman a note. All milk was whole milk, there was no other kind. Labels were sensibly inside of clothing. Boys were beginning to wear jeans to school, Levis one and all. Girls wore dresses, blouses or sweaters with skirts, or jumpers. I really miss jumpers. I had several things that had fur collars, real fur. We rode our bicycles to school, and parked them in bikeracks or on their kickstands, without locks, and they were all there when we got ready to leave. We played outdoors whenever we could. Electronics meant you traded in your manual typewriter for an electric one. Phones were big, bulky and mostly black, and you were grateful for a private line that you didn't have to share with a lot of other (nosy) people. The thrill of the day was when the ice cream truck toodled through the neighborhood with its music-box playing and we bought popsicles, for a dime. The movies were double-features (two movies, for you uninitiated) with two cartoons, a newsreel and an episode of a serial, like Zorro, or Flash Gordon, or Captain America, all for 30 cents. Another dime bought a tube of Flicks, little chocolate disks, or a Three Musketeers bar the size of Wyoming. Stereos were new, and built into furniture (ours was a roll-top desk, built by Robert Montgomery, husband of Dinah Shore). Music came on vinyl, and in three speeds, 78, 45 or 33 rpm. Automobiles were huge landboats, laden with chrome, heavy as elephants, and got about 8 mpg, but that didn't matter, because the gallon indicater moved much faster than the dollar one, gas was about 19 cents a gallon. And a small army of uniformed guys would scurry out to wash your windshield, check your tires and measure your oil level. Television was new, mostly broadcast live, in black and white. And radio was still hot, with shows like Inner Sanctum, and the Whistler, and the Shadow. Scary then, and even now, because we used to catch a retrospective on our way home from Grandma's house when the kids were little, and they would be scared out of their tiny minds by the time we arrived. Thrilling. Divorce was the exception rather than the rule. It was a time of great prosperity, after the long trial of World War II. Ike was president, Nixon (later tricky Dick) was vice president, the cold war was raging; we had regulad air-raid drills where we all ducked under our desks and covered our heads so the flash of the nuclear explosion would not blind us, as if we all wouldn't be toast anyway. Dinosaurs were reptiles, Jupiter had only 9 moons, and history really was the chronicle of dead white men on horses. Life was simple, and simplistic. I love to remember it, but I don't really miss it. I like 1% milk and computers and birth control pills and the diversity we now celebrate. And someday I will get used to my clothes having labels on the outside.

Laughing out loud...

I was in bed last night, reading Wealth 101, marvelous spiritual book. Really. And the authors listed our primary needs as: air, water, food, shelter, clothing and television. How true is that. It's not a new book, because I would add VCR, DVD player, premium channels, and a whizbang computer suite, complete with printer, scanner, fax machine and digital camera. Abbondanza!
It's a funny thing, but it doesn't really take a lot of money to be rich. Being rich is being in love with my life, having the things that make me feel abundant, like those mentioned above, but also owning major appliances like my refrigerator and washer/dryer, a really fine vacuum cleaner and a happily chortling coffeemaker brewing up a pot of fresh-ground Ethiopian. My humble little yellow house is my palace. It holds my beloved's artwork on the walls, both his and mine, because he taught me to paint. And I have some of my photography framed, and signed, too. There is joy around every corner here, in the rose bushes front and back, the corner of the bedroom that holds pictures of my babies, the little rack on the wall beside the front door where scarves, umbrellas and Boo's leash hang, the kitchen counter where Phoebe's cage sits, the red curtains in the common room. I could want for more, but truly, I want for nothing that I need, not a whit.

...and then you throw the dog a bone.

Navigating the vicissitudes of college is not nearly as rigorous as preparing to leave the house. First, there is the ritual Packing-of-the-Bookbag. Certain items live in the bag, like pens, pencils, calculator, ruler, great big eraser, Scantrons, student ID card, a lipstick and comb. Others need to be added: kleenex, driver's license, ATM card (just in case), a little cash (for early morning latte), cell phone, academic planner, three-ring binder, homework, and of course, textbooks, hopefully the right ones for that day's classes. Which means I must always know what day it is, and what day it will be tomorrow, even. On Wednesdays, I also take a lunch and my laptop, which means the bag weighs a whole bunch more. After packing, there is the ceremony of Finding-the-Keys, which sometimes entails remembering what I wore yesterday, too. Once located, I must secretly slip them into my pocket without drawing the dog's attention, as this is a dead giveaway that I am leaving, and may not plan on taking him, always an occasion of much ennui on his part. Then there are the rites of Turning-Everything-Off, which is the main thrust of my current exercise program, as I always manage to forget something at the other end of the house. On my way back, I slip a couple of MilkBones out of their box, so that by the time I grab my bookbag and don my coat, scarf, and sunglasses, with Boo whining and griping and jumping about a lot, I am all ready to give him a bone (after he sits up for me; he doesn't get something for nothing, after all), then toss another one across the room (otherwise he will sneak by me when I open the door and storm the car), I am free to leave. With any luck, I have remembered everything I need, because going back into the house is sheer hell to pay. Fortunately, I only need do this four days a week. And I get a nice vacation at the end of the semester. Which I really, really need by that time. A semester equals one box of Milk Bones, in case you were wondering.

I'm really not lazy...

Just overwhelmed with new semester. Every teacher hands out their syllabus, and suddenly there is 120 pages of information to digest, and every page is packed with information. We have already studied the Sumerians, Hittites, Akkadians, Babylonians and Egyptians in Western Civilization. In American History, we are learning all the myriad tribes of Native Americans, which are called in very un-PC terms in the text, Indians, because that is what the were called for most of the last 200 years, and the plethora of conquistadores who rampaged about the continent. And in Geology, gosh, it is hard to know where to begin. Plate techtonics with divergent, convergent and transform plate boundaries, Pangaea, minerals, you name it. And that was just the first week. Yesterday, I read the Code of Hammurabi, the Laws of the Hebrews, a synopsis of the Odyssey, and the Epic of Gilgamesh. My notes binder is already bulging with stuff. I find I take at least 3 pages of notes per hour this semester. Oh, and did I mention the Gore Vidal tome on Jefferson, Washington and Hamilton? Or the book on daily life of a colonist? Plowing through those, too. If I get through this semester, I can do anything. Anything.

Things that go bump in the night...

Strange things are happening. My dear roommate is gone off to school, as she does every week, and I am here, alone, in the little yellow house. Boo is ensconsed on the bed, as usual, and all is quiet, except for this noise next door. From the sound of it, my neighbor is either building a deck to cover his dead wife's grave, or stacking firewood. Clunk, clunk, clunk. What a wonder imagination is, n'est-ce pas? Actually, this is a rather frightening place after dark. Because this area is unincorporated, we have no street lights. It is uber-dark out there. If the neighbor across the street didn't leave their porch light on all night, we would be totally shrouded in blackness. Ooooh. And soon, dear roommate is moving away, and we will be here, Boo and Phoebe and I, all alone, all the time. So, time to get used to it. And put the hammer in my nightstand drawer.

Deep thoughts, vol. 9987

It's Friday, and I usually take Friday off. No school, minimal studying, usually later in the day. My mind turns to less weighty issues, like what to wear to bed. I think I have finally discovered the right thing, allbeit 61 years late, but better late than never, I suppose. Nightgowns look wonderful swirling around the ankles whilst swishing about before bed. I like the ones with pintucks and lots of ribbon and lace dripping from neck and sleeves. But, in bed, they tend to ruch up about my hips and wrap me like a mummy, so that I have to unroll myself from them in the morning like a Tootsie Roll from its wrapper. Tee shirts are great in the summer, big ones, but they leave my legs dangling out there in the cold in the winter. Pajamas also look so dapper, all outdoorsy-woman, so Lands End, but I hate those with buttons that poke me and tend to come undone. I bought one pair with a slip-on top, and knitted cuffs at the wrists and ankles, so they don't hike up. Haven't been able to find another like them and these are pretty ratty after a couple of thousand wearings. And what about a bra? I wore one to bed for many years, then gave up on underwire in the night, talk about pokes. But I like to corral those puppies, a little, so I don't get one caught under my arm. So I have come up with the pluperfect nighttime ensemble: stretchy little cami with cunning shelf bra, flannel pajama bottoms, and a thermal tee on top, that I can take it off in the middle of the night if I get too warm. And these supersoft anklets, all poofy and fluffy, on those especially cold nights. Funny how warm feet seem to keep everything else warm, and vice versa. Boy, am I relieved to have this dilemma behind me.

New history...

Interesting. History has evolved a lot since I was in school. Now, we are learning more than stories of dead wigged white men on horses. Efforts are made to avoid ethnocentrism and see the big picture. So the history of North America begins with the Native Americans, their communities, their spiritual practices, their interactions. What a hoot! And we will be looking from a slave's point of view later, as well as women (imagine that). In fact, Mr. Toad says the only viewpoint that hasn't come to the forefront yet is a child's view of events. College is such an interesting process now. I come home every day and feel stuffed full of new information. Like, did you know where the phrase "mad as a hatter" came from? Leather used to be processed with mercury, which is highly toxic and causes insanity if one is exposed too often or too long. Hatters who cut the leather often went bonkers. I learned this in geology, of all places. Well, makes sense to this nutso Gemini - Mercury is my ruling planet!

All kinds of newness today...

School seemed better today. Saw an old friend, who is taking same geology class as I, and felt like I belonged there. Teacher is young, athletic woman, very dedicated as she is chair of her department that includes astronomy, geology and meteorology, the department of heaven and earth, she called it. Glad I like her, because she also teaches the lab I had this afternoon, where I learned to convert farenheit to celcius (C=Fx9/5-32) and find locations on earth from their latitude and longitude. New friend, Suzy, another over-the-hill gal, and we will have lots of fun doing all this stuff together. Already had some good laughs, and that is what it is all about, enjoying this process of learning new stuff. Lots, and lots, and lots of reading to do, though. So far, I have had interaction with Hittites and Sumerians and Egyptians, plumbed the inner mind of the Founding Fathers, and examined the layers that make up the earth: crust, mantle and core. So much to learn.

Success!

First day of new semester. I always feel that I must be crazy, doing this academic thing. I lugged the already too heavy bookbag out to the car and set off, first to get my non-fat latte, my first-day-of-the-week treat, then to the downtown mall, where I was relieved to see the familiar signs directing me to our designated parking place, meaning that, yes indeed, the shuttles are running. I found my first class, major accomplishment because it is in a new building that I had not explored yet, then sat there sure that I was in the wrong classroom, since it was American History, but this looked like a science-type classroom. The sink in the counter is a dead giveaway. It was, however, the right place. Our professor is a truncated little guy, very puffed up on top, neckless and kind of toadlike, but despite gruff exterior, funny and droll. We did some fun exercise that tested our knowledge and intelligence by selecting a person, place and event from the period we are studying, up to 1877. Some of us were pretty much not present, with answers like Ronald Reagan and Battle of the Bulge, but hey, it's early in the semester. Also, I always thought old RR was a fossil, anyway. Next, I hiked over to my familiar territory for the Western Civilization class. Mr. Diaz is a kind of fluffy young Hispanic, very mild-mannered and also rather droll in an endearing way. He gave us a quiz, right off the bat, and I am happy to say I got a couple of the questions right, like "where is Stonehenge and who built it" and "who was Julius Caesar". The other eight I just guessed, and it is good we are studying this stuff, because I don't know very much at all. Things I learned today: I have enough time to get from my 9 AM to my 10:30 AM and pee in between, too. And bless Prof. Diaz, I will be first onto the shuttle at lunchtime, because he will let us out early. These are the really important things to know.

The King is dead (again)...

I saw the new and improved King Kong today, don't ask me why, it just seemed to call to me. I loved the first one, shuddered through the Jeff Bridges/Jessica Lange version, which ended on the top of the now defunct World Trade Center, and how sad is that. Peter Jackson got kind of carried away with adoring close-ups of his admittedly attractive stars. Even Jack Black looked great glaring away in that menacing way he has. And oh, Naomi Watts is stunning, even those two rabbity front teeth we glimpse over and over and over again through her parted, trembling lips. The sets are amazing. I especially loved the New York of the '30s, clogged with all those tin lizzies in gridlock traffic jams. Skull Island was a roller coaster ride of monstrous creatures, including the bugs, which really made me sink down into my seat. Kong was more animated, and much dirtier than he had ever been in previous versions. Caked and matted, even. After a brief moment of wondering how they got him home in the hold of that tiny freighter, we got to watch him rip up quite a few unlucky New Yorkers before his dizzying climb, this time, once again, to the top of the Empire State Building, Naomi in tow. That was a feat, carrying her in one hand and scaling the vertical face of the building with the other. Those scenes, high in the air, Naomi in this satin slip of a dress in the dead of a New York winter and not even shivering, our heroine, terrified me. She kept climbing up to where Kong was perched, and I knew she was going to wind up a flat furry spot on the pavement far, far, far below. Like, why did I care, 2 hours and 58 minutes later? Did I think it would end differently? It didn't. Faithful parody of the first version, though the captain of the freighter was a hottie, and worth the whole movie for moi. Great movie to see so you can say you saw it. Again.

I get it, really I do...

In today's inbox, a plethora of forwarded stuff, like the one about women, our virtues, of course. My favorite; "If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning." Ain't that the truth. And there are a lot of those in my life. There is the woman who collects resentments and frequently trots them out (my mother). There is the woman whose brain has become disconnected from her mouth, so that she frequently utters words that should never breathe the light of day. There is the woman who gripes, and gripes, and gripes, and if you try to offer her an alternative, argues for her limitations. I am surrounded by horrible examples, a lot of them of the female persuasion. So my daily challenge is to stay true to my path, take these people as poor sick gals full of self-centered fear and really not out to sink my ship. Which is exactly what it looks like they are doing.

If I ruled the world...

It may sound picky, but did the guy who designed my toilet ever clean one? Oh, I know it was a man who made this thing, this cunning little wide-mouthed beast that squats on its haunches in my tiny bathroom. And I am not talking about the inside. Oh, nonono. It is the exterior I am talking about, all these loopy curves that just sit there and collect crud. And when are the car manufacturers going to get their act together and give women a decent shelf in the dashboard to stow their purses? Take that glove compartment and shove it, guys. Just put a pocket on one of the sunvisors for the registration, manual and proof of insurance. OK?

Here we go round the mulberry bush...

I have a cold. For the last 3 days, I tried to ignore it, but today, it won. I have two lousy choices here: stay all stuffed up, achy and scratchy or take the #$%&*$ pills. I have plenty of those suckers, courtesy of Costco, some for day and some for night. Orange and green, so there will be no mistake, because that would be disastrous. The orange ones act like speed so, even though I am moving slowly, it feels like I am in fast forward mode. And the green ones knock me out, until they wear off about 3 AM, and I have to get up to find the little scissors to open another package of them (just another thing that is annoying about pills), but they work really swell otherwise. Funny, a little thing like this can obscure everything else while it lasts. My focus narrows to my drippy nose and stuffy head, my misery. So I am going back to bed, again. No more running around everywhere, pretending I am well. Fortunately, I also have a Costco supply of Kleenex and tea.

Dog days...

I am old enough to remember what it was like to have a dog in the good old days. It was usually a mutt, someone's accident. We usually only saw the vet if it got hit by a car, because there were no leash laws. It ate table scraps and occasionally got a bath, usually in the summer, on the lawn. If it died, you buried it in the backyard, and got another one. My, my. Times have changed. Not only has Boo had a regular series of well-baby visits to the vet, he has special ear washing stuff and teeth brushing stuff. He is altered, of course. I had a moment of pure regret thinking of him losing those dear little cajones. Though he is not purebred, he cost a fair bundle because he was 1) obscenely cute and 2) reasonably small. An eye injury when he was little cost me $150, almost as much as he cost me originally. Well, my times have changed, too. I got the reminder postcard from the vet, time for rabies and Parvo/DHLP boosters. Groan. Another $200 for 20 minutes at the vet. But, what's this! Vaccination clinic at SuperPets! So, off we went yesterday, arriving at 3:50 pm for the 4 o'clock clinic, only to find it wasn't going to start till 4:30. So we spent the better part of an hour in line with the other pet owners who were seeking financial relief. Boo left a little dividend on the store floor, but no matter; there were paper bags and paper towels at regular intervals just for this occasion. In front of us, a couple brought their pug puppy, talk about cute. And behind us was a miniture schnauzer puppy, about the size of a guinea pig, sooooo cute. Boo weathered the wait by sniffing at the cat carrier that was being pushed along by a young couple. I stole a glimpse when they took it out, finally, a gorgeous tortie. Boo weathered the shots well, not even a squeal. He's been a little laid back ever since, like he has not even gotten off the bed to lick my cereal bowl, I may have to just put it in the dishwasher without his help. Ah, the joys of pet ownership in the 21st century.

A whole bunch of hoopla...

So, the fundamentalist folks are railing against that show I was talking about, The Book of Daniel. Seems this is not their brand of Jesus. Isn't that like saying if you don't smoke Camels you are not a real smoker? Anyway, they have succeeded in pressuring a couple of local markets not to carry the show, and this is dandy news, because now a whole bunch of folks who could have cared less will watch it. I cannot imagine what it must be like to have a faith so fragile that a dissenting opinion can shake it this badly. And what can they be so riled up about? Well, the gay son, obviously. Jesus cannot possibly love (gasp) gay people, right? Well, sorry. Jesus loves everyone, like we are supposed to. And that doesn't just mean other people who are (on the surface, anyway) just like us. Everyone. Especially (read my lips) sinners! Self-righteousness is a sin. Hypocrisy is a sin. So, definitely, Jesus loves the fundamentalists, bless their fearful little hearts. The trouble with being rigid, though, is that one becomes brittle. And brittle people break, easily. Those who are strong in faith enough to let others have whatever beliefs work for them, well, they are not only flexible, but happy. Daniel's Jesus is loving, non-judgmental and supportive. How could he be any more wondrous? And I am not even a Christian. But if this were the real Jesus, I might consider it. For a moment.

Little blessings everywhere...

I was laying in my bed of pain yesterday, dog at my feet and remote at my side, when I saw this promo for a new show, The Book of Daniel, premiering that very night on NBC. Looked interesting, and I was still awake at 9, so I checked it out. What a hoot! Aiden Quinn (much more attractive now that age has spread him out a little) stars as an Episcopal priest whose daughter has been trying to raise money be selling pot, adopted Chinese son is bonking the deacon's daughter, natural son is gay and trying to tell his grandfather the Bishop, mother has Alzheimers' , and brother-in-law has just absconded with the million dollar church building fund. In the midst of all this, Jesus regularly drops by to offer support. Support, not advice, not admonitions. Support. Wow. Not the Jesus of my childhood, that whitewashed personna who seemed to deal with his fleshiness so much better than I dealt with mine. Huge resentment about that one. Except, now, having completed a course in critical thinking, I can see that that was all we were allowed to see of Jesus, his godliness. There was humaness there, too, I am sure. So, this TV version has all the trappings: flowing robes, blue eyes, long hair and beard. But there the similarity ends. For one thing, he has quite a sense of humor, and seems to appreciate Daniel's very human veniality. At one point Daniel asks him "Do you talk to me because I am special?" and Jesus replies "No, I talk to everyone. You listen." And there it is, a whole big dollop of wisdom and direction, right there in primetime! Good stuff happens when I get still and listen to the inner wisdom that is right there, always available. Go NBC!

Tis the season, sigh.

I was wandering around the Costco parking lot this morning in an antihistimine-induced haze, just wanting to get this one errand that I could not shirk behind me so I could get into my sweats and stay in bed all afternoon, and thinking. I didn't do my usual gratitude parking practice, park way far away and hike in. Headaches do that to me, make me selfish. I managed to find my card, and get in line to go in. At Costco, there are lines everywhere. People who say they hate Costco because of the lines need to get over it. Lines are perfect opportunities to be grateful I am not like other people, who hate lines. Costco is not stupid. There were huge displays of vitamins lining the entrance, for all those who have resolved to get their act together in the New Year. And then came the piles of (ick) TurboTax software and expanding files, for those disgusting enough to think about things like that before April 15. I followed a couple of slaphappy older guys, who told me they were down from Lakeport, about an hour away, in total culture shock, and headed for the free samples. Lunch! I got my usual goodies for tomorrow's meeting, fruit tray, cream cheese snails and loaves of variety breads to slice up for the hungry AA's and looked for the Lean Cuisine 4 packs, but they must have sold out. Or I was too hazy to see them. I did notice huge mountains of organizers: plastic bins, rolling shelf units, modular storage units, and lots of exercise equipment, too. Everybody is thinking they will be better because the calendar has flipped over. I, on the other hand, am just going to bed.

Remembering and forgetting...

Sometimes I think there is nothing wrong with my life that a whole big bunch of money would not fix. Most of the time I lead this sweet life, in my tiny house in my funky turkey-infested neighborhood in this mediocre little city, with my kind of stinky dog and economy car. Then I venture out of my milieu, and realize there is a much more gracious and wondrous life out there, being lived by gracious and wonderful (and rich) people. Well, I could be doing that, too. I would just have to swallow a whole big bunch of bitterness and give up ever being seen or appreciated. I could have stayed married to my last ex-husband, and spent the rest of my life being reminded daily of all my deficiencies, which, I assure you, abound. I would have a fabulous house and shiny furniture and German cars and pedigreed dogs that get baths once a month and a monthly appointment for me at a chichi salon for color, cut and manicure. Then I remember the way I felt then, like an emotional cripple, unable to love myself at all because I knew I was selling out. And I remember that, even in my humble little life, I feel pretty good about what I am doing here, helping other women to find what I found, a life of spiritual peace. And I am happy with Nice and Easy and $15 haircuts. I am satisfied with going to the local community college. I am grateful to be alive at all. It's like sometimes I just go to sleep, and forget who I am, which is enough, just the way I am now. I am not missing anything here. No more is needed. Amen.

Ah, a new year...

So, I had invitations, really I did. Instead, I stayed home, where it was warm and dry, and watched this sleazy movie, The Sweetest Thing, an old Cameron Diaz/Christina Applegate vehicle. I knew it was sleazy because I had seen it before. Yes, I know there was probably something more uplifting to do, and it certainly was not watching a bunch of drunken revellers waiting for a ball to drop. The year turned over quietly, as I watched Laurence Olivier smarm his way through Pride and Prejudice with Greer Garson as a rather over-the-hill Lizzie. Boo lay quietly at my feet and I had a new John Grisham novel to dip into when television got just too much to bear. I guess I will write out a few things today; what worked last year, what didn't work last year, what I would like to see work this year, blah, blah, blah. As you can see, my enthusiam has waned somewhat. At the same time, a lot of our county that normally isn't underwater is today, very bad, and the hills are falling down into the streets, too. Nothing in our neighborhood floated away last night, so we are in good shape.

Spindrifting here...

We are in the midst of a huge storm, and about to have some pretty bad flooding, like 11 feet at the bridge in Guerneville, and that's a big bunch of water. It was around this time of year that it happened 3 or 4 years ago, and then it was just a couple of feet over the bridge, enough to snarl traffic. And we had only one day when we were trapped in our tiny town, by rockslide north of us, road collapse south of us, and flooding to the east. We could have gotten out only to the west, by boat, if we had one. Well, we did have a canoe, but there were 2 foot combers out there. Man, you have never seen a temper tantrum till you've seen what Mother Nature does to the coast during a storm. The river would get all churned up and turn to foamy cafe au lait, and whole trees would float downstream to Jenner beach, where they would pile up and sometime during the summer, burn, either on purpose or the result of homeless people not putting out their fires. Occasionally, a renegade propane tank would scoot by. And, of course, the power would go off, and not come on for days and days after the rest of the county. If we were lucky, the tarp would not have blown off the pile of firewood and it would not be all wet, because we heated the house with the woodstove. Ah, the joys of a house on the hill over the river and sea!
Town is different. The power stays on, or, if it should go off, PG&E scrambles to get it back so their profit-margin doesn't decline. Streets get some big puddles, but even our neighborhood turkeys can navigate through them. I just heard that downtown San Anselmo is flooded, which is a shame; why couldn't that happen on a workday, when my friend Taylor could stay home?

Bargains come to those who wait, and wait, and...

Last year, really, last year, I saw this sweater at Coldwater Creek here in town, the real store, not the e-store. It was gorgeous, a silk blend, simply styled, just my thing. Except it was $59.99, or $60 (and who do they think they are fooling, anyway), outside my paltry budget at a time when I was spending beaucoup bucks on things like moving, a new refrigerator and washer/dryer, little things like that. Once in a while, usually at work while I waited for my dinosaur printer to spit out a long report, I would check on it online, like, it had to go on sale sometime, didn't it? Well, guess not. Until a couple of days ago, sitting here with nothing to do, I remembered it, and looked again. Eureka! It was $29.99! And in my preferred color and size! Perfect, especially with a few extra greenbacks in the bank from Christmas $$$. It is now in the mail to me. But, there's more. Because I was a firstime customer online, I got an extra $15 discount, which means I will have a $60 sweater for $15, plus shipping, $22 altogether. This is an anthem to patience, virtuous patience. In my life, a rare and wondrous occasion, sorry to say.

Electricity and me

I have this love/hate relationship with electrical power. I depend heavily upon it for my creature comforts: hair dryer, coffee maker, CD player, microwave oven, and, for God's sake, my television. So I expect, when I have paid (handsomely, I must say) for it, I expect it to be there when I need it, which is all the time. So, yesterday evening, when I was blowdrying my newly darkened (very dark, too dark) hair and it just snapped off, leaving me sitting on my bed with half a headful of damp hair, in the dark, I was not happy. I noticed that the neighbor's lights were still on, lucky buggers. So that meant this was a localized problem. In fact, when I switched on the overhead light, it obediently shone down on me. A trip to the circuit breaker box was very unenlightening. All those bony little switches were on, so I turned a bunch of them off then on again, aware that I was going to have to go about the house and reset all those things that have digital clocks, or bear the indignity of having them flash at me forever: 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. No dice. The front room was all off, too. Our phones didn't work, and our computers were dead, too. This is very bad indeed. Fortunately my cell was nicely charged up, so I called our landlord first to find out if there was something else we should be looking for, which sent me on a pilgrimage around the house, inside and out, looking for outlets with little red buttons, which I dutifully reset. Still nothing. So we called PG&E. Now, calling PG&E didn't work very well for me before in the house on the edge of the world. We were always last on the list for restoration of power. In fact, once the whole town came on, after a wait of several days, and we didn't. I have always longed to be special, but this was ridiculous. But being in town and two women living alone, without telephones, works! They came over within the hour, poor guy had to call me from in front of the house to find us, but he showed up, fiddled with the circuit breaker box, and everything popped back on. Now, I realize this is a tiny problem. Miniscule. But let's get real. Life with a wet head and no coffee, that's inhuman torture.

Life in the slow lane,,,

Here I sit, with my big red cup full of fresh-brewed Ethiopian coffee, happy beyond words. Sixteen years ago, I was nursing a horrid hangover and a huge heaping of remorse. Little did I know that would be the last time that happened in my tiny life. And things were not looking up, oh no. My partner was in the process of moving out, leaving me to stew in my own juices. And I was terrified, with a lot of dandy things to contemplate in the future, like court and some pretty big fines. Yes, hitting the bottom, alcoholically speaking, is not fun. Getting sober isn't, either. It's just better than the alternative. I honor that poor broken woman on this day every year. She is not me anymore. And that is because I did the things I needed to do to change. Ooooh, there's an ugly word. Perhaps it is more that I kept to the high road, and somewhere in that process, I was transformed into something new and improved. So this week, I get to make the rounds of meetings where I show my face regularly, and give back the medallions that say XV, and pick up new ones that say XVI. Sweet sixteen. That's me. Again.

Just the best present came today...

I used some of my Christmas money to buy some new music on CD, soundtracks to the new Pride and Prejudice (Okay, I admit it, I saw it again today with a friend, but she needed something sweet to fill her up with sweetness) and Sense and Sensibility, another Jane Austin tale, and both CDs are amazing in their lovliness. I am bathed in all this amazing music. Then I went to the Christmas Eve candlelighting service at the Center for Spiritual Living, we belted out some of those very un-PC carols and had a jolly old time. Now I am all decked out in my red satin jammies, feeling kind of holidayish, kind of. Actually, it is not bad being me today. Not bad at all. My life is filled with abundance. I saw all kinds of people I know and love, got to help another woman in her early recovery, do some service, hug a lot of dear friends and kiss my dog. How could it get any better? Well, it could, but that's for later, maybe next year.

The things you learn in college...

I got my final papers back from my Critical Thinking prof yesterday in the SASE I left for him during Finals week. There was just the smallest moment of hesitation in opening it. Despite bending over backward many times, I couldn't do better than an A- for this nitpicky guy. Then I took a page from another book, and decided to kiss up to him, wondering all along if this was the proper approach for a spiritual being to take. Like, where is the dignity and integrity in this action? Then I tore open my envelope and found that voila! I had finally gotten that A, no little niggly minus behind it, just an unadorned A. I want to believe this was because of my superior effort, and I know it was my best work that I thrust under his nose. And in the end, it all adds up when I apply for the psych program I want, where I need a solid 3.0 average. So my sucking up was for a very good cause, in the end. Right.

Ghosts of Christmas past...

Well, we were sitting around this morning reminiscing about our childhoods, and kind of whining a little, too. I am remembering my mother busily baking up a storm around this time of year, so that the whole house smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and chocolate, too, when she stirred up the fudge. We had Hallmark Card Christmases, with very tasteful flocked trees and bowers of holly and even beribboned bunches of mistletoe over the doorways. Sometimes, the presents were piled as high as the tree. You would think this was all very wonderful, but the truth was, my mother martyred herself to this process, and instead of enjoying it, seemed to labor under the burden of the work. Now, I love a good Christmas cookie. I am going to bake some myself this afternoon. And my roommate is making candy, too. But it is a joy to do this, really. I insist on enjoying myself, even in the stores full of maniacal shoppers, even in the wall-to-wall traffic, even in the rain. There's not a thing I can do to change any of that, after all. So I sit at the stop light, for the fourth time, and just scratch Boo under the chin, or sing along with Barbra who in crooning her heart out for me on the CD player, and watch the window steam up. It could be worse, after all. I could be living in Iraq, and in fear of my life everyday I leave my hovel. There is always something to be grateful for, if I work a little at it.

Living in the now...

My friend Bill has a license plate that says "ZMOMENT". This is a very spiritual man who spent his life outdoors and has explored his inner landscape as well. How important this concept is and how very simple. And how very elusive. I look at that picture I got for Christmas of myself at 11, and my heart is full of regret. I think of my next semester, when I will be taking (gulp) geology, and my heart is full of fear. Right now, as I sit here pecking away, my belly is full of apple pie that I ate for breakfast (hey, it's fruit, after all) and I sip my coffee, and I am mighty fine. Well, a little cold. OK, I just turned on the heat. That was easy. Ram Dass was right to admonish us to "Be Here Now". I saw the Dali Lama on the telly last night. He says the same thing. Don't worry about heaven or hell. Just be. Everything is temporary, anyway.

Queen of shopping strikes again...

So I was in this long, long line at Best Buy yesterday, and a friend waved as he hurried in, and made a little comment on the lateness of the hour. And I retorted "I'm done. This is for me." So there. You see, my folks give me money at Christmas, as well as a few little things, but money, well that works for me very well. Most of it went into the bank to buffer next month's text book purchases. But some I actually got to spend. So I decided to get a new book bag. My red one, that I bought at Safeway for $10, was really meant for a kid, and already was pretty beat up. Plus the strap kept getting twisted up and digging into my shoulder because the flanges were plastic and didn't keep them from doing that. It was bound to break under the load I was asking it to bear. I love my new book bag. It is a Targus and a lot more sedate than the red one, and I could actually carry my laptop in it if I wanted. Why then didn't I just use the laptop bag I already have, you ask. Well, because it won't handle the books, that's why. Then I went to Target, always a favorite place, for birdseed, bubble bath and binder paper. Also got some dividers and a little box for index cards, the ones that have been sitting on my desk for a month in an untidy pile. All for $13. When I got home, I set up my binder (the one that would not fit into my red book bag) with dividers for the classes I would be taking, in the order I will be attending them. There are pockets in the dividers for my syllabi. And this year I will not be cramming hand-outs into a spiral notebook, but can actually punch holes in them and file them in the binder so I can find them at test time. How dandy is that.

What I would really like for Christmas...

Wouldn't it be lovely to get just one do-over per lifetime? Like go back in time and not marry that first husband, so I could actually finish college when all the other kids were doing it? It would have been nice to not have to live by my wits for all these years, to actually have some education to fall back on, to make my living in a more esoteric way, instead of falling back onto whatever my employer wanted me to do, business-related things, of course. On the other hand, there is enormous gratitude for the strength and ability to do that, certainly God-given gifts that served me well during life no. 1, the one before I got sober. And I continued to persevere, that seems to be my forte, to cope and make do, so that now I can change horses, not in midstream, but at the end of the trail. It may seem like a little late, but better late than never, right? Anyway, there is a whole bunch of nothing to do today, again. And school beats working, anyday. How many jobs give you a month off at the end of the year?

Christmas stuff...

We had our family gathering today. My mother started this a few years ago, exchanging gifts on the Sunday before the holiday so we could all be free to be with others at Christmas, which has the effect of orphaning me, of course. I no longer have in-laws who demand command performances. Last year, I went to the movies. I may do that again. We'll see. Anyway, I came home with a haul, as usual: two sweaters, nightgown and slippers, a wonderful throw for the sofa, See's candies, it goes on and on. Best gift came from my oldest brother, a picture made from one of my Dad's old slides of the three of us, me and 2 little brothers, taken in 1955 when I was 11. We always got new pajamas, and I was dressed in my turquoise flannel baby dolls, my hair in little pink curlers, with legs as long as all outdoors. My kids got pictures of me when I was young; my son got one of me and his father. I had forgotten how young I was. And Amber got one of me at around 13; I was surprised to find how pretty I was then, so fresh and freckled. And my mother gave me a bracelet she bought when we sailed on Matson Line's Lurline, in 1963. It is still the vacation of a lifetime, one I will never forget. So, some precious memories went around the family this year. As much as I dread it every year, it always winds up to be a blessing that we are all still kicking, and can spend a few hours together in harmony.

The red leaf story.

Last year, I was wrestling a 40 lb bag of dogfood up our many steps at the house on the edge of the world, and I noticed this iris plant by the fence. It was not blooming, but one leaf was bent down horizontal to the ground, and it was bright red. Such an ordinary plant, but that one leaf in a sea of green was arresting. So, when I caught my breath, I came down with my camera and took a picture of it. I didn't know then what it was I found so fascinating that I had to record the moment. Later, I had an enlargement made of the print. Once in a while, I get a picture that is just wondrous. This was one of them. It was balanced and had lots of interesting light happening. And I know now what that leaf said to me. I have always felt different. The red leaf said different is not always a bad thing. Different could be a Mozart or an Einstein. And different does not mean beautiful, either. Certainly this was a homely plant. But it certainly had pizzazz. Yes, I am happily different today. What can I say? It's a zen kind of thing.
(And did I mention, it looks like this plant is sticking its tongue out at the world? Now, that's audacious!)

What to do when you have nothing to do...

Well, school is finished for a while, and since I was up way before the sun yesterday I slept in way late today. I am thinking of maybe cleaning the house, and maybe going out to do a little grocery shopping (I wanted to stay in bed all day today and eat junk food only to discover I am totally out of junk food). I may wrap a few of the Christmas presents I have piled on the far side of the bed, or not. It occurs to me that Boo is looking a little poochy, not unlike me, so a walk would probably be a swell idea, too. I will have to get to the bookstore at school soon to sell back my books, and scope out the next tomes so I can look for them online, maybe save a buck here and there. And a peek into the ironing basket, that fortunately has a lid to keep the dust out, tells me I may have to dig out the ironing board from beneath the giant-economy package of paper towels and the enormous bag of dogfood, too. Gee, that's a great big bunch of nothing to do today!

Yay me!

I have spent many angst-ridden moments studying for my Political Science tests. Somehow, this material is so murky and incomprehensible. And the best I could do was a high B on the mid-terms. I clinched on the last one and blew the essay question, well, I got 41 out of a possible 50, but that was not good on my list. So I really worked hard at the final, outlined the study guide and just in case, reviewed the chapters, all 7 of them, as well. And he still threw in some questions that I didn't know. Sigh. But this time, I had a heads-up on the essay questions because I ran into a classmate yesterday, the one I had taken notes for, who had already taken the final and told me the questions we would be answering, so I studied for that, and really dazzled Mr. Freidig in my BlueBook. Then, after handing it in, I found out that because I was there everyday, and did all those little assignments like designing my own political party, I had a 95 going into the final! I got an A in Political Science! I am pretty sure I aced the Psych final, and I had an A- going into the final papers in Critical Thinking, so it is possible I am an A student! Since I have nothing more pressing to do, like work, I think I should be an A student if I apply myself. Truth is, it is really hard. But I am learning how to learn, and trusting that I can actually do that. What fun!

A little knowledge is not enough!

Clinicians observing my current behavior might conjecture that I am in prodomal stage of schizophrenia. I wander around in my sweats, which I wind up sleeping in, too, muttering things like "Brown vs the Board of Education" and "judicial restraint?" OK, the psych final is history, and I am 100% sure of 90% of it, I think. It is, of course, possible to be 100% wrong even if I am 100% sure. Wouldn't be the first time. Now on to PoliSci, and I got creative and went online to take the chapter quizzes. Not good. If Monte does the whole test on the Presidency, I am AOK. Everything else is sketchy. I will continue to study, nevertheless, even if I wind up schizotypally affected. Add insult to injury; the final is at 7 AM. That's in the morning, way before my usual day begins. Well, something to be grateful for; there will be plenty of parking!

One down, two to go...

I just turned in my final paper in Critical Thinking. He said to wow him, and I did my best, with a doozy of an allegory based on the characters from The Wizard of Oz. Fortunately, I had this in my mind months ago, so I didn't need to spend a lot of time procrastinating and actually had the assignment done before it was due. So I drove over to campus, the first time I've done that for a while, and it was good that I did, because parking is still a crunch and I need to be on time for my Psych final tomorrow, no time to be circling the lot like a lonely buzzard. Anyway, there is a feeling of completeness already, having finished this course. I read the syllabus on the first day of class and thought, yeah, I can do this? Well, I did it. It was a stretch sometimes, but I kept plugging away. One of my short suits is discipline. I prefer to call it devotion. Then it seems worth doing. Discipline sounds like forced marching to me. Anyway, I am now devoting my day to my studies, what a good girl am I.

The Sunday before everything...

OK, now getting serious. Did a serious AA meeting, a closed meeting where sobriety is top priority, before the fashion show and the peanut gallery mentality. Now I am home again, in my sweats, and settling in for a day of serious studying, and finishing the final paper for Critical Thinking. It is an allegory, and you would think it would be a lot of fun to write. I am kind of balled up on the ending. Will I let Oz survive the onslaught of self-serving government and runaway corporate power? Or will it slowly sink into the sunset, back to the Mesozoic age where slime monsters rule? My, talk about powerful. It is all between my ears. Just need to get it out onto the paper. I am doing fine with everything else. Study guides are well dog-eared, and books are well cracked. Bring on finals week!

Scarred and limping...

Last day of class was a doozie. Our lecture was on violence, which is not a psychological disorder, but certainly ought to be. I have been a victim of a lot of it in my life. Today, if a parent leaves a mark on a child, they can be put in jail. Man, where was that law in my childhood? Wire hangers leave awful welts, for a week. My first husband's mother was beaten by his father, and he continued to tradition with me. He skipped the loving contrition stage, though, as he thought it his right. And strangely enough, I took it as a sign that he loved me, since the only time my mother showed any emotion toward me was when she was angry. So I grew up kind of skewed, and yet I was given an inner strength that has served to help me heal and grow, once I got over the need to anethestize myself. And even though I am verging on health now, I will always limp a little. Whoever I was supposed to be is lost to me forever. I can only become the best me I can be, using models of other strong women. I mourn that loss, and sometimes, like today, I get sad. And I am so happy that I finished the semester, well, almost, just have finals to get through. It is an accomplishment that I am very proud of.

Marching, virtually...

I joined the virtual march on Global Warming recently, and now get e-mail from Al Gore. Wow. And now I have joined the 42 day Gratitude March, not a bad thing to do in this dark time. Honestly, is anyone else disgusted with the Christian Right, those people who kill doctors who perform abortions on undifferentiated clumps of cells? Now they are all het up about el Presidente's "Holiday" card. Do they think they own December? It is high on almost every major religion's list, too, numbskulls. Channukah, Ramadon, stuff like that. And not everyone in America is Christian with a stick up their butt. Some of us are actually Buddhist. Or agnostic. OK, I grew up with Christmas trees, but that was a pagan ritual before adopted by Christians. Even the Christ story belonged to another religion before they adopted it. No one knew when he was born, so they borrowed from the myth of Mithra. Heavens. What a tempest in a teapot. One can only wish for the spaceship Mayflower to whisk them off to their promised land, somewhere far, far away.

Monochromatic thoughts...

I knew a woman once who always wore green. She was a redhead, and had green eyes, so green became her signature color. Until she underwent a psychic shakeup, a big breakup with a lifelong partner, then she segued to black. I like the idea of having a theme, though. I would like to just have one color in my closet, and never have to worry that things will clash with my lipstick or my hair color du jour. It's just that I don't know what color to choose. Black, well that's been done, and it is kind of depressing, and doesn't go well with Boo hair, which I have floating about me all the time. And I like white and all its gradations: mushroom, eggshell, etc., but it shows everything, and with my level of clumsiness, I would have to change too many times a day. Plus, my flowered underwear would show through. Red is an interesting idea, it just seems awfully audacious. Blue, well, it goes with my currently red hair, and is a possibility. But could I give up my sweet soft rose cashmere scarf? Never! So, pink? Oh, really. How prissy can one get. Yellow is good, but still, it is better as an accent, yes? And orange, oh nonono! OK, this isn't going to work out. I am going to have to muddle along in multi-hued splendor.

Now, really...

I remember when TV dinners were new, and what a thing, dinner all in one little aluminum tray that you didn't have to do anything to except heat it up! It was really freeing for my mother, who spent her days chasing my two bratty little brothers around, to have a night when she didn't have to cook. And now, there are all kinds of prepared foods out there, pre-seasoned meats, casseroles in a box, jars of all kinds of sauces, side dishes like wild rice with herbs, gourmet soups, you can even order your holiday dinner from Safeway, all cooked and everything. For a few dollars, more, of course. For a few dollars more, one need never really cook, or bake, for that matter. Cookie dough is all packaged up and waiting to be cut and baked. And today, I saw that Kraft is selling crumbled cheese in a bag. Now, that just seems kind of lazy to me. I cannot imagine anyone who is so busy they are willing to pay more for a bag of pre-crumbled cheese. Grated cheese, maybe, save themselves scraped knuckles and a sticky grater to wash, but a moron can crumble cheese. Right?

Love came out of my closet last night...

Getting ready to go to a Saturday night meeting, I reached for one of my scarves to wrap around my neck and keep my chin warm in the chill night. I have several. One is pink cashmere and was a gift from my daughter. One I bought in Piazza Navona at a street fair (that's in Rome, the piazza with three Bernini fountains in it) for 10,000 lire, a restrained black wool. One is red and superlong, and I knitted it for myself. And the one I took that night was made for me by my son, a red plaid with tiny fringe, sewed up by him on his big old machine. When I was newly sober, 16 years ago, I studied the Course in Miracles. I did the daily exercises, most days, and one taught me how I invest things with emotion. Things are, well, just things. But somehow they become more than that for me. Like the coffee cup that is striped green and white, like old printer paper, and says "Friendly User". I found it when I moved, and was surprised, because I thought I had thrown it away. It was a gift from an ex-lover, and embodies pain for me. Glad to say that has changed, the charge is gone. And I am happy to have all these warm and cuddly scarves to remind me that I am loved.

Little circles everywhere...

Oh, dear. My life has shrunk, again. I travel in little circles; home to school and back again, home to meetings and back again, home to Costco and back again. Pretty boring. And I have not waved at a cow for ages now. Funnily enough, I love my little circles, too. It takes a big event to get me out of them. So, when I went to Vacaville, sort of the middle of nowhere, Thursday night, no one was more suprised than me. We sat in horrid traffic with even more miserable rain for one of the two hours it took to get there, at rush hour, not the best planning ever. And it was all worth the angst, as we gave a presentation to the Solano Intergroup guys on how to wow the drunk drivers while informing them about AA. Since I had only done this gig twice, I guessed I was pretty far down my co-worker's list, and no other female from Sonoma County was willing to go. And since I gave up back-to-back episodes of CSI, it was a bit of a sacrifice. In the end, it was delightful being with a different group of former drunks, and we wowwed them, for sure. Could have skipped the dinner at Baker's Square, but it was 3 hours past my regular dinner hour, and I would have eaten road kill by then. It was a tad better than that, I think.

Some lessons cannot be unlearned, after all.

My turkey breast carcass is currently boiling on the stove with some celery and onion, and sage. Waste now, want not, as my Scots mother would say. She grew up in the Great Depression, and we lived with a frugal ethic as I grew up, saving string and rubber bands, making leftovers into casseroles, and what we didn't eat, the dog did. Our stove had a burner that sank down so you could cook a pot of beans, just red beans, onions and bacon, on a long slow simmer all day, and man, those were like ambrosia with a slab of cornbread on the side. And that pot lasted a long time, too, and they got better for the waiting. We ate tuna noodle casserole at least once a week, and Mom made almost all our cookies from scratch, too. She still does, fills up the same old cookie jar, just a big glass jar with a red tin lid, so that whenever one of us drops by, we can have a snickerdoodle or butterscotch brownie. Oh, and at Christmas, that upsy-daisy burner made steamed carrot pudding, an unlikely mixture of grated carrot, potatoes and raisins in a savory spicy dough, that you dished up with hot lemon sauce and a dab of hard sauce, a buttercream with whiskey in it. Sounds like a mess, right? But is was a feast for the angels. I forget that heritage in this time of solo stirfry dinners. I am actually thinking, once finals are over, that I will dig out my sticky recipe file and find all the cards that are splotched and ragged, the well-loved and well-used recipes, and cook up a little storm.

Observations du jour.

Today I realized there are advantages in being tall, beyond being able to see parades over the heads of those in front, and being able to reach things on the tallest shelves at the supermarket. I also never get the hems of my jeans all raggedy from walking on them, like my little classmate in Psych. Indeed, the hems of my jeans never come anywhere near the pavement, even when I special order them in tall sizes. Also, there are good things about standing on the shuttle bus. There's a refreshing breeze up there, and the ceiling is upholstered in the same pattern as the seats. Imagine that. And then there is that satisfying sense of personal pride that comes from maintaining one's balance through the jerks and bumps, and not ending up on my ass in the aisle, or worse, in some poor student's lap. And I have learned that it helps your grades when you show up, even in scary, hairy thunderstorms like we had today. I got 28 of 30 right on my quiz, almost as good as yesterday, when I got them all right, my first perfect score. It looks like I will actually finish the semester, and emerge to go on to another. This is amazing progress.

What a difference a day makes...

So, I aced my PoliSci test this morning, Yay Me! And my paper is on track, as well as extremely well written, of course. So now I just need to study, study, study for the Psych test tomorrow, then I can begin my moral narrative and study for finals. It is looking better than I thought it would just yesterday, when I was thinking I was a nutcase for even starting down this path. I think it will get easier still, once I begin to work the system and let it be what it is instead of trying to plow down the academic establishment. They are terribly invested in their way of thinking, aren't they though. I can, when beaten into it, be very flexible, yes I can.

Rainy day session...

We had that when I was a kid. I loved rainy days, because we didn't have to have PE, which I found excrutiatingly embarrassing as I was like a giraffe in a herd of gazelles. On rainy days, we had recesses inside and played games like Fruit Basket Upset, and Kings and Queens, where we chased each other up and down the aisles between desks with blackboard erasers on our heads. I could do that kind of stuff and not look ridiculous doing it. Then we got to get out early. I often wound up walking home in the pouring rain, as my mother was home with two baby boys, and I was pretty much on my own, even when I was little. I know, poor me. But I still loved the rain, and I get all excited when it begins every year, still, like maybe I will get out of work early? Well, that happened, too, when I was commuting and Hwy 101 threatened to flood in Novato. Now I just keep trudging. They don't worry much about the weather in college. Back to the infamous moral narrative. Two more weeks, just two more weeks and we get a month off.

Math anxiety and other dysfunctions...

I saw my counselor today, and she had my transcript from 1963, that's like the dark ages, right? Anyway, it was bleak. I actually got a couple of (gulp) Ds. However, I have a lot of As ever since, and it is looking up here. I get to keep all those credits, or I can take them over and they disappear. We'll see what comes down the pike. I am planning on taking a science (geology), American history (up till 1877) and Music appreciation, which I already had once but didn't complete, and that should be a walk in the park. I have listened to a lot of music over these many years, and know a bit about it. And I need it, yes I do, if I want to go on to a university. But there is still that @$^&% math requirement, and I guess I will bite the bullet and take the )(*$%&* placement test during semester break, which I can barely wait for. It is only a couple of weeks away now. Unfortuately that means the finals are only a couple of weeks away, too. This is where I wonder what I could have been thinking when I climbed aboard this ship. Just hope it is not named Titanic.

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.