Just desserts...

That sounds like a curse, as in, "may you get your just desserts". Actually, I think of it as a blessing, a day of no main courses, just desserts. We always had dessert in my family of origin. Mother often put a bit of effort into it, and we routinely had things like homemade applesauce cake with a thick layer of chocolate frosting, or this amazing concoction of lemon pudding, whipped cream and angelfood cake. Someitmes it was just Jello with bananas and (real) whipped cream, the kind that you buy in a miniature milk carton and add sugar and vanilla and whip up in your Kitchenaid. I was baking cookies in the big oven while others were still monkeying around with their Easy Bakes: chocolate chip, refrigerator cookies, snickerdoodles. We weren't much into oatmeal, but man, I loved peanutbutter cookies. I can't do them like I used to, the old metabolism rebels and packs this spare tire all around my middle. But I still do ice cream, Dreyer's Slow Churned with 1/2 the fat and 1/3 the calories, or is it 1/3 the fat amd 1/2 the calories? Whatever, it serves my sweettooth well. And I have this container of chocolate covered almonds, both dark and milk chocolate, that I am sloooowly devouring. Almonds are good for you, right? And chocolate, that raises levels of endophins, always a good thing. It is a blessing, getting my just desserts.

Deep thoughts...

So, I was laying in bed with my Susan Isaacs novel, watching CSI reruns and getting my week-nightly William Petersen fix, when I saw this commercial for frozen pancakes. What is this world coming to, anyway? Really, people, there must be a limit here. I am not above picking up some Lean Cuisines once in a while; it is good to know sometimes exactly how many calories and carbs one is eating before dipping into the Dreyers. And I can see the need for frozen waffles, for those waffle-iron deprived folks (though the ones I have tried are tasted a lot like sawdust), and even frozen French toast for people like me, who live alone and are convinced they cannot finish a loaf of bread before it turns green (though I do pride myself on being smarter than bread mold; I freeze half the loaf), but pancakes are about as easy to make as it gets. You can buy pancake mix where you only add water! And how satisfying it is to pour batter into a hot skillet, watch it cook up all golden brown, flip that sucker over, then drop it onto your plate. I made some myself this morning, though I use Bisquick, which requires (gasp) eggs and milk in the batter. I made mine really thin and rolled them up with fruit preserves and topped them with Cool Whip. OK, I had to wash the mising bowl, the whisk, the skillet and the spatula, but one has to wash the dish one eats off of, too, right? One would hope so. The image of Americans eating pancakes like toast, right out of the toaster, now that's frightening.

The morning after the night before..

I often do not sleep very well. It is a real drag when I have to be up at a certain time everyday to do something onerous, like work. It is better when it is something fun, like going to school. But this week, spring break (yay!), even though I can't afford to go somewhere tropical, I think it is a real vacation just to sleep in. That usually means 8:30 or 9 AM. Today, it was 10. OK, that's a little slothful, but it was a horrid night. I slept very lightly, woke up often, once because one of my electronic thingies was beeping in distress. I tried to turn on the light, and found the electricity had gone off. Oh. There are no street lights on Wild Rose Drive, we are not in the city here, a tiny pocket of unincorporation, but my neighbor across the street keeps his porch light on all night. Without it, it is very, very dark here. I woke up several times after that because it was too dark, waiting for the electricity to turn on, trying to remember where I could find that 800 number I used to call for PG&E when the lights went out at the house on the edge of the world. In the year I have lived here, it has leached away from my memory, but I knew it by heart when I lived there. I am the worst weinie when I don't have my power. I cannot make coffee or blowdry my hair. Major fiasco. And all those appliances blinking mindlessly, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. That's crazy making for me. So I am just short of bumping into things this morning. If the VCR had not been blinking at me, I would have stayed in bed longer. As it was, I felt majorly guilty for not uncovering the bird till late. Boo, well, he has a cast-iron bladder; if I don't kick him off the bed at 11, he'd stay there till noon.

The surreality of it all...

So, there I was, sitting in the Social Security office at 9:15 in the morning. I had my little number clutched in my fist, Z17, and they were only serving Z5. I also had my folder with my retirement info in it, including my birth certificate (I had a feeling they would need it). Well, it beat the DMV, where one has to stand in line. I guessed it was because most of us were either old or disabled. I didn't feel I fit in either category, no really. I spent a happy half hour playing hide and seek with a blond toddler in the row in front of me. By the time he and his mother got to the window, he was pretty tired out and cranky. An hour, later, they got to me, only to ask me to take a seat for my interview, whenever that number came up in their inner sanctum. That was when I went out to the car for a book, which I always keep in the car for just such occasions. I didn't need it though, because this older couple sat down next to me, and the wife began this long, rather one-sided conversation; her husband was a Superior Court judge, he went to Stanford, after going to West Point, they lived in Japan, she had lost her Medicare Card, which was too big to fit in the slots in her wallet, etc., etc., etc. Dear as she was, I was grateful when I was called in to my interview. Trish was a perky young woman who looked about 15 years old, a skinny little thing with a whole bunch of diamonds on her left hand. During our conversation, I learned she had a Masters degree, and I wondered why she was working for the government, but I felt assured she would not screw up my application. It took about another half hour, and voila, I was all signed up for benefits. Funny, it was so easy to pay the money in. Getting it out, well that's a different story. I was kind of expecting an argument, too, like "wait till you're 66 and you'll get more money". I had my retort all figured out; it would take 12 years to make up for what I didn't get at 62. So there.

Guilty!

My cable went out last night. Bummer. And while grousing about it, knowing I was going to have to call Comcast and complain to get it back on, I was already defending myself. I didn't do it! Really! I am hardwired to feel guilty. Saturday was confession day for about a decade, from 7 till 17 or 18, when I had to catalog my sins for our parish priest, and hope he would not yell at me from the confessional for the rest of the penitents waiting in line to hear. So, I usually lied to him. Well, some sins were imaginary, some were just omitted. Yeah, that's lying. But I needed to look good for my folks, you know, kneel at the altar in my Sunday best, all innocent and sweet. That was what my early life was like; if I looked good, everything was all right. It has changed, a lot. Now I try to actually live honestly. And I sure don't look all that good all the time. Sometimes, I look like hell, actually. That is OK, too. I'm doing the best I can here with what I have left to do it with! And the cable came back on, all by itself, the same way it went off. I really didn't do it!

Feet on the brain...

I have been thinking a lot lately about my feet. Like, how nice it is when they don't hurt. My ankle still does. Hurt, that is. Oh, not when I am stomping around during my day, when I am too busy to notice it, but at night, when it swells up around the bone and pulses with pain. Anyway, it is interesting to note that I began with skinny feet, 8AA with a AAAA heel, very hard to find shoes that did not slop around on me. Then I lived in Honolulu for three years, and went barefoot most of the time, and my shoe size changed to a 7 1/2 B. They grew again, to an 8 B, and eventually peaked out after my late-in-life baby to 8 1/2 B, and I never have trouble finding shoes. And, though the rest of my body has wrinkled and drooped and puckered around the edges, my feet still look 16 years old. They never gain weight like my thighs. Since menopause, they don't even grow hair on the first phalange of my toes anymore. It is time to take them out of their winter nest of cotton socks and polish their toenails and soften up that hard heel skin. The best thing about my feet is that they hold me up admirably well at my advanced age. Feet are good friends. Even better since I have given up vanity and no longer cram them into pointy high-heeled torture machines. Long live Reebocks!

Strange things are happening...

Being a person who is very easily bored, I change the desktop of my computer often. Recently, it was one of my photos of this amazing yellow iris glistening with dew. Then I put up a close-up of a luscious pinky peachy rose, just burgeoning with life at its absolute apex of its very short life. And I surrounded it with pinky peachy colors in all my backgrounds and tool bars. It's kind of, gee, aren't I smart. I do that a lot. I am so not well yet. But my computer has other ideas. I woke it up this morning, and my desktop was angels. OK, I can use an angel, I think, but who did that? Not I. This is not the first time this has happened. Weird. But the other thing that happened, that's just downright scary. Little Boo is getting older, and a little poochy around the middle, and while I am dealing with that now that we actually have a spate of dry weather, he needs help getting on the bed, which is admittedly piled up like the pea princess's bed with a 3 inch foam topper. So I decided to get him some doggie stairs. Target had them, just haven't gotten over there in the whirlwind of end-of-semester studying. Then my credit card bill arrived; I had a $30 bonus, and the product they offered was (just guess) doggie stairs! What a strange thing to offer. Who needs doggie stairs? Only people with small dogs, like, well, like ME! So Boo is getting his stairs and I am getting them FREE! How good is that! I guess the Universe listens to me. Better watch my tongue here.

Springing into spring (break, that is)...

OK, not exactly dancing around naked, at least not yet. But last midterm is under my belt, and quiz that I didn't study for till 15 minutes before, and I think I did myself credit in both areas. That last study guide flowed from me with glacial speed. I am all tuckered out here, just too many months piling on months of school. This break is so very appreciated, only have to read a book, do a report and finish lab homework on plate boundaries. No more Whiskey Rebellion, Alien and Sedition Act, Reformation and Counter-reformation, popes and kings with Roman numerals attached. No more subduction zones, reverse faults, Principle of Horizontality. Not for a week, anyway. Good. My head aches with all this stuff I have crammed into it like a squirrel planning for winter. And sunshine! What I need is a day of Zen gardening, wit a car wash thrown in just for fun. Sounds like a plan.

Rain, rain go away, come again in about a year or so...

I was sooooo excited to see sunshine when I exited geology dungeon today. It was, however, a pukalani, or heaven-hole to you malahinis who have not gotten immersed in the Hawaiian culture. And it moved away really fast, so it is, once again, raining. We are pretty spoiled here in California. The weather is temperate almost all the time, except when it isn't, like now. And it is a subject of some import for me. At my age, too cold means aches in places where old injuries lurk. Sudden change is raging headache as my sinuses complain loudly. Too hot, well, it's too gross to mention here. My main frustration with this weather was finding a window of opportunity to get my lawns mowed. The front one happened on Friday last, and how exciting it was to not look at this incipient hay field in the front yard, where everyone can see how negligent I have been. (I have a lawnmower, just don't know how to use it yet, and again, waiting for a window to have a friend give me lawnmowing lessons.) My back lawn got finished up yesterday, as we tried on Saturday, and it began raining, again. In reality, neither can be technically called a "lawn". Both are just patches of many different kinds of green stuff, that all resembles a lawn when cut back evenly. But I'll take it. And it is on my priority list to learn how to do this myself. If it ever stops raining.

Country mouse goes to the big City...

That's San Francisco in these here parts. It is always a thrill to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and be enveloped by the City. Antique buildings everywhere, wall to wall traffic on Van Ness. The Hippo is gone, world famous hamburgers, and I didn't see Tommy's Joint, though we were carefully watching street signs and watching the minutes eke away toward 5 PM, when the wedding was supposed to start. Very poor manners to arrive late to a wedding, even I know that. Fortunately, we found our way without incident, and arrived at the Ritz Carleton with 5 minutes to spare. What a joint! I mean, elegance out the wazoo: chandaliers, huge flower arrangements, red carpets, marble hallways. We hustled out to the courtyard on the 2nd floor, that was down from the lobby, as the hotel sits on the slope of Nob Hill. The wedding was in a huge white tent, which was completely filled with attendees. The bride had nine attendants n lavendar satin, with auxilliary flower girls and ringbearer. My friend Taylor's beautiful children were all in the wedding; her son was the groom. I had agonized over my wardrobe, mostly casual or work-type pants and blouses and shirts, and ordered a new outfit. It didn't arrive. So I got to do one of those emergency shopping extravaganzas on Friday, and got a lovely new short white jacket in a wonderful discrete white-on-white print, something like fleur de lis, very tasteful, and threw it over my black tank dress with my sex-pistol sling-back heels (well, as sex-pistolly as I get at my age), and I felt both comfortable and smart in a laid-back way. Wonderful evening, sit-down dinner for over 200 guests (filet mignon and fish, on the same plate, with chocolate mousse and raspberries for dessert). My bookkeeper mind kept adding up the cost. Just can't get beyond that little pettiness, one of my favorite character defects. I was grateful to be included in this joyous and tres chic occasion. And I felt pretty much at home there, so I guess I haven't lost touch with the City, after all. Makes me want to go to the opera! Good friends and warm feelings. Well worth the hour down and hour home.

Sobering news...

I just learned that the sad-eyed woman in black, who always wore this black fedora and walked with a cane, and sat in the front row of the Friday noon meeting, died. She was 43 years old, and assigned to AA by her surgeon as the price of a new liver. Yet, she didn't have a problem with alcohol, and continued to drink. She bled to death, internal hemorhage. I always try to welcome newcomers, but not overwhelm them with enthusiasm, either. She was always tolerant of my greetings, but you could tell she thought I was crazy. Well, I wave at cows. I could be crazy. But I am alive now, and she is not. I think that is because I was willing to look at myself with the same critical eye I turn on others, and see that there was a lot of room for improvement. Still is, for sure. Poor soul. I am sure that her life was not happy, and it could have gotten so much better, if she could just have opened up, just a little. Another reason to be very, very grateful.

Things that are good to know...

I will wake up for a 10:30 class even though I did not set my alarm. In fact, I woke at 9 AM, which until only recently was 8 AM. That was good thing number one. Then, I found that I can handle the 40 lb. bookbag, an umbrella and a 20 oz. non-fat latte on my trek to Western Civilization. I can even unfold my automatic umbrella one-handed! Super. And, surprise, I can take four pages of notes without my glasses, which I think I walked out of geology wearing yesterday and tucked in the pocket of my coat, which I didn't wear today. Sigh. Long words today, like renaissance, inquisition, reconquista and Machiavelli, multisyllabic words that now have crossed ls and missing letters, because I would forget where I was in the middle of writing them and couldn't see to reference my position. Sigh. Next great revelation is will I be able to read the notes. Ah, that is the question. And there are now three pairs of glasses in the bookbag. Redundancy, that's the ticket.

I want my hour back!

OK, I admit it. I am an old fuddy-duddy about this daylight savings thing. Change has never been my strong suit, not by a longshot. And this totally puts me into chaos. Not to mention the clocks I have: two computers, two VCRs, the wall clock in the office, the alarm clock (very important), the microwave, the coffee maker, my watch and the car, of course. At least the computers know to change themselves. I have to dig out manuals to remember how to change the answering machine and DVD player, always a crapshoot as to whether I can find them, and when I do, understand them. Totally discombobulating, this time change thing. And way too long to wait for that hour of sleep I didn't get. October! Makes me want to move back to Hawaii, where they don't need another hour of daylight because it is hot all the time, anyway. OK, not what I want. At least I will get to frolic about after dinner every night. If it ever stops raining.

If I ruled the world, part CXXXVIII

I don't know about you, but I never really want to grow up. I just love Disney films, like Finding Nemo and The Incredibles, I own a whole library of them. And if I were in charge, everyone would have to see one at least once a year. Oh, not like poor Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, but go out for a wonderful dinner then all troop to the theatre and sit there for just a couple of hours. It is good to reach down and touch that child within, the one that wants to dance around on a sunny day, and sing along with the 3 tenors, at the top of her lungs. A little 101 Dalmations goes a long way for me. And while I appreciate a thoughtful adult movie, like Crash, life is just too gritty all by itself to have to sop it up again at the movies. So let's hear it for Harry Potter and Frodo, heroes and innocents. Hakuna matata! And a big sigh of relief that Barney was not born til after my children were grown - there, I draw the line.

Biiiig sigh of relief...

Latest midterm is now history. Ha ha. My Western Civ teacher's tests are amazingly hard. There were nine terms (out of thirty on the study guide) that we were expected to know five things about each. And an essay, 2 1/2 pages long (in the BIG bluebook), and just for the fun of it, five multiple choice, true/false little questions that can be, well, tricky. Just glad it is over and I don't have to remember any more popes or kings or emperors, not to mention battles, wars and dates. For a while. There is another one coming up in April, but that is Mr. Spires, otherwise known as Good Will, who lets us bring outlines. I hope. Oh, and the geology midterm was a resounding success, 73 out of 75, brought me up to a 92 so far, and I am so grateful. A friend reminded me, excellence not perfection. I think I can do that.

Liberal education...

Today I learned we are living the the Cenozoic Period, of the Phanerozoic Eon, of the Quarterary Era, of the Holocene Epoch. I needed to know that. And there were no dinosaurs in California, as it was underwater when they lived. But the sabre-tooth tiger's name is smilodon californicus, because our state was once lousy with them once. And in case you are anxious to know about carbon dating, I learned that today, too, at least, the rudiments of how it works. You see, all elements have isotopes, variances in their atomic weight, which is the total of the protons and neutrons in the nucleus of their atoms. Carbon has 3: 12, 13 & 14. While we are alive, they exist in our bodies in equal amounts. But once dead, carbon 14 begins to decay. Its half-life is 5,000 some odd years. So by measuring the amount left, scientists can tell how old once living matter is. Crazy stuff to know. Probably not important, but terribly interesting nevertheless. And I hope I can remember it long enough to take my next test. Which reminds me, I have one tomorrow in Western Civ. Charlemagne, the Unam Sanctam, Constantine, and all those popes, Clement and Boniface and Urban and Innocent, with Roman numerals after their names. All of which will never be called into service again. Hopefully, they have opened up new neural networks, though. I learned that is Psych 1A. I think.

Out, out, damned depression!

The downside of getting sober is I get to see and feel how depressed I get sometimes. Spring is here, right? Wrong. It is cold and fragile out there; even when the sun shines, it is only a tiny window for the next storm to plow through. I schlepped the 40 lb bookbag to school today, in the rain and mud. Ick. Yesterday I was so unhappy, I managed to make a huge pot of chicken soup, vacuum the whole house, exercise for 30 minutes, bathe and exfoliate, all in an afternoon, hoping to stave off the dread spector of my own angst. Better today, and have a lot of studying done, too. It is a constant battle, though, with this inner demon. I put a prayer for healing in the angel box last night, too. Never hurts to hedge my bets.

Truth in advertising, that'll happen...

Ever notice that the gals in the commercial for eyelid lifting cream have the faces of 19 year olds? They should get a gander at my eyelids, poor accordianed things that they are. Don't feel like running out to buy this stuff at $35 a shot, oh nonono. Instead, I think I will just sink down into Basset houndedness, become that droopy, loopy old broad I have threatened to become for ages. I do draw the line at blue hair, though. And in case anyone is wondering, those stains that always wind up on old ladies shirts, just above the boob line (pretty low, actually) come from eating on the couch and watching Jeopardy at the same time. I have it on very good authority.

Mystical me...

How boring life must be for those who live only in the five little senses, convinced that if they cannot touch it, smell it, see it, hear it or taste it, it just doesn't exist. Really, people, how pedestrian. There is going on all around me this amazing mystery. Take the other night, when I took a friend to dinner and a meeting. She proudly showed me a new bracelet, a gift from a lover. Then, later, she noticed it was missing. We weren't in a position to look for it, so I suggested a quick prayer to St. Jude, who has only once failed to return lost objects to me (once in a while, I need a little lesson in paying attention, that one cost me $150). We searched the car later, no bracelet. When we arrived at her home, we took both our dogs for a little walk, me following her. On our way back, there was the bracelet, laying right in my path. It wasn't there when we passed that way before, and she had checked to see if it was caught in her jacket earlier. Where did it come from? Oh, and it was wet from the rain, though laying in a sheltered area. Naturally, we were grateful it came back to her. And I want to remember that there are miracles happening all the time. Everywhere. Things that are beyond explanation, that exist even for those who don't believe in them. It is part of the sweetness of it all. Life would be pretty barren without that sweetness.

Sobbing, again...

OK, I admit it. I am one of those soft-hearted, soft-headed people who watch movies over and over and always cry, without fail. It gets worse with each viewing, actually. Put on ET, and I just begin blubbering at the first plaintive note on that clarinet. And just to add a little more angst, I also buy the soundtracks, which I also blubber over. Currently sniffling through the music from Sense and Sensibility, the chronicle of the imprudent Marianne and the honorable Eleanor, and the injustices of English jurisprudence which left their family penniless on the death of their father. Actually, their gentile poverty looked pretty fullsome to me, and not a lot different than my current circumstances. And how lovely to be in that countryside resplendent with wildflowers and great vistas of uncluttered farmlands. At the same time, I am sitting Indian style on the bed, plodding through a study guide as long as my arm, trying to make sense out of about 800 years of world history. I really don't need the music to bring the tears today, Mr. Diaz has done the trick just fine.

Walking on dead people...

I took a cemetary tour this afternoon with my history professor. What a guy! He showed us the memorial to the earthquake victims who died 100 years ago this April. While most of the damage to San Francisco came after the quake, from the resulting fire, our little burg was leveled in seconds. Up the path, there is a tree that three men were once lynched from. Well, it's not the original tree; that one got chopped up for souvenirs. People really didn't have enough to amuse them in the good old days. We went to the back part, at the bottom of the hill, where the paupers are buried, so while I was trying to be ever so respectful and stay on the path, I did wind up walking all over the unmarked graves of the poor and indigent. In one touching plot, a woman had buried nine babies. How sad is that. And in another plot, there is a grave of the family slave, marked "colored boy". At least he got to rest eternally inside the fence in his next life. Much history there, including a descendant of Daniel Boone. Most of us bowed our heads by the Doyle plot, because many of us are receiving bounty from them in the form of scholarships endowed to the college. Interesting afternoon, walking on dead people.

Midterms, help!

Just finished two, back to back, in geology lecture and lab. All about rocks, igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic. Some of them look an awful lot alike, like shale and slate, marble and crystalline limstone. And I know the teacher says she picks specimins that are comparable to what we have studied in our little buckets, but man, there were some surprises on the test in lab. We jumped up and down, pouring acid on those white ones to see if they fizz (calcite), or scratching away on the little glass thingy, or on our fingernails, or with our fingernails, and still scratching our heads. Considering there were about 45 of those suckers, I think Susie and I did pretty well. We studied and categorized bucket by bucket, then dumped them all out and did the whoe shebang, rock by rock. I decided that if I didn't know what it was, it must be wacke (pronounced wacky), because I could never remember that one. It looked like any hunk of stuff you might pick up by the side of the road, kind of gray and dull and not very interesting. Nature is infuriatingly diverse in the multitudes of stuff out there, and pieces of the same stuff can look might different, too. Whatever, we are moving on to reading topographical maps. Whoopee.

Sweet memories...

My father was a butcher when I was growing up, until I was 14 and my folks bought a furniture store. I would visit Dad and he would give me a cold weinie from the case, which I always ate, but never liked. Sometimes he would bring home brains, and scramble them with eggs. I tried them, didn't find much to like. But I loved liver, and kidneys, and sweetbreads. For the uninitiated, sweetbreads are glands (no, not those glands), and they are a bitch to cook, because they have to be blanched and peeled (membranes, you know). But man, are they good. So when the family went out last night to celebrate Dad's 86th birthday at our local French bistro, all three of us "kids" ordered ris de veau, veal sweetbreads in a creamy marsala sauce. It was heaven on earth, even better when followed with a birthday chocolate mousse that we all shared. OK, the diet kind of went into a holding pattern for a few hours. But if I was going to sin, it might as well have been with those ambrosial glands.

Soothing the inner beast...

Despite the fact that these are frugal times, I contracted my artist friend to build me a canvas, 2 X 3 feet, to insure that I will, this summer, when school is a distant memory and a future dream, paint the picture I want in my living room. I already have the reference photo, an incandescent shot of my roses in the backyard. This one bush puts out blooms of many different hues: pink, orange, yellow and all shades in between. I caught it in the first light to creep over the fence it borders. It is positively luscious. And though the moment when I can begin is still 2 months away, I am already savoring that seminal moment when my brush first meets canvas, and the tooth of the fabric bites into the pigment. My method, which I developed to suit my temperament, is to put the whole aspect of the scene on the canvas at first sitting (well, actually, standing), all the colors in their assigned quadrant, so that it emerges with a brilliance that keeps me interested (I am a Gemini, easily distracted). Not to say that I am anywhere near brilliant in my artistry. I think the idea is to have a lot of fun, like a kindergartener with finger paints. Man, I loved the days when we did that. It was the only time I remember having permission to be delightfully messy. Oil paints are so wonderfully expressive, and very forgiving; one can always go back in and paint over any faux pas. Sort of what life should be like, right?

Soda pop dreams...

My mother would not let us drink soda when we were growing up. Instead, she mixed fruit juice with club soda for delightful fizzy summer drinks. Then Diet-Rite Cola came out, followed by Tab and Fresca. By then, I was on my own, and I thought this was wondrous, soda pop without all those calories. When I first got sober, I was addicted to Diet Pepsi (yes, I am a Pepsi-is-better-than-Coke person), and got nervous if I didn't have at least a six-pack in the fridge. And now I have come full circle. I bought a 36-pack of bottled soda at Costco that was (guess) fruit juice in fizzy water. I really love this stuff (only 5 calories a bottle). I drink at least one a day. And sometimes, I even mix cranberry juice with club soda. It's just that I always run out of one before I run out of the other. Life is so complicated sometimes.

Verrrry Interrresting...

Nothing changes. Ever notice that? Today, in Western Civilization, we heard about the separation of Chrisendom, the Roman Catholics in the West from the Eastern Orthodox church. It was known as the Inconoclast Controversy. The Emperor, who headed both church and state in Byzantium, wanted the Pope to follow his lead and destroy all the icons and statues, claiming that it was idolatry in his opinion. The Pope successfully managed to dodge the bullet for a long time, then just said no way, Jose. So we have two different brands of Christianity, even in the beginning. And the same stuff is going on today. Look at the up-in-arms Muslims rioting over a few Dutch cartoons! Is anyone as amazed by that as I am? What makes this so very important that one would lay down his life for it? Strange days, they never end.

No fair!

Well, I always cuddle up every night with reruns of CSI on SpikeTV, because I didn't see them firstrun (that was back when I had premium channels and eschewed network) and I kind of have this William Peterson thing going. And last night, the first two episodes I had already seen. And wouldn't you know it, the third, which started after I took my sleepy-bye pills, was new to me, but I had to turn it off and crash. And this morning, the sweet little busdriver lady didn't warn me there was standing-room only, so I had to hang on for dear life as we bounced and lurched to school. Not only that, but she didn't remind me to duck my head, either, and I bopped it a good one on my way out the door (there was a sign, but who reads signs?). Then in lab this afternoon, when we were identifying our metamorphic rocks, Ms. Perlroth threw us another curve. I mean, if you had 12 different samples and 12 or 13 possible answers, you would think that your samples included an example of each, wouldn't you? Well, not so. There were two pieces of gneiss, and four different schists: garnetiferous, blue, biotite and muscovite. Susie and I were ready to tear out our hair. We went through three different classifications of four different samples till we got it right. It's a good thing, though, because I doubt I will ever forget these particular rocks. Now trying to do this #$^*&(^ homework for Western Civilization, and it begins with a trick question. At least, I think it is a trick. Maybe I am just all balled up in unfairness here. Whatever.

I never voted for Nixon...

Actually, the only president I ever voted for that got elected was Bill Clinton. Time will tell, but despite his runaway appetites, I think he did a fine job. Somewhere along the line, I switched parties, from Republican to Democratic, mostly because I had moved and needed to register to vote, and they were recruiting Democrats in front of Safeway. In truth, I was disgusted with my parent's party. They were trying to legislate the American family, and it made me nuts. Keep those smarmy, licentious old men out of my house and my lifestyle! But it was a politically astute ploy; cuddle up to the religious right, that bastion of archaic, rigid values while lying down with the corporations and rich. Never has this been more blatant than at this moment in history. I don't know about you, but I want my leaders to be smarter than I am. And that is surely not happening here. We have a C student in the White House, and he uses our army like they were little tin soldiers in a cardboard battleground. It boggles my mind. Even when everyone else thinks he is wrong, he puckers up his brow and sets his chin and heads out to make speeches full of buzz-words and spin. This nation needs a good semester of Critical Thinking.

Oh, give me a break...

It is national potato chip day. I know these things because I turn on the TV as I dress and ready myself to face the day. Good Morning America. What a lousy food to dedicate a day to. I have to admit, I don't remember the last time I ate one of those suckers. I will occasionally deign to eat a corn chip or two, at the Taqueria. But I draw the line there. Potato chips are all carbs and fat and sodium, and CALORIES. Really bad CALORIES. I spend my daily calorie allowance sparingly, on a muffin, here and there, or that whole strawberry cheescake I ate over the course of a week. Ice cream. At least ice cream has some protein, in with all that sugar and fat. I realize that all broccoli and skinless, boneless chicken makes for a dull life. But where is national raw almond day? Or national Wheat Thin day? Even they are better, baked, not fried. I guess it is just not a perfect world. In a perfect world, the garbage man would knock on the door to remind me to put out the cans.

Hoodoos, oolites and sills, oh my!

Now studying sedimentary rocks, stuff that breaks down and then gets stuck together again. Love those hoodoos and arches that form in the desert. Is that magical or what. And oolites, little pearls of silt that get plastered into, what else, oolitic limestone. And great formations like dikes and sills, rocks that are denser and get left behind by the rain and wind. My, this is quite a dynamic system, this little blue ball whirling through space. And I am beginning to get it. This is my favorite time of the semester, about a third into it, where the lights go on for me. I see that I can do this, understand and remember and prove it on tests (got 100% on the last quiz!). It has gotten easier as I go along, so those gray cells are getting super-charged again. Miracles happen.

Passwords and secrets and me, oh my...

It is now necessary to enter my user name and password to get to this page of my blog, where I can expound on all that stuff I have pinging around my head like renegade pingpong balls. This is, I am sure, a good thing. However, as usual, I didn't use my standard password, so had to wait for an e-mail after answering my selected personal question. What a pain! And why, oh, why would anyone want to masquerade as moi? Who out there wants to be an opinionated old broad? I figured out how to get the danged thing to remember the password, and now just have to remember my username. It is not, of course, my standard one, either.
Found the most wonderful spot today, Postsecret.com. There are some things people hide in the dusty dark corners of their tiny minds, and they seem to haunt them like malevolent spirits. This site lets you air them in the light of day, well, the light of the Internet, at least, and it must feel wonderful to do that. They range from unrequited love to the ugliness of child molesters, on both sides of the transaction. I am musing over the many secrets I have kept over the years, excluding the ones I already vomited up for my three 4th steps, and considering sending them one of the juicier ones. I'll match my secrets with yours, any day.

Tiny blessings...

One of the things I often talk to HP about is just please show up today, and help me be awake enough to notice. Well, I went to (soul-sucking) Safeway, because it was forecast as dismal for the weekend, and I thought some (light) popcorn and (sugar-free) hot chocolate was just the ticket. I also was hungry for a nice steak, something I indulge in rarely, and had begun to crave, again. And, as luck would have it, I was in the vicinity of one of the big stores, the ones that have cup holders in the shopping cart for your in-store Starbuck's latte. How very sophisticated can one get! Anyway, I ran into a couple of friends while plying the aisles, and gee whiz, most everything on my list was on sale! Even the Dreyer's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream that I didn't even know I wanted when I walked in! I spent $22, and saved $7.70! What can I say, it's a God thing.

Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

I didn't make that up. Lewis Carroll did and it fits my mood today. Must remember that this school thing is about adventure, a personal oddysey through higher education, the curriculum as well as the vicissitudes and politics of the classroom. I was in the doldrums, lured by the siren song of perfectionism and self-deprication after my last battery of tests. Turned out I was lamenting over two tests that were actually scored at 85%, both of them, and that's a good grade for the first midterms taken under a new teacher. Then I got 100% on the essay test in American History, and today, finally got the Western Civ test back, and I got 90%. I think I am actually in better shape than I was last semester, when I was still sneaking up on an A in Psychology, treading water with an A- in Critical Thinking, and getting meager little Bs in Political Science. Whatever, spring is harder than fall, for sure. I am giving myself a vacation in the summer, just one class, probably photography, and I am getting out my paints to do a big painting of the roses for my living room wall. Sounds like a plan. And from now on, I am just doing the work, the best I can, and leaving the results in the hands of the powers that be. With just a little buttering up. Never hurts to hedge one's bets.

The surly bonds of earth...

I am particularly fond of that song I'll Fly Away, you know, the one that says "Some bright morning, when this life is over, I'll fly away". I want to do that today. But not in the way the song implies, oh, no no no. Just let me float over the sidewalk for a while, until my foot heals. It has deflated somewhat after my recent injury, but has now turned an alarming dusky blue accented with some great purple blotches under each ankle bone, and an archipelago of splotches at the intersection of foot to toes. Even swaddled in a generous wrap of Ace bandage, it feels tender and sore. And yet, I am grateful. My bones are 25 years younger than I am, you know, and bend admirably under pressure, which is more than I can say for my 61 year old mind, which sometimes sends me spinning completely out of control over practically nothing. There is more than one way to limp through life. I suppose this is the least drastic.

So very American...

We did the annual lovefest over the Academy Awards. A gang of gals gathered here for the traditional salade nicoise, some amazing walnut bread, Italian white bean soup and cheesecake, very yummy. And we were prepared to diss the dresses, but no one really made too horrible a mistake with their wardrobe this year. Naomi Watts looked a little bedraggled, and Lily Tomlin, well, she's just Lily in her blousy top. Nicole Kidman was ethereal in her white gown, Reese gleamed in silver, but oh. my. God., Uma was goddess-divine. Lots of neutral colors, except for the Latin beauties, JLo in her olivey green and Salma in heavenly blue. I was happy about the choice for best movie, but really wanted Pride and Prejudice to win best score. This is my last bastian of annual ritual viewing. I have given up Miss America (too cheesy), and the SuperBowl ( Carolina whats?), but cling to the Oscars. I remember the streaker who ran naked across the stage behind David Niven, and the year Ghandi beat out ET as best movie (huge gyp). I remember the Indian woman who accepted Marlon Brando's Oscar, and Reese Witherspoon's speech reminded me of Sally Field's first acceptance, for Norma Rae. This is our very own artform, the Hollywood epic. And this year, it truly was about American values and sentiments. Just wish one of those gals had given me a truly awful fashion statement to gloat over.

It all comes to pass...

My folks, in their mid-80s, had to put their aged daschund to sleep last week. Sarah was 15 years old, fat and sickly for the last year. I know they were hoping she would outlive them, and spare them the pain of her passing. Gosh, I remember when dogs were just there, and when one died, well, you got another and started over. We didn't dwell much on the old one. And I am there, in that crowd, my dog is the most important person in my daily life. I love my kids, my folks, my friends, but it is Boo I wake up with and go to sleep beside, who comforts me when I am low and shares my happiness when I am high. We walk together, and he travels like a bobble-head up in the back window of the car wherever I go. The only place he doesn't go with is school, and then he gets a couple of Milkbones to assuage my guilt. I knew when I got him he was temporary, and very likely, I will be saying goodbye to him someday. In the meantime, I savor every day we have together. It could all change, in an instant.

Hint, hint...

So, I was laying on the bed last night with a 16 oz. bag of frozen peas wrapped around my ankle, thinking how fast things can change. Just the simple act of stepping off a curb can change your life for a couple of weeks. Actually, it could have even more disatrous results, depending on your timing and the proximity of a Mack truck. I had just come from my parents' home, it was my mother's 85th birthday. And they were mourning their 15 year old dachshund, Sarah, who had just been given a ticket to doggie heaven. Now, I always thought their dogs were obnoxious little things, way too fat and totally unappreciative of me in particular, but I was horridly sorry for these two old folks, who, I am sure, hoped she would outlive them. And, after a little drive, I stepped off that curb in Sausalito. Good news, it looks pretty OK today, just a little swollen around the outside ankle bone and pretty tender, too, but walkable, with a little stutter. And how lucky is that. Really. So I am grateful, actually, and determined to watch where I step, for a while. Like maybe the rest of my little life.

What a guy!

We learned all about George Washington today, how he was ambitious yet came from humble roots, wanted nothing more than a commission in the British army, failed pretty badly at his first skirmish for them in the French and Indian War. He was 43 at the time of the Revolution, had acquired some land, 20,000 acres of which were usurped from his own troops as booty for service under the British. He wore a uniform of his own design to the Continental Congress, where, gee whiz, he was appointed the leader of the Rebels. Out of his first 10 battles, he lost 7. However, despite a large learning curve, he did become a great tactician and with the help of their former enemy, France, managed to defeat the Redcoats. He was very brave in battle, fought on the front line, which won him great respect among his generals and troops. After the surrender of Cornwallis, his generals were disgruntled because they had not been paid and were plotting a military coup against the fragile young government, and wanted George to be military dictator. He made a speech before them inploring them to change their minds, but he was not a strong orater and they were unswayed. Then he read them a letter from the Congress, but before doing that, he put on his glasses, stating that he had not only grown gray in their service, but blind as well. This so moved the generals that he didn't even have to finish the letter. So Washington made a pivotal decision in the life of our nation, not to allow himself to usurp power and establish this country as a monarchy. Isn't that interesting? One man, one moment in time, influenced the whole world, by not doing anything. I personally use that strategy often, when faced with difficulties, just step back, see what unfolds. And notice that though we have three branches of government here, the military is not one of them. Thanks to George.

All about triumphs...

So, originally it was an honor accorded to heroic men in the time of the Romans, and you had to do something spectacular to get one. You were paraded around Rome dressed up like Jupiter, in a golden chariot, followed by your army, your captives, and all the loot you collected on your campaign. Pompey got two of these. Gaius Julius Caesar wanted one, but was denied. Well, I want one, too. I sort of wilted on my geology tests, got Bs, sigh. But today I got back my American history midterm with a big fat A. Considering how this semester has gone so far, I think a parade in my honor is in order here. Really, this college thing is challenging. I have gotten to the point where I no longer lug my textbooks around, just my handy-dandy three-ring binder with its neat dividers and pockets. Saves my back, for sure. Except on Wednesdays, when I need my lab book, calculator, ruler, colored pencils, and my laptop. So I am off to pack up the bookbag, and then to have a chai and a muffin, in honor of my triumph.

There's bad news, and then there's truly awful news...

Well, we probably don't have to worry too much about global warming, because the Yellowstone Caldera, which erupts every 600,000 years has not erupted in, just guess, 600,000 years. And it erupted with Plinian ferocity, cataclysmically, and when it blows again, all life is over, kaput, history. Gee, I'm really glad I know this. Imagine going about absolutely clueless that we are all sitting on a huge timebomb. It makes me want to go back to my cheerful ignorance, where the most important thing is arriving at my destination without bumping into anything during the journey. I certainly plan on living my life as joyously as possible, because it could be dust pretty fast. I guess the Big Guy was not kidding about that "ashes to ashes" stuff.

Perspective...

A while ago, I took this picture of a pink flower in our garden at the little house on the edge of the world. It was early in the day, so the bloom was still frosted with dew. It is an eye-popping picture, this great lacy pink bloom glistening in full sun and the leaves and buds in shadow behind it. I took it in to mat and frame it, and I took a friend with me for advice and support. She had not seen the picture, so I laid it out on the table at the store for her. She stood over it for a long time in silence. I thought she was stunned by its beauty. Instead, she remarked that there were some flecks of stuff on the petals. I looked more closely, and indeed, there were a few little specks, like pepper on a plate. I had not noticed them before. Now, every time I look at this picture, I see those annoying little flecks. Oh, I got rid of that annoying friend, yes I did. That was just one of a series of little jibes that said she was not very conscious of anyone else's feelings. And in a way, she did me a favor. I have always seen myself the way she saw that flower, not as a precious concoction of a loving god, but as a collection of flaws, small flaws, but present, nevertheless. And my challenge is to know that it is OK to have flaws, not be perfect, and still be magnificent, like that pink flower is, sprinkled with dew, its very own moment of splendor, captured, framed and hung on my bathroom wall.

You want a little cheese with that whine?

No fair. It's a bright, bright sunshiny day. Days when I can sleep in should be gray and gloomy. And could you can the birdsong, please? I have a nasty headache, too. Guess I am entitled to an off day, after the abyssmal stress of two midterms, back to back, yesterday. Essay tests, too. Yuck. At times like this it is hard to remember that I put myself in this situation, heck, I jumped into it with great enthusiasm. Now feeling overburdened and beaten up. I will get over this. Probably not today, though. Sunshine or not, I reserve the right to wallow in my misery. Or, I could plant those bulbs and wash the car.

The key to happiness...

Imagine, only sixty one years to find out that true happiness lies in being easily pleased. And I am just that these days. Had a moment of sheer joy when the gorgeous golden retriever won the sporting group at Westminster the other day, and another when Smokin', the old English sheepdog took herding group. OK, the strange-looking bull terrier went Best-In-Show, but I still was happy. Now awaiting the arrival of a new piece of furniture, I am happiness on the hoof. I had even more happiness shopping for it, a favorite passtime, and I took my time doing it, too, almost two whole weeks prowling around furniture stores. I almost bought the one at Bare Woods, but the thought of freezing my buns off in the garage painting it, then getting some friendly person over to help me move it into the house kind of queered that deal. I knew what I wanted, sort of, something Shakerish and sturdy, and most of all, commodious. I found it, and judiciously followed my caveat to look at something more than once before making a decision. Yesterday, I plunked down my money, and today, it is arriving, within the next 15 minutes or so. It is a chest of drawers. OK, that doesn't sound too exciting, but take it from me, this is a memorable moment. I hope to be able to find what I want to wear without rummaging through all the various other methods I have used to store my rather large wardrobe, like wicker chests and clever canvas cubes. This is pure heaven.

Whatever happened to Donna Reed?

I remember her, that sweetly coifed and aproned wise-woman who worked so sweetly in the background for her physician husband and oh-so-cute offspring, all in black and white half-hour sitcom land. Well, she morphed into Roseanne. Now, there's a cultural icon for the millenium. Actually, there's some reality, a hefty dose of it. Not all of us have our hair done daily, or dress up for dinner, or keep pristine houses. Our children are not bad, but not particularly good, either. And we are not Kate Moss clones, by any stretch of the imagination. And what does this say for our country? Well, it says that with some wit and talent, anyone can become an icon, even if she does not fit into one of those ideal modes so casually tossed at us incessantly, in the slick magazines, on television and in the movies. Roseanne is a real woman, with a real husband. Her relationship with Dan is precious, full of rancor with a healthy dose of humor. They scrape by financially, living on their wits. They do real things, like go bowling or down to the neighborhood bar for some pool and friendly companionship. And Jackie, well, what a woman. She keeps trying, relationship after relationship, does everything wrong, and keeps coming back. Underneath it all, there is love in Roseanne's house. I loved it when, after winning the lottery, they kept their house. Yes, Roseanne is my idea of a cultural icon, one that lives and breathes like I do, one noisy, raucous moment at a time.

Is it just me, vol. IIXXV

What is it with people who are always late? I mean, I can understand arriving late for a one-time event, but what about a meeting they attend every week? Like, the first couple of times I was late, I would get that I probably need to leave 5 or 10 minutes earlier. Well, I would never be late, unless something horrible happened, like the other day when I locked my keys in my car. But, the same people are late every week, even though we changed the time of the meeting from 10:30 AM to 11 AM! Now, that's interesting. My mind tells me that these are needy people who cannot travel with the crowd and just want everyone to see them arrive. My mind tells me that because, if it were me, that would be my reason. And that tells me I really need to be at my meeting, every week, on time. I still have a ways to go to become a charitable and loving human being. A long way.

It's not easy being me...

I am heartened by the fact that I question my sanity with fair regularity. After all, truly crazy people never think they are. Crazy, I mean. They just plow along, often right over other people, doing their peculiar little things. All the peculiar little things I do are actually quite sane. Take the cheesecake, for example. Wednesday, I bought this amazing strawberry cheesecake with full intention of taking it to our Thursday night gathering of women. Except that somehow it got knocked over in the car. Poor thing looked like a natural disaster. And I thought "that looks like my cheesecake now." And I promptly cut myself a piece as soon as I got home. The girls got a perfectly wonderful mocha cake. And I get strawberry cheesecake for breakfast everyday. Can't be worse that bacon and eggs, and it does have fruit in it. Funnily enough, I would never have bought it just for me, though. So that accident was pretty fortuitous. And currently I am finishing a book I have had for over a year, by Caroline Knapp, an ode to her dog Lucille. Poor Caroline worried incessantly; is the dog a substitute for children? is the dog keeping her from social interaction? is the dog a substitute for an intimate partner? Honestly, what a bunch of neuroses she had. I, on the other hand, admit that I happily hurry home to be with my Boo. He is the best bed partner I have ever had, doesn't snore, not ever, and takes up a minimum amount of space, once I get him acclimated to the far side of the bed, usually with the assistance of a well-placed foot. He never complains about what I serve him for dinner, and is still as happy with a $3 toy as he was when he was a puppy. He may not laugh at my jokes, but he never rolls his eyes, either. We are happily nuts, together. And what does it matter what others think of us, anyway? They don't have to live with us. Thank God.

And a sidedish of hubris...

Well, just in case I was thinking too highly of myself, I blew a quiz in Western Civilization yesterday. OK, I get it. My channel got all fuzzed up with too much stuff, and even though I studied, I was horridly confused. All those guys fighting each other, the Athenians getting whipped by the Spartans, who get whipped by the Thebans, then everyone gets whipped by Alexander, who thankfully dies before he can take over the whole stinking mess. Rome comes along and gets harrassed by Hannibal, who gets his comeupance when Scipio gets his number. Really, guys, can't we all just get along? And you know, nothing has changed. There are still people out there who want to rule the world. Well, take a page out of Rome's book. They rotted from the inside after their conquests split their civilization into the very rich and the very poor. God bless the middle class. It will save the world in the end.

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.