Ah, the irony of it all...

So, our heat wave seems to have fizzled. Take that, Lloyd Lindsay Young (earstwhile histrionic weather person on KGO radio). Thank God, we were all gasping here. Just in case, though, I scheduled a solo trip to the movies, because I really wanted to see The Lake House, and my friend who is my usual companion on these forays, did not, and I couldn't round up a kindred sappy soul to go with. And I expected to sit for 1 and 1/2 hours in frigid splendor. Then I arrived and bought my ticket, senior, $6, and they announced that the A/C was out in that theater, and it was currently about 84 degrees. Fortunately, I had my trusty little spray bottle with me, 89 cents at KMart, and 84 degrees was still cooler than outside. And I loved the film. I cried, and that is saying something. I figured it out, of course, way before they filled me in, but that was OK. I felt all tense and worried for the second half, like, will they ever get together? But I forgot where I was, just got sucked into the screen and that means it did its job, the movie. It took me to the land of possibility where anything could happen, and that was good. And when I emerged, I felt about 30 years younger. Young enough for Keanu Reeves. Too young, even.

Wading in the shallowness...

The trouble with having all kinds of time and no particular agenda, no work, no school, no significant other, no kids, nothing but a vague intention, is that there is an awful lot of thinking time available. And while mulling over a cup of Sumatran coffee the other day, I realized that all three of my husbands owned sports cars when I met them. My first had a yellow Austin Healy convertible 3 speed, and he taught me to drive it. This was in the days before syncromesh, when you really knew you were doing something. Husband no. 2 had a yellow TR3 convertible, with side curtains that rattled constantly, and if you picked up the carpet on the passenger side, you could watch the road run by beneath you. Very interesting. And no. 3 had a blue 260Z. At least it was not a convertible. Of course, as soon as we got married, the sports cars went byebye. And sadly, so did a lot of their appeal. OK, I am exagerating a bit, but this is an awfully embarassing coincidence, if you ask me. I like to think of myself as a discerning and intelligent woman. And that is true. I also seem to like sports cars.

Sloth in five syllables...

That's procrastination. My favorite character defect. I had been putting off this $%^#@ math placement test, thinking I would bone up and get right into the one class I have to have to graduate and go on to a four year university. And it just didn't happen. So, I got my registration priority yesterday, and I have to register (gulp) Monday! Which means I had to get my bony butt down there pronto and take the test. Which I did, and I got into the class I need to get into the class I need to graduate. Sigh. Well, I did plan on doing a whole year at the JC as I have a scholarship to do that, so this works, I guess. Whatever, it is a huge weight lifted. By the way, I didn't take the weinie competency test, I took the algebra prep. test, so I am not a total dunce.

Summer, with a vengeance.

Back when I lived in the house on the edge of the world, there was one movie theatre within 40 miles of us, that played one movie a week. We went to the movies for a lot of reasons: to escape the boring movies on our satellite, that they played over and over again; to escape cooking dinner, you could get a hot dog, fizzy drink and red whips for $5; to see who else was at the movies; and sometimes, we really wanted to see the film. Now I am in town, where there are a good 10 theatres within 10 miles, some with a dozen or more screens, and I could choose from a whole plethora of entertainment. And I discovered another reason to go to the movies: to escape the heat in the air-conditioned darkness. By Friday, I think I will be ready. We are destined for triple digit weather for the next week. Let us hope that, as always, the meteorologists are wrong. Pray for fog.

How annoying!

Last year, my VISA check card was replaced because my bank got caught in one of those identity thefts. So, the old one was cancelled, immediately, and I was left to wait for the PIN to arrive before I could use the new one. I am not a patient person, by any means, and this did not make me happy. I whip that little doodad out several times a week, depend on it mightily. And this was not like all the times I lost it and had to get a new one, and probably deserved to be inconvenienced. This was someone else's fault, and I felt pretty put upon. Well, just when I had that new PIN down pat, low and behold, here comes another new card. That sucker wasn't supposed to expire till June, 2007. This time I thought I would outsmart them. I waited till the PIN arrived in the mail to activate the new one and cut up the old one. Yesterday. Today, off I went on my weekly Costco run, and my card was declined! You've got to be kidding! I wrote them a check, after telling the idiot cashier, that, yes, I called and activated it, do I look like the dunce of the Western World here? So I marched into the bank, and complained. The child behind the front desk kind of simpered at me. "We upgraded our system," she explained. "And the PIN will work tomorrow, as explained by the flyer that accompanied the card." Like I read that stuff. I could paper my house three times over with all the stuff my bank sends me with my statements. Why would I assume I could still use the old one after activating the new one, I wanted to know. "Because it said so," she replied. Sigh. So I am in shopping limbo here, raring to go look for my weedeater, and no VISA check card. And the economy is depending on me here! Guess I will have to hunker down, and wait. Again.

Lack of sidewalks, that is my dilemma...

I got all enthused because I tried on all my pants last night, and the eating plan is succeeding! I could get into all of them, some fit terrific, some made me look like an Italian sausage, but hey, I could zip! This is good. So, full of energy and wanting even more success, Boo and I set off for a walk through the neighborhood this morning. Usually, we double back the same way, but today we ran into Al, dear man, who was pruning his trees and fell in love with Boo, and wanted to talk. And talk. And talk. So, we came home up West College, the busiest street in town, where there are no sidewalks, but lots of ditches. And, while sidestepping the garbage cans, I slipped on the loose gravel and took a real header. Really. I hit my head, not too hard, just hard enough to feel it. And it was a surprise on a lot of levels. I didn't immediately decide that I was the clutz of the western world. Instead, I kind of shook my head, thought "how interesting", assessed the minimal damage (no lump on head, got my face dirty but not scratched at all, not bleeding anywhere I could see) and then got really grateful, picked myself up off the ground, and travelled on. Now have found that my shoulder is pretty banged up, a little bruised and scratched, and my knee is kind of blotchy, too. And my head aches. But that could be a from lot of stuff, not just the bump. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. A fall in the opposite direction, and I could have bounced into traffic, and Boo and I would have been toast. We call this "life on life's terms" where I come from. It's often not pretty, but always interesting.

Trashy novels and transcendental pears...

Ah, it must be summer. Perhaps not officially, but soon. We got a taste of it last Friday, when the hydrangeas drooped and gasped. I am being very laid back, austere, actually. My last trip to the library yielded a Thomas Tryon horror novel, a Jane Smiley angst-ridden tome, and this amazing little gem called Better than Chocolate, actually a step above most of my usual suspects, funny and smart. And there are a couple more lurking in the wings, including The Devil Wears Prada, which I am saving for a particularly bored moment. Meanwhile, in the back bedroom/studio, my pear is emerging slowly from the canvas, a great succulent sumptious pear, worthy of many hours of painstaking stroking and contemplating. My inner critic is fairly screaming at me, whatever were you thinking, you talentless twit! Yet, my stalwart artist-wannabe plods on, and the idea is emerging, as I trusted it would, just sort of blooming there on the easel like the liliums I planted earlier this year. It is the same process, actually. Higher Power is hard at work, fueling this great creative force. And like the herbs on the windowsill, I need only turn toward the light.

Dirty bird week...

I will never complain about my dear, messy Phoebe bird again. My friend is on a cruise, bless her soul, her very first one. And I am bird-sitting her canaries, Peepers and Chichi. Now, I love my friend, but these are the messiest creatures I have ever welcomed into my home. They poop on everything, and none of their seed cups have lids, so my countertop is sprayed regularly with seeds and lettuce and little bits of masticated apple, not to mention they also have that projectile poop thing down. I have already gone through half a roll of paper towels trying to stay ahead of the mess. OK, I am a little anal here. And Phoebe is enjoying the company. I can tell, because she has been squawking regularly. Chichi has a hormone condition, and is missing feathers on her neck and head, which gives her a little old lady look that is far from attractive, but she tweets all the time. Peepers, the handsome male, seldom says a thing, but, occasionally, when I am not in the room, he will sing, but I think he is depressed and missing his mistress. I am just trying to keep them alive, healthy and undamaged till she comes home. I am thinking of taking a little drive to Petco for better seedcups though, in self-defense.

Get thee behind me, lethargy!

Boo is depressed. He doesn't want to get off the bed, ever. And he is closely followed by, well, me. It didn't help that yesterday was gray, all day long. And today is eye-watering bright, but windy. Yuck. That means all the leaves I raked off the front pseudo-lawn will be magically back again. And as untidy as they are, it is all the little twigs that really freak me out. What if I miss one of those suckers and the mower throws it up in my face and puts out one of my eyes, so I will never paint again! Like, if I ever paint again. I think I suck at painting. I have the idea, but the execution is truly mediocre. Bad is even better than mediocre. Who ever aspires to be a mediocrity, I ask you. Okay, this is supposed to be la grand experiment, an opportunity to PLAY, for God's sake, create something original, something that is pure ME. So, I am off to get dressed, and put some more blobs of pigment on my puny palette, and smear it around for a while. As soon as my right brain wakes up.

Bright ideas...

Just back from a trip to the neighborhood market, where I pondered and poked at many sundry veggies, searching out truly photogenic specimins. I had this bright idea to pose them on my table, suitably draped, and photograph them. That way, they will not have to give their life to my art, I would get to eat them instead! How smart am I! So, there is now on the easel a growing portrait of an exceptionally lovely pear. I hope to give it such a wondrous rendering that I can then donate it to Art for Life, our local silent auction benefiting Face to Face, an AIDS foundation providing education and hospice for our many afflicted here in Wine Country. This is a worthy cause, but it is also a ticket to the reception, where you get to watch all the funny looking rich people smirk at the art and try to buy it for a song. I guess that is how you stay rich, once getting there. Anyway, I now remember how frustrating this process of getting the picture out of my head and onto the canvas. It is coming, indeed, just not there yet. I am experimenting here, just playing with the paint. What fun!

The big picture...

It occurs to me that mine is a little life, like Shirley Valentine's, one of my on-screen heroines, sweet, kind of poochy middle-aged woman searching for happiness on the Greek Isles. Well, if it isn't there, it must not exist, right? Actually, it is here, on Wild Rose Drive, too. And while this is a tiny existence, I like to think it is also a meaningful one. Because I do see what is happening, even without Al Gore to enlighten me, and I do my small part. If we all did that, how wondrous would this world be? I recycle, I drive an economical and low emission vehicle. I belong to the virtual march against global warming. I am educated about it. Beyond that, it is beyond me. I am powerless over this great global force fast overtaking us. So I don't dwell on it. I just do what I can, and let it go. If I didn't, I would get very depressed. Doris Day was right, what will be, will be, with or without worry-lines between my eyes.

I don't know how he does it...

Boo only weighs 18 lbs. So how could there be 40 lbs. of dog hair in the car? I just spent a happy couple of hours dredging it out, after my zen carwash. It always feels so great to step into a clean car. I still did not find the nifty little red clip that fell between the seats, the one that holds my sunscreen in place in my very wide windshield. I remember a cartoon when I was little, about the place under the sea that all lost things go to. Do you suppose it is there? Oh, I found the dustpan I lost while sweeping the front walk the other day. In fact, I ran over it when I came back from the market. Sigh. Anyway, Boo is getting better at staying in the yard while I am busy washing and cleaning the car. Actually, I think I am better at checking on him every few minutes. He is sly, that dog. He knows when I am engrossed, and he can just amble away, sniffing as he goes, so that if I look up, he can pretend he really wasn't headed for the lawn next door or across the street. And he has to amble, because if he trots, I can hear his tags jingling. Life is good when the car is clean and shiny. Of course, it looks now like it might rain. Sigh. Oh, well, I won't have to water tonight, at least.

Herbs and orchids and aloe, oh my!

When I moved here from the house of the edge of the world, a dear friend who lives in denial of my black thumb gave me an aloe vera plant. Now, I really love aloe, and as I tend to be a little bit of a clutz, it comes in handy for burns from curling irons and such. And, surprise, a year and a half later, it is not only alive, it has reproduced! Twins! I gave it a shot of water and trimmed it back this morning, the dear little thing. Then I repotted the orchid my dear son gave me for Mothers' Day, in the pot that was supposed to grow lavendar seeds, but didn't. The orchid is looking happy, too. Then my dear friend Sue gave me a do-it-yourself herb garden, basil, oregano and rosemary. The sweet little pots are sitting in the kitchen window, germinating, I hope. They got a drizzle this morning, too. So, except for the gasping forget-me-nots out front, the black thumb thing seems to be a thing of the past. I am sure all these little plants, which I didn't ask for but got anyway, hope so.

That little old spring chicken, moi!

Today is my birthday. To be accurate, it is the 23rd anniversary of my 39th birthday. For most of my life, I thought I was born in the summer, but, truth be told, I was actually born in the sweet spring. I share this day with three other people I am close to in my town, too. Anyway, I was born just after noon, which makes me a double Gemini, and just a little more nuts than most people. It explains a lot about me, like I cannot just sit and watch television; I have to be reading, or knitting, or doing a puzzle, too. My interests are scattered all over the place. I write, I paint, I take photographs. I can knit, crochet, tat, quilt, sew and embroider. And now I am going to college and learning to garden. There is no overwhelming talent that engrosses or propels me, but many that satisfy me, for a short period of time. All of which makes me really grateful, really. It is a blessing to be my age, feel like I am 16, and have so much to keep me busy and out of trouble. And how wonderful to have carrot cake for breakfast on my birthday. There isn't anyone here to look at me funny, either. This is probably a good thing, too.

Yet another trip to Costco...

I have noticed that it is not really necessary that I look all that good when stepping out the door these days (it is pretty hard to do that at my age, all I can do is be sure there are no spots or wrinkles, on my clothes, I mean). But it is necessary that I think I look good, which enables me to feel like a look good, and act like I look good. Hence, I never look at myself in the mirror with my glasses on if I can help it before embarking. I found that 10:30 AM is a great time to arrive at Costco, because the parking lot is mostly empty, probably because the only members who can shop at that time have Executive memberships, mega-expensive. I do not, so had to adjourn to Target for a leisurely stroll around their fascinating bazaar. Target is just an upscale WalMart these days. Groceries are cheap, but most everything else can get pricey. Like $4.00 greeting cards. Give me a break. I was shopping for a sweet but inexpensive gift for my sponsee, who shares my belly-button birthday, and found just the thing, an incense gift set with little porcelain holder. I also found a glycolic peel and a perfect bra, so the trip was not cheap after all. Costco was already booming by the time I got there, and I hurried by the wall of mixed nuts, trail mix with chocolate chips, with just a momentary flash of longing. My first stop was the ladies room, which took me back around by the fenced-in cigarettes. Really, what is that all about? Are they afraid they will run away? Or are they so freaking expensive even at Costco prices, they are likely to be stolen? Whatever, Costco had cleverly piled up the Nicorette gum and patch kits at the entrance, to give consumers a choice. I love that. I love walking up and down all the aisles, marvelling at the huge containers of things like mayonnaise jars the size of baby elephants. I actually bought one of those once, and used it, too, over a year. And the people, getting muscles pushing around huge carts loaded with all kinds of food, or those great big dollies that can carry refrigerators, and frequently do. Fortunately, there was nothing in my perusal that was irresitable, well, except this Sweetee, black with a Battenburg lace inset. I already had one in blue, and it fits and looks great, how could I resist. Hey, it's my birthday month! I get to indulge here.

A'mulching I will go...

I always wanted to pull one of those little wagons around the nursery, and I got to do just that yesterday. I bought forget-me-nots, and some other little white flowers, and a big bag of Paydirt, aka mulch. I have been meaning to do that, mulch the roses, for a while now. And once I heard that it would keep the weeds down around them, well, that was for me! I have scratches up to my elbows from pulling weeds between the canes, and that gets old, fast. So I planted all my little sweet flowers in the front yard, which now looks neat and well-loved. Then I hastened to the hardware store for a bucket, and began hauling this foul-smelling stuff out to the back yard. Guess what. There were more weeds poking up through the thorns. I got two bushes done before I quit for the day. It is a beginning. And it is looking really grand, my yard, both the front and the back. I am a credit to my neighborhood. Oh, and speaking of neighbors, the ones across the street had a big noisy party last night. In case anyone was feeling a little hung this morning, I made it a point to get up early and mow my lawn, with my putt-putting power mower. Evil, but the grass is cut, and it looks really swell.

What a day!

Beautiful here, little breeze, warm and luscious. I am in my sweet linen dress with a straw hat, about to embark for a friend's wedding. Unlike the extravaganza at the Ritz Carleton, this is a country wedding for a couple of simple folks. And, also unlike the ritzy wedding, where the principles were mature and had been together for six years, these are young and inexperienced kids, both still floundering and trying to figure out who they are. I am going to pray for them, and hope this is not a train wreck in the making. Who knows, this could be wondrous. Certainly, it will be a big life lesson, whatever happens. On a personal note, I had a little dilemma last night when I could not find my one, five year old bottle of nail polish. I know I had it recently, and I'm sure I put it back where I would be sure to find it when next I needed it, but, alas, it has evaporated. So I was at Walgreen's early today, and used the outing as an excuse to get my non-fat latte for the week, too. Now, suitably suited up and fortified with coffee, off I go into my day.

License to spend!

Today is the 17th anniversary of quitting smoking, a very big day for me. I always buy myself presents on this day. So far, I have bought two boxes (I love boxes), one to hold things from my altar which has become somewhat crowded and disorganized lately, and one to hold my pigments in my burgeoning studio. Also a picture frame, a spare spatula for when my only one is in the dishwasher, a cow creamer, and three tees, all very sweet. And I only spent $67! I think I need to make another trip, later. One year I decided I should spend the equivalent of the cost of smoking for a year, until I added that up, and there was no way I could afford that. At the rate I smoked, that would be over $3,000 today. It beats me why anyone would not quit. Smoking is anethema, you become an instant pariah, relegated to the patio even in the dead of winter, shivering and puffing. You smell awful, your health suffers, and you are limited in friends and environs by your habit. I felt absolutely enslaved and obsessed when I smoked. It was a huge freedom once the awful withdrawal period was over. I dream about it sometimes, still. OK, I gained a few pounds, but I also increased my exercise, and they fell away eventually. And the net results of over 20 years of smoking will never be totally reversed. There seems to be a decrease in lung capacity that I really notice when hiking up hill. But after all these years, it is wonderful to think of my lungs, all pink and healthy again. I haven't had pneumonia now for about 20 years, and I had it 5 times before I quit. I'm kind of a slow study. Anyway, I think I will hit Best Buy for some CDs I have been wanting. Yes.

Decisions, decisions...

It is difficult to decide what to wear here in summer. There is the summer "marine layer" to be considered, of course. That is fog to the rest of the country. It is frequently overcast until around 11, so one must ponder; short sleeves or long, short pants or long, sweater? But beyond that, there are activities. For shopping, neatness is paramount, so a crisp shirt and slacks with slides is best. For gardening, I dug out those overalls I used to wear all the time when I was living in west county, and fat. For a meeting, something in between, jeans and a tee with thongs probably (on my feet I mean, not those other horrid things, I spent my teenaged years trying to keep my panties from creeping up that crack, and now they do it on purpose, you've got to be kidding). This morning, it is gray out there, and my inclination was not to get dressed at all, to just stay in bed for some Boo love. OK, that sounds kinky. Really, it's not. He is a veritable explosion of soft, soft fur after his bath the other day, sweet smelling, too. I just love those moments when he cuddles up next to me as I sip my Ethiopian coffee and nibble at the cheesecake I bought for my bridge on Sunday, and only eat for breakfast, where calories have all day to work themselves off. I did get dressed. I chose the overalls, because I may actually do a little work in the garden. And I may not. It's a surprise, actually. And I can always change.

Ready, set, paint!

My studio is almost ready for action. My summer project is to acquaint myself with my inner artist, slop paint around on canvas and see if talent lurks there. I have already rendered several, you know. It was a criterion of life with my wild-man artist guy at the house on the edge of the earth. I could put him off only three months before he had designated an easel, some pigments and scruffy brushes, and a place as mine. I never finished that first painting, but have done better on the ones since then. My favorite was done for my daughter (she actually asked for one, I was so honored). It was a Van Gogh homage, red sunflowers, and more fun than a barrel of monkeys to do. That is what I have in mind for this season of leisure. I have an easel paintbox, which is a totally self-contained artist studio, eminently portable, and plan on doing some en plein air studies (that just means on location, usually outside, al fresco) because it is necessary to capture the essence quickly, and hopefully, without too much thought. I find that thinking too much tends to muddy the waters where painting is concerned. When it is working for me best, I am completely absorbed. My artist friend says that his brush is to his arm as he is to God. When that is happening, marvelous things occur. So, here goes nothing, well, except a few dollars, some planning and a whole heap of courage.

There and back again...

I am without cable this morning, and fretfully waiting for the arrival of my satellite dish and DVR. Lots of things running through my tiny mind. Thankful I have risen out of my pitiful-me mode, when I decided that if this is all there is, stop the world, I want to get off. I always tell the women I work with that it is an OK place to visit, just don't move in, learn what you need to know, and trust it will be different soon (not better, mind you, but definitely different). And that is what happened to me, too. Now I have decided that having a man around should be like owning a very good bread knife (I do own one, because a friend's son was selling them, I think it cost an outrageous $30 and made my husband's eyebrows do that unattractive furrowing thing, but I digress). Anyway, once in a while, a fresh, crusty loaf of sourdough visits me, usually in the arms of a dear friend, and I reach for that handy, dandy knife, and it slices without mushing the bread, because it is uber-sharp and nifty. Then I put it away in its slot in the knife cube, and don't worry about it till next occasion. I don't think about it, don't worry that it is doing things that will hurt me or embarrass me, that it will not be there when I need it next. So trustworthy, my bread knife. And it would be OK if I never needed that knife again, too. Carbs are, after all, very nice, but best consumed in small amounts. And sliced oat nut and sprouted wheat bread is pretty wonderful, too, and far less hassle.

Deep thoughts, redux...

I don't know about you, but I find the new trend of portraying men as flaming caricatures, major dummies in love with meat and beer, refreshing. Finally, after decades of big-busted women bouncing around like pneumatic bimbos, culminating in the trailer-trash heiress Paris Hilton violating a sports car. It's our turn to ogle these muscle-brained idiots. So let's hear it for TGI Fridays for their all meat platter. Meat for meatheads.
And what about the History Channel doing an homage to George Washington, the General? My history text portrayed him as admirable in that he was always in the frontline, maybe because he was tall and they could see him. He was mediocre at best, and fortunate that the other George on the other side of the Atlantic sent better mediocrities to fight us. Oh, and we had the lay of the land and the ability to use it. But it was the French who really saved our butts. Which is funny, because very soon, we were fighting them. One wonders at the efficacy of studying history, because we have not learned anything. It is all still happening just like it used to happen.
And isn't it interesting that Al Gore, that endearing environmentalist guy, has produced a movie about global warming? I was all het up about this semester before last, and then I took Geology, and found that the vast part of what is happening is natural, an interglacial period, which the planet has experienced every 100,000 years or so. It's just that we haven't been around long enough to have any record of it. And yes, the emissions are speeding up the process, but unless we can find a way to tip the earth back to 22 degrees (it's currently at 23 1/2), there isn't a prayer of changing the fact that the east coast is going to be a lot further west sometime in the future. I actually felt a lot better when I learned this. It expiated any guilt whenever I leap into the car to go somewhere. And, yes, I want to help Al, as much as I can, too. Maybe we can slow down the process a little. That would be good.
OK, I feel better getting these weighty subjects off my chest. Now on to much more fun things, like weeding.

Weighty matters...

School is out, over, finito, adios. Whatever happens, I finished, albeit on a sour note. Geology lab final was a bitch, no other way to put it, and I didn't do well at all. Like, total meltdown. Just hope my body of work to date will keep me in the B range, but, oh well. Now thinking about other terribly important things, like why aren't there any magazines for us sizzling, sexy sixty-something silver foxes? I see lots of stuff for the fabulous forties, and even the still fabulous fifties. But I seem to be relegated to the AARP rag, which, by the way, has a picture of the 64-year-old Paul McCartney on the cover, looking pretty, well, old. What do they think happens to us after sixty? Are we all supposed to turn into Aunt Bea, who, by the way, was probably in her forties when she was ministering to Sheriff Andy and little Opie. I for one refuse to spread out like a banana-nut muffin and wear my gray hair in a sensible bun. Oh, nonono. In fact, I just went violently auburn, on the verge of punk. I could star in one of those computer generated movies like Charlese or Kate. OK, it's a little more Raggedy Ann than Brie Vandercamp, but I like it. Everyone knows I color my hair, anyway. Why not be audacious? And, hell, Paul's single again. Wonder if he likes redheads? Blonds have not been lucky for him.

Well, nobody died, at least...

Finals are over, and the last one, geology lab, kicked my derriere but good. I am still reeling. Part of it was limitations; I suck at reading maps. Part was just plain old brain farts. I couldn't remember some stuff. And some was just lack of attention in the face of other, more pressing concerns, like other finals. Whatever, now I get to do other stuff that doesn't involve much thinking, like the laundry, the dusting, the lawnmowing. I think a nap, first, though. And maybe a trip to the coffee joint for one of those frozen 10 million calorie ice cream concoctions. Sounds like a plan.

Sliding into home...

...on my little (well, not so little) butt. I have that incredibly difficult essay exam (that Mr. D must cackle over while dreaming it up) behind me. And, excellent news! He chose one of the two essay topics that I knew inside and out and understood, somewhat. So I feel pretty good about it. And even better news! I got an A in American History! Of course, I did some pretty serious butt-kissing in that class, too. All part of the curriculum, sorry to say. Academic politics, they should put that in the catalogue. Now have to review geology, where I know I have an A so far, in hopes that I can hold onto that slippery little sucker. All is well, and almost over. And though I sometimes feel I am circling the drain, it really is an illusion. I hope.

I'm doomed!

I have been wrestling with this study guide from Western Civilization for days now. Just lots of stuff to know, and most of it is clear, at least, and if I can remember it, the test will be a snap (it's an essay exam, in the BIG blue book). There's just one subject I cannot get my mind around, the role of religion in the 16th and 17th century, after the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, and how did that affect the politics of the time. It was a murky period at best. Sad to say after the humanism of the Renaissance, religion was once again the central issue. And is anyone surprised that it is happening again, here in the 21st century? And as I follow the threads through the woven fabric of that time, it was also essentially political, not wanting a Calvinist in your parlement or ruling a section of your land. I guess the biggest lesson here is how little we have learned in the 5,000 or so years of recorded history. Nada. Zip. And all tricked out in this righteous claptrap. I loved the Cardinal's thinking in the Da Vinci Code, when he remarked the he was being "used by God" by killing off anyone who knew the secret. Thank goodness I took Critical Thinking and could see the fallacy there! Anyway, I will continue to plumb the depths of this burning question, because, dollars to doughnuts, this is the question that will end up on the exam. Tomorrow morning. Help!

Higher education is depressing...

Well, there's good news about global warming. Probably, our little addition to the atmospheric soup is not helping, but it is not the primary cause. We are in an interglacial period, because the earth is tilted at 23 1/2 degrees at the moment (it fluctuates from 22 to 24 1/2 as a matter of course), thus the poles are more exposed to sunlight. And, I heard that contrails, those streaky clouds that airliners leave behind, actually cool the earth with their shadows. So all this hoohaw is interesting, but not all that devastating. Earth will abide. It's life on earth that is threatened here, as it has been through many millenia. And we should all just get over it. Right.

Things change, volume CCCXXXIX

Aren't we glad we don't have to work with Roman numerals anymore? Change is good, right? Right. So, one of the questions on my home page is who plays Jack in the Jack in the Box commercials. Inquiring minds want to know. Alas, no one is talking. But aren't those commercials cunning? Unfortunately, the Burger King isn't. The Burger King is absolutely hideous, great big smiley guy, reminds me of a cross between Godzilla and the Cheshire Cat (and that cat was creep all by itself). And that Quaker Oat guy that the kids pull around in their American Flyer? Spooky. And all of this makes no matter whatsoever, except to note that once someone comes up with an innovative idea, like Jack in the Box did, everyone else thinks it will work for them, too. I don't think so.

One Down, Three to Go...

Usually, I get better and better on tests in any subject, because I become familiar with that particular teacher's style and expectations. But Mr. S, just to be contrary, shifted gears for the final. Our midterms were essay tests, assisted with outlines (he is a peach for that). But the final was one of those Scantron monstrocities, a mixture of True/False, multiple choice and chronology questions. OK, the study guide helped, a lot, and I think I did well on about 90%, though I can be totally wrong when I am certain I am right. But if so, I hope the odds work in my favor on the ones I guessed at, and give me 50% right, because I may need that little edge. Usually I let go, and don't dwell on it once it is handed in, like, what could I do about it anyway. But I actually looked up one answer I wasn't sure of, and, bingo!, I did guess right. American History really didn't spin my beany, and the most interesting part, the Civil War, didn't come till the very end. What I learned was that every leader this country has had, at least up through Rutherford B. Hayes, had a particular agenda and all were as self-serving as our current Prez, even Honest Abe, whose idea of a peaceful nation might have included freeing the slaves, but he also advocated deporting them to colonies, and reimbursing their owners for their economic loss. Having lived 61, almost 62, years, I was still surprised by that. Anyway, American History is over, thank the gods.

Beginnings and endings...

I was reviewing my notebook journal, the one I kept on the pink pages in my spiral class notebook, all neatly divided by my (four) subjects. In the beginning I was just happy to find my classrooms, and once arriving, find that I was in the right place, and on the attendance role. Griping about the rain, feeling hungry, impatient, scared out of my tiny mind that I could not remember the seemingly unstoppable river of information they were pouring into me. Tiny triumphs on quizzes where I did remember most of it (9 out of 10 on the last one in Western Civ, whoopee!) crashing defeats when I received an 85 on a midterm (my lowest grade of the semester). Sometimes I felt a little silly getting onto the shuttle and doing this at all at my age. Other times, I was really proud of myself. I have not missed a single day at school since I started (OK, I left early once, but that was in Critical Thinking, and he never said anything worth writing down, anyway). I have volumes of notes to review tonight before my first final tomorrow. Not jumping around yet, but feeling pretty darned springy here!

Going toward the light...

I can see the end of this long tunnel, just up ahead. Last week of classes, and just another weekend of books and study guides. Just two more classroom lectures. Just another half dozen pages of notes. And this is the last day of the 40 lb bookbag! Yay! I have had a great semester, not better than the one before it, though. That will probably always be my favorite time, when I learned to juggle subjects and organize and pace myself, not to mention kiss-up-to-the-professors lessons. I think the teachers like to think us kids are interested in what they have to give us. Certainly it is best when they deliver the goods with enthusiasm as well as expertise. All my teachers were great so far, even the fireplug-shaped guy who taught Critical Thinking with appropriately pugnacious glee. Fully half the class was gone by the time the second paper was due. We finished that class with about a dozen of us hardnosed brown-nosed stanchions, determined to wring something out of this dry little guy. And now that I know about RateMyProfessor.com, that will not happen again. Imagine going in without a clue! Well, it's worked so far!

What a concept!

Once in a while, when the going gets difficult and I am bamboozled by life, when the darkness descends, usually because I have fallen into a pit I dug myself, I comfort myself with food. Actually, I build a little comfort into my daily eating plan, so that I don't binge, but extraordinary circumstances call for mega-nurturance. So I make myself what I call my "nothing green" dinner, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and country gravy, and corn. God, it's good! And, surprise, KFC is now offering all this in one bowl, with cheese on top. A bowl of carbs and fat and calories, oh my. I doubt it is as good as what I can whip up, but I bet it's pretty wonderful nevertheless. Got to try that, but hold the cheese, please.

Cinderella and me...

My first soundtract album was from Disney's Cinderella, little red 78 rpm record, little white record player. Bippity Boppity Boo. Great villain, that evil stepmother (my favorite shop in Disneyland, under the arch of the castle, the villain shop). I own the movie, of course. It's a benefit of having children, getting to own a library of Disney flicks without feeling self-conscious. And I hope I would do it anyway, were I childless. They keep me young. I love the Cinderella story. There have been many movies made about it, one with Leslie Caron and Michael Wilding. Another with Richard Chamberlain, who used to make me swoon as Dr. Kildare. And Julie Andrews did the Rogers and Hammerstein version on television, too. So it was inevitable that I would fall in love with Ever After, this sappy rehash with Drew Barrymore. Hey, it got two thumbs up, at least! I grabbed the DVD off the WalMart bargain table the other day, and have yet to watch it, since the movie has been on cable twice since then. I am actually saving it for a time when I can devote my full attention to its sappiness. When school is over. Soon. And if anyone is listening out there, I could use my Prince Charming, too.

Good vibrations...

Finals loom. Great news, though, none at 7 AM. Mr. S will let us take it next Thursday in class, at 9 AM, and Ms. P says she will be there at 8 AM, only. This is really fine with me, for sure. So I finish up with back-to-back geology and lab tests in two weeks, and then, SUMMER! Plans are nebulous, but include that painting I have been envisioning for my wall, a plein air contest at Marin Fair (imagine, painting out in front of people, all day). I need a big floppy straw hat for that one. Maybe some forays with the Monday Morning Artists, too. They travel about the County, selecting picturesque locations. Sounds like a deal.

Mea culpa...

Now doing my act of contrition for yesterday, when I did nothing of any redeeming value. Well, except for the laundry, the ironing, the bed-changing and the garbage-putting-out. Among the things I did not do: studying, weeding, car-washing, and my eating plan. That's right, I pigged out. Well, kind of hard to actually pig, but I didn't eat much of any redeeming value, and I ate too much, like the whole stuffed salmon filet, oh it was goooood! And handfuls of that wonderful Costco granola mix with nuts and raisins and cranberries. And a whole bunch, like two cups, of the new Dreyer's Slow Churned Almond Praline ice cream. Yum. So I have already made the bed, drank a couple cups of coffee, gone to school, returned home to healthy lunch, weeded the backyard a little, and am now contemplating the car as it squats out front, awaiting its zen carwash. OK, I lied. I ate ice cream for lunch. Progress, not perfection.

Into each life...

...a little ironing must fall. Just did my semi-annual zen ironing. This is because I own very few things that require ironing (lots of nifty tees, long and short-sleeved depending on the season). Among the items that are now all sweet and wrinkle-free is my very favorite shirt. It has seen me through at least half a dozen weight gains and losses, and is old enough to have been made when large really meant LARGE. It is cotton, made in Bangladesh, blue and white striped in a faded kind of way. As it aged, it got mega-soft and wearing it is like being enveloped in a cloud that flutters about me lovingly. It bears some battle scars, a couple of small holes and some faint stains, too. But I am never parting with this shirt. There is love in every stitch of its being. I can't remember where I bought it, just that I have always loved it. When I was fat, it hid my girth. Not fat now, sort of medium, so it drapes admirably over a tank top. I can tie it at the waist and look very cosmopolitan, too. If I ever get dressed today, that is what I am definitely wearing.

Very interesting, Part IX

I am so hip here! OK, it probably is not the catch-word it used to be. Maybe I am actually fine? Whatever, I have made the trip to RateMyProfessor.com, and checked out all the teachers I have studied under so far, and found that, even without this handy-dandy website, I picked la creme de la creme, well, except for Mr. R, pompous pacer that he is. No one else liked him very much, or learned much more than I did, which was to kiss his you-know-what, and that worked very well indeed. Surprised to find that Mr. D is very well liked, though I find his tests hella-hard, and he even has a little chili pepper, which means the girls find him hot. Hmmm. Different kind of heat, for sure. And Mr. S, who I just adore, is sort of ho-humly thought of. He is on fire with his subject, kind enough to allow us to bring outlines to our essay tests, and he plays the guitar and banjo. Ms. P also has a chili pepper, and I can see that. She is a sturdy young woman, also very stoked by her subject, and the best teacher I have had so far. Very clear and linear in her classroom, and it makes geology come alive for me. She is my only sure A, and that is because there is little room for any subjectivity there; it either is or it isn't. Not like the mores of Sparta or the causes of the 30 Years War, which is more the opinion of the historian studying them. So, next semester, I have another criteria besides convenient times and General Ed requirements. What a hoot!

Room with a view...

I have decided that reality is totally subjective. In fact, we all live in our little reality bubbles, stewing in our little opinions and viewpoints. Usually, I float around perfectly happily in mine, and then I open my mouth and express an opinion that bumps me up against reality bubbles that conflict with me, and all hell breaks loose. Gee, it sure would be swell if everyone else's bubble looked and smelled like mine. Alas, not to happen. If I am vocal enough, a whole swarm of bubbles descend on me. Wrong! Change! Like, not happening. Not anymore. Now, I realize I can coexist with all these descenting opinions and (from my point of view) skewed, if not warped, viewpoints without contorting myself to appear to be agreeing with them. That's what makes it worth getting up every morning, the opportunity to be just who I am. And, occasionally, I do change my mind, and my bubble grows a little larger and more commodious. Always a good thing, growth. Anyone who disagrees with this little diatribe, rent Pulp Fiction. Now there's a really different reality!

Rainshadow effect...

I am ready for my trek to the academic wasteland this summer. Lord, save me from the Civil War, topographic maps and Martin Luther! I think I reached my learning saturation point somewhere mid-semester, and have been spilling over ever since. Just 3 more weeks, 2 more quizzes, 2 more homework assignments and 4 finals, and I am done! Keeping my 4.0 is problematical, and could actually happen, if I can just keep going. In the end, I just keep remembering that when I worked, I did not get 2 weeks off in the winter, one in the spring, and 3 months in the summer, oh, nonono. This is ever so much better. Yes, it is.

American me...

OK, I am kind of torn about today's demonstration of our kind of illegal workforce taking a day to show us all how important they are to our economy. Welcome to America, where anyone can demonstrate about anything. Actually, under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, California was supposed to have an open border with Mexico, anyway. See, I am learning things in school, really I am. I feel that we need to help our neighbors. I also feel that good fences make good neighbors (that's Emily Dickinson, in case it sounded familiar). And how are these people helping if they tax our health care system, make us incur huge costs to provide bi-lingual services in our educational system, and send all their money out of the country? If you want to work here, why not become a citizen, pay taxes, learn our language? If I went to France, would they print signs in English for me? I don't think so. Really, we are much too codependent here. It is not easy to leave one country for another. It takes dedication. Anyone who truly wants to be an American can do that, with some time and some effort. I know I was lucky to be born here; I am only a third generation native-born myself.

There, and back again...

I got all misty over the score to The Fellowship of the Ring yesterday. I admit being less than thrilled with the movie when first I saw it. My enthusiasm did not bloom till the third movie, when it all came together with poignancy and majesty. Really a magnificent acheivement, cinema-wise. And, as it my bent, I bought the soundtrack to The Return of the King. Loved it. So I bought the soundtrack to the first movie, too. It's my way; just don't sit there, buy something! Anyway, there is an Enya song at the end, May It Be. Really good message about emerging from the darkness, whether it falls on us, or we volunteer to plumb its depth. Like most alcoholics. I made a dandy poster with the lyrics on it for my sponsees. They think they have to turn over boulders to find spirit in the world, when, in actuality, it is right in front of our noses, if we take a moment to see it. Take Sister Act, I will never again feel the same about that song My Guy. So I put a copy of my poster on my refrigerator. It is a new one, and hasn't done its double duty as spiritual advisor yet (didn't want to subject my roommate to my issues). I, for one, have been there, and back again.

'Tis the season...

Remember my friend who lives in one of the Great Lakes states, Minnesota, I think, who told me they have two seasons, winter and roadwork? Well, this is true in California, as well, though more temperate climes allow year-round roadwork; I realized that the "Expect Delays" billboard has now been on College Avenue for 11 months, it went up during summer semester last year. Our seasons are winter and leaf-blowing. Leaf-blowing season lasts nine months of the year, and was officially innauguated yesterday, which coincided with the beginning of lawn-mowing season as well. Now, I am grateful to live in such a tidy neighborhood. But I also advocate the return of the rake; it doesn't proliferate dust on my automobile, and is not noise-polluting or headache-producing. OK, I am being a stick-in-the-mud here. I really do believe in modern technology, especially when it involves labor-saving. But here I draw the line. Down with leaf-blowers! There, I feel better.

Oh, the flowers that grow in the spring, tra la...

It was a red-letter day for me, one worthy of marking for celebrating annually, anniversary-wise. I lost my lawnmowing virginity today! Kind of sad to note that I could reach the advanced age of 61 and never mowed a lawn, but true nonetheless. And I did it without a tutor. I am a self-taught lawn mower person. What a thrill. Actually, it was my yard of shame that impelled me. Our little street is bordered with beautifully kept yards, and then there was mine. So I hauled out the manual, followed by the Craftsman, the red gas can, and the oil. We all convened in the backyard first, because if I was going to look stupid, I wanted to be sure Boo would be the only witness. I filled up my new baby with essential fluids, pushed the red button with authority three times, and pulled the ripcord. Sputter, sputter. So I gave it another couple of burps, and voila! It started! I thought I had better not push my luck, and tried to get the whole backyard done in one fell swoop. Alas, not to be. It actually took three sessions, and much emptying of the grasscatcher as well as a gas refill to finish it, somewhat. I missed some of the periphery, it was just too hot out there. Then I did the front, much smaller area. Hard to describe it as a lawn, though. It is more like a lot of green stuff that covers the area that normally would be occupied by a lawn. If viewed from a suitable distance, it looks like a lawn, sort of. Whatever, it is now all of uniform length. I even scooted around the edges on my bum, trimming and weeding the flower bed. Some things I learned; best to pick up stuff like twigs and dog poop before mowing, don't run over the hose, and the cool of the evening would be a better time to do this chore.

Yet another thing to worry about...

Did you know that every so often, the earth's magnetic poles change, like from north to south? It all happens in the blink of a geologic eye, about 100 years. And, at some time in the process, there isn't any magnetic field. That is very bad. This is the barrier between us and all that radiation coming from the sun. Well, we are in one of those cycles, like, now. So why are we fussing about global warming? We're all toast anyway! Extra-crispy, at that. I just love my college education. If I couldn't laugh, I'd slit my throat.

It's that time again...

Time to wonder what I could have been thinking when I began this odyssey through academia. Three weeks to go, and summer vacation. But first, finals. Eeeeyoouu. They aren't going to be any more difficult than midterms, though two will be at 7 AM in the morning, how awful is that. Two days in a row, getting up at 5 freaking AM! That's the freaking middle of the night, isn't it? And I am in the throes of a book response to a Gore Vidal overwritten, very pithy and highly opinionated rendering of the character of our founding fathers. Apparently Washington was a kind of bumbling, humble but very tall man, a mediocrity on the battlefield who had the fortunate help of French Gen. LaFayette and even more mediocre resistance on the English side with Howe and Cornwallis. His main accomplishment in his presidency was to keep the new nation out of war with the French and lead an army of 12,000 against about 20 moonshiners in western Pennsylvania, the so-called Whiskey Rebellion. And John Adams was a pompous rotund little guy who was sure of the moral and intellectual supremacy of New Englanders over the Cavaliers of Virginia, which included Washington, and Jefferson, of course. Jefferson was a Francophile, a Republican who insisted on the Bill of Rights before his state ratified the Constitution. I liked him the best; he seemed more principled than most of the other characters, though all were riddled with self-interest, particularly where property was concerned. The American aristocracy consisted of the landed gentry. That is why we have a Republic and not a Democracy in this Nation. And, Alexander Hamilton is portrayed as just this side of a treasonous snake. His self-interest bordered on the fanatical. Dear Gore, he is such a guy. If I can just get this abominable paper written (I just finished the book about an hour ago, and diddled up a couple of pages), I am going to be so happy. Studying for the Geology test on Monday is nothing. Really.

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.