Taking stock...

I like that saying that "happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have". Even though I live just a rung above the poverty level on the ladder of life, I seem to have a lot. Part of that is because my folks are always giving me things, like vacuum cleaners (I think I have at least 5 of varying sizes), luggage, cast-off furniture, bedspreads, and pajamas. This is why I have to parse my jammies seasonally, put half away and rotate as the temperature rises or falls. Costco is another reason my cup overflows. I have over 150 VHS taped movies, and now am beginning a DVD collection, as well (the Beta movies are in a box in the garage). And audio tapes, and CDs, lots of those, too. Books, well, I just need to be surrounded by books. They spill out all over the place and wind up in piles by the side of the bed. I try to keep them in this dandy basket, but they still spill. I need at least two more bookcases to get the ones in the garage out of their packing boxes. Certainly, I seem to like to be amused, don't I. And I am adept at amusing myself right here in my little house, all by my lonesome. And adding to my capacity for happiness is the fact that I am extremely easy to please. Take me to Round Table and I am a happy camper. Well, I lived on the edge of the world in a pizza-parlorless world for a long time. Nevertheless, I am thrilled with Taco Bell lunches and Applebee dinners. Take me to a fancy place, and I am speechless with joy. It was never my ambition, but I have grown up to be a cheap date. Imagine that.

The Scream is back, all's right with the world...

Happy to report that Munch's masterpiece has been returned to its museum, somewhere in Scandinavia, I forget where. Second time it has been stolen and recovered. It is so famous, it is unfenceable, yet so unprotected any jackass can grab it an run. Go figure. Funnily enough, I saw an exhibit of this artist's work at the Pitti Palace in Florence (which didn't include this canvas, I am sorry to say). I was surprised to find his work rather mundane, small canvasses, grayish pallette and mostly landscapes or interiors, kind of domestic without much elan. So the Scream is an aberration. I was talking with some artists lately, trying to discern if great artistic talent can be a learned trait, or does it have to be inborn. Can I train myself up to paint like a Cezanne? Well, everyone has a different take on that, but among our ken, where we rely a lot on a Higher Power, most agree that if one is willing to become a channel for that energy, all sorts of wondrous things can happen. One guy even told me he had that experience, got everything he needed to express out onto the canvas in a half hour, and became so frightened, he has not painted since. Hmmmm. This is probably what drove Van Gogh crazy. And Cezanne went out every day to paint the same mountain, sometimes forgetting his canvas at the end of the day. Well, I can do that. Go crazy, I mean. I am willing to let go enough to create something wondrous. Really I am. It just begins with a vision. So, lay it on me!

My gray cells are deserting me!

I lost my keys, again. Oh, well. I am like the marines, Semper Paratis, always prepared (or is that the Boy Scouts, I get them mixed up). I had a spare set, including the little gizmo that unlocks the car and makes the horn beep, in my nightstand, so I have been using those for a week. Today I did the laundry, and there they were, in the bottom of the washer, all spun-dried. Sigh. So I immediately went out and lo and behold, the horn beeper still worked! That's good, because it cost me $150 to rekey the car after losing my last set of keys, and I was bound to lose the spares I have been using while waiting for the original set to show up. The gray cells are definitely letting me down these days. During my recent trip to Costco, I couldn't find any of the lists I had made, and I just knew there was something I was forgetting. I walked around kind of dazed, and finally just went home with my year's supply of toothpaste and laundry detergent. This morning, I remembered what it was: coffee. Now that's a necessity, and I was down to my last two pot-worths of the last Sumatra beans, very bad. Well, I considered another trip to Costco, but that's dangerous to the spending plan, and the waistline. I successfully avoided the pies bigger than sewer lids and the muffins bigger than my head the last time. It is doubtful my better judgement would prevail a second time. So I spent $16 at Safeway for less than I could have gotten for $9 at Costco, with the reasoning that the cost of diet pills and pain of deprivation were far more expensive. And I got hazelnut and Kona blend, so mornings will be ever so much more joyous. Also, this goes along with my current resolve to do a lot of self-loving gestures for myself. Today, this included a raspberry white chocolate mocha, iced with whipped cream on top, 32 ounces of pure sin. I couldn't finish the damned thing, but the idea was superb.

Sturm und Drang...

Ah, Thursday. School is over by 11 AM, and I am now home from bi-monthly trip to Costco, where I bought a new printer. For some reason, two of my three printers expired within days of one another, and living without a fax machine is no longer possible. Fortunately, the HP OfficeJet I had eyeballed there earlier this month, before end of the month new influx of $$$ in bank, was now being offered with a $20 instant rebate, and, as I am teaching a class later this month and need to be printing materials faster than the one remaining printer, an Epson Photo 1280, can spit them out, I decided to buy it now, rather than wait for Microsoft to buy it for me with the promised $138 settlement. Did I mention that? I got this thing in the mail that said if I had bought a computer, printer, other peripheral or software after July something, 2003, Microsoft would send me up to $138. Well, yay. So I went hunting for the receipt for my baby laptop, the one I bought just a year ago January, after I moved, so that receipt had to be around here somewhere, right? After plowing through my file cabinet, I finally decided to just empty it out and reorganize it. So piles of school notes, old journals, and a heap of paid bills lived on my office floor for the better part of a week. And I did find it, only to find that my copier was dead, dead, dead, occasioning a trip to the library to photocopy everything so I can bug them when they don't send me the money. Besides, I got a rebate on my car insurance, $27, and Comcast Cable returned the $3.32 they billed me after I cancelled their service, so 1/4 of the printer is already defrayed. How sweet is that! Meanwhile, it is sitting here, still in the box, waiting for me to install it. Notice I am not in a hurry. New peripherals are always better ideas than realities. The only one that ever worked the first time I plugged it in was the mouse I bought to replace the one that died. Must get very mellow before crawling around on the floor under the computer desk with my flashlight, finding powerstrips and USB ports.

I would wonder if I was crazy, but I already know the answer...

Recently, I went through a bout of losing things. First it was my nail polish. I only polish my toenails, only in the summer, and expected my one lonely little bottle would be waiting for me in the same place this season. It wasn't and after giving myself a headache going through every logical place I could think of looking, I bought another bottle. Then it was a pair of favorite pants. And I dropped both an earring and an earring back that both just evaporated. The battery cover for my alarm clock disappeared, along with a favorite pair of reading glasses that didn't have any scratches on them yet. This is the downside of living alone; there is no one there to give you clues or help you search. Also, no one to blame for objects being missing in the first place. And then, just as suddenly, I found everything, one thing after another. The nail polish, battery cover, and glasses were all under the bed beside the nightstand. The favorite pants were where I had looked for them at least three times, hanging under a wool jacket in my spare closet. And the earring and earring back wound up just laying on the floor, right in the busiest pathway between my bedroom and bathroom. Now, that's spooky. This all makes me want to buy a lottery ticket. Maybe I will find some $$$, too. You think?

Perversity, thy name is Boo...

Small black and white bundle of fluff is laying here, watching me, hairy brow furrowed. Actually, the furrowed brow thing is usual, a gift from his Pekingnese heritage. We have already done the morning drill where I eat the cereal as he watches every spoonful pass my lips, till the bowl gets that hollow-sounding ring, whereupon his ears prick and he starts this little jerky dance-around routine, until I set the last few drops of milk before him. Bless his heart, he never looks at me with disdain if I slurp it down to a mere film on the bottom of the bowl. Well, almost never. Then I come in here to check e-mail, except this morning, it was cold, so I reached into the closet for a sweater. Putting on outerwear is a dead giveaway that I am thinking of leaving, so Boo goes into his "take me, oh, take me" routine, bouncing around and getting right under wherever my feet take me. I explained it all to him, but he is still right at my feet should I change my mind. Except when he is laying by the front door, looking at me, pitifully. That's when we do our every morning reminder that the back door is open, we don't go out in front without our makeup, go out back! Which occasions puzzled head-cocking, so I have to guide him to the back of the house and usher him out the door. Hope springs eternal in that fuzzy little breast. And life would be sweet if your crowning aspiration would be the opportunity to pee on the hydrangea.

I can draw my hand!

It is not without irony that the class that most intimidates me this semester is Art, Drawing and Composition specifically. I worry. Nothing new there. I worry that my vision is mediocre, even my preferences for the impressionists and art nouveau, for a warm pallette, and recognizably rendered paintings (although I do like some abstract art, if it is not gritty or garish) is ordinary and trite. I worry that my small muscle control will desert me and I will not be able to render anything recognizable. I worry that I will embarass myself, bigtime. And there is no one my age in this class, except the teacher, of course, who is probably 10 years younger than I, and I am worried that she thinks me really pretty lame, too. I have been painting for several years now, and occasionally have done something I like, that I am proud of, almost. And my idea in taking this class is to become more courageous in my art, to explore different ways of doing things. So I am delighted to report that this is what I am learning! First, I learned how to hold my pencil (and what kind of pencil to use, of course). It is different from writing. Now, there's a concept! And we were using huge pieces of newsprint, the kind I used to buy for the kids to draw on, so there seemed less investment in doing it right. We began by drawing circles, squares, and then advanced to cubes. Well, I can do that. Next, we drew our hands in outline, line drawing she called it, and, even though my thumb was too big, I could see the idea there, on the paper. Then I took off my shoe, put it on the table, and we all drew that. I peeked at my tablemate's stuff, and saw that I was doing pretty good! Now I am all stoked about this class. And back to the original idea in taking it, which was to have some FUN. Fun is good. Yes.

And the chili pepper goes to ...

I just love RateMyProfessor.com. Next semester, I will probably check it out before registering. Or not. Whatever, I was all jacked up to find a hottie when I attended my first Music Appreciation class, as this guy had a chili pepper by his name. Instead, I found this little violin shaped person, glasses, mussy hair, moustache, cute, cuddly for sure, but hot? I don't think so. However, he is also very dear, and terribly talented. He played us several examples of music on tape, of course, but some he rendered with elan on the Steinway concert grand. Like Scott Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag, a sterling example of syncopation. And did you know that is how ragtime got its name, from the ragged melody defying the staid bass? Well, now we all know that. We heard such diverse tunes as Gregorian chants, Beatle's tunes, Strauss waltzes, Grieg's Morning Moods, Beethoven's Pastoral, a Sousa march, and the afore mentioned ragtime. It was fun, it was illuminating, and on top of it all, I made three new friends, which is good, because there is no parking near the music building, and I want someone to hoof back with at 10 PM, it's really dark on campus then. First week of school was successful, but I am awfully tired today from rising before the sun every morning. Definitely sleeping in tomorrow. And probably this afternoon, too.

Very interesting...

It was, as usual, a little bit of a letdown, but first day of semester is under my belt, and here I go for day two. The math guy is huge and neckless, looks like a tackle for the 49ers, and makes lame jokes, that I titter at just to stay on his good side, always a good idea. He told us not to read our textbooks, they will only confuse us. I like him a lot. And the art teacher who everyone hated at RateMyProfessor.com is a sweetie, promising that we do not have to be little DaVincis to get a good grade. And once again, I am in that place of knowing, not suspecting, but knowing I will never be able to do this stuff, as if I should know it already, which would defeat the purpose of going to school at all, and having it taught to me. I miss my roommate. She used to remind me of that. So, today I meet the speech teacher, and won't that be a hoot. I looked at the textbook last night, and once again, decided it is unfathomable. Oh, oh, better run. Parking places are disappearing even as we speak.

Same old, same old...

Ah, another semester looms. It is 6:50 AM, even the sun isn't up yet. The dog is looking at me like I must be nuts, and I'm not sure, but I think the parakeet swore at me when I turned on the kitchen light half an hour ago to make my breakfast. Whatever could I have been thinking, signing on for a 7:30 AM class, four days a week? Actually, I was thinking that is the only way I will ever be able to park on campus, and I will be home by noon, every day, to study and take care of these creatures. By now, I am pretty sure I can find my classroom, and it is especially all right because I allow myself to look confused, which I usually am. No more see-how-savvy-the-old-lady-is routine. At my age, confusion is excpected, and I have found the kids to be very sweet in helping me whenever I have gotten that way, which is often. Math this morning, followed by art, drawing and composition, and I hope I was not supposed to have more in hand than my very slim book for that course. Well, it is not far from the bookstore, and if necessary, I can bop over there for a sketch pad and implements. My scholarship money arrived yesterday, so I am flush after emptying the old bank account, buying those precious textbooks. Now, I'm off to get my innaugural latte, and scope out the restrooms for my between classes pitstop. I feel like a kindergartener, actually, every time this begins again. Certainly can't be bad for me, even the latte. It's non-fat, you know.

Isn't that interesting?

A whole bunch of pain washed through me yesterday. It's been a long while since that happened, and in the midst of it, I was able to look into the heart of my own darkness, and see that old wounds were bleeding, again. Part of who I am is this terribly tender little soul whose emotions are never far beneath the surface. It was yet another reason to hate myself for a really long time. Now I know better. It is just what I was made to be. Probably, it will never change, though I keep working away here. I remembered that it would be history really fast, and, gee, it was! Within an hour, I was calmed down. Now I have a whole bunch of righteous indignation kind of stewing on the back burner. That will boil away soon, too. It's like the ocean, you know. The wind makes the waves, and the energy just keeps them moving till they hit the shore, and break. Fortunately, I never travel too far out to sea. Unfortunately, I think I make my own wind.

Give me a break!

Once upon a time, I was a sci-fi enthusiast, and I read all the classics of the genre, books by real scientists like Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, and geniuses like Robert Heinlein. They were full of ideas, remarkable ideas, but real ideas. One story I read was about a world where everyone was dumb as rocks, except a very small percentage of people who ran everything. Now, I think it was more that fiction. I think it was prophetic, except that the people who run everything these days as dumb as rocks, too. Truly sad. I mean, what about this movie about snakes on a plane, called Snakes on a Plane. How exceptionally dumb is that? Well, a whole bunch of people will flock to see it, and that is even dumber. Where is the creative spark, people? Where is human intellect? Buried somewhere beneath body parts in the Middle East? You think? Ok, I am surly today. I just want someone to step out of the rubble and call a spade a spade. The human race has reached its nadir. Ann Coulter, Geo. W. Bush, Osama bin Laden. Abyssmal stupidity, and armed with nuclear weapons. What a world, what a world.

Powerless day...

Dear PG&E sent me a missive advising me they would be turning off my power today at 8:30 AM. So I rose early and got out of Dodge while the house was dark. Daytripping! First, I took myself to the neighborhood diner for breakfast (French toast, sausage links, one egg-over hard), then mosied through Walgreen's for some vital supplies. At 9:45, I talked to the first-time offender class of drunk drivers, always a hoot. Then to the campus to scope out textbooks, and can you imagine, Music Appreciation still uses the Machlis text it used 43 years ago! Of course, it is edition 99, or something, and I will have to buy it again, $84.00 used. Yuck. After a noon meeting, where I got to see many women I dearly love, I took myself out to lunch at Copperfield Books' Cafe, then over to Ross, for a sweet white shirt and a denim vest that just looked collegiate. Now, I'm home, power is perking again, and all the clocks are set, on the stove, coffeemaker, VCR's, etc. All in all, a productive day, and it is not over yet. Oh, and I got a nifty student pack again at the bookstore, with shampoo samples, coupons for Proactiv acne cream, a discount at Radio Shack, a Chapstick thingy, and some Eclipse gum. How sweet is that!

The sky is falling, the sky is falling!

Here is a particularly painful confession: I have these really cataclysmic dreams about planets colliding, huge celestial events that just happen, suddenly. So I was kind of vindicated when I saw this new series called "Three Moons over Milford". Apparently, the moon had been blown apart (I tuned in late, so don't know why), and was now this kind of messy smear in the sky dominated by three huge chunks (not unlike in "The Time Machine"). Anyway, the people in the little town of Milford were all acting pretty twitchy after this event. Well, gee, you think? Like, this would seem to be a world-ending event. I would probably get pretty twitchy myself. Anyway, someone else worries about this stuff. What a relief. And, driving home last night, there was an enormous moon in the sky, at least twice as big as I remember it being, and I convinced myself that it has drawn closer to our little blue ball, and no one is telling me (it helped that the conversation around our dinner table had drifted off into conspiracy-theory-ville and general distrust of our government and media). Ant I thought, isn't that interesting. Never mind that I know that our heavenly bodies appear much larger closer to the horizon, where warm air magnifies them. I found myself getting kind of twitchy. Like maybe Chicken Little was right.

Joy, or the counter-commute...

I went to the big city again Monday evening, to take kiddo out for her birthday, and how can my late-in-life baby be 27 freaking years old already? Anyway, I had this amazingly fun drive down 101, with the 3 tenors crooning loudly (I must be getting deaf, I am always surprised at the volume I need these days), swaying in my seat and occasionally waving at the traffic on the other side of the freeway, those poor slobs still working for a living, as Huey Lewis sang. I did assure them that I had put in my time on their side of the street, sweating and swearing through the Novato narrows (where cow-waving woman was born, at the roadside dairy there), plowing through Petaluma, with the ubiquitous Honda Civic stuck to my rear bumper. I wore out 3 cars on that road, people. And I know I have said it before, but coming out of the tunnel to the sight of that big rusty-red bridge, and the pristine skyline rising up out of the Bay, man, it is a spiritual experience every single time, and almost worth the $5 toll. It was a lovely day, warm but not hot, and the walk through the Marina was sweet, the tiny Chinese restaurant was charming and delicious (veggie potstickers as light as air, I swear), kiddo was all stoked about the coming school year, and me, too. On the walk back, we got to view Alcatraz, just down the street, it seemed, and there was the bridge again. I breezed home in the post-commute, feeling full on a lot of different levels.

Big sigh of relief...

I began this month with a huge helping of skepticism for our governmental agencies, specifically Social Security. Even though I parked myself in their office for a sultry morning in April, a full two months before I would be eligible for benefits, armed with my divorce papers and birth certificate, and gave all my pertinent information to this disarming young woman, who assured me she had a Masters degree, and even though I got a letter informing me that the money would be in my account by the second Wednesday in August, I had my doubts. And bless them, it arrived a day early, and we are now officially engaged, the Social Security Administration and I. Irony of ironies, I will now have more income than I ever had in my working days, not that it will mean much when gas goes up, again, and everything transported by ship, train, plane or truck goes up, too. Ah, but Boo got his flea medication, the car got serviced, there is a six month supply of TP in the closet, lots of Diet Pepsi and Propel water in the fridge, life is good here on Wild Rose Dr. The scholarship money arrives next. I hope.

Rock and roll!

So, I was sitting in bed, reading my nifty mystery novel, and it felt (and sounded) like a truck hit the house. My bed just bounced for a few seconds, then settled back down into its usual inertia. Earthquake! We know all about them here in California. Once, people visited me from New Hampshire, and they were twitchy the whole week, worried about the Big One (like they never have any natural disasters there, like hurricanes and ice storms, and yes, earthquakes, too). The natives know that most temblors are just little glitches in our otherwise hectic existence here on the boundary of the North American and Pacific plates. And now, thanks to Ms. Perlroth and Geology I, I know even more. Go ahead, ask me about P-waves and S-waves. And I know how to calculate the epicenter, too. Oh, I bet Ms. Perlroth is stoked right now. She just loves this stuff. Anyway, tonight's event was a weinie, just a 4.4. They don't even get interesting till they get over 5.0. And even when we had our last truly devastating one in 1989, when Dan Rather and all the other anchormen came out here and sat in front of the Cypress structure or down in the Marina district, where everything fell down, kaboom, there were only 60 some odd deaths. Our building codes are really something, you know. Maybe that's why real estate is so damned expensive. You think?

Where is the erase button?

Another day when it would be nice if I could just blot out memory. Where is my emotional WiteOut? This would have been my (gulp) 31st wedding anniversary to my third husband. Where have the years gone? Whatever, I suppose it is good to mark this day every year, it was a day when I was happy beyond words, and for many years, secure in my status in the world. I think I have always known how strong I was, but needed to be alone these 20 years to learn it for real. Sometimes, I miss the company, along with the swimming pool. But most of the time, I walk around my little house, where there is no one to frown if there is a preponderance of black Boo hair under the table or scowl over frozen dinner entrees, that kind of thing. I don't miss that. Our daughter is well-launched, much of it due to her father's attendance to her education, and is precious beyond words. There, that is the reason to celebrate this day, every year, with some reverance.

The perverse side of sobriety...

Oh, dear, poor Mel Gibson got his admittedly beautiful butt thrown into jail for a DUI, and his behavior made William Wallace look like a fairy. We who have been there kind of snicker up our sleeves. I just want to take him aside and tell him to get over it, booze releases the most vile thoughts and language known to mankind. The good news is he will most likely be assigned to meetings, if not rehab, and may, if he's ready, stop menacing the Pacific Coast highways in his spiffy new Lexus. Mel is not known for his egalitarian viewpoint, (vis a vis that dreadful movie about Jesus, that totally missed the whole point of just about everything,) and a good dose of humility at an AA meeting might just do the trick. Anyway, I understood his whole attitude problem, and that is kind of a sad revelation for this old woman. No one is at their most attractive when drunk off their gourd, and pissed off, to boot. For we who have been there, though it may seem like the worst thing that could happen, being very publicly embarassed by his behavior may be the very best thing that could happen to dear old Mel. Falling down only means learning how to walk in a different, and sweeter way.

Bicycle people and me

Once upon a time, I thought bicycle people, those skinny, day-glo spandexed people with the funny bullet shaped helmets, were healthy folks, and felt kind of intimidated. Then I met a bunch of them, out of the saddle, so to speak, and this tres soignee art event in Mill Valley, the Berkeley of Marin County. They were all pencil thin, very French, smoked like chimneys and drank like fish. They spoke of pedalling off their hangovers. (And what is it with French men, that curly upper lip thing, man, that is so hot.) After that, I kind of curled my lip whenever I encountered them on my drive in from the house on the edge of the world, on the windy, narrow roads that wind through West County, along the coast and beside the river. What a pain they are. And today, I made what should have been an ease-filled decision to drive out to WalMart after my morning meeting, get some school supplies, MilkBones, and bubble bath, you know, the essentials. Instead of breezing out Old Redwood Highway, I got stuck looking at the backend of this big red pickup truck for about half an hour, while all these bicycle folks breezed through the intersection. Whoever was directing traffic had his head up his wazoo, for sure. I finally followed a bunch of adventurous folks and clipped through the vacant lot on the corner, bouncing off the curb as a result. Before that, I got to notice there were some hefty riders, too, some buxom ones, and some who were older than dirt. And still annoying, kind of like a swarm of mosquitos. Even if they don't bite me, I dislike them, on principle.

Small army has invaded, all is lost...

And found again. There are all these pickups in front and people tramping around above me, loudly. My house is being reroofed. Funny, when they told me I would get my new roof on Wednesday, I thought they meant just that. Instead, it is Friday, and it is not done yet. I thought I would mow the lawns this afternoon. I cannot even see the front lawn, it is so littered with materials. And I think that is just the stuff they put underneath the shingles, so they haven't even started them yet. It amazes me how much noise these people can make up there. My smoke alarm fell off here in the office, and my stove is all flecked with stuff sifting down through the vent. There is a great big piece of something, probably a gutter, caught in the tree and camellia bush right outside my window. Boo sits with his ears pricked, and every so often lets loose with a half-hearted bark. We are both becoming inured to the noise and hubbub, though for a while, I fully expected one or more bodies to break through the ceiling like James Bond or Ultraman. I go around muttering "it's temporary, it's temporary". OK, I could leave. But wait! I am parked in my carport, and there are two trucks blocking my driveway! Aspirin, I need a Bayer's! Now!

Ah, perspective!

Well, I was feeling lumpy and dumpy this morning, so I went shopping. Actually, I needed a couple of things, like greeting cards for my Leo friends, more water, some Diet Pepsi, stuff like that, but the joy of being in public is I get to see that most of the world is as lumpy and dumpy as I am, and much is even more so. This heatwave is getting really old. I remember many hot days growing up here, though we lived west of here, in a tiny town, and used to feel pretty superior because it was always 10 degrees cooler where we were than for the poor folks down in the valley, which is where I now live. And, when it got mega-hot, it usually snapped, and was cool again, with fog pouring in from the coast. Not happening now. Instead, it is cooling every day by a few degrees, so this afternoon, it is in the high 80s while yesterday was in the mid 90s. The best thing is that it will once again be down in the 50s tonight, when it really counts. Still, too hot to actually cook anything. Salad, again.

Long time, no write...

It's hot. Probably, it is hot everywhere, but the really important fact is that it's hot where I am. So I do these little rituals, like closing the drapes on the western side of the house early, and closing the windows and blinds when the air outside gets warmer than the air inside, futility of course, but it provides the illusion that I am keeping the house cool. At some point in the evening, I open it all up again, usually when the house is hotter than the air outside. The ceiling fan helps; it doesn't cool anything down, but it keeps the hot air moving, always preferable. And in the midst of this, this very sweet man is systematically dismantling the back room to repair the water damage in the wall from this winter's storms, much noise and dust. I can't even remember last winter's storms, can you? Just seems like it has been hot forever. Boo is in summer mode, and spends most of his day on the bed. Actually, that is winter mode, too. Do you suppose that's what they mean by "dog days"? Whatever. So I spend every evening watering something, and the lawn still looks wilted. Watering is cooling, though, and provides the illusion that I am nurturing my home. Right.

Grocery store moments...

I measure my sanity level by my reactions to me forays to the supermarket (Trader Joe's and Costco don't count here). In my relationships, trips were often harried interludes in otherwise full days crammed with work, kids, housework, etc. I remember a day when I walked 10 blocks with a grocery cart and stroller, child attached, only to turn around without any food because the kid threw such a tantrum, I was totally embarassed to have him seen in public. Fortunately, that was a one-time incident. In the City, you couldn't buy meat on Sundays or after 6 PM, so there were many emergency meat runs on Saturday at 5:45. In my single mother days, I was often overwhelmed by grief in front of piles of firewood when I no longer had a fireplace. Later, during my third marriage, I would sail through Safeway with a cart heaped to overflowing, second child in her babycarrier, terribly efficient, eschewing the Prego for Contadina, fresh basil and chuck roast to grind myself at home. I even ground my own baby food; no processed Gerber's for our little princess. After that divorce, I really lost it shopping for wine and more wine, never enough wine. When the last kid went away, there were crying jags in the cereal aisle. Now, I do minimalist shopping; one avacado, some broccoli, two bananas, a quart of milk, some Milkbones, and a couple ounces of walnuts. Sometimes I watch the older women shopping for their husbands, carts full of bacon and eggs and popping fresh rolls, and I feel a little wistful. But then I come home to my little Boo and Phoebe-the-budgie, the peace and quiet, and I am happy. Life is, well if not good, at least interesting.

If Oprah can do it, so can I!

I was a charter subscriber to O, which is Oprah's mag, a wonderful slick full of uplifting articles, stunning fashion, and elegant things to pine for. Often, she asks celebs to name their five or so favorite books, and they are always so varied and thoughtfully chosen, things like the Bible, and Moby Dick, and War and Peace. Mine are a little more prosaic, and mundane. Jane Eyre, the grandmother of the gothic novel, and Rebecca, it's modern counterpart. Atlas Shrugged, that obtuse and very long tome by Ayn Rand, the consummate capitalist. Gone with the Wind, I read it the first time when I was just 12 and at that time, fell in love, not with Rhett, but with Ashley. Go figure. I liked blonds. And for esoteric consideration, The Prophet, so beautifully rendered I always cry when I read it, especially that part about children being the product of life's longing for itself. There, see, I have teared up just thinking about it. And I would add anything by Janet Evanovitch, Sue Grafton, Jonathon Kellerman and Patricia Cornwell. Oh, and Jennifer Cruisie and Susan Isaacs. OK, I like to read. A lot. Laurence Saunders, John D. MacDonald, Robert Parker, Nelson DeMille. So many books, so little time.

Help me, Obiwan Kenobi, you're my only hope!

God bless Star Wars. I truly believed Obiwan's concept of the Force, this great, benevolent energy that could be channeled, for good or evil, available to everyone, even Darth Vader. I had a license plate frame that read "May the Force be with you" on my silver blue 280Z. It was my first attempt at honoring spirit in my life, and long before the real journey began. But it was a gesture, and Great Beloved pays attention to gestures. Now I see spirit everywhere around me, even in my pseudo-lawns, which are now ragged and dotted with weeds that seem to be set to fast-forward, great sprouts hanging there above the low-lying ones that spring like spiders in all directions. I just keep chopping them down, and they just keep jumping right back up. My new thing is a weedeater, borrowed from a friend for a week to see if I am a weedeater sort of person. So far, I don't think so. Hurts my back. I think I am more a hire-a-weedeater-person sort of person. We'll see. If it was light enough to not hurt my back, it would not do the necessary work to cut down my macho weeds. Live and learn, that's my motto. And, in the process, grow. Like a weed.

A walk to the store...

So, I threw half a MilkBone to the Boo, and set out for the grocery store at the end of my street. What a treat that is! In the house on the edge of the world, groceries entailed a 30 mile round trip and a large part of a day. After crossing the surprisingly busy cross-town avenue, I entered this delightful place, grabbed my cart and whirled off to the produce section for fresh veggies: broccoli, asparagus, walnuts, and an avacado. Then to the dairy section for my most needed item, milk for my new cranberry-Macadamia nut cereal I got at Costco on Monday. A package of Swiss cheese later, I was done, and standing in line, reading the awful news that Stedman has written a tell-all about Oprah, and Hillary Clinton is (gasp!) gay! As I stood poised over the green button waiting for the checker to finish, I took a look around, and noticed that everyone shopping with me was, well, old. And I thought, these are my people! The retired ones. That's me, too. This theme continued out into the parking lot. Everyone who shops at 11 AM on a Wednesday has white hair and wrinkles. I do, too, but my gray is covered with bright red. On my way home I realized that 15 years ago, when I lived just a few blocks away, I used to look down Wild Rose Drive, and kind of sigh as I went by. It always looked so sweet and cool and inviting, with the sycamore trees tunneling the pavement. And I was looking right at the little yellow house that I now live in. What can I say, it's a God thing.

The long and short of it...

I can tell I have way too much time on my hands. I am obsessing about my hair, again. For years, I wore it very short. It was my signature look. Only problem was that they always cut it too short in the beginning, and I spent half my time growing it out to a reasonable length, which it stayed at for only a couple of days, then it was time to get it cut, again. So, when I moved to the house on the edge of the world, I let it grow out. Long. Really long. Then, because I got tired of hitching it up to keep it out of my food, I decided on a chin-length. Too short. Now I am at shoulder-length, just right. It will stay there for about a week, then, too long, again. Sigh. Wind is my mortal enemy; it swirls my hair all around, and makes it stick to my lipstick. Eeeeyouuu. It is nice to be able to clip it up in one of those dandy clippy things, though finding just the right one is tricky. I have a bag full of those gizmos, and only about half of them work for me. Some are too big, others too small, and some just don't hold in my hair, which is slippery. Even bobby pins will slip out of it. Sigh. I also have a wardrobe of scrunchies, which my daughter tells me are now passe. Never mind. I wear them anyway. Now I am back to my teenaged signature do, a pony tail. And don't even get me started on hair color.

The thing about summer...

I feel really weinie about complaining about our weather here. We don't have hurricanes, tornadoes, torpid humidity, blizzards or ice storms. No need for snow tires or storm windows, and for most of the year, air conditioning, though our affluent citizens might disagree. Summer here in our county is often overcast mornings followed by sizzling afternoons and cool evenings. It is not unusual for the temperature to vary 50 or 60 degrees in one 24 hour period. And I don't care how hot it is during the day, as long as it cools off at night. In my youth, summer meant swimming lessons at Ives Memorial Pool, just down the hill from my house. My mother was fanatical about me learning to swim as she could not. Anyway, the more proficient you were, the earlier your lesson. I spent many years in beginners, in the sunshine at 11 AM. The teacher, who was my second cousin and Cosmo beautiful, finally passed me because she was sick of seeing me among the babies. Intermediates was a breeze, and I moved into swimmers really fast. That class happened at 8 AM, and it was always foggy and cold. The pool was heated, of course, but getting out was agony. Most of my summer mornings were characterized by blue lips. Lifesavers was the worst, it began at 7 AM. A personal triumph, though. I managed to pick up and sling my 185 lb. boyfriend across my shoulders in a fireman's carry. And I dove into the shallow end, fully clothed, and saved my snotty not-my-cousin teacher in the deep end. She tried to fool me, sinking to the bottom, and then struggling once we emerged at the surface. Instinct kicked in, I straight-armed her, whipped her around and hauled her to safety. A shining moment for a 15 year old. And I got to teach swimming in PE when I was a senior. How sweet is that!

Stepping lightly here..

There is a thin line between self-care and self-indulgence for me. I was brought up to never think of myself, always put others first, beginning with my mother, my little brothers, and closely followed by the rest of the world. Thinking of myself was selfish, and that word was synonymous with evil in my mother's lexicon. I continued to believe this well into my forties, when I would wear my underpants till they were so butt-sprung that they hung around my knees rather than bear my husband's wrath for spending an extra buck. OK, I inherited this martyrdom complex from my mother, and I thought it the height of dignity. It is only poetic that I now swing in the other direction. It is more likely than not that I will throw a sweet little t-shirt or a paperback book into my cart on my weekly Costco runs. I own over 70 pairs of underpants, in varying degrees of comfort, size and cuteness. In my lifelong battle with food, luscious has won out hands down, but I am able to maintain my weight with exercise and portion-control, too. It turns out that, to be truly happy and available to all those who may need me, it is absolutely imperative that I be scupulous in my self-care. If I don't have it, there is nothing left to give. It's just that it is so difficult to find the proper balance here. So I compromise. Most of my self-indulging binges are bargains. Really.

Reality, there's a concept!

My favorite bumper sticker is "don't believe everything you think". Take my mother (please). If she thinks it, it is not only true, it is the definitive truth. And, she is obligated to say it, too, no matter how tacky or mean-spirited it is. My reality is a lot different. I get to think all kinds of stinky stuff, but it is not OK to say it out loud, for anyone else to hear. Instead, I write it in my journals, yell it to God in the car, and share it with a few friends who accept me, warts and all. My thoughts are not particularly pretty most of the time. I wish they were, really I do, but I am remarkably human. My words, now that's another story. I try to be honest and kind at the same time, a real tricky proposition. And I think I am much too passive a lot of the time, but it beats an unkind retort. Anger is new to me, too. Usually, I would get depressed rather than express any anger. Now I let off steam in exercise and hard work, like gardening, and pushing the lawnmower around on my hilly backyard pseudo-lawn. I suppose you can tell that I am chewing on a really big wad of disappointment at the moment. Someone I love is hurting herself, and reality dictates that I let her do that. Just trying to stay healthy enough to help her, should she ask for it later. Her reality is in collision with mine. And I am shaken up here. I can tell because I made myself peach pancakes with whipped cream, cinnamon, and sliced almonds for breakfast, and lunch will again be sushi with wasabi. Reality is that comfort is something I put into my mouth, not something that comes out of it.

So not my favorite holiday...

Independence day, that is. My memories of 4th of Julys past include vicious sunburns and atrocious hangovers. Shivering through fireworks under a blanket on a damp lawn, and sitting for hours trying to get out of the parking lot afterward. And what's with all these concerts on television? That's like having pretty furniture encased in plastic wrap. Concerts are only worthwhile in person, don't you think? And how irritating that my soap opera will be preempted by them. And no mail. Stores are closed. Nuts. So, I am ignoring the whole thing as much as possible. Plans include a walk for me and Boo, some laundry, some yardwork, and finish the existential pear painting. And tonight, cuddling with my little Boo to soothe him through the noisy pyrotechnics from the fairgrounds, just two miles away. Now, that's independence.

I hate it when that happens, Vol. XXXIV

Well, I thought it was pretty awful when I shredded the hose by running over it with the lawnmower, but yesterday, my micorwave died. It was only 17 months old. Usually, it takes me five years to kill a microwave. And you know how it is with small appliances; to get them fixed costs at least $50, and it costs only a little more to replace them, so, byebye (big honking) microwave. (The only thing wrong with it was that the latch broke, and the door would not shut any more, and it won't run with the door open, how prosaic is that. Just like my laptop, that died because its power connection came loose from the motherboard. Sigh.) It really was a monster, squatting there by the stove, taking up the whole end of the counter. I only use it to reheat leftovers, cook a frozen burrito, make tea, or defrost a chicken breast for dinner. I really didn't need that huge thing. So I bought a smallish one, $43 at WalMart, just the right size. And it does just about everything the other one did, except that message that told me to "enjoy my meal". (Never mind the fact that I was just heating up my coffee.) Now it just says "end". This is my fifth microwave in about 20 years. Maybe I am too heavy-handed to own small electrical things. You think?

Van Gogh I am not, sigh....

Long, long day, all spent standing up or walking around. The gods were good to us, though, it was not terribly hot, and we found an ideal place to paint, under a little tree by the lake. I dressed as I assumed an artist would: cargo shorts, tank top, big denim shirt and sensibly comfortable, big leather sandals. Oh, and my slouchy straw hat with a sunflower pinned on it. I found that I was right in fashion, though overalls might have been better. I selected the vista across the lake that included the Marin Civic Center, a Frank Lloyd Wright creation in pastel blue and creamy stucco. My painting was mediocre, as I am a fledgling still, and just happy to be out doing it. I did not win anything, except the satisfaction of braving my own fear of inadequacy. And I am awfully whipped today, after about 9 hours, mostly on my feet. The paintings are on display for the rest of the fair, and that's sweet enough for me.

A'painting I will go...

All packed up for day at Marin County Fair, participating in the en plein aire contest, which just means we set up our paintboxes and slap pigment on a canvas all day, then get judged for our efforts. It is like when I learned to play bridge, at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, Pied Piper Room, Maxfield Parrish mural on the wall behind the bar, cutthroat duplicate bridge, complete with award of master points. No simple, innocent, anonymous, housewifey contract bridge for me, oh nonono. So, I am braving the thousands of onlookers, who will probably walk away shaking their heads. No problem, I will be standing near a professional artist who knows what he is doing, my teacher, actually. I think I have all the essentials to paint: easel paintbox, pigments, medium, thinner, brushes, rag, pliers to open pigments, palette, various containers, Saranwrap to preserve palette till I can transfer leftovers to studio palette, canvases. And in the Monet tote bag: ticket and parking pass, water, sunscreen, glasses, comb, lipstick, apron, paper towels, Kleenex, money, ID. Add a big floppy hat and I'm all set. Oh, and a folding chair, just in case I want to sit down for a while. I expect to lose 5 lbs laboring out there in the heat. That alone is worth the $12 entry fee. And the experience of putting myself out there, for the whole world to see, doing something I am not sure I am any good at doing. Ah, recovery. Once again, pushing the envelope.

I couldn't help myself!

My palm has been itching, and, according to my Gran, that means money is coming to me. I just love it when that happens, don't you? So, I bought a ticket for tonight's Super Lotto. I know, I know, you are rolling your eyes, wondering if I know the impossible odds of winning. And I don't. But I do know the odds if I never buy a ticket. (I got to say that out loud once, to my boss, the man who knew everything, and don't you love it when that happens, when the right snappy answer to a rude question is right there, on top of the mind's trash heap?) The jackpot is $90 million, which makes it worth my while to buy 5 quick picks. That's a doable number for me, and any time I have won something, $5 here, $10 there, and a couple of times, $80, it has been on the 4th or 5th line of the ticket. So I don't understand why anyone would buy just one pick. And 10, well that feels obsessive. I always tuck my ticket in with my cash in my wallet, sort of give it a hint about what I expect from it. Then I imagine all the things I could do with the money (half would be out the window immediately for taxes, then they would want to parcel it out to me for 26 years, so I would have about $2 million a year if I won). I could buy a house with lots of bedrooms for people to come and visit. And I could have a swimming pool with a big pool house and attached personal gym so I could bounce around, but privately. I would endow a foundation to send women to college who want to finish their education. And give all my loved ones money and gifts. And travel, see the world. But mostly, I would do just what I do now, go to AA meetings, work with others, and continue my education, forever. Just take one course after another, get a doctorate, or two. Actually, I am pretty rich, right this moment, when I think about it. I consider my $5 investment to be eminently worth it, if just for entertainment value. For a couple of days, I get to imagine a season in Tuscany or a house on the hill that looks down on my ex-husband's neighborhood. That's golden all by itself.

May I gripe?

I don't know about you, but I don't like my food to talk to me. So those bozos on Madison Ave. who make commercials for Chips Ahoy, this singing, dancing cookie, really annoy me. Like the one at the obnoxious little girl's birthday party who asks "where's the cake?" And she replies "we're not having cake" and he gets all worried. It gives me the shakes. This does not make me want one of those cookies. And what's with the rejected suitor who gets the door shut in his face, gets in the car and pulls a Snickers out of the glove compartment. The candy morphs into this Charo look-alike and tells him he is a "buffet of manliness", so he bites her head off. Eeeeyouuu. What kind of sicko message is that? Not that I would ever consider eating either of these products. If I eat cookies or candy bars, they would be a lot more scrumptious than these. And there can only be one conclusion; I am watching far too much television, again.

Country mouse steps out...

Off I went, to the big City, over the Golden Gate Bridge into the heart of the beast. My navigator, daughter dear, had the directions, and we still got lost. However, we recovered well, and found our way to the parking garage for the new and improved De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. We already had a review from my son, who was impressed with the building and nonplussed by the collection. We decided he was right, though I really enjoyed the antique photographs of Toulouse Lautrec, Victor Hugo and Queen Victoria, and Europe in the 19th century. My favorite piece was a "sculpture", a room-sized, free-floating cube of burned timbers from a Baptist church that was torched by arsonists. There were a lot of modern pieces, in many mediums. Cast glass fascinated me, huge pieces, how do they do that? And as avant-gard as some of it was, some was old-fashioned and seemed horridly stilted in comparison. The highlights were the tower, nine stories above the museum, that gave a panoramic view of the City, which was fog-veiled and mystic, and lunch, really yummy salad and an opportunity to rest our hot little feet. Tender time with the kid, too. I arrived home happy and sad at the same time.

A trip to the art supply store...

I remembered that our local store was having an anniversary sale today, and so I went traipsing over there this afternoon, Boo in tow, because I was feeling guilty about leaving him this morning, and am going to leave him again, tonight. So, he ambled along beside me as I checked out the bargains, bought a tube of cadium yellow, the most expensive pigment, a brush to sign my name with and some liquin. Then I saw this dandy paint box, the kind that is all self-contained for painting en plein aire, out on location in nature and it was only $49.95, so I bought that, too. Many people made a fuss over Boo, and I was saying what a good boy he is, just as he laid a big pile of Boo poo at my feet. Ah, hubris. Higher Power has such a sense of humor in my life. That'll teach me. No more trips to Riley Street for Boo. Maybe I should shop online.

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.