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.