Ride, baby, ride…..

Well, hello there. It has been awhile since I sat down to write. There has been so much debris in the water, I haven’t been able to see my way clear to swim to the shore. Not that anything earth shattering has been going on. I didn’t fall off my Harley, or win the lottery since I last wrote. Had I done the latter, I’d be writing this sitting on a beach somewhere in the south of France, but that’s a whole other fantasy I’ll save for another day. As to falling off my Harley, I would first have to buy one, secondly learn how to ride it, and third sell it immediately after I got out of surgery after falling off it the first time I attempted to ride it. In my young and rebellious days, my mother told me I was never to find myself on the back of any young man’s motorcycle. Kay. These implicit instructions went in one ear and exited out the other side without even picking up a speck of dust along the route. My first adventure on a motorcycle was as a freshman in high school. My neighbor, also my “sort of” boyfriend (I wasn’t allowed an actual one at that age), Buddy, got a Honda 50 for his birthday. A Honda 50 is a small bike, described by bike enthusiasts as a “learning tool” of sorts for beginning riders. Small or not, it was definitely a step up from the bicycles most of us used for transportation at that age, so the neighborhood gang of thieves, as my mother called them, were most seriously impressed. Summer had begun, school was out, and full of energy and tasting delicious freedom, our parents released us into the wild to get a little peace after dinner until it was time to come in for the day. Those summers, looking back, were so wonderfully liberating. Bare feet in the grass, brown bodies glistening with baby oil, long, lazy days, and warm star filled nights.

The gang of thieves gathered together after the dinner dishes were put away to see Buddy’s new acquisition. Shiny and red, to us it looked quite sophisticated. Demonstrating his prowess at commanding the beast, Buddy hopped on board and managed to complete a few laps back and forth along the driveway behind our apartment building where the carports were located. At the end of the carports was a brand new fence that had been erected to separate our property from the newly built Methodist Church now open for Sunday services in the adjacent lot. Feeling quite the authority on motorcycles at that point, having ridden his a total of one half hour, Buddy explained how to operate the beast, as we all stood around him in a circle. Once fully schooled (it took about five minutes), one by one, we got to take one ride down the driveway and back before handing the bike off to the next in line. When it was my turn, I eagerly stepped up and straddled the seat. As instructed, I worked the handles and off I went. Unfortunately, I must have slept through the part of the class on how to stop, so instead of braking I accelerated, continuing on at the end of the driveway through the new fence taking out three boards as I blasted through to the other side. Whoops. As is the case with young people we are resillent, other than a road burn or two and a couple of bruises, I survived. The bike, not so much. One handle bar was bent and the shiny new red paint was scratched bare in several places. My mother, not pleased in the least with my being on the bike in the first place, was forced to replace the slats in the fence. Insurance, fortunately, covered bike repairs. After that, I left the driving to Buddy, who actually became quite proficient at it by the end of the summer. Well, other than the one instance when he gunned it in the middle of an intersection with me on the back, causing the bike to do a wheeley, dumping me soundly on my backside in the middle of the asphalt. I suffered in silence with some pretty tidy bruises on my hind quarters, because I couldn’t tell my mother I was riding around with Buddy lest my privileges be revoked til school was back in session. Life on the edge.

I managed to stay out of trouble, with motorcycles at least, until I was well into my sophomore year. I had met a fabulous looking guy, Hank was his name, at the A&W while with my friends. His sandy blonde hair, a little long for the style at the time, hung loosely over his eyebrows, and he had large brown puppy dog eyes. I was immediately attracted to him, but then at that age, this wasn’t a rarity. He wore cuffed 501’s under a white tee shirt. Before leaving that first day, he pulled on a leather jacket with a biker logo on the back. I waved to him as he walked over to stand next to a large motorcycle. Throwing his leg over it, he settled onto the seat, and started the engine. Oh-oh. I had given him my phone number, and sure enough before the weekend arrived, he called. At that age, I was allowed to go to the movies with a boy, though no drive-ins (my parents thought drive-ins a cesspool of raging hormones, which, of course, they were), or on group dates, but not out with a boy alone. Again, these were the rules I was expected to abide by. I certainly wasn’t one to align myself directly with what I was told to do at that age, and I’m not much better at this age, I hate to admit. That being said, I often bent the rules to the point where they nearly reached the breaking point. I felt then as I do now, it’s all in the interpretation.

Hank asked me to join him the following Sunday for what he called a road trip to the desert with other bikers he hung around with. Now, there were two infractions buried in that invitation. First, no bikes, and secondly, no going out with a boy alone. Nowwwwwww, if you stretched the second one far enough you might conclude this to be a “group date”, as there were other couples involved. Uh-huh. However, no matter how I stretched the bike rule, I couldn’t imagine my mother letting me go. So, I called my friend and asked her to cover for me. There was much intrigue going on that week, I’m ashamed to admit. Not only did I say I was going to church on Sunday rather than going with Hank, but, I made my best friend complicit in my lie. As far as the church lie, I’m sure I’m still paying to get that one signed off on the karmic log as of this writing.

At any rate, that Sunday I left the house dressed appropriately for church. I changed at my friends house into jeans and a tee shirt and Hank picked me up down the street. As it turned out, Hank was about four years older than I was. This doesn’t seem like much of a gap when discussing it now, but at that ripe young age, that is quite a span of maturity. Hank’s “friends”, all bikers themselves, turned out to be decidedly more mature than I. Several of the ladies wore heavy makeup and all sported multiple tattoos. No one wore helmets, and most were in leathers. I was like a lamb among wolves. Thankfully, my angels were on the payroll that day, because in spite of all outward appearances everyone treated me like they might a little sister. Before firing up their machines, they discussed the plans for the “ride”. Several of the men had already cracked open a beer. Well, to be fair, it was nearly mid-morning. I began to think this probably hadn’t been such a good idea. With little choice at that point, I hopped on the Triumph 750 Hank drove, and we were off. We rode pack style out into the high desert about an hour and a half ride from the town where I lived. Stopping at a hamburger joint, we had lunch before going out on the desert floor.

My lower regions were starting to complain. I guess riding a bike has similar characteristics to riding a horse. Muscles are called into action in your thighs for both activities you don’t always use. Bumping along the dirt road behind the others I found myself wondering where the final destination was, and if my face would show up on a milk carton anytime soon. At last we came to a halt. Dismounting, I was firmly convinced my knees might never touch one another again.

The “track”, as they referred to it, was a large dirt area well rutted from previous vehicles passing over it. Turned out, this was to be the spot for the pack race. Pack race? Que es ese? Asking for an explanation, a pack race, to this group at least, meant two to a bike racing hell bent for leather toward a finish line. Hello? I hope I’m not the 2. Oh boy. As it turned out 2 was my number, and it was up. Not to be labeled “chicken”, I got on board the bike again as if I’d seated myself hundreds of time before. With Hank in front of me, my arms secured around his waist, we lined up along a line drawn across the dirt. One well tattooed lady held a Harley Davidson flag high up in the air. My only instructions were, “hold on tight”. No problem. I just hoped my bladder was listening. The girl dropped the flag, and we lurched forward. My fingernails were digging into my hands to keep me from flying off the back. I laid my head on Hank’s back and as we sped along hoped my mother would remember me well in my eulogy. At one point, we fishtailed and I was sure that was it, but the tires caught again and off we went. It seemed like it took at hour to reach the finish line, but actually it was probably only a few minutes. Right then and there, I promised myself to listen to my mother from then on. Whew.

Finally, back home with all my parts still intact, I bid Hank a farewell. My fate was sealed by the time I walked in the door at home, because my mother had called the friend I’d said I was going to church with only to find out I was MIA. Oh dear. When she heard where I’d actually gone, I was put on restriction until I graduated from college. You’d think I would have learned my lesson, but my lessons in life only began there, often taking more than one application to fully sink in. In my defense, I did not go on a motorcycle again until well into adulthood, however, and then wore a helmet at least.

My dear little mother had her hands full with me. I think of her today, tomorrow being Mother’s Day. Well, I think of her every day. She’s been gone two years, but I can still hear her voice, and picture her in her favorite habitat, her kitchen. Love you Mama wherever you are.

So, on this beautiful Saturday in Northern Cal I shall be glad I have lived and learned along the way, and hope to continue doing so. Happy Mother’s Day!!

And breathe, and breathe….

I have decided at this stage in my life, I do not have the luxury of time left to waste on people who don’t have time for me. If I find I am always the one contacting the other party with little reciprocation or response in return, I have to ask myself, “why am I still knocking at this door, if no one is answering”? This can be a painful process, I am here to tell you. I always liken myself to fly paper. If I love or care for someone, I will stick with them unless they tell me to do otherwise or treat me poorly. I’m not sure if this is a good trait, or a bad one, but it is a trait I have, and I acknowledge it as that.

With everything so FAST these days, texting makes lack of response from another person far more obvious. If you text someone a message, their lack of interest or response becomes immediately evident. Now, there are a thousand reasons why a person might not answer a text, not the least of them being, they simply are not in the mood to communicate at that moment. I totally support that. I am not always “on” and sometimes when the phone summons me, it is either at a time when I am engaged doing something else, or simply don’t want to be speaking on the phone. There is nothing, at least as I see it, that says you must push answer because the damn thing because it happens to be ringing. My mother, I remember, was totally enamored with the phone. Had she been a surgeon in the middle of connecting an artery, if the phone rang, she would have put down her instruments to see who it was. I am not quite as responsive. Unless it is an urgent request, then, of course, if possible, I will respond as soon as I am able. Though messages have been know to disappear from my cluttered brain a time or two, I would hazard a guess you would likely get a response from me on a non urgent message within a reasonable period of time, unless I’m in a coma or have washed up on a desert island where there are no cell towers available. Really, how busy have we become that there isn’t five minutes in a given day to at least give a nod to an incoming text. Key in, “I’m really busy. Can I get back to you when things ease up? Love you.” I timed that, it took me less than a minute to write. Easy peasey. By responding, you have satisfied your end of the communication, and the party at the other end does not feel ignored. Honestly, if you don’t have a minute to spare in any given day, then you need to either immediately enroll in time management classes, or pare your schedule down to a reasonable use of your time.

I debate with myself whether all the new technology available at our fingertips is a plus or a minus socially, and for me the the jury is still out. Back when I was growing up, if you wished to speak to a friend, you picked up the phone, dialed their number, and, if nobody answered, you called them back later. When call waiting came into being, we were all so excited because if someone called in while you were in the middle of a call, they were identified and you could decide whether or not to take the incoming call. Answering machines, when they arrived on the scene, were also a marvel. You could leave a message if the person you were looking for wasn’t home, rather than simply cooling your jets, and waiting to call them back later.

There was so much less “instant gratification” when it came to technology. For example, if you wanted a photograph to memorialize a moment, you took out your camera, and snapped the shot. When the roll of film was full, you took it to the camera department at the local drug store or camera store to have it developed. A week or so later you picked up a pack of developed pictures. I KNOW!! You didn’t alter the shot by adding smiley face emojis or putting donkey ears on your Aunt Mabel, it remained as it was taken. Then, the Polaroid camera showed up on the scene. This camera allowed you to print the picture and have it developed immediately. You simply snapped the shot, the camera spit out the photo (like sticking out it’s tongue). You allowed the picture to sit for a few minutes, and like magic your photo materialized on the paper. A problem with this process, back then at least, was the pictures tended to fade over time, sometimes the paper backing peeled off, and the film was much more expensive then regular rolls of film. Imperfect, yes, but exciting stuff.

When all this was occurring, AI was just a seed in some future somebody’s DNA. Personally, I find it a bit unnerving. I get very annoyed when I am texting or keying in something and the AI takes it upon itself to change what I am writing, or predispose what I might be thinking. I prefer to do my own thinking, thank you, and am willing to deal with a few typos or mistaken words to hold on to the privilege of doing so. I watched a news story this morning about a teacher who was fired for creating racist videos and posting them. Turned out, a man with a grudge against the teacher had used AI to simulate the teacher’s voice, and the texts didn’t originate from the teacher at all. Huh. Just the beginning, I feel, of uncovering the dirt hidden under the rug. The problem is, and always will be, if only rational people with good intentions had access to guns, drugs, alcohol, technology, we would exist in a perfect world. Since, as yet, I have yet to discover a perfect anything, this is unlikely to be a reality any time soon. Well, Robert Redford in that white uniform in The Way We Were, came pretty close to perfect, but I mean for the most part.

With all the access to immediate communication devices, it is reported one out of two of us are suffering from the effects of isolation and loneliness. It seems to me it should be the opposite, with accessibility to friends and family at your fingertips, at least to my mind. Young people and the elderly, in particular, are the more likely age groups to be afflicted with these feelings. I read recently in a report by the Surgeon General of the United States, the impact of loneliness on a person’s health is the equivalent of smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and more impactful than obesity or lack of physical exercise. Wowser.

Also, it was noted with a device in our hands, we are not doing as much physical exercise. I was surprised to hear a fellow employee say the other day that she didn’t enroll her elementary school age girls in what we would have called P.E., because they “didn’t like to exercise”. I don’t like to exercise either, to be honest with you. I’d rather be shot in the foot then work out in the gym, but I do walk at least forty minutes a day and try to keep active. I have been heavily considering taking up pickle ball. It seems to be the thing to do around town. I see people engaging in tournaments as I drive around on the weekends and it looks like an activity I might enjoy. In my misspent youth, I was very good at tennis. I’m sure that skill, along with so many others I once had, has been left in the dust, but I’m willing to get out there and give it a try. Last week I went into the exercise class here to “observe”. First, the instructor had those of them who were able, do a few jumping jacks. Can’t tell you the last time I did that particular maneuver. After about ten of those, they went on to to touching their toes. One of the residents had prompted me to join in. Really? I was surprised at the level of difficulty I found both the first and second lap of that program. Jumping jacks seemed to me to be a no brainer. Lifting my body, and it’s not a big one, off the ground was like picking up an anvil and trying to move it to another location. As far as touching my toes, well, I could definitely see them sticking out the ends of both my sandals looking down. However, my legs signaled they felt actually touching them felt like a lot to ask. Okay, that’s it, there is definitely a gym in my future. They keep the residents here moving both for their physical well being, as well as their mental health. It makes you feel better to move. There are also chair aerobics for those confined to wheelchairs or using walkers. This helps to keep the more disabled residents from gaining a lot of weight, or losing muscle tone.

Speaking to obesity for a moment, I had occasion to have dinner with friends at a local eatery last week describing itself as a “buffet”. I can remember as a kid, my parents used to take me to Clifton’s Cafeteria for dinner out on occasion. To my young eyes, a foodie in the making already at that age, it was a feast to behold. Bank after bank of every kind of food imaginable, all included in the price of admission. I used to try a little bit of everything, but recall stopping several extra times to load up on mashed potatoes and gravy, and always I ended up at the dessert counter for a bowl of Jello with a huge glob of ice cream on top before calling it a day. The restaurant was always packed with people lined up at each serving station for an “all you can eat” extravaganza. This restaurant I just went to was much the same, with almost every table occupied when we walked in. I have to say there were more extremely large people under that roof, than I’ve seen all together in one space at one time. Dinner plates piled high with rich food were passing by us as we took our seats. One lady across from us, had three huge helpings of food placed before her. She dove into one plate overflowing with mac n cheese like she hadn’t enjoyed a meal in weeks. Thinking later about her, perhaps she hadn’t. She was reed thin, and had no teeth evident in her mouth when she smiled. It would be the ideal place to go when on a fixed income, or if on the street and in need of a decent meal. Could have been she was storing up enough food to sustain her for the week ahead. Unfortunately though, if you tend towards carrying a lot of weight, it would also be the perfect place to find yourself adding another layer to the surplus already in place. There was a moment where I thought of standing up and saying, “okay, jumping jacks everyone”, but I felt my humor might have been misplaced in such an atmosphere. There is no judgment in this, only concern. Over eating, like abusing drinking, drugs, shopping (mine, thank you), gambling, etc., is an addiction. It’s that with over eaters their addiction is immediately evident when you lay eyes on the person. No judgment, simply observations.

So, today I sit at my desk writing away with eight hours stretched out in front of me and not one item of work in my in basket. Sigh. Outside, a beautiful day is pulling itself together. I feel a touch of spring fever calling me to go out and enjoy it. Ah well, I am thankful I have my job, and always pleased to see my paycheck show up in my bank account.

Enjoy your weekend!!!!!

Starry, starry nights…..

What a hectic morning, and it’s only 8:10 a.m. Sigh. I have observed, if something catastrophic is going to happen, it will insist on waiting until Friday when I have to work, the weekend, or for a real fun time, reveal itself on a holiday weekend to exact the full impact. The holiday weekend disaster is the big daddy of them all, absolutely assuring you won’t find anyone around to help you with that gushing faucet, or major A/C malfunction. The A/C, of course, will most likely choose the hottest day of the summer to gasp it’s last breath, I’m just sayin.

This morning was not catastrophic, but most certainly it was stress filled. I woke up at 4:30 to the sound of Boo throwing up on the pillow next to me. My poor sweet kitty is failing, in spite of all attempts to keep her going. To give credit where credit is due, she has managed to survive nineteen years thus far. Boo is an indoor cat who has enjoyed quite the pampered life, so this longevity is perhaps less miraculous than it might be for an outdoor cat who has spent their free time dodging cars and outrunning marauding wildlife, but nonetheless, it is still quite a few candles on a birthday cake even for a spoiled old feline. As with many older cats, as well as many older humans, Boo suffers from arthritis. Being a lady of a certain age, her little body can’t handle many of the medications that would help with pain management for her aching bones, so she suffers this infirmity with great dignity, rarely complaining. Added to the mix, she has been diagnosed with Stage 2 kidney disease. The kidney disease will continue to progress as time passes, with these episodes of vomiting becoming more frequent. As a human being who would rather saw off a toe with a nail file than throw up, I totally commiserate with her having to endure this. Looking at her face this morning, it tugged strongly at my heart to see the sadness in her eyes. Nausea is a miserable condition on the best of days, and it is painful for me to watch her go through this. The universe, I believe, is calling on me to act on her behalf to uphold her quality of life, and I have to say, it is with great deal of dread I am anticipating what that will mean as we move on down the road. To describe Boo as my pet, would be such an understatement. On many a dark night over the past decade, Boo has been the only living thing next to me to keep me going. During this time she has performed as friend, companion, soulmate, and gone above and beyond in general, doing all around duty to keep this human erect and propelling one step after the other in a forward motion. I have such gratefulness for being able to have shared all these years with her. We met first when she was six months old. Her original owner abandoned her in the local shelter stating the reason being she was a white kitty, and apparently shed on her furniture. I had been to three shelters at that point looking for a kitty to adopt. Thus far, the connection hadn’t been just the one I was hoping for. Probably that sounds a little silly to those of you not animal lovers, but I knew I’d know the right cat for me when I saw her, and turns out I did. Boo picked me really. I was walking down the aisles of cages when a white paw reached out tentatively through one of the cages, inserting a claw gently in the knee of my jeans, stopping my progress. Leaning down, I found a scared looking white face with big blue eyes and a pink nose staring back at me. “Take me home please” her expression said. “Sold”, said I! The cat managed to emanate grace, even under such difficult conditions, and has turned out to have a deep and abiding soul, that never ceases to impact me. I do love her so.

Getting the sheets off the bed, and cleaning Boo up, I decided it was at last time for my first cup of coffee. Switching the light on in the kitchen, I was dismayed to find a hundred tiny little ant soldiers scurrying about my counter. These ants lately are the scourge of my existence. I have been fighting the little so called “sugar ants” for weeks now, since they showed up after the last good rain. I keep my counters spotlessly clean, have tried spraying them with vinegar, but still the persistent little buggers continue to be a problem. This morning, I laid out a line of cayenne pepper along the trail they seem to favor. This seemed to temporarily stopped them, but I feel there are many more behind the walls, getting their game plan ready for the next assault. Richard said he put Borax down, and that took care of the colony he had. Perhaps when Boo and I are at his house, I will try putting some of that down here. I hate the thought of having to call a pest control person. Number one, they are expensive, and secondly, you usually have to sign up for repeated visits to get them to come out. Sigh. I read a while ago mixing sugar with baking soda is a good home remedy. I will definitely put this idea to good use if I find them on my counter again tonight.

In spite of all this confusion clogging up my gray matter, I somehow made it to work on time. We are enjoying “team building spirit days” with today having been called out as “green day”. I foraged through my closet, and finally came up a green blouse, pulled a green ball cap over my golden locks, and called it good. One does one’s best to comply.

Everything feels a bit chaotic to me the past few weeks. From what I’m hearing from my circle of friends, it would seem I don’t have the monopoly on chaos. According to stories being shared, it seems to be a time of disruptions for everyone. I’ve heard it over and over again from people over the past several weeks about electronic failures, car problems, computer glitches etc., the latest account being this morning on my way to work. A dear friend of mine was headed for the airport to begin the first leg of a trip to Chicago. The plan was for her to catch a plane in LA going to Seattle, meet a friend there, and then the two of them would travel on together to Chicago. Her friend is getting married and this is trip is by way of a pre-wedding shopping extravaganza to fill out her trousseau. Unfortunately, there was a snarl of traffic and my friend missed her flight by five minutes. The plane, sans my friend, is soaring over the Pacific as I write this, with at least one empty seat. Update, she got another flight to Seattle so life, as they say, goes on. Whew. We are functioning under a mercury retrograde at the moment, with travel plans always likely to be disrupted or make life feel a bit more loosey goosey. I know, speaking for myself, I’m just exhausted. I’d go get another cup of coffee in the break room. but the way things are going I’d probably end up with the roof caving in on me or sustaining a third degree while pouring the coffee in my cup.

According to Almanac.com

Three to four times a year, the planet Mercury appears to travel backward across the sky. We refer to these periods as times when Mercury is in apparent retrograde motion or simply ”Mercury retrograde.” To those who practice astrology, these times were traditionally associated with confusion, delay, and frustration. Think undelivered love letters, email blunders, and frazzled travel plans! This is an excellent time to reflect on the past, however, and it’s said that intuition is high during these periods. Coincidences can be extraordinary.

Whether you believe in the powers of the stars and the planets or not, you cannot ignore the fact that when such celestial occurrences are transpiring in our universe, they often appear to have an effect those of us traveling about this planet. The sun, the moon, all things in heaven and earth, Horatio, cannot be denied.

The pull of our planetary system is well documented. Statistically, more heinous crimes are likely to be committed several days before, during, and after a full moon. It is hypothesized that this is due to the human tidal waves created by the gravitational pull of the moon during these periods. Also, hospitals report more emergency room activity during a time of a full moon.

Astrology, or study of the stars and planets, has it’s roots in the beginning of time. People began with the study of seasons and branched out into the effects our skies have on the earth and it’s inhabitants. Today, of course, people study astrology in depth, some planning their lives with the stars to guide them. As always, I am fascinated by how little we really know about our amazing universe after populating it all these many years. Perhaps someday, long after I am planted somewhere, it’s secrets will be revealed. There is part of me that believes we cannot handle the truth so are better left with our speculations to dream on.

Happy Saturday to you. Check your travel plans twice before you venture on the road. The retrograde will be over on the 24th for those of you who put stock in such things.

Beam me up Scotty…..

I haven’t written in awhile. I’m in a transitional place in my world, and wouldn’t know how to begin to write about it yet. Instead, I will write about happenings in life of late, rather than the feelings floating around me, because I haven’t quite sorted those out yet.

It’s Friday, so I am at work. There is nothing in my In Basket but a ball of dust with a paper clip stuck to it, and an old half eaten Milky Way, so since my outlook for work today is bleak, I decided to use my free time constructively and write to you all. Some days here are pedal to the medal. Others, like the one I anticipate today, tend to move forward at a snail’s pace. I prefer to be busy, truth be known. I’d rather have ten projects with deadlines, and all phones ringing madly off the hook, than be sitting at my desk for eight hours watching the petals drop off the perpetual array of floral arrangements they spread around our lobby. Ah well, I do love to write, so here I am at it once again.

Richard and I returned yesterday afternoon from a brief business/pleasure trip to Reno. The object of this trip on the business side, was to unload (pardon the pun) three firearms for his previous sister-in-law who’s husband recently passed away. Like me, his sister-in-law has no knowledge of weapons. Her husband, however, was an avid collector of both cars and guns, so Richard stepped up to help her out at least with getting rid of the guns. I am not comfortable with guns, quite possibly because I have no single idea how to use them. Richard, an excellent marksman, has offered on several occasions to take me to the gun range for a few lessons. I have not signed up for his program as yet. I did have lunch with a friend several weeks ago, who I discussed this with. Surprisingly, she told me she had been terrified of guns as well, up until a few years ago when her husband talked her into taking a few shooting lessons. Now, she not only can safely handle a handgun, but likes to do target practice, and is a better shot than her husband is. Interesting.

Knowing my way around a hand gun wouldn’t be a bad idea I don’t suppose. It is an unsafe world at best these days. On the news last night, they were airing a story about two men in downtown Sacramento who stabbed each other during an argument over cup of coffee. Whoa. They were expected to live, but still. Now I do love my coffee, but for me whether I have a cup is certainly not going turn into a life or death situation. I guess it’s always been an unsafe world, only we have more minute to minute access to the details nowadays.

This reminds me of a story about my maternal grandmother, who lived alone up until her late eighties. Though she weighed in at a scant 100 pounds soaking wet, she was a feisty little being. As far as I know, though she grew up on a farm. she never handled a firearm. One morning she woke up as usual, and after performing her morning routine, she headed down the hall to get the teapot going on the stove. A large full length mirror was hung on the wall facing her at the end of the hall, which gave her a clear view of the entryway where the front door was located. Standing in the shadows by the corner of the door, was a young man she had never seen before. Instead of locking herself in the bathroom, which I probably would have done, she proceeded on down the hall. Confronting him, she whipped my grandfather’s heavy wooden cane out of the umbrella stand as she turned the corner, and proceeded to plummet this kid about the head until he opened the door and ran down the hall. From what I understand, he was apprehended in the lobby of her building and surrendered without any problems. Go Gam.

Rick used to say I didn’t have to worry about defending myself if someone broke in. When I am startled, I do one of three behaviors, I might dance, throw my hands up in air like I’m surrendering, or bang my feet up and down on the floor like I am marching in place. Rick’s theory was, on seeing any one of these three up close and personal, the intruder would just assume I was crazy, and leave before things escalated to a dark place. He may have had a point.

At any rate, as I was saying previously, Reno was on our radar day before yesterday. It was a gorgeous day for a drive through the Sierra Nevada mountains, I have to tell you. Bright azure skies, snow covered mountain peaks, and perfect spring weather with temperatures hovering around 78 degrees. Reno was, as usual, the scruffy little town it is known to be. It always seems disjointed to me, a mishmash of tall imposing casinos, tossed in willy nilly with a bunch of rough and ready little neighborhoods, with not much cohesion or thought put into it. Reservations had been made by Richard for a room at the El Dorado. The El Dorado is the cream filling squeezed in between two cookies, Circus Circus on one side, and the Silver Legacy on the other. The hotel/casino is quite lovely inside with all the usual bells and whistles one expects of a resort city casino.

A parking structure across the street has been erected for the convenience of guests staying at any of the three hotels, or for those just visiting for the day primed to lose their money in the myriad of machines available more than happy to gobble it up. I myself, donated sixty dollars to the voracious bill slots, my lavish budget for the day. Have to say those machines were really tight. I noticed there were a lot of stressed out people sitting around the various rooms, puffing away on smokes like it was their last cigarette, and chanting mystic incantations over animated screens. I can play or not play, which makes it fun, but would definitely hate to be that into it that I had to resort to chanting.

The first available parking spot we could locate was on the second floor. We unloaded our luggage and whatever else needed to accompany us. I had a carry on bag on wheels, another with my toiletries, and a bag with my shoes. I know, I’m an old Girl Scout, I like to be prepared. Richard, an engineer at heart, got me all put together so I could drag the carry on with everything else attached to it like a baby clinging to it’s mother’s tagging along. I walk fast, so I was some paces in front of Richard when heading towards the elevators. There was a ramp leading down to the first floor, which I passed, and then I arrived at the elevator themselves. I heard a noise like yelling, but it was muffled in all the traffic noise rising up from the street below. Turning around to check on Richard, he had disappeared. Poof, gone, into the air, no Richard to be seen. Whaaaaa? “Richard”, says I, to the air? Nope. “Okay, come on”, I’m thinking, “this bag is starting to get heavy”. Still no sign of him after a few minutes, I schlepped back up to the car. I believe my right arm was easily one inch longer at this point from dragging the load. Why I did this, I have no clue. I guess I wanted to reassure myself the car was still there. I don’t know what I thought, that Richard dropped me off and drove off menacingly grinning, “at last I’ve gotten rid of her, ha, ha, ha, ha”? Funny how your mind can conger up things when faced with a scenario it does not understand.

Walking back to the elevators, again, I found still no Richard in sight. Next, I called his cell phone, no answer. Now, that’s when a little seed of panic began to take root in my brain. The first irrational conclusion I came to, was the mother ship had come for him, and he had been beamed up with Scotty. Feeling this was probably highly unlikely, I went on to irrational conclusion number two, he had been abducted my terrorists and was being held somewhere in the warehouse district in an unmarked van. Up and down between the ground floor and the second floor I went like a yoyo chasing a string. Anyone watching me would have thought I’d slipped a cog. Finally, I crossed the street and entered doors in the ground floor of the casino. Nothing there but keno games in progress and valets. Hmmmm. Then, my phone vibrated. Sure enough, it was Richard on the line. I hoped it wasn’t a ransom request. I only had $60.00 on me. His first question was, “where are you”? “Me”? “Where am I”? The question of the day is, where are you? Oh, never mind. Anyhow, apparently he had told me to go to the skyway on the third floor while he returned to the car to get his sunglasses. I must have missed that transmission, and he was gone by the time I went back to the car, so from then on it was a comedy of errors. He was waiting for me at the front desk, and I was mighty glad to see his face, mighty glad. Good lord. Way too much excitement on an empty stomach.

Once we got checked in, the next order of business was to hit the gun shop. Seriously, I would have happily allowed him to conduct that business without me, but I wanted to be supportive, so off we went. Amazing place that. Room after room of every manner of weapon one can imagine. The guy behind the front desk looked like Grizzly Adams. He had enough ink showing where his shirt left off and his skin began, to qualify as a walking billboard for some local tattoo parlor. Richard and I sat across from one another in oversized leather chairs in the massive lobby next to a pair of black bears, stuffed of course, teeth barred and claws pawing at the ceiling. All around on the walls and peeking out of nooks and crannies were various deer, elk, moose, etc., who had met a nasty end thanks to something most likely sold at the front counter. There was so much testosterone in that room, I was sure I would have to shave my legs over again by the time we got back to our room.

Men came and went at regular intervals while the “estimator” looked at the guns we had brought to sell. Every time a new customer walked in with a weapon case slung over his shoulder, I imagined pictures I’d seen on TV of crazed gunmen and crossed my fingers we wouldn’t be on the five o’clock news that night as the featured story. The estimator, also the owner, was the only female other than myself I saw during that three quarters of an hour or so we were there. She looked every inch a mountain woman dressed in well worn jeans held in place by suspenders, tucked into heavy hiking boots with soles as thick as rashers of bacon. The jeans were topped off by a plaid shirt, tucked in as well, with her long hair captured in a neat braid cascading over one shoulder. On her head, she wore a ball cap that listed all calibers of guns next to a saying reading “All faster than dialing 911”. That’s it, definitely not messing with her. Solid as a rock she was, from stem to stern from what I could see. I decided to wait quietly and mind my business while Richard took care of things. Sitting there in my huge chair with bears on both sides, I felt like Goldilocks lounging in Papa Bear’s chair. When I first sat down, the overstuffed cushion deflated like a poorly baked popover, leaving me with my knees almost at the same level as my chin. It took me five minutes to extract myself from the sinkhole left behind from years of behinds resting in exactly that same spot.

When the woman returned with Richard, I learned a deal had been cut for all three weapons. Yay. I was thankful they were remaining with her. There was something eerie about having them lying on the floor in the back seat on the way up. I kept wondering what would happen if we got pulled over, though they were perfectly legal. Orange is definitely not my color.

Anyhow, the rest of the trip went uneventfully, thank heavens. I ate too much, enjoyed a cocktail or two, played my $60 until it was no more, and all in all had a lovely time. Life is good.

Again, happy Friday to you. Another week in the shredder, where are they disappearing to? Enjoy the beginning of spring if it’s premiering in your neighborhood. In mine everything is blooming and fresh. Love the feeling of renewal.

To bee or not to bee, that is the question

This year presents, for me, many personal life decisions. Do I stay where I am a single lady with one cat, in my dear little rental house and continue my weekly commute back and forth to Richard’s? Or…… do I move to Richard’s, and become part of a small family unit with one cat? Hmmmmm. Do I keep my job should I move, and commute the 45 minutes to and from work two days a week? Or….., do I look for a job closer to where Richard is located? Or…. Option 3, quit entirely, put my feet up, and eat bon bons ? Do I head out for three months with Richard in the fifth wheel for Alaska and parts unknown? Or…… do I stay home and continue my life as it is while he heads out on this own? If I do go, what about my sweet Boo cat, who is having some end of life issues at the moment? I cannot picture myself leaving her for that length of time, any more then I can imagine taking her with us. These questions keep me up at night of late. My dreams seem to be heavily laced with old issues still unresolved, as well as a plethora of current issues I’m working on. All this leaves me with the overwhelming urge to catch a southbound train and not look back. Running away is never the solution. That does not mean it doesn’t look pretty good to me right at the moment, that and a very large margarita rimmed with salt, solutions or no solutions.

In the middle of all this muddle, I was scheduled to have surgery on my hand April 5th. I have a wonky pinkie on my left hand due to Duperyns Contracture. There is no doubt I do need to address this. In particular, it is becoming annoying when I type. As it is bent nearly in half, it insists on hitting the Caps Lock key instead of the “A” on the keyboard leaving me with row after row of upper case letters. Need to or not, there is just no way I can fit everything going on into one small life. So, I postponed it. My guess is, the surgeon is going to be less than pleased with this decision. Sometimes, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. If I had proceeded with the surgery, immediately following I would be required to go back and forth daily for physical therapy appointments. These visits are mandatory for proper recovery, and cannot be missed. The huge facility where the PT office is located is twenty-five minutes away and, is undergoing a complete renovation of it’s parking areas. The last time I was there, I circled the wagons for about an hour trying to find some place to park. Finally, I had to do battle with another tired traveler for the one available space that opened up. I thought things might get ugly, Under the table cash deals were being ironed out for parking rights, but I got there a fraction of time before she did, and to the victor go the spoils. She did offer me the one finger salute as she passed by, which I took as a sign she wasn’t totally pleased with the outcome. Doing that every day, would have me setting up a mental health appointment as well. On top of this, Boo goes for treatments every other day. In between work, commuting back and forth, appointments, friends and family, Boo, and Richard, ummmmm, nope, can’t do it. Someone’s going to mad, guess the doctor is just as good a choice as the next fellow. At least he doesn’t live with me. Personally, I don’t think when you are stressed, it is a good time to go under anesthesia to begin with. As the plan was to put me totally out during the surgery, whether right or wrong in the doctor’s view, this feels like “right” to me at the moment.

Another stress inducer is that there is so much going on in the news lately. I have taken to selective news watching which includes the weather, puppies and kittens, and stories with happy conclusions. Takes about five minutes of my time every morning. Then, I pick up the highlights of the meatier news stories, like politics, war, and mayhem from my news junkies as the day goes along. I did hear there was yet another mass shooting in the headlines. We seem to be seeing these on a regular basis. I had a conversation on St. Patrick’s Day with one of the people seated at our dinner table about this very subject. The gentleman I was talking to is former military, and has a permit to carry in the State of California. For him, this is a very hot button subject. When talking about such things you have to keep both ears open to hear both sides of the question not just want you want to hear that supports your thinking. In my defense, I did not bring the subject up. I wanted to have a nice peaceful end to a lovely dinner party. However, once weapons were drawn, so to speak, I found I needed to put my two cents worth in for my own peace of mind. I am not adverse to individuals having weapons for self defense and hunting, if that is your pleasure. It is not my choice, but I support the fact it could well be someone else’s. However, I see no reason why a private citizen needs to own an assault weapon. If you used an AK47 on a deer, there would be nothing left but a set of antlers on your dinner plate. This made everybody laugh, but I was serious about that. In response, the gentleman said, “it is my right”, followed by, “if they do a background check, it will be fine”. That being true, why are we leading the world in mass shootings? A background check doesn’t prevent warped thinking from trumping the background check card (no pun intended). Just saying. But enough gun talk for now.

Another holiday is about to make itself known. I came into work this morning to find a huge replica of a chocolate bunny sitting by my desk cradling a basket of eggs, as well as all kinds of Easter decorations adorning the walls and counters. Next Friday, I’ve been informed, is Easter finery day. Employees are being encouraged to dress up in their Easter best for work. Kay. Cold weather has moved back into our area replacing the glorious spring days we’ve been treated to over the past couple of weeks. Last report rain was coming in both this weekend and Easter weekend. Most of my Easter clothes lean towards warmer weather so may just have to pull a hat out and throw some flowers on it and call it good. Today is “Cat in the Hat Day” (I missed the memo). I wasn’t told, as I’m only here two days a week, so couldn’t go through my storage bins to pull out my trusty red and white striped hat for the occasion. A lot of people are running around here looking decidedly “youer than you” for a Friday.

I do love Dr. Suess. Read all his books to my children, and they, in turn, to theirs. Like so many enduring children’s book writers, there is often a message to their madness hidden in between the lines. Would be amazing, to my mind at least, to write something so profound as to last for generation after generation. I keep getting that nag in my brain that I have the propensity to write a book. I certainly am wordy enough, lol, but I can’t seem to wrap my arms around such a momentous project. You don’t just sit down and bang a book out. Writing a definitive novel requires structure and planning. You need a plot and a story line, for example. People have suggested over the years I write about my life, but who’d believe it? Just kidding. Well, sort of kidding. Who’d care, is another question? I would like to leave my mark in the sand, but don’t know quite where to begin. Another project to ponder in 2024. I find when I have dilemmas, I don’t have to leap forward into doing something. However, if I don’t at least take a step in the direction I am desiring to go, it becomes an “I’ll think about it tomorrow” rather than an “I’ll do it today” sort of situation.

Another such moving forward item on my list would be to exercise. I walk every day at least twenty-five minutes. However, as good as that is for the body, I need to do some toning and strengthening. My skin is definitely not gathered as tightly around my body as it used to me, and that’s a fact. When it comes to working out on machines, I’d rather eat a spider. No, I’d rather eat ten spiders. Truly, I abhor structured exercise. As I’ve mentioned before, so far I have signed up with three gyms, only to pay the price of admission but never show up for the actual workouts. Sigh. It’s a personal problem. An alternative might be yoga. Somehow it feels more pleasing to me. There’s an APP called “lazy yoga” or some such appealing name. I looked into it. It says “free”, but that’s only to download it. Once installed, then you pay. I’d rather not. I’m not eager enough to do it, to have to pay for it. As I said, a personal problem. The residents do chair exercises here every day in the room across from the lobby where I sit. I’ve begun to mimic them if I’m having a slow day, but don’t think that’s going to tighten up much.

On the subject of spiders, or insects in general, yesterday I went to take a bath at Richard’s house and found a very large roach had taken up occupancy in the tub ahead of me. Ewwwwwww. OMG. I can’t stand roaches. I read once they could withstand a nuclear holocaust, but found out on further research that’s not really true. They can, in fact, withstand large amounts of radiation, but a nuclear blast would take them out with the rest of us. Still, wouldn’t surprise me if a couple of their hardy band made it through, scorched but not beaten. Richard is very clean, his house always immaculate, but yet there this bug was waving one spiny little leg at me. I abandoned the bath. It’s not like I’d been working out, lol, no danger of that. When I lived in the south, they had huge cockroaches. Something about that humid air breeds outrageously large insects. In Florida, they have large flying roaches. Adds a little more fun to the party.

I had noticed three pest control vans outside one of Richard’s neighbors houses the day before, indicative of someone dealing with a bug problem. Quite often, if they spray one house, whatever is hiding in the walls relocates to the closest safe space. I know this, because it happened to me when I rented a condo when my kids were small. The complex was brand new, and we were to be the first tenants. Several weeks after we’d moved in, I opened a drawer in the kitchen to find a meaty cockroach perched atop one of my serving spoons. Having no one available to remove it but me, I got rid of it, hoping it was the only one around. This, I learned later, was highly unlikely. Cockroaches are social beings. Also, where you might see only one, there could be hundreds more lurking in the dark somewhere. Sure enough, several nights later, I woke up in the middle of the night and turned over on my pillow, only to find a second tribe member staring me directly in the face from the pillow next to me. Lighting my sock on fire wouldn’t have gotten me out of that bed any faster. Whew. The following morning, I called the landlord. He reported they had sprayed apartments around me for roaches, and apparently not spraying mine made it an inviting vacation getaway for the disenfranchised bugs. Swell. They sprayed my place next, and that was the end of the insect problem, until the black widows moved into my garage. It wasn’t just one spider, I could have dealt with one spider, but she brought with her friends and family. The babies, sort of translucent in nature, would repel down on thin strings of web over my head while I was doing laundry. While out in the garage, I spent most of my time swatting at my head at invisible targets while trying to load or unload the machines. With another twenty or so boxes to unpack from our move, I began to open them with a pair of tongs while wearing industrial strength rubber gloves in the event any crawling surprises lurked inside. This was totally not working for me. Once again, I put a call into the landlord. The helpful pest man who came out to eradicate the spiders, explained several things to me prior to spraying. The first, was the most alarming. He said he probably could not do his job thoroughly because, black widows like to hide in boxes. Goody. I still had ten or so boxes left perfect for habitation. I hoped I hadn’t already transported anything into the house. Secondly, he told me turning under land to build new construction can create infestations such as this. Ants, most likely would be next. Sure enough, not long afterwards, I came home from work only to find my sink and counters literally awash with tiny ants. There was nothing in either location that should have drawn the little buggers, and yet, there they were. They were crawling up walls, in toilets, inside shower stalls. When I actually found frozen dead ant corpses mixed in with the chocolate chips in my mint chocolate chip ice cream container IN THE FREEZER, that, as they say, was the end of that program. What was next, a swarm of locusts, or being overrun by a pack of rats? Deciding I wasn’t willing to wait around to find out, I gave my thirty-day notice. As it turned out, we moved into a lovely place I liked better several miles away, totally bug free. As an added bonus, it was $100 a month cheaper. Sometimes, you are forced into a decision that turns out in the end to be the best decision for you to have made in the first place.

So here we are at another weekend. Because I made the trip to my storage unit to retrieve my warm weather clothes last week, the forecast is rain and snow for the area. Murphy you dog.

Happy weekend.

Sticking the landing…..

Last week I had to have four spots frozen on my face that were considered to be “pre cancers”. Other than going outside under cover of darkness to avoid sunlight, or walking around with a parasol wearing a ski mask, I guess I will be dealing with having this procedure done a regular basis to keep me intact. The spots formed four blisters in the center of my cheek leaving me looking as if I’d been bobbing for French fries. Very attractive, I have to say. Ah well, this too will pass. Yesterday I had errands to run. I told Richard I hoped I didn’t scare small children in the stores. He said he couldn’t even notice it. Thank you Richard for that kindness, however I do have a mirror at my disposal. I hate having anything done on my face. It’s the first place people look. I feel compelled to stop complete strangers to explain I had surgery and don’t usually look this way. What a narcissistic thought, yes? It’s ridiculous, I know, but we women are held to a high standard in the U.S. and it’s difficult when you can’t live up to it. When I went into work the first person who came up to my desk was a doctor. He looked at me and said, “pre-cancer”? Okay Richard, you big fibber. I cannot imagine what people who have suffered severe burns or other disfigurement go through every day, so I shall quit my whining and behave myself lest I become ashamed of my behavior, which at this moment I already am.

When you go in for such an exam, they pick and fuss over you like a mother chimpanzee might her little one when searching for fleas. As they scour your body for flaws, when they see something suspicious they stop, hold up their little magnifier, and say “hmmmm” or “oh my” for emphasis. When they find something they really don’t like, they take out the dreaded freeze gun and zap, zap, zap at it. It’s interesting, at first it just feels cold, then the stinging shows up. After that, the skin reacts to the assault, and you are left either with red marks or blisters. Lucky me, I have blisters. Ah, but I see I’m whining again.

We (Richard and I) had a dinner party Sunday to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day. The menu was traditional, with a corned beef and cabbage dinner as the main attraction. In Richards case, as well as several other guests at the table, he stops at corned beef as he doesn’t like cabbage in any form. I, on the other hand, can cook a cabbage, and if allowed, would eat the entire head at one sitting. However, as cabbage is included in the “windy” variety of vegetables, this would not be advisable unless one was sleeping alone.

Ten friends and family members joined us at the table. I broke out my beautiful green dinner plates Rick bought me many years ago which were perfect for the occasion, stopping to thank him quietly while distributing them on the table. I was missing my children, but there will be other holidays, I hope at least, where they will be seated at my table. My first husband, also their father, came from Irish ancestors, so my children are Irish by half. Last year I took a DNA test to see if I could dig up any unknown or missing relatives, and found out I have a smattering of Irish thrown in the pot myself, along with a heaping helping of English, Welsh, Scottish, with a wee tad of German and Swedish thrown in for taste. Sort of a Heinz 57 apparently. Also, it seems I stem from Neanderthal roots. Interesting. I wondered why my knuckles were always red. The tests I took didn’t unearth any missing relatives, unfortunately. Somewhere in this world I have twin half brothers five years younger than myself I would love to find, but have no idea how to proceed as I don’t have much information to go on. Being an only child, I am intrigued by the thought of having siblings of any kind, and am undeniably curious about seeing who these two are. Hopefully, I will unlock some hidden door to find them standing behind it before it’s too late.

We don’t have any extended family locally on either my mother or my father’s side. As I’ve said many times in my writings, my mother and I relocated from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Southern California when my mother married my first stepfather. I was nine. All my relatives, both paternal and fraternal, remained in Canada, spread out like pimples on a teenager’s face from one side of the continent to the other. When my stepfather was no longer part of the equation after a rocky three year run, it was just my mother and I who formed our family unit, until my second stepfather entered the picture. He was one of eleven, hailing from an Irish Catholic family, all of whom were based on the east coast. That being said, he was the plus one at family gatherings once they tied the knot. This remained the status quo until I got married and had my two children, and they in turn had theirs. There are no aunts, uncles or cousins who show up for holidays to tell embarrassing stories about the time you nearly drowned the cat in the toilet when you were three, at least none from my generation. Since I have no siblings, there aren’t any nieces, nephews, sister-in-laws or brother-in-laws either to populate the pictures taken on such occasions. We form a tight but hardy little band of travelers. I’ve always had a silent yearning to be part of a large boisterous family unit. When I got married the first time, my thought was to add six new faces, somewhat like mine, to the population growth. Life, and the universe, had it’s own roadmap, so in the end there were to be only two I was to contribute. They are a special two, so I have no complaints. My children are truly the best of me and their father, who has been gone since they were eight and nine. I have never for one second regretted the choice to be their mother. There are some who believe we choose who will bring us into the world. I am not sure my kids would have opted for me looking back, as mistakes were made. My early years were filled with lessons and learning curves, not always easy to manage for me or my offspring. There is no question, however, in my mind I would have signed up for the two of them if asked to do it again without a moment’s hesitation.

Life was a bit chaotic once we got to California. I went to twelve schools between fourth grade and high school graduation. There were a lot of first days for me as a child. Without siblings for back up, these new beginnings were faced by me, and me alone, unsupported by anything but my Archie lunch pail and my staunch determination, peppered with a heavy dose of stubbornness. Somehow, I managed to get through it all, learning a lot as I went along about surviving in a world that isn’t always easy on those of us who populate it. Was I to say anything about the first half of my life it would be that I was a survivor. My mother used to say if she threw me out of a twelve story window I would, like a cat, manage to land on my feet.

Lately, I am finding I have settled more into myself, accepting that I am getting older (though not always acknowledging it lol), and being kinder to me. I was far from perfect, but who has achieved such lofty goals. I stuck the landing as best I could and though perhaps I didn’t get a 10, at least I made the effort.

So, I shall end with those deep thoughts on this incredibly beautiful, and pollen infused sunny 70’s day here in Northern California. Have a great week. Remember to stop and smell the roses, but take a box of tissue on your walk as everything is blooming and it’s beginning to look a lot like spring.

Whooooo are you??

I begin this writing with a gripe. I pay quite a hearty sum each month for the privilege of having health coverage. I pay a second fee for prescriptions, which also comes out of my account every thirty days. My deductible is $500 annually which comes into play the beginning of each calendar year. Until the deductible is met, I pay market price for medications. Yesterday, I picked up two prescriptions which came to $256 and change. I have to say it does make me wonder why I pay for insurance. After swallowing that large pill, I got home and found an envelope in my mail box from the fire department. When I had RSV the beginning of January, the doctor prescribed a large dose of prednisone to help me breathe. The dose she gave me turned out to be too much for my small body to handle. After taking the meds, my heart rate and blood pressure elevated to the point I thought perhaps I might be having a heart attack. Richard, alarmed, called 911. Four firemen arrived at the front door in short order to check on me. (On a personal note, do you suppose they actually hire these men based on their looks or is it merely serendipity they are all so impossibly attractive? But, I digress.) After a bit, my symptoms began to abate and I declined their offer for a ride to the emergency room to be further assessed. At any rate, this envelope I received from the fire department contained a bill for reimbursement for the use of the fire truck sent out that day in the amount of $500. The medical profession in general must be under the mistaken belief I’m printing $100 bills in the basement in my spare time. Hello? When Rick was sick, the fire truck was parked in our driveway fairly often. One time I remember in particular, Rick had passed out while taking a shower. When I discovered him, he was not responsive and completely covered with soap from head to toe. Immediately, I dialed 911. The 911 operator instructed me to lift him out of the tub and lay him on the floor. Huh, I don’t think so. Rick, at the time, weighed around 180 pounds. Limp, I’m sure he would have felt far heavier. I weigh in at about 110. Factor in the soap, and it would have been like me managing a greased pig. No offense meant Rick, if you are listening. Three EMT’s arrived, and it took all three men to remove Rick from the tub using a makeshift hammock. Thankfully, after a visit to the ER, for that time at least, he was able to recover. The fire personnel who responded to these calls, were always wonderful and terribly helpful, and told me never to hesitate to call whenever the need arose. Not once, did I ever receive a bill for the fire truck. According to what I was reading in the recent letter, this is a new ordinance. The letter went on to say to call their office and apprise them of any insurance I possess and most likely the insurance would take care of the charges. Mine, as it turns out, does not. Naturally. Really? Again, why is it I have insurance exactly? So, I’m on the line for this as well. I told the woman on the phone, “next time I believe I’ll just go ahead and have a heart attack”. “No, no, no”, she replied, “that is what we don’t want”. Hmmmmm. Well, whether it is what they want or not, I certainly will think nine or ten times before dialing those three numbers consecutively again, I guarantee.

I will put this to bed for now. Thank you for letting me “air” my thoughts on the subject. Speaking of air, if things continue in the direction they are going, pretty soon we’re going to be charged for how much air we take in on a given day. If that happens, the Blue Man Group are going to have a lot of competition.

Over the weekend the sky was ominous. Dark black clouds spilled out rain and snow as a mega storm moved across our area. It even threatened to leave an inch of snow in my back yard, where snow is a rarity. Brrrrrr. It did not produce it, thankfully, but we definitely got a lot of rain. I moved down from the high country to avoid both fires and snow. I have to admit though, I don’t mind an occasional dusting of snow to decorate the landscape, as long as it melts off in a day or so. Weather, unless it’s life threatening, doesn’t bother me. I rather like a little inclement weather now and again. Being inside as a storm rages outside is something I enjoy, as long as the power doesn’t go out. I particularly don’t like it when it goes out at night. A house can take on such a different feeling when there is no electricity.

Being in a dark house alone at night always takes me back to when I was living in Wakefield, Massachusetts. If you were to produce a travel brochure depicting the perfect New England town, you couldn’t fill the bill better than to feature Wakefield on the front cover. Incorporated in the late 1800’s, the streets of Wakefield featured beautifully restored Victorian homes perched high atop perfectly manicured lawns. Stately trees decorated nearly every lot, with orderly lines of birches and maples marching along the meridians of the main thoroughfares like soldiers out on patrol. Above the tree lines, church steeples reached majestically towards the heavens. Behind each church, graveyards with crumbling tombstones told the story of the town’s original settlers. The hub around which all this revolved, was a picturesque lake, both great for swimming and boating in the summer, as well as ice skating and snow sailing in the winter.

I was twenty-two and change when I moved into the quaint old white house on the south side of that lake, my children still in diapers. The house itself held some historical value, proudly displaying a plaque on it’s siding at the front of the building relating a bit of it’s history. Often. people pulled in and took pictures while we were home, or walked up the drive to read the details on the plaque itself. It was an impressive house, comprised of four stories, if you included the basement and attic. The owner, an ex mariner, had divided the house in the center creating two separate units. One unit was facing the lake, which was ours, and the other, overlooked the massive back yard. Originally, I believe this plan was devised in order to accommodate his daughter and her family who for a time occupied the back space. However, when the daughter moved on, as did the owner, the house sat vacant for a year or so. When we moved in, the back of the house remained unoccupied for another year or so until a couple about our age and their young daughter finally signed a lease. There was a door both upstairs and down connecting the two units. Before the other couple moved in, strange sounds sometimes emanated from the emptiness lying beyond those doors. On occasion, when in the house alone, the bumps and bangs sometimes caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up at full attention. Built in 1898, at least according to the plaque, I always believed the house to be haunted. Though I never actually “saw” an inhabitant not listed on the rental agreement, there was a feeling inside it’s walls at times, more sensory than palpable, of not being the only residents. Old houses, to my mind, seem to hold tightly to their stories. In some cases, I believe they hold on to the people the stories center around as well.

I rarely ventured up the rickety wooden stairs connecting the second floor to the attic. I explored it once or twice, but always had the feeling the floor might give out or something creepy and crawly might slither down the back of my shirt. The space, from what I could see, had been mainly used for storage, still housing several boxes marked “xmas” from the former inhabitants, as well as several other unmarked cartons sitting in dark corners gathering dust. Once while up there, I heard the pitter patter of little feet scurrying across the floorboards, which was enough to keep me enjoying other areas of the house rather than returning to the attic any time soon.

One night during the dead of winter, a blizzard buried the area. Both my husband and myself worked in Boston, commuting back and forth via subway. I made it home that Friday night, but my husband had to work late. Roads were shut down by the time he was headed home, leaving the kids and I to fend for ourselves, and him in a hotel in Boston. The wind was swirling snow outside. Now and again, it would toss a handful against the windows, making it sound as if someone was knocking. Perhaps, they were?? I built a fire in the massive fireplace. Cuddling under a blanket with my two little ones, I read them story after story to keep their minds off the howling outside. Pretty soon, the heat from the crackling fire and the steady drone of my voice weaved their spell, and small eyelids began to droop. Tucking them into bed, I came downstairs alone to clean up after dinner. The fire had burned down considerably. I added a new log to bring it back to life. The poker, always stored in the rack for safe keeping was leaning against the hearth. I knew I did not leave it there because I clearly remembered having difficulty securing it in the rack before taking the children up the stairs. Those hairs on the back of my neck were not only standing up at that point, but were saluting. This was not the first time things had been moved without explanation since we had been in the house. My husband, a total cynic about all things otherwordly, had even commented on several occasions items he knew he had put away had turned up either back where they had started or turned up in different locations. Hmmmmmm, and double hmmmmmmm.

Just as I turned on the water to rinse the dishes, the lights flickered, then went completely out. The only light in the house now came from the flickering shadows of the fire. Creepy, I am telling you. When alone, your mind can conjure up many stories to keep itself occupied. Locating a flashlight in the cupboard, I was pleased to find it responded immediately when I pushed the on button. I checked the fire. The poker, was in the rack where it belonged, I went up to check on the children, adding another blanket to each bed. Going downstairs to again beef up the fire, the poker was now on the left hand side of the fireplace and the fire was happily burning in the grate. I always remember that night sitting under the blanket on the couch, where I decided to sleep. Though completely alone except for my sleeping children, I had a feeling I wasn’t. I always think of this when the wind is whistling outside and the skies grow dark. We know so little about the other side, but to me it is more likely there is something to spirits existing in the beyond the beyond then there is not. I prefer to keep my mind open and available to all possibilities rather than only entertaining one version of the story.

Here we are in March. Where is the time getting off to? Corned beef is showing up in the grocery stores and bunnies are appearing on all the shelves. Have a happy week. Spring is not far away. The trees are already welcoming it in with the dogwoods in bloom and tiny buds erupting everywhere you look. Life is always regenerating itself. I can understand why one would want to linger is such a beautiful world, even after their time here has come to the end.

Check please…..

Richard’s surprise party was last Sunday night. One of the participants offered to order and pick up the cake for me, and also deliver it to the restaurant. When I asked how he’d like to be repaid, he said by check. While writing the check out to him, it occurred to me I haven’t been writing many checks lately. Actually, I haven’t been writing checks for quite awhile. All the transactions I do these days are either on my phone or on my laptop it seems. Like the slowly disappearing landlines, exchanging money in paper form will probably soon be as obsolete as the floppy disc. Some of you, the younger group, are now sitting there thinking “floppy discs”? My son wanted to exchange funds with me recently. I suggested depositing the money directly in my bank account to which he texted “??????”, as if I’d suggested he cut up the funds and throw the pieces out in the street. Next he texted Zelle or Venmo? To this text I replied, “Paypal”? He came back with, “is Paypal still even a thing”? I don’t know, is it? What is the thing? Just when I begin to get whatever the current in thing is, they come up with a new thing to take it’s place and I have to start my learning curve all over again. Like my cellphone before I removed the plastic protective shield, Paypal was probably obsolete before it went public. Sigh.

The party was a great success. There were eighteen of us seated at the table. The venue was a favorite Mexican restaurant of ours not far from the house. Thankfully, we had reservations, because people were standing outside in the rain waiting for a table to open up when we pulled in. Inside was so packed it created an atmosphere bordering on controlled chaos. There were several large parties celebrating birthdays such as ourselves, and every table was filled. Unbeknownst to me when I made the reservations, Sunday night is a very popular night to eat there because the mariachis perform. Oh. So, the strolling musicians were belting out El Son De La Negra with trumpets blaring while waiters called out orders over our heads and margaritas flowed liberally to nearly every table. The look on Richard’s face when he saw everyone at the table made it worthwhile. He seemed very pleased everyone showed up to help him celebrate add another candle to his cake. The cake, though beautifully decorated, was a whole different story. It was massive, the top covered in frosting flowers. When cut, it displayed about ten layers inside. Unfortunately, as pretty as it was to look at, it wasn’t nearly as appealing to eat. I’ve said frequently, I don’t eat sweets as a rule. I’m sure it’s a genetic defect, but I’m simply not much for sugar. People seem to find this, at the very least odd, and some find it totally off putting. That being said, I don’t advertise this piece of information about me when I go out unless someone asks. I had decided since I’d shelled out nearly one whole Ben Franklin for this impressive confection, I was going to at least have to taste it. Pfffft. The frosting, though it looked satiny and fluffy enough, had been made with Crisco. To my palette, and just about everyone else’s at the table, this type of icing leaves an aftertaste in your mouth like you’ve just licked a spoon dipped it in vegetable oil. Ewwwww. The rest of the meal was wonderful, however, and everyone seemed to have a good time.

I’m not a huge fan of surprise parties truth be known. When I was engaged to my first husband, my bridesmaids, friends and family threw me three bridal showers, the last which was a surprise. My fiance was tasked with keeping me out of the way during the day, so the ladies could set things up for the shower. Being a man, he came up with the idea of taking me to the beach. Not that the ocean isn’t a fabulous choice of locations mind you, it’s my favorite, it was just not particularly a good choice that day. I came home sunburned, hair full of sand, and wearing a bathing suit top, cutoffs and flip flops only to open the door to find a gorgeously decorated room full of beautifully dressed women. Seeing them all sitting there immediately prompted me to tears. As I wasn’t dressed for company, everyone had to sit there while I took a shower and cleaned up. Once presentable, the party went on without a hitch (no wedding pun intended). I remember my maid of honor had purchased cupcakes from a local baker that were so lovely. Each cupcake had a perfectly shaped rose on the top in the three colors reflective of my wedding. Not only did they look beautiful on the table, but they were delicious, as decadent pastries should be, when you popped one in your mouth.

I have to say, I am about partied out and it’s only February. Whew. I’m still not completely over the crest of the hill after COVID and RSV paid me a visit over the holidays. My usual Energizer Bunny stamina, though on a steady upturn, isn’t as robust as it might be normally. I have a while now to store up before anything new shows up on the calendar. The next major holiday isn’t until St. Patrick’s Day in the middle of March. Blessedly, all I have to do for that day is show up with my bib in place and sit down at the table to enjoy a corned beef dinner. After that the steady calendar year of highlighted events begins in earnest as the thermometer begins to climb upward. Easter is the next big celebration day. Though created as a religious holiday, if you look on the store shelves, it seems to be all about the bunny. We have only one little one among us these days, who is five and a half. For him, it is all about gathering the hidden eggs and biting the heads off chocolate bunnies. I was in Home Goods yesterday, my happy place, and the shelves were bulging with spring. Bunnies and chicks of all shapes and sizes adorned plates, serving dishes, pillows, and anything else you could imagine. Lovely wreathes of spring flowers hung on displays, and the feeling that winter was on the way out gave me a lift in my walk. Fall being at the top of my seasonal favorites, winter is perhaps at the bottom. Though I don’t find gray days depressing, like many people I know, after a while I do find myself longing for the trees to begin to bud and small bits of color to begin to push there way through the sprigs on my garden plants. Personally, I think the creator or creators of our world, should have stopped with spring and fall, and left it at that. Those two seasons are perfect to my mind, with little need for dour winter or perspiration inducing summer poking their noses in between them. Although I do like a touch of snow now and again, at least to look at, I am long past the need to have it fall in my yard and have to be shoveled to allow me to get my car out in the morning or to lie in the sun and soak up some skin cancer like I did when I was younger.

Also on the agenda this year will be the much touted elections. Candidates and issues will be the topic of conversation around the water cooler most of the year I would imagine. With all the power struggles going on in the two parties we currently have representing us, it makes me long for a third party option. We could call it the Rational Party, a party based on common sense, the needs of the voting population, and some good old solid thinking. Perhaps it is too lofty a concept for Washingtonians to embrace. Baby steps.

I have a feeling personally this will be a year of many changes in my world. I can feel the shifting sands below my feet as surely as if the phenomenon was actually occurring, rather than only a metaphor. There are many doors that could potentially open and close as the year progresses. As always, I will be interested to see how my story writes itself. Work is a door, or at least working at this particular job, is a door that could possibly close for me. I love the people here but if I should decide to move in with Richard, driving here from Richard’s wouldn’t be cost effective for only two days a week. That one, I would have to weigh along with so many other things before making such a decision.

For the past month they have been doing Employee Spirit Friday’s here at work. The first two weeks centered around Valentine’s Day. The first Friday it was color your hair in Valentine’s Color. I did not get the memo on this, so I did not participate. The following Friday it was wear Valentine Colors Day. Missed that one too. Today is Wear Your Favorite Plaid Shirt Day (don’t ask me why). I have one plaid shirt which would comfortably accommodate two of me with room to spare. Not wanting to be out of step again, I dragged it out and washed and ironed it. I know! My little legs tucked in my leggings under this voluminous top gives me to look of an olive hovering over two toothpicks. Ah well. Guess what? I got to work and I am the only one in a plaid shirt. Now I’m stuck in this all day. At least I’m the automatic winner of the spirit prize and I get my picture, no matter how unfortunate I might look, in the bulletin.

So, I hope your Valentine’s Day was special. It’s the weekend, can’t be all bad. Talk soon.

Una visita al dentista, ole!

So, the monster storm predicted ominously by the weather forecasters moved through California weekend before last. Though it packed plenty of wallop wind wise, it did not bring with it the predicted amount of heavy precipitation, at least not to our area. Though we always need the water, had this storm made good on the predictions for rainfall, it would probably have been too much water at one time for the ground the absorb. In the end less, than more. was a good thing. Also on the plus side, according to those in the know, our reservoirs have reached high enough levels with this month’s precipitation, to see us through the summer months. That is good news as our rainy season started off a little sluggish. Water and capturing enough of it, is always of major concern in our state. Though flooding was not a problem, again in our area, there were the usual side effects expected with a spell of bad weather. Power outages were reported by PG&E, and many people ended up with trees or large branches down in their yards. There were enough small branches scattered about in my yard to make a nice fire, but fortunately nothing major fell to the ground, unless, of course, you count my back fence. I guess if I owned the house, this would seem more major. Instead, as a renter, it is more of an inconvenience. The shame of it is, the fence, a shared border with my neighbor to the west, was recently repaired. For three years there was a significant hole in the center of one of the panels which had been cleverly plugged with a tree stump to keep the neighbor’s dogs in their own yard. The stump, protruding through the hole on both sides, made for an interesting conversation piece when I had people over, but wasn’t particularly aesthetically pleasing. Two workmen spent several weeks erecting a lovely new fence less than a month ago. The result of their hard work is now resting in a large puddle on my lawn. Sigh. I looked out during the crux of the storm to see my neighbor’s small white dog perched happily in the middle of the boards, probably delighted to find itself with access to a much larger space to deposit it’s morning meal. I feel bad for my landlords because it will be their job to replace it, and they are the best, but life does what it does. If that’s the worst thing I have to deal with this year, I’ll keep the smile firmly in place on my face.

Here I am almost ready to go back to work again. Where do the weeks go? I can’t believe it’s already the middle of February, and Valentine’s Day has come and gone. I went to the Hallmark store last week and found a card and some candy for Richard. To be honest, I was just excited to find a Hallmark store. There aren’t many of them around anymore. I remember when there was a Hallmark Store in every mall. I waded through a sea of Valentine’s cards struggling to find one that expressed the sentiment I wanted to convey. Either they were too mushy mushy, just plain silly, or missing a good attempt at being funny. Who’s writing these? I think I’ll get in on it. I can make poor attempts at humor with the best of them, and would be happy to collect a paycheck for doing it. Maybe they’ve run out of greeting card humor so they are just stuck with the same old script, mostly jabs at your age, potty humor, or really sappy verse.

I realize a card and some candy might not seem very creative. Truth is, I never know what on earth to get for the man. Richard seems to have everything. As yet, anything I have asked him to produce by way of tools, kitchen utensils, gadgets, or office equipment, he has managed to pull out of his magic bag. I feel if I asked him for a feather from a white peacock, one of the rarest creatures on earth, one would be seen fanning itself beyond his sliding glass door before I got the words fully formed in my mouth. Just when I figure out Valentine’s Day, his birthday shows up. I do have somewhat of a handle on that. A surprise party is in the works. Thus far, fingers crossed, I believe he hasn’t got a clue what is being planned. The whole thing threatened to be unseated when he suddenly decided to take an unexpected trip down to Mexico to get his teeth looked at. At first, he seemed determined to be gone over his birthday. I derailed that thought as soon as it got formed. To give credit where credit’s due, it was the Super Bowl that actually derailed it allowing me to divert it onto another track. Richard wanted to be home in time to watch the 49ers win in the comfort of his own living room on February 11th. Sigh. In order to accomplish that goal he would have to leave the week before or the week after the game. If he left after the Super Bowl, my birthday plans for him would have been in the wind. Not wanting to begin at the beginning once again and replan everything, I applied a little subtle convincing. “His teeth”, I gently reminded him, were not something he could ignore (all truth in that). That and the lure of the Super Bowl in the end had the fifth wheel out of storage, packed, and Richard headed south to the dentist.

I believe I may have mentioned when writing about out 60 day road trip last year, we stopped in Yuma, Arizona. While in Yuma, Richard had made plans for me us to cross the border into Los Algodones, Mexico to get me a dental examination. Los Algodones, is a Mexican border town whose businesses focus is almost entirely on dental offices and opthomology practices. Before Richard, I had certainly heard of places south of the border providing cheaper medical care, but never thought seriously about going there myself. I needed a new dental prosthesis. According to my dentist this was going to cost me about three months rent. With that in mind, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least review less expensive options available to me. We arrived at the parking lot on the American side of the border crossing bright and early in the morning. Thankfully, my appointment was at 9:30, because the relentless desert sun was already beating down hot enough overhead to make my upper lip bead up. My brand new, as yet unblemished Canadian passport, as well as all my relevant identification from birth until that point, was tucked away safely in my purse. Walking along in silence with eight or ten other people, we passed two very heavily armed and extremely serious looking Mexican border agents on our way through the gate. Seeing the looks on their faces I did not want to find myself being detained for any reason at customs for questioning.

As quiet as it had been outside the gate, once inside the town, we found it to be literally a beehive of activity. Shuttles with advertising painted on their sides moved up and down the unpaved streets headed to this clinic or that. Drivers were pulling up to the curb one after the other gathering up potential patients to be deposited for visits all over town. It was a very well oiled machine from the looks of it. Blinking neon pharmacy signs hung above buildings on nearly every corner as far as the eye could see. I was to come to find out most any prescription you could have filled here in the U.S. could be bought over the counter down there at a far reduced price. You could almost see the dollar signs floating about in the dusty air. Men, I would guess employed by the clinics, were communicating on walkie talkies in rapid Spanish while yelling orders across the crowded street to their compadres. I have to say these guys were very helpful in getting us our ride, and showing us where to go to wait to be picked up. Once inside the very impressive lobby of the clinic, I checked in and we sat down in the middle of what looked to be mostly American faces waiting to be seen. The man seated to my right was explaining to me he and his wife had saved about two-thirds on their dental bills by getting their dental work done at the clinic. They lived in Yuma, making it much more convenient for them, obviously, to pop down to Los Algodones now and again for whatever they needed to have done. Driving or flying in from Sacramento didn’t seem, to me at least, quite as practical, for a dental appointment. By the time you factor in an airline ticket or the gas to get there, I can imagine the savings go down exponentially. I’m just saying.

At any rate, when my turn came, I was called into a well appointed examination room. After a brief examination by the dentist, xrays were taken and I was given a magazine and asked to wait until they were read. Kay. The door, left open, allowed me to watch the constant stream of people flowing in and out of this office. They must make a fortune on any given day. It made me think of a recent news story I’d heard about drug sales in the U.S. as compared to other countries in the world. Pharmaceutical companies in the states are raking in money so fast they don’t know what to do with themselves. The same drug purchased here here as compared to say the U.K. could be maybe five times more or higher. It’s ridiculous. I cannot for the life of me understand why something isn’t legislated about it in Congress, but then they are too busy picking nice ripe tomatoes to throw at one another to notice people are suffering under their watch. Ah, sorry, my political bug bit me this morning and I had to scratch it.

Once the xrays were reviewed by the dentist, a treatment plan was discussed. I was then taken into an office where an estimator gave me the bottom line figures to get my removable three unit bridge done. $450 was the estimated cost, including xrays. This, as compared to $4,200 quoted by my local dentist. Sold. Once the impressions were taken, there was to be a fitting the following day for any needed adjustments, and I could pick up my new appliance the day after. Whooo-hoo. It has only been five months since I got my bridge, but so far I couldn’t be more pleased. I will go back for major work should I need it in the future, but will not stopping by just to get a cleaning any time soon.

Soooooo, that’s my story for a Thursday. I am still sopping up my tears after the 49er loss on Sunday at the Super Bowl. My boo boo lip refuses to deflate. We were so close, but close only counts in horseshoes and grenades, as the saying goes. Ah well, there’s always next year. I’m still reeling from the shooting incident at the rally in Kansas City to celebrate their victory. Shooting people seems to have become the norm when dealing with disagreements or grudges here in the U.S. Scary to think of it. Children were wounded. It seems so unnecessary and continues to happen alarmingly often. I don’t know what the answer is, but there certainly needs to be some changes made.

On a lighter note, hope you had a Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!!

Fishing or angling?

Last Sunday was the playoff game to determine which team, the San Francisco 49ers or the Detroit Lions, would move forward to play in the Super Bowl. An ardent niner fan, I had my game shirt on, and my lucky ducky on the coffee table, when game time rolled around. The game prior to this one, was fraught with nail biting moments. I was hoping this one would be somewhat less anxiety producing . Instead, the lions came out of the chute ready for bear. They were animals, literally. Two touchdowns, one, on the first play. My phone, generally abuzz during a game with supportive texts from family members and friends, most also niners’ fans, sat on the arm of my chair eerily quiet. Oh-oh. By the end of the second half, the 49ers were down 17. It didn’t look good, Bub, I’m telling you. I held my ground, continuing to hold fast to the belief they could pull this out. Hadn’t they pulled it out in the last game? By the end of the fourth quarter, I found myself actually sweating. The niners made up the seventeen point gap in the second half and were three up, but as they say in sports circles, “it ain’t over till the fat lady sings”. So far, my nerves were shot, and I hadn’t heard a single note from that corporeal lady. Amazingly, when the game was finally over, the San Francisco Forty Niners were headed to the Super Bowl. Whew. A bit messy and all over the map I’ll grant you, but a win, is a win, is a win. I’ll take it.

The Friday before the game also provided me with some anxious moments. An issue arose involving my alarm system at my house. While still battling RSV, I got a call from my alarm company notifying me my panel, in place since 2019, was outdated and needed to be replaced. A time was arranged for a technician to come to the house to complete the work. On Friday, young man arrived at my door promptly at the 4:00 as communicated. I found him both personable and informative. After a few minutes of discussing what upgrades he was going to do, I busied myself in the kitchen while the new panel was installed and the old smoke alarm and carbon monoxide detector replaced. All good. Once everything was up and running, I was asked to sign an electronic agreement showing I had received the new equipment. The final piece of the puzzle was to be connected to a phone representative who reviewed the details of the transaction with me yet one more time. Seemed a bit excessive for an upgrade, but I am not an alarm guru so had no idea if this was SOP. During all these interactions, there was no mention of contracts or terms of contract. However, as we were talking, the woman on the line kept referencing a different alarm company’s name than the one I had been using. Huh? Then I noticed the name embroidered on the installers shirt was different than my company’s as well. This prompted me to ask him if the company on his shirt had bought out my old company. “No”, came the answer to that question. After chewing on that for a moment, a thought occurred to me. I asked, “did you just hijack my account”? To which, he just smiled. Wow. By then, the original equipment was at the bottom of my trash can. It took a few minutes for all this to settle in on my brain. Wow, again. Then I got a confirmation text asking me to confirm the contract I’d signed for the next five years. I did not confirm. What!!!! Okay, now my brain was fully engaged. Thankfully, in the state of California you have three days to void any contract, and 10 days if you are over the age of 60.

First thing Monday morning, I called and cancel cancelled that contract. After that, I spoke to another franchise owner for the company who hijacked my account who said he has been fielding about three calls a week about this rep who was in my house. He asked me to to contact the Attorney General, which I fully intend to do.

The problem lay now in that the original equipment was resting in a shallow grave at the local landfill. When I called my original vendor they said, “No problem. We will send someone out to replace the equipment”. This was great news, until he added…….”for $892.00 and a two year contract. Whoa. No way. Currently I am month to month, which is how I wish to leave it. I don’t want to be committed to a long term contract as my future, especially with Richard in the picture, seems a bit fluid. Drat the luck. I asked that he cancel my account.

I was told he couldn’t cancel my account, but he would provide me with a number where I could get it taken care of. Dialing the number he gave me, the representative told me she was in their “loyalty department”. I launched into my explanation once again. After pulling up my file, the woman informed me I still have a year on my contract. I explained to her, in fact, I have no contract, as per the previous person I’d spoken to in her company. I added, this can also confirmed by my own records, which I would happily provide a copy of if necessary. At this, she said she would have to transfer me to another department. Naturally. While the transfer was in process, the phone system disconnected me. Sigh. Really? I am nothing if not a tenacious being. I redialed their customer service number, wound my way through the loop de loop of their phone system, and miraculously got a third person on the phone. This lady, surprisingly, was quite helpful. Of course after determining the reason for my call, she was not in the right department, but said she would be happy to transfer me to someone who could help me. I had my doubts. I explained I had already been hung up on, so she suggested rather than chance that happening again, she would call me right back. Great. It is now five days later and I haven’t heard a thing, from her at least. The following morning yet another representative called up out of the blue. This woman wanted to inquire as to why I was cancelling my service. Really? I mean REALLY? I couldn’t help but ask if any of the employees in that company actually worked in the same office, or used a common computer system, or did they all just operate independently tossing information out at random? Getting that out of my system, I once again explained I had been scammed, and filled her in on the prior phone calls and the lack of results thereof. This representative told me paying $892 for replacement equipment was ridiculous. She’d get no argument from me. Then, she said I did not have a contract but was paying on a month to month basis. Whoo-hoo, the voice of reason. Once we got all that off the table, she said they would both install and update my current system at no charge to me. She asked if she could call me right back with a confirmation. I explained I was at this point a bit leery of that idea, but she promised adamantly it wouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes, so I agreed. Here we are folks, and no call yet four days later. Unbelievable. It’s not bad enough I am so gullible as to have a completely new alarm company install their equipment right before my very eyes, but I actually believed this last lady would call back. If you have any swampland in Florida you are looking to unload, be sure to look me up.

So, as it stands as of today, the new company is coming Monday to remove their equipment. I have no old equipment to replace it, or could have some coming for either $892 or at no charge depending on who you talk to on any given day. My current status with the previous company is either month to month, or two years, again depending on who you talk to. Even I, who will follow a customer service trail to the ends of the earth to prove a point, have given up on this one. What a mess. I would love to get hold of that first kid who fed me the line that hooked me and let him know what his little game cost me in frustration and time waste, as well as the fact I now have no alarm for my peace of mind.

My rant for the day. Thank you for allowing me to blow off some steam. Also, if anyone calls to update your alarm system be sure you ask what company they are representing. Apparently this is happening to a lot of people. I feel better and worse when I write that. I do not like to think of of other people getting scammed, but it is easier to swallow for my ego to know I’m not the only fish on the hook.

Happy weekend!!!