Against the wind…..

As mentioned in my last writing, I spent the good part of a week in Oregon recently. As much as I love a good road trip, because I had limited time, I decided to fly rather than drive. It has been many years since I’ve boarded a plane. 2010, being the last time. With all the TSA rules and regulations in place, plus all the digital tools available now in the airports for self-checking, I found myself a little nervous. Thankfully, in spite of my misgivings, getting to the Portland airport turned out to be a fairly stress free process. That being said, the return trip came around with little trepidation attached to it. Looking at my life up to this point, I should have known better. Some sort of internal alarm should have been going off loudly in my ear warning “It’s a trap. Run, save yourself.”

The day I was to return home, I had Siri sound the alarm to rouse me out of bed well before the rooster crowed. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9:00 a.m. If we were to get to the airport at the suggested two hours prior to boarding time, we needed to leave her house no later than 5:30. Ach. I had chosen the early flight solely because it was the only non-stop available between Portland and Sacramento on the day I wanted to come home. Since the actual air time between the two airports amounts to only an hour plus some change, taking a non-stop flight, which required two to three stops somewhere in the middle, hadn’t sounded that appealing. As instructed, I went on line at exactly 24 hours prior to my flight to check in and print out my boarding pass. Even with checking in at the precise moment, 55 people managed to get checked in before I did. Someone told me later, you could pay extra to pre-check in when purchasing your ticket. These days you pay extra for most things flying related. Being No. 56 was fine and dandy for my part. I was satisfied just to be included in the first group on the plane. This is a really important step to complete if you’re traveling “steerage class” such as I was. It’s not like in First Class where the flight attendants carry you onto the plane on a litter fanning you with palm fronds, and deposit you in a comfortable recliner in front of a big screen TV and hand feed you grapes for the remainder of your time on board. Oh no. In steerage you are crammed together with your knees tucked under your chin praying nobody next to you has a contagious disease. Should you recline your seat during the flight in steerage, you will find yourself seated in the lap of the person seated directly behind you. If you are not in the first couple of groups boarding a flight, it can be difficult to find an overhead bin to store your carry ons in and sometimes it will leave you scrounging about looking for a seat if the flight is full.

The night before, I had read an article talking about the mars retrograde we are currently experiencing. Whether I’m fully on board with how much influence retrogrades have in my life or not, it has become clear to me, at least in my life, they seem to have some effect. This particular period of disruption is scheduled to last through the end of 2022, seeping over ever so slightly into 2023. According to the writer of the article, mars has a history of being a pesky little planet. When in control, it enjoys stirring the pot, then sitting back once it’s really begun to boil, to watch and see what floats to the surface. Chaos, she went on to say, is the planet’s super fuel. Under the umbrella of such a retrograde, life can often become a little more difficult to maneuver, and relationships seem a little trickier to keep on the straight and narrow. I tried not to project any snarls into my upcoming travel. It had been such a relatively snarl free trip thus far. I wanted to simply lean back and bask in the glory of it all.

While my friend was getting ready to drive me to the airport, I poured myself a second cup of coffee. Shortly thereafter, she emerged from her room fully dressed, but looking a bit green around the gills. Before I could ask what was up, she ran past me to the sink and relieved herself of the cheeseburger and fries we’d eaten the previous night. Oh-oh. From where I stood, looked like everything was up. Huh. I straddled the fence at that point between worrying about my friend, and wondering how on earth I was going to maneuver myself to the airport. Because it cut costs considerably, I had purchased a non-refundable ticket. Mainly this meant I either showed up at the assigned gate at the designated time, or I purchased a new ticket at a much higher price. Hindsight being 20/20, this ticket was perhaps not the best option in the event of an unplanned emergency. Now, I could have gone to Plan B, which had me standing on the state highway with my carry on bag while holding one thumb up in the air. As the temps were hovering in the low thirties this plan wasn’t doing much for me right at that moment. Plan C was Uber. Because we were still in pre-rooster time, and my friend lives in a small town in a rural area, Uber wasn’t up for the challenge of putting wind beneath my wings either. Sigh. Oh my. After a few minutes, my friend managed to keep a piece of toast down, and in a few more, she felt she was up to driving me to Portland in spite of the upset tummy. I felt guilty having to drag her out into the cold, but unless I sprouted wings, in four hours the bird was going to take flight without me. At that point, I wanted to pin a Courage Under Fire badge on her sash for being such a good scout. The gods were with us and she not only got me to the airport in record time, but was feeling much better by the time we arrived. We said our goodbyes and as she drove off, I disappeared into the belly of the beast, more commonly known as the Portland Airport.

Getting my bearings once inside, I looked for an arrival and departure kiosk to help me locate my gate, but didn’t see one. A woman wearing an airline uniform and holding a sign reading “ask me” stood by the corridor leading up the ramp to security. So, I “asked her” in passing which gate the flight to Sacramento departed from, to which she provided me with the gate number plus directions. Security was the usual maze of lanes leading up to the agents. I got in line behind the last person and waited my turn. At the counter, I was informed I was in the wrong line, and was redirected to the line right next to me with about five times as many people standing in it. It seemed you had to pay to stand in the shorter line. Of course. Fine. Dutifully, I went around to the no-pay line and waited my turn. Once my papers had been reviewed and okayed, I was ushered over to the security conveyor belt. There you are handed large plastic trays in which you must deposit everything from your shoes to your false teeth so they can be scanned before you are allowed to pass on to the departure gates. The lady in front of me was tiny like a little bird and appeared to be about ninety. How she managed to deal with all this by herself was beyond me. I couldn’t help her, I could barely help myself. I was in a life and death struggle with my new boots which were acting as though I’d Crazy Glued them to my feet before leaving the house. Damn vanity just wouldn’t let me go up that extra half a size to make room for my winter socks. Once my possessions were on their way down the moving belt, I headed to the archway, where I was to be x-rayed. Stepping into the arch all the bells and whistles went off. Yup, everything works. Oh it’s not a routine test, it’s me. Sigh. Does this face look like a uni-bomber? Ah well, it is for all our protection. A female agent stepped forward, and I was put through the paces. Hands up, hands down, lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. Finger up your nose, touch your toes. I felt afterwards either she and I should be picking out china patterns or I ought to filing an incident report somewhere. Whew. At last I was released to gather my belongings and be on my way. The country was safe for another day.

Looking at the gate arrows, I followed the one directing me to E10 as the “ask me” lady had suggested. Yay, almost there. My feet were doing the happy dance. Unlike Sacramento, there are no trams in Portland. At the Sacramento airport trams are available to shuttle passengers to their gates. There are no seats inside, but poles are provided for riders to hang on to. Being an old subway commuter from my days working in downtown Boston, I knew the poles weren’t there simply for decoration, but for good reason. When I got in, I set my suitcase down and wrapped my fingers around the closest free pole. The young woman next to me was busy texting on her phone, both hands engaged. Hmmmm. The automated voice came over the speaker announcing the tram was preparing to pull out of the docking station. This, I would assume, by way of warning you to hold on. I caught the girls eye, and asked if she’d like to share the pole I was using. “Nope, all good”, came the response. Kay. The tram lurched out of the station, rocking several times jerkily from side to side. The forward thrust propelled the girl halfway through the tram until a good samaritan reached out and caught her arm before she’d made it the full length of the car. Seeing her wrap her fingers around the nearest pole once she shook herself off and stood up, I resisted installing the “I told you so” program onto my lips. Believe me, I’ve chosen the “really stupid idea” option more times than not during my travels across this planet. Who am I to fault anyone else for doing so?

But I digress, no trams in Portland and no poles. In the Portland Airport you either walk or take the intermittent moving sidewalks. Don’t misunderstand me, I love to walk. However, it had been a tiring day, and it wasn’t yet 7 a.m. yet and I needed more caffeine. Also, I had my carry on bag, pull type happily, my coat, and a handbag across one shoulder that weighed about fifty pounds containing everything I’d bought on my trip I couldn’t cram in my carry on. All good. So, I walked. After that, I walked some more, and then when that was done, I walked some more. I wasn’t confident I was still inside the Oregon state line by the time I saw E10 posted over a flight desk. Yay. Noting the flight listed under E10 was not my flight, I asked the gate attendant if my flight was on time. “Yes”, he told me in his best airline voice, “it is on time”. Good news. “However, it is not on time at this gate.” Really? Insert unhappy smiley face here. My flight, so he told me, departed from Gate D10. OMG. So, I schlepped the mile and a half back to the original hallway, made a sharp left, and began the next leg of my trip down another long expanse of open road. All I needed were the tin man, the scarecrow and the cowardly lion, to make this work. Just then, the handle on my carry on snapped like a twig. At that point, I began to laugh. I laughed as I walked and walked carrying my carry on. Sometimes that’s all you can do is laugh. The allure of caffeine was beginning to fade being replaced with thoughts of a vodka tonic with a slice of lime as I passed one of the myriad of bars evident along the different arteries of the terminal. No, at 3 p.m. I might feel good about saying “it’s five o’clock somewhere”, but at 7:45 in the morning I’m just not ready to belly up to the bar and knock one down for the Gipper. I did notice what looked like a man in a pilot’s uniform drinking a bloody Mary which I found a wee tad concerning.

At last I made it to Gate D10. Thankfully, my flight was listed beneath the gate designation. I took my place in line when boarding began and occupied a middle seat on the plane, squeezed in the middle of two large men, like the cream filling in an oreo. I had made it. Drink orders were taken by a crew member, and we were handed a wee bag of nummies which contained four pretzels, some melba toast, and I believe I found several peanuts. I didn’t care, I ate them all and then licked my finger and dabbed at the salt. It had been a long morning.

So, I feel better now that I’ve tried it and made it through the labyrinth. I understand the process, so next time there won’t be any worries, other than the usual pitfalls like broken luggage and misinformation when I go again. Next time I am hoping I will traveling to Canada to visit my relatives there. Then, of course, I can add customs to the equation which is a whole other kettle of fish. Last time I traveled to my homeland was with my mother. They took her at customs and I wasn’t sure they were going to give her back. Whew.

Anyhow, no worries for today. We have a COVID outbreak where I work so I am headed into the fray armed with my N95 mask and a big bottle of hand sanitizer. Happy Saturday.

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The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind…..

This past week I visited my old friend, Sam (short for Saelitha), living in beautiful Independence, Oregon. I arrived Monday morning by air to bitter cold, rainy weather. Once she gathered my shivering body from in front of the baggage claim, it was an hour and a half drive from the Portland Airport to Independence. There wasn’t much to see along the way, except the steady onslaught of rain sliding down outside the car windows. However, by Tuesday, the clouds had cleared, providing me with a lovely, if chilly, glimpse of the countryside around me. I had forgotten, not having been in this area for twenty-five plus years, how much the northwest has to offer.

My friend has a lovely cozy little two bedroom apartment butting up against the Willamette River. Like my little house, hers is the perfect nest for one. Add an additional body, things begin to feel a bit tighter. I think of it sort of like wearing heavy wool socks under your boots in the winter. Without the socks, your boots fit just right. But once the addition of the socks are in place, the boots start to feel a little more cramped. Also, like my house, her second bedroom serves as a craft and pseudo office area. The original plan for my stay, was for me to sleep on the queen sized blow up mattress she had laid out on the floor in the second bedroom. Perfect. Being an old camper, and a bit of a nomad, I have slept on, and rolled off, many such beds in my life, so am familiar with the process.

Before it was time to turn in, we used the automatic pump to inflate the mattress, then made up the bed. About an hour after I dozed off, I woke up to find my backside resting on the hard floor. Now granted, this mattress was easily reinflated, but if the air didn’t remain inside the mattress, having the automatic inflation feature really wouldn’t prove much of an advantage. This reminded me of a time with my ex-husband. We had moved from West Virginia to Southern California. Our furniture was stored six plus states away. According to the moving and storage, they were backed up with summer moves and it was going to take six weeks for our household goods to catch up with us. In the interim, we borrowed a blow up mattress from a friend to see us through. The loaner wasn’t of the convenient variety that inflates itself, but rather one you had to manually pump. As we were displaced, so were our animals. Used to sleeping at the end of the bed, once the mattress was on the floor, the cat took this as her invitation to hop on board and make herself at home. Kitty (sadly her actual name) was a kneader. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that large plastic balloons filled with air and sharp cats claws do not a happy match make. By about 2:30 each night, our bodies would reach floor level. A half an hour’s pumping later we were back in business til the following morning when the second batch of air would have completely escaped. At one point, I suggested we just sleep on the floor and call it good, but he wasn’t hearing of it. Oh no. I have never been so happy to see a moving truck as I was that one when that one finally pulled in our driveway with our king sized bed housed inside. OMG.

Back at my friends in Oregon, we tried twice to fill the mattress. Both times, my backside was flat on the floor within the hour. Obviously, there was a leak somewhere. I inspected the mattress, as well as the box it came in. As I suspected, a hole had been chewed in both. Whenever you store anything in the attic, you run the the risk a resident rodent might find it interesting during its time there. My son had his entire herd of lighted lawn reindeer totally destroyed by rodents. There was nothing but hooves and snouts left by the time the rats got through with them. Realizing that the original sleeping arrangement wasn’t going to work, we tried Plan B settling me in on the love seat in the living room. The long legs my mother passed on to me, though perfectly suited for taking lovely long strides while out for a brisk walk, were not much good when left to dangle limply over the end of the small loveseat until all the feeling had drained out of them. Nope, Plan B scrapped, it was on to Plan C. Plan C was to be two peas in a pod in her bed, with a plus one. The plus one, a Lhasa Apso answering to the name of Pepper. All good. Boo sleeps with me at home so I am not unaware of what pet cohabitation looks like. Sleeping with a pet can have it’s downside at times. Boo, for whatever reason, seems to get pleasure out of licking the back of my head while I sleep. I know. I looked it up and apparently that is the cat’s way of showing their human they are accepted as part of their tribe. Nice. In this case, neither of the two legged occupants snored, cuddled, or fought for control of the covers, so we cohabited well. The dog, however, I have to report, was a bit of a bed hog. At one point he slept in between us with his back pressed against mine and his paws stretched out against her.

Sleeping arrangements settled, we turned our attention to making plans for the limited time I would be staying with her. The next day, with a full agenda of places we wanted to visit, we decided we had better gas up first before getting on the road. Pulling up next to a bank of pumps, a man quickly approached the drivers side window. After a brief exchange with my friend, he left. Curious, I asked what he wanted. Turns out he was asking about filling her tank. I had forgotten in Oregon it is still illegal to pump your own gas. Wow, haven’t seen that in like, forever. Remember the really old days when a man in a neatly pressed uniform and ball cap bounded out to your car at a full serve station and, well, served you? I KNOW! He would check your water, oil, fluids, tires, wash your windows, AND fill your tank. Good Lord, what were they thinking actually providing service at what is called, yes, say it, a Service Station. Perhaps that is why they mainly refer to them as gas stations rather than service stations these days, because gas is really all they provide. What a great law to have on the books though, making it illegal to pump your own gas. California could use some fun legislation like that. Laws like, say, making it illegal to work on Friday or every month with an “A” in it must include at least one week of paid vacation time. Let’s put the fun back in politics. I don’t know about you, but it’s certainly lost it’s appeal for me lately the way things stand now in the political arena. The gas pump attendant told us Oregonians would most likely only enjoy a couple more years of this privilege before it disappears. Apparently only three states still have such a law on the books. We humans really know how to put the buzz in buzz kill.

Once we got out into the countryside I was immediately impressed with how verdant everything is in Oregon. I’d almost forgotten what a long expanse of green grass looks like. Fall was really showing it’s colors in the area. At times, the hues on the trees were so vibrant they nearly took my breath away. Along with the glorious fall plumage there were so many farms. Farming is a big part of the areas culture. One beautifully maintained farmhouse after another caught my eye as we drove along the backroads. I have always wondered what life would have been like had I chosen to be a farmers wife. Living in the suburbs of Southern California where I spent my teenage years, surfers were plentiful, and golden haired six pack bearing jocks, but there weren’t many farmers navigating the dating pool I was swimming in. The closest I got to experiencing farm life as an adult, was during the two weeks I spent on the cattle ranch in Manitoba. As glorious a time as I had while there, driving tractors along rutted fields and herding cows, I don’t know if I’d want to sign on full time. I straddle the fence, I think, between being a city girl and a country girl. I lean more towards less populated areas, avoiding metropolitan cities or bustling suburbs. However, I do like to see my neighbors outside my window and like to have community, so guess I’m a smidgen of one and a dash of the other.

I’m glad to be home again. As always, it is fun to go away, and good to come back full circle again. I’ll tell you about my return visit in my next writing. That was a day for going in the closet with the tequila and the fiery Cheetos I’m telling you. Happy Friday!!

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“It would be so nice if something made sense for a change” (Alice in Wonderland)

Looking around of late, I’ve come to the realization we are all broken in a way. Each of us, if we’ve reached any kind of age of wisdom, have come through something during our time here that has carved us out and helped us to grow. Life certainly is not always easy to maneuver.

Yesterday when I was exiting my bank’s parking lot, I noticed an old car parked by the curb. The owner, or so I would presume, had covered the car with what looked to be several layers of wet blankets. Since the weather was predicted to be the hottest since weather began being recorded, my best guess is this strange behavior was an effort to keep the car cool. What looked to be piles of his or her belongings were sitting along the side of the car in the shade of a large oak tree. I noticed a panting dog tied up to a post next to them, a bowl of water sitting next to it. Two things happened to me while observing that sad scene. First, I was struck with an overwhelming gratefulness for my life and the creature comforts I have been provided. I felt thankful for the fact that I was driving along in a relatively new car, with air conditioned air blowing in my face. The fact I was still comfortably full from the breakfast I had consumed before leaving my well appointed little house. For that moment, at the very least, I felt safe. I cannot imagine being exposed to the elements in that way, with little hope of relief. I know there are many arguments on both sides of the homeless situation in this country, but I cannot look at displaced people without feeling a tug at my heart whatever the argument. The second feeling washing over me was the urge to help somehow. But how? Like many of you, I’m sure, I stop and hand a five out the window to someone holding a sign on the corner. I “round up” at the grocery store for whatever charity is showing on the credit card machine, I volunteer, but is there more to do? I’m sure there is so much more. Perhaps these little acts of kindness when done in masse serve in some small way to help those who need it? I don’t have answers for this, and I’m not sure anyone does have their finger on the pulse of it. To me every solution proposed feels a bit like applying a bandaid to a gaping wound.

If you sit around concentrating on all that is wrong in the world, you won’t make much forward progress. Sometimes acceptance is the key. Understanding, as lovely as life can be on earth, we live on a planet with both upsides and downsides. We must learn to breathe in deeply the hope and joy contained in the upsides when immersed in them, so they will sustain us when we drop off into the darkness on the other side. Today is a day when I’m breathing deeply, though not too, too deeply, as it is incredibly smokey outside my window. It wasn’t enough apparently our temperatures have been nudging the record books all week. Yesterday temps actually registering 115 at the Sacramento airport. Today I woke up to find smoke from a fire about twenty miles northeast of us, had covered the area with thick putrid air. What’s next, locusts? I looked on my front door to see if there was a red “x” marked on it. Good news, nothing there but a daddy long legs. Ach. A friend of mine, ever the doomsayer, told me the Farmer’s Almanac has predicted yet another low rainfall winter here on the west coast with higher than average temperatures. Sigh. Another sigh.

I am looking to the brighter side for comfort. My passport is tucked away all shiny and new, ready to be stamped and put into service. Where I’m going to use it, I’m not sure, but there is something comforting in knowing I could use it, should the opportunity arise. Yay. I have several local trips in the works. My friend Richard is taking me on an fishing trip he has planned the end of September. Not the fisherman Richard is, for my part it will be a chance to finish the four or five half read books I have lying around the house, take some glorious walks in the wilderness, refresh my spirit again, and enjoy a little time away from the hustle and bustle that is currently what my life feels like. Sounds delightful. Richard has a fifth wheel he takes along on these outings so we will have hot and cold running water, a shower, a kitchen, and electricity. Sort of like what my son refers to as “glamping”. Camping with a little extra something, something, on the side.

No matter what winter looks like this year, I am planning a trip to the coast. It has been far too long and my soul is craving the ocean more and more with the passing of every day. That will be next on my agenda. In November I am going to Oregon to visit a friend to celebrate our mutual birthdays, so there’s another notch in my belt. There’s no stamp on my passport involved with any of this intrastate milling about, but I like to think of it as simply priming my motor.

On the downhill side, I believe I mentioned I recently sat on my glasses. Taking them to the optometrist to get them straightened, I was informed the patient wasn’t going to make it, and it was time to order new frames. I hadn’t even noticed the old frames had begun to yellow on the bottom after many years of service keeping me out of the gutter along the highway. So, a new pair was chosen and ordered. Getting notice they were in and to pick them up on Monday, I did just that. They looked very nice, which pleased me. Glasses are such a personal accessory, and one which you must make peace with every day if you see like I do and can’t leave the house without them. I placed them on my nose and left the doctor’s office to run errands. Merging onto the freeway it became immediately clear, or unclear as the case may be, I couldn’t read any of the street signs as I cruised along. Oh-oh. Breathe, breathe deeply, Susie. Back in my old glasses, I placed a call to the optometrists office when I got home. The receptionist told me to bring the new pair back in. Okie. After comparing my new and old prescription the woman told me, “We’ll see if there is something we can do for you”. “Whoa, stop the boat, here”, says I. I just paid over $400 for these new glasses. You wrote the prescription, and you filled it. There is no “we’ll see if we can do something” involved in the equation at all, rather we will”. I am not just dropping them in my junk drawer and slinking quietly off into the sunset. Not happening. The blonde on top of this noggin is totally artificially generated but even though my hairdresser uses harsh chemicals, my thinking processes haven’t been damaged in the least. Once we’d established I was going to be annoying about the whole not seeing thing, an appointment was made for another eye exam with the opthamologist. Not a solution, but a beginning. I’ll take that.

On a sad note, Queen Elizabeth II has passed away today at 96. She was three years younger than my mum. What a life of service the woman has to her credit. Like the monarchy or not, she has to be given kudos for putting love of country before self, a trait so many of our politicians seem to have left by the wayside, and having done the job she was born to do all her life with dignity and grace. I’m sure the British will give her an admirable send off with all the pomp and circumstance accorded to those of royal birth. It will seem funny not to see her out and about at this function or that wearing those dreadful hats perched on her head, and carrying her sensible handbag. Fairwell, Elizabeth. I’m sure Charles is waiting for you. Thank you for your service.

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Your call is important to us…..

The holiday weekend is upon us. I wonder so many people I know are going on road trips with the price of gas being what it is. Literally, my gas tank is siphoning my bank account dry. The good news is apparently prices are headed up, not down. Boo, the Queen of Cats, may have to seek employment if she wishes to continue indulging in her special salmon/chicken treats that cost me an arm and a leg every week at the pet store.

The past week, I have been sifting through open jobs online. I sent out three applications from one site before noticing the email associated with my profile was an old one I deactivated some time ago. Thinking this to be an easy fix, I went in to change it. After a half an hour of expletives and repeating the same task over and over again with no positive result, I had to throw up the white flag and admit I was stumped. Hate that. I decided to see if I could locate a customer service number on the site. Naturally, there wasn’t one to be found. They never include these numbers, I’ve noticed lately, so you have to muck about on your own until you either give up or drink the Kool-Aid. Jesh. Doing a Google search, I came up with an actual phone contact number. Yay. Dialing it, I was dropped into the usual endless loop of questions about why I had called in the first place. I have come to believe companies do this so they will wear you down and you will simply hang up and slink back under your rock. The first question in the next loop said, “If you are a job seeker, press 1”. Dutifully, I pushed 1 on my phone. The message once 1 had been pushed said, “Thank you for choosing our company for your job search. Please go to our website located at …….. for assistance. Good luck with finding a job you love”. Since there was no other option available but to hang up, I did, but then called right back. Turns out, when listening to the message again, there was also an option 2 available. Option 2, it appeared, was for companies looking for employees. Hmmmmm, says I, and pushed 2. Sure enough, a human voice appeared on the other end of the phone. I explained to the woman what the problem was, and she assured me she could rectify the situation on her end. SUCCESS!! She asked me all the questions used to identify the caller as the actual owner of the account. Then, she asked the name of my company. Ummmm? So, I did something I actually have perfected, I acted dumb. “Company”, says I? She went on to explain this line was for company inquiries. “Oh, huh, who knew”? At any rate, after putting me on hold, she came back on and fixed the problem for me. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I say.

Good news is I already have an interview set up for this coming week. The jobs I chose to apply for were definitely a lot below my skill level. I have had high impact, stressful jobs most of my life. This time around I want twenty hours a week, a small supplementary paycheck, and zero – spell that z-e-r-o stress. The past eight years have had enough stress packed into them to satisfy my stress quotient for the next twenty years, so I feel at this point I am good to go.

Today I am going out to lunch with the new man in my life. Cheeseburgers are what the restaurant we are going to are known for. This offers up a direct line to my heart, as a good cheeseburger is my favorite meal. With fries, naturally. We are just beginning the arduous process of getting to know one another. When you are in your twenties, you haven’t had enough life experience to really have a lot of wrinkles to iron out. Now that is not true of everyone, of course. People like Charles Manson covered a lot of ground by their mid twenties, but generally people of that age are at the beginning of their learning curve. By the time you’ve hit fifty, you’ve pretty much crested the hill, and have most likely added a lot of notches to your belt. At the mid point of our lives, there are usually marriages, or at least serious relationships behind us, children, grandchildren even, and a whole bag full of life to share with a new partner. Some of the contents of the bag, one would certainly hope, will prove productive. There will be learned lessons tucked away in the bag, along with uncovered talents, achieved goals, hopes and dreams, all mixed in with heartaches, losses, unfulfilled desires and failures. The trick is to not take the memories or unfortunate events associated with old relationships that did not work, or memories with hard edges and drag them into the empty bag waiting to be filled up by a new relationship. I speak from some experience, this is not always an easy task and one I struggle with.

Outside my window the tops of the trees are bent in the wind. We seem to have an awful lot of windy days this year. According to the weather station this can be attributed to climate change. Wind always makes me a bit edgy. My friend, up on such things, says it has something to do with ions which effect your mood. My mood has been a bit off for a couple of days. I need to move it up the happy scale a bit before I meet my new guy for our burger. As I’ve said I’m usually fairly sunny as a personality but for some reason, could be all the sad news this week about shootings and mayhem my smile is beginning to droop. I’ve noticed I’m not alone in this. The phone has been ringing even more than it’s usual craziness and often the person on the other end has wanted to discuss a problem or was simply feeling somehow down and without energy. I keep pumping up my tire, and someone keeps coming by to stick a nail in it. It is hard not to absorb the collective energy swirling all around us right now. For me, when effected in such a way, I have to chain myself to my chair to keep from heading out for a little retail therapy. I am trying to generate new income right now, not deplete what financial security I do have. I heard a startling statistic this morning, 25% of Americans have no savings whatsoever to lean back on. That really did surprise me. I wouldn’t have any either if it wasn’t I have recently sold a house. Just heard that since I sold my home three years ago the value of it has increased by $100,000. Whew. Up, up, up and away here in California with the price of either owning or renting a place to hang your hat accelerating at a fevered pace.

At any rate before I go completely down the rabbit hole here, that is what I know for today. I need to go in and readjust my smile and prepare for my date. Have a good and safe holiday weekend. Keep your smile in place and hope for the best outcome no matter what.

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