What’s the catch?……

The middle of another busy week, with no immediate signs of slowing down. Sunday, of course, was Mother’s Day. It passed without much fanfare this year. My mother was missed at the table as she always is. This was my third Mother’s Day without her, and I still feel sort of lost. I guess it’s like becoming an orphan suddenly. Having lost my father before I was old enough to understand what had happened, I always secretly worried something would happen to my mom as a child, and I would be left to fend for myself. That would not have been the case, of course, but a child’s mind is ripe with possibilities, and for me that was one of them. Thankfully, we spent many years together and that was not to be how it was written.

Sunday put to bed, Monday, Richard took me fishing. Let me make it clear, I am by no stretch of the imagination a seasoned angler. My fishing history began when I was married to my ex husband, and was limited to being handed a pole and instructed to drop the line attached to it into the water and wait to see if a fish shows up. Had I been starving and left alone with the pole and all the peripheral equipment and tasked with putting it together and use it, most likely I would have been found dead from hunger on the shore still holding it in my cramped hands. It’s not really the inability to learn how to do it that hampers me, for I am usually a fairly quick study by nature. It is rather, I don’t have a keen interest in doing it to begin with. If I become proficient at it, my fear is I might be asked more often to participate. If I decide to go and share a day of fishing, I do ask some rules apply. First, I do not put the bait on the hook (if it’s live), nor do I take the fish off the hook, should I by some miracle catch one. Second, I will fish no longer than five hours in one given day. Richard and his pals will spend 8-10 hours trolling back and forth from one fishing spot to another with nary a bite and be happier than a pig in slop. For me, this is nearly on a par with Chinese water torture. Now, I’ve never actually been subjected to water torture, but you get the idea of what I’m saying.

My people were not outdoors people. Mother used to describe herself as a “hothouse flower”. I was trying to imagine my mother sitting in a boat watching someone spill fish guts in a bucket, and just found myself giggling. Not to mention, as I’ve written before, pale of complexion as she was, we always believed if left in the full sun for more than an hour she might actually ignite. As a child growing up in Nova Scotia, outdoor activities consisted of boating, swimming, picnics (when weather permitted), and walks in the park. Fishing and hunting were huge in the province, don’t misunderstand me, as there was game aplenty and we were surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic. However, my family simply didn’t participate in those activities. At least, I wasn’t exposed to it.

At any rate, I signed up for a fishing trip Monday on a local lake to catch some rainbow trout. We arrived at the lake bright and early, launched the boat, and headed out onto the water. Our gear included two very wide brimmed straw hats and bottles of sunscreen, because the weatherman was predicting temperatures in the low nineties. The sky was a brilliant blue overhead with little to break it up but an occasional heron flying along hoping to spot a morning meal. There was almost no wind, so the water lay before us only slightly rippled from the current. A helluva day at sea, Sir. Once we arrived in the first desired location, Richard idled the boat and put bait on both our hooks. I was given the Readers Digest fishing course on how to manage the line, and he tossed it into the water. The bright “lures” jangled and sparkled in the morning sun as they sank below the water line, looking like dew shimmering on a flower petal. Once the line was in the water, I realized I was supposed to be doing something. Richard was asking how much line was out while I was busy trying to remember what he said about releasing the line.
“Oh boy, let’s see. Was it you push the brown button, then put the line in the slot, or the other way around? Do I release the lever first or after I’ve trolled? After, yes that’s it. Opps, first obviously, sorry. Richard, why is my line rapped around the oar? Mama.” After about an hour Richard was not wearing his happy face, and mine was sliding off my chin and dribbling on my shirt at a rapid pace. So, I stuck my pole in the designated holder, faced into the wind, and simply relaxed. The only effort I made for the next four hours was when I opened the cooler to retrieve our lunch. Now that is what I call fishing. Richard caught four fish in the time we were on the lake. During that time I was told many a fish story about he and his best friend out on one lake or another catching their limits of HUGE fish and having to throw all the extras back. “The fish were literally flying into the back of the boat”. Right. Insert eye roll here. Whatever, Mr. Richard.

I don’t like the part after a fish is caught when it is flopping around the bottom of the boat gasping for air with the hook tucked inside it somewhere. Richard, having fished since he was a boy, expertly sticks a tool down their craw and snip snap removes the hook, then tosses the fish in the cooler on a bed of ice. I understand this is nature’s way of culling the herd and providing for those of us on earth. A lion will fell a gazelle to feed it’s family, in spite of how graceful and beautiful a creature is to be sacrificed. It’s the way of things. Personally, I think food should have been able to be produced in wonderful ways, not involving carnage and mayhem, but then, nobody asked my opinion when this whole thing was being brainstormed, so it is what it is.

Finally back at the dock late afternoon, I was glad to see the boat back on the trailer and being pulled up the ramp. For one thing, I needed to use the facilities. Men carry with them, or this one does, a “male urinal”. This looks like the urinals men are given in hospitals to relieve themselves when unable to get out of bed. As male creatures are constructed in a way to use such a device if they have to urinate as to not cause a public scene, this is a very handy tool. Next to the box he retrieved his urinal from was another box labeled “Female Urinal”. He pointed to it. “Uh, uh. No way. Nope. Not happening.” So, realizing that was my option, I didn’t drink my water and tried not to think about things until we got back to shore. It reminded me of one fishing trip I went on with my ex in Arkansas. We didn’t have a boat at the time, so fished off the shore. Often, we walked down the bank of the river a ways from where we came in to enjoy the quiet and sometimes for better fishing. Unfortunately, most of the facilities were located at the park entrances, so if the need arose you either walked a mile back down the river or availed yourself of whatever cover was available, a small shovel, if required, and a handy dandy roll of TP. On this day, we hadn’t seen another human being for hours. When the time came, I found a spot behind a huge weeping willow by the bank to relieve myself of the large bottle of water I’d consumed to keep me hydrated. Checking for poison oak before dropping trou, I squatted down in the grass. The moment I knelt down, a metal boat rounded the bend with three men seated inside. Seeing me, or at least the rear version of me, the shouting began. Done or not done, I grabbed my shorts and covered ground. Ruined a perfectly good pair of sandals that day, I guarantee. My ex used to say my life reminded him of “The Perils of Pauline”. Probably some truth buried in that somewhere.

So enough potty talk. Happy Wednesday. Enjoy the day, breathe deeply the fragrance of spring, and live every moment.

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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!!

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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!!!!!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!!!!!

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When I was seventeen…..

My adolescence might be aptly described as controlled chaos. My dear little mother was struggling to find her footing with my second stepfather, a relationship that lasted sixteen years but truly never found solid ground. This drama was transpiring, while I was being tossed about in a sea of teenage angst and insecurities. A combination not likely to produce a Nobel prize winner.

At that age I was very much a work in progress, adding and deleting layers as I went through my days. We are formed by every experience, or so I believe, like the beautiful pearl. A composite of each grain of sand added to the one before it until, in the end, we have a complete and finished product. Some pearls, are formed perfectly round with an unblemished luster, where others appear irregular and lumpy. Certain pearls seem to emit a lovely rosy hue, while ebony pearls shimmer dark and mysteriously. Each pearl, whatever it’s shape or color, is unique from the other.

I, was definitely an irregular pearl. My transition from little girl to young woman was not without wrinkles. Going from a chubby child to a lithesome teen, was in itself an adjustment. Growing up around people who loved and protected me, I don’t think I even realized I was overweight until my mother remarried when I was nine. New beginnings were in store after the wedding, including a 2,500 mile road trip from Halifax, Nova Scotia, where I’d grown up, to Santa Ana, California, where I was to make my new home. Once in California, it became quickly clear even to my young nine year old eyes, “thin was in” in glorious sunny California, and plump little girls with unruly curls and glasses were not. It was my first true understanding of being “different”.

By high school, I had grown taller and whittled down considerably. My glasses now were stored in a case in my drawer, and, like the eternal butterfly, I had emerged from my cocoon. No matter whether thin or plump, teenagers are a difficult peer group on the best of days to hold your own with. If you have any perceived irregularities or don’t conform, their brains are not fully developed yet. They will seize on your weaknesses and pounce on you. This is evidenced by all the cyber bullying currently engaged in, some so merciless the targets of these mean, and often relentless assaults, may even resort to taking their own lives to get away from the pain. Buffers are not yet integrated into our behaviors in adolescence. Getting through those formative years for many youngsters can be a rocky road at best. If you are not a jock, a cheer leader, or part of the popular elite, you will be lumped into one of the lesser groups on campus like, nerds, brains, goths or stoners, for example. There is a hierarchy to high school, I had trouble with on most days. Some recall their high school years with great nostalgia. I have to say, I am not one of them. I stumbled often during those years struggling to find my way. In spite of falling on my face more often then standing erect, I somehow mounted the steps to young adulthood without being either incarcerated or abandoned to the nuns to be straightened out.

In my junior year, my mother married my second stepfather, which once again turned my world upside down. Being a rebellious kid, I displayed my displeasure at the new union by running away, purloining my new “dad’s” car as the means for my getaway transportation. I didn’t get far. As I recall, I was headed to Haight Ashbury to drop out with the hippies and help spread the message of peace and love in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Seemed like a grand idea at the time. Thankfully, I was stopped in Santa Barbara, where the local gendarmes held on to me until I could be returned to the custody of my parents to be summarily dealt with when I got home. I believe the nuns were looking pretty good to them at that point. The nuns for some reason were always held over my head. This was odd only in that we were not Catholic. However, sending me to the convent, Catholic or not, was my mother’s go-to intimidation tactic. Perhaps because I’d heard stories from friends in parochial school about how strict the nuns could be, and the threat of going there seemed to serve to keep me in line when little else did. I don’t know if they take errant little Anglican girls in Catholic convents, as in the end she never played the “Nun Card”, so I was never forced to find out.

When the finally dust settled and I was released from restriction for the car escape, I looked for other non-productive outlets for my displeasure, allowing my eyes to rest on my education. Oh-oh. At sixteen in the state of California, at that time at least, you could opt out of school at 16 with your parent’s permission, if that was your preference. My mother, now considering locking me in the basement until I was of age, had thrown up her hands. She would drop me off at school in the morning, and I would exit on the other side of the campus spending the day getting into whatever teenagers do when they find themselves alone and unsupervised. As I said, I was a bit of a handful. I would have dropped me off a cliff personally, but that’s another blog. After repeatedly showing up in the Dean of Women’s office for counseling it seemed my mind was set on freeing myself of the chains of school for good. The Dean of Women threw every viable reason at her disposal at me for remaining enrolled, but I was determined to do what I was determined to do. Finally, my mother agreed to submit to allowing me take a six month hiatus, to think things over, if you will. Part of the agreement was I would work around the house, do babysitting, take extension classes (there was no “on-line” then – old dog), and generally pull myself up by my boot straps. At first, being a teenager, I did not one of the above. Instead, I binge watched TV shows, baked every gooey treat I could think of and consumed what I baked, and generally engaged all my energy in becoming a consummate sloth. The transformation, I have to say, was not pretty. For the last time in my life, other than during my two pregnancies, I piled on about twenty pounds in three months and gave myself up completely to being a professional slob. My friends, still in school, were involved in activities, shopping for new clothes, going to football games and dances, and getting greasy cheeseburgers at the local hot spots. I would talk to them on the phone, but began to understand I was circling outside of the group now, floating about on my own. They had moved on, I…….had not. One morning, I woke up, took a long look at what my reflection revealed in the mirror, and a light went off in an otherwise dark chamber. The realization came to me, at sixteen and three quarters, that the only person I was harming, was me. Huh. This was quite a pivotal moment in my life. Could have gone either way, I’m thinking, and for me I was blessed it went the way it did. That day, I cleaned the house, cleaned myself, took the dog for a walk, and began one step at a time to rejoin the human race. What a glorious day it was. I signed up for extension courses, with the help of my stepfather who sold them as a side hustle, and began to feel like a productive human being again. I didn’t return to school until the beginning of my senior year. Even with all the courses I’d taken and completed over the summer, I had fallen behind on credits. The school district, first and foremost wanting their students to succeed in getting an education, worked out a schedule for me where I could mix and match my junior and senior classes to catch up. A new school was chosen to allow me a fresh beginning, and I was enrolled and we were off to the races.

I went to school that year and finished the classes assigned to me with good grades in every subject. Still short on credits, I could not graduate with the other seniors (another life lesson handed down), but I did graduate six months later and got my GED. I scored very high on the GED curve so when I applied for junior college the missing credits were “forgiven” in an effort to give me a clean page to write on.

This train of thought occurred to me after seeing a picture of my grandson recently on social media. His father posted it. It showed three young men on skis being pulled behind a moving car. My grandson was in the middle. All three were frat brothers, who, waking up on a snowy day in Oregon, thought it would be an excellent idea to hitch a rope to a moving car and ski down a main thoroughfare. According to the post, the local police department did not agree with them in this case, pulling them over giving them a warning. Guess the officer didn’t have much choice. Is there a law applicable for it being illegal to ski on public streets? I don’t know. Luv it.

We all have to trip over obstacles, make mistakes, forget to cross out t’s, and generally experiment with life’s possibilities while we grow up until figure out what works for us and what does not. This, is the process by how we learn and mature. Some of us never get there. Lessons don’t always come easily to me because I’m a hard headed little blonde woman, but I do try to move forward in another direction if the direction I’m going in continues to not serve me well.

Even at this stage in my life where one would think I would have filled all the pages in my book, I find every day presents an opportunity to add something new and credible to the story.

Happy Saturday. 49er’s play Green Bay tomorrow. I have my game shirt warmed up, my 49er ducky on the table and I’m ready to watch them play their way to the Super Bowl. Gooooooooo Niners!!!!!

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Saving grace…..

I remember the first time I saw the movie “2001 A Space Odyssey”. I thought, “wow”, by the time we’d reached that formidable date, we would all be getting around in hovercrafts and flitting around from one planet to another to grab a beer after work. Now, here we are on the precipice of 2024, nearly a quarter of a century past that time, and I can report I have not seen nary a hovercraft in my neighborhood as of this writing, and never have I visited a bar on Saturn. If you have conflicting data, please comment.

According to those “in the know” about future events, this year is predicted to hit the ground running and proceed forward from there at an accelerated pace. If faster than 2023, I’d better pull my tennies on and begin compiling my Christmas list. As fast as the world seems to streaming by, sometimes I feel like I am still lagging a few paces behind since my last bout of COVID. It’s like that, I’m I am still concentrating on what to have for breakfast when it’s nearly lunchtime kind of feeling. This morning it took me the good part of an hour to decide on what I wanted to eat. I mean there aren’t that many choices to select from really in a breakfast menu. It wasn’t like I was trying to pass the bar. After much deliberation and thought, weighing the pros and cons of breakfast entrees, I decided on two soft boiled eggs and toast with marmalade. Duh. Cooking eggs in this manner always brings to mind my maternal grandmother. I often sat down to poached or soft boiled eggs at the breakfast table as a child. The soft boiled eggs were served in a two sided china cup with yellow ducks marching around the base. There was a small cup on one end and, if flipped over, a larger cup on the other. The cooked egg was perched vertically in the smaller cup with the top, or what my grandmother referred to as it’s “hat”, cut off and then set back on the cut edge. You removed the hat and dipped your toast in the yolk. With one pinky pointed up, of course. Manners, were paramount at our house.

Growing up in Nova Scotia brought with it a lot of English flavors. As in many English homes I’m sure, the brightly shined silver tea set sat at the ready in the corner of the large sunny dining room in my grandmother’s house . On tea day, my grandmother’s lady friends would arrive around four in the afternoon to observe “high tea”. The doorbell would ring. One by one, well dressed matrons would enter, hat and gloves on, small clasped leather handbags draped over one arm. Once the ladies were gathered in the parlor, my grandmother would “pour”. I liked tea time because then, as now, I was all about food. There usually were freshly baked scones with raisins poking through their skins, or delicate tea cakes, or my grandmother’s famous ginger snap cookies to be enjoyed in the kitchen while tea was being served in the main house to the grownups. As with everyone under our roof, I was allotted a fine china cup and saucer for my use, mine being somewhat smaller than the adults. Too young to have developed a taste for tea, my cup was generally filled with hot chocolate topped with a floating puff of melting marshmallow. Tea was ALWAYS served in a cup and saucer, as was coffee for that matter, though tea was far more the beverage of choice of the two. Coffee had not gained the popularity it now holds, and mugs were what were used to serve a pint in at the local pub. There was always a touch of elegance to our table which I really enjoyed. At night there were candles flickering on the table, real candles with wicks, with no on/off switches on the base. Linen napkins were placed to the left of the place settings caught up in decorative holders. We used crystal water goblets, and ate off china plates. Though I hardly hold to this on a nightly basis these days, I have carried many of those traditions along with me when entertaining and notice my children set their tables in a very similar manner when they do. However, I do prefer a glass of fine wine poured in a lovely glass goblet rather than drinking it out of a red plastic cup, and to me a steak should be eaten on a solid plate with a steak knife rather than on the paper plate or plastic utensil. Little touches can add a bit of grace to your world requiring very little effort. God knows there doesn’t seem to be a lot of grace to spare of late if you keep up with the news, so sometimes we have to create our own lovely space.

This weekend Richard and I are going out to a steak house known for “fine dining”. I’m looking forward to it. We haven’t been out to eat since my birthday in November and I’m ready to be spoiled. From the pictures provided on the Internet, it looks quite upscale and lovely on the interior, and according to the reviews posted, the food is excellent. Yay. I’m not sure what to wear anymore. There is no dress code, or at least as I’ve noticed, here in California anymore. Fine dining means pajamas most probably are not acceptable. Kay.

On a totally unrelated subject, Richard is now talking about taking a three month excursion in the fifth wheel in May. The primary destination would be Alaska, and then apparently the world could be our oyster after that. Three months seems, to me at least, a long time to be away from home. Though I am definitely a nomad at heart, Boo, the Queen of Cats has to go for treatments once a week and I cannot imagine abandoning my time with her. As tempting a carrot as the lure of the road can be to my heart, her kidney failure, stage 2 so far, is never going to improve. As time passes, she will decline, and I have promised myself, and my dear furry friend, we shall see the last part of her journey together. No matter what, I will honor that promise. Richard suggested we take Boo with us. I suggested he seek some emotional support because he wasn’t thinking clearly. Number one, Boo is not a traveler such as I am. About an hour in the car and the cat is over the program entirely and begins to meow. I know first hand how annoying incessant meowing can become after a couple of hours. When I was traveling with my ex husband across country, he drove his truck and generally I followed behind him in my car with the cat and the dog. Kitty, my previous feline, mainly rode with me. Kitty wasn’t fond of men for whatever reason, so was likely to relieve herself on his seat or try to bail out the window or door if sharing the cab with him. Even though she seemed to tolerate me quite well, on longer rides, she would sometimes pass the time in my car by meowing non-stop for hours. The cat was not confined to a crate, ill, or in any discernible pain I could see. That being said, I was left to deduct she did this simply to get on my last nerve. I am here to tell you, this was a total success. It wasn’t a howling cry, you understand, just a simply “meow” she emitted at about one minute intervals, and she was tenaciously dedicated to the task at hand. At one point, while crossing the Arizona desert, after four hours of puddy cat serenading, I seriously considered leaving her by the side of the road with a sign around her neck reading, “Free to good home. No questions asked.”

Dogs are far better passengers. They are needier, and want to earn your love and adoration. Cats really don’t seem to care much whether you like them or not as long as the dish is filled and the litter box cleaned. At one time I had three dogs under my roof, a golden retriever, a samoyed, and a shih hsu. All three loved to go in the car. If I said “Do you want to go bye-bye?”, it was like the running of the bulls at Pamploma. A thundering herd would roar down the stairs all wagging tails and panting tongues. Barnaby, the golden retriever, would actually get his leash and bring it to me if he thought a ride in the car was imminent. Barnaby was a gorgeous specimen of canine. It was a blessing he was beautiful, because he definitely was not the sharpest pencil in the box. One day I remember in particular, I had decided to take Barnaby along for the ride to pick up my son at soccer practice. The weather was warm, but not hot, so I left the tailgate window down to enjoy the lovely breeze. At the soccer field, I picked my son up and we headed home. Stopping for a red light, my son commented a dog entering the intersection in front of us looked like an exact doppelganger for Barnaby. Without communicating, we both turned in unison to look in the back of the station wagon. Sure enough, there was nothing to be seen back there but glass and upholstery. Oh-oh. Stepping out of the car and calling Barnaby’s name got no response, I found myself standing in the middle of a crowded intersection directing traffic while my son chased the excited retriever around one car then another. The dog, quite sure this was an engaging game of hide and seek, was definitely winning the game. Finally between the two of us, we cornered him and got him back in the car, tailgate window up this time. Brother.

As to what to do with this suggestion of the trip to Alaska? That remains up in the air. For one thing, it would mean tendering my resignation at work. After taking a month off last year for my southwestern road trip, they will not sign on, I’m sure, for another three month absence. Richard will go whether I accompany him or not. The road is calling him, and, as he says, “he must answer the call”. His thinking is that he’s not getting any younger and at some point this type of trip will not be in the cards for him. There’s a great deal of logic in that, of course. Let’s face it, we’re all getting riper with each tick of the clock. I totally understand and honor his commitment, I’m just not sure it is a commitment I can make at this time. Just another thing to ponder at 2 a.m. when I’m staring at the ceiling solving world peace. Sigh.

In March, I am having surgery on my hand. Another topic for my 2 a.m. meanderings. I have what is called Dupuytren’s contracture in my left hand. Basically, it is an abnormal thickening of the tissues in the palm of your hand. Over time, this causes one or more fingers to bend inward. In my case, the digit in question is my pinkie. At first, it wasn’t much of an issue for me. Certainly it looks a little odd, but nothing I couldn’t manage, but now it is so far bent that it is effecting my keying at work. Instead of hitting the far left keys like a, q, and z, the little bugger keeps clicking on the caps lock. I’ll be banging away, about 90 wpm, when I look up at the screen and realize I have a whole paragraph of all caps staring back at me. Also, I’ve been told by the hand specialist if I don’t have the surgery to straighten it done soon, it will be too late to do it in the future. It is an out patient procedure. To my mind this means I’ll be out cold as a wedge for the surgery, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour to perform, and then they’ll kick me out once I’m done with the recovery room process. Hence, out patient. I’m quite sure that’s not in their manual, but it’s how I view it. They will equip me a splint for the first few days and then I’m to report to physical therapy on a regular basis in order to complete the healing process. Goody. I need something else to fill my time. I had five minutes just the other day where I had absolutely nothing to do.

How I got to this train of thought from dogs in cars boggles the mind, and yet here we are. So, I see the year ahead as being full of twists and turns. The political mess will rear it’s ugly head with all that entails. The mud slinging has begun in earnest and will only escalate as the date draws nearer. I try to stay out of political discussions these days. Used to be you could enjoy a healthy debate on the key issues, now it goes straight to name calling and I prefer not to engage. People on both sides are rigidly set in their thinking and logic seems not to enter into the discussion. But, I digress.

The events should shape up for a lot of blogable subjects I have a feeling. I look forward with both anticipation and trepidation to seeing 2024 unfold. Oh, forgot to mention, on another unrelated subject, Richard bought a new car the other day finally. Well, it’s an old, new car, or possibly a new, old car. Any way you look at it, he bought the car. I was glad, because we were spending a lot of conversational moments discussing the possibilities available on the Internet open to him and engines in general. I know zip do dah about cars and don’t have a great yen at this time to enlighten myself much further as of this writing. My knowledge runs as deep as vehicles have an engine under the hood, four tires, and I know where to pour both gas and oil should the need arise. Should a tire require air, I can probably fill it without having it need to be replaced, but please don’t ask me to change a flat. I am blissfully happy if I have a car which goes from A to B without blowing up or requiring towing. That, to me is a good car. I’m not a bells and whistles girl. Somehow in my mind that adds up to more to break or fall apart. The only “car love” I ever suffered from was my 300ZX back in the late 1980’s. What a lovely car that was. I would have lived in it happily. Five beautiful manual gears, a t-top, a shiny sleek bronze body, creamy leather interior, and a stereo that would pop an ear drum. The infatuation was to last four years before I had to give it up for a more practical form of transportation. I think of that car fondly at times, but one must move on.

At any rate, that’s my news for this week. Thank you for tuning in. Let’s mount the first steps of 2024 together and see what’s over the ridge.

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Pass the potatoes….

Well here we are on the downside of another holiday. The last two on the books for this year will be New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. For this year, at least, we are leaving the horn blowing and champagne drinking to other people, and staying home both tonight and tomorrow. I’m pooped. Last weekend, I packed five get togethers into three days. Whew. Sometimes, I amaze my own self. Three we hosted, the remaining two were hosted by other people. It doesn’t really matter which way the dial leans. Even if the party’s not at your house, you always end up doing something. An appetizer or a dessert is needed, or someone asks you to contribute chips and dip. At one function were invited to, a white elephant gift had to be located and wrapped for both Richard and I.

For me, it wasn’t about all the food preparation, the dishes or the cooking, I didn’t mind that at all, but by the fourth affair it was simply having to get all dressed up again and go out that became the issue. My mind and body were belting out a loud of a chorus of “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t want to go”, by Sunday afternoon. And the food…… Well, the food just kept on coming. Let me first say, I am not one to eat large amounts at one sitting. Instead, I am a bit of a “grazer”, if you will, choosing instead to eat small meals often throughout the day. In this case, however, there were no small meals. Saturday I was manning the controls in the kitchen. Spaghetti and meatballs, a tossed salad, and garlic bread were on the menu, plus appetizers and desserts. There were to be twelve of us gathered for dinner that night including my children, their spouses and the grandchildren, plus Richard and myself. Let me say, when my brood gets together we are a force of nature, so bless Richard for opening his house to us. As I mentioned in a previous blog, we have several family members who are vegan. This always seems to become an issue, even though I try not to make it so. I don’t exactly understand the substitutions necessary to bring food to it’s pure natural state, if you will. According to my oldest granddaughter, who is vegan to the core and determined to leave as light a footprint as possible on this world, any food served to vegan standards must not have parents. Kay. Were you to ask my daughter (her mother) how I manage this aspect of her personality she might respond, “Mom is very stubborn”. Fine, labels are so unnecessary. I could have gone on the Internet to figure it out I would suppose, but honestly I had about eight minutes free time penciled in at 2 a.m. for myself and I intended to make good use of it by soundly sleeping.

In the end, it was about us all being together and the presents and vegan non-vegan issues seemed to have little importance. There were two pots of sauce to choose from, one to satisfy vegans and one for the carnivores. Salad, which has no parents, was served with vegan dressing as well as, for lack of a better adjective, regular dressing. Everything was split down the middle right down to the garlic bread, one prepared with ghee and the other, which we ate, made with yes, full disclosure, parented butter. Chuckle.

The second get together was to be the following morning. This was also at our house, for breakfast and mimosas. There were eight in attendance. Richard wore the apron that morning. Seriously, the man missed his calling. He should have been a short order cook. Moving seamlessly about the stove and counters, he produced biscuits (from scratch), sausage gravy, bacon, scrambled eggs, and homestyle potatoes. It got the full five yums from the taste testers.

Once that was done, we tidied up and prepared for the white elephant party we were to go to at his neighbors house later that day. Dinner, of course, was to be included. Groan. I should have thought to include my pants with the elastic waistband when packing. Richard hasn’t quite embraced the white elephant gift concept. He had wrapped up twelve lovely wine goblets to bring with us, six for him and six for me. From what I understand gifts for this type of party are supposed to be either unique, weird, or funny. Wine glasses, last I heard, fall under none of these categories, and since both our boxes were identical, um, never mind. Ah well. As I recall, I got a snowman one year at such a gathering that held a plunger in one hand. When you went to use the bathroom it had a repertoire of phrases it called out and when you sat on the commode and pulled the toilet paper, well, the silly thing broke wind. People were fighting over it, but lucky me I got to take it home.

By the time we got next door I realized, though dressed nicely, I was still wearing my slippers. This, undoubtedly was a subliminal message my brain sent to my feet indicating my brain thought I should be going to bed and not to another party. The following morning, which was Christmas Day, I had to go to the store. People everywhere were full on shopping in their pajamas, so after seeing that I don’t feel I was too far out of step with only slippers representing my sleepware. Thankfully I only had to walk across the lawn to retrieve my shoes, so no harm no foul.

Somehow, I survived another meal without face planting in my plate. I have to give myself kudos for that. It was not light fare either. The main course was beautifully grilled tri-tip sided with garlic mashed potatoes and glazed carrots, not to mention a long list of other dishes. I could barely raise my fork to my lips without sighing. That was, of course, before all the pies, carrot cake, upside down cake, and cookies were put on the table. I kept thinking about my grandmother always saying, “remember all the starving children in China”. We could have saved 90% of them with the food I’d eaten in the past three days.

Four down and one to go, the last one turned out to be the most laid back of the five, Christmas dinner. Sigh. Sorry, can’t help myself. This was to be hosted by Richard’s brother and his wife. They had been cooking for two days. Two sighs. Ribs were the headliners this time, paired with the most delicious beans I’ve ever eaten. There was potato salad, tossed salad, creamy decadent scalloped potatoes, and next to them, representing your heart, were heaping dishes of fresh carrots and asparagus topped with disappearing pats of butter. Oh boy. Their house was decorated beautifully, the company entertaining, and dinner a delight. All in all, is was the perfect end to a lovely holiday celebration. By the time we made it to the car, full but not beaten, my eyes shut before the door had even properly closed. Ahhhhhhh.

Sooooo, I hope your Christmas was special. We are turning our attention to 2024 tomorrow. I have a feeling we are on the precipice of a very interesting year.

Happy New Year to you and yours. Let’s head into this one supporting one another, even if someone believes differently then we do. Let’s stop and lend a hand instead of looking the other way when someone is down on their luck. Let’s say “I love you” every chance we get, as another chance might not come along. Remember kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity are all free commodities so inflation or no inflation you can afford to use them liberally.

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