Am I blue…..

A lady passed me in the store this morning, I’m guessing her to be in her sixties, sporting bright blue hair. Though it’s not a fashion trend I have any desire to embrace, I salute her for wanting to make a statement. I’ve noticed brightly dyed hair seems to have gained popularity with both men and women over the past few years. Last week, I purchased coffee from a kid who had a mohawk. The spiky do was purple on the top, with hot pink accents along sides. Interesting. To add to his striking appearance, he had multiple piercings including three studs of skulls above both eyebrows, and three others below his lower lip. A nose ring was threaded through the end of his nostrils, and, as he spoke, I was afforded an occasional glimpse of what looked to be a small barbell protruding through the top of his tongue. I found myself thinking he must create a total scene at the airport when going through the metal detectors. Like a walking piece of art, aside from colorful hair and strategically placed metal accents, 70% of his exposed skin was decorated with all manner of tattoos. One, particularly eye catching, depicted a peacock wrapped completely around his upper arm. I saw a picture posted on Facebook earlier in the week of three elderly women. The tag line was “what this generation will look like at the end of the century” or something close to that. They all were well inked, and the ink had sagged and wrinkled as their skin had. It was not pretty.

Ink is certainly not germane only to recent generations. I remember in high school tattoos were more likely to be seen on bikers or military personnel, but even then it was not exclusive to them. I thought about getting one a time or two myself. However, like the picture I described above posted on Facebook, I thought of what it would look like a half a century down the road, if I made it that long. No.

Fads, hair styles, clothing, change as one generation folds into the next. Going forward, we will most likely become more attached, if possible, to our devices. Surely there will be new, and more advanced, technology flooding the market created to hold fast our attention. Although I am just as guilty as the next person of referring often to my cell phone, our constant attention to these inanimate objects is creating an isolation in our society as an unexpected side effect. The Surgeon General spoke recently about loneliness becoming startlingly prevalent in our world today. Loneliness, I was surprised to hear, can be as debilitating health wise as smoking cigarettes. Darn, and I gave cigarettes up years ago. Speaking of the killer weed, I watched an interesting documentary on Phillip Morris the other night. According to the film maker, the cigarette manufacturer were aware of the inherent health dangers smoking posed to the customers using their products, but continued to push the fallacy their cigarettes were healthier than other brands. Makes you wonder how those people slept at night. On a very expensive mattress I’m thinking, because in the heyday of smoking, 70% of the addicted population could be seen puffing away. They needed to reel in more men at one point, so the founders began to evaluate which of their cigarette lines might be considered the most “masculine”. Marlboro, though at the time largely marketed to, and smoked by, women was surprisingly determined to be the brand most likely to appeal to men. In order to make the turnabout happen, they would need to come up with a catchy marketing campaign designed specifically to be attractive to a male audience. This was to be the birth of the Marlboro man, which would propel Marlboro into the most successful cigarette brand on the market. These days if you smoke, noses will definitely be looking down in your direction. Back then, everybody and their uncle smoked, so it was acceptable to light up wherever you happened to be standing whether it be in church or a casino.

Another trend not particularly in the limelight when I was growing up was vegetarianism. Plant based eating habits were left to those living in ashrams, or perhaps hippies in the 60’s. Vegetarian lifestyles didn’t really become popular until the 1980’s, when awareness of the damage we humans were doing to our planet moved more to the forefront. I have several members of my family who don’t eat meat. I’m afraid I’m not one of them. Susie’s got to have her cheeseburgers, if you know what I mean. To my mind, it would seem as we are by nature carnivores, so it is not beyond comprehension for us to to desire meat in our diets. That being said, I do have compassion for people not interested in eating meat because of the way it is processed. I don’t agree with many of the practices meat packers use to euthanize these animals, and I’m sure there are many additives in our food that wouldn’t make me happy was I aware of them. Someone was saying the other days that hormones fed to animals we consume is a contributing factor to the fact that shoe sizes, and height in general in our young people has increased significantly over the years. I looked that up and according to what I read that is total bilge water. These additives can possibly make you wider, but according to everything I read, no taller. There are foods that do contribute to bone growth. Dairy, beans, and organ meats (euuuuw), for example. Rick loved liver and heart. I would rather be nailed to a board, than find either on my plate at the dinner table. Once a month, we would celebrate Euuuwweees Night at our house. He would cook something he liked (usually something glandular or unpleasant), and I would cook something I enjoyed, such as scallops or catfish. When cooking for two, it is important to give each person a voice in what comes out of the kitchen. With Rick, I learned a great deal about Mediterranean cooking and seasonings. Flavors which remain among my favorites. I passed a Mediterranean restaurant the other day while with Richard, and said I was craving falafels. I could have said marsupials or whizjambangers for all that meant to him. Richard has never tasted, nor had ever, heard of actually, falafels or many of the items you would find on a menu in a Mediterranean restaurant. It is our differences, as always, that make us interesting. I thought again the other day, imagine how dull it would be if we were all perfectly proportioned, equally as intelligent, the same height, or shared the same tastes. If our skin was all the same color, blue eyes prevailed, or only brunettes populated the earth. The diversity is what keeps the wheel spinning, to my mind at least.

Back in sweaters again this week, the sky is dark and foreboding looking outside my window. By next weekend we’ll be back up in the 90’s, so I just don’t know which way to swing. As baking in the sun is another thing not good for you (the list seems to be growing), I am interested in researching some of these tanning creams available. I’m steering clear of spray tans in salons for a couple of reasons. First, I don’t want to pay upwards of $60 for procuring a mere10 days of glorious bronze skin, and I’m not sure I like the idea of having the tanning solution sprayed around my face and eyes. Too bad tanning naturally carries with it all the skin cancer dangers, as well as aging concerns. I really do like working in the garden or lying in the sand soaking up some sun. Ah well, I shall see what tanning creams are all about. Hopefully, I won’t look like The Great Pumpkin when I am done. The older versions of these products left you with a definite orangey glow.

I am at work and actually have something to do, so I shall sign off for the time being. TGIF. Enjoy the weekend, and all the promises it holds.

Chores

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Waisting away…..

Can it be that another week has slipped through the cracks? Where is time going these days? I got up this morning and realized it was Friday, and it was back to work and it seemed like I had just finished my last shift which ended nearly a week ago. Whew.

Yesterday was to be my first “free day” in a really long time. Boo and I have been taking up space in our own digs this week, rather than being at Richard’s as we have been so often lately. I got a great deal of catching up accomplished while being left to my own devices, and was ready to indulge in a day of total abandon. The plan was to pull on my baggy shorts and a tee shirt, and binge watch cooking shows, eat bad take out, and generally do a whole lot of absolutely nothing. As often happens with best laid plans, these blew out the window before the sun had a chance to peek over the horizon.

I may have mentioned along the way, I am about to begin some pro bono work for a local non-profit centered around a historic convent and museum. This will be number two as far as the non-profits in my life, as I have been producing a monthly newsletter for the local food pantry for the past ten years. This addition to my workload, I feel, will mean my already full calendar may have reached it’s saturation point. Several weeks ago, a meeting was set up for me to tour the facility I would be working for, so that I could get a better understanding of what the venue was like and meet the players involved. Yay. That meeting, unfortunately, ended up being cancelled. As the gods would have it, they reached out once again to me night before last via email asking if possibly I could get up there yesterday for a meeting and do the tour. Sigh. Kay. I waved goodbye to my lazy day with great reluctance. Looking longingly at my TV set, I began the process of getting ready for my meeting, when the phone rang. A friend of mine, Barbara, living in the same area as the venue I was to be visiting, was not feeling well. Her roommate was on the phone asking if I could meet Barb at the ER as the paramedics were transporting her there to be evaluated. Normally, her roommate would be able to accompany her, but she suffered a family tragedy this week and has more than enough on her plate. Hearing this, I realized I would need to take my navy blue shirt out of my closet with the big red “S” emblazoned across the front and hook up my cape for this mission.

My appointment at the museum was at 11:00. It was now 8:15. Hurriedly, I pulled myself together, and hopped in the car after grabbing a water, a banana and a book (this was not my first rodeo). I spent many an hour sitting in the ER when both Rick and Dale were fighting their battles, and know you need reading material, hydration, and a snack, to survive unscathed. I am most familiar with the amount of time it can take to get things done there. Up the hill I headed, arriving at the ER entrance forty five minutes later. Going through the usual red tape at the front desk, including getting my temperature checked, and having a “Visitor’s Badge” with my name and Barbara’s written across it slapped on my shirt, I waited for a nurse to escort me back into the Emergency Room. Noting the packed waiting room, I was glad Barbara had come in through the back door with the EMT’s. Being guided into one of the examination rooms, I was pleased to find my friend sitting up and looking for all intents and purposes, amazingly well. The nurse informed me all her tests had come back negative and Barbara would most likely be going home in the next hour or so. Yay. Eating my banana, I gauged that to mean in “ER Lingo” an hour and a half to two hours. Looking at my phone, I could tell this would be cutting it close. Finally, they got the paperwork in place to get Barbara paroled. It is far easier, I have to say, to get into the Emergency Room, then it is to get back out again. The good news, of course, was that Barbara was just slightly dehydrated, but otherwise fine. Still in her pajamas, I tucked her in the passenger seat and drove her home. I had not been to her new place, so hadn’t realized it was remote enough to be considered in another state. Not wanting to just dump her and run, I escorted her into the house and got her settled, which left me ten minutes to make a twenty minute drive back to the museum. One thing I have learned in this educational experience called life, is there is no point in stressing over something you cannot do one single thing about. All the stressing in the world, wouldn’t make me any less late for this appointment. So, I simply drove along and let the day unfold as it was meant to, and took in the glorious view of all the wildflowers evident everywhere along my route. Life, as they say, was good.

Thankfully, my GPS dropped me nearly at the doorstep of my destination. I located a parking spot right up front, and followed the signs leading upstairs to the museum entrance, where my guide, Paul, was waiting for me. Introducing myself, I explained the reason for my late arrival. Assuring me all was fine, I filled out the volunteer paperwork and we embarked on our tour. The convent has some notoriety, he explained, being the oldest standing convent in California. Many of the older convents had either burned down or been destroyed during the 1906 earthquake. The interior of the large building was most impressive. Vintage wall paper covered most of the walls, accented by dark wood trim decorated with detailed scrolling. The building was originally erected in 1856. In the beginning it provided a safe haven for orphans in the area, taken in and cared for by the cloister of nuns housed there. Along with the orphans, the school on the premises provided a place for wealthy young ladies to come to learn the proper social graces, and for local children to attend school on a tuition basis. A schoolroom, set up in one of the massive rooms, provided me a glimpse of what it might of looked like in the eighteenth century. There is something fascinating to me about museums. That eerie feeling of stepping for a moment back into history to capture a snapshot of life the way it was for those inhabiting the world during that time period.

One room, perhaps my favorite, was a fully recreated bedroom. Everything in the room from furnishings to chamber pots was authentically represented. There was no hot and cold running water back in the 1800’s or electricity, and certainly no indoor plumbing. On the sideboard stood a large china water pitcher sitting in a matching basin. Paul explained residents of the house would pump water from the well into the pitcher to do their daily ablutions. A pot on the floor next to the sideboard was for spitting in after rinsing your mouth out. Another pot, a chamber pot, sat on the floor next to the bed. The obvious use for that, I’m assuming you are aware. So many things we take for granted now, were unavailable in those days. Really, when you think of it, it wasn’t really so very long ago. I commented on the fact that the windows in the rooms ran nearly floor to ceiling in length. This is a significant height as the rooms had very high ceilings. He explained this was to allow ventilation and air circulation, as there were no air conditioners or electric fans, and also to provide light into what would otherwise be very dark rooms. At that point I actually felt the house around me, and asked if there were ghosts afoot. No, came the quick answer, but somehow I feel old houses always harbor a few souls still longing for a place to hang their hats.

The vintage clothing I found particularly fascinating. The waists in the women’s dresses were impossibly small. I was reading men at the time greatly admired female companions with miniscule waists. Good Lord. One raisin and they would have exceeded their clothing’s capacity. I don’t know anyone who would fit into those garments today. Whale bone corsets were used to cinch women into these barbaric clothes. Even when pregnant they were pulled and tugged into place, although more cinched above the waist so as not to harm the fetus. Though I found the dresses quite lovely, and many of the fabrics lush and gorgeous, they look like torture devices to me. Can you imagine all those skirts, underskirts, and underwear on a hot day? Whew. I hope deodorant had been invented by then.

My great grandmother would have gone to school during that time. I wish she had kept a journal or documented her experience in some way. I am named after her. From what I understand she was a bit of a character who enjoyed doing cartwheels in the parlor or dancing under the moon. Seems like a full circle situation to me, although my cartwheel skills are definitely questionable, I do love a full moon. Imagine how things have changed since she was growing up? Cannot imagine her amazement if dropped into our world at this particular time in history. The computer alone, and cell phones, my oh my.

Even during my time on the planet so many things have evolved significantly. Richard was saying the other day that when he bought his first car A/C and radios were optional, things we now take for granted when driving a car off the lot. In the 1980’s only 72% of cars were equipped with A/C. Cars were not equipped with much in the early 1950’s, including automatic windows or power steering and power brakes. They used to come with wind wings to allow better ventilation. The younger of you are sitting there going “wind what”? They were small windows built into the larger car windows you could push outward to allow you to direct more air in from outside. As I remember, most of the cars when I was a kid also came with manual transmissions. I still would prefer to drive a stick shift, but we’ve gotten lazy over the years, so the automatics that came next have prevailed.

My car is beginning to show some signs of wear. I know the feeling. There are no seat warmers or navigation devices on my dashboard display, which my son believes to be almost archaic. It is a bit of a no frills vehicle but it has served me well since 2009 and I will continue to allow it to do so until it decides it cannot go on. Should a situation come up where I need to shop for a new car, or at least a new car to me, I will defer to Richard when choosing one. He is one of those men who wiled away his teenage years scrubbing grease from beneath his fingernails after spending the weekend with his head under the hood of whatever hot rod he was driving at the moment. A die hard car enthusiast, he finds Nascar endlessly fascinating. Here we part ways. Sitting watching one lap after another is guaranteed to find my eyelids closing. For me, it seems the whole point of these high speed car races is that spectators are basically sitting in the stands or at home in their recliners waiting for someone to crash. We really are barbaric in ways. He tells me he finds America’s Funniest Home Videos barbaric. Really? I laugh and giggle through the whole thing. I explained they are not going to air a video in which someone got seriously hurt, but I think most humans get a kick out of animals doing silly things or humans, well, simply being human. Perhaps it’s because about 90% of the really idiotic things in these videos have men as the participants? One wonders.

Very odd weather of late. Nineties predicted by the end of the day today, and then on Monday it’s supposed to be in low 60’s. I spent the week transferring my winter clothes to bins and putting them in my storage unit, and arranging my spring/summer clothes in my closet. It’s supposed to snow in the mountains. I may have to walk around in my electric blanket like a Tesla looking for a place to plug in. They showed pictures of Yosemite on the news this morning. The waterfalls are magnificent this year with the amount of snow nature has provided the Sierra Nevadas beginning to melt as warmer weather moves in. I would love to hop in the car and go down there, but there is too much going on right now to allow me to just take off. Sigh. I have been visiting Yosemite since I was a kid. The scenery is fabulous no matter the time of year. I do try to avoid mid summer though, because you can’t hear the waterfalls for the tourists talking and cameras clicking.

Wherever you are enjoy your weekend. Every day opens up with nothing written on it, write something memorable if you get the chance.

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Some people have no idea what they’re doing, and a lot of them are really good at it – George Carlin

I think when you reach a certain age you fall naturally into the process of inventorying and reviewing your life thus far. There are times I wish I could hit rewind, and have another chance to do it all again. I’d like to think I’d do everything so much better the second time around. This may or not be true, of course, depending on whether I got the opportunity to redo my life armed with the knowledge I possess now, or just went back to the beginning being as ill equipped to do it right as I was the first time around.

I try not to view the obvious missteps as regrets, but prefer to think of them as part of my learning curve. More often than not, as I have a hard head, the lessons I’ve learned have had to be repeated and repeated until I finally absorbed them into my mahogany-like skull. After all these years, I like to believe I am a little bit wiser, a lot tougher, infinitely more compassionate, and most certainly more resilient than the twenty year old version of myself. The lessons, along with the experiences, never seem to stop. Each day presents itself with the opportunity to learn something new.

Since Rick has been gone, I am on my own when it comes to my car. When here, he was always the one fussing about oil changes and tire pressure. This morning, I had to take my car in to get the transmission fluid changed and the filter replaced. Apparently, you are supposed to do this regularly. This information came to me via Richard, who’s a self-professed car geek. He looked at my car’s fluids and found them lacking it seems. You could fit what I know about the internal combustion engine in the head of a pin, and still have room for a set of luggage. Richard explained much of what goes on in various parts of the engine to me in great detail. Anything beyond, “you turn the key on and it runs”, was more information than I needed. The additional facts he gave me traveled quickly in one ear, and exited equally as quickly out the other side. When it comes to engines, I have adopted a sort of don’t know, don’t care, policy that thus far has served me well. It’s not that I am incapable of understanding the concept of a working engine, I just don’t want to.

As instructed, I got to the transmission service area early. What a “male” environment the repair shop turned out to be. Now I had not pictured gingham and chintz by any means, but the level of testosterone in this garage had me concerned I might leave the building sporting facial stubble. Grease and engine parts served to provide the inspiration for the general decorating theme. The only furniture in the waiting room were two well worn chairs, one occupied by a rusty piece of equipment sitting on top of a greasy shop rag. The room itself was freezing. You could have safely hung a side of beef in there. The only other nod to the fact that this was a waiting room for customers was a coffee machine perched precariously on top of a pile of paperwork on a filing cabinet to my right. Hoping for a little coffee for warmth, I asked if any coffee was forthcoming, there was not. As I knew there would be a wait, I had thought to bring my book. This was a plus, as the only reading material available was a stack of dog eared car magazines. The rest of the room was full of huge binders, undoubtedly listing parts and prices and cardboard boxes piled floor to ceiling containing what I presumed to be the parts themselves. I could almost hear Tim the Toolman Taylor grunting in the background.

I counted eight men running around, six of which were wearing shirts with the shop’s logo and their name imprinted over the front pocket. Two other older men, dressed in shorts and polo shirts, were in the shop talking to one of the mechanics. I assumed these two to be customers. It amazes me in California if the sun is out, even if the temperature hovers just above freezing, men are going to select cargo shorts from their closet. Brrrrr. The man behind the counter was both helpful and pleasant. This always counts for much to me. Poor customer service is one bone I love to pick. To my mind, it takes so little effort to be congenial, so why not do it? I asked for a printed estimate, and was both surprised and pleased to find the cost far lower than other places I had contacted. This particular shop had gotten all “A’s” on Yelp, and also came with a thumbs up from a friend at work. The wait, I was told, was to be approximately an hour and a half. After signing the necessary paperwork, I stepped out front to get some sun and thaw out my hands. The two gentlemen I’d seen earlier in the shop area, were now in the parking lot seated in lawn chairs. In between the chairs was a small folding table with an open backgammon board on top of it. Each man had a thermos cup of coffee at his feet, and in front of the table, was a box of donuts. As I walked by, one man said, “Help yourself to a donut. You’re welcome to join us.”. I had eaten breakfast before I came, so politely declined the donut. As to sitting down, I told him I had not gotten the memo on the protocol for getting one’s transmission fluid changed, so hadn’t brought the appropriate chair for the occasion. He offered his chair, which was kind, but I said I thought I might take a walk instead.

Afterwards, I was thinking it’s funny how we move in and out of people’s lives. I will most likely never see any of those people again, but for that moment in time they were key players in my story. Such things I ponder sometimes, when my mind takes a deep dive into the why’s and whatnots of life on this planet.

The car was done in an hour, which was great. I bid a fond farewell to that cast of characters and was on my way. I am most pleased to have checked that bit of maintenance off my list. Making sure checkups like this get done will hopefully keep my car running well for at least another couple of years. I have absorbed enough to understand maintenance holds the key to the longevity of a vehicle. Rick drilled this into me after I told him the following story from the “before I had retained any useful information” years. It is embarrassing to tell this story, as it definitely does not paint me as the sharpest pencil in the box, but I do so to emphasize how far I have come since then.

In my mid twenties, I had been at a friends house for an evening baby shower that had run quite late. This was back when 9:00 was around the time my evening began, not when I turned the lights out and went to bed. I had an old beater Toyota in those days that sported a catchy bumper sticker reading “my other car is a BMW”. Lol. The car wouldn’t have won any beauty contests, but up until then it had gotten me from point A to point B with reliable consistency. Making my way along a back road in the foothills, the car suddenly made an alarming groaning noise such as I might imagine an elephant to make if trying to pass a bank safe through it’s intestinal track. This massive groan was immediately followed by all the dash lights flashing concurrently, and then a total engine shutdown . Even to my ill experienced ears this did not sound good. Coasting to the side of the road, I tried the key again. Why do people always do that? Must be optimism springing eternal in our DNA. No way did that sound hold any hope the car would start again, yet there I was turning the key. I got out. As there was nothing around me but hillsides and trees, the only option appeared to be to walk back to a call box I’d seen about 1/2 mile down the road. Back then no one had a portable phone. Our phones were still umbilically attached to the wall. If you were out and needed to make a call, a public phone was the only option. I remember there was no moon, and the night sky was pitch black. Walking along, the stillness only disturbed by the sound of my own footsteps, my mind began conjuring up images of boogey men lurking behind every bush and rock. Shadows transformed into gruesome monsters and tree limbs jutted out in my direction like outreached arms.

Finally, reaching the call box, I was connected with an emergency operator who put me through to AAA. A tow truck driver was on his way. Hanging up, I schlepped another 1/2 mile back to my car. I had taken my uncomfortable shoes off for this trip, in case there really was a boogie man and I had to make a run for it.

A half an hour later, headlights came up over the hill. The cavalry had arrived. Yay. What a nice man. To be honest, while waiting, I had begun thinking about scenarios including abduction by tow truck driver which had set my nerves on edge. Being alone in the dark can really toy with your imagination. Fortunately, the driver was an older man who was all about the business of looking at my car and getting me back on the road. He told me he had two girls around my age, and would be horrified to think of them out on the road stuck in the same situation. My angels were on the job. Popping the hood as he instructed, my hero ducked his head underneath it. I stood behind him and watched as he began screwing and unscrewing caps. After several minutes, he stood up, removed his ball cap, and scratched his head. I know after years of dealing with the male animal, this gesture does not mean we are about to launch into an upbeat conversation. “Young lady”, he said, “you are completely out of oil”. “Thank heavens”, I’m thinking, “something easy”. If you know anything at all about cars you are currently rolling your eyes. Again, he restated I was completely out of oil. I’m thinking, “I’m not hard of hearing. Let’s put some in, yes, and get this show on the road”.Hmmmm. Not. The third time around he explained the situation loudly and slowly, apparently having come to the conclusion I was at the very least clearly mentally impaired. Bottom line, “Chickie, your engine is cooked. No more varoom, varoom, nada, finis”. Ohhhhh! The car, pronounced terminal, was hooked up to the trailer and dropped off at a closed gas station until it could be dealt with in the morning. I, in turn, was dropped off at home, vehicleless and exhausted. Oil is essential to the functioning of a working engine. Got it. Lesson given, and in this case, lesson learned. Sigh.

Another very male environment is a barber shop. My children’s father passed away when they were still in elementary school. Taking my son to get his hair cut had been sort of a male bonding day for them, with ice cream usually on the agenda immediately following the shearing. Now that his dad was gone, this, along with so many other responsibilities, was to fall to me. There weren’t any male figures close by who could sub for his father, so when it came time for a hair cut, my son and I crossed the line together. Stepping in through the door of the barber shop hand in hand, all eyes were upon us. I suppose it would be like a man going into a yarn shop. Not that men don’t crochet or knit (look at Rosie Greer), but in the years I’ve been frequenting yarn or fabric shops, the customers seem to be mainly ladies. At any rate, the barber closest to the door surveyed me suspiciously over the top of his glasses. I explained I was bringing my son in for a haircut. There were mostly adult males seated in the fully occupied chairs, so I assume the presence of a young woman in the room might limit the subjects they might be comfortable discussing. One man got up, and offered me his chair. The quiet was overwhelming. When it was my son’s turn in the chair, the barber asked what haircut I wanted him to have. “Um, the usual”? Another eye roll here I would suppose, probably from the barber. Turns out it’s a “little boy cut”. Well, that was easy. Now, I notice there are a myriad of cuts to choose from. You can get dye jobs and initials and designs. Glad I wasn’t dealing with all that. I felt the entire shop breathed a collective sigh of relief as we paid and went back out of the door. The ice cream shop was the next stop for hot butterscotch sundaes. Another hurdle scaled. Six weeks later, I was back again. After a while, they seemed to begrudgingly accept my presence there and even welcome us in.

So it’s work tomorrow again. I got notice yesterday we lost one of the oldest residents in my absence. He was 103. Interesting man. He survived the holocaust, spent time in the concentration camps, and wrote several well celebrated books on the subject. During the day, while seated at my desk, he often sat in the window in his wheelchair quietly taking in the sun. I shall miss him. The business of assisted living work will always leave much room for goodbyes, as that is the ebb and flow of life under these roofs. I just wanted to remember him here, because he touched me. Have a fabulous weekend!!!!

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Unfold your own myth….. – Rumi

Sunday the thermometer finally stretched itself up to 80 degrees. What a gorgeous day it was, seeming almost to shine brightly as if paying homage to it being Easter Sunday. Blue, blue, skies overhead, only broken up by an occasional white puffy cloud floating by. Glorious. Of course, this contentment with the weather will only be temporary. I say this because, we’re never really happy, no matter what the weather might serve up, for very long. When it’s hot, we’re wishing it was cold, and when it’s cold, yup, we’re asking, “where’s the dagnamit heat”? Since the onset of spring, I sit at work all day having one person after another remarking on how cold it is for spring. We’re like Goldilocks and the three bears. The only time Goldilocks was satisfied was with Baby Bear’s stuff. That satisfaction would have been fleeting as well, disappearing entirely most likely, once Baby Bear’s cereal had cooled off or his bed got old and lumpy. In a month, guaranteed, we’ll all be kvetching about the heat. There’s no maybes about that.

I indulged in a little retail therapy over the Easter weekend. Holidays haven’t been quite the same since my mom passed away. They seem to arrive with a bit of melancholy pinned to their shirttails. Sometimes, a little shopping cheers me right up. It certainly always did her, and Mama taught me well. Richard and I decided to go all shabby chic on Sunday’s trip to the store. Thrift store hopping is an activity I really enjoy, especially, when I come home with some really great treasures. I have mentioned before, I am blessed with a kind of a unique talent for thinking about something, then having it magically materialize in my life. Rick used to call it my super power. lol Last week, while emptying the dishwasher, I noticed several pieces of a set of small dishes I use a lot and really enjoy, had chips around the sides. Last I’d used the dishes, there was a chip in one, but now there were three plates each with a chip clearly visible. As they are dishes I use frequently, I decided to look on-line to see if I could find replacements. I bought these dishes years ago at Costco. My recall isn’t fine tuned enough of late to remember exactly when I’d purchased them. I do know Rick and I were still living in Oroville, so I bought them well over a decade ago. Still, I had faith the Internet, which hasn’t failed me yet when searching for something, would yield a result. The dishes came in a set and were meant to be used as “dipping bowls” for olive oil and garlic”, a fad going around culinary circles at the time. The set of brightly painted ceramic dishware included a tray to hold the bread you would use to dip with, as well as eight 6″ dishes. I probably paid less than $30 for the entire set. Sure enough, some results popped up. The sites with identical dishes wanted as much as $15-20 for each small dish. Say what? No way was I going to pay that. Wishing I had new ones, but not willing to fork out $60 for three of them, I closed the cupboard door and promptly forgot about them. Sunday, while in one of the last stores we were to visit, Richard waved me over to show me something he was looking at. Right there next to the item he wanted me to see, sat two complete sets of my little dishes, all intact, 16 for $15.99. Wow. They are in my trunk as we speak waiting to go home. Couldn’t believe it.

Word on the street is, thrift stores and discount stores are businesses benefiting nicely from the current state of our economy. With our dollars not reaping the harvest they used to, consumers are looking for more bang for their buck. I know, speaking for myself, I purchase items far more often in the discount stores such as Marshall’s and TJ Maxx, than I do in the higher end stores I used to frequent. Grocery shopping runs much along the same lines. I look at ads, then chase deals stores are offering, on any given week. I remember back during the coupon craze in the 90’s, people were clipping coupons out of every paper or throwaway. Though not an avid coupon clipper, I probably had at least ten to fifteen coupons in my wallet every time I went to buy groceries. Some people, though, really got into the swing of things. I recall one lady in front of me at one market who had a three ring binder positively bulging at the seams with coupons. Opening the book at the cashiers station, I could see the book was very well organized. There were tabs and plastic sleeves visible, as she flipped though the pages adroitly whipping out one coupon after another. When commenting on how impressive I found this, she told me they were alphabetically filed, as well as organized in categories such as paper products or produce. Looking at the size of the binder, it appeared to me to be a full time job. I already had one, and a life, but I had to admire her effort.

Boo and are are packing up and heading home again this morning. The cat is getting to be quite the traveler. Seated in her crate, paws tucked under her like the Sphinx, she goes back and forth each week. The crate is always the sticky issue. Not traveling in it, she’s great at that, it’s getting her inside it. She has not written a dissertation on it, but I feel she associates it with the vet. If the cat sees it, as I’ve mentioned, it’s game over. Once aware it’s in the room, I will be in for an hour of coaxing, which will lead eventually to pitiful pleading, and finally, I will be reduced to plying her with treats and ridiculous games of (excuse me) cat and mouse in order to capture her and get her crated. Once inside, she settles down as if nothing was up, and off we go. Cats, go figure.

I have a friend coming up Sunday for a brief visit. Spending my time split lately between Richards house and mine, doesn’t leave a lot of room for my usual attention to house cleaning. Not being at my house, at least I’m not creating any new messes, that’s a plus. However, dust continues to collect on the surfaces whether it has company or not, and I’m fairly sure no kind soul stopped by while I was gone to put fresh sheets on the bed for my guest to enjoy. Another to-do before she arrives is food shopping. A Buddhist on a fast couldn’t survive on what I have to forage for in my refrigerator. For that, as my time is limited, I think I’ll rely on Instacart. For the most part their “shoppers” do a great job. I do find you have to keep your phone handy while they are in the store, in case they have questions or substitutions. If not, you might end up with something you don’t really want. Also, it’s important to watch what items you select. Recently, my friend ended up with twenty-five pounds of carrots just by pushing the wrong button. Whew. They are going to have great eyesight when they are finished eating that lot. Interesting fact, …….or not. Too many carrots, can actually turn your skin orange. I just read an article on that. You are probably thinking I can file that information under “little known facts nobody cares about or ever really needed to know”. Seriously though, they included pictures of people looking like they’d gotten into a bad bottle of tanning cream in the article. Huh. Moderation in all things I guess. I mean I like carrots as much as the next person, but I’m not going to the mat for them.

It’s back to work again tomorrow. The days peel off the calendar in such rapid succession I can’t kept track. It’s the middle of April already, and marching in a steady pace towards May. At the end of the summer, after Labor Day, I am taking a full month off from the world and heading out on a road trip with Richard. Our on-call concierge will be absorbing my days until we return. Since I only work two days a week, in total my time off adds up to a vacation week plus one. My dear friend, Barbara, is moving in with Boo for the month. Barbara loves my house, and Miss Boo, so they should be compatible roomies. As for Richard and I, we will be utilizing his roomy fifth wheel while away, and taking in the western states along our route. Yellowstone is included on our itinerary. I’ve never been there, so am most excited about exploring the park and checking out a bison or two up close and personal. Yellowstone, as well as the Grand Canyon, which hopefully will be included, would cross off two locations from my bucket list. Recently I was watching a newscast about a couple of senior ladies, I believe eighty-one, who embarked on an around the world in 80 days tour together. From the looks of the video I watched, the two octogenarians were living the life while traveling around the globe. At the end of the video, they encouraged seniors, or people of any age, to get out and live their lives to the fullest. Couldn’t agree more. In the blink of an eye the sand has run out in the hourglass, and the choice to experience what this world has to offer is no longer yours. I talked myself out of this trip several times, because I had no idea how I could pull it off. One by one, I added another piece to the puzzle slowly making it a reality. Until, finally, I could see the complete picture laid out before me. Someone told me once, “if you want something badly enough, you will create it in your life”. Words to live by. So, I am revved up about this new adventure, so to speak. Another benefit, besides seeing what we see along the way, will be observing how Richard and I do when spending 24/7 in each other’s company for a full month’s time. This will fill in a lot of blanks about how the future looks for the two of us. They say, you never really know a person until you live with them. If things don’t go well, you may well be reading a blog of mine written while I’m seated on my duffle bag by the side of the road in New Mexico, my thumb sticking up. Secretly, I’m not worried. We both share the belief give and take is a good foundation on which to build a relationship. In the nearly eleven months we have been dating, I don’t believe we’ve shared a harsh word between us. We work very well as a team, with each of us pulling our share of the load. Closeness like this trip, however, can certainly highlight the blemishes, if they are there to be discovered. This too, will unfold as it is mean to unfold. I will allow it to happen at the time it does and not worry about it today.

Have a lovely weekend. Spring is always so full of new possibilities.

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Roads were made for journeys, not destinations. – Confucius

Last Friday I arrived at work at the usual time. As I do on workdays, I stopped on the way in to pick up a newspaper for my pal, Warren. For the first time, the mini-mart where I get the paper, informed me they had not received their delivery, so I left empty handed, Once I’d clocked in, I filled the candy bowl with Easter eggs, greeted several residents headed down to breakfast, and settled in at my computer for the day. Warren, who spends a good part of his waking hours occupying a seat in the lobby by my desk complaining about people letting in the cold air when they open the door, would be disappointed to find no paper waiting for him when he made his way down the hall once the breakfast service was over. It is probably best not to play favorites, but Warren and I have established a sort of comfortable friendship over the past year. I have come to look forward to seeing his face in the morning. Lately he’d been more confused then when I’d first arrived, but glimpses of the old Warren still shone brightly through if you took the time to look close enough. A one time landscaper, always has something interesting to share about plants and trees, and keeps a joke ready to launch or something silly to say to the staff as they come in and out of the lobby area.

Before long, one of the staff members stopped by to tell me over the weekend Warren had passed. Though he was not my relative, nor did I know him outside of the two days a week I spend at the retirement home, the man had touched me. It was interesting to see how many people mentioned him during the day, and that no one had chosen to sit in the chair he usually occupied. I found this all the more profound, because many residents share the dementia diagnosis Warren had been dealing with. It was touching people struggling with short term memory issues registered the connection. Another interesting fact, at least to my mind, was the paper hadn’t been delivered. I found that most fascinating. When I told my supervisor, she asked me to share this with his family who would be coming in at some point to clean out his room, which I will.

The beginning of the week I spent in the Bay Area with my son and his family. With five kids spanning thirteen to twenty-three in residence, you can imagine this is a house that generates a great deal of energy. I was most amazed at the efficiency in which my son and daughter-in-law manage their household. Working as a team, meals are dispatched, lunches made, mountains of laundry washed, dried, and folded, and the house kept picked up and dishes done. Whew. I got tired just writing that. The amount of groceries consumed under their roof is positively mind boggling, especially when you include friends stopping by after school, boyfriends, girlfriends, family, et al. To top that off, they have two crazy cats, a bit reminiscent of the two misbehaving “we are Si-a-mese” in Lady and the Tramp, who simply add a bit of furry playfulness to the mayhem.

Aside from the company, the competitive fun of the games we played, cherished time with my grandchildren, were the wonderful array of tastes enjoyed by my taste buds while I was there. We ate out fairly often but the evening meals were usually provided by the hosts. Having lived alone for the past four years, I will readily admit I’ve gotten a bit lazy about cooking. I still love great food, just not enough to prepare it for myself apparently. They put me to work, and I enjoyed participating. I manned the peeling, chopping, and general prep station. I’d forgotten how cathartic I find that part of getting a meal on the table. For most of my adult life I’ve been the one responsible for making sure dinner was planned, purchased, and cooked, so I think perhaps I took a little sabbatical when the opportunity arose after Rick passed away. Richard likes to cook, which has definitely been noted on the plus side of the relationship chart. Not only does he like to do it, but he’s quite proficient at it. Often we are on the same page with our likes and dislikes, but our tastes in food tend to run a bit differently. Definitely, I am the one with more exotic food choices. This is partly due to being married to David for eleven years who, also an excellent cook, had a Cajun background. Then I went on to twenty years with Rick, who, hailing from Egypt, had tastes that leaned toward Mediterranean dishes. Richard, is mainly a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Raised on a farm, he told me he was the one coaxing the milk out of the udders to pour on his morning cereal, or boiling a recently slaughtered chicken before it was to be deep fried for Sunday dinner. This is way beyond my wheelhouse. Milk arrived at our house in a metal carryall in bottles, and meat was purchased at the butcher and wrapped in butcher wrap when I was growing up. Funny how each of us has our own unique experience while here on this planet.

While the time with my kids was light and joyful, the ride home was something else all together. According to the weather girl on the morning news “light rain” at intervals was on the menu for the day. Uh-huh. I want her job. You get to wear lovely clothes, smile attractively, garner a large salary, and be wrong more often than not and still keep your job. Love it. It was already raining beyond the light stage when I packed my car. The sky overhead had turned dark and angry looking, and I had a feeling had Bette Davis been riding shotgun, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night”, would be right in step with what was ahead. The rain was really ramping up when I merged on the freeway going north. Cranking my wipers up to high, I listened as my new wipers groaned and wiped, then wiped and groaned, reminding myself to do something about the annoying rubbing sound as soon as I got home. Dark, forbidding skies loomed ahead and quotes kept running through my mind like “into the mouth of hell rode the 600”. Though 599 short, it somehow felt appropriate at the time. Heading up over the Benicia bridge was the strangest ride I’ve been on in recent memory. Pitch back clouds hung low over the bay on either side of the bridge riding up and over the rails appearing to almost droop across onto the roadway. One lone spot of light radiated through the clouds shining brightly like a dragon’s eye peering down through the darkness. All this gave me the feeling those of us moving slowly along in the onslaught of rain were about to be swallowed up into the beast’s fiery depths. Huge semis barreled by on both sides splashing water on the windshield, making it difficult to see the lines on the road ahead. “Mommy”. Relentlessly, the rain continued until I saw the the Sacramento skyline was laid out before my windshield. Yay, I made it. Every muscle in my neck and back was stiff from hunching over the steering wheel but I got myself home, and there was something triumphant in that.

My house sitter/pet sitter was waiting for me at the house. Once everything was unloaded from the car, I went to check on Boo, only to find her looking a bit peaked. Funny, cats can’t tell you they are under the weather but I swear Boo actually wears a different expression when she’s sick. Oh-oh. The gods must be angry. Phew. Naturally, it was a Sunday afternoon. I decided to keep an eye on her after noticing she had vomited several times by the side of my bed. I was pretty sure a vet visit was in our future for the following day. Sure enough after not seeing much improvement, I called in the morning and got her in. The receptionist said they had no regular appointments available. She says this every time I’ve called. I’m beginning to doubt if they ever do. She said I could get her in on a drop off appointment. This involves dropping your animal off at the office for the day to be checked out in between those patients who have actual times on the books. Naturally, this is more expensive. The world for Boo, as I love my dear old cat beyond measure, but I could picture Benjamin Franklin’s face flashing past my eyes every time another test was ordered. It was three Benjamin’s for the blood tests, another Ben and a half for the drop in visit and an additional two Ben deposit for the urinalysis. Now I wasn’t feeling well. In the end for a senior puddy cat, it turns out she is doing pretty well. Nearly $600 and the professional diagnosis, “most probably she ate something”. The next morning the cat was doing wind sprints across the living room carpet. Reminded me of when my kids were little. When they were sick, they would carry on as if they weren’t going to last another hour. Panicked, I would load them in the car and rush to Kaisers Urgent Care center. The urgent care, is an alternate treatment option established for those needing immediate attention, but not ill enough to require emergency room services. Urgent is definitely a misnomer. You could write the definitive American novel while waiting for your name to be called in those waiting rooms, along with the other 300 other patients needing attention. Once inside, my pathetic sick child, ten minutes earlier close to needing the last rights, would perk up and be positively chirpy the minute the doctor entered the room. Where previously they could hardly summon the energy to suck in another breath, they were now dancing about the room as lithe as tiny dancers in Swan Lake. Insert eye roll here. The end result being my cat was okay, was enough to find my grateful button, but still.

I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. One ear seems to have gotten completely plugged up. I am already hearing impaired, but with this going on and the ringing accompanying it, I am ten huh’s away from my legal lifetime limit. Was my mother here she would say, “don’t say huh, dear”. “It’s, pardon me”. Darn, those words from your childhood will hang around in your head like bees hovering about a honeysuckle bush. Sorry, didn’t mean to go all southern on you. This morning I had a phone meeting with a new non-profit I am projected to do some graphics work for. The person had an unfortunately low timbered voice, and I nearly pardon me’d myself out of a job before hanging up. I finally explained what was going on with my hearing. I believe the woman was relieved to know my inability to grasp anything she was saying, wasn’t due to the fact I was completely addlepated. I should have said no to this job. The “no” got stuck in my throat, while the old familiar “yes” pushed itself upward to my lips. I have more than my capacity on my plate already, but it is for a good cause so I guess I can find a spot for it. I may have to lose one meal from my daily schedule. Whew.

Sunday is Easter. Good Friday will commemorate the holy day as well as one year since my mother passed away. I shall think of her, but then I do so without needing a reason every day. I know she has found peace, and so I am peaceful with having to let her go. Easter is supposed to be the warmest day of a rather cool year for the holiday, coming in at 76 degrees. Looking forward to not having to wear a jacket. Masks also have been eliminated from my wardrobe choices. Tomorrow will be the first day I have gone to work without a mask covering the lower half of my face since I started working there. Most likely people won’t recognize me, nor I them. One day not too long ago a woman I had worked with several times came in to collect her paycheck without her mask in place. Not recognizing her, I asked her name. When she said, “Susie, it’s me Jackie”, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known it was her. I have friends who are nervous about putting the masks away, as they are afraid of getting sick. For me, I have had the shots, I have had COVID, and my poor lungs are tired of trying to suck air in behind my mask, so I’m more than ready to let them go. Each to their own, I say.

Anyhow, if we don’t talk before have a blessed Easter. Talk soon.

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Cock-a-doodle do…..

My most productive time of day would definitely be early morning. For example, it is 7:30 am as I write this. Since climbing out of bed, I have changed the sheets, done a load of laundry, refreshed the cat box, showered and dressed, taken a half an hour walk, and cooked and then eaten breakfast. Rick used to say if we could bottle that energy, we’d be buying a private island in the Azores in a week. I know! Not being a morning person by any stretch of the imagination himself, my morning chirpiness could sometimes be a lot for him to process before he’d washed the sleep out of his eyes. I can still hear him saying, “Could you dial back that energy a bit, Sparky, I haven’t had my first cup of coffee.”. Whatever. Can I help it if I inherited the Energizer bunny gene from my mothers side of the tree? I passed it on down to my children as well. Both my son and my daughter are by nature “doers”. We all seem to move through our lives at warp speed, though I have to admit as my birthdays add up, I have to reel it in a bit sooner than I used to and slow down as the day blends into the evening hours.

Knowing coffee is an integral part of my morning routine, Richard, though not a coffee drinker himself (this definitely was noted on the minus side of the relationship chart), was thoughtful enough to install a Kurig coffee maker and provide me with a huge box of assorted pods to have at my disposal. Knowing I most likely would disintegrate into a simmering puddle of goo without my morning pick me up, I believe he saw the benefits such a gesture would bring both to me as well as to himself. Good going Richard.

Yesterday morning I woke up the first time at 1 am. Thinking it was time to get up, I padded into the kitchen to get the coffee going before heading to the bathroom to perform my morning routine. Fortunately, I glanced at the clock on the stove before pushing brew. Half the night was still in front of me. Sigh. Worse yet, had it not been for the time change, the clock would be reading midnight. Boo was seated patiently at my feet. The cat counts on me to be the one leading the parade, so when following me back down the hall to bed, she wore a look on her face that needed little explanation. What?

I managed to get up for the second time at an appropriate hour for a person not reporting for the graveyard shift. This time I did push brew, and made myself a tall, steaming cup of coffee. Ahhhh. My morning piece of heaven. Taking two long swigs out of my “If you need me I’ll be on my pedestal” cup Richard got me, I set the cup down on the table and sat down to check my phone messages. The coaster, not quite level on the mat under the lamp, dumped my cup over the moment cheek hit pillow. Fine. So, it’s going to be that kind of day? Getting up, I could see his phone sitting on the charger thankfully was not in the moving brown river, but whatever papers he had been working on the night before were, (oh-oh) along with some batteries and his reading glasses. Really? I tried to catch them all with my hands as the liquid began to flow over the side of the table onto the carpet. Note to self, cupped hands not an effective way to capture liquid.

Seeing a brown stain forming on the white carpet, my first thought was to panic. This flight or flight response directly stems from growing up with my mother. Sorry, mom, but you know it’s true. I adored my mother, but her strong suit was not in showing great patience with accidents. Looking back, I’m thinking this may have correlated with the OCD she dealt with most of her life. Having things out of order is the bane of people dealing with obsessive compulsive disorder. As a child I was, to be kind, a bit of a klutz. If it could be spilled, dropped, tripped over, torn, or fallen into, for sure I would do exactly that. Poor Mother, in her defense, the universe was exercising it’s wicked sense of humor delivering me into the hands of someone who did not deal well with uncoordinated humans. That being said, even at this age, I still have a high alert response when I’ve done something stupid such as spilling the coffee. The imprint, intentional or not, we leave with our children can be really far reaching. This is something I look at often when thinking about my two. Thankfully, in spite of my often less than stellar attempts at parenting, they grew up into two people I am endlessly proud of. Go figure.

The “accidents” have plagued me most of my life. In retrospect, I believe my mother was right when she used to tell me I moved too fast, and needed to slow down and pay attention to where I was going. Rick used to hold a pant loop or grab my elbow when we were in parking lots to keep me from walking into something or being run over. I remember once when I was first with Rick, I accidentally pulled one of his wooden window blinds off his spare room window. I was just trying to look out at the deer in the front yard and somehow the blind came off in my hands. My first thought was to hide the evidence, which I did, tucking it under the bed. Now you understand I was a mature adult at the time, or as mature as I get. Had I been ten, I would suppose this behavior might have been expected. Logic would have it Rick, not being a stupid man, was likely going to notice the gap in his blinds at some point in the near future, but in the moment it was all I had so I went with it. Unable to stand the suspense of waiting for the discovery of the missing section, I confessed my sins and tearfully told him what I had done. When I was done with my ardent confession, I found him staring at me in disbelief. Then, he laughed. Taking my hand, he walked into the bedroom, removed the offending blind from beneath the bed and with two f thinking “she needs one”) to think when something like this happens “what is the worst thing that could happen”? Oddly, that’s been quite helpful. It has not cured the anxiety raised when an accident occurs, just makes it a little less painful for all concerned.

Getting a hold of myself after replacing the coffee soaked mat at Richards, I cleaned the carpet and wiped down the glasses and batteries which appeared non the worse for wear. The papers, however, were a total loss, the ink having run into an indecipherable blur on all three pages. Mia culpa. “Put the cuffs on me officer, I’m ready to do my time.” When Richard came out of the bedroom, all but the papers were restored to their original places next to his chair. Explaining what happened in acres of unnecessary detail, where a simple “I spilled the coffee would have sufficed”, his response was, “no biggee”. Really? Is it just me? I think so, I really do.

Richard was having Mohs surgery later in the morning for a cancer spot on his back. These pesky little cancers and pre-cancerous spots are the bane of us fair skinned, light eyed people of Northern European descent. Just the way it is. Pre cancer, an interesting way to phrase it, is sort of a cancer wantabe. Not quite there yet, but pretty well on the way to getting where it wants to go. I’ve had many of them. Most, thankfully, are simply frozen off with a liquid nitrogen gun. Actual cancerous lesions, require a more intricate extraction, called Mohs surgery. In a Mohs procedure, the surgeon scrapes thin layers of skin from the affected area. With each scraping, the piece is examined under a a microscope. When a layer is viewed containing no presence of cancer cells, you are stitched up and sent on your way. A lot of these problems, of course, were caused by over exposure to the sun. Particularly for us baby boomers who had no idea the baby oil and iodine we were slathering all over our young skin was, along with turning us a lovely shade of golden brown, creating the perfect landscape for all kinds of skin problems years down the road. Aside from health issues, sun is hard on your skin as you age. Some people who were avid sun worshipers in those days now look like apples left too long on the porch rail.

The building where the surgery was to take place is located in downtown Sacramento. The plan was for me to wait in the car while he had the procedure done. The time it took would depend entirely on how deep the cancer reached underneath the skin. I have seen it take up much of a day, such was the case once with my mother, or as little as an hour or two . For that amount of time, I much prefer sitting in the car to sitting in a physician’s waiting room. Rations were stored in a bag with enough to cover me even in the worst case scenario. In my purse I had tucked my book, and my cell phone to keep my mind occupied. A parking space opened up right across from the Sutter’s Fort Museum, just a block from the building where his surgery was to be done. Sutter’s Fort is a popular downtown attraction. Established in 1939, Sutter’s Fort was the first European settlement in California’s central valley. The Gold Rush, and the unfortunate treatment of Native Americans was wound into it’s history as well. Busloads of tourists, and bright yellow school buses carrying excited bands of school children, came and went frequently while I waited there. The day being the first warm day we in the Sacramento area had been privileged to see in a while, foot traffic was considerable. Some people were moving at a fast pace as though headed somewhere with purpose, while others were meandering along stopping to look at the erupting flowers in the gardens they were passing, or simply enjoying their first taste of sunshine in awhile. Joggers ran by as well, most with Fitbits firmly affixed to their wrists letting them know how many miles they were adding to their daily routine. I noticed many of them commenting to one another about something on the ground next to the shrubs outside my window. Curiosity getting the best of me, I sat up higher to see what the excitement was about. A sleeping bag was on the ground with either a person or a body in it. Watching for a moment, I was relieved the fabric moved slightly so at least I felt it was probably choice A. The big conversation on the street seemed to be about the fact a pair of men’s pants, belt still in the loops, and what appeared to be a pile with underwear and socks were heaped on the ground next to where he slept. That being said, one wondered what he was wearing inside the bag? I did not need a visual confirmation. I kept hoping a horn didn’t honk or tires screech loudly spurring him into action. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of Pringles and two tangerines later, he was still in the “sack” both figuratively and literally when Richard arrived. Bullet dodged there.

The homeless situation downtown, well everywhere really, is reaching the crisis stage. I have no idea what the solution is to this but as prices escalate and jobs dwindle I don’t see it improving any time soon. Apparently the government is planning on providing “small homes” for a number of disenfranchised folks who want to come in from the cold. Not all people on the street want to rescued. Many have mental health issues that keep them from making rational decisions. From what I understand the state is looking into expanding medical health facilities to manage this side of the coin.

Perhaps they need to introduce the subject to some of the AI systems currently on the market and see if they can come up with a solution. I think of this because I watched a program on AI (artificial intelligence) the other night that I found absolutely mind blowing. They have developed such advance technology in their newest offerings that it is bordering on being totally frightening. The man who developed this particular technology on the program I watched, said the scope of what it can do even scares him. Good to know. The program, or whatever it is referred to, can pass the bar on it’s own in the upper ten percentile, and I do not mean “Sam’s Do Drop In”. Good Lord. Are we going to become obsolete at this rate? I’m sure I won’t be around by then, but it does give me pause for what the younger generation has to look forward to. Wow.

So, today we are having a dinner party. The main course is corned beef and cabbage because I worked on St. Patty’s Day this year so wouldn’t have been able to join in. I’m always tasked with setting the scene. Table setting is a familiar routine for me. Growing up I often helped my grandmother set what she called “a fine table for company”. Truth was she set a fine table nearly every night. My job was to retrieve the silver napkin rings from the china cabinet drawer and secure them on the cloth napkins. I can’t remember my grandmother using paper products as a child. Can’t remember if they were not available or if she simply chose not to use them. I do remember (thankfully something came through) when she came to visit she would keep a paper napkin if only gently used to be used at the next meal so as not be wasteful. Something we could all take a lesson from. I’m glad she passed on the knack for laying a good table to me. You can create such a beautiful mood while you are dining. It has served me well over the years. Don’t know if they do that between generations anymore.

Well, Happy Hump Day to you. It’s overcast but no rain. I’ll take it. Yesterday I was on a Zoom meeting with five people living in the general area. All of us at the same time were experiencing different weather. Here the wind was moving Richard’s grill across the patio, one person reported it was hailing, another had rain, one both wind and rain, and one even had a hint of sun. Stop it. Weird weather I’m telling you. Until next time.

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Last gasp of winter…..

Be careful what you wish for. Many of us living in the Northern California area have been praying for rain and snow to help reduce the persistent drought conditions hanging by over us the past three years. Apparently, someone was listening. Last year it looked bleak along the mountainsides as you drove along the highways in the Sierra Nevadas. Trees, starving for water, had either leaves turned dark brown and wilted, or simply stood drooping, as if in mourning, in the midday sun. Many, dead from lack of hydration, fell in the forests or in the backyards of those choosing to live among them. I have to say it was difficult to watch. Well, at last this winter we got rain, and boy did we get snow. Then we got more rain, and we got more snow. Guess what is on the agenda for next week? You got it, rain, and snow. It’s not that this amount of snow is unprecedented in the U.S., but rather that it is unprecedented for our area. People living here are not prepared for it, and that makes it more difficult to manage.

When I was living in Massachusetts this amount of snowfall was simply called “winter”. My car was regularly the largest snowdrift in the yard after a heavy dumping of snow, and temperatures often dipped down below zero before factoring in the wind chill, making it feel even colder. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. We have had two clear days to prepare for the next onslaught which is due to arrive in this area this morning. Many of my friends in Nevada County haven’t had power in days and are still trying to dig out from the last series of storms. One friend, living in a higher elevation, had to leave his pickup on the main highway and hike waist deep a mile and a half in from the highway to get to his home. Brrrrrr. Never have I been more pleased I made the decision to sell my home in the high country and move down the hill after Rick died. I seriously would not like to be dealing with what is going on up there right now. Good news, on the glass half full side of things, no more drought in most of the state. In the Lake Tahoe area, the snow plows are running out of places to deposit all the excess snow. Pretty soon they will have to use available parking spaces. Stores in the more isolated areas around here are running out of food and supplies. Trucks are parked all along the freeway and in shopping center parking lots waiting for a good time to traverse the highways. This effects the supply chain because their loads are delayed. Hope this next couple of weeks doesn’t result in any more serious side effects from the weather. Really feel for those living on the streets at times like this. I saw a man walking down the sidewalk on the way to work today pushing a shopping cart with a little dog in the baby carrier. Awwww. Sometimes I wonder how the dogs survive, but somehow they seem to get along. The man was wearing a stack of blankets like a huge shawl. Must have been heavy, but I guess heavy is better than freezing.

The most interesting thing has been going in my yard since the precipitation started. Robins have migrated into my world. Many, many robins. Yesterday, there must have been forty of the chubby little red breasted birds hopping about excitedly in the grass. Following the feathery invasion, squirrels arrived en masse. There were four or five furry little buggers foraging and digging out there. Richard says they are after worms. Apparently, when the grass becomes saturated, the worms migrate toward the surface making them easy pickings for the local wildlife. I must have a bumper crop. The birds maybe, but squirrels eating worms? I looked it up because worms just didn’t seem like a squirrel entree. According to the article I read, worms, though perhaps not squirrels meal of choice, will do if nuts and berries are scarce. They will eat worms for the the nutrients they provide. As a lot of the lady squirrels are expecting this time of year, good eating habits, or so I would suppose, might become particularly important.. For me, this would be like having to resort to opening a can of sardines to sustain myself. Worse yet, a can of Vienna sausage, if there was nothing else to chose from in the cupboard. Ewwwww. For those of you who have read my blog for any length of time you might remember Vienna sausage is like my kryptonite. I once had only a case of the slimy little tubes of destruction to survive on for an entire week. That, as they say, was the last of that. If they ever wanted to pry world secrets out of my tightly sealed lips, holding a can of Vienna sausage under my nose would illicit immediate results. My digestive system has never fully recovered I don’t believe.

The first day of spring is not too far off on the calendar. March 20th, to be exact. This year is setting a rapid pace I have to say. I have several short trips written in on my schedule in the near future which I am looking forward to. The first to visit my son and his lively bunch in the Bay Area, and on the heels of that visit, a quick three day jaunt to Bodega Bay with Richard. For those of you old enough to remember, Alfred Hitchcok’s “The Birds” was filmed in Bodega Bay. There is not a lot to do there if you’re not interested in walking along the cliffs, doing a little whale watching, or don’t like to cast a line in the water, but it is a picturesque little fishing village with lovely coves and inlets to explore. There are several places to dine along the wharf known for their excellent chowder, which I’m sure Richard will avail himself of. Personally, I’m not a clam kind of gal. I don’t appreciate the texture. I’ll eat chowder, but you will find all the chewy little clam bits neatly placed on the dish next to my bowl when I am done. Whether filled with activity, or peaceful and still, the ocean is always a location I am happy to find myself, so I will look forward to getting away.

The walls and doors here at work are awash with leprechauns, balloon rainbows, and pots of gold at the moment in anticipation of St. Patty’s Day. One of the residents came up to me when I came in this morning and whispered in my ear, “word on the street around here is the leprechaun cut-out in the lobby is the new owner of the place and is going to be our new boss”. I explained I had heard nothing about such a hostile elfin takeover, but then I’d just arrived on the premises. I assured him should I get any information vis a vis the new ownership, I promised to update him immediately. Our young new trainee watched this exchange with open curiosity. The kid seems totally overwhelmed by some of the dementia induced story telling transpiring under this roof. I keep explaining to him, the object of dealing with the severely memory impaired person is to roll with the fantasies not to push against them. Picture it like a huge wave rippling on the sea and you are floating along with it, not an undertow you have to fight against. After four hours, he has begun to have that deer in the headlights look. I don’t want him to leave, because it is great to have a backup, and he’s very likable. However, this business is not for everyone. Perhaps because I am, by nature, a story teller of sorts, it comes more easily for me to join in. I do love to weave a tale. Should memory loss ever cloud my mind, and I fervently hope it does not, I like to think I shall still be able to come up with a good story now and again to keep people entertained. Another point in my favor, if that is the right way to put it, is my mother had dementia so I am up close and very familiar with how the disease manifests itself. Fortunately, my mother saw the effects of it very late in her life, and as it progressed she became sweet and more simplistic. Some people rail against it, becoming angry as the confusion begins to settle in over them. In either case it is sad, but since scientific minds haven’t figured out how to reverse the process, for the time being we are stuck with it.

To be honest, there are days when I get nervous about my own brain function. Last week, after being shut in for days, I suggested to Richard we take in a movie. There is a really nice theater about twenty minutes from his house with comfy seats. Like many new theater complexes, they even offer up adult beverages in a very nice bar should that be your poison. (Remember when it was just buttered popcorn, Junior Mints, and Dr. Pepper??. I do.) The website indicated they were showing the most recent Tom Hanks movie, “A Man Called Otto” which I’ve been wanting to see. My treat I suggested, as Richard is always taking me one place or another and I like to reciprocate whenever he will let me. Yay. I went online to my account, selected seats for the following day, and saved the code and receipt to my phone. Done and done. The following morning I got an email from the ticket site asking how I had enjoyed the movie. I chalked this off as a total website fail, until I actually looked at the ticket receipt on my phone and it became clear it was me who, in fact, was failing. Sigh. I paid for the tickets all right, but for two seats for the night prior. So, our comfy empty recliners sat there unclaimed as the movie aired while we wiled away the evening at home eating cheeseburgers and watching the evening news. Fine. The theater’s policy states tickets can be cancelled or exchanged for a different showing up to the showing of the movie time you purchased. After that, you are on your own. It was so incredibly dumb, I would have just bought new tickets for the right day and swept the whole mess under the rug, but for the fact the movie wasn’t playing anymore except for mid-morning when we couldn’t go. No choice was left to me but to fess up to being a total idiot, which I did. Richard just laughed. Surrrrre, wasn’t his $20. Duh.

My brain, if not forgetful today, is definitely tired. I could use a margarita, a warm sunny beach, and a little R&R. This too is in my future sometime this year. For now, I shall be very grateful I am warm and dry and not buried under a pile of snow and ice. Have a safe day.

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Beautiful Carmel by the sea…..

Richard and I drove down to Carmel last week for a three day mini-vacation. With all the unpredictable weather that has been circulating around Northern California the past few weeks, some of our friends didn’t think it the best time to travel. Our reservations had been in place for several months. Listening to the pros and cons, particularly with so much water on the ground, in the end, the lure of the coast won over over the arguments not to go. After that, it was damn the torpedoes full speed ahead. Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time either of us made a decision other people in our lives didn’t support. Most probably, it will not be the last. As I always do, I asked my “angels”, who seem ever present in my life, to hang close and keep an eye on us just for a little extra insurance.

Monday, our first day on the road, proved to be the most challenging of the trip. Gray skies persisted overhead most of the morning. Far off in the distance the, massive accumulation of darker, angrier looking clouds, left little doubt there was more rain on the horizon. Many of the side roads along the route we’d chosen leading to Highway 5 were either closed or had significant water in the roadways. Once in the belly of the beast, it was either forge on, or turn back. In either case, it was obvious there would be water to be dealt with. Having grown up outside of Auburn, Richard is a fount of information about just about everything going on in the Sacramento area. According to him, the farmers in the lowlands take care of their own water issues, be it too much water, or not enough. Whether this is true or not, I have no way to verify except to ask Richard, who I believe we have already established has an opinion on the subject. Interesting though. (As an update. I learned from another viable local source this in fact is correct. The land, and the waterways are privately owned.) From the looks of things, whoever is in charge, had way too much water to take care of this year. The weatherman I watch in the mornings said today the snow and rainfall counts this season mark the third in the highest in recorded history.

Driving along, there were trees down on many properties, some with wires wrapped around them secured with yellow caution tape. When we got stopped in one direction, we’d try another. At one point, we came upon a huge pool of water. We pulled up behind two similar looking mid sized delivery trucks parked in tandem at the lip. The pool spanned the width of the road oozing into the pastures on both sides, then spread out about a half a city block from the middle. The truck drivers stood talking animatedly with their heads together next to their cabs. Though we couldn’t hear their conversation, we surmised they were discussing whether to go through the massive puddle, or turn back. While the men came to a decision, a short line of cars had begun to fall in together on the opposite side of the pool. All of the vehicles present seemed to be waiting to see what the truck drivers were going to do, before making a move themselves. Shortly, both drivers returned to their vehicles, and started up their engines. Our small band of silent witnesses watched as the two trucks, one following the other, tentatively entered the water. I figured the point man had the most to lose. If anything was going to go down (literally), he would be the first to tell the story. Richard’s take on the situation was if either truck didn’t sink beneath the surface, then we should be safe to cross. Swell. At that point, I was leaning more toward the logic side of the argument of our friends suggesting not to have come at all, but it was a little late in the game to switch teams. We watched, holding our breaths, as one truck then the next slowly forded the overflow area, each making it to the other side without incident. Next in line, like pioneers crossing a raging river in their wagon, we moved up to the edge and slowly drove forward into the water. Out the window it looked like waves lapping at the side of the car. I had a mental picture of all my doubting Thomas friends glued to the 5 o’clock news as Richard and I were helicoptered out of our sinking vehicle all with “I told you so’s” forming on their lips. Mommy.

When we reached the other side, the small caravan waiting there, taking our cue, began to cross as well. After that, it was a short distance to the main highway which we traveled sans puddles. Once on Highway 5, other than the wind which was strong enough to nudge us into the next lane if not paying attention, the weather cooperated with only a light rain falling the rest of the way to Carmel. My first glimpse of the ocean came after cresting a hill outside of Monterey. It has been a long time since I’ve seen my beloved sea. Bouncing up and down in my seat like a kid who’d consumed too much chocolate, I nearly burst out of the door when Richard pulled over next to a sand dune, and raced down the hill towards the water. Rain or no rain the ocean, to me, is the best place to find yourself on earth.

Once I’d gotten enough sea air to hold me for the moment, we drove on down the coast and checked into our room at a charming Carmel inn. The rooms, as usual, are photographed with a wide angle lens for the benefit of promoting guests to book them on the website. What had appeared on-line to be a large spacious room, was in fact in person a small, not so spacious one. As usual, I’d packed enough clothes to cover any event from an alien landing to a volcano eruption. The closet held about five hangers comfortably but we made it all work. The bathroom was very small, definitely a one person affair, with only a shower and no tub. Along with half the clothes I’d brought with me, the new bubbles I’d tucked in my overnight case were definitely not going to be put into use. Note to self “Bring a bar of soap”. Don’t know who’s body the small versions of soap in the guest packs were for, but they wouldn’t have covered the average infant. By the time I’d had one shower my little bar was down to a nub, and I don’t have a lot of area to cover. I’d purchased four traveling bottles so as not to have to carry larger bottles with me. Each bottle came with a different colored lid. I was sure memory would serve me as to what product was stored in which color, so didn’t feel the need to mark them. I must remember to remember I can’t remember —-. I’m not sure whether I washed my face with conditioner or shampooed my hair with cleansing cream. If so, they are apparently interchangeable. Good to know.

The first day of the trip was pretty much devoted to getting to our destination and getting settled. In the evening, we went to the Mission Ranch Inn for dinner. What a lovely setting for a restaurant. During the summer months, you can sit outside in lawn chairs and enjoy your adult beverage of choice while overlooking the ocean. Flocks of sheep roam on the pasture beyond the patio area and can sometimes be seen being herded by the owner’s (I assume) Australian shepherd. What clever dogs that breed. Amazing how instinctively they know to manage a herd of animals so much larger than themselves. I’ve always had a secret yen to own one. May do it yet.

It has been years since I’ve eaten there but remembered the food and the ambiance. There is a fireplace and a piano bar, for those who are so inclined. We sat in the back room which was a little more intimate, and quieter. Dinner was not a disappointment. Three tender ribs of rack of lamb resting atop mint chutney, served with pan basted baby yellow potatoes and Swiss chard. Yum and double yum. I left only the pattern on the plate. There was a tense moment, however. I asked the waiter for mint jelly. I KNOW!!! From the look on his face, shooting was probably too good for me. Why can’t they just give it to you and keep their thoughts to themselves? For the price of the meal, it should have come with a vehicle. Mint jelly doesn’t seem too much to ask. Our chef, when we owned the restaurant, used to get sooooo upset if I asked for either tartar sauce or mint jelly. It’s simply not done in the high end culinary world, and it galled him to no end I insisted on doing it. Their opinion is the flavors should carry themselves without enhancing them with anything else. Personally, I don’t care if you want your lobster dipped in marmalade or pour A-1 on your Brussels sprouts, as long as you enjoy your meal. Even if I’d cooked it, I would feel the same way.

After a delicious meal and a long day, we sank into bed. Sank, being the optimum word here. The bed, well loved from the feel of it, was like an old stable horse. It was high on both ends but dipped deeply in the middle. I looped one leg over the side to keep me from rolling into the abyss. Also, for a room with a fireplace on one wall, it was chilly. The fireplace, gas not wood, looked lovely, but when lit and on high didn’t seem to provide much heat. There was a small wall heater which we cranked up to the max and by the time our stay was over the room had come up to a comfortable temperature. These, I always say, are the fun things about staying in quaint old inns. This is precisely what gives them character. You can go to a new hotel with all the amenities, but then what would you have to write about?

I read recently an article about tips passed on from workers in well known businesses. Secrets you need to know, or perhaps would prefer not to, about how these businesses are run. One such tip was from someone who had worked in a well known and rather pricey hotel chain. His suggestion, “never walk on the carpet in your bare feet”. According to this whistle blower, hotels only shampoo their carpets about twice a year. Whatever is spilled, projectile vomited, or tracked in on your boot, is covered up in between washings with room spray and quick fixes. I worked in a motel as a maid for nearly a year when traveling with my ex-husband. I remember being amazed at how infrequently they washed the bedspreads. The sheets were washed in between guests of course, so that is where you want to rest, but the bedspread can be full of whatever it’s full of. My tip would be, don’t sleep with your face pressed against a hotel bedspread with your mouth open. I’m just saying.

Carmel was as wonderful as I remembered it to be. The line of Northern California coastline along the 17 Mile Drive really can’t be matched in shear beauty and accessibility. This trip was made all the better by it being early in the season so less people on the ground and parking everywhere we went was easily accessible. I will finish my story at my next writing. There is frost on the pumpkin this morning but the sun is up and shining brightly in the sky. Yay. Happy humpday to you.

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It’s always ourselves we find in the sea – e.e. cummings

The rain continues to fall here in Northern California, each day setting a record that tops the one proceeding it. I drove home from Richard’s yesterday through what looked to be a war zone. Huge trees were lying like fallen soldiers, draped across manicured lawns, some leaning precariously against a rooftop or pushing against a fence line. In some areas, I was detoured by blinking police cars to avoid a tree obscuring the lanes of traffic or to safely avoid downed power lines posing a threat. The reservoirs are filling up at a happy pace and our drought situation is definitely taking on a happier face than it was wearing last year. As always, I wonder why we don’t put more effort into capturing all this glorious precipitation falling to the ground. A state with the vast resources of this one, it seems to this small blonde at least, should be dropping some serious pennies in the jar to pay for new reservoirs or underground containment centers. Makes no sense to me, but then I’m not running the government thankfully. I wonder at times if anyone responsible is, but that’s a topic for a whole other blog.

I am headed down to Carmel for three days R&R next week. It seems an odd time to go with the weather behaving in such an erratic manner, but Richard and I have reservations at a lovely B&B, and have no plans to cancel at this writing. My heart is excited with the anticipation of seeing the ocean in whatever face it might be wearing. The last time I was there, can be counted in years not months. When the gap in between visits is this long, my soul begins to actually crave the smells and sights associated with being by the sea. Most likely it will be overcast and foggy. I grew up with fog horns in the background in Nova Scotia, so inclement weather is no stranger to me. A little rain never bothers me much. I’m not a high maintenance girl who worries about her hair or getting her shoes wet. They dry, and then there you are again. I actually love to get out and walk on a rainy day. I’m not talking about blinding rain, but I don’t mind taking a good walk in a gentle rain. There is something about a rainy day, in truth, that fires up my engines. I find myself singing in the kitchen, or industriously cleaning out closets. This has been a little more rain than usual for certain, but still it is nice to turn off the lights and drift off to sleep hearing it playing a tune on my roof.

I was called into work an extra day this week so here I am sitting at my work computer writing this. Several of the residents reported to me this morning no one won the enormous lottery up for grabs Tuesday night, though apparently 15 people will have an extra million to spend in 2023. Drat the luck, and I had my Porsche all picked out. I told them if I win the next drawing, don’t expect to see my face behind this desk come Friday. Looking dismayed at that statement, I assured them I would return often to take everyone out to dinner at one of the pricey steakhouses around the Sacramento area before retiring. I checked my numbers against those drawn to see if I might be one of the 15. Got one number out of two tickets. From all appearances I needn’t wait for the million dollar check to hit my bank account any time soon. Ah well. I realize the odds of winning are astronomical, but someone’s got to win. I’m just as unlikely to as the next person. lol

Someone was commenting to me the other day about how “off” their time perception has been since the beginning of the year. From all I’ve gleaned from the metaphysical reading I do, the energy collectively circling about in our world at present is very jumbled and disruptive, so this is to be expected. I totally feel it in my world. I’ve been off all week. Yes, yes, even more than my usual off. Tuesday all day I thought it was Wednesday. Then when it was Wednesday I kept thinking it was Thursday. I have missed two appointments already this year and we’re not even through January yet. It’s just an unsettled feeling of being slightly out of sync with the universe.

Because the weather significantly reduces outside activities, my son and daughter-in-law finally talked me into watching Yellowstone. I fell in the pot with the minority of TV viewers who had not seen a single episode of the well touted series. Two nights ago, I watched the first episode and have tuned in for several more since then. The story line definitely holds your attention. Though I have to say, if you’re offended by graphic scenes, I don’t suggest you grab your bowl of popcorn any time soon and tune it in. Whoa.

I have always wanted to go to Montana. Dale, my ex was from there, and before he got ill we had planned to drive up for a visit. I have teased the borders a time or two, having been in Wyoming once and Idaho many times, but Montana and Yellowstone have eluded me. Also close by and on my bucket list, I would like to get a glimpse of the Dakotas. The other night instead of counting sheep when I couldn’t sleep, I got to thinking about how many states I had visited, or lived in. To me, it was an impressive amount, but I have missed some of the ones I especially wanted to see. I will have to find a way to add those to my checked off list somewhere down the road. My mother visited one such city in Georgia, Savannah. She was enchanted by it, as I’m sure I would be. I have been to Atlanta on business, but that is sort of an encapsulated situation. I never really saw much of my surroundings other than the hotel where the trade show I was participating was located. After reading “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” Savannah was added to my list of must sees. Places steeped in rich history hold a fascination for me. Would love to see that area. I’ve never been to the Carolinas, nor have I traveled up the road a piece from there have I visited Rhode Island or Connecticut. I have lived in Washington, West Virginia, Arkansas, Alabama, and Massachusetts outside of California. People have asked me on occasion which one I preferred. To me, they all have their own pluses and minuses depending on where you are in a particular state. Even with all the tiresome infighting endlessly reported on the news, somewhere else I really have a yen to see is Washington D.C. We shall see. The year is young and my freshly printed updated passport is burning a hole in my pocket. Somewhere either this year or next, a trip to Canada is a must do for me. Many of my father’s family who I’ve been in contact with live in western Canada. Most of us have never met face to face. My dad died at 25 and my mother and I went to live with my maternal grandparents. Other than my paternal grandmother, my contact with my father’s people over the years since then has been sketchy at best. I would love to be able to restore that connection by meeting them in person. Growing up, it was just my mom and I out here in California. There were never any of those big family gatherings in my world unless we made it to a family reunion or a visit to Nova Scotia now and again. My son and his family sent me a kit for 23andMe I’m excited to explore. Be interesting to see what my DNA stirs up out there in my family tree I am as yet unaware has bloomed there.

Well work calls. Happy Thursday. Enjoy the one day without a raindrop associated with it if you’re in Northern California like myself. Look up from time to time and be aware of your surroundings. The ground is mushy and the trees unpredictable.

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2023 the prequel…..

I’m tired. I don’t often admit I’m tired. I’ve always had a bit of an Energizer Bunny personality. I tend to go, go, go until I can go no more. However, I seriously have been going non-stop since the beginning of November and my batteries are beginning to run low. About a week before Christmas, my body was sending up urgent messages it was time to slow down and recharge.

After Santa’s job was done, and the sleigh housed in the shed for 2022, I decided to listen to my nagging inner voice and take a few days off to hit the refresh button. During the 48 hour period following Christmas, I had no company coming and encouraged none, stave for my sidekick and BFF (best furry friend), Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats. Before allowing myself to settle, I had some catching up to do with my to-do’s. The day after Christmas, I dismantled the tree. This is tradition at my house. The tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving, and comes down the day after Christmas. When the tree was in it’s zippered bag, I boxed up all the ornaments and decorations, stored them in my recently acquired storage unit, and proceeded to clean my house spit-spot from top to bottom. Whew. Boo slept in the corner most of the day as I worked, only opening one eye from time to time to watch in mild curiosity as I passed by carrying the much hated vacuum cleaner or an armload of laundry. Lazy to the bone, all this work, work, work energy floating about the house must have been upsetting the normal sleep, eat, and poop routine she generally adheres to.

Once all the busy work had been done, I reserved one more day in which to do absolutely nothing. I silenced my phone, put on not one drop of makeup, left my pajamas with the penguins on them in place in lieu of getting dressed, and vegetated the entire 24 hour period. It was glorious, I tell you. Door Dash was good enough to deliver lunch, an enormous burger paired with a mound of fries, half of which I ate around noon, saving the rest for my evening meal. Perfecto mente dice. Loved every decadent “aren’t you wasting your life” minute of it. Yay. As part of my day of rest, I binge watched a series called “1883”. Every time the query “watch next episode?” came up on the screen I enthusiastically pushed “yes, yes, yes” and continued to watch. What a great show. I was hooked from the first episode. Apparently I am the only living human in the U.S. who hasn’t seen a single episode of Yellowstone. 1883, and I believe 1923 are part of the whole Yellowstone franchise. I’m not sure if I started at the beginning or whether I opened the book in the middle. However, I do know now I will have to watch all the other moving parts. I don’t take the time, or have the time really, to be a dedicated TV viewer. When I do get involved in really good television though, I will find the time. When Downton Abbey concluded, I was so devastated it was like losing members of my family. I felt like I should host a Celebration of Life for the cast.

On the subject of family, I had a lovely Christmas with my daughter and her brood. I hope you did as well. Well, not with my daughter and her brood. They wouldn’t have room at their table for all of you, but I hope you had a good Christmas wherever the day found you. This year we didn’t prepare the usual huge formal holiday dinner. My daughter and her family have been dealing with some health problems the past month, and all members of the family went through a bout of COVID in November, so nobody was up to making a fuss. Instead of turkey with all the trimmings, we had white chicken chili, garlic bread and salad and fresh guacamole and chips earlier in the day to keep us going until dinner time. This was fine and double dog dandy for me. I had a party Christmas Eve I went to where I consumed enough food to hold me over until spring. Still full from the last piece of pie I’d put away, I was happy to find a comfortable spot to park myself and watch as everyone opened presents. Our youngest member, Zeppelin, now four, must have been very good this year, for there was a bumper crop of gifts under the tree from Santa with his name written on the tags. From the looks of the front room, the reindeer and the jolly old elf had left quite a mess the night before. Muddy hoofprints stretched out across the floorboards. Alongside the hoofprints, snowy images of boots marched along leading from the fireplace up to the base of the tree. In the corner next to the tree on a small table was a festive holiday plate holding two gnawed raw carrots and the remnants of three holiday cookies, several bites missing from each. Looking around, it was obvious if Santa hadn’t had time to clean up after himself, at least he and the herd had stopped for a little snack before proceeding on their appointed rounds. Eyes wide as Frisbees, Zeppelin took it all in obviously enchanted. At four, with little question all things are possible. The elves had done their work well in setting the scene beautifully, to make it magical for him to enjoy. In the end, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. At the moment I am at work. I am writing a blog because there is no work for me today. All the directors are out for the holiday and the phone has needed my attention probably three times since I walked in the door. If I had anything less to do, I would be in a coma. On days such as this, they allow me to do whatever I need to to pass the time. This is what I need to.

Where or where does the time go? I can’t believe another year is coming to a close. I feel like the character in The Time Machine watching the world flying by just beyond my reach and finding myself at another crossroad every time I step off the bus. Outside, the rain has been steadily falling since yesterday. Driving in, I hydroplaned several times while going through deep troughs of water on the roadways. Weather in one form or another is slated to continue in the area for at least another week. You won’t hear me complaining about precipitation here in drought plagued California. There are so many dying trees starving for hydration, I consider every drop a blessing that falls to the ground. I find myself wondering why it is someone isn’t out there madly constructing more reservoirs. If we’re short on water, wouldn’t it make sense to make extra receptacles to capture the water we do have falling from the sky or to store up some of the snow runoff? The last large dam project in the state was in 1979, and yet we continue to be plagued with droughts and lack of water and do nothing to hold on to what we have. Makes no sense to my mind, but then I guess I can just add that to the list of things I wonder about.

I am going to a New Year’s Eve party tonight. I may have mentioned, New Year’s Eve does not rank among my favorite holidays. Number one, I am definitely a morning person. The likelihood of my seeing the ball drop wouldn’t be something I’d place a large bet on, was I a betting person. Secondly, most previous New Year’s Eve celebrations I’ve attended haven’t been what I’d call memorable. Well, let’s say they may have been memorable, but not for the right reasons. More memorable like, “oh yeah, don’t want to do that again”. Some have actually bordered on disastrous. For me, a good book, or a great movie, a hot toddy, and some excellent company would make my evening a success. Richard, however, my squeeze du jour, likes to go out. You can’t be in a relationship where the pendulum doesn’t swing both ways, so I’m slipping on my dancing shoes and making a go of it for him. I will slap on my very best “party face” and try to summon up the appropriate enthusiasm to make him feel his evening was worth the price of admission.

I pulled my “little black dress” out of mothballs and stopped by Macy’s to see if I could pick up some black hose to go with. I didn’t want to display my winter legs without covering them. The ethereal “uncooked chicken” color emanating from them could well detract from the band entertaining on the stage. Unable to locate the hosiery section in the store, I stopped and asked a salesperson where I might find it. To my surprise, I was told they don’t sell hose anymore. It seems people either spray tan, go to a tanning booth, or go commando in 2022. Really? The lady said there was simply no demand for hose anymore. She went on to tell me she was asked at least once a day where to find the nylons. Hmmmmm. Well, then there is a demand to my mind. She is one sales clerk getting asked once a day. Likely other sales clerks are getting asked as well. Is it just me? I guess I can add this to the why don’t they build new dams pile. However, it became obvious whether it made sense or not, there were no hose to be found under Macy’s roof. Soooooo as the helpful clerk suggested, I went to Target. Target and Walmart have cornered the market on lady’s leg coverings I was told. I bought two pairs in my size in case they discontinue to stock them completely somewhere down the road and an unsuspecting public is forced to be subjected to my wan looking appendages out the open raw and uncut. To be honest, I’m a little leery of spray tans or tanning creams. I’m sure they have come a long way since I was a kid, but still. Back then the offerings were slim to none to achieve the perfect golden color we all attained to. If you chose not to lie in the sun and bake till you were cooked to a nice golden brown, your only other option was to slather yourself with Coppertone Tanning Lotion. Supposedly whatever ingredients were in the tube created a natural looking tan without benefit of the sun. Their slogan was “don’t be a paleface”. Definitely the product lived up to the hype. You were not pale after repeated applications, more it turned your skin a lovely shade of burnt sienna. They suggested on the label you wash your hands immediately after applying. We were teenagers. We rarely did anything suggested or otherwise instructed and most likely never read a label. For a week after I used the product, my hands looked like I’d recently attended an Indian wedding.

I am not particularly sorry to bid farewell to 2022. It was a year with a lot of hard corners imbued with a frenetic kind of feel to the days. I have a feeling 2023 is going to serve up some interesting and fun surprises. I have no idea why I feel this so strongly, but my intuition is fairly accurate, and in this case all my happy alarms are going off. I do hope so. I am ready to embrace fun adventures, new faces. happy days, and treasured family moments. I want to do something I’ve always wanted to do, see something I haven’t seen before, put something new and different on my plate, and introduce new faces into the the lineup I am currently familiar with. Sign me up for all of the above.

Someone paid me a lovely compliment the other day. She said she enjoyed talking to me because I always held on to the belief in the end things would turn out all right. Interesting. I had to think about that after she said it. Was it true? Well, in an odd way I think it might be. Perhaps more accurately, I believe things will turn out as they are meant to do. I am truly a fatalist at heart. If it is your time to go, I think it is likely you will do exactly that. For me we are given a certain amount of time to thrive, experience, and exist. Sort of a “so it is written, so it shall be” way of looking at things.

It’s like people who are late for a plane and miss their flight only to learn the plane they had tickets for went down after takeoff leaving no survivors. Or, the woman who gets in the car in the morning then realizing she’d left her phone on the kitchen counter. Running back in to retrieve it, she narrowly misses a deadly pile up on the freeway that she would definitely have been involved with had her phone been in their purse. Things like that lead me to believe where it might have been the other people’s time to go, it was not the person missing the plane or forgetting her wallet’s time. You may have a totally different take on the world than that which I respect. That is only how I feel about the whole thing. This brings to mind, the plane that went down with Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and “The Big Bopper” in 1959 killing everyone on board. Tommy Allsup, a guitarist, was also supposed to fly with them. Not room for everyone, he flipped a coin with Ritchie Valens for a seat, and lost. Also Waylon Jennings, not yet the huge star he was to become, didn’t go on that doomed flight instead giving up his seat “The Big Bopper”. Life can be, as they say, a bit of a crap shoot. I look at the many times I’ve hung on the precipice of disaster, yet here I am stepping into 2023. Who knows what the future holds. That’s the delicious mystery of it all.

Happy New Year to you and yours. Catchya next year. Stay Safe.

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