What’s the catch?……

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ride, baby, ride…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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And breathe, and breathe….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy your weekend!!!!!

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To bee or not to bee, that is the question

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy weekend.

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Whooooo are you??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Una visita al dentista, ole!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fishing or angling?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy weekend!!!

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When I was seventeen…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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What the hack…..

The last few months have really presented some challenges in my world. In October, I was treated to a second bout of COVID which slowed down my forward momentum for most of the month. Next, came the holidays which, to put it mildly, were fast paced and jam packed. Then, just when it felt it safe to go back in the water, last week RSV paid me a visit. I feel as if I’ve been tossed about like a stick of balsa wood floating in a wintry sea. For those of you who have had the RSV vaccination, good for you. For those who have not, I highly encourage you to think about doing so. I meant to, really I did. Richard had his and had gently nagged me about getting mine. I waited until COVID was out of my system, and went to the pharmacy to sacrifice my arm for the shot. There was a long line, and I hadn’t made an appointment. I should have made an appointment. I should have waited. This virus is no walk in the park, particularly if you have asthma such as myself, or any lung weakness. For the first four days, I wasn’t completely sure I wouldn’t end up in the hospital, but thankfully my body seems to have enough juice left to fuel a good fight, so today I feel hopeful I am seeing light at the end of the tunnel. Whew.

Richard quickly pulled out his nurses cap, gave it a cursory press, and became my nurse for the week. Should you need a good nurse, I highly recommend him. Truth be known, I have great admiration for nurses. My grandmother was an RN back in the day. I can remember seeing pictures of her in her crisply starched white uniform and cap. Neither clothing item are part of a nurses uniform anymore. The cap, was originally worn by women in religious orders who tended the sick, as symbol of modesty. However, by the time my grandmother graduated from nursing school, the caps were an integral part of the ceremony. Each cap had significance, identifying the school a nurse was affiliated with, as well as her length of service or rank among her peers. I say her, though certainly there are male nurses, because the men were not required to wear caps. Equality at its finest.

Now, of course, scrubs in all manner of bright colors and happy prints are the uniform of the hour for both male and female nurses. I celebrate that. Who wants to be trying to maneuver a patient into a bed wearing a starched dress, nylons and heavy nurses shoes? I notice the male side wasn’t dressed up in a suit and tie with a fedora perched on their head?? Additionally, the caps, so I read, were not easily laundered, so were germ magnets. God knows, if you’re on the hunt for a good batch of fresh germs, a hospital waiting room would be the perfect venue in which to begin your search.

Since I’ve been sick, I’ve visited Urgent Care twice. Richard, my hero, accompanied me on both occasions. When Rick got cancer, I logged many an hour in the ER, so am familiar with the routine associated with people being seen on the fly. Both times with this bug, the gods were with me. I managed to come into the waiting room, announce myself, and sit down just before the thundering herd arrived. Already checked in and seated, I watched as the parade of sick people flowed through the front door. We all sat in the crowded waiting room cooking our shared bugs amongst ourselves until finally, my name was called and I was ushered into an examining room. As per the routine, my vitals and information were gathered and logged in the computer by the nurse. The nurse, who looked overwhelmed, said on her way out “I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready for her”. Right, yes. I’m pretty sure in Urgent Care language that meant, “good luck, girlie, we are backed up the ying yang and she’ll get to you before the clinic closes”. Got it. I took a nap. I learned during my time with Rick in the ER, if they say “it may be a bit of a wait”, you’d better make a lunch a grab a pillow. I began to worry about Richard, who was biding time in his car. Just as I’d set a good worry firm line above my eyebrows, as if by magic, the man appeared at the door in the company of a nurse. We sat together until the doctor arrived. If the nurse looked overwhelmed, the doctor appeared to need an injection of adrenalin. I cannot imagine what life must be like for the staff manning these facilities on such busy days, but I’m sure it’s beyond exhausting. They tested me first for RSV, COVID and flu. Kay. The waiting time for the results we were told was thirty minutes. I took another nap. Richard, not his first rodeo, had brought a book. Positive for RSV a treatment plan was laid out, prescriptions faxed and I was told to go home, rest and hydrate. Aye, aye, Cap’n.

After a week of hacking and coughing up a lung or two, I wasn’t much better, so it was back to the urgent care once again to take up my now familiar seat in the waiting room. Richard, resumed his post guarding the periphery in the truck. As I said previously, I lucked out so mine was but the third chair occupied in the waiting room. By the time I went in, someone was waiting for my seat. A lot of children, which always hurts my heart. RSV is driving a lot of this, and I recognized the hard rasping cough circling the room. Ach.

As previously, I was told the doctor would be informed I was waiting. Yup, another nap for sure. When she finally got there, apologizing for the wait (I think I celebrated another birthday), she said I needed a chest x-ray and then she would decide based on the results of that on a course of treatment. I was handed a piece of paper and a map and sent off to find imagining. I found Richard in the car splayed across the seat like a whole salmon across a piece of newspaper. Poor guy. We located the imagining department, and were relieved not to see too many cars in the parking lot. The old, “never count your chickens” saying comes to mind here. I went inside and found three people in the lobby waiting. Not too bad. On checking in I was told because I have RSV, I have to sit in another waiting room by myself. The word “leper” came to mind. While being escorted there, the clerk told me I may have a bit of a wait because they had to call in a technician (it was Sunday). Oh-oh. The dreaded you may have a bit of a wait. Just then my cell phone went dark. Naturally. So, I sat in the waiting room for an hour assuming as many positions as my lower body could come up with to keep me comfortable. During that time two other people went in and out. While they were in having their films done, their people were left with me in the contagious disease room with no masks in place. Is it just me? I wanted to say to them, I don’t have my letter etched on my chest, but the word “leper” comes to mind, so I’d keep your distance, but I would have had to remove my mask to do so so simply sat there and tried to localize my bugs.

Hearing my name, I followed the very pregnant technician into the x-ray room. I was tempted to waddle along behind her like a baby duck, but thought that to be rude. Believe me I’ve been through two pregnancies in my time, and waddle is an apt description of how you get on down the road in your last few months. As instructed, I held my necklace in my mouth and took a deep breath. In the middle of the three films she mentioned I have very long limbs. Well, I’m kind of a long lean drink of water I guess. She said it was hard to keep my appendages out of the way to capture the picture. To be honest, I had no solution. They are the original equipment. I came in with them, and am holding out hope I will go out with them. In the end, I do not have pneumonia, a definite plus. I am, however, back on steroids for another week and they’ve thrown in an antibiotic for good measure. Whooo-hooo.

So, here I am still sick but waiting to mend. Hope this finds you well and on the way to an excellent 2024. Once I get mine kick started again and in gear, I’ll let you know.

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Saving grace…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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