Being Thankful And The Five F's

 Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  Nothing but food, friends, family, and football.  The only thing that could make the day better is if they played baseball, too, but I guess it's not only the wrong season but also the wrong first letter.  Those four f's are since I became an adult- as a child, a happy holiday was not part of my family vernacular.  Much too stressful, with a bi-polar alcoholic mother. Always a whole lot of yelling and crying and family drama and hatred.  As an adult, I have tried very hard to live my life with as little drama as possible.  My children were quite young when I got divorced, and after the first couple of split holidays, I decided I wanted to spend my holidays with them, not determine how to divide them.  My kids only have one set of grandparents, since, thankfully, my parents have passed on, and I love my ex-in-laws.  My ex-mother-in-law is honestly the mother I should have had.  So, I usually spend Thanksgiving with my ex-in-laws.  Including my ex-husband and his wife.  I look forward to it;  it's always a fun day of too much food, hanging out, and watching football.

This year was going to be different:  I was going to spend Thanksgiving with my boyfriend's family. 
They had rented a big house near my house, and his entire family was gathering for the weekend.  I was invited to come stay and be a part of it. 

Can you say "trepidation?'

My kids agreed to come for dinner the day after Thanksgiving, since they would go to their grandparent's house per usual.  Which was good since my daughter was coming home from college for a couple of days, and planning to stay at my house, but I wasn't going to see too much of her.

My boyfriend, who is an excellent cook, was in charge of the bird and the stuffing.  I was going to be one of his minions, and chop vegetables per his directions.  I was also bringing side dishes:  green beans, butternut squash, and yams.

It was a wonderful, long weekend.  Everything went well.  His family was lovely, the food was great, we all liked each other, they all liked my kids, my kids liked all of them, and we all gained at least 5 pounds each.  No drama.  My boyfriend and I still like each other, too.

Spending Thanksgiving with a new family was just the first in a series of changes for me.  Because- I had finally gotten a new job and had given notice at the job from hell.  My first day was going to be the Monday after Thanksgiving.  I can't tell you how many years I had been waiting for that time when I would never have to go back to that office.  Every winter for years, as the leaves would fall off the Persimmon tree next door, I would go into the back room and look at the ghostly tree laden with fruit against the cold, stormy sky and tell myself, "this is my last winter in this place."  Finally, it was true.

I am readying a novel for publication.  This is the best kind of stress I think you can have.

Now we get to the fifth F.  Sunday morning, around 6:30 a.m., 4 inches of muddy water flooded my entire house during a monsoon.  There was nothing, at first,  then suddenly the water was pouring in, my boyfriend and I watching helplessly.  My cat spit at it- she doesn't much like water.  As I write this, loud fans are whirring all around me, and huge heaters are in both bedrooms.  It is hot as sin in here, but I'm home with the nasty cat and I don't care about anything else.  The house has been thoroughly cleaned, disinfected, and is drying out.  My internet is working again.  I got 5 seconds of fame when I was interviewed by a local TV station on what apparently was a slow news day.  My furniture, mostly heavy old antiques, will be fine;  those old pieces were made to last.  My nasty cat is also fine.

So- I am thankful for many things.  My kids, my boyfriend, my nasty cat, my friends, swimming, lifting, hot espresso, baseball, my new job that pays less money but has me working with kids again and with people who smile and are happy to see me every morning.  I'm thankful because I have more time off with this job. 
I'm thankful for my little house, slowly drying out.  I'm really, really thankful because I didn't lose a singe pair of boots in the deluge. 

The fifth F is (fu$%ing) flood.

Joe

My son just turned eighteen, and in honor of this auspicious occasion, I washed all my fake outside flowers.  They get dusty and cobwebby and need a good rinsing every so often.

Nothing is too good for my baby.

I had my usual twenty-first-century family dinner in celebration- my ex-husband, his wife, my boyfriend, my ex-husband's parents and sister, a couple of my son's friends.  It was really fun.  And some of us watched baseball playoffs.  The only thing that would have made it better was if the teams I was rooting for actually won.  But, you can't have everything.  Party animals that we were, we were done by about 9:00 p.m.  Whatever happened to the days where you would stay up all night, drinking, etc.?  Not, as my son and his friend planned to do, stay up all night at separate houses playing some game online, which seems to be the twenty-first-century equivalent of a teen-aged playdate. 

I started thinking about a dinner I had with a friend recently.  Talk about a real party animal.
"I lived with a chimp for three months.  His name was Joe."  With that startling pronouncement, my friend took a sip of her overpriced chardonnay and smiled at me.   I wasn't sure if Joe really was a chimp, or just a badly behaved man.  I asked for clarification.  "Oh," she said, "he was a chimp.  Better behaved than most men, as a matter of fact.  Unless he got stoned."

This conversation was getting stranger by the second.

This was a newer friend, and I was enjoying getting to know her.  She was educated, well-traveled, and fun.  And, apparently, she had a wilder side. 

In the '70's she was living in El Paso, Texas.  She met a Mexican man in a bar in Ciudad Juarez.  He was light skinned, had sparkling brown eyes, dimples, and was really sexy.  And they hit it off, and soon, she was spending most of her free time at his place in Juarez.  Juarez is a bridge away from El Paso, and back in the late '70s-early 80's, it was not a particularly dangerous place.  It was prosperous with the rise of the maquiladoras.  Jobs were to be had for the asking.  Money, liquor, drugs and sex flowed, and the bars were hopping.  Her  new boyfriend owned one of these bars, and lived above it.  With Joe, his pet chimp.

"Joe was a trip," she said.  "He loved to dance- any music at all, he was shakin' his money maker.  He'd get right up on top of the bar and boogie down.  Got great tips from all the drunks, too.  He was scary smart- he could practically answer you when you talked to him.  And he rolled a mean joint with his feet.  It was the craziest thing I've ever seen."

My Golden Retriever could flip peanuts into her mouth from the top of her nose.  Guess that's not quite in Joe's league.  My friend kind of rolled her eyes at me when I interjected this.

Joe was pretty much the big hit in the place.  Especially the rolling with the feet.  "It was crazy to watch him," she said.  "My boyfriend did warn me, never ever let him smoke a joint.  I couldn't figure out why not."

My friend took a bite of her ravioli.   "I actually developed a relationship with Joe- we became quite close.  One night my boyfriend was off doing something, and Joe and I were manning the bar.  It was a quiet night- just us two in the place.  I wanted a joint, and as soon as I pulled the stuff out, Joe went to work.  He rolled a beaut, a real fatty, and as I lit it, I swear his eyes were pleading with me.  He smiled at me, and being, a little drunk anyway, I decided what the hell.  What would one little toke hurt him?"

Well, apparently, it caused him to pretty much go psycho.  "He went crazy.  He started screeching, and throwing everything in sight.  The violence in his eyes!  I got so scared that I locked myself in the bathroom.  I could hear Joe screaming, and I heard things crashing and bumping and so much noise, and then suddenly, silence.  And then, Joe started hurling himself at the door of the head.  It was bending under his weight.  I had myself braced against the sink and the door, to keep him from breaking in and killing me, I swear."  She took a sip of her wine and wiped her mouth daintily.  I think my mouth was hanging open, because she started laughing at me.  I can't help it, I don't get out much. 

"When my boyfriend got back, he let me out of the bathroom.  He was so pissed he would barely talk to me.  That bar was completely trashed.  All the bottles of booze behind the bar, smashed to bits.  Glassware, crushed.  All the tables overturned.  Light fixtures torn out of the ceiling.  And Joe was gone."

So was her relationship, after that.  A couple of years ago she traveled down to Juarez just to see what had happened to her boyfriend.  Apparently he had been shot dead in the street a couple of months earlier, a victim of the violence that currently wracks Juarez.  The bar was shuttered, actually. most of the old neighborhood was shuttered and abandoned.  The silence was eerie;  she didn't stay long.

"Nothing stays the same," she said.  "Enjoy it while you've got it."

Maybe for my next dinner party, I'll wash the inside plants.

Secret Agent Man (Or Woman)

My boyfriend has a friend that is a real Private Investigator, one that goes on stakeouts and trails people and files reports and does all the cool stuff I've only read about.  My boyfriend, before he got his real job, used to help him out, serving people.  He became a licensed process server.  I was a little unclear on why you needed a license for serving.  "You get ten," he explained.  "Ten?" I said.  "Ten serves for free," he said.  "Then with the eleventh, you need to have a license."  "Why?"  I asked.  "How would they know?"  He had no answer for me.  Aside from getting a license, you don't really need anything else to be a process server.  One of the downsides is that people who get served sometimes live in sketchy places. 

The other morning, driving to work, I got a call from my boyfriend.  His PI friend had a job for him- not exactly a serve, but delivering a message to a women who lived in my county.  My boyfriend, now that he's a working stiff like the rest of us, couldn't do it;  maybe I could do it on my lunch break?  Since I'd get paid for it, I agreed.  He e-mailed me the name and address.

On my precious lunch hour, I set off.  Since I work in an office I was dressed in boring work clothes- and motorcycle boots.  After all, a girl needs to keep her edge.  I was heading for a neighborhood that I didn't know anything about, had never been to in spite of living in my county for twenty years.

I got off the freeway, and turned into the neighborhood.  Two turns later I was deep in the projects.  Rap music was blaring from a boom box in the middle of a group of young men hanging out across the street from where I was parking my car.  They all stopped talking and watched me park, and watched me get out of the car.  The only sound was the music and and the footsteps of my boots.  The sound of my car beeping as I locked it was a punctuation mark to everything.  I just wrapped my attitude around me and walked determinedly to the apartment.

Once upon a time I lived in the Lower Haight.  I used to walk to work in the financial district every morning with a good friend of mine who lived up the block from me.  We found walking to work got us a bit of exercise, and provided relief from the erratic schedule and insanity of the 7-Haight Muni line that serviced our area.  To save time, we would walk past the projects on Haight Street.  After all, no one seemed to be around at 7:30 in the morning.  Then, one morning, as we walked past the projects, we heard running footsteps behind us. A young man suddenly reached out and shoved my friend, grabbed her purse, and ran back into the projects.  His companion was coming for my purse.  A bit of background, here:  I am a purse slut.  That bag was a new Coach one, and irreplaceable on my meager salary.  It also contained my lunch and my work shoes.  Okay, I am also a food and shoe slut.  This punk wasn't going to get any of those things if I could help it.  I whirled around and stared at him, and opened my mouth and started screaming every expletive I knew, at the top of my lungs.  I have a prodigious vocabulary, and I can project.  He stopped dead and stared at me.  I remember his face like it was yesterday- black Jheri curls, green eyes, skin the color of black coffee with a touch of cream.  He suddenly turned around and ran back into the projects.  Later, it occurred to me- maybe he had a gun.  He could have shot me.  Fortunately, he didn't.  I still have that purse- it's older than my children.

Delivering the message was actually anticlimactic.  The tv was on in the apartment I went to, but no one answered my knock.  I left the message in a pile of mail stuck in the screen door.  I walked back to my car, watched silently by the youths.  I actually waved good-bye to them as I drove off.  No one waved back.  I treated myself to a Pumpkin Spice Latte before returning to work.

I went back to a busy, bad afternoon at the job from hell.  "Why can't I just quit my job?"  I asked my boyfriend.  "Because," he said reasonably.  "You don't want to be a process server." 

Good point.

PMS

I woke up feeling bloated and bitchy.  I had a new zit to go with my wrinkles.  Every article of clothing I tried on looked horrible.  Even my cat irritated me.  Nothing was right.

I had PMS. 

A good friend of mine dropped off the latest Victoria's Secret catalog.  She got it when she ordered a couple of bras online.  Much to her dismay, the black bra she thought she was ordering actually had a black-on-black leopard pattern on it, and was studded with rhinestones.  This upset her.  "Well," I said soothingly.  "At least, under a shirt you can't see either the pattern or the rhinestones."  She tends to get excited.  "Are you kidding me?"  she shrieked.  "It looks like a friggin' dryer ball."   Quite a picture, under a low-cut clingy tee shirt.

So, masochist that I am, I looked through the catalog.  I will never in my life be as long-legged and voluptuous  as any of the super models on those pages.  How is it that they need push-up bras, anyway?  Or is it just that if I buy one of those bras, I'll suddenly grow breasts?  And my bloat will disappear.  Miraculously, my wrinkles and zits will fade away, leaving me dewy-skinned and glossy lipped.  Such is the power of conspicuous consumerism.

There it was, in the middle of the catalog.  What I've been looking for, all these years.  A padded, push-up sports bra, with gold sparkles.

Damn.  I'll be the belle of the gym.

I told a friend of mine about getting a padded, push up sports bra, with sparkles, no less.  She shook her head,  "No," she said.  "I can't imagine working out without my boobs being smashed into oblivion."

This assumes that you have something to smash. Hmm.

My daughter called to tell me that she felt bloated, bitchy and was generally suffering from PMS.  Good, helpful mother that I am, I told her to eat some chocolate.  Or get a Pumpkin Spice Latte.  It's the only way to cope.  

Camping

"You're going to do what?"  my daughter asked incredulously.  "Camping," I replied.  "I'm going camping for the weekend."  She shook her head in disbelief.  "Does he know about you?  Does he know that your idea of camping is a two-star resort?"  I laughed at her. "I think you're underestimating me," I said.  "I've done it before."  She rolled her eyes and said,  "You were younger, then."  She also said that she hoped my relationship would survive, and made some snide comment about sheets and thread counts, but I completely disregarded her rudeness.

I was going camping with my boyfriend for the whole weekend.  Sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground, in a tent, with bugs and no showers and no makeup.  I have done it before- I used to backpack, without a tent.  I've hiked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu and camped all around Easter Island.  Camping for a weekend- well, it should be no big deal.  That said, I am still trying to convince myself that hot flashes give you that dewy, glowing look.

We were going off to check out a piece of my boyfriend's past.  In his college days, he found this pristine canyon where he built a tepee as a weekend retreat.  It was a place, apparently, to take vast quantities of  psychotropic drugs and have sex with random women.  "After all," he said, "it was the seventies."

Well, of course.  That explains everything.   However, I was alive in the seventies;   I didn't have these kinds of adventures.  Maybe because he's so much older than me....

Sex and drugs aside, it was a place he went with his dog to escape the stress of college and the grind of work.  He rode his old motorcycle in, dog in his specially built box, walked down the hill, feeling the weight of his life drop off as he approached his retreat.  He told me of the hours he would spend in the quiet, sitting on a limestone ledge overlooking the steep walls of the canyon and the creek, listening to the birds, tuning into himself.  His love of nature stems from his time there.   The man he is today has a lot to do with the time he spent there.

He found out about the canyon originally from an old recluse who built a cabin in the canyon, not actually knowing to whom the land belonged.   The recluse cobbled out a simple life for himself there.  In the winter the creek turned into a raging river, and the recluse built a cable with a chair attached to it so you could be pulled across the wild water via pulley.  The tepee was across the creek from the cabin.  A couple of years after the cabin was built, the land was bought by a speculator who planned to develop it.  Apparently back in the seventies there were plans to dam the creek, which would have made the tepee and the cabin lakefront property. Those plans fell through.  Nevertheless, by the time my boyfriend gave it all up to join the world of job-marriage-children-mortgage, there was already tension in the pristine canyon.

Recently, there had been a huge fire in the area.  So, we were going to see what was left of of the halcyon days.

We were camping by a reservoir near the canyon.  It was pretty beautiful, and the weather was warm.  There were mosquitoes at dawn and dusk, and yellow jackets when food was out, but otherwise, it was great.  He set up the tent, and the sleeping pads, and did all the cooking.  He built a roaring fire, which shooed away the remaining pesky insects, and after dinner we made S'mores.

S'mores might be one of my favorite things.

We went to sleep pretty early, unlike the twenty-somethings camped near by, who partied late into the night.  Our slumber was interrupted by automatic weapons fire, echoing across the lake.  My boyfriend was convinced a mass murderer was going around the campground, shooting into every tent.  "Don't you think there'd be screaming?" I asked reasonably.  "You can't scream if you're dead," he said.  Meanwhile, the twenty-somethings partied on, which I pointed out.  No mass murderer was going to ruin their weekend.  Eventually my boyfriend relaxed,  the gunfire stopped, and we went to sleep.

The next day we went off to the canyon.

The terrain was rugged, and quite beautiful.  The scars from the recent fire were evident on the steep hillsides as we drove down into the canyon.  It was hot and still;  our dust and the sound of our truck were the only disturbances in that remote place.

After a few missteps, we found the locked gate, parked, and climbed through.  The land was posted now, with huge "No Trespassing" signs all over the place.  It was silent.  As we walked down the hill we started to see large appliances on the side of the rutted, dirt road.  Old stoves, dishwashers, a washing machine, in various stages of rust and decay.  A plywood house, with a metal lean-to full of more decrepit appliances.  A generator. Car parts.  A refrigerator leaning tiredly against a dryer, both missing their doors.  A window was open in the house, and a dirty white curtain hung out against the house, silent like everything else.  I felt like we were being watched, even though no one was around.

My boyfriend was uncertain.  He couldn't tell if he was in the right place or not.  "It could be," he said.  "But it's all so different."  He pointed at the house and said it belonged to the son of the speculator who bought the property.

Thirty years makes a huge difference.  Trees grown up, a dirt road put in, and every type of used appliance in the county draped about in some state of decrepitude. We continued down the steep, dusty dirt road.  We got to the bottom, and looked around.  The creek babbled, but there was no cabin.  The dirt road ran alongside the creek, going off into the distance. 

"Where's the cabin?" he said.  "This must be the wrong place."  Then he saw the cable attached to a tree, and underneath it, the remains of a broken, old, wooden chair, covered with weeds and trash.

This was it. 

We crossed the creek on a rickety bridge built in the eighties, according to a hand-lettered sign.  We looked around the meadow where the cabin had stood- nothing left.  What had happened to it?  We found a piece of charred wood with some nails sticking out of it- had the cabin burned?  Did the speculator bulldoze it?  There was no one to answer any of these questions.

We looked at the wall of limestone where my boyfriend used to sit and think, for hours on end.  We walked down the road that didn't exist thirty years ago to the place where the tepee had once stood.  The dirt track followed the creek around the corner out of sight.  In place of the tepee there were a couple of depressing one-room plywood shacks.  No one was around.

My boyfriend was really sad.

Here's the thing about your past, and your memories.  They belong to you.  Eventually, everything changes, including us;  it's inevitable. So the only thing I can say is to always enjoy the present moment.  And know that no one can ever take the memories of your past away from you.  This place, the way it was, would always be a part of him.

We left soon after that, walking up another dirt road that had once been a deer trail.  We drove back up through the canyon to the reservoir, where we swam in the lake, and had a picnic. Later that night, after dinner- more S'mores by the fire.  No guns interrupted our sleep. 

Our relationship survived camping.  In fact, we are planning to go again.  I know a two-star resort on the Yucatan Peninsula that is just perfect.

Quality People

I had dinner with an acquaintance of mine last week.  She's a surgical nurse, works long hours but really enjoys what she does.  We were discussing men.  She's married.  Not happily, though.  We spent the better part of dinner discussing her husband and his myriad of faults.  Apparently he snores, farts, ogles other women, leaves a mess in the kitchen and has never put the toilet seat down.  He also, according to her, doesn't respect her.   If she is to be believed, his only redeeming quality is that he pays her bills without questioning anything. That is enough for her to stay married, apparently.  But her editorial comments continue.

"Really," she said.  "Why is it so difficult to find a normal one?"

The answer to that question, of course, is the original reason I started this blog.  I know her husband, and he seems to be an okay guy.  She definitely has different taste in men than I do.  I know this because she once set me up on a doozy of a blind date.   This was before my fifteen-minute rule.

The man was a plastic surgeon.  She worked with him, said he was a great guy.  Ever the cynic, I questioned why a great guy who happened to be a plastic surgeon would need to be set up on a blind date.  She shrugged.  "People are busy.  You know how tough it is to meet quality guys.  He has the same problem meeting women.  You should just meet him.  I think you'll like each other."  She looked at my chest.  "Maybe he'll give you a deal on some implants.  You never know."
For some reason this reminded me of the time I went bra shopping at Victoria's Secret, and was immediately accosted by a helpful salesgirl, who insisted that I was a perfect candidate for their new water bra.  Oh, yeah?  What exactly are you saying here???
Chest comment aside, I could see her point, having had the same problem in meeting quality people, I agreed to a dinner date.  I said as much.  She laughed.  "Honey, " she said.  "He's quality.  You'll thank me."

The doctor and I agreed to meet at a local Thai restaurant.  All I knew about him was that he was taller than me, and had salt and pepper hair.  I was pleasantly surprised.  He wasn't bad looking, and only a few pounds overweight.  The only stretching of the truth was the salt and pepper hair- even though all three remaining strands were salt and pepper.  So it wasn't so far off the mark.  We had dinner, the food was good, but the conversation bored me to tears.  Chemistry, or lack of chemistry, appears pretty fast.   He asked me if I could pick him up the next day, after a little procedure he was having; for my trouble he'd buy me another dinner, he just couldn't drive his little car, and he really needed a ride.  I hesitated, because really at this point, I didn't care if I ever saw him again.   I thought it was a little unusual for him to ask a woman he had just met to pick him up, but I decided that he must really need the ride.  So I agreed.

Later that night, after the uninspiring dinner date was over and I was home, I grabbed my wallet for something and noticed something unusual:  my driver's license was in the wrong place.  As a survival skill against impending old age, I have to put everything back in the same place so I can find it again.  I would never have exchanged my driver's license for my debit card.  I racked my brains for when it could have happened.  I did go to the rest room during dinner, and left my purse on the seat, but surely he wouldn't have gone through my wallet- would he?  I looked through it a little more, and discovered that I was missing $20.  Since I often operate on cash, I usually know to the penny how much money I have with me.  Would a plastic surgeon really swipe a twenty from a me?  And pull out, look at, and mix up my cards?  Seemed improbable.  And- I was already on the hook for the next day.  I chalked it all up to another senior moment.

The next day I showed up at the hospital at the appointed time.

The nurse on duty looked down her nose through her glasses at me.   She had major attitude and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet.   "I see you are the next of kin," she said.  I wanted to give her a pair of tongs to help her pull the stick out of her a$$ but instead I gave her my patented stop-seventh-grade-boys-in-their-tracks-look.  "I barely know the man," I said.  "Are you Allyson Wonders?"  she asked in the clipped, officious tone that petty bureaucrats in charge of nothing often invoke. "Yes," I admitted, "I am, but..."  My voice trailed off.  She shrugged in an annoying manner- really, she was getting on my last nerve- and sniffed, "Well, for whatever reason Dr. Boring put you down as his next of kin.  He's almost finished.  Have a seat over there."   She gestured to a bank of chairs against the wall.

Dismissed, I went and sat down, feeling really strange.  The whole situation was too bizarre.  Next of kin for a man I hardly even knew?  Enough.  When Nurse Officious was busy being condescending to the next patient, I grabbed my bag and left.  I had just gotten back to the car when my cell phone began to ring.  I decided to ignore it- after all, one shouldn't drive and talk on a cell phone.
A couple of months later, I was home having dinner and watching a game when suddenly someone knocked on my kitchen window, which overlooks the driveway.  It was Dr. Boring.  How the hell did he know where I lived, anyway?  The driver's license, maybe?  Too creepy.  I wouldn't let him in, I just talked to him through the window, told him to get lost.  He wanted to know, why didn't I pick him up as promised?   I told him to take a hike.  He continued to harangue me.  Hearing the commotion, one of my neighbors came out- asked me if there was a problem.  I explained that Dr. Boring just wouldn't leave, and my nosy neighbor, who also happens to be a cop in the Tenderloin, flashed his badge and told Dr. Boring to go and never come back, etc.     So- off he went.  I ran into him at Safeway, not too long ago.  It was a little awkward but he didn't do much more than mutter hello and make a little jerk of his head in my direction.

Damn.   There go those implants.  Guess I'll just go get one of those water bras, instead.

.

Koyaanisqatsi

What the hell is going on?

Melky was using.  He's out for the rest of the season, taking with him the hopes of all the Giants fans out there.  Will the rest of the team step up?  I hope so, but the thing that rankles in my mind is the fact that management knew this was coming down the pike back in July.  I'm sure that's one of the reasons that they pursued Hunter Pence so aggressively.  And why, just last week, in an interview, Brian Sabean said they were putting further contract negotiations with Melky on hold.  At the time, I discussed it with my boyfriend.  I couldn't understand why they would hesitate to re-sign one of the National League's leading hitters.   Guess what- the boy's been juicing.  The only good thing I can see out of this whole mess is that Melky owned up to it, admitted he made a mistake.  Consider this:  he told the truth.

Nevertheless- I'm not sure what's going to happen to the rest of the Giants season.  They lost yesterday and the Dodgers won, so the Giants have fallen to second place, with a cloud over them.

I'm really sad about all of this.

Another headline caught my eye this morning:  One of the Nob Hill Twins has Alzheimer's, and is hospitalized.  The remaining twin is in financial hardship, but still goes everyday to visit her sister.
I loved those women, they brightened my day when I would see them in the City.

Everything is going up- gas, food, just plain living.

What do we possibly have to look forward to? 

"Softball," my boyfriend told me helpfully.  "My win/loss record.  The Coneheads in the playoffs.  The A's and the Cards in the World Series."

Well, there you have it.  Go, Coneheads.

It Looks Like a WHAT????

This morning in the pool I was talking with a friend as we kicked alongside each other.
"My boyfriend," I said, "grew a tomato with a penis."  She looked at me incredulously.  "Honestly," she replied.  "Anyone else would see a nose, and you see a penis." 

Maybe.  But I'm serious, here.

My boyfriend is a successful gardener.  He is also a fabulous cook, and he assured me, that from the bounty of his garden, we would feast royally all summer.  We were having a discussion in early Spring about how many tomato plants to buy.  I wanted half a dozen.  He decided on two.  "You have no idea how many tomatoes they will produce," he said.  He also got a bell pepper plant, some basil and oregano.  I was in heaven, already tasting the Caprese in my mind, smelling the simmering Bolongnese sauce.

So, he planted, and fussed, and watered, and weeded, and worried.  I waited, plate in hand.  It took months.  Finally- some tomatoes emerged.  Not nearly the bounty I had been expecting, however.  Just a few.  This bothered him;  why was it the tomatoes weren't growing as they should?  Why did we not have a bushel full?  I'm not going to say which one of us wanted to buy more plants.  I'll just say, it's the same person who would have killed even the two he planted.  Black-thumbed-food-sluts can't be choosers.  That in mind, I am grateful for the ones we got.  However, one of them had a little extra growth that grew along with it.

What you call it is a matter of semantics.

Ultimately, the tomato with a penis came to a bad end.  We ate him.  He was delicious.

Water

A shameful secret has come to light.

I admit it, I have two black thumbs, and my fingers and palms are pretty black as well.  Most of my plants are fakes.  I have two live plants, outside in pots.  One is a Christmas Cactus, the other is a Jade Plant.  They belonged to my mother, and I've had them both for twenty years, and they are still alive.  In fact, when I moved, I transplanted them into bigger pots, and not only did they survive, they thrived!  Considering you have to be a hardy plant to survive my talents, I feel I've done well, with no real effort.  This morning I discovered why they are thriving.

My neighbor waters them regularly.

I caught her in the act.  She is a lovely woman, and she twinkled at me as I thanked her.  "Oh,"
she said.  "Not a problem!  I know you're busy." 

Succulents and Cacti need water.  Who knew?

I crave water, myself- I love to swim, and I love to be out on the water.  Any kind- lake, ocean, pond, river, whatever I can get.

I had a date once who decided that I should learn to sail one of those one-man sailboats.  Off we went to a local lake.  The water was a bit chilly, so we put on wetsuits.

Really, is there anything less flattering than neoprene?  The thicker suits, the kind you wear for scuba, they at least hide everything, but the thinner ones, made for  swimming and surfing and kayaking, just accentuate every single bump, wrinkle and flesh-fold.  You feel like a sausage, squeezed into casing, all your fat squishing out above and below.  Not attractive.  Why is it that men, on the other hand, look okay in their wetsuits?  Another inequity between the sexes.

So, there I was, a blob in a shorty suit, fat squishing out above and below the line of the material on my thighs.  Just great.  (My thighs are one of the banes of my existence, anyway, but encased in neoprene.....  run.   Run for the hills.  Whatever you do, don't look back.)  And this damn boat seemed to have a life of it's own.  I could not make the thing listen to me.  It brought to mind a family vacation to Belize, in which my daughter and I went tubing down a river in the rain forest, got separated from the rest of our party, got stuck on some rocks in a swiftly moving current, and had to be rescued.  Our rescuer was the incredibly handsome guide, and we couldn't even enjoy him helping us because we were so embarrassed that we actually had to be rescued.   AND we ripped open one of the tubes.

My very helpful date, no doubt starstruck by my grace and beauty, kept barking out commands.
"Windward!  You're supposed to turn into the wind!  No!  Upwind!  The other way!"

Ever obedient, and gifted with a stellar sense of direction and knowing right from left,  I turned downwind.  That's Leeward.  I tipped that damn boat completely over.

It was quite cold.

At least I can swim well.  And laugh like no one's business.  My date, he didn't have a very good sense of humor about the whole thing.

That was the last date I ever had with that guy, but really, I know the truth.  It was the neoprene that ruined it all for me.

Labels and the Perfect Wedding

I am finally dating a man who calls me his girlfriend.

This is new territory for me.  I'm used to commitment-phobes.  I once dated a man who, after six months, referred to me as his "very, very, very very good friend." I dated another who said that one couldn't just call someone a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, that you had to come to some kind of consensus about it all, that it took time, and that we had only been seeing each other for a year.  And, I've had many bad dates that really went nowhere.  So putting a name on anything is a huge development for me.  And, here I am with a man who is secure enough and committed enough in our relationship to give me a label.  What a feeling!

A couple of weeks ago, we both attended one of the biggest labels of all- a wedding.

The wedding was at a beautiful winery in the wine country.  The bride is a good friend of mine; the bride's sister/maid of honor is a good friend of mine, and their Dad is a good friend of mine.   My boyfriend came along for the party.

The weather was perfect.  Sunny, warm but not sweltering, breezy at first but the wind eventually died down.  The setting was spectacular;  shuttle buses picked us up at the parking lot of the winery, and transported us up to the top of this magical hill, where everything was set up:  a place for the service, lots of comfy chairs and couches with a bar nearby, tables for dinner, a dance floor with a DJ.  Even the bathrooms were perfect, at least on the women's side, because inside was a huge case full of anything you might need- hairspray, bobby pins, safety pins, double tape, feminine protection, breath mints, Kleenex, hand creme, etc.  You name it, it was probably in there.   The view from the hilltop was amazing; 360 degrees of rolling hills and vineyards stretching away into the distance.

The ceremony was perfect.  Just long enough to be meaningful, but thankfully not a full-blown Catholic Mass,  which, when attached to a wedding can take several hours.  The bride was absolutely gorgeous, and when I saw the way she and the groom looked at each other I started to cry. 

The whole day was perfect.  The service, the wedding dress, the bridesmaid's gown, the wine, the food, the cake and gelato, the coffee. 

The groom got up and made a speech about how peaceful and beautiful our surroundings were, and how his bride made him feel like that at the end of every day, no matter how crazy it had been and how much his head was spinning.  And if we should find a person like that, we should hang on to them.

When the groom made his speech, there was a collective sigh from the entire assemblage.  The women all sighed, because it was quite possibly the most romantic thing any of us had ever heard.  The men all sighed because now they all had to live up to impossible standards; the ante had been upped.
My boyfriend turned to me and held my hand.

As the twilight descended, lanterns came on, and a roaring fire was started in the fire pit.  Lots of dancing.  The party went on until long after dark.  It was the best wedding I've ever been to- in fact, it was perfect.

I saw the father of the bride yesterday.  He asked after my boyfriend, remarked that he seemed like a really nice guy, wanted to know his intentions, and was I planning to move in with him soon?

Don't rush things, here.  I'm still getting used to calling him my boyfriend.

Road Trip

After almost a year of living in her own apartment, my daughter called me the other day and asked me how to clean a bathroom.

Well.  No sense in being hasty about these things.

I'm sure this impromptu housekeeping was due to the fact that I recently visited her.  I really, really tried to restrain myself but after viewing the kitchen and bathroom the words just exploded out of me, much like the new life forms growing in the kitchen trashcan, which, judging from the smell, was apparently last emptied the week the girls moved into the place.  She has a kitchen door that leads to a porch;  she could bag the trash and leave it out there until she puts it in the trash can.  Someone might think it's valuable and steal it, and boy, what a shock that would be for the thief.
But at least it would be out of the house. 

We were there because my boyfriend and I decided to take a road trip.  Stay with a friend of his from high school, visit my daughter.  Use the back roads instead of the major freeways, pack lots of snacks, stop at obscure landmarks, take many pictures.

It was rather impromptu.
Off we went.  Our first stop was this cave, Black Chasm Cavern, located in Volcano, CA.  I just love stuff like this.  Then we took off down highway 49, through the Gold Country on the way to LA.  We stopped in Sonora, and picked this hotel at random.  Turned out to be a great place, old, full of antiques, nice little pool, absolutely fabulous breakfast.  I took plenty of notes and pictures, because my ultimate goal, aside from writing THE definitive novel of our lifetime is to own and run a bed and breakfast.

The weather in LA was perfect.   His musician friend's beautiful British girlfriend was visiting.   The boys caught up.  We girls got acquainted and became friends.  We had a blast together.  Mornings were spent in the enchanting garden, wearing our "guest robes," drinking coffee,  chatting, laughing.   

What is it about accents?  The beautiful Brit would have been charming anyway, but even more so with the accent.  She's also blonde, smart, successful. And really, really nice.   All that and an accent, too, it's just not fair.  I've been trying to develop one, but being a California girl, it's just not easy.

I caught up with my daughter, who becomes nicer every time I see her, in spite of her lack of cleaning skills.  I figure it's all okay, because someday when she's famous she can hire someone to do the cleaning for her. 

The most astonishing discovery of the road trip was the fact that my boyfriend and I actually get along.  We can spend hours in a car, driving along, talking, and even listening to each other's music without too much issue.  Even our silences are comfortable and unforced.

Now, if I could only get him to admit that he loves Eminem.  Give him a few more roadtrips, he'll come around.

Whatdya Mean, There's No Santa Claus?

"At some point, Santa needs to die.  Because, there is no Santa Claus."  The psychologist was quite emphatic on this point, insisting that part of the problem with our children today is that they are too coddled, that they need to be allowed to make mistakes, to screw up all by themselves.  We as parents can't keep rescuing them. 

Ok, so I completely agree.  While not a completely hands-off mother, I have nevertheless let my children fall down and pick themselves up.  The watching is painful, but the life lesson is invaluable.

This phenomenon is still happening for me.  I trip, fall down, bloody my knees, pick myself painfully up, do it again.  It has happened in every part of my life- spiritual, personal, and professional.  Achieving balance is hard.

Recent events have thrown the balance off, all over again.  My health benefits were abruptly cancelled.  My employer decided that the expense was too much, in fact he insisted that I consider applying for Medi-Cal.  Seriously.  That was the final straw in a process that has been going on for years.  No raise for five years, never a cost of living increase, no flexibility in work hours, no paid holidays, no sick leave, pretty much nothing.  What I had was a convenient job, close to my kids when they were small.  Hell, what I had was a job. But with one child in college and the other one almost finished with high school, the time has come to move on, if indeed there is something out there in this grim job market.  Updating my resume and searching is time consuming, and pretty much a part time job, much like my predilection for swimming and weight training.

My spiritual life took an unexpected turn this week when I discovered that a priest died of brain cancer.  She was very important in my life in my early years as a new mom.  She helped me understand and get through my own mother dying of cancer.  For the last three years I've been planning to get together with her- now it's too late.  I've missed the boat.  And- I will miss her.  She was a wonderful human being who really made the world a better place.  She didn't just talk about it, she did it daily.  May she rest in peace.

My personal life is bright.  I have great kids in spite of my mothering skills, or lack therof.  I have dear friends.  I have- dare I say it- a really great relationship with a guy who not only gets me, he doesn't run screaming from me once he realizes what I am all about.  For my age, I'm hanging in there, physically- I'm strong, and thankfully, healthy, since I can no longer afford to go to the doctor.  I'm in pretty good shape.  Mentally, I'm completely nuts but what do you expect from someone who's idea of a great night is flannel jammies, Uggs, a baseball game, a glass of wine and my boyfriend?

The other night I was putting recycling in the outside bins, when I noticed a twenty-something in a pickup next door looking at me.  Turns out he was one of my 7th graders, when I taught middle school.  He was delighted to see me.  He wanted to know was I still teaching, because he thought I was an "awesome" teacher, and that schools needed more educators like me.  I was of course in jammies, and Uggs, and my hair was wet and screwed up all funny.  As I usually am after coming home from the gym and taking a shower.

So the bad thing is, I live next door to one of my ex-students, who saw me looking really scary.  The good thing is, I was his favorite teacher, and, apparently, still am.  And he's turned out well.

Who says Santa is dead? 

Grace, Part 3

In honor of summer, I bought a new pair of sandals.

They are absolutely adorable, as far as summer sandals go.  Lilac blue, and actually comfortable as well as cute.  I figured they would go with everything- jeans, dresses, shorts.

So I wore them yesterday to a softball game in which the man I'm dating was playing.  It was a beautiful afternoon- sunny, warm, a slight breeze so it wouldn't get too hot.  I sat there all afternoon, watching a double-header.  His team stomped both opponents, and came home with a trophy.

I came home with a sunburn- on my feet, because it never occured to me to put sunscreen on them.  So now I can't wear those cute new sandals, because the straps rub right where the burn happened. 

I am not the only graceful one in my family.

My son, the-pitcher-who-wasn't, recently went to his Junior Prom.  He and his friends were all done up in Tuxes.  They looked quite smashing, very James Bond.  My son has a girlfriend, and so they were a couple, but they all went as a group, he being one of three young men escorting five beautiful young women.  A fabulous time was had by all.

My son dropped his cell phone over the course of the evening,  breaking the screen.  It could still make and receive calls, but was rendered useless for texting.  For a teenager, this is a disaster.  I mean, no one uses their phone for making calls.  My son's last cell phone was rendered useless when he carefully put it in his pocket and then went swimming with it.  After the water phone, I must have bought insurance for their cell phones, because I was able to replace the prom-dropped one, free of charge.

You learn a lot from having teenagers.   I  discovered You Tube, a bunch of really great bad pop music, and refurbished electronics.

My son carefully returned his rented tux, on time.  Unfortunately, when he did, he left his wallet in the jacket pocket.

The apple does not fall far from the tree, in the grace department.  

Love Bites

A woman I know was going through a rough time.  Her boyfriend broke up with her, and she wasn't taking it very well.  She kept obsessing about all the "what-might-have-beens" and the "where-did-it-go-wrongs" and the "how-can-I-get-him-backs" and the "oh-my-god-how-can-I-live-without-hims."  She also lost her dog about the same time.

It's not that I am completely unsympathetic to her plight.  I feel for her, I do.  I've been through bad breakups, and I've lost beloved pets.  I cried like crazy when I had to put my last dog to sleep. 

Dubbed "Wrong Dog" by the woman who rescued her and then left her with me "until we could find a home for her," I had her for the rest of her life.  She was about fifteen when I had to put her down.  True, she was terrified of everyone except me, she HATED men, and was really afraid of my cat. (Actually, everyone's afraid of my cat.)   But my dog was a good girl, and truly gentle.  And big enough that when I would run with her at 5:30 in the morning, no one bothered us in the dark.  I knew she was losing it when she would go to the hall closet door and patiently wait to go outside.  Or stand for a while under the piano, staring at the wall. Best of all, she'd ask to go out to do her business, I'd go out with her and she'd forget why we went out there to begin with, so we'd come back in and she'd of course turn around and have to go out again, and this pattern would repeat itself at least four times.  Always a runaway in her youth, one day towards the end of her life she bolted and ran off at 5:30 a.m.  And didn't come back.  I had a long talk with the Animal Control Officer of the Day at 6:00 a.m., and he assured me if she was found, he'd call me.  Around noon I got a call from the local police department;  a nearby neighbor heard whimpering in the creek and saw her, trapped on a rock by deep and rapidly moving water, scared, shivering and disoriented.  By the time I got there, the local Fire Department as well as the Animal Control Officer of the Day I had spoken with and a couple of local Policemen were all there.  (I live in a small town;  a dog trapped in the creek is a big happening.)  It was the Animal Control Officer who jumped into the creek and carried her out.  I dried her off, took her home and she went upstairs to the floor on the right side of the bed, which was her favorite side, and slept there, exhausted, for the rest of the day.  That night her hind legs collapsed going down the steps on the back deck, and I knew it was time.

She was a really good dog.  She loved me, and would have never done anything to me or my children, or even the cat, who she may have ultimately loved more than me.  Or the Guinea Pig- they were always communing, nose-to-nose.  Animals are so funny.

The woman I was talking about at the beginning had this Rottweiler that she loved.  He was her baby.  Gentle, she said.  Loving.  Harmless.  One night, her boyfriend was in the kitchen near the dog's dish.  He dropped something, perhaps startling the dog, I don't know.  When he bent over to pick up whatever it was he dropped, the dog took a good part of his face off.

When the ambulance came for him, the EMT called the police, who confiscated the dog.  She wanted the dog released- insisted that the dog was really quite gentle, that it was a just a terrible misunderstanding.  She refused to put the dog down.  Meanwhile, her boyfriend had a nervous breakdown and surgery on his face in an attempt to repair it.  She didn't understand why their relationship faltered, especially when he wanted the dog destroyed and she refused.  He moved out.  After his second facial surgery, he told her he couldn't continue seeing her, that every time he looked at her he was reminded that she chose the dog over him.  She felt he was unreasonable.  She begged him to come back, and he refused.  So, she had the dog put down, thinking that then he would move back in and all would be well again, even though, her heart was broken over the death of her baby.

Of course, it didn't happen. 

She honestly didn't understand why he ended it, and why he wouldn't resume with her once the dog was gone.  I tried to explain to her, that there's a difference between a dog and a human.  That the man had been hurt very badly- physically, mentally and emotionally.  That, yes, he had loved her, but was too traumatized to continue on with her, because every time he looked at her, he was reminded of the horrific attack, and the fact that she didn't immediately take his side, that she chose his attacker over him.

She just didn't get it.  She sat and wondered, "Why did he leave me?  Why won't he come back?  Why doesn't he love me any more?"

While it's obvious that she really needed professional help, I stopped spending time with her.   I found the whole story and the pathology behind it too disturbing.  Meanwhile, she continued to call her ex, and beg him to come back to her.  Eventually he stopped taking her calls, so she would leave long, tearful messages on his phone.

Today, I found out- she's dead.  She killed herself.

I felt sadness.  Could a better friend than I have prevented it?  Probably not.  She was deeply troubled, may she rest in peace.  I hope she's in a better place.

The Blonde Hopper

An acquaintance just laid it out there for me:  "Men," she said, "just prefer blondes.  It's the truth."  This woman is in her sixties, and honestly, she's not really very attractive.  She's short, pushy, rude and a bit hefty.  She bought into the whole "blondes have more fun" recently.  And, just like that, she started having sex.  Not a boyfriend, per se, but encounters.  Hooking up.  Action.  She's getting it like crazy, and if it's not the hair, it must be the attitude the hair gives her.  She looked at me, disapprovingly per usual.  "You should try it," she said.  "It could help you."

I've been blonde.  While it does give me a slightly exotic look when it's summer and my skin is tanner, in the winter when I'm pale, I just look beige.  I suppose with the help of self-tanners I could be bronze year-round, and as I get more grey in my hair the blonde might look more natural, but the truth is, a lot of those self tanners are so highly perfumed that they give my sensitive skin a rash.  Nothing more attractive than applying self-tanner before you go to bed, and waking up the next morning swollen, blotchy, red and itchy.  Also, when your hair is as naturally dark as mine is, well, there would be more upkeep involved, and honestly, I don't have the time or energy.  I will remain a boring brunette until I have so many grey hairs that I have to make a decision about what to do.  And, really, as far as male attention goes, I haven't noticed much of a difference.  Blonde, brunette, it's all the same for me.

I know one man who definitely prefers blondes.  My daughter calls him the Blonde Hopper.  This is a man somewhere in his mid-fifties, no great shakes in the looks or personality departments.  Exceedingly arrogant.  He likes women from former soviet-block countries.  I don't know for sure what arrangement he has with them, but he meets them on line, and brings them over for a time.  The first one was about six feet tall, legs longer than my entire body, probably about twenty, long, waist length platinum blonde hair, and she dressed like a hooker- booty shorts with suspenders over a bikini top, over-the-knee-platform-boots with 4 inch heels.  She was exceedingly anorexic looking, and had a bad case of acne on her cheeks.  She lasted about three months.   The next one was closer to my age- about forty, mid-length blonde hair, dumpy.  She lasted a month.  The next one was a little younger, maybe mid thirties. Otherwise she was much like the previous dumpy one.  Again, she lasted about a month.  He went through about eight of these women, and the only common denomination besides the blonde hair was the thick accent.  His most recent one has been here about six months.  She's young- twenties, I guess, and very pretty.  Long legs, long blonde hair, pretty face, vacuous.  She giggles loudly and incessantly, and whenever they're together she rubs up against him and they get x-rated in public pretty quickly.  And- recently she's sporting sparkles on her left ring finger.

So the moral that I take away from all this?  If you are young enough, blonde enough, and stupid enough, you can land a gem like the Blonde Hopper.

Maybe I'll dye my hair black.

Faith

I recently got an e-mail from an old friend from high school,  reminding me that our thirty-fifth reunion is fast approaching.  Considering that I haven't attended a single reunion yet, I'm not sure why he thought I should know about this.  Got me to thinking about high school, and dating.

Dating when you're young can be stressful, but at least you're young.  When you are middle aged, it's always stressful and you're not young.  The rules are totally different than back when we were kids.
I was trying to remember dates when I was young.  They were all pretty routine, or maybe I'm just so old I can't think that far back into the mists of time.  Little snippets of different things come back to me.  Movies.  Going to the beach.  Hiking.  A picnic on a warm day,  sun on my face.  The smell of the ocean.  The sound of water.  Mostly I remember the feeling of having my whole life ahead of me, of being invincible.  Usually there was water involved, a pool or the ocean.

I've had some memorable adult dates in the last couple of years.

It was a beautiful early summer day.  The guy picked me up on his motorcycle, and we rode out to the coast.  The weather at the beach was beautiful, just as warm and clear as it had been at home.  We walked on the beach for hours, holding hands, talking, laughing, and enjoying the sunshine.  Later, we had dinner in a small restaurant.  He let us eat at the bar so I could watch the game while we ate.  After dinner, he took me home.

I got an e-mail from a platonic friend.  He was someone that I had once been involved with, but was now just a friend.  He said, "Tonight is the height of the Perseid's Meteor shower.  Do you want to go see them?"  He picked me up at two in the morning, and we each brought our sleeping bags.  We drove up into the watershed, parked, and hiked in a bit, laid out our bags, laid down next to each other in our separate bags, and laid there for the rest of the night, talking and watching the meteors. 

I was meeting a man for lunch and a walk.  It was our first date.  We met outside a Mexican restaurant.  He kissed me immediately, and we started making-out right there.  Eventually we went inside, and had a great lunch.  After lunch, we drove down to the water and parked, walked along the water and out onto this rocky peninsula,  It was a beautiful afternoon, warm with a light breeze.  We settled ourselves on a rock, and talked and made-out for the rest of the afternoon.

As painful as dating can be, I think it's a process you just have to go through if you really want to find the right person.  I have a friend who has in her head the picture of the perfect man.  This perfect man also makes a tremendous amount of money.  She will make no deviations in the dating world from her own falsely inflated sense of expectation.   As a result, she has been alone for ten years, and fumes that "there just aren't any good ones out there."  I told her, half jokingly, that she should just marry some rich old man.   She replied, half jokingly, that rich old men want perfect young things.  She has a point; I do know younger women who would gladly be with a really gross old man if the price was right.  Of course, I have always thought of that as prostitution, but that's an entirely different subject.  The majority of us are not perfect young things, or gross old men, and where does that leave us?  Searching for the one.  Alone.  Morose.  I've just decided, if you want it, just get out there.  Sometimes you need to take a leap of faith.  Take a chance on someone you ordinarily wouldn't.  He could be Mr. Right, you never know.  If at first, or second, or third, or fourth etc. you don't succeed, well, the next one's around the corner.

You just never know where you're going to find your someone.  It's not easy.  And then, you find them, and suddenly- it's easy.

Transit of Venus

The Transit of Venus won't occur again in our lifetime.  It is the planet Venus crossing in front of the sun, much like a cosmic beauty spot.  I suppose my good friend and personal astrologer could tell me the significance of this event, but unfortunately, I never paid her the money she wanted to maintain our deep and undying friendship.  She did let me know that for a short time only, she would lower her price for me since the information she needs to give me is so important, and requires her expert guidance.  Except for this very kind offer, she and her friendship have mysteriously disappeared out of my inbox.  Guess I'll have to muddle through without her.

When I think about Venus, I think about love, probably because when I was a little girl, I remember a movie about Venus, with Zsa Zsa Gabor as a beautiful Venusian woman.  The female-only planet  was ruled by this evil Queen who had been disfigured by radiation and blamed men.  So love was illegal.  Of course, these handsome male astronauts land on the planet and fall in love with Zsa Zsa.  It was a really hokey movie, but here I am, a grown woman and I still remember the green planet, and all these really beautiful women in flowing, green dresses.  They were all looking for love, but of course, the evil Queen had made it impossible.  I pictured my dumpy little body in one of those sexy green dresses- gave me something to aspire to.  I just knew, someday Prince Charming would come flying in, riding in his silver rocket ship.  Then, that would be love.  Hollywood told me so.

My best friend lives with her husband in a small town in another state.  The man I'm dating and I decided to take a road trip and go visit them.  In spite of inclement weather- unexpected snow, heavy rain, high winds-  time flew by in the car, and we had a lot of fun.  We are comfortable together, and we never run out of things to talk about.  Traveling together can be a real test, and I think we passed, even though he did ban my ipod, because for some reason my music makes him crazy.  He brought all these snacks, however, which are a road trip essential, and he took me out for a trucker's breakfast before we left, so not liking some of my fabulous pop music is okay, I guess.  He's also a socially liberal Democrat.   Sometimes I'm liberal, sometimes more moderate, and often just Libertarian.    This makes our political discussions interesting, in spite of the fact that I think he just hates politics in general.  We've had several discussions about guns. He's thinks they're dangerous, and that there are too many of them on the street. I believe that it's a personal choice, one that shouldn't be dictated by government, but if it is, then along the lines of the second amendment.  I've actually wanted one for a couple of years.  We agree to disagree.

The town my best friend lives in is small and really pretty, a green gem in the high desert.  It's ranching, farming and mining country.  My best friend's husband is another socially liberal Democrat.   He owns a restaurant in their town, and as a business owner is on good terms with everyone.  When the local chapter of the NRA held a fund-raising raffle, he bought a ticket, and unbelievably won second prize, which was essentially an arsenal.  A couple of shotguns, something like an elephant gun, a couple of handguns.  Ammo for days.  It is a pretty impressive display of firepower.  He suggested we take the arsenal and go to the shooting range.  He and my best friend go regularly, and are crack shots.  The man I'm dating had never shot a gun in his entire life.  I hadn't shot a gun since college.  So, of course, off we went.

We had a blast.  (I had to say that, sorry.)  Who knew that shooting at a couple of orange rubber cubes could be so fun?  And who knew that the man I'm dating was such a good shot?  He's got that hand-eye coordination that I lack, because I was pretty awful.  It was a lot of fun, however.   

My best friend and her husband have been married twenty-two years and are still madly in love.  This gives me great hope- love is out there, and you can find it.  Sometimes Prince Charming doesn't come riding in on a big white horse, or fly in on a silver rocket ship.  Sometimes he drives a riding lawnmower.  Sometimes he comes riding in on a motorcycle with an oil leak.  You just never know.

Duplicitous Women

Friendships between women should be simple.  The other day, I was at the pool with my oldest friend.  She and I have been friends since we were five.  We were spending an afternoon kicking  in the water and catching up.  Sun, exercise, a good friend, and later, frozen yogurt.  What could be better?  We were discussing female relationships, and how they should be simple, but are often fraught with difficulty.

What is it with women, anyway?  Why is is so difficult for some of them to just be friends with other women?  Why can't they be willing to help each other?  Where did sisterhood go?  Are women really so threatened by other women that they need to resort to constant backstabbing?

I'm lucky;  I have a small group of really solid female friends who are always there for me.  But I'm sure I'm not the only one who has worked in a female environment that has been subject to the bitchy girl-games that a lot of woman play.  My daughter was exposed to those bitchy-girl-games in school from pre-school on;  she fortunately had a good group of friends and also didn't care too much what other girls thought, and so has come into adulthood relatively unscathed, my mothering aside.  But the girls playing the games?  They learned it somewhere, most likely from their own mothers.

I wasn't always such a stellar judge of character, male or female.  My intuition is working much better these days, or maybe I've become secure enough that I trust it when it tells me to beware of someone.

When I finished college I got a job, and worked with a friendly woman who became my friend.  We'd go out together after work, we'd talk, we'd go for bike rides, hang out.  My then-boyfriend didn't like or trust her, felt she was a drama queen and shallow.  I thought she was a lot of fun, especially compared to the incredibly serious musicologists I was used to associating with.  They were intellectual people, to be sure, but unfortunately not that much fun.  This woman had a great boyfriend who was totally in love with her, she was blonde and while not exactly pretty, she was vivacious, and had a way of making you feel like you were valuable.  She was fun.

The cracks in her veneer started showing one night at a party we all attended.  Her boyfriend was out of town, so she came alone.  The host had a friend of his staying with him, this hunky, gorgeous Australian rugby player.  At some point in the evening, the woman and the rugby player disappeared;  later they came in from the backyard.  She was disheveled, her eyes bright.  Later, she told me, that they had just messed around a bit, but it meant nothing, and was already forgotten.  I started spending less time with her, after that, because I really liked her boyfriend and felt really angry that she was messing around on him, even though, it was none of my business.  Eventually, they got married.  She left him for a married attorney, who left his pregnant wife for her.

Years later, I became friends with a woman at my gym, who in many ways reminded me of this other woman in my past.  My gym friend was vivacious, fun to be around, and while not really pretty, used what she had to great advantage.  She always had a different guy;  never anything long lived, even though once she actually dated someone for two weeks, which was kind of a record for her.  I felt a sense of unease, kind of a prickle, sometimes, when we were talking, because I wasn't sure how reliable she was in the loyalty department.  Not very, as it turned out.

She decided that she wanted to train with this one particular trainer.  I didn't care for this woman, she was a lousy trainer, and exceedingly arrogant.  But, whatever, it wasn't my dime.  One day I came into the locker room to leave my stuff before my workout, and this trainer was there.  I smiled at her and started putting my stuff in a locker.  "Oh!  So now you smile at me!  After talking all that shit behind my back!"  she said cuttingly.  "Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, to tell my clients that I don't know what I'm doing?"  I was speechless.  I wasn't going to deny it, because it was the truth.  I just rolled my eyes in a deprecating way, sighed, and went to lift.  You can't fight if you don't respond.  I never spoke to either of them again.  The faux-gym buddy, she never stopped trying to make pleasant small talk and smile and laugh with me, but I just shut her down;  she ceased to exist for me, and eventually she got the message and stopped trying.  A month later she left my gym and moved to a more chi-chi one.  I haven't seen her since.  As for the trainer?  She got that fish-pout thing done to her lips, and bought enormous breasts.  She landed a doctor, got married, had a baby, and then the doctor left her for another woman.  She's back at the gym,  after being "retired" for several years, and she always smiles at me, but I'm just not having it.  But at least she can smile again, her lips now back to normal.  

Tonight at the grocery store I was getting a cart.  There was a dumpy woman about my age, trying to figure out which cart she wanted.  I just took one, and passed her going into the store.  "Hey!"  she shouted, with a sour expression on her face.  I looked at her inquiringly.  "Why are you racing me?" she said, angrily.  I couldn't help myself;  I burst into laughter and moved ahead, while she glared at me.  I am a fast walker, and I was in my gym clothes, and maybe I shouldn't have laughed, but it was really funny.

Okay, I promise:  I won't walk faster than you, unless you get in my way.  I won't laugh at you, unless you take yourself too seriously.  I won't hate you for being sour, don't hate me for being happy.

Life goes on.  Why can't we women be kinder to each other?

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Well, it finally happened.  The man I'm dating and I went to a ball game. Never mind that he insists that real baseball weather is sweating through your shorts at 10:00 p.m., and that we were huddled up, wearing down, covered by a blanket because the fog was swirling around and it was windy, cold and damp.  Never mind again that he was rooting for the wrong team, so we were both dressed head-to-toe in different logos and colors.  And really, does it matter that his team won?  And, that he gloated about it, for a bit?  I mean, he's insufferable when he's wrong.  Just imagine when he's right.

In spite of the right team losing, it was a great night.

We were seated up in nosebleed seats, which still gave us a pretty good view.  Not that my team gave me too much to watch, but I could see, nevertheless.  We were seated next to a couple of men, both supporting the right team, whom he chatted up when I went off in search of garlic fries.  Let's see if I can make their story clear.

They were both married to the same woman.  At different times, of course.  The first man, he had been married to her, and they had a fairly acrimonious divorce.  The second man, he married her after she divorced the first one.  It took ten years for the two men to actually become friends;  actually for the first man to tolerate the second man, and now they were best friends and went to ball games and such together.  They didn't know each other at all before the wife married the second one.

And- that's not all.

Soon a young man in his twenties showed up, to claim the remaining empty seat.  Much to my traitorous companion's delight, the kid was fully decked out in the other team's colors- jersey, cap, sweatshirt, etc.  The two of them had a pretty spirited conversation about how their team was one step away from God almighty himself.  Really, that kind of adulation gets a little old.

This kid was the son-in-law of the first man, married to his daughter.  This made him the step-son-in-law of the second man, married to his step-daughter.

I bet their holiday dinners are a blast, because they were all pretty fun.

Eventually, the son-in-law/step-son-in-law left, saying his wife wanted him home at a certain time.  The dads joked about him being whipped, all the men present guffawed in a knowing manner.  Later, it turned out that the kid had just used that as an excuse, and was partying with some other friends in a different section.  He just wanted to be rid of us old farts, I guess.

A good time was had by all.

Even though my team lost, my garlic fries were outstanding.  Some things never let you down.  Not only did the seats have a great view, they were around the corner from the concession stand that sold garlic fries, imagine the luck.  And- for all of our subsequent games, my traitorous companion and I are rooting for the same team, and dog that he is, he has a chance to redeem himself.  Even though, my best friend's husband told me that a real man doesn't change his team affiliation....

 

Motivation

I swim most mornings at the crack of dawn.  It's just a great way to start the day.  I swim in the deep end of the pool.  There are a few of us who like it down there, and it's like being in the back of the old school bus; instant party.

Most of us are middle-aged women, a few are seniors.  While men swim, too, most of them prefer the shallower water.  What we all share is a love of the water.  So we're there, in  all weather.  I'm a bit of a wimp;  I like warmer water so if the temperature is too cold I actually wear a really thin wetsuit. 

Comfort is tantamount at 5:30 in the morning.

So, you get in the water and go.  I swim in blocks, doing a total of 72 laps.  During a kicking block, I have my head out of the water and can see people on the edge coming and going.  If I'm lucky one of my swim buddies will be kicking at the same time as me and we can converse a bit.  I'm pretty good at conversing.

One morning five or six of us were kicking at the same time. A particularly young and fit male came to the side of the pool, adjusting his cap and goggles, ready to get in and work out.  As one, all of our heads swiveled, assessed him, then quickly and studiously turned our heads back again, facing forward.
I looked at the woman I was sharing a lane with, grinning.

"Well, we're not dead yet!" she replied, grinning back.

I have to say, one thing that we women seemed to perfect as we age is the art of checking out a boy without appearing to check him out.  Unlike men, who can be a bit obvious when looking.  And, let's face it, who doesn't look?  You can admire without being obnoxious about it.

Of course, not all women are subtle.  The other night I was going to a ball game with the man I was dating, and on the ferry ride over to the park, a woman who had maybe a few too many pre-game cocktails was all over him.  Wanted to know where he was sitting at the park, insisted on giving him a good-bye hug before she lurched off.   While he deflected her nicely, with a comment about me, since I was sitting there, she didn't quite get it, but maybe that was the alcohol talking.  I look at it as a validation of my choice when some other woman checks him out, but really, she could have toned it down a bit.  She was also with a guy, who stood by, and said nothing.  Husband?  Boyfriend?  Brother?  Friend?  Who knows, but maybe when she's as old as me, she'll learn to be a bit more discrete about her interest.  We all look.  Some of us are just better at hiding it.

I heard the local fire department will be starting pool workouts, soon.  I got a new swim cap in anticipation.

The Stars Are Aligning

Honestly, some days I wonder why I even bother to open my e-mail.  It's full of spam.  It's becoming like my regular mailbox, overflowing with junk mail.  Except that my regular mailbox wants me to have my curtains and blinds cleaned, and my e-mail wants me to buy Viagra.  I can't decide which is more irritating.

I got some great new matches on-line.  As tough as it is to find a good man, it's even tougher to quit an online dating service.   With the paid services, you can remove the credit card, then, usually, they get the point.  The free online dating services, well, they just keep on sending you men;  I haven't figured out how to get rid of them.  Being human, I am naturally curious, so of course I keep looking at the matches.  When you look, the service tracks, so they keep sending you more.  I'm not interested in dating anyone else, but I can't help myself; sometimes the amusement factor gets me through my workday.  I got some good ones this week.

My first match proclaimed himself a sensualist, open to any and all experiences.  He said he was bi, and interested in not just one-on-one experiences, but two-on-one or even three-on-one.

The second match is in an open marriage, with a wife who would like the opportunity to explore her secret desires while he watches and occasionally joins in. 

I'm not interested in threesomes.  However- do you think my cat counts?  Oops- I think that's a different kind of genre entirely.  (That was sarcasm, by the way.)

The third match was really young, in his twenties, and, believe it or not, was interested in sex without commitment.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  Really, I was shocked.  (More sarcasm.)

I found out that these men qualify as my matches based on some algorithm.  I'm not sure how or why, but it has to do with the answers to these stupid questions that they ask you, deep yes-or-no stuff like,  "Do you think all is fair in love or war?" or "Would you consider sleeping with someone on the first date?" or "Would you date someone who does drugs?"  The dating site also shows you the people that checked out your profile, which you discover when you go look at the profiles of your matches. I discovered that if you change your status to "seeing someone," the site immediately sends you a note saying that if you continue trolling for dates, (my phrase, not theirs-) what your prospective dates will see when they look back at your profile is "single." Genius. They help you cheat.  (I admit it:  I am a very sarcastic person.)

My favorite e-mail was from a "free" astrologer who is also, apparently, my new best friend.  This one was my fault;  I was reading an online horoscope, and a window popped-up, telling me I could get a free, in-depth report, and much like the matches that show up in my inbox every week, I couldn't help but take a look.   Into the inbox of my e-mail came a really long description of the wonders of the universe that are coming my way this year.  It's confirmed, the stars are aligning in my favor.  Apparently nothing bad is going to happen to me, just a lot of good fortune, money, love and travel.  The astrologer used my name as punctuation throughout the narrative, to give the whole thing that personal touch.  She kept assuring me, using my name maybe twice in that particular sentence, that not only was she my personal astrologer, but also my friend.

Isn't is nice that she's my friend, and we've never even met?  This is much like that man who proclaimed that we were soul mates, based on looking at my picture.

At the end of this verbose report chronicling my wealth, love and good fortune for the upcoming year,  she warned me that my transit was coming.  That in fact, I missed my last one, way back in 2008, and I certainly didn't want to make that mistake again.  As my friend and personal astrologer, she wanted to guide me through this important time, helping me, paraphrasing the words of the Army, to be all that I can be.

How nice is that, considering we've never met, and don't know each other at all!  Those must be some pretty powerful stars I move.

Alas.  In the last paragraph, she told me to send her a credit card payment of $80, insinuating that if I didn't, heaven and earth might collapse on me, and civilization as I know it will cease to exist.

That was the end of a beautiful, albeit short relationship.

It reminds me of those sincere, illiterate, English-as-a-second-language letters I get from the fax in my office, from people wanting to give me a million dollars, just for helping them out a little by sending them a money order for three hundred dollars.  Boy, what a deal.

Well, gotta go.  I've got mail.

Grace, Part 2

It was brought to my attention that I forgot a recent klutzy incident.  Mea culpa, mea culpa.  So, to further embarrass myself, let me tell you a quick story.

It was a nice relaxing evening in with the man I'm currently dating.  If there's a ballgame on, we will happily curl up, and this was the case on this particular evening.  We ate a fabulous dinner that he made, the Giants were playing on the enormous high def tv that all men seem to possess... 

I'm sorry, I need to digress for a moment:  What is it about men and the size of their tv's?!! Why do they all have to have the biggest, flattest televisions available???  Even my gay boyfriend has an enormous flatscreen.  Honestly, most women could care less.  (I have to admit- it is great for watching baseball.)  Okay, done with my rant, and back to the evening.

I was wearing comfy flannel jammies and  Uggs.  (Sorry- nothing really sexy.)  I had a really good Cab in my glass.  Suddenly, something exciting happened in the game- and, just like that, I knocked over the entire glass of red wine.  To my credit, somehow, I miraculously managed to miss both the carpet and the couch- the wine landed on the hardwood floor, which I promptly cleaned up with the dishtowel, thus permanently staining it, and I'm sure, enduring myself in the heart of his roommate forever for ruining his towel but NOT his couch and rug.

The important facts:  The Giants won, and I missed the couch and the rug.

Grace.  Attractiveness.  Appeal.  Elegance.  Pulchritude.  Traits I hope to develop in the fullness of time.

Unfortunately, I wasted an really good glass of wine.

Grace

I am a geek.  And a klutz.  I'm the woman strutting along in high heels, looking and feeling pretty good, who will then trip and end up flat on her face.  Or catch the bottom hem of a long skirt on a heel and rip a hole in it.  I'll be happily driving along in my car, park and open the door only to find the belt of the coat I'm wearing has been dragging along the road for the last 15 miles.  I will laugh and flirt with a cute young guy, only to discover later that all along I had something green and gross in my front teeth.  I have found myself rocking out to the Partridge Family on my ipod and discovered that I've been singing the words out loud in my gym, and everyone nearby is looking at me pityingly. 

I'm trying to become less of a danger to myself, but unfortunately it hasn't happened yet.

What saves me is my pathetically oblivious attitude, which I prefer to think of as grace.

My daughter comes by her grace naturally;  she inherited it from me.

She was home from college for a visit.  I walked in to find the whole house reeking of burned bread.  She had attempted to defrost a bagel in the microwave, and it caught on fire, because unfortunately she was deep into some reality television.  Fortunately, the house was spared, even though I think the interior of the microwave will be forever charred.   And the whole place still smells faintly of burned bagel.  Especially when I use the microwave.  At least when I miss her, I can just go into the kitchen and breathe deeply.

I have scars on my knees, because when I was little, I had permanent scabs from falling down on the blacktop pretty much every day;   kickball is a well-known dangerous sport.  Later, as I became a runner, I wiped out badly at least a couple of times a year. And one memorable 4th of July, I was walking down my steep driveway with a huge salad to take to the neighborhood block party, when I tripped at the bottom and spilled everything, as well as made a bloody mess out of my poor knees.  The neighbors got Otter Pops that year, it was all I had at the last minute.  At least the kids liked them.

I recently got a cordless mouse, and in spite of the fact that I put the battery in right and set it up correctly, I couldn't get the darn thing to work properly.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered- I was trying to operate it upside down.  Who knew those damn things had a right and a wrong way?

I have no sense of direction.  I get lost with my Garmin, which just pisses her off to no end.  Have you ever noticed how she gets more irritated, the more you veer off course from her precise, prissy instructions?  She really sounds like she's going to have a stroke.

The best klutz event happened at the bridal shower of a good friend of mine.  Her sister, the-maid-of-honor, is a good friend of mine as well, and asked if I'd come over early and help her set up.  I was really helpful until I went to move the enormous container of ice tea from the kitchen to the back deck.  I grabbed the large container from the bottom, not realizing that the bottom wasn't attached- and when I moved it the whole vat of iced tea spilled all over the clean kitchen floor.  Worse, it was actually a vat of Arnold Palmer, and the lemonade made it really sticky.  Mortification.  The sister was so sweet and understanding;  as she threw a pile of old towels into the sea of sticky brown on the floor, she commented that I justified her family hoarding all the old towels, all these years.  She also said that it was good that the floor was sticky, because now the older guests didn't have to worry about slipping on the previously spotless floor.  She also said it was just as well, because the second batch- which I did successfully transfer from the kitchen to the back deck- was much better than the first one.

I have to say, anyone who can make a klutz feel better immediately is the epitome of grace.

That is another quality I'm striving for...  along with not tripping when I walk.

Jealousy

I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that I am a jealous person.
Since most of my family members are insane, it stands to reason that somehow, I too am a nutbag. Or, maybe it's not jealousy at all, maybe it's menopause, or PMS.

Years ago, when my kids were little, I stopped by my then boyfriend's house on the way out of town to drop off something that he had wanted.  A really attractive African American girl answered the door;  she was dressed rather provocatively, the lights were on low, and there was R & B playing in the background.  I asked who she was, and where he was, and she shrugged rather insolently, said she was his girlfriend and he wasn't home.  I asked that she tell him I stopped by, then left, pissed off as all hell.  I called and left a searing message on his cell phone, littered with expletives.  My poor damaged children just sat there, listening, wide eyed.  Later, he said she was his "niece", and she lived with him, and I should just get used to the arrangement.  He was angry with me for being rude to his poor little "niece," and for cussing him out.  I'm sorry to admit that we made up eventually and continued the relationship for a few more years.  Looking back, at the time I figured having him around beat having to go and find someone worthy;  My self-esteem was still pretty low after my divorce.  Eventually, though, I ended it with him.  Not soon enough, but at the time, hey! I figured I had all the time in the world.  No need to be hasty in either my judgement or my decisions.

Was the man trustworthy?  No.  Was he a liar?  Yes.   Also manipulative and a user.  And really stupid.  However, the fact is:  I wasn't dating him for his brains.  He was a very handsome man.  Did I learn?  Absolutely.  A few more bricks in the wall around my heart and defenses.

So, a few years down the road and now I'm infinitely wiser, right?  Of course.  I started dating a man who lied about a number of things- his age, the seriousness of our relationship, and the reality of where the relationship was actually heading.  Of course, all of these lies didn't come out until the end of our time together.  One weekend his phone rang.  He answered it on speaker phone, and since his house had a fairly open floor plan, I was able to hear the whole conversation.  It was a young woman. 

Her:  (Ditsy, young voice.)  "Hi, sweetie!  I missed you, and called to  say hello, and see what you were up to this weekend."
Him:  (Brusquely.) "I told you I had company this weekend."

(Note:  He said "company."  Not "my girlfriend."  This is a bad sign.)

Her:  (Giggle, giggle.) "Oh, that's right.  I didn't think you meant this weekend, I guess I got confused."  (Giggle, giggle.)

(Note:  This was getting good, even though it wasn't looking good for my relationship.)

Him: (Angrily and rudely.)  "I'll call you when I'm free."  (Ended the call.)

(Note:  Turns out this man also had major anger management issues.  Not a relationship meant to go the distance.  And, it didn't- it ended soon after this.)

Recently, I got mad at the man I've been dating.  Honestly, though, he really didn't do anything wrong.  A woman came on to him.  She made some inappropriate comments to him.  I believe he told her immediately that he was involved with someone, but she still made it very clear that she was willing and available.  I wasn't present, but he told me everything, because that's the way he is.  No subterfuge.  No secrets.  I'm really bad at reading men, but I'm really good at reading women, particularly if they pose any kind of a threat to me.   So, unfortunately, I took it out on him. We worked it out, talked it out, and made up rather gloriously.  He's a sexy man, and women are going to come on to him.  I just need to have more faith in his ability to brush them off.  And, just trust him.  I detest predatory women.  I've never understood how they can deliberately come on to unavailable men. These women just don't care that a man might be taken. And granted, some men just thrive on the attention of these women, the danger of being caught just making them seem more appealing. I've always believed that if a relationship is solid, no one is going to break through; there has to be cracks in the veneer for an outside person to insinuate themselves into the situation. And- you are either a cheater, or you're not. 

Really, I'm working on all this jealousy stuff.  It's tough, sometimes, even at my advanced age.

I can also press 360 pounds with my legs.  Just sayin...