Tuesday, December 28, 2010

True Grit, reviewed by a True Grouch

http://www.broadstreetreview.com/index.php/main/article/true_grit_gets_a_remake/

Here's my sincere, honest and cranky opinion of 'True Grit'. Some critics say good things about lousy movies but I'm not one of 'em. If you go to see the black pony leap into the raging river make a pit stop first: the show is over 2 hours long!

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Dear Santa, I want, I want..

I’m always glad to see the good old December Hammacher Schlemmer Christmas catalogue. Now I am ready to give you my Christmas list. I'm sure you know I have been a very good girl, as always. Even to my husband! Well, mostly. Here goes.

Like all girls, I want the “5 FT REALISTIC PAINT PONY”. I know, I have had a real horse for 30 years but I want another one. Please, Santa. Just $999.95.

And I want the “FLYING CAR” on the catalogue cover. It flies and if it’s foggy, the wings fold up so I can drive it down the highway at 65 miles per hour. Way faster than the PAINT PONY. It’s also a little truck that pulls the plane which becomes a trailer. There’s a steering wheel, brakes and even a gas tank. Yes, it’s hard to explain but the Hammacher Schlemmer Institute assures me it really flies and they wouldn’t lie, would they? $350,00, special order.

Are you thinking, Santa, that I am a greedy girl and don’t deserve these expensive presents? I was just thinking the same! (Great minds.) So, instead, bring me a “PERSONAL TOWEL WARMER,” $79.95 on page 38. Holds two bath towels at the right temperature and yes, sometimes I like two towels, at exactly 135 degrees. Call me a Princess, I don’t’ care! FYI, it takes up only the space of a small garbage can plus it signals when the towels are done.

While I’m into my beauty routine, drop off an “EFFICIENT EPILATOR”. Better than a razor, 72 tweezers lift and remove flattened hairs from my chin and other areas, never mind where those are.

Oooh, so many goodies to choose from, you dear old Santa. A girl might think you had notions and I bet you did back in the day. Of course now you’re too old and fat although I bet you pinch the bad girls right on their epilated butts, don’t you! Ha! I knew it!

Don’t you dare leave that “WALL CRAWLING SPIDER” in my stocking, you devil! I don’t care if it does have concealed wheels and a powerful, fan-operated suction cup so it sticks to the ceiling. $29.95 is way too much money to scare little Reedie, you meanie.

Instead, get me the $69.95 “VOICE RECORDING PEN,” sensitive enough to capture voices 25 feet away! No more whispering behind MY back. And for the other pocket, the plain video pen, no software necessary, a thrifty $99.95. No one will suspect I’m recording their every move. That might be worth something, you never know.

As a good, good girl, I’ve always thought about my dear husband. So, for those long mornings when I loll in bed and he waits for me to finish the paper so he can read it, he could really, really use the “BREAKFAST SANDWICH MAKER”. It will poach his eggs, burn four toasts and keeps his pre-cooked bacon warm, all at the same time: $99.95.

If airport security can see through his clothing, unscrupulous thieves can read his credit cards right through his pants! He needs a “STAINLESS STEEL WALLET”, which “cannot be hacked” for $89.95.

He works so hard for me. Us, I mean. Say he’s feeling musical while cooling his heels in the airport en route to another sales meeting. Let’s not stint on the “SIX SIDED HARMONICA.” What’s another $499.95?

Too much you say, Santa? Well, surely any good husband is worth $39.95 for a little yard work. Let’s make it fun with a “WEED WHACKING GOLF CLUB” requiring a square stance and proper grip.

And if he just wants to go for a long, long walk away from me—anyone who marries me needs will want to walk, drop off a" GENUINE ENGLISH TIPPLING STICK," $249.95. It holds only one measly shot so he’ll be back on the job in no time.
What, you say I’ve forgotten the pets? Oh, yes, I believe I did. Here’s something to distract Kitty from clawing the couch: a perpetual “LASER IMAGE CHASE TOY” that creates a pretty red dot she’ll never catch.

And to for the neighhor’s loud-mouth pooch the “INDOOR BARKING DOG DETERRENT”, $49.95, that goes off when he does. May NOT break his eardrums or theirs.

Well, last but not least, the grandlings. The internet has made the newest generation way too passive so skip the educational paraphernalia. Let’s teach them some good old-fashioned ways to shoot! First the gentleman-Cheny “TWO PERSON DUCK HUNT”, $39.95. That’s a pretty angry looking target duck. He deserves to be shot!

Next up: the “DOUBLE BARRELLED MARSHMALLOW SHOOTER”, $39.95. Will these weapons actually kill our grandchildren? No! Marshmallows are harmless unless you eat too many. (Not for Granny’s own house, thank you. Fortunately the kids live on the Other Coast.)

Perhaps events of our times have made the shotgun-style hunting too retro. Here’s a “PUMP ACTION MARSHMALLOW BLASTER” more like a real terrorist weapon. Again, only marshmallows. $27.95.

Are these going to capture the inflamed imagination of today’s youth? Yes, because there’s the “MARSHMALLOW TARGET”, another $19.95, which makes four different sounds (not described but surely include realistic cries). Remember, Santa, to remind the children they can have just as much fun taking potshots at the family gathered ‘round the fire or the ornaments on the tree. Hey Kitty, get those claws out of the upholstery!

I’ll have your milk and cookies waiting on the hearth as usual. I can’t wait!

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Thursday, December 9, 2010

The What-Guys-Don't-Say Birthday Card

10. "Screw the Game, Rosie's on!"

9. "Excuse me, sir, we're really, really lost. Could you give us directions?"

8. "I don't really care for beer. Too filling. White wine for me, please."

7. "Honey, you up for some shoe shopping?"

6. "Oh sure, she's great looking but what about her personality, hmm?"

5. "I'm just feeling fat right now so I'll have a nice salad instead."

4. "I can't go out tonight. I've got nothing to wear."

3. "Well, I was just reading Cosmo and it said.."

2. "Um, Joe, do you ever get that no-so-fresh feeling?"

1. "This greeting card is way better than power tools!""

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Get Your Grump On

“Hey, you’re swerving in his lane,” Grandma remarks calmly. Okay, not completely calmly. “No wonder he has to goose around you. Euch!” I grip the panic handle over the passenger window. Thoughtful of Cadillac to provide this. We love our car. It’s so comfy on our old bones.

“Should’a seen me,” Grandpa snarls as he fails to yield to the car in the right lane. “Damn car’s exactly the same color as the asphalt.”

“Lucky he didn’t blast you with the horn,” I mutter. “You deserved it.” The escaped car scoots away from us as fast as he can.

“Probably a kid,” Grandpa grunts disapprovingly. God knows who you’ll see behind the wheel: children, foreigners, people smoking cigarettes. All in a big, big hurry. “Looka that sucker talking on his cell phone!”

Visiting our Retired Horse today we learned that the rancher who keeps him is looking for a new position. That would be, uh, recently the case in our own situation and as a result, Grandpa Jim and I are learning how to get our Grump On.

We never wanted to be retired persons because we have long sneered at retired persons who drive Cadillacs like somebody’s Grandpa and Grandma and weave across the lanes. Wearing white hair, some, anyway, and looking straight ahead as if they were clueless. Avoiding eye contact to better to blame the victim, that little Nissan zooming off. Like many of our fellow citizens, we are reluctant retirees and grumpy.

“He won’t get good gas mileage hitting the pedal like that!” Grandpa says with satisfaction. We are quiet for a moment, recalling his own father’s complaints and how we snickered.

So this is what it's like. Oh hell, let’s hit KFC! I’m always thinking about food these days. Actually need to gain five or ten, must be the blood pressure meds. Now that Gramps isn’t tied to his job we do lunches out. After twenty-five years we’re both pretty fed up with my cooking and Trader Joe’s deli products so we cruise the Fasts: KFC for a thigh and cole slaw, a supremo at Taco Bell, cheesy taties at Jack-in-the-Box and fried tofu at the Kazoo Sushi Boat. Might as well feed ourselves.

The greatest retirement reward so far: a prime rib sandwich at Adamson’s French Dip, twenty minutes up a highway. Real, rare roast beef on a long, tender roll that soaks up the juices WITH a cup of beefy broth just right for jazzing up a leftover stew in the fridge.

Occasionally, certainly not every time we come down the mountain from visiting Retired Horse we allow ourselves to stop at the Woodside Bakery for a luxury hamburger. A Cadillac of tender, juicy beef on a fresh focaccia roll with a slab of gorgonzola criss-crossed with two very fine, not too salty, bacon strips. Probably mayo on the bread, who cares? Twelve ninety-five heart attack, salad for supper, maybe not even that.

This is how involuntarily retired persons live. Pre-elderly, I suppose. We shop for warm clothes and we shop for bargains. We don’t try things on in the store, too hard to undress in those tiny changing rooms, so we have to take things back. Never mind, we can catch a bite on the way home. And we can well use that driving time to criticize other drivers—Whoa, watch out, pal!—and comment on the real estate.

“Look at that ridiculous roof," I say."All those pointy gables. What are they, some kind of a religious sect? Guess this is the north ass-end of the city,” I note with a Grandma whine. “Those leaves will be off the trees any day now. I sure hope the city can still afford to clean them up. Wet leaves are very slippery.”

“And they ruin the asphalt. Eat right into it,” Grandpa replies. A True Curmudegon.

“Stay in your own godamn lane,” I advise. We’re never at a loss for words nowadays. We've got a good Grump On going.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Talleyho! To the Park We Go

“Walk?” Mopsy hurries to the door, head up, ready for Mission Squirrel. I buckle on her little red collar and tuck the leash into my pocket. As I close the gate behind us she trots down the long driveway as purposeful as the lead hound casting for the fox.

I myself might be a lord on a tall horse off for the morning hunt across the wild bogs of Devon or the green turf of Galway. Never mind that it’s just the sidewalks of small houses in a small California town and I’m on shanks’ mare, my own legs. Never mind that Mopsy’s not bred to outrun even a bunny rabbit: she a short Shih Tzu. A fox could carry her off as easily as he would a chicken. Mopsy couldn't tell a fox from a fox terrier. She busy hunting for squirrels.

She’s off leash until the end of the block. She may piddle on the curb area between the walk and the street but she must never step onto anyone’s grass and she must never set a paw on the street, although there’s not much traffic. She's focused on the mission.

So straight and narrow it is. She trots confidently ahead, all business, her tailfeathers shaking over her back. She sniffs delicately at a much-tinkled-on fence post here and there, then, leashed up we cross the street and come to the rolling green grass of Morgan Park, immaculately groomed by the city of Campbell. Nary a popsicle stick nor a dog poop since dogs are forbidden, even on leashes, in most Bay Area parks.

Thus, protected like the king’s royal stags, squirrels scamper freely on the grass beside the sidewalk under the tall redwoods. Look over here, I whisper, pointing. Being so short, her eyes only eight inches above ground, Mopsy doesn’t often see them. I don’t like squirrels. They’re not native and they dig up my gardens. They’re rodents, for Pete’s sake. So if Mopsy ventures onto the forbidden grass on this six foot leash, I say, Go get ‘em! Of course they’re up the other side of the tree before she takes the first step. Yes, I hate to hold her back, she’s having so much fun.

I have ridden to hounds on a tall horse, back in the day. Black cap, jacket, gleaming leather, bright jangling bits, the stone wall beneath me as the horse flies over. The landing, the gallop behind the hounds who pour over the ground, long ears back, tails waving like glorious flags. All, all of us as joyful in the chase as Mopsy on a short leash in a city park. The hounds never got a fox and Mopsy will never get a squirrel but now we both know how it feels.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Family. Dinner. Rules.

“Children today,” she began as her hands kneaded the knot out of my right quadriceps. “They don't understand the rules.”

Physical Therapist Alison is old-fashioned: family dinner at seven and don’t call at the last minute to say you won’t make it. Her eldest is studying to be a missionary. The middle one goes to community college and the girl is a high school senior.

“When my kids go to their father’s, they eat whenever they want, they come and go. Curfew? Forget about it.”

“Ouch,” I holler
.
“Oh, did that hurt?” she says without pausing. The room of pt patients looks up and goes back to swiveling legs in the air.

“My daughter’s only one I have any trouble with. That’s normal,” Alison hastens to add. “But she has to learn the rules.”

“How do you enforce the rules?” I ask, rolling over so she can get that tight spot on my back. “I mean, what would you do if she didn’t come for dinner?”

Alison stops to think. Valuable seconds pass—my massage, don’t stop my massage! then her hands get back to work.

“I don’t know how. Well I guess she just has to. I know they don’t have to do anything when they go to their father’s. They come in whenever, take their food to their rooms so they can eat in front of their pcs and hang out on their cellphones. I suppose I could take away her cell phone.” She sounds uncertain.

Pretty drastic, like taking away the car keys back in the day. Even worse: how would Alison keep track of her kid without a cell phone? I wonder how certain Alison is that she’s in charge. She pushes with both thumbs and moves off this uncomfortable topic to a more general rant.

“Nobody reads any more. My daughter does her Hamlet homework with an outline of the story on the computer screen. She doesn’t think she should have to wade through the language when she can just learn what the play’s about. But I tell her, the language is important. It’s important to know how people spoke long ago.”

She shakes her head impatiently because that does sound pretty feeble. I don’t suggest anybody read Sanskrit just because once upon a time it may have been spoken. It bugs Alison that she can’t remember exactly why it’s important to read Shakespeare's words because her own English class was a long time ago. I am so lucky that my physical therapist appreciates these refinements.

And hates to let the rule of homework go.

“You read Shakespeare in the original language also because it’s the assignment.
Like learning the multiplication table. And it’s also quite poetic, once you get into it.”

I agree completely. “See ya,”does not so melodiously sound upon mine ear as "Good night, sweet prince." And boy, doth it warmeth my heart to hear a New Old Fart complain about the Awfull State of Children Today.

I ask myself, would I have gone to libraries.com for the trot and the translation into modern English? Alas, I am not completely pure, myself but I am glad to report that libraries.com would not let me copy and paste their text into my text.

And, as an Older Generation who complained about hers, I am delighted that Alison's public school education has educated hers. Their ways were not so hopeless after all.

Alison gets both hands into my back. She rolling now.

“You can’t live with your parents forever. Rules are important if you want to have a job and pay your bills. If you don’t understand how to get up and go to work, you’re screwed. These are the rules.

“Kids today can’t make change for a quarter. Work, ha! My middle kid gets an intern job and he doesn’t have to show up until noon. The supervisor, or whatever you’d call him, says just put in the hours somehow. That’s not a job. Somebody’s got to open the store. You know I don’t think kids have any idea of what a family is, either. Scary, isn’t it?”

Ouch again!

But it’s not all bad. Alison’s Number One Son doesn’t own a cell Phone because he’s studying to be a missionary. When he graduates he’ll dedicate his life to service in underdeveloped countries. Right now he’s learning jungle survival. Missionary colleges teach counseling, ethnomusicology and developing worship communities—which is evangelizing, true. But if they dig wells and vaccinate against smallpox, I will suspend my skepticism. Centuries of history tell the awful story: for many, many years pious Christians missionaries have, in the name of Jesus, enslaved indigenous people, broken their spirits and taken their lands.

“Is your son a Mormon?”

Alison shakes her head as she lowers the table and I sit up. “Baptist?”

“No, something like ‘Twelve Tribes’. I’m not really sure.” Not a lot of religious dogma going on there. It seems that now Number One Son doesn’t have to show up for dinner, she's busy showing up for her daughter. Enforcing the rule of family supper at seven.

Where will you two be in ten years?" I ask.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be all right. By then she’ll thank me for drilling all the rules into her,” Alison says. “I see us getting along really well.”

We'll see how the rules look in ten years. I’m thinking, maybe we'll be geo-tracked and ready for family dinner at seven. Family. Dinner. Rules

Thursday, November 4, 2010

The Lion Tamers

Two people answer the circus ad for a lion tamer, a beautiful young woman and a mature gentleman.

"Here's the chair, the whip and the gun," the circus owner says. "Who wants to go first?"

"I will," the young woman says. Ignoring the liontamer tools, she strides into the lion's cage and drops her coat, revealing her fabulous body. The lion stops his charge in midstride, falls to the ground at her feet and licks her all over, purring like a kitten.

"Well," says the circus owner, turning to the gentleman. "Can you top that?"

"No problem," the man says. "Just get the lion out of the way."

Thanks to Suddenly Senior.com

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Important Cooking Tip!

Gracie Allen's recipe for Roast Beef:

Put a big rib roast and a small rib roast in two separate pans into the oven at 450 degrees.

When the little one burns, the big one is done.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Your Life at Home Depot

Thanks for another beauty, Maureen.


You are in the middle of some project around the house - - mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the living room, whatever.

You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You're wearing your old work clothes You know the outfit - - shorts with the hole in the crotch, old T-shirt stained from who knows what, old tennis shoes.

You realize you need to run to Home Depot to get something to complete the job.

In your 20s:
Stop what you're doing. Shave, shower, blow dry your hair, brush your teeth, floss, put on clean clothes. Check yourself in the mirror and flex. Add a dab of your favorite cologne because you just might meet some hot chick in the checkout lane. And you went to school with the pretty girl running the register.

In your 30s:
Stop what you're doing, put on clean shorts and shirt. Change shoes. You married the hot chick, so no need for much else. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. Still got it. Add a shot of your favorite cologne to cover the smell. The cute girl running the register is the kid sister of someone you went to school with.

In your 40's:
Stop what you're doing. Put on a sweatshirt long enough to cover the hole in your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute Cologne is almost empty, so you don't want to waste any of it on a trip to Home Depot. Check yourself in the mirror and do more sucking in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register is your daughter's age, and you feel weird thinking she's spicy.

In your 50s:
Stop what you're doing. Put a hat on; wipe your hands on your shirt. Change shoes because you don't want to get dog doo-doo in your new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror and swear not to wear that shirt any more because it makes you look fat. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming. You think you've still got it. Then you remember the hat you're wearing is from Buddy's Bait & Beer Bar and says, 'I Got Worms.'

In your 60s:
Stop what you're doing. No need for a hat any more. Hose the dog doo-doo off your shoes. The mirror was shattered when you were in your 50s. You hope you're wearing underwear so nothing hangs out the hole in your shorts. The girl running the register may be cute. But you don't have your glasses on, so you're not sure.

In your 70s:
Stop what you're doing. Wait to go to Home Depot until the drug store has your prescriptions ready. Don't even notice the dog doo-doo on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles because you remind her of her grandfather.

In your 80s:
Stop what you're doing. Start again. Then stop again. Now you remember you needed to go to Home Depot. Go to Wal-Mart instead. Wander around trying to remember what you are looking for. You went to school with the old lady who greeted you at the front door.

In your 90's & beyond:
What's a home deep hoe? Something for my garden? Where am I? Who am I? Why am I reading this? Did I send it? Did you?

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Showing Up

If you're trying to scare a president by throwing a book at him, you're one president too late.

Isn't this great? It's from my old friend, Maureen, who hates to be an "old" friend, as if that describes her age and not the age of our friendship. I can write all about her because she adamantly refuses to read blogs. Any blog, not just my blog. She don't say why.

Somehow this reminds me of the time last June when my grandson, visiting from the east coast, came in for supper. it's lovely to have a grandling in the house.

"Chicken and rice for dinner," I announced happily.

"I don't eat rice," he said in a sullen, twelve-year old tone.

"Then you won't get anything to eat," I snapped in a crabby sixty-nine year old tone.

He's not so picky these days.

Sigh. That was months ago and now I'd gladly take a little remorse on my rice. Gimme another chance. Maybe spaghetti?

I'd sure love Maureen to read this before I get too old to show up here.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Oh, Sad and Sorry Tale

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, three children, John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.


If this made you smile for even a brief second, please rise to the occasion and take time to pass it on and share that smile with someone else who may be having a crumby day and kneads a lift.

Thanks to my friend Jaya Salsman.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Motherhood

Dogs, all dogs and nothing but dogs today. Liz dropped her pug pup, Miss Pia, off at eight and I've been keeping my Mopsy from eating her all day.

Watching for inside piddles. Sharing the bones, the teeny treats, unwrapping Pia's leash from my knees as we walked down the sidewalk, she plunging after the dignified Mop who trots off-leash staight ahead, not a paw on anyone's grass. Exactly two piddles and home directly. Pia clueless but extremely sweet. And smart. Sorry to say this three-month-old pug makes our little shihtzu look like an ox.

I've been saying for months that we really MUST have a companion for Mopsy but now, I wonder what I was thinking. I'm exhausted. What would I do at night? Pia is now yipping pathetically from our crate on the porch.

Must get Jim to take our picture. Must mix martini.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Juice

Appliance Repair Guy revived my dishwasher switch, cleaned a gas jet on my range and rocked my clothes washing machine forward to let its back legs level itself. Who knew an old GE had self-leveling legs? I could use a pair myself.

He’s twenty-nine, tall and good-looking like his father who fixed these very same machines but died two years ago of sudden diabetes at fifty-two. The Kitchenaids are now eleven years old, geriatric. He handled them with tender, loving care.

"Do I need new ones?"

“Oh no,” he said. “These are well made. The designs haven’t changed in twenty years. You could get fancier ones,” he added doubtfully.

I apologized for the inside of the dishwasher. Horrid deposits of God knows what.

“This is nothing,” Repair Guy said calmly. “It just needs a little citric acid. Cheap, any Indian market.” He spooned a big tablespoonful of it into the dw’s soap dispenser, snapped it shut and punched the short cycle.

Wow! The inside of the dishwasher is sparkly clean after all these years. All this in half an hour. Eighty bucks.

I found a jar of citric acid for under one fifty in the canning section of my ordinary grocery store. Being slightly sour, it boosts flavor. Basically lemon juice, it’s organic and harmless.

I thought you should know that I am not a one-sided intellectual-type writer who can’t manage her household appliances.

Citric acid. Think about it!

Sunday, September 5, 2010

The Mexican Finger

Husband has espinas in his finger. I know too well that these invisible cactus thorns that lurk in the landscaping bark mulch can turn into a nasty infection. No matter how he rubs and tweezes, he can’t get them out.

Scrape it off with an emery board, I suggest. He snorts. Then he thinks of my Mexican finger.

“Remember the espinas in Oaxaca?” he asks, rubbing his knuckle. “That surgeon?”

It was a while ago when I had tossed a few dried cholla cactus stems into the Santa Fe kindling pile. Something pricked my finger but I was too preoccupied with our trip to Mexico to pay attention. By the time we finally got to Oaxaca, that finger was hot and throbbing. Although I could see tiny red dots I couldn’t squeeze or tweeze or even suck them out. It is no vacation walking old, historic streets with your finger on fire.

The B&B sent me to a doctor down the street. Gee, uh, a foreign doctor. The sparse examining room was immaculate, containing a worn examining table and a glass-fronted cabinet holding a few tongue depressors, bandages and a few instruments. The handsome, white-coated doctor peered at my wounded finger and shook his head.

“It’s too swollen now to see the thorns.” He reached into his dispensary and handed me a bottle of meds. “Take this penicillin for three days to reduce the swelling, then go see my surgeon colleague at his hospital. I’ll call him for you.” He scribbled a name and address.

His fee was seven dollars

Surgery in a foreign hospital? Yes, I’m a cool traveler, or I thought I was, but the thought of an emergency room crowded with wailing babies and an crowd of sickly people whose language I couldn’t understand—in spite of all those futile Spanish lessons I’d taken—did I really need to see a surgeon for cactus prickers?

On day three of the penicillin the swelling was down but not completely gone so Husband and I went off to find the foreign hospital somewhere across the foreign city. Oaxaca spreads business districts all across its rolling valley with the fabulous ruins of Monte Albon on a distant rise.

All the buildings in this section of the city looked like ordinary three story apartments with garage doors than opened onto the street. Nothing said Hospital, nor was there any sign. After circling the block, we finally decided that building number beside an open garage must be correct.

Husband went to park. An old but clean ambulance stood inside the bay, then an ordinary door opened into a lovely three story atrium with a black and white tiled floor, rather like a hotel lobby. A few benches and big potted palms lined one wall. I was the only visitor.

As I gazed around to see where I should go, a handsome woman working at a desk on the far side looked up and called across the echoing floor, “Digame!” I looked at her blankly.

Digame!” she shouted again but not unkindly. In a heavenly epiphany I suddenly understood what she was saying and that this foreign word would stay with me for the rest of my life: Talk to me.

So she was the receptionist, very classy indeed. When I stumbled through my clumsy Spanish pregunta she pointed to a bench and picked up her phone. In two minutes an even more handsome Mexican man opened a door, introduced himself as the surgeon and gestured me in.

He clucked sympathetically at my finger and asked where I’d got the espinas.

“Santa Fe, Nueva Mexico, I know it”, he said. “I like to ski the Rockies.”

My God, he was gorgeous, with smooth mahogany skin, thick shiny black hair and a matching mustache. He held my purpled finger in perfectly formed hands with manicured nails, numbed me up and pulled each cactus thorn out.

“Twenty-five,” he reported triumphantly when he lay the tweezers down. “That's a record, I think. Although it happens all the time, especially riding. Do you ride?” he asked in perfect English.

I nodded as he bound up my finger. “Try to avoid the cholla.”

Absolutely, Doctor. From now on, someone else can stack the firewood. I shall wear gloves night and day and learn what damned cholla cactus looks like.

His fee was twenty-five dollars, a buck apiece.

But that was then. Here in the U.S. the Husband could schlep his finger to our local clinic. Medicare would pay for it. But the clinic's fifteen minutes away and a long wait. First, the emery board.

How’s the finger, I asked him later in a moment of wifely tenderness, remembering how mine festered.

“Oh, the emery board pulled it right out,” he said.

Now, if we could just figure out how cholla espinas get into pine bark mulch. Suggestions?

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Off the Tracks

Reed, your story about your mother doesn’t make sense. How could someone be smart and sophisticated but let a con man scam her out of fifty thousand dollars?

“He’s an actor. He lives in Hollywood but he’s here visiting family,” my mother told me over the phone. “He’s good-looking. Italian.” She clicked her tongue. Middletown was thick with Italians. Many had worked for my father in the feldspar mill he ran. Lovely people.

Now, years later, Girlfriend has taken up with a smooth-talking, unemployed, seedy-looking guy ten years younger than she. He has no job and no fixed address. Not only that, she met him at a dumpster. And not any dumpster, a Goodwill dumpster. Girlfriend hasn’t had a boyfriend for a long, long time. So I told her my mother’s tale. Might be a useful lesson.

Yes, Sally Stevens appeared to be sophisticated and worldly. She taught me makeup and to choose tasteful clothes and pick the right men. Snagging a guy who could take you places was the mission.

I was too involved in my own life to see that beneath Mom’s domineering, maternal role, she was passionate woman who longed for masculine attention. When she met Rudi she was a widow in her fifties, like Girlfriend. And like Girlfriend, Mom may have hoped for another steady relationship, this time with SEX. Yes, great sex! To make up for the years of pretty lousy sex or none.

I measure how was hungry she was for a last crack at a big affair by how easily she persuaded herself that this unemployed actor, Rudi Campisi of Middletown, Connecticut, was a candidate for romance.

“He ruins the King’s English,” she said gaily. Slumming, what fun. “Just because he’s from Middletown doesn’t mean he’s small-time. And Italians are good people.” She meant Rudi was uneducated and uncultured. “Simple people. He’s very nice. A smoothie,” she ended in a sultry voice.

This was a woman who did the Sunday Times crossword puzzle in ink and read every book in the local library, probably six or seven a week: literature, biography, mystery, gardening. Drove miles to arty films. Admired tough, sassy women of her day: Eleanor Roosevelt, Katie Hepburn. Glamor, money, the high life.

Her passion for Rudi, born of her loneliness and horniness, simply overwhelmed her usual skepticism. Rudi knew a middle-aged sucker when he saw one. As she fell he simply held out his arms.

A few things began to bother her. “Rudi loves my house,” she gushed. Who wouldn’t? She designed houses, she collected art and antiques. “He looked around at the paintings and said, ‘If only they were originals they’d be worth a fortune.’ 'They ARE originals,' I said. How amusing!”

Originals, yes, but not worth a fortune. She only looked rich.

Original art, authenticity, honest genius, these were Mom’s highest standards. Yes, she was a snob to the extent she could be on her limited income. Dad had left her a hundred thousand in 1961 but no cash flow. She had to sell real estate.

She chose to ignore the warning flags. Weeks passed and he never got that casting call. Yet he was good company during those long, dark nights and he raved about her cooking. He did all he could to stave off her growing impatience with his Middletown gossip and his lack of money.

I stayed clear of my mother in those days but I did meet him once. Rudi was tall but not as tall as my father. He was probably very photogenic with his glossy black hair swept back from a sharp-jawed profile. He could play an Indian. Or a Mafioso.

Her friends rolled their eyes. “That Sally, she’s a wild one. Her husband would roll in his grave.”

“Running off the tracks, just like a woman,” old bachelor Lloyd growled into his scotch. “They get like that.”

Sensing Mom’s ardor was cooling, Rudi turned up the heat.

She must know, he said, the movies were all run by the Mob. He was into them for fifty thousand and if he didn’t pay up they would throw acid in his daughter’s face. He wept when he told her this. If my mother would give him fifty thousand, exactly half of what she had in untraceable cash, his daughter would be safe.

Lust may subside but a woman’s rescue impulses last a lifetime. She got the untraceable money and gave it to him. Rudi thanked her and disappeared.

She was so chagrined at her mistake—to put it mildly—that she told me this story. Sure, she tried to get it back, hired a dectective, tried to prove she had withdrawn the money but he had instructed her too well. Years later when she ran across him, he laughed at her.

Even in her old age she seemed amazed that she ever believed his story. Me, too. How could this happen to smart, sophisticated Sally Stevens? How could my own mother be such a dope?

I tell you how. She had fallen under the spell of her own dream, that he really would get an role and invite her to visit him in Hollywood.

I know she had dreamed of a big life for herself because that’s what she dreamed for me. Didn’t Katherine Hepburn live just down river from her? Not that they'd ever cross paths, Mom knew that.

I wish I had known her then. Of course I knew her as a daughter but I was a very different me those long-ago times. I was surprised that she fell for such a hoodie guy in the first place. And then for his extortion scam. Two mistakes. Yet she never admitted to the first because she really did not recognize her own yearnings.

So, Girlfriends, when you go dumpster diving you're likely to find some trash.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Dreamed Life:Two

In the beginning, monster dreams come at me in the night.

“Wake up, honey, it’s only a dream,” Momma says.

Only a dream. As if it weren’t real but what’s could be more real than the awful creature who lives under my bed and reaches its long, clammy fingers up the sides of my mattress so I must lie perfectly still in the absolute center as far out of reach as I can get. Hold my breath. It will wrap its long, cold arms around me and carry me away.

This is not the dream I wanted. When I turn on the light it vanishes.

Here is the dream I made for myself: the white, white room. There’s my black Nikon on the floor, the neck loop open, ready for my hand. The beauty of the camera's mechanism, the elegant slap of the mirror lifting and falling exactly so. Like cocking a well-oiled rifle. Frame, focus and squeeze the trigger.

Light on the delicate emulsion. I can almost hear the molecules laughing as they rearrange themselves. What took you so long, they shout joyfully as they form precise shapes on the film. When I pull the photograph out of the fixing solution the image belongs to me. I dreamt I would make pictures and I do. I make beautiful pictues. I exist.

With the camera I can go anywhere in the world. No one asks why I am there because they can see the camera, my trophy tool. Show me your face, I command. Let me count your eyelashes. Now I have you forever.

I still have that two-eyed Kodak Brownie Dad gave me for my twelfth birthday. Two wide rolls of 620 film, twelve exposures each. The Brownie cracks open like a coconut to reveal the spindly spools, the scratched plastic lens, the simple lever that snapped open the shutter. I took pictures of my old hound, left, right, sitting on his haunches, innocently oblivious to his boy stuff jutting forward.

As a girl I never imagined I would become a photographer. Because developing the film cost money, girls grow up to be writers. We sit quietly in a room pecking out words on somebody’s old typewriter. The ‘e’ arm is bent. Write on both sides of the paper to conserve it. Rewinding the thin ribbon, then reversing it. Scrubbing ink off the elite type with a toothbrush dipped in nail polish remover, wet, inky, stinky fingers.

But that Nikon on the floor, the shutter sound as deluxe as a Mercedes door closing with a rich thunk. Those blindingly white domes, palms over rooftops, that journey to Morocco with my aunt Edith. She carries her paint box and small rolls of canvas, a folding easel. She sets up at the gate of a souk where donkeys hurry by. She paints the shadows deep blue and purple. I open the aperture wide to increase the contrast because I want those shadows for myself.

Edith died ten years before I was born but she left me those arched blue and rose shadows and the white, white domes. In my dream I go back alone, find the room, set my camera down and wait for her.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Dreamed Life

I never had an agenda for my life, not one I could articulate. No path to my shining star. All I had were wishes and hopes and disappointed people who had other plans for me.

Dream number one: I live in a white room with a white floor and a tall window that looks out over blinding white domes against a deep blue sky. My bed coverlet is white and there is nothing else in the room except my camera. Deep blue shadows stripe the white, white floor.

Dream number two: I work at my keyboard looking into a garden whose walls burn with thick pink and red bougainvillea. A Mexican in a long-sleeved shirt splashes water on the stones. His face is dark in the shade of his wide hat.

Dream number three: two armchairs by the fire. My feet on the fender, his feet on the fender as we consider the remains of the day.

The angel of my dreams has guided all my wanderings. Only now do I see that they all came true.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Mopsy's First Cat

Update to Bonnie Pratt, Mopsy’s breeder:

Why would Mopsy suddenly not go down the block on her leash? She’d learned to sniff and piddle but one day last week she just sat down on the sidewalk and looked at me with those big, brown Shih Tzu eyes. No cookies or enthusiastic thigh slapping, no pulling or jerking would budge her. I couldn't drag my twelve pound dog down the street so I gave up and we came home.

But then she would go with me, off leash. Very dangerous! Other dogs on leash terrify her, God knows why. But she would not go down the block with Jim, even off leash so he carried her to the end of the block, put her down but then carried her back past a friendly, sniffy dog. He doesn't mind. It's his first dog. But I imagine myself an experienced dog trainer. Hmm.

Now she may go down the block off leash and let me put it on before we cross the road. But she’s bored with that part of the walk where we might meet other dogs. Any size. Yesterday a Chihuahua charmed her so much little Mopsy leaned over to sniff, waggling eagerly. But the wretch suddenly snapped at her. Thank God she's fast!

She had never even noticed, let alone met, a cat until I happened to toss a bowl of water into the jasmise vines beside our back deck where Mopsy lay deep in her afternoon snooze. The wet and surprised cat, hunting birds in this exotic jungle, leaped out onto the deck. The big, fluffy fellow landed i right beside Mopsy with a thud and woke her up.

In a flash the cat flew off the deck with Mopper right behind it. Down the path, out through the gate--note to self, keep the gate closed— and down the long driveway as fast as a big cat and a short-legged dog can run. Barely ahead, the cat turned right onto the sidewalk with yapping Mopsy on his tail, her long ears twirling like two propellers. Satisfied, the Mop stopped a few feet down the walk at the property line, her pretty head and ears up. She snorted importantly and circled twice to be sure her territory was clear. Then she then trotted back into the yard, sneezing, extremely pleased with herself.

First cat, ever. And bigger than she. Four houses down, that rascal sat in the middle of the sidewalk, his sidewalk, watching us.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Claiming Lucky

My friend Martin loved to tell us how Lucky came into his life. Because I'm a writer, I made it a short story. Here's the end which became part of Martin's eulogy.

HOW MARTIN CLAIMED LUCKY AS HIS OWN:

Damn near seventy, Martin thought as he drove home that winter night. Wasn’t he too old to have a dog? Total responsibility, that scared him.

When he unlocked his front door, Lucky followed him inside, panting nervously. Martin headed straight to the kitchen to fill a water bowl.

As he reached down a dish, he realized how delightful it was to select just the right one for Lucky’s water. Gosh, it was also delightful to think of going to the pet store tomorrow to select a real dog bowl. Two bowls in fact, one for water, one for food.

Then he remembered the Alpo Liz had given him.

“Take him, I already have a dog,” she’s said. Pissed off. The can was still in the car.


He had to knee the dog back from following him outside. As he fumbled around the upholstery he heard a whine from inside his house, light as a bow on a violin string. Martin paused. It was a new sound in his life, the beginning of something. Maybe, too, the end of something.


He would miss Liz’s kitchen. She would be tidying up now and in his mind he saw her wide rump as she bent to add a glass to the dishwasher. What had repelled him now seemed endearing because it belonged to a woman he had loved. Yes, he loved her but not enough. Women were needy, it was their nature. As it was his nature to avoid it.

The Alpo can was already very cold. He’d nuke up a few spoonfuls right away, just to make Lucky feel at home. The dog—his very own dog, his first—might like that leftover salami. And then he thought, no no, too fattening, he’d throw that out right now. Tomorrow he’d buy proper dog food and go on a real diet himself. Take Lucky to the dog park. The exercise would be good for both of them.


He twisted the handle of the can opener while the dog sat at his feet. Lucky’s bright eyes followed every movement of Martin’s hands.


“So, you love me already, huh? How about a little taste of Alpo, Lucky?”

Monday, July 26, 2010

Blond Again!

An Irishman , a Mexican and a Blonde Guy are on the scaffolding on the 20th floor of a building.

When they open their lunch boxes, the Irishman says, “If I get corned beef and cabbage one more time, I'm going to jump off this building.”

The Mexican opens his lunch box and exclaims, “If I get burritos one more time I'm going to jump.”

The blonde opens his lunch and says, “If I get ever get another bologna sandwich, I surely will jump as well.”

The next day, the Irishman opens his lunch box, sees corned beef and cabbage and jumps to his death.

The Mexican sees his burrito and jumps.

The blonde guy opens his lunch and sure enough, there’s the bologna so he jumps to his death.

The Irishman's wife weeps at the funeral. “If I'd known how really tired he was of corned beef and cabbage, I wouldn’t have given it to him again!”

The Mexican's wife wails, “I didn't know how much he hated burritos. I could have given him tacos or enchiladas.”

Then the blonde's wife speaks. “Don't look at me. He always made his own lunch.”

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Treat Me Like a Lady

After my visit last summer Martin sent me a note taped to this wall in front of me: “Don’t wait another ten years.”

Thirty years ago he and I lived together as lovers. It was a year or perhaps less before I became impatient and found Larry who lasted about the same amount of time before I gave him the boot, too. Then the two of them went off together on glorious adventures around the world that I could only envy.

What did I want? I wanted to move into a real partnership, down that long, winding path to Forever. A joined-up life. Travel was exciting but I wanted to build a nest, fix up old houses because that’s what I knew. Neither one of these guys had the money or the inclination to throw their lots in with me. They had their own paths to follow.

As I look back on that time in my thirties and forties I realize now that I only flattered myself that I threw them over. They were just being gallant guys by letting me be the one to say tootle-oo.

The great thing about men is that they intensify our womanliness. Not by pawing our panties off but by acknowledging that we are feminine. There’s always the potential erotic connection even in forbidden relationships, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters, but masculine gallantry is a special kind of love. These guys always treated me like a lady.

So, bereft now of my old lover, Martin, who died last month, I lose a few dance steps in the rhythm of my femininity. I am grateful that other old flames still stop by or call to keep up. I can hear the old music in their voices and see that same bright spark in their eyes. For me. Well, I'm sure they tell all their old girlfriends they are still special. Cricky, who expected boyfriends would live past eighty? Who knew they’d die?

I loved them once and I love them still. I am still beautiful in their hearts. How I miss the dance.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Hand Me the Spade

When an old friend of thirty years died last week I realized again that very few people can utter the actual word, 'dead'. People say “passed” or mumble something pious. No one dares say 'croaked', either or 'toes up' or even that poetic Shakepearean 'shuffled off the mortal coils'.

Next time you say 'passed', try to not roll your eyes heavenward. Look at me. See what it means to me. Help me face it. 'Dead’ is hard, yes. ‘Dead’ is sharp, yes, and final. There’s nothing good or easy about it but it's the truest word.

Don't try to smooth it over with a flowery euphemism such as ‘he’s gone home to God’. This makes YOU feel better but it irritates the hell out of me. Just endure my unhappy moment with me. Maybe I want to say more about the dead friend; maybe I’ll even burst into tears. But I’m a grown-up. I’ll change the subject if I can and let you off the hook.

Say, “too bad he’s gone” or “what a shame” and I’ll handle my own religion. You may mean well but you're changing the subject from my grief to your sermon. If you really believe I am wrong to weep, that my friend truly is ‘better off’ with the angels’, just hand me a pamphlet. I’ll read it later.

“Be honest. Call a spade a spade,” my mother said. When you want to dig a hole you need a spade, you don’t want ‘a digging instrument’ .’ Only a shovel with long handle and a pointy blade will do the job. A tool you can lean into. I need a spade to bury my dead friend. I need a sharp spade to say good-bye to thirty years of happy times.

Now is not the time for a spirituality lesson. If you saw me with a cast on my leg, would you say, “it’s God’s will?”

No, you’d say, “Too bad. How’d it happen?” Because you know I’m dying to tell you how it happened and I’d sure like your sympathy.

“Don’t gild the lily.” My mother said. Meaning, don’t paint over a beautiful flower. Saying “he’s passed” means he’s not really gone away forver. “He’s passed” means he’s just out of sight, stuck in a traffic jam. “He’s passed” promises I will see him again. You may believe that what if I don’t?

What matters is that he’s not here anymore. He doesn’t answer the phone. His dog misses him. Dead means dead no matter how you try to improve on it.

Skip the sermon. Hand me the spade and let me dig.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

KABOOM! How to Make Airports Secure!

From my smart pal in today's mail:

Get ride of those embarassing full-body scanners at the airports which prove to the security line that you have huge breasts or a tiny penis. Now you can step into a booth that will detonate any explosive device on anyone's body.

You'll feel completely secure at the airport terminal every time you hear another muffled explosion because you know your plane ride will be perfectly safe!

We'll save money without those long, expensive 'terrorist' trials and arguments about racial profiling. Nope, justice will be swift and certain. Case and casket closed!


And there'll be the added benefit of hearing the airport announcer say, "Attention standby passengers! We now have a seat available on flight number..."

Monday, July 5, 2010

The Pessimism Bubble

Unemployment, oil spill, climate change.. but maybe it ain’t ALL bad. Ross Douthat, op-ed columnist for the New York Times, writes July 5 that we have been down before and recovered.

"Pessimism bubbles formed during America’s last two economic crises," he writes. Take a look at "the stagflation era in the late 1970s and the post-cold war recession that ushered Bill Clinton into the White House. Go back and read Jimmy Carter’s famous “malaise speech,” which liberals have lately been rehabilitating. With its warnings about retrenchment, rationing and a permanent energy crisis, it feels like a contemporary document. But it isn’t, and Carter’s prophecies were wrong: the grimmest speech any modern president has given was delivered just a few years before America kicked off a long era of impressive economic growth.

"..(E)ven now, there isn’t a major power in the world that wouldn’t happily change places with the United States. Our weaknesses are real, but so is our potential for resilience. While our rivals (in Asia as well as the West) face a slow demographic decline, our population is steadily increasing. The European Union’s recent follies make our creaking 200-year-old institutions look flexible by comparison. And China can throw up all the high-speed rails and solar panels it wants, but it won’t change the fact that most of the country is still sunk in rural poverty.

"All of this is cold comfort if you can’t find a job, or can’t afford your mortgage payments. But historical perspective is important. The more we remember the pessimism bubbles of the past, the better our chances of bursting out of this one.

"Here endeth the pep talk. Happy Fifth of July.”

Saturday, July 3, 2010

To be Very Very Old

My husband and I are very, very old. How old? I'm so old I don't know what I'm missing. So old I gave up on the Mac transition a few months ago and still work on my old Dell with a very old browser.

The husband's so old he can't figure out the Mac OS either. And now we've spent all this money on the Macbook, keyboard and mouse, iMe or whatever the devil it is, and a years supply of Apple tech support. Hundred bucks for that and cheap at twice the price.

IF, if if we can ever remember what the sequence of the OS is. Email looks very like Outlook but it's not the same. It's a flat, grey on grey color, for one thing. I know the Apple Genii put my contact list on there but since I can't sync it with my ever-changing Dell contacts, what good is it? And it doesn't pick up my mail.

Poor husband is right now on this fine Fourth of July Saturday standing confused and pissed off at the Apple Store. You make an appointment for a One on One a week or so ahead and you can only make one appointment at a time. Plenty of free 'seminars' at the stores which are really just feature demonstrations. Somehow Apple has designed the cruelest stools to sit on my butt has ever met so you stand. Keeps the customers moving right along.

Wait, it's worse. Dear reader, dear fellow blogger, help me post your blog right alongside this one. I fell off the turnip truck years ago and can't remember how to put you there. It's not that I'm not reading you, it's just that I'm so very, very old. A toddler could help but I'm all out of toddlers these days.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Mother of the Bride

A friend sent this charming little tale just today:

Jennifer's wedding day was fast approaching. Not even her parents' nasty divorce could dampen her excitement.

Her mother had found the PERFECT dress, and would be the best-dressed mother-of-the-bride ever!

A week later, Jennifer was horrified to learn that her father's new, young wife had bought the same dress as her mother!

Jennifer asked her father's new young wife to exchange it. ''Absolutely not!" she replied. "I look like a million bucks in this dress, and I'm wearing it to your wedding.''

Jennifer told her mother, who graciously said, ''Never mind, Sweetheart. I'll get another dress. After all, it's your special day.''

A few days later, they went shopping and found another
gorgeous dress for her mother.

When they stopped for lunch, Jennifer asked her mother,
''Aren't you going to return the other dress? You really don't have another occasion where you could wear it."

Her mother smiled and replied, ''Of course I do,
dear. I'm wearing it to the rehearsal dinner.''

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Damndest thing. One day he’s here, kvetching about his stocks and no wonder, he was always looking for a bargain, junk bonds back in the day, all you can eat at buffet restaurants in low-rent shopping malls. Not that he was tight, just cautious. Conserved what he had, his money, his routines, his solo life.

Now he’s dead. Not from junk bonds or junk food but a junk doctor who didn’t read his file and prescribed penicillin that sent him into anaphylactic shock, Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and, poof, a month later, toes up. He had quit Medicare for a cheaper local HMO. No copays.

Over the years I asked Martin what he was going to do with all his money when he croaked.

“I ain’t goin’,” he snorted. No ex-wives and no kids to leave any money to, just a stray dog, Lucky, that kept him company for the past ten years. A distant sister too old to visit nowadays who didn’t need anything from him.

“Are you okay, financially?” I pestered. Only old lovers who have morphed over thirty years into close friends can ask these questions. Nobody else did. “Mart, you gotta have a will. Leave everything to me.”

“Hah.”

“You want to be buried or cremated or what? You give anybody a power of attorney?”

“Nah.”

Even ‘nah’ sounded Brooklynese. New York City smart, Martin could tell jokes for hours: Jewish jokes, Irish jokes, religious jokes, lawyer jokes, doctor jokes, all of them streamed out of his memory, an East River of humor, tolerance, irony and wit.

During the brief year he lived in my house, two doors down from his, he brought home grocery bags of goodies and great wine. He loved to shop, he loved to cook and he loved to eat. He taught me to drink martini’s. We went to Key West and looked at Hemingway’s house although Martin did not read much.

In Santa Fe last summer, promoting my memoir, Santa Fe Dreamhouse, I stayed with him. There’s a box of my books in his garage right now, along with the last rugs he didn’t sell at flea markets. Pissed me off he wouldn’t read my book even though he’s in the last chapter. Damn stubborn.

I’ll always have my dreamhouse for it existed before I ever set foot
in Santa Fe and will last as long as I have memory. It's architecture is not perfect but its location by the ancient river, snug against the mountain flank, makes it unique. There will never be another like it, ever.

I can fill the Thanksgiving table with everyone I loved. Here’s Martin, my old friend and neighbor from Brandywine Street, who loved my dog, Flyer, so much he followed me from Philadelphia to Santa Fe just to be near him. Martin has his own dog now.

“Can I bring my Lucky?” he’ll ask.

“Of course,” I say. “Bring what you love.”


Martin, how I miss you.


Tuesday, June 22, 2010

One Mo' Blondie

"Are you really a blond?" a leering man asks her.

"Why don't you ask me," she replies.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Trumpet Vines

Today I shall shamelessly borrow from Cowgirl’s delightful blog about daylilies to praise the six-foot-high red, pink and gold trumpet vine on my brick wall. Eleven years ago it was just a sprout in a five gallon pot but now it reaches twenty-five feet from its stem on one side. Here we must admonish it not to grown right across the street.

It’s other arm has grown in the other direction at least fifty feet along the wall all the way to the end of the house. Not content with two dimensions, this lusty vine sends its joyful tendrils across the five-foot side setback to tap on the living room window panes.


At its furthest end it armwrestles a wall of white blossoming jasmine which itself is climbed every year by the nasturtium vines. Did I once plant those? Their smiling faces are a perfect, clear, almost translucent orange. At their feet volunteer pink and yellow columbines lift their elegant horns almost three feet high.

Trumpet vines grow wild and free along the highway walls out here. My own vine’s stem is as thick and hard as a gnarly tree trunk. Years ago, the same gorgeous trumpet vine grew around the screened porch of my old New Hampshire house. Forty years, I calculate! Gosh, I loved that place, the first I owned by myself. I paid sixteen thousand dollars for it, cheap even at the time. Two big old maple trees in front, a ratty one-car garage and a rickety little barn the previous owner had thrown up to keep the snow off his tools. My pregnant mare went in and out at will to roam the ten acres of pasture.

We swatted mosquitoes many a hot summer night on that porch, watching the mare and then her babies, and the quick gleam of humming birds in the gold and red trumpet blossoms. Their needle beaks sipped from those deep rosy throats long, long ago but not so far away.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Highjacking a Rodeo Princess

Dear Readers: I am highjacking a paragraph from Shirley's wonderful meditation just in case you might skip over it. After I walk the dog this morning, I shall return to see if any of you have found it as delightful as I have.

Our farm has a completely amazing population of lightning bugs. Down at the bottom of the pasture, at dusk, they rise out of the ground, swirling, twirling glimmering dots of palest yellow, neon green and blue white, the exact opposite of the blanket of dark. I like to watch as they blink, then disappear, to reappear several feet away. To catch them, you have to guess what direction they go, or be fast enough to snatch them with your hand while they are lit. I think I used to be good at this, because I remember filling mason jars with grass and a twig and then using it as a temporary home for dozens of bugs. As long as I left the lid on the jar, I was allowed to have the jar in my room on my nightstand. I would fall asleep to the glowing semaphore they sent. I hope they found love, if briefly, inside the jar..


The Domestic Episodes of a Rodeo Princess: The Light

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Meatloaf

Jim vowed he could improve on my meatloaf after The Incident on Thursday. I couldn’t agree more. The Thursday meatloaf began with the basics: white bread soaked in milk, eggs, sautéed onion, a dash of Worcestershire and a pound of good ground beef.

Okay, then. Perhaps because I overthawed a pound of mysterious ground beef in the microwave, leaving only its bottom edge a bit tan—and, yes, firm—I resisted thawing expensive artisan bread and found that while the milk box was sealed, the heavy cream box was already open. So I stirred some heavy cream into a quarter cup of Progresso Unseasoned Bread Crumbs.

I let that rest while I considered the meaty glob and considered all that peeling and chopping and sautéing onions need, plus there'd be an extra pan to wash. The hell with the onions.

Meanwhile, the crumbs seized up on the cream so I added more cream. This created uncrushable lumps and a lot of them. Discouraged, I threw that mixture away and thawed the bread. Let the bread cubes stand with light cream, the heavy being now a bad choice, wouldn’t you say? I would. Apparently artisan bread is not very absorbent so I just threw in two organic eggs, a pinch of salt and mixed up the glop, hopefully.

Anyway I baked this concoction, thinking ‘ketchup’ is always a good moistener. Din din, knives and forks, wine and hard voila! dry, hard, flavorless Meatrock.

Volunteer into the breech last night, at about six Jim began to back away from his meatloaf commitment. I presented him with the four lean TJ burger burger discs, flat as if they were stamped out on a cement sidewalk.

“Ready to mix this up?”

“Maybe,” he said and took his drink out to the porch. Meatloaf wasn’t gonna happen.

“How about burgers, then? I’ll put the string beans on.” Necessity being the mother of invention, I buttered one patty and slammed another on top. Jim looked doubtful.

“Think of this as a thick steak,” I suggested and handed him the frying pan.

Well, even with butter the too-rare burger--nuked for a taste-enhancing thirty seconds—was too dry even for a ketchup rescue. The beans were just fine. What potatoes? What comforting starch?

This morning as we drove home before lunch I mentioned that I hadn’t planned anything for supper.

“Please don’t!” he instantly replied.

There’s a goodly supply of dogfood for Mopsy in the fridge. And a big bowl of water beside her dish.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Dementia: Not for Love or Money

At 5 o’clock yesterday I stopped by SarahCare, a daycare for memory-impaired elders, to introduce my dog to the clients. Sarahcare generously gives my Toastmasters Club a free space to meet every week. In return I occasionally stop by to fill an hour of their day. Owner Tim, busy at the front desk, waved me in. I led Mopsy through the silent, immobile clients, greeted the caregivers and headed through the door.

As I walked out, a slender, well-dressed, seventy-plus client was kicking up a real fuss about the taxi home.

First the cab driver, a powerfully built fifty-something with a heavy moustache and a heavy accent, and then another driver and finally, slim Tim himself, beseeched the woman to get in so she could go home. But the more they begged and patted and even pushed, the more wildly obstinate she became.

“Maybe the dog will distract her,” I offered. “Look, here’s Mopsy!” I cried helpfully. The men stood back. The woman looked at me with silent despair. Ah, probably doesn’t speak English, I thought.

“Senora, por favor, venga con estos hombres. A su casa.” She grabbed my hand with a ferocious grip and looked at me intently. I struggled for a few more Spanish words but none came. “A su casa. La comida. Suenos, senora! Siete en el coche, por favor!”

She cocked her head as if she could not quite hear the words.

“Doesn’t anybody speak Spanish?” I wailed to the men who were looking at me hopefully. “Help me out here!” I tried to pull away from her hand. Goodness, who knew that an old lady could be so strong.

But I did know. Long ago, one high summer season at the Tanglewood Music Festival I sat in an old-fashioned rocker on the front porch of the Lenox Inn beside a gabby old lady in her eighties who claimed she was Joseph Silverstein’s aunt. Silverstein was then Boston Symphony Orchestra’s First Violinist. I had no reason to disbelieve her. She told me a long, funny family story about the poor man’s bossy wife.

I thoroughly enjoyed the insider gossip but when I rose to leave, the old lady grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a passionate kiss full on my mouth. While kiss lasted, a good long time, I was powerless in her grasp.

Those were indeed the woohoo lesbian days and women did occasionally, fall in love with me, then. But this was not a lover’s kiss, this was a very heartfelt, farewell kiss. I know I’ll never see you again.

Then I was gone and of course, I never saw her again. But I have never forgotten the amazing power of her embrace.

Now, at Sarahcare. The woman backed away from the cab with a tormented expression.

“We can’t help you out,” Tim said. “She’s Italian!” The three men renewed their attempts to stuff her into cab’s back seat, then the front but she would not go. As two pushed and cajoled her stiff, resistant body the sweating, burly cabbie turned to me.

“Last Friday she unbuckle herself and open the door right on Freemont Avenue,” he cried. “I used to be a chiropractor and I could hardly get her back inside.”

Now several more pickup cars crowded in, clogging the parking area. I finally squeezed my car out, cursing myself for adding to the mess. Never, ever stop by to visit at day’s end!

In the mirror I saw Tim and now the caregivers push the poor woman back in through the Sarahcare door. The cab drove off empty. God knows who could take this poor woman home and if Sarahcare workers got their own suppers on time.

If you think Alzheimer’s patients just need a loving touch, remember the three men and the taxicab. Doctors are scared to prescribe sedatives or lock people up. The new Health Care bill may spawn a voluntary long-term care fund. But there’s a lot more to memory-impairment issues than love or money.

In her last years my mother had Alzheimers Disease. As she slid into oblivion, she offered to leave me her money if I let her live with me. Too proud for a bribe—I would have done it for love—and too ignorant to understand what was happening to her, I declined. And have felt remorse ever since. She found loving caregivers who chased after her when she ran naked down the street one night and left them the money. Little did I realize the generous gift she left me.


David C. Grabowski, associate professor in the department of health care policy at Harvard Medical School, writes that “today, more than 5 million Americans are estimated to have dementia. By 2050, the number of those afflicted is expected to exceed 13 million.”

Monday, May 31, 2010

Dogs Dogs Dogs

http://digg.com/pets_animals/Dog_Surprises_Officer_After_Being_Freed_From_A_Fence?OTC-bd1e#

I don’t understand how anyone can have a dog and then not have a dog and forget about them. Isn’t there a teeny dog icon, a dog ap, inside us which once activated, jiggles around on the dock of our unconscious? (Note to pc users: Mac icons dance when you activate them. Very useful.) How can you not look into a dog’s eye when you park next to a dog-in-car or pass one leading its mistress down the street?

Doesn’t have to be your own dog. Any dog. They all have dogness which is something in common with humans but not altogether common. Their dogness goes way, way back, before they sat outside our campfires and drooled at the smell of our meat, perhaps the beginning of our mutual passion. Long ago they ate us. They would again if they were hungry enough and we too feeble or dead to protest.

They are older, almost as old as the rocks in the mountains. Their ancient, wild dogness connects us to our knuckle-dragging, prehistoric ancestors. They jiggle the ancient, deep right sides of our brains.

Now some people who never had a dog who can still feel the tremble of that dog icon deep in a mysterious unconsciousness. People who have felt a puppy kick to free himself from loving arms, who have watched a terrier leap for a Frisbee, these have seen the arc of wolfy leap he makes against a blue sky. Dog icons remind us that the earth is very old and our lives are very short.

Play Farmville or enter Second Life but there’s nothing like a dog’s eye, watching you. Look back.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Hospitalization

A patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, heavily sedated from a difficult four-hour procedure.

A young student nurse appears to give him a partial sponge bath.

"Nurse", he mumbles, from behind the mask, "Are my testicles black?"

Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, "I don't know, sir. I'm only here to wash your upper body and feet."

He struggles to ask again, "Nurse, are my testicles black?"

Concerned that he may elevate his vitals from worry about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and sheepishly pulls back the covers. She raises his gown, holds his penis in one hand and his testicles in the other, lifting and moving them around.

She takes a close look and says, "There's nothing wrong with them, sir."

The man pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her and enunciates slowly.

"Thank you very much. That was wonderful, but now, listen carefully.

"Are my test results back? "

Friday, May 21, 2010

Blonds and Rotties

1. Two blondes walk into a building. You'd think at least one of them would have seen it.

2. I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't see any.

3. My friend drowned in a bowl of muesli. A strong currant pulled him in.

4. A man took his Rottweiler to the vet.

'My dog is cross-eyed. Is there anything you can do for him?'

'Let's have a look at him.' He picked the dog up and examined his eyes.

'Well', said the vet, 'I'm going to have to put him down.'

'Put him down just because he's cross-eyed?'

'No, because he's really heavy.'

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Helpful Screen Cleaner

I noticed your computer screen needed cleaning so here is my present to you. click on the word "here" above and wait for a few seconds
and your screen will be cleaned for you!

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The True Story of Goldilocks

Once upon a time Goldilocks lived on a farm at the edge of a deep, dark forest. She was a very good girl who always finished her chores by suppertime.

One morning when she came down for breakfast, the house was empty and the larder was bare. On the counter a note said: Back by dark. Scrub the floors, chop the wood, mow the lawn and plant an acre of potatoes. Do not go into the deep, dark forest where dangerous animals lurk.

Just then delicious aroma of buttery, sugary, nutty porridge wafted from the deep, dark forest.

“The heck with the chores.” She set off to follow the aroma into the woods.

Golden sunlight streamed down through the leaves. Overhead the birds sang.

Goldilocks sang, too, as she skipped along. When she came to an open meadow where the grass was green as emeralds, a turquoise lake sparkled and beside the lake stood a cottage with a red door. Flowers waved in the window boxes. A swing hung from the big tree beside a bee hive.

The front door was slightly ajar.

Hello?” she called politely.

Pushing the door open she entered a cozy living room. The delicious aroma was stronger now.

“Anybody home?” Ah, those three chairs. She slid right off the big leather Barcalounger and almost drowned in the deep cushions of the second chair.

But the baby chair just fit and now she could see three bowls on the kitchen table.

“Ouch,” she yelped and put the spoon back into the biggest bowl. The porridge in the second bowl was cold and hard.

Of course the third bowl was just right. She felt her strength restored.

“If I ate this every day I could work ten times as hard.”

She ate it all up and rinsed the bowl. Very sleepy she went up the stairs and tried the first bed but it was too high. The second bed was too soft and the third bed, as we know, was exactly right. In a moment Goldilocks was sound asleep.

The three bears came home and saw front door was open.

“Uh oh,” growled Papa Bear. “Has someone been sitting in my chair?”

Mama Bear saw that one of her chair cushions was on the floor.

Baby Bear examined his chair. “Somebody sat in MY chair and moved it one inch.”

“Who ate a spoonful of my porridge!” said Papa Bear angrily.

“Some one tried mine,” said Mama Bear thoughtfully.

“Who’s eaten my porridge ALL UP?” said Baby Bear. “Look, they even rinsed the bowl.

“Someone was tidy,” Mama Bear smiled.

They trooped upstairs.

“Nobody’s in my bed,” Papa Bear said.

“Nor mine,” Mama Bear said.

“She’s in MY bed!” Baby Bear cried.

Papa Bear stretched out his claws.

“Put those away, it’s just a girl,” Mama Bear said.

“Hey, wake up!” Baby Bear said.

Goldilocks opened her eyes to see three dangerous animals looking down on her. Exactly what her parents had warned about.

“A nice-looking girl,” said Mama Bear tenderly.

“Would she like to play with the bees?” asked Baby Bear eagerly.

“Probably not,” said Mama Bear.

“You know,” said Papa Bear. “It would be lovely to have a girl in the house. Let’s keep her.”

Mama Bear gave his paw a tender squeeze. “You old softie,” she said. “But she might have her own parents.”

Goldilocks sat up and yawned.

“What pretty little teeth,” Baby Bear noticed.

“She’s awfully thin,” Mama Bear noticed. “But not for a human.”

“Humans know how to read and write,” Papa Bear said. “She could teach us.” He went off to look for a pencil.

Goldilocks stood up. “I’m awfully sorry. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“My porridge does that,” Mama Bear said. “And it makes us strong.”

Goldilocks agreed. “May I have the recipe?”

“Certainly,” said Mama Bear. She gently straightened Goldilock’s braids. “Such long, yellow fur. Come down to the kitchen and I’ll show you how I make it.

First Mama Bear made a big pot of porridge while Goldilocks wrote down the recipe. Then Goldilocks taught them how to read and write. They were thrilled.

“Now I can sell our honey in the market,” Papa Bear said. “We’ll be rich.”

“Now I can write my cookbook,” Mama Bear said. “I’ll have my own TV show.”

“Now I can go to college,” Baby Bear said. “Then play professional hockey.”

When they were finished, Goldilocks thanked them. Goodbye, they said, giving her bear hugs. Fortified by the wonderful porridge she did every single chore on the list and planted twenty acres of potatoes before her parents returned

“You were wrong about the forest,” she said. “The wild beasts were nice to me. And their porridge gave me the strength of ten.”

Goldilocks made it every morning so they could work ten times as hard. Papa Bear got rich selling honey and Mama Bear got her own show. Sure enough, Baby Bear plays for the Bruins.

Here's the recipe for Paula Bear's Ten Times Stronger Porridge:

Simmer oatmeal in grandmother’s good pot. When it’s thick and hot, give yourself a big helping in a blue and white bowl. Add cream from your prettiest cow and a dollop of good butter from the churn. Swirl in a tablespoon or two of dark brown sugar. If you have berries, add them. A teeny pinch of salt on top brings all the delicious flavors together.
GRRREAT!

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Breakfast With Ginger

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaAVZ2yXDBo


Laugh all day!

The Story of The Humble Seamstress

One day when a humble seamstress was sewing near a river, her thimble fell into the water. Seeing her distress, the Lord
appeared and asked, 'My dear child, why are you weeping?'

The poor woman replied that since she had lost her only thimble she could no longer earn a living for her family.

The Lord dipped His hand into the water and pulled up a
golden thimble set with sapphires.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked.

The honest seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord again dipped into the river and brought up a golden thimble studded with rubies.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked. Again, the little
seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord reached down again and came up with a leather thimble.

'Is this your thimble ?' the Lord asked. The seamstress
replied, 'Yes.'

Pleased with the woman's honesty, the Lord gave her all three thimbles. The seamstress went home happy.

Some years later, the seamstress was walking with her
husband, who fell into the river and disappeared under the water. When she cried out, the Lord appeared and again asked, 'Why are you crying?'

'Lord, my husband has fallen into the river!'

The Lord went down into the water and came up with George Clooney.

'Is this your husband?' the Lord asked.

'Yes,' cried the seamstress.

The Lord was furious. 'You lied! That is an untruth!'

The seamstress replied, 'Oh, forgive me, my Lord. It is a
misunderstanding.

'You see, if I had said 'no' to George Clooney, You would have come up with Brad Pitt.

'If I said 'no' to Brad Pitt, You would have come up with my husband. Had I then said 'yes,' You would have given me all three. Lord, I'm not in the best of health and would not be able to take care of three husbands.

'THAT'S why I said 'yes' to George Clooney.'

Friday, May 14, 2010

Time Off with Girl Friends

Four friends spend weeks planning the perfect girls getaway trip - shopping spree, casinos, massages and facials, the whole works.

Two days before the group was to leave Mary's husband put his foot down and told her she wasn't going. Her pals were very upset but since they'd already paid for the holiday, they reluctantly decided to go anyway.

On Friday when the three get to the hotel, there was Mary sitting in the bar drinking a martini.

"Wow, how long have you been here?" they asked.

"I've been here for hours," Mary said with a sly grin.

"But tell us, how did you talk your husband into letting you go?"

"Well, last night as I was sitting on the couch my husband came up behind me, put his hands over my eyes and said 'Guess who?'

"When I pulled his hands off I saw all he was wearing was his birthday suit. Whispering sweet nothings, he led me to our bedroom. It was dark and scented with lovely perfume. He had lit a dozen candles and strewn rose petals over the bed. There, on the sheets he had set out handcuffs and ropes!

"He told me to cuff him and tie him to the bed, so I did. And then he said, 'Now you can do whatever you want.'

"So here I am."

Here's a little music to send you into the weekend: http://oldfortyfives.com/DYRT.htm

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

LOL

When an old nun living in a convent next to a construction site noticed the coarse language of the workers, she knew she could change their godless ways. She would take her lunch to the site, sit with the workmen and talk with them.

She put her sandwich in a brown bag and walked over to where the men sat eating their lunches. As she approached the group with a big smile she asked: "Do any of you men know Jesus Christ?"

They shook their heads and looked confused.

One of the workers looked up into the steelworks and yelled, "Anybody up there know Jesus Christ?"

One of the steelworkers yelled, 'Why'?

The worker yelled back, "Cos his wife's here with his lunch!"

Monday, May 10, 2010

Highly Saturated Memories

Poet Nicholson Baker writes in his wonderful meditation, The Anthologist, that “Poetry is like math or chess or music—it requires a slightly misshapen brain and those kinds of brains don’t last. Sometimes if you can hold on into old age you can have another late flowering.. much of adulthood crumbles..and you’re left with highly saturated early memories..”

Highly saturated memories. Good to know we have that.

Thanks to http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ for the nudge on writing.

Child Witnesses Birth

Due to a power outage, only one paramedic responded to the mother's desperate call.

The house was very dark, so the EMT asked 3-yr-old Kathleen to hold a flashlight while he helped her mommy deliver the baby.

Kathleen did as she was asked. When the baby was born, the paramedic lifted the him by his little feet and spanked him on his bottom. The baby wailed.

He thanked Kathleen for her help and asked what she thought about what she had just witnessed.

"Well," Kathleen replied with indignation. "He shouldn't have crawled in there in the first place. Smack him again!'"

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Beggars Opera

Feeling overnetworked, I quit Facebook today and, boy, not one Friend has noticed. No one’s hitting my LinkedIn, either, except thousands from my old alma mater, whoever the hell they all are. I forgot how to Twitter as soon as I learned it. Netting doesn’t work for me. I’m a hermit. I don’t get around much anymore.

But last week Shirley Landis VanScoyk, who lives in Honey Brook, outside of Philadelphia, took me back to Center City Philadelphia where I spent a happy ten years. In her funny and smart blog http://domesticepisodes.blogspot.com/ she wrote about the Philadelphia Opera Company’s flash opera at Reading Terminal Market. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zmwRitYO3w&feature=player_embedded

Holy smokes, Reading Terminal is my favoritest food market in the States. Soon as I quit Facebook, here's Shirley, whom I've never met, sixty miles west of the Philadelphia, hooking me over three thousand miles with a YouTube vid. In a flash I’m back at my old stamping ground, The Terminal. As the singers raised their beautiful voices in La Traviata’s brindisi scene, I searched the crowd for a familiar face or a familiar sign. I didn’t recognize any people but there behind the singers’ and the shoppers’ joyful faces, there was the same old Spano Cheesesteaks sign. I could smell the onions frying.

Oh, dear Reading Terminal. If I could write an opera, it would be about thee. Thee of shining Korean faces selling fish flesh and gleaming string beans. Thee of Amish and Black folks and Italians. The many, many cheeses and the finest spice shop that ever made me sneeze. Oh Reading Terminal Market, I love your old, rotting beams and the stink of nearby Chinatown.

Not for me to evaluate professional opera singers. Let me just say I was very glad to see the dawning surprise and pleasure on the shoppers' faces. Yes, yes, California is very beautiful and the market at the San Francisco Ferry Terminal bursts with organic string beans and handmade cheese and considerately-harvested fish. Not great fish, mostly those flabby, flavorless Hawaiian giants you have to jazz up with wasabi and teriyaki sauce (might as well eat the paper napkin).

Unlike Reading Terminal, the Ferry market is new. The building is all spiffy reproduction glass. The bathrooms sparkle. Nothing smells except the brisk breeze blowing in from the Pacific Ocean through the Golden Gate which I now know is the actual name of the mouth of San Francisco Bay: not the bridge, not the bay, just the mouth of the bay.

Okay, then.

Because the earth spins, that Pacific wind blows west to east right over the continent to the Reading Terminal Market, at least in my memory. Quick, before I forget, here’s the real broiled bluefish recipe: a little Mombasa red pepper from that spice shop, go easy, then a schmear of mustard and a bigger schmear of Hellman’s mayonnaise, yes, oily mayo on an oily fish. Broil until crackling, eat. Eat the skin, too. It’s loaded with vitamin A.

Alas, I cannot buy this divine fish out west. Short of standing on the pier in Boston as the trawler comes to dock, Reading Terminal has the freshest blues. Don’t get me started on soft-shelled crabs and shad roe. We’re all about the vegetables out here.

One of my favorite memories of The Terminal, where I shopped two or three times a week, was the Italian sandwich with chopped artichoke hearts, hot pickled peppers, exactly the right proportion of freshly, thinly sliced ham, mortadella, genoa salami, provolone and chopped romaine. Sprinkle of olive oil, sprinkle of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. A roll to rip the teeth out of your mouth. You don’t need your teeth in heaven.

So I considered my food inventory and remembered to take those two hundred dollar bills out of the kitty—can’t remember why it was so fat—and drove the VW downtown. I always looked for a parking meter on Arch so I wouldn’t have to pay the lot attendant. Sure enough, I nailed a space but as I was beginning to fish in my shoulderbag for change, a street bum right out of a Three Penny Opera—originally The Beggars Opera, did you know that—caught my eye and approached, spewing dust from his filthy hair and layers of filthy old clothes. Suspenders held up his horrible baggy pants. He held my tremulous eye. I am such a sucker and I knew the hit was coming.

“Say,” I blurted. “Have you got change for a dollar?”

How inspired is that? Like a mask, his face morphed from rapacious to gracious, wreathed in smiles. He wasn’t that murderous-looking under all the dirt.

"Why honey,” he said in an almost-cultivated voice, “help yourself.” He dug into a very, very deep pants pocket and pulled out a glittering handful of quarters and dimes. “Take all you want.”

“Thank you,” I said, picking out four shining quarters. I didn’t try not to touch him. I may have touched him. I hope I did.

“Want more?” His eyebrows lifted politely.

“No thanks, that’s just what I need.” I turned to feed the meter. Then I walked across the pay lot and did my shopping.

After I unloaded the goodies in my Brandywine Street kitchen, I counted out my change. I like to keep tabs on the cash flow, balance it with my feeding frenzies. That day I was short exactly one hundred dollars. Damn! I mentally retraced my shopping steps as I put each item away. I remembered breaking the first hundred, not the other. It was missing. Theft? Had that bum somehow got his hand in MY pocket?

Or had I dropped it as I walked into the market, arranging the bills in my wallet. It could be. But finding a hundred dollar bill outside Reading Terminal Market on a busy, sunny Saturday was impossible. Yet.

I fired up the VW and drove to the spot. Found several open parking spaces. Put my eyes to the sidewalk, to the weedy edges. Continued across the Arch Street Parking Lot, five dollars half an hour, the ripoffs.

There it was, two hours after I dropped it, my one hundred dollar bill. Waiting for me.

I was so grateful I went right back into the Terminal and bought those very expensive things I had foregone on the morning run.

And every time I break a hundred, I feel grateful and lucky. And when I take a deep breath blowing through the Golden Gate, I often think of the bluefish and the bum at Reading Terminal Market.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Unfortunate Blonds

The big mall had a power blackout yesterday. Three blonds were trapped on the escalator for hours.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Do You Have Children?

“You should think about this, Reed,” my mother continued. “They prefer to be with me. You know that.”

Ouch. Could that be true?

“Oh yes,” she continued, seeing my face. “They’ve told me. Many times. It breaks my heart to tuck them in at night and hear their prayers. I don’t think they say prayers at home with you, do they? No, I thought not.”

Impatient, yes indeedy. My fury rose to my ears.

“They do NOT prefer to be here with you,” I snarled, at the same time, asking myself if perhaps they might prefer her house alone in the woods to mine. No other company, just Granny and they, all the time. She’d have to drive them to school and drive them to friends. Find friends because my mother had cast off all hers. Alienated them. Her phone never rang.

“Oh, yes they do. And I can prove it. Right now!”

“How would you do that?” I choked.

“Ask them,” she said with a triumphant grin. My gut clenched.

"They’re asleep! It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“We’ll wake them up right now and let them choose. You or me.”

I woke them, all right, and stuffed them back into the car, drove the hundred miles to my own house and never spoke of it.

So I didn’t get to start a career. I bought cheap houses and fixed them up and set the table with good silver and packed lunches and took them skiing and sent them off to see their father and yes, my mother, whenever they wanted.

I pitched just one Little League game until my son walked off the field, bored. I bought him a pony. My daughter had her Barbies, my son his Tonkas. Bikes, skates, swimming and tennis and sailing lessons, cooking, Europe and even six weeks in Greece with just me. Nightly readings by the fire. They had fabulous Christmas presents, the poor little broken-family orphans. Everything my parents did for me and more.

Men came and went. Very few wanted to take on two young kids and to tell the truth, I had had my fill of being a wife. So it was the open sea for me.

The daughter, Sarah, was ever distant. I never knew when she menstruated. She did not want me to hang her one art project. She did not want to paint or cook or sew or knit or plant anything. She lived behind a closed door from the time she was eleven or twelve. She went to boarding school in ninth grade and spent her holidays with chums. At the senior year celebration of her B.U. Women Crew she told me I was not to come because her father would be there, instead. Not a shortage of tickets. She didn't want to see us in the same room. Was I sorry I had supported her team with actual money?

Nick left boarding school under a cloud before the end of his ninth grade. I got him into Germantown Friends Dayschool and for a time he had a nice little job opening up the corner store on the same block. He was funny and lively and popular and acted in the school productions. But his father was not pleased with his low grades and never attended any functions. The kids always went to their father, in Paris, in Teheran, in Newport or Florida.

When Nick abandoned school in his junior year to play with cocaine and the Philadelphia police would not enforce the curfew unless they caught him on the street, I begged the ex talk to the boy.

"Don’t bug your mother, you’ll be out of there pretty soon,” was his advice.

Indeed, before senior year, the boy left for his father’s, dealt more drugs, flunked public high school, flunked a semester at UTenessee and tried to kill himself. He let me rescue him, then disappeared into that awful, Arctic world of dealing. I bailed him once and then set myself against that tide. No more money, just straight talk. He fathered a child, abused his wife and abandoned them. I chose her and the kid and haven’t heard but once from him since. When he sees his kid, begging to be forgiven his child support, he forbids the boy to see me. We ignore this admonition.

My daughter has not spoken to me in almost ten years. Who knows if my mother told the kids I was a crazy, drunken lesbian? I’ll never know if the ex’s bountiful supply of money lured them away.

So you, my sisters and brothers, you asked what happened after the horse kicked the kid’s head in. Now you know. Tell me, do I still have two children?

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Too Awful

These posts are so painful, so awful, I have to take break. Who the hell wants to know this?

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Do You Have Children?

It was true. I didn’t think I was a good mother. I often felt angry and frustrated. Lonesome and cut off from my life. Writing seemed a thousand years in my past. The Husband didn’t want me to work and he sneered when I sold one little article for twelve dollars.

I minded the kids, cooked, entertained, decorated the house and kept a lovely horse. Rode with my girlfriends when the kids were in school. I gardened and raised dogs. I visited my widowed mother. Kept supper warm when the husband came in late.

“You better find yourself a place to live,” he said, opening his suitcase on our bed.

“I don’t want this,” I cried. “I won’t sign a divorce.”

“If you don’t sign, I’ll have the sheriff put you and the kids on the street,” he said.

Boy, I could see it. I could see it. The idea of separation from him was terrifying. Where would I go? Where would we go? The dog, the cats, the horse, my garden—for surely we couldn’t continue on what he would provide. And sure enough, we didn’t continue.

“What if I don’t take the kids,” I said, trembling at such an idea.

“If you won’t take the children,” he said stiffly, “I’ll put them up for adoption. My sister will take them.”

Indeed his sister, whom he had barely spoken to since I’d known him, nine years, could afford to take them since she’d divorced very, very well. What a fool I was.

I couldn’t let them go. I set my oars and headed my little boat into the stormy seas.

Of course I was delighted to let the Ex have the kids anytime he wanted. And my mother, lonely in her widowhood, was thrilled to have them singly or together for a week or two. She felt she was a great help. And she was. She was. Then, this, out of the blue.

“You know, Reedie, you should let me have the children,” she said one rainy spring night as I prepared to head back home, leaving them with her.

“What?”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I could do a better job. You’ve always been so impatient! They need more love. I have the time and I know your ex would pay me the money he pays you.”

Alarm bells went off.

“Thanks, Mom, but I don’t think so,” I stammered. How could this sixty-two-year-old woman with a terrible bad back who spent most of her days in her bed-nest with the TV on and her nights listening to rabid talk radio, a woman too acrophobic to go to a movie, who slouched around the house in a nylon mu-mu from the discount store, how could she possibly raise two kids who had music lessons and sports and, shit, I put in five hundred miles a week carpooling.

“No thanks,” I said, icily.

(More tomorrow)

Monday, April 26, 2010

Do You Have Children?

Men never ask me this question but mothers always do. If I hesitate and answer that I have two children, she may imagine they’re dead. So I hasten to add that we are only estranged. Have been estranged for years. This leads down a path I do not want to tread, at least not with someone I’ve just met.

You, however, I know you. I can tell you a little more of the story. But I must begin with the Great Disclaimer: I was a Monster. Yes, it’s no wonder they got rid of me. Although I didn’t beat them, didn’t chain them up—quite the contrary, I let them go where they wanted. They visited their father, my mother and their friends whenever they liked. I packed them up and spent the holidays alone.


Or with a boyfriend. Single for eighteen years I confess I did have lovers and yes, sometimes they stayed overnight but not in the same room, not until the boy was home from boarding school at fifteen. Even then I was discreet about the bedtime romps.

I was lonely. I like company. I like men and yes, sex. Of course I want to say, my only sin. Now that I’m digging into it, I see there is an underlying, original sin.

I never wanted to be a mother. I never babysat, never played with dolls or imagined what kind of a mother I would be. Never had a crush on a girl, either, although that may be irrelevant. Babies were just outside the picture. The first baby was an accident.

I married Mr. Executive to escape my mother, a woman obsessed with my virginity. She’d have locked me up in a chastity belt if there were such things. The pill came along ten years too late for me.

Frying pan into fire. Without birth control, illegal in Connecticut in 1960 even for married folk, I was two weeks along when I married and a mother a month after my twentieth birthday. The second child was meant to save my marriage.

As my husband prepared to move out I screwed up my courage and asked if he would take the children. I was just twenty-six, still young enough to finish college and start a career.

“You’re a good father,” I said. He had a great job and the kids adored him. “You take them. I’ll have visiting privileges.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have a job. I can’t be a full-time parent.”

"You can hire a nanny and a housekeeper. Stay in this house, keep the kids in school. I’ll be around."

“And,” I confessed, “I don’t think I’m a very good mother.”