"Put It In Your Mouth! Do It!"

Excuse me?

Alex walked in the office when I was looking at the whole internet and said "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me.  He was holding something in his hand.

I looked at him and wondered if he had lost his damn mind.  He reached his hand toward me showing me a nasty little piece of chocolate that he had saved off of a chocolate Santa Claus we gotten from a friend at Christmas.  Alex had eaten everything but the head of the Santa.

I said "Put it in my mouth?" and he started grinning.  He is one sick bastard, that one is.

Alex needs to keep in mind that we are married and have been for many years.  The demands to 'put it in my mouth' are pretty funny at this stage of the game.

Plus, I don't want some nasty piece of chocolate he's been holding and letting melt in his grubby hands.  And where does he get off saying "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me?

Well, unless he's holding  a big bunch of hundred dollar bills in the other hand.

Then I might think about it.  Naw.  Just kidding.

Sleeping In Separate Bedrooms

We've been married for almost 25 years.  I guess this was inevitable.

Since Monday night, my husband Alex and I have been sleeping in separate bedrooms.  No, we didn't have a fight.

I have a problem that is making it very difficult for anybody to sleep with me.  If anybody has ever had this problem, they will understand right away.  If they haven't, they will think I'm crazy.  The truth is probably someplace in the middle.

I started getting sick on Saturday.  I got worse on Sunday.  By Monday, I was re-writing my will.  I had a fever of 101F.  I was racked with coughing spells that actually felt like they were cracking my ribs.  When I bent over, it was like opening a faucet from my nose and eyes.  Coughing was agonizing, and completely out of my control.

Because of the upcoming holiday, I went to the doctor and he put me on a Z-Pac and nasal spray and some strong antihistamine medication.  My doctor also assured me I probably wouldn't die, but we all know doctors sometime lie in the situations just because that's what they do.  

Alex was in the process of trying to prepare a major presentation for work.  I'm not sure he noticed when I moved out of our bedroom and into Harry's apartment downstairs.  Alex also had Zoe and Harry, our two big mutts to keep him warm during a really cold spell.  I do understand that Alex was very preoccupied with work. 

By the way, I am a person who embraces being a "caregiver".  My husband, Alex, does not understand the concept of the word "caregiver".  (But you might also understand why I was trying to change my will.)

I had my misery and pain.  And I had yowling, hissing, meowing, rutting cats in my ears driving me crazy.  When I put my head down at night to sleep, my eardrums were full of squeaks, squeals, clicks, meows, moans, hisses,and sometimes Geiger counters that kept me awake.  These noises were in total concert with my breathing.  I began to realize, there may be worse things than death.

Now I like cats just fine.  But I really don't like cats in my head making a total racket.  When Alex considerately came in to check on me after about 72 hours, I had finally fallen into a drugged and fitful sleep.  He says he could hear "wheezing noises".  Wheezing my ass!  Those were the cats in my head making all that noise.

My fever is gone.  I have two more days of antibiotics. I'm beginning to think I may not have to do anything with my will right this minute.  I may even go back to our blissful marital bed by Christmas, but I may bring the cats!

Frank Gore Follows Me On Twitter

SF 49er Running Back, Frank Gore, follows me on Twitter.

I only say this because it's true.  Okay, I really don't know what "Twitter" is all about.  And never mind that I am not a huge football fan.  (Okay, I used to be, but that was back in the Joe Montana, Steve Young era, not now.)

Still, I am happy to see that Frank has the good taste to follow me.  The thing is, this has caused great agitation between me and my husband Alex.

Alex is really jealous.  He is a die-hard 49er fan.  He adores Frank Gore.  Alex watches every play of every game and totally loves the game.  (I'm a baseball girl myself.)  Every time Gore makes a great play, I simply call out to Alex.  "Honey!  Frank Gore follows me on Twitter!"

Alex tries (and fails) to be very casual over this.  He is seething with jealousy!  I have tried to assure him that it must be some kind of a fluke.  Maybe there are two Frank Gores?  Maybe it's not really THE Frank Gore?  (It is.)  Well, who knows!  I am sort of cute.

I like Frank just fine.  But I'm not really that much of a football fan, and I have now idea why he follows me on Twitter.  But I might venture a guess or two if pressed.

But I won't do that here.  Let's just say, "Honey, Frank Gore follows me on Twitter" and be done with it!

Things That Make Me Go Ugh

I hate it when I get these things.

First off, I have to put the damn notice someplace where I can't miss it.  (They seem to arrive about a month ahead of the actually date you have to deal with.)  In my house, that can be tricky.

My dog Zoe grabs things off of tables and counter tops and eats them.  My husband puts things "somewhere safe" (meaning somewhere where the item will never be seen again in this lifetime).  I write reminders all over calendars, but then I don't look at the calendar for weeks at a time.  My bad.

Remembering to check in after 5:00 PM the evening before the summons is also hinky.  Don't these people realize that 5:00 PM is the cocktail hour?  After two Bombay Sapphire martinis, I can't read the "juror number group" they are going to ask me for.  Why can't they put the time at say 4:00 PM?  I seldom hit the sauce before 5:00.

I called the number at 5:00 PM the night before.  I was told to appear at the courthouse in Oakland  at 9:00 AM the next morning.  Double Damn!  We have a nice little courthouse right here in Alameda.  Why can't they just send me there?  We actually have a pretty low crime rate in Alameda.  I think that we have had 4 murders in 25 years or something like that.  You guys read the headlines.  Oakland has murders (plural) every hour, plus a wide assortment of robbers, rapists, arsonists, bad actors and gangsters.  And why is it that police departments and courthouses are all located where gangster-looking and acting people hang out?

Also, I may have mentioned before I don't get up before 9:00 AM because most people die early in the morning according to a study I saw referenced someplace.  If it's my time, I'd just as soon be in bed when it happens.  There is no dignity in dying right on the damn kitchen floor with coffee spilled all around you.  So, in other words, the Jury system wants me to risk my very life over this.

I got to the courthouse relatively and surprisingly unscathed.  There is a long line out the door.  I was worried sick I was going to be late.  A Sheriff was telling everybody to take off all of their jewelry, belts, and stick them in the plastic bucket with purses, wallets, phones, lighters, lipsticks, compacts, keys and pocket change.  Folks, I have a lot of jewelry.  I need help taking it off.  Realizing this was an absolute problem, I asked the Sheriff to assist me taking off my bracelets with tricky clasps.  He advised me to just walk through the metal detector with my arms raised.  Whew!

I made it just in time not to be late.  After checking in, I sat in a plastic bucket seat for an hour while people straggled into the large room.  Nobody talked.  The man next to me slept.  When he woke up, I asked him how he got his shoes so shiny.  The man told me he polished them himself.  I said "Wow!"  Then he went back to sleep.

After an hour, the person in charge read off a long list of names and told those people to go upstairs to Courtroom Number 5.  I sat in that plastic chair for another half hour before we were told we could leave.

And what's with all the plastic stuff in courthouses?  Plastic buckets?  Plastic chairs?

I hate jury duty.

There's A Man In My Tree

Actually, there's more than one man in my tree.

People who know me well would not be surprised because having a man or two in my tree is generally my idea of a fun time.

Our big old oak tree needed her skirt lifted and a haircut to let the light in.  She was becoming a tad gloomy.  At 80 years old or so, I understand how that can happen. Her leaves were growing so low that they tangled in my hair as I walked up the path to my house.

Getting her skirt lifted has made her feel downright perky again.  The sun started peeking through her branches as they cut her back a bit.  Plus, she's no longer growing into the upper floor of our home.   

She was tended to this afternoon by 8 handsome young Mexican men.  They sang to her, gently trimmed her up nice and pretty, and took the dead branches off of her.  They disposed of all of her debris in a very respectful way.

After their loving tending, the guys stood across the street to admire her with big smiles on their faces.  As they cleaned up, I could hear some serenading in Spanish.

I took the young men out a bucket full of ice cold beers.  Their big smiles at my "tip" made my heart sing.

Deal With It

The holidays burn me out.

It wasn't always this way.  I used to love to get the tree, pull out the ornaments, buy and lovingly wrap the gifts, cook the meals, make the eggnog, and go into a busy frenzy.

No more.  It's expensive.  It's exhausting.  It's emotionally draining.  For the first time ever, this year I have decided that each of my 6 grand children will get a $50 gift card from us.  They can do whatever they want with it.

I thought about going ahead and shopping for my youngest granddaughter, Abbey Rose.  She's still young enough to appreciate frilly and fabulous dresses.  This year she will purchase her own.  The twinge of guilt I feel over this is overshadowed by the twinge of delight I feel in not having to go to a big store and wander while I look frantically for something that "they will really like".  Nor will I have to lean over the kitchen table with rolls and rolls of wrapping paper, ribbons, and tape while I try unsuccessfully to make things look beautiful as I do my amateur wrap job.

I've pretty much decided that my son and his wife and my daughter and her husband will get bottles of Silver Oak Cabernet.  They all appreciate fine red wines.  The handful of friends we exchange gifts with will get nice bottles of wine also.  My cleaning woman and her daughter will get cash gifts.  In the past, I have gone to considerable lengths to purchase designer leather goods (bags) only to have them returned to me with the explanation that the recipient prefers the counterfeit bags to the real thing.

That leaves shopping for my husband Alex and our two dogs, Harry and Zoe.  Harry and Zoe are easy.  New collars and new chew toys will do just fine for them.  Alex's gifts may require a trip to a store.  He's a clothes horse and a techie.  I can find clothes he likes.  For the tech toys, I will leave him to his own devices.  I enjoy shopping for Alex because  I know what he likes and wants. 

I will host about 3 or 4  holiday dinners.  But rather than dinners for 12 people or more , I will limit them to a maximum of 6 people so that I don't have to open up the dining room table. 

Now that I have sorted this out for myself mentally, I feel less stressed.  (Yeah, I feel a little guilty, but you know what!  I'll get over it!)

A Navajo Tacos Thanksgiving

I don't like turkey.

My husband Alex doesn't like turkey.  My kids and grandkids don't like turkey.  I don't like "dressing".  I don't like mashed potatoes.  I don't like pumpkin pie.  And I hate green bean casseroles.

Alex is Navajo and he has "issues" with celebrating this particular holiday.  Oh he's thankful enough, but the problem is, white guys came and took the Indians land and killed off huge portions of their population.  (Sometimes Alex just can't take the tommy hawk out of his pocket.)

So this year, we are drinking margaritas and tequila shots and Corona beers.  Then we are dining on home-made tamales, Navajo tacos, rice and beans. (Navajo tacos require Navajo  fry bread and I have the recipe for Alex to make.  He's the Navajo, not me.)

I have no idea if this dinner will be successful or not.  But I look at the bright side, if we drink enough, we won't know one way or the other.

My son and his wife and their 4 kids are not going to join us.  They think what we are doing is just too extreme.  My daughter and her Persian family love the idea of a turkey-less Thanksgiving, as my daughter shares my view that handling those big naked birds is disgusting.  I hate reaching inside the thing to pull out those nasty innards.  A cooked turkey does not upset me, but a dead naked turkey turns my stomach.

We will play some Native American flute music by "Tree" Cody, Alex's uncle.  I can probably also round up some Mexican music. And we will do the Mexican Hat Dance. 

Next year we may have a "Turkey Day".  I will find Turkish recipes and traditional Turkish costumes.  I have one of those funny little round hats already so I figure I can't go too far wrong.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Fear of Going Down

Anyone who know me figures out before long that I cannot get on an escalator going down without some drama.

I wasn't always this way.  Years ago, one of my husbands had very little patience with hinky women.  My ex-husband, (let's call him Bob -  heck, his name was Bob come to think of it), was very annoyed when I turned out to be afraid of horses, afraid of heights and terrified of cauliflower. 

We went to dinner one night at the Carnelian Room, a gorgeous high rise restaurant with an amazing view in San Francisco.    We were joined by a number of Bob's executive type colleagues and cohorts.  I was having a marvelous time after a number of cocktails and some wine.  Because my husband and the other people at the gathering were all quite a bit older than I, booze was needed to help with my social anxiety.  I remember I was seated next to the president of the Burlington Northern Railroad and I told him I liked their pantyhose.

It got late and we got ready to leave.  We walked over to the escalator and I came to screeching halt.

"I cannot get on that thing!" I said in a total panic.  My sensitive husband told me not to be ridiculous and grabbed my arm to pull me on the metal moving stairs.  I screamed bloody murder. 

People came rushing out to see what was wrong.  By this time, I was getting hysterical.  I begged the waiter to let me use the stairs or the elevator, on to just let me sleep there.  (Actually, I  may have asked him to let me live there.)

My husband Bob was burning with anger and humiliation.  Here I was a cute young trophy wife and I was behaving like a bat shit crazy woman.  When he couldn't get me on the escalator even with brute force, the Carnelian Room manager said he could have the escalator turned off so I could walk down the stairs.  At last!  Something I could do.

There is still something about a descending escalator that scares me, but I sometimes can do it.  I have been known to ask total strangers if I could hold their hand or their arm until I get on.  If there is an elevator or stairs I can use, I'll use them.

I still am afraid of horses and heights and I don't eat cauliflower or even look at it.  And most importantly, I have learned to never ever again marry anyone named Bob.

Lucky Stars

I don't believe in luck.

I believe in choices and decisions that change our lives one way or another. 

I've made bad choices and good choices and I've lived with the consequences of both.  My bad choices have sometimes been doozies, but I always was able to get back on a good path.

My good choices included going to college in my 30's and making some smart life and financial decisions.  I realized early on  that going to school in and of itself would not totally change the fact that I have limited talents and abilities, but a college education would enhance my potential for success.  With apologies to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, most of us need that piece of paper.

My worst choices have included taking  jobs I knew I was going to hate, and marrying for a powerful combination of lust and greed.  (Who knew?)  I  got my head out of my ass and realized a prince was not the solution to my career and financial  issues.  I needed to do somethings for myself if I wanted a better life. Most of the time, I have been "lucky" and made decisions that worked out fine.

I know people who think they are unlucky.  An old friend of mine divorced a low-down, cheating, lying husband and promptly thereafter married a heroin addict.  She thinks she has had such bad luck.  This woman also didn't file tax returns for years and it just about ruined her financially..  To complete the money disaster, the same woman built up credit card debt to over $60,000 and she had to declare bankruptcy twice.  Bad luck?

Another woman I know married a very wealthy, quite a bit older  man.  She lived with him in a miserable relationship for over 20 years.  He died and she inherited a lot of money.  Even with the money this woman is unhappy and would not consider herself "lucky" at all.  The 20 plus years of being unhappy took a serious toll on her.

A friend of mine got sick of the "rat race" of corporate employment so he dropped out.  This guy has an adequate "nest egg" and he can live within his means.  My friend lives frugally and has very little interest in material possessions.  He does use money for travel and experiences.  It works fine for him.  I'd say he's pretty lucky.

My husband Alex joined the Navy when he was 18.  While continuing his military service as a Reservist, and working full time as an aircraft mechanic, Alex went to college at night and got a degree in Computer Science.  For 20 years, Alex has been working in a field he loves and being very well rewarded for it.  He considers himself a lucky person.

I have to ask the question, "What's luck got to do with it?"

The Last Rose

It happens every year.

I get roses on my rose bushes until mid-October.  In about a week, they are all gone for the season.

Every year, right about this time, one more rose blooms.  It's the most colorful and beautiful one of all.  When I see it, I know I really can't put off the upcoming season.

I know the red rose's hours and minutes are very limited now.  And I dread seeing her in her death throes.

I loathe the Fall season.  There are only dark days and cold ahead as far as the eye can see.  Nature gives her most breathtaking beauty display at this time, so we can watch it all wither and die.  The riot of gold, purple, and red leaves land on the ground leaving the trees bare and ugly until the Spring. 

Fall is like Sundays.  I have always hated Sundays too. 

I love Spring because it's such a time of promise.  And I love Fridays too.  I guess I love the anticipation of a weekend even more than I love the weekend.  And I love the anticipation of Summer much more than I love the season.

Come the end of March, I will have blooms again everywhere.  And the roses will produce their pretty flowers.  They will look lovely, but the flowers will never measure up to this last rose.

Very Superstitious

Superstitious I am not.

I had a black cat.  I once got married on a Friday the 13th (okay that one didn't work out so well), and I stepped on many cracks without hurting my mother's back.

There is only one place that I get a little hinky and that's where it comes to sports, or baseball, more precisely.

My SF Giants are in the playoffs.  They lost the first two games putting them in a hole that had never been climbed out of by a National League baseball team.  (The playoffs are the best of five games.  Two down is a deep hole.)   I was quite concerned that they might be eliminated from the playoffs which would happen if they lost one more game.  I was really praying this would not happen,.

On Tuesday, Alex came home from work early to watch the Giants play the Reds in Cincinnati.  .  I had put on a pair of ugly old black yoga pants and an orange tee shirt (Giant's Colors) to watch the game.  I was so tense that I felt like I might crack my spine if I moved.  Alex was drinking beer, but I stuck with Diet Coke, promising myself a glass of nice red wine IF the Giants won the game.  The Giant's squeaked by with a 2 to 1 win over the Reds.  With this win, the Giants were still down 2 games to 1.

On Wednesday, Alex came home early again to see the game.  I put on my same black yoga pants and the same orange tee shirt but also wore the same underwear I had worn the day before.  I put on the same earrings I had worn on Tuesday and drank Diet Coke.  Before he thought about it, I had opened a beer for my husband.  Everything had to be just the same as the day before, right down to Alex's 3 beers.  The Giants won by a score of 8 to 3.  We were thrilled.  Again, I rewarded myself after the game with a glass of red wine.

My friend Nelson had asked me to have lunch with him on Thursday.  I told him yes, but then I reconsidered.  The Giant's had won two games and needed my complete support to win the next game.  Alex informed me that the game would start on Thursday at 10:15 AM our time, and that since he had a morning meeting, he would not be able to stay home for it.  I was in full panic mode.  If we didn't do the same things, it would be our fault if the Giant's lost today's game and were eliminated from the chance to go to the World Series.  I telephoned Nelson and lied, telling him that Alex would be home from work to watch the game.  (I couldn't invite Nelson to watch the game with me, because that would have been too different.  Telling the lie sort of made it like Alex was home drinking beer and watching with me.)

I got up this morning and struggled into my used underwear for the last day.  I put on my tired old yoga pants and orange tee shirt and the same earrings.  At 10:15 AM, I opened a Diet Coke and stuck a straw in the can.  My friend Marina called me and asked if she could stop by.  I hesitated but ended up saying okay.  She wanted to eat some of the beef stew I was saving for her before she went to work.  This little variation troubled me quite a bit.

The score had been 6 to 0 Giants before Marina called.  When Marina arrived, the Reds scored two runs.  I was in a huge hurry to get her out of the house.  She thought I was kidding.  I was not.

The Giants ended up winning the game by a score of 6 to 4.  I was so glad I didn't cause them to lose. Because they won so early in the day and they won't play again until Sunday when they will either play the Washington Nationals or the St. Louis Cardinals, I went without the red wine.  I hope that wasn't a mistake.

I was also very happy to change clothes, including underwear.

Leave Me Home Alone

I love ballgames.  The SF Giants are my team and I am thrilled about the season they have had.

I love ballgames but I only like to go during the day.  Night time games in San Fransisco are just not my thing.  I don't like cold and at night, sitting on a plastic seat right next to San Francisco Bay is my idea of hell.  I cannot wear clothes that are warm enough. 

Oh I guess I could borrow a pair of Alex's long johns and put on layers and layers of clothing and look something like a homeless woman and that would keep me warm enough.  But I would have to also wear a hat with ear flaps and a ski mask.  Plus, I would need those "oogla" boots with the fur in them and on them.  Honestly, does anyone really believe I would do that?  (Of course not.)

Sitting in one place for 3 or 4 hours turning into an ice cycle is not my idea of a good time, even if I look like a cute ice cycle.  I can wear a pair of high heels and well cut jeans, and a sweater, a scarf and a leather jacket and look great, but be frozen by the 7th inning stretch.  It's just not my thing.  Afternoons are fine at the park, but evenings are usually brutally cold.

Alex was so excited to tell me that he had gotten us "play-off" tickets after the Giants won the Division.  "Great, Honey!" I said stupidly.  I had failed to ask "When are they playing?", meaning was it a day game or a night game. Alex didn't know because the game time was not announced at that point, so I hoped for the best.  I maintained my positive attitude until I found out on Friday that the game would start at 6:30 PM. 

Knowing Alex was so happy, I just didn't know how to tell him that I would not be going to the game with him.  It's turned "cool" and there is no way I would even consider walking for miles to get to the stadium where I would sit and freeze for hours on a Sunday night.  Last evening, I approached the subject with my husband.  "Alex!  How would you feel about going to the game with Nelson?"  Alex looked at me with disbelief!  "I can't believe you don't want to go to a play-off game!" 

I replied "Oh Honey! I really do want to go, but my foot is really bothering me after all the walking we did yesterday in San Francisco.  I just don't think I could do it again without ending up totally unable to walk."  Alex said "Well, let me call Nelson." 

Fortunately, Nelson was delighted to be invited.  But I guarantee you, Nelson was not as delighted as I was knowing I could stay home and watch the game on tv in my nice warm house, in my nice warm sweats, and not have to rub up against strangers in the crowd of people navigating from one place to another.  I don't have to eat nasty ball park food or drink a $10 beer.  I can be home in front of my 60" HD flatscreen television and watch the game, including highlights without people screaming around me.  I can go grab a glass of wine if I wish, and dine on chocolate cookies while my pups watch me with adoring eyes as I use ice packs on my gimpy foot.  Okay, that's a lie.  My foot is fine.  I just didn't want to go.

At least this time I didn't have to fake that I had a ruptured appendix.

Getting To The Bottom of It All

Yesterday was October 1st.

I expected it to be a day much like any other day.  Boy!  Was I wrong!

First off, I got up and walked downstairs without shoes to the kitchen.  A place in my foot on the bottom next to my heel hurt like a summa-bitch but I kind of ignored it.  I put on shoes and figured the pain would go away.  It sort of did as long as I was wearing my 3" heel platform shoes.

Yesterday was very hot.  I melt when it gets to be over 67 degrees and it hit 90 degrees here.  We have no air conditioning.  We live in Northern California for heaven's sake.  Didn't Mark Twain say the coldest winter he ever experienced was a summer in San Francisco?  I turned on the fan in the office and sat down to check my email and visit Michael WJ and Ziva.  Both of these bloggers have joined in having a 30 Day of Photos Non-Competition.  Michael and Ziva are a couple of my favorite bloggers, and favorite people for that matter.  Many of the bloggers participating in this challenge are not only wonderful bloggers but great photographers.  I was really looking forward to seeing what they all had contributed.

But first things first.  I wanted to look at my emails and see the comments on my own blog.  (I'm a little self-centered, I admit it.)  Much to my surprise, I had no comments, not even one.  In fact I had no comments for over 2 and 1/2 years of blogging.  In fact, there wasn't even a place to leave a comment on my blog.  What's worse, I went to look at the photo blogs posted by other bloggers yesterday and I couldn't comment on any of them if they were "Disqus" powered sites.  Double damn!

I know enough to know that something was rotten in Disqus land.  But what?  Here it is hot as hell, I have a painful foot, and I can't get the blog stuff to work at all.  Fortunately, my rocket scientist husband would be home after work and he could "fix" it.  (Alex can fix anything!  Just ask him!) 

Since the computer was useless at this point, I watched hours of CNN while realizing that it was getting so hot in the house I felt ready to faint.  The only thing I could think of to do is take a nap.  But wait, it was too hot to sleep.  I wandered in to get some ice out of the kitchen, but I had pulled off my shoes when I got on the bed.  Ouch!  I nearly collapsed with the pain in my foot!  This was no joke!  There is something wrong!  In fact, there are a few things wrong!  I was feeling horrible from the heat.  I can't read or comment on blogs, and my right foot is screwed up.  Plus, my favorite pair of cords either shrunk or my butt had gotten bigger almost over night.

Alex (my husband, the genius, or as we call him, "El Jefe"), came home.  He was unable to fix whatever was going on with my blog.  To add insult to injury, the heat had intensified to 95 degrees.  And my foot still hurt.  It was too hot to sit around trying to fix my blog thingy, so I told Alex to forget it.

I got into bed grumpy and got up even more grumpy.  I thought about calling a foot doctor but then I decided I wasn't dying yet, so I'd wait a few more days. 

Miracles do happen.  The blog thing comments started working again.  The forecast says "cooler tomorrow", and my foot is still attached (even if painfully) to my leg.  My cords have stretched out again.

Life is good.  Well, sort of.

The Phone Call

I lie to my doctor.

I lie about how much I exercise, how much (and what) I drink and eat,and  how much (and what) I smoke.

I also lie about my weight and my height.  I insist that I be weighed with my shoes (and earrings, and bracelets, and rings, and jacket or sweater) off and measured with my high heel shoes on.  I claim to be 130 pounds, but I'm closer to 140 pounds.  I also claim to be 5'6" tall and I'm closer to 5'4 1/2".  

I don't really have to lie.  My doctor is cool.  He understands when I tell him I have not been to an ob/ gyn  in a couple of years because I'm not in the mood.  He understands when I say I haven't yet had the mammogram he ordered for me two years ago.

My doctor runs down a list with me and I tell him everything is fine and perfectly normal.  Yes, I sleep 8 hours a night; yes I have normal bowel and bladder activity; yes, I am socially active and have many interesting hobbies.  (Of course, he must know I'm lying about all that too.)

He's a pretty cool dude for a doctor.  He and I have even talked about going on a trip together.  We are both, uhm, free spirits of sorts.  We'd probably have a lot of fun.

I go to see my doctor once a year for a physical.  I only go more than that if I think I'm dying and need to get my affairs in order.  (I belong to the "less is more" school of medical ideology.)  If it ain't broke, I don't want it fixed in other words.

One thing I cannot lie about is lab work.  After my examination every year, my doctor hands me a slip that orders laboratory tests.  He checks everything from my thyroid to my blood richness to my cholesterol levels and everything in between.  I try to get the lab work done within a week of my visit for the exam.  I'm terrified of needles and it would be easy to put this off, but I never do.

After I get the lab work done, I wait breathlessly and in a state of panic for the results.  My doctor usually calls me within a week to tell me what is going on.  I sort of hold my breathe until his call.  (Underneath it all, I expect that I'm probably dying but just don't know it yet which may be just as well.)

The call comes in like clockwork.  My doctor runs down the list for me telling me that my cholesterol is perfect, my kidney and liver functions are perfect, my thyroid is perfect, my blood is good and rich (thank you red wine) and that I'm in good health.  I breathe a sigh of relief.

I've fooled him for one more year.

You Want Me To Ride Where???

I've been a registered Republican since I was 21 years old.

I am fiscally conservative, socially liberal, and in favor of small government.

In 2008, I would have probably voted for John McCain if he had chosen a vice president I could have lived with.  Unfortunately, he chose Sarah Palin, so my only choice was Obama.

Although I'm not a huge Obama fan, I do respect him.  He's acted with grace and good judgment in every situation.  I do not blame him for some early hedging on some of the more liberal issues.  He's done the right thing when the time was right.

I was somewhat surprised when my party chose Mitt Romney for the Republican candidate.  Romney seems to be a smart guy and a good businessman, but I really knew very little about him other than that.  I also knew that Romney was Mormon but that didn't give me pause.  (Frankly, I see no reason that a Muslim could not be president if he was qualified.) 

As far as the social issues are concerned, there is a lot of "posturing" on both sides and much of it is meaningless.  I don't believe that is a selling point in most cases.  I think we have to look at the candidate and judge for ourselves what kind of a leader that person would make.

But now we come to my Achilles heel.  When it was reported that Mitt Romney and his family had stuck their Irish Setter, Seamus, on top of their car in his crate for a 12 hour trip I was aghast.  Further, when the Romneys never acknowledged that this was a stupid and cruel thing to do, I was outraged.  Mrs. Romney went so far as to say in an interview "He loved it!" (meaning the dog).  Mitt Romney said that he wouldn't do it again seeing as how such a big issue has been made out of it.
 
I certainly wasn't born knowing "the right thing" to do in all instances of animal care.  I gave my German Shepherd  an Aspirin when he was injured in a fight and we were about an hour away from a vet's office.  It could have killed him.  I just didn't know any better.  I admit my mistakes freely and don't cover them up or deny them.

Romney also bullied a gay kid in high school, but calls it "high jinx" that he really can't remember anything about.  I threatened to beat a girl's ass when she made out with my boyfriend in high school and I remember it clearly.  It was wrong of me.

A person needs to show integrity and admit when they are wrong.  Unfortunately, this does not seem to be the case with Mr. Romney. 

For the third time in my life, I will vote for the Democratic candidate.

Losing My Cherry

This is a story with a moral.  So pay attention.

When I was 14, I stopped being a tomboy and started being a normal, active, girly girl.  At first, my mother was thrilled.  But then, not so much.

I lied about where I was going.  I had "secrets".  I kissed boys.  I went to parties where the parents weren't home.  I smoked cigarettes.

My mother was fairly strict.  She had told us all the important things that young females should know.  For instance, if you give away milk, nobody will ever buy the cow.  We also learned that if we ever smoked pot we would turn into a heroin addict. Also, if we lost our virginity, nobody would ever want to marry us.  (I did wonder a bit at this last bit since my mother had been married before she married my father, but let's let that slide for a moment.) 

When I asked my mother about how a guy would know if you were a virgin or not, she said there was an absolute way to tell.  Virgins had something called a hymen.  (Gross, right?)  A man would know immediately if his new wife was a virgin. 

Well, it was a safe bet that I wouldn't be giving away any milk or smoking pot and I was going to remain a virgin so I could get married.  So far so good. 

I went to a party one night with a couple of girlfriends.  There were guys at the party and no parents.  We had fun, dancing, listening to music, and some making out may or may not have been going on.  On this particular night, I had told my mother I was going to the library with my girlfriend and then spending the night at her house.  (Only that second part of that was true.  We were not going to the library.)

When I got home the next morning, my mother was waiting for me.  She was furious for some reason.  Mom asked me "Where were you last night?" and I responded "I was at Cheryl's house" to which she continued to grill me for details.  "Were you at a party?"  (Busted.  No way out. But I gave it a try anyway.)  "I was at the library."   Mom yelled "Oh no you weren't!"  So I figure the jig was up so I admitted I had been at a party (after the library, of course. I wasn't ready to surrender and tell the whole truth just yet).

Apparently, some girls (not invited to the party and jealous) had called my mother about 10 PM and told her that I was at a party and had sex with about 10 boys while I was there.  I was struck dumb (as in speechless not stupid) by this accusation.  I told her that just wasn't true.  She told me she was making me an appointment with a doctor to find out if it was true or not.

I shrugged.  Whatever.  I knew for sure I had never had sex so I had no real concern about having a doctor examine me.  Sheesh!

I went to the doctor and he examined me and told me everything was fine.  I already knew that.  But my mother said that the doctor had told her "Your daughter is not virtuous."  WTF???  Does he mean because I lied about the party or what?  My mother told me, "No.  You do not have a hymen so you are no longer a virgin."

Actually, I was a little relieved to find that out.  Now I could quit worrying about "losing my virginity" since I wasn't a virgin anyway.  Oh, and I could also use tampons!  Happy days!

Years later, I told my mother that I was actually shocked that a medical doctor would have told her what he did.  She explained that he had actually said that I didn't have a hymen but that it didn't mean anything.  She made up the rest to intimidate me into telling her the truth. No real harm done and I have the ex-husbands to prove it.

But damn!  You mean I stopped being a virgin a full year before I ever had sex?

Hot Tubs, Yuppies, and Dogs

I don't like hot tubs.

First off, I don't even particularly like water.  Oh, it's fine to drink, but I have a preference for hot tap water if I'm drinking the stuff.  Frankly, most of the time I'd rather have gin and juice.

Large bodies of water scare me.  I'm fine with a bubble bath, but I don't swim.  I don't like the ocean and lakes terrify me.  I don't even enjoy a shower because it feels like the water is trying to drown me.  One wrong turn and the water is in my eyes and up my nose.

I know people who have hot tubs.  (These people are primarily yuppie types.)  They all seem to think I want to get in their nasty hot water with them.  I do not.  Sometimes, yuppie people who have hot tubs want to get into them nekkid.  That's fine for them if they are home alone, but don't even think about getting in a hot tub nekkid with me.  That is gross.

Nasty stuff lives in hot water.  Believe me on this one.  If you go in, wear a wet suit just to be safe.  All those bubbles can hide a multitude of sins.  I'm just saying.

My dogs, Harry and Zoe don't like water either.  Harry (the big guy who looks like a bear in this photo) likes chasing ducks into the water, but only up to his elbow joints.  He also stays next to me when I am in the bathtub because he thinks I may be in need of protection from bad people if they should walk in while I'm bathing.  He has a point.

I take my Kindle and iphone and regular telephone with me into the bathroom with me.  But I never take guns,grenades, or knives.  Harry thinks I'm being foolish not to, but hey.  That's what he's here for.  My former dog, Willie, a German Shepherd, loved the water.  He would race into the waves at the ocean, jump in the lake, or splash into the tub with me at any given chance.  Harry just lays down next to the tub and looks bored when I'm in the bath.

Zoe will not even walk into the bathroom if I am bathing. She hates water with a passion.  Zoe will not even wade in after ducks.  She's a girl after my own heart.

If I come to visit you, and you are a yuppie, and have a hot tub, I will sit on a chair next to your hot tub while you are in it and have a gin and juice.  But don't invite me in because I won't do it.

The Church People Next Door

They moved in next door when my kids were young.

I was renting an apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco.  I saw my new neighbors the weekend they moved in.

They were both young, attractive, and moving to San Francisco from Memphis.  They seemed very nice.  I spoke with them while they were moving in and gave them some ice water.  My kids were happy to meet the new neighbors who seemed like a very nice young couple.

I found out from our landlord that the man was a minister at a local Baptist church and his wife taught at a local elementary school.  Charming people, the landlord assured me.

About a week after they moved in, I invited them both over for a cup of coffee (to be neighborly, you understand).

My kids were home because it was Saturday.  Sheila was about 3 and her brother was about 6.  The new neighbors and I  sat and had coffee and cookies and talked about the man's church and the woman's school position.  The kids wandered around the apartment playing while we chatted. 

The kids were in my bedroom, and I wondered what they were up to, but I didn't interrupt to go check on them.  The minister and I were discussing his church and he asked me if the children and I attended services.  I answered him honestly that we did go to different churches almost every weekend, but that I was not really a member of any congregation.  

I could hear my daughter laughing and her brother saying, "No, let me see it!" and I heard a weird sound, almost like an electric mixer.  My daughter came running into the living room holding a 10" dildo that was pulsing away.  She had a great big grin on her face as she said "Mommie, look!"

Conversation came to an abrupt and absolute halt.  I tried my hardest to contain myself, but laughter started up and I couldn't hold it in.  I spluttered coffee all down the front of my blouse.  The harder I tried to stop laughing, the harder I laughed.  When I saw the church people's eyes trying to act like they didn't notice anything amiss, I nearly fell off my chair.  We bid each other a quick farewell, and I collapsed again in horror, humiliation and laughter.

I guess I could have explained to them that the dildo had been a joke gift from an ex-boyfriend.  I guess I could have explained that I had only kept it because I didn't want to throw it in the trash and have someone "discover" it.  I guess I could have explained that 10" of dildo might be too much of a good thing.

I never went to my neighbor's church.  I never invited them for coffee again. I think they were both glad that I didn't. 

Frankly, I was glad when they moved about 6 months later and I no longer had to hide when I saw them coming or going.

Pacification with Pork Chops

My darling daughter, Sheila, and her husband, and my granddaughter, Arianna, came for a visit yesterday.


Visits from my daughter are always a pleasure, but they also generally make me feel like I'm a little lost in space. Plans change on the fly, so to speak.  It started off with a series of frantic telephone calls on Friday evening. Voice messages, about 10 of them, expressed extreme concern over my whereabouts.

"Mother, where are you?  Call me!"

"Mother, are you okay?  Call me!"

"Mother, I'm getting worried.  Call me!"

"Mother, I've called you on your home phone and your cell phone and there's no answer!  Call me!"

"Mother, this is ridiculous!  I've been calling you for two hours!  Call me!"

"Mother, it's getting late and you still haven't called me back!  Call me!"

"Mother, we were thinking of coming over to see you, but it's late for that now!  Why haven't you called me?"

"Mother, it's me!  Call me!"

"Mother, well, you aren't answering.  Call me when you get home."

"Mother, it's 8 o'clock at night.  I'm really getting concerned.  Please call me!"

"Call me!"

Well, heavens to Betsy!  What on earth is this all about?  I really am not a feeble person.  I'm not at all likely to be lying injured on the floor with my arms and my legs up in the air like a turtle flipped over on its back.  I am not saying that is impossible, but it's just not likely.  At least, I've never done it before (not to my daughter's knowledge anyway!).

I had been to dinner with a dear friend.  I don't answer my cell phone when I'm at dinner.  I turn off my cell phone unless I'm expecting an important call.  I don't talk on my phone or "text" or play games on my cell  when I am with other people.  Maybe that's because I'm old.

I telephoned Sheila about 8:10 PM and asked her "What's up?".  She railed for a few moments about how worried she had been about me.  "Mom!  Your husband is away and you really need to let people know what you are doing!"  Uh, really?  I get a call from my daughter about once a week, or once every other week.  If I am not home, she can leave a message.  I will call back when I get home.  Seems reasonable to me.

Because Sheila had been so worried about me, she announced that she would be paying me a visit the next day.  (I think she wanted to make sure I was not eating cat food and/or drinking malt liquor to excess  since "my husband is away".)  I told her I would love to see her and that we could have lunch on Saturday.  Simple plans are always best, I think.

On Saturday, Sheila phoned about noon to propose that we change our visit from Saturday to Sunday.  That was agreeable to me.  We again decided to shoot for lunch, and that Sheila's husband and daughter would be joining us.  Sounded fine.

I called my daughter at 11 AM on Sunday to see when she was leaving.  Sheila told me that they were all still in bed, but they would call me in a few minutes to set up a time.  (I thought to myself, "Queer.  Don't people have lunch around noon?")  Never mind.  Sheila called an hour later with a new plan.  I'll lay it out for you here:

"Mom, new plan.  Why don't we come over about 2 or 3 this afternoon and I'll bring a fish.  I'll cook for you and we'll do all the clean up afterwards.  How does that sound?"  Well, frankly, bringing a fish to visit me or to cook for me just didn't tickle my fancy at all.

I said, "Never mind Honey.  I'll make pork chops."  Stunned silence and then peals of gratitude rang out of the phone!  "Oh my god!  I love your pork chops so much!  I can't wait!  See you at 3 this afternoon!" 

Of course, at 3 in the afternoon, Sheila was just getting out of the shower when I called her.

But my pork chops really are divine.

I Was Supposed To Marry Elvis

I think I was 10 when I first saw Elvis Presley on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Before that first introduction to the man who should have been my first husband, I had planned to become a nun.  I prayed on it, and was sure I had a "calling".  That "calling" went right out the window when Elvis made his appearance on the small black and white television screen.

Elvis was born on January 8th.  I was born on January 21st.  Elvis was 11 years older than I was but age was just a number to me.  (I've always been sort of free and easy about those things.  Ask anyone.)

I was 12 when Elvis left to go into the Army.  I was distraught, but brave.  I knew he'd probably come back alive since he was in Germany and it was not during a war or anything.

While Elvis was in Germany, he met this girl, Priscilla, who was only 14.  I was stunned.  I was not too young for him after all, having turned 13 and 14 while he was gone.  I had black hair.  I could have gotten blue contacts if that's what he liked.  I loved him.  I gave up being a nun for him.  My mother hated Elvis at first, but then she and her sister fell in love with him about the time he started doing those tacky Las Vegas shows.

I moved on from Elvis when I was almost 15.  I even stopped seeing his movies.  My mother and my aunt still swooned over him even in those stupid looking jumpsuits.  If I had been his wife, I would not have allowed him to wear anything so dumb.  (Ask Alex if you don't believe me.)

If I had been able to marry Elvis at 10, I would have in a heartbeat.  By the time I was 15, the love affair was over.  It may be just as well, seeing as how it didn't turn out really great in the long run.  I still think the guy could sing though.

I visited my son in Memphis when he was in Millington, TN,  doing his "A School" to become a Navy Airman.  My daughter Sheila and I stayed in a suite at  the Hyatt Regency.  My son John joined us there for the weekend.  Sheila and I were going on to Oklahoma City to visit my mother's older sister, Berta, for a few days on our trip before returning to San Francisco.  The day we left Memphis, I called my aunt to confirm our arrival time with her.  She was horrified that I had been in Memphis and not visited Graceland.

My daughter and I told her we would try to get on a tour before we caught our airplane.  We took the Graceland tour.  I never felt so inbred in my life.

When I saw the "jungle room", I thanked my lucky stars I had escape the fate of being Elvis's wife.

Fake Smiles

Can you grin like an idiot when you are sad? 

I can.  I'm bored and I'm missing my husband.  I've done a number of things to "keep myself busy" but none of it is working.

I had dinner with a friend on Friday night.  Eh.  I bought some new sandals.  Eh.  I bought $100 worth of new panties.  Eh.

I'm taking the dogs out in a bit to Coast Guard Island.  That may or may not cheer me.

Alex is gone again and he has been for a while now.  He spent all of the month of June away, and he's gone until the end of August this time.  Shoot!  That's our summer!  I hate it when I'm home alone.  But I hate doing things just to be doing things too.

I went to a party yesterday hosted by a lady across the street.  I really didn't know anybody but they were all friendly people.  I drank two glasses of white wine, felt it hit me and went home.  I just felt miserable.  Being around a bunch of people didn't make me less miserable.

I think I should put on my ratty old robe and ratty old nightgown and just not get dressed until Alex comes home again.  Oh wait.  I have to go to San Francisco to the doctor tomorrow.  I like my doctor so I don't really mind.  Well, I do mind because he's going to ask me if I've been to the gyn and had the mammogram he ordered for me.  I have not done either thing and I have no immediate plans to do them.  I am just not in the mood for all that tom-foolery right now.

Maybe I'll ask the doc for some happy pills.  Oh shoot, I doubt there really is such a thing.

Dressing Ari

With her waist length hair and tiny stature, dressing Arianna is like dressing a Barbie doll come to life.

School starts next week for Ari.  In two weeks she will turn 16.  Rather than trying to find her a "present" for her birthday, I decided to take Ari shopping for back to school clothing.

Ari wears a size 0 or a size 2, depending on the cut of the clothing.  Our first stop was to a shop that carries rather high end designer labels.

We found one Nicole Miller black cocktail dress in a size zero that looked like it would have potential.  Arianna tried it on with a pair of 4 inch black stiletto pumps.  When she walked out of the dressing room, the customers and sales staff all came to a collective halt and gasped.  Ari looked like a live Barbie doll!  She put her hands on her hips and posed a bit much to the delight of the people in the store.

Arianna went back into the fitting room and came out with the dress on the hanger as I was searching for my credit card.  I said, "Let's get this!  It's perfect!" and Ari shook her head.  She asked the saleswoman if she could hold the dress for a couple of hours while we looked around.  I was stunned.  As we walked out of the store, Arianna said "Grandma, I loved that dress.  But I don't need that dress.  I need school clothes."  Humph!  I thought we would get the dress and school clothes but Ari thought that would be wasteful.  (I suppose she did not inherit all of my genes.)

We went to a couple of boutique stores and I was amazed at how good everything looked on her.  The skinny jeans, the high waisted shorts, the tops, the dresses.  Ari has amazingly good taste for herself, and there were only a couple of instances when I said "Naw!" and that was because the clothing didn't fit perfectly.  (If it's a simple matter of hemline, something can be easily shortened, but remaking a dress to fit is a much more complicated and expensive process, plus you sometimes get an outcome that you really are not delighted with.)

Because Ari is so petite, (a mere 5'2" and about 108 pounds), she keeps her clothing simple.  It seems intuitive to her not to overwhelm herself with too dramatic clothing.  I wish I had such good fashion sense!  Arianna was delighted with her purchases and looked magnificent in each and every one of the things we bought.  She did a little fashion show for her parents last evening when they came to pick her up and they were delighted with her choices as well.

Damn it!  I still want to go back and get that little Nicole Miller dress for her!

A Cautionary Tale

You cannot really tell by looking at me that I can be a complete and total  blithering idiot, (unless you count the wacky hair, but that is my trademark).

My darling girl, Nicky and her gorgeous son Max, left early in the morning to go back home to that place in far east Canada.  I was feeling a little bluesy when the phone rang about noon, but had no idea that my life as I know it was about to change in the next few minutes.

A man was on the telephone and ascertained that he was talking to the correct person.  I assured him that he was.  This man then told me his name was Bruce Goodall and that he was a field agent for the DEA.  I made him repeat that part, and replied "Okay, Mr. Goodall, what can I do for you?"  At first I thought it might be a prank call, but within the next couple of minutes, I realized it was not.

Mr. Goodall told me I was being investigated because of my relationship with overseas pharmacy companies.  I was speechless.  I tried to interrupt him to say that I had no idea what he might be talking about.  He then asked me "Okay, Linda, then where are you getting your weight loss medication and your Xanax?"  Now I was really confused as I take neither drugs for weight loss or for anxiety, although I could probably have used both at this particular time.  This guy rambled on to me in a very hostile and threatening manner until I finally said, "Wait a minute!  About 5 years ago, I got a solicitation for Retin A eye cream.  I think it was from a Canadian Company and I ordered it on the internet."

Mr. Goodall asked me if I knew that Retin A was a controlled drug in the US?  ("I may have known that, but I'm not sure:  I just knew it was cheap compared to a visit to a skin doctor to get an order for it.  I assumed it was legal in Canada.", I responded.)  Mr. Goodall then asked if my husband knew that I had a close relationship with foreign pharmacies and drug dealers, and I told him I wasn't sure.  I may have told him I ordered the eye cream, but it was a long time ago.  Mr. Goodall told me that I would have to go to trial and that he had agents two blocks away from me ready to come and pick me up.  He also said that the company I had ordered the Retin A from was importing heroin and meth into the United States.  My prison sentence would be between 15 and 20 years if I went to trial and was found guilty.

By this time, I was shaking. Goodall then told me that there might be a way out of this mess for me if I was interested.  (Of course I was interested.  Orange is not my color!)  I'm making light of this now, but he actually had me scared.  Mr. Goodall told me to hold on for a moment and he would connect me with his boss, who was the head of the DEA in the area.  I was ready to cooperate at that point and that's for sure!

The man who came on the phone told me his name was Rick something or the other.  He said "We know you are not a drug dealer or even a problem drug user.  We want to work with you to get you out of this mess.  You made a mistake, that's all.  I don't want to see you in prison, Linda."  (I don't want to see me in prison either, Rick.)  At least Rick was playing the role of good cop and then he began telling me something about working this out with me paying a fine and it would all go away.

"What kind of a fine?" I asked.  Rick replied that he really wasn't sure, but it would be in the neighborhood of $5,000 to $10,000, and that this would have to be taken care of immediately.  Okay, I said, but wondering where I would lay hands on the money immediately.  The call got cut off and I was left there with the phone in my hand stark raving terrified. 

Then something came over me that made me stop panic mode and start thinking.  Wait a moment.  I didn't think what I did was illegal in the first place.  In the second place, who ever went to prison for 20 years for buying a tube of eye cream from Canada?  Also, since when does the DEA ask you for money to make it all "go away"?  There was something fishy going on.

Rick called back several minutes later.  He said that he had been working on the details of fixing the situation for me.  He then asked me if I was working on my part of it.  I responded "And what would that be, Rick?" and he blustered "putting together the money so that you can wire transfer it before the close of business today".  I replied that I was going to telephone my attorney and that until I had legal counsel, I would not be giving money to anyone.  Rick, (slightly hysterical now), replied "Don't contact an attorney!  Don't you see that would be a deal breaker!  I'm trying my hardest to help you out here."

I calmly asked for his phone number and told him I would get back to him after I spoke with my lawyer.  He hung up.

I did telephone the DEA local office and they assured me that this was an attempt at extortion.  They took a report and assured me that nobody from the DEA would make such a call.  Further, there are a list of drugs that cannot be imported from overseas, but eye cream was definitely not on that list.

I felt pretty stupid to have been taken in by such a wild tale, but these people were actually so intimidating that I lost my sense of judgement. I shudder to think that some people may not have been so lucky.

From now on if a person in law enforcement even asks me what time it is, I'm going to request that he or she  refer that question to my lawyer.

The Girl With The Porn Star Skin

I have to admit it.  I adore women with very fair skin.

I think that very white skin is so gorgeous, whether it's paired with dark hair or blond hair.

 I know a woman who has blond hair and skin like crushed pearls.  There is a hint (just a hint) of pink on her cheeks.  She wears glasses and that makes her doubly sexy and gorgeous.

I'm going to call her "Isis" for purposes of this post, because I certainly think she is a goddess of sorts.  Also, there are people who might actually recognize her from my description and I need to leave room for denial.

Oh she would argue with someone mentioning her beauty at a moment's notice.  Isis is the kind of woman who when complimented flushes slightly (making that hint of pink on her cheeks grow a bit more rosy) and disclaims any flattering remarks with a laugh.   I'm not sure if she knows how lovely she really is.

I saw Isis for the second time recently at an outdoor event.  Her skin actually glowed, even in the shade, and later by candlelight, she was incandescent.  One would be hesitant to touch her because you wouldn't want to leave a mark on such perfection.  One tap and she might have a red mark or a bruise that would last for days

Added to her physical charms, Isis is exquisitely intelligent and charming.  She is a no-nonsense type of woman, neither very young nor very young, but a woman in those special years, actually in full bloom for the first time. 

I saw my first porn film when I was about 30 years old.  The star was a woman with milky white skin and she was quite beautiful.  I've always been olive skinned and sometimes even quite dark skinned with any sun exposure at all.  I remember this porn star having creamy white thighs and breasts and I was actually quite jealous of her.  (No, I didn't have any acting aspirations myself.)  Somehow I've always associated that very fair perfect skin with porn queens, although they are probably not all pale. 

Isis dresses modestly and conservatively, but that only adds to her mystique.   Should she flash a thigh or lean over to show a bit of cleavage, you know perfectly well her skin everywhere is like crushed pearls and a bit of stardust.

Gads, she's gorgeous!  (And, yes, dear, this is about you!)

Lost and Found

This is a dress by Diane Von Furstenberg.

In case you don't know, Diane is Anderson Cooper's mother.  I have had a love affair with her dresses for decades.  DVF has made wonderful dresses for my body type ever since I had a body.  Her dresses are feminine, beautifully cut and fairly expensive.

I bought a DVF dress in the Spring of 2010.  I wore it to a party in Sacramento and also out to dinner once.  It was a beautiful dress and suited me perfectly. These dresses are made for "real women" and cut in a way to flatter a more normal body than is seen in the fashion magazines and ads.  Plus, DVF generally uses a high quality fabric, so I don't have the lovely polyester material that looks great until you spill something on it and then you might as well just throw it away.

About a year ago, I took a look for my DVF dress and found it missing.  (I very seldom take off my clothing places other than my home and leave places in my underwear.  I'm not saying it is impossible, but it's less likely now than it was when I was in my 20's if you get my drift.)

In any case, a thorough search of the house failed to turn it up and so I guess it somehow got tossed into the goodwill bin, taken by aliens, or left at a site away from home and never retrieved.

My husband had a lovely Armani dress shirt several years ago.  I bought the shirt as a gift to him for his birthday.  Armani suits Alex perfectly as they are cut wider in the shoulders and chest where he needs a little extra room.  Like my Diane Von Furstenberg dress, this shirt disappeared into thin air, never to be seen again.

Before you start feeling sorry for us, a strange thing has occurred in our home.  A pair of gorgeous Tommy Bahama silk walking shorts, just my size appeared out of nowhere in my closet.  I also had a very pretty black cashmere cardigan sweater appear that happened to be just my size.  I seriously have no idea where either of them came from.

Alex also had a very nice Hermes silk tie that disappeared from his closet.  Since Alex is not in the habit of wearing ties very often, it was quite a while before he noticed it was missing.  Never mind, Alex has a couple of Ralph Lauren jackets (windbreakers) that have appeared in his closet to replace the missing tie and shirt.

I am at a loss as to what has happened to many items that have gone missing.  I am also at a loss to explain how items seem to appear out of nowhere in our house.  Neither my husband Alex nor I have a sleepwalking condition.  And we don't have visitors our size or with our taste in clothing items.  Things just seem to disappear and other things appear with regularity.

Until just this morning, I had a black and white brindle pit bull named Zoe.  When I looked in the yard a few minutes ago, Zoe was missing and a standard black poodle with a name tag of "Jean Batiste" has appeared. 

He's a good looking dog;  Oh well.

A Love Story - And A Happy Tail

From the moment Zozo saw Max, she was captivated.

It may have had to do with his sharp clothes, stylish sunglasses, and side tilted ball cap.  (It didn't hurt that he spoke French either.)  Zoe was a goner.

In her extreme joy, Zoe whipped Max's legs a few times with her 16:" inch tail.  Zozo has something called "happy tail syndrome".  When she is happy, she yields the tail like a whip, sometimes causing herself to bleed from getting cuts on her tail when it hit furniture and walls.  The blood splatter and spray left the surrounding area looking like a mass murder had occurred in that location.

I too have sometimes suffered from "happy tail syndrome", but that's another post.

Max more or less misunderstood Zoe's devotion and screamed bloody murder upon being whacked repeatedly with that whip-like tail.  We got Max out of Zozo's reach and soothed his cries.  Zoe was very upset that the object of her affection screamed every time she got close to him.  When Zoe finally spotted Max asleep later that evening, she crept in to his room and up on his bed just to watch him with worshipful eyes.  She curled right in the corner of the bed and did not take her eyes off of Max for hours.

Zoe was discouraged.  All of her attentions seemed to frighten Max and make him move away from her.  She wanted so badly to lick him, to play with him, to sniff him.  Zozo even stopped wiggling really hard every time she saw him.  Sadly, it didn't help.  Understandably, Max wanted nothing to do with this dog with the whip-like tail.

My daughter Sheila; and my grand-daughter Arianna paid us a visit on Friday morning.  This visit totally changed Max's perspective of Zozo.  He laughed with real joy as Zoe kissed, smelled, rubbed against, and otherwise made a pest of herself with Sheila and Arianna.  When Sheila and Arianna petted Zoe, Zozo threw herself on the floor and stuck all 4 legs straight up in the air to encourage a tummy rub.  Max was finally convinced that Zozo was just trying to play with him all along and not trying to hurt him.

From that point forward, Max laughed at Zozo when she approached him.  He tossed balls and toys for her and let her lick him on the nose!

After Max left for home on Monday, Zozo climbed up on the bed and sniffed his pillow.  With a sigh, she put her head down and looked forlorn.  Zoe  looked everywhere for Max for days. Her tail ceased to wag at all. 

Finally,yesterday, I showed Zoe a photo of Max on the computer.  Her tail swung back into action and she whacked me a good one right across the shin.

Zozo has her happy tail back, thank goodness!

Nude Is Not Lewd

Naked guy on right side of photo

No trip to San Francisco would be complete without a trip to the gay capital of the world, the Castro District!  I had told Nicky and Alex that people walk around naked in the Castro and they both thought I was teasing them.  (Actually, the California Supreme Court ruled that "nude is not lewd" and therefore legal, but one must carry a towel to sit on "for sanitary purposes.")

Nicky, Max, Alex and I drove across the Bay Bridge from Alameda and went to San Francisco's Chrissie Field in the Marina District for gorgeous views of the Golden Gate Bridge.  En route, darling Max dozed off and so I stayed in the car with him while Alex and Nicky ventured over to the base of the Bridge.

Nicky at the beach with Golden Gate in background

Alex took a couple of really great photos of Nicky with the Golden Gate as the backdrop.  It was a stunningly clear day so we had wonder view of Alcatraz and the Marin Headlands.  We oohed and ahhed at the windsurfers and enjoyed watching the children play in the freezing water.

We saw boats going by and ferries too.  Max woke up a little cranky so we hung out at the sea wall long enough for him to cheer up a bit.  I think he was a bit jet lagged.  Max calmed down considerably when we told him we would be taking a ferry boat the next day ourselves!

We drove through North Beach and Chinatown and Nicky and Max seemed to enjoy seeing  the crazy crowded street scenes.  We continued on to drive down Lombard Street, touted as "The Crookedest Street In The World".  To get there, we were driving straight  up the side of what seemed like an alpine mountain, and the trip down is like a roller coaster!  Really a gorgeous sight with the Pacific Ocean laid out in front of us.

Finally, we drove to the Castro District.  I had assured Nicky there were naked people walking around there.  At first we saw a wide range of characters, but nothing resembling a naked person.  We parked and looked for a place to get some liquid refreshments.  A bistro Alex and I had enjoyed in the past had closed, so we walked the length of the commercial section and "Voila" as Nicky and Max would say.  There was a man standing in the sun reading a newspaper completely starkers, nude, naked!  The sight made me and Nicky "clutch our pearls", but Max seemed not to notice at all.  After a couple of stunned seconds, Alex said "Wow!  He's really got an all over tan!"  Nicky and I agreed that he did and for a mad moment, discussed how we might take his photo, but we decided that would not be kosher.  We crossed the street and walked down to "Harvey's" for margaritas.  Nicky agreed these were the best margaritas ever!

We returned to the car to go home.  When we passed the corner where the naked man had been, we noticed there were a new bunch of nudie cuties standing around.  Nicky whipped out her camera and got one money shot that I know of.  She will have to choose to show it or not.

It was a good day!

Nicky's Bed

Nicky arrived on Monday afternoon last week with her gorgeous son Max.

She was standing on the sidewalk in a pair of shorts and Alex recognized her and Max before I did.  (Of course, with legs like Nicky's, every man in the row of cars was hoping he recognized her!)

We brought our charges home and got them settled in.  Max was thrilled with the wide variety of toys and such that we had for him to play with.  Although he loved his power rangers, he actually went crazy for a plastic rifle (machine gun?) and a plastic pistol.  Max is all boy!  He was a little bit shy for the first hour but soon relaxed enough to begin enjoying himself.

The only down side was that Zoe saw Max as the perfect playmate and would not leave him alone despite the fact that he screamed when she walked in the room.

A day or two later they were the best of friends and Max even allowed her to kiss him on the nose.  Still, I think Max preferred the rather sedate Harry who primarily sniffed him and found him acceptable and moved on.

Alex went out after something and came home with a bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet.  (He was showing off for Nicky as this is the most extravagant he ever gets.)  Actually I love her so much it was hard to keep from drooling when I looked at her.

Photos do not do Nicky justice in the first place.  She is tiny.  She has the most amazing eyes I have ever seen, the most perfect body ever created, and the prettiest lips you can even imagine.  Add to that her charm and sweetness and you get a small idea of how lovely and perfect a young woman can be.  Alex was totally in her thrall as well..  Not to sell Max short, he has his mother's beautiful lips, his handsome daddy's gorgeous face, and a personality that is well, just so French!  He made my heart sing!

We dined in the first night on chicken, rice and spinach.  Simple food but filling.  Before dinner, we also shared some magnificent cheese that Nicky brought with her and some petite agor that we had gotten before she arrived.  We drank some lovely wines and everyone went to bed relatively every since it had been a big day!

Considering that I already loved Nicky from knowing her the last 3 years, there were no surprises.  She was exactly how I knew she would be.  Perfect?  Yes.

This Is Why I've Been MIA

Nicky in front of my house.  Just kidding.

Yes, that really is the gorgeous and delightful Nicky of We Work For Cheese.  No, that is not my house.

Nicky and I have gone to San Francisco shopping and sightseeing.

We have been to beach at  Chrissie Field right next to the Golden Gate Bridge.

We have gone to a swank supper club in Oakland and had lunch at the beautiful Rotunda Restaurant in Neiman Marcus San Francisco.

We went to the Castro District and saw naked people (yes, totally naked) out basking in the sun.

We were joined on Friday by Jayne of In Jayne's World and Margaret of Nanny Goats in Panties and had a slumber party that lasted into the wee hours.

We all had lunch at an authentic German Beer Garden after walking around the annual Alameda Art and Wine Fesival with Nicky and her handsome, adorable and brilliant 4 year old son, Max. 

I'm going into detail with all the ups and downs, but not tonight as Nicky and Max leave very early in the morning and we need to get them packed up and ready to go.

Regular posting will begin tomorrow.  If I can get out of bed after all the adventures, that is.