Muted

It's only one o'clock in the afternoon, but the dark skies make it feel like dawn or early evening.

The storm of the decade has arrived and brought with it pounding rains, hurricane force winds, fallen trees, power outages and mudslides.  Never mind.  I'm safe and warm in my lighted and warm house.  I have books on the kindle, hot tea and lemons,

I didn't sleep well last night partly because I was waiting for the pounding rain to come through our bedroom ceiling, or for a tree to come crashing through the house.  I had flashlights and candles stacked in every room because if there's one thing I am, it's prepared.  There was another reason I didn't sleep last night.  I'm sick.

One week ago today, my husband Alex came home after work complaining of a cold, a sore throat, a cough, a headache, and a hurting stomach.  Upon observation of him, I did notice that his eyes were a little more "glassy" than normal and he had a slight flush on his cheeks.  I insisted that we check his temperature and was unhappy to see that he was running a fever of 101 degrees.  I gave him some over the counter cold pills, and some Aspirin and told him to go to bed.

Alex enjoys being taken care of, and I am a good nurse.  The only part of this situation that isn't 100% fun is that I hate being exposed to illnesses.  Alex and I both have had flu shots, so I doubted that it was the dreaded influenza, but I still don't want to catch what he's got.  I wash my hands every time I touch him or anything he has touched.  I avert my face from him so he can't blow cooties on me.  I'm careful.

I make every effort to keep the man comfortable so that he has no reason to venture out of bed, or move for that matter.  I don't want him spreading his germs all over the place and if I can contain him, all the better for me.  The problem is that Alex does not like being contained.  He likes to walk through the entire house, and touch everything with his germy hands.  If he's not touching things, he's sneezing or coughing on, or toward, things in every part of the house.  If I bed down in one of the guest bedrooms, I am generally awakened when Alex crawls into bed with me and wants to sleep "with" me. 

Fine.  As a result of all this, of course I got sick with Alex's crud.  After 3 days of coughing fits and a sore throat, I have completely lost my voice.  I cannot make a sound.  I cannot yell at Alex for making me catch his germs.  I can't even whisper.  I have been struck dumb.

As of today, Alex is officially "feeling much better".  I, on the other hand, have another 4 or 5 days to go before I will improve.  In the photo above, it looks like I have a wonky left eye.  I assure you that is not the case.  Sleep deprivation causes it.  Not being able to talk makes it worse.

Much as I am tired of coughing my damn fool head off, I am even more tired of having to keep mum on how much I blame my husband for my condition.

Linda And Alex Have An Excellent Adventure

I don't travel.  I don't like to travel.  I dislike leaving my dogs so we usually drive and take them with us most places.  Alex flies a lot.  It's been several years since I have flown at all.  I always have found an excuse not to go.  I'm not afraid of flying.  I simply don't like flying.

We have made two trips via airlines in the last couple of months. 

One trip took us to Oklahoma City for my 92 year old Aunt's funeral.  Despite it being a sad event, we did enjoy visiting with my cousins and the trip was actually very enjoyable.

Our most recent trip took us to beautiful British Columbia where we spent several days at the Empress Hotel.  The hotel is glorious!  The people were delightful.  Canadians are lovely to look at and probably among the nicest people on the planet.  Even the custom's officer with his quick smile and "No worries!" comments was charming.

Canadian folks just seem to ooze charm, friendliness, and warmth.  I actually wonder if they might be aliens.  Adorable aliens, but aliens none the less.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  It was all great.  This is not a travel blog. 

We made the questionable decision to take a seaplane from Victoria to Seattle in order to accommodate our airline schedule.  I am not the adventurous type, (except when it comes to romance of course), but I overcame my hesitation and decided getting a seaplane ride would be the best way to get to our plane in time.  Never mind that I don't like to fly.  Never mind that I don't like heights.  Never mind that I don't even like water.  Yeah, it was one of those "what was I thinking?" moments.

We arrived at the terminal of Kenmore Air in Victoria about an hour before our scheduled flight.  They thoughtfully had coffee and bagels set out for passengers, many of them looking like daily commuters.  While Alex with his cast iron stomach opted to eat and drink, I sat and wished I could remember what a rosary was and how to pray on one. 

Several of the pilots walked into the terminal with their dark glasses and pilot gew gaws on their shoulders.  They looked cocky and about the same age as my 18 year old granddaughter.  Confidence inspiring for some I'm sure, but I began to feel a bit nauseous with nerves.  I watched the tiny seaplanes take off and wondered if I could still change my mind about this mode of transport.

Then she walked in.  She was a small woman, perhaps 30 years old, and gorgeous.  She wore tailored trousers, shiny boots, and a windbreaker jacket.  Her dark slightly curly hair was tied back in a ponytail.  There was something about her that stunned me.  Besides her obvious beauty, she radiated a quality of utter confidence and competence.  I sort of fell in love with her at first glance.

When our flight was called and we were told to gather outside the terminal and wait for our pilot, I was feeling a tiny bit shaky.  But then I saw her walk toward us.  She said good morning and introduced herself as "Anna".  She was leading our group of four people to a tiny plane.  Alex asked me when the pilot would come out, and I told him "Anna is the pilot".

Alex commented that she was probably just the person who helped with the luggage and such.  (Silly men.)  We got on the tiny plane and Anna told us to strap our seat belts and warned us not to get out of our seats during the flight.  Anna jumped into the pilot's seat and started the plane's engine and eased out onto the water.  She picked up speed and before long we were airborne in the smoothest take off  I have ever experienced.  We flew low enough to really see the channel islands. 

It was a beautiful flight.  I never experienced one second of trepidation.  I've never enjoyed a flight more! 

In fact, I've never enjoyed a flight at all before come to think of it.  All too soon, we were landing in the water in a totally smooth transition. 

Oh well done, Anna!  If I were a rich woman, I would hire Anna to take me everyplace! 

The Second Time Around

It was August and I was 22.  My husband John and I met a lovely couple who were visiting San Francisco and they invited us to visit them in British Columbia, Victoria, to be exact.

We were looking forward to our road trip, despite having a year old baby with us.  It would have never occurred to me to leave my son with anyone.  He was the most important person in my life from the moment of his birth.

We drove from San Francisco to Portland where we spent the night with a relative of my husband's.  The next morning we drove on up to Washington State and drove on to a ferry headed to Victoria, British Columbia.  The baby gurgled and smiled at us as we all admired the scenery and the ocean waves.

We arrived mid-day and called our friends who gave us directions to their home.  We were very happy to see them and looking forward to a really fun week.  Jim and Edna were an "older couple", meaning that they may have been 50.  (When I was 22, anyone older than 30 seemed like a grandparent.)  They showed us to our room and everything was charming and comfortable.  Jim and Edna said they had a surprise for us.

After we got settled, and the baby was left sleeping on our bed, we joined them in the living room where they had prepared cocktails for us all!  They said they were going to make us very happy and looked at each other and sort of giggled.  "Oh come on!  Tell us!" I begged.

"Well," said Jim, "We realized that having a baby with you would be an inconvenience and keep you from being able to relax and have fun.  So we have paid for a Children's Hotel for the baby for the week!"  I was struck dumb (as in speechless, not stupid) and must have had a very peculiar look on my face.  My husband said "Oh my God!  What a great idea!  How can we ever thank you enough!" and pretended not to notice that I was looking at all of them with daggers in my eyes.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I did hire the occasional babysitter for my son.  I did leave him for an hour or two occasionally when I couldn't avoid it.  But I'm in frigging Canada where two people I've only barely met are talking about sticking my baby in a kennel for a week.  And my so-called husband is "fine" with it.

I stormed out of the room and went to the bedroom where my baby was sleeping.  I must of slammed the door because my son awoke and started crying.  I picked him up and tried to calm him down, although I may have needed calming down more than he did.  My husband came in the room and said "What is wrong with you?  These people have done something really nice for us, and you are acting like an ass!"  I joined my son in crying at that point and told my husband I would never forgive him if he didn't take us out of there right that minute.  I just wanted to go back home.  John put his arm around me and said "Oh let's just try it for a day.  Then if you still feel upset, we'll go get the baby and either stay in a hotel or go back home."  I was trying very hard to be reasonable so I agreed.

When we came back out to join our hosts, Edna assured me that the children's hotel was run by two very nice British nurses and that the place was very highly regarded.  I tried to smile and act reasonable over the whole thing, but I really wasn't going for any of it.  I wished that Edna, Jim, and my husband would also somehow magically drop dead.  But alas, they didn't.  In fact, I was told that "It's all arranged.  We'll drop the baby off at 4:00 PM and then go out for a bite."  I cannot describe the horror I felt as I clutched my first born son even tighter in my arms with tears running down my face.

The three of them seemed a bit amused by my rage, but we went on to the "children's hotel" at the appointed time and dropped off my son with people I didn't know from Adam.  I hated their British accents.  I hated seeing the place out in the country where the two British nurses would be attending to my baby.  I was not allowed to tour the facility but everyone assured me it was quite nice and I wondered what they did with the kids dropped there.  I had seen kennels.  I would have never left my dog at a kennel.  Was this place the same principle?   Oh who the hell knows.

The entire week was a living nightmare for me.  We went salmon fishing.  We went to the beautiful Empress Hotel for lunch.  I saw the magnificent Canadian Mounties mounted.  We went to pubs and restaurants. If I had not been so horribly distraught, I would have loved the place.

I went from teary to bitchy with every waking hour.  I'm sure I wore on everybody's patience.  Being a complete pain in the ass to everyone all the time is exhausting.  When we finally picked up my son at the end of the week, he had a runny nose.  I was enraged.  Two British nurses couldn't keep my son from catching a cold?

So I'm going to Victoria, British Columbia again in a couple of days.  This time will be better.

La Vida Loca

I went to prom with a Chinese guy when I was 17.  He wasn't really my boyfriend, but he was a good guy and cute too.

I had a boyfriend who was African American when I was 19, (right before, and okay, right after  I got married to my first husband). I also dated a Japanese man.

I had an Arab boyfriend from the Kingdom of Saudi, and an Israeli boyfriend who gave me a ring. 

I've dated, lived with, and married a few men. 

I've dated, lived with, or married doctors, lawyers, cops, criminals, firemen, scientists, rich men, poor men, business men, arms dealers, bankers, bikers, truckers,  sailors, soldiers, pilots, drunkards,  professional athletes, and the occasional silversmith.  I have enjoyed every version and color of the rainbow of men.

But now, I've been married for 25 years come September to my Navajo husband..

Do I ever miss the variety factor?  Well, of course.  But the truth is, I'm content most of the time.

I am serving on a Jury.  I think I'm lucky that I actually  feel no hesitation to say that I really think people are pretty much the same regardless of race, station in life, economic status, and so on.

I was surprised when I was selected for this jury.  But when I thought about it, who better?

The Bullfight

In 1974, I was in Mazatlan, Mexico for a short honeymoon with a short-term husband.

I saw the posters for the bullfight posted all around the Plaza, and decided that it was a spectacle that I really wanted to see at least once.  My blue-eyed blond husband wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the venture, but I finally wore him down and he got us event tickets for the next day.

The seats we got were in the shaded area of the stadium and we were not exposed to the blazing Mexican sun.  The first ten minutes were full of pageantry   I was enjoying the marvelous colors and the ritual of the opening ceremony, and enjoying myself until I became aware of the first sighting of blood on the bull.  I expressed dismay, but my husband insisted that he had "shelled out good money" and said we were staying for the entire bullfight, like it or not.

I stopped watching the travesty in the ring, and began watching the other attendees.  Most of the local Mexicans had the cheaper seats in the sunny area of the arena.  They were keeping hydrated with copious amounts of tequila, swallowed directly from the bottles they were pulling from pockets and backpacks.

Since it looked pretty unlikely that the bull would gore the matador, I excused myself for a restroom break.  I did take a moment to touch up my lipstick and then headed for the bar.  I ordered a margarita and was soon approached by a handsome young Mexican guy.  We chatted in both Spanish (mine is halting) and English (his was abysmal), and spent about 15 relaxing minutes getting acquainted.  I saw my husband walking in the crowd looking for his bride with a touch of fury in his eyes.  I bid Angel (pronounced Ahn Hell) adios and hurried over to meet my spouse.

I explained my delay by saying that the brutality of the sport really had upset me and I was just trying to compose myself before I returned.  (Actually, I had considered running off with Angel, but I doubted that he had serious intentions toward me beyond an hour or so of entertainment.)

My husband was angry.  We left the arena and the bullfight.  I got my wish..  Even better, I got a divorce.

Little Luxuries

Sometimes it really is the little things.

The last few weeks, I've been going through 'a rough patch'.  This sort of thing is not really anything new.  Heath issues pop up; emotional issues start taking up your time and your energy;minor personal problems become paramount.

For a rather nominal amount, I have arranged to have my florist Shirley surprise me with a bouquet for my kitchen every Friday.  Shirley is a talented florist and a lovely woman.  I return all over her vases to keep her prices (and charges to me) reasonably low.

There is something about having a lovely fresh  floral arrangement that pleases me.

I also have manicures and pedicures at least once a month.  This is no longer a luxury to me, but a necessity.  I just don't feel "finished" unless my talons are done!

I sometimes feel guilty for spending money on me.  And then I think, "Whoa!  I'm not taking money from anyone else and if these things make me feel good, why not?"  Yes, I could donate every extra dime I have to charity, but if I'm not happy, I don't feel very charitable either. 

I think it's a win/win situatoin!

Important Bed Advice!

We spend a lot of time in our bed.  Beds should be wonderful places to be.

I've slept on couches, on carpeted floors, and in the back seat of cars.on bathroom floors, on a towel at the beach in the sand, and in movie theater chairs.

Believe me, none of those places is comfortable compared to a bed.  Many years ago, I realized that buying the best quality bed linens I could possibly afford made sleep (and lolliy-gagging)in bed much more enjoyable.  I love very soft cotton for my linens.  Sheets and pillowcases should feel like they have been washed a hundred times even when they are brand new.

Years ago, I stayed at a hotel that claimed to have "the heavenly bed" and it was very attractive.  There were pillows of all shapes and sizes and it looked very inviting.  Unfortunately, the comfort level was just nowhere near "heavenly".  The bed was okay, but I really wanted "heavenly" (having nothing to do with religion, if you get my drift).

One thing that I have been very remiss about for years is pillows.  It's damned hard to find the "perfect" pillow.  They are either too hard to too soft.  And, to my surprise, even the higher priced pillows are not always any more comfortable than the cheaper pillows.  When I found pillows that were at least tolerable, I tended to keep them for a long time.

When I was changing our sheets I noticed that the pillows I had were old, worn and even stained.  Now that is disgusting!  I decided I would go on a mission to find some "great" new pillows.  I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and found a couple of strangely shaped pillows for side sleepers.  They were expensive, but I thought it was worth a shot.

I brought home two pillows and neither my husband nor I could stand them.  They were hard and there was no way one could sleep on them.  (The sales person had told me they were wonderful, but you had to use them the right way.  She didn't explain what the right way was, unfortunately.)  They only way these pillows could be used is as a place for our pet canaries to perch and we don't have canaries.

Yesterday, I found the perfect pillow.  It was $49 (expensive), but oh so worth it.  The pillow is filled with white duck down.  Now what difference white duck down makes, I have no idea.  I wonder if brown duck down would be as perfect but somehow I doubt it.  This pillow makes my head, neck and shoulders feel like I"m floating on a cloud.  I hate to even get out of bed and leave this magical and marvelous pillow.  I let my husband sample it for an hour this morning and he agreed.  Alex thought a $20 pillow would be just fine, so that's what he got.  After sampling my pillow, he had to get a "white duck down" filled, $49 dolla,r pillow for himself too so we went back to the store.

My advice to you is to go get some white ducks and gather their down for a while, or just go spring for the expensive pillows.  You will thank me.

Secrets!

Today, I was referred to as "my secret lady friend".  Damn!  I love that.  My gentleman friend went on to say, "For obvious reasons, I will show no photos."

I love intrigue!  I love romance and a hint of danger and misbehavior. 

It's no secret that my husband travels all the damn time.  He's away this week, and I decided to invite a neighbor man (Phil) to dinner.  Phil is really a great looking, smart, and fun single man.

On Monday night, I decided to serve dinner in the kitchen rather than the dining room.  It was cozy and intimate.  I prepared cold artichokes and a spicy mustard dip, New York cuts, and Israeli couscous with sauteed mushrooms and onions topped with fresh parsley and tomatoes from the garden.  It was a delightful dinner.  Because we are having extreme heat, sparkling water was our beverage of choice.  Phil went home at a respectable hour but we had decided to have lunch the next day.

We went to a restaurant that Alex and I frequent, and our busboy asked where my husband was.  Phil answered for me saying "Alex is out of town this week and Linda gets lonely".  The busboy looked somewhat chagrined but I just smiled at him and nodded in agreement.

The owner of the restaurant dropped by, and kissed me on the cheek.  I introduced him to Phil, and he showed no reaction at all except a slight quiver in his pupil.  He made a few minutes of small talk with us about our meal and then excused himself.

When we got back home, Phil walked me up to the house and gave me a hug and kiss on the front porch.  Two of my neighbors were watching intently from their windows.

Is it bad that I don't mind having a bad reputation?

The Good, The Better, The Best!

I've been trying to concentrate on the positive and ignore the negative in the last week or so.  I think it's working!

Last week started off rather ho hum.  Alex was sent up to Beale Air Force Base to solve some technical problems.  I was a bit bummed about being alone, again.  Now, I know I've bitched and moaned for years about how much Alex travels.  I hate being left to my own devices.  Okay, I don't trust me with my own devices.  I've been known to do some reckless, foolish and occasionally dangerous things when I get bored.  Inviting the Kirby vacuum cleaner guy in for tea might be an example of one of my stupid moves, but on occasion it has been worse.  Much worse.  I won't elaborate on that.

Yes, I could go on and describe depravity, insanity, and that one trip to the City Jail (not being in custody though), but I won't.  Sometimes I can be discreet.

Anyway, the positive started when Alex called on Wednesday late afternoon and said he was coming home early.  Happy Happy Joy Joy!  I pulled some lamb chops out of the freezer to defrost, changed the sheets, and bought some flowers!  I also ran to the market for some fresh organic vegetables!  I bathed and primped until I looked like a sparkly eyed minx, or an overly made up hussy. (Alex likes me either way.)

When Alex got home I opened a bottle of "Prisoner", (a wonderful Zin), and spent about an hour listening to him emote about the challenges of his trip.  I shook my head and clicked my tongue at appropriate intervals while I prepared dinner.  Finally, Alex started talking about something that interested me more than his technical issues.  He mentioned the Kentucky Derby!

I have long been a fan (sometimes way too fanatically) of horse-racing.  I try to watch the Derby most years because of the color, the scenery,the hats, and the magnificent horses.  Alex was telling me about a Yuba City horse named "California Chrome" who was going to be running in the Kentucky Derby this year.   (Yuba City is adjacent to Beale Air Force Base and apparently California Chrome had been talked about constantly while he was on site in the area.)

The horse is something of a mongrel.  His sire was not of royal lineage, nor was his mare.  Chrome was the equivalent of getting a "mixed breed" from the shelter up against all the horses with royal pedigrees.  None the less, California Chrome was looking like the favorite to win the Derby.

We have a local cafe where the owner, an Irish woman named Noreen, is an avid fan of horse racing.  Noreen actually owns a couple of horses and races them.  She and Alex were discussing the Derby when we were having lunch at her cafe.  Noreen was sending her husband to the race track the next day to place her bet for the Kentucky Derby.  Alex asked Noreen if she would mind having her husband place a bet for him as well and she said "sure".

Alex gave Noreen $100 and asked for it to be placed on California Chrome to win.  She took his money and said she would take care of it.  (I was somewhat surprised because we really have never bet on horses in the 25 years we've been married - and $100 to win is a fairly serious 'bet" to my way of thinking.) 

We were invited to a "Kentucky Derby" party at Pican Restaurant in Oakland on Saturday.  Pican is a gorgeous restaurant with a truly Southern feel, and dressing up worthy of the Kentucky Derby to sip mint juleps and watch the race sounded pretty fun to us both.  We spent a couple of hours sipping fine bourbons and nibbling on Southern delicacies waiting for that heart pounding two minutes of the race. 

By the time the race was 2/3rds over, it was obvious that California Chrome was indeed the winner!  Wow!  Our horse came in!  That in itself made it a great day.  But wait!  The odds had been 2-1 on Friday when we placed the bet.  I figured that we would get back our $100 and get $50 on top of that.  Okay, I'm thrilled with getting $25 (community property, you know), and we came home happy.

On Sunday, Alex went by Noreen's cafe and she had his "pay off".  She counted out $350.00 and handed it to him.  Alex was shocked!  When he came home and gave me "my" half of the winnings, my mouth flew open in surprise!  We both did the "money dance" for about two hours!

Why it's so much more fun to win money than to earn it, I have no idea!  But it is!!!

Some Quarters You Just Don't Want To Get Out of Bed

I haven't written much in the last 4 months, but I did try to participate in the 30 days of writing minus 2 days challenge put on by "We Work For Cheese" in February.  So that leaves a quarter of the year I've written nothing, nada, zilch.

I could say it's because of "writers block" or something.  Actually, I think it may be more related to the episode where I fell and smashed my face in the concrete and fractured my hand last year.  Oh I've recovered, (except for the nerve damage in the hand which really is not that big a deal), but mentally, and emotionally, that episode did something weird to me.

For the first time in my life I felt horribly, terrifyingly, absurdly, vulnerable, and overwhelmingly afraid of just about everything.  I've always been an almost "macho" woman feeling helpless and scared is just not a person I've ever lived with before.

I was afraid to go outside alone.  I was afraid to be home alone.  I didn't leave the house for weeks at a time.  I felt like I should "hold on" to furniture to keep me from toppling over.  I woke up at night gasping for air after dreaming of falling and knowing I was going to be maimed for life from the landing.  My husband said I was acting like someone with PTSD, and I guess maybe I was.  Part of the problem was that I really couldn't talk about how frightened and vulnerable I was feeling because I was embarrassed and deeply ashamed.

During this time, I trekked to all my my fellow writers blogs and read what they had written.  I was mostly unable to even leave so much as a comment on their articles.  My confidence was gone and I thought I had become old and infirm with nothing to say.

Fortunately, I think I'm better now.  I'm forcing myself to take a walk at least around the block every day, rain or shine.  I've stopped canceling appointments.  And best of all, I think I may be back on track.

I may not be able to post as often as I would like to, but I hope to continue doing so with some regularity.  You really can't keep a good (or bad) woman down!

How Did You Know?

"How did you know?", she asked.

"I always know.", I responded.  And that is the truth.

When I'm being lied to, I always know.  It is a blessing and a curse.  There may be a physical "tell" that I pick up on without even realizing it.

A boyfriend lied about who he was having lunch with.  I caught him in the act of taking a new secretary to "our" favorite restaurant.

My husband lied about where he got the new stereo.  I found the receipt.  (Why Alex thinks I would be happier with "it fell off the back of a truck" than "I bought it", I'll never know.)

There are times that people close to me have told me lies and I want to pretend even to myself that they aren't lying.  Of course, I know that they are.  In most cases, it's just silly lies, but I can always tell.
 

I think I would have made a good cop.



This is the next to last day I'm participating in the "We Work For Cheese" 28 days of writing.  I may have missed a couple of days, but I'm not sure and I'm not lying either.

Naked and Lost

I've been naked.  I've been lost.  But I've never been naked and lost.



This is my contribution to the almost last day of "We Work For Cheese" and their 28 day writing competition.  It's weak, but the other contributors have some strong essays so check them out.

And Then She Said...

And then she said, "I'd like to tell you a story."

Isn't there always that one person?  The person who you think about unbidden over the years.

I haven't seen him for over 40 years, but sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel like he just left me. 

I met him when I was young.  The first time I saw him, I knew I was in love.  Drastically, fatally, forever and ever in love. 

Of course, I know now that kind of love is more mental illness than anything else.  Still, my blood would zing through my veins when I heard his voice on the other end of the telephone.  He was handsome, witty, charming and a surgical intern at the hospital where I was undergoing a surgical procedure.  He has a slow southern accent and very gentle hands.  I knew that what I felt for him was not what he felt for me.

We somehow managed to be an item of sorts for about 3 or 4 years.  When it ended because he met someone he fell in love with, it hurt.  Over the years, I have gone over and over what I could have done differently to have made him love me.  Hah!  The truth is, there's nothing you can do or not do to make anyone else love you.  Either they do or they don't.

As a recently divorced 24 year old woman with two children and a shaky future plan, I guess I romanticized being married to this handsome young doctor.  Life would be so grand! 

The last time I saw him, he was parking his car in the neighborhood where I lived.  I had both kids with me and my heart lurched when I saw him.  I waved hello, and watched as he helped a lovely young woman out of his car.  She smiled at me too.  I kept walking.

Yes, I've looked him up on the internet.  Of course I have.  I learned that he moved to a small mountain town near the Nevada border and was a practicing surgeon there.  Maybe a couple of times I year, I would "Google" his name.  Today, I did it for the last time.

It seems he has had his license to practice medicine revoked.  He was charged with 6 counts of "gross negligence" and lost his career.  Of course, he's in his early 70's now, so I suppose that's not really a huge surprise.

Still, I can't help but feel a real sense of closure over him.  I'm glad I'm not married to that grossly negligent asshole.



If you go to "We Work For Cheese", you can see what other people talk about with a prompt of "And Then She Said".

Things That Make Me Go "Hmmm"

I know we all like figuring skating, but does it really belong in the Olympics as a sport?

The girls are all pretty.  They all skate pretty well and wear charming skimpy costumes.  But is this the same as being an Olympic athlete?

It seems to me that almost every time, somebody gets their nose out of joint over who wins a medal for figure skating.  The judging seems to be purely subjective.

If a race occurs, the one who wins is the one who crosses the finish line first.  With figure skating, it seems that their hair, their costume, their grace, and their make up application all get judged along with their triple axels.

Plus, in all of the other Olympic events, the winners win, the losers are good natured about it, and everybody seems okay with the outcomes.  Even if one of the judges was partial to a gorgeous Canadian hockey player, nobody really thinks that the Canadians Gold Medal win should be overturned and given to the USA team.

In figure skating, there is a whole lot of whining about the fairness or unfairness of the competition.  Let's just let the figure skaters do their own thing on the world stage and make it like a beauty pageant, "dancing with the stars", and "project runway" costume design combination show.

I actually forget what the prompt was for this post.  Sorry if I did it wrong.  But you can always go see "We Work For Cheese" for people better at following directions than I am.

The Color Purple

What were they thinking?

My neighborhood has just taken a huge property value hit.  When you look at this house, don't you have to think that insane people must live there?

This is not an ugly house.  But to paint any house with a color scheme of purple and bright taxi-cab yellow is simply a crime.

I shudder every time I look out my window.  The outrageous color scheme makes me feel violated and violent at the same time.

The house is directly across the street from me.  I'm thinking about only going out my back door and climbing the fence to avoid looking at it.

Most of my neighbors haven not commented on the house.  Maybe I'm the only one bothered by this monstrosity. 

Or it could be that this is just a dream.



For more dreamers, check out "We Work For Cheese" to see what other contributors have to say.

Chaos

It's all turning around so fast.

No sooner was it summer then fall then winter and here it is spring again.  I'm actually getting a bit dizzy.  My flowers are blooming and it's still winter.

People are walking around in shorts and tank tops and it's only February 20th.

I'm feeling blurry around the edges.

I watched the Canadians beat the USA in Women's Hockey today.  It was weird.  There were 3 minutes left of regulation play and the USA was up 2 to Zip.  There was sort of a time warp thing happening, I'm sure.  Canada tied the game and went on to win it in overtime.  Strange.

I have never in my life followed hockey.  Now I cannot get enough of it.  I LOVE HOCKEY all at once.  I want to go to San Jose and watch the Sharks play.  I want to dye my hair red and get a tattoo.  I want to buy a tortoise.  Something is off.

There is chaos everyplace I turn.

You might want to go visit that lovely OCD girl, Nicky, at We Work For Cheese to see what she and some others think about chaos.

Nobody Will Say It Tastes Like Chicken

I first had abalone when I was about 16 years old. 

Even then, (in the good old days), it was expensive and I have no idea who paid for such an extravagance.  Although I don't remember my generous host or hostess, I will never forget the taste of that sweet tender white fish.

I have prepared abalone a couple of times as it was given to me by divers who peeled the large sea slug off the cliffs of the Marin County shoreline.  I have ordered it occasionally in restaurants but the price of the entree is usually very prohibitive (in the range of $60 - $75). 

Abalone is fairly easy to prepare, bread crumbs, egg, a cocktail sauce.  The hard part is pounding it into tender submission.  It takes quite a bit of pounding or the meat will be as tough as shoe leather which was a costly mistake I only made once.

We hosted a dinner party a couple of years ago and I served what some people would consider a poor woman's abalone.  I took boneless skinless chicken breasts and marinated them for 3 days in clam juice after I had punctured the flesh with a two tined fork.  When the day of the dinner party arrived, I pounded the breasts until they were flat.  I coated them with egg, and then bread crumbs.  Then they were placed into a pan of hot olive oil, and about 4 minutes per side.

Taking them out of the pan, I let them rest on paper towels to adsorb any excess olive oil, and then put them on a platter with lemon slices.

My guests were sure I was serving them abalone.  In fact, I had a hard time convincing them that it was actually chicken they were tasting.

At "We Work For Cheese" you will find other ideas about "it tastes like chicken" and maybe even other recipes!

I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman

They all do it.

When the going gets tough, politicians are likely to start fibbing.  I don't even find it surprising anymore.

What does surprise me is people in real life who tell lies with regularity.  (I really do not lie unless I feel my life depends on telling a lie.  In the first place, my memory is shaky so I could never remember what lie I told.  In the second place, I really don't "care" enough to lie.)

When Alex was in the Navy, he had a roommate named Todd.  Now Todd was a nice enough guy, but he was truly a liar.  Whatever Alex did, Todd had to one-up Alex.  If Alex got a new car, Todd got a new better car.  If Alex graduated from college, Todd got his PhD from Harvard.  If Alex went to Europe, Todd went on a year long world tour.  Todd lied.  He told ridiculous lies and Alex never really minded.  Todd was visiting us several years ago.  It was during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  Todd was working for PG&E as a CAD operator and told us that he was going to have to go to New Orleans to support the rescue operations.  Alex was in the National Guard at the time and waiting to see if he would be called up to go. 

I expressed the thought that I hoped neither of them had to go.  Todd said, "Are you kidding?  I'm dying to go!"  Really?  Yes.  Todd said he would be earning $500 a minute from the time he got on the plane for New Orleans.    Alex just said "Wow!"

I wondered why a CAD (computer aided design) draftsman from Pacific Gas and Electric would be sent to New Orleans.  I also wondered about $500 an hour. Do draftsmen really command that hourly rate?  I left it alone since Todd was Alex's old friend but it really made me wonder.

I have a close relative who is also a liar.  How can I tell she's lying?  Her lips are moving.  This person tells outrageous lies perhaps in the hopes that because the lie is so huge, people just might believe it.  I've never understood the "why" of it.
It may be that insecurity and feelings of inadequacy make some people tell lies. 

Actually, I can understand the Bill Clinton's of the world along with the Anthony Weiner's much more easily.  They have something to lose and something to protect by lying.  What I will never understand is the idle lies that nobody gives a damn about in the first place.

For more takes on lies and liars, please check out "We Work For Cheese".

I Faked It!

We were invited to the wedding which was held at the Claremont Hotel in Oakland.

The hotel is old, very posh, and very expensive.  The bride was a neighbor woman who had lost her husband a year earlier.  Her groom and she had met on-line on a "Christian" dating site.

Lola and Tom were not youngsters.  In fact, Lola was 65 at the time and I think Tom was a couple of years younger than she.

Lola's deceased husband had left her "very well provided for", which was a good thing for her. 

We went to the hotel at the appointed time and hour and we were somewhat surprised that the wedding was a very formal affair.  Lola's dress was strapless, and had a long train.  She also had a maid of honor, and six bridesmaids.  Tom had a "best man" and 6 groomsmen.  The service was not too long, thank goodness.  (I get itchy at weddings having had a few of them myself, but I've never even tried on a real wedding dress.)

It seemed a bit strange that Lola would opt for a formal wedding, seeing as she had been married twice before (as I learned at the reception from a "friend" of Lola's as she whispered to her companion).  Most of the guests were "church" people and they really had a lot to say about Lola finding love on a dating site, marrying a younger man, wearing a formal (strapless!) wedding gown, and marrying almost one year to the day of her husband's death.

The luncheon reception was lovely.  There was music and dancing and the wine flowed.  Some of the conversations turned downright catty to my way of thinking. 

Okay, maybe I thought the formal wedding deal was a bit much for someone Lola's age, but damn it, it's her wedding and she could do what she wanted with that.  I started talking about how gorgeous Lola looked in her gown, and how handsome Tom was in his tuxedo.  I also admired the big rock she had on her ring finger.  The other people at the table quit sniping at Lola and concentrated on eating the food she had so generously provided and drinking the wine she was paying for.

Yeah, I was faking it.  I didn't really love the dress.

For more "faking it" posts, check out the list on We Work For Cheese.

Shakespeare

It makes me feel like a dolt to admit that I don't like or even "get" Shakespeare.  I have never enjoyed hearing, watching or reading his words.

From what I have had forced on me in school, etc., I think Shakespeare was a full of it.  Romeo and Juliet?  Bullshit.  Hamlet?  Crap.  The Tempest?  Shoot me now.

There are a lot of writers I really admire and love.  Shakespeare isn't one of them.  To be or not to be, that is the question.  Excuse me?  That's not my question and it never was.

I came to bury Cesar, not to praise him.  I didn't know the guy but I really don't want to praise him or bury him. 

Ugh!  Shakespeare!

Now go check out the other entrants who are much more literate than I.  We Work For Cheese has the links.

A Ringing After Midnight

Mathew was caught up in another dream.

He had finally identified the woman in his recurring dream.  It was Celeste, the woman he had been "friends" with on line.

Since Mathew had never met Celeste in real life, it seemed strange to him that she had become such an fantasy fixation to him.

Were the photos he had seen of her even really her?  Was she a real person, or someone pretending to be someone else?  Wait, he had telephoned her that one time and she was genuinely a woman.  He had heard her voice.  Still, there was an element of mystery about her. 

It was very late on a Tuesday night and he was in bed with his wife Trish.  The mark on his shoulder that looked like a bite had faded to a dull scratch.  Mathew and Trish were at that point in their 20 plus year marriage where they both slept in pajamas, so hiding the injury had really been no problem.

In his dream, Mathew was back in that suite on the 11th floor of the hotel.  Celeste and he were in bed naked and she was whispering to him in a somewhat raspy voice, telling exactly what she wanted.  Mathew was transfixed by the sound of her whispering voice saying things that he had never heard anyone say before.  Celeste was the most sexual creature he could have dreamed of.  Just listening to her had him aroused again even though they had made love twenty minutes earlier.

As Mathew was moving Celeste on top of him, he heard a loud ringing in his ears.  Fire alarm was the first thing that came into his mind.  The second thing that occurred to him was that if he were to die or get injured in a fire in this hotel room with this woman, he wife would be devastated.  Finally, fighting his way out of sleep, he realized the phone was ringing.

Trish, grabbed the receiver and said "Hello."  Then she looked puzzled and hung up the phone.  Mathew asked her "What was that all about?" and she replied, "I don't know.  It sounded like a woman whispering and then she hung up."

Trish was back asleep within moments.  Mathew tossed and turned the rest of the night but sleep was denied to him.

This is from the prompt "a ringing in the ears" which had stymied me completely until now.  I know I said no more porn, but I lied.  Now check out the other participants at We Work For Cheese.  They may be more honest than me, but I wouldn't bet on it.

Aliens

I really don't know what the big deal is about aliens.

You may not realize it, but aliens are already here.  For example, my florist, Shirley, is an alien woman.  She claims to be Chinese and has an alien husband and an alien son.

Are you wondering how I know she's an alien?  Okay, the truth is, I asked her and she told me that she is.  People tend to open up to me about things that they don't tell anyone else. 

One thing, I met Shirley when she had a shop right near me when we bought our first house in Alameda, about 20 years ago.  Fine, in 2001, we bought the house we are in now that is about 2 miles away from our first house.  What happens?  Shirley opens a shop about a block away from me.  She's my friend, but I think she just wants to be close to someone who knows the truth and accepts her and her family without prejudice.

You might have noticed that I always have a lot of flowers in my house.  Did you think that was because I have a floral budget that rivals my food budget?  Of course you did, but that's not the case.  Shirley keeps me supplied with bouquets all the time at no real charge, except that I keep my mouth shut about her origins.

Shirley really has nothing to worry about.  She and I have a lot in common.  Surprisingly, there are frequently other aliens in her shop when I drop by to say hello.  Most of them look just like everybody else.

A couple of things sort of surprise me a bit about aliens. Some are Christian and some are not religious at all.  Politically, they are all over the spectrum too.  I've met alien Republicans, alien "Peace and Freedom" party people, and even alien "Tea Party" people.

Maybe I'm naive but they don't worry me a bit.

The writing challenge prompt today was something about "Aliens".  Go over to "We work for Cheese" to see the other entries.  They may have read the prompt more closely than I did.

Incommunicado

Where have I been all day?

Don't ask.

One Bite

Mathew awoke feeling feverish, sweaty and bruised. 

He was shocked awake while in the middle of an very erotic and strange dream.  Mathew felt comfort when he saw his wife, Trish, lying peacefully beside him still in the arms of slumber.

His limbs felt heavy and he felt as if he had a hangover even if he had not been drinking the night before.  Strange dream, he thought and then some of the dream came back to him.  There was the woman.  There was the hotel room.  There was putting his arms around her as she gazed out the window.  Then there was the way she turned to face him in an embrace.

He remembered her taking his hand and slipping his middle finger into her mouth and sucking gently.  He also remembered that caused him to feel an electric shock through his whole body.

And then nothing.  Did it end there?  What was he missing?  Damn!  What happened to the good part?

Mathew quietly got out of bed, careful not to disturb his wife.  He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  As he pulled his pajama top off, it stuck to his skin and he thought "what the hell?".  He eased the fabric off of his shoulder and was horrified to see what looked like a bite mark.

His mind raced as he tried to reconstruct his evening.  Dinner with Trish, an hour or so of television and a little bit of time on Facebook (his guilty pleasure).  In bed by 10:30 and asleep by 10:45.  What caused the place on his shoulder?

As he stepped into the steaming hot water and felt it wash over him, a feeling of guilt and shame overwhelmed him.  He remembered flashes of his dream, the woman, the hotel room, the embrace, the woman's sucking mouth.  Mathew felt like crying.  If he could betray Trish so easily in his dream, could it be that much more difficult to betray her in real life?  The answer shamed him but also excited him.

In another City, a woman smiled and thought about tasting the flesh of Mathew's shoulder with just one bite.

The prompt for this little missive was "One Bite".  I hope you enjoyed it but I probably won't do any more "porn" for a while.  To see who else did what else, please check out "We Work For Cheese" for a list of participants.

The Succubus

She selected Mathew purposefully.  He was exactly what she wanted.  Mathew was not too old, or too young.  He was intelligent, talented, and compassionate, a good honest and moral man.  In short, he was perfect.

She began her campaign by admiring his talent and becoming one of his many "groupies".  Then she started sharing some personal issues with Mathew and asking for his advice.  When he showed himself to be thoughtful, caring, and somewhat innocent, she began to exhibit some of her insecurities.  Bit by bit, they grew closer as "friends", but by then she was also showing him a flash of herself in photographs from time to time.  The flashes were never too suggestive, just giving him an outline of who she was and letting him fill in the blanks.

Their conversations began to be more flirtatious.  They were playfully sexual in their discussions. As time went on, she became more forward with Mathew, even indicating she would come to him if he wished.  Knowing he was hesitant,  she would then back away a bit and let him think about the possibilities.

Finally, she felt sure that Mathew was ready for her.  She got a flight to his city and booked a reservation for a suite at an airport hotel.  Mathew met her in the cocktail lounge where she was sipping a Bombay Sapphire martini.  He was obviously a bit nervous and he approached her rather shyly.

They embraced as friends do and shared a chaste kiss.  She had dressed carefully for the trip wearing a demure white blouse and knee length black skirt.  Her jewelry and make up were minimal and her fragrance was subtle.  At one point, she took Mathew's hand. squeezed it,  and placed it on her leg about two inches above her knee.  She knew he could feel the garter that held up her sheer black stockings.

They ordered lunch although neither of them was really hungry. After lunch, she invited Mathew back to her suite to admire the view and he again seemed unsure of how to proceed.  This was even better than she expected.  His apprehension was a delight to her!  They took the elevator up to the 11th floor, quietly assessing each other.

Once inside the suite, she walked to the window and commented on how pretty the view looked.  Mathew walked up behind her and stood very close as he put his arms around her looking not at the view but at her.  She smiled to herself and let her body press against him.

Mathew was sure she wanted to have sex with him.  She did not.  What she wanted was his innocence.

As she turned into his embrace, she thought to herself, "Next time, we'll do this when he's awake."

This post is my contribution to Nicky and Mike's 30 Days of Writing Minus 2 with the topic of "Succubus".  Check out the other players listed on "We Work For Cheese".

Zombie Roses

I looked at the three roses that were left from the arrangement I received on January 22nd and realized they were no longer living.

Queer.  They still looked rather fine, or at least they were holding up okay, but there was a slight stink to them now.  And the petals were drooping in places and seemed to have a decayed aura about them.

Usually looking at flowers cheers me, but these were roses that made me want to avoid them.

My mind drifted to last night when I was listening to the audio from the television in the next room.  Alex was watching "The Walking Dead" while I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.

I have never been able to join Alex in watching this popular series.  Dead things don't appeal to me on any level.  Alex swears it's not really about the zombies, but about the people "dealing" with th zombies.  Hah!  So why do they call it "The Walking Dead"?  Ugh!

I opened the kitchen window and a strong breeze came through.  Within a few seconds, the pretense of life from the roses was gone.  The petals fell to the table leaving the flower stalks naked and dead.

A shot through the head wasn't necessary in this instance, just a breath of fresh air to get rid of the putrid thing.

I scooped up the petals and tossed them out the window.

Please go to We Work For Cheese for more positive takes on the topic of Zombies.  

Get Sick Get Well Hang Around the Ink Well

Oddly, that was my favorite Bobby Dylan song when I was a kid.  It may still be.

Oddly, I know exactly what he means with those lyrics.

Oddly, I have been sick, been well, and hung around an ink well.

The End.

This is part of Nicky and Cheesy Mike's writing challenge.  Go to We Work For Cheese for much better posts on the topic of "Dylan".  This is all you will get from this contributor.

DAMN!

True Story:

Okay, every morning when I 'm putting on my makeup, I look in the mirror and say "Damn!  You are beautiful!  Don't ever die!"

People laugh when they hear and/or and see me do that but I don't care.  If I don't say it to me, who will?  I mean really!

I've known a lot of women who bemoan their appearance.  To hell with that!  Go ahead and appreciate what you've got!  I

Perfection is always in the eye of the beholder.  Look in that damn mirror and love yourself exactly as you are. 

Today's prompt was "Damn".  Now go on over to "We work for cheese" and see how the other beautiful people addressed this prompt!

How Did That Happen?

Alex and I are serious sports fans when it comes to our football and baseball teams.

We love the 49ers and the SF Giants.  We got Harry a 49er stadium blanket for Christmas.  He loved laying on it to watch the games while the 49ers were still in the running.

The morning after the 49er loss to the Seattle Seahawks, we found the stadium blanket in dismal disarray.  Harry had chewed it to pieces.

Now, Alex and I are not really sore losers (there's always next year and all that), but apparently Harry does not like to see his team out of the running.

When Zoe, (our other dog) does something naughty or destructive, she won't even look us in the eye.  She will slink out of the room to avoid our censure.  She really appears to be remorseful and sorry for making a mess, tearing up that chair, and/or eating that prime rib right off the kitchen counter.

Harry on the other hand is quite proud of his handiwork and has no compunctions at all about his behavior.  How did that happen?  Ask Harry.  He will tell you.

Please keep in mind that these photos were taken in Harry's Apartment.  I would clean it up for photos but he likes it as is.  I assure you the rest of the house is not quite as rustic as Harry's Apartment.

This is my lame contribution to the 30 minus 2 February writing challenge put on by the lovely Nicky and Cheesy Mike at the "We work for cheese" blog site.

Ketchup - Or Catch Up (Have It Your Way)

I have my reasons.

The first reason is that how could we not acknowledge Golda Meir in a post called "Gouda"?  She was great.

Moving on, Gouda is a city in the Netherlands about an hour by train outside of Amsterdam.  It's really a very good place.  (And the cheese is the best in the world for grilled cheese sandwiches.)

Not so "Gouda" is the fact that my Oklahoma cousins came for a visit last Friday.  Oh I like them fine, but on Thursday before their visit, I sprained my low back and became a crippled mess until yesterday when I finally snapped out of it so to speak.

Spraining my low back was no accident.  I was on the telephone with Kelly, my Oklahoma girl cousin, when I was in the bath.  Kelly tends to be a tad long winded so I had to keep adding hot water ever few minutes after the first hour on the telephone with her.  Finally, I figured I would slip silently out of the water and wrap myself in a towel while clutching the phone to my ear so as not to miss a word of the lengthy and important conversation.  I turned a certain way and felt that dreaded "whap" and splashed back into the tub.  I cut the convo short, (hah), and hung up.  Then I spent about 45 minutes wondering how I could climb out of the tub without moving my legs.  (It's difficult but not impossible.)

Since I had temporary insanity at this point, I didn't call Kelly back and un-invite her and her husband Joe.  It was too damn late to change their plans.  Kelly and Joe were on a flight at 7:00 AM the next morning whether I could walk or not.  Since I am a pillar of inner strength, I decided this was a case of mind over matter and that I would see it through being the hostess everyone has come to expect and quit my whining over being paralyzed and in agony.  See I'm big like that.

Still, I did have to wonder when my husband Alex would kick in and step up to the plate with the preparations for our guests.  I soon found the answer was "When Hell Freezes Over."

I generally make every effort to make sure the house is pristine, there are fresh linens in the bath, and well planned meals have been shopped for and ready to be carried out.  Sadly, this was not to be the case this time.  Alex and I do not see eye to eye about such matters.  Planning is not his long suit.

Still, if we were to count the empty wine bottles at the end of the visit, I would have to say a good time was had by most, if not all.  I was on pain medication and muscle relaxants so did not partake in booze.  I did not partake in the general frivolity either for that matter as I was trying to do Lamaze breathing to control my pain.

Funny the more they drank, the more scatterbrained I felt.  I had a hard time following tipsy conversations and I fear my facial expression was much like that in the above photo.

Now, Nicky, my love, you see I work for you and "we work for cheese" and now I feel I am in the with in-crowd again!

Wardrobe Malfunctions

If you saw "Working Girl" with Melanie Griffith, you may remember the scene of Melanie in her undies wearing something called "Thigh High" stockings.

When I saw this movie back in 1988, I was totally intrigued!  Keep in mind that when I was coming up and getting old enough for stockings and high heels, the only option to keep up one's "nylons" was a garter belt or a girdle.  This just looked a lot better to my way of thinking!  Pantyhose had not been an option until about the late 60's when mini skirts made their first appearance.

Pantyhose at first seemed to me to be a bit like wearing long johns.  Only when I started wearing the very short skirts did I switch over to pantyhose.  But I always found them ugly and uncomfortable.

In my early 40's, I had a new husband and a desire to keep him happy.  I figured one way to keep a smile on his face was to start wearing these new fangled "thigh high" contraptions. 

Alex worked in the East Bay and I worked in San Francisco.  We had a house in a sort of run down area of San Francisco.  Oh, the house was nice enough, but the neighborhood was a bit on the blighted side.  Never mind.  When ever I live in a bad area, I get to know all of my gangster neighbors.  Better yet, I get to know their favorite sports teams, their kids, their baby mamas, and all their names.  Walking along at dusk on my way home, calling out to "Spider", "Gonzo" and "Big Ed" and inquiring about their families and such kept me pretty damn safe.  (See, I can blend in like that.)  I would run down to the corner store at midnight for a little somethin' somethin' and run into most of the people from the neighborhood either milling about at the store or on the pay phone next to the store.  It never occurred to me to be afraid of my neighbors.  I really had no reason to be. (It did seem a little weird that many of my neighbors liked to hang out at corner stores at midnight, but then I was there too so it must not be that big a deal.)

As you can see, I get sidetracked kind of easy.  Anyway, I bought a bunch of these thigh high stockings and wore them to work every day under my little stylish business suit.  The breeze hit me just right as I walked along in my skirts.  (You girls will understand what I mean.)  Everything was good in my world.

Until the day that it wasn't.  It was summertime.  And hot.  I was walking from the train to my house about 5 in the afternoon.  All of my gangster neighbors were out in their front yards or on their front steps on this warm afternoon.  They called out to me as I approached and I waved at them and grinned.  Then I got a really funny sensation at the top of my leg.  It felt like a hard snap.  The elastic on my thigh high stocking had popped.

Immediately, I slowed down my perky walk to a sort of knock kneed shuffle.  I was trying to keep the stocking up on my leg until I got passed the people on the street.  I kept moving and felt the damn stocking fall down to my ankle.  Of course, I just kept walking and wondered if anybody actually noticed.  I mean these people were gangsters, not the fashion police, right?

I was sweating and cussing by the time I made it to my front door.  I went in the house and tossed out every pair of those frigging 'thigh high" stockings.  Oh, and I moved to Alameda right after that too.

Hank Jr. Has A Point

"I like to play good music and have a good time 

I love to hear old trains rolling down the line 

I am into happy and I don't like sad 

And I like to have women I never had"...

 Alex is on his way to Las Vegas.  He's got meetings tomorrow there.  Uh huh.

Seems to me, there's a lot of hanky panky in Sin City.  But I really don't worry about Alex too much.  He's really not that much of a hanky panky kind of guy.  I'm more likely to get into trouble than he is.  I get bored when my husband is away.  I'm sometimes tempted to light a small fire just for the excitement of being able to call the fire department.  Know what I mean? Now, okay, I've never actually done that, but it has crossed my mind.

There is something that is so tempting about something new, isn't there?  Whether it's a new dress or a new "friend", it's just so fun to unwrap a new package.  After I've worn the dress, usually I think about tossing it or donating it.  Where's the surprise!  Where is the excitement!

I told Alex to try and catch the Britney show while he's in Vegas.  I understand she's the hottest ticket in town.

I think I'll just mix myself a little Jack and Coke and listen to Hank.

My Own Special Island

Before you go thinking I'm all materialistic and such, let me explain.  Okay, I'm all materialistic and such.

Really I am not.  But the truth is where I used to look at a divine man and think I had to have him, not so much anymore.  Now I probably look at a superb item and think "I will die unless I get that!".  (See, I usually got my man, but somewhere in my brain, I really always knew I would not die if I didn't.)

As part of the kitchen remodel, Alex and I determined that we would need a new kitchen island.  The one we had was "okay" but not special.  I went on-line to Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, and various other sites.  Williams Sonoma had this posh island called "Bastille" and after I saw it, I quit even looking.

This island was not like the others.  In the first place, it was really "posh" and I do love posh.  On the down side, it also cost about 500 times more than any kitchen island I had ever even heard of.  (Okay, slight exaggeration, but not much.)  I had to have this island.  Alex looked doubtful at first.  Yes, I whined and cried and pestered and offered exotic personal thrills and treats to him until he gave up and told me "order it!".  Shoot!  He didn't have to say that twice.

I ordered the island on September 12th, being told there was a 6 to 8 week lead time as the islands are individually made.  I was sure we would have it by Thanksgiving.  I was wrong.  Then I was sure we'd have it by Christmas.  Again I was wrong.  New Years maybe!  Uh no.

Patience is not one of my many virtues, actually, I'm not sure I have that many virtues if I really think about it..  I called.  I nagged.  I pestered the service people at Williams Sonoma until I know they tried to avoid picking up the phone if they even suspected it was me.

My posh island finally arrived today in all its glory, and it is pretty glorious.  I plan to spend a lot of time admiring it, polishing it, and even using it.  I know that unlike some old boyfriends I could name (but won't of course), I will not tire of this island after a couple of sessions with it.