Remember the 8th Commandment

My husband Alex has been on a business trip.

As a matter of course, some of his trips, including this one, involve time at military bases. I'm not always sure where Alex is, and I frequently don't have any idea what he's doing.

Alex came home this evening. He was telling me about going to an honor bar at the base and picking up a bunch of candy, nuts, chips and such for the troops he works with. There was a sign over the honor bar that said "Remember the 8th Commander" and Alex was cool with that. He wasn't sure who the 8th Commander was, but that's not the point.

He put his money in the cash box and took the stuff into the guys and ladies and said "Here you go!" Everybody appreciates some free snacks when they are working hard.

Alex is Navajo Indian, a veteran of 25 years military service, and a very hard working guy! He understands all too well what the military people are up against.

Today, Alex went in and got a candy bar for himself, and picked up a handful of snacks for the troops and took another look at the sign. All at once he realized it said "Remember the 8th Commandment!"

His reaction was "Mutha Fucker! What do you mean? You stole my country and my land! Fuck you, Mutha Fucka!" Alex grabbed up big handfuls of candy bars, chips and nuts and took them into the troops. Did he leave money in the box? Oh hell no!

Not a dime!

One Clarification:

Alex was at a "defense contractor" location inside a military base. No troop will be responsible for the loss of candy, but an in the workplace, Ten Commandment quoting defense contractor might.

The Bride And The Prejudice

I am totally and thoroughly disgusted with myself.

Alex and I went to my neighbor's wedding on Saturday. I had prejudiced opinions over this wedding well ahead of the actual event.

My neighbor Mary's husband died about a year and a half ago. Mary is in her mid-60's, quite attractive, and she was left in a very comfortable financial position when her husband passed away.

I understand not wanting to be alone, I really do. When she came and told me she had met a man and they were getting married, I said "Good for you!" but I really didn't mean it. I was lying through my teeth. I didn't want her to throw herself into the funeral pyre, but after only a year and a half, I thought she was rushing into something. (Right, like that is any of my business!) I asked Mary how she had met the new man, and she told me "on the internet" which set up loud alarms ringing inside my head.

I had really liked Mary's husband. He was a great guy. Mary introduced me to her future husband, Chris, a few days later. He seemed like a nice enough man. He was recently divorced from his first wife. Mary mentioned that Chris was living with his parents for the time being (which set off more alarms in my head). There was also Chris's disapproving 19 year old daughter in the mix.

(Of course, I was comparing Chris to her late husband and the new guy came up a little short, literally and figuratively.)

When Mary came to see me and talked about her plans for the wedding I was frankly taken aback. She was planning a formal wedding, with bridesmaids, a matron of honor, and a long bejeweled white dress and veil. There were about 150 people invited to attend the wedding and reception which would be held at a very exclusive hotel in the Bay Area.

I "oohed and aahhed" appropriately, all the time thinking to myself that this was the tackiest thing I had ever even heard of. (This was Mary's third marriage. You don't do the dewy eyed 21-year-old type wedding bit when you are in your 60's and it's your third trip down the aisle!)

I sent in our RSVP note accepting the invitation to the wedding but I had a little trepidation over it. Since I was being critical in my head, I questioned that I should attend at all. Finally, I determined that as long as I kept my mouth shut and my negative opinions to myself, we should be fine. After all, she is my next door neighbor, and not to go would be insulting.

The wedding ceremony was to be at 4 PM, with the reception and dinner to follow. We arrived on time and admired the 5-tiered elaborate wedding cake before the religious service. I whispered to Alex that a family of four could eat for a month on what that cake must have cost. So much for my open mind.

When Mary walked down the aisle escorted by her brother, she looked lovely. The service was brief, but rather charming and not nearly as religion-heavy as I had feared. The reception and dinner were both great.

A couple of people I know made somewhat catty comments to me about the appropriateness of a formal wedding at Mary's age, but I immediately cut them off because the comments actually offended me.

Here they were at Mary's wedding being wined and dined on her dime and being critical! How rude is that? I felt that anyone who was critical of Mary or her wedding was a total jackass.

Okay, what does that make me? I'll answer that. I was a jerk, a hypocrite, a snark, and a jackass too. I've always considered myself to be open minded. Hah! Self-delusion is the worst kind of delusion!

When I watched Mary walk down the aisle with her pretty face glowing happiness and hope, I realized how very wrong I had been.

I had to ask myself, was I jealous for some reason? I really don't think that's the case. I've had weddings too. I always chose to have much more private marriage ceremonies because that is what I preferred for myself.

I felt ashamed of myself because in truth, I was just being a bitch.

He Called Me Blondie

My husband Alex's Dad was a Marine.

I first met Fred at Alex's sister's wedding. I had heard a lot about him, but I didn't know what to expect. Fred was short like most Navajos, brown as a walnut, and nicely dressed in a suit and tie. When we were introduced, he grinned at me and immediately christened me "Blondie"!

Right after the wedding ceremony, Fred went inside to change into his jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt, despite the heat. He came out with a smile announcing "I'm Fred again!"

Fred was already sick with cancer when I met him, but he was a tough bird. Fred walked everywhere in the 100 plus degree Arizona heat because he didn't have a car. If there was a cold beer waiting for him, he could and did walk 20 miles for it.

I'm not sure that Fred ever knew my first name was Linda. From the time he met me, he always called me "Blondie". Fred had an innocence and a sweetness about him, but he was very smart too. I see a lot of him in Alex.

Fred and his brothers (there were 5 of them) all joined the Marines at the same time. Alex was born at a Military Hospital in San Diego. A few years later, the military deployments were too getting too difficult for a man with a growing family, (by this time, Alex had 2 younger sisters), and Fred decided to get out of the service.

He went to work for the Police Department in Phoenix for a time, working in the animal control division, and in later years, Fred worked as a security guard.

Fred was quiet and usually reserved, but had a great subtle sense of humor. When he liked something, he would smile and say "horses", but nobody ever knew exactly what that meant. Fred was also a self-described "red apple", (red on the outside, white on the inside), and his wife drove him crazy because she clung to Navajo culture and "magic". She had a bag of "fetish shit" (Fred called it), and he would periodically try and throw it in the trash. Alex's mom always caught him though and recovered her "treasures".

Fred was undergoing chemo treatments for stomach cancer. We invited him to visit us in San Francisco. Between chemo sessions he overcame his aversion to flying and came up to see us for a long weekend.

We took Fred sightseeing and took the ferry across the Bay to Sausalito. He seemed to really enjoy it, but Fred tired easily. When we got back to the house, he and I sat on the front steps and shared a beer and a cigarette and talked while Alex did some homework.

Fred talked to me at length about being a Marine and what it had meant to him. He really loved the Corps. Fred also shared his feelings of great pride in his son because Alex was in college and getting close to earning his degree.

Fred was not formally educated, but he was an avid reader and had a very sharp intellect and a wealth of life experience.

That night after dinner, Fred was tired. He had a few beers before and during dinner. The beer with the lethal chemo cocktail in his system wiped him out.

My mom was at our house that evening. She and I waited until Fred was settled in bed, and we went in and sat with him.

Mom had a great voice and she sang to him for about an hour and Fred loved every moment of having both of our attention. We talked and laughed, my mom on one side holding his hand, me on the other, until he was ready to sleep.

I went to see Fred in the hospital during the last week of his life. Although he was drugged, he was the same funny, smart and serious man! Fred said to me "Blondie, if I had met you first, things might have been very different!" I kissed his lips and left the room as he fell asleep.

That was the last time I ever saw Fred. I still dream about him though. I still see him sometimes too when I look at my husband's face.

I Have A Theory

I have a theory.

When my bathroom looks like this at 1:00 AM on a Tuesday morning, something has gone terribly amiss.

It all started on Sunday. I told Alex the upstairs toilet wasn't flushing completely. He looked up from his computer and said "really!" so I realized this was a job that I would have to do myself. I grabbed the plunger and went upstairs.

I plunged with all my might and flushed about 10 times while I continued to try and get the toilet cleared. Finally, it seemed to be all right. (Now I might mention that although our home has 4 bathrooms, only one is located upstairs where our bedroom is. Because I am a woman "of a certain age", it is likely I will get up in the night at least once to use the facilities.)

I spent the evening engrossed in CNN and forgot all about the earlier problem with the toilet. Osama bin Laden being killed was strongly on my mind. I didn't feel jubilant, I just felt sad, (or maybe sadder than usual), as I am always sad when my husband is leaving on a mission.

This morning I noticed the toilet bowl was overly full of water. I ignored it and came downstairs to perform my ablutions, figuring I would deal with it later. While having my morning coffee and watching CNN for updates, I learned that Osama had not only been killed, but he had also been buried at sea in less than 24 hours after his death. This is apparently in conformance with Islamic religious law. It made sense because while the US was not honoring the man, the country was showing admirable respect for the Muslim faith under the circumstances.

I went upstairs about 8 PM and remembered that the toilet had been hinky so I grabbed the plunger and tried again. This time, I miscalculated and water poured on to the floor at an alarming rate. I tried to pull the thingy up to stop the flow but to no avail. It finally subsided but not until the entire bathroom floor was flooded. There is a faucet under the toilet and I turned it off.

The clean up took about 3 hours and 25 towels. I brought up the mop and the Lysol to finish the job. I turned on "Nurse Jackie" and settled in my favorite chair to watch a couple of episodes although I was very tired. Hauling the wet towels downstairs was a lot like hard labor since they weighed a ton, and I really am not a fan of carrying heavy things.

Perhaps and hour later, I heard water. At first I thought it was the cat using the litter box and didn't pay too much attention to it. Then I realized if that was the cat using the litter box, I'd better get him to the vet right away. I cautiously approached the bathroom only to see a tsunami coming toward me.

The bathroom floor was covered in about a half an inch of water. Oh shit oh dear! I grabbed the remaining 20 or so towels, two terrycloth robes, and the contents of the laundry hamper and tried to soak up the water, but it was flowing out as fast as I could sop it up. I finally threw caution to the wind and yanked every tube in the tank out. What do you know! It stopped! Just like that!

I got a pail and started bailing water out of the bowl and the tank. I hauled the water out to the sink in the family room, making about 100 trips. I was still not confident it would not rise up again but so far it hasn't.

The law of political thermodynamics says that for every action, there is an opposite and inequal reaction (or something like that). I think tossing Osama in the drink is what caused the toilet to flood my house.

I can only hope nobody else is buried at sea in the near future.

Spring Lingerie

I love gorgeous lingerie.

Ever since I was old enough to put girly bits into some, I've loved pretty bras, panties, garter belts, corsets, camisoles, seamed stockings and such. I don't really like Victoria's Secret. I think they use too much polyester and a lot of the merchandise is not really my taste.

I love finding a good lingerie shop where I can find high-quality well made lingerie. "La Perla" is fine, but frankly out of my budget. Still, there are some exquisite small lingerie shops in San Francisco where you can buy beautiful items and get real "help" from the staff.

For many years, I have replenished my unmentionables in the Spring. There's something about the season that makes me crave lacy, silky, and beautiful "stuff" in pretty colors.

The only problem with gorgeous lingerie is that I want to show it to somebody. I have an overwhelming urge to open the door to the UPS guy and let my robe fall open so he can catch a glimpse of my finery. (Okay, I don't do it, but I do think about it. Okay, yeah, I have done it but it was a long time ago. Okay, it was last Spring actually!)

Don't get me wrong. My husband Alex does smile and say "Uhm, pretty, Honey!" and then goes back to the baseball game. Yeah, it's like that after 20 years of wedded bliss.

Men are funny about their own under-garments. I have to go through Alex's underwear and toss the stuff with holes, torn elastic, and so on. I want to make sure that if he does fool around with a chippie, she will know that he already has a wife who takes care of him.

Left to his own devices, the chippie would probably think "Oh you poor man with no woman to look after you!" and make a real effort to alienate his affections.

I wonder what time UPS will be here on Monday!

Harry Thompson's Day Off

We left Harry and Honey home on Easter Sunday while we traveled up to the Sacramento area to see my son and his family.

Harry is Jewish, and he doesn't really care about missing out on Easter since it doesn't include matzo balls. He also takes his guard dog responsibilities fairly seriously and patrols constantly from the time we leave until we return home, only taking short breaks for naps once in a while.

Honey is agnostic and doesn't ever worry about things above her pay grade. She is perfectly content napping in one of her favorite spots, barking at dogs that pass by the window, and just being "chill" until we come back.

We left at noon and didn't arrive home again until after 8 PM. That was a fairly long time to leave them home alone, but I was pretty sure they were fine. I start getting anxiety feelings about the time we need to return home. I always worry that something has gone wrong. (I start to obsess over things like: what if they knocked over the water bowls? What if they got out of the yard? What if a prowler came and Harry ate him? What if they bark constantly the whole time we are gone?)

People tell me I worry too much about things that never happen. I do worry that something might go wrong because it's my nature. I don't like leaving my dogs home alone. Sometimes we will take Harry and Honey with us, but since there were going to be 20+ people for Easter dinner, including 7 children and two resident dogs, I felt it would be a bit much to show up with our dogs.

When we got home, everything looked normal. Harry was a little more hyper than usual, but I figured that was because he missed us. I saw that we had several phone messages and I checked them. One call had come from my next-door neighbor, Mary, and she asked that I call her as soon as we got home.

When I called her, Mary told me that Harry had spent all afternoon outside by himself in the neighborhood. He came to her gate and barked for Dutch and Sansom, her two dogs, to come out and play. Mary let her dogs out and the three of them ran wild in the front yard for a while, then Harry moved on to the next house down the street where there was a barbecue in full swing. The people having the party are Dean and Rene. They greeted Harry like an old friend and he hobnobbed with them and their guests for the rest of the afternoon. Harry was delighted to entertain the children and keep the area clean if food fell on the ground. He's good like that.

Dean said that Harry "zapped" a squirrel in the yard to the amazement of all of the party attendees. It was over in a second and the squirrel party crasher never had a chance.

Harry went back to Mary's and again tried to get Dutch and Sansom to come out and play, but it was getting late so Mary brought Harry home and put him in the back in our yard.

I apologized profusely but Mary said it was no problem at all. Harry had a great day visiting with friends, and keeping down the rodent population. (When I have seen Mary's dogs outside of their yard without an owner, I have always returned them home immediately. I think Mary is more liberal than I am.)

I still have no idea how Harry got out of the backyard. We have a 7 foot iron fence and he didn't jump over it. When I tried to talk to him about danger and responsibility, he just yawned.

He had a great day, but all the barbecue gave him the runs. Serves him right.

People Like Weird Shit

I know some people would think this was a weird oil painting.

I think it's a little eccentric, but very cool. I know the guy who painted it, and I bought it from him directly. Why do I like it? Well, it's not because of the cat.

I like it because it's a self-portrait of a man who sells books in my town. His cat was a fixture for many years at his sort of creepy used book store. The man himself is a little "odd", but I doubt that he's a serial killer or anything. He's just a little off-kilter. Oh, and I like the "Orphan Annie" eyes.

This painting is in my kitchen. It doesn't creep me out at all, but I do think it's funny.

We have fine art too. But whether it's a Marc Chagall signed lithograph or the famous New Orleans "blue dog", it has to speak to me.

Yesterday was Easter and we went to my son's for dinner. His wife Kate put together a lovely meal with bbq leg of lamb along with a lot of other wonderful things to eat. She had small white boxes with tiny chicks on top of them at all the place settings. When people asked her what was inside, she said "It's a secret". She let Alex take home some of the chicks because he really liked them. Kate also gave me a book by a guy from my town. I took a photo of these things because I love what they look like. (Oh, what was in the boxes? It's a secret.)

I have a neighbor lady who collects hand painted antique dolls. She has them piled up on an antique chase in her parlor. Those dolls creep me out so much that I can barely even walk in her house. Those flat eyes scare the hell out of me. There are probably 40 dolls or even more all lined up together. Ugh! That is horror movie shit to me.

I know another woman who had her cat stuffed after he died. She kept him in the bathroom on the toilet tank. This woman worked with me and dressed like a hooker from the 70's. She was not a hooker, but she was probably in her late 30's in the 70's. When I worked with her she was 60 and still dressed like a hooker every day. I thought she was actually pretty cool. Her taste in cat art, not so much though.

It's funny because if I like it, I think it's normal. It's other people who seem to like the weird shit.