Torn Asunder

Sometimes the best planned things just work out different.  It's sometimes better; it's sometimes worse but plans can be considered "torn asunder".

Yesterday was my husband's birthday.  I had the day planned out to the letter.  We were going to rise, I would present Alex with his birthday cards from me, both dogs, the cat, and the 30 or so fish that grace our pond.  I would then make him a festive breakfast of pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, fry him up some pepper cured bacon, and make him a pot of strong Starbucks French Roast coffee.  

We had luncheon reservations at the Rotunda at Neiman Marcus at 12 PM.  After lunch, I was going to take Alex to a lovely clothing shop to find him a new sports coat.  

When did all this start to go wrong?  Actually, it started going wrong on Saturday when I awoke feeling like I had been run over twice by an 18 wheeler.  For a week, I had been taking "Sudafed" because of a sinus thing that had me using whole boxes of Kleenex per day.  I got the "you have to ask for it and sign your name for it and promise you won't be making crack cocaine out of it" type of Sudafed.  I figured that if it didn't clear up my sinuses, I would indeed make up some crack cocaine just to make myself feel better.  You know, either / or.

Saturday, I started coughing that cough that seems to come up from your ovaries.  I also began to feel the pain between my shoulder blades that told me, "You are one sick little Indian."  I still thought I might be recovered soon enough to show my husband a good time on his birthday.  By Sunday, my hopes were being dashed as I looked and felt three-quarters dead.  

I awoke early on Monday morning with a throbbing headache and wondered if I had slept at all since I had to sit up in bed to keep from strangling.  I was feverish and lethargic, still I got up and pulled out all of the birthday cards.  When I greeted my dogs, I found out that I no longer had a voice beyond a squeak about every 4th word.  Much as I wanted to make Alex the Mickey Mouse pancakes, I was too sick to even stand.  I figured massive quantities of coffee might help.  The caffeine did help.  After two cups, I was still sick but my hands were shaking so I figured on was on the right track.

I had every intention of going through with our luncheon plans, even though Alex began to look at me like I had lost my mind.  He left for a 10 AM appointment with the eye doctor and I performed my ablutions.  By the time I finished my make up, I realized something truly amazing.  I felt like death was imminent but I looked pretty damn good.  Now, if that doesn't give you a lift, I don't know what does!  Alex phoned from the eye doctor and told me the doctor was running over an hour late, so I needed to cancel our lunch reservations.  (I squeaked an "okay" at him.)  Actually, I was sort of relieved not to be going into the City because I was so fragile.  By this time, I was pretty sure I had pneumonia or worse.  Alex arrived home close to noon and said "Oh poor baby" when I squeaked my "hello" to him, but followed that up with "But you look really good!"  Okay, I've always said, "It's not how you feel, it's how you look", but in this case being a cute corpse seemed to becoming more and more likely.

We went to lunch at a local seafood restaurant where the Italian waiters all love me.  They all came over to hug and kiss me when I walked in and I tried to warn them that I had cooties and the would be better off not touching me.  Ignoring my protests, they all threw their arms around me and kissed me.  Dumb bastards!  I was too sick to eat, but I had ordered to please the one waiter who insisted "You've got to eat, Darling!"

About halfway through the meal, I told Alex in my squeaks that I needed to go to the doctor.  I texted him that I was probably dying.  He was concerned and went outside to see about getting me an appointment.  I was laying on the table when he came back inside.  (Only the top of me was laying on the table, not all of me.  You really can't trust Italian waiters that much.)  My appointment was set for 2:30 PM.

I made it to the doctor's office and the receptionist kept asking me questions and looking at me like I was stupid.  Not being able to talk makes one look strange because your mouth is moving but nothing is coming out.  I gave her my credit card for my co-pay so she could figure out who I was.  Finally, when I got to see my doctor, I was on the verge of collapse.  I had a raging fever and I thought about asking him to call a priest to give me the last rites.  He stuck a thermometer in my ear and told me my temperature was "normal".  

What?  How could that be?  I really couldn't explain much to him because I couldn't talk.  He listened to my chest (fine), took my blood pressure (fine), and gave me an order for a "Z Pack" of antibiotics, and a steroid nasal spray.  I was near tears because I had been so sure it was deadly pneumonia.  My doctor told me I was sick, but not that sick.  I looked too good to be really sick.

I walked out feeling much better.  And I bought champagne for Alex's birthday dinner of chicken marsala. Oh, and I'm getting my voice back too.

Conversations With The Visiting Crow

I first met him last weekend.

He was on the highest branch of my lemon tree in the backyard. I was sitting at the table sorting laundry when I heard him cry out "Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw". He obviously wanted my attention and I looked up at a shiny black crow. I responded to him with the exact same call he had given me.

The bird ruffled his feathers and repeated his call, but this time he left of one "caw". I responded to him with four "caw" calls of my own. For over half an hour, we called back and forth to each other, me mimicking his pitch and number of "caws". Finally, I got up to take the laundry in the house and he flew away. How queer is that?

Why he wanted to communicate with me was a mystery. Why I wanted to communicate with him was a puzzle too.

Today, I was again in the backyard doing a little weeding. Sure enough, the crow was back at the top branch of the lemon tree. He cawed once and I responded. All at once, I understood that we were talking in a code of sorts. Don't ask how we translated his caws into spoken words, and my words into crow language. (It's complicated.)   Just accept that we did.

This is how our conversation went to the best of my recollection.

Him: Hey!

Me: Hey!

Him: Where's the old man?

Me: He's at work. Where's your old lady?

Him: She's in a nest in the big oak tree out front. She's keeping her eggs warm.

Me: How many are there?

Him: How many what?

Me: Eggs.

Him: Just some. I don't do math.

Me: Oh. Are you excited about getting new crow babies?

Him: This is the first time. I don't know.

Me: Wow! How long have you been involved with your female?

Him: Not that long. A little while.

Me: Why do you guys make that awful "Caw" noise?

Him: You have dogs that make a lot worse noise than us.

Me: Right. I hate that noise too.

Him:  I don't know how you stand it.

Me:  Sometimes I don't either.

Him: See ya!  Gotta go check on my baby mama.

Me: Bye.

He flew off and left me with more questions than answers. Men!

It seems that he would have been more informative with his answers but he wasn't. Maybe I need to work on my questions.

For those of you who might be wondering what I've been smoking, I assure you that's not the case. If I was going to "trip" or make something up, I'd have thought of something much more entertaining than this.

Truth is duller than fiction.

Do It Badly, But Do It!

I love to sing.

I can barely carry a tune, but that doesn't stop me from belting out songs. I embarrassed my husband one night at a bar when I got up and sang with a group of musicians. I was a little drunk, but that's not why I sang badly. I sang badly because I can't much carry a tune. But I love to sing!

You can ask any of my neighbors. I sing to my dogs every day. They love my Rolling Stones songs as well as my Frankie Lane "Jezabel". When I'm in the garden, I'm usually singing. Now, keep in mind, I'm not a "hummer" (well, I have been on occasion), but in this case, I'm talking about Carnegie Hall type loud singing!

My cousin Kelly from Oklahoma and her husband will implore me to sing a song called "All The Gold In California" because I sing it so funny. I don't sing it funny on purpose; it's just my voice. (Willie Nelson is not traditional either, now is he?) Okay, that does not matter to me in the slightest. It's not good, but it's me. And I have very few qualms about making a fool of myself.

It's the same thing with dancing. I'm not a good dancer. That NEVER stops me from dancing! Why? I love to dance! Dancing is really fun! I enjoy it! If I'm not doing it right or good, I really don't care! At the slightest provocation I will get my wiggle on. I have no inhibitions about if it's good or bad. I love doing it!

I love writing. That's why I have a blog. I love comments and getting to know a wide range of wonderful people from different locations, different walks of life, and different viewpoints. I don't pretend I'm a talented writer.

I'm just me. But that is enough!

Last Tango in Argentina

I want to go to Buenos Aries.

I want to dance the tango. Even if I dance it badly, I want to do it once. I want to wear 4 inch stiletto heels while I dance, and a red dress that has slits to expose my legs.

I want to hear the noise and music on the crowded streets and go to a club at 2:00 AM to watch the tango dancers exhibit their prowess, their passion, and sometimes their politics.

I want to feel the stifling afternoon heat and listen to the babble of Spanish language all around me, while I only understand every 4th word. I want to sweat in the 3:00 PM sun and go back to my air conditioned hotel room for a cool shower and a siesta before my midnight dinner.

I want to walk the streets late at night. I want to explore the cemetery where Eva Peron lies 18 levels below the surface.

I want to drink Malbec wine until my lips are stained a dark red.

I want to dance the tango before I die.

Dirty Girls At The Spa

Alex wanted to take me away for a spa weekend.

It sounded good to me. He suggested that we go to a place called Calistoga and made all the arrangements for our trip.

Alex arranged for us to have a "couple's mud bath", and massages and some kind of a seaweed something too. It never occurred to me that any of this would be very challenging for me.

Calistoga has natural hot springs and mineral water too. It's located in the wine country. It sounded wonderful.

We got there and I was a little horrified that the whole town smelled strongly of sulfur (make that rotten eggs). There were a lot of new age type places around our hotel and everybody looked very granola with hairy legs (men and women), and ugly sandals. We drove quite a while to get out of that smelly place for dinner, but we were still excited about out weekend away.

The next morning, we had a morning appointment for our mud baths. We went into a room where two bathtubs were side by side. filled with black slimy and smelly mud, and we were told to disrobe and get in to the baths. We were told we could either take our underwear off or leave it on if we wished. The idea of climbing into warm ooze was no longer appealing to me very much, but I wanted to be a "good sport". We undressed and figure to pull off the undies as well rather than ruin them in the mud. I did have a moment of trepidation when I considered that the mud goes everywhere. Ugh!

The attendant told us that the deeper we went into the mud, the warmer it would be. She left us in some privacy saying she would be back to check on us. As soon as she walked out of the room, Alex and I started laughing. This had to be the stupidest thing we had ever done. The harder we laughed, the deeper we sunk into the icky mud. I felt like I was in quicksand. After this refreshing and invigorating experience, we had a choice. We could let the attendant hose us off with mineral water (that smelled like rotten eggs) or we could shower by ourselves, in mineral water that smelled like rotten eggs. We opted for the do it yourself methodology.

Right after this, we were scheduled for a massage, but not a "couple's massage". The granola lady(masseuse) told me that she gave a "reflexology" massage. I said fine, but actually had no idea what the hell that was. I found out soon enough. This type of massage means that you pinch and push on every part of a human body that could possibly cause extreme pain for about 45 minutes. Gadzooks! I was glad when it was over.

The next fun thing was having seaweed stuck on me for a half hour. I don't think the seaweed numbed the soreness of the reflexology massage though, but it did make me smell funny for two days after.

They brought me a nice glass of rotten egg smelling mineral water after my treatments. Yum.

Windows To The Soul

This is Harry.

Harry is not religious, but he is spiritual. Actually, he probably is part Jewish and he loves matzo balls. Harry loves to eat, meditate and sleep. The only thing he likes better than eating, meditating and sleeping is eating, meditating, sleeping and going for walks.

Another one of Harry's major pleasures is chasing squirrels. Sometimes he even catches one and that's not a good thing.

Harry was tossed in the night drop box three times before we finally got him. For various reasons, the owners who had adopted him before us decided they could not keep him. Rather than take him in and surrender him at the shelter, they decided to just stick him in the night drop box after everybody left the shelter for the night.

If this had happened once, I might understand it better. When we adopted Harry, the shelter worker said he actually prayed it would work this time. It was very upsetting to find Harry dumped three separate times.

Being abandoned three times before you were even 18 months old is very traumatic, I'm sure. As a result, although Harry is a wonderful dog, he has a lot of neurotic quirks. For example, he's afraid of trees. I am also afraid of trees. Harry is terrified of wind and rain and I don't like those things much either. Harry does not like the country. He is a city boy. I also understand that.

Harry barks at flies and tries to catch and eat them. Flies taunt him and look at him funny which upsets him no end. But honestly, does anybody really like flies?

Harry is about 8 years old now. He's slowing down a bit. We got Harry a new companion a while ago. Her name is Zoe and she's a puppy.

She is also a rescue dog. Zoe is very sweet, very friendly and very playful. Harry likes her but finds her very pesky. Zoe seems to take the song "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" very seriously. Harry get annoyed because when he's trying to meditate, Zoe comes up and bites his neck and licks his nose and ears until he pays attention to her.

Zoe's favorite thing in the world is playing "grab ass" with Harry. That is a game where they both run as fast as they can through the house knocking over everything in their path. This is always accompanied with growls and yips and howls.

Zoe has the body of a world class athlete. She is pure muscle and fast, very very fast. Harry is an older dude now and a little fat. He's not slow, but he cannot catch Zoe if she doesn't want to be caught.

So, after a while, Harry gets tired of playing the game and tries to resume meditation. Zoe comes over to nuzzle and chew on him and then Harry has had enough.

He takes his big body and knocks her on the floor. She throws all four legs in the air to show her submission. Harry stands over Zoe and growls for a few minutes.

Then it's nap time. What a life!

The Jade Bracelet

He bought it at a jewelry store in Chinatown.

It was his Christmas gift to me. Jade and 22 karat yellow gold, sometimes called "Chinese Gold". Just lovely. He spun a tale to me telling me that jade is for "good luck".

Because he was proud of his purchase, he went on to tell me that the jade was of very high quality. I assumed it probably was.

What I didn't tell him is that I like diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Jade is cold to the touch, dead in color, and not in the least appealing to me.

He fastened the ornate clasp on my wrist and told me how beautiful it looked. I smiled, but the smile did not reach my eyes.

In his way, he was trying to teach me "quiet good taste". Little did he know that this bracelet taught me that I didn't love him or need him to teach me anything.

The next day, I went downtown shopping. Somehow the bracelet caught on something and the clasp opened and dropped to the floor somewhere. I hope the person who found it found good luck from it.

I never told him I lost the bracelet. Our seven year interlude had run its course.