The Last Rose

It happens every year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very Superstitious

Superstitious I am not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave Me Home Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting To The Bottom of It All

Yesterday was October 1st.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is good.  Well, sort of.

The Phone Call

I lie to my doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've fooled him for one more year.

You Want Me To Ride Where???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Losing My Cherry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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