Is That You Rapture? Come, Transport Me!

It has been a crazy few days. Crazy. My bed appears to have been the stage for a major wrestling event. Lying open upon it is a collection of books seemingly half-read, a collection of Bukowski poems, biographies of Mae West and Mary Todd Lincoln, huge volume of Mathew Brady's Civil War photographs dropped, I am sure, because of its size, weight and unsuitability for reading in bed. Before snapping the picture, left, I shamefacedly removed the large collection of empty cucumber water bottles from the headboard. I've become enamored of that beverage and I was told to push fluids. That headboard can shelter a mighty horde of those bottles. And now it is time to lift my head from my surrealistic pillow to rejoin the living. You see, I've been sick for the better part of a week.

Like many people who live near me, I am beset with allergy miseries. It's spring. The wind has shrieked, flinging dust, allergens and debris for about 7 years straight. I woke up, knocked around in search of coffee and felt tearful. "What's this?" I wondered, tuning up some mindfulness skills to check in on myself. Hmm - really high fever. The sort I attribute more to children than to adults. Eyes gooey, nose alternately runny and socked in solid, chest rattling like rusty old chains. Could I be sick? Um, yes, that miserable sensation in my ear suggested I was quite sick. Enough so that I broke down and sought medical attention. Antibiotics - check. Antihistamines - yep. Prescription eye drops - sure. Vicodin? "Do you think I'll really need that?" She thought I would. I had a pretty severe ear infection.The pain was going to get worse before it got better.

I do not care for Vicodin. It's effect on me is a not-quite-enough masking of pain. I still know the pain's there, just beyond my fingertips and I know I'll feel it more intensely before it's time to take another pill. Sometimes this medication makes me slightly nauseous or dizzy, and - oh, yeah, best of all - it makes me sidewinder mean after I've had about 3 doses. I once gave my mother 50 years of what-for in one Vicodin-inflamed telephone spew. I know it does nothing good for my personality and I try to avoid it. Also, there is some spirited decades-long debate within AA about whether one is truly "sober" if they're not drinking but are taking certain kinds of medication. I can see the argument in favor of "lost sobriety" if one takes these babies for pleasure and thrills. Pleasure? Reader, I don't understand one's coworkers who descend as soon as the dental surgery is completed, "Did you get any extra Vicodin? I'll pay you $4 a pill." I decided I would take them as prescribed, prescribed only for me, as needed for pain, by my physician who knows I am an alcoholic. If any deviation from that seemed imminent, I knew what to do to find help.

Settling into bed with books, music, cell phone, paper and pen, wireless keyboard, remote control devices, two cats, cucumber water, a bit to eat and the Vicodin, I set forth on a journey of unequalled brilliance and revelation. I read, I wrote, I dozed, I talked to myself and cats. It would be fair to say I meditated, though I am not formally trained for that. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I resolved several of the world's larger problems, wrote a discourse in florid language on a topic about which I heretofore knew nothing, made astounding discoveries of nature from my bedside, thought about whether it was morning or afternoon when the clock read 3:00. I did some AA 4th Step work which I didn't like at all. I did some Grief Recovery work on a couple of issues I'd not resolved within myself, though they happened some time ago. I liked that even less, so I turned over to sleep for awhile. By the third day, I was more than ready to shake a leg, get out of bed and get to an AA meeting. Yep, I felt like hell. No, I likely wasn't contagious. It wasn't that I felt a need to drink. It was that I needed to see the faces. Those faces. The two old men (old, as in my general age group) who are wordsmiths, like me. We love to tear into the AA Big Book with its 75-year-old language, applying our modern-day linguistic sensibilities to the precepts. "Les, did you bring your thesaurus?" "I did, men!" The (very) young man who comes on Thursdays and Fridays to take in a meeting where he might hear me speak. "I like to hear you share. I feel like we may have walked down many of the same paths." I feel the same, young taxi driver! I returned home feeling refreshed, refilled.

So it happened that this morning, I knew I must clean up the artifacts of the few days during which I'd clearly had more than one transcendental experience. Stack the paper, close the books properly with bookmarks, mail the notes and cards and other forms of communication I'd written, brush cat hair from everything, get the sheets into the laundry. Feeling so enlivened, I wanted to review what I'd written, what I'd highlighted in the ultimate books, what I'd digitally recorded as reminders to myself. I envisioned myself a latter-day seeress, gliding down Newland Avenue on paroxysms of deep truth, hair and garb not unlike that of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Um, yeah. To paraphrase an old shibboleth, "A wasted mind is a terrible thing".

So, my great observation of the natural world: Virginia Woolf's claws click like so many tiny high heels on the hardwood floor as she walks. I don't need to have the lights on to tell which cat approaches. Of course, when Bogey approaches, the earth moves, too. It seemed so profound when I observed and internalized it.

I wrote my de profundis epic opus that would make a rock weep. Oh, I struck a blow on page after page, pouring it all out, my entreaties for the peace that beautiful verity would have brought, though I was only to be smote with one pretty prevarication after another. No sestet, couplet, no iambic pentameter here, this was blooded ink run rampant. A sonnet squared or cubed relating pain, becoming anger. I sense my writing style was affected by the Oscar Wilde study I'd just completed a day before. Carly Simon thought her wrongdoer was so vain he'd probably think this song was about him. I'd submit that some blackguards wouldn't recognize themselves in a mirror. We shall see when I send it, embossed and decorated, to the intended recipient. I believe that all of that falls under the Grief Recovery umbrella.

In my recorded messages to myself, I sound like a rummy - there's really no nice way to say it. My missives look like the flying monkeys wrote them. And I'm really, really still unpleasant. Yesterday, I resorted to deep sighing and eyeball rolling, reminiscent of some of my mother's more unpleasant nonverbal expressions of unhappiness. Oh, it wasn't my fellow AA's fault that she's dyslexic and had only been to the speech location once before, in about October of 1998. It's not her fault that when I offered to MapQuest the place, she said, "No need. No problem." When I allowed as how I figured we were now in Arizona, she became distressed and couldn't tell me even which direction to take. Hey - all the landmarks had changed. Once we arrived, late, I was immediately put off by the first speaker for a reason not fit to print. Then he launched into his one-liners about the inadvisability of dating a "broad from AA". Ahem. Not one, but two, women speakers annoyed me by the word they applied to females. "Women" is a word that usually sits well with me. Certain other words don't fly as effectively and I tend to drift in my thoughts. Women speaking arrogantly about other women . . . And so, one can see I'm still not 100%. Still a little grumpy. Tetchy like. However, I hear no wind and the sun has finally come out and the raspy gacking noises of Virginia Woolf hurling really expensive cat food came from outside, not inside. I think this will be a better day. It'd be a hell of a note if the world ended or something.

At the Equinox - Is it Just Me or Have a Lot of Bloggers Drifted Off With Spring Fever?

I was reminded this week of something I forget from year to year. In certain seasons in Las Vegas, some of the houseplants must be watered almost every day due to heat and sun. The current cat population is less intrigued by plants than some I've shared life with, so my store of plants has become pretty impressive, with only the very occasional sound of surreptitious chomping in the night. I wonder why I've never had a chomping cat become ill. They are supposed to be creatures very delicate when exposed to all sorts of flora. Mine gack up premium cat food on the floor while retaining the green leafies with which to fill the cat box. Things that make you go "hmmmmmmm" . .

There are some things I don't want to do. Like run the vacuum cleaner and shop for groceries and the list goes on. I don't mind wet chores like do the laundry, clean the bathroom, wash the dishes. But I don't want to make the acquaintance of dusting cloths and Dustbusters, anything involving Pledge or moving little doodads around on all the furniture. And don't show me a push broom. I detest a push broom. I don't have the arm strength for it. I could do it if it could be done with the legs. I don't like to contemplate sweeping the great outdoors. It's too big. All of this can cause terrible conflict for a woman whose father calls her "snotty clean". So, if you get the picture, I finally break down and do what I must. And crab about it a lot.

The arrival of spring has made me want to roast mushrooms and onions and peppers and corn on the grill outdoors and slide into the pool naked in the dark when the neighbors might not be looking from upstairs next door. I want to sit at the cafe table with coffee and a book in the sun, my cat sitting in my lap. When I wake in the morning, I want to look through the French doors with their glass like crystal. A quick inspection of the yard confirmed that I wouldn't seat my rear on the outdoor chairs in their current condition, feeling reluctant to even put my shod feet on the cool deck. The panes in the French doors may be terminal, but I can take them on one at a time and do my best - it was hell for windy across the dark months. The surface of the grill is shiny clean - I was careful last November, the last time I used it. The hired service keeps the pool and spa sparkling. OK, a mixed bag. Get started. Play music. Ply the ever-loving push broom.

The back yard reminds me of Cell Block 419A at the women's prison. Long and narrow, it holds the pool and a modest frame of walking space surrounding it. When I told a friend the unimaginative light block walls were about 15 feet high, he looked so startled I thought, "Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. I'm not so good at that kind of estimation." I've just gone outdoors in the dawn and measured myself like parents who track a child's growth with a mark and the date on a convenient door jamb. That wall is easily twice as tall as I and, on one angle, reaches to the top of the second story. I feel pretty solid about it again - 10-15 feet high. As there are no structures contiguous to any of the walls, the cats cannot escape the yard (just as the women prisoners could not, I suppose). I had to be "worked" about the escape-proof yard for a long time, as I believe that cats can get out of any confinement. However, I finally became a believer. The cats would have to spring 10-15 feet into the air to head for high ground, and I doubt they will. Food, water and an auxiliary litter box are provided. Virginia Woolf and Bogey enjoy the yard during fine weather.

I determined I'd approach my tasks in a linear way, starting in one corner and working my way around the rectangle. "Come on, cats," I called. They joined me, first tiptoeing on the narrow tiled strip separating pool from spa, drinking a little chlorinated water. Soon enough they found places to perch where my frenetic activity wouldn't disturb them. My BFF had sent me some new music and - hey! - it was good. She was right: the one song was very much like our conversational e-mail thread about our individual journeys. I peeled off some layers of clothing, grinning at Virginia Woolf languishing in the sun, eyes scrunched up at half-mast (does she need sunglasses?), shiny black nose sniffing at the air. This wasn't so terrible! I alternated using the hated broom with very conservative squirts from the water hose and even a few blasts of air from the compressor. I'm thorough in most everything I approach, and finally that yard was spotlessly clean, not a cobweb to be found, no leaves blown into crevices. I'd applied SprayWay cleaner to every glass surface (forget Windex, reader!) and finally sat for an iced coffee and a read. When I got up to go inside, there was no telltale powdering of fine desert dust on the rear of my black shorts, a pretty good testament to my efforts.

When I came inside, I was pretty energized, so I started attacking other tasks. I was joined in the bedroom by Virginia Woolf as I put clean, deep green sheets on the bed. I didn't actually look directly at her, but more saw her out of the corner of my eye as she came pussyfooting through the French doors. It's when she jumped up onto the dark green sheets to play the bed-making game that I noticed it. That cat looked as if she'd been dredged in flour, preparatory to immersion in a deep fat fryer for an order of cat crispies. I saw golden eyes, black nose and powdery white cat. And she'd found whatever it was in the yard! WTF? Oh, yeah, I was going to have to wash and dry the sheets again, but I wanted to know what dirty substance lurked in the yard. I paced and inspected, I crawled on the cool deck until my knees were chopped meat. I looked in the precise location where that cat had basked in the sun. Nothing. Have I mentioned there are some things I don't want to do, like dry household tasks or sweeping the great outdoors?

A blushing factoid to tell on myself: I consume true crime stories, mostly about serial murderers. I have a handful of favored authors I follow avidly, my tastes refined through the years I have read such things. My mother perverted me in the 1970s (or maybe early 1980s) with the Ann Rule book about Ted Bundy and I've read countless volumes since then. In bookstores, I slink off to the remote aisles where such books are displayed and then place my selections face down in my arms as I continue to shop. I intersperse these reads with biographies, poetry more recently, and other "good" books. But I continue to feed my need.

Now, I'm a well-known wiener about things violent or bloody. Usually I cannot read the pages describing what the killer did to the girl or the disrespect shown to the body. No, I don't have a secret penchant for the stereotypical 1940s gumshoe - tweed jacket, balloony trousers with the waistband under the armpits, a fedora and his face veiled in cigarette smoke. Sometimes the descriptions of the ballistics or DNA evidence make me yawn. So what's the attraction? I am utterly fascinated by the fact that completely bat-shit people walk around among us disguised as the next door neighbor. I want to know what makes them bat-shit. What happened in their childhoods and what makes them bat-shit part of the time but able to blend in part of the time, and - please - what makes them think particular atrocious acts are sexually gratifying? The other thing that pulls me in just a little (I don't want 85 pages of details, but I do want to know generally) is how detectives solve cases. Because they almost always do - more and more cases, some of them cold for 50 years. Hey, crazy people, don't do the crime! You can't get by with anything.

So I'm reading the latest one, quite a find, twisting and turning with a huge cast of characters, a favorite author outdoing herself. It draws me, in particular, because it features a Pacific Coast lifestyle including sportfishing boats, something I know about. I just spoke of this in my last post. The murderers, in this case, were incredibly stupid, but they were young and pretty and expert at that blending in thing. They killed a married couple by beating them up a little (not fatally), tying and binding them up a little (not fatally), then tying them to the anchor of their boat and tossing them into the deep. A witness said the couple had to have heard the anchor chain running out across the deck, knowing it would finally pull them in. It did. Yes, it was the lighter of the boat's anchors, but that's hardly humane. This scenario has freaked me out. I'm not sleeping well at night for thinking of it. I've been on the ocean in the dark. I've heard the chain run out into the sea, though I wasn't tied to it. I cannot imagine the horror those people must have endured.

Now, since 1-1-11, we have Investigation Discovery. 24 hours a day, it shows televised versions of some stories I know well. Whereas I rarely sit down to watch TV, I do often have it playing for white noise. Sometimes a case I've read about will be featured and I can hear the voice of that interesting detective or of that poor mother or of the brave ordinary citizen who was smart enough to recognize bat-shit when he saw it. This morning I was half-reading from my daily reflections and affirmations books. It was still dark outside and I would read my books with more focus several times during the day. This was my first run-through with the first cup of coffee. I heard the names spoken quietly on TV. My fishing boat story that I'm currently reading! I sprinted and leapt into the recliner, nearly tipping it over. Frightening. Bat-shit. Walking around among us.

Farewell Funky February

My February stank like steaming cauliflower, no cheese sauce. My heart lightened a little in anticipation of the turn of the calendar page to March. It had to be better! My friend came to visit and we talked for hours. We went through a huge volume of coffee, good creamer, and wore sweatshirts against the chill. "Nobody named me a doctor," she said as she hugged goodbye at the door, "but I think you're deeply depressed. How about if you go get some attention for that right away?" Yes. Well.

I often occupy a reclining chair to read. It is placed in a large bank of windows, and at certain times of day, the sun comes through the wooden shutters and warms me. At night, I can see the cars pass by on the street, or close the shutters and reduce my environment to a small comfortable room. At arm's length stands a small curio table with shelves that hold coffee cup, books and bookmarks, cell phone and sometimes a snack. When I climb into the chair for a read, I follow a ritual. Check the contents of the curio table, check the angle of the shutters, get onto the chair, cover most of myself with a San Francisco 49ers lap throw, place my glasses on the curio table, and open my book. Oh. I also howl out "Kitty, kitty, kitty" and I am quickly blessed with the presence of the lovely Virginia Woolf and her new step-cat, Bogie. I'd be certainly embarrassed, if not fully ashamed, to admit to the number of hours spent in that chair with those cats. On the plus side, I have renewed the lifelong habit of voracious reading, which I had lost when I was lost. I know all of the sounds of the house, and sometimes I sleep in the chair awhile, in the sun, with the cats.

The ornamental plum tree in the neighbor's yard is blooming so profusely, one can almost hear the blossoms snap open. No other plants or trees in the immediate vicinity seem to be in flower, even the other ornamental plum trees. I like to watch the tree from the recliner, through the shutters. It seems to grow fluffier during each reading session, looking for all the world like a gigantic pink Q-tip.

I got a book at the library - a most wonderful, comprehensive biography of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. I am an Anglophile, plus I really like the late Queen Mum, so this book was quite a find for me. I love that smiling face and the pastel suits and hats and the fact that she never hid her fondness for a cocktail. A few days into the book, I began to gripe in a good-natured way. This gem runs 1,000 pages and weighs approximately one ton (actually, using methods many women will recognize, it weighs about as much as a 5 pound bag of flour). I devoured the narrative of her Edwardian childhood and read with interest the explanations for some British pageantry I'd never fully understood before. After another day, I kvetched about my neck, arms and shoulders suffering a bit, and why wasn't this book published either in soft cover or in multiple volumes? I continued to read. On the night I had progressed to World War II, I was in pain. I'd read in chair, bath and bed for a few days. I read without my glasses, which requires planting a book right on my chest or nose. Biceps and triceps screamed. I gave up. I'll have to read the rest of the story some other time. Yes, I sneak-peeked to read about certain events after WWII.

Ex had a theory. He was in no way an Anglophile, but he tolerated my interest which caused him to witness royal weddings, funeral services and other glimpses at people who don't seem to occupy the same world as we mortals. He was taken by Queen Elizabeth's always having the just-so-correct handbag across her arm. After he mentioned it, I paid closer attention, and he was right. She sported a purse even when to do so would seem burdensome and unnecessary. Ex wondered what the Queen might keep in her pocketbook. Face powder, extra pantyhose, lipstick? Nah. She had people to handle that for her. So why the purse? Ex was a wickedly funny man. Whimsical and imaginative. His theory emerged thus: Queen Elizabeth is a capable, hardy woman. She shoots a gun and drives cars, she served briefly in WWII. Ex believed she carried a gun in her handbag. Maybe a .357 magnum. If anyone got past her people and posed an imminent threat to the Queen, she would tear open her purse, drop into a commando pose and show them with whom they were messing. Ex would demonstrate his theory, too, a very large, dark male imitating a small, fair woman.

About the time my brain (if not my eyes, yet) was abandoning WWII to King George VI, Queen Elizabeth and Winston Churchill, my ears wandered, too. I could hear Piers Morgan interviewing Charlie Sheen on TV, and I could almost feel myself being pulled in. They discussed addiction (Charlie says he's not an addict and those women should not have called 911), his firing from his $1.8 million per episode TV show (Charlie doesn't think he deserved to be fired from the highest paid acting job in television), his treatment of other human beings - women in particular (Charlie says he has never hit a woman) and I could feel myself beginning to seize up like a pickled schoolmarm. Look, I don't know any more about Charlie Sheen than what the headlines scream. I don't know his TV show. I can't quickly name any of his movies I've seen. Without looking at him, I focused on the things he was saying - his responses to Piers Morgan's too-gentle questions, the answers to which were not followed up with any hard-hitting further questions. I did the slow burn for awhile, offended at many levels of my belief system. When the show ended, others in the room milled around while I continued to fume. I finally said it just the way it felt, but quietly, I thought. "That's the most f***ed up 45-year-old I've ever heard speak." I rocked the room. They laughed at me! "We could see when you were getting a belly full of him!" Yes, well, I know about that which I know about. He's f***ed up.

True story: When I was ill in 2010, I had a problem remembering things. Any things. This frightened me, because I have always - but always - been able to rely upon my head. I took to writing notes to remind myself of things. That may not sound unusual, but I've never had to rely on copious notes for any purpose. "Les, why are you making notes about that particular subject?" "I may need to know it and not recall it." And I had a near-collapse when I began to forget certain words. I broke down in tears the day I explained to a friend about the pedometer in my hand, how it worked, why it was used . . . . but I could not remember its name. My memory is much improved now. I'm almost cocky. Oh, yes, I had to struggle for a word the other day, but it is a pretty arcane word and I didn't panic over it. I Googled around and found the word. I don't take so many notes any more. And I'm back to multitasking. Mostly I can juggle a lot of balls at one time.

So, I have a jacuzzi tub that I love. Into that tub, I could take a baby, a lover and the entire neighborhood at one time and we'd still all have room to swim around. I sincerely apologize from the green/conserving part of myself, but that tub holds a lot of water and I get into it frequently. The reader doesn't need to know exact numbers. Let's just say I have to use an industrial strength moisturizer on my skin against all that bathing. I take coffee, a book, music or anything else to amuse myself during my bath. The sides of the tub are tall and I am not, so getting in requires a swinging leg, a plunge over the side and almost complete, immediate submersion. On a recent day when snow threatened and the house was chilly despite the furnace, I decided it was time for hydrotherapy. I set the tub to fill, the jets to roar, and noodled around doing tasks. When it came time to undress, I did it quickly, never yelping. I swung the leg, I took the plunge, I was submerged up to the neck. In a bath for which I had forgotten to add any hot water. Do you know, it is amazing how much a little old lady can shrink when exposed to ice water!

In my ears right now: I was young. I thought I was bulletproof. I was mistaken.

Some Things that Charmed Me

It's already Saturday! What a week! Ups and downs, undulations and perambulations. Charm and razzberries, sunshine and flowers.

I will run as fast and hard as anyone from dealing with problems or disputes. I'm not confrontational or aggressive until pushed very far back into a corner, when I spring out like the tigress I normally forget lives inside me. I tend to spend far too much time attempting to shoulder the responsibility for the disagreement, even when I had nothing to do with causing it. And while I do this, the pressure and negative feelings build. I'd sidestepped a time or two, including replying less than honestly to e-mails that asked, "Are you angry with me?" I was angry. And hurt. But I didn't say so immediately. And I kept brooding on it. It should be noted that I have ridden in this disagreement rodeo a time or two, yet I almost never fail to mount up the same way again in the next round. Slow learner. It's been my observation that many things between human beings begin to form blocks, and this was no exception. It was time to stick a pitchfork in this bale of hay. I did. I presented my issues with words, not tears. I presented them calmly and I don't believe I used one curse word. I didn't threaten any grave consequences. In fact I went the opposite direction from any statements like that. I was met with calm listening to my lengthy grievance, no defensive statements offered, no excuses. "I know. That's what I did and I'm so sorry." Oh. OK. An apology. For a sticky wicket with a lot of angles to it. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I reminded myself how long I'd let the problem trouble me. I remind myself to keep trying to learn new things. Try new ways. Trust the people one cares about to come up just as good as they are.

One morning this week, I wore a lighter jacket to work. The pea coat had had to be brought out again when March and earliest April proved fickle, but now it seemed a bit much in the morning. I wore the jacket home that evening and back in to work the following morning. That evening, I forgot the jacket on the coat tree at the office. Because I felt so warm the word "jacket" never entered my consciousness. I didn't need one. That same evening, the display on my dashboard let me know that the temperature down on the blacktop, near where the sensor resides, was 88-degrees. Tangible evidence ~ we're warming up! Quickly. Oh, to be sure, the wind still howls off and on, but I see sunshine and I feel it warm on my skin. Including the skin on my backside. Yes, that's what I said. Read on.

Joseph and Justin struggled up the stairs with a 9' x 12' foot 100% wool Oriental rug to be cleaned. I could tell by their facial expressions it was incredibly heavy. It is extremely valuable and is going to be donated to a charity to be auctioned, so we want to take very good care of this rug. The morning the rug was to be cleaned was extremely cloudy and overcast. Joseph, who has 35 years experience cleaning fine carpets and rugs, explained to me that was a good thing because we do not want direct sunlight on this monstrous piece as it dries. All the technicians began to mill around getting every van and steam cleaning machine ready - we had a couple of large commercial jobs to do and it was all hands on deck. Joseph asked if I'd pull the corners to fold the rug in half if the sun came out. The sunlight wouldn't hurt the backing, would continue to dry at least half of the rug and the men would flip it over upon their return. "Sure!"

The sun came out in its full glory and I was pretty thrilled just to have reason to get up from the desk and go outside. I duly took one corner of that rug in my hand and started to pull. I pulled my arm, I pulled my back, and I pulled that rug not one inch. Giving an ill-considered mighty tug, I lost my grip on the wet wool and landed on my caboose on the warm deck. Mortified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Had anyone seen me? Well, no. I'm up on the second floor on the back of a building, thankfully. I'm pretty dogged. I tried at each corner of that rug several times, landing right on my rump time after time. By now I was deck warmed and possibly even taking on an abrasion every time I landed. I had to approach this differently. Hmmm . . what if, instead of taking a corner and pulling with brute strength, I pulled forward just small sections of the thing, straightening everything out after each small tug? Yes. That should work. I couldn't step on the rug with my shoes, so I took them off and peeled off my tights. I yanked and tugged at small portions of that floor covering for 45 minutes. Its surface was slippery, and - yes, I did go down on my rear a time or four.

I went back into the office wet, scraped up, banged up a little, but that rug was protected, perfectly aligned, fringed end lying over fringed end. The men came in between the two large jobs. Joseph thanked me for folding the rug as asked. Cesar commented that I looked as if I had been wrestling bear. A little worse for wear and tear. I allowed as how I figured that rug weighed at least as much as I did. In his Jamaican accent, Joseph piped up, "Oh, no, Leslie. Wet wool holds an additional 30% of its dry weight. That rug weighs about 450 pounds right now. Did it give you any trouble?" Yow.

It's well known that blogger friend Kass makes me both laugh and cry. Her influence makes me want to be unruly. I'm always interested in checking out the blogs she follows. Chances are, I'll be interested in them, too. I picked something up on Kass's Redoing the Undone blog. [In this instance I am not going to print the link to Kass's blog, as that would be redundant just for this post]. Reading Kass's post, I followed a link to the blog of the very talented and funny Kim of *Numinosity* [yes, there will be links]. Of course, going to Kim's blog led me to some of her followers, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of a group of most felicitous women, mostly of a certain age. Many of them are artists or artistes. All of them are whimsical women who know how to have a grand time. And through these women, I learned about Candace. I learned that Candace wants to travel. Candace, you see, is a rather plain little rag doll who is feeling somewhat housebound. Kim's good followers have volunteered to host Candace in locations spread far and wide, to take photos of Candace's adventures, and to write in the journal that Candace will bring along. Readers, I promise you many laughs if you click on these few links and read the posts and commentary. Candace is going to have one good time in many different locations.

This morning I learned that Candace has already been having fun at her first stop - Seattle. [This is a must-read, folks!] I've been angling for days to get a chance to host Candace in Sin City, but Kass and I were each a few days behind the other good women who volunteered. This morning Kim pointed me to her follower, artymess, from the U.K. I e-mailed quickly, made a connection with Lorna, and . . . Candace will be arriving in Las Vegas after international travel from Great Britain. Oh! The plans I have for Candace. Certainly the Neon Boneyard and the Bonanza Gift Shop! Since she is a girl of the desert (at least part-time, I believe) herself, she might enjoy some hiking nearby, or even camping out in some of the wonderful places I know about. Surely, she'll want to take in a Las Vegas show, and I'll be the designated driver so she can become as lubricated as she would like. I'm sure she'll want to visit my little business and meet all the homes who are already splitting their sides at the very notion of Candace's travels and so many silly and fun loving adult women across the world. I want to take her to Massage Envy where we will enjoy the Girlfriends Massage, both tables and two therapists in one room with us. When we're tired from all of our adventures, I will embellish Candace's dress with sequins and beads. Or maybe I'll even whip up a couple of new things for her. I want Candace to meet beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf, and I'll remember to place Candace's little bed in a locking cabinet or a closet that can be closed. Virginia Woolf likes to carry small objects in her mouth and hide them. Candace doesn't look very large to me. And - hey! - have I mentioned I'm expecting a visitor sometime in the future? Welcome, Candace. Viva Las Vegas!

In my ears right now: I am also charmed by artists who cover the material of other artists. I like hearing music I recognize, but having it contain a little twist or surprise. Like, "Hey, who knew?" Or, "I like this version as much as I liked the original." This has been in my ears all day. And may I just say that I love a woman who wears her cowboy boots with a skirt? I am such a woman.

Something that charmed me: Well, I've been charmed a lot this week already, but I have big plans for tomorrow. I need some sunshine. I need Vitamin D. In a bad way. I have an outing in the works. A day in the sunshine exploring a new place and new things. The weather is suited to shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Lots of water will need to be packed in, sunscreen and the camera tucked into the front flap of my backpack . . .

A Cheap, But Meaningful Gift to Oneself ~ I Love Learning New Things!

Beloved Dylan is drawn to plants and flowers. He has never met one he didn't like . . . to eat. Virginia Woolf became so impressed with his delight for greenery, she has become a chomper, too. It is truly the only perverse, wrongheaded behavior either of these cats commits, and it makes me unhappy. The result is that my home is devoid of plants. I get lovely light in the rooms due to the placement of the windows and I would have some beautiful growth in every room if I could. However, I gave up plants in the home after several episodes of green vomiting on my very light carpet. In my office, a second choice but a good one, I sport some truly remarkable specimens. Home dudes occasionally need to be reminded not to brush up against long, twining limbs and trailers: "Watch out for the plant, Homes!" I don't have a third choice place in which to enjoy plant life.

On a Sunday at Fresh & Easy, I treated myself to a bromeliad. These odd looking species range from the well known pineapple to large varieties that thrive outdoors to small, colorful, showy ones that only thrive indoors. My new purchase was all flashy pink, tightly overlapping leaf bases tucked in among long, curving, narrow green leaves. I always think the colorful stalks resemble a reptile's scales, many precisely interconnected pieces working together to cover the internal structure. I felt it was too cold to leave my bromeliad in the car overnight, so I carried it inside on my first trip from the car. I'm nobody's fool. I put that plant on the top of the entertainment center amongst many other items ~ they wouldn't notice it for just a moment. They'd be far more interested in the rustling grocery bags and the smell of the guacamole and shepherd's pie and cucumbers. I returned to the car for the last load and trudged back inside, arms overloaded. I wasn't even completely across the threshold when I spotted two furry creatures at the top of the entertainment center, shooting furtive looks across their shoulders and . . . . chomping. Heartbreak. I was only gone a moment. Those plants are comparatively pricey, too.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I always stop to look at the plants and flowers when I enter Fresh & Easy. What? The bromeliads were still on the shelves, but on sale for $2.10! Hmmm . . . OK, well that makes sense. They'd been there for awhile. Some of the leaves were broken or scarred, and I wouldn't have taken some of those plants for free, but I poked around the gathered offerings and came up with a pretty nice replacement for my pink and green beauty. It had an odd, deep purple, microscopic flag protruding from between two of the "scales". I wasn't sure what that was all about, but it was easily plucked off. When I entered my home, I immediately put that plant in the coat closet at the front door. Hey, I may be too trusting at times, but I'm not stupid. That night I served dinner to a friend. I opened the coat closet and said, "See what I found!" He looked a little startled and quipped, "I don't think it's going to thrive in there, Les, even if it is a plant that will tolerate low light." "You goon, you know it's going to the office with me in the morning!"

The bromeliad has sat on the corner of my desk for a week, pleasing me a great deal. I like to water it, pouring the liquid into its middle where all the leaves and the stalk converge to make a cup. It would seem I chose a location where this plant believes the lighting to be perfect, and it surely attracts attention from visitors to my queendom. "What in the world is it?!" Midweek I noticed some odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales". Yesterday, when I arrived for work:


Who knew? A flower!

Today when I arrived for work ▬ ▬ ▬ ►

It puts me in mind of a little girl with her hair in pigtails high on her head. And there is promise of more purple flowers to come! Odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales", indeed! Yesterday I e-mailed the photo of the first flower. "Ha! Look at that!" came the reply. This morning I e-mailed the picture of the twin flowers. He responded, "I always thought that pink spike was the flower." I always did, too. I love learning new things! And down below, the reader likely thinks I'm going to say those purple flowers are what charmed me.

In my ears right now:

Let's play Twister, let's play Risk, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
See you in heaven if you make the list, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Something that charmed me: My desk lizards charm me. Oh, come on, reader. You knew that! For I am the Queen of the Reptiles and I am feeling far more frisky than I have in awhile. She's ba-a-a-a-ack!

Photo credit for the lovely Virginia Woolf:
J. D. Morehouse

Slow, Easy Sunday

We have a deal ~ Dylan, Virginia Woolf and Limes. On Sundays, the double alarm clocks do not announce the start of the day. We ease into it. Sometimes it's still in the predawn, if that's when I come to life. But when the weather is cold and our home is warm, I tend to lie in a little later. This morning we woke to Justin radio-ing in on the BlackBerry. At holiday times, we work Sundays, although I don't go in. The home dudes just radio their progress, their observations, their jokes as the day goes on. "Hey, Limes, whatcha doin' now?" "Laundry and vacuuming, homes!" "Be sure to use your carpet rake because of Dylan's fur." "Right there with you, homes." "Goin' for a walk later, Limes?" "Every day of life, homes." "Good shiott, Limes."

On Sundays, I make a fuller pot of coffee because I have the time to sit awhile and savor it longer. As I grind the beans, the cats dance figure eights around my ankles because in this establishment, fresh water is put down every morning in a new, clean bowl. It is expected. Once the coffee is brewed to perfection, I select a much loved mug from a vast collection and sit on the throne that is my desk chair. Then I read. Then I write. Today I am enjoying the music selections from Tag's post yesterday. I hadn't thought of The Highwaymen in years. I saw them perform once. I loved it. Yesterday and today I love watching them step up to their mikes, each to sing his part - the smiles, the obvious camaraderie on the stage. Waylon and Johnny gone now . . . Mr. and Mrs. Elvis Costello singing Crazy with Willie Nelson . . . Allison Krauss singing Paul Simon . . .

Saturday was a heavy blog traffic day, with some less frequent followers ringing in ~ I liked that. During e-mails throughout the afternoon and evening, the Badger commented how fun it all is and wouldn't it be grand to attend the great internet round table at some funky spot as Kass suggested. I reminded him of the sub-headline on my blog and said I'd rather host this soiree at my home, cooking red sauce in the kitchen, good music, red wine. What discussions would take place! I wonder if the walls could contain all the energy, creativity and good will? Later he e-mailed, "You're blossoming, Limes." I replied that I didn't know about that, but I certainly had rejoined the living.

I'll need to go to Fresh & Easy later. I make a macaroni and cheese to die for and it has been requested. This is an adult version of the ultimate comfort food. No child would go for this pasta creation, and it doesn't come out of a blue box. Nor is it orange when ready to be served. When I layer some Gruyere in it, the cheese strings up so badly that diners look like Lady and the Tramp eating their spaghetti. I'm hoping not to relive running into Bob at Fresh & Easy, but I won't let the possibility keep me from a store where I like to shop. Actually, I've been given so many suggestions for things I should have said to Bob, that maybe one more encounter . . . . perhaps, just once, I could make an exception and cause a really ugly public scene . . . nah. Kass, you want to join us for dinner? Feed an addiction?

So, Kass, is this the Bloom Where You're Planted image you have at your Midway cottage? Because I've had an affinity for her art for decades, I've observed that sometimes they scramble up the images with the quotes, so one's never quite sure.

I was glad you mentioned the Philip Seymour Hoffman movie yesterday. I'd forgotten it was coming out and I never want to miss anything he's acting in. I need to make a date and go see it.

Not sure if you picked this up, because it was sandwiched in with some long string of comments, but I had read you were interested in the neon boneyard and I had posted about that some five weeks ago. Tag and Kirk had been interested in it, so this post was my little offering.

And so, favored readers and 'tend friends, if I do not move myself, I will have spent another lost day and I made a promise to myself and important others that I'm not going to let that happen any more. There are places to go and people to see, food to be prepared and shared, group gatherings to be looked into, and a whole world of others to connect with. Tonight I want to begin writing Chapter 2 on the journey to Sugarhouse. Because I'm compelled to tell.

In my ears right now: Still The Highway Men singing Highway Man. Thanks, Tag. " . . . . I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can . . . "

Something that charmed me: Friend Willy and his adventures in PhotoShop. We have surely cut a rug together before, but the prize is fantasy. Nor are those Willy's or my bodies. But the faces are real and he is funny!



One photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

Walls

I'd entitled the piece "Walls" and had been noodling at it - I was having fun. But before I could post it, I began to feel like I was running into brick walls, my head leading. I've had a little rough spot in which things got terribly out of balance. A little sad, a little angry, a little fearful . . .

I was right about something. I do not like to be on the back of an empty building in the dark where I can't be heard if I scream and I can't see out of my windows to see who might approach me. And that is what happened with the arrival of Pacific Standard Time. Yesterday by 3:00 p.m., the shadows on the deck were so long and dark, I had to give up my mood lighting in favor of the harsh fluorescents and I felt like I was in a police interrogation. The phones won't ring which means I'm not booking jobs. We're all over Google, coming up first, second and third in every search . . . where are the people?

But even I can't wallow in a hole indefinitely, so please - won't you join me in something lighthearted?

"You put funny shit on the walls, Limes. Here and at your place." "Define funny shit, Home Dude!" I wasn't all that amused. Carpet technician interior design critics? "Well, those tools in your dining room and fairies and old-timey looking stuff and some stuff I don't know what it is, and weird pictures and blankets." Oh! Home dude doesn't get sampler sized quilts on the wall and vintage, red-painted wood-handled kitchen implements and whimsical flying creatures posed to look as if they're actually fluttering around my rooms. Home dude probably doesn't get venerable things, either, but that's for a later post.

It might correctly be stated that I am a bit quirky and that I have strong attachments to certain items of decor. I have a deep need to be surrounded by things that are beautiful to me for some reason, and sometimes no one else can see the reason or the beauty. I also put up pictures and postcards that are hilarious to me, but maybe nobody else. I stick pretty much anything on the wall that won't tear the wall down. And then I admire my wonderful things, every time I pass them. My blog headline says I'd really like to invite EVERYONE over, so come on ~ take the mini-tour of my walls.

I am crazy for See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Say No Evil and have quite a collection of such images. Yes, it is true. I can go to the trashy, sleazy 80-year-old souvenir shop on Las Vegas Blvd. and find home decorator items. They also sell postcards of some of the Nevada Test Site detonations that I've picked up and fondled, but I've never brought one home.

I've not yet mentioned that each and every one of my much loved doodads has a story behind it. I can remember where I bought it or which friend gave me what as a gift.



Before you, observe the cherub shelf purchased for $1 at an estate sale - Mother Badger taught me well. Upon the shelf resides a glass perfume bottle I bought in Egypt, 7 nesting wooden dolls brought to me from Budapest, a beautiful old glass wasp trap and my beloved miniature mannequin whom I pose differently every Sunday. Beneath the shelf you will see cowboy offerings presented by the Badger. Yes, you do detect I have an affinity for all things cowboy. And the Badger has been known to indulge me in that area. Note to self: photograph some of the boots.

The angel wall is located right next to the front door. Although I am possibly the least religious person you could name, with virtually no faith, I am drawn to angels as I am to fairies, dragonflies and other beautiful creatures with wings. The angel and dove on the top are on the lid to a cookie tin I have dragged with me to many different homes. I think it is one of the most beautiful images I have ever seen. The little beauty below is a sea shell angel with a porcelain face, highly embellished. She hopped on my bus on one of many wonderful trips to Sanibel Island.

Above the computer fly the funky Florida fairies and the flapping pink quilt sampler has a story to it. Every day I secure the corners of that textile treasure to the wall. Every day Virginia Woolf engages in the catly activity of removing the fasteners, so the corner of the quilt flaps. She does this several times a day. I reattach the corner of the quilt several times a day. It is a good arrangement and keeps us active.

However, the wall that seemed to perplex home dude the most was the dining room wall with its burlap bag from Blue Mountain coffee beans brought to me from Jamaica and the 60-year-old kitchen implements. Although I took pains to explain the purpose of the clunky old potato ricer and why it charmed me, he couldn't catch onto why someone would first cook the potatoes, then change their consistency. What the heezy, they were already cooked - wouldn't you just eat them?

True story: He'd just finished a big meal with two pieces of birthday pumpkin pie and cocktails. I was clearing the dishes and not looking directly at him when he said, "This place looks just exactly like you, Limes." I snapped my head around pretty quickly, still stinging from the "Limes, you put funny shit on the walls" comment. I thought, "What, the place looks like me? Old? Small? Tattered? Dusty?" But the Badger was grinning widely - his statement was a tip of the hat to me and my decorating prowess.

And now I intend to end my personal pity party and rejoin the living. I've got some favored blogs to read and some comments to make on them. I've got blogs I peek at surreptitiously and don't comment at all. I've got to write another post. I've got a trip to pack for. I've got plans for this weekend. I've got to get on with it. ; ~}

In my ears right now: Benson and Bloomsbury chirping their empty heads off and I'm glad of it, for the phones are so quiet I'd begin pacing except for their birdly company.

Something that charmed me: The Blogger who jumped through quite a few hoops to land on a real e-mail address and then sent me a message saying "We miss reading you. You're too quiet. What's wrong?" Like Eeyore, I'd say, "Thanks for noticing me."

Cat-aiku No. 9, Abject Terror ~ Seek Solace from Fear

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse


Small black cat trembles,
Lying on the monitor.
Her fear plucks my heart.


Sunday we walked a few miles before dinner. He'd ridden his bike and I'd walked my "real" walk, but it was beautifully 77 degrees and sunny - we just wanted to be outside. He brought the camera I asked him to carry, in case we saw anything interesting to show in a post about Limes' walk. We didn't but that may be because we were so engaged in talking that we didn't see anything around us. He wore shorts and I wore short sleeves and it was a pleasant afternoon.

I walk in the dark before dawn every morning, returning home for coffee and a shower before work. I flip on a morning newscast I thoroughly enjoy, mainly because of the meteorologist - Sherry - a beautiful, fun, humorous, environmentally responsible woman of 50 who openly says she's 50 and I kind of like that. I buzz around home getting dressed, grabbing food for lunch, checking the DayPlanner to see if I have anything to do, and listening to what Sherry has to say because weather affects my walk, camping, and our business.

She said a strong front was rolling in. We'd get hideous winds on both ends of it and a tremendous drop in temperature. The wind was promised by lunch time Tuesday. A quick dawn e-mail: "You'd better ride in the morning today, Badger, because the afternoon should be pretty horrid!" It roared in when he was 5 miles into the ride. Around 10:00 a.m., it began to suck the huge glass and steel doors of the office open and closed, open and closed. When it threatened to snap the opened doors off their hinges, I finally locked myself in.

My little black cat, Virginia Woolf, is terrified of the howling wind. That makes us two of a kind. Dylan pussyfoots around our home, seemingly oblivious to it, but VW shakes and her small face looks worried. She sticks close to me as I move through our rooms. No humane person could fail to notice this little morsel suffering as the blast screams through the breezeways (great word!) of our community. Although I have double-paned windows, the blinds clatter in the window frames.

This morning the BlackBerry woke me as it is supposed to do. I could hear the tempest snapping the Summerlin banners in the streets, so I dressed accordingly and set out on one of my older walking routes. I began to spin the local park 6 years ago. It's no longer my only route and it's not even my favorite or most exciting, but it is familiar and comfortable. This walk is efficient because it requires a half-mile walk to and from the park, and the circle around is very close to one mile exactly. It requires no thought, few glances at the Garmin (at least to measure distance). There is a decent grade, sharp enough to pull at the abs when I walk uphill. I enjoy a variation of uphill, downhill, and when the wind blows, a variation of into the gale, away from the blast. Except for today.



I wore more clothing for the walk than I have since last spring. I needed it against 40 degree temperatures and wind chill factor in the 30s. It made me feel clunky and constricted. I hit top speed pretty quickly and made it to the park in really good time. The cold didn't bother me as much as I'd feared, although I forgot gloves and needed them. I saw none of the familiar early morning park walkers - they were probably all smart enough to stay in. And I started the circles.

I have enough IQ points to understand the finer points of both randomness and odds. But I struggle to comprehend how and why the wind blew straight into my face on the uphills and either broadsided me or blew straight into my face on the downhills 100% of the time. I would love to have watched that wind direction screen on Sherry's broadcast! It must have looked like activity in a Waring blender. My eyes streamed, my nose streamed, my ears froze (note to self: get out the hat), my hair was nearly torn from my skull, and I had to mouth-breathe. For hours. The thought I struggle to quash each time it arises came visiting: "Why do I do this? I am not required by anyone to do this!" But I am. I require it of myself.

Arriving home, first cup of coffee in hand, I remoted Sherry onto my TV screen. She was reporting all the numbers that tell the story - temperatures in different neighborhoods, wind speed and chill factor. She reminded us to watch out for cars in lanes next to us because cars can be moved by the winds. She told us that it is colder today than any time since last March and to be sure to grab a coat this morning . . . . . no shit, Sherry. An hour later, I took up my charcoal gray pea coat that is like a new gift every year when I wear it for the first time. I think the gift of a coat is lovely - the spirit of wrapping the recipient in warmth - and mine was a gift.

This post was not meant to be a weather report, but rather a commentary on change. Seasons change and we adapt, of necessity. Sometimes changes come abruptly and the necessary adjustments seem harsh. Only a couple of days ago, I walked in the sun. It was faded, autumnal sun, not summer blaze, and I liked it. Now it seems wintry. The Badger has a phrase for the time of year we're stepping into - the heart of darkness. But not every day will be as extreme as the past two. Sometimes the conditions will be tolerable. Spring wiill come again. And a camping date has been set. We have several potential destinations, and the final choice will be made based upon weather. We will select a location where the chinook won't tear us to pieces and so it goes . . . .


In my ears right now: Shrieking wind. Wailing wind.

Something that charmed me: I found my black leather gloves tucked into the pockets of my pea coat, right where they were left last spring, waiting to be employed again this winter. It made me feel sturdy. Ready for whatever comes my way. Things change. I can be prepared and deal with change.

Silliness ~ and TMI

I like Erin O'Brien's For and Against so much that I'd like to just blatantly plagiarize it (customized to reflect me, of course) within only a couple of days of her last one. However, that battles with just a shred of "Limes, come on!" So instead, a meme picked up from another blog I follow. Close, even if no cigar! And passing on a meme is not plagiarizing.

A - Age: Yes, I have one.

B - Book you love: The Camerons by Robert Crichton, a saga.

C - Cause(s) you embrace: Breast cancer research, cat protection societies, get-out-the-vote, any wilderness protection, supporting womens shelters, serving meals to the needy, mentoring programs.

D - Dogs' names: Nonexistent and I-Don't-Have-One.

E - Essential start your day item: Coffee bean grinder.
(See left.)

F - Favorite color: I can't pick one. I'm strongly pulled by almost every color.

G - Gold or Silver or Platinum: I bet a woman made up this meme and this stems from an interest in jewelry, which doesn't particularly interest me. But I like warm tones, so I guess gold.

H - Height: Never got any. "Stand up, Limes!" "I am."

I - Instruments you play: Piano, poorly. Tambourine, drunkenly. Upon request: "California Dreamin' ".

J - Job title: Manager.

K - Kid(s): Just the one. I waited the longest, I got the best one!

L - Living arrangements: Owned and managed by Dylan and Virginia Woolf. I keep the roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and litter in their catbox. I've got the better end of the deal. It's been noted, often, that I am difficult.

M - Mom's name: Mom.

N - Nicknames: "The skirt with a badge", Sparky, Limes.

O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Too many. I hope no more!

P - Place you love: Just about anywhere deep in the desert, preferably staying for a few days. Conversely, the green, green UK is my favorite place.

Q - Quote from a movie: "Nice marmot!" ~ The Big Lebowski.

R - Right handed or left handed: Right. On me, the left one has no reason to exist. It can't do anything.

S - Siblings: Sort of.

T - Time you wake up: 3:00 a.m.-ish. Every day of life.

U- Underwear: Unremarkable.

V - Vegetable you dislike: Peas. I wouldn't eat them as Gerber's baby food and I won't eat them now.

W - Ways you run late: Refuse to do late. Can't do it.

X - X-rays you've had: Just like that "overnight in the hospital" deal, too many. No more, please!

Y - Yummy food you make: I don't make it, per se, but I prepare it. Sliced cucumbers, dashed with balsamic vinegar and freshly ground sea salt. Every morning of life at 10:00 a.m. "It must be 10:00. I smell her cucumbers."

Z - Zoo favorite: Not anything simian. And yes, you see me below, seated on the rump of a silverback gorilla.

In my ears right now: The abecedarian song, "A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . . . "

Something that charmed me: Friend Willy is a man who likes to learn new things. PhotoShop intrigued him, so he took a short class. He took the one picture of me and delivered it up in so many hilarious ways, I'll never be able to share them all.