You Didn't Pass the Audition

You know, at the first, he had me. Yes, I was on his side, even though - on paper - this wasn't an ideal match. I'd now had a little dating experience. I wasn't precisely jaded or cynical, but the words "almost spent" come to mind. And while I'd had a few snickers, maybe one or two actual guffaws, never once had I had even a hint of that slight lift of heart and mood that comes when . . . well, I know it comes sometimes. It's happened to me.

He was responsive to e-mails, something to which I attribute perhaps too much merit. He was literate in those e-mails, something of importance to me. On the other hand, he showed no symptoms of the great sense of humor I value. His look wasn't dead-on, and may I elaborate on that, please? In all my life I've never weighed going out with a man based on his extreme good looks. No male models needed here. I have written about being blown away at age 15 when I met a young man who turned out to be gorgeous. I'd never considered that possibility, but only wanted to get to know him whom I'd met and so enjoyed in conversation on the telephone. "Gorgeous" was an unexpected delight. Following my long and bitter divorce, someone important in my life referred to Ex as an "ugly fuck" and I went off! Oh, yes, an alcoholic who ruined his health and was not an ideal spouse to me - guilty. Ugly? Maybe to you, but not to me. So, while there are some deal-breakers, such as the man who looked identical to Stepfather in his latest years, mostly I accept people as they look, within wide reason. Bald? Not a problem. Large nose? Likely OK. Physique imperfect? Let's talk about that, because I am an imperfect person, too. Generally, if I reject a possibility based on looks, it relates more to attitude projected by the look than actual physical traits.

So, he suggested a coffee house that was located 2 blocks from my office and I thought, "Well, that's pretty easy. I drink coffee, anyway." He looked average in his photos: height, weight, hair, coloring. He was age appropriate and able to converse about a variety of topics. He worked in an industry I knew nothing about and I was going to mark that down as a plus - I could learn something new. He owned a car and had that job (so he said), putting him miles ahead of some Las Vegans who put themselves on the open market. The car claim might be put to partial proof when I arrived at Starbucks, providing he hadn't borrowed one. Yes, I would meet for coffee.

When I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, I glanced around, tidied my shirt and slacks and immediately received a text message. "I'm already inside. Your coffee awaits you." Oh. All right. That's nice, though I felt just a touch odd being watched through the window. But that's what one might get when meeting in public places. As I walked in and aimed for the table, he stood up to greet me - nice. Lots of men don't do that any longer. He'd got my coffee correctly and I sat down to a nice conversation. I knew quickly that there weren't going to be any fireworks on my side, and I didn't know him well enough to know if he would experience any. I hoped not, since I couldn't be reciprocal. But we talked congenially about things the other knew nothing about, each seeming to be interested in what the other had to say. I'm not sure we could have been much less likely matched, but that was OK. If I was west, he was east, I read, he watched TV, etc. We agreed to a second cup of coffee, neither with a gun held to our head.

Over the second cup, he told me something that many people would not easily share, at least not in a first meeting. He suffered from an acute case of genital herpes of longstanding, resistant to drugs and spread beyond the area one might expect. This did not make me run away or start eyeballing the door. You see, just as I don't judge first on any person's appearance, I do not attach stigma to anyone who has an illness or who has suffered some attack or wrong by another person. There are certain medical descriptions that may ultimately cause me some distress, but I knew a little about this condition and it wasn't harrowing for me to hear. I also knew I wasn't ever going to engage in any activity that would put me in harm's way in that respect. It was safe discussion and I rather credited the man with being straightforward about something many sufferers hide from their associates until it is too late for them to make informed decisions. Besides, maybe it helped him to speak openly about a problem and not be censured. This cost me nothing except the price of the second round of coffee. No, I'm not patting myself on the back for my humanity. I'm suggesting that it costs little to be nonjudgmental.

The second coffee was getting low and I was about to say, "Well, thanks, it was really pleasant to meet you." I wouldn't mislead with any complicated comments. Besides, if he was drooling over me, he hid it well. Agreement is a good way to end a meeting, right? And then he said it. I looked up quickly to make eye contact so I could laugh along with him, though he'd made not one original humorous remark the entire time. "You didn't pass the audition. I'd never go with you. Would you like me to tell you the reasons?" Genuinely floored, I began to sputter, "No, oh no, thanks, but no . . .". Not to be rebuffed, Mr. Herpes told me I was a reject because I was well-traveled (true), well-educated (not as true) and had a job I loved (yes, very true). Though I am rarely at a loss for words, I couldn't think of any response, whether appropriate or idiotic. I began to gather my jacket and purse, not kicking over tables, chairs and cups, but decidedly ready to take my leave. Not really as hip, slick and cool as I'd like to be, as I got into my car, I thought, "Damn me for listening to my mother and Granny again! I thought those were the things I was supposed to reveal."

I regret to say it bothered me. I'm a little sensitive. I work rather hard to be well-liked and admired, though I will not be false. Over time, when I have felt myself in a situation safe enough, I've mentioned this put-down episode to friends. I have trouble saying "arrogant idiot" and stomping off. No, I have to analyze it. "What's wrong with me?" Though Mr. Herpes had left little doubt of what was wrong with me, unless he had more on his list that he didn't spew before I got up to leave. I've landed somewhere pretty solid. Likely his take on me was that I was independent and didn't need him (or anyone else) to fulfill me. That threatens some people or turns them off. They feel  extraneous. But wasn't he taught to keep his mouth shut and simply move on? I guess not. Like I was trying out for the lead in the school play!

Every now and then Facebook lands in my Yahoo mailbox attempting to woo me into their evil game. (I don't and, so far, won't Facebook, for reasons that are my own.) In their offering is a yoo-hoo from seemingly everyone I've ever e-mailed with. "Let's be friends!" Yeah. Uh-huh. Mr. Herpes is invariably in the mix, with a new photo since I met him. His face shows no evidence of having recently been smacked by some angry woman. I'm pleased to see his health is holding out. No, really.

Venus Rising

I have emerged. Four days and nights of writing, sleeping, quick showers, quick nibbles, and then back to work to meet a (soft) deadline today. [See last post below.] I did it according to the tempo my body and mind set, so I typed awhile in the predawn and I slept some during the daylight. I escaped once each day to go to an AA meeting and I got up occasionally to stretch and work my body. I have spent much time alone with myself. Too much? I don't know. I reviewed many things from life and played movies the reader may laugh about. I concentrated 100% on my writing project for long periods of time and then took brain vacations wherever I chose to go. I won't approach a deadline in the same way again. Although it worked, it was not ideal for me. We live, learn and modify. Last night I blurted "Finis!" And it was finis - at least this first draft. I got up from the chair, stretched, grinned, sipped coffee. I almost immediately got an e-mail from David. "I'm not recuperating as quickly as I'd hoped from Thursday's surgery. I won't be able to work tomorrow. Can we play it by ear?" I sent back a sincere, "Just get better. I'm totally ready when you are." I thought to put up a post as I'd not done any writing for fun in several days. What I managed to do was put up the appearance of a post with a title from Byron's "She Walks in Beauty . . " and no other content. I can't even blame Blogger. I was just done and ready for insertion of the fork. "Go to bed, Les. Give it all up. This gig is over." And so, I did, French doors wide open to let in the warm night, cats curled up at the foot of the bed, content that their part in my writing marathon was now complete.

I have always enjoyed writing as part of my work, and I have always approached my work both feet forward, "Let's go!" But writing for work used to look different. When I worked for the union, I was acknowledged the writer of post-hearing and post-arbitration briefs in our office. This didn't make me unique. We each had a specialty. Writing just happened to be mine. When it was possible, various labor reps would trade off tasks, making each of us look good in all areas of our work. It was a different era. Our office was equipped with a fine word processor approximately the size of a small condo and an enormous printer that required a monstrous "cone of silence", as we dubbed it, to keep the noise within legal limits. The floppy disks were about the same dimensions as an old 33 rpm vinyl record. We were also gifted, in this office, with a Secretary I and a Secretary II for our combined needs. No Administrative Assistants, yet. These women were "secretaries" and proud of the title. I had served as the Secretary II in that office for years before my meteoric promotion to labor rep. I was likely pretty difficult for the two ladies to please, and in truth, I'd have preferred to boot one of them from her chair and bang at the keyboard on my own as we do today on our PCs. However, I was a true union believer. Each of us had our work to do, and I needed to let the women do their jobs.

My preferred secretary was Chris. She was my cousin's best friend since junior high school and I'd helped her to get the job for which she probably didn't qualify. I met her at the office on Saturdays and helped her get up to speed so she would be able to do the job. She rewarded me by becoming very good at what she was asked to do. On weekends, Chris, Cousin and I were an unholy trio of fun-loving, hell-raising 80s-90s women, residing in the vast 4-square-mile metropolis of Lemon Grove. We thought we were the queen and princesses of that cloistered little world. I could lean on Chris a little with my work demands and she'd dig in for me. That doesn't mean it was always sunshine and roses. She learned to enter the office before 8:00 a.m. and listen for the sound of my music. She could tell my mood by what I was playing. I learned to bring peace offerings and deliver them sincerely - "Chris, you know it's just the pressure I apply to my work." She understood that and loved me anyway. She was in the birthing center with us when Amber was born. Chris and I used a love name for one another when it was time to give a warning tone that we were reaching the end of our good nature: "Sea Hag". Yes, Popeye's Sea Hag, the one with the pet vulture, Bernard. The Sea Hag had always fascinated and repelled me, and it just popped out of my face one day. When others would ask "So which one of you is the Sea Hag?", we'd respond in unison, "She is!" I once found a gloriously beautiful Sea Hag and Bernard action figure in a funky little shop in a mall. There was only one, and of course, I bought it. To my credit, I gave it to Chris. I've searched and searched for another Sea Hag, but I guess I will have to accept that she will only live on in my dreams and on old, old cartoons.

Late in the 80s, I'd sit up as late as necessary, writing for work, sometimes following a 16-hour workday. Hey, I had coffee. I'd drive to Chris' house at 5:00 a.m., tuck maybe 153 pages of hand-written yellow legal pad sheets under her windshield wiper, go home, rest a short while, shower, dress for the day, and land in the office - looking pretty fresh, I think - to find my first draft ready. When I needed to include an infant's needs in my night shift work, I managed that, too, though it took a lot more out of me. Sometime I shall write about the dawn day that I was hurrying to drop the writing off to Chris and accidentally locked my baby and the keys in the car. She slept through it. I nearly melted into a puddle in my driveway. The Lemon Grove Sheriff said, "Lady, if you want us to, we'll break out a window. But the baby is sleeping. Look, you can see her." AAA took an hour to arrive. But I digress. And I think I just told the entire story of baby locked in car. My point is that I could pull the occasional (or semi-frequent) all-nighter, present a good piece of writing, look perfectly appropriate the next day, work another 16 hours of intense enjoyment, and continue on. I thought I was a young Venus rising, but no longer.

Let's see. This time I preplanned almost to a fault. Had the apocalypse come, I'd have been ready. Man, that sounds an awful lot like my mother. I had a fine, fast PC, dual monitors, reference materials and office supplies at my fingertips. I was working on a project that has no right or wrong. I designate right, wrong or appropriate, verifiable or not, anecdotal or witnessed by many who will come forward in writing. There is no element of anyone (like a union member) winning or losing in this endeavor. There is no prior written biography of my subject to be challenged or bested. And yet, it was far more difficult for me to execute than any previous crunch-time assignment. Oh, some of it is that I'm rusty and don't fully trust myself. Yes, I had some concerns whether my recent illness and its artifacts would hinder me. They didn't. And yet, it took a lot out of me. I had to acknowledge it: I am no longer she who was. I can still deliver the goods. It just takes more of me to do it.

Last night, when I finally decided to throw in the towel, I stepped into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Of course, I got a look at myself in the mirror, "the writer at the end of the project". Oh, it wasn't quite as bad as death eating a cracker. But it was pretty bad. I felt as if I might smell kind of cobwebby like an old lady, and I looked - oh, yeah - like the Sea Hag, with or without Bernard perched upon her shoulder.

April Alliteration - Alcohol
My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey
Happy ending ~ 100% possible
Installment 5

Fast forward to April 16, 2011: The AA meeting I attended was something else altogether. Saturdays are not de rigeur at the club, so it helps break any tendency to complacency and forces me to try other things. The Feather Meeting intrigued me. The AAs there appear almost 100% to be breakaways from the enormous biker gatherings in appearance and presentation. I would say most of them have many, many years of sobriety and AA experience. A huge "bong" (sorry, no other word for it) of sage is burned in an abalone shell and passed one to another, the smoke purifying the environment. I detested the smell of the burning sage and after the meeting, my clothes and hair reeked of it, but I held in. An eagle feather is passed from one AA to another as each speaks. One holds only the beaded handpiece, and not the actual feather. There is no evidence of the Big Book or any other AA publication, but I must underscore that these AAs are veterans and recite entire pages of the Big Book from memory, so I wasn't too offput by that. "god" is universally referred to as "the creator". I have no problem with that. Going around in the circle, the AAs talked about stuff one hears at every other AA meeting, but then I was struck by something I didn't care for very much. These renegades, these outlaws, these very-far-from-mainstream folks are extremely rigid about their own little version of the AA "talk circle" and its "rules". There is all manner of bad juju surrounding the utterance of a curse word while one holds the eagle feather. One man supposedly committed this sin (I swear I did not hear him swear, and I was paying attention!) and all manner of grief and finger-pointing ensued. This was intriguing to me. Across the campus at the middle-of-the-road group operate all the freedoms I've come to associate with AA. And in the room populated by the wild bunch, restriction and required orderliness and rule-following. This intrigues me. And I marvel that I've now been doing this long enough to form opinions and preferences for certain meetings.

Something that charmed me: Two somethings, actually ~ Sunday afternoon, I pounded the keyboard in temperatures of more than 90 degrees outdoors. "Hmmmmmm, " thought I. I savored the first iced coffee of the season! And ~ I lost weight during my writing project! No, no, not the difference in weight effected by whether or not I am sporting a pencil behind my ear. Real loss. I wasn't a slave to The Bean, either. Go figure.

Work Juju and More

What a difference a couple of weeks can make! I believed I could not get meaningful work to save my life, and I needed meaningful work to [at least help] save my life. I rather half-heartedly made some job applications, resulting in a very quick offer of "work" with a Spam sandwich for lunch. Within days came the real and nearly ideal offer, proffered from a well-remembered shining place in my tapestry. It was both rescue and a tip of the hat for the efforts I've made to find health and peace. It has seemed a lifetime. In actuality, it's been less than one year, that quest for balance. Am I perfectly balanced? No. I'll have to work for near-balance every day that remains to me.

On January 20, 2011, Kass wrote a most wonderful post both in tribute to the writer Virginia Woolf, and to ask other bloggers about how they order their surroundings for writing. I was able to comment a bit about Woolf, one of my favorite authors and a beloved historical figure. But I couldn't say anything about my writing area, because I really had no routine, no staging. I felt both inadequate and dull. Today I'd be a little kinder to myself, remembering that I'd only returned to blogging one day before, after a 6-month breather. I'd been extremely ill, moved to a new home and was barely clearing some very dark clouds. I hadn't written in a very long time, and only once in my new location. There's no sin in that, nor in not being able to add to commentary. But it bothered me terribly. It made me feel very sad.

Now, suddenly, "writing" also means my work. I'm thinking to laminate or bronze the first check I receive solely in payment for writing. Has the reader ever divined that in addition to all of my other "-holisms", I might be classified a workaholic? I prefer to think I'm just painstaking and responsible about whatever work I undertake, but I am forced to acknowledge that I probably take it between my teeth like a dog with a bone and chew it to pulp. And there is all kinds of juju attached to my "work". Whether my work is running a little carpet cleaning company or enabling an executive committee to behave irresponsibly, trying to hit all the marks required of a union representative or simply behaving like the office monkey I can be when I won't engage, don't contribrute, refuse to participate, there is a certain sameness about my set-up for work. I've got definite ideas about what my area should look like, what items should be at my fingertips. It's not so very different now that my office is at home.

While I want my dictionary to be of the online variety, I love the heft of my Roget's thesaurus in my hand. Fully 2 inches thick, the pages have aged to a yellow-brown hue that pleases me. I play a game when I look up a word in the thesaurus. Does the word mean what I thought it means? Is there some synonym I may have never dreamed of? I find now that I win more often than the book wins. For more than 20 years, I've stored my colored pencils in small ceramic flower pots, the pencils sticking out like so many posies. I do not use highlighters ever, for any purpose, and I do not keep them at hand. I do keep complete coffee service at hand, even if there is another coffee set-up nearby. I want it at my desk. I always want a betta fish on my desk, and a live plant and several notepads, as I keep multiple lists running at all times. I keep a set of small weights and a hula hoop nearby and several small, framed pictures that are meaningful to me. My stack of CDs is about 16 inches deep, this in addition to all the YouTube links on my desktop. Yes, I know how I want my work space to feel.

It's different now. I'm still not 100% solid with being home, in "the robe", clacking away at the computer, and having it constitute my work. What do I need to do, start up the car, drive around the block into my own driveway and "arrive"? Organize a small faux "lobby"? Maybe make mens and womens separate restrooms? I could dress professionally for myself and then allow myself casual Fridays. I could start an office grapevine of gossip . . . or I could make some small changes to remind myself that my work is now different work, of the sort I've longed for, and it's going to look different.

In my home there is a small studio upstairs, presently unused. It is warm in the winter and hot in the summer. It has a large expanse of windows and French doors leading out onto a deck that overlooks the pool. It is well suited to host land-line telephone, internet and coffee service. It is rather removed from the rest of the living area of the house and, therefore, quiet. The cats thoroughly enjoy this little spot and wouldn't have to be enticed to join me. Should I make this my little atelier? I'm artsier now. Perhaps I should wear a beret. I own 3 genuine modern-day German military berets in different colors. Hmm . . tilted toward the side of my head . . . I have an Edith Piaf CD I could play loudly. I'd take up my antique crystal inkwell and my Waterman fountain pen with the 18k gold nib. I thought I might like a beautiful bottle of absinthe on the corner of the desk - no, I wouldn't drink any. I thought of it as decor. Then I decided what I'd really like are some of the sexy little absinthe spoons. I looked on eBay, the same place I spy out beautiful inkwells for the collection and - oh, yeah! Absinthe spoons.

David and George brought in people from both coasts for me to interview and I've already got more writing assignments. They were impressed with the work I'd done in 6 days. They were amazed I could talk pop art. They were pleased to see that my personality has returned, my vitality, my sense of excitement. I pleased myself in that I asked good questions during the interviews, connected well with my subjects, sparked new ideas. It was a good meeting. I met a most fascinating and pleasant man, and I'm not talking about the heat of sexual tension, but human warmth. "Can I take you out for a meal?" he asked. "No, not while I'm writing about you." "OK, I'll wait." Very nice, indeed.

On the way home, I decided to stop and pick up some things I needed. I'd been housebound for so long, even if by tethers of my own making. It had been a long time since I'd been out anywhere in the middle of a weekday, in the old neighborhood. I stopped at a nationally known megastore I detest. I don't like the trek through the place, I don't like to give them my money. Their prices are the best, however, and sometimes I bite the bullet. I got goo for my hair and moisturizer for my face, food for my cats, litter for said cats. I found a book I'd like to read, diet Dr. Pepper and some bits and pieces for the dolls I'm making. Finally my list was exhausted and it was time to check out. The lines weren't long, but what the hell? Every female customer in the place was carrying an armload of newspaper ads. It seems this particular store will honor any other store's lower advertised prices. I watched, fascinated, as matrons negotiated oranges priced individually vs. oranges priced by the pound, bickered about whether an 8-pack of light yogurt was the same as an 8-pack of regular yogurt, and just exactly what is the weight of those bags of Doritos. My eyes widened when the woman directly in front of me was busted for using as comparison the sale sheets that wouldn't go into effect for 2 more days. A young kid with a mullet highlighted much like my own hair stood behind me. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" "No, never." I looked at his purchases. A package of socks and a package of underwear. "You can go ahead of me. You've only got the two items." "Thank you, but haven't you been standing here a long time?" "Well, apparently not long enough, kid, because I'm still enthralled." Who knew? How long has this gone on?

Lying in my tub this morning, ears underwater, I enjoyed the distortion of sound, floating in the deep, deep water, and decided I want and need to write about something that isn't a particularly pleasant subject. April is Poetry Month and I was blown away last spring by all the wonderful presentations the various bloggers made. Mine will not be so pretty. I will be writing a series of posts under the heading of April Alliteration - Alcohol. I need to. It pleases me that I will write it from this end of the tunnel. Sunday I was journaling. Sometimes the writing takes on a life of its own as one's hands move involuntarily along the Ouija board. Without thinking about it very much, I found I'd written "I don't have to hide things and I don't have to drink." And that's what moves me forward toward doing the next right thing.

Something that charmed me: My BFF would know if it is some special time that honors women right now. I'm not as good about keeping up with such things, and - in fact - I rely upon her to tell me about special recognition or celebrations. However, in my own small world, I am celebrating women this week. Women older and quite young, women I know from different places and for different reasons. Of course I love my men friends, but this week, I appreciate the women. I had to get to a pretty advanced age to genuinely treasure what women can and will do for one another. Thank you, one and all. Sincerely.

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.

OFFICIAL: Woman Impercolated by iPhone

SUSPECT CLAIMS,"SHE ASKED FOR IT!"

Las Vegas police report taking a 911 call from a barely coherent local woman in fear for her virtue. She asserts a male acquaintance half way across the U.S. plied her with champagne administered through his iPhone. Police contacted Tree to obtain his version of events. "She's not inebriated, she's percolated and she asked me to do it!" When officers approached the woman in her home, she squealed, "Ooooh, I'm feeling so bubbly!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, I'm playing! Come on, that last post about old-time religion was hard going. I needed a little light relief and Tree was good enough to oblige me this morning. If you haven't visited Tree at Decadent Tranquility, then you've missed out. His prose and poetry, his computer generated artwork are remarkable in every way. The visual candy is exquisite. And guess what? I don't know how he does fractals and percolations and I don't want to know how. I'm not going to do it. I just want to look at it. And have a little fun with it through his good graces this once. Be warned: you need to spend some time on his website. Don't miss the archives filled with three different ongoing fictional sagas. Women readers, he flirts, too!

But I'm not only going to be playful. I'd like to share something I've found. It's poetry. I'm quite poetry challenged, which has made me feel a little backward in the blogosphere, but I can learn. I'm a really good learner. I'm reading (for the 3rd time or so) a book called Desert Queen by Janet Wallach. It's a biography of Gertrude Bell, a British very Victorian woman, whose life was remarkable for all the things she did that Victorian women didn't do. Deadly serious Swiss Alp mountain-climbing for 15 hours in snow and avalanche comes to mind, attending Oxford when female students numbered 2 or 3, and speaking 7 languages. She was fascinated by all things Middle East and made many expeditions on horse and camel, attended by various Middle Eastern guides and no one else. Through mountains and deserts in brutal conditions packing canvas bathtub and full sets of china and crystal for dining, 1000s of miles. She is acknowledged to be a major figure in the creation of modern-day Iraq. (Not sure she'd brag that up today, but that's what she was.) So, it's a real Leslie kind of book: British, bio, female, desert. But what I discovered in the book this time was something else.

Gertrude's translations of the medieval Persian poet Hafiz (Hafez)'s works are still regarded as the best translations that exist. Apparently archaic Persian is a brutal language to master, some words and phrases having multiple meanings. Well, I like this poetry! Now, had you recommended to me the works of a medieval Persian poet, I'd have thought "Uh-uh" and run screaming. But this speaks to me in volumes!

Maybe you already know about Hafiz (Hafez) if you're not new to poetry. And if you do, shame on you for never sharing! But it was a very new and pleasant experience for me. I recommended it to a poetry-loving woman friend who immediately went web-crawling and declared my find an excellent one. Hey! Smell me! I highly recommend the Gertrude Bell book, as well. TRW, your copy has been ordered and is coming by slow boat.

And so, reader, a little Turkish coffee and dessert?

From The Subject Tonight is Love

A Potted Plant

. . . And at night I let my pet, the moon,

Run freely into the sky meadow.

If I whistled,

She would turn her head and look at me.

If I then waved my arms,

She would come back wagging a marvelous tail of stars . . .

Something that charmed me: My woman friend needed to work. She had a deadline to meet, a busy morning, a dental appointment."I can't e-mail you at length until later this evening." OK, understood. I've been there. I support healthy detachment. I sent off an e-mail with the information about the Gertrude Bell book and the poetry of Hafiz/Hafez. It would be waiting in her inbox whenever she decided she was ready to glance at e-mails. About 14 nanoseconds later, I was surprised to hear e-mail incoming announced. It was her. What the heezy? She'd opened my e-mail and she was off on a poetry-filled couple of hours. Have I mentioned she's a poetry-loving woman?

Change of Address and More

The lovely black cat, Virginia Woolf, and I do not live in the same place where we resided when I started the blog. We do, however, live in an area of the city with which we are both familiar. VW may like this community. I haven't asked her specifically. She does like to pussyfoot around outside my French doors along the tiled areas of the pool and hot tub. The wall surrounding the yard is so high that even a jungle cat could not escape, and VW now enjoys her first-ever forays into the outdoors. She likes the sun shining on her black fur. She does not like the little spray of water that disturbs her sense of all that's right as my head emerges from the water.

To my last post, esteemed blogger Erin O'Brien encouraged me to "do the 4-miler", meaning a fairly long walk, to snap a photo op. I'd spent years clocking miles and miles of walking each day of life. But I'd fallen away from it and felt very sad about that. I'm walking again. Not 10 miles, yet, on any given day, but I'm moving myself a little. There's a woman I see frequently who seems generally my age and about the same degree of fitness. I've toyed with the idea of asking her to meet up for a walk, but I haven't done so yet. I have befriended the man who passes my home every morning with two white dogs the size of lions. He is very pleasant. The dogs still make me retreat, pressing my backside into the nearest chainlink fence, which I could scale better than a block wall, should they decide to eat me. I passed a remotely familiar community one morning, its posted name ringing a bell from 33 years ago. Yes, it was the one and only section Stepfather built on the eastside all those years ago - homes a little larger and grander that ours in the far west of the city. I strode on streets named for Mom and myself, intersected with that Terrace named for Ex. A contractor could do that in those days. No streets had existed there before. It was just open desert.

I am surprised, intrigued and a little anxious about regaining my fitness. I'd been ill awhile. I'd stopped all fitness routines and my previously inspiring muscles left me so quickly and completely. I wear 2007 (smallest ever) clothes now, or - rather - they wear me, waistbands cinched up like the top of the paper bag around the neck of a wino's bottle. Last week, I went to a medical appointment where I had to be weighed and have my waist measured. I take a medication that can cause unwanted, very quick weight-gain. "Hmmm," said the nurse. "You've lost X pounds." I allowed as how that wasn't such a lot of weight, but he said, "It's about 10% of your body weight in 90 days."Oh.OK, I know what to do. I know to set a timer to remind me to eat, and I know what to eat. I am a fairly decent problem solver.

I mentioned in the last post that I might need a step ladder to do justice to any pictures I might take to show something I found remarkable and funny in my travels. On my first on-foot outing, I determined I was going to need a really big ladder. On my second visit, I realized I was going to need a cherry-picker and far more refined camera equipment than any I can access. But I am resourceful. Circling this curiosity, I spotted some words and thought maybe I could Google something. I also developed a prickly feeling that maybe some copyrights and trademarks might be at work. There were posted some signs and notices relating anger and dissent. At home, in front of the computer, I learned that this jaw-dropper place has already attracted much attention, many photographs, was once an attraction to which one paid admission, and now was the subject of numerous lawsuits and protests. What in the world made me think I was going to be the first to photograph and point to an unusual item? This is Las Vegas, for crying out loud! I'd asked a couple of photographers to make the 7-mile journey with me for years. All I wanted was a snap of the perfectly normal house on a perfectly normal street that had a full-scale roller coaster (with cars) protruding from an upstairs wall, presumably someone's bedroom. There were a few other interesting items, but the owner had not yet gone full amusement park. Should I have been more persuasive, or should the photographers have been more attentive to what I wanted to do those days when I asked for a little field trip? Not sure about that.

I have a decades-long routine for visiting the book store, carefully choreographed by me and explained to with whomever I am going into the store. This dance has been performed with Ex and Amber as my companions, girlfriends, colleagues with whom I am doing research for some presentation. We spill into the entrance of the store, scrambling like roaches spilled out of a jar. I furtively make my way to the section where are sold those kind of unsavory, unseemly, rather lowbrow books I love (I watch the same genre on TV) and fill my arms with as many as I can carry without attracting too much attention. After an agreed-upon amount of time, we meet at some common area of the store and proceed with our day. I'd just loaded up, finding a fresh pile of new offerings by two of my favorite authors. I backed up a little to make a final scan of the shelves and found I'd reversed a step too far - my rear end had pressed onto the shelves of poetry. Ha! Poetry placed cheek-by-jowl with my sneaky pleasure. I had some time before meeting up with my companion. I set down my books and my Starbucks and began to flip through some volumes. Yeah. Just as I thought: I don't care for poetry. Now, the reader should know I've suffered a little due to my lack of poetry prowess and appreciation. A woman friend asked me to tell her about my best loved poetry. Many, many favored bloggers both read and write poetry. And I'm a dud. It was not forced upon me at school and I never sought it out. This does not make me soulless or stupid, unromantic or unimaginative. Poetry is simply not what I do. So I told the girlfriend I have no best loved poems, as I also have no big cleavage or gray hairs. And I've sneaked around peeking at poetry ever since.

Who knows why the title nabbed me? It just did, and I took the volume from the shelf, flipping through the pages. Oooh. No Emily Dickinson here (although I can tolerate Emily). No. Grit here, sometimes, and deep emotion, and hard truths, accepted by the poet. This is not like me - I paid full retail for the slim volume. I have read from it and spilled coffee on it daily for awhile now. While it has not led me yet to other poets and their works, it has led me to another plane of my inner self. It reminded me, after many days, of a poem that did erupt from me once - oh, it's been a few years - that was actually good. I knew it was good. It was painful and bloody, wounded, nearly dying. But it was good and it perfectly reflected the way I felt about things at a place in time. I have begun a new poem of my own writing. It is not ready for presentation yet. I think it may be good. It may be sprung upon unsuspecting readers as it shakes out. We shall see. I'll need more muscles. I'll need more nutrition. I highly recommend "The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje, probably best known as the author of "The English Patient". There, old girlfriend. I have some best-loved poems.

This afternoon, I am moderating a discussion group during some good talk to take place while the Super Bowl drones in other places. If you think me unAmerican because I detest everything about football, OK. I'll bear the shame. If you choose to participate in my tar-and-feathering, OK, but the line is long and they're getting unruly in the back there. The point is, I'm moderating this discussion and I'm a little dicey about it. For you see, I am new to the group and I don't really know all that much about the topic of discussion. I haven't made my bones there. I was selected to moderate because I speak well and I manage groups of people well. That's all. Things that both come naturally to me and which I was trained to do - kind of a no-brainer. I feel a bit fraudulent. Talking the talk before I've walked the walk. I don't want to be "Still Skating After All These Years". And I intend to say as much once I've completed my assignment.

In my ears right now: Well, not my ears, but my head, I guess. Michael Ondaatje ~

Having to put forward candidates for God,
I nominate Henri Rousseau and . . . . .

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

Yesterday (That's a Little Known Beatles Tune)

Everyone's tolerance level is different from another person's. Some people are rock solid. Some of us are more the consistency of Jell-o. Some of us can do both of those, at different times, given different circumstances. I can whine with the best of them once in awhile, even though I mostly am pretty level, pretty positive, pretty upbeat, pretty OK.

I work a lot of hours. I walk a lot of hours. I sleep very little. I eat very little. I never, ever have enough time in the day to do half the things I want to do and I get damned resentful about that. (Note to self: "Limes, whose fault is it that you don't do the things you want to do?") I am so sun deprived I feel nearly ill from it, and we're entering the heart of darkness part of the year. I will walk in the dark, go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. For quite awhile.

Having gone camping for the previous full weekend, my home looked pretty bad. I'm not sure why my coffee mugs land near the dishwasher, rather than in the dishwasher. The clothes and shoes lying throughout gave the place the look of a college dorm or a thrift store. The jacket still smelled of the campfire, attracting the constant attention of Dylan and Virginia Woolf. The pantry and refrigerator were empty. It was clear I was going to have to spend my one day off working my butt off, if I wanted the reward of a few short hours of pleasure in my day.

Having treated myself to a luxurious sleep-in until 5:00 a.m., I rolled out to check the weather and get ready to walk. Below 40-degrees (for the first time this year) and wind screaming - yep, just like meteorologist Sherry said it would be. I bundled up and went for 9 hard, fast miles. I reminded myself again to order a couple of warm knit caps from Kass's friend Holly. My hair is so short my ears nearly freeze in cold weather!

Arriving home, I brewed coffee, soaked in Epsom salts and completely enjoyed the Beatles-fest Tag had posted. Without knowing my personal favorites, he certainly landed on several of them. I enjoyed listening and kept following links. I enjoyed it . . . . until I didn't enjoy it any more. For I got a little down, a little sad, a little melancholy. It was the John Lennon videos that did it - it never stops hurting, and Ringo Starr's tribute tune makes me weep every time I hear it. But a pity party can only go on so long and then the party's over. I had work to do.

Every appliance in the home was running. Virginia Woolf cowered in some unkonwn location as she is terrified of both the vacuum cleaner and the broom. I played music I shouldn't have played. It didn't lighten my outlook. Finally a few, short e-mails were exchanged. "How's your morning? Have you walked yet?" "I have and it was miserable. I have to tell you, I'm struggling to get right today. I'm not doing very well. I'm going to need a little TLC later on." "OK, you shall have it."

I was pleased with myself when I noted the time, looked around the now sparkling, fragrant home and thought, "Time to relax. Things will look better soon." I showered and dressed, made the grocery list, and the BlackBerry rang. The area code from San Diego does not please me when it pops up on the display, but it's almost always an important or necessary call. I answer it every time. It was a person I dislike, calling to tell me about the death of a person I liked. This man hadn't been in my life for some years (after Cousin divorced him), but nevertheless, he was a good man and I liked him. He was considerably younger than I. He caused himself to have congestive heart failure due to his alcoholism. This was not playing out as the most pleasant day I'd spent in awhile. OK, shed a tear for the deceased Dan and move on . . . .

Fresh & Easy pleases me. It's no Trader Joe's, but I like it very much. I It has all manner of prepared dishes I enjoy (best shepherd's pie I've ever enjoyed outside the U.K., all manner of pasta creations), good organic produce, unusual foods, good prices, and it's smaller than a megalomart to trudge through. Sometimes I walk there, tucking an extra 3 miles under my belt for the day. But yesterday, I drove. I had a long list to fill. I became intrigued at the premade salad case by a chicken caesar pasta salad. I wanted to check the percentage of calories that come from fat, so I turned the container over . . . . and poured gloppy, wet, white stuff all over my gray peacoat, black pants, black tights and black shoes. Grrrrrrr . . . . the clerk was nice about it, offering me a paper towel that caused little white paper balls to adhere to the salad glop and I moved on to complete my list. Yes, I bought one of the pasta salads that was in a container with a lid that was secured. I turned the corner into the next aisle I wanted, and there was Bob. Bob, with all the color draining out of his face. Bob making surreptitious, snarky little motions at me with his hands. Bob's snarky hand signals made me angry. Bob is a fortunate man. I do not usually cause great scenes in public places.

Bob is a man I met and came to like very much. The feeling was mutual. We spent a good deal of time together and some niceties took form. He enjoyed having dinner ready for me when I got off of work in the evenings. The headwaiter at a lovely little trattoria located not 500 footsteps from my front door soon knew at which table we'd like to be seated, and which bottle of wine opened. We were in one another's homes many times. I liked Bob so much, I had decided it was time to tell some important people in my life about him. The Sunday approached when I would unveil Bob to a most important person. I'd given it a great deal of thought and knew just what I would say. The Thursday before I would tell about Bob, Shelly called me at my office. Shelly is Bob's wife. Shelly called me exactly the names I would have called her if the tables were turned. No, I never saw a picture of her or even any indication that a woman lived in his home. He claimed to have been long divorced. When Shelly called to tear my head off of my body, she had not yet confronted Bob, for there was one last sweet e-mail. I responded with, "Shelly just called to introduce herself to me." I imagine that was Shelly I saw with Bob in Fresh & Easy. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before (or since). For a long time, I felt like I was some of the choice things Shelly called me.

I hit full throttle scanning and bagging my purchases. What if they got in line behind me or next to me? I needed to get out of there. I felt my spirit sagging. It had been quite the day. I was out of sorts. I went home, put everything away, took one deep breath and the Badger called. "Still want to walk a few miles? The wind has died down, although it's chilly." We agreed to a routine we commonly follow: we each set out from our homes, meet on Desert Inn wherever we happen to meet, then set out for some serious miles. I plodded along to meet him, feeling weighed down in every way. Bundled up in heavy clothes, more day's events than I wanted to deal with, and - hey! - in much fewer than 12 hours, I'd be bundling up to go out walking alone in the predawn. But who's counting?

I saw him across the intersection. He'd walked farther than I had. Was I trudging? Plodding? Dogging it? He waited across the boulevard for me with his warm cap on and his red and black Filson coat. The driver of a small car played chicken with me, daring me to keep walking when he wanted to make that right-hand turn. I never made eye contact. I just squared my shoulders and kept going. Finally I crossed the street and said, "Hey, Badger, some kind of day." We started to walk due west and had taken perhaps ten steps when it happened. One of the concrete blocks of the sidewalk was slightly raised and my toe caught it. Wham! Faceplant. Hard. Water bottle skittering across the sidewalk. The wrapper of the string cheese I was carrying burst open. Me in shock and embarrassed. The Badger grabbing at me, "Limes, here, get up." I staggered to my feet and he took me in his arms. It must have been a fairly spectacular dive, because a nice man in a car put his head out the window to ask if I was OK or if we needed help. "No, but thanks!", the Badger waved him on. I started to cry. Oh, it didn't hurt all that badly. I cried for the day I'd endured. I cried for John Lennon. I cried for Ringo who missed his late mates ~ it was almost 50 years ago, and how did the time pass so quickly? I cried for deceased Dan. I cried for what Bob did to me. I cried because I was tired. The Badger just let me cry it out. "Come on, Badger, I believe I was promised a walk." We set off again.

"Limes, you're in for a treat 100 feet ahead." "Why, Badger, what's up?" "A dead rat on the sidewalk." Hmmmm - that is a treat! Soon we were upon RIP Rat. He was, decidedly, a rat and not a mouse. Long, long tail. Scruffy fur. And there on the sidewalk, in beautiful juxtaposition with RIP Rat, lay a golden desert marigold someone had uprooted and put beside him. "Did you do that, Bader?" He said he hadn't. "If I lay dead on the sidewalk, Badger, would you put a flower down for me?" He said he would.

By the time we'd walked a few miles, we were both laughing. Look, I can only wallow in misery for so long. After dinner, I was starting to stiffen up and said so. This morning I am sporting scraped knees (although my pants did not tear, they caused abrasions), bruised knees, scraped up hands, a black goose-egg on one knee, a banged up back, hip and neck . . . but I've got the long massage coming on Wednesday evening and things are pretty upbeat today. Homes helped me carry my week's worth of groceries up the stairs and the sun is out, although it's cold. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay . . . . " Nah!

One photo credit (Limes at the petroglyphs): J. D. Morehouse

One photo credit (RIP Rat): J. D. Morehouse, taken with my BlackBerry

In my ears right now: Natalie Imbruglia - Torn. My clothes were not.

Something that charmed me: The care someone took to place that desert marigold just so at RIP Rat's final resting place. I wonder who . . . . .