I Feel Like Having Some Company ~ Come and Walk a Mile in My Moccasins with Me

If the reader needs some background, my last post sets the stage for most of what I'll write about here. Or just scroll down, rather than use the link.

All right, if you visit this blog often, if you're one of the wonderful souls who virtually loves me, may I ask you to join in a huge, loud "AW, Les!"? This windy, windy spring in Las Vegas has nearly made me lose my mind. It is oppressive. I'm also physically tired and emotionally jumbly and the work pace has picked up sufficiently to remind me that I used to go like hell at the desk and I'm out of practice. David's off on his cruise (setting sail as I type this) and I got some grief I've come to expect when he vacations. No matter how much preparation is made, how many discussions held, as David leaves town, at least one of the homes will try to pick me off in some way and I have to become The Skirt With a Badge. [Yep, the photo shows my own real badges!] None of them ever gives me any grief when David is in Las Vegas, even if not at the office, but . . . . I don't care for it much, but Saturday I was reminded how levelly and civilly I can behave while leaving no question what will and will not be tolerated. That was on Vacation Day 1: The Man is Not Even Out of Nevada.

I'd come up with a plan to restore and refresh myself by seeking out cactus flowers and horned toads at a spot in the Mojave Preserve I know intimately. It is a location where I have retreated when I've needed to expend some angst. It is a place where I have gone solo in order to perform necessary rituals that are not well-suited to conducting before an audience. They were, however, effective for me as I struggled for balance. It is a place that has been featured in the national news for the past week due to a Supreme Court decision favored by the conservative judges. I'll blog more about that in the future. It is a place that could be squeezed into a very narrow window of opportunity as other demands, other activities, other interests and the schedules of others compete for attention. Although it wasn't to be the preferred full-on weekend trip, it would be sufficient to fill a deep, deep need.

I'm no rookie at planning outings in the Mojave. I know how to monitor weather in even the remotest locations by watching weather conditions in several locations nearby. Which place has the approximate same altitude and where does the mountain range cut through? I know what to pack to eat, how much drinking water to carry, and how to dress for the conditions. I know whether the hikes will be rocky or sandy. I know what is likely to be seen based on the month, and even the time in the month. Different species of cactus bloom at different times, and in a predictable order. Lizards emerge from hibernation into the sun at the approximate time that I do the same. Sunday was to be the day. Claret cups, beavertails, chollas, hedgehogs and prickly pears virtually assured to be in some phase of flowering. Horned toads practically guaranteed in the loose sand at the mouths of the ant excavations, their favorite place to dine.

I'm not a good enough wordsmith to accurately describe my state of shock. For on Saturday night and Sunday, the wind became even stronger, even worse, in Las Vegas. I'm not sure which is more troubling to me, being slammed by it as I walk for 8 or 10 miles, or hearing the shriek that hasn't stopped for more than a day or so in weeks. Before setting out for my walk, I checked conditions at the desert destination. Cooler temperatures than Las Vegas, but not a "wind" icon to be seen. I walked in misery, then ran the laundry and dishwasher, attempted to restore my home to a decent condition after a busy week. Everything everyone else does on their time off, right.? When I took out the trash and walked to the mailbox, I noted the gale was worse. But I was hanging my hat on those weather spots with no wind icons. I was in the market when the e-mail came. "It's worse out there than it is here. What do you think?" What I thought was not printable! "I'll e- you from home. 10 minutes." We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. We pulled the plug. For I am the first to admit that if I stepped out in the Mojave and it was blowing worse than in Las Vegas, I'd burst into tears. "If you still want to go, I'm willing" was the gift offered to me. But, no. I knew I'd be unpleasant company. I knew no horned toad worth his scales would be out skittering around in the sand. No ants would labor at the door of the colony, at risk of becoming a horned toad meal. "How many horned toads did you see?" asked Doozyanner, in commentary. Um. None, Dooz. "Les, you in the desert yet?" chirped Matt on the BlackBerry. No.

OK, what am I going to do here? I can jump off the deck or crash my car into a wall. I can laugh or cry. I can become philosophical about it. Oh, right! I'm 57 years old and I haven't landed on "philosophical" yet - or at least not ever landed and stuck there. I could go shopping, and retail therapy is always effective for me, but that means I'd have to go out in the damned wind. What I did with the few "found" hours was a revelation to me. For I did something highly unusual. I turned on the Hallmark channel which was running some 24 hours of I Love Lucy. Lucy episodes make nice white noise for me. And then I relaxed in my own home. It was clean and tidy. I couldn't make work out of anything. I took some books down and remembered how much I love them. I played certain music on the Bose over the top of Lucy. Good music. I ran my hands across the fabric that screams my name, washed and ironed long ago but never made into the project I really and truly do want to execute. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was quite ready to do that project on this day. It was enough to just stroke the fabric. But the thought entered my head that perhaps I will do the project someday soon, as I am exhibiting some evidence of rejoining the living. Coming out of the darkness. I made a wonderful dinner to share. We played cards. I began a discussion about very difficult things and never shed a tear. I expressed myself fully and, though filled with emotion, I was unemotional. My reward was a caring and sincere real conversation, meaning both parties speak and both parties listen.

Monday, I stepped into my office. A full crew had run on Sunday and the work orders and collected payments were neatly stacked on my desk. At first glance, I thought I spied a pink calculator on top of the stack. I don't own a pink calculator, but whatever. There was coffee to brew, homes to greet, computers to light up, my food for the week to be tossed into the refrigerator. When I finally settled, the technician who gave me so much grief on Saturday said something quietly. "I brought you something, Les." I looked at him and he pointed to the calculator. I looked more closely and saw it was not what I had taken it to be. It was something else. Homey jumped up and snatched it, grabbed my BlackBerry, and grinning ear-to-ear, said, "I'm sorry I was such an ass. I brought you a pink BlackBerry skin . . . " He spent the next 5 minutes showing me the ins and outs of aligning the various buttons and how to maneuver the Direct Connect tab we use so frequently. It touched me. For he had also sent me a text message Saturday in the middle of his first job. Obviously, he was still churning about his behavior over the weekend. He has a well-developed conscience. It's one of the things I like about him.

The general public ate us up and spit us out all day long. The phones rang off the hook. I booked so many jobs I had to look back at some spreadsheets to see the last time I'd attained such a number. June 17, 2008. Cesar's steam cleaning machine went down three times at one job and I had to re-route the remainder of the day's work. On GPS, that re-routing thing always reminds me of billiard balls struck hard and rolling in every direction. I don't like re-routing. It distresses me. But I do it well. Three customers hung up on me when I was in mid-cry, something that bothers me far worse than having them call me "bitch". I had listened to screaming toddlers for a full 5 minutes before their mother slammed the receiver down on me. We had a little excitement due to the fact that our imprinted checks and bank cards still have not arrived after our bank account was looted and then closed. The e-mail he typed from somewhere in the Pacific off of Mexico landed in the late afternoon. I felt like I'd been pulled through the eye of a needle and I really didn't want to even look at one of the 7 e-mail accounts loaded into that BlackBerry. But I looked. That's what I do. David! "How is everything going?" I'm quick on the keyboard and I also know that while he would want to know how we were surviving, he is on vacation and wouldn't linger in his e-mail box. "XLNTLY!", I lied. To my surprise he popped back on. "Too few words from you. What's wrong?" "Absolutely nothing. Go take your cruise." I didn't hear from him again. He trusts that I've got his back. Vacation Day 3: Manic Monday.

And so go the days . . . what's been happening in your world? Tell me all about it . . . .

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: Driving home from Manic Monday, I spotted something pinkish. Las Vegas is dotted with enormous water retention basins - great holes in the ground to collect rainwater during the monsoon season, thereby preventing the floods we suffer due to runoff. In the area where I live, the basin perimeters are beautifully landscaped with native plants. And there, right on Desert Inn Road in the middle of commute traffic, was a profusion of prickly pears in bloom! I changed lanes tout suite and circled the block. Yes, best in the afternoon sinking sun, I think. I can get out, sit cross-legged on the sidewalk and get right in there. I spun the block again. Yes, I'll try them from a couple of different angles, looking east and then west. It hit me. There is no place to park anywhere near these cactus. Not remotely near, for one may not park anywhere on a major street in Las Vegas at any time. So this evening, I shall leave the office, taking the camera, park on the nearest side street, walk 1.2 miles to the cactus, fold my legs under me on the concrete, snap a few amateurish pictures, unfold myself from the sidewalk and walk 1.2 miles back to the car. Have I mentioned I have a tremendous need to see the cactus flowers?

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Georgie Eats Old Gray Rats and Paints Houses Yellow

I was visiting favored blogger Elisabeth and saw that she posted her rendition of a geography meme. I backtracked from her blog to see how/where the meme originated and to see how some other bloggers presented their versions."OK," thought I, "I am a woman who has been around the block a few times. This one is for me." And besides, I cannot look at the word "geography" without giggling. When I was a child in Catholic elementary school, spelling mattered, unlike today. Spelling comes pretty naturally to me, but some words were more difficult than others. "Geography" was such a word. My aunt Pat had always been spelling challenged, and the nuns in her generation were just as insistent upon proper spelling. Pat had made up jingles or reminders or prods to help her with certain words and she shared the one for "geography" with me: Georgie Eats Old Gray Rats and Paints Houses Yellow. But I digress. Here's my meme ~


You must begin your post with a geographical joke - Who is a penguin's favorite aunt? Aunt Arctica!

Then credit the geographical joke to the source - Sorry. I had to Google it. I'm not humorless, but I don't make up jokes and I didn't know any geography jokes.

Then in as few words as possible (that is very difficult for me!) - explain your earliest recollection/ awareness of the following:

Europe - In the same Catholic, elementary school we were joined by a new student, Elizabeth, from Germany. Sister showed us on the globe where Elizabeth was born. Who knew? I was 7.

America - I was born shortly after World War II. I knew at a very early age (preschool) that I lived in America and for that, I should be grateful and proud. Later I would learn to question some of that, but as a small child, that was imparted to me.

Africa - Same Catholic elementary school (yes, I did finally get out of elementary school): we studied about Egypt and the pharoahs. I made a diorama featuring a pyramid and camels, with beach sand representing the Sahara. One day, much later, I would visit Egypt.

Australia - Before I started school I had a book featuring kangaroos and koalas. My Granny always went farther than simply reading to me. She put the subject matter into context.

Asia - Several of my uncles had served in the Pacific in the War. Granny had the beautiful lacquered jewelry boxes and Japanese geisha dolls. Once again, that good woman pulled out the encyclopedia to show a 4-year-old where those gifts were made and purchased.

Then say what is your furthest point travelled - This made me snicker! North and South are pretty straightforward, but my east may be the reader's west, depending on where either of us is located. For the record, I'm in the western U.S. and that has always been my starting point.

North - Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales, from where my ancestors hail.
South - The Panama Canal.
East - Egypt.
West - Hawaii.

Longest time living in one place and where was it? Lemon Grove, California, a four-square-mile city completely surrounded by San Diego. Home of the big lemon! It was incorporated in 1977, the year I was married, and every bit of that charms me. I lived there 22 years, by far the longest period of time I was ever planted in one location.

Shortest time living in one place and where was it? Four weeks in Santa Barbara, California. What a pity! It is lovely and Lemon Grove is not.

Brief list of places lived , in rough order of appearance: Mine cannot be brief. Behold! Cambria, LA, Salt Lake City, LA, Salt Lake City, Cardiff-by-the-Sea, LA, Inglewood, City of Commerce, Pomona, Santa Barbara, Glendale, Burbank, Bell, Las Vegas, Lemon Grove, Las Vegas. And that does not take into account that in some of those places, I lived in several different homes.

How many addresses have you had? I actually got out a pen and pad for this. How about at least 51 for certain!?! No wonder I'm so unstable!

In my ears right now: Well, it should be On the Road Again, as it seems that's where I've spent most of life except for the Lemon Grove idyll!

Something that charmed me: Ex and I had a very tiny house in Lemon Grove. Read t-i-n-y. As our income increased, he occasionally suggested we buy something better. I resisted. I pleaded with him to understand that I'd been moved around all of my life and I just wanted to sink some roots. He was tolerant. We were surprised by the arrival of Amber 20 years into our marriage, and babies require a lot of furniture and equipment. Now the house was inadequate to our needs. "Les, we need to buy something else." I resisted. Finally, it reached the point where we were going to have to nail any incoming furniture or appliances to the ceiling. That was still OK with me. "Mom, I can only have one friend over at a time. There's no place for us to play or sleep. I want to have a slumber party." I acquiesced. I lived in that house 16 years, and my daughter 8. The next home was fairly grand. But there the marriage collapsed and, once again, I moved on.

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 . . . . .

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."

Back to Work

I didn't work at all last week and that is very strange for me. I learned a lot of things. I learned that I was more exhausted than I had even guessed. I learned what my home looks like in the middle of a late summer morning or afternoon. I learned I will need to tell David more frequently that I need to take some time off. He supports that. I learned that I kind of like spending a few quiet days with the phone ringing rarely. I read a lot and I slept. A lot. I made good food and froze individual servings. I have not cooked for myself in a long, long time. I got a massage just before Stephanie left for Denmark and I can hold out for the two weeks she'll be away. Possibly.

Monday morning felt a little different as I drove in. I've been musing for awhile now that autumn is almost here. Monday morning I lived that. No blazing sunrise in the desert. Glowering gray sky, scattered clouds, and I really shouldn't have been wearing my sunglasses as I drove eastward in the sunrise hour. There were some youngblood skateboarders that I really couldn't see well enough as they exhibited "bullet-proof" and I exhibited "need to get to the office".

Up and down the stairs twice, as I am a woman who carries bags and bags of stuff, plus I had David's birthday gift and on Mondays I stock the office fridge with my food for the week and I had Starbucks and, and . . . "Limes, you going to sit down?" "Yes, home dudes, let me greet my little birds I missed so much and then I'll sit." "Good to see you in your chair, Limes." "Thank you, homes." "Thank you for such an awesome gift, Limes." "Found it at the Harvest Festival, David."

So ... Monday (as well as many recent days for a few years now) the wind screamed. My return to work started with one of my favorite events - we had a huge wool rug to clean for a commercial client. I love this process, as it takes place out on the deck and no matter whose job it actually is, everyone pitches in. I've never heard one of them say, "Hey, I need to be paid commission for this if you want me in it." I've heard each of them say, many times, "Hey, Bro', what's that [cleaning solution] mix you're using?" or "Show me how you approach this." or "Uh-uh, those fringes aren't good enough. I'm going back after it." A little fun has grown up around, "Hey, Limes, come out here and I'll teach you a thing or two." For I have the classes and certification, but have never cleaned a carpet or rug. But once when we had an enormous and very, very old handmade rug to deal with, I was able to show them how it had been cut down and reassembled from something very much larger because I sew and work with textiles. This is us doing what we do very, very well. It's a beautiful thing. We learn from one another. We value and respect one another.




So the enormous wool rug was cleaned and placed across the deck railing to be blown dry by the remarkable wind. It was a grand day for it. The morning progressed, all vans and all technicians out on the road for a busy day. Black August behind us, September seems better. I worked hard at re-entry and David showed all the signs of a man being pulled hard in many directions. The phones jangled, which is a good, good thing. Cashlynn and Chloe shih-tzus went up and down the stairs a few times for potty breaks, Bloomsbury and Benson birds seemed to sing for me particularly sweetly. About mid-morning, I heard a very loud expletive that immediately suggested to me that rug had set sail across the Las Vegas skyline. Yep! Overboard. Aloft!

In David's new enterprise, he occupies a much different role than in our little world. He dresses beautifully and professionally. I'd known the man to wear beautiful athletic wear every day since I'd met him, but now he wears beautiful career wear. Down the stairs he went in his gorgeous lavender shirt and crisply creased trousers. Up the stairs he trudged with that wet, smelly ton 'o wool rolled up and tossed across his shoulder. As the phones still screamed, I could only watch him out the window. He moved patio furniture. He stretched the rug out on the deck in the sun where it lay in its 400 square feet of glory. He brushed himself off muttering, "Damn, not one of them noticed the hurricane force gale? They all worked on it and not one of them . . . "

The morning pressed on and I was booking jobs at a fast clip. David went next door to where interviews are being conducted at his new business venture. I saw the first interloper clomp across that wet rug in the middle of booking a huge job for a new client I had wowed. Uh-oh! Rug clomping! In something that must have been reminiscent of the old Candid Camera clips, my phones rang non-stop for the next 2 hours. They were rolling to voicemail and I had three lines going at one time. I watched interviewees come up the stairs and cross that mighty rug both coming and going to and from their appointments. I was so distressed by this, I had to turn my chair away from the window as I was being distracted from my phone conversations. Not that I could have done a thing except direct traffic - that rug is too big for me to roll or move in any way. Finally, David appeared from around the corner, eyeballed the condition of the rug, ran to its edge and nearly tipped over onto it! This was not turning out well, this rug venture.

The afternoon passed quickly and home dudes began to roll into the parking lot. The pair whose job it actually was to clean the rug trudged up the stairs. I heard Justin say, "Where the hell's that rug?" while he was still in the stairwell. I saw the relief on his face when he saw it laid out on the deck. I also saw the terror cross his features when he saw the thing's condition. We all began to talk at once and the noise level rose. There was some urgency to re-clean this rug, get it at least partially dry, and deliver it as promised. Human nature being what it is, before the work began, everyone needed to express a little angst. Then home dudes tore into it again.

The next morning in huddle, the rug was discussed. "Was the customer happy with that rug, guys?" "Oh, yeah, we've got a customer for life!" "Great - good save, you two!" "Limes, you seemed a little too amused watching a couple of guys have to scramble for their lives." "Oh, no, homes! I never want to see a man have to do his work over again. I was just thinking how, in my inexperience, I'd have approached that rodeo a little differently. You all would have laughed at me, but I picture myself employing maybe ropes, bungee cords, string, a little twine. I might have been silly enough to go looking for a pair of big rocks or some of those full plastic gallon jugs of cleaning solutions we keep by the hundreds. Yes, you'd have snickered at 'the girl', but sure as shootin', I wouldn't have let that rug fly away!" This is us doing what we do very, very well. It's a beautiful thing. We learn from one another. We value and respect one another.

In my ears right now: Steppenwolf ~ Magic Carpet Ride.

Something that charmed me: We all came from vastly different work backgrounds. We've all proven to be open and willing to learn. I've learned from them how to look around and find some solution for a problem quickly with whatever I have at hand, make my fix be good enough and move on to do the next task well. They've learned from me how to be good record keepers who can do math and who participate in discussions in staff meeting. We've learned from each other, and grown.

New Charms for that Charm Bracelet

Photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

I've had the pleasure of traveling around a bit with someone who shares my ironic sense of humor and who packs a wonderful camera. When we go off vacationing, there's no hanging in the hotel bar with a drink or watching movies in the room. We get out and partake of the place we've chosen to visit. We come to see the sights and enjoy them. It came to pass that we'd spend a few July holidays in a fun beach area 30 degrees cooler than our home, and with more charm than one could imagine. We spent tremendous hours in the streets and the shops, including walking to a great bistro for dinner . . . yes, that was me in the cute skirt, silk sweater and really sturdy sneaks. "Dammit, I walked here for dinner. I know one doesn't wear sneaks with this outfit!"

In the old, old part of a small beach community where I once represented union members, there is a school dating from 1916 and I would imagine the houses nearby are contemporary with that. Today their conditions range from "expensively and authentically restored" to "not well-kept" to "we kept the foundations and knocked everything else down". Remember, I know this community well, so imagine my surprise at turning a corner in the streets, mouth going a mile a minute, and spotting the SS Moonlight and the SS Encinitas where once had squatted two tiny cottages! All the windows were open on this fine July day, and people were moving in and out. Obviously, groups of young people occupy these homes. Note that they are propped from beneath with wooden stakes that don't look sturdy enough to support a building and they sit on a fairly steep hill! His camera was coming off of his neck before I could squeak out, "What the heezy?" "House boats, Limes!" I don't know if they qualify for that designation, as these vessels have never been on water . . . but they charmed me. Proof - I had to walk past those houseboats every day of that vacation! Even if it was out of the way.

In the same area of the little city are a few blocks that are likely even older. It is extremely hilly on these cliffs above the Pacific and the sidewalks are thick and broken. Walking here can be treacherous, but the few blocks provides a quick throughway between different parts of town. He spotted it first, as I was focused on the crumbling concrete. "Ha!" "Retirement home, Badger! Seaside community. White picket fence. Needs a little TLC."

It should be noted that at night when we walked, we strolled Neptune Drive where many homes worth millions hunker in with some modest places that have sat on the cliffs since the 1950s - in terms of housing, this place has it all. Some things you'd think of and some things you never could! Enter the house. If it has a name or description, I don't know what it would be. I'm rarely at a loss for words, a quick quip. This, however . . .

It is a much newer structure, perhaps 1950s - 1970s, two story woodframe, garage apparently on the bottom floor. On the top floor, every window is open every time I've seen the place. We've never heard music or seen a human being. But we've seen the occupant's sense of style - oh, yeah!
The paint colors lean toward purple, fuschia, turquoise, green and cream. The main garage door is covered with music CDs, both in original condition and gold painted. Interspersed are pictures of old, dead R&B artists, but - oops! - there's a young Bob Dylan and a young John Lennon, and - hey! - Johnny Mathis. Albert Einstein is there, alongside Karl Marx. I believe there are pictures of no females. The pictures are framed with concentric circles of velvet, ruffles, a little aluminum edging, seemingly whatever can be found at hand when it becomes decorating time. A smaller, side garage door stands welcomingly open. Inside one can see a large wall ornament, and the door is covered with brightly colored small balls of some sort. I stuck my head inside once ~ there is a black drape where one would expect to enter the larger part of the garage. No, I didn't open the drape.
The upper story is adorned with things that look like manmade peacock feathers and other curiosities. Again, every manner of art supply has been used, including some things I've never used as an art supply. A smallish American flag flaps in the ocean breezes on the very peak of the roof. But the most remarkable area is the outdoor "sitting room". Not that one would want to be seated there. The photo was taken at dusk and shows poorly on blog. It is worth taking a closer look, however. Chained to the wooden telephone pole in the alley is a huge, ancient bicycle, decorated with whole and broken CDs and other "found" items. All are painted gold. Even the chain and the tires. Next to the side of the house is a large sofa and an enormous cocktail table. Both decorated in whole and broken CDs, painted gold. I believe half of the free world's CDs reside in that "sitting room" where no one would sit. One's rear would be shredded!

"What does it mean?" we've asked each other. "I'm too scared to guess." "Did you catch the new Mahatma Gandhi in the sitting room?" He had. "Badger, what do you think happens to the pictures and the velvet and the ruffles in the rain?"

In my ears right now: No Place Like Home.

Something that charmed me: How the ruffles are always crisp and the pictures sharp in contrast, the gold paint fresh and the bicycle tires inflated. These Californians are houseproud. They work hard to keep their places up!

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I live at a good address in the big city that has some less-than-pleasant neighborhoods. I pay more money than I like to for shelter in an area where I feel safe and have amenities I wish to enjoy. I have to take care of myself, as no one else can.

This morning, I took my trash outside. Parked within 25 steps of my front door was a bright red, 4 wheel drive, off-road, desert-raping pickup truck. The sort of pickup truck that is so large, I could not enter it without using a step-stool. My legs won't stretch that high. The sort that, when one looks in the rearview mirror and sees it following, makes one think, "I believe that monster could come just a little closer and devour my modest Nissan." The sort that has a chrome grill resembling monster's teeth.

On the rear windshield were the requisite decorations - the ones that make me get really loud and feisty. In a world full of offensive assaults, I suppose we should pick our battles and I've picked mine. I detest and abhor those chrome silhouettes of women, usually displayed in pairs, both with devil's tails, one with a halo, one with horns. These items make me go off. I've been known to get unpleasantly mouthy when faced with these things.

However, this morning's specimen went a little farther. I suppose the owner of this red vehicle could read, because there was a bumper sticker (with words) posted between those two chrome women. "I Heart Violence". I am certain I gasped audibly, that was so offensive to me. I am a person who can be pretty irreverent and laugh at inappropriate things. But that's not funny to me. Because I hate violence.

Now I admit to a broad streak of Pollyanna in my makeup. I'm idealistic and maybe a little naive. But that one put me over the top. I believe I'll lock the front door the next time I take the trash out in the darkness just before dawn.

This post will be brief as I am working in the shadows on a series of posts to run the next several days to a week. It is a special time. I have some things to say. I hope you will enjoy reading them.

In my ears right now: The sound of my blood circulating, because I'm still appalled by that slice of expensive nastiness right outside my door.

Something that charmed me (yes, it was before I saw the pickup truck): There is a 1991 movie I love for every reason that is ummmm . . . esoteric. I watch it once or twice a week. I know what notes of the soundtrack will play during any line of the script. Alas, this movie has not been put on DVD, so I keep a VCR in the home and handle the videocassette gingerly so as not to break the fragile tape. I believe the film was not put on DVD because only myself and 7 others on the planet care for it. (Although I learned in Blogger profiles that there actually are others like me out there and some of them are even men! I've never known a man who would like this movie.) The movie has been put on DVD! At eBay prices, I'm bidding on two of them. One for now and one for later.

Communic8ing with Others

All right, those who follow this blog already have it figured out. For me, it's all about connecting with other people. That's what I do. And I like it. It fills me up. There's a rule in our business that if Limes is in the house, no one else is to answer the ringing phone. Why is that? Because I'm pretty good at connecting with others, even if we're only talking on the phone. A few months after he employed me, David was startled to realize that I booked more jobs than even he did. And he's good. The result of the house rule is that I talk to an awful lot of people.

I use a script to find out about a potential customer's carpet cleaning needs. I can't give a realistic quote if I don't know how long it's been since a professional carpet cleaner has worked on it, whether there are any remarkable spots, stains or heavy soiling, whether there are misbehaving pets in the home, etc., etc. I am glass smooth with the script - I've done it thousands of times and I probably could do it in my sleep, carefully recording the responses and working to make the connection that will land us the job.

Because I am experienced and skilled at running the script, and because I am a person who can juggle a lot of balls at the same time, I go a bit afield while booking the job. I listen for age and accent. Do I need to speak up a bit or speak more plainly in order to best communicate with the caller? I listen for the caller with a good curious mind to open the door to me - I'll give 20 minutes of Pet Urine 101, if that's what the caller wants. If the potential customer is bad-mouthing Stanley Steemr or Chem-Dry, I can tell them the reason the methods used by those companies aren't effective for their needs.

I use True Colors to the extent that I can through the phone - if I've got a brand new mommy on the other end, I become as blue as I really am. "Oh, my baby is 19 now, but I remember the earliest days . . ." If I detect vivid gold (these people live by the clock and count the seconds), I'll try to give them the first appointment of the day so I can safely say, "I'll have a team of two at your doorstep promptly at 7:00 a.m." None of this is false or smarmy. I'm simply trying to relate with people in a way that seems will be most comfortable for them.

I talk to enough people to lump them into categories. I can give a short label and any one of the homes knows what's up. "High squirrel factor, home dudes! Anything can happen." "Limes, was this person kind of difficult when you booked her?" "Dandruff, homey!" The customer seemed flaky to me. "Limes, this man needs all kinds of pet treatment but is only willing to pay for a basic!" "Squeaker, home dude." The customer came across as so tight he squeaks. It's a bit different with David and me. We only talk to the customers on the phone. We don't see them in person. But we have a code of our own, as well. "Limes, I need you to finish booking this one. It's a whiner." What David calls a whiner, I call a hem-and-haw-er, but I still know what I'm getting into. This is the person who won't be able to choose between having service on Wednesday or Thursday, but will subject me to the intricacies of the maze in her head while she tries to make that torturous decision.

In the days when the phone jangled so persistently I could barely manage time for a meal at my desk, I was a bit cavalier. If I had a complete and total idiot on the other end of the line, I could pull the plug in any manner I chose, from simply hanging up the phone to delivering up some sharp words. But not now. Now I bend over backwards to get the job. It means I bite my tongue as difficult people speak rudely to me. It means I do not audibly sigh as the caller yammers on for 10 solid minutes about his calendar and the difficulty of fitting in this life-altering activity of having the carpet cleaned. I do not try to rush the confused. I slow down my rapid-fire speech. I use the word "Sir" to men who don't deserve that little show of respect. I speak gently, as if to a child. Mostly I do pretty well. Last week, however, I lost two jobs and was told off by people from a group I almost always enjoy and who usually find me pretty OK ~ the elderly.

The old gentleman (when I use the word "old", count on the person being at least 80) had a soft, but gravelly voice. A long-time smoker, I would guess. He was a talker. I let him ramble. He had no sense of humor. Believe me, I always try. When the other person has none, it puts me at a disadvantage. He talked on and on, giving me no useful information. I'd finally spent enough time with him to know I needed to take the lead. "Sir, I have a few short questions to ask you about your carpet's condition and then I can give you a responsible quote." I asked what rooms he wanted us to clean, "like, living room, dining room, bedroom . . . . " "Well, I have 1,725 square feet of . . . " Folks, I don't need square footage. I need a list of rooms. He continued the stream of words, never directly answering my question. I tried for the next question in my script: "Can you tell me the last time the carpet was professionally cleaned?" He proceeded to answer that with what brand and color the carpet was. "Sir, are there any spots or stains or heavy soil on the carpet?" He took a biting tone and told me to shut up so he could tell me what he needed! I was stunned. But I hung in there. (I need to tell the reader that "shut up" is particularly difficult for me.) I am not exaggerating. The man talked for 10 minutes. He finally said, "Madam, are you there?" "I am, Sir, but you told me to shut up, so I was letting you finish what you had to say." "I believe I'll find another company whose 'secretary' isn't so snippy!" Slam! He pulled the plug! I don't care for "secretary". I don't care for "shut up". And I hate to see my batting average slip. I went into David's doorway and got my attitude back up with a little conversation and giggles.

The next morning, I answered to an elderly lady. She had a sense of humor, so I was more at ease. She got it about giving me a list of rooms she wanted to have cleaned. She could tell me when the carpet was last professionally cleaned. I asked about spots, stains or heavy soil. "Well, we do have a puppy." Uh-oh. Carpet cleaning red flag. Urine requires extra attention and sometimes major restoration work. I need lots of information if there is pet damage. "M'am, is there urine on the carpet?" "Yes, there is." "OK, well, we're experts and we can take care of that, but I need to get a better understanding of how extensive the pet damage is . . do you think there is pet urine in each of the rooms you've listed? How big is the puppy and how long have you had it in the home?" "You're asking me too many questions!" Slam! She pulled the plug. Yow.

In my ears right now: Not enough phone traffic. I need to talk to a few people in order to book a few jobs. I read an article this morning that said the recession should end in the third quarter. We're in the third quarter. Let it end. Please.

Something that charmed me: For every difficult person I talk on the phone with, there are three nice ones. A nice, nice man called in one time and I divined that he had a good curious mind. I went into Pet Urine 101 with fervor. He never interrupted me except to say, "OK, I get it". "That makes sense." When I had run out of words, he said, "Damn, Lady, did you go to college for that?" The Badger dubbed me the Ph.D. of Pee.

Photo credit for half-portrait of the blogger:
J. D. Morehouse

Equal Time for Virginia Woolf

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

Virginia Woolf ~ July, 2009
BFFs for almost 2 years now

I tried the room-mating thing for awhile. It did not suit me. It lasted 10 unhappy weeks. I was so determined to get out of there, I worked two 8-hour-a-day jobs for a month to buy things I'd need to set up housekeeping without tapping savings or building credit card debt. I hired two home dudes to move me on Labor Day weekend in Las Vegas (not pleasant), worked like a dock walloper myself, and no - I didn't let the door hit me in the ass as I left. I am sure the people I roomed with do not consider me a very pleasant person. It was one of the most unhappy times of my life.

I scoured craigslist diligently looking for the good goods - cheap. Found a great sofa, and I knew home dudes to clean and scotchguard it for me. The seller convinced me to also buy a lovely red bamboo floor mat to go with it. I got a dining set for a song and I think it is the handsomest thing I have ever seen. When the seller delivered it to me we had to be pretty crafty - I couldn't carry my end of the glass top and we had to engage the help of a new neighbor.

I knew I wanted a cat with me from move-in day, and I found that on craigslist, as well. I don't feel that "a cat is just a cat". Not all cats bond with all humans. It's personal. It's individual. The owner of the "small, but adult, all black female cat" was a good e-mail correspondent, so she got more attention from me than the hit-and-miss types. Conveniently, she lived near the house I was moving from. It was arranged that I would visit a couple of times to meet and befriend "Athena".

The woman was friendly as she let me come in. My first sight in the home was a pack of 10-12 completely black cats roaming around - these cats were identical. Except for male vs. female, I don't know how one could have differentiated them. The woman, however, plunged her arm into the herd and gently lifted the one who was Athena. I confess to looking at the back end of Athena, just to make sure she was a female. Come on, nobody could possibly tell these cats apart. Athena charmed me completely and I asked if I could come back soon just to reaffirm that we'd be well-suited. "Sure," the woman said.

A few days later I returned. On that visit, I noticed the fine, self scooping cat litterbox contraption. They are quite expensive, and intriguing. It scoops itself, but one still has to collect and dispose of the scoopings, so . . . . hmmmm. Surrounding this mechanical litterbox were acres of cat droppings on the floor. I don't think those cats liked the device, and I asked the woman about that. "Oh, the only one who will go in the box is Athena. All the others go on the floor around the litterbox." ("No shit," I thought to myself) . I asked her if she felt certain Athena reliably used the box, because a cat who can't catch on about the litterbox has no future with me. "Oh, yes - absolutely. She's the only one who does use it."

I said that I would like to take Athena into my home and we made arrangements for me to pick her up on moving day. As I was leaving, I asked if she was finding new owners for all the other cats. I wasn't sure if she was moving away or just decided she didn't want to keep 10-12 cats any longer. "Oh, we're not giving any other cats away. Just Athena." What?!?! If you can figure that out, please clue me in.

On moving day I appeared with my cat carrier, picked up Athena and put her in the car. I'd left the A/C running while I collected her ~ didn't want to roast her in her own juices. She got agitated in the car, howling as some cats do when transported. She was pretty loud, incessant, and began the drooling thing, eyes bugging from her head. I turned off my CD player to reduce the noise level in the car and said "Come on, Virginia Woolf, we're going to the new home we'll share." I said it quietly. She never made another sound. Silent assent. I swear that is literally true. We have been BFFs since that day. That cat has never, once, offered to do anything other than use her litterbox. (Let's make sure that's the one we give away, OK?)

A few months later, I noticed her jump into the litterbox as I was leaving for work. OK, I could wait a moment, scoop, and go. To my horror, I saw blood in the litterbox! I went on to work, but David took a look at my face, asked what was going on and then said, "Call the vet now and go - don't lose an hour." I did and I didn't. The result was anticlimactic and expensive. The Badger said, "Wow - that's a lot of money! How do you feel about that?" I replied, "Oh, Badger, imagine being a creature so small, so lowly, that the best deal you ever had in life was Limes watching over you. I'll take care of her the best I can for as long as I can and I won't ever extend her life to make me comfortable."

And now I'm done (for the moment) blogging about those silly animals and I shall move on to other topics.

In my ears right now: What do you think? Stray Cat Strut! ". . . I don't bother chasing mice around, I slink down the alley looking for a fight, Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night, Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy." . . .

Something that charmed me: David quickly sending me away from Mission Control to get my cat attended to. I didn't know him all that well at the time. I didn't know the way he loves his own pets and considers them important members of the family.

Legal Hooky

Pine Creek Pool in a year when there had been precipitation - sadly, not 2009

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse

I needed sun on my skin for just a little while, or if not sun, then at least daytime heat. Imagine my surprise to learn that it's as easy as saying, "David I need to be off Wednesday at 2:30." I'd forgotten how to do that! The weather was uncommonly mild and there was a beautiful short hike at Pine Creek to be taken.

One starts out in the desert, but climbs a little into a pine forest environment. There are extremely high mountain faces in almost every direction. The entire hike is peppered with the oddest rocks - colors that rocks don't usually sport, patterns that rocks don't usually come in and shapes that put one's head to the test. Hidden deep in among rock formations, off the well-beaten path and through some shrubs and undergrowth . . . . . is a small, deep lovely pool that is fed year-round by the tiniest waterfall. I've hiked there in the summer when getting there was terribly hot, but being there was wonderfully cool. In the spring, little frogs swim across the surface of the water. One winter, as the Badger and I hiked from Pine Creek pool back to the car, my hands got so cold carrying his tripod that I cried (One of only three times ever that the desert wildnerness has reduced me to tears. Two of the three times had to do with being nearly frozen.).

Although living in Las Vegas is not pleasing, living in Las Vegas does put one on the threshold of a large number of beautiful, natural places. We have innumerable good hikes nearby and a dozen camping places within a couple of hours of the city that we've visited frequently enough to know very well. The Badger has shot pictures of many of these locations for years, through most every season except high summer. I love to give the words to stories. So I'm going to blog a little about our desert southwest in the near future.

For the bulk of my life, I thought "outside" was where one parked the car. I did spend many years bobbing around the world's oceans on my stepfather's sportfishing boat, so I know a lot about ocean environments. That was easy - a chef and four staterooms on board. Now I know about the desert. That's not easy. No part of it. It is harsh in every way. It is beautiful in a way that nothing else is. I was introduced to it at a mature age, when I had developed pretty good powers of observation. I learned about it quickly and deeply. I sport body art that glorifies the desert.

So, Wednesday's hike: it stung to find out that Pine Creek Pool is dry. However, we walked on a bit farther and I found a tiny pond. The Badger was able to photograph some beautiful foliage I pointed out. I'd assumed my favorite position (nose down at the ground, rear end in the air) and was peering into the water. It began to roil . . . what the heezy? Tadpoles! A bazillion of them! And once we'd spotted the tadpoles, the Badger pointed out a few miniscule frogs hopping on the leaves - the tadpoles who'd already sprouted legs, obviously. We lost count of the lizards we spotted. Hiking back to the car, I remarked that the Badger had snapped more pictures than he sometimes does in an entire weekend. The clouds rolled in overhead and he said, "We're getting dripped on." Yep, we were. "Is my new camera getting wet?" "Not much." Hiked on . . . "That's rain!" Yep. He took off his baseball cap and put it on the camera. It did a pretty credible job of protecting that fine instrument, until it blew away during the very last dash to the car.

I was reminded that any time spent outside in the beauty of the desert will fill me up. I may not see the old familiar things I went out there to see, but I will see new and beautiful things. I have the confidence and freedom to say, "Badger, that little vista pleases me. Can you aim your camera and do something with it?" He usually will do so. Sometimes these shots are not up to his sense of fine photography or he'll comment that the light's not right or he can't get in close enough or he can't get the whole field . . . . I'm not a photography scientist. I just know what pleases me.

In my ears right now: The sound of VW gacking up food on the carpet again.

Why I like it: I don't! I buy really fine cat food and she sees the veterinarian regularly. Why do they always barf on the carpet and never on the tile? I need to get some home dudes to my place to clean carpet.

Something that charmed me today: Being in my own home on a Sunday morning, seeing how the sun comes through the blinds. I don't get to spend enough time in my home relaxing and peaceful. It's a quirky little place I'm comfortable in. It resembles . . . . me.