Hunker in the Bunker

Officially, it's called the Imperial War Museum, comprised of the Cabinet War Rooms that housed an underground British government command center throughout the Second World War, and the Churchill Museum, a biographical museum exploring the life of British statesman Winston Churchill. Certainly I am not indifferent to its world-changing effects, but World War II does not fascinate me like some other conflicts. My father, however, was a child during that war and he is fascinated by it, his older brothers having gone off to military service, and all the reports coming over the huge family radio. It was Dad's only request on that particular trip to London, and I didn't want to be a jerk. Besides, I'll explore anything attached to the Churchill name, and so . . . although the government did not frequently retreat to the bunker to operate under emergency conditions, everything needed to do that was contained there. Located beneath the Treasury building in Whitehall, Westminster, the War Rooms contained everything needed, if retreat was required: state of the art telephone and radio transmitting equipment, close proximity to government and military leaders, dormitories for staff, private rooms for officers, and more. "This is the room from which I will direct the war," declared Sir Winston. I get that! Ex and I irreverently called it Hunker in the Bunker.

My first (modest and arbitrary) deadline for my writing project looms. This both excites me and makes me nervous. I've dedicated hours to exhaustive and sometimes esoteric research, interviewed a raft of (sometimes marginal) people, worked at honing the writing skills. I've refreshed talents I developed when I worked for the union, one of them being very active listening. If I only have one chance for an interview, I need to pay attention! I began the week with a whirlwind 24-hour trip to L.A. where I conducted more interviews and spent quite awhile touring and turning my hand to meaningful work at The Studio. I learned I am a deft hand at paint mixing and not so good at frame construction. I am in dead earnest here, folks. It is about to be showtime no. 1! Never mind that I could easily report, "I can't possibly be ready by Monday." That would not be held against me in any way. But I don't run like that. The first mile marker will be passed by Monday. That's how we planned it and that's how it will be.

I do not submit that this is the healthy way to approach a project, but this is the way I do it after many years of experience and successful delivery. I hole up for a ridiculous number of days (this time it will be 4 days and nights) and I surround myself with everything I could possibly need to complete my work, even if the world ended. My bed is covered with items in neat, orderly rows, leaving just a narrow slot for me when I decide the time is right to sleep awhile. Yes, I will need my AA daily devotional books. One doesn't put that aside, even for showtime. The little desk extension contains a miniature version of Office Depot. Well, it's possible I could require more than a ream of paper and a fresh ink cartridge in every color. [Not that I've printed any of this work even once, so far.] Cat food and litter have been toted in and form a small mountain next to the closet, while the French doors to the pool are set at an angle, just so. One wants a breath of real air, provided the freaking wind stops for just a moment. I ground coffee beans until my arm hurt, fighting with myself about at which point pre-ground beans no longer constituted "freshly ground". Two cell phones and a land line lie in wait, and no proud Mormon mommy ever had more healthy foods lined up on her basement shelves. My bathroom is attached, all necessary products in good supply.

Just in case I need a distraction, I've laid out two stacks of laundry on the floor to be cleaned while I write. I like the white noise of the washer and dryer. My stacks of CDs are arranged according to how each makes me feel and the array is quite startling. Last, but certainly not least, my body promises to complain about the abuse. Enter The Bean! Though I am not much of a TV watcher, and I would recognize few "As Seen on TV" items if they did not fly that flag on their packaging, somehow The Bean and I made friends a few years ago. "Better than a balance ball" goes the claim. It offers firm, non-jarring resistance, a DVD with multiple workouts, weighs nothing, can be wiped clean and it seems to work for me. When my head is whizzing, I get up frequently to use The Bean or weights or resistance bands and I manage to avoid coming out of the bunker with any lasting war wounds. The DVD player and big-screen TV are loaded with The Bean DVD. I know I'll want the Stress Reducer workout at the end of my day ~ a little hip and back stretching. But my favorite Bean activity - oh, it pleases me - is using the bright yellow foot pump to fill The Bean to proper inflation for my body and level of exercise. Man, I step on that pump and get my legs going . . . and never fail to check the blinds to make sure that no one, anywhere, could see this old woman pumping up The Bean in preparation for writing.

Before I slide down the rabbit hole, I had this small token for blogging friend Kirk, with these comments: The Blue Angel Motel draws my attention because of its mascot, the lovely, very natural-looking blond angel. Sometimes I wonder if she's not actually a fairy, because she does carry a wand (with one prong broken off, it appears) but she also sports a halo. Maybe she's conflicted? There are no photos available of the Blue Angel at night, which makes me wonder if they even shine the lights any more. I am sorry to report I don't even know any men whose company would make me feel safe enough to go to the area in the dark. And, p.s., you cannot imagine some of the images one sees after Googling "Blue Angel + Las Vegas"! Ahem. (Photos kept at high resolution. Just click.)

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending ~ 100% possible

Installment 4

Ex had a huge circle of relatives including a gaggle of aunts and uncles who were barely older than we were. His grandfather had had a much later second marriage and these were his younger offspring. Each of them had small children. I'd never met any of them until 3:30 one morning. The bars had closed, they'd made their weekly visit to Johnny's Shrimp Boat in downtown L.A. to have "6 and rice" and they weren't ready to go home to bed. The door shook in its frame as they pounded and called Ex's name, probably a dozen men and women, including spouses and dates. Into the tiny apartment they poured, each one seemingly with a bottle stashed in purse or pocket. "You guys have a stereo?" We did. "Let's play oldies," which in those days meant old time soul and R&B. There began the strangest, most surreal "party" I've ever seen. The liquor flowed. The brothers, sisters, aunts, friends hugged and danced and fought like hell. When they left, there was scalped hair all over the floor from the "bitch fights" and I had no dishes or crockery left intact. They threw things. Whether it was their own property or not. The women seemed pretty balanced about me. I'd say they decided to give me a chance. Some of the men were clearly disapproving. I was such a white girl, and I wouldn't drink. Others of the men leered. One uncle began that night and never gave up pulling me onto his lap whenever I was in the same building with him. It didn't matter if 8 of his male relatives lit into him 15 seconds after he pulled me onto his lap, he enjoyed those 15 seconds. I did not. "Dammit, Ex, get him out of here and keep him out of here. I don't appreciate him at all." By noon, half of them had left and the other half slumbered noisily on the floors of my home.

It came to pass that at every major holiday for many years, all the children of the family would be dropped off at my home while the adults went out to drink for up to 3 or 4 days. I loved the kids and enjoyed feeding them, reading to them, giving them a bath, washing their clothes while they used one of Ex's T-shirts as a "robe". Some of the adults would invariably go to jail and I would coordinate their release(s). I was fortunate to earn a sizable "family" of children who loved me as I loved them. Some of them had children of their own before I had Amber (remember, I was a very late bloomer). I could go on with Ex-and-family stories forever and that is not the exercise here. The point is that I was the calm, but also dysfunctional, center in a cyclone of alcoholic madness. I hadn't trained for it. I didn't know what to do with it. I wanted Ex to stop drinking and be "normal". That was not going to happen. My chosen role in the dysfunction was as the "fixer", the micromanager of the world. If I didn't maintain control, who would? My shoulders were broad enough to handle a world of craziness. Yeah! Sure! I wouldn't have taken a drink with your mouth. And this rolled on for years.

In my ears right now: I can't even claim credit for locating it on YouTube. Another blogger had put it up. Jimmy Ruffin did it admirably, no question. But - oh! - for fun, you want to go here. [Sorry, embedding disabled. I guess I'd protect my rights, too!] Warning: Be prepared to dance. And grin. The woman can sing anything! She's not just another stranger on the bus. Please, tell me, in comments, that you listened to her!

Hey, Bloggers, throw me a lifeline from time to time!

Did the Ides Turn the Tide?

I was sitting in the recliner enjoying a book. The prediction was that our valley would reach 80-degrees and I tended to believe it. The recliner is leather, and I was wearing "the robe", I'm a woman of a particular age group and phase of life - all the signs were there for "too warm". "The robe" is a thing of great tatty appeal. It is 100% cotton weave in a nice gray and black plaid. It has some details one might not expect because it was bought at a rather downscale emporium. As the robe was not purchased for me, it is not my size, but a mens' size small which is still large for me. It cost $4 on sale (probably because it was time for the store to bring out swimsuits) and the robe is a thing of comfort to me. I want it when I'm sick or sad, I want it when it's cold in the house. But I need to pay closer attention as I whiz past the mirrors doing my household tasks: if the robe is around for very long, I should take it as a sign I need to do some work in some area of my life. It is the equivalent of the ostrich with its head in the sand.

I'm enjoying my book. I'm enjoying the shlock I play on TV as white noise. I'm enjoying plying a needle, thread, sewing machine and surgical instruments as I begin to explore the most modest examples of creativity. I did not particularly enjoy my small foray into job-seeking last week. Mostly I got scammed, spammed and disrespected. That was by the potential employers who didn't simply ignore me. Now, I am not going to starve to death this week, but I need to make some changes for all manner of reasons. I'd even done the old "reach out and contact every past business associate you know". The results were less than overwhelming. Readers, I am not yet a perfect person. Nope. I still get angry and resentful. If we add some intoxicating substances to my anger and resentment, we get fireworks, but we're not going to do that on a weekday afternoon in the sunshine. Instead, I sat thinking of some smarty-ass things I could say to a particular man, like "Hey, when you said 'Let's get together and talk again soon about some options' I assumed that would mean within the same season of the year!" Or something. That's productive, and conducive to landing some work, eh? No, I didn't do it. And I chewed my own butt through several miles of walking for being so hateful, so small. It is a good lesson for me to hold my tongue. I can be impulsive, to my own detriment.

When the e-mail landed, I nearly fell out of the chair, for it was from the man I'd thought about unkindly. I actually blushed to read his name. The timing was just too close for comfort. "E-mail me or call me. I have a writing project for you to do." What the heezy? Not "Come and talk to me about something", but "I have work for you." Huh? Gainfully employed? Paid to write? We quickly made arrangements to meet and I spent a very sleepless night. He had told me generally what the topic would be, and I did some quick research so I wouldn't be stuck on stupid right at his threshold. Those who have visited this blog for awhile may be interested to know the man's name is [drum roll] David. Remember, he has many more business endeavors than simply A1 Carpet Care.

Wednesday morning, I fairly flew up the stairs on the back of the building to the upper deck. There were the heavy double doors, and I could see David inside with his partner, George. I leapt across the deck, grinning, and was met with "Look at you!" We met at length about a project unlike any writing I've ever tackled. Ever the office monkey, I took copious notes. I asked the long list of questions I'd brought with me. Finally, I said, "OK, I believe I understand what you want." David dug in his pocket and gave me a sizable amount of cash in advance for expenses. "What else do you need?" I couldn't think of a thing. "I take it you want me to do this from home?" They do, and encouraged frequent breaks in the pool or walking. George's style is different from David's and he hasn't worked as closely with me because I was always attached to A1 Carpet Care. He began to suggest and direct. "She knows what to do, George. Let it happen." And then, "Leslie, you'll have to let us know what amount is fair and we will pay it. We want you to get a chunk o' change for this." Oh, boy. "You look great, Les!"

David had me stay behind and he grilled me about every aspect of life. Where and how was I living, what was my medical condition, what was I doing with my time, what were the challenges, what did tomorrow hold? I told it all, unvarnished and unabashedly. It was the right thing to do. For, you see, I am employed again with every imaginable accommodation needed to make my life move forward positively. He offered, and I gratefully accepted, some assists that no person expects any other human being to provide. I wasn't even embarrassed to be in such need.

Get ready for corn, Reader. I like corn. It doesn't embarrass me to smell of it. I know what happened here. I visited David at the office earlier in the year. There were no work assignments made, no offers of employment. I wasn't ready. He knows me well enough to know that. He just waited. During the interim, I kept working - hard - to improve and heal. He could tell from e-mails and phone calls that I was doing better - on my way to good health and balance. He just needed to see me help myself first so he could step out of the wings and help me. I love learning new things!

I'm too excited to start the project. I've jumped around the internet like a flea on a hot griddle trying to start my research. It's not going to happen for a few hours. I am grinning, pinching myself, and I stopped at a favored store near the office on my way home. I haven't visited it since July. I left love notes on the windshields of the homes who have already called to say, "YAY!" It's been a very good day. And yes, I'll be writing more about my assignment!

In my ears right now: The sound of my face stretching as I grin bigger.

No More Bitchy Pills for You, Little Miss Crabby Ass

Mr. Insomnia and I were blogging around together on our date. I'd stepped away from the computer for a few days - surprising, because I've come to love to blog and have quite a group of favorites I follow, interspersed with writing my own. To be really straight about it, I was so unprepared to succeed at my first long training walk that I kind of stopped in my tracks and spent a couple of days changing the way I approach almost everything. There were actually some Bambi-in-the-Highbeams moments of fear. "Even if I did 17, I bet I won't be able to do 20." Which is rubbish, because adding 3 the next time won't be anything. But there were far more moments that were simply "What just happened here and what do I do next?" Should I go get the M(arathoner) tattoo? Probably premature, since I am not one yet. So, in the spirit of regaining my equilibrium:

David's back from vacation and I was never as happy to see a head covered by a baseball cap rising up out of the stairwell. He grinned, I grinned. In the first hour he made a one-sentence proclamation, "It was a $70 job - give the woman her money back," that took the weight of the world off of my shoulders. Geez, I know his philosophy very well. Why didn't I think of that? He took a group of extended family to San Diego for a week and did everything the way he does things - top shelf. He rented a boat and jet skis on the Fourth. He had some good stories spawned by the fact that multiple members of the family turned out not to be seafarers. Been there. A zillion times. San Diego Bay is choppy much of the time. One's skin really does turn a greenish hue.


As I sat at my desk doing not less work, but more "my" work as David did "his" work all day, I was repeatedly annoyed by the chirp of the WeatherBug. I keep the WeatherBug on my desktop at work and at home. I can glance at the temperature any time, and if there's anything remarkable to tell, the WeatherBug chirps at me. It's a very efficient arrangement. So WeatherBug was at me all day long - the alert went from moderate to high to extreme fire danger alerts throughout southern Nevada as we are enjoying screaming winds, extremely high temperatures and single digit humidity. OK, makes sense to me. We're sittin' on a tinder box and we see fires frequently in the mountains nearby. So how does that comport with . . . .

Shocking to me, as I am a SoCal woman and we haven't seen such a sight in decades, the fireworks stands begin to spring up in every convenience store parking lot in the city about 10 days before the Fourth. We have a lot of convenience stores, folks. I'm going to say there are not hundreds, but thousands of stands, each one benefitting this good cause, that charity or club, another wonderful organization. Sold from these stands are notorious poorly made fireworks imported from China. [Yes, this paragraph is going to contain all manner of assaults to my sensibilities.] The prices are shocking, the fireworks are well known, maybe even expected. to be duds or faulty or dangerous. Oh yeah, and anyone one can buy them and set fire to them late at night after a day that might have included BBQ and beer.


Friday as I stepped out of the car at 7-11, the Metro PD K-9 unit volunteers were setting up their fireworks booth ~ hey! it was the day before the Fourth. A few officers were there with their K-9 vehicles and several of the mammoth beasts sat obediently and quietly in a row. That was to my left. To my right was the Channel 3 news van, cameras at the ready, staffers looking for a story. I was one of few patrons in the parking lot and a young cameraman and a chirpy girl reporter stepped my way. "Uh-uh, guys. I'm not the one you want. I don't approve of the fireworks and that's not the organization that tugs at my heart. You'll have wasted your time getting bad video." Shocked looks! I was concerned the K-9s might be loosed on me. But just silence, and I walked on to buy my crappy cup of 7-11 coffee.

The night of the Fourth, it was arranged that a group of us home dudes would meet up on the deck at the office, BBQ food left over and frozen from Limes Appreciation Day, with David's blessing . . . and watch all of the valley's offerings of fireworks. Limes didn't go after all, having practically erased her feet and legs from her body that day. Yesterday morning (Monday, after the holiday weekend), I was regaled with a story. In the yard just behind and below our office, a family was setting off an impressive number of dud fireworks. Children and adults were excited and the home dudes were having fun watching them from above. When the store of fireworks was exhausted, the piece de resistance was brought out. This object resembled a small hot air balloon - and, yes - the apparent "dad" ignited it in the same place such balloons are fired up. Home dudes watched the upper balloon portion inflate as it filled with hot air and started to rise slowly. Once the balloon rose to a height higher than the block wall surrounding the yard, the wind caught it. Flung it across the yard into a tree which immediately caught fire. "Get the hose!"

Extreme fire danger alert, indeed. After the story was told, I said, "Now, I have a problem with that." Silence in the office. "Aw, Limes, it's all in good fun." I'm just in from my walk and time to get ready for work. Flipped on the TV newscast I enjoy and half-listen to on weekday mornings. Right this moment, fire in the Wetlands near Sam Boyd Stadium. Flames 25 feet high. Roaring for hours. We don't have many wetlands areas in the Mojave, folks.

In my ears right now: Reports and predictions of heat, wind, fire danger. WeatherBug chirping, which intrigues Dylan and Virginia Woolf.

Something that doesn't charm me: The Michael Jackson Traveling Circus rolls on to its seminal moment this morning. Enough - more than enough - already! I liked his music, too. Everything else is not our business. Millions of people vying for 8,750 seats x 2 in the Staples Center. 250,000 people expected in the streets. As David said, "When they have the Coliseum, Dodger Stadium . . . . "

Waiku No. 483, Seeking Peace & Tranquility

Massage tonight, hot
stones, no conversing with her.
BlackBerry off. Peace.


Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse


Insomnia visited, so I read my new marathon walker's bible for a long time. I now know what interval training is (for walkers) and the 4 different workouts I need to alternate to reach my goal.

I know how to eat so my body will feed itself from my fat stores and my carb stores, leaving enough carbs to fuel my brain, but also feeding from fat so I don't hit the wall. I can pretty much control whether I do or don't hit the wall.

I have a regimen of stretches that put those stretches I previously loved to shame.

My maximum heartrate is 170. I know which routines to use on the days I need to perform at 75% and 80% and 85% of my maximum. I understand how this is done!

I don't know why some days my feet plod like ducks' feet, but I know something to try next time they do. For someone who has walked as many miles as I have, I don't seem to know anything about walking. Mostly, I do it all wrong. At least for marathon walking.

And I think I can do this! I don't have to have walked a marathon before I walk the marathon, but I have to have had some long walks. Maybe 20-22 miles like TOB suggested.

I'm very excited. I feel more powerful because I have knowledge and there is a plan set out for me. 16 weeks of training and then a month to just keep building on it. I like things set out on a calendar - I like the visual. It's comforting to me. Something that surprised me: this marathon walking guru encourages complete days off sometimes. I don't think that will work for me, but he recommends it.

Learning new things . . . . it's a beautiful thing!

In my ears right now: ZZ Top ~ Deguello

Why I like it: ;)

Something that charmed me today: E-mailed praise for something I wrote from someone whose opinion matters the most.

Angst Rippling Away

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse

Barnes & Noble was a bust last night. The one square foot of shelf space dedicated to fitness and exercise was occupied by books on only Pilates, Yoga, and losing one's "mummy tummy" after childbirth. I went home and ordered my marathon walker's bible online, paid extra for quick shipping and expect it soon.

When insomnia visits, I've learned to go to peaceful or pastel places in my head. When I try to resolve world hunger or global warming or peace in the Middle East, I ensure that I'll never drift off. I never get those things resolved, either.

So last night, sleepless, I tried to think whether I'd ever taken anything on like this walk. And I have! And I was good at it. I exceeded the expectations I had of myself and that anyone else had of me.

I have a memory like an elephant and I'm sentimental. I can give you the dates that most important life events occurred. I have a friend who celebrates April 8, 1968 with me because that's the day we met in person for the first time. People wonder why my cool big belt buckle sports "1968". Because it was a momentous year for me.

Twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play and I learned that I was pregnant for the first time in my life. This was startling news to me as we had tried to make that happen for more than 18 years, it didn't happen, Blue Cross and we threw an awful lot of money at fertility treatments that had no effect, we gave up hoping with much regret and moved on, accepting we'd have no child. I now had a career that ate up to 20 hours of my day 6 days a week and my huband had the same career with the same hours, except he worked throughout the entire state of California. We weren't home much! For me, the age of 40 was not too far distant.

This pregnancy was harrowing. I was pretty sick pretty much of the time for nearly 10 months. Lots of time in the emergency room. I was scared of every part of it. Scared I'd lose Amber and never have another chance. But mostly, I was scared of childbirth. I'd grown up hearing the horror stories and the glory stories from all the women relatives and friends. I knew that 100,000 women could tell me how it was for them, but not how it was going to be for me. The thought of being an old first time mother lying screaming (read this "looking foolish, not admirable") made me cringe. So what did I do?

I got myself educated. Lamaze classes, every book in the world, a TLC network series. I told my husband and my girlfriend who would join us at the birthing center what I wanted and needed from them. [Note to self today: educate yourself so you'll enter the endeavor from a standpoint of knowledge, if not experience!]

One of the best things I've ever done in a long life occurred during the 36 hours of labor we shared, Amber and me. I used what I had learned and it was effective for me. I only failed to breathe through two contractions, saying, "I can't. I'm too tired." Each of those was so bad, I quickly huffed through the next and all of the rest of the contractions. In a highly dramatic finish, Amber's heart became distressed after 35+ hours and she was delivered some 18 minutes after Dr. Zucconi said, "We're going to the OR, stat." I talked to everyone in the OR throughout that C-section. I'd been logical throughout. I didn't forget how to use the tools, tips and tricks I'd learned. I gave birth to a human being who was nearly as large as I was at the time.

And that puts a little 26.2 mile walk into perspective. Learning to do new things well is a thread in my tapestry.

In my ears right now: Benson Bird tearing the holy Ned out of the cage fixtures. My voice hollering, "Little dude, stop it. Do not tear up the parakeet palace."

Something that charmed me today: Thinking about Dr. Zucconi coming into the exam room to say, "You're pregnant. I have never said this with such surprise to any patient." The ex-husband letting out a war whoop of pure joy. Me sitting stunned and wondering what just hit me.

Computerless + Sleepless = Deep Distress

Photo credit: J.D. Morehouse

I had to work a long time yesterday on the words I wanted to post. I am going to begin speaking of other people and I want to do it well and fairly. So I typed awhile late in the day and decided to drive home, think about my words and spend a quiet evening finishing the post.

Got home, greeted Dylan and Virginia Woolf, made coffee . . . I was ready.

The Badger recently built me a new computer worthy of a Ferrari kit, a siren and a warning label. It is fast. I am spoiled. Now I blog, and I must have that computer. I reached my hand out to bring her to life ~ ~ ~ nothing. OK, I know what to do in that case. Power her off and start again. And again. And again.

Quick e-mail version of my own personal tagline from Apollo 13: "Badger, we have a problem." Repeated 2-line e-mails back and forth. Finally from him: "Look on the back. You should have 4 green lights. If any of them are amber, you're fried." 2 of the 4 were amber. I wanted to go out and run 20 red lights in no one's honor.

So, when the computer dies and it's a Thursday night and you've been promised that a new one will be built after this race weekend is over, wouldn't you just read a book, walk some extra miles, pop in a movie? Maybe you would, but I didn't. I kept getting up and obsessively trying to fire that computer up, disturbing cats and myself. When I accepted that I'd worked myself into a nice insomniac snit, I decided to read. Last year at the holidays, I was given a gift of the seminal John Lennon biography by Philip Norman. I had immediately consumed the first 725 pages, but then I put the book down because I didn't want to read the end. I already knew how the story turned out, you see. I finished my book last night. He still died. It still hurt.

And still no sleep for the wicked! For walking, I went out of my way to locate my Pearl Izumi shoes, the ones that are just about 100% wrong for walking on concrete. I thereby ensured that my feet would flap like ducks' feet for 8 miles. They did.

Addiction is a theme in my tapestry. I think I may have a little blog addiction going on, but I can't locate a 12-step program! So, while in the shower, I found myself grinning, shampoo on my teeth. The night had finally ended. The sun was coming up. If I hurried, I'd get to the office and have access . . . to all those blogs.

In my ears right now: The Lennon Legend, what else?

Why I like it: Come on, it's my hero. I even like his bad music.

Something that charmed me today: The first e-mail I received: "I'm sorry this happened to you while I am away." All right. Thank you. I'll stop being a boob now.

Angry Girl Music

Claret cups - the most beautiful cactus flower of them all. This is from another year when there actually was rain. Maybe 2005, the spring of the deluge. This shot was not taken by a real photographer, so no photo credit. I'm not a photographer, but I can point a camera at something pretty and at least give the general idea . . .

So, my oldest friend, Mr. Insomnia, returned last night and pulled me out of bed long before the BlackBerry would have. Since I was up anyway, I decided to throw on the clothes and walk a little more fiercely than on other days. Folks, I was greased lightning! The temperature was perfect at 3:00 a.m. - mid-70s. The Wind Circus had folded its tents and left town (although it's now back for a return engagement), so I could actually breathe through my nose without suffering from allergies. By the time I'd clocked a couple of miles, I had a good sweat going and my heart was pounding. When I glanced at my watch, I could tell that I was peeling time off of my usual pace, so I pressed a little harder. Let's see what the old girl can do! Well, it is true that the 9 miles of scorch marks on the sidewalks of Summerlin South were caused by me in the predawn today. I hope there's not a fine to be paid for damaging public walkways!

So what was different? I'm tired all the time and no ball of fire on some days. Once in awhile I plod through miles, never hitting my stride. But today . . . . I'm convinced it had to do with my music playlist. This morning it was Angry Girl Music. Enough Alanis Morissette, Aretha and Lucinda Williams in mad-as-hell form and anyone would burn up the pavement! Now I need to pay closer attention to see if the days I'm plodding like a cow are reflective of what's playing in my ears. If I'm snailing along at 3 mph, does it relate to poorly selected soft rock? Maybe a little Air Supply?

In my ears right now: REM as I work at my desk.

Something that charmed me today: I bought 2 small cactus and colorful pots to brighten up a plain white windowsill in the office. These came from my favorite 99-Cent emporium, so not much was expected of them. Today, one of the cactus has a flower starting to bud! It's only been in the bright windowsill for a couple of weeks, but it's giving a gift already.