Wrestling Bear

The names of persons I use here are those of my followers, easily located on the sidebar. If the reader will indulge me, I don't feel up to creating all the links today. I appreciate my followers, though, and display each of you proudly. But right now, I'd rather spend my time visiting your posts which have gone up since I took a breather. Also, please indulge the use of "today", "tomorrow" and "yesterday". Sometimes things don't punch a time card. It was all written across a short time frame this week.

It's a delicate phrase (that conjures up quite an image when applied to me!) - "wrestling bear" - that means "dealing with stuff". Sorting out the jiggle in one's Jell-0, the junk in one's trunk. Handling one's problems or chewing on stuff. I'd just completed conducting a whirlwind, 'round-the-world magical mystery birthday tour on my bus and I ran out of gas. Precipitously. I knew I needed to apply the brakes, park the bus and retreat to some quiet place. I stayed off the blogs almost 100% for 3 1/2-4 days. I didn't give up e-mails as completely. A girl doesn't want to lose her oxygen or blood supply. I added extra walking miles, read a complete book, ate some foods I hadn't enjoyed in awhile - no, this does not mean overeating. It means consuming good foods that require some actual preparation. And I am better for all of that. Clearer headed. For you see, although when we enter the ring, the bear expects to win the match and I expect to lose it, that's not usually how it shakes out.

And so . . have I bent anyone's ear (or eye, since one reads the blogs) about liking things that work as intended and disliking things that do not? Ahem. Blogger is a mixed bag of stuff for me. A free platform to write and interact with others. But I'm sometimes left with Blogger egg on my face. Do other bloggers get into such a twist as I do when Blogger conspires against them? The answer is probably "yes", "no" or "maybe". But I get into a twist. I've blogged about the Starbucks mug given to me by a very young woman who considers me her mentor. It says "Meticulosity: an extreme attention to detail." Little Jazzy laughs and says it would have helped her to have seen that tattoo on my forehead the first time we met, but she soon figured it out. That's how I am - I give attention to the small stuff. So imagine my horror today to look at my own blog and discover what Blogger or the gods had done to me on Kass' birthday post. I spent hours sizing the pics so they'd line up side-by-side. I'd spent forever downsizing the YouTube clips that had nothing but one photo and the soundtrack. I'd been meticulous about the size of the photos so Elisabeth's head would not be 1/6th the size of her husband's famous onion tartlet, and what was I looking at now? Why was Tag's poem spaced with so much open air running through it? How come Kim's beautiful gifts were oversized splats in the middle of the post, with miles of pink air space? How in the world did I post Kass' birthday at 2:00 a.m.on her birthday, yet 3 comments had been posted on April 24th the day before? Look closely, those of you who wrote to say, "Where did my comment go? I know you posted it. I saw it." [For the record, I post virtually every comment except those I'm asked not to - the ones that are a shoulder tap kind of message. I've now fixed that up by attaching an e-mail account to the Profile.] And why, the Sam Hill, did it all look completely different again one hour later? Yow. I don't know the answers. I am not required to be knowledgeable about everything, and I cannot be such. First these things made me crabby. Then they made me crabby about blogging.

It struck me that I posted my first blog post exactly 11 months ago. Blogging has fulfilled me and frustrated me. It has connected me with both like-minded and polar-opposite people. It has taught me to appreciate how well some people do things that don't even intrigue me. But their passion draws me. I've watched some bloggers simply disappear and others announce they're taking a break. Some who are taking a break pop up for a moment at the most wonderful times. I read both Kass and Elisabeth at some length commenting on the amount of time the blogs take up and I'm right there with you, ladies. Writing for my own, commenting to those I follow. I am struck, after my bear wrestling, with something that unsettles me. I work far too much. Old news. I walk way too many miles which also takes up too much time. Seven-year-old news. I spend too much time time blogging. That's news. And I do little else at all too much. Hmm.

During this week of experiencing some malaise, I forgot to go check that newly attached-to-my-blog e-mail account. It's one I've rarely used, and I forget to check it very frequently. Thank you to those who dropped me a note and I'm sorry if I seemed a tortoise before responding. Friend Tag, who was in my real e-mail account, you'll know I wasn't handling it very well, either, or something you sent would have seen the light of the blogosphere by now. It's coming! Even when I have to arrive late, I still arrive. Full of sincere apologies.

Yesterday, I drove home through a war zone. The weather is the enemy and the wind the most ferocious weapon in its arsenal. All I had at hand was a very small Nissan. The more ballsy forecasters had predicted wind gusts up to 70 mph. They were right! I left the office going south on Rainbow. Every side street acted as a tunnel, slamming me with crosswinds that moved my car around. I remembered the reminders on TV ~ "Keep both hands on the wheel!" No kidding. I knew what I was in for. Turning west on Desert Inn, I started to buck the headwind. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Oh, yes, I am the woman who camped through a night of 75 mph gusts, but I remained in the tent. I didn't have to see anything. Now, the traffic light standards bounced and that always freaks me out. I had to stop at the store. Cat food and coffee creamer are big copy in my home and I was nearing empty on both. My aunt did family day care for decades and she had a saying that would make most misbehaving little boys pause: "If you don't stop that, I'm going to snatch you bald-headed." I know the feeling. And I don't like my hair mussed up. This morning as I walked, I had mainly very black thoughts as I passed downed trees, many window screens torn from homes, tumbling trash cans and various other distasteful flying objects. I learned on the news that small, private aircraft were overturned and a carport roof was torn away in an apartment community. Some Las Vegas-y attention-grabbing event scheduled for 8:00 this morning was expected to be cancelled. If the girls still wanted to sky dive in their bikinis, that was one thing. But it was deemed unsafe for the aircraft to be airborne. Justin said it best: "Imagine. Bikini tops and bottoms and half naked girls flung all over the valley." Have I mentioned I am sick of it? Sick to death of it? Literally almost ill from it? It's now been 36 hours. It's about the same as 36 hours ago, although some brief periods have been more tolerable.

So what shall I do with myself, because I'm fairly in a snit? Mr. Insomnia crawled in with me at 1:30 this morning and never let me slide from his loving embrace. Someone hacked our bank account number at work and created several fake checking accounts with their names (multiple entities, multiple names, multiple IDs given) and our account number. One even had our logo and company name replicated, and a very good rendition of David's signature! Yes, Wells Fargo Bank is behaving in a very helpful way and, thankfully, the rotters didn't hit us for nearly what they could have, had they been higher achievers. But the inconvenience has been staggering. No checks, no credit or debit cards for 10 days to 2 weeks. I may need to pay one week of payroll in cash. I have three - count 'em - posts in draft form that I can't complete. They're painful, each for a different reason. I've invested too much in them to hit the delete button, but I avoid them studiously because they hurt.

Here's my plan. Tomorrow night is the 2-hour massage. I'm going to wave good-bye to David Saturday and take the wheel. Last May, he and his wife booked a Mexican cruise to celebrate 5 years of marriage. Remember that nasty little illness we first called swine flu? The cruise was cancelled. They're going for their 6th anniversary now. While David's away, I'll start the e-mails to plan my girlfriend-visit trip away. I've hung home too long! But before that, I'm going to the desert. I'm going to the place that has a convenient parking lot, so I can just pull up. I'm going to the place where I went in the winter and did my DIY primal therapy, screaming at the heavens and throwing fiery balls of my anger off the planet. I'm going to the place that will be replete with cactus flowers and horned toads ~ I know about these things. For in this place, at this exact time of year, in the year I was 52 . . . the cactus flowers were abundant and I held 52 horned toads in one sunny hike.

And, now, the Kass Birthday Grand Finale. Tag just kept spinning birthday joy after I'd stopped checking my e-mail box. Here is what he spun for Kass starting with my lame 4 lines and continuing with brilliance:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

An accomplished young lady of many phases;
A heck of a poet, she has a way with phrases.
Her home is Sugarhouse, I believe that's Utah.
Is there really such a thing called a Hoppy Taw?
Very crafty! I've heard she redoes the undone and
shoots strangers in restaurants without a gun.
A dangerous hobby, it sounds to this friend,
but she's just keeping up with the latest trend.
Time to end my contribution. It's getting late.
Great idea, friend Limes, on a way to celebrate!
Friend Kass, you are loved by many, it's clear.
So lets do this again same time, next year!

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I don't feel too charmed, actually. But I'll find something . . . OK, here we go. I let my post sit in the box overnight, even though I was pretty sure I was done. When I re-read it this morning it pointed out to me that there are reasons I'm not feeling all that charmed and I do have a plan to change the dynamic. One step forward. Then another one. Do it again. And I remember that the last time I went to the place of primal screaming, fireball hurling, cactus flowers and horned toads, I returned cleansed. It's lasted a long time. I just need to go get another dose.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Spring Has Sprung and I Sprang Right Into It - Part 1

I am not sure why the heart of darkness felt so lingering and draining this time, but I fairly limped out of it. In Las Vegas, we turned the corner from winter to spring, seemingly overnight. The calendar said March 20th was the Vernal Equinox and Las Vegas paid attention. The extended forecast shows no days of inclement weather. Outings are planned. The gray pea coat will make a trip to the dry cleaner and be placed in the closet, under wraps, until it is needed again.

For a woman who did not go outdoors on dry land between childhood and the age of 50, I have made up for lost time since 2002. In addition to camping and hiking and walking many miles every day of life, I go on the occasional outing. I have visited many a backwater on the backsides of California, Arizona and Nevada, sometimes walking or hiking while waiting for the cyclist to catch up to me, sometimes on a solo voyage for the pure enjoyment of it. The places I visit are not likely considered destinations by many, but I rarely fail to be charmed by something I see or experience. I rubberneck while driving in on the highway or down the main drag (if there is one), taking in all that I can. And I've become adroit at discovering the answer to the question of the ages: "What's shaking in these parts?" I am indulged in requests to stop the car so I can take a picture of something that makes me laugh out loud or scratch my head. Once I was a world traveler. And now I simply get around. Yeah, it's a Beach Boys song.

It was a gloriously warm, not hot, day. The sky was full of smeary looking clouds and some other junk, so the light was poor and flat, but I didn't complain. The air movement could only be categorized a breeze, not hurricane force. It was as good as it had been for a long, long time. The drive to the speck on the map was a fairly long one, but pleasant. I didn't feel rushed. I didn't feel cold. No phones jangled in my ears. I relaxed and enjoyed myself tremendously, savoring time spent away from the two different sets of four walls where I dwell most of the time. I felt all of my senses come to attention and my brain sharpen up. I drank in everything I gazed upon, and some of it was damned funny. I'd welcome the reader to join me and experience some of what I saw on my pass through just the latest little hamlet.

There are three tiny towns (with population of 5,784 in the 2000 census) situated in the 40-mile long valley that sits at 1,265 feet above sea level. I wouldn't have thought it would be so low. And it is greener than I would have imagined. Parts of this valley have been used for agriculture and I can see why. Obviously there is water available here and I saw lush green growth everywhere. There are huge and ancient trees both standing and downed, with petrified root systems gnarled in the air. Scattered across the valley floor are enormous date palm trees with dead fronds hanging so thick they look like lion heads. Approaching from the highway, I crossed the Muddy River and craned my neck to see if it actually was that. Yep! Muddy.

Reader, it has been suggested that I am easily amused and that is true. I can have a good time with whatever is at hand and my eyes were scanning the landscape looking for fun. It didn't take long. I saw the spaceship from a long way off. The sun was glinting off of its silver dome. Spaceship? This is not Roswell, New Mexico! What the . . . ? I gawked out the window looking for aliens hiding in the brush. None ever showed himself, and as the spaceship drew nearer, I spotted the sign that told me that was no spaceship at all. But it did tell me why the valley is so green and why it can support agriculture. There is water here!


Absent any spacemen to amuse me, I continued toward my destination. There was only one viable business to be easily seen - The Muddy River Bar & Grill. Business did not appear to be booming. I saw about ten other commercial buildings and suites, almost all vacant. They were contained in a one-block area that I suppose is the commercial center of this place. There was no grocery store, no gas station, no convenience store. I'd seen a sign by the side of the road that made me sorry I'd spent so long in the chair with Christine the previous evening. I'd have been pleased to do my part for the local economy and I'm sure Stephanie of Styles by Stephanie would have taken good care of me and my hair. It didn't seem there would be a long wait for service.

Rolling down the highway a bit farther, I spotted the sign that pointed me to the place I aimed for. It had a soft, sweet name evocative of newly arrived spring and I was to spend a soft, sweet time there. I did what I always do first - I drove in a big circle taking in the sights and clocking distances between things. I did this twice. After the second time, I knew what I wanted to get out and see. I knew where I would set out on foot to put some more miles on myself for the day. I knew where I would eat my picnic lunch and I spotted a public restroom which is a rare commodity in some of these places.

My first stop, now that I had the lay of the land, was an unusual one for me. They looked lovely, so dark in their pen with the light blue sky and the green, green grass. They drew me, but there was a problem. I am afraid of horses. They are very large and they have big teeth and I have a scary horse story to write about sometime - an unintended childhood event that rendered me forever frightened of horses. I stepped out of the car and watched these animals from across the road. One can always jump back in if any sudden, menacing moves are made. I spoke quite softly. "Hey, horsey home dudes, it's spring." They moved! Closer to the barbed wire fencing. They were interested in me. Just not for dinner, I hoped. These animals made it so clear they found me intriguing, I couldn't stay on the other side of the road. I'm all about connecting with others, including animals, so I took a deep breath and crossed. I talked to them for a long time. I wasn't brilliant, but they won't tell that. I felt deeply peaceful talking to animals, looking into their (enormous) eyes and they into mine. I decided. I was going to do it. I touched each of them, stroking their hair softly while continuing to speak to them. They touched me deeply. I don't think I'm afraid of horses any more. At least not all horses.

The sign was posted at the end of the horse pen. It made me muse because I'd already seen the size of this community. This was no imposing monument sign, but rather one that put me in mind of a piece of metal patio decor. I drove at about a 25% grade up a road that was better than a Jeep trail, but still a dirt road. When I got to the top, I thought, "There's no cemetery here." It was just a bare mesa with natural formations, rocks, sand and the odd bit of scrub. No emerald lawn anywhere in sight. Why would anyone put up a nice metal sign like that? Just to trick city girls who find cemeteries peaceful into driving up a mean, sharply angled dirt road? I'd already put the car in reverse when a little fluttering red and blue object caught my eye through the brush. I got out to explore and I found the cemetery. For here, right in the natural desert setting, were eight residents and holdmarkers for two wives who have not yet expired. Tiny American flags fluttered (the red and blue that had caught my attention) and slightly faded artifical flowers in every hue were in abundance. I was struck by how many of the departed were young - younger than I. Three out of eight. The graves were spread far apart, so I wandered awhile, reflecting that to be placed in the desert once I have left my body would be OK for me. I'd rather have my ashes spread at the petroglyphs, but interment up here on the mesa in the sun would not be a bad final resting place at all. It pleased me that Mickey has a bighorn sheep's skull placed near his headstone. In fact, nearly everything about this quiet, sunny, slightly breezy place pleased me. I stayed a long time. Peacefully. Contemplative.












Reentry to the ho-hum, ho-hum is highly overrated. By midday Monday, I was harried. Eaten alive by an unappreciative general public. I had to force myself to concentrate from time to time as I wanted to slip back into my daydream about a quiet, warm and peaceful time spent "away". Not "here". There is much more to show and share, but I believe I will do this in chapters. I want to savor it a little longer.

The wind came back last night. It screamed through the "breeze"ways in my community. Perfect name for those channels that amplify the noise as the gale rattles the windows. The blinds in my bedroom rattled all night, despite double paned windows with no known breach. Virginia Woolf trembled as she is terrified of the wind, so I made her a little bed in the bathtub and closed the bathroom door. At 3:00, I got up to walk. The chinook was terrifying. I plunged out into it and walked more miles than many would attempt, but fewer miles than I expect of myself. I have a triggerpoint in the arch of my left foot. I learned I have a little health worry to address and, although I had not felt any symptoms before I was told about it, now I suddenly felt tired and weak. It's in my head, I am sure, but it's bloomed. I became a little depressed, a little whiny. I was glad that I was by myself when I spun on my heel and headed home because I do not feel very good about myself when I am less than intrepid. Today I was a wind wiener. But I will dream of beautiful days to come. And tomorrow will be a better one.

In my ears right now: An old favorite, rediscovered. Terence Trent D'Arby.

Something that charmed me: That little glimpse of gentle spring charmed me. Perhaps it charmed me a little too much, as I'm having trouble dealing with just slight annoyances. One gets crotchety.

It Sneaked Up On Me!

Well, maybe I allowed it to sneak up on me, but the end of the year is upon us. I had so much to write about. And I had time to write, but I didn't. Maybe I didn't actually want to confess my time spent as a Christmas Nazi. I've been called Cleopatra (Queen of Denial) regarding other issues in life. So now, the quick version of my former Nazi-ism.

By the time of my last Christmas spent in the marital home, our rituals were firmly entrenched. Everyone knew his or her duties. Each of us was recognized for our special talents ~ Les, Ex and Amber. We lived in a small, 4-square-mile city completely surrounded by San Diego and we were related to about half the population. We were community activists, involved in city council, school board, PTA, Friends of the Library, Soroptimist, Kiwanis, Concerts in the Park and the Chamber of Commerce. We had one hella gift shopping list and the card list was longer. Somehow, over the years, it developed that we gave not one, but several gifts to each person on our list, unless they were more like acquaintances than actual friends or family. We shopped year-round. eBay, Amazon, quirky little shops, craft fairs. I kept a bound journal in my purse at all times for lists and other lists and lists that talked to each other. Somehow, it happened that we got so "cute" about wrapping gifts that if we were giving a dress to a little girl, I'd find a way to use a sweater as the "wrapping paper" and a pair of tights as the "ribbon". Wrapping Weekend at our home included hot glue guns, shiny dimensional objects and 48 hours in pajamas, all meals being delivered to the door. Ex wasn't grand at wrapping, but he could cut, glue, take out the trash, stack the gifts. The child showed a marked suitability to Nazi-ism at a very young age.

We hosted many of the Christmas Day family get-togethers. By October I knew how many extra tables, chairs and table linen we'd need to rent. The menu was in place by November. Somehow, it came to pass that our home would be decorated with some form of Christmas tree in each and every room, and I'm not talking about small ceramic Christmas trees. Even the dollhouses we built as our family project were decked out for the holidays. Every door in the home had a wreath on each side of it, unless it was the inside of a closet door. My little dog wore Christmas clothes . . . . is the reader getting the picture here? We spent life doing Christmas. I baked and made candy. I owned more Christmas music than the law allows. I was partial to the one that featured guitar music accompanied by a babbling brook. And the most fun I had all year long was shopping the sales after Christmas to get ready for the following Christmas. This was life for years.

This paragraph contains no tongue-in-cheek information. What I've described above is literally true. It was that frantic. There is a certain sickness to it and I know that. It was my sickness. The child was a child. She didn't create it. The only thing Ex ever knew about Christmas was whatever the Indian Center handed out for meals and gifts to indigents. Lest the reader believe I am stupid or vapid, I want to put something else forward. First, I'd like it known that we also delivered meals or served them every Christmastime, all three of us. I always chaired the Christmas Caring program at Amber's school, personally buying food and gifts for 20 families. Secondly, the answer today is: Yes, I do know what I was running from, why I had to have so much frantic diversion in my life, with whom I was avoiding interaction, where I needed to land, and when it was time to let it go. For you see, I have grown. I am living proof that people can make meaningful change. It shows a little on the outside. But the bigger shift occurs in our operating systems. When one is as tightly wound as I was, and the spring is finally sprung . . . . well.

That last Christmas Eve, the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. My home had miles of terra cotta tile flooring and as we greeted the 50 or so guests, the floor became treacherous. We employed every rug and beach towel we owned, trying to avert a lawsuit when someone took a dive. Things were progressing nicely and everyone was seated at the tables for dinner. One of the relatives' kids - a smarmy 12-year-old smartass - said, "Hey, there's water coming down the stairs!" I exchanged a glance with Ex that he probably understood pretty well - we'd been together 31 years by then. "Little asshole." However, I'd no more than turned my attention back to my dinner plate when the tidal wave announced itself. Water heater. Upstairs. Emptying its contents downstairs. It was a stressful time, dear readers. I've never groused about the $800 it cost to replace a water heater on a rainy Christmas Eve, nor about the work it took to dry everything out in rainy weather. But I was truly disturbed at the sequence of events that messed with my entertaining. I hadn't yet learned that I don't control anything. Tightly wound. Uh-huh.

Now I do the holidays differently. I don't call them "Christmas" any more. I don't trick out my home in tinselly stuff and I don't buy gifts for 8,000 people. I am still tightly wound about some things, so I get a little out-of-sorts trying to work out a holiday-like meal translated to primitive camping conditions. I do it pretty well. I sleep on the ground instead of my warm bed, and sometimes I sleep with all the same clothes that I've worn all day - one wants to avoid hypothermia. My face chaps and my nose runs and sometimes the conditions are just . . . . miserable. I sit in a sling-style camp chair that makes my back hurt if I sit too long reading. Dishwashing and bathing are best accomplished at the warmest hour of the day. One hikes miles and miles and sees stark great beauty. And animals and old mineshafts and "stuff". And that's where I find my peace. Although I could never have told you I am bothered by noise pollution, I've never failed to arrive in any corner of the desert and immediately exclaim, "Listen to the quiet!" It quiets me in every way. I put down my burdens and live in the now. Just a little less tightly wound.

In my ears right now: Jefferson Starship ~ Miracles. That danged Erin O'Brien got me going and I can't stop. Tightly wound! I wish I was wearing a twirly skirt.

Something that charmed me: I work only peripherally with a man I dislike intensely. When he approaches, I feel my jaw clench. He always manages to offend me in most every way. Sometimes he does it in one sentence. He came into the office and started in on what a wonderful year 2009 has been and yada, yada, yada. Well, 2009 has not been a banner year for me, for many reasons. In fact, I've been inviting any interested parties to help me boot its ass on out of here tomorrow night. I said as much to him and he started in on all the expected things: my health, my job, my home. I maintained my Little Miss Crabby Ass demeanor until he rumbled off. And when he did, I grinned. I don't give this man much, but he hit on the things that matter. I adjusted my attitude. 2010 has to be better!

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 . . . . .

Further Evidence

In the dawn this morning, I walked into Starbucks to buy my coffee and all three meals for the day (oatmeal, no toppings = brunch; white chicken pasta salad with kalamata olives = lunch and dinner). Yes, (blush) sometimes I manage to avoid the grocery store in pretty alarming ways. I don't have time for that and the servants I was promised have failed to materialize. I noticed walking into the establishment that the sunrise was glorious, as have been our sunsets for a few days. That's because our skies are filled with smoke from the conflagrations in California, and we're promised another few days of smoke advisory. I was a little crabby, and needed that coffee.

When they spotted me, my favored baristas, a young man and a young woman, started windmilling their arms in the air, pointing to a shiny new announcement poster. Beginning this morning, pumpkin spice latte is back! Never mind that it's only September 1st and it will be 104 degrees here today. It's autumn, dammit! It must be. Starbucks said so.

So Greg said, "Limes?" "All right, Greg, a tall skinny pumpkin spice latte, please." It was already lined up on the prep counter to be made for me - they spotted my car when I pulled up. "Whipped cream on that, Limes?" "No, Greg, that pretty much defeats the purpose of 'skinny'."

I walked out grinning, carrying my day's calorie intake in a brown paper bag. Although caused by something very bad, that sunrise was gorgeous. And if pumpkin spice latte is here, then eggnog latte can't be far behind.

In my ears right now: Lucinda Williams, "Over Time". Elvis Costello included it in his "Artist's Choice" CD of favorites, and I'd have to agree.

Something that charmed me: I love calavera (skull) art that celebrates the Mexican Day of the Dead. Check the party at the cantina! The lovely senoritas with hair bows attached to their skulls and full, party skirts, home dude guzzling what appears to be a pitcher of margaritas. I like a party!

Critical Mass

It's official. I can't fit anything else into a day. I work more hours than I am willing to admit. I have meetings to attend. I walk more hours and miles than I am willing to admit. Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a little tiny life and a special relationship to nurture. Once in a while I am forced to shop for cat food and litter, laundry supplies and a bite to eat. I spend more hours on the massage table than I am willing to admit. I do a little property management and am trying to rent a particularly challenged house.

I started the blog and it has done so much for me I can't express it properly. The outlet for my words, feelings and memories has been a gift I've given myself. I recently entered a very intense relationship that I've given a lot of time and words and feelings. Since that began, my other writing has dried to just droplets and I'm feeling some pain. I've talked to the Badger about this new relationship. Yesterday I spoke to David about it for an hour - he'd not heard of it before that. It intrigued him and he had a million questions and comments to make. Yesterday both David and the Badger said my engaging in this new relationship was "good" and "great".

Last night, my new friend crossed some boundaries. I advocated for myself and others who were being criticized despite the fact that much important information was missing when the criticisms were made. This was big for me, because while I take excellent care of others, I don't typically take such good care of Limes. This person writes beautiful apologies, but one can't unring a bell. I have been so disturbed that I slept too little and walked too long and hard this morning. I'm mulling over a great many things, including what I'm doing in this new relationship, because it's damned twisty. I don't know if people really consider what their words will do to another person once they have been spoken or written. I wonder if it is inevitable that when someone is angry and hurt, they reach out and violate someone else.

One might say, "Limes, don't continue this relationship if it isn't going well or if you feel uncomfortable." However, I'd point one to my paper cup philosophy quote on the right hand bar of my blog. You see, I committed. I have told this friend more than one time that I pride myself on never, ever simply disappearing. So I will have to hang and work it out well. I will have to find a resolution that makes me feel I did the right thing for myself. I will have to remove my head as the barrier to my life.

This won't be my best post ever. It won't interest many. I simply needed to rid myself of the words. I've landed on something. I cannot fit anything else in my life beyond what's in it now. I can't form new connections until I take care of the ones that are ongoing. I need to relocate the Book of Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much that my mother gave me. I'll read from it and my Tao and the other daily books I use.

In my ears right now: Absolutely nothing. I've turned off the music, tuned out Bloomsbury and Benson. Tomorrow I'll crank up the iPod again. Today I can only hear the telephone and the BlackBerry chirping.

Something that charmed me: Nothing comes to mind. I don't feel all that charmed or charming today.