Flickering Thoughts Like the Damselfly

I've been Sam Cooke-ing for a few days and I'm not sure why. Oh, yes, I've always liked his music. It's clean. Pure. Nostalgic. But I have been on a heavy diet of it for days, apropos of nothing, and I've re-read the circumstances of his shooting death. The courts ruled that he had been drunk and distressed and that the shooting was justifiable. I have troubled meshing the beautiful sound of his voice with the image of him lying dead on the floor at the Hacienda Motel wearing a sport jacket, shoes and nothing else. The area was bad, even in 1964. It was very near the part of Los Angeles that was to be the hotbed of the Watts riots soon to happen. The reader is forewarned that all the film footage is bad. It is all pre-December, 1964.

Friend Kirk Jusko is brilliant about things historical and political. Often, he posts about current political events and I've told him from time to time that his sharp grasp of these things intimidates me just a little. Oh, I'm bright enough. When I represented unionized public employees, I trained and led large groups of members to Sacramento to lobby the lawmakers. So I'm certainly capable of understanding these things. The trouble is, I developed an easily triggered gag reflex. I sicken early and often. And when the choke begins, I find my attention wandering. I'd rather close my eyes and think of England. However, this morning my mind is on politics. It's because of those damned Tea Partiers and a spot I saw on the local news this morning.

Las Vegas (and the state of Nevada, to an extent) is different from any other place in many ways. We elect political officials who are rogues, scalawags, rapscallions, reprehensibles and worse. Although I vote in every election, I never have voted for the candidate who wins office. I guess I'm out of step with the other citizens. Consider our mayor. Oscar Goodman's claim to fame was that he was the lawyer to the mob. I remember hearing the stories of his legerdemain when I lived here in the 1970s and 1980s. His clients included defendants accused of being major figures of organized crime in Las Vegas. He did it well. He'd once been voted one of the top 15 trial lawyers in the U.S. The mob could afford good counsel. He was elected mayor in June, 1999 and remains mayor today. So much for term limits. Our Oscar is a man with some wild ideas, the grit to say outrageous things, and some really poor judgement, publicly exhibited. He's the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office.



Our recently completed freeway and highway projects include some beautiful wall murals featuring native plant and animal species in colorful bas relief. These are truly lovely enhancements to otherwise unrelieved city and desert driving, and - yes - the grafitti vandals were immediately attracted to them. Mayor Goodman came up with a grand form of punishment for the felons and called a press conference to announce it! Televised thumb amputation. That would certainly be a deterrent to others with cans of spray paint. I wonder which station on cable TV would get the rights to televise that.

Oscar's love of gin is legend. He tells this himself to any interested party. Visitng a classroom of fourth grade students, he was asked what he would want to have with him if he found himself on a deserted island. To the displeasure of some of the parents who heard the story that evening, Goodman's reply was "a showgirl and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin". He certainly is a permanent fixture at any local event presented by the good folks of Lee's Discount Liquor, being featured prominently on posters and flyers, arm around Mr. Lee's shoulders.

We were out for a Sunday afternoon walk in pleasant conditions. We chewed unhappily on the uncertainty of the school district budget cuts and what it might mean personally, rather than generally. I questioned my companion closely, coming from the union rep's point of view. "What is your union doing about these things? Do you think the district really will take unilateral action and break the contract? They can't win at that!"

This led to my sharing a story I'd seen on the news. Mayor Goodman had a proposal for reducing city expenses in our economical crisis. This was not some tongue-in-cheek local joke. This was the man's, the attorney's, actual proposal. "Let's fire all the unionized city workers and then immediately hire them back at reduced hours and reduced wages. No one loses a job and the city saves all the money it needs to save." His actual proposal. The union rep in me screamed! "They can't do that. They have a contract with these workers and they're required to negotiate any change in working conditions. It's unlawful!" It took the City Attorney two days to notify the mayor his proposal was unlawful. Our mayor is the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. And that's enough about him. He's not even the politico I meant to write about.

So last week, over at Tag's fine blog, the commenters were being goofy and I volunteered to go chuck rotten produce at Sarah Palin's tea party in Harry Reid's tiny home town and at Ann Coulter who was speaking in Henderson. I even went so far as to say I might get into a physical dust-up with the women, and Tag gallantly said his money was on me. I was just funning about going there. I already had plans for the weekend. But now I wish maybe I'd changed my plans and gone out to get a feel for the idiots.

Currently there are 22 candidates seeking to unseat Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid in the midterm elections. On the news this morning, I heard about one who reminds me of the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. Scott Ashjian is a Tea Party candidate. He is an asphalt contractor who has been a lightning rod for negative press since announcing his candidacy. The news spot this morning was presented to say Ashjian narrowly missed being jailed for felony theft. Wednesday he made restitution for a bad check and court fees totaling $5,575, thereby paving the way for the judge to dismiss the felony charges in court today. There is another $5,000 bad check written to a businessman in December that still has not been resolved.








Last week, Ashjian's contractor license was revoked when he failed to appear at a hearing. He has been directed to pay $2,600 in fees and $37,000 to complainants, which includes another bad check for $981.82. Ashjian owes the IRS $200,000 and is facing more than $1 million in home foreclosures. His contractor business has had a number of liens filed and he has been served with a number of city nuisance actions. That's not all! The Independent American Party and the group Anger is Brewing, an affiliate of the national tea party movement, say they will file a lawsuit claiming that Ashjian filed as a candidate before registering to vote as a Nevada Tea Party member. As his own pack turns on him, one can hope that this Tea Partier will have been hoisted by his own petard. Neither Nevada nor the United States Senate needs this. And one is reminded of the kind of man Las Vegans (and other Nevadans) elect to high office. Have I mentioned I have an easily triggered gag reflex?

I wore one of my pairs of Rocket Dogs today. It seemed a Rocket Dog kind of day. On the rare days I wear my Rocket Dogs, homes get very quiet as I arrive at work and put my first foot outside the car and onto the asphalt. When I wore this very pair to our company holiday party at a well-known sports bar, the room turned dead silent as I walked in grinning. For Rocket Dogs are kicks with a little attitude. When a woman wears her Rocket Dogs, she grins a lot. From ear to ear. At everyone. One needs to possess a sense of humor to sport Rocket Dogs. I have one. And the day must seem just right. It is! Yes, they're at least two inches longer than my actual foot. Yes, they're extremely comfortable. I don't wear shoes that are uncomfortable. Yes, the tights are argyle. Yes, that is my best pair of well-worn, much-loved raggedy ass jeans.






In my ears right now: It's Sam Cooke, and the best of his tunes, dammit. But after a day of merry hell with Blogger, now it's YouTube messing with me. If I have to put up the post and add the song later, I will. I'm sick of monkeying around with it. Yep. I had to try it one more time. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. If that song never appears in this post, I'll put it up on a different one.

Ha! There's more than one way to skin a cat, and I know most of them. Here's my favorite from Sam:


Something that charmed me: I bought some potted hyacinth with florets cinched so tightly, I literally could not tell what color my flowers would be. I put it on top of the birds' home in the sunny window, way up high, so I could watch all the action. I know what color the flowers are, and now - so does the reader. The fragrance is overwhelming! Like the busy season down at the funeral home.

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!

Skull Valley Redux ~ We're Ba-a-ck

The Badger didn't get behind on his writing, so he's long since posted his telling of the Skull Valley Race 2009. I'm going to take just a slightly different approach, because - after all - for me, it's not about the bike.

I have had the good fortune to take many road trips in the company of the Badger. This is something we do well, whether our destination is a campsite in the desert, Daughter Badger's wedding, Mother Badger's home, a vacation at the beach . . . it simply doesn't matter. When you put the two of us in a car, there's going to be some fun. Yes, he always forgets at least one important thing. Yes, I always overpack. Yes, the car inevitably groans from the weight of its contents and looks like adolescents have taken over in a coup. And we have fun! We solve the world's problems in the ways we know would work. We laugh irreverently at some things that probably should remain sacred in the view of most decent folks. We rail at the things that outrage our sensibilities. And suddenly, we're just there. We can while away some miles.

Last year's drive through hell to Prescott with no air conditioning was a dim, grim memory as we set out under gray skies, looking forward to temperatures 20 degrees lower than what we "enjoy" at home. Because we set out early in the morning, we served no sentence in stopped-dead traffic over the Hoover Dam. Soon we were in Arizona. "Bathroom needed in Kingman, Badger!" "OK!" It was after Kingman that he spotted the dead badger in the road - the first badger in any condition of health that he'd seen since leaving Wyoming. After he commented on it, we both got a little hinky about that omen, brown eyes looking into blue, a little alarmed. Then the rains came. And came. And came. The Prius has a perky little icon that lights up to say "We're hydroplaning and I'm trying to correct it!" I didn't care for that icon much. It rained so long, so hard, from a sky so gray that we missed the turnoff to Skull Valley and went far out of our way (which we didn't know until later on). The Badger, not known for tolerating nonsense, began to get crabby about not being able to ride the course that afternoon. There were pools and rivulets of rain all across the desert floor. Surely the course would be in bad shape, too.

When we exited the highway, we were stunned to see a small, old settlement of houses and a few tiny businesses. What the heezy? Last year there was nothing between the highway and Skull Valley. How could an old settlement spring up in a year's time? We're pretty quick on our feet, though, and soon realized we'd become not lost, but diverted. "Limes, what did you do about feeding us lunch?" "Not a thing, Badger. This is your rodeo." Uh-oh. We were on our way to a l-o-n-g, strenuous ride and breakfast was a l-o-n-g time gone. "I have one Clif bar in the car, Limes." "You eat it, Badger. You'll need it more than . . . general store on the right, Badger!" We walked through a creaking wooden door into the oddest emporium. An ancient commercial business space was outlined with some 50 small coolers one might expect to dispense soft drinks. There seemed to be a little tiny bit of everything imaginable for sale in the place, from ant poison to diapers and white bread to Kraft mac 'n cheese. Except that we couldn't find anything we were willing to eat. Not one diet anything in the place. Coke and Pepsi have a sure market if they over-produce their fully sugared concoctions. No produce. Not a fruit or vegetable to be found. We finally landed on a meager meal: turkey jerky for the Badger, string cheese for me. The clerk had me go back to one particular cooler to determine the price of the string cheese for him. He was unfamiliar with putting a purchase on a debit card, but came through with flying colors. As we walked out the door, the Badger and I snapped our heads to look at one another. "Did you see . . . . ," we said over the top of each other. For behind the wooden counter of that store was the oddest sight. If the local citizens want to buy Tylenol there, or Advil, it is purchased in tiny packets of two tablets. Toiletries and sundries are available in small, hotel-freebie-sized containers. But also behind that counter were about 5 gallons of really bad, cheap wine for every man, woman and child in the county. More wine than the law allows . . . as they say.

We arrived at the race course to sunshine, dry roads, pleasant temperatures. The Badger needed to ride part of the course, imprinting that sharp, fast descent to the turn-around point. I needed to drive the course to remind myself of the landmarks and check out where I'd hand up his water. "I'm off, Limes." "No. The Prius does things I don't understand. I need a primer." He taught me the ropes and pushed off for 29 miles. I drove to the turn-around point and a little beyond. It's a tight, narrow space to manage a pack of cyclists. Narrower than I recalled, even. I drove back to the place where we'd agreed to meet after his ride.

I had choices. I could read. I could listen to music. I could take a nap. I could put some extra miles on my feet for the day. Hmmmm . . . extra miles. I was in the mountains with some steep rollies at hand. I walk on flat ground every day of life. Walking hills would be different. There's only one highway with no turnoffs nearby. I'm wearing the red Nike shirt - he can't possibly miss me if I'm walking between the car and the direction from which he'll approach. The decision was easily made. There were even mile markers on the highway for me to measure my progress. The shoulder isn't very wide, but neither am I. I set out on foot with plenty of water and the car keys. What happened in the next hour is interesting to me. I am not sure I think it would happen where I live. No fewer than four vehicles stopped and the drivers asked me if I needed assistance. It amused me a little. I think I look like someone who walks on purpose. I wear the cool girl pants and very serious shoes, and - hey! - I'm just out for my walk. Why couldn't these people figure out I'm doing my walk? Of course, it probably seemed an odd location to find a lone woman hoofing it fast in the heat. I'm not sure I'd experience the same thing if I were walking, say, in Red Rock. I think drivers there might just plow me down and not notice the bump as they ran over my body. I enjoyed scoping all the roadside debris and found an interesting bleached bone that still had some sinew and hide attached. I did not enjoy seeing rabbit roadkill.

The Badger pulled up minutes after I completed 5 strenuous miles on foot. "How'd you do, Badge?" "Good! I'm really ready for it. I felt good enough to ride a little longer than I'd planned." Out near the crossroads to Bagdad (Arizona, not Iraq), he'd been treated to the sight of a large flock of buzzards. "They probably heard there's a race tomorrow, Badger. Mmm . . . cyclist! A little stringy, but the bones are good to peck." We jumped into the car and headed for Prescott . . . . .

which turned out to be infinitely easier to get around in than last year. Maybe simply because we'd been there once before, but whereas we'd had a terrible time navigating it in 2008, now we were like natives. I'd Googled a different place for us to stay than the official race motel and it was certainly a cut above the typical race weekend dive. It had faux art deco furniture! And a fully loaded kitchenette so we could dine in if we chose to do that. It was clean and more than serviceable and cost about what was paid for the dive last summer. The Badger soaked his bones in epsom salts for awhile. Then, "Limes, didn't you say you wanted some shops?" Yep. Limes always wants the shops! And the Badger's always good enough to do that for awhile. We went to pick up his racing packet at the dive that was last year's and this year's official race motel. Yep, my little faux art deco place was a way better deal. We headed for Prescott's historic Whiskey Row.

Whiskey Row is old, kind of charming, picturesque. Courthouse Square had live music playing across the street and the Row itself is a mish-mash of crappy souvenir shops, rather serious art and artisan offerings, coffee houses, and saloons. Lots of saloons. Many saloons with lots of alcohol being served. The streets teemed with people ranging from tourists to children to locals to faux cowboys to patrons of those lots and lots of salooons. We first encountered a young woman sitting on a bench, sobbing and screaming into her cell phone at someone. People were giving her wide berth. Yow. From her vicinity we veered sharply into an indoor collection of lovely little art shops and a wonderful used book store. Moving on down the row, we spotted the souvenir shop that housed the badger who had met with taxidermy. I saw this one, folks! He looked a little bleary. A little worse for wear and tear. Trip treasures were found in that shop and carefully carried home. We finally landed in a most interesting artists' co-op displaying the creations of only local artists. As we are launching a line of the Badger's photos for sale, we carefully studied how other artists present their wares. The place was a find - paintings, decorative gourds, every manner of jewelry, woven articles, cards and more. We had a good time.

Strolling back to the car, he spotted a likely looking Mexican restaurant. "Limes?" Yes to Mexican food, any time! We enjoyed a good meal. He had wine. I had iced tea. I felt a little funny. I felt a little bad. I felt really bad. I needed to put my head down on the table. "Oh, no, Badger - was that real sugar I put in my tea?" It wasn't. "Oh, Badger, I'm going to get sick right here." He asked if I could get to the restroom. I couldn't. "How can I help you?" The color was draining out of my face and I was feeling awfully low. It was about to get embarrassing. And the good man stayed with me. Some would have bolted. Just as quickly, the spell passed. "Let's go, Badger. I'm OK." Not sure what that was about, but I wouldn't like to go through it again in a public place. We made a grocery market stop and headed to our home for the night.

Just to prove we really do know how to have a good time, we ended the day with a bang. One begins operating the Prius by inserting a chunky black object (that resembles everyone else's car remote) into the dash. Embedded within this remote is a small, oddly shaped key. The key is removable, but it takes purpose. It does not easily slip out of the remote. In fact, he has never removed it from the remote since he owned the car. One just doesn't. He'd left something out in the car and I offered to go after it. I went down the stairs to the car I'd operated all day long and now understood, reached out to open the door . . . no remote. Funny little key, but no remote. Back up the stairs. "Badger, where's the remote?" Keystone Kops comes to mind. Down the stairs into the black night in the pines, looking for a black remote on blacktop. He had a weak little flashlight. Nothing. Back up the stairs. Tear into the room and everything we'd brought into it. It was found with relief, finally. When he carried his bike upstairs, he must have jostled the key loose because his hands were so full of things. We each allowed it had entered our heads, although neither had uttered it: "How many days might it take to get the necessary item to Prescott, Arizona?" Because that car can be entered, but not driven, without the clunky black object.

Our neighbors arrived at the room next door about the time our heads hit the pillows. They were not partying or behaving objectionably. They were simply talking. Four of them. We could hear every word, and I swear, I could hear them exhale. My sweet lord, the acoustics! I turned our A/C down to 60 and we suddenly had white noise. It would be a frosty night, but no voices in our heads. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. The charlie horses hit my feet and legs about the time I stumbled on the white noise solution. For I am not used to walking 5 miles fast in mountainous terrain. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. I only got up about 14 times to do stretches. And then we slept.

In my ears right now: Emmylou Harris singing Lucinda Williams' "Crescent City". It's a favorite. Emmylou nails it better than Lucinda does.

Something that charmed me: Four drivers stopping to see if I needed assistance. I don't think that's so common any more. One man took pains to say, "This is my wife right here beside me." Taking care not to alarm me. There are still good people in the world who would help a stranger.

Full Hands, Full Head

This morning's walk had a very different feel to it. Not so recreational. More serious in tone. After all, I've signed up for a deadly serious walk. And I have 6 months to get ready for it. That sounds like a long time, but I can't let all those calendar pages make a reason for me to go slowly.

I already carry keys, tissues, iPod, BlackBerry, and water. Now some other tools are going along. The Badger bought himself a new Garmin and offered me the Forerunner I've dubbed Old Unfaithful across a few years. It's pretty notorious. Consistently inconsistent. We took out his weight and put in mine. We changed it from cycling to running. I need to familiarize myself with it a bit, but I already understand that its reports will point me in directions I need to go: longer, faster, farther, harder. I've set up the spreadsheets to keep track of my stats. I understand I have to work both my body and my head.


Also courtesy of the Badger came a heart monitor and I understand I'll need to learn about myself in all the Zones - 1,2,3,4 and more . . . I recently read Wheel Dancer's post about "to monitor or not to monitor" - I guess I'm going to monitor. I need to learn more about myself in this way, as I've never explored it before. As the Forerunner already challenges me, I'll start the heart monitor in a few days. It's my hunch that I am somewhat familiar with the zones, but I have called them "just huffing and puffing", "slightly gasping for breath", "I can't believe I can do this" and "dial 9-1-1".

I am wrestling with myself about whether to do the half marathon or the whole enchilada. I believe I know what I'll do. You see, it would be an easy gig for me to do the half. I wouldn't have to work very hard. It's not all that much more than distances I've already been able to do at a pretty good pace, without being in training. But the marathon would be a true accomplishment. A true test of myself. Remarkable for many reasons. Something I never dreamed I could do.

I'm no math whiz, but if it can be managed on the fingers and toes, I can usually land on the sum. I know how long my walks take me now. I know how long it takes to cover how many miles. I began to think in terms of 13 or 26 miles and I realize that I will be on my feet for a long, long time. Everything being equal, and training hard, I'll be faster than I am now. But 26 miles walking still takes awhile.

It flitted through my head that I have people who would come out to support me if I were swimming or playing volleyball. But I don't know how you'd ask someone to come to a marathon and wait. Too long, too far, no way to tell where one will be at any given time. Maybe ask someone to wait at the finish line some 4+ hours into the race. Then it flitted through my head that I will have to provide my own encouragement and kudoes. That will be very new for me.

Very unsettled by the time I got home, I found I'd shaved about 10 minutes off of my usual amount of time in the streets. So I went online and I bought the pink shoes. In all of my life I've only had one pair of shoes that cost more than those pink beauties, but the shoes are ordered. I'll start to wear them in late November.

In my ears right now: Pachelbel - Pachelbel's Greatest Hit. One CD, the same tune rendered by about 20 different artists.

Something that charmed me today: The smoke coming off the Visa card after I paid for the shoes.

Friends in Need and Prevention

The Badger was , indeed, a friend in need. Despite two races in two days, the horrors of the oilfields and a very long drive home, he appeared at my door with a computer under his arm! We made a deal: I'd fix dinner, he'd get me up and running again. He did. I did. My hands were trembling as I reached for the keyboard. After leaving work Saturday, I'd gone without for about 24 hours! I blogged around on the BlackBerry, but I could only look, not post comments or write my own post. It was difficult!

However, lack of a computer forced me to have a different kind of day yesterday. I read more than I typically read. I finally put the multi-disc changer on the Bose. It has remained in the shipping box for a year. I washed off the patio furniture. I cleaned windows. I put all the DVDs and videos into the piece of furniture meant to contain them. Do you think I spend too much time in front of the monitor? I pride myself on never having been a TV addict, but . . . . .

The Badger's mother gives me subscriptions to Prevention magazine and I am also addicted to that. I'm not sure why every bit of it grabs me every time, but it does. On the day that Prevention arrives, I sit down and read it cover to cover. There's always something interesting about pet health care, and the best workouts on the planet. There is always an article that makes one think about choices in life - the way we make our way. Makeup artist Bobbi Brown always has good tips for where not to apply the mascara and what colors not to use if you're over 22 years old. The cooking section always draws my attention and I've learned some of my favorite tricks there (you should taste the brown sugar/mustard rub I make for salmon ~ the brown sugar caramelizes on the fish . . but that's another post). There are sections about vitamin supplements, what new products do and do not live up to their claims. And the last page presents the Reflections of an older, habitually happy and grateful woman (Chief Inspiration Officer of the publishing company) that contain a good deal of corn and I like them anyway.

Often there appears a page that intrigues me. It is about a Prevention event, but it's never anywhere near Las Vegas. It goes like this:

Join Team Prevention Walk It!

Get fit, meet other readers, and achieve a substantial fitness goal. Signing up ensures you an automatic spot at the event of your choice, step-by-step trianing and tips from Prevention's editors and experts, online training tools, a TeamPrevention race shirt, and much more!

We'll be there to help you every step of the way!

Well, that sounds a lot like something I'd like to do. Meet other walkers and Prevention readers (who, like me, would really just be other people interested in a variety of things), visit their 2 day expo and walk either a marathon or half marathon. There are frequently articles about Susie from Maryland or Tillie from Delaware who joined up, were not even fit at the beginning, were not walkers at all, and who were older (sometimes they're even as old as I am) . . . . who followed the progam and walked a half marathon. So . . . . I've got a leg up on Susie and Tillie ~ I've walked for miles every day for years. I burn through good shoes every 4-5 weeks.

I signed up this morning. I'm in! December 4th or 5th I'll visit the expo. Sunday, December 6th, I'm doin' the Rock 'n' Roll Las Vegas Marathon and Half Marathon.

In my ears right now: Dwight Yoakam's Best, with a tip of the hat to Bakersfield

Something that charmed me today: Hitting the "Submit" button when I joined TeamPrevention