My NEXT Great Idea ~ Let's Play a Word Game, Guys!

Remember me, the kid who greeted other kids not with "Hi", but with "I've got an idea"? So I'm feeling just a tiny bit frustrated these days. Oh, I'll survive it and it's not going to be my excuse to pick up a drink, but I feel it a little. I get up really early to get ready for work. I work nonstop for several hours, jump up, navigate the streets of the city (ugh), pick up Jennifer, go to the library or wherever we've decided we'll pop into for the day, go to AA to fill my reserve tank, sometimes have to stop at Fresh & Easy or get my hair cut or whatever . . there isn't much time left in a day. I am pent up with words and ideas I want to get onto the blog and have not yet figured out how to make time to accomplish. But that's not exactly what this post is for.

I hold my sweet-natured little she-car - Lucy Sue - in similar esteem to that in which I hold my sweet-natured little she-cat, Virginia Woolf. Both of these girls have belonged to me only, not shared custody with anyone else. They rely upon me for their needs and I've managed to meet them, apparently, because both seem in good condition. When I stopped drinking and my life started to flow down the drain, Lucy Sue did what many alcoholics attempt unsuccessfully. She cut back on her drinking. For most of a year, I put in $10 of gas and it lasted a month. I wasn't going much of anywhere. Yes, I noticed all the signs on the gas stations. I knew gas prices were obscene. But I wasn't doing higher math. $10 is just $10. "How much will it cost to fill up my 12-gallon tank?" is another matter altogether. So I pulled in Wednesday, slid my card, used my preferred customer discount and started the pump. Man, it costs a lot to fill a tiny tank with fuel! Who knew? And - I swear this is true - I heard an audible reaction from Lucy Sue. She either groaned or emitted a little paroxysm of sated delight. She'd not felt so well-endowed in a long time. But that's not exactly what this post is for, either.

I love final resting places. Anyone's final resting place. Whether it's catacomb or crypt, graveyard or Golgotha, mausoleum or memorial park, I take great pleasure in communing with the departed. No, I'm not morbid. I don't want to imagine anything unpleasant. I simply want to weave through the rows, reading headstones and memorial plaques, imagining the people and their lives and those who cared about them. I've spent hours in the desert observing tiny ersatz funerary grounds and have been profoundly moved by what I saw there. I've slithered on my belly like a snake in pyramids both in Egypt and Mexico, viewed vast green  plots with the white markers for fallen soldiers in several places in the world, and - oh, the promised land - St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Beneath the beautiful structure consecrated in 1708, sitting

  there atop Ludgate Hill, the fifth structure known as St. Paul's is a place of great beauty, the tallest building in all of London until 1962, and possessing one of the world's largest domes, still. The stained glass is breathtaking and the American Memorial Chapel touching - remember, the Brits eventually became pretty affectionate toward us Yanks. St. Paul's fills me up with holiness, and I am not speaking of religion, as I don't do religion. At all. A person would have to be soulless, however, not to find something to love at St. Paul's.

After an awe-inspiring look around, almost always accompanied by profound silence from nearly every visitor, one descends to the crypt. Oh, here lie Lord Nelson, cheek by jowl with the Duke of Wellington and Lawrence of Arabia. There are the painters, Van Dyck and Sir Joshua Reynolds, poet laureate Nahum Tate (died 1715) . . my mind goes a mile a minute. The best memorial, however, houses

Sir Christopher Wren who designed the fifth St. Paul's, most of the prior structures having been consumed by fires dating as far back as the year 936. Wren's monument is unassuming dark marble, words inscribed: "Lector, si monumentum requiris circumspice". "Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you." I have never visited his resting place that his grave was not covered in fresh roses or daffodils, laid across the marble, bright punctuation on the deep-toned marble. Cathedral workers remove the floral overflow hourly. And all of that is sort of what this post is for.

Now, let's play the game. Imagine you have left the building, never to return. Those who loved you wish to construct a fitting commemorative tribute to the wonderful person who was you. What will it say? What will it look like? You are restricted to a headline of your choice (like I've used "Here lies Les" below) and 10 words to tell about your essence. Here is mine. Long may I lie in peace.

In my ears right now: Otis. If you don't love Otis, then I feel sorry for you.

Special thanks to esteemed Word Woman, Rachel Fenton, who recently applied the words "quirky" and "droll" to me. I can't claim those as my own brilliance.

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!

Sometimes While One Ponders . . .

. . . why she cannot write/is not writing despite being full of much to say, she could just post a couple of fairly credible pictures taken while on the brief outing away from home. I struggled with feeling that might appear just a little bit derivative, since so many bloggers post their photographs of flowers and the desert and - dang it! - some of the very same things I've aimed at. I prickle at appearing derivative. On the other hand, I went where I went and it's in the desert and cactus flowers abound, and cactus without flowers, and other sights that charmed me. If one can't be creative in one way, then try another. And keep trying to figure out about why the avoidance before going on the trip and why the avoidance since coming back. What's going on here?

I've written many times about feeling no urge to be a photographer. I've shared life with two different very talented such artists and it's made it just a little too easy for me to say, "Would you please aim your magical instrument over in that direction and see what you can get for me?" I'm lazy. I have to admit it. And I don't feel any fire to learn the operation of the camera to produce magic of my own. I'd rather play with words. Nevertheless, I'd be an idiot if I didn't know a little bit about how to capture a decent enough picture and I was lucky to do so on my trip.

I walk for miles in the street every day and on my visit to Arizona, I was fortunate to sleep in each day, pushing off at 6:00 a.m. The sun was just rising and the cactus flowers at their dewiest, not yet wilting from harsh sun. It charms me that the streets in Mother Badger's community are filled with walkers and golfers and cyclists and more at 6:00 a.m. And almost everyone speaks to say hello! I'm unaccustomed to that. For my few days, I added a camera to the usual iPod, BlackBerry, bottle of water and other various and sundry items. I was glad I did so!

I found love in the desert!

I'm charmed by a community where the residents

provide their

plants with courtesy umbrellas . . . .

And trim the trees into lollipops with white-painted trunks.

Good morning, Lollipop Tree!

Toward the end of this day's walk I came upon a blooming cactus I've photographed before in past years. I shot from several feet away and people could say, "Oh, nice cactus. Nice flowers." That was good enough for me. This time I approached it a little differently. I dropped to my knees and got in close. Some of the petals touched my hot, sweaty face. I tried a few shots, placing the sun over left or right shoulder. I tried both with and without macro. I like what I captured! I like the depth of the yellow and green pool with little hair-like structures and an alien hand with too many fingers. I like the dots in the far background that are the pores of the cactus plant. I like the milk-white ruffled petals and especially the ones in the upper righthand corner that appear to have sugar sprinkled on them. I'm purposely leaving this one at a very high resolution to keep the detail in. So that's how it's done! There are more to share, but this is my bravely trotted-out first. What do you think?

In my ears right now: Nothing. I'm too busy in my head trying to figure myself out. This is a rare occasion.

Something that charmed me: Mailman Steve just came by and gave me a stack of unremarkable mail. He was almost out the door when he groped inside his pouch and said, "Oh, I almost forgot!' It was for me personally. Both the return address and my address contained our blogger names. It needs its own complete post and I shall turn my attention to that, with the photos. I'm not only charmed, I'm astounded. This isn't the first time, but one of many special times that another blogger has reached out and touched me. It completely blows me away. Have I mentioned I think bloggers lean toward "kinder than most sorts"?

Crack a Champagne Bottle Across My Bow - I'm Sailing

The time had come to leave for Mother Badger's home. She was expecting me. I'd already sent the e-mail to say what time I would leave. She can do arithmetic. She'd know approximately when I'd arrive. Cesar had helped me feel confident about my car. I'd made checklists and cross-referenced information that really shouldn't matter. It's not like there aren't stores down there if I forgot something. The car was fueled up and my things packed inside it. I'd walked a brisk 10 miles, showered, dressed comfortably for a long ride. And that's when I began to fiddle fart around. Uh-oh. What was going on here? This is a trip I very much wanted to take. So why . . . . ? I'm not telling how many times I drove across the street to the convenience store and back home. It is embarrassing. There I bought junk food that I never ate. It went into the trash at Mother Badger's. I'm not telling what the junk food was, either. I left home and headed toward the beltway. Using streets I know do not go through to the major boulevard. I've lived in the same neighborhood for more than 7 years. Why was I purposely avoiding the beltway? I drove in circles for miles. What the heezy?

I stopped living a few years ago. Some events in my life had broken me just a little and I slowed nearly to a halt. Then the headlines began to scream about national financial ruin and I closed down a little more. To the amusement of the homes, I took steps to prevent my decline and potential homelessness. I had my car insurance policy analyzed and tweaked it and, after charting what and how much TV I watch, I reduced my cable TV service. I cut the high-speed internet to moderately high-speed internet. Hey, I don't download large files or play computer games! I began to sell unwanted, unneeded things on eBay and I hunkered down, waiting for the pain. I stopped doing many things I've done all of my adult life. Like a little shopping for pleasure and traveling a little and buying quirky (inexpensive) things to decorate my home and my office. Like reading, a most beloved pastime since the age of 4. Like the annual trip to the beach in July. Like volunteering to help organizations that support causes I embrace. Like being a political activist. Where did I go? I know why I went, but I don't know where I went. I was lost and my world shrunk. If it wasn't about walking, working, haircut, doctor, dentist, it wasn't happening any more. With the exception of the very rare camping trip or cycling race weekend, I literally did not go away. For far too long. I now know that didn't do anything good for me. I didn't get a badge for being the most stalwart shut-in.

I couldn't avoid the on-ramp any longer. If I didn't set out now, I'd arrive later than expected and I don't do late. I merged into traffic and I was agog. I, the decades-long freeway warrior, had dropped into a world I no longer recognized. Commute traffic, and lots of it! I asked myself, "I wonder why I never hear the homes bitch about traffic? This is hideous!" But that didn't last long. Within minutes my old treachery on the blacktop had returned and I was sailing smoothly in the next-to-fastest lane. As my comfort level on the road returned to me, so did many other things. It proved to be a journey of reminders and affirmations, five hours alone with myself, my music, my car, the road, my desert and my confidence. No one accidentally chirped me and I didn't once chirp any one of them. I soaked up sunshine through the windshield and I did not feel pressured or hurried whatsoever. I took a break and did it well.

Although I would rather have a MapQuest printout that tells me specifically to go from Highway 93 South for 132 miles to Highway 40 East for 79 miles, I had a stretch of journey I'd have to manage by eyeballing. The construction delays on the $240 million Hoover Dam bypass are notorious, and I didn't intend to sit for an hour or more roasting in my own juices. There is an alternate route that adds about 23 miles and half-an-hour to the trip, and that suited me. The trouble is, I'd only taken that route once, and in the opposite direction. Some of the highway numbers were not known, and one has to watch for a couple of turnoffs that are easily missed. Mother Badger had reminded me, "One can easily end up in Needles, CA, by missing that turnoff!" Needles is hours out of the way. Comfort and confidence settled around my shoulders, warm like a shawl. I passed through Searchlight and thought of it as Senator Harry Reid's childhood home and a mark along the road to where we camp at Paiute Gorge. I spotted the sign announcing Cal-Nev-Ari in 9 miles, right near where the three state boundaries meet. I was musing about the community established by Nancy and Slim Kidwell in the 1960s, its 400 residents, casino, motel, RV park, mobile home park, convenience store and airport . . . airport? Yep. FAA designated. As I spied the marker for my turnoff, I was reminded I am good at observing signs and landmarks. I have a good head for maps and I'm logical. I know how to get around. And I knew precisely where I was located on the map.

Soon I was descending through the sharp, craggy red and caramel sandstone to the Colorado River gorge where Laughlin lies. No more merry e-mailing on the BlackBerry from behind the wheel, as the road took a sharp downhill grade and there were switchbacks to be dealt with. Now I pulled over, rather than driving while intexticated. I was reminded how much I love my Mojave Desert (and the Sonoran, where I would soon arrive) and how, if one doesn't have the privilege of going to the desert, one can derive much pleasure from driving through it. I crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and into Arizona, which always thrills me. Where I live, one sees more dry washes and sandy creekbeds than rushing rivers. It's exciting! I drove up out of the gorge through Bullhead City and crossed the preposterously named Golden Valley. I call it Arizona's armpit. When I spotted the wide vista of badlands, I knew Kingman was nearing. Kingman was about half-way to my destination, and after Kingman I had MapQuest directions right to Mother Badger's door. I know Kingman well. I know not to get myself trapped on the main drag where the highway dumps all travelers who then converge upon the many gas stations and convenience stores. I know to drive through the long place and stop at the very last truck stop which is never as congested. Although I didn't actually need gas, I knew how far away were the next services. One doesn't take chances. I bought a large coffee and walked through the aisles filled with ceramic roadrunners and resin coiled rattlesnake figurines. One wonders how much "authentic" southwestern merchandise is actually sold by these establishments, because they all have huge inventories of such items. Back in the car, I cranked up the custom music mix delivered to me the previous day, sipped at my coffee and drove out of Kingman. Some miles ahead, I turned onto another highway and it soon became apparent I was no longer in the Mojave and no longer in the transition between the Mojave and the Sonoran. I was there - in the Sonoran Desert!

After one turns onto the highway, there is not much "civilization" until one arrives at the Phoenix suburbs. There are long, long stretches of desert to enjoy and its personality begins to change quite suddenly. I climbed into the high, rocky reaches and was treated to my first view of a jungle of bear grass, green and bushy at the ground, with high, reedy fans standing ten feet tall. Photographing the bear grass has always been a goal of the man with the camera, preferably at a time of day when the sun shines golden through the fan. Alas, unfathomable to me, the desert here is fenced for miles and miles and miles. Pictures could only be taken from a distance, through fence material. Please don't fence in the desert! Finally, I saw the first iconic saguaro - indisputable evidence that one is in the Sonoran. There are some saguaros in Las Vegas, but they are not native in the Mojave. In the winter they must wear a burlap jacket, and they are not easily cultivated here. But they thrive in their home in the Sonoran, clustering into forests of the tall, many-armed cacti. If one steps onto this bus often, it may be remembered that I am starved for the sight of cactus flowers this year. And now I was in for a treat, for the saguaro were blooming in profusion! Saguaros can live more than 150 years and grow from 15 to 50 feet in height. It takes up to 75 years for them to develop a side arm. The state of Arizona takes saguaro conservation very seriously and it is common to see them supported by upright angled boards with soft pads protecting the cactus' flesh from the wood. Often large segments break off of the main plant and some very odd shapes are attained.

Early in my love of the desert, I was terribly misled by a gorgeous Jack Dykinga photo of a saguaro in bloom. I saw that the flower of the saguaro was as huge and showy as the cactus itself, and said so. This brought a laugh, for saguaro flowers are as tiny as the saguaro is huge! The esteemed Dykinga had been fortunate to find a downed saguaro arm and get right in on the bloom with a macro shot that made it look enormous, I was told. Today I know that the flowers are tiny, but can be abundant as they pop out on the very tips of the cactus' arms. Driving along observing the cactus, I got playful. I wanted to see the flowers up close and personal. As I am a woman who will not ascend a step-stool, it is unlikely I will ever be perched in any way at the top of a 50 foot cactus, there to inspect its blooms. However, as I whizzed past a particular saguaro, I saw that its flowers weren't terribly high in the air, and maybe if I made a U-turn at one of the infrequent highway crossovers . . . . It was about a 12-mile detour. I remembered that sometimes I've enjoyed aiming a point-and-shoot camera at something that charms me and sharing the results with others. The reader wants to understand I have no urge and I do not need to make fine photographs. I'm perfectly happy getting a crude likeness of the reality and saying, "Look what I saw!" And so, here it is: look what I saw. Later in my trip I managed some fairly credible pictures, but this was for fun. I remembered that I once liked to go away and see the sights and have some fun. I jumped back into the car and made my way past Snoopys (plural - Snoopies?) on the rocketship in Wikieup (don't ask me, I don't know why!) ~ "Hey, Snoopys!"


The highways almost completely bypass Wickenburg now, rather than go straight through the middle of town. I'd been warned about the two roundabouts I'd need to navigate, but I did that well. I have roundabouts in Summerlin, near home, and I've driven them in the U.K. They don't disturb me. And then it was the long, last, straight, full-of-road-construction 30 miles. Although I have visited many times, I've never learned the layout of the streets in MB's community. For one thing, the streets all curve and change names. For another, I was never the driver. But I learned that both MapQuest and MB had served me well. I pulled into the driveway, took in a very deep breath, popped the code into the alarm system and stepped to the back door. "I knew you were here! I saw the sun shine through Alfie's cat door when you opened the garage door!" Hugs were exchanged and each of us exclaimed about the other's hair. I'd never seen her beautiful silver mane cropped very much like my own, though a little longer. She'd never seen mine since Christine was put in charge of its maintenance. We chatted a little and she told me to take my things to my familiar room. Though I recently commiserated with my friend on e-mail about the stresses of traveling, as I brought my things inside and arranged them, I remembered that travel doesn't stress me. I'm organized and careful. I keep lists and check them. I don't leave things back or lose them. I remembered I'm pretty good at this traveling and visiting thing. I sent the promised e-mails to those who insisted I let them know I'd arrived. It was going to be a lovely few days! I knew it immediately.

In my ears right now: The finger-snappingest, most dance-inspiring hit of 1997, by three children. Amber loved it. I liked it, too. One heard it in the streets and the stores. I confess that I had a little difficulty re-entering my world this week. I was a little down. It's taken a few days, but I'm feeling pretty Mmm Bop right now! I defy the reader to play this tune and not want to dance around. In fact . . . . excuse me for just a moment, please.


Something that charmed me: The arrival of that 23rd follower charmed me. Please note that all followers charm me, but there's a story. For number 23 is Willy, likely the best girlfriend I have ever had, and since 1986. Oh, yes, he is a man, to be sure. And no, not gay. Not at all. But what we have is a deep, understanding, girlfriends kind of thing and I'm pleased he has popped on my bus.

One photo credit: J. D. Morehouse (Snoopys at Wikieup)

Some Things that Charmed Me

It's already Saturday! What a week! Ups and downs, undulations and perambulations. Charm and razzberries, sunshine and flowers.

I will run as fast and hard as anyone from dealing with problems or disputes. I'm not confrontational or aggressive until pushed very far back into a corner, when I spring out like the tigress I normally forget lives inside me. I tend to spend far too much time attempting to shoulder the responsibility for the disagreement, even when I had nothing to do with causing it. And while I do this, the pressure and negative feelings build. I'd sidestepped a time or two, including replying less than honestly to e-mails that asked, "Are you angry with me?" I was angry. And hurt. But I didn't say so immediately. And I kept brooding on it. It should be noted that I have ridden in this disagreement rodeo a time or two, yet I almost never fail to mount up the same way again in the next round. Slow learner. It's been my observation that many things between human beings begin to form blocks, and this was no exception. It was time to stick a pitchfork in this bale of hay. I did. I presented my issues with words, not tears. I presented them calmly and I don't believe I used one curse word. I didn't threaten any grave consequences. In fact I went the opposite direction from any statements like that. I was met with calm listening to my lengthy grievance, no defensive statements offered, no excuses. "I know. That's what I did and I'm so sorry." Oh. OK. An apology. For a sticky wicket with a lot of angles to it. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I reminded myself how long I'd let the problem trouble me. I remind myself to keep trying to learn new things. Try new ways. Trust the people one cares about to come up just as good as they are.

One morning this week, I wore a lighter jacket to work. The pea coat had had to be brought out again when March and earliest April proved fickle, but now it seemed a bit much in the morning. I wore the jacket home that evening and back in to work the following morning. That evening, I forgot the jacket on the coat tree at the office. Because I felt so warm the word "jacket" never entered my consciousness. I didn't need one. That same evening, the display on my dashboard let me know that the temperature down on the blacktop, near where the sensor resides, was 88-degrees. Tangible evidence ~ we're warming up! Quickly. Oh, to be sure, the wind still howls off and on, but I see sunshine and I feel it warm on my skin. Including the skin on my backside. Yes, that's what I said. Read on.

Joseph and Justin struggled up the stairs with a 9' x 12' foot 100% wool Oriental rug to be cleaned. I could tell by their facial expressions it was incredibly heavy. It is extremely valuable and is going to be donated to a charity to be auctioned, so we want to take very good care of this rug. The morning the rug was to be cleaned was extremely cloudy and overcast. Joseph, who has 35 years experience cleaning fine carpets and rugs, explained to me that was a good thing because we do not want direct sunlight on this monstrous piece as it dries. All the technicians began to mill around getting every van and steam cleaning machine ready - we had a couple of large commercial jobs to do and it was all hands on deck. Joseph asked if I'd pull the corners to fold the rug in half if the sun came out. The sunlight wouldn't hurt the backing, would continue to dry at least half of the rug and the men would flip it over upon their return. "Sure!"

The sun came out in its full glory and I was pretty thrilled just to have reason to get up from the desk and go outside. I duly took one corner of that rug in my hand and started to pull. I pulled my arm, I pulled my back, and I pulled that rug not one inch. Giving an ill-considered mighty tug, I lost my grip on the wet wool and landed on my caboose on the warm deck. Mortified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Had anyone seen me? Well, no. I'm up on the second floor on the back of a building, thankfully. I'm pretty dogged. I tried at each corner of that rug several times, landing right on my rump time after time. By now I was deck warmed and possibly even taking on an abrasion every time I landed. I had to approach this differently. Hmmm . . what if, instead of taking a corner and pulling with brute strength, I pulled forward just small sections of the thing, straightening everything out after each small tug? Yes. That should work. I couldn't step on the rug with my shoes, so I took them off and peeled off my tights. I yanked and tugged at small portions of that floor covering for 45 minutes. Its surface was slippery, and - yes, I did go down on my rear a time or four.

I went back into the office wet, scraped up, banged up a little, but that rug was protected, perfectly aligned, fringed end lying over fringed end. The men came in between the two large jobs. Joseph thanked me for folding the rug as asked. Cesar commented that I looked as if I had been wrestling bear. A little worse for wear and tear. I allowed as how I figured that rug weighed at least as much as I did. In his Jamaican accent, Joseph piped up, "Oh, no, Leslie. Wet wool holds an additional 30% of its dry weight. That rug weighs about 450 pounds right now. Did it give you any trouble?" Yow.

It's well known that blogger friend Kass makes me both laugh and cry. Her influence makes me want to be unruly. I'm always interested in checking out the blogs she follows. Chances are, I'll be interested in them, too. I picked something up on Kass's Redoing the Undone blog. [In this instance I am not going to print the link to Kass's blog, as that would be redundant just for this post]. Reading Kass's post, I followed a link to the blog of the very talented and funny Kim of *Numinosity* [yes, there will be links]. Of course, going to Kim's blog led me to some of her followers, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of a group of most felicitous women, mostly of a certain age. Many of them are artists or artistes. All of them are whimsical women who know how to have a grand time. And through these women, I learned about Candace. I learned that Candace wants to travel. Candace, you see, is a rather plain little rag doll who is feeling somewhat housebound. Kim's good followers have volunteered to host Candace in locations spread far and wide, to take photos of Candace's adventures, and to write in the journal that Candace will bring along. Readers, I promise you many laughs if you click on these few links and read the posts and commentary. Candace is going to have one good time in many different locations.

This morning I learned that Candace has already been having fun at her first stop - Seattle. [This is a must-read, folks!] I've been angling for days to get a chance to host Candace in Sin City, but Kass and I were each a few days behind the other good women who volunteered. This morning Kim pointed me to her follower, artymess, from the U.K. I e-mailed quickly, made a connection with Lorna, and . . . Candace will be arriving in Las Vegas after international travel from Great Britain. Oh! The plans I have for Candace. Certainly the Neon Boneyard and the Bonanza Gift Shop! Since she is a girl of the desert (at least part-time, I believe) herself, she might enjoy some hiking nearby, or even camping out in some of the wonderful places I know about. Surely, she'll want to take in a Las Vegas show, and I'll be the designated driver so she can become as lubricated as she would like. I'm sure she'll want to visit my little business and meet all the homes who are already splitting their sides at the very notion of Candace's travels and so many silly and fun loving adult women across the world. I want to take her to Massage Envy where we will enjoy the Girlfriends Massage, both tables and two therapists in one room with us. When we're tired from all of our adventures, I will embellish Candace's dress with sequins and beads. Or maybe I'll even whip up a couple of new things for her. I want Candace to meet beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf, and I'll remember to place Candace's little bed in a locking cabinet or a closet that can be closed. Virginia Woolf likes to carry small objects in her mouth and hide them. Candace doesn't look very large to me. And - hey! - have I mentioned I'm expecting a visitor sometime in the future? Welcome, Candace. Viva Las Vegas!

In my ears right now: I am also charmed by artists who cover the material of other artists. I like hearing music I recognize, but having it contain a little twist or surprise. Like, "Hey, who knew?" Or, "I like this version as much as I liked the original." This has been in my ears all day. And may I just say that I love a woman who wears her cowboy boots with a skirt? I am such a woman.

Something that charmed me: Well, I've been charmed a lot this week already, but I have big plans for tomorrow. I need some sunshine. I need Vitamin D. In a bad way. I have an outing in the works. A day in the sunshine exploring a new place and new things. The weather is suited to shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Lots of water will need to be packed in, sunscreen and the camera tucked into the front flap of my backpack . . .

Georgie Eats Old Gray Rats and Paints Houses Yellow

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 II ~ The Badger's Revenge

Race day - up early. The Badger is quiet. Not unpleasant, but very busy in his head. We have certain luxuries this time. I flirted outrageously with the 90-year-old motel clerk the day before and got us a late checkout. We can return to the room after the race and the Badger can take a real shower before our long drive home. The free continental breakfast was decent. We always carry our own good coffee. No rain to deal with. Let's go!

About half way to Skull Valley, he muttered, "I wish we'd left a little earlier." When we pulled into the road where all the cyclists park, it was clear that this year's event was much better attended than last. I finally parked illegally and let him out to get ready and to warm up. He rolled away and it was very close to his starting time. I didn't know if he'd get back to me with the answer to the $64 million question. He did! "Limes, no personal follow vehicles this year. Just ride on out to the turn-around and I'll see you there." I was disappointed about that, but remembered he told me last year, "Your maiden voyage is the best it will ever get. I've never even heard of personal follow vehicles in a road race."

My 27+ mile drive was fairly uneventful, but I was watching the course carefully. At the starting line, I noticed far more racers in his 50+/60+ group than had been registered earlier. The finish line and 1 Km marker were highly visible and there were flags and banners that hadn't appeared last year. The road had been cleared of much of the rocks and gravel left by the previous day's storms - a good thing. I drove slowly, I sang poorly but loudly and I watched racers. I watched the Prius getting 100 mpg for part of the drive and pondered that. Maybe because of the increased number of competitors, or maybe for no good reason, I saw a lot of flats happen - official neutral cars pulling over to assist the unfortunates. Way too close to the turn-around, on that sharp descent, there was a crash with several broken-up bikes in the road, cyclists down, and one young man banged up and bleeding pretty badly.

This time, the turn-around was well marked, manned by plenty of volunteers, showing multiple orange cones. Still so narrow the racers weren't going to get through by very many more than two-by-two. I had to roll quite a way in order to park the car and position myself for the water hand-up. Finally I spotted a large wash I could run in while handing up. I tucked the Prius away, got out, stretched, felt the sun . . . . there weren't too many people crowding me. I'd left the biggest group behind. Farther along in this wash was a really young woman with a lot of water bottles at her feet. She was a race volunteer and would hand up to anyone who needed water. It's been said that Limes could talk to a dead snake and the snake would talk back to her. It's also been said that Limes has never met a stranger. I moseyed on over . . she's a 22-year-old triathlete from Tucson and her boyfriend was riding in the race. I told her about the Badger, we spoke of cycling in general and I told her about my walking and why I do it. It would be fair to say we were simpatico!

She didn't have to watch for anyone. Her boyfriend wouldn't come by for a long time as his race was more than 80 miles. I needed to pay attention to time, because the Badger had reminded me how fast the first half of this course is. I watched her handing up water and she nailed it every time. The problem was her delivery method. "Ummm, excuse me, Grasshopper, but why don't you run when you hand up?" "Oh, I was taught to do it this way." Her form was to grasp the bottle with all 5 fingers across the top - leaving the cyclist more bottle surface to grab. She held her arm out straight, but loose. When the cyclist grabbed, her arm was pushed forward - she didn't resist the movement. And she was delivering 100% of the time. "Well!" thought I.

He announced his approach by bopping me with his empty from across the highway as he descended. It hit my knees and rolled away, but I can read "Pro-Cyclery" upside down and in motion. I quickly asked cutie Tri-Ath if she'd hold one out for him, too, since I didn't have a good track record with this. "Sure! Tell me what he's wearing." When the pack took the turn-around I spotted him from quite a distance. I had him picked out! I was going to do it cutie Tri-Ath's way and if I missed, she wouldn't. The only thing wrong with that plan was that nobody clued in the Badger on his bike. "Run, Limes, run!" he shouted. To my mortification, I couldn't run. The hill was right on me. The car blocked me. He was swooping down on me. I tried Tri-Ath's way and he missed it. I noticed her hand was empty but she wasn't happy - someone else got it.

Running for the car, I quickly came up on the pack and I saw him strong on the climb. I knew he was setting the pace - it was obvious. He was out of the saddle and unlike during some parts of last year's race, he was not hanging with road toads. He was leading this pack, on his feet in the pedals and he made me think of a mighty warrior. I got choked up watching him. In the year that had passed, he went from very little confidence to "come on, I'll lead this parade!" I could see it. I didn't have to hear him say a word.

I drove ahead and picked a good spot to park so he'd see the Prius first. I went far ahead of it on foot and picked a section of highway where I could run like the wind when I saw him. When they came into view I started to run slowly, arm extended. I could hear them approach and I ran faster. I heard a racer say, "Let the man through, he's being handed up water." I knew they were giving him his propers for pulling them up the hill! It's hard to run and hand up water when one's throat is constricting from emotion, but I did this. I could feel the rush of air from his bike and he masterfully grabbed that bottle. "Good one, Limes! Thanks!"

There wasn't much left for me to do now. I got in immediately behind the official follow vehicle for the 50+/60+ and stayed on its bumper for a lot of miles. I saw the team shenanigans the Badger blogged about and realized he wasn't going to be able to turn the race into the scorcher it could have been if there had not been so many resistors. OK, so be it. He remained strong, on the front, often setting the pace. He and another racer worked together and looked like skilled young men showing the others how to do it. It happens that there were continual flats and breakdowns. The official vehicle pulled off a lot. I'm rather big on community service, so when the vehicle pulled off, I stayed behind the pack with my flashers blinking. When the vehicle came back to the pack, I immediately let it in and returned to "regular citizen". The driver waved and nodded at me repeatedly. He didn't give the appreciation the sheriff's reserves showed last year, but I took it that he was pleased with the teamwork.

Until he wasn't any longer. The finish line was within view. I ducked my head a little to watch the Badger fly across, no errant red car threatening him this time. He easily had first in his category. I saw it for myself. When I straightened up, Mr. Official Follow Vehicle hung his head out of his window, looked back at me and bellowed,"This isn't a spectator sport - you're making it dangerous on the road for the cyclists!" Huh? I guess my little head dipping beneath the steering wheel freaked the man out, and I felt truly chastised. I maintained good balance - no smart-mouth - and drove to the meet-up area.

Quickly we zoomed into Prescott, the Badger showering while I decamped us. We stopped for a sandwich and headed back out toward Skull Valley. The hosting club was still packing it up, and the Badger was able to get his official placing and his trophy plaque. And that's when the driver of the official follow vehicle spotted me. He came over to give me the (gentle) business. I was respectful, but held my own. I wondered why he was apparently so happy out on the road to have my assistance, but now was spanking me in front of the other organizers. All of the organizers insisted I had been no one's personal follow vehicle in 2008, because that was never allowed. The Badger looked at the old gent who told him in '08 that he could have a personal follow vehicle, but said gent looked at the ground and remained silent. Brown eyes looked into blue eyes and said, "Let's get out of here and go to the place we live where everyone is full of b.s. and no one tries to deny it."

Driving home, I could see him start to sag. "Want me to drive, Badger?" "Oh, maybe after awhile." "Want to just go on home after you drop me, Badger, no dinner together?" "OK, maybe. You won't feel badly?" "No." "What about your birthday presents?" "You could come in for 5 minutes, never sit down, and watch me open them." "OK. I could use your bathroom, too." "OK, Badger. It was a great weekend!"

In my ears right now: "This isn't a spectator sport . . . . " Um, it is to me, home dude.

Something that charmed me: