The Bear Came Back

Hey, I've been wrestling bear again, with a bit of a twist. This time I brought no bottle to help me either beef up and whup the bear or to help me high-tail it and run out of the woods. With apologies to those who are adept at problem solving, I have not always, nor have I often, been good at making positive decisions on my own when it comes to my problems. Oh, put me in charge of 8,000 school employees about to lose their health benefits in a bad economy and I am the go-to-girl. I advocate nearly to the death for others in trouble, but I don't support myself as well as I represent a stranger. These things belong in the "I'm not worth it" basket. That basket belongs in the long line of character defects I'm (re)discovering as I work my very hard AA Step Four. The basket, however, is being dismantled. It seems to be more gap, more split than basket, more "not there". It seems to sieve the rot a little faster, the torrent washing away. But it won't be completely fixed immediately, if ever.

A change was to occur in my day-to-day living situation. It was beyond my control (thanks, Serenity Prayer, for helping me to figure that out, for this would have been a big order to micromanage). I had no vote. Really, it was only very nominally any of my business except for the way this change would feel to me. I was given 3 weeks notice. On paper, it didn't seem like it might affect me all that much. Two hours into the "new", and I was done. Not having it. My whole world had just changed and I had to "do something". Frequent visitors to this blog know that I am very big on "doing something", often too soon and too ill-conceived to have any positive results. I got annoyed. I got a little too quiet. I got angry. I disappeared into my private quarters and refused to come out. Note: this is the point at which I typically introduce the bottle or some really regrettable behavior to break the tension and ratchet it up a little. But I did it differently this time, if not so prettily.

It can't have been attractive. It was hell for hot and my scalp dripped perspiration. I spread out all the books on the bed. I printed a few worksheets and threw out the cats, to their shock. I lined up phone numbers I might need. Oddly, I ran from both music and TV/movie white noise and just sat in near-silence. And sat. Scribbled and sat. I did not cry. I flipped through the books to the pages I've highlighted so diligently for 7 months. I Googled some things. I used some self-soothing techniques I have learned. It may be interesting to know that in one particular modality, self-soothing can range from masturbation to eating a favored food. I did not feel sex with myself was the best choice in this case. I made some phone calls. I looked in the mirror (literally) and I did not care for what looked back at me. It was a face that revealed all the flaws from my internal landscape. I looked old and mean. I went to an AA meeting and told my woes, spinning in a little humor, because I am driven to do that. When they laughed, I had to laugh, too, and sincerely. I'm goony and I know it.  Soon began e-mails, phone calls and knocks at the door. "What's wrong? You almost seem depressed." That was a good word for it, though I didn't intend to succumb to it. "Are you eating and drinking fluids?" I was. As much as I felt I needed. "Do you need me to come over?"  No. Please. Finally, the insistent plea I did not care for, but relented to: "I need you to open the door and let me see you, just for a moment." I resented that. There was no bottle in there with me. I opened the door and proved that, delivering up a few harsh words to show my displeasure. She just grinned at my foul mouth.

Although I am an advanced age, there are certain basic skills which are not well-developed in me. I talked myself down this time, without alcohol or drama (if one dismisses my running to my room and slamming the door - please, it was a first attempt). I walked out realizing that my whole world had not just changed. One element had changed, no matter whether I supported it or not. Now I have options. I can do anything I want to do. This may require me to rise up out of my comfort-wallow and do some things differently, but it was time for that anyway. Perhaps I was growing just a little complacent. I'm not really all that entitled, one knows. Or I can just hold completely still and suck it up, tolerate that which does not please me. I'm not drunk, I'm not homeless, I've lost nothing. I've simply had something enter my atmosphere that does not charm me, and now . . . . what will I do with that? I wonder. Biggest lesson learned: I could have set fire to my hair, slit my wrists, and jumped off a bridge simultaneously while brandishing a bottle. Then I'd have more problems to solve. I didn't choose to go that way. The choice is within my power to make. It may shock the reader to learn that this may well be the first time I've ever made such a conscious choice in a matter that has thrown me, unless I was being managed by keepers stronger than I. That may be literally true.

When I first started in AA, I was told I only needed to be willing to believe in a higher power, not actually have one. This was a relief to me as that higher power thing was difficult and I was already struggling. At first, like many of us, I chose the AA group itself as my higher power. Surely that collective had to be more powerful than I on my own. No Jesus Christ for me, I began to read voraciously, in search of my higher power who has developed into a loving power, with the appearance of a lizard made from many spare lizard parts (I have seen such a lizard in the desert). Higher power's name is Roland. Come on, of course this is not literally true, but this is what I am willing to share - I've been told I can pray to a lightbulb or a doorknob if that's what works for me. The tenets of Rolandism draw from many learned writings and I seem to have well integrated one narrow precept fairly well. I applied it to my problem, worked it until I believed it, and came out healthy and sober, with a plan.

As much as I would like things to remain static, black and white, they don't. Everything changes every moment. I don't control that. But I do have to live with it. It occurs to me (lighting bolt at age 58) that, as nothing is black and white, then my tendencies to assign like/dislike, love/hate or right/wrong designation to a situation probably contribute to self-delusion. Rather than opposites, those things seem to be integral parts of the same whole concept, which I cannot dissect. I am forced to accept things as they are, not as I wish them to be and then stab them with a poster pin to hold them in place at the opportune stage. So, as the wind screams and my appointment was just pushed out until tomorrow, I believe I'll go put a few miles on my aching body.

Something that charms me/disarms me, that I like/dislike, love/hate:  I have lived a life down a groundhog hole in the dark. Reveal nothing! I am musing on the dichotomy of my groundhogly self now superimposed by someone transparent enough to be understood, even just a little. When I went too quiet, others noticed and asked me about it. More yin and yang? I'll have to meditate and let you know.

I Got the Old Blogger Bit Me Right in the Butt Blues

Man, what a Blogger global goof-up will do for a girl's e-mail inbox! "Hey, what the heezy?" "Am I nuts or . . . ?" "I know I saw a post! Where can it be?" Um . . yep, so Blogger strikes gain, but it seems system-wide this time, lasting longer than 24 hours, and with limited fixes so far. Some posts on some blogs are still entirely missing, some posts that had 40 comments now show 4, and the message currently on the Helpdesk is this: "We’re nearly back to normal — you can publish again, and in the coming hours posts and comments that were temporarily removed should be restored." On a friend's blog, the labels that once were there are there again, in reverse order from the original post, with no comma separators. Yow. Now, I'd be the first to engage in some civil disobedience or rabble rousery, maybe toss out something snide like, "Blogger eats boogers." But the last time I did that, I believe I was singled out by Blogger for grief, purposely applied to me.

Once the e-mails were cleared and virtual giggles exchanged, the question occurred to me: "What is a woman going to do?" Well, if I walked to Ross I'd feel good physically, I'd refrain from buying too much stuff I'd have to carry home, I'd feel some sun on my bones . . OK. Ross it is. Anyway, I have a task there: I am to buy a size 42H lilac and lace bra. Oh, no, this garment is not meant to be worn by me. It is not my size. I want to own the bra simply because it is a tribute to modern ingenuity and engineering. I talked about it a bit in a post that has now disappeared and will do so again if the past post does not reappear. It was suggested in commentary that I could use that bra as two fruit bowls, though I think I'll do this: line one cup with plastic wrap, toss in some salsa, put chips in the other cup ~ voila! A snack for 20.

I did find a few treasures for myself while shopping. One reason Jones New York keeps me as a satisfied customer is that disclaimer thing they do so well. For, you see, I needed make no mistake about it. I was getting 2 microfiber modern briefs, not any of those pesky microfiber old-fashioned briefs. WTF?? But at $3 each for $10 drawers, I'll put up with the designer's quirks. And then, the find of the day ~ MSRP $48. My price ~ $1.49. It's a beautiful 100% cotton nightgown made with attention to details such as flatted seams, embroidered information rather than hang-tags, oh! this is a lovely nightgown. It is not a nightgown any man would be likely to beg for, "Oooh, baby, put on that cotton one with the little pink rosebuds that only babies and grandmas wear - you know, the one that covers you from chin to toes and billows when you walk!" No, this nightgown lends itself to the cold evenings when the cats tuck in around me and I settle in with a good book, thinking just how grand that $1.49 ersatz negligee will feel against my skin.

I've always enjoyed doing volunteer work. Both Ex and I had our favorite causes we worked for, and we did some service as a family of three. I believe Amber thought all children spent Thanksgiving morning delivering meals to homebound people. When she was very young, she carried the placemats made by elementary school children and a flower for each table. Later she graduated to handling meals, letting Mom carry the small stuff and make the small talk. I have had incredibly poor luck in Las Vegas pledging myself to worthy organizations. I do not wish to overstate anything, but I think the general problem is that most groups need help and don't know what to ask the volunteers to do. At one huge charity's administrative office, the manager told me, "Well, all I really have is about 24 inches of filing to be done." "Well, OK, point me to the filing. That's why I'm here." I volunteered to take a group of blind people bowling once a week, guiding them down the street and through an afternoon of knocking down pins. Yes, I did have to have a serious talk with myself about how committed I might be to taking a group of blind people in the streets and then hanging out while they rolled. After watching a few frames of blind bowling, I decided I was up for it - it's a wonderful accomplishment and some of the bowlers are extremely competent. I cleared a pretty stringent screening process and got a lovely letter saying I'd be contacted very shortly. But I never was. I made a phone call of my own. "Oh, that volunteer coordinator is no longer with us." Um . . yes, but "I'm still with you. I'm volunteering." Oh! She said she'd get me a call right back. None ever came. What? How many people can possibly be offering to take on that task once week? I've walked maybe a bazillion miles and raised a lot of money for AIDS and breast cancer research in the big national events, but I have not so far been able to find a consistent local volunteer opportunity that pleases me.

Last weekend I took a flyer, most unlike myself, and served at a fancy-dress event to raise funds for Nevada Opera Theatre scholarships. None of my cautious concerns came to fruition and I enjoyed myself, even though the evening wasn't perfect. I learned all kinds of things. I can still do a credible charming, LBD evening chatting folks up. Sparkling water in a flute can pass for champagne, so I don't stand out. I can't tolerate too many nights out until 2:30 a.m. I got a buffet dinner valued at $45, though I was required to consume it in 12 minutes before show time - faulty planning by the event organizer. [BTW, yes, it did occur to me I could find a decent sit-down meal for $45 at many locations in the city, but that's not the point here and now.] The evening was a good thing to do, all considered.

For more than a year, I've kept an icon on my desktop for Acts of Kindness (AOK), seemingly a group very well organized, but not rigid in what it expects of its volunteers. There are a multitude of one-time opportunities in every sort of endeavor from helping babies or seniors, the disabled, community clean-up days, the arts and more. It appears one can pop in for an AOK event as fits her interests and schedule, with no regrets or recrimination. My friend has long been interested in every aspect of the performing arts, though I have not been. It was because of her involvement that I was asked to participate in last weekend's event. But when I saw this Sunday's opportunity to serve, I ran it past her and we're in! Yep, we're going to usher, greet or take tickets at a live performance of The Wizard of Oz in a wonderful outdoor venue. We've got the requisite black slacks and white shirts. We are capable of doing the requested tasks and then sitting down to enjoy the show. Wind and temperatures nearly 20 degrees lower than today's are predicted. OK, I'll wear the industrial strength hair slop and tie a sweater around my waist. As I recall, from some prior life, I like learning new things. And right now, I'm sturdy enough to go out and do just that.

In my ears right now: I'm feeling very JL today. I don't have any meaningful words to add to that.

Got Your Bliss, Erin!

Alright, yesterday I was inspired by Erin O'Brien, stuck in an Ohio never-quite-dawning spring. I dashed out on my way to the office and snapped a few colorful shots, including one of cactus flowers just about to bloom. Erin commented, "Bliss".

Today I popped out onto the front porch and the sight grabbed my attention immediately, even though the place is five houses away down the street. They bloomed! Fewer than 24 hours after I first spotted them. I slid into some shoes and headed eastward, intent on those cactus blossoms. Just like yesterday, I knocked on the door to ask permission. Just like yesterday, no one answered and I erred on the side of getting what I came for.

My camera activity attracted the attention of the neighbor across the street, the man who owns the house with the lovely xeriscaped yard with all the poppies. "Whatcha doing there?" I felt it was self-evident what I was doing, but I told him about blogging with those in cold, gray country and confessed to shooting pictures in his own yard yesterday. This man is now my official new best friend! "Hey, after you take pictures of the cactus, come on over and come into my backyard." I had to think about that a little. This is Las Vegas. But he waited for me beside the curb. "Come on, I'll show you."

His backyard is as lovely as the front, but different - quieter, softer colors in the blooms. This man knows a lot about growing things in the desert. I met a sweet gray poodle (and remember, I don't even really like dogs too much) who weighs about 4 pounds and made not a noise the entire time I was there. The patio was covered with assorted pots and containers filled with plants. A dining table on the patio was set for a meal, including beautiful crystal wine balloons. The man told me his roommate is a botany professor at the university here, so they may have a leg up on such a beautifully designed yard, but that - generally - they just tossed out handsful of seeds and the result was what we can see. He offered me seeds and volunteered to help me or advise me when I said I really wanted a tomato crop this year. I was invited to stay for a glass of wine, but told him I needed to get to a meeting. He didn't need to know it was an AA meeting.

As I drove off, I remembered that neighbors used to know one another and enjoyed talking about their gardens and sharing things they had in abundance, like seeds or advice. I knew I would never have managed more than a "Hi!" to my neighbor. For - yes, really - I'm a little shy, a little unsure of myself in certain situations. Now I've got an invitation to "Stop by any time" and assurances that he will pop over when he sees me working in my yard (that could happen!). All because of Erin O'Brien whom I see as never shy. I'm glad you motivated me to get my arse outside and enjoy the spring, Woman!

And the wind continues to howl.

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!

Shorts Subjects

A couple of weekends ago, spring was seriously flirting and I got pretty adventuresome. Poking into the bottom-most dresser drawer, I fished them out, and they still looked and felt grand, though I'd not seen them in a year. I do not golf, but I could, because I have the shorts. It pleases me that women's golf shorts are not unimaginatively pastel like men's golf togs of old. No, these are bright and exciting and they weigh less than zero, being fashioned from a miracle fabric that wicks my (golfing, supposedly) perspiration away from my body. I own 5 pairs of the same brand. They are hideously expensive, but not to me, because I buy them on eBay at a tiny fraction of retail. I scrunched the fabric in my hands for the sensory thrill I knew would result. The magic goods feel slightly suede-like, perhaps like suede in its infancy. I looked over the 5 choices, remembering which tops and which shoes or sandals to pair with each for best effect. Feeling that I deserved to go all the way and squeeze every moment of pleasure out of this reacquaintance-making, I decided to slide on the pair I like best. Shite. Houston, we have a problem. I'd pulled those shorts up and over myself, buttoned them, zipped them, looked into the mirror and watched them slither right down to the floor, unfettered by buttons and zipper. My legs stuck out of them like two white sticks and it was clear. If I am to wear these shorts, I'm going to need a rope to hold them on.

I enjoy playing with clothing, displaying of it on my body. I'm not a fashion plate. I may not even have good taste. But I know what I like and I know what I don't like. I don't dress to seduce. I don't dress to impress. I dress for fun. For my own amusement and pleasure. I love to noodle around online finding bargains and I find - really - that if something about a piece of clothing makes me laugh, or even just grin, it's going to work for me. I have not always taken such pleasure in adorning myself. It is a newer game to me. I did not have the pleasure of "dressing up Barbie" for decades, and I'm enjoying it now. Not that my body resembles Barbie's in any way. Yes, even at eBay and other bargain spots, I've likely spent a shameful amount of money. At times I have owned too much, though I donated a mountain of really serviceable items and felt good for that. I've not replaced that mountain with new, unnecessary items.

I had no sister with whom to trade clothing. I would have enjoyed that, I think. For a very brief spell when I was 11, I could (and was invited to) wear some of my mother's things. They fit properly. But they smelled of cigarette smoke, even when recently laundered. And she was "old" and dressed that way. By the way, "old" is a relative concept. When I was 11, she was 28, but she didn't dress like Mod dollybirds in swinging London, and that's how I wanted to look. I rejected her kind offers very quickly. There was also a small window of opportunity during which Amber and I shared clothes, but it was not an ideal situation. I am virtually colorless and Amber is beautifully mocha - we have no business wearing the same colors. She was 12 and I was 50. Enough said? Oh, yes, and then there was the summer that she shot up to 5' 8", needing size 11 shoes, trumping everything.

I am also fascinated by the bodies that dwell beneath the veils. No, this post is not about to go south of PG-13. I am intrigued by the things our bodies can achieve and withstand. Perhaps the most heart-rending story of a body that I know is about Ex's and what he did to that body with years of drinking. When his body screamed "Enough! No more!", we had a 2-year-old child and were told he would not survive 6 months. Every bit of news was bad and then worse. It took him 18 years to die. That body worked hard to sustain the life force. It is something I admired about him, for with him, I saw physical atrocities that shouldn't be visited on any good human. And speaking of Ex's body, how 'bout the fact that we had a child! We tried, literally, for 20 years. It was important to us both. We accessed every scientific approach known at the time at great financial cost and cost to the soul when no pregnancy ever occurred. Not once. Same two people, same general health conditions. And then it did occur, just the once. Although I know how to do the "kootchy-kootchy, baby, baby" thing well and I love my daughter just because she is my child, I am also awed by the simple, unadorned fact that Ex and I made another human being together. Bits of him, bits of me, all of herself. It is a great gift and responsibility.

My father nears 80 and plays tennis every day of life. Despite his very small stature, he was an ace boxer in the Air Force. He suffered terribly from rheumatoid arthritis for many years, spending one entire year in a wheelchair. During one episode, he could not stand the weight of the blankets on his feet in the bed. He had my mother bring a cardboard box, slide it between the sheets, and he placed his feet in the box. That is burned in my memory. He'd learned it while in the VA hospital enduring an earlier attack at age 18. And yet he has not suffered now for 30 years or more. It doesn't just "go away". Where is it? What happened? I am brilliant in no way, but it occurs to me that my father's greatest periods of stability and happiness have also occurred during those same 30 years. Hmm . . . the body as the barometer of the heart and soul? He never harmed himself with food, alcohol or any other addictions. His body serves him well now.

My mother abused her body in many ways, from years of smoking, terrifying alcoholism (Her assessment. I am not qualified to judge her so.), anorexia, addiction to prescribed medication and addiction to working out. [Please note, I'm never going to point a finger at any human being and scream "Addict!" It isn't my right. If I feel the urge, I'll just glance into one of many mirrors available.] My mother, however, is heroic (yes, that one IS my opinion) about working the "rigorous honesty" part of her 12-step program. She tells anyone who will listen. I haven't always credited her so. I do today. Despite all the abuse, my mother is a relatively healthy 75-year-old who walks miles every day, attends her AA meetings and takes other steps to retain her health and well-being. It is amazing to me now to look into a mirror after I shower. Oh, yeah, the face is 100% my father's and 0% anyone else's except my own, I suppose, after all these years. (Ironically, Amber's face, too, is nearly 100% her father's. Oh, that hurt when she was an infant and toddler. I wanted her to carry some physical evidence that she was my child, too. Alas. But her brain and heart are much like mine, and that is a gift, too.) But my body is nearly 100% like my mother's. It wasn't always so. It is now.

My own body and my treatment of it, my acceptance of the ways that some others have treated it, is the biggest mystery to me. Right now it is the most healthy it has been since my youth, and I have maintained general good health for nearly 10 years. I do not get colds or the flu. Though I can trip over lint, I'm rarely injured very seriously. I find that when I push my person, I learn new and gratifying things about myself. Yes, I can walk just 2 more miles. I can swim 5 extra laps. I can and will be stronger at 60 than I was at 40. I seem prone to a few troubling conditions that I call "odd". "Rare" or "uncommon" might be more accurate. It reminds me that no one asks for illness or "conditions", there are probably no good reasons why some of us get this thing, but not that thing, and handling burdens with grace is a difficult task. I find I am frightened of things I can't control easily. This includes alcoholism - the most shocking illness I've ever discovered in me. I am frightened of the collapse of my self.

Some of my most frightening and lonely moments have been spent in an emergency room at a hospital with a very fine address in Las Vegas. I go to this hospital for the occasional blood transfusion, staying overnight to have my tank topped off and to be monitored awhile. Make no mistake, I am damned grateful to get a shot of A- when I need it and a blood transfusion is not physically difficult. Lie back and fill up. Read a book, listen to the iPod, take it easy. Walk to the bathroom if needed, request juice and have it magically appear. However, it eats my head alive. I focus and fret about the reasons I need a blood transfusion and why and what if and oh, my! At this hospital, I have never been housed in any other way than this: on a gurney in the hallway, pushed smack up against a wall, no curtain, brakes applied to my gurney so I don't roll away. I clutch my purse between my knees in case I doze off. My shoes remain on my feet, even while lying down, because there is no place to put them, otherwise. I stress about whether, if I do doze off, I will drool, snore or whimper in my sleep, right out there for god and everybody to notice. It is the most naked, the most vulnerable and exposed way, I have ever felt. I never fail to come away disturbed. But much pinker of cheek.

Most recently I have been working with someone on the junk in my trunk. Again. Still. This time, therapy and medication are assisted by everything AA, so another implement in the tool chest being applied to a pretty disastrous construction. I have become amazed to learn how many of my quirks (very nice word for such flaws) are symptomatic of alcoholism or other addiction, even some stemming from childhood. I have nearly dropped my jaw to hear some theories that say, "The patient may use these words . . . " and they are precisely the words I've used since my first foray into therapy. I wonder why no one, not one professional, ever suggested to me . . . oh, well. I found it anyway, even if quite late.

Preface to paragraph: I can't order up my thoughts for the day like items from a menu. I can't say "only fairy dust today, please". The thoughts just come on their own. This isn't a pretty paragraph. For many reasons, my body, my person, attracted a number of different forms of disrespect and bad acts over the years by more than one person. At a very young age, I knew how to take anger out on my body even when others were not doing so. I was such a good learner, I didn't even need an abuser to further damage myself. This strikes me much like young women who have been sexually violated and then become promiscuous as a reaction. I have sat before a number of therapists who have listened to me talk and then said, "Do you cut, carve or burn yourself?" I don't. Some of them have said, "May I look at your arms and legs?" Sure. I really don't do those things. And right now, today, I don't do many other harmful or questionable things to my person. Mostly, I am doing things to take care of myself. Not reliant upon anyone else to care for me, I am blundering my way along toward learning to take care of myself. Sometimes, I even think I'm worth it. That is progress.

Well, the sky is now hop-scotching from perfectly leaden to short periods of bright sunshine. The wind is incessant, the temperature just not quite warm enough to suit me. What's new? It saddened me to read about the death of Geraldine Ferraro just now. Yes, I liked her politics. But she died from an ailment I know about. Sorrowful. She hoped to survive the disease long enough to attend the inauguration of the first woman U.S. president. She didn't make it.

Something that charmed me: I don't feel so charmed or charming today. I feel pensive and restless. Tomorrow will be another day, and I'm sure I'll roll out feeling perky. I used to feel obligated to force a smile, put on a happy face that no one bought anyway. No more. If it's the shits, it's the shits. OK, here it is. A couple of days ago I developed a (new) resentment. Resentments are the keys for alcoholics to start the engine again. No, I didn't drink. I didn't really even think about drinking. But everything else was present when a resentment starts to take up the room. Let me see, shame and a feeling that one will never quite get it right, complete loss of self-respect, and little dangerous sounds tinkling in the back of the mind. Now, Tag has put up some Linda Ronstadt and I have 2 biographies to write.

Maybe I Should Just Walk

I come across sometimes as very level, a soother, a comforter, a nurturer. Peaceful like. Optimistic. Philosophical. And I am. Yet, sometimes I have trouble giving myself those gifts as easily as I give them to others. Sometimes, no matter how much I learn about how many things, I jump from earth to the planet Freak Out in a nano-second. Sometimes, no matter how much I learn, I waste angst and energy on feeling certain I will collapse - yes, this latest trial will be the one that fells me! Despite staggering evidence to the contrary. Actually, I do all right for a girl. But I don't like freaky stuff about my money and I don't like freaky stuff about my cars. Occasionally, "I can't handle this. I just can't." flits through the cranium.

I do not understand cars. I do not know how a combustion engine works. I do not get the physics, mechanics, or anything else elemental to cars. I want to put in my key and have the car fly me, like a magic carpet, to my destination. No, I'm neither lazy nor stupid. I have enough IQ to understand about cars. I know how to Google and read. It's just not intriguing to me. That's what the father, the husband and the significant other were for. While I fed them. A fair division of duties. But I don't deny that the ignorance feeds the fear when something goes wrong with the car.

Recently at a staff meeting, the men guffawed at me as I told them whenever a car does something to me - oh, say, like having a flat tire - I want nothing further to do with that car ever again. Sell it! Of course, I don't literally sell a car over a flat tire, but when the occasional car problem arose, I was pretty good at talking Ex into trading cars with me permanently. My current car is an unremarkable, sensible, economical, age and size appropriate vehicle of a color that is variously described as gold, silver, gray or champagne. Its actual color name is radium. The car is four years old and it just turned 21,000 miles. It has been well maintained and has produced none of the normal, pesky troubles that cars sometimes do. No, no, Lucy Sue has been a pretty good car, causing me few worries of the usual sort. She is, however, a lightning rod for the "that can't possibly have just happened" sort of mishap.

During our four year relationship, the side mirrors have been knocked off three times when I've been nowhere in the vicinity of the car. Once the mirror was dangling by its electrical cords and twice it was lying in the street. One morning, as I ate my 10:00 a.m. cucumbers at my desk, I watched as a gigantic pickup truck crashed into my car and nearly tore the back end off of it. Both back windows have gone awry and have been jury-rigged with suction cups to keep them closed with the glass in a completely upright position. Hey, the motors for those windows cost about $300 - $400 each and the economy was scary! I'll replace them now that I'm more comfortable about the economic rebound. And neither of those back windows was heavily used. I don't believe I've transported anyone in my back seat more than 10 times ever. For fixes with suction cups, and to secure a dangling mirror after a 5-mile drive to the office with it dancing in the wind, I rely on Cesar who has been called the Mexican MacGyver. He is resourceful. He knows how to do a lot of things with little at hand.

I've been readying myself for a road trip. On my journey, I will have cell phone signal for only the very first and the very last miles. There are few settlements, with few services along the highway, and only two small cities. One wants to feel secure setting out on a pleasure trip, so I decided to ask for help to get the car in order. Cesar and I are simpatico. He understands which are my hot buttons, what distresses me, and what needs to be explained to me. He completely inspected the car to this standard: "Cesar, I want that car in good enough condition that you'd let Isabella drive it to Phoenix." Isabella is his 3-year old daughter. It is time for an oil change whether I was traveling or not, so that recommendation didn't surprise me. New air filter? Check - expected. "Les, you need to buy tires." What? They only have 21,000 miles on them!" The tires were cracked - baked for four years in the desert blaze. All right. Tires are important. He went and got the tires put on the machine for me. We've talked spark plugs and serpentine belts, transmission fluid and tire pressure . . . and I'm learning some things. Who knew?

The time was drawing near to the weekend Cesar would take my car home to work on it. He went to the parking lot with a pad and pen and came back up the stairs looking a little startled. "Les, your hood won't open. I'm going to call around, but I've heard when this happens, you have to go to the dealer and it can get pricey." Grand! "All right, please find out. My trip has already been delayed twice." All we need is to get the hood opened so I can get the oil change and Cesar can work his magic. It's not like the car is on its last legs, and I don't want to pay a fortune for this.

In our work world, we are nominally related to David's business partner, George, who owns a mechanic shop among other enterprises. He has a relationship with auto body businesses and other helpful services and he's generous with advice to any of us who work in the secluded little office plaza under the stucco arch. He's good to us when we take our business to him, as well. I had the brainstorm that Cesar should ask George if he knew how to apply a can opener to my hood. "Toss your keys down, Les, he's going to take a look at it." And soon enough I saw George ascend the staircase headed in my direction. He opened it! With no special tools, not at his shop, but right in the parking lot with only his know-how at work. He had news of Lucy Sue's latest weird malady. After four years of use, a cable has stretched out like worn elastic under the hood. The expected result of that is that the hood can't be opened. These cables are meant to last the life of the car, but no. "You're going to have to have it repaired. You can't go around unable to get inside the car." Yes, well I intended to have it repaired and asked if this was going to cost me $5 or $5 million. "Would you like me to find the part and take care of it for you today?" I would. I have an agenda to stick to.

George stepped pretty lively coming back up the stairs. "It's a special order part. It will take a week to get here. The good news is I can give you parts and labor for $144.25." None of that troubled me too terribly. The price was far less than I expected. And now the hood would open for Cesar to complete his part of the great send-off. Why was George so distressed? "Do you have any duct tape up here?" I rummaged around unsuccessfully for awhile and he said he'd look for some down in our service yard. "Leslie, the hood won't close and latch now that it's opened. We're going to have to tape it down and wait for Thursday." ?!#*?!#* Tape it down? With duct tape? Folks, I've been married. I don't have all that much faith in the infallibility of duct tape. I didn't say anything. It took me awhile to gather my wits. I walked out onto the deck. Peering over the rail, I spied George and his assistant feverishly applying tape to the car. "Men, does that even have a chance of working? I don't feel really secure about this." They responded that I certainly wouldn't want to drive on the freeway, and there was a chance it might work. ?!#*?!#* "Stop sticking tape on my paint job. Order the part. I've got it now." I radioed Cesar to relate the turn of events and he could tell I was worked up. "We'll tie it down, Les. It'll hold. But he's right! Don't go on the freeway." I vacillated between thoughts of just renting or borrowing a car and thoughts of the hood snapping off, coming through the windshield and decapitating me. Maybe I could drive one of our war wagons for a few days - no, they're not reliably in the lot when I arrive and leave. Have I mentioned it's windy in Las Vegas this spring?

After he tied the hood down, Cesar took pains to tell me all of it. "There's a little gap between the body and the hood, Les. There's some play in the rope, so you might see the hood bounce a little. Come here and give it a tug so you'll know it's well-secured." Driving home the first evening, I learned how fierce wind resistance is and how that affects gas consumption. The next morning, I asked Cesar to check the rope, because the gap appeared a little wider to me. He said it was taut. On Saturday, I drove slowly down rather empty streets against a pretty good crosswind for four miles. That wasn't so bad. When I turned north into the headwind, I knew I was in for a ride! The wind was fierce, and the hood moved up and down like it was breathing. My eyes popped, but I arrived at the office safely. Ten to twelve men have stopped me at various locations to say, "Hey, lady, I think your hood is up." It charms me that people are kind, but I admit to having the occasional crabby thought, "No shit, kind sir. Did the two inch gap between hood and body give it away?" Thursday arrives the new cable kit. I'm ready.

In my ears right now: The Three Stooges, and you may hear them, too.

Something that charmed me: Some of the homes have taken up golf and this made be grin from the first telling because my men are less like country club types than any humans I can think of. I'm reminded of a line from a really poor movie, "It's a country country club." That would be more suitable to this group. But Cesar has recruited them, and they go quite frequently. They are tearing up craigslist and garage sales finding clubs and bags and shoes. The Badger has a collection of golf balls for them, found in the streets when he rides, and these men are fun to watch. I remembered an old clip from the Three Stooges and located it. The film is old and was made long before my guys were born. But it has made me believe in reincarnation. Cesar is Moe - he's the smartest and runs the show. Justin is Larry. And Matt is Curly - he looks like Curly, he's as loud and goofy as Curly and he sports the same haircut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In my ears right now:


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

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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












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

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

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

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