Seven Days

It took about 7 days. I was still speaking and writing joyously for having some new things fall into my life and about how much I was going to relish experiencing them. Somehow - perhaps this is just very human and not at all specific to me - I connected those nice new things with the degree to which I've been working my AA program and my sobriety. Hey, if you save your money, you get a nest egg. Work your body, you get fit. Start leading a good and righteous life, good things come your way. Right? Sure! I had a busy July 4th weekend planned - busy for one who has been emerging from shadows and clouds for many months. Things were going well. I hadn't said it out loud in too many places yet, but I was beginning to think - just a little - that I was getting this "life" shit down pretty well.

Then came the routine blood draw with dubious results. Yes, it's an old enemy and one I understand very clearly. My doctors were wonderful to fully school me about it the first time around. I know percentages and survival odds depending upon age at onset, gender and ethnicity. I know what the levels should be each time I have a blood draw. I know many people walk around for years with the precursor and it never develops further. The precursor is as much as I ever had to deal with, and I found it nearly made me insane. Blood tests, wait ages for the returns. Biopsies, wait longer for the returns. Medicate as necessary, begin entire process again in 90 days. It is maddening and terrifying. In fact, last time it nearly sent me around the bend. It broke me in a handful of ways from which I have not recovered.

Frequently mistaken for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, I went into my usual mode. I spun. Man, it was 4th of July weekend and I had some plans. A party here, a dinner outing there, some rare mall shopping, AA meetings with coffee afterwards. I had a couple of pieces of writing in mind and planned to work on them with the French doors open, the monsoon blowing cool breezes into my little work station. I spent some hours helping a friend create a blog and I was asked - for one of the first times - to listen to and advise a struggling alcoholic. A fellow member of AA asked me to critique his thesis paper and then to work with him on the presentation. I was flattered to be asked! My friend and I are planning a joint blog post featuring some of the only-in-Las-Vegas things we see every day. We spotted out some locations to shoot photos and kept eyes and ears open for more of the startling things unfolding on every corner when a woman stops for a red light. Yep, I got through that long weekend just fine. Tired, in fact, just a little bit, for all the increased activity. The neighborhood fireworks banged on a few hours longer than I hoped, but that's what earplugs are used for.

Tuesday morning rolled around. I felt unsettled. No more long weekend stretching ahead. No more forgiving doctor's offices that did not return calls immediately - the holiday was over now. Time to get serious. I spent the morning digging out records, making phone calls. I noticed I needed to change the bed sheets and the cat litter in both boxes. The monsoonal thunderstorms have occurred daily, remarkable in intensity, mucking up windows which I hurry to clean before they dry dirty. Yes, I am eating a little. Not very much coffee. I arranged for someone to come in to repair the fine, fancy, new washing machine that spews water everywhere. And then I just stopped. Stopped everything. No reading library books, which I bring home by the bushel. No e-mail, no text messages, no phone calls. No blogging, either reading or writing. No writing for pleasure or economic purposes. No meditation, no music, no movies that make men scrunch up their toes in their shoes, no daily readings for AA and other forms of serenity. I have stopped, utterly and completely. Slammed into the wall. Splat.

I have not missed an AA meeting, and I am talking at those meetings. AAs give good advice to their fellows. They are kind to me, but will not kill me with kindness. Many have approached me to tell me how they meshed their program of sobriety with their own or another's illness. I thank them. Some simple speakers say, "Just keep coming back every day." Yes, I will. I get good encouragement like, "Tomorrow try to make it to the meeting and just read one of your books." I shall try that. And one man I'd never seen before said something really profound to me: "I can tell by your face and your words you're beating yourself up pretty badly. This isn't crazy, alcoholic reaction. Anyone would be concerned about this." That helped me! I didn't know. How would I compare my reaction to anything "normal"? I've written before about my intense distaste for using the words "I can't" about any endeavor I take on. I don't allow myself that very much. It can be a very difficult burden to carry. It is an old reaction I've not yet been able to correct in myself, and yes - that is my safety button: "I've not yet been able to . . . "

Yes, rely upon it - I am in near constant evaluation of just what I'm waiting for. The other shoe to fall? Perhaps. The lab to call me back to say "Sorry to have scared you to death. It was a mistake!" That would be nice, but I don't expect it. Am I channeling the Beatles' "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"?

. . . Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead . . .

I've been crazier than that before! Channeling isn't so weird. So, the best I can say is I'm struggling. I'm modeling Bambi in the High Beams. I don't have all the answers for it yet. And I'm working on all of it as best I can. My sponsor gave me a new tool yesterday. "Les, can you live with 'I can't today, but I may be able to tomorrow'?" Hey! I can live with that.

There has been little sleep in these almost couple of weeks. That's a chronic condition for me, though this bout is more intense and I've found myself both tearful and irritable. This morning after coffee, I managed to read one of my daily meditations and thought I could doze a little. I popped in some earplugs, pushing each almost through to the other side. I located the most boring book in my current repertoire, firmly planted  a cat on either side of me. I was ready! And soon enough, I felt myself drift. Until, through the earplugs, an unholy noise sufficient to raise my body from the bed tore me from sleep. When my heart slowed to the rate of a mouse's, I stuck my head out to see WTF? Ah! Home dudes here to fix up that washer leak. It seems the concrete slab has to be jackhammered, followed by some other ungodly noises. This has continued for hours. The very structure is shaking on its foundation. There are 6 homies on the property speaking very loud in Spanish. For hours. And so it goes. I can't do my laundry today, but maybe tomorrow.

In my ears right now:  I need a little lift!

Life Is What Happens While You're Busy Making Other Plans

I've had a busy week of appointments, errands, a few utterly joyous events, commitment to my commitments, and precious little time to write for pleasure. This bothered me more than usual, because I had a serendipitous blog post coming along in draft form, but coming too slowly to suit me. Well, actually, I still have that post in draft form, but it will likely have to wait awhile. Here's what I had to say in my first paragraph:

"I have been caught in a downpour of good things, an unpredicted storm that has left a few large gifts in a terrifically truncated period of time. Maybe some would holler "Hallelujah!" and run off to enjoy themselves, but I am a perverse creature. Oh, believe me, I've hoped for some good fortune, but now that a little of that has fallen into my lap, I am unsure how one handles some of it. If I blink, will it go away? Why have some of these things come to me and why now? Will I handle the details differently from my methods in the past? What are the deal-breakers, so I can make certain not to commit any of them? And - oh, the sleep-robber - "am I worthy?"

Jennifer Layne 
Copyright 1994

This afternoon I was showering, blow-drying, seeking out clothes in which I would not roast, pushing the clock just a little, which is unlike me. When the phone rang, I thought, "I have no time for this, whomever it is. Just let it roll to voicemail." But I recognized the telephone number as I've called it a few times in the last few days. "Hi, is this Leslie?" I said it was. "This is Kerry from the clinic." Oh. The Vampire Department just drained me yesterday. This may not be a good phone call. She said that my blood test results were in. There is no anemia. That's great, as I have a chronic problem. My cholesterol is on the "watch list" - for the first time in my life. OK, people deal with that every day. None of the medications I've been prescribed are causing any mischief. Good, good. I thought to myself, "Then why is this woman calling me?" "It's about your white blood cell count. Dr. Q is very concerned. She wants you to see your physician. We have a copy of the lab results for you but we're closed for the holiday weekend until Tuesday morning." I said I'd come Tuesday, then see my doctor. "No. She wants you to see your doctor tomorrow. Tell them it is urgent and what I've just told you about your test results." Well, I didn't scream or faint, but I'm not stupid. I've been down this road before. This call has a sense of deja vu. "Just how bad is the white cell count?" I have .7 when I need 4.0. Oh, that's pretty bad. "We're concerned about your immunity to any infections. It shouldn't be this low. You need to be seen right away." Boy, howdy.

I sat down hard on the bed, forgetting that I was running late. Damn it, what is this? The karmic cost for the good things that have just come along? And how would I deal with it this time, new in sobriety, but a veteran for having gone through it before? "It" is an insidious thing, a precursor to a deadly cancer that few survive for 5 years. The good news: I am not "sick" as it is asymptomatic, almost always revealed in a routine blood test. And many people live with the precursor for years, never developing the end disease. The bad news: This is not my first rodeo. I was closely monitored for 2 years, monitoring including regular bone marrow biopsies. A bone marrow biopsy is not an enjoyable experience. But the physical assault can't hold a candle to what these things do to one's head. And then there is the wait between the biopsy and the appointment to learn the results. And then count 90 more days, with blood testing in between. I can do every every part of that, I feel, tonight. And I must remember to pack all the good things into each and every day that I can. I already have a team in place, just in case one is needed: driver, hand-holder during the procedures, soup maker, prayer givers, well-wishers. OK, I think this will be all right.

At the large AA Club where I attend various meetings, the kudos, grins, hugs, high-fives and questions still flew about the wonderful things so recently fallen upon my head. I've been teased mightily and reminded that such good things happen to those who work their program well and truthfully. I chose not to mention today's news. It's not time. People are joyous for me. There's no good reason to put a damper on the joy others can feel for a fellow. "Hey, meet Les. She is a hard case, but she's worked diligently and after 8 months, good things are happening to her." If the time comes to share information at AA, I have no doubt I'll be fully supported there, too. Given everything I need. I'm no more fully identified by any other disease I may have than I was by alcoholism. A person wants to be both graceful and sturdy. Admirable, like.

In my ears right now, just because:

(With Plenty of Experience Now) I Only Date My Own Species

I may sometimes come across as both articulate and loquacious which is sometimes interpreted to mean "outgoing, sturdy, not thin-skinned". Nothing could be farther from my actuality. I'm highly sensitive and somewhat easily hurt. But I take risks by showing myself and telling truths about me - the person - in almost every relationship I undertake. Why would I take a chance making myself vulnerable to people I don't know well? That's how I relate with other human beings. I'm not so comfortable with casual relationships or fleeting friendships. Relating only on the surface doesn't work for me. I'm curious about others and am willing to show myself, within reason. It is always my hope the other person will eventually show me at least something real about themselves. By nature and by training, that is how I interact with other humans. Does this point out how difficult it is for me to deal with the dating bullshitter, the closed-down and the tight-lipped? Oh, and one last thing: I am pretty scrupulous about not being unnecessarily harsh with others, even when they have sometimes set themselves up for such treatment. Even when . . .

He was literate and he read books on purpose for entertainment. He worked in a field similar to mine, so we understood one another's workday stories. He sought outdoor activities and claimed to be physically fit, liked some of the movies that were my favorites and had a sense of humor. We were age appropriate and had exchanged photos, finding one another attractive, or at least worth continuing to talk with. Until he found out my name. You see, he'd just been hurt by a Leslie and didn't feel he could engage with another so soon. Or that's what he said and I have no supporting information whatsoever to confirm that as truth or untruth. I was gracious. "OK, well, I certainly understand that. Thanks for chatting." I am not 100% certain I do understand that, as a common name never was a deterrent to me, but I felt no need to be nasty to a man who had been pleasant throughout.

Conversely . . . Before I learned to pull the plug at the first, not the seventh, warning sign, I let conversations continue past the date they should have ended. And this man was one waving red flags from the first e-mail. HE WAS ONE OF THOSE "ALL IN CAPS" FELLAS. I didn't know there were any such communicators left, but I now can attest there are. It annoyed me, but I didn't immediately say "Stop it." He said he kept 5 dogs and I felt further disinterested. Not hostile. Just not enthusiastic. "I CAN GET YOU INTO A 3-YEAR-OLD CAR THAT LOOKS BRAND NEW," he virtually screamed. "Oh, well, thanks. Mine is less than a year old and perfectly suited to me." I decided to try the path of least resistance, simply distancing myself by e-mailing less frequently and then not at all. It was my impression that online conversations faded quickly if one party slowed or stopped for 24 hours. He was slow to understand and, in fact, turned up the heat in direct proportion to my cooling. "WELL, AT LEAST LET'S EXCHANGE PICTURES." He attached his to that message. He looked exactly like Stepfather. I cringed, actually recoiled from my computer monitor, but said nothing. This did not satisfy him. "WELL, I KNOW I'M GOOD LOOKING, SO WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD FROM YOU?" I remained quiet and (foolishly) passive. He turned up his aggression, bombarding me with e-mails assaulting both my character and appearance, though he really knew nothing about either of those. I finally had to unload. "You look just exactly like my stepfather. It creeps me out." Never heard from him again.

I cannot say how many times I have been challenged with "Is that really your picture?" "Yes, it is me, taken 10 days ago." "It's not your daughter or your girlfriend or sister?" "Uh, no. It is me." "Ten days ago, you said?" WTF? "Yes, 10 days ago." I gather it is common for both women and men to send pictures that are 10 years old, 100 pounds lighter, or simply not their own photograph while still in the just-talking phase. I never understood that. If I send a misleading image of myself in order to snare a man into meeting me somewhere, will I not be exposed as a fraud the moment I walk into the place? Apparently it is not unusual. OK, so noted. I don't believe I ever met a man who had sent me someone else's photo, but I met several who selected pictures of themselves no longer very recognizable when compared to the reality.

Closely related: age, height and weight claims. "How old did you say you are?" I've told the man several times and it is in my profile. Why am I asked about this continually? Ah, because people pad or whittle these things by many years, inches or pounds. Almost always, I am told. I didn't understand that one, either. What if I flip open my wallet to pay the tip or the bill for coffee and expose my drivers license? What if I'm not good enough in math to adjust my entire life experience to an era 10 years later than my own? What if I just find it easier to tell my real age for simplicity and let him make an assessment of height and weight by looking at me and deciding whether the full package is worth pursuing or not?

The man was educated and brilliant (seemingly) in his field. I know when he went to lunch with a woman, his office called, paged and sent text messages constantly, he was so sorely missed. We engaged in e-mail, text and telephone conversations for quite some time before meeting for a bagel and coffee. We had to, you see, because he was going to have to get something out in the open before showing himself. Though I was not bragging to friends or dreaming about him, I thought this was an OK man. I was interested, not rabid. We discussed the headlines, politics, trade unionism and the ubiquitous "what brought you to Las Vegas?" I remain convinced each of us was truthful about previous marriages. After a month or so, he broke the news: "I am younger than you are." Hmm .  . what constitutes "younger"? I think I'm pretty moderate about that, feeling maybe a 5 year difference in either direction is rarely an issue and more than that should be discussed. I looked at his profile again. Yes, it was true. He didn't reveal his age there, as I had mine. I'd been juggling so many men, I had failed to check my assumptions. "OK, so how old are you?" I asked, pretty bravely. Yow. Significantly younger.

"OK, back to 5 squares negative of Square One: what are you doing? My profile divulges my age. What did you not get from your mother that you want from me?" We talked for another month or 6 weeks. He wasn't looking for money - he made more than I did, owned a nice home, had investments. This was not verified by me. I am repeating what he told me. He claimed no fantasies of parading me on the Strip in granny garb while he sported diapers. He made a strong case for simply being attracted to an older woman both because of appearance and common interests. To support this, he cited some musical favorites that actually fell between my own youth and his, but OK. He wasn't quoting current Top 40. We finally met several times for a meal and I learned some things about myself. I wasn't mortified to be seen "dating" him, though he was clearly quite a bit younger. I was really excellent about taking my turn at buying lunch or coffee. He did not take advantage of that. I began to relax and said I'd consider it when he asked me for a more serious date (as in after dark to a comedy club). He called before I could give my final answer. He was in a panic. He'd been called away to LA on business and he had a huge dilemma. Could I help him out? "Well, what's up? Do you need a ride to the airport?" No. No. His ex-wife, a drug- and gambling-addict who was camped out on his couch because he couldn't bring himself to throw her in the streets (this is not unusual in Las Vegas, either) was in the throes of her addictions and could not be relied upon to take care of Matthew in his absence. Though I'd never heard of Matthew, he was age 7 and his father had full custody. Would I be willing to take care of Matthew for "a few days"? I am sure the sound of my foot being pulled from the sucking mudhole was audible. I never learned whether Matthew was taken to LA and got to visit Disneyland, as I never heard from his father again. Some people look to their (figurative) mothers as problem solvers, caretakers. I probably disappointed, as I delivered a message filled with fiery "you might have mentioned" words.

Oh, I'm on a roll now and rather regret holding back for so long! Yes, I do realize there could be some old dudes out there who may think, speak or write about the goofiest woman they ever encountered and picture my face in so doing. That's OK! My point is not to take anything away from anyone. My point is that human beings are damned complicated, heavily layered things driven by stuff we may not even contemplate. When someone such as I, already feeling a bit challenged by these fascinating animals, is faced with stuff she does not immediately know how to handle . . things can get funny or sparky or mean or frightening. And I haven't even spoken yet of He Who Told Me What Was Wrong With Me (to whom I was never grateful), nor He Who Was Actually Kind of Scary in His Intensity, nor even He Who Would Have Been the One Worth Keeping for Awhile. Talk soon ~ I've got a date. Nah!

Consumed

It may be fair to say I am consumed by curiosity. I fairly rubberneck when I walk or drive somewhere, including the internet, rarely failing to take in virtually everything interesting there is to behold. I measure this claim against many hundreds of shared excursions during which I continuously pipe up with, "My god, did you see that?!" to draw the reply, "What?" "Hey, lookie there!" from me is frequently rewarded with, "I didn't see anything." "Listen to this headline!" can elicit a "Yeah, so what?" look. I love to learn new things, I love to handspring around in my head, and this often begins with something I've seen that I just can't turn loose. It doesn't have to be lofty or cerebral. For me, a picture does paint 1,000 words.

Once embedded in the head, I have trouble removing an idea or full train of thought until I've exhausted all the possibilities available to me. I Google and Wiki and ask a number of questions of myself: "Would I like to do that?" "Who else was there?" "What happened then?" "Who do I know who would be interested in this or appreciate it?" "Do I have any similar experiences?" Sometimes I cry about things I encounter, or feel helpless to lend any meaningful support to someone who needs it. Sometimes I belly-laugh, and those are the best times. But I get the longest play from the things that just continue to baffle me with "Would anyone really do that?" or "Why did they do that?" "What was somebody thinking?"

So today, it's about food, caused by something I saw online. I have a long, unhealthy relationship with food that includes phases when food was alpha and I was not, when I was alpha and food was not, and many things in between. I am not admirably adventuresome about food. Sure, hailing from the southwest, I'm 100% up for Mexican cuisine. I don't want to try Thai food or Vietnamese. Please don't try to introduce me to a new and exciting experience like that. I'm not going there because I don't want to. Italian or Chinese specialties - yes! Fish or seafood? Not going to do it. I don't care whose recipe it was, I'm not going to try it. On the other hand, in my own cooking, I've stretched far afield from what was modeled in my parents' home.

My father's tastes drove the menus in our home. I am lucky, I suppose, that his sensibilities ran to moderation of fats, salt, and other questionable substances, even decades ago. So dinners in our home consisted of salad, meat, starch, vegetable and dessert. Invariably. Jell-o did not count as dessert. He didn't like casseroles or any form of one-dish meal. He didn't care for many types of seasoning. Onions were iffy for him except with the ubiquitous Sunday pot roast. He didn't like a lot of gravy or sauces cluttering up his food. Bread was white - Wonder Bread. Holding no truck with "circus water" (other families called it Kool-Aid), our beverage of choice was Pepsi Cola. We ate canned vegetables because that's what he liked - no efforts to introduce him to the fresh or frozen varieties ever stuck. He hunted for some few years with business associates, but no venison or pheasant ever made it to our table. Suggestions of foreign cuisine fell on deaf ears and the cheeses used in Italian cooking smelled like vomit, he claimed. I am reminded of the period of time when he had an ulcer. I am lucky we were not all included in his diet of Gerber baby food.

Today, I eat more sensibly than most people if we count most as 51%. I avoid meat, though I am not a complete vegetarian. It is more personal choice rather than a moral stance. I am not so crazy about many fruits, but I have met few vegetables I didn't care to consume - gimme cucumbers. Pepsi Cola gave way to Diet Pepsi or Diet Dr. Pepper and I take on way too much coffee. No, the caffeine doesn't work against me. I'm pretty flat-line whether I drink coffee or don't drink it. Sure I love a decadent dessert! I just don't go there very often and the sorrow of my life is the day I broke my engagement to Haagen Dazs. Pasta is nice, in moderation. Love cheese, but I also am moderate about that. I don't do bread or juices at all - again, simply a choice. I don't choose to spend part of my caloric allotment on those things. I monitor how I'm doing by a visit to the scales every few days, being mindful of how my clothes fit, paying attention to how well I'm doing when I walk or swim. If I start trending upward in weight, I modify. It's a simple thing that works for me. Nope, I don't aspire to a geriatric modeling career. I want to feel good and strong and I want to live a long, healthy life. Do I splurge sometimes? Yes. Haagen Dazs now has those little $1 containers of their standard products. I eat from those containers 3 times. It makes me as happy as a full pint in one sitting used to do.

Couple all of that with this: I love to feed other people. In fact, I love to overfeed people. During a particular time in my life, Ex had to take me aside and ask me to pull back the reins on feeding him and Amber. They were huffing and puffing at karate, due to my culinary fanaticism at the time. I still read recipes voraciously, intuiting how the dish will taste and present. I smack my lips, even when I know that I won't eat what I prepare - only my guests will taste the offering. And, yeah, I'm still guilty of intimate relationships with some decadent foods. My potato salad will clog an artery quickly. I make a red sauce that gives rise to exclamations of "Mama mia!" And I'm guilty of taking the Milky Way cake to far too many events - made with 6 Milky Way bars and iced with 2 more, it weighs about 5 pounds on the cake plate. I like to watch what other people eat, too. "Hey, what's that?" "You really going to eat that?"

I'm not sure whether to call it a date. I'm pretty sure the other party involved would call it a date. What I might consider a date will require much contemplation and may or may not take up some blog space at a future time, but that's not what this is about. I'd ridden on the back of his very fine motorcycle to the Fremont Street Experience. This was a completely different mode of transportation for me, and kind of fun, though I've never again sought it out ~ he'd thoughtfully provided both helmet and goggles. We stepped first into Hogs & Heifers Saloon where I was almost immediately knocked onto my ass by a very large woman dancing like no one was watching. Home girl had that little saying down to an art! Picking myself up and dusting myself off, I had to say, "I'm not really so comfortable in bars." My friend was OK with that. He was a long time recovering alcoholic who took me into Hogs & Heifers because he thought I might like it. I didn't. Walking outside, we came upon a Soul Food Festival and Street Fair. I stretched out of my comfort zone ~ the fried catfish was good. My friend insisted that I be photographed (twice) with the two Chippendale's dancers on the street, which is also not at all what I do. But I did, with fairly good grace. I did not like this experience. I had to ask these youngbloods how to pose. They told me. Hey - they pose with young and old women all day every day in little clothing and for a price. I wasn't anything new, special or different. They shave their backs. But apparently, not daily. Ugh.

Strolling along Fremont, I began to notice the " deep fried" signs. What? Fried Twinkies? Deep fried Oreos? Fried pizza? Oh, come on! Why? I mean would somebody really . . . well, presumably, because there were long lines in front of the establishments that sell such delicacies.

So, a little Yahoo News teaser caught my eye. I Googled, I Wikied. Yes, it really was deep fried spaghetti and meatballs on a stick. Though no nutritional information is immediately noticeable, there is a disclaimer that the recipe is a bit labor intensive and its creators intend to soon find out if deep fried lasagna might be a hit. I found other marvels - fried pickles, deep fried Coke, fried candy bars of every imaginable variety, and deep fried bacon. Bacon dedicated to you, Rraine! I've not yet quite figured these things out. You see, I like my spaghetti to smack against my chin and then I slurp it up like Lady and the Tramp. I'm not pickle crazy, but if I go there, I want it cold and crispy. Coke? That's a drink, where I come from! However, in the interest of public service, I thought to share these culinary delights so everyone has time to get some before the Rapture, now scheduled for some time in October. Hey, it won't kill ya! We're not going to be around long enough for these fat bombs to do us any harm. Or so I'm told.



Bon appetit!

The Architect

What if your friend became an architect,
but failed to tell you that
and you sent no gift, no card, no flowers
for matriculation?
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And what if your friend decided the
ancient edifice that was your relationship
needed renovation – oh, immediately, extensively -
but failed to tell you that?

What if you entered the home place you shared with your friend
and found she had applied skills she possessed
but had failed to tell you that?
What if you asked, “Friend, what is all this?”
And your friend replied, guilelessly, “What? Nothing's different.”

What if, upon your next visit, it could no longer be denied?
She had reassigned weight-bearing walls, reduced the size of
certain rooms and built an escape hatch as would be used in
the Underground Railroad, but failed to tell you that.

“Friend, I can and will live with anything between us,
my only requirement being truth.”
And what if your friend began to build such a
structure of lies that you could feel life, love
and esteem, as you knew them for her, slipping away?
But you failed to tell her that. Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend progressed from lies to silence, used interchangeably,
choosing the subjects about which she would or would not say anything at all?
“Friend, I am losing respect and admiration for you. I have been plain
about what I need. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me.
I will not abandon you.”
“Nothing has changed between us.”
What if you left the building having made a hard decision,
but you failed to tell her that? Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend asked for a favor and explained
she needed you to lie?
She needed your lie to cover a lie she'd told another friend.
In fact, “Heh, heh,” she'd already misused your name and
a false premise to fool a perfectly innocent person for
whom you felt no enmity.
Used your name, or lack thereof, and your artistic property,
your own history, without permission or discussion.
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And That's What Made Me Run

I'm an adult now (at least if you count my years) and I hope I react to things from a plane of some slight balance vs. torturous highs and lows. But it wasn't always so. Once I was 8 years old and I didn't have the same powers of reasoning, the same collection of life experience, the willingness to speak out, the suspicion of authority that I do now. I didn't have many coping skills. I wouldn't have challenged something an adult stated for anything. I'd learned not to bother anyone with anything that was bothering me. Life's little kicks in the ass sometimes crushed me, and I simply accepted them, soldiering on. I know that my own childhood traumas likely weren't any more difficult than anyone else's, and in many ways I was a fortunate little girl. But everyone has struggled with something.

My mother's large Irish family were Catholics through and through. Active in the parish. My father's family were decidedly not. The Morgan family, my grandfather in particular, could get going about Catholics and the Pope. I was not baptized as an infant, as my father objected. Mom finally convinced him to allow the baptism when I was 2 - just old enough to raise the roof when the priest applied those few drops of holy water to my forehead. By the time Gary came along, my dad had already given in once, so Gary was baptized as an infant, more typically Catholic. In very young childhood, I was not served up a lot of religion. Weddings and funerals, Mass at Easter. We were rather casual Catholics, my mother and I. Sometimes when very young, I was allowed to go to other churches of other faiths with friends. Casual. It may have been restful, convenient, to have me away from home in a wholesome environment, someone else's temporary responsibility. I don't know.By second grade, it appeared that I had a decent brain. There had been some discussion of my skipping a grade, but it had been determined my intellect could easily do that while my soul probably could not. I was delicate and sensitive. It could harm me. I now know myself better than anyone else knows me. It would have harmed me. My mother and her family began to work my dad. Putting me in Catholic school would not only offer me more challenging lessons and a good foundation for my lifetime education, there were all the wonderful extra-curricular activities and, and . . . he finally agreed, reluctantly. We'd try it for my 3rd grade year.

During the summer, my mother, a person who is not of the same species as I, had to teach me to write perfect Palmer Method cursive writing with a cartridge pen as the Catholic kids had all learned that in 2nd grade. They hadn't taught us that at public school. I was not grand at catching on to perfect Palmer Method. My mother and I should never have been allowed to occupy a room alone together. Certainly no one should have thought it was a good idea to have her try to teach me anything. Not good for her, not good for me. And I was a messy child, for the first time ever. That cartridge pen was a challenge to me. I remember it as the summer of permanently blue-stained fingertips and incredible stress. Ah ~ and in the fall, when I went to Catholic school, my uniform blouse would be white and there had better not be any blue ink on it. A stray lazy thought in my head today: Grandpa lived about 2 miles away, wrote in perfect Palmer Method, was soft and gentle with me, had even taught me how to handle a pocket knife . . . . . hmmm.

In 1960 America, there were good girls and boys and bad girls and boys. I had some cousins who were bad, and very fun. They were free enough to be bad, take their lumps and move on. I was a good child. Adults liked me. I was quiet and helpful, clean and tidy except for cartridge pens, industrious and bright. I think I would have liked the child who was me. The exterior was a cute little package, smiling, always reading, always trying to please. Trying so hard to please. And when I failed to please, I suffered agonies. I will write from time to time about ways I've punished myself in life for failing to please. But at 8, the punishment was just silent self-excoriation. My family's poisons had made me, by age 8, a very grand secret-keeper. I had seen, heard and experienced things to which no child should ever be exposed. I never spilled about the worst of it until I was 50 years old. I'd learned to get up every morning, study my mother and determine what she needed me to be on this day and that's the girl I'd be. And quiet! No, it didn't make for good mother-daughter relations. Does it surprise anyone that I sought out adult females? Granny and my aunts, friends of my mother, neighbor women. Because I was pretty smart, it didn't take long for me to figure out that all of them were pretty regular, pretty normal, pretty right.

In southern California, the Santa Ana winds blow in early September. The conditions become hot and dry. Major wildfires typically occur at this time of year. The Catholic school was a good deal farther from home than the public. That was OK. I was on a new adventure. In September, my new saddle shoes blistered my feet and the gray wool skirt was hot and itchy, but I tried not to complain. The white uniform blouse was adorned at the collar with a maroon clip-on bowtie that pinched the sweating neck, but that was all right, too. At Catholic school, we were assigned far more homework and used many more books than in public school. I lugged the books without griping and always did extra credit. My dad oversaw my homework every night of life and he could see how much I was learning. By first report card, we already knew this "trial" was going very well for all concerned. I was also learning about the Catholic religion in a way I'd never understood it before. We attended Mass, walked the Stations of the Cross, made our first confessions and studied for our First Communions, studied catechism each afternoon, were given rosaries and holy cards as prizes for spelling bees, and were immersed even more than that. Oh, I was a wonderful, true believer. Age 8, tender, gentle.

At least some of the reason for my success at school was the influence of Sister Maren Therese. She was young(ish) and quite tall. Her hands were long and beautiful and I stared at her gorgeous, very fair skin. She had a lovely voice and she was very caring while still remaining firm. Our school lay right in the flight path of the Los Angeles International Airport, already a very busy portal in 1960. When the huge classroom windows were opened because we were not air conditioned, Sister could present a lesson pausing every few moments as a jet passed over and then pick up right where she'd left off, without missing a beat. I remember I loved those windows that latched very close to the ceiling. They were latched by use of a device that was a sort of a hook on a very long broomstick. Only Sister, the janitor and the boys were allowed to use this device. That was OK with me. I am not graced with much grace. I could have put the device right through the window pane. That would not have pleased Sister. Have I mentioned that I absolutely loved her? And I knew she thought I was a very special girl. Yes, the adult me understands that Sister thought all the children were special. But the 8-year-old didn't know that.

It was in the spring, and for some reason, I believe it was April, not that it matters in the least. The windows were open because it was gloriously warm, Sister speaking in her stop-start mode because of the jets. It was Friday and Catholics did not eat meat on Fridays. I'd had peanut butter, cheese and crackers in my lunchbox, in place of - say - a bologna sandwich. We were in the catechism part of our daily lessons. It is interesting to me that I can still recite entire tracts of Catholic ideology and the Mass in Latin. I paid attention, you see. I was a young, budding critical thinker. I weighed facts that were tossed my way. Nearly 4th graders by now, we needed to be learning about the afterlife. Oh, we knew about heaven and all aspired to go there. We knew we'd meet others in heaven who came from different faiths and that was all right. Anyone could go there as long as they'd made a conscious decision to embrace God's ways. And we knew about hellfire. Some Catholic art shown freely and openly to children, at least at that time, was lurid and frightening. We certainly didn't plan to go there. But Catholics had a much wider menu than souls of other faiths. Catholics had a few different forms of afterlife, and one's behavior on earth would dictate where one ended up.

It's been said of me that I experience events with all of my senses and then relate them descriptively in a way that others can almost feel the way I felt at the time. Sitting in the warm classroom, I felt safe and well-fed. I listened attentively. Always. Sister explained the afterlife reward system. When the light came on for me, I shot my hand into the air. When she called on me, I stood up to ask my questions. It couldn't possibly be the way I'd heard it. Could it? My mother and I, card-carrying Catholics, could enter the kingdom of heaven if we remained in a state of grace. My brother was headed for limbo of the infants - not heaven, but a state of maximum happiness reserved for those who hadn't been able to make choices in life. My father's best hope was purgatory - a sort of temporary hell from which he might emerge if he'd been a very fine person. Dad's downfall? He wouldn't be baptized and live a holy (read: Catholic) life. What?? I know I flushed. My ears roared. I smelled something like burning leaves. I don't believe I heard another word spoken to me that day. I ran most of the long way home.I was done with Catholicism, religion and Sister. Finished. Maybe another child would have run home and said,"Hey, Dad, we've got to get you converted while there's still time. And what are we going to do about Gary?" But not I. No. I went into my room for the weekend and soaked in it. Silently. New secrets to keep. The people I loved best weren't going to get into heaven. I began this post saying I'm now an adult. I know that God didn't come down into my classroom and traumatize me. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. Better than Sister doing it. I had lay teachers for the next several years and then we moved to Salt Lake City where there was no Catholic school conveniently located. My mother did not react at all when I said I didn't want to go to church any more. I'd been faking it for a few years and wanted relief from that. A person in better balance than I might have found some other spiritual comfort or joined a different church. I am of the generation that freely explored eastern mysticism. I could have done that, too. I was so shattered, I spent decades running from the entire topic. And keeping those secrets.

When I was pregnant, Ex and I talked almost daily about our life plan for our child. Everything from her education to the color of her nursery walls was discussed in great depth. What would we do about the God/religion thing? Ex was a lapsed Catholic, although not particularly traumatized. But he had no strong need to include religious practice in our child's life. We landed on a plan. When Amber asked, and not before, we would begin the traveling church tour, visiting every kind of congregation we could find, for a few weeks each. We'd spend time in the car on the way home talking about what we thought and felt. She was about 10 when she posed the questions. We executed our plan. We did Protestantism, Mormonism, Buddhism, and - yes - Catholicism. We did it for a long time. After about 2 years, over dinner one evening, Amber said, "OK, thanks. I'm done." Oh. As easy as that.

In my ears right now: The sound of my own voice. I'm repeating phrases in Latin. I could likely conduct a retro Mass.

Something that charmed me: I was attending a 12-step meeting in support of a friend who was to be presented with a cake and a chip for a significant period of sobriety. One AA member wished to share, and that's always preceded by an introduction of oneself. "I'm X. I'm an alcoholic and a recovering Catholic." I laughed out loud. It was probably inappropriate.

Maybe I Should Just Stuff it in the Mattress

I did not find the merry month of May so very. Although our business soared in March and April, May was tepid. Lukewarm. I needed a few more 11,000 square foot church jobs to drop into my lap unbidden. The wind screamed on maddeningly, making me feel low much of the time. My blog birthday would come up at the end of the month and I thought that would set me writing at a quick pace, but May was my least prolific month since I started the blog. I wasn't reading other blogs with the same degree of frequency, nor commenting as much. I dealt with two major stressors during the month, car fears and money fears. I spent a long time trying to land on why I blog, what I expect to get from it, what I do get from it, and whether I want to continue with it. I'd endured a little angst, a little disillusionment, and I needed to rethink exactly what it was about for me. I found my answers.

My understanding of the intricacies of money management has been, mostly, elementary. I learned young that one wanted to earn a lot of it, save a lot of it, spend a lot of it. But I never learned a "plan". Money just "was". One didn't guide money. Until one became divorced and on her own at age 50. Then one learned to build the budget and handle the spreadsheets and of whom to ask the hard questions and which publications to study. Mother Badger has taught me much about money, as has David and I've gained a wealth (great word!) of knowledge from building and sticking to the budget for our company. I'm pretty savvy in my old age!

On the first Sunday of 2009, I drove through Wells Fargo Bank's stand of ATMs and juggled all my cards, seeking to handle my finances the way that I do. My pension is directly deposited to my Sun West Bank account. I do quite a bit of transferring between the two banks and I juggle several different accounts for my personal use and that of my tiny consulting business. Once a month, I go online to make certain the pension was properly deposited at Sun West. No, I don't have to look 16 times. I look once. The reader may believe, I know where my money is parked and I know just exactly how much of it there is.

I was on my way to see Christine for my haircut and color. She prefers cash payment, so I attempted to withdraw $140 from the Sun West account. "Insufficient funds". What? I knew how much money was in that account and it far exceeded $140. I did a balance inquiry that revealed I had the princely sum of $4.20 available. I didn't like it at all. None of my bank accounts ever sinks into single digits. I knew what should have been in the account and I was a bit concerned, but I knew that sometimes information doesn't translate well between banks and I needed to keep my appointment with Christine. I pulled the $140 from my Wells Fargo account and continued with my day.

Arriving at work the next morning, the first Monday in January, 2009, I sent the technicians out on their routes, but was very eager to go online to see what was happening with my account at Sun West. To my shock, there had been a series of large cash withdrawals from my account between Friday night and Sunday morning! I'd been cleaned out. Yes, it was close in proximity to New Year's, but I'd done no partying, and I felt certain no videotape of me with a lampshade on my head at the ATM could be produced. When startled/shocked, I tend to look over my shoulder to see if any Candid Camera camcorders are aimed at me. Is this a joke? It wasn't. I printed the list of transactions and ran into David's office. "Get your coat and purse! Be at the bank's door at 9:00 when they open.", he advised. I did that. I was the first customer through the door that day. I signed affadavits and sworn statements, and they reassured me I'd suffer no loss until the investigation was completed. It took very little time ~ maybe 15 days. I'd been defrauded in some way that was never explained to me. I never lost a penny. That bank took care of me and my dollars.

On Saturday, May 29th, I went online to verify my pension had been deposited to Sun West. I've banked there for 6 years, so their splash page is very familiar to me. Hey! What the heezy? "Where are the pictures of so many of the actual employees I recognize? Where is the picture of my branch in the building that has been there since the 1970s?", thought I. For here is what I saw on the screen:

On Friday, May 28, 2010, Sun West Bank, Las Vegas, NV was closed by the Nevada Department of Business and Industry, Financial Institutions Division. Subsequently, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) was named Receiver. No advance notice is given to the public when a financial institution is closed.

All deposit accounts, excluding certain brokered deposits, have been transferred to City National Bank, Los Angeles, CA. For more information on City National Bank, visit us at www.cnb.com.

The FDIC has assembled useful information regarding your relationship with Sun West Bank. Besides a checking account, you may have Certificates of Deposit, a business checking account, a Social Security direct deposit, and other relationships with the institution.

Please select the link below to read more about this event:

FDIC Bank Closing Information for Sun West Bank

Online service will remain available.

Continue to Sun West Bank's Online Banking Login:
• Personal
• Business

??!!**## ??!!**## What the ??? I reared back in my chair and looked over my shoulder for the Candid Camera that was not there. Yes, I did see the acronym FDIC on the first reading, so I felt somewhat certain the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation was involved, but one wants to feel damned secure in these situations. With my heart in my mouth, I attempted to gain access to my accounts, using my login and password information. I was successful, and everything seemed as it should be in each account. But that was not good enough. I was alone in the office, so I radioed David who was in another county at a race. "Sir, are you actively racing right this moment?" "No, just setting up. What's up?" I read it to him without ever letting up on the talk button. He heard all of it before he could get one word in edgewise. One can't chirp while being chirped. "What do you think, David?" He said his temperature had begun to rise when I began to read, but he also took some solace in the fact that the passwords worked and the FDIC was involved. "But find out for sure on Monday!" No kidding!

I sent e-mails to my personal financial advisor, Mother Badger, and to the Badger himself. "Um, how badly would this disturb you on a Saturday afternoon of a 3-day weekend?" The e-mails fairly flew for awhile, and the consensus opinion was that I was probably OK. I am. David saw it on the news on Sunday night. By Monday morning, City National Bank had a welcome page on the website to reassure Sun West customers and those of other failed banks they've recently taken on. Yow. We're advised to continue using the checks and bank cards from Sun West until further notice, and the existing employees have been retained. The only visible difference to the customers will be the new sign on the building. Relief? No. I'm transferring everything to Wells Fargo. I believe I mentioned in my last post that if a car fails me, I want nothing to do with that car again. It pales in comparison with what happens to me internally when my bank fails.

At work, we slithered out of May on our bellies like a snake, but - to my surprise - when I crunched the numbers, I learned we actually turned a small profit. For reasons I should no longer try to divine, for it will surely make me ill someday, the phones began to scream on June 1. Why that specific day? What were the conditions? Was Jupiter aligned with Mars? Stop it, Leslie! I've booked more jobs in three days than I booked in some weeks in the heart of darkness after the economy slid. We fired a technician we love who had returned on a 90-day trial basis after we fired him at the holidays. He won't get a third chance with us. David started his two high schoolers at work today - their first jobs, with the world in front of them to be enjoyed. Today I ran more vans than I have on one day in months. Some men were running solo, which means they were earning at their highest level of income. We like that.

Matt radioed in after his first job, just like he is supposed to do. "I've experienced a first, Leslie." I asked what had happened and he told me he killed a customer's pet. ??!!**##??!!**## What could have happened? Did he run over a dog or squash a cat in the driveway? Suck a bird up the wand while he was dry-stroking? "Matt, what??" He arrived at the customer's home to find mother and child crying hysterically. In the house was a large adhesive rodent trap and the child's hamster had become stuck in it. The customer had tried to remove the hamster, but he was good and truly stuck and was clearly in distress. The woman asked Matt to kill the suffering animal - to put it out of its very apparent misery. Matt is a big, gruff, tough very emotional and sensitive human being. "Oh, lady, no. Oh, no, no. I can't do that. I love animals. No, no m'am." She begged him, explaining that her husband could not come home for hours and she had no one else to ask. Her small son was becoming more distressed by the minute. Matt took the animal out to the van and attempted to dislodge the hamster using various tools and even some safe cleaning solutions to try to break the adhesive bond. He attempted to loosen the animal by cutting its fur without causing further harm. Nothing worked, and the animal was now in trauma. Matt killed it, out of sight of the mother and the boy. I have seen Matt in deep distress. His ears would have been bright red and his eyes full of tears. No, not crying like a little girl. Just showing obvious signs of pain while he did the right thing. He performed a sterling carpet repair and told the little boy his pet was in a better place now. Then this 23-year-old got in his mighty war wagon and continued to his next job where he was treated badly and thrown out on his ear. So go our days.

In my ears right now: My favorite of Gillian Welch's work, April the 14th (Part I).



Something that charmed me: In huddle, we talked about what Matt encountered, how humane he had been to the animal and how he overcame his own misgivings to assist a mother and child. It took only seconds for him to be dubbed the Hamster Hit Man, but that was done in a pat-on-the-back manner rather than hilarity about a pet that died. The assembled homes began to talk about the various ways each of them would have euthanized the hamster once he made the assessment it could not be released from the trap. I scanned their faces, looking for any traces of inappropriate amusement. There was none. They were serious about thinking how they'd handle a distasteful situation with the least distress to anyone involved. I'd be pleased to have any one of them on my tea, if I were in bad circumstances.

Recipe for a Really Loud Day at the Office

Begin with a little of this, situated near a sunny window:


The recipe will turn out better if they have been warmed up by some loud, intimate conversation with the birds outside for awhile.

Add this at a volume to suit your taste, but be forewarned: it's going to get louder than you expect -

Grab onto the edge of a sturdy desk or something similar for support. You're going to need it.

In my ears right now: You already know what it is, but you can't imagine the volume. When Freddie Mercury emotes, so do the birds.

Something that charmed me: In 2008, I brought Bloomsbury Bird to live at the office. Although one of my co-workers had rigged me a wonderful pulley system and Bloomsbury lived at the ceiling in my home, I came home often to find Dylan or Virginia Woolf swinging in the air, clinging to the bottom of the birdcage. David wasn't opposed to having the bird in the office, and so I lived in very close quarters with him for about a year. First I learned how entertaining a bird can be at close range (about 18 inches from my keyboard), and I learned they are happy 100% of the time. Making a trip to PetSmart, I learned that most of us toss the little things into the most pedestrian wire cages when some really remarkable bird homes exist that make their life (and their owner's) a little better.

Soon I owned a small version of the wonderful Hagen bird home that has guards to deflect their poop from the food and water cups. It has plastic guards extending pretty far up the sides of the cage to keep the typical bird mess (seed hulls, feathers, projectile poop) contained inside, rather than floating out into the room. I liked that. Next came the wonderful natural wood perches and a 12 foot soft, flexible rope perch I formed into several loop-de-loops for their jumping pleasure. They do jump, too, landing with a thud on the neighboring loop! When Benson Bird joined us, it was soon apparent we needed larger digs, so the large Hagen cage was ordered. The day it arrived, I got an e-mail asking how large it was. I replied with literal truth, "If we could fold my limbs up against my body, it would be a nice fit for me." I set about fixing the parakeet palace up with perfect feng shui.

I've already confessed on this blog to being pretty tightly wound, and having completed my own birdly rite of passage, I wasn't finished. I repeated it as a gift for a friend in virtually the identical steps: one bird, small Hagen cage, second bird, large Hagen cage, fine natural wood and loop-de-loop perches. Yes, it was my birdbrain year! And finally it was over. I have no other friends who would appreciate such a gift and my obsessive attention to it.

I handled the birds a lot during all that relocating. I don't like to handle them much. They are tiny and my looming hands must be terrifying. They're delicate things and there is always a fine line between holding them too tight or holding them too loose so they can fly off. Since my pair moved into their palace, I have not touched their bodies once, nor have they left the comfort of their home. It pleases me to say we only had one mishap amongst all four birds and their four homes.

It was the final moving day from small Hagen to large for my two feathered friends. I transported Bloomsbury without any difficulty. He didn't even peck me. I took a breather in between, so I wouldn't feel anxious. Benson's journey was not as idyllic. I made the serious mistake of holding him too loosely and he wasted no time in attempting to escape my grip. As he lunged forward, I grabbed for him, grasping the very last part of his escaping body. Yes, the tail. Every feather in that tail, save one tiny specimen (I swear this is literally true) was held tightly between my thumb and forefinger and the little blue bird had propelled himself right into the new cage where I wanted him to be.

Shocked and upset, I stared at Benson's backside with my nose pressed up against the cage. I can attest that a bird's tail is made from a lot of feathers, and he had a noticeable void in his caboose. The one tiny remaining tailfeather fluttered as I exhaled, so I knew it would soon be gone, too. It was! I observed that without the long tail, his body shape was rather like a fat, thick S. He was roly-poly, and one needn't be an ornithologist to understand that the tail is required for balance. He has no arms to use for balance, and he can't spend 100% of his time with his wings extended for that purpose. We spent some time in distress, did Benson and I. I sent him all the cosmic, karmic bonhomie I had. The rest had to be performed by his own little body.

A cage of happy birds attracts a lot of attention in an office setting where one might not expect to encounter such a thing. It is a rare visitor to our business who does not step over to the cage and speak softly to them. Mailman Steve flirts with them daily, making little kissing noises. For a few weeks, birdie observers stepped up to the cage and then stepped back, looking startled. I could tell they had observed Benson's deformity. I would hold up the little bouquet of tailfeathers I kept at my fingertips and most people looked even more startled. One morning, upon inspection, I saw the tiniest tip of a feather reaching out of the void. The next day there was another. The third day, each was a bit longer. Today Benson is fully restored to his original beauty and I have a very special attachment to the little blue jelly bean bird.

So, does the reader know what charmed me? It's the lesson I took from Benson and his tail. We all suffer losses, both large and small. After the loss, there is the period when the fallout settles. Internally and externally, lightning bolts of positive and negative energy shoot through our universe. And then we emerge into life after the loss. Can we be completely restored? Maybe. Can we be restored to a condition that is at least acceptable, even if different? Hopefully. Is it likely the loss will completely break us? Note to self: get the tattoo. It is not.

Surrealistic Sunday ~ The Field Trip, Chapter 2

Preface: Most readers will want to have reviewed Chapter I of this adventure before proceeding. Those with good recall and humor won't need to do so. One may also want to click on the images contained herein to be reminded that the overarching theme of this outing and this destination is "wrong". I don't like this stuff. I'm fascinated by how wrong it is. Who thought it up? Why is it here? Who in the world would buy it? And why would they buy it here?

Please rejoin me at the World's Largest Gift Shop where we are about to make our way from all the lovely bacon and toast items and Naked Men In Oven Mitts to the "what the hell?" section and then to the Mother Lode ~ Naughty Town. Having rushed through the departments that don't draw us, now we tend to inchworm our way along, guffawing in an unbecoming way. The Bonanza gets high marks from me for carrying merchandise that will fulfill all the souvenir and gift-buying needs of every visitor who comes to Las Vegas. Come on! Get out your list and follow me.

Possibilities for one's fun and kicky friends and relatives:



I know those things always keep me entertained on a Saturday night!





Here in the garden section are some lovely potential gifts for your friends who enjoy cultivating plants. It thrills me that these icons of the desert southwest, the Joshua tree and the giant saguaro cactus, germinate in 11-21 days and 3-10 days respectively. The packages say they are easy to grow, although I suppose they would not flourish in some parts of the world. A bigger problem, however, is the age of your gift recipient. One would want to present these thoughtful presents to a younger person. The Joshua tree grows five feet in a decade and begins to bloom after about 12 years. The giant saguaro grows one foot in 15 years and ten feet in 40 years. They actively grow for about 100 years and live up to 200 years. If you're looking for the gift that keeps on giving, these may fit the bill. For decades and centuries and generations of the gift recipient's descendants.

If there's a cook in your life, this item might be a hit! One could backtrack to the bacon and toast and Naked Men in Oven Mitts to fill a brunch-making basket. Remember there are bacon placemats and bacon mints. The shop abounds with ceramic Las Vegas bowls, dishes and coffee mugs . . .

Who has a pious little auntie? The Deluxe Miracle Jesus Action Figure with glow in the dark hands can't fail to please! He turns water into wine and feeds 5,000 with 5 loaves and 2 fishes. It says so on the box. Or perhaps St. Joseph, the patron saint of real estate would be appropriate. St. Vivian, the patron saint of hangovers might hit the spot if auntie enjoys a nip. Or if she keeps a pet, here's a lovely St. Gertrude (patron saint of cats) figure.

My mother is a world traveler and an avid Egyptophile. She has a beautiful home filled with fine art reflective of the things that please and intrigue her. I know I'm always proud to add to her collection of antiquities with another purchase from the Bonanza. It's so convenient, too!

Who has a little boy's or girl's name on their list? What child wouldn't want a fun and furry little jackalope?

Or dolls? Beautiful dolls!


May this be fair warning to the more sensitive reader: We are about to enter Naughty Town. If this distresses you, take a detour. But be forewarned. Naughty Town features some delightful items for still others on your gift list.

Speaking of dolls, we are greeted at the gates of Naughty Town by Mayor John and his wife Judy. Judy still hasn't received the memo saying turquoise eyeshadow was outlawed, but she's the first lady of Naughty Town, so we slide her some slack. As both she and John are inflatables, a foot pump may be a nice addition to the gift. Judy is an old stereotype. John intrigues me more. While both are guaranteed to "not snore in bed", I "get" Judy's function and purpose, but I'm not so sure I "get it" about John. I shall have to think about that. His look does not appeal to me, for I like dark eyes, not blue. I'm not sure John and I would be a match. But then, I am not Judy.

Should anyone have a gentleman on his or her list with an approaching birthday, this lovely lady might be a hit. The birthday boy wouldn't even need any actual humans to celebrate with. This sweetie will sing "Happy Birthday" and pretend to throw the pretend birthday cake in his face. No mess on the carpet from a virtual cake throwing. Birthday Girl is a veritable party in a box. Is it just me, or does anyone else think Birthday Girl might benefit from a large competent brassiere?

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows I love the desert and most everything in it. The package caught my attention immediately. After all, I have been dubbed The Queen of the Reptiles. I wanted to open the box and look at the little fella ~ truly one of my favorite animals in the world. Maybe I'd even hold him in my hand and stroke the little lizardly spikes on the back of his head as I do when I nab one in the Mojave in the spring. Oh. They look so different in the Preserve. Not green. Hmmm . . moving along.

I will forever regret that it was not I who spotted the piece de resistance. I heard him say, "What the hell? Come here, look at this!" We chortled like snarks, and then it hit us at the same time. We weren't actually looking at the kit. The display box was empty. Here at the Bonanza, the World's Largest Gift Shop, the place whose motto is "If It's In Stock, We Have It", this very wrong item was SOLD OUT! It must be their best seller. OK, stick a fork in me, I'm done. "Ready to get out of here?" "Boy, howdy!"


It has been my true pleasure to serve as tour guide and personal shopper on my (approximately) biannual trip to Destination Wrong. As usual, I drank deep from the well and I won't feel the need to return soon. In my hand you see the familiar yellow bag with my $5.36 worth of purchases. That's about what I spend every time. I bought three postcards with the vintage images I so enjoy. I bought one box of Peppermint Cat Butt Gum with which to make the home dudes howl. The Peppermint Cat Butt Gum will require a post of its own.

In my ears right now: Can't get enough R.E.M. My little birds love "Shiny, Happy People"! No, I don't think parakeets have musical taste, but some upbeat tunes make them chirp happily while ballads cause them to make quieter, throaty little noises.

Something that charmed me: "Les, how does that gum taste?" "I wouldn't know, homes. I don't chew gum."

Photo credits:

Bonanza Gift Shop exterior, LimesNow and the Gift Shop denizen - J. D. Morehouse

Gift Shop wares for sale - LimesNow with her point-and-shoot