Lots of things annoy me.  I’d never given much thought to my pet peeves before, but lately, it appears that they’re multiplying!  I’ve always been a neatnik, putting everything in its place and making sure that my house is arranged “just so,” so those peeves are long-standing.  They’ve been around for so long that they aren’t really a problem . . . for me, anyway.  My husband, on the other hand, claims otherwise.

“I’m coming right back!” he explains as he sets an empty glass on the kitchen counter, “Don’t wash it and put it away!  I’m going to refill it!”

Or

“I left that book on the chair because I’m READING IT!   Why did you put it back on the bookshelf in the den?”

Yes, admittedly my penchant for neatness can be an issue for those around me.  However, messy, cluttered spaces are not the biggest of my pet peeves.  No, sirree.  What bothers me greatly are errors in punctuation, more specifically errors in apostrophes, and the chronic use of cliches.

Since when, I ask, have apostrophes been used to indicate plural nouns?  Have schools stopped teaching punctuation and usage?  It would appear so.   Eats, Shoot and Leaves, by Lynne Truss (2003), illustrates quite clearly how the rules of punctuation in modern society have been relaxed, so much so, that meaning is obscured.  In 2019, Benjamin Dreyer wrote Dreyer’s English, An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, explaining punctuation with great wit and humor.  Perhaps if these types of books were used in classrooms as required textbooks, the written word would be clear, succinct and unmistakably intelligible.  Until then, however, we will continue to be bombarded with errors such as:

The cracker’s in the pantry are stale.

Then phone’s started ringing off the hook’s!

They store their golf club’s in the garage.

Ugh!  Can you just hear fingernails scratching down a chalkboard?  

Parents, make sure your kid’s don’t forget to bring their baseball mitt’s to practice.

This is particularly annoying since the adult writing this reminder should know better!  Have schools been failing us for longer than suspected?  Oh!  STOP the bleeding!  

With blatant errors like these going unchecked, uncorrected and unnoticed, I worry about the future of the English language.  I absolutely refuse to use the shortened versions of words in text messages, too.  With spelling and punctuation errors already at crisis level, I cannot contribute to the accepted usage of shorthand English.  One will never read “C U later,” or “btw” or “omg” in my texts.  Correct spelling and usage prevails on my smartphone!

While incorrect grammar and usage are two of my greatest pet peeves, the one that sits at the forefront even more is the use of cliches.  Have people become so reliant on catchphrases and buzzwords that they can’t come up with their own colorful descriptions?  Are they simply THAT lazy?  While these boilerplate sayings are heard every day and everywhere, it is the evening News talking heads that I believe are the biggest offenders. Not even five minutes into the programs, I feel like turning off the television.

“It’s been baked in the cake!” we hear over and over and over.

“The report was finally released and it turned out to be a NOTHING BURGER!” (Is there such a thing as a ‘Nothing Burger?’  It might have been cute the first couple times you said it!  Now it’s just annoying!  STOP IT!) 

“At the end of the day, he’s going to  . . . . ”  (Excuse me!  We’re AT the end of the day!  Tell us what he’s going to do!)

“Don’t kid yourself . . . this is just the calm before the storm!”  (Stop spinning this.  We’re NOT kidding ourselves.  We just can’t trust what we hear from you guys!)

“Buckle up . . . we’ve got a lot to report tonight on the Fake News Media Mob!”  (Buckle up?  Fake News Media Mob?  Aren’t YOU part of it, too?)  

“Let not your heart be troubled . . . .” (Sorry, Bub . . . too late!  I’m troubled.  VERY troubled!) 

Before I work myself up into a frenzy in addressing these issues, all I ask is that you please don’t pet my peeves!

 

 

 

 

A recent trip to New Zealand surpassed all expectations of beauty and fascination.  It was indeed a once-in-a lifetime experience.  As usual, however, one must expect the unexpected, especially when I am involved!  What follows is a brief record of my time in “the land of the long white clouds” in six installments:

1. A Day Early and a Visa Short

This bucket list trip to New Zealand had been meticulously planned for over six months.  Every little detail, from airlines to accommodations to quality attractions, had been reserved and confirmed so long ago that it felt like January 28 would never arrive.  Final itineraries, green fees and gratuities, airplane meals and seat selections, transportation to and from airports, resorts, golf courses and attractions . . . everything was solidly in place.  Arrangements on the home front were also confirmed.  Rusty’s life would continue marvelously at home with no disruption to the luxurious dog’s life to which he’s become accustomed.  He would be fine . . . probably much happier with his top-of-the-line caregiver than he is with me.  [Hmmmm . . .  I might have to upgrade my petting techniques, frequency of walks and doggie biscuits and general overall treatment of the family pet.  Maybe . . . but that’s for later].  

Air New Zealand Flight NZ05 wasn’t scheduled for departure until 8:00 p.m. PST.  [Part of the Master Plan!  We could board the plane, enjoy a late supper then sleep for most of the 14-hour flight.  Reminder to Self:  Compliment Carl on his strategic and thorough travel planning].  

Since we had the entire day to spend prior to our flight, I readied to head out to one last bar method class before putting the last few items in our one shared suitcase.  I’d finally come to terms with the fact that Carl and I were packing light and taking only one suitcase for a two-week trip.  That’s right . . . ONE SUITCASE for a TWO-WEEK TRIP!  But I was fine with it . . . finally.  Well, not completely fine, but accepting of the proposal and at least willing to give it a try.   Solidly supportive?  No.  Cynically skeptical.  Absolutely.  I had painstakingly culled clothes from my closet, making sure they were all constructed from wrinkle free fabrics, folded them neatly and placed them into a 16” x 20” nylon packing envelope I’d received as a Christmas gift.  Satisfied with my little parcel, I placed it in the one suitcase we were taking for our l-o-n-g two week trip.  

“There!” I thought, “That’ll do it!  Carl’s going to be so impressed!” 

But impressed he was not! 

“Hmph!” he began, “I see you’ve taken up most of the suitcase!  I haven’t even started packing yet and there’s hardly any room left!” 

Uuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm . . . . don’t say a word!  Don’t do it!  Don’t open your mouth!  Just walk away, Peggy! 

But sometimes I just can’t help myself.

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I shrieked, “Look at that!! One TINY packing envelope . . . ONE . . . for TWO WEEKS!  THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM IN THAT SUITCASE!!!  I can’t help it if boy clothes are bulkier than girl clothes!  I can’t scale down any further!” 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Carl backed off, “I didn’t mean that!  I just meant that I’m going to have to really think about what to take.  You did fine, Honey!  Just take a deep breath, count to ten . . . everything’s going to be fine!”

“I’ll count to ten.  I’m going to Bar.  I’ll see you in an hour,” I said as I clomped out of the bedroom. 

“Oh, hang on a sec,” said Carl.  “Do you have those visas I told you we needed?  I thought I printed them out but now I can’t find them.” 

“Oh, Brother!” I said, panicking and rolling my eyes at the same time, “You never gave them to me.  I asked you MONTHS ago if we had them and you said yes.”

“I know I paid for them and I thought I had them, but  . . . I can’t find them!” he said.

“Well, you didn’t give ‘em to me!!  Now what do we do?  Why don’t you call the guy at the travel bureau you used and ask him for help?”

“I sent him an email.  If I have to, I’ll drive to the New Zealand Consulate in Santa Monica and get some.”

Adrenaline coursed through my body at such a level that the thirty pushups required in bar class seemed like five.  I aced the bicep curls, tricep stretches, thigh and calf stretches, and even took the challenge options on all the ab exercises.  PTSD from missing our flight to Ireland loomed in the back of my mind, thinking that there was now a very real chance that we’d also miss our flight to New Zealand because of a missing visa and possible red tape at the consulate in Santa Monica!  I couldn’t beLIEVE this was happening. 

“Oh well,” I thought mid-exercise, “I guess it won’t take that long to UNpack!”

Upon returning home, I learned that the crisis was over.

“I went on line,” Carl explained, “and discovered that I’d been scammed!  The website I used to apply for those visas was a phony, so I got onto the right one and filled out the applications.  We should be getting an email confirmation within the next couple of hours that they’ve been issued.”

[Let’s hope so!]

Again due to PTSD from the Ireland trip freeway fiasco and missing our flight, I insisted that we leave for the airport at 3:00 p.m. for our 8:00 p.m. flight.  I didn’t want to take ANY chances that there’d be another lunatic jumper on a freeway overpass or any other traffic nightmare blocking our route.  I’d rather be there and wait instead of sweating it out in Los Angeles gridlock.  As luck would have it, we found ourselves sitting in the Star Alliance lounge, fully checked in, boarding passes in hand and cleared through TSA a short fifty minutes after leaving our house.  We had four hours to kill!  

At least I was comfortable . . . For awhile, that is.  I’d purchased a posture perfecting T-shirt from the trunk show following last week’s President’s Cup and thought it would be a good idea to wear it on the long flight.  It would keep me aligned.  A strong built-in front panel pushed my shoulders back, while a stronger built-in back panel kept them from slouching forward.  My posture was PERFECT!  I felt stronger, taller and very, very fit!  I even had more energy!  I think I may have noticed a few women jealously noticing how good I looked, sitting there in the lounge all “posture perky” and all. 

[Eat your hearts out, Girls!]

For awhile, Carl and I each took care of business on our electronic devices; he making sure the visas came through and answering emails from lawyers on pending cases; me texting friends and catching up on Team results, etc.

“We’ve got 2 1/2 more hours before we can board the plane,” Carl said.  “I’m going to go have a smoke.” 

“Really?  REALLY???  I don’t think so!  This is a non-smoking airport!  Your smoking is like having another person along on our trips!  We ALWAYS have to accommodate it!” I replied.

“Trust me,” he said, “I’ll find a place!  It’ll be 14 hours before I can have another one once we get on that plane!  I’m going to have a smoke!”  And with that, he disappeared in search of a smoking zone.

As I waited for him to return, I slouched down on my couch, only to be pulled by my T-shirt back up into a perfect posture position. 

[Uh oh!!!  This could have been a mistake!!!  I feel like my seat is in the full upright position and I’m not even on the airplane yet!  This can’t be good!  Not good at all!]

Each time I relaxed or reclined just a bit, that T-shirt snapped me back into full attention! 

[Yep . . . Bad idea.  I wonder how I’m going to sleep on the plane!  Maybe I should ask the flight attendants to prop me up in the coat closet!  What a waste of those business class sleeping pods!!  I’m going to be board stiff!]

With the clock winding down to just minutes before boarding time, I sent one last group text:

“Hey . . . I know this is a day early, but tomorrow is National Curmudgeon

Day!  Make sure you do something nice for your curmudgeons!” 

I may have been a day early with the message and a visa short for the trip, but . . . Boy oh boy, my posture is perfect . . . And will be for at least the next fourteen hours!

2.  We’re Not In Fallbrook

Fourteen hours later, Air New Zealand’s Boeing 777-300 gently touched down on the tarmac in  Aukland just as the sun was rising.  The long leg of the journey was behind us, but we still had to claim our luggage, navigate through customs, check-in for our puddle jumper to Kerikeri, then sit and wait two hours for take-off.  Once there, Stephan from Black Robin Transport was scheduled to greet us at baggage claim, then drive us the one hour distance to our final destination, Kauri Cliffs.  Everything was pre-planned, prepaid and perfected.  

“I’m going to go have a smoke,” said Carl, not ready to tackle the long line at customs.

“Oh, o.k., . . . Finnegan!” I said, “I’m naming your smoking habit, Finnegan.” 

“Finnegan?” he asked, “why Finnegan?” 

“Because Teri [a friend of mine] had a Scotty dog named Finnegan, and when he died, she got another one, just like him and named him Finnegan Again.  When Finnegan Again died, she got another one and named him Finnegan Again Again.  I think it’s perfect . . . You go find places to smoke again and again and again and again!  So, FINNEGAN it is!”

He smirked, uttered a near silent inaudible then headed out to deal with Finnegan.  I perused the duty free shops waiting for their return.

Upon clearing customs, Stephan met us at the marked “way out” (not “exit”), hoisted our golf clubs along with our one shared suitcase into the back of his van and ushered us into the roomy backseat.  As we pulled out of the loading zone and through the airport complex, Carl asked Stephan to stop at an ATM somewhere along the way so we’d have some New Zealand money.

It was nice to be on the ground enjoying our new surroundings.  We passed several small and quaint sheep and cattle farms before entering a village in search of the ATM.  The scenery was beautiful, serene, charming, rustic.  Certainly nothing like we have at home. 

“You know,” Carl said to me, “everything is always the same.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat taken aback by the irony of what I was experiencing.

“Well, every time we go somewhere, I mean, EVERYTHING’s always the same . . . Airports are the same, there’s people everywhere.  There are crowds and lines, workers, taxi drivers, buses.  Cities are cities, no matter where you are.  Countryside is countryside, wherever you are.  Just look out the window!  This looks just like Fallbrook, don’tcha think?” 

[My head exploded into a million pieces!]

😳😳😳🤯🤯🤯

“FALLBROOK?” I shrieked, “FaaaaallllllBROOK???  FALLLLLLLLBRROOOOK??  Are you kidding me?  We just traveled through eighteen time zones, we squished all of our clothes into ONE SUITCASE, I spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours bound in a straight jacket, not able to sleep for more than ten minute intervals because my posture was so straight that my pinky fingers went numb and all we had to do was jump in our car and take a two-hour road trip down the 15 Fwy. to wander through FALLBROOK?  FALLBROOK???  REALLY?  You are unBELIEVABLE, Carl West!!”

By the time I’d finished my rant, we’d arrived in a small town.   A sign on a sporting goods store caught my eye:  Fishing, Camping and Tramping.   

[Now THERE’S something you don’t see in Fallbrook!]

For a split second, I smiled at a possible meaning of “tramping.”  Of course, according to my take on the word, one could be found “tramping” down Hollywood Boulevard, clad in a gaudy, flamboyant lime green sequined miniskirt, a feather boa draped around the shoulders, patent leather platform shoes, perhaps a wig, fake eyelashes, rhinestone encrusted chandelier earrings, a cigarette holder and a thick band of bright lipstick drawn across the lips.  I couldn’t resist:

“Stephan . . . What’s ‘tramping?’” I asked.

“It is an activity associated with the outdoors,” he said, “taking a tent and supplies for a few days and living in the wilderness.”

“So . . . Camping.” I confirmed what I already knew.

While Carl negotiated the currency exchange, I got to know Stephan a little better.  A giant of a man, standing well over 6’ tall, well-built and brawny, I wondered how comfortable he was being a driver, sitting in a van day in and day out.  He had dark brown hair, brown eyes and strong, chiseled features. He spoke with a thick accent, much like Arnold Schwarzenegger.  In fact, he looked very similar to The Terminator.  During our conversation, I learned that he’d come to New Zealand twenty years ago from Frankfurt for a gap year and never returned!  I wondered how many young people spent THEIR gap years in Fallbrook, never to return home! I’m guessing a big zero!

Upon our arrival at Kauri Cliffs, The Terminator offloaded our luggage and, as if on cue on a movie set said, “I’ll be back . . . on Sunday to collect you for T’ara Iti.” 

We turned to enter the resort but were immediately greeted by two men welcoming us to Kauri Cliffs.  We were definitely not in Fallbrook!  The beauty of the resort is beyond description.  The best I can do is to compare it to the popular ABC television series of the 1970’s and ‘80’s, Fantasy Island.  Adrian (Mr. Rourke) and his assistant (Tattoo) received us at the entrance and gave us a small tour of the main resort area.  We were invited to sit in the living room while he retrieved refreshments for us, after which they gave a brief presentation of all that was available at the facilities.  Only twenty-eight guest cottages currently at 80% occupancy make this an extremely private, intimate experience.  In fact, it is SO much like Fantasy Island, I was waiting for Adrian to ask us, “So what’s YOUR fantasy?”

“Canapés and cocktails are offered for our guests right in this room every afternoon from 5:00-7:00 p.m.  Dinner is available, no reservations required.  You are scheduled for golf . . . . . “

Following our official welcome, a shuttle transported us to our cottage . . . #22.  Corey, the shuttle driver, is from Nova Scotia, working here for the season.  Adrian (aka Mr. Rourke) hails from France, and “Tattoo” is from Perth, Australia.  The more staff members we met, it became clear that many, many people fell in love with New Zealand and have yet to return home and I can understand why!  Our cottage is nestled amidst a tropical rain forest, birds and cicadas chirruping.  No city sounds heard at all!  The ocean views across the golf course best those of Pebble Beach, Hawaii, Ireland and yes, even Fallbrook!  

All guests attended a beach bbq last evening down on the property’s Pink Beach.  The sand is not sand at all.  It is composed of millions and millions of crushed sea shells, giving the beach a pink hue.  During the evening, we mingled with the other guests and lo! and behold!  The world became smaller!!  There is a woman here from Sherwood Country Club who was my opponent in Team last season!  (We’re playing with them today!) We met another couple, Manfred and Petra, from Germany who are “on holiday” for thirty-five days!  As the evening drew to a close, all of us admiring the beautiful beach, the sunset and one last nightcap, it became eminently clear that we are not in Fallbrook

3.  Bonnie and Clyde

Our last day on Fantasy Island’s Kauri Cliffs drew to a close with one last dinner with Manfred and Petra, Paul and Amy.  Just prior to meeting them for cocktails at 6:00 p.m., Carl wanted to hop in a golf cart and drive around the back nine one more time.  Of course the scenery was breathtaking and I’d already snapped over fifty photos during our rounds played, so I didn’t quite understand the need for another jaunt around the course.   It sounded like fun, however, so I took my seat and readied for the ride.  We veered way left off the cart path on Hole #10, coming to a halt where the fairway ends and the gorse begins.  The same thing happened on Hole #11, only we went right this time and stopped near the deep fescue.  We stopped again on #12 right beside a huge tree and a fence.  On Hole #13, we got out of the cart and took a selfie with the ocean and islands in the background.  When the cart stopped again on Hole #14, I finally asked what we were doing.

“I wanted to come out here one last time,” said Carl, “to say good-bye to all the balls I lost!  I don’t want them to think I don’t care!”  

Richard, not The Terminator, arrived early the next morning to transport us by motorcar to our next destination, T’Ara Iti.  I was quite pleased to meet my very first Kiwi.  Everyone else I’d met had come from somewhere else and I was beginning to think there were no native New Zealanders other than the indigenous Maoris.  Richard Parsonson was born in Kerikeri just south of Kauri Cliffs and had made his living as a men’s clothier until retiring at the age of 58, a short fifteen years ago.  Now he plays golf most of the time but drives people like us from resort to resort to resort for a little extra money.  Richard, like Stephan, was extremely friendly and offered bits of local lore as we motored from town to town.  While Stephan resembled Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Richard was a dead ringer for Telly Savalas.  The only two clues that prove he’s not Kojak are (1) he had no lollipop in his mouth and (2) he spoke the Queen’s English mixed with a bit of an Australian accent.   

Of particular interest was a small, seaside village that was preparing for National Maori Day this coming Thursday.  Preparations were in full swing with entire tribes of Maoris staking out their areas, erecting tents, campsites and dancing areas.  Maori motorcycle biker clubs roared into town, announcing their arrival with a flourish.  Young Maori children jumped and played and local police cruisers patrolled the area, keeping it safe for all to enjoy.  Definitely not a sight you’d expect to see in Fallbrook!

As we continued toward T’Ara Iti, Kojak ran through his duties with us for the next couple of days.  It became clear in very short order that we’d left behind our leather-bound travel binder, containing hotel vouchers and our domestic plane tickets!  When Carl called Kauri Cliffs to make arrangements for them to messenger that binder to us by express post, he learned that he’d also left his brand new blazer on the chair back at breakfast!  

“You left the binder AND your jacket behind?” I asked a little surprised at his forgetfulness.

“I did.  You know, you should have noticed the binder on the dresser and you should also have noticed the blazer on the chair!  I count on you to be a little more responsible, you know!” he said, deflecting the blame onto me. 

“So now all of this is MY fault?” I asked, not one bit pleased with the accusation. 

“ExACTLY!” Carl and Kojak agreed simultaneously.  “Our wives are our better halves . . . we NEED you!”

T’ara Iti (named for a sea bird) sits on 6,000 acres of land with eleven miles running along the ocean.  Its facilities are stunning and the links course along the water would probably even intimidate Tiger Woods!  The best way to describe the overall feel of this place is to take the Pacific Dunes course from Bandon Dunes OUT of Oregon, plop it down at Kaanapali in Maui then get rid of all tourists and golfers except for about fifteen!  That’s T’ara Iti.  Each cottage, no more than 20, is complete with two golf carts for the guests’ convenience.  As we finished parking our cart at the club house for dinner, a young female employee emerged from the Concierge building.  I suppose under other circumstances I would describe her as attractive and sweet, however, I took an immediate dislike to her. 

 “Excuse me,” she began, “Is THAT a pipe?”

 “Yes,” said Carl, “I’m sorry!  Is that o.k.?  Am I not allowed to smoke here?”

 “No, Not at all!  Of COURSE you can smoke here . . . I LOVE a man with a pipe!!!  It makes you perfectly gangster!” she encouraged in her oh, so British/Australian accent.

[Gangster?  GANGSTER?  What the heck???  Is that a compliment?  Is she actually flirting with MY husband?  What a little tartlet!  If Carl’s a gangster, what does that make me?  Who are we now, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?  Am I the Bonnie to his Clyde?  The Carmela to his Tony Soprano?  Who knew that Carl and Finnegan were now gangsters and that I’m some lousy floozy side-kick!]

Super Bowl LIV is alive and well, even down here in New Zealand!  The Head Pro solicited bets this morning as the golfers warmed up on the driving range.  

“Choose your team, then go out and play.  We will take your net score minus the score of your chosen team.  Lowest number wins!  Good luck, mates!”  

Heck yes!!  Bonnie and Clyde are IN on that bet!  GOOOOOO ‘49ers!!

4.  The Pied Piper of Huka Lodge

Kojak drove up to the concierge building at T’ara Iti at exactly the prescribed time to transport us to our next stop, Huka Lodge.  It wasn’t his fault that we’d been waiting his arrival for nearly an hour and a half.  Not wanting to be rushed, we moved our tee time up, knowing that we’d have to wait a bit.  That was fine with us.  We’d just hang out in the concierge hut and relax.  What we didn’t count on was the possibility that Christina, the gangster groupie, would be on duty! 

“Good Afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. West! It’s such a lovely pleasure to see you again!” she cheerily greeted directly at Carl as if I weren’t even there.  “It is Richard that will be fetching you today, is that right, Carl?  I hope you enjoyed your stay here with us!” 

[“Oh, brother!!!” I thought, “Go get your own gangster!  In fact, I’ve got one for you . . . go look for Jimmy Hoffa!!  That’ll keep you busy for awhile!]

Because I was included in no part of the conversation, I opened my crossword puzzle book, turned the page and immediately almost burst out laughing.  The clue to 1 Across read: Union boss Jimmy _______.

“Hey, Christina!” I said, inserting myself into her full-court flirtation, “Do you like crossword puzzles?  Here’s the first clue for 1 Across:  Union boss Jimmy blank.  Any idea who that could be?”

“Uh, no . . . sorry . . . I’m not very good at puzzles,” she responded, a little put out that I’d spoken to her.

[“Thought so, you little groupie!”  I thoroughly enjoyed the irony!]

Richard provided a continuous travelogue pointing out different interesting sights during our 2-hour trek to the Aukland airport.  We were booked on the 4:50 p.m. flight to Taupo where we will stay for the next two nights.  Again, all was proceeding quite nicely . . . no traffic problems on the route there and no problems checking in and getting our boarding passes.  All we had left to do was check our one shared suitcase then our golf clubs at the oversized luggage counter and wait to board the plane.  It appears, however, that Finnegan pulled a fast one!  The clerk behind the counter scanned our bags, loaded them onto the conveyer belt and pointed us toward the boarding area.  Almost there, a uniformed security officer beckoned for a Mr. West to report to the oversized baggage area.  There was a problem.  His golf clubs did not pass the x-ray test! 

“There’s a problem with your bag, Sir,” he began in a very officious police voice, “ would you please remove the contents.”  

Carl rifled through the golf bag, opening each zippered pocket, exposing the contents then repacking until the cop identified the problem . . . a butane lighter. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said “this cannot be in your bag.  Just put it in your pocket, that’ll be o.k.” 

“Finnegan AGAIN?” I asked,  “SEEEEE? It’s a problem.  There’s ALWAYS something going on with him!”  

The rest of the journey to Huka Lodge was uneventful.  Upon our arrival here, a lodge representative escorted us to our cottage spelled out the dining protocol for the evening.  Each group dines in their own private dining area with their own private waiter.  I didn’t know what to expect, but I did know that we were in a very special, special place! 

We settled into the suite then took a walk down to the river’s edge, enjoying some mixed nuts from the minibar.  The current flowed quite swiftly drawing our attention to two little ducks trying to paddle from one side to the bank of our side.  They finally pulled themselves up onto the bank, fluffing their feathers, quacking and cheeping.  I tossed a cashew at one of them.  Then another . . . and another and another.  Suddenly I had two new friends.  All the nuts tossed and eaten, I returned back into the suite to shower before dinner thinking the ducks would go along on their way.  But they didn’t!  They were waiting for me INSIDE THE SUITE . . . on the carpet!  

“No, no, NO, you guys!  You can’t come in here!!!  Get out . . . shoo!” 

(Carl and Finnegan were out for a walk).  

Our dinner assignment was to an upstairs room looking out onto the magnificently beautiful river.  The room itself housed mounted African animal heads perched on the walls . . . in an homage to the the sister lodge in South Africa.  An enormous water buffalo watched over the room from above the fireplace.  Our table was set just inside the bay window adjacent to a small terrace.  Framed photographs of the Queen of England and Prince Philip sit on one of the coffee tables along with African masks and other such pieces of art.  The Queen stays at Huka Lodge when she’s in New Zealand and has signed the official guest book several times.  

“You know,” said Carl, “some people would probably think that this setting is really romantic!” 

“They would, would they?” I said, “they might say that because IT IS!” 

Our waiter, Elian, offered us our choice of water, “Monsieur et Madame, would you like some water?  I have sparkling and I have flat.”  

Of course I chose sparkling and, of course, Carl chose flat.  Sometimes even water describes people!!  We knew we were in for a five-course “tasting” dinner, but it was far beyond our expectations.  Prior to the first course, Mercury Bay Kingfish, Elian presented us with an amuse bouche.

“Here we have a petite rice waffle with avocado, anchovy paste, creme freche, juniper seeds and lavendar petals,” he said in a beautiful French accent as he gently placed our dishes in front of us. 

“What the hell is this?” said Carl as soon as Elian disappeared.

“An amuse bouche,” I said. 

“A WHAT???” he said a little more loudly.  “What the hell is a mooz boosh?”  

I laughed a little, “An ‘amuse bouche,’” I repeated, “it’s French for a little something to please your mouth before you begin the dinner.” 

“O.K., then I’m in WAY over my head!  Whoever heard of amuse bouche?” he said as he picked up the little rice waffle.

Course after fancy course came and went before we learned a little something else that will stay with us forever.

“May I present you with your pre-dessert?” said Elian, placing what looked like a miniature sidewalk sundae encased in a small glass cake plate on top of frozen black rocks in front of each of us.

We marveled at the concept . . . a PRE-dessert!  How genius!!  Why hadn’t we thought of it?

“Gosh!” I said, “so now, when you grab a handful of cookies before you go back and scoop yourself some ice cream, we can say you’re just having your ‘pre-dessert’!  What a GREAT idea!” 

We drank the last drop of wine, finishing the dinner and the day.  

I brought my two slices of dry sourdough toast back to the room with me from breakfast this morning for my two new duck friends.  They were nowhere to be seen, so I started tearing one piece up and scattering it near our patio deck.  From literally out of nowhere, Mama Duck and four young ducklings flew in from across the river.  I couldn’t tear the bread fast enough!  They pecked my shoes, cheeping and quacking in anticipation!  At least this time I knew enough to close the sliding doors.  They followed me all the way from the water’s edge back to the room!  

Our itinerary showed a 10:00 a.m. tee time at Wairakei Golf Club.  This particular course is among the top 50 courses in the world, making it yet another exciting thing on our trip.  What we learned, however, was terrible.  A former groundskeeper who’d been fired for who-knows-why, snuck into the maintenance area, poured corrosive chemicals into the fertilizing sprayers so when the gardeners sprayed the greens, all the grass would die!!  The greens on the entire golf course were ruined!  Temporary greens have been mowed for use in the interim, but . . . what a tragedy! 

Before returning to Huka Lodge following golf, our driver dropped us off at Huka Falls, a natural water fall down river from our accommodations.  We snapped several photos, then walked the half mile back to the lodge.  

I am now sitting on a chaise lounge just off the riverbank, writing this recap . . . along with Mama Duck and her four ducklings.  I have no bread to offer them, but they refuse to believe me.  One of them has been stealing the little felt cloth that I keep inside my tablet to clean the screen, begging me for something to eat.  A couple others are beneath my seat, pecking at my butt and Mama Duck has hopped up onto the bottom edge of the lounge and is sitting between my feet!  I suppose I am the Pied Piper of Huka Lodge!  I have to stop writing now and get them some mixed nuts from the minibar!  It’s so nice to be needed

5.  Shades of Meaning

English is undeniably the world’s universal language.  Because it is the official language of more than seventy countries, English helps to increase effective communication, trade, business and travel.  Tourists are better able to navigate through foreign countries without the need to learn a particular foreign language or to rely on phone apps for translation.  Hence, someone from New York should be able to visit England, let’s say, with no language barrier and vice versa.  People from Hong Kong should have absolutely no trouble communicating in the United Kingdom.  Further, those in Canada would ease right into the swing of things in the United States.  Of course it’s true that some idioms and terms may vary, but the overall meanings are not changed.  It follows then, that Carl and I would find no difficulty in New Zealand.  Problems occur only when mispronunciation and shades of meaning confound language.  

I began to notice a few glitches in effective communication through a common language early on in the trip.  Young people, either still in college and taking a semester off to travel, those already graduated off experiencing the world before they settle into adulthood or those neither ready nor willing to accept the responsibility of being completely self-supporting and independent, staff most of the resorts we’ve visited.  When asked how long they’ve been in New Zealand, the common response is, “I’ve been here for three months now.”  They’re on work visas that expire six months from the date of issuance.  They are happy to move on from these seasonal jobs, then pick up and find temporary employment in some other country for another six months.  

“They have wonderlust,” Carl said one evening over our dinner discussion in the ultra-romantic setting in our private dining area with our own private waiter.  “They are young, not tied down to any responsibility and they just want to travel.  We never even thought of that!  We finished college then either went straight to graduate school or started working.  These kids don’t do that . . . they’ve got wonderlust.” 

“I think you mean “WANDERlust,” I said, of course feeling the need to correct him. 

“What the hell’s the difference?” he said, “they want to see the world.  ‘Wonderlust’ or ‘wanderlust’ . . . it’s all the same. 

“Actually it’s not,” I pressed.  “‘Wanderlust’ is a compound word . . . a word made up of two words to form one new word . . . ‘wander’ and ‘lust,’ . . . means that there is a strong desire (lust) to wander or travel.  Yep.  Compound word.”  And I took a satisfied sip of my wine, completely destroying any hope of reviving the romantic ambiance of the setting.

[I’m sure he just wanted to flick me away like a piece of lint from his sport coat!]

“WONDERlust just doesn’t make any sense at all,” I continued, “that would mean a strong desire to wonder. . . . like ‘Oh my gosh!  I REALLY have this huge urge to think about something . . . I’m lusting for wonder!  Do you get it? ‘Wonderlust’ isn’t a word at all!” 

Luckily, Elian arrived at just the right time with our amuse bouche which halted any further discussion on word derivation.  Instead, I took the opportunity to segue into words adopted into English from other languages . . . just like amuse bouche and crudités.  It was also at this dinner that we learned of “pre-desserts,” but there was no confusion on that meaning at all . . . we were fully aware that eating a pre-dessert is just code for eating the first of two desserts, and we welcomed that concept wholeheartedly.  

The second instance of word confusion occurred the following day.  We had been served such rich and lavish gourmet meals since our arrival, so I felt compelled to dial back on the food and calorie intake, at least for breakfast and lunch.  After holing out on eighteen at Wairiki Golf Course, we ordered a cold drink from the snack counter . . . Carl decided on a Scotch and water and I chose an iced coffee.   I gasped when the waitress served my drink!  Instead of a tall glass of cold black coffee poured over ice cubes, I was presented with a large soda fountain glass full of thick vanilla ice cream topped with a few coffee beans and a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.  A straw stuck straight up from the thickness.  If I’d wanted a Venti Caramel Macchiato, I’d have ordered one!

“Excuse me,” I said to the waitress full of wonderlust, “I didn’t order a milkshake.  I asked for iced coffee.” 

“I know,” she confirmed, “that’s what that is . . . iced coffee!” and she turned on her heels and padded away.   

There, directly in front of me, sat my entire calorie allotment for the day!   Apparently “iced coffee” in New Zealand means “MILKSHAKE!”  This was confirmed this afternoon when talking to a young staffer from Massachusetts manning the snack shop at Cape Kidnappers. 

“You won’t beLIEVE this,” I said to her as I explained my iced coffee story.

“Oh, ya,” she said, “when I first got here, I ordered a smoothie down in town.  You know, a smoothie has berries, fruit juice and yogurt in it, right?  Maybe some protein powder, too!  Well . . . I got berries blended in vanilla ice cream, so basically I got a milkshake, too!” 

Just then, one of her co-workers (a Kiwi) passed by. 

“Hey, Trevor,” she called, “what’s in an iced coffee?” 

“Vanilla ice cream, coffee beans and whipped cream,” he answered. 

“O.K., so then, what’s in a smoothie?” she continued.

“Vanilla ice cream and berries of some sort, I suppose, and whipped cream.

“O.K., then what’s in a milkshake?” she asked again.

“Ice cream and milk . .  oh! and whipped cream!” he answered, like we should already know all of these things.

“Then . . . what’s the difference between an iced coffee, a smoothie and a milkshake?” we asked in unison, wondering why he didn’t see why we were confused. 

“I guess nothin’, actually,” he said as he wandered off to more important things.  

Another instance of language nuance occurred with our caddy.  Grant offered to take our picture out on the sixteenth tee which overlooks steep cliffs and Hawkes Bay in the background.  He told us of an instance where a golfer for whom he caddied remarked at the beautiful vista as he pointed out to the ocean. 

“The vista?” Grant queried as he stared out into the ocean.

“Ya!  The vista!!  Just LOOK at it!  It’s spectacular!” 

Not understanding what he was supposed to be looking at, Grant asked, “I’m sorry, Sir, could you please point to it. I don’t see it!” 

The golfer then explained that vista and view were the same thing! 

A fabulous tour of the 6,600 acre Cape Kidnappers property in a Can-Am ATV got me thinking about language, nuance and the inherent problems of a universal language.  There are over 4,000 sheep, 2,000 head of Angus beef, scads of rabbits and countless species of birds living on the grounds.  We heard the distinctive voices of the Tuis (birds that sound like R2D2 from Star Wars) and the sea gulls and gannets.  We heard the moo-ing and baa-ing of the cattle and sheep.  I wonder if they, too, experience mispronunciations and shades of meaning or if they have a true universal language

6. It’s Always Something

As has been heard over and over again, “All good things must come to an end,” and so it is for this magnificent dream trip to New Zealand.  

Upon checking in on-line twenty-four hours ahead of our scheduled flight time, Carl received a notice from the airline advising arrival for the long flight to LAX an extra hour ahead of the already recommended two hours due to heightened airport screening.  We assumed it was probably because of the coronavirus outbreak.   One of the cruise ships coming into port at Napier (the village closest to Cape Kidnappers) was possibly under quarantine, we’d heard, so it held that the airports were being extra cautious.  

The domestic flight from Napier to Aukland finished without a hitch.  We arrived in plenty of time, checked the luggage with no interference from Finnegan (largely because there is no security check for domestic flights), collected our golf clubs and one shared suitcase at the other end and found ourselves snaking through security for the international flight.  We were so close to smooth sailing for the long last leg of our journey.  

“Step over here, Ma’am,” the agent barked at me in his officious Aussie/Kiwi accent.  “What’ve you got in your pockets, eh?” 

“A FitBit,” I responded. 

“Give it to me,” he instructed, “then pop into the cylinder right here and raise your arms up in direction with the guide on the wall.” 

Alarms beeped again.

“All right, Ma’am,” he said as he handed me over to a female agent, “I’m showing four suspicious points on your body.  You’re going to have a full body pat down.  You can either remain here or we can escort you behind the privacy screens.  Please select your option.” 

I felt like I was in a SNL skit illustrating how ludicrous TSA screenings are!  I had NO contraband, nothing left in my pockets except lip gloss and no reason for the full body personal pat down.  I could just hear Roseanne Rosannadanna: 

“It’s always somethin’,” she’d say, “if it’s not this, is that . . .!”

The female agent, I’m sure, was a WWF wrestler in her off time!  She was big.  She was burly.  She was strong. And she was ugly!

“Stand right ‘ere, Luv.  I’m gonna pat you down with me ‘ands.  Don’t be wiggy ‘bout it.  I’m gonna use the backs of me ‘ands.” 

[As if that made me feel better!  “I’m headed for the Pokey!” I thought.]

Of course she found nothing.  She then pulled out a wand that looked very much like a taser, but I sort of knew it wasn’t.  At least I hoped it wasn’t! 

After a completely thorough wanding over my entire being, she concluded that the problem was with the zippers on my Athleta cargo pants . . . four of them!  She chuckled a little, then excused me to collect my belongings at the end of the conveyer belt.  

“Betcha won’t be wearin’ those trousers on another flight, eh?” she chortled as I turned my back on her and sped away.

All the while I was being frisked, Finnegan had caused another set of problems.  Carl’s backpack didn’t clear the x-ray test.  It was set aside behind at least ten other items that raised the eyebrows of the hyper-vigilant security agents.  

“Let me guess.  Finnegan again?” I asked as drolly as possible.

“It’s probably my butane lighters,” said Carl.

“Ugh!!  WHY DON’T YOU JUST USE MATCHES?” 

“It’s not that big a deal.  Most of the time I get through!” he insisted.

“No, you don’t!  You didn’t clear through at Taupo and that was just three days ago!  You either don’t clear security and the lighters are confiscated OR they get stolen by the TSA guys.  I just don’t understand why you don’t use matches!” 

And sure enough, the two butane lighters were confiscated . . . again.  

We FINALLY found ourselves parked in the Air New Zealand Lounge where we could relax and recover from our brush with the law and near incarceration into the Pokey! 

Boarding began at 18:40, but who knows when THAT is??  I’m so confused, not only with the time, the time zone change (trying to figure out what time it is at home compared to what time it is in New Zealand, and temperatures in Centigrade!!  WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME . . . EITHER FAHRENHEIT OR CENTIGRADE?  WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME METHOD OF TIME?  I have been doing more math on this trip than I EVER dreamed!!  Converting temperature, time, money . . . Sheesh!  It’s enough to give anyone a migraine headache!  So many word problems!!! 

Finnegan and Carl were out for a walk.  I checked the boarding pass one more time and started  doing my mental math.

“Boarding is at 18:40 o’clock.  O.K.  WHAT IS THAT????  Twelve noon, one o’clock is thirteen hundred, two o’clock is fourteen hundred,  . . . . OH, NO!!!!!  We’re supposed to be boarding NOW!” I gasped.

Just then Carl and Finnegan returned.

“We gotta go!” they said. 

A quick look at the monitor showed Flight NZ06 “boarding now” at Gate 17 (15 minute walk).

My pace quickened from a power walk to a speed walk.  I mowed people over on the walking escalators, pushed toddlers out of my way and cursed my ineptitude over calculating the time! 

Another EXTRA security check of our backpacks slowed us down one more time! 

“Good God!” I thought, “What could I have possibly smuggled in after Brunhilda patted me down?”

Huffing and puffing, we reached Gate 17, fully relieved that we hadn’t missed the flight.  The ticket agent informed us that boarding would begin in ten minutes and that the monitor screen was in error.  While we were waiting to board, we learned that everyone else there waiting was on a flight to Houston!!  WE WERE AT THE WRONG GATE!!!!  THE MONITOR WAS WRONG!!!!  

Gate 15 was the correct access point!!  We scrambled once again, arriving just in time to board the flight!!  

Now that we’re seated, carry-ons stowed in the overhead bins and a glass of wine on my tray table, I can say I agree with Roseanne Rosannadanna . . . “It’s always something!”

 

Despite the fact that the Oxford English Dictionary lists 171,476 words in common usage and another 47,156 obsolete words and yet an additional 9,500 word derivatives and subentries, there are times when we find ourselves at a complete loss for words!  Imagine that!  With 228,132 words available, we still come up short!  We scour our brains for the perfect adjectives, the best adverbs and the most superlative superlatives but none of them are sufficient to communicate our true feelings.  How many times have you found yourselves saying, “I don’t know how to describe it!  It was just THE BEST!” and still felt that you’d inadequately conveyed your meaning.  Words like “awesome,” “fabulous,” “outstanding” and “wonderful” have been so overused they are now cliche.  “I love it!” “I hate it!” “That’s terrific!” “How fantastic!”  English teachers mark up drafts of student essays with comments like, “be more specific,” “give examples,” or “SHOW me!”  Johnny Carson, on his late night talk show, always tried to extrapolate more meaning from his guests asking, “How horrible (or terrific or beautiful or any other adjective) WAS it?”  Clearly, people have been searching for words for a long, long time.

I recently returned from a week-long visit to my old neighborhood where I’d lived for over nine years.  Whenever I’m there, it’s like I never left.  I am in lockstep with my friends, I catch up on their lives, I participate in the various activities I’d always enjoyed and I melt into the group just as I did before.  Even my dog resumes his former life there with his old buddies.  He frolics in Pat and Jim’s fenced yard with their two dogs, an enthusiastically energetic black Standard Poodle, Maddie, and Pokey, a tri-colored English Springer Spaniel, just like him!  His stubby tail wags so fiercely I wonder if I should crush Advil into his kibble to ease any muscle pain!  He looks at me with his gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes as if to say, “Boy!  Was THAT ever fun!  Let’s do it again!”  And I get it.  I really do.  He doesn’t need words.  The gleam in his eyes says what he can’t.  But upon my return to the real world and in answering my husband’s question, “How was your week?” I couldn’t find the words!

“It was FABULOUS!” I say, searching for better words.  “I mean . . . I had SO MUCH FUN!”  Again, it was not quite accurate, bland in fact.   Emphasizing trite words and expressions does NOT enhance their meaning.  I could just hear Johnny Carson asking, ” . . . how fabulous WAS it?”

“What did you do?” he prodded.

Simply recounting the week’s activities answered his question, but I remained vexed.  Telling him that I played golf several times, engaged in hijinks and pranks more suited for college sororities, attended a picnic where everyone wore white, walked the dog with friends, enjoyed a few dinner parties and explored a new boutique with a couple more friends summarized my exploits but I couldn’t convey the true joy of it all because my words weren’t enough.

Back in my daily routine and attending to ordinary chores, I wandered up and down the aisles at the grocery store, gathering my usual items.  The task is so mundane a robot could be programmed to do it.  There’s no variety, nothing exciting, just the same ol’ same ol’, week in, week out.

“<GASP!>  Hey!  Why don’t you make gazpacho like Eileen made?” I said to myself.  “That was sooooooo good!”

Energized by my brilliant idea, I scurried to the produce section to select only the freshest tomatoes, cucumbers, jalapeños, onions, cilantro and avocados.

“<GASP!>  Oh my gosh!  There’s those chocolate covered peanuts and yogurt pretzels and raisins that Melanie served when I went to her house for dinner!” I exclaimed as I passed that display, grabbing a carton of each.

Suddenly my ho-hum excursion to the grocery store breathed new life!  I definitely couldn’t find  words fit enough to adequately communicate my week-long experience in my old stomping ground, but maybe food could!  I’d duplicate my experience!  I took a detour out of the produce department and parked my cart among the orchids in the floral section.   Recalling the various dinner parties I’d attended, I supplemented my list, intending to duplicate each and every menu.

“Hmmmmm . . . . let’s see, Ron served grilled filets,” I thought as I entered “choice filets” on my grocery app.  “Eileen and I cheated and brought salads from a deli, but Holly brought her hominy casserole!  I LOVE that stuff!  I hope I can remember everything I need to make it!  Think, think, THINK!”

More ingredients lengthened my list.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! OhmygoshohmygoshohmyGOSH!” I squealed to myself in delight.  “PATTY MELTS!  Melanie made PATTY MELTS that would put Hamburger Hamlet to shame!  I’ve GOT to make them!”  

It should be noted that Melanie is an excellent cook.  To think that my patty melts would even come close to being as good as hers is pure folly but I had to at least try!  Melanie out-chefs Wolfgang Puck, she’s that good!  Her kitchen betrays her expertise and her pantry is that of a master chef, complete with spices, sauces and other ingredients I’ve never even heard of.  She has all the fancy utensils, pots, pans and blending machines needed for creating exquisite cuisine.   Le Cordon Bleu’s facilities in France aren’t even as complete!  As I skipped through the aisles tossing new and interesting items into my otherwise blah grocery cart, I reveled in delighting my husband with the same experiences I’d just had not even a week ago.  Who needs words to convey experience when I can replicate it?  If imitation truly is the finest form of flattery, then I’m a copy cat!

“Uh oh!”  I said stopping dead in my tracks, alarmed at my sudden realization,  “Scratch cake!  She made a white cake with white buttercream icing from scratch!  WHO DOES THAT ANYMORE?  Martha Stewart, maybe, but not me!  I don’t know how to make a cake from scratch!  And even if I did, it would be as heavy as a brick!  And it would taste like one, too!  Melanie’s cake was . . . well, it was bakery good!  She even said she ‘doctored’ it up with her own special touch!  I don’t HAVE ‘a special touch!'”  

My synapses were striking at such rapid speed that I remembered Melanie packaged up two huge slices for me to bring home!  Everything was falling into place perfectly!  With my word search no longer an issue, I have the PERFECT response to the question, “How fun was it?”

It was dog-walking-boutique-exploring-gazpacho-grilledfilet-hominy-pattymelt-whitescratchcake-chocolatepeanut-yogurtpretzel-fun!

Some time ago, probably going on ten years now, a friend declared that once women reach their sixties, they become invisible.  The once-enjoyed whistles and catcalls as they sashayed down sidewalks have faded, there are fewer and fewer furtive double-takes as they enter restaurants and other public venues and there are certainly no spontaneous introductions from would-be suitors enamored by their stunning beauty.  Of course, while it is acknowledged that those flirtatious forms of flattery have faded into ancient history,  it is wrong to believe that women in their silver years have vaporized into the realm of irrelevance!    They still garner attention, all right, but it is subtly punctuated with thinly veiled empathy and pity.

Silver Foxes privately recognize certain signs of aging and we readily support the industries that soften those harsh realities.  After all, aging is to be expected.  We know it’s coming, and we are prepared.  EyeBobs struck the Mother Lode with their playful take on our need for reading glasses.  Always fashion forward and a little bit sassy, these eyeglass frames are a must-have accessory for any outfit!  With names like Board Stiff, You Go Goyle, P. Body, Barbee Q., Fizz Ed, Not Tonight, Three Wood and Five Wood, it is no wonder that selecting only one pair is next to impossible.  The colors and shapes are as varied and outlandish as the names.  What was once looked upon as transitioning into old age and a rocking chair is now a hip fashion statement.  Whether just beginning to need the 1.0 or the higher intensity 2.5 lenses, there is a wide variety of frames from which to choose with no shame or embarrassment attached.  Cosmetics companies, too, have capitalized on our desire to stay relevant.  Products designed to reduce the appearance of wrinkles, dark circles under the eyes and sagging skin flood the market.  Face masks, scrubs, creams and entire beauty regimens range in price to accommodate every woman’s pocketbook.   Open any drawer in a Fox’s boudoir and you’ll find tubes, jars and bottles of Refresh, Redefine, Refine, Crepe Erase, Oil of Olay and Plexiderm Rapid Reduction among a plethora of similar products.  We’ve approached this phase of our lives fully prepared and have filled our arsenals.  MagicBax earring backs lift our sagging ear lobes, boosting our studs back into perfect position.  Our copies of Charla Krupp’s best-seller, How Not to Look Old, are dog-eared, underlined and highlighted.  Far be it from any of us to unwittingly look our ages!  Long gone are our holiday sweaters, our mommy necklaces, our souvenir T-shirts, shoulder pads, muumuus, photo handbags, penny loafers, baggy sweats, pantyhose (especially those with control tops and reinforced toes!), and three-piece suits with vests!  More forbidden items for all of us who want to look effortlessly chic and classy are ankle bracelets, belly necklaces, body piercings, Daisy dukes, tube tops (not a problem!), leg warmers, multiple ear piercings, go-go boots, low-riding jeans (again, NOT a problem!), newsboy caps and scrunchies.  Instead, our wardrobe essentials include quality gold hoop earrings, diamond stud earrings (definitely NOT a problem!), a classic watch, sleek black heels, a sparkly evening clutch, quality leather bag for day, nude heels, black and brown knee-high boots, black- and brown-heeled shoe booties, black, brown, navy and gray opaque tights, black, brown, gold and silver belts and a chunky chain necklace.  I don’t quite understand the absolute ban on brightly colored lingerie in favor of strictly white or beige bras and panties, but if doing so keeps me from looking old, I’m all in!

It’s one thing for we Silver Foxes to recognize and address our individual maintenance issues, but it is quite another for others to notice.  Doctors’ comments and questions, always blunt and intrusive to begin with, are increasingly uncomfortable.  They scrutinize every inch of our bodies more thoroughly; they track the appearance of age spots, they pry into the most intimate details of our relationships and they offer pharmaceutical remedies for a variety of age-related afflictions.  A routine visit to the breast imaging center for an annual mammogram is never a walk in the park, but this year’s appointment  was worse.

“Good Morning, Hon!  Welcome!” greeted the young pony-tailed receptionist, looking like she’d barely graduated high school, “Here is some paperwork that you’ll need to update for us if you don’t mind.”

“Hon?”  Who is SHE to call me “Hon”?  Oh well . . . just fill out the papers and be done with her.

After checking all the boxes and signing and dating the forms, I returned the clipboard.

“Thank you, Hon,” sang the cheery patronizing clerk, “just give me a minute to review these and . . . oh! I need to make a copy of your insurance card and ID, please . . . your driver’s license if you have it.”

Thinking nothing of the customary request, I presented the required documents.  Rather than proceeding with her photocopying, Little Miss I-Can-Call-You-Hon studied my driver’s license, alternately glancing up at me as if I’d given her something fraudulent.

“Is everything o.k.,” I asked, betraying more annoyance than I’d intended.

“Oh, yes,” she replied quickly, “I was just noticing how good you look in person, what with your DOB and all!  You still look pretty good!  Well done!”

Wow!  Did she just say that?! My D.O.B.???  Well done??? I sure didn’t see THAT coming!

I didn’t quite know how to react!  I suppose I should have been flattered that I “still look pretty good,” but wasn’t it rude for her to even say ANYTHING?

And that’s when I started noticing that women in their sixties are neither invisible nor irrelevant.

Who doesn’t love People magazine?  Everybody who’s anybody appears in multiple issues.  The general public keeps track of Hollywood royalty, rock-n-roll royalty, television and news anchor royalty and, of course, British royalty in issue after issue after issue.  We know everything there is to know about the Kardashians, how many times they’ve been married, betrayed, reconciled, had cosmetic surgery, stood by their cheating significant others through multiple stints in rehab facilities and how the sisters (and even Caitlin Jenner) stick together when yet another infidelity is exposed.  It’s really quite riveting . . . until all of a sudden it’s not.

“Hmmmm . . .” I wonder as I pick up the most recent issue at the checkout counter in the grocery store, “Christina El Moussa’s on the cover.” ‘From Heartbreak to Happiness’ underscores her glossy photo.  “Who’s SHE?”

I toss the magazine in my basket anyway, thinking that I’d better stay current with the times.  After all, I didn’t really feel that out-of-touch since a small, round photo of England’s newest princess, Megan Markle, appeared in the upper right hand corner of the cover.  At least I knew Megan.  Who wouldn’t?  Every beauty salon in the greater Los Angeles area is offering special facials, calling them the Markle Sparkle!  I felt better yet when I read about Kate Middleton and Prince William’s impending baptism of their youngest son, Prince Louis Arthur Charles.  I knew who they were, too.  However, as I flipped page after page, not recognizing most of the celebrities on the “Who Wore It Best” section, I got a little nervous.

“Uh oh,” I thought, “who ARE these people?”

Gabrielle Union, pictured in a scanty bikini, smiled coyly above the caption: on an oceanside stroll while vacationing with husband, Dwyane Wade.  Jason Derulo flexed for the camera at a music festival in Malta, and Liev Schreiber and girlfriend Taylor Neisen suited up for some surfing in the Hamptons.

“<GASP!> Don’t know these guys either!”  

A quick flip to the next page showed Gwyneth Paltrow and Kourtney Kardashian with their respective boyfriends.

“O.K., Phew!”  I reassured myself, “I know these guys!  I’ve never heard of either one of their boyfriends before, but . . . that doesn’t matter!  I’m good.  I know Gwyneth and Kourtney!”

A few more pages later, and recognizing Buzz Lightyear, Tim Allen, Ray Romano and Angelina Jolie, my belief that I  was ‘ still current’ grew.

“Wow! Look at Donny and Marie Osmond!” I said to myself at the turn of the next page, “Geez, they look so OLD!” “And look at Ben Affleck!  ‘Spending Summer with His Girlfriend,” I read, “Jennifer Garner did the absolute right thing by kicking him out!  Once a cheater, ALWAYS a cheater!”

It wasn’t until I got to the ‘Passages’ section that it hit me:  I knew more names under the Death, Retiring and Remembering columns than I did anywhere else!  I did NOT see that coming!

“O.K.,” I consoled myself, “that’s to be expected.  You’re reading this magazine to keep current, so DO IT!  Start remembering that Justin Bieber just got engaged to Hailey Baldwin after only 3 weeks of dating Hailey Baldwin.  And yes, Hailey Baldwin IS Alec Baldwin’s daughter! And no, Selena Gomez does NOT care!”  

Groceries unpacked and put away, I headed out to my core training class.  All in an effort to keep fit, stay healthy and improve my range of movement, I joined a barre studio and attend classes three to five times each week.  I keep up with the pace of the exercises, admittedly not as flexible as some of the others in the class, but if pressed, I could perform head to head with just about any of them.  I particularly enjoy Katrina’s classes.  An aspiring actress clearly in her mid- to late-thirties, she motivates her students, joking constantly and relating funny things about herself, her frustration with not finding Mr. Right and deciding to settle down with her two dogs who adore her unconditionally.

“Ten more, Everybody! C’mon!” she ordered, “You’re welcome!  I know you’re gonna thank me for this later, so . . . you’re welcome!”

As she counted down, my heartbeat pumped up.  I pushed on, determined not to give up.

“Don’t quit now, you guys!  Ten more . . . I KNOW you can do it!  After all, we don’t want to look all hunched over by the time we’re 60 now, do we?”

WHAT DID I JUST HEAR?!!!  AM I THE OLDEST ONE IN THESE CLASSES?   I never looked around to assess the approximate ages of the others in the class, but now that Katrina mentioned it, I quickly took stock, realizing that I probably was!

“Hey!” I blurted out intentionally loud enough for EVERYONE to hear, “I’m right here and I can still hear!”

“And we’re SOOOOOO proud of you,” Katrina sang into the microphone strapped onto a headset, “If you want to take a break or finish the reps against a barre, go ahead! We’re here for you and we support whatever you want to do!  You’re a good role model for us, you know!”

WHOA!! I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING!!  What COULD have been taken as an insult ended up being a boost to my silver-aged ego!  “I’m their role model!  Who knew?!!!”  

Now that I’m more and more aware of the insensitive comments by others about my age, I readily accept them as validation of my high visibility and relevance.  I don’t color my hair, I have no intention of undergoing any cosmetic surgery to tighten my face, lift or enhance any of my body parts, and I LOVE being a true Silver Fox.

I did NOT see that coming!

25 Years, One Week and A Day . . .

I suppose since I waited 25 years for my honeymoon to Ireland, I could wait another week (all plans were booked exactly 25 years and one week from the date of our wedding) but that last day NEARLY got the best of us!

Visions of ancient castles, charming villages, fields upon fields upon fields of shamrocks, rainbows, leprechauns and pots of gold danced through my dreams for a quarter of a century. Knowing that I was REALLY going to be there on June 27, 2018 catapulted my happiness through the stratosphere! I was floating in a beautiful outer space that I knew was right next to Heaven!

Bob arrived 15 minutes early to drive us to LAX. We had allowed 2 hours lead time, but 2 hours and 15 minutes was o.k with me! I’d been packed and ready to go before the sun rose!

“I’m going down through the Arroyo,” said Robert looking at the map on his phone, “there seems to be an accident on the 110 Fwy. at Bridewell. I’ll just take some back streets and avoid it.”

“What a conscientious driver!” I thought.

No sooner had we entered the freeway beyond the accident site when traffic thickened and ground to a standstill.

“This is just the usual morning rush,” said Bob, “it’ll be like this for awhile. I don’t know why, but L.A. traffic has gotten so much worse over the past two years!”

“That’s why I always leave home before 6:00 a.m.,” said Carl, “I HATE traffic!”

We continued to crawl toward downtown alongside two other lanes of frustrated drivers constantly glancing at their phones, undoubtedly checking Waze and Google for possible alternate routes.

A small pang of panic arose in my gut.

“If this is usual morning rush hour traffic,” I began, “then ALL these people are late to work! There HAS to be something more to this.”

“Nope,” assured Bob, “as soon as we pass Hill, it’ll open up. We’ve got plenty of time.”

And so we sat. And sat. And sat, inching along, commenting here and there about maybe getting off the freeway, heading East to catch the 5 to the 10 to the 110, but rationalizing that the gridlock was just about to clear.

Forty minutes later and no closer to the Hill exit, Bob elbowed his way through 3 lanes of traffic just in time to access the Academy Road exit.

“I don’t know what’s going on up there, but now my map shows blockage all the way to Wilshire! We’ll go the back way through Elysian Park and bypass the mess.”

O.K., good idea. But LOTS of people had that same idea! Now, not only was there gridlock on the 110 Fwy, there was gridlock on Academy Road and ALL the other circuitous routes through Los Angeles! EVERYONE was frantically frustrated.

My small pang of panic increased to medium high. My two selves began their usual internal bickering:

“Uh oh! This is just GREAT! I’ve waited 25 years to get to Ireland and now we’re going to miss the plane because of L.A. traffic? UnbeLIEVable!”

“Shush! Don’t be negative! It’s just a little slow down; we’ll be alright! Just relax . . . You’re being a brat!”

I noticed several police helicopters whizzing about, but figured since we’d just passed the Police Academy, there must be graduation or something and they were hovering above the Class of ‘18 in celebration. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong!

“Oh my gosh!” cried Bob checking his phone again, “the 110 Freeway is now CLOSED! There’s some guy standing on top of a freeway sign at Sunset! He’s protesting pollution and . . . a mob of people protesting against Trump’s immigration policy has also flooded the freeway!”

A wrecking ball plummeted through my stomach, destroying all traces of delightful anticipation of my long-awaited trip to the Emerald Isle. My head was spinning. Waves of nausea crashed through my entire being.

“Look!” said Bob, “there he is! SWAT teams have been dispatched. Get a load of all those helicopters!”

By this time, we were sitting, stopped in traffic on side streets in front City Hall and all the government buildings. Bob, obviously nervous about getting us to the airport on time, began to make idle conversation.

“Is this your old courthouse, Judge?” he asked.

“No, I was over at CCW at Olympic and Commonwealth,” Carl answered.

“Oh! That’s where I had my child custody hearing,” he said.

“Why would you have a custody hearing in a complex court?” I asked, trying to contribute to a conversation I had absolutely no interest in.

And so Bob explained that he had a bad habit of choosing crazy women, yadda yadda yadda, and if he were put into a room with 100 girls, he would find the crazy one.

“Not only would I find the Crazy One, I’d take her home with me!” he quipped. “They just seem to find me!”

Silence. Each of us growing more anxious. Three blocks and 25 minutes later the turn signal flashed green, but we still weren’t moving! A filthy dirty, toothless woman with glazed over eyes, draped herself across the front of our car. She gazed straight into the windshield, muttering unintelligibly, clearly NOT intending to budge.

“Boy, you weren’t kidding about the crazy women finding you, were you?” I said to Bob. Despite his honking his horn, she remained glued to the hood.

“Just RUN HER OVER!” I screamed.

By and by, Bob’s new girlfriend lifted herself off the car and staggered away, but we were still no closer to LAX.

At long last, we reached the terminal, jumped out of the car, raced to the SkyCap with 45 minutes to spare.

“I’m sorry,” said the airline rep, “we can’t accept your luggage! You’re too late!”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘WE’RE TOO LATE?” I gasped, “THE PLANE DOESN’T TAKE OFF FOR ANOTHER 45 MINUTES1”

“Yes, Ma’am, but the system won’t accept your luggage. You’re too late for that. And you can’t get on the airplane unless you’re luggage is on that same plane!” he explained.

No matter what we said, no matter HOW rationally convincing Carl was in trying to explain our situation and no matter HOW WRONG this all was, we simply were NOT ALLOWED to check our bags. Our phones even buzzed us information about the flight being delayed, but the ticket representative STILL refused our luggage.

“Screw this!” said Carl, “Let’s just go through TSA, take our luggage with us and check it at the gate!”

Under the gun and the minutes clicking down on the clock, we navigated through security, enduring the indignities of Carl having a “pat down,” and confiscation of his tube of toothpaste, and arrived at the gate, a little winded but still within 5 minutes of take-off.

“You’re LATE!” admonished the agent, “the doors are closing!”

“But . . . “ and Carl explained the harrowing details of our morning commute, the flight delay, etc, etc. all to no avail.

“I underSTAND what you’re saying,” barked the officious airline officer, “but you weren’t HERE (he said pointing directly at the floor) 15 minutes before boarding. We’ve given your seats away. When you’re coming from Pasadena, you should KNOW to give yourself a little more lead time, that’s all! I suggest you go over to the American Airlines Customer Assistance Desk just beyond Gate 51-Alpha over there (pointing to the left). I’m pretty sure your tickets are non-refundable, but maybe you can find another flight. Bye-bye.”

And with that, he pivoted on his shiny patent leather heels and whisked himself down through the boarding tunnel.

“Now what do we do?” I cried, totally deflated. “Let’s just go home. Maybe I can still get into the Lady Swan at Lakeside next week.”

“HELL NO!” barked Carl.

The poor agent at the Customer Assistance Deck had NO WARNING about what he’d get when he said, “May I help you?” As hard as he tried and as much as he clicked the keys on his computer, he could NOT find any flights with two available seats for us for the next 2 days! While he searched and researched, Carl did the same. Eventually we booked a flight (a red-eye) on Virgin Atlantic through London-Heathrow with a connector on Aer Lingus to Shannon. Our first-class status on American Airlines was forfeited for two economy class seats (not together) on Virgin Atlantic. Those were literally THE ONLY seats available . . . AT TWICE THE COST OF OUR FIRST CLASS TICKETS: “last-minute traveller” fee!!! Wow! Talk about the fleecing of America!!

With 7 hours to kill in the terminal, we hung out for awhile at one of the bars in the food court before claiming two seats near the departure gate. While I texted about our plight, Carl fielded a few business calls. One return incoming text suggested that we go to the American Express Lounge. It sounded like a good idea, but at that point, whatever COULD go wrong WOULD. We decided to stay put, close to the departure desk, constantly checking to see if we could upgrade from economy to ANYTHING else. While waiting, something went wrong with something mechanical in our area. A loud, high-pitched tone blasted through the rotunda for at least 25 minutes. At about the point when I couldn’t tell the difference between that REAL noise and all the screaming in my head, it stopped suddenly, the entire population of travelers bursting into cheers and applause. Boarding for Flight # VA-142 began, with us having to wait for Group Y (better than Group Z, I guess!)

Ten cramped hours later with a headache the size of Chicago, we made our connection through London and touched down in Shannon . . . On the Emerald Isle.

We’re back on track today, looking forward to our honeymoon . . . 25 Years, One Week and A Day late!!

Oscar, Lucky, & Rick O’Shea

Michael arrived at 9:00 a.m. on the button to transport us from Shannon to our first destination, Old Head Golf Links just outside of the village of Kinsale. During our 2 1/2-hour drive, Michael delivered a colorful history of each local village as we passed through. He kept apologizing for traffic on the highway, (a 2-lane D road!) clearly not realizing what the word “traffic” really meant . . . particularly for the two of us who had just missed an airplane due to the entire City of Angels being paralyzed with gridlock and a lunatic!

Old Head Golf Links sits on top of a peninsula of high cliffs, each hole enjoying an ocean vista (and all the hazards inherent with cliffs, wind and rocks). Ruins of a 6th century light house sit immediately adjacent to its modern replacement. The facility resembles an ancient Irish structure but more like a long 2-story stone castle. Only 14 guest suites are available to accommodate those who are lucky enough to secure a reservation! Usually fog and wind prevail around this peninsula but Ireland is experiencing a once-in-every-100-year heat wave this week! The sun is out, the air is hot, the sky is blue and the sea is calm! It is spectacularly warm and gorgeous! I think Ireland is rolling out the red carpet for me!

Following a short warm-up on the driving range, we met our caddy, Jack, and our playing partners, Tim and Gavin (in from London for the weekend to visit Tim’s mum).

“Typical,” I thought, “Tim’s here to visit his mum, but . . . he’s brought a friend, left his wife and kids at home, and is playing golf! Poor Mum!”

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an iron sculpture marking the 1st tee.

“Oh, that’s Oscar,” confirmed the Starter, “Old Head has so many wild hares on the property. This one is Oscar. He represents all the hares.”

Now, I know everyone knows that “hare” is just another word for “rabbit” or “bunny,” but these “Oscars” are definitely NOT rabbits and certainly not anything like bunnies! It wasn’t until we made the turn that I met Oscar. While reloading my pockets with fresh tees and remarking my ball on the 10th tee, heavy rustling in the bushes startled me, catching me off guard. The noise was so fierce that I fully expected a herd animal, perhaps a sheep or a goat, to make an appearance from the dense thistle. Rather than that, however, a hare hopped out, long strands of highland grass sticking out of each side of his mouth, whiskers twitching. The shock at seeing each other in the small clearing of Tee #10 surprised us both! I gasped and he hopped away down the fairway, so heavy was he that each bound of his feet could be heard thud, thud, thudding on the ground! His leaps I’m sure registered at least 4.0 on the Richter scale!

“Holy Smokes!” I cried, “what in the world was THAT?”

“Oh, I see that you’ve just met Oscar!” smiled Jack approaching the tee. “Big, aren’t they?”

And here I was, thinking that the jack rabbits up at Cordeval were the biggest rabbits I’d ever seen. They are gnats compared to these Irish hares!

“Yea,” began Jack, “one time I carried a bag for a particularly difficult client, so I decided to play around a wee bit. I told him that one of the hares is friendly and that he will actually allow himself to be petted if you approach him slowly and quietly.”

“No way,” I said, “what happened?”

“Well, ya see,” continued Jack, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette as we marched down the fairway toward my ball, “I told the guy that the hare’s name was Lucky. ‘There’s Lucky!’ I’d tell him, and he’d hand me his club and slowly try to sneak up on it.”

“And?” I asked.

“Well, of course the hare hopped off, darting this way and that as fast as he could go!” he answered in his thick Irish brogue. ‘Oh! I guess that wasn’t Lucky,’ I’d say, ‘but don’t you go worryin’, I saw him just yesterday! We’ll find him . . . He’s usually somewhere along the Back Nine.’”

I made a mental note NOT to trust Jack if he started telling stories!

The cliffs along the golf course, while dramatic and beautiful, are also very, very, VERY steep. Anyone getting too close to the edge could easily slip to his peril. Signs are posted on each hole warning golfers that “absolutely NO ONE is to search for a ball outside the red hazard line.” But wouldn’t you know it — rules are made to be broken and we found just that person!

The fivesome in front of us held us up on most holes. They not only played slowly, they’d also brought along a professional photographer who snapped action play shots! And if that weren’t annoying enough, after the hole was finished, he also staged the players into position for posed photos! We’d just come up to the 12th tee box to wait yet again. This particular 3-par clung along the steep left-side of a cliff. Thick thistle grew immediately off the fairway the entire distance of the hole, a red hazard line in place and a very clear warning sign NOT to search for balls outside that line. Wouldn’t you know it, one of the golfers went in search of his errant tee shot and was knee-deep in this thistle, well beyond the hazard line.

“Ooooooh, that’s dodgey!” commented Jack. “Where’s a marshal when you need one? That guy would be expelled from play immediately if anyone saw him!”

Why anyone who’d traveled the distance and paid the expensive fees to play Old Head would risk his life for a $3 golf ball is beyond me, but . . . life is stranger than fiction, I guess.

Curious to know the meaning of dodgey, I asked Jack. Now some people are just born teachers, but Jack isn’t one of them. He DID teach me a few Gaellic words, but he couldn’t explain what dodgey was:

“Dodgey is . . . well, . . . Dodgey is . . . Just dodgey, that’s all!” he said with total exasperation.

“That’s not doin’ much for me, Jack!” I protested.

“O.K. then . . . Dodgey is when . . . If I said, ‘I’m not sure if you’re ball is in the thistle or in the rough . . . It’s dodgey,’” he tried again.

“So it means ‘iffy,” I clarified.

“YES! You’ve got it! It’s dodgey!” he confirmed smiling from ear to ear as if he’d just explained the origin of the Universe. “You can take that home with you!”

“Oh, I’m going to take a lot of things home with me . . . You want to come?” I teased.

As usual, Carl and I had a match going and as usual, every time Carl hit a bad shot something unexpectedly helpful happened. Early in the round, his ball flew directly toward a deep pothole bunker which lifted my spirits! I thought I’d have a chance at winning the hole! Wouldn’t you know it . . . the ball heading straight for the sand hit the ground, bounced favorably just a “wee bit” and kept on rolling just far enough to avoid it! Again and again and again, his ball escaped disaster.

On Saturday, we were paired with a couple from Holland, Margaret and Rude. They, too, challenged each other to a match keeping three scores: Stableford points, match points and putts. Carl and I are competitive but there’s not enough time in the day (or enough lines on the scorecard) to get that involved. Carl’s ball enjoyed Day 2 of Irish luck! Every error turned into a gift — the wind gently blew his ball out of harm’s way or it hit a rock, careened back onto the green and rolled to almost gimme distance to the hole. It was just too much for me!

“I see you’ve brought your playing partner with ya again t’day,” said Jack.

“Who’s that?” asked Carl.

“Rick O’Shea!” replied Jack.

Ya. He did!!!

Today was a travel day . . . No golf. Michael picked us up at Old Head, destination Killarney, less than a 2-hour drive away. However, we spent the entire day taking in the sights, the Blarney Castle, the village of Kinsale, Paddy Quill’s Irish Weave factory, the Titanic visitors’ center, the Lusitania Memorial and many other quaint towns and villages. Of particular note was The Kinsale 9/11 Garden of Remembrance. A woman in Kinsale owned a vacant field. After the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers in New York City, she planted one tree in her field in remembrance of each firefighter who paid the ultimate price in that disaster, many of whom were Irish. On the 10th anniversary of her memorial, she invited all the fallen firefighters’ family members to a ceremony in honor of their loved ones. Many of them brought uniforms and other memorabilia with them and hung them from their special tree. Shortly thereafter, the lovely woman passed on but her family still maintains the memorial. Quite moving.

We’re off to explore the streets of Killarney in pursuit of someplace to have dinner, then it’s off to Tralee in the morning for another round of golf. I’m just hoping that Rick O’Shea will play with ME this time!

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

I just realized that the best advice I’ve ever gotten in my entire life was on a bottle of shampoo the whole time: Lather, Rinse, Repeat! Every single day here has been perfect. Each golf course has exceeded my expectations. The people are delightful, full of mischief, an ever-present twinkle in their eyes. A plaque just in front of a statue of Arnold Palmer at Tralee Golf Links reads: Arnold Palmer designed the front nine; God designed the back. However, I’d argue that God saved all of the best things He had in his bag of tricks for the day he created Ireland.

Rick O’Shea has been splitting his time between Carl and me. On one hole, I get the break, the next hole, Carl does. We’ve been collecting memorabilia from each course, but I think our time would be better spent trying to figure out how to smuggle Rick back in one of our bags! He has no passport or other official travel documents, so getting him through Customs is going to be “a bit dodgy!”

Both Tralee and Waterville, like Old Head, are links courses . . . pothole bunkers, rolling dunes, THIN lies and lots and lots of roll! My FitBit has been working overtime, logging more steps and flights of stairs than it has ever registered on my device! I clicked through the data after our round at Tralee . . . 9.41 miles, 174 “active” minutes and . . . 113 flights of stairs!!! To put perspective on these numbers, a round of golf at Annandale gleans approximately 6.25 miles and 58-60 flights of stairs. Waterville, while not quite so hilly, challenged me in different ways. The rolling dunes, blanketed with long grasses and tufts of wild greens, required full concentration and my “Wilshire swing” to get the ball back into play. And of note: when the caddy says a putt is uphill, it’s best just to stroke it level. The greens are lightening fast and scary! We’ll see what happens at Ballybunion today!

No one can come to Ireland for golf and deny the gorgeous scenery. None of the pictures you’ve seen in fancy coffee table books and travel brochures capture the pristine beauty of this country. Even George Lucas capitalized on it when he filmed Star Wars: The Force Awakens on an isolated island off the coast of the Ring of Kerry! On our journey out to Waterville, Michael directed our attention to the right looking beyond the bay. Rising above the ocean mist and cradled in a low cloud of fog emerged the craggy peaks of this island, making it truly other-worldly. I knew that at any minute the Millennium Falcon would soar past with Han Solo and Chewbacca at the helm! A shipwrecked yacht lay waste along the rocks just beyond the turn into Waterville’s car park. Michael did not know anything about it, but our caddy sure did! During a storm a couple weeks ago, as the story goes, it had loosed from its mooring all the way across the bay and crashed into the rocks on the opposite shore. As of this date, no one has come to claim it. No one. But . . . the name of the ship and other identifying marks were mysteriously erased from the hull not even one day after it crashed. The caddy informed us that it is suspected that “white lobsters” were being smuggled into the country, under the radar of the Irish Drug Enforcement Agency. My poor ears actually hurt hearing those words! Ireland can’t have those problems!

I continue to learn more and more Gaelic. “Kil” means church; “Bally” means village. Killarney, therefore, means The Church of Larney. And Ballydwyer means The Village (or town) of Dwyer. That got me to thinking, though . . . If Ballydwyer and Ballydoyle and Ballycarney all mean the Town of Dwyers, Doyles and Carneys, does Ballybunion mean that everybody in that town has foot problems? Let’s hope not; we’re playing there today!

Pub crawls and soccer games take up our evening hours. Never really a soccer aficionado, I had no interest in the World Cup games in Russia. But NOW, I can’t get enough! Everyone, tourists and locals alike, throng to the pubs to watch the games. Two nights ago I think I was the only one in the pub and probably in all of Killarney rooting for Japan over Belgium. Not that I truly cared one way or the other, but . . . I just HAVE to root for the underdog. The first time Japan scored, I jumped from my seat, arms in the air and an exuberant “Yeah!” screaming out, only to attract the eyes of all the other patrons in the pub, the waiters, waitresses, bartenders, fiddle players and probably even the rats hiding beneath the floorboards! The next time they scored, I was a bit more controlled . . . Silent, in fact. Void of any emotion . . . on the outside. On the inside, I was doin’ my happy dance! Last night, however, was different. The pub was packed, wall to wall, standing room only, for the match between Columbia and England. Carl and I pushed to get a couple barstools directly in front of the big screen display. What a game! After 90 minutes and the score tied at 1:1, the game went into penalty kicks . . . 5 per side. The win or loss was up to the goalie! Two kicks a piece, the score still tied. Columbia made its 3rd point . . . England missed! The crowd went wild (indicating that everyone THIS TIME was for the underdog!!). Columbia, needing only the next kick to win, MISSED! England won, but there was no roof-raising, no out-of-control celebration, no clinking of steins. It was over, but . . . No matter . . . The Irish singer and fiddle player jumped right in, played their music and people spontaneously clogged their own versions of the Irish jig!

Wish me luck today . . . . Heading out to the Town of Foot Problems!!

Lather, Rinse, Repeat!

Just Dance

After more than 25 years of dreaming of Ireland and only a few days of actually being here, I decided that THIS is where my heart belongs. Carl keeps telling me that the clear skies and warm weather aren’t giving me a real taste of the country, but . . . I don’t care! What’s a little weather anyway? Rain and wind are minor details compared to the warm feeling of belonging radiating from within. The people are lovely, the countryside is beautiful, the politics are neutral and the pace of life is slow and easy. I can actually see myself here, wrapped in a cozy Aran sweater in front of a peat-fueled fireplace with an Irish sheepdog and and an Irish wolfhound at my feet . . . maybe even two of each!! Now THAT’s saying something, right? Michael Flatley recently listed his manor for sale! Perhaps that would be the perfect spot for me. Michael answered his siren call putting traditional Irish dancing on the map, so why can’t I answer MY call and move over here? People all around the world flocked in droves to see Riverdance, The Lord of the Dance and Celtic Tiger. They purchased CDs, videos, DVDs. They enrolled in Irish dancing lessons. They welcomed anything and everything Irish . . . And so do I.

The links at Ballybunion proved to be quite a challenge but with our “never give up” attitude, we slogged through all 18 holes of dunes and gorse . . . not our best scores by a long shot, but a great feeling of satisfaction nevertheless. We weren’t the only ones struggling, either. Our playing partners, two guys from Arkansas, foolishly thought they could conquer “the beast” by striking their balls as hard as they could! Perhaps they never heard the “when it’s breezy, swing easy” quip, but they sure demonstrated the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result! The harder they swung, the madder they got. Their balls flew a l-o-n-g distance, that’s for sure, but the wind either blew them into the Atlantic or into the NeverNeverLand of gorse! Kevin became the Arkansas Razorback tattooed on his right calf. He stomped, he snorted, he growled, he swore, he threw clubs and he walked more holes “in his pocket” than he played. Tommy (or TommyBoy as I mentally called him) snidely commented over and over that “it just ain’t right for a woman to out-play a man!” Um . . . Obviously no one ever told him NEVER to underestimate the power of a woman! I stopped trying to make friendly conversation with him early on in the round . . . But I just couldn’t help myself at the 18th hole. He power-swung his drive yet again sending it off somewhere into the dunes. He DID hit a provisional drive out into the fairway, but somehow my ball got lots and lots of roll, stopping 15 yards ahead of his. As we each identified our balls, I looked at him and borrowing a line from Brittaney Spears’ lyrics sang, “Oops! I did it again!” and waited for him to hit. He didn’t shake my hand or acknowledge our round after we’d holed out, but that’s o.k. I wasn’t too keen on having a pint with him in the 19th hole anyway!

As usual, Michael was there to greet us in our luxury coach.

“How’d you all fare t’day?” he asked, sliding the doors open for us.

“Quick, Michael! Head straight to the Cliffs of Mohr . . . I need to jump off!” I said.

“No, no, I won’t be doin’ that,” he said, “I have to get you back to Killarney in time for the parade! There’s a 4th of July Parade scheduled for 7:00 p.m. in honor of our American friends! There are floats and bands and all sorts of American characters. ‘Tis really quite lovely, ya see! I don’t want you to miss it!”

One would ask, “Why would a city in Ireland sponsor a full-blown parade for an American holiday?” And the answer is, as the Irish would say, “quite lovely.” Many, many years ago an American Vietnam Vet purchased a pub at the intersection of two of Killarney’s main streets. On every 4th of July, he flew an American flag. Soon he began putting tables and chairs out on the sidewalk and offering free hamburgers in celebration of American Independence Day. The other shopkeepers along the street began flying American flags too. More and more elaborate street decorations appeared . . . larger things like replicas of the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sams, pennants and banners. Street performers entertained and musicians played American anthems, and the parade was born! The Rose of Tralee reigns over the crowds much like Pasadena’s Rose Queen, atop her own float, flanked on each side by youth sports teams. Following the parade, all in attendance are invited over to the park to watch an American movie with popcorn and cotton candy available. It truly is “quite lovely” indeed.

And so our magical trip slowly drew to a close with two more rounds of golf, one at Doonbeg and the last at Lahinch. There were no traffic jams on the way to the airport (but for a few sheep crossing the road), no snags at Customs and absolutely no problems boarding in GROUP 1 for our return to reality. We danced through these past 10 days in a sort of earthly heaven I never dreamed possible. It was truly the trip of a lifetime. My only advice to you is if you have something you want to do and you hear the music calling, accept the invitation and . . . go ahead . . . just dance!

Just Dance

After more than 25 years of dreaming of Ireland and only a few days of actually being here, I decided that THIS is where my heart belongs. Carl keeps telling me that the clear skies and warm weather aren’t giving me a real taste of the country, but . . . I don’t care! What’s a little weather anyway? Rain and wind are minor details compared to the warm feeling of belonging radiating from within. The people are lovely, the countryside is beautiful, the politics are neutral and the pace of life is slow and easy. I can actually see myself here, wrapped in a cozy Aran sweater in front of a peat-fueled fireplace with an Irish sheepdog and and an Irish wolfhound at my feet . . . maybe even two of each!! Now THAT’s saying something, right? Michael Flatley recently listed his manor for sale! Perhaps that would be the perfect spot for me. Michael answered his siren call putting traditional Irish dancing on the map, so why can’t I answer MY call and move over here? People all around the world flocked in droves to see Riverdance, The Lord of the Dance and Celtic Tiger. They purchased CDs, videos, DVDs. They enrolled in Irish dancing lessons. They welcomed anything and everything Irish . . . And so do I.

The links at Ballybunion proved to be quite a challenge but with our “never give up” attitude, we slogged through all 18 holes of dunes and gorse . . . not our best scores by a long shot, but a great feeling of satisfaction nevertheless. We weren’t the only ones struggling, either. Our playing partners, two guys from Arkansas, foolishly thought they could conquer “the beast” by striking their balls as hard as they could! Perhaps they never heard the “when it’s breezy, swing easy” quip, but they sure demonstrated the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result! The harder they swung, the madder they got. Their balls flew a l-o-n-g distance, that’s for sure, but the wind either blew them into the Atlantic or into the NeverNeverLand of gorse! Kevin became the Arkansas Razorback tattooed on his right calf. He stomped, he snorted, he growled, he swore, he threw clubs and he walked more holes “in his pocket” than he played. Tommy (or TommyBoy as I mentally called him) snidely commented over and over that “it just ain’t right for a woman to out-play a man!” Um . . . Obviously no one ever told him NEVER to underestimate the power of a woman! I stopped trying to make friendly conversation with him early on in the round . . . But I just couldn’t help myself at the 18th hole. He power-swung his drive yet again sending it off somewhere into the dunes. He DID hit a provisional drive out into the fairway, but somehow my ball got lots and lots of roll, stopping 15 yards ahead of his. As we each identified our balls, I looked at him and borrowing a line from Brittaney Spears’ lyrics sang, “Oops! I did it again!” and waited for him to hit. He didn’t shake my hand or acknowledge our round after we’d holed out, but that’s o.k. I wasn’t too keen on having a pint with him in the 19th hole anyway!

As usual, Michael was there to greet us in our luxury coach.

“How’d you all fare t’day?” he asked, sliding the doors open for us.

“Quick, Michael! Head straight to the Cliffs of Mohr . . . I need to jump off!” I said.

“No, no, I won’t be doin’ that,” he said, “I have to get you back to Killarney in time for the parade! There’s a 4th of July Parade scheduled for 7:00 p.m. in honor of our American friends! There are floats and bands and all sorts of American characters. ‘Tis really quite lovely, ya see! I don’t want you to miss it!”

One would ask, “Why would a city in Ireland sponsor a full-blown parade for an American holiday?” And the answer is, as the Irish would say, “quite lovely.” Many, many years ago an American Vietnam Vet purchased a pub at the intersection of two of Killarney’s main streets. On every 4th of July, he flew an American flag. Soon he began putting tables and chairs out on the sidewalk and offering free hamburgers in celebration of American Independence Day. The other shopkeepers along the street began flying American flags too. More and more elaborate street decorations appeared . . . larger things like replicas of the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sams, pennants and banners. Street performers entertained and musicians played American anthems, and the parade was born! The Rose of Tralee reigns over the crowds much like Pasadena’s Rose Queen, atop her own float, flanked on each side by youth sports teams. Following the parade, all in attendance are invited over to the park to watch an American movie with popcorn and cotton candy available. It truly is “quite lovely” indeed.

And so our magical trip slowly drew to a close with two more rounds of golf, one at Doonbeg and the last at Lahinch. There were no traffic jams on the way to the airport (but for a few sheep crossing the road), no snags at Customs and absolutely no problems boarding in GROUP 1 for our return to reality. We danced through these past 10 days in a sort of earthly heaven I never dreamed possible. It was truly the trip of a lifetime. My only advice to you is if you have something you want to do and you hear the music calling, accept the invitation and . . . go ahead . . . just dance!

 

What do you do when you collect your mail and find the dreaded jury summons?  Do you double check to make sure the envelope bears your name?  Do you even open the summons or, like many people, do you merely toss the unopened envelope into the trash bin planning to claim that you never received such a document should the authorities ask?  Or conversely, are you one of those civic-minded citizens who believes that jury service is an honor and a privilege?  You believe that it is your responsibility as an American to abide by the rules our forefathers put in place for this nation.  As is the case with most ethical dilemmas, it is always prudent to take the high road and “do the right thing,” right?  I’m not so sure.

As much as I loathe suspending all activity for an entire week to reserve those dates for possible jury duty, when MY envelope darkened the mailbox, I returned to my desk, inhaled deeply, slit the envelope open, blackened the appropriate boxes on the summons and officially registered my availability for the dates on which I would perform my civic duty.

“There!” I thought to myself as I clicked SEND on the official juror registration website, “No lawyer is going to want me on his jury anyway!  I’m married to a retired judge, for Pete’s sake!”

It didn’t bother me in the least that my husband and I had confirmed travel plans for the last day of my required week.  I KNEW that I would be excused from jury duty LONG before Friday!  There was no doubt in my mind that I would be sipping a vacation kick-off cocktail on the airplane on Friday afternoon as we headed to Colorado with close friends.  Yep!  Life was good.  I watched the temperatures drop on the 5-day weather forecast for Beaver Creek and began mentally planning my travel wardrobe, mixing and matching different combinations of slacks, sweaters, fleece jackets, skirts and, on the off-chance, foul weather gear for golf!    All that was left to do was actually pack those pieces in my suitcase, hand over the house keys to the dog sitter and head for the airport.

On the Sunday evening prior to my official jury duty start date on Monday, I called the number on my summons to see if I were required to report.

“According to our records, the first three letters of your last name are W-E-S . . . you are NOT required to report for jury service tomorrow, Monday, September 12,” announced the voice on the other end of the telephone.  “Please call again tomorrow after 7:00 p.m. for further notifications.” 

Whoo hoo!  Day 1 of jury duty is a free day!  Things were right on schedule! And again, at the stroke of 7:00 p.m. on Tuesday, I dialed the check-in number, and was electronically excused from Day 2 of jury service!   I confirmed plans with the dog sitter and continued to enjoy my week of jury duty that I KNEW would continue painlessly with notices of no need to report emanating from the other end of the telephone line.  Wednesday evening rolled around but THIS time, the electronic message was not so friendly!

“According to our records, the first three letters of your last name are W-E-S . . . please report for jury service tomorrow, Wednesday, September 14, 2016 at 7:30 a.m. at the address shown on your Summons.  Thank you and good night!”

“O.K., that’s good!” I thought to myself, “I’ll get this over with once and for all!  No more calling in every evening.  I’ll go downtown tomorrow, be sent out to a courtroom, answer a couple questions, tell them my spouse’s occupation then be excused!  Done and done! Colorado, here we come!”

Now, in a perfect world, that’s exactly how things would have played out.  In the REAL world, (into which I only venture when absolutely necessary), things are very different.  Juror parking is located several blocks away from the courthouse, many streets are closed due to construction and lengthy traffic delays are unavoidable.  I, being extremely reticent to wander the streets of Los Angeles alone, investigated other options for transportation.  The Gold Line would require an interline transfer;  I didn’t want that.  Uber was an option, but my past experiences soured me on using it.  Finally, my husband agreed to deliver me directly in front of the courthouse in the morning and return later in the day to bring me home!  PERFECT!

There I stood, on the sidewalk in front of the central court building, waiting for the Halls of Jurisprudence to open.  Soon the line wrapped around the corner, none of us really sure that we were standing in the correct line.

“Is THIS the line for jury duty?” I asked the woman directly in front of me.

“Beats me!  I’m here because I have a trial date this morning!” she replied.

“I’ve got jury duty!” came a voice from further ahead in the line.

“Me too!”

“I do, too!”

“So do I!” admitted others.

<“O.K. This is STILL good!” I thought, “maybe I’ll be sent out to the courtroom where the lady in front of me is having her trial!  I can tell the lawyers that she and I were talking in the waiting line this morning, and they’ll excuse me!”>

My spirits were high knowing that I had at least TWO reasons to be excused from service!  And the ace in the hole would be the one day/one trial rule!  If I sat in the Jury Assembly Room all day long without being sent out to a courtroom, I would be excused!  I hadn’t a care in the world!  I was in such a good mood that even the constant parade of homeless beggars panhandling from all of us in line didn’t bring me down.

<“Good grief!” I thought, “all you guys have to do is register to vote, get a post office box mailing address so you can receive your Jury Summons, sit in a courtroom to the tune of $15/day and $0.32/mile and you wouldn’t have to beg!”>  

I have always enjoyed people-watching.  Airports, malls, banks, anywhere you happen to be that requires a lot of idle wait time, are perfect places for it.  Courthouses are even better.  As more and more prospective jurors filed into the Jury Assembly Room, I indulged in crafting identities for some of the more interesting ones.  One man looked like he’d just ridden his Harley-Davidson across the desert.  A thick, long brown braid fell down his back from beneath a faded blue kerchief wrapped around the top of his head. Dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, his leathery weathered cheeks sat on either side of a scraggly Fu Manchu mustache and beard and his tattooed arms told stories in ink that I was afraid to read!  I knew he couldn’t possibly be armed because of the security screening we all went through, but still, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d managed to smuggle in a knife or a lead pipe or something.

<“Whoa!  Scary guy! Please don’t sit next to me! Please don’t sit next to me! Pleasedon’tsitnexttoMEEEEEEE!” I silently begged.>  

Another lady brought her own reading material: a newspaper printed in Chinese!  She stood no taller than five feet.  Brown leather sandals, white ankle socks, a long beige skirt, a wrinkled white button-down blouse, a mousy brown cardigan sweater and her graying hair pulled back into a bun was the perfect costume for someone cast as a peasant in the 1987 Oscar-nominated movie, “The Last Emperor.”

<“I’ll bet she’s going to claim that she doesn’t speak English!” I thought to myself.> 

My reverie was abruptly interrupted by one of the courthouse employees in charge of juror assembly.

“O.K., my friends, my name is Yolanda Washington, and I will be guiding you through your orientation this morning.  Good Morning!”

Some people mumbled, but whatever they said was imperceptible.

“Good Morning!” repeated Ms. Washington, a little more loudly, “I’m sure that there are a few of you in this room who would rather be somewhere else.  So would I, but . . . as long as we’re stuck here with each other for who knows HOW long, we’re going to be cordial to one another, you see.  So, I’m going to say ‘Good Morning’ again, and I want you to return the greeting.  Are we clear?”

“GOOD MORNING!” came a more enthusiastic yet still apathetic response.

“That’s better, my friends,” she said.  “We are here today to allow you to perform your civic duty as a member of a jury.  It is an honor and a privilege.  It is.  Some of you MAY be called to serve in another courthouse today.  If that is the case, we will provide you with written directions to that courthouse, and you will be given a certain amount of time to make the drive there.  In my hand here are other travel options . . . bus schedules and subway schedules.  You may choose whichever mode of transportation your prefer, but just remember . . . you will only be given a certain amount of time to get there. Do NOT stop at McDonald’s or Starbucks.  Do not have breakfast at The Pantry.  Do NOT attend a Dodger game.  Go directly to the courthouse!”

Yolanda Washington was obviously a very-well seasoned government employee.  She knew her job well and operated on auto-pilot, directing incoming jurors, answering questions, and delaying information to one person when she knew her orientation program would be comprehensive.  Despite there being a loose dress code for jurors, that of “business casual,” there clearly is no dress code for the government employees — at least none that could be identified.  Yolanda, in her bright pink rubber flip-flops, slogged across the front of the assembly room in faded lime green leggings, squeezing her formidable Size XXL body into a Size M — apparently the only size left on the clearance table at Wal-Mart.  Her even paler green, scoop-necked t-shirt, on the other hand, draped over her torso with room enough to accommodate at least another half of her!

She continued her orientation.

“All right, my friends, listen up!  Everyone turn off your cell phones, pagers, laptops, iPads, iPods and any other electronic devices that you may have in your possession.  I know who you are, and if I find you using any of these such devices during my orientation, it won’t be pretty.  Trust me on that.

“I want you ALL to take out your Jury Summons and turn it to the front side with the Juror Badge facing you . . . like this,” she said, displaying the correct side of the document.

And from there, she instructed us, step by step, item by item, box by box, bubble by bubble on how to correctly fill out the form.  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was back in the third grade learning how to fill out an answer sheet for standardized testing.  Shortly after all forms were completed, signed and turned in, Yolanda addressed the group of us again.

“O.K., my friends,” she began, “here comes my favorite part of this job.  Do you see this pile of papers in my hands right here?  THESE are all of the forms that have been filled out INcorrectly!  If you hear your name called, please step forward, claim your Summons and we will try it all over again.”

While all of that was being completed, I picked up the Time magazine that was sitting on one of the empty chairs and began paging through it.  I wasn’t particularly interested in reading it; leafing through it was just a way of killing a little bit of time.  A very deliberate, monotone, robotic voice cut through the air, startling me.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.  When you are finished with that magazine, may I please have it?”

I looked immediately to my right to discover the source of such a foreign sound.  A man sitting a few seats away from me was speaking through a tube sticking out of his neck!  He’d obviously had some life-altering surgery and was now speaking through a tracheostomy tube!

“Oh!” I said, trying not to sound too surprised, “Take it now.  I’m not really reading it!”

Boy, oh boy!  Back to people watching!  How did I miss that?! I glanced up toward the front of the room to measure Yolanda’s progress on those whose forms had been completed incorrectly and I noticed the back of an extremely tall, slender woman wearing a super cute sweater!

<“Turn around, turn around! Your sweater is so cute!  I want to see the front!”> 

And then she turned around.  The abnormally tall height should have alerted me, but it didn’t.  The woman wearing the super cute sweater was obviously a transgender individual in transition.

<“O.K. Wow!  Didn’t see that coming, but  . . . that’s cool.  This is a cross-section of people down here.  Not my thing, but . . . her sweater is really cute!” I thought.>

Once again, Yolanda interrupted my favorite pastime.

“Listen up, my friends,” she began with authority, “Central Civil West courthouse is in need of prospective jurors.  Remember when I told you earlier that some of you MIGHT be sent to another location?  Well, this is it.  If you hear your name called, please come up to the window at the half-door and pick up your directions to CCW.  You are instructed to get there ASAP.

Lena Nguyen

Fernando Salvatorre

Luisa Gonzalez

Win Tran

Hae Sung Chung

Julia Jo

Arturo Jimenez

Wai Wai Lin

Mary West . . .”

<NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!  Not Mary West!!!!  Please not Mary West!  I don’t WANT to go to CCW!!!!  That’s Carl’s old courthouse and that’s where long cause cases are heard!!! I want to study people and make up stories about them! I want to talk to the man with the tube sticking out of his neck!  I want to listen to Yolanda insult us and talk down to us like 8-year-olds!  I want to sit here all day and be excused!>

My over-the-top good mood plummeted to the depths of despair!  Not only did I not want to leave the relative comfort of the Jury Assembly Room, I didn’t have my car!  I was going to have to get to CCW on my own somehow!  None of the options was acceptable.  Red Line . . . No. Bus . . . No. Walk . . . I couldn’t get there fast enough within my allotted time.  Uber . . . Uber . . .

I had no choice.  With my iPhone in hand, I swiped across the screen, tapped the Uber icon and engaged the app.

Driver’s Name: Hakob     Silver Lexus     License No. XXXXXX     Arrival Time: 2 minutes

I tracked the little car icon on my screen to gauge the arrival of Hakob, but I needn’t have.  The sounds of tires screeching and horns honking announced my driver as he made an illegal U-turn dangerously in front of an oncoming bus!  Reluctantly, but desperately, I climbed into the back seat and clicked on the seat belt.  Several hair-raising minutes later, the car door opened and I spilled out onto the sidewalk like a rag doll.

Once through security at CCW and punctually on time in Department 306, I sank into a seat in the gallery and composed myself.

<You’re still O.K.  Don’t panic.  The lawyers will come in, they’ll seat twelve of us at a time, ask a couple questions, and you’ll be outta here!> 

When things start to go wrong, you should plan on EVERYTHING going wrong!  The lawyers DID parade into the courtroom, taking their places at either the plaintiffs’ or defendants’ positions, but there was no questioning of prospective jurors.  Instead, the judge lectured us on the history of modern jury trials . . . from 1798 to the present!  Not only was it boring, it was also irrelevant (in my mind!)  Following his discourse, the judge informed us that we would be completing a lengthy questionnaire . . . between 15-20 pages . . . to determine our suitability for the 15-day trial for which we were being selected.  We were to complete our questionnaires honestly and completely, UNDER PENALTY OF PERJURY, sign them, return them to the court clerk and return on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for jury selection to begin.  He did, however, offer a fifteen-minute break before distributing our bulky questionnaires.

“Oh my gosh! This is going to take forEVER!” said a very sultry, husky voice.  The cadence was so slow and deliberate . . . exactly like that of Gollum from The Hobbit. I looked in that direction and saw that the extremely tall woman wearing the super cute sweater had taken the seat next to me!  “I’m going to go down to the lobby to by some cookies.  Would you like some?” she offered.

“Oh, no thank you.  I’m o.k.!” I said.

“As soon as I’ve collected all the questionnaires, we will break for lunch.  Then those with hardships can return at 1:30 p.m. for disposition of their issues,” informed the clerk.

I raced through my questionnaire, making sure that my spouse’s occupation was in bold capital letters, and handed it to the clerk.  It was prudent.

“I’ll be back at 1:30 p.m.,” I told him, “for disposition of my hardship.”

“YOU have a hardship?” he asked, not quite believing me.

“AbsoLUTEly!” I confirmed, “Neither the plaintiffs nor the defendants are going to want me on their jury.  I also have prepaid airplane tickets for Friday morning at 9:16 a.m. to go to Colorado!”

“1:30 p.m. is for fiNANcial hardships, Ma’am.  You never CAN tell who the lawyers want on their juries.  That’s not your call!  We’ll see you on Friday morning at 9:00 a.m.!” he said as he snatched the multipage questionnaire from my hands.

I had no opportunity to tell him that I was married to a retired judge.  Most people would have engaged in a conversation as to WHY I felt that the parties wouldn’t want me as a juror, but not this guy!!  NOOOOOOO!  He shuffled me out so fast I didn’t have time to form my Plan B!

COME AND PICK ME UP NOW!  I texted Carl.  I’M AT CCW AND I’M NOT EXCUSED!  I HAVE TO RETURN ON FRIDAY AT 9:00 A.M. 

There are no bitmojis and no emoticons appropriate to communicate my mood.  I typed in crying faces, mad faces and sad faces, but all of them combined did not portray my feelings.

After discussing all the possibilities of changing our flight to one later in the day, with the uncertainty of how long I’d be detained on Friday, it was impossible to commit to new travel plans.  The call I had to make to our friends, informing them that the gamble I took with my jury duty exploded and blew up our plans was extremely hard to do!  I’d ruined what was supposed to be a really fun weekend!

I dressed so conservatively for jury selection on Friday morning that I made J. McLaughlin’s line of clothes look avant-garde. My long-sleeved A-line dress, beige patent leather pumps, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace would blast the message to the lawyers on both sides that I am traditional, conventional and inflexible.  They. Would. Not. Want. Me. On. Their. Jury.  I sat outside the courtroom, texting friends about my morning as everyone trickled in.  At least that brought a few smiles to my face.

All one-hundred of us prospective jurors crowded the courtroom, waiting for the process to begin.

“What you all don’t know about this judge,” said the clerk, “is that he really appreciates jurors.  He brought donuts for you this morning, so . . . if you’d like one, please, come and partake!”

<Big deal!  I don’t WANT donuts.  They are so fattening!  Donuts are just thigh larvae.  You eat one and before you know it, your thighs are bigger!>

I was in no mood to be buttered up by some judge.  I wanted OUT!

There we sat and sat and sat and sat and sat.

“What you all don’t know about the court system either,” said the clerk, “is that nothing ever starts on time!  We’ll get going in a little while.  The lawyers are back in the back rooms finalizing things, so just sit tight.  There are more donuts for those of you who’d like seconds!”

<Ugh!!  Sure.  “Nothing starts on time” but WE had to be here at exactly 9:00 a.m.!>

Minutes ticked by.  Still no action.  At least I didn’t have to worry about catching an airplane.  A couple of hours of inertia in the courtroom lapsed.  There were no signs of anything official being close to getting underway.

“Mary West . . . would you please approach the rail?” said the clerk.

I collected my purse, shuffled across the people in my row and arrived in front of the clerk.

“Go down to the third floor, to Department 216, Window 2 and have your parking ticket validated.  You are excused.”

I felt like screaming a big “I TOLD YOU SO!” at him, but I quickly turned on my heels, punched the button to call the elevator and left that courthouse as fast as I could!

The NEXT time the mailman dares to drop a jury summons in my box, THIS jurist’s prudence may not be so noble!

 

 

 

 

 

 

“In Life, have a friend that is like a mirror and a shadow; a mirror never lies and a shadow never leaves.”  What nice words to live by, right? Who wouldn’t want a friend like that? Perhaps the litmus test is caddying for that mirror/shadow friend during her qualifying round of golf for the U.S. Women’s Senior Amateurs.

” Hey!  I’ve just signed up to qualify for the Women’s Seniors again.  Wanna caddie for me?” Heidi asked at the beginning of one of our many telephone conversations.

” Uuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm . . . when is it?” I asked, not ready to commit with an immediate yes.

There are lots of things to consider before taking on a responsibility of that magnitude.  Firstly, I wanted to know WHERE the round would be played.  How far would I have to drive?  Would I need to spend the night somewhere? And because of Rusty, I had to make sure he wouldn’t be left alone too long in the house all by himself.  As the primary caregiver for the family pet, I have to attend to his needs before making any plans for myself.  If the venue was close enough to my house NOT to require an overnight stay, I next needed to know Heidi’s tee time so I could gauge the number of hours I’d be gone from home and the dog.  Traffic in Southern California is highly unpredictable and notoriously congested.  My uncanny ability to get lost as soon as I leave my driveway requires at least an extra forty-five minutes of travel time . . . just in case.  Thirdly, and most importantly, I know that caddying can be physically stressful but caddying for a friend could be catastrophic for the relationship.   I knew I could deal with the physical demands of pushing a golf trolley across the fairways for eighteen holes, but the filter between the thoughts that race through my head and the sentences that escape from my lips is dangerously thin.   Since “mirrors never lie” and “shadows never leave” are the ingredients upon which I base my friendships, I needed to decide if I were a mirror, a shadow or both.

“Well . . . .,” pressed Heidi, waiting for a response.  “C’mon!  You’ve done it before . . . we do well together!  It’s at Rancho Santa Fe.  Come down the day before, we’ll play nine holes in the afternoon, spend the night, then arrive early for my 8:10 a.m. tee time a.m. the next day.”

Ugh . . . Rusty.  I’ve got to get HIM all set.  Should I head down to Pauma Valley, spend the night down there, NOT play nine holes, get up REAL early and just meet Heidi for her qualifying round?  Since she plays early in the morning, we’d be done around noon and I could head back to Pauma and Rusty. 

“Let me see what I can do,” I said, still not giving a definite yes.

“GREAT!  I’ll make us a time for nine holes for Wednesday and Sioux already invited us to spend the night at her house,” Heidi said, obviously not having read my thoughts.  “Since my time is one of the earliest ones on Thursday, we’ll go down to La Jolla while we wait for the others to finish.”

“I think I’ll just leave after you’re done,” I said, thinking that I’d head out and get a jump on traffic.

“WHAT?!  You’re not going to leave me, not knowing if I’m going to be in a playoff, are you?” she exclaimed, panic evident in her rising tone.

“Good grief,” I said, “You’re NOT gonna be in a playoff! You’re gonna be well under the bubble!”

If friends are like mirrors and shadows, why can’t they also be clairvoyant?  Doesn’t she know that I have dog issues?  

All arrangements for Rusty’s care came together, freeing me up for the overnight at Rancho Santa Fe.

“O.K.  Change of plans,” I texted, “Will stay all the way through the final results and stay a second night! Can’t see myself leaving you before everyone’s scores are in and posted.”

My official pre-round caddie duties began on Wednesday afternoon.  While on each green, Sioux and I searched for markings that indicated the pin placements for the following day. Once identified, Heidi practiced putting to that spot from various distances and locations.  Sioux, the resident expert on “local knowledge,” advised Heidi as to which ways the greens ran, possible tricky spots and definite areas and situations to avoid.  The modified tutorial continued through dinner at the Club with the remainder of the evening planned to enjoy a glass or two of wine on Sioux’s back patio.

“O.K., Sioux, we’ll see you back at the ranch!” I said as I opened the car door and stepping inside the passenger side.

“No!  Sioux came with us in MY car!” Heidi reminded me.  “You rode in the back seat, remember?”

“Oh my gosh!” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Sioux!  I totally forgot!”

“Don’t worry about it!” replied Sioux, “I was just standing here thinking, ‘Now where did I park my car?’  I forgot I came with you too!”

The morning greeted us after a very fitful night of sleep.  I lay awake, thinking about an infinite number of faux pas I might commit during Heidi’s golf the next day.  Caddies must be silent, invisible and nonparticipating pieces of their golfers’ equipment.  Just another club in the bag, so to speak.  They must not contribute to the players’ conversations; they must not compliment good shots and they must NEVER, EVER, EVER gasp or make any utterances whatsoever at a missed putt, a chunked shot or any other unfortunate happening during that round.  I know that first hand from committing those very sins during my previous caddying experiences.  I laid in bed lecturing myself on “caddie etiquette,” and I was worried.  Like I said, the filter between what goes on inside my head and what escapes through my lips is seriously weak.  I had to be extremely cognizant of my primary role as Heidi’s caddie:  KEEP HER CALM; KEEP HER FOCUSED; KEEP HER CONFIDENT.  She was the only one with whom I could speak, and even at that, WHAT I spoke had to be ‘just what she needed to hear’ at that time.

We arrived a full hour and a half before Heidi’s 8:10 a.m. start time, and it’s a good thing we did.  The trolley that we’d used for previous qualifying rounds was unstable!  It could not be left unattended nor unsupported on the handle’s side lest it tip over!

“Did you get a lighter golf bag?” I asked.  “Maybe those new Sun Mountain bags are so light that there’s not enough weight on that end to keep the cart from tipping!”

“No,” answered Heidi. “And besides . . . even IF the bag were light, I’ve got so much stuff crammed into the pockets that would compensate for that! Here . . . want a banana, or half of yesterday’s sandwich?”

Oh well.  Whatever it was, I was going to have to be very, very careful not to stand too far away from it.  But . . . what about when I had to pull the flag stick or rake a bunker?  Was I going to have to prop the cart against a tree?  And what if there were no tree around?  I could foresee a horrific nightmare ahead.

As Heidi warmed up on the driving range, trolley leaned up against the club stand, I sat watching the other contestants do the same.  Boy, some of those women can hit the ball F-A-R!  It didn’t take long for me to notice that Heidi’s swing was the prettiest, smoothest and by far, the most fluid one of the bunch.  The two women at the stations on either side of Heidi betrayed their nervousness through their warm-up strokes.  The lady on the left was a definite “shank-o-pottomus” while the one on the right kept chilly-dipping.

“Well . . . there’s two right off the bat that we don’t have to worry about!” my thoughts temporarily distracted from the tippy golf trolley. 

I was positive that Heidi would be among the fifteen contestants earning a spot in the U.S. Women’s Senior Amateur Tournament.  I was NOT so positive that the trolley would make it to even the first tee.

“Let’s go see if we can find a cart boy,” suggested Heidi, “maybe he can figure out what’s wrong with the cart!”

“Good idea!  Let’s go!” I said.

Forgetting that Sioux rode in the car with us was the first dumb thing I did.  Setting up the golf trolley was the second.  The reason it was unstable and kept tipping over was because we hadn’t pulled the front wheel out from it’s contracted stowing position, and it didn’t take a cart boy to figure it out!  The young female employee from the pro shop knew immediately how to fix the problem!

“Just pull the wheel, like so,” she said, “and . . . there!  It stands all by itself! See?”

“Well butter my butt and call it a biscuit,” I thought.  

The elite golfers chatted among themselves while I organized the trolley and headed toward the first tee. They all know each other from years of similar competitions.

“Hi Heidi!  Good luck today!  Play like you did last week when you kicked my butt!” said one of them.

“Hey Heidi!  Nice to see you!  Play well!” said another and another and another.

The LED clock on the first tee displayed 8:10 a.m. on the screen, officially marking our starting time.  The U.S.G.A. official introduced each of the three players for the 8:10 a.m. time and dictated the order of play and went over a couple of the local rules, especially emphasizing the new pace of play rule.

“Announcing Heidi Person from Pauma Valley, California,” declared the official, and the round began.

Text messages buzzed into my phone.

“Keep us posted!”

“I want a hole-by-hole report!”

“Good luck to Heidi!  Let us know what happens!”

“Is she nervous?  Is she o.k.?”

Heidi noticed the phone in my hand and immediately ordered me to put it away! “NO TEXTING!” she hissed, sounding very much like Sister Mary John of the Cross barking out orders to my sixth grade class.  I tucked my phone into my back pocket, very much aware of the constant vibration signaling more incoming texts but also very much afraid to do anything about them!

All three drives hit the fairway with Heidi’s ball laying at least fifty yards ahead of the other two.  It should have been clear to me from the get-go that Heidi’s game was far superior to those of the other two in the group, but I attributed their errant shots to early round jitters.  I stopped feeling sorry for them by the third hole, however.  One qualifier in particular probably should have picked up her ball and withdrawn from the competition altogether after her drive on Hole #3.  She was hitting her fourth shot before Heidi hit her second one!

“What do I do here?” she asked, obviously not liking her lie and definitely not knowing basic Rules of Golf. “Is this area ‘ground under repair?’ Do I get a drop?  What do I doooooooo?” she whined.

“Shut up, stop whining and HIT YOUR  #@! BALL!” I thought to myself.  

The U.S.G.A official that had been following us for the first two holes had disappeared.  The Whiner’s caddie-husband tried to flag her down, but to no avail.  After several minutes of indecision, The Whiner finally played a second ball and continued down the fairway with two balls in play.  Due to the delay and an extra ball on the fairway through that hole, our group fell seriously behind the lead group.

“When you get a second,” said Heidi to me quietly, “read the new pace-of-play rule.  I’m screwed!”

Pace of Play:  All players in a threesome completing their qualifying round beyond the allotted time behind the lead group will be assessed a 2-stroke penalty.  

It didn’t matter WHO caused the delay in play!  ALL players in that threesome would be penalized!  The Whiner would be responsible for Heidi’s 2-stroke penalty!

It took ALL the strength I could muster to keep the thoughts inside my head from blasting through my lips!  I started running down the next fairway, pushing the now-stable cart in front of me.

“Stop running!” ordered Heidi.  “It’s not up to US to speed up the group; it’s up to the SLOW PLAYER to get HER act together!”

My need for speed was ill-spent anyway.  The Whiner hit her tee shot out of bounds!

And that’s pretty much how the entire round continued.  I was constantly aware of pace of play until an official appeared confirming that we had caught up.

Four hours later, Heidi signed and verified her scorecard with the tournament officials and the wait for everyone else to finish began.

“Do you want something to drink,” asked Heidi.

“A Diet Coke would be great,” I said, plopping down in the nearest chair, my feet throbbing.

She returned with a Diet Coke for me and a Bloody Mary for her.  Two U.S.G.A. officials joined us at our table and assured Heidi that with her score, she’d be one of the fifteen to qualify.

“See?!” I asked with as much sarcasm as I could, “. . . and to think you were worried!”

More texts buzzed through my shorts.

“Well?  How’d it go?”

“What did she shoot?”

“How many cigarettes did she smoke?”

My fingers typed responses as Heidi’s feet took her pacing back and forth to and from the scoreboard.

“I’m on the bubble!” she announced, “There’s going to be a playoff!”

“Would you just reLAX?” I said, “You are NOT going to be in a playoff!  Just stop being so weird and insecure, would you? You’re driving me nuts! I KNOW you’re not going to be in a playoff because #1, you’re just not and #2, my feet are so tired I couldn’t go one more hole with you!” <mirrors never lie!>

As more and more scores were turned in and posted, the bubble grew to include Heidi in a playoff!  <and shadows never leave!>

The looks on our faces and the glances between us confirmed our testament to friendship: Friends are mirrors that never lie and shadows that never leave.  Heidi reported to the putting green to warm up again.  I retied my shoes, re-wet my towel, texted everybody that there was a playoff, and got ready to make sure Heidi was the one to get the envelope with all the material for Boston.

“Do you know what time it is?” Heidi asked as we approached the first tee for the second time that day.

“Cocktail time!” I said resolutely, imagining the fresh lime taste of a cold vodka/tonic.

“Nope. Time for another one of these!” she said as she lit up her hundredth cigarette.

There is always something to be said for getting a second wind, but Heidi got a second hurricane!  She drove her tee shot so far it almost met the dawn of the next day, and her approach shot to the green?  RiDICulous!!!  Her ball laid about 140 yards from the green, in thick Bermuda rough behind a tree as tall as a skyscraper.  Her line to the pin required a shot up and over the skyscraper.  Cue the Konica-Minolta camera!  Heidi assessed her lie, touched several clubs in the bag, reassessed her lie, looked at me (with me only returning a panicked “deer in the headlights” response), selected a club and swung it.  The ball flew in high trajectory, OVER the tree, OVER the bunker and onto the green no further than eight feet from the hole!

A gallery of finishers had gathered to watch the playoff.  Everyone clapped, hooted and hollered.

“Way to go, Heidi!”

“GREAT hit, Heidi!”

. . . and another voice,

“Good caddying, Caddie!”

“Thanks!  It was all because of the club I selected for her!” I teased.

As we approached the green and I handed Heidi the putter, I also wanted to park the trolley close to the next tee in the event we were going to play another hole.

“Here’s your putter.  We’re going to play #1 again, right?” I asked.

“NO!  We’re NOT going to play any more holes!  I’m taking care of business NOW!”

And she did.

Mirrors Never Lie.

And Caddies Never Leave.

 

 

 

The Age of Technology has impacted this planet like no other age!   Electronic gadgets of every kind have been designed to simplify the tedium of daily routines.  Nowadays,  people have very little need of thinking and planning for themselves.  Computer storage files and flash drives have virtually eliminated the need for paper documents.  E-mails, text messaging and Instagram have replaced handwritten letters, notes and postcards sent through the mail.  There are apps for that.  News events from foreign countries are broadcast instantly, in real time, through television, media apps on computers, cell phones, iWatches and tablets.  Food, whether a hot meal or a week’s worth of groceries, can be delivered at your door within minutes.  There are grocery apps, food service apps, wine tasting apps and even dessert apps!  There’s pretty much an app for everything!  Crawling through heavy traffic and paying hefty parking fees are no longer an issue.  Commuters do not rely on limousine companies, shuttle services, busses, mass transit systems or taxi cabs, and begging friends for rides to the airport is a thing of the past.  Party goers revel deep into the wee hours of the morning with no worries about the hazards of driving home.  Yes, indeed — new and convenient transportation services are available at the tap of a finger on a smart phone with no preplanning and no reservations required!  Simply download the free app, enter current credit card information and your name, and voila!  A profile is created —  you are free to travel anywhere at any time whether or not there is any gas in your car at all!

Just like taxi cabs are easily identified by their bright yellow color and illuminated TAXI signs glowing from the roofs, modern rideshare services are also easy to spot.  Bright pink mustaches fastened to the front grills of cars mark Lyft drivers while other services have opted for more discreet front windshield stickers to distinguish their fleets from others.   While marketing Lyft with such a cute and quirky gimmick keeps this service in the forefront of noticeability, it is ultimately the good service, pricing and efficiency of the app that has catapulted Uber to the top of the ridesharing business . . . or has it?

Let’s examine.  Just exactly who uses these services?  It should come as no surprise that it is the Millennials (those youngsters between the ages of 22-34) who constitute fifty-seven percent of the total rideshare passengers, while only a mere seven percent are riders aged 45 and greater.  It should also come as no surprise that male riders make up sixty percent of the total passenger population.  So . . . where does that leave the sheltered woman in her 60s whose husband STRONGLY and CONSISTENTLY suggests that she “just take Uber” as a convenience for attending an event quite a distance from their home but only a couple blocks from his office?  I’ll TELL you where it puts her . . . terrified and alone, all by herself, smack dab inside a car with a complete stranger whose command of English is negligible, whose attention to and compliance with California’s rules of the road are totally disregarded and whose physical appearance could easily be mistaken for any one of the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay detention camp . . . THAT’S where it puts her!

“Hi Honey,” greeted my husband from the other end of the phone, “I was thinking about the dinner tonight.  It starts at 6:30, and if I come ALL the way back home to pick you up and we drive ALL the way back to Downtown L.A., we’ll be stuck in rush hour traffic!!  We’ll be definitely late to the event.  Why don’t you just take Uber and I’ll meet you there?”

“Yikes!!!!  UBER?!  By mySELF??”  My thoughts darted around at warp speed, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for NOT doing it while also NOT sounding selfish for wanting him to pick me up.

“Um . . . UUUber?” I began, ” . . . UUUUUUber?  I’m not really comfortable doing that!”

It was the only thing I could come up with!

“Oh . . . It’s easy!” he said, obviously trying to encourage me to be more cosmopolitan.  “I’ve already downloaded the app on your phone.  You don’t need any money.  The fare will be charged to our credit card and there is no need to tip the driver.  All you have to do is tap the icon, enter our home address then the destination address.  A map will pop up displaying a little car.  You can watch it as it gets closer to you.  Actually, it’s sort of fun! It would SURE make things easier for me, and you know . . .  I’ve been in meetings all day with VERY difficult people . . . I just can’t wrestle with rush hour traffic ALL the way home and then ALL the way back down here!  I don’t need any more hassles today!”

Ugh.  If I insist that he come and pick me up, I come off as selfish, unreasonable and insensitive.  I guess it’s no big deal.   I mean, how hard can it be?  Tap the icon, watch the little car, and . . . get myself down to the dinner (which I was only lukewarm on attending anyway.) 

“O.K.  I’ll see you there,” I said with little to no feeling as I ended the call.

Time came for me to tap the icon to summon my driver. A map of the immediate neighborhood along with a slowly moving little car symbol appeared on the screen of my smartphone, just like my husband told me it would.  The following information was just beneath the map:

Your driver, Thanchanok, will arrive in 2 minutes.  Silver Nissan, License No. XXXXXX

Two minutes suddenly changed to four minutes!  I watched, helplessly, as the little car on the map took a wrong turn and headed west away from my house.  I had no way of contacting the driver; I simply watched him on the map as he turned and wandered, turned and wandered several more times before heading back in my direction.

Fifteen minutes later, the Nissan screeched to a halt curbside, and a very disheveled Thanchanok pushed open the passenger side door from his position behind the steering wheel, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I get loss!  So loss!” he said as I reluctantly approached the car.   “Please to hurry!  Please! Please! Sit in car!  I late!” he ordered.

Against ALL my better judgment and contrary to cacophony of voices screaming at me from inside my head, I climbed into the back seat of the car rather than riding shotgun.  The air inside was so heavy with musky cologne, the EPA would have designated it unhealthy for humans and would have relegated that jalopy to the scrap yard.

The door had barely closed before Thanchanok shifted into drive, slammed his foot on the pedal and sped down the street toward the freeway.

“We go DOWNtown, to DOWNtown, I know!” he said, bobbing his head up and down.  “We take sneaky shortcut . . . through Chinatown . . . yes, Chinatown . . . much faster!!”

There was no turning back now!  Whether I liked it or not, I was committed to the ride with a lunatic behind the wheel of what could very well have been a stolen car judging by the speed and urgency with which Thanchanok was driving.  I quickly double-checked the seatbelt around my waist and grabbed onto the door handle with both hands so tightly that the knuckles on my hands bulged and whitened.   My heart beat so rapidly that a massive coronary would have been a welcomed relief!

An incoming call on Thanchanok’s cell phone distracted him from his primary task: getting ME to my destination . . . safely!  The car dodged, swerved and jerked its way through the bowels of Highland Park, then East L.A. through the residential streets of Chinatown and finally into the business district of downtown Los Angeles.  My driver was deeply engaged in  a very heated and highly animated conversation in his native tongue for the remainder of my ride!  I have NO IDEA what was being said, but I seriously contemplated thrusting my car door open and ducking and rolling from the moving vehicle in order to save myself!

“Hey!  Driver!” I shouted in a not-so-ladylike tone,  “Ya, YOU!!!  You just passed my stop!  Turn around!  No . . . better yet, just STOP RIGHT HERE!  I’ll get out and walk!”  I screamed.  But . . . he either didn’t hear me, didn’t understand me or just didn’t care!!  He turned onto the next street, a one way street . . . going the wrong direction!   Horns honked, breaks screeched, I screamed, and Thanchanok kept on arguing with whomever was on the other end of his call!  When he finally pulled up at my prescribed destination, I freed myself from the confines of that rolling death trap and leaned against the building hyperventilating and taking stock of all my body parts to make sure everything was still in place!   I also metaphorically tied the straps of my Big Girl Thinking Cap on for when I first set angry, livid, FURIOUS, tear-stained eyes on my husband for whose convenience I had taken Uber!

The lobby was full of attendees fully involved in social conversation, cocktails in hand, when I made my Oscar-winning entrance.  Spotting me from across the room, my husband excused himself from his colleagues and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.

“What happened?  I was beginning to get a little worried!  How was Uber?  Here . . . I picked up your name tag for you!” he said.

“BLISTERED BE THY TONGUE!” I hissed from a tightly clenched jaw, a smile on my face so that casual onlookers would think I was delighted to have arrived.  “Don’t you DARE talk to me right now!”  After my heartbeat returned to normal, my breathing regained it’s regular rhythm and my composure was solid, I explained exactly how utterly traumatic my Uber experience had been and swore on a mountain of Bibles that I would never, ever, ever, EVER do it again!  EEEEEEEEEEver.

“Don’t say that!” said my husband, “You just didn’t do it right!  When you activated the app, you didn’t tap on Uber Black Car or Uber Select!  EVERYBODY knows to do that!  You probably took Uber-X!  Next time, make sure you upgrade!”

NEXT time???  NEXT TIME!!!???  There. Will. BE. NOOOOOOOOOO NEXT TIME!  And . . . WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT UPGRADES????????

Just as women who’ve recently delivered babies vow never to have another child then proceed to have a couple more, my promise never to use Uber again also weakened and I found myself giving the ride service another chance.  Again, for my husband’s convenience, I succumbed to using the Uber app for another event in downtown Los Angeles . . . but I was definitely careful to choose an upgrade.

“O.K., so  . . . maybe it won’t be so bad this time!  Of course it would have been nice if SOMEONE had told me about Uber Black Car or Uber Select the first time, but . . . I know about it now, so I’ll try it,” I thought. 

I picked up my smartphone, swiped through the screens, found the Uber icon and tapped it gently to activate the app.  Now that I knew what to look for, I firmly tapped on Uber Select, entered the required pick up/drop off addresses, and proceeded out to the street to wait for my chariot.  The following information appeared directly beneath the pop-up map:

Your driver, Artoosh, will arrive in 3 minutes.  Black Mercedes, License No. XXXXXX

Three minutes suddenly changed to seven minutes!  Again I watched, helplessly, as the little car on the map took a wrong turn and headed west away from my house. I had no way of contacting the driver; I simply watched him on the map as he turned and wandered, turned and wandered several more times before heading back in my direction.

Uh oh!!  This isn’t boding well!  So far it’s just like the last time!!  If that crazy guy shows up again but in a black Mercedes, I’m definitely NOT GETTING IN THE CAR!!! 

I waited and watched as Artoosh’s little car turned around and headed back in my direction.  Shortly, his shiny, late model black Mercedes turned onto my street and stopped at the curb.  The driver’s side door opened and a tall man dressed in a black suit, complete with a tie, introduced himself as he opened the rear passenger door for me.  He had a full head of thick, wavy black hair, a complete full beard and mustache, a long, sharp nose, and one very heavy eyebrow that spanned the distance across his face between his forehead and his eyes.  I was happy to see that there was no cigarette dangling from his mouth, but . . . the scent of heavy musk cologne hung thickly in the air, giving me cause for concern.

“Please to ‘scuse,” he began with an accent so thick I had to concentrate on every syllable, “would you please confirm to me the address of your destination?  I would appreciate that most assuredly.”

O.K.  Not as bad as before, but . . . . I reiterated the address for him.

I secured my seatbelt, cracked open the window for some breathable air, then pulled my phone from my evening bag and typed a message to my husband:

FYI . . . I just got into a black Mercedes with a guy named Artoosh . . . just in case you never see me again! 

and I pressed SEND.

“Please to ‘scuse again, Madam, but do you prefer any particular type of music for the radio to play for you?” asked the driver.

“No, that’s o.k., but thank you,” I answered.

Alright . . . he gets points for that.  

“And Madam?” he asked, “Did you tell anyone you were taking Uber?”

There it was!  The fatal blow!!  I just KNEW Artoosh was going to kidnap me, tie me up at some abandoned warehouse and demand a HUGE ransom for me . . . or WORSE!  Why in the world would he ask me something like that???!!!!  Very disturbing!  VERY disturbing indeed!  I took my keys out of my purse and laced them through my fingers to use as weapons when the need arose.  (I learned that trick from Sue Grafton in her mystery novel, “K is for Kidnap!”)

“Of COURSE I did,” I lied, “I told my husband and a couple of my friends about it and in fact, I even texted them as soon as I got in the car!  I texted them your name and the make and  license plate number of your car!”

So there, you creep!  I prevented a crime in progress!  Where do I go to pick up my medal?

“No!  Please to ‘scuse, Madam, you most regrettably misunderstand me!  I am new Uber driver, wanting for to get much business.  Artoosh would be most happy to have friends of clients ask for me to drive.”

Oh sure, Buddy!  I wasn’t born yesterday you know!!!!  You just got caught trying to kidnap me and now you’re trying to get yourself out of it!  Just shut your mouth and keep on driving . . . I’ve already keyed in 9-1-1 on my phone and I’m SOOOOOO ready to push SEND! Just try me, Buster!

Neither one of us spoke for the duration of the ride.  I was desperately trying to remember the name of the free app college coeds are encouraged to download in the event they are being stalked!  I KNEW there was an app for that and I needed it NOW!  Artoosh drove very professionally, he obeyed ALL traffic signals and posted speed signs, and I sat quietly (but nervously at-the-ready to call for help).  I know I was afraid of him and, in hindsight, he was probably afraid of me!

This time my husband was waiting for me.

“How was it?  Better?  You don’t look quite as frazzled,” he said.

“It was better, but . . . I was nearly kidnapped.  I hope you’re happy!” I said.

Admittedly, Uber Select was a much better experience than my first go around, but my mother’s words to me and my own words to my children haunted me:  “Never EVER get into a  car with a stranger!”  And here I was, actually hiring people I’d never met from a smartphone app to drive me!  All I knew was that I pressed a button on my smartphone and a few minutes later a stranger arrived at my door!  These strangers HAVE MY HOME ADDRESS and I PROVIDED THEM WITH THE INFORMATION!  How irresponsible are we consumers to blindly input such valuable information on a cell phone app for any internet hacker to access?  There are already apps for just about anything, but . . . what about plain old, home grown common sense?  Surely there must be an app for that!

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this current social climate everybody is so concerned about being politically correct that it has reached the point of absurdity. We gingerly navigate through conversations, careful not to offend anyone or anything! Talking heads on News programs jump at every opportunity to highlight incidents of even the slightest innuendo at violating the “rule” of politically correctness! Non-Whites – referred to in PC vernacular as “Non-Caucasians” – are now referred to as “people of color.” Janitors are called “industrial engineers.” Stewards and stewardesses are known as “flight attendants.” And the list goes on. But, I ask, WHO makes those rules? Who coined the term “politically correct?” Being PC is exhausting! Someone, somewhere, somehow decided that identifying a person according to his race, religion, gender, physical appearance, or profession is wrong. And it doesn’t end there! It has reached the point where EVERYTHING has been stifled and neutralized. The same holds true for choosing cosmetics! WHO decided what is beautiful and what is not? Have we reached a breaking point, both politically AND cosmetically?

Believe it or not, we are in the midst of a Cosmetic Rebellion! Long-accepted beauty rules are being broken everywhere! Just look around! You see more and more people on the streets with blue, green, yellow, red, orange and even purple hair! Sometimes one head of hair boasts two colors, maybe even three or four, like a rainbow! If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d been propelled back to the 1960s when Thomas Dam’s Troll Dolls swept the nation! What was once a full-blown craze for toys is now being adopted by living, breathing human beings! Is it beautiful? Who’s making the rule? I loved my Trolls, but do I love that look on people? Hmmmmm . . .

Hair color is not the only battleground in the Cosmetic Rebellion. Oh no! Estee Lauder, Lancome, Christian Dior, Max, Clinique, Cover Girl, Maybelline and myriad other cosmetic manufacturers bank billions of dollars from marketing “beauty!” But again, I ask, WHO decides what is beautiful and what is not? Of course there are guidelines, dictating shadow colors for blue, brown, green or hazel eyes. Blushes and foundations, too, conform to the rules of “skin tone compatibility.” There is more flexibility afforded to lipstick selections. While skin tone, hair and eye color are definitely factored into the choice, mood is also considered. Do you feel classic, contemporary, retro, rebellious, punk, Gothic? Whichever it is, there is a lip color and texture (matte, gloss, stick or liquid) available for purchase. In fact, very effective marketers have convinced us that every makeup kit must have a variety of cosmetics to suit all of our moods! Clever. Very clever indeed. And expensive.

The definition of beauty is fluid. All one needs to do is to look back to your high school yearbooks! Oh. My. Gosh!!! What were we thinking? WHO TOLD US THAT THOSE STYLES WERE ATTRACTIVE? I recently found a picture of myself from high school and tried my best to deny that the image in the photo was really I. My mother had sent me to a series of etiquette classes at Bullock’s (now Macy’s). I learned how to walk balancing books on my head, to speak politely at social functions, to sit while balancing those same books on my head, and to navigate through formal place settings of china, crystal and sterling silver. The last two sessions focused on personal grooming and makeup. Apparently “beauty” in the 1970s meant thinly plucked eyebrows, so closely tweezed that they looked like pencil lines above my eyes, plastered down with clear mascara. Beauty in the 1970s also must have meant sky blue eye shadow regardless of hair or eye color or skin tone. Lips were polished with pink pearl opalescent gloss and cheeks were bronzed with tanning powder. Another beauty enhancement was false eyelashes! My natural eyelashes are plenty long; I certainly had no business gluing more hair to my face! And speaking of hair . . . oh, the HAIR!!! Stepford clones of Farrah Fawcett strutted around everywhere, never realizing that only the REAL Farrah Fawcett could look that good! Case in point, Yours Truly!!

My hair is so thick that I could singularly provide Locks of Love with inventory from now until the day I die! Back in the 70s, I fell in step with the current fashion trend and blew my waist-length hair back from my face, using the biggest round styling brush available! If I could have found one, a personal wind tunnel would have been perfect! I also gathered the bulk of my hair up on top of my head into a ponytail and wound it around family-sized Minute Maid orange juice cans to give it more bounce and body! The effect? I looked like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family in drag! All that hair totally enveloping my body, lots of baby blue eyeshadow, false eyelashes, over-tanned cheeks and glisteningly shiny, pearl lips! Plop me down at a formal dinner and we would have had the dining room scene straight out of Beetlejuice!

“Come mister, tally man, tally me banana!  Daylight come and me wan’ go home!”

But enough about my look in the 70s! The 80s (with the bi-level hairstyles and parachute pants), the 90s (with The Rachel hairstyle, popularized by Jennifer Aniston on “Friends), and the early 2000s (with lower back tattoos, fake tans and frosted lipsticks) all cast their ideas of beauty over us and we all fell victim. What about now in 2016?

Am I still conforming to someone else’s idea of beauty or have I come into my own? Do I finally have my own look? Yes and no. I no longer tediously sit for hours at the beauty salon tinting my hair with highlights and lowlights in an effort to preserve my natural brunette color. There is just too much hair on my head and too few hours in the day to make that an option. I’m allowing Nature to accommodate the gradual changes in my skin and hair colors. I always salt my food, so why not allow “salt” to stealthily infiltrate my hair? I really don’t mind. Celebrities can wear their hair in any style and color they want. Good for them. I’m going to wear MY hair the way I want. No more Minute Maid orange juice can curlers for me! No more waist-length hair! I have opted for shorter styles that are low maintenance! Suburban gardeners have a philosophy on efficiency that I have adopted for my hair: Mow, Blow and Go!

I’m a little pickier about face makeup. Hazel eyes lend themselves to the warm, neutral shades. Therefore, my makeup kit is chock full of mauves, beiges, pinks, grays, forest greens and browns. But, I admit, I get BORED! Just the other day, in a full state of conscious disregard for The Rules, I joined the Cosmetic Rebellion and refused to line my eyes with the same old colors! After several minutes rooting around in my makeup drawer, not finding any eyeliner pencil to accommodate my anarchy, I selected a red lip liner!

“Whoa!” I gasped, fully intrigued, “Look at THIS! I wonder what it would look like?!”

My conservative voice of Inner Reason chimed in, “Hold on a second! That’s RED! You have GREEN HAZEL EYES! Don’t do it, do you hear me? Do NOT do it!”

“Ugh! Who said I can’t wear red eyeliner anyways?” I countered, “I’m gonna try it!”

And with that, I pulled my eyelid tight and drew a long red line just above my upper lashes and beneath my lower ones.

“Hmm . . . different,” I critiqued, looking at my reflection in the mirror.  I continued to draw lines along my other eye.

And off I went to play golf. Several holes into the round, someone in my foursome asked me if I felt o.k.

“Sure!” I answered, never realizing that the red lipliner/eyeliner had altered my usual appearance, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “You just look a little different today. Are you SURE you’re feeling o.k.?”

“Yep!” I said, “Right as rain! Let’s go. Hit your ball!”

A little further into the round came a second question from another woman in my foursome.

“Were you crying this morning before you came here?”

“NO! What makes you ask that?” I asked, rather surprised.

“I dunno. You just look like maybe you’d been crying, that’s all,” she answered with concern.

“Boy! What’s the matter with these people?” I wondered.

 But I didn’t have to wonder too much longer. After completing the 9^th hole, I ran into the Ladies’ Locker Room and looked at myself in the mirror!

<GASP!!!> “Oh my gosh!! It’s my red lipliner/eyeliner!! I guess it makes me look like I’ve either been crying or like I’m suffering from a full-blown attack of hayfever!”

As soon as I returned to the foursome, I pulled out my sunglasses and wore them for the rest of the round!

“Hey!” I began, “I’ve got to tell you guys something! You all thought I was sick or sad because . . . well, I’m wearing red lip liner as eye liner today, and I guess it makes me look a little different!”

The three of them stopped dead in their tracks on the tenth fairway.

“You’ve GOT to be kidding!” they said, “And you did that on PURpose? WHY?”

“Why not?” I asked, “I’m SO bored with the colors I’m supposed to wear, I just thought I’d try something a little different!”

A lot of laughter and head-shaking lead to their collective advice, “Well . . . Don’t do it again! It’s not a good look!”

I’m not sure I like being pressured into cosmetic compliance. My usual morning routine includes a flurry of text messages back and forth to a group of friends. We never discuss anything important, but rather greet each other a good morning, then launch into a series of teasing and joking comments. Shortly after my red lipliner/eyeliner experience, I threatened to wear it again as a means of enduring an unpleasant event.

Me: “I’m thinking of red lipliner/eyeliner this morning!! That way, if I start crying, I can just tell everyone I’ve got hay fever!”

Friend 1: “RED lipliner as eyeliner??? Eeeeeewwwww! That’s just creepy!”

Friend 2: “Stop it! No negativity! Anything can happen, so just buck up!”

Friend 3: “I agree!”

Friend 1: “Tell us you’re NOT gonna do it!”

Me: “O.K., my rant is over. Thanks for being just a keyboard and bitmoji away! I’m better now! PURPLE eyeliner it is!! LET’S GO!”

These notes from friends are well taken. I promise not to use red lipliner as eyeliner as a general rule. I DO, however, reserve the option to wear it in “as needed situations!”

Once again, WHO decided what is beautiful? I don’t know who’s leading the pack, but for me, right now, as a fully committed soldier in the Cosmetic Rebellion, I’M deciding what’s “cosmetically correct!