Eddie Money really hit it right ON the money in his song “Wanna Be A Rock-n-Roll Star!” So many of us really do live out our fantasies of being world-famous mega rock stars. I know this is true because I have seen many performances on the stages … of our automobiles. Admit it — you sing along to your favorite tunes while driving. I know you do! I do, too! We crank up the volume on the radio, our hands become drumsticks as we tap out the beat on the steering wheel drum set and we assume the identity of a . . . Steven Tyler, Mick Jagger, Jimmy Page, Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton, Jerry Garcia, Tom Petty, Bob Dylan or ANYONE! But . . . be honest . . . do you REALLY know the lyrics? Let’s examine this a bit.

A few years ago, while driving along in my new car, I contacted OnStar to request a map download.

“Certainly, Mrs. West, we’ll send those directions to your navigation system right now. You will be guided, step-by-step, in just a few minutes,” advised the polite voice through the speaker near the OnStar button, “Is there anything else we can help you with today?”

“Nope. Thanks!” I answered, completely satisfied with this new service that I hadn’t enjoyed in my old car, “I’m good! Have a GREAT day!” And with that, I turned up the volume on Sirius Radio, Channel 26, Classic Rewind, and began singing along with The Kingsmen.

“Louie, Louie, Oh, Baby, We gotta go!

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,

Every night and day we sail the sea

We think of girls uh-constantly . . . .”

I love that song so much! I became the lead singer of the band, my voice, several registers lower than my natural speaking voice and MUCH more gravelly. Because I was by myself, my rock star persona blossomed! I assumed the accent of a Jamaican Rastafarian and I sang and sang and sang like no one was watching . . . or listening!

“Um . . . Excuse me, Mrs. West?” came a voice from out of nowhere.

“AAAAAAH! Oh my God!!! Who’s talking to me?” I shrieked, startled out of my character, craning my neck to check the back seat for stowaways and holding onto the wheel tightly, hoping desperately not to crash into anything.

“This is OnStar,” said the voice, trying as hard as she could to stifle her laughter, “you have to disconnect OnStar when you are finished; otherwise, we stay in the car with you!”

“Oh . . . SH*T!” I exclaimed, feeling my face instantly flush. “O.K., bye!” I said, clicking the OnStar button as fast as I could.

<Oh, my GOSH!!!!! I can’t believe OnStar just heard me singing! Wow!! How funny is that?! I wonder how many other operators were there listening! I’ll bet they get a lot of laughs over this for a L-O-N-G time . . . especially because I don’t even know the right words! I wonder if they tape all their calls?!>

 Suffice it to say, OnStar has been used VERY sparingly, if at all since then! I’m afraid of them!

My Uncle Jim once thought that people who listen to rock-and-roll would be excellent resources for the Pentagon, FBI and CIA for decoding secret, cryptic international espionage messages because they can understand the lyrics. I beg to differ. People who listen to rock-‘n-roll can decipher a good portion of the lyrics, but there are some gaps. Take, for example, Eric Clapton’s song, “I Shot the Sheriff.” For many years, I sang

I shot the sherry

But I did not shoot the deputy!

My young mind never thought anything about it! Having watched season upon season, episode upon episode of such TV shows as Bonanza, Wyatt Earp and The Rifleman, I just pictured Clapton in a saloon, confessing that he chugged a shot or two of sherry, drew his six-shooter, then pulled the trigger, killing the deputy, but sparing the sheriff! Never once did it dawn on me that cowboys do NOT imbibe such sophisticated and refined aperatifs as sherry, so . . . “I shot the sherry/but did not shoot the deputy” became the lyrics that I knew.

My parents loved folk-singer, Roger Miller. The Wurlitzer hi-fi in our living room spun his records, streaming his songs throughout our house as constant background music. One of my favorites was “England Swings.” Since I was still so young and played with dolls, it should be noted that I made rapid and facile use of baby terminology. “Boppies,” in our household, meant pacifiers that mothers use to calm babies. I used boppies with my dolls; therefore, the lyrics of “England Swings,” while a little unusual, made some sort of sense to my eight-year-old self:

England swings like a pendulum do,

Boppies on bicycles, two by two!”

 Admittedly, the notion of two pacifiers riding on bicycles (rather than British police, bobbies) is a bit strange, but then again, no stranger than the lyrics in John Lennon’s “Come Together:”

Here come old flat-top

He come groovin’ up slowly

He got joo-joo eyeball

He one holy roller

He got hair down to his knee

Got to be a joker he just do what he please

 

He wear no shoeshine

He got toe-jam football

He got monkey finger

He shoot Coca-Cola

 WHAT?????!!!!!!  What. Does. That. Even. Mean??? After all that, two pacifiers riding on bikes in London IS nothing weird, right? Of course not!! The next song on Roger Miller’s album was “Chug-a-lug” about him and a friend finding a moonshine still in a forest down South while on a 4-H field trip, so again, maybe Roger Miller and his friends got drunk and wrote the lyrics to “England Swings!” You never know!

My older brother had a collection of Rolling Stones LPs. I listened to “Honky-Tonk Woman” enough to know I got the lyrics right, but . . . with a name like Mary Margaret, living in an extremely sheltered environment (to say the least) contributed to my naiveté and prevented me from understanding them. I just thought they were disgusting:

I met a gin-soaked bar room queen in Memphis

… She blew my nose and then she blew my mind!

 Why would ANYONE want to blow someone else’s nose? I have to be honest . . . It wasn’t until about a year ago that I had the “Aha” moment and understood the cocaine metaphor! For all of my life (minus one year) I thought that an alcohol-drenched and drunken member of some royal family met Mick Jagger in a bar, took her hankie out of her cleavage and helped him blow his nose! Did he have a cold or allergies or something? NO!!!! NOW I get it!!! Some drunk guy in Tennessee, dressed in drag, gave Mick Jagger some drugs and then . . . . did they have sex? Still not sure, but probably!

Uncle Jim sure had it ALL wrong, didn’t he!! If I had been employed to “help” the Pentagon, FBI or CIA to decode messages, the United States would be at serious risk! I know I’m not alone in confusing lyrics, though. Even Phoebe Buffay from the long-running Friends sitcom admitted her misunderstanding of Elton John’s lyrics to “Tiny Dancer.” “Hold me closer, Tony Danza,” she’d sing. And now . . . for me, those have become the lyrics I sing! Other people mix up lyrics, too! When Heidi and I were in Europe a few years ago on our best ever, five-country road trip, we tuned into Cherie-FM every day. One of the most popular songs aired at that time was Daft Punk and Pharrell Williams’ collaborative song, “Get Lucky.” We heard it at least six times a day, so naturally, we became familiar enough with the lyrics to sing along; howEVER, we mistook the written lyrics for our own, convoluted version! Rather than “we’re up all night to get lucky,” WE sang, “we hope to get Mexican lucky!” WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN????? What is “Mexican lucky?” Is it different from any other culture’s luck? If so, how? We didn’t know, but we sang it, nevertheless!

Some misunderstandings of lyrics can be attributed to poor pronunciation on the artists’ parts, but what about those who have precise diction, like Elton John? He speaks The King’s English after all. His lyrics should be easily understood, and most of them are, but what about the refrain of “Rocket Man?” Here’s MY version:

And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time

‘Til touchdown brings me ’round again to find

I’m not the man they think I am at all

No, No, No, Nooooo

I’m a Rocket Man

ROCKET MAN

Runnin’ on the fumes of evermore!

 “Fumes of evermore?” Really?!!! WHAT ARE FUMES OF EVERMORE???? I don’t know, but the syllables match and the words sort of sound right!  What are the true lyrics? Do you EVEN know?! Check ’em out:

And I think it’s gonna be a long, long, time

‘Til touchdown brings me ’round again to find

I’m not the man they think I am at home

Oh, no no no

I’m a rocket man

Rocket man

Burnin’ out this fuse up here alone!

 O.K. WhatEVER. Perhaps all of us Baby Boomers should band together and head on out to the new epic concert, The Desert Trip, this summer in Indio to relive our Woodstock years — own version of Coachella. We’ll enjoy all the old bands with whom we grew up: The Who, The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan and other greats. They can sing their lyrics and we can sing ours! Boy, oh boy! Eddie Money KNEW we all “Wanna Be Rock-‘n-Roll Stars.”

 

It’s pretty hard to imagine anything cuter than puppies or kittens. They’re soft. They’re fluffy. They’re playful. They’re fun. They’re also irresistible and they turn a house into a real home. Every year, Santa Claus listens to millions of children around the globe recite their wish lists with puppies and kittens sitting at the very top! Most families want them. And mine was no different.

Heidi, a small yet plump 20-pound Dachshund, helped my parents raise my brother, sister and me during our early childhoods. She chased us around the backyard, nipping at our heels, never tiring of her babysitting responsibilities. Doll clothes fit her perfectly (after we cut holes in the pants for her tail). One of my father’s shoeboxes was repurposed as a portable baby carriage for her. I lovingly lined the interior with a thin flannel receiving blanket, dressed Heidi in the frilliest pink Easter outfit in my doll’s wardrobe, including white gloves and a bonnet with that killer elastic neck strap that was tight enough to sever a little girl’s head straight off her body, stuffed her into the box and greeted my dad when he arrived home from work.

“Look what’s in the box, Dad!” I said as I carefully removed the top. There was Heidi, crammed into the size 11-½ shoebox, surrounded in ruffled eyelet, taffeta and ribbon.

“Peg! You can’t keep the dog in a box like that!” he said, reaching toward me in an effort to rescue Heidi.

“It’s not a box, Daddy! It’s something to carry babies in, and besides, you’re not the boss of me!” I argued, shielding the box from him.

“Oh no? I’m your father! Of course I’m the boss! If I’m not the boss of you, then who is?” he asked.

“God is,” I affirmed, always demanding the last word.

For a long time I wondered why suddenly Heidi didn’t live with us anymore! Could it be that when my sister leaned in to smother her with kisses, awakening her from a sound, well-deserved nap, that poor, startled Heidi accidentally bit her on the lip? Probably.  It appeared that Dad really was the boss!

We all felt Heidi’s absence deeply. For several years, every Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July, Columbus Day, Halloween or any other day that we thought might bring us another dog passed but yielded no blessed result.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE could we get a dog?” the three of us begged our parents.

“We PROMISE we’ll take care of it! We’ll feed it! We’ll take it for walks! We’ll do EVERYTHING! PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE?”

But no. My parents remained firm in their resolve . . . that is, until Earl and Renie Kidder’s Dachshund had a litter of puppies! There they were, seven tiny, grunting bundles of warmth, nestled just beneath their mother, some of them silky smooth while a few of them seemed a bit fuzzy, like Brillo pads.

“Hey Earl,” my father began, “are you SURE these are Dachshunds? Look at those three right there!” He knelt down next to the canine maternity ward and pet the three scraggly pups with just one finger.

“These sure don’t look like Dachshunds to me!” he said, concluding his inspection.

“Ya . . . you’re right, Joe,” conceded Earl, “we’re not entirely sure WHAT the mix is, but we sort of suspect that Winston might be the father. He’s always around the kids and the neighborhood, so . . . he just might be the culprit!”

Winston, a 95-lb. massive Old English Sheepdog, belonged to the Murphys who lived on the next street just behind the Kidders. He was part of the neighborhood gang of kids who played with us every single day. He was there for hide-and-seek, although he never hid very well AND he was a dead give-away to OUR hiding spots! Freeze Tag was one of his favorite games. As soon as one of us became “frozen,” he’d come bounding toward us at full speed! He wasn’t big on chasing us, but he LOVED the kid-to-dog tackle! Winston was never tardy or absent from snack time either. Oreo cookies, Cheese Nips and popsicles disappeared right from our hands and into his mouth before we knew what happened. I used to throw a tennis ball for him to chase. He seemed to be interested as he searched for the ball, but his focus waned very quickly. Mrs. Murphy finally figured out that he had so much hair hanging over his eyes that he couldn’t see where the ball had gone! She gathered it up into a ponytail to see if that would help! Bingo! A whole new world opened up for Winston! Not only could he see where the tennis ball had gone, he could also see . . . Gretchen . . . the Kidders’ dog!

Earl and my dad joked about the unlikely, unusual and awkward mating of these two breeds, but the humor was lost on my 5-year-old self.

“I can’t really get a clear visual on the actual event,” chuckled Earl, “but these pups are either gonna be real hairy Dachshunds or real ugly Sheepdogs!”

Whatever. I didn’t care. I just REALLY wanted one of those furry puppies! Following an intense family meeting with all three of us kids vowing to keep our rooms clean, our beds made (never a problem for me, but I vowed, nevertheless, for effect), never to argue with each other again, ALWAYS to set the table, clear the table, wash and dry the dishes, keep the turtle dish clean, do our homework without being told, and basically to be model children for the rest of our lives, my parents agreed to allow an addition to our family . . . by four feet! My mother was the only one who wasn’t fully overjoyed and committed.

“I’m not sure about this, you guys,” she said warily, “I just KNOW I’m the one who’s going to end up with the full responsibility of taking care of this dog! The reason dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ you know, is because the women do all the work!”

“No, Mamma!” the three of us chimed in simultaneously, “we PROMISE we’ll do it! We’ll do ALL the work!”

(Famous last words!)

Ragamuffin (Rags, for short) was enthusiastically welcomed into our family by four out of the five of us. The fifth silently tolerated her. We three kids honored our commitment to attend to the puppy’s needs . . . well, almost all of them, anyway. We fed her, walked her, played with her, cuddled her and loved her like crazy. Cleaning up from her back end hadn’t been part of our initial contract. In fact, we hadn’t even thought of it when negotiating the deal, and there had never been an exact schedule itemizing all of the duties. Luckily for us, however, my mother’s affection for Rags grew as soon as it became clear that Rags inherited her size from Gretchen and her hair from Winston. She was the most adorable Dachshund/Sheepdog mix imaginable! Mom picked up the slack and assumed the task of keeping the back yard clean.

As time went by, Mom and Rags spent most of their time together. Of course she saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when she cautioned us about getting a dog in the first place. Just as Mom had predicted, her dog duties grew in direct proportion to our development into preteen and teenagers. Our days at school stretched into extracurricular activities, slumber parties, Brownie and Boy Scout meetings, piano lessons, choir practice, Glee Club, baseball games, swim meets and play dates. And so it went. We grew up, went to college and moved away. Mom, Dad and Rags held down the fort.

My experience with dogs had been so positive, that at one point I thought of becoming a veterinarian. Yep. Me. A DOG DOCTOR! On top of that, I wanted to move to Montana and raise St. Bernards! After all, taking care of Rags had been so easy and effortless, what was wrong with bumping up the average weight and number of dogs? Rags grew to a full adult weight of 18 pounds. I knew my love for her was greater than 18 pounds worth, so . . . what about doubling that? No, tripling that . . . or quadrupling that? St. Bernards seemed like nice dogs and I had enough love in me for a whole bunch of them, so . . . I was going to raise them!

UC Davis is THE school for animal husbandry. Throughout high school, I set my sights on attending that university, keeping my end goal in mind. I was, however, tackled broadside by chemistry, biology, trigonometry and calculus with the same force as one of Winston’s attacks during Freeze Tag! There was no way I’d ever get through the rigorous requirements of vet school with my lack of aptitude for even high school science and math. I had to abandon the dream of a ranch in Montana and a herd of giant St. Bernards. I would have rather stuck needles in my eyes than endure the challenge of years of science and math involved in veterinary medicine.

Life continued, and so with it, my love of dogs. I married young. Too young. The fantasy of “happily ever after with two cats in the yard and at least two dogs in the house” fed my dreams and expectations. My outline of the perfect life included a dog. Gosh! At one point hadn’t I wanted St. Bernards? It stood to reason, of course, that my then-husband’s insistence on a Great Dane should raise no red flags.   A big dog is a big dog, right? WRONG!!! Marmaduke in the comics endeared himself to everyone who read the newspapers; Jake, the black Great Dane in MY household, on the other hand, endeared himself to . . . my spouse . . . who worked all day . . . and stayed out very late into most evenings and “worked” on weekends.   I also worked full-time. Confining Jake indoors all day long was not an option, so, like many working families with pets, we installed a doggie door. Problem solved? Yes and no. Jake did have the freedom to go in and out of the house at will; however, our particular dog door was a recycled Great Dane brand mud flap meant for an 18-wheel Mack truck! It was so large that neighborhood children, opossums, raccoons, stray dogs and cats, mice, rats and even full-grown adults (like burglars) could pass through! Strong winds pushed branches, leaves and clouds of dust and right along with them, swarms of insects, straight into the kitchen. Being alone all day with no companion, not to mention NO DISCIPLINE, allowed Jake to drag furnishings from inside the house outside to the backyard and vice versa! Throw pillows from the sofa and area rugs from the entry way and halls doubled as chew toys. They were found outside, half-buried in the flowerbeds. Hoses, small gardening tools and remnants of citronella candles were scattered on the living room carpet, chewed, broken and oftentimes muddy. But what I had so often thought was mud was not mud at all! Jake had a very regular constitution, and if I weren’t hyper-vigilant to his schedule, I ran the risk of having to clean up an extra layer of filth . . . EVERYWHERE! I dreaded coming home. I knew what chaos laid waiting.

“UUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH! I HATE this dog! He’s so unruly, so big and so much work! Why do I have all the responsibilities of taking care of him?” I lamented to no one who cared.

My mother’s words from the past haunted me: “The reason they’re called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ is because it’s the women who take care of them!” How right she was! She was two for two on that scorecard, that’s for sure! It was she who ended up taking care of Rags and now it was I who had to deal with Jake.

Not long afterward, both Jake AND my ex-husband went away. I raised my two young sons by myself, keeping order, managing my job, their school and sports schedules and the entire household. Needless to say, it was NOT easy! One thought that comforted me every time Life overwhelmed me was my calming mantra, I know things could be worse; I know things could be worse! I could also be taking care of a DOG! A few minutes of mental chanting and a few deep, cleansing breaths later made all the difference in the world. I was going to make it!

And I DID make it and several years later, Life DID get better! A lengthy relationship with my REAL Prince Charming moved toward marriage . . . at least that what I was hoping.   Most men seeking a woman’s hand in matrimony ask for her father’s blessing. MY Prince Charming asked my sons.

“What do you guys thing about me marrying your mom,” he asked when I was nowhere around.

“Oh . . . I dunno,” answered my older son, not too sure he wanted a change in our little family, “<sigh! > I guess if my mom’s happy, I’ll TRY to be happy.”

But the younger son exhibited no hesitation whatsoever! In fact, he looked at the situation as an opportunity to get something HE wanted.

Slapping his hand on the table, he offered, “If you buy me a dog, you can have my mom!”

The deal was made, the three of them shook hands, and we started a new chapter in our lives. I still couldn’t believe that I’d been bartered away for a dog, but then again, I still couldn’t believe that I’d found happiness with a wonderful man.

History has a funny way of repeating itself. I know a dog was part of the deal, but when we tried to select just one yellow Labrador from the litter, in a very weak moment, I suggested that we adopt TWO, one for each boy! Wilbur and Bailey grew like weeds and so did the boys! Just as Mom ended up taking care of Rags when we began high school, I did the same when my kids went to high school. My husband worked all day, but so did I. The boys’ after school activities and sports schedules kept them away from home two to three nights a week. The dogs spent their days out in a dog run along the side of our house until I got home every day. (At least I had learned a lesson from my mud flap doggie door days!) Truth be told, they remained in that dog run well past my return home. I only stopped in to start dinner preparations, and then headed back out to pick up the kids from wherever they were and from whatever they were doing.   Wilbur and Bailey bonded with each other and not us. Why would they? We were seldom home!

My husband and I really tried to break the barrier between us and Them. We enrolled the dogs in obedience classes and accompanied them every Wednesday night, but Wilbur, the more strong-willed of the two, spent most of his sessions in the time-out corner with another stubborn dog, Max, a German Shepherd. Our next-door neighbor constantly left messages on our voicemail recorder complaining of the dogs’ incessant barking. We weren’t home during the day! How did WE know they were contributing to the noise pollution in the neighborhood? Contributing? NO. They WERE the noise pollution in the neighborhood.

“I can’t believe my son actually traded me away for . . . DOGS!” I cried, “and I thought it was CUTE!”

All in all, my adult experience with large dogs had been a complete and total disaster. Jake was a 185-lb. nightmare and Wilbur and Bailey were 80-lb. evil stepsons! It frightened me that I was beginning to think I hated ALL dogs!

The nest eventually emptied, dogs and children alike, and I was footloose and fancy free of all dependent responsibilities! Wow! What a fabulous feeling! No longer working, I filled my days with activities that had long been on the back burner for an eternity. I learned to golf, I joined clubs, I went out to lunch with girlfriends, I sewed, I read and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of every day.

“I think we should get a dog,” suggested my husband one weekend, “I’m gone a lot, and I’d feel better if you were protected when I’m not around.”

WHAT DID I JUST HEAR? IS HE OUT OF HIS MIND?! A DOG!

“I’m just fine, trust me!” I responded, trying (albeit unsuccessfully to convince him that I didn’t need protection) “I’m way too busy to take care of a dog!”

A few weeks passed, but the thought of Carl surprising me with a dog kept nagging me.

“What if he comes home with a puppy? I won’t have any say in what kind of dog he gets! What if it’s another Lab??? Good God!! I just CAN’T have another Lab! I’d rather get another divorce than have another big dog! What am I going to DOOOOOOOOOO?”

One of my neighbors had just adopted an 18-month-old liver-and-white English springer spaniel. Her husband loved the breed and had wanted one for quite awhile. This young dog became available through a local veterinarian’s office, so Sharon brought it home on a trial basis.

“Hello there, this is Sharon,” she beckoned from the other end of the telephone, “if you’re not doing anything, come over and meet our new dog, Rusty!”

Of course I ran right over there! After all, it wasn’t MY dog! At first glance, I felt serious tugging on my heartstrings.

“Oh! He’s SOOOOOO cute!” I cooed, “and look how funny he is!” I said as Rusty tried to catch his stub of a tail.

“Ya, he’s cute alright,” agreed Sharon, “but I don’t know if we’re going to keep him. He may be too much dog for us!”

I stayed and played with Rusty for awhile, the entire time hearing Carl’s threatening words: “I think we should get a dog!” and I did NOT want him to surprise me with a giant Labrador, Golden Retriever, Great Dane or anything, for all that matter. If I had to have a dog, I wanted one of more manageable size AND I wanted to be included in the decision. NO SURPRISE DOGS!

As a preventive strike against being blindsided by a surprise puppy, I said, “Work with Rusty for a few days, a few weeks in fact, but . . . if you decide you don’t want him, call me first. We may take him!”

Shortly thereafter, our household grew by . . . four feet. Rusty and I spend a lot of time together. Of course I saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when I asked Sharon to “call us first” in the event Rusty proved to be too much dog for them. Just as Mom said a long, long time ago, “Dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ because it’s the women who take care of them!”

 

 

Felix Unger and Oscar Madison, the classic “Odd Couple” — roommates incompatible in every way!  Polar opposites.  Each the antithesis of the other.  One fastidious and obsessively neat; the other an absolute, undeniable slob!  Neil Simon first introduced his lovable characters to the world in 1968 in his screenplay, and they continued to entertain us in their television sitcom through 1975.   The pair of mismatched friends may no longer be on the air, but they are indeed still alive . . . in many of us!  In fact, Oscar and Felix’s traits have become descriptors for people we know!  “Oh, my gosh!  You’re room is so messy and cluttered, you’d think Oscar Madison lived here!” I used to say to my own kids.

My husband is Oscar Madison in many ways.   His inattention to tidiness went largely unnoticed — well, more ignored — until the nest emptied, but now it has become a focal point in our household.  He leaves things wherever he finishes using them.  Empty ice cream cartons stick to the kitchen counter top where they’ve been sitting over night despite the fact that the trash can is less than three feet away!  Envelopes from opened mail clutter his desktop.  Matchbooks with no matches left inside go through the laundry and end up as hard pebbles stuck to his pants and to the dryer’s lint screen.  Naked hangers in the closet either dangle on the dowel or lie scattered on the floor.  Reading glasses travel from room to room all by themselves!  They must scurry from place to place like rats in a maze!  One minute they’re resting beside the computer, then all of a sudden they appear on the kitchen counter or in the family room or on the dining room table or outside on the fire pit or even inside a shoe!  How DO they do that?  And I, Felix Unger extraordinaire, race around tidying up after him.  But it REALLY bugs me!

“Why can’t you just toss the empty ice cream carton into the trash can?  It’s not even two steps away from where you’re scooping!” I ask with obvious irritation.

“Well, if you weren’t such a Felix Unger, it wouldn’t bother you so much!” he says, equally annoyed.

And so it goes, the push-pull between two people with disparate attitudes about housekeeping sharing a home.

Uh oh!  Hold on a second! It just dawned on me —maybe the problem isn’t with my husband or my kids or everyone else in the world who doesn’t make their beds in the morning, or arrange their closets in ascending degrees of colors, darks to lights, solids to prints, wools to cottons! Could it be that the problem is ME?!  NOOOOOOO!  Could it?  Possibly!  Hmmmmmm . . . .

I’ve always been a neat-nick.  From as far back as memory serves, I busied myself by organizing, sorting, arranging, rearranging, classifying and prioritizing everything in my world.  Stuffed animals knew their places in my room.  Bright Eyes, the cat, was given the place of honor smack dab in the middle of my bed.  The others, not important enough to be named, filled a set of shelves standing in the corner, the smaller animals at the top.  Sometimes I allowed the lion or the teddy bear to move up a couple of tiers, but . . . their size just didn’t quite fit into the overall symmetry of the shelf, and they were once again banished to the lower levels.

On rainy days, my sister and I played jewelry store.  We each displayed our assortment of treasures on top of our three-drawer dressers to sell to each other.  My sister’s store was up and ready for business in no time!  She had no order too her display.  It seemed that no care or thought was given to her presentation at all!  The chains of some of her necklaces were tangled and knotted.  Rings were turned backwards with the gems facing her, the seller!  Bracelets and bangles piled on top of each other.  Pins lay upside down, showing the pin rather than the stone!  It’s a good thing she never pursued a career in retail!  She would have starved!  My store, however, was a mini-Tiffany’s!  I borrowed a large remnant of velvet from my mother’s sewing notions and draped it over my dresser to provide that professional look.  Each necklace, bracelet, ring and pin sparkled against the black velvet background.  Better, more precious items were separated from the lesser quality pieces.  My sister announced her readiness while impatiently awaiting the grand opening of my store.  I shopped at her store first, but after making only a nominal purchase, I spent the remainder of my allotted shopping time to arrange her inventory in a more appealing display while only pretending to be interested in making another purchase.  When it was her turn to shop at my store, I couldn’t bring myself to part with any of my trinkets!  I knew they’d be destined to a lifetime of tangled chaos at the bottom of her jewelry box!  I did the only thing I knew . . . I set the price of each item well above the total amount of her allowance . . . for an entire month!

“No fair!” she protested, “You’re supposed to SELL me stuff just like I sold YOU stuff!”

“Well, I’m the owner of this store and I can put whatever prices I want on whatEVER I want!” I snapped back, my arms covering my display in a mid-air protective hug.

“Then I’m not playing anymore!”  she said.

“Me neither!” I agreed, relieved that my valuables were no longer at risk.

The truth is, I never had any intention of selling anything . . . EVER!  I only played store with her so I could sort, arrange and admire my nice things!

Throughout elementary school, mine was the cleanest, most organized desk in the class.  PeeChee folders provided the base for textbooks, notebooks and outside readers while a pencil case in the shape of a studious owl held two #2 pencils, one cartridge pen, one pink eraser and one red correcting pencil.  The pencil sharpener sat alone in the tray meant for loose pencils.  Special care was given to textbooks.  The covers were always so clean and beautiful on the day my mom bought them for me!  I didn’t want anything to happen to them to diminish that beauty, so I took them home, retrieved brown paper grocery bags from the kitchen pantry and made book covers for them.  Each one was labeled in large capital letters with a wide-tipped black Magic Marker: “Reading,” “Grammar,” “Geography,” “Math,” “Science.”  The other kids in the class looked at me like I had two heads, but I didn’t care.  My school supplies were by far the neatest and cleanest, not only within my classroom, but probably in the entire school!

The compulsion toward neatness, and efficiency continued to grow right along with me.  Once I had a family and a house of my own, I was determined to raise children who appreciated order.  However, my penchant for tidiness drove my two boys crazy.  There was a constant struggle between them and me over the condition of their bedrooms.

“Have you made your bed?” I asked every single morning as they appeared for breakfast.

“Doesn’t Mela come today?” they asked, trying to dodge their responsibility.

“Mela is a housekeeper, NOT A SLAVE!” I said, not letting them off the hook.  “Just because we have a housekeeper does NOT relieve you from your responsibilities to keep your rooms in presentable order!”

“They ARE presentable!” they argued.  “You’re the one who can’t stand if there’s one little thing out of place!”

The boys used to annoy me on purpose, too.  Setting the table for meals was one of their daily chores.  Our stoneware plates were decorated with a house and garden scene typical of an Early American embroidery sampler.  Of course, I expected the plate to rest in the center of the placemat, house squarely positioned in front of the chair. More often than not, when I brought the meal to the table, I noticed that the houses were facing to the right or to the left or even sometimes, upside down!

“Boys!” I called, summoning them to dinner, “before you sit down to eat, you need to rearrange those plates so that they’re facing the right direction!”

The smirks on their faces and their shared knowing glances betrayed the delight in their success at irritating me.

Co-workers and friends have also labeled me a Felix Unger.   My lesson planning spiral notebook was the envy of the entire faculty.  As a carry-over from my childhood, I wanted to protect the pristine condition of the book’s soft green cover, so I reinforced it with clear adhesive Contact paper.  Differently colored plastic index tabs identified the section for each class, Hons. English I, English I, Adv. ESL I and Rd’g/Wrt’g/Grmr. II., and a large steel clip marked the exact week of lessons.  As the year drew on, my plan book had no curled corners on pages and no torn or bent covers.  Other teachers rifled through their books, searching for the current week’s lesson or class list pages.  Bulletin boards in my classroom changed monthly to illustrate a particular season, grammar rule or genre of literature.  Other classrooms revved up for Back-to-School Night in September and remained unchanged until the last day of instruction in early June.  Girlfriends frequently marvel over my home-sewn organizer inside my purse which provides more pockets for keys, lipstick, tissue, cell phone and mints.  My car, now five years old, still looks like I just drove it off the dealer’s lot.  Whenever it becomes absolutely necessary for the dog to travel with me, I line the interior with a heavy protective tarp.  Even the inside door panels are protected with specially made covers that clip to the insides of the windows and a black mesh screen bars Rusty from jumping into the front seat and riding shotgun! Aside from the inevitable nose marks on the windows, there is no evidence of a four-legged passenger ever having been inside!  The fact that there exist such items proves to me that there are other Felix Ungers out in the world, too!

Grocery shopping presents particular challenges for the Felix Unger in me.  Of course I prepare an itemized list, detailing everything I need, that’s not the problem.  Once I wheel my cart into the produce section, tear off a plastic bag and begin to select the best vegetables or fruits, I adhere to a strict mandate governing the number of each item on my list.  Tomatoes, for example, are always on the list.  I examine each one,  gently squeezing to test for firmness and checking for blemishes, before dropping it into the bag.  I choose, two, four or six tomatoes; never one, three or five.  My self-imposed rule is to choose even numbers of fruits and vegetables, NEVER odd . . . with the exception of lettuce and watermelon.  In those cases, I can choose only one!   Who needs two of those on a weekly basis?  Unloading the items from the cart onto the conveyor belt to check out requires special attention.  First off are the reusable bags (with the insulated Cold-Pak bag on top) signalling the start of a new order to the cashier.  Next up are the items needing refrigeration: yogurt, eggs, milk, meats, ice cream, cheese, etc.  After the produce has been off-loaded, scanned and set aside for bagging, there is no hierarchy for the remaining items in the cart.  Crackers, coffee, pasta and cookies don’t require special care in packing, so they are last off.  Not to stand idly waiting for the total amount to be tallied, I offer packing instructions to the bag boy!

“You should use the Cold-Pak bag for all of the cold items,” I begin, “It snaps closed to keep the temperature cold!  And try not to put the English muffins at the bottom of the bag.  They’ll get squished!”

I’m pretty sure that my shopping techniques have been the topic of discussion in the employee’s break room!  Recently, it seems as though I’ve been assigned to a particular bag girl who has Felix Unger tendencies too!  She’s a real packing dynamo!

“Good Morning!” she greets with a lilt in her voice and a smile on her face, “let’s see . . . Cora, could you scan the Kleenex and paper towels next?  I’m saving space for them in this bag!  Then give me the aluminum foil and coffee filters!”

I LOVE THIS GIRL!  Ordinarily, I wheel my packed groceries out to the car by myself, but when she asked if I needed help, I accepted immediately!  I couldn’t help but comment on her excellent packing skills.  That’s when she told me that she’d just finished reading The  Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo and how it impacted her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I squealed with delight, “I’ve read it, too!  Isn’t it THE BEST BOOK EVER?”

We chatted for awhile, she not too attentive to putting my groceries in my car, gushing over how helpful and “magic” the art of tidying really is.

“I used to think I was really good at organizing, but that book has changed my life!” I told her.

“Oh my gosh!  Me too!” she agreed, “Do you fold your shorts so that you can store them laterally in your drawer now?  I do and Marie Kondo is right — it’s MUCH more efficient!”

“Of course I do!” I said, “I have made all the changes she suggested!”

My house has NEVER been so tidy!  Being neat is part of who I am.  Organizing, sorting, tidying . . . it’s what I do.   I vow to be more tolerant of the Oscar Madisons in my life because I have come to realize that compared to me, even Felix Unger was a slob!

 

 

“There once was a girl from Nantucket . . .”

Ya, ya, ya . . . we’ve all heard that limerick and others almost like it.  Funny, clever, entertaining,  but oh so limited in available rhyming words.   Now that St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, perhaps some effort should be made toward crafting a few original new limericks.  They’re not easy . . . with the AABBA rhyme pattern!

As I sat, twirling my pen in my hand and trying to think not only of clever topics for limericks but also racking my brain for suitable rhymes, I looked down at my dog.  Instantly he became my muse:

There once was a dog named Rusty

Who rolled in the dirt and got dusty

Chasing gophers and rabbits

Were two of his habits

He mustn’t be crazy, or must he?

O.K.!  There!  That wasn’t so hard, was it.  Let’s do another one!  Hmmmmm . . . . what about?   The morning News broadcast droned in the background . . . something about the plight of the homeless in Los Angeles . . .

There once was a man in the city

Upon whom all took great pity

He lived by himself

Like a lost little elf

Such a shame ’cause he really was witty!

Who knew that the News could inspire a limerick!  (Now, looking out the window into the back yard garden . . .)

There once was a bee that flew by

With quite a big tear in his eye

He lost all his honey

And didn’t have money

Which gave him great reason to cry!

All right!  I’m on a roll!  Let’s keep this going!

There once was a girl named Nell

Whose favors she wanted to sell

She pranced through the town

Made up like a clown

What happened?  Just wait ’til I tell!

I definitely had a groove going now with the AABBA pattern!  But . . . I found myself wanting to know what happened with Nell!  Could I . . . should I . . . DARE I try to write a whole limerick story?  I wouldn’t know unless I tried!  Just what DID happen to Nell?

There was also a man named Bob

Who found lots of people to rob

He came upon Nell

Who screamed, “You go to Hell!”

And with that, she started to sob!

Bob then went home to his wife

Where the two of them shared a sad life

They had no friends at all

and no lower to fall

So they lived with their sadness and strife.

Bob’s wife was indeed very smart

Through her brain ideas would dart

She got a new job

Couldn’t WAIT to tell Bob

She sold apples in town from a cart!

It was Paddy who sold her the cart

He had a big ol’ true Irish heart

He was kind; he was nice

He asked such a low price

And wished her “good luck” from the start!

Paddy appeared to be tattered and old

From living outside in the cold

His beard was bright red

And the cap on his head

Was outrageously bulky and bold.

He brought luck to people in need

And loved to perform a good deed

He used a shamrock

That he hid in his frock

Lest others take it in greed!

The shamrock’s leaves there were four

Not even one less or one more

The magic, it seemed

Could once be redeemed

By the person that it was meant for!

Paddy knew about Bob and his wife

He decided to rid her of strife

He pulled from his frock

That magic shamrock

To bring her a new way of life.

He then took the cart into town

Once there, he flagged Bob’s wife down

“You’ll be excusin’ me, please,”

(He said on his knees)

“Havin’ THIS there’ll be no reason to frown!”

Bob’s wife took the cart right away!

“But Sir, I’ve no way to pay!”

“Don’t worry, dear lass –

Your hardships will pass

Because this is your big, lucky day!”

In the cart Paddy placed the shamrock

Using the apples and crates as a block

“She can’t know that it’s here –

Lest luck disappear!”

He said in a tone full of shock!

The apples were juicy and good

They sold well in that huge neighborhood

Bob’s wife raked in money

Her life became sunny

As Paddy knew that it would!

Bob’s wife knew her husband was bad

And also that he was a  cad

With her new lease on Life

She brandished a knife

Letting him know she was angry and mad!

“Ya’ don’t take things that don’t b’long to you!

Ya’ didn’t think that I all along knew!

“Get out of this house

You miserable louse!”

Yelling as plates and saucers she threw.

Bob scurried out the front door

He just couldn’t take any more

He went to find Nell

Of his hardship to tell

And found her close to the shore.

“You know I never meant ya no harm!”

He cried as he poured on the charm

But Nell was too wise

And she glared in his eyes

“Get away or I’ll be breakin’ your arm!”

Bob wandered and rambled ‘round town

His sins and misdeeds clamped down

He’d lost his best friend

No fences to mend

He was thrown out of his own hometown.

This happened as Paddy looked on

Pleased that Bob was now gone

His good deed was done

Good Fortune was won

Bob’s wife was no longer a pawn!

Paddy’s shamrock had worked quite well

For Bob’s wife and even for Nell

You’d better watch out

Don’t have one little doubt

The Luck of the Irish is Swell!!

“Hi, my name’s Peggy,” I said, introducing myself to my seat mate on United Airlines, 1st class, non-stop flight to Kona, Hawaii.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Iris and I’m 9,” answered the olive-skinned boy with steel-grey eyes and a shaggy Beatles haircut curled up in Seat 3B, “We’re going to the Four Seasons for my brother’s 11th birthday!”

I learned a lot about Iris over the next several minutes. He has been to Hawaii twice a year ever since he can remember! He has a “totally awesome” older brother, Oliver, and a twin sister named Rose. He lives in Hollywood with his family, is in the fourth grade, plays basketball, baseball, swimming and football, but his favorite thing is that he goes to Rock-and-Roll Camp and plays both the bass and slide guitars, the synthesizer, the drums, the piano and oh ya, the ukulele!

“Rock and Roll Camp?” I said, “So, I guess you’ve really got some ‘moves like Jagger,’ right?”

“You bet I do! AND I can stick my tongue out like Gene Simmons, see?!!” he said, thrusting his pointed tongue w-a-y out of his mouth and all the way down his chin.

“Cool,” I said thoroughly enjoying him.

“Oh! And look what I got,” he said as he zipped open his backpack gently pulling out some treasures. “This is LiLi, my stuffed lion, and THIS,” he said, handing me a brand new, crisp maroon, linen-covered Moleskin, “is from my Grandma.”

I gasped at the sight of the beautiful pristine notebook, waiting for him to chronicle his Hawaiian adventures with his family.

“Iris! It’s FABULOUS!” I said, “I LOVE your Grandma! You and LiLi are going to make this vacation last forEVER through your writing! When are you going to start?”

“I dunno,” he answered noncommittally. I got the impression that he wasn’t as excited about his Moleskin as I was. He seemed more anxious to swim, snorkel, play video games and order room service.

“Um . . . Iris,” I began cautiously, “you’re not even gonna start writing in that journal until you’re on your way back home, are you.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, “I never know how to start!”

“O.K. How ’bout if I help you?” I offered.

“Cool! How?” he asked.

“By giving you a beginning. The rest will pretty much write itself. Give me your book,” I said, reaching for it.

I snapped the elastic band off the front, opened to page 1 and, in my very best handwriting, scripted the prompt, “It all began when my dad bought us first class airplane tickets to Hawaii!”

“There! Done! The rest is up to you!” I said, stretching the elastic strap back over the front cover, closing the book, “Now you’re good to go!  Just make sure you mention that you sat next to a really cool lady on the flight over!”

Iris took the notebook, read the opening line a few times, nodded his approval, tucked it back into his backpack and refocused his attention on his tablet where he was in the middle of Call of Duty: Black Ops III video game.

I, too, opened my tablet, but rather than playing my own games, I accessed my electronic moleskin and copied the prompt I’d just given Iris:

It all began with the purchase of first class airplane tickets to Hawaii. Carl had been planning a 60th birthday mystery trip for me for quite some time — since November, I discovered.

On Christmas morning, after all the gifts had been opened and as I was picking up torn and crumpled wrapping paper, ribbons and bows, I noticed a lone, unopened envelope on the coffee table addressed to “Peggy Dear.”

‘Don’t make any plans between February 10 through 16!’ advised the scrawling beneath a primitive pen-and-ink drawing of an airplane on one of Carl’s monogrammed Crane notecards.

“Really? We’re taking a trip?” I asked with utter astonishment, knowing how averse Carl is to travel of any kind. “Where are we going? Oh wait! Are YOU going, too or am I traveling somewhere by myself?”

“Of COURSE I’m going, but I’m not telling you where,” he replied, “You’re on a ‘need-to-know’ basis. I’ll tell you where we’re going when you need to know! And, by the way, . . . I hope you like that card! I practiced drawing airplanes on scratch paper so I’d draw a good one on your card!”

As thrilled as I was about the prospect of a “Magical Mystery Tour,” I suppressed all enthusiasm for the next several weeks, fearing that something would come up that would cause the plan to fall apart. ‘Proceed With Cautious Enthusiasm’ whispered to me every time I thought about the trip and wondered WHERE we were going. Everyone in the entire free world knows how I HATE cold climates, winter sports, snow blizzards, power outages, frost bite and icicles, so I knew Carl wouldn’t subject me to any place where temperatures dared to dip beneath 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Likewise, everyone in the entire free world also knows how Carl hates traveling to Mexico (and pretty much everywhere else too). My list of possible destinations was limited to begin with, and the more I thought, the shorter the list got!

Phoenix or Scottsdale? No, those are nice places, but definitely not worth three practice drawings of an airplane.

Ireland? Absolutely not! We’re going there for our honeymoon! We’re 23 years late on that, but we’re going to have to wait a little longer! It’s the middle of winter! I’m not going to Ireland in February!

Rancho Santa Fe? No, we can go there any time and we wouldn’t fly! Rancho Santa Fe would be a waste of practice drawings!

Pauma Valley? Hmmmmmmmmmm . . . a definite possibility! Maybe, JUST maybe, Carl is throwing me off guard and he’s REALLY planning a surprise party for me in Pauma! Note to self: Start baiting Rene, Heidi, Eleanor, Pam, Patty and Gayle. See if they slip up!

Tahiti? Nope. Definitely practice-drawing worthy, but way too far to go. And besides, Carl hasn’t been pushing that hard for me to get my global entry card. All of that AND his strong aversion to international travel make Tahiti a No.

Hawaii? Well . . . Let’s just think about this: IF he’s really planning a party for me in Pauma Valley and is just telling me we’re going somewhere, then Hawaii would be the most logical decoy. And if he’s NOT planning a surprise party for me in Pauma, then Hawaii HAS to be the spot! The only unknown about Hawaii is WHICH resort and which island he has chosen!

Sherlock Holmes would be proud of my deductive reasoning!

The guessing game over and the list narrowed down to two possible destinations, I still operated with ‘Proceed With Cautious Enthusiasm’ in the forefront of my mind. There is ALWAYS a chance that an arbitration or mediation will trump our best-laid plans.

The eternity between Christmas and February 10 grew to a close with no intel provided from anyone anywhere! My friends claimed ignorance of any knowledge about my Magical Mystery Tour and family divulged nothing.

As I lay flaked out on the couch on Super Bowl Sunday, desperately fighting off a head cold and wishing myself well in time for my mystery trip, Carl offered a tiny bit of advice.

“If you’re out and about tomorrow, you MIGHT want to buy a bathing suit!” he said coyly.

“He’s GOT to be kidding!” I thought, “I’m in NO mood to even stand up, let alone go shopping!” I mustered all my energy  to raise my stuffed head from the pillow. I looked at him through my watery, glassy eyes, head pounding with every word and hissed,

“Bathing suit shopping requires perfect health and a positive outlook! And even WITH those two things, bathing suit shopping is stressful and unpleasant! I’d rather stick needles in my eyes and eat liver for dinner! Right now I can’t imagine wrestling with Spandex, straps or clasps of any kind! I’m SICK! Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? I could have been prepared!”

“If I had told you where we are going any time earlier, you would have gone out and bought all new clothes! I am just following through on my ‘need-to-know’ rule. If you don’t have a bathing suit, you need to know that you might want one later on in the week! That’s all!” he explained.

Ugh. I didn’t have the energy to argue. Oh well. There were still three days left before our departure and plenty of time for me to lay low and rest. There were a few errands I needed to run in the next couple of days, so “look for a bathing suit(?)” was put at the bottom of that list. I already knew the first, most important, MUST BUY items were: a pipe, 3-4 pouches of Captain Black tobacco and a lighter — not for me, but for Carl. If he decided that my mystery trip would be another good time for him to try to quit smoking, I’d be ready! Neither a head cold nor a lack of tobacco would ruin this time for me!

“What do you want for your birthday?” asked Carl the night before our departure.

“Really? I thought the Magical Mystery Tour was my gift! You don’t need to get me anything else. Just tell me where we’re going!” I answered.

“Does the trip count for Valentine’s Day too?” came the follow-up question.

“Absolutely NOT!” I answered, surprised that he’d even try to double dip. “You’d do something nice for me for Valentine’s Day if my birthday weren’t so close to it, so . . . it goes without saying that my birthday trip does NOT satisfy your Valentine obligation! Besides, I have a Valentine for you, so wouldn’t you feel embarrassed if you didn’t have something for me?” I reasoned.

My Valentine for him, of course, was smoking paraphernalia!   I guess it could be argued that my gift to him was, in fact, double-dipping: feeding his habit also eases the first days of vacation for me, but let’s not digress!

“We’re going to Hawaii!” Carl finally divulged. Packing was easy since I’d already narrowed the possibilities so many weeks earlier. Hawaii had always been one of my suspicions, so I knew exactly which outfits to take! Four golf skirts & tops, four dinner ensembles, a couple of sun dresses, comfortable shoes and The. Dreaded. Bathing. Suit! Along with my usual toiletries, throat lozenges, DayQuil, Mucinex and Neutrogena Sunscreen for Sensitive Skin with SPF-60 were also stuffed into my bag. I was more than ready, eager and willing to board the plane.

“Hi, my name’s Peggy,” I said, introducing myself to my seat mate on United Airlines, 1st class, non-stop flight to Kona, Hawaii.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Iris and I’m 9,” answered the olive-skinned boy with steel-grey eyes and a shaggy Beatles haircut curled up in Seat 3B, “We’re going to the Four Seasons for my brother’s 11th birthday!”

Carl attended to every minute detail associated with pulling off a 60th Birthday Surprise for me — except seat assignments! When we arrived at the gate, Carl inquired about the possibility of changing some passenger seating to enable us to sit together, but no one would change! That’s how I came to sit with Iris. Throughout the five-hour trip to Kona, Iris and I chatted about lots of things in between his frequent time outs for video games and The Lego Movie he had downloaded on his tablet. It became very clear that Iris LOVED his family very much. He kept talking about his dad and all the activities they did together. At one point, I looked across the aisle smack dab into the lens of Dad videotaping Iris talking to me. I smiled and waved for the camera, memorialized forever in that family’s library of home movies.

“Gosh, Iris, you guys seem to have so much fun together! I see your dad and Oliver and Rose, but where’s your mom? Did she have to stay home and work?” I asked, truly wondering where the icing was on the cake of this Perfect Family.

“I don’t have a mom,” admitted Iris, “I don’t know what it’s like to even have one!”

“Uh oh!” I thought, “Did she die in childbirth? Are his parents divorced? Did she abandon the family? Is she in rehab?! Oh NO!! Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?! Everything was going just fine! What do I say now???? AAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!”

“Oh, Iris, I’m –” I began, but was immediately cut off.

“I have TWO DADS!” he reported as happily as if he’d just been given a season pass to Disneyland.

Now, here I was, seated in first class where there is MORE than sufficient legroom. Why was it, then, that I STILL managed to cram my foot in my mouth?!

“Oh . . .! Of COURSE!!! TWO DADS!!!!” I began, my mind racing to find some words to cover my faux pas. “Wow . . . um . . . ya . . . two dads . . . yes . . . that’s what you’ve got . . . two dads! Yep, I see them now! There’s one of your dads, videotaping us, and look — there’s another dad, sitting up there right next to Oliver! Well . . . families come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and aren’t you lucky to be in one that loves each other as much as you guys do!” Beads of perspiration dotted my brow and the palms of my hands felt clammy.

And just then, Dad #2 turned from the aisle seat diagonally in front of us and flashed our photo on his cell phone! I shudder to think about how the expression on my face looks . . . for the family album! Shock and Awe? Probably.

I immediately remanded myself into a Time Out and pretended to play Free Cell on my iPad, hoping neither dad had heard our conversation.

The plane touched down for a smooth landing, and in no time at all, we were headed toward baggage claim. Suitcase after suitcase dropped onto the conveyor belt as anxious passengers clamored to retrieve their belongings. I finally wriggled my way up close to the carousel when I felt a light tapping on my left shoulder.

“Excuse me, but would you mind if we shared a ride with you to the hotel?” the lady asked.

I turned to see who was so bold as to ask a perfect stranger for a ride to her hotel and was surprised to see Rene Savard, my very, VERY, VERY good friend from Pauma Valley standing right there!

“RENE!” I squealed, “What are YOU doing here? Is Al here too?”

“Yes, Al’s here too! He’s over there with our luggage.  We just wanted to know if we could ride along to the hotel with you!” she said, laughing with delight at my utter astonishment.

“Oh! My! Gosh!!!!!” I said, too stunned to say anything else, “WHAAAAT? ”

“Surprise!” exclaimed Carl, “They’re here to help celebrate your birthday! Happy Birthday!”

Now it was I who acted as if I’d been given a season pass to Disneyland.

“Hey Al . . . Where’s the potatoes?” I asked, sharing an inside joke as I hugged him as tightly as I could and blinking back tears of joy.

All the way to the Mauna Kea resort, Al and Rene talked about how they’d been setting things aside for the trip while I was at their house for breakfast not even a week before the trip!

“You kept saying that you weren’t sure where Carl was taking you or if you were even going any where at all and we had our suitcase half-packed in the very next room!” explained Rene.

Upon arrival at the hotel and adorned in the customary plumeria leis, we agreed to freshen up before heading down to the Beach Bar for our first official birthday cocktail.   I could hardly wait for a giant coconut shell brimming with “that frozen concoction that helps me hang on” garnished with a slice of pineapple and a maraschino cherry skewered by a bright pink paper parasol! Yessiree, Bob! I was in a hurry! But as soon as we’d swiped the card key over the lock and opened the door, another surprise lay in wait! There on the sideboard sat three silver ice buckets chilling three different bottles of champagne – all for me! “Happy 60^th Birthday! Love, _______” greeted me on each of the cards resting against the buckets!

“I LOVE being 60! I can’t believe how fun it is!” I shrieked. “C’mon, let’s go down to the bar! We’ll take one of these bottles to dinner tonight! One tomorrow night and the third one the next!”

And off we went, back down to meet Rene and Al for the birthday party kick-off!

“I’ll have the biggest, coconuttiest, rummiest, yummiest, Hawaiian slurpee you’ve got!” I said to the bartender, placing my first drink order. “And you’d probably better bring me some snacks, too . . . to soak up some of that rum!”

All cocktails delivered and glasses raised in mid-toast to ME, we were suddenly interrupted.

“Wait for us!! You’re finally here! Happy Birthday, Peggy!” they said.

WHAT??? Who’s talking?! Wait for whom?

 Before I knew what was happening, John and Sue Symes appeared, drinks already in hand ready to join in my birthday toast!

“SURPRISE!” everyone screamed. “Happy Birthday! You’re FINALLY 60 – Welcome to The Group!”

Sue crowned me with a ring of dried Hawaiian flowers with two sparklers raised up front, a six and a zero. John lit them as a chorus of “Happy Birthday” was sung; however, only the 6 ignited. The zero was a complete dud.

“Hah! Get used to it, Peggy! Now that you’re 60, LOTS of things don’t work the way they used to!” he said, divulging some of the secrets of the Over-60 Group!

Halfway through the first cocktail, Carl commented that he’d really like a smoke, but he’d forgotten his pipe! Sooooooo thankful that I had come prepared, just like a Boy Scout, I told him that his early Valentine’s Day surprise was waiting for him at the bottom of my suitcase.

“It’s your lucky day, Carl! I brought you a brand new pipe, three pouches of tobacco . . . your brand . . . AND a fancy lighter! Happy Valentine’s Day and You’re Welcome!”

Now who just got the season pass to Disneyland??!!

Carl trotted off to collect his Valentine, then retreated to the designated smoking area – – a not-so-welcoming 20’ x 20’ patch of sand offering one small bench shaded by a turquois umbrella tucked back in an isolated area of the landscape. Nothing about that spot screamed, “Aloha!”  Only nicotine fiends and sometimes loyal spouses dared venture to the land so far away!

For the next four days we optimized every single minute of my Magical Mystery Tour so expertly planned and executed by Carl. He sent the invitation, he made the reservation, he thought of everything we’d need and satisfaction was definitely guaranteed! Al and I beat Carl and John two days straight in better ball of partners golf matches. John crafted a new trick shot that he named after a popular Hawaiian fish that he calls “The Ono” – for “Oh! NO! I didn’t mean to hit my ball over there!” He taught it to ALL of us! Of course we never wanted to use it, but . . . “The Ono” LOVES to play golf! We snorkeled around the rocky coves, watched the manta rays feed off the plankton, lazed at the beach, imbibed numerous tropical cocktails and even launched a gin rummy tournament between Al and Carl each day at Happy Hour.

My Hawaiian head lei embellished with the sparklers designated me Queen for the week! I was serenaded with “Happy Birthday” each night at dinner, toasted with expensive chilled champagne sent to me by loving friends and honored with complimentary birthday desserts every evening. There was nothing that could have made the celebration any better!

Count me IN for the next Magical Mystery Tour!

 

 

 

 

 

 

As as excited as I am about being whisked away on a “mystery trip” later this week, experience has taught me that I must be prepared.  Because I am, shall we say, overly organized and methodical, packing for a vacation is more than a 30-minute exercise of throwing clothes into a suitcase.  Oh yes.  I plan for days, if not weeks, for any and every possible item that I might need during my time away from home.  I make lists.  I make a list for what I have, for what I need, for what I want, for what I might want and sometimes I make a list for things that I should take “just in case.”   Throughout the years, three items have made their way from the “Just In Case” list to the “Definitely Don’t Leave Home Without It” list.

The first time I should have recognized the importance of these three things was on a trip to the Pacific Northwest when my younger son, now thirty-one, was twelve years old.  My husband decided that this 5-day getaway would be the perfect time for him to jump-start one of his periodic attempts to quit smoking.  Oh, it’s not that I don’t support his desire to quit!  That’s not it at all!  However, using vacations . . . times that are meant for relaxation, rejuvenation and recreation, to commit to arduous, habit-breaking, decades- long habits sucks the fun right out of every. single. minute.

After retrieving our luggage from baggage claim, wending our way through the line at the car rental desk, and navigating through the unfamiliar roads toward our hotel, Carl’s agitation grew.  He hadn’t smoked his pipe for almost seven hours.  His valiant attempts to suppress the growing cravings proved no match for his nicotine nemesis.  We HAD to find a smoke shop somewhere.  But where?  Here we were, in the dead of night, on a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere!  No matter how many times he patted his pockets, checking for a pipe, he still found them empty.  I thought that chewing gum would perhaps alleviate his discomfort, but I had given the last piece to my son on the airplane to pop his ears!

Continuing to drive along through the night, lights eventually glimmered in the distance, marking a gas station!  Hallelujah!  We’re SAVED!!  Carl’s foot rested more heavily on the accelerator and before we knew it, we’d arrived at a Sunoco Filling Station complete with a mini-mart.  I jumped out of the passenger side door and began filling the tank while Carl frantically ran inside in search of something to smoke.  The Bloodhound sleeping on the stoop did a double-take at Carl, recognizing that the crazed man rushing into the station just a few minutes before bore absolutely no resemblance to the calm, peaceful one returning to the car, puffing on a bright yellow corncob pipe holding a Bic lighter!  He looked a lot like Grandpa McCoy!

“Well,” said Carl in between deep, lung-filling puffs, “it’s not the kind of pipe I’m used to smoking, I guess but it’ll have to do!”

So . . . Note to Self:  Next time we take a trip, insist that Carl NOT decide to quit smoking.  

Subsequent trips presented much the same dramas.  One of the most noteworthy happened not too long ago when we flew to Hawaii over the Christmas holidays.  Rather than recount the incident in a lengthy narrative, I have chosen to reprint my journal entry for that day.  It was after this Hawaiian adventure that I have begun making my travel list for all necessary items and checking it twice!

Enjoy!

Christmas in Hawaii 2012 — Day 2

Every time we go somewhere, Carl intentionally leaves his pipe and pipe tobacco behind, resolved NOT to smoke for those days; and also every time we go somewhere, we find ourselves searching for a smoke shop so he can purchase a pipe and some tobacco. So too began Day 2 of Christmas in Hawaii 2012!! This time, however, we were also in desperate search of a hairdryer for me!! The “let your hair dry in the wind” method accomplished nothing other than possibly making me #1 choice on a casting call for the ugliest monster in the next Steven Spielberg sci-fi fantasy thriller!!

Carl researched for a smoke shop on GoogleMaps and off we went in search of Holy Smokes. We did find it, but being that we arrived prior to 9:00 a.m., the wrought iron gates and padlocks were still drawn across the store front.

Judging from the paint combination, the dread-locked Rasta man graphic on the window and the neon signs advertising “pipes, zigzag & detox,” I suspected that an entirely different kind of smoke shop lie behind the doors.

After a quick stop at Walgreens for a high-intensity Revlon ion hairdryer, we swung back to Holy Smokes where two “people” (term loosely referring to the beings working on unlocking the myriad barricades).  In walked Mr. & Mrs. Conservative–me in pinstriped seersucker golf shorts with golf greens and flags scattered all over them and Carl in his Reyn-Spooner Hawaiian shirt and Docker shorts!  (Imagine me being almost overcome by the heavy scent of incense wafting through the air in a feeble attempt to mask the heavy odor of pot). Carl asked if he could see some pipes. The female looked toward a back room and gestured us in that direction without uttering a sound.

The room was a huge cavern, filled with a treasure trove of every type if hooka, bong and water pipe imaginable!!! I could hardly contain my laughter!!! The hilarity of the situation was astounding!!!!

Carl DID ask if they carried wooden pipes for tobacco and was politely told that they specialized in glass but if we left their shop and travelled to another village about 1/2 hr away, he was SURE we could find what we were looking for!!! I’m SURE they thought we were under cover DEA, but hadn’t researched our “cover” very well!!! They couldn’t get rid of us fast enough!!!

I’m sure this description pales in comparison to how everything really unfolded, but …. It’s had me in fits of laughter ALL DAY LONG!!!

I told my daughter-in-law about it and she said she looked on line for smoke shops to buy cigars for Greg and she went to the Holy Smokes site. Immediately a warning flashed on her computer screen saying, “If you are connected with the military in any capacity, IMMEDIATELY exit from this site!!”

Aloha!!!!

Day 3 Recap

The wisdom of age-old advice should NEVER be discounted!!! “You get what you pay for!” is among the sagest quips and should be forever in the front of your minds–especially when in desperate need of something!!! Exhibit A: The $12 pipe that Carl purchased yesterday from Discount Tobacco–lasted perhaps through 1 1/2 smokes before cracking and getting so hot that it burned his lips, tongue and hand!!! So—guess where that put us this morning????? Right back in search of a wooden pipe; however, now the quest was for a “quality” wooden pipe!!!  (I really entertained the idea of heading back to Holy Smokes, purchasing a glass water pipe AND the stuff that goes in it, to take the edge off of Carl — and ME, at this point!!!)

Carl had never been to Pearl Harbor and wanted to visit the memorial, etc.  I know that he likes to get an early start in the mornings, but when on vacation, I thought our pace would be a little more relaxed. NO!! I faintly heard reveille bugled in the distance and heard the singsong cadence of platoons in their early morning PT, but didn’t realize that THAT was my call to muster too!!!  I rushed to dress, skipped coffee and yogurt, jumped in the car and fastened my seatbelt for yet another day of Adventures with Carl.

Upon arrival in the parking lot of the Pearl Harbor Visitor’s Center, an unmarked Toyota Forerunner police unit stopped right behind our rented Jeep.

“Good morning, Officer!” greeted Carl, “What a beeeeautifil day, isn’t it?!”

“Uh, sir,” began Officer Hawaii Five-O, “I’ve been following you for the last 5 miles–you were travelling at the speed of 55 mph. Were you aware of that, sir?”

“Really??! Was that YOU behind me -for all that time? Well I’ll be damned!! I didn’t realize you were a cop–I would have pulled over!” said Carl.

(Oh boy!!! NOW he was going to know how I felt when Officer A@#hole ticketed me near Pauma Reservation Road!!)

“Well,” began Officer Hawaii Five-O, “I figured you were from out of town and didn’t realize you were in a 35-zone, so …just be careful, sir, and have a nice day!! Mahalo” and away he went!!!!!

(WHAT THE #@!!!!???) uh–will someone explain what just happened??!!  Why is it that I always get the ticket and Carl is told to ‘have a nice day?’

Into Pearl Harbor Memorial–WAY ahead of any tour busses–just like Carl wanted, we got a ticket for the10:30 boat out to the USS Arizona. We wandered around for a while (with over 1 hr. to kill), but then Carl did a 180 and said he’d had enough. We got back in the car and headed toward Honolulu. I needed to do a little Christmas shopping for last-minute trinkets, but Carl’s need for nicotine trumped me and my plans. He plugged “tobacco shops near Honolulu” into GoogleMaps and, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, we began reliving yesterday’s quest for the Holy Grail!!

GoogleMaps Lady directed us to Tobaccos of Hawaii, a small, independently-owned shop in a REALLY seedy part of Honolulu, just on the perimeter of Chinatown, sandwiched among other establishments like a girly strip club called Moulin Rouge,” a pawn shop and a massage parlor.  Carl parked in the reserved customer parking area in the alley behind the shops. Of course alleys are full of dumpsters and other containers, so the over-stuffed Hefty brand trash bags did not seem out of place –that is UNTIL one of them coughed and kersnuffled, spraying green, bilious phlegm toward me and my FitFlops!!!

I hurried into the tobacco shop, praying to God, Buddha, Allah and anyone else, that we would find the elusive but coveted Wooden Pipe!!

When the proprietor and the two other customers in the shop got a look at Carl and his uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus, they started ticking off the various items on their Wish Lists!!!  (Good Lord, deliver me!!)

One already-stoned-out-of-his-mind “gentleman” asked Carl for a Lamborghini, a high-rise apartment building and one of the Kardashians!!! I told him he’d better think twice about a Kardashian because they were such high maintenance. He said, “Ya man!! That’s probably right—and I’ve already had a lot of “kardashian” today!!!” (Uh—at least he was right about THAT!!!)

The Holy Grail selected and purchased, Carl & I headed back to the car. I was ready to clobber any Hefty trash bag that moved or made even the slightest noise!!! Safely inside our vehicle, Carl queried, “huh—look at that–a massage parlor, a pawn shop and a strip club! Why d’ya think tobacco shops have such seedy neighbors?!”

(I let the question just hang in the air!!!!) I just replied, “Fill that thing with tobacco, light it up, inhale a few times, suck up whatever nicotine you need and let’s get OUTTA here!!!”

Carl, calm as a well-fed puppy, was amenable to anything: even a MALL!!! We finished our Christmas shopping then drove back to Kailua and had lunch & well-deserved mai tais!!!

Lesson Learned:  Pack a wooden pipe, numerous pouches of Captain Black tobacco and a lighter before you pack anything else!  Don’t Leave Home Without Them!!!

 

“The light’s on, but nobody’s home!”  “Where were you just now?  You seemed a million miles away!” “I TOLD you about that yesterday, but you obviously weren’t paying attention!”  Sound familiar?  Have you ever said any of these things to someone or has anyone ever said them to YOU?  Well . . . I have, and I have.

I can’t help it.  My mind wanders — a lot.  I’ve stopped into grocery stores on numerous occasions for a few things but am easily distracted by some fancy display offering free samples or the seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air from the embedded Starbuck’s.  I find myself back in my car sipping a grande non-fat no foam double mocha latte without the items I intended to purchase in the first place!  Other times I sit, wrapped in a comfy blanket reading but I have to turn back several pages and reread them because I’ve lost track of the storyline! I’ve even double washed or double conditioned my hair due to inattention to the task at hand! I don’t seem to focus on what I’m doing for very long, so you can only imagine what I’m like on the golf course  . . . for eighteen holes!

I know I’m not alone with my attention deficit issue, though.  Many of my friends have nodded in agreement that a round of golf should only include fifteen holes MAX! After putting out on Hole #15, we’ve succumbed to inertia.  It’s not that we’re not interested, it’s just that our thoughts have been hijacked.  We’re planning dinner or rushing to finish our round for bridge or any number of other reasons.  How professional golfers can stay wholly focused, hole after hole, shot after shot, putt after putt is truly the Eighth Wonder of the World!

Last summer, three of my friends and I committed to improving our golf performance once and for all.  We enrolled in a clinic consisting of four sessions with a female professional golfer who had the extra qualifications of a Masters degree in clinical psychology!  We hit the Mother Lode!  Abby had the experience of playing on tour, she could head-shrink us AND she’s a woman!  Her being female sealed the deal in our selecting her as our teacher.  She KNOWS how thoughts dance through our minds, just like stones skipping across a pond!  One minute we’re concentrating on our next golf shot and club selection but in less than a split second, we’re thinking about what color nail polish we’ll choose at our next manicure or gasping at how fat our shadows look!

“O.K., Ladies,” Abby began in our first classroom session, “one round of golf takes around four hours, give or take right?”

“Right!” we all agreed, proud of ourselves for knowing something about the game.

“What happens to us,” she continued with professorial wisdom, “is that we lose focus over that long period of time! That’s NORMAL!”

<Oh! My Gosh!  This woman is AMAZING!  She thinks we’re NORMAL!>

But then as if on cue my thoughts skipped . . . <But wait a second . . . she just met us!  Let’s hope she doesn’t change her mind by the time this is all over!> 

Session 1, “Focus and Thought Management,” was exactly what we needed.  Just think: Each golf shot requires only 20 seconds of pure focus.  For a player consistently scoring 92-ish (like Yours Truly), only 31 minutes of intense concentration is needed over that 4-hour period.  So . . . what happens during the other 3 hours and 29 minutes?

Abby provided us with a variety of focus-driven strategies, visual images to picture during our pre-shot routines, physical cleansing breath techniques and positive self-affirming mantras to chant silently just before hitting the ball.

“After you’ve made your shot,” she continued, “go ahead and chat a little as you walk down the fairway!”

<I LOVE this Pro!  She just gave us permission to think and talk about something other than golf while we’re actually PLAYING golf!>

<Things are lookin’ up!!  I only have to be serious for 31 minutes!  The rest of the time I can have fun and joke around!>

This was JUST what my Inner Voices needed to hear — well, The Comic, anyway.  The Coach and The Critic had been confined to 1/2 hour’s worth of “air time,” but The Comic just got THREE HOURS AND TWENTY-NINE MINUTES of liberty!

An entire year has passed since that enlightening lecture, and, being the good student that I’ve always been, I have to boast that I’ve gotten pretty good at focusing for 31 minutes over a 4-hour period.  I’ve ALSO become profusely accomplished in effectively using the 3-hour and 29-minute recess!

“O.K., Everybody! Shut up!  I have to focus for 20 seconds!” I demand as I assess my shot, quieting all conversation.

And with that, words drop mid sentence.  Everyone and everything immediately stops as if in the midst of a game of Freeze Tag.  Only the caddy is in motion, setting down the golf bag to select the appropriate club.  Sunglasses lower over my eyes, my breathing deepens, making me sound like Jethro Tull’s Aqua-Lung, my leg and arm muscles tense as my fingers interlace gripping the club with clear, confident conviction.  I am a human Transformer, morphing from a woman wearing a brightly obnoxious argyle golf skirt into a fierce Decepticon Golf Machine . . . for 20 seconds.

“There!” I say as I hand my club back to the caddy, “what were were talking about?”

“Is you all going to the Super Bowl party at the Club next week?” asked Inga, resuming the conversation.

“IS you all going . . .?” I ask, stressing her error in subject-verb agreement, “Really?  IS you all going?”

In her defense, Inga is an Austrian, making English her second language.  She should be cut some slack in her usage of the language.  But then again,  I, forever an English teacher, just canNOT stand some of the errors that I hear.  Listening to incorrect grammar, to my ears, is worse than a whole classroom full of students dragging their fingernails down a chalkboard.

“‘You’ can be either singular or plural.  It’s a pronoun.  You HAVE to use the plural form of ‘to be’ with it whether or not you are asking one person or more!” I corrected.

“Oh.  Well then, could I say, ‘Is EVERYBODY going to the Super Bowl party?'” she asked.

“YES!” I said, believing that she was really interested in a mini-English lesson before it was her turn to focus on golf for 20 seconds.

“Why?  ‘Everybody’ means a lot of people,” she asked, a little confused.

“Ya, but it’s a SINGULAR pronoun.  You have to use a singular verb!” I clarified.

Inga lit a cigarette, blew some smoke toward my face, gave me a quasi-blank stare and said,

“F*k you!”

“O.K.!  Great! Now see?  We’re getting somewhere!” I complimented her, chuckling at her response, “You used an imperative sentence, and you used it correctly!  You inverted the subject and the verb to form a command! Well done! Congratulations!”

And with that, she attended to her next shot, bringing her focus to the forefront.  How hard it must be for Inga!  She not only has to battle the stones of thought skipping through her mind, but she also has to fight stones of language nuances that tiptoe through many of her conversations!  Noun/Pronoun and Subject/Verb agreement were two of these.

As an aside, I quietly whispered to the caddy,

“By the way, as long as we’re talking about grammar, it’s not ‘Mrs. West, where’s your putter at?’ but rather, ‘Mrs. West, where’s your putter?’ NEVER end a sentence with a preposition!”

Shaking his head and laughing, he said, “Is THIS what White women from small towns talk about?  Grammar?”

Because my grammar lesson to the caddy continued through Inga’s shot, I didn’t see where her ball landed.  Neither did she (a clear sign that she had kept her head down).  The other two in the foursome hadn’t seen it either.  They were headed toward their own balls and focusing on THEIR pre-shot routines.

Inga pointed in the direction she THOUGHT her ball went, sending us all out in search of it.

“It’ll be easy to find,” she said, “it’s got gravity all over it!”

“What?!  ALL of our balls have gravity all over them!  It’s what happens when you hit a ball: it flies through the air and because of gravity, it drops down and lands!” we told her.

“Didn’t you ever study Isaac Newton and his Theory of Relativity?  He’s the guy who’s famous for all those laws of motion and universal gravitation things!” I said, overjoyed that I finally had the opportunity to use the only thing I remembered from high school physics.

“NOOOOO!!  GRAAAAAAAAVITY!” she repeated, expecting that lengthening the word and increasing the volume on her pronunciation would increase our understanding.  “It’s got lots of blue and red lines on it that I made with my Sharpie . . . it looks like a gang member painted markings on it!”

“Good god, Inga,” I said, “You mean GRAFFITI, not GRAVITY!”

<Clearly, she’s just skipped another stone . . . across the ocean!>

“Found it!” exclaimed the caddy, nearly doubled over with laughter, “I know it’s the right ball because it’s got GRAVITY all over it!”

I successfully resisted launching into another English lesson, this one on correct pronunciation, but thought better of it.  Instead, I silently reviewed Abby’s instructions to us about focus, visualization and confidence during a round of golf.  Conscious attention to the mechanics of the mental game awarded me with a steady rhythm of 20-second focus, execution of steady shots and, to my great happiness, good scores.  A few more holes of minimal idle chatter passed but as usual, when something seems too good to be true, it usually is.  Our round of golf was in its final quarter, leaving us with only four holes to go.  The afternoon was wearing on, the air was cooling rapidly, and our shadows were lengthening.

All four balls on the green, we began putting; the ball furthest from the hole to be played first, and so on in.  As each player read the green from her position, the others moved to get out of her line or peripheral view.

“I’ll move over here,” offered Inga, “to get my shade out of your way.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

<I failed to notice she’d just tossed another stone!>

“Move way over here. See? When I come over here, my shade comes with me and it doesn’t darken your path anymore!” she explained.

“Oh!!  You mean your SHADOW!” I said, in full comprehension.

“Yes. ‘Shade,’ ‘shadow,’ what difference does it make?” she asked, rhetorically.  “I always get those two words confused!”

Another couple of holes memorialized on the scorecard, the four of us marched down the last fairway when stones of both types were tossed, one being a random thought; the other being an English as a Second Language one.

“If you guys were going to get a tutu, what would you get?” asked Inga.

“A pink one . . . like the ballerina in Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” wears,” I said, not having to think very long about the kind I’d like.

“A TUTU!” clarified Inga, “like the burn-in-your-skin kind! If you got one of THOSE, what would you get?”

That was it.  I dropped by 3-wood on the ground.  There was absolutely no hope for any of us finishing out the hole.  Even the caddy couldn’t contain himself.  There was such an uproar of uncontrolled laughter from our fairway that golfers on nearby holes stopped to wait for an acceptable level of decorum to return to the area.

I’m guessing that we’ll all be back in Abby’s clinic again this summer.  Despite having passed through her first seminar and improving our mental focus, it’s still blatantly obvious that stones are still skipping through our minds and through the green!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s face it — many of us are smack dab in the middle of the “Sandwich Generation.”  Oh, sure, we’re better known as aging Baby Boomers, but our booming days are long past.  We’re in the Land of In-Between enjoying our newly emptied nests and . . . either filling them back up with aging parents or managing their care from a distance.   We often find ourselves utterly frustrated, burdened and feeling guilty because, after all, we are grown-ups and this was NOT supposed to happen — but “they’re our parents!”  We want to be DONE with the responsibility of taking care of someone else!  THIS WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN!!  Or WAS it?

We Baby Boomers have new grandchildren.   We’re exploring activities and interests that were put on hold for 20 years while we raised our own kids.  We’re no longer sleep deprived from sitting up and pacing every Friday and Saturday night for our teenagers to return home (hopefully a few minutes beFORE curfew and sober!)  Exorbitant high school and college tuition payments are in the past and our nest eggs have been feathered quite nicely.  The embers in our marriages are smoldering with the same intensity as they were in the beginning, and generally, Life is good — but for the dog and Mom and Dad or just Mom or just Dad.

My 90-year-old mother’s advanced dementia and a fall in the middle of the night one year ago underscored her need for specialized placement, taking her out of my brother’s house into permanent skilled care.  Four months of required physical therapy for her broken vertebrae at a large skilled nursing facility saddened all of us.  We unaffectionately referred to it as “God’s Waiting Room.”  No one likes being stalled in a waiting room. Not the patients, not the families.  No one.   And being there for four months was excruciatingly depressing! As her therapy drew to an end, we focused on finding a place for Mom that we all liked and one that she would come to accept  . . . eventually, we hoped.

Three Oaks is perfect!  It houses 6 patients, all at least 90 years old with varying degrees of dementia,  in a 5-bedroom mid-century sprawling ranch-style house with 3 shifts of 3 full-time caregivers. Each resident has moved in with his or her own bedroom furniture, personalizing that special room in the house.   Paul’s son brought Paul’s grand piano!  It occupies a corner in the spacious living room, just to the right of a big, bay window!  All of the residents’ framed pictures line the mantle over the word-burning fireplace, just like family photos in many homes sit on end tables, bookshelves and other prominent spaces.   Cornelia’s china cabinet stands against a paneled wall in the family room.  Many of her favorite Lladro figurines stand guard over the days’ activities.  Madge’s mosts cherished memento is an 8″x 10″ framed photo of her with husband that she carries around lovingly clutching it against her heart — only NOW she thinks it’s a picture of her parents!

Visiting Mom in the early months following her move was nothing I looked forward to.  In fact, I dreaded it, but out of guilt and obligation, I forced myself to go.

“Ugh!” I thought, “I’d better go over there and sit for awhile!  Mom doesn’t even know who I am, but still, I’d better go!”

And she didn’t know who I was, nor does she now.  But a lot has changed since my early visits.  I have learned that there are two Lands of In-Between, just like there are two Dakotas, two Carolinas and two Americas!  My Land of In-Between is MUCH different than my mother’s.  Emotions as ominous as guilt, obligation, worry, responsibility, fear, resentment, anger and disappointment over past events and even some bitterness lurk in the dark shadows and corners of this Land.  They are the denizens of its haunted forests. Will, reason and intention govern the inhabitants.

Mom’s Land of In-Between is unrecognizably beautiful to those of us in MY Land.  There are no haunted forests.  Will, reason and intention have faded; confusion, vulnerability and a sort of innocence have emerged and taken a strong foothold.  There are no negative emotions — oh, don’t misunderstand!  There are MANY unintended outbursts of surliness, absolutely , but there is no intentional driving motivation of ill will or anger at all.  Mom, Cornelia, Jeanne, Madge, Paul and Mary Lou reside in their own private, individual worlds, but . . . they still interact with each other and with each other’s visitors.  Realizing the difference “languages” of the two Lands is  when the fun begins!

One day, hoping to break up the monotony of trying to make small talk with my mother, knowing that she can’t communicate clearly or rationally, I decided to bring my Springer Spaniel with me to The Oaks.  After all, Rusty might just prove to be an excellent therapy dog!

Our entrance that day was far from ordinary.  Rusty rushed through the front door, excited to be on a field trip, and even more excited to explore the inside of this new house he was in.  I leashed him and walked him from person to person so they could pet him.  After all introductions were made, Rusty laid at my feet while I sat on the couch next to my mother.

“What’s his name?” asked Cornelia.

“Rusty,” I answered.

“Dusty?” she asked, to confirm.

“No, RUSTY!” I answered a bit louder, realizing that all of them were most likely hearing impaired.

“Crusty?” asked a voice from another couch.

“No! RUSTY!” I said even louder still.

“Puss-ty!  What kind of name is that?” scolded Madge, “What a disgusting name!  I can’t believe anyone would name their dog Puss-ty!”

“You’re right!” I said, going along with her line of illogic, “Puss-ty IS a disgusting name!  What do you think I should call him?”

“How about Rusty?” she offered.

“PERFECT!” I exclaimed, “I’ll call him Rusty from now on!  How ’bout that?!”

And it was settled.  Rusty was now renamed “Rusty!”

Lunchtime is especially entertaining.  Mom, Paul, Madge and Cornelia each have their own place at the dining room table.  Jeanne and Mary Lou never sit with the others.  I’m not sure why, but then again, there are myriad things at Three Oaks that I don’t quite understand.  No one picks up a fork until Mom has led them in the Catholic version of Grace before meals.

“AHEM,” she begins, clearing her throat, a prayerful reverence overtaking her usual vacant demeanor.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” she says, enunciating each word as if she were an ordained priest offering Sunday Mass, but pronouncing ‘Father’ like ‘FAAHH-thaaah’  “. . . Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, FROM THY BOUNTY (which she strenuously emphasizes; why, I don’t know), through Christ, Our Lord, Amen.”

Before closing with a second Sign of the Cross, she peeks out at the others from her bowed head to confirm their participation.  When satisfied, she finishes . . .

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Ordinarily, no one would think much about this daily ritual; however, Paul only looks prayerful with head bowed and hands in his lap because he’s nodded off.  Cornelia folds her hands but never bows her head.  Instead, she looks at me, silently mouthing, “You’re so pretty!” during the entire prayer.  Madge, the only non-Catholic in the group, makes no attempt to bow her head OR fold her hands.  She picks up her fork, marches it around the perimeter of her plate as if it were a stainless steel soldier, then guides it through the air like an airplane, saying, “Look what I can do!” and then she winks at me, with a playful glimmer in her cloudy blue eyes!  Just as Mom ends Grace with the second Sign of the Cross, Madge stiffens like a Marine, stares straight ahead with her right hand to her forehead, makes a clicking sound, then salutes!

Conversation flows quite easily during lunch.  It seldom makes sense, but there is a constant exchange over what’s happening in everyone’s lives!  Madge visits her mother every afternoon.  It seems she’s been in some sort of horrific accident, resulting in either an amputated or broken right leg.  The extent of the injury just isn’t that clear to me yet.  Madge has unselfishly made herself available to take care of her mother every day, right after lunch!  One day, she even showed me a picture of her mother — the 8″ x 10″ photo of herself and her husband.

“See?” she explained, “There she is!”

“No way!  That’s your mother?” I exclaimed, “She looks JUST LIKE YOU!”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “that’s my mother!”

“My gosh!  You are her spitting image!  You are both SO beautiful!”

And with that, she smiled as she lovingly stroked the faces on the photo.

Madge knows she doesn’t have a car, so she relies on Gloria (one of the caregivers) for transportation.  God bless Gloria.  She walks Madge out the front door and down the driveway “to visit” Madge’s mother every afternoon following lunch.  Gloria may walk Madge down the driveway two or three times a day.  Patience and compassion are in abundance at The Oaks.

“It’s time to go see Mother!” Madge announces to Gloria after they’d just returned from one such visit.

“Oh, Madge!” explains Gloria, “Your Mom went to New York, remember?”

“Oh, yes! I DO remember!” agrees Madge, believing the deception.

“Yes, she went there for New Year’s.  She wanted to visit Time Square and go to a play on Broadway!  We’re supposed to pick her up at the airport later this afternoon!” Gloria continued, hoping for a respite in walking Madge down the driveway.

And it seemed to work.  As the visit continued, Gloria and I chatted about this and that.  I told her I was planning on going to the movie later that day.

“Oh!  Can I go too?” she asked.

“Um m m m m . . . well, I’d LOVE to have you come along, but . . . aren’t you supposed to go pick up Madge’s mom at LAX?” I joked.

“That’s right!” chimed in Madge, “Mother’s coming home today!”

With the mid-day meal eaten and cleared, my mother and I moved to the overstuffed couch in the family room.  Madge came with us, once again explaining that her mother’s leg had been badly injured and that she couldn’t wait to go help.  Only half-listening, my attention turned to Mary Lou, Paul and Jeanne whose attention was glued to the television.  The three of them sat in their usual places, throw blankets across their laps, raptly staring at the screen, hardly ever blinking . . . as if by blinking they’d miss the best part of the show.

“What are they watching so intently?” I asked James, another caregiver.

“Naked and Afraid on Discovery Channel.  It’s their favorite!” he answered, unaffected by how this sounded to a visitor such as I.

“WHAT!!!??” I exclaimed in utter shock and disbelief, “Naked and Afraid?  What in the world is THAT?”

From what I can tell, Naked and Afraid is a reality show testing the survival skills of two hippies, now in mid-Life, who’ve obviously dropped a few too many sugar cubes laced with acid.  The episode du jour spotlighted one such couple who had accepted a 21-day challenge in the rain forest of Guyana.  We at Three Oaks tuned in AFTER they’d arrived and set up camp at the river’s edge.  Why nakedness is mandatory escapes me; perhaps it intensifies the challenge.  Who knows?  Anyway . . . I, too, became mesmerized with the show.  I couldn’t beLIEVE the lunacy.

“Look at that guy!” I said to Gloria and James, “he’s SUCH a lazy bum!  He’s making his idiot girlfriend do EVERYTHING . . . and she’s so stupid, she’s actually DOING it!  He’s been trying to spear a stingray for 5 days now and the only thing he’s caught is a crab with a broken leg!  He even ate the whole thing without offering the girl even a tiny little crab’s leg!  And in the meantime, she’s up on the hill, covered head-to-toe with poison ivy, constructing a hut on higher ground for when the monsoons come!”

The three of us commented, criticized and chastised every move the social drop-outs made until something caught me off guard and hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Just look at the beautiful trees!” whispered Mary Lou, “Hummingbirds and lots of animals live in them!”

“<GASP!> They’re lovely,” added Cornelia.

“Uh huh,” agreed Paul.

And there it was — the clash between my rational world and the other Land of In-Between.  The three “sane” people were full of judgment and scorn; Mary Lou, Mom, Paul and the others were in awe over the beauty of the rain forest.  They didn’t even realize that the beatniks were stupid and naked.

What began as forced visits out of guilt and obligation have changed into hours of acceptance, appreciation, humor and most of all great love.  Those six dear, sweet people have brought home the fact that Life isn’t lived our way . . . it’s lived God’s way.

 

 

 

 

Some of you have asked how the drive to Yuma was. Well . . . I got here . . . safely, but as usual, all I have to say is, “It’s NOT easy being me!”

When will I learn to read the signs that Life puts in my path? I came very close to buying what I thought was a cute sweatshirt/tunic top at Farmer’s Daughter up at Bates’ Nut Farm on Wednesday but was told by the salesclerk that I “looked like crap!” Maybe that was the first sign, I don’t know. Maybe the second sign was the set of directions for a short cut over the mountains and through the Anza Borrego desert to Yuma that Heidi wrote on a cocktail napkin that night. And maybe the third sign was the fact that there had been a car-to-car shooting on Interstate 8 near El Cajon on Thursday morning causing a freeway closure “until further notice.”

Whatever the signs were, I failed to read them! While waiting for Interstate 8 to reopen, I drove up to have breakfast with Al & Rene.  I mentioned that the freeway was closed because of the shooting and that I REALLY wanted to get on the road to see my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter in Yuma. I told them that Heidi had scribbled some directions on a cocktail napkin, outlining an “easy” route through Ocotillo Wells that would be a good alternative to the longer way to Yuma via Interstate 15 to Interstate 8.

“It’s easy!” they said, agreeing with Heidi’s notes, “Just head up past Lake Henshaw, turn left then turn right! You’ll hit Interstate 8 in no time.”

So . . . . I gobbled up by “Al McMuffin,” took a detour back up to Farmer’s Daughter to buy the top that made me “look like crap,” then headed up Hwy. 76 toward Lake Henshaw.

Easy, peasy! No traffic, beautiful scenery, clear signage and WAY ahead of schedule. Being the wise person that I am, I did not rely entirely on Heidi’s map on the cocktail napkin; I ALSO programmed my car’s GPS with my son’s physical address and selected “shortest route.” I had double coverage!!

I sang along to the radio, daydreamed and fantasized about this and that, thoroughly enjoying the drive. I passed through Ocotillo Wells, marvelling at the wide expanse of nothing but sand dunes, RVs and dune buggies; then slowly the RVs and dune buggies became fewer and fewer. The little town of Brawley came and went. But the sand dunes didn’t.

“In one-half mile, turn right at Ted Kopff Trail,” the voice on my car’s tracking system ordered.

“O.K.,” I thought, “I’m finally going to start heading South!”

But as I approached Ted Kopff Trail, fully prepared to turn right, my heart dropped with a THUD!

“I’m not turning there!” I said to myself, realizing that I may have missed a turn somewhere behind me. Ted Kopff Trail is a dirt road, heading due South through miles and miles and miles of nothing but sand dunes!

I pulled to the side of the road, grasping for the map on the cocktail napkin!

“UGH!!!!” I muttered, remembering that I’d used the napkin map to discard the gum I’d been chewing! Try as I may to unstick the gum from the map, I just succeeded in making napkin scraps!!

Several expletives later, I cautiously started back on the current road, past Ted Kopff Trail waiting for my car’s GPS to acknowledge me with the voice, “re-CAL-culating!”

“Phew!” It had recalculated! Now I just had 9.2 miles “on the current route” before I was supposed to turn right again.

With Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody blaring from the stereo system, “Beelzebub’s got a devil for . . . . ”

“SH#T!!!!!!” I screamed out loud to no one but myself, “WHAT IF MY NEXT RIGHT TURN IS ANOTHER DIRT TRAIL?

“OMG — AAA will never find me!!! What am I supposed to say, ‘Hello? Yes, this is Peggy West and I’m out here in the Anza Borrego desert on a freakin’ dirt road to nowhere! Can you come help me? Nearest cross-street? Are you kidding me? There ARE NO CROSS STREETS OUT HERE!!! I’m past the 227th sand dune southeast of Brawley!”

Now the Eagles were singing, ” . . . and I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight!”

Really? I’m not sleeping in this desert tonight! Not with You. Not with NOBODY! I’d better find a paved road soon!! The warmest thing I have with me is a vest and I will DIE if I have to spend the night out here in the desert . . . with or withOUT the Eagles!!

I had visions of sunbleached cow skulls; then I imagined my own sunbleached skull on the Coroner’s table waiting for James to come and identify his wife’s remains!! I thought maybe I should put on the sweatshirt that made me “look like crap,” just to make the body identification easier!!

My next right turn approached and to my delight, it WAS a paved road, but I was the only car on it — in both directions — for 20.2 miles. Introduced into the monotonous expanse of nothing but sand dunes were several areas marked off by large rocks. I assumed they delineated campgrounds or something. Whatever. I’d never want to camp out there! I didn’t even want to be driving out there!

I DID put in three voice mail messages to Heidi, telling her that D-roads were NO fun by yourself. I don’t really remember what I said in the other two, but I’ll be really lucky if she still wants to be my friend!!

20.2 miles passed and I saw a sign: “Interstate 8 — ahead!”

GLORY BE TO GOD!!!!! I’M SAVED!!!!!

My “shortcut” through Ocotillo Wells took 2 hours longer than it should have! I called James upon my arrival at Patrick’s house.

“Hey! Did you hit any traffic on the 15 and 8?” he asked innocently.

“Nope!” I said, “I had NO TRAFFIC at all!”

There is NO WAY I was going to tell him about my misadventure! What happens in Anza Borrego, STAYS in Anza Borrego!

I DID tell my son what happened, describing the desolation, the dirt roads, etc. His eyes widened and his face paled!

“Mom!!! It’s a good thing that WTI is finished! You were in the middle of the Marine’s target fields!”

WTI stands for “Weapons and Tactical Instruction.” He had just finished teaching a 9-week course on using the artillery on Huey helicopters. I drove through the area that is used for target practice!!! The areas marked off with rocks that I thought were campgrounds were aerial TARGETS!!!!

So . . . two things:
1) It’s just NOT EASY being me;
2) Never . . . but NEVER trust the directions scribbled on a cocktail napkin!!