A Cranky Ol' Lady Goes a'Blogging

Desert blues

2008-07-21T11:44:00.003-07:00

After a lovely week in Massachusetts, gazing at green, I'm back. It's tiresome. Today about 8:30 am I decided to take the dog out for a short walk (having missed the pre-dawn window of semi-comfort). The temperature was unusually low, in the mid-80's, so I figured it was do-able. I'd been walking in Massachusetts at similar temperatures, and we've walked at dawn here, but in daylight it is way different. Maybe it's because the angle of incidence of sunlight is so near 90 degrees here. Whatever the reason, the impact is well above that signified by air temperature alone. Homie felt it much more than I, even with drinks and sprinkles. By the time we got back, after only a half-hour, he was panting hard and walking slowly enough that I was worried about him. I won't do it again.

This week we give up selling the house and hopefully make a trip to Oregon. Grumpy's VA appointment screw-up may hash our plans (doctor called in sick). I think it's the one he's been waiting for to document his progress in getting fit enough to have his collarbone fixed, and he had a list of other things to discuss. A rescheduling will be an aggravation, a delay. Oh, well, the trip keeps getting postponed, so I might as well get used to it.

It was an odd week in Massachusetts, committed to fixing dinners and trying new things. It was partly fun and partly discomfort with what was really a minimal committment. The discomfort was more aggravating than the actual committment, as I then proceeded to feel guilty about it. I've always resented domestic duties, and my solution at home is to do them only when I feel like it. Doing it on schedule for people who live and eat differently than I do piqued a vulnerable part of my psyche. I'm not at all proud of that. Still, the trip was mostly rewarding.

My cooking at home is pretty basic: throw a bunch of yummy stuff all together in a skillet, or throw a bunch of yummy raw stuff all together in a salad bowl. Last week I used a recipe! Twice!

A sauce (i.e. gravy) for pork chops was unique (to me) for not using flour. It was thickened with heavy cream boiled down to half its volume. Who'd have ever thought boiled cream would rise to such a magnificent height! Not me, when selecting an appropriate saucepan. While I was busy whisking rapidly and moving the pan on and off the flame, an adorable poodle bent on a frolic jumped on my legs, ruffled rugs, yipped, and rattled doggie bowls. He knew damn well what he was doing to me. The twinkle in his eyes was a dead giveaway.

The next project was moussaka, which involved three separate processes to ready three things to pile in together and bake. The one that bugged me was the eggplant. The recipe said to slice it and salt it (to draw out some of the bitter fluid) and brown it in olive oil over high heat. Three eggplants sliced and browned in 1/4 cup of oil? High heat for olive oil? Olive oil sort of evaporates over high heat, and eggplant (as I knew from previous experience) sucks up oil like a dessicated sponge. I aimed for medium heat, and the first skilletful of eggplant sucked up ALL the olive oil! Uneasily, I kept pouring in oil and browning eggplant, trying to minimize time and absorption. I was not surprised when baking released a lake of oil, but it still tasted great. I ate twice as much as I should have.

I was so exhausted after the moussaka project that the next night I produced a simple favorite of mine, salad with flakes of heat-smoked wild Alaskan salmon and the kind of feta cheese that comes in a pool of brine. For some reason, Trader Joe's doesn't carry that type of salmon any more, but Whole Foods does. Here at home I will now have to drive 25 miles across town to Scottsdale (where live the moneyed folks with moneyed taste) to find it.

I was taken out to dinner the final night, which was sweet of them and a treat for me. My friend with the new bionic shoulder was doing a smashing job of recovery by the time I left.

I forgot to swim in the river!!!

Good news from Memphis

2008-07-08T08:05:00.002-07:00

Grumpy (I'm feeling bad about the nickname now) is on cloud nine. He is so pleased with his new car -- "beautiful," "wonderful," etc. I was worried, now relieved and happy for him. I hope he hurries home.

I got lazy yesterday, but today I made it out of bed for another early walk. We left the house at 4:50 am (just light) and got back at 6:15 as the sun was starting to hurt. It was 85 degrees when we left, and still 85 when we got back -- almost perfect. Homie got several cooling showers in a series of park sprinklers just off the canal. Now, just a little earlier start next time, just before light, work it up to two full hours and I'll feel satisfied. Today's walk was about 3.5 miles.

When I think about it, it's appalling that there are just two hours in the day when anyone in their right mind can walk around outside here, 4-6 am. It has taken me 19 years to learn to use that time. It is precious, a beautiful time of day to be up and out. Sunrise pinks up the sky, and hummingbirds play.

Morning person

2008-07-06T10:56:00.002-07:00

All my life I've never been a morning person. Today I may have qualified at last.

After two days wallowing in the luxury of not getting up in the middle of the night to go walking while Grumpy is gone, I began to miss, even crave, the exercise. I set my alarm for 4:45 a.m. When it went off this morning, I hit the snooze button and thought about it: I wanted to get up. The novelty of this will only be apparent to those who know me well.

Not only did I want to get up, I then did actually get up. The weeks of practice have changed me. I am newly qualified to go on birdwatching trips with the Audubon Society, who always seem to be meeting in parking lots at ungodly hours in the a.m.

Homie was excited. We were out of the house by 5:30. He frolicked in the park, and by 5:45 he was panting hard and standing over sprinklers on our way to the canal. By 6:30 we were home, having walked a couple of miles, used all our water, and begun to feel sun-scorched. Next time we must get out of the house earlier.

Grumpy called from Memphis this morning. The bus trip was horrible, horrible, horrible -- horrible food, horrible long waits, a missed connection, acid reflux, and diarrhea. He almost got arrested having a conniption fit at an all-night store that was "closed for cleaning" when he tried to buy much-needed medications. If the car deal falls through, he threatens to walk home. Ha-ha, that'll be the day. He's in a Motel 6 across the street from Elvis's start, the old Sun Studio. He'll use today to get his body back on track and see the car tomorrow. I am glad to be safely and comfortably bored at home.

Grumpy goes to Memphis

2008-07-03T22:41:00.002-07:00

Here I am fleeing cantankerous Chinese geese torn between pursuing us for bread and pursuing us to protect the nest. It's no wonder these hooligans are more appreciated as guard animals than for their meat. These three stand guard day in and day out, patrolling the canal near the nests, occasionally accompanied by one or both of the nesters taking a break from their incubation duties behind a large garbage bin way off the right edge of the photo.
And here's Grumpy wishing he'd never started this bread thing but unwilling to stop.

Our pre-dawn canal walks and goose adventures will be disrupted the next couple of weeks as Grumpy and I take turns traveling.

First, Grumpy goes to Memphis. I dropped him off at the Greyhound station a couple of hours ago. He doesn't know a soul in Memphis. This trip results from his accidental purchase of a car on e-bay a couple of days ago. He's been craving a Cadillac Allante, '91-'93, to replace his crappy '91 four-cylinder Mustang which looks like it's been occupied by several generations of homeless families over the years. It runs, but shucks; a man's gotta keep up his image.

So, he's been bidding and being out-bid the past few weeks. On the fateful night in question he was drooling over a snazzy black '92 Allante with thin red racing stripes and only 61,000 miles. The web page displayed two hot buttons, one to place a bid and the other to "Buy now!" at $7,595. Though the buy-now price was pretty reasonable, he decided to make a more conservative bid and see if he could get it for less. He typed a $4,000 bid and swears he clicked on the bid button. Voila! He was congratulated for his successful purchase of the car!

I learned what had happened when I inquired about the unusual sputtering noises and frantic gestures he was making at his computer. There followed several hours of shock, explanation, vocal ambivalence, hair-pulling, chagrin, and tentative delight, which culminated in a surrender to fate. He paid the $500 deposit and bought a one-way bus ticket to Memphis. Heck, he really wanted that car.

While he's gone I could hire a geek to reveal his keystroke history. Which button did he really push? Oh, I guess it doesn't really matter.

I was relieved about the bus ticket. At first we planned to drive the Prius to Memphis, which would have made a mess of several things I had planned for the next couple of weeks. I was stressing over this so much that when he finally said he'd take the bus I was so relieved I forgot to worry about buying a car sight unseen on e-bay.

When (if?) Grumpy gets home, I'm off to Massachusetts for a week to help out a friend having a shoulder replacement. It's cooler up there, and I dearly love my old friend. Meanwhile, I have the house and Homie to myself for a few days. I'm already a little bit lonesome.

My Tom Waits t-shirt

2008-06-29T16:21:00.003-07:00

Here I am in my Tom Waits Glitter & Doom Tour souvenir t-shirt. I wear it proudly, even though it's just a photo of an oil stain that looks a little bit like a cowboy with a rifle in his hands, a holstered pistol on his hip, and a vulture perched on his shoulder. Since the man himself actually found and photographed it, I guess that makes it special.

In his chapbook, True Confessions (a conversation with himself), Waits has made a list of remarkable things he has found in unexpected places. Item 1 is: "Real beauty: oil stains left by cars in a parking lot." This design may be only one of many possible souvenir t-shirts that may or may not find their way into my possession in the future. So be it.

Curiously, item 5 is: "Best food: Airport in Tulsa, Oklahoma." It's too bad I usually drive to Tulsa when I visit my cousin. I'll probably never eat at the airport unless I make a special trip. Shucks, maybe I will.

Today I went to church -- not something an atheist does very often, but it was Unitarian and there was a talk by a biologist from ASU supposedly on the topic of the evolution of religion. Sadly, it was a disappointing talk which focused on reasons not to believe in miracles, about which I could have easily talked to myself and had a few more hours of sleep after getting home at 6 am from our daily five-mile walk. He also recommended teaching our pre-school-age kids about scientific thinking instead of imposing a religion on them, which I think is decent advice that practically nobody will follow. He brought along the Dawkins book (for reinforcement?). He was way too young and silly to impress anyone. The previous speaker (which I missed) was apparently excellent (older and had written a book about it); he talked about evolutionary aspects of religion with actual content from a scientific point of view. Ah, well.

I raised my younger son with no religion. We talked about it off and on, how most people believe in some sort of religion, many different sorts, and how some (like me) don't. I told him he'd have to work it out for himself, which he did. It did freak me out a bit when he invited Jehovah's Witnesses into the house, but before long he was discussing Islam with them which made them very uncomfortable and they finally quit coming. He was Muslim for a couple of weeks (his dad's cultural origin), bought the outfit, and cleaned his room one time after a lesson on cleanliness. He has become a critical thinker who can calmly discuss politics, history, and religion with just about anyone. He is nicer about it than I am.

Trip to Flagstaff

2008-06-27T21:56:00.002-07:00

Overcome by heat aversion, we spent a couple of days in Flagstaff for relief. We found a very inexpensive (cheap) motel. Given the choice of one queen bed or two doubles, we ask for the queen. Opening the door, voila! Two doubles. Oh, well, sometimes it's nice to have my own bed.

We turned on the AC, waited to feel cooler, then opened the windows and felt cooler. The open windows also allowed us to hear the whistling trains better as they swooshed along the nearby tracks. Next morning I awoke to lots of noise which turned out to be Grumpy taking apart the air conditioner and cleaning the filter under the shower. That worked, though the chunks of crud on the floor of the shower discouraged morning cleanliness. Never mind. The TV worked fine. Wireless internet was available if I took my laptop into the office. I didn't get much e-mail anyhow.

Grumpy had a headache, so we took a walk to Walgreens. I waited outside with the dog while he got his nurse's potion, a full dose each of ibuprofen and acetaminophen. As he had forgotten his reading glasses, he came out with children's liquid acetaminophen. We calculated an adult dose, which used up the whole bottle (4 bucks worth). Nasty tasting stuff, but worth it after all. Turns out the liquid form works faster, says Grumpy.

We had night walks, not five miles like at home but so refreshing. Our second night we criss-crossed the NAU campus, Homie unusually energetic off the leash. I haven't seen him frolic like that in months! Cool temps release his inner puppy. Meanwhile, I was awash with campus nostalgia. I love being in school -- taking courses, studying for exams, writing papers, learning and learning more stuff, digging into a real library. I really do have to live somewhere I can get back into studying something.

We took a scenic drive recommended in a book, and it was all right, but our spontaneous diversion up the side of the San Francisco peaks to the ski bowl was the highlight. Up there we found the Kachina trail going off in two directions from the road. We decided to check out the woodsiest side. Here, finally, up high enough, we found Oregon-like lush, ferny forest. The trail was beautiful. We weren't equipped for an actual hike, but we meandered a little way just to check out the trail for future visits. Homie scampered ahead happily (no gravel here to wear out his toe pads). He was more than ready to go all the way.

Noticing the trail's gradual descent, we stopped after walking less than a quarter-mile. Good thing we did. When we turned back we discovered the effect of altitude on breathing under mild exertion. Not pretty. I felt about ninety. Here's a pic Grumpy took while I sat to enjoy the thrill of not being in the desert.

Post-concert euphoria

2008-06-18T19:57:00.002-07:00

It's hopeless to think I can put into words how awesome, amazing, fantastic, out-of-this-world wonderful Tom Waits was last night! It surpassed all my expectations.

The only other show I've ever paid that much for was when the Rolling Stones came to the Sun Devil stadium here and I was so far away they might as well have been on TV. Last night I had one of those seats you'd die for, tenth row in the front-center section. It was worth every cent of the $100+ I paid for it, and more. To top it off, there were no heads blocking my view. There was a big wide opening right in my line of sight, and I don't know why. I always have to crane my neck around big tall people. Somehow the seats were just arranged for my viewing pleasure.

He was dynamite! He started off with an explosive foot-stomping song, and the energy level was maintained for almost two hours. He moved like a crab with boots and damn, he's surely almost as old as the Stones (and me). I wish I had that pill, whatever it is. Maybe it's just doing what you want and being great at it.

The stage was filled from one side to the other with instruments. The way Waits uses musicians sounds unique to me (not that I know that much about that stuff). They are his punctuation marks. Drums, base (not a base guitar, I mean to say, but a humongous base fiddle), keyboard, and a mostly sax guy who had several (sometimes playing two at once) plus harmonica, and various guitars including "cigar box guitar," and piano, which Waits settled into for a relaxed spell, playing my beloved discovery song, "Innocent When You Dream," with many sing-along choruses. He used his body like an instrument too, with his own unique form of stomp and full-body indescribable gesticulations. He had three or four different voices, switching through all of them in a song or two. It was eye- and ear-boggling to experience his amazing talents firsthand. What a show!

I bought a t-shirt. The front design is a photo (a genuine taken-by-Tom Waits photo, no less) of an oil stain. It kinda looks like him, but perhaps the joke's on me and it's a "they'll buy anything" statement. I dunno. Heck, I like it.

Tom Waits ticket!

2008-06-16T23:33:00.004-07:00

I first discovered Tom Waits during the credits at the end of the film Smoke. The song was "Innocent When You Dream." It was a little drunk and silly, and its regret made my heart ache, and when that happens (like with Townes Van Zandt) I have to find the source. I ended up buying and loving nearly everything Tom Waits ever did. I have waited years and years for the chance to see him perform live. Now, at last, he is coming to Phoenix!

I got online the first day and hour the tickets went on sale through Ticketmaster. They were already gone! I was so sad, so disappointed, so pissed off. Then this evening my son called. He was listening to radio while driving, and he heard that they were releasing more Tom Waits tickets for sale and I should get online right away. I did, and I got one! I'm dancing and singing my glee. I see him tomorrow night!

This is an awful week for our nightwalks. Last night we waited and waited for the temperature to fall to something less than 90. Finally, at 4 am it was 88 and we took off. Grumpy has new shoes, so suddenly he is setting the pace and the dog and I struggle to keep up. It was muggy and dead calm and almost no fun. The sun came up and burned our necks before we got home sometime after 6 am.

Tomorrow is a busy day. I have to take my son to court on the other side of town at 8:30 am to try and get his car out of impound (long story), and if that doesn't succeed I have to go to court at 2 pm and get it out in my name (we are both on the title). If that works, we will all have transport, but if it doesn't work I have to figure out how to make sure my son gets to Tucson that night where he is scheduled to do a show, and also get myself to Tom Waits the same evening.

Given all that, plus the fact that it's nearly midnight and it's still 100 outside, I think I might just skip the 5-mile walk tonight and get some sleep.

How my dog uses English

2008-06-12T17:40:00.003-07:00

Yes, we all like to think our dogs understand a bit of English. And so they do, but sometimes they are using a different dictionary. This insight came to me recently through a series of revisions by my old boxer to our longstanding conversational routine.

It goes something like this: The dog wants something. He stares intently into my eyes as if trying really hard to use ESP. (If I'm not looking, he has a progression of moves that get my attention.) I try to figure out what he wants by running through the small set of phrases we both know. They all start with, "You want.....?" like a multiple choice quiz. He watches and listens intently, ears pricked, until I hit on the right one. Then, he turns and walks away, towards his goal, stopping to make sure I'm really coming along.

The questions are: "You wanna go outside?" , "You want dinner?" , "You wanna go walk?"

We've been doing this for years and years. Now that Grumpy is home from Ireland, life is more complex, and Homie is trying to adapt our language to new problems.

When Grumpy has prepared himself a meal of savory sausages, for example, he prefers to focus all his attention on the meal. So he takes it into the bedroom and shuts the door. I'm usually at my computer in the living room when this happens. Since I never shut Homie out when I'm eating (we work it out), he is taken aback by this behavior.

A few weeks ago, Homie and I did our usual multiple-choice question routine, and he selected "outside." I got up and went to the back door, opened it, and Homie wasn't there with me. This was really peculiar. I backtracked and found Homie standing at the bedroom door, clearly waiting for me to open it. Wow! I have a genius dog who takes linguistic initiatives!

Although I could not grant his request, I did communicate my pleasure and amazement at his ingenuity. I revised my copy of the dictionary to indicate that "outside" in Homie-English means "through the door." He tried that a few more times, so it wasn't just a freak occurrence. He's really thinking this through.

But it doesn't stop there. The other day he responded to "outside" again, but the back door and bedroom door were both standing open. Homie led me into the kitchen where Grumpy was making chicken salad and NOT giving Homie any bites! This just isn't right. I always give Homie bites when I'm fixing something he loves. He knows he can count on me. He looked at Grumpy, then looked back at me with appealing great brown eyes, then back at Grumpy again.

I got it! He wanted me to make Grumpy do right!

So, I'm scratching out my previous revision. "Go outside" means "Pass through a barrier that only you can remove."

If only!

Lucidity & lights

2008-06-11T16:55:00.002-07:00

A month or so ago, I bought Barack Obama's book-on-tape, Audacity of Hope. I loaded it into my car's cd player, and every time I drove somewhere (or when I was bored with NPR) I listened to a bit of it. Okay, I didn't always listen closely; my mind wandered, but I heard quite a bit of it. I was particularly interested in the part about religion and politics. I also listened to segments of his racism speech, given after all the hoopla over comments by his longtime pastor.

I have to say this about Obama: His writing and speaking are overwhelmingly lucid. He makes sense. He gets down to the bottom of things and finds the critical underlying threads and ties them together. He doesn't avoid anything. He is truthful and serious and rational. He doesn't cover his ears and go YADA-YADA-YADA. He doesn't slant the truth to obscure it. He doesn't pretend to consider; he actually considers. He doesn't suck up to anybody or mock anybody. He doesn't dwell on inconsequential nonsense to put anybody down

Holy cow. He doesn't think or talk like any other politician I have listened to. He seems real. I am bowled over by this discovery and very pleased with myself for voting for him in the primary. Though I would have been fine with Clinton winning, she lost my respect when she leaped to join the chorus of media pundits over his pastor's wacko ideas and his choice of words regarding the reactions of working people to hardship (bitterness, etc.). He's never stooped to hooting over inconsequential nonsense during the campaign; Clinton has.

The fact that Obama's family and upbringing exposed him to diverse cultures, races, and beliefs puts him into a very select group among largely arrogant, culturally ignorant, and super-nationalist Americans, making him uniquely qualified to communicate with other nations, whether friends or enemies, with respect and without being offensive or insulting. I have been embarrassed and ashamed to be an American for so long that it will be a proud day indeed if he is elected President and speaks for us. I can hardly believe it is possible that I will be able to feel proud of my home country. I hope it happens.

To change the subject, after a hiatus nursing my cold, the five-mile walks are back in action. Homie goes with us off the leash most of the time, freeing him for sniff-pee pauses and for running around within reason. He is exceedingly well behaved and trustworthy. But this week, for the second time in maybe three weeks, we lost him (or he lost us). The first time was in the park; we finally found him consorting with strangers. This time it was on the canal. We couldn't see him, he didn't respond to calls, and we didn't know if he was ahead of us or behind us. We spread out, doubling back and rushing ahead, and finally did find him pacing in circles far ahead where the canal crosses a busy street. He had simply trotted faster and faster, as he does when heading toward home, and he forgot all about us until out of hearing. Thankfully he waited there instead of charging into traffic or going home with somebody else!

Five miles is already a stretch for me, and all the extra panicky searching meant that by the time we got home I was practically crippled. There are several pesky little muscles connecting pelvis to thigh bone that serve as my Achilles heel. Yowchhhh! Homie now sports a new collar with a bright red blinking stripe and a bright red blinking heart-shaped pendant hanging off it. He is never out of sight. On top of that, he remembers to look back and be sure we are behind him. The past two nights have been the most relaxing walks ever.

Politics

2008-06-08T10:30:00.002-07:00

What's my excuse for the absence of politics in my blog ramblings? It's complicated.

First, it isn't that I don't care. It's more that I don't hope. The late sixties (MLK, RFK) were responsible for my politicization as well as my defeatist cynicism. They came so close together they nearly canceled each other out. I was aroused by the civil rights movement and thrilled by the moral outrage of its proponents. This was my first political feeling. Left-leaning values of social justice followed naturally.

The assassinations shocked me and broke off a piece of my heart. Perhaps they converged with a private neurosis, reinforcing the feeling that to expect good things to happen just exposes me to painful and inevitable disappointment. Cynicism reduces that risk. It also gives me an excuse not to try.

Every year at this time when the media recycles the tragic stories, I cry. That time feels to me, in retrospect, like my own private psychic abortion, a death of hope just beginning to sprout. What happens when inspiring and effective leaders emerge who glimmer with the possibility of genuine social progress? We kill them. The moral of the story? We can't have that. The dark side always wins. So goes the self-pity train.

Nevertheless, by the late 70's I was aroused once more by the peculiar circumstance of infatuation and marriage to a passionate marxist, my first exposure to the extremes of left. I joined one group and another, distributed newspapers, marched, chanted, and finally gave it up as a dubious waste of energy. Other events (motherhood, divorce, single-motherhood) brought an end to my self-indulgent semi-permanent graduate-student life. I needed a job, got one, and barely raised my head again for nearly 20 years.

Now, retired with time on my hands, I grudgingly feel a tingle of inspiration to hope for the possibility of change again. Could it really be possible that, after two astonishing terms of saturation in the social-political insanity of neo-con Republicans, even the largely self-absorbed, self-destructive, and self-congratulating U.S. population could be receptive to the need for change? Am I too bitterly cynical to pitch in? I can't answer those questions yet. It's just a feeling.

Sickish

2008-06-07T00:19:00.003-07:00

The best thing I can think of to say about coming down with a nasty cold is how great it is not to have to get up and go teach classes when I'm sick. Really, everybody was so overloaded at school that it was a hardship to sub for somebody, and students never seem to learn anything from a sub anyhow. So I'd drag myself in and carry on like a good soldier.

I am a wuss when sick. I just want to be left alone except for somebody bringing me things, like my favorite ice cream. Grumpy is about over his cold, and he's being so nice.

I really shouldn't call him "Grumpy," but I don't really like the word "husband." It speaks to me of taking care of cattle ("animal husbandry"). He's not really that grumpy, though he often uses a harsher voice than most people would, and it bothers the dog. (I finally figured out that it is a reflection of self-esteem issues, and so it doesn't bother me now.) I use my happy voice with the dog, which sets off his playful response, and I no longer let myself get outraged when he does something wrong. The strong emotion makes the dog anxious and less receptive to learning. I use a stern but quiet voice when I'm serious. I've been gently trying to modify Grumpy's behavior with diggedy-dog, and he seems to be taking it in. I'm so pleased that he's listening. He gets a little hurt when the dog prefers to walk next to me.

I miss the long walks with Grumpy and diggedy-dog. I've missed two nights now, just when we were so proud of ourselves for sticking to our regimen almost every night. A session with street map and ruler revealed that what I've been calling 4+ miles is really 5+. That sounds much better to me, irrationally so.

Today's sickbed reading was an Elizabeth George murder mystery, In the Presence of the Enemy. I like every one of her books that I have read (maybe three or four so far), but this one actually made me cry at the end. There was a little boy whose father wanted to send him off to boarding school at the age of eight to make a "man" of him, out of a fear of artistic sensitivities and delicacy in his son. He was really screwing up the kid. It touched me, and the ending redeemed everybody with the boy showing surprising guts & heroism and daddy coming to his senses. I get so absorbed in stories! I take a good story very personally.

No sale & Queen of Fats

2008-06-03T15:50:00.003-07:00

As expected, no sale this time. The negotiations went like this: Listed at $189,500; offer $155,000; counter offer $185,000; counter-counter-offer $175,000; counter-counter-counter offer $183,000 -- rejected. And so it goes. Both realtors considered my offer quite reasonable, even in today's lousy market, but I guess these folks wanted a real bargain.

Yoga class last night found me stiff and groaning after all my long walks with no stretching. I walked late again after yoga, 3+ miles, and now I'm stiff all over again -- slow learner. Grumpy is sick with a raunchy cold, so it was just me and dog. When I'm alone I really hate to wait until 1 am when the temperature is halfway reasonable, so we puffed along, exploring a new part of the canal. It's a bit cooler walking next to water, but diggedy-dog puffed along slowly like he was doing me a great big favor to come with.

Last night I watched "Batman Begins." The first part was a bit hokey, Bruce Wayne's trial-and-trib getting trained by sociopaths and then burning their house down. The good stuff started when he got back home. I just love Batman. What's the matter with me? :-)

I lost myself in a really good book, The Queen of Fats by Susan Allport. I've known about omega-3's and omega-6's for quite a while, but this is the first time I've read the fascinating story about the scientists involved, the research that revealed their significance, and the flaws in the hi-fat, lo-fat, sat-fat, unsat-fat misinformation from the diet advice industry. She tells it so well! One teeters on the brink of attributing all the disorders of western civ to our omega-6/omega-3 imbalance -- seriously!! She makes me want to be a science writer, which I could surely do if I ever recovered the will to work. The book has a nice balance of science and storytelling and ends with simple advice on how to restore the balance. Susan Allport and Michael Pollan are my cultural heroes.

Night walks

2008-06-01T11:42:00.002-07:00

Our night walk routine is becoming a healthy addiction. We are up to about 4.5 miles now, taking advantage of the nearest irrigation canal which takes us directly to Cortez Park with its pond, ducks, black-crowned night herons & a little blue, a few late fishermen, and picnic table sleepers. Last night was our third in a row, and my muscle soreness has lessened each day, but now we need a night off for hubby's blister to heal.

Of course, temperatures are rising and we have to go later and later. Last night at 1 am, it was still 89 F when we started out. That got us home around 3 and to sleep about 4. The phone rang at 8, a realtor wanting to show the house at 10. Groan. We drug ourselves out of bed, spiffed up the kitchen, made the bed, and took the dog to a Starbucks with outdoor shaded tables so I could get coffee. Hubby had to hike to a McDonalds on learning that Starbucks doesn't offer diet Coke or any sodas at all, in fact. I sympathized with difficulty, sipping the dark, strong brew and gnoshing on a chicken salad tarragon sandwich.

No sooner did we get back, leaning longingly toward the bed, when another realtor called asking to come over in 15 minutes. Sleepy dog and grumpy husband aside, we managed to get out in time. Now I'm back, hoping for a more reasonable offer. This was a re-visit; the husband was here last weekend, liked it a lot, and now wanted his wife to see it. Again we are in somebody's top three.

The dog and I drove north on the freeway about 25 miles to buy a blueberry pie at Rock Springs Cafe. Of course there was an accident on the freeway, both lanes backed up several miles. Grumpy went off in his own car to In-'n'-Out-Burger, and I found him fast asleep by the time I got back. If anyone else calls today I may have a mutiny on my hands.

The pie is yummy.

Offer sucks, "Off the Black" doesn't

2008-05-31T23:53:00.003-07:00

Yes, we got an offer on the house, an offer so low and insulting it hardly merited a response. However, our realtor wrote up a counter-offer, a reasonable one, and we will see. I seriously doubt that we will get a deal out of this.

While I was whiling away the day doing not much, I decided to watch Off the Black again, this time listening to the music, especially the Townes Van Zandt songs. I had requested it from Netflix this time; previously I had caught it on TV. I was puzzled by small differences. One scene I remembered (when the Nolte character brings a ladder to the kid removing toilet paper from his trees and rooftop) was missing. At the end, the credits showed less music and only one TVZ song, "If I Needed You." I am certain there were at least three on the TV version.

So I decided to watch it again with the director's commentary (James Ponsoldt, writer & director). He mentioned that he had selected songs from singers with tragic lives, and that the TVZ song "If I Needed You" was prominent because it expressed so well the longing for connection and the difficulty finding it between men, who find it nearly impossible to express themselves emotionally. He described the film as a love story, platonic love, between the two men, young and old. Along the way he mentioned that the version shown at Sundance (2006) was a little different. To save money, songs were eliminated from the version shown commercially. The melody of "If I Needed You" was sprinkled through the film, with the full song sung by TVZ at the end. Other songs included were minimal, sometimes only a very short segment. That explains it. I was probably watching it on the Sundance channel and saw the original version.

I loved this film -- very quiet, subtle, tender, and profound. Ponsoldt's love for it came through strongly in his commentary -- location selections, casting details, spontaneous scene changes instigated by actors and others, the music. I've read some unenthusiastic reviews, and I heartily disagree. This is a fine film for those who love to dwell on details such as Nick Nolte's giveaway eyes, body language, & bed hair; Trevor Morgan's distrust and trust betrayed; the comedic dance between Nolte & Hutton. Priceless!

Thumb twiddling

2008-05-29T15:25:00.002-07:00

I am so bored. Playing computer solitaire, studying the eyeball for my medical terminology course, and listening to Doc Watson -- that's what it looks like -- but really I am just waiting for an email or phone call from our realtor. We are supposed to hear today whether the couple who is hemming and hawing really do want to purchase our house.

I am overjoyed at the prospect of a buyer, and I am scared out of my mind. I look around me at all the comforts of home. Wah! I'm going to have to do this all over again. Never mind the approach of triple-digit temperatures, cowboy-town Phoenix attitude, dust in my face full of valley fever fungal spores, July and August through-the-roof electric bills, scorched earth landscape, razor-sharp hammer-hard sunbeams, and all the rest of it.

I hate moving. I've forgotten how. I remember when everything I owned fit into my Ford Galaxy. I moved all the time. I never had to clean an oven or a refrigerator. Now, having sat around buying stuff for eleven years and tossing it into corners, moving is an abomination. All that sorting and tossing, packing, loading and hauling, looking for someplace to unpack, deciding which place to unpack, maybe doing it all again? I'm tired already.

But wait! I'll be heading for green and wet, beach and forest, rivers and mountains, city with more of my favorite things, calmer drivers, fewer pickups and SUVs, no more babies and dogs dying in cars every summer, no more burnt feet fetching the mail, no more Sheriff Joe!

It's a good thing. I've been here way too long, stuck in the sand until it feels like home.

Testing something

2008-05-28T15:27:00.003-07:00

Another shot from the beach. With this one I have learned that blogger has significantly upgraded its image posting. I keep my blog on a private server and used to have to upload my pictures to it first, but now blogger does the whole kit-and-kaboodle by itself. I didn't need to fiddle around with ftp software at all. I'm impressed!

Off to Oregon soon, maybe

2008-05-28T15:12:00.002-07:00

Oooooooooh, I just got a message from my realtor. We might be getting an offer on our house tomorrow!!!!!!

I shouldn't get too excited yet, I really shouldn't, I know I shouldn't...

Meanwhile, I've learned how to post pics again. The photo above is near Tillamook on the Oregon coast. I used to walk here regularly, communing with the sea and wind, or trying to think through my problems or forget them.

Aching thighs

2008-05-28T03:01:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I went out to the White Tanks and tackled Goat Camp Trail yet again. This trail has defeated me several times. I get to the steep part and I just give up. But yesterday I sailed past my previous record and almost reached the top. I probably could have made it, but I could feel the telltale signs of the end of my metaphorical rope coming on. I decided to save it for next time. The view of the other side would be my reward for the next stage of my comeback. By the time I got back to my car I was awfully glad I'd made that decision. The last half mile was painful.

Tonight another long city walk, must have been at least four miles, augmented by losing Homie in the park and having to circle back to find him. Now, with aching thighs that don't want to straighten for me to stand, hubby keeps asking with twinkling eyes if I want to split another little blue pill tonight. Sigh, ...maybe.

Viagra for me too!

2008-05-26T13:08:00.003-07:00

My husband works very hard to get me in the mood for sex. I go through long periods of disinterest, even though I definitely (most of the time) enjoy it once we get going. He is 59; I'm 62. It's not unusual. From what I hear, women seem more likely to accept waning sex drive. Men seem to feel that life is over when sex is. They happily pay $10 per pill to make it happen, and the drug industry loves them. So, where's the female pill?

In Gainesville this spring, I heard a lot of complaining about "lesbian bed death." I guess it makes sense that that could happen when novelty wears off and there's no male to insist on the relentless pursuit of orgasm, real or faked. Well, I have found the cure. It has been there all along, prescribed and marketed for men. Guess what gals, Viagra works for us too.

My man has a stockpile of Viagra and Cialis, so he got the bright idea for us to share the goodies. I took half a Viagra (100mg/2 = 50mg). We watched "Law and Order" while waiting for it to take effect. About halfway through the show, I started feeling some odd sensations downstairs -- swelling, tingling, flowing lubrication, and a serious case of the fidgets. By the end of the show I was downright horny, responding to his touch so quickly it startled us both. Great fun! And the next day and night, I was still up and running. The experience was both eye-opening and confusing. I'm still processing it and plotting ways to take full advantage, make it work even better. My normal mindset was turned topsy-turvy; I was eager and asking for it. Me, the one who'd mostly rather cuddle and watch TV!

Doctors do sometimes give it to women, "off label." So, lesbians, indifferent wives and lovers, plague your physicians. No more bed death. This raises the interesting question of why the drug companies aren't pushing it for us as well as for men. Perhaps the side effects are not sufficiently researched yet for women. Why not? Surely there has been time enough by now.

Timing & "The Dead Girl"

2008-05-16T16:15:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I arranged for in-home massages for myself and my husband. No one has wanted to see our house (listed for sale) for three weeks, so of course you can guess what happened. No sooner was I naked on the table than we got a call from a realtor wanting to bring someone over right away. I hesitated a second or two, but it was just too much to ask. Yeah, that could have been the one. And of course he didn't call back later like he said he would. Fuck it.

I went back to Dreamy Draw this week and saw Wilson's warblers, lots of them, in the mesquites down in a wash. I think they are migrating through.

Mesquites have me confused (honey, western honey, screwbean, or velvet?), and they also have me irritated with my Field Guide to the Plants of Arizona by Anne Orth Epple. She doesn't give comparable foliage characteristics (leaflet number, length, and width) for each species but seemingly this for one and that for another as if at random (and me with no ruler). Maybe one was screwbean mesquite, but pods aren't out yet. I did manage to identify catclaw acacia and desert hackberry.

"The Dead Girl" is a film about a serial killer, the best I've seen. The story is told in five parts, each focused on one person who has some kind of connection with the killer. Toni Collette is first; she finds a dead girl. The aftermath triggers her escape from an abominable mother. Marcia Gay Harden is the dead girl's mother, who finds horror and a granddaughter. The killer runs a storage unit with an abominable wife who covers for him. The hapless victim of (of two crimes) tries to do right but life is hard. A young woman who does the autopsy hopes it's her missing sister. Each of these stories is extraordinary on its own and superbly done. Their juxtaposition produces a complex, heartrending piece of work. Bravo!

Off the Black & Townes Van Zandt

2008-05-13T13:10:00.003-07:00

I happened to catch this little indie film on TV recently, attracted by Nick Nolte. Some of the reviews have called it slow and boring, but I'd call it slow and reassuring. It's a film that finds something to love in a man who has completely fucked up his life and thrown in the towel. Losers aren't necessarily worthless and uninteresting. Sometimes life is just too hard. In this case, a young man in danger of falling out of life is rescued by the last sparkle of humanity in an old drunk who uses the boy on his way out. What makes the film special is its subtlety. The characters blunder on, oblivious to their story.

At the end of the film came a song that broke my heart wide open. The last time this happened I discovered Tom Waits. This time I found Townes Van Zandt. The song was "If I Needed You." As the song credits scrolled past, I noticed the the same "written and performed by" on several, but I hadn't heard them. (I rarely do in the midst of a film.) I rushed to google him and get my hands on this amazing song and whatever else he'd done.

Thus I learned the sad tale of Townes Van Zandt and found a long list of albums, but every time I listened to "If I Needed You" it was sung in a whimsical, wistful, upbeat fashion with playful guitar. Nice, but I was looking for the slow, sad, heartbreaking voice of a lost soul that I'd heard in the film. I cannot find it! Where is it? Granted, I didn't hear every track of the song on every album that includes it; I lost patience. There must be another way.

The soundtrack of the film is apparently not available. The only thing I can think of to do is get the DVD from Netflix and hope the extras will tell me something. I'll also get a chance to hear the other songs.

Are there other Townes Van Zandt fans out there who can help me find the version of "If I Needed You" that I am desperate to get my hands on? Help!

Lazy days

2008-05-12T14:52:00.002-07:00

The other day I decided to plop down in the shade in my back yard and watch birds. I didn't expect much. I'd only noticed the usual weedy birds in my yard before -- starlings, house sparrows, assorted blackbirds, mockingbirds, robins, pigeons. At least I could try to sort out the blackbirds and just watch everybody fool around. So, I was surprised when a brown bird with peachy orange on its belly wasn't a young robin after all. It had a rather stylish bearing when perched and was darting around in flycatchery fashion catching things in midair.

The novelty turned out to be a Say's phoebe, common around here but new to me and therefore a small thrill. Turns out now that this bird not only hangs around my yard daily but was nesting, as today she's feeding two fledglings perched on my electric box.

The nice thing about starting over in a new location is that so much is new to me. I get beginner thrills all over again.

Sadly, Starbucks doesn't want me after all. I got no call, and I'm "free to re-apply." I wonder if it's worth a try. Everybody tells me they don't see old fogies like me serving up coffee at Starbucks. Hmmm. Their loss.

Back to nature

2008-05-07T19:06:00.003-07:00

Feeling good again! After two weeks, my Monday night yoga class was a joy, even though it seemed we were trying to unscrew our thighbones from their sockets. It does feel great to do that, really.

Tuesday was a beautiful day, partly cloudy and temp only 82, perfect for a hike. I chose Dreamy Draw again, as by the time I got around to it there wasn't much time left in the day for driving. I was early enough to find a parking space, as most people seem to go there after work for a quickie.

This time I took the low trail first, through mesquites, smiling at the hummingbird who seemed to take a long time figuring out I wasn't a flowering shrub. Mourning doves were whizzing around every which way, one with a caterpillar dangling from its beak giving off a cozy family vibe. I don't quite see why the doves overwhelmingly dominate Dreamy Draw. I thought I'd see more different types of birds there. Pooh, there I was with my brand new binocs and not that much to see. I practiced my aim, getting the binoculars up to see the same place my eyes were seeing without them. I was way off; got better.

Then I started a long climb uphill. I was pleasantly surprised that my legs felt even stronger than the last time despite nearly two weeks of inactivity. The limitation was my breath, having to stop to pant long before my legs were tired. Still, I was able to hike about the same amount of time as before but without feeling exhausted at the end. That's improvement, today's soreness notwithstanding.

Sitting up top with my tuna sandwich and cashews, I resignedly watched the ubiquitous doves, then suddenly there were three going by with big white patches on the wings. It's been at least thirty years since I was a pretty good birder, so I had to think twice to realize this was not the old familiar mourning dove at all. In the Peterson guide for the west I found a whole page of doves & pigeons, including the white-winged dove that matched my memory of what I'd seen. Whee! A new species for me. (Hey, doves are pretty. No snickering please. Fortunately most of the oddballs in the book are only found around LA; less dove confusion for this recovering birder.)

Tonight, Bally's.

Home again, sneezing

2008-05-02T20:32:00.003-07:00

I went to Gainesville, Florida, to visit friends and came home with a sore throat and head cold. Damn!

When I say Gainesville, I really mean Lesbianville, as my old dear friend and her partner are lesbians, as are their friends. This time we did a lot of socializing: a birthday party, a lesbian variety show, a bird tour on a boat, a sweet coffee shop where friends gather, and we even flirted with a young kook of a waitress in a nice Italian restaurant.

The last time I visited I was a little jumpy about my marriage and fantasizing about some female action on the side. So, this time my friend had prepared the ground for me to hook up with one of her single friends. That was sweet, but I'm not in the mood for a fling any longer. Things are going so well with my guy that I'm finding great comfort in loyalty. Will it last?

I bought myself a nice, lightweight pair of binoculars before the bird trip. It's an investment in my back-to-nature movement, along with all the work to get my legs strong enough to really hike again. I learned to tell a few species of shorebirds apart, but the highpoint was a small flock of white pelicans. I had no idea the white ones are so huge! When they went airborne in synchrony, slow and graceful, I swooned with pleasure at the sight.

The plovers and sandpipers and other brown speckled things were like reading fine print, another category of pleasure but less glorious. We didn't see anything rare or even unusual. The guide said the tide was unusually high & early and the birds weren't where he usually finds them. (I thought tides were utterly predictable, so was he putting one over on us?) He said it was his worst bird tour ever, but I'm so out of practice I didn't notice. We had a great time zooming and pausing around this little key on the Gulf coast whose name I've already forgotten.

Now I'm allowing myself to be grumpy and lazy with my little head cold.