Those Annyoing Little Stickers

Little things have a habit of being waaay more annoying than their size would indicate.

(Anyone currently making "short people" jokes --- and you know who you are, Big Cuter --- can stop it right now.)

This was brought into specific relief by Jenny, whose eloquent rant on the rudeness of renters (complete with photographs) included a mention of those little round identification stickers which have been appearing on fruit since the early 2000's. Actually, they aren't totally round because they have a small tab at the top edge.... which would be a brilliant design addition if the small tab didn't also have adhesive on the back, leaving you back at the initial premise of this post which is that this little thing has an aggravation factor grossly disproportionate to its size.

Granted, I could rip the skin of the fruit off with the tag and be done with it. But I ask you, would a chocoholic risk losing a smidgen of delight to a tag? I don't think so. Not that I would know. Because, and this is the honest truth, I have never eaten chocolate.

Never had a candy bar. Never eaten a brownie. Never had chocolate ice cream or devils food cake. I'll eat a chocolate chip cookie, but more often than not TBG is the recipient of the more chip-laden bites. G'ma tells me that my pediatrician had her German housekeeper make a tray of chocolate goodies for me one afternoon, and she watched in amazement as I nibbled on the edge of a piece of pound cake. Unfrosted pound cake.

So, my question regarding the chocoholic is a real one; my information comes only from what I've observed. But watching TBG and Sees almond clusters, seeing G'ma down a Hershey's Kiss on her way to lunch, laughing at the Little Cuter and her father jousting over chocolate cake, pouring the chocolate syrup into Mr. 6's milk to the tune of "more...more...more" ..... all these lead me to believe that the answer is a resounding NO.

I like to wash my fruits with a spray to remove toxins (why I think the spray is more hygienic than the crap that's on there already is another mystery we can ponder some day) and then I rinse the spray off with water. Neither the spray nor the water alone are enough to remove those pesky stickers. If the tab is un-stuck there is no problem. If it's glued down then there's the need to apply just the right amount of pressure to the fruit so as not to bruise it while pressing hard enough to separate the adhesive from the skin.

I'm boring myself just writing it, and that's nothing to how annoying it is to be doing it. So, I'll move on. Once I've got the little bugger on my fingertip, I am faced with disposal. I can't just flick it off - the adhesive really works. I can't rub it off on a kitchen surface - Jenny's post gives graphic evidence of how well that works out. If I rub it off onto a kitchen towel I have to remember to remove it or else it goes into the washer - which isn't good for either the towel or the washer. And getting it into the garbage can involves touching either the bag or a piece of garbage in order to transfer the sticky bastard to the container.

I'm beyond bored, now. I'm into pissed off.

All I wanted was a plum. A nice, imported from Chile, way too expensive, perfectly ripe plum. Juice could drip down my chin; I wouldn't complain. All I wanted was a bite, a crisp, sweet, red and purple and almost-pink bite of plum.

Instead, I got to duel with a label.

Liking chocolate would be much easier.

Watch the Super Bowl with Me?

This was a good football game. Usually the game piece of the Super Bowl experience is a snore-fest, but this was a good football game. If you don't care about the football piece, know that there was a 1-point difference at the end of the 3rd quarter, and the under-dog New Orleans Saints, who had never appeared in a Super Bowl before tonight, defeated Peyton Manning's Indianapolis Colts with surprising ease. (You can now skip down 5 paragraphs to the disquisition on the commercials -- the real reason most of us watched the game, anyway, as you'll see.)

I know it's a well-played game when I can see the plays unfold on the field, and this was a primer on football. At first, I didn't understand what TBG meant when he said that the Colts' defense had speed. But then Antoine Bethea was just there as the ball was caught and he was fast and the Colts had shown me in one play what TBG was saying.

There were very few penalties, and one false start was the result of a flexing glute. Reggie Wayne bobbled the ball (again!) and saw his life flash before his eyes. Though the announcers called it a nimble play by Reggie Bush as he danced through the crowd as he ran out of bounds, I was more impressed by the guy holding the sideline marker who was pretty quick on his feet, too.

I've tried to avoid talking about the voices on the broadcast. I'm in a good mood (though wearing my Colts' t-shirt, my heart was with the Saints) and I don't want animus to tarnish it. But I've got stars around this note in my journal so: I learn nothing from Phil Simms. I rarely understand what Phil Simms says. Where is Doris Burke when I need her. She has game as an announcer and she brings it.

TBG changed from CBS to ESPN and between Boomer and Steve Young and JB I was able to listen to televised commentary after the game without feeling like I wanted to peel my skin from my skeleton.

I can't comment on the half-time show; I was cooking at the time. Usually, I can do the laundry during the game and return happily to watch the commercials (my favorite part). But this was a good game, and there wasn't a lot of down-time. Just before half time, though, CBS began advertising its own programming and it was obvious that I wasn't the only one in the USofA who was taking the opportunity to feed the hungry hordes and make a run to the bathroom. We cooked, ate, cleaned up and came back once the 2nd half began.

I did catch a glimpse of The Who.... and I wondered if they understood all the commercials that were shown, or if they felt as old as I did? Once again, I knew that there were jokes there, I could sense them lurking, but I didn't know what they were. I thought that the 2-in-a-row-men-with-no-pants commercials (yes, twice, for two separate products, ugly white men in tightie-whities danced across my screen) were designed to appeal to a younger, male audience's sense of the gross (cf American Pie). But then the Big Cuter called to complain about seeing way more ugly people in underwear than he needed to see .... so, who knows??

And then there were the two-in-a-row-little-people commericals. The Dr. Pepper people should find themselves a quick trip to Punksatawny Polomalu's burrow and join him there. Ugh.

There were other duds: the bizarre Dorito dealer of death by chip, the odd robotic arms and Charles Barkley rapping or was that Dr. Seuss and why is he eating that crap anyway?? If someone can explain Danica Patrick's soft-core lesbian porn for Go Daddy I'd love to listen.

But for the most part I just smiled and grinned and laughed and oohed and aahed and was glad to be watching. There were the Emerald Nuts and Budweiser clydesdales as old favorites back to warm the cockles of my heart. I'd never seen the full version of the stuffed animals' trip around America in their Kia and they sure looked like they were having fun. Brett Favre making fun of himself was mildly entertaining, as were The Green Police and Denny's exhausted chickens. E*trade has baby girls now, and Google managed to tell a whole story by searching. The Census made fun of bureaucrats and itself and Jeffrey, Intel's depressed robot, was the only re-run I saw.

I would like to inform Volkswagen that the rules for playing PunchBuggie cannot be changed by advertising fiat. I would like to commend Mr. and Mrs. Drew Brees for putting headphones on their infant son so that he could enjoy the celebration in Dad's arms without damaging his hearing. The Chicago Bears deserve kudos for their Boost Mobil commercial, though I still have no idea what the product is.... a protein drink? an energy boost? a battery for Jim McMahon's scooter? I think that FloTV is a bad idea whose time has come .... will anyone do anything ever again??

There were two spots that touched me. One was the beer commercial early in the first quarter delightfully reminding the viewers to choose a designated dirver and get home safe. It wasn't hectoring or threatening, it was a gentle don't forget, honey. I liked it. And then there was Mark Sanchez, the Jets' rookie quarterback, a good-looking fella with eyes like limpid pools.... ok ok ok he was looking straight at me and his heartbeat was providing the ambient noise and he said that he liked me because I watched football and all of a sudden I was motivated to find out what the symptoms of heart disease look like in women because he spoke to me! Now that is a Public Service Announcement.

I loved the whale fishtailing out of the hatchback into the ocean and Dove for Men's feeble attempt to get homophobic men to use their product. Man's Last Stand, Dodge's refuge for the kind, considerate, thoughtful, perfect husband, had us laughing aloud. But there's one ad you're curious about, isn't there?

Focus on the Family sponsored Tim Tebow and his mother in a pro-life ad. That was the hype, and the senior quarterback has taken a lot of flack for his involvement. Everyone (you know how I love that phrase) is up in arms about it.... even without seeing it. We didn't have to wait long; it was right at the top of the show. And it was funny. Mrs. Tebow looks right at you and reminds us that she almost lost Timmy and then he tackles her and she laughs and tells him to let her tell the story and then there's a link to a website.

That's it. No proselytizing, no harangue. It's her choice and her story and she's sharing it. That's what it's all about for me - choice - and I have to compliment her on the subtlety of her approach. I might not agree with her views on the subject, but I don't really know. We've never spoken. But the ad makes me think that it might be a very interesting conversation.

For now, though, I'm going to focus on the sorrowful robot and the guy peeling out in his Dodge as I bask in the glow of the knowledge that the 'Aints ain't anymore.

Click here for a link to the ads.

Was It An Inter-Galactic Cruise?

It's not that we started out to watch "Ancient Aliens " on The History Channel. There was a game and a commercial and a husband who must click the clicker. So we surf... or he surfs, and I sit beside him.

It's very companionable sitting on Douglas, being distracted or not as I wish. I can write to you and I can do crossword puzzles or play Wordscraper and he'll rewind for me if I miss something worth watching so I don't have to spend any more time than I want to spend focused on the pixels on the wall.

Long ago, I divided the world into two distinct cohorts - when entering a room, some will turn the television on and some will turn it off. It's not a matter of bad or good, it's just different. Can you tell that TBG and I came from different camps? Along the way, over the decades, I've come to respect the medium at its finest while simultaneously despising it for wasting a truly remarkable opportunity.

In any event, there he was, Erich von Daniken in all his enthusiastic splendor, insisting that he's right, he's always been right, he can't possibly be anything but right and finally, staring the camera straight in the eye, declaiming that "It can't be anything else."

Bear in mind that the man was talking about space visitors.

I immediately distrust someone who insists that it's my way or the highway. A Linus Pauling quote was the main clue in a NYTimes crossword puzzle I was doing this week, and, as usual, someone else says it better than I can: The best way to have a good idea is to have a lot of ideas.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Erich.

What is it that he knows? Not much. Only that extra-terrestrials arrived on his eponymous Chariots of the Gods tens of thousands of years ago. They provided the expertise/technology/means/motive/opportunity to create the pyramids that dot the planet from Egypt to Mexico to India to "remote Pacific Islands." Wondering what happened to the Maya? They were part of this celestial Peace Corps bringing to Earth the gifts of architecture and geometry and the ability to lift 800-ton objects in a single bound. When it was time to go home they beamed up to their spaceships and were gone.

We were drawn in... and then we realized that we were hearing random sentences with no supporting evidence, no textual evidence at all. The pictures they were seeing were there, for sure, but so were the circus tents and flying swans I saw in the clouds above me as I was gardening this afternoon.

Personally, I don't mind the notion of alien visitors. Nor am I bothered by the idea that ancient civilizations developed technology which is incomprehensible to us today. I like the competition between different perspectives and being able to swing to one end or the other as I learn and think and wonder and ponder. For a while, I had the SETI program running on my computer and feeling small helps to put my problems in perspective.

And no one really knows.

I think that's the part I like the most.

Who ARE Those People Anyhow???

What's going on with those suspected-of-child-trafficking Americans currently in detention in Haiti? TBG had the NBC Nightly News on and we listened and we were confused.

The fact that we were no where near to being enlightened by the words they were saying was unsurprising. Anyone who's ever been interviewed and then confronted the results of that interview in the newspaper or as part of a larger television or radio broadcast understands this.

If you know nothing about the subject, the report alerts you to its existence and provides some details. Whether these are the most important or relevant or necessary or sensational details seems to matter less than whether the details fit the reporter's perspective. If you do, in fact, know something about the subject, the reportage will more often than not leave you feeling strangely isolated from what you'd previously known to be true while stifling the urge to scream.

For example, my happy, joy filled home for profoundly retarded children was portrayed as an alien faux-institution where silence was punctuated by the occasional grunt. I was sad and the residents' parents were upset and while there was really nothing un-true about what the reporter had reported, there was really nothing true about it either. The kids were quiet, but the music was playing and the staff were laughing and tickling and dancing and engaging and while there might not have been much verbalization, there was a lot of conversation. I knew she'd seen it because I'd been standing next to her.... but, what had she really seen?

Filtered through her own lens, she presented the truth. Her truth. There were facts and there was description and it was just right enough to be totally annoying to those of us who were living it.

In some ways, I think the transparency of the blogosphere obviates many of the issues I have with "reported" news. I don't have to hide my biases. You know what I like and what makes me nuts and have some inkling of my politics and my philosophical bent. When you read my posts you filter it through that lens. In a "news report" you are, ostensibly, receiving unbiased facts.(Mature Landscaping has an interesting solution... check it out.)

But back to those Americans. First of all, I don't know what to call them. Missionaries? Good Samaritans? Do-Gooders? Purveyors of young flesh to pederasts? Religious zealots? Adoption lawyers minions? It's all been alluded to and referenced and questioned and mentioned and slyly hinted at but who knows? And if we were all presented with the same set of data would we agree on its name?

NBC showed the brochure the Americans were leaving with the Haitian families. Swimming pools. Swing sets on long sloping lawns. Sunny classrooms with smiling students of all colors. The mother in the pink dress said she was happy to send her kids to such a place; all she asked was that she be able to speak to them. And really, what's so bad about sending your kid to boarding school? But would that be the reality for these kids? They weren't going to an orphanage; they were going to individual houses, weren't they? Or were they? At this point, my head began to ache.

Then there was the Haitian official who wondered if the kids were being sold. The reporter never followed up on that. Was it hyperbole? We'll never know. We saw an American behind bars, and a picture of a guy they met on a bus who was shepherding them around Haiti helping them collect children but there was no explication.

Where are Woodward and Bernstein when we need them? Because I wonder if this isn't just a tawdry little crime involving bribery gone amok.... where "the required papers" were really US dollars.... and where things quickly spiraled out of control? I can also make a convincing case for the "do gooders" seeing an opportunity and knowing that what they were offering was better than anything those kids could have at home and taking advantage of the chaos to "do good."

But I'll never know, will I?

Random Ramblings

TBG and I may be the only people on the planet who don't know any of the characters, plot lines or questions (there are questions??) surrounding Lost. Somehow, I'm okay with that. The cultural zeitgeist will just have to trundle along without me.

I could, like the Little Cuter, catch up on 5 seasons of programs all at once, but even the thought of watching all that tv makes me anxious.
*****

Let's all take a moment and congratulate CORNELL, the BIG RED, the Ivy League leader, which, for the first time since Harry Truman was POTUS, is ranked in a national basketball poll.

TBG and I were among the 60 or 70 regular attendees at Cornell basketball games back in the early 1970's. Penn was a national contender then, and ABC came to campus to record the game for posterity. The producers, appalled at the sparse turn-out's on-screen visuals, moved us all behind Sandy and Hal, who, in addition to owning Ithaca's only kosher deli, were the time keepers and announcers for home games. The score was lopsided but our cheers were heartfelt.
*****
Flipping through and pausing on the American Idol auditions is a mixed bag. You're either delighted or annoyed. There's nothing in between.

Except that Victoria Beckham is the guest judge and she is just too skinny. Scary skinny. And that's always annoying.
*****
I really like the small-steak-and-3-shrimp entrees that Outback plays with as the seasons change. What I like even more are their 1890 margaritas on the rocks with salt. TBG says that I've identified a price index, my own personal consumer price index, the Margarita Index if you will. Last spring, when the economy was moribund, the margaritas cost $2.50. Over the summer, the price went up to $3. Tonight, the same drink in the same glass cost $3.50.

Burger King, purveyor of my guilty pleasure - one Whopper a month eaten in the parking lot in the shade with the Tucson Mountains in the distance and NPR on the radio - Burger King can be part of my personal CPI, too. My ready-in-my-hand-before-I'd-even-placed-my-order $4.30 was suddenly 27cents short.

Does this mean that the economy is improving? Prices are going up? I'm confused.
******

Seamus Heaney translated Beowulf into read aloud material. Okay, so maybe the listeners should be out of diapers, but the giants and the forswearing of magic and the fantastic weaponry make it a natural for kids in the fantasy years.

I'm thinking about reading to kids because there was a bright eyed 6-month old in the lane next to G'ma and the Happy Ladies and me this afternoon. He was the kind of baby whose eyes followed everything, who smiled knowingly and seemed to be carrying his half of the conversation quite nicely, thank you. And the exceptionally attentive and appropriate and caring and loving young mother said that she doesn't read to him.

No, I did not throttle her. Neither did I suggest Beowulf. We talked about Bookmans and Dr. Seuss...... though I did throw in a mention of Blueberries for Sal and Make Way for Ducklings. Some things should not be lost to history, after all.

Watching the XGames

And right away I'm in trouble because I'm not sure how to spell it. No, that's not exactly it, either. I know the letters and the order in which they go, but I'm not sure where the capitals should be.

I'm feeling very old.

Okay, now I know that it's two words - X Games - and I have the link but Danger, Will Robinson! Danger Will Robinson! if you click here I fear you may inadvertently activate a most annoyingly loud and TMI ad for who-knows-what-because-I-shut-the-tab-before-it-got-there. Don't say you weren't warned.

Anyway, there was nothing, I mean absolutely nothing on television. We were reduced to lip synching old Law'n episodes (none of which featured Lenny, so why bother, y'know?) when were captured by twirling colors and psychedelic lights while flipping for a go to during a commercial.

Snowboards are pretty. The bottoms are as decorated as the tops. And you get to see the bottoms as often as the tops, so that's important. And it's not a NASCAR-like all ads decoration. Mixed in amongst the Monster Drinks and your US NAVY/A FORCE FOR GOOD are swirls and bold splashes and above it all is a smiling face. Even if a switch double misty 1440 was less than perfect, there was a happy to be alive right here right now face grinning at the cameras.

When the face wasn't squirting water at the cameras.....a mouthful of water.... oops, there was that smile after all!

These are NOT your father's athletes. The boys and girls could share pony-tail scrunchies for all the difference it would make. The photos displayed on the mega-gigantic-humungous-hilltop- screen are goofy. On purpose ...... they're trying to make you giggle. And you do.

Shaun White is the only one I know. After a second run where he hit heights 3' or 4' bigger than the other guys (honestly, that's how the announcers describe it), he apologized for his ?poor? performance by saying that "Having hit my head didn't help anything......I'm seeing stars... hehe" before he went right back to it.

And going back to it meant being upside down over and over doing the same things that led to the board hitting his face and his chin hitting the edge of the embankment. From a few feet in the air. At speed. The mother in me wanted to jump into the screen and rescue him from himself.

I'm too old for this, at least.

This is where the young announcers are. Brent Musberger, Pat Summerall, Verne Lundquist? Hardly. There are dreadlocks here, for crying out loud.

And then there are the particpants. One became a member of the US Team at the ripe old age of 12. Louis Vito's nickname is Tiny Dancer. Is that guy wearing pajamas? Red and black plaid chef's pants, at least. My personal favorite? Iouri Podladtchikov, his name enunciated deliberately and clearly and with a smile, before they relaxed and felt comfortable using his nickname: iPod.

Though not performances in the sense of ice skating, there's a rhythm and grace to the tricks. I love that there's no subterfuge, these are tricks and they are just a little bit dangerous because otherwise they'd be moves. After a while, I began to see the patterns; the double cork drew the outline of a double helix. I tried to count the turns in the air, but when I really paid attention I got nauseous so I had to stop.

I am clearly too old for this.

Singing Wind

I drove to Benson

for a Cowboy/Cowgirl Round-Up here, at Singing Wind Bookshop

which is, as the sign announces, the headquarters for books about the Southwest.

It's owned, operated and is a reflection of

Winn Bundy, an official Arizona Culturekeeper.

There were fans of all sizes and descriptions.
These folks said that they were new to Arizona.
I wonder if they've gone a little over-board with the gear?

Perhaps not. There's no doubt that these folks are for real:

I thought this guy was a bit over the top

but it turns out that he's Jim Olsen, author of My Cowboy Heroes
and the last performer of the afternoon.

It was a decidedly low-tech affair, with the exception of an exemplary sound system which never screeched or squealed and brought the inside and outside audiences together as one. Yes, there were rows of chairs on the enclosed sun-porch, and then there were assorted picnic tables and long benches and stackable plastic lawn chair scattered around the grounds.

The performers were their own roadies:

and the Green Room was right out there with the rest of us

And don't let me forget the catering. It was a long drive from home, and I wasn't in the mood for fast food or for being inside so I'd resigned myself to being hungry. When I arrived, Winn's long table was covered with edibles - guacamole and salsa and cheese and homemade vegetable soup and breads and veggies - and no one asked for any money. Nope. Not a dime. She'd invited us into her home, and all she asked was that we stay til the end and buy lots of books and cd's which the performers had available inside and not give her any guff. Her words.

I grabbed a bowl and a plate and a napkin and a spoon and made my way outside, under the mesquite, comfortable in an armchair right outside the open doorway. It was heaven.

There were authors who were story-tellers, including this 90 year old cowboy

and yes, that's how Beth Aycock describes herself.

I heard about shirt-tail relatives and steer wrestling (bite the steer's lip and you can control it..... .... that's what Sid Hausman said....oy ) and the Pleasant Valley War (killed more people in one year than lived in the entire Valley .... think about that for a while... huh??) and Roy Rogers (there was a lot of Roy Rogers) and Black Jack Ketchum and a fortuitous turn of events described as "found a bird's nest right there on the ground."

The Katy Creek Band

invited us all to their House Party Concerts in Maricopa County, which they said were pretty much just like this afternoon we were all sharing.

Mrs. Aycock came out into the audience to listen with us. I'd be either one of these women when I'm 90!

There were boots

and hats

and as I drove home in the purple haze I was smiling.

When people ask me why we live here, it's days like this that I tell them about.
Free. Beautiful. Quirky. Welcoming. And New... always something new.

The State of the Union

One thing I'm sure we can all agree upon - the man can control the room. I can't remember ever seeing a President so relaxed in the pulpit. And that was the thing of it - he was preaching, and not only to the choir. He had something to say for and about everyone,

Friends in the Ether

A while ago, Nance commented thusly:

The Blog Universe is a rather nice place...
haven't made so many boon companions since Jazzercise!

That's a statement which can be parsed and responded to in many ways. So, Nance, thanks for the prompt........ here goes:

The Blog Universe really does exist, strangers make connections which turn into relationships which are not always one-sided but which may well be. And it doesn't really matter. I don't have to leave a comment on dooce.com to feel that I'm in bed with Heather and Jon and Marlo (that's actually a lot less racy than it sounds.... click and see if you don't believe me) . She's sharing her life and I'm along for the ride. Much like reading Jean Kerr's Please Don't Eat the Daisies, it's real life zaniness edited for public consumption. There's the pleasant surprise of having found her added to the ease with which she's in my living room that exemplifies rather nice place-ness of the one-sided internet relationship. And I have the feeling that she enjoys making me smile as much as I enjoy making you smile. I know you're out there, even if you don't comment, and that's just fine.

Then there are the readers who take the time to comment and establish a presence in more than just their own little piece of the blogosphere. If you read a blog regularly, eventually you're going to glance at the comments, too. It's kind of like sneaking a peek at someone else's mail.... only not. And over time, you'll see the same names cropping up. Sure, commenting is a way to get exposure for your own blog (click on the commentor's name and a profile page will usually appear), and that may be motivating at first. But most serial commentors are advancing the conversation.

The Little Cuter tells me that this is what blogging is all about - the connections and subsequent conversations. And that, I think, is what Nance meant about boon companions.

Boon companions.... let that phrase roll around in your brain for a while. Are you seeing Dan'l Boone? Or Laura Ingalls Wilder? Huck Finn and Tom and Jim? I'm thinking of people who are easy travelers, who are interested in me as much as I am interested in them, people who are good company.

I loved the jazzercise connection, too; it's just that kind of relationship. I can count on them appearing in my life at a certain time every day. The nuances (of the class, of the blog) may be different, but the overall gestalt is the same. I know just enough about you to satisfy my curiosity, but you're not an overwhelming presence in my life. You note my new clothes, a sad face, a sudden ability to grab my extended toe, and it's all fair game. I can share without fear that the burden will be overwhelming - you're only jazzzercise/blogosphere friends after all. Close enough to listen, distant enough for self-protection. The opportunities to take a step closer, to intervene on a more personal level, to send an email to the blogger instead of a public comment, to ask what you can do to help -- they are there, but not expected.

Sometimes, the unexpected happens. I met Miss Nancy and Amster at the gym, and they are among the most important people in my life. Our paths would not have crossed anywhere else, just as Ashleigh Burroughs can only be discovered in the ether. But the gym rats whose first names are my only connection to their true identities are also a part of the wonderfulness that is my life. We smile, we compare notes, we share parts and pieces of our lives, and we enrich each other without expending all that much extra effort.

I like it.

Winter

Mamacita was writing about snow days and it was discombobulating for a second because I was wearing a short sleeved polo shirt and cotton pajama pants.

Then, I remembered that it was real wintry weather in most of the rest of the country. Of course, it's wintry weather here, too, but here is Tucson, after all.

I've lost my weather chops totally and completely. The first winter we lived in Marin I wore corduroy walking shorts, wool socks and hiking boots all through December and January and February. My winter coat was my J Peterman unlined cotton raincoat which was buttoned up only when I wanted to protect the clothing below. A winter without shoveling or slipping or freezing merited clothing that respected its balmy-ness.

That duster is still in the hall closet, nestled beside our wool overcoats. We live in Tucson. They'll hang there for a long long long long time.

When G'ma first moved here, the lack of familiar visual and sensory cues only exacerbated her confusion. She was in short sleeves and it was December; suddenly she had to use her memory for the seasons, too. On Long Island, she just looked out the window and the answer was there. Warm sunshine and sitting on the Adirondack chairs in the pod-castle's courtyard is not what her brain processed as winter.

Do not mis-understand me. I like the snow. Some of my happiest moments have occurred when sub-zero temperatures and the great out-doors have coincided. I voluntarily lived in Ithaca and Chicago, cities with almost nothing except hard winters in common. Christmas sneaks up on me, still; I miss the view from my Chicago dining room window, the backyard with the apple tree and the neighbor's fancy fence and the wooden fort and especially the slide, atilt, creating a perfect triangle all blanketed in white.

(You can just feel the But, can't you?!)

But, there's something to be said for feeling put-upon when you actually have to zip your sweatshirt over your tights on the way into the gym. Here, these

are merely a fashion statement when it's too cold for flip-flops and I need something easy off/easy on for yoga or pilates

Yes, I am officially a weather wimp. Remember my first winter in Marin? The one with the unlined cotton raincoat? By the following Thanksgiving I was using that coat to cover wool pants and a turtle-neck-under-a-sweater.

And I am unashamed.