Random Thoughts on a Random Day

The World Series should be over by now. Yom Kippur has come and gone and they're not even in the LCS (and how long did it take me to figure out what an LCS*is??) . It used to be that all the dads would congregate at the home of the closest congregant during the afternoon recess from prayer and watch the last few innings of the game. There was always a game on Yom Kippur, or so it seemed. Kids were never invited; women were not included. No way was I ever a participant.
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Making plans for the Cuters to come home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's $200 more expensive for them to fly in after work/school releases them, but we'd pay double that for the pleasure of their company. TBG and I do just fine while they're off living their lives, but the house feels much more complete when they're around. We've moved so many times that it's not they're in their rooms and it's just like always. Rather, it's more they wanted to spend their time off with us and doesn't that make us smile. We're not looking backwards. We're enjoying the moment.
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That last sentiment is my answer to "How do you move around so often?" I have loved everyplace that I've lived and I can hardly wait to see where I end up next. Maybe, at the end, I'll sell everything and sign up for one of those around-the-world-forever cruises. I think I read somewhere that it's cheaper than living in an apartment on land.
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Autumn has officially arrived in the desert southwest. It's cool when I go out to get the newspaper now. Just two weeks ago I worked up a sweat between the end of the driveway and the front door; this morning I needed the hood up on my sweatshirt. OK, I'm a serious weather wimp --- it was in the mid-60's. And the sun was up. And there wasn't any wind. Still..... that's 40 degrees cooler than it was when I was sweating two weeks ago.
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I bowled a 136 today! Liliana gave me pointers and I was an obedient pupil and I had the second highest score in the second game. We're not going to talk about the first game. G'ma was there, kibbitzing with the ladies and enjoying herself. She hugged me when I threw a gutter ball on a spare. How lucky am I to have her around?
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You may have noticed that I've sold out to The Man, or in this case, the women. The Little Cuter has taken over as my business manager and is promoting the Burrow everywhere. Blogher is a community of women bloggers, and the ads are screened for awfulness, or so it seems thus far. TBG has said that unless it makes money it's a hobby and not a business... click on those ads and let's show him that this is for real.
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*League Championship Series..... for those of you who want to know but don't want to take the time to look it up

The Purpose of High School

From a Facebook Message Thread: So, why do you think that those I considered my closest friends in high school do not wish to renew our friendships? Either I made bad choices in friends OR I made good choices in walking away from those friends, right?

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Oh, pal of mine, who's hurting you????? Are they not friending you? Ignoring your emails? Blocking your calls? I know you didn't get a reply to a letter ... even after you'd taken the time to track down a land address and written lovely thoughts on pretty stationary. Slighting someone who sends snail mail... now that's low.

You are not alone, though. I've been shunned, too ..... and she was as close to a best friend as I had back then. At least it always seemed that she thought so. We spoke once on the phone when I was in California, and then nothing. I felt strangely bereft when my emails went unanswered. We'd been so much a part of each other's lives and now.... nothing.

I wondered about it, too. Does she have so many friends that, like Audrey Hepburn in Charade, she has to wait until one of them dies before she can let me into her circle? And is it that swell a circle that I even want to be a participant? Is it that she's put that chapter of her life behind her and has no interest in revisiting the past? Has she become a completely forward looking individual who has cut the chains of childhood completely? Is she lazy? Rude?

I'm choosing to be superior and think it's because she's insecure and has decided that her life sucks and is therefore reluctant to show it off to people. Even people who were her friends back then. Of course she won't be coming to the reunion -- imagine sharing what you consider your not-so-wonderful-life with those who didn't think much of you then, either. As Marisa Tomei sighs at the end of My Cousin Vinny, "What a nightmare". (Even the accent is right!)

In your case, oh coolest of cool ones, maybe your friends, too, are embarrassed at how their lives have turned out. After all, to those of us firmly wedged in the middle of the high school social scene, you and your cohort were the icing on our cupcake. What if they are wrinkled or face-tucked-beyond-recognition or drug addicted or have risen in their chosen career to become Head Bagger at Safeway? What if their hair isn't the longest and the straightest and even if it were no one would care at this point? What if they have nothing to brag about anymore? What if they still think that matters?

Perhaps your intentions were mis-understood. You weren't looking for a BFF or a confidante or a rock on which to lean when you reached out and tried to touch someone. You just wanted to reconnect. I'll be kind right now and say that, perhaps, their lives are so complex and stressful that they just have no energy left for the new. Even if the new is really not so new at all.

Did you make bad choices in high school? Of course you did. That's what high school is for. And even though 40 years have passed, the need to be accepted, included, validated, noticed...... they're all still there. Who will say hello to me at the reunion event? Will I have anyone to talk to? I really don't want to stand at the buffet line all alone. Funny how one rejection, from someone you really don't know anymore, can shove you right back into the high school frame of mind. Who are these people in whom we've imbued such power?

I've decided that we are not going to obsess about this any more. We are fit, funny and fabulous.

And if you want, we can always track them down and hurt them in some unspeakable way. I'm practising my "Oh, you are so tedious" stare right now.

Begging

Caveat Lector: This post may be touch on some politically incorrect areas and certain (Marin-based??) readers may be appalled. So be it. If you're honest with yourself, you know there is truth in what I write. Even if it makes you uncomfortable when you read it.

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Our median-standing-newspaper-seller isn't there any more. He was always there, and now he's not. His chair with the attached umbrella is missing, too. For a while, he had a cooler with SODAS $1 inside it, but the police took issue with his entrepreneurial spirit and he was gone for a few days. But his chair remained in the bushes and then he was back. Now it's gone, and so is he. About a week before his disappearance, Mr. 6 and Little Brother made the Amster roll down the car window so they could ask him his name. Now we're all wondering what became of Daniel.

Someone else is there, but he doesn't wave at us as we drive by. Daniel did. He smiled and welcomed us into the neighborhood, or sent us on our way with a cheery attitude. I never bought a paper from him, but it didn't matter. I always got a smile and a wave. He made it easy to acknowledge his existence.

That's the thing about these median-strip people. It's hard to know what to do with your eyes. It feels disrespectful to avert my gaze, but I don't want to encourage any hopeful thinking. I'm not passing out dollars from my car. I've been trying a combination smile/head shake move; it's still a work in progress. Daniel made it easy; he took the first step himself.

We used to see a 30-something couple with a Stranded - Need Gas Money to get to Texas sign when we lived in Marin. They must not have been very talented at begging. There they were, month after month, year after year, at the Terra Linda and Vintage Oaks and Strawberry exits off the 101, still looking to fill their car and get on their way. They were fairly annoying in their disrespect for those of us who passed them on a regular basis; didn't they think we'd remember them?

Perhaps not. Perhaps the kind of person who can stand in the middle of traffic looking for a hand-out feels invisible. That's why I'm working on my semi-smile/head shake. I want to notice but not engage. No one should feel invisible. But I'm in my car, my personal private space of the interior of The Schnozz, and I just don't want to care right now.

I'm not comfortable being the first car next to the paper-seller and not looking at him. On the other hand, I have no problems being the passenger at a light and ignoring pedestrians waiting to cross, even if they are standing right in front of me. What's the difference?

I think it's because I don't like the intrusion. Yes, as the median-guy at Ina and Thornydale rebukes me from his sign, I shouldn't laugh because you are trying. But attempting to engage drivers as they try to avoid texters and motorcyclists and un-tarped loads is not safe. Nor is it welcome. Why don't you just get out of my face? I'm a good person. I do my share. I think about the plight of the world's poor and I try to do my part to fix it. But right now I am trying to be the third car through a two car light so would you please just go away. Right now I don't have time for the guilt.

Sam Spade Incarnate

We introduced the Amster to Humphrey Bogart last night. She gets a great smile on her face when she sees that Movie Night will be in black-and-white. I'm not sure exactly what it signifies, but it sure is nice to look at.

Does she think that it means the movie is really old? Last week we saw The Adventures of Robin Hood in gorgeous Technicolor; it predates last night's flick by 3 years. That era before the studios and the movie theaters were separated into two different revenue streams produced stunning films in both black-and-white and color. (Will CGI and films with actors be the next dividing line? You'll have to read the Cuters' blogs 70 years from now for that answer. )

Maybe she, like me, loves the texture of those shades-of-gray films. Every once in a while I wonder about the color of the gowns by Orry-Kelly (who was Cary Grant's roommate in NYC in the early 20th century) but mostly I give myself over to the shadows. The diaphanous curtain in Bogie's bedroom is one of my favorite characters in the movie. It's as powerful as all the other characters are.... all except Bogie, of course. He's in every scene*.

Dashiell Hammett writes Sam Spade as a real tough nut. Watching the movie last night, I was struck by how young Bogart looked, and by how easily his character slipped into rage. Linus Larrabee, Charlie Allnut, Harry Morgan (aka Steve, for no apparent reason) even Philip Marlowe -- they all have a softer side. Fred C. Dobbs and Duke Mantee are crazy as loons. Sam Spade is sui generis. He's there for himself, and his edge is razor sharp.

On the other hand, Effie likes him, and that's a real recommendation. And all that self-assurance isn't cockiness. It's his truth. And for the first time last night I saw what Lauren Bacall saw; Bogart was really hot.

Having been warned not to worry about the plot line, Amster got into the swing of things right away. Draped over the world's-most-comfortable-upholstered-swivel-chair, she was only confused once - when Sam Spade left the dingus with the parcel check clerk at the bus station. The whole concept of leaving something for the long term in a large public space was new to her. Now we have self-storage units.

Her question got me looking at the film in yet another new way. It really is old. 68 years old to be precise. 68 years before I was born, James Garfield was the President of the United States. That's a long time. The telephones, the cars, the phone booths (does anyone under the age of 30 even know what a phone booth is?) are artifacts of another time, but the story is as fresh as ripped from the headlines Law and Order. Hammett would have liked James Lee Burke and Walter Mosley, and would have understood Dave Robicheaux and Hack Hammond and Easy Rawlins as well as he did Sam Spade.

Can you tell I like this movie? That I've seen this movie many many many times? That one time I sat down and really and truly tried to keep track of the plot and, for a few minutes, I actually thought I had it? And have you noticed that I've not mentioned the name of this film?

Well, where would you start someone on Humphrey Bogart?

We chose The Maltese Falcon.




* For those of you, like TBG, who would argue this point, I would say that what you're thinking of is a shot not a scene.

My 58 Seconds of Fame

I was on tv last night. Went to a high school college fair representing my alma mater and was interviewed by the local weekend anchor. Making an Ivy League education affordable without burdening the graduate with debt is an easy pitch to make, and I must admit that I was pretty enthusiastic.

Got home, feeling lousy, watched The Biggest Loser and bawled like a baby, crawled into bed and then shot up from under the covers - we'd never watched the recording TBG had set up. Damn if they didn't lead with our brochure and start and finish the talking heads piece with my badly-in-need-of-a-haircut self waxing eloquent about the fabulous financial aid opportunities which really do abound, at least at the only school I was talking about. And then we went back to bed.

And I got to thinking about how blase I was about the whole experience. The interviewer was unknown to me, so it wasn't as if I were in the presence of Walter Cronkite. That I would have remembered. But my thoughts on the evening were centered on the kids and parents and drifting back to taking the Cuters to similar evenings. The tv piece wasn't really on my mind.

This wasn't always the case. I used to get really really excited when the media came to call. I've had letters printed in Newsweek and bought copies to send to all my family and friends. Yes, this was very 20th century, before the internet made it easy to brag about yourself. Cost was no object - I was published and everyone needed to know about it.

The Little Cuter was friends with a boy whose mother was the news anchor of the NBC affiliate when the kids were in pre-school. We were friends, not because she was famous, but because the teacher kept telling us how much fun the kids were having together in school. She'd put on a scarf and big sunglasses and we'd sit at Oz Park and watch them scamper. So I had to laugh when she called and told me her afternoon interviewee had fallen sick and I could have my choice of 3 topics, but I had to let her film in my living room that afternoon.

What to wear? Was my hair in need of a trim? Did I even own any make-up I could put on? And just how tidied up did the space have to be? I took a deep breath, called my fashion-consultant-playgroup-mom, and talked about over-scheduling 5 year olds. The Big Cuter was adorable ("I was so busy that we had to erase something so there went karate - pffft!") and the house looked great and then I had to wait til the next day to see it.

I never iron. It's boring and the laundry does a better job anyway. But that day I ironed. I carried that ironing board into every room with a tv and watched her station without pausing. Why? Because we were on the trailer ads for the evening news, and I wasn't missing a single airing. I saw soap operas (a girl was in the cleanest South American jungle jail I've ever seen) and talk shows and game shows and I saw myself. On tv. And I glowed. I was so happy.

We taped that newscast and showed it to everyone who visited for the next month. Last night I almost fell asleep before I remembered that I might be on tv. Can it be that I am growing up? That I don't need the external validation of being immortalized on film (ok, on tape)? Or is it that I have enough of a public persona through the Burrow and so I'm not looking for any more?

On the other hand, I have sent emails to every possible source trying to get the snippet posted on-line so I can forward the link to everyone I know. Maybe I was just tired.

Flying Fauna

(This post should be less difficult for those of you with phobic reactions to slithery beings.)

Our known-them-forever-friends came down from Phoenix last weekend. It always seems strange to say "down from" when referring to that trip; Tucson is 1000' higher in elevation than our low desert neighbor and, even though we are further south, saying "driving down to Tucson" just doesn't seem right to me. Even the highway has issues with the notion of direction; it's I-10 East that takes you here (and on to El Paso and Biloxi and Jacksonville).

In any event, they arrived on Friday, and, after cracking open the champagne and snacking on treats from Costco (shrimp and cheese and tri-tip and mini-peppers and a yummy multi-grain loaf of just baked bread) we drove to The Rialto to see Pink Martini and marvel at the ease that is seeing music in Tucson. Park on the street. Stroll to the theatre. Feel comfortable in shorts and t-shirts surrounded by an eclectic mix of denizens of the desert hooting and hollering as Thomas Lauderdale and China Forbes and 10 other talented musicians strutted their stuff. Je ne veux pas travailler, either.

The next day I spoke about planting trees at TRICO and came home to another annoying visit from the pool people who were repairing the mistakes the prior technician had made. (As Travis Magee often said of his boat, our pool is a hole in the ground into which you pour money.) We dined on multi-grain french toast and bacon and read Tucson Weekly's Best of Tucson edition and then it was 2 o'clock and time to be tourists.

Sending TBG back to the gym for double sessions, we 3 headed off to Saguaro National Park and the Desert Museum. It's a great drive in The Schnozz, though I fear that my passengers were less enthusiastic about its ability to corner quickly and smoothly than I was. The rest of southern Arizona had apparently gotten the memo that the roads were to be mine, and we passed nary a car nor a motorcycle nor a bicycle on the twisty well-paved road to the park's Visitor's Center.

After extricating one guest from the back seat, we watched the movie (do not miss the movie --- and be sure to stay seated until the lights come up --- NO, I will not tell you why..... just believe me when I say it'll be one of your all-time favorite movie going experiences) and exited to find that it was National Parks Day all over America, in tribute to the new Ken Burns extravaganza. A new holiday in the middle of "the Jewish holidays"; I loved it.

Piled her back into The Schnozz and followed Sandrio Road a few miles further and found the subtly signed Arizona Sonora Desert Museum. I bought the membership and in we went, following the path toward the hummingbirds. Aubrey explained the subluxation and stretching of the tectonic plates that resulted in the bowl housing Tucson, and he did so in an unapologetically upper crust British accent. We spent a lot of time looking at the world map covering one wall of the ramada, thinking about the places from which the refugees the front-seat guest resettles had fled. Burma, Kenya, Tajikistan.... these places are really far from Arizona.

The path takes you through tunnels and past pumas and parrots and snack shops and a covered overlook that reminded me of the Carribbean

The signs still pointed us towards the hummingbirds, and so onward we trekked. Seeing the waiters carrying the tablecloths out of the restaurant reminded us that the museum was closing and we ought to walk faster and then suddenly there was the hummingbird house. We pushed apart the heavy plastic vertical blinds and it was quiet and planted and we were happy.

At first, we didn't see any birds. Then we looked closer.

These little birds are really good at camouflage.

Sometimes they are betrayed by a bright red dot on their necks.

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Sometimes they just rest, with their wings almost crossed in front of themselves.

And sometimes they find a delicious salvia and slake their thirst

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We drove home happy.

A Herpetological Warning

The Big Cuter is quite upset with my next post. In the interest of full disclosure - dedicated to my big boy and all the rest of you who don't like snakes - today's main post contains photographs of a real live actual living in my yard snake.

You can't say you weren't warned.

Fauna

There have been equity issues raised regarding the Burrow's coverage. It seems that some readers feel that flora have been receiving an unfair piece of the Burrow's pie, and that fauna have been sorely neglected. Herein, I begin to rectify the situation.


In my own defense, I must say that it is much more convenient to take a photograph of a flower or a cactus than it is of a coyote. If I am outside and have my camera and one walks by, I have a chance. But opening the door sends them running for safety in the open space across the street.


I know the critters are around even when I don't see them, but I'll spare you the scat pictures which would prove me right. Trust me when I tell you that some beasties are carnivores and some are herbivores and that I have the detritus (there's that word again!) to prove it.


I've had two encounters with slitherers. The first was early in our tenure in the desert. I was still on Marin-gardening-time, and had thought nothing of going out to work in the front yard in the middle of a hot and sunny afternoon. Suddenly, I realized that I was running towards the open garage door. I don't remember starting to run. I was just running. As my thinking brain caught up to my limbic system, I heard the snake's rattles. You can believe the experts when they tell you that it is an unmistakable sound. And you can believe me when I tell you that your body will know to flee before your brain can register the danger.


Since then, I've been much more careful, especially since our new next-door-neighbors found a pregnant and very angry Mohave Rattlesnake (crotalus scutulatus -- even the latin name is scary) in their backyard. She's no longer with us in this plane, but the animal control people warned us that her mate is still around. Snakes, it seems, are homebodies, and have a territory of about 200 yards. Relocating them in an effort to save their lives just disorients them as they search for their scent, and they slowly starve to death. My new pool guy keeps his pellet gun behind his recliner and uses that to remove the menace; I'm not quite that Tucsonan yet. I'm sticking to running.


Last week I was planting the Blackthorn Acacia (which, by the way, is not happy in its new home and is showing signs of stress. I'm sad, but I'm not giving up hope. There are smarter people than I who have given me instructions for its care and repair.) As I dragged the hose from the Little Leaf Cordia, in between the ocotillo and then to the acacia, I noticed that the ground was moving. I kept going in the opposite direction and grabbed my camera.


You can see how the camo works for it - the ground really did begin to slither.

For some dumb reason, I wasn't afraid. After I'd repositioned the hose on the acacia I took the camera and looked at the snake again. He was resting.


So I decided to get closer, and then I thought better of it and ran..... that's why this next photo is a little bit blurry..... I didn't see any rattles, but I definitely heard a hiss from that open mouth.




He could be a Pituophis catenifer, a friendly little gophersnake. He might be Crotalus oreganus, the Western Rattlesnake, who is a considerably less friendly guest. Or he might be the mourning father of my neighbor's Crotalus scutulatus, in which case I am seriously freaking out right now. My Nikon Coolpix doesn't have a telephoto lens. I was pretty close to old Crotalus and I'm not too happy thinking about it right now.

These kinds of things did not happen when I was living in ungentrified DePaul in Chicago back in the 1970's. I was once face to spitting face with a squirrel I'd unwittingly cornered in the alley behind the garbage cans. I jumped one way and he jumped the other; we were each invading the other's turf. Somehow, though, with these Squamato Ophidia (Serpentes) I know that I am in their domain and that resistance will be futile.

I now know the precise meaning of giving something its own space.

It Had to be Done

I went through my banker's box tonight. The recycling bin is brimming, the stack of bills was smaller than I'd imagined, and now I have several neat piles on my desk. The only casualty of my procrastination was Yo-Yo Ma's December 5th appearance here in Tucson. She who hesitates reads "Sold Out!" on the website. What self-respecting fan of West Wing could have missed this opportunity? Alas. Other than that, I am pretty pleased with tonight's efforts.

G'ma's bills/alumni organizations communications/small but pretty calendars/incomprehensible medical statements, including one from a physician I've never heard of or met...... that's the one to tackle tomorrow morning. It's living on the extreme left corner of the desk; if I'm looking at the monitor I'm seeing the pile. Grrr...... who invented peripheral vision???










Yo-Yo Ma is staring at me (reproachfully, it seems to my disappointed eyes) from the far end of the middle series of piles. He's sandwiched between one of my journals and a stack of chances to win a $500 shopping spree if I just spend 15 minutes on-line detailing the ins and outs of my last transaction at Target. Actually, it was a great visit. I spent a good proportion of the time I was there looking at the $1 Halloween items, with the Little Cuter by my ear through the wonders of cell technology. I described and she oooh'ed and aaahhh'ed and we missed each other a lot, though mostly we were just happy to be doing it together. (Do NOT tell me that technology is the scourge of creating community!!!!!)

The middle stack is the notes for this post resting on another journal sitting on an incomprehensible BlueCross Blue Shield of Arizona description of our coverage. I will begin drinking after posting and see if that makes it any clearer. Sober, it brought me to tears. On a lighter note, Netflix wants us back as members, and they're even going to give it to me for free. Now that is confidence! We've been pretty happy with the TCM/Retroplex/on-Demand/Pima County Public Library selections so far, and I'm enjoying the leaner lifestyle we adopted late last summer but they're offering it for free............ I have a hard time saying "no" to free.

The carousel horse is the top of a stack of postcards G'ma is sending to her grand children as soon as I get the correct addresses and postage on them. We are working our way through her stationary drawers - everybody's getting postcards this time.

The whole thing looks like a mess, and I suppose, to the untrained eye, it is a mess. But to those with true discernment, these piles are my plan writ large. First I gather the materials in one place. Then I sort through and discard the detritus (a great word which is not spoken aloud nearly as often as it should be) and separate my stuff from the Cuter's stuff (forwarded mail from addresses gone by) and from G'ma's stuff (it all ends up here eventually so why not have it come here initially?).

I pay the bills and put them away before I start on the rest of the piles. Always do the most onerous chore first - it worked for algebra in the 9th grade and it works today in my dotage. Then I'll start with the fun stuff.

I'll go on Craigslist and see if I can create a ticket buying opportunity for the second cellist I ever cared about (after Pablo Casals and just before the third, Pansy Chang, with Pink Martini).
I'll re-read the thoughts I noted in the journals and remember the time and place and the feeling and some of them may actually appear right here in the Burrow some morning at 6am.

The postcards can make me smile at the fact that no one has any idea what postage costs these days? We're all using those forever stamps and postcards used to be a penny according to G'ma so what kind of resource is she??? But I'll figure it out and affix the postage and have a big smile on my face the whole time.

This is the feeling I want to preserve and be able to recall when, once again, all too soon, and with alarming regularity, the bankers' box begins to sing its siren call. There's no need to strap me to a pole on deck, I am perfectly capable of resisting its cry without any assistance at all. Perhaps, if I look back at these pictures of the "goodies" that are in store for me tomorrow now that I've cleared out the debris and taken care of the necessities I'll be able to bring back the relief and the absence of angst and take a dip in the pool of "do it now and don't wait any longer".

I doubt it. But a girl can dream, can't she?

The Passage of Time

(That could actually be the theme of this week's posts, don't you agree?)

The Big Cuter kvetched* on the phone last Sunday that I was "the second person today who was talking about Halloween." It's not that he hates Halloween -- it's actually his favorite holiday. It's the fact that it is still September and we should still be in first month of school mode.

Rushing from Back-to-School to Valentines Day was not always the norm. When I was a girl (!!), merchants took their time and displayed their seasonal wares during the appropriate season. Holidays were allowed to come and go before their merchandise was discounted. Then, again, it used to be possible to buy a bathing suit in July in New York - now, if you wait that long, you're looking at displays of corduroy car coats and woolen knit mittens.

I used to shop at JoAnn Fabrics in Marin for all my holiday supplies. They had shelf after shelf of inexpensive but must have items - wooden scarecrows and haunted houses and candle holders of all shapes and sizes and pilgrims and turkeys and even a row or two of Hanukkah decorations. I can't remember which year it was when I realized that it was September and yet everywhere I looked, everything was on sale. Thanksgiving cornucopia were 50% off before I'd thought about how many napkins I'd need for the Halloween party. Only Hallmark stuck to its guns; you always had to wait until December 26th for a price break.

What's the big rush????? There are pumpkins to carve and thanks to be given and they should not be given short shrift. Once I saw what was happening, I began to shop exclusively at Nordstrom's as soon as the inappropriate decorating began at Macy's and J.C.Penny. Nordie's had it right - no decorating until they closed at Thanksgiving and opened thereafter with Christmas in every corner. Up until the fourth Thursday in November, life in the store went on as usual. I loved it. They were in the moment, and they had my allegiance and my wallet.

I do my very best to hold the line. I will buy things early on, but only because that's the way to do it (fodder for a future post : Nannie and preparing the perfect Christmas). But I don't have a single holiday doo-dad decorating a mantle or a doorway, nor will I until October 1st. Dee and I took the girls to the pumpkin patch on the first Saturday in October, and not before. Halloween is put away on November 1st, and no December decorations leave their boxes until every last autumnal artifact is in the garage. These are the rules, and I'm sticking to them.

Mr. 6 and Little Brother wanted to make the scarecrow this weekend. They understand the concept of the calendar, but are having a little bit of trouble with delay of gratification. I feel their pain, but they're just going to have to be satisfied with planning. It's still September and we're going to relish every day of it. The time will pass swiftly enough, without our intervention.

*kvetch(ed) - (Yiddish) complain(ed)

Thoughts on Sports

Tim Finchem, PGA Tour Commissioner, has to be the least media-savvy talking head I've heard this week. I just listened to him link his organization to the BCS on PTI ...... "Everyone hates the BCS, but everyone's talkin' about 'em." Wonderful. So what if no one understands it? The rules are there and they're not changing and, hey, any publicity is better than no publicity at all. It was another one of those I can't believe he's saying that out loud moments.

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The boys were commenting on Suzy Kolber's new hairstyle during one of their frequent "did you see that????" phone calls last weekend. So much for their consistent response when I'm amazed that they've not noticed a change: "HAIR ??? No group of guys sees a beautiful girl and says 'Great Hair!!'"

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Why in the world is Brent Musberger still on the air? We remember him from WBBM in Chicago back in the late 20th century (isn't that what you'd call the years around 1975?) He was no spring chicken then; Kirk Herbstreit looks like a 12 year old next to him. I always want to put a comfy chair under Brent's behind and offer him a glass of tea. He's been repeating the same things over and over with the exact same level of enthusiasm for as long as he's been annoying my eardrums. Isn't there anyone of another generation who could replace him? There has to be someone between the ages of 19 and 50 who could do the job, wouldn't you think?

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I just re-read that last piece, and it feels lots harsher than I'd intended. Actually, that's probably not true - I've been saying that out loud to all and sundry for years. Somehow, seeing it in print makes it different. So, to be clear: I don't think Brent is an evil man or a bad person. I do think his time has come and gone. He should feel free to comment and tell me I'm a bloviating idiot.

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Dallas Clark is the poster child for ab work. He caught the ball at speed, he got bumped and shoved and grabbed (ok, ok, so it wasn't such a great tackle... but still......), he nearly lost his footing but kept his momentum and his balance then he sped up again and outran the defense into the end zone. You don't do that without core strength. No more sleeping through pilates for me ........

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I'm getting a lot more reading done now that TBG is occupied with football every day but Tuesday and Wednesday. We're storing all our shows on the DVR and having a commercial-free-midweek-television-extravaganza.

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Best Sports Movies List In No Particular Order: Bull Durham, Angels in the Outfield (both versions are sweet), It Happens Every Spring, Hoosiers, Rudy, Major League, Glory Road, Bend It Like Beckham (if only to see Keira Knightley play soccer)..........

Have a better list? You can always comment and tell me.

Hello, Autumn

It's 6:43 post meridian as I type this and I am sad. It's getting dark already. Our sun is omnipresent here in the desert southwest, and we come to expect her to warm the driveway as we pad out in our slippers to get the morning paper and to bake G'mas's thin skin in the middle of the afternoon and to reflect off the gas grill as I make a late dinner. I'd gotten used to having her around until 8 or 8:00 every night and now she's not and I'm sad. Summer is really over. The days are getting shorter. And there's way more dark than I'd like.

The Big Cuter is in San Francisco now, so we share a time zone in the summer. But we're at the eastern end and he's at the western end and last night he called to tell us that the sunset was gorgeous on a fog-less evening. I was amused that he'd called to comment about the view (remembering his "Do we have to stop and look again" wails from the back seat on car trips) but I was also terminally jealous. We'd been in the dark for an hour or so.

Our big house in Marin was on the top of a hill. If the sun was out, it was shining on our property. I could look down into the lower neighborhoods and watch as the shadows engulfed them (I've always loved that phrase -- swallowed by the absence of light..... it's an interesting concept, no?). The sun came up over the open space and set over the mountains and my house was bathed in light all day. We rented down near the highway after we'd sold the manse, and I looked with longing at the houses above us as the shadows overtook our space much too early in the day for my taste.

The air has a crisper feel to it, even here in the desert southwest where the temperatures are still creeping into triple digits in the late afternoon. I was planting trees this weekend and wasn't bothered by mosquitoes or snakes or hot, cloying, sticky air. I was dripping sweat and won't pretend that it was totally pleasant, but I could work outside in the mid-afternoon for 3 hours. That was not an option 4 weeks ago...... unless I was courting heat stroke.

The sun comes in through the breakfast nook's window and shines in my eyes at 4:45 now instead of 6:30 and I have to remember to put the sun tea out before I leave for lunch with G'ma. I used to be able to put it together as I began to prepare dinner and the sun would work her magic as I cooked. Now, if I wait til I'm ready to make dinner there are no sunbeams to create my tea. Sad.

The solar heater on the pool is feeling the change, too. Without any electrical stimulation, our pool was a roasty toasty jump right in and swim 85 delightfully cossetting degrees for most of the summer. Suddenly, it's 72 and suitable only for TBG's mile-and-a-half-lap-swim. Lazing on the noodles is now impossible without turning on the heater. And we learned our lesson the first fall we lived here - keeping the pool warm for the Cuters' visit at Thanksgiving gave us a $700 electric bill and children who sat in the hot tub because it was just too cold to swim.

Without the start-of-school drama of new clothes and shoes and routines, I'm free to revel in the long dog-day-afternoons of summer for as long as Mother Nature will allow. I think she's telling me that it's time to let go............ sad.

Who'd a thunk it?

You just never know.

In high school he was smart and funny and kind but never really stood out in a crowd. Now, you'd instantly recognize his name. Our parents were better friends than we were; he didn't sign my yearbook.

He played basketball and he was good and tall (my favorite basketball coach's quote: "You can't teach height.") and recruited to play D-I ball, but, after all, it was Marin basketball we'd seen him play. Not exactly The Bronx. Now he's playing right field in the Majors.

She was literary editor of the yearbook, and as she inscribed in mine, .."there's always a certain person who we like to talk about." Now she's married to that certain person and her books are in Barnes and Noble next to Tolstoy and Twain.

Some I expected to do well - the valedictorian who went on to be an editor of the Harvard Law Review, the hotel magnate's sons who run companies and produce movies. There's comfort in the knowledge that those I expected to succeed have done so.


But who we are as adults often bears little resemblance to who we were in high school...... at least a lot of us hope so, don't we?

Wondering where I'm going with this? My friends and I seem to be attending our 40th high school reunions this fall. Artess asked me to write about it, and that involved thinking about it, and that led to butterflies in my stomach and the inclination to take an Ativan. Yes, as one of these reuning friends opined on her Facebook page, everyone seems to be taking anti-anxiety medicine these days. I wouldn't be surprised if these reunions were the underlying cause.

Who I was then is some part of who I am now, but I like to think that I've changed enough that people will be surprised. Or maybe they saw the wonderfulness that is me right now back then. I'll never know unless I ask, and how, exactly, would I phrase that question? "Am I as much of a dork as an adult as you perceived me to be when I was 16?" I don't think I want to go there.

Looking through my yearbook has caused my stomach to drop any number of times. I had forgotten the number of people who intimidated me in high school. Are the bitches still bitches? If I didn't have My True Friend I don't know if I could go. All of a sudden, I understand the Big Cuter's need for a wing-man..... and I am really really glad that I've got one.

I think I always liked myself, but I know I knew I was clueless. I walked around wondering why everyone else knew what to do and I didn't. My True Friend tells me that the cool kids didn't think they were all that cool, and that makes me wonder what my life would have been like if I'd been privy to that knowledge at the time.

Would I have found different friends? Without the fear of rejection, might I have found the courage to approach the unapproachable ones? Had I known that they were as fearful as I, would it have made a difference?

I'm flashing to Back to the Future and Marty fixing his parents' lives. My current reality is quite lovely, thank you, and I wouldn't change most of it. Would I be the same adult if my high school years had been more comfortable? Did I need the angst to temper my soul? Right now, I'm fine with the way things were and the way things are. But I think that if you'd asked me this question in 1967, I'd probably have had a very different answer.

I like to think that the swagger I have now has been well-earned in the trenches of not-quite-as-cool-as-I'd-like-to-be. I still want to be friends with "the cool kids", but my definition of cool has changed. The ones who walk around with attitude, who know that they are wonderful and that everyone wants to be just like them, the ones whose eyes gloss over as I walk into a room because I'm not one of us - they used to intimidate me and now they make me laugh. Does she really think that she can judge me because of my outfit? I'm comfortable and my clothes are functional and they fit........ so shut up! Does she think it's ok to ignore me when I come into a room? What in the world makes her think I would want to talk to her? Her little world doesn't include me and I don't care.

Ok, maybe I care just a little..... we all want to be loved, after all. But the social layering of high school is in the past, as far as I am concerned. I don't care if others think my dorky friends are dorky - they are and they embrace themselves and I hug them right back. I'm not worried about ruining my reputation by hanging out with the uncool. I'm the arbiter of cool for myself these days, and it feels great.

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Did anybody get the literary reference in the title? Mary McCarthy's The Group was a big deal in my formative decade - racy and forbidden and an intimate look at girl friends before Hey, Girlfriend became de rigeur. I think I'll get it out of the library and read it again.