Dream on the Eve of My Birthday

"Look how high the water in the marina is," my friend Sasha said. We all ran to the window to see it lapping the edges of the sidewalk. Going from window to widow, we checked the water's progress every few minutes, but the level held steady. 

"It's okay," I said, "but what about all these dogs?" The neighbors had a small pool and a jacuzzi, and nine large black dogs took turns jumping in and out of the water. When I looked more closely, I saw that one was an ape. "That's not good," I said as the ape came to the fence between our two yards. He could climb over that, I thought. I ran to a basement bedroom and barricaded the door.

******

When I talked to a friend this morning, he told me he'd had a dream last night about seeing someone walking some big dogs. And he dreamed about a chimpanzee in a car. We talked about the Chinese zodiac for a while, but couldn't make sense of anything. I was born in the year of the dragon. Water dragon, I think, to be more specific. At least that makes a little sense. The water is rising.

Stranded Sea Lions--Do you know what to do?

This sea lion is probably okay....not excessivley skinny, not a tiny pup.

Sea lions haul out to get warm. People go nuts. They get close. Take pictures. Videos. "Would you like a photo of yourself riding a sea lion?" I jokingly asked my friend Ellen when she was here for a visit and we came upon this critter during a beach walk.
It could happen. People do crazy stupid shit.

After we passed this one, we came upon a young pup. Too skinny. I called CIMWI to report it while Ellen tried to keep beach goers from getting too close and inadvertently chasing it back into the cold water. She also tried wrangling two unleashed and romping big dogs who unfortunately chased it back into the ocean.

Here's what to do if you find an underfed, or distressed, or injured marine mammal. Rule #1: Don't get too close and inadvertently chase it back into the water. DO NOT  pour water on a seal or a sea lion or an elephant seal. They have come out of the water to get warm.

Put your local marine mammal rescue phone numbers in your phone. Call for help.

Educate yourself about global warming and its effects on marine life.

What I Cooked

At the end of a week during which my mom seemed especially tired, and a week during which every conversation with the man who loves me contained the words cancer, or chemo, or radiation, this is what I cooked:

Artichokes. Pasta with pistachio/spinach/basil pesto. Heirloom tomatoes with basil and fresh mozzarella.

My friend Paula arrived with a lots of wine and chocolate.

And she brought her dog.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go eat some more chocolate.

Pillville--Where the days are getting longer.

More daylight at dinner time enhances the conversation between my mother and me. "I think I see a light on in the 3rd floor condo across the way," becomes 'Look at that dog!" or "Don't you think that girl should be wearing a jacket?" Soon there will be hummingbirds and more boats going out, more joggers, more babies in strollers. It's probably just enough to keep both of us from going insane.

Simple observations in the moment are much easier than discussing what's gone on in a day. My mom asks a lot of questions about current goings on that she doesn't remember getting answers to. And I  either don't correct her at all, or I simply answer the question as if she's asking it for the first time--M is taking the plane, not the train to New York. Our houseguests left yesterday, not today--I do get to feeling a bit looney myself. Wait? Did they leave today? Or sad. As the tide lapped into the marina last night, my tears began rising too.

I walked after dinner for the first time in a a couple of months. It seems a workable compromise if I walk around and around the block. When I get to the marina side where the sidewalk passes by the patios of all the houses, I can look in and see my mother tidying the kitchen or standing at the end of the kitchen island reading the newspaper on the iPad. If she disappears, I stop walking and go inside. Last evening, the fresh air and the water was enough to settle me and bring me back to realizing things are really working out pretty well here in Pillville.

Still, Friday evenings are the hardest. I think we all have these rhythms. Tide in. Tide out.  If I am going to wake worrying, it's always between 3:00 and 3:30. I am almost never grumpy or pessimistic in the morning. At 4:p.m. I would like all the cake in the world. To myself. Go away. Or bring me coffee--then go away. I am incredibly thankful, however, that Friday nights are not as hard as they used to be.  I'm pretty sure I would not have survived without my dogs.

But, as always, Friday nights turn into Saturday mornings. And they pretty much always look like this here in Margaritaville.

My mother has had four or five good days in a row--outside of some tiredness, she hasn't had any severe pain or nausea. For the last couple of nights, she's stayed awake and engaged all through dinner without the narcoleptic moments that can come on so quickly it's as if someone has exchanged the salt for slumber dust.

And it's almost springtime. I have the urge to clean things. I took up the very dirty carpet squares in front of the couch. I bought some new pillows and a pouf at the Cost Plus sale. Orange! Orange! More daylight! Orange! I am drunk with light and color. Drunk on the beauty of Margaritaville, sans the Margarita. Which is kind of a miracle.

So......A Woman Walks into a Bar

"It's their birthday," the woman said, righting herself after stumbling through the restaurant's patio gate. The waitress greeted her and the three nearly identical golden retrievers without any fanfare. As if triplet birthday dogs dined on the patio every day. "I wouldn't be opposed to a doggy birthday treat," the woman said, and then ordered herself a house Chardonnay. The wine appeared almost instantaneously, and a minute later the waitress brought a dish of some sort of grilled meat skewered with birthday candles. I expected singing, but the woman carried the dish of meat to an empty table in the corner while the dogs morphed into a good-natured Cerberus, their bodies moving as one as they followed her. The woman, her reddish blond hair the same shade as the dogs, dipped her fingers into the dish and fed each of them by turn. When the waitress returned to the patio to bring my wine, she paused at the birthday table. "They ate the dish," the woman said. Then she laughed and gestured toward the table in the corner.  "Would you like the dogs to sing to you?" she asked the waitress as she  fished her phone out of her pocket.  Cyndi Lauper's "Time after Time" seemed to make little or no impression on the dogs, but the woman did a fair impression of what a dog might sound like if it wanted to sing along with Cyndi Lauper. "C'mon," she said, starting the song again. The canine chorus remained silent.

Everything I re-learned about parenting, I learned from a dog

My son and his family have left Margaritaville and gone on to SeaWorld and Legoland. I am dog-sitting. "Sandy" is a rescue from the pound--an adorable rat terrier who smiles and could win any speed eating contest paws down. She's crate trained and when we all call it a night, my daughter-in-law calls,"C'mon Sandy, let's go night-night." The agreeable little beast runs into the crate and plops into her bed. For my daughter-in-law, that is.

Last night it wasn't really that hard to get the dog into the crate--though she didn't go in when I called to her. We danced around a bit, and when, after a minute or two,  I asked her in my serious dog-sitter voice to "sit," she did sort of a civil disobedience flop, and I scooped her up and put her in her pen, repeating sweetly, "Go night-night, Sandy." I switched off the lights without any further cajoling and went upstairs.

The howling commenced just as I settled under the covers. The calls were lonely and sad at first. I waited a bit, but it became evident the dog was winding up, not down. "Sandy," I said sternly from the top of the stairs, "No!" Full-out howls escalated into little siren-like wails. You would have thought that every dog on the planet had died, and she was the one left to mourn the passing of a species. I tried the stern "No" a couple more times. Then I brought the poor creature and her bed into my room. She walked around for what seemed like hours. Her tiny rat-terrier toenails tapping against the wood floors like a troop of angry fairies.

I remember when my children were babies. It was ridiculously hard work. The love alone, and the way it rearranges every priority you thought you had is so disorienting you spend those first months trying to get your bearings, stunned that motherhood tenderizes your heart in ways that are both terrifying and transcendent. And you undergo this personal re-modeling job while sleep-deprived night after night for months on end.

When Sandy woke me this morning and I walked her down to the patio to pee, she smiled at me. When I opened my car door, she was ready to hop in. We drove back to my old place--a house she's never been to. This cheery rat terrier who joined my son's household with an extreme fear of men, and for the second time in a week, is at a new house with new sounds and new smells, well into day two without the people who rescued her. She's had to learn it's not okay to bark at the cat--a questionably-groomed 18-year-old who lives on one end of my couch and sips special milk from a bowl on the end-table. That the helicopter flying over isn't here to kill her. That the grevelia leaves won't crush her if one falls on her. And yet, here she is at my feet, pawing my leg to get onto my lap. It's amazing how love lets us adapt. One day you can be in the bedlam of a shelter, and the next you are napping on the floor in a nice house with children who want to hold you like a baby. And then after more bliss than you could imagine, you find yourself in a new place with a stranger who drives you to yet another strange place.

Both man and beast are hard-wired for survival. I think we're hard-wired for love, too. It's adapting to those damn changes that's the hard part.

2011 Wrap-up

I posted to this blog 170 times in 2011. By court order both the name of the blog and its URL changed last year. Further prohibitions were put in place, too, and I am now legally restrained from mentioning certain people here in Margaritaville. I can't say that I miss them very much. There was plenty else to blog about in 2011: a monthlong residency at the VCCA, a modest writng success or two, several big family events--weddings, a graduation, birthdays, a fine Thanksgiving, a pampered Christmas. There were less happy goings-on, too. My dog Layla suffered a gradual delcine and left her world of love and couches in May; staggeringly large attorney bills drove me to the brink. But my divorce reached its final resolution in 2011, too. In the year's final days the last two documents were signed, and the results of those signatures are soon to be implemented. There was great joy in 2011. There was seemingly insurmountable distraction and frustration. There was good cheap wine, a lobster marathon, everyday beauty, love, travel, friendship, Mother Nature bent on destruction, mothers tending to reconstruction. There were rogue appliances in 2011. There were just plain rogues. There were roads, roses, robes made of flannel, rocky beaches, rhododendrons, rodents, and a robust appreciation for the potential of another year.

Thank you for reading, for your comments, for signing on as a "follower," and thank you for writing your own blogs so that I can reap your wisdom. Thanks for the love, the friendship, the hospitality, the phone call, the email, the hugs, the kisses, the advice, and for carrying the heavy stuff that I can't lift. Thank you for you.

Christmas for Ken

Ken has been adopted!

Thank you, those of you who inquired about him. Perhaps he has gone to one of you. If not, there are 80-some small dogs at the San Gabriel Humane Society.

God bless us everyone! (Tiny Tim would be a great name for a little dog, wouldn't it?)

Ken Wants a Christmas Tree

This is Ken. I like to call him Ken Doll. He currently lives at the The San Gabriel Valley Humane Society. He wants a Christmas Tree. He wants a home.

Kenny is one of the little dogs I walk regularly, and I can tell you he's good on the leash and full of energy. After we make our way down the dirt path next to the shelter and across the street to the park, he rolls onto his back in the grass for a belly rub. While you might not think of a little dog as a means of getting some exercise for yourself, Ken trots along at a brisk pace without tugging or pulling on the leash.

Ken has a beautiful wiry coat that's more red than brown. He's loves people and does great with the other dogs he shares his kennel with. And if that's not enough charm, he has one more distinctive trait--his bark. For whatever reason, Ken has a "cigarettes and whiskey voice"--maybe as a result of a heinous surgical attempt to de-bark him. Or maybe that's just the way he came into this world. Whatever. He sounds adorable.

Going to the Dogs

I walked dogs today. It was clear and sunny. Not too hot, not too cold. The sort of November weather that people pull up stakes and move to California for.

If I had some snow, though, and a miniature sled, this energetic beautiful guy could pull it. He looks like a big sled dog in this photo, but since he weighs about nine pounds, the sled would have to be the size of a muffin pan. That said, he would be happy to trot anywhere with you and your muffins. I've been calling him "Mr Fluffy," but I think his name is Santiago.

Then there's this rather shy girl. She has the most lovely coloring. A brindled coat. I call her "Brinnie the Pooh," but her name is Almond.

They're at the San Gabriel Valley Humane Society--with a bunch of their friends.

What I Like About Walking Dogs

1. Walking
2. Dogs
3. Zero fashion sense required
4. No one cares if there's poop on my shoes
5. Talking to myself while it appears that I am talking to a dog
6. Talking to a dog
7. Sitting in the grass in the park while giving a dog a belly rub
8. Saying things like, "Go ahead, pee on that tree too."
9. Saying "Who wants some love?" out loud in the middle of the park on a sunny day.
10. Dogs. I said that already? Well, I'm sayin' it again.

The little dog in the photo is named Boo Boo. He's sweet, well-behaved and very enegetic. His face is gray, but his spirit is young. He's at the San Gabriel Humane Society.

The Blob

The blob is my day. My week. My year. The blob is me.

I suffer from blob-itis, a condition of acute shapelessness that struck me when my thirty-year marriage ended at pretty much the same moment that my well-feathered nest launched its last fledgling. After decades of running, tending, and attending the clock wound down and the calendar emptied out. Oh, there was plenty to do, but nothing as regular as seeing a kid off to school or putting breakfast on the table or waiting for the sound of the garage door opening. The band was still playing, but no one was keeping time. I made appointments and forgot them even though I wrote them down because the days felt interchangeable. The things I did seemed  non-essential--things that someone else could do just as well or even better.

I'm still struggling with trying to construct a regular schedule. In this fantasy of attacking the blob, I harbor secret desires to meet the same friend every Sunday for tea and yet another friend on Mondays for Margaritas. The first Thursday of the month? Well, that must be my writer's group. The last Tuesday? Knitting circle. Sunday? Well, what should I make for the potluck? None of these regular engagements are real, but in the calendar of my dreams, they are inscribed in big block letters and I relish their approach calendar page after calendar page. And of course, the largest portion of my day would be hugely important. To someone or something.

I sometimes wonder if I might have been a good nun or a soldier or a school teacher. Instead my days dissolve without the sounding of a single bell to mark their passing. The fact of the matter is that everyone I know is busier than I am. They have husbands and jobs and meetings and kids or grandkids or elderly parents that live nearby. They have people who are counting on them to do whatever it is that they do.

But the battle of the blob continues. Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays, I will walk dogs for the San Gabriel Humane Society--dogs kenneled for days at a time--like the ones I walked this past weekend.




On Thursdays I hope to do some kind of something (notice how this is already crumbling?) at the DWC while I wait to see if they have room in their schedule for a writing workshop. One weekend a month I will drive 400 miles to see my son and his family. One weekend a month I will fly to Baltimore to see my mother. Quick, if you want to schedule a regular anything, now's the time. I'm gonna harness my life into some sort of shape.

photo credit: vintageadbrowser.com

Who are you and what have you done with Denise ?

I've been enjoying the world of linked blogs. It's a whole new world when you dip into a stranger's blog. I've participated in Blog Gems a few times. And have again this week on their vacation theme.
http://hisbigfatindianwedding.blogspot.com/2010/05/everything-will-be-fine-i-said.html


I don't think I have the ability to channel Pollyanna every week. But I am looking at the Reasons to be Cheerful linky from a blogger in England.
http://mdplife.blogspot.com/p/reasons-to-be-cheerful.html

Really, it's me here. Really.
And here goes.
1. I am visiting my mom. Time and money have allowed me to do so.
2. My brother took off work today to drive her to the doctor even though I am here. He did so because I was uneasy about driving his truck in unfamiliar territory in iffy weather. And he did it with good cheer.
3. We had pizza for dinner and sat around the table talking about all the dogs we've ever had and I think my mom really enjoyed the conversation.

On the sixth day of rain

In the country of Rainland, there is an autonomous nation known as Dogland. Dogland lost half its population last fall--but somehow has managed to maintain the output of its main resource, Love love love. Love love love is mostly consumed within Dogland by residents and visitors alike, but small amounts are sometimes available for export. Interested parties may contact the Queen Mother of Dogland and come for a visit. Travel by boat is advised. While Rainland was formerly known as Smogland and required breathing apparatus, a snorkel is now required.

The Land of the Old

This is  where  I live. The Land of the Old. No matter where I am, this foreign place I couldn't quite imagine a few years ago is where I now reside.
My mother will be 86 next month. Last summer she was dying. This summer she's alive, but frail. Shrinking a bit each time I see her like my 16-year-old cats.  Like them, she eats tiny meals and then naps. Walks slowly, not quite steady on her feet. She lists a bit to one side due to osteoporosis--kind of like my dog Layla who has nerve degeneration and is losing control of her body a vertebrae at a time. My mother is hard of hearing like my dog Lola, and it takes certain moves to communicate with her.  Face her. Ennunciate. Take your time.
My mother and I are on our own this weekend. She lives with my brother and his girlfriend who've gone off for some well-earned time to themselves. Coffee. Breakfast. Lunch. Drinks and an appetizer. Dinner. In between these daily milestones my mother naps while I read or lie on the couch and think.
A few years back when my mother and her twin still lived on their own in my cousin's basement apartment, Mr. Ex and I used to visit. He hid out in our upstairs guestroom watching the Country Music Channel. He avoided my aunt and my mother. Yeah, they smoked. Yeah, they were different from his family with their martinis and their opinions about everything. Yeah, they were in-laws, and he didn't have to love them.
And now here I am, free to come and go--west coast to east and back whenever I please.  My mother is not a burden, but it would have been a burden to carry Mr. Ex through these visits. 
What lucky sweetness that I am allowed to live in this ephemeral place without the weight of Mr. Ex to keep me from relishing it.

photo: blogs. neuronring.com

I Might Be Turning into a Hermit

I knew I wouldn't spending yesterday with the man who loves me. I knew it at 6 a.m. or so when we awoke in my bed. I knew it while I was making toast for us and when we kissed good-bye at my front door and he handed me my newspaper the way he always does. We don't spend every day and every night together and it's better that way, really it is. We have our separate lives. And I like the way being separate feeds the togetherness.
So knowing what I knew, I thought I should do something with my day--like have old friends over for dinner. Cook some meat on my barbeque. Mix up a pitcher of margaritas and make some delicious side dishes. Change the CDs in my CD player to something that would say "Party" or "The Day Before the First Day of Summer." I thought about it for hours until it was too late to pick up the phone.
So when evening came I thought I might go for a walk and have a glass of wine at a table on the sidewalk of my favorite bistro. Just so I could say a sentence or two to another human being. But I didn't.
The only in-person conversation I had all day was with my dogs and cats.
I didn't turn on the TV or the radio. Or listen to the same 5 CDs I've had in my CD player for months.
I lay on the couch and read.
The only voices were in my head.

Pleasure Palace and Pet Infirmary, Part II

I dropped the dogs off for a teeth cleaning today. Then things got complicated.
Thorough teeth-cleaning for dogs is done under general anesthesia, and tests are done to determine whether or not this is a good idea. Lola couldn't be put under because the vet discovered a heart problem. Lola's completely asymptomatic.  Full of energy. Full of mischief and spunk. The vet says don't worry. Take my vacation & think about a doggy cardiologist when I get back from Greece.
Layla has a Hollywood smile now--minus an upper canine. She had to have a tooth pulled. Now in addition to her thyroid meds, she needs other drugs to recover from the tooth pulling--an anti-inflammatory, and an antibiotic--and she has to be on soft food for a few weeks. And my pet sitter will have to take her for a follow-up visit. Go down Fair Oaks. South--opposite from how you'd go to Sierra Madre--away from the mountains. Turn Right on Huntington. Prepare to turn right almost immediately into TLC Pet Medical Center. It's probably less than a mile from here. When you make the appointment, you want to ask for Dr. Wallace.
Meanwhile the man who loves me isn't feeling well either. I think I'll sleep on the sofa tonight and put up a gate so the dogs have to stay on the first floor. Layla is woozy from the general anesthesia, and with her untrustworthy back legs, it's better if she doesn't climb stairs.
I've put the pink velvet dog bed in the living room, and Layla is sound asleep. Maybe it will be a peaceful night.

Welcome to Denise's Pleasure Palace and Pet Infirmary

I love my townhouse. It's the only place I've ever lived alone, and it felt good to downsize my big fat life after Mr. Ex left me. No pool man, no pond guy, no Mr. sump-pump, no tree-trimmers, no awning maintenance, no contract with a pest control company to keep the roving band of neighborhood rats out of the attic. I did, however, end up with all four of our pets. Using the current veterinary charts, the ages of  my four-legged roommates add up to 264 years. My cats are are just a year younger than my mother, and she and they seem to share a similar level of frailty. My dogs are middle-aged, and they and I seem to be suffering similar aches and pains. Layla the dog and Snowflake the cat have to really watch the tartar build-up. Me too. Lola is getting hard of hearing. What? Did somebody call my name?
I might live with humans again someday, but for right now and I'm grateful for the company I've got.
Soon I'll be leaving on vacation, and I will entrust a young couple with the care of four pets who all have health issues.
Layla takes thyroid meds twice per day--after the morning and evening walks. Put the pills in a Jerky Treat, please. Be careful--she snaps and won't take it nicely from your hand. Don't panic if she stumbles on the walks. She has muscle & nerve degeneration. When you hear her toenails scrape on the pavement, turn back.
Lola coughs and wheezes. She has allergies. Give her a pill. It's too big for a Jerky Treat. Stuff it into a Pill Pocket. Kudos to the genius who invented these.
If Layla coughs, give her one of Lola's pills. Remember, she snaps.
Piper has allergies (could she be allergic to dogs?) I'll give her an injection before I leave. She'll probably be fine. If she licks all the hair off her stomach and legs, call C. She'll explain how to give the shot.
Snowflake meows a lot. Sometimes she lets loose with a bloodcurdling yowl. This seems to be normal for her. But it can drive a normal human crazy. Give her a treat. Bathroom drawer. Kitchen pantry. Try a tiny scoop of catnip in her bed--the one on my desk. If it's making you crazy, and you feel the urge to lick all the hair off your legs, put her in the garage with a little food and water. She has a bed there already. The wine on the kitchen counter is for you. Get wild and crazy with the liquor in the pantry. Check the freezer. If you like gin at all, try the Hendricks. There's Tonic somewhere.
Piper doesn't meow at all. You may think she's run away. Look under the bathroom sink. She likes it there.
Snowflake will run away if you leave the door ajar for even a second. Don't please. Then you'll have to jog through the neighborhood shaking a can of kitty treats. She's amazingly athletic for an old woman. She can jump over a fence like a cat on a pogo-stick.
Feed the cats a can of cat food 3 times a day--that's a new extra feeding that's been added. They have both been losing weight. (Me too). Be sure there is dry food in their dishes (laundry room and bathroom) at all times. Ditto on their water. The cat food is stored in the front closet on the top shelf next to the hats (mine--not the cat's).
Remember to shut the dog gate in the bathroom doorway or the dogs will eat all the cat's food. It gives them diarrhea. Don't forget to admire the nifty little alteration I made to the cat door portion of the gate.

Lola used to squeeze her 45 pound body through that tiny hole. Anything for cat food. Oh, don't put the empty cat food cans in the bathroom wastebasket--take them to to garage waste basket. If Lola does per chance starve herself to a new svelteness just to squeeze through the cat door, she will lick the cat food can lids and cut her tongue.
There are 2 litter boxes. One in the laundry room and one under Piper's sink. There are scoops next to them and litter deodorizer. I pretty much have air freshener everywhere. Desk. Bathroom. Laundry room. Sorry. I've heard that the olfactory system of a man is less sensitive than that of a woman. It's very important to keep the dogs out of the litter boxes. Layla is fond of Poo Poo Roca. Close the gate to the bathroom. As a double precaution, the side of the cabinet that holds the litter box is taped shut. It keeps dogs out and litter granules in. And keep the laundry room door that is in front of the litter box closed, and put the big rock with the cat painted on it in front of it.
If you're gone for hours, turn on the TV for the dogs. Chanel 67.
There's a broom and dustpan in the garage. The vacuum is there too. How much you clean is up to you. You might be a big Star Wars fan and find yourself quite attractive as a wookie.
If the cats throw up on the dining room chairs and you find it before the dogs eat it, don't worry. I think the better living through chemistry folks made that fabric. I just wipe it off with plain water. Cleans up real nice.  It doesn't happen all that often. Ditto the couch. It's leather. Treat it like a cheap pair of shoes.
All the dog-walking stuff is in the dresser by the french doors. Poo bags. Flashlight. Extra keys. Rain coat....The dogs are trained to walk on the left side by side. They can only make it a block or so. The park might be too far, but you can try. The pooper scooper is by the back gate. Scoop the patio at least twice a day. They have been known to step in their own poo and then come sit by you while you're watching TV.
The envelope taped to the pantry door is for you. Enjoy.
And enjoy the love of the creatures who invented unconditional love.
And enjoy my place. It's lovely here. Flocks of song birds and wild parrots. Cable TV. Help yourself to pay per view. Call long distance on my phone. Wireless Internet. There's a pool, jacuzzi & sauna in the community area. Have at that espresso-maker. Eat whatever I've got. I love you for being here.
Gosh I sure am glad Mr. Ex and the Little Missus have a nanny to change their baby's diapers. Otherwise that would be a lot of work for them.

What I Hear at Night When I am Alone

I live very near the 110 Freeway, but there's an incredible lay of the land here that emanates silence. I hear nothing most nights when I sit quietly and listen. If my dogs cough from their allergies, I give them a pill and it's back to silence. They clatter in and out of their dog door from time to time, but I hear no traffic, no hissing of automatic sprinklers, no helicopters, no barking, no mating racoons, no sirens, no screeching tires. It doesn't seem right. I like city life. The countryside frightens me with its vast silence. This is the quietest place I've ever lived in the L.A. area. I long for the sound of another person breathing.

photo credit: www.laist.com

How I Spent My Friday Night

Alone.
Most of the Friday nights that I'm in L.A. are spent that way. Friday night is not a night that the man who loves me and I are likely to get together. He spends all week working and dealing with people-- people who are real people. I spend all week with the people in my head who are make-believe people--characters in my novel, and when Friday night rolls around---well, he and I are just not on the same page at all.
Which should be fine if I were rational about the whole thing. But I'm not.
In high school, Friday night was date night. In college, it was party night. When I worked in a factory all day Friday was cause for jubilation because it was the end of a miserable fucking week, and we all knew we had two whole days when we wouldn't be breathing in toxic paint and getting metal splinters in our fingers. People raved about how they were going to get crazy drunk that night or get laid or both. When I was a waitress, I hauled around 50 lb. trays of surf'n turf platters on Friday nights which meant I was too tired to care what I did after work. When I was an actress Friday nights were fabulous. Work and friends and fun rolled up into one tidy package with some applause thrown in as a bonus. Friday nights during the last twenty-some years of my marriage were dismal. A vigil waiting for sound of the garage door opening--the signal that my husband was finally home. So now, I'm finding it hard  to get out of that groove. I'm still waiting. For something....a date or a party or too much to drink.
I have a perfect view into two of my neighbors' kitchens as I come down the steps to my back door. Last night when I returned from walking my dogs, there were the neighbors' windows lit up like movie screens. In kitchen #1 was a couple. He had a big pot of something in his hands, and she was sprinkling salt into bowl at the kitchen island. She was smiling and talking, and he was nodding. Kitchen number two was a party. Six or eight people milling around the table and the bar, pulling things out of the fridge. More talking and smiling. And laughing. Which made me all sad and sorry for myself.
After I got done crying, I was stupid and crazy for a few more minutes and still fixated on all the fun in those two kitchens. So I tried to take a picture of the happy people because it was really beautiful---the light, the dishes, the food. There were even flowers on the counter in kitchen #2. But what I got was a photo of mostly darkness with a shadowy reflection of a woman holding a camera.

I took a pro-active stance against my Friday night doldrums some weeks ago. I signed up to be a volunteer usher at the Pasadena Playhouse, but they've closed their doors due to financial difficulties. So after my wallowing subsided last night (during which time I begged my dog Layla to please, please just turn into a person) I got on the Internet again. Pickings are slim for Friday night volunteer jobs. The Pasadena Humane Society isn't accepting applications until April--and I doubt there are things to do there on Friday night--unless dogs really do play poker.  Huntington Hospital (hospitals never close, right?) isn't accepting applications until March 15th. The Downtown Women's Center might have something, but I would have had to RSVP for today's orientation by March 1st. Nothing at the San Gabriel Playhouse. Union Station Homeless Services prepares only breakfast and lunch. I'm going to try some of the smaller theaters. But it's pretty clear that I need to keep applying for writers' residencies. Staying home for weeks at a time is likely to make me try to pull a William Wegman. And a person can't go around dressing up their dogs unless they have some talent as a photographer.

Photo Credit: funnyblogger.com  
This is a photographer with talent.