it takes a castle

When I was a kid growing up in New York, one of my favorite things to do on family outings was to visit the stately homes and mansions built by the Astors, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts and assorted other robber barons of the Gilded Age, now turned over to the public in the form of state parks and private endowments.

One of my favorites was the old Westbury House in Babylon, and I would constantly nag my parents to take me there. The room I loved the most was the one I thought of as the 'garden room'. It seemed huge to me then and beautiful, with tremendous, overstuffed chintz sofas and lounges and wide, floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the vast gardens, including a pool that was home to white swans and ducklings. I would stand in that room consciously willing myself into the picture. Someday, I thought, if I can just live in a place like this, then I know I could be happy.

We left friendly little Los Olivos after an overnight stop at Solvang, a tourist-happy town of Danish inspired buildings, shops and restaurants (Solvang- So vat?) and set off bright and early for San Simeon, home of the 127 acre estate of newspaper publisher Willlian Randolph Hearst.

We were milling around the base of a magnificent stairway, listening as our docent, a stern faced woman with a wickedly dry sense of humor paused in her history of the estate and gestured toward the elegant mediterranean mansion before us.

"Impressed?" she asked the group of about 20 or so before her, oohing and ahhing and snapping many identical pictures.

We nodded in several languages. Hell yeah, we were impressed.

"That's one of the guest houses," she said.

Oh, my. That is impressive. On those occasions when I am invited to stay with friends and family (and even on those when I just kind of show up) I'm usually lucky to get a couch, a blanket and a bag of Doritos. Clearly, my people need to step up their game.

The 'Castle' consists of 165 rooms, including 115 in the main house and three guesthouses. No less than four separate daytime and one evening tour are offered to fully appreciate the entire estate. We took 'The Experience Tour" for first-time visitors, which took us through the gardens, one guesthouse (Casa del Sol) and the ground floor of the main building. Frankly, I lost track of the pools.

Unfortunately, all my interior shots came out dark and blurry, probably because I had yet to manage the settings on my new camera and was just sort of waving it around, crazed papparazzo-style and snapping pictures pretty much at random: fresh flowers overflowing the urns that graced medieval mantlepieces; beautiful burnished woods, lovely and rare examples of European art; the myriad exhuberant details that filled every room.

It is truly an astonishing place.

The gardens are exquisite, the art stunning; the bedrooms and living quarters surprisingly livable for all their opulence. My inner scold, always quick to admonish, kept insisting that I be appalled at the hubris, the greed, the sad, rampant materialism; the Citizen Kane-iness of it all, but I wasn't in the mood. I longed to wake up in the morning to the view from that wisteria-draped balcony; to paint in the Egyptian garden; to meditate by the lotus pond. I wanted to swim naked by moonlight in that gold and azure pool.

And as I stood in the shadows of a sitting room; not much more than a den really, albeit a den decorated with handwoven tapestries, a Ming vase or two and one of those deliciously overstuffed sofas that I have always found so irresistible, I couldn't help thinking, if I could just live in this guesthouse, then I know I could be happy...

wine tasting in a small town

If it's a warm and breezy afternoon in late May and you find yourself in one of the tasting rooms in the tiny town of Los Olivos, chances are it's your birthday.

At least that's the way it seemed on the afternoon we arrived for our very first official wine tasting experience. Of course, we've been drinking wine since Bacchus first donned a toga, but don't really know much about it and had never been to a tasting per se. Everywhere we went, groups and couples were coming or going from tasting room to tasting room accompanied by the cheerful sounds of birthday wishes.

We started at the pretty little family run Longoria (http://www.longoriawine.com/tasting_room.html) where we were pleased to let the friendly woman behind the bar guide us. We ordered a flight of whites and sipped slowly, trying to look savvy as a party of a dozen or so revelers enjoyed their glasses, the jazz paintings on the wall and needling the birthday boy in their midst. It was a scene that repeated itself everywhere we went that day ~ as if everyone were having a birthday and the entire town wanted to celebrate. Very much like a cozy little garden party, people drifted in and out, winding from house to patio and patio to garden, acknowledging friends and strangers with each passing encounter, full of good spirits of and some very nice wine.

As it happened it was also the estimable Turk's birthday, which was partly the reason we were following the Sideways trail, which was of late one of his favorite movies. Normally he is a reticent guy and adamant that we never let on to anyone in public on such occasions; he's afraid they'll sing at him in restaurants or much, much worse. He's shy that way.

Me, I'm just the opposite; they can sing, they can shout, they can shoot me out of a cannon for all I care, just as long as it gets me a free mud pie and maybe a candle or two. I love candles. Bring on the dancing waiters.

But Turk is emphatically not that guy, so it was with some surprise and delight that, as we wandered along the half a dozen or so blocks of art galleries, quirky cafes, and classic California style bungalows he started announcing his birthday somewhere around our third tasting stop.

"Today's my birthday, too," he said, by way of conversation.


"Happy birthday, man," said the barman. We chatted for a while, the barman telling us about the history of the town and the surprising fact that the predominant field of employment for the locals was not the wineries but the growing construction business. It seems there is much new wealth in the area and quite a few new estates being built. We joked about being able to afford one, and wondered about the loss of such a bucolic lifestyle.

"Happy birthday, man!" our new friend said again on our way out, handing the Hubs a bottle of a Starwood Sauvignon Blanc .

"Thanks!" he hollered, grinning from ear to ear.

I don't know why. But it made me quite proud.

cold spring tavern

We were headed north toward Solvang and Los Olivos on Day One of our little Sideways getaway. Winding our way along Highway 54, the San Marcos Pass through the Santa Ynez Mountains I spotted a smallish cedar brown sign with narrow yellow lettering. Stagecoach Road, it read, followed by the tantalizing words Cold Spring Tavern. An arrow pointed left.

"Turn here!" I hollered.

"Turn where?" a startled Turk hollered back. He hit the gas and we headed straight for a cliff.

"Back there!"

"Back where? Why? It's too late."

"No, no, it isn't! It's Cold Spring Tavern! I've heard about this place. I've seen pictures ~ it looks great! I've always wanted to go. I didn't know it was in here. Turn around!"

"Okay okay okay. Hold your horses," he intoned with the zen-like equanimity that has seen him through 23 years of road trips and nearly 20 years of marriage.

Rule Number 1 of Road Travel ~ never argue with your wife when she's shouting at you on twisting mountain roads. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as going over the rail. Not usually.

We U-turned back, hung a sharp right and wound our way along a narrow path. We found it by a tiny waterfall and parked in the small clearing bordered by a steeply sloped, rocky embankment. I grabbed a jacket as a sweet cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead and we stepped out of the car into the sylvan glade. Built in 1885 as a stagecoach stop for weary travelers along the Pass, the tavern was all I'd imagined it would be ~ a deliciously cozy haven; authentically rustic and thoroughly romantic. I was enchanted.

"Let's live here," I murmured as we entered the front door.

"Let's eat first," replied the Turk.

He ordered a huge house burger served on artisan bread with fat fries and a large glass of freshly brewed iced tea. I had a lovely house salad with lingonberry dressing, followed by the special. The grilled King Salmon glistened plump and coral on it's bed of bright red and green grilled peppers, lightly sauteed spinach and creamy mound of garlic mashed potatoes. The house Chardonnay was crisp and light and filled my head with a soft amber mist. Everything glowed with the golden warmth of old wood, afternoon sun and decades of hearty conviviality. Even the stuffed goat's head in the corner smiled down on all benignly; forgivingly. Life, I thought musing happily over that luscious salmon, was sometimes something very close to perfect.

"I'm not leaving," I told the Hubs as we left.

"I know, dear," he said, hands in pockets, shooting me a sidelong glance. "But that means, of course, we'll never get to Cambria."

I sighed. He was right. A very wise man, that Turk. I've always thought so, and I thought so even as he backed into the steep rocks with a resounding crunch on our way out of the lot.

"Shit!" he said, abandoning all aforementioned composure. "Did I damage the bumper?"

I got out and looked. "I don't think so," I said. We were tight against the rock, and I couldn't really see anything.

"Thank god," he said.

I hoped for the best. You don't mess around when life is busy being something very close to perfect.

Rule Number 2 of road travel; never tell your husband that he may very well have put a sizable dent in his beloved bumper. Not on the first day of your road trip. Not if you want to make it to Cambria.

self-helpless

The heat must be getting to me. As temperatures continue to hover in the triple digits pretty much everywhere from Albuquerque to Anchorage (105 degrees here so far today) the lizards are invading my house now in search of shade. One the size of a Gila monster just showed up in my garage while I was doing laundry. I jumped up on the washer and screamed until my husband came running in.

"Look look look!" I yelled, pointing down at the floor. The lizard shot his forked tongue out at me.

"What what what?" my husband yelled, looking straight at me and completely missing the monster, who turned and skittered under the car.

I have an absolute horror of lizards. I have nightmares about them wherein they invade my yard, my house and my closets, entirely covering the ceiling and the walls. They attack. I don't know what it means. It's a phobia, I guess. But I digress. It must be the heat.

So I found myself the other day in a place I never believed I would. There I stood, looking suspicious and vaguely ashamed of myself in the self-help section of my local Borders bookstore.

I have an aversion to the self-help industry in general. It isn't that good people haven't sought and been helped by some books/television shows/seminars/cults ~ I know that they have. There are legitimate practitioners with expert knowledge in their field whose primary goal is indeed to help people overcome serious problems, and they are to be lauded.

Unfortunately, these authors are overwhelmed by the glut of formulaic 'Pablum for the Chicken-minded Soul' style books written by opportunists with no more legitimate claim to a superior understanding of life, love, or how to lose 10 pounds than you or I. Common sense is repackaged as new and significant insight by some media guru or another, when in fact we all already know exactly what we ought to be doing to improve our lives: Eat less, exercise more. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Get some sleep. Share. Enjoy all things in moderation. Choose your friends wisely and seek their council. That way, when your boyfriend forgets your birthday and stands you up for the fourth time this month you won't have to shell out $24.95 for a book by an erstwhile stand-up comic that explains that "He's Just Not That Into You." You'll know. Your mates will tell you. Ask.

Besides, there is probably more wisdom to be found in one poem (the world is too much with us, late and soon...) and more truth in one novel (We live as we dream - alone...) located in the aisle dedicated to 'Literature' than in the entire 400 titles designated as 'Self-help'.

And yet, there I was.

I have been lately inspired by the blog of Danny Gregory; artist, author, teacher and genial journalist whose exhortations to just sit down, shut-up and draw something have jump-started a slumbering desire to take seriously and improve my own efforts. I expected to find his book, "The Creative License: Giving Yourself Permission to Be the Artist You Truly Are" in the 'Art' section but apparently wanting to draw better is a form of self-improvement. I never would have thought of it that way.

Looking around to see if there was anybody I knew, I risked eye contact with a middle-aged man with dark hair and glasses perusing a book in the History department. He quickly averted his gaze and I found myself hoping he didn't think I was there for that prominently displayed Dr. Phil "Love Smart" title. Why should anyone care about the judgement of strangers, you may ask. Well, I don't know, but I'll bet Don Miguel Ruiz, the author of "The Four Agreements" which promises to "reveal the source of self-limiting beliefs that rob us of joy and create needless suffering," does. I had no time to find out. I headed at once for the 'G's, grabbed my book and trotted off to listen to some music.

In retrospect, maybe I should have checked to see if Ruiz or Oprah or somebody could help me with my lizard phobia thing. If the weather gets any hotter and those damn reptiles any bolder (one just rang the doorbell and demanded protection money) I will have to go back for self-help or go on medication. You never know. I wonder if Phil's really a doctor. He might be able to fix me up.

In the meantime, I'm working the book. I'm enjoying it. It's opening up my tiny mind. I'd post pics, but once again I'm having difficulty uploading images. Must be the heat.

all about the wordplay

I do not do crossword puzzles, but I am tormented on a daily basis by someone who does.

"You've read Eliot," he'll begin casually, not looking up from his paper.

"A...little," I'll reply. I find it in my best interest to let him think I am more intelligent and erudite than I really am. It's part of my imaginary mystique, and the only way I can get him to let me make major purchasing decisions. Still, I am cautious.

"It was a long time ago," I warn.

"What's an eponymous Eliot title; Dash dash dash M; dash dash D dash?" He says it like that; dash dash dash, which only serves to bewilder me further. Again, I reflect upon my staggering lack of culture.

"Cats!" I trill, confusing T.S. with George, 8 letters with 4, and ignoring M and D completely, as it does not conform to what seems to me to be the fairly obvious solution.

"Cats?!" He shoots me an incredulous look. I can read his mind. Sometimes he is wondering what he ever saw in me, and where I really went all those times I claimed to be on campus earning a degree. Other times he suspects I am holding out on him, the perpetrator of some cruel effort to deprive him of the joy of finishing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle before the golf tournament comes on. This does me a grave disservice. I am not unkind. I am just functionally illiterate.

Still, as my choice of mate would indicate I am drawn to intelligent men with a well-developed sense of humor and a firm knowledge of who they are and what they want out of life. On Thursday I got to spend some time with a few of my favorites.

"Wordplay" is a fresh, funny and fascinating little film featuring self-described enigmatologist Will Shortz and a cast of like-minded puzzle enthusiasts, most of whom bring unabashed nerdiness to dizzying and joyful new heights. Shortz himself, alternately described as "monk-like and remote" or the "thinking-girls' pin-up boy" is decidedly the latter ~ with a wide-open countenance and charmingly amiable manner, he is a man who has found his true vocation and is simply delighted to be able to share his gift with anyone else who cares to play along.

Play along they do, and it is an unadulterated pleasure to hang out with (my personal pin-up boys) Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart, in addition to as varied a crew as (Yankee pitcher) Mike Mussina, the Indigo Girls, Ken Burns and Bob Dole as they demonstrate their crossword-solving prowess and routines. (Bill does his in pen, Jon is so confidant he volunteers to do his in glue stick; Bob Dole claims that the whole election thing was "a puzzle to me.")

We ride along as professional puzzle constructor Merle Reagle drives down the road spontaneously rearranging letters on passing signs ( Dunkin' Donuts becomes Unkind Donuts, and Noah's Ark; No! A shark!) and then watch, rapt, as he builds a puzzle sitting at an empty dining room table with nothing but his pencil, a piece of paper and an impressively agile mind.

The film's heart is to be found in the crossword competition held annually at the Stamford Marriott, Connecticut, where the contestants are invariably brilliant, endearing, consummately competitive and yet thoroughly decent human beings, and it is to their endless credit (as well as that of the filmmakers) that the sight of what appears to be a roomful of brainiacs taking a series of competitive tests becomes an engrossing, even thrilling event.

I won't tell you who wins. But Bill, Jon ~ boys? Make some room on the wall ~ mamma's got a brand new pin-up. Proper name, ten letters meaning 'sexy'.

I'll give you a hint. It's W dash dash l; Dash dash o r t z.

ideas I wish I'd had first

Fortunately for the Bill of Rights and free-thinking Americans everywhere, the dread but seasonally ubiquitous Flag Measure has failed again ~ this time by a single vote.

The best suggestion I'v heard so far to retire this ridiculous waste of time, money and civil liberties once and for all came in the form of a letter to the editors of the LA Times:

I suggest that flag wrapping, not flag burning, constitutes the most egregious desecration of the flag. Flag wrapping is the practice by politicians of wrapping themselves in the flag, especially during an election year. An excellent example of flag wrapping has just been provided by members of Congress who pushed for a constitutional amendment that would give them the power to ban flag burning by private citizens. I propose a constitutional amendment that gives Congress the power to ban flag wrapping by elected officials, beginning with all members of Congress.

SCOTT MCKENZIE
Los Angeles

Brilliant! Now, why couldn't I have thought of that? It's an elegant solution to a problem that seems to exist nowhere as much as in the minds of the greedy, dim-witted, hypocritical blowhards that we the people, in spite of all the howlingly obvious reasons not to, still insist on sending back to their cushy congressional cash couches year after year after demoralizing year.

I urge you to write your congressperson today regarding this important constitutional amendment. BAN FLAG WRAPPING NOW! Write early, write often.

Happy Independence Day!

nunsense

Went out with friends last night and made rather merry with the martinis. Shockingly, woke up hungover and more than usually spacey. Immediately decided that today would be a good time to get some work done. Wound up at The Daily Snooze instead, where a little past life regression was on offer and no doubt just the cure for what ailed me.

It explains a lot. But while I am not surprised and in fact actually quite thrilled to embrace myself as both ancient lunatic and brilliant scientist (well, I'm assuming the brilliant part. Wouldn't you?) I feel I must take issue with the concept of me as a third century nun. I really doubt it. Obviously, someone didn't catch my act down at the Boom Boom Room sometime around midnight.

So go in peace, my child. And please don't slam the door on your way out. Sister Lotus needs her beauty sleep.

Lotus' Past Lives

V V V

1230 BC: Crazy Heretic

285 AD: A Nun

1633 AD: An astronomer

'What were you in your past lives?' at QuizGalaxy.com

golden girl

Because I never grew up and quite frankly cannot think of a compelling reason why I should, I still believe that my birthday is just cause for week long celebrations with friends and family.

The fact that people actually humor me in this conceit is the source of much joy on my part. How can I possibly waste a moment feeling sorry for my sad, dearly departed, gravity-afflicted 4o-something ass when I have such generous, amiable and tolerant people in my life?

I heard from a couple of mates whom I've know since high school who somehow still manage to remember the date and think of me kindly, even as they accuse me of being somehow much older than they.

There were a couple of off-key renditions of 'Happy Birthday' left on my machine, including an amazing duet that made me laugh till I cried. My 93 year old mother sang to me in a husky-throated whisper and a lately acquired lisp, making me smile while quite nearly breaking my heart. My brother and sis-in-law sent me a gift that they promise will leave me hysterical. I'm laughing already. I hope it's jewelry.

And on Saturday last, my pals Trish and Robbie took me out to LACMA to see what I'd been yammering on about for weeks ~ the 5 Klimts, looted by the Nazis and just returned to their rightful heirs after decades of legal wrangling with Austria. There was the sumptuously beautiful portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, the spectacularly golden star of the show ~ an exuberant celebration of female beauty, of a lover arrayed in luxurious, Byzantine-patterned glory. Oil, silver and gold on canvas, it is a wondrous thing to behold.

Quieter, but equally sensuous to my way of thinking is Klimt's rendering of the Beech Woods. In it, subtle gradations of color float dreamily atop the canvas. Deep purples and pale lavenders, soft grays, greens and mauves are played against the richness of dark reds and ochre. The effect is evocative of moving alone through a deep wood at dusk, redolent of fallen leaves and moss, unturned earth and moist evening air. It is a painting at once mysterious and serene. You could drink it in for hours.

Yesterday, as I was drinking in the reality that could just be crows feet (but I'm going for laugh lines) in the reflection of my bathroom mirror, I heard on NPR that the portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer had been sold to Estee' Lauder heir/corporate guy genius/art lover Ron Lauder for a breathtaking, record setting, heart arresting sum. It is now the most expensive painting in the world.

Price of an original portrait by Gustav Klimt: $135 million

Value of an afternoon spent with friends: Priceless.

excuses, excuses

It's official. I have been unable to upload any pictures to this page for over a month now, which I find frustrating in the extreme. I have notified tech support and received some very friendly mail in return, which delighted me until I realized it was all auto response.

No matter. They say they are working on the problem, which has affected many beside myself, and who am I to say otherwise? In the meantime, however, it is severely cramping my style.

I tend to be visually oriented and a bit compulsive about the look of this thing, believe it or not, and I like to place graphics specifically within the context of the written word in a way that is visually appealing (to me, at least) and illustrative of a point (when there is one, which is occasionally). I understand that this is of interest of no one but me, but I just can't help myself.

Surprisingly, the fact that the blog has been, for my purposes anyway, inoperable for a month has affected both my ability to write and my desire to draw, which had been sparked of late by travel, trips to museums and large doses of vitamin Chablis (no, not really). But seems I've been spending so many hours in front of the screen impotently attempting to trouble shoot (How, I wonder? I don't know code. What was I thinking?) that I've lost the incentive to do anything else. Or maybe I'm just short on time.

To a certain extent this is a journal of my life, and for better or worse I've taken to relying on it as a supplement to the diary I've always maintained in sketchbook and travel logs. The problem is, if I don't post things promptly when I feel the urge I know I'll forget whatever it is I wanted to say in the first place. Or reflect upon. Or rant about. Or regurgitate. Whatever.

See? Case in point; Whatever? Honestly. What kind of writing is that? I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. Or what I was talking about in the first place. God knows, you gave up trying to figure it out a long time ago.

Oh, nevermind.

I can't post pics, but I can still link. This one's for Carol....

**Pearls Before Swine **

apocalypse two

It was the first time I'd ever worked a convention, and I got a kick out of helping to set up the display and learning much about marketing and the intricacies of hotel union labor (we could build it ourselves only if we could do it in under an hour with no more than two supplied tools and two staffers; more and you had to hire a union worker at Sunday overtime wages.)

Well played, union guys!

I put on a pair of punishing heels, some sleek slacks and tops that didn't show too much cleavage and smiled mightily while trying to wrap my tongue convincingly around terms like "integrated vertical data collection management," which I'm pretty sure I made up. I met new people and rediscovered the art of conversation with strangers ~ I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed that fresh encounter, the pleasure of making a connection with new and interesting people. I'm not sure of how useful I was, but I enjoyed myself immensely. In fact, I had a blast.

At the cocktail party on Monday, there was talk of the approaching threat of 6-06-06.

"I'm very nervous about it," Kim said. "Oh, sure, you scoff," she added, seeing my reaction. "But this is a concern for some of us."

"Look at the bright side," I countered. "If I'm wrong and the world ends tomorrow you get to say 'I told you so'. Think of the personal satisfaction." She rolled her eyes.

Tuesday arrived, and as these things always go everyone was too busy to note the date. I booth-babed around, chatting up attorneys and computer guys and saying things like "one gigabyte thumbdrive," which I'm pretty sure somebody else made up. Kimberly did her serious VP thing, which is impressive to behold. That night, I tried to persuade my roomie to crash the democratic election parties being held downstairs. She was completely disinterested.

"C'mon. I've always wanted to go to a political convention. It's about the snap and the zazz!" I said, snapping and zazzing.

"Not for me. It's about a nap and some zzz's," she responded.

As I was unwilling to fly solo and frankly already in my jammies we stayed in, shared a bottle of wine and watched the party on TV. It didn't look all that snappy.

When we left for the airport on Wednesday the hotel concierge predicted it would take up to 35 minutes to travel the 10 or 12 odd miles to the airport. "See?" I demanded. "Hellacious traffic."

We rolled up to the curb at Continental Airlines in about 9 1/2 minutes, me gesturing bewilderedly along the way at eight lanes of eerie emptiness. You could have shot off a canon out there; it's completely unheard of in the history of LA. I attempted to explain.

"I know what happened. We were stuck in the hotel all day and missed it, but all the cars that would normally be here got Raptured up. The good news is you were right ~ the bad news is, you're stuck here with the rest of us. The Damned." I smiled.

"Oh, shut UP!" she replied good-naturedly. Not for the first time that week, I might add.

I'm sending her a copy of my version of our long apocalyptic adventure. Hers may well be different. If this post disappears, just consider it Raptured.

Kim and Gi's Excellent Adventure ~ part one

Or How I Spent the Apocalypse

On Saturday I went to LAX to pick up my lovely and talented sister-in-law, who was coming to town for a industry trade show that was to begin on Monday June 5th. I was at great pains to explain to Kim that the drive to and from LAX would be at least an hour and a half each way, allowing for sigalerts, freeway shootings, car chases and the like.

I was there in 25 minutes, and spent the 37 minutes it took getting back to my place trying to convince her that the wide open highways were an anomaly, and not just me making a big deal out of going to the airport.

Kim is a high-powered executive with a legal tech firm, the details of which, I'm afraid to say, are beyond my powers of comprehension. So it came as a surprise when she offered me a job.

"You'd be working the booth," she said. "Just handing out brochures, and getting people to sign up for demos and giveaways."

"Are you sure I can do this?" I asked. There may be a reason I haven't worked in a while. My talents are somewhat limited. As are my hours.

"You'd be handing out tee shirts," she said. "Generally helping out. We just need an extra hand."

We'd be sharing a room at a swanky downtown hotel, living and dining well. I thought I could handle that.

"And we're hosting a cocktail party in the penthouse lounge," she said.

"You had me at tee shirts," I murmured happily.

Kimberly and I are as different as night and day, physically and philosophically. She is tall, blonde, elegant and very professional. I am short, dark, unpolished but fairly employable. She is a dedicated Christian and Republican; I am a happily godless Democrat. What we have in common is family, (she is married to my brother) friendship, and a history that goes back some 25 years. We get along famously.

When we checked into our luxuriously comfortable room with a view (Heavenly Sleep Beds! Goose down duvets!) Kim opened one of the bedside tables and let out a hoot. There lay the ubiquitous Gideon Bible, right next to a copy of The Teachings of Buddha.

"Only in California!" she exclaimed, laughing.

"Equal time, baby!" I grinned, giving a resounding double thumbs up. We repeated this exchange as she recounted the incident to fellow out-of-towners over the next few days, to everyone's apparent amusement.

while you were out...

It seems that while I was on vacation somebody broke in and busted my Blogger.

Need pics for post. Pronto. Ne plus procrastination.

Fix my Blogger, Spot. Before I blog out.

(insert frowny face here)

it's good to be bad

Turk and I caught Art School Confidential yesterday, a deeply cynical and very funny look at the dark side of art professional wannabes, and it reminded me of a happy facet of human nature that had hit me while I was blog jogging around the block a few (several ?)days ago.

Everyone, it seems, has an inner artist yearning to breathe free. And what has become increasingly clear is that there is an amazing amount of talent, joy and creativity out there in the world of ordinary non-art-school-confidential geeks ~ enough to fill a very colorful and diverse universe with line and paint, textile and ink.

I've always felt a little awkward about putting very much out here, in spite of my sincerely professed belief that it's not the quality of the finished product, it's the process of creation that fufills true purpose; that contains the element of meditation, a path to enlightenment, or at least a place of peace. Still, the judgement of others is a fearsome foe, and my fear has always been that it would detract from the pleasure of the act itself. And also, frankly, there's the fact that people would know that I suck.

Just as experience has taught me not to sing in public however much I may enjoy the sound of my own voice, I've generally considered it best not to draw with or for an audience either. If everyone's a critic, ignorance is bliss.

But then I saw this post from Robbie, wherein she linked to this inspiring post by Danny Gregory:

Put simply: no one is nearly as interested in what you do as you are. No one is judging it as hard as you, or analysing it, or wondering about it. The only time they really get involved is when your success or failure could effect them...

The man makes an excellent point. Who, after all, gives a damn? So why not, I thought? Just post a couple of sketchbook pics and own your own cheerful suckiness. Beg no sufferance, and make no apologies ~ revel in and embrace it in all it's amateur glory. Because it really doesn't matter how good or bad or indifferent the efforts may be; the point is that they're mine, they brought me pleasure at the time and now remind me of people, ideas and moments I would otherwise have long forgotten. As Danny puts it, live and make art for the only person that matters or truly cares. Now that's freedom, baby.

As luck would have it we're leaving next week on a road trip up the California coast into wine country (on our very own little Sideways tour) and hopefully I'll have a chance to do a little bit of drawing. Tipsy drawing perhaps, but in my case that may be the best kind.

Come to think of it I"ll have to sketch fast ~ if I don't get a camera today, whatever pictures I draw may be be the only ones I'll have. I'd better start practicing.

jet lag

I'm not saying that I've been lousy company lately, but when I got off the plane last Thursday my bag decided not to get off with me. It was a spur of the moment thing, I think, but while I disembarked in Houston, which was 89 degrees and muggy, my suitcase chose to fly on to Newark, which is 89 degrees and in New Jersey. Frankly, I was embarrassed for both of us.

It took a couple of days for Continental Airlines to track down and retrieve my errant bag, and by the end of Day 2 my travel outfit, which had started out feeling so chic and practical ~ sleeveless black tee, tan cargo pants with ruched cuffs; comfortable platform shoes, denim jacket ~ was swiftly morphing into something shabby and decidedly impractical.

We were on the move from the moment I arrived at the airport, and at some point the black leather upper on my right shoe became dislocated from it's man-made lower. The loss of the the 4 inch cork platform had me gimping along like someone who'd just lost a foot. The laces from the ruched trouser leg now dragging untidily on the floor, I looked like the victim of a fashionable farm accident.

On this day we were in search of a new recliner for my mom, my sister-in-law and I, and as I guided my mother's wheelchair into the expansive furniture showroom I could not help but note in the hundreds of beveled mirrors scattered throughout that a mysterious spot had opened between my brows and begun bleeding, and that my eyes had taken on a haunted, desperate quality. A saleswoman approached.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Dubiously, I thought. I chuckled.

"Yes," my elegant sis-in-law insisted firmly. "I'm sure you can." The saleswoman, Kerry, directed us to the recliners in the back of the store.

"Mom has to try them out to see if she can manipulate them herself," I told her. My mother is very old and quite frail, so much so that even the act of reclining is fraught with difficulty.

"No problem," said Kerry.

And so it was we spent the next hour taking turns picking Mom up and putting her down in dozens of fatly upholstered arm chairs, most of which she occupied like a doll tossed casually onto an oversized sofa. I tried out a few myself, and noticed Kerry eyeing my bottomless shoe, still sporting the scotch tape I'd originally tried fixing it with.

"My shoe broke. The airline lost my luggage," I explained. "And my face seems to be bleeding. I don't know why."

"Where y'all from?" she asked.

"California," I replied.

"I understand," she said. Kindly, I thought.

And you know, she probably did.

checking in and out

I promised myself I was only logging on today to print my boarding pass and nothing else. Okay, I thought, I'll just open the blog for a second; maybe just check in, maybe say hi.

No, I heard myself say, don't do it, you fool! You know what it leads to; you'll want to write, you'll open bloglines, you'll never get out! But as so often happens when I know better than to do something, I went ahead and did it anyway. Just to defy myself. You know, to prove who's boss. And now I'm already behind.

I'm taking off for Houston in the early AM and I've still got a million things to do ~ there's laundry to wash, packing to pack, closets to organize and bathrooms to clean. There are hydrangeas to plant and roses to be pruned. I believe that all these things must be done before I go because you never know what life will bring and what if I never come back? God forbid I leave poor Turk with disorganized closets and un-deadheaded roses. I want him to remember me well, as a woman who knew how to keep house and plant a garden. In spite of all prior evidence to the contrary.

All of this should have been done and I have tried to do it but life kept getting in the way, and I'd rather play with pals in Pasadena, where we saw a terrific little show of ukiyo-e by the way, and I really wanted to blog it because it was just so lovely, and there was this wonderful poem written by one of the geisha, but of course I didn't have a camera with me what with losing my mind and all and there isn't time now anyway because it's 3:40 I see and I gave myself 10 minutes to say hey(!) and now it's been 17 minutes and I still have to get to gym and lose 9 pounds so I fit into the good (read: skinny) jeans that are already packed. And the bathrooms still aren't clean and it looks like they won't be now, but you know what? Geisha don't clean bathrooms and neither do I. I choose to be Geisha.


Sayonara and a bientot!

blah blah blog and I'm sorry, of course

I have been terribly remiss in my blog time, as in I haven't been blogging at all. The thing is, I've been really busy, you know? And even now there's no time to say how. But I am so sick of myself coming on and saying I've been really busy, you know? Because, of course, so have you and you've managed to write, haven't you? Right. My point exactly.

I thought about writing. Quite a bit. In fact, I've written a dozen entries in my head, where they languished attractively for a while, poolside, as it were ~ ordering drinks, flirting with waiters ~ but where now, of course, they no longer exist, my head being the unreliable storage facility that it is. And the thing is, I never wanted to write a blah blah blog, but now, of course, that's exactly what I've gone and done.

Blah. And damn, of course. Sorry.

she's too sexy for the office

In an interview for the March/April issue of Hollywood Life Sharon Stone was asked about Hillary Clinton. She replied:

I think Hillary's fantastic. But I think it's too soon for Hillary to run. This may sound odd, but a woman should be past her sexuality when she runs. She still has sexual power, and I don't think people will accept that. It's too threatening.

Oh Sharon, you crazy, beautiful, narcissistic nutcase, you. Why yes, you're right, it does sound odd!

Are you really trying to say that the American male is so wimpy, so terrified of castration that he cannot, will not tolerate a woman in power who still has her 'sexual power'? Are you actually of the opinion that American women are such shabby, jealous, narrow-minded little creatures that we feel threatened by one of our own?

Oh, you poor, wounded bird of a movie star, what have we done to you, that you should think so little of us? That you should despise us so?

If a man had said something so patently chauvinistic we'd have crucified him for criminal idiocy.

What, exactly, does it mean for a woman to be "past her sexuality?" Must she be post-menopausal to throw her (manly) hat into the ring? Or must she merely be post-pin-up perky? Past powder puffs and perfume?

Is it possible that Ms Stone is equating, as so many in society do, sexual power with physical attractiveness? Pretty women are perceived as sexual by the general population; plain women less so. And what of the women who are never 'past-it' ~ might they never run?

Of course, some are never really 'into it' at all; perhaps they are the ideal candidates for higher office. Asexual eunuchs make great presidents! At the very least, they never get caught with interns and starlets. And there's all that extra, non-sexual energy that can be used for enhanced tariff protection, veto power and stuff. Something. The possibilities are endless.

I'm not sure how old La Stone feels that a woman should be in order to exercise the same liberty to run for office that all males over 35 enjoy. Female sexuality and power do not end with the ability to reproduce, and women well into their 80's and even 90's have been known to have satisfying sexual relationships. With whom, I have no idea. Men in their 30's perhaps. But someday, I aim to find out.

Yes, it is true that celebrities have opinions, bless their foolish little hearts, and that is certainly their right. If only people would stop asking them to share.

why I can't have nice things

There's an advertising campaign for Capital One credit cards that features the world's worst guardian angel. The ads show an oblivious angel fiddling around on a mobile or being distracted by a pretty girl as his human charge gets hit by falling objects, tumbles down a flight of stairs and generally encounters one unlucky mishap after another. The spots are slyly subversive and hilariously funny; somehow, the idea of such a blithely indifferent angel never fails to crack me up. Until, that is, I realized he was working for me.

I spent all day Sunday down in Old Town Orange, where the Orange Circle is known for it's quaint atmosphere and abundance of 'antique' shops, most of which are really just used furniture and tchotcke emporiums. It's the kind of place where that sad, characterless little table that sat by your auntie's bedside all through the 70's, and which she sold at a yard sale last month for $5 gets slapped with a coat of white paint and a flowery little tag that pronounces it "shabby chic" and gives an asking price of $129.

And yet I am undaunted, for I am a shopper and a treasure hunter by nature, and there are bargains to be had. If you know where to look.

On this day I was in search of a bookcase to fit an empty, narrow space by the living room fireplace. It's been empty since the day I moved in, but suddenly I was obsessed with finding just the right bookcase fill it. I started shopping for it with my mother when she was visiting and now, for some reason, I was obsessed with the idea. I kept going back.

I found the perfect piece on Sunday ~ an off-white, 6 shelf little number with just the right proportions, style and embellishments to fit my precisely eclectic English/French/Asian-influenced-country home-trapped-in-a-California-tract house decor. The $400 asking price was ludicrous, however, and I was leaving town tired and disappointed. Such is the life of an inveterate shopper on a limited budget. You win some, you lose some.

In the parking lot, I pulled my keys from my bag and dug around for my sunglasses. Unable to locate them, I started pulling things out ~ a tape measure, a comb, a lipstick, my camera. I put the camera on the hood of my car. Horrified, I realized that I had lost my favorite glasses. And it came back to me in a flash; I remembered that I had heard something fall as I bent over to examine a table in one of the shops, but had been too distracted to check it out. My glasses ~ I knew it in an instant. And I knew just where they were.

How proud of myself I was, as I got into the car. Imagine, I thought; as tired and hungry as I felt, to be able to focus, with such laser-like intensity, on mentally locating the lost object. Such a lucky, clever girl. Well done, I thought. As I drove off.

With the camera. On my hood.

My $416 digital camera. In it's cute little gray vinyl carrying case. My beautiful camera. That I got for my birthday less than 3 years ago.

I loved that camera. I loved it's sleek, chic, distinctively furturistic design. I loved the way it's 3 little blue lights would light up when it was charging. Like it was happy to see me. I loved that.

I loved the pictures that it took. I loved that it was a birthday present from my husband. I loved it because it was mine.

I went back, of course, as soon as I realized what had happened, but you know the rest. No sign of it in the lot or on the streets, no one had turned it into any of the surrounding businesses. Jose', of the lost and stolen properties unit of the Orange Police Department, promised to let me know if it showed up ~ an absolute hero of a man, I might add, who no doubt resisted the overwhleming urge to laugh and call me an idiot. Or worse. He was sweet and sympathetic, and for that I am eternally grateful. Because I don't deserve it.

Buddha help me, I am a material girl and I love material things. I don't mind telling you that I wept for the loss of that camera. I wept for the loss of the object . I wept for the loss of the gift. I wept for the loss of the pictures. I wept for the loss of my mental facilities. Most of all, I wept for the loss of my self-image as an intelligent, confident, competent woman. I am disconsolate.

I am too stupid to live.

And my angel is so fucking fired.

no mo mojo

I've been busy as hell lately and getting nowhere fast, much like the treadmill at the gym that I haven't been to in three weeks. It's the old cliche'; the hurrier I go the behinder I get, and I do mean that in the most literal, and unappealing sense.

And yet, through all the activity I've been oddly lacadaisical. Lethargic and dull-witted, I've been devoid of anything resembling a creative spark. Anxiety about the health and welfare of family members, as well as problems typical of homeownership and far too tedious to relate here have left me mentally competent but completely lacking in imagination. It seems I am missing that certain lightness of being required to write in a public forum.

It isn't that one need be cheerful to write, publicly or otherwise, of course; we write, paint and create as often from a place of darkness as light. Some would argue more so. It's just that any act of creation requires exertion and the blog form, where we ask virtual strangers to take a moment out of their busy lives to spend a moment or two in ours, demands a more measured sort of effort and energy than one intended for private use only. For some reason, I haven't been up to it.

I am, I suspect, only writing this much in order to try and lubricate the joints, as it were. I don't think it's working. Too few martinis and not enough yoga are making Lotus a dull girl.

Goodbye, joie de vivre. Hello, cabbage soup.


*graphic: Anne Taintor Inc.

alone again, unnaturally

My house is silent and in a melancholy mood. I haven't spent much time alone in the past month or so, and as much as I enjoy these moments I am wistful nonetheless. Mom has gone back home, and seeing her off at the airport was a wrenching thing.

I spent the past couple of days baking Irish soda bread for the annual parties and dinner, this time held on Saturday for the benefit of our observant Catholic friends (and their adoring Jewish husbands,) plans for which were made before the special dispensation. And then, of course, there were the get-togethers themselves. Great fun, all. Well, you know. You've been ~ you've eaten the corn beef and drunk the green beer. But now the Paddy's Parties are over, I've picked the last few pieces of shiny green confetti off the floor and out of my shoes, and I find myself mildly hungover and enjoying the comfort of a little aimless whimsy.

As a girl I loved playing with dolls and never really got over it. Now, thanks to the wonders of technology (and a link from Robbie, whose current avatar is wearing a really cute tee ~ can I borrow it?) I'll never have to.

So I spent a foolish amount of time a while ago playing in Yahoo and came away with this brilliant new Barbie dol---I mean avatar. I love it. I can't believe I wasted so much time drawing my own.

We are One, my Digital Dolly and I.

Here we are at the St. Patrick's Day Parade ~ but I expect this scene will change shortly. For here, in Yahoo-based space we can change outfits, hairstyles and environments at will, which is more than I can say for the fact-based me, which requires time, effort, a team of cosmetologists and frequently airfare in order to alter immediate reality.

See how excited we are! And how delightedly St.Paddy's Day Dorky! Just like real life. I even gave us a cool pet wolf, which I suddenly realize we have always wanted but my parents, my husband and my homeowners' association would never let us have. But no one can stop me here, by Jove. Stop us, I mean.

We shall call the wolf Strider. Because we are geeks. Or maybe Jack. Because we are indecisive geeks.

So let us go now, Strider-or-possibly-Jack! For we have things to do and dragons to slay. Maybe meet some more Avatars along the way. Say what you will, I find this alternate reality extremely entertaining. I may never go out into the real world again.

And now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go try on some more hats.

postcard from CA

Mom's been staying with me for a couple of weeks now, and as we sit here in her sunny blue and white bedroom ~ reminiscing, kvetching, and singing silly old songs together ~ I talk her into composing our very first joint blog entry. Mom searches for something to say.

"Aloha!"

I read back what we've written so far.

"You're going too fast. You wrote the comma, but you didn't act the comma."

I reread the scintillating prose.

"What should I say now?" I prompt.

"I don't know. Nothing's coming to me."

My 92 year-old Mom's looking very jaunty in my baseball cap from 'Turks'; a saloon in Dana Point where we celebrated my birthday a while back.

"I'm older than that," she says. "I think I'm...102."

"No, you're not. You'll be 93 in April."

"I was born in 1913. This is 2006."

"Exactly. Do the math."

We stare at each other for a few seconds, frowning slightly, attempting to wrap our minds around the simple arithmetic ~ Mom slowly because she is 92; me, slowly because I'm just slow. And I even already know the answer. Math is hard.

"Tell them about how cold and rainy it is in sunny California," she says. Mom's a native New Yorker who's currently on the lam from Texas, where last time I visited they were evacuating the state in anticipation of a hurricane. She's been complaining since she got here ~ about the weather, the altitude, how cold my house is and, for some strange reason, how tiny my toilets are.

"Sorry, Mom, but I am the mayor of Tiny Toilet Town, and you're my prisoner. You'll just have to deal." Mom is pretty tiny herself, all 4' 7"and 87 pounds of her, so I'm not quite sure what the problem is. Mom likes to complain.

On the other hand, whenever we go out she keeps wanting to buy me things. Like leather jackets, steak knives, a 150 year-old bronze Buddha statue; a microwave.

"Tell them about how I want to buy you a microwave and you don't want one because you have no room in the kitchen. Put it in your bedroom."

"I just don't need one. I raise my own cattle, grow my own vegetables and prepare everything from scratch. And I don't cook in the bedroom."

"Maybe you would if you had a microwave." That's what I need; less distance between me and food prep.

"But then where would I put the Buddha statue?"

"On top of the microwave." You have to hand it to her. Mom is nothing if not persistent.

We've been doing all the things we love to do together ~ cooking, shopping for clothes, browsing for furniture; watching old movies, entertaining friends and haunting antique stores. Especially haunting antique stores. I walk behind her, amiably pushing her wheelchair into walls as she calls out for me to slow down. Shopkeepers look on anxiously as I misjudge yet another corner.

"We're making them nervous," says Mom, as we head for a shelf containing antique glassware.

"We make me nervous," I reply. She giggles.

In between, we've been living on Entenmann's Cheese Filled Coffee Cake, Hershey's Kisses and Russell Stover's chocolates ~ which means by the time Mom leaves, I'll have gained another 27 pounds, and Mom will still be...tiny. We are nothing if not consistent.

"What do you think, Ma? Can I post it?"

"Email. So he can read it," she says, referring to my brother.

"No, Mom. On the internet. Anyone can read it." She frowns.

"Oh, no. I don't like that. It's private."

"Not really," I say. "It's just a tiny piece of our lives; it's as if we were writing a little slice of life - type story for a magazine or a newspaper column. And no one knows who we are. It's us, but it's everyone really."

She looks tired and a little wan. I've been overachieving as activities director ever since she got here. In my zeal to make every moment a memorable one, I sometimes forget to stop and let her smell the roses of her own choosing ~ like lingering over coffee in the morning, or dozing off in the noonday sun.

"Okay, you do what you want." She shrugs.

I post.

sweet charity

Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday ever.

Halloween? One can only take so much orange and black. Arbor Day? All hype. Christmas? Sorry; no holiday that lasts 3 months can possibly sustain it's momentum. Give me good old St. Valentine’s any day.

Following a tradition that dates all the way back to last year Turk and I made reservations at the reservation for a little R & R ~ because, as I’ve said before, nothing says ‘Romance’ like Indian Casino. This time it was just outside the tiny town of Temecula, where the Pechanga tribe plays host to a 4 diamond resort and casino. Although not huge gamblers, we enjoy a change of scenery and the excitement of lots of bells and whistles. Bright, shiny things make us smile.

My goal was to make enough money playing Blackjack to pay for the hotel stay, or at least for dinner. Of course, this strategy pretty much never works. I don’t actually win. The best I can ever do is break even. While I am a very bad card player, I do enjoy the game. Turk’s goal was to make sure we didn’t leave destitute. I thought I’d warm up on the slot machines.

And I promptly won $1000 playing ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ Actually, I won $1072, but when you’re as rich as I am now, you don’t count the chump change.

“Oh, I can SO afford to pay dinner!” I squealed in amazement at my wheel spinning prowess.

“Oh, and you are SO going to get to!” said Turk. “And do not dance around waving that money in the air.”

“What do you take me for ~ an idiot?” I said, dancing and waving the money in the air.

“Yeah, right. Put the money in your jeans.”

“My lucky jeans, you mean.”

“Okay. C’mon, Lucky. You get to buy me a drink.”

I’d brought the soft, teal-colored little somethin’ somethin’ with a deeply plunging neckline to wear under the bright, sparkly little somethin’ else. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed the tendency of the draping neckline to drift dramatically apart with movement, revealing a bit more of the girly bits than I was strictly comfortable with. I grabbed Turk by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“You have but one purpose in life tonight, and that is to keep an eye on my blouse and tell me if my bra is showing.” He wasn’t listening to me. He was watching golf over my shoulder.

“I mean it. I’m depending on you to not let me embarrass myself. This is not Vegas, and I can’t go around with my breasts hanging out. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Cleavage patrol. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

Needless to say, an hour later I was sashaying around the restaurant with my Wonderbra on full display.

“I give you one lousy job to do…” I complained, returning from the ladies’ room, where I’d gotten an eyeful. “I’m not sure you have the dedication required to be my Valentine.”

“I was distracted,” he said.

“By what?”

“By…your beautiful eyes.” He grinned.

“Forget it. You only love me for my money.”

“You betcha. Now get the check. I hear there’s karaoke in the cabaret lounge!”

So we had a truly lovely romantic dinner in an attractive and intimate setting. We played some more and didn’t lose. We listened to terrible amateur singing and enjoyed it immensely. We might even have danced but for the threat of further wardrobe malfunction, although by then it’s safe to say the point was pretty much moot. And not only is everything paid for, but I’ve even got a little left over for a rainy day.

I love you, St. Valentine. Thanks for everything. You have always been my favorite Saint.

almost a post

I haven’t been here, there or anywhere online lately. The fact is that I've been the victim of a recent, unexplained attack of efficiency.

I've spent the last 10 days or so engaged in the most mundane endeavors imaginable, and while the accomplishment of said tasks has been personally satisfying it would certainly have made for some very tedious blog entries. Not that it's ever stopped me before ~ God knows that I am not above chronicling how many calories I ate for breakfast or the number of miles logged on a treadmill. It's just that I wanted to spare you, my imaginary audience, such pedestrian fare. Out of imaginary respect.

But I just got back from the gym (5 miles and an hour of Chi Gong…d'oh! Sorry...habit) and when I realized I had an hour of free time (well, free-ish; there's laundry to do and I ought to pack) I thought, hey ~ why not roll all that dullness into one post?

So: this week I cleared the kitchen counter of the detritus of a couple of years; the result of an indifferent and laughable filing system ~ bills paid, payable; insurmountable or unaccountable ~ all properly filed away now. Gone too are the clippings from newspapers yellowed with age; book reviews and directions to gallery exhibits long past; articles on how to remove red wine and grease stains from the carpets, and spider mites and rabbits from the yard. A column on how to properly wear false eyelashes ~ I'm keeping that one. It may come in handy. Also keeping the Bizarro cartoons. Just because.

I threw out magazines and catalogues I'd been saving for...dunno. The Rapture, maybe. I cleaned the house and hit the garden, finally finishing cutting back the roses and mucking about in the dirt. I found the bottom of the laundry basket and had lunch with a friend. Started a new painting and even dabbed at the epic, never-to-be-completed piece whose working title is now 'Journey.' As in 'Never-ending.'

My car died, not once but twice ~ the first time I bought it a new battery and whispered sympathetic words of love and gratitude in it's ear. The second time I just growled and left it to sulk by itself in the garage for the weekend. Now it's at the shop, awaiting diagnosis. I am expecting a call.

I colored my hair (again) ~ an impossibly, implausibly who-does-she-think-she's-kidding-with-that bittersweet chocolatey brown that makes me want to don a tiny black tee, move to a loft in SoHo and take up smoking again. I had it trimmed as well; chunked up the bangs but kept the length. I'm letting it grow just to see if I can still get away with it.

I can’t.

I went shopping and bought a soft, teal-colored little somethin' somethin' with a deeply plunging neckline to wear under a bright, sparkly little somethin' else at dinner during our cozy Valentine's getaway tomorrow. I already have a pair of strappy black sandals with 3 inch come hither heels. It’s entirely possible that I could injure myself. Long story short ~ I get lucky Tuesday night or die trying.

Happy Valentines's Day!

I feel lucky

I spent Thursday pulling jury duty. Again. It seems to me I was writing about this just a scant 14 months ago. I've been called so often I know all the back road shortcuts to the courthouse, recognize a good number of the attorneys and even have a favorite café for long breaks on extended cases. And honestly, I was happy to do it.

In the past I‘d always believed that it was the duty of every citizen to show up and serve honorably. The American system of justice cannot function effectively if good people fail to participate, I reasoned, and I’ve found both the legal process and the cases I’ve participated in to be fascinating.

Besides, I am just the sort of person I'd want on my jury if I were ever accused of a crime ~ fair, intelligent, open-minded, and a snappy dresser in the jury box.

However, I have not been feeling particularly civic-minded these days, my natural tendency toward public service steadily ground down by weary resignation to a government of brazen corruption, awash in political malfeasance, addicted to Big Brotherly Love and, apparently, possessed of an irrational prejudice toward human hybrid cloning (whatever have you guys got against Mermaids and Monkey Men?) So I decided for the first time in my adult life to try and duck jury duty.

In the space on the form requesting exemption from jury service I wrote, in my best cramped, Unibomber-style handwriting,” I have served on 3 juries and been called 4 times in 5 years ~ most recently in December 2004 (!!!) It’s time to give somebody else a chance.

I received notice that my request for exemption had been denied, but that I might qualify for a postponement. No doubt to allow time for a mental health evaluation. I called the office.

“I am requesting to be exempted from jury duty on the grounds that I keep getting called for jury duty,” I declared. “I know people who have never been called for jury duty in their lives and others who, having been exempted once somehow manage to never get called again. I feel that those of us who stand up and serve are somehow penalized for being responsible citizens by being called on a more regular basis.”

“Have you been called in the past 12 months?” a pleasant female voice inquired.

“No, but I have been called 4 times in 5 years, the most recent being 13 months ago. I think I’ve been put on some sort of sucker list.”

“The jury selection is made from random drawings from DMV and voter registration lists. I assure you there is no ‘sucker list’.”

“Well, I don’t believe that for a minute,” I said, not unkindly. “Look, there are about 610 million eligible adults in Orange County, give or take a few ~ how is it that my number comes up 4 times in 5 years, while thousands of others never do? It’s statistically unlikely. And if I’m that lucky, how is it that I’ve never won the lottery?” Ha. Had her there. You know, I really should be buying lottery tickets.

“I could postpone your service until August, ma’am. You will receive the notice in July.”

I considered. It would be 98 degrees in August, and no doubt the air conditioning would be out. Sweaty lawyers and even sweatier clients. Me in shorts. The picture was unappealing.

“No, thank you. I’ll stay with February, I guess,” I sighed, gracious in defeat. Peevish, but gracious.

“Will there be anything else?” the still pleasant voice asked. I must say she was being an uncommonly good sport.

“No, thank you. You’ve been very nice. See you tomorrow. Goodbye"

“Goodbye."

So it was that I served gallantly and lived to survive a particularly close call ~ a pool of 100 jurors was summoned for an attempted murder case, estimated by the judge to last a week before going to deliberation. After a number of jurors were questioned and released over the course of a few hours, those of us who had survived the first couple of rounds of drawings became tense as the pool dwindled and the deadline 5:00pm drew near. Juror#91 was called. #94. #92. At last both attorneys accepted the jury. The survivors applauded. I was #93.

I have really got to start buying lottery tickets.