Toby

I'm not a dog person. I think that is clear from previous posts. But yesterday we learned that one of our dogs, Toby, has cancer. That changes everything.

Our dogs have been coddled and spoiled by my husband and my kids. I have not engaged in this activity as I cannot separate my feelings for the dogs from my feelings about the pee stains on the carpet or the frayed edges of the furniture they have nibbled. But seen through the light of the real possibility of loss, and I am filled with compassion for this little dog.

Several weeks ago, I opened the kitchen door to the dogs and they came running in. Having failed to put up the gate that separates the approved dog area from the non-approved, Toby darted back into the bedrooms (where he has been known to relieve himself) and I went screaming and chasing after him. As ran toward the the bedroom, Toby came running back and the two of us crashed into each other at the point where the hallway turns a corner. My foot hit his little mouth and he yelped a bit and there was some blood. I picked him up and took a look - it didn't seem too bad but I cleaned him up and held a compress to him and petted him for a while. I felt badly. I wanted him out of the back of the house but I certainly didn't mean to hurt him.

A couple of weeks later I noticed that he had what appeared to be an abscess in the spot where we hit. His gum was swollen and his mouth didn't completely close over it. In an attempt to get around expensive vet bills, we treated it with hydrogen peroxide and thought it was getting better but ultimately, the girls convinced us that he needed to be seen.

We took Toby in earlier this week and learned that the trouble in his mouth had nothing at all to do with my unfortunate run-in with him. The trouble was, Toby had a tumor. Surgery was scheduled for yesterday.

Bob took the girls with him to pick Toby up and learned at that time that the cancer had gone clear to the jaw bone and in fact, there was no bone. A biopsy is being done and we will see which of three different types of cancer he has. At best, he will need a specialist who will remove a portion of his jaw. At worst, he hasn't got much time. Grief has begun.

Toby is 8 years old. He is a bishon. We got him as a 5 week old puppy. He was flown in from a breeder in Florida and we presented him to the girls on Christmas morning, a gift from their grandfather. He is a spoiled baby. He has been destructive. He thinks he is a person. But he is a good dog as far as dogs go. If you ask him to smile, he shows his teeth, especially if he thinks it will get him some attention. And as I give him the very least attention, if he is desperate for it he will eventually come to me. He will put his paws on my lap and he will smile. Without me asking. And I guess I sort of like him. And I really hope he doesn't die.

Miracles Undeserved

As we end the year, and as of 2:25 p.m. on Wednesday the 29 of December I am shamed.

If I am to be honest, I spend a good deal of my time being angry and resentful of a lot of things. I have a very hard time "letting go", "forgiving", "finding joy". And it isn't because I want to be this way. I don't. But it has become such a habit that it seems ingrained as "memory behavior". I don't know how to let go or forgive or find joy. I swear to you I don't.

But this much I know. While I am among the most undeserving of people, God comes through for me again and again and again. And I have no idea why. I can think of uncountable people who are kinder, gentler people. With softer hearts. With unconditional love. And I'm sure God works in their lives too - but He seems to shed miracles on me and my family and I swear, I am getting to a point where I can hardly believe it. Frankly, it is almost scary.

God is awesome. No matter if you don't believe, it is a fact. There is no "luck" or "coincidence". There is no "fate". There is just God. And I am sitting here, trying like hell to figure out why He keeps showing up, so amazingly, in my life.

Our family has had extreme sorrows - but it has also had more than its share of true miracles, witnessed and experienced. And as I sit here today, nursing my grudges, another highly unlikely prayer was answered and I cannot fathom it. And this house will sleep a little easier tonight. And we have NOTHING to do with it.

So at 2:39 p.m. I will post this and thank God that He is good. And I will pray that His blessings on us extend to you as well. And most importantly, I pray for the strength to allow Him to make me a kinder, gentler person - one who might be more deserving of His attention.

Truly, God bless you all.

Christmas Eve Fashions

Christmas Eve is probably my favorite night for holiday tradition. It began in 1963.

The story goes that when we were really little, my mom allowed us to choose one gift to open on Christmas Eve. After a couple of years of watching us choose the biggest and best gift to open prior to "the big morning", she began choosing our Christmas Eve presents to open - and it was always pajamas.

We grew to love this tradition, always knowing it was something fun. Sometimes it was pajamas - sometime a robe. Here we all are with my mom, the year she made us all robes out of towels. She was very creative and clever.

Both my sisters and I have continued with this tradition with our own families and my girls look forward to the night with great anticipation. We have photos of very Christmas Eve with the girls in their new Christmas Eve pajamas. It is always a big deal. And I know they will pass this tradition on to their own children as well.

Here are but a few photos of Christmas Eve festivities and fashions over the years.

Every year it has gotten harder and harder to do as the girls no longer like frilly, girlie nightgowns or cute little girl things - even Grace has shifted into more "fashionable" sleepwear. It has gotten to the point that Christmas Eve pajama shopping has become the most difficult part of the Christmas purchase season. I have to remember size, color preferences, fabric sensitivities, etc. Frankly, while I still enjoyed the event itself, the shopping was no longer fun. It was a chore.

Until this year.

This year, I decided it was time that Bob and I got in on the action and below is the embarrassing (for my girls) result. Corny for sure, but I loved the photo opportunity it presented and I'll never get to do this again.

And only another 365 days to go...

My Stocking

It's one o'clock on Sunday the 19th of December, 2010. It could be any time at all because it is raining cats and dogs and there is no telling where the sun is. In my book , this is Christmas weather and for the first time I am feeling a bit of the season. Unfortunately, since insanity follows where ever I go, my hypochondria is the only thing that mars this afternoon. I have a headache that I feel behind my eye so of course, I have a tumor - but anyway...

I'm looking around the lovely living room (I do have a nice living room) - the tree is up and lit, gifts are wrapped and under the tree. This is the second year in a row where Christmas is smallish on gifts and I am very comfortable with that. I am listening to the Windham Hill Christmas II CD - selection # 10 Bring a Torch Jeanette Isabella and looking around until I spot my Christmas stocking. And among the seasonal items that have become rote over the years, this is one thing that matters. It is magical and it holds all of my Christmases within it.

My Aunt Barbara made it for me, along with one for my sister Linda and my mom before I have memory. I imagine I was about 2 when I got it. I remember every Christmas getting lost in the details of it: the sequins and beads and felt toys and trees. The braided hanger, the stars and the moon and the angels. The star emitting Heaven's light. And the jingle bells along the bottom, under my name "Val", which my aunt always called me. It was so exciting to see it every December - I wanted to wear it - and occasionally did only to hear my mom: "Take those off right now! You're going to ruin them!" But somehow we didn't. It is about one and a half feet tall and it used to go up to my hip. I remember that well.

Christmas morning it was always stuffed - mostly with apples, oranges and nuts - but it had wonderful little things too - nail polish, and those "books" of "Life Savers". A transistor radio when I was about 10 back in the 60's when transistor radios were the equivalent to an iPhone. It bore a note on it that said "For Your Room" as my mom wouldn't tolerate seeing her daughters walking down the street with one glued to their ears - the same objection I have to seeing my kids with their phones. I got my first deodorant (Tussy brand) in my Christmas stocking. That was maybe one of my most exciting gifts as it was a validation that I was growing up. (First deodorants in the Christmas stockings became a tradition I carried down - always to the same delighted reaction).

So I figure that my stocking has been with me for about 51 Christmases. It has seen me through the thrill and joy of childhood Christmases - the smells, sights, and sounds of which still live vividly in my heart and mind as if there were only days and not decades old. It saw me through my teenage years, including the Christmas when at 14, my first boyfriend broke up with me to date the girl across the street. It was hanging there as I looked out the window to see him walking to her house and not mine on Christmas Eve. It was there for my first Christmas on my own in Los Angeles, hanging from a push pin in the wall next to a scrawny tree my roommate and I bought and pathetically decorated with ribbon. It was there all during my brief and incompatible first marriage to a very nice, dear, kind, and good man who, it turned out, was gay. It was there for my first Christmas without my mother. It was there for Christmases when I was single and living on my own and for my first Christmas married to Bob with my new children. And as they grew over the years I watched as they would get lost in the details of my stocking. It was there for Christmases of prosperity and of difficulty. It has been hung every single Christmas since 1959 and has seen everything that each decade had to offer friends and family and song and laughter and even tears. It has worn a bit over the years: some of the beading is loose, a few of the jingle bells have come off and are now held inside. But I have taken good care of it - and it of me.

I am not talented as a seamstress. I could not make one of these if I tried. The rest of my family has nice, store bought stockings. Mine is different from all the rest. When my little sister was born, my mother took the stitching that spelled her name "Carol" off of her own and re-stitched "Elisa" at the bottom. I cannot do the same. I cannot take my name off of mine - even for the benefit of my own children. Because it is not just a stocking. It is a history. It is representative of a whole lifetime of Christmases - mine, specifically. And years from now, when I am gone, it will be viewed by unknown grandchildren as a reminder of a piece of them they do not know - and while they may never know the stories, when they hold it (if they do) they will have a physical evidence of a life of Christmas secrets from someone they have a born connection to. I will be at every Christmas this stocking is brought out for. And I hope it still feels magical. And it is my greatest Christmas wish that it will be as loved as much in 50 years as I love it now.

And thank you Auntie Barbara - I hope you can look down from above and know what this gift has meant to me.

Her Mother's Daughter

Last week the lobby at Grace's school was abuzz with all the thrill that goes with a theatrical "opening night". And, "closing night" too, by the way. The reason was the annual Christmas play starring 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th graders. One performance. And Grace had a leading role.

Of course Grace knew her lines within the first 3 days of having the script. I was like that. Her dad? Not so much.

She also knew everyone elses lines. Again, like me. She had great poise on the stage. (Moi?) and a her acting was quite good (we'll throw this bone to Bob, although I have a box full of reviews and critic's awards...). Further, she flew into full diva mode prior to getting to the theatre (or in this case, school). Again, just like mama.

I felt waves of pride as I heard people sitting around me (whom I did not know) remark on how talented she was. When she sang her song, a woman behind me leaned toward her husband and said: "She can sing too?" (Like me, like me!)

So I felt positively deflated when everyone came up to me after the show and told me that "she really takes after her dad". Really!?

(It isn't about you, Valri.) Oh yeah. Hee, hee. I thought it was.

Kidding aside, the truth is, she was pretty good and everyone knew it. We have a lot of Hollywood living out here and I was approached by an actress of some note afterward, suggesting that she should have representation. Of course, everyone says that to everyone - but I think she was being sincere because we spoke at length about it.

I have never been big on children in the industry. I worked with kids in television and it was, for the most part, ugly. Not the kids, but the environment and what they had the potential to become. One need only view the recent performance crotch shots taken of our own Miley Cyrus to see the road most often taken by kids in the business.

And Grace is already DNA wired for high-octane drama (like her mother).

And when discussing the possibility of pursuing and agent for Grace with Bob and her sisters last night, she was unanimously voted by the family as "Most Likely to Let Something Like This Go to Her Head". And we can't have that. She might turn out just like her mother.

Christmas Thoughts

It is 6:12 p.m. on November 30th and I am still sitting at my desk with papers everywhere. I have copies of the Holiday issues of all my competitive magazines trolling the pages for leads I have not yet contacted. I have a deadline looming and I am far from making the number they want me to make. It will take an act of God. Of course, He's done bigger things than this.

To my right is a messy stack of notes and 3x5 cards and 6th-grade level reading material on China - Grace's 6th grade country project. A quick glance tells me that 1 of every 5 people is Chinese. Okay.

I have two half drunk, cold, cups of coffee, a paper plate, my iPhone, calculator, account book and so help me - a lone sock on my desk. And this is my view for the bulk of the day.

But outside, neighbors are putting up Christmas lights. And I have already scored with the Black Friday (yes, I went again) and Cyber Monday shopping sales. And so, Christmas is upon us. Okay.

Now not to be a party pooper - but I don't really feel up for it. The phrase we all hear repeatedly all our lives - "the older you get the faster time flies" - is no myth. It really does. If we all lived to be 1,000 I imagine years would seem like seconds, but as it is now, years seem like just a couple of months. So just a couple of months ago, I packed Christmas up. And so I'm not ready to take it all down again. Even though the girls want to put up the tree this Friday.

And as I am thinking about how the spirit of the season eludes me and what few things I still need to check off my list, I am hearing the nightly news in the background and about the numbers of people still jobless, losing homes, lining up at the food banks, living in cars or on the street. There is currently only 1 job for every 5 people who need one. And that is in this country. Nearly everyone in a third world country would consider the worst conditions here a luxury.

So I start thinking about Christmas and wonder what it really is, after all. About how far I (and frankly, most of us) have strayed from the point. I bet God cries at Christmas every year. Because Christmas has become about lighting your house, parties, and Macy's. Not that there is anything wrong with any of those things in and of themselves - but they really take precedence over anything else we think about. In fact, with the possible exception of Christmas Eve candle light services, it is probably all we think about.

And then I wonder if any of us has the courage to be completely selfless and dump Christmas altogether, be the hands of the one this holiday is supposed to actually be about in the first place, and do something substantial to change someone else's life for the better. Even if its just for Christmas.

Tough time to face the face we need to face.

Surviving "The Club"

For anyone who lives on Mars and doesn't know, Costco is a bulk grocery warehouse store that also sells coffins. You have to pay to belong to it and show your membership card to get in. It is a "club". There are employees whose entire job it is to check to make sure you have a valid club card. If you are willing to pay the annual membership dues, lucky you! You're "in". So you can say that you belong t0 an exclusive (albeit aesthetically unappealing)club in case you have always wanted to be able to say that. I should also tell you that Costco sells TV's, clothes, toys, electronics of all kinds, books, dvds, dishes, appliances, engagement rings, pianos, granite counter tops, furniture, and spa memberships among a trillion other things. In bulk. I think you can even get a divorce there.

So with that setup, as we approach the season of mass food consumption and gift-giving, I thought I might take a moment to help you prepare for the Costco experience.

I'll start by saying when you should avoid going to Costco. Don't go to Costco if:

1. you are in a bad mood.

2. you are in a good mood and don't want to be in a bad mood.

3. you have forgotten to take your meds.

4. you have taken your meds but are not absolutely certain you are on a high enough dosage.

5. you suffer from any kind of anxiety disorder.

6. you are high-strung.

7. you feel your mental health is precarious in any way.

8. you can't swallow aspirin without water. (*Note. The only exception to this rule is if you happen to be there to buy bottled water. Otherwise you will have to buy 75 bottles of bottled water just to relieve your Costco-induced headache.

9. you aren't prepared to hate people.

If none of these describe you, it is safe to proceed to Costco. If you must.

The first thing I have learned to remember is that only a novice thinks she can get a parking space close to the door. And there are plenty of them clogging up the parking aisles. I resign myself to driving into the furthest entrance to seek that back corner space. I'm prepared for the 1/2 mile hike to the store entrance. Exercise is good for for me. (Oh, one should never wear anything other than running shoes to "the club". Anything other than that and you will be spotted for what you are: "new Costco". Newbies get mowed down inside. You don't want to look like one.

Once inside, you will immediately notice the difference between "new Costco" and "old Costco". "Old Costco" wears the uniform: Running shoes, leggings, long cable knit pull-over sweater with sleeves rolled up to three-quarter length. She uses her over-sized shopping cart with the finesse of an offensive linebacker playing in the Superbowl - rapidly maneuvering between slow or standstill members temporarily paralyzed by the sheer volume of choice, she darts through the concrete aisles without so much as a graze against another cart. She has purpose. She owns Costco.

Alternatively, "new Costco" is wearing shoes unsuitable for prolonged walking on cement and is either crying or having a nervous breakdown. I can usually be spotted in this category.

I will say that one of the perks of Costco is something my friend Jan calls "dining at the club". There are at least 12 sampling stations set up annoyingly at the corner of most every food aisle, allowing you a taste of a myriad of foods the club wants to push. It is true however, that you can nearly eat a full lunch just by sampling. But you have to commit to being part of the clog in the aisles and you have to at least feign an interest in the product lest everyone else trying to get by looks at you with anger for being part of a major flow problem for no reason other than to be a pig. And what you get is the luck of the draw. Some days the most tasty thing they offer may be frozen waffles.

It can be good place to buy bulk items like paper towels or frequently used canned goods, toothpaste, that kind of thing. But do you ever really need ketchup in bulk? I mean, doesn't the average sized ketchup last you about a month or two anyway? Or tampons. You need to multiply the number of child-bearing years you have by 12 annual cycles to see if you will ever need the 30,000 count you will get with a bulk buy. There are times when a "savings" just doesn't make sense.

Today I was there for printer ink. But once you're in you cannot just buy what you came for. You realize that you have to take advantage of the fact you are already there and pick up a few other items. I bought pies for Thanksgiving. (They make good pies). I bought a box containing 4 bottles of eye drops for my dry eye condition. It should last till I'm 60. I bought (in bulk) "Marie Callender's Chicken Pot Pies since my family loves them (except me) and they make an easy lunch. I bought turkey burgers and I bought pre-made Kirkland (their brand) hamburgers. Hamburger is expensive at the local market and these seemed a good deal. Although I am taking a risk. (Once I bought them and found a frozen fly between two of the patties). I bought salmon and wondered where it came from in view of what we're hearing about imported fish these days. For "lunch" I sampled salami, chips and cinnamon rolls. But it all came at a price much greater than my annual membership dues. All the while, I worked to dodge the oncoming traffic from every direction of at least 3,000 other people who were there at the same time as me. I worked to patiently get around the elderly (patience, not being one of my virtues, was difficult to muster). I worked to stay away from the giant forklifts moving pallets of food. I worked to keep from screaming. I was thrust into defensive mode and said "I beg your pardon" at least seven times every 60 seconds. My cart and I got trapped between unmoving shoppers at least 6 times while I was there. I felt like Olivia deHavilland in the movie "Snakepit" where she is wrongfully placed in an insane asylum. I tried to find a place where I was somewhat out-of-the-way to re-group so I could try to get a handle on what I should get "since I'm here, dammit". I remembered my Lamaze breathing techniques that I didn't use during child birth (took the epidural right off) to see if they would help me get through the waves of a throbbing headache (I was not buying water today). I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. No matter where I stood I was in someone's way and I felt a massive anxiety attack coming on. So after an hour and only 8 items in the basket, I went straight to check out where the "savings" no longer makes sense because you never get out of there for less than $200.00. And I always forget that they don't bag, don't even offer bags - which means an afternoon of unloading the car at home - item by item.

But I am home now and lying down. My breathing has returned to normal and my right eye no longer feels like it is going to pop out of my head. I can walk without fear of vertigo. I survived the ordeal without needing a medical escort out. But of course - I forgot the printer ink.

God help me. A Costco coffin feels about right, right now.

I Want My Own Apartment

Yesterday, I posted this as my "status" on Facebook. Immediately I had several women (and one male friend with designs for a loft) chime in - all in agreement. Clearly, I hit a nerve. So I thought I would state a few more things that I want and see how well they all resonate.

1. I want my own apartment.

2. I want a doorman.

3. I want fresh flowers.

4. I want my laundry washed, dried, ironed, folded, hung and put away for me.

5. I want to do my own cooking.

6. I want to know how to cook.

7. I want my girlfriends (and guy friends) to come and have intelligent conversations with me.

8. I want my husband to arrive showered and shaved.

9. I want my husband to love to talk to me.

10. I want my husband to wear matching socks.

11. I want my husband to know how to fix or build anything.

12. I want my husband to be able to read my mind (when I want him to).

13. I want my children to be Mensa smart.

14. I want my children to think like me.

15. I want my children to want what I want for them.

16. I want my children to be just like me (without all the crap).

17. I want my work to be hard enough to be challenging but not so hard that it is stressful.

18. I want to travel the world.

19. I want to have my life mean something.

20. I want to know God really well.

21. I want more joy in my life.

22. I want every child to have a parent who loves them and cares for them well.

23. I want no one to be hungry.

24. I want everyone to have a decent roof over their heads.

25. I want good health care for everyone - somehow.

26. I want decent paying jobs for everyone who needs one.

27. I want a reasonable, working economy.

28. I want to trust a politician.

29. I want Glen Beck and Rush Limbaugh to go away.

30. I want Gloria Allred to do away.

31. I want a great housekeeper once a week and I will keep it up the rest of the time.

32. I want my home to be organized and warm and when it gets too crazy I want a retreat.

33. I want my own apartment.

That should do it.

For today.

Busted! (Literally and Figuratively)

Busted for a bust that is busting out. I needn't say another word - frankly I'm at a loss. This lovely photo speaks for itself.

I will just credit the photographer, my cousin's wife Beverly, who caught me off guard and unprepared, and gave me a portrait suitable for framing and hanging on the refrigerator.

The same one that houses the ice cream sandwiches.

My Big Fat Texan Family Reunion

A couple of months ago, my Aunt Lois Ann called me up and invited me to a Jackson Family Reunion. Aunt Lois Ann is the wife of my Uncle Howard, one of my father's two older brothers. A few years back we missed the opportunity to go to another one so this time I was "in" immediately.

Both my mother and father were born and raised in El Paso, Texas. Once married, they moved west and after a few migrations (including a year or two back to El Paso where I attended kindergarten), they settled in Fremont, California where my sisters and I grew up. The rest of the family - on both sides - stayed in Texas and so we didn't see them often.

As it happened, primarily because great grandma lived in Sacramento, I grew up knowing my mother's family better. My mother had one sister, my darling Aunt Barbara, and I saw her children much more frequently. By that I mean probably every three years or so.

We saw more of my father's family, the Jacksons, during that couple of years when I was very young and living in El Paso. I have strong and very wonderful "snapshot memories" of my Jackson aunts and uncles and cousins from back then. As well as some rather vivid ones from a trip we took as a family when I was 12 and one I took on my own at 13. And those were the last because with very rare and brief exception, it would be 40 years before I would see any of them again. And that would be just this past weekend.

We would be a gathering of descendants of Maggie Cown and two of her three husbands. (She was a dear grandmother but peculiar, to say the least.) I wanted all of my girls to come. None of my daughters, nor my husband had ever met this side of the family and I had no idea when they might get the chance again so we drained the vacation fund and all of us flew out for the event.

Neither my father nor my mother were particularly fond of El Paso and having grown up in California with its lush and diverse landscapes, oceans, mountains, and hills, seeing the flat deserts and dry mountains of El Paso as our plane flew in to land left me feeling a little depressed. I fought against a black mood as I had already had my traditional meltdown before leaving for vacation that morning. We got into our rented van and began our trip to Cloudcroft, New Mexico. Dennis (my cousin Kerry's son) had provided detailed directions which should have been more than enough but El Paso seems to have a law against street signs so we got lost for an hour before getting out of town. Once out though, we headed north for New Mexico for one long, straight, flat drive with nothing but desert and strangely flowering cactus (that looked like they had been designed by Dr. Seuss) laid out for us as far as the eye could see. I could not imagine living here. Once past Alamogordo though, we headed into the mountains and just like Dorothy opening the door Oz, the picture went from black and white to color.

I started to get a pit in my stomach. Not only had my family never met "the Jackson's" before, I would, for all intents and purposes, be meeting them for the first time. Jean Ann was my only cousin whose husband I had met. And I was 12. I had never met any of my other cousins' wives. I hardly knew the oldest of my cousins, Randy and Larry at all. Sons of the oldest brother (Uncle Fred), Randy and Larry were all grown up and married when I was little. I had never met any of the cousins' children (all now in their 30's, 40's, and 50s). And what's more, in my mind, the images of Uncle Howard, Aunt Lois Ann, Jean Ann, Kerry, Rodney, Randy and Larry were still from 1969. Oh my god! Had I made a mistake? Was it too late to turn back? With so few shared experiences and very different lives, I suddenly felt as though I had brought my family out for what would surely be a long weekend of extended awkwardness.

I was nearly jumping out of my skin by the time we pulled up to this marvelous lodge in the beautiful mountains and parked in front of the compound the family was staying in. I squinted to see if I could recognize anyone sitting on the patio. No, I could not. But suddenly, Aunt Lois Ann came running up to our car and I was in her arms like the "Prodigal Son". Seeing her was an emotional experience and I was glad I had my sunglasses on. I was going to be fine. One by one, I was reintroduced to my family and I honestly felt like I had come home. Upon seeing my Uncle Howard, I noticed for the first time how much he and my dad looked like each other - and how both of them looked like my grandmother, Maggie.

After about 15 minutes of introductions I sat down and started melting into the Jackson pot. Everyone was significantly older, but the same. In all, there were 25 of us - including my cousin Kerry and his wife's (Beverly), son's (Dennis) partner's (Todd) German grandmother Omi (Did you follow that?) Plus two dogs.

There was no end to the food and drink (and I mean drink) that had been set up over the pool table-turned-buffet. All the Tex-Mex favorites. And in no time at all, some little seed of "Texas Twang" in my brain sprung to life and I was dropping the "g" on my "ings" and saying "y'all" and talking with a hint of that soft, clipped Jackson accent. That first night, we celebrated Jean Ann's 61st birthday and Uncle Howard's 83rd.

The room(s) my family shared were beautiful. Two bedrooms and a sitting area with fireplace, a spa like bathroom (with huge jacuzzi tub) and a private balcony with wooden rocking chairs overlooking the trees. But I took little advantage of it. I didn't want to leave my family. The die-hards (me included) were up well past midnight the first night. I wanted to catch up on everything and there were years to get filled in on - but finally, I crashed and fell into bed.

At 5:00 a.m. I awoke to sounds in the common area. I got up and there were Randy and Rodney peeling potatoes and cooking up bacon for breakfast. They had already been to the store. I cannot fathom rising that early but this, apparently, is the norm for them. I put on a robe and sat down for some coffee and fun. One by one over the next hour, all the family made their way in. And we started "Day 2".

During the course of the day, family wandered in and out of that common area, giving everyone a chance to visit as a group and individually. We reminisced. I remembered thinking Jean Ann was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was crazy about Rod and Kerry as a kid. In fact, I had a killer crush on Kerry. I remembered Rodney's kind words to me as a gawky, goofy 13-year-old living under the shadow of my sister Linda. He told me I was pretty and I will never forget it for as long as I live. Howard and Lois Ann were easy, comfortable and fun. I remembered Randy and Larry's parents, Uncle Fred and Aunt Jerry (both gone now) and how great they were. Both Randy and Larry are very much like their dad as I recall him. I remembered Randy throwing my sister Lisa - just a baby - into the air and catching her - and my mother nearly having a heart attack over it. Camping when Linda caught a frog. Swimming and riding horses and hearing the sounds of the Everly Brothers and Ricky Nelson emitting from Rodney and Kerry's bedroom. Being so excited when Jean Ann got married to Richard and had a baby, Kay Ann, now 41.

While not all of them could make it, I did get a chance to meet some of the "kids" - all in their 30's. All were truly wonderful people. I warmed immediately to Rodney's son Jeffrey who walked up gave me a big hug upon meeting me. He bought his lovely wife Diana all the way from Tennessee. Jean Ann's son, "little" Richard came with his partner, Henry, and was incredibly easy to talk to. He shared with me his interesting, often poignant, story. Dennis, Kerry's son, came with his partner Todd from Dallas. He had a big hand in orchestrating this reunion. Both were lovely people.

And everyone embraced my family as if they had been around all their lives. In return, my family instantly loved everyone - although keeping names straight was a little tough for them.

There was a little bit updating but mostly it was just a lot of getting to know one another now. There was no way to possibly fill a 40 year gap. Yet there was effortless acceptance and love. We were connected strangers. As schmaltzy as it sounds, we belonged to one another. Family is more than genetics. I love them all. Howard and Lois Ann. Randy and Mary Jo. Larry and Ida. Rodney and Marsha. Kerry and Beverly. Jean Ann and Richard. Jeffrey and Diana. Dennis and Todd. Richard and Henry. My family. Even Omi, who remarked that she had never been around a family who had such a good time being together. And I was so sorry my dad wasn't there.

Of course, I had to have one regrettable experience. I had heard that little Richard was a great singer and I begged him to sing. He declined. Finally I told him that I would chew a wad of Jeffrey's chewing tobacco if he would sing. He continued to decline. But Sunday morning, as we were all getting ready to leave, he opened up with a gorgeous rendition of "The Lord's Prayer" a cappella. It was really marvelous. But when he was finished I had to put a wad of chewing tobacco in my cheek. And let me tell you, I would have rather eaten a bug. But it was worth it.

Maggie Jackson 1901-1989

Sacramento

There is nothing so wonderful as taking a trip back to somewhere really fabulous from your childhood. And the quickest way to get there is via some song that you'd forgotten about.

Today, I was listening to Nat King Cole's rendition of "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley's Square". Something about the strings and the harp and his smooth, velvet tones took me back to the early-sixties - when his style was so popular - and I was back visiting Great Grandma in Sacramento.

Grandma Florence (shown here in the 1920's) was a disagreeable old woman but she had a marvelous old house on Q Street. It was a corner lot and it smelled sweet and musty inside. The bathroom had its original tile and a bear claw tub. Powder and lotions were everywhere and her toothpaste was a powder that came in a can. She wore flowered dresses and had her short brown/gray hair in tight pin curls. And she had an high pitch voice that shook with old age. Thick cat-eye bifocals. She remembered traveling as a very young girl in a covered wagon. She remembered riding in a stage coach. And she remembered being terrified at the sight of Indians (who were very friendly). Its very hard to imagine that I knew intimately someone who rode in a covered wagon. But she was born in the late 1880's on a Christmas day. (I was 28 before she died.) She met her first husband, my grandmother's father Lars, when she was only a very young girl. She fell into a pickle barrel at a dance and screamed with laughter. Story has it that when Lars heard her laugh, he told his friend: "I'm going to marry that girl with the laugh." Anyway, he did. They had three children together - one being my grandmother (whom we called "Mother" because that is what our mom called her). Lars was killed in a car accident when my grandmother was still a little girl. This happened in the early days of automobiles. She never got over it. And how could you?

Grandma Florence wasn't easy to warm to. My mom didn't like her. She had gone to live with her for a while when her own father died. She was only nine at the time, I think, and Grandma hadn't been very nice to her. She told me a story of being so angry with her once, that at the age of 9 she yelled at her: "When you die, I am going to wear red to your funeral" and then she ran out of the house to escape a spanking.

I had my own unfortunate run-in with Grandma Florence. One summer - on a miserable hot Sacramento afternoon, I left our room to go to the kitchen for water or something. And there, in the kitchen with her back to me stood my grandmother her dress held up to her waist, wearing no underwear - just her saggy old backside showing as she stood in front of an electrical fan. I didn't know what to do! I was in a horrible prediciment. Before I could decide, she turned around and saw me. Startled and embarrassed, she proceeded to scream at me in that high pitched shakey voice and I think if she could have killed me, she would have. I just kept saying I was "so sorry". And I really was - the whole experience was unpleasant for me. I couldn't tell what was worse, being yelled at or seeing my grandmother's ancient rear end.

But grandma's house was a child's dream. Seceret passage ways and mysterious old architecture. It had an enormous front porch and you could jump and dance and play on it and wave to anyone passing by. She lived near a park and we would visit it daily. I loved that old park with its big beautiful trees and and squirrels everywhere. It didn't have swings or anything to play on but being there felt magical. Even way back then, that park felt old with history. Like stepping into a painting.

Her house was on a perfectly square block and we would walk around it, holding grandma's hand to go to the Rexall drug store and we would always get a Popsicle. Inside she had a little telephone alcove in the wall that I thought was really cool. And her phone was old fashioned. Her furniture was old but wonderful. She had a fabulous old victrola that had a turn table covered in felt and a very heavy arm and thick needle. My sister Linda and I played the original cast album of "My Fair Lady" on that victrola for hours and hours. I still have every note of that score stored in my head and can play it at will. Rex Harrison talk/singing "I'm an ordinary man who desires nothing more than an just ordinary chance to live exactly as he likes and do precisely what he wants..." (In fact, that particular song takes me to Q Street as well. I can even smell the house.)

We slept in the bedroom right next to hers and had to go through it to get to ours. She had a picture of the famous painting of "The Last Supper" on wood hanging over her bed. It scared me.

We usually visited when her daughter, my grandmother (Mother), came from Moab, Utah to visit. And when that happened, we got to see the whole family. Uncle Ken (the eldest son and an elder of some stature in the Morman church) and his wife Thelma. Thelma was a brassy woman with bright orange hair that she wore in a tall beehive. She was a successful woman who made a lot of money running her own nursery school. An absolutely larger than life character. She would stand tall and wouldn't bend her head to look at you, she'd just lower her eyes. That stance let you knew she was in charge but she talked to you like a grown up and asked questions about you that made you

know she really was interested and so you knew she loved you. She chewed Dentene gum constantly and if she had been in Chicago as a young girl she might easily have dated Al Capone instead of Uncle Ken. She just was large and loud and sexy and you could tell she loved a good time. But she was absolutely no-nonsense too. I can't imagine ever crossing Aunt Thelma. Uncle Ken was diminished in her presence so I don't think great grandma ever approved - and I think Thelma knew that but she didn't seem to mind at all. (After Kenneth died, Thelma went a little wild and became Mother's buddy - having recently been widowed herself. Thelma coaxed her out into the dating world of the elderly. I guess Thelma had a few flings. Then she had a massive stroke that rendered her immobile and without speech for the rest of her days which was a tragedy I felt deeply. Her grown children however, having been raised strict Mormons believed it to be a punishment from God for not living purely after their father had died. My mother's cousin Sherene, a nightclub singer, thought her mother "got what she deserved". What idiots.) Here they all are in earlier days: My mothers' parents, Grandpa Fred (whom I never knew), Grandma (Mother), Kenneth, Thelma, and the baby, Damont.

Uncle Damont was a favorite but he had a highly unstable wife, Louise. Mother told me that Damont married her because he felt sorry for her. That may be true, but how tragic. Louise was so out of touch that he rarely brought her along but he did bring along his damaged girls, Deborah and Vicky, who were our age. They were our playmates but the older we got, the stranger they seemed. My parents discussed taking them in to get them away from Louise's influence and craziness but the task of helping them was overwhelming and so it never happened. Damont had been in World War II and had been in an army jeep when his buddy sitting next to him took a hit and had his head blown off. This "changed" Damont (as one can only imagine) in a very significant way but I didn't know how because I only knew him after all that had happened. My dad and Damont got on very well. Damont had a boat and sometimes we would go riding. But everyone felt sorry for him. However, I always thought he was dear and I loved him.

Great grandma had three sisters - Echo and Alta and one who's name I can't recall. Alta was my grandmother's favorite. Well into her seventies her leg became diseased and the doctor told her that she had a choice - they would either have to remove her leg or leave it alone and she would eventually die. The doctor expected her to choose the later, given her extreme advanced age. Instead she replied, without missing a beat: "Cut the son-of-a-bitch off!" (Mother loved that story!) They lived in Susanville. We rarely saw them but one of them had twin sons who would drop by occasionally. Their names were Donny and Lonny and great grandma adored them, in the same way she adored Liberace. I didn't know anything about anything back then, but I knew that Donny and Lonny were different in the same way Liberace was.

Great grandma would watch Lawrence Welk every Sunday and I would watch with her. I grew to love that show and every now and again I will watch a rerun of it to make me smile. She would also read your fortune and talk of how she "knew" when someone had died. There was craziness in that house but I was oblivious to it. For me, it was a glorious adventure every time we went and I always looked forward to going.

When Mother came to visit, that was the best of all. She was always so delighted to see us and she would take us everywhere. I remember getting dressed up (with gloves!) and going to downtown Sacramento to shop. We would beg her to let us wear lipstick and she would hold our faces by the chin and pat her lipstick tube on our lips - we got absolutely no color on them but we felt grown up. I loved her speaking voice. It was so calm. She was a young grandmother and was very attractive. She dressed well. And she loved on us so hard that you could live on it for a year.

I'm sure there are photos from that house. The only one I can find is one I already posted on July 3, 2009 - if you're interested. Recently I did an arial map search for that house. It appears to be gone, replaced with apartment units. It broke my heart. I will never go there again. The thought of it bring tears to my eyes. I much prefer to keep it exactly as it lives in my memory. Especially at night. Walking outside in the light of old fashioned street lamps under the canopy of beautiful, mature and gnarled trees, if you ventured up just a block or so, you could see the dome of the state Capital Building, lit up like gold. And it was beautiful. And to me, aspirational. Powerful. Grand. Elegant. Like a castle and I was Cinderella waiting to grow up to go a ball there. Magical. Comforting. Promising. And all was right with the world. Just as it should be when you are a child.

Baby Fix

So friends of mine just had a baby girl. And I am so grateful. Because I needed a fix really badly. What is it about little teeny-weenie just-born babies that melt you to the very core? I confess I am completely smitten. But I do think that I have passed from the "wishing I could have one" to the "wishing I could borrow one" phase of my life.

When I found out I was pregnant with Grace, my neighbor said she could hear me screaming. One evening when I was only slightly "late" Bob and I were watching "Mrs. Miniver" on PBS. During the break, I took the pregnancy test and saw only the faintest, barely visible line in the window. So I sighed a sigh of melancholy and relief and went back into the front room to watch Greer Garson be the most admirable of mothers. Thankfully, I wouldn't have to measure up to her.

The next morning (because there were two tests in the box) I decided to take the test again, only this time, right before my eyes I watched a neon bright pink line appear in the window as though it were screaming at me. And I screamed back. Like Jamie Lee Curtis in a horror film.

Here I was 41 years old, with 3 daughters nearing two digit birthdays and suddenly, staring at the fact of my being pregnant, I was no longer thinking sweet beautiful baby. I was thinking diapers and car seats and diaper bags instead of purses and no sleep and being pregnant for 9 months and looking pregnant for 9 years and spit up and potty training and baby-proofing and baby-sitters and toys that make noise and five-years-till-kindergarten and six-years-to-all-day-school and colic and bottles and willfulness and toddlers who follow you around with their arms up crying because they want to be held 24/7 and Play-doh in the carpet and teeny, impossible-to-see Polly Pocket doll accessories and Lego's you step on that send you through the roof with pain and, and, and...

Of course what I got was a sweetie baby who melted my heart just like the first three did. And I fell in impossible-to-express love. Just like the first three. And it has been wonderful.

But I got the other stuff too.

So now - now I feel so fortunate because I know people with a baby and I get to hold this teeny little angel and coo and melt and smoosh and nuzzle - and then I get to go home. And sleep. Without a Diaper Genie by the bed.

And I have to tell you, she is beautiful. And her mom sent me a picture of her wearing the onesie I decorated for her at her shower. And I love this photo because you can see how her whole little bottom can fit in the palm of your hand. And I love that so much about babies. I love it so much that I think I have to go over tomorrow and hold her little bottom in my hand.

So congratulations my friends, for having your beautiful baby. You are so blessed and you are in for the most wonderful experience of your lives.

But you should know, she won't really poop rose petals.

Bob's Birthday Bash

So Bob finally turned 50 on September 14th and I got my chance to pull off a big surprise birthday bash for him.

This past weekend, when I was supposed to be at the 35th reunion of Mission San Jose High School's Class of 1975 (gad!), I was instead running around like a crazy woman pulling all the details together (with inestimable help from my daughters and their friends Sam, Chelsea and Casey - and many other wonderful friends) for one big this-is-the-last-time-I'm-ever-going-to-do-anything-like-this-so-you-had-better-enjoy-it birthday party for Bob.

Since Bob is, in his heart, a performer, what could I possible give him at the half century mark other than his own show? With the help of incredibly talented musician friends (thank you Tim, Julian, Cece, Billy, Ryan, and Linda), Bob got the chance to show off his many talents (singing, tap dancing, guitar playing) for a captive audience of family and friends who had no choice but to watch. I hasten to add that no one had to twist his arm. Even a little bit. And he did not disappoint.

His brother Richard flew in and in addition to serenading him with a favorite Beatles song, chose a song that both of them knew but had never sung together (in fact, they had never sung together at all!) After that, Richard challenged Bob to an impromptu tap dance - amazing! And then, for the next 30 minutes Bob performed a number of tunes that he knew well and that I had pre-selected so that he wouldn't be caught with his proverbial pants down.

Speaking of pants, given the shoddy state of his wardrobe (he'll garden in his good trousers), I had bought him two outfits for the weekend. Bob had been led to believe that I was going to give a small birthday dinner party for him on Sunday (the day after the real party). I bought him a pair of putty colored pants with a light blue shirt for the "party" on Sunday. He had also been led to believe that he had been hired to "sing at a wedding" on Saturday -the idea being that he would show up to perform at the wedding and actually arrive to his own party. So the other outfit I bought him was a pair navy pants with an eggshell colored shirt - and knowing that I would already be waiting with guests at the site while he was getting ready, I told him specifically that that outfit was "for the wedding". I made a point of showing him how the light blue shirt did not go with the navy pants. But that is what he wore. Ah well, it was dark. Who would notice. Frankly, I was lucky he didn't go "commando".

After Bob performed, the DJ took over (unending thanks to Casey, who came all the way from U of A to help!) and everyone of us more or less mid-century persons got our party on and danced until the city ordinance said we couldn't anymore. I left needing crutches. No really, I'm not kidding. Really.

I have to say as well that a number of people came whom we had not seen in many years. Old pals from our days at the San Jose Civic Light Opera. It was so incredibly wonderful to have a little mini-reunion going on as well! His oldest and best friend and family made the trip down as well to serve up the "roast" toast. Great evening all around.

It goes without saying however, that something had to happen to nearly give me a heart attack - or else it wouldn't have been my life. About 4 hours before the party, Bob nearly ruined the whole thing. His friend Julian (who "hired" him for "the wedding") had told Bob he would come to our house at 5:45 to quickly review the music before riding together to the event (only 5 minutes from our house). At about 2:00, trying to be nonchalant, I asked Bob: "What time is your thing tonight?", to which he replied: "I'm going to leave at about 5:00". Leave?? At 5:00????? Panic shot through me. "I thought you said Julian was coming here." "No", Bob responded. "I'm going to his place. This wedding is in Oxnard". My mind is racing. What is wrong with him?? How could he screw this simple but pivotal detail up??? "Bob", I said with some urgency, "you better check. I'm sure you told me that Julian was meeting you here." Bob responds again, "Well, I may have said that but I don't know what I was thinking because I am positive this wedding is in Oxnard over near where Julian lives. I'm supposed to meet him at his house." I turned away so he wouldn't see the blood drain from my face. I had gone to so much trouble to cover all my bases and make sure nothing would go wrong. Everything had been timed to the last detail. How could he do this to me?!?! Just. This. Once. Couldn't he just not be soooooo - - Bob??

Needless to say, last minute clandestine phone calls and scurrying saved the day - but had I not asked that question, we would have had a party without him. And that would have been so typical. Fortunately, we dodged that bullet.

Happy birthday Bob. Glad you were there.

Nine-Eleven

This will forever be a strange and sadly, bad day. I, like everyone else, remember 9/11/2001 clearly. I was getting ready for work and turned on the Today Show. I stood in front of the TV and watched the world unravel. And then for a full week I was glued to CNN, watching the same footage over and over and over again because what else could you do? It simply would not sink in.

I remember that night going to church. I don't remember any announcement that there would be a service - but everyone came. On auto-pilot.

And now, 9 years later, we still hold on to it.

Not that we shouldn't. It was the day that we lost 3,000 innocent lives and watched unfathomable acts that tried to destroy us. We were made to look evil in its face.

But the face of evil is not Islamic or Muslim. The vast majority of Islamics and Muslims are not interested in seeing Americans wiped off the face of the earth. They are people like any other and want simply to live their lives and raise their children and love each other and have friends and jobs and go to picnics and own a home and take a vacation and be educated and productive. The face of evil is comprised of people from all walks of life who are filled with anger and hate and ignorance.

The worst kind of evil, the kind that creates the most damage, like 9/11, is the evil done in the name of God. One only need look at the atrocities of The Crusades to find a similar horror. And in the name of Christ, no less. Now before you get angry - I am not, in any way, trying to give justification to the acts of 9/11 by comparing them to anything else. Nor am I suggesting that we "put it into perspective". What I am suggesting is that we cannot truly fight evil unless we seek to know God. We would be well served to remember that God commands us to love our enemies. That doesn't mean we turn the other cheek when we are attacked. It doesn't mean that we don't hold those responsible accountable. It doesn't mean that we don't fight the battle. We must be vigilant. We must be prepared. It means though, that we remember not to give ourselves permission to hate. Because God is never found in any doctrine that advocates hatred. Against Islam. Against Muslim. Against Judaism, Against Christianity. Many are lost and walk in the dark. Still, God loves us all.

I watch the media and shake my head over people who seek to stir the pot every year at this time. We must guard ourselves against hearts hardened by fear and revenge. To harbor fear and suspicion against all who match a "profile" is not only wrong, it serves only to perpetuate the evil. Psalm 37:8-9 says: "Refrain from anger and turn from wrath do not fret - it only leads to evil. For evil men will be cut off, but those who hope in the Lord will inherit the land.

Romans 8:15 - "For you did not receive a spirit that makes you again a slave of fear, but you have received a spirit of sonship." We are called to a personal relationship with God. We have been given a spirit of hope. And those who know the source of that hope and the supernatural power it yields can unleash it into their lives and come out, not only with hope itself, but a renewed faith and understanding of God. And then we can come back out from the darkness and walk tall in the light.

We can, and do, move on.

HGTV Dreaming

If you could see my office right now you would call the police. Because nothing can be this messy and still be legal. I am semi-sharing it with Amanda as it was her room when she lived here full time. Now that she is here part-time it has become a depository of sorts - a depository for the overflow of stuff that lives with a 21 year old girl. (Woman?) Anyway, that, plus all my work stuff and a magazine mailing of 200+ and this very small room is in desperate need of organization and cleaning. And a decorator.

So naturally I decided to write.

I look around at my home, knowing that it holds tremendous potential. I can almost imagine it - but just almost. And this is cause for tremendous frustration for me. Because I have great taste! And I have a great sense of space. But I can-NOT put it together. And I cannot tell you how much time and money I have spent making mistakes.

Enter HGTV - the aspirational and extremely addictive (like heroin) basic cable network and I become a woman obsessed. I watch program after program watching designers and stagers, landscapers and architects create - within a half hour - effortless and perfect, amazing solutions to chronically failed rooms and landscapes just like mine. I am exhilarated with the before and after photos and feel a sense of hope well within me. I get out my computer and search for items I just saw - plot and plan, imagine and dream and then...

And then, just like heroin, I crash and burn. I cannot really make it happen. It's not just that I lack the funds, I lack the eye. And let the sulking begin!

Case in point: "Big Blue". Big Blue is an 8 foot blue leather couch that owns my smallish family room. Why on earth, you may ask, did I buy a big, blue, leather couch? Well I'll tell you. Because 10 years ago, leather was the only textile that made sense in a home of 4 kids, 2 dogs and Bob and all their careless shenanigans. And blue, because at the time I bought it, I thought I wanted "french country". So I had blue and I had yellow. And a smattering or red. But it looked awful and yellow gave way to uncountable colors that tried to pair with Big Blue. So why not chuck the couch? Well, because I was right about the leather - it has lasted. And apparently it will survive for generations. As it should. Because Big Blue is actually made of gold. At least that was what I paid for it. So throwing it out would be a bit like throwing out the hideous brooch your aunt left you that is worth a fortune.

Big Blue has cousins in every room of the house and I am at a complete loss for how to fix them. I watch design show after design show and know that it should be easy - but it isn't. I long for one of the HGTV crews to pull up to my house and give me a makeover.

I love the idea of framed family photos in the hallway. So I did that and after having them up for a month or so, I see I have way too many. But I spent a bloody fortune on frames. Everything is almost right. But not "almost right" enough to almost work.

To say nothing of the landscape. When your front yard is a nearly vertical slope straight to the house it requires nothing short of a $60,000 landscape professional or a miracle to make it work. And I do not have $60,000. So I'm praying.

Yes, I'm praying. Praying that one of the people from "Curb Appeal" or "Designer's Challenge" or "Divine Design" will read my letter, filled with humility and need, and send a crew to help me. And maybe give me the courage to put "Big Blue" on Craig's List.

"Husband Swap"

There is this reality program on TV called "Wife Swap" and the general premise is to find two certifiably insane families on polar ends of mindsets and switch wives for a week to see what bubbles up from the muck.

I have in mind something kind of similar but without the drama. I am looking for like-minded people willing to participate in a temporary exchange of husbands.

This is not like the old nasty party games of the 60's where people threw car keys in a bowl and see how it all matched up. I have no interest in a relationship. The husband I swap mine with doesn't have to speak to me or even like me. All he has to do is fix things. Like broken cabinet drawers. And screens. And leaky faucets. I would also be happy (delirious actually) if he could fix appliances - like the dishwasher. Painting would be good. Electrician skills are a big plus. And I might weep over carpentry skills.

I would stay out of swap husband's way and make the kids behave really well. I'd kennel the dogs. I'd cater meals from his favorite restaurant and I'd move into the office and let him have the master bed and bath during his stay. And if he had landscaping skills, I'd buy him a case of beer, some Cuban cigars, hand over the remote, move to a hotel and let him have the whole damned house all to himself.

I'd like this swap for about two weeks and when he was finished with all that needs tending to - he could run back to the grateful arms of his real loving wife. And I'd get Bob back then too.

Now if you are interested in participating, you should know that Bob does none of those things (or at least not well) so obviously this is not what you would be getting at your house.

But if you'd like to see what it's like to have someone who cooks and sings and plays the guitar, who tap dances in the kitchen and brings you coffee in the morning, who never yells and is always kind, I've got a trade for you.

And maybe even a reality show.

GNO #3

The ladies of Theatre West met again last weekend at Leslie's amazingly designed-for-comfort but totally cool home in the valley. They've met a few times since the first get-together (see post "Girls Night Out" October, 10, 2009) - this makes the third I was able to attend. The purpose for last night's gathering was to celebrate Jane's and my birthdays.

(Now I hate it when someone provides a photo and no one is identified - so in case you're wondering, sitting (from left to right) are Seemah and Shelia. Standing: Cyndy, me, Elise, Jane and Leslie.)

You should know that I really don't make a fuss about birthdays anymore. A little cake, a card, and good night. Jane, on the other hand, owns the entire month and this marked the 4th week of full on party for her.

I arrived and there were balloons galore inside the house. We all sat outside in the lovely courtyard and everyone had brought food to barbecue - and once again it was wonderful to sit amongst a group of creative, smart, comfortable women and just fill up on stories.

Empty bottles of wine and sparkling water piled up and throughout the evening and amidst loads of laughter, we learned that Sheila just finished shooting another episode of Mad Men, Leslie is working against a deadline on a screenplay for FOX, and Cyndy (who, by the way, stood up for Bob and me at our wedding) is enjoying a respite from international work related travel. Also on hand was Elise, who held theatrical court and improvised the beginnings of a new play about Seemah's famous brownies. The legendary Saint Seemah of Theatre West - unquestionably the most gorgeous 86 year old woman who ever lived and baker of brownies worthy of inspiring plays - was also there. Jane - in full birthday spirit (a full month later!) shared a recording of her supremely talented son, John David (aka Aiden Moore of the band Carney) as well as a terrific song she wrote that is currently being shopped around. Missing were Vivien who lives too far away and is tending to her family farm between acting jobs and Anne who, back from standing at the very edges of the Grand Canyon (there are anxiety producing photos to prove it),was nursing the effects of kidney stones.

Oh and me. Working mom from Thousand Oaks.

It is reasonable to assume that having been out of anything really creative, theatrical or cultural for a very long time, I might feel a bit like a duck out of water. But happily, on nights like these, I find it all still runs thick in my veins so I settle in as though I'm moulding myself into a chair made of memory foam.

So what makes a group of women like this so fascinating and fun to be with? Apart from the fact that they are all fairly fascinating and fun in and of themselves, I think it also has something to do with the fact that we don't do it every day. Not that I couldn't see these women more frequently. I really do like them all. But there is something about occasional get-togethers that make the getting together feel more like events. Worthy of a photo or two. Or three. Everyone lets their hair down a little bit more. Everyone listens to each other a bit moreand reveals a bit more. And that all makes for an evening that's a little more memorable.

When we all got down to the birthday business, a cake with both Jane's and my names came out with candles. Cards were issued; mine had dinosaurs on it so you can guess the joke... And then they handed me an envelope. They had collected funds for both Jane and me (and I'm sure a little besides) and put it in one pot and gifted it all to Ehlers Danlos Network CARES for continued research that will benefit my girls. It was a significant and meaningful check. And buckets spilled from my eyes and I was, for once, speechless.

Watching the remainder of evening unfold, I couldn't help but conjure the ghosts of all of us 20 plus years ago, side by side with who we are now. And it is very gratifying and validating. We all turned out. And as Elise said: "There is a play here somewhere." And wouldn't that be fun!

I also experienced, for the first time, a birthday tradition of Jane's. If you are NOT the birthday girl, you can take a ring from your finger and drop it over one of the burning candles. If the birthday girl blows out all the candles - you get your wish too. There was something very sweet and kind of magical in seeing everyone work a ring off their hand and contribute to the cake. It was aglow with candle light and adorned with gold and silver and diamonds. We waited until everyone had their wish and Jane and I did not disappoint. We blew them all out. But had we not, they would have been covered because my wish was that all of their wishes would come true.

Lovely, lovely people.

The AARP is Driving Way to Close Behind Me

Yes, they are way too close. And if I had to brake quick, they'd be in my lap. It is so completely bizarre to these two babies - are talking about retirement. And more bizarre still is that we should be talking about it. But these photos of Bob and me are in black and white - not sepia - and we are smiling - not stone faced like the baby photos of my grandparents. It is unfathomable to me that we are discussing pensions, social security, the health (or not) of our IRAs and 401K, Medicare, Long Term Care Insurance, and at what point it no longer makes sense to pay for a life insurance policy.

It is totally bad enough that the AARP keeps sending me crap in the

mail. Or that I alone seem to be responsible for the integrity of L'Oreal Hair Color's annual sales figures. But the tsunami sized wave of aging reminders - when I just got done talking about whether or

not to keep up the Tooth Fairy charade - is just, well, weird. I mean, I'm coming to realize that my morning aches and pains are not so much about sleeping in a strange position as they are about warnings of more painful mornings to come.

And it's funny too because I remember being very young and watching "The Lawrence Welk Show" with my grandma (it was her favorite) and listening to the Geritol commercials. And while I liked watching with Grandma (remember Bobby & Cissy?), I knew then that this was programming for old people. And old people seemed like a different species. Is that how young children view me? Don't I seem ageless and cool? Well if I am truthful the answer is - no. Not at all.

I realize that my rants about getting old know no end (sorry) but I must tell you that it isn't so much an obsession as it is a fascination! Time rolls along and it takes me with it. Like everyone else my age (or thereabouts), it doesn't feel like it - but look at my neck and there it is.

So anyway, like a lot of responsible mid-aged adults we are looking to secure our investments (ha!) so we're about to go look at buying and "income property". Something we can buy outright with the 401K funds and use as income for the looming retirement years. And there really are some excellent properties for sale at prices we will never see again. Largely due to short sales - and finding gain from someone else's financial devastation makes me feel a little guilty. To say nothing of the fact that it is a HUGE step. Not only from an investment standpoint, but from the realization that we actually don't have 25 more years to recover from any further financial mess that we might make. Not that we are fully responsible for the hits we took to our retirement funds in the fall of '08. But we did stand by - incredulously - and take the full ride down the "great Dow Jones slope of tears", with our jaws on the floor - saying at each milestone (10% loss, 20%, 25%, 30%): "we can't pull out now, we'll miss the recovery that certainly must be coming tomorrow". And so we lost 40%. Ahem.

So we're going to scout out Temecula this weekend. Sounds like a disease. But we really do have to get serious about retirement plans because I am 62 in nine years.

Do they still make Geritol?

Groupie Leanings

I am going to tell you something that no other respectable, married woman will tell you (and so I suppose, there you go...)

You can be completely in love with your spouse and still develop a serious , teenage crush on a musician in a band.

Which might explain why I don't go to concerts.

Not that I'm worried that ever I'd act on such a crush. The embarrassment of having succumbed to cougar tendencies aside, who wants to feel like a obsessed 17-year-old school girl again? So I don't know whether to be grateful or sorry that our friends Chris and Jack had to cancel their plans at the last minute and so offered Bob and me tickets they had purchased to see Jim Messina at the Canyon Club tonight.

Obviously we went (or why would I be writing this?) and I will just sum it up for you. Amazing. For the most part, I enjoy classical music and "pretty" melodies that soothe my soul. This band however plays some serious R&B and ol' time rock and roll with country leanings and the sounds were so hot I got all caught up in it but I gotta tell you - the bass player was hotter. And he's as old as me.

There is nothing like a really good bass player. And it doesn't hurt that this guy was what ladies from the south call "a tall drink of water". Blond curly hair, chiseled jaw, diamond stud twinkling in his right ear. See, bass players hold the rhythm - they sustain the pulse, they close their eyes and lose themselves in it - they move steadily and controlled to the beat, they get these intense grimaces on their faces, and they smile when it really comes together and you start getting the feeling that whatever it is they are experiencing is so highly personal that you really shouldn't be watching them.

So of course that is all you do.

So I ask you: Does it feel like 1975 to you? I mean my dizzy head is telling me it is but I know it can't be because they didn't have google in 1975 and I came home and googled the guy. (A cougar stalker!)

Anyway, Bob and I had a wonderful time tonight. And it all ends happily. Because my Bob can play guitar beautifully, and he sings and he dances and we came home and sang some harmonies and he got lost in his guitar and smiled when everything came together. And suddenly I crushed on him all over again.

Little "hair of the dog", as they say in the south.