Beverly Hills with Grace

We didn't take a vacation this year - even a little one and I felt badly for Grace. Her sisters had something to look forward to every summer when they were growing up, so I decided to take Grace to see a Broadway show here in town. She loves theatre so this seemed a good consolation.

I purchased tickets to "Spamalot" online. When we sent the older girls to New York for their Christmas present two years ago, we got them tickets to this show and they raved - so as show day grew nearer, we started getting excited.

Today was show day. After getting dressed, we left at 11:30 for the 2:00 matinee. I wanted to give time for traffic and a quick bite at the restaurant there at Los Angeles Theatre Center. We made fairly good time and finally did arrive, with minimal traffic, at about 1:00. I pulled into the parking garage and told the attendant that we were there for the show. He looked at me blankly. I said: "At the Ahmanson". He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. I said: "Spamalot. Matinee". He said, "I don't think there is a show today." I assured him there was. He asked if I had my tickets. Of course I did! I pulled them out of my purse. There it was, right there - in black in white. Thursday, 2:00 matinee. Next week.

Now what. We were dressed and there. And she deserved to do something.

"Hey Grace, do you want to have lunch in Beverly Hills?", I ask.

"Have I ever been there?"

"I don't think you have."

"Okay".

I took Wilshire Boulevard all the way from where it begins at Grand Avenue, and headed west, pointing out landmarks along the way.

"There is the old Sheraton Town House where my first husband and I spent our honeymoon". Now how weird was that to point out? "Oh", she says. Bless her heart. She has a mother who is not always playing her "best game".

"There's the old Bullocks Wilshire when department store shopping could include lunch and a fashion show..." "There is the first building I ever worked in in Los Angeles..." (I looked at the building and suddenly realized how many times it shows up in my previously mentioned fascinating dreams. Interesting.) "There is where the Brown Derby used to be before a bunch of idiots tore it down to build that piece of crap..." "That is what is left of the old Ambassador Hotel which housed the Coconut Grove and where Robert Kennedy was killed..." "This is the fabulous apartment I lived in when I was 22. It was built in 1936..." I was enjoying this tour . And so, it appeared, was Grace. Either that or she is excellent at faking it for my benefit. I had forgotten how interesting Los Angeles could be and how great it was to do the tour.

We finally got to Beverly Hills. Beverly Hills was a place to dream about when I was 10. Beverly Hills doesn't really mean much to Grace. It doesn't offer the magic it once held. Grace knows it is supposed to be a big deal but she really doesn't get why. To her, "old Hollywood" means Mel Gibson. And Beverly Hills looks like a lot of other places now days. So I had to talk it up some. But really, how do you talk up the significance of Nate 'n Al's Deli to today's 10 year old? "Carl Reiner is a regular!" Grace: "Was he a big star?" Me: "Well, not really a big star. But he is famous and he wrote for Dick Van Dyke and Sid Cesear and their shows!" "Cool. Were they stars?"

We eat at the Cheesecake Factory.

After we eat (she, the mandatory "chicken fingers", me a salad, and both of us share the chocolate fudge cake), we walk in the stifling heat and I begin to try to point our stores of interest on Brighton Way. I can never explain "Geary's" to her. She wants to care but it will never mean to her what it needs to mean in order for her to care. It is of a bygone day. Or a day when there is ridiculous money in her life.

"Wanna see Tiffany's?", I ask. This is a 'strike gold' moment. "YEAH!" she exclaims. Off we go around the corner to Rodeo Drive - she is impressed by the parking lot. This will be good. We take the elevator up and there, she sees the store. She smiles as we walk into it but I can see almost immediately, she is a bit disappointed. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires are not on display galore. There are lots of silver charms and silver hearts. "Amanda has that", I show her. "Oh. Yeah". No one even remotely resembling Audry Hepburn was there. The most impressive thing she saw was a little coffee table that looked like a Tiffany box. Yeah, not so much see in old B.H.

So we sit outside for a moment - mostly to give the parking attendant enough time to come back from parking my car. And then, a nice young man comes walking out of Jose Eber's salon and asks us of we would like to get a free make-over. Grace is embarrassed but I convince her: "Oh Grace - this is a big deal. This is Jose Eber's salon!" I'm really selling it for her. There has to be something special for her today. The nice man tells her Amanda Bynes has her make-up done there. The roles are reversed. Is she a star? Apparently. Grace is finally sold.

I guess things are slow everywhere. We both sat down and they spent a lot of time on us. Well, a lot of time on me. Grace took 5 minutes and looked fresh and lovely with pale gloss and sheen on her rosy cheeks. It took significantly more time to touch me up. Specifically, one hour and $600.00 worth of product. And I will say - she (an amazing makeup artist named Mary Phifer) made me feel beautiful. Of course that is in the eye of the beholder. But here are the results:

I walked out with considerably less than $600.00 worth of cosmetics but they put one liner, one shadow, and one pencil in a shiny black bag with a pretty logo and pink and orange tissue - just like a present. I made a comment about what a fuss they make with the bags and the nice young man reminded me that: "This is Beverly Hills". Indeed it is.

At one point a very sweet and well put together and beautiful lady walked into the store and said that she had been watching us get made up and she felt she needed to tell me what a pretty daughter I had and that she "looked just like a young lady should look". This endeared her to me immediately - I would have hugged her if I wasn't afraid that I would muss her hair - but Grace was flattered and happy and she felt special.

It turned out to be a really good day for both of us. I'm glad we had it. However, while school starts Monday, she will be absent on Thursday because I owe her one Broadway show.

Emailing God

I get bored with patience. I feel like I am floating in the vast void of space, waiting to figure out "what next". It is possible to look for work, look for opportunities, look for "signs", and still feel like you are going nowhere. I realize that I am still wanting things to come easily.

I honestly feel like God has something in mind for me. But I do wish He would just write me an email or something. With a little nod to Ellen, perhaps it might look like this:

To: God@Heaven.com

cc: Doubtingthomas@heaven.com

Dear God:

Please forgive the fact that I haven't been in any sort of regular contact with you of late. You know that you are constantly on my mind. I am so grateful that you know my thoughts but it would be really great if you could respond to a few of them - specifically - what should I be doing with the rest of my life?

Love,

(your fan)

Valri Smith

P.S. I cc'd Thomas because I thought, as a fellow "doubter", if you didn't have time to respond, he might.

To: ValriSmith@ymail.com

cc: DoubtingThomas@Heaven.net

Dear Valri:

Yes, I know your thoughts so please be advised that I am aware that I am not, in fact, constantly on your mind. Please try to remember that there is no foolin' Me.

I wish I could tell you how many requests per minute I get from people like you who want to know what they should be doing. Were I not God, the sheer volume of it would be exhausting to even think about. Fortunately, for Me, it is not a problem.

Okay, so you want to know what to do with your life. Well, let's start with the basics. Where is your heart these days?

Your fan,

God

P.S. This is really not Thomas' line, so no need to cc him further.

P.P.S. I was able to intercept this from the web but Heaven is not a company, as such - more of a network so please note the correct address.

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

You're a fan? Really? I sincerely cannot imagine why. I am a mess. And a big fake. And I'm sorry I tried to fool you with that "you are constantly on my mind" line. I thought it might endear me to you. Silly me. So really, you're a fan? How come?

XOX,

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Valri:

It seems you have gotten off track. Did you want to know what you should be doing for the rest of your life or are you looking for Me to fan your ego?

Yours,

God

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

OMG! I did get off track. I guess I just got caught up in your comment about being a fan of mine. I suppose you are a fan of everyone, huh? Okay. Well it is good to know I am in good standing with you.

So I scrolled back and saw that you had asked where my heart was these days. Well, I suppose my heart lies in doing something creatively. I am enjoying writing my blog - have you read any of it? And I think I have a gift for speaking - (thanks). But I know both of these areas are hard to crack. I guess I'm hoping you might open some doors for me (or gates - ha ha - get it?).

I also need to make enough money to buy medical benefits. So could you work that out as well?

Much love,

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Dear Valri:

Whoa! Let's be clear. Guidance I am all over. But you have to do the work. Have you read anyof my book? I would love for you to show me one example where personal success came without some work and sacrifice on my peoples' part. And let's be clear about "personal success" as well. If you are looking to find your own "glory", you're totally on your own.

But let me address your heart. The direction you're leaning is not hard to "crack". Investigate it on the web. Its all there for you. I can work with what is on your heart. "Be still and know..." - remember that one?

Here is something else. You write that it is good to know that you're in "good standing". Don't be so quick to jump to that conclusion. Yes, I'm a fan (primarily because you are My idea in the first place), but that doesn't mean its "all good" between us. I am really getting irritated with the little pity party you keep throwing yourself. In case you haven't noticed, you're the only one showing up for it these days. Disney was a job, not a life. Also, your performance at home is really disappointing of late. Get over yourself already. Do you really think that holding grudges is something I am okay with? You have a big issue with pride - you are hearing this from Me! You've heard the expression. Mark My words: You are setting yourself up for a Grand Canyon kind of fall.

So here is what I want you to do. Put your house in order. Set aside your pride and apologize to your family for acting like such a baby these past few days. Repair your immediate relationships. Continue to look for work. Write in your blog (yeah, I've read it. Some posts better than others...) - seek speaking engagements. Follow up on leads people offer. Write your dad. Lose the weight already. Get off the couch and walk a little bit maybe. Investigate health care plans. Take leaps of faith. Help anyone in need. Feed the poor. Clothe the naked. Think about Me constantly. For real. Constantly remember the times you have put it all in My ballpark and how I never let you down. Not once. Hope. Love better. Prioritize. Train your eyes - and you will see Me standing at the paths you should take.

Let's start with that for now, okay?

Love,

God

P.S. It is really true that I want an intimate relationship with you, but that "OMG" thing. I am God, after all. A little respect??

P.P.S. Your "open gates" joke was kind of lame.

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

I can't say that I'm not a little disappointed - but you already know that. I was hoping for some kind of magic wand or something I guess. So I guess I have to get busy. So I'll need some help staying on track - I assume you'll be there for that?

Respectfully (with love),

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Dear Valri:

You bet. Now go for it!

Your fan,

God

P.S. Enjoy "Spamalot" on Thursday. Its hilarious.

Week 3

Down another pound and I didn't expect that considering I did eat a hamburger (yes - I did!). But still moving toward the right direction. I guess. S-L-O-O-O-O-O-O-W.

Still having difficulties with the video upload - but all my clothes still fit.

More Battling on the Home Front

I have started to write several different posts since the last one. They are all drafts. I cannot get through any of them. For one simple reason. I am really ticked off and I can't really concentrate on anything else.

I haven't wanted to write about it because to many, I imagine that I will seem like a registered weirdo. At the very least, many will shake their heads and say that I am not being realistic - in this day and age, and all. The fact is I really am two different people. The woman the world gets, and the one my family gets. Oh, its so schizo (to quote a phrase).

To the world at large I am fairly sophisticated and understanding. At home? Not so much. At least not the understanding part. I can forgive multitudes from the world at large - my family, I expect much more of.

There is this show called "Gilmore Girls". On it, the fabulous Kelly Bishop plays the role of Emily, the main character's mother. She is a study in hardcore, matriarchal defeat. She is no-nonsense, unyielding, unemotional. The words "I love you" are spoken more as a matter of fact, than for reasons of warm and fuzzy. (Bob was "Mr. Warm and Fuzzy", to the extreme. I provided the balance. I was hardcore. To the extreme.) And though you really have to watch 100 episodes to see it, Emily loves her daughter more than her daughter will ever know. No one likes the character. My girls laugh at her and roll their eyes at her and talk about how awful she is. They don't think I know that they compare me to her. I love her. At home, I am her. So with that background, here we go...

It has been my experience for the past many, many years, that my children, and I do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. So it should not be surprising to me that now, as the older girls are coming into adulthood, things have not changed. In fact, while I don't have to endure the smart-ass, back talk, sneaking out and other, similar tortures of high-school, now what I have to listen to, ad nauseum, is: "I am an adult. You may no longer tell me how to live my life". Fair enough. Except that they are still living at home. Not at all because they want to be. But the economy being what it is, they are caught a bit over a barrel.

Please note as well, that I am not gloating in this experience. I truly believe that the best thing that could possibly happen to them would be for them to move out. I would get a break from the constant tension and they would get a good dose of "grow-up". (Gee, I don't have the money to go to the 30th concert this summer - I have to pay rent tomorrow...)

Recently, I blogged about trying to figure out how to be a mom to semi-adults. I received some very well thought out, reasonable comments. Comments that were wise, encouraging made a lot of sense - but, but, BUT...

Let me give a hypothetical situation here. Let's say that you appreciate and, in fact, need, a house that is clean, neat, and orderly. You have children who have challenged you in this area since they could walk. You endured dirty bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens all throughout high-school. You yelled and screamed to no avail because, they, by nature, do not have the same issues with keeping things picked up as you do. Your droning was as irritating to them as their messiness was to you. But they were yours and as such, you spent 18 years sucking it up and taking it!

Then, as if by miracle, they graduated and went off to college where they lived as they pleased. They stepped over all their clothes on the floor and their beds were never made. Their bathrooms may have, for all you knew, been breeding grounds for all sorts of bacteria and disease, but did you care? NOT IN THE LEAST! Because they were on their own and there, in "on-your-own-land" they are free to live however they please. And they are happy as well. Mom is not breathing down their necks. Everyone getting along a little better.

But then, they come home. And they bring their messy habits with them. And your lovely house is breeding anxiety for you again. You tell them to clean their rooms and bathrooms. They say: "You cannot tell me what to do anymore. I am an adult. I can do as I please."

Now I know that everyone reading this is thinking : "Oh no. If they are going to live at home, they have to clean up after themselves or they can figure out how to live somewhere else. They are being rude, spoiled, and unfair."

So why, when it comes to values and behaviors should it be different?

Now I have to begin by saying that my girls are great. They are all in school, working toward their goals and trying to lay foundation for their lives. They are, for the most part, responsible. They are good, kind, contributing young women and I am, for the very most part, very proud of them. I am grateful for who they are.

However...

The last time I checked 19 and 20 were not 21 - ergo, I do not have to be understanding about drinking. I know it goes on, especially in college and dorms and sorority houses, but that does not mean I have to look the other way in my house. Yet they, with their new "legal adult" status, truly believe there is nothing wrong with drinking at a party and have actually said those exact words to me. After illegally acquiring beer and God knows what else, and taking it to the beach after hours, and drinking it, illegally, at a birthday party, I listen to my eldest say to me "We didn't do anything wrong." Is that the most ridiculous statement you have ever heard or am I just going insane? I hasten to add, there were non-drinkers at the party responsible for getting everyone home safely - my daughters are very responsible about that. But then, what do you say when they break a 2:00 a.m. curfew because they won't drive after having been drinking? Of course the most important thing is to never get behind the wheel after they have been drinking and you want to acknowledge and are grateful for the responsibility they have shown in staying put. But they have broken curfew. And they have been drinking. What about that? (And yes, they have a curfew because nothing good happens after midnight - I don't care how old you are - and I'm not going to lay in bed wondering if they are home or not - I don't care how old they are.)

And while she has been in a nearly two-year, serious relationship with a very nice guy, it is still NOT okay with me that my daughter stay the night at his house if she feels like it. "What is the big deal", she asks me, as if she has never met me before. "Mom, I'm 20 years old! Its okay with his parents" - hello, hello, HELLO?????????

Now when I was 20, I smoked, drank sometimes, had tried pot more than once, stayed out too late, and had made some unfortunate choices with boyfriends. So there it is. I did stupid things. But my mother, God rest her lovely soul, became a hippie when I was 15 years old and she adopted all the misguided attitudes that the 1970's puked out. She was somewhat left of far left. She embraced the idea that young people should feel free to express themselves so long as no one got hurt. (Of course we didn't realize why we felt hurt until thousands of dollars in therapy helped sort all the mess of the 70's out for us, 25 years later.) By the time I was 16, I didn't really have any rules to follow. And my mom was beloved by all our friends. She lived in that "well-they-are-going-to-do-it-anyway-so-I'd-rather-they-did-it-at-home" crazy house. She was cool. But she was also wrong. Period.

By the time I became a mom, I had a whole different point of view going on. We had a strong faith and we raised our kids in that faith. It was all there for them to look at and take on - or not, if that was their choice. But there were no surprises. It was all there, laid out and very understandable. Smith house had two columns: Okay and Not Okay. Okay?

So I'm not hiding anything. Yes, I did it all when I was your age darlings. And your point is?

Still, we're at odds. And there is some animosity happening. And I have heard the words: "This reminds me of high school". And if you had been here during high school you would know what an angry thing that is to say. And I hate it. Because it hurts my feelings. I know they are trapped. I know that if they could afford to move out, they would. They don't want to answer to me anymore. And I get it. I don't blame them. But they are here. So it is really their turn to suck it up and take it. Because they may be legal adults now but this is my damned house.

And I love them more than they will ever know.

An Unexpected Date With the DMV

This morning I was trolling the job sites when I came upon one for which I am a fit. The position is an outside sales position so it asked about the validity of my driver's license. It is at this moment that I remember it had expired on June 21. It is August 19, so I am a tad late in the renewal process.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the DMV. Now as far as DMVs go, the Thousand Oaks DMV is pretty nice. It is clean, relatively uncrowded and right next door to a "Coffee Bean". Still, the DMV is a decidedly depressing place to be.

No matter which DMV you enter in the whole of the United States, you walk in and are immediately assaulted with the starkness of a government office. At my DMV, it is even worse for the fact that some well-meaning employees have tried to brighten it up with all that a $3.75 decorating budget will allow. The permanent cork board panels that line the walls have been "spruced up" with corrigated paper boarders and cutout letters from the local "teacher supply store" along with "Don't Drink and Drive" posters - giving the entire place the "wish-you-could-forget" look of a high school principal's office in the 1970's. The unforgiving florescent light bounces off the dingy formica flooring and reflects onto all of our faces making everyone take on the sallow complexion of people who are waiting on a bread line.

I stand in the first of several lines and prepare my little speech. Once I get to the front of the line, they have no interest in my little speech. They hand me a number (G092), a form and point to a stand-up table to fill it out. Once completed, I enter the waiting area and take one of many hard, plastic seats. To wait. For a long time.

I pull out my blackberry, praying for an email to read. No such luck. Further, I have nothing to email anyone about so I put it away. I people watch. What is interesting is that absolutely everyone in there has the look of someone who is either in big trouble or desperate need. No one dresses to go to the DMV. Apparently several don't even brush their hair to go. Everyone looks sloppy. Moms accompanying their 16-year-old "driving hopefuls" up to the window look suspiciously like moms called to school to get their kids out of some kind of trouble. The 16-year-olds stand there silently, with their jaws hanging open as if basic language skills were something they were still trying to master. The rest look like they have been gathered up in a paddy-wagon and hauled in for engaging in some illegal activity. Like cock-fighting or something. Shabby shirts, shabby jeans, shabby shoes. Nothing shabby chic in the place. I look down at my own feet. I am wearing a 5-year-old pair of flip-flops that are comfortable but visibly falling apart with scattered remnants of a 6-week-old pedicure. I need to shave my legs. My white skirt has a coffee stain on the hem from a mishap this morning. I am at one with the landscape.

I wonder at this phenomenon and finally realize that if you took the entire group and transplanted it from the DMV into a park or a mall, a people-watcher would assign every one of us a much better back-story. It isn't the people at all who are strange. It is entirely about the environment. This revelation actually makes me feel a little cheerier about the whole experience and I am able to cast off the "loser cloud" that seemed to attach itself to me as soon as I walked through the door.

My next activity is to watch the digital screen to see when my number is called. I have been sitting for so long in this uncomfortable, un-padded chair that my rear end is numb. I can't wait to be called, but oddly, as they get closer and closer to my number I start feeling the anxiety of waiting for a bomb to go off. What is THAT about? They get to G091 and I almost pee my pants, staring, without blinking at the screen until I think I am going to scream and then it flashes "G092" and I exhale. It is then that I realize that I have been holding my breath and when I stand up, I nearly fall over from the dizziness of having not breathed in way too long. I quickly grab hold of the chair to gain my bearings (lest they think I am drunk) and head up to window 5 where again I begin to give my prepared speech. Again, they don't care to hear it. They take my forms (without looking at me), look me up on their computer screen, tell me I owe them $28.00. I hand them my debit card, get my receipt, and then I get my punishment for not taking care if this on time.

I had received a notice in the mail sometime before my birthday telling me that I could send in my $28.00 and that I didn't need to come to the DMV for a renewal - it would be mailed to me. Keep the same license. No test. Here, I am told that I will be taking a test. I explain to the woman at the window that I had received a letter in the mail telling me I did not need to take a test, I simply had to send in the money. She looked up at me for the very first time since I walked up to the window (are they trained not to acknowledge you?) and gives me a weary look that says: "and you're telling me this story because..." I accept my punishment, submit to the eye test and await instructions. I am told that I need to go to window 18 to have my photo taken. At this point, I nearly start to cry. I know that my pleadings will be lost on this woman so I shuffle like "dead man walking" over to window where I will take my chances with another

overworked government employee who works in a dungeon.

Once there, I smile sweetly and ask if I can go home, put on some make-up and come right back. She has clearly heard this request before. Request denied. I stand in front of the the camera and feel like I am facing a firing squad.

In my 34 years of driving I have never had a driver's license photo without make-up. If you read my blog, you will know that I often leave the house without makeup but I never take a photograph without it. Never. EVER. Now I and every vendor, retailer, or official who ever asks to see my I.D. will have a permanent visual evidence of the unfortunate day I went the Department of Motor Vehicles unprepared. The woman who took my picture hands me the test, points me toward the testing area and by the time I reach it I already have worked out how to get a new photo. I will simply tell them it was inadvertently tossed with junk mail and pay the price to get a new one made. Relief overtakes me and I am prepared to try to remember driving rules. Happily, it is incredibly easy. They have clearly handed me the "give-the-poor-old-lady-a-break-she-just-had-to-take-a-picture-without-makeup" test. Here is an example directly from the test:

You are driving on the highway and your cell phone rings. You

a) let it go to voice mail

b) answer it - it may be important

c) check to see if your voice mail is full before answering it.

See? I got the pity test.

Another line and I hand another woman the test where she grades it (missed one!) prints out a temporary license, tells me when to expect the new one, and hands it to me - all without ever making eye contact. (This must be some sort of internal contest.)

I am officially freed from the experience. I leave, feeling the fullness of life once again. Once home, I get ready to accompany my husband on an errand run. We have several to do as both of us have business to take care of. After we get in the car, I ask what is first on the agenda. We are trying to sell the old Volvo. We need a copy of the pink slip. We're going to the DMV. I kid you not.

Ladies on a Lake

Sunday, I was invited to join a bunch of girls to go out on a boat on Westlake . Debbie, Vickie, Diane, Janice, Rica (the recently turned 50 Rica) and me. Four of us are here in this photo. During opening confessions, we learn that I am the oldest. But I was going to be pleasant. I digress.

Westlake is not a natural lake. It was built years and years and years ago and I don't know why they built it. But if it was for no other reason than to allow me to spend a few hours floating on a boat with some girlfriends in the middle of it, it was an excellent idea. For me, floating through the fingers of a man-made lake, big beautiful homes with beautiful landscapes and mature trees along the "shores" is like floating through a Ralph Lauren campaign - a fantasy where candle lit dinners after tennis, on your outdoor deck, waiving to your friends and lifting your wine glasses to them as they breeze by in their boats, are routine. (As if I ever played tennis.)

Wait, don't leave - I'm coming back...

So we boarded at 4:00 and after some initial hysterics as we headed toward the rocks, we were off. I knew how lovely this afternoon was going to be because Bob and I had the pleasure of a pleasure cruise with our friends Wendy and Ed recently - they also live on the lake. Diane had brought her iPod filled with "Meet the Beatles" and early Motown. I have to tell you that I almost started to cry when I heard Paul McCartney croon "I'll Follow the Sun". I don't think I've thought of that song in 45 years (I'll do the math for you - I was 7), and it had been my favorite as a little girl Beatle fanatic. It was an absolutely perfect moment. I was wholly happy.

Two of us are married, three divorced, one widowed. We talked about our kids, our jobs (or lack thereof), and music. I got a call from my daughter Jenny telling me about something very romantic that had just happened to her. When I hung up the phone, I told my friends and we all sighed and giggled like a bunch of schoolgirls. Then we all told of our most romantic date. We talked about men. We talked about dogs (well, they did). We talked about being kids and being friends and being unsure of the future. We talked about sex. We told funny stories. We told funny stories about sex. We laughed. Our "captain", Rica, would go out to the middle of the water and turn off the boat, and we would just drift - toward oncoming traffic, bouys, whatever. Occasionally, we would nervously say: "Rica, we're going hit that boat", or "Rica, you're going to hit that buoy", and she would just say calmly, "oh, thank you" or "they'll go around us". She was very calm. And why not?

We imagined what it must be like to live in one of those houses and all wished we could. We pretended we would all retire there. With or without husbands. We ate brie and crackers and veggies and hummus and chips and cake. And we drank - me water but there was wine and margaritas. And slowly we sailed and we sailed and the world just disappeared.

Mostly, there wasn't much going on. Nothing significant to write about. But it was significant because it was about being comfortable in our own skins, with people we trusted, to say everything wanted to or to say nothing at all, to relish a few hours where we could slip into a world where nothing else existed but floating with a warm breeze in a world we don't live in - before heading back, at 9:30 to a world where everything had been on hold and waiting for us to attend to it. And I am reminded of yet another Sondheim lyric from his show "Into the Woods":

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"

Makes the "or" mean more than it did before.

Now I understand!

And its time to leave the Woods.

Now its time to leave the Lake.

Week 2 - More Eh on the Vegetarian Diet

Having trouble uploading the video but week 2 offers similar results to week 1. In a nut shell (or less actually) one pound lighter. I guess this is going to be a lesson in patience, which is not one of my virtues. I hope you all will "hang in there" for a year because at this rate, that is how long getting to my goal is going to take.