Guardian Angels

I have a fantasy about Freya and Jesus who I have assigned the role of guardian angels in my life. I lost my Christian religion a long time ago. My mother, who didn’t go to church but was re­ligious, beat all the Bible rules into me about how a girl/woman should be. Too late, I realized my mother was wrong and so was the Bible. I made a lot of wrong decisions based on what each preached I should do. I believed the wrong things and was sorely disappointed when I found they were bogus. I still believed in doing good, being kind, honest, and helpful, but going to church and organized Christianity was over for me.

However, the superstitious need for a magical being to protect me was still deeply lodged in my psyche, so I be­gan studying pagan goddesses. The altars and rituals of paganism attracted me. I was especially drawn to Freya, a goddess of my Norse/Germanic ancestors. Freya is the goddess of love, fertility, beauty, gold, magic, war, and death. She owned Fólkvangr, the field prepared for warriors killed in battle. She is traditionally depicted as a blue-eyed blonde riding a golden chariot pulled by two giant cats, wearing a cloak of falcon feathers. She sometimes rode a boar called Hildisvíni (a nod to my mother, Hilda) to lead the Valkyries into battles. They would take half of the warriors killed in a battle to the Fólkvangr field. The others were given to Odin. Freya would cry tears of gold for the fallen warriors. I see no need to give the background of Jesus, since most people know his story. I am clinging to him as a guardian because he is em­bedded and he is insistent that he be part of my life.

I picture Freya and Jesus tirelessly following me around, mostly wringing their hands because they don’t know what to do with me, arguing with each other because their ideas are strictly divided by female and male perspectives. Finally, they will step up and try to talk sense into me.

Freya is dressed as a kick-ass Viking Shield Maiden, her cats close by, most of the time losing patience with me. You see, she’s been there, done that, and can’t stand to see me doing something when it’s clearly not good for me.

Jesus plays the good cop to Freya’s bad cop, stepping in to offer advice, encouragement, or admonition in a tactful way. He is a hippy-looking guy with hazel eyes, long brown hair, and a nicely trimmed beard. He wears sandals, a Sons of Anarchy tee shirt (picture Charlie Hunnam), and baggy shorts. You see, he has com­pletely adapted to the California lifestyle, but I won’t let him sag his pants too low. Despite being diplomatic and tactful, he is kind of a kick-ass. I imagine him and Freya fighting off my demons and running their nasty butts outta town.

I call for Freya, and she appears near me, her falcon cloak whooshing out wide. Jesus is loitering nearby, checking his cell phone. He tweets on Twitter, “I gotta go. Connie is in distress.” Freya yells, “Get over here, Hay Zeus! What are we going to do with her now? She’s in a complete funk because she ate half of the cherry pie I told her not to bring home.” Jesus, “Why doesn’t she ever share with us? I love cherry pie, and I cannot lie.” Freya, “Stop with the George Washington references. He fuckin’ lied all the time.” Jesus, “He did not!” Freya, “Did, too!” Me, ”Jesus Christ and Mary’s Replacement, can you two focus? This is about me, you know!” They shrug at my tantrum, then Freya tells me to go right now and toss out the rest of that pie, so I don’t do more damage to myself. Jesus tells me that would be a total waste, but go ahead, he sees the wisdom in it. Later, I noticed just a little something, red something in his mustache.

Golden Tears by Anne-Marie Zilberman

This painting is often attributed to Klimt, but was not painted by him. 'Golden Tears', also known as Freya's Tears', was painted by French artist Anne-Marie Zilberman in the style of Klimt. Influenced by his work, Zilberman applied gold leaf to make the tears.

Life After Facebook

Yesterday I dropped out of Facebook, Twitter, and I'm close to leaving Instagram. In addition, I'm limiting my time watching cable news. America's politics are killing me.

I'm trying to figure out what to do instead. I'm retired so I have a lot of time on my hands. I have some neurological issues that keep me housebound. It's hard to avoid all political items no matter the platform, so I do crossword puzzles, cruise Pinterest, shop on Amazon, work on simple craft projects, try new recipes, watch non-political TV, and binge-watch videos on streaming services. But, I miss snarking on Facebook and Twitter. I have honed sarcasm to a good (or bad?) level. I know this is a first-world problem, but here I am.

Before becoming neurologically challenged I gave dinner parties, made earrings and bracelets, cultivated my garden. My specialty was setting unique tablescapes. I don't have the energy, wherewithal, or will to do those things anymore.

I miss some of my Facebook friends. Former coworkers, international people I followed, and the cats. Yes, I'm a crazy cat lady. I am trying to follow them on Instagram, which is why I haven't quit that, too. I can still see photos of my children and grandchildren who I'm not able to visit very often. Trains and Uber are my friends. No planes though. Can't do that anymore.

I'm hoping that blogging will help with this transition. Anyone else experiencing this issue as well? I'd love to hear from you. 

I'll (hopefully) write more tomorrow.

Changing Things

I'm changing the focus of my blog, which I haven't posted in for months. Today I quit Facebook. First, because of the data breach issue. Second, it was making me unhappy. However, I miss snarking about politics with my FB friends. I thought I would try that here. Not sure exactly how, but I'll stumble through it somehow.

My Little Black Book

I once had a little black book. I started it when I was working in a particularly nasty, thankless job. It was a job, ironically, that I was good at; a fact that locked me into it for 13 long, stress filled years. My little black book was not the kind with lovers’ phone numbers or anything, but a record of who I considered black-hearted people. People in the book had intentionally hurt or disappointed me or were rude or difficult. They were people who held power over me, people I couldn’t directly combat. The book was a way to handle my anger and feelings of helplessness. Since I tend to hold a grudge, the book helped me to reset and move on.

A few friends who were aware of my book warned me to stop recording stuff like that because the very essence of the book would hurt me in the long run. But, at the time, it was a means for me to put the actions of these black-hearted people away, so I could stop thinking about what they did. It moved the hurt from my heart and mind and onto the pages of the book for the Universe to deal with in time. Among my friends, it became a joke to say, “Uh-oh, that will go in Connie’s book,” or “Oh, don’t do that! You will end up in Connie’s book!”

I didn’t review the book unless I was making a new entry. There were no consequences to those who were recorded in the book. I didn’t stick pins in them or do any other voodoo type rituals to hurt them. However, if they repeated themselves, they would get a check mark next to their name. Some people ended up with a page all to themselves because they were repeat offenders. And, there were people who actually qualified to be in my black book who never got in it because I wasn’t done with them yet. I wasn’t ready to let go of the hurt. I was still angry with them and didn’t see a way of ever getting over their transgressions against me.

Eventually, when I was finally moved out of the nasty job, I got rid of the book. I looked through it one last time, giving thanks that for the most part, I would never have to deal with those people again. I tore each page into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. I tossed the cover of the book into a dumpster.

To this day, there is only one person who was in the book, who if they cross my mind, I feel a wave of rage against. Same for one person who never made the book, against whom I still hold a grudge. Two people who devalued me and over-powered me. Two people still causing damage to my psyche because I was helpless to fight them. 

Anglophilia, I has it…

I don’t care; I love every minute of the royal wedding hoopla. Although I won’t be getting up at 3:30 a.m. on April 29 to watch The Wedding, I do have the DVR set to record it. In fact, I have several shows about the wedding set to record because I don’t want to miss any of them.

However, I draw the line at watching the made for TV movie about William and Kate’s life. They are just too young to have a movie about them just yet. Now, a movie about Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip would be interesting, since at least 50 years or more have lapsed since they were married and the props and costumes and cars would be of a long ago period. I loved the series about the Tudors, partly because of the wonderful costumes and sets.

I believe that Americans love the English monarchy because England is our "mother." Despite that little dust up back in the 1770s, we do still love our mother and we like to keep up with her goings on. I remember in grade school learning about the English pilgrims who settled at Plymouth Rock. At that young age, I subconsciously learned it was better to have English ancestry than any other. So, that is when my fascination with anything English started. That, and the Disney movie in 1953, “When Knighthood was in Flower,” which was the first movie of that genre I had ever seen.

Children are brought up on nursery rhymes and fairy tales about the beautiful princess and the dashing prince falling in love and living happily ever after. Women spend their youth and sometimes their whole lives waiting for a knight in shining armor to swoop them off to the beautiful castle high on the hill. Those stories make us want to watch the Royals and for a moment pretend to be that prince or princess.

Besides, America’s royalty seems to be our sleazy celebrities like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan, people who are famous for being famous—or rather, infamous. I think celebrity-behaving-badly worship is far worse than that of English royalty. The Royals have their foibles, but that’s what makes it so much fun to follow them. We may love them, but we want those uppity folks to be brought down a notch or two every so often.

So, even though I can be rabidly patriotic about America, I am a confessed Anglophile, openly, enthusiastically, and forever.

Who'da Thunk? I'm Patriotic!

I heard it the other day. Someone said, “Move to Canada. American is dying!” Now that riles up my patriotism like nothing else could. I believe in our country and think that statement is as offensive as saying “God is dead.” If a long bloody civil war 150 years ago didn’t kill our nation, I do not believe anything can. America has lived through and prevailed over many bad times. The Great Depression, two world wars, several lesser wars, and good and bad politicians have not come close to bringing us to our knees. The hard economic time we are going through now is a part of the normal ups and downs of a capitalistic democracy. That good old Yankee ingenuity will kick in and we will solve this glitch in the road, too. We have to hang in there and support this country and never concede that it is dead. Never concede to any weaknesses. No offense to Canada, but America is the best country on this planet and will remain so for generations to come.

The Martin Boys

Yesterday, I received an email from my cousin telling me the last of my mother’s surviving brothers are gravely ill. My uncle Joe, Charlie, and Cliff are three of seven brothers in my mom’s family. She was the eldest, then came Earl, who we called Abe, Howard, called Fat, Herbert, called Hub, Robert, called Rob, Charles, called Charlie, Clifford, called Cliff, and Joseph, called Joe. Following all those brothers was my mother’s only sister, Matilda, called Til or Tillie. They never went by their given names, not even my mother. Her name was Hildegard, but understandably, she was always called Hilda. Only my grandmother used their real names. When she started to call for one of them because he was in trouble, she would always go through all seven names before she hit on the one she wanted. Of course, the guilty boy would not own up until she said his name.

When the Martin boys got together they all talked at the top of their voices and all at the same time. They loved eating, drinking, and having fun. They particularly liked my mom’s fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits. They all proclaimed she was the best cook in the county, stuffing down biscuits until they nearly popped. They cussed and told dirty jokes, smoked like chimneys, brawled and landed in jail more often than I should reveal here.

All but one of them served in the army during WWII. Fortunately, they all came home and none was wounded, at least not physically. All but one got married during the late ‘40s. I recall their wedding photos were all similar, consisting of the brothers; the only difference being the bride, and which brother was the groom.

They all lived in Ohio within 25 miles of each other. They worked at the Gulf Refinery, for the county, or farmed for a living. When the first one died, my mother said, “The circle (of her siblings) has been broken.” Slowly, they began to pass away of cancer caused by cigarette smoking or asbestos exposure at the refinery or other hazards of living. Now, the last three are all battling cancer as well, with only weeks to live.

It is hard to think of them all eventually being gone, leaving behind their baby sister who is nearing eighty. They were good old boys in the best meaning of the phrase. I wasn’t around them much after I grew up. I left Ohio when I was twenty, but I hope they knew how much I loved them.

Dabby's Rose Bush

Several years ago, my hairdresser moved to a house that had a gazillion old, well established rose bushes. When she inexplicably decided to get rid of most of them, she invited all her friends and clientele to come and dig up anything they wanted. I was there in a heartbeat. I dug up four rose bushes before I exhausted myself, one of which turned out to be the rose bush that enveloped and smothered Turlock.

Other than climbing, I don’t know what variety it is, but it has white blooms similar to the one in the photo. I planted it along the side of our house where it climbs onto the inner courtyard fence. The rose bush currently stretches across about 20 feet of the fence. If we did not have it trimmed every week, it would literally grow up over the roof of the house, across to the neighbors, down the street, eventually growing out to the highway where motorists would need James Bond type machetes on their cars to clear a path around town. Unfortunately, the trimming inhibits blooming, but the bush has become a very effective shield from the street on that side of the house.

It is a great refuge for small birds, so I put a feeder in it to encourage them to visit. The window that looks out onto the bush is my kitty‘s favorite place to watch them. Every morning, not even letting me get a cup of coffee, Teddy yells and carries on until I follow him into the room and open the blinds so he can begin his vigil. He gets up on the windowsill and yeows at the top of his lungs. I tell him to use his indoor meow, so he doesn’t scare the birds away. He won’t listen to me though; he has to tell those birds a thing or two. The rose bush has little openings where the birds can peer through at Teddy, thumbing their beaks at him because they know he is strictly an indoor cat. They do tweet a little different tune when the weather is warm enough to open the windows. Then they are a little more polite when he appears, not quite trusting the screens to hold back that ferocious tabby.

I am very proud of my town-devouring rose bush. Being from Ohio, where growing roses requires way too much effort, it is amazing to me that roses flourish like weeds here. I have roses all around my house, something I never imagined I could have. All they need is water and lots of sun and they bloom right through to Christmas. I will always marvel at that.

If you ever drive through the Central Valley of California, down Highway 99, be sure to bring your machete.

Purses, Bags, and Totes, Oh My…

I love purses and own more than I care to confess here. The last few years I have tended to buy the “organizer” type bags. Organizer bags don’t require a wallet for credit cards and money. They have several slots for credit cards, zippered pockets for change, a pocket for a cell phone, and other sections for makeup, a small notebook and calendar. I carry hand sanitizer, baby wipes, and Kleenex in the most accessible pocket, things I need to get to quickly for the grandkids. The other compartments and pockets hold lipstick, mirror, aspirin in case I start to have a heart attack, toothpicks, travel size toothpaste and brush, nail clippers, sunglasses, and pens. Yeah, I was a girl scout, learned to be prepared.

My four year-old granddaughter loves to dig through my purse. First, she goes for my cell phone and makes several international calls before I notice. She also changes settings and erases contacts, but that’s usually for the best. She then takes a piece of my “mean” gum. It is mean because it is very strong peppermint, which she doesn’t like and spits out in my hand immediately. In fact, the first time she tried it, she cried. I can never convince her it is not the sweet gum she likes.

Next, she tries on my lipstick, insists on applying it herself. (Ah, just a little crooked, honey.) She makes notes on my calendar, little scribbles on every page, jots things on my grocery list, and tries my lip-gloss, which is really just a little container of Mentholatum, which she does like. Finally, she gets to the little surprise I try to keep in my purse for her. A couple Hershey kisses or special dark chocolate miniatures, which ruins her dinner. Grammie is a hopeless spoiler, but it is amazing how just one little piece of candy can fill her up so she won’t eat the delicious meal her momma makes.

I bought a new bag yesterday and have been arranging and rearranging all my stuff in it. I haven’t taken it out shopping yet; that will be the test of how I ultimately like it. Since I am instilling in my granddaughter the love of purses, I can’t wait for her to check this new one out. And, the first thing I will buy while carrying this new bag will be candy for the “little surprise in Grammie’s purse.”

Grandson Nick's First Solid Food

Someday, Nick will probably really be mad at his Grammie for posting this, but these photos are so cute, I can't help myself. He quickly mastered eating solid food and started feeding himself soon after these pictures were taken. I can hardly believe that he will be 5 years old next month and starting kindergarten this fall. Nick won't be the only one embarrassed. Now that we have a new cousin, baby Jack, I'm sure Grammie will be posting embarrassing photos of him too. Now, where is that photo of Kaylie eating yogurt for the first time...?

Click on the image to read the captions.

Tabby Teddy Bear

I recently reconnected with a friend on Facebook who said I should write about my kitty, Teddy. It came about because I said since I’m retired I have no boss. She said she thought Teddy was my boss. I have to admit that is true.

We got Teddy when he was trapped at Cal State University, Stanislaus by the Campus Cat Coalition. He was brought to our house in a huge cage. We might have thought we had rescued him, but he thought different. The hissing and growling and snarling that came out of that teeny three-month-old cat were unnerving. After a few days in the cage and our continued talking to him, and more importantly, feeding him he started to calm down. That was three years ago and he is now a very loving and cuddly boy.

He still gets a little crazed though. He sometimes gets into fights with his own tail when he is up on his perch. When his tail gets the better of him he jumps down and tears through the house bouncing off the walls. He makes me a little afraid. My hubby says cats just have bad tail days. In the process of these tail fights he would often knock over his perch scaring the daylights out of me. We finally bolted it to the floor. Teddy doesn’t like that much. He liked knocking it over, getting an adrenalin rush when he would barely get out of the way when it fell.

Teddy doesn’t get much people food, but he does like his coffee. Every morning I have to watch him closely because he will sneak sips of my coffee by dipping his paw into my cup. He does the same with cola and tea. I may have allowed him to become a caffeine addict. Could explain the tail fights. I also get to share yogurt with him. His favorite is vanilla, which he could eat a gallon of if I would let him. One morning when I was eating cereal he very politely asked if he could have a taste. He daintily took a little bite then stomped off telling me I should eat something more nutritious than Frosted Flakes. He also added we should switch to Starbucks.

Teddy is strictly an indoor cat. However, we took him outside one day after we had put down new sod. When he got into the grass he was horrified by the feel of it, lifting his paws way up high trying to avoid touching it. He went streaking back into the house and started to bathe. He licked his paws, then his tummy, then back to his paws, then his face. He didn’t know what to wash first that yucky grass was so stinky. Of course, that was all done after he rolled in the mud.

Teddy sleeps with me, starting out curled up under my chin. He started doing that when he was little and sees no reason why it would be uncomfortable for me now that he is grown. After I start snoring he moves down to sleep on my feet. When he hears the coffee pot start up in the morning he starts tromping all over me to get me up. “I want my coffee, mommie!”

When I recently had surgery on my foot and had to stay in bed for a few days, Teddy decided it was his job to make sure I did. He wedged himself full length along my bad leg with one paw on my bandaged foot. He would meow very sternly if I moved around too much. He barely left my room while I was recuperating. He had to make sure my hubby was taking good care of me.

When he decides I have been on the computer long enough, he jumps up on my desk and sprawls out over all my papers and books, ever so slowly nudging things off onto the floor. Stop it, Teddy, now look what you’ve done. You are going to break that lamp! No, don’t tear up my calendar. Don’t eat tape, your insides will stick together.

OK, I guess I’d better get of this com…

OK, I had to reboot after Teddy hit cont+alt+delete.

Romance Novels

The subject on my mind tonight is how to choose a romance novel that isn't just a sexed up bodice ripper. Now, I want some sex, but not on every page. I don't want to read over and over how the skin on the heroine's heaving bosom is flawless ivory and how beautiful and irresistible she is. I don't want it repeated over and over how dangerously handsome and aloof her lover is. Reminds me of the Eagle's song, "Life in the Fast Lane," which has a line that goes, "he was a hard-headed man, he was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty.” Some of that sort of description is acceptable, but I want to know specifically why at the Hotel California you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. I like historical novels like "Follow the River." Or, stories about China and Japan like "Memoirs of a Geisha." I want to read about how the people lived, what they ate, and how they cooked it. I like descriptions of their clothing and house furnishings and their jealousies and treachery. I know I just haven't hit on the correct search parameters, so if anyone can help me with that, I would appreciate it.

One Year Later

Well, today marks the one-year anniversary of my retirement. I set only one goal to accomplish and that was to do absolutely nothing when I quit work. I've pretty much done that and I'm still not bored. It has been so nice not to have to get up in the morning unless I want to. I can stay up as late as I want and not worry about being unable to get up the next morning. I know these are simple things, but after 50 years of working they are luxuries I am so grateful for.

Actually, I should define "do absolutely nothing" as not having anything on my agenda that I MUST do. I have done a lot of reading. I've sewn several outfits for my beautiful little granddaughter. I've learned some new crafts and jewelry-making techniques. I have a mini bird sanctuary in my back yard where I feed crows, doves, and finches. I've had a few little dinner parties for friends when I was able to practice the art of tablescaping. I tried to start an herb garden, but I'm not much of a green thumb. So, I've learned to let whatever volunteers to grow in my yard to stay, weeds or not.

There is one thing coming up that I must do and that is to have surgery on my foot. I have a bone spur on my heel that has been causing a lot of pain and is making me limp. So, even though this is something I have to do, I'm hoping when it is over I will be pain free and can walk properly again. I'm not too apprehensive about the surgery, but I am about having a cast for six to eight weeks and being in a wheel chair. The doc asked me how old I am. When I told him he said, "Nope, not putting you in crutches, you get a wheelchair. " Hmmmppff. One more person indicating I'm old. My husband, the car guy, is already talking about lowering my wheelchair, putting fat tires on it, and painting on some racing stripes. You know, so I can autocross it. So, if you hear of a Seniors Scooter Club in the Turlock area, let me know.

Fantasy Cooking

True to my “to do when retired list,” I have been watching the food channel every day. One of my favorite celebrity chefs is Sandra Lee who hosts a show called “Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee.” She is so over the top with foo foo that even I can hardly believe it. She is youngish, blonde, articulate, and very pretty. She is always dressed impeccably in stylish clothes, ranging from tracksuits to frilly blouses and dresses. But, here’s the kicker. Whatever color she is wearing, the kitchen is decorated in the same color. It must cost a trillion dollars to produce her show because the set changes for every episode. The blinds on the window, the dishes on the shelves, the small appliances such her mixer and blender, pots and pans, even the light fixtures, are the same color as her outfit. She usually has a beautiful floral arrangement in a color that matches. Today she had on white, so everything in her kitchen was white. She was even cooking and baking white foods! I cringed every time she turned on the blender or poured something into a bowl, expecting her to spatter something on that white outfit, but somehow she didn’t. Yesterday, she had on pink, so everything in the kitchen was a different shade of pink. Her Christmas show was all red and white. Halloween was all orange and rusts. Even so, with all that matchy-matchy going on, her recipes are really good and her decorating ideas and cooking tips are very helpful. She is enthusiastic, but not gratingly so; and she is not a dumb blonde in any sense of the term. She presents a fantasy-cooking world, with just enough usefulness to enable you to take her seriously.

Long Time, No Blog

I haven't posted anything since August! Lost my cyber voice, I guess.

I managed to break my foot trick-or-treating with my grandkids on Halloween. I'm not a very good patient. I am supposed to wear this moon boot thingy, that has about 100 velcro straps, but sometimes I just can't stand the damned thing. The doc said if I was 18, my foot would have healed in as little as three weeks. But, since I just had my 66th birthday yesterday, it's going to take a little longer. I told the doc if I was 18, I wouldn't have fallen off the sidewalk and broken my foot in the first place!

We started a kitchen and bathroom remodel. I would say it is about one-third done. The new kitchen counter tops and the shower walls and sink have been installed. Next will be the installation of the kitchen back splash, new flooring, and shower door. Dan is aiming to have it all done so I can have a birthday party for my granddaughter who turns three on the 20th. He always works better when there is a huge, looming deadline over him. He will probably be setting in the toilet just as the family arrives for the party.

When Dan and I got married, we wanted to have the ceremony in our backyard. But, it wasn't landscaped, not even grass. So, you guessed it, Dan started work on it about three weeks before the wedding. He was shoving in the last railroad tie in the terraced garden around the patio about two hours before the wedding. Then he conked out on the living room couch where he remained until the caterers arrived. He rushed up to the bathroom to get ready just as the guests were starting to arrive.

Yeah, huge looming deadlines.

27th Wedding Anniversary

Everyone said it wouldn't last. In 1980, when Dan and I met in a divorce adjustment class at the local community college in Denver, all the other participants sat back and shook their heads when we hit it off so well. Had to flame out in a few weeks, if not days, they said. Well, over the years there have been a lot of flareups, but somehow we are still together. Today is our 27th wedding anniversary. We always say it's working because the universe put us together to save two other people who could have ended up with us. Also, now we sleep in separate rooms because we both snore.

I wish we could live long enough to celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary, but we most likely won't make that. If we did, the kids would have to spoon the cake and ice cream into our mouths and wipe the dribble off our chins. They'd have to keep reminding us who we are and probably who they are. Maybe one of these times, I will throw an anniversary party and just pretend it's our 50th. Dan says it seems that long anyway.

So here's to that woman of the 1980's (me) who called and asked that cute guy out all those years ago and to the guy who accepted (Dan), blithely unaware of what he was getting into.

I love you, my hunny! Happy anniversary.

Speaking in Tongues

I have never really understood what "speaking in tongues" means until this afternoon when my husband started doing so. After a trip to Costco to purchase a TV for my bedroom, we found when we got it home that it is really too big for the room. That caused Dan to collapse in a puddle and start blathering. It was a good ten minutes before he started to use English again. Teddy and I both hid under the bed while this was going on. However, I must say Dan never articulated so well how he felt about something before.

So that started a frenzy of musical TVs in our house. The new TV went to Dan's bedroom, that TV came out to the family room, the family room TV, which was just resurrected from storage yesterday, is probably going back. We will be back to Costco tomorrow to get a new TV for me, but in the meantime, the tiny little TV from the kitchen counter was moved to my bedroom.

I know, for only two people, we are way over the legal limit for TVs per household. We probably should join a group for addicted TV watchers. Yeah, sure, right after I watch CSI Miami, Saving Grace, Drop Dead Diva, old Maverick reruns...

Saving Grace

WTF!!?? Earl's an angel! Why couldn't he find Grace last night? As in Grace Hanadarko, played by Holly Hunter on "Saving Grace." Grace is an Oklahoma City police detective who is totally fearless, but always just a bit afraid. She sees an angel named Earl, played by Leon Rippy, a good ole southern boy, who is doing his best to help Grace along in life. God appears to Earl as huge dog, an English bulldog, I think, Anyway, last night, when Grace was taken hostage by a childhood friend, off his meds, who proceeds to tattoo a pair of wings on her back, Earl couldn't find where Grace was being held. OK, I know, you have to suspend disbelief while watching this kind of show, but I just can't suspend the need for consistency. Earl has taken Grace to the Grand Canyon where they stood on top of one of the inaccessible rock formations. He has performed miracles for her before. So, he couldn't find her!!?? He rallied a team of angels to help him, but in the end, it was Grace's fellow cops who figured out where she was and rescued her.

I love all the cop shows, NCIS, CSI Miami, Law and Order-SVU, etc., but there is one thing that bugs me in all of them. The women cops, detectives, medical examiners, all wear high heels, skin tight silk pants, and skimpy little tank tops to crime scenes with their long hair streaming all lose. I couldn't believe it on one episode when Calleigh (on CSI Miami) wore spike heeled boots as she searched for evidence at a crime scene in the Everglades. Out in the bug infested swamp, in the scorching sun, she had on a teensy white (white?!) short sleeved frilly little blouse. Seriously? Yeah, I know, sex sells, but it is really annoying women are portrayed that way.

Another thing that all the characters do on crime shows is pick up the most horrible, grisly piece of evidence, something dripping slime and blood and hold it a half inch from their face, at or above eye level, and peer at it with their mouths open. Holy crap! That's just stupid!

Back to the skimpy clothing women characters wear on TV, it was always so inconsistent that the witches on "Charmed," which takes place in San Francisco, also always wore skimpy little outfits—short skirts, frilly sleeveless tops, huge high heels. If you have ever been to SF, you know you have to bundle up! It's cold there! Even in the summer time. Especially in the summer time. Like Mark Twain said, the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Also, on the show, SF is always sunny and windless. Ha! the wind in SF will knock you off your feet at times. And, you cannot wear high heels in SF and be able to walk around the hilly streets. Hmmm, yeah, maybe they had cast a spell to ward off the cold and make their shoes comfy.

OK, have to go. I need to get my cat his own cup of coffee since he just dipped his paw into my cup to get swig of it.

The Honey-Do Lists

Dan is anxiously awaiting for my retirement to begin because he realizes how much he has needed adult supervision. And, he is especially looking forward to the honey-do lists, so he doesn't wander aimlessly around the house. As a computer science professor, he teaches four nights a week, so he is at home all day with nothing to do except play his stupid computer game, polish and shine his Corvette, and nap. He yammers about lesson plans, grading and reading papers, dealing with students, in addition to his work with the faculty union, but I’m not so sure about all that.

I think the first thing on his honey-do list is to clean out his office. He has the very first book published listing websites on the Internet, hundreds of those old 3x3 floppy disks (why do we continue to call them “floppies” when they were really very rigid?), several manuals for out-dated computer applications, stacks and stacks of papers (he files vertically), dead computers and monitors, file cabinet drawers full of ancient invoices and cancelled checks. But, every time I bring up cleaning his office, he starts whimpering and goes fetal.

As I left the house this morning, Dan was explaining to the cat that this was their last day of solitude. "Mommy will be home with us every day, all day from now on, Teddy." The cat's eyes got huge as if to say "What?! I won't have the bed all to myself!? Or the couch?" Dan said "Yeah, my one and your nine lives are over as we know them." Well! I was going to cook gourmet meals and make special kitty treats, but I'm not so sure about that now either.

I don't have much to do today here at work, so I'll just continue to work on the honey-do lists.

Packing Up My Office

Dan is coming this afternoon to help pack up and take home the personal possessions I have collected in my office since starting this job in January 2003. I have been taking things home gradually, so it is looking really bare.

It was very hard to take down the collage of grandbabies photos on my door, but I'll find places at home to create more. All that is left are all the binders containing my projects and tasks. I'm the queen of binders. If I get more than two or three pieces of paper on a project, I create a binder for it. I have two more bookshelves in my office than most people in this building because of my thing for binders.

Someone asked if I was feeling nervous about retiring. It seemed like a strange thing to ask. Excited and relieved more accurately describes how I feel. I know it won't really sink in for several weeks that I don't have a job anymore. People have said I will get bored, which might happen, but I don't think so for quite awhile.

I have turned in my keys, my CSU Stanislaus email address will close tomorrow, and my parking permit runs out July 1, so the ties are slowly being cut. I will miss my boss and coworkers, but otherwise, I feel no regrets about starting this new phase in my life. (Ha! Next blog will be about how Dan feels about it :>)!