Gifts

My sweet friend Toni Bernard just sent me the newly published pocket version of her book "How To Be Sick," along with another of her beautiful watercolors.

I think the book is valuable for anyone struggling with any kind of illness or hardship.  This book is specific to illness (usually not diagnosed and/or dismissed by medical professionals) but her book "How to Wake Up" is a guide to living through joy and suffering.  She's been a practicing Buddhist for over 20 years.

I have experienced a number of health challenges in my life, and any one of them could have led me into permanent despair.  Somehow,  I always rise.  Maybe after a long while filled with doubt and self-pity, but I do either recover or learn how to organize my life in order to accommodate my body.

Right now the big challenge is how to adjust to this never ending stay at home situation.  Like you, no doubt, I've experienced every emotion possible.  Some days I just nap and nap and nap.  The waves of dreams wash over me and I give in to them.  Yesterday I emptied the dishwasher and cleaned the very messy kitchen and this was my big victory!

The things that sustain me now are the Colbert Show on CBS - smart, funny, sexy Stephen!  The Sunday Morning show on CBS is one of the very best shows on television, with their mix of news, art, music and interviews with, say, Graham Nash (this weekend) and other notables.  I've also become immersed in The Last Kingdom on Netflix, thanks to this blogger's suggestion.  It's captivated me completely, though it is filled with barbaric gore and epic battle scenes from the ninth century.  It is perfect escapism.

Our area is beginning to loosen restrictions, but I'm waiting to see if the numbers rise again before I abandoned the precautions set up.  I'm comfortable enough at home, though antsy and many times bored.  Oh. So. Bored.  And so very physically tired because I'm too whatever to get much exercise.  Ennui is a good descriptor.

Trying to be gentle with myself. 

How about you?

It's May, It's May

May 12 ten years ago I was realizing I couldn't stay with my wife -- the situation was out of control.

May 12 nine years ago I was living in Sacramento with my parents, ironing clothes for mom by the looks of my Facebook page.

May 12 eight years ago I was released from the hospital after a life-threatening event.

May 12 three years ago I was holding my baby grand daughter.

May 12 this year I'm living in Colorado and going to get my snow tires changed out.  I had a lovely mother's day with the family, in their backyard keeping a safe distance.

Thanks to blogging and to Facebook, we can keep track of little anniversaries like this.  Sometimes it's a good thing, other times it's not.

And this May, we'd better not go blissfully astray unless we want to risk dying from this blasted virus.  I trust that sometime, again, we'll be able to fully indulge.

Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear

It's May, It's May, that gorgeous holiday
When every maiden prays that her lad will be a cad
It's mad, it's gay, alive, a lust display
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks
Everyone makes divine mistakes
The Lusty Month of May

Whence this fragrance wafting through the air?
What sweet feelings does it's scent transmute?
Whence this perfume floating everywhere?
Don't you know, it's that dear forbidden fruit

It's May, the lusty month of May
That darling month when everyone throws self-control away
It's time to do a wretched thing or two
And try to make each precious day one you'll always rue

It's May, it's May, the month of "Yes, you may"
The time for every frivolous whim, proper or im-
It's wild, it's gay, depraved in every way
The birds and bees with all of their vast amorous past
Gaze at the human race aghast
The Lusty Month of May

Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear

It's May, it's may, the month of great dismay
when all the world is brimming with fun, wholesome or un-
It's mad, it's gay, alive a lust display
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks
Everyone makes divine mistakes
The Lusty Month of May

Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

I was recently reminded that this time, ten years ago, my wife Nicole and I were moving into a enormous rental house in Aptos California. It was up a long road to the top of a hill, and our back gate let us out into the forested Nicene Marks Park (this was the epicenter of the 1989 Loma Prieta quake). It was a five bedroom, two and a half bath home, which was much too big for our needs, but the price was right and the owner was not only allowing all three of our dogs to move in, she adored the fact that we had this creatures (plus a cat). The yard was large as well, and I indulged my love of gardening to build upon the great flower beds and raised vegetable beds. We hosted my daughter's wedding party for a Mexican Fiesta the night before the wedding. The yard was decked out in paper cut outs, brightly colored as only the Mexicans can do. I hired a taco truck which was able to pull into the yard through a large gate made specifically for letting in cars and or large equipment. It's how I also got my hot tub in there.

I had no earthly idea that eighteen months into renting this home we would part ways and I would move out. The divorce took years after that, as we were hoping we'd reunite. So, in keeping with Music Fridays, thank you Robin, I wondered what music I was listening to ten years ago. I had latched on to Patty Larkin, and was lucky enough to see her in concert at the relatively tiny Kuumbwa Jazz Center in Santa Cruz. This song, "Me and that Train" grabbed me, and it's still one of my favorites.



Four years and a divorce later, I had been in Sacramento for about three years. I moved there to get out of town and to help my parents move from their San Diego home of 40 years, north to Sacramento to be closer to one of my sisters. I managed to co-habitate with mater and pater, lovers of Fox News (and I use that term lightly and mockingly) for two years. I was there to help my dad with the day-to-day care of my mother who has Parkinson's. The only problem with that is that Dad is a control freak and nobody does anything better than he can. My efforts were not appreciated, and the old paradigm of father and child played out, with me being the 53 year old child. That didn't go over well with me, needless to say. We had 'words' and often times I would leave the house to take very long walks through Sacramento streets, often finding my way to the lush Capital Park which also serves as an arboretum of sorts, with very old trees carefully tagged with their names and dates. It also boasts a large and beautifully fragrant rose garden. My dad is allergic to roses. Oddly enough, they are one of my favorite flowers.

I dated a couple of women, getting back into the swing after eleven years being with Nickie. It was a heady time, and though I was coping with the painful aftermath of a contentious divorce, I was moving on, making friends, and discovering college courses at our local Sac State. I took a couple of classes (Ted Talks and a Rock and Roll History class) before I signed up for a photography course.

Lo and behold, that's where I met my future husband. In addition to our mutual love of photography, we both enjoyed music as well. He was a great lover of classical, and spent many years going to concert halls and hearing the greats in Philadelphia, Cleveland and Phoenix. His knowledge was encyclopedic and his classical and jazz music collection was vast. So vast, that I had to pry the bulk of it away from him when we bought our home together. It was boxed up and took up one entire space in his three car garage. He had it all downloaded, but had insisted on keeping the compact discs. He probably had thousands of dollars invested in cds. We donated many to the local public radio station and they were thrilled to get them. We also sold twelve boxes to a music dealer in San Francisco who drove up with his wife in their van, and took it all away at a bargain price.

My musical contribution to our union was a solid knowledge of popular music and folk music, which he had mostly missed out on. (He also missed out on many, many fine movies -- being a medical student and then a doctor didn't leave a lot of free time, and he chose to spend it listening to symphony orchestras.) We had six years together before he died last month, and those years went by in a blink of an eye. The time with him almost seems like a dream to me now.

The next song is one that would bring him to tears of exaltation. He sometimes would play this video multiple times a day. We both loved it, as it is powerful and the crowd shots are marvelous. Everyone was getting in to the music -- it was a religious experience!



Happy Friday to you all, and have a great weekend if at all possible. Make it happen.

Happy Thanksgivikng

I watched a story on the PBS News Hour the other night about US school teachers being educated on the true origins of our Thanksgiving Day holiday.   I feel confused and amazed that I, along with most other non-Indian Americans, have a very skewed idea about Thanksgiving, and that the misinformation continues to this day in public elementary schools.

So I did some research, and I learned some new information.  I'll let you do your own research if you want to, because the information is vast and it is out there, and I encourage you to see it for yourself.

The Thanksgiving Story is the story of the victor, as are most history stories.  It makes us all feel good about our origins -- unless you are a member of an Indigenous Tribe.  For them, it is a day of mourning.  It was the beginning of the end for our original inhabitants.  An end that began with English traders in the early 1600s kidnapping indigenous people and taking them to Europe to sell as slaves.  The first slaves in "America."  Before we even were America.

I'm not sorry if this bursts your myth bubble about this national holiday.  I'm not saying don't gather with your family and friends and have 'the feast.'  I'm saying, give a moment to the injured in this story, to the enslaved, to the murdered.  Understand how our country really operated to seize control of land that wasn't theirs.  It's okay.  As descendents, we are blameless in the original sin, but we do have an opportunity to see it, acknowledge it, and pay respect to the First Peoples of this land.

Now go eat your turkey and be thankful for all that you have in this life.  And have a heart for your native brothers and sisters. 

A New Outrage

An new outrage.  Every fucking day.

I don't know about you, but my Senators' phone lines are busy and / or the voicemail is full.  Every. Single. Time.

It helped today to read the "World" section of the NYT.  Shit going down elsewhere.  But the article about the populist movement in Europe was sobering. 

Speaking with my sister yesterday:  she is depressed.  Ever since the election.  I said, "Join the club.  You have millions of fellow members."  Attending the DC Women's March was the first time since November that I felt any kind of hope and/or power. 

Now we're watching in horror as an acting Attorney General is fired for doing her job properly and an un-vetted Steve Bannon gets a place at the table, thereby booting out the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

What fresh hell awaits each and every day?

I am happy to donate my money to organizations who will be keeping a sharp eye on this administration, and I am now a subscriber to major, credible news papers.  I anxiously await the political down fall of this corrupt gang.  Boil the tar!  Bring the feathers!

I am perplexed by those who appeal to us to maintain the "high road."  This is not the time, my friends.  I don't worry that my anger will poison me -- I worry that lack of outrage will turn into complacency, and that, my friends, is something we cannot allow.  There are times in this life when we must become warriors, fighters, fueled by our rage. 

This is not the time for a rousing version of Kumbaya.  This is the time for a robust and snarling We Shall Overcome.

I shall continue to nourish myself with exercise, good food, friends and family.  No one can take that away from me.  I'm just adding a new component to my existence, and it's called resistance.

Monday Musings

In an extraordinary burst of energy, I spent the entire day organizing 'stuff.'  Almost as if I were ready to drop a baby any day, or caught up in spring cleaning fervor (if only it were spring).  Every molecule in my body was screaming for order.  It must be the general air of disorder that is reflected in social media and 'journalism.'  My husband would probably prefer I not view 'the news' at all.  It drives us crazy and there's not anything we can do about the myriad predicaments we see.

Without order, the human race would not have survived. We have few natural defenses, and our ability to organize has allowed us the opportunity to create safety and stability for ourselves.  And so, the spices are now all accessible and in easy reach.  It was a simple joy last night to cook and have spices right there.  These little magnetic tin boxes are just the thing to sooth frayed nerves. No more frantic digging in the cupboard while working over a hot stove.  Peace and stability restored.

Next up: the pantry.  I moved the heavy items from the top shelf to the bottom.  Makes sense, yes?  I have been experiencing a bum arm for a few weeks and each time I reach for the gin bottled water, I pull something in my shoulder.  Ouch.  Of course, the gin bottled water takes care of the pain.

And the labels?  Yes, well, that is so I (and my husband) can remember where things go, after a few drinks of gin bottled water.

I tackled the freezer, where the martini glasses meat and frozen veg live.  I won't bother with a photo, it was just a necessity.   Turns out, we can eat from the freezer for weeks now.  We shall BUY NO MORE MEAT for weeks!

Last, but certainly not least, a small corner space of storage in the garage.  This is where I off-load the 9 of ten Pyrex dishes and the 16 out 15 non-stick fry pans (some day I will need them, really). And the paper goods.  Learning my lesson from the pantry (we do live in earthquake country) I put all the heavy stuff on the bottom after cleaning the shelves.  Paper goods up top.  No more spider webs and dust bunnies clinging to the plastic packaging on the toilet paper. 

Seemingly simple, the tasks of the day completely wore me out.  I slept like a log.  No gin bottled water for me last night.

I'd like to thank news coverage of Donald Trump, African refugees, gun violence, ISIS, and the latest emails from Hillary for driving my efforts.  Next time my home gets well out of order again, I'll pry my eyelids open and watch what we call "news and information" until the need for order kicks in again.

Monday Musings

"Hope for the best! expect the worst!
some drink champagne! some die of thirst!
No way of knowing which way it's going
Hope for the best! expect the worst!"  Mel Brookes, 12 Chairs

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

Recently I watched "Mel Brookes at the Geffin."  What a show.  I had recorded it last month and forgot all about it.  Mel always inspires: the silly, irreverent, deeply human foibles that we all have.  What a life he has led...and now he and his long-time buddy Carl Reiner have dinner together every night on t.v. trays and shoot the bull.  Wouldn't you like to be a fly on THAT wall?

We were given a project by Peter Turnley when we left Cuba:  find something, a project, to study and photograph.  Get to know someone, some thing, and know it deeply.  After hearing Mel talk about his dream to be in show business after watching Ethel Merman on stage when he was 9 years old, I want to take a leap of faith and ask Mel and Carl if I can hang out with them and photograph their dinners.  Why not?  I could reminisce with them about Broadway musicals (I'm an expert on productions of the 1940s, 50s and 60s) and laugh myself silly at their banter.  What a blast.

Anybody know how I can get in touch with Mel?

His song, above, he wrote for "12 Chairs" at the urging of his darling wife Anne Bancroft, made me think of the Cuban people (of course).  They have been dying of thirst for 50 some years.  No champagne for them.  Don't get me wrong, I am happy the dictator Batista was thrown out, he wasn't doing them any favors. But these people have had a very hard slog for an unbearably long time.  Yet they appear to be optimistic.  How is that?  Not all are, of course, but in general the people I saw and spoke to have a sense of shared struggle. 

Their grit and ingenuity have taken them far.  Their love of life, family and country has given them joy and perseverance. 

I wonder how U.S. citizens could handle such economic impoverishment?  Probably not well.

I wonder, and I worry, about the Cuban peoples' future.  What will an infusion of U.S. capital and influence bring?  How can we do it better than we did it last time?  Will the almighty dollar trump everything?  Cuba's (U.S. imposed) isolation has been catastrophic in terms of economic growth, but (from an outsiders point of view) perhaps its saving grace.  I don't want to romanticise poverty, but there is a certain, and deep, satisfaction from knowing that a people can tolerate and even thrive despite a mighty giant stepping on their collective neck for half a century.

I AM LEAVING BECAUSE THE EARTH IS NO LONGER MINE

Because my feet are tired,

My eyes are blind,

My mouth parched

And my body docile and light,

Ready to enter the air.

I am leaving because there are no paths left for me on earth.

I emerged from water, I have lived in blood

And now the Wind awaits to sweep me to the sun...

I emerged from the sea...and I will expire in the flames.

- Leon Felipe (a favorite poet of Che Guevara)

"Hope for the best.  Expect the worst.

The rich are blessed, the poor are cursed.
That is a fact, friends. The deck is stacked, friends.
Hope for the best.  Expect the worst."

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

"Hope for the best! Expect the worst!
Some drink champagne. Some die of thirst.
No way of knowing
which way it's going.
Hope for the best! Expect the worst!"

-- the opening stanza of the theme song from Mel Brooks's

The Twelve Chairs, written by -- who else? -- Mel Brooks

- See more at: http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2009/02/hope-for-best-expect-worst.html#sthash.Y4Qww8tp.dpuf

TGIF

A special TGIF, for it is the 25th anniversary of the Loma Prieta Earthquake that interrupted the World Series, and focused the attention of the nation upon the San Francisco Bay Area.  Some 90 odd miles south, in the southern Santa Cruz mountains, was the epicenter.  Just a few miles from my house.

This photo in the Sentinel newspaper, Santa Cruz, says it all: a shocked and stunned woman cops a squat on the main street in Santa Cruz, trying to wrap her head around what has just occurred.  See the dust in the air?  So many brick buildings fell, their mortar sending up a grey cloud over the town.

While my friends were riding out the quake in their little beach cottage, I was stepping off the curb at the shopping mall when the sound of a speeding train perked my interest.  I looked out over the vast parking lot and watched as a wave of asphalt rolled toward me.  Being Californian, I adopted the surfer stance and rode the wave.  My mind was spinning as the earth was rolling: how is it that solid ground can become an ocean wave?

I was at the mall because, two days before, I had moved out of the house I lived in with my husband.  We were on our way to breaking apart our 11 year marriage and I was buying new bed sheets -- a symbolic new start.  I wondered, momentarily, if this quake was a sign that I had made a grave mistake.  Magical thinking in times of stress.

I drove into Santa Cruz to retrieve my daughter, who, at 21 months of age, had been with her father that day.  It soon became apparent that this was a bigger, wider disaster than first imagined.  I ended up staying at my old house for the night, as the car was very low on gas and no gas station was open, due to the widespread power outage.  Luckily, the husband and I were still on good terms.  We lay fully clothed, in the living room (closer to the escape route), grabbing the baby as each after shock jolted us up and out the door.  Those aftershocks were frequent and significant.  We didn't sleep a wink that night.

The weeks and months ahead were astonishing.  Nothing like normal life existed.  We were all shell-shocked, in constant emergency mode.  I had my backpack packed with essentials, along with my hiking boots, sitting next to the front door.  Helicopters bringing aid were a frequent distraction overhead.  And then there were the after shocks.  They continued for weeks.

I was grateful we were alive, had a roof over our heads, and had friends to weather the storm with.  Life was broken down to its elemental parts.  Nothing like a natural disaster to focus the mind.

And now, that little baby is a grown woman, married with a child of her own.  25 years of living under my belt, and I no longer have PTSD.  I no longer break out in a sweat when I hear a large truck or a helicopter.  I can hardly believe I experienced it.  I remember the stories of many of my friends, where they were, how they experienced it. 

What a time. 

Thank goodness it's Friday.  And we are whole.  Again.

Have a great weekend!

Moving Mountains

My husband took this photo of me yesterday, while we were at breakfast with the bike club.  It took some amount of effort on my part to get my butt out the door, but I did it by chanting something I learned in group therapy, "Do the opposite, do the opposite."  So when my grumpy old self whined, "I don't wanna go to breakfast!" I headed myself off at the pass.

And I'm glad I did.  We shopped at the Farmer's Market and picked up some excellent lamb, potatoes, pears, onions, a plum.  I used the slow cooker and made a delicious lamb stew that melted in our mouths at dinner time.

While the mister was busy busy busy taking care of business, I sat outside with my book, Mountains beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder, about Dr. Paul Farmer.  Farmer has dedicated his life to providing medical care, health education and improved living conditions to the poorest of the poor in Haiti.  It's inspirational, and a darned good read.  This man is motivation on steroids.  The book was listed on one of my friend's "favorite books" list, which is why I picked it up at the library.  And when I have little to no energy and want to stay quiet and small, it is a balm to read about good people in the world.  Add that to an afternoon nap on top of the down comforter with my little chihuahua breathing softly, the fragrant stew smells wafting through the house, and you've got a recipe for healing. 

From Each...To Each

In case you've been on a space visit to another planet, you have heard about the Ice Bucket challenge to raise money for ALS research.  I donated enough dough last week to a film maker who promised to do the challenge if she got an Assoc. Producer to help fund her film.  So I became that donor. That wasn't really the reason I donated; I donated because I believe in her project and want to see it completed and seen by audiences.

But back to ice bucket challenge:  I'm now seeing articles that state that only 27% of money raised by the ALS Association actually go into ALS research.  A lot of the other money goes into lobbying efforts, to get the policy makers on board and hopefully get legislation that would lead to more funding for research, presumably.

I think everyone who has participated in the challenge is doing it for a good reason -- they want to help, and they are helping, somewhat.  But the thing as gone so bloody viral and people have no time or inclination to research (ha) the organization the money is funding.  Myself included.  I have mixed feelings about what seems to be a paltry percentage going to actual research.  I don't know how other organizations do it, like March of Dimes, American Diabetes Assoc., etc.  I looked up the MS Society and see that they claim 83% of donations go to "Research/Programs/Education."  Within that 83%, what percentage goes to research?  And what are the programs and education components?  I'd like to see more transparency.

My blogger friend Elizabeth had a post recently talking about the fight for public money for all the various diseases out there.  Her friend Yvonne makes a compelling argument for public funding of research dollars as opposed to relying on individual donations when making research decisions.  But this is America, and that would be socialized medicine, don't you know?  The stuff of commie pinko nations with poor, devastated national health care systems with a high percentage of bad outcomes?  (If you believe this, watch "Sicko.")

The problem of funding health care and research is a complex one.  I feel the same way about funding education in this country.  Why should it be left up to how much funding in property tax a school district can expect?  Why isn't there a national education policy that ensures equal access to education for all citizens K-12 and college as well?  People coming up through the school system are the future of this country, yet we invest paltry dollars into providing them with a world class education.

I don't know where I'm going with all of this, but I do know that I have made an investment in Laine's documentary that I can feel proud of.  Whether it gets made or not, I'm helping her crew with their filming costs and it's a risk I'm happy to take in hopes that the film is produced.  If you'd like to see information about her documentary, and how you can help, go to this link.  There are many levels to donate, and she would be happy with whatever you can do.  So would I.

I call on all my creative friends to seriously consider a donation.  WE know how hard it is to get our work made and out there in the world.  Help a fellow artist in her quest -- I think it will be an inspiring and uplifting documentary film and I can't wait!

As Time Goes By

Posting about my grandson got me to thinking about how fast a life goes by.  He's so big now...of course I went back and looked at photos of the newborn he once was, and me holding him moments after his arrival.

The photo here is of my daughter when she was about his age now.  It was taken on a camping trip to Mono Hot Springs and she is playing the hippie chick oh so well.

I have a gazillion photos of my girl.  They take me back to some pretty sweet memories.  She's doing the same with her son.  It all passes so quickly.  I remember people telling me that when I 1.) graduated from High School 2.) got married 3.) graduated from college, 4.) had my baby.  Each time, I thought, "yeah yeah yeah."  But now I know how true it is.  I try to keep it to myself.

Bygone Days

This is a photo from, oh, maybe 9 years ago.  My daughter, her boyfriend (now her husband) and their friends getting ready to go to the high school's winter formal.  We were at my house, with our nice big tree all glammed up for the season.  Don't 'the kids' look lovely?  Makes me kind of weepy....where has the time gone?

My tree this year (and for the past 3) is about 20 inches tall and cost ten whole dollars at CVS.  My times have changed.  Sometimes I miss being part of a family -- the kids coming and going, the dogs running around with the cats, my wife and I sprawled on the sofa watching television.  I wonder if I'll ever have some of that again.  Certainly I'm fine without the kids part, but some grand kids running around wouldn't be half bad.  Someone to curl up next to each night wouldn't be half bad, either.

The holidays bring out a certain sadness about my single status, until I remember the struggle it was to get my spouse(s) to enter into the spirit of the season.  Seems like I was always draggin' 'em, kicking and screaming, to show some Christmas cheer.  Although there were some really fun Christmas mornings, like the one where my then wife gave my daughter a box filled with one dollar bills.  She, of course, threw them into the air.  Or the time my daughter gave her step-mom a case of beer for a present.  Fitting.

This year, my parents' neighborhood has gone all out with the lights and decorations.  I'll try and get a photo to post.  Sacramento boasts some gorgeous Christmas light displays, with neighborhoods competing with one another.  Many neighborhoods coordinate their lights and it creates quite the festive mood.  Perfect for night strolling, except tonight is going to be too cold to actually go out.  Last night it was 28F (-2.22C).  It's been even lower than that over the past week.  But at least we're not an hour up into the mountains, where snow is abundant and temps are in single digits.  Where some people's furnaces are not working.

I was walking the dog (twice today), donned in my thermal underwear, jeans, turtleneck sweater, winter coat, knit hat, gloves and warm boots.  I was still freezing my ass off.  Welcome to December.

Fukushima and Dog Food

The latest from Bill Moyers on what we need to know about the Fukushima Power Plant problems.  Now, I'll admit, I passed on some bogus information this week on Facebook about the level of contamination in fish on America's west coast due to radiation from the broken power plant.  Clare Kines kindly linked me to Snopes, which I usually check on this sort of thing.  Thank you, Clare.  But that is not to say that there are not serious serious problems with the leakage from the plant, and the possibility of more leakage in the future.  I think the scariest part of the story for me is:

"The Earthquake Research Institute at the University of Tokyo said earlier this year that there’s a 70 percent chance a 7.0-magnitude or higher quake will strike Tokyo, near Fukushima, by 2016. Should the fourth reactor collapse, Suzuki said, it would be “bye bye Japan,” and “everybody on the west coast of North America should evacuate. Now if that isn’t terrifying, I don’t know what is.”

 Meanwhile, in the thriving burg of Sacramento, I spend my day researching homemade raw dog food and purchasing vitamin/mineral and fish oil supplements.  Feels a bit like fiddling when Rome is burning.  However, my little pooch has grown very very picky about her food, and will not eat much of the store bought variety.  I switched her to white rice (brown is too much for their digestive systems) and ground turkey which she loves.  Gobbles it up.  So, I decided to do a little research and by golly, there are all kinds of recipes out there for raw and cooked food for dogs.  Yes, Virginia, dogs did eat meat before commercial dog food was developed about 1860.  And, oh my, but there is a lot of frothing at the mouth when it comes to advocating various diets for dogs.  Just like foodnazis, there are dogfoodnazis.  Brown v. white rice, veg or no veg, raw or cooked, bones or not.  Shoot.  I'm picking the simpliest (ground raw meat, cooked white rice, hard boiled eggs -shells included- mashed and adding the tiniest amount of nutritional supplements for vitamins/minerals, probiotics etc.)  I kind of feel like those super conscientious moms who made all their own baby food for their little sprouts.  I did a little of that, but was not opposed to popping open a jar of Gerber when needed.

The world may be going to hell in a hand-basket, but while it does, my little buddy is going to eat well.  And I hope it will benefit her health as much as all the pundits say it will.  She is my little miracle*, after all. 

 *A warm living being that adores you and wants to be with you at all times.  A being that will lick your face and make you feel like the most wonderful person on the planet.  A being that radiates JOY.