I didn't see the asterisk*

Be Careful What You Wish For

2012-02-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

When I once dreamed of sharing my life with a significant other, I never quite pictured my veterinarian as the man in mind. Alas, Dr. Arnott has indeed become the most steadfast, reliable and longest relationship I've had in recent years.

And I don't mean in a holding-hands-while-strolling-the-beach-at-sunset kind of way.

It's been a roller coaster whirlwind of emotions ever since Elvis was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma (tonsil cancer) last November. There have been horrific days when I truly thought this was "goodbye," and glorious moments when I've almost believed my sweet pup might beat this demon. We were relishing those better moments up until last Wednesday night.

I was lying next to my boy on his La-Z-Dog recliner, cradling his head in my arms and rubbing his belly as is our nightly ritual. Elvis just eats this up. Whenever I stop, he raises his head and nudges my chin with his needle nose. "Carry on," is the obvious message. But this time when he raised his head, I saw that the crook of my arm, from elbow to wrist, was wet. Soaked.

In blood.

The incision on his neck was leaking. Gushing, actually, a pink watery fluid. Don'tpanicdon't panicdon'tpanic.

And I didn't. Instead, I remembered to use a sanitary napkin as a makeshift bandage (a most handy tip from a pet first aid class) and wrapped his neck with gauze. This enabled me to avoid a pricey trip to Emergency and safely control the leak until morning when I could take him to see my significant other. Dr. Arnott drained the remaining fluid from Elvis' neck, cleaned and wrapped the site, and reminded me that this leaking business is good: the chemo is dissolving the tumor.

Alleluia, right? Except the leaking hasn't subsided.

Over the past 12 days, I've taken Elvis to Oak Tree Animal Hospital every single night, except Sundays when the clinic is closed, to have his incision drained and cleaned. It's getting to be our daily ritual: work all day, drive my one-hour commute home, pick up Elvis, rush to vet, drain, clean, wrap.

Sigh. And we were there again tonight.

But trust me, I'm not complaining. I'll do whatever it takes to keep my boy comfortable. However, I have learned one thing:

The next time I wish for a steady man in my life, I'll be a little more specific.

Best Birthday, Ever

2012-01-30T19:58:00.001-08:00

Yeah, today's my birthday and a good one it was. Great, one might even say, if one could ignore the personally addressed solicitation from Lone Tree Cemetery in Hayward that arrived, alongside flowers and birthday greetings, announcing, "Hurry, special 50% offer ends February 29!"

Seriously, folks.

That faux paux aside, family and friends spoiled me, reminding me (as if I could forget) that I am indeed surrounded by the cream of the crop. Pretty damned lucky, yes.

But, I have to confess, the star of the show was Elvis. And you have to understand why.

Last Friday morning, I was getting ready to leave for work when I went to say goodbye to Olivia, then Elvis when OMIGOD what was that? An angry looking, swollen, walnut-sized lump had sprouted overnight on the incision site on his neck. Gingerly, I touched the intruder. It was hot. Soft. Bulging. It didn't appear to be causing him pain, but damn, the thing was huge.

I sent a text to my manager explaining I'd be late, but in my heart I didn't really think I'd be late. I didn't think I'd be coming in at all. Because while driving Elvis to Dr. Arnott's office, I was convinced that this was "it." He would tell me that the tumor had returned and it was best to just accept the inevitable and put my boy out of his misery. Now.

And I was prepared to do just that. Wore my glasses because I can't see clearly when I'm wearing my contacts and crying. Wore my mom's special necklace because I want her spirit with me when I send Elvis into her arms. And tried to ignore that sick throbbing knot in the pit of my stomach.

After Dr. Arnott examined Elvis, I steadied myself for the words I've been dreading. I certainly wasn't expecting, "This might be good."

What?

He suspected that the lump was filled with the disintegrating remains of the tumor. Remains that were killed by the new chemo Elvis had two weeks ago. "I think it's working," Dr. Arnott said incredulously while extracting the liquid. "There's no other explanation for this fluid." He reminded me that this cancer is not curable, but the chemo appeared to be having the desired effect: stunting the growth of the tumor and buying time.

This weekend, Elvis polished off every morsel I put before him, eating with a gusto that made my heart sing. We took walks, albeit slow, but steady, and I let him take the lead and go where he wanted to go. He's a smart boy. He knows which routes are long, which paths are peppered with the lemon grass he loves to nibble on, and which are the shortcuts that take a measly 15 minutes.

Of course, he chose the long paths. With Olivia by my side, obediently restraining her youthful energy, it took us two hours to complete a simple two-mile walk. But the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and Elvis was relishing every nibble, every sniff, every step.

As was I.

This was a gift I didn't see coming. And one that helped make this such a great birthday.

The Vegetarian at the Butcher Shop

2012-01-24T19:03:00.000-08:00

Years ago, I read an interview with the country singer, Naomi Judd. And don't quote me here, but I recall a line where she said something about being a vegetarian "...but not a fanatic."

The concept resonated because, uh, that would be me. As a most-of-the-time vegetarian, I do occasionally succumb to a Caesar chicken salad, Casper's Hot Dog or backyard barbecued hamburger. Smothered in ketchup. Yum.

But most of the time I'm straight-up, hard-core veggies. My original reason for going vegetarian was simple. I felt better. Healthier. Leaner. It was only after watching the horrific, eye-opening documentary, Food Inc. that I understood and embraced the humanitarian aspects of vegetarianism.

Now, when I do make that rare meat or poultry purchase, I drive out of my way to shop at the grocery store nicknamed "Whole Paycheck." I'll spend the extra money for products with those buzz words: free-range, grass fed, cage free, and trust that it's true. I can only hope that somewhere, a cow or chicken didn't suffer for my lapse.

Lately, however, I'm pressed for time and shopping at the grocery store closest to home, grabbing any beef or chicken that's readily available, buzz words be damned. I'm in the kitchen, grilling, frying, roasting and searing, using techniques that are foreign to my brown rice-tofu-eating ways.

I'm doing anything I can to entice Elvis to eat.

His throat is still bothering him from his recent surgery and kibble is an obvious irritant. Ah, but ground beef with mashed potatoes soaked in chicken broth? It takes him awhile, but slowly, surely, he licks his bowl clean. Much to the dismay of Olivia, I might add, who watches his every move hoping for a stray morsel.

This is why, with apologies to all the cows and chickens out there, this most-of-the-time vegetarian is temporarily forsaking her ways and surrendering to the dark side, if only for the sake of my dog. Because these days, there's only one buzz word I care about.

And that's Elvis.

Quality Time

2012-01-19T21:40:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling sad tonight, so very sad.

Took Elvis to the vet this afternoon to get the stitches removed from the throat surgery he had two weeks ago, and to have his general condition evaluated.

It's been my observation that he just hasn't bounced back from this second operation, but what do I know? I"m just his "mom" after all, and not a veterinary professional. Maybe Dr. Arnott would see something I wasn't seeing, something good. Something optimistic. Something to give me hope that my boy might be okay after all.

"We probably shouldn't continue the chemo," he sighed after looking Elvis over. "It's not having the effect we were hoping for."

I knew that. In my heart, I knew that.

Yet still, I've been hoping against hope that the chemo might buy me some extra quality time with this dog I love so very much. Time to enjoy leisurely walks to the park. Time to watch him devour his meals with gusto. Time to relish his playful greetings when I come home from work each night, and time to lay alongside him on his La-Z-Dog recliner and feel my blood pressure drop while holding my beautiful boy.

But I've seen none of this over the past two weeks. He's been sluggish, quiet, morose. Nibbling at his food and disinterested in walks, just stretched across his pillow, barely breathing it sometimes seems. He doesn't appear to be in discomfort or pain, however, this isn't the Quality Time I envisioned for Elvis. And it certainly isn't what I want for him.

Tonight was a turning point because I've resigned myself to the inevitable. I'm not going to subject Elvis to anymore invasive chemo treatments or stressful vet visits. Instead, I'll embrace what time we have left, spoil him rotten, and try to take comfort in the fact that when Elvis does cross the Rainbow Bridge, I'll be handing him off to my mom, who will be waiting on the other side with open arms. I know she'll take good care of her cherished "grandpuppy."

Until then, he's mine. And I'm treasuring every minute.

A Weekend for the Dogs

2012-01-16T16:49:00.001-08:00

I had so many things planned for this glorious three-day weekend, so many things.

For starters, there was a much-anticipated Saturday lunch date with my good friend, Terry. Not to mention errands to run, closets to clean, cars to wash and plants to prune. And my home office? Yikes. I had drawers to organize, papers to file, documents to shred and columns to write. Many, many columns. Oh yes, it was going to be such a productive weekend.

I did none of the above.

Instead, I rescheduled my date with Terry, forfeited all pending projects, and spent almost every minute with my greyhounds, Elvis and Olivia. My gut told me this was what I should do.

And so I did.

I took advantage of the unseasonably warm 70-degree weather and satisfied Olivia's youthful energy with long, leisurely, sun-filled walks. We hiked around the Lafayette reservoir, explored new streets in my neighborhood, and traipsed down the Iron Horse Trail.

When I wasn't walking Olivia, I was at home lying next to my elderly boy Elvis on his La-Z-Dog recliner. With one hand, I used my iPhone to capture blurry self-portraits of this special time while cradling his head in the crook of my free arm. I literally spent hours rubbing his tummy, skritching his ears and massaging his neck; telling him what a good boy he is and how much I love him. Elvis ate it up. Whenever my hand tired of the circular belly rubs, he would raise his head to nudge my chin with his needle nose, clearly saying, "You're not stopping, are you?" Uh, of course not. And I would resume.

Yes, it was a perfect three days, even if I did feel a bit guilty for letting so many errands slide. That is, until my friend Sharon helped put things in perspective.

"Who says every weekend has to be productive?" she emailed. "Instead, have a memorable weekend like this. You won't remember those where you run errands and clean, but you will remember one where you devoted all your time to those precious to you."

And she's right. So the closets didn't get cleaned and the car didn't get washed. Instead, I bonded with my new dog and spent cherished time with my beloved older boy who is fighting cancer. It was, indeed, a wonderful weekend.

Productive? Maybe not. But priceless? Absolutely.

Doing Right By My Boy

2012-01-10T21:50:00.001-08:00

Ever since Elvis had his second surgery for a cancerous tumor on Friday, I've been observing his slow recovery, kicking myself and agonizing:

Did I do the right thing?

Friends who called over the weekend to check on Elvis wound up getting an ear full of tears as I sobbed my concern that I shouldn't have put him through such a brutal procedure. I should have just accepted the inevitable, kissed my sweet companion goodbye, and put him to sleep.

Wonderful friends that I have, they reassured me that I made the best decision based on the information available at that time. No one anticipated the viciousness of this second tumor. And Elvis might bounce back, they reminded me. There might still be some quality time ahead.

Still, I've felt nothing but remorse. Did I do the second surgery for Elvis...or for me?

This is why I was so grateful for a website comment I found the other night. It was in response to my recent column about Elvis that ran in the San Francisco Chronicle a couple weeks ago:

"Eileen, like so many others, I have loved Elvis for years and hope for his happiness and comfort as long as you can be together. I know that any decisions you make will be with his best in mind.The years you have shared him and Lucy with us are precious. The gift of all the other critters' tales has been made all the more special because of the love you have shared with him. We KNOW you "get it."

The stories of your discoveries through Elvis, and all that came later (your mother and Lucy), empower us to do better with our own families (human and otherwise). Thank you. Give Elvis a skritch from us, keep us posted on the ups and downs. And may you both be fortunate enough to be there when he sleeps his last... (hopefully not too soon)."

These kind words stopped my tears, warmed my heart, and lifted the temporary amnesia that my tears had induced: it took an anonymous stranger to remind me that everything I've ever done has always been in the best interest of my beautiful boy. When that day comes and Elvis is ready to go, he'll let me know and I'll do right by him.

Just as he's always done by me.

Round 2: Elvis in the Ring

2012-01-07T07:47:00.001-08:00

It came back. Just three weeks after Dr. Arnott excised a walnut-sized cancerous tumor from my beloved dog's throat, the damn thing came back. In spite of the operation. In spite of chemo. In spite of a tumor-fighting anti-inflammatory. Larger, uglier and nastier than its predecessor.

It came back.

And practically overnight, it seemed. Up until last Tuesday, Elvis hasn't just been doing okay--he's been thriving. Thriving! Prancing around the house like a pup with his favorite toy clenched between his teeth, trotting on two-mile walks with a renewed vigor I haven't seen in months, and eating like a horse. I've been over-the-top ecstatic to see my lovely boy doing so great.

Until Wednesday.

Without warning, Elvis started coughing. Hocking. Hacking. He didn't eat his dinner and had a restless night. The following day, Dr. Arnott consulted with UC Davis Oncology and they suggested removing the second tumor and trying a different chemo.

Put Elvis through another surgery? I looked at my gasping, choking dog, in obvious distress, and considered how beautifully he recovered from his last operation six weeks ago. How well he's been, how playful and exuberant. It was either take the advice of UC Davis or...say goodbye to my beautiful boy. Now. I was crying. The entire staff was teary-eyed. I just couldn't do it, not yet.

And so, Elvis had a second surgery yesterday. Afterwards, Dr. Arnott told me that this tumor was more invasive than the last. This one was determined, angry and vicious, entwined with arteries and threaded among muscle.

This morning, as I watched Elvis sleep, I kissed his knobby head and cringed at the brutal scar ripped across his throat. Did I do the right thing? All along I've known that this particular cancer can't be cured. I'm doing what I can only to provide Elvis with a quality life before his time comes. And that's what I've witnessed this past six weeks--the Elvis I knew when he was young, vibrant and healthy.

Just a little more time. Please. That's all I ask. Just a little more time with my very special boy.

2012 Horoscopes

2012-01-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

I'd like to establish right now,horoscopes? Don't read 'em, don't follow 'em. Period.

Oh, I used to, in a light-hearted, whimsical sort of way. I would peruse my daily horoscope each day, optimistically believing the good stuff while using my rose-colored glasses to filter the rest. That is, until 2009, when every single horoscope promised that this year would be my Best Year Ever.

Seriously, each daily horoscope was so titillatingly convincing, I actually started wondering if maybe the stars knew something that I didn't. Could 2009 indeed be shaping up to be my Best Year Ever?

I was cautiously curious.

But in 2009 my mother--my best friend, my confidant, my counselor--died unexpectedly, throwing me into an emotional tailspin that I still haven't quite recovered from, and perhaps never will. And I stopped reading horoscopes, even for fun.

The false promises felt mocking.

But today, on this first bright, brisk morning of 2012, I found myself slipping into old habits and sneaking a peek at my horoscope for the New Year. For posterity, proof, or simply for the record, here it is:

Aquarius by Minerva
Home is where your heart is through much of 2012. You go merrily about buying and refurbishing homes, mending fences and families, canning peaches, joining the PTA, etc. Sound ho-hum? You won't think so--until June, when you get a sudden urge to party!

Your spring break comes late and lasts till Christmas. Come 2013, you'll not only have a new young energy in your life--very possibly a lover--but a hobby or creative interest will take off big time.

Make a big decision on January 22 and expect to reap the results July 11.

Uh yeah. Okay. Sounds good, but whatever. I guess there's no harm in hoping for the best (and preparing for the worst), eh?

What do the stars bode for you in 2012?

Toodle-oo 2011

2011-12-31T19:00:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah, what a year. And I don't mean in a swell "let's do that again!" kind of way.

Without rehashing the details let's just say it's been a challenging year, from the death of one beloved dog, a terminal cancer in another, and the discovery of an extremely rare blood disease in myself.

Sometimes I've felt like the locusts must be right around the corner.

But around that same corner are people who have provided love and support during trying times: such as the countless expressions of sympathy I received when Lucy died, and the sincere concern and dismay expressed over Elvis' battle with cancer. My friends understand what my dogs mean to me.

There's my best friend, Pam, who took precious vacation days so she could sit with me during my own chemo treatments. Deb, who felt so helpless across the country in her new North Carolina home and downloaded books on her personal iPod so I'd have something to listen to during the five-hour sessions. My beloved "baby" sister Jennifer, who accompanied me to doctor appointments, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be okay.

Not to mention all the others who checked in constantly when they learned of my blood disorder and subsequent treatment; Calling, emailing, texting, asking how I was and what could they do for me. Not realizing they were already doing the most important thing:

Reminding me that I am loved.

And so, on this final day of 2011, this is what I want to remember: not the sadness, stress and tears, but the warm glow of love that emanates from my family and friends. This is what matters. This is what makes me strong. Happy. Blessed.

To you and yours, a very Happy 2012.

Love,
Eileen, Elvis & Olivia

Elvis Fights the Good Fight

2011-12-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

This past Thanksgiving weekend, when Elvis was diagnosed with an aggressive tonsil cancer, my vet consulted with U.C. Davis School of Veterinary Medicine Oncology. After all, if anyone would know anything about anything, it would be them. And he was told that despite the seriousness of this particular cancer, chemo might buy my beautiful boy some quality time.

That was all I needed to hear. Quality time? Let's do it.

And so, I scheduled a three-hour drip chemo for Elvis that following week and he responded beautifully. Not only did he dodge potential side effects, but he appeared to be feeling better than ever. He was excited about walks, enthusiastic about food, and was traipsing around the house with a playfulness I hadn't seen in months. I was over-the-top delighted and encouraged.

Maybe my boy would be sticking around for awhile, after all.

And so, I was feeling pretty good this afternoon when I picked Elvis up from his second chemo treatment at my vet's office. We were fighting the good fight, doing all possible to delay this cancerous spread and, by all counts, we appeared to be holding down the fort. That's why I was blindsided by Dr. Arnott's news.

The tumor was back.

Already the size of a walnut, the cancerous demon has returned to the same spot where he excised a fist-sized tumor just three weeks ago. The chemo isn't helping, he told me. If it was, the tumor wouldn't have returned so quickly.

Dr. Arnott is calling U.C. Davis for further advice when they reopen after the holidays, but he warned me: there's not much else we can do to treat Elvis. As we were having this dire discussion, my sweet boy just stood there looking at me, anxious to leave and eager for a walk.

I took him on his walk and observed how deceptively healthy he looked. I admired his gentle beauty and thought about the little things he does that have become so entrenched in my life; the way he taps my face with his nose every night, when I'm in bed, before retiring to his La-Z-Dog Recliner. His happy little dance when I say the word, "cookie." The way he tucks his needle nose between my knees so I can scratch that spot between his ears.

I tried to imagine a life without Elvis and couldn't.

Our walk over, I brought him home. Held him. And cried.

Who Needs Reindeer?

2011-12-14T06:24:00.000-08:00

Who needs those reindeer slackers when Santa Paws has ex-racer greyhounds that clock in at 45 miles per hour?

Season's Greetings,

Love, Eileen, Elvis and Olivia

A Decision to Live With

2011-12-03T15:04:00.001-08:00

I always thought that when the dreaded time came to say goodbye to Elvis, I'd let my sweet greyhound go peacefully. Gracefully.

I would recognize how lucky I was to share all those wonderful years with this special dog, kiss my beautiful boy on his needle nose, and hold him tight as he embarked on a new journey. One that would entail racing off to join my mother who, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, will be eagerly awaiting his arrival on the other side with arms outstretched. Anxious to once again embrace her beloved "grandpuppy."

But I now realize that what I think I'm going to do and what I'm actually capable of doing are two entirely different things.

I can't let Elvis go. Not yet. Not without a fight.

Not while he's still the happy, affectionate dog he's always been: eager for walks, anxious to eat and ready to play. That's why I've decided that so long as his quality of life isn't compromised, I will do whatever it takes and whatever it costs to fight his cancer and extend his life.

I can't live with myself if I don't try.

This is why I've scheduled Elvis for his first chemo session on Tuesday. If he tolerates it with no ill side effects, he'll have four more sessions, spaced three weeks apart. This treatment could buy him several months of quality time. Every new day I get with Elvis with be a precious gift, accompanied with the knowledge that I'm doing the very best that I can for my boy.

And at the end of the day, I can live with that.

Post Feast

2011-11-25T08:24:00.001-08:00

You have your Black Friday and I have mine.

Happy Thanksgiving 2011

2011-11-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a joyous Thanksgiving Day filled with the love of family and friends.

~Eileen, Elvis & Olivia

From Joy to Despair

2011-11-22T18:03:00.001-08:00

I had planned on using this post to introduce my new ex-racer greyhound, Olivia. I was going to describe her sweet disposition, beautiful, brindle coat, and her four dainty paws that look like they've been dipped in milk. Not to mention the impressive fact that she hasn't yet had an accident in the house or chewed one single shoe.

I was going to boast that the lovely Olivia is a canine dream come true. But I can't write any of that. Not today, because my heart is breaking.

This morning I took Elvis to the vet to treat what was diagnosed last Friday as a mild case of doggie bronchitis. He appeared to be getting worse, so I thought another check-up before the offices close for Thanksgiving might be a good idea.

But instead of bronchitis, both Dr. Arnott and I were shocked to discover that, just since Friday, an ugly mass the size of a plum had sprouted on my pup's neck. Emergency surgery revealed it was just the tip of an even uglier tumor inside his throat. Dr. Arnott removed as much of the beast as he could, but said the roots extended far too deep to get it all.

Then he phoned with the news.

My beloved boy has a terminal and very aggressive tonsil cancer. Chemo and radiation aren't viable options, not for this type of cancer and certainly not for a 12-year old dog.

This afternoon, I returned to the clinic to visit Elvis since he has to spend the night hooked up to an IV. I laid on the floor near his crate and held his head against my chest until his agitated breathing slowed down and he started to relax. Through my tears, I stroked him, kissed him, and told him what a good boy he is and how much I love him. Oh, how I do.

And in his weakened, groggy, doped up state, Elvis managed to lift his paw and lay it across my arm. Letting me know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

My boy, my precious boy. He loves me too.

A New Face a Comin'

2011-11-19T13:53:00.000-08:00

The cat's out of the bag. Or rather, the dog that is. If you read my November 9th Pet Tales column in The San Francisco Chronicle, you know that I caved in. The clean house, free time and extra money just got to be too much. I couldn't stand it any longer.

I had to get another dog.

So I got on the horn with Stu Homer of Golden State Greyhound Adoption and submitted my request for an ex-racer greyhound. Other than requesting a small dog, since Elvis is already a big boy, I had no idea what I might be getting. That is, until Stu phoned last week to tell me my new dog had been selected. I'm pretty sure he said it was a female and I know he said it was brindle-colored and coming from Florida. I don't remember much because only his last words made a real impression:

"She's Lucy's cousin."

Now, I know that this fact doesn't amount to a hill of beans. And yet, it matters. I'm thrilled that my new dog is related to the sweet pup I lost to a wicked liver disease this past July. Even if it's nothing more than invisible doggie DNA, a little piece of my beloved girl will continue living in my home and soon, in my arms.

Because she arrives today. Stay tuned....

Hunting Season

2011-11-13T10:20:00.001-08:00

The other morning I was making my usual pre-dawn drive through a windy, woodsy canyon when, through the early morning mist, I came upon a breath-taking sight: A majestic buck, grazing in a field with a doe at his side. Had there been a spot to pull over, I would have done so, just to absorb and enjoy the tranquil moment.

I drove on, but the lovely image lingered in my mind, as did a gruesome thought: What I had appreciated as a snapshot from God would be seen by some as an opportunity for venison on the plate.

And I mused...how can anyone take pleasure in killing these beautiful creatures and call it a sport?

Karma, baby, karma.

A Different Kind of Scary

2011-11-11T14:34:00.000-08:00

There I was, watching that new creepy TV show, American Horror Story on the FX channel, when a commercial break began. And so I did what I always do: Channel-surfed. I was flipping through channels faster than a Kim Kardashian marriage when, oooooh, pretty lights, pretty lights!

Backtracking, I found myself on the infamous home-shopping network, QVC. Quality! Value! Convenience!

The pretty lights were a set of four, 16" battery-operated window candles with timer in an attractive brushed bronze base. Hmmm, I could use those. Couldn't I? Not really. Well, maybe. Considering that I'm cut from the coupon-clipping, sales-seeking, gotta-save-for-a-rainy-day cloth, I can't explain what compelled me to reach for my phone and dial the 800 number.

But I did.

Immediately, I was welcomed by a cheery attendant who asked for my phone number. When I recited it, he greeted me by name and asked if I still lived at the same address.

Uh, yeah.

Was I looking at the set of four, 16" battery-operated window candles with timer in an attractive brushed bronze base?

Uh, yeah.

And would this be on the same credit card?

Uh, yeah.

He then advised that my order would arrive on November 26, thanked me for shopping at QVC, and hung up.

Stunned at my impulsiveness, coupled with the speed and simplicity of what just transpired, I flipped back to the FX channel. The commercial break was wrapping up and the program was about to resume. I couldn't help but note the irony: American Horror Story?

Uh, yeah.

A Clear and (non) Present Danger

2011-11-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

I see him every day when I walk my greyhound, Elvis; a big, brawny, bowl-legged Boxer that greets us with angry, deep-chested growls as he slams his massive body against the fence. Each day I note, with just a hint of apprehension, that one of the planks in the fence is loose. The very plank that the Boxer targets, mind you.

No dummy, he.

But there's no way to avoid this house if I want to take Elvis to the park. And so, I walk my boy as quickly as his elderly legs will allow. Which, trust me, isn't fast enough for my comfort.

One day as we approached the house, my heart skipped a beat. There was no growling, no barking, no body slamming. Instead, I saw a gaping hole where the plank once was and noted the ominous absence of our nemesis, the Boxer. Uh oh.

Then I saw him--across the street on a neighbor's lawn. He was upright and alert, staring straight at me and Elvis. Panicked, I looked around for help, but the neighborhood was completely deserted. I had nothing to protect Elvis or myself, and doubted I could do much harm to the Boxer by pummeling him with the bag of poop I was carrying. I had no choice but to continue in the direction of the Boxer.

Slowly, I led Elvis forward.

And immediately, the Boxer reacted...by bolting in the opposite direction and hiding behind a hedge! I could see the whites of his eyes as he peeked at us through the branches. Then, when he heard his owner calling his name, he raced across the street and into her open arms.

Since that day, the fence has been repaired and the Boxer still greets me and Elvis with angry, deep-chested growls. But I'm no longer afraid and pay no attention. And after a few seconds the Boxer recognizes us and stops barking. He just stands there, watching us walk by. The jig is up.

We both know the truth.

Soul-Searching in the Chemo Ward

2011-11-04T18:21:00.001-07:00

Went into my second round of chemo today with a bit of apprehension after last week's episode. The nurse said reactions are typical the first time out and I'd probably be fine, but I did note that she sat me next to her station, "Just in case."

So I crossed my fingers and nestled in for the long haul, the IV of toxic sludge hooked to my right arm and a stack of books and magazines piled to my left. Not an ideal way to spend a crisp autumn morning, sure. But any doubts I had about treating my blood disorder with something as potent as chemo were laid to rest earlier this week with a reminder of what MGUS is doing to my body.

I was sitting on the sofa,watching one of my favorite shows, Parenthood, when I noted that my feet felt like blocks of ice. Lacking any ready volunteers to heat them with a massage, I rubbed one between my warm hands and realized, with a jolt, that my foot didn't feel a thing. Nothing.

It felt like I was holding someone else's icy foot between my hands.

I've been warned that only one third of people with MGUS respond positively to chemo. But that night, holding "someone else's foot" in my hands, confirmed my decision to proceed with treatment. It's my only hope. If I don't respond, nerves will continue to be destroyed and, well, I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it.

But really, I'm one of the lucky ones. MGUS is not terminal. It's only, as Dr. Bee Gee expressed, "a major drag." As I looked around the chemo ward, I saw people of all ages fighting real life-or-death battles: Shrunken frames, bald heads, and sunken eyes filled with nausea, fatigue and despair. Spouses, partners, families and friends sitting by their sides, holding their hands and hoping for a miracle. While I'm reading Budget Travel magazine and dreaming about my next vacation, these people around me are dreaming about survival.

Puts things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, a numb foot might be a "major drag," but it sure beats the alternative.

Round One in the Ward

2011-10-29T18:53:00.001-07:00

Chemotherapy. The very word sounds lethal, conjuring up painful visions of cancer patients suffering through nausea, and hair and weight loss in their fight for survival.

The only treatment known for MGUS, the blood disorder I've been diagnosed with, is chemo. But the good news is that it's a "chemo-lite" called Rituxan. No nausea. No hair loss. The only long-term casualty is my immune system, which will be seriously compromised for at least one year. This means I'll need to avoid air travel, crowds, bubonic plagues, things like that.

So there I sat in the chemo ward as the nurse prepped me about what to expect and things I should do. I may experience flu-like symptoms for a day or two after each treatment. Okeefine. I should drink at least 32 ounces of water to help flush out my system. No problemo. Oh, and speaking of flushing:

"Be sure to flush your toilet twice for the next 48 hours," she told me. "This stuff is bad for your pipes."

Pipes? PIPES? What about my pipes? If she saw the look of horror on my face, she ignored it as she inserted the IV tube and exited stage left. The slow drip had begun.

And it was fine for the first four hours. When my best friend, Pam, learned I was planning on doing the treatment alone, she took the day off work and insisted on accompanying me. Yeah, she's that kind of friend. I hadn't wanted to bother anyone, but found myself grateful for her company. We were discussing diets, men, work, fashion, flipping through store catalogues and stuff like that. We might have been enjoying a conversation over an espresso at Starbucks, if not for that bag dripping the toxic sludge into my arm. Then the nurse came by.

"Just 15 minutes left," she chirped. "You're doing great." Hey, I was!

Her words were still floating through the air when I felt a back ache developing. Probably from sitting in the recliner-type chair for so long, I figured. So I stood up and stretched, and noticed the ache was extending down my legs and up my torso. Then I started to shiver, first a little, then a lot.

Ruh roh, Scooby Doo. Something wasn't right.

Can you get the nurse? " I asked Pam and sat back down. Suddenly my entire body started shaking uncontrollably, like Lindsey Lohan in front of a judge. When a nurse tried taking my temperature, she couldn't find one. Another took my blood pressure, which had dropped to 80/50. I started worrying I might see that infamous "bright light" as a flock of nurses rushed to my side. They heaped heated blankets on me, yanked out the IV and began flushing my veins with a saline solution to cleanse the chemo while pumping me with drugs to counteract the reaction.

Me? I semi-conked out.

And when I awoke a short while later, all was dippity-do-dah-dandy. The shaking had stopped, my temperature was normal, and the chemo was resumed to completion. Almost six hours later, I was done.

Until the next round, that is. Every Friday for three more weeks. It'll be fine. Really.

Let's just hope I can say the same for my toilet.

The Very Nerve

2011-10-26T22:00:00.001-07:00

Leave it to me to strike that one-in-a-million jackpot. Although in this case, I'm not sure it's a prize that anybody wants.

A couple years ago, I complained to my doctor that my toes were numb. She blamed it on poor circulation and said it was nothing to worry about. Okeefine.

But when I noticed that the numbness and tingling were spreading up my legs, I made another appointment with Dr. Ravishanker. This time I caught her eyebrows raise in concern as she referred me to a neurologist. Have you ever been in the office of a neurologist? They keep scary tools that involve safety pins, cables, water and electrodes. All of which he used on my feet and arms.

I felt nothing.

What followed next was a bone marrow biopsy and CAT scan, a plethora of blood tests and weeks of worrying. Was this Leukemia? Myeloma? Lymphoma? Cooties?

Try MGUS.

Not a very sexy name. It sounds like a fungus or the name of some military SWAT team deployed to the Middle East. But MGUS Antibody is actually a rare and incurable blood disorder in which my blood is producing proteins, little Pac Mans if you will, that are eating the sheaths of my nerves. Considered a high-risk precurser to Myeloma and Waldenstroms, it's a slow-moving disorder that typically strikes older people in their late 60s and 70s. MGUS isn't thought of as especially serious, since seniors won't usually live long enough to experience repercussions that can include the inability to walk (due to lack of feeling in the limbs).

But as a mere "child" of 53, I will live long enough. God willing. And that's the problem.

To be honest, I'm still not quite grasping the severity, or lack thereof, of this diagnosis. Initially, I didn't tell many people because a health announcement is usually made when there's something serious to announce, like cancer. I'd feel pretty stupid making this grand dramatic statement that, "Oh fiddle dee-dee, I'm withering away from MGUS," and worrying all my friends, only to find, ten years down the road, that my right pinkie is a bit numb, but hey, other than that I'm fine.

Uh, sorry for the needless concern, folks. My bad, ha ha.

That's why I asked my neurologist, who bears a startling resemblance to Bee Gees brother, Robin Gibb, if I should be worried. "Give it to me straight, doc," I said. Just like in the movies. He hesitated and then shrugged. "It's not terminal," he finally replied, "but it's definitely a drag."

And there's no treatment for MGUS, except for one: chemotherapy, which only boasts a one third success rate. Chemo won't cure the disease, but if I respond, it might slow the progression and possibly even regenerate damaged nerves.

Which means I had a decision to make: with just a 33% chance of success, did I want to pollute my pesticide-free-organic-vegetarian body with such a toxic treatment? I wrestled with the decision for several weeks.

And have my first treatment this Friday. Stay tuned for details.

Forgive Me, Bessie

2011-10-23T14:59:00.000-07:00

So I did it. Pulled the plug. Finally succumbed to the siren song of high-def TV and threw out my TV of 16 years, Old Bessie. The guys from Video Only installed my new flat screen amidst a plethora of cables and wires, promised me I'd be ecstatic with the enhanced picture, and tossed Old Bessie in the back of their truck.

"Be careful with her," I told them. "She's been good to me." They looked at me like I was nuts. And off they drove, leaving me with my slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat screen high def TV. Whoohoo, party time! I nestled on my sofa, turned it on and awaited nirvana.

Or not. Colors were muddy, faces were orange, and every program on every channel looked like it was filmed in the the dark and dank cave of Saddam Hussein. What the heck?

After making a few panicked phone calls, I learned that a high-def TV is not enough to provide a high-def picture: I must have a high-def cable service as well.

Don't I already have that with DIRECTV? Uh, turns out no.

Okeefine, fine. So I made an appointment for the installation of a new high-def receiver and high-def satellite, all at an additional high-def monthly cost, mind you. But hey, to express their thanks for my customer loyalty, DIRECTV threw in free HBO for three months. This will enable me to watch premium classics such as Police Academy IV, The Wedding Singer and more recent favorites like Knocked Up and Dude, Where's My Car?

After suffering through Oompa-Loompa-colored faces for three days, the DIRECTV technician arrived and made the necessary swaps. Finally, the moment I'd been waiting for! I nestled on my sofa, turned on my slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat-screen high-def TV, and awaited nirvana.

Or not. There they were, the same muddy faces, same dark and dank colors. My slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat-screen high-def TV obviously needed adjusting. Okeefine.

But when I retrieved the TV remote to look for any buttons that might provide a clue, I winced and gingerly set it back down. The damn thing resembled the cockpit of the Colombia Space Shuttle. To touch anything on that remote would be to invite hell's fury.

Which might be an improvement. Because right now, in some electronic recycling center, it appears that Old Bessie's having the last laugh. She's reminding me, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Sigh... Amen, Bessie. Amen.

The RCA That Wouldn't Die

2011-10-14T17:34:00.001-07:00

Where's a poorly made appliance when you need one?

That's the problem I'm facing with my 16-year old RCA TV. A relic from the previous century, the clunky 600-pound heifer still works fine. Oh sure, channels are slow to change, colors are muddy, and all ethnicities sport an orange complexion, but other than that, Old Bessie keeps pluggin' along.

Damn such fine workmanship! Because I want a flat screen.

But how can I justify buying one? I can't just toss Old Bessie out on the street. I mean really, what kind of thanks would that be for all her years of service? And so, I've been patiently waiting...and waiting for her to go gently into the night so I could make my coveted purchase. However, much like Dick Clark and Cher, I don't think Old Bessie is going anywhere, anytime soon.

To make matters worse, the Panasonic high-definition flat screen I'm lusting after is now on sale. This means that with one quick swipe of my credit card, I too could be privy to every single lurid, detailed aspect of an actor's face, where facial pores look like craters and wrinkles resemble sand dunes. Cool.

And so, I'm bidding a fond farewell to Old Bessie. She's been a grand old dame, but sometimes in life we have to recognize when it's time to hold 'em, fold 'em, and pull the plug.

In this case, literally.

A Diet to Die For

2011-09-30T12:42:00.000-07:00

It was going so well. My appointment with the nutritionist, that is. Since my diet leans pretty much toward vegetarian, I thought it might not be a bad idea to meet with a nutritionist and make sure I was eating healthy. You know, getting all my vitamins and minerals, stuff like that.

She reviewed my food diary, taking notes, asking questions here and there, smiling and nodding with each of my answers. "Good, good," she'd murmur, saying things like, "Fish oil? Excellent!" "Wild blueberries, flax seed and almond milk with your oatmeal? Wonderful!" and "Tofu, salmon, brown rice? Great choice."

This nutritionist was loving me. I was her dream client, the kind they must fantasize about in the classroom. "How about snacks?" she asked.

"I don't really snack and when I do it's mostly almonds and raisins," I replied, watching her head bounce enthusiastically like a Bobble Head doll. "Sometimes carrots, sugar snap peas or plain Greek yogurt. Oh, but I often have wine with dinner," I admitted, expecting a slap on the hand.

"Red?" she asked. When I nodded, she advised that red wine was an antioxidant and actually good for the heart. "You've got a very healthy diet," she said with obvious delight. "I wouldn't change a thing."

But wait, there's more.

"I do have a couple vices," I confessed. "I eat two homemade chocolate chip cookies after dinner almost every night."

"Just two?" she asked. When I said yes, she laughed and said that was nothing. Nothing! "Two cookies are perfectly fine." I figured she didn't need to know that each one was the size of a pie plate. Obviously, I could do no wrong with this gal. Or so I thought.

"And one more thing," I added as she was preparing to close my file. "I eat raw chocolate chip cookie dough."

The smile on her face faded faster than a Seattle suntan. In the silence of her office, you could almost hear the needle scratching across the vinyl.

"You WHAT?" she asked, her gaping jaw almost hitting her knees. "With RAW eggs?"

Ruh roh, Scooby Doo. I couldn't backpedal out of this one. The toothpaste was out of the tube. "Uh, yeah," I confessed.

Thus our nutrutional lovefest came to a screeching halt as she admonished me with threats of salmonella and listeria. I may only have one vice, but apparently it's a whopper.

Sigh. And things were going so well.

'Cause I Wanna

2011-09-25T15:21:00.001-07:00

So there I was at this party with a most unusual theme: it was a celebration of the autumnal equinox, which not only marks the beginning of fall, but is also known as The Witches Thanksgiving. It's considered a day of thanks for Wiccans.

How could I resist? Besides, I'm sure I've been called a witch at some time or another. Or at least something that rhymes with it.

The evening also supported a good cause, hosting three large bins to collect "the bounty of the harvest" for the Alameda County Food Bank. Excellent company, tasty hors d'oeuvres, festive decorations. Oh yeah, and did I mention the psychic?

That's right. My friend Sue hired a psychic named Rabbit and generously scheduled readings for each guest. Her intent was that we not just have a good time, but that we walk away with "something memorable, deep and meaningful."

Mission accomplished.

During my private session, Rabbit identified that in the course of grieving the death of a loved one, I'd forgotten how to be happy. How to appreciate those little moments in life that add color, meaning and joy. "I don't mean hopping on a plane to Paris or buying a new car," she explained. "I mean doing little things that make you happy, like indulging in a hot fudge sundae or taking a mid-afternoon nap even though the floor needs mopping. Do it 'cause you wanna."

That should be my new mantra, she advised. 'Cause I wanna.

"If that feels too self-indulgent, look at others around you and do something for them," she continued. "And do so in the name of your loved one. Make someone else happy in her name, 'cause I wanna."

Now I know that sceptics might argue that this is verbiage straight from any Grief Therapy 101 manual, and I might agree. Except, how could I explain how Rabbit knew very specific details about my mother's death? Details that I didn't confirm or deny, but most definitely hit the mark.

This weekend, I remembered her words when I popped off a check to the East Bay SPCA even though I have bills to pay. Enjoyed a leisurely lunch with my sister when I should have been working on a writing assignment. Took time to notice the beautiful sunrise from my bedroom window. And last but not least, I asked Stu Homer, of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, about available fosters. It may be time to find Elvis a companion.

'Cause I wanna. And you know what? It felt good.

Such a Good Boy

2011-09-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

This morning, after feeding Elvis, I offer him his usual cookie for dessert, but he ever-so-politely declines. What the...?

Instead, he looks out the sliding glass door and then looks back at me with a worried expression on his gentle face. Out the window again, back at me, back and forth, back and forth. Clearly, something is bothering my dog. What is it, Lassie? What are you trying to tell me? I follow his gaze and look out the window towards my small yard, half-expecting to see an intruder of some sort, maybe a roaming rat or rabid raccoon. Nothing.

Then I notice that his doggie door is locked. And with a jolt, I remember that when I was power-washing the windows, I had locked his doggie door to prevent leakage -- over 15 hours ago. Despite having two meals since then, Elvis had "held it" without a single accident in the house. Not an easy feat, which was evident when I unlocked the door and he immediately bolted outside.

The boy's getting extra belly rubs and kisses tonight. Not to mention a few strips of roasted chicken with his dinner. I think he's earned it.

Read it Here First: Why Women Shop

2011-09-18T14:29:00.001-07:00

I get it. Now I know why women enjoy shopping for clothes. Even if we hate the actual physical act of being inside a stuffy, claustrophobic mall, we can shop online to our heart's content and voila! Instant gratification: "Heather grey, size six, bootcut, click, send." It's why God and Al Gore invented the Internet.

Ah, but household goods are another story.

For the first time in many moons, I have a little financial wiggle room. I've prepaid my estimated taxes and Home Owner's Association dues. No vet bills. A freelance assignment paid off the hot water heater I had to replace and the car is running fine. I actually have a couple extra dollars to do some upgrades around the house. Nothing major, just swap out a few fixtures, like that generic white ceiling fan with an elegant cherry wood fan. Simple, right?

One would think.

The current fan hangs near the staircase on a 20-foot ceiling. And apparently my home is the first and only home in California to have 20-foot ceilings because I couldn't find an electrician with a high enough ladder. Really?

By the time I finally found one, I was so grateful, I didn't care that his installation fee was three times the cost of the fan. He was supposed to come out last Saturday, but called to apologize. Someone had borrowed his ladder. We rescheduled for Wednesday evening. Again, someone borrowed his ladder. We re-booked for Saturday morning and--take a wild guess--someone borrowed his ladder. We have now rescheduled for next Saturday, but don't hold your breath folks. Apparently there's a run for 20-foot ladders.

I would also like to swap out my patio sliding glass door with a grid door. I found just the one I want at Home Depot and, at $460, it's within my budget. Should be an easy enough project--just slip out the old and insert the new, right?

Dream on, Kimosabe.

First, Home Depot had to schedule a contractor to come out and measure my existing door because apparently amateurs don't know how to use a measuring tape. Never mind that my measurements ended up matching his. The official numbers had to come from the official Mr. Contractor measuring tape. At the tune of $50. Non-refundable, of course.

Eight days later, Home Depot called to advise that the half-day project would run a whopping $1600. Why so much? They had to tear out the frame, remove the floor around the door, insert the door, rebuild the frame, re-do the floor, do the Hokey Pokey and haul away the old door.

Okay, so ixnay on the new oorday. I still have the fan to look forward to, right? Which was purchased one month ago and is still sitting in my garage.

This is why I'm turning to the Internet. Forgive me, but I'm in dire need of instant gratification.

"Heather grey, size 6, bootcut, click, send."

Words to Live By

2011-09-15T21:17:00.001-07:00

"The guy who invented the first wheel was an idiot. The guy who invented the other three, he was a genius."

~Sid Caesar

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

2011-09-08T20:41:00.001-07:00

"A boozed up moose in Sweden ended up getting stuck in an apple tree in an attempt for just one more taste of the fermented fruit that put the animal in its condition.

The elk most likely got stuck while reaching high to get more apples at the top of the tree. After it was freed, it passed out out on the ground for awhile , but emergency services ascertained it was still alive.

By morning the animal was gone, most likely out buying painkillers and coffee."

~Abbreviated from the 9/8/11 edition of The Long Island Press

The Golden Years

2011-09-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

Elvis is sleeping more these days. Deeper, too. Used to be when I came home from work, he'd come racing to the door to greet me, doing a little happy dance that translated as, "She came back, she came back!!!"

Now, he often doesn't even know I'm home. Not until I lean over his snoring figure, stretched across his La-Z-Dog recliner, and stroke his velvety neck. "Hi baby," I greet him. "Let's go bye-bye!" After all, he's been indoors for almost ten hours. With access to the yard, of course, but still, there's nothing like a walk to the park, right? Fresh air, exciting new smells, and hanging with his peeps, like Gus the pit bull, Mandy the chihuahua, Apollo the golden retriever and Sadie the lab. Yep, our park is quite the canine social scene.

Most days Elvis is ready and willing, but lately I'm getting a new look. One that says, "You go on ahead, we'll catch up later." And back to sleep he goes.

I'm not surprised. After all, my boy is 12. Since most large dogs have a life expectancy of 12-14 years, I'm all too aware that every day I have with Elvis is just a little more precious than the last. He's healthy, thank God. Much slower, but hey, aren't we all?

This is why I'm relishing our time together and trying to not think about how long that may be. I'm lavishing him with more attention than usual, such as our new evening ritual: every night, I lie alongside Elvis on his La-Z-Dog recliner. I hold him in my arms, stroke his silky face and pepper his needle nose with kisses.

And he closes his eyes and leans against me, tucking his knobby little head under my chin. His gentle face literally vibrates from his chattering teeth (this is an endearing trait unique to the breed called "greyhound chatter" in which their teeth chatter when they're happy or excited). He just eats this up. As do I.

I look at my beautiful boy and hold him tight, tighter. As do I.

Black Bean Brownies

2011-09-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

Really, a brownie made with black beans? I had to try 'em. I'm always looking for healthy alternatives, although some desserts are sacred, such as chocolate chip cookies. Fudge. Cheesecake. And yes, brownies.

But what the heck. If I liked 'em, I'd end up saving myself a gazillion calories because trust me, when I make brownies, I enjoy the fruits of my labor. And so, I followed the recipe down to the low-fat sour cream and sugar-substitute, Splenda.

How did the they turn out?

I'll let you know. Just as soon as I'm done rinsing out my mouth.

Cock-a-Doodle Who?

2011-08-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

In my world, Saturday nights usually consist of a glass of wine and a hot date with Alex Trebek from Jeopardy. So I'm a trivia geek. Sue me.

But last night I ventured out. My best friend, Pam, invited me to a bon voyage party her mother Anita, and stepfather Walt, were hosting to kick-off their three week vacation to Colombia next month. Held on their large deck overlooking the serene Delta waters, it was a festive catered affair complete with a Mariachi trio.

Now as far as I know, Mariachi music is Mexican, not Colombian, but perhaps Shakira wasn't free. Then again, my mother was from Colombia and she absolutely adored Mariachi music, so maybe Colombians have a soft spot for Mariachis. Who knows.

Anyway, that's why I was invited. Anita and Walt thought I'd enjoy the music my mother so loved. And much to my surprise, they were right. Because as a kid, I couldn't stand the stuff.

My sister and I grew up listening to Mariachi music. Almost every Sunday afternoon, Mom and Grandma (who was from Nicaragua and lived with us) would play their favorite Los Panchos Trios albums on a stereo the size of a Winnebago. They'd crack open the vino, which in the early 70s was Gallo Wine, a perennial supermarket favorite. Today Gallo has been rebranded as the moderately decent Turning Leaf, but they can't fool me. I remember Gallo when it came in a green gallon-sized jug and tasted like a cross between vinegar and rubbing alcohol. But Mom and Grandma liked it.

With the volume cranked up, they would stretch across the sofa with their vino, laughing, talking, and singing along for all the neighbors to hear. I just criiiiinged, wishing they liked the same stuff the other moms were listening to, like Tom Jones or Mac Davis. There was one song in particular that I couldn't stand -- The Rooster Song, I called it. So coined because in the main chorus, one of the trio warbled like old Foghorn Leghorn himself was being massacred.

But last night, that was the song I wanted to hear. Every tune by the Mariachis was like an invisible hug, bringing back a flood of warm memories. When I requested that song, I couldn't remember the name, but I sure knew how to describe it.

I crowed like a rooster.

With a knowing grin, the Mariachis nodded and began serenading me with The Rooster Song. And I closed my eyes and reveled in the moment. Missing Mom. Missing Grandma.

And grateful that the Mariachis weren't Mac Davis.

The Baby Gene

2011-08-24T19:57:00.001-07:00

There I am, reading this book about how to train the perfect puppy in just seven days, and I am absolutely salivating. Not that I'm thinking of getting a puppy, mind you. After losing my sweet Lucy, my heart is still healing, plus I don't think my little old man, Elvis, could handle the stress of a newcomer just yet. No, this book is for an article I'm writing for The San Francisco Chronicle, about, well, how to train the perfect pup.

But oh, the pictures are getting to me.

I lust after puppies the way most women lust after newborns. Never have I stuffed a pillow under my shirt and admired my profile, pretending to be pregnant. Never have I conjured up fantasy babies with fantasy names, like Oliver or Tara. When menopause kicked in and I lost the ability to conceive, never did I bid a sad farewell to the ghost baby I'd never know, the one with my eyes and his chin.

I'm pretty sure there was a happy dance about no more periods, and perhaps a Kotex-shredding party, but there were definitely no tears. Seems I was born without that baby gene.

Not so for pups.

I find puppy breath intoxicating. I love their soft little growls, their sweet fuzzy fur, and even their weak attempts to bite me with their microscopic needle teeth. I can't resist the charming, clumsy, innocent antics of a puppy, and I'm not alone: there's a reason why Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl, held each Superbowl Sunday, is such a resounding hit.

But when I'm ready to open my heart to a new dog, it won't be a pup, but another ex-racer greyhound. Because, as my sister consoled me while I was sobbing over Lucy, "Somewhere out there is a racing greyhound, living in a crate, neglected and unloved. And on the day this dog retires, he is destined for the best life ever when you adopt him."

She's right. When that day comes, I'll be charmed by my new dog's discovery of life outside the racetrack. I'll be enthralled by his newfound delight over squeaky toys and treats, and will melt under the tidal wave of instant affection that greyhounds are known for. I'll overlook the inevitable accidents in the house, exhibit a patience hitherto unseen when he chews my slippers or climbs on the sofa, and will glow with excitement, adoration and pride over the new love that has entered my heart.

Just like a typical doting mother. Which makes me think, maybe I do have the baby gene. Even if my preference leans towards the four-legged variety.

For Love of Dog

2011-08-21T11:46:00.001-07:00

So there I am the other night, watching the season three finale of AMC's brilliant series, Breaking Bad. I'm absolutely riveted to the murky screen of my 16-year old RCA, holding my breath while waiting to see if Jesse kills Gale (I'm one season behind because I watch it through Netflix, so don't tell me what happens!).

Suddenly, I sense I'm being watched.

I turn to my right and there's my greyhound Elvis, lying on his La-Z-Dog Recliner next to the sofa, just as focused on me as I am on the TV. He's watching me with such intent adoration, I can practically see little hearts shooting from his eyes. This pup deserves a kiss.

So I stop the TV, lay on the pillow next to him and hold him tight, peppering his needle nose with kisses. It occurs to me that if I could get a man to look at me the way my dog does, I'd be the luckiest woman on earth.

Then Elvis tucks his knobby little head under my chin, leans against me, and heaves a sigh of contentment. And I realize, I already am.

Saying Goodbye

2011-08-14T07:09:00.001-07:00

I was dreading this day.

Oh, I knew it was coming, but really thought there would be a change of heart and at the last minute my dear friend, Deb, would tell me that she and her husband weren't moving to North Carolina after all. "We've decided to stay in California!" she'd announce. And we'd crack open a bottle of our favorite Chardonnay, Wente Riva Ranch, and celebrate the good news.

No such luck.

And so, on Friday, I said goodbye to the woman I call my "there-there" friend. So named because of her amazing ability to make me laugh and believe that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Over dinner at a quaint little outdoor bistro, we each brought the other a farewell gift. Ironically, both hearts. I gave Deb a necklace with two small silver hearts to represent the heart of friendship and she gave me a beautiful glass paperweight. Perhaps to symbolize our heavy hearts over the miles that would soon separate us.

Oh sure, there's Skype. Email. Postings on Facebook and specials on JetBlue. But it won't be the same. Nothing is the same as sitting on the porch alongside that special friend on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sharing deep thoughts, light banter and a giggle or two over a glass of wine.

And for the moment, really believing that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Making Peace

2011-08-12T07:22:00.001-07:00

There she was. My nemesis. My arch enemy. The bitc...er, woman I had the shouting match with that I wrote about in my July 10th post. I'd concluded that post with the hope that I'd see her again one day so I could apologize for my behavior.

Now, apologizing might sound like a really gracious thing, except deep down I'm not an especially gracious person. Wish I were, but nope. And while I might have liked to apologize in theory, the reality is that I never thought I'd see this woman again and damn, here she was, walking up the hill right towards me.

Gulp. Countdown to graciousness.

I did it. Stopped her and apologized. Explained that I had just learned that my other dog, the little white greyhound I was walking that morning, had a terminal illness and I was raw, upset and emotional. She asked how my dog was doing and I teared up when I told her that Lucy had died just days later. Her sympathy appeared sincere and profound.

Then she apologized too, explaining the reason behind her rude behavior. Just a couple years ago she and her dog were attacked by a stray. It was a vicious, bloody attack, she said, landing her in the hospital and her dog in emergency, both with multiple bites and required stitches. Now, when she hears a dog barking, she panics and freaks out.

Can't say I blame her. As I'd known for myself and suspected with her, driving forces had been behind our behavior during that first encounter. Sort of a Perfect Storm, if you will.

Her name is Ruth and I told her mine. We chatted a bit more, apologized again and then parted ways with a friendly, "See you 'round."

And I meant it. I think she did, too.

The Baffling Case of the Dog's Limp

2011-08-02T21:16:00.001-07:00

-Treatments, pain pills and therapies: $2,000
-Specialists, X-rays, ultrasounds and MRIs: $2,500
-Removal of a corn wedged in his pad: Priceless

All My Children

2011-07-28T17:41:00.001-07:00

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

~Helen Keller

Missing Lucy

2011-07-23T13:53:00.001-07:00

In August 2009 my beloved mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. And I remember coming home from that horrible appointment with that horrible doctor (Alrighty then! We have Cancer! How are we feeling today!) and going into some type of manic-cleaning rampage.

I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.

After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.

I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.

In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.

Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.

And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.

RIP Sweet Lucy

2011-07-19T14:49:00.001-07:00

"Don't be sad because it's over. Smile because it happened."
~Author unknown

And Lucy made me smile more times than I can ever begin to count. Read about my little girl in the July 2011 issue of Northside Magazine.

My heart breaks for this sudden loss.

A Confirmed Diagnosis

2011-07-12T18:20:00.001-07:00

"Save your money," Stu Homer told me. As the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, he's almost as knowledgeable about dogs as a veterinarian. Over the past 15+ years, with over 1,000 adoptions under his belt, he's certainly seen everything from corns to Cancer.

"If it's a liver infection, you'll know in a few weeks when the antibiotics start working," he advised when I told him about Lucy's recent diagnosis. "Don't bother with X-rays or a biopsy because if it's anything else, it will be terminal and there will be nothing you can do."

Harsh, but true.

I couldn't stand not knowing though. And so today I took my sweet Lucy to see Dr. Arnott for a liver ultrasound and biopsy. Turned out he couldn't do the biopsy. The ultrasound showed a liver so shrunken and hardened, a biopsy was impossible. Without any symptoms whatsoever, my happy, spirited, mischevious little girl had been ill for at least six months.

"She has end-stage hepatitis," Dr. Arnott told me. "It's just a matter of time. I'm so sorry."

And once again, the tears are flowing in my household; for what was and what is about to be.

I Didn't Heed the Warning

2011-07-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

This sign, posted on the front door of the way cool Vine Cinema, in Livermore, should have told me all I needed to know about the new epic movie, Tree of Life.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

A Good Walk Spoiled

2011-07-10T12:34:00.001-07:00

"Grace under pressure" is a quality I've always admired in people who face adversity. Somehow, they manage to rise above their difficulties and become even kinder and better human beings.

I am not one of those people.

I fold like an umbrella in a hurricane. I get angry, confused, bewildered and stressed. Especially stressed. Last night my sweet Lucy, diagnosed with liver disease just two days ago, vomited black bile and has been having massive diarrhea. She's not eating or playing with her toys, and I am sick. Sick with sadness, sick with fear, sick with stress.

Which might explain why I snapped at that woman near the park this morning. I was taking Lucy and Elvis on a very slow, brief outing when this young woman, walking her dog, came barrelling down the sidewalk behind me. When my dogs turned around and started barking at hers, I saw that she wasn't about to slow down. So, I pulled Lucy and Elvis across the bushes and we waited on the street so the woman could pass. And pass she did, with nary a word of thanks. God help me, the words came out before I could stop myself.

"You're welcome," I said.

Ah, then she found her voice. "Why should I thank you?" she turned around and snapped. "You're the one with the vicious dogs!"

"And you're the one without any manners," I snapped back. "Just because you own an animal doesn't mean you have to behave like one."

Off we went. After a few foul exchanges, I finally crossed the street because at that heated moment, I felt capable of acting like an animal myself-a rabid wolverine to be exact--and biting her damn head off.

Really, folks, this is not me. And I suspect this may not be her either. As I resumed my walk, now crying, from across the street I observed her making a U-turn and returning home. Clearly upset, she never made it to the park to use the Ball Launcher she had intended to play with her dog.

I hope I see this woman again. I want to apologize and explain why I snapped at her. She has no idea what's going on in my life and--concurrently--I have no idea what's going on in hers. She could have lost her job the day before, fought with her husband minutes earlier, or hey, maybe she's just the animal I accused her of being.

If she rejects my apology, fine. At least I'll have tried. My best friend Pam likes to say that we can't let other people dictate how we behave, and she's right.

It may not be a shining example of grace under pressure, but I'm trying here folks, really. The best that I can.

Dog Day Afternoons

2011-07-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

My mom was fond of saying that when you wake up in the morning, you just never know how your day will end. And not in a "whoohoo, I just won the lottery" kind of way. She was a bit of a pessimist, my mom.

But she was right. Just consider the events of this week.

Sunday morning I enjoyed a wonderful, invigorating 6.5 mile hike with a good friend. I later learned that at a barbecue that evening, she had a near-death experience when she choked on a piece of steak that defied all Heimlich maneuvers. She swears she's still here today only because a higher power stepped in and told her "it wasn't her time yet." I believe her.

On Wednesday, my sister and I indulged in a lazy, relaxing hot summer day at the beach (see evidence in previous post) that felt like a slice of pure childhood. Just hours later, on our way home, we found ourselves stranded with a flat tire on the three-inch shoulder of a blind curve on a crazy-ass, winding, narrow two-lane highway known for speeding and accidents. That sweaty, balding, overweight tow-truck driver never looked so good.

However, today's situation may not turn out so well.

Yesterday afternoon I took my greyhound, Lucy, to the vet. She hasn't been eating lately, which I attributed to our heatwave, but just to be safe I made an appointment. Really though, I wasn't worried; she's always been a picky eater and the 90+ degree heat has killed even MY appetite.

It wasn't the heat.

Blood work revealed a serious, life-threatening liver disease. What, we don't know. If it's an infection, the antibiotics she started today may buy her time. If it's anything else--Cirrhosis, Cancer, Hepatitis--it will only be a matter of time.

I am sick. Sick.

Lucy holds a special place in my heart because she was my mother's dog. When Mom passed away in 2009, I never thought twice about adopting Lucy, even though my townhouse HOA only permits one dog per home and I already had my other greyhound, Elvis. If busted, I would sell my home and move if I had to. Relinquishing LucyBelle, as I call her, simply wasn't an option.

And it still isn't. Only this time I may have no say in the matter.

Sigh...you just never know.

Word to the Wise

2011-07-06T08:42:00.001-07:00

Uh, when you spend the hottest day of the year at the beach, don't forget to apply the sunblock from head to toe and inbetween.

Just sayin'.

The Girl Who Pushed My Patience

2011-06-29T19:51:00.001-07:00

If you're one of the handful who haven't been swept away by Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo blockbuster trilogy, I'm about to save you a chunk of time. That's because-- while the first two books were pretty good--the final one didn't quite live up to the high expectations set by its predecessors.

And so, to spare you the agony of sifting through almost 600 pages to find out what finally happens to the trilogy's heroine, Lisbeth Salander, allow me, if you will, to offer this brief but effective summary of:

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

Under armed guard in the intensive care ward of a Swedish hospital, Lisbeth Salandar was in critical condition. The brilliant computer hacker was fighting for her life after being shot in the head by her deranged father. Fuzzy thoughts filtered through her bullet-ridden brain. "If I survive, will I be charged with attempting to kill the man who attempted to kill me after I first attempted to kill him 20 years ago" she wondered. "And where can I get a decent cup of coffee?'"

Back at the office of Millennium Magazine, Salander's former lover, journalist Mikael Blomkvist, was worried too. Over a cup of coffee, he shared his concerns with his colleague Svensson. Or was this Eriksson? Jonasson maybe? Fredriksson? Who the hell knew, all their names sounded alike. "I feel oddly compelled to help prove her innocence," he mused while pouring himself another cup of coffee. "She may appear tough, but deep down she's quite vulnerable. We must unravel this cover up involving Sapo, Sweden's secret police." He absentmindedly stirred his coffee. "But how?"

Meanwhile, at a coffee shop on Sodertaljsonn Street, a surveillance team from Sapo was watching Blomkvist's every move. Confident that the trouble-making journalist wouldn't be returning home for awhile, Pieresson finished his coffee, then broke into Blomkvist's apartment and planted a kilo of cocaine behind the coffee machine. Exhilarated over setting up Blomkvist for a drug bust, Pieresson suddenly found himself famished. As he left the apartment, he returned to the coffee shop for a meatball sandwich. And another coffee.

Back at the hospital, Dr. Jacobsson pondered the condition of his infamous patient while nursing a cup of coffee. He felt oddly compelled to help this tough, yet vulnerable young woman. As he sipped his coffee, the buzz of the call button snapped him back to attention and he saw that it was his tough, yet vulnerable young patient. She was requesting more pain meds. A laptop. And coffee.

Upon Salandar's miraculous recovery, she was discharged and made to stand trial for trying to kill her father who had tried to kill her for previously trying to kill him for trying to kill her mother. But thanks to Blomkvist's undying loyalty to the tough, yet vulnerable young woman--despite the fact that she now despised him because he had slept with Berger..or had it been Bergsson? Berjkssun? Birjksson? Whatever. Sweden's corrupt government was finally exposed, the secrets of Sapo revealed, and Salandar exonerated.

And everybody went home and had a cup of coffee.

The end.

Every Picture Tells a Story

2011-06-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

You've heard the joke about the elderly person who reads the obituaries to catch up on his friends and acquaintances. Well, I read them too, but for the photos. Those haunting, grainy, black and white pictures that accompany heartbroken prose. Each photo draws me in, nips at my curiosity and often tugs at my heart.

Obituary photos usually feature the deceased in their prime. Eleanor may have been 91 when she died, but her image captures a saucy young woman wearing a pearl choker and fashionable bob circa 1939. She had laughing eyes and full, bright lips that were, no doubt, painted fire-engine red. And, I'm guessing, toenails that matched.

William, whose obituary is featured two columns over, passed away at 87, but his photo depicts a cocky young lad with a square jaw and determined grin. He wears a dapper fedora tilted at an angle and, although you can't tell from the photo, I'm sure he flaunted a tweed jacket flung over his shoulder.

I'm intrigued by the vigor and vitality expressed in these faces. They look like women I'd befriend, men I'd date. Each picture puts a life behind each name and suddenly, each death feels a little more personal. Even though their passing warrants but a brief, formulaic mention, their image makes me ponder the loss of someone who was once very real.

Love stories and heroic deeds. Travel adventures and business ventures. Maybe this person was a lifelong resident of their community, now missed by neighbors who once enjoyed weekly potluck dinners. Perhaps mention will be made of their brave fight against cancer or AIDS. Sometimes family history is included and I learn that their parents emigrated from Italy and started the bakery I frequent on Main Street.

I might discover that they met their spouse on a blind date while attending my Alma mater decades before I was born. Maybe they returned to school after raising a family and got their degree alongside students half their age.

Dates on an obituary merely suggest an aged, wizened person whose time had come. But photos remind me otherwise. This was a parent, friend, co-worker, lover, jokester, athlete, activist. Someone once loved whose absence others now mourn.

And with their lively, vibrant, half-inch face on newsprint beaming before me, I too feel a twinge of sadness for the passing of someone I never knew.

Taking a Brain Break

2011-03-06T09:16:00.001-08:00

"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." ~John Lubbock (English Biologist, 1834-1913) 

"Rest when you're weary. Refresh and renew yourself, your body, your mind, your spirit. Then get back to work." ~Ralph Marston

Good idea. Taking a brief hiatus, be back soon. Until then, behave.

Words with Friends

2011-03-05T08:10:00.001-08:00

It's official: I've joined the masses.

That's right. Thanks to the iPhone, I've become one of those people that I used to sneer at. Techno-Zombies who are constantly checking their iPhone, linked to it like a new appendage; sneaking peeks during meetings, eyeballing it in movie theaters, glancing at it ever-so-casually during conversations, paying half-attention to TV shows, and jumping out of bed with a Pavlovian response when we hear the "ping" that indicates an incoming message. Now I understand why everyone is so addicted to these infuriating iPhones.

They're all playing Words with Friends, of course. You know, the online version of Scrabble. I mean, duh, is there anything else?

I've always loved Scrabble, but it's kind of hard to play when you live alone. Now, with my iPhone, I have the game literally at my fingertips and can play anytime, anywhere. Cool. Like the other day, when I had time to kill while waiting for a doctor appointment. Yowza, how 'bout a game?

So there I was, studying the "board," calculating moves, stragetizing options and using brain cells that haven't fired up in years. And then I found The Perfect Storm. A word that utilized a coveted "Z" (ten points), two triple-letter blocks, and created a horizontal and vertical word.

It was the white whale of board games, the Scrabble equivalent of The Holy Grail. Not quite believing my good fortune, I held my breath, hit "play" and WOW! It was a bazillion points more than I had calculated! I was so delighted, I actually cackled, drawing odd looks from people sitting nearby. I was feeling pretty darned smug, imagining the look of total shock and awe on my game partner's face when her iPhone "pinged" and she saw my brilliant move.

Then the game crashed.

And with it, my bazillion points. My white whale. My Holy Grail. Gone in a nanosecond, thanks to modern technology. The very technology, I realize, that allows me to indulge in real-time Scrabble with a friend who lives 50 miles away.

Can't argue that. Game, anyone?

I'll Take a Ban Extra Dry, Hold the Foam

2011-03-01T19:54:00.001-08:00

So I'm at Starbucks this morning when I notice the sign that says "Deodorant & Delicious."

Really. Like, when did deodorant become a breakfast staple?

Only after doing a triple-take do I realize that the sign actually says, "Decadent & Delicous."

I gotta get my eyes checked.

"Wheeling" and Dealing

2011-02-21T08:20:00.001-08:00

This weekend, while most people were nesting indoors from torrid rains, I was selling cars. Two of them, in fact; one was my '99 Rav4 that was Blue-Booked at $2100 and needed $2500 worth of repairs. Pretty much a no-brainer. Buh-bye.

But getting rid of the other car was more difficult. It was my mother's 2004 Corolla and the car that I inherited when she passed away. Despite being a fine little car with great gas mileage, I've never been comfortable claiming it as "mine." Every time I sat behind the wheel, I'd look at the passenger side and expect to see Mom's smiling face. I'd remember our Sunday afternoons tootling off for yet another lunch at Alberto's, family dinner at Jenny's, or movie matinee. And I'd feel that now-familiar ache and miss my best friend--my mother--for the umpteenth time.

How could I enjoy this car, given how it came to be mine?

So I sold it.

But before doing so, I asked the buyer if I could keep the personalized license plates. Bearing my mother's maiden name, de Roux, the plates brought back a more pleasant memory: the day she phoned me, roaring with evil delight.

Seemed she had just gotten off the phone with her older brother who was angry. Boy, was he ANGRY. Seemed he'd submitted a request for personalized license plates and had been denied by DMV. Seemed somebody else had already claimed the name. His name.

"Who else in this country has my name?" he seethed to Mom."de Roux is French! It's not a common name like Smith or Jones, for gawd's sake. Who is the sonofabitch that stole my name?"

To which, barely containing her laughter, she replied, "Uh, that would be me."

The car is now gone and with it, another remnant of mom. But the license plate will hang in my garage--a reminder of her wicked glee the day she trumped her brother.

Letter to Toyota

2011-02-13T14:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Toyota~

Yeah, you've had some really lousy PR lately, what with malfunctioning brakes and stuck gas pedals. Those drivers, picky, picky, picky. But hey, at least you're in a position to ramp up the one thing within your immediate control: customer service. Right?

Which is why I am just slightly dismayed at the treatment I received yesterday at your Dublin Toyota dealership. Now, I realize that I'm just a purdy lil' thang without two brain cells to bang together, but I'm pretty darned sure that English is my first language. And, unless I was suddenly overcome by The Spirit and speaking in tongues, English is what I using when attempting to communicate with your sales force.

"I'm here to test drive and check prices only," I told Scott. "I'm buying a used car next month and if you're straight with me today, I will return and buy that car from you." And I meant it.

But apparently Scott learned everything he knows about selling cars from endless viewings of the aptly named movie, "Suckers." Immediately he steered me to a brand new Rav4, insisting that old cars are nothing but trouble and I had to try this beaut because the color looked great on me.

Really. I'm going to spend $23,000 on a car because the color compliments my skin tone?

"How is it a babe like you isn't married," Scott asked upon learning that I was checking out cars all by my big-girl self and without benefit of a male escort. "And hey, you've got beautiful hair. No seriously, I mean it."

Why sir, you're making me blush! I was so darned flattered by Scott's genuine sincerity, I could almost overlook his reptilian behavior.

"Almost" being the operative word.

Finally, he showed me a used Rav4 with more mileage than Amtrak. When I balked, he accused me of having "issues" with old things. "What's wrong with a little mileage?" he argued. "You just buy the extended warranty!"

"Well then, Scott, if old things are so swell, why wouldn't I just keep my current Rav4?" I asked. He looked befuddled. Then he disappeared and returned with the Big Guns: the General Manager.

"What's it gonna take for you to buy a car today?" he asked me. To which I looked him square in the eye and replied that he could be Jesus Christ Himself, announcing that the Second Coming was contingent upon me buying a car today and a sale still wouldn't happen.

My, how attitudes changed. I left the dealership with a raging migraine and I'm pretty darned sure Scott had one, too.

But I do have to say one thing: when it comes to strong arm tactics, Neanderthal attitudes and repugnant dispositions, Dublin Toyota is sticking by their motto and "doin' it right."

Plus, they think I'm pretty! Because really, would a car salesman lie?

Birthdays - the Real Mother's Day

2011-01-30T08:22:00.001-08:00

On this day several years ago, I had a beautiful bouquet of flowers delivered to my mom at Macy's, where she worked in retail sales. When she received the unexpected gift she immediately phoned me, delighted but confused.

"It's your birthday!" she exclaimed."Why are you sending ME flowers?"

Maybe because on this day many moons ago, mom's the one who went through all the work. Starting with labor, her life was newly dedicated to child rearing, counseling, teaching, worrying, investing, praising, sacrificing, reprimanding, developing, nurturing and loving. Always loving. Heck, the very fact that she tolerated my manic, prepubescent "Osmond Brothers" years should have earned the woman a Nobel Peace Prize.

But me? On this day many moons ago, all I did was get born. Pop my wrinkled, cone-shaped head out, wail and go with the flow. Really, how difficult was that? A very passive act, if you think about it.

"I wouldn't be having a birthday if it weren't for you," I replied. "I just wanted to say thanks for giving me such a great life."

A great life, thanks to a great mom. On this day especially, oh, how I miss her.

Showdown at the Coffee Corral

2011-01-15T15:58:00.000-08:00

The scene? A Starbucks parking lot at 6:45 am on a damp foggy morning. The players? Me in my Corolla facing a woman in her Explorer. The dilemma? A lone parking space. We had each pulled up to it at the same time, so it was really all about being nice.

Except on this cold-for-California 35-degree morning, I was feeling sleepy, cranky, and anything but nice. Still, I waved for her to take the spot. She didn't move. I waved again and when she didn't acknowledge my gesture, I figured okay, fine, and swung into the space with a clear conscience. There were other, albeit further, spaces for her to choose from, and I didn't have all day hanging around trying to be "nice." Besides, I wanted my damn coffee.

Like I said, cranky.

Inside the shop I was soon lost in my own comatose thoughts and didn't notice that the driver of the Explorer was behind me in line.That is, until a Starbucks clerks said, "Cute shoes!" Since we were the only two customers in the store and I was wearing what my best friend refers to as "those ugly man-shoes" (hey, in my defense they're incredibly comfortable), I knew the compliment wasn't directed towards me. Slyly, I peeked at her shoes.

"Oh my gawd," I gushed before I could stop myself. "Those are the cutest shoes I've ever seen!" Black, hot pink and yellow plaid, they were peep-toe Mary-Jane stilletos on a 3-inch heel. And indeed, the cutest shoes I had ever seen. I'd fall and break my neck before I could even begin to stand upright in a pair of shoes like those, but I could certainly admire them.

"On sale, $10 at Burlington Coat Factory!" she gushed back with delight. "Seriously, can you believe it?"

And as I waited for my venti soy latte and she her grande peppermint mocha, we jabbered about how a good pair of shoes could make even sweatpants look stylish, how much we loved a good sale, and by the way, you should check out Aerosoles because their shoes are comfortable, yet stylish and affordable.

Etcetera, etcetera.

By the time our coffees arrived, we were chatting like old friends. As we walked towards the exit, I held the door for her. "After you," I offered. "No," she insisted, "after you!" When she drove off in her Explorer, she gave me one last friendly wave, which I readily returned.

Suddenly I felt a little less cranky and a little more nice, warmed by the unexpected exchange on this damp, foggy morning. And all because of a pair of shoes.

Adios 2010

2010-12-31T17:55:00.001-08:00

"New Year's Eve, where auld acquaintences be forgot. Unless, of course, those tests come back positive."

~Jay Leno

Here's hoping for a new and improved year, with all things positive (well, almost all things) in 2011.

Happy New Year, friends!

To Kill a Mockingbird's Patience

2010-12-11T09:11:00.001-08:00

Living 29 miles from work, my morning drive takes about 45 minutes. Hitting the road at 6:30 am before traffic gets too crazy, I listen to talk radio, sip my Starbucks and plan my day. Awake and alert, my morning drive is actually a pleasant time.

Oh, but the drive home is another story. By 4:30 pm I'm tired, frazzled, and dreading the return journey, which varies between 90 minutes to two hours. Made all the more stressful thanks to the ten billion bottlenecked cars that surround me, chauffeured by imbeciles who think nothing of cutting others off, flipping fingers, running red lights, tailgating and honk-honk-honking if you take more than three seconds to hit the gas pedal when the light turns green.

And all to the lovely serenade of cookie-cutter radio stations playing the same songs over and over. How many times, I've wondered, can one suffer through Under Pressure or Listen to the Music without experiencing the same torturous results as waterboarding?

I didn't want to find out, which is why I decided to try audio books. Maybe listening to a good mystery or an old classic would make the drive home a little more bearable. I'd start with "To Kill a Mockingbird," read by Sissy Spacek as the novel's narrator, Scout. I'd never read the book before nor seen the movie. Finally, I would find out what all the accolades were about.

In no time I was hooked, eagerly anticipating the drive home so I could hear more about 8-year old Scout, her older brother Jem, and their moral father, Atticus Finch; the mysterious Boo Radley, the deranged Bob Ewell and the persecuted Tom Robinson. It was a captivating story indeed, a book worthy of praise. All of a sudden, I didn't mind the manic drivers around me. Go on ahead, I'd wave 'em on through. More time for me to enjoy the book!

Finally, two weeks and almost eleven CDs later, I was nearing the end. I couldn't wait!

It was a pitch black night as Scout and Jem crossed an empty field on their way home. The moon was hidden by clouds and they couldn't see as far as the noses on their faces when suddenly...what was that? The children heard a rustling sound behind them, and then footsteps. Something...or someone...was following them in the dark.

Riveted, I turned up the volume.

"Run Scout, run!" Jem cried and we started running blindly in the dark," Sissy Spacek read. "Then I heard Jem fall and cry out in pain! I fell too, and sooommmmmttthhggggg ggtbbb my leg aaanddddd I scccreamrmmmmm and dddddzzzzzzzzzppphhh...."

What the heck? Was Scout having convulsions? And then I realized....oh gawd, no.

The CD was skipping.

I took it out and saw a scratch. Blew on it. Wiped it. Heck, I was desperate. Tried not to think what cooties might be on the disk and licked it. Dried it, said a prayer and stuck it back in the player. "Ooooouuuuccchhhh I criiiieeeed beeffooooreeee passssnngnnnnggggooouutt...."

Aarrgghh! The CD was obviously shot. To learn how the story ended, I'd have to read the book. Which I wouldn't mind purchasing actually, since I'd already decided to add this wonderful novel to my library. Still, the timing of the scratch couldn't have been worse. How did the story end, I wondered? Was Jem killed? And what about Scout? I'd have to wait to find out. Sigh....

And so, reluctantly, I turned on the radio. And what was playing? But of course.

Under Pressure.

Geek Fashion

2010-11-27T14:02:00.001-08:00

Oh, the things you can find when you have six hours to kill in an airport. There I was in Toronto Pearson International Airport, on my return trip home from a fabulous two weeks in Paris. Perusing scarves, magazines, souvenir coffee cups and makeshift hockey paraphernalia when I came upon it...just the coolest thing, ever.

The Sock Monkey cap! I tried it on. Admired myself in the mirror. Oh, tres chic! I had to have it. My 19-year old niece, however, was of another opinion.

"Oh Aunt Elly," she groaned, shaking her head. "You are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

As if to punctuate her prediction, at that very moment a nice looking guy walked by the shop and glanced at me in my headgear. When we made eye contact, he rolled his eyes, shook his head and smiled, the universal language for, "Lady, you are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

Didn't care and didn't matter. I couldn't wait to make my purchase and bring home my coveted cap. Which I did, and which I now wear every frosty night while walking my dogs.

Love me, love my Sock Monkey cap. And if he doesn't? Well, he's probably not my type anyway.

A Trunk Full of Turkeys and Hearts Made of Gold

2010-11-25T08:23:00.000-08:00

So there I was last night, enjoying an impromptu invitation to join friends for dinner at this cozy little Italian bistro near my home. We were all in a pretty joyous mood, laughing, sharing our Thanksgiving plans, and just relishing the deliciousness of friendship embellished with a tasty meal.

However, my three friends were just a tad more giddy than the occasion might warrant. In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that they were bordering on being deliriously happy. Okay, so yeah, I'm a ton o' fun to be around, but really folks, you're making me blush.

Then I learned the reason behind their high spirits.

On Tuesday, the trio went to Safeway and purchased 16 turkeys. Then, after learning just how many turkeys can be squeezed in one 4-door sedan, they delivered the fowl goods to Second Harvest Food Bank in San Jose. Thanks to my friends, more than 100 homeless people will enjoy a traditional turkey dinner today.

But that's not all.

Then, my friends rolled up their sleeves and devoted all of Wednesday to baking cookies. A lot of cookies. Chocolate chip. Peanut butter. Oatmeal raisin, White chocolate macadamia, toffee bars, Christmas spritz cookies, Ginger snaps and brownies. When they were cooked (both the cookies and the chefs), they consolidated the sweet treats in little baggies, tied each one with a cheery custom-made "Happy Holiday" greeting tag, and made another delivery: this one to Open Heart Soup Kitchen in Pleasanton.

On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm especially grateful to know people like these three, who helped deliver Thanksgiving to the less fortunate. Or people like my other friend, who remembered our four-legged friends with her generous jaw-dropping donation to an animal rescue shelter.

I don't think it's bragging to say that my friends make the world a better place. They certainly make my world better.

Making every day, indeed, a day for giving thanks.

Am I Forgetting Something?

2010-11-14T14:12:00.001-08:00

Certain memories are burned in my brain, and one biggie is the first time I ever saw the Eiffel Tower.

It was late November, 2006 and I was visiting my good friends, Deb and Richard, who were spending a month in the City of Lights on business. One foggy evening we were in a cab driving to something that I'm sure involved cheese and wine, and I was peering out the window trying to absorb as much as I could in spite of the fog. Suddenly, voila! There it was. Emerging from the mist, right in front of me, was that iconic symbol of Paris ablaze in twinkling lights. It truly took my breath away.

And it was just as awesome the second time I saw it this past September. In fact, my best friend, Pam, and I were at the Eiffel Tower and one of 2000 people evacuated when a bomb threat was phoned in. Another memory definitely etched in my brain.

So last week I'm flipping through an old photo album circa 1992, perusing pictures of my various travels: there I am climbing Chichen Itza in Cancun, Mexico; slinging back a Guinness in Cork, Ireland; plugging my ears next to Big Ben in London, England; posing on the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France; hiking a muddy trail in Quito, Ecuador and floating on a gondola in Venice, Ita....

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up.

I took a double-take, not quite believing my eyes. But sure enough, there it was. Or rather, there I was, wearing post-1980s quarterback shoulder pads and big hair, posing next to the Eiffel Tower. On the Eiffel Tower. Underneath the Eiffel Tower. Near the Eiffel Tower.

I had obviously seen the freakin' Eiffel Tower.

And not for the first time in 2006 as I thought, but in 1992. And yet, I have no memory of it whatsoever. Nada, zip, zilch. None. It's not like I had experienced a temporary coma or was slipped a roofie. I distinctly remember that day trip from the cruise I was on: strolling cobblestone streets, drinking coffee in an outdoor cafe, checking out designer stores and bakery shops, absorbing the city's amazing ambiance.

But that big pointy thing with the twinkling lights? Hmmm, seems to have slipped my mind.

This makes me wonder: what else might I be forgetting?

Did I forget about getting married or having kids ? I've always wanted to try bungee-jumping, but heck, maybe I already have. The idea of me as a flaming redhead has intrigued me, but for all I know, been there, done that. And I like the idea behind Mormon polygamy, with one husband sharing several sister-wives (you take him tonight, sis. I feel like soaking in a candle-lit tub with a glass of wine), but it could be that I already have a dozen sister-wives packed away somewhere. Wondering why their sister-wife with the flaming red hair has skipped her turn at Friday night dinners for the past ten years.

Maybe she's spent this time doing memorable things, like bungee-jumping off the Eiffel Tower. Not that she'll remember.

Did You Hear the One About...?

2010-11-07T11:42:00.000-08:00

Love this joke told by one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and shared with me by one of my readers (thanks Dominique):

"A man is in his house. It's late at night and he's about to go to bed when there is a knock at the door. He goes to the door and there is a snail who says, "I'd like to talk to you about buying some magazine subscriptions." The man is so furious that he kicks the snail away as hard as he can, slams the door and goes to bed.

Two years later, there's another knock at the door. He opens it up and it's the snail, and the snail says, "What the fuck was that all about?"

WTF indeed. The answer to which I'm convinced explains most of life's mysteries.

Happiness and the World Cup (er, Series)

2010-11-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

So I'm reading "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin, a popular book, website, blog, soon-to-be TV series and breakfast cereal prize (okay, I lied about the last one) that apparently everyone from Alaska to Zimbabwe knows about.

Except for me, that is. So much to read, so little time, and I've never been into that help-me-help-you type of stuff anyway. If you're the second person who has never heard of this book, here's the plot lifted from the inside dust jacket:

"Gretchen Rubin had an epiphany one rainy afternoon....the days are long, but the years are short...time is passing and I'm not focusing enough on the things that really matter. In that moment, she decided to dedicate a year to her happiness project...test-driving the wisdom of the ages, current scientific research, and lessons from popular culture about how to be happier."

The Happiness Project was a gift from my caring friend Deb, who might have been sharing a subtle concern about my current level of happiness. She knows how difficult this year has been as I mourned the sudden death of my mother (14 months later, I still choke up just writing those inconceivable words). Deb wants to see a genuine smile return to my face and I have to agree, it would feel good to feel good again. The weight of sadness can be unbearable.

To my surprise, I like the book. The author is smug at times, a little coy, but the advice she dispenses is invaluable. A lot of it is plain common sense that we already know (be polite and be fair). But apparently, in these crazy, hectic, online, plugged in, stressed out days, a reminder is in order because her happiness franchise has taken off like gangbusters.

And what's a "gangbuster" anyway? But I digress.

Anyway, I'm following her tips and trying to be a better and happier person. Not always succeeding, but at least cognizant of my actions. That's why yesterday, when I received a donation request from The Humane Society, I wrote a check. Normally at this time of year I discard these pleas because I have three different insurance premiums all due on December 1st. And right before Christmas, no less. Ouch.

But this time I remembered one of Rubin's tips, which is "be generous." And The Humane Society was my mother's favorite charity. So what if I have to budget a little more than usual? It felt good to mail that check.

Rubin's research also disclosed that "an unexpected present gives people a real boost." This was confirmed when, just hours after mailing my donation, I learned that I had won The World Series office pool. Never mind that I don't follow baseball and had, in fact, referred to the games as The World Cup. I added my dollar to the pool just to be a team player and came up an office winner.

But it felt like more. On this day I tossed out a bit of goodness and got some back in return. Unexpected, unanticipated, but delightful nonetheless.

It felt like a sign, a message from the universe telling me that it's okay to feel happy again. More importantly, it's time.

An Affair to Dismember

2010-10-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

It happened on a Friday night at Trader Joe's. We caught eyes across the produce section and he smiled. I smiled back.

A few minutes later, he appeared next to me, casually perusing Blue cheese. Feta, Goat. Then he looked me up and down and said, "I like your ass."

What? Because even if I had the most amazing Kim Kardashian-type ass, which trust me, I don't, that's not the type of pick-up line I'd hope for. Or expect, especially over cheese at Trader Joe's.

"Your Asics shoes," he repeated, looking down at my feet. "I like your shoes."

Uh, oh, foot fetish cleanup on aisle one.

"I own a shoe shop," he added, "so I notice these things. Asics are great, aren't they?"

Oh, okay, whew.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I got them for hiking and they're the absolute best." When he asked where I bought them, I told him The Walking Store. And then, only because I like to know if I got a deal or not, I threw the question, "How much do you sell yours for?"

"$120," he replied. "Hmmm," I said. "I paid $90."

"Are you sure?" he asked with disbelief. "Was this last year, maybe?"

"Nope," I replied gleefully. Maybe too gleefully. "Got 'em just last month."

"Er, well, I'll have to look into that," he muttered. And then he wished me a good night and walked away.

I might need to hone my flirting skills. Just a bit. At least before I land on my Asics again.

So Then You Change Shoes

2010-09-10T09:32:00.000-07:00

"It isn't the road ahead that wears you out -- it is the grain of sand in your shoe."

~Old Arabian proverb

One Year Later

2010-08-29T07:27:00.000-07:00

Tracy: "Why do people have to die?"

Nate: "To make life important. None of us know how long we've got. Which is why we have to make each day matter."

~Six Feet Under (TV series, HBO)

Ya gotta have friends. And I'm so grateful for mine, who recognized the significance of this past week and remembered today's one-year anniversary with thoughtful cards and gestures.

My family and friends - they're the ones who make each day matter.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

2010-08-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

Actually, it was a cool and misty eve, but whatever. I was curled up on the sofa, sipping a chocolate martini and nursing a broken heart. My DirectTV receiver/DVR had gone the way of the Big Sleep, taking with it two years worth of recorded movies. This unexpected turn of events put me behind the eight-ball with nothing to watch.

I was, indeed, a dame in distress.

What to do, what do to? Fraught with despair, I took a gander at a book loaned to me by this good egg I know, a fella whose literary recommendations I think I can trust. Or can I? I'm a sucker for them cats with the innocent mugs; they're always the first to lead me astray.

Not that I'm an easy mark, mind you. But on this particular night I was a desperate sister with nothing to watch and nothing to read; except that is, for some fluff of a book that's been lying 'round my joint collecting dust like a drunk collects giggle juice. A faded little paperback titled, "Eat Pray Love." Ya probably never heard of it.

Instead, I pick up my pal's recommendation; a worn out dingus titled, "Farewell, My Lovely" by Raymond Chandler. I wrap my mitts around the book and start reading.

Before I know it, my pretty little mug is buried deep within the pages, like some poor palooka in a wooden kimono. I find myself lost in the shady underground world of the 1940s, cavorting with coppers, gum-shoes, grifters and goons. Drifting through smoke-filled saloons replete with stoolies, snitches, and the occasional stiff.

And any thoughts about my dead DVR are soon given the bum's rush. That heap of junk can swim with the fishes for all I care, because this tomato's found somethin' better to do on this dark and stormy night.

Or cool and misty eve. Whatever.

Amen, Sister

2010-08-05T21:31:00.000-07:00

"I want someone who will be monogamous and nice to his mother. And I want someone who likes musicals, but knows to just shut his mouth when I'm watching Lost.

And I want someone who thinks being really into cars is lame, and strip clubs are gross.

I want someone who will actually empty the dishwasher instead of just taking out forks - like I do. I want someone with clean hands and beefy forearms, like a damned Disney prince.

And I want him to genuinely like me. Even when I'm old.

And that's what I want."

~Liz Lemon, 30 Rock

Another Typical Day at the Office

2010-07-29T21:01:00.000-07:00

And how was your day?

The Mystery of the Old Suitcase

2010-07-25T21:00:00.000-07:00

During this painstaking 11-month process of cleaning out Mom's home, I've unearthed hidden treasures boxed away in every single closet.

From childhood Halloween costumes, my beloved Raggedy Andy doll and Barbie's Dreamhouse to family photo albums and a bottle of Mercury stored alongside my stack of old Mad magazines from 1970, each excavation has been a revelation. I even found a list dated 1978 spelling out what I hoped I might get for Christmas that year.

Did I really want the 45 rpm of "Macho Man" by the Village People?

But the one discovery that tugged at my heart was the suitcase stuffed with my Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mystery books. Such a labor of love, those dusty, faded books.

That's because as an eight-year old, my allowance each week was just 25 cents. Not bad when you remember that in those days, a candy bar was a dime and comic books were 15 cents. In pre-Wii days, isn't that really all a kid needed to survive week to week?

Ah, but Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy books were $1.25. That meant five arduous weeks of saving my meager 25 cents to purchase a coveted book; not to mention forsaking any other weekly treats, like a new Richie Rich comic book or a refill for my Batman Pez dispenser.

But the sacrifice was well worth it because on that fifth week, I would be giddy with excitement as I accompanied Mom on her weekly trip to Gemco. And while she shopped for groceries, I would plant myself in front of the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy section and belabor which book to buy.

Such a decision. Did I want "The Secret of the Old Clock" or "The House on the Cliff?" Was I due for a Nancy Drew or was it time for a Hardy Boy? Back and forth, back and forth. An hour later, Mom would swing by to collect me, her shopping cart overflowing with grocery bags.

"Hurry," she'd urge, "before the ice-cream melts!"

MOM! Jeeeez.

And only under the duress of such pressure would I finally make my agonizing decision...plus, I needed her to pay the tax. I'd return home with my treasure, finish the book in one day, and then begin the process all over again.

A labor of love, indeed. And 40 years later, a suitcase of memories.

It's About Time

2010-07-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

Venti schmenti.

Finally, a coffee cup size I can live with.

I'll Pencil It In

2010-07-17T06:58:00.001-07:00

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore. Dream. Discover."

~Mark Twain

Karma, Baby, Karma

2010-07-13T20:38:00.001-07:00

So there we were on our lunch break at the Starbucks inside Target. My co-worker Wendy was approaching the empty counter when all of a sudden this tall, skinny Amazonian woman barges to the counter, practically elbowing Wendy in the process to get to the counter first. It was THAT important, you know.

Wendy and I just looked at each other, jaws agape at the blatant rudeness. The woman didn't even bother looking at Wendy to say "excuse me" or acknowledge the fact that she had practically steamrolled over her to place this Life-Or-Death order. She barked her order, grabbed the drink, and in the blink of an eye, spun around to leave as quickly as she'd flown in.

Okeefine.

Now Wendy was at the counter. And as she ordered her usual 2-pump chocolate mocha, she called me over and pointed to something sitting on the counter. There it was.

The Amazonian's car keys.

We looked at each other, then both simultaneously looked over our shoulders. We could still see the Amazonian near the Target entryway. Should we?

Would we?

And without saying a word we came to the same conclusion. Wendy picked up the keys and handed them to the Starbucks clerk. "Someone left these behind," she said.

As we started to leave the parking lot, we saw the Amazonian racing frantically from Bed, Bath & Beyond to Sports Basement to Pet Food Express, desperately scanning the ground as she walked, looking all around her.

"I"m gonna tell her," Wendy said. I started to object as she rolled down the window to call the Amazonian, but the woman gave Wendy but a cursory glance and kept on walking. "Well, then, fine, be that way." Wendy said. "I was gonna try."

"Serves her right," I said.

But that night I thought about it and it bugged me. Wendy had tried to do the right thing and take the high road. Not me. I'd wanted revenge. And then I remembered a scenario that took place not that long ago.

It was just a few weeks after my mother's unexpected passing when I was at the Danville Farmer's Market buying tomatoes. Another shopper didn't realize there was a line and unintentionally cut in front of me.

Like a match to gasoline.

I burst into this heat-fueled liturgy about people without manners and people who aren't civilized and people who don't care about other people, etc. etc. Really, that is so unlike me. And over tomatoes, no less.

The poor woman apologized as she stepped aside, saying she hadn't seen me. And in my heart I knew this was true, but I wasn't really mad about the tomatoes. I was mad about something much deeper and she just happened to get in my way. On the verge of tears, I tossed the tomatoes aside and walked away.

And I realized that the Amazonian could have been on the way to the hospital to visit her terminally ill sister. Perhaps she was reeling from a breast cancer diagnosis, stressing about that recent lay-off notice or distressed over learning that her husband was having an affair.

Or maybe she was just a really rude woman.

Doesn't matter, not my call. Because it's like the John Lennon tune: ""Instant Karma's gonna get you, What on earth are you trying to do? It's up to you, yeah you."

Yeah, me.

Think About It

2010-07-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

"You come into the world empty,
And you leave the world empty.

Those who follow Buddhism and Taoism are also empty: there is no greed in their hearts.

Although the river has been flowing for 10,000 years,
Once you enter it, the water you touch is not the same as the water that was there a few moments ago.

Frost melts with the sun.

Life is brief."

~Flying Crane, (Zu-Wu Tang), age 82

According to Dad

2010-06-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

There's a reason why my dad's nickname was Big Bad John. Just imagine Charles Bronson as an Irish Teamster from Chicago and well, you've got a pretty accurate picture of the man who succumed to Leukemia 20 years ago next month.

I was reminded of his tough-guy persona when I found his three guns while cleaning Mom's bedroom last week: two Saturday night specials, and a revolver that looks like it was once owned by The Sundance Kid. Not to mention boxes and boxes of bullets. Jewelry chests filled with bullets. Sock drawers spilling over with bullets. Shoe boxes crammed with bullets.

Dude, what's with all the bullets, one might ask? Was Dad a part of a secret militia , a one-man vigilante team, or perhaps planning to overthrow the government?

Nope. He never used those guns. Didn't go to shooting ranges, wasn't a hunter, never spent a lazy Sunday afternoon pinging beer cans off a log. Only once a year would he retrieve a gun from his nightstand and that was on New Year's Eve when he celebrated the stroke of midnight with a shot towards the stars. That is, until one year when he missed his mark and accidentally shot out a street lamp. For days afterwards he laid low, quaking in his cowboy boots in fear that the police would trace the trajectory back to his house and haul his butt to jail. After that, the guns stayed locked and hidden.

As the rugged he-man type who worshipped at the alter of John Wayne, Dad had a few unique ideas about his gender. Allow me to share his manifesto; taken, I hope, with a grain of salt.

Men who wear sandles? Gay.
Men who wear shorts? Gay.
Men who work in an office? Gay.
Men who cry? Duh.
Men who weigh under 200 pounds? Gay.
Men who are from England? Gay.
Men who are mail carriers? So not Gay.

How I turned out normal, I'll never know.

In my lifetime I recall seeing Dad cry just three times: when he witnessed a dog getting hit by a motorcycle; when he had to put our own beloved German shepard, Lobo, to sleep; and when he knew his end was near, and only then did he tear up --not out of fear but because he was leaving us.

Dad and I often knocked our stubborn heads over differences of opinion, oh yes indeedy. But he is also the man who stressed the importance of treating people the way I would like to be treated. "Remember," he was constantly reminding me, "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar." I learned by example.

My John Wayne father raised me to be strong and resilent, considerate and spiritual, independent and thrifty. He taught me to smile at strangers, say thank you, show kindness, be gentle. And to appreciate the simple things in life: a good book, hot drink, true friend, loyal dog.

I think he did an okay job.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

The "Useless Things About Me You Don't Need to Know...

2010-06-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

"...But Are Going to Find Out Anyway" list:

My elbows are double-jointed. I can pop them backwards and it freakin' freakity-freaks people out. I love doing that.

I make the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. Seriously. The best. Award-winning, even. Blue ribbon.

I like that scritchy-scratchy sound that men make when they scratch their stubbly chins. Not so much on women.

My favorite foo-foo drink is the chocolate martini. Tastes like candy, feels like a smack upside the head with a snow shovel. In a good way.

I can recite entire scenes from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." Just my favorite movie, ever.

I have a Hank Williams song in my iPod. Right next to Lil Wayne.

I was once told by Bruce Jenner, the 1976 Olympic champion with the scary facelift, to shut up. No, I replied, YOU shut up. Okay, I didn't really. But I was thinking it.

My idea of hurl on earth? Eating beets while watching a Nicholas Cage movie.

And last but not least?

I've been declared an honorary Jew. L'Chaim!

Favorite Motivational Quote of the Week

2010-05-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

Wishes

When you wish upon a star, your dreams can come true.

Unless, it's really a meteorite hurtling to the Earth that will destroy all life. Then you're pretty much hosed no matter what you wish for.

That is, unless it's death by meteor.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up, Folks

2010-05-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

Found in the Thursday, May 27 calendar datebook section of the San Francisco Chronicle.

"Masterbate-a-Thon Center for Sex & Culture Executive Director Dr. Carol Queen will be joined by various celebrity hosts as competitors vie to beat the current world time record. Benefits the CSC. Sunday. Competitors arrive at 10am, non-competing masturbators at 2pm and audience may arrive after 4pm. $25 (voyeur seating). Mission Street, San Francisco."

And what are you doing this Memorial Day weekend? Besides steering clear of Mission Street, that is.

The Smile List

2010-05-19T13:38:00.000-07:00

"Start every day with a smile and get it over with."
~W.C. Fields

So here are few things that make me smile, for no reason other than they do.

The song Mr. Blue Sky by ELO

The deep, resounding "moooooo" of the mad cow that roams the hillside in back of my home.

Cowbell. Gotta have more cowbell.

The scent of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.

The memory of my sister and I attempting to sing "I'm Henry the 8th I am" by Herman Hermits on karaoke night on our Alaskan cruise. "Attempt" being the operative word, since we were bent-at-the-waist-knees-crossed laughing too hard.

Sighting a deer.

Flight of the Conchords, "She's So Hot-Boom".

Finding one of Lucy's stuffed toys on my bed. Dog, you are so busted.

"We are no longer the Knights who say Ni...we are the Knights who say Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing..."

The "ping" of an incoming text.

The happy prancy-dance that Elvis does whenever I ask, "Want a cookie?" or "Let's go bye-bye."

"No hablo espanol. HEY, hablando espanol!" from Bedazzled, one of the funniest movies ever.

And my guaranteed-to-produce-a-smile-favorite:

A home video of a wedding entrance march that made the rounds last year. It was criticized by some as corny, but to critics I say "pppffffttttttt." Every time I watch this, it makes me happy for the couple whom I believe have a joyous future ahead of them. Mazel tov!

The Dismantling of a Life

2010-05-15T17:25:00.001-07:00

Today was the day my sister and I have been dreading the most: cleaning out Mom's bedroom. Except for large furniture, the entire rest of our childhood home is almost completely empty, except for her bedroom. It still looks exactly the way she left it eight months ago. When I close my eyes I can see her packing her hospital bag, kissing the dogs on the nose, and telling them to behave because "I promise I'll be back in one week."

It was a promise she couldn't keep.

When I called my sister this morning to confirm our scheduled 11:30 am meeting time at Mom's house, I could hear the dread in her voice, the fatigue, the sadness. And I knew she just couldn't handle this particular chore, the final dismantling of our mother's life. As I've said before, we all have our sore spots and hers is the house. God only knows, my baby sister has been there for me when I've needed her and I'm only too happy to return the favor.

"Stay home," I told her. "I'll handle it." She gratefully accepted.

But it wasn't easy.

Mom's bedroom is huge: two large closets, two large dressers, a bathroom, sitting room and a trunk. My best friend, Pam,assisted me and I couldn't have handled it without her. As we went through each section, she helped keep me focused when she saw me tearing up, getting weary, slowing down. It felt so intrusive, going through Mom's drawers and boxes, manhandling her possessions, taking her clothes off the hangers, removing her shoes from the racks, smelling her perfume; remembering that this was the dress she wore during formal night on our cruise to Alaska; the "mother of the bride" dress she wore to my sister's wedding; the silly Tasmanian Devil sweatshirt she always donned at the dog park.

As we stuffed each item of clothing into one of three plastic bags ("Keep," "Donate," Trash") I felt like I was losing a bit of my mother all over again. What made it more difficult was that Mom had saved many of Dad's possessions, as well as her mother's, so I had to go through these items too. Passports, photo albums, letters, keepsakes, news-clippings and certificates. Each conjuring up a plethora of long-forgotten memories of people I loved, of people now gone.

After four hours I was worn, depleted, dusty and shell-shocked. Surrounded by boxes, Hefty bags and trash. Surrounded by a discombobulated mess that represented all that was left of my beloved mother.

The deeper we love, the harder we grieve. And today served as a reminder of just how much I've loved.

The Root of Perfection

2010-05-09T07:33:00.000-07:00

In her eyes I was perfect. Beautiful, smart, witty, funny and engaging. My hair always looked nice and my body was just the right size. Not too fat, not too skinny. Perfect.

In her eyes I was a resounding success. Any employer would be lucky to have me, any friend fortunate to claim me, any man blessed to love me. Whenever I shared my excitement about a new article I had sold for publication, she wouldn't bat an eye. Of course my work would be published! Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'd be paid for it! All brilliant writers were paid for their work.

In her eyes there was no one she'd rather spend time with. We could be grabbing an early dinner at Applebee's, catching a matinee like Up (the last movie we saw together), or simply hanging out in her kitchen with a glass of wine; it was never about the event or location: it was about me. Being with me, laughing at my jokes, relishing my stories, valuing my opinion. Taking sheer delight in the presence of my company, whether we were standing on the deck of a cruise ship in Italy or sitting on the lawn chairs in her patio. All of it - the meals, the scenery, the entertainment - may have been the cake, but I was the icing.

In her eyes I was perfect. The perfect friend, sister, employee, pet guardian, human being. Daughter.

And in my eyes any perfection that exists in me is thanks to her. After all, the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. On this day when we honor our mothers, my heart grieves for the woman who cherished me unconditionally; who loved me in that very special way that only a mother can love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

The Poker Face and the Psychic

2010-04-18T12:50:00.001-07:00

So it was my best friend's birthday and I wanted to treat her to something unique and entertaining. Pam always turns my birthdays into fabulous, memorable and decadent affairs and I wanted to do the same for her.

And since she's always been curious about psychics, I thought a reading might be just the ticket. A little Googling, a little research and voila! I found a psychic that had been featured on TV and boasted over 30 rave reviews on Yelp. Cool!

But maybe this gal was TOO good, seeing how she was booked through June. When she referred me to someone that she sees when she wants a reading for herself, I figured, hey, a psychic's psychic! Maybe this would be even better.

So I booked an appointment for Pam. And what the heck, I reserved a reading for myself , too. Afterwards, I thought we could share a laugh while comparing notes over lunch.

Oh, and indeedy we shared. But we weren't laughing. It was more like we were lifting our gaping jaws off the floor and wondering how the hell this woman knew what she did. After all, we had each worn our best poker face during our private sessions; saying nothing, revealing nothing, acknowledging nothing.

How did this psychic know what she knew?

She told me lots of things, like the recent date I'd had replete with mixed signals. She said I was perplexed about his behavior, but reassured me that "it's not you, it's him. Not you, HIM." She described an exact date I'd recently had, but I said nothing.

She told me that my spiritual guide was a deer and that I relate to them. Now friends know me as a dog lover, but I've never shared the kinship I feel with deer. Every morning I look for them throughout the hills when I drive to work , considering it a good sign if I spot one. I've got 911 on my speed dial in case I see a deer strolling on the shoulder, afraid it might get hit by a car. I've got photos of deer on my bulletin board at work and find peace looking at their gentle faces. My poker face remained intact.

"You are spiritual," she observed, "but no longer religious." Until recently, I had attended church faithfully for over ten years; that is, until I realized that my pastor was more interested in trolling the Internet for jokes to use in his sermon than tending to people in need. I haven't stepped foot in a church since. Gulp. Still, I remained silent.

Then she read my Tarot cards and gasped, clasping her hands to her chest. "Oh, you've been struck in the heart!" she exclaimed in her clipped British accent. "You are grieving, mourning over the death of a loved one."

I said nothing.

"You've lost a lot of weight because I see a stripped soul."

Nothing. Poker face, poker face.

"She's with you all the time, watching and protecting you."

How did she know my loss was a she?

"She never leaves your side. And she wants you to know that she's glad it happened this way. She's glad she went suddenly because she didn't want to whither away for six months."

Mom died quickly from a pulmonary embolism, but had been scheduled for six months of a grueling experimental chemotherapy. The tears started welling.

And the minor detail that clinched it: "She was concerned about her hair and had made an appointment."

Mom had scheduled a date with her hair stylist to go shopping for wigs. The appointment card is still posted on her refrigerator door. With that, my poker face collapsed and the tears flowed.

Real deal or talented scam artist? We'll never know for sure. All I can say is that this was supposed to be a present for Pam. But at the end of the day I walked away feeling like I'd received the gift.

And You Know This Because...

2010-03-07T09:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, show of hands please: how many of you know what a "fluffer" is?

Really, that many, eh? Guess it's just me.

Because I think "fluffer" sounds like a pretty word, a noun used to describe a person whose work results in something fluffy and lacy and delicate. Like a pastry chef who bakes mouth-watering macaroons or a seamstress who crochets exquisite soft shawls.

When I described my co-worker as being a good "fluffer," it was because she can work magic with a bag and decorative tissue and crepe paper. She fluffs them into lovely, wispy mountain peaks, cascades and bows. If she fluffs well, wouldn't that make her a good fluffer?

How was I supposed to know that a fluffer is actually the crew member on a pornographic movie set whose sole responsibility is to keep the male star, er...."happy" prior to filming sex scenes? It's not like fluffers are used on shows I frequent, like Ghost Whisperer or What Not To Wear.

My co-worker isn't holding my faux pas against me since we both agree, she does fluff exceptionally well. Although just between you and me, I still say she's one heck of a fluffer.

What the $#@$*k!!?

2010-03-02T07:00:00.000-08:00

Okay pottymouths, listen up -- California's first official "Cuss-Free Week" kicks off today, March 2-7. And while most people may find a non-swearing vocabulary paralyzing, immobilizing and incapacitating, I for one anticipate sailing through the week unscathed. C'mon, how hard can it be to go a few days without using expletives? Should be a fu....er, I mean, flippin' piece of cake.

Barring a few exceptions, of course. And so, this week I vow to not utter one single swear word. That is, unless I:

Drop my Bluetooth in the toilet. Again.
Stub my toe.
Discover that my teenage niece has posted a photo of me on Facebook in which I bear a striking resemblance to Howard Stern.
Sneeze and wet my pants. Not that this has ever happened before, mind you. I'm just mentioning this in case, uh, you know, beyond my wildest imagination it did happen.
Get stuck behind some idiot in the "15 items or less" line who apparently can't read because he is buying enough groceries to feed Squaw Valley.
Receive any type of correspondence from my physician that includes the word "colonoscopy."
Gulp a generous swig of my latte only to discover that the soy milk I used expired three weeks ago.
Am rammed in the knees by an over-zealous mall mom who is using her child's stroller as a battering ram so she can race over to Macy's for their daily "one day only" sale.
Find my greyhound, Lucy, once again using my $125 handmade medium density side-sleeper hypoallergenic luxury down pillow as her own pillow...for her butt.
Get yet another "invitation" from those stalkers at AARP. Hey, I'm in denial, folks. Work with me.
Step in....oh, never mind. That's a Hall of Famer and goes without saying.

Yup, piece of cake, all right. Somebody hand me a staple gun for the lips and I'm good to go.

And in the End

2010-02-21T16:58:00.000-08:00

Different versions of this essay, about how I'd like my memorial service, have appeared in various publications, but I'm repeating it here--only to ensure that that nobody calls me a "wretched soul" (from the hymn "Amazing Grace." I never did like that line). Not that I'm planning on going anywhere soon, so you can ditch the panicked call to 911. Just consider this a proactive measure on my part and listen up pals:

THIS is how I'd like be remembered.

For starters, I want my greyhounds, Elvis and Lucy, at my service. They may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why their human has left them and they're suddenly living with someone else. But they must be at my service. If any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for these dogs. Elvis and Lucy are as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. They sit. And stay. In the row reserved for family.

I want people to laugh. Really. I hope my friends will muster the courage to stand up and tell funny stories about me because I will have died without tears and regrets. So I never married. Never had kids. Never had the corner office, wrote a best-seller or squeezed into a pair of size two jeans. Know what?

Don't care. Doesn't matter. I was happy. Content. Grateful to wake up each day healthy, in a warm bed, with a roof over my head, a job to sustain me and people who loved me.

Amidst carnations (take note: my favorite flower), I'd like my sister, Jennifer, to talk about that joke she played on me, the one where she convinced me that her house was haunted. Pam, my best friend, should 'fess up about us attending a Donny Osmond concert--uh, in our forties. Richard can share memories from our time at Dublin High ("it's all your fault!"), and Deb can laugh about that time in New Orleans when we feared we were being sold as middle-aged sex slaves.

Shared lives and experiences. In good times and bad, through grimaces and grins, we held each others' hands for strength and support. And laughed. Always, we laughed.

Music must be an integral part of my service. Friends may know me as an Elvis Costello fan(who do you think my dog is named for...that Presley dude?), but there are many songs I hold dear, mainly due to fond childhood memories.

Moon River by Andy Williams. Just about any sixties tune by Johnny Mathis or Herb Alpert. The instrumental Love is Blue by Paul Mauriat. Clair de Lune, because my father would play it on the piano and as a child I thought he had composed it. I remember hearing it on the radio one day and running to him in hysterics, screeching that someone had stolen his song.

I love the poignancy of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys. The optimistic Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head by B.J. Thomas, and the corny Everything is Beautiful by Ray Stevens. Since lyrics should be somewhat relevant, given the circumstances, this probably rules out Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. My friends can make that call.

Oh, but there is one song that must be played. Someone once quoted these lyrics to me, in an email response to an article I wrote about adopting Elvis. It's from the Beatles Abbey Road, incidentally my all-time favorite album. The song is titled, appropriately enough, "The End. " Just 28 words long, the last eight say it all. The same eight words I quoted just last week in my Valentine's Day post:

And in the end...
the love you take,
is equal to the love,
You make.

And with that final song, my service will be over. Held on a day I hope to dodge for many years to come.

Happy Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T12:30:00.000-08:00

"And in the end,

the love you take,

is equal to the

love you make."

~Lennon/McCartney

Just Another Typical Day at the Office

2010-02-09T20:19:00.001-08:00

Today I got a lick from a cow named Ellie.

And how was your day?

Out of the Closet

2010-02-06T15:58:00.000-08:00

This morning I began the arduous task of sorting through and emptying the home that Mom lived in for over 40 years. Eventually my sister will join me in this emotional endeavor, but right now the pain is still too fresh and she's just not ready. We all have our weak spots, those Code Red triggers, and hers is the house.

That's okay. These past few months, Jennifer has carried me when I've been weak, hugged me when I've cried and made me laugh when I never even thought I could smile. I'm more than happy to help my "baby" sister through this rough patch.

Besides, I figure I can handle one closet at a time. Really, I can do this. Ninety minutes, a few boxes and garbage bags and voila. After all, how hard can one closet be?

Let me tell you.

Although this particular closet was in my former bedroom, over the years it had turned into a catch-all. The plentiful pillows, duvets and blankets were easy decisions: the good ones would go to Shepherd's Gate, a shelter for abused women, and the tattered ones would find their way to the local animal shelter. But then I started unearthing more stuff, the kind of stuff you think you'll never forget, but lo and behold, here it is suddenly staring you in the face and turns out you forgot about it after all.

Like my collection of TV Guides from 1970. I don't recall why I was so into TV Guide that year. I'm guessing I was frantically checking to see if the Osmond Brothers were appearing on that week's episode of The Andy Williams Show, but why did I save each issue? Only my juvenile old brain remembers why.

I found my autographed black and white 8x10 glossy of Bob Hope, and a personal letter from the late comedian/actor, Freddie Prinze. I recalled seeing him on The Tonight Show in 1974, thinking he was hysterical, and writing to him asking where and how he garnered his comedy material. Even back then I was interested in writing.

There were my school yearbooks and my sister's birth certificate with the original photo and her teeny I.D. bracelet the circumference of a quarter. I found our familiar kitchen fixture, the brown ceramic Dutch girl cookie jar that was always stocked with Dad's favorite Mother's Cookies , and the red dog collar with tarnished tags that had the faded inscription, "Kernel," our long-deceased Cockapoo.

I found a half-filled tube of my Bonnie Bell Strawberry Lip Smacker lip gloss that I wore endlessly in the 8th Grade, and another iconic symbol from the 70's, my Pet Rock. I also discovered a long-lost love letter addressed to me from somebody named Mark.

Who the heck was Mark?

Throughout all this excavating, I was doing okay. My heart grew heavier with each treasured memento and keepsake revealed, but I kept trudging through like a trouper. That is, until I came across a ball of rolled up material stuffed inside a crinkly plastic shopping bag.

Drapes, maybe? Or perhaps a bedspread or small area carpet? I was about to slam dunk the bag into the "trash" pile until I thought better of it and decided to check out the contents. Good thing I did.

It was our mother's wedding dress.

And with that, I locked up the house and left. How hard could one closet be, I wondered?

Let me tell you.

Birthday Surprise

2010-02-01T07:42:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, I approached my birthday this year with some degree of trepidation. Not for the typical anti-aging reasons (Honestly? I don't give a @#!k), but because it would be the first without my mom. My sister and I are still navigating all those precarious "firsts," never knowing how we might respond.

Talk about your roller coaster of emotions.

That's why it was a nice surprise to not just survive the dreaded day on Saturday, but actually enjoy it, despite the glaring absence of my beloved mom. The office greeting emailed to me on Friday (see photo) helped set the tone and put a smile on my face that never quite left the entire weekend.

On "D" day itself, I went to my sister's for our traditional family birthday dinner, followed with a vigorous evening playing Nintendo Wii. On Sunday, my best friend, Pam, treated me to a luxurious "girls day" of pampering at the Carnero Inn spa in Napa. My body was salt-scrubbed in spots that haven't seen the sun since Nixon was in office, and the facial and massage were to die for.

The entire weekend left me with a foreign feeling not felt in recent months: relaxed.

Yes, my birthday could have been difficult. Instead it was bittersweet. After all, this was the very first one of my entire life when I didn't get that traditional pre-dawn call teasing me, "How OLD are you???" The silence that morning was deafening.

But I discovered that Mom was with me just the same; I felt her spirit through the thoughtful, loving gestures of each and every friend who, in spite of the circumstances, helped make this a special day.

Ray of Light on a Rainy Day

2010-01-23T12:58:00.000-08:00

So much sadness these days, from personal loss to global tragedies, and I'm tired, so very weary of being sad. It's starting to feel chronic. That's why this email, received on a bleak, rainy day from a former contributor to my SF Chronicle Pet Tales column, was like a tonic for my heart.

Hi Eileen,

I want to share something that just happened, thanks to the article about Stella. One our more prominent philanthropists read it and contacted me about helping. She asked me to ask each class for a wish, which I forwarded to her. She just called to let me know she bought over 100 items for the Janet Pomeroy Center for the Handicapped. These go from small art supplies, to furniture, Karaoke machines, and a scoreboard for the gym.

I am so touched, and on a dreary day, thought you might be too.
~Ricky

What a positive reminder that there is goodness to be found.

Pennies From Heaven

2010-01-16T13:42:00.000-08:00

It was a gloomy Saturday morning with a damp, gray fog that was doing a number on my curly hair. My neighbor had just picked me up from the Toyota dealership where I'd left my new car for a tune-up.

The car belonged to my mom; the quintessential vehicle owned by the quintessential "little old lady" who never used it for anything beyond grocery shopping and church. My spirited mom certainly wasn't that "little old lady" -- she just didn't have much need for driving.

That's why, when she passed away four months ago, her 2004 sea foam green Corolla had just 25,000 miles on it. And talk about mint condition. She detailed it religiously. Performed oil changes and tire rotations like clockwork. The exterior shines like a mirror and I'm sure the interior would still boast that new car smell if she hadn't taken her dogs, Lucy and Holden, for rides every morning when she drove to Starbucks. Someone would be extremely lucky to get this prize.

Turns out that someone was me.

Because while I proposed selling the car and splitting the money with my sister, she had other ideas. "YOU take the car," Jennifer insisted. "You're the one with an old car and long commute. I want you in something reliable." She absolutely refused to let me buy her out. That's the kind of person she is.

And so, I accepted her generous offer, albeit reluctantly. Because while I'm grateful to be spared the financial burden of buying a new car, I also can't forget HOW I got this one. The day I went to the DMV to transfer the title to my name, my hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly sign the documents. When the DMV clerk, an older Indian woman, saw that I had checked the "deceased" box, she immediately understood and her abrupt attitude changed. "It's okay," she said in a gentle tone, patting my trembling hands. "It's okay."

On this misty day, while waiting for my car to be ready, I was thinking of Mom. Remembering the last time we went out for dinner at Chevy's, and the last movie we saw together, which we both loved. It was "Up." Missing her. Wondering when this ache might lessen just a bit.

That afternoon, I returned to Toyota to pick up my car. And as I was driving home, I heard a strange rattling sound coming from inside that I'd never heard before. For Pete's sake, had Toyota messed up? As the rattling continued, I traced the sound to the driver's side and ran my left hand inside the empty door pocket. There I found a penny.

Now I've never subscribed to that popular psychic belief that pennies are messages from people who have passed. The explanation is that copper is supposedly easy for a spirit to manipulate, and if you believe in that type of thing, well, whatever. I've figured the most likely explanation was that people in pain were grasping at straws. Desperate for any type of message from their loved one.

Yet I can't deny that after Mom died, and without even thinking about it, I started finding pennies in the oddest of places. Underneath my watch on the dresser. On the exact spot where Holden's paw landed when he jumped down from the car. On the kitchen table, right next to my soy latte. And now, on this day when I was feeling particularly sad, in the door pocket of her former car.

Could the mechanic have dropped it? Possibly. Although I don't think they're in the habit of leaving money behind: usually, they're the ones squeezing every penny out of the customer.

Think what you will. Maybe I'm grasping at straws, too. But as I drove home, accompanied by that rattling sound, I found my spirits lifting along with the rising fog.

We Have Lift-Off

2010-01-04T18:34:00.000-08:00

When my mother passed away, there was no question about it, none whatsoever. Of course, I would adopt her white greyhound, Lucy. I could no more give up Lucy than I could my own beloved fawn greyhound, Elvis.

Lucy is a sweet and affectionate little dog who curls up alongside me on the sofa and has invited herself on my bed. An unhygenic no-no, I always thought. That is, until the first time she snuggled her head in the crook of my neck and heaved a contented sigh. Not only did I not have the heart to push her off, I found I didn't want to.

There has been one major challenge, however: Lucy has been deathly afraid of the doggie door. No amount of bacon bits, begging, cajoling, pushing and pleading has convinced her to push the flap with her nose and go through the door. Like it was a doggie Guillotine or something.

And so, for almost four months, despite watching Elvis use the door, Lucy has gone through it only if I've Velcroed the flap open. Not a good thing in warm weather when flying insects are rampant. Or in the winter, with my furnace serving as a heater for the entire backyard. But it was either leave the flap open or come home to find my Oriental carpet transformed into a $600 pee pad.

Until this morning.

At 5:27 am came a moment to remember. After finishing her breakfast, Lucy tentatively approached the doggie door. Stopped. Sniffed it. Stepped back. Turned around and looked at me. “Good girl,” I coaxed her softly, using the word a trainer had advised. “Outside! Outside!” She stepped towards the door again. Sniffed it. Tapped it with her nose. And then, as I held my breath, she gently pushed the flap with her nose and stepped outside.

ALLELUIA!

And while it may not mean much to anyone else, I'm embracing it as the most subtle of signs that 2010 is off to a promising start.

Skipping Christmas

2009-12-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

Four years ago, when I observed my best friend "skipping Christmas," it saddened me. That's because I knew that Pam was still mourning the loss of her beloved father, who had passed away that previous March.

But I know now that there is no such thing as "still mourning." Over time the mourning may lessen, subside, but it never stops.

And four years ago, I couldn't have ever imagined how difficult it was for anyone who has lost a loved one to experience that year of "firsts," such as the first birthday. Mom's was last Sunday. We have a family tradition that the birthday person gets to select their favorite meal and my sister prepares it at a joyous family celebration. Mom always chose tostadas. And so, last Sunday we invited her best friend to join our family tradition over a tostada dinner, and we spent the evening exchanging funny stories and memories. What could have been a difficult time ended up warming our hearts. It felt good. Right.

But no matter how I try to spin it, Christmas this year isn't good or right. Every Christmas carol, every twinkling light, reminds me that last year at this time our family was healthy, whole and happy. I now understand Pam's decision four years ago when she chose to skip Christmas. No cards. No gifts. No decorations or parties or carols.

"Your mother wouldn't want that!" my friend, Patt, chided me. And she's absolutely right. Mom would be the first to tell us to whip out her favorite Christmas album by Andy Williams and spin it on the turntable.

But the brain can't force the heart. And my heart just isn't in it.

Friends who have experienced this type of loss promise that with each passing "first" it gets easier, and one day joy will return to my heart. I believe them. Just last night Pam called to tell me how pretty her Christmas tree looks.

And while my family may never again feel whole, in time I'll learn to be happy, and future Christmases will be good and right.

One Year Ago: the Infamous Finger

2009-11-28T18:28:00.000-08:00

It was the day after Thanksgiving and mom and I had made plans to go window shopping at a nearby outdoor mall. Walk off those pumpkin pie calories, admire the decorations, maybe do a little shopping, and enjoy a light lunch afterwards. So I wasn't surprised when she called at 9 a.m. to tell me she was on her way to pick me up. Ready to go shopping? You betcha!

But then she oh, so casually mentioned that her finger hurt. Just a little.

"What do you mean it hurts?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Oh, I tripped over one of the dogs last night before I went to bed and I must have sprained it a little," she replied. "It's no big deal."

My antennas went up. If it wasn't a big deal, why had she mentioned it? "Do you need to see a doctor?" I asked. "Should I take you to Emergency?"

"Naaaaaw," she snorted, "it's nothing, really. Let's go shopping."

Okeefine.

But when she picked me up 15 minutes later and I saw her middle finger, I had a slightly different take on the matter.

"OH MY GAWD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

Because THAT was her middle finger, completely popped out of the second knuckle and bent at a 45 degree angle. It was in complete alignment with her palm, crossing her index finger like a "t" and pointing towards her thumb. I was trying not to gag.

"You're exaggerating," she insisted. "It feels fine!"

Yeah, right sister. Off to emergency we went.

When we checked in and mom displayed her hand with the finger bent like Gumby on crack, I got to say "I told you so" because the response was universal. Everywhere we went throughout the hospital, jaws dropped, eyes popped and stomachs turned. "OH MY GAWD!" the man at check-in exclaimed. As did the woman in the X-Ray department, the emergency technician and the doctor who treated her.

"See?" I told her. "You've even grossed out the people in Emergency and they've seen it all!"

She shrugged. And after the doctor gave her a painful anesthesia shot in the knuckle, snapped her finger back in the socket, taped it to a splint and swathed her hand like an oven mitt, she had but one thing to say.

"So are you happy now? Let's go shopping!" And we did.

Soytini, Anyone?

2009-11-22T16:24:00.000-08:00

You might call me a quasi-vegetarian. It's not that I have any particular ethics about eating things with a face, although once I begin reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, I may start singing a different tune. Just the book review had me gagging.

Mainly, I stick to a veggie diet because veggies are quick and easy and I'm impatient and lazy. Plus, I have to confess I do feel better without all that cholesterol and whatnot churning through my body.

But I'll be the first to admit that some foods aren't meant to be healthy, no matter how you spin it. Such as the brownie I once impulsively purchased at the Whole Foods checkout stand. Thick, chewy, creamy, it looked like a slice of heaven and I couldn't wait to sink my fangs into it.

Eeeeuuuu, eeuuuuu euuuuuu! I promptly spat it out and scrambled for a napkin to scrape my tongue of any offending brownie residue. What the hell? Perplexed, I retrieved the wrapper from the trash can and discovered that this wasn't just any ordinary brownie, no sirree. This was a "vegan" brownie and the major ingredient was - sacrebleu - tofu!

Now, I love tofu. Eat it almost every day. But nowhere in my world do the words "chocolate" and "tofu" belong together in the same sentence. Nor, as I discovered last week, do the words "martini" and "soymilk."

This I learned when I was preparing for my weekly guilty pleasure triple threat: indulging in a chocolate martini while watching "Ghost Whisperer" followed by my Netflix rental of the week. I know, pathetic, but I love it. On this evening however, I discovered I was out of the cream used to dilute my martini. Darn. But wait: I did have a carton of vanilla soymilk. And milk is milk, right? Heck, maybe I was on the verge of discovering a healthy martini!

Au contraire mon frere. Martinis aren't supposed to be foamy. Nor should they smell like socks, look like mud or taste like battery acid.

But I may be on to something just the same. Whole Foods, if you're reading this, give me a jingle. I have a recipe for the perfect drink to wash down your vegan brownies.

Skip it, You Say? REALLY?

2009-11-21T08:49:00.000-08:00

Of course, I'm absolutely, unequivocally and undoubtedly certain that the new, more relaxed guidelines announced this week for breast and cervical cancer screenings were in no way, shape or form introduced, influenced or initiated by insurance companies.

I mean, really. Such a cynical and totally unfounded suspicion. Really.

Because really, I'm sure that insurance companies have absolutely no say in matters such as these, and the new cost-effective guidelines are purely for the good of all women and in our best interest, and there are no ulterior motives whatsoever.

I mean, really.

One Day at a Time

2009-11-13T19:30:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received a thoughtful email from Tia, a former contributor to my Pet Tales column that runs weekly in the San Francisco Chronicle. She reads my Blog and noticed I haven’t been writing much lately. She also shared that she lost her own mother 12 years ago and her father 16 years ago, and to this day she's still not quite over it.

"I've given up thinking that it will ever change," Tia said. "So I just live with it." But she understands how losing a parent feels, and was just checking in to say hi, see how I'm doing. I appreciate that, I really do.

Here’s the thing: writing is cathartic. I usually address what’s on my mind and in my heart. And these days, both are so heavy with grief that I can hardly motivate myself to do anything other than the bare essentials to keep me going.

How am I doing?

Well, my sister (second from left in the above photo) and I tried grief counseling, but dropped it after a couple sessions when we noticed that the counselor was fishing for family skeletons. Really lady, there aren’t any, we wanted to say. We’re just two daughters mourning the loss of our mom. We didn’t tell her that, but afterwards, we agreed to save the $165 per hour she was charging and spend it on something more therapeutic, like massages. Come January, we’re going to need to unwind after we start cleaning and emptying mom’s beloved home of 40 years. It's a task we're truly dreading.

In lieu of grief therapy, I’m turning to recommended books. One is “When Parents Die: A Guide for Adults" by Edward Myers. It's comforting to read that my emotions and reactions are typical and that I'm not alone. Or crazy, like it sometimes feels. Sudden death is especially difficult to deal with, the author notes. He also cautions that the grieving process typically lasts up to two years. It's been just two months. I can't imagine two years of living with this ache in my heart. And yet I can't imagine ever feeling normal again. Ever NOT missing mom.

Yesterday morning at Starbucks, I saw an older woman with short curly gray hair and wearing the same type of sweatshirt and jeans that mom was so fond of. And I remembered one of her simple pleasures: every single morning, she piled the dogs, Lucy and Holden, into the back seat of her Corolla, and with their happy heads wagging out the window, she took them for a drive, much to the amused delight of all her neighbors who witnessed this daily trek. Then she wrapped up their field trip with a stop at Starbucks for a Chai Tea latte.

For just the briefest of seconds, I wanted to call mom and tell her I'd seen her twin. And then I remembered. The pain washed anew, like it just happened yesterday, and in the Starbucks parking lot I fought back the tears.

It will take time, I know. And I'm trying, really I am. Thank you for asking.

And that's how I'm doing.

The One About the Rabbi, the Monk and the Pastor

2009-10-24T13:50:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm not Jewish or Buddhist, so I'm cutting straight to the pastor.

To say that my pastor and church failed me during the darkest period of my entire life is like saying Hitler had issues. Friends who have heard the story are appalled, which validates that I wasn't simply crazy with grief. At a time when I desperately needed spiritual comfort, my church of ten years forgot me.

Oh, but the signs were there.

Such as the day before Mom's surgery, when the wife of the assistant pastor emailed me, asking if I'd like to join a brainstorming session for future church services. I wrote back, explaining that I'd have to decline because my mother had just been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer and I would be her primary caretaker. I also said she was entering the hospital the next day for surgery and asked that prayers be said for her.

How did the pastor's wife respond? She didn't. Nada, zip, zilch. Like I'd mentioned my mom was suffering from the heartbreak of psoriasis or chronic dandruff.

And it gets better, folks.

Days after Mom died, I made an appointment to see my pastor and told his administrative assistant the reason why. I was grief-stricken and in total despair. Angry at God and confused at why He let this happen. I desperately needed spiritual counseling.

So there I was, sitting in the lobby and struggling to hold back the tears while my pastor kept me waiting ten minutes because hey, it was a hot day and he had gone out to get an ice-coffee.

Okay, fine.

As I sat in his office, barely able to speak because I was sobbing so hard, he simply sat there. Slurping his ice-coffee and nodding, occasionally saying things like, "Hmmm," or "That's too bad," or "I'm so sorry." Then, when I couldn't utter another word, he finally spoke. Did he quote the Bible? Recite scripture or say anything to help me make sense of what had transpired?

Not quite.

"You know what's really bad?" he asked. "The death of a child."

I was speechless. Was I suppose to feel better that it was JUST my old mother that had died and not some adorable little tyke? I left his office still grief-stricken and also newly befuddled.

What the hell had just taken place?

This appointment was seven weeks ago. Since that time, neither my pastor nor anyone from his staff has reached out to me even once to see how I'm doing. No emails, no phone calls, no "Hope you're hanging in there, God loves you." Nothing. Despite greeting me in the lobby every Sunday morning for over ten years, my sudden absence hasn't made a dent on their radar.

In a previous posting I wrote that a crisis reveals the worst in people as well as the best. I'm saddened to learn that this idiom applies to churches as well, which is why I won't be returning to my former house of worship.

Not that I'm done with God just yet. There's always still the Rabbi and the Monk.

Starbucked for the Last Time

2009-10-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

Are you kidding me? Almost five bucks for a large latte? Clearly Starbucks expects their exisiting customers (all four of us, judging from the empty lines of late) to compensate for those who bolted after their last price increase.

Well guess what, Starbucks? I know how to make one kick-ass latte using the still-working Krups Expresso machine my parents gave me as a Christmas present in 1987. It'll just mean getting up ten minutes earlier each morning, but I'll do it.

Yes sirree, I'm boycotting Starbucks. I won't darken their doorstep one minute more. Well, as soon as they stop selling those tasty Pumpkin Spice lattes, that is.