Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful

Okay, I’d had enough. Really. Mild weather is nice, but this was getting ridiculous. Here it was, December and I was still wearing tired summer t-shirts and Capri pants. They were cute in May, but now they were faded and stained with margarita mix, cheese whiz and barbecue sauce from pool parties long past. I was more than ready to retire them, but couldn’t because once again, the forecast was for another record high.

"Might hit the 70’s!” the pregnant TV meteorologist exclaimed with glee.

I wanted to pummel her. And why are TV meteorologists always pregnant?

It’s not like I actually enjoy cold weather. Witness my trip to Alaska this past July, where every single picture depicts me as the Michelin Man, bundled in quadruple layers underneath my fur-lined parka. Only my eyes blinking “I am FREEZING” in Morse code are visible above the scarf that is wrapped up to my nose.

The temperature was 51 degrees.

And yet, in spite of being a native Californian and therefore a weather wimp, I embrace the iconic image of a Norman Rockwell winter: arctic winds, sub-zero temperatures, breath-taking ice storms and cozy snow days. I dream of donning festive scarves, cute caps and plush turtleneck sweaters. Watching house lights twinkle through the fog, ice skating on a nearby frozen lake and afterwards, sipping hot cocoa by a roaring fire or maybe stretched across the sofa, wrapped in a chenille blanket and enjoying a Gene Kelly marathon on AMC, snug as a bug while winter winds raged outside.

So optimist that I am, when autumn leaves began to fall, I hoped that California’s version of winter weather was right around the corner. I stocked up on hot cocoa, canned soup and scented candles. I replaced my cotton bed sheets with flannel ones, added an extra blanket and programmed my heater to kick on at 68 degrees. Happily, I resumed wearing my beloved winter jammies, the snuggly flannel ones that feel like clouds, even though my friend Dennis refers to them as “sex-repellant.”

I died.

My bedroom felt like a Finnish sauna. Nights were spent tossing and turning, spastically rolling around on flannel sheets that felt more like scratchy baking sheets straight from a 500 degree oven. I fanned across my bed, desperately seeking a cool spot while simultaneously ripping off the suffocating flannel strait jacket that I swear was emitting electrical currents throughout my body. Where did I get these jammies anyway, the gift shop at Guantánamo Bay?

Days were no better. Oh sure, mornings would start out cool, foggy even, giving the false illusion of a real winter. And of course I would think, “Ha! Just goes to show what that pregnant meteorologist knows!” One morning it was even chilly enough to warrant wearing my luscious turtleneck, accessorized with the new scarf I‘d been eager to wear. And I felt so Vermont-ish and stylish and cute as I strolled over to Starbucks with my greyhound, Elvis, who was decked out in his own fleece-lined coat. We sat outside where I sipped my favorite winter beverage, a steaming peppermint mocha, while Elvis solicited affection from passing dog-lovers.

But all too soon the fog burned off and I found myself sweltering in the torturous vise of my turtleneck as people walked by in jogging shorts, halter tops and flip-flops. I couldn't enjoy my peppermint mocha, made salty by the sweat dripping off my brow, and even my gentle Elvis had this scowl on his face that said, “Remove the coat NOW or I go for the jugular.” Before I knew it, I was tossing my unfinished drink in the trash and we were both racing back home to rip off our winter gear before one of us suffered a heat stroke.

Ah, but this week my wish has finally been granted: California’s version of winter has arrived. Brisk and windy eye-watering, nose-running days have been in the low 50’s and frost-covered nights have dipped into the unthinkable 20’s, providing the perfect excuse to don my beloved winter fashions. I am ensconced in multiple layers of camisoles and cardigans. I am swaddled in a plethora of sweaters and scarves. I am cloaked. I am protected. I am prepared.

I am freezing. And longing for the t-shirt days of record highs as forecast by pregnant meteorologists.

A Devil of a Time

How does a tree figure into Christmas?

Seriously. I don’t recall any Douglas firs next to the Christ child’s manger. The Wise Men didn’t come bearing frankincense, myrrh and tinsel. So how did a tree become associated with a religious holiday?

I’ll tell you how: Satan.

That’s right. It had to be Beelzebub who realized this Christian holiday was getting a bit out of hand. Too much love. Joy. Happiness. Gag. So he introduced the notion that a decorated tree might be a nice spot under which to place our presents. In honor of the beloved Christ child, of course.

What a swell idea.

This explains why I have a devil of a time manipulating a 6-foot noble fir into a Toyota trunk. And why it takes 30 attempts, littered with a few unChristmas-like words, to get it out again with branches and dignity intact.

I drag it to my condo, leaving behind a trail of needles that enables me to find my way back to the car to retrieve the branches that remain in my trunk. They’re wedged between the spare tire and the stack of newspapers for recycling. The branches will go back on the tree.

Two words: glue gun.

After tangoing with the tree, knocking pictures off the walls and trinkets off shelves, after leaving a path of destruction from my front door to the living room, after responding to my neighbor’s 911 call that no, I am not being attacked by a home intruder, I finally finagle the son-of-a-birch on a stand that is missing one leg. I prop it in a corner and use a folded “Is Martha Stewart Living?” magazine as a makeshift fourth leg. I wrestle with a tangled with of lights that, glory be, actually work!

Until they’re on the tree, that is.

I use my grandmother’s wedding dress as a tree skirt because I can’t find the tree skirt I bought at Macy’s for $75. I locate the ornament hooks only after I step on them in my bare feet. My hair is standing on end from tree sap. The tree is leaning precariously toward the west and my condo looks like it imploded broccoli.

I am not in a Christmas kind of mood.

But the holiday spirit blossoms when I remember ‘tis the season of giving. I wrap gifts for my loved ones, wasting three feet of imported designer paper on a box that contains a tie tack. I curl ribbon until it disintegrates into dust. I cut my carpet along with the wrapping paper. I curse the Rubik’s Cube courtesy boxes from Nordstrom. I swear as I manipulate my body into yoga-type positions in order to lovingly wrap, tie and finish these receptacles of torture.

Hours later, boxes that look like bad origami sit nestled beneath the tree, which has shifted considerably towards the setting sun. I sit back, tired but satisfied. I admire my decorated tree and the handiwork beneath. The specialty gift-wrap. The silk ribbons. The gold-plated gift tags.

Which I forgot to label.

Then the tree falls.

Ah yes, it’s Christmas once again. I know full well that I’m in for my traditional yuletide of suffering, torture and abuse. Yet still I continue to put myself through the agony of Christmas trees and the wrath of wrapping.

I don’t know the devil why.

Run for Your Life, it's the Holiday Season

So I bought this gorgeous black leather jacket and was dying to wear it; instead, it hung in my closet for months. That’s because - darn this California weather- it wasn’t cold enough to warrant even a sweater. But last year, on Thanksgiving Day, I noted a modest chill in the air and thought, alleluia! I get to finally wear my sleek new jacket.

And I was feeling pretty stylish until my sister admired it. “That’s a beautiful chocolate color,” she exclaimed.

Uh, no sis, are you color blind? My jacket is black. But upon closer inspection, after going outside and scrutinizing the jacket under the blinding glare of the midday sun, and after closely comparing it with my black shoes and black purse, and squinting my eyes and praying that perhaps this was just a light shade of black, I had to concede my sister was right: however subtle, the jacket was indeed dark brown.

Darn! This meant if I wanted the black jacket, I’d have to return to the store to exchange this one. And I realized with a sickened knot in my stomach that since today was Thanksgiving, that could only mean one thing: tomorrow was Black Friday. Stores would be swamped with stampeding hordes of manic bug-eyed bargain-seekers, items would be flying off the racks, and any chance I had of finding my coveted black jacket meant I’d have to face the throngs and go to the store.

Early. On Black Friday.

Now once upon a time I enjoyed shopping on this day, long before it was so dubiously dubbed Black Friday. Stores opened early, featured tempting sales, and people flocked to the shops to admire the decorations, get in the spirit of Christmas, and pick up some bargains in the process. It was a nice way to launch the holidays while burning off pumpkin pie calories.

Not anymore. Today, the day after Thanksgiving has come to signify a putrid partnership of retail greed coupled with consumer gluttony. It’s morphed from representing the start of the holiday season into the lead story on the 6:00 news featuring a mosh pit of rabid, robotic, drooling crowds charging a jam-packed Walmart at 4:00 am, groping for anything that might be on sale. Need a Garfield Chia Kit or an old CD by Kevin Federline? Who the hell cares? Grab it dude, because it’s 50 percent off! I’ve come to dread the onset of Christmas because these inevitable scenes of wanton vulgarity sadden and repulse me. And every year, I vow to never, ever set foot in a store on Black Friday. Or any day even close to it.

So I had to ask myself: how badly did I want this black jacket? I considered stabbing myself in the eyeballs because then I’d have more pressing concerns than the color of my clothes. Instead, I strategized: on Black Friday, which venue nearest my home might draw the lesser crowd? The enclosed shopping mall 15 minutes south or the outdoor shopping plaza 15 minutes north? I rubbed my lucky Rabbit’s Foot, threw salt over my shoulder, crossed my fingers, opted for the latter and hoped for the best.

And that is how, at 9:00 am on Black Friday, I found myself in Dante’s Inferno, aka the dreaded department store. But there were no carnivorous crowds jamming elbows into rib cages. No eager sales clerks hovering over me in anticipation of a coveted commission. Not only did I find the last black leather jacket on the rack, it was an additional $50 off, which made my venture just a bit sweeter. Since the crowds were lighter than expected, I decided to walk around and do some shopping myself, maybe grab a hot chocolate and engage in a little people-watching. Hey, there was even that long-awaited nip in the air: I could don my new jacket!

Strolling through the plaza, I admired festive window decorations while enjoying carols piped through outdoor speakers. Sales clerks weren’t pushy, but pleasant. Shoppers were cheery, courteous and kind, opening doors, saying “thank you,” smiling. Frequent exclamations of “Merry Christmas” rang through the air and not once did I see anyone rushing, ramming or shoving. This was the day after Thanksgiving as I remembered it. Before shopping malls mutated into bottomless chasms and big-box stores encouraged mindless masses to run amuck in search of a penny saved.

I snuggled my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and sat near an outdoor fountain, sipping my steaming peppermint mocha while absorbing the view before me: parents leading their excited toddler to see Santa; the Golden retriever wearing an elf cap; and the 16-foot Christmas tree newly adorned with ornaments the size of cantaloupes. I relished the bite in the air and the joy of the season. Such an unexpected surprise this day turned out to be. I reveled in the moment, my cynicism melting and the holiday spirit dawning as subtle as…

…well, as subtle as a brown leather jacket.

Same Sects Marriage? Oh Yeah.

Back in the day, when I was a "sweet young thang" and worked for Transamerica Airlines, I use to insist that my dream husband was a pilot. That’s because he’d be home half the week and away the other half -- the perfect arrangement to complement my desire for marriage coupled with my fierce streak of independence. “I love you, babe, now GET OUT.”

No wonder I never married.

Ah, but I’ve discovered that the ideal marriage is still within my grasp. Because aside from being totally hooked on the HBO series, Big Love, about a modern-day polygamist family, I’ve also learned about the concept of Sister Wives: multiple women married to the same man.

In Big Love, each of the three Sister Wives maintains her own home that opens up into a common backyard. The women, who share a genuine affection for one another, also share the highs and lows of marriage: cooking, errands, child-rearing, sorrows, celebrations – oh yes, and handsome hubby Bill, who juggles conjugal visits between the three women.

How COOL is that? Just imagine...all the joys of marriage coupled with the camaraderie of your best gal pals.

I want to be a Sister Wife!

I’d make a great one, really. I’m good at sharing and am pretty flexible, so swapping nights won’t be a problem, just so long as booty-calls don’t conflict with What Not To Wear on Friday nights. Although as a Sister Wife, I may be asked to don those Little House on the Prairie dresses favored by the Mormon Fundamentalist sects, in which case What Not To Wear will pretty much become a moot point since I’ll be doing all my shopping at The Vermont Country Store.

Ah, but fashion is a small price to pay for the perfect marriage. Look what I’d be getting in return: the companionship, intimacy and joys of a beloved husband. Not to mention someone who can handle all those household chores that single women so dread, like when the toilet backs up or the car starts making that funny noise under the hood. Yes, it’s nice to have a man around the house.

And on those days when I want nothing more than to be alone so I can hunker down with my latest issue of More magazine? Or when I have just one nerve left and he won't stop yapping about his golf game? No problem! I simply scoot him off to a Sister Wife who perhaps feels like having her own "hood" looked under, while I get to enjoy a peaceful, relaxing bubble bath. Pass the Champaign, please.

But wait, it gets even better. Say that I'm a lousy cook (mind you, just a hypothetical example that in no way supports the rumor that I once almost set fire to my kitchen trying to heat a frozen pizza, and if Pam or Deb or Richard or Deanna or Alisa or Frank or Jim or my mother or sister or Fire Engine #9 say otherwise, they're all just big fat liars).

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, pretend I'm a lousy cook. Hey, no big deal! Maybe I have a Sister Wife who makes a mean pot roast and besides, I have other talents to bring to our marriage, like my emi#@ nsectetuer and ad#!ipi#scing elit. And then there's xenean c#ur%sus orci suscipit urna! e%ne^an* lacinia.

Oh dear. My computer appears to be experiencing technical difficulties.

But really, are Sister Wives not the best arrangement ever?

So I'll continue hoping to one day meet my dream husband. It's not like I'm picky. All I want is a man who is kind, witty, tall, funny, loves dogs, bears a passing resemblance to George Clooney, and has a couple Sister Wives.

Sigh. Just call me a romanticist at heart.

The Blog is Back

Don’t you just hate it when someone starts a blog and then doesn’t keep it up?

Okay, guilty as charged, but the thing is, mom’s fractured kneecap put a crack in my own schedule. Between crazy-busy work, my usual two-hour commute, and tending to a laid-up mother, I haven’t had time to do much of anything; well, other than relive my carefree, decadent twenties through my favorite guilty pleasure—viewing music videos from the 1980s on YouTube. Aw, c’mon, admit it; videos from the likes of Thompson Twins and Sisters of Mercy rock!

Yeah, with laughter maybe, but hey, they’re a nice trip down memory lane. They remind me of a time when I naively believed that if I worked hard and was responsible about saving money, I might actually one day retire. Before I started looking like the Crypt Keeper, that is.

But now, I’m guessing retirement isn’t going to happen anytime in the next quarter century; not if all those minus marks on my statements mean anything. Still, I’m trying to look at the bright side; maybe losing so much money isn’t a bad thing since there won’t be anything to steal when those nasty identity thieves try to pilfer my funds.

Oh yes, about that.

Last week I was alerted by a security firm hired by the headquarters of my employer. Seems a health vendor once used by my company experienced a teeny weeny itty bitty little “security breach.” And “minor details,” like my social security number, birth date and home address, may have been “compromised.” The letter was crafted so carefully and with so many euphemisms, for a minute I was almost expecting to read that I was the grand prize winner of a set of Ginzu Steak Knives or Encyclopedia Britannica. And then it sunk in.

Ah, but life still offers little pleasures. Like the chuckle I enjoyed today after reading John McCain’s proud announcement that he had received the endorsement of Dick Cheney. John, my good man, is this really something the public should know? It’s kind of like Martha Stewart being endorsed by Hannibal Lector.

But I digress.

For now, I'm going to forget about crashing stocks and identity thieves, and go indulge in another YouTube video. And I know just the one to watch. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Hey, it’s worth a shot.

Chaos Abounds: Part Two

For the very first time, Elvis, my greyhound has jumped on my bed. And I’m delighted, because unlike those owners who are always trying to push their hairy, stinky dogs off their beds and sofas, I wish my dog would lie alongside me. I’d love to stroke his velvety ears or lumpy head while dozing off or watching TV.

But no sooner is he on the bed than he lifts his leg and – what the hey - pees on my brand new duvet! He’s never peed inside the house before! I yank him off the bed, drag him down the stairs, and as I push him outside, I notice that my backyard looks different. Patio furniture has been rearranged, potted plants have been moved, and a dormant water fountain is not just running, but overflowing and flooding the patio; even my wind chimes are hanging from different locations. Huh?

Then I'm distracted by an odd sound in front of the house. So I return inside and open the front door, where I startle a shifty-looking man with a cable in his hand. Nearby, three other men are waiting for him. When I ask what they’re up to, he confesses they’re running a cable underneath my home so they can hack into my DSL and hijack my DirecTV. Then his friends push their way into my home.

In a panic, I grab my cell to dial the police. But apparently, my stupid cell is on the fritz because it keeps flashing hieroglyphics and lightening bolt-symbols on the display screen. So I use my landline to dial the operator and tell her it’s an emergency and to connect me with the police immediately. And she does so.

In San Diego.

I don’t friggin’ live in San Diego, I scream into the phone! I need the local police! And I keep trying to redial, but it’s useless because now my landline has locked up too. Meanwhile, strangers are multiplying as they invade my yard and crawl throughout every room in my home; some even sit at my kitchen table, helping themselves to a cup of coffee.

My heart is pounding so loudly and wildly, it feels like a jackhammer is about to rip right through my chest: I need the police! I need Jack Bauer! I need help and I’m gasping and panicking and can’t breathe and…

I wake up.

Elvis is snoring on the floor alongside my bed. In the golden haze of early morning sunshine, all is peaceful and quiet. Except for an odd sound: the pulsating, reverberating beat of Ricky Ricardo pounding out Babalu on his conga drums.

Oh. Wait. That’s my heart.

I try to go back to sleep, but that's pretty much a lost cause, what with Ricky in my chest and all. So I go downstairs to enjoy a soy latte and appreciate the serenity of my beautifully empty home.

And all is right and good with the world. For now.

A Day in the Life of Chaos

It's been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight.

Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.

And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!

And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.

And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.

And my iPod died.

And did I mention my mom took a spill? Her naughty greyhound, Lucy, caught sight of a kitty and tried taking after it. But Lucy forgot that Mom was on the other end of the leash and said leash twisted around Mom’s ankles and knocked her to the ground. Pavement, of course. Nothing broke, thank God, but when you’re 72 years old, getting slapped in the face with concrete is no minor ordeal. Knees and elbows are stiff and swollen. Ribs are sore. Every step hurts. Crutches are needed. So now I’m running double-duty, driving the 20 miles round trip to walk Mom’s dogs, do her grocery shopping, run errands, prepare meals. Of which I’m more than pleased to do- I adore my mom. I just wish there were more hours in the day.

And in the meantime, the lower half of my face is still completely numb from the maxillofacial surgery I had seven months ago. My surgeon, Dr. Hottie, warned that nerve regeneration could take up to TWO years and so, I’m trying to keep the faith, and – ha – keep a stiff upper lip. But I’m not sure that anyone can truly understand how challenging it is to have a face that is completely, totally dead from the nose down. Friends swear they don’t notice any change in my speech and facial expressions and this comforts me because my face FEELS paralyzed. If you’ve ever had novacaine for a dental procedure and remember how discombobulated and weird and frozen your face felt, well, that’s mine, only ten times worse. For seven friggin’ months. Dead.

So having said all this, is it any wonder that last night I succumbed and hit the sauce? Yes, that’s right. I know it’s unhealthy and addictive and fattening, but I needed to drown my sorrows, so yes, I turned to the sauce.

Hot fudge, that is. And not the organic Chocolate Moo from Trader Joe that I enjoy sparingly once a week, but walloping servings of the ooey-gooey-million-calorie-per-teaspoon-clog-those-arteries-died-and-gone-to-heaven hot fudge. Poured in tsunami waves over two wading pool servings of mouth watering mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Oh, it was good. Evil. Delicious. Medicinal.

Because hey: a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And did I mention that its been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight?

The Not-So-Fast and the Furious

There I was at the end of a long workday; sitting in my Toyota Rav4, crawling five miles per hour in that bottleneck stretch of freeway voted the sixth worst commute in the Bay Area, the infamous Highway 92 eastbound. But bad as it is, accidents are rare because traffic moves so slowly, there is usually plenty of time to react and prevent a fender bender.

Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.

I confess, it made me snort. Oh c’mon, who doesn’t like to see an inattentive driver get their comeuppance?

And that was me, trying to be attentive when I noticed a black Ford SUV to my right, slightly ahead, sloooowly drifting into my lane. Maybe I was in the driver’s blind spot. Maybe the driver hadn’t looked over his shoulder, maybe he hadn’t notice there wasn’t space to squeeze his behemoth vehicle into or hey, maybe he had just been discharged from a nearby clinic and was still under heavy sedation from his ice pick lobotomy.

Whatever. Said driver was about to clip the right corner of my car. Even if I braked, he would still hit me because honestly, there was NO room.

So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.

Crisis averted. Or so I thought.

Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”

What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.

And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.

Karaoke, Scary-oke

There might be just one person in the world who sings worse than my sister, Jennifer, and that would be me. Although it could be a toss-up, since we’re both painfully tone deaf. And equally unfortunate since we both love music. But her husband loves to sing and he’s good, which is why we found ourselves frequenting Karaoke nights on our recent family cruise to Alaska.

There we sat in the Jammers lounge, paying $7.50 for watered-down drinks and kicking back to talented versions of “Friends in Low Places” and “Dream On,” alongside skin-crawling renditions of “Love Shack” and “You Light Up My Life.” Trapped at sea with fellow passengers plied with alcohol and giddy with freedom: prime conditions for offering Karaoke at its best and worst.

And after three chocolate martinies, I was ready to contribute to the worst.

“Let’s sing,” I whispered to Jennifer. She couldn’t have looked more aghast if I had belched “God Save the Queen” in front of her Majesty herself.

“No way!” she emphatically proclaimed. But I noticed that, like me, she was on her third drink and therefore might be persuaded with the right song. And I knew just the song. I moved in for the kill.

“We can do it!” I pleaded. “We’ll sing ‘Henry the Eighth’! It’s a short song and we know all the words.”

How could we not? The 1910 drinking song, made popular in 1965 by the British band, Herman’s Hermits, was one of our childhood favorites and featured just nine short lines. Sung with a Cockney accent, could any song be simpler? Or more fun?

I'm Henery the Eighth, I am!

Henery the Eighth I am! I am!

I got married to the widow next door,

She's been married seven times before.

And every one was an Henery (HENERY!)

She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (OR A SAM!)

I'm her eighth old man named Henery

Henery the Eighth I am.

Second verse, same as the first!

Ah, there it was. I KNEW that look. Her resolve was weakening, but still she tried resisting. “It probably isn’t offered on the playlist,” she argued. That was all I needed. I raced to the program guide located next to the bar (coincidence? I think not) and scanned the pages. I returned to our table, triumphant. “We’re signed up!” I informed her. But then it was my turn to panic. “Oh no! I only know the first verse.”

Jennifer gave me this look that said, “You are such an idiot!" She reminded me of the song’s last line: “Second verse same as the first!”

Oh yeah. And then our names were called. And we would have been fine.

For it IS a simple song and hamming it up with Cockney accents, we were clearly having fun. Well, maybe too much fun. Because just a couple lines into the song, we broke into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. And anyone who knows and loves my sister knows one dreaded, horrible fact.

When Jennifer laughs, she pees. And audience or not, this was no exception. She started to keel over and cross her legs and oh my gawd, Houston, we have a problem.

“I’VE GOT TO PEE!” she gasped through a flurry of giggles, forgetting that a mike was at her mouth. With one hand I yanked the mike to prevent any future shipboard announcements and with the other, held tight to her arm as she tried to exit the stage.

“Oh no you don’t, sister!” I gasped back in-between “Henery’s,” laughing so hard I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t wet my own drawers. “You’re not leaving me here alone!”

And remain she did. Not that she had much choice, given my iron-clad grip on her arm. We managed to finish the song to a thunderous ear-bursting round of applause, although I suspect the adulations might have had more to do with our impromptu side show. And yes indeedy, Jennifer did pee her pants. I can reveal this only because I would have done the same if not for my obviously fused-at-the-knees stance onstage. If it was obvious that the Mitchell sisters can’t sing, it’s now been made equally apparent that we also have weak bladders.

And know how to make our mark. Certainly in more ways than one.

Happy birthday, sis!

Not Ready to be the Mama of Obama

Okay, I’m about to reveal my issue with Barack Obama.

It’s not because he won the Democratic nomination over my preferred candidate, Hillary Clinton and it’s not because he is African-American (puh-leeeze). It’s not because he likes some rap (hey, I’ve been known to get jiggy wit it), or because some have accused him of straddling the fence over Israeli/Palestine relations. Unfounded, I think. It has nothing to do with his supposed “lack” of experience, nor do I care about his one-time refusal to wear a flag pin. Big whoop. And finally, my concern doesn’t stem from his long-term affiliation with a whack-job pastor, although, I confess, that one did make me raise an eyebrow.

No, my bugaboo with Barack is far more serious. And worse, not only is his transgression unforgivable, but it is absolutely irrevocable. However attractive his other attributes, and there are many, I’ll admit, there’s not a thing our newly minted Democratic nominee can do to change this one fatal flaw.

The man is younger than me.

Bear in mind, just a little. A scant three years, seven months, which translates into 1,305 days or 31,479 hours (31,503 hours in a Leap Year) according to the Gregorian calendar, defined as the average interval between vernal equinoxes equaling 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes (365.2424 Universal days) per year, or a mere 1,890409.7 minutes per the current official definition of the second, which is the time it takes for 9,192,631 770 oscillations of the Cesium atom at zero magnetic field, based upon our 43-month age difference.

Not that I’ve given this much thought, mind you.

But hey, you have to appreciate my concern. My entire life, world leaders have always been wrinkly old crones sporting bow ties, support hose and shellacked hair. Even the handsome and charismatic John F. Kennedy looked like the Crypt Keeper to my five-year old eyes.

Now, suddenly, we have a presidential nominee who is younger than me. This is a milestone moment, folks, and not one that I can easily ignore. When police began looking like extras from Disney’s High School Musical, I was fine. When doctors started resembling Doogie Howser, M.D., I l could look the other way. It was tough enough getting slammed with my first “ma’am,” or finding my childhood Chatty Cathy and Little Kiddle dolls for sale at antique fairs.

But when our future Commander in Chief is too young to know the words to the theme song from The Banana Splits Adventure Hour? I’m sorry, that’s where I may have to draw the line. Barack Obama could turn water into Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine -- not that such a young ‘un would know what this is -- and he still couldn’t compensate for his one unforgivable offense:

Making me feel old.

However, there is one way our youthful Senator might make amends. Are you listening, Barack? I’m going to tell you how to reach out to people like me, who are still trying to adjust to that ultimate f-bomb (turning fifty). Okay, so maybe you can’t join your older constituents in a rousing rendition of The Monkee's “Last Train to Clarksville,” but I’m thinking a complimentary shot of Botox at the poll booth could help bring about a change we all believe in: cosmetic, maybe, but what the heck.

I’d give the kid my vote.

Recommended Beachwear: a Burqa

If this place wasn’t heaven, then it had to be a close runner-up. Here we were at Villa Del Palmar Flamingos, a luxurious 5-star resort in Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, an up-and-coming beachside community about 10 miles north of Puerto Vallarta. I was vacationing with my best friend of 30 years, Pam. She had generously insisted on treating me with this fabulous trip to commemorate my “zero” birthday.

“Hey, I don’t have a husband to indulge or kids to send to college,” she reasoned. “I make good money, so if I want to spoil my friends, let me!”

And who was I to argue?

From swimming and shopping to excursions and dining, each new day seemed better than the last. And today we were experiencing the ultimate in decadence: sunning ourselves on a gorgeous beach straight from the cover of a travel brochure. Pristine sand sparkled like sugar. Palm trees danced in the soft tropic breeze. The sky was a stunning Peacock blue, the temperature a balmy 80-degrees, and the only sound was the gentle crashing of waves. That, and the voice of our waiter asking, “Another margarita, senorita?”

Did life get any better than this?

I was nestled under a huge beach umbrella, propped up in a comfy chaise lounge. To my left was a stack of magazines and to my right, a margarita glass the size of a child’s wading pool. My feet were buried in the sand, my legs covered with a towel, my head tucked inside a baseball cap, and my eyes shielded with Jackie-O sunglasses. For double sun insurance, I had lathered myself from top to bottom in SPF 75.

“You look like a beekeeper in a burqa,” Pam snorted as she eyeballed my attire. She was sprawled outside the zip code of my massive umbrella, exposing as much skin as a modest person is capable of exposing. When I asked about sun block, she waved me off like a bothersome sand flea. “I’m wearing SPF 15,” she mumbled as she rolled over on her stomach. “Besides, I’m half Mexican. I don’t burn. I tan.” And then she fell asleep.

Alrighty, then.

Now, if we freeze-frame this moment, we can see why it serves as a prime example of why God never saw me fit to have children. No doubt, the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, foresaw numerous scenarios in which my precious little snookums would say something like, “but Mumsy, I want to run with scissors!” and I’d respond with, “Okay sweetie, but it’s dark outside, so be sure to look both ways before you cross the freeway.”

Because this is where I failed Friendship 101. In hindsight, I should have screamed, “SPF 15? Girlfriend, are you CRAZY? Why don’t you just soak your virgin skin in a nice soy sauce and honey marinade, and then barbecue your bodacious bod over a George Foreman Grill?”

But I didn’t. Instead, I gave her a nonchalant, “Okay, doke” shrug and promptly buried my SPF 75 slathered snout into the latest issue of “More” magazine. And for the next five hours, the only time I moved was to wave my hand for a margarita refill, reach for another magazine, or adjust my chair to avoid the shifting sun. It was, indeed, a perfect day.

Not so much for Pam.

That evening, when I observed that she may have overdone the sunbathing, she brushed off my concerns. Nah,” she said with just the slightest grimace. “I always burn a little at first and then it turns into a nice tan.”

But when she emerged from her bedroom the next morning, I wasn’t looking at a “nice tan.” I wasn’t even sure I was looking at Pam. She walked as if she’d been spray-starched. All I could see were the whites of her eyes and, when she opened her mouth to groan, her white teeth. Her skin, a fiery fire engine red, was radiating heat so fiercely that I swear, it kicked on the air conditioner.

“Does this mean we’re canceling our massages today,” I asked?

My, who knew the eyes were capable of spewing such venom!

And so, alas, for my best friend, heaven took a temporary turn for the worse. Still, Nuevo Vallarta in winter is one pretty hot place to visit. And if a virgin-skinned tourist happens to be wearing a meager SPF 15, the operative word might, indeed, be “hot.”

Just ask Pam.

Inspiration in Plane View

Take my photo. I guarantee, you’ll make a few bucks when you sell it to Travel+ Leisure, maybe Conde Nast Traveler, or perhaps Arthur Frommer’s Budget Travel. I’ll pose for you, maybe even smile.

Because any travel magazine will pay handsomely for a picture of the voyager who found reason to utter seven simple words that have never before escaped the lips of any globe-trotting human being; one succinct, yet stupefying sentence destined to join the renowned ranks of other deep and insightful world views, such as, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” (Robert Louis Stevenson), “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page (St. Augustine), and “Wow! Brazil is big.” (George W. Bush).

But first, in order to appreciate my momentous words, you have to understand the circumstances in which they were inspired. So sit back, Grasshopper. Prepared to be blown away.

It started with a plane ride. A mode of transportation, once considered mundane, that is now on par with other personal affronts like colonoscopies and gastric reflux. But a necessary evil that my best friend, Pam, and I had to endure if we wanted to pursue our vacation in Mexico. And so, like countless other travelers before me, when we arrived at the gate, I got on my knees, folded my hands, squeezed my eyes shut and recited the Passenger’s Prayer:

Please, dear God, Buddha, Zeus or whoever else might be on duty. Spare us crying babies, kicking rugrats in back of me, or nimrods in front who feel it their God-given right to recline their seat all the way down, even though it means my knees are imbedded in their kidneys, their head is in my lap and they’re staring straight up my nostrils. I beseech thee, no terrorists, drunks, or doctor-defying idiots who insist on traveling despite being recently diagnosed with (select the most recent episode of “House, M.D.”): a. tuberculosis, b. meningitis or c. Ebola. I pray, most Holy One, that thou wouldst see me worthy of eluding seat-hogging brethren whose claim to fame is that they once appeared on Maury Povich for no reason other than their weight exceeds that of a tractor. And my final and most fervent prayer of all: please, I beg of thee, no in-flight movies featuring Nicholas Cage. Amen.

Then, as boarding began for First Class passengers, Pam nudged me to join the line. “No,” I told her. “It’s THEM. First Class.”

“Yeah, I know,” she replied with an ear-splitting grin. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

And voila! Just like Harry Potter catching the Hogwart Express from the mythical Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, I found myself joining THEM. Entering a magical realm that I knew existed, but had never experienced. I swear, trumpets blared and angels sang as I floated into that hallowed sanctuary known as First Class.

It was everything I ever imagined. Spacious seats that embraced me like a lover’s arms. Leg room so plentiful, I could actually cross my leg without cracking my nose with my knee. It was clean. Quiet and inviting, with a beam of sunshine gently warming each and every plush leather seat. And the flight attendants…all instant Best Friends Forever (BFF)! Would I prefer steak or chicken on my fine china plate? How about a Caesar salad and a glass of wine? When I asked about the cost for a Chardonnay, my new BFF studied my Curious George t-shirt, loopy grin and star-glazed eyes. And recognizing a First Class virgin when he saw one, he replied with a kindly smile, “Madam, trust me, if you’re sitting in First Class, you’ve already paid for the wine.”

SaWEET! But as I reveled in my luxurious surroundings, bonding with my fellow First Class peeps with a “yeah, I’m one of YOU,” simpatico-type smile, I suddenly realized that this precious flight was just three and a half hours long. Only 210 minutes in which to enjoy a world that my bank account would never again allow me to enter. Cinderella would soon leave the Ball and hereon in, future air travel would again revert to sticky floors, suspicious sulfur-like smells, and stale pretzel sticks ensconced in Kryptonite pouches.

And with this dawning awareness came forth a bubbling boil of panic that swelled in my breast and inspired the aforementioned words, thus sealing my spot in travelogue history. Seven immortal words destined to give hope and remain etched in the minds of all coach passengers who might believe, as I once did, such a concept impossible. Because in the flush of First Class passion, I cried for all the plane to hear,

“I DON'T WANT THIS FLIGHT TO END!”

Weighty words, indeed. Ripe with the potential to forever alter the perception of air travel. And words that will always be attributed to me, an aeronautic pioneer who managed to find beauty in the belly of the beast.

So go ahead, take my photo, now. Before my next coach flight wipes the smile off my face.

It's Father's Day and Everything is Beautiful

Mary was a hippie.

A real, live honest-to-God patchouli-wearing peacenik, the kind so common in the sixties. Hippies were still flocking to San Francisco’s popular Haight-Ashbury district in 1969, but this particular flower child was an adult, with a husband and two kids, living in mainstream suburbia. Next-door to us.

And she drove my dad absolutely, drop-dead-ready-for-the-loony-bin bonkers. Here he was, a committed “God Bless America” love-it-or-leave-it, flag-waving, John Wayne worshipping, card-carrying teamster, and here was Mary. Our new next-door-neighbor, who dressed in free-flowing caftans adorned in every color of the rainbow. She didn’t bother with make-up or shoes, wore her blonde hair long and free, often with a flower tucked behind an ear, and believed in making love, not war. She relished sharing her peace-loving philosophy and every afternoon, would flash Dad the peace sign when he pulled into the driveway after yet another grinding day at work, paving roads and filling potholes.

“The ‘V-sign’ stands for VICTORY, not PEACE,” he would roar whenever he caught sight of her friendly two-fingered salute. As if “peace” were such an incomprehensible thought.

Mary drove my dad ape-shit nuts.

But he wrought a simple revenge in the form of the 1969 Ray Stevens hit, “Everything is Beautiful.” Even by sixtie’s standards, the song was corny.

“Everything is beautiful
In its' own way
Like a starry summer night
Or a snow covered winter's day

Everybody's beautiful,
In their own way
Under God's heaven
The world's gonna find a way.”

Dad changed the lyrics. Just a bit. And every night, after Mary flashed him the peace sign, he would stomp into the house, remove his yellow hard-hat with the “God Bless America” sticker slapped across the front, and bellow his own version of the Ray Stevens song:

“Everything is beautiful
Even though it’s not.
Mary thinks it’s beautiful,
And she’s a BOOGER-SNOT!”

Today, Mary’s long gone, God knows where. Another city, another state, another dimension? And Dad’s gone too, but his absence is because of a brief but valiant struggle with Leukemia. On this Father’s Day, 2008, I find myself playing my scratchy 45 vinyl of “Everything is Beautiful” over and over. The recording may be the Ray Stevens’ version, but that’s not what I’m hearing. What I’m hearing is Dad’s tribute to Mary. It makes me smile. And miss him.

Happy Father’s Day.

The Perils of Healthy Eating

Aren’t we all trying to live healthier lifestyles? I know I am, if only to live long enough to one day witness the look on the face of a certain, “global warming is a joke” friend when he sees that his favorite fishing hole has been replaced with sand dunes.

That’s why I recently dragged my sorry butt back to the gym. Started lifting weights to dodge that osteoporosis bullet. As for vitamins, apparently it’s “One-a-Day” and not “One-a-Month.” Okay, fine. So I'm popping pills: multivitamins, calcium tablets and Primrose capsules. I’m swilling Flax seed oil and choking on Omega 3 horse pills with the same gusto once reserved for squirting Hershey syrup straight from the bottle into my gaping pie hole.

I’m buying low-fat this and non-fat that, even resorting to reduced-fat ice cream, which is such an oxymoron it makes my eyes spin, but actually, it isn’t so bad. Probably only because my rapidly depleting brain cells can’t recall the orgasmic delights of my old flame, Ben & Jerry’s. I tried a low-fat boxed brownie mix made with vanilla yogurt instead of butter and alleluia, the batter was delicious! I lapped the spoon like a starved street dog, although I was disappointed to find that the baked results ended up tasting like chocolate liver. I even sampled a sugar-free version of my favorite chocolate syrup (not to mention any names, but it starts with an "H" and ends with a "Y"), hoping it would complement my reduced-fat ice cream. I kicked back my head in delicious anticipation of the chocolate elixir and squeezed the bottle’s contents into my watering mouth.

And promptly spat it out. Eeww. Eewwww. Eewwwww. It was nothing short of sheer blasphemy to associate an ingredient as beloved as chocolate with this toxic waste. I was so disgusted and disappointed, after rinsing out my mouth with the nearest liquid available, which happened to be Palmolive dish soap, I drove to Safeway to return the swill. And along the way, made a quick stop at Trader Joe’s and bought a bottle of "Midnight Moo." Yes, I know it’s the real-deal chocolate syrup and hence probably bad for me, but hey, it’s organic and I’m a chocoholic and it doesn’t burn a hole in my tongue and taste like freakin’ battery acid, so cut me a break, please? I’m trying here, really.

Which explains the prunes. Let me explain: At the office where I work, junk food is as commonplace as oxygen. It’s just there, ever-present, alluring, tempting, inviting. Come hither, it beckons. Let me melt in your mouth, not in your hands. And I succumb to its evil pleasures and polish off an entire three-pound bag of M&Ms with the same automation required of blinking and breathing. It’s a robotic bend-elbow-bring-hand-to-mouth movement that I perform unconsciously. Type type, handful of M&Ms, type, type, another handful, type, type. Get the picture?

Ah, but now that I’m older and wiser and alleluia, see the light, I realize that candy is Satan and fiber is our Savior. And surprisingly, I’ve discovered that dried prunes aren’t all that bad. They’re sweet, they’re chewy…what’s not to like?

And I’m no fool. I figure, why not put replace the bowl of M&Ms with the bag of prunes? Think of all the Satanic sugar I’ll avoid, thus sparing havoc on my cholesterol levels, kidneys, heart, colon, teeth, blood pressure, liver, yadda, yadda, yadda. So I pushed the bowl of M&Ms far away, and placed the bag of dried prunes within arm’s reach. After all, prunes are loaded with antioxidants, fiber and all sorts of good compounds. Just looking at them, I was feeling healthier already. It must really be true that with age comes wisdom, because in my younger, foolish days, I would have never swapped M&Ms for prunes.

So the day began: type, type. Prune. Type, type. Prune. At the end of the day, I reached for one last prune.

And found the bag was empty.

I swiveled from side to side to give my light-fingered coworkers the evil eye. Who had pilfered my prunes? But then I remembered that everybody was off-site today. Well, it’s a small bag, I figured. I couldn’t have eaten that many. I read the label.

There were 24 prunes.

But c’mon. Prunes have an ill-deserved rep. We don’t ridicule raisins, dis’ dates or titter at figs. Why should I succumb to lowbrow humor and allow myself to be concerned about the rumored aftereffects of eating a couple prunes? Or couple dozen?

That seemingly innocuous question was answered during my drive home…you might have heard of my commute: it was tapped as the sixth worst commute in the Bay Area…the infamous afternoon drive on Highway 92 eastbound. There I was, sitting in a parking lot of a freeway. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, moving five feet every five minutes, growling whenever someone cut in front of me (“Hey nimrod, it’s called a turn signal!”), listening to KFOG play Talking Heads Burning Down the House for the bazillionth time that day--when suddenly, there it was. A strange sound. What was that?

I listened hard.

Turned off the radio. Sat in silence, straining my ears…and there it was again.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurglegurglegurgle.

It was my stomach.

You know how a clap of thunder detonates with that skin-tingling reverberation that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end just seconds before lightening strikes?

I started sweating like President Bush at a Dixie Chicks concert. Suddenly, the red sea of brake lights before me became much threatening than just my usual afternoon annoyance. I realized, with a sickening dread, that 24 prunes were, indeed, nothing to scoff at.

And thus began my encounter with the real weapons of mass destruction. Coupled with the daunting awareness that a healthy lifestyle might not guarantee a long life.

But it will guarantee a life that feels long.

Not So Neat, These Things Called Feet

And lo, I declared but three things not pleasing unto me: Nicholas Cage. Beets. And feet.

Nope, no fan am I of our gnarly appendages south of the ankle. Can’t really tell you why, only that one of my earliest memories is when I was three, maybe even younger. And I’m crying and kicking and screaming because my mother is making me wear those cute strappy white sandals that all tykes wear. Even back then, I recall feeling naked because my wee toddler feet were exposed. Later, as a five-year old in love with The Beatles, I remember the surprise I felt the first time I saw a photo of John, Paul George and Ringo, and they were barefoot. The Beatles had feet? I thought their ankles were simply attached to their pointed black boots. It never occurred to me that there were feet inside.

Yes, my issues run deep. One might say…uh…to the very core of my “sole.”

Now, with summer approaching and the onset of sandals, it’s almost impossible to avoid the sight of my ten-toed nemeses. Some of which, let’s be honest, could use a little work. Jagged nails. Grime. Hair. Corns. Ick. And yet, despite my disdain, once in a while I myself will succumb to sandals, lured by trendy styles and cute colors. But I always feel naked, undressed, exposed. My tender skin is rubbed raw by offending straps and even in the hottest weather, my toes usually feel like frozen little Popsicle sticks. Then there’s the whole vulnerability issue. More than once, my exposed toes have been crushed by one hard, misplaced heel. Summer sandals may be a relief in hot weather, but they don’t offer much support, which once helped contribute to a painful bout with plantar fasciitis. And don’t even ask me about the time I ran into the corner of a wall and broke a toe. Want to talk about mind-blowing, seeing-stars pain? Hmmmph! Never would have happened in the armor of my close-toe shoes.

So problematic, these awkward appendages. But when I mentioned my anti-foot fixation to my co-worker, Wendy, she looked at me as if moose antlers had sprouted from my ears.

“Where you frightened by a foot as a child?” she asked. Wendy loves open-toe shoes. She wears flip-flops year round, even when it’s raining ice cubes. If there were such a thing as open-toe ski boots, she’d be the first in line. Clearly, she was not going to relate.

“No, I just think feet look like misplaced monkey fingers,” I tried explaining, but to no avail. She continued staring at me like I had stepped out from an episode of “The X-Files” and surely, Scully and Mulder couldn’t be far behind. Wearing sensible shoes, of course. Close-toe.

“Oh! Are your feet…” she lowered her voice in a sympathetic tone, “…not pretty?”

That was it, right? I must have a webby three-inch middle toe that could double as a divining rod.

But nope. As far as feet go, mine are okay looking, not that anyone will ever know. Because barring poolside parties or days at the beach, it’s pretty likely my smooth, straight tootsies will remain securely tucked inside sensible shoes.

Close-toe, of course.

Dear Dr. Hottie

This is your nickname. Didn’t know that, did you? All my friends know it, however, because I’ve told them just how darned cute my surgeon is. Yes, you are one fine looking fella. When you’ve got your nose bumped up against mine, scrutinizing my jaw, I have to confess, my heart skips a beat or two.

But lately, I’m not feeling the love. Because four months after my maxillofacial (jaw) surgery, the inside of my mouth is still completely dead-as-a-doornail numb. My teeth feel like wooden stumps and my gums feel like concrete speed bumps. Go ahead, try pounding a nail into my gums or take a hammer to a tooth….see? Can’t feel a thing. And I’m getting just a teeny bit concerned that there could be permanent nerve damage as a result of this surgery.

So here’s the thing, Dr. Hottie: when I emailed my concerns to you recently, you responded and I swear, I could practically see your eyes roll and hear an audible sigh as I read your words.

“As I told you, nerve regeneration usually begins at month 3 and can take up to 18 months,” you wrote. Okay, yeah you have mentioned this before. But it was your next sentence that got my heart pounding, and not because of your deep, blue eyes. “And as I told you,” (another audible sigh) “20 percent of patients experience permanent nerve damage.”

Hold on there, Bucko. Did I read that right? 20 percent? Did you say 20 per friggin’ cent? Uh, no, I don’t think you mentioned that minor detail before. Because if somebody told me I had a one out of five chance of winning the Lottery, I’d buy a ticket. One out of five chance of kissing George Clooney, I’d pucker up. One out of five chance of never feeling the inside of my mouth again? I’m pretty sure I’d remember that, too.

And so, Dr. Hottie, I’m trying to be a patient patient. Honest. I’ll just continue my newfound appreciation for cottage cheese. Yogurt. Soup. Eggs. Really, I dun’t need no stinkin’ teeth, not when I have a handy-dandy blender to pulverize everything for me. In the meantime, you can continue rolling your eyes and reassuring me that, given time, the feeling in my mouth will return. Maybe. Perhaps.

Now might be a good time for me to buy that Lottery ticket. And pucker up.

The Downside of Digital

In the mid-eighties, when vinyl LPs were forced into retirement with the onset of CDs, I didn’t bat an eye. CDs were just as tangible and hey, no flipping required! But today, music is making yet another transition, from the slow death of physical CDs to the virtual popularity of digital downloads. A recent Associated Press article noted that in 2007, album sales plunged 9.6 percent with a 45 percent surge in digital sales.

And this time I’m batting both eyes. Not just because the audio quality of digital music is compromised, as noted by San Francisco Chronicle writer, Joel Selvin. More disheartening is the “click, delete” factor: how easily a song can be erased and replaced with another muffled tune du jour. Because for me, music is personal.

Back when concert tickets didn’t require taking out a second mortgage and I could actually afford to see favorite bands, I saved ticket stubs and reviews and taped them to album covers or slipped them inside CD jackets. And it’s a habit I’ve kept. When saddened over the 1998 death of Beach Boy Carl Wilson, I clipped a moving newspaper tribute and tucked it inside “The Beach Boys in Concert” album that I bought in 1975 after seeing them at a Day on the Green concert with Chicago. Before returning the album to its dark closet corner, I played it. Closed my eyes. And instantly I could smell the suntan lotion and feel the heat of the sun. I remembered feelings of pure joy as my friends and I held hands and danced in a circle, kicking our legs and bellowing “Help Me Rhonda.” My scratchy album recalled that day as vividly as a YouTube video, because my LPs and CDs aren’t just about music: they’re about memories.

That’s why my favorite Christmas gift a few years back was a turntable. Now I could enjoy my old 45s, still wrapped in their paper sleeves and covered with notes I scribbled while listening to the music. Today these sleeves are like snippets of a diary. “Spring, frosh year, ’73, hanging out with Tricia” I wrote on “So Very Hard to Go” by Tower of Power. “Junior Prom with John, Spring ‘75” on “Color My World” by Chicago. “Jenny’s birthday party, watching ‘Fernwood 2Nite’, July ’77,” on “Down the Hall” by The Four Seasons.

Try scribbling notes on an MP3 player.

Bypassing CDs also eliminates the potential discovery of new favorites through forced repeated listening. The first time I heard the 1998 CD introducing Rufus Wainwright, I wrinkled my nose at his distinctive nasal drone. Buy there was one song I did like, so I’d play the CD and tolerate the other tunes. Gradually, I grew to appreciate the entire collection. So much that I’ve seen him in concert four times and own every CD he’s since released. A muffled digital download wouldn’t have given me the fortitude and patience to appreciate such an amazing talent.

And what about the artistic legacies of LP and CD covers? Creative, teasing, experimental, and often reflective of the zeitgeist, album covers were a beautiful marriage with the music, offering enticing visual images of the content within. Who could ever look at the cover of the Rolling Stones, “Sticky Fingers” and mistake it for a Johnny Mathis album? Remember the iconic covers of “Nevermind” by Nirvana or “Glass Houses” by Billy Joel? Squinting to admire artwork on an iPhone just doesn’t cut it.

With the demise of CDs, the final threatened loss is the thematic and lyrical infrastructure of many albums. Their very genius was often presented in the preconceived order of the songs themselves. In the Beatles, “Abbey Road,” each song is enriched by its predecessor and flows seamlessly into the next. As stand-alones, the songs are good. But played in its entirety, from start to finish, “Abbey Road” is a musical masterpiece. I’m still as amazed by it today as I was in 1970 when I received it as a gift for my 12th birthday. When I offered the CD to my 16-year old niece, she declined, saying that she would download a few songs instead.

She doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.

But I do. Which is why I use my iPod as I did my old Sony Walkman: For exercising and plane rides, and not much else. As long as CDs are available, I’ll keep buying them because I don’t want my music collection to be reduced to a tune du jour.

With memories as fleeting as click, delete, replace.

A Night Noir

So Paris Hilton and I are walking down the Santa Cruz Beach boardwalk, chattering away, or chin wagging as the British call it. It’s early morning, around 1:00 am. The air is damp and at that desolate hour, few people are about. I’m tired and ready to head home, but Paris wants to grab a bite and you know Paris. When she sets her mind to something there’s just no saying no, and she’s really jonesin’ for a burrito. Okay, fine.

We stop at an open-air café on the boardwalk. Under the fluorescent lights, the café’s bright yellow décor screams and offends my sleepy senses. The place is deserted, except for the Hispanic cleaning woman who is lugging around a large orange bucket and mop. Pools of water remain in spots that haven’t quite dried and she keeps telling us, “Recoja los pies.” Pick up your feet, while trying to mop underneath our tables. I tell Paris to hurry up and eat her damned burrito because I’m tired and she’s my drive home, but, oh no, here comes Nicole Richie and a couple other guys I don’t know. Great. Now we’ll be here forever.

Paris lights up when they join our table and I realize with dismay that this evening is far from over. Nicole is always getting on my case about being a party pooper and there’s no way she’ll let me flake out this early. After running the Iron Man Triathlon in Hawaii that day, I am dead tired and want nothing more than to go to bed. But I’m at the mercy of Paris, who shows no signs of leaving. Damn.

One of Nicole’s friends is an older man with curly gray hair, a white goatee and round, rimless glasses. He is furious with Rush Limbaugh, he tells us, furious! He explains that Rush has sketched a very offensive portrait and this man at our table is quivering with anger, so livid is he.

What did Rush draw, I ask? From the side of my eye I notice that the cleaning woman has mopped around a large clump of mud that has suddenly appeared in the middle of the café’s black and white checkerboard floor. She should clean up the mud, I think to myself.

But back to Rush. Seems he sketched a color portrait of a black bear cub squirting a golden arch of pee on a hardback autobiography written by President Dwight Eisenhower. Hmmm, I quip. Sounds like someone doesn’t like Ike. Paris groans at my lame attempt at a joke and Nicole points out that the mud that was on the floor has been rolled up inside a burrito and is now on a plate before me.

I’ve never tried a mud burrito before so I take a bite, but don’t care for it. Paris and Nicole decide they’re tired of eating and want to go shopping. Go, I tell them. I’ll find my own way home because I’m too tired to join them. They leave the café and I find myself stuck with the angry man who keeps ranting about Rush. Whatever, I tell him. Get over it. While he continues dissing Rush, the cleaning woman is mopping around us and I munch on the mud burrito. It’s not so bad after all.

And when I wake up, thick-headed and disoriented, I vow to never again binge on brownies and ice cream right before bedtime.

Please, Don't Play it Again, Sam

Lately, my favorite radio station has been getting the heave-ho on the ol’ dial. Because, frankly, I can’t take the repetition anymore. Just how many times in one day can they play tired oldie moldies like, “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure or “Burning Down the House” by Talking Heads without making my ears bleed? Honestly, stabbing my eardrum with a fondue fork would be a preferable alternative to hearing “Under Pressure” for the bazillionth time. At one point, I did like these songs. That is, until they became this century’s musical version of a medieval water torture.

Maybe I’m sensitive since I spend two hours a day commuting, which pretty much makes me a slave to the radio. Yeah, I know, I could plug in my iPod or play CDs instead, but I usually forget them each morning as I race out the door. And switching stations doesn’t help because all are guilty of the repetition sin, only it’s worse because these other stations are repeating music I never liked to begin with. And so, when I find myself tortured by yet another hourly rendition of “Listen to the Music” or “Here Comes the Rain Again,” I simply switch off the radio and drive in silence.

So here’s the problem. I can turn the radio off, yes. But dear God in heaven, can anyone tell me how to turn off my head? Yes, that’s right: I’ve been afflicted with the dreaded earworm, a term used to describe a song imbedded in the brain against one’s will.
Because for weeks now, I’ve had the same insipid song stuck in my mind, playing over and over and over.

I wake up every mornin'
I stumble out of bed
Stretchin' and yawnin'
Another day ahead

It’s not a current song. I do recall liking it ever-so briefly when it was first released in 1981, but honestly, I can’t remember the last time I heard it on any radio station. Nor have I heard it as background music on a movie soundtrack or in a TV commercial. Nada, zip, zilch.

It seems to last forever
And time goes slowly by'
Til babe and me's together
Then it starts to fly

I just woke up one morning and there it was. Playing in my head nonstop, one, long continuous loop. Each note emanating as clearly as if my ears had been replaced with Bose® stereo speakers. And it’s been that way for two blasted weeks. All day at the office, I find myself whistling the song. Humming it. Singing it. Tapping my fingers to the beat inside my brain. This has not made me popular with my coworkers.

Night time is the right time
We make love
Then it's his and my time
We take off

Because now they’ve got the damned song stuck in their heads, too. Peter doesn’t say anything, but he glares at me as I walk by and I know exactly what tune is playing in his head. Ellen is more open. She emits a hostile, “Thanks a lot!” and Wendy wails, “How could you do this to me? I don’t even like this song!”

Nor do I, my friends, nor do I. But (insert demonic laugh) misery loves company. And hey, I’m desperate. Perhaps if we lift our voices together in perfect harmony, we can exorcise this satanic earworm out of our heads, out of our systems, and alleluia, out of our lives. Let’s join together, shall we, and smite this evil plague, once and for all. United, we can extricate this blight upon our brains and free ourselves from the mental anguish afflicted by none other than that 80’s singer from Scotland, the notorious wee Scottish lass known as…yes, that’s right…Sheena Easton.

Oh, here comes the chorus. Let us sing, sing!

MY BABY TAKES THE MORNIN’ TRAIN
He works from nine till five and then
He takes another home again
To find me waitin' for him

And woosh! Suddenly, the song is gone and there is nothing but silence. Blessed silence. For the first time in weeks, I’m relieved of this lyrical scourge that’s been looping in my head as endlessly as the radio’s playing of “Open Arms” by Journey.

So now I come to you, with open arms
Nothing to hide, believe what I say
So here I am with open arms
Hoping you’ll see what your love means to me
Open arms

Oh, noooooo….

Hey Mom: This One's for You

Readers of my column in the San Francisco Chronicle may feel as if they know my family and friends due to frequent references. Which, as you can imagine, has made my loved ones a little paranoid about what they do and say in my presence. C’mon guys. As if (snort) I’d ever really rat you out.

But in honor of Mother’s Day, the following tale is a fitting tribute to my Mom. At least I think so, given the great restraint she showed when she chose not to off me back in 1969.

That was when Mom thought it might be nice if she started joining me and my younger sister on our after-dinner bike rides. And so, with 8-year old Jenny on her Stingray bike and me on my brand new yellow Schwinn, my Colombian mother hopped aboard my old bike. Never mind that the last time she’d put her pedal to the metal, she was a tyke living in South America and her sole method of transportation was a tricycle. How difficult could this bike business be? And she was right: with a few tips from me, her cycling skills quickly returned as we took flight, roaming throughout our suburban neighborhood, around blocks, through parks and up hills. It was great.

That is, until we got to the downhill part.

Of course, Jenny and I loved going downhill, the ultimate payoff for all that uphill huffing and puffing. We whooped with delight as our bikes picked up speed and our pigtails sailed in the breeze, going faster, faster, faster. Mom, however, wasn’t quite so enthralled.

“I’m going too fast,” she shouted nervously. “How do I stop?”

“Use the brakes,” I yelled back.

“I am,” she hollered, her accent thickening as it did whenever she was stressed or panicked. Like now. “Ay, caramba, they dun’t work!” And then I noticed that she was pedaling backwards – she thought the bike had foot brakes. She didn’t know that bikes today had handbrakes.

Uh oh. Maybe I hadn’t shared this minor detail?

“Handbrakes, handbrakes!” I tried bellowing, but to no avail: my words were lost in her screams as she whizzed past me, frantically pedaling backwards. And then, I watched in stunned disbelief as she slammed into the back of a parked Chevrolet, noting that for one brief comical second, she looked like Superman with a beehive hairdo, taking flight over the car roof with her arms stretched before her to break her fall. She crashed with a sickening thud on the asphalt in front of the fender, and for a panicked moment I feared she was dead. But she wasn’t. Just banged up.

And mad. Really, really mad. At me. Okay, maybe I did forget to mention the handbrakes.

It was this anger that fueled her ability to walk home with a broken knee, chipped chin and cracked elbow. During the mile-long walk, she would occasionally glare at me, all the while mumbling in a steady stream of Spanish that I’m pretty sure didn’t translate as, “Whoohoo, let’s do THAT again!”

But decades later, the very fact that I’m here to tell this tale is a testimony to my mother’s infinite ability to love, forgive and forget.

That her subsequent crutches and casts impaired her ability to catch me had nothing to do with my survival. I think.

The Spinal Tap Dilemma

As an avid music lover and fan of Christopher Guest movies, my friend, Jim, was shocked when he learned I’d never seen, “This is Spinal Tap.” Shocked, I tell you. Like I just confessed to barbequing babies or something. “How could you miss it?” he asked over the phone (that is, after he retrieved his jaw from the ground). “It’s the quintessential mockumentary.” And before I could catch my breath to respond, I opened my front door to find a wrapped copy of the movie on my front porch.

Who knew men could move so fast?

Now I was under pressure. I couldn’t just watch the movie, I had to love it. I had to share the universal consensus that this was one of the funniest films ever to hit the silver screen. To be honest, the glimpses caught on cable TV never grabbed my attention, but maybe I wasn’t giving the movie a fair shake. Because any Christopher Guest fan knows that his movies are all about the dialogue. Sharp. Witty. Clever. Ripe with double entendres and innuendos. How attentive could I be while channel surfing between “Sex and the City” and “The Twilight Zone?” (Hey, there's an idea for a new show: "Sex in the Twilight Zone.) Plus, Jim has a great sense of humor. If he was delivering “This is Spinal Tap” with accolades and blessings, there had to be something to it.

So one night, after weeks of ignoring the DVD case on my counter, I finally popped the CD in my player. It had been a busy day at the office and my hour-long commute left me in a sour mood, but I had to get this over with. I had to watch “This is Spinal Tap.” Not only that…gulp…I had to love it.

Except I didn’t. Oh, the first twenty minutes were funny enough. And the ending made me laugh, but really, I was bored and even dozed off for a minute or two. Well, at least now I could say that I’d seen the darned movie and cross it off my list: change the car oil. Check. Give the dog a flea bath: Check. Watch “This is Spinal Tap.” Ah, blessed relief. Check.

So the movie went back in its DVD case and back on the kitchen counter, where it would stay until I saw Jim for our next sushi date. Except my Spinal Tap dilemma wasn’t over. Now, I found myself under a new kind of pressure. Every time I saw the case, I wondered: why hadn’t I liked it? I felt like I failed some sort of pop culture litmus test. After all, I love everything else by Christopher Guest. I respect Jim’s opinion. Adore irony, appreciate wit. What was wrong with me? Why, oh why, had I failed the Spinal Tap test?

This movie was starting to stalk me.

After a week of enduring the accusing presence of the DVD case, one Saturday afternoon I couldn’t take it any longer: I popped the CD back in the player. I simply had to know why I didn’t like Spinal Tap. Not that I’m anal retentive or anything. Okay, maybe a little.

But just twenty minutes into the movie came a scene I didn’t recognize. Nor the one that followed. Or the one after that. And so on and so on. None of this was looking familiar. And suddenly, the light bulbs flashed over my head and glory alleluia, I experienced the epiphany I’d been waiting for. Now I knew why I didn’t like, “This is Spinal Tap.”

Because I never saw it. I hadn’t just “dozed off for a minute or two,” like I thought. I’d been in a downright coma. Flatlined. Pushed the daisies. Ceased To Be. I had slept through the entire movie.

Which reminds me of a line from the film, one of many I laughed at when I managed to stay awake the second time around. A music critic asks, “'What day did the Lord create Spinal Tap, and couldn't He have rested on that day too?'"

Hey, rest is over-rated. And trust me, I should know.

What, Me Worry?

Darn those yearbook photos—they always come back to haunt us and remind the world that yes indeed, we once thought puka shell necklaces were the epitome of fashion.

But yearbook photos do more than verify bad taste. A few years back, I remember reading about a study that was performed at U.C. Berkeley. Researchers analyzed old photos from the 1958 and 1960 yearbooks of Mills College, in Oakland, and discovered that women who looked the happiest went on to live the happiest lives. The study concluded that, “…individual differences in positive emotional expression were linked to personality stability and development across adulthood….”

This would explain why, in my college photo, my eyebrows are stitched together and I look gravely concerned. Perhaps I was afraid someone would steal my puka shell necklace. But even more so, this particular photo captured my essence as a professional worrywart, which really comes as no surprise when you consider my mentors.

Dad worried that every time it rained, California would enter its little-known, but very real, monsoon season. As a construction worker in San Francisco, each day of rain meant he couldn’t work. Before long, he’d be out of a job and we’d all end up in the poorhouse, which is, you know, that big, red brick two-story building on the outskirts of town, so shut the door for Pete’s sake, were we trying to air condition the entire neighborhood and what did we think, that he was made of money?

Mother worried that if I left our neat and tidy home suburban home to visit San Francisco, I would be kidnapped by an international ring of evil organ thieves who would rip open my abdomen and steal my appendix. She swore that she had once read that in some third-world countries, deep-fried appendix in peanut oil is considered an aphrodisiac.

I was 21 before I realized that crossing the Bay Bridge to visit San Francisco was not tantamount to suicide.

Today, of course, I realize how needlessly my parents worried. Unfortunately, however, that awareness has not stopped me from turning into them.

I worry about growing old alone because I couldn’t find someone to love me. Or I worry about finding someone who loves me, except maybe this isn’t a healthy love but rather, some sick obsession in which my admirer wants to shoot a president in order to impress me, because why else would he stare at me the way he does?

Or is he staring at that mole on my neck? The edges are a bit irregular. Maybe I have melanoma. But wait, wasn’t I recently turned away as a blood donor for being anemic, which can sometimes can be a precursor to leukemia? And what about my dizzying headaches? Dr. Greene on “ER” had the same symptoms and he ended up dying from a brain tumor. Dear God!

I race through my dog-eared medical dictionary and discover an illness in which I have every single symptom. According to this book, I’m a doomed woman, doomed! Oh, but wait.

I don’t have a prostate. Never mind.

I read about a woman who awoke one morning to discover she had lost use of both hands. Completely and without cause. Her hands are now like two slabs of dead meat attached to her wrists and her doctors are bewildered as to why.

I worry that I too might awake one morning with two slabs of dead meat attached to my wrists and wonder: how will I pluck those four stubborn hairs on my chin, the ones that have defied years of electrolysis, bleach and waxing? I phone my best friend, Pam, and make her promise that if I ever wake up with two slabs of dead meat attached to my wrists, she will pluck my four chin hairs for me.

I’m sure she’s rolling her eyes as I hear her sigh and reply that yes, she’ll pluck my four chin hairs for me if I should ever wake up with two slabs of dead meat attached to my wrists. She’s heard all this before.

My paranoia doesn’t set with the sun. When it’s time to go to bed, I worry that I’ll fall asleep and forget to blow out my scented candle, which is just waiting to explode into engulfing flames the second my eyes are shut. It could happen, you know. Although I’m not yet sleepy, I blow it out.

And with my clock radio playing softly, I lie in bed and think about new things to worry about as the night DJ plays one of my favorite songs. The song I have declared my personal mantra: Bob Marley’s, “Three Little Birds.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing’s gonna be alright.”

I like that particular song because it echoes a favorite Bible scripture that states: "Don't worry so much about what might happen tomorrow, that you miss what is happening today.” Excellent advice, I’d say.

Now if someone could just convince that stern-faced girl with the puka shell necklace.