Adios 2010

"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

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

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

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?

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...?

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)

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

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

"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

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

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

"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

And how was your day?

The Mystery of the Old Suitcase

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

Venti schmenti.

Finally, a coffee cup size I can live with.

I'll Pencil It In

"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

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

"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

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...

"...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

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

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

"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

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

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

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...

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!!?

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

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

"And in the end,

the love you take,

is equal to the

love you make."

~Lennon/McCartney

Just Another Typical Day at the Office

Today I got a lick from a cow named Ellie.

And how was your day?

Out of the Closet

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

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

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

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.