Happy New Year to Me

It happened at a Barry Manilow concert.

Yeah, you read right. 70s crooner Barry Manilow. Not someone I'd normally fork out dollars to see, but my good friend Mark is a DJ who often gets free concert tickets, the operative word being free. More enticing was the thought of spending catch-up time with Mark, whom I first met when we were high school freshmen back in '73. He is, in the most literal sense, my oldest friend and one of my dearest.

But when the concert date rolled around, I wasn't really in the mood. I hadn't realized that the event fell on my mother's birthday, a day that leaves me melancholy. It's been three years and I still miss my mother--my best friend, coach, counselor, and confidant--more than words can describe. At first, I kept waiting for the pain to subside, the hole in my heart to heal, but now I realize that it never will. As my BFF Pam explained, having lost her own beloved father years earlier, a loss of this magnitude simply becomes a part of your DNA. You learn to live with it.

And so I've been living with it, never feeling quite like my old self but accepting this as the new normal. Okay, fine. 

That's why I kept our date and went to the concert with Mark. We were in the nosebleed section (because the seats were comped and hey, beggars can't be choosers), which rendered Manilow the size of a flea. Not only that, we were so far to the right of the stage that we could only see the singer's famous profile, missing all the entertainment taking place in back that the rest of the arena was enthusiastically responding to.

But it didn't matter because the nosebleed section was having a party of its own.  Several DJs from Mark's station were sitting near us and a fun bunch they were. We fed off each other's energy, standing at every song, waving our glow sticks in the air and singing at the top of our lungs, "Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking..."

To my surprise, I was genuinely having a good time, feeling a lightness in my heart that's been absent since the day my mother died. That's when, out of the blue, in the middle of a random song, it hit me. An epiphany so dazzling and bright, it was no less blinding than if someone had beamed a flashlight directly into my eyes.

In that packed arena of roughly 10,000 Barry Manilow fans chanting, "Copa, Copacabana!" I felt my mother's presence as intimately as if she was sitting right next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder. And like a cartoon bolt of lightening aimed toward my head, it struck me that it pained her to see me sad, heavyhearted, trudging through a life colored in shades of gray. This wasn't what my mother wanted for the daughter in whose birthday card she once wrote, "Every day I thank God for giving me a daughter like you."

On this lively evening, watching me wiggle and jiggle to ""Bandstand Boogie,"  I felt it -- my mother's joy at my delight. I saw it--the ear-splitting smile on her face. And I realized that on this day, her birthday, I had given her the greatest gift of all: my happiness.

Wow.

Since then, the lightness in my heart, that inkling of joy, has remained. Lingering like a soft, gentle light. Because ultimately, her gift was mine, too.

Christmas 2012

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

The Nun and the Menorah

I love this story that ran in Leah Garchik's column from today's San Francisco Chronicle...it's a beautiful example of embracing and celebrating all faiths, instead of trying to dilute them to the point of oblivion.

"Jon Levinson of San Carlos, who is Jewish, says that every winter, he and his wife host neighbors, most of them not Jewish, at a Hanukkah party. They serve traditional Jewish foods, light a menorah, play with dreidels. (Note to lovers of English: My spellcheck suggested that "druids" would be a good substitute for "dreidels.") This year, when one set of neighbors couldn't be there, the Levinsons sent them a plate of traditional jelly doughnuts and Hanukkah "gelt" (foil-wrapped chocolate).

The next day, the neighbors' 14-year-old son, Mark Bechtel, brought the treats to his religion class - where there's a daily prayer - at Sacred Heart High School. For that day's prayer, his teacher had the class recite the Hanukkah candle-lighting blessings in English."

Amen to that, with a Merry Christmas and chag sameach!

Picture That!

So there we were, me and Olivia, on a misty Sunday morning at Leo Ryan Park in Foster City, near a scenic lagoon to have our pictures taken.

Oh trust me, on this chilly winter day I would have much rather been at home, snuggled up on the sofa, reading the Sunday Chronicle and enjoying my morning latte. But I needed pictures of my girl, not just for future Pet Tales columns, but also for my annual Christmas card. When my manager Sharon, who happens to be a brilliant photographer, agreed to take pictures, I jumped at the opportunity. 

But Olivia had other plans. She was excited, curious, a little nervous and extremely frisky. She had no interest in posing for pictures. How could a dog be expected to stand still when there were geese on the lawn, ducks in the lagoon and birds in the sky! Not to mention flirty squirrels, giggling children, ambitious joggers, and even two Standard Poodles, one black, the other white, both sporting hot-pink painted toenails.

And I expected Olivia to pose for pictures? What was I thinking?

Sharon's camera whirred nonstop, capturing Olivia's every move as she wiggled and squiggled, anxious to play, sniff and explore. This was so not the "catwalk" my girl had in mind.  After two hours, Sharon and I agreed we'd probably gotten all we could from Olivia--in these foreign surroundings my playful pup was just too distracted to stand still for the camera. And so, we shrugged and called it a day.

But it turned out that amidst the hundreds of photos that Sharon took, there were several that captured Olivia. Her spunky spirit, affectionate nature, and--the pictures most meaningful to me--the bond that we share. Because that bond didn't come easy. It was a rocky road and initially I had my doubts, but today?

The proof is in the pudding--or in this case, pictures. I wouldn't trade my girl for the world.

A Classic "Deer" to My Heart

There are columns to write and blogs to post and bills to pay, plus books to read for my two book clubs, ingredients to purchase for two different potluck dinners, not to mention the floor could use a good sweeping, thanks to Olivia's recent massive shedding, and I wouldn't need to buy new socks if I'd just take a minute to simply sew those teeny holes in the heels.

And oh yes, I still have holiday cards to address and presents to buy and decorations to hang, and I'm about to burst a blood vessel because good lord, Christmas is in less than three weeks and I've done nothing yet. Nothing!

So why did I--a fifty-something adult-- spend a precious evening watching "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?"

Because growing up in the 60s, this Christmas classic was the TV highlight of the holiday season for me and my younger sister, Jenny. From the comfort of our bunk beds, we'd watch it on a tiny black and white TV our dad bought us. I remember how deliciously petrified we were of the scary-looking Bumble, and how frightened we were for Rudolph, Hermy and Yukon Cornelius when they drifted off in the dark on a chunk of ice to get away from the growling Bumble.

And 46-years later, I still get teary-eyed when a humbled Santa asks, "Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"  Or when the hopeless toys on the Island of Misfit Toys hear the jingle-jangle of Santa's sleigh and leap with joy when they realize he's finally coming for them.

When I phoned Jenny tonight to tell her that Rudolph was on, my brother-in-law answered the phone. "Oh yeah," he replied. "We've already watching it." 

That's why everything else can wait. This was indeed an evening well-spent.

One Year Later

It was one year ago today that I entered the garage of Stu and Barbara Homer (who operate Golden State Greyhound Adoption) and met my new dog, Olivia.

The Homer's dark garage was brimming with double-stacked crates holding ex-racer hounds that were about to meet their new guardians and discover freedom after a lifetime of confinement. At the moment though, the dogs were unnaturally quiet. They had no idea of the wonders that awaited them in just a few hours. Instead, they appeared shell-shocked, having just left their Florida race track one week earlier to endure a 7-day cross-country ordeal in the back of a truck.

And there, among the dozens of dogs, I spotted my underweight little girl, her cage marked with her racing name, MamaLu. A striking red brindle, the 3-year old looked especially frightened and withdrawn. My heart melted. I couldn't wait to give her the home she deserved.

However, this didn't happen right away. That's because, as readers of this blog and my Pet Tales column know, Olivia's arrival coincided with the cancer diagnosis, three days later, of my other greyhound, Elvis. Instead of doting on my new dog, Olivia watched from the sidelines as I nursed Elvis through surgeries, sat with him through chemo, and rushed him to emergency to treat leaking incisions almost every single night for two months. It was a nightmare in the truest sense of the word. And a losing endeavor because three months later my beloved boy lost his battle.

But through my tears I realized there was still another life depending on me. Not just for food and shelter, but for the same love and devotion I had bestowed upon Elvis for nine years. I started seeing Olivia -- really seeing her-- for the first time and appreciating her unique spirit. Appreciating how lucky I was to have this dog help heal my grief-stricken heart.

Today, Olivia is affectionate, playful and giddy, every step she takes bouncing with paws of joy. She hates carrots, loves baths, sleeps with her eyes open, and has breath that smells like frogs.  And she loves to snuggle, something I would have never risked doing with the stiff, wary, suspicious Olivia of one year ago. Today's dog makes satisfied little "ummmm" sounds as I rub her belly, neck and ears, and uses her needle nose to nudge me when I stop.

This is the home that Olivia deserved. The home I envisioned before life threw a monkey wrench in the works. Better late than never.

Happy Anniversary, sweet puppy.

Autumn in California

Who says California doesn't enjoy the same vibrant colors of the east coast? Our burst of beauty just comes later in the season, as evidenced by this shot I took today on an early morning walk with Olivia on the Iron Horse Trail.

"How silently they tumble down,
and come to rest upon the ground.
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care.
Content to sleep, their work well done.
Colors gleaming in the sun."

       ~Elsie N. Brady

Pet Tales on CBS

Ah, nice and refreshed after a few weeks off. Didn't do anything special, just took a little time off the computer and recharged the brain cells.

But while I was off, CBS was busy, sniffing around my Pet Tales column in the San Francisco Chronicle. They picked up a story I wrote on September 25 titled "Bet Puts Man and Horse on Healthy Course" and interviewed the subject, Sam DiLaura. CBS didn't credit Pet Tales (of course), but it's still an inspiring human interest story that played out nicely on the big screen.

Mark my words, this is a Disney or Lifetime movie in the works. I can just see it now: Bonnie Bedelia as the wife and Craig T. Nelson as the husband.

Check out the interview that ran on CBS!

Taking a Blog Break

Taking a much-needed snooze and recharging the creative juices.

Be sure to check back on November 21!

Name That Disease

So last week I threw out a "Name that Disease" challenge (see below post). My blood disorder doesn't have a proper name and my complaint was that I'll never get that coveted Lifetime channel "movie disease of the week" without an attractive moniker. Making lemonade outta lemons is what I'm doing here.

But first, we need to name this rogue protein in my blood that is chomping away at my nerve sheaths and leaving damage in its wake. It's resulted in neuropathy in my feet and is slowly working its way up my legs.  Not much that can be done about it, other than try to slow its spread with chemo.  The "blood thingie" (my working title) is not curable and not terminal, but just, as my doctor shrugged, "A major bummer."

So I said what the heck...let's give this "major bummer" a name.

To date, I haven't seen any viable names for the condition itself, but did receive several attractive titles for my potential Lifetime movie.  You did well, Grasshoppers. Here are my favorites so far, categorized by genre.

Sweeping epic: "LORD OF THE VEINS" starring Cate Blanchett and Mark Ruffalo

Comedy: "NUMB & NUMBER" with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler

Romance:"BLOOD STORY" featuring Connie Britton and Hugh Grant 

Spy/Thriller:  "SYNDROME X" with Kate Winslett and Daniel Craig

Nice job, folks. Keep 'em coming. Because I figure, as long as I'm stuck with this "major bummer," I might as well have a little fun with it, right?

Beats the alternative.

Return of the Blood Thingie Part ll

On Friday, I met with my neurologist to discuss this blood thingie I've got, a condition so rare that it doesn't even have a proper name. Nothing interesting like Such-and-Such Syndrome or respectful like John Doe Disease. Instead, its name is an ambiguous string of letters that sound more like something pulled off the Periodic Table. 

Hence my working name of choice, the "Blood Thingie."  

Last year, I had chemo to try and halt the progression of the Blood Thingie, and in July test results indicated that the treatment had worked. The Blood Thingie may not be curable, but at least now it wasn't spreading. Cool.

Lately however, symptoms are returning. I've lost at least 75% of all feeling in my feet, and the "pins and needles" tingling (indicating nerve damage) has suddenly resumed, creeping up my legs to almost mid-thigh. Not good, my friends, not good.

That's why I met with Dr. Gibbs, to find out what the heck is going on.  I like this guy.  How can you not like someone who, upon hearing the familiar Words with Friends "ding" from the iPhone tucked in my purse, confesses that he's also addicted to the game, and then shares his frustration at constantly losing to a lawyer that he's playing. A lawyer, for Pete's sake! His response was the same I might have if I were being bested by Koko the gorilla.

Anyway, Dr. Gibbs ran the usual tests, which include poking my feet and legs with safety pins, zapping them with electrodes, and testing my balance by having me stand and then pushing me around. "And to think I get paid for this," he joked. 

Additional blood work will confirm if the Blood Thingie has resumed, but his medieval tests indicate that it has. If so, he said another round of chemo may be in order. Ugh.  At least it's not the losing-hair-throwing-up-kind of chemo, but still, this stuff is pretty toxic. During my last round I was told that following each infusion, I should flush my toilet three times after each use for three days because of what the chemo might do to the pipes. My response had been, "Pipes? Pipes? What about MY pipes!"

And so, while we await results, I'm welcoming suggestions for a name for this disease. Something that sounds mysterious, intelligent, and maybe even a tad sexy, because here's what I'm thinking: with the right sounding name, perhaps I can turn lemons into lemonade and get a Lifetime channel disease movie-of-the-week out of this whole ordeal. Can't you just picture someone like, oh say, Connie Britton or Laura Linney playing me in the title role? I like the idea.

But that's not going to happen, not with a name like the Blood Thingie. So bring it on, folks--share your ideas for a decent-sounding disease. Something I can wear with pride. My self-respect is at stake here.

Not to mention maybe an Emmy. 

Kindness of People

I've had a lousy couple of weeks lately, stressing about this and that. Just life, you know. The usual.

But that's why two separate gestures from women I hardly know touched me so. They couldn't have guessed how I was feeling, or how such simple actions would help lift my spirits.

The first occured last Sunday at the Golden State Greyhound Adoption (GSGA) annual picnic. Earlier this year, when my sweet pup, Elvis lost his battle with cancer, I heard from hundreds of readers who follow this blog, as well as my Pet Tales column in the San Francisco Chronicle. I also heard from many greyhound guardians who belong to GSGA.

One such person was a woman named Catherine, who had emailed me, saying: "Providing updates on Elvis over the years has no doubt led to many Greyhound adoptions and presented a loving snapshot of what these wonderful animals contribute once they are released from race track slavery. Your grief is felt....."

At Sunday's picnic, I met Catherine who was as nice in person as her email implied. After talking a bit, she said she had a gift for me "...to celebrate Olivia's homecoming," she explained, handing me a stylishly simple ribbon bracelet with one single bead. "Think of your new dog every time you wear this bracelet."

Tongue-tied, I stammered an awkward "thank you," not really conveying how moved I was by the thoughtful gesture. But I wore the bracelet a couple times this week, and each time I glanced at it, I'd remember my goofy, loving, delirously joyful dog waiting for me at home and I'd smile. The bracelet, Olivia's token, achieved exactly what Catherine meant for it to do.

The second gesture came at Wednesday's book club meeting. There we were, sitting in a cozy circle in Anne's living room, chatting about movies, men, work, and, oh yes, the occasional book, when Susan said she had something for me. Now bear in mind, I've only socialized with Susan in our book club. She's always been warm and friendly, but I've never had the opportunity to get to know her better. 

Anyway, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small ceramic Greyhound statue. It had belonged to her daughter, she explained, who has always wanted a Greyhound. She left the statue behind when she moved out and Susan knew if there was anyone who would appreciate this item, it would be me.

The statue looks just like my sweet Elvis.

And so, now gracing my fireplace mantle is the Elvis statue circled with the Olivia token. Every time the two catch my eye, my heart is warmed: with love for my dogs past and present, as well as gratitude for the kindness of people who understand that love.

My Canine Twin

Talk about throwing pride to the wind. That's what I did today, at the Golden State Greyhound Adoption annual picnic, when I entered a contest with my pup, Olivia. The name of this contest?

"People Who Look Like Their Dog."

But I had to enter. How could I not when the first, second and third place winners were promised a prize of the highest order? The desirable, invaluable, and highly esteemed... drum roll please...Squeaky Toy.

We nailed second place.

And so, here is the evidence (albeit fuzzy, thanks to the lousy camera on my iPhone 3). What's important is that my girl got her coveted squeaky toy, and heck, I figure there are worse things to resemble than her sweet face. Anyway, I prefer to think that Olivia's big ears and long nose have nothing to do with our striking mirror image, and more to do with the fact that we're both tall and skinny, right?

Right?

The Very Nerve

I work with a woman who has the most beautiful complexion I've ever seen. It looks like pure porcelain, not a mark, wrinkle, or blemish to be found. It looks air-brushed, her skin is that stunning.

As Tina Fey would say, "I want to go to there."

And so, even though I don't know this co-worker very well, I asked for her beauty secrets because hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, and my skin could use a little tune-up. And, as women are wont to do when paid a compliment, she was sweet and flattered, and happy to share her skin care products.

Except I learned that we used the exact same line! Could it possibly be (gasp) ME? Ah, but then she revealed one additional product she uses, a tinted sunscreen, which I deduced must be the secret ingredient: all I had to do was add this particular item to my skin care and voila! Buh-bye Howdy Doody, hello Hot Mama, right? Right?

And so, I went to Amazon to place my order, but first perused the reviews, which were awesome, of course, every one of 'em. "Best product ever" and "light and silky on your face!" I was right: this WAS the missing link. I was ready to click "send" when one review caught my eye. The headline said, "Great, except for the alumina."

Uh, what's alumina?

It's a chemical, I read, "...a suspected neurotoxin that is classified as toxic or harmful.. something to be wary of, especially if" --these words jumped from the screen --"you are predisposed for any degenerative or neurological diseases."

Now, it's no secret that four years ago, I had jaw surgery that resulted in permanent nerve damage to my face and inside my mouth. Then, last year, the fun continued when I was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder in which a protein in my blood is "eating" my nerve sheaths. This condition, which first attacks the longest nerves in the body, has already numbed both feet and is slowly working its way up my legs.

I've got, in the most literal sense, a bad case of nerves.

That's why this review caught my eye. It led me to do a little research, which validated that it's probably not a bad idea to avoid alumina. Don't want to aggravate the little buggers more than they already are, know what I mean?

But then I wondered, was alumina in MY sunscreen? I grabbed my tube of Neutrogena, the stuff I religiously slather on my already-numb face to prevent melanoma. The stuff I've used for years. And, as the theme song from "Psycho" played in my head, there it was, the number one ingredient: alumina. 

Alrighty then.

So I'm tempted to order the toxic stuff because heck, the harm has already been done. It's like my lame jaw surgeon said when he tried consoling me about the nerve damage done to my face:

"Hey, you may be numb, but at least you look good."   

Call Me Ishmael the Plumber

I've been blessed with thick hair. Curly hair. Lots of hair. And it's nice on my head, but not so much in my drain.

Which is where it always seems to land, in spite of my best efforts to blow-dry my hair away from the counter. My silky strands somehow manage to float through the air and, with the focus of a heat-seeking missile, gravitate toward the sink to effectively clog the pipes.
Last night, when neither basin would drain, I spent an exciting Saturday evening fishing with my handy-dandy Cobra 400 Zip-It stick. The spiky little teeth usually work like a charm, although it's an effort not to gag at the sight of the hairy pond scum that comes up. But last night, nothing.
So I placed a 9-1-1 call to Captain Ahab. This is what I call Sarge, a retired plumber who lives down the street and tolerates my frequent calls with a fatherly patience. He usually shows up, tinkers 5, 10 minutes and voila, whale killed, problem solved. Half the time he doesn't even charge me since the problems are so minuscule.
"I'll get ya next time," he usually warns me with a grin.
And reliable as always, Sarge showed up promptly at 9am this morning, armed with a mean-looking, mega-long Zip-it stick and looking pretty confident. Only this time, like Captain Ahab, Sarge appeared to have met his match.
"Clog's too deep," he said after 30 minutes of fruitless fishing. "Gonna need something stronger." A bigger boat, per chance? And he left.
He returned half-an-hour later with some nasty-looking liquid. When I inquired about the brown stuff sloshing in the clear container, he replied with a cryptic, "You don't wanna know." And up the stairs he went.
For the next two hours I could hear Sarge tinkering around while I finished reading the Sunday paper. He left the house briefly, only to return with more tools. I baked chocolate chip cookies and watched an episode of "I Love Lucy" while the clinking-clanking sounds continued echoing through the house. He left and returned again. I swept the floors, watered the garden. I tried to pretend that this was a pleasant Sunday morning in which my beloved fantasy husband (who looks like Hugh Grant because hey, this is my fantasy) was upstairs puttering around with his newest toy, and not a plumber who typically charges $90/hr.
Finally, Sarge clumped down the stairs, ready to leave. Not that he was done, mind you.
"Gonna hafta come back to finish the job," he told me. "The stuff I'm using needs time to work. In the meantime," he warned, "stay away from the bathroom." When he saw the look of concern flash across my face, he was quick to reassure me that there weren't vapors or anything to worry about. Vapors? I hadn't thought of vapors. Good lord, what was in that container?
"Just stay away," he repeated. "Pretend those two sinks don't exist."
And so, tomorrow Captain Ahab returns in yet another attempt to harpoon Moby for good. Not to mention, I fear, my wallet.
After all, he's always joked, "I'll get ya next time." This time he may mean it.

Origin of "Pillow Fight"

How hard can it be to buy a pillow?

That's what I wondered during my chat with another customer at Bed, Bath & Beyond. We were both in the linen department, shuffling through shelves and shelves of pillows, when she told me this was her third return.
"The first one was too firm and gave me a neck-ache," she said. "And the second one was too soft and flat. Buying a pillow is so difficult!"
I nodded sympathetically, but really, I wondered if maybe she was just a tad high maintenance. With so many pillows and so many options, how could one possibly go wrong?

There were pillows for side-sleepers, stomach-sleepers, back-sleepers, and sleepers who contort themselves into positions with no identifiable name. There were firm pillows, medium pillows, soft pillows and pillows for people with asthma or people who snore. There were down-feather pillows, foam pillows, memory foam pillows, synthetic pillows, latex pillows and for those with allergies, wool-cotton pillows.
All I had to do was pick the right pillow. Piece of cake, right?
When dozing off, I always start on my back, but eventually shift to my stomach, so I selected a firm, down-feather pillow. In the store, I gave it a test drive, hugging it to my chest, imagining it in my bed and cradling my head as I finish reading The Hunger Games trilogy. Ummm, felt nice. I could easily imagine myself dozing off to dreamland with this baby. I whipped out the credit card and bought two.
And the next day woke up with a throbbing headache and stiff neck.
Back to the store I bolted with the pillow-bricks in tow. Obviously, a firm pillow was not for me. Obviously, I didn't sleep on my back as long as I thought I did. Obviously, I needed a pillow more suited for stomach-sleepers. Logic abounding, I selected the softer, more gentle pillow for stomach-sleepers. Obviously.
And awoke the next morning with my face embedded in my mattress.
So, I'm heading back to Bed, Bath & Beyond for yet another exchange and a third purchase. Following the footsteps of the "high-maintenance" gal I talked to just a few days earlier. Now, I know what she meant when she pondered the difficulty of buying a pillow. I feel her pain.
Literally.

Ear Plugs and Aspirin

So there I was last week at my favorite concert venue, the spectacular outdoor Mountain Winery amphitheater, to see Texas rockers, ZZ Top. Yeah, that's right. Had me pegged as a Huey Lewis and The News kind of gal, didn't you?

Well, ha! Take that.

Except the truth is, I'm not into ZZ Top. I could name three of their songs, maybe four, and probably only because I wasn't in a position to switch radio stations. Not that I think ZZ Top is bad, just not my taste.

But I love going to anything at Mountain Winery. I'll often do so more for the intimate ambiance than the actual performers themselves. With a good friend to enjoy a tasty dinner and a glass of wine, nestled under the stars on a balmy summer night, with close seats enhanced by the spectacular twinkling backdrop of Silicon Valley, I can enjoy just about any kind of music.

Or so I thought.

Which explains how this mild-mannered 50-something woman came to be in the 7th row at Mountain Winery, listening to the opening act: a charming little quartet named Nashville Pussy. I use "listening" in the vaguest sense of the word since I'm sure the blood gushing from my ears cushioned the full impact of the piercing screams that were emitting from the stage. The tattooed, big-haired, bad-permed band of two men and two women made heavy metal screechers AC/DC sound like the angelic Vienna Boys Choir.

Nashville Pussy made my head hurt. And judging from the sea of empty seats around us, this was a shared reaction. Others were distancing themselves from the explosive caterwauling onstage by seeking refuge in nearby bars. I had to admit, another Mountain Winery $14 four-ounce glass of house wine seemed like an excellent idea right about now.

But I had to question whose not-so-excellent idea it had been to bring the elderly man sitting three rows in front of me. At least I think it was a man, an older fella with rounded shoulders and a flock of disheveled white hair brushing his weathered, wrinkled neck. He was wearing a yarmulke. A man of faith, no less, maybe even a rabbi. Good God. I wondered what the poor soul was thinking of the oh, so genteel Nashville Pussy. I watched him, curious to see how long he would last.

Ah, there it was. Motion. He was twitching in his seat. Preparing to either plug his ears or bolt from his chair. But I was wrong. He was nodding his head. Gently, at first, then faster, faster, faster, until he went full throttle, up and down, up down, up down, up down, up down, with pumping shoulders keeping beat.

What we had here, folks, was an honest-to-goodness, full-fledged senior metal head.

Well, okey doke then. As for me, I'm sure I'll have a better time at my next Mountain Winery concert this Friday. I just hope my ears stop ringing by then.

I hear bad boy Huey Lewis puts on a hell of a show.

Tammy and the Scrub Jay

I've never been much of a gardener. I plant it. I water it. I kill it. End of story.

That's why, when Deborah arrived at our book club meeting bearing a tray of teeny weeny tomato plants in biodegradable pots, I didn't hold out much hope for mine. I knew the poor thing's fate.

But to my surprise, my plant not only survived, but thrived. It started growing exponentially, first in inches and then in feet. I started getting into this whole gardening business, creating a tomato paradise for my girl (yes, I've determined my tomato plant is a "she"). I moved her to my upstairs balcony that gets full sun and scorching heat. I repotted her in specialized vegetable soil and fertilized her, taking care to water her daily and talk to her often.

"You go, Tammy!" I encouraged my blooming beauty.

And go she did. Tammy rewarded me with tomatoes, first just a few and then a lot, big, fat,bursting juicy ones. When I compared notes with my book club peeps, I learned that my plant was producing more than any others; at last count, I had 45 while Deborah had 19.

Go, Tammy, go!

Except now there's trouble in paradise. A scrub jay has discovered my plant and is hanging around, eyeing my ripening beauties with an interest I find disturbing. John, a gardener friend, told me that the winged intruder won't go after green tomatoes, but the minute he sees red, my tomato is dead.

Oh, hell no. Game on, baby. It's me against the scrub jay.

For starters, John told me to dangle tin can lids from the metal support tower since the flickering shine will frighten the bird. And it appears to be working because for the past few days I've seen my nemesis hopping on a nearby fence, staring at Tammy while squawking with obvious displeasure. Seems I've spoiled his dinner plans.

But only for now. Something tells me I haven't heard the last of this scrub jay yet.

Need an Ego Boost? Play Me

Should I ever find myself on a therapist's couch and am asked why a clever gal like myself suffers from low self-esteem, I'll blame those two guilty culprits: No, not Mom and Dad.

Try Words with Friends and Draw Something.

Because thanks to these two popular smart phone games, I've discovered that I can't spell and can't draw. There's probably a lot more I can't do, but I haven't yet discovered the games that will further deplete what little confidence I have left.

Really, how else can I explain the ten dozen consecutive games I've lost to each of my friends on the online version of Scrabble known as "Words with Friends?"

At least that's the game as I know it. From their end, they probably call it "Words with Idiots."

Here I am, tippy-tapping simple words like, "RAT" and "FOOT" and the ever-popular "QI." Whoa, lookee me---I just scored 14 points! Whoohoo, I rock. Satisfied and feeling just a tad smug, I sit back and imagine my opponents writhing in my infinite glory.

Then Sharon counters with "CONJUNCTIVITIS" down over "ESOPHAGUS" across, grabbing three double words tiles in the process. Or Peter responds with "AUDIORADIOGRAPH" over three triple point letters, while Terry creates "REPERTOIRE" and "UBIQUITOUS" out of my simple "PET" while crossing two triple word tiles. Deb does a slam dunk with "DEMYTHOLOGIZERS," Maria rakes me across the coals with "DISEQUILIBRATED" and Kim takes it home with "METHOXYFLURANES."

Their triple digit points leave my eyeballs spinning. Even as I look at the words they created, I can't quite figure out how they did it.

They make my brain hurt.

So I take a break and move on to Draw Something, the online game in which you draw a sketch based on a certain word and your opponent tries to guess it.

My word is "ATHLETE." Okay, that's easy. Using my fat finger as a stylus, I draw a stick figure holding a brown baseball bat and hitting a white softball with red stitching. I'm quite pleased with my creative use of color. I hit "send."

Then my opponent, whom I can only guess is channeling Leonardo Da Vinci, sends me her drawing. A multi-colored, three-dimensional sketch of a Renaissance court jester, so life-like I can almost feel the velvet of the jester's cap and hear the laughter of the king he's entertaining. What's the word I'm trying to guess?

"FOOL."

A subliminal message, no doubt.

But the perfect word for using up those extra "o"s in that other game, and across a double-word tile, no less. I'll score a whopping 16 points!

And so it goes.

Just a Little Pee'd Off

I've about had it with dog owners who think the world is nothing but one great big toilet for their pup's personal use. Seriously. I just want to smack these folks upside the head and ask, "You think this is okay? Really?"

If I sound annoyed, well, uh, yeah. My front porch smells like an outhouse at the close of Lollapalooza and the black cluster of flies only reinforce the image.

In the 11 years I've had dogs, I can truthfully say that I've never purposely let my dogs do their business on or near a neighbor's property. Once, my sweet greyhound Lucy couldn't hold it as we were leaving my townhouse complex and she peed near a neighbor's porch. When we returned from our walk, I went to this neighbor's house with a bucket of water and white vinegar and washed the puddle as best I could.

Because here's a newsflash, folks: Urine stinks. Urine draws flies, and urine attracts other dogs. For more urine.

But some dog guardians seem to be under the mistaken impression that their beloved pups squirt lavender water. And so, I'm giving these dolts the benefit of a doubt with a gentle reminder, this "no pee" sign I've posted near my porch. Honestly, though, I doubt it'll help. You can't make someone be considerate. Respectful. To the contrary, it's probably just a matter of time before someone steals the sign while waiting for their precious Snookums to finish her business. On my porch, of course.

And adding yet another knot to my already twisted knickers.

Secure in Her Forever Home

Every time I feel the need for a chuckle, I sneak a peek at this picture (left) of my silly Olivia and voila! Mission accomplished. I love this picture for two reasons:

1. It's a classic example of a greyhound "roaching" (the dead cockroach pose that greyhounds are known for).

2. Only a happy, relaxed, and content dog will assume this position and expose her belly.

And Olivia has come so far from the frightened, wary dog she was when I adopted her in November; the dog who would stiffen when I'd try to hug her and wouldn't come when called. The dog who bared her teeth and made my hair stand on end with a skin-crawling growl if I got too close.

The dog who didn't trust or love me.

Fast-forward eight months later to a loving, sweet and affectionate Olivia. Friendly towards strange people and strange dogs. She's goofy, playful, silly, giddy. No growls, no way. My biggest problem now is a 70-pound dog who insists on affection, climbing onto my lap and demanding kisses with adoring, love-struck eyes and one very wet nose.

I accommodate her requests. With pleasure.

Because this former race dog, who just ten months ago was living in a crate for up to 22 hours a day, had previously never known any type of love, treats, toys or affection. Today, when I see Olivia prancing about with her stuffed squeaky shark in her mouth and pure, unbridled joy, my heart flutters and I share her joy.

And so, roach away, my sweet 'livvy. You've earned it.

Letter From a Dog

I don't normally share the dozens of jokes, heartwarming stories and "aw shucks" photos received through email. Nice for a quick read, but I figure we all get enough junk mail.

And so, I read, click, delete.

But I have to share this one sent to me by a Pet Tales reader. I cried when I read it the first time. And later, when I read it again, I cried again. Oh, how I miss my Elvis.

Maybe you've already read this "letter from a dog." Maybe it's old news to everyone, but me. Don't care. I'm posting it anyway (slightly edited for length) in memory of my beautiful boy.

"DEAR FRIEND,

It is my time to say goodbye. I have been called home, away from you. I know I leave you in loneliness and pain, for that is the way of people when they say goodbye. Dogs are different. We don’t have regrets or wish that we could alter the story of life.

I leave you with memories of our life together...when you looked at me and the corners of your mouth turned up, you smelled and looked different. Lighter, happier. That was my life, my work. Nothing more clearly defined my purpose. When you smiled, I knew why I was here.

I remember my heart jumping out of my chest when you came home and called my name, or grabbed my toy to play with me, or feed me. I hope you know that I loved all of those things. Whatever you chose to give me, whatever time you spent with me, I loved. And I thank you.

You know that there is always a goodbye hovering in the shadow of a dog. We are never here for long enough. We were never meant to share all of your life, only to mark its passages. We come when we are needed. We leave when it is time. Death is necessary. it defines life.

I will see you again.
I will watch over you.

I hope, in your grief and loneliness, that you will consider how sad it would have been had we not had this time together, not had the chance to give each other so much.

I do not mourn or grieve, but I will miss standing beside you, bound together on our walk through life, even as I know there is a long line of others waiting to take my place and stand by you.

Thank you. It was nothing but a gift.

Finally, I ask these things of you: Remember me. Celebrate me. Grieve for me. And then, when you can, let me go, freely and in peace.

When you are ready, do me the great honor of bringing another dog into your life so you can give and receive this gift again."

~Author Unknown

Kick Me While I'm Down

My broken toe finally got the best of me. It's too swollen to comfortably fit in a closed shoe, sandles don't offer much support, and trust me, dogs don't care about busted extremeties. Olivia eagerly anticipates her daily walks and I can't bear to disappoint her, knowing how much my playful pup enjoys this simple pleasure.

And so, I hobbled to Kaiser's Minor Injury Clinic to pick up a cast shoe-- yup, the Dork Shoe.

The Dork Shoe technician fit me with one size. Too small. My toes hung over the edge, like Godzilla trying to squeeze his boats into a strappy Gucci. But the next size up was too large, with almost two inches of sole to spare above my freshly painted toes.

"You're an in-between size," he said. "Too small isn't comfortable and you may trip with the larger size and further injure yourself."

"How about a men's shoe?" I asked. To which the young man gave me a sheepish grin. "Uh, I didn't want to tell you," he smirked, "but this IS the men's shoe." I heard the other technician snicker.

Talk about adding insult to injury. Fine! I limped off with the larger size. I may be in danger of tripping, but what the heck.

At least my Godzilla's paw will look petite.

Gimme a Break

Good thing I have a high tolerance for pain.

Over my 50+ years I've broken wrists, ribs and jaw bones (upper and lower). I've had spinal taps, sinus infections and dental procedures so eye-crossing painful that waterboarding seemed a desired alternative. I once had a shot injected near my eyeball to treat an infected sty, and another time had all four fingers trapped in a slammed car door.

They're all child's play, I tell you, an afternoon of Chutes and Ladders when compared with a broken toe.

I first experienced the excrutiating pain of a broken toe 12 years ago when I was kicking off my pajama bottoms and miscalculated the proximity of my foot from the corner of the wall. Fatal error.

THWAP. I heard the sickening craaack and saw my second-to-last toe flop like an over-cooked macaroni. Oh no. But maybe it wasn't really broken? I tried straightening it and held it a few seconds, then let go.

Flop.

And then the neurotransmitters kicked in, shooting their damning message to the part of the brain that translates experience into sensation and ohgoodgodinheaven, the pain. The PAIN! I felt faint and saw stars and knew that this little toe was going to be big trouble.

But when I hobbled to Kaiser's Minor Injury Clinic, I didn't quite get the sympathy I expected.

"I can tape your broken toe to its neighbor and charge you $100," the doctor yawned, "or I can give you the tape so you can do it yourself and save the money. Which shall it be?"

And that's when I learned that a broken toe gets no respect.

I was reminded of this on Wednesday when I broke my little toe. I was practicing my pole dancing and slipped during a reverse triple spin when WHAM. CRACK. OUCH! (I may have slammed my toe into a desk chair, but if you believe the pole dancing story, then that's what happened.)

This time I know the drill: no sympathy. No respect. Just Advil, ice, tape and flip-flops. Oh yeah, and a playful young greyhound who's not about to let a little thing like my busted toe interfere with her daily walks. No rest for the weary or lame.

Sigh.

Ash Backwards

Due to popular demand, I'm reprinting an essay that originally appeared in BustedHalo and, later, in the San Francisco Chronicle. Over the years, I've received many requests for this essay because it turns out it's a popular piece to read at memorial services. Who knew?

And so, in honor of my Dad and Father's Day, I bring you:

ASH BACKWARDS

For 13 years Dad sat on Mom's nightstand.

Or at least his ashes did. I'm sure a nightstand from Levitz wasn't quite what he envisioned as his final resting place; in fact, I know it wasn't because 13 years earlier, when Dad learned he had Leukemia and was given just three months to live, he told us specifically where he wanted his ashes scattered.

The problem was, we forgot where exactly that was.

And when you forget a deathbed request, it's not like you can go back and ask the person to repeat their wish. We only realized our fatal faux pax when the time came to scatter his ashes.

"I thought you knew the location."

"No, you said you would handle it!"

And so on. What we did remember was that it was somewhere up in California's Mother Lode Gold Country. Dad's favorite hobby was dredging for gold and he had wanted his ashes scattered in the Tuolumne River. Or was that the American River? Maybe it was the Yuba River?

Good God, we couldn't remember! I could just imagine Dad shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Finally, on the 13th anniversary of his death, we said enough. We had to accommodate his final request. Maybe we couldn't remember the exact river, but we knew he loved the Mother Lode. Maybe we'd find a quiet, serene place, say a prayer, share a few special memories, then scatter his ashes. Dad would finally be laid to rest.

And so, on a sizzling summer day that would have marked his 75th birthday, we drove two hours north from the East Bay toward Columbia, a charming preserved gold rush town he had especially liked. There we were, a gaggle of Johnnie's gals...my mom, sister and me, plus our two best friends whom he had considered second daughters, and the 12-year old granddaughter he never knew.

Now in California, it's illegal to dispose of human remains, and my mother is a person who has never so much as rolled through a stop sign. She was a nervous wreck, convinced an FBI SWAT team was watching her every move, just waiting for her to show some ash.

When we finally arrived in Columbia, she clutched the box of ashes to her chest, looking furtively about. Coke dealers in the other Colombia have looked less guilty.

"Here," she indicated, anxious to get the illicit act over with before she was hauled off to San Quentin. "This is good. Let's scatter them here."

I looked at her in disbelief. We were standing in the middle of an asphalt parking lot in between a Hummer and a Volkswagen.

"It has to be someplace special!" I insisted. She thought about that for a second, then agreed that, yes, yes it did. So she moved a few yards. "Okay, how about here?" She pointed to a trampled trail dotted with horse pies from the Columbia stagecoach rides.

Oh for God's sake, this wouldn't do. I hustled Johnnie's gals, now hot, cranky and tired, back into the van. "We would drive," I barked, "until we found a spot that felt friggin' special!" A task that we soon discovered appears much easier in the movies than it does in real life. Where is that scenic overlook above a sparkling lake when you need one?

But after an hour of driving off beaten tracks and down desolate roads, we saw it: a doe and her fawn looking at us from a dirt path and thought, hey, maybe that was our sign!

Or maybe it wasn't. But we hadn't eaten all day, had sweltered in 100-degree weather, and still faced a long ride home. It would be our sign, dammit.

So we followed the deer a short way only to find ourselves looking down a hillside of trees and daisies. Hey, it was kind of nice. Peaceful and serene. Dad would have liked this. What should we do now? Hold hands and say a prayer? Share some fond memories? Contemplate the passing of a loved one?

“Hurry up!” Mom hissed nervously under her breath. “Before we get caught!”

Okay fine. We’d forgo ceremony to accommodate America’s Most Wanted who was still convinced that the FBI or John Walsh was skulking about.

Solemnly we began scattering Dad’s ashes. Suddenly our bickering ceased as the significance of saying goodbye one last time dawned upon us. No one felt the need to speak. Until, that is, a strong gust of wind came from nowhere and blew a tsunami of ashes back in our direction, coating everyone with a fine film of dust.

Or a fine film of Dad, to be more precise.

“PFffffffttt!” my niece sputtered, coughing. “I've got Grandpa all over me!”

After the initial shock of wiping Dad off our sweaty faces, slowly we started smiling. Then giggling. And then, for the first time on that hot, somber day, laughing until we were crying. This was an act so typical of Dad, an Irishman with a wicked sense of humor. No doubt he was making his presence known, even if his ashes now lay strewn among California wildflowers.

And Johnnie’s gals, chuckling and dusty, reminisced about this special man as we piled back in the van to make the long trek home.

Do the Crime, Do the (Bath) Time

Silly girl Olivia often enjoys prancing through the wild ivy that grows rampant on hillsides and parks in my neighborhood. I suspect that stalking through the knee-high ivy feeds some deep primal urge that lurks within all dogs. I get a bit nervous when I think about snakes, but she usually stays just long enough to discreetly do her business, and then she joins me back on the trail.

But not today.

As usual, Olivia was frisking through the ivy, sniffing out a prime spot to heed nature's call, when she suddenly did a Kamikaze nose-dive. She buried her face in the ivy and then proceeded to roll over on her back, rocking back and forth with all four legs waving in the air, a look of sheer ecstasy flashing on her happy face. I smiled and let her enjoy the innocent pleasure until a light bulb flipped on over my head...

...what was my girl rolling in?

So I tugged at her leash and pulled her back on her feet, then leaned over to explore the source of such heavenly canine delight. And almost gagged.

It was a carcass. Something of such decrepit, molten decay, I couldn't even determine what it might have been in its previous incarnation. A raccoon maybe? Or perhaps a bison or woolly mammoth? It was squishy. Furry. And huge. I turned to Olivia and looked at the sweet face that I kiss and body that I hug at least a dozen times a day.

Cool, huh? her joyful expression seemed to say. And I'm covered in it!

Oh yes, indeed. Which explains why my little tiger soon found herself in another "cool" position: at the tail end of a hose.

Men May Come and Go, But...

Curse that first generation iPhone camera because I love these two pictures, fuzzy as they are.

The blurred images capture recent happy moments with two of the most important people in my life: Me with my "baby" sister Jennifer(top left), and below, with my BFF of over 30 years, Pam.

The only person missing is my "there, there" friend Deb; so named because no matter how bad things might be, she's always there to make me feel better with her metaphorical "there, there" love and compassion. Last year Deb fled costly California for a more affordable lifestyle in South Carolina. I know, I thought the same thing: how dare she! Not that we're letting a few thousand miles come between us, although it has messed up impromptu plans.

And the "celebration" card? It's a tarot card that I drew at a recent reading with an "Intuitive" (she doesn't call herself a psychic, but yeah, whatever). This card represents how much I value these relationships, she said. They mean the world to me: they sustain me, nurture me, keep me sane. They make me laugh, feed my soul, and keep me afloat when I feel like I'm drowning.

"This card represents the most important people in your life," the Intuitive said.

Amen, sister. And BFF.

Confessions of a Weather Wimp

I had plans this holiday weekend, big plans. Outdoor plans that included gardening, perusing Pleasanton's annual Antiques & Collectables Faire on Main Street, hiking around Lake Chabot, and, of course, long, leisurely walks with my greyhound, Olivia.

Oh yeah baby, plans, big plans. None of which happened.
Because when I awoke early Saturday morning and looked out my bedroom window, I saw gray, overcast skies and treetops swaying in the wind and had but one thought: Hell no, I won't go.
Because I am a Weather Wimp.
My friends know this all too well. I accept invitations for outdoor activities, but always with the caveat that I will cancel if it ____(fill in the blank): rains,threatens to rain, looks like rain, has rained, will rain, might rain, appears to rain, shows evidence of rain, drizzles, is windy, breezy, foggy, cloudy, damp or chilly.
Give me the heat any day. During hot summer days, my neighbors marvel that they rarely hear the drone of my air conditioner even during triple-digit temperatures. It's gotta be pretty darn toasty for me to break into a sweat. And thank goodness, California usually enjoys a dry heat. I love opening my windows and sitting in-between a nice cross-breeze, relishing the gentle warmth on my bare skin like a comforting hug.
Not so, the cold. It hurts.
The cold makes my eyes sting, my ears throb, my skin ache, and renders immobile my frost-bitten limbs. I can't move, can't think, can't function when a bitter glacial wind is cloaking my body like a blanket of needles. Only one thought is able to penetrate my ice-laden mind when I'm engaged in an outdoor activity and engulfed in arctic elements: when, oh when will the inhumanity end?
And when it drops below 60 degrees, then I really suffer.

So mostly, I stayed indoors this holiday weekend, braving the piercing winds only to take Olivia on her walks. Paying no heed to the crazy fools who were leisurely lounging by the community pool, cracking through the ice to splash about and pretend the weather wasn't really a Siberian 64 degrees.

Or so thinks the Weather Wimp.