Read it Here First: Why Women Shop

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

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

One would think.
The current fan hangs near the staircase on a 20-foot ceiling. And apparently my home is the first and only home in California to have 20-foot ceilings because I couldn't find an electrician with a high enough ladder. Really?
By the time I finally found one, I was so grateful, I didn't care that his installation fee was three times the cost of the fan. He was supposed to come out last Saturday, but called to apologize. Someone had borrowed his ladder. We rescheduled for Wednesday evening. Again, someone borrowed his ladder. We re-booked for Saturday morning and--take a wild guess--someone borrowed his ladder. We have now rescheduled for next Saturday, but don't hold your breath folks. Apparently there's a run for 20-foot ladders.
I would also like to swap out my patio sliding glass door with a grid door. I found just the one I want at Home Depot and, at $460, it's within my budget. Should be an easy enough project--just slip out the old and insert the new, right?
Dream on, Kimosabe.
First, Home Depot had to schedule a contractor to come out and measure my existing door because apparently amateurs don't know how to use a measuring tape. Never mind that my measurements ended up matching his. The official numbers had to come from the official Mr. Contractor measuring tape. At the tune of $50. Non-refundable, of course.
Eight days later, Home Depot called to advise that the half-day project would run a whopping $1600. Why so much? They had to tear out the frame, remove the floor around the door, insert the door, rebuild the frame, re-do the floor, do the Hokey Pokey and haul away the old door.
Okay, so ixnay on the new oorday. I still have the fan to look forward to, right? Which was purchased one month ago and is still sitting in my garage.
This is why I'm turning to the Internet. Forgive me, but I'm in dire need of instant gratification.
"Heather grey, size 6, bootcut, click, send."

Words to Live By

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

~Sid Caesar

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

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

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

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

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

The Golden Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Bean Brownies

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

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

How did the they turn out?

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

Cock-a-Doodle Who?

In my world, Saturday nights usually consist of a glass of wine and a hot date with Alex Trebek from Jeopardy. So I'm a trivia geek. Sue me.
But last night I ventured out. My best friend, Pam, invited me to a bon voyage party her mother Anita, and stepfather Walt, were hosting to kick-off their three week vacation to Colombia next month. Held on their large deck overlooking the serene Delta waters, it was a festive catered affair complete with a Mariachi trio.
Now as far as I know, Mariachi music is Mexican, not Colombian, but perhaps Shakira wasn't free. Then again, my mother was from Colombia and she absolutely adored Mariachi music, so maybe Colombians have a soft spot for Mariachis. Who knows.
Anyway, that's why I was invited. Anita and Walt thought I'd enjoy the music my mother so loved. And much to my surprise, they were right. Because as a kid, I couldn't stand the stuff.
My sister and I grew up listening to Mariachi music. Almost every Sunday afternoon, Mom and Grandma (who was from Nicaragua and lived with us) would play their favorite Los Panchos Trios albums on a stereo the size of a Winnebago. They'd crack open the vino, which in the early 70s was Gallo Wine, a perennial supermarket favorite. Today Gallo has been rebranded as the moderately decent Turning Leaf, but they can't fool me. I remember Gallo when it came in a green gallon-sized jug and tasted like a cross between vinegar and rubbing alcohol. But Mom and Grandma liked it.
With the volume cranked up, they would stretch across the sofa with their vino, laughing, talking, and singing along for all the neighbors to hear. I just criiiiinged, wishing they liked the same stuff the other moms were listening to, like Tom Jones or Mac Davis. There was one song in particular that I couldn't stand -- The Rooster Song, I called it. So coined because in the main chorus, one of the trio warbled like old Foghorn Leghorn himself was being massacred.
But last night, that was the song I wanted to hear. Every tune by the Mariachis was like an invisible hug, bringing back a flood of warm memories. When I requested that song, I couldn't remember the name, but I sure knew how to describe it.
I crowed like a rooster.
With a knowing grin, the Mariachis nodded and began serenading me with The Rooster Song. And I closed my eyes and reveled in the moment. Missing Mom. Missing Grandma.
And grateful that the Mariachis weren't Mac Davis.

The Baby Gene

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

But oh, the pictures are getting to me.

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

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

Not so for pups.

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

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

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

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