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.