Obsession

I've been unable to blog of late because I'm stuck. I am glued to that darn LibraryThing.

My sister sent me an "invitation"...Join Me at LibraryThing! I promised to do so when I returned from the Yellowstone (mis)adventure which I will write about as soon as I can tear myself away from that darn LibraryThing!

I swear, my head hurts, my shoulders ache. For days on end I've been glued to the computer, cataloguing, searching, perusing...I lie awake at night remembering books I haven't thought about in years.

I can't even READ a book because I'm too busy cataloguing them.

Yesterday at a job, I asked my client (a lawyer and Mom, who recently loaned me a book) if she had tried LibraryThing. "Oh no!" she replied, "I'm much too busy. But let me know if you find any must-reads!"

It occurred to me that only people like me who don't have much of a life would have time for this obsession. But on the other hand, perhaps I don't have much of a life because I'm too busy piddling it away whilst trapped in my obsessions...

Yogi's House

For our next vacation we will be going to Yellowstone National Park. We are scheduled to go a couple of weeks before Memorial Day, pre-summer crowds. I am quite excited, as I haven't been since childhood, and my husband John has never been.

Our upcoming trip will conclude a full year of national park visits. A year ago we went to Yosemite, and instead of paying the regular $20 entrance fee, we bought an annual Park Pass for $80. Thereafter we felt compelled to "get our money's worth," and we really did. The list included: Yosemite, Muir Woods and Death Valley in California; Arches, Capitol Reef, Bryce, and Zion in Utah. If all goes as planned, May we'll see Yellowstone and Grand Tetons in Wyoming, and Craters of the Moon in Idaho. That annual pass was probably the best investment we ever made (not that we do much "investing.") It really got us moving. I can't wait to buy another one, and I highly recommend it as a motivator!

Ever since we camped at Lake Tahoe a couple of summers ago, I've developed a fear of bears. The camp hosts at Meek's Bay told us there were a few bears who regularly visit the campground, so be sure to clean up really well and keep all food and scented items in the bear box. What they didn't mention was, it doesn't matter how thoroughly you clean up your own camp, because the bozos in the camp next door are going to be too drunk to remember to put up the cooler and lock the bear box. In fact, they will practically lay out a casino-style buffet picnic for Yogi and company!

We felt lucky to get a spot at Tahoe in July, so we didn't complain when it was not lake front but one of the small ones right off the main road. We set up our tent in a bush alcove to create a little privacy, and as we were setting up I noticed a path through the bushes. At that time I assumed it was a shortcut to a trail which led to a nearby resort.

But at midnight, when our neighbors began yelling and banging pots and pans, and my dog started growling, it suddenly occurred to me that our tent was right next to a bear-path leading to their "crib" in the rocks behind our camp! From then on and for the rest of the long weekend, I got NO sleep, so convinced was I that, even if not intentionally, a bear might accidentally rip through tent nylon in his haste to escape with a midnight snack, inadvertently crushing my head and slashing open my jugular!

I never actually saw the bears, only their post-party aftermath. But thereafter I was obsessed, noting each and every bear and wild animal incident, including one near where we would camp in Utah in which a bear ripped through a tent and pulled an 11-year-old out, sleeping bag and all...gruesome! "It's because of the drought, "said animal experts, "...not enough berries this year." But I noticed that statistics indicate more and more wild animal attacks in recent years. The paranoid thought occurred to me that we humans may soon be going the way of the dinosaurs as Wild Kingdom takes over global management to create a greener world. "Why, it's the fault of all those politically correct do-gooders who don't believe in "managing" these critters with a shotgun! The only place I care to see a bear is in a cage at the zoo or stuffed and standing behind plate glass at the Museum of Natural History! Covered in cobwebs! " I was sounding more like a flag-waving NRA member by the day. I started thinking that the gun range sounded like fun. My husband started thinking I was getting a little scary. It got even scarier when the 4x4 truck magazine started coming to our mailbox...I had ordered a free subscription off the internet!

Later, camping along the coast in northern California, in an area in which they supposedly hadn't seen a bear in several years, we had brought along our small gas grill and John cooked up some steaks. If there were any bears in the vicinity, they'd soon be showing up for John's BBQ. But there weren't any bear boxes in the camp, so I figured we were safe. That night I drifted into a comfy sleep, when suddenly I awoke to the sound of heavy snorting and breathing, just outside the tent. In my terror I could barely utter a word as I shook my husband awake. "It's a bear..." I gasped. John groped around for a flashlight as he listened. For a minute he too looked petrified. Then he called out, "Hey, are you alright out there?" "No-o-o" someone groaned in reply.

"It's that old man from the next camp who just had
shoulder surgery," said John. "He must've tripped on his way back from the bathroom and he can't push himself back up."

Now I was gripped with a different sort of panic as I stumbled to the camp next door to wake up the neighbors. "Grandpa what in blazes are you doin' out there!" they said, although if it was my Grandpa I think I'd be moving a little faster than they were. Why did they bring an old man recovering from surgery out to the woods anyway?? Were they hoping to get their greedy paws on the ranch ASAP?

My phobia was beginning to get on my nerves though. It reminded me too much of my Mom. When I was a kid, it drove me beserk that she was afraid of everything. I remember saying snottily to her one teenaged day, "Guess what Mom, life's scary!!!! You know why? 'Cuz you're gonna DIE!!!"

Originally I reserved campsites for Yogi's stomping grounds out there in Wyoming. But John suggested I reconsider. I called the campground and asked them about bears. "Will there be bears coming through the campground at night? Because I'm afraid I won't get any sleep."

"Oh, they're comin'. Why last year they grabbed a guy by the leg and shook him around a little bit. 'Course he wasn't followin' any of the rules..."

"I think I'd like to reserve a cabin," was my instant response.

Last night I was channel surfing and came across a show called "Maneaters" on Animal Planet. Stories about people attacked by grizzlies in Montana, black bears in Alaska. Probably I should have bypassed this show. But I felt compelled to learn. Apparently it's best to play dead when attacked by grizzlies, while with a brown bear you must fight for your life. Black bears can be brown, and grizzlies can be small, so it's not a bad idea to study your bears before you go to a place that as both!!!

I still don't want to see a bear anywhere besides a zoo. Or maybe from a long ways away with my binoculars from the safety of my Jeep Liberty. And I can drive away faster than 30 miles per hour when he charges.

The guy did reassure me, though, this year is supposed to be a better crop of berries.

Hear that, Yogi?

1:11 Again

When I arrived at my job today, a gas burner on the kitchen stove was turned on, and no one was home except for the two cats. My client/friend who lives in this house had a fire a few years back. Although that fire started downstairs in the garage and not in the kitchen, being of the "neurotic worrier" type, I made a mental note to mention the burner to him. Then I began to trace the morning back to my kitchen, where I groggily putter around while gulping vast amounts of coffee in effort to join the world of the living. Had I turned off the coffee pot? Would my house burn down? As I started to work, I drifted into my usual free-association-meditation cleaning style. Note to self: go to Costco to re-up stash of personal favorite drug, coffee! Must go tonight!!!


Mornings are hell for me, since I'm a natural night owl. Yes, I get up, but it's never easy, and never has been since childhood. Hence the coffee addiction. Every once in awhile, I become acutely aware that it is, in fact, an addiction. This usually occurs in the rare event that I don't get to the store in time to replenish my "supply" and the day comes I must face morning without my "little helper." That happened last week...


I was too tired after work to go to the store Friday night, even though I knew what I would be facing in the morning. "I can handle it," I told myself casually (I can quit anytime I want to!) The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn. The dog wanted breakfast! John was snoring away! I certainly can't go back to sleep now! I'll just take the mutt out and then run over to Safeway before anyone else gets there! I was bursting with energy, revved up to make my a.m. caffeine run. Ah, what a beautiful morning. So peaceful.


As I waited on LulaBelle to do her business, I saw a couple staggering towards the stairway that leads to the beach, obviously on an all-night bender. They stopped behind a bush when they saw me, checking me out. Was I apartment security? Should they be paranoid? The guy hurried towards the staircase. I imagined him anxious to hit the pipe and bottle in his pocket. The girl hesitated, uncertain whether she should follow him down that long staircase to the cold, windy beach. Did she even know him? She looked bedraggled.


Suddenly my sunny mood dampened, as I recalled similar experiences from my own past. What depressing and dangerous scenarios I put myself in, with complete strangers, on a near-nightly basis on the beaches, in the parks, seedy hotels and streets of the city. How many mornings- after did I face the dawn, ashamed to be seen by "normal" people, wondering desperately, how do they do it? How do they manage to be normal? What have I been chasing all night, every night, and why can't I stop?


Suddenly I felt like I was reliving the past. My head pounded. I was exhausted. I felt that old, familiar, sick and hungover feeling. The dog is taking her damn time this morning! "Just go poo NOW! " I demanded. The more agitated I got, the more nervous she became, jumping at a bag blowing in the wind, barking at the birds! Though I'd been energetic moments before, I was rapidly slumping. Finally I dragged her back home. She'll just have to poo later.


I quickly headed for the grocery store. I didn't know how much longer I would be upright...things were getting hazy. Like a zombie I stumbled through the automatic door. The place looked like a war zone as numerous clerks restocked shelves, boxes scattered in the aisles. In my daze I tripped over a box. I wanted to shout, Why didn't you idiots finish this job before you opened the doors to customers? Aren't you worried about law suits? Of course, the only clerk at the checkstand was the slowest checker on the planet. Yak yakkety yak yak yak," she blabbed non-stop, as she flirted with the blushing customer in front of me. AARGH! On an average evening this clerk gets on my last nerve. But on a fuzzy morning without coffee... Suzie Sunshine was not nearly as sunny to me as she'd been to the guy in front of me, thank God. She obviously sensed the danger signals as I bared my fangs and pulled out my wallet...


Addiction is hell.


All this I contemplated as I worked. Probably my client forgot to turn off the burner this morning after heating water for his coffee, I thought as I dried his clean dishes and favorite coffee mug; a near-disaster brought on by caffeine withdrawal! As I reached for a plate on the dish drainer, the stack collapsed like dominoes. Two oven-and-microwave-safe plates on the bottom of the stack were broken neatly in half. How strange! I don't think I'd even touched them!


When I told Chris about his plates, he said "It must your kinetic energy; you don't even know your own strength."


I rarely ever break things at my jobs, but when I do, it usually happens in cycles. Thank God this is a short week, I thought to myself. I'll have to be extra careful tomorrow...


As I was driving home, contemplating Chris' remark about the "energy" and what it could possibly mean, I suddenly remembered that I'd forgotten to tell him about the burner. So I picked up my cell phone to give him a call. "Have you noticed a ghost at your house?" I asked him, "...because I'm almost positive I didn't touch those plates. And what about the burner?" (What I refrained from saying was, "and what about that fire awhile back?") He laughed. "Yeah, it must have been a ghost."


As I hung up, I felt like an idiot. It's embarrassing when you realize that many think you're a little "dingy" for even considering this ghost thing. I glanced at the digital clock on my dashboard.


Guess what time it was????
1:11.

The Middle Ages

Things slip up on you when you hit middle age.

One moment it's the 4th of July; the next, it's Christmas. One day you're 35, worrying about the dreaded "40" and wrinkles. The next, you can't even remember how old you are, and where the hell are those 5 pairs of reading glasses?

I remember, in my younger days, wondering how my elders managed to become so slovenly and disheveled. I'd see pictures of their "hey days" and they'd be quite the fashion plates. And yet, here they were, walking around in torn mumu-style housedresses and those shoes...those black witchy-poo lace-up crepe soled horrors...the so-called "comfortable" ones...the only ones that would fit over their bunions and corns. How could they Let Themselves Go, I wondered, as I balanced precariously in my pointy-toed, high heeled two-toned ankle boots. Why don't they throw out that ancient dimestore makeup, and style that silver fly-away hair, and pumice those crusty feet, and buy a decent outfit from somewhere other than Wal-Mart once every 3 and a half years?

Middle age is that time of life when you glance in the mirror and startle yourself. You just saw a ghost, your Mom or your Grandmother. When you realize it's actually you, well, your jaw drops (just like the rest of you apparently did when you weren't looking.) You try to remember, when was the last time you styled your hair? Or bought a new pair of shoes? Or wore make up? And you realize, you can't remember! Maybe because it's been that long ago, or perhaps because your short term memory is patchy. And then you realize that frankly, you really don't give a crap anyway. That, of course, is something the 20-year-old you could never, ever imagine.

At 30, you vowed to never, ever wear those black old-lady shoes. Not the crepe-y soled things, not EVER. We can grow old and still be hip! you declare, announcing plans to design funky "comfy shoes," with big bows and polka dots like Minnie Mouse, or motorcycle boots, all with crepe-y soles. Just because it's comfortable doesn't mean it must be butt-ugly! You kick up your heels and laugh in the face of TIME!

In the blink of an eye, decades fly by, and you find yourself shopping with your sister at the shoe warehouse. For hours, you browse. At first you admire the stylish ones, but you don't try them on. You have no place to wear them, and besides your feet hurt too bad to even consider it. You head straight for the "sensible" walking shoe area. One pair after another, you try them on. Not very attractive, nothing special...and nothing fits! In the entire shoe warehouse, not a pair can be found to fit your decrepit time-worn tootsies.

Then you spot them, at the end of an aisle. Basic black. Sensible. Lace-up, crepe-sole; "The World Traveler" reads the tag. They have a name! (At least it doesn't say The World-Weary Traveler.")

"I dare you to try them on," says your sister. Then, as she studies her feet, "What about these hot pink shoes? Am I too old for hot pink shoes?"

Nope, not yet. Just can't bring myself to do it.

Instead, we try on wacky studded Vegas-style hats, and she buys the pink shoes, and I buy a spring green bag.

But I keep thinking about those shoes. God, they might just fit. The only pair in the mega-warehouse. That explains why every "old lady" owns a pair...

They do look pretty comfy...

I wonder what they'd look like if I spray painted them silver?

1:11 11:11

Occasionally I go through phases in which I notice that when I look at the clock, it says 1:11 or 11:11. Not every time, of course, but often enough that it strikes me as odd, more than just mere coincidence. Then I get an eerie feeling; what does it mean? Is the universe trying to tell me something?

No, I'm not into numerology; I know nothing about it. I'm practically a dunce when it comes to numbers; math was always my worst subject in school. My inability to focus on it is in large part responsible for the fact that I never completed a college degree. My brain just doesn't latch onto numbers. The numbers have to mean something--something I can reduce to words and crazy theories, images laden with mysterious meaning.

As it turns out, my experience of seeing repetitive ones is not unique. According to some, the appearance of repetitive ones signifies the presence of a spirit trying to make itself known. There are people out there waiting for the dates 01/01/11, and 11/11/11, not too many years away, because the number one is wholeness and eleven is duality, yin/yang, enlightenment...the dawning of a new spiritual age.

I'll take the New Day types over the doomsday proclamations: "The End is at Hand! We're going to blow ourselves up! We're going to melt the planet, probably tomorrow when the Headless Horseman appears with 9 Maids-a-Milking and a Partridge In a Pear Tree!"

Maybe there is some spirit trying to contact me, but I wish they'd be more lucid about it. It may be crucial and I'm missing the point, because when it comes to numbers, I have a really hard time connecting the dots.

Then it occurred to me: repetitve ones (1:11 or 11:11) occur four times in a 24-hour period. Any other time occurs only twice; there are no double digits of any other number unless you use a 24-hour clock (who does?) and then it would also happen with twos.

And if you are an insomniac like myself, the chances of seeing 11:11 p.m. or 1:11 a.m. are pretty good. But what's really odd is that I would be speculating about this at all, considering my aversion to numbers. That must mean something, right? Old age---my days on the planet are numbered?

One is the loneliest number...

What's Behind the Curtain? It's a New...

This morning I woke up with the image of Bob Barker in my head. What's in this Showcase?

"A New Car!" exclaims the announcer. Cheers!!! accompanied by the celebrated "Price Is Right" music!

Isn't that Inferno Red Jeep Liberty 4x4 a beaut? And it's all mine!! Could life be any more thrilling? In my head I'm already rock crawling and climbing near-vertical slopes, splashing through muck and mud and scaling dunes. Mind you, I'm pretty much a Grandma driver and have never driven off-road before. But just you wait!!!

My elegant custom Camry, which we'd had for less than a year, started making a bumping noise last week. John took it to his trusty mechanic for a diagnosis, and we were given the worst case scenario---upper and lower catalytic converters (one of which we'd already replaced) AND the transmission. AARGH! It looked like the lovely Camry was going the way of it's predecessor, Hi-Ho Silver Taurus, which couldn't pass smog even after a few barrels full of money were dumped into it. I began to bemoan the loss of the decrepit 1986 Peugeot, which cost $500 and ran for years with a broken head gasket and thick, rust-colored oil.

But somehow, my hubby managed to turn disaster into a sweet situation! When we drove down Auto Row, I immediately spotted the Jeep. "That's the car I want," I announced. Though it looked like we'd never afford it, he managed to swing the deal! I drove it home in my hiking boots and Carhardt jacket, basking in how well I match with my new car. Don't have to get dressed up for this baby! I could hardly sleep last night I was so damn excited.

We are gonna have so much fun on upcoming trips!! And I even have a working CD player, though I vowed not to use it for a week, so I don't immediately break it (as I usually do.)

Today was the very first day I drove it. After my job, I was loading cleaning supplies into the back of the Jeep and dropped my car keys on the ground. I tossed them in my supply basket, closed the door...OOPS! Auto locks...and my keys inside. So I stood around in the rain waiting for the emergency road service. But it gave me ample time to show off my car to my client friend. (He was suitably impressed.) When the emergency road service guy showed up, he asked, "Is this a new car?" "No, it's an '04," I replied, beaming with pride.

Then, on the way home, I called my Buddy Ben to come out on his balcony since I was passing close to his apartment. I pulled up and he admired my car via cell phone. Then I climbed out and posed on the (wet) hood and he took pix with his digital camera (hope he has a telephoto lens) which he promised to email me for this blog on the condition that I take him rock crawling and mud "wrestling" or "wrangling" or whatever. (I can just see him wrestling in the muck in his skivvies.)

So it turned out to be a fabulous day, almost like I really was on a TV Game Show with a Host and Showcase Prizes and Theme Music and Cheering, Ravenous, Covetous Crowds...

The only difference is: I still have to make a car payment every month. But don't remind me until it's due.

Pinky Poodle

Pinky Poodle

In a Noodle

In a Doggy Woggy Doodle...

Mister L'amour - ay! He's on the Floor - ay!

Stinky winky Lu, I love you! Stinky-inky-inky-winky Doo!

This is a picture of my dog, LulaBelle, and her cousin Louie L'amour. These are a few of the songs they inspire. What is it about these critters that inspires me to burst into song?



When I go to my job at various houses, many animals (especially cats) run for cover when they see me with a vacuum cleaner. Dogs are quick to forgive and forget, and love me anyway. But some cats are difficult to win over once they associate me with the vacuum. However, I have discovered that I can lure even stand-offish cats when I sing.

They say, "Music tames the savage beast." It always seemed to work on our haughty part-Siamese, Cinders, who would lounge nearby when I practiced piano as a child. She loved Mozart and tinkling high notes.

Maybe I should try it on my husband. Next time he picks a fight, I just might burst into song.

Try it on your bosses, your children, out-of-control neighbors and spouses, then let me know if it works.

Cinderella

I clean houses. That's my job. I came into my occupation in a round-a-bout way, but looking back, it's not really surprising. I've always been a house cleaner.

As a kid, I followed my Mom around desperately attempting to get some positive attention. Since she had 4 kids and an elusive husband, she was overwhelmed and housebound. "Oh-my-God-I-just-cleaned-that-now-it's-a-big-mess-Go-outside-and-play-NOW!!!"

I took to cleaning in hopes that she would be grateful and like me. It didn't really work, but at least I got some negative attention. Meanwhile I scrubbed the mildewy back shower to keep the mushrooms from growing back there, and mowed the lawn and did the dishes and vacuumed and swept, little Cindy-Cinderella.

As I cleaned, I dreamed about how I would grow up and escape the Bible Belt and be an artist/pianist/journalist/actress. As time went by, I was constantly reminded that naturally I wasn't good enough to do any of those things, but I was a really fast typist and could scribble shorthand like a demon. Thanks to all the writing and piano-playing and drawing, not to mention the cleaning and scrubbing, I had really strong hands! So it was decided that I should be a secretary. The problem was that business classes bored me to death. Accounting was the only class I ever got a D in, because who cares if it's a penny off! I'll throw in the damn dime, just close the books!! I'm still flunking accounting to this day---just ask Bank of America and the many creditors who are looking for me (just don't tell them where I am.)

But I made "them" proud and aspired to my secretarial duties. Guess who I ended up working for? Good Housekeeping! Once on a visit to New York I went to the laboratory where they test products to see if they live up to their advertising claims and qualify for the "Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval." It was pretty cool. Truthfully though, I wanted to write the magazine, not answer phones. Besides, I was somewhat belligerent as a personal assistant, to the dismay of my boss. And although at that time in my life I could pull off the girly thing with the cute dress and polished nails, I always had to complete the outfit with a pair of shamrock green combat boots.

Well, it all fell apart anyway. Due to the wild drinking and carousing in my personal time, my office "housekeeping" was no longer getting a seal of approval from the Big Cheese as I stumbled into work at noon. OOPS!

Obviously, it was time to Clean Up my act! So...kicking and screaming all the way...I was finally able to stay Clean & Sober. That's when I got into cleaning houses.

As you can see, my life is all about "clean." And you know what they say about cleanliness...

it's next to "Godliness."

And as I work, I have plenty of time to live in my little fantasy world.

My "Funny" Valentines

Examine these photos.



The top one: cuddly, lovey-dovey.



It's a Valentine card.



I love Valentines. I was born on Valentine's Day. This means I think of myself as cuddly and lovey-dovey, like it's an inborn quality because of my birthday.



I call the top photo, "The Beginning."



Now examine the bottom photo.







This photo I call "The End."



This seems to be how all my relationships end up. I am alternately the critter on top, then the one on bottom.

What is going on? Okay, I was raised in a less than unconditionally loving and supportive home, with parents who were at each other's throats for 25 years until my Dad died (they never divorced.) But, I've been in therapy for my entire adult life, been treated for every addiction and mood disorder available, joined every group, worked every step, read every self-help book on the market, studied abnormal psychology, particularly personality disorders, memorized the DSM IV, freelance diagnosed my lovers, friends, and neighbors, indepth research on sociopathic personalities, dissected (so to speak) the lives of serial killers, tried spiritual love fests and yoga and talk shows and poetry and couples counseling.

I always thought of myself (because of my birthday) as the Queen of Hearts. But Alas! Perhaps I am...the Queen of Broken Hearts...

My Funny Valentine

My funny valentine, Sweet comic valentine, You make me smile with my heart.

Your looks are laughable, unphotographable, Yet you're my favorite work of art.

Is your figure less than greek, Is your mouth a little bit weak

When you open it to speak, are you smart?

Don't, baby don't, Don't change your hair for me, Not if you care for me!

Stay, little valentine, stay,

Each day is Valentine's Day!

(Richard Rogers/Lorenz Hart)

...and they lived happily ever after. The End.

How Do I Love Thee?

Vegas!!

How do I love Thee? Let me count the ways.

I love Thee to the depth of the last dime in the bottom of my pocket,

To the breadth of the Palace Station Buffet,

To the dizzying heights of the Bellagio Fountains;

For the joy of Being near Elvis impersonators,

and the Ideal of Grace..Land Chapel.

I love Thee to the level of Life's

Most riotous need, by scorching sun and neon light.

I love Thee freely, as men strive to Win,

I love Thee purely, as they turn to Sin

(Since it happened in Vegas, it stays in Vegas.)

I love with a passion put to use at the penny slots,

As I chain smoke the night away in my childlike fantasy world.

I love Thee with a love I seemed to lose with each throw of the dice,

I love Thee with the breath, smiles and toned physiques in a Cirque du Soleil show.

And though Lady Luck be fickle,

I shall but love Thee better when I get my free show tickets and slot play

After this two hour time share presentation.

The Purr-tiest Gal In the Whole Damn Town

Ms. Sierra Havana Brown

1992 - 2007

Loyal Pet, Beloved Family Member

"Hello Ms. Brown! The Purr-tiest Gal In the Whole Damn Town! The Purr-tiest Girl In the Old Western World!" These are words to just one of many "jingles" inspired by Ms. Brown.

Ms. Brown joined our family at age 2 when she was adopted by my sister Suzie. Her chubby brown form huddled in a crate on Powell Street, part of the traveling SPCA "show" of orphaned pets available for adoption. When Suzie stroked her, she immediately began to purr, instantly melting my sister's heart and winning a place in her home.

Her gorgeous coat, an unusual color for a cat, inspired admiration from all. Even many veterinarians had never encountered the Havana Brown breed. A cross between Siamese and Russian Blue, the Havana Brown is ideally a pure, rich chocolate brown, like the Cuban cigar, with a tall, sinewy form. Ms. Brown was flawed in two ways: a small white triangular crest on her chest...and a huge weight problem. At the time of her adoption, she tipped the scales at 16 pounds, and despite a lifetime of diet cat food, she maxed out at a whopping 28 pounds (she did manage to drop five pounds later, after a tail amputation slowed her down.) She appeared to be a nervous eater, and definitely inherited the Siamese voice, screaming top volume when the bottom of her food bowl made an appearance, making it nerve-rattling to enforce her diet. Who knows what manner of stress she had endured before she wound up at the SPCA, but she was obviously grateful to have a home and jealously guarded it. Later when another cat, Snarky, joined the household with new roommates, she protested unwaveringly for years, peeing and pooping at the front door to mark her territory. This horrible behavior came to an abrupt halt when she was once again given a territory of her own in my room that was beyond the reach of another feline.

Ms. Brown was at her best in the care giving role she so faithfully performed. When our Mom joined the household, unable to live by herself due to early-onset Alzheimer's disease, she and Ms. Brown immediately bonded. Ms. Brown's friendship gave my Mom great joy at a time when she faced great sadness. I will always be indebted to Ms. Brown for that. When we were no longer able to care for Mom at home and had to move her to an Alzheimer's care facility where she could receive round-the-clock care, Ms. Brown walked up and down the long hall of the Cortland apartment for over a year, crying piteously for the loss of her friend.

In her senior years, Ms. Brown was joined by a sibling, our dog LulaBelle. Ms. Brown had a calming effect on the spunky Labrador youngster. Though Ms. Brown was too decrepit to play with the puppy, they provided great company and security for one another while we were at work. At night, as soon as the lights were turned out, Ms. Brown would jump down from her ottoman next to my bed, and join LulaBelle on the floor. They would lay toe to toe in unspoken communication, a process I dubbed "hob-nobbing." LulaBelle would wag her tail and lick Ms. Brown on the head.

Ms. Brown gave great love and was well-loved in return. We miss her very much and she will always hold a special place in our hearts.

99 Bottles of Beer In the Wall

The Tom Kelly Bottle House in Rhyolite, Nevada lends new meaning to the annoying old "drinking song," the one you sang non-stop for hours as a child on long car trips with your family. In Tom's case, there were quite a few more than 99 bottles, and these were in the wall (as opposed to on it).

On a recent visit to Rhyolite, my husband John and I were regaled with stories of this ghost town's Boom Town days by a kindly Bureau of Land Management guy who was as weathered as the buildings and the landscape itself. He informed us that when Tom Kelly was finished building his bottle house, he raffled it for $5.00 a ticket--earning over $2000--much more than he could have sold the place for. Being a good (recovering) alcoholic, I asked our tour guide whether Mr. Kelly drank all the (mostly beer) bottles himself. We all got a good chuckle, and I felt pretty clever until another tourist approached and asked the same thing. (Our crusty veteran of a guide must have heard that zinger more than a time or two.)

Truth be told, I wasn't really kidding. The house reminded me of my own wild and woolly past, and the bags and bags of bottles and cans that piled up in my room--too ashamed was I to be seen by the neighbors carrying it all to the dumpster each day. It seemed that Tom had the perfect solution. He could use as his rationalization for all that drinking, that he was just gathering materials to put a roof over his head. His usage of bottles, not only eco-friendly in the wood-scarce desert, was a perfect example of recycling for all the other rough & ready gold miner types. On top of that, he raffled off the place upon completion, a sound business decision considering this Boom Town's bust was just around the corner. Besides, $5.00 a pop will buy a lot more booze for a guy who probably spent his last dime on "building supplies" while spending his time building a "glass house" as opposed to getting a real job.

And as any low-bottom drunk knows, who needs a house if you don't have a bottle inside it?

Three Cheers for Tom Kelly!!

Ghosts

I believe in ghosts.



Some may consider me flaky, perhaps because they've never seen one...



I was 5 years old when I saw my first ghost. My family had recently relocated from Michigan to Oklahoma. We lived in a small rental house where I shared a bedroom with my older sister. It was night and we were fast asleep in our twin beds with our new bulldog puppy, Kitty, in a crate on the floor beside us.



Suddenly, I woke to the sound of Kitty barking. I looked around the room and gasped. Moving slowly towards us was a the figure of a young woman, her hair tied back in a pony tail. Her form was gray and shadowy without distinct features, as if she might evaporate at any moment. She sat on the end of my sister's bed, facing our puppy. Not a sound could be heard save that of Kitty barking. As I pulled the covers over my head, my sister whispered, "Do you see that?" "Yes," I uttered, barely able to breathe. I cowered beneath my blanket.



A few moments later, Kitty stopped barking. Hesitantly, I peaked out from the covers. The woman was no longer in our bedroom, but through a window that looked out towards the back yard, I saw her form glide into the darkness.



The next morning I told my Mom about the ghost. She said I must have dreamed it; of course ghosts aren't real, are they?



Later, as a young adult, I had a more personal supernatural sighting. I had moved to New York City with my husband. We had been married for several years, and I was totally miserable. Though my husband was controlling and abusive, I was incapable of gathering the emotional strength to leave. I had become a shadowy, featureless ghost of a woman myself. Everyone (especially me) had given up hope that I would be able to muster the courage to leave.



I'd been frightened to make the move; I thought, I can barely function in small town Oklahoma. How in the world will I survive New York? In fact, the move turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Somehow, the energy of the city gave me hope; it resurrected me. Secretly I began to consider leaving, though I was still petrified.



One night I had an intense dream. In the dream, I came upon my husband in a subway station. He was sitting on a bench down the platform. I saw a man behind him and I knew this man had ill intent. Yet I did not shout to warn my husband; instead I watched as the man slit his throat. Just then, the train pulled up. The doors opened. I thought, "I have no idea where this train will take me." Then I boarded it.



The next morning, the dream weighed heavily as I readied myself for work. I walked down Christopher Street to the subway station. At that early hour, there were very few people on the street. On the opposite side of the street, a man approached. He seemed familiar. As we passed one another, I stared in disbelief. There was my Dad! It was definately Dad. He stared right at me with the same wide, goofy grin he always donned for silly photos. No one else in the world had that same dumb grin (although my sister Suzie can do a damn good imitation.) But it couldn't be; Dad had died in London six years before. Seconds later when I turned to look again at the passing figure, to assure myself that it could not possibly be Dad, he had vanished. I stood agape on an empty street. After I got over the shock, I realized that Dad had made an appearance to support me. Though he'd not been around often as we were growing up, down deep I always knew he believed in me and that he had my back.



The next day I left husband.



My next ghost was another shadowy apparition, a tiny old lady who followed me around the sanctuary of the massive and crumbling Christian Science Church that I cleaned. I would be vacuuming and glimpse her out of the corner of my eye, but of course when I turned, she was gone. I was usually alone in that dank old building, and it was beautiful. After each storm, the roof would leak and and flood the place. Especially at those times, it could get pretty creepy in there, but I liked the job anyway; I have a particular fondness for decrepit ruins. Sometimes workmen who were attempting to patch up the place, would tell me they felt a presence as they worked, and they couldn't wait to get out of there. But I felt that this spirit was harmless and just wanted the company.

As I think back to the days of the old lady ghost, I realize that, at the time I saw her, I was going through a very difficult time. We had placed my Mom in an Alzheimer's care facility after we were no longer able to care for her at home. During the last few years of caring for her, she was much like the "old lady ghost"--a ghost of her former self, she "shadowed" us (followed us everywhere--a common behavior for Alzheimer's patients.)

Once, the ghost of my cat crawled under the covers to cuddle with me. A few weeks before, she died from some undiagnosed illness, and I was alone in my apartment, sick, afraid, in the grips of alcoholism, contemplating suicide. A giant face of the Devil glowed sneeringly on my wall, telling me to jump out of my fourth floor window...



Oh, and on my fifth sobriety birthday, I met Jesus. But He's not really a ghost, is he? Anyway, you probably think I'm flaky now, too, so I'll save that story for another day.

One Love

I heard that someone died...someone I loved, once. I hadn't seen him in years.

I can't believe it. It's a strange feeling. There's no one I can talk to about it...they wouldn't understand. They didn't understand then, & they wouldn't understand now.

He's not a person I should ever have loved. He was dangerous. He was trouble. He was a liar & a cheat. He was selfish, abusive & unemployable. He was an alcoholic & addict, & known to occasionally turn monstrous under the influence.

He was charming. He was strong. Talented. Sexy. Hilarious.

I should have stayed away. The first time I saw him, he was laying on a bed in a seedy motel room, high, wide-eyed, brooding. I thought to myself , "This is the scariest man I've ever seen." Within a week, we embarked upon an affair that lasted until I sobered up--lifted from my darkness into a new plane of reality. My two lives did not, could not, intersect.

To tear myself from him was no easy feat. He was a mad addiction. We were connected on some deep level. Whenever I thought of him, or dreamed about him, I'd walk out my door & run into him. A primal lust.

He awoke sweating...he'd dreamed he was singing an unearthly song, & as he reached for me I vanished toward the horizon. He said, "I know you will leave. I can't go where you are going."

He tried to strangle me with an extension cord, but somehow seized, collapsing on the bed. His face morphed into the Devil's, framed in wild dreads. Gripped with terror, I mumbled "You are Satan." He laughed & replied "No, I'm God." We took another hit.

We fantasized about eloping--a wholesome, new life. We would go to Florida. Instead, I took a bus half way across the country to escape him. Still, we spoke each day on the phone. I moved in with someone else...a disaster.

I moved into a convent. I knew it was a battle against my abyss. I could see the workaday world of regular people. It stood beyond an impenetrable glass wall. I remembered, such a long time ago, when I could walk by day. I prayed. I sobered up.

He was angry. He didn't believe I loved him. Was it the drug? I thought, I hate you.

Let him go, let him go, let him go with love, my mantra. I refused to speak his name, as if to do so would summon him again. I stopped running into him. I moved into an entirely new life.

Once, sitting at a hamburger joint with my new husband, I saw him outside the plate glass window. Our eyes met. No expression. Look away from the stranger. I love my husband.

A few days ago a young friend was telling me about her latest infatuation: an exciting ex-convict who sold the drug. "Stay away!" I implored, & told her about him. (Surprising; I never speak of him.)

Love can be a powerful drug too, & you can't outsmart it.

Then a friend called to tell me the news. "What happened?" I asked. "Did someone shoot him?"

"They don't really know...they think it was a massive heart attack."

I acted unsurprised, unaffected. "It was expected, considering his lifestyle. I let him go along time ago. "

Where does love go? Was he buried? Cremated? Was there a service? I looked for a death record. Did I even know his real name? Does it matter? It's like it never happened...that time, I mean...my other life. But I am older, & life is short. Now a young friend asks for my advice, my experience, as if I have some sort of wisdom. So young & naive. So hopeful. So full of love. I love that passion.

I close my eyes. I hear him sing, an unearthly song...

far away, in a place of peace.