Sending Love

       Tom and I went away for part of the holiday period, and had a lovely vacation. But we came home to news that a very close relative of Tom's had not been feeling well. The next day, he was rushed to a hospital and underwent surgery. We, and the rest of Tom's family, have been asked not to fly to the nearby state to see him, but it feels strange. When someone -- friend or family -- is not well, one wants to be supportive in some way and show one's love. In the meantime, we're relying on phone and e-mail updates... and hoping for a full recovery.

       I have made some more progress on my resolution in the past two weeks though. I have found and contacted an old friend who moved away when I was in Grade 3.  I remember that even then, he seemed to have an extraordinary artistic talent, and found that he is indeed an artist today. I have contacted nearby neighbors, and Olympia and I have gone on two dog-walks with them.  One dropped by unexpectedly a few days later to tell me about a difficult situation regarding her daughter, and asked if I might help -- which is one of those things friends do. And today, while speaking on the phone with another new neighbor, she heard a frog in my throat and rushed over with chicken soup.

       I wish we could do the same for our dear relative. 

       In the meantime, we send our love.

Found Her!

       I called P's aunt twice. I left a long message right after I last posted, and then called back again early the next morning. She said she had hoped to check with P first, but after asking me a few questions, she seemed to decide I was trustworthy, and gave me P's phone number.

       I waited an hour to call P, and found her not at home. I left a message with the boy who answered -- who got a pen and paper to take my number. And then I waited...and not for long. 

       Only around 45 minutes later, P called back -- surprised and curious.  

       She also sounded a bit reserved. But let's face it, I had let her down.  I told her that I thought it was my fault we had lost contact, and she did not disagree.  So we started slowly.

       We each talked cautiously at first about our respective marriages, our families, where we had lived, the different jobs we had held. And then, as we warmed up, we talked about our husbands and their foibles; she told me about her son and some difficulties he was having; we discussed our hopes, lessons learned, and our disappointments. And before the call came to an end over an hour later, we were nearly talking over each other about weight gain, early signs of menopause, and possible visits. 

       I didn't ask about the breach with her family, except to tell her that regardless of what may have happened, her sister-in-law had cared enough to give me her aunt's number.  

       And we didn't reminisce about the past at all. Rather, it seemed like we were just catching up on over 10 years of life...maybe with the expectation that we might move on from there.

       I learned that P, to my surprise, was not computer-savvy and did not even have an e-mail address. Obviously, that explains why I found no information about her on the web. So it looks like phone calls and old-fashioned mail will have to be our modes of communication once again. 

       We exchanged information, but I think it will be up to me to make the next foray, and possibly the next one after that as well. 

       And I will do it. She was a good friend, and remains a good person.  I think I not only owe her every effort I can make, I also think I'm going to enjoy re-discovering all she is.

Trying to Re-Connect

       I have been procrastinating a bit -- not only from writing on this blog, but from trying to find an old friend -- who I will call "P" -- who has disappeared from my life. 

       P and I were very close in the past. In fact, we were roommates in our college dorm, and remained roommates for two years of post-dorm college -- sharing an apartment along with another dear friend with whom I am still in several-times-a-day contact.  

       The several-times-a-day roommate (who posts on this blog occasionally as "Voncey") lived near my place in Toronto for several years after college. She was the maid of honor at my wedding to Tom. And although we now live on opposite sides of the United States, we still visit each other once or twice a year.

       P moved back to my old hometown, got a job, married, and, I think, had kids.  I used to visit her once a year or so when I went home to visit my parents. And we wrote occasional letters back and forth. Yes, people still wrote letters in those days.

       But when she moved away from my hometown, I no longer saw her much. And when I invited her to my wedding, she didn't come -- and for a pretty good reason. One of her brothers was due to have major surgery and she wanted to be available for him.  

       Still, I was truly saddened that she couldn't come.  Voncey, P and I had been such a team. I wanted both of them to share my last night of being single. I wanted P there for me -- to complete the circle of family and friends who would be surrounding me on one of the happiest days of my life.

       Sadly, that was pretty much the last contact we had -- over 15 years ago. I think we sent occasional cards over the holiday season, but those stopped long ago. To be perfectly clear, I think I was the one who stopped  writing. Voncey also lost contact with her.

       But now I'd like to re-connect. I've been thinking of her.  I'd like to know how she is doing. I'd like to apologize for dropping the ball.

 

       In this day of internet communication, you'd think it wouldn't be a big deal to find her address somewhere and e-mail her. 

       But I can't find her.  Because her job put her in contact with some unsavory people, she never listed her phone number. She also does not appear to be on Facebook or other social networking sites -- under either her married name or maiden name. I similarly could not find any information for her husband.

       Knowing P had always been close to her family, I decided to search for them instead, and found a phone number for her brother and sister-in-law.  

       I called them the other night, introduced myself, and was greeted coldly.  "We aren't in contact with that part of the family," the sister-in-law told me.  "We have no phone number or address for her."

       I was shocked, and told her so. "You were all so close!" I said.  Mind you, just as I had let the years pass without contact, perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised that family members could do the same. And let's face it, 15 years is a long time.  A lot can happen...

       The sister-in-law told me it was not their fault they were not in contact with P, although I know there are always two sides to such goings-on.  I quickly told her that in my case, the lack of communication was my fault. 

       I expressed my sadness to hear of her family's breach, and said I hoped she and her husband and children are all well. She softened a bit at that, and gave me the number of another family member to call -- an aunt who, she said, might know where P is.

       I have had the number for two days now, and have not called.

       But I am about to do it now...

The People in my Neighborhood

       When I was a child, I couldn't wait for new people to move into our neighborhood. I would go up and introduce myself -- even to people just visiting with a realtor. Although I thought of myself as shy, new neighbors were serious business as far as I was concerned. I would ask if they had kids my age, tell them about all the other kids in the neighborhood and basically let them know that their entire family would be welcomed.  

       Of course, those were the days when old neighbors welcomed new ones with casseroles and flowers and invitations to neighborhood events. Sadly, those days seem to have passed.

       But even if no one in my new neighborhood initially approached me with open arms or casseroles, I have set out to get to know them. I walk Olympia through the neighborhood every day and have made a point of introducing myself to everyone I meet.  Our new house is pretty distinctive in the area, so all I really have to do to generate some interest is tell them which house we have bought.  

       Some of the neighbors have been lovely. Our neighbor across the street has already cleared snow from our driveway after two storms. I'm not even sure of his name, but I chased his snowblower down one day to give him a hug, and later followed up with some wine. I asked another neighbor, who I had met only once, to look after our home while we were out of town for several days. I told her that although we didn't know each other well yet, I had the idea that we would become friends.

       In fact, I tend to made pretty quick (and pretty good) decisions about potential friends.  Even though I don't believe in love at first sight, I pretty much fell in love with Tom -- my best friend -- on the night we met. And it wasn't one-sided. The same evening, he called a friend of his and told him he had met the woman he was going to marry.  

       Another time,  a new lawyer joined the office where I was working. After being introduced to her at a meeting, I decided she had great friend potential. She remembers that I asked her to join me for lunch that first day, and she has been one of my dearest friends ever since -- one of the handful of people on the planet who I know would be with me anytime I needed her -- as I would be for her.  

        I also can make snap decisions on people I don't like. One of my new neighbors, for example, on first meeting Olympia and me, told me that she had a gun and would consider shooting a dog who came on to her property. I could be wrong, but I really don't think there's much chance we'll ever be friends.

       At the same time, I have another neighbor who I really liked both at our first meeting and since. I had already introduced myself to her young sons, and found them to be polite and delightful boys. When I finally caught her in front of her house, she introduced herself, welcomed me to the neighborhood, asked me about Tom, played with Olympia, told me about her husband and dog, etc.  When I complimented her garden, she said she would be pleased to share plant shootings (not dog shootings) with me next spring.  She told me she is a jewelry designer who works at home, and when I said we should get together some time, she raced into her house to get me a business card so I could call her.  A few days later, I did call, and she had me over to see her studio and her jewelry.  I found myself very interested in her jewelry-making methods, and she said she'd be happy to show me how she works -- even teach me to make some things myself. 

       So when I found myself with an extra ticket to see a sold-out concert performance by the famed cellist Yo Yo Ma earlier this week, it was that new jewelry-making neighbor who I wanted to go with.  I didn't know much about her, but I recalled that she had said she liked music, and that her sons played guitar and drums.  But I had no idea if she liked symphonic music. Still, I didn't want to go with any of the people I would ordinarily invite to such an event -- the people who go to such concerts all the time. I wanted to go with her. And when I asked her, she wanted to go with me. 

       She had been to only one symphony concert before in her whole life, but said she had heard of Yo Yo Ma. She offered to drive; she asked me how to dress; she picked me up at the house; she told me her sons were jealous.  At the concert itself, she was interested, inquisitive and excited. She was, in fact, everything you'd want a concert-goer to be. She was like a delighted sponge, soaking up everything the experience had to offer and offering her views on it. Yesterday, the review in the paper nearly exactly echoed her comments.

       On the way home, we also briefly discussed politics (we both were Hillary fans) and books, and she asked me if I wanted to join a book club with other women in the neighborhood. My answer, of course, was yes. 

       And I feel already that I'm on my way not only toward a new friendship, but also toward enjoying my new neighborhood even more. 

       Olympia and I will just have to stay clear of the dog-shooting lady...

Working at It

       As we get older, it seems more and more difficult to make friends.
As children, it seemed we were automatically friends with the kids who lived nearby. At school and college, we became friends with classmates and roommates.
       As adults, we may become friends with some of our co-workers…but often those friendships fail to extend much beyond lunch breaks and gossip sessions. If we have kids, we may chat with other parents at play dates or school fundraisers. And for someone who isn’t working outside the home and has no children, even those friendships are missed.
       It seems we are all so busy with our own lives these days – working, cleaning, running errands, looking after kids and homes and pets and partners…and simply trying to catch up on sleep.
       And let’s face it, friendships take work and they take time. As William Blake wrote in a poem that otherwise left me bewildered: “The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship”.
       So for this month, as a bird builds a nest and a spider builds a web, I am going to work on building friendships – not only new ones, but also existing ones and old ones I have left unattended or unrepaired. 
       It seems like a good plan not only for the holiday season, but also as preparation for a new year...

Liking What I See

       My highlights are "caramel" colored apparently. And I think I like them. 

       I'm not wild about them, mind you. I mean the difference is not extreme in any way, and even good friends have failed to notice them.  But I guess they add a little something to my look. For whatever reason, they help me feel better about me, and that's nothing to sneeze at.

       I also have been using so-called "age defying" make-up by Revlon. My former foundation had a matte finish, and although it went on smoothly, it felt dry and mask-like by the end of a day.  My new discovery -- "Age Defying Spa" foundation  -- looks lovely when first applied and even better as the day progresses.  I actually look dewy by evening, but without looking shiny or greasy.  

       I never would have believed such things were possible if they were claims in an advertisement. In fact, I bought the make-up in the expectation it would give me something to mock. But I guess these companies do occasionally know what they're doing.

       Do I look younger now? 

       I don't know.  Over the weekend, while buying beer at a hockey game, the person at the counter said she should ask for for identification because I look younger than 45 (the cut-off age for demanding ID, apparently). But, she continued, she would not demand it, because I clearly am older than 21.  

       Hmmmmm....

       Only five years ago, I was aggressively followed by an employee of a liquor store, who appeared incredulous when I had ID showing that I was not only more than 21, but actually over 4o. I'm not sure that sort of thing will be happening again.

       And maybe that's okay. 

       And even if it isn't, there isn't much I can do about it anyway. I'm not one to even consider face-lifts or botox or anything like that. Indeed, I privately mock the strange-looking women with tight faces, pulled up eyes and swollen lips.  I am prepared to age gracefully.

       But maybe that's the thing I learned this month -- that it can be done gracefully, with only a bit of effort.

       Now, instead of looking in the mirror and cringing, I am looking in the mirror and liking what I see. Sometimes I even smile at myself. 

       And that definitely makes the effort worthwhile.

Going Blond?

       I am writing this at the salon right now, as my hair color is processing. 

       I recently read a book about not looking your age, which suggested that most older women should color their hair a lighter shade. The book, rather annoyingly, is called "Staging Your Comeback: A Complete Beauty Revival for Women Over 45".  Since the book arrived from amazon.com the day I turned 46, it seemed appropriate.

       Anyway, the author told a story about a client who asked about coloring her salt-and-pepper hair only after attending a class reunion and realizing that she was the only woman there who wasn’t blond. The author confirmed that she too should have blond hair. 

       Personally, I found it a stupid story. As my mama used to say (or as she would have said if she was the kind of mama who said that sort of thing), “If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?”

       I think it’s silly to suggest that virtually all women should go blond – or that all women should look alike. 

       So I am coloring my hair its usual color – dark brown. It suits me. I am a dark hair kind of gal. And for the two weeks or so that my roots don’t start peeking out, I am pretty sure it will look good.

       Anyway…that’s what I wrote before I spoke to my colorist/stylist.

       Just as she was getting ready to rinse the color solution out of my hair, I told her what the author of the book had said about going lighter. 

       "Well…” she said slowly, “there is some truth to that. A lot of women should start going lighter as they age. Their skin gets lighter [is that true???], and a lighter hair color suits them better – although not necessarily all the way to blond."

       "Should I do that?” I asked her. 

       “Well, you are still so young-looking compared to your age, so it's not necessarily the right time,” she said. “I would tell you if I thought you were doing your hair the wrong color. But,” she continued, choosing her words carefully, “you could start with some lighter highlights around your face, maybe…uh…if you wanted…”

       “What?” I replied. “I thought you said I looked okay and still young-looking.” 

       She grinned, clearly excited the topic had come up.

       So, in the interests of this blog, and as part of my commitment to you, dear readers, I am giving it a try.

       I am sitting at the salon still -- now with foils all over my head -- wondering what will develop. (But that isn't me in the photo. I mean, really...)

       Meanwhile, the stylist still can’t stop grinning.

       To be continued…

Bifocals (sort of)!

        I think one cause of my recent self-image issues (other than the fact that I am aging) pertains to the wearing of glasses.         

        I have needed some vision correction since around the age of 20.  For some reason, many of my law school classmates seemed to start needed help around the same time -- too much reading, possibly?  By the end of law school, it was clear I needed glasses. But I couldn't stand glasses for some reason. I just didn't feel like myself behind them. Maybe I had already spent too much of my life without them, and simply couldn't get used to the change? 

       In any case, I switched to contact lenses almost immediately...and adapted to them so well that I brought along anyone I could to the change -- patiently helping friends and loved ones (including Tom) learn to put contact lenses in their own eyes, helping them if they had problems and telling them to stick with it, until they too were converts.

       But about 3 years ago, I started to have my own problems.  My eyes were red a lot, and people often asked me if I was tired -- which annoyed the hell out of me.  I used eye drops, but things didn't get a lot better. Several months later, I noticed my vision seemed a bit off somehow. I wasn't able to focus on books for as long as I normally liked to. I went to the optometrist and was told everything was okay. And then I went to a second optometrist, who said the same thing...

       And then one Friday I started to have floaters in one of my eyes -- little black spots that moved around my vision, and occasionally made me think I was seeing birds fly from one place to another. I also had a few bright flashes of light.  Nothing more happened over the weekend, but while walking Olympia Monday morning, and watching the floaters flit around my eye, I suddenly knew something was seriously wrong. 

        I hurried home with Olympia and looked up my symptoms on mayoclinic.com.  Within minutes, I had diagnosed a torn retina, and knew I would need emergency eye surgery.  Tom was out of town, as was my closest friend and my closest neighbor.  I would have to deal with this myself. I quickly did more internet research to find one of the top ophthalmologists in town, but before I called, I carefully showered, dressed and packed a large purse for a possible hospital stay. I called a few more neighbors to try to find someone to look after Oly, but had no success. Then, I called the doctor's office, was told to come in immediately, and filling Oly's water bowls, went out alone to meet my fate...

        Anyway, it turns out that the surgery was an in-office laser procedure. Still, it was extremely urgent and serious, and fairly painful. The doctor zapped my eye more than a hundred times -- repeatedly ordering me to stop flinching -- and then said it was fixed. Then, about four months later -- while I was visiting my parents in California -- the same thing happened to the other eye. And I had to find a new doctor who fixed me up again. 

        All that is to say that I have had a rather rough time with my eyes lately. And when it came time to start wearing lenses again, I was nervous.  Although the doctor said there was no reason I couldn't wear lenses full-time, they felt uncomfortable to me. They seemed to scratch my eyes. It seemed I couldn't see that well with them. I went back to the doctor and he told me there was no reason not to use contacts and to just wear them!

        Still, I wasn't able to do it. I had become like those fearful, complaining people who I had earlier helped transition into contacts. And I wore my glasses, even though I hated how I looked in them. I even bought several inexpensive pairs so I could change my glasses look, like I change my clothing. 

        For a few months, I convinced myself that I looked a least a little bit chic, but then I decided I really hated them. And when I started to feel bad about myself, the glasses seemed to make me feel even worse.

        And on top of that, I was constantly lifting the glasses on and off -- wearing them to see things in the distance, but taking them off when I wanted to read up close. I ended up keeping glasses perched on top of my head, so I could have them handy. Sometimes, I would find that I had two pairs of glasses on top of my head.

        So last week, I decided I had had enough. I went back to the eye doctor again, and told him that I simply must have lenses again. 

        And this time, he gave me multi-focal lenses -- essentially bifocal contacts! Talk about feeling old!

        And the doctor, not one for great bedside manner, told me to see if I could stand them, and to come back in a week. I could tell by his tone that he thought I would come back whining again.  

        Once home, I looked them up on the internet and read that some people do have trouble coping with multi-focal lenses. I told a few friends about them, all of whom seemed to have heard horror stories about dizziness and headaches and so on.  

        But it is a week later, and I think they're working for me.  I can see very well in the far and middle distance. I am having a little trouble seeing up close, but wanted to keep on trying, so I am using them for another week.

       Yes, my eyes do feel scratchy and get red. But at least I feel like myself. And I am determined to make these lenses work.

        Like those people I gently guided into wearing lenses, I am patiently doing the same with myself -- a few hours a day, with lots of eye drops and even more positive attitude. 

        I will overcome!

Taking Time - Part 2 (Because I'm Worth It)

       I am now trying to change my attitude about the value of time spent on my appearance....and I'm getting a few extra laughs out of my day as a result.

       It's easy to talk about changing attitudes, but not so easy to actually do it.  I mean, attitudes are often present for legitimate reasons. But sometimes physical changes can help change attitudes. Some say, for example, that simply the act of standing up straight with head held high can help one feel more positive.

       So I am trying the opposite when it comes to hair drying. I am forcing myself to sit down and relax while fiddling with my hair. Since I don't have a chair for my vanity table, I am simply sitting on the carpet in front of our mirrored closet door. And I am doing my best to make hair-drying into a sort of decadent -- even goofy -- break in my  day.

       When I find myself feeling impatient with my efforts, I have been reminding myself of the words from the classic L'Oreal campaign -- "Because I'm Worth It". 

       Although I'm not actually saying the words out loud, I am unable to think of them without a note of sarcasm. Affirmations of my value are not really my thing, especially when those affirmations are written by a Madison Avenue advertising firm. And I can't help remembering the goofy "Daily Affirmations" skits on Saturday Night Live, which (now Senator) Al Franken always ended by lisping "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"  

       Still, the words are helping me to slow down -- reminding me of my commitment to spend time on myself.  

       And they do make me grin.

       Now I have to start worrying about extra smile lines around my mouth and eyes.

Taking Time - Part I

       Our new home has a built-in dressing table in the master bathroom.  I still haven't used it -- in part because I haven't found a chair or stool that's right for the space, but also because it just seems old-fashioned. Some friends who have taken the grand tour of our home have actually laughed at the dressing table. One or two didn't even know what it was for.

       I mean, who sits down to do their grooming these days? Everyone I know just kind of leans toward the mirror to quickly slap on foundation or mascara or whatever. Some women do their make-up while riding the train or bus, and some even do it while driving. We're all too busy to devote much time or attention to the way we look.

       I figure that might be part of my problem.

       Take my hair, for instance.  My hair is naturally curly, but the style has been tending toward straight hair for the last several years. Despite half-hearted efforts to make my hair suit this trend, I never accomplish my goal.  

       The stylist who cuts my hair tells me that she knows what I am doing wrong. I just dry it until it seems dry, she says. And frankly, that seems perfectly appropriate to me.  But the stylist says that when I think my hair is dry, it really isn't.  She says I should consider that just the starting point -- before I spend still more time pulling a big round brush through my hair, holding the hair dryer just so, switching the dryer to cool air occasionally, and working, working, working until my locks are smooth and shiny. And then, because my hair is fine -- like baby hair -- I should lightly backcomb in just the right places, so that my hair isn't too flat while it lies smooth and straight.

       Yeah, sure...

       The fact is that I resent having to dry my hair, and recently have been convincing myself that my hair can surely be washed less often -- so that I can avoid wasting my time drying it. I wish I was like Tom, who can run a brush though his hair -- in five seconds or less -- and look just fine.  But I have tried it, and Tom and I both agreed that I ended up looking like a drowned rat.

      Even trips to the salon seem silly and wasteful to me.  I have recently canceled repeated hair appointments, figuring that I can easily go another month without going to the salon.

       And even when I do make it into the salon, I feel impatient.  I have things to do!  When I do go in, I bring items with me so I can do useful things while the stylist is fussing over my strands. I bring my laptop, or a pen and paper so I can make lists of tasks, or reading material I have been wanting to get to.

       Maybe that is the wrong attitude. Maybe I deserve a little bit of relaxed time -- a little bit of attention -- just for me...

Gardening

       I am inside the house now, after spending two hours doing yardwork. 

       Since the end of August, when we moved to our new home and its nearly one acre of property, I have not paid much attention to the yard. The previous owner’s gardening service has shown up twice – once to mow the lawn and once to do some much-needed weeding – and I have paid them when asked. Things seemed to be going smoothly enough, and I continued to focus on completing our interior improvements. 

       But when we got back from our two-week vacation, I found that the property looked a bit unkempt. Bad storms while we were gone (and another one that hit only hours after we got back to town) meant that the trees had lost the bulk of their leaves, which now could be found scattered instead on the lawn, the back patio and the front drive. 

       I wasn’t exactly bothered by this. As someone who grew up on scarcely-treed prairies, and had lived in high-rises since then, I found the piles of leaves to be novel and enchanting. But part of me knew I was supposed to do something about them. And, to be honest, I was less than enchanted by all the leaves that also found their way onto our carpets and my kitchen floor – brought in by Oly or Tom or just the breeze though an open door.

       So I decided today to do something about it. 

       As we don't yet own a rake, I decided to start with the back patio, and went outside with a kitchen broom and a white kitchen garbage bag. After only a few sweeps at the clumped and damp leaves on the patio, however, I could see that both would be useless.

       I switched instead to a giant push-broom left behind by the previous owner, and pulled out a huge green garbage bag. After five minutes more, I went back inside for some leather work gloves I had bought when we moved – just because I thought the idea of having my own work gloves was cool.

      And I swept and gathered and piled and filled up the bag. And I dragged it out to the street, since today is trash day. And then I swept and pushed and piled and filled another big green garbage bag, and dragged that out to the street too. 

       And I still wasn’t done. The leaves seemed rather resistant to the broom at the edge of the patio – where stone met grass – and I had to bend down and remove these leaves from the muck by hand.  I decided that come the spring, I would put in some edging material so that the grass would appropriately end where the patio began. And as I removed more and more leaves, I discovered that there already was metal edging in place, which had simply become buried under the leaves and grass.  

       I also used my hands to remove leaves piled around weeds that had pushed their way into the cracks between the patio stones. During the last weeks of summer, I hadn’t been bothered by these weeds, liking the thought of greenery taking over where it could. But today, I yanked at them, suddenly eager to get them out of the way. And as the patio grew neater, I decided that next year, I would use some weed spray in select areas.

       And it felt good to be outdoors, and to be working with my hands and arms and back, and to be bringing order back to our patio. I decided that I would buy a rake later today so that I could start on the lawn.  And next spring, I would surely get other appropriate gardening supplies so that I'd be better prepared for whatever awaited me.

       And as I filled my fourth bag with leaves and debris, I found myself thinking that maybe I, too, am like a garden. I too need raking and pruning and weeding and trimming. I too need the right supplies and the proper type of attention at the proper times. Perhaps, just like I had ignored our garden, I had been letting myself go for too long as well. 

       So for my parents, who called after reading my blog entry, worried that I sounded blue, I can honestly say that I am not feeling bad about myself. 

       I simply am feeling that it’s time to tend my own garden and see to it that things keep on blooming in years to come.

Mirror, Mirror

       I have been going through a rough time recently. I look into the mirror, and I don't like what I see.

       Maybe it’s because I am turning 46 later this week. But it seems to be more authentic than that.

       No matter how much sleep I get, I have dark circles under my eyes. While looking at them, I can also see that I have fine lines around my eyes. It seems to me that my skin is looking dull and that my hair is flatter than usual. 

       On our recent travels, I was feeling so bad about my appearance that I sometimes moaned on looking in the mirror, and I had to review each photo Tom took of me on our digital camera to see if I should delete it immediately, before it became part of the “official record” of our trip.

       It may have been in part because it was raining lightly during much of our vacation – which left my hair droopy or frizzy or both. Also, my eyeliner (my most essential piece of make-up) disappeared from our hotel bathroom during our first day in Tunisia.

       I have to say that I didn’t mind that much that the eyeliner was taken. Although the President/Dictator of Tunisia (“elected” to his fifth five-year term, without opposition, only a few days after we left the country) is somewhat of an advocate of women’s liberation and is opposed to women wearing headscarves, the fact is that perhaps half of the Tunisian women we saw were wearing them and were also covered at least in dull-colored, high-necked and long-sleeved clothing. Tom and I figured that if one of these women, concealing much of herself, wanted some good quality eyeliner to make her eyes more attractive, surely she could have it. At the same time though, I did miss doing my own eyes.

       I wasn’t shy about telling Tom about how bad I was feeling. And I must say that he totally rose to the occasion. If I said I was feeling unattractive, he would reply that I looked beautiful. Out of the blue, he would tell me that I was a “hot chick” or a “supermodel” – neither of which I believe, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it over and over again all the same.

       Still, I continued to feel bad – and still do, now that we are home. 

       And I think now that perhaps it is time to pay a bit more attention to how I look – or how I feel about how I look. 

       I haven’t done much to date to address the fact that I am indeed growing older. I don’t use eye cream or any “anti-wrinkle” products. I don’t use moisturizer at night, and during the day, wear the same moisturizer that I started using 20 years ago. I really do not look after my hair well enough. I have been doing home coloring since we moved, and continue to spend more money on Olympia's grooming that I do on my own.  

       And other than my too-brief foray into channeling Audrey Hepburn, I have not been paying much attention to my personal style. 

       I don’t think I can stand it any longer. 

       Although it may sound like a shallow resolution, I feel I really should start taking better care of my looks. 

       I hope that by the end of this month, I’ll start feeling better about myself...

A French-fried Brain

Tom and I are traveling right now. We spent a day in Frankfurt and Valletta (Malta) and then three days in Tunisia. They speak French in Tunisia, you know, which posed a challenge for my poor jet-lagged brain.
Tom knows I speak French, but I just could not get it out at first. Not more than a bonjour or two. But finally we got in a cab and the radio was blaring with Arabic rock. I tried to cope. I could not think of the words to say in any case.
But then it came out, en francais: Monsieur, would you please turn down the volume of the music? And that was all it took. He turned down the radio, apologized profusely and drove us the rest of the way in peace. And I knew my brain was still functional, even in French.

The AARP Addiction

       My name is Brenda. And I think I have a problem.

       After only a few days of playing games on the AARP web site, I may have developed an internet game addiction.

       Yesterday, I started playing another word game -- where the player has to match parts of words to make whole words on a particular topic.  I tried level one, moved up quickly to level two, played all the options on level two, and then moved on to level three.  While this happened, over an hour of my morning slipped by.

       Today, I tried other games, and again lost more than an hour. 

       Sure, my brain felt good afterward.  I felt energized, exercised and awake. But where had the time gone? At what point did I decide to just keep on playing?

       I know what made me stop: my back started to hurt from crouching over the computer.

       But if not for that, who knows how long I might have stayed online? If I had stuck with doing my core exercises from February (Fitness in 15 Minutes a Day), I could still be playing even now. I might never take a break to eat, or sleep or even to walk Olympia. I might never spend quality time with Tom again.  Our life's delicate balance could become...unbalanced! (You'd think all these word games might have helped me develop a wider vocabulary so that I could have used a word other than "unbalanced", but apparently not.)

       Anyway, I am trying to stay away for now -- at least until tomorrow morning. But who knows what may happen then?

       Help me...please help me...before it's too late!

The AARP Challenge

       At the tender age of 45, I still tend to make fun of the whole AARP concept.  Since full membership is limited to people over 50, I tend to think of it as an organization for "old" people. But let's face it, I'm not that far away.

       Indeed, now matter how much I try to deny it, I'll be 46 soon.  And people I know -- people I care about deeply -- are already members.  My oldest brother, five years my senior, recently joined.  A good friend has been eligible for membership for several years now, although I'm not sure he has signed up.  My dear neighbors from my condo complex are definitely members.

       And I have heard there are some benefits. My former neighbors constantly shared AARP information with me -- on matters ranging from exercise to nutrition to emergency planning.  And one of my faithful readers -- Pam -- told me to check out the games on the AARP web site.

       So despite all my instincts screaming not to do it, I finally checked out aarp.org.  I noticed articles on topics ranging from breakfast cereal to health care reform to travel. But of the five most popular articles on the site, four pertained to social security - confirming that I am surely way too young to benefit from this organization.  

       Still, on Pam's advice, I click on the "Leisure" heading on the web site to get to the Leisure main page.  Then, I click on "Games", and then on the "Games" page, I  locate a section of brain games. 

       The first game listed is called "The Right Word".  And since coming up with the right word is my most troublesome manifestation of aging (other than not being able to see up close without reading glasses) I choose to start with that game.  

       The first thing I have to do though is enter my sex, education level and age.  I wonder if being less than 50 will make me ineligible to play. But no...the year 1963 is listed as an option, for some reason.  

       I skip over the sample questions offered, despite the strong recommendation on the screen that I give them a try.  And asked to choose a level of difficulty, I confidently choose six out of nine.  I figure that since I am a little young compared to most of those on the AARP site, I must have a pretty significant advantage.

       The game begins when I am asked to choose words corresponding to six definitions, and as I would expect, I choose all of them correctly. 

       Then I proceed to the next part of the game...and the following is what happened in my brain -- thought by thought.

       

       On the right side of the page, I am required to list three states that start with the letter “A”.  No problem.  Alabama, Arkansas, Alaska. On the left side of the page, I am required to list three mammals that start with the letter “M”.  I had actually read the mammal part before the part about coming up with states that start with “A”, but since I have only sixty seconds to complete both columns and I was momentarily blank, I skipped to the right side. 

       Anyway…Monkey. There’s one. Now I need two more.  Should be easy...

       Um…Come on. I’m sure there are more. 

       Okay, well, let’s see what  mammals I can think of.  

       Giraffe. Tiger. Elephant.  Zebra. 

       A dolphin is a mammal. And there’s a bird sort of mammal too.
A penguin? I like penguins. 

       But no, it’s something that sounds like a bird, but isn’t. Hmmm…

       I look down at my dog, Olympia, who is sitting beside me. 

       I sense there may be a clue there. Dog. Cat. Sheepdog.
       Sheep. 

       A mother sheep is a ewe. A baby sheep is a lamb.  Sheep go mahhhh… 

       No, it’s bahhhhh…, but it really does sound more like mahhhh… which does start with an “m”. But who cares? 

       What about “moo”?  A moo cow?

       That’s terrible.  Surely I must be able to think of a mammal that truly starts with “M”.

       Some kind of rodent. 

       Yes! A gerbil? A guinea pig? Come on!

       Time expires. 

       I am shocked. Shocked!  And ashamed.

       The so-called game tells me now that I might have come up with mouse – which is the nickname we use for Olympia – so there was indeed a clue there. Not that my brain could come up with it. 

       Also moose would have been good, which I surely would also have thought of if I had been able to think of mouse first. And moose, of course, makes me think of mongoose, which sounds like a bird but isn’t.

       How could I not have come up with those? What is wrong with me?   

       And apparently, I’m not even done with this annoying game. Now I have to remember the six words I identified in the first section of the quiz.  

       Okay.  I can still remember those, at least.

       I quickly decide to try another round.  

       The quiz asks me to identify six words again. No problem. Done in no time. 

       Now I have to come up with three fruits that start with “M” and three items of clothing that start with “S”.  Shirts, shoes, slacks. There. 

       And now for those pesky “M” words again.  Um…mango. I’m allergic to mango. I’m allergic to a lot of fruits, actually. Maybe some of those start with M?

       Cherries, apples, strawberries.  It isn't fair that I have to think of fruits when I can hardly eat any of them.

       Shit. 

       What about “merde”?  That starts with an “M” and is French. Can I get credit for that? Swearing in another language?

       Luckily, the phone rings. It’s Tom. He tells me he’s at the airport waiting to catch the plane home.  I can hear announcements being made over the public address system in the background. “Hey Tom,” I say. “Can you think of three fruits that start with the letter “M”? 

       “What? I’m in line, waiting to board,” he replies.  

       “Okay, I just wanted to see if you would instantly come up with them or not,” I reply, beginning to relax a bit.

       “Fine, let me try. Okay. Fruit that start with M.” Tom is silent for about three seconds. “I can’t think of any fruit that start with M”, he says, clearly annoyed. 

       “Thanks! I feel a lot better. Have a good flight, and call me when you land.”

       By the time I get back to the computer, my sixty seconds has long since expired. The computer tells me I might have come up with words like melon and mandarin – neither of which I am allergic to, which is vaguely weird.

       I go back to the game.  And I play three more times – until finally I score 100% on my answers and answer all questions in the top 25 percentile in terms of speed. 

       That’s just the way I am.  Nothing less than perfection will do.  

       Even if it takes several tries to get there.

       

       My pulse is quick by now and my head feels like a band has tightened around it. I reach up and realize that I am wearing my glasses on top of my head.  At least I hadn’t been looking for them. 

       Things aren’t that bad…yet…

Sensational Toothbrushing

       Much of the book "Keep Your Brain Alive" focuses on the senses.   The authors write that non-routine sensory experiences can "produce novel activity patterns in nerve cell circuits" -- which is, apparently, a good thing.

       The authors advise activities like driving with heavy gloves or mittens on so that you have to rely on things other than your sense of fine touch to steer the car or change radio stations. This is one piece of advice I will not be taking.  I don't much like the thought of experimenting with sensory control while in heavy traffic behind the wheel of a 5,000-pound motorized vehicle. Other, perhaps safer ideas include simply opening the windows while you drive, to let in a "tapestry" of smells and sounds. I tried it yesterday and smelled car fumes and the banging of the bass from the too-loud radio of the car in the next lane. 

       Another suggestion of the authors is to try brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand. I am right-handed, but am pretty comfortable using my left hand for most tasks. So to heighten any difficulty I might experience, I made the activity more complex by first preparing and drinking my coffee, checking my e-mail and reading the newspaper -- all using my left hand. None of these made any impression on me.

       Then came the toothbrushing. With my left hand, I undid the lid of the toothpaste tube and put the toothpaste on the toothbrush, with ease.  Then I started to brush.  

       And, for perhaps the first time in years, I was aware of the feel of the toothbrush going across my teeth and gums and aware too of the shape of the teeth in my mouth. I could hear the sound of the bristles as they brushed away -- individual "ch-ch--chee-ch" sounds. I found myself slowing down to experience with my senses something that had always been automatic before.  

       I was stunned. 

       Before this experiment, toothbrushing had been a mindless, routine experience for me. I'm sure my dentist would consider this part of the reason I have plaque on my teeth (although never a cavity). And to be quite honest, I do think I came away with cleaner teeth after using my left hand to brush . For several minutes afterward, I ran my tongue over my smooth teeth, luxuriating in the feeling of a clean mouth. Or maybe it is just that my sensory receptors were abruptly more aware that something had happened.

       I tried this left-handed toothbrushing again yesterday and again was more aware of the experience. But today, it had gone back to being routine -- even with my left hand.

       But the authors had made their point. 

       I will continue to look for new and original ways to shake up my daily routine. 

       The authors say it can be as easy as wearing my watch on my other wrist or changing the location of my waste basket. I definitely like the thought that along the way, my brain might become more alert and responsive to what often seems like a pretty routine way of life.

Sticking with Cinnamon

       I'm amazed to be able to report that I have already enjoyed some unexpected success.

       The book Keep Your Brain Alive, by Lawrence C. Katz and Manning Rubin, states that because our lives tend to be fairly routine, much of our day is carried out using a minimal amount of brain energy. The authors suggest turning the brain on by offering it something novel or unexpected, which can include such simple acts as brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand.  

       The book, which offers 83 "neurobic exercises" arranged by the way one tends to spend a routine day, begins with waking up in the morning. Since many of us associate the smell of coffee with mornings, the authors suggest waking up to a different aroma.  "Keep an extract of your favorite aroma in an airtight container on your bedside table for a week," they suggest, "and release it when you first awaken, and then again as you bathe and dress."

       After sniffing a few smelly substances and concluding they would not provide a pleasing way to start my day, I decided to keep a container of cinnamon sugar on my bedside table. A few days ago, I took a whiff as soon as I got up, and it didn't do much for me. Then, after I sleepily let Oly out and groggily got Tom breakfast -- or maybe I groggily let Tom out and sleepily got Oly breakfast -- I considered what to do with the next couple of hours. For the last several days, I had been going back to bed after Tom left for work. We awake at 6:20 every day, and Tom leaves at around 7:15 -- which is a bit early for me. Surely one of the benefits of not working outside the home is the ability to sleep in a bit later than that.      

       But before I could settle back under our cuddly soft comforter, I took another sniff of the cinnamon sugar on my bedside table. In fact, I inhaled it deeply. 

       Suddenly my brain went ZING!  

       Abruptly, I wasn't tired anymore. The bed still looked inviting, but it was clear that sleep was out of the question. I was ready to start my day -- now! And I had a full and busy and successful day. I accomplished far more than usual and didn't nap at all.

       Over the weekend, I continued to sniff the cinnamon sugar -- taking huge whiffs of it in the morning -- and continued to be less tired and more active. Saturday, I attended a half-day symposium on adult learning, had keys made, met with the person who is going to manage the rental of our former home, visited two grocery stores and attended the symphony.  Sunday, I finally took care of several areas which had remained rather messy since our move and organized the garage, the laundry room and the utility room before attending a hockey game with Tom.

        This morning, when Tom left for work and I was already as alert as a sheepdog on patrol, I decided to do some internet research on the whole cinnamon thing. And I discovered several articles reporting that simply smelling cinnamon boosts memory and cognitive function.  Ingesting it also apparently can lower blood sugar and cholesterol and even lessen arthritis pain.

       My rather limited research pool (just me) indicates that it also helps wake up the brain. Only three days into my resolution, I already feel more alert and am definitely more active.

       For the rest of the month, I am going to try more and other exercises to keep my brain alive. But I am also going to stick with snorting cinnamon.

       And I would definitely recommend that everyone else with a groggy brain give it a try too!

Um...uh...

       So what's my resolution for October?

       It's...um...uh... 

       Wait!  I know I know it.  Just give me a second. It'll come to me.  

       Um...It's that thing. You know...the...um...

       Okay...the thing is that I'm feeling a bit slow lately -- a bit less than sharp. To be blunt, I am occasionally having trouble thinking of words, or names of movies and actors, or the name of a restaurant I want to recommend to someone (particularly at the very moment I want to talk about it). 

       I make some attempts to cover it up. I tend to think before speaking, so if I'm having trouble remembering some key name or fact, I just don't bring up the topic.  Of course, that means I sometimes fail to participate in a conversation when I am truly bursting to say something. I know I know what it is I want to say. I just have to wait until my brain comes up with it.  It feels like a long silent stutter.  

       I'm aware I'm not alone in this feeling of slowness. Many of my friends of similar age admit to having these small lapses. In fact, I recently had a dear college friend visiting, who asked me several times about the topic of my October resolution after repeatedly forgetting what I told her. When I finally forced her to come up with the answer herself, we couldn't help laughing.

       And for years, my parents have kept a list of names of movies and movie stars they tend to forget. Sometimes when I visit, nearly the first question they ask me is something like, "Who is that woman who was in that movie where ... happened? You know, the blonde one, but not Morgan Fairchild."

       Apparently, these types of lapses tends to begin in one's 40s and 50s, or sometimes earlier. It's disturbing, to say the least.

       Some people call them "senior moments".  I like to call them brain cramps.

       So for the month of October, I am going to try to do something about them. I am going to try to exercise my brain -- to make myself more mentally fit -- in the hope that I'll be better able to function without these cramps.

       Wish me...um...you know...luck!

A Lousy Finish

       Things hardly got better as the month progressed. 

       Although Olympia seems to be fine, and re-gaining her perkiness now that I have stopped giving her the antibiotics, I had very little success with my attempts to squeeze in some summer.  

       Instead, workers continue to come and go. I had thought we were done with the renovations. And I guess we are.              

       Now, however, we have moved on to fixing things that were built or installed during our renovation. Today, for example, I am expecting the alarm company to come to repair the alarm they installed last month. Even when the front door is closed and locked, the system frequently thinks the door is being opened. I figure that we have either an alarm problem, or a poltergeist problem....and I am leaning toward the former until proved otherwise.

       The fence guy is also coming today, after strong winds yesterday blew out two boards from our new fence. 

       I am praying that the pool guy will show up today, after letting me down again yesterday.

       On top of all that, I have to find time to winterize the fountain in front of our house because we may be having frost tonight between two days of otherwise lovely weather.     

       Sigh...

       Still, I did manage to have a few sort of summery moments last month. 

       I had hoped they would be relaxing, but they were more furious than anything.

        I gulped down an entire banana split at Dairy Queen one sunny Sunday, after conducting an impressive and cutting verbal attack on Tom for his failure to contribute sufficiently to the unpacking.

        Another day, I sat under a tree near a lake for about 20 minutes, after spending nearly 60 minutes trying to find the entrance to the damn state park which I know starts just behind our new house.

       And um...uh...I walked Olympia every day. Does that count for anything?

       Can you see why I failed to post anything for the rest of the month? In fact, I ended up giving up on summer entirely.

       Today is a new start though and time for a new resolution.  

       Thank goodness!

        

A Bad Start

       My month of squeezing in Summer was scheduled to start with a bang.  

       For months, we had been planning to join friends in the mountains over Labor Day weekend, where we were planning to go out in a boat on a lovely lake, enjoy a picnic dinner and then watch Labor Day fireworks.  

       In my weeks of renovation and moving, I had held out this weekend as a sort of reward - an eventual and well-earned day off with friends, food and fireworks.  

       But on Thursday, I started to notice that a bad smell seemed to be following me everywhere. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. Since it was always where I was, I smelled my shoes and then my feet. Maybe I had stepped in something?  

       Then I noticed some drips on the floor near the staircase and realized Olympia must have had a little accident -- something that hadn't happened in over five years. And then, with sudden horror,  I rolled her over and smelled her "parts", and immediately diagnosed a urinary tract infection (UTI).  

       I called the friend who had invited us to the mountains and started to sob.  

       I wasn't just crying, mind you. I was gasping, weeping, moaning... Between the contractor not showing up repeatedly, and sawdust everywhere, and still unpacked boxes and Tom saying we should really be further along in our unpacking, I just didn't have the ability to cope with poor Olympia being sick.  

       Still, I think the crying was a bit overdone. 

       In fact, I think I had come entirely undone.  I was embarrassed to be sobbing to my friend, remembering that she had lost her mother to cancer earlier this year.  A dog's UTI really wasn't that bad at all in comparison.

       But it meant I couldn't take Oly to board at her daycare. And it meant I couldn't leave her with friends since she might have accidents at their place. (In desperation, I would ask some old neighbors nonetheless, but they had travel plans for the weekend.)

       My friend suggested I call the vet right away, in case I was wrong. I made an appointment for two hours later, and spent all of the next 90 minutes and the 30-minute drive crying.  

       I put on sunglasses when I arrived at the vet clinic and managed to hold in my tears while the vet examined Olympia. On my recommendation, she turned Olympia over and smelled her and said while she wouldn't ordinarily diagnose a UTI on the basis of smell, she felt she could in this case. (The smell was really, really noxious.) Nonetheless, of course, she did do some tests (costing a total of $280) which would confirm the diagnosis by the next day and then re-confirm it today.  And as this was Oly's third UTI, the vet prescribed 28 days of Cipro -- to make sure the bacteria was absolutely crushed.  She said the Cipro might start to take effect in a day or two. 

       I cried all the way home.  And I called my friend, and cried a little bit more -- while I apologized for having to cancel our plans, and for crying.

       By the time Tom came home, my face was all blotchy and my eyes felt cried out.

       Tom hugged me and pointed out that since we wouldn't be going away for the weekend, we could spend the whole three-day long weekend unpacking boxes.

       And I started to cry some more...

Time is Running Out

       I've been pretty busy with this whole move thing -- not just this last week, but for the last couple of months.  As a result, summer has pretty much slipped by me.  

       And I love summer.

       I suppose I'm not alone in loving summer (although I do have friends who prefer autumn). But growing up in Saskatchewan -- where the winters can be brutal and long, and the summers lovely but short -- taught me to prize warm sunny long summer days.

       This year though, I have spent much of the last two prime summer months indoors -- packing, organizing, overseeing workers, decorating and unpacking.  And I'm not complaining. I am thrilled with our new home.

       But yesterday was the last day with the painter. Today will be one of the last with the contractor.  The house is coming together.  

       And according to Monday's newscasts, the Farmer's Almanac is forecasting a tougher than usual winter for our area.

       So I think I'd better squeeze some summer into my 2009 before it's too late. 

The Movers are Here!

ACK!!!!!!!

A Whole World of Suburbs

       This posting is a bit embarrassing to me. But driving out to the suburbs every day has shown me that there is a whole world out there beyond the center of the city. 

       This shouldn’t come as a surprise to me. The population of the greater metropolitan area here is around six times the size of the city population. But I somehow had remained pretty much closed to that during my first six years here. 

       The place I take Olympia for grooming, for example, used to seem very far away. When she was due for a haircut, I would often plan to spend several hours in the neighborhood of the grooming business so that I wouldn’t have to make the long drive back and forth twice in one day. 

       I should have known there was something wrong with my perception of this. People frequently asked me where I take her, and I would always begin by saying it was pretty inconvenient to get to. Then, when I would tell them the address, they would nearly always respond that it wasn’t far at all. 

       I now realize that this far away locale is actually six exits closer to the city than is our current home. Now that I am used to highway driving, I pass by that exit in the blink of an eye.

       Also, I have a cousin in the greater metropolitan area whose home is actually four exits closer to the city than is our new home. Yet I rarely visited him there – even when he offered me access to the swim club to which he gets a membership every summer. Although I thanked him for his kindness, I honestly couldn’t fathom driving 20 minutes just to go swimming. 

       But now, when I drive past his exit every day, on the way to our new home, I am amazed at how quickly I get there. I just listen to a few songs on the radio, maybe sing along a bit, occasionally change lanes…and I am there. A few minutes later, it’s time to turn off for my own home.

       And last week, I went to a meeting of my book club at a new member’s home – two exits closer to the city than is our new home. I would never have considered driving out there a couple of months ago. Instead, I would have asked another member to drive me out to this mysterious area. But last week, I found the new member's home without a problem. 

       And when it was time to leave, she told me not to go back to the highway to get to our new home, but rather drew me a map of a quick shortcut to my own neighborhood. And in that way, I discovered that we are very nearly neighbors. When she wants all-you-can-eat sushi, I’m sure she goes to the same place that Tom and I heard about. We have already made plans to get together for lunch after our move.

       And this is all on just one highway, traveling in just one direction from the city. 

       I happen to know that there are highways in other directions as well. I have, at Tom’s insistence, finally looked at a map of the area after six years of living here. I now that there is a whole world of suburbs out there sprawling in all directions – beyond the core of the city. 

       I have always been delighted to travel to some of the furthest reaches on the planet, but I have denied myself all but the closest reaches of my own metropolitan area. 

       I feel ridiculous indeed.

Good Fences

       They say good fences make good neighbors, and I hope that’s true. 

       Today, workers finally arrived to put up a wooden privacy fence for us – after I went through extensive approval processes with both the neighborhood association and the city.
       The benefits of this will be twofold, at least. First, Olympia will be free to run in the yard without being able to just run away. We are pretty sure she really likes living with us, but she is a herding dog and seems to have a need to ‘secure the perimeter’ of any area where she is. If there is no perimeter, she tends to keep on searching until she finds one. So we thought we’d better have one in place. Which reminds me of a joke one often hears about Saskatchewan – the place I grew up.They say it is so flat there that you can watch your dog running away for days.

       The second benefit to the fence is that our neighbors won’t be able to see that we aren’t caring for our lawn nearly as well as they are caring for theirs. 

       A neighbor from across the street came over one day last week to introduce herself to me, and her dogs to Olympia. Then she commented on our lawn. She told me that neither of the previous two owners of our house had watered the lawn – meaning it hadn’t been watered by anything more than rain for the last eight years. 

       I thought it looked pretty good, considering. It’s not like a putting green by any means, but is still alive and somewhat lawn-like, even if it is a light greenish-yellow-brown color.

       Then my neighbor, in a not –too-subtle assumption that I would be different, proceeded to tell me about the alternate nights watering schedule. She also told me that she believes our home’s ancient sprinkler system does not have timers to turn on and off during the night hours, so that it will be understandable if perhaps we don’t abide by the watering schedule.She certainly wouldn’t tell on us, she said with a warm smile.

       I didn’t reveal that Tom and I also have no intention of watering our grass. 

       One of the distinguishing features of our newly-acquired home is that it was built in response to the energy crisis of the late 1970s to be more environmentally sound than many other homes.This has little to do with the reasons we bought it, although it does explain many of the unique architectural features we found so appealing. 

       Still, we feel it would be reckless to ignore our new home’s environmental benefits, and suspect the previous owners felt likewise. Probably like them, we think it is a ridiculous waste of resources to water grass – especially in a part of the country that is either on the brink of drought, or fully in drought.

       And we certainly do not intend to get into a “my grass is greener than yours” or “my power mower is better than yours and has a refrigerated cup holder” neighbor one-upmanship competition. 

       At the same time, another benefit of not watering grass in a place often on the brink of drought is that the grass doesn’t grow that quickly – or need mowing as often. As Tom and I have no intention of ever mowing the grass ourselves, a failure of the grass to thrive will mean a saving of our monetary resources too. In fact, when the owner of a landscaping company came by to ask for business (sent by a neighbor perhaps?), she actually seemed to agree with me about my plans, and said they would only cut when the grass needs it – rather than on any sort of once-a-week schedule. I scheduled her first visit for the second week of September. 

       So, the fence is going up, and I only wish it was going up faster. I look forward to getting to know my neighbors better, and hope that if they can’t see my yard, we may even become friends. 

       And the yard itself will remain a private greenish-yellow-brown space for Tom, Olympia and me – and the occasional grouse, bunny and butterfly.

       One final wonderful thing about the fence is that my parents are paying for it, and we are very grateful for that. 

       In return, we have offered them naming rights for the fence, just as major donors are able to name sports stadiums and hospital wings. 

       And if anyone else wants the right to name any other part of our home, we can also offer the chance to name our new custom bookcases, our new interior railings, our (hopeful) hardwood floors of the future, our (hopeful) new kitchen cabinets and lighting of the future, our (hopeful) bathroom remodels of the future, or our (hopeful) eventual installation of solar panels and/or a micro-wind turbine. 

       Kindly contact our lawyer (me) for details.

Nature Up Close

       We had been hoping to move into our new house this past Saturday, but as literally none of our renovation projects had been completed, we put off our move for a week.
       Still, I spent much of the weekend at the new place, hoping that some worker or another would show and do what had been promised.
       Instead, I had a lot of time to myself. And I spent much of that time looking out the side window – rather than out at the driveway. I knew looking at the driveway would be fruitless, because just as a watched pot never boils, a watched driveway never delivers a handyman. 

       Anyway, while looking out the window, I noticed some lovely things.
       For instance, a large bird – possibly a grouse – walked by. A cute, white-tailed bunny rabbit (a future friend of Olympia, perhaps) meandered under some bushes. A rather large butterfly fluttered by. And I realized that I have Aspen trees growing wild in my yard – with perhaps 10 saplings sprouting here and there. One of them is already around 7 feet tall, and next spring, I’ll transplant it to a location where I can watch its delicate leaves tremor all year long.
       I don’t have the broad mountain view I had in our old home. I won’t be able to watch the sun set over the mountains from the distant comfort of my living room. But it feels like nature is all around me at our new home – pressing against our windows, blowing through the trees, sharing the ground I walk on.
       I think I’m going to like it here.

Parking

       One of the unexpected benefits of having most businesses around here in strip malls is that the strip malls have parking lots. This might be obvious to those who already live in the suburbs, but to me, it means a whole new comfort in driving. 

       If I wanted to go to a shop or business downtown, or in the neighborhood near Tom’s office, I had to steel myself in advance for the whole parallel parking thing. This included the stress of looking for a place to park, worrying about being late for an appointment if I had to circle for too long looking for a place to park, getting into the parking spot efficiently if I did find a place (without holding up traffic and without hitting any cars), worrying that the meter would expire before I got back, and of course, worrying that I’d forget where I had parked the car (since the parking spot often was nowhere near my destination. 

       You can laugh all you want, but let’s face it. Down deep, everyone would prefer not to have to parallel park.

       I actually failed my first drivers’ test -- a great way to spend one’s 16th birthday -- because of a parallel parking “issue”. At least it was an issue to the person testing me.

       In my defense, I should say that this particular tester had a reputation for failing young drivers on nearly any pretext. It was well known that anyone assigned to her was likely to go home unhappy. But there was really no way out once I learned I was one of the unlucky victims who had to drive for her...

       And in fact, everything was fine until I was told to parallel park on a busy downtown street. When I backed into my spot, the car touched the curb. It was not anything hard or abrupt – nothing which shook the car or anything. I smoothly pulled forward and continued gliding into the spot. 

       But the nasty witch conducting the test said that if a child had been sitting on the curb, with his legs hanging down into the street, I might have hit said child and crushed said legs. 

       I replied that I thought it inappropriate and unnecessarily risky to even attempt to park in a place where a child was already sitting on a curb with his legs hanging in the street. I told her I would think it wiser to find another spot instead. And really, should a child even be allowed to sit unattended with his legs hanging into a busy downtown street? Where was his parent or guardian? 

        You can see, perhaps, why I became a lawyer. But the tester didn’t seem impressed. 

       When I re-took the test a few months later, I successfully parked without running over any imaginary legs. But my confidence had taken a blow. And it seems I have never quite recovered.

        In my new 'hood though, I can just drive up practically anywhere and with virtually no effort, pull into a parking spot, often remarkably close to the door of the business I wish to enter. And the parking spots here are huge. They appear to have been designed specifically for mini-vans and SUVS, all pulling a horse-trailer, and with room for obese people to comfortably open each and every door as far as the hinges will allow without fear of dinging the next car over. And frankly, there is so much space out here that there rarely even is a next car over.  You could probably park sideways -- across two or three spots -- and not even cause a raised eyebrow.

       The stress of parking is gone – entirely.

        I hate to say it, but I may never go downtown again.