I'm Fine!

Note to self: Don't be honest at the doctor's office.

This morning I had my initial appointment with the Santa Maria VA clinic. When I changed my address with the VA they assigned me to a new local office and set up an appointment. Since there's nothing wrong with me (I know, that's debatable), I figured it'd be a "why don't we mangle your arm and take some blood, just for the heck of it?" kind of meeting. At the Oxnard clinic they also liked to do pap smears at the drop of a hat, but I was prepared to say I'd had sex within the previous 48 hours to get out of that, if necessary. After all, I hadn't even laid eyes on these health care professionals yet.

As usual, the people who greeted me at the check-in desk were very friendly. They have cushy government jobs so of course they're happy. Then I was taken into an exam room to talk with the LVN and get my temperature, bp, etc. I'll call her Molly. Molly seemed very sweet and nice, with a sense of humor. Clearly I have no ability to read people.

She complimented me on my excellent blood pressure, then complimented me on not having a fever. Yes, because I work on that every day. Huh? She inquired as to why I hadn't had a colonoscopy done, since one had been scheduled for me some time back. I said, "First they want you to drive to LA to be taught how to do the prep. I already know how to swallow. Then they want someone to drive you to LA for the test. I don't know anyone who can take an entire day to do that for me. Now that I live up here, this is even less likely to happen." She nodded knowingly and said, "Yes, I've heard that they're thinking of allowing private waivers for that as they're so backed up in LA. Oh dear, I just said 'backed up.'" She tried several other ways to phrase it, for some unknown reason, before giving up in a fit of giggling. Molly is nowhere near 50 and has never had a doctor suggest this procedure for her, so from her perspective it's all a hoot, I'm sure.

After she got control of herself she asked, reading from a script on her computer, "During the past two weeks have you felt down or blue or experienced any sadness?" I said yes. She looked at me. I said, "It's the holidays," in a tone that clearly meant, "Duh!" Reading again she asked, "Have you found that you've lost interest in activities that usually bring you pleasure?" I believe I said I hadn't been engaging in those activities much. And that was it. We moved on to something forgettable, then I returned to the waiting room.

My nurse practitioner came to get me minutes later, and stood in the doorway shaking her head. I didn't know what I'd done, but she quickly explained that the problem was my gender. This woman, whom I'll call Penny, said that she'd see me today but not to get used to her as she didn't do "women's health." It was one of those rare occasions when I had no idea what to say. She ushered me into another exam room and explained that they didn't have many women patients there, but had decided to give all the ones they did have to one of two NP's who were versed in women's health. Penny wasn't one of them. So she would order some lab work (giving me a gold star for having fasted), and we'd just have a chat and a cursory exam and I could come back again to meet my real primary care person. I relaxed. Big mistake.

She looked at her computer screen, then at me, and said, "You're flagged as being suicidal."

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said they have a great psychiatrist there.

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said, "You told Molly you were depressed."

I said, "It's Christmas, for the love of God, of course I'm depressed -- isn't everyone?"

Penny laughed out loud at that point and said no, not really.

I said that my mom died two years ago, one of my dearest friends died last year, and my father died in July, which has forced me to deal with an evil spawn of a relative who's part vulture and part vampire (not the attractive kind), and I'm not married, and I've had a lot of time to think about where I went wrong in that regard, and I've done my best and put up a tree and baked goodies and invited people over, but excuse the hell out of me it's just not the best couple of weeks I've ever had.

She asked if I had a plan for my suicide.

I said, "NO! But I'm forming one in regard to Molly!"

Penny laughed again and said, "I have to ask. You're the one who said you were depressed. And we don't do much here. We have a cheesy physical therapy department, the lab, and the psychiatrist. For everything else you go to LA. If you change your mind you can see him anytime."

And I did kind of want to see him, just to possibly get some anti-anxiety drugs, after all that.

She told me to forget about the colonoscopy, since they were so backed up (no giggles) in LA that it'd never happen anyway. Wished me good luck finding a private doctor to look at my thyroid (I've been given a waiver to do that), since none will take what the VA pays. And asked me if I have regular pap smears. I told her that the woman in Oxnard is incompetent when it comes to finding my cervix and my results are always inconclusive after she has to take three or four stabs at it. Penny said, "Aren't you glad I'm not going to suggest it? I have no idea how to do one." Then she asked me to sit on the examining table.

I did, and she looked in my ears. She said, "Looks like your hearing is fine." I hope that was a joke. She made me say "ahhh," and said my tongue looked good. No, I am not making this up. Thankfully she said nothing after looking up my nose. Then she listened to my heart. She informed me that it wasn't beating too fast or too slow, but just right. Silently I called myself baby bear and nicknamed Penny Goldilocks. She had short hair that was mostly blonde, with odd bits of gray and brown throughout, rather randomly. As she talked she'd run her fingers through it and it would stand straight up -- and stay that way for a while. It was hard not to stare.

She wanted to feel my thyroid (everyone does), and commented on how it wasn't noticeable that it was enlarged on one side (all doctors say that, too). She said, "You said you're not taking any medication, only vitamins."

I said, "Yup. I told them I wouldn't take anything for this."

She chuckled and said, "Oh, I bet that went over well."

I told her about the back and forth with the LA doc, wherein she told me I had hyPERthyroidism and I said I did NOT, and she wanted me to take meds and I said they'd do more harm than good, and she said I could suffer bone loss and I said no freakin' way and she ordered a bone scan and I passed it like a 20 year old. This tickled Penny/Goldilocks immensely.

She said, "So you don't want anything for your cholesterol either?"

I said, "I'd like to stop wanting ice cream and cheese, and to exercise more. But I would not like any statins."

"Cardiologists love to prescribe them," Penny said. "That should tell us something."

She finally asked if I had any concerns or questions. I said I did, that I wanted some more information about menopause, and all the things I can do to make it easier.

This woman, this sixty-something if she's a day woman, said, "You'll have to wait till you see the women's health specialist. I don't know anything about that." Really? Nothing? Then she told me that she takes hormone replacements and doesn't really care if it's bad for her, since she wasn't happy with how she felt before taking them. Feeling good is what it's all about, right?

Then she sent me to the lab, where historically I have come out not feeling good at all.

First the blood-letter looked at the computer (a theme) and it directed her to lay several vials on the counter. Apparently there was an order in the system for the LA endocrinologist, and if it's in the computer it must be obeyed. I looked at the vials and said, "I haven't eaten in 13 hours. Am I going to be able to walk out of here when you're done?" She smiled.

I told her (let's call her Angel) that I have shy and retiring veins and that my left arm, on the top, not the crook of my elbow, is the best spot. She, of course, wrapped the elastic band around my right bicep and poked at that arm. I was torn between, "Your other left," or something more cutting, but I was at her mercy so I said nothing. I was prepared to physically grab her wrist and stop her if she proceeded to poke that right arm, though. I'm done with being bruised because of some point of pride on the blood-letter's part.

Angel moved the elastic to my left bicep and poked and stroked that arm, moving to the top only after the crook offered her nothing. Finally she said, "Ah. It's small, and it needs coaxing." Then she went to the cabinet and brought back a heat pack, which she pressed to my arm.

I said, "Well, this is a new low. I've never had to be heated first."

Angel smiled and said it would encourage my vein. Yes, sure, I can see that logic. Warming up is always a good idea. I felt even better when I saw her take the juvenile needle out to use on me. She removed the heat, swabbed me with alcohol, and for the first time in my life I decided to watch the needle go in. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's my new desire to be fearless in all areas of my life. Maybe I sensed it wouldn't hurt too bad this time. Maybe I thought passing out would make a good story.

She slipped the tiny needle into my skin and I wouldn't have known she did it if I hadn't seen it. I didn't feel it. Blood immediately filled the plastic tubing and she attached the first of many vials. Stupidly, I said, "That just worked on the first try." Angel smiled and said yes, it did. I can't remember the last time it worked so well.

I watched as each and every vial was filled and nothing bad happened to me. I didn't pass out, or feel queasy, and as it turned out she didn't take enough to make me lightheaded. What's next, public speaking?

One thing I won't be doing is telling the truth when asked, by a health care person, how I'm feeling. Just fine, thank you, and yourself? That's my plan.

 

Speaking One's Mind, Truly

My father held many jobs before I was born and when I was a young'un. But for the majority of the time I remember, he was his own boss. He became a real estate salesman, then very quickly thereafter a broker, and opened a business. He had a partner for a while, "Uncle" Harry, but eventually they parted ways. My father was not the kind of person who could get along well with others unless they were, as he saw it, subordinate to him.

For the most part I abhorred his way of doing business, but there was one thing I understood and agreed with: You cannot strenuously voice your opinion or take sides if you want to sell your services to the greatest number of clients. This was long before our country became as split down the middle as it is now, but it's always made sense. If my father put a sign up proclaiming he was voting for a Democratic candidate (and he was quite the Democrat before he got old and switched sides), he knew he'd be annoying his potential Republican clients, who could easily find another Realtor or, later, real estate appraiser. He actually gave money to both parties when he contributed, just to be fair.

Things certainly haven't changed in this basic regard. Sadly, I heard Richard Chamberlain quoted as giving advice to young, gay actors to stay in the closet. He said that no matter how far it looked like we'd come, the bigotry was still prevalent and the jobs would be fewer if they didn't pretend to be someone they're not. Since California, of all states, couldn't pass a law giving equal marriage rights to gay people, he's probably right. And if you want work, you do what you have to do to get it. It will vary depending on the work, but when selling yourself, with a service or a talent, potential buyers have to like you and see themselves in you. Or at least not see what's anathema to them in you.

I base my opinions and reactions on what people put forth publicly. After attending several writing workshops and conferences, I've seen plenty of the agents, editors, and authors on Facebook. I can find them charming and reasonable in person, then completely change my mind once I read their postings. An independent editor who doesn't seem to understand the difference between "its" and "it's" as they share their status? Once is a typo, more than twice confirms their ignorance. Or one who thinks it's a good idea to lambast those who disagree with a political idea s/he holds dear? Since we seem to be so evenly split in America, half of their potential clients just felt a slap in the face and decided to use someone else to clean up their manuscript.

Equally confusing, to my way of thinking, is why someone who has written a book, and wants to sell it to as many readers as possible, would then alienate a goodly number of them with bad "jokes." I know someone who does this. He makes what he must think are highly amusing remarks about how cats are good for tossing around and eating. Yes, eating. He thinks this is funny. He's an otherwise smart and resourceful man, with a high IQ. He'd like to be published and to entertain and emotionally move his readers. Yet he can't see, or won't see (because it'd mean being a bit more self-aware and using the discipline required to edit himself) that his public persona is the opposite of amusing. It's offensive.

Those who know and love (or even just like) us will get our jokes and/or put up with the bad ones because we have warm feelings toward each other. I have actually smiled at some of this man's cat jokes, even though doing so will surely go on my permanent record and only encouraged him when that was the last thing he needed. But I know he would never actually, literally, hurt an animal or eat a domestic cat (big cats, like any game, are another matter). I can smile, and so can his family and good friends, because we know him well enough to know that.

People, and potential readers of any book or books he may have published, don't know that. At best they will think cat jokes are hilarious, either because they don't particularly like cats, or because they have one and their cat doesn't like them. But the worst case scenario (in a marketing sense), is that they will think, "Wow, this guy is a loser. What sort of person says something like that? That's sick." And they won't buy his books. All because he couldn't control himself and what he put out there in the public forum.

I have tried, in a gentle way, to make this point to him. He didn't hear me. He'd probably also think I was being ridiculous if I said that agents and editors might, just might, look at a writer's Facebook page and/or website or blog when considering buying their manuscript. Employers do it all the time, and a public face is even more important to scrutinize when it can influence sales than when it can "merely" provide insight into a potential hire.

Or possibly he did hear me, and he continues to post obnoxious comments because then he can blame a lack of success on how misunderstood he is, how people are too sensitive and politically correct these days, rather than strictly on his mastery of craft. It's hard to say. I often look deeper than the bottom of the well.

I think it's also very hard to see our own faults. A friend kindly pointing something out doesn't always get through. It might take a Gibbs-like smack upside the head accompanying the words to drive home that something isn't wise. I wish I could get him to listen. So far, telling him that talent alone isn't enough hasn't made an impact.

Of course I also wonder what it is that I do. How am I shooting myself in the foot? I fear that my friends who can see objectively what I need to do or stop doing won't speak up, as I'm lacking in grace when confronted with uncomfortable truths. I will come around eventually, but it's a bit like waking me up by shaking my shoulder -- you will get a punch in the face for your efforts.

I know that I value honesty and frankness. I also believe in keeping quite a bit to myself, where Facebook or my blog are concerned. So, since I've put so much out there already, you can just imagine what I'm holding back. :-)

I think it's too easy to share, and we've become too accustomed to doing so casually. I wish self-editing would catch on as the next big thing. And, for Christmas, I'd like this writer I've spoken of to be given the gift of having all his cat jokes magically erased from cyberspace and memory. Hey, anything is possible at Christmas.

 

Those windshield wipers slappin' out a tempo...

The PSA "Turn around, don't drown" does not apply to driving in traffic on the freeway.  If anyone in a flow of traffic doing 55 mph or more hits their brakes for any reason, it's dangerous to some degree.  If someone driving in the rain sees water and stops, because they can't be sure how deep it is, they will find out one thing for sure --  what it feels like to be rear-ended.  If you're traveling on the freeway on a rainy day you know and accept that you'll drive through water.  

But there's water, and then there's WATER.

As I headed north today, on the 101, I drove in and out of showers.  The mist and rain softened an already scenic route and I was content.  I could see to drive and, on a rainy day, that's a major blessing.  Then something or someone upset the angels and they cried harder.  Much harder.  I could see the white truck in front of me and I stayed behind him, happy to slow to 50 mph (so you know it was bad).  

As we neared Chualar we slowed more, and more, and then we stopped.  Two lanes of traffic inched forward, and I had plenty of time to notice my surroundings.  I saw the dirt fields had morphed into brown lakes, the stream gushing alongside the road, the fact that few cars were going by in the southbound lanes, and finally a small, yellow sign on the edge of the shoulder that read: Flooded.  I'd pretty much figured that.  A police car squeezed by to my right and I wondered if he'd driven over the sign.

As a reminder (or for those who don't know),I drive a Saturn SL2.  It's a low car.  If your back is bothering you, you can't get in or out of my blue baby without pain.  No clearance is what I'm saying.  It's not a good car to be driving through a flooded area.  At that moment I very much wanted a Hummer.

Traffic wasn't stopped, after all, just moving very slowly.  I understood that this meant I'd have to drive through water, and a cop being nearby simply meant someone would be available to call a tow truck and write a report.  The raging river the stream had grown into was a big clue as to the amount of water up ahead.

I've driven through flooded areas before.  I know the rules.  Well, there's really only one rule: Don't stop or you'll stall.  Okay, two: If you're behind a truck, stay close or you'll go through twice as much water.  I was behind a truck.  I hate to tailgate.  It makes me nervous.  And if a trucker hits his or her brakes and a little Saturn is right behind?  Not a good scenario on a dry day.

All of us were in the left lane as we neared the spot where the berm had failed and the muddy lake sought its twin on the southbound side.  No longer crawling along, we picked up speed as vehicle after vehicle charged through the breach.  I saw, in quick succession, way too much water where the right lane had been ("Oh God, my car can't handle this, it's gonna die and the truck behind me will kill me! Shut up, don't think that, cancel, cancel, cancel!"), an 18-wheeler heading southbound throwing up plumes of brown water as high as the cab ("That's twice as high as my car!  I can't make it!  Shut UP! We can do this!), then the truck ahead of me hitting the water.  Adrenaline surged, tunnel vision set in, and I stayed as close as possible to the truck, chanting, "Thank you God" over and over and over --  it was the only positive thing I could think of to pray in the moment.  I was trying to block the fear of someone ahead of me stopping, or my engine drowning, or panic causing me to hit my brakes.  

I was truly panicked.  My guess is that we drove through two tenths of a mile of deep water.  It took forever.  Then it was over and I could see the road again and there was no traffic because everyone ahead of me sped off.  Just as I touched my brakes, to pump them dry, the song on the radio stopped and I heard a loud whine.  I was sure it heralded the death of baby blue and couldn't figure out why I still had power.  "This is an emergency report from the National Weather Service" cleared up the confusion.  They announced that there was a good chance of flash flooding in Monterey County.  

Good to know.

Santa, if you're reading this and I'm on the Nice list, I'd like an SUV.

Random Kindness

In the aftermath of any tragedy, such as the devastating hurricane Sandy on the east coast, people provide examples of the kindnesses of strangers and wish it could be that way all the time. I think there are just as many examples in normal, everyday life and we simply let them go by without remarking about them. After all, it's a lot more touching and dramatic when someone with power hangs out a sign offering to let others recharge their phones than if an average Joe does a good deed. Or is it? Someone going out of their way for you, for no reason other than being a nice guy, is touching in its own way. At least to me.

When I moved into my apartment I set up TV and internet service. I got a basic modem and used an ethernet cable to wire myself up to get online. It was fine for a while. But now I have my desktop computer set up, and the printer (which is supposed to work wirelessly -- another blog entry for another day), and I didn't want to have to buy a longer cable and switch back and forth between the desktop and the laptop. Merely for convenience sake I called Comcast to ask about going wireless.

The person I spoke to said I could get a wireless router at no extra charge. All I had to do was go to my neighborhood Comcast store and pick it up. She said I'd get instructions on how to set it up. I drove over to the store and a nice woman handed me the router and a cable. I asked about instructions. Oh, it was simple, and nothing extra was needed. If I called up for support I'd be charged, but I wouldn't need to do that as it was so simple. "All I had to do" was call in to be activated. All of that was bullshit, as it turned out. However, she did ask about my general happiness with Comcast so I told her that when I signed up I was told I'd get Showtime for 6 months and there is no Showtime on my TV. So she said she'd give it to me for six months. I checked, and she did that. Woo-hoo. Now I can watch Don Cheadle in House of Lies (when the season starts again in January).

I came home, looked at the pieces parts I now have, and connected the router to the best of my ability. Lights came on, but I had no idea if that was a good thing or not. I clicked on the list of available networks on my laptop, hoping one of them would say, "brand new, as yet unnamed network -- click here, Mary." Alas, none did. The top one on the list was Gutierrez, which meant nothing to me other than being the last name of my nephew. I called the 888 number the woman had given me "to activate" myself.

I spoke to a man who informed me that I had to configure my network, not simply activate it, and for that I needed tech support. A tad peevishly I asked him why that was, since I hadn't been told that. He said it was the way it was, and he'd transfer my call. I was on hold long enough to win two games of FreeCell and be in the middle of a third when my call was answered by a guy I'll call Robert (not his real name). He was surprised when he heard what I needed. He said tech support didn't support routers anymore, yet I was the second call he'd had today wanting that very thing.

I told him that I'd been transferred to him from some other Comcast employee, and I was a bit confused by this time, too. I managed to keep a tone out of my voice when I said that I wouldn't have waited so long to get through if I knew I was supposed to be calling somewhere else. He said there was nowhere else to call, literally, as Comcast doesn't support this antiquated system of using both a modem and a router anymore. There's a new "Gateway" system that the locals in Lompoc obviously don't know about yet. When he asked me for my phone number he said, "Sheesh, I have no idea why they routed you to me. I'm in Chicago." (Actually he was somewhere else, but I'm purposely not identifying him.)

I think I said, "oh." Small voice. I mean, it wasn't a tragedy. I could simply use my modem as I had been and get right back online, and figure out what to do later. It was simply a waste of time and an annoyance. But Robert said, "I'll help you. I'll walk you through this blind, if you want." I did want.

He proceeded to have me unplug and power down, then use the ethernet cable to get me to a place online where I could set up my network and security. The page was supposed to come up with an empty space where the network name goes, but it came up with Gutierrez. I could almost see Robert shaking his head in disgust as he told me that I'd been given someone else's router (that they'd obviously returned) and it hadn't been reset. We reset it. I named my network and picked a password, with Robert stressing that I'd better never forget it as getting help at that point would be impossible. We were joking with each by that time, and he told me he hadn't gotten my name at first so I told him again. He said, "Mary. That's a nice name. Mother of God and all that." I said, "Oh, there's no way I can live up to that." Then everything was powered down again, and I brought it all up in the order he told me to.

He explained a few things along the way. What certain lights meant, depending on their color, and how the order when turning things on was important and why. Once I was up and online, I asked if there was some way I could give him an attaboy so he'd get credit for this. He'd spent quite a bit of time with me, when it was obviously not his job to do so. He said, "Oh, no, don't give me any credit. I could get in trouble. I'm not supposed to do this. I just wanted to help you after all the incompetence you'd encountered."

So Robert went out of his way for me, a complete stranger, when doing so wasn't even going to win him points at work. When doing so would get him grief, instead. A kindness done because he's obviously a good guy, yet no one will take his picture and post it on Facebook to be shared a thousand times.

People are good all the time, they just don't get the press.

 

A Moving Experience

Everyone says -- and knows -- that moving is stressful. Yet I thought that, since I was finally leaving John's house and getting a place of my own, it would be different this time. Ha.

I left Deb's on a Monday in late September (let's just say I did, as I don't feel like checking to see if I actually did), looked at apartments on Tuesday and Wednesday, filled out an application and handed over a deposit by Thursday, and arranged to move in the first week of October. I was supposed to be in Ventura, packing up and getting ready. But there was something Deb could use my help with (she didn't ask me to drive back up, but I didn't like thinking about it not getting done until I came back), and so I rearranged my scheduled to work an additional two weeks and then go back and pack and move all at once. Yes, I came up with that brilliant plan all on my own. Just pack and move. All at once. In a couple of days. No, no, it's okay, I can laugh about it now -- maniacally.

So I drove back to Ventura, packed until I ran out of boxes, then resorted to putting my clothes in big, black garbage bags. I muttered, "Yes, Mom, I know they make wardrobe boxes specifically for this, but I don't have time to go buy them and I'll never do it again and aren't you busy with other things up there in Heaven, like finally having the perfect garden or something?" Luckily John is hard of hearing. I muttered many things and most of them made me sound as crazy as I felt. Your stuff grows exponentially as the time nears to put it in the rental truck.

When I went to rent the U-haul, the 10' truck looked too small. I asked if I could have a 12' one instead. They didn't have a 12'. They had the 10' or something that looked like a big rig. I sighed and said I'd take the 10'. This was Thursday at noon. The man told me that if I didn't return the truck by 6:00 PM on Friday, I'd have to bring it in on Saturday, before noon, or I'd pay for another day. Closing at six is just wrong.

I drove the truck over to my storage unit and got started loading it up while I waited for my friend, Logan, to arrive. I am not gifted when it comes to seeing things spatially. I became overwhelmed by how things weren't fitting well in the truck, and the crappy or non-existent job of packing I'd done with the storage unit stuff. Too much was fragile and not padded well enough, too much was in tote bags rather than boxes, and the boxes and plastic bins were all different shapes. Logan arrived with food from the Thai place, and another friend called and offered sympathy, and I felt better for about five minutes. Then Logan admitted he wasn't as good at seeing how it should all be packed as some, like his father, and my stress level went back up. Spatial or not, I didn't think everything would fit.

We emptied the unit, except for the wood shelves that John and I made a few months back (he picked them up later), and I drove the truck to the house. I heard noises as I stopped (as smoothly as humanly possible) and went around corners (with extreme care). Shifting occurred and it wasn't good. Logan and I looked at the mess inside the truck and knew it had to be emptied and repacked. Neither of us were up for it that night.

John and his girlfriend arrived and John looked at me, leaning forlornly against something of his in the garage, and said, "You can't do this with just Logan. You need more help." I said, "I have to move in tomorrow, and I have to get the truck back by six. Who am I going to get at this point?" He said, "I'll call Freddie."

Freddie is a guy who occasionally does yard work for John. He's a nice guy, but he was attacked a few years ago and has a permanent disability from that. He can't bend his right leg at all. My face must've showed my lack of enthusiasm because John said, "He'll bring a friend and they'll get it done."

I got up early the next morning and moved all my boxes and bags outside, hoping to save a bit of time and get a better idea of how much needed to go in the truck. I also moved about half of the stuff out of the truck before John arrived with Freddie and Raoul. He'd picked them up since Freddie doesn't drive (due to the leg injury). Freddie got in the truck and started handing things out to Raoul and they had it emptied immediately. Then they packed the stuff in decent boxes, the ones that were easy to stack. I looked at John and said, "It's not gonna fit." He said, "Freddie used to work for Allied Movers." Very helpful, yes. Freddie said, "It's not all going to fit."

So the man who can be maddening offered to let us use his old pickup truck (not his newer and bigger one) and fill that, too. It still wasn't enough. I had a 10' U-haul stuffed to its gills, a pickup truck full, including the back seat, and I ended up with three car loads in addition to that. Not all that day, however.

The old pickup has a manual transmission. First John asked to see Raoul's driver's license, then he made him drive John up and down the street to prove he could handle a stick. Seriously. Finally, Raoul and Freddie left in the pickup (saying they'd meet us there after making a necessary stop somewhere along the way -- they hadn't realized it was going to be an all day job), and Logan and I took off in the truck, heading for my new home in Lompoc. I'd told Logan that driving the truck was no big deal, that I'd brought my stuff from Florida in one just like it. Well, driving a half-filled truck and driving a fully loaded truck are two different experiences. I actually did the speed limit or less. And when we got to the grade on the 1, north of the 101, we fell to under 40 mph. I put the flashers on. Then I gave it some gas, hoping to get to the top sometime that day, and watched about a quarter of a tank of gas go bye-bye.

I parked in front of my apartment building and left Logan with the truck while I went to the office to complete my paperwork. It took so long that he dozed off. There was a lot to go over, as it turned out. Enough for a separate blog entry. When I got back to the truck I saw that Freddie and Raoul were there, and we began the unpacking. I have a second floor apartment. I'm pretty sure I made about 731 trips up and down those stairs with boxes. At one point I came out the door to see Freddie coming up the stairs with something. I said, "Doesn't that hurt your leg?" He nodded yes. I said, "Then please just unload the truck and let the rest of us do this part." Of course, I was perfectly willing to have him cart the mattress and heavy chair up with Raoul. I'm not that nice.

At some point I realized it was past lunchtime so Freddie and Raoul went off in the pickup to get us some burgers. Logan and I continued to bring things in, since I had that six o'clock deadline looming. I also had an appointment for the Comcast installation and tried to will him to be early or at least on time. We ate lunch, finished bringing everything into my apartment, and the Comcast guy arrived exactly when he said he would. We managed to leave Lompoc at 3:35. Logan was quite relaxed about this. I believe I said something, in a possibly shrill voice, like, "It's effin Friday, Logan, and we have to go through Santa Barbara traffic, then that idiotic traffic where they're widening the road and people can't drive next to a concrete barrier for some reason and we have to put gas in this stupid thing and it isn't certain that we'll make the deadline and if we don't I'll have to sleep on John's couch and return the truck in the morning and I don't want to do that!" Oh yeah, and driving an empty truck on a windy day is not enjoyable, either. Stress.

There was traffic, but we made it with about 45 minutes to spare, so that was great. A woman from the U-haul office came out and suggested that I back the truck into a particular spot. I looked at her and said, "Back in?" She offered to do it for me and I gladly let her. You can see well enough with the mirrors to drive, but you can't see well enough to back in anywhere.

We all met at John's house. I paid everyone, John took Freddie and Raoul home, and Logan helped me with the penultimate load of stuff in my little Saturn. John had been both generous and cheap at the same time (letting us borrow his worthless old truck, which as it turned out had tires so bald that it was a dangerous trip, but taking $80. for gas), and I was grateful that I didn't need to stay there another night, and could finally go Home.

I thought I might miss the view from his house and street. Seeing the ocean every day, and the twinkling city lights at night, were pleasures I'd gotten very used to. But I knew on that drive home that it wouldn't be the case. Dusk was seriously falling as I headed up the 101, and the colors of the sky over the ocean were like a wave goodbye as I drove north. Lompoc is just an average small town, but the area around it is gorgeous. The mountains, the mist, the fields of flowers, are all easy on the eyes. And the ocean is about a 15 minute drive away. I'll trade that for seeing it from John's front yard any day.

During the move Logan and I ended up talking about Gwennie, of course. October 9th was the first anniversary of her passing. I moved on October 5th. Logan and I both thought that she'd be pleased with how things are progressing for those she left behind.

Messes

A lot of people thought it was insane that I drove to Florida in three days. But I had motivation. My cousin, who started from east Texas, was intent on getting there first. He wasn't happy that I was going to FL at all, thinking that I'd just stay in Cali, stupidly content to let him handle everything. As if. His idea for taking care of my father's home was to "have a team come in and get rid of everything -- they get paid by keeping whatever they want." I thought it was a sick joke until I realized he was serious. I rather strenuously objected and said the "stuff" in the house was my family stuff, and I wanted to go through it. He said, "I was just there a month ago. There's nothing of value in that place." I told him that what he considered valuable might be very different from what I considered valuable, and I wouldn't have a team of strangers throwing out or keeping what was mine. He bristled at that, and said it was his, too, since the will splits my father's belongings between the two of us. We had this conversation a couple of hours after he told me that my father had died, and it got heated. At the end of it I made it clear I would be in Florida as soon as possible, and he said he'd be there first. I wasn't just doing 90 mph for fun.

 

To illustrate my cousin's vast knowledge, I have to share what he said to me over the phone, as I drove across the country. He said it shouldn't take me too much longer than him to get to Palm Harbor, since I only had "about another 12 hours" more than he did to drive. 

 

Me: 12 hours? What planet do you live on?

 

D: We drove to California once. It didn't take too long. About 12 hours. It's no big deal.

 

Me: 12 hours to get across Texas, then there's New Mexico, Arizona, and the width of California, since I live on the coast. 

 

D: Nah, if you don't stop too much it's no big deal. Are you stopping at motels?

 

Me: Yes.

 

D: That's gonna cost a fortune, and take more time.

 

Me: Sleeping alone in my car wouldn't result in too much sleep, since I'd be worried about my safety, and the driving time remains the same. 

 

D: It really shouldn't take you too long, since you're doing this. Maybe 17 hours at most.

 

Me: I can't talk on the cell phone and drive. Bye.

 

I decided, before seeing him in person, that I didn't want conflict and confrontation and I'd be nice. I wouldn't argue, I wouldn't let him see what I truly thought of him, and I would keep calm. I did manage that while he was still in Florida. Before he went ballistic. But that happened later, as I drove home.

 

I listened to both my cousin and the last caregiver, Flo, tell me that they "cleaned" my father's house. Both claimed to have done this in the last month or so, when no one was there since my father was in rehab and finally the hospital. No matter how it might've looked before, to claim to have cleaned it is something they should both be ashamed of. You don't take the garbage out and say it's clean. You don't throw all the food away so it can't rot and say it's clean. I don't know what else they might've done, besides that. I know I spent 30 minutes using a solvent on the front of the fridge to get unknown marks off it. I know I found cat feces on the porch and in a couple of closets. I know I didn't want to know what I scrubbed up in the bathroom. I know that every single surface in that house had to be not only wiped, but often chipped at to get it back to clean. I know I had to work at the stains in the carpet, and only some of them responded, and that I had to bail out the chest freezer in the shed (because, duh, you can't simply take the food out and unplug it and call it done). 

 

I had to rent an ozone generator to get rid of the smell. Opening windows doesn't cut it when it gets that bad. The generator had to be run every night for a week, and then the ozone blown out every morning when I showed up for another day of sorting and packing and throwing stuff out. I had so many papers to go through that I ended up with 12 hefty bags worth of that alone. I moved furniture by myself and staged the rooms to look as appealing as possible to potential buyers. 

 

One neighbor came over after I was done and said, "Wow. Damn, girl, this is amazing. You know, you might make someone a damn fine wife someday!" I hit him.

 

During the first couple days at the house, after my cousin filled his car with "not valuable" stuff and took off for home, a neighbor came by and offered to clean the gutters for me and weed the front yard. I knew that Mark had done work for my father because my father had told me about it once when we talked on the phone. I didn't know he'd also ripped my father off, because that must've been embarrassing to my father and so he didn't tell me that part. I knew that someone else had once quoted me $50. to do just the gutters (I have a small fear of ladders, and doing them on my own, with no one to hold the ladder for me, was out of the question), and I knew Mark's mother. She and I have the same name, and would sometimes get each other's mail if someone forgot to put a lot number on the envelope. I once got a six hundred dollar check, here in Ventura, because her boss didn't put her lot number on the envelope and the mail person forwarded it to me. I could have legally cashed that check, but my values dictated that I call her, tell her about it, and mail it back. When Mark asked me if I could pay him upfront, so he could go buy some medicine, I didn't think twice about it. 

 

He immediately pulled the weeds in the small garden, then told me that he'd checked out the roof before and I needed to replace 12 shingles. I figured he was angling for more money and told him I couldn't afford to do any repairs, and that it had been raining really hard and there were no leaks. He told me they might not show up right away, blah blah blah, and I said, "What part of we're selling this AS IS don't you understand?" As he tried to convince me that he should replace the shingles he made a point of saying that he only weighed 160 pounds, so he wouldn't be stressing the roof. I told him I didn't care what he weighed, to do the gutters and nothing else. He didn't do the gutters.

 

He didn't show up the next day or the next. I went to his house and he told me he'd had a "touch of the flu" but he'd get to them that evening. He didn't show up. By this time I'd talked to my neighbors about it and they all told me that Mark's "medicine" was marijuana and he couldn't be trusted and I shouldn't have given him the money and he'd never do the job. Lovely. I was trying to remain calm, trying to deal with the stress and not make myself sick, and this bozo thought he was going to scam me. Somehow, the fact that I'd been so honest with his mother made it even worse.

 

I went back to his house and banged on the door. He came out spewing excuses. I put my hand out and said, "Give me my money back. You didn't do the job. Give me $35. back. You can have $5. for weeding." He said, "I don't have it to give you. I spent it." I said, "You shouldn't have spent money you didn't earn. Get your ass over to that house and clean those gutters." I said this while being literally in his face. 160 pounds. And skinny, with no muscle. I could take him and he knew it. He babbled about babysitting and how he couldn't go till later. I was amazed anyone would trust him with their child. I said I'd go door to door in the park and tell every person I could find what a thief he was and make sure he never got another job. He promised he'd do the gutters just as soon as someone came back and he could leave, even if it was storming. I said he'd better. I said, "Don't make me bring your mother into this!" It was threatening at the time, though sounds ridiculous to me now as I relate it.

 

He called me to say he was there, doing it. I told him I would know if it was done when I got back. He called to say he was finished, and report on how many bags he'd filled. I'm not sure if he was afraid I'd hurt him, or just that I'd tell his mommy.

 

But he was the exception to the rule where neighbors were concerned, just as David is the exception to the rule where cousins are concerned. Most of the people there were great. Dewey checked on me regularly, Sharon gave me anti-itch cream when the bugs bit me, Gerry took two carloads full of stuff to the thrift store for me, and Donn gave me the lowdown on prices and sales in the park.

 

When I first got there, my cousin said we should give away the power wheelchair to someone needy. I said we should sell it, since it cost over 5K new and hadn't been used much. He had a habit of repeating himself, possibly because he had so little to say but enjoyed his own voice, so touted giving it away again and again. I put up a notice in the clubhouse, told Donn (who knows everyone), ran an ad on Craigslist, and then called a couple companies who sell them, to see if they'd buy a used one back. No one wanted to buy the power chair.

 

When I left I told the real estate lady to go ahead and give it away if she could. And my cousin told me that he knew someone who needed it. I should've called the woman back, but I completely forgot it. Another drive, a funeral for my parents, I kind of had things on my mind. So I don't really feel all that badly about the miscommunication.

 

I was on my way home, somewhere in the mountain time zone, when the real estate lady called me. She wanted to tell me that she'd found someone to give the chair to. A man she met in the grocery store, who has polio and was using a decrepit old manual chair, now has a nice, power one. I was happy to hear it. Then I remembered my cousin. I called him to tell him. He went nuts. He screamed that she had no right to "sell" that chair, and raved about what else she'd steal. I tried to say that if his friend was on their way to get the chair (he'd told me the needy person lived in northern FL), I might know of someone else with a chair and could put them in touch. He wouldn't listen to anything. He was livid. He wouldn't let me get words out, no less finish a sentence. Then he started cursing at me. Saying I was supposed to sell it and hadn't done my job, and now I'd screwed up giving it away, too. He said I "hadn't done anything" and F-bombed me some more. I looked at the cell phone, found the disconnect button, and pressed it. 

 

I then called the real estate lady to warn her he was on a tear. I'd already had a call, the day before, from someone else who'd been yelled at by my cousin, so knew he'd call her. He did, and accused her of selling the chair rather than giving it away. He said he was going to fire her and she told him he'd be responsible for paying her commission regardless -- him, not the estate, since he'd insisted on signing the contract alone. She apparently infuriated him even more, because he called me again. When I suggested that he seemed far more upset than made sense, since it had always been his idea to give the chair away, and that maybe he'd planned to sell it behind my back, keeping the money for himself, his reaction told me I'd hit a nerve. There was more yelling and name calling before that call ended, too.

 

I then talked to the lawyer and told her I don't deal with liars or bullies and so wouldn't be dealing with him anymore. She said I had to, until the probate was over and we'd sold the house. I told her I didn't have to do anything. I think she may be on the cousin's side now. I was polite to her, but resolute. No one yells at me and curses at me and calls me names and says I didn't do anything and gets another chance. I wasn't crazed, as my cousin seemed to be, but I was hugely stressed.

 

So after three weeks of upset, hard work, and more upset, I was driving in the middle of nowhere, and I was more tired than I'd been from the start. Those long days on the road are always tiring, as I've said, but I'm vigilant about keeping myself alert. It usually involves a lot of caffeine and sugar, unfortunately, but one accident in a lifetime is enough. But, I guess because I was so focused on my cousin and that drama, I didn't realize how tired I was. Then I dozed off. I think it was only for a second, but my eyes closed. When I jerked awake again, absolutely terrified for that instant, I was still in my lane, still driving along with no one near me for quite some distance. My guardian angel at work again. 

 

I then screamed at myself, in addition to slapping my face, and turned the air conditioning on high. I pulled off the road as soon as I could (it's not actually safe to just pull over to the shoulder when out in the middle of nowhere) and walked around and drank more caffeine until I felt I was under control again. Still, it was a long day.

 

It was also a really long trip. So much happened, a lot of it I'll probably never write about, and overall the good outweighed the bad. The bad is just more interesting to read. I learned a lot about my friends and family, about how I deal with things, and what I'm capable of. Ever since I turned 50 I've noticed a change in my reactions. I won't put up with things I always put up with before, out of a feeling of awkwardness or wanting to be polite. Now that I've gone through this, I feel even more strongly that you get what you give in this life, and you have to value yourself whether those you're dealing with do or not.

 

The best thing that came out of it, by far, was learning how to accept help, and how my friends and family were so willing to offer it.

 

I'll be there for you if you need me. Just, not for a few weeks. :-)  I have this work gig I need to get to....

Crossings

Anyone who's seen my favorite movie, The Shawshank Redemption, knows that Andy and Red crossed the border into Mexico at Fort Hancock, Texas. The characters actually crossed the border. I merely drove by a sign for Fort Hancock, but never got off I-10, yet I had to stop for a Border Patrol checkpoint. Weird, right? According to a few people I told this to, if those coming across the border illegally make it in and think they're safe, they are then nabbed at this stop on the freeway. I think it had more to do with drugs, since a drug-sniffing dog circled each and every car. And, being in Texas not Arizona, I didn't see anyone being asked for their papers.

 

Some people in some vehicles were questioned at length. When I pulled up, after refusing to move my car for a moment because the dog was so close I thought I'd drive over his paw, the agent said, "You're a US citizen?" I said, "Yup." He said, "Have a nice day." Didn't even check to see if I'd come here illegally from Ireland.

 

I forget where I was, but I think it was also in Texas, when I stayed at a Red Roof Inn for the night. It touted itself as being "newly renovated." My main concern is checking for bedbugs at any and all motels, but I did notice it was a nicer room, with a big, flat screen TV. The bathroom was new and modern, too. I didn't pay attention to the shower until the next morning. It was bathtub size, though just a shower. Across half of it was a glass panel. No door, just the panel on the side where the showerhead was located, and an opening on the side where the water controls were located. I suppose this makes it easier to clean, and cuts down on the laundry you'd do if you hung a curtain.

 

What they got wrong was the placement of the showerhead. It was mounted in the ceiling. And the ceilings in these newly renovated rooms were about 9 feet. So by the time the water reached the top of my head, at five feet five inches, it didn't have a lot of oomph. I don't know what bald giant designed the thing, but he didn't think it through.

 

Here's something I never would've thought of: people write fake obituaries. Now that I know it happens, I can imagine why, but it's the sort of thing that wouldn't have entered my mind on its own. The day I left my aunt's house in Florida, I first stopped in Gainesville, about 3 hours up the road, to visit my friends Frank and Gayle. We had lunch together and a nice, long visit. Then, sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant, I called the newspaper in New Jersey to inquire about emailing the obit I'd written and paying over the phone with my trusty Mastercard. The woman said I'd have to fax the death certificates (I wrote a double obit, since both my parents' ashes were being interred) before they could run it. 

 

It was hot, I was now about four hours "late" as far as driving for the day was concerned, and I had to find a place to fax from. "What kind of people write fake obituaries?!" actually came out of my mouth, rather than being screamed inside my head. "Sickos," said the nice woman. I called Frank and Gayle and they told me where to find an Office Depot. The nice guy who worked there didn't charge me as much as he should have -- on purpose. It was as if the universe felt my frustration and wanted to say, "See? There are plenty of nice people in the world, too."

 

However, those nice people are not, generally, Japanese. Oh, go ahead, call me a racist. But Japanese tourists are some of the most annoying people on the planet. Why yes, I have a story to back that claim up. The night I got to New Jersey (after checking into the Best Western, walking to the Red Lobster, watching a small hurricane blow in and begging a ride back to my room from two strangers), I went to bed early. Then I woke to the sound of a loud engine. It sounded loud enough to be a fire engine, so I got up to look out the window. It was a tour bus. I couldn't think what there was to see in East Brunswick, and went back to bed.

 

The next day I needed to buy a few things at the store. When I got to the check out line there was a group of Japanese people ahead of me. Their mission in life seemed to be to drive the cashier stark, raving mad. They all had something to buy, and all wanted to pay for each item separately, handing him hundred dollar bills each time so that he ran out of change and had to call for more. Just when he thought he was done, another item would be thrust at his face. All the while, they were crowding me. I tried to keep back, but they had no sense of personal space or boundaries. I was patient. I know what you're thinking, but it is possible for me to at least pretend to be patient at times.

 

Finally the cashier had had enough and he told this one woman to go get in line behind me, that she should've paid for the latest item when she paid for the one before that, and it was my turn. She looked at one member of the group who apparently translated for her, and she very huffily got behind me. Then pressed up against my back. My elbow desperately wanted to sink into her gut, but I told myself I was a representative of my country and to just put up with it for a little while longer. Am I good or what? Then she charged ahead of me again, shouting something in Japanese, and waving the hairbrush or whatever it was in the cashier's face. 

 

I said, "Maybe it's the last thing and they'll just leave," in a quiet voice. He took it and rung it up, and accepted another hundred. When he got done with my order I handed him my money and said, "Do you have any change left?" He said, "Where did they come from? Why are they here?" I should have put two and two together at that point, but I was preoccupied.

 

Lots of things happened that day. I had an appointment about some estate stuff, went to look at the cemetery (the church and grounds were flooded during Hurricane Irene earlier this year), met with my niece, Melissa and great-niece, Nadia, at Barnes&Noble, bought a few newspapers for the copies of the obit, and had dinner with Russ, an old friend. The tourists were the last thing on my mind.

 

Saturday morning I knew I couldn't eat, but I wanted a glass of milk before heading over to the church for the funeral. Just a glass of milk. Something in my stomach that wouldn't make me sick. When I walked into the lobby I stopped in my tracks. The Japanese tourists had taken over the breakfast area. Yes, the same ones from the store, plus many more. It was their bus engine that woke me, them that made a simple trip to the store a long, annoying experience, and now they were standing between me and my milk. "Excuse me" had no effect whatsoever. "Please" fell on deaf ears. It took a few minutes just to get a glass, and I finally went over to an employee and asked her to help. She got a carton of milk from the kitchen and poured it for me, away from the crowd. I thanked her, then said, "Why East Brunswick?" She didn't know, either.

 

When I'd talked to the priest from St. Peter's, Father Shelly, the first time, he'd told me that they have a Memorial Garden for the spreading of ashes. I said that was nice, but we had a family plot and my parents wanted to be interred there. He had to look into whether or not a vault was required by law (it wasn't) and double-check that there was room. They sell the right to be buried, not an actual plot, because the cemetery is hundreds of years old and the church retains all rights to the grounds. So, there could be someone who died in 1731 buried in your family plot, and I guess they want to make sure the bones aren't going to get in the way. He explained it with much more tact, but that's the gist.

 

As I waited to hear from him, and I spent 10 - 12 hours a day going through papers, scrubbing the house and trying to sell the wheelchairs and such, I thought about why anyone wants to be cremated, then buried. To me it's like, pick one or the other, you know? But the thing is, you have to do something with the ashes. And it's illegal to spread them just anywhere. It's an ecological hazard. And a lot of people don't want to keep an urn with their dead relative inside on the mantle. So interment became a thing to do. Still, I was wishing that my parents' wishes hadn't specified it, since I liked the idea of the Memorial Garden. Until I disposed of Molly.

 

Molly was our cat before Billie. Molly was a feisty, little calico who ruled our hearts for years. I didn't know that my mom had had her cremated when she died, and that she'd saved the remains. But the little box with a label on it stated it was her inside, and there was a small bag of white ashes. Except no one, human or animal, is actually reduced to ashes. There are bits of bone mixed in. And this is distressingly obvious when you scatter them. I had no idea what to do with Molly. I didn't want to keep her, as my mom had done. I'd never throw her away. So it seemed that breaking the law was the way to go. I took the bag out back to the garden, told Molly that it was one of Mom's favorite places, and sprinkled her among the palms and trumpet flowers. And it was slightly horrifying. I tried to picture Molly when she was alive. She liked to stand up on her hind legs and box with me. She also liked to draw blood with her claws. Good times. But those bits of bones ruined the mental image. She made me imagine the cremation process, instead. That's bad enough with a pet. No way I wanted to risk it happening with my parents. So I decided that interment of the urns was really for the best.

 

Then I saw the hole that had been dug in our family plot. It was approximately three feet by three feet by three feet. Just dirt, since no vault was required. I thought about the recent flood, and wondered if my brother Jimmy's remains were even still in the ground next to this current grave. Father Shelly apologized for the roots. There were about four good-sized roots that the grave-openers had had to cut through, and the ends were sticking out of the walls of the grave into the open area. I told him it was fitting, because my mom had called me out to the back yard lots of times to cut roots out of her way when she had a flower to plant. But, just a dirt hole, looking so raw because of the roots, not all that deep, vulnerable to the next storm that came through, had me on edge.

 

The priest performed a very nice service. For the most part I have no idea what he said, but I didn't expect to remember it since I was so stressed. I know he talked about how we say someone has passed "away" as if it's the end of them, when they're going on to an afterlife and it's really just a transition. That was comforting. But then he asked that we join him in reciting the Lord's prayer. And, dear God, I'd just seen a clip from the movie The Campaign the day before. A clip in which Will Ferrell, as a phony Christian candidate, mangles the Lord's prayer in a most hilarious way. My lips were moving, saying the words, but inside I was fighting a massive urge to laugh. There would've been no way to explain laughter at that point. I got through it, somehow.

 

Then he asked if I'd like to throw a handful of dirt onto the urns. Well, no, I didn't really want to do that, but since he asked I couldn't see a polite way out of it. I walked over, grabbed a hard handful (the mound was packed solid) and threw it in. A rock hit the top of my mom's wooden urn, with a loud thunk, then bounced off. There was an awkward moment of silence, then I said, "This is appropriate, too, since rocks are also the bane of a gardener's existence." Everyone laughed, thankfully, because I really had to at that point. I have no doubt, if my folks were watching from an otherworldly vantage point, that they approved.

 

Russ treated us to lunch, then my cousins bought me dessert from Mendoker's (world famous) Bakery, and I went to another motel, not wanting to start my journey back till the next day. No longer having "the daisies" in the car with me was as strange as transporting the urns had been. I hadn't heard a word from my sister (still haven't), and I felt that I was completely alone in the world. It's stupid, really. I have aunts and an uncle I love, cousins, a sister-in-law, nieces and nephews and greats, too. Not to mention some of the best friends ever. But having no immediate family, no longer having a parent (however strained the relationship might've been), was a foreign and very empty feeling. 

 

More than a couple of friends have suggested that I was crazy to drive from NJ to St. Louis in one day. But once I'd spoken to Mary Lou, and she said she'd really like to see me, and I was very welcome to stay overnight at her house, it was more than my macho side kicking in and saying hell yes I could do it. I craved a connection, wanted to be with a friend more than I wanted to stop and rest and take my contacts out and let my sore butt try to unflatten. Some people always know the importance of friendships, and some of us only gain a true appreciation when friends become our family.

 

All this expression of true feelings does not mean I'll be cooking Thanksgiving dinner for you all anytime soon, though. Don't get carried away.

 

I still haven't talked about nearly beating a guy up to clean the gutters, or falling asleep at the wheel. It really was a long trip.

Kinda, sorta, mostly about driving

My father was 86 years old, and not a healthy 86. He'd had high blood pressure forever, a quadruple bypass, stents, Parkinson's disease, a chronically painful back from an accident with a jackhammer when I was 3 (so, yeah, a loooong time), and various other ailments. Plus, after my mom died, he was miserable and didn't want to live anymore. Our issues aside, I didn't expect to be sad when my father died. And I wasn't. I felt relief, that he and my mother might be reunited (if that sort of thing is actually possible), and his suffering was over.

 

When I got the news I emailed people and called a couple, and worked feverishly to try to finish cleaning the house I was house-sitting. I didn't get the floors done, which was strangely upsetting at the time. I was fine, though. Until I called Panther (totally not her real name, but it's a fun pseudonym) to talk about leaving the house a little early. She asked how I was and suddenly not crying became a Herculean task. This never happened with anyone else, so I blame Panther, or some quality in her voice that must've sounded mom-like, for causing it. She told me to leave extra food for the pets and get on my way, that the floors weren't important. I was going to argue about the floors but was afraid it'd make me sound crazy. So I left.

 

I took off from Ventura the next morning at 5:15. John came outside in his bathrobe, tsking at me for not waking him to say goodbye (I thought I was being considerate), and asked what my plan was for something going wrong. I shook my head and said, "I do not plan for things to go wrong. I plan for things to go right. If something goes wrong, I'll deal with it." He was very unhappy with me when I left. A woman alone, without a plan.

 

I said a prayer of thanks for smooth sailing and protection and I was off. It was o'dark thirty on a Sunday morning, so I didn't expect any traffic. Then I saw an electronic sign warning of an accident ahead. Luckily, for us other drivers, it happened on an overpass. We simply exited and reentered the freeway and it barely slowed us down. The next accident (apparently no one expects others to be out and about on a dark Sunday morning) had traffic stopped when I got to it, but within a minute we were slowly moving. I was behind a truck. He had high clearance. I have a Saturn. One of the lowest of the low cars. He drove over a still burning fusee (or flare, for those not raised by an ex-railroad employee), and I followed him, saying, "Oh! Blue, I'm sorry! Think of Tony Robbins!" I told God that smoother sailing was what I had in mind.

 

As I got near the area where I had to find the 210 freeway, the sun came out in a big way. It was so bright and glaring that I couldn't read any of the signs. I said, "Cloud, please. Some cloud cover would be good right now." And clouds moved over the sun and I saw the 210 sign and got in the correct lane. So I said, "How about a winning lottery ticket, too? That would also make my day." So far, God hasn't gotten back to me on that.

 

I had packed in the most bizarre, haphazard way. The only things I was careful and thoughtful about were the clothes to wear for the funeral. Literally. I had so few tops with me that I had to stop at a thrift shop to avoid doing laundry every other day. And I knew I'd thrown my sunscreen in somewhere, but for two days couldn't find it. So that first day on the road I had on a t-shirt, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt over that to protect my arms from burning. And I drove through the desert. Cali and Arizona. It's hot even without a heat wave. And I had the idiotic, clearly stress-induced idea that I shouldn't use the car's air conditioning -- to save on gas.

 

I stopped at a gas station for the precious elixir, and as I filled the tank I noticed a man with a pickup truck checking me out. He was at the next set of pumps over and he was practically staring at me. Not just at my chest, either. He was making definite eye contact. I actually thought, "Oh yeah, I've still got it." Then I went inside to use the bathroom and saw my reflection in the mirror. My face was nearly purple and I looked like someone about to succumb to heat exhaustion. He was likely just considering whether or not to call 9-1-1. I started driving with the a/c on, gas mileage be damned.

 

As has been previously discussed, I have a heavy foot when I drive. On the open road, with little or no traffic, I fly. The speedometer on the Saturn says it'll do 130. I've never tested that. In fact, 100 mph made me nervous so I didn't go that fast, either. But I would often do 90. I thought of it as interval driving. When traveling that fast you have to be super attentive. A swerve to avoid tire debris is different at 90 than at 70. That kind of attention is tiring. More tiring than driving all freakin' day long is in general. So I'd do it for a while, then rest at the speed limit for a bit, then do it again. Interval driving. And also as I've mentioned before, the speed is rather necessary to make up for how often I stop. Liquid in/liquid out, for both me and my car.

 

I was still in Cali when the two guys in the Arizona car passed me just to pass me. We were both moving at the same speed, around 90 mph, but they clearly didn't want to be the following car. Men. Their license plate read: AZBYCHC. After some consideration I decided it probably meant Arizona By Choice. But my initial thought was, "Ass by chance." I'm sorry, it was. After a few minutes of us doing the tandem fly-bys of other cars on the road, we came over a rise and saw the CHP on the side of the freeway. We both hit our brakes, but the cop pulled out and came after us. That's when I started chanting.

 

"Go after the out-of-state plates, man, go after the out-of-states."

 

He pulled up next to me but I refused to look over and make eye contact. If he could read lips, from the side, he'd know I said, "Not gonna make it easy for ya. Use your lights, dude. Better yet, go after the guys with the stupid plates. Come on, ass by chance?" For whatever reason, he moved up, turned on his lights, and pulled over the Arizona guys. Of course, after I left Cali behind, I had the out-of-state plates. 

 

When I drive long distances there are two things that occupy my mind. Avoiding getting a ticket, and reading the signs. I have a friend who writes novels in his head on long drives, but I find I have to pay more attention to my immediate surroundings in order to stay safe. Gwen used to say that the person with the job naming paint colors had the best job in the world. They're random and idiotic, for the most part, so the namer must have a terrific sense of humor and a lot of autonomy. Well, the person who comes up with what to put on the road signs has the second best job. In Arizona: Dust Storms. That's it. Dust Storms. What about them, huh? Are you simply reminding me that I'm in the desert so they can happen? Are they more likely to happen here than elsewhere? How long should I worry about this, for ten miles or until I hit Louisiana? After about a dozen Dust Storms signs, I decided that they simply wanted to remind out-of-state drivers that they were in the desert. And as soon as I decided that the next sign said, "Dust Storms Next 10 Miles." At that point I understood why so many signs have bullet holes in them.

 

In Florida, on Route 19, I was surprised to see a sign that said, "Bear Habitat 12 Miles." It was the third day, I was only 30 or so miles from my aunt's home, and it was ten at night. I was tired. I couldn't decide if they meant that a bear habitat had been built and we were 12 miles from it, or that for the next 12 miles we'd be in bear country. The latter seemed absurd. Of course, it turned out to be true. I'm gone for two years and bears move in.

 

In northern Arizona there was a sign that said, "Watch for Animals." I said aloud, "Care to be more specific?" Another mile down and the sign said, "Watch for Elk." Okay doke, they're easy to spot. So, naturally, a small coyote ran across the road in front of me. I find my entertainment where I can when I drive.

 

By the way, best county name of all, by far, is in Texas. Deaf Smith County. I don't think you have to be tired and sleep deprived for that to make you laugh, right?

 

Speaking of signs, I did something for John while on this trip. He has a brother in Mississippi, and his brother had something of John's that John wanted back. This something (no one can tell me definitively whether what I carted was legal or not, so I'm not going to publicly blog that I did it) couldn't be shipped. John asked if I'd be willing to pick it up for him and bring it back. I said sure. He said it might be illegal (as if my speeding isn't), and I said, "So? It's not as if I'll have a sign on my car that says, 'Mary is carrying such and such in her trunk', right?" Why do I speak?

 

As truly good luck would have it, I was only doing 74 in a 70 mph zone when I passed a cop who took an interest in my car. I don't know why. I was part of a long line of vehicles in the right lane, not speeding, and not the only out-of-stater in the bunch. But he came out of the median where he'd been sitting and pulled up in my blind spot. He just sat there, pacing me. I glanced back and saw him tapping at his laptop (which should be illegal, if anything is -- how is that safe?). Since I have no outstanding warrants and my car isn't stolen, he obviously found nothing. He moved up a bit, checked out a truck ahead of me, then pulled him over, the poor guy. But the fact that he'd checked me out like that, when I was doing nothing, made me think I was giving out "I've got you know what in my trunk!" vibes. So I came up with another daily prayer.

 

I started each day with, "Thank you for making my speeding invisible to the police." You may laugh or scoff, but I blew by countless cops after that and none of them budged. Yes, it could've been due to laziness and luck. But I like to think I had an invisibility shield around Blue.

 

When I started on this journey I dismissed the comments about how brave I was, how the commenter couldn't possibly do what I was doing. I thought they simply didn't understand, had never driven across the country and thought more of it because it was the unknown. I often say that I've lost count of how many trips I've made across and up and down this land. I say this because I'm too lazy to actually think about it and count them. But, just to give you an idea, I went from Cali to Florida on the southern route, up to New Jersey, and back to Cali on the middle route, and Mastercard never once called to talk about a strange charge pattern. I've done it a lot.

 

What I came to realize, after a particularly bad day on the trip back when a scary thing happened, is that I am brave. And not everyone can do this. Anything can happen, at any point along the way. And you might be hundreds or thousands of miles from home or anyone you know. Bad things can happen at home, too, but they're not quite as bad when a friend is a phone call away. You don't know which exit to pick at night, or which motel is safest, or who might be in the ice machine room when you go to get some. And those are just the small worries. The truly hard part is driving. Starting out each morning even though you got a crappy night's sleep and you're already tired. Driving, paying attention, putting up with the heat and sun and sameness, paying attention, talking your body out of the charley horse that wants to form in your right calf, paying attention, cursing the fact that your butt is nothing like Jennifer Lopez's and died two hours ago when you still have hours left to sit on it, and paying attention. Driving is work. And because motel rooms are so expensive (anything under $60. is something to celebrate, with $70. to $80. being the average "cheap" rate nowadays, once the taxes are added), you can't take a leisurely pace. Camping alone calls for more guts than I possess. So, yes, cross country driving does take bravery and it is dangerous and there are a lot of people who couldn't do it. I'm strong. I always have been. I do what needs to be done and what I say I'll do. You can count on me. Even after you're dead. 

 

So I'm sorry that I was dismissive. Thank you to all who complimented me. Thank you for the prayers and the positive thoughts and the support before, during and after. Some, maybe all, of the friends and family who helped me would prefer to be anonymous. But I'd love to do "more" than just say thank you, if I knew what that more should be. One friend literally made it possible, and safe, for Blue to carry me those six thousand plus miles. Another got a windfall and shared it with me, to take some of Mastercard's fun away in piling up those interest amounts. While one cousin was/is a horror, others were there to offer me food, friendship and support when I needed it. One aunt put me up and put up with me while I scrubbed, sorted and stressed. Another let me know a gift would be waiting for me at home, so I could look forward to it. An old family friend surprised me by being there for me from the time I got into New Jersey, through the funeral, and by treating us all to a very nice lunch afterwards. Another "helped me with the tolls" in an extremely generous way, and would laugh at me complaining about the New Jersey Turnpike's $6.50 fee if he was on Facebook to read that particular post. He more than covered it. Money is practical, yes, but it also lessens the worry. And that's important. Other kindnesses were important in their own ways. 

 

I know there are friends who regretted not coming to the funeral. Don't. You sent your regrets and you know you've been there for me in other ways, at other times and now. My mother and father had gotten to the point in their lives where they found funerals too dangerous to attend, because of how the upset could affect their health, so they'd understand. Spotswood, NJ is a long damn drive from anywhere. And I don't wish a long drive on anyone. :-)

Let's Just Get the Weirdness Out of the Way Up Front

My long, strange trip started with the ghost of Billie the cat coming to visit me. No, I'm not making this up. About a month before my father died, and unknown to me at that time, my cousin killed the cat. He readily admits to it, and told me about it with a laugh in his voice. I'd say it was nervous laughter, but I don't believe that. At the time of the visitation, I thought, as did the Florida neighbors, that Billie had been taken away by the Humane Society. So I was at a loss as to what was going on at night in my bedroom.

 

The first time it happened I was asleep. I woke to the distinct feeling of a cat jumping onto my bed. Except, when I opened my eyes, there was no cat. I sleep with my bedroom door closed and locked, so a stray cat getting in would've been fairly impossible. I told myself it was a dream. A few nights later I was lying in bed, not asleep, thinking about how I wasn't asleep and would really like to be, with my eyes closed, when the cat jumped onto the bed again. I didn't open my eyes. I stayed very still, hyper aware that I was awake and therefore not dreaming, and doing an internal freak out over why I just felt a cat jump onto my bed. Then it walked over my legs. That did it. Eyes as wide open as humanly possible, body scrambling back against the wall, legs drawn up to my throat. About all I didn't do was scream like a little girl. There was no cat. No anything else, either.

 

I told John about it the next morning, not even caring that he'd mock me, because it was scary and I wanted someone to know about it, as if that would lessen the fright. He said, "You're craving a kitten. That's what it means." Not what I expected as far as possible responses from him. I said I did not crave a kitten, or the required kitty litter pan, or the vet bills. Not at all. It remained a mystery. Then I felt my father pass.

 

On July 6, while house-sitting in LA, I tried to watch the Barbara Walters special on Heaven, and what it means to various cultures and how to get in (besides by being dead, of course). I couldn't stay awake. I just kept dozing off and missed the majority of the show. A little before 11:00, pacific time, I gave up and turned the TV off and rolled onto my side, hugging the pillow and allowing myself to go to sleep. The thought came to me that I was an orphan, but I was far too tired to examine it. At 5:48 the next morning my cousin called to tell me that my father had died -- "at around two in the morning." Two in the morning, east coast time. 

 

I was surprised that he was gone. A nurse had told me less than 24 hours before that he was "doing okay." But I wasn't surprised that I knew somehow. That seemed perfectly normal to me.

 

After I arrived in Florida and was talking with my cousin, (and it's difficult to write about this trip and him in particular and still live by "if you nothing nice to say, say nothing at all"), he told me, with a laugh, that he'd lied to the neighbors about what happened to Billie. He'd come out to Florida, from Texas, and discovered fleas in the house. When you stop paying the pest control people and no one treats the cat, fleas will happen. He bought bug bombs. Then he "couldn't find" the cat. It's a mobile home and she was a fat cat. Only so many places to hide. When he couldn't find her, he simply set off the bombs anyway. With her in the closed up house. Then he did it again, just to be sure he'd killed all those fleas. When he saw Billie after the poison cleared, he called the Humane Society to come get her (plan A not having worked, if you ask me). They came out, and wanted to be paid to take her away to the pound or wherever she'd go. But when they went to pick her up, they realized she was dead. So the poison worked slowly. He got his money back and took care of her body himself. He said he "buried her at the beach." I managed not to cry, not to call him any of the names fighting to be voiced, and to keep a look on my face that suggested I believed him. He went on to tell me that he had to lie to the neighbors, or they might've told my father that Billie was dead and upset him. I said it was good of him to keep my father's feelings uppermost in mind. I discovered a level of self-control I didn't know I possessed. 

 

Later, safely away from him and in the guest bedroom at my aunt's house, I thought about the timing of when he'd killed Billie and when I'd felt the cat jump on my bed. I didn't know the exact dates, but it was close enough for me to believe that she came to say goodbye.

 

"Magic"

A certain man I'm acquainted with, whom I'll call Henry, (can you tell I'm a bit hypersensitive about talking about people behind their backs in my blog?), is in his mid-70's and dating. I think he's been out with 5 or 6 women since he started using Match.com. The first was a couple years younger than him, but she found him lacking for whatever reason. All the others, from what I can tell, have been much younger.

Henry introduced me to one, and told me later that she's 56. He wanted to know if that was "too young for him." I said, "You do the math. You could be her father." He said he didn't think it'd go anywhere, anyway, as she was unemployed (we are discriminated against in every walk of life!) and therefore might want him to take care of her. I said, "Well, we certainly know that's not going to happen!" He laughed, not seeing it for the dig it was meant to be.

Another of the women is foreign born, but has lived here for many years. She still "has an accent" so that's a point against her in his eyes. Seriously. Being at least bilingual, (who knows how many languages she speaks?) isn't seen as a sign of intelligence or something to be admired. Nope. She has an accent.

One woman wore a "wild, out there" ensemble that was only described as a long skirt, with RED socks and sandals. I asked if she was topless, and he said no, she wore a blouse, so I guess it was either the socks with a skirt, or the socks with sandals, or the fact that the socks were RED that made it wild and out there.

I'm pretty sure that one of the women is a real estate agent or travel agent who wants to meet potential clients under the guise of dating. She's much younger than him, blonde and slim, with no accent. He had no complaint about her.

This is all very depressing. How many men out there are like Henry?  And how many women, after meeting someone like him, will go on a second or third date?  It's happened, and it's a mystery to me.

Am I just a hopeless romantic? I still believe in kismet. I don't want a "companion" to help pay the bills. I'd rather read a book than go out to dinner with some old guy who's looking to hook up after treating me to the blue plate special, while I scope him out to see if he truly prepared for retirement.

I was talking to an ex-neighbor from Florida a week ago and he said that he hopes that when he gets old enough to require being in a facility, that he goes willingly and doesn't put up a fuss. That now, when he's still able to take care of himself, it makes sense. But he fears that when he's dependent on others he'll forget that, and become a belligerent old man, demanding to go home. I told him that he's too good, too nice, and too caring a person for that kind of transformation to occur.

I hope I never end up trolling the Internet for some guy, any guy, because romance has become a distant memory. Or worse, that I'm still a hopeless romantic even though there's no hope to be found. Someone tell me that I'm too good, too nice, and too caring for that to happen to me.

 

Semper Paratus/Always Ready

Semper Paratus (Always Ready) -- It's a Sign

I came home this afternoon and said to John (my landlord), "I may have accidentally joined the service." It's definitely a character flaw that I enjoy scaring him just for fun. The horrified look on his face (as he thought about the loss of my rent, no doubt) didn't go away when I said, "No, I'm kidding. I'm 50, remember?" I have to admit that it's sweet of him to think I could pass for younger.

Lately, John has been the only caring and concerned person in my life. He's still the same man who acted so badly when Gwen was dying and shortly thereafter, but I'm finally seeing the good she always saw in him. No, I'm not the least bit attracted to him. I find that thought rather repulsive, actually. But now I know, on an emotional level, what I've always known intellectually -- no one is all bad just because they've behaved badly.

I was about to write that I've been battling the black hole of despair for the last couple weeks. But, truthfully, no battling went on. I waved the white flag and fell in, looking up only to notice the latest slings and arrows. I'd get up each morning when the alarm told me to, take my vitamins, fire up the computer, look at what wasn't in my inbox, and decide that under the covers was the place to be. Back into bed I'd crawl, since I had no job to go to, no friend to meet for lunch or any other reason, and no love life. Poor, pitiful me. Usually I'd manage to be up and dressed by noon, maybe one o'clock. Hardly ready for what the day might hold.

I have a friend who lives south of Los Angeles (I'll call her Allison, since I didn't get her permission to include her in my blog, and I wouldn't want to ruin her day by possibly portraying her in a way that she, and only she, finds derogatory, since learning that particular lesson has left a bitter taste behind). Allison has been out of work for a long time, too. She has more marketable skills than I do, but she's still in the same boat in this economy. The longer you're out of work, the less they want you. In fact, I don't think they even read your application or resume once they see you're unemployed. Positive thinking doesn't change that fact.

Yet Allison remains upbeat and cheerful, and always encourages me. She doesn't thoughtlessly tell me what I ought to be doing (as if I'm not doing it), or imply that if I'd only try harder (as if I'm not trying hard enough) or not be quite so picky (as if being willing to weed or clean for a living is being too picky), then surely I'd have a job by now. Yes, I'm smart. Yes, I'm capable. Yes, I could do just about any job that doesn't require the kind of training you must go to school for, like, oh, being a surgeon. Yes, I usually display a winning personality. But in this day of "Please apply online. Please do not call or come in," it really doesn't matter what those who know me think I can do. I can't actually just walk into a business, win them over, and get hired. And saying so isn't a compliment or helpful -- it's just another way of telling me that I'm not doing enough or trying hard enough. Allison gets that, because she is actually unemployed, NOW, in this economy, and not someone who was unemployed once upon a time, a year or more ago.

While I appreciate that about her, what's inspiring to me is how she doesn't (or doesn't appear to) become so depressed that she curls into a ball and pulls the covers over her head. I can't manage it. I have a love/hate relationship with hope, and lately it's deserted me. Peri-menopause takes some of the blame here, too. All I've been doing is listing the Bad.

Bad

I have no job.

I am undesirable to most employers because I have no job.

I have no college degree.

There are idiots out in the world who think a college degree is necessary for the simplest of jobs.

The skills I do have are not current, so the same idiots think I've forgotten how to type or answer the phone.

I've been care-giving for years, but in order to get paid close to minimum wage for that, I'd have to spend a thousand dollars to get a certificate.

I'm running out of money.

I do not have enough nerve to rob a bank.

My best friends, the ones I could call at 3 AM to bail me out, don't live anywhere near me.

My best friend here, Gwen, is gone.

If I could afford the movies, I have no one to go with.

I have no love life, and am so unhappy with myself right now that I can't imagine any guy wanting to be near me.

Through all the days of hearing me fix breakfast (my blender sounds like a low-flying chopper) at noon, of asking if I'm not going anywhere because I'm worried that my car will break again and hearing me sigh, "I have nowhere to go," and of noticing that I don't even bother to put makeup on anymore, John has tried, in his own way, to cheer me up. He comes to my door and announces loudly, "I am going to Costco! I know you want a hotdog, so let's go!" Then he spends the dollar fifty for my dog and drink. He cooks too much food for dinner and tells me he's going to throw it out if I don't eat it, since he can see that all I have left in the freezer is a bag of frozen cauliflower that I have not been in the mood for. He says he'll change my car's oil if I clean his part of the house for him. He comes up with entrepreneurial ideas for me. And when I complain to him about a friend who hurt me, he says exactly the right thing, which I find amazing coming from a man who can say the wrong thing as easily as breathing. So, John has become a good thing in my life. And I'm trying not to be creeped out by that.

My friend Panther (not her real name, either), asked if I'd house-sit later this month. Just for a week, but it'll be some money and that's better than none. That provided a small spark of hope.

Thankfully, (or not, if you're so bored with this that you've moved on already), my body craved some decent, real food. I still have Slimfast and instant oatmeal, and hot dogs are tasty, but I literally felt the need for fresh vegetables, so I ventured out to Ralph's, since their flyer showed the most deals. After making the bigwigs at Mastercard even happier by adding to my debt, I headed home. And, stopped for a red light, I saw a man in a powerchair crossing the street. From the number of bags attached to and slung over his chair, and their condition, I'm 99% sure he's homeless. Homeless and can't walk. I know, from time spent with my friend Pamela (her real name, and if she happens upon my blog and doesn't like it -- bite me, Pammy!), that those chairs break down on a regular basis. The batteries have to be charged. It's difficult enough to deal with for her, and she owns her own home. This guy, well, I don't really have words. Just the feeling of immense gratitude that flooded through me when I saw him.

Seeing him didn't instantly lift my depression. If only. But I did start mentally listing the Good. A roof over my head, even if it's only for now. A car that's currently running. So many belongings that I add to my debt each month to keep them in storage. My health. My faculties and abilities. Those friends, even though they're thousands of miles away, who I could call at 3 AM and be sure they'd answer the phone. John, who is trying in his own way to keep me from sinking.

I picked up a copy of the local freebie newspaper, the VC Reporter, and saw that today is National Marina Day. Who knew, right? Since going to the Ventura harbor only costs the gas it takes to get there, I decided I'd go and see the tall ship. Get some sun. Maybe perk myself up some more. The first sign I saw when I got there was an apology that the tall ship couldn't be there. I did not say, "That figures" because I was alone and I'd look like a crazy person.

I noticed that the Coast Guard had a boat there, and the public could board it. I walked down the dock and did so. Twenty-something members of the CG were talking to possible recruits, extolling the virtues of serving. I went below and a middle-aged man, who I thought was active duty CG (but now I'm not sure if he was that or a member of the Auxiliary), talked about rescuing people, using the litter to bring the injured aboard, giving them coffee to warm them up, etc. I immediately imagined someone croaking out, "Is that decaf? It's kind of late in the day."

After the kids went up to pretend they were driving the boat, I chatted with the CG/Auxiliary guy for a while. I couldn't really talk about what I did in Gitmo and he could only tell me some of what he did in Cuba once, but we both appreciated each other's contributions. That might be him standing at the bow, later when I thought to take a picture.

 

 

 

Then I went over to the area with the booths and band and food. I bought a two dollar "sample" of clam chowder from Andria's Seafood Restaurant and Market. Now I never need to eat there. Passing potato and carrot (!) chowder off as clam should be criminally wrong. The band was a bunch of middle-aged guys who either had a band when they were young, or are finally doing what they always dreamed of back then. They sounded good, but the one guitarist looked like a bobble head on 'ludes. I had to get up and leave for fear that I'd start mimicking his movements, the way I begin to speak with a drawl within five minutes of encountering a southerner, even though I don't want to.

I noticed that the Coast Guard had a booth, so went over to it. It was run by a couple of members of the Auxiliary, both men my age or slightly older. The one who talked to me asked if I boated. I said no. He asked if I went fishing on a boat. I said no. He looked at me for a long moment and said, "I'm trying to think of what I can offer you here, by way of helpful pamphlets, but I'm drawing a blank." Then we both laughed. I said that perhaps I'd get lucky and someone would take me fishing, and he grabbed the appropriate booklet and handed it over with a flourish.

We talked, I mentioned my Navy service, and said something flippant about it being too late to go back in (for those who still think I might be too picky, are you willing to enlist? just askin'). He said it certainly wasn't too late to join the Coast Guard Auxiliary, and told me what they do, when and where they meet, and asked if I'd like to fill out a form to be contacted about it. I was sort of interested (admittedly my brain first went to, "this might look good on my resume"), and figured he might get points of some kind for people filling out the form. I said I would, just as soon as I dug my reading glasses out of my purse. After I provided my basic information, he went from professional and friendly to flirty. I'd gotten enough sun and fresh air to be able to notice, yes. I said I had to go and he shook my hand, not giving it back until he said, "I'm Ray. And now I have your phone number, Mary."

It was not as creepy as it's now looking, as I type this. It was just a nice little ego boost. And the entire exchange allowed me to come home and scare the bejingles out of John for a moment. When he fully understood what I was talking about he said, "That's a great idea. You should join. It'll get you out, you'll meet new people, and you know....mumble mumble something something." I think he was going to say it might make me happy, but thought better of it. For some reason people fear saying the wrong thing, or saying it the wrong way, around me. Strange.

Anyway, since the Coast Guard's motto is Always Ready, I saw it as a sign. I need to be ready for each day, not hiding from them in bed. Being alone there only adds to my despair, and serves no good. I might need to double the dose of "sanity cream" (non-prescription hormones) I use, too. But if God is going to refuse to give up on me, if He's going to send me signs and make sure I see them, then I should probably stop googling "painless poisons" and not give up on me, either. Who knows, there might even be an Alpha male type out there who's just made for me, and available. And a job that'll pay the bills. My wants and needs are worthy, I think.