RELAX. SHOP TO IT!

Since last post I've settled down quite a bit and much of my mellowed mood is due to two shopping ventures (oh, and knowing the new mag is on the stands). The first Macy's recon reminded me why I've created ad-hoc swimsuits from shorts and crop-tops: Because, damn it, bathing suits cost too much! Outrageous! Well, my thrift-shop top fell apart, so I was forced to find a new one. Macy's had a sale. For a thin and flimsy piece of white cloth to cover my boobs (and, frankly, I firmly and unswervingly believe Nature intended all of us to visit the beach stark naked--but that's another story . . .), I paid (((cringe))) $18! Originally $38, would you believe? When I told Don he about had a cow. Well, I made up for that yesterday. Macy's sale got even bigger. I homed in on the 50%-off and 65%-off racks. There I found two pairs of slacks and a summer top--in all, $20! Now, that's more like it.
Did I mention that Buckwheat chewed off the strap from my new bathing suit top? He, too, believes in topless beach-going, ha-ha. Boy, was I pissed. I sewed it back on. Now, to find a beach where Don and I can "vacation" . . . for two days.

THE THIN LINE BETWEEN SANITY . . .
. . . and madness: I will readily admit that I feel my own mind flirting with the other side of that line, and I'd like to say not of my own volition. But the truth of the matter is that my firm belief in self-reliance precludes blaming some peculiar twist of brain matter for my mood swings. Well, I'd also like to blame the heat. It was, after all, over 100 degrees here today! Baby came over early and she, along with Buckwheat, slept most of the day. It's Don's birthday! So I was kept busy making a sugarless cake and stuff, and Dwight visited this morning and we went out to dinner tonight. Watched "Cold Mountain." That was depressing, as a matter of fact, but no excuse for my hinky emotions. I'm out of whack. I'm on the fritz. I may have to visit the ocean tomorrow. Right now I feel like . . .

TRAVELERS

I get a postcard from Savannah, GA on the way to Florida (my sister and brother-in-law). Then one from Waikiki (my son and daughter-in-law). Cath still plans a road trip to northern Nevada, via Vegas; later a trip to Pennsylvania and even Mexico. Dwight frequently travels to distant foreign lands! Dear Bill and Nancy jet back to New York and New Jersey periodically.

Then there's us. Don and I drive to Denny's for breakfast, and while I'm silently pouting because I'm severely travel challenged, he fluffs his mane and pipes up, "Don't say I never take you anywhere!" He thinks that's so funny.

What's funny (not in the ha-ha sense) is that we haven't set foot on a plane since 9-11. Don is security-phobic when it comes to airports; I just see it as a necessary annoyance that can easily be transcended by the right frame of mind. The frame is thusly: Excited to be traveling! Looking forward to traveler's adventures and new scenic horizons! Aren't we glad they're frisking those Syrian musicians!

But why bother? Unless funds galore drop into our eager little laps, I'm limited to traveling from the bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night--Long distance travel? Around the park with Buckwheat!

Am I pouting again? Moi?

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER SNAKE
But this one was a 2-1/2 foot one, a kinder, gentler, considerably smaller serpent. I saw him quickly slithering beneath the garage door when I rummaging through that deplorable, chaotic place (boxes... boxes ... boxes ... papers ... more papers ... ancient christmas ornaments ... endless books ... dozens and dozens of magazines ... cobwebs, dust, vermin, mold, bacteria, flotsam, jetsam, icksam,unidentified creeping objects ... and I am losing my mind, going screaming bonkers because of it!!), so I screamed, and Don came running (kind of a hobbling stroll, actually),and did the "manly thing" and tracked down the animal. It was a matter of moving boxes and papers, oh yeah. We let "him" be and I'm sure he went back to his home and told a scary story to his pack, (Do snakes live in a pack? Or is it a den? Perhaps a flock, since according to reports, birds actually are related to reptiles.
Medical update: Don breezed through his sigmoidthingy with flying colors, albeit nervous bowels. A "clean" report!--as clean as that part of the body can be, that is. His joke to the doc as the sigmoidoscope was adroitly inserted: "Am I supposed to smile when you do that?"
There are snaky things, and then there are snaky things!

SURFSIDE SUNDAY, SIGMOID MONDAY

Heaven at the beach! Joni invited me down yesterday and we walked a good six miles (just an estimate), from Redondo to Hermosa and back. Then, arriving at the Great Little Mexican Stand (can't remember its real name), we ordered tosada and nachos with diet Cokes. Then pigged out! Truly a pleasurable day, though my legs complained all evening.
Today I've run around some more, but in a different way -- back and forth to markets buying Don just the kinds of juices and Jello he can have today. Nothing else. Later, he has to drink some truly gawd-awful fluid called Fleet, then I'm quite certain we'll be quite glad the house has two bathrooms! He's having a "Siggie" tomorrow--the shorthand he uses to refer to his sigmoidoscopy.
Wish I could report more excitement. Maybe next week. WAIT! The new magazine should be off the press tomorrow, according to the last report.

I, TOMATO
The in-built human habituation that Don and I gingerly fell into this year: an inordinate attachment to organic offshoots of our life. Buckwheat, for one, but now it's the fabulous tomato crop we somehow pulled off!

Delicious! But more maters than I can handle so I'm gathering up a bunch for friends and neighbors.
In other news: Don and I went to see a really great movie yesterday, "I, Robot." Not only does it dazzle with awesome special effects, entertainingly explores the nature of consciousness, and possibly the soul, but it stars Will Smith--an actor whose presence in any frame assures that your eyes are glued and your spirit's lifted. He's so cool. Wish I could give him some of our tomatoes.
Oh, and my youngest grandson Gus took his first steps last week. Now he and his brother and folks are in Honolulu visiting Grandpa Mike.

SWITCHEROO!
So I'm sitting here contemplating northern Nevada, southwestern fires and Eastern meditation practices, when the phone rings, and it's Cath. She just got a letter from her prospective employer directing her to accept the job in the Silver State, in writing, by Tuesday. Still on the fence, she wants to see the place. I've already settled into staying home. She says she'll await her car's repaired air conditioning and take off tomorrow; better she says, with no one else to "influence" her once she gets to this presumably culturally barren place of 900 inhabitants, situated at 4000-plus elevation. Good thing, 'cuz I would've cruelly kept reminding her that she'll have a hard time finding a really good triple-shot latte there.

COASTIN'


Been powering up the publishing hill; crested, puffing, at the inimitable
peak yesterday, and now I'm . . . coasting downhill, though I paid bunches
of bills this a.m. Yuck. Later: So I'm fiddling around with my blog and searching
for photos, so I wittily log on to my on-line photo storage site,
and because I'm just not paying attention, I erase the cartoon I had put
there . . . not realizing that this clever move erased it from yesterday's
entry, too! I'll try to find and post it again. Meanwhile, here I am, the
day after bluelines, foggy in head and ready for bed (not really--maybe in
3 hours). Was perkily thinking I'd be taking a road trip tomorrow with Cath,
but she decided her cash flow says no, which is fine, 'cuz mine is starting
to squeal like a tire losing its rubber. But I won't let that stop me. Gotta
go! She wants to visit the northern Nevada site of her prospective new job
. . . she's apparently finking out of that verbal commitment, but still wants
to see Paiute, Nevada, 1.75 hours north of Vegas. So we're going next week.
I wouldn't be interested if we weren't going to Vegas first! Such is the
lure of neon, slot machines and all the transient glitter and cheap buffets.

SORTA GROOVIN'
Painted (bathroom cupboards--a smoky gray), went to the 99-Cents store, made a fairly delicious tomato quiche and waited--bluelines impending. Bill and Nancy may go to the printer and handle 'em, sans the Vickster, depending on when Mike "our liaison" calls. It's been hot and clear--perfect beach weather, and I plan to head out as soon as I'm free to do so. Meanwhile, all the shenanigans in the political realm--the strategic Kerry & Edwards pairing; singleminded, motivated, be-missioned Bush keepin' on but getting a little scared; the vicious mud between Dems and Repubs, etc. All so useless, until we can divorce ourselves from Saudi Arabia . . . but that's another story. I found a cartoon that explains my lifelong (and increasing) apathy about American political contests:

Harvest Note: Tomato recipes wanted! Our plants runneth over.

THE NEW ISSUE IS GONNA BE . . .
We went to press today with a jam-packed issue! We're back to scrutinizing some painfully visible yahoos on the UFO circuit, and this time one Dan Burisch is being fully exposed. And Dan, you're no Bill Cooper [now deceased charlatan who was as unpleasant as he was nuts, and truly did his best to defile ufology], but God knows you make a great case in point when it comes to dodos with fantastic stories that cannot be confirmed! But just for safety's sake, say hi to J-Rod [purported extraterrestrial entity who's here to help save the human genome]. The issue has a wrap-up of the Mexican sightings and some really great columns. After some deadline withdrawals, wherein I felt I should be down at the boat squeezing myself on-board to help, I settled into handling my nearby business by grocery shopping and cleaning the kitchen. Another surprise: Baby came over at 7 a.m.! She loves it here. I went to her owner, a very nice lady named Beatrice, and she told me to stop feeding her . . . we don't feed her, but I cannot help giving her a jerky strip or a Milk Bone when she visits. She has ear polyps. That needs to be handled someday, but Beatrice doesn't seem to want to shell out the $500 for it. Baby's ear polyps are not really my problem, yet I'm concerned. I love animals, crazily.

SURFER DOG
Buckwheat had his first visit to the beach today, and it was a gas! But . . . he isn't fond of getting in the water. He stuck to me like glue, and when I wandered into the gorgeous sea, he felt compelled to follow. He dashed in, and just as we tried to get back to shore, a wave washed over him--head and everything--and it probably scared him. But other than demonstrating a puppy's shyness toward the ocean, he was a wonderful beach companion. We'll surely do it again--but I'll have to leave him home on days I want to bodysurf. Oh, yeah. I forgot my camera. So no illustrations. Next time!

OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES

Don't pay attention to the headline. I was trying to nap and that phrase came to me and would make a great book title, but since I'm not ready to write a book, I thought I'd use it here. The relevance? I spent most of my youth envying and thinking I should be living other people's lives. Only in my more "advanced" years have I come to terms with living my own. I feel vastly privileged to be doing so.
The magazine is just about "in the can." So intriguingly sharp--it even has an article by brash and handsome newsman George Knapp, six-time Emmy award winner and one of the few "real" journalists to openly tackle the UFO beat. I've never considered myself "real" in that sense, since I've never worked for a national publication until I founded one myself, hah-hah! Sometimes you gotta work outside the box! 18 years later . . .
Been sneaking glances at Don's copies of Writer's Digest in hopes that I might see a market or nurse an idea that will inspire me to freelance, or at least send out a query or two. Baby, acording to Don, would make a wonderful subject for a light piece in Dog & Kennel or Dog Fancy; he's absolutely right, but the right tone won't come. So he plans to write it. Speaking of the little local tramp (and I use that in the hobo sense), for the first time, Baby came to our door in the morning and has been spending the WHOLE DAY here! She's still here. I'm understandably getting nervous, as I do not want another dog. Her owners are apparently so laissez-faire that it doesn't concern them that she's gone all day. So, all of you--do you know where your pet is tonight?

COUNTERPOINT
The work week started with new deadline bearing down on us. Things seem to roll so smoothely and the product is beautiful and one of a kind. What a pleasure! It's the way work is supposed to be. We had a visit from the accountant and his helper and of course that threw me into anxiety mode. There's really nothing to feel anxious about--yet. It is a time to exercise faith. In the real world, all is in order! I declare it so.

AS PSYCHEDELIC AS WE COULD MANAGE!
Don and I had a quiet 4th of grilled dogs (the hot, all-beef kind) and mucho Jimi Hendrix, as he (Don, not Jimi) found our "Electric Ladyland" CD and transferred it to minidisc. It's a Sony, but not an I-POD, but surely almost as good. The nuances of "Voodoo Chile" can be heard oh-so-well on that little thing. Stuck in the '60s? You could say that. At least I vary my listening habits a lot more than Don, who can be seen listening to Jim Morrison practically every day. (Ever heard of REM, Don, or even Cold Play? How about trying to listen to some Black Crowes or perhaps some vintage ZZ-Top?) I have no room to talk. I can barely tear myself away from Beatles midis, only because they're so easy to find and listen to. Back to the holiday: I began painting our bathroom cupboards! I will plant some border posies! I lit two sparklers, in direct defiance of the NO FIREWORKS signs posted everywhere in the Canyon! And how could I forget? I went to a small church service in Las Crescenta, which presented the real Riders of the Purple Sage! Of course, in my blissful wishful thinkin' li'l head, I'm thinking New Riders of the Purple Sage . . . But, hell, whaddya want for a practically free concert? For some reason, psychedelic cowboys aren't prone to playing church services. But we had the real thing--a spillover from the Gene Autry-Roy Rogers days. Oh, well. No kidding--a top cowboy band appearing live! I think the lead singer is a friend of the minister. Think they may have a Doors service one of these Sundays? I'm sure they'll get right on it. It would have to be a tribute band anyway.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

AND MORE BORED THAN EVER

Don and I just got into a debate. He unctuously informed me that nobody ever uses the word "unctuous" in polite conversation. That threw me into one of my favorite mini-hobbies--looking words up in my old and frazzled dictionary. I love it! Unctuous: "Oily," like ointment. But really, in polite conversation, the meaning will generally be "offensively smoothe or suave." Unctuous was the wrong word to use in describing Don's 'tude when telling me about the word! If I find an accurate description I'll soon be posting it RIGHT HERE. Unless Something Wonderful Happens! Then I will be gloriously yanked away from my overused computer.

AM I A WASTE OF TIME?

Usually Fridays are my favorite day of the week. Something about Fridays soothes and blissfully sails into a needed weekend. But today, I feel I'm wasting the fluffy Friday vibes just futzing around on the computer and gazing around my messy office without doing anything about it. In a word, vegetating. Here it is, the holiday weekend and nothing's happening. I'm at that miserably awkward age: To young to rock and too old to rock! Ah, well, life is what it is . . . perhaps I can talk Don into going out to dinner tonight. Or to a movie tomorrow. Meanwhile, my loyal colleagues are working their butts off to get the next issue of UFO Magazine done, all dolled up and off to the printer. Still have to write my editor's note.
But not before I clean my office.

VARIABLE HARVEST

I've fussed, fumed and generally turned into a feverish, fretful farmer over my tomato plants, but now Don and I have something to dote on and consume as soon as possible!The green ones in the back have been that way for over three weeks and I am patiently waiting for them to turn. If they don't, I'm dragging out the corn meal and my faint southern roots, and will make fried green maters! The five plants outside are slowly eking out tomatoes, almost all of them green. Some of the biggest and most beautiful ones picked up some kind of strange disease of the skin (It might be the tomato version of sunburn--not quite sure.) Nevertheless, we are filled with hope and yearnings for the red, luscious fruit. I joined a tomato forum but I find the members there are far more experienced as tomato farmers than I, very few growing in California. But Nature, regardless of state, moves on! We're hopeful.
And I've begun another cultivation operation: Abundance! I'll write more about that later, but meanwhile--check this out!