MOUNTAIN LION -- BIG DEAL!

So we're having coffee this morning gazing out the dining room window when a startled Don urgently whispers to me, "Oh God, Vicki, look! Walk slowly over behind me and look out the window . . ." I did as instructed but didn't see anything 'cause the big kitty must have detected movement and bolted, a very common wildcat thing to do. But I'm told it was a speckled mountain lion. Don, agitated, claims it was peering into our backyard and may having been scoping things out in search of Buckwheat.

That was enough to make me a tad nervous, but for Don it was as if Osama Bin Laden and Sigfried & Roy's biggest and baddest white tiger were both coming through the window. Well, I exaggerate, but soon Don was on the phone calling the Sheriff and Animal Control and the nearby fire station. Passive voice mail, and only voice mail responded, and that pissed him off.

He said the cat weighed at least 60 lbs. I'm certain he/she is dangerous, but when I told my sweetheart that he was overreacting and that there's nothing we can do about the wild creatures in our neighborhood, he only replied disparagingly, "Typical female response." Well dammit, Don, as I've told you over and over, I do NOT want to live a paranoid life! I am always careful walking Buckwheat (we went out soon after), and will make a point to be even more aware now. But please, take it easy! I already bite my nails and have itchy skin, so chill!

After all, some people have really big cats in their yard, and seem to handle it with a measure of coolness and poise:

BABY NEEDS BOTOX!
I've gradually gotten over my funk about Uncle Grant, and realize such angst over quietly besmirched, long-dead relatives simply drives one's head into places that can potentially impair day-to-day functioning.

What helps? Parties! BIG parties! Due to the gracious thoughtfulness of one of our writers, Don and I were invited to attend this year's annual Safari Brunch hosted by the Wildlife Waystation. Don chose not to attend -- my dear boy has problems with crowds -- so I went alone. Alone, but not lonely: This was no spur-of-the-moment invite to the top floor of someone's west end apartment where a tray of limp deviled eggs is passed around. The setting -- The Playboy Mansion! The goodies -- Open bar, silent auction, delicious food, a smattering of celebrities and Bunnies and one lunar astronaut! Guest of honor: An 8-foot albino Burmese python.

Fueled by appreciation of Hef's huge, gorgeous landscape and several glasses of champagne, I led myself on an haphazardly guided tour, and as I took it all in, the contrast with other things going on here on Planet Earth struck me like a crystal wineglass smashed on the designer pool deck, over and over. While the beautiful (sometimes plastic) people cavorted, tremors shook the India-Pakistan border and people were dying; many refugees from Katrina still didn't know where they were going to live . . .

How arbitrary is the circumstance that a single human experiences on any given day?

I found myself in a mega-luxe setting where already beautiful women had paid significant sums to have their facial features altered by deft infusions of a deadly poison . . . where men in couples gossiped about the imminent collapse of of this or that film executive's empire and the sudden ascent of another . . . where exquisite wild creatures were put on display for the amusement of these oh-so-El-Lay trippers (and actually were far better off here slithering on Hef's emerald lawn than in the wild, their natural habitat an unnatural home for these animals born and raised in captivity).

I've always feared that great wealth means great insulation: Not just the plain luck of being protected from the more painful and humiliating exingencies of life, but, because of the constant comfort, distraction and smootheness that wealth affords, an icy insulation from any clear recognition of others' plights. SO many others, in fact. Most of the world, actually! Thus, the niggling old temptation to inwardly make requisite snide remarks about the callousness of the rich.

I've decided to hell with that! While here and there the poseurs marred the scene like chipped Greek statuary, the bulk of the guests simply had a good time and gratefully partook of the fleeting goodies that the party offered. I am one of those. I wished to have been with my mate, but curiously, I've spent many an excursion by myself over the years, whether a trip, a party, a movie or a restaurant meal. That used to bother me when I was younger, but no more. In my aloneness I have more opportunity for contemplating the larger issues that linger beneath surface enchantments.

Besides, I only recognized one and only one botoxed face, and it was well done, smoothe and unblemished. Only her lips were a little too fleshy.

My high-low point was my 15-second conversation with Apollo veteran Buzz Aldrin. When I'd finally ID'ed and cornered him and his wife Lois, I couldn't resist asking him a direct question about UFOs. "Remember what Carl Sagan said?" Buzz replied. "`Much ado about nothing!" As a couple of photographers approached, I knew there was no time to debate that. "How was the Moon?" I blurted. "Dusty," he said.

I got to pet the pale, pretty python twice. Slick, clean. And reacting to the entire shin-dig with her blank reptilian stare, as un-self-conscious as a newborn baby.