For a long time, I adhered to the phrase, “you can’t go home again.” Why would I want to go back home? What could I possibly find back home? Didn’t I say I’d never move back home? There was nothing for me in that place of my youth; nothing new, nothing exciting, nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to, literally, write home about. I was living the good life, the high life, the big city life, the life of Riley, the life of theatre, sailing, swanky restaurants, concerts, endless activities, and never enough parking. I could go to dinner Friday nights, antique-shop on Saturdays, have Sunday morning brunch, and sail under the Golden Gate Bridge whenever I wanted. But I didn’t. Ever. Not once. The restaurants were too swanky, the concerts too pricey, and the sailing? A lot like marriage – completely overrated. So in October of 2002, after spending fourteen years switching jobs, paying excessive rent, and cohabitating with one pompous Brit, I packed up my tripod dog and hit the proverbial road. It’s hard to believe it’s been five wacky, action-packed, fun-filled, tequila-soaked years already. It seems like only yesterday I was packing boxes and burning wedding photos….aaaaah, good times.

After planting my roots again in the vineyards of this here hinterland, there are lots of things I’ve discovered. First of all, living with your parents after the age of 40 is quite an experience. Actually, it’s more of an acquired taste...like squash or broccoli. You may not like it at first, but if it’s your only option, you open wide like a baby bird. I did enjoy my stay at the Hunter Hotel, where the sheets are crisp and the freezer’s well stocked. Some things are always better in the warmth and comfort of your old childhood bedroom, especially during the winter months. Like the smell of coffee in the morning, the coziness of an electric blanket, and the sound of the heater kick-kick-kicking on at 2 a.m. Other times, dwelling with the parental unit is like strolling through the Big Fresno Fair; it’s LOUD, it’s BRIGHT, it’s CROWDED, and you’re always bound to eat too much. On the other hand, you’ll wear funny hats, down a few beers, and never worry about finding gum on your shoe. Hell, you don’t even have to pay for parking.

Home is not where you live but where they understand you. ~Christian Morgenstern

Another thing I’ve noticed is some people never change. Old friends you went to high school with a million years ago haven’t seemed to age a bit. Or grown up. Or matured. They may have kids, mortgages, and car payments, but a good booger joke can still double them over. The words “boob” and “fart” still elicit ridiculous laughter, burping remains an Olympic sport, and dinner table conversation about bodily functions are never off limits. This behavior is only encouraged in a natural setting, say, the mountains, for example. A camping trip without a daily barrage of belching and competitive visits to the tin-can toilets is for sissies. We’re the real deal. We know how to brave the great outdoors. We have the technology. We have the bug spray. We have the cocktails. With hand sanitizer, Jell-O shots, and enthusiastic games of Chicken Foot, we toast s’mores, blow up mattresses, chase wild cows, and smash the hell out of an innocent volleyball. By golly, we even bring our own toilet paper.

Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Homesick in Heaven

I’ve also found that it doesn’t matter whether you’re in San Francisco or the burbs of Fresno, working with a bunch of clotheshorse-obsessed females anywhere, is never dull. It’s like a daily runway show. A veritable catwalk of entertainment. Gucci, Coach, Fendi, and Ralph Lauren never had such good publicity. Women who can walk in 5 inch Jimmy Choo stilettos and not break an ankle simply amaze me…they are thoroughbreds in their own right. Plus, the patience it takes to find just the right Armani handbag to match your new Donna Karan sweater is way beyond my thought process. I’m lucky to make it out the door with my pants on. Or my teeth brushed. Or awake. But hey, that’s just me. That particular cashmere clique can discuss boutique sales at great length (“I LOVE that jacket! Is it Prada?”), while the rest of us regale in the joys of our local Target (“I LOVE those socks! Are they Jockey?”) Priorities, people, priorities. Luckily, you can go ANYWHERE here, wearing just about ANYTHING. Going to the Philharmonic, and all you have is a ball gown and hip waders? No problem! Heading to Roger Rocka’s, Toledo’s, or the 6019 Club? Throw a flask in your backpack, and change the laces in your Converse. Dashing out to the Brig, the Hollywood, or the Longhorn? Um, cowboy boots and manners are optional. Just don’t forget to tip your waitress.

Home is the nicest word there is. - Laura I. Wilder

Of course my real home these days is “Cowpoke Alley”. Home of the “herd”. Home of a thousand jiggers. Home of one BIG BLACK BAG. Actually, the black bag belongs to my blonde-to-the-brain roommate “Cinderella”, who is absolutely certain the world is going to end at any given moment, and goddammit, she’s going to be prepared. Socks, sweats, chonies, jammies, toothbrush, tampons, and tequila are carefully packed away so when Armageddon actually DOES ever come a knocking, she’ll be 12 steps ahead of everyone else. Unfortunately, she’ll be in the middle of her 42nd load of laundry, so The Grim Reaper may have to take a seat for awhile. I could go and on about Cinderella’s odd quirks, like locking/bolting/cementing house/window/car doors, sleeping with her bowling-ball-heavy purse, and swearing like a Pulp Fiction character, but she still does all the cooking, and I don’t want to take any chances. Yes, it’s never a dull moment at Cowpoke Alley, where the finches chatter, and the mutts nibble kibble, fight over chewies, and produce enough poop to fertilize the Gallo vineyards. Thank goodness we have The Food Network to keep us sane. More buttah!

Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don’t you love a cushioned seat in a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet? - Oliver Wendell Holmes

So now that 2008 has begun, I feel compelled to thank my weird and wonderful family and friends for welcoming me back into the fold. It’s been great fun reconnecting with the finest bunch of people this side of the Rockies. With them, I’ve experienced shopping in Reedley, wine-tastings in Madera, late night ATV-ing in Friant, XMAS-Tree-Lane-walking, and the joy of donning rubber hospital gloves. I’ve survived crazy boat-race road trips to Redding and Chowchilla, warm dog days in Pismo Beach and Morro Bay, and that one off-the-map journey to a little town we like to call La Honda. Of which I may never recover. And let’s not forget the endless birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, occasional funerals, steaming hot summers, tulle-fog winters, sneaking into movies, bouts with crabby neighbors, dinner soirees, pool-party-BBQs, and 497 pitchers of strawberry margaritas. Yes, it’s true I hang out with my family all the time. Yes, I only have a handful of close friends. They’re not perfect, and neither am I. But then again, what’s wrong with that? True, the Fagans own a Silver Bullet. Yes, Margaret has overhead fan issues. The Staals live at Antenna Central, Uncle David has a psycho cat, Jill and Jeff have an entire MENAGERIE, and okay, we only used Rick for his pool this summer. And his polar air conditioning. And his “heroin.” But it just goes to show, you CAN have a life back home. You CAN enjoy Sunday dinner with the folks. You CAN share the best times of your life with the best people you know. Yes Virginia, you can, in fact, go home again.

One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening - the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life - and can never find again. After you leave home, you may find yourself feeling homesick, even if you have a new home that has nicer wallpaper and a more efficient dishwasher than the home in which you grew up. ~Lemony Snicket

So you're a single guy with a buff tan, hanging out at home with the usual suspects, enjoying a sweltering Fresno afternoon. You're lounging in the pool, talking smack, while downing glass after glass of incredibly delicious strawberry margaritas. One minute you're completely sane, and the next, you're inviting two blondes for a weekend ride to your nephew's house in La Honda. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Honda,_California The following morning you wake up in your swimmy trunks, wet, freezing, suffering from a hideous hangover, and a major case of amnesia. What the hell happened last night? What the hell was I thinking? WAS I thinking? Where exactly IS La Honda? And what the ding dang was in those margaritas? Slowly, the day's events come back to you, in fleeting little bits and pieces, like a freakish nightmare, and you come to one scary conclusion; you, my friend, are screwed.

The brain-dead man in question here would be my Uncle Ricky, an unsuspecting soul obviously unaware of the magnitude this invitation involved. Did he have any clue what he was in for? Did he know the scope of the task set before him? Did he really want to spend several hours in his well-appointed Lincoln with two ditzy bimbos? Apparently, these thoughts did not cross his mind, as the tequila lulled him into a false sense of security, and depleted any rational ideas from entering his noggin. And so a few days later, Rick arrived at the semi-well-appointed dwelling that is Cowpoke Alley, where the dogs are yappy, and the beverages flow freely. This is where it all started, with sleeping bags, and cots, and tequila, and cranberry juice, and one very large black bag, and all other manner of indispensable camping gear piled high into the trunk. The journey began as bright and merry as a chipper Meg Ryan movie, until the oasis of Casa de Fruita blew into view, and we came to one horrific deduction; we, my friends, were screwed. It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. It was long, loud, and leather-clad. It was the Hollister Motorcycle Rally, where about a kajillion bikes take to the highway, blowing out eardrums and plugging up traffic from here to Omaha. http://www.lightningcustoms.com/28hollister.html And there we were, right smack in the middle of hog central, with nowhere to turn, and no restroom in sight. Our palms began to sweat, our teeth began to grind, and our eyeballs began to float.

Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness. - Ray Bradbury

Fortunately, a mere 45 minutes later, we dug ourselves out of motorcycle mania, relieved our bulging bladders, and continued onward. Through nurseries, vegetable stands, and artichoke farms we cruised, admiring the chocolate brown soil, practicing our Chinese, and trying to keep Cinderella from dying a slow, tedious, air-conditioned-like-a-meat-locker death. We were seriously questioning her direction reading ability, but before you could say TIE-NEE PO-NEE, we came across a road we'll never forget, never be able to locate a second time, and hopefully never have to cross again in our lifetimes; the dreaded Hwy 84. On Mapquest, it's defined as a "sharp turn.” A better description would be the sharpest, U-Shaped, 90-degree, wrench-your-steering-wheel-right-out-of-the-column hairpin on the planet. After Ricky adjusted his shorts and Cinderella had a shot of Jose, the Lincoln carried us along the winding, wooded road, with trees and leaves of emerald green, gorgeous flora and fauna, and all sorts of blooming things. As much as we enjoyed the opulent scenery, the cool mountain air, and the whole Nature Valley granola thing, we seriously began to wonder, and ponder, and generally wring our hands while asking two very important questions; where exactly WERE we, and WHO's idea was this? (see: Rick)

A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles. - Tim Cahill

Having been on this precarious bit of pavement once before, on the back of a bike with an ex-boyfriend (fondly referred to as "dickhead"), I wasn't completely freaked out...yet. As we passed through Woodside and Alice's Restaurant popped up, I began to feel some sort of familiarity, and a sense of relaxation. This immediately ended in the following minutes, as we plodded endlessly along 84, or La Honda road, or as we like to call it, that crazy-twisty-maze-like-a-stretch-of-blacktop, leading to nowhere in a big hurry. According to our map, the next 11 miles of wild, loopy, curvy-like-Anna-Nicole-Smith travel would take us about 26 minutes. Or it was 26 miles in 11 hours, or 8.34 miles as the crow flies, or 1.27 hours to go 9.2 miles if the moon is full, and wild dogs are chasing your car. If you've ever experienced Hawaii’s road to Hanna, you know of which I speak. On and on and on we went through hills and valleys, the fog rolling slowly down the embankment, it's fingers creeping over our windshield, houses becoming more scarce, and the soundtrack from Deliverance pounding in my head. But after passing row after row of mailboxes, crossing a questionable wooden bridge, and hoping the bar was still open, we finally arrived. Tired. Thrashed. Seeking cocktails. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride was complete. Who's idea WAS this again? (see: Rick)

It is not down in any map; true places never are. - Herman Melville

And though the weather was chilly and wet, it was a welcome respite from Fresberg's 100+ degree blast furnace. Our hosts, Kenny and Kathy, embraced we weary travelers, offering us tasty margaritas (which Ricky vehemently declined), and yummy grub. Soon afterward, we joined a very animated crowd around the bonfire, which grew into a giant flaming inferno of great proportions, thanks to an extremely attentive pyromaniac, who proclaimed if it wasn't burning your legs off, it wasn't a fire. Kellage and the dude enthralled everyone with their amazing new do-everything-but-make-the-beds-and-do-the-dishes iphone http://www.apple.com/iphone/, "Lacey" showed us her scary disco moves, Jeff, Matt and Mike discussed technical "man things" like big trucks and even bigger antennas, Myrna teased Jill, Jill tormented Myrna, and Frank and Dot just yearned to take refuge inside "Melba's" warm interior. Many precarious flashlight trips were taken to the campground for refueling, root beer schnapps were shot, fudge brownies consumed, stories shared, jokes told, and massive loudspeakers shook with the theme to Deliverance. Wasn't this RICK's idea?

No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow. - Lin Yutang

Cinderella and I spent a comfortable evening in Matt and Tracy's big-ass toy hauler, atop a 97 psi inflated mattress, with our imaginary blow-up dolls, Ted and Chuck. Amazingly enough, I snoozed quite well, until the accordian in my roomie's chest began to wheeze and moan, and sound like a yowling cat. Sheesh, she made more noise than Brittany's baby did the whole weekend. Next time, I'm sleeping with the rugrat. Sunday morning, we noshed on bagels and killer coffee, cheered on a bouncing trampoline battle, and took a thousand family photos, during which "Lacey" tackled Jill and put a won't-stop-bleeding-for-nothing gash on her ankle. Jeff channeled Hawkeye Pierce, and with 3 coats of invisible bandage substance, and much encouragement from the crowd, almost stopped the crimson gushing. Luckily, Kathy morphed into Florence Nightingale, and came to the rescue with a very large tube of Neosporin and a box of Band-Aids. Who needs Kaiser? After packing up our sleeping bags, and cots, and tequila, and cranberry juice, and one very large black bag, and all other manner of indispensable camping gear, the conversation turned to lunch. It was Frank's birthday after all, where oh where could we go for a mean bowl of clam chowder, and how on earth did we get there? Never, ever, pose that question to a bunch of men: "Well, there's the Flying Fish", "Don't forget Ketch Joanne", "I dunno, the chowder's not that great", "It's easy to get to", "Barbarass Fish Trap is better", "Get the fish n' chips", "But it's not as good as Sam's", "Hey, I like the Flying Fish", "Barbara's is too small", "Ketch Joanne has a view", "Sam's is hard to find", "No man, get the fried calamari", "Look, just take this road up to the mailbox, hang a right at the questionable wooden bridge, take 92 up to Half Moon Bay, turn at the Mexican restaurant, follow the 1952 VW bus, suck your thumb, pull your ear, blink twice, and pull into the parking lot." "Ugh, I need a beer." I'm SURE this was RICK's idea.

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. - Izaak Walton

After arriving in Half Moon Bay and taking a brisk stroll around the pier, we decided on Barbara's Fish Trap, where the chowder was fabulous, and the fish n' chips were crispy and light. Our final stop was Maverick's Surf Shop, named after the world-famous surfing location at Pillar Point Harbor. http://www.mavericksurfshop.com/store.html This very hip establishment is run by an extraordinarily cool woman and her store mascot, "Chuckie" - a massive, wrinkled, charming, blob-esque hulk of a bulldog. Yes, I'm certain if Dot had the opportunity, and a much bigger sweatshirt, she would have smuggled him back to Fresno. And no, I couldn't get enough pictures. Soon thereafter, Ma and Pa climbed aboard "Melba", Jill and Jeff hopped in their truck, and we blondes took our seats in Rick's well-appointed Lincoln for the lengthy haul home. As the Dixie Chicks sang about cowboys, cheating partners, and poor Earl, we reminisced about the weekend. It was a glorious time hanging with the family, laughing, enjoying the ocean, and admiring the lush, almost tropical surroundings. Did it matter if our drive was four hours? Big deal. Did we care if it was tedious? Not really. Could it have been any more mind-numbing? Probably. But it was STILL Rick's idea.

And that's the wonderful thing about family travel: it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind. - Dave Barry

Heavy sigh. Yes, it's the beginning of another year at Cowpoke Alley, and all is well with the world. The casa is still in one piece, we're relatively healthy, and the pork chop dog hasn’t eaten the ENTIRE house...yet. I'm sure it's only a matter of time. The Year 2006 was a good and strange one here on Glenn Avenue, bereft of any natural disasters or locusts or job promotions. The squirrels still torment the mutts, the mutts still torment the gardeners, and our crabby neighbor still torments us just by being, well, her crabby self. They say you should learn from past mistakes, and the New Year is the perfect time for correcting errors, and starting all over again with a clean slate. I'm not sure there are enough erasers for our chalkboard, but we'll try to begin anew with a better attitude, more motivation, and the desire to actually SEE our carpets. I'm not implying there are a lot of dog toys on the floor, or dog hair in the baseboards, or dog slobber in our beds, but let's just say that even the fearless women at Molly Maids run screaming in horror from our cobweb-draped doorway. And it's not even CLOSE to being Halloween. And so without further adieu, let's examine what sort of high-faluttin' stuff we little cowgals have soaked up during the past 12 months...besides the tequila...

Stuff and Junk:
Yes, Virginia, it is entirely possible to have WAY too much STUFF. We have more stuff than Elizabeth Taylor has divorces. More stuff than Imelda Marcos has shoes. Way more stuff than Paris Hilton has embarrassing videos. But it's not our fault. You see, SOME people just insist on buying us MORE STUFF. More stuff we don't need. More stuff we don't want. More stuff than will actually FIT into an ENTIRE frickin' room. Sheesh. At some point, we'll have to channel The Dude, who has made the monumental decision that all his birthday/XMAS/anniversary presents must be CONSUMABLE, thus ending the accumulation of any more stuff. And you know, we must abide by the Dude.

The proper behavior all through the holiday season is to be drunk. This drunkenness culminates on New Year's Eve, when you get so drunk you kiss the person you're married to.
- P.J. O'Rourke

Foodage:
There are three rules, the Holy Trinity if you will, for Cooking with Kerry: Everything is better with buttah, you can never have enough cheese, and Kitchen Bouquet is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Also, spending more than 36 hours at a time watching TV chefs prepare endless amounts of yummy dishes, really does absolutely nothing to inspire you in the culinary sense. Oh, it gets you all excited about trying new things like paella, polenta, and paprikash, but the thrill soon ends upon the realization that you don't actually HAVE a TV chef of your own to whip up said recipes. And unless you're Tom Cruise, Oprah Winfrey, or the Pope, it ain't gonna happen. So even though hardworking single gals like Cinderella and myself may WANT a big heapin' helping of Wild Mushroom Soup with Chestnuts and Roasted Fennel, sometimes a small bowlful of Lipton's Chicken Noodle can yield the same results; a warm and happy tummy. And then there's that whole 3 hours versus 5 minutes thing...

But can one still make resolutions when one is over forty? I live according to twenty-year-old habits. - Andre Gide

Dogs + Kids = One in the Same:
Some people have kids, some people have dogs, and some poor fools have both. Rugrats and mutts are pretty much alike, even thought they may be two different species. They both drool and slobber a lot, eat and drink incessantly, need constant attention, and whine profusely when their parents leave them alone. Fortunately, children generally don't shed all over your shag carpeting, and dogs don't need a college education. Unfortunately, they both doo-doo in mass quantities, so whether you're changing diapers or using the Pooper-Scooper, things are going to get nasty. Potty training and use of the doggy door, are equally important items that need to be addressed when raising a youngster. Yes, kids and canines share many attributes and have much more in common than you might think. Embarrass you in public? You bet! Burp and fart? Absolutely! Need tummy rubs, back patting, and the occasional cookie bribe? Yes, yes, and a resounding YES! And no, we wouldn't change a thing.

The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise, when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears. - W.H. Auden

Fabio vs. Family:
It's true that I haven't had a date since Clinton was President, Kerry calls men swine, and both of us prefer the company of Jasper and Boo to just about any man. However, this doesn't mean we've sworn off the male-type variety completely...just until Bill Gates runs out of money, everyone has health care, and world peace is declared throughout the land. Um, yeah. Some foolish folk believe that women "of a certain age" must be married, have a steady boyfriend, or accept invitations every Saturday night, to feel complete. These are probably the same yahoos who meet at Applebee's on Friday after work, to sip White Zinfandel and discuss exciting plans for their next "couples only" Sandals vacation. Bleah. Unbeknownst to a lot of people, you can actually have quite a fulfilling life, and busy weekends, and lovely dinner evenings, without wasting pointless hours listening to the dronings of a mama's boy, a workaholic, or a stoner dude, who's idea of spending quality time with you consists of a bong and a cheeseburger. If Cinderella and I were given the option, we would easily choose an afternoon of cinematherapy with family, over a double date with George Clooney and Jude Law. Okay, I just threw that in there to see if you were paying attention; maybe a double date with Dick Cheney and K-Fed would be a better example...

Of all sound of all bells...most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year.
- Charles Lamb

Heaven and Earth:
Whether it's a beloved pet, an aging grandparent, or an old friend, saying good-bye to someone you care deeply about, in a word, sucks. In 2006, I had the bad fortune of having to say farewell to all of the above. My tripod dog "Hap", who was my adoring little sidekick for 13 years, my amazing grandma Melba, who bravely never lost her sense of humor, and Craig, a gentle soul about my age, who played a mean game of "spoons" on camping trips. I'm not one to question, and ponder, and mull over immortality, but sometimes you just can't help it. Where DO we go after we leave this planet? Are we sucked into some cosmic void in the universe? Is there a gigantic doggie run in the sky? If Heaven and Hell really do exist, is it possible to get cable? TV personality Orson Bean once said, "I'm an agnostic - I'm not sure what I don't believe in." Now that's a motto I can live by; if nothing else, it's good for starting a lively conversation at church. Personally, I like to think there's a place for those who pass on, somewhere green and warm and lush. Not Fresno-smack-in-the-middle-of-August warm, I wouldn't even wish that on George Dubya (well, maybe for a couple days). Perhaps more of a temperate climate, like Hawaii, where all the waves are turquoise, all the beaches are white, and all the drinks come with paper umbrellas. I'm pretty sure Gram is there, sitting in her big blue rocker, and cheering on Gary Scelzi at the funny car races. Meanwhile, Craig is feeding the Hapster some tasty slices of cheese, just before taking her on a sunny walk across the shoreline. Jingle, jingle, jingle go the dog tags...whish, whish, whish go the waves...

I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight, with so much nicotine in the system. Also, dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea, as you can't eat rationally, but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second. - Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones's Diary

Well, it's Christmas time again, and all the frantic shopping and wrapping and tearing apart of toys, electronics, clothing, jewelry, and gift cards will soon be over. Ribbon will be flung, boxes crushed, paper shredded, hopes dashed, and lives ruined, just because there weren't enough iPods to go around. The holiday season tends to sneak up on you from behind, as if you've got a nasty case of the hiccups, and your loopy Uncle Bob is trying to scare the bejeezus out of you. AAUGGHHH!!! Are you CRAZY? I'm not ready! What are you doing?! I almost had a heart attack! Are you TRYING to scare the bejeezus outta me?! You're never ready for it. You don't see it coming. And yet it gets you, every single time. You might as well just face it, whip out that Mastercard, pull on those fuzzy slippers, pour yourself a stiff eggnog, and give in. Give in to the gingerbread, toffee, popcorn balls, nutty fudge, sugar cookies, hot cocoa, candy canes, candied fruit, candied yams, and cocktails a'plenty. Look at it this way, at least you've got a couple months to recover before Valentine's Day.

There are some holiday traditions that you just look forward to every year. "A Charlie Brown Christmas", for example, with Vince Guaraldi's timeless score, the "Grinch", "Scrooge", and the classic, "It's a Wonderful Life." Some of us set aside a whole box of Kleenex for that one. We yearn for the smell of pine trees and pies baking, the sound of bells and children's laughter, and the sight of multi-colored lights strung on cozy houses. For most people, these are what Christmas memories are all about. Well, most NORMAL people. And then there are those who bring a whole new meaning to the "spirit of giving." Those who start shopping in March. Those who wear out their Visas by Mother's Day. Those who cram their car trunks to the point of explosion. Those who buy so much frickin' STUFF, they can't seem to locate half the 97 gifts they purchased throughout the year. Those who devote entire bedrooms to said purchases. Those people who can't be stopped, reasoned with, or talked to during a 25% off department store sale. In particular, people like my roommate's mother. We'll call her Margaret.

Harry Bailey: A toast to my big brother George: The richest man in town.
Clarence: Remember, George: No man is a failure who has friends.
- It's a Wonderful Life

Now, we love Margaret. She is quite fabulous. She makes a damn good potato cheese soup, has a well-stocked bar, and a jolly good laugh, much like St. Nick himself. Unfortunately, she's also laboring under the complete misapprehension that she IS, in fact, Santa. Sometimes we wonder about the wiring in her platinum head. Or the number of platinum place settings she owns. Or just how many platinum credit cards are stuffed into her over-flowing wallet. To quote Holly Golightly, "I must say, the mind reels." Margaret is a professional shopper. Well, she doesn't do it for a living, but she easily could. And she's got the wardrobe to prove it. And the shoe collection. And the artwork. And the table linens. And the decorative plates, bowls, and candlesticks too. But her true calling is shopping for others. Birthdays, anniversaries, Groundhog Day...I'm talking piles of presents. However, nothing comes close to the Christmas shopping. The BIG shop. The BIG Kahuna. The BIG cheese on campus. The mother of ALL shopping occasions. The holiday of crazed women hurtling carts through packed parking lots, frantic men wandering aimlessly down the jewelry aisle, and kids hopped up on so much chocolate, their heads spin at the very mention of the words, "Tickle Me Elmo." This, my dears, is what Margaret lives for.

Frank Cross: It's Christmas Eve. It's the one night of the year when we all act a little nicer, we smile a little easier, we cheer a little more. For a couple of hours out of the whole year, we are the people that we always hoped we would be.
- Bill Murray, Scrooged

But it's not just the buying process that makes our Macy's maven drool, and tremble, and buckle her knees in a joyous delighted heap. It's the wrapping, wrapping, and more wrapping. The unfurling of gigantic rolls of snowman, reindeer, and mistletoe paper, so heavy and wide in circumference, you could use them to jack up your ailing auto. Not to mention the pre-printed boxes, bags of bows, tons of tape, nametags, curling ribbon, scissors, tissue, and MORE paper. I'm talking rows of paper. I'm talking miles of paper. I'm talking a veritable football field of paper. All lined up in 47 lovely plastic Target containers; long and tubular, squat and stout, short and round...and all jammed into one square foot of garage space. Great. You see, you can't really WRAP anything up into a manner befitting Spanish nobility, until you actually, well, FIND the wrap. It makes things a whole lot easier that way. Of course, FINDING the aforementioned 97 PRESENTS (see Paragraph II, Sec 3) to wrap AFTER you FIND the wrap, is well, Nirvana. Now just make sure the royal blue ribbon matches the quarter-inch stripe on Dancer's hoof, then cut the tape at a diagonal angle for the right corner, and keep your finger on Rudolph's nose while you apply 3 sequins to the chimney, dust the whole thing with powdered sugar, and pop into the oven at 350 degrees for 8 to 10 minutes. Uh oh, I think I just wrapped the cookie dough and baked the flannel sheets. Is it Happy Hour YET?

Fred Gailey: All my life I've wondered something, and now's my chance to find out. I'm going to find the answer to a question that's puzzled the world for centuries. Does Santa Claus sleep with his whiskers outside or in?
Kris Kringle: Always sleep with them out. Cold air makes them grow.
- Miracle on 34th Street

I am in complete and utter amazed wonder of folk like Margaret. Inherently, women are supposed to be wired for the whole shopping thing. I must have been absent the day they doled that trait out. Now mind you, I used to enjoy a good shop. I could shop with the best of them. And then, one day, I just lost interest. My roommate, on the other hand, seems to have acquired her mother's said shopping gene, and makes her happy lists, and strolls down the shampoo section with glee, and giggles when buying toilet paper, and is basically thrilled to bits when entering the laundry soap aisle. Oooooh...detergent...dryer sheets...aaahhhhhh. I look at it this way; everybody has some sort of talent. My mother is a fantastic cook (another attribute I seem to be missing), my sister Jill makes people laugh their brains out, my dad is creative with his hand tools, and my other sibling, Kelly, can miraculously speak to her flock of cockatiels. Well, that's either a talent or a surefire ticket to Bellevue, depending on how you look at it. So while some of us enjoy a lovely evening stroll down Christmas Tree Lane, or an afternoon of gift buying in downtown Reedley, or an unforgettable night at the Philharmonic listening to Carol Channing belt out "Hello Dolly", others have a different idea of quality holiday time. And whether it's caroling on a moonlit evening, or sharing cocoa with a friend, or wrapping 412 pounds of prezzies in front of your sweltering pellet stove, just remember this; "it's better to give than to receive" is more than just a phrase to some people, it's a lifestyle. Just don't offer to help them wrap.

John Boy: Christmas is the season where we give tokens of love. In that house, we received not tokens, but love itself. I became the writer I promised my father I would be, and my destiny lead me far from Walton's Mountain. My mother lives there still. Alone now, for we lost my father in 1969. My brothers and sisters, grown with children of their own, live not far away. We are still a close family and see each other when we can. And like Miss Maime Baldwin's fourth cousins, we're apt to sample the recipe, and then gather around the piano and hug each other while we sing the old songs. For no matter the time or distance, we are united in the memory of that Christmas Eve. More than 30 years and 3,000 miles away, I can still hear those sweet voices.
- The Homecoming

It has come to my attention recently, that we little buckaroos at Cowpoke Alley have a serious addiction. And I'm not talking about the tequila. I'm talking about the T.V. That little box of cable pleasure which seeps into our living room, casting an evil glow over the furniture and dog-hair-laden carpet, teasing us with nasty thoughts of Dr. McDreamy on "Grey's Anatomy", or the hilarious blue-tinted orthodontia that is "Ugly Betty's" braces.
http://abc.go.com/primetime/uglybetty/index.html Not to mention the toetags and quirky characters on "Six Feet Under", the not-so-subtle nakedness of our love-starved gal pals on "Sex and the City", or the strange and wonderful craving we just can't seem to kick by watching "Dancing with the Stars." I know, it's a sickness.

And you'd think we could quit. Just give it up. Just walk away from this demon, slinging our remote into the fireplace, and settling down with a good Harlequin romance novel. And we probably could. Except for one teensy thing. One tiny little detail. One 24-hour Extra Virgin Olive Oil-infused, blackened, blanched, blended, browned, caramelized, chocolate-drizzled, chopped, diced, de-boned, de-glazed, filleted, fricasseed, fried, garnished, grated, grilled, herb- stuffed, julienned, macadamia-nut-crusted, mashed, minced, mixed, parboiled, poached, powdered-sugar-dusted, pureed, rendered, roasted, seared, sauteed, scalded, seasoned, shaken, stirred, simmered, steamed, steeped, tomato-pureed, whipped, whisked, white-wine-marinated, zested, oh my gersh turn it off already, Food Network Channel. http://www.foodnetwork.com/ It's unstoppable. It's eye candy for grown ups. It's the devil incarnate. And we are hooked. Hooked like a big flashy trout on a Blue Quill fly. Like Lisa Rinna on Botox. Like Rush Limbaugh on meds. Like Kate Moss on coke. Like Tom Cruise on himself. And that, my friends, is about as rock bottom as you can get.

"I can't cook. I use a smoke alarm as a timer."
-Carol Siskind, Comedienne

We need help. Serious help. But, we don't WANT help. We're perfectly content to hold down the futons and watch hour after hour of garlic being smashed, potatoes being wedged, green beans snapped, eggs scrambled, bread baked, veggies tossed, meat brined, cookies shaped, pasta drained, sausage smoked, pepper ground and salted to taste. Whew. To those of you who know me well, this may very well come as a huge, resounding, what-the- ding-dang-are-you-talking-about shock. Cooking? Wendy? OUR Wendy? The Wendy who burns soup? The Wendy who fries water? The Wendy who needs a trail of bread crumbs to find the stove? The same Wendy who only knows the fridge by its stage name... wine cooler? Go ahead, laugh it up. For it turns out I enjoy The Food Network in the same way I enjoy say, Martha Stewart Living; I love all the yummy looking dishes of pumpkin and sage, and all the pretty pictures of hollowed out gourds, but have absolutely NO desire to attempt said projects. Does this make me a bad person? Maybe. Does this make me a lazy person? Probably. Does this make me a person who enjoys watching OTHER people slave away? Definitely. Whisk that sauce! Baste that bird! You're on TV for crimminey sakes!

"What my mother believed about cooking is that if you worked hard and prospered, someone else would do it for you."
-Nora Ephron

So what is the attraction to this behemoth of a channel? Is it the strangely beautiful photography of ripe red bell peppers? Is it the overhead shots of dark chocolate chunks warming in an All Clad saucepan? Or perhaps the mesmerizing display of imported marble counters, Kitchen Aid mixers, and Calphalon cookware. You know, all the things YOU have in your industrial kitchen with the Italian brick pizza oven, spit chicken roaster, Whole Foods- stocked pantry, temperature controlled wine unit, and underground olive oil well. Um, yeah. Well, the gadgets and cinematography may have something to do with it, but let's face it, we love the cooks. Mainly, the female-type ones. With all their bizarre behavior, goofy slang, and spotless aprons, we can't seem to get enough of them. Even when we don't particularly care for them, and think we could easily pummel them into the nearest rotisserie pan, we still can't turn away. Drop everything! We MUST watch! We CAN'T miss a minute! "Hurry! It's ON!" "But I have to pee." "Hold it, she's cracking the eggs!" "But my laundry's done." "Forget it, she's flipping the steaks!" "But the dogs are hungry." "They ate last week...check out this souffle!" Heavy sigh. And so for sanity's sake, let's examine a few of these gastronomical heavyweights (pardon the pun) of small screen stardom, to see how they keep up so completely enraptured, just by zesting a Meyer lemon:

"She did not so much cook as assassinate food."
-Margaret Storm Jameson

Rachel "30-Minute Meal Ray: Yup, she's a dynamo in the kitchen, a veritable whirlwind of a Tasmanian Devil. She can carry 97 items in her arms at once, whip up a "healty and delicious" meal at breakneck speed, scamper from stove to fridge to sink and back at such a frenetic pace you think she must be on crack, all the while sharing hokey family tales and talking, talking, talking incessantly. Revered by some, reviled by others. http://www.slate.com/id/2122085/
Slang favorites: Yum-O! Delish!

Paula "It's all about the buttah" Dean: A one woman showboat with the smoothest caramel-sauce Southern drawl this side of the Mississippi, and a laugh that shatters glass. Started out as the "Bag Lady" making lunches in her kitchen, opened a restaurant with her two adorable sons, and became everybody's favorite juicy aunt in the kitchen. http://www.ladyandsons.com/ Doesn't believe in low-fat ANYTHING, cooks and bakes with wild abandon, and thinks that butter is the ultimate ingredient. Favorite catch phrase: More buttah, y'all!

Sandra "Semi-Homemade" Lee: Uses 70% store-bought ingredients and 30% fresh, to make dishes "your guests will think you slaved over all day." Has color coordinated kitchen and clothing scheme for each broadcast; i.e., palm tree apron, palm tree curtains, palm tree dishcloths, vases, bowls, and dreaded "tablescape." Oh, the tablescapes. Matching dishes, napkins, place cards, tablecloth, party favors, and candles...most of which you can throw together with items from the craft store! http://www.semihomemade.com/tablescapes/ Worst cocktail ever: Bourbon, orange juice, ginger ale, and 1 can of FRUIT COCKTAIL. Bleah!

Giada "Everyday Italian" De Laurentis: More teeth than Julia Roberts. Canines like Cujo. Bigger chops than Jaws. Granddaughter of producer Dino "Serpico" DeLaurentis. Makes fabulous bundles of pasta and other Italian treats, swoons over anything chocolate, throws envious dinner beach parties, surprises her luckiest-man-on-the-planet husband with office lunches, has stunning eyes, luminous hair, and toothpick-size waist, despite noshing on aforementioned pasta treats and mounds of chocolate. Bitch.
http://www.giadadelaurentiis.com/questions.html

Ina "Barefoot Contessa" Garten: Our personal favorite. Has a calm, soothing quality like Creme Brulee. We want to be her friends. We want to sip Cranberry Cosmos with her chic party guests. We want to dine in her sumptuous East Hampton house. We want to stroll barefoot through her herb garden, an aromatic blend of basil, chives and lavender beneath our feet. We want to savor her amazing Chicken with (no, I'm not kidding) 40 Cloves of Garlic, the succulent Salmon with Lentils, smooth Rosemary White Bean Soup, grilled Fennel with Parmesan, decadent Pecan Squares, orgasmic Outrageous Brownies, and luscious Pumpkin Banana Mousse Tart. In short, we want her to adopt us. http://www.barefootcontessa.com/about.html

"You don't get over hating to cook, any more than you get over having big feet."
-Peg Bracken

As you can see, the choices are endless on the Food Network. And I've only covered the women. There's also Emeril "BAM!" Lagasse, with his 47 pounds of garlic, Michael "Easy Entertaining" Chiarello, with his 47 steps to every Napa Valley-inspired recipe, and Bobby "Throwdown" Flay, who challenges reigning champions in a winner-take-all competition at their own signature dish. Doesn't matter if it's chowder or chili, there will be 47 gallons of it. And I haven't even mentioned specialty shows like Iron Chef, Ace of Cakes, or Good Eats. Yes, it's mind-boggling. Yes, it's brain-numbing. Yes, it's insane. I'm sure our time would be much better spent on more productive things like cleaning house, paying bills, or doing the dishes. We could engage right now in an intelligent conversation about world politics, the Billboard Top 10, or the sad fact that we have to wait until frickin' February for the convoluted storyline of "LOST" to return. And I would love to, really, truly I would...but I can hear the Contessa pre-heating her soup pot...

"My mother didn't really cook. But she did make key lime pie, until the day the top of the evaporated milk container accidentally ended up in the pie, and she decided cooking took too much concentration."
-William Norwich

Ah yes, the ocean. That great swath of blue and green that seems to go on for miles. Time literally stops when you're walking on the sand, and it seems as though you could stroll on forever, your eyes constantly scanning the waves as the tide laps at your feet. Or maybe it's just your underused calf muscles screaming at you. Maybe it just SEEMS like a lifetime since you began your unending journey. Maybe all that seaweed sloshing around your ankles, like some sort of slimy ball and chain, is slowing you down. Maybe you're thinking to yourself, where the ding dang did we start from? The pier? THAT pier? That tiny toothpick tower that now appears 12 miles away?! And then you begin thinking, I can't possibly carry on, I cannot conceivably take another step. I'm going to collapse, in a weathered heap, right here, next to this dead pelican. People will stop and say, oh, the poor unfortunate thing, and try to pluck feathers from your head. It is in this instant, your epiphany appears. You regain your strength. You CAN and must press on. Your legs become weightless, your stride grows longer, you suck in great gulps of salty air, and finally, after climbing endless cement steps...you stop. The Holy Grail awaits you. That sweet elixir of life to tempt and tease you, the burn in your throat that pops the eyes, opens the nasal passages, and gives you the will to FACE THE SURF ONCE AGAIN! You smile as your cowering "let's-take-the-dogs-to-the-beach-it-will-be-fun" roommate pours you a second shot of Cuervo, and prays you don't pummel her into the nearest sand dune.

Yes, we took the dogs to the beach. Yes, it was an experience. Yes, I'm still picking the sand out of my teeth. It appears that a trip to the beach has changed a lot since I was a kid. It appears to be a bigger production than I remember. It appears to require a whole lot more packing. And I mean a LOT. Gone are the days of just throwing your bathing suit on, grabbing a Frisbee and tossing Fido in the car. These are the days of loading up 12 fluffy towels, 4 pairs of shorts, sweats, jackets, socks, sneakers, sunscreen, CD's, doggie toys, doggie kibble, doggie treats, 9 pairs of flip-flops, extra T.P., the Thomas Guide, the camera, and the sunglasses. Oh, and the hats. I don't remember wearing a lot of hats as a kid, but that was long before I discovered that just a couple hours under the searing sun is a welcome mat on my chin for one ugly cold sore. Yeesh. And let's not forget the ice chest, crammed to within an inch of it's breaking point with water, sodas, cheese, salami, cocktail fixin's, and our good friend Jose. Plus the bag of Wheat Thins, Triscuits, and granola bars. Yes, it's obvious the coconut doesn't fall too far from the palm tree, as Cinderella-the-packing-challenged was channeling Margaret a couple weekends ago...except for the big plastic tubs. It's hard to fathom that 2 dippy blondes and a couple of wacky mutts could need so much frickin' STUFF for a single day trip. But in hindsight, we should have packed more tequila.

On vacations: We hit the sunny beaches where we occupy ourselves keeping the sun off our skin, the saltwater off our bodies, and the sand out of our belongings. - Erma Bombeck

And so with two four-legged beasts in the backseat, hanging their heads out the windows, ears a flyin' and lips a flappin', we began our Beach Blanket Bingo on wheels. Of course we had to make several stops before even TOUCHING the freeway, because, well, we had to. We had to get batteries for the camera, Cinderella had to gulp her 140-degree-white-chocolate-Starbucks-concoction-with-a-double-shot, and I had to scarf down an Egg McMuffin before I got cranky(er). Soon we were careening down the road at breakneck speed, with Cinderella at the wheel, and yours truly assuming DJ duty. I'm not sure if Boo and the Pork Chop appreciated our scary impersonation of drunken Karaoke wenches on American Idol, but considering they kept their furry faces OUTSIDE the entire trip, I can only assume they were hoping Simon Cowell would just show up and put an end to the whole dreadful thing. A couple pit stops and 3 hours later, we landed in the lovely and scenic town of Pismo Beach, where the bougainvillea bloom in gigantic fuchsia bunches, and the pelicans wheel around in great and glorious groupings. http://www.classiccalifornia.com/ Then to the pier we headed, mutts in tow, a vast expanse of sand before us. Sand for days. I'm talking a TREMENDOUS amount of sand. Walking in the sand is like trying to trudge to shore with a huge pachyderm strapped to your shoulders...in a tar pit...in the Sahara...with cement blocks attached to your feet. It's slow and steady and extremely discouraging, especially when a five year old comes hurtling past you like Forrest Gump, a bucket in his hand, a shovel under his arm...a hotdog, a soda, an ice cream cone...and a Dumbo backpack. You curse the sand in your eyes, between your toes, tangled in your nose hairs and under your fingernails. You hate its enormity. You abhor its grittiness. You despise its sharpened edges. But when that same five year old slips on a gull turd, and performs the finest face plant this side of the Rockies...well...sand...good...sand...friend...

You can tell all you need to about a society from how it treats animals and beaches.
- Frank Deford

It's truly amazing how a canine critter reacts to the ocean, especially on his maiden voyage. There must be a thousand different thoughts sifting through his Milk-Bone-adled brain, as he sniffs and whiffs, and has his senses pulled in a million directions at once. Who ARE all these people? What's all this stuff? Can I chew this? Can I chase that? Hey, is that for me? I need to pee here. I think I'll poop there. Whose poop is THAT? That's not MY poop. Yes, it's Short-Attention-Span-Theatre when the dogs are out barking, running, drooling, whizzing, and leaving no shell unturned. Speaking of which, I think the little Civic was about 12 pounds heavier on our return trip, as Cinderella was bound and determined to collect every single, solitary, itty-bitty, shell, rock, pebble, and sand-dollar piece on the West Coast. "Oh Madge! Look! A rock! A GREEN rock! Have you ever seen such a thing? Oh, we HAFTA, HAFTA take this shell home! It's so beautiful! It's white! Oh my goodness, a WHITE shell! Can you believe it? OH MY GAWD BECKY! A sand dollar! A WHOLE sand dollar! HOORAY! It's gorgeous! It's amazing! It's the best thing ever! Eeeww, it's still alive! It's moving! It's nasty! It's fuzzy! It's disgusting! Don't touch it! Bleah! Gross! Can we take it home?" Soon after amassing this prized collection of sea creatures, rambling the shoreline, noshing on Fish n' Chips, apologizing profusely to WELL-behaved pet owners, and watching the poor Boo dog heave up 97 gallons of salt water, it was time to hit the proverbial road. Again. In search of more sand.

Sponges grow in the ocean. That just kills me. I wonder how much deeper the ocean would be if that didn't happen. - Stephen Wright

So even though I was spent and the mutts were snoring into the upholstery, Cinderella's energy was boundless, and the happy Honda landed on the breezy doorstep of Morro Bay. http://www.morro-bay.net/ Well, after the endless meandering of side streets and city blocks, and being forced to ask some amused locals exactly WHICH freeway we needed. Was it 101 to 227? Was it 41 to 146? Was it a hop, skip, and a jump? A stone's throw? As the crow flies? As the moon rises? As the sun sets? As the world turns? All I know is that by the time we got there, I was ready for a snooze, the dogs were ready to hibernate, and Cinderella...well, she was ready for The Rock. "Oh my lord and little fishes! Do you see it? There it is! It's the rock! It's MORRO ROCK! Get a picture! Did you get it? Get me in it! Am I in it? Did you get that bird? That plant? The sunset? Did you get it? Hey, YOU get in it!" As my eyes slowly rolled into the back of my head, and the salt spray began to burn my chapped lips, I marveled at the sheer unabashed joy that is my goofy roommate. She did cartwheels, tormented seagulls, scaled rocks, laughed, screamed, and ran barefoot through the turquoise foam. I know what you're thinking. She doesn't get out much. And you'd be right. But be that as it may, it's nice to see there are some things from childhood that we never truly abandon. Like building sand castles. Like collecting seashells. Like jumping waves, running from the tide, chasing birds...and acting like a five year old. Just watch out for the gull poop.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.
- James Russell Lowell

A hospital room is very awkward. Ditto for rest homes and other healthcare facilities that cater to the elderly. You know you should visit your friend or relative, but you just don't know what to say. You don't want to keep staring at them during those painful silences, so you scan the walls and oxygen tanks for inspiration. Whomever proclaimed that "the art of conversation is lost", must have spent a lot of time in sickbay. The chitchat is idle talk about the family, the weather, and the unrelenting price of gasoline. And you ask about lunch and how dinner was last night, and what flavor the pudding was, and what time is physical therapy, and all the mundane questions you can possibly muster. Even though you probably already know that lunch was lousy, and dinner was limp pasta, there was no pudding, and physical therapy has been cancelled for that day. But what you really want to ask is aren't you just sick and tired of all the poking and prodding, the wheelchairs, the embarrassing peek-a-boo gowns, the crap food, and hey, would you like me to smuggle in a cheeseburger from McDonald's?

My grandmother spent the last few months of her 93-year life in a rehab facility. It's not that they're bad places, they're just, well, uncomfortable. I can't imagine anything scarier than waking up one day in a completely strange bedroom (okay, maybe in my 20's, but that was a long time ago). Suddenly, you have nothing of your own, especially your dignity. It doesn't feel like home, it doesn't look like home, and it certainly doesn't smell like home. And you're not alone - some unfamiliar woman is sharing this new sanitary space with you, and the only thing separating you is a 1975-era print curtain. The air conditioner is blasting on the paper-thin blanket at your feet, the nurses wake you at 3:00 a.m. to take a sleeping pill, and you need an escort just to visit the can. Despite your wordy protestations, freakishly cheerful women in matching med outfits and Crocs keep dropping by every five minutes to drain your arm of blood. What are they, charter members of some bizarre caffeine-overloaded Valley of the Dolls-esque vampire club? "Hi! I�m Kathy, and I'lll be taking your sample today! Won't that be fun?" "Well hello there! I'm Vanessa..the good doctor wants a few more drops!" "Hey, I'm Doris...I'm here to collect what's left." Sheesh people, just take it all and leave me the hell alone. I've got your sample RIGHT HERE...see that bag hanging under the bed, that's ALL for you...and don't worry...I've got lots more...

One of the good things about getting older is you find you're more interesting than most of the people you meet.
- Lee Marvin

I have to say that in spite of her circumstances, my Gram miraculously managed to keep an amazing sense of humor about the whole situation. After all, this was a woman who savored a naughty joke, gave me doggie doo for XMAS one year, and owned a pair of "anatomically correct" ceramic frogs. Upon asking an unsuspecting visitor if they could distinguish the sexes, she delighted in flipping their green bodies over to reveal the shocking truth. I sometimes think I inherited that same sense of absurdity from Gram. I remember the last conversation my sister Jill and I had with her at the rehab house, as she turned up her nose at the ugly smelling fish dinner served that evening. She took a couple bites, pronounced it inedible, and threatened to feed it to the resident cat, "Mocha." I think Mocha would have preferred take-out. I never knew what to talk about during my visits, so I was always happy to see that my dad or other family member was already in the room. That way, I could easily slip into the exchange, without having to wrack my brain for a subject: "Um, yeah, I just love all those Snapple flavors...wow, you're right about that new bedding store...man, this hangnail of mine really sucks...my stupid pants shrunk again...oh, have you seen my new flip flops?" I bet Gram thought to herself sometimes, wow, would you people just bag the generic banter and let me get some frickin' sleep already!?

If you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend.
- Stone Temple Pilots

After she passed away, a small group of us gathered to begin the long, arduous task of cleaning out Grams' condo. My parents, sister, aunt and uncle...all of us joined by a sense of sadness, but also relief. How could we possibly go through all of Grams' treasures? How long would it take? Who would get what? It was all too much to bear. That is, until about 3 hours into the first day, when we were knee-deep in a myriad of zippered sandwich bags, rubber band piles, notecard collections, matchbooks, light bulbs, half-empty aspirin bottles, jam jars, jelly jars, plastic forks, potholders, petrified potatoes, dried flower arrangements, and more Tupperware than could possibly be crammed into one kitchen. And that's not even counting the 47 birdhouses to be distributed. I think it was right around the time we held the ceremonial "pill flushing", where at least 25 bottles of meds met their demise, that we began to crack. And laugh. And have fun. Thanks to Jill, who began sneaking "special presents" into our car trunks when we weren't looking, things began to lighten up. Or maybe it was all the dust, birdseed, and traces of potpourri up our noses. All I know is that I discovered some various and sundry bonus items tucked into my haul of sheets, towels, and blankets. The real question is, where does one actually display a terrarium of silk plants? A lacy basket of mini-bears? A fake flowering fuchsia? A 70's wall hanging? A REAL bird's nest on a mossy twig? Hmmm, I'm thinking they would make wonderful stocking stuffers for a special someone...

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.
- Mark Twain

The most amazing thing about Gram was that even though she suffered from painful feet, aching hands, a debilitating stroke and several other annoying ailments, was that she could remember absolutely every single solitary thing. I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday, and she could recall what pair of shoes she was wearing on her 4th birthday. She was able to recollect any old camping trip to the coast - the day, the weather, the mileage, the number of clams in the chowder, and how many times she yelled at my dad. She grew up dirt poor, toiling on the family farm, and had no problem regaling you with a story or two about her colorful childhood. And you certainly didn't entertain the idea of questioning her on a specific date, as she'd whip out her trusty pocket calendar, and always prove you wrong. She married, raised kids, worked, crocheted, sewed, square-danced, and cooked with gusto. And in a world where youth is revered, and age is fought back tooth and nail, Gram was never shy about proclaiming her age. Her mind remained an open book, even though her body eventually closed down. Still, it was her memory that never failed, never once faltered, even toward the very end. She had no trouble reminiscing about the earliest years of her life, and I can't even tell you what I had on my bagel this morning. Maybe I need a couple frogs.

Mrs. Allonby: "She told me yesterday, and in quite a loud voice too, that she was only
eighteen. It was most annoying."
Lord Illingworth: "One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who
would tell one that, would tell one anything."
- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance

Okay, we didn't have a pond, but there was a pool, and no human children were in attendance, but there certainly were some four-legged sons and daughters. And even though none of them were Newfoundlands, they were drooling, yapping, jumping, bucking, playing, running, tails-a-waggin', chase-me-chase-me, dog-paddling mutts. Four of them, all shapes and sizes, tormenting us and each other, whacking their mile-a-minute tails on sunburned legs, and generally wreaking havoc in the water, on the grass, and under picnic tables. Salsa was spilled, Tostitos went flying, and more margos were strewn across the cement than actually consumed. Well, almost. It was Cujo meets a rabid Old Yeller when Cowpoke Alley presents, "Father's Day Goes to the Dogs", starring "Boo" as the amiable Rin-Tin-Tin, "Jasper" as the fun-loving Benji, "Annie" as the giant blockheaded Hooch, and "Mack", as the adopted mutant love-child of Marmaduke and Scooby-Do.

Yes, it was Father's Day, and Cinderella and yours truly had completely taken leave of our senses. Under the influence of several cocktails a few days earlier, a brilliant plan had been hatched in our soggy heads, and all the eggshells of creativity laid down an idea of such fantastic proportion and wildly creative bubbles of inspiration, wonder and astonishment, all culminating in...oh, who am I kidding? We got sloshed one night and decided to throw a taco feast. There, I've said it. And where better to have food and frolic than at the Club 6019, where the refrigerator is stuffed to the gills, and the bar is well stocked. And even though the she was off gallivanting about on a cruise ship somewhere around Germany, we felt Margaret was there in spirit, scolding the animals and selecting appropriate dinnerware. Yes, the plates matched the wine goblets, the utensils were generally clean, and ALL the napkins were CLOTH. It was I who foolishly channeled Margaret's inner Martha Stewart, taking at least 3 hours and several libations to choose from the plethora of tablecloths and napkins hidden away in just one frickin' bureau. Plaids, pastels, florals, solids, stripes, paisleys, dots, spots, stars, gingham, and every single solitary holiday represented, from Easter to Elephant Appreciation Day. And I'm not even talking about the 97 OTHER stacks of aforementioned dining gear, stuffed away in the darkened hall closet shelves, where the light is dim, and the spiders are brave souls.

Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is "soap-on-a-rope." - Bill Cosby

In hindsight, I suppose my dad probably had more exciting things to do that day, like washing his shoelaces, or surfing the mind-boggling array of programs on his DISH network, where the sheer number of stations seems to multiply like Mormons on a daily basis. But, with a bit of gentle prodding, and the promise of presents, he and Dot fearlessly arrived to join in the fun and frivolity. My elusive uncle was present, sporting has newly acquired Crocs and a Tahitian tan, while Jill merrily floated upon the water, perched perilously on a raft, attempting to keep a pair of kid-size Aqua Explorer fins from slipping off her toes. Unfortunately, I forgot my new camera once again (the dude rolls his eyes in exasperation), and missed that photo opportunity altogether, a picture undeniably worthy of Better Homes & Gardens, Backyard Magazine, or at least The Enquirer. After much diving, swimming and chlorine consumption, our famished crowd gathered in The Club's well-appointed kitchen, for what can only be described as enough taco fixin's to feed the entire cast of extras in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. Because even though she denies it within an ounce of her very being, Cinderella, much like her mother, is the queen of MORE. More beans! More meat! More tortillas! More lettuce, sour cream, tomatoes, olives, salsa, guac, and onions than Chevy's can produce in a single day. And let's not forget the cheese. CHEESE, CHEESE, AND MORE CHEESE. "Grate more cheese! Shred more cheese! Are we out of cheese? That's not enough cheese! Is that ALL the cheese? Stop eating the cheese! WE NEED MORE CHEESE!" Wow.

A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of. - Ogden Nash

So we stuffed our faces and loosened our belts, content in the knowledge that a Cold Stone Creamery cake was just a few spoonfuls away. Wandering down the hallway to the back bathroom door, I begin to hear the scratch-scratch-scratching of the Mack dog, trying frantically to gain entrance inside, where he was absolutely certain Jill was missing him. "Let me in! Or I'll huff and I'll puff"...well, you know the story. Thus begins the Call of the Wild portion of our tale, where there actually was no huffing and puffing, but whining, clawing, and head-butting were the specials of the day. And in the 1.47 minutes it took me to carry dessert from the patio freezer to the kitchen, I heard what sounded like a raging, T-Rex-sized buffalo attempting to level the house. Curiously, and almost reluctantly, I scampered back to the bathroom, whereupon I discovered what appeared to be a HUGE doggie dental imprint in the door. One gigantic snout-shaped hole right through the wood, shards of splintered prefab timber everywhere, and one dopey dog with toothpicks in his teeth. Um, okay. Not wanting to spoil the impending Dad's Day gift giving, I kept this relatively staggering piece of information to myself. I hesitantly envisioned the verbal rampage, the fur-flying carnage, and one dopey dog sucking up to mom.

A father is a banker provided by nature. - French Proverb

Later, after disclosing my destructive discovery, there was a mad dash to the scene of the crime, where much yelling and screaming and OH MY GAWD-ings took place. In the end, the dopey dog survived, the inexpensive door could be replaced, and no lives were lost. Even Jeff remained amazingly calm...I'm bestowing much credit to the tequila. Thank goodness we had dad there, who calmed everyone's sweaty nerves, assessed the situation, and announced that everything would be fine. Offering his door buying, door hanging, and door painting services, he once again proved to be the Helpful Hardware Man. So as the evening drew to a close, our guests left sated and fairly happy, while Cinderella and myself remained to assess the damage. The party table was stripped, the dishwasher was loaded, and 97 vats of Tupperware were filled to the brim with leftover cheese. However, as we waved from the backyard gate to bid our company good night, my brain-cell-deprived roommate, literally, let the dogs out.

There are only two rules. One is E. M. Forster's guide to Alexandria; the best way to know Alexandria is to wander aimlessly. The second is from the Psalms; grin like a dog and run about through the city.
- Jan Morris

To my horror, Jasper "the pork chop" dog, bolted from the gate and sped across the street at a blinding pace, smack onto one of Fresno's busiest street corners. I stared in disbelief at the complete and utter bliss on his pudgy mug, as he darted about car fenders, his flagpole of a tail in the air, ears flying, and total ignorance of any danger about him. Meanwhile, the adrenaline level of two blondes kicked in, and we found ourselves romping about the intersection in our swimsuits, dodging hood ornaments and screaming like banshees, with threatening promises of Choke Chains and Electric Fences. Crikey. The little monster was finally halted when an SUV stopped, and Jasper tried to peek in the passenger window as if to say, "Hey, where are you goin'? Can I go with you?" I was tempted to pitch him head first into their car and say, "Here, TAKE the little bastard!" Luckily, we managed to snag the brat by his collar, drag him into the yard, and try to slow down the pounding of our chests. After a couple shots of Jose and the ability to speak again, we finally took the quick drive home, where we collapsed in a crumpled heap. Boy, being a dog-mom is hard work. But in all probability, not nearly as hard as being a dad with three daughters. Hey, at least we never played in the traffic.

You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself that my father bought me. They are better than human beings, because they know but do not tell - Emily Dickinson

Well it's that time of year again, when the dusty brethren of Red Bluff break out the tank tops and high heels, tattoos and mullets, slap on some extra Raid, and assemble for the great Nitro National boat races. Or as my grammatically challenged ex used to say about questionable members of America's population, "the great unwashed" have come out to play. Red Bluff, by all accounts, is a sleepy mountain town just a stone's throw from Redding, where the women grow big and strong like the oak trees, and bench press their common-law husbands just for fun. Against my better judgment, I acquiesced to my sister Jill's pleading and took the lengthy drive up to Redding, where the road stretches out a like a big piece of flattened black licorice, and the scenery is pretty much non-existent.

And so with Jill at the wheel, her boyfriend Jeff riding shotgun, and yours truly white-knuckling it in the backseat, we set out this past Memorial Day weekend with 97,000 other antsy travelers. Now, I don't want to imply that Jill drives like Mario Andretti, or that her lead foot sends cell phones hurtling at the windshield, or that she freakishly enjoys playing bumper cars with unsuspecting motorists, or that she screams and yells obscenities at any other vehicle not breaking the sound barrier at Mach speed. Let's just say, she's a bit...ummm, intolerant. Time is of the essence. Get the hell outta the way. This is a non-stop thrill rollercoaster, and you must be THIS tall to ride. Anyone who's heard Jill impatiently bellow out, "BEER ME!", knows exactly what I'm talking about; if an ice cold Coors Lite is NOT in her grubby mitts within 20 seconds, it's going to get downright ugly.

Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.
- Charles Kuralt

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not the most well traveled person. And even though I've made the dreaded drive from Fresno to Redding about a kajillion times, I don't ever recall, on any of those occasions, seeing a
Flying J "fuel stop". Of course Jeff knows all about them, since he hauls cars up and down the highways and byways of California, feasting on junk food fare, and listening to bad A.M. talk radio. This was no big thing for him. I, on the other hand, was quite overwhelmed. Who knew that you could refuel your gas-guzzling SUV, wash the Airstream, take a shower, buy electronics, go Christmas shopping, play the Lottery, snag some cash, have a meal, get a haircut, and dump your nasty RV tank, all in ONE gigantic stop! Wow! Truly, amazing.

Jeff was brave enough to try the in house pizza establishment, where the fare was laid out like shellacked sushi underneath grimy plastic sneeze guards. I would have joined him, but was put off by the glistening, lime-green-like-Jell-O tray of broccoli that stared me in the face. Bleah. I opted for snacks and Mountain Dew, with all the caffeine you ever wanted in a beverage, and probably the reason for my unending barrage of questions; "Are we there yet? What's the temperature? What time is it? Can I pee? Is there A/C back here? Where's my water? How much longer? Hey, WHO farted?" After Jill dragged me away from the Flying J and it's cheesey tchotchkes, jam jars, wooden carvings, monogrammed zipper pulls, and American flags, we resumed our tedious trip on wheels.

Everything on a boat has a different name than it would have if it weren't on a boat. Either this is ancient seafaring tradition or it's how people who mess around with boats try to impress the rest of us who actually finished college. - P.J. O'Rourke (1989), Holidays in hell.

Five and a half never-ending hours later, we landed in Redding on the doorstep of our pals Suzie and Lauren, where they and their menagerie of critters welcomed us into their well-appointed dwelling. I barely had enough time to slam a couple cocktails, when Miss Katie May showed up and it was time to schlep on over to downtown Red Bluff and witness the much-hyped, eagerly anticipated, "Streets of Fire/Show and Shine". Here's the scoop; all the crazily painted, bad-ass, built-for-speed, faster-than-a-whole-herd-of-cranky-bats-out-of-Hell boats are lined up nosing the curbs, while obsessed pit crew members buff and caress them like they're some sort of goddesses. You'd think Paris Hilton was going to show up, plant her bony ass in the cockpit, whip out a Whopper, and use her Community Chest as some sort of shammy. Geez.

You Might Be a Redneck...If you think the last words to the Star Spangled Banner are "Gentlemen, start your engines!" - Jeff Foxworthy

As the sun began to set, and gallons of Coors and Bud Lite were still being consumed, the water monsters' engines were "lit" up, and they spit and growled and belched out one of the most hideous substances known to man; nitromethane. Yeesh. I've said it before and I�'ll say it again, it's disgusting, hideous, eye-watering, throat-burning, wretch-inducing crap. It must destroy any viable brain cells, which may explain the demeanor of fans and drivers alike. What else would compel seemingly normal people to bring along small children and even smaller animals to an event that�s guaranteed to ruin their hearing for life? I guess they just want to start the ear canal destruction early. "C'mon Jenny Lou, grab little Jethro's stroller and Odie's water bowl, we're a goin' downtown! Never mind them damn earplugs, we're late!"

You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on. - Dean Martin

Of course the most interesting, eye-popping spectacle at such a gathering, has got to be the bimbos. Well, and the locals. Not a shy breed, they can easily be identified by walking their pitt bulls around on a plastic rope, bumming Camels, and hoping their crank-high lasts the whole evening. The bimbos are the well-endowed, perfectly coiffed, lip-glossed, stiletto-heeled, flat-ironed, French-manicured, sleeveless-tight-knit-shirt-wearin', mini-skirted babes, torturing said locals, and slamming back Jaegemeister with Corona chasers. So while Jill, Katie and myself thoroughly enjoyed this mind-boggling event, sipping our beverages, drooling over cowboys, and stocking up on "Race Chic" apparel, I believe the following honorable mentions really made the whole experience completely worthwhile:

1) All the aforementioned bimbos freezing their tanned, baby-got-back butts off, as the wind whipped up in an Arctic frenzy around their naked legs, and the sky pelted down gigantic drops of rain. Sometimes, there really is a God.
2) The drunker-than-Courtney-Love-at-a-college-kegger chick at the pizza place, who should have given more thought to her footwear apparel. Trying to skitter about on 3-inch heels after consuming your body weight in alcohol is NEVER a good idea. Take it from an expert.
3) Forrest Gump was right; "Stupid is as stupid does". Pounding down mass quantities of malt liquor, combined with hurling idiotic insults at someone who could pummel you sideways, is almost as mind-numbingly dumb as donning 3-inch heels in the rain. Yup, Security was called.
4) If I hadn't witnessed it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. A line. A LONG line. And not just a long line, a long line to THE MENS ROOM!!! It was tantamount to seeing Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman; it just doesn't exist. But there it was, in the hallway of the Palomino Club in downtown Red Bluff. No, I didn't have my camera, and yes, my butt is still sore from where I've been kicking it.

Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone. - Anthony Burgess

I never did attend the actual boat races, but rather spent a glorious 2 days basking in the sun with Suzie, tormenting ourselves over crossword puzzles, sipping margos, and tracking the movements of several red-tailed hawks. In the evenings, the walls of Suzie and Lauren's casa would shudder and groan, and generally creak in agony over the ear-splitting, cranium-cracking snoring that racked the night. Everyone was guilty, and nobody was safe. The resident animals may require some serious therapy.

Our Memorial Day trip home was fairly uneventful, if you don't count the swearing, the whiplash, or the badly upholstered footstool sliding down the frenzied freeway. I dunno, it just was. Of course, no journey is worth a spit unless you learn something. Something of great importance, something mysterious, something the great minds on earth have pondered over for many moons. Did I learn the secrets of the universe? Did I explore the depths of time? Did I actually think Jill driving was a good idea? Well, no. What I DID learn, is that the well-promoted product, "Beano", can, in fact, work the complete and total OPPOSITE on some people. The first time someone utters the words, "when EXACTLY does the Beano kick in?", you know you're in for some serious trouble. And I thought the Nitro was bad.

I have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. - Mark Twain

"The restaurant is like a theatre: we do two shows a day, and when you are doing Shakespeare you don't want to throw in something out of Walt Disney." - Benjamin Britten

Unfortunately, this stillness was invariably short-lived. For in the corner booth next to the now vacated table, was something so terrifying, so horrific, so bone-chillingly frightening, we all held our breaths at its very being. It was gruesome, it was grisly, it was downright ghastly. You can't run! You can't hide! You can't get away from ...BADLY BEHAVED CHILDREN!!! It was creepier than "The Blob", scarier than "The Thing", louder than "The Birds", more appalling than "The Fly", and it howled like "The Wolf Man" at midnight. It was two young boys jumping on seats, screaming like banshees, banging on silverware, bashing into tables, chasing each other in circles, and generally running amok. All the while, their so-called parents chitchatted in a margarita-induced haze, laughing giddily, chastising occasionally, and basically ignoring the laser beam stares of every other paying customer. And just like us, in the devious minds of all the surrounding diners, these same thoughts were rolling around their normally civil minds; can we just slap some duct tape on the mouths of these brats?! Can we possibly pummel these tykes without police retribution?! Can we just tell their parents how truly annoying, obnoxious, and insufferable their hyped-up kids are?!

"In the United States today, there is a pervasive tendency to treat children as adults, and adults as children. The options of children are thus steadily expanded, while those of adults are progressively constricted. The result is unruly children and childish adults." -Thomas Szasz

And as the tequila kicked in, and the naughty noises grew up and around the eatery like some gigantic pealing bell, and our ears were subjected to the shrill racket-like-a-racetrack, people began to crack. The first to snap was Cinderella, who whipped her head around like some sort of rattlesnake, hissing out, "Could ya PLEASE quiet those children down?!!!" Once again, there was peace and stillness. Unfortunately, it was the sort of tranquility you could cut with a rusty-toothed McCullough. Forks were dropped. Candles blew out. Fans stopped spinning. Sweat beaded on noses. Ears perked in anticipation. And thus began the great "I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I", Battle of the Blowholes. Men, it would seem, don't ever really grow up. That same kickass attitude they learned early on in the playground never truly leaves them; if someone stomps on their castle in the sandbox, they're just asking for a plastic shovel up the ass. And so at that precise moment, in one very public dining room, amidst the hushed gawking of an enraptured audience, two quasi-adult, male-type human beings reverted back to kindergarten.

"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance."
- Franklin P. Jones

This salsa-laden scenario is rated PG for some mildly foul language, and testosterone-induced banter. A berated father and a pissed-off boyfriend match up to exchange verbal barbs, and throw down the gauntlet, while their female compadres can only try to placate their ever-growing rage:

"Hey man, what's your problem?"
"Honey, get back here!"
"Your little monsters, that's my problem!"
"Jeff, cut it out!"
"It's a family restaurant, STUPID!"
"Honey, don't!"
"So what? Why don't you take your spoiled brats to McDonald's?"
"Jeff, stop it!"
"Looks like YOU haven't missed too many cheeseburgers pal!"
"Honey, that's enough!"
"Bring it on JERK, I haven't been in a good fight for a long time!"
"Jeff, knock it off!"
"IDIOT!"
"HONEY!!!!"
"BASTARD!"
"JEFFREY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Raising kids is part joy and part guerilla warfare." - Ed Asner

In the end, after the dust had settled, no blood was shed, no blows were felled, no teeth knocked out, and the testy group finally stormed off with babes in arms. And as we gingerly walked between the tables of patrons, expecting to be met with remarks of insult and disgust, we experienced the complete and total opposite. We were given everything but a standing ovation, and the clientele could barely wait to offer congratulations and extend their hands in a show of support. We were brave. We were stars. We were heroes.

"Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them." - James Baldwin

But I can't keep wondering, which situation is worse? Youngsters behaving like little tyrants, or adults conducting themselves in, well, precisely the same way? What can we expect from children, who witness the exact same behavior from grown-ups, that they've just been admonished for? Don't argue, don't fight, turn the other cheek, look the other way, don't rock the boat, but stand your ground, and act like a man. Talk about mixed messages. The media and movies are often blamed for contributing to the apathetic ways of today's youth, juvenile men, in particular. But maybe we should take a closer look at what really molds their attitudes. Perhaps we'll see the responsibility starts with mom and dad, and ends in one famous line of music: "Teach your children well."
Hey, it's better than a kick in the teeth.

"Children are contemptuous, haughty, irritable, envious, sneaky, selfish, lazy, flighty, timid, liars and hypocrites, quick to laugh and cry, extreme in expressing joy and sorrow, especially about trifles, they'll do anything to avoid pain but they enjoy inflicting it: little men already."
- Jean de La Bruyere, Les Caracteres, 1688

So the Oscars are over, and all the golden statuettes dispersed, and every winner will spend the next 2 weeks sloshing their way through a multitude of droning television interviews, and wondering whether to place the coveted naked award in their Beverly Hills living room, or maybe the cushy salon of their Manhattan townhouse, or perhaps next to the reclining Buddha in their thatched Aruba hut. http://www.oscar.com/ It's a big decision you know. I wish I had such meaningful verdicts to pontificate on, but I'm much too busy paying PG&E and trying to figure out if Mac n' Cheez goes better with Hamburger Helper or if Rice-a-Roni is the better choice.

I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; they give unconditional love. For me they are the role model for being alive.
- Gilda Radner

It's no secret that I am a COMPLETE and total film freak of nature. Sitting in a darkened movie theatre is my kind of happiness. I know countless pieces of worthless celebrity trivia, I subscribe to Vanity Fair and US Weekly, I can rattle off bits of scene selections at will, and most annoyingly, can actually do entire movies verbatim, much to the chagrin of those around me. Don't even think about sitting in the same room with me during "Young Frankenstein", or "Blazing Saddles", and that also goes for "Barefoot in the Park", "What's Up Doc?", or "Postcards from the Edge". ('That's me, I don't want life to imitate art, I want life to BE art'). Last Sunday, I was glued to the television from 2:30 on for the Academy Awards, with a Lemontini in my hand and a bowl of well-oiled theatre popcorn by my side. So it should come as no surprise that when I adopted my mutt 15 years ago, I named her after a silver screen character.

Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of even finding its master?
-Emil Zola

I rescued "Hap" from the dismal cement confines of the San Francisco SPCA, where she had been interred after a Good Samaritan called in her owner's bad behavior. I never did find out what sort of inhumane treatment was inflicted upon her, but I can only imagine. I don't get people who torture animals, what is UP with that? The electrodes in their pea brain wiring must be rusted or something, or maybe it's all the Budweiser and Jerry Springer reruns. Hap was named after Audrey Hepburn's last film role, in a lovely little production called "Always", where she plays a scissor-wielding angel giving Richard Dreyfuss an untimely post-mortem haircut. An early Spielberg film, it's worth the rental bucks just to see John Goodman get absolutely drenched in a fire-fighting-pilot-training routine gone hysterically wrong. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096794/

Dogs don't like to be left alone. It's not like, when you leave, he goes, "Great, time to finish writing my novel!"
-The Truth About Cats & Dogs

By my count, the critter and I lived in 7 different places during the many years we belonged to each other. We ran the gamut between San Francisco, Marin, the East Bay, Alameda, and finally settling here in Fresno. During that time, she was my best pal between boyfriends and jobs, sunset walks and early-morning road trips, holidays, birthdays, sweltering summers, frigid winters, 3 cars and 1 husband. She could have been a sled dog, dragging me behind her every evening, with the drive and purpose of a Husky sloshing through the Iditarod. Anywhere I lived, the neighbors would inevitably ask, "Who's walking whom?" Ha, ha, that is sooooo funny. Wow, that NEVER got old. When one of Hap's back legs was removed due to a bone cancer diagnosis, I was amazed how well she got along afterward. Officially dubbed the "tripod" dog from then on, the official neighborhood remark changed to, "Hey, that dog's only got 3 legs!". Even though I was tempted many times, I always refrained from firing back, "You're kidding, when did THAT fall off!?".

He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion. -Unknown

When Hap had her surgery, I thought it was the toughest thing we'd ever have to go through together. Boy was I wrong, never dreaming it would be so heart wrenching to put her down. She ran around on those 3 legs for almost 6 years, while her sight began to fail and her eyes took on an opaque, iridescent glow. But somehow, she could meander her way around our backyard in the dark, the nametag on her collar announcing her whereabouts. Her hearing steadily declined, but she still cocked her head when called, and trembled in her bed when the gardeners fired up their blowers. It's a tough thing playing God, and deciding the fate of someone who has meant so much to you. Such feelings of guilt and regret; the weighing of differences between your own selfishness and their quality of life.

You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.
- Robert Louis Stevenson

In the end, I couldn't stand her suffering anymore, and finally had to convince myself it was time. But cradling her little head, and looking into those milky eyes, I believe she made things easier for me. It's as if she were saying it was okay, and she was ready. And even though she's gone, out of force of habit, I find myself glancing out the sliding glass door, expecting to see her lovely face. I loved her like crazy, and miss her terribly. Sometimes, I can still hear the jingle, jangle of the tag on her collar, as she races across the stepping-stones, waiting for me to chase her. If Hap were still here, I'd present her with the Academy Award for Best Supporting Pet in an everyday role, for the thousand licks of a tongue to get me through the movie that is my life. But I think she would have been just as happy with a Milk Bone.

Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really. -Agnes Sligh Turnbull

A good dog never dies, he always stays, he walks besides you on crisp autumn days when frost is on the fields and winter's drawing near, his head is within our hand in his old way. -Mary Carolyn Davies

Most of you know that I've spent countless hours at the Club 6019 in my lifetime. There's always a bounty of food, good conversation, and Margaret aptly tending bar. I've lounged by the pool, pumped the pedals of the player piano (wow, say that 3 times fast), viewed a thousand movies, and enjoyed feasting at a multitude of dinner parties. But never, in all that time, have I ever been privy to an exchange quite like this:

And if you think I just made that up, you'd be extraordinarily wrong. I couldn't MAKE up dialogue like that. Maybe it was all the fabulous cuisine we consumed beforehand that saturated our brains, and turned us into babbly psycho-freaks. Perhaps the stuffed pork chops, garlic smashed spuds, and crunchy spinach casserole (no, I didn't have any) were just too much for our digestive system, and it all churned up and completely destroyed our thought process. In any event, the chef outdid herself again, and Cinderella, the parental unit, and myself chowed down and generally pigged out until the gravy was gone, and the wine bottles were empty. And if you think we made a dent in either of Margaret's well-stocked refrigerators, then you'd be wrong about that too. AMAZINGLY wrong.

A gourmet who thinks of calories is like a tart who looks at her watch. ~James Beard

Because at the 6019 Club, MORE is always better. MORE is a beautiful thing. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/madonna/more.html Why have 5 jars of pickles when you can have 12? Why NOT take advantage of that big ketchup sale? Why WOULDN'T you purchase that 3rd container of sour cream? Hey, IT'S ON SALE!!!! Hmm, I already have 47 packages of frozen peas, but they're so cheap...and I have enough ribs to feed the state of Texas, but these are so inexpensive...now where's that canned veggie aisle, my stewed tomato supply is down to 9 gallon-size tins. Okay, I know what you're thinking. But Wendy, stop winjing - you and Cinderella benefit from this gastrointestinal over expenditure. This is true; we normally take home about 8 or 9 bowls of Tupperware, with enough leftovers to feed the population of Salt Lake City for a week. Believe me, I'm not complaining, I'm just stating the fact; Margaret's fridge should be listed on one of the Seven Wonders of the World list. http://wonderclub.com/AllWorldWonders.html

Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne

And I haven't EVEN mentioned the vegetable bins. Ah yes, the vegetable bins...if I could write a sonnet. Actually, I COULD write a sonnet, a column, a short story, a novella, a frickin' 97 chapter book, for that matter. Oh, the 7 types of lettuce, 14 varieties of tomatoes, the crispy celery, onions, shallots, red, green, orange, and yellow peppers, cucumbers, mushrooms, carrots, and broccoli...all in various and sundry states of decomposition. There are the brand-new, just-purchased, fresh, full-of-promise vegetables, and the partially used, halfway chopped, still-good-for-another-round veggies; and then there are the dreaded squishy, slimy moldy, ewww-I'm-not--touchin'-that, strange-smelling-juice-at-the-bottom-of-the bag pieces of what USED to be something tasty and healthy. Bleah. So if it's salad you're looking for, I suggest asking Margaret the exact date of when she last went shopping. You may want to do some serious calculations before you accept her invitation to dinner. We love ya lady!

Great eaters and great sleepers are incapable of anything else that is great. ~Henry IV of France
(yes, that would be me)

And so, as Bill Murray discovered quite gleefully in "What About Bob?" we decided that taking Baby Steps would be our only salvation. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103241/plotsummary Instead of throwing ourselves head-over-sneakers into boxes of unwanted clothing, shoes, purses, books, and crappy glass vases, we set our sights on the ugliest eyesore of them all. That's right, the recyclables. The dreaded, sticky, leaky, bulging, starting-to-smell-like-something-alien-esque garbage bags overflowing with Coors Lite cans (thank you Jill), milk jugs, wine jugs, vodka jugs, Ocean Spray bottles, Cuervo bottles, and a small island of water bottles from my bedroom alone. I think in my previous life, I must surely have been a camel. After tossing our prized rubbish into the back of a borrowed pick-up truck (thank you, Jeff), we began our journey to the intersection of Maple and Olive, where the hard-working guys and gals at RECYCO were ready and willing to accept, weigh, and destroy the evidence of many an enjoyable Happy Hour.

And can I just say, I don't know what those very brave employees are earning, standing out amid a sea of yucky carnage, handling thousands of grungy, grimy, germ-laden containers while freezing their patooties off in an open air building. I can't imagine it's a whole lot of money. All I CAN say is that I hope they have SOME sort of health plan, because just being in that ear-pounding, scum-laden-floor, STENCH-FILLED environment for 15 minutes was pretty much all I could take. WOW. And can I just say, WOW. The so-called AROMA was enough to permanently damage nose hairs, induce taco tossing, and generally send my central nervous system into a nauseous tailspin. Whew. If Cinderella hadn't brought along her industrial-sized bottle of "sand hanitizer", it's possible I wouldn't have survived the drive home. All I wanted was for someone to take me out back, scrub me down with Lysol, and hose off the 10,000 microorganisms from my squeamish body. Yes, I felt just like that poor spotted critter in "Monsters, Inc." who discovers a child's mitten on his tush, and has to go through decontamination (AND grow his hair back). Or like Ursula Andress and Sean Connery in "Dr. No", while they're being forced to soap up under the watchful eye of the Japanese space-age-clothed-germ-detection-police...all the while being transported on some sort of primitive people mover.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0055928/photogallery

Arriving at our casa later on, I couldn't help but give thanks for having a job where I don't have to wear thick gloves, rubber boots, crash helmets, canvas jumpsuits, and pretend the smell isn't making my eyeballs water. Well, at least most days. Sometimes the overpowering scent of bad cologne in an office environment can make one weep chemical tears of submission. Ah well, I suppose we all have to deal with the same sorts of everyday obstacles in the workplace. Whether it be oceans of tin, glass, and jagged edges, or a constant stream of paperwork, computer blowouts, and copiers with a mind of their own. We're all caught up in the Rat Race of survival; some of us set the trap, some of us get the cheese, and the rest of us just spend our time trying to escape. And on a really good day, we rats actually win.

So it's the holiday season here in the hinterland, and the reason I know is not because of all the twinkling lights, decorated pine trees, wrapped presents, mind-numbing piped in Christmas music, or shivering-in-line-at-4:00-am-shopping-mall-freaks. Nope, the real reason is that the dreaded tulle fog has arrived. That's right kids, it's time for the pea soup to froth up and steam over and work it's scary, spooky self into the streets and fruit orchards of Fresno, like a bubbling cauldron of witches brew. I was feeling very much like Adrienne Barbeau on the way to work this morning, except for the