Wendy's Blog

Summer has set in with its usual severity. ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I’ve changed my mind.  The Devilish DMV has officially lost its moniker as the most hellish thing on earth and has been replaced by the sun.  When I tell non-residents it feels like a blast furnace outside, they think I’m kidding.  I am not.  My sister Kelly, who lives in Oakland, just laughs about it.  Because up there, when the temperature hits 75 or 80, people start panicking.  They run screaming through Jack London Square, peeling off their Warriors sweatshirts, “It burns, it burns!”  Lately, I’ve literally been answering the phone, “Welcome to Hell, Satan speaking.”  Apparently, the devil himself has taken over my brain, and burned it into a pile of blackened ashes.  It’s only going to be 111 degrees here today, which is better than the 114 reading we had over the weekend.  Of course, I realize that’s nothing compared to other places on the map, including Redding, where they recently hit 120 degrees.  I have a cousin living there, and when I called to see if she was surviving the heat, she said her hair was on fire.  I’m kidding of course, but I bet that’s what it felt like.  Luckily, she has a pool to cool things off, and it wasn’t quite bathwater yet.  I bet that just a couple hours later, it was a boiling witch’s cauldron…bubble, bubble.

I am cruel thirsty this hot weather…. Nothing makes me so excessively peevish as hot weather. ~Jonathan Swift

My younger sister Jill’s A/C went out just in time for the 4^th of July, because some idiot plowed into a power pole and created havoc for a whole mess of cranky people.  She and her boyfriend spent the entire holiday afternoon soaking in their “sauna.”  They never really wanted a heated swimming pool, but they got one anyway.  At least the Coors Light stayed cold enough to keep the mountains blue.  Every summer seems to get worse here, lasts forever, and seems like we’re being tortured for a crime we didn’t commit.  I don’t know if it’s actually hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but I bet I could whip up a plate of pancakes.  I guess I shouldn’t complain too much, since I’m in an air-conditioned building all day, with my trusty fan blowing.  Some of my skinny co-workers sit at their desks with flannel blankets wrapped around their bony shoulders.  A few of them even have the gall to exclaim, “It’s freezing in here!”  That’s right sister, and it’s hotter than a sizzling basket of McDonald’s fries out there, so shut the hell up!  I haven’t said that out loud yet, but it’s only a matter of time…  

Heat, Ma’am!… it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones. ~Sydney Smith

At least I don’t have an outside job during this heat wave, like the poor souls across the parking lot.  They’re putting up a new building and are forced to use a germ-ridden Port-a-Potti.  How stinky do you think THAT thing gets when it’s 113 degrees?  Yeesh. They slave away with their hard hats on, hammers banging, and one lone guy trying not to slip off the steaming roof.  Because what’s better in this weather than getting just a little bit closer to the sun?  You think they fight over that spot?  “Hey Joe, howz about you get down here and give us boys a shot?  We’re betting Tony that his boots will melt right into the asphalt tiles!”  That’s right, in my mind, all construction workers sound like they’re from New Jersey.  But those guys have no choice, they have to muster through the unbearable heat if they want a paycheck.  Unlike my wacky co-workers, who have the option of staying indoors during our daily breaks.  Our building is gigantic, and you can easily get a nice little speed walk going for those 15 minutes.  Still, there are those nuts who pop in their earbuds, throw on their floppy hats, and trudge bravely out into the sizzling heat.  Who are you people?  Some sort of sadists?  I bet your A/C is set to 85…

Once, it was so damned dry, the bushes followed the dogs around. ~Nancy Dedera

Remember the salad days of summer when we were young and carefree?  All we wanted to do was run through the sprinklers, tumble down the Slip n’ Slide, and ride our bikes to Thrifty for ice cream.  As we got older, we spent long afternoons lounging by the pool, slathered in Hawaiian Tropic and reading torrid Rosemary Rogers paperbacks.  Now, we just want to crank up the air, turn on Netflix, and relax with a smart beverage.  Go outside?  Have you gone mad?  No, that is not happening.  I am not a 12-year-old girl again, spraying my hair with Sun-In and downing a lime Pop Shoppe.  I am a woman of a certain age, bingeing on Bridgerton, and sipping on a frosty margarita.  But you can be any age to enjoy the fruits of our Central Valley’s labor.  I’m talking about the sweet strawberries, corn-on-the-cob, and juicy tomatoes that our fertile fields have to offer.  Is there anything better than a chunk of chilled watermelon, dripping down your chin?  How about a perfectly ripened peach, peeled and sliced over a bowl of vanilla ice cream?  All these delicious treats are readily available in our very own backyard.  Wait, backyard?  Outdoors? Ugh, when is Fresno State going to offer a corn delivery system during the summer?  I’ll take twelve ears, my good man, and throw in a bottle of that amazing chocolate milk…yum.

Satan called. He wants his weather back. ~Internet meme

Lately, everyone has been complaining about allergy related symptoms like sneezing, watering eyes, and coughing.  I’m no doctor and I don’t even play one on TV, but I can pretty much guarantee all that stuff is related to the crappy air.  It hasn’t just been hot, it’s even been humid, and walking outside feels like breathing through a military gas mask.  One of the worst parts about this sweaty summer, is trying to keep my 90-year-old mother occupied.  Now I know what you’re thinking; your 90-year-old mother needs something to do?  Isn’t she knitting a blanket in her rocking chair?  Isn’t she watching a series of Lifetime movies?  Ugh, I wish.  Normally, she takes her fancy walker on a few laps around the neighborhood, with Jill and my mutt Coco.  But this heat has put all that to a screeching halt.  Even though my mom is elderly, and dealing with dementia, she still has things to do.  She has her coffee while watching GMA, reads the paper, gets dressed, takes her pills, eats breakfast, waters the plants, roots for the Giants, and works on her puzzles.  She HAS to make her bed every morning, or the bedroom police will slap her with a ticket; it’s a law.  She takes a shower every other day, with our help.  And even when it’s 110 degrees, mom is “freezing” in her bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up.  Granted, she’s naked, but still.  My only saving grace is that we’re halfway through the year, and this heat must eventually relent.  Soon, I’ll be looking forward to the second most annoying thing to whine about – Christmas decorations in October.  Scary!

At night, hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain and its central nerves, which sizzle like the inside of an electric-light bulb. ~Truman Capote

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car. ~E.B. White

It was a dark and stormy night, the trees bending like toothpicks in the unrelenting rain.  I heard the thunder crashing all around me, the explosions bursting the very particles of my brain cells, my pupils seeing stars…wait, hold on.  Actually, it was a warm day in Clovis and the thermometer was beginning the climb to its predicted 85 degrees, which meant I was already sweating at 10:30 in the morning.  My forehead was clammy, my nerves were shot, and my fingers tightly gripped the steering wheel like an iron vise.  Destination; the dreaded DMV.  Yes, after many years it was time to renew my license, and because it had been such I long time, I was given the lovely opportunity to visit a real-life DMV office.  Boy howdy!  I jumped for joy when I saw that little nugget on my paperwork.  Because who wouldn’t want to step foot into a dimly lit building, where the tempers are short, and the lines are longer than the lyrics to “American Pie.”  You’re only a number here mister, and don’t you forget it.  The verbal contact is minimal at best, and don’t even think about asking the same question twice.  I’ve heard of people literally turning to stone after receiving the laser-like evil eye.  It’s like that classic Seinfeld scene where the Soup Nazi is all business, and the customers know the drill; say nothing, act casual.  Also, no sudden movements – you don’t want to scare that beauty behind the counter with the coke-bottle glasses and slight moustache.  She’s been back there since 1972, fueled by Sanka, Virginia Slims, and a no-nonsense demeanor.  NEXT!

Car sickness is the feeling some persons get when each month’s installment comes due. 
~Herbert V. Prochnow

What you are about to read is true.  Every single word.  Okay, almost every word. And now I’ll hop aboard my trusty Schwinn bicycle with the banana seat, and backpedal to sometime earlier this year.  It was a random month when I received my license renewal and registration. Holy crap!  My registration is a whopping $334!  Damn! I have to physically appear at the Department of Motor Vehicles!  And so, like every other DMV hating American, I promptly shoved both documents into a dresser drawer and forgot about them. Until about 2 weeks before my birthday, when I realized I was running out of time, and immediately threw myself into a purple panic.  I made a beeline for my pink Mac, and hopped down the proverbial rabbit hole that is the DMV website.  I attempted to make an appointment at one of the three offices in town, but was unable to find a single one before May 12^th.  Curses! Realizing I’d just have to show up at the Clovis office early, I began filling out my application.  Easy peasy right?  Um, nope.  I started, paused, returned, and tried to finish, but couldn’t. I hit the “continue” button so many times, I wore the print right off my index finger.  Disgruntled, I finally completed a new application and discovered I now had 2 app numbers.  I only mention this mindless fact because you’ll want to remember it later in our story.  It should be right around the time you see, “then I almost reached across the counter and punched her in the face” ….

A real patriot is the fellow who gets a parking ticket and rejoices that the system works.
~Bill Vaughan

A few days later, armed with a mess of important info like my birth certificate, bank statement, thumb print, shoe size, and astrology chart, I confidently marched into the front doors of the DMV.  Just like that, my confidence immediately tanked and was replaced by despair, despondence, and disappointment.  It appeared that the great unwashed of Fresno had all decided to show up at the same time, and that my day was about to get screwed big time.  I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about to embark on an epic journey, where all my hopes would be dashed, and my dreams shot to the ground. It would also be almost 7 hours before it was over and done.  As Alice Cooper once creepily sang, “Welcome to My Nightmare.”  And so, I took my place in the snaking “non-appointment” line, and spent the next 45 minutes or so listening to three Middle Eastern 20-somethings arguing behind me, watching the fidgety guy in front of me, all  while gobbling down a PB&J.  Observation: DMV has 35 windows, but only ONE designated to non-appointments. How about a couple more windows? Are we not human? Cattle call…moo…

A motorcycle is okay until you hit gravel.
~Ernest Hemingway

 Suddenly, it was finally my turn, and I squealed with delight. That is, until I noticed the lady working the window was going to lunch.  Oh no, this could not be good.  She seemed kind and helpful and completely un-like any other DMV worker bee.  I somehow knew when I was waved over by her replacement, that SHE was not like her predecessor.  I calmy walked to the counter, took a deep breath, and flashed a big smile.  I was met with none other than Roz from “Monsters, Inc.”  Just a pair of bloodshot peepers looking over her cat-eye glasses, and a monotone voice asking me what I came for.  I almost jokingly said, “Well, for the world-famous buffet, of course,” but then I came to my senses.  When I handed over my application, I told her about the 2 different confirmation numbers. Whereupon she looked me squarely in the face and sarcastically said, “If you get a number, that means you did it correctly.” Then in true Roz fashion, she asked me for my paperwork.  When I told her I had downloaded my docs online, she testily replied, “You still have to bring them in.” What I did; I handed them to her.  What I wanted to do; Ask what good is having a download option then?  Afterward, she took one look at my birth certificate and said the words that still haunt me today, “Oh, we can’t accept this.”  The reason being that it wasn’t stamped with fancy raised embossment.  Now mind you, it took me a couple of days and the emptying of several file folders to find that damn certificate.  I was not happy.  It was at this point; I almost reached across the counter and punched her in the face.  However, I did not.  Because your girl here is NOT meant for the cold cement floor of solitary confinement…

The elderly don’t drive that badly; they’re just the only ones with time to do the speed limit.
~Jason Love

As I snatched my paperwork from Roz’s clawed hands, I gave her my best I-couldn’t-hate-you-more look and stormed out the door.  Not willing to accept defeat, and reminding myself it was only 4 days before my license expired, I had to change my game plan.  So, I pulled up my big-girl panties, and made a beeline for home.  There, I vented to my mother, slammed a Diet Pepsi, and looked up the Recorder’s office address.  Which is a good thing, because they moved into a spanking new building just down the street from where I used to work.  After I arrived at their office, I went to the one of many computers they have, typed in my info, and got in line.  Luckily, it was a short line, and the lady behind the glass had a much better attitude. But I about keeled over when she told me I owed her thirty bucks. Thirty ding dang dollars!  Geez lady, how about a senior discount?  And so, I took my brand-new minted certificate, and decided that since I was already downtown, I could hit the new DMV on Olive Avenue just minutes away.  Fabulous!  I could get it done and be home in about an hour!  But the universe is a bitch sometimes, and she had other ideas.  Unbeknownst to me, she had just one more roadblock (literally) for me, and I headed straight for it…

It finally happened. I got the GPS lady so confused, she said, “In one-quarter mile, make a legal stop and ask directions.”
~Robert Brault

It was getting hot outside, and my air conditioner was on full blast, the vents pointed straight at me.  I was on my way to salvation, and as I got closer and closer to my destination, I started to feel hopeful again.  I got behind two white vans heading the same direction, and we drove for a few minutes under the blazing sun.  Uh oh.  And there they were.  I began to see orange cones and construction zone signs, and then I saw the one thing standing in my way of procuring a new California Driver’s License; a giant sign that read ROAD CLOSED.  NOOOOO!  NOT TODAY!!!  I pounded on the steering wheel as the work crew began instructing the two vans to turn around, and I was forced to follow behind.  What did I do now?  How do I get there?  I knew where I was, but I had no clue about another option to get where I was going.  I turned into a sketchy neighborhood, where more construction equipment could be found, and zig zagged my way for a mile or so, until I somehow made it out alive.  And then, the lightbulb came on, and I realized I could spend the next half hour searching for the building, or I could head to the last DMV office in town.  I had to muster up all the strength and courage I could, because this battle was going to be ugly, tedious, and demanding.  I popped in a breath mint and knew there was no turning back…onward!

When buying a used car, punch the buttons on the radio. If all the stations are rock and roll, there’s a good chance the transmission is shot.
~Larry Lujack

And off I went, zooming my way up to the one place I promised myself I would never visit again: the dreaded, dirty, dark DMV on Blackstone Avenue.  It’s old, it’s dank, and it smells like tacos and bad after shave.  But despite the fact it also has only one non-appointment line, it went fairly quickly.  I turned in my docs, got a number, and took my seat with 97 other people sitting in ugly hard chairs.  They all looked miserable and exhausted.  They all looked like me.  My ass immediately began to ache.  And then I waited, and waited, and I waited some more.  I watched the numbers on the board tick off one by one.  I became jealous of everyone who jumped up when they were called.  They were the chosen ones, the special ones, the lucky ones.  And I hated all of them.  I especially hated the little brat behind me, playing an aggravating cartoon in a continuous loop on her tablet.  OMG.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my number appeared, and I sprinted to the counter.  The employee I encountered was dour and unsmiling, with no visible people skills, a bad haircut, and yes, a thin moustache.  She’d obviously been working there way too long.  She wasn’t having it. She was just killing time until retirement.  Like yours truly.  But in record time, all my docs were processed, I got my interim driver’s license, and passed my vision test.  It’s a mystery how anyone can pass that thing.  It’s hung behind each worker, and you have to squint through the plexiglass to see the letters.  That plexiglass is disgusting; it’s filthy, it’s scratched, with some sort of dusty film clinging to it.  When’s the last time they replaced that germy piece of plastic, 1976?  Gross!

Every year it takes less time to fly across the ocean and longer to drive to the office.
~Raymond Duncan

The Department of Motor Vehicles was founded in 1915, 109 years ago.  Their annual budget is $1.1 billion dollars.  The DMV currently employees over 8,900 cranky people.  Okay, maybe they’re not ALL cranky, but that’s just my experience. Is there any other organization more despised than the DMV?  I suppose the IRS could give them a run for their money. I know my mother gets all nutted up and bent out of shape when you just mention the PG&E.  It gets so bad, that depending on her mood, I usually hide the bill for a couple days.  If she gets worked up about Direct TV, I can usually talk her down from the ledge.  I suppose having a job at the DMV has its pros and cons, just like any other.  I’m assuming the pay is all right, the benefits are good, and there’s excellent job security.  But that bad attitude, prison cell vibe, and waiting on lots of irritating people would definitely make you consider an alternative field of work.  DMV, we salute you!  Now talk to PG&E about some better overhead lights, ring up Angi for a cleaning service, and tell Direct TV you want some Samsung screens installed STAT.  Hey, if we frustrated customers had Netflix to watch while we waited, our unhappiness would disappear faster than you can say “Stranger Things”…

One time the police stopped me for speeding, and they said “oh, you know the speed limit is 55 miles per hour.” I said, “yah, I know, but I wasn’t going to be out that long.”
~Steven Wright

Oh, you hate your job? Why didn’t you say so? There’s a support group for that. It’s called everybody, and they meet at the bar. ~Drew Carey

Oh, hi there, it’s been a minute. Sorry it’s taken me so long to bang out a few thoughts here, but well, you know how it is.  Sometimes life just takes over and before you know it, 15 years has blown by.  Seriously?  It’s been that long since I had anything to yak about?  Boy, what an exciting life I lead.  I would go back to 2008 and pick up from there, but that would take until Christmas, and I can’t even remember what I wore to work yesterday.  There have been many highs, and way too many lows, but we must trudge on.  These days I’m happily employed, and by that, I mean I’m just happy to have a job.  Is it my dream job?  No.  Does it pay the bills?  Yes.  Am I ready to retire?  You bet.  Unfortunately, I still have at least a couple more years before I can watch Netflix and eat bon-bons all day.  Heavy sigh.  The good news is that my company has moved into a new fancy building out in Clovis.  That’s right, just like The Jeffersons.  It’s not a deluxe apartment in the sky, but the insides do resemble a gigantic airplane hangar. I won’t be surprised when I come into work one day, and there’s a Boeing 747 parked in the foyer.  Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts…

…if you don’t like your job, you don’t strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That’s the American way. ~The Simpsons

 Our new digs are very industrial, with lots of overhead piping, a thousand fluorescent lights, and windows everywhere.  All the doors and conference rooms are glass, and the only thing you can’t see through, are the stainless-steel bathroom stalls.  And who wants to see that?  I’m telling you; SC Johnson doesn’t make enough Windex for this place.  NO privacy, whatsoever, not even for the mucky mucks.  Thinking of taking a quick snooze in your cushy leather chair?  I don’t think so mister.  Thank goodness we moved, because if I had to spend one more day schlepping down to our cockroach infested flophouse, I was going to lose my mind.  You know, it was a joy having intellectual conversations with the homeless, dodging piles of dog poop, and breathing in the putrid scent of urine.  That’s all well and good for some people, and a few of my crazy co-workers actually miss working deep in the belly of the beast.  As for me, I couldn’t get out the door fast enough, waving a fond farewell to the stinky streets of downtown.  So long suckers!  I haven’t seen any spindly 8-legged critters yet, so hopefully we have some efficient pest control people taking care of things now.  And by that, I mean I want to see Bill Murray and Dan Akroyd sauntering down the hall wearing proton packs…

The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too. ~Samuel Butler

And speaking of unwanted guests, we have a few in our backyard.  No, I’m not talking about the squirrels and the blue jays.  Specifically, there are three huge rats that have taken a liking to the crunchy contents of the bird feeder hanging from one of our trees.  I know what you’re probably thinking, oh how cute, they have Ratatouille scampering around the flora and fauna.  He’s happily sitting on his haunches, nibbling on a blade of grass and picking the sunflower seeds from his tiny little teeth.  Well, my friends, this is no Disney movie.  These rogue rodents are fat and ugly, with hairless tails longer than David Letterman’s beard. Yikes. Their fangs are yellow, their fur is filthy, and their nails are like sharp, stunted spikes.  My wacky dog, Coco, is absolutely obsessed with this trio of thieves, and practically plows through the screen door whenever she sees them.  Run away!  Run away!  I shall eat you alive!

I have to admit, they are kind of fun to mess with.  I like to wait until the entire herd is planted on the feeder, greedily chomping away, their beady eyes rolling back in gastronomic pleasure.  Then I slowly sneak up, and like a hissing snake, blurt out an ear-splitting, PSSSSSSST!!!!!!!!!  I don’t know what’s more hilarious, watching them scatter in all directions, or laughing as Coco sprints back into the house like someone just pinched her ass. Ruff! And that may be the only exercise she gets all day, except for skimming the floors like a Roomba in search of fallen food.  She really is the strangest dog; she doesn’t like to play, and she’s terrified of toys. Walking around the neighborhood, she avoids other dogs, side-stepping backwards to keep a safe distance of no less than 3 feet.  It’s not that she doesn’t like dogs, she just doesn’t want to be friends.  She’s really not a big fan of that whole butt-sniffing thing either.  Her eyes get all bugged out, and if she was human, her facial expression would say, “Look dude, you better buy me dinner first…”

There are memories I choose not to live with, but we occasionally meet for a drink. ~Robert Brault

These days, when I’m not chasing Rodents of Unusual Size (see: The Princess Bride), I’m spending quality time with my mother.  And by that, I mean attempting to decipher what the heck she’s talking about, via Dot-Speak.  This is when mom pulls words out of her cranium’s cobwebs and combines them with her version of sign language.  It’s like playing charades, where I smile and listen and nod until I win the game. There’s no prize, but just guessing the right answer is worth a celebration.  Dot has vascular dementia, which is a whole weird thing that plays tricks on the brain, screws up speech, and makes the memory go bye-bye.  When Dot thinks really hard, she’ll squint her eyes and make fast gestures with her hands, twisting her wrists around.  It’s as if she’s forcing the answer to come shooting out of her fingers, like Wonder Woman.  Because of this disease, she forgets names of household objects, and generally refers to most items as “that thing.”  Mom knows my name, and my two sister’s names, she just assigns them to the wrong one.  The other day, she said, “I told Wendy to take that plant home, but it’s still here.” Wait, what? At least she hasn’t turned into grandma yet, who was fond of calling my cousin Mark, “the boy.”  The TV remote is Dot’s worst enemy, and occasionally she confuses it with the telephone.  Unfortunately, saying “hello” 47 times will not change the channel…

Whoever snatched my formerly reliable, sharp short-term memory: I’d like it back now, please. ~Dr. SunWolf

 It’s rough watching your once lucid mother struggle so much. To be honest, it’s a real bitch.  And when my patience goes on vacation, I definitely feel guilty.  Because I just want to shout, “What is it?  What are you saying?”  I know there’s a giant scroll of words in mom’s head, and I just want to pull it out, and unfurl the damn thing.  Every so often, I look at old family photos, and I recall how vibrant she used to be.  Especially when my parents owned a motor home, and hosted cocktail-fueled tailgate parties at Fresno State football games.  Much later, they spent years following the FSU Women’s Softball Team, all decked out in their crimson red attire.  There are times I still see the old Dot, like when she’s reading the paper, and her tongue sticks out in great concentration.  Or when she’s engrossed in one of her puzzles, singing away to the Platters. They say at some point in your life, you and your parents will reverse roles. Which is why I’m now the one cooking dinner, and I’m the one tucking mom into bed at night. Every week or so, she decides to sleep on a different side of the bed, for no apparent reason.  I often wonder, if inside her misty mind, she’s secretly saving the other side for my dad…

She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,
And lived to the age of ninety-nine.
~Epitaph on Mrs. Freeland, in the churchyard of Edwalton

My mother gets around pretty well, but there are still some things she can’t do herself.  For instance, she can’t bathe alone.  Now, giving your parent a shower is an eye-opening adventure all its own.  First of all, you have to get past the nakedness.  Let’s face it, that experience can be a real shock to the system.  I have to say, the first time I saw Dot in the buff, I didn’t know how to react.  Should I look?  Should I not look?  Am I looking too much?  What exactly IS the protocol for this situation?  And then, once I realized she wasn’t embarrassed, it got much easier. I’m not saying it’s my favorite task in the world, but at least mom’s still able to use the commode without any assistance.  Because getting jiggy with that area of the body, is something that might push me right over the edge. Bust out the rubber gloves!  You might think it wouldn’t be that difficult taking care of an 89-year-old woman, but think again.  She’s faster than she looks, and you can’t let her out of your sight.  One minute she’s right in front of you, and as soon as you blink, she’s doing laps around the backyard in her fancy walker. She really is the world’s worst patient.  It’s like having a toddler around; she won’t listen to you, and if you tell her not to do something, you can bet she’s doing it later.  “Mom, get off that stool!”  “Wendy, I have to water my violets.”  “Mom, why are you lifting that?”  “Because you weren’t here.”  “Dot, where are you going?”  “Wendy, the bird feeder is empty.” Oy vey. Sometimes, I think she does it just to piss me off. Well played Dot, well played…

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to. ~John Ed Pearce

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.

Continue reading “Home on the Range”

Remember what Bilbo used to say: “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

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.  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.

Continue reading “Road to Nowhere”

An optimist stays up until midnight to see the New Year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.

– Bill Vaughan

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…

Continue reading “Year of the Cowpoke”

Ralphie: No! No! I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!

Santa Claus: You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.

– A Christmas Story

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.

Continue reading “How The Blonde Bought Christmas”

“I was 32 when I started cooking; up until then, I just ate.”
-Julia Child

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. Not to mention the toe tags 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.

Continue reading “FOOD FOR THOUGHT”

Ocean: A body of water occupying two-thirds of a world made for man – who has no gills.
– Ambrose Pierce

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.

Continue reading “SAND IN MY SHORTS”

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized for a crime you have not committed.
– Anthony Powell

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?

Continue reading “BIRDHOUSE IN YOUR SOUL”