One thing about not being out there, being visible, being noticeable, being memorable. People forget that you're there. Until you're not there and someone asks, "Where the heck is the person who sweated this small stuff?" SO UNFAILINGLY RELIABLE. I'd rather not have that on my tombstone. Shudder. You might as well etch this beneath my name— DRUDGE . Yes, yes, I know that the world can't run without us drudges. Did I say I abhor being a drudge? If I had, I would've done something about it long time ago. I would've taken the other path. Each and every time. I cannot imagine myself as a high maintenance diva. Maybe in a parallel universe I am. Heaven help those people.

The Beatles! Need I say more? I didn't think so. "We are just a band that made it very big. That's all," said John Lennon on Disc 1 of The Beatles Anthology . I'm glad The Beatles happened during my lifetime, in particular, my youth. John and Ringo were born in 1940, Paul in 1942, and George in 1943. They had a child's memory of WWII. In spite of (or because of) all the harsh stuff they may have experienced as children, they gave us beautiful lyrics and music. Thank you, The Beatles! By the way, have you heard their version of Besame Mucho from their younger years. Just put a pair of velvet pants on Paul. Gosh.

Yesterday, I said I was no longer interested in going to Mars. Not that I've been offered the opportunity. I love the idea of traveling through space and exploring Mars. The problem is. . .me. Maintaining the flexibility, endurance, and stamina to deal with number one conceits is getting tougher for me. Let's face it in nearly all workplaces, there's always one. I'm beyond the point of putting up with that kind of misery, day in and day out on the job. Imagine doing that in close quarters 24 hours a day through infinity and beyond.

As I settled back to read a few more pages of a novel around 11 o'clock the other night, after spending an hour or so doodling and drawing sugar canes, peppermint canes, and walking canes, I realized that I was doing different things.  (Canes are not easy to draw, by the way.) I am actually looking for things to do, different things to try because I am. . . giggle . . .retired. There are some things I'm no longer interested in trying . . . hang gliding . . .roller skating . . . hiking the Pacific Crest trail . . .driving a big rig cross country, toot-toot . . .going to Mars Yup, no longer interested in making those dreams come true.  One of the things I have been doing is painting. I did that watercolor in the photo up there. What do you think: Does it remind you of granite mountains? Maybe somewhere in the Sierra Nevada?

In the past year, I've used the Mama's cane more than the Mama ever did in her 20+ years of owning it. The Mama didn't believe in using canes. She said, "The more you use it, the more old you are." I eventually learned to shrug off her ignoring the helpful tool as one of the Mama's vanity things. She may be ancient but heck if she was going to look it. It was painful to watch the Mama slowly get up from a seated position, wobble immediately (because damn if she was going to stand still for a moment or two) into a walk, then oh so slowly make her way to her destination, using walls and furniture to help push herself forward. But, by golly, she got where she wanted on her accord. And, that was what was important and dignified for her. As for me. . .how do I feel about using the cane? As a young thing, I would get infuriated at drivers who paid no mind to pedestrians in the cross walk. Sometimes when I had my own close calls, I thought that when I&

The season has begun of Brrrr, Cold.  Yet Molly the Cat and I let the bright blue sky fool us. I'll sit outside if I darn well please, says Molly the Cat crouched very low to the ground. Me. I'm wearing shorts and t-shirt and wandering around without socks and shoes. Giggle.  

Do I garden because I love it? Is gardening something that's simply in my genes? In her last years, the Mama would sit in her garden or at the kitchen table and ask, "Who will take care of the garden when I die?" "Don't worry," I would tell her. That's what I liked about the Mama. She didn't ever ask me to tend to her garden when she was gone. She didn't want me to feel obligated.

Last month I was introduced to rock painting. Another creative outlet for me.  It's a good thing our back yard is full of rocks and there are a lot of places that I can border with them. I wonder though if the rocks mind being painted.

Hundreds of persimmon buds, then hundreds of persimmon babies fell this year that I didn't think we would have much of a crop. I was wrong. The persimmon tree has taught me that we never know what will be.

This drawing started with some free styling with glitter pens. La la la. . .    A couple weeks later I pulled out the crayons. Yesterday I took a photo of the drawing and played with it in Photoshop.  Voila! Now to find space for the drawing on the refrigerator.

Warning: This is a grumpy story that happened this past summer in front of one of my happy places. The encounter did not sour me on continuing my visits, but for a moment after the event I felt like what's the use of living when people like that guy we met is alive. I was parallel parking into a tight spot in front of the library where a whole lot of children and their parents were lined up in front of the bookmobile. The kids were signing up for a how-many-books-do-I-want-to-read-this-summer type of program. The car in front of me hung over its rear parking mark and the car behind me was nearly up to its front parking mark. As I turned off the engine, the Husband and I heard a very angry "HEY!" We looked over to see a man standing against the building, his arms crossed, glaring at us. "Are you talking to us?" the Husband asked. "You hit my car!" the middle-aged man shouted. "We did not," said the Husband. "We would've hea

Find out what the monthly amount for my health insurance premium will be next year.  Shudder. I think the worse so that if it's not worse, then all the better. When the Husband tells me we received a bill in the mail, I say something like "How much—$2,503.18?" Of course it isn't. It never is. Well, untrue. We paid at last two bills like that for my not-so-hysterical surgery last May. Now, I'm back to thinking about health insurance. Being older and now having pre-existing conditions, I'd be crazy not to have health insurance. Shudder.  

A long time ago when I was a young single thing living in the City, one of the things I enjoyed was creating a jungle in my apartment. On Sunday mornings, my church was the house plant section of Cost Plus down by Fisherman's Wharf. Wandering around philodendrons, umbrella trees, and ficus plants, oh my. Pothos, rubber plants, and ivies, such oxygen heaven. I didn't always go home with plants, but when I did it was with the small ones that cost less than two bucks each. With houseplants you can get a lot with a very slim pocketbook. Now and then the Mama gave me a houseplant to take home after a weekend visit. I don't know how many times she sent me home with a ti plant. "They're good luck," she said. The ti plants never made it, which I realize now is because I lived in very cold apartments. I wore a heavy sweater or snuggled under blankets and pillows rather than turn on inefficient wall heaters. Once, sometimes twice, a year, I would repot and propag

That picture exemplifies a good reason why the Husband and I don't like to move things in the office. Yesterday, I finally repotted the umbrella plant that has been crying for a bigger pot for a couple of years. Yaay! We decided that the better place for the plant was in the corner by the window next to the Husband's desk. There wasn't much stuff on the corner table but there was quite a lot of stuff on the floor to get to that corner table. Much of that stuff got dumped on the floor next to my desk. I try not to look down.

The Husband I have taken to conversing with Molly the Cat, responding as her in what we each imagine is her sweet, cute high-pitched voice. "You don't like your food," one of us humans says. "No," says Molly the Cat. "We try to find something you would like to eat." "Phiff." "You used to eat it." "Then you haven't found what I like to eat." I'm sure that if she wasn't so polite, Molly would've added "have you?"

I talk to myself. When I catch myself talking to myself I ask myself, "Have I gone crazy now?" Okay. Here's the unedited answer, "I'm talking to myself."

I wonder if a day will come when I no longer remember these numbers. 44 — The number of the first address I recall. 242 — Our family's P.O. box when we lived at #44. 711 — The number of the first house that the family owned. Not rented. 637-4735— The first phone number that I memorized. It went to a black phone. At first it was ME(rcury)7 4735.  That phone number went with us from #44 to #711. What first important numbers do you remember?

Yesterday's mail brought my royalty check. Whoo-hooo! Just in time to pay the property tax bill. Boo-hoo. I'm grateful, and fortunate, to still receive royalties on career and educational books that I wrote 10 years ago. Jo in Little Women was asked by Professor Bhaer (who Jo eventually married) why she wrote trashy stories. Her answer: The sale of that trashy story bought something for her family back home, the sale of this trashy story paid for a vacation by the sea for her ill sister who needed the fresh air, and so forth and so on. Professor Bhaer had the decency to feel bad for bringing it up to Jo, and after he apologized, he encouraged Jo to write something that is dear to her heart. I'm not saying that my books are trash. Far from it. I have been wondering lately if there is something that is dear to my heart that I want to write.   

Swings and jungle gyms. Slides and teeter-totters. I came across a playground for the first time when I was five years old on my first day of first grade. I really took to the slides, especially the corkscrew one. When I got home that day, I looked forward to the next day of the slides just as much as the books and the pencils, and the desks and the blackboards. That experience lasted all of two-and-a-half days. I had to wait a full year to hang out in a playground again because the teacher said I was "too young" for school. It was okay. I went back to my old playground of open fields.