Maggie’s posting again – which reminded me how long it’s been since I have given any attention to this blog.

I haven’t been able to even look at this blog in some time. mostly, I’ve been struggling with a broken heart. On July 9, we had to put our 15 year old Boston Terrier, Chloe down. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I really thought I was prepared for her death. I mean, she was 15 for crying out loud! Bostons just don’t live that long. Dogs just don’t live that long. What the *F* is up with that by the way?? What the hell is the big idea? Why do our beloved pets only live a fraction of our own lives?

We took Chloe up to British Columbia the week before her death. The first few days, she was just fine. She has always loved being up at our camp, smelling new stuff, seeing new sights. Then suddenly she stopped eating, and it was really down hill from there. Dave and I spent several days just holding her as she slept, snuggling with her while she rested, letting her know how much we loved her and that we would miss her. It really was a blessing to have her last days spent in the quite of our camp – as we were able to devote our attention to her so fully. We prayed daily that she be comfortable and pain free. We were very blessed.

My house is beyond lonely now – I hear the tinkle of her collar about 6 times a day. She had a great life – I know that. But missing her is almost more than I can bear sometimes.

We are looking for a new puppy – hopefully one that will be ready in a couple of months – It’s an interesting dance – this wanting a new life to love right now, yet wanting to wait, to give Chloe the respect that her life deserved.

We miss her.

Dave hanging with ChloeMe with my girl

I’ve just started to upload photos on Flikr, which Maggie turned me on to. Take a look by clicking “more photos” on the right – and watch for new photos!

It’s the truth.

The other day, I was sitting at our kitchen table with a girlfriend, drinking wine and laughing. My friend has been working-out on a regular basis for months now. My husband walked in, noticed how good she was looking and said “Hey! You are really looking a lot better!!!” My friend and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing. Having realized that his compliment may have missed it’s mark, he tried to fix it with “No really, you look so much better than you used to! A lot!.” My friend, being the well grounded girl that she is laughed, and gave him a hug and thanked him.

As we laughed about his smoothness, I told my friend that this was not an unusual blunder for my boy. I explained to her that just he other day I had been lamenting to him the fact that women and men age so much differently. The fact that it seems to be so much more acceptable for men to age than for women. Men get pot bellies, wrinkles, and gray hair – and it’s OK – they are even still considered sexy. Women get soft in the middle, crows feet and a few gray hairs and they are no longer attractive – they’re just old.

In my “feel sorry for me” lament, I told my husband that I was “sick and tired of looking in the mirror every day and seeing my ugly OLD face.”

This was a serious pity party I was having. This was when I needed my boy to say something like “I think you’re beautiful.” Or maybe, “You look just like you did the day I met you,” or something equally as comforting. What did the man I married (meaning – I agreed to be bound to him for THE REST OF MY LIFE) say to me when I told him about my ugly OLD face?? He gently took my hand into his and said “Well… there isn’t a whole lot you can do about that!”

And when my jaw dropped to my chest and I looked at him in complete shock, he got that funny look on his face – you know, the one you get when you realize that you’ve just actually spoken your thoughts rather than just thought them? – knowing that he had said the wrong thing, but not actually knowing what was wrong about it, my husband of of 12 years said to me “Errrr….. Hey, come on! Don’t be that way. I’m getting your teeth fixed aren’t I??”

Makes me hot with desire just to write about it.

Get a caddy. They really make things fun – even if you can’t golf.

I’m a horrible golfer – really – so I was more than a little nervous to have a caddy watch my bad shots. I was sooo wrong. Our caddy was awesome. He helped me with my grip – my swing – and my putting. When we were on the 16th hole, right up next to houses ranging from $50 – $70 MILLION dollars (thats more than I make in a MONTH) he went on ahead so that he could see where our shots landed. When I teed off, I had a horrible drive and my ball popped up high and to the right – headed right towards those fancy homes. I covered my eyes as I heard a loud bang – cringing because I thought my ball had impaled someones million dollar patio set – my caddy yelled SAFE!!! and doubled over with laughter as I rushed up to find out what kind of trouble I was in.

When I finally got to my caddy – he was standing by my ball which was right in the middle of the fairway. Apparently it had hit the roof of a MOVING car, bounced off, and landed in the fairway. My caddy said that he had been a caddy for about 8 years, and had never seen anything like it. The car, by the way, never even slowed down.

Even though my golfing sucked – I had a great time. And it’d good to know that I will be talked about on the 16th hole at Pebble Beach for eternity.

Wine for breakfast.
Wine for lunch.
Wine at mid-day.
Restaurants that only serve wine for dinner (no liquor).

Me: Oh so happy.

Hubby: Oh so bored.

But I was drunk so I didn’t give a shit.

On Wednesday, we are going to Wine Country! For a wino like me, going to Napa is a very big deal. But on a day like today – it’s HUGE.

For those of you who can’t tell what the heck this is – it’s a photo of our back yard. And it’s snowing. In April. And I’m going to Napa.

Yeah for me!

I know that God is a woman, and She is obviously one of my dearest friends. I came to this realization after doing some innocent shopping at a local drugstore. One of the items I purchased was a mirror with 10X magnification to assist me with the plucking and grooming of my unruly eyebrows.

Once home, I pulled out the mirror and began the necessary though unpleasant task of plucking my eyebrows, and then slowly reviewing the other imperfections that were now oh so obvious with my new magic mirror. I cannot even explain the horror with which I inspected my blotchy, papery, mole-y, even hairy, road-mapped, forty-four year old face!

In a fit of middle-aged fear, I ran to my old makeup/beauty bag, and pulled out the most potent serums, line reducers, pour plumper’s, eye-area treatments and moisturizers that money can buy. Then for the next 15 minutes, I exfoliated, rubbed, buffed, moisturized and massaged my face, willing it to look younger, plumper and smoother with each careful stroke (all upward). When I finally finished, I caught my reflection in my big bathroom mirror and breathed a sigh of relief. It worked! There I was again. Firm skin, a few laugh lines (but I’ve earned those), and relatively nice smooth skin. Whew – that was close.

Just as I was leaving the bathroom, pleased with my fine self, I took one last look in the magic magnifying mirror. Aarrgghhh! Old lady again! I took a quick glance back at the big bathroom mirror – everything LOOKED just fine. But that little frickin’ magic mirror didn’t hold anything back.

And that’s when the realization dawned. God knows exactly what I look like, and like a great friend, She wants to shield me from the worst of it. She wants me to see the good things about myself, not the bad. So for my own good, She has gradually reduced my ability to see anything within 3 feet of my face (which would of course include my face).

There just wouldn’t be that kind of forethought put into things if God were a man. Men just don’t think of ways to spare us from reality. Seriously. Who the hell do you think invented those damn magnifying mirrors anyway?

Today I was drug out of the house by my collar, tossed down on my hands and knees, and made to sweat and toil in my garden.

“An edge! You have no edge! How does the grass know where to stop?? You need to put in a nice border. Right away!”

I am no gardener, but as I looked at the mess I had left untouched at the end of the summer last year, I had to agree – I guess – I mean, really, there was no arguing. So I started pulling weeds (at least I hoped they were weeds), uncovering new buds, and yanking the lawn back into it’s own territory. All the while I kept thinking, “A border? Why the heck do I need a border now? I’ve lived here forever and never worried one day about a ‘border’. Who cares if the grass grows into the flowerbed a little? What gives?”

Soon however I forgot about the “border” and was lost in my work, the smell of the earth pungent as I banged away excess soil clinging to the roots of grass and weeds.

“That day lily needs to be split – and you had better cut back that shrub it’s taking over your peony!”

I didn’t even know I had any day lily’s! Still oblivious, I split and trimmed and cleared with abandon. As I was working, I accidently pulled up a little gladioli shoot. It wasn’t very large, so I tossed it onto my waste pile and resumed my work. Suddenly, I turned back, grabbed the shoot, dug a perfect hole for it, planted it, and secured it by pressing carefully into the dirt around it. That’s when it hit me. I had such a strong sense that Velma was sitting right at my shoulder, guiding my unknowledgeable hands like the rat in the movie “Ratatouille”, ensuring that I didn’t waste anything as precious as a tiny bulb. At the realization that my now deceased mother-in-law, the queen of gardening, was working in my flowerbed with me, pushing me to put in a BORDER of all things, I was overcome with such a feeling of peace and happiness that I had to stop for a moment to savor the essence of her. But I swear, she took one look at the remaining un-done portion of the garden and got right back to work, using my hands to do her bidding, and I have the blister to prove it.

I sure miss her – and I am very grateful that she used me to get her hands into the dirt she loved so much. Oh, and there WILL be a border. What a great idea.

This was yesterday in the Florida Everglades where we went for one of those airboat rides. By the way, I am so getting one of those boats! Talk about cool.

Anyway, Captain Steve here saw this 10+ foot gator as we pulled into an open area. The gator didn’t seem at all bothered by us unless we got too close, then he’d swim away. But Captain Steve (I’m sure his nickname is bugger or jughead – guy had hands the size of hams – although he was very nice and only almost went postal on us one time) decided to show us how aggressive they can be during mating season (who knew). So with a “Hey ya’ll watch this!’ command, he hung a piece of rope over the edge of the boat tauntingly, until mighty-mouth here swam over to see what it was…

I don’t care what people say, these babies are scary. And I’m sure someone out there will say, “well, yeah, they feed them, so they are basically tame.” Bull Shit. They don’t tame. They eat.

Anyway, just about the time I was thinking… ‘Man I sure hope this doesn’t turn into one of those moments that you read about, where this big redneck says ‘hey, watch this”, and the next image you see is of a guy standing there watching as the big gator swims away with his watch, the rope, and a few fingers- and then you have to rush him to the hospital on the super cool airboat, (just like the one they used on that one episode of Miami Vise), and finally, at the hospital, having to tell Captain Steve that maybe “handy” or “fingers’ or “pinky” would be a better nickname now.”… Anyway, just about that time, the gator got bored with Captain Steve’s game and swam away. Probably because rope does not taste like chicken.

I guess that’s a good thing – although I really would have loved to drive that boat.

Spring is here and I have my cute little car out, washed, and ready to hit the road.  Ignore the snow-pile in the background – I’m sure it will be gone soon.

Oh please, oh please, no more snow!!