Wild Wild West

I've recently come to have a whole new appreciation for when Dorothy Gale first found herself in Oz, apprehensively saying to her little dog, "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."  The land she was in, although familiar, was completely unlike the surroundings in which she grew up.  I can relate to that.

 

Anyone who's read my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, knows that I grew up in New Jersey.  I spent 39 years there before I packed myself up and headed west; and although I vacationed in sunny AZ several times before my move, it does seem different, somehow, now that I live here.  I've noticed things.

 

One difference I noticed right away had to do with the wildlife.  Back home, for instance, when driving around, my conditioning was to be on alert for deer that may, at any time, haphazardly run out on the highways.  Within my first few weeks here, I found myself swerving to avoid a mountain lion that was gracefully flying across the road – a mountain lion! 

 

Similarly, at twilight in New Jersey, it is not uncommon to see bats gliding through the air.  Now, don't get me wrong, we have bats out here, but we also have many other winged creatures that like to come out and play in the night.  Again, just shortly after my arrival in the desert, one early evening, an owl with a six foot wing span just about overtook my windshield nearly giving me a coronary behind the wheel. 

 

Moreover, back on the eastern seaboard, raccoons can be found freely roaming about, scavenging – or, if they meet with an unfortunate fate, you'll find them puffed up and bloated with postmortem gas lying on the side of the road.  I've never seen a raccoon here.  We have other scavenging critters.  We have javelinas – savage, wiry-haired, tusked animals that resemble wild boar.  This past fall, my courtyard became a place of gluttonous revelry as a family of these destructive animals trashed my yard – twice!  Like a crazed Mr. McGregor I chased them away screaming and waving my arms like a lunatic.  (I now have chicken wire across my gate – it's pretty.  Not.)  These, too, are sometimes found puffed up on the side of the road, but not often – you see we have many other creatures out here that wouldn't pass up such a feast.  Nothing lasts too long on the side of our roads. 

 

And, speaking of roads, there are even major differences with them.  As I drove around the Garden State, I often found myself on roads like Ocean Avenue, or the Parkway – not to mention the myriad of ubiquitous Main Streets that crop up in every other town.  Out here it's quite another story.  Here you'll find Dynamite Boulevard, Bloody Basin Road and Stagecoach Pass just to name a few; plus we have a multitude of Mountain Roads: Red Mountain, Black Mountain, Lone Mountain, Daisy Mountain, Carefree Mountain, Carefree Highway ♪ ♪ ♪…  Sorry.  You can see what I'm getting at though, can't you?

 

It's different out here – and it's wild.  Why, even when I hike, I never know what I may encounter.  I've had bobcats and coyotes run in front of me up on the hill.  I've had diamondbacks cut short some hikes as I've been forced to turn around just to avoid crossing their path.  And, I was stung in the face once by a bee.  Someone had asked me if it was an Africanized bee.  I told them I really didn't know.  What I did know was it was a pissed off bee – that I was able to say with certainty.  As we get closer to May the bees will begin to swarm.  This is the impetus that will get me hiking in the morning again.

 

Ah, the morning hikes – one as to be alert in the early morning.  Many of the nocturnal animals are still roaming around and only beginning to retire for the day.  I keep an ear out when hiking, especially in the morning – I like to be sure that the steps I hear creeping up behind me are created by sneaker-clad feet and not paws. 

 

There is one gait, however – that although not typical, is not completely uncommon – which always seems to get me.  This one goes something like tcsh-tcsh-tp, tchs-tcsh-tp.  At first it perplexes me.  Can I be hearing that right?  Hard to tell with the deafening sound of my heart beating within my inner ear.  My adrenaline begins to rise as the sound gains on me: tcsh-tcsh-tp, tcsh-tcsh-tp.  Stay cool, I think – those are not paws.  Tcsh-tcsh-tp, tcsh-tcsh-tp – or, are they?  Just then a smiley, ruddy-faced geriatric with a dowager's hump and a walking stick scooches past me saying, "On your left, dear."  At least I think that's what she's saying – hard to tell, what with my cacophonous pulse raging in my ears.  I move to the right allowing her to pass. 

 

I tell you what; some of that older population is in really great shape.  We're a very outdoorsy community, people are active – we're on the move.  I can't help but wonder if I'll still be able to hike when I'm white-haired, hunched over and calcium deprived.  I guess I'll just have to wait and see…

 

As my heartbeat continues to pound and a slight tingling sensation overtakes my hands, I think to myself, "Damn you, butter," and it's then that I notice the three buzzards circling overhead.  "Hmph, what are they doing," I wonder – hopeful they've spotted a partially eaten, disemboweled carcass and that they're not waiting on me. 

 

See, that's another big difference between the east coast and here.  Back there, I'd stroll on the boardwalk where the biggest avian danger was getting pooped on or having a seagull take food from my hand.  Here, I climb mountains where turkey vultures await the possibility of a clogged-artery-induced collapse so they can peck my eyes out.  See what I mean?  It's wild; but don't get me wrong – the Wild West is the best!

 

Not in Kansas,

 - M

Resurrection Sunday

Riding in to town like a king

Oh, the joy that comes with spring

 

Silently enduring bogus trials

Oh, to see the children's smiles

 

A nail for each hand, and one shared by his feet

Oh, the fun of an egg hunt cannot be beat

 

"Forgive them," he asks, "they know not what they do."

Who is he talking about – them, me or you?

 

"It is finished," he cried, just before dying

Oh, the thrill of Easter egg dying

 

His body was placed in a tomb, not a casket

Oh, grab hold of those bunnies and fill up that basket

 

Prophecies fulfilled, three days later he rose

Oh, the parades, fancy bonnets and bows

 

Why do we celebrate Easter this way –

Nesting sugary treats on fake beds of hay?

 

It's the resurrection of Jesus – have no doubt

That's what Easter is truly about

 

Happy Easter!

 - M

Lusting for Lexicons

What is it about books?  How is it that some seem to grip us so?  Why are there those that transcend time and remain pertinent throughout the ages?  Is there one common denominator found within the literary classics?  Think about it – from Homer to Shakespeare, Margaret Mitchell to Louisa May Alcott, even Jane Austen to, dare I say, M. Hill – what is it about the way a story is constructed that makes it last? 

 

Well, I think the answer is fundamentally simple.  It's in the words.  Yup, the words.  Words are magical; and the way they're strung together on the page, if done right, can almost be like dancing – one continual fluid movement that takes you from one place to another.  Step by step, word by word, we vicariously experience different worlds, times and places with the turning of each page.  This is why those that resonate with us, emotionally, are always our favorite books.  We feel connected – and it's the words that are the connecting sinew.

 

I love words – they are an unending source of wonder for me: homonyms, synonyms, antonyms.  Nouns, verbs, gerunds.  Adjectives, adverbs, participles – dangling or otherwise.  What kind of a world would we live in without words?  Pretty quiet, for one thing – but the question was rhetorical…

 

I'm not the only one who marvels at words.  Take a look at what some others have said regarding these versatile intellectual stimuli:

 

"Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by man."

 - Rudyard Kipling

 

"To speak mere words is much like speaking of mere dynamite."

 - C.J. Ducasse   

 

"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug."

 - Mark Twain

 

I'd be remiss if I didn't include the partial lyric, "Words to memorize, words hypnotize, words make my mouth exercise…"  Hey, what ever happened to PWEI?  Never mind that…

 

Anyway, I recently had the opportunity to sit in on a writer's group where one of the exercises was prompted by loose dictionary pages – I got an H page.  We were supposed to write something inspired by one of the words, but as I looked at my page, my eyes found focus on a picture of a hawk.  Here's what I wrote:

 

I love the dictionary.  Not only is it chock full of information, but it is an endless source of amusement, as well.  Yes, that's right, amusement.  Looking at page 119 of some disemboweled dictionary, it's the picture of a hawk that catches my eye.  A hawk, as almost anyone knows, is any of several predatory birds with blah-blah-blah, ya, we all know what hawks are.  The thing about this hawk is that it recalled a memory of mine from many years ago. 

 

One time I came across the word grebe, and coming from a more urban than rural background, I was not familiar with this word so, naturally, I went to consult... The Book.  A grebe, as it turns out, is a very small dabchick.  Hmph!  A dabchick – how 'bout that.  See, the thing is, I had no idea what a dabchick was – the dictionary is like that, one word often leads to another; honestly, you could spend days within the pages of a dictionary.  I went straight to the Ds – d, d, d, dab, dabchick – there it was.  A dabchick is a noun; it is one of any variety of small grebes.

 

So there you have it – the dictionary – a funny, funny book!

 

It's probably no wonder, with my affinity for words, that one of my favorite books is, in fact, the dictionary – that massive collection of words, those teeny-tiny building blocks, just waiting to be assembled in such a way as to tell the next story, to transport you to the next place, to reveal to you completely new worlds and experiences… don't even try telling me that's not magical.

 

 Forever mystified,

  - M

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

Change is inevitable.  There's no escaping it.  In fact, we can actually rely on it as surely as we can trust that the sun will rise tomorrow.  And, I'd probably go as far to say that most change is good.  Most, of course, is not all.  There are those changes that occur that we cannot seem to stop – those that don't really fit the definition 'for the good.'

 

If you recall, I previously shared that in spite of my slender arms, my triceps flap like a billowing flag when I either wave a hearty hello or enthusiastically season my food.  I'm in my 40s – it's just the way it is. 

 

Here's another horrifying tidbit of mid-40s self-discovery.  First, you should know that my bathroom is a room chock full of reflective surfaces – between the mirrored closet doors, the giant vanity mirror and the glass enclosed shower stall, it is nearly impossible to be in that space and not see yourself everywhere you look.  So, the other day I'm getting dressed for a hike and, for whatever reason, after dispensing with my PJs, the first thing I put on was my socks – from a standing position.  (I don't know why.)  As I bent over to put the sock on my foot, my reflection caught my eye.  And, as if being bombarded by the multi-faceted images in a Fun House Hall of Mirrors, I had nowhere to look to avoid seeing this shocking brush with reality – Elsie the Borden cow was all I could think of.  When the heck did this happen?  UGH!  I immediately put on my bra.  Then my T-shirt.  Then the fleece. 

 

Okay, so there's apparently an unavoidable toll that gravity takes on the body.  What's next?  I'm almost afraid to ask, wrinkles?  So far, I've been pretty lucky with that one. 

 

What I haven't been spared of, however, is waking up in the night to use the bathroom – at least once, often twice, sometimes three times in a night.  Is this part of the aging process, too?  If so, it certainly would account for all the crotchety curmudgeons out there.  Apparently, after a certain age, a good night's sleep is a thing of the past.  A thing of the past like toned arms and perky boobs, I suppose. 

 

There is something else, though, about the bathroom experience as we age.  Has anyone else begun to notice a change in… well, in… velocity?  Seriously, this latest development could easily be parlayed into a game show – albeit a disgusting game show, but a game show all the same.  It could be called something like The Speed of Your Stream or How Slow is Your Flow?  In it, people of all ages would enter a bank of bathroom stalls, sit and, after a buzzer sounds, commence urinating.  The contestant, placed on the opposite side of a partition – similar to The Dating Game, would have to guess the participant's ages by – you can see this coming, right? – by the speed of the stream:  fast and furious = teenager (male, likely); smooth and steady = your average adult; trickling tinkle = senior citizen.  See?  What?  You don't think this would take off?  It could.

 

It's not really any worse than those sadomasochistic, esteem-eradicating carnival Guess Your Age & Weight games.  In those you're on public display while some dorky guy in a red and white striped vest tries, by assessing your physical appearance, to guess your age and weight.  He looks around, picks out some poor unsuspecting victim, then, after asking for a name, he addresses the crowd.  "Well, folks, whad'ya think?  I'd say Karen, here, is around 42 years old and about a buck fifty.  Let's see, shall we?"  Goaded by the mob around her, Karen begrudgingly steps on the scale saying, "I'm 26, jackass," when the needle redlines, at which point, the smarmy barker yells out, "Owhhh, Karen – 220!  Here's a Twinkie, thanks for playing."  Okay, maybe my little pee game is worse.  I've digressed. 

 

See, there are just some things we cannot escape as we age; but here's something unexpected that's happening to me that I never really heard anyone talk about before.  Lately, when I hear of an issue that strikes a chord in me, or of something that tickles my fancy (tickles my fancy? How old am I? Wait, let me…), I've begun to write in to people – radio hosts, magazine editors, newspaper columnists.  I don't know why; I never used to do things like this – and, honestly, I don't really have the time for it – but I'm 44 now and I'm beginning to think that, perhaps, this is just another step in the aging process – one taken on the way to becoming a cantankerous, golden girl who will invariably complain about the cost of a gallon of milk or the continually rising cost of a postage stamp.  I wonder how long it will be before I start to write my local politician about similarly inane bits of personal interest.  At what age does that happen?  

 

I wonder what other changes I have to look forward to.  Who knows?  I guess I'll just have to wait and find out – time will tell!     

 

 - M

 

Achoo

I cannot seem to concentrate

Everything's a chore, of late

My head is pounding

And I can't think straight

 

Itchy, runny eyes that tear

Discomfort fills my inner ear

Inflammation grows

And I can barely hear

 

My eyes flutter and almost close

As pressure in my sinus grows

Tingling sensations

Tickle my nose

 

I'm sneezing, wheezing

And barely breathing

My lips are chapped raw

From chronic mouth breathing

 

Pain in my throat makes me weak

Easing comfort is all I seek

As I'm unable to swallow

And can't even speak

 

Yes, laryngitis – that's my thing

With a choking phlegm that really does cling

I pray for the relief

A healing would bring

 

It's every day stress

And mental duress

That's making me

Such a physical mess

 

I gargle and sleep

And try not to weep

I don't complain much

Since I can't make a peep

 

The dry cough I could do without

Hacking like that just wears me out

But that's what's next

I have no doubt

 

Time after time

It's the same, I find

So I know I will fight

This mucus and slime

 

Getting better, I cannot force

This just has to run its course

And when my voice returns

Naturally, it will be hoarse

 

That's okay, I say to myself

Thinking about what is true wealth

It's certainly not riches

It's more about health

 

So, this will pass and go away

And I'm looking forward to that day

But until it gets here,

What can I say?

 

Winter colds suck!

 

Muculently Yours,                              

- M J

 

 

 

 

 

Hey, Optimist! Who me?

I've never really had a definitive answer to the age-old question, "Is the glass half full or half empty?" 

 

I know the way you answer that supposedly determines – or identifies – whether you're an optimist or a pessimist; but what would you be if you just can't answer that question without first having some other additional facts regarding the glass in question?  To begin with, where did this glass even come from?  Is it sitting on a counter beside a lunch plate?  If so, I'd have to go with half full.  Or, is it sitting in a sink?  If that's the case, I'd go with half empty. 

 

See, we don't live in a black-white world.  There are always shades of gray that must be taken into consideration.  If pressed, say, to look at a still life of the aforementioned glass and come up with an answer, I guess I'd go with half full.  Glasses always start out empty; so whether the one in question, at one time, was full, doesn't matter.  The glass is a vessel that has half its available capacity filled – keyword – filled with liquid.  Half full. 

 

That mental stream of consciousness is hardly screaming optimism, is it?  When you hear optimism don't you generally think sun-shiny, upbeat and peppy?  The way I arrived at 'half full' was anything but; no, my approach was more dogmatic – a tiresome, analytical drudgery.  Welcome to my world!

 

I did realize the other day, though, and without the help of this psychological visual aid, that I am, without a doubt, an unwavering optimist.  And the answer was right in front of me – for years – right in my own bathroom.  Yes, bathroom.

 

See, every morning I typically go through the same personal hygiene regimen, day in and day out – every day – the same. 

 

After brushing my teeth, I discard the junior-sized 3 oz. Dixie cup into the wastebasket that sits on the floor just inches from my sink cabinet.  I begin by tapping out any remaining water, then I move my arm to the left, positioning my hand directly above the trash receptacle and then, like the Triple Crane in an arcade machine, I release my grip letting the cup fall to rest… on the floor!  Huh?!?  With a disgusted sigh, I bend over, pick up the cup and place it in the can.

 

I continue with my routine.  For whatever reason, as I age, I now blow my nose after brushing my teeth.  I pull up a tissue from the boutique box, then blow, crumple and toss into… you guessed it – the mind-numbing, elusive vortex of trash collection.  I watch, almost with pride, as the tissue initially flies through the air, arcing at just the right moment to make a perfect two-pointer – SWISH – but then, for some inexplicable reason, it hooks off to the left and lands on the floor quite a few inches from its original destination.  Huh?!?  With a disgusted sigh, I bend over, pick up the tissue and place it in the can.

 

As the ENT portion of my morning ritual nears completion, after removing the towel from my head, I use Q-Tips to wipe the excess water from my ears.  I swab, turn, swab again and then toss.  Defying the Laws of Physics, these cotton-topped sticks perplex me the most.  They actually make it in the can, but it's only for a second before "plink," and with that, they jump right back out and land on the floor!  Huh?!?  With a disgusted sigh, I bend over, pick up the Q-Tips and place them in the can.

 

Well, it dawned on me the other day that, in spite of my apparent deficiency in eye-hand coordination, the fact that I continually discard these items, expecting them to go into the wastebasket – even though history dictates that they won't – is the purest act of optimism there is. 

 

Maybe that damn Dixie cup would go in if I left half the water in it – or if I dumped half out – I don't know.  What I do know is that I will continue to optimistically make my tosses, and if the discarded objects wind up on the floor, well then, with a disgusted sigh I will bend over, retrieve them and place them in the can. 

 

Until the next time.

 

 - M

 

 

44

Let me put to rest any assumptions that readers of my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, may be formulating by the title of this post. 

 

When I write '44' I am not referring to Kenny, my football player boyfriend from Jackson who proudly sported the number 44 on the back of his jersey.  I am referring, of course, to Barack Hussein Obama of Illinois, our newly inaugurated 44^th president of the United States of America. 

 

To say the hoopla leading up to the inauguration was frenzied is probably an understatement.  It seems that everywhere you looked – TV, newspapers, magazines – everyone was abuzz with anticipatory excitement and glee, and yet, I couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Obama had begun to feel like the pretty girl who's given no credit for having a brain in her head – you know, like a model who's judged solely on her skin-deep beautiful packaging.  Don't get me wrong, this is an amazing milestone in the history of our country; but don't you think he must have felt like screaming, "I'm more than just the color of my skin."?  Honestly, no one was really talking about anything else.  It would have been nice to hear a little more about his achievements and accomplishments, as well as his future plans; after all, he does have some big issues to tackle.

 

-         He needs to create stimulus plans (hard to believe, but there was a time this wasn't a familiar colloquialism) that will hopefully boost our economy by creating jobs, restructuring taxes and curbing government spending.

 

-         There are domestic issues that vie for his attention: Healthcare, Education, Environment – of course, we can't mention the environment without bringing up off-shore drilling. (Drill, baby, drill!  I can't be the only one who has that chant lodged in her head – it's in there like Disney's "It's a Small World.")

 

-         Foreign issues still loom large:  We have the on-going war in Iraq, rampant terrorism and our sullied worldwide reputation.

 

Yes, the issues are certainly big and, as a nation, we are all hopeful for change.  Just look at some of the headlines from that monumental day:

 

   "MAKING HISTORY – DAWN OF A NEW ERA"

   "ON THE BRINK OF CHANGE"

   "HIGH HOPES, HARD TIMES – BOLD PLANS"

 

They say that just as in FDR's administration, the first 100 days will be key.  So, how did it all begin?  Well, we had the first ever inaugural oath hiccup which was followed by a whirlwind of parties, parades and celebrating; but after that, it got a little more serious. 

 

Day 1 started with taking the oath – again (an oath do-over, if you will).  Next he read the note left by George W. Bush.  (I wonder what that note said.  Do you think he quoted George Washington saying, "I am fairly out and you are fairly in! See which of us will be happiest!"?  I bet every president has probably used that line – and rightly so.)  Then, after 10 solemn minutes alone in the Oval Office, he emerged – I imagine with someone announcing in the background, "Let the term begin!" 

 

How to start? What to do first? Well, if you vowed to "begin again the work of remaking America" then you need to hit the ground running; so why not begin by signing a series of executive orders? A series. (Well, he is on the clock – 100 days and ticking…)

 

So let's see, where does this leave us, really?  We all know where we are now, and we know where we've been – but do we know where we're going? 

 

Vow of change?  I don't know what that means.  I hope it's for the good because we are in quite the pickle right now.  He does seem to have tremendous support – he was elected, after all.  It was reported that over 1.8 million people flocked to Washington for his inauguration, and 38 million more watched it on TV.  As Colin Powell said, "The whole country is excited."  And it is – about what, exactly, I'm not sure; but it is like Obama-mania has set in. 

 

True, our economy may be on the verge of collapse, but the fashion industry is buzzing about 'who' Michelle is wearing.  And, of all the pertinent topics of interest out there, a fair amount of reporting was done about the new First Dog – in fact, President Obama had called the issue of choosing a family dog "major" and said that it generated "more interest on our website than just about anything."

 

I sincerely hope his use of the word 'major' was taken out of context because he really has much bigger issues to deal with – ones that truly deserve the adjective 'major.'  It is nice to see, though, that Americans are checking in on what matters most to them. 

 

So, as America amuses itself with dogs and designers, he's busy signing executive orders – somehow I can't help but think of Billy Flynn's show-stopping number, "Razzle Dazzle," from the hit play Chicago.  (Chicago? That's kind of funny, huh?  Believe me when I tell you, that was not intentional.)

 

In any event, I wish him the best of luck – popularity is, after all, a fickle friend. 

 

Hail to the Chief!

 

 - M