Qu 'y on the High Seas

Jeanie is your average Vietnamese mom-down-the-street. Jeanie is also a professional genie when it comes to manicures and pedicures. You may come in the salon with dishpan hands, or feet, but you will leave with mitts fit for a kiss. While you are soaking, if you are lucky, she'll hum or sing a little song that let's you know how she really feels.

One of her favorites goes like this: "A kiss on the hand may be very continental but diamonds are a girl's best friend..." Jeanie knows Jules Styne wrote the music and Leo Robin wrote the lyrics. She knows what year the movie came out and lots of other stuff. She usually finishes the song with a surprise of a belly laugh.

Jeanie chats when she isn't singing. "Qu 'y is my real name," she says if asked. "It means precious. Americans can't say it, so we picked the name, Jeanie."

A lifetime later, Jeanie/Qu 'y remembers her trip to America like it was yesterday.

Qu 'y was 11 when she and her aunt left Vietnam in the middle of the night on her uncle's fishing boat in 1984. There was no room or money for other family members. "I had to be so quiet. We couldn't talk at all," she says.  

According to Jeanie, the boat didn't make any sound as it slipped out to sea with just enough rice, sugar, pickled stuff like cabbage, and water for 70 people.  It was a Noah's Arc overflowing with Buddhists. The plan was simple. Ride the open seas until a freighter found you, they would take you to the Philippine Islands where life would start over, much better. 

"I was too scared to ask any questions. My aunt took care of me. I promised my mom I'd do what she told me," Jeanie says.

Qu 'y's uncle handled his boat really well through a couple pounding storms and blistering winds. But when the wind stopped, the boat rocked side to side going nowhere. When their drinking water was gone, sugar was mixed with sea water for drinking. 

"It was nasty," Jeanie says, as she shivers and scrunches up her face. "My aunt made me drink it. That's all there was. We had to lean out over the side of the boat to go to the bathroom. Everyone would look away, but we didn't care."

Qu 'y, her aunt, and all the women prayed to Buddha for a freighter to find them. One did. The captain gave Qu 'y a red dress and an orange one--her first Western clothing. But since no one was dead, he did not take them onboard.

"It was so hot. My aunt said we must now pray to get to the Philippine Island," Jeanie says. "Pray for your uncle to get his boat there, but when he did, we were told to go to a different island," Jeanie continues.

At last, they docked the boat and went to the refugee camp. "My uncle had a brother in Norway who was supposed to sponsor us," Jeanie says. "But, a Protestant Church in Los Angeles did."

Qu 'y, her aunt and uncle lived with an American family while they learned English, how to eat with a spoon and fork, where the Buddhist Temple was, and how to get around the city. 

"Linda and I," Jeanie says as she gestures to another manicurist, "trained together. Now we carpool to work with two other girls. Save money."

Jeanie's mother and sisters and brothers still live in Vietnam. She does not ever intend to tell them she and her husband have allowed their unmarried daughter to live away from home. "They would never understand that an American college girl does that," Jeanie says. 

And that's true. To some extent.

Willow Wayne: How A Star Stays A Star

Willow Wayne is a statuesque movie star, television presence, and songstress. At 16 she was a cover girl, at 20 she starred in her first film, to much acclaim. She and the director were an item for awhile, they made all the magazine covers, then he went home to his wife. 

Over the course of 25 year she made a few reasonably successful films, starred in two television series, married a bartender from Oklahoma, bore a son with prominent ears, then a daughter with Downs Syndrome shortly before she divorced her second husband, a pediatrician. She moved on to her then-agent, who did not want the twins she produced. She fired her publicist after a poolside session made her arms look fat. 

"You're a has-been," the agent-husband harped late one night after a party. "All you did was shout into your cell phone, all night. You are desperate for attention."

He was right. She left him in a huff, leaving the big house in the hills behind. She had hated the steep driveway, and her driver, and her secretary, couldn't afford it anymore, anyway.

A Cape Cod style house on a tree-lined street with a locked front gate, accessed only by a buzzer hid her from the glare as she contracted a new career. The living room became a jazz stage, musicians and paid friends were hired to build up a thin voice and highlight a dramatic presentation. 

"Hello," she called gaily from her bed, as whoever assembled downstairs a couple weeks before her first gig at a small intimate club. "I'll be down when I'd ready," she said, her voice lilting an octave. Meantime, she rearranged herself in the middle of the bed, placed a call to her daughter, no answer. Then a call to someone, arranging a late lunch on Thursday, since she had to rehearse. 

"Where's my diamond necklace?" she screamed. "I can't sing without it," she wailed to her secretary over her cell phone even though the woman was in the kitchen. "My voice will crack. You know I hate that," she said, snapping the phone shut. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it into a kind of shape, her silk dressing gown gaping open. "Get in here," she screamed to anyone who could hear her.

"Where is my coach? He knows I'm hopeless without him." Willow started to cry, crocodile tears. "Why do all these people let me down? Don't they know there are rules, it takes discipline to be me? FYI folks. Only the star can break the rules."

All that is another lifetime now. Her act is perfect. She enters the room to applause, one of her hit songs leading off the show. "Thank you for coming tonight," she always says. "We're going to have a wonderful evening. I do this for you, your pleasure and happiness." Her face shines. Her gowns shimmer sleekly curvaceous around a purposefully-willowed figure. 

"You're beautiful," an audience member calls out. 

"Spanx, you know," she answers smartly, knowingly catching the eye of women in the small club lounge. "How many of you ladies are wearing your spanx tonight? Where would we be without them, ladies?" 

The women applaud. The men laugh. Willow wraps an arm sensuously beneath her glued-on push-up pseudo bra, wrapping long red finger nails around a hip and humming her way into some ballad or another.

At late night champagne and oyster dinner with her current lover, she insists, absolutely insists her lover pick up the check. She'll make him a breakfast he'll never forget, but in the morning he is gone, they are always gone. She watches The View on TiVo from her bed, silk gown gaping open, Tiffany drop pendant on a diamond chain under the bed, clouded from view by dust bunnies.

"I'm scheduled to be on, you know," she says to no one in particular. "Unless I change my mind. I'm the star. I can reschedule if I want to."

And that's true. To an extent. 

Valerie -Victim or virtuous?

Valerie's a skinny violinist with long fingers and a short neck. She plays various studio gigs, most at Warner Brother's studio in Burbank, most for the same composer and conductor, mostly with the same musicians, and most often in the late evening or at night. It's boring. It's good money. It's gone on for years.

There's a cartoon in Valerie's psychiatrist's office that has four frames. In the first, the patient is deflated, flat as a pancake. The psychiatrist looks normal. A vacuum cleaner-looking hose is hooked up between them. "How have you been?" the psychiatrist asks. 

 "I need your help. I'm depressed," the patient says in the second frame. "I'll do my best to help, tell me more," the psychiatrist says. He looses some of his stature, the patient gets more inflated. 

 "I have no life," the patient says in the third frame. "Why do you think that is?" the psychiatrist asks, deflating.  

"My wife is having an affair with the milk man," the patient says. "Are you certain? Have you seen them?" the psychiatrist ask. "Well, no. Maybe I'm being just being jealous," the patient answers as he swells to full size and the psychiatrist deflates flat as a pancake.

Valerie's psychiatrist's wife called her two days before their regular appointment. "He had an episode from the anesthesia during minor surgery, and is in the hospital," she said, her voice high pitched and taught. "Your appointment will have to be rescheduled."

"On, no," Valerie said, after a very shaky pause. She had become too dependent and drained him?  Whatifhedied, whatifhedied, whatifhedied swirled behind her eyebrows. "What seems to be the problem?" Valerie dared to ask, putting one word carefully after the other. 

"He's having an MRI, right now," his wife said. "They don't expect to find anything." Her soft, slight voice wavered.

"Oh, what a relief, " Valerie said with true sincerity. "How are you?"

"I am worried," his wife said.

"I know he'll be fine."  The words leapt from her mouth. "He knows how much we care." Valerie laughed, as much to reassure herself as his wife. 

"Yes, he will  be fine," his wife repeated, laughing slightly. Her voice full and firmer. "He is  a strong man. And he knows how we all want him around for a long time. Thank you."

Valerie remembered the cartoon. It's not about me right now, it's about him, his health. "Tell him I said he should rest and get better," she said a little too cheerfully.

They hung up. Valerie felt drained, and she had to go to work. He must be exhausted by the end of the day, she thought. She picked up her gear and left.

And that's true. To an extent. 

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.

Rita and Sarah : Song Writers In The Making

[It's a known fact that everybody in Los Angeles thinks they are an actor, singer, dancer, writer---or all of them and more. There are those parents who flock here with their kids apparently hoping the aura of sensational success floats in all the sunshine, or the negative ions off the ocean {and the surf?}  will stimulate brains cells to expose assets. When it doesn't work out they go back to Ohio, Iowa, Utah, where they had come from. {Those magazines at the grocery check-out miss the point}. It's really all about the process, and, maybe a bead's worth of the other.]

Red-haired and skinny Rita, at the age of nine knows that she is going to grow up and be a singer. She and her best friend, curly-locked Sarah with the rosy cheeks and straight white teeth, make up songs while they groom their ponies about half a mile upslope from the beach in Malibu. So far, their best one is called "Dripping Wet Misty." Misty being Rita's pony. Sarah's pony being Silver. They sing in rounds or verses, Rita the soprano, Sarah the alto, usually in harmony. 

Rita's dad accompanies them on guitar whenever he's available and in the mood. Rita's mom watchs when she's not building her horse stabling business. She smiles at them offering tips while she eats arugula which she picks from their garden. [mom also drinks green tea, and serves only organic fruits, vegetables and juices. No white sugar or flour, or red meat, ever. Maybe success comes in liquids?]

"Let's hide and see how long it takes for someone to come looking for us," Rita said to Sarah late one summer afternoon. "We can tell them we got lost and so scared we didn't know what to do. When they find us, act real hot and tired. My mom will probably cry."

They giggled for the first hour leaning against tall stacks of hay bales half an acre from the barn. "Waiting For Discovery," took on a three octave, four-beat, imaginary dramatic Debbie Harry-ish back-up track. "Best Ever," Rita whispered in a quivering atonal ending, head snapping back, eyes snapping shut, arms snapping to a sharp line at her side. 

Sarah did the splits, in her jodpers and riding boots, dust swirled up her nose. "Vogue," she murmured, coughing slightly and touching her head to her thigh and holding the pose. It took a few moments, but then she sighed out the first complaint. "I'm hot and tired."

"I'm not." Beads of sweat said otherwise on Rita's forehead. Her back schlumped as she slid to the grown. More dust swirled. "Why haven't they come looking for us?" she asked.   

Neither of them noticed that their ponies had casually wandered and nibbled their way back to the arena.

"I'm ready to go home. I'm itchy," Sarah said, then sniffled. She slid her legs forward and sat upright. She sniffled again and rubbed her sleeve across her face.

"You sound like a puppy dog," Rita said. "Don't screw up your face like that. It will stay that way. You'll get wrinkles too."

Sarah peaked around the bales of hay, then stood up and waved her arms. Rita whistled.

The ponies trotted straight back to them. Each girl dusted herself off, collected reins and ambled back toward the barn.

Rita's mother was leaning against one of the pepper trees that surrounded the turn-out ring. "Did you ride out to the waterfall, was there much water today?" she asked. "We all decided not come after you, it's been such a lovely day. But. You shouldn't stay out so late. Understand. Any new songs?" she asked.

"Waiting To Be Discovered," Rita replied as she slouched off, reins in hand, the pony tagging along behind her.

"I added choreography, for the first time," Sarah added, sniffling again and frowning. "Hey, Rita, I thought we called it, "Waiting For Discovery?" 

"You don't need to wait for discovery. You live with it everyday," Rita's mother said as she picked hay from Sarah's hair. "Clean up the ponies and I'll hose you both down. You girls look hot and tired. Will you sing it for us, later?"  

And that's true. To some extent.

Pretty Polly

Hello. My name is Polly and I am very pretty.

Just say the word, pretty, and you'll know what I look like. I am arm candy and I like it that way. I'm naturally friendly and I've never met anyone who didn't like me. Well, they spent some time with me, anyway, so I assume they liked me. I'm definitely a BFF type.

I know what you're thinking. How can anyone take someone named, Polly, seriously? Well, for one thing, Nirvana has a song, "Polly" and so did the Kinks. Polly Bergen was a successful actress and singer a long time ago. And sadly, Polly Klaas was murdered.

Ooooohhh,  don't forget Aunt Polly in "Tom Sawyer."  And, the late great C.S. Lewis' main character in "The Magician's Nephew" is named, guess what, Polly Plummer. That's Plummer, not plumber.

Okay. I've heard it a thousand times. Polly wanna a cracker. Polly Wolly Doodle. Pollyanna. Polly Put the Teakettle On. It gets really tiresome. FYI: Polly is a Norwegian peanut snack brand. Bet you didn't know that.

We looked up the name, Polly, in Wikipedia today. It says that Polly is a nickname, for girls. I don't claim to be a rocket scientist, but did anyone really think it was a name for boys?

The name supposedly was derived from the name Molly. In 18th and 19th century New England it was a common nickname for Mary. I mean, if Molly is going to become Polly, then shouldn't Mary become Pary, not Polly? And to make matters worse, the two genetically engineered sheep were named Polly and Molly.

What is a poor bird like me to do? I'm so lucky to have gorgeous feathers, a sweet disposition, a delicate voice, and well-manicured claws.  I got Latin Love Affair Pink this week, just love it.

The Chronicles of Nadine

Nadine and a surfer buddy came to America 20 plus years ago from South Africa. They came to Los Angeles to be in show business, and to make a better life. Nadine's mom and dad waved good-bye then cried in their hankies for a very long time. 

Nadine and her friend got off the plane with a tourist's visa in one hand and a small suitcase in the other hand. They passed through customs and headed straight to Hollywood where they walked around enthralled and giddy, hoping to see a movie star, but didn't. Somebody generously offered their garage as a crash pad that first night. The first few months lost themselves to rose-colored glasses and youthful imaginings. When their Visas expired a Greek mother of two knowingly offered them her guest house, which was where her husband normally stayed but he was out of town for an indeterminate time.

Blond, blue-eyed, sweet and fun, Nadine found a job right away with a caterer. She worked long hours, was paid in cash, and glad of it. Her friend played guitar, got into the Hollywood scene of his dreams, and married an American woman for $2,000.00, payable over a five year period. He moved into his wife's home.

"I'm going to a place called North Carolina," he told Nadine. "I'm going to work on a movie about a horse and a girl. I'll be a camera operator." He looked back over his shoulder at her as he closed the door behind him. "Take care of yourself," he called back.

Nadine sat under the date tree in the backyard with the Greek woman who was not so much a friend as a comrade. "You have to get married," the Greek woman said. "I'll find someone, someone nice and inexpensive."

"$5,000.00, half down and half within two years. I need the money," the struggling actor said. "I've done this before. I know what to do. Give me your information and let's get started."

"Oh, sure," Nadine chirped, happy as she'd ever been. "It'll be fine." 

They were, happily, married for almost two years. Nadine now had a green card, a catering job in show business, filed her income taxes on time, and lived in the pool room at a friend's house where she enjoyed their children and their dog and their company. Her friend from home had worked his way up to film director, had several boyfriends, stayed married until his wife fell in love with someone she wanted to marry. They divorced. He kept her spacious apartment in West Hollywood which he soon sold for a house in the same area. 

Nadine called her parents everyday.  She visited them at least twice a year, spending lavishly when she was there.

"I have such a wonderful life in America," she told her mother. "I couldn't ask for more, really I couldn't." She gave her mother cashmere socks she'd purchased at a thrift store in Glendale, but they were just like new. "I pay taxes, pay for health insurance, and and still have enough money to save in a 401K for my retirement."

"Daddy, you made all this possible. If you hadn't put me in school in England, I'd never have known this kind of opportunity existed." Nadine hugged him close. "America is everything I'd imagined, and more," she said, as genuinely as her gift to him of a linen handkerchief embroidered with delicate white baskets of flowers and ribbons on two corners.

She worked hard for two decades, changing day jobs only twice, but working weekends with the catering service until they went out of business. She worked every holiday, for golden time, and saved her money faithfully for the next trip to South Africa. She never complained. She never got sick, but she did get very tired. 

"I'm a citizen, an American citizen," she shouted and actually jumped up and down after the Mayor of Los Angeles made his pronouncement. "Want to hear me recite the names of all the American presidents and vice presidents?" she'd ask any co-worker or client within earshot. She ate ice cream every night before bed that year to celebrate. She gained 20 pounds, one for each year she'd been here. 

Two years ago her mother passed away. "I have to go back South Africa," she told her boss. "I'll be there probably a month. It's up to me to take care of her things. My dad can't do it, he's not well." Straight-forwardly forthright, she spelled it out. "I know I only have two weeks vacation. I know I'll have to take the rest of the time without pay. I'll be back as soon as I can."

This year, thanks to a small inheritance from her mother and the failing housing market, Nadine purchased a one bedroom condominium on the third floor in a Los Angeles community she loves.  She got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the toilet so that her friends, some not yet citizens, who had come to help her clean it up, would be comfortable in the bathroom. 

She quietly recited the last part of her Baptismal prayer. Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? Yes, I will, with God's help.  

Loretta who takes a bath instead of medicine

September in Van Nuys can be the hottest month of the year. Loretta had just taken a bath, and it was a question of whether to put on her nightgown or not. She'd taken a bath after dinner for more than 65  years, ever since she left home for nurses training. Lots of women her age took medicine, all she needed was a bath. 

When the phone rang, she held the towel around herself with one hand and threw open the window with the other, then promptly tripped and smacked her backside on the floor. By the time Loretta hobbled into the bedroom and fumbled for the phone, she snapped. "What do you want?" 

She wanted to cry, instead she leaned against the edge of the bed, closed her eyes and listened to her caller, who wanted something.

"Yes. I can walk the dog over there, and check on her," Loretta said, evenly, without an ounce of emotion, but with a long pause before she continued. "She's your mother, wouldn't she rather see you, especially since you haven't been there recently." It was not a question.

The woman on the other end of the line had been married to Loretta's son 25 years ago. That was three husbands, 2 rehabs, half a dozen different jobs and one lazy-ass life time ago. Sure enough, some man's voice in the background made it clear why she was too busy. 

Loretta took a Valium, waited 15 minutes, then pulled on shorts and a shirt and set off with the dog down the sidewalk. A pink and grey and yellow streaked sunset took her back to the trip she and her sister had taken to Maui, back in 1985, maybe. That drive along the road to Hana, all those waterfalls in the rain forest had been so beautiful. They'd stopped at a roadside fish shack and paid a dollar for two steaming wrapped fish things.

"Fresh, just caught," a little smiling man had told them. "I caught, myself," he added. "Take your pictures?" 

They should have gone again. It wouldn't have been the same. Loretta had already retired. Her sister had her own life, a new man friend even. Loretta had figured it all out, long ago. You have to get on with life. Take care of business. Don't let the foolishness get in the way. For goodness sakes, everyone just wants to have a good time, all the time. It just gets ridiculous. There's work to do. 

Loretta picked up her stride. The twinge in her back barely perceptible. The dog wagged his tail as fast as his little legs moved.  Loretta chuckled and pushed her bangs to the side of her face. 

"You're fit to be tied," her little sister would have said with a laugh. "Just look how beautiful the sky is. Why are you so upset?"

Loretta rang the doorbell at the old house on the next corner. She rang it three times. The old woman was half deaf. Loretta peeked in the window but didn't see anyone. What a waste of my time, she thought. The poor old thing is probably taking her bath. Loretta went around back, and saw the screen door hanging open. 

"Hello," Loretta called out. "Anybody home? Hello. Hello."

She went inside. The kitchen smelled of rotten fruit and flies buzzed the countertops and cabinets. The dog whined and pulled her forward. There was the poor old soul. On the sofa. Stretched out. Feet up. Head on a cushion. Mouth open. 

"Wake up, woman," Loretta called to her. "Time to get up. You can sleep in bed." 

It came to Loretta slowly. The old woman was dying. Her breath was shallow, her skin was dull and flat. Loretta lifted a stack of magazines off of a chair and sat down. Her back hurt. Her head ached. She held the old woman's hand and patted her scroungy head. By nightfall, the old woman was gone. Loretta switched on the table lamp and called for a coroner.

But she didn't call the daughter. She knew she'd hear about it later. But for now, there was work to do. A pyrex bowl of hot water and dish detergent served well with a toothbrush to clean the old dead woman's fingernails. No one needed to see her so unclean.

Judy, Judy, Judy

Jack and Jill and John went up the hill with a whole lot of Judys at the Hollywood Bowl to fetch another glass of wine before Donna Summer began to sing. When intermission came, Jill almost fell down after Jack pinched her, then they all drunkly stumbled their way to the bathroom. 

At least that's how Jill summed it later in the week. Here's the whole story. 

Jill had put together a pre-concert picnic of  four Black Forest ham and Provolone cheese sandwiches, with arugula, a thin slice of tomato and smear of spicy mustard to give them a gourmet-ish quality. Big seedless black grapes went into the basket, as did about 10 silver-dollar size chocolate lace cookies. 

They strolled around the park looking for a place to eat but the place was really crowded. John walked taller and taller.  "I love to go where there are so many Judys," he said. "There are lots of Joans, too."

"Judy? Joan?" Jill asked, twisting her long hair up off her neck and clamping it on the back of her head with a big clip. The humidity was high for Los Angeles, especially in the evening.

"That's what Will and I call gay men. Will started it," John said. "Joan is what we call lesbians." John looked from one Judy's face to another, looked over the various groups at picnic tables. Obviously, Jack and Jill were straight. I wish Will was here, hung like a pop-up bubble over John's head. Will had canceled at the last minute.  

  

They laid out their picnic at a considerable distance from the Judys and Joans. John barely noticed the gourmet-ish food. He unzipped the blue leather wine case he had brought, opening one bottle of white wine, pouring it with a practiced hand into real glass glasses he insisted good wine required. 

"Cheers to a great night out with good friends," John said. He sounded convincing, although Jill saw the sadness in his blue eyes. They clicked their real glass glasses and took the first drink.

"Cheers to my beautiful wife for a delicious picnic," Jack said, and they took the second drink. 

Friendly gossip ensued. Jack and Jill and John polished off two bottles of excellent, and expensive as John noted having paid for them himself. The lace cookies a wasted after-thought as dusk sharpened the outline of candles and smiles and laughter at the picnic tables full of Judys and Joans.  Jack and John split Will's sandwich.

After dark, the walk to the Bowl brightened John's spirits even more than the wine, as Jill made sure they were surrounded by happy, bubbly Judy's (it was easy enough). The crowd surged as they walked to the top of the hill where John went straight to the wine bar. Jill let her hair down now that it was cooler. 

"Whoa, momma's letting her hair down. Bee-a-uti-ful," John said, as he handed Jack and Jill plastic glasses filled to the brim. "All they had was Gallo. It's not bad considering it comes in a corrugated box."

"Cheers to a great concert," John said, as Jill spilled half her glass and Jack tripped, splattering wine on his spanking new sandals.

The Hollywood Bowl is a glorious coliseum. Thousands of people prepped for a party, the night sky arcing above the crowd, giant television screens for easy viewing, and a dazzling stage that comes alive with a crackle of music and lights. Judy and Joan couples surrounded them. There was one older straight couple in the row ahead. Jill introduced herself and Jack and John all around. Jill made a pack with the Judys. If she stood up to dance, they had to, too. All agreed except John.

Only a week earlier Diana Ross had delivered a smash concert. Donna Summer paled in comparison. But, hey, a party is a party. 

At intermission everyone headed for the bathrooms. Jill could barely make her way down the stairs. She's not a drinker. Standing upright required all her coordination.  She forgot about Jack who grabbed her butt almost making her fall. 

"Don't do that," Jill said as she teetered and grabbed onto John's arm for support. "I haven't ever had so much wine at the Bowl."

"Welcome to my world," John said, not really gleefully. 

Then a miracle happened. John's mobile rang. "What, where? I don't see you, " he said, turning in a circle looking around. 

About 40 feet away, a Judy was wildly waving a white pleather seat cushion in their direction.

"I see you, I see you, " John said, bumping and stumbling into the Judy beside him as he aimed himself in that direction.

Jill wobbled her way to the ladies room, where all the minerals and nutrients from that gourmet-ish picnic she had prepared went down the toilet with the wine. Thank goodness for yoga thighs, she thought as she made her dizzy way through the crowd of women back out into the night air. By the time she found her way back to their seats, the Judy with the cushion was there with John and Jack. 

"Oh, hi, Andy," Jill said, as all the Judys faces swirled around her.  "It's nice to see you. I thought maybe you were Will." 

Even though he wasn't, John's fleeting happiness with his friend filled her drunken heart. God bless all the Judy's in this world, she thought. May they all find life mates. 

Irene's Idea of Identity, or How to Integrate the Internal and External

Irene sits in the chair, her psychiatrist sits behind the desk. Irene had a psychotic break a decade ago, and has been on medication ever since. Her psychiatrist has been the father she never had, so seeing him every two weeks is a lifesaver.

"I'm painting," she tells him, "but I've come to that place where I shut down, and things go wrong."

He nods his head. Irene watches him carefully, waiting for him to offer up pearls of wisdom. Instead he begins to cough.

 "I hope you're taking good care of yourself," she says.  

He pulls out a bottle of water and a clean little Dixie cup. "I'm fine, really," he says. "Would you like some water?"

Irene shakes her head. "Chocolate would be good about now. Maybe a Hershey's Kiss."

"You're anxious and getting a little depressed," he says.

 "My cousin, Becky, goes to work everyday and no matter what else is going on, she gets her work done," Irene says. "My friend, Annie, makes applesauce whenever she is having a bad day, sometimes a few days in a row, then she's back on the saddle."  

"How are you sleeping?" the psychiatrist asks. 

"I had a Cheshire Cat bizarre dream," Irene answers. "Colors and nice people and bubbles, like at a party, then it popped and was gone."

"We've talked before about how you struggle with setting boundaries within a creative context," he remarks as he scribbles on his note pad.

"I nearly lost it the day I had to take my cat, Chris, to the vet," Irene says. "In the end, it was easy."

"I have a dog whose given me a few scares. How are things at home?" he asks. 

"The Thai friend who cuts my husband's hair came over last week," Irene says. "She told the story of Solomon and made it sound better than Star Wars. Says Jesus makes her a good life. Gilda, who lives next door, I've told you about her before, still screams at her kids so much that I keep the windows on that side of the house closed."

"Do you feel that way?" he asks.

"No. Not like her. I think she screams to get attention and cries when she doesn't. Kind of her own worst enemy."

"I think you're doing a lot to help yourself. Going to yoga, spending time with friends, painting with serious intent. The painting is important. You need that creative outlet. Could you look at your work from a different perspective?" He's leaning back in his chair peering at her above his glasses.

"Well, this woman, Henrietta, from my yoga class, said her debit card was counterfeited and it upset her so much that she changed her name to Etta and listens to jazz," Irene mumbles.

"Etta James, I guess," he says. "I listen to her in my car and let my mind wonder. I find it very relaxing."

"Stay with my painting, right? Irene asks. "Enjoy the process, right?"

He nods. "Takes a different tilt at times, when you're a creative person."

"I think I understand. Thank you," Irene says.

"See you in two weeks," he says as he walks Irene to the door. "You're doing fine. I look forward to seeing this painting."

"Me too, me too." Irene says, turning away as the door closes. Fifty-five exquisitely sensitive minutes twice a month.  

Henrietta's Headstand

Mr. Cash sent Henrietta and her little brother to live in an orphanage after his wife died. Henrietta's brother went into the military at 18, she became a novice at a nearby convent. But after the end of the first year, it was agreed that she would leave, so she became a housekeeper for a family in Pasadena, California. Over the next several years, she put herself through night school and obtained a degree in mathematics. She never married. 

"Life is lived by virtue of the dollar," Henrietta Cash taught her students at the local high school. "It's all about the math. Easy enough if you keep track. House of cards if you don't ."

Every time she said this, she heard her father's baritone voice counseling her. 

"Henrietta," he'd say, "debtors are the poor unfortunate of the earth. Don't owe anyone anything and you will lead a good Christian life."

He'd kept his accounts within a $.50 error margin. One of his ledger's, yellowed and brittle now, perched upright, half open, on her bedside table. The fastidiously organized austere columns entered in an exacting  hand with neither a smear nor blot reassured her that an orderly life has meaning. 

"If I can't pay for it on the spot," she has said a hundred times if she has said it once, "then I won't buy it." 

Henrietta has lived by the numbers for 60 plus years now. She know that if something costs $9.99 it really costs $10.82 when Los Angeles County tax of 8.25 percent is included. Some time back, the bank sent her a debit card. She stuck it in a drawer.

Semi-retired, Henrietta runs statistical data for a research lab from her computer at home from 4 AM until 10 AM, five days a week, earning a tidy sum of money, which she does not disclose to anyone. Until 10 years ago, her hobby was knitting, but the doctor convinced Henrietta to take up yoga after she gained 50 pounds and her joints ached. She lost weight and her bones stopped aching.

"It's the best thing I've ever done," she says. "At my age, I can do a headstand?" Her father would not have approved.

Then one day she came home from a yoga class and there were four phone messages for her. The first one was from the fraud department of her bank. The second, third and fourth were as well, each leaving the same message with the same number for her to call. 

Still in her yoga clothes  she returned the call but hung up as soon as the computer voice asked for the last four digits of her social security number. 

Finally, Henrietta decided that four messages meant it was serious business. She wound her way through the menus until a live person answered on the other end of the line.

"Why are you calling me?" she asked the female voice. 

"There is a charge for $705.00 on your debit card for gasoline at a station in Bakersfield," the female voice said, monotone and robot-like, although it was a real woman. "Did you make that purchase?"

"NO," Henrietta answered, her voice so high-pitched it hurt her throat, "No, I did not." 

"Did you make a purchase for $792.38 at the same station a few minutes later?" the female voice asked, again monotone and robot-like. 

"Why would I do that?" Henrietta shreiked,  her rib cage clamped so tightly around her chest that she had to remind herself to breath."

"Ma-am," the female voice said, "I realize this is upsetting, but we need to ask. Did you make this purchase?"

"I spend $45.00 on gasoline when the tank is empty, or $34.00 when I have half a quarter of a tank left. I can't imagine $700.00 worth of gasoline?" Henrietta said. She sank back against the wall. "Did the charges go through? Exactly how much money do I owe?" Henrietta practiced breathing in for four counts, holding her breath for four counts and breathing out for four counts.

"I don't know," the female voice said. "The charges will not show up on your account if they were declined. I'm sorry I cannot tell you more right now."

Henrietta stopped counting. Her voice and the female voice continued speaking to each other briefly while a single thought reverberated through her mind. At least $700 is a round even amount.

She sat down at the computer to check her accounts and noticed the bamboo stalks on the screen saver. They were very pretty, fresh, crisp, green, jumbled together one over the other. She did not count them. Her heart thumped in her chest but she did not count the beats. 

She lined up the pencils by length, the pens by brand, the paper clips by color, and two quarters along the edge of the smooth glossy walnut finished wood desk. She fanned out the legal pads like a deck of cards. She piled the pads of post-it notes one on top of the other, in even piles on each side of the fan of legal pads. 

Henrietta admired the symmetry of it all then reached out with both hands as though about to play the piano and suddenly mushed them around, the legal pads falling off the desk, the paper clips sliding beneath the edge of the computer keyboard. Pencils, pens, quarters this way and that.    

Next, Henrietta leaned down and opened the lower left file drawer and removed each hanging folder one by one placing them in stacks near her feet. By the time they had all been removed the files themselves and the papers inside had fallen askew. When the air-conditioner came on, receipts and old post-its that had long since lost their stickiness blew like feathers landing wherever they fell. She opened the top file drawer and pulled the files out in handfuls, tossing them this way and that, their papers flying in every direction. She emptied everything.  

Within the hour, the room appeared to have been ransacked. Henrietta sat down in the middle of the room, smoothing a seat among her stuff, lifting her butt-cheeks side to side until she felt balanced. Her legs crossed in lotus position, she closed her eyes, lifted her arms above her head, brought her hands together in prayer position and lowered them to the crown of her head. She visualized a bamboo stalk in her mind's eye, and allowed her breathing to even out. 

Then Henrietta lowered her hands to her third eye right between her eyebrows, and relaxed her face and jaw, then she lowered her hands to her throat and blew a soft long breath over her fingertips. Finally, she brought her hands to her heart and bowed her head. 

She prayed: I am a strong, secure, successful woman. I will put my office into a new order. I want a playful perspective on life and to align my internal needs with my external life. A little voice, said, this is a work-in-progress.

Henrietta sat up taller lifting the sides of her chest longer and lighter. She took a deep breath and lifted her head and opened her eyes. The darkness of the room broken only by moonlight. Pushing the stuff of her life aside, she placed her head on the rug, her hands behind her neck, her arms on the floor supporting her head and slowly lifted her legs above her head. 

Observing the mess from a new perspective, it crossed Henrietta's mind that a credit card might be very useful. It could cut down on paper. She could call herself Heni on the card... there really wasn't anyone to object. 

Well, maybe she'd be Heni. Henrietta would have to think about that tomorrow.

What do you think?  

Gilda, Gilda, Gilda

Gilda's cousin mailed her a joke. She left out the pictures that went along with it. Here is the joke.

The Eulogy. She married and had 13 children. Her husband died. She married again and had 7 more children. Again her husband died. But she remarried and this time had 5 more children. Alas, she finally died.

Standing before her coffin the preacher prayed for her. He thanked the Lord for this very loving woman and said "Lord, they're finally together." One mourner leaned over and quietly asked her friend, "Do you think he means her first, second, or third husband?" The friend replied, "I think he means her legs."

Gilda (pronounced Gee-l-da) has always been married to the same man. She has two boys, two girls. Once upon a time, she had a half-baked career as an actress, but so many other women did too, that she began play-acting at home and for her friends. Not charades, more like, creating drama and comedy to get it out of her system. Drama, mostly.

"Who do you think you are?" she'd scream at her teenage daughter. "If you don't like what I bought, just say so, but don't talk to me like that." She'd stomp off, usually to wash dishes or put in laundry.

"You have to go to school, get up," she'd bellow at her son, shaking him, jiggling his shoulders like he was a bowl of jello, touching his face--which caused him to roar at her like a lion since he had zits and everyone harped at him not to touch them.

"I'll get up, I'll get up," he'd say as he turned his head toward the wall and fell into a deep sleep.

Gilda announced to her husband that she was going to stay at her cousin's house for awhile. She had to think things over. Things weren't going well, he didn't help out at home, and well, enough just might be enough. What she really wanted, was to learn how to get along with her children, and for that matter with her husband.

She packed a suitcase, her pillow, the laptop, and drove away.

At first, it was fun. They watched a subtitled French movie, sat in the patio and drank tea. They ate pasta primavera. They went to a movie. They talked. They worked crossword puzzles together. Gilda chopped up carrots for her cousin's pet tortoises and watched them waddle over to their food, eating slower than slow. The tortoises made a tiny little hissing sound once in awhile, otherwise, they were quiet.

Her cousin studied a lot. She was getting an MBA. Gilda slept in the guest bedroom that had a futon on the floor, matchstick blinds and a large bright white tiled bathroom with one bath towel and one face towel.

Finally, on the fifth night, Gilda called home. Her husband answered the phone.

"Is everything alright?" she asked. "I haven't heard from you."

"You left in a huff, so why should I be eager to talk to you?" he said.

"How are the children?" she asked, her voice all quivery like she was going to cry any minute.

"Same as ever, doing fine," he replied. "What else do you want to know? I have things to do."

Gilda hung up. Devastated. They didn't care. They didn't miss her. Everythingwasfine, everythingwasfine, every-thing-was-fine. The house was probably a huge mess.

She told her cousin who laughed. Laughed out loud.

"I remember what your mother would say to you that made you furious," Gilda's cousin said, as she put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips and spat our the words. "Who do you think you are young lady, Mary Astor's daughter?"  

Gilda had to laugh even though she really did not want to. "I hated it and slammed a lot of doors," she said.

"When she left the house in a tizzy, you were glad to see her go," her cousin added. "Things quieted down for awhile."

"All I ever wanted was lots of kids, and a loving husband," Gilda started to cry as she said the words. "I've had the same stupid man all these years and four infuriating kids."

"I have tortoises," her cousin said without emotion, looking Gilda straight in the eye. "You got what you wanted."

Gilda packed up and drove home. The house was tidy, dishes in dishwasher, clothes in hamper. It was the middle of the day. The children were at school, her husband was at work. The dog welcomed her at the front door, jumping around and weaving around, between Gilda's legs.

"Are you trying to murder me?" she barked at him. "Stay out of my way."

This time, she heard her own drama. A cup of tea worth-of-time-later on the patio, she spied a green praying mantis on the tip of a rose leaf. Then another one, this one was brown.

In a brillant moment, Gilda recalled that last year her youngest son had brought home a container of tiny praying mantis to keep pests off the rose bushes, as her birthday gift. Both of the large, mature praying mantis sat quietly, gently, peacefully magnificent on their perches.

Francine's File: One Watery History

Francine looked up at the stars, her head flung backward over the side of the seat with her curls trailing down, dangling free. She'd never seen so many stars. And there, clear as could be, was a shooting star. Then another, quartz opal and larger than the first until it flew apart into hundreds of lavender fingers of light that faded into a pale warm glow.    

A man's voice, echoing like over a faulty microphone said, "Wow. You were really flying." His pink Venetian mask with black swirls in a figure eight around tiny peepholes glided into view on a halogen stick. The faulty microphone voice asked "Is there someone I can call for you?

"I'd love to play," she heard herself whisper. "Will there be games with prizes I can win?"

A swirly pink straw with full smiling perfectly shaped red lips slid around from behind the mask. "You must be thirsty, love," it said. The straw dripped warm water onto her cheek. 

Puckering her lips as though for a kiss, water flowed around them and slid sideways.

"You are not the surface of the lake, you are the lake," the water said. The smooth opening bars of Beethoven's 9th played on the current which lowered first her head, then her feet. Her fingertips and toes spread out, warm breath hovered all around like a halo. 

Her father sat erect up front driving a carriage pulled by two white horses. Her mother peered from inside, her fingers beckoning, drawing the halo closer and closer.

Bliss. She smelled it. Like white birthday cake with butter cream icing. 

The lights shifted through a rainbow spectrum. Francine drifted off in a bubble of perfume. 

A vibrant orange silk ribbon wrapped itself around the sphere like a package with a big bow. With her breath, Francine unfurled the bow into translucent bubbles where she saw her reflection. Or was it her mother's reflection? Or was it the reflection of someone she had yet to know? 

And then, poof, the bubble was gone. Francine, Francine, are you there or have you gotten lost?  

Driving Diane to hysterics

It's August and boring in  West Los Angeles. Diane had gotten her hair cut and colored at Studio 210 in Brentwood Gardens. The back bumper was dented when the valet pulled the car up.  She wanted to get rid of the thing, maybe now was the time. A BMW with better mileage came with full maintenance for something like three years. 

"Are you blind?" Diane snapped. "Couldn't you see how far you were from that other car?" She wanted to scream trying to figure what the repair would cost. Wait a minute. She wasn't liable. Diane had never been into math. She couldn't balance the checkbook, used cash, loved credit cards. It was her mother's fault for not insisting she learn. The teacher never tried to help her after school either. 

Diane had cheer leading then dance practice anyway. A math tutor might have been useful, who knows. For now, she was faced with a difficult decision right here in the garage at Brentwood Gardens. All she wanted to do was scream really loud at everybody within hearing distance, especially the parking attendants.

Diane remembered a little picture at home of her and her mother at Sandusky Point, or whatever it was called. The two of them building a sand castle. Her mother was in a two piece bathing suit, fashionable for the time, poised and smiling on bent knees totally at ease with her hands in the sticky sand pushing a stupid bucket upside down on a mound of what was surely disgusting imported dirty stuff.

Diane had stood there in little girl cotton panties either very happy or very bored. It had been a great day like finding a fancy watch buried in that watery mess. It had been so exciting to go back to their motel greasy spoon and eat fish with green beans, tomatoes and radishes. The waitress had been slow and brought her pizza with pepperoni by mistake.

"That's not what I ordered," Diane had said. She hated talking to strangers even way back then. But she wasn't eating pizza with pepperoni. 

The waitress had looked right at her and said, "Yes it is, but I'll be glad to get what you want."

A man at the next table said, "Don't be so impatient, cutie-pie. Relax. You'll get it soon enough." That made Diane feel like a fool. She sat there, but wanted to hide under a table, gross chewing gum wads and all.

"I am not impatient," Diane remembered saying to him. He was trying to pick a fight, that's all.

That day was a metaphor for her hysterical life. Panic mode was her usual state of mind. Yet she wasn't going to let a parking attendant get the best of her. Not today or any day. Diane looked around. A woman with two girls under six wearing bathing suits blathered about the heat and dance lessons. A matron with starched yellow hair and a St. John two piece suit leaned on her ebony cane. A companion kept asking the matron if she would like to sit down.

"No, no, no," the matron said. "I'm not that decrepit yet." She looked at Diane and smiled. "Don't you hate it when they ding up your car?" she asked. "Makes me want to scream, but then I think about who works here. Wouldn't want to do it in a million years. They have families to support, you know." 

Diane rolled her eyes waiting for the manager to show up. She was offered water and generic chocolates. "My car is dinged up," she said. Willing the corners of her mouths to turn upward only succeded in a twitch, her teeth hinged tightly at the jawbone.  "That's not going to repair it."

A Rolls Royce pulled up. The attendant opened the passenger door, the matron's companion helped her inside. The matron shook an arthritic finger at Diane, then stared straight ahead. 

On the way home, Diane pondered how she would tell her husband what had happened. He's going to be angry. What if he looked on the internet and saw housewife, 42, dinged up Mercedes in parking garage? Housewife rudely snapped at attendant at Brentwood Gardens. 

Everyone would know she colored her hair at Studio 210 and not at some hotsy-totsy place in Beverly Hills. Who would invite them to dinner after that? She could throw a party and no one would come. Her husband's business would be finished. How would they live?

Oh, for the life of an independent woman. Why hadn't she gone to law school like her parents wanted her to do? Or she could have written poetry and become a professor at UCLA, praised for her originality and verve. How she envied those industrious women. They didn't need a husband, so when the car got dented there was no one to care.

When Diane got home, her husband lounged on the sofa in the den reading The New Yorker magazine. The dog, Boxy, his beloved Boxer, on the ottoman at his side. Boxy was asleep, kicking one back leg and whimpering, obviously chasing some squirrel in the backyard.

"How was your day?" Diane asked.

"Fine," he answered. "How was yours?" He didn't look up from his magazine.

"Okay," she said. "The parking attendant dinged up the fender."

"What are you going to do about it?" he said, still not looking away from his reading.

"Get it fixed, I guess," Diane replied.

"There's an invitation to a Chaine des Rotisserus evening on the dining table. No charge, we're guests of what's-his-name at work, you know who I mean, " he said. "The food and wine should be great."

It was over. Diane laughed. "I love you," she said. The gripping in her chest let go.

"I love you, too," he said, looking over from his reading. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," she said.

Cruisin' to Calm with Chris

So, I've been dreading this. Anticipating it for at least a month. We've been having unusually hot weather for this time of year here in sunny Southern California, and neither me nor my lady want to have a brawl.

However, She has made an appointment for me with the veterinarian today. In the name of peace and sanity I hope she has a simple plan. She tip-toed out to the garage first thing this morning, pulled down that big old grey heavy carrier from the top shelf, wiped it down inside and out, then put a few soft old ragtag pieces inside. 

I sprawled out across the top of the dryer while she kept her back to me so I wouldn't see what she was doing. She's really a love, so I take it all with a few bits of dry food. Here's hoping she sprays that old thing with the Feliway stuff. It's to me what a couple of glasses of wine is to her. Meeoouw.

So far, the day's not going well for us. The phone started ringing at 8 AM, seemed everybody had something important to talk to her about. I wanted my time, too, so clawed her yoga pants until she picked me up.  "Stop that, you'll rip them," she says, right before she picks me up. Works like a charm.

She tells everyone about the vet appointment. Has herself all worked up about it.  I'm saying to myself something along the lines of every thing's going to be fine, that vet likes me, I like him. He's a good bud. We're cool. 

It's cool on the kitchen floor. I think it's nap time. Ah, feels so good to stretch out. Wish she'd cool it. Every time she starts to get something done, she looks around to find me. What am I going to do? Run away. Only a dog would do that.

I'm going in her office, get away from her craziness. I can see myself in there, kind of up against the glass on the wall. I'm a good looking big silver dude, fur all nice and fluffy, eyes clear and so yellow, tail moving just how I like it.They don't call me Christopher Columbus for nothing. This is the last place she'll look for me.

Oh great, now she's got that new ear piece on her head. She's shouting to someone how she's got to get used to it. She'll get a ticket if she doesn't have it in the car. Blahblahblah. She's doing the multitasking stuff, never works for her. When will she learn to do one thing at a time, relax, take it easy. The woman thumps around this house like an elephant, too.

Here she comes. I've been found out. She's got that stupid black cat, Merlin, on her shoulder while she juggles the cell phone. Guess the ear piece isn't working. Hah! He moved, scratched her shoulder and she dropped him, phone too. Good thing there's carpet. Okay, so maybe, while she sits at the computer, I can get some peace and quiet.

That pile of papers over there looks like just the place for me. First, I think I"ll pad on over to her and jump on her lap. She'll even let me walk on the computer keyboard. Then I can knock the phone off the desk while I jump to the top of the bookshelf. It's cozy up there. Easy to fall asleep. 

What, what, what's going on. She's creeping down the hallway. Oh no, she's going to put that carrier box right out of my sight so she can slide me in there before I know what's up. Well, I'm not moving. How's she plan to get me down from here? Puuurrr...

I give, I give, don't want her to cry or break something getting me down. Isn't this too sweet. She scoops me up, slouching around like some thief in the night, hustling me into that thing. "It's okay, scrumptious," she coos. "I'm not going to let that mean old doctor do anything bad to you." I'm getting a shot, I just know it.

Maybe I'll kick the door with my back legs just for good measure, right before she closes it. That felt good. Feels pretty good in here, for a big plastic igloo. Why can't she get me something nice? Meow, meow meow. She's not listening.

The rest of this big ordeal goes one, two, three. "Hey Chris," the vet says as he hefts me out of that cage, "you're looking really good today." I want to kiss him, so I lick him. "Let's see how much you weigh."  I hate the weigh-in. If I'm a little over, she gets all worried and wants to change my food.  I like my food. It's always the same, agrees with me, and in the bowl. I won't eat it if she changes it. She should know that by now.

"Healthy," my Mr. Fine Vet says. "I'll be quick," he says to me or her, I'm never sure. So, it sticks and stings for a second. Big deal. I'm a big guy. "That's it for today," he says and rubs me right behind the ears." He is a really cool guy with really cool paws.

But, I'll be walking myself back in that carrier, thank you very much. Ready to go home now. A seconds worth of sting for me, a morning's worth of anxiety for her. 

Wish I could tell her my affirmation every day. Move toward my intention smoothly and easily, eat and nap and play. She sure did waste a lot of energy. Her third chakra needs attention. 

Since she can't purr, why doesn't she try humming?

Peace. 

When Annie Gets Anxious

...in July she makes applesauce. Lots and lots of applesauce.

That's when Beverly Hills apples ripen in Sherman Oaks, California where she lives. Annie picks them all from a single tree in the backyard or from where they've fallen and rolled in the garden. Some are large streaked in red, others quite small like pale green rocks. Most of them, at least in part, make it into the pot. 

Annie soaks the apples in a sink full of sudsy cool water, then runs her fingers around each one feeling for bruises or holes. Ones with stems still attached get rinsed separately. If the stems made it this far, then they deserve gentle removal.  A good rinse and the apples are ready to go.

She slices them open with a paring knife in one swoop. Then cuts, slowly and methodically, on each side of the core until only the seeds are left. With one swoop the seeds are offed. This precision wastes none of the solid white flesh and often exposes worms rather than chopping them up.

 

Annie leaves a small bit of apple around the worms and sets them aside on a small clear glass plate. The squiggling worms used to give her the creeps, but since she doesn't peel the apples, Annie perfected cutting around them. That way the worms ended up in the composter and could eat something else rather than dying such a harsh sharp death.

Of course, Annie has a big old dutch oven. It's ordinary enough and special enough to have hosted fish and potato chowders, chicken soup (every time somebody gets sick), boiling potatoes that get mashed right there in the pot every Thanksgiving, and even bouillabaisse. No lobsters.  

Annie thinks about all those delicious, delectable meals as she drops the first few quartered apples, bing bong, onto the bottom of the pot. Her fingers work steadfastly, quickly, paring away like a corpsman on kitchen duty with a sack full of potatoes.

She pops a piece in her mouth periodically. The fresh juicy tartness brings a slow smile that spreads, by the time the pot is full, from ear to ear. This is her secret, and greatest delight. 

Annie's never measured how much water she pours over the apple slices. Enough, is what she'll tell you if you ask.  A heap of cinnamon and dusting of nutmeg contrast so distinctly with the apple green she wishes it didn't have to be stirred into the vortex that ultimately leaves an appearance of green speckled skin, then dissolves into a neutral multidimensional background. 

"I imagine a very early Andy Warhol might have looked like this, before he added the vivid gold leaf and pale singular figures. Back when he was just figuring out how to juggle the images and colors, "she said once.

As in every cooking experience, time lapses while the pot simmers, and the mind can rest as it watches the natural events take place as the mixture shifts, mushes, mulls and dissolves into an aromatic new form. There have been times when Annie put in too much water, so she had to cook it off, which gave her a little more time to consider the process. She thinks about how if her hand didn't stir the pot, the apples would stick to the bottom of the pan and burn and be ruined. She realizes with joy that she has a "hand" in the outcome of this endeavor which is inevitably successful in about an hour or so.

So simple and so beautiful.

Annie would never presume to tell others how to make applesauce, or even that they should make applesauce, but she does love to share a bowl full with everyone she knows. 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

How Becky Got Married

Becky is small and naturally blond with deepsea blue eyes and a very svelte figure. She works as a secretary, same place for a couple decades. She had a model's portfolio and ambitions when she was younger, but it didn't pan out, and eventually she got a good job.

A short lousy marriage along the way really got her down, but with the help of family and friends, she got over it, and learned what not to do. Meantime, she went to work every day, showed up on time, took disappointments and frustrations in stride, and saved her money. 

She lived in a variety of places over the years, but no matter what, she had a cat or two or three. Wherever she moved cat food, petromalt, brushes and combs went with her. She's the type who would go to the city shelter and buy a cat who was on death row with the last money in her checking account. I don't know if she ever actually did this, but it is her nature.

She would try every way she could come up with to find homes for stray cats. Almost overnight she would become attached to these cats and want to keep them herself. She knew she couldn't so she made it a point to have lots of friends who loved cats.

Eventually she bought a condo where she lived for several years quite happily with her cats. There was a cat box upstairs as well as downstairs and she kept them clean and tidy. The condo never smelled of cat odor. Cat fur was not a problem either.

Someone once suggested that the cats were her substitutes for a real relationship with a man. She did have relationships but none of the men interested her more than the cats, and certainly not enough to get rid of a cat. She felt sad about this but the cats loved her and accepted her in a way that no man ever had.

She knew that when the right man came along he would be willing to accept these circumstances like the Prince accepted Cinderella's ugly stepsisters, who once they got used to him weren't ugly at all, merely a different species of God's creatures.

Because Becky was so beautiful, and her cats were so beautiful, she looked for beautiful men. She hoped she had found the one in an ex-body builder with slicked back black hair and an Italian accent. He liked her condo so much he put in a lot of time, not necessarily money, making changes. The more changes he made in her condo, the more she wished he would change.  He didn't mind his own mess, but she and the cats did.

This went on for awhile. She even ended up in the hospital at one point. First one cat got sick, then the other one. All this made Becky sad and mad. The Italian accent (who had never been an Italian stallion) had to go. 

She mothered her cats, taking them to the vet, giving them medicine, making sure they were properly nursed when she could not be there. 

Then one day, she had lunch with an old friend. He and his wife had divorced, his children were grown, he was lonely. She didn't know it but he had wanted to date her a long time ago, but she hadn't been interested. See, he didn't look like the Prince Charming she'd envisioned. 

After a few weeks, or maybe it was only a day, Becky realized she was falling in love with him. He was gentle, kind, considerate, fun, sparkly, loving and more beautiful than any cat she'd ever cuddled because when they cuddled in front of the television he was much more exciting in a manly kind of way. He also had the kind of career that allowed her the same independence as the cats always had.

They married shortly before Christmas and moved into a home of their own. 

Becky walked around her condo one last time after it was sold. She felt sad but glad that her life had been so happy there. Her sisters were happy for her, her friends were happy for her, and she got lots of new stuff for the big new house.   

There was one problem. Her sick cats. Moving them into the new house proved to be too much. And, her husband had inherited from his ex-wife two tiny fluffy elderly dogs. Her husband felt sorry for her two sick cats, so when each died, he buried them just outside Becky's reading window.

Becky was now past the point of wanting to have babies, besides she had gained the affection of his children, so she acknowledged his dogs as God's creatures, too. Her remaining cat settled in, and the five of them are living very hap-hap-ily, as Becky said recently.

And that is true. To some extent.