In three days we are going to Connecticut. We were there just last month, but events have piled up since then, so we’re off again.

When my mother and I talk on the phone nowadays, we ask each other “What’s new?”, and our favorite reply is, “Not a thing!”. Then we both say together, “Thank God!”.

There seems to be some kind of a hard-wired mechanism in the human brain that seeks the novel, the unusual, the exception to the rule kind of phenomena. I guess it’s stimulating. But as we acquire more and more experience with that sort of thing, we come to appreciate the notion that “Less is more”. News tends to be of the unpleasant type, and once the initial buzz has worn off, as in: “Gee! That’s new and exciting”– I’d say within ten seconds – We are left with the reality of the situation: “How depressing!”. Maybe that’s why news shows – especially local news shows – are so fond of the “10-second sound bite”. By the time the viewer’s initial buzz has evaporated, so has that particular story, and we’re on to the next. And what with our ever-shrinking attention span, thanks to the MTV school of entertainment, and our ever-shrinking memory, thanks to living in an age of overwhelming amounts of information, by the end of the broadcast we are numb. News, sports and weather all become nothing but a big blur. If it’s the eleven o’clock news, we are generally asleep by 11:15. (Okay, I didn’t take a survey, but I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only one).

But I digress.

The point is – Change is difficult. Anything new in our lives requires change. Anything new and unpleasant in our lives is doubly stressful, since it not only requires the effort of change, but also the optimism to get through the unpleasantness. It’s not easy – but it’s inevitable. Nothing stays the same for very long. And this comes as a shock, since we all start out as tiny little things for whom time goes by at a snail’s pace. It seems to us when we are in our formative years that certain things are permanent: Mom and Dad, sister and brother, home, school, friends, Fido and Fluffy, even the corner grocery. All take on the quality of Mount Rushmore in our minds. These basics are indestructible, and there is tremendous comfort in that. We feel that as long as these few things remain the same, we are safe and secure. This is the basis for nostalgia, and the reason we love artists like Norman Rockwell and TV shows like “Happy Days”.

But in the past three weeks, here is what has happened in our own family: Art’s brother was diagnosed with a serious illness and is slated for surgery by the end of the month. Art’s sister and her family had to put down their beloved dog, Jet, which was devastating to all of them. Art’s mother and father finalized the sale of their home of forty-eight years and are packing up to move. And Art and I got word that our offer on a home in Connecticut was accepted, so we will now be officially bicoastal. This is a potent mix of stressors (distress and eustress, but all stress). We’re going to Connecticut now, in great part, to try to dilute the stress and spread it around a little more so that it doesn’t all fall on shoulders that were already pretty weighted down. There’s not much we can do, except to be there and offer emotional support, but sometimes that can be a lot.

Meanwhile, back here in Los Angeles, I just pray that the earth stays solid, that my family’s health continues, that the fire season doesn’t start early, and that the governor won’t do anything to get recalled. In other words, I pray for what doesn’t happen, as opposed to what does. Let things be boring – I can take it.

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Art and I have had the same CPA for as long as we have been together. I like Herb. He’s a straight shooter. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat our tax returns. He just tells it like it is.

So one day when I was looking over his work for the year, I was appalled to see that in the space where he had to give my profession he had written in, “housewife”.

Well, it’s true that I don’t bring in a paycheck from the outside world. None of my songs have made any money to speak of. My writing seems destined to be an act of altruism for the rest of my life, which is not by choice, but okay with me. But – a professional housewife?

Look, let me make this clear. Martha Stewart I am not. I don’t dig in the garden because I’m afraid of worms. (Another little phobia). I don’t make my own wrapping paper. I don’t bake souffles. The majority of my cooking goes from freezer to microwave. I dust with Endust. I vacuum once, maybe twice a week. Ironing is considered optional (and rare). I prefer the Swiffer to hands-and-knees scrubbing. I do not perfume the sheets or count their threads. I have several drawers and cupboards that look like Fibber McGee’s closet.

Once when we went to another couple’s house for supper, I wanted to help clear the table after we ate. I looked around and said, “Oh, these butter knives look like they weren’t touched. Do you want me to put them back in the drawer?” She looked at me like I was a two-headed creature. “Oh, no! Once they’ve been out on the table. . .” Her voice drifted off – I guess she thought it was useless to try to educate me. She just picked up the knives and stashed them in the dishwasher. I felt my face redden. She had recognized me for the slob I am.

Another time when we lived in Tennessee we hired a crew to come out and clean our house there. It was a very large, rambling, open floor-plan of a house with very high ceilings. Once in a while we both agreed it was time to call in the professionals. They would be able to reach the places I couldn’t reach and scrub clean what I could not. There was one spot that bothered me more than anything in that house. It was the spot behind the faucet in the bathroom. There were green hard water stains and greyish-black mold there, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get them out. The woman who had come out to help us assessed the situation: “Well, that’s been buildin’ up for quite a long time. Some people just don’t bother with it fer a while and then you get those tell-tale rings around the. . .” She stopped herself, since she and I both realized that she was well on her way to scolding me for my unacceptable cleaning practices. She cleared her throat and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”.

On the other hand, I have known people who think nothing of leaving great piles of newspapers and magazines stacked in their living rooms for months, if not years on end. People who have a constant pile of greasy dishes left in a greasy, grey sink. People who see no need to change the sheets more than once a month. People who make a regular habit of pulling their wardrobe out of the dirty clothes hamper or off the floor. I once knew a guy who was a smoker who habitually flicked his ashes into his shirt pocket. There are people who would not feel at home without a half-inch coating of dust on their furniture. People who do not sweep the dirt under the rug because they don’t sweep, period.

Art and I like to watch Home and Garden TV. (It’s the most benign thing on television, even if it does tend to be a little vapid at times). We enjoy the “before” and “after” stories. We like to imagine how we would refurbish an old Victorian or craftsman style home. But just once I would like to see a follow-up to some of these make-overs. What does the house look like six months or a year after the designers have done their magic? And I don’t mean when the owner has been forewarned of an impending visit. I’d like to see the place au naturel; the way the family really lives. I always think – What’s the good of having a Queen Ann bed piled high with European pillows and shams – if there’s a half-eaten Domino’s pizza perched in the middle of it and a Coors can on the matching nightstand?

I was taught from the time I was little that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” (especially when I was being dragged to the bathtub). But another part of me would like to paraphrase Oscar Wilde: Housework . . .”is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do”.

So, I guess on the bell curve of cleaning I fall somewhere in the middle, not more than one standard deviation from the norm. I try to keep a modicum of tidiness without falling into an obsessive pattern. I can’t work in too much clutter. I can’t even think in too much clutter. (There’s already too much clutter in my head). I guess that’s what saves me.

So, Herb – On our next return, could you please put down “Domestic Diva”?

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Time seems to be a theme with me these days.

Last night our family gathered at my sister’s house to say goodbye to my nephew, Noah, who is starting his freshman year in college today. This morning his father took him up to U.C. Riverside. This marks a new chapter in Noah’s life – it is the official beginning of his launch into adulthood. I couldn’t help but look at this handsome, soft-spoken young man and remember the night he was born, only eighteen short years ago.

At the same time, our nephew Keith, 25, is about to move to New York. New York. The other side of the country. Might as well be the other side of the world. He is now a strong, capable young man with a million possibilities placed before him. We gave him an organizer as a going away gift. Suddenly, he’s going to have to consult his “book” before making appointments.

Our nephew, Luke, is well on his way, too. Sixteen years-old, with a sophisticated and dry wit, confident, and with a burgeoning career already as a gifted drummer/percussionist.

I’m so impressed with all of them.

Kids have a nasty habit of growing up, leaving you to ponder, “If he’s grown up, what am I?”. Well, the answer is obvious: a potential great aunt. Put it another way: old enough to be somebody’s grandmother. A member of AARP. Old enough to contemplate retirement. Old enough to get the senior discount at the hardware store. Old enough to live in Leisure World. Old enough to be called “Ma’am” by the boy bagging my groceries. Yikes.

Old enough to know better. Chronological age is a number. It has little to do with one’s physical or mental fitness. However, time on the planet does seem to render us a little wiser than we might have been 20 or 30 years before.

But maybe that’s an illusion, too. I still put my socks on inside-out, most of the time. I still burn the rice on a regular basis. I still have a secret vice of eating Twizzlers, even though they’re horrible for me. I still snack before dinner most nights. I still have a tendency to procrastinate to the point of making myself late for almost everything. I still lose my carkeys and/or my sunglasses nearly every day. I still get a belly laugh out of “I Love Lucy” reruns. I still cry at the end of “The King and I” (and I’ll bet I’ve seen it 20 or 30 times). I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Regardless of what the calendar may tell you, it is past Labor Day, and that means it is autumn. This is my favorite time of year. I think of crisp apples, pumpkins, cider, and of course, the beautiful colors of the leaves in my native Pittsburgh and around my husband’s ancestral home in Connecticut. There is something so poignant about autumn. We tend to remember in this season better than any other, that we are mortal. Like the leaves we must give up our spot on the tree to make room for new life in the spring. I like to think that, also like the leaves, we are never more beautiful than during the autumn of our life, when we have reached full maturity and begun to be illuminated from within.

At least, that is what I tell myself when I am waving goodbye to Noah, in all his splendid green, tender vibrancy.

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The other day, for the first time in a couple of years, I took out our wedding album and leafed through the pictures. There was the happy, handsome groom and the smiling, pretty bride. We were only fifteen years younger then. Fifteen years goes by so quickly, sometimes it seems it’s just a blur: Wegotmarriedonasundayandthenitwasmonday

andchristmascameandnowit’sfifteenyearslaterwhathappened?

It’s not that we don’t fight tooth and nail to stay young, we do. (Well, maybe not tooth, but definitely nail). We do all the things expected of our Baby Boom demographic. We eat healthfully, exercise, stay active both physically and mentally and get great haircuts. We dutifully dress in jeans and t-shirts, even when we go out to dinner. I color my hair and I’m not ashamed to say so. We wear sunscreen. We moisturize. And yet.

I look through those pictures, only fifteen years old, and there is a distinct difference between my face then and my face now. There’s no getting around it: Youth is leaving me. I feel like I’m chasing my youth through a dense forest, running faster and faster to catch up, but the harder I run, the faster it goes, and I don’t know how long it will be before I run out of breath or determination and accept that it has gone and gone for good. Some would say, “Never! Never give up! Never give in!”. I wonder, are they right?

Living in Hollywood as I do, I also have to wonder – Is it youth I’m chasing, or is it vanity? And if I could have youth back, would I want it? I mean, youth is not all about having smooth skin and taut muscles. It’s also about believing in your immortality and taking foolish risks. It’s also about not having enough money for rent and food. It’s also about being concerned with things that no longer concern me, like fashion. It’s also about taking too much for granted that is precious, like friends. It’s also about being a slave to your hormones. Do I want all that? Certainly not!

Another part of youth is being interested, involved and active. Can I do that without actually being young? Yes, of course. But there is a natural slowing of the body over time. Maybe I don’t have to run. Maybe I can just do a brisk walk. That’s okay with me. (I never liked running anyway). But does there ever come a time when even a walk can be too much?

Now, let’s get back to the smooth skin and taut muscles part. Well, I woke up this morning and caught a glimpse of something that I had never noticed before. There was a large, purplish area on my calf. I couldn’t figure out what it was. A bruise? A spider bite? Some weird kind of tumor? My husband looked at it and calmly announced that it was spider veins. And he added, “I remember when my Mom got those – She was really upset.” In other words, this is a natural result of age. Nowadays they can remove these things.

Then I’m faced with a decision. Should I or should I not have the spider veins removed? If I go out in a pair of shorts, will people notice? Do I care? Will the neighbors be clucking their tongues and saying, “Tsk Tsk. She shouldn’t be wearing shorts at her age!” Do I want to spend the money on having these removed when others will probably pop up on my other leg tomorrow? Or should I just replace all my shorts with slacks and resign myself to schvitz in the hot weather? Where does the blood go if the little veins aren’t there anymore to carry it along? What does it cost to have spider veins removed? And how much do I want to invest in chasing down my youth, anyway? I’m not an actress, so who really cares besides me and possibly my husband? (Oh my God, I better ask him!) And do I want to add to the delusion that nobody ages in Hollywood? (Of course I do, but to what extent?).

At what point do you simply bid adieu to the elusive little fox that was your youth? At what point do you resign yourself that this is just more work than you signed on for? And isn’t it the very hallmark of youth that it is never self-conscious or labored? Take a look at anyone under 30, and you will notice how remarkably relaxed they are – at least about being young. Aaah. To age gracefully. What does it really mean?

Mental note: Ask hairdresser about blond streaks tomorrow.

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There is no problem that can’t be solved over a cup of tea.

Art and I have been drinking tea together now for about seventeen years. We have tea every morning with our breakfast, and usually, another cup of tea in the afternoon. We both like it with milk (the preferred British way), but our favorite tea in the morning is Irish Breakfast (no offense to all you Brits, but it’s a little stronger).

As you raise your cup there is a fine, subtly astringent aroma. Then you take your first sip – heaven. The warmth and comfort permeates your body, gently rousing you from early morning dreaminess. You can actually feel all those sweet little antioxidants going to work and waking up your immune system. Aaaaah.

How can you possibly squabble at such a moment? You can’t. You would have to put your teacup down and walk into another room. When friends announce engagements or get married, my first thought is to give them a tea pot, because if more people drank tea in this country, there would be less divorce.

Truly, the best tea should be brewed in a pot, even if you use tea bags (which I usually do, myself for convenience). I know that I am not the first to praise the beauty of ceremony in the presentation of tea. The more lovely the presentation, it seems, the better the tea tastes.

I like to linger over tea. I like to sit there for at least a half hour, preferably an hour. Art and I like to discuss our plans for the day over a cup of tea. We like to solve the household problems over a cup of tea. We have even written a few songs over a cup of tea.

When we lived in Tennessee, we discovered a wonderful tea room called Miss Mables out in Dickson, Tennessee. There is not much in Dickson, apart from a Wal-mart, a few fast food restaurants, maybe a hardware store, a few churches, and a couple of antique stores. But Miss Mables is a bastion of civilization. It is strictly in the British Victorian tradition. It is decorated with lace curtains, a mish-mash of floral china pieces, with hardwood floors and Oriental rugs. There is a traditional English garden outside of the renovated Victorian house. Art and I tried to get there at least once a week in the early afternoon. We would sit there for over an hour eating scones and sipping tea.

Once we went when there was a private party in the main dining room, and we were forced to sit all alone in a small outer room. Over the course of two hours, we drank so much Buckingham Palace (a very special tea blend which has just a hint of Earl Grey), that we got giddy on the caffeine. We started to tell each other funny stories and found ourselves laughing uncontrollably. The owner, Faye, came in several times to check on us. We had to explain that we were “drunk” on the tea. She gave us a funny look and left us to our own devices.

For our eighth anniversary we had a party at Miss Mables. It was an early evening party, and of course, there was plenty of tea for everyone. The food was light and delicious. The atmosphere was warm and festive. I dressed for the occasion in an antique Victorian looking dress. I may have looked dorky, but we had a great time, and I think all of our guests did, too.

Every time we watch one of our favorite shows, a Brit-com on PBS called, “As Time Goes By”, I wait for the moment when Judy Dench serves tea (she almost always does). Out comes the silver service and the china cups, the lemon wedges and the sugar cubes, and can smell the tea right through the television screen. It makes me want to get up and make us yet another pot, but I refrain since the show is on at night, and the caffeine will keep me awake.

By the way – It has been my experience that decaffeinated tea tends to taste like fish. I would suggest rather that you decaffeinate your tea yourself. Here is how it was explained to me by Mary at the Rose Cottage Tea Room in Pasadena (a fabulous place, but you will need reservations well in advance): You pour just enough boiling water over the tea to cover it and leave the water on the tea for just 5-10 seconds. Then you dump that water. Most of the caffeine will go out with that water. Then you pour the boiling water to fill the pot. Voila, decaf tea. I’ve done it myself, and I do believe it works to some extent (although not completely).

Of all the wonderful things in life, tea may be one of the best and least appreciated (at least in this country). I’m sure your mother gave you tea when you were sick as a child (probably Lipton, with dry toast). Now that you’re grown up, try the healing properties of tea when you’re well. You’ll feel even better.

P.S. “Herbal tea” is not tea. But that’s a subject for another day.

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A couple of nights ago Art and I rented, “Like Water For Chocolate”, a Latin-American fantasy-realism kind of a tale in which the star-crossed lovers are thwarted by an evil matriarch who insists that the youngest daughter remain unmarried and serve her mother all her life.

In the early part of the movie, the girl and boy fall madly and tragically in love. They are drawn to each other by a chemistry so strong, that by the end of the movie it destroys them both. Sound vaguely familiar? This is yet another variation on the tragic (young) love story – Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, West Side Story, and we could go on and on with variations on that theme. When the two lovers finally (literally!) went up in smoke at the end of the movie, Art exclaimed, “What a chick flick!”.

What was more interesting to me than all of this was a subplot in which another suitor falls in love with Tita, the young girl. This other suitor (appropriately named John, as in “John Doe”) was a kind of stalwart, reliable and kindly man, whereas the object of Tita’s “true” love was kind of a flashy, impulsive and darkly charismatic man.

When John proposed to Tita, he broke my heart with his kindness, his obvious caring, his respectfulness. I was practically jumping out of my seat rooting for John. I yelled at Tita, “Say yes, for God’s sake! Say yes!”. But of course, she didn’t. She opted to remain unmarried for the rest of her life waiting around for you-know-who. (Sorry I can’t remember the character’s name, but he had married her sister, ostensibly to remain close to Tita, and was now obligated to wait around until the sister died so that he could pick up where he left off thirty years ago with Tita).

Finally, I realized that I had made a complete about-face in my attitude toward romantic love. Had I seen this movie in my twenties, or even in my thirties, I would have been yelling at Tita, “Say no, for God’s sake! Say no!”. My idea of “true love” for as far back as I can remember was the Romeo and Juliet model. That is to say, it conformed to the idea that there is one soul mate out there in the universe for you, and you will know it when you see it because the little hairs on the back of your neck will stand up, your palms will get sweaty, your stomach will do somersaults, and you won’t be able to breathe. Your eyes will roll back in your head rendering you blind to all of the lover’s faults, and no matter how (s)he kicks you around you will follow that person like a dog to the end of your days. This, I imagined, was ecstasy. This, I imagined, was true love. This is the romantic ideal put forth by most of the movies and novels in our culture, and it is probably responsible for 85% of the divorces in the country.

It took me many years of soul-searching, not to mention extensive psychotherapy, to disabuse myself of this notion. What passes for “true love” as described above is probably, at best, physical attraction, and at worst, the perfect mesh of one neurotic obsession with another. In my experience, anyway, such attractions are always “star-crossed”. There is always an insurmountable object to be overcome. And when that insurmountable object is removed, and the star-crossed lovers actually get a few minutes to chat, they generally find out that they are looking at a stranger who has nothing to do with the fictional character they have cooked up in their head.

This reminds me of another movie we watched recently, “Wilde”, based on the life of playwright Oscar Wilde. (Thanks, Netflix!). This poor man was totally obsessed with his young lover for most of his adult life. The younger man cruelly tormented Wilde and assaulted his self-esteem over and over. Wilde, at the end of the movie, having been released from prison after two years of pining for his young twerp, has an epiphany when he finally sees the younger man, symbolically, from a distance, and realizes that he is sadly disappointed with the object of his passion.

Now, What, you ask yourself, could be better than an abusive, commitment-phobic, on-again-off-again, self-absorbed and sadistic so-called “soul mate”? Well, of course, the answer is clear. It is “John” in “Like Water For Chocolate”. It is someone with the courage to commit to another person and to be vulnerable, to be kind, caring, and interdependent. To be a true, honest friend. Someone who doesn’t turn and run at the first sign of trouble. Someone invested in your mutual happiness. Someone you can play with and work with. It’s a tall order, but worth the effort.

I learned all this first-hand over the course of my relationship with Art. I would never go back to what I now consider “the dark side”. Life is much better here in the light.

P.S. Imagine a sequel to “Romeo and Juliet”. Imagine that they didn’t die in that cave, but rather, were allowed to go and live out their days, setting up housekeeping, raising children, visiting the in-laws. How long before we would hear something like this,

“My God, you are such a pig-headed Capulet!”

“Just like a Montague!”

“What was I thinking! We were only fourteen and as I recall you were wearing a mask!”

“My father was right!”

“I wish I had drunk that poison!”

“I wish you had, too!”

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They say the best things in life are free. I would agree that the purchase price of the best things is nil, nada, zip. Where they get you is on maintenance.

Let’s review.

We have two cats. They are the light of our lives. Two sweet, loving, adorable angels. To look at them is to know happiness. They remind us every day about what is important – and it all boils down to one thing: comfort. To Henry and Natasha, Art and I are but soft furniture and feeding machines. Don’t get me wrong – They love us for that. They’re very cuddly and affectionate. (Natasha more than Henry, actually, owing to her being female and Henry being all boy).

Both Henry and Natasha came to us free of charge. We rescued Henry from a life as a farm cat (which in his case would have been short and brutal; he’s a lover, not a fighter). Natasha simply appeared in our car port one day after Christmas, 1991, when there was a downpour outside. We tried but could not find an owner for “her highness”, who is a Siamese mix, very regal, and was even regal at the tender age of six months.

For both of these kitties, it started out easy. We bought commercially available foods from the supermarket, Johnny Cat, a couple of boxes for the Johnny Cat, and got them in to the vet for annual exams and shots. Once a month we gave them a flea treatment. That was it. They were happy. They didn’t even want toys! Their favorite playthings were brown paper bags.

Now that Natasha is 13 ½ years-old and Henry is about 9, things have changed. (Please refer to my earlier blog about “The Warranty” – I guess it holds true for all creatures, great and small). We have come to find out that Natasha is asthmatic with the beginnings of renal disease, and Henry has complete renal failure.

I now keep a rescue inhaler for Natasha. Furthermore, over the years, Natasha has had to have an ultrasound of her heart twice and a couple of lung X-rays, not to mention a myriad of blood tests and urine tests for both of the kitties. The doctor presents his bill and I about faint. On top of that, both kitties now require special food and kitty litter that can only be bought through the veterinarian. I have to run up to the vet’s office about twice a month for supplies, and pray that they haven’t run out again. They always try to give me an itemized receipt when I am leaving the vet’s office. I always tell them to forget it. Unfortunately, the government is not enlightened enough yet to allow us to write off Henry and Natasha as dependents, and veterinary bills are not considered legitimate medical expenses. (Sigh). I shudder to think what we might have done with the money we’ve spent on veterinary expenses.

On the other hand – as they say in those credit card commercials: Vet visit: $400.00. One month’s supply of cat food: $80.00. One month’s supply of Eco-Fresh kitty litter: $25.00. Cat sitter when we travel: $10.00 a visit. Henry and Natasha: Priceless. I don’t know where we could possibly get so much for our money.

I am convinced that Henry and Natasha (not to mention my mother’s pooch Mugsy, my sister’s black Lab, Princess, my other sister’s cat, Shadow, and on, and on) all of them are the real angels on earth. I have an unshakeable conviction that they are sent to us on a mission of mercy to add warmth, comfort, compassion, and tons and tons of humor to our lives. That’s why even psychotherapists have begun to bring “therapy animals” to their sessions. Animal companions are the most amazing medicine!

I’ve got to wrap this up because I have to get Natasha to the vet for her annual exam. I know that whatever it costs, it will be worth it. And I will be grateful to the good doctor for his expertise in helping to keep her with me for as long as possible.

I’ve been thinking about a dog.

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I have been making trips to Connecticut now for about 17 years. It is arguably the most picturesque place I’ve ever been. As a matter of fact, the whole state looks like a picture postcard. The trees, the rolling hills, the lakes and ponds, the quaint little towns with their park-like squares surrounded by white steepled churches and family-run shops, and acres upon acres of unsullied farmlands, all create a sense of calm, abundance, and the charm of earlier times.

Ever since Art and I have been visiting Connecticut together, we have dreamt of having a home there. At one point, we even considered moving there altogether, but we realized that, for many reasons, we needed to be based in California. Still, we thought, wouldn’t it be nice to be bicoastal? We imagined ourselves living, say, three months out of the year in Connecticut so that we could enjoy the peace and quiet there and be close to his parents and siblings.

Of course, having two homes which just happen to be located in the two most expensive regions of the country, has mostly remained a pipe-dream. We would look at all the lovely little cottages, some on the lake, some in town, and would think we could almost

do it, but not quite. Just a little too much of a stretch, financially. Furthermore, we questioned whether we could realistically be able to travel between our two homes and still keep our Internet business running.

Recently, we sold our business. This appears to have solved, or mostly solved, both impediments. We now have reason to hope we have the financial means and the freedom to make our dream a reality. So the last time we were back in Connecticut last month, we looked around. We found a small, but cozy condo within a couple of miles of Art’s parents and we made an offer on it.

Of course, being who I am, I have already mentally moved in to the condo. I am busily arranging mental furniture, filling a corner hutch with blue and white pottery dishes, making a note to buy some inexpensive blue stemware I saw at Target last week – and praying that our loan goes through.

Art, on the other hand, sees the whole venture as hypothetical at this point. His attitude is, “If we get it, great. If we don’t, fine”. I find it exasperating that he can’t join me in my enthusiasm. He finds it exasperating that I can’t hold my nesting instincts in check.

But ultimately, of course, I have to admit that he’s right. Art and I have found throughout our life together that all of our big decisions were substantially helped along by circumstances beyond our control.

In 1994, we had long been discussing the possibility of leaving Los Angeles. We were fed up at the time with the traffic, the crime, the recent wave of racial tension brought on by the Rodney King incident, the fires, floods and mudslides shown every evening on the news. I remember that on New Year’s Day morning, we toasted in the new year and wondered aloud what it might bring. Sixteen days later, we had our answer. The Northridge quake woke us up out of a sound sleep and put the last nail in the coffin. I told Art that when the next one came, I didn’t want to be there. The quake took our vague discomfort and shook it into extreme urgency – at least for me. I figured we were getting out just before the locust arrived! So within a month we were on a plane bound for Nashville, Tennessee, and by April, 1994, we were moving into our new home in Music City.

Six years later, we were feeling that we had been in Nashville long enough, and we were contemplating our next move. That was when we were seriously considering a move to the East Coast to be close to Art’s family. That’s when I came down with cancer. After my surgery, it was clear to Art that we had to move back to California to be close to my family. I was so grateful. And fortunately for us, our attempts to sell our house in California when we moved to Nashville had been totally unsuccessful and we were forced to rent out our house while we were living in Tennessee. Had we been able to sell our house here, we would have been priced out of the market. So when the time came, we gave our renters notice and they moved out, allowing us to reclaim our home.

What we have learned over and over is that we don’t have to worry about the big stuff. Some higher power (God, Buddha, the Universe, Allah, who knows?) makes sure that everything works out perfectly. We are always guided in the right direction – or as the Rolling Stones so aptly put it, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes. . . You get what you need”.

So – if we get the loan for the condo in Connecticut, wonderful. If we don’t, wonderful. It’s good to be a little bit zen, now and zen.

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As near as I can tell, I was conceived about the same time as television – well, maybe born about the same time as television. I guess you could say television was conceived a long time ago. Both television and I were introduced, anyway, about the middle of the twentieth century. I was most certainly of the first generation of TV babies.

As a small child, I was an omnivore as far as TV was concerned. I would wake up before anyone else in the house so that I could watch the farm report. Then it was on to Howdy Doody, Mighty Mouse, The Cisco Kid, Sky King, Popeye, The Three Stooges, Jack Benny, I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, Burns and Allen, You Bet Your Life, Name That Tune. . .I could go on and on. Couldn’t you? Oh, and the old movies. I loved all the old movies. It was unbelievable to me that without even leaving the comfort and security of the family room I could watch such classics as All About Eve, The Wizard of Oz, It’s A Wonderful Life, Auntie Mame, A Star is Born, Flying Down to Rio, Mrs. Miniver – It’s no wonder I had trouble with reading. All of my experience of taking in information was passive. All I had to do was flip a switch, and all would be presented to me on a silver platter.

It was not until much, much later that I discovered reading, as if for the first time. Of course, I was a dutiful child, so I learned to read along with everyone else. And I could slowly make my way through a children’s book back in my early primary school years. But it was a painful process. My mind would wander. I had to go back over and over sometimes to get the gist of what I was reading. Sometimes I read so slowly that it actually impaired my comprehension. My mind had become impatient. I wanted the fast food of learning. I wanted TV.

So I sometimes wonder what effect TV has on children in the classroom today. How good can that be?

Back when I was going to Linden School, I remember occasionally having an assembly in the auditorium where a television set – about a 13” – was placed in the middle of the school stage so that we could watch, say, Alan Shepard going up into space. Sitting down on the floor, we would crane our little necks skyward, as if watching the rocket take off from the platform in front of us. Of course, even with the eagle vision of the young, the images were blurry and dim. There was always “snow” in the picture, and the horizontal hold didn’t always hold, in which case, Mr. Pittman, the only male teacher in the school, would walk up on stage and hit the TV with the flat of his hand. In science class, occasionally, the same TV set was rolled in on a cart to the front of the room so that we could watch a special program on “educational television” about, say, photosynthesis.

But TV is not an ideal learning tool, in my experience. It puts me into a state of utter paralysis, psychologically speaking. My mind goes into a semicoma, and the images and words wash over me hypnotically. It’s funny because, logically speaking, you would expect TV to be the ideal learning tool. I have watched many wonderfully thoughtful and informative programs on television. But six weeks later, I couldn’t pass a pop quiz on the subject matter. But I could tell you that the cinematography was stunning, or the costumes were authentic, or the acting was superb. Of course the information is now stashed somewhere on my hard drive, but mostly inaccessible.

And herein lies the problem. A lot of what you get on TV is, well, not the kind of thing you want on your hard drive. I stopped watching NYPD Blue several years ago because there was an episode with such a disturbing image in it, that I decided I didn’t want any more such images implanted in my brain again. Yet I know that picture is still somewhere lodged in my brain, and in fact, writing about it, I can almost bring it up. I don’t want to. How much useless, disturbing, depressing, not to mention stress-provoking information (and misinformation) is fed to us daily via TV.

The only thing is – It’s a hard habit to break. If you think giving up cigarettes is hard, try giving up TV for a week. Art and I have a habit of watching the TV news twice a day, once either at the dinner hour or at bedtime (or both!) and once in the morning when we get up. I was trying to analyze why we do this, considering that 1) the news is usually pretty much the same from one day to the next and 2) mostly it’s depressing and/or alarming. I decided it’s like this: Watching the news every day is the combination of a wish and a fear. The wish is that suddenly things will get dramatically better. The fear is that suddenly things will get dramatically worse. The reality is that, with rare exceptions, things stay pretty much the same. The cast of characters may change, but the issues are always the same. Strangely, there is reassurance in that fact, “Oh, good. Nothing to adjust to. Everything’s the same.” Now as I write about it I think – “Oh, that’s a lot of hooey. We watch out of habit”.

There are some people I know who don’t watch TV. At least they say they don’t watch TV. (And they always let you know they don’t watch TV. I don’t blame them. I’d be proud of it, too.) But for the rest of us, this is the monkey on our backs. Is there a twelve-step program for TV?

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It is September 11th, the third anniversary of the tragedy that took place at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and in a field in Pennsylvania.

I don’t know what is the best way to honor the memories of the fallen of 9/11.

If I had been among those lost, here is what I would want:

That we all be kind to one another. That we honor and respect each other’s spiritual beliefs. That we not discriminate based on religion or race. That we engage fully in life while we can. That we care for the earth. That we care for all our fellow creatures. That we take advantage of every opportunity for a healthy laugh. That we become conscious of our mortality, while being mindful of the strength and resiliency of our humanity.

If I had my way, they would turn the site of the World Trade Center into a beautiful park full of trees, shrubs, beautiful flowers, and shining bodies of water. There would be birds and fish and butterflies to replace the debris left by the falling planes.

Our hearts go out to all who were affected by this horrendous catastrophe – and that includes all of us, to some extent. Even people in other countries. I can’t imagine how it must feel to have lost a husband, a wife, a sister, a brother, a child, a parent – in this way.

Here is a “Prayer for Protection” I cut out of a Unity Magazine a couple of years ago. I have changed the pronouns from “me” to “us” to be more inclusive.

The light of God surrounds us;

The love of God enfolds us;

The power of God protects us;

The presence of God watches over us;

Wherever we are, God is.

Amen.

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