We are all Boston. We are all Oklahoma.

"We are all Boston." "We are all Oklahoma." 

I hear these platitudes all over Twitter and Facebook. Every time there's a tragedy, somebody has to say it.

No, you're not.

If you're sitting around on your computer monitor noodling about a tragedy, you're not in the tragedy. You're someone with a poor sense of boundaries trying to capitalize on an emotional event for some personal reason.

"It could have been me and my family."

Well, yeah, it wasn't. So you know what that means? That means you and your family have the luxury of thinking about it instead of trying to clean up the aftermath.

In my opinion, it means you also have the responsibility to do what you can. Something, anything is better than blathering about how close we all are blah blah blah.

I sound cynical, I know, but I'm arguing for the opposite of cynicism. I'm arguing against indulging in meaningless expressions of sympathy and solidarity in favor of actually doing something.

I see so many attempts to hop on the disaster train. Look. The train IS NOT YOUR TRAIN. Your tears won't help anyone. Your sadness is meaningless to anyone but yourself, and, I argue, gets in the way of you doing anything meaningful.

"I can't stop crying."

Yes, you can. You know what will stop your tears? That's right. Getting off your butt. Your tears are a self-indulgence the world can ill afford. Cry for a minute and then step into action, or move on.

BlogHer has a roundup of ways to help. I made a donation to Team Rubicon, veterans who did such a great job during Hurricane Sandy and who is now headed to Oklahoma.

If I'm ever standing outside my ruined home, don't cry for me. Hand me a water bottle, help me clean up the rubble, or go find someone who wants to watch you sob.

Sometimes I feel like no one is listening

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/suebobdavis/6801288/" title="Any meat in there? by suebobdavis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/5/6801288_4904710206.jpg" width="299" height="362" alt="Any meat in there?"></a>

Me at Chipotle.

Counter Guy, grabbing my assembled burrito and a bag: Is this it?

Suebob: Yes, I don't need a bag.

Counter Guy, grabbing a bag: For here, or to go?

Suebob: To go, I don't need a bag.

Counter Guy, opening bag: Here you go.

Suebob: I don't need a bag.

Counter Guy: Huh?

Suebob: I'm just going to keep saying it until it sinks in. I don't need a bag.

Counter Guy: (looks baffled).

Suebob: ADD. Everyone has it.

Counter Girl, laughing: That will be $4.86

The Avenue

I moved to my neighborhood on purpose, and it is a quirky weird little place unlike anywhere else. 

My neighborhood is the opposite of where I used to live, which was all trimmed shrubberies and cars tucked into their large garages, a place that made me feel like I was choking on a too-tight necktie.

My neighborhood is loosey-goosey and loud. My neighborhood is strange and random. My neighborhood is packed with too many people in a small space. My neighborhood gets up early and stays up late.

This swirl of life makes me feel excited to walk down the street. This randomness delights me with surprise and also dismays me with its ugliness and dirt.

Here, people live in the garages and park on the streets. It's a neighborhood of skinny little lanes, so you often end up waiting while someone loads their children into a car or parks in the middle of the street waiting to pick someone up for work.

It's also a neighborhood without a Homeowner's Association, so houses are painted with whatever paint is cheap and strikes the owner's fancy. Since many of the residents are from Mexico, they bring a Mexican sensibility about vibrant color combinations, too.

It's a neighborhood that smells like grilling meat and bacon and beans and spilled Bud Light. A comfy couch or armchair on the front porch isn't an eyesore, but an invitation to sit.

Things here that are broken are visible, not hidden away. Fixing stuff is expensive, so you have to keep the broken thing until you have the money to repair it. Or it might be getting saved because you never know when you'll need a part from something old to make something news.

It's a neighborhood of corner markets and homemade shrines.

It's a place with spots of unexpected beauty.

It's a place where welding shops and tire stores sit alongside homes, where toxic waste fields are next to schools.

Someone once accused me of "slumming it" since I live in a lower-income neighborhood than I can afford. I would tell them to try to find a place near the beach where you have a yard and a landlord who will let you have a dog. Good luck.

There are things I love here, like big birthday parties in yards with jumpers and rented tables. 

There are things I hate, like the crazy dad who comes to pick up his daughter from his ex and has a screaming match every time.

But I feel right here. Every time I come home, I'm happy to get to my little tiny house.

I remember a long time ago reading a guest post by a blogger's husband. He went on at length about how his neighbors were ruining the property values by leaving some folding chairs outside next to their house.

"What an asshole," I thought. 

One nice thing about living in a loco low-income, high rental area is that your neighbors are never going to give you crap about leaving folding chairs outside. Unless you're running an illegal dance club in your back yard (it has been known to happen) or setting things on fire, no one is going to bother you (and maybe not even then). They have bigger fish to fry.

Santa on the roof in April.

The other day, I saw a big shiny SUV trolling up and down the street slowly. I paid attention because that is never a good sign. A nicely dressed lady got out and started knocking on my neighbor's door.

"She's probably around back, working on the yard," I said. The lady went to Gabi's gate.

A while later, the lady started calling to me from my gate. I went out.

"Um, we were at a reggae concert and my daughter lost her iPhone and 'Find My iPhone' tracked it to the house next door," she said. "Do you know when she will be home?"

"It's not Gabi," I said. "She's been working on the house all weekend. She's probably at the hardware store. Besides, I don't think she likes reggae. Maybe it's another house nearby...lemme think. It's probably not Jason and Haley - they're into heavy metal. Lottie? No, she's been at the horse farm all day. Tina can't afford to go to a concert and that would not be her thing anyway. Maybe Javier across the street? I bet it's him. Yeah, that house. Don't go to the house next door. Karl is a meth freak and has a nasty pit bull."

"You KNOW all your neighbors?" she asked, her eyes a little wide. Well yeah. They're RIGHT THERE.

"I'm from Orange County," she explained, like that was a matter of pride.

"This place is really...different," she said, as if different were something you should scrape off your shoe.

Then she asked me to ask around about the phone and gave me her phone number. I told her to have a good day, waited for her to leave, then folded up her number and threw it away.

You can do what you want in my neighborhood, but you don't come to my house and ask a favor and then insult the place. That's one thing you can't do here.

A Gorilla and a Raisin Walk Into a Bar

There's a revolution going on - can you feel it?

I know it is happening with me. I'm thinking about and talking about my body more and in different ways than I ever have before.

I have never been particularly body-conscious. I escaped the diet and beauty trap that ensnares many women in their early teens, and in many, never lets go.

I'm not very visually oriented - I have only a vague idea of what most people look like, even my closest friends. I'm sorry if I don't comment on weight loss or new hairstyles, but I have to force myself to notice. 

That fact is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I haven't spent a lot of time obsessing about my looks, and a curse because I usually look like I don't spend time thinking about my looks.

That does not mean, however, I escape loathing my own looks when they are thrust in my face. Mirrors, photos, reflective windows - they bring on the phenomenon that I named my fitness blog after - The Shock of Recognition. 

Yesterday, a friend and I were IMing. She said she had seen a photo of herself and that she looked like a gorilla.

"YOU DO NOT LOOK LIKE A GORILLA" I all-capped at her.

She wrote that she had sent the photo to other friends and they all replied YOU DO NOT LOOK LIKE A GORILLA.

"I know what you mean, though," I wrote. "In photos, I look like a raisin."

"A RAISIN! hahaha"

A raisin.

We went back and forth, cracking each other up about how hideous we are and how can people even stand to be in the same room with us. We decided that BlogHer should have a Pathfinder session: Pathfinder: Moving Away from Your Own Hideousness.

It makes it sting less to know other people share the same absolutely mad impressions of themselves.

Learning to be gentle with ourselves is a process. It took a big turn for me when I realized that I was always looking at group photos and everyone looked like their fine, cute, lovely selves, except for me, who looked like a crazed troll.

I finally thought "Hey, maybe everyone who likes me sees me like I see them - a beloved person who looks fine just as I am because I am me, and me is who they like, not my hair or nose or skin."

But I look around and see more and more deep thought and conversation about how and why we need to stop obsessing over changing our looks (even as another segment of the world becomes more and more looks-obsessed).

How for ourselves, for our children, for our world, we need to devote our energy to being as healthy and strong and capable as we can be, not how pretty we are, because the world needs our biggest, best selves, not our trapped-in-self-loathing selves.

That's not to say we can't be pretty and can't spend time adorning ourselves, because beauty and fashion are fun, creative parts of life. It just means that we think about those choices and what they mean for us. Is that $1000 purse or $50 mascara really what we want for ourselves and for our own happiness? If it is, go for it.

If it is a need as a reaction to a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy, we need to sit with that feeling and see how it isn't serving us becoming what we were meant to be.

I hear these conversations all around me, from the Dove commercials to blog posts, and I love hearing it. There's a revolution going on. It's about time.

Under Construction

Thanks to Schmutzie's influence, I switched blogging platforms to Squarespace. My brain hurts from trying to learn how to use it.

Please bear with me while I figure this out. Things may be a little confusing around here for a while.

But bonus! All my blogs are in one place now!

My Plans for Abercrombie and Fitch

Did you see what Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries said? Check out this article.

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” he told the site. “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. Those companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla. You don’t alienate anybody, but you don’t excite anybody, either,” he told Salon.

Please take note that this guy is no looker himself. He's, in fact, kind of a Shrek-like figure. I wouldn't say that about his looks if he were building wells in developing countries, but he's selling an image here, so I figure he's fair game.

Here's my plan to help Abercrombie & Fitch. And by "help," I mean "destroy their annoying, overpriced brand."

• Hire some friends my age to wear their clothing. I know they don't sell anything larger than size 10 pants, but if my friends have fit four tired children into a minivan after a day at Disneyland, they can fit their lumpen frames into size 10 pants. Top that with a tight t-shirt and you have middle aged magnificence.
• Hang out at strategic locations. Mall, high school ride pickup line, skate park.

That's it. It won't take long. Once the word spreads that frizzy-haired 50-somethings are wearing A&F, the brand will tank faster than Justin Bieber trying to sing opera.

Then Mr. Jeffries will have two choices: either make clothes for normal people, or get another business, maybe something in plastic surgery. He could be his own first customer.

Everyone Has Their Own Version of Brave

My awesome Mom 2.0 Summit roommate, Elan, came all the way from Saskatchewan (which one lady we talked to didn't actually know was a real place) to talk about being our own true authentic selves, about coming out of our shells to proudly claim who we are and what we want. She had seven minutes on stage in front of a ballroom full of people to cover her subject.

Elan is pretty scared about public speaking, but she did it anyway. She knows if you want to grow, you have to face your fears.

I faced one of my fears at Mom 2.0, too. It's probably not as common a fear as public speaking, but I don't have a fear of public speaking, thanks to Toastmasters. Insert ad here: TRY TOASTMASTERS, HONESTLY, IT'S GREAT.

What I can't do - or what I couldn't do before Thursday - was get a manicure. What the what? That's a STUPID fear.

I know. But just because it is stupid doesn't mean I can't be afraid of it.

Me, right before the manicure

I didn't grow up with any guidance on how to be girly. My mom never told me one single thing about how to dress or be pretty. I never got hints or lessons on hair and makeup and clothes. Into that vacuum of information, the deluge of 1970s feminism fell.

I was left with the idea that taking pains to be beautiful was somewhere between vain, stupid, and traitorous to the cause of Womanhood.

I never did much to rectify that situation on my own, either. I always feel like it is embarrassing to be seen trying to be pretty, with the result that I usually look either sloppy or...oh, let's just leave it at sloppy.

So to walk in a nail salon and let a tiny, stunning Vietnamese woman have her way with my snaggletooth nails was just EXACTLY like Elan spilling her guts on stage.

Ok, maybe not exactly the same thing, but I was truly afraid. It took all I had to suck it up and walk in that terrifying door, heart bumping in my chest. I paused in the parking lot, checking my phone, hoping for an important message that would require my attention.

Finally, I walked into the Mystery Palace of Womanhood. Just as I feared, the manicurist was horrified by my claws.

Then I got even braver, because she talked me into having MY EYEBROWS WAXED AS WELL.

I KNOW, right? When I got done, I was all I am Woman, Hear My Eyebrows.

So I stand before you, proud to claim what I am - no longer a manicure virgin. I fear no nail salon!

It did take her a while to get rid of all those snaggleteeth, though.

Voila. Turned out nice.

What you get at a $525 per night hotel (Or: A Girl Could Get Used to This)

First off, I never thought I'd find myself in a hotel that has a basic room rate of $525. I have written before about how I love a cheap suburban motel that offers free breakfast because I was raised by my dad to be a skinflint of the highest order.

When I saw the Mom 2.0 Summit was at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel this year with a special conference rate of less than half the rack rate, I got out my credit card and signed up.

I got myself a roommate, too (Schmutzie!), so I ended up paying about what I would have paid for a noisy motel on the highway somewhere, and instead got to stay, for once, at a real five-star resort.

If you don't make a habit of staying at the Ritz (and I had certainly never imagined that I would), you might be wondering what $525 per night (at least - the suites go up to $2,750) buys you. Well, let me tell you in my own super special helpful bullet point list.

$525 per night gets you:

• A property so beautiful that it causes a weird little ache behind your breastbone, because it is too much beauty for your eyes to ever absorb all at once, so your heart has to expand to take it all in. When I checked in, the desk had this giant travel poster-type photo behind it. Except it wasn't a travel poster and it wasn't a photo. It was a giant screen with a live feed of the beach view from the hotel itself, complete with glassy green waves dotted with surfers.

Isabel Kallman and Georgia Getz relaxing on the lawn furniture

• A staff that will really do everything they can to make you happy. No really. Really. If you're used to customer service in the everyday world, prepare to have your socks knocked off - and then washed, pressed, and returned to you wrapped in tissue paper tied with a bow, because that's just how they would do it there. If you ask someone for directions, they will walk you where you need to go. The staff will call you by name. They will clean up your room not once, but twice per day. They will hand you towels, pick up after you, make messes disappear and ensure you are happier than you have been since your mom wrapped you in a sun-warmed towel after you got out of a cold swimming pool when you were four. (If you asked, they would probably even do that, too, but please don't. It's kinda creepy. And their pool is heated to 88 degrees, so you'll be nice and toasty when you get out anyway).
• A staff that is way better looking than you. No insult, but they are. The person who brings your mojito or iced tea will be as beautiful as the location, which is stunning. Memorize their names, because someday when they pick up an Oscar, you can muse "And to think, he was the towel boy at the Ritz when I met him."

The pool area. One of them. Sigh.

• Food that doesn't taste like hotel food. It's expensive, but it also makes your tastebuds stand up and applaud. We had little trays of sea salt chocolate cookies delivered to our rooms one night that had Schmutzie and me counting them so that we didn't have to have a fistfight over the last one. Even the coffee bar has pastries made by a real pastry chef (Opera Cake!), and fabulous steel-cut oatmeal and Peet's Coffee. It's $5 per cup, but you get free refills all day long.



• An experience you won't ever forget, unless you're some kind of crazy rich person who does this sort of thing all the time. This is a Destination resort with the capital D. If you want to make someone you love feel very special, a stay at a hotel like this is a good way to do it.

Gym with a view The only problem with the Ritz (as I now like to call it, since we're on a first-name basis) is that is is almost TOO good. Every corner of the place is so beautiful that you want to chop yourself up like a starfish so you can be everywhere at once. The pool area is lush, tropical and fully staffed, so that next icy drink is just 2 minutes away. The beds are so soft and comfy that you feel like you're floating on the wings of tiny angels. The third-floor outdoor bar has a view that would have made Ansel Adams weep. AND YOU WANT TO BE EVERYWHERE AT ONCE BUT YOU CAN'T, ARGH! That's a good problem to have.

Sunset at the outdoor bar

Two thumbs up. The Hilton Garden Inn will never be quite the same.

Sometimes Progress is Nobody Even Caring

I was with a group of women yesterday. We ranged in age between 35 and 55, about. Some married, a couple single, some divorced. We were standing around eating snacks and drinking wine or lemonade (yeah, of course as soon as I get done drinking, I get invited to a party in a wine shop OF COURSE). Some of the women work together and one was telling a story about a guy who didn't like her because she's a single mom. Long story, details not important.

One of the other women said "I wonder what he think of me if he knew I were a lesbian?"

Everyone laughed and kept talking.

Later, I thought how she couldn't have said that without a major shocked reaction 50 years ago. Even 25 years ago. 10 years ago, that sentence probably would have led to some discussion of whether people were ok with that or whether she should have said that or how we were all really ok with that and how we support her "choices."

Yesterday, it was just part of the flow of conversation. Yay for progress, when once unthinkable things become normal and people can just live their lives.

Conversations With Mom #172

(You might think this conversation is due to dementia, but we have been having the very same conversation for at least 25 years).

Mom: I saw something really cute on that program I like. Suebob: Which program you like? Mom: The one where that nice man travels around, on CBS. Suebob: When is it on? Mom: Sunday morning. Suebob: Do you mean CBS Sunday Morning? Mom: Oh, I guess. I can never remember.

Every single time.

Full Moon

Abbie Lynn and I went for our first trail hike yesterday. We got passed by a group of five on bikes - two adult men and three boys, who looked to range from about 8 to 12 years old. Soon we heard:

Kid Voice 1: Eeeeeyah! Dad Voice 1: What? Kid Voice 1: John showed me his butt! Dad Voice 2: I did not! Kid Voice 1: He did, he did. He was right in front of me. Dad Voice 2: I was riding and my shorts slipped down. Kid Voice 2: Oh yeah, like THAT happens. Kid Voice 3: Was it hairy?

Dry

I quit drinking, which is worth doing just as an emotional Rorschach test for the people you tell. Drinking and the quitting thereof are just incredibly fraught for so many people, including, I suppose, me. The reactions varied from "Oh, yeah, right, you're quitting" sarcasm to "Oh, ok, you can always get a Coke when you come out to the bar with us" nonchalance.

But despite the sarcastic responses and the friends who told me I could "just cut back," I'm serious about quitting, done, no backup plan, no "special occasions." I quit for good, and I would be truly disappointed in myself if I started again.

I don't suppose I would quit drinking altogether if I didn't have a drinking problem. But I didn't have, and don't think I ever would have developed, what we think of as classic troubled drinking behavior.

I have never had a hangover nor a blackout. I have only been drunk a handful of times and most of those were more than 25 years ago. I never missed a day of work, never drove drunk, never got in fights or fell down or whatever Lindsay Lohanesque behavior people usually imagine when they say "problem drinker."

And yet, drinking was a problem to me. I drank nearly every day, a couple glasses of wine, maybe three. I'm affected disproportionately by alcohol. I'm the proverbial cheap drunk. So what might seem like moderate drinking to other people is more serious for me.

I'd often think "This is stupid, I should stop." Then I'd vow just to drink on weekends or when I was out with friends, but those resolutions would quickly slip away.

Here's my problems with drinking, as I see them:

• Drinking stole my motivation. Even one glass of wine makes me much less likely to do anything productive.
• Drinking covered emotions that I should have been feeling and dealing with. Not just bad emotions, but it dulled my good emotions, too.
• Drinking took away my free will - I did it because it was a habit, not because it was bringing me any good things.
• Drinking led me to eat more because my inhibitions were lowered and my resolve was weakened.
• Alcohol is a depressant. It struck me that this may not be the best treatment for someone who experiences pretty severe seasonal depression.
• Drinking made me boring, even to myself. My brain just didn't work as well after even one drink.
• Drinking is expensive. I could have drank cheaper wine, but I liked wine to actually taste pretty good, which costs money.

And on my list of reasons for quitting completely, not just cutting back:

• I wanted more from life. I knew I could accomplish more and stretch further if I didn't have alcohol in my life.
• I wanted to be free to not have to think about it anymore. The way to ensure I'm not drinking too much or too often is to not drink.
• Most of the people I truly admire are non-drinkers. These are people who are living really full, rich, authentic lives filled with risk and reward and goals and accomplishments. They inspired me A LOT. People like Schmutzie, Ellie of Shining Strong, Heather of the EO, Marius, Cindy Hitsman, and on and on. I want to be like them, not like Team Drunky.
• I don't want to be buzzed. I want to be present. Something just suddenly flipped in my brain to make that possible. It's perfectly acceptable in our society to spend a good part of your adult life in an altered state, and I've been thinking more and more why that isn't something I want to do, why that doesn't work for me anymore.

Ah, that felt good to write. I have been struggling with this for a long time, and to have made this decision and to be on this path feel so good.

I don't plan to become an alcohol-free Scoldy McScolderson. Feel free to continue boozing it up in front of me. I have passed many happy hours with drinks and wine and friends, and I don't want to change any of that, except for the me drinking part.

It's not tough at all, not right now, though who knows? That may change. If it does, I have Marius's number. He let me know I could call him anytime I felt like drinking, which is a nice ace-in-the-hole. Maybe I'll even go sit on a metal folding chair in a church basement with him if I feel like I need it. I know help is out there.

At times, I feel a little sheepish, quitting without developing a big, life-threatening addiction. But then I realize that life-threatening is a continuum, not an all-or-nothing proposition. I want a bigger, more free, more interesting life than I had with a head full of alcohol. All I have to do is leave fermented grape juice behind. I think I can do that.

Like a Mythical Bird From the Ashes

"It's going to be some kind of weird thing, I just know it," Jim said. "Like what?" I answered.

"Oh, we're going to show up and they're going to be swingers and they're going to invite us to sit in the hot tub and when we get there, they'll be naked."

"Well, it has got good reviews," I said.

That Jim. Always suspecting nefarious activities are going on all around us. I'd like to see the movie playing in his head some time. No, I wouldn't.

Our plans in Phoenix involved a new type of adventure: staying at an airbnb. Airbnb is a website where people list private accommodations for rent - couches, trailers, rooms, whole apartments or homes - to the public, many at significantly below-market rates.

Ever the cheapskate, I jumped right in.

Jim was suspicious, but the process was pretty smooth. I researched places in Phoenix - and this was on Monday, and we were traveling on Friday.

I found three places, signed up on airbnb - you need a real phone number to sign up - and requested information. One place was already booked and another did not respond. But the third, a granny unit centrally located, responded right away with a rate of $90 per night.

Jim and I don't sleep together, so we needed 2 beds, and most hotels were going for at least $150 per night (and I assumed we would need 2 rooms), so I thought this was a great deal.

The reviews were good, and there were lots of them, so I booked. The place was exactly as described, a cute granny unit in a quiet neighborhood, full kitchen, dining nook, living room with a TV we never quite figured out, bedroom, bathroom. No swingers in site, just a nice guy who showed us around, told us to make sure to lock up when we left, and pointed out that they had put food in the fridge for our breakfast. Success.

I had more success than Jim. He insisted, in gentlemanly fashion, that he would sleep on the air mattress and I could take the real bed. Then the air mattress wasn't pumped up all the way the first night and he was afraid to wake me by futzing with it. So instead he woke me by thrashing around trying to get comfortable. The second night was better, though.

So hey, airbnb. Give it a try. Not sponsored. Just sharing.

Hitting the Road

When I was a little kid, one of my favorite things in school was getting a hall pass from my teacher. Everyone else would be in class behind closed doors and I could roam the quiet halls, free for a minute or two. I knew I was supposed to go to the restroom and come right back, but I often got a pass for the sole purpose of getting out of the classroom to be by myself. I'd go to the bathroom, but then in a thrilling moment of rebelliousness, would walk back the long way, taking a hallway that wasn't the most direct route. I had to be careful, of course, because adults were always on the lookout to mess with my fun. If I saw an adult, I would smile at them and walk quickly and purposefully, as if I had somewhere important to go.

I think it is this delicious thrill of a stolen, unauthorized moment that carries over into my love for heading out on the road with no one knowing where I am going. A tiny, short interlude in life, unmoored from all of my usual connections.

I was going to baseball Spring Training on Friday with Jim, driving from his place in Orange County to Phoenix. I snuck out early, on Thursday night, telling no one where I was going, and not knowing myself. The plan was to drive late in the evening to his area, find a hotel, and not have to get up early for the drive the next day.

I didn't tell him my plan, or my mom or anyone. I drove through the dark alone listening to NPR and electronic music and my own throughts, weaving my way through LAs freeways until I got to Anaheim. After some minor setbacks (a cheerleading convention was in town, and I was damned if I was going to stay in a Sheraton with 3000 cheerleaders), and consultations with my iPhone travel apps, I found a small, well-reviewed suburban motel at about 11 pm and settled in for the night.

Settling in wasn't without its struggles. First, the motel was designed rather oddly, with a dark parking lot behind a diner and no discernable lobby entrance. I drove around the parking lot and almost flinched at staying there - I was poised to head on, but then I realized how late it was and how much I didn't want to go back to downtown Anaheim.

Once I found the entrance, however, I was relieved and happy to find it was clean and decorated in a pretty Mexican style, with shiny tile floors, colorful fountains and lots of bright artwork.

I found my room, got into my jammies and called the front desk for the wifi code. I had a bottle of wine and a corkscrew and wanted a glass of wine. The kitchenette even had nice wine glasses. But my corkscrew was cheap and I could not, for the life of me, get the cork out of the wine. So I put clothes back on, went to the front desk, and asked the nice young men there to open my wine.

Sure, single middle aged lady who arrives at 11 pm and comes out in different clothes at 11:30 with a bottle of wine, we'll help you. I'm sure they've seen nuttier things, probably that same shift. I felt a bit gratified that it took them quite a bit of time to get the cork out, too. It wasn't just my weak arms.

A caveat about staying anywhere near Disneyland: the kids in the motel get up early, and they are EXCITED. Excited as in "screaming their fool heads off without stopping." It was loud but surprisingly didn't annoy me much. I mean, who can blame kids who are waiting to go to the Happiest Place on Earth?

Jim and I met up at the IHOP while he got his car washed and cleaned. The guy at the next table was going on about Obama and socialism and people living off the system. Old white guy with a big gut and aviator-style glasses. Massive eyeroll at Orange County conservatives. Jim and I managed not to duke it out with him.

We headed southeast toward Phoenix in Jim's black Mustang. He loves that car. Pink fuzzy dice and all. I nag him because I think he has a lead foot. He claims you have to drive a fast car like that. I roll my eyes.

Lunch in Palm Springs. My first visit to the fabled hideaway in the desert, now a bit of a gay mecca. Gorgeous landscaping, architecture, beautifully remodeled old hotels, charming cafes and shops. If this is the way gay people run things, I say, hand over the reins of power. They're doing a good job.

We lingered a while, sitting on the lawn under a tree drinking fabulous coffee, having a chi-chi lunch of panini and beet and goat cheese salad. Part of the lingering was that the cafe had horrible service - our server took our order and disappeared for almost an hour with no other contact. I went in and tracked her down (it was not busy). Annoyed, she informed me that there was only one guy in the kitchen. Dude. One guy in the kitchen at Denny's could have turned out 300 meals in that time.

I got my salad and started laughing. The big yellow beet slices were warm. The food took so long because they had to COOK THE BEETS. I think the server might have mentioned that they were out of beets. Ah whatever. We were sitting on comfy couches on a patio on a warm Palm Springs day. Not really so awful.

We drove around Palm Springs for a while with the top down, considering abandoning our plans to go to Phoenix. If we didn't have four baseball tickets in our hands, we might have.

Then we were on the road again, heading across the big wide desert.

Next post: Phoenix.

Mom and Abbie Lynn

Abbie Lynn and I go to Mom's for a visit. "Wanna go see Grandma?" I say.

Abbie won't stop licking Mom's feet.

I mean, seriously, she will NOT STOP.

"What is wrong with that dog?" I wonder.

Mom laughs and laughs. "It tickles!"

After about 10 minutes, Mom finally says "Oh, I guess I DID drop a bunch of bacon on my feet this morning."

Abbie Lynn when she hears me singing.

Dinner hour

I can sit at the counter at my favorite restaurant, watching the chefs cook. Shem runs the place with a quiet, funny authority. He knows what he is doing. The way he moves shows it. No wasted motion. All the best cooks are like that. He's cooking chicken parts, flames shooting out everywhere.

No one else gives him crap, but I do.

"You need a better vegetarian special," I opine. "Linguine al pesto is so weak. What is this, 1987?"

To rub it in, I show him photos of my almond & parmesan crusted portobellos I made for lunch the other day. The sous chefs are impressed, but Shem just turns back to his chicken.

Lucky me - it's grease-trap cleaning night. David sits the gunky full trap down in the sink, right in front of me.

"Mmmm, tasty," I say.

"Fat is flavor," Shem says.

"You got that right," I reply.

Outed

My friends and I went to the Jewish Film Festival to see "Hava Nagila." Highly recommended. Opens in Los Angeles at the Laemmle theaters and Encino Town Center next week. We're standing in a slow-moving shuffling line to get out of the theater. The man behind us says "Funny, you don't look Jewish."

He's right. We're caught. Ish is clearly brown and CC looks pretty Latina. Me? My friend Jim described me as "The most goyish looking person in the world." Huh. I thought Jessica Simpson had me beat.

"Just fans," Ish says.

Abbie Lynn Update

Abbie Lynn is adjusting and thriving, and so am I. I'll have to admit, it has been a bit of a rough go, mostly because of me.

You think that getting a new dog will help you get over the old dog. But as Kizz told me, the new dog makes you miss the old dog even more, because you're doing doggy things again every day.

There were, and are, many many times that I look at Abbie Lynn and wonder if I will ever love her as much as Goldie. The only answer I can come up with is that I will love her, but love her differently, in our own way.

It's weird. Even though she has completely taken over my life, as dogs and children do, she still doesn't feel quite like MY dog. I question whether I'm the right person for her. She loves other dogs and people and especially children so much...and I live by myself.

I'm being patient with myself and her. I'm taking her to as many places with other people and dogs as I can. That's all I can think to do.

In the mean time, her life is pretty awesome.

Digging.

She sleeps on the couch or bed. She visits Grandma. She digs huge trenches in the yard, chasing the elusive gopher (she does hunt!). It's a good thing my yard is just a grassy field, not lovingly landscaped.

She goes for walks, and to the dog park, and once a week, because of her need for huge amounts of dog-on-dog playtime, goes to all-day doggie day care.

When we get to dog day care, she slams through the door and dashes over to whichever employee is manning the gate, wagging madly. Then she pees with happiness, every single time. It's adorable and messy.

Yesterday I watched her for a while before I took her home. She had been there 9 hours and she was still playing with other dogs and flirting with the staff. She was disappointed to have to come home. When she gets home, she is calm and glassy-eyed with tiredness, spent.

Her limpy little leg is getting better. The vet said it was just an old injury, not a bone or joint problem. Yay. Long hikes are in our future.

That's the dog report. Stand by for more.

I Hate Classic Rock...And Your Face

So I went on a date. I know that just two posts ago, I was saying how I WASN'T going to be dating, but I decided to switch it up. I have to keep you readers on your toes.

I met this guy and he asked me out. I didn't know anything about him, but I thought "What the heck?" So I said yes. I guess that's how these things work.

The good news is that he was better than Jerry. I mean, he managed not to call me a whore in the first 2 minutes, so that's good, right? Actually, he didn't call me a whore at all, so he deserves a gold star or something.

Spoiler alert: We won't be going out again.

Clue number one was that he didn't shave. I know it wasn't a real formal date. No white tie or tails were involved. There were no waltz numbers. But still, aren't there minimum basic standards? Shaving, for me, is one. Also, please brush your teeth (I have no idea whether he brushed his teeth or not. So I guess that tells you how the date ended. WITHOUT KISSING. Of course, he ate ahi, so you probably wouldn't have known if he had brushed his teeth earlier. Am I overthinking this too much?)

Clue number two was the classic rock. I will only really rail against one type of music, and that is classic rock. It's fine. It really is. I just think it shows a profound lack of creativity or love of learning or curiosity or SOMETHING to keep listening just to the same 100 songs for 40 years.

Me: So, what kind of music do you like? Him: Classic rock. Me: What else? Him: Oh, mostly just classic rock. And pop, I guess.

SHUT THE DOOR. You can listen to some classic rock. But for God's sake, throw something else in the mix if you want me to stick around. Deadmau5. Mumford & Sons. The Mountain Goats. Rihanna. Anything. Just some other damned thing to show your ears didn't fall off in 1985.

There were other little things. Not bad things, just things. But then...after a few beers...he told me his dream. He confided his dream to me, and because I am the kind of shithead who does these kind of things - in other words, a writer - I am going to share his confidential dream with you.

Bear in mind that he is my age. And that he has ever been in a band. Never had formal musical training. Never sung anywhere, outside of karaoke.

His dream, the thing he wants to work on this year, is getting on the X Factor, The Voice, and American Idol.

I'll let that settle for a minute.

"But I could blow them all away," he said. Then he sang a few lines of classic rock, walking along down by the harbor.

Oh my, people.

I don't even know what to do with that. It would be like me trying to get published in the New Yorker this year. Ah, probably even less likely, since people have actually paid me to write a thing or two. But in either case, not gonna happen.

I'm all for dreams. I'm all for going for it. But completely unrealistic dreams that you have never ever taken a step toward, but for which you have some completely folly-filled confidence you'll magically attain.

I had to wonder if it is a consequence of our culture of positivity, that tells us anyone can do anything if they dream. I don't believe it. I believe anyone can do anything if they work hard enough and have enough natural talent and enough luck and are in the right place at the right time.

No, my friend. You will not be on American Idol. For one, the maximum age on Idol is 28, something you passed more than 20 years ago. ("They might have a problem with my age," he admitted.)

Step away from the nitrous oxide. And don't ask me out again. (He did. But I declined. I told him "You Can Go Your Own Way." But "Don't Stop Believin'" and "Dream On." Ok, I'm out...)

I could have been a ballerina. If I were shorter, lighter and not incredibly clumsy.

Winter Break

I have been afraid to write it because it seems so gloomy and pointless.

This winter was dark in every way. Putting Goldie down at the end of September was perhaps the worst time to do it, as the seasons swung down into darkness. There were a few bright days right after that, or at least briefly diverting, with a Toyota trip that included "camping" and kayaking, and then Creative Alliance 12, which would soothe anyone, no matter how much their heart hurt.

But after that the darkness pulled down, down, down. My best friend's mom died. Then Sandy Hook. Then my cousin killed himself the next day, on December 15. His funeral, a giant, sprawling, horribly sad affair (though a beautiful tribute) was December 22.

I'm never much on Christmas, because of the Seasonal Affective Disorder, but this year it just didn't exist, though I stood on stage at my church's Christmas Eve pageant with all of the other performers.

In the midst of it was me, a tiny person stuck in the little crack of time between when I awoke and when I could go to sleep again.

It's weird what keeps us going. Thank God for the things that act like lilypads of hope for us to jump to, one after the other, small, fragile, but just enough.

For me it was Zumba. One hour at a time of jumping around and looking like a lunatic and sweating with other ladies, laughing. One hour maybe three or four times a week, five if I was lucky. My heart was broken, but my thighs got strong.

That was about it. I would go over to my mom's house and have nothing to say. I'd sit in the corner of the couch and listen to her rattle on about what she had for lunch, wondering how soon I could politely leave.

I would see my friends for an hour or two and then fade back home, on the couch, hiding from the darkness with red wine and some popcorn, waiting until it was time to go to sleep.

It has started to change in the past few weeks. I got this dog, which is another post, because that wasn't easy, either. I love her, but damn, it's still hard.

But now I have a new boss, more fun work, and...sun. The sun is coming back. Next year I have to get the meds, because I can't spend five months a year like this. No one should have to. And there's some stuff I have to figure out. Onward.