Bozeman Chronicles II

Medium rare, please. 

A lot of hunters come into Bozeman for elk.  They pay $10,000 for some outfitter to take them on a first class hunt. 

After the animal has been killed they have it dressed and frozen, only to discover they have to pay extra for the overage on a very heavy cooler. 

So after forking out thousands for the thrill of the kill, they're too cheap to pay $150 to take the meat home.  

As a result, a lot of perfectly good elk meat gets tossed in the garbage.

Unless you have a friend at the airport.

So fire up the grill, we're having elk steaks tonight.  I can hardly wait.

Cowboy

 Cowboy's plaid shirt collection

 

One of my friends here in Bozeman flew two tours as fighter pilot in Vietnam.  Then he lived all over the world as part of his job selling airplane parts to the airlines. 

After about four or five years in one city he would get bored with wherever he was living and move someplace else. 

Until he got to Bozeman. 

Now he spends his days winding down his business and ramping up his life as a cowboy. 

He's up at 3:00 in the morning, loading up his horse and heading out while it's still dark to move cattle from the summer to the winter pasture, bringing in the heifers for their first calving, dislocating his fingers and shoulders, feeling aches and pains he never knew were possible, and loving every minute. 

It might seem like he's heading down a brand new road. But fighter jocks have always been considered cowboys.

He's just getting back to his roots.

An Amish rocker by the stone fireplace

Mrs. Linklater hasn't always been a big fan of countrymusic.  She doesn't hate it, but it's not her first choice.   But nothing goes better with life in Bozeman. 

There's a classic country station here in town.  This morning when she woke up the radio was tuned to Randy Travis. Could there be a more perfect soundtrack to the nicker of horses in the paddock, a fresh fire in the fireplace, the smell of bacon on the stove, and the great feeling of five more minutes under a Hudson Bay blanket.

I don't think so.

 

 

 

 

Bozeman Chronicles I

Big Sky Country

 Bronze grizzly claws at the airport -- people rub them so they stay shiny

The airport in Bozeman, Montana looks like a hunting lodge, decorated throughout in knotty pine and stone. 

The baggage area is festooned with more dead animals than the Museum of Natural History. Only instead of fur and feathers the mounted grizzlies, wildcats and other game are captured in bronze.

There isn't a suit or tie in the place.  Jeans, flannel shirts, workboots, and cowboy hats are the latest in haute couture for arriving and departing passengers.  Men or women. 

Mrs. Linklater has found her people.

Her friend of many years arrived to pick her up, looking like Barbara Stanwyck in Big Valley. 

A former slave to suburban living outside Chicago, she now owns a three story log house on several acres at the foot of the Bridger mountains with a view overlooking the Bozeman valley.  

She shares it with three horses, two dogs, a slew of cats, and a guy from college who called her up one day and said, "I've been thinking about you for thirty years."

 Frances and Lucy doing what they do best

Mrs. Linklater is insanely jealous. In a good way. Especially after spending last night in front of the big stone fireplace, following a dinner of hot, homemade soup and thick slices of bread and butter.  And she's looking forward to lots more of the same over the weekend. 

One of the reasons she came out to visit was to meet her friend's dogs, Lucy and Frances. Frances is a total pussy cat, even though she's a dog. Lucy is part wolf, part shepherd and part husky, and all alpha female. 

She and Mrs. Linklater took a moment or two to get acquainted. A couple of rawhide bones and other treats helped to make the transition a little smoother. 

Although there was a who's your daddy moment when she and Lucy went eye to eye on the stairs to the house and neither one of them backed down.

It's a perfect day to sit by the fire, read a book, and sip some tea. Might as well get started.

 

 

 

 

 

Cards and Letters Now Being Accepted

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME [soon]
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME [Saturday]
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MRS. LINKLATER!!!!!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME [celebrate early]

 

Embrace your inner birthday child.  Light some candles.  Set a tablecloth on fire.

 

 

My So-Called Life

Unlike some people who share so much of their lives you can smell the sachet on their pillows, although there are other scents which come to mind, Mrs. Linklater isn't inclined to do that in her journal.

However, as she heads out of town to celebrate her birthday, she feels compelled to reveal the following:

In one week she has gone from feeling so happy she couldn't believe it.

To feeling so sad, she doesn't know when it's going to go away.

And she did it to herself. 

*SIGH*

 

 

 

Domestic Violence Awareness Month Sucks

Breast Cancer and Domestic Violence. October is a great month for celebrating things that kill women. 

DV is like alcohol abuse. Everyone knows someone who has the problem. You may not realize it right now, but lift the cover and you will get a whiff of stink left on a victim by an abuser.

For some reason one year, a whole bunch of women I know began coming out.

First a neighbor called me at midnight.  Could she come over with her kids and stay till morning. Her husband was on a rampage and he had shot his .357 magnum through the living room ceiling. The room above belonged to one of their sons.  She spent the night and went back home.  They got divorced. A former school principal, he's now in a homeless shelter. She remarried a nice guy.

Then the teenaged daughter of the family next door sought refuge from her abusive father. I think hitting was just the tip of the iceberg.  She moved away to be with her biological mother.

Someone I worked with also called me at midnight -- I think midnight is the magic hour for DV. Whaddya think honey, should we have sex or should I beat you up? Heads it's sex, tails you're a punching bag.

Her husband had thrown her around, but made extra sure he avoided hurting her face. This was 15 years ago.  They're still together. It helps that every Monday he gets on a plane to work in another city for five days.  So they only have to negotiate the weekend.

Alcohol fuels a lot of these events.  But I was trained that the alcohol only exacerbates the violence, it doesn't cause it.

Talk about splitting hairs.  If the only time he beats you up he's drunk, I'd say the alcohol is pretty instrumental wouldn't you?

My other favorite is the feminist position on abuse.  Sorry, but we don't come to the rescue of battered women.  They have to be willing to leave on their own.  Three kids, no money, no car, no job.  And we won't lift a finger until they're willing to crawl on their bellies and beg us for help.

Another girlfriend was married to man who liked to swing.  You know, wife swap with other consenting adults. Only she was coerced. He was a chemist.  She, a very successful pharmaceutical rep. She has left me shaking my head over the stories of the parties they attended.  Once in awhile she'd point out someone at the healthclub who had been the "star" of a recent gathering. The stuff they did was degrading to animals. She got divorced ten years ago.  But I know she still misses the creep.

After I got trained as a crisis line worker for battered women, another woman I know called to tell me about a problem with her live-in boyfriend. This was a man I'd known for years. Worked for him. Dated his old roommate after my divorce. You'd think they could find room for each other in a 12,000 square foot house.

She announced she was leaving him and he told her she couldn't leave until he said she could leave.  This was after telling her to get out for months.  She described what was going on and I told her she was in danger.  He had several signs of a guy going over the edge.  And he had never touched her before. So I told her to leave or be ready to call the police. 

The next night romeo beat her up.  She called the cops and they were fantastic.  Put him in jail.  Gave her all the information she needed to get an order of protection and the address of a shelter if it came to that. They hooked her up with an advocate to walk her through the court proceedings.  Took her to the hospital.  I can't remember all the stuff they had in place to help her.  But it was extensive.

To show appreciation for their efforts, I had a hugecake made and dropped it off at the station.  It wasn't much, but I had to do something to acknowledge the thankless task they had embarked on. 

Because loverboy threatened not to pay the $100,000 he owed her if she didn't drop the charges. I told her his threat was extortion and she should go after him, but she didn't want him to be angry at her. WTF? 

She dropped the charges. 

And therein lies the biggest problem. The chickenbleep women. I used to say I understood how battered women would go back to their abusers -- the psychology of victimization, blah blah blah.  Now I have no patience.  Especially when there are children involved.

Get out of there and stay out of there.

We do need more safehouses. The kind that aren't just glorified homeless shelters. We need financial aid and training to help women starting over.  And counseling for the women and their children to keep them from going back.

I can understand a woman going back when she has three kids, no job and no prospects.  It doesn't mean she should go back, but I can understand.

It's the women who have a career and financial freedom I will never get. 

So I stopped working the crisis lines.  I got too cynical.

I created an event instead.  Every October First, volunteers hike out to the beach here in Chicago and light 3000 luminaria. Each light acknowledges one woman killed nationally by domestic violence each year. 

It's a very pretty sight.  It gets coverage for a difficult problem.

And I don't have to sit on the hotline and listen to the countless stories of women returning to their abusers until they die.

 

 

 

 

 

Breast Cancer Awareness Month Sucks

My mother died of breast cancer.  She had been using a body cream that was loaded with estrogen.  It was the hot new thing for women going through the "change."  This was in the sixties.  The jar contained enough estrogen to grow breasts on The Rock. Although he's not doing bad on his own.

You'll notice that you can't get over the counter creams any more that contain estrogen.  Was it because the estrogen caused cancer?  Do you think?

Meanwhile, since everybody else is putting their two cents in about breast cancer this month, why should I be an exception. 

However, my two cents is about all the smoke and mirrors created by the pharmaceutical companies to make women think that HRT and birth control are GOOD THINGS. 

Last week there was a new report that said, in a nutshell, your birth control pills were good for you.  Again.  Here's another opinion:

Birth Control Pill Heart Disease "Study" Unreliable

October 25, 2004 (LifeSiteNews.com) - Beginning early last week hundreds of news outlets around the world reported that a new study had shown that using oral chemical contraceptives reduced the risk of heart attack.

The UK's Telegraph wrote, "Women who take the Pill are protecting themselves against cancer and heart disease." The Hindustan Times of India reported, "new research claims that the tablets, on the contrary, reduce chances of heart attacks." Health 24.com of South Africa ran the headline, "Pill cuts heart disease risk."

One BC pharmacist, Christina Alarcon of Canada's Pharmacists for Life called one manufacturer of the drugs, Wyeth Ayerst, asking for a copy of the 'study' and was told there was no study to send. Alarcon pointed out that the claim that women who take oral contraceptives have lower instances of heart disease is deceptive. "Doctors don't normally prescribe oral contraceptives to women with a history of heart disease anyway. So of course looking at the data of women who take the pill will show that most of them have a lower history of heart disease, their doctors wouldn't give it to them otherwise."

Closer examination shows the 'study' is actually not a new independent study but a reassessment of statistical data drawn from the US Women's Health Initiative, a 15 year examination of the effects of hormone treatments on rates of cardiovascular disease, cancer, and osteoporosis, in postmenopausal women. The information that made headlines last week was composited by a team of analysts from Wayne State University headed by Dr. Rahi Victory.

The new report was not conducted with the normal rigorous controls of a double-blind, placebo-controlled scientific study and has not been published in any peer-reviewed scientific journals. The research was presented at the conference of the American Society for Reproductive Medicine in Philadelphia and no information has been made public as to who funded it.

Alarcon said, "The journalists, especially in the Canadian press, took verbatim what was released and didn't ask any questions."  [Lifesitenews.com]

 

Like this bending of the data to make a press release is new.

In other words, scratch the report and you get a load of BS. The same BS that has been floating around since the early sixties.  Who pays for the studies? Whoever will benefit most. The pharmaceuticals.

Doesn't anybody realize that the companies that make these pills have known for decades that they kill women, but they've been painting lipstick on this pig for so long it's starting to look like a date for the prom.

Think tobacco.  Same thing.  We ought to be suing the pharmaceuticals for the cost to our public health system.  For mammograms and breast reconstruction.  For chemo and radiation. For the lie they've perpetrated on women that pumping your body full of more than nature intended could ever be a good thing.

There is some symmetry here.  Women pay money for birth control pills and HRT.  They get cancer. Then they pay money again for the privilege of running in fundraising races to help eradicate breast cancer now that they've got it. So the pharms get them coming and going.

They're only in it for the money.

And my mother paid with her life.

 

 

P.S. While I can't bear to attend the races, I did create a very nice video [if I say so myself] for a client in conjunction with the Komen Foundation's efforts. 

 

 

TIME TO VOTE

Bet you thought this was going to be a Kerry-Bush showdown of some sort. Like Mrs. Linklater gives a rip. No, this is all about HER!!   

It's time to vote for her Birthday Picture.  

It's the end of October, when Mrs. L hammers another nail in her coffin.  Sorry. . .she meant --inches irrevocaby closer to the end of her life.  Damn, not handling this very well are you, Mrs. L?    

Her birthday is coming and to celebrate, she's just going to get out of Dodge for a few days.  

Anyway, as part of the celebration, she wants to change that picture over there in her ABOUT ME area.    

Granted, it's only six months old, but she pretty much doesn't wear her hair like that except when it's an accident.

And frankly, she's kidding herself if she thinks she looks that young in real life under any kind of lighting.   

She has four photos for you to choose from. All taken this month. All with different hair.  You'll notice that her face pretty much stays the same.  It's the hair that has a mind of its own.

The only comment from her children is "What a fake smile, Mom."  [I know, they're too old to leave on someone's doorstep and run away.]  

After uploading the nominees for the new photo, Mrs. Linklater realized there was really only one picture she should choose, but she was half way through the entry, and didn't feel like starting over.   

So, dear reader, you get to pick the picture.  Just remember if I don't like the one you choose, I'll simply ignore your vote.  

BONUS:  I have no intention of telling you how old I am, but you can guess and we can all have a good laugh.     

 

ONE

  If you don't vote for this one I'll be pissed, but don't let my opinion influence you    

 

TWO

  Full Monty Make Up -- somewhat glam, but maybe just a little too Vegas for a family journaling community    

 

THREE

 Fresh from the healthclub -- that wholesome "farm girl who uses a pitchfork to comb her hair" look    

 

FOUR

 Originally, I kind of liked this crinkly look, which happened to my hair after two hours in the rain at a football game.  But not so much anymore.  

So, the countdown begins.  I hope all five of my readers will take a moment to stop by and weigh in with their votes.  

Holidays Are Coming

I've known my older daughter's fiance for a couple of years. 

But I'm just getting to know his large family.    I found out that he has an older brother who is serving in Iraq -- Major W.H. Vivian.  

Finally the war has a face on it that's close to home.   

I can no longer distance myself from the cloud of worry felt by every family with sons and daughters risking their lives for us.    

The concern for their safe return has finally tapped me on the shoulder. And I am happy and grateful that I have a chance to carry some of that burden at last.   

However, I will still change the channel when news programs start showing pictures of the soldiers who have died during the previous week.  

That sadness affects all of us, all the time.  

I asked my daughter if I could contact him and she gave me his address and a list of things the soldiers like to get.   

Next time you're in Costco or Sam's Club you could pick up a couple of things and send them on.  

1. Cards and letters

2. Chocolate chip cookies

3. Trail mix

4. Baby wipes [Cottonelle, etc.] Showers are scarce

5. Coffee

6. Toothbrushes

7. Magazines (Stuff, Maxim, FHM, Sports Illustrated, ESPN the Magazine -- reading guys like)  

His address is:  

Maj WH Vivian

RCT-7 Hq Co (S-3)

UIC 41500

FPO AP 96426-1500

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

   Johnny Damon

www.mas.scripps.com

  Charles Manson

www.vanderzande.com

Patrick's Saturday Six

To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal -- either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit!  (And if you're playing for the first time, please be sure to say so in the comment!)  Enjoy!

1. Think back to your years of Trick or Treating:  Which one of your past Halloween costumes are you most proud of?

My witch costume when I was in my thirties. Witch shoes with a long black witch dress, complete with cape, pointy hat and fabulous green make up on my face and hands. Scared the poop out of a bunch of kids at a filling station when I got out to pump gas.

There was also the time my [former] husband and I went as each other.  He wore one of my nightgowns and a wig that matched my hair.  I wore one of his three piece suits, a pair of wing tips and a wig that matched his hair. Wish I could find that picture.

2. What is the format of your favorite radio station?  (In other words, what type of music does it play?)

Smooth jazz.  WNUA Chicago. Free live streaming audio. Does your jazz station feature Ramsey Lewis live at the piano as the morning DJ on your city's jazz station? WNUA does!!!

3. What is the oldest thing in your medicine cabinet?

A pretty much unused tube of some kind of eye cream for one of my daughters who got pink eye. It's dated January 1, 1990.  I think its time is up.

4. What kind of book do you most prefer:  hardback, paperback, audio or library?

I prefer audio, but I want them to read the WHOLE book and not leave anything out.  After audio, it's paperback because I travel so much.

5. What is your favorite comfort food and when was the last time you felt bad enough that you needed a big helping of it?

Over the years my comfort food has changed from a chocolate malt and fries to Godiva chocolates to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to shrimp with cocktail sauce and now sushi. I need a California roll once a week.  Because I deserve it.   

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #28 from Tara:  
Dust off your high school yearbook.  What was your Senior quote and/or what were you voted ''Most...'' or ''Most Likely To....''?

There were almost 900 students in my graduating class. No room for quotes and other stuff. We were lucky to get our pictures taken.

However, if there had been room, my senior quote would have been something really lame from Kahlil Gibran and I would have been voted one of the class clowns. If there had been a vote, I'd probably win most likely to make you laugh your ass off at something zany I did.

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #30

www.crazy4cinema.com

"Assignment:  What gone, but not forgotten, TV series do you miss the most?

Naturally, I can't just have one, it's got to be two.

1) The Garry Shandling Show.  It's no longer on HBO, but you can get re-runs on ABC late on Saturday night if you're up.  I think Garry Shandling, the anti-Warren Beatty, parlayed his rampant nerdliness into bankable TV. I mean that in a good way.

2) TAXI.  For Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd.  Is there a funnier character than "Jim," the fried green tomato brained stoner still on an acid trip from the sixties?  For awhile I thought they'd actually found a real guy and taught him how to read lines.  As for Danny DeVito -- only the sexiest pocket-sized man on the planet, next to Mel Gibson and Sylvester Stallone.

I kinda hoped DeVito would REALLY strip on that last episode or so of Friends. *SIGH* But he was at his eye rolling, caustic best as the manipulative taxi dispatcher.  

Extra Credit:  If you had to be on a game show or reality show, which one would it be?"

Family Feud.  So very very bad, it's good.  NOT the Richard Dawson version [see comments].  EEEEWWWWW.

The Only Bright Spot in This Election

Brandon 1998

Judithheartsong's October Essay Contest, Part Two

LINK TO PART ONE: HERE   

CONTEST LINK: HERE

The Autumn of 1998, continued. . .  

The loss of players mounted. At first when someone went down, someone else stepped up to fill the void. But little by little the team was being tested to its limits. At the same time, you sensed they would be successful as long as Brandon didn’t get hurt.

And successful they were, winning their conference for the first time in two decades, earning a well-deserved berth at the state championships.

    

Brandon had managed to stay healthy. But that ended during the traditional Thanksgiving game against their perennial cross-town rivals. A non-conference battle, it didn’t count except in the top 25 rankings, player stats, and bragging rights. Someone missed a block and Brandon, scrambling to his left, was caught from behind, landing hard on his shoulder. His throwing arm was so painful he couldn’t lift it for the first two days after the injury.

    

Finally he got a cortisone shot. In hindsight, he probably should have had the shot right away. In little more than a week the state championships were coming up.  Would his arm be ready? 

    

There was another, perhaps more important, question – even if Brandon were ready, would the team be ready?  Initially the answer was, yes. After playing together since grade school, the team knew each other like brothers. Now everything they had hoped, planned and dreamed about for all those years together was finally coming true. 

    

But I saw a major problem looming.  Their championship game was scheduled for 10:00 in the morning.  Teenage boys in general are night owls. Brandon and his team, more than most, liked to stay out and sleep in. 10:00 AM was the middle of the night for them. Especially when their bodies were used to playing in the afternoon.  But there were other games scheduled that day and this was the hand they were dealt.

     

Still, I had a bad feeling.  I was sure the players would have trouble sleeping the night before, which wouldn’t be a problem under ordinary circumstances.  But no sleep and an early game made a bad combination. I was afraid that no amount of adrenaline would be enough to lift them over that hump.

    

And finally, there was Brandon's shoulder.. Despite extra days of rest and the cortisone shot, he couldn’t throw the long ball.  His unerring, pinpoint throws deep into his opponent’s territory had been instrumental in getting his team to the championship game, but now his most effective weapon had been taken away.

    

He was hurt pretty bad, probably a partial tear, but he didn’t tell his teammates.

    

The showdown at the Meadowlands seemed like it happened very fast. It turned out I was right about the team needing a wake up call.  By the beginning of the second quarter they had spotted their opponents 22 points already.  Finally, they showed up to play. And began the long climb back.

    

As the game went on, a visiting coach standing on the sidelines commented that any other team would have just given up after being so far down, but he’d never seen a quarterback so convinced he could bring his team back.  Brandon nearly succeeded.  But the clock ran out.  And the state championship was gone.

    

But he had kept his promise.  On a warm summer day many weeks before, Brandon had stunned me with his bold, brash, and unapologetic prediction. Then he went out and made it happen.

    

The football banquet was more than a dinner.  It was a huge celebration, notable for all the awards handed out and the excellent catering by Outback Steakhouse. The cafeteria looked like it had been decorated for the prom. The walls were covered with all the posters I’d made during the season. Along with new, individual posters for the boys who had received post-season accolades. Everybody got something to take home. The players surprised me with a polar fleece vest, embroidered with my name and “FOOTBALL” underneath. I had officially become part of the team.

    

I take out the vest and look at it every so often.  I can't bring myself to wear it. It’s a special reminder of an autumn I will never forget.  And the start of a great friendship with a young man who is going to lose $10 tonight when the Red Sox beat the Yankees.

 

[Brandon graduated Phi Beta Kappa in three years from Johns Hopkins University, a Division III school.  His college coach tried to switch him to defensive back, but he preferred to play third string quarterback. He never started again.]

 

LINK TO PICTURE: HERE

Judithheartsong's October Essay Contest, Part One

 

CONTEST LINK: HERE

 

 

The Autumn of 1998

 

This is the story of a football season that left an indelible impression on my life.

 

Hints of the season to come began during the summer. I was sitting on the beach with friends at the Jersey Shore, talking with the teenaged nephew of my college roommate. It was my favorite time of day, late afternoon when the sun turns a deep gold and everything in its path is bathed in bronze light.

     

Brandon, a senior, was finally going to be the starting quarterback and a tri-captain of his high school football team come September. It had been a long wait and he was itching for an opportunity to showcase his talent for a chance to play college ball. 

    

His wonderful, supportive dad, a former captain and coach of two NCAA championship teams at Texas, knew his son had two chances to play Division I football – slim and none – because, among other things, Brandon hadn’t started as a junior. But what parent wants to squash a son’s dream?

    

Meanwhile, I was dropping hints about how nicely the distinctive burnt umber of a Texas sweatshirt would set off my fall wardrobe – to no avail. 

    

Brandon, whose enviable tan was the color of toasted pecans, and I, whose skin had long since passed its expiration date, were probably talking or arguing about sports, something we did a lot. The fact that I watched SportsCenter instead of Oprah had set me apart from his other aunts early on. 

    

We played tennis. We went to the batting cages. On the beach, we were partners in some nasty beach paddle battles against his “who cares if she’s old enough to be our mother” cousins. Once I beat him in ping-pong. And I was pretty smug about it until he pointed out he had played me wrong-handed.

    

That day, as we sat in our beach chairs talking, Brandon said he had something he wanted to give me. Prankster that he was, it could have been anything – a dead crab, a bug, a melted ice cream sandwich.

    

But it turned out to be his football schedule for the coming year. I had photographed their big Thanksgiving game the year before, when I was visiting for the holiday.  But this would mean coming out every weekend for a whole season. September, October, November, and possibly December.

    

Not only that, he lived in New Jersey; I lived in Chicago. Going to his games was definitely not going to be a walk to the park.  It was a 1600 mile round trip. 

    

Before I could come up with an excuse not to come, Brandon dropped the bomb, “I want you to come to my games because I’m taking my team to the state championships.”

    

Clearly he was hallucinating. His high school’s football team hadn’t been to the state championships in twenty years. And he hadn’t played one single down as the starting quarterback yet. What was he thinking?

    

On the other hand, Brandon wasn’t given to braggadocio. A multi-sport athlete, he has always been laconic and thoughtful, a leader by example. His father had won a state championship in Texas as a high school quarterback. And Brandon thought he could do the same thing in New Jersey. Being stubborn didn’t hurt either.

    

In fact, he was so sure he could pull it off, I decided I wasn’t going to miss it.

    

That fall I began flying into Newark regularly, loaded up with twenty rolls of film, two or three cameras, and a bunch of lenses, along with my work, so I could earn money to pay for all the plane rides.

    

If you have the chance, there is nothing like watching the changing seasons from an airplane, especially when the leaves begin to turn. Traveling from Illinois to New Jersey for a different game each week, I watched as a palette of fall colors gradually re-painted the Midwestern canvas, from the hills of Pennsylvania to the forest groves of New Jersey, changing the leaves from summer green to autumn yellow, crimson red and flaming orange. Coming in for a landing, the vivid colors were intensely magnified as we got closer and closer to the ground.  [Eat your heart out Arizona.]

    

Preparation for the game on Saturday began early. On Friday nights the team parents would throw a pasta dinner at the high school.  The players would gather in the cafeteria at the end of the day around five. The coach would give them a pep talk and they’d eat and eat and eat.

   

They won their first, second and third games easily. But their next opponent was an old nemisis. A big school that used to eat them for lunch on a regular basis.  That's when I realized I could do something more than just take pictures.

    

Back in Chicago I began to blow up each week’s photos from 4 x 6 prints to 11 x 17 Kinko’s enlargements. Then I would load up one of my travel bags with poster size paper and spray mount so I could create a huge wall of colorful football pictures at one end of the cafeteria.

    

Never one to leave well enough alone, I also read motivational books and stole quotes from the likes of Lou Holtz, Rick Pitino, and Ara Parshegian – name a successful coach and I bought his book to scour it for nuggets of inspiration I could use to galvanize the team. I even put together music tapes for each game with tunes from the best of Top Gun to the old standbyslike We Are the Champions.  Who Let the Dogs Out wasn’t on the charts yet.

    

Brandon’s sister liked to help me choose music. One night she told me she found a great song that I might not be familiar with. Then she actually asked if I’d ever heard of the Rolling Stones. 

    

Thursday night was spent assembling the posters. Friday afternoon I hung them up in the cafeteria, so the boys could see photos of themselves doing great things on the field during the previous game. It was fascinating to watch them find their pictures and study them as closely as the centerfold in a men’s magazine.

    

When dinner started, I turned on the tunes and helped serve the homemade pasta. When it was over, I took down the posters and saved them to hang at their banquet in December. 

    

Saturday I spent the games shooting roll after roll of pictures from the sidelines and endzones. What had started out as a sacrifice I was willing to make for Brandon, became one of the most rewarding and satisfying four months I have ever spent.  And I was also able to make a difference to a great bunch of kids.

    

Standing on the field every week, I got to know a lotof the other photographers and reporters covering the game. Often they would let me borrow a lens or ask me questions.  That’s right, I flew in from Chicago. Brandon? No, he’s not my son.  I’m his adopted aunt.  [Really. You can do that?]

     

The weather held for most of the season, raining only once. As the weeks passed, the sun began to dip down behind the trees earlier and earlier during the games. When the days got colder, the sky seemed to get bluer and the autumn sun burnished the fans in the stands with gold.

     

Brandon’s team started winning the tough games. He was proving to be the high school equivalent of Joe Montana, making perfect, accurate passes to his speedy receivers -- always with his eyes firmly set on the prize – a place on the field in the Meadowlands at the end of the season.  He was also helping his chances for a college offer.

     

But I noticed when the team was way ahead, his coach started taking him out, sometimes as early as halftime. I didn’t think that was fair to a kid who had waited so long to start.  Especially when he needed huge stats to get the attention of the big schools.

    

At the end of the season he was the second all-time leading passer in his high school’s history.  Second by one touchdown.  He could have easily put the record out of reach forever had he been allowed to play more complete games.

    

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I missed two games because of work.  But Brandon’s family videotaped them both.  One they won.  The other was a heartbreaker -- an away game played at night, the only time it rained. Down by three in the fourth quarter, Brandon engineered an 80-yard drive that marched his team to the six-yard line.  A touchdown would win the game. There was enough time for two passing plays. But with seconds left, the coach decided to kick for the tie, figuring the team could win in overtime.

    

Not only could you hear everyone in the stands booing on the videotape, but they had good reason. The ball was on the outside hash marks. The angle for kicking that close to the end zone becomes very narrow if you’re not in the center of the field. Add to that darkness. And rain. Disaster was inevitable. Brandon, who was also the field goal kicker, missed.  And they lost.

    

Despite their first loss, Brandon was becoming a local hero. His picture was often featured on the front of the Sunday sports page.  He was quoted. His stats were highlighted. His team made its first appearance in the top 25 in two decades.

    

A good student, he was getting letters from a number of Ivy League schools.  However, even with an edited tape of his early games, it was becoming clear that the big Division I schools were not interested.  His main problem -- at 6’1” with only a half year of stats, he was considered too short and unaccomplished.   

    

Regardless, Brandon was undeterred in his march to the state championships. Key injuries, however, were beginning to add up. Mike, one of their best running backs, was lost for the season. Luckily they had another outstanding halfback. Gabe, their sure-handed tight end was playing with a sore shoulder. But again the team had another quality player to go to. Brandon, who would become an all-state quarterback, remained healthy.  

    

And then in November, Gabe went down. During the playoffs on a chilly November afternoon, I watched in astonishment from the sidelines as a member of the opposing team took his arm and yanked it out of its socket when the play was over, ending his season with a separated shoulder.  

     

Continued in the next entry . . .

LINK TO PART TWO: HERE

 

Bits and pieces I learned lying in bed watching early morning television

 www.birthdaychallenge.com

 

Jack LaLanne is turning ninety.  He still works out two hours every day. He picks up his wife Elaine and walks around the house with her for no other reason than he can.

 

At the end of Babe Winkelman’s outdoorsman show, his wife demonstrates her timesaving recipes for what I am convinced is road kill. Ketchup is almost always an ingredient. Don’t look for her on the Food Network anytime soon. Babe himself actually has a book out entitled, I am not making this up, The Family That Hunts Together Stays Together.

www.images.outdoorsite.com

 

 

Your body has a pH.  If it’s alkaline you don’t get sick. If it’s acidic you can get cancer. But if you take these tongs and stick them where the sun don’t shine you can reverse the cancer and turn it into harmless gas. And blame it on the dog.

 

Just when you are convinced that Latins and Anglos live in parallel worlds, never to meet [despite the best efforts of Taco Bell], we find a mutual enemy – our shared dismay over “disfuncion sexual” and “impotencia feminina” Leave it to bodily functions or lack thereof to help us find common ground.

 

Speaking of which, Marc Anthony sings – did you know that? I thought he was an extra in the Jennifer Lopez video “My So-Called Life.” He was on the Spanish VH1 sucking a microphone while performing his hit Te Tengo. I still have a question that I've had for a long time – how did this man with the attractiveness-challenged looks marry a former Miss World AND J-Lo?

 

There will be yet another breast cancer walk today to help increase awareness of this disease.  It would also help awareness if the pharmaceutical companies, which make birth control pills and hormone replacement, would simply be required to reveal how many women have been diagnosed with breast cancer after being intimidated into taking these products for acne, wrinkles, brittle bones, vaginal dryness, oh, and, even in some instances, birth control. Estrogen is a carcinogen. Why anyone pays money to take it on purpose is a mystery to me.

 

The HGTV host of three different home makeover shows stops by a local TV station to pimp his appearance in town and play, “Name That Tool.” No, really.

 

People pay up to $8000 for seminars put on by some guy named Jeff, but YOU can have them in your own home for two payments of $29.95.

 

Today’s featured doggie is a collie mix named “Champ” who was found wandering near the tracks and taken to the Anti-Cruelty Society. He’s up for adoption. No rush, but if you don’t make that phone call now, our furry friend is food for the fishes.

 

How you can tell the honeymoon is over

Got a phone call yesterday from a guy I know.  Hey, want to see the Neville Brothers at Park West?  Wow, sure. 

Okay, tickets go on sale tomorrow at 10:00. Go buy around six. 

Anything else you want -- a new car, summer home?

P.S. Turns out my friend, whom I've known since high school, had to work, so he wanted me to get the tickets before the show was sold out. Yes, he'll pay me back. But when he called, it sure didn't sound that way.

 

Patrick's Saturday Six

To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your own journal...but either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit!  
1. What was your favorite Halloween candy to receive as a child?  

My favorite was Candy Corn.  Now, one little piece of that orange and yellow dye no. 44 confection can send me into a tailspin of sugar overload. My least favorite was anything healthy.  Remember when conscientious moms would smile and hand you an apple? I don't want no stinkin fruit!!!  The only reason there's been a fear of razor blades in apples was because some kid finally stepped up and said, "Give us the candy or we're going to frame you."

2. Of cities you've visited (that you don't live in), which is your favorite and why?  

London.  The people, the pubs, the museums, the shops, the shows, the restaurants, the marathon, the history, oh, and one of my daughters lives there.

3. What is the oldest appliance in your kitchen (and how old is it)?

What was the oldest -- donated my ancient GE double door fridge with an ice/drink thingy on the front.  I think it was one of the first ones ever made. So old, it had a hand crank on the side.

4. How many broken bones have you suffered in your life time, and when was the most recent?

I've never broken a bone [knock on wood somewhere].  I dislocated my elbow playing basketball. Went down trying to steal a ball and ended up on the floor with a ref standing over me pointing his finger in my face shouting -- "Foul on Mrs. Linklater" or something like that.  

Strained my wrist when Jerry Roberts [I'm naming names here] kept knocking me down at the skating rink in 8th grade.  

A horse stepped on my foot and it swelled up, but nothing broken.  A personal trainer dropped a 45 pound weight on the same foot, but it didn't break. Slid into homeplate so hard I knocked out the catcher and couldn't walk on that foot two hours later.  But it still wouldn't break.  

Jammed fingers and thumbs playing volleyball and softball, but no breakage.  

Sprained my ankle playing tennis.  Don't ever hurt yourself playing with guys.  Lying on the court with my ankle in pieces, one guy came up and covered my face with a towel.  "What are you doing?" somebody said.  "She's dead, isn't she?" Comedians.  

I dived out of a boat into what I thought was deep water, but it was a shallow sandbar, so I turned my head and shoulder in midair when I realized that I was going to <<ACK>> break my neck if I didn't.  Wrenched shoulder, no broken bones. 

[Kinda fun taking a walk down Arthritis Lane.]  

Fell down the basement stairs changing a lightbulb and knocked myself out. Lots of lumps, nothing broken. The paramedics kept asking me questions very close to my face during transport.  I found out later most people who fall down the basement stairs are drunk. 

Completely flipped out on some gravel in my healthclub parking lot, and got a black eye from the hit on my head.  More lumps, nothing broken.   Postscript: Just noticed all the potholes have been filled where I took my tumble.

Wait -- just remembered -- I broke my nose when I bent over to pick up one of my kids and she jumped up to meet me, during a volleyball tournament.  Played great afterward.  NOTE TO SELF:  Break nose before every finals. 

But noses don't count, they aren't bones, they're cartilage.  O-o-o, splitting hairs are we?

5. Check your caller ID:  who is the last person to have called you?  

Brandon, one of my surrogate sons. Wants to bet on the World Series.  I told him I'd take anybody over his pain in the ass Yankees. 

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #26 from Nettie: What would you say is your biggest "character flaw?"  

This is a "When didyou stop beating your wife kinda question." It assumes I actually have a character flaw.  [I hope the people who know me stop laughing, I can hear you.] 

P.S. I do have a character flaw that reared its ugly head this weekend.  Thought I'd had it removed, but it grew back. Here it is:  I jump to conclusions.

Whatever Happened to Imelda Marcos?

Weekend Assignment #29
Here's the deal:
What are your favorite shoes? The ones you like because of the way they look or feel.  It can be shoes you have now or back when. Just what's so special about them?  Extra credit: Pictures.
I entered Scalzi's little competition to come up with ideas for the Weekend Assignment, because I really wanted to win. And I did. There was no prize for "winning" except to be chosen as a weekend assignment. And I was determined to be chosen first. 
So now you know a little more about the sad side of my competitive nature.  It isn't pretty. But at least I had a chance to use it for good and not evil.
To crack Scalzi's code, I climbed into his mind and asked, what would he think was a good idea?  Not so offbeat that it would be offputting. Something everybody has lying around the house. Perhaps something that you wear. So it was dirty clothes or shoes.  And I went with the shoes.
Yes, this favorite shoe thing was my idea, so you'd think I 'd have a pair of favorite shoes. But I don't.
1. Given to excess, I've got a lot of favorite shoes. My favorite shoes for my naked feet are my orange sandals. What's not to like. They're like walking around in your underwear. Your feet are exposed.  In public.  The orange color makes my painted toes look like hookers at a stoplight.  Yoo-hoo, young man.
I wish I could wear sandals all the time.. Let my feet come out and play. And these sandals are such an outre color, don't ya know. It's such a shame to get a pedicure and waste it inside Thor-Los and Merrills.  Okay snow is a problem, but sometimes you have to sacrifice for fashion. But yeah, sandals.
2. Then there's my favorite tennis shoes -- clunkiest ones ever made. That pair of Adidas with the huge black wart things on the bottom is the equivalent of sleeping on a Sealy.  My feet feel like they're wrapped in layers and layers of soft cotton.  Problem is those warty things make playing tennis in them hazardous to your knees.  They make your foot plant in one direction while your knee is going in another direction. So good for feet, bad for knees.
3. My favorite shoe that I had bronzed belongs to my younger daughter. A size ten, it wasn't one of her baby shoes. After I heard how much it would cost to bronze both shoes, I only did one.
It was one of the shoes she wore when her team won the conference and she made the all-conference team as a goalie.  She was a left-footed kicker and by the end of the season that well worn shoe was sporting more duct tape than leather. I wanted something to remember the season for her so it was a  logical choice.  She left it at home. Here Mom, you like this more than I do. I can't imagine why.  It would make a great doorstop. 
4. I can't show my favorite stilettos, they're just a memory now. Awhile back they disappeared from my luggage between LA and Chicago. Somewhere I just know there's a mechanic guiding 747's into the gate wearing red slingback Bruno Maglis. And nobody's asking questions.

TODAY'S PLAYLIST

Bee Gee's  "Nights on Broadway" -- this is my favorite Bee Gees tune despite Saturday Night Fever, although I can do without the bridge. 

Stevie Ray Vaughan   "Tightrope" -- never gets old; didn't discover him until his plane crashed not far from here

Spinners  "It's a Shame" -- a thousand memories with this one

Decided against the new Ray Charles -- not enough funk

Couldn't find my Stevie Wonder

Lauren Hill  "Everything is Everything" -- what a great opening

Edwin Hawkins Singers  "Oh Happy Day"  -- a gospel anthem nobody doesn't like

Jay Zee "Big Pimpin" -- love the big booty beat

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole -- "Sea of Love" and "Over the Rainbow" -- my favorite dead Hawaiian guy on a CD gift from my older daughter who lived there

Eva Cassidy "Fields of Gold" and "Songbird" -- didn't find out about her until after she died [are the good ones all dead?]. More angst than Dianna Krall

Spyro Gyra "Rites of Summer" CD -- soothing Chicago jazz group that shoulda hit the bigtime, but never did

Brothers Johnson  "Strawberry Letter #23" -- quirky, actually stupid, lyrics, but I like the offbeat tune  

Pointer Sisters "Greatest Hits" CD  -- top to bottom my favorite workout CD. 

A music story:

Every year about this time they hold the Advertising World Series in some place warm like LA, Palm Springs, San Diego or Scottsdale.

Forty to fifty men's and women's 12-inch softball teams from Dallas, LA, San Francisco, Detroit and as far away as Atlanta, Boston and New York roll into town to play ball and party for five days. 

For several years I got to pitch and play first base for the Chicago Women's Advertising All-Stars. We were always at a disadvantage against all the 12-inch teams. A lot of them were from warmer climates and played year round. 

Our advertising league only played during the summer. In Chicago that also meant 16-inch softball.  No gloves.

So every year we had only three weeks after tryouts to make the transition. Adjust to new teammates, a bigger field, a smaller ball, wearing gloves, and a pitching mound that was 12 feet farther from the plate. Okay some of us played in 12-inch leagues too, so it wasn't THAT bad.

The night before we had to play the LA women, who were going to kick our windy city butts because they always did, there was a tournament party out at some dude ranch for all the teams.

After a feast of food, there was plenty of beer to lubricate the dancing.  And the DJ was pumping out tunes like a firefighter at a five alarm blaze. 

Never one to miss an opportunity to talk some trash -- in a good way, of course -- I dared to ask Mr. Music Man [he was kind of a diva]  to play my favorite Pointer Sisters tune, "Dare Me."  And dedicate it to the LA women's team from the Chicago women's team.

I wanted to throw down the gauntlet in front of the those smartass surf sisters with their fancy pants uniforms and traveling nutritionist. And show them that the Ad babes from Chi-town would be dishing out something besides pizza. Yeah. [But please don't hurt us.] 

The parties at the Ad World Series have always been outstanding and this one was no exception. Four hundred people were shaking and baking to some excellent tunes as I watched, wondering when Mr. Grandmaster Flash would deign to play my request.  He sure was taking his time. Or ignoring me.  Oh, well, might as well dance.

Finally, when the kegs were dry and you couldn't squeeze another person onto the dance floor under the stars, the DJ paused and announced that the next song would be the last one of the evening.  <<GROAN>>

But it's a special tune, he continued.  Dedicated to the women of Los Angeles by the women of Chicago.  The women on my team had no idea what I had done.  They all looked over at me with quizzical, even worried, expressions on their faces. "What did she do now?"

Everyone was quiet.  Four hundred sweaty, drunk men and women stood waiting for the song to start.  Suddenly a funky Motown riff blasted out of the speakers and lyrics full of more attitude than Charles Barkley shook the dance floor --

I'VE GOT A CHIP ON MY SHOULDER WITH YOUR NAME ON IT --

KNOCK IT OFF

SO DON'T JUST STAND THERE FOOLIN IFYOU DON'T WANT IT --

KNOCK IT OFF

The Chicago women all cheered and laughed so I could tell the dedication was the absolute right thing to do.  We didn't have a chance against the LA women, but if we were going down, we were going down in flames.

BABY MAKE YOUR MOVE  STEP ACROSS THE LINE 

TOUCH ME ONE MORE TIME -- COME ON DARE ME

Everybody started singing along with the lyrics. Loudly, defiantly. Chicago women were singing them at each other. I was looking around for LA women, but didn't see any. Probably just as well.

WANNA TAKE YOU ON --  I KNOW I JUST CAN'T LOSE

LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE LOOKING FOR TROUBLE  

AND I'D SAY YOU FOUND IT

YOU'LL HAVE TO COME RIGHT THROUGH ME

THERE'S NO WAY AROUND IT -- YOU FOUND IT

I HOPE THAT LEAN HUNGRY LOOK MEANS WHAT IT'S SAYIN'

CAUSE I'M JUST SITTING ON READY -- READY AND WAITING

BABY MAKE YOUR MOVE -- STEP ACROSS THE LINE 

TOUCH ME ONE MORE TIME -- COME ON DARE ME

WANNA TAKE YOU ON -- I KNOW I CAN'T LOSE

IF YOU JUST DARE ME, ETC.

I had to hand it to the DJ -- he had great timing. For awhile we felt like the impossible might be possible. Maybe Chicago could do something magic in the morning.

LA beat us so bad it wasn't funny. But we still managed to finish in the middle of the pack like the rest of the Chicago teams.

EPILOGUE:

The next year I was female co-captain of Chicago's co-rec team, made up of men and women from our all-star teams. Unlike the other co-rec teams in the tournament, none of us had ever played together before. Chicago didn't offer co-rec play in the advertising leagues. As usual, none of the Chicago teams was expected to win any of the championships -- men's, women's, or co-rec.

In fact, before our first game [with no practice], we had to introduce ourselves to each other on the field. Hi, Tim, Sue. Hi, Ann, Bill. We were the underwhelming underdogs. 

I played first base and the 24-year old guy at shortstop was a little leary of throwing to me. He was tossing lollipops until I went up to him and said it was okay, I wouldn't break.  Then the cruise missiles started.

After every game I soaked my hand until the throbbing stopped. I padded my mitt with a washcloth, wore a batting glove inside it, put my forefinger on the outside, tried to catch high in the web, and still got stingers. I loved it.

The last game was against New York. Seventh inning, we were tied. Chicago had last bats.  The other captain of our team put in a pinch hitter which I wasn't too happy about, because that meant adjustments on the field if we went extra innings. 

No problem. He hit a home run.  Not easy to do in softball without a fence.

We won the co-rec championship -- the first time a Chicago team had won a championship at the tournament.

That was a very noisy plane ride home. The flight attendants did not appreciate having one hundred ball players snapping their seat belts and removing their seats to demonstrate how they could be used as flotation devices.

And they say it's only a game.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful Shots of the Sky

I couldn't get over how blue the sky was this weekend.  In fact, for several weekends. So I went out and took a bunch of pictures of it.  Those other things in  front of the sky refused to get out of the way.

Stevie Ray's music is really sounding good today. 

Think I'll take him out for a ride in the Jeep. 

Open the sunroof. 

And crank it.

All I need is a teenage boyfriend.

Why, Mrs. Linklater!!!

Shuddup.

 

 

It's that time again

Patrick's Saturday Six

To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal...but either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit!  (And if you're playing for the first time, please be sure to say so in the comment!  Enjoy!)

1. What is your favorite cartoon show?

Never watched cartoon shows, but always loved the Road Runner. Later on it became one of my many nicknames.

2. I found this on Wil's journal:  Take the quiz...What natural disaster are you? 

Volcano -- when I get mad I erupt, but in a good way. Now I'll go take the quiz and see what I really am.

I'm a wildfire.  Burning out of control. Whatever.

3. What was the design of the last postage stamp you used?

Who's on the eighty-five cent stamp? That's what it costs to send a letter to London.

4. What was the last pill you took?

Tylenol PM.  My drug of choice yesterday when I wasn't feeling well. That stuff knocks me out.

5. It's your ultimate breakfast:  what's on the plate?

IN MY DREAMS:

First course is two eggs fried in bacon grease sunnyside up.  With a pound of bacon, a plate of hash browns and four slices of buttered toast. Maybe some orange marmalade for the toast. The second course is yogurt with strawberries on the bottom mixed with crunchy granola. The third course is a Dutch Baby -- a small version of the huge German style pancake.With lots of butter, lemons and plenty of powdered sugar. Sausage links, too. Washed down with two huge glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice with ALL the pulp.

Like I could eat all that. I usually get filled up on just Yoplait and o.j.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #26 from SpringsNymph and Neil:

a) When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A nurse.  Because my mom was a nurse.  No other reason than that. However, all my talents lay elsewhere.

b) Are you anywhere close to that dream now?

I almost married a doctor, does that count?

I wrote plays and skits from the time I was ten, but I didn't realize that I was any good at it, until I took a creative writing course in college. When we got our first assignments back, the professor didn't give me mine. I couldn't figure out why until he read it to the class. He said the writing was excellent. Hm-m-m, maybe I can write. That, and my mother saying, "You'd be good in advertising." She was right.

c) Now that you're in the "real world," is your current job now really what you want to do for a living?

Yes -- I'm primarily an ad writer/producer. Everything I do is pretty much an extension of all the stuff I liked to do in high school. 

d) If not, what would you ultimately like to do?

I've got a couple of coffee table books in mind. Which probably means that's where they'll stay -- in my mind.

 

 

I Want My Mommy

www.teapottery.co.uk

Montezuma is getting his revenge on me today. You'd think after five hundred years he could give it a rest.

When I was little and got sick, my mom would brew me tea with a slice of fresh lemon and honey and make me cinnamon toast.  I could use her today.

The last time I felt this way was about twenty years ago. The paramedics finally had to come and get me. After three hours in the emergency room, I began to pass blood [hope no one is eating]. Blood is not a good sign, so I was admitted to the hospital. For almost a week I was hooked up to plastic bags, while they poked every orifice and sampled all my bodily fluids looking for evidence.

Food poisoning. 

This is like the mini version of that.  Started last night and keeps on keeping on. I managed to sleep most of the day, except for occasional interruptions. But I haven't had anything to eat or drink in a long time. So I figured I better do something about that.

The good news is for those of us who don't feel up to boiling water and getting out a tea bag, there's always STARBUCK'S.

The bad news is I can't take my bathroom with me in the car. 

So I had to time my trip very carefully.  But it was good just to get out, smell the clear crisp air and enjoy the changing colors.

Luckily, Starbuck's isn't that far. I found a parking place right out front. As I shambled for the door, remembering thankfully that they have restroom accommodations, two police officers getting coffee saw me coming and became my personal doormen, each one holding a door, as I made my way in. 

Did I look that pathetic?  Was it something about my black sweat pants and big hoody with the pockets in front that got their attention?   Were they thinking this woman is in deep doo-doo -- no pun intended. [Oh yes, it was.]

These guys were huge. [BTW saw a license plate on a Chevy Tahoe that said "HUUUUGE."]  Both were about 6'4," and had that "get away from the bank vault" look of officers in full uniform. They announced to everyone as we walked in that they were my pesonal bodyguards. <<LAUGHTER>> Coupla comedians.

Armed and dangerous, but ever the gentlemen, they let me go first.  So I ordered a venti hot water with two bags of camomile tea.  "Would you like anything to eat with that?"  Ack. I don't think so.  "No thanks, I'm not feeling all that well." 

Not feeling that well!!  Don't you worry little lady [okay, tall lady] The thoughtful folks at Starbuck's packed my cup of tea for traveling -- double cup and double lid and put it into a bag that had handles and everything. Then one of the officers refused to take no for an answer and carried the bag 'o tea to my car, and held the door for me while I got in.

I said, "Geez, I wish the rest of my life could go this well."  He laughed and said, "Maybe you should play the lottery today."

Hm-m-m. Think I will.