It's been raining in the desert, a lot, and the temps have been lower than usual. This summer monsoon pattern seems very different that what we experienced last year. I mentioned this to a friend and she advised me to see Al Gore's movie.

We awaken to thunder and lightning and hard rain. The washes are quickly transformed to mud-churning rapids.

Yesterday my husband realized that the refrigerator was running constantly. He decided to clean the coils. The next time I entered the kitchen all of the food was on the counters and we had a PROJECT on our hands that raised some irritating questions regarding the design of contemporary refrigerators.

This morning we discovered that the food stored in the refrigerator was barely cold and we progressed to phase two: enduring voicemail while attempting to schedule a repair visit. The first time I called wasn't too bad, I was routed through the system in an efficient manner, until I was disconnected on the last leg of the journey.

The second call lasted twenty minutes. Argh. Muzak would have been welcomed, but no, I got to endure continously looping advertisements regarding their product line. Let's see, do I want to purchase another product from a brand that has underwhelmed me with its performance thus far?

I started singing an aria at full volume as a means of releasing tension so I wouldn't SCREAM at the human I MIGHT encounter at some point.

I will be contacted in one to two days.

We cranked the temperature settings in the refrigerator and it's giving the impression of working harder and keeping things cooler. We'll see, I don't have much faith in the product right now.

Which brings me to another matter. Prior to the refrigerator crisis, I was experiencing a productive writing weekend and was mighty grateful for it. Then I received a phone call from a person who didn't know me, couldn't pronounce my name, but was interested in sending me information regarding a religion other than my own.

The kicker was that they had been given my name and address by someone who is ethically obligated to keep my name and address confidential. I was so startled by this disclosure that I failed to handle the matter in an appropriate way: no thank you.

I am outraged at this violation, and I am irate with myself for not thinking quicker on my feet.

More Doll Talk

When I delivered my first public speech in the third grade, my friend Anne gave a speech about her doll collection. (This, I remember, my various logins and passwords? Not so much.)

I didn't have a doll collection. I'm not actually certain that Anne had a doll collection. We were both the youngest of three daughters, both of our mothers sewed; I suspect the doll collection actually may have reflected her mother's interests.

I had three dolls, four if you count the doll my Aunt Jeanie made for me. The small plastic doll had a skirt made of glued on, wrapped lemon candies. The best candy I’d ever had. I hung out beneath the Christmas tree for a couple of days, until that dress was nothing but empty wrappers. I think the doll went on to star as the centerpiece of my mother's special doll cakes (she decorated the angelfood cake as an elaborate skirt--my mother, not the doll, although my mother is a Doll).

My dolls consisted of 1) the doll my mother made for me, 2) a tall red rag doll with blond braids and elastic straps on her feet so I could dance with her (?), and 3) my real doll, Pat-a-Burp.

I am not making this up. That was the doll's name. No mystery about her features. She looked like a baby and if you pressed her back just right, she burped.

My oldest sister had the original Barbie, a class act with a stunning wardrobe and a fabulous carrying case.

Me? I had a burping doll.

I did get to play with Barbie some, and both dolls shared the same destiny when they were given away, although I suspect Barbie has the greater monetary value in today's market.

What is unique and exciting about your novel?

Uh-oh.

This is the mischievous sprite that has been persecuting me of late.

It is great to be writing again after a major dose of life interuptus the past few months (er, year).

The characters are talking to each other and permitting me to eavesdrop; heck, they are practically shouting ‘get on with it all ready!’ My husband would agree.

I’m still trying to crank up the humor and the pacing and I keep playing around with the opening instead of focusing on the climax.

I’m hoping to power through and complete this revision before we head to Canada in a couple weeks.

Nothing quite like a deadline to bring on either writer’s block or results.

Fickle Finger Folly

The pot-holder slipped as I removed the Pyrex dish from the small oven in my mother’s teeny-tiny kitchenette where my sister, mother and I were preparing dinner while my husband waited in the living room, several steps away, perched next to the air-conditioner like a prisoner twisting to see a patch of blue sky.

I struggled to hang onto the dish and succeeded, thanks to my thumb pressing against the hot glass.

I kept my hand in my lap during dinner, holding a dripping ice cube against my throbbing thumb. I wore gloves when I washed the dishes.

Hoping for more relief, I eyed a jar of Burt’s Bees cream on the bathroom sink. I smelled the contents first, having long experience with my mother’s tendency to reuse jars. Willing to chance it, I dabbed some cream on my thumb.

The relief was immediate. (I later checked with my mother, it really was Burt's Bees.)

My thumb didn’t bother me again until it decided to shed a couple of weeks later, leaving a neat circle of emerging new skin.

Now I'll need to find another excuse to avoid golfing.

While we were traveling I read two excellent books: Elizabeth Strout's AMY AND ISABELLE, and Ann Patchett's THE MAGICIAN'S ASSISTANT.

Both authors have participated in the Barnes & Noble online discussions of other, more recent, works (ABIDE WITH ME, and BEL CANTO). I think the content of their latter novels may be more approachable to a broader audience, but their skill is evident in their earlier works. Such sensitivity and attention to detail provide a rewarding experience for readers. Both are generous and insightful authors.

I was pleased to discover Mary Kay Andrews's latest novel at the library. SAVANNAH BREEZE is a sequel to SAVANAH BLUES. This time the storyline turns a secondary character into the protagonist. Andrews offers readers an engaging romp and displays her vast knowledge of antiques and collectibles. I found it interesting that the author chose to work with two first person narrators.

Truman Copote's BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S lives up to the raves. His style is so fluid, so effortless, like a friend telling you a bittersweet story in the wee hours of the morning about this girl he once knew who half broke his heart. It's been too long since I've seen the movie but I think Audrey Hepburn probably captured the essence of Holly Golightly, although I suspect they cleaned up some aspects of the story for the big screen. In the novella she seems a combination of innocence and surprising worldly experience.

The battle of the bulge

My sister mentioned an appointment with her opthamologist and we planned our day accordingly, a little shopping with my mother followed by lunch and then some long-awaited sister time.

An hour later I was cruising along an unfamiliar series of county highways, heading toward an eye institute in Minneapolis, while my sister laid on her side, calling out directions, "turn 'right' by the big gray shed."

A yellow light on the dashboard of her car nagged at me, Service Maintenance Needed. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator, 'not today.'

Her regular opthamologist had determined that her eye had two retinal tears and a suspicious bulge. His office contacted a retinal specialist who would see her later in the day.

Pay attention to your symptoms.

I followed the simple directions on the map the clinic had provided, relieved that we were nearly there, until faced with the undeniable fact that the street was closed.

Bridge out. Massive construction.

None of the possible cross street options were identified on the map.

Anyone for darts?

I managed to work my way around the area in a geographical pattern available only to the spatially impaired, making every navigational mistake possible before discovering the eye institute. (I'd like to thank everybody on 24th street who didn't smash into us when I got suspended in the middle of the intersection for an ungodly amount of time: OUT-OF-TOWNER, STAY CLEAR.)

We got there. And then we waited.

And waited. I overheard the receptionist say that the minimum office visit took two hours. We were there for about four.

Further assessment was made. We were shuffled to another waiting room. Her eye was dialated again.

Zippy the retina specialist finally managed to take a look. (This guy is BUSY.) Yep, tears in the retina, retina starting to detach. He offered two options: an inpatient laser surgery, or an outpatient crynotherapy procedure. He thought the crynotherapy procedure might work and was worth a try.

They moved us to another room, another waiting area. A technician swabbed the area around my sister's eye and set a syringe, small metal tools and bottles on the nearby counter.

I stepped into the outer room when the specialist entered the room. The narrow door slid shut behind him.

Ack.

It didn't exactly look like a sterile environment. Did either of them even put on gloves? Was the counter wiped before she set the items on it? I mean, come on, they were going to be sticking a needle in my sister's eye; she's a medical professional, you can bet she's already done her own assessment and it was unlikely to provide even a small measure of comfort. At least the tip of the NEEDLE had a cap on it.

Moments later, Zippy emerged, "It gave us a bit of a problem but it should be all right." He continued walking while he said this. Despite the lack of eye contact, I was the only person in the area so I figured he was talking to me.

I slipped into the room. My sister was curled in a modified fetal position on the reclined chair, every fiber of her being cringing in pain.

Ack.

"I didn't expect it to hurt," she said.

Nobody mentioned the PAIN factor. Heck, it was a cyrnotherapy procedure; they were repeatedly putting in drops to numb her eye. No doubt the burning sensation was a bit of a shock. Apparently the location of the tears created a challenge and he had to use more force when he used the LASER.

I gave her some reiki and then the specialist returned to insert the needle with the gas bubble that would hopefully push her retina back into place.

Ack.

I finally got a chuckle and eye contact from Zippy when I leaned in to hear the directions for the eye drops. "Seven to nine drops three times a day?"

Did I mention that it was a really small room crammed with equipment that was making a loud vibrational noise?

"One drop, three times a day, for seven to ten days."

Oh.

I stuck to the interstate and main highway on the way home. She was in no shape to call out directions. We guzzled cold water and she pressed the bottle against her aching head.

Zippy had marked an arrow on her forehead as a reminder of how she needed to tilt her head for the next two days, aiding the gas bubble in finding the right spot to push the retina back into place.

Wow.

She is healing well. When she visited Zippy two days later he was surprised that she didn't look like a prize-fighter.

I think they're both pretty amazing.

Happy Endings: Story of a Doll Continued

I never named my doll. She was always the special doll that my mother made for me, a doll of elevated status from the beginning, reserved for display on a smooth bedspread or perched on a bookshelf.

My mother made dolls for my sisters and me when we were young girls. She followed a pattern that resulted in a modified version of the popular Raggedy Anne doll. The clothing and appendages varied for each doll: my oldest sister’s doll was blue, my middle sister’s doll was black, and mine was red.

Everything about this doll reminds me of my mother: the careful attention to detail expressed in each tiny stitch, the heart-shaped bow lips, the amused eyes that look to the side. I cherish this doll.

Like the traveling gnome in the movie AMELIE, my doll has been on an adventure. My sister had borrowed the doll, hoping to create her own version for her granddaughters (her own doll having long ago disintegrated) but finding little spare time for such endeavors. She returned the doll and I placed her in a storage container with other remnants of my childhood. The next time I looked, she was gone.

Maybe she was tired of her dark quarters and longed to be played with, hugged and carried from place to place. I’ll try to do better by her this time.

Thank you, whomever, for her safe return.

We're home.
We made it.

Three days later and I'm still recovering. My nerves are so frayed I could cry, but darn it, we're home. At least until we leave to visit relatives in parts more humid in a couple days.

Despite my efforts in the advance prep department, the last morning of the minor move turned chaotic as I cleaned several rooms amd ran errands at the same time. Which perhaps explains why I left the wrong cord for the phone and a drawer full of tea (in bags, not loose).

I also found myself engaged in a last minute battle with the cable company. The ball is in their court -- a complaint has been stated, a letter has been sent, another phone call will be made. It's unlikely heads will roll unless you count the spinning mine may have done when I realized they were not going to be true to their repeated word.

Next I challenged my grasp of sanity even further by trying to figure out why the antivirus software program I installed last month had expired. ARGH.

Wading through the self-help links is certainly a level of hell.

Thank goodness I finally stumbled across a way to resolve the problem (very likely the result of human error/oversight, very likely MINE), and, two hours later, we have a working software program.

The package I purchased had two separate programs, and, I suspect that after the initial downloading-installation-two-hour process, I foolishly assumed I was done. Ack.

In frenzied bursts of activity, I have been doing massive amounts of laundry, reorganizing cupboards and donating bags and bags of stuff while my husband rolls his eyes and takes care of more manly tasks.

My former colleague, mentor, life coach and part-time antagonist, River Pease, the comeback kid, performed his first gig post heart valve surgery. Three cheers for the Guitar Geezer, I hope a good time was had by all.