We live in your basic 1980s desert bungalow with lots of white oak cabinets. While the cupboards really are oak, they are not actually white. The finish is an off-white color, with faint ribbons of medium brown revealing some of the grain in the wood. There's another name for this finish but it escapes me right now-- is it 'distressed'? No, that would be me. Is it 'antiqued'? Perhaps. Maybe it's 'pickled'? Now there's a thought.

I’ve never been a fan of light or blond wood finishes, but my appreciation has changed over time. My parents married in 1950 and acquired the popular furniture of the era: limed oak. Every Saturday morning I dusted a limed oak bedroom set, I ate every meal from a limed oak dinette set; a limed oak coffee table and end table set were key pieces in the lounge area of the basement in the family home.

When we moved to the desert I discovered that 1) white oak helps keep our house from feeling like a cave, and 2) it doesn’t show the dust, and the one thing you can count on in the desert is dust, lots of it.

As our 1980s appliances began to cough and sputter, we replaced beige with beige, or rather, almond with bisque.

This was possibly a mistake.

Our refrigerator surrendered while we were living three hours away from home. We selected a logical replacement during a whirlwind weekend visit. We were more concerned about immediate need than kitchen trends or resale down the road. We have a colorful kitchen and beige appliances fit the color scheme well. Besides, the new stainless steel surfaces showed every fingerprint and scratch and it wasn't my goal in life to spend more time cleaning.

When our water billed doubled last month we determined that the most likely culprit was the dishwasher with its erratic, prolonged wash cycles. The sales clerk warned us, twice, 'I did mention that we're going to be discontinuing bisque?'

Yes, point noted. You have succeeded in making it blindingly apparent that we are putting an outmoded color of appliance in our home. We acknowledge that our fears have come true, we are locked into the beige equivalent of the 1970s avocado or goldenrod kitchen. And, for the most part, we're okay with that in this moment.

Please refrain from telling us about the new uber stainless steel products that are easy to clean and scratch-resistant, we're clinging to a teetering fantasy of a copper-look sink and backsplash accents.

The impending extinction of bisque appliances has us debating what to do about the stove, a built-in with very few replacement options. And then we're going to discuss countertops, or maybe not.

When I first attempted to register for a domain I discovered that ‘Patrice Coleman’ was already taken. I plugged in my middle initial, a hinge on the teeter-totter, seven letters on each side.

Shorter probably would have been better. People have been misspelling and mispronouncing my name most of my adult life, something that didn’t happen back in the days of Patty/Patti or PJ.

Whenever I put in a search for my website the first thing to pop up is a listing for award-winning make-up artist Patrice Coleman. Recently when I typed in my full name a prompt appeared: Did you mean Patrice G. Coleman?

No, as a matter of fact, I did not. Which is why I typed ‘J.’

Clearly my alter ego is much more cyber savvy. I bet she knows how to load photos on a text page, and I bet the hair and make-up is fabulous (I checked--she is gorgeous). Perhaps we can form an alliance? Or start a club?

Just in case you were concerned, I’m aware that there is no photo on the main page of my website right now. Or rather, there is a distinct missing photo box.

Think of it as a work in progress, like pretty much everything else on the website, or a ritual signaling that I am once again engaged in a battle of html code.

As you might expect, the code is winning, and not much fiction is being written.

I’m contemplating a fresh start with a new program a friend recommended. We’ll see.

Or not.

First I bought the helmet. It was cheaper than a bike but a good indicator of intent.

Then our discussions turned to all things 'bicycle' as my husband began his research process.

I wanted to keep it simple: women's or universal model, upright riding position, zero speeds.

The last time I had a bike, Reagan was president and I was a college student. I was never comfortable with the hunched over racing bike model and I found shifting overwheming--10 speeds, golly.

This time around I wanted something more like the three-speed I'd once had or, better yet, my big sister's blue bike. I covered a lot of miles with that thing; it was sturdy and reliable and second nature to use the pedals for braking.

Now I've got a hybrid with 21, count 'em, 21 speeds.

As I meander through the streets of our little bedroom community I hum the refrain from "Our House" by Crosby, Stills, & Nash.

I asked my husband if he thought this might be my mid-life crisis. His response, "Knowing you, that's about right."

It's o-kay. The missing email account has been found. Turns out it was right there all along, which explains some odd double vision encounters.

Still, after I convinced Nathan at the helpsite that I was indeed who I claimed to be (I couldn't remember the correct answer to my security question--the question threw me more than the possible answer), he led me to a simple step which I had tried before.

In my defense, yes, the pathway had been changed and yes, they had also changed the heading/folder for my address. Still, I should have been able to figure this out.

D'oh.

What a relief to gain access and find the email I'd been missing this past week.

My business email has been hijacked.

Maybe.

It isn’t as dire as it may sound.

At least I certainly hope it isn’t.

I’d been receiving emails from my webhost provider about changes and I either 1) misread the content, or 2) they’re in a beta stage and matters are completely out of my hands, other than the distinct possibility of changing webhost providers.

Readers know from the opening of Garth Stein's The Art of Racing in the Rain that the narrator, Enzo, is probably going to break their hearts, but it's a wonderful book. That Enzo is a dog who bemoans his lack of opposable thumbs and aspires to be human in his next life merely makes the book that much more poignant as Enzo reflects on his life with Danny, Eve and Zoe. The metaphor of racing holds up well throughout the book, Danny drives race cars and excels in part because he knows how to drive in the rain. Enzo's observations on the human race still resonate with me weeks after finishing the novel.

Enzo's biggest lesson for me was the reminder not to interrupt people when they are talking, a nasty habit I developed in my first full-time teaching position where I learned you had to jump right in there if you were going to get your point across--and this was with the faculty, not the students. Enzo vows that if he is lucky enough to be human in his next life, he will "listen to people rather than steal their stories" (102).

Doug Fine's Farewell, My Subaru: An Epic Adventure in Local Living, chronicles the experiences of the author, an east coast journalist who buys a ranch outside Silver City, New Mexico and attempts to reduce his carbon footprint by going green. It's an interesting book but the author's tone, even when he is laughing at his own stupidity or arrogance, can be annoying at times. His little political jabs seem dated, no matter how valid. Still, it's fascinating to see just how much effort it takes for him to make key changes in fuel, energy, and food choices, and how doing so enriches his life.

Curious about what the #1 song was on key dates in your life?

Well, wait no longer, but be forewarned, instead of finding a tune that captured the hearts and minds of a generation, you just might discover that the #1 song on the date of your birth was "Itsy Bitsy Tennie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini."

I was hoping for something with a bit more, shall we say, substance, class, or musicality.

At least it's memorable, thanks in part to a yogurt ad campaign, and it is sort of a catchy tune.

"She wore an . . ."

Maureen McCormick’s memoir, Here’s the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice, ensures that no one will look at the actor or the character of ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia’ fame quite the same way ever, ever again.

To those of us who grew up watching the Brady Bunch, those cool kids blazing a trail for blended families from 1969-1974, Marcia was the beautiful eldest daughter who led a charmed life. If you want to hang on to those illusions, don’t read the book.

Growing up is a difficult process for anyone, but child stars grapple with their own unique set of challenges. They are showered with attention and criticism before they have the skills and maturity to know how to cope. Audiences seem to expect them to remain that adorable child for all eternity and it can be a daunting task to shed the earlier public identity and move on to a productive adult life—and those are the kids who didn’t expect to go insane from a secret family medical history.

Brady fans may be disappointed that there isn’t more Brady trivia but those relationships forged on the sit-com seem to have remained a source of stability throughout McCormick's life.

Maureen’s story is full of pain and anguish, including, but not limited to, drug addiction, disordered eating, untreated depression, and hoarding. The woman is a survivor, and she credits her husband and her faith in helping her persevere.

Help seems a long time in coming, but that’s life, her life. I probably didn’t need to know about every serious relationship or quite so many intimate details about her life choices and marriage, but she earned my empathy and I can only wish her happiness and peace of mind.