By the Numbers

Numbers are entrenched in my brain. My mind is constantly manipulating numbers that I see. License plates, highway signs, building addresses, time on the clock, all become math problems. Numbers are real, concrete things that my brain can relate to.

Driving down the road, numbers that I see fill my head. The exit sign for highways 287 and 820 becomes a math problem. I add 287 and 820 in my head. I calculate 1107. I glance down and read 5:23 on the clock. My mind thinks 5 divided into 23. The result is 4.6. Cars passing are not Chevys, Fords and Hondas. In my brain they are a series of license plate numbers. All of this is a secret dialog that goes on in my head. Before I speak, everything I say is translated back to the language of the real world. But what if one day my internal translator broke. How would Marty communicate with me?

“Veronica, it’s after 7. What time do we need to be at the theater?”
“6 3/7”
“OK, 7 times 6 is 42. 7 times 3/7 is 3. 42 plus 3 is 45. So, we need to be at the theater at 7:45.”
I nod my head. He helps me put my coat on and we step into the garage.

“My car is almost out of gas, but it’s a pretty night and your moon roof is broken. Which car do you want to take?”
“X25CBN”
“My car. All right, we’ll stop for gas on the way.”
He opens the passenger door of his car and I get in. We head down the road.

“Check the traffic on your phone’s navigation system. What is the best route to take?”
“2 ½”
“The choices are 360 and 820. 8 divided into 20 is 2 ½, so 820 must be the route.”
He has correctly translated my answer again.

Twenty minutes later, we approach the theater.
“Can you check the address of the theater? I can’t remember if it is 1530 or 1560 Main Street.”
“4”
“1560 it is. Here we are.”

He pulls into the theater parking lot and opens my door. I feel intense guilt for him having to translate everything I say. I blurt out.
“Why do you put up with me?”
“3”
Three? My mind races. What could he possibly mean? Then I think back to our dating days. We had a secret code of affection when we were around other people. When we held up three fingers, it stood for three little words.
I love you.

Christmas Letter

It isn’t even Christmas yet, and we have already received our gift. Marty got a job. A year ago, he decided to taper off from his contract work in Houston. He wanted to find a job nearby so he could be close to wife, kids and parents. He’s been looking all year and it’s been a long journey but, on December 14 he started a new job as an imbedded software designer in Fort Worth, Texas.

We started 2008 with great optimism. Marty had a few very strong job prospects in January and in April. Each time it seemed as if he had the job sewed up, then it mysteriously vaporized. Every morning he started his day by searching the online job listings and sending in applications. But after a few months, we decided there had to be more to his life than this.

He began purchasing self paced training modules for computer applications that he wanted to learn. He spent weeks learning C#, dsPic processors and Java. He also did some short term contract work. He worked two different times for Weatherford International. The first time he did firmware troubleshooting and the second time he did a Photoshop project. He also occasionally returned to Houston to work a few days.

The rest of the time he was at home. This turned out to be a really good thing. Over the course of a few months, our house required the fence mended, toilets reworked and the roof replaced. Every time, Marty was there to set appointments, greet the repairman and oversee the work. No need to schedule appointments on Saturday, go in late to work or take a vacation day, he was available to handle it.

I started depending on him to help get me ready for work every day. I tend to cut my time very close and I am always rushing in the morning: throwing some food together for my breakfast, feeding the dogs, grabbing all my stuff and running out the door. It started slowly as Marty took over feeding the dogs. But soon he was buttering toast for my breakfast, carrying my things to the car and sometimes even driving me to the carpool lot.

The other way that we took advantage of Marty’s increased free time was by taking three vacations. In April we visited “A” towns in Texas: Abilene, Amarillo, Arlington (Dr’s appointment) and Austin. One highlight was visiting my cousins, Laura and Terry Browder. Terry runs several outstanding, upscale guest houses in Abilene collectively called the Sayles Ranch. We took a second vacation in July to Illinois to attend the Hobson reunion. We rode in Marty’s car with Marty’s daughter, Carmen, her 1 year old, Julianna, and her 3 year old, Shane. Amazingly, we traveled well together. Carmen rode in the back seat between the two kids. She was occasionally awakened from a nap by a finger in her eye when Shane got bored, but otherwise she was ok. Our third vacation was in November to the Lost Maples in the Texas hill country.

Another class that Marty took was on writing and book publishing. I took the class also and was inspired to begin writing a blog. My blog inspired Marty to begin a website cancerreportdaily.com. It is a collection of late breaking news articles related to care, treatment and discoveries about cancer. He spent several weeks building a quality, easy-to-use website. He updates it once, or more, a day. Just about the time he got ready to roll out his website, he applied for one more job. Evidently this was the one that the Lord had been saving for him, because he was hired 10 days later.

We are both ecstatic. Marty is relieved to be earning a steady salary. He is excited to be at work again. Now we will have a little more leeway in our budget. We can begin saving again for car replacement and future retirement. Also, we both are looking forward to buying new shoes. There is just one drawback to this whole Marty job thing. Who’s going to pick up my dry cleaning?

Messy House

I have let this house intimidate me for too long. For too many years I have let perpetually growing grass and constantly accumulating dust strike fear in my heart. I’m not going to take its abuse anymore. I am going to fight back.

Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.

We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.

I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.

At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.

Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.

I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.

That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.

I’m going to clean out the garage.

The Name Game

My kids never knew how good they had it. They were allowed to like their middle names. I never called them by their middle names when they were in trouble. I didn’t name them after 8th century Greek poets. I didn’t saddle them with some quirky family name. I gave them nice, normal middle names.

I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.

What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.

I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.

I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.

The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.

My dad could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)

The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.

I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.

That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”

Fall Color-Vacation Day 3

For two days we had been looking forward to the fall color at the Lost Maples. We anticipated this being a restful day in which we could enjoy a refreshing ride through the natural beauty of the park. We would be completely immersed in the quiet sounds of nature. Our skillful snapping of pictures would ensure we had lasting souvenirs for our trip.

We arose at 5 am which is not a good time of day for me. I often rise early but Marty has learned the danger of attempting conversation with me in the early morning. After once or twice receiving a response worthy of a mother bear asked to part with one of her cubs, he learned to limit himself to a very short greeting first thing in the morning. He now knows a groggy stare and a limp wave is the best response he can expect.

So, even though I don’t enjoy rising at 5 am, I knew the park visit would be worth it. We showered and had our free breakfast at the hotel. Marty said that rain was predicted for the day. I was unconcerned. We once again headed down the straighter but longer highway 39 toward the park. It was dark when we left. As the sun slowly rose, we were able to see many deer in the fields next to the highway. We continued on with a few sprinkles on the windshield. We arrived at the park just minutes before the 8 am opening time.

We were very pleased to see that there were only 6 people in line. We quickly purchased our tickets and we hoped this was a good beginning to a good day. The park ranger in the office gave us a receipt to tape to the inside of the windshield. We got in the car. The previous day, we had to stop at the gate. Now we waved to the ranger at the gate and drove on through. We had been told there was a restroom just one mile into the park, so we headed there for our first stop.

After using the restroom we both wandered around the rest area taking pictures. It was a little difficult. The combination of the early morning light and the cloud cover meant that any pictures required a slow exposure on the camera. I have read of several techniques for holding your camera still without a tripod: brace the camera against your body or hold your breath. I was no good at either of these. I snapped a few pictures. They looked ok on my 1” x 1 ¼” camera monitor, so I decided not to worry. We returned to the car.

I noticed that the end of the parking lot did not appear to have an exit. I also saw people getting out of their cars and walking toward the trees. “Where do we drive the car?” I asked Marty. “I think we may have to walk,” he said. We consulted the map that we had received at the ranger station. “Maple Trail 0.8 miles, East Trail 4.6 miles, West Trail 4.9 miles,” I read. “What’s this area marked ‘steep’? I don’t think I’m up to walking very far with my bad back and I think it’s going to rain. We don’t want to get out too far.” Marty said. “Oh, come on!” I chided him. “Don’t wimp out on me. You can handle a short little walk in the woods.”

We decided to start out on the shorter Maple Trail. Marty’s camera does not have a lens cap, so because of the rain, he decided not to bring it. I thought about carrying his tripod for my camera, but it was really heavy, so I decided that I could do without it. As we started on the trail, it began to rain. We had left the umbrella in the car. Marty pulled his jean jacket over his head and I pulled my leather jacket over mine. We carefully walked on the large rocks that were slippery with wet, loose leaves.

The ranger told us that a few days ago; the leaves had reached their peak of color. Many of the leaves had fallen. They made a beautiful orange-red carpet on the ground. Occasionally there was a tree full of yellow leaves that made a nice contrast with the red maples. The maple trail climbed along the edge of a hill with stone steps leading up and over the hilly ground. The trail had been constructed with a wooden railing alongside the stone path. At intervals, there was a stone or wooden bench to rest on. Every direction we looked was like a perfect scene. As the rain slowly drizzled down, we were completely alone in the woods.

I snapped pictures all along the maple trail. The shutter speed was slow and I knew that the pictures might be blurry, but I would have beautiful blurs of color, if nothing else. We reached the end of the maple trail and it merged back into the east trail.

“Do you want to continue?” I asked Marty. “I’m not sure about that steep part of the trail. What do you think that means?” he said. “I’m sure it only lasts a short distance. We can handle 10 or 15 feet of difficult walking,” I replied. So, we continued on. Several people had joined our path from the east trail and we were no longer alone. The rain had stopped and Marty and I walked along together in the silence for about 20 minutes.

“How much further do we have to go?” I asked. Marty consulted the map. “I think we have a long way to go. We haven’t even reached the composting toilet yet.” We didn’t know what a composting toilet was, but it was one of the few landmarks on the map, so we were looking forward to reaching it. We continued walking. The path was mostly level, but it was rocky so we couldn’t walk very fast. Despite the fact that two younger couples passed us, I am sure it was the rocks that slowed us down. We were getting hungry, so we each ate the snack crackers we had put in our pockets earlier. Finally we reached the latrine, about ¼ of the way down the east trail. I decided to take advantage of the composting toilet, although after using it I still didn’t know what made it different from any other outhouse. We hurried on from there because we heard the voices of many school children behind us and they seemed to be getting closer.

After another 10 minutes walk, the path began a steady incline. A sign next to the path read Steep Trail next 1.5 miles. “Look,” said Marty, “here is where the steep part begins.” I said, “1.5 miles, it can’t be that far.” We started up the hill. The path was laid out like a stairway. Up ahead of me I saw about 25 steps. “I can do this I thought.” I didn’t want to embarrass Marty by speeding by him, so I let him get ahead. The steps turned out to be harder than I expected and halfway up, I was getting out of breath. It was then that I thought about the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for 3 years. The symptom that drove me to consult the doctor was getting breathless after one flight of stairs. Well at least I was almost to the top.

I was surprised when I reached the top. Instead of leveling out, the path turned and began an even steeper incline. The path was no longer laid out like stairs. It was more like those pictures of mountain goats in their natural habitat. Those pictures of steep mountainsides that always made me wonder, “How could any creature live there?”

Marty continued to stay ahead of me. It was not a matter of letting him be first, my breathing was so heavy I had to go slowly. How come this guy who has to walk carefully across the carpet lest he throw out his back, was leaving me in the dust on the rocky hillside? At least the sight of his back gave me a goal to shoot for. I kept thinking, “Just a little further. Just a little further.” Each time he turned a corner out of sight I would call out “Do you see the top?” “No, not yet,” was the continual reply. As I was huffing and puffing with every step, I heard a young couple coming up the path. They were laughing and talking and passed me quite easily. “Nice to be young,” I thought. Then an older Asian couple approached. I had to step aside as they rapidly ascended the hill.

“I see a bench,” Marty called from above. “See if you can make it.” I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I feared a stroke if I continued to push myself, but I did anyway. Finally I reached the bench. I sat down and took short, quick breaths. I rested there for about five minutes as two more couples passed us by. Then I saw a rotund young man coming up the hill. He looked a little out of breath. “Would you like to sit down?” Marty offered. The young man looked a little doubtful, then replied, “I guess I better.” We all sat there for a minute, then I said, “Let’s go.” I wanted to be faster than somebody.

We saw another young man coming down the hill. “How much further?” we said. “Not long” he said and he was right. We didn’t reach a summit where we could see below, but the terrain gradually flattened out. We walked on for a while and encountered several more people going in the opposite direction. As they passed us, it started to rain.

We pulled our jackets over our heads as it started to rain harder. We saw a large display with a map of the trail. “Looks like we are about halfway,” Marty said. “Halfway!” I moaned. I was wet and cold and my legs hurt. I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh on the trip up the mountain. Every time I took a step with my right leg, a pain shot through my hip. I had also twisted my left foot a little. When we stepped down to pause at a scenic overlook, I felt a pain in my left ankle. I took a picture of the view looking down the hill. The Guadalupe River was at the bottom and on the trail next to it, was another composting toilet.

We reached the descending part of the trail. Every step down caused a pain in my left ankle. It was not as steep as the trail up, but it was rockier. We had to concentrate on keeping our balance to prevent tumbling down the hill with the rocks. The descent down the hill was shorter and less dramatic. At least this time we had gravity on our side.

We got to the bottom of the hill and the other composting toilet. I didn’t need to go, but it was my landmark and I was glad I finally reached it. We paused to catch our breath and admire the view of the red leaved trees reflected in the river. After a few minutes I asked Marty, “Are you ready to go to the parking lot?” He started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I said. He showed me the map. We had another 1 ½ miles to walk.

We started back on the trail. The rain had stopped and there seemed to be people everywhere. Through my weary eyes, they all appeared to be more physically fit than me. We walked on until we came to the entrance of the west trail. I just looked at Marty and we kept walking.

We came to the parking lot, the overflow lot. It had about 20 cars in it. It was not the parking lot where our car was parked. We kept walking. We got to our parking lot. Our car was parked at the other end about ¼ mile away. We walked on. Finally we reached the car, opened the doors and collapsed inside.

This day had not been like we expected. The solitude of the park had turned out to be a crowded tourist attraction. The photo opportunity had turned out to be much less than perfect. The relaxing driving tour had turned out to be an exhausting climbing tour. Every time I stepped on either foot, I winced with pain. But, the maples were beautiful. The water in the river was crystal clear and there was no trash to be seen anywhere. Was all this rain and pain, frustration and exhaustion worth it? Absolutely.

Are We There Yet?-Vacation Day 2 (cont)

Beautiful fall color is what we were looking for. I had always dreamed of a vacation in New England in the fall. That trip was out of both our distance range and our price range. How exciting to discover that fall color was available here in Texas at the Lost Maples State Natural Area. The only question was whether Texas, known for its treeless flatlands and dusty landscapes, could live up to the hope of autumn beauty.

It was going to be a wonderful vacation. Our free hotel was only 35 miles from the Lost Maples. So even though the park campsites were full, we would be in a comfortable hotel just a half hour away. The isolation of the wilderness area would be a welcome change from our crowded city lives. My life had been so stressful lately that I was looking forward to a restful drive through the brilliant red maple trees. Marty and I both are avid, though inexperienced, photographers and this would be a perfect photo opportunity.

We arrived at our Kerrville hotel Sunday afternoon. We had just been refreshed with a delicious meal at Po Po Family Restaurant. (Marty, the picky eater, said it was the best turkey dinner he ever had.) We decided to take a preview drive to the Lost Maples park.

We headed south out of Kerrville on highway 16. Even though Kerrville was not a big town, there seemed to be a lot of smaller communities on the outskirts. It took 30 minutes to reach the next turnoff. Highway 337 was two lane and very slow going. It was mostly cut out of the side of a hill. It didn’t help our confidence that the road was liberally sprinkled with signs proclaiming “Falling Rock.” By the time we reached the park, an hour and a half had elapsed. Those 35 miles from hotel to park could only be as the crow, or perhaps the helicopter, flies.

We finally made it. Now all we had to do was decide if it was worth the $6 a piece admission fee to go in the park for just an hour of daylight. It would be helpful to drive around inside the park and scout out any good picture taking locations. We took the turnoff for the park and immediately encountered a problem.

The Ranger’s station was in the middle of a 1/10 mile drive that contained a loop around and a small parking lot. There were dozens of cars competing for about 10 parking spaces. Before we could park, we noticed a line of people extending 50 feet from the Ranger’s office. Many cars had parked along the roadway and we were able to get in one of the few available parking spaces near the office. We got out of the car and went to the end of the line. After standing in line for 10 minutes, we had only moved a few feet. We checked the sign for the park hours. It was getting near the 5 pm closing time. We decided to return the next morning when it opened at 8 am.

We decided to return to our hotel by another route. Highway 187 was a hilly, but straight road and we were able to travel at 60 mph. Then we turned on to highway 39 which wound along beside the Guadalupe River. There were many resorts dotted along the route. They were obviously built to take advantage of the beautiful views of the river and the trees. However, the crooked road and the one lane bridges slowed us down quite a bit. It was an hour and 10 minutes after we left the park before we returned to the hotel. The second route was faster than the first, barely.

After arriving at our hotel, we modestly dined on homemade turkey sandwiches, canned soda from the cooler and chips purchased from the local grocery store. We went to bed early and dreamed of a beautiful, relaxing day driving past groves of trees covered in red and yellow leaves, stopping occasionally to leave the car to take a breathtaking photograph.

What's for Lunch? - Vacation Day 2

Day 2 of vacation was Sunday. We visited a local church and then we hit the road. The vacation plan was to spend one night (Saturday) in San Antonio then spend the next two nights near the Lost Maples. The nearest hotel that we could find was Kerrville. So Sunday’s goal was to drive from San Antonio to Kerrville.

Our hotel in San Antonio was on the west side of town. It was a simple path, straight up Interstate 10 to our destination. We needed to get lunch on the way. There were plenty of eating establishments along I-10 on the way out of San Antonio. Finding a suitable restaurant would be simple, I hoped.

Maybe I had better explain about Marty and food. Before Marty will consider eating any food, it has to meet certain criteria. It has to be of the right age, ancestry, culture and species. Any food that is older than 24 hours is not fit for his consumption. Leftovers are definitely out. The proper ancestry means that if he ever had a bad meal somewhere, he can never trust them again. (There were a few times I feared that he would never eat my cooking again.) Culture means that any kind of Mexican food is acceptable. Species means that any type of seafood is not.

We started down I-10. We quickly passed by several choices of fast food. Hamburgers, chicken nuggets or sub sandwiches just didn’t sound good. Marty was craving his favorite meal of turkey and dressing. I like turkey fine, once or twice a year, but Marty loves it. I think if I cooked him a turkey with dressing every week he would be blissful, as long as I didn’t serve it again the next day. (Do you know where I can buy a two serving turkey?) However, if I cooked a turkey on Sunday, prepared turkey sandwiches on Monday, baked turkey pot pie on Tuesday and prepared turkey stew on Wednesday, he would be perfectly content. Does this make any sense to you?

I, however, am a little more adventuresome when it comes to food. I like to try something different now and then, especially on vacation. Why should I spend hours in the car, traveling hundreds of miles, to eat the same burrito that I could have eaten six blocks from my house? Vacations are meant for a change of pace. A vacation is a chance to try something you can’t get at home.

So, we are cruising down I-10 at 60 mph. I suggest that we eat barbecue. No. Marty is not in the mood for that. He doesn’t have to have turkey, but barbecue just doesn’t sound right. I spot a Chinese restaurant. No. His stomach can’t handle Chinese today. We continue along in silence. Twenty minutes pass and the restaurants are becoming sparse.

Marty sees a good prospect. “Cracker Barrel! They have turkey and dressing,” he sings gleefully. That sounds very conventional to me, but I am starting to get a low blood sugar headache. “OK, Honey. We can eat at Cracker Barrel. How are you going to get there?” He had noticed the restaurant after we passed the exit. “I’ll take the next exit and we’ll circle back.” We are now traveling away from Cracker Barrel at 60 mph.

We long ago passed the city limits. The exits are widely spaced now. We go a mile down the road. No exit. We continue for two miles, three miles. Finally after about four miles we spot an exit. He starts to take it. “No,” I say. “It’s too far. We shouldn’t go back. We need to keep going forward.” He keeps driving. He’s disappointed about missing his turkey lunch and I have a headache. We need to find something soon.

I notice a billboard. “Po Po Family Restaurant 20 miles. That sounds good.” “I don’t want to eat at a Poo Poo restaurant,” he replies. I am silent. Maybe something better will turn up. We keep driving. My headache is getting worse.

Twenty minutes later we have passed no restaurants. It’s about 50 miles to Kerrville and there are no prospects for lunch in between. I see another sign. “Po Po Family Restaurant next exit. Take it, Marty.” He groans. “Do you know what kind of sanitation they have in places like that? They are probably afraid for the health department to visit because they will be shut down.” “Take the exit,” the woman with a headache says in a menacing growl. He takes the exit.

The city limit sign reads Welfare, Texas. “Great,” he says. “We are in the poor part of town. This is going to be some cheap, sleazy restaurant.” He follows the signs down the road and we eventually pull up to a restaurant with dozens of cars crowded outside. I try to offer encouragement. “The place seems to be popular.” We get out of the car.

As we walk up we see EATS in neon over the door. “Classy,” he mutters. We step inside and see that the walls are covered with souvenir plates. Directly above the hostess stand we notice an interesting combination of plates: Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and Pope John Paul II. The hostess takes us to a table.
What will we eat? It is a difficult question since Marty and I always share a meal. How can we take care of my headache and please his picky stomach? The waitress makes a suggestion. “You might want to try our special of the day. It was made fresh this morning. Do you like turkey and dressing?”

I Can't Go - Vacation Day 1

I can’t take a vacation now. First of all, Marty and I don’t have the funds. We are on a tight budget this year. Secondly, I hate to burn up more vacation time. I’ve taken more vacation days this year than I did by this same time last year. Thirdly, I’ve been feeling very irritable lately. I hate to subject Marty to four days of being locked in a car with me.

So, why am I on vacation? We found a way to do it cheaply. Marty has lots of hotel points, so we get to stay for free. We are visiting the Lost Maples in Texas, so we aren’t spending much money on travel. We have set ourselves a food budget of $25 per day. The hotel provides free breakfast. We brought groceries for a picnic at one meal per day. That leaves $25 for the entrée that we share at lunch. That takes care of the first excuse.

I have used 10 vacation days this year. That may be more than last year, but I still have 18 days of vacation left. I could save it for later, but I have been under a lot of stress lately. I need to get away. Excuse #2 is gone. Marty says he wants to go on vacation with me. If he is willing to take his chances with a fussy wife, who am I to stop him? Marty overrules excuse #3.

So, on Saturday we drove from Arlington to San Antonio. Our first desire on our vacation was to enjoy some delicious kolaches in West, Texas. I consulted the GPS on my phone to see how far it was to West. The GPS could not understand my request. “Please fill in all required fields.” It seemed to be asking, “West what?” I decided to try entering the name of the restaurant. I knew phonetically the name was the Check Stop. How do you spell that? Is it C-h-Z-ech? C-z-H-ech? Neither of those seemed to work. The GPS is no good at guessing what I mean. Then I remembered I could use the web connection on my phone and do a Google search. I found it. The restaurant was the Czech Stop and it was 44 miles away. When we arrived, I chose a sausage and cheese kolache and a strawberry cream cheese kolache. Marty paid for it all out of his spending money.

The drive to San Antonio took about 5 ½ hours. Marty drove. He has a herniated disc in his back and it often causes a nerve in his knee to react. Several times while driving, he winced as it sent a shock through his leg. He also had pain in his shoulders from gripping the steering wheel. Once or twice I was startled by a loud noise. “What was that?” I asked Marty. “You were snoring,” he said.

Driving to our hotel in San Antonio I noticed the Magic Time Machine. It’s a restaurant where all of the wait staff dress up in costume and pretend to take on the character they are dressed as. I remember having a great meal there almost 30 years ago. I told Marty that I really wanted to go. We decided to check into our hotel and come back.

We returned to the Magic Time Machine about 3 pm. The restaurant was almost deserted. Pocahontas, in an outfit that was too short and too tight to be authentic, showed us to our table. There we were greeted by Robin Hood in a pair of green tights.

Marty shared the filet mignon that I begged for and even agreed to bread pudding for dessert. (He hates it.) He was very good natured as the waiter returned frequently and made bad jokes in an effort to flirt with me. (I’m sure that flirting with middle aged women is part of Robin Hood’s job description.) Marty only flinched a little when the bill was $15 over our entire daily food budget.

Taking a vacation was a good idea. Excuse #3 turned out not to be a problem and Marty gets an A+ in grouchy wife handling.

My Furry Family

Have I mentioned that I have four dogs? I had three. Then I acquired a step-dog through marriage. They range in age from seven to eleven years. Their temperaments vary from gullible to hyperactive. Their colors are black, white, gray and brown.

Rusty is the brown dog. He is the oldest and the biggest. He is the gullible one. My husband, Marty, says that Rusty has only two brain cells. This makes it difficult for Rusty to do two things at once, like figure out that he’s in the rain AND come in out of it. When I first got him, I bought him toys. He did not understand the concept. I could stand in the yard all day and throw a tennis ball and he would just sit there and look at me.

I think the chances of having a good nature are inversely proportional to intelligence. That makes Rusty with his two brain cells, one of the sweetest creatures on the planet. (Hmm I'm fairly intelligent. Does that make me a ... Never mind!) All Rusty wants to do is to be close to the people that he loves. That would be wonderful except for the way that he expresses his love: with a slobbery, wet tongue. Eeeeewwww! Few people can tolerate being licked by this dog. It’s like being slimed by and alien. You feel like your whole body is contaminated and you need to immediately take a shower.

Dashell is the gray dog. His ambition is to be the big dog. He knows that a softy like Rusty cannot last as king forever and he is always bucking for promotion. He’s like one of those nauseating yes-men that you see in the movies. He constantly hangs around me hyperactively flitting back and forth. “Are you going to the kitchen? I’ll come and protect you,” he seems to say. “Do you need a dog to pet? Here I am.” I can be in the office on the computer with Dashell sound asleep on the floor. If I turn in my chair to get up, he leaps to all fours, instantly awake. “Where are you going? Do you need a dog to go with you?”

Dashell’s most distinctive characteristic is that he is jealous. If I want Dashell to come quickly I can start talking to one of the other dogs. “Good boy, Rusty,” I say. Like a flash, Dashell is there, trying to wedge his very long Italian Greyhound nose between me and Rusty. If I am laying in bed and I reach out my hand to pet Rusty, I can be assured that the touch of Rusty’s head under my hand will quickly be followed by the feel of Dashell’s back on my arm as he pushes between me and Rusty.

Maxine is the white dog. She is part Husky. She has a very thick, soft fur coat. Maybe that’s why the boys love her. When they try to romance her, she is merely annoyed. She looks like Greta Garbo laying around in her fur saying, “I vant to be alone.”

If Rusty is the king, Maxine is his queen. She is the only toy that Rusty understands. He doesn’t know how to catch a ball, fetch a stick or even tug on a rope, but he loves to play with Maxine. They will side bump each other and start mock growling. Rusty will get down on his two front paws in the “Let’s play” position. They rush at each other and playfully chew on each other. When they are done they each have a wet, sticky head.


Pancho is the black dog. In this pack, he is the one who marches to a different drummer. Pancho came into the family with Marty. He has adjusted fairly well for someone who comes from a one dog family. (I’m talking about Pancho, not Marty.) All of the other dogs tend to do things alike. When I come home, they all go outside. Pancho stays on his blanket. When I roll over in the morning, they all wake up. Pancho stays under the covers.

Pancho takes after me. (I know he can’t really. He’s only my step-dog.) Life under the covers is snug and warm. Why would anybody want to leave? So, when it’s time to get up, I have to take drastic measures. I pull the covers off of Pancho. I nudge him with my foot. Once he gets out the bedroom door, he may veer off to the bathroom or Marty’s office. I get between him and his goal. When he sees that I have blocked his escape route, he scurries on his short, little, Chihuahua legs down the stairs and out the back door. He looks like an exposed rat running out of the pantry.

That’s our blended family. When people ask Marty what kind of dogs we have, he says, “one of each.”

I Was Lost, but My GPS Found Me

Aren't those global positioning systems (GPS) great? It's so comforting to know if I have my GPS navigation system, I will never be lost. My GPS will always know exactly where I am. Unlike friends in the car who might be back seat drivers, it never nags me about going the wrong way. Like a patient teacher, GPS guides me through the confusing maze of streets and highways. My GPS will always be there for me.

My first experience with GPS was last year when I rented a car. My husband, Marty, had thrown out his back while working in Houston and I drove down to rescue him. A GPS system was a free benefit with the rental car. Driving down the same highway for three hours, the peaceful silence was abruptly broken when the GPS system advised "Continue on I-45." I jerked so hard, I nearly drove off the road. So much for being comforted.

Marty and I each got a new phone this summer that came with a built in navigation system. Our first test of the phone's GPS was on a summer vacation we took with his daughter and two grandkids to a family reunion in Illinois. Every time the kids got restless, I pulled out my phone and looked up the nearest McDonald's playground. When it was close to dinner time, I used the phone's GPS to research the nearest restaurants.

I loved my new phone. Yet for some unexplained reason, we would just be driving down the highway and the phone GPS would decide that we were out in the middle of the field. "You are now off track" it would announce. Driving down the highway for miles, the phone continued to display our position 500 feet off to the right. Watching the monitor, it appeared that we were joy riding through the fields, bent on the destruction of some poor farmer's corn crop. I guess my GPS doesn't always know "exactly" where I am.

Sometimes Marty and I decide that we will take our own route. We leave the GPS system on as a back up in case we get into trouble. We decide the route that we want and the GPS decides the route that it wants. Everything is fine until the GPS realizes that we are not taking its advice. "You are now off track" it warns. Like disobedient children we continue taking our own path. "You are now off track" it reminds again. It continues warning until it realizes the depth of our defiance. Finally, like a weary parent, it gives in. "Recalculating route." Sometimes we change our minds several times along the way. "Recalculating route" it says each time. "Oh stop nagging me!" I yell and in disgust, I turn it off.

Despite my impatience with it, the GPS system is very impartial and patient with me. It carefully directs me. "Turn left in 1.2 miles." or "Merge on to highway 121." then "Make slight right turn on to access road." or even "Follow left bend in road." However, the system seems to think that I am incapable of seeing the road ahead of me. It talks to me as if guiding a blind man. I imagine that if I were in San Francisco driving down Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, it would feel compelled to say "Veer left. Veer right. Veer left. Veer right..."

Often I have driven among the tall buildings downtown. I was so grateful to have my GPS to guide me through the confusion of dense traffic and one way streets. Then I realize that I haven't heard anything from my GPS system lately. I have to know which way to go. The cars are pressing all around me. I fear my turn is coming up soon. I reach over to my faithful GPS. Why isn't it advising me? I pick it up and read the display. "Your GPS signal is weak."

Life on the Edge

Why am I always "just in time"? No matter where I go: meetings, carpool, classes, or even social occasions, I arrive at the last possible moment. I slide into a chair just as the speaker stands up to talk. I drive into the carpool lot just as my quartz watch ticks to the appointed minute. I step my way carefully past strangers' toes in the dark to my cushy theater seat just as the previews begin playing. What's wrong with being early? Why can't I arrive for every appointment 5 minutes early instead of 5 minutes late?

I think that I am following a great family tradition. My mother was late everywhere. I never realized how common place and widely known this was until a recent conversation with my cousin. When we were kids, her family and mine got together for dinner and cards on an almost weekly basis. We saw each other for Christmas and family reunions. "We always had to tell your mom to come an hour earlier than everyone else. That way we knew that she would be on time." Wow! I never knew that. I guess that left me predisposed to be late.

Over the years I have made concerted efforts to improve my "on time" record. In the past I used to always be 20 minutes late, now it is often only 2. I used to hit the snooze on my alarm clock for 45 minutes, now it is only 10. I used to never, ever get up early for absolutely anything. Now three times a week I swim laps only minutes after rising from bed at 5 AM. (OK. OK. I don't really get up until 5:05 AM.) Even though I have improved, I just cannot seem to defeat this bad habit.

What is it that causes me to be late? What is the great temptation here? I think it is the desire to squeeze just one more thing out of the limited time that I am given. I sleep 10 minutes later because no matter what time I get up, I end up being 2 minutes late. As I am getting ready, I look at the clock to see how I'm doing. If I'm running late, I leave something out. If I'm 5 minutes late, I eat my breakfast in the car instead of at home. Ten minutes late: breakfast in the car, and put makeup on while I'm driving. Fifteen minutes late: breakfast in the car, makeup on while driving, and I skip giving the dogs their medicine. Twenty minutes late: breakfast in car, makeup while driving, no dog medicine, and I don't shave my legs. The problem with this system is that after a few late days, my husband is stuck with sick dogs and an ugly, hungry, hairy wife. That probably explains why he tries to help me.

My poor husband, Marty. He is the type to be early everywhere. If we have to be at church 15 minutes early, he gets up an hour early. If we're going to a new place, he leaves 30 minutes early. Worse yet, he drives to the appointment the night before just so he knows the correct route so he can be on time (early) the next day. How could two such mismatched people ever end up married?

So, by some cruel twist this guy who will gladly sit in the parking lot for 30 minutes before an appointment (just to be sure he is on time) ends up running around the house every morning trying to get his wife off to work on time. I like to have a scrambled egg and toast for breakfast. Marty began to notice that I was running late every morning, so he offered to butter my toast. Then he noticed that I was rushing out the door, so he started carrying my purse and my briefcase to the car. This morning as I was drying my hair (5 minutes late) he got my shoes out of the closet and set them by my clothes. Sometimes he even drives me to the carpool lot so that I can eat my breakfast, apply my makeup and put on my shoes, all while riding in the car.

Maybe I'm just a drama queen. Maybe I secretly enjoy the daily adrenalin rush of trying to get out the door on time. I just know that if I ever ask Marty to buy an RV so that I can shower while he drives me to work, I'll know I've gone too far.

Vaccinations

My office mate took her baby to the doctor today for his six month checkup. He received the standard inoculations for his age. His mommy said that he cried just like the last time he got shots, but this time was better in one way. She didn't cry.

It reminds me of other visits to the doctor for shots. When I went for shots as a kid, they lied to me. "This won't hurt a bit." So I trustingly offered up my tender little arm and the nurse pierced me with a six inch instrument of torture. "Ow! That did too hurt!" I learned never to trust my mom when it came to describing pain. She was a nurse herself and any injury less than a compound fracture required no more treatment than an aspirin. Sympathy was not one of the medicines that she dispensed.

I decided that I would do better than my mom. I would always be honest with my child. The first trip to the doctor for vaccines, I told him "Son, the nurse is going to give you a shot. It is going to hurt, but you will be OK." My wide eyed son took one look at the nurse approaching him with a needle and screamed. "Don't hurt me! I don't want a shot!" And he ran to the corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. I dragged him out and tried to convince him that he would feel the least pain if he would be still and cooperate. He wasn't buying it. I ended up holding him down with his arm twisted behind his back while the nurse gave him the shot. So much for honesty.