Maui: Paradise, But Not for the Reason You Think

I arrived yesterday afternoon in Maui. Paradise. Not because of the ocean, which I haven't been to yet, even though it's mere steps away from my hotel room. Not because of the view, which is spectacular. Not because of the succulent fruit and fresh fish, which are delicious. Why, then?

Because I'm with others of my ilk! I'm at the Maui Writers Conference (MWC), one of the few places I ever go where I don't feel like a freak for taking a book with me everywhere I go, or packing two mysteries, the one I'm currently reading and a spare in case I finish it before I head back, even though I know I'll buy a couple more in the MWC bookstore because I'll hear an author I like and can't resist buying one of his or her books.

One year, Catherine Coulter was a speaker. I'd never read any of her books. She was a history major and she writes very well-researched historical romance novels, and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, current-day FBI thrillers. She was funny and warm. She said she wrote one book in first person as a man but she won't do that again. "He had a problem and got frustrated and I had him eating chocolate and calling a friend and my husband said, 'No, no no!,'" she said. Her seminar on writing sex scenes had all of us rolling on the floor (with laughter, not acting out the scenes). I ran into her in the bookstore, told her how much I'd enjoyed her but that I wasn't a romance novel reader. She suggested that I read her FBI series -- I've since read every one -- and she picked up two of her romance novels and said I should read them too, because one was funny and the other was....well, I can't remember why she said to read that one, but I did read those two and she was right. I took back an armload of her books, fortunately all in paperback.

Today I went to lunch at our hotel out by the pool and nearly every table was occupied by just one person, reading. The veranda also was occupied this afternoon by single souls scattered about, all reading. Even a couple weren't talking but were reading, side by side. My kind of book nerds!

The conference officially starts tomorrow but most of us come early to snag 10-minute consultations (at $40 apiece) with noted agents and editors, which is quite a process in itself. The conference creators have refined the procedures over the 15 years that the conference has been going on, so it's pretty painless now, compared with the first time I attended several years ago when we stood in line for what seemed like a long, tedious time.

This evening I just happened to bumble into the area where the authors and presenters were gathering for a group photo. I stuck around and chatted up the photographer. A few minutes later, they descended in a swarm, smiled pretty for the camera and disbanded, all within about five minutes. I saw John Saul, always a conference favorite, talking with John Lescroart, one of the featured speakers, one of whose books I'm reading now, coincidentally, and brought with me. I didn't even realize Lescroart would be here. Very cool! Maybe I'll have him sign his book that I'm reading. And one of my goals is to find out how to pronounce his last name.

The time difference between Maui and Maryland is six hours. It's 9:00 p.m. local time, which is 3:00 a.m. body time, as I call it. I'm going to bed now (those of you who know me must be quite shocked) so I can plunge in to the big doings tomorrow revived and refreshed.

I may or may not make it to the ocean. Stay tuned.

Cougars vs. Kittens: A Meow-Fest

I'm not proud of this. I am watching NBC's summer reality frolic "Age of Love." It pits women in their 20s -- aka "kittens" -- against women in their 40s -- aka "cougars" -- as they all compete for the affections of Australian tennis star (and hunk, if you like that type) Mark Philippoussis, who's 31. The goal is a long-term relationship, possibly a marriage proposal. (Notice I said marriage proposal, not marriage.)

Oh brother!

I watched the very first episode a few weeks ago and I spent much of the hour shaking my head. Dumb, dumb, dumb. A total waste of time. Don't encourage them by boosting the ratings. Etc. But what the heck, it's summer! It's supposed to be fun. So now if I miss an episode on a Monday night, I stream the video on nbc.com. My only objection to the way NBC.com does that is that they play the very same commercial on every break! Geez, at least have different commercials for the same product. It's a waste to beat us over the head with the same one four times in the hour, no matter how good it is.

They started out with six cougars and six kittens. As of the end of tonight's episode, there are two left of each, kittens and cougars. I think they're all about as selfish, self-centered and immature as high school girls. They're all in it for themselves. They could care less whether they're right for the guy or he's right for them. They are competitive, bitchy and jealous. They just want to win whatever the prize is, and it's Mark.

The girls are great specimens of the best of their age groups. Flat stomachs, no discernable cellulite, smooth faces, bright teeth. But the backbiting is rampant. I think it's sad. I think the whole thing, the whole premise is shallow, counterproductive and demeaning not only to the participants but to the whole concept of real love. There's just no real love when a guy is dating 12 women, or, now, 4 women. He's been kissing and caressing all of them since there were 8. Even at the end, there will be 2. So Mark will be deep-kissing and running the bases (no proof but c'mon!) with both of the finalists until the moment he sends one of them home and then turns to the winner and says, "I love you" or "Will you marry me?" or "I'm serious about you."

Mark seems like a nice guy: considerate, sincere and well-meaning. He gets rid of anyone he perceives as playing games or backstabbing one of the other gals. Good for him! But Mark, you poor sweet sap, some of the women (two in particular) are running their manipulative games on you and you are falling for them. Being good at playing the guy game is not the same as being a good partner.

It's the meowing and manipulating, pouting and crying, and kissing and stroking that make for good television. Mary, the kitten who was sent home last week, was the best. She cried and wailed through most of the last two or three episodes and then walked away basically saying, "Well, at least I have my dignity." Gotta love it.

So why do I watch? I semi-secretly enjoy one guilty reality TV pleasure at a time. One summer it was "Big Brother." Didn't go back. This past fall it was "The Amazing Race," which was probably the best of the reality shows. The funniest was "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance." I never got into "American Idol." Loved "Dancing with the Stars" once I started watching it. "America's Got Talent" is hilarious and touching.

I could be watching PBS or the History Channel or reading a book or learning the piano or Spanish. Yeah, well...maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, if I could write the ending of "Age of Love," I'd have the Australian tennis star pick a cougar, with both of them knowing they'd end up good friends, and then after the show's over, he could go out into the real world and find a real, genuine love. I'd make a lousy TV program manager, wouldn't I?

IRL vs. NASCAR -- Give Me NASCAR!!

A wonderful friend of mine had an extra ticket for the Sun Trust Indy Challenge at Richmond (VA) International Raceway a couple of weeks ago and asked if I'd like to go. She'd pay for the ticket if I'd drive since she doesn't have or need a car as a Georgetown resident. Good deal for both of us.

Now I'm a NASCAR fan, have been since way before NASCAR was cool. It wasn't easy being a NASCAR fan when I lived in New York City, where the few folks who knew what NASCAR was would look at me like I'd just drunk out of the finger bowl. But that didn't bother me. I wore my red and black Dale Earnhardt (Sr.) windbreaker with pride, right out there on the streets of Manhattan. Nobody ever beat me up and a few would high-five me, even if just with their eyes. Out-of-towners, no doubt.

I don't even follow the Indy Racing League (IRL), never have. Though I did study up for this race by watching the Indy race the week before on TV. Who knows why, but the stock car races have always sucked me in, whereas the how-can-you-watch-those-cars-just-go-round-and-round attitude that people have who don't "get" NASCAR is pretty much the one I have for IRL. Yes, the Indy cars go faster and are sleeker. The many non-American drivers are sexy and suave. IRL has women drivers, the most famous of whom is Danica Patrick, all 100 pounds of her, though don't discount Sarah Fisher. And NASCAR doesn't have a driver's spouse equivalent to Ashley Judd, wife of IRL star Dario Franchitti.

But I don't care. I love the diversity of NASCAR fans. (Too bad the diversity doesn't extend to the drivers. How many NASCAR drivers or even crew members of color have you seen? And women? Not in Nextel Cup racing, yet, though a couple have slipped in from time to time in the Busch series.) I love the 42ish-driver field in each race. I love the long races, the longest of which is the Coca-Cola 600, which takes place in Charlotte, N.C., every Memorial Day weekend. The Indy race in Richmond was 250 miles, just a warm-up for NASCAR races, and had all of, I think, 12 drivers starting out and took only a little more time than it took my friend and me to wait and creep through the traffic getting out of the parking lot and crawl toward our hotel just a few miles away.

I love the strategy employed by NASCAR drivers. (Yes, strategy, you non-NASCAR fans who taunt us with, "Strategy? Turn left, turn left, turn left, turn left!") I saw a little of it in the Indy race too, but, unfortunately, it didn't appear to last long. The same roster of five leaders was frozen in place for the last half of the race. And there were no crashes. Neither would ever happen in NASCAR. The lead usually changes upward of a dozen times in each race. The last five laps in NASCAR are certainly when I sit glued to the TV when I'm watching a race on Sundays (or, less fun, on Saturday nights).

This isn't to trash IRL. As a racing car fan who has dealt with my share of NASCAR detractors over the years -- I view them as ignorant, not evil -- I don't want to demean IRL or their drivers or fans. I'm just ignorant about IRL.

The Richmond race was a wonderful experience. It was perfect weather, and day into night was beautiful. The novelty of a new racing venue was fun. My favorite driver, Mario Franchitti (what do I know?) won. The Star Spangled Banner live never fails to stir me. Being there with a friend was great -- I know more about NASCAR but she knew more about IRL so it was educational as well as entertaining. And, the thrill of all that speed never gets old.

I'm just sayin'....if I had my choice between going to an Indy race or a NASCAR race -- unless I was invited to an Indy owner's skybox -- you'd find me screaming myself hoarse at a NASCAR race.

Have My Chips Been Dipped Before?

A couple of days ago, I went to my favorite little neighborhood Mexican food restaurant for lunch. The chips and salsa are especially good there. The chips are crispy, strong enough for dipping, salty enough but not too, and actually tasty rather than cardboardy like some of them can be. The salsa is flavorful, relatively smooth (tomato chunks and onion slivers are the lazy version of salsa) and, thanks to those little devlish jalapeño pepper seeds, spicy-hot. I made the mistake of not waiting for the water before popping a dipped chip into my mouth and found myself coughing and sputtering like a gringo. A few minutes later, I heard someone at the table two behind me doing the same thing. Now that's salsa!

Normally I overindulge on the chips before the entree arrives, but this little place is so fast that I only got through a small handful of them before my queso chicken burrito landed in front of me.

So, since I had a nearly full bowl of chips and a nearly full container of salsa, and since (I believe) by law they can't serve chips and salsa that have been served and removed from a table to anyone else, after my meal I asked to take them with me.

"We don't usually do that," the manager (who was also my waiter that day) told me. I looked him like "You've gotta be kidding!" and he quickly said, "But if you want to...." I said I did and he got me a foam box for my chips and a mini-cup and top for my salsa. And I was happy.

But...I couldn't help but wonder why they "don't usually do that." It's not like I ordered a refill. If they serve them to customers in open bowls, surely they wouldn't bus the tables and dump the uneaten but pawed-over chips into the big bowl they scoop them from, or pour the uneaten but dipped-into (and maybe double-dipped-into) salsa into the vat they ladle it from. Would they? WOULD they???

I've seen many restaurants in the past pour remaining salad dressing from tables back into the big tub from which they fill the little individual plastic cups. Oooooh, gross!

Even though I don't have any hard evidence that my maybe formerly favorite Mexican food restaurant returns chips and/or salsa to the community bowl, I admit that I feel a little squeamish about returning there. Of course, that didn't stop me from eating the chips and salsa I doggie-bagged home. I figure there are a million little things like that going on every day in restaurants that we don't see. And don't want to. So I just look at it as keeping my immunity up!

Passing in the Night

My ex-husband was found dead this week and even though I hadn't seen him in probably 15 years, he's the only ex-husband I had so I thought it was worth commemorating. I'm just not sure how to do it.

A Yahoo! search of his name, Walter Choate Sweet, turns up nothing. "Walter Sweet" nets several listings -- a professor emeritus in geology at the University of Iowa, a painter born in 1889, a philanthropist in New York (sorry, took me awhile to stop laughing at the prospect of that being him) and an auto mechanic who went on to own that dealership who just died this week also -- none of them my ex. "Walt Sweet" on both Yahoo! and Google turns up a musician and designer of a keyless Irish flute, hardly my ex. He (my ex) wasn't particularly musical himself -- in fact his sense of rhythm was so off that it drove me crazy to dance with him -- though he did buy me a stunning Yamaha upright grand piano, which I still have. I keep it at my stable mom's house because if it had gone with me on all of my moves since I trekked east nearly 19 years ago, it would've been jostled and moved some nine times. Reminds me, I need to get it tuned again.

Well, at least the Walter Choate Sweet that I knew and loved at one time will be on the Web, even if it's just here. Actually, I need to do the same thing for my wonderful father, John Walter Schriener, whom everyone knew as Jack Schriener, who died in 1994. He wanted to be cremated, which we did, and although as a World War II veteran, he was eligible to be buried in one of the military cemeteries, there is no place to go to see his grave, no marker or tombstone to even let people know he existed. So I will do that at some point, just not here and now. This is for Walt, or at least about Walt.

Walt and I were married for just two years. It was incredibly tumultuous. We didn't even know if we'd make it to our first anniversary, let alone our second. In fact, we were not together on our second and our divorce was final later that month. He swore when we got divorced that he'd never be friends with me, but, fortunately, that didn't hold. He came to visit me after I moved to New York -- well, he was there anyway for something else and stopped by to visit me, let me buy him a pizza and put him up for the night (platonically, not that it matters). At that time, we looked at each other and both marveled that we couldn't imagine that we'd ever even really known each other, let alone been married. Time heals all, I guess -- by that time, we'd been divorced for eight or so years.

But let me talk about the good stuff. He was smart and always interesting -- one of the reasons I married him was that I knew I'd never be bored. He was affectionate and loving and took great care of me throughout our marriage. He was creative -- I still have (somewhere) a huge envelope of all of the inventive cards he gave me, most of which were originals. He had a sense of humor and wasn't afraid to look silly. I have a great picture of him in a lawn chair with his "horny hat" on, a maroon baseball cap with silver horns. He had great respect for skill and accomplishment, even if it was at his expense. He was a judo player, and in one tournament, his opponent felled him with a stunning move that prompted Walt to applaud him along with everyone else. I always admired that about him.

The saga of our divorce could fill a book. It was traumatic, as all divorces are, and about that I'll only relate one little story. He was the consummate list maker. We took our property division list to the one lawyer that we were going to share (bad idea! don't do it) and as the lawyer perused the list, he said, "I've never seen a swingtop wastebasket on a property settlement list." I said, "Wait til you get to the lightbulbs." True story.

The best thing about our marriage, it turns out, was his daughter, Carey, who was 12 when I met her and 15 when we got divorced. Thank God, she and I have kept in touch all these years and even though we don't talk or see each other all that often (we are on opposite coasts), every time we do, it's like we are finishing a sentence we started the day before. She used to tell people about us and the fact that I used to be married to her dad, "We dumped him and kept each other." It wasn't true, of course, but it made me feel great. I'll have to do a blog item on her too. She's been the true gift from my marriage to Walt.

The second best thing, believe it or not, is his first ex-wife, Sheila (pronounced "SHY-la"). Of course, we didn't start out being friendly, even though I came along awhile after they had separated. But before Walt and I got divorced, she and I had grown to be quite friendly, and then we got friendlier after the split (yes, somewhat hilariously at his expense). One of the highlights of a couple of my trips to Phoenix a year or two ago was having lunch and dinner with Carey and Sheila -- and, at one of them, also Carey's half-sister Elizabeth. So those are great gifts from a marriage gone bad.

See, I'm having trouble keeping to the subject of Walt. Well, for one thing, the "bad" stories about him are far more entertaining, incredible, amazing and, for some of them, far sadder than the good ones, but I really don't want to do that in a commemoration (I wouldn't call it a tribute, as such). He seemed to isolate himself and have a fair amount of fear or even paranoia, I'm told, in the last few years. So I'll just say that I hope he finds the peace in his passing that he didn't seem to be able to find on earth. And, for a variety of reasons, I'm grateful he was in my life.

Crime Columbia Style

In my new home town of Columbia, MD, in an effort to get to know the area, I read the free weekly paper the Columbia Flier. (Well, it says it's $1.00 newsstand price, but I've only seen it for free.) I read the ads and pretty much every page.

My favorite part of the paper is the Crime Log. There are usually several car thefts and a few break-ins, but there are some great small-town crimes that are priceless. My favorites of late:

"West Running Brook, 5100 block, between 6:30 a.m. and 3:15 p.m. May 16. Cigarettes, soup and cash stolen from residence after window pane pulled from front door." (Judy's note: SOUP?!)

"Basket Ring Road, 9600 block, 2:47 a.m. May 19. Resident heard knock at bedroom door and later heard front door close. He looked out the window and saw two males run toward Thunder Hill Road."

"Broken Land Parkway, 9800 block, 8:30 p.m. May 9. Female was walking along bike path when male exposed himself. Male then fled."

"Flowerstock Row and Tamar Drive, 1:15 a.m. May 10. Female and two friends were walking when a dark vehicle pulled over and an armed male got out and demanded cash. Walkers told the gunman they had nothing of value. Gunman got back into car and drove off."

Don'tcha love it? May all crimes be only as serious as these.

Convoluted Columbia

Columbia, Maryland, is a planned community patterned, I was told, after the Disney area layout in Florida. I think that's a bad idea.

I have always thought the area around Disney World is unnecessarily spread out, with confusingly winding roads and everything hidden, all in the interest of, what, aesthetics? Whose? I am a practical woman and I like to actually find the businesses I want. How silly of me.

In Columbia, to where I just moved, has all of these little hidden villages, nine of them. They have great names -- Wilde Lake, King's Contrivance, Long Reach, Dorsey's Search -- but just try to find a dry cleaner, a hair salon, a full-service car wash or even a gas station. Strike that last one, actually. Gas at the nearest stations to me in Columbia is at $3.159 and $3.189 per gallon. I buy my gas on my way home in the evening from my office in downtown Baltimore; I paid $3.059 yesterday to fill up. Still a gouge but better than near my house.

One night I made a wrong left turn very near to where I live and ended up in some housing area from which I thought I would never emerge. Seriously, every street wound around to some other street that wound around, but nothing led back out. I got so tangled up that I couldn't figure out how to get back to where I came in. My GPS told me to turn left where there was no road and took me round and round and round. Fortunately, I wasn't alone -- I do have a witness to this -- and at first we were laughing but after a good half hour of this, we got angry and not a little scared. Finally, who knows how, we emerged. Ridiculous!

Meanwhile, I still look for a dry cleaner. Verizon promised to send me phone books but after a month, they have yet to arrive. I tried punching in "Cleaners" to my GPS but good old Garmin has maps that are so out of date that literally half of the time I call up any business it has in its database, it's not there anymore. I've found everything from a whole housing development to a leveled, chained-off lot with the outline of buildings still there. The height of the weeds popping up through the cracked concrete indicates that the businesses have been gone awhile. Yet when I go to the garmin.com Web site and enter all of my access information, I get the message that my software is up to date. Helloooooo! Not exactly.

Despite the challenges, I found two dry cleaners today but don't like either one. I have yet to see a full-service car wash, only those inadequate drive-through jobs where your car dries on its own, usually with spots. No thanks. And my hair is desperately in need of a trim but I haven't spotted a hair salon either. Even a damn convenience store is hidden. Can you imagine hiding a convenience store, which depends on drop-ins for its very existence? The closest (and only that I've seen) 7-Eleven is so hidden that I only found it when my GPS told me where it was. It's so hidden that a woman clerk was murdered there about three weeks ago and nobody saw anything. Of course they didn't -- it's hidden! Very sad.

I live near the (apparently) famous Columbia Town Center, which is another name for a mall. I have yet to go there. It's monstrous, 230 stores. I'll probably tackle it today to at least find a hair salon.

Don't get me wrong. I love where I live. I have fabulous forest views from all of my windows -- though it can be disruptively loud, as the busy road 200 yards from me is the main route for the emergency vehicles as they respond from the fire station up the hill. It's very beautiful here, with vivid, lush green trees everywhere and nice landscaping around homes and businesses and room to comfortably spread out. There are lots of highways and main arteries so getting around is easy. But geez, it shouldn't be this hard to find where to get my hair cut and my clothes cleaned.

Retail Montana-Style -- Yay Vann's!

Several years ago, I decided to buy a DVR -- you know, a TiVo-type device -- and I opted for Replay TV, a TiVo competitor. Going online to find the best deal -- I probably went to CNet -- netted me a handsome list of online retailers with prices within $10 or $20 of each other.

One of them was Vann's. Vanns.com. They were in Montana and I thought...I bet I'd get treated well by a Montana retailer. I think they were a few dollars more than the lowest retailer but I went with them. Good move. A week or two after receiving my Replay TV, I had a couple of questions and called Vann's. On the phone. You know, the way we used to do things? I could find the phone number easily and when I called, a human being answered, one who spoke English as a first language -- two things that are hard to find these days. And they answered my question expertly. These were not people laboring through a script -- these guys knew what they were talking about. How totally refreshing!

I have bought other things from them since then, most recently a digital camera for my mom for Mother's Day. I found the camera I wanted for my mom in a May 9 article in the Wall Street Journal online in a Mossberg Solution column. (I'd link to it but it's subscription only.) And I went searching for this "under $130" camera, found it at vanns.com for $124 with free shipping, called to see if they could get it to my mom in two days -- okay, so I didn't plan ahead. Yes, for $10, worth it! In 5 minutes the whole thing was done. Mom got the camera on Friday and everybody's happy!

The point is that it was easy, it was as inexpensive as I could get the item anywhere, they handled my special request with elan and didn't charge me through the roof, it took me no time, we understood each other, and there was no hassle. All transactions should be that way.

Someone with a heavy accent called me yesterday and left me a message saying she would send me the supplies I needed if I would call her back and tell her which of two addresses they had on file was the right one. (I just moved.) Her accent was so heavy that I couldn't understand her name or what company she was calling from. I'm sure she was legit, but, sadly, that's more what I'm used to these days. I've made a lot of phone calls to change my address since I moved -- you can't do everything online, unfortunately -- and probably half or two-thirds of the time, I talk to someone with a heavy foreign accent. Or try to, anyway. Sometimes I have to repeat my address or my name or the spelling of my name or my street or my city three or four times. What a great way to spend time, eh? And they're not all in India.

It's to the point where I thank them if a human being answers before I've been on hold for six minutes, and thank them if I can understand them immediately and thank them if I'm off the phone in under five minutes. Vann's is about the only one I've thanked lately. You can bet I'll do more business with them. Here's to Montana and to Vann's!

Green with Joy

When the leasing agent showed me the apartment I moved into two weeks ago when it was empty, I was drawn to the forest views out of every window. I had that in my place in New Jersey and hated the idea of giving it up. Between the views and the layout (not your usual apartment layout), I knew I had a winner and got my checkbook out on the spot to secure it.

At that time, the trees outside the windows were just big, contorted twigs. There wasn't a leaf on one of them. But I knew that soon there would be.

When I moved in on April 16, there still were zero leaves. It was still quite pretty in an artistic kind of way and I knew to be patient.

Well, about three days ago, the first leaves popped out. Now I have a stunning mixture of green shimmering leaves and brown-grey asymmetrical tree trunks and twisty branches in my view. It's even more awesome than I anticipated.

The tree nearest my balcony has no leaves yet, and I wonder if it's a late bloomer or dead. There are remnants of two abandoned bird's nests in that tree. I'm such a tree dummy that I have no idea what kind of tree it is or what kind of birds would nest there. I hope the tree is alive and does end up majestically green but even if it doesn't there are plenty of luscious trees behind it to fill in the panorama. (When I find my digital camera, I'll take a picture and post it here....Okay, found it later when all of the leaves are out, and the pic is full-tilt boogie for the leaves.)

Who knew that leaves could inspire such joy? After a tough week last week, it feels good to be joyful again. Thank you, Mother Nature. Your timing is excellent!

Reining in the Discomfort that Rains on Me

I liked to think of myself as a relatively unflappable person, mature enough to handle disruptions and bumps in the road, large and small. I was so wrong!

Turns out that I'm like the Princess and the Pea as far as any kind of deviation from the routines of my life go. How disappointing.

Everything in my life has changed in the last couple of months and I'm both enjoying it all immensely and totally upset about all of the discomfort of change. I moved to Maryland last weekend (on the two days of the nasty Nor'easter, as I wrote about in my previous post) and nearly everything is foreign or missing.

New town and state -- and I don't know the streets or highways or nicknames for places or where the closest post office is or where to get good Mexican food or which stores carry Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke or whether talking on my cell phone while driving is legal or not.

New place to live -- and I love it, especially the forest views from every window, but I can't find anything. I scrupulously taped remotes and cords and connectors to each electronic device but can't find my sandals or my receipts for expenses from March or two cushions for my sofa bed or my favorite sheets that match my comforter. I learned just today that the remote for the underground parking garage isn't necessary to get out -- I had wondered why the left door kept opening when I pushed the button instead of the right one. (Duh -- the electric eye lets me out, so the remote is only necessary to get in.)

Even some of the things that should work don't. After they hooked up my phone, I called a new friend here and she told me that another number and name showed up on her caller ID. Sure enough, that's the number that rings in my house. Yet my voice mail works with the number they assigned to me. Verizon will take care of it in two days. How's that for service? And my cell phone somehow made its way into a sink of sudsy water just before I moved so it's new and I don't know how to get the video part to work or download ring tones and I found out the hard way that the same button on the side of the phone that quieted the ringer on my previous phone just cuts off the call on this one.

Don't even get me started on work. Everything there is new, different and not the way I'm used to doing things. Building, phone system, style of desk and office, colleagues, computer, route to work. I don't know where to get envelopes or use the voice mail or transfer a call or find file folders or what the codes are to make photocopies. The name plate outside my office has someone else's name on it.

I'm used to being the answer lady -- after 16 years at my previous employer there wasn't much I didn't know about there -- but here I'm still the one asking questions and trying to get oriented. I can't afford that luxury -- clients and colleagues expect me, as a senior level person, to produce lots and fast and competently.

A good friend of mine, a high-ranking exec, told me recently, "The higher up you are in the organization, the less they tell you when you start working there. They expect you to perform right away and you don't even know where to get a tablet and a pen or where the bathrooms are."

So I'm not handling this all very well. I'm flat exhausted at the end of the day (and I mean day, not even night) from struggling to do everything new. I'm upset at myself for not picking everything up faster. This morning I thought I could at least get to work 25 miles away without my GPS. A normally 30-minute trip took me nearly an hour and a half, so tomorrow I'll hook up my little Garmin friend again. (Best investment I ever made!) I'm frustrated at not being able to just flow through the day, at starting something and then realizing I don't have the next thing I need and don't know where to go to get it or I have to wait days for it. I'm grumpy and ditzy (misplacing things every two minutes because I don't have a routine place to put them) and disorganized and slow and sleepless worrying about all of this.

Yes, yes, yes, I know -- this too shall pass. In six months I won't even remember feeling this way. It is a great adventure. I know this is a very good move for me and I'm excited about it. I see it as a long-term decision. But meanwhile, I'm so uncomfortable with discomfort, having emotionally budgeted for a much smaller amount of it than I am experiencing, and tonight it's 1:00 a.m. and here I am, up stewing.

Keyless in Columbia

My NASCAR key ring sits empty on the table next to my car keys for the first time in my adult life that I can remember. It's the strangest sensation....

I'm moving from Woodbridge, N.J., to Columbia, Maryland -- today. I moved out of my 2,400-sq.-ft., 3-story duplex in Woodbridge yesterday and turned in my keys. (I've been temperamentaly better suited to be a renter than a buyer for years. I like the idea of being able to change my life in short order, which is what I have done this time.) My furniture and "stuff" spent the night in a locked moving van in Jersey City, N.J., and the four guys from White Glove Moving Co. who loaded everything are on their way to Columbia as I write this at 6:00 a.m. from the comfort of a Marriott Courtyard in Columbia. I take possession of my new apartment in three hours.

So I will have been homeless for 17-1/2 hours by the time my new keys are on my ring. I spent nearly four of those hours driving from Woodbridge to Columbia in a merciless driving rain that actually slowed people down on the New Jersey Turnpike. Officially the speed limit was lowered to 45 mph along the whole 100-mile NJ Turnpike stretch of the drive, and people actually "only" drove about 60 in the normally 65-mph zone where traffic usually zips along at about 80.

The drive wasn't much fun. We -- my friend Michele from Seattle who's (thankfully) helping me move and I -- only saw one accident on the way down and it wasn't serious, but the rain was relentless and intense and the wind whipped at the car in bumpy gusts. It took us longer than usual because of the weather and we were both eager to get to the hotel to eat dinner and settle in for a long nighttime nap after our long day of moving. But our accommodations were (and are) comfortable (I love Marriotts) and a good meal at Red Robin ended the day on a happy note.

My move is occurring, unfortunately, on the two days of a nasty record-breaking Nor'easter. They talked about it on TV for days before it hit. Yesterday was the driving, pelting, soaking-everything rain, nearly 8 inches worth. (I thought I saw animals lining up two-by-two.) I hated the idea that my furniture and zillions of boxes and accessories would get wet and damaged in the few feet between my garage and the moving van. We'll see how it all ends up. Today, though, is the wind, and I mean major-league wind. On the news this morning they are saying it's gusting to the equivalent of a Category 2 hurricane. Gusts are up to 60 mph, averaging around 45 mph. The trees outside our 4th-floor hotel room window are swaying back and forth like animated dancing figures in a Disney musical. I hope the guys in "my" moving van are faring well on the drive down. Scary, this wind is scary.

So the few hours of being homeless for me are about as cushy and comfortable as they can be. I am grateful for my life and my blessings. Every day I am but this morning I am especially so. If the biggest thing I'm worried about in my homeless hours is a fierce storm (and how I'm going to fit everything into half the space I had in New Jersey), I'm in great shape.

Michele just asked me, "Doesn't it feel good to wake up not in New Jersey?" I laughed. More than that, it feels better to wake up in my new home town and tomorrow I'll wake up in my own bed in my new home in my new home town. The rain and wind will be gone and it will be warmer, in the 50s. And my NASCAR key chain will be full again.

Jet Blue, Get a Clue

Thank God, this is not my story. We in the Northeast are in the midst of a winter snow-and-ice storm that has netted over 1,000 auto accidents on Northern New Jersey streets today and stopped airplanes in the New York City area's three airports (JFK, LaGuardia, Newark). I had to go into the city today -- that's Manhattan -- and that was grim enough. I took little tiny steps on the superslick sidewalks, leaning forward to move my center of gravity to decrease my chances of falling. I hung on to the rail for dear life when I was descending the steps down into the subway. I made it back home in one piece, and my Nissan Altima is now safely and warmly tucked into my garage for the night. And I'm warm and dry and grateful.

On the 11:00 p.m. news tonight, they ran a story about passengers of a Jet Blue plane sitting on the tarmac today for 11 hours. People were cursing and yelling and sobbing, passengers reported. They had no food or water for several hours, reportedly up to six hours, supposedly, the airline says, so they could be ready to take off when the weather cleared.

Understandably, the passengers who talked to the news station were upset. Some didn't care that they got an apology from the airline (in a statement they issued) plus their money back plus a free trip anywhere Jet Blue flies. One guy who was interviewed said he never wanted to be in another Jet Blue plane again. No kidding! I'm not signing up for a Jet Blue flight in the foreseeable future either.

What the heck was Jet Blue thinking???? This is the kind of incident that gets Congress to pass an Airline Passengers' Bill of Rights. It's the kind of incident that makes me wonder how the pilot resopnded when the flight attendants told him (or her) how bonkers the passengers were getting. One American Airlines pilot in January under similar circumstances had had enough after an unthinkable nine hours on the tarmac and defied official orders and pulled the plane back into an empty gate. No doubt he got chastised if not punished and penalized, but in truth he should get a medal.

I fly a lot and have been delayed for weather problems, traffic problems, mechanical problems and crew problems, sometimes for as long as two or three hours. That was torment enough even when drinks and pretzels were handed out, movies shown and permission granted to use cell phones. We were comfortable. Water was plentiful, the toilets worked and everyone was calm and cooperative. But after even four hours, I think people would be relatively nutsy and I can't even imagine 11 hours in those circumstances.

By and large, philosophically I'm a libertarian -- meaning that I advocate as little government interference and legislation as possible. Live and let live. But...the airlines shouldn't be allowed to make people sit in an airplane at an airport longer than maybe four hours without being made to let passengers off to get food, stay off the plane if they want to and just get sane again. And while they're doing that, they should service the plane to ensure that people can be comfortable on it. How inhumane it is to treat people the way airlines treat them on a good day -- with their narrow little seats that maybe half of the butts on the plane comfortably fit into, and their stingy leg room, and their inconsideration of people's needs and schedules -- let alone on a day when they make their so-called valuable customers sit on a plane on the tarmac for that many hours.

Jet Blue, get a clue. Congress, for God's sake, pass a law. If any one of those Senators or Congresspersons had been on that plane today, you can bet there'd be a law introduced within a week. As well there should be.

Miracle in My Mouth, Until...

One of my great medical gifts came a few years ago when a Michigan dentist I met online told me that a drop of Fluocinonide gel (0.05%) dabbed on a fledgling canker sore would get rid of it by the next day. I absolutely didn't believe him.

Those nasty little devils last for days, usually well over a week, sometimes nearly two. They get sore like a Bell curve so that if you get one on a Sunday, by Wednesday you don't want to eat anything that has any acid in it whatsoever, or anything at all, really, before they gradually ease off. Painful, cruel little mouth ulcers, they are.

I'd suffered from frequent multiple canker sores since childhood, at times as many as half a dozen at a time scattered throughout my mouth on my cheek walls, down where my lower gums met my inside lower lips, and even creeping toward the outer part of my lips that shows. Not like a cold sore -- cold sores can be "shared" with other people, whereas canker sores are not contagious, if that's the right word. But sore as hell. Anyone who's had them, especially frequently, knows how disruptive they can be to eating, talking, sleeping and just sitting. They pack a lot of pain into a couple of square millimeters.

Getting a doctor to prescribe the Fluocinonide for me was a challenge. It's approved for topical use only and inside the mouth isn't considered topical. But I convinced my local dentist at the time to let me try it.

Bliss!

It really sends those little nasties back from whence they came. If you put a little drop on the sore just as it's developing, and if you do it a few times a day, by the next morning it is really, truly gone. As if it never tried to exist. A miracle! (If you wait too long, until the canker sore has developed to be bigger than a pin prick, it's too late and it grows nearly as big and lasts nearly as long as usual. And don't get anything but the gel. The other forms just won't work the same and they taste medicinal, unlike the gel.)

That was a decade ago and I've made sure I don't run out of the miracle gel ever since. It takes me nearly a year to go through a 15g tube. The tubes as they are handled and jostled around in my purse tend to leak and I lose some from each tube. So I don't ingest enough for the steroids in it to do anything bad to me. At least as far as I know.

It hasn't been easy. I have had to argue with several doctors over the years to get them to prescribe it. "That's not what it's supposed to be for," they tell me. But I'm passionate about it, insistent that they trust me and give me that relief, and if they don't, I switch doctors. Any doctor who doesn't trust a person who knows their own body isn't worth keeping.

My canker sores tend to come in waves. Several will pop up one or two at a time for several weeks and then I'll be free of them for a month or two or more. I always have my handy gel with me to nip the little suckers in the bud so they don't blossom into anything. I'm so grateful for the Fluocinonide gel. It's eliminated an ongoing discomfort and helped my love life. (If I have to explain that, go read another blog.)

So...when my bleach for teeth made my mouth sore (see my previous blog entry, "The Price of Vanity") , much like it did when I first got braces in 9th grade, I turned to my old friend Fluocinonide.

Big mistake!

Apparently the bleaching gel and the steroid gel don't get along. They fought like siblings in my mouth, unbeknownst to me, and kept the fisticuffs up until my whole lower face was swollen like I've never experienced. I almost never react badly to drugs so I was thrown for a loop. I blamed the bleaching gel, or rather my ineptitude at keeping it within its little tray prison while in my mouth. But last night as the swelling was finally measurably subsiding, my mouth and lips were feeling a little raw so I put a light coating of Fluocinonide gel between my gums and my lips and even a little on my lips themselves. When I woke up at 4:00 a.m., I felt puffy-swollen again, even without the bleaching gel. I staggered to the mirror and was chagrined to see myself swelled up like I had balloons in my cheeks and neck and collagen-run-wild in my lips. Uuuuuuug-leeeeee!

That's when I got it. It wasn't either one of the gels that was the culprit, it was their chemical reaction when encountering each other.

So...I'm drinking a LOT of water today and now, mid-day, I look closer to my old self again. My jawline still looks a bit like a squirrel's but my top lip isn't fat-lip size anymore, which is a relief. When something like this happens, the fear is that it's not just simple swelling but that I'd permanently disfigured myself. I know, catastrophizing isn't productive, but those thoughts do charge through the mental gates of reason once in awhile.

No more gels of any kind for me for awhile. And no more medical tales here for awhile. That's what consumes a lot of people when they get old(er) and I'd hate for you to think that I'm in that category. Ahem.

The Price of Vanity

As I sit at my kitchen table this morning, I am swollen up like a cartoon character. Lips, cheeks, neck. Ugh! (See today's frightening photo on the right vs. how I normally look on the left.)

It all started when I realized that I had $1,200 left in my flexible spending account (FSA), the pretax money I'd had deducted from my paychecks in 2006 to pay medical expenses. A quick call to WageWorks let me know that I have until March to spend it.

What to do with it, what to do? So many things I could do: Get that pesky, ugly, jagged-edged mole removed (though nearly nobody sees it where it is, anyway). Submit myself to a luxury test, one of those full-body MRI-type things that's supposed to find every little thing that is going on in your body. Start psycho-therapy -- now there's an idea! Or...how about getting my teeth whitened? Yeah, that's it!

Teeth whitening is absurdly popular right now. The gradual yellowing of my teeth has bothered me and when some of my colleagues got their smile brightened, I saw that it made a difference; they looked younger and more alive.

So off I went to my beloved dentist, Dr. Ron Buro in Washington, D.C. I live in the New York City area, but I'll go to him no matter where I live. He rescued my teeth and gums from the damage my New York City heaped on me a decade ago and I've been fiercely loyal ever since.

And he reciprocates. Their office (1901 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, D.C. 20006,
202-466-3599) isn't open on Fridays but one week I was coming down only on a Friday for a business-related event and he agreed to come in to see me. That was impressive enough but when he was cleaning my teeth (himself!), a couple of other dentists wandered by and congratulated him. I asked what the occasion was. "I'm getting married later today," he told me nonchalantly. What?!?!? I expressed my shock and delight and he said, "Well, you come all the way to see me from New York -- it's the least I can do." How can you not be loyal to a guy like that?

Recently I saw his partner, Dr. Alan Marx, and I related that story to him. He said, "When you've been married as many times as he and I have, it's just another day." Har de har.

(In this picture, Dr. Buro is on the right, Dr. Marx is in the back, and Dr. Robert Caldwell, whom I don't know, is on the left. I got this pic from Dr. Marx's Web site. )

A rather grueling in-office treatment consisted of them putting some kind of bleaching formula on my teeth with my lips pulled away for four 20-minute segments of exposing them to a bright light. When Dr. Marx asked how I was doing, I said it's pretty uncomfortable. "It's the dentist!" he jokingly barked unsympathetically. Cracked me up.

Then they made a mold of my teeth -- fortunately, I don't have a bad gagging reflex -- and I got two little soft plastic "trays" that fit my upper and lower teeth a couple of weeks later, along with a less-intense treatment sans light. I took the trays home and tried to follow instructions for nighttime treatment for the next two weeks: Push a little dot of the gel (through the syringe it comes in) into each little tooth area in the trays, fit the mold to the teeth and immediately retire for the night. They don't want saliva to dilute the gel and they don't want the trays to move to secrete the gel.

Well, I'm an insomniac and rarely get more than three or four hours of sleep in a row before waking up. The first night went okay. Not too uncomfortable. The next morning, however, my mouth, especially my upper lip, was a bit swollen. I looked a bit like I had a fat lip. It took a few hours to get back to normal. Okay, use less gel, the instructions say, if you have any trouble.

The second and third nights went okay too but my lips were a little puffy then too. Looked like I'd had collagen injections, not all bad on my thin lips, but made it tough to talk. And I didn't look quite right. (No comments from the peanut gallery, please.) I think each morning I was progressively a little more swollen. But I liked how my teeth were looking and the instructions were to do this every night for two weeks and then to go back for one more in-office treatment.

I wanted the best result, but I was getting concerned about this swelling. So yesterday, Friday, when their office was closed. I called and was given Dr. Marx's cell phone number -- he was the dentist on call. His cell phone number is also printed on his business card. More doctors and dentists should do that instead of hiding as they do during non-business hours. (A whole separate subject that I could rail on about for hours -- I had a terrible experience with that on a weekend with my mom's doctor. I started a blog item on it but figured I'd get sued for libel, despite the fact that truth is a defense for libel.)

I didn't get home from an appointment until late evening last night, and I didn't check my phone messages (duh!) so I just plodded on with my gel-in-trays treatment. I woke up at 3:00 a.m. and realized that I was puffed up more than usual. I took the trays out and discovered a phone message that Dr. Marx had left about an hour after I'd left a message for him. He said to call him back and meanwhile to stop the treatments.

Too late.

I put some ice on my mouth, hoping to calm down the swelling. And after a few minutes of that, I went back to bed.

Imagine my displeasure when I woke up at 7:00 looking a lot worse than the picture on this page shows. I felt seriously disfigured. Major-league ugly. Interestingly, my first thought was that there are people I see every day who look like that. That's the way they look every day. So if I were to go to the grocery story, which I need to do today, probably nobody would think much of it. I don't know much of anybody in my little town so I am not worried about that. In another hour or so, I'll venture out. Otherwise, I'll be eating the dust bunnies off of the floor -- I am pretty well out of food!

I called Dr. Marx again and he reiterated his instructions to stop the treatment until I see him or Dr. Buro in another week and a half. Use warm salt water and that should calm things down, he said. If really uncomfortable, take a Benadryl.

In just the few hours since I've been up, the swelling has gone down quite a bit. I hope to be back to my old thin-lipped self by tomorrow. And I won't use the stuff tonight. He said he can give me some gel that's not quite so strong, but my vanity wants the stuff that'll give me the best result, the brightest, whitest smile I can get.

The main thing he said is that I must be using too much gel. It shouldn't seep out. Okay, okay. Maybe I'll try it again, with just a tiny dot in each tooth area in the trays, in a couple of nights.... Yes, I'm that vain.

Stay tuned. I'll let you know how it all turns out.

If You Could Replay Your Life, Would You?

Jeff Winston suffered a deep, unfathomably searing pain at his desk at work and immediately died of a massive heart attack. He was 43. The next moment, he awakened in his college dorm room some 25 years earlier. He relived all those years only to die again on the same day at age 43. He kept waking up in his own life years earlier and kept trying to make sense of it as he soared, stomped, floated and trudged through the years.

There was his super rich life, his I'm-going-to-do-everything-right life, his decadent life, his fatherhood life, his scary life, his who-gives-a-shit life, his surprise life and many more. He tried to change history, he loved and played with many women, Every time he awoke again as a young man, he dreaded the years to come. Each time, he died on the same day. Would that go on forever?

Jeff Winston isn't a real person; he's the protagonist (remember that word from school? does anyone use it anymore?) in one of my favorite books of all time, Replay by Ken Grimwood. The book is copyright 1988 but I reread it every few years, as I just did for probably the 5th time. (If you decide to look up the book, DO NOT READ the summary from Publishers Weekly -- they give way too much away. Also, the cover shown is the original edition from 1988; the one they are selling now has a different cover, but it's the same book.)

It's a great book for putting everything in life in perspective. Here's the question I've let flow and trip over the virtual rocks in my mind: If I could replay my life, would I?

If I could replay it just once, I'd do just one thing differently, having to do with college. I went to Colorado State University, which at the time had 27,000 students enrolled. I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd chosen a medium-sized school, maybe in the Midwest. Or if I'd gone to Stanford, as a very bright, snobby fellow student urged me to do when he saw my SAT scores. 99th percentile for women in math, as I recall, and a pretty good score in the verbal or whatever they call it. Now I can hardly add two three-digit numbers together in my head -- kind of discouraging.

I think that one variation from the route I took would have changed everything. The wonderful movie "Run Lola Run" illustrated how some little tiny change, such as leaving 10 minutes later or stopping to let a car pass, could change your whole life. So going to a different university would certainly have taken my life in a different direction. I just don't know how.

Maybe I would have gotten married earlier than I did, and maybe it would have lasted longer than mine did. Maybe I would have had children, which I didn't and didn't want to in this series of life choices. Maybe I would have become a prominent something-or-other. Maybe I would have been a stay-at-home wife, sweetly and lovingly supporting my husband and his career. Sorry, I had a hard time typing that with a straight face. I've lived my life so "in control of my own destiny" without having to accommodate anyone else that I have a hard time imagining another path. Maybe I would be a drug addict, in prison or dead by now. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Meanwhile, here I am in this life, the result of my choices along the way. I only wonder about other choices when I read a book like Replay, and then it's fun to daydream. Just for a minute. Okay, now back to my life. It's a pretty good one just as it is.

How Private Should Sex Lives Be?

Isn't sex a great topic for a blog? I'm too chicken (and smart?) to talk about my sex life or lack thereof in this blog or any other, but I find a certain lawsuit for $20 million fascinating. A former U.S. Senate aide, Jessica Cutler (who wasn't former at the time) divulged lurid details on her "Washingtonienne" blog of her sexual encounters with another Senate aide, Robert Steinbuch, which quickly got linked to another blog, Wonkette, and later became fodder for a book (The Washingtonienne: A Novel). Steinbuch is suing Cutler for $20 million. Whew!

It's beyond me why anyone, especially someone who works in a forum as scrutinized as the U.S. Senate, would put any details of their sex life on the Web. It's even more beyond me why anyone would betray a lover, former or current, by revealing their, shall we say, idiosyncracies. "Sex in the City" is one thing -- I loved the one about Carrie farting for the first time with Mr. Big -- but real life is quite another. To do that is disrespectful, vengeful and/or stupid. Once that stuff is out there, there's no taking it back. Not only is it a total betrayal, whether the relationship ended badly or not, it also usually damages the reputation of the accuser, er, revealer, at least as much as the accusee or revealee.

I've been a journaler since age 10. I have been known to write in some detail about all aspects of my life, since my journal is my therapy more than it is a chronicle of my life or even a commentary on life in general. And keeping journals help me to think my life is real and enables me to revisit events to see if I remember them as I experienced them at the time. It's amazing what the mind does to an event over time. Much of what I write is mundane, repetitive and hardly good writing. But it's meant for me and me only.

If I knew today that I would be dead tomorrow, I'd burn my journals. Not knowing that (and hoping not), I am willing them to someone I trust with the agreement that they will not be released to anyone for any purpose until 25 years after my death. By then, the innocent and guilty parties (some of whom are disguised) will either be dead or beyond caring. Hopefully, anyway. If I live 25 more years, that will certainly be true. It's not all that interesting anyway, probably only to me.

Meanwhile, I wonder what Cutler was thinking and if she regrets going public with her exploits. I bought her book awhile ago on a whim but haven't read it. Maybe I will dig it up now and at least scan it. But I ain't puttin' my own adventures on any blog any time soon. (Note to Mr. X: You're welcome.)

Stereotypes Alive and Well in BMW-land

Have you seen the TV commercial that has two children, a girl and a boy, under the Christmas tree opening a present that so excites them that they scream for half if not most of the commercial?

It took seeing it at least four times before I could have told you that it was for BMW instead of some toy for adults or children. Well, you could certainly call a BMW a toy for adults, albeit quite an expensive one, but it's not something you can put in a box under the Christmas tree.

The screaming is obnoxious enough. But what bothers me more and more as I keep seeing it on TV is the way the boy and girl are portrayed. The boy is clearly the dominant figure in the commercial; the girl is clearly the follower. The boy has possession of the box, even though it's apparent that it's for both of them. He makes big, possessive, circular motions on the top of the box while shrilly screaming, whereas the girl's hands remain on the periphery of the box. He merely screams. She's the one who yells "Thank you!" over and over. He never even looks at her, not once. She is focused on what he is doing through the whole 30 seconds. He raises his fist and thrusts it while loudly chanting, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" She does the same but only in sync with the gestures and timing of the boy.

BMW, what the heck are you thinking?!? Don't you know that in the majority of cases the woman makes the primary decision as to what car is purchased, even if it isn't for her? Why would you perpetuate the stereotypes of the boy being in charge and the girl following his lead? Even the fact that she's the one crying "Thank you!" only plays to the idea that men can be unruly and do what they want and women follow along behind doing the right thing in the situation, being the polite, obedient, thoughtful, considerate one.

Rude boys grow into rude men, and docile little people-pleasing girls grow up to need therapy. Fortunately, I know many men who weren't allowed to get away with screaming bloody murder even if it was in delight. And many who could and to some degree still do. And unfortunately, I know some women who are as rude as any obstreperous young boy ever thought of being. And many nice ones. And they all buy cars. I don't know about them, but this commercial makes me want to go look at Nissans or Cadillacs or Lexuses or Jaguars, but not BMWs.

The Fantasy of More Time

For the past several years, when I'd feel overwhelmed at work, or bored or tired or had some passive-aggressive colleague whose antics prompted me to want to strangle him, I'd fantasize about time off. No work. No having to rouse myself early every day, squeeze myself between two surly businessmen on the 3-seat row on a rush-hour train, get belched out into the workday for all those hours that could be spent so many other joyful, satisfying ways.

In this fantasy world of less stress and more time, I'd see myself on a tranquil lake in a small, simple boat, the kind that movies love to put shy lovers in, just loving the mild sunshine and peaceful environs. That's pretty funny because in real life I can't fathom ever going out on a little rickety boat like that, especially alone, and I'm not much of a water person anyway. Give me the mountains any day, both for excitement (I used to be a pretty good skiier) and emotional and mental nourishment (the mountains just inject me with an idyllic, heavenly, swoony feeling).

My fantasy also includes working at some no-brainer, no-stress job, such as working for Starbucks. I have friends who are Starbucks veterans and they tell me it's quite stressful as well as physically demanding. But hey, it's a fantasy so job conditions can be any way I create them to be. It wouldn't be Starbucks anyway, because I MUCH prefer Dunkin' Donuts coffee. It's just that Starbucks stores have much more appealing atmosphere (can't say that I've even seen atmosphere in a DD) and a cachet that both fit well in fantasies.

Now I have that time that I've fantasized about for many years. I got laid off a month ago tomorrow -- well, my position has been eliminated or some such corporate gobbledygook -- and I don't have to do the daily grind right now. How is it? Is it as great as I'd envisioned? Is it fabulous and wonderful?

Oooooooh, yes!!!

I have puh-lenty to do in my workless life, believe me. I have had to tell people that I have not had time to get back to them, meet them, send them something I'd planned to, etc. But it's all *my time*. And I am loving it.

My friends have time envy (like penis envy -- which I get every time I have to pee BADLY when I'm in a car -- only better). They fantasize like I used to. They glamorize my days, thinking I can sleep late, eat bon bons on the couch while watching "The View," go to the gym when it's not crowded, meet friends for long lunches or a drink in the middle of the afternoon, take the trips I haven't had time for, catch up on all of my hobbies, read all of the classics, learn a language, take a nap in the afternoon, talk to friends I haven't talked to in years, write that book that's dying to emerge, clean out all of my closets and smile all day long.

Is it like that? Sure! Of course, I haven't done nearly enough of those things. But I could. And yes, it's as wonderful as I fantasized it would be. Relaxing, re-energizing, therapeutic, fun! I just won't want to do this forever. Probably. Ask me in another month. Or two.

4,844 Miles To Go

When I told a former colleague and friend that I would be traveling from coast to coast three times in two days and why, she said, "You have to write about it!" So I kept a sort of flying diary yesterday when I flew to Los Angeles and back. As usual, it proved to be more of a journey than just from one place to another and back. (This is long, so if you don't read it all, at least read the parts in bold.)

Friday I went from Phoenix to San Diego to Newark to wrap up a business trip. Best thing about my flight back: the tasty, fork-tender short ribs dinner entree when I got upgraded to first class. A surprise -- good food on an airline!

I got back home about 1:00 a.m. With all of two hours of sleep under my belt, on Saturday morning I left my house at 5:30 a.m. and flew from Newark International Airport to Los Angeles (LAX) and an hour later was on a plane back to Newark. Now why would I -- or anyone -- do that? Because I was short 4,844 miles of the 50,000 miles I need by Dec. 31 to make it to the Premier Executive level in United Airlines' Mileage Plus frequent flyer program.

Let me explain.

For several years I've been a loyal United Airlines flyer. By and large they go where I want to go, they're reliable, and, best of all, they've got that extra leg room in their "Economy Plus" area on their planes for Premier members and above. I'm tall and not a small person so I will do nearly anything for more room. Nearly.

I've been Premier and I've been Premier Executive and I like Premier Executive. You have to fly 25,000 miles in a calendar year or go on 30 segments to qualify for Premier, 50,000 miles or 60 segments for Premier Executive. When you reach either level, you can check in at the airport in a much shorter line, at some airports go through a much shorter security line and always board flights in the first group, which means you get your carry-on in the bins first. It's extremely selfish but those perks add up to major time-savings over a year. Premiers get a 25% mileage bonus on flights, Premier Executives get 100% -- and those miles are good for upgrades, free trips and Red Carpet Club membership. You can sit in the Economy Plus seats and choose them online, but only on United.com, not through travel agents or Travelocity-type sites. There are other perks but these are the ones that are important to me.

When I figured my mileage for 2006, including an upcoming trip, I came up 4,844 short of qualifying for Premier Executive. If you're that close, in January United usually offers a way to get there but it's the least cost-effective way to do it. Flying to Los Angeles and back, if you get a good fare, is cheaper than buying your way in later. You have to actually fly; you can't just buy the ticket and have it count. So I chose that route. All in one day. And that day was yesterday.

I caught the 5:53 a.m. New Jersey Transit train north and took the AirTrain from the Newark International Airport station to Terminal A. Rode the AirTrain with a boy-next-door-looking young Marine who was just back from his second tour of duty in Iraq. He said, "It's not as bad over there as people think," and then told me he'd seen fellow Marines get killed right in front of him. It was hard to hear him over the incessant, intrusive recorded voice over the loudspeaker listing every airline at each train stop, but he railed on for awhile about thinking we shouldn't be there. "They're going to kill each other anyway -- we don't have to be there for that," he said. Our flights both left at 8:15 a.m., so I was going to invite him to be my guest in the Red Carpet Club but he was going on American Airlines -- different entry to those gates -- so that wouldn't work.

For once, I was traveling with no laptop computer and no carry-on luggage. My oversize Vera Bradley bag held the essentials for a trip like this: my Michael Connelly thriller, my journal, an empty 20-ounce soda bottle, one peanut butter and bologna sandwich made 24 hours earlier, one turkey and cheese half-sandwich purchased 18 hours earlier, a single-serving bag of Ruffles poached from the Red Carpet Club and a plastic bag packed with several 4-packs of small creme-filled cookies, all left over from the trip the day before since I got upgraded then to first class on the long leg.

I sailed through Security and ducked into the Red Carpet Club. Whatever money or miles I pay each year for my membership there is so worth it! I popped two strawberry-banana yogurt cups in my purse and got one of the attendants to fill my empty 20-ounce plastic soda bottle with Diet Coke. I am never without the latter when I fly; that way I can drink it when I get thirsty, not when they deign to serve me. I am addicted to Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke but with the no-liquids rule I have to settle for the plain jane Diet Coke I can get at the airport.

A few minutes before boarding, I hustled to the gate. The man in the seat next to me at the gate and I started chatting and it turns out that he's a 1K flyer (flies 100,000 miles a year, wow!) on United, and guess what he was doing! Same as I was, assuring his status with a LAX-Newark turnaround trip. He'd taken the red-eye in and was going right back on this early morning flight. So I wasn't the only crazy one.

Our plane, an A319, wasn't very crowded. I had an exit row window seat with no seat in front of me and no one in the middle seat, my idea of coach class heaven. Things got interesting after we boarded. There was a contingent of probably 30 people from (presumably) China on the flight and one of them parked herself in an exit row seat. No one else was assigned to that seat but at length the flight attendant asked to see all of our boarding passes in the exit rows because she knew who belonged there and who didn't. The woman tried stalling, seemingly unable to find her boarding pass. The flight attendant patiently and sweetly waited until the elusive stub was found. She made the woman move to the area behind the exit rows, which I fondly call cattle-class hell. United has very generous Economy Plus space but their regular coach class seating is torture, beyond the limits of human decency. If that's not incentive to keep my Premier-something status, I don't know what is. (Shhh, don't tell United. I don't want to encourage them to keep their sardine-spaced regular coach seating.)

After a brief (45-minute) scare that we might have a longer delay while they found and fixed a small leak in the system that supplies oxygen to the face masks, we were on our way. The movie was "The Da Vinci Code," a movie I never wanted to see in the first place and which I saw on my way to San Diego last week. I request a window seat on long flights so I can control the window shade. I hate flying in the dark during the day and no amount of pressure from flight attendants or fellow passengers will make me lower my shade. I will never be voted Ms. Passenger Congeniality.

Halfway through the movie, the Chinese woman whom the flight attendant earlier shooed from the exit row had sneaked back to a different exit row seat, as had a fellow countryman. The flight attendant told them both they would have to go back to their assigned seats. Five minutes later when she came back, neither had budged. She used sweeping hand gestures to motion then back to the sardine section and they moved with quite visible disdain.

With the exception of a "closed" lavatory ("Someone made a mess," the flight attendant told me), one of just two for an entire coach section, it was a normal, uneventful flight. We arrived on time.

With an hour to go before my flight back, I wanted to get my blood going. With 5-1/2 hours of sitting and another 5 or 6 to go, walking felt good.

When I approached my gate to go back, the gate was filled with people and, fearing a crowded flight, I felt waves of dread and fatigue sucking me under. Everything and everybody irritated me like I get when my blood sugar is low, which was not the case. I thought, God, how will I make it in another plane if I'm squished in cheek to cheek with someone else for 5 hours?

But Providence was good to me. I had a window seat in an exit row in a 767 and in the 2-3-2 seat configuration no one was next to me. Big sigh of relief!

I never or rarely fly in 767s, which became embarrassingly clear. At the start of the flight, the purser announced that movies would be available on four channels. There was nothing I wanted to see but I thought I'd catch the surprisingly truly funny "Talladega Nights" again. I saw no screens and thought maybe they would drop down but wondered how we could each view different movies. I wondered an hour or so after we took off why they hadn't started the movie yet.

Nearly three hours into the flight, I navigated my way down the narrow aisle to the lavatory and on the way back, I saw that everyone had a screen built into the back of the seat in front of them. Aha! But the bulkhead and exit row seats didn't have the screens. Oh, so we get gypped, I thought. They should tell people that they don't get movies if they choose those seats, I thought. Then I saw that one person in a bulkhead seat in front of me had a screen that came up on an arm from beneath one of the armrests. Eventually I found the release button on mine but it took me several minutes to figure out how to turn the darn thing on. I flown nearly 50,000 miles every year for the last half dozen and I couldn't figure it out so I had to laugh at myself. Finally I did and voila! I was just in time for the credits.

I'd been entertaining myself with United's Hemispheres magazine, found in every seat pocket. Ah, but just try to find a pristeen one with the crossword puzzle not filled in or the Sudoku puzzle not attempted or some pages torn out. Since the plane wasn't full, I tried three and finally found one with the Sudoku puzzle page there and unmarked. The crossword puzzle, however, someone had completed. I immediately started filling in one of the four Sudoku puzzles, but after a good hour at least, I'd run into a snag -- some number or other was clearly wrong and even with that, I'd probably only filled in 1/3 of the boxes. (Hey, I'm new at Sudoku.) So of course I ripped out the page to work on it later.

We landed at Washington's Dulles International Airport about 8:30 p.m. My last flight left at 9:40. It was a tiny EMB145, with a 1-2 seat configuration. I got on the side with one seat; the people in two seats were v-e-r-y cozy. I could barely walk upright. And some jerk with a megaphone-loud voice was talking business on his wireless set at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I was glad when all cell phones had to be off.

Our pilot or first officer looked a lot like Steve, the large fiance on "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance" reality show of a couple of summers ago. His substantial body filled up the entire aisle space and he had to stoop to walk so he wouldn't bump his head. But he flew the plane just fine.

That flight was short, smooth and a visual delight. The small plane flew low enough so we could see more below. The East coast was nearly all city, town, city, town, and the lights and patterns from above resembled a cross between the paintings of Jackson Pollock and Thomas Kinkade.

We landed at 10:37 p.m., well ahead of our scheduled time of 10:59 p.m. That enabled me to walk through the nearly empty, nothing-open Newark Terminal A to the AirTrain and, despite rerouting for maintenance purposes, I made it to the warm waiting room at NJ Transit/Amtrak's Newark International Airport Station. I easily made the 11:30 train to my little station, drove the 3-1/2 miles home, yawning, and at midnight my 18-1/2-hour marathon flying day was over.

Actually, it was one of the easier, more comfortable flying days I've had. And I'm glad I did it and that it will get me to Premier Executive. But that doesn't mean I want to do it again any time soon. Today I indulged myself in the luxuries of sleeping prone and drinking Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke. Ah, life is good.

Love and Power: Are They Mutually Exclusive?

Okay, here's my confession: Every day my Replay TV (competitor to TiVo) records "Oprah." At night, or once a week, I catch up. I watch some of them and I am not interested in some so I just erase them.

I'm more of sucker for the celebrity interviews than the person-on-the-street stuff, extraordinary things happening to ordinary people, etc.* Nah, give me a celeb and give me some insight into who they really are and what makes them tick. Danny DeVito's (allegedly) drunken appearance on "The View" earlier this week gave me a new angle on him -- he's a cute, happy, loquacious drunk -- and the ladies. Rosie O'Donnell very kindly rescued him by pulling him onto her lap and cuddling him like a baby. Barbara Walters was pissed at his behavior and tried to get him to talk about his movie that he was there to promote. Joy Behar and Elisabeth Hasselbeck just went with the flow.
*There are exceptions -- I just wept while watching Oprah's inspiring "Pay It Forward" show of Nov. 27. Wow.

As a journalist who has never covered the celebrity beat, I've only interviewed three of them: Annette Funicello, Patrick Duffy (Bobby on "Dallas") and the late Buck Owens. I found Annette and Patrick way too guarded so I didn't get much insight into them. My day spent with Buck while writing about country radio station KNIX in Phoenix, which he owned, was a truly wonderful and enlightening experience. What a sexy, charismatic man! Yes, Buck Owens! In person he was hot! I felt a special chemistry with him and felt like we were pals as well as journalist and celebrity. Such is the magic of a truly charming man. (Yes, Buck Owens! Get over it.)

On the Nov. 30 show of "Oprah," Oprah and Ellen Burstyn were talking about giving their power away to men. They both said they had done that in the past. Ellen finished talking about her own struggle with that by saying, "And finally you have to be able to say, 'It's all right -- I can be powerful and be a woman and be loved all at once.'"

I was astonished. I have long admired Ellen Burstyn -- her incredible acting and her as a person. She plays strong, dignified, intelligent women. That usually means powerful, if not toweringly powerful at least personally powerful. To hear that she's been "giving her power away to men" was unfathomable to me.

I had such a hard time relating to the struggle of being powerful vs. being a woman and being loved. I have been in love and loved more than a few times but can't remember a time when I felt I had less power in a relationship than outside it. In fact, I feel much more alive and happy and beautiful and able to do anything when I'm in a relationship. Even when they have gone bad, they've been sad and painful and frustrating but even when I didn't feel powerful when or after they ended, I didn't feel like I gave my power away to anyone. And I always counted on my friends to infuse me with their power to hurry along my healing.

Maybe it's because I was an only child that I always relied on myself, my friends, my parents and Providence to take care of me, guide me, soothe me and fuel me every day. I just knew that someone would always be there, even if I didn't know exactly who. And they have been. Even strangers. Especially strangers. You just never know where help will come from. And knowing you can get help for whatever you're going through makes you feel powerful.

I think only children tend to be cherished, doted on, attended to and encouraged that they can do and be anything. When someone important to you has faith in you, you do feel powerful. I am so fortunate and grateful that I can't relate to the idea of giving my power away to a man. Only The Man. :)

Closed on Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has never been a big, sentimental holiday in my family the way Christmas and birthdays are. My family is 2,500 miles away and my friends all have families-plus-one-or-two-or-ten on Turkey Day so every year I get a handful of generous invitations to join one horde or another. Sometimes I say yes, sometimes I prefer going solo to making a big shlep somewhere and behaving myself with people I wish weren't there. I like my friends but their squirmy, whiney parents or the squirmy, whiney kids who belong to some relative or guest just make me uncomfortable and irritable. (Sound kind of Bah! Humbuggy, don't I? Ah, well.)

The times I've joined friends and their immediate families and a close friend or two I've usually enjoyed the day. A few times I've made the mistake of going with friends to somebody's house where I don't know the hosts very well or there is such a mob that I feel like a stranger in a strange world. Those times have been pure torture. One time a few years ago when I still lived in Manhattan, I joined two friends, also from Manhattan, and we trekked out to the farthest town on Long Island to join friends of theirs in a huge house with at least 1,000 boistrous people I didn't know but who all seem to know each other. Not really 1,000 but it felt that way. The minute I walked through the door, I felt a discomfort that made me want to turn tail and leap onto the first train back. That was a loooooong day.

So after some tentative plans fell through for today, I found myself searching for a good turkey dinner at the last minute. Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru just didn't appeal to me, nor my leftover pizza in the freezer. So many places are closed on Thanksgiving -- I tried calling several restaurants that I frequent that I figured would have decent turkey dinners but they were all closed. Geez, even TGIFriday's was closed -- I figured I could count on them! The Denny's near me was open and I love their Super Bird (it's made with turkey) but I couldn't see myself there on this day.

At length I thought I'd try a little local Italian restaurant, Mulberry Street, and BINGO, I got a winner! Yes, they were open and yes, they had turkey dinners and yes, I could get in right away.

So I took the three-minute drive there (in the rain) and was delighted to see only six cars in the parking lot. I got a nice big table in the corner and enjoyed a scrumptious traditional turkey dinner with fresh everything, including cranberry sauce, which I usually can do without, made with fresh berries and some fresh fruit to dilute the characteristic tartness - delicious! Great service, not too expensive, all in all a relaxing and satisfying experience. I waddled out of there nice and full.

I thought about doing something charitable on this day, something for someone else. But with no advance planning I wasn't sure where to go. And frankly, I just wanted a whole day to do what I wanted, even if it was not much. So I went to the gym, talked to a good friend on the phone, got my (obviously artificial) Christmas tree out and started getting it set up, e-mailed a friend, talked to another friend on the phone, took a nap (the ultimate luxury), took some time to reflect on how fortunate I feel, talked to my mom on the phone and am writing this as I watch the Kansas City Chiefs kill "my" Denver Broncos. Wait - the Broncos just scored. Maybe there's hope for a 100% fabulous Thanksgiving Day. Instead of just 99%.

Biting Back at Time

Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I have neglected my blog for several months. It's not that I haven't had anything to write about. I moved, and the challenges and traumas and joys of that could have provide several days' worth of entries. The HP spy scandal fascinated and repulsed me for several weeks -- let me count the ways. Living in New Jersey, the whole equal-rights-for-gays decision handed down by the court last week and whether marriage between gays should be allowed certainly provided good fodder. And, best news of all, Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams, who has been suffering from a rare affliction that takes away the ability to speak, got his voice back!

I blame time. It's time's fault. Time is stingy with itself -- whenever I ask for more, I am denied. Time is inconsistent -- at times it speeds up (especially when I'm doing something pleasureable, so I feel cheated out of some of it), at times it is so pokey that it torments me (especially during nights when insomnia plagues me).

Okay, I can't blame time. We all get the same amount each day.

Anyway, I'm back. I'm baaaaaaaack! So stay tuned.

We Kill Him and Then We Care Whether We Were Fair in His Last Moments?

Would someone please explain to me how this all works? We (the American military) kill Abu Musab al-Zarqawi in a violent way -- presumably dropping two 500-pound bombs on a safe house can be considered violent -- and then we're sending in people to ascertain whether the troops on the scene acted appropriately toward him as he lay dying?

What, are we going to say they treated him cruelly? Wasn't the whole point to kill him? Isn't bombing a safe house, and wiping out others in the house also, pretty darn deliberate? If someone is going to go that far to try to kill someone, if he were still alive, wouldn't they do whatever they had to do to make sure they finished the job?

I mean, really, will there be an investigation into whether the troops beat him or didn't provide medical treatment? And what if they did beat him? Will they be punished or reprimanded? Presumably someone thinks it might be inappropriate or, even after bombing the place with the specific intention of killing him, they wouldn't be sending someone to look into it. Where did that idea even come from? Please, someone, explain that to me.

United 93 -- The Nightmare, The Heroes, The Movie

I knew I had to see "United 93." I was living and working in New York City when our country's soul got punched in the gut on 9/11. (No year is necessary -- we all know.) Despite living in the West all but the last 18 years of my life and considering myself a blood-deep Westerner, on 9/11 and in the three or so months following, my bond with "the City" got permanently deeper and stronger. We all felt the same grim connection with Washington, D.C. -- a good friend of mine worked in the Pentagon at the time and had run out into the parking lot when the plane hit -- and with Pennsylvania.

Knowing what "United 93" was, I had to go when I was in a quiet, strong and centered enough mood to handle it. Today, I decided, was the day. Well, technically yesterday, since it's after midnight. No "DaVinci Code" or "X-Men" for me. The film has left a few more theaters each week since its release, replaced by the real or hoped-for blockbusters du jour. I had to drive 30 miles to see it the one time today that the theater showed it, 9:00 p.m.

I got there early and when I entered the room, theater 14, it was empty. I chose a prime seat in the center and sat quietly. I felt like I was waiting for a funeral to begin.

The room started to fill and I was surprised at how many young couples came. I wouldn't think of "United 93" as much of a date movie. Everyone was quiet, almost reverent, until a pack of about a dozen youngsters came. Well, older teens or younger 20's ages. They were laughing and teasing and boistrous. One girl in particular had an especially annoying nervous giggle, which seemed incessant. I found myself tensing up and wanted to stand, turn around and yell, "Shut the fuck up! Don't you know what kind of movie this is going to be?!" But I didn't. I just sat tensely, very irritated. They carried on throughout the previews and I was getting pissed. But then "United 93" started, and to their credit, I never heard another peep out of them.

The movie affected everyone in the theater, certainly including me. I sat there with my body tense and wanting to back away, just like I feel in the dentist's chair, and I kept having to tell myself to relax, just like I do in the dentist's chair, and it didn't help, just like it doesn't in the dentist's chair.

Sniffles could be heard as soon as the real-life television footage of the second plane hitting the north tower (or was it the south?) came on as the air traffic controllers in the movie watched, frozen with their mouths open in disbelief. It's controversial whether real footage of that horrific event should have been used in a commercial movie, but this felt very much like a sensitive depiction of what happened that day and the real footage seemed totally appropriate to me. Since I'd been watching the Today show that morning on the NBC station in Manhattan when local broadcaster Jane Hansen broke in with the news, I saw that second plane hit "live" and when it came on in the movie, my heart pounded, my breath drew in and my eyes let go of the tears I didn't know were there. Not one soul in the theater moved a muscle.

I'd heard that "United 93" wasn't exploitative, and I agree. Writer/director Paul Greengrass' understated tone made it much more dramatic for real than movies that try to make the drama more dramatic with over-the-top dialog or hit-you-over-the-head music. The people on the plane in the movie were the people who were on the real fated plane, played by professional but not particularly recognizable actors (which would have been too distracting -- good move!) and they were wearing approximately what the real people were wearing and doing approximately what the real people did as far as they could determine after speaking with surviving family members. That is admirable and will make this movie endure and be meaningful for a long time.

It surprised me that so much of the movie centered on the air traffic controllers in several states and the military, what they knew when, how they found out, how confusing it all was with little or conflicting information and what they tried to do about it. It made for a much more interesting and palatable film rather than staying in the plane the whole time. In the credits (which people actually stayed for afterward), several of those air and military officials played themselves -- very impressive.

The terrorists in the movie were depicted not exactly sympathetically but relatively humanely, especially the leader. This very serious man was shown praying and calling someone to say he loved them just before he boarded the plane. He was clearly following his convictions, as have hundreds of instigators and leaders of brutal wars for centuries.

We all know how it ends so I won't give anything away by saying that the movie goes to black before the plane slams into the ground. The words across the screen afterward tell some interesting facts, the saddest being that the military folks responsible for sending the fighter jets to intercept the planes didn't find out that United's flight 93 had been hijacked until four minutes after it crashed. My God.

I cried what Oprah Winfrey calls the ugly cry for several minutes. Not a sob or a weep but a silent, streaming-tears cry. And I wasn't alone. I think that's why so many people stayed to watch the credits, because they didn't want to walk out yet. It was a disturbing film, difficult to watch but riveting and fascinating. I watched most of it with my gut churning. But I'm glad I saw it and if you're brave enough, I recommend that you go see it too.