"Trips That Begin Badly Are Bound To End Well"

My cousin's dear mother always said that trips "that begin badly are bound to end well." I've taken those words to heart as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window in our California retreat and watch Mother Nature wreak havoc on the California coast. It has been raining off and on for three days now and, if we are to believe the weather forecasters, we have another two days to go. All plans for long hikes have been delayed. Thoughts of sitting on the sunny deck overlooking the San Francisco Bay seem like a Midwestern gal's dream. A ferry trip from Oakland's Jack London Square to San Francisco have been held in abeyance. A field trip of sorts to look at homes for sale may have to wait until the start of the spring market.

But all is not lost. I've finished one book and have begun another. In between the rain - and it does stop for hours at a time, usually in early afternoon - we've scoured the stores up and down College Avenue and the more chic establishments on Berkeley's 4th Street. We've taken advantage of our free guest status and worked out at the Oakland YMCA two times now. I even took a yoga class there yesterday before jumping on an elliptical machine for 20 minutes in my attempt to do something aerobically every day. We've eaten at some good restaurants and visited the Berkeley Museum of Art. And we have frequented the local Whole Foods, Safeway, and specialty food stores and delis that flourish here.

We watch the clouds, fog, and rain roll in and out as if they are in a huge hurry, late for something terribly important. Mother Nature is on display with her palette of colors, moods, and designs. Who needs museums or art galleries? The houses on the surrounding hills disappear and then magically reappear. One minute the Golden Gate Bridge is there; the next, it has been erased as quickly as memories of childbirth. I came here for warmth and sun but am beginning to appreciate the underside of this El Nino that is bringing much-needed rain to these parts. The rain and the snow in the upper altitudes that will eventually melt will help replenish the drought-stricken land and the all-too-shallow reservoirs. I don't know if this marks the end of California's three-year drought - probably not - but it will make a significant dent.

I'm aware of the stunning defeat of the Democratic candidate for Senate in the liberal state of Massachusetts. But I've chosen to implement a news blackout for now. I'm unwilling to let politics rob me of what I know will be a trip that ends well.

OUT OF SHAPE

A 64 year-old woman can't stop moving; otherwise, the consequences are dire. This was only too obvious yesterday when my husband and I took our first hike in Berkeley's Tilden Park. Now I knew I was out of shape. For a variety of reasons too typical to mention, I'd stopped any semblance of regular exercise for almost a year. Sure, I went to yoga two times a week, but yoga ain't aerobic no matter how many head stands one does. (And, no, I don't do headstands.) My feeble attempts at getting back to dance class petered out when I got sick in the fall. By the time I was feeling better, my excuse was that I'd have plenty of time to pick up the ball once I got to California. (The same excuse, by the way, that I used when I didn't lose the extra 6 or 7 pounds I'd gained after my parents died and I went back to work full time. As soon as you get to California, you'll be able to control your own kitchen and won't be tempted by the constant flow of office goodies and restaurant lunches. Easier said than done.)

Well, the buck stops here. Having to stop several times during yesterday's hike was pathetic. (And who in the hell designed the hike so that the return would be all uphill?) Standing outside of myself, looking at me slumping with hands on hips, practically hyperventilating, made me feel like one of the contestants on "The Biggest Loser." I pictured all those overweight men and women huffing and puffing, sweating gallons, moaning and groaning. Stuck in my mind's eye was the image of one of last season's contestants collapsed on the beach after a mile walk and then being carted off in a medical helicopter.
"I have to stop," I yelled to my husband who was ahead of me, practically out of view.
"Keep walking," he said with not a bit of empathy. I hated him. Couldn't he see that I was struggling?
"I'm really out of shape," I managed to spit out.
"Do you want me to wait for you?" he said.
"Yes," I said, feeling like a scared, little girl.
I fought the overriding urge to collapse on the grass. Instead, I focused on my breath, doing my best to inhale slowly, then exhale to the same count. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Frustrated but not down for the count, I started walking uphill once again.
"You were a bit harsh," I said to my husband. "I told you I was really out of shape."
"I'm going to be your coach . . . just like on the 'Biggest Loser.'"
Some switch. For years Alan had begged me to stretch him, to show him how to do various exercises. And now he was going to be my coach? No thanks.
"You know you watch that show just to make yourself feel better," he said.
I wanted to kill him. "I watch that show on occasion because I'm amazed at what they can accomplish."
"It's the worst kind of reality show," he said. "Looking at terribly obese people in their bicycle shorts and halter tops. Disgusting."
I was too tired to argue. I needed to finish the hike and sit down. But I wouldn't let this one slide.

California, Here We Come

Hard to believe that after months of scouring the Internet for the perfect vacation pad, days spent dreaming up all the things we can do, hours engaged in training our two Maine Coon cats to go into their new cat carriers (Not an easy task!), we are less than a day away from blowing the winter tundra and flying off to California. Am I a tad stressed? You bet I am! Try figuring out what to pack for two months. After all, I'm a gal who likes to look good and, while I'm taking plenty of funky Berkeley attire, I do want to dress for the ballet or a dinner at Chez Panisse.

And what's a trip without hormones, a netty pot, gobs of stuff for my hair, and vitamins up the wazoo? Open one of my suitcases and you'll find a virtual drug store . . . oh, and enough shoes to fill a shelf in any self-respecting shoe store. I know, the less the better. And as my husband keeps reminding me, we do have a washer and dryer at our behest. But never mind! Whether it's hiking in the Redwoods, touring the wine country, visiting the museums of San Francisco, or hanging out on our deck toward sunset, I'm going to look and feel G-O-O-D.

Traveling with two cats for the first time could go off without a hitch or could be as grueling as traveling with two two-year-olds who hate flying, get nasty earaches, and cry their lungs out for hours on end. I'm most concerned about Zuni, our almost 7-year-old. He's a talker - not the standard meow but more like "Hello." Hello, hello, hello, hello . . . over and over again until the closed door is opened, the petting meets his fancy, or the morning treats have been doled out. So, we're keeping our fingers crossed that the "absolutely safe" tranquilizers will knock both him and Augie out and that the movement of the airplane will lull them into an even deeper sleep.

We'll be "storing" the cats under the seats in front of us. Southwest Airlines' rules are matter of fact: Cats must stay put during the entire trip. Their bodies must be entirely closed. No heads or tails sticking out at any time during the flight. If they get sick, there will be no medical assistance. If they need, oxygen, tough. And for this, we get to pay $75 per cat each way.

Minor roadblocks aside, I'm chomping at the bit to take this adventure. California, here we come!

"Only The Good Die Young"

Doug always said he was going to die young. I used to snicker and tell him he was crazy. But he knew something that I did not: Doug, my first true love, passed away from complications of a massive stroke in his mid-50s. Fred, a post-college friend who was divored and living alone, died after suffering a heart attack. A co-worker found him several days later. Dear, sweet Sue lived a bit longer; she succumbed to pancreatic cancer not long after her 68th birthday. The suicide of my brother at age 30 remains the most painful loss of all.

I'm beginning to think Billy Joel was on to something when he penned the lyrics to "Only The Good Die Young." I can rattle off a list of not-so-good folks - yes, Dick Cheney, I'm thinking of you! - who despite all kinds of health issues carry on with a vengeance like that damn Energizer bunny. Cheney has had, count them, 4 heart attacks, coronary bypass surgery, coronary angioplasty, a defibrillator, and more, yet the sucker spits his poisonous venom daily.

And, you, Mr. Lieberman, who as an "independent" openly campaigned for John McCain, flip flopped on health care like a dizzy salmon caught in an illegal fisherman's net ("Let's Make A Deal," anyone?), and is now tromping around the globe with McCain, pontificating about the urgency of our military to up the ante in multiple world hot spots . . . you are another one whose life I would trade in a New York minute.

I'm trying my best to understand this apparent karmic conundrum: The good die young, and the bad guys (and gals) keep on keeping on. Am I to cling to the belief that we all go around more than once and that these sickos will get their just reward? If not in this lifetime then in the next or the next? And will I be anywhere in the vicinity to witness the prosecution? Or is that asking too much and tagging me as vengeful and unforgiving.

Perhaps I should have stayed on at Loyola Press and worked on the revision of the series Finding God.

The Dawn of a New Decade

Where did the last 10 years go? A matter of blinks ago, we were facing a new millennium with trepidation, afraid that everything electronic would go batty on us. Remember? If I recall correctly, all the hand wringing was for naught; we all managed to fire up our computers and cell phones and continue along our merry way. We carried on without a hitch until 9/11 when our collective optimism was shot to hell; we haven't been the same since (except, perhaps, on January 20, 2009, when President Barack Obama was sworn in as President of the United States.)

What now? A foiled attempt to blow up an airplane about to land in Detroit. Finger pointing to put the blame somewhere with a faulty mindset that we can stop every single terrorist plot. A health care bill that faces tough days ahead as senators and representatives haggle to settle their differences. A limping economy that, while showing some signs of life, has not yet raised the hopes of the millions who are out of work. Climate change that threatens our very existence. Blah, blah, blah . . . .

I, for one, so wanted to start the new year off on the right foot; instead, I've got this queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that we haven't yet reached bottom. And now, just moments after the euphoria of last year's election, we have to be bombarded by talk of the resurgence of the Republican party. Gee, I was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief after 8 years of that monster George Bush. Can't a girl get a break?

My answer: Run away and hide. Yep, I'm taking a news break, suspending my avid focus on what's going on in the world. And I'm running from what is already a harsh winter by jaunting off to California. Call me a coward, a wimp, a fair-weather friend. "Sticks and stones can hurt my bones, my names can never hurt me." I'm looking out for numero uno . . . and my cats. (My husband is on his own. He brings his own set of issues to the table that only he can tackle.)

Before I have to think about income taxes and what I'm going to do professionally and the 2010 mid-term elections, I'm going to have myself a damn good time. I'm going to walk and hike, commune with Mother Nature, take yoga and dance classes, wander through mueums and art galleries, spend time with old friends, partake of anything interesting the University of California Berkeley has to offer, be wowed by glorious sunsets, roam the ocean beaches, taste the wines of Napa and Sonoma, revisit the enzyme bath in northern California, and do anything else I can to relax, stoke my spirit, rejuvenate my body, and forget about the big mess called planet Earth.

More Like A Twitter Post

Ah, it's Xmas Day in Chicago. The Windy City. The Arctic of the Midwest. One of Santa's way stations as he circles the globe. Frigid. Blustery. And snow, snow, snow.

Well, not so fast, my fine junior meteorologists! The temperature will reach 42 degrees today, and it's raining. (Hell, we'll see a high that is only 18 degrees lower than in northern California. Maybe we should cancel our trek and spend a balmy winter right here.) It's been raining for at least 24 hours, and the forecast calls for rain the remainder of this Xmas Day 2009.

Believe it or not, many grinches around here are complaining: They want snow. They've said so in their Facebook and Twitter posts. Lucky for them: They won't have to wait long. The forecast is for temperatures to plummet by this time tomorrow and for all the rain to turn to snow. The rain-coated streets and sidewalks will become our own private Rockefeller Center skating rinks camouflaged by inches of the white stuff. Can't wait! I love the sound of my neighbors' spinning tires as they try to extract themselves from their covered garages and the same humming sound as drivers attempt to move forward after stopping at either a stop light or stop light. Mix in the chorus from "Jingle Bells" or "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer," and the resulting juxtapositon
of machine and man is enough to drive anyone off the road.

So, have yourselves a merry, rainy Christmas.

Today Is The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

As someone in the 60s said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." (And, no, it wasn't John Denver!)

Yep, it's that time again. A new beginning. A chance to start over. A day to regroup. The opportunity to walk through new doors. A moment to leave all that baggage behind and start fresh, unencumbered. Light. Free. That it's the day after the Winter Solstice is a happy coincidence. I didn't plan it that way. But I can be hopeful that there is a Grand Scheme operating here and that the sun, moon, and stars are aligned in my favor. Heck, why not?

Today is the first day after leaving a full-time job that has kept me busy for the past 15 months. Unlike most of my peers who are dying to retire, I bucked the tide and left my ivory tower (translate: my home office) to work as an editor at Loyola Press. For the first time in 28 years, I actually had to not only act like a professional but dress like one, too. To tell the truth, I enjoyed having to don some "business casual" whatnot Monday through Friday, slug down some semblance of breakfast, and drive the 25 minutes or so to the office. The structure was good for me during a time when I was adjusting to the death of both parents within a matter of weeks from each other.

But that was then, and this is now. I chose to "retire" after realizing that the Loyola Press mission and mine were not made of the same cloth. Don't get me wrong: LP does some excellent work. And I hope that I contributed in my limited way to the continued success of the company's one and only non religious project, a language arts series for kiddies in Grades 3 - 8. But the next project on tap is a revision of a program called Finding God. From time to time, I've wondered myself where He or She is. But as a Jewish gal who is not a follower of Jesus Christ, I would have been a fish out of water.

While it's taken about 40 years, two husbands, and more machinations that I could ever recall, I am finally headed to the East Bay to spend a chunk of the winter. Call me a "snow bird" if you like. The tag doesn't ruffle my feathers. I'm outta' here. Granted, it's not all warm and sunny in the Berkeley Hills, but the weather sure beats the heck out of cold, snowy, dark, dark Chicago. And there is an ocean, mountains, redwoods, wineries, Highway 1, Alice Waters, Yoga for the People, the University of California, Berkeley, San Francisco, Chinatown (a real one), museums, hiking, touring, green, and even hardy Zone 7-9 flowers. Flowers! In January and February! My dance card is already full.

So, as I prepare for this cross-country adventure with my husband and two Maine Coon cats, I'll blog along the way, detailing the good, the bad, and even the ugly (if there is any ugly). Come along for the ride.