MY DAFFODIL IS DEPRESSED

When we lived in Los Angeles, we were apartment dwellers. The extent of our gardening was throwing a geranium in a pot and putting it out on the never-used patio. If we noticed it was seriously drooping, its little arms stretched out, pleading for water, we would water it. But that was all we did. No food. No barbequed spareribs. No creme brulee. No fertilizer. No TLC. She was an independent, self-sufficient geranium. Without any assist from us, she was a survivor.

When we were looking for a rental in Philomath, OR, we stumbled upon a delightful brand-new duplex. It was clean and fresh and sparkly. There was a room that was shaped exactly like a funnel. It served no discernible purpose other than as a conversation starter. The Saint and I were both taken with that room and just HAD to live here.

The Earnest Young Landlord said in the interest of full-disclosure, there was something he had to show us. He dramatically opened the blinds onto the patio. And there it was. A backyard. A big backyard. A big backyard that was entirely mud and weeds. Now, to be completely honest, some folk wouldn't consider it huge, but if your frame of reference is one potted geranium, to us it seemed like Tara. The Earnest Young Landlord was apologetic. He wasn't a gardener either. He just wanted us to be aware of it.

And so we thought, well, gee, how difficult would it be to plant a garden of some sort? The backyard sloped at odd angles so a lawn seemed out of the question. The Saint didn't relish the idea of vertical mowing. We started hanging out at nurseries, eavesdropping, asking endless questions. It turns out that plants are a very diverse lot with very strong likes and dislikes. Some plants preferred morning sun, some preferred afternoon sun, some would rather be in Aruba. One liked to be moist all the time; one liked to dry out completely between waterings and another one fancied a tanning salon . This one liked bone meal, the other one thought there was nothing finer than a grilled cheese sandwich. And then they all had different lifespans. This one would die at first frost, one would be resurrected after the last frost, and yet another would go to Palm Springs for the winter.

Okay, too many choices. Too much information. We bought daffodil bulbs. Lots and lots of them. The Saint followed directions slavishly. He planted them mid-November, placed them four inches beneath the ground, fertilized them.

And then we waited. While daffodils were blooming all over town standing up tall and straight, saluting and celebrating the beautiful new season, ours bloomed and...well, drooped. We'd stare at them for hours, offering them words of encouragement, playing soothing music. We coaxed, cajoled, juggled, did cartwheels. Nothing. Just droop, droop, droop.

I believe the only viable solution is to close the blinds and forget the concept of a garden. Maybe the daffodils will do better if left to their own devices. Maybe they need privacy. Maybe they're depressed. And just maybe we should take up another hobby.

SEAGULL LEGS AND A RICH ITALIAN

Several years ago, my husband, The Saint, and I found a delightful restaurant in San Diego. It was a seafood joint called Point Loma Seafood. The fish was fresh, the prices cheap, and the place was always packed. One evening I noticed a photograph on the wall. It was a photo of seagull legs and feet. I found this endlessly amusing.

This was very much on my mind when we took our first trip since Winter over the coastal range from Philomath, OR to our favorite beach town of Newport, OR. I was determined to get that elusive shot. One would think I would have more important, more meaningful things on my mind. Alas, I do not.

On a deserted jetty, we found a whole herd of seagulls just standing around, apparently waiting for their close-ups. Hunkering down on the ground, I took shot after shot of seagull feet. Suddenly, a voice startled me. "What're you doing, woman? Why are you taking photos of stupid seagulls?" I looked up and there was a grizzled old guy, carrying a fishing pole. He looked for all the world like someone who should be featured on a package of Gorton's Fish Sticks. "Further," he continued, "it looks to me you're not getting a picture of the whole gull -- just his feet." I smiled. "Yes, that was my intention," I said. He studied me for a moment. "You from Callyfurnia?" he asked. "Why, yes I am," I chirped. "Figures," he said as he wandered off, shaking his head.

Exhausted from our extreme photographic efforts, we went to Mo's in Newport. Established in 1944, Mo's has been serving up delicious clam chowder and other seafood dishes to people from all walks of life. Because it's such a tiny little restaurant, you eat at communal tables. You might be sitting next to a diamond merchant from Amsterdam, a cowboy from Wyoming or two travelling evangelists.

As The Saint was studying the menu, he erupted into loud, hysterical laughter. "You find the menu amusing?" I asked. In recent months, we have discussed that we are both way too easily amused. He nodded, tears of laughter running down his face. "Look!" he said, pointing to an item on the menu. It said. "Cioppino. A seafood stew served with a rich Italian." That's exactly what it said. The waitress came over and asked if there was a problem. The Saint said, "Can we take the rich Italian home with us?" She explained it's been on the menu like that for years. She didn't know if the original typo was intentional or not. What amazed her is that although many folk order the cioppino, they almost never comment on the "rich Italian."

As we tucked into our clam chowder, we congratulated ourselves. A shot of seagull feet, clam chowder and a rich Italian. How could a day possibly be more perfect?

The Problem With Lying...

It all started in the mid-80's. I was working in New York, missing my California home. A friend had just opened a chic, trendy animal collectible shop in chic, trendy SoHo. Stuffed animals of every stripe were there. "And what animals do you collect?" my enthusiastic friend asked. Actually, I didn't collect any stuffed animals, but I felt obligated to purchase something from her. Not teddy bears. Too predictable. Same with kittycats. Nothing disgusting like an armadillo. And most important, I didn't want something that was so popular that I would feel obligated to be in the shop every week buying another panda or koala for my collection. "Hedgehogs," I blurted out. "I collect hedgehogs." I don't know where that came from because I don't ever recall seeing a hedgehog and I had absolutely no idea what they looked like. My friend looked perplexed for a moment, then a huge smile eruped. "We have a hedgehog, but only one." Perfect, I thought. She came out with a critter that kind of resembled a small possum. "Look at his perfect little porcelain nails," my friend proclaimed. "How adorable," I mumbled. And so I had a hedgehog. One hedgehog. I certainly thought that was the end of it. But, of course, that was not to be. Word got out that I "collected" hedgehogs. Since when does one hedgehog constitute a collection? Every birthday and Christmas thereafter, people have gifted me with hedgehogs: stuffed ones, plaster of paris ones, crystal ones, lead ones. I even have a suede purse shaped like a hedgehog, and sometimes, just to be contrary, I actually wear it! Just recently we moved to Oregon, and for one moment, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to dump the hedgehog collection. But when it came right down to it, I couldn't do it. So, after all these years, of a pretend-collection, it occurs to me that I really do have a hedgehog collection and I'm darned proud of it.

I Got Old; I Didn't Get Dumb!

Do young folk really believe that when grey hairs start sprouting from your head that the grey cells simultaneously fall out the back of your head, following you around like a bad case of dandruff?

The other day I was in the electronics department of Target, wanting to purchase a 5-disc changer. I said to the young man behind the counter, "Please, sir, can you please direct
me to the 5-disc changers?"

"Certainly, ma'm," he said cheerfully and led me to an impresssive display of...well, boom boxes. "Here you go."

"But these are boom boxes," I said. "I want a 5-disc changer."

"They're the same thing. Just different names. Maybe you called them 5-disc changers when you were younger."

"When I was younger, I didn't call them anything, because they hadn't been invented!"

"They've been around forever. You probably just weren't familiar with them."

"Au contraire, mon ami," I said. "In the whole history of the world a boom box and a 5-disc changer have never, ever been considered the same thing." I could feel the volume of my voice increasing and developing that strident quality that sends neighborhood dogs fleeing. "That's as stupid as saying an electric can opener and a Mixmaster are one and the same thing." I do believe I was pretty much shrieking at this point.

"M'am, you need to calm down." I think until this point he thought he was just dealing with a harmless little old lady.

"And you need to stop being such a patronizing, uninformed jackass. I'm taking my business to Circuit City. The folks over there are bright enough to know the difference between a boom box and a 5-disc changer." With that I thwomped him over the head with my walker.

I hope he's learned that harmless little old ladies can turn turn into crazy old ladies with anger management problems in a New York minute.

HARRUMPH!

I recently had someone read something I had written. They didn't know a word I had used and suggested I change the word. What?! As a writer, am I supposed to keep track of each reader's words? Oh, I think not. I am not responsible for supplying the reader with a dictionary; nor am I responsible for their ignorance!

Please Meet Spenser For Hire

Spenser, a rescue dog, is of indeterminate lineage. When I first got him, he was a year old and weighed in at about 6 pounds. Skinny and frightened, he did not look like he had had a very good year at all. He was a bundle of fears and nerves. He just knew folk were out to hurt him. People would make strange ewwww kind of faces when they saw him. WHAT IS HE? I used to tell them that his mother was a fruit bat and his daddy was a werewolf. From the looks on their faces, I think they actually believed me.

Spenser is six years old now, and he is a contented happy dog, who has doubled in size. His best buddy in the world is Archibald McNalley, who is his hero. They make a very handsome couple: black and white, ebony and ivory, salt and pepper. Now a robust 12-pounder, he is very protective of his family. If anyone is going to harm any of us, they're going to have to get past Spenser, Vigilante Dog.

Welcome to my blog!

Welcome to my blog!

And to think I didn't even know what a blog was ten minutes ago, and now I have one! Ah, modern technology. Almost -- but not quite -- as good as a grilled cheese sandwich!

And now I have to figure out what I will do with this wondrous new toy. Here I can write my silly, goofy stuff; I can rant and rave; I can show off the two best dogs in the whole world. The Amazing Archibald McNally, a singularly gorgeous Maltese, and Spenser For Hire, a dog of indeterminate lineage who looks like a fruit bat and a werewolf got together to create this masterpiece.