Those Crazy Canadians

Recently, John and I took a little trip to Victoria, Canada.  It’s a pretty easy jaunt from here:  an hour’s drive to Port Angeles followed by a ninety-minute ferry ride and voila, you’re on foreign soil.  We both like the city a lot, yet Victoria itself wasn’t the reason for our visit.  This time, we traveled across the pond in order to ride the Galloping Goose Regional Trail.

A few months ago, we bought ourselves new electric-assist bicycles.  While John was always a strong bicycle rider who could handle nearly any terrain, I, on the other hand, turned into a quivering, panting, wheezing crybaby at the mere hint of an approaching hill.  Despite John’s encouragement — “Put it in a low gear and keep pedaling, KEEP PEDALING!” — I would almost immediately jump off the bike and trudge the damn thing to the top, grimacing all the way.

So as a retirement present to myself (and indirectly to John, who would no longer have to listen to me gripe about inclines), I started shopping online for an e-bike.  The step-through (girl’s) bike I chose also came in a step-over (boy’s) model and when I showed it to John, I could see the longing in his eyes.  It didn’t take much to convince him to order an e-bike for himself, too.

We’ve ridden a few trails in Washington and kind of last minute decided to take the bikes to Vancouver Island to ride the 55-kilometer (which sounds so much more impressive than 34-mile) Galloping Goose.  I rented an Airbnb about fifteen minutes from downtown Victoria, booked the ferry and off we went.

I love Canada.  Throughout the years, John and I have visited several parts of the country and are always impressed.  For one thing, Canadians seem to have their act together more than we do.  As an example:

And dang, the people are so nice.  I realize it’s a stereotype but from our experiences there, it’s very true.  Like on our first day in Victoria this time.  We stopped at a grocery store for sandwiches to take with us on our bike ride and as we were stepping out of the car, a woman walking by asked, “Are you visiting from Washington?”

“Yes, we are,” John replied.

“Hang on a second, I have something for your wife,” she said, and rushed back to her parked truck.  Uh-oh, I thought, it’s probably a sales scheme or maybe a political flyer of some sort.  Instead, she handed me a blue faceted piece of glass.

While I hesitated, anticipating what was sure to be some spiel about the magic of crystals or maybe an offer to see my future in that hunk of glass [for a nominal fee], she said, “A gift for you, just to show how nice we Canadians are.”

Before I could spit out that I already know how nice Canadians are, she turned and sauntered away towards the store.

And yes, being an American suspicious of seemingly random acts of kindness, I’ve been waiting for that blue piece of glass to blow up or maybe ooze toxic goo.  It’s been well over two weeks now, though, and nothing has happened.

As it is with all Airbnb rentals, the owners of our place, Gary and Denise, had a page on their site explaining why they decided to become Airbnb hosts.  It was a charming little story about how they visited Europe for their 20th anniversary and found they enjoyed staying in someone’s home much more than a hotel, so they wanted to come back and do the same for travelers to their neck of the woods.  The story included a photo of the couple holding hands, smiling sweetly.

Gary greeted us when we arrived and was as friendly and helpful as we’d expected.  We knew Gary and Denise had gardens on their property, as well as bee hives, and during our four-night stay we saw Gary several times tending to both.  We often chatted with him and each time was as pleasant as the last.  He talked about bike rides he and Denise have taken, suggested nearby restaurants he and Denise enjoy, explained how he built the cottage we were renting after Denise designed it, things like that.

However, during the entire four days, we never once saw Denise.

Oh we saw her car, but although Gary’s truck would come and go — he was a Snap-On Tools salesman — Denise’s vehicle stayed put.  And the front blinds of the house were always closed.  Always.  We started thinking about Norman Bates (who wouldn’t?) and decided Gary had killed Denise and her body was inside the house positioned in a rocking chair a la Mother Bates, perhaps, or on the couch where Gary could sit and watch television with it.

There was one window in the back of their house towards which we could crane our necks at night and peer inside from our cottage yet, alas, never once did we see anything more than a bit of furniture.  Could it be Denise was buried in the back yard, maybe under the bee hives?  Shades of “Rear Window” abounded but unlike Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly, we weren’t able to crack the case before it was time for us to leave.

The morning of our departure, we chatted it up with Gary again as we were packing the car.  It was a Saturday, and he said he was thinking about mowing the yard that afternoon.  I had to bite my tongue not to ask what Denise had planned for her day.  Instead, I decided to cast my suspicions aside and be nice.  Like the blue faceted glass lady was nice.  Heck, like all Canadians are nice.

Even the wife murderers.

 

The Prettiest Thing

I don’t enjoy grocery shopping.  John, on the other hand, is actually quite fond of it.  To him, a stop at, say, Costco brings with it all sorts of possibilities.  I never know what he might bring home over and above the carefully thought-out list I send with him.  “Look at the deal I got on this cooler!” he’ll exclaim, or “We could use this [set of plastic picnic plates]  [value pack bundle of dish towels]  [sports team logo-emblazoned camping chair], don’t you think?”

I appreciate his zeal, if only because it means I don’t have to make the monthly trek to Costco myself.  However, I am the one who usually does the weekly grocery shopping since John is often busy in his gardens.  It’s not that I hate the chore; it’s just something I try to spend as little time doing as possible.  Fortunately, I know the local Kroger affiliate like the back of my hand.  My plan, always, is to walk my cart briskly through the store — head down to avoid the dreaded stop-and-chat with fellow shoppers — and not linger one single second longer than is necessary to get the job done.

Yesterday was no different, except for the smoke.  We’re surrounded on three sides by areas experiencing rampant wildfires:  British Columbia to our north, Oregon and California to our south and our own state of Washington east of the Cascades.  Over the past couple weeks, we’ve had only two clear-ish days and even those were slightly hazy.  Yesterday was the worst, with the wind blowing so much BC smoke down upon us, we could taste it.

While I’m grateful we’re not facing the flames firsthand like so many people have had to do, the smoke had me in a real funk when I arrived at the store.  I tossed groceries into my cart at record speed, eager to get back to our house where we were keeping the windows closed as barricades to the foul air.  Miraculously, I walked directly to a check-out lane with no line and was able to zip right through.  I was on my way, next stop home sweet home.

Until, just a few feet from the exit, I found myself stuck behind a man and his 20-something-year-old intellectually disabled son.  They were parking their cart at the carousel inside the store, and the man was letting his son decide which bag of groceries he’d like to carry to the car.  After some consideration, the son pointed to the bag his father should carry and then picked up the other one.

“Whoa, that’s HEAVY!” he declared with unbridled delight.

He glanced back at me, grinning, and I smiled in return.  After a bit of a double-take, he looked me in the eye and said, “Hello!”

“Hi,” I replied, and the three of us filed out the door, father and son in the lead.

Suddenly, the father stopped and told his son that I was his neighbor.  It kind of startled me.  I knew we didn’t live near one another — our house is in a private community and surely I would have recognized at least one of them.  The son looked at me shyly, no doubt thinking his father must be mistaken, when the man asked if I live in Port Townsend.

“Yes, I do.”

“So see?  She is our neighbor,” he said, eliciting yet another bashful grin from his boy before they sauntered on ahead of me.  I could hear the man beginning to explain how we live in a small town and could tell where he’d go from there — that we’re all neighbors, to some degree.

I had already stopped at my car and after loading my grocery bags into it, I caught one last glimpse of the duo just as the son put his hand on his dad’s back and gave it a tender little scratch.

Despite the smoke, I couldn’t help but smile all the way home.

 

The Social Security Train

As it turns out, my boarding pass for the Social Security train has been waylaid, held hostage until I meet with a real, live Social Security Administration person to prove I am indeed who I claim to be.  According to Carlos in the Albuquerque office, who I spoke with after receiving a letter from the SSA, I need to take my photo ID to the appointment and then I can be on my merry way.

Why I’m one of the unlucky few (or many?) who are being required to do this is a mystery.  When John retired, we applied for his benefit online without a hitch.  I went through the same motions when my turn rolled around, but no.  I get a letter instead, instructing me to call Carlos for the annoying news.

To top it off, the closest regional SSA office is in Silverdale, an hour’s drive.  It’s a godforsaken city, to boot, a confusing concrete maze of strip shopping centers harboring every fast food joint, every big box store, every chain restaurant and chain retail store possibly on earth.  One of our friends refers to it as “Silverhell.”  Another dubs it “Consumerdale.”  Either name is spot on.

Long ago, I set up my account on the Social Security website and have faithfully updated my password when required.  Since then, the SSA has made sign-in more secure by using a two-step method:  Once you enter your user name and password, the site sends a temporary numerical code to either your mobile device or email.  You have ten minutes to plug in the number on the sign-in page.  I’ve obediently done so every time, naively believing the process proved who I am.

I was equally compliant in my online application for benefits.  Maybe that was my problem; I was being too meek.  Perhaps a different approach would have garnered a more satisfactory result.

Oh, you want me to type in this information?  This rule applies to me?  Okay, bucko, you asked for it — I’m headed straight to Uncle Donald, and I’m not talking about the duck, if you get my gist.  And believe you me, he doesn’t like to be interrupted while he’s tweeting.  Or in the tanning booth.  Or on the golf course.  Or tweeting again.  You don’t want to be the subject of one of his misspelled, nonsensical rants, correct?  No, of course you don’t, so start depositing that monthly “entitlement” into my bank account pronto or, as Uncle likes to say, YOU’RE FIRED.

Probably that wouldn’t work either.

I have another theory as to why I was singled out, a creepier, Orwellian one:  the iPad overheard something I said that put me under scrutiny.  It’s like when John and I started discussing buying a new mattress.  Ours was verging on ancient in mattress years, and during our procrastination period we often brought up the subject in passing.  As in,

“We really should look for a mattress.”

“Yeah, you’re right.  You want a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch or should we just reheat some leftovers?”

Not only had we not yet visited a single brick and mortar store, we hadn’t done the Google nor initiated an Amazon search when suddenly every website we viewed lit up with mattress ads.

It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.  We live in a small house and during the day our iPad sits on the kitchen counter, almost always turned on, with that innocent look on its face.  Listening.

I’m just crazy about the Social Security Administration, aren’t you?  They are without a doubt the finest people — in the finest administration! — bar none.  And you know who I especially respect and admire?  Carlos.  He’s a prince among men, he truly is.  Heck, I’d do anything for that guy.  In fact, I’m going to make a special trip to the Silverdale SSA office simply because I bet it’ll make him happy.

Plus, it will be such an honor to meet my local Social Security representative face-to-face!  There’s no doubt in my mind I’ll be speaking with an outstanding individual, someone who’s highly intelligent but also kind and caring.  I can’t wait!

 

 

 

 

Retirement: Take Two

Hello.  Haven’t seen you in a while.  How’ve you been?  Good?  Nice to hear it.  I can’t believe more than three years have passed since we last spoke, can you?  Time goes by so fast.  What have you been up to?

Oh, me?  Well thanks for asking.  In a moment of weakness, the non-profit organization where I’d been volunteering hired me part-time in the housing group, meaning I was working with homeless folks — or people at risk of becoming homeless — helping them with rentals using various state grants.  It’s rewarding work.  Not so much monetarily, since non-profits by design don’t pay worth a damn, but when a formerly homeless family is able to move into an apartment due to the efforts you’ve made on their behalf, it’s a happy day.  The resulting hugs are nice, too.

But I’m done with that now.  Nearly two weeks ago, I retired.  When I posted a photo on Facebook of the cakes my co-workers brought in for my last day,

some commenters called it my “second retirement.”  One even said so in such an accusatory way, he sounded downright pissed.

See, the thing is, I did indeed leave an extremely full-time job when John and I sold our farm and moved up here to Washington state.  Never once did we think of it as retirement, however, and in fact John snagged a part-time job only a few months after our relocation.  The fact that I lingered in unemployed limbo for two years wasn’t entirely my doing — I wanted a job, as well.  Yet in this small town, with a work history limited to either the legal field or farming (neither of which I had a desire to resume) local employers were less than enthusiastic about hiring me.  Thus the delay in gainful employment, yet during that time I never felt fully retired.

That has changed.  In spades.  This is the real, 100% bona fide it’s-time-to-jump-on-the-Social-Security-train thing.  I do plan to go back to my volunteer gig at the same non-profit but not until the glorious summer months have passed, and only then on an even more part-timey schedule than in my employed years.

Now, I do realize retirement comes with inherent risks, not the least of which is sudden onset irreversible brain atrophy, or as behavioral health professionals refer to it, The Use it or Lose It Syndrome.  After all, a person needs to keep the synapses firing for fear of them fizzling out altogether, right?  John has been retired over a year and hopes his online chess games will keep him sharp.  I’ve been addicted to New York Times crossword puzzles for quite a while already and vow to continue solving them daily, with gusto.

Still, something happened just last night that had me a little concerned about post-retirement mental acuity.  As we were getting ready for bed, I noticed the toilet paper in John’s bathroom had unrolled to the point of nearly touching the floor.  Being the patient, understanding and non-controlling spouse I pride myself to be, I mentioned it to him.  As in, Hey, roll that back up, would ya?

Maybe as a form of retaliation, or simply an honest attempt to right a wrong, John began to explain how I need to be more careful when I get a new roll started.  That if I don’t pull the initial sheets simultaneously — our toilet paper of choice is 2-ply — one of the sheets will likely go all akimbo.  Become misaligned.  Out of sync with the intended second ply, never again to be ripped off the roll in tandem with its twin.  I listened closely as the gravity of the situation sunk in.

Until it hit me what this most serious discussion was indeed about.  After falling into hysterical laughter that lasted long after my slightly perturbed husband turned off the light, I started to wonder whether online chess and NYT crosswords would be sufficient to stave off what was so quickly showing itself as the inevitable.

Yet is it really that dreadful an omen when toilet paper sheet calibration is considered highbrow commentary?  Perhaps not.  It’s like the old adage:  One man’s analysis of bathroom tissue alignment is another man’s dissertation on the theory of quantum mechanics.  Same/same.

I think we’re going to be fine.

 

 

 

 

Cataract Surgery: The Day of Reckoning

The time had come.  Like conjoined twins who share the same heart, on the day of separation surgery one of us would have to be sacrificed in order for the other to live a normal existence.  Since I’m the larger of the two, I got to make the decision as to who goes, who stays.  And because I’m writing this story, you already know which choice I made.

Yes, I’m still here.  My dear cataract, however, the one with whom I’d shared my life lo these many years, is no more.  Rest its weary, opaque soul.

It took maybe five minutes — enough time for one and one-half Christmas songs to be piped into the operating room — for the ophthalmologist to sound-wave my aged, cloudy, natural lens into a million pieces, vacuum it away like so many dust bunnies and cram in a clear, artificial lens in its stead.  It was almost a letdown, really, after the bizarre business of cataract removal pre-op.

And hoo boy, is it ever a business.  An assembly line, actually.  It started when the doctor’s assistant led me into a large room to join many other patients, all of them in progressively different stages of preparation.  I was instructed to put my personal belongings in one of the lockers lining the back wall, after which the assistant pinned the locker key onto my shirt as if I were a grade-schooler who can’t be trusted keeping track of her mittens.

She sat me down, slapped a name tag on my chest, and after confirming it was my left eye headed to surgery, took a black magic marker and drew an X above my left brow.  The cataract patient’s version of the scarlet letter.

Soon after, a nurse rolled her blood pressure machine over to me, wrapped my arm and once again, asked which eye was to be violated that day.

“The left one,” I answered reluctantly, knowing nothing good would come of it.  As I’d expected, out came her pen and with a dramatic whoosh whoosh, she slashed another X directly on top of my earlier branding.

Before I could ask whether they were using washable or indelible ink in those wretched pens, the surgeon walked up to introduce himself and shake my hand.  He asked (you guessed it) which eye he’d be massacring — wouldn’t you think it was fairly obvious by then? — and again, upon my reply, I was hit with yet one more X.  Tic Tac Toe, you win.

At this point, I had a little more time to take in what was happening around me.  The woman to my left (X marked the spot above her right eye) was offered a slurp of some sort of anti-anxiety liquid and turned it down.  Blasphemy!  When the offer was extended to me, I latched onto that elixir-filled dropper like a newborn suckling piglet to mama sow.  As I waited for the happy juice to carry me off to la la land, I observed the other patients who’d arrived ahead of me.

Each one was called individually into another room.  When they eventually reappeared, it was on the arm of one of the nurses — by necessity since whichever eye was underneath the dreaded triple X’s had been covered with a most frightful apparatus:  an orb slightly smaller than a racquetball positioned directly onto that eye by a strap wrapped around the patient’s head.

The nurse would then gently sit the patient down in one of two large lounge chairs, where they were hooked up to an EKG machine and yet another blood pressure monitor.

All I could think about was Pulp Fiction — and the fact that I was yet to feel a damn thing from the supposed anti-anxiety drink they’d given me.  I started to seriously consider asking for a refill when…

“Jo?  Come with me, please.”

Oh no.

The mystery room was dimly lit, with a reclining exam chair in the center beside which sat a diminutive man with a metal tray stand at his side.  He lowered me into the chair and instructed me to stare at the photo on the ceiling (an idyllic country scene…as if that would be calming).  He started with small talk — “Do you go south for the winter?” — then instantly interrupted with a warning:  “This is going to pinch a little bit.”

He stuck a needle in the outer corner of my left eye.

And yes, it pinched.

“No,” I replied in a panic, every molecule of my being concentrating on the ceiling photo.  “We’re new here.”

“Where did you move from?”

“Austin.”

“Oh really!  What did you do there?”

“We were organic farmers.”

“Wow, my nephew is an organic farmer in Illinois!”

Yeah, buddy, that’s fascinating.  Now TAKE THAT FREAKING NEEDLE OUT OF MY EYE.

All right, I didn’t say that.  I wanted to, but I didn’t.  We continued with more inane chitchat until he abruptly pulled out the needle and just as abruptly ended the conversation.  He sat me upright, strapped on the torture ball and handed me over to the nurse to stumble out to one of the lounge chairs.

I have to admit, I enjoyed scaring the new patients in the waiting room.  Maybe the elixir was finally doing its thing.

After my cataract was ultimately obliterated and replaced I was sent on my way, a complimentary Pacific Cataract and Laser Institute gimme cap in hand.  By late that evening, I could see out of my left eye like I haven’t seen in years and years.  I was astounded and couldn’t stop telling John how clear everything looked, how vibrant the colors were.

I was eager to try out my new eye the next morning in the daylight.  Know what I saw?  Dust.  Lots of it.  The place looked like a haunted house.

Next, I made the mistake of looking closely into the bathroom mirror.  I had no idea I have so much gray hair.  Honestly, I was stunned.  Why hadn’t anyone told me?  I mean, John occasionally teased me about it but, you know, I thought he was just being silly.  Turns out, it was the truth.

I wonder if there’s an institute somewhere that puts cataracts back in.

In a Tent

A moment of weakness, that’s the only way to explain it.  Despite my heretofore utter, adamant (dare I say pig-headed?) refusal to participate in any way in the so-called recreational activity of camping — tent camping, no less — I caved to peer pressure.  I agreed to accompany John and two of our friends to a campsite in the woods and spend three nights, however insane the thought, in a tent.

Did I mention I was drinking wine at the time?  I was, and in a quantity sufficient, apparently, to throw me just enough off-kilter to almost convince myself it was a good idea.  I mean, I enjoy the outdoors.  Hiking is a lovely way to spend a crisp Pacific Northwest day.  Thing is, though, after the hike is finished I’m ready for civilization again.  A hot shower.  A restaurant.  A real bed in a real building with real walls.

You know, the opposite of this.

When setting out for a three-day camping trip, not only are you forced to carry along your own shelter (and I use that word generously, considering the only things between you and the elements are a few sheets of stitched canvas and a zipper) but good heavens, it takes damn near as many days to pack everything else four people need — including what appeared to me to be a good half cord of logs to build fires (for warmth, of all the ridiculous things) — as it does to camp for that same amount of time.

Had we planned the exact trip — hiking, sightseeing and all — yet tweaked it just a little to include three nights in, say, a charming B&B, we would have instead packed:

And we needn’t even discuss bathroom issues…but of course I will.

I give our camping friends the utmost credit for securing us a mighty nice site — or as nice as a site sans private bath can be — in that there was a perfectly respectable public restroom facility within reasonable walking distance.  In the daytime.  In the dark of night, however, it would have proven far too tricky a trek a la flashlight when half-asleep.

Thus, once (or twice, or thrice) per night when a certain business required attending, either John or I would shake the other awake and whisper the need to unzip the door and venture out into the blackness to find a tree at a (barely) polite enough distance from our friends’ tent.

As every woman in the universe knows, this is much easier for a man.  Much.  Granted, I’m a squatter from way back, beginning in the early ‘80s when we were building our second home on a couple acres hidden discreetly in the woods and minus the luxury of a portable facility.  Yet as accomplished as I became at answering nature’s call in full view of Mother Nature herself, my expertise is limited to the daylight hours.  With the cover of night comes the very real worry about the consequence of bad aim, namely — and specifically when sleeping outdoors — crawling back into the tent slightly, ahem, soggy.

I’m pleased to report, in spite of my fears, that never happened over the course of our three-day camping adventure.  At least not that I was aware of at the time.  Or would be willing to admit afterwards.

Fortunately for all of us — especially my three camping companions who would have otherwise been subjected to relentless whining — there were no serious mishaps of any kind during the trip.  The weather gods smiled upon us, granting us three clear, sunny days, and the one night we were awoken by sounds of something padding around our campsite, it turned out to be neither bear nor Sasquatch.  (As far as we know, anyway.  None of us unzipped our tents to find out).

And on the very last afternoon, while our friends chose to stay at the campsite to relax and nap, John and I headed into town — to civilization — for a little souvenir shopping and a visit to a waterfront adult beverage establishment to whet our whistles and reminisce.  We were in the charming village of Eastsound, after all, on Orcas Island.  The very spot where, just over two years ago, we decided quite off-the-cuff to sell our farm and move up here.  It’s a special place for us.

So all’s well that ends well, right?  Yes indeed.  Still, when next summer rolls around and we’re again partaking in a bit of the grape with our camping aficionado friends, should the topic of repeating this trip come up, I intend to take a drastic measure to ensure I keep my wits about me:

I’m switching to coffee.  Black.

The Massaaaahhhge

I love a massage.  I love everything about it.  The aroma of scented oils in the dimly lit massage room, the gentle new age-y music, the way the therapist speaks in hushed tones.  Even the padded face hole in the massage table pleases me.  If I could afford it, I’d have a regular spa appointment once a week.  Maybe more.

And it wouldn’t matter what other treatments the spa offered — defoliating scrubs, body wraps, facials — I’m interested only in massage.  Twice John has given me a spa day as a birthday gift, and both times I eschewed any treatment that didn’t involve being rubbed.

Although I did make a fairly critical mistake on my first visit.  I signed up for the warm mud massage — it had the word “massage” in it, after all — and while the initial hands-on portion was sublime, once the therapist smeared on the mud and left the room for a while, all I could think about was how much time was being wasted; time that could have otherwise been filled with a whole lot more rubbing and a whole lot less lying there sweating.

I do have one very strict rule when it comes to receiving a massage:  other than the intermittent whispered instruction to roll over or to ask if the amount of pressure she’s using is adequate, the therapist must remain mute.  I’m not patient with chitchat during massage time.  I don’t need to know where the therapist grew up or what her children are studying in school.  Likewise, I feel no desire to report my life story to her.  I’m on that table for one reason and one reason alone, and that’s all I want to think about.  Massage me.  From head to toe.

Oh hang on, I almost forgot.  There is indeed one massage spot I’d prefer the therapist skip over.  Two spots, actually:  my ears.  When she starts kneading my ears it makes me feel silly.  I have no qualms about other extremities — each toe and finger thanks the therapist for the individual attention — but when she grabs for an ear, all I can think about is…big floppy ears.  And I have small ears, strangely enough, the right one even freakishly tiny.  Still, when someone touches them during a massage it’s like I’m Minnie Mouse.  Or Dumbo.

No matter.  Putting up with over-handled ears in order to be massaged everywhere else is a sacrifice I’ll make without qualms.  So when a friend offered me one of her pre-paid massage appointments, I jumped at the chance.  She had to give up the appointment because of a spinal problem that will likely require surgery, and I did suffer a pang of guilt for accepting her gift under such a circumstance.  Yet the feeling only lasted a second or two.  In my world, you see, the prospect of a free massage trumps all else.  I’m not proud of it but hey, I can live with it.

Especially when someone’s rubbing me.

Heatwave

Phew, thank goodness. Clouds. Finally.

We thought it might never cool down again. Oppressive, atypical heat was the topic of the day, every day, for at least a week. A week! Each day started out okay, with everyone hoping against hope the early morning fog would stick around but man, come afternoon it was the same old story.

Sunshine and nothing but searing hot sunshine, blaring down relentlessly upon the tortured, panting souls below.

A friend of mine expressed it best when he signed off an email with: “Can you believe this weather? Great if you want to stay inside with the blinds shut but sucks if you want to do anything outside!!!”

Oof, I’ll say. Nonetheless, John and I scheduled an afternoon pickleball match with another couple and between each game, our two opponents dashed to the nearest shady spot to down copious amounts of water and gasp, over and over, “It’s so hot. It’s so hot.”

Out of curiosity, once we got home I checked online to see what the high temperature had been that day and wow, no wonder they were suffering so.

We’d just spent an hour-and-a-half outside, in the very hottest part of the afternoon, while the mercury soared to an unthinkable 76 degrees Fahrenheit. I know, I know. I’m stunned not one of us had keeled over from heatstroke. It was like the bowels of hell out there….

You’ve got to love people in Northwestern Washington, you really do. They’re kind of hilarious when it comes to heat. Or their perception of it, anyway. Back in Texas, 76 degrees is a nice, cool autumn day.

Thing is, after living up here well over a year now, I know we’re slowly morphing into Northwestern Washingtonians ourselves. We were perspiring, too, no doubt about it. And after the match, I found myself thinking about the jar of ice cold homemade pickles my friend Terri had surreptitiously slipped inside my car during a prior pickleball game.

At that time, when temperatures peaked at a much more reasonable mid-60s, the pickles themselves were the appreciated gift. On the 76-degree day, however, a jar full of frozen squid tentacles would have made me just as happy as refrigerator pickles. Either one would have been equally cooling pressed against a sweaty brow.

Yet, as written on the label, a jar of pickleball pickles seems a whole lot more appropriate than a jar of pickleball squid. We weren’t playing squidball, after all.

That gives me an idea though:  changing the name of the sport might influence Terri’s choice of future surprise gifts. Like maybe rarebottleofwineball, or freshmainelobsterball. And I sure wouldn’t argue with newwardrobeball or myownpersonalchefball. Heck, tenfreefullbodymassagegiftcertificateball sounds pretty good too.

Oh wait, I’ve got it. Next time we play, we’re calling it goldbarball. I don’t see how that would be a problem. Terri’s a good pal, always willing to share with a friend.

Still, on those sweltering 76-degree days, I wonder if it’d be too much to ask her to chill it first?

By Order of the Court

There aren’t many things that strike fear in the hearts of men (and women) quite like being served with a jury summons. Sure, a police car’s flashing blue lights in your rearview mirror is worse; a tsunami warning siren is worse. But still. The sight of that little jury card is enough to make even the bravest soul’s hair stand on end.

Especially when the card reads — usually in Big Bold Letters — SECOND NOTICE, followed by threats of dire circumstances dare you ignore the summons this time. Never mind you hadn’t received a first notice. (Is there ever a first notice?) A descendent of Vito Corleone is on his way to your house right this second with those plastic handcuffs that look like enormous trash bag twist-ties, ready to whisk you away to a secret underground world where all the other jury duty truants who came before you have since morphed into lawless Mole People and chaos reigns.

Or something along those lines.

It’s a testament to the power of that index-card sized notice that even when I realized the one I’d just pulled from our mailbox was addressed to John, my heart still leapt to my throat. Like a gag reflex. Upon examining it more closely, however, I was able to relax. As it turned out, the summons was for jury duty in Travis County, Texas.

We moved from Texas over a year ago, a fact reflected, oddly enough, on the jury summons itself. It hadn’t been mailed to our former home in Texas and consequently forwarded to our new residence here. Oh no. This card was addressed quite correctly to the house number and street where we live now, here in Jefferson County, Washington.

Already it’s creepy the Travis County Courthouse not only has access to our new address, but has automatically changed that address in its records without any type of notification from us. But I know, I know. All sorts of information about everyone everywhere, living or dead, is floating around in the ether ready for the grabbing. Yet wouldn’t you think, knowing this kind of thing happens systematically, that the powers-that-be at the courthouse could have somebody take at least a cursory glance at the jury summons cards before they stick them in the mailbag?

Apparently not. So instead, those of us who have legitimate reason not to serve on a jury in the Travis County Court’s jurisdiction are given the options of (1) calling the courthouse; or (2) going to the website listed on the card. Ever tried calling the courthouse associated with a busy, increasingly populated metropolitan area? Yeah, so have I. Which is why, when I got back to my house, I went immediately online on John’s behalf.

Like most things internet-related, the jury selection page on the site wasn’t at all on point. It was only after answering question after question — then reiterating my answers in reply to interrogatives like “Are you sure this is really, truly your current address?” and then “Are you absolutely sure?” — that John was finally dismissed of that particular civic duty.

Crazy as it sounds, in my fantasy world I’d hoped for a separate website page for those of us who were mistakenly contacted — or maybe a button with the instruction “If no longer residing in Travis County, click here.” Why I thought for one second it could be that simple, I can’t say for sure. It was nutty on my part. Hey, so sue me.

Or wait, no. Please don’t. Because if you do, and if the trial’s jurisdiction is Travis County, Texas, there’s no doubt in my mind the summons to appear — the SECOND NOTICE summons to appear — will wind up here, properly addressed, in my Jefferson County, Washington mailbox.

The Limelight

After months (two) of rehearsals, the big night was finally upon us. Show time. I gathered up my props,

shimmied into my costume

and made a beeline for the clubhouse.

We were the first scheduled performers in the Cape George Revue, the opening act. Although I’d heard whispers about the Drill Team being kind of overdone — this is year five for the Revue and each one has begun with a Drill Team routine — someone else likened it to carrying the Olympic torch. Because as it is with the ever anticipated ceremonial torch, no one is surprised about the Drill Team. Everyone knows we’ll march out at the beginning of the show; everyone knows we’ll have electric drills with shiny twirlies.

And you know what? Traditions are important. Essential, really, as far as giving people a sense of well being. There are enough surprises in life, many of them frightening and unwelcome. The Drill Team provides the Revue’s audience members a service, when you get right down to it. Something to depend on, like sticking a piece of bread in the toaster knowing you’ll ultimately end up with toast. We were to be the audience’s toast.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself during the months (two) of rehearsals.

We silently queued up in the darkened kitchen, my position being third in line for the march into the ballroom, third from the right in the back row on stage. At seven o’clock sharp the ballroom lights dimmed, the emcee announced us, the drumming began.

If you’d like to see for yourself, click here.

The Rockettes, we ain’t. Still, that’s not stopping us from participating in the upcoming Rhody Parade, part of an annual celebration of the multi-hued Rhododendrons seen all around town this time of year. Although we won’t be performing our now [in]famous dance number, we will be marching the one-mile parade route — left, right, left, right, left — while simultaneously lifting our drills up, then out, then up, then out again. We rehearse once more tomorrow night.

They’re predicting a 40% chance of rain parade day. Probably there’s about a 50% chance the Drill Team will stay in step the entire mile. If we beat either of those odds? I predict a 100% chance of jubilant celebration.