Okay.  Just don’t try to tell me that the average life of a Housefly is 28 days!  I know better. I have been haunted and taunted by two of the evil species for – oh it must be at least a month!

It all began innocently enough.

I woke up one pleasant California morning, to a perfect (I thought) day.  The sky was blue and clear, the winds just enough to ruffle the trees.  The sounds of birds and dogs and an occasional siren wafted across the lawn. I opened the door to welcome all of that into my Tiny House.

First thing to ripple through the door was the aroma of fresh made coffee, followed by the scent of roses in the air.  (Scratch that.  I didn’t really stop to smell the roses.)  But then a new sound, a low buzzy kind of irritating noise reached me…and in flew Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in the guise of Houseflies.

Even their entrance was irksome. They didn’t slip thru subtly. No.  They buzzed and circled and gyrated in a most ostentatious manner. They whirled about my head and aimed right for the (open) jelly jar.

“Ah ha!” said I to me. “Gotcha1” and I slammed the lid on.

But of course I didn’t. “Gotcha.” Or hadn’t.  Whatever. I missed.

And so began a long, challenging and frustrating war.

On the first day of battle I discovered that I had no fly swatters in my Tiny House…so I chased the little monsters with folded up newspapers. On the second day I visited Walmart and bought a fly swatter….and on the third day, I bought five so that wherever and whenever they landed, I was within reach of a weapon. I swatted and swung and I skulked around the house, but they were always there. I felt like a character in a Hitchcock movie being driven mad by invaders.

Friends began to worry for my sanity, I think.  Apparently they believed that if they said “But Betty, those can’t be the same flies” often enough I would believe them.  But they were wrong.  I recognized my enemies and I hated them.

By this time it was definitely personal.

Then one morning I woke up as usual, grabbed one of the fly swatters and opened the door…sure enough, in they flew. I admit I snapped.  I whirled and twirled around that house like a mad woman, but they eluded me.  I lost track of them for a while and thought, perhaps, they had given up.

But no!  There, on my desk lay my yellow fly swatter. And there, too, were Jekyll and Hyde, resting luxuriously on said weapon.  I grabbed the nearest swatter – the red one as I remember – and crept quietly up behind them.

I paused.  I studied. I took a practice swing and then slammed my bright red swatter down on the pale, weak yellow one.  It clattered to the floor, followed by a cup which fell off the desk from the vibration.

Then there was a glorious moment when I realized I didn’t hear that buzz.  And then I did.  Jekyll and Hyde rose like Phoenix from the debris and flew gracefully out the open door.

Jekyll gave me the one wing salute as they left.

*********************       For those of you who have not met my newest favorite pet….Let me introduce Milo, the Wonder Dog…..Milo is the one on the right…the purple pup to HIS right is Lavender…Milo has already acknowledged that Lavender is a scent…not a toy.



Sailing, sailing over the pounding main

For many a stormy wind shall blow

When Jack comes back again.

That once-upon-a-time famous sea chanty keeps running through my head when I think about the lovely short cruise I just came back from.

I’m not at all certain why this should be so, since there were no stormy seas, and I haven’t a clue as to what constitutes a main…pounding or not.

The trip was inspired by a whole lot of little irritants. Nothing big, but I was angry at a whole lot of little things. Little things like a paper cut. I really HATE paper cuts.  They hurt like bloody hell for at least five minutes, but there is no one waiting in the wings to rain sympathy on you for them.

“It’s a PAPER cut for god’s sake, you didn’t break a leg!” is the most likely reaction.  And you notice a bit of impatience hidden right below the phony smile and clenched teeth.In hindsight I think I noticed the lessoning of sympathy with my …bad sign here, but the word that comes to mind is…“whining.”

Truth be told, I NEVER WHINE. Bitch a bit? Maybe. But I refuse to admit to whining. However, if you took a poll of the family, you might find a growing impatience among my audience.

There was the build-up:

“Hey, Mom, look. Jay found a four day cruise. Really inexpensive.” I heard that from every angle, and each time it was said with greater fervor.  So finally I relented.

I took the four day cruise and they were all content. It was long enough for the worst paper cut to heal, but short enough that I didn’t feel that they were looking for a more permanent fix.

So, back to the chanty.

No stormy seas, just a gentle sway and beautiful scenery and movies and live music.and demonstrations like vegetable carving and napkin rolling. I didn’t go to the napkin rolling this time. I did that once and proudly showed off a candle design that  I found very admirable.  It was much later that two of my group told me there was a great deal of snickering going on about that “candle.”  It looked, I was told, like a piece of the male anatomy.

And that, my friends is when the “stormy seas” came flooding in.

I shunned them. And if you think they weren’t shaken by that…You don’t know Jack.






Help is something we all need. Sometimes. But accepting help is kind of difficult for most of us. We really do like to picture ourselves as fairly self reliant – the one who is there when friends need us even if they don’t have the good sense to ask.

Bad health is inclined to interrupt our pictures of our own independence and frequently reduce us to having to accept help. I have always tried to give help gracefully and now try to take it gratefully.

It isn’t easy.

However…with age is supposed to come wisdom, and I have had to learn about asking.  Actually, I’m getting rather better at it than I ever expected.

The center of a lot of my pleas for aid is, surprisingly, not my health, but my cell phone. Actually I have a real love/hate relationship with my cell phone.  Mostly hate, because it does all kinds of things I don’t believe I’ve ask of it…although most of the people I invite to race to my aid suggest that I have somehow, someway, managed to hit every wrong button in the damn book.

At 93, my interaction with millennials outside my family, is limited. I can listen to a whole conversation between two of them and never understand a word.  Almost everything they do is noisy and, with the obvious exception of Hamilton, the joy of RAP escapes me.

BUT…when I am standing in front of Target, trying to summon an UBER or a LYFT and nothing I do seems to work, millennials are my new best friends.

I’m inclined to panic when I can’t get the freaking phone to do anything sensible.  But I noticed, very quickly, that every young person on the street is cell phone efficient. A young, tech-savvy person would certainly be A…if not THEreasonable solution to my cell phone dilemmas.

I target my millennials with care.  I noticed that this group seems to include both men and women pushing babies in prams. Asking one of them for help might be too much to handle, so I don’t ask.

The first time I realized that I needed help, I studied the passing throngs, search for one solitary young person who looked friendly. It took a while.  Not that they looked UN-friendly, it’s just that they were already on their own cell phones, having a perfectly happy time  chatting.

I decided that I would ask a young male person, based on my own experience that secretly, most men enjoy the role of super hero. It took a while.  I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for in this unknown savior, but I felt sure I would know him when I saw him.

I did!

I would have missed him except that he was singing as he walked by. I didn’t know the song but it was music to my ears. I called out to him. He stopped and I held out my phone and said, “Can you help me?”

And smiling, he said “Yes Ma’am.  What do you need?”

It was that easy.

I handed him the phone and told him I needed to call LYFT. He held out the phone so I could enter my password.  I started to tell him what it was and he stopped me, giving me a very grave lecture on the need to NOT tell people my password.

I’m not a whole lot better with the phone than I used to be, but I am getting to know a whole bunch of VERY nice millennials.




I haven¹t written much about the death of my well much loved dog, Boy, Mostly because I¹m not sure what to say – or even how much I can say before the tears start to blur the words. I¹m not a big crier by nature, but losing Boy was hard to take. I try not to dwell on him, but he was special.  As one friend wrote of him:

“I loved Boy and I don¹t like dogs as a rule. I always felt that he was happy to see me when I came to visit.  I¹m not sure that this is possible, but I felt like he was smiling at me.”

For Boy, it was possible.

But this Blog is not an elegy.  Boy has moved on.  It was kind of a race between us – who would die first and who would be left to grieve. I want to believe that he is better off where he waits for me now than he would have been if I left him. But the huge hole he left in my heart. While it cannot be filled, it had to be dealt with, and so, with the advice and counsel of Jay, a sympathetic friend and major dog lover, ­ I visited a rescue place that specialized in mostly small dogs.

There were many, many, adorable little dogs Some frisky, and almost all adorable.  Of course, once there, I was swamped by an overwhelming urge to bring them all home with me. Is there any dog not in need of love?

My eyes suddenly fell on one dog. A not very pretty dog I admit, but with a sporty little under-bite and blessed with soulful eyes that seemed to follow me as I walked around the room, there was something about her. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. She was older than most of the other, more eager dogs, but even in dog years she was not as old as me. And I admit this reluctantly, I have always had this shallow need to have a beautiful pup that passersby would stop and admire as I walked by.

So I kept looking.

There was an adorable, frisky little curly haired guy that danced all around me for a couple of minutes, but then he fixated on Jay,  Jay already had his adoring brood, so I continued my search.

But there was, is, something about the sad looking old girl. who sat contentedly in the arms of one of the foster folks who kept drawing me back. Every time I glanced her way, I saw staring at me imploringly with her big brown eyes.

I asked the foster mom, who obviously loved the dog, if I could hold the little girl.

I knew it would happen.  I knew that once I held her I wouldn¹t, couldn¹t, let go.

And I was right!

And that something I couldn’t put my finger on? I realized right away what that something was. This dog needed me.  Maybe even more than I needed her.

I call her Fancy  after a  character in one of my daughter¹s books. That Fancy is a huge Buzzard with a broken wing who turned out to be one of the book¹s most popular characters.

Fancy is home with me now.  She is smart. I¹s been only a week, but she has settled in to the rhythms of the Tiny House.  She has almost mastered the idea of not wetting on the outdoor carpet although she obviously prefers it to the back garden.  She recognizes me as the source of food and fluffy pillows on which to sleep at night, and I have so far NOT learned to insist she stay in her own bed instead of mine.

She still has her jaunty under-bite, and her body is a bit too long for her head.

FANCY She is still not the prettiest girl in town.  But she¹s a great cuddler and she sleeps late.

She¹s my girl and I love her and she loves me.

And when you get right down to it – that¹s what¹s important.

I know my Boy would be happy for us.


You Said What?!

I am a chatty person. I talk a lot – to anyone and everyone. My kids used to make bets on how long it would take me to strike up a conversation in the grocery line. My kids are grown, but I’m still talking in line.

         Some of my new best listeners are UBER and LYFT drivers, who are sort of a collective captive audience since they are locked into their seats.  You, the passenger, is pretty much in charge of not only where you’re going, but where the conversation goes, as well.

You get to pick whether you prefer to sit in the front like a buddy, or ride more regally in the back, with the driver as your own personal chauffeur – if only briefly.  Personally, I usually opt to sit up front because I like to talk…and even—sometimes, to listen.

         I’ve had more male than female drivers, but that’s sort of expected…there are, undoubtedly fewer women opting to drive strangers around town than there are men.  Now before you begin looking for a way you can make that in to a sexist remark…it isn’t…although I have come to some conclusions about the better drivers. 

Don’t ask. 


The other day I had a most unusual, and fascinating ride.  The driver was a very nice, polite young man, meaning he was happy for me to sit in the passenger seat, and off we went. I have discovered that there are very few drivers who plan on making it their career, so I started the conversation by asking what he wanted to be when he wasn’t being a driver. 

Not surprisingly, in this town, there are a lot of singing, writing, joke telling show business people using the driving gig to see them through to their big SHOW BUSINESS break.

Steve was no exception.  He really is a songwriter he said…words and music.  He said he could tell by the way I got into the car and just starting talking that I was probably a show business person, too.  I took it as a compliment and admitted that I was, and most of my family was, indeed, show business people.

He seemed pretty dedicated to his songwriting…and singing. I told him about singing at Oil Can Harry’s and that he should get over there and be heard.  I told him about the friendly audience and the really good and not so good singers who showed up to share the joy of music.

And then, SURPRISE! He asked if I’d like to hear some of his stuff.

I had the feeling that Steve was not going to be playing me The Great American Songbook. But maybe I could expand my horizons. So I said yes.  And he played some for me.

Okay, here is where life got a bit complicated.

I believe that what he played was Rap.  I’m not certain.  The only rap that I ever heard, understood and reveled in, was ‘Hamilton, in a theater, not a Prius.  And even that required me to read a marvelous, but lengthy book explaining it all. I really tried to understand what was going on.  Honestly.  I wanted to say something knowledgeable. 

But – like what?

I know that there is a whole language going on out there that I don’t know anything about. I began to sweat.  “Come on Betty.” I said to me. “You know thousands of word. You don’t have one word to fit this situation?”

And then it hit me. 


It is a word I came across recently…and I believe it means Great! 

Or at least VERY good.

I could say, “That is really Dope.” 

Couldn’t I?  

But suppose I’m wrong about it?  Suppose “Dope!” turns out to mean something else entirely.  I didn’t want to hurt Steve’s feeling. 

But I had to say something.

What I ended up saying was – “Oh!  Wow!  We’re here.”  You just help me get these packages out of the car.  I can take them from there.”

Then I managed…”Hey!  YOU KNOW, YOUR MUSIC ISN’T MY MUSIC BUT – GOOD FOR YOU.  And don’t forget about Oil Can’s.”

He drove off, apparently content while I struggled with the bags I would, under more normal circumstances, have expected him to help me get to the door…

“DOPE!” I said to me.

And I knew it was totally correct usage.


When I first retired from the world of busy (i.e. employed) people, it was with the idea that I would then get to do all kinds of exiting things with my fellow elders.

Wrong!  Elders, it seemed, weren’t planning on doing too many exciting things. Rather I was offered a very pastel palette from which to pick my pleasure.

A Book Club perhaps?  Sounded fascinating. What I signed up for was some of the classics I was never smart enough to appreciate when I was first pressured to read them.

What I got ws a list of ROMANCE NOVELS.

Now I don’t want to rain on anyone’s book list, but really? Romance novels?

I tried writing for a publisher once who, on the basis of god knows what, believed I could write those.  So he sent me a batch of rules.

1:  Virgin meets mysterious pirate. By page 7.

2;  Virgin fears him and when he grabs her in his arm she pounds fruitlessly on his strong chest, while he grins devilishly at her.  By Page 21

I stopped reading, suggested two other themes. Got turned down.  Never tried again.  My explanation for this arrogance? My experience with pirates was too limited.

The next exciting idea was a monthly afternoon tea.  Well, that sounded just great.  I love all those wonderful little treats and the pretty flowered dishes with mismatched tea pots. As the newbie, my hostess said, I was to be served first.  And, with a very big flurry, two of my fellow guests arrived at her side.  One held a bottle of white wine, the other red.There was a great deal of hilarity as I just sat there, confused.  It seems that calling it a tea gave it some acceptability, but the members didn’t ask just anyone…only jolly folk like me.

Okay, let me admit right now that I enjoy an afternoon of happy wining – even without the dining.  But what no one thought to fill me in on was that there was a one drink minimum. AND maximum. You got one drink.  Surprisingly, it was more than enough for most and too much for some. However, once I tasted the wine I began to see the logic in the limit.

Okay, let’s scratch that from the list.

Actually I gave up on group activities until I ran into Piano Bars and singers who weren’t doing Karaoke or reading the lyrics from their phones.

But then, just a couple of weeks ago, I read my horoscope!  And I quote:

“Seductive and glamorous propositions abound.” Which was followed by a dire warning to beware!

“Hot damn I thought,   “This old girl has still got it.”

Luckily I kept the thought to myself.

But I still gave it a try.  I picked up on two unforgettable offers.  The first came from an elderly gentleman who thought I would really love spending the evening at a nearby gambling club.  When I pointed out that I hate gambling.   I always lose, and I throw up when I get nervous  He insisted, I didn’t have to gamble he said…I COULD JUST WATCH HIM!

Some how I managed to resist.

But wait!  There’s more!

Two evenings later, I accepted an invitation to meet a friend for dinner.

Now understand me.  I’ve known this guy for 40 years.  We are long-term friends. This is someone you don’t have to be on your best behavior with – (Okay, I know I should have said –with whom you need to be – but I didn’t so sue me.)


We’ve been reading our menu right? So when I look up I take of my reading glasses because everything gets blurry if I don’t.

Then, all of a sudden, James clutches my hand, the one with the glasses in it, smiles tenderly at me and says, “Betty, you don’t have to take off your glasses every time you look at me.  I know you want to look beautiful for me bu…”

I didn’t wait for the rest.  I jumped up and headed for the door.  Judging from the clinking and clashing behind me I just might have up ended the wine bottle AND the glasses.

I didn’t wait to find out!

Oh in case you are wondering how I got home,  That was romantic and seductive too.

I called LYFT.


Sympathy never smelled so sweet!

Beautiful flower arrangement from Danny and Amy when they heard I was down with the flu. IMG_1328.jpg



It’s Christmas Time! It’s Christmas Time!

I remember when those words sent thrills, chills, worries and joys sailing though my body. Way, way back…just a bit shy of a century, I knew that Santa, that wonderful, scary, loving, threatening all powerful figure was sitting in judgment somewhere deciding just how good or how bad a little girl I had been.  I knew, but I sure hoped HE hadn’t noticed.

I remember when the center of attention shifted from Santa to the BABY JESUS.  It was a confusing time to be a first grader in a Catholic School. There were now TWO judgmental figures in the Xmas mix. And one of them was GOD!

I was a fairly confident kid and I figured out ways to misdirect Santa’s attention.  But God’s Son, Jesus was a whole new problem. But wait! There’s MORE! Or maybe there is less because it seems that God and Jesus were one and the same person. See??

Next came “the age of reason”, otherwise known as the year you pretended to believe in Santa and his elves, without, somehow, ignoring the Baby in the manger.

If you were a dedicated, crafty (read sneaky) kid, as I certainly was, you could get two good years out of that. It waa fun. Mother and Dad racing around hiding things and whispering and enjoying their misplaced joy in  “one more year.”

Now, I am not about to ask everyone to get back on the Santa sled, but maybe get off the hard drive of an exchange of gift cards.

OR…There is always an OR…

Admittedly, for far too many folks, money is needed.  Wanted. Required.

So give it.  Grab that cold gift card from the rack at Ralph’s, but wrap it in a tiny, thoughtful gift. Take a quick trip to the dollar store and let your imagination lead you to something you know the recipient likes.

I’m dropping one gift card into a bag of sugar free Life Savers and another into a bag of Cheese Bits. My friends still gets the money but they also get a laugh and the knowledge that I love them enough to go the extra dollar.

And that, is the magic.

Give it some thought.  Maybe homemade soup will tell someone that we remembered they really LOVED Lentil soup but hate cooking. Merry Christmas!

One year, when finances were really ‘way, ‘way down, Celia and I scoured thrift shops for pretty bottles which cost, on average, about 5 cents. We filled them with olive oil seasoned it with spices. Happily, we had a huge bush of rosemary growing in our garden that year. It became our favorite flavor. Financial investment per gift?  about 27 cents.

Imagination . That does it.

Make someone happy.  Spread joy and love. If you can afford a gift card?  Yay, you. But if love is what you’ve got to share – do it now.

Sometimes, tomorrow is too late.

gift card

Ready. Set. Move!

I think the fastest four minutes in the world must be the time between when you call for either Uber or LYFT to come get you, and when they arrive.. I know, I know, they tell you ahead of time to be ready to go once you call, but who, in California, gets anywhere in four minutes?

Right, your driver.

I am a real stickler for being on time, although, I will admit I have built in a bit more leeway since my arrival in CA many years ago.

I had a standing rule back in Philadelphia.  YOU DON’T KEEP ME WAITING FOR MORE THAN 20 MINUTES. I usually extended it to three times in a row. From then on, if you didn’t arrive by the time we’d agreed on, I was already gone when you finally DID arrive.

         My sister didn’t have this particular time tic.  She was ALWAYS late.  I hated that.  So one day I set out to be the late one.  I almost drove myself crazy arranging to be later than Jackie. And even then I failed.  She came five minutes after I arrived.  I think she hid out and waited for me to get there first.

         But here? In California?  There is no way to know what the Freeways have in mind for your journey.   I do know that one night it took me 35 minutes to travel one block from the freeway to The Other Side.  By the time I got there I was a complete disaster. But even worse -no one had even noticed I was late. That hurt.

         Even more irritating I think is the fact that you never seem to find out why or what happened ahead of you to cause the breakdown in another wise smooth journey.  There you are, driving along at – well – say it’s a crowded evening and you are stuck at 35.  But still you are moving, right? And then all of a sudden you are not…moving that is.  Instead you are sitting there in a sea of frustrated drivers waiting. That’s all.  Just waiting.

         Then, all of a sudden, you are moving again.  You are immediately sailing along at 65…with no explanation what-so-ever! I’ve been stopped for 10 minutes, I want an explanation.  A smashed up car or two, preferable sitting upside down in the middle of the road.

         But no!  Nothing!  Nada!  Everything is just smooth sailing.  It’s like a miracle!  But I don’t want a miracle.  I need a gory explanation about why I am going to be late.

         My next move is to turn the radio on…Or, if it is already on…to turn it to the all-news station and find out what happened.

         Good idea. But it doesn’t work.  It seems that while you were not moving on the 101, stuff was happening on every other freeway in town.  You can know in just moments what’s happening on the 110 or the 134.  And god knows what that was on the 210,but it’s better now.  However, on the good old 101, everything is FINE!

         IT IS NOT! 

         Even the next day, when I search the newspaper or tune in the morning reports…there is absolutely nothing about a stoppage on the 101.  I find that frustrating in the extreme.

         So now I am a passenger.   All I am required to do is be ready when the driver arrives. Sounds easy.  It is not!  No matter how I plan, I find myself rushing breathlessly around my Tiny House, gathering up – What?  

         Just what happens to me when I see that warning:  “Your diver will be arriving in Four Minutes!”  Easy peasy, right?  

         Wrong! But why and how?  Well, let me tell you.  I decided to calmly follow my movements once I have placed my LYFT order.

         First things first. Cell phone in to purse so I can make my call for a return trip…Cell phone. Got it!

         Blue Purse got…No!  Damn all!  I can’t carry a blue purse with a purple shirt!  Dump blue purse grab purple shirt.  It’s the wrong shade but it’s too late to rethink by now.

         Your driver will be arriving I three minutes.

         Keys!  Where did I see the freaking keys?  I just had them!  OH, right. There they are on the table….Grab keys, upset cup of cold coffee  I forgot to drink.  Grab paper towels and mop frantically before it drips over on…Too late.  It dripped already.  More dabs and growing hysteria.

         Mop.  “Your driver will arrive in one minute.  One minute?  Whatever happened to two minutes?

         Race to the door, open it and I’m out.  Still have time….But no!  Boy thinks we are going for a walk and he races past me to the – thank heavens – locked gate.

         Grab Boy, drop keys. Pick up keys, drop indignant Boy.  Toss Boy into house and slam the door.

Your driver is here.  Don’t bother to lock the door!  Being prompt is the important thing.  I run out just as the car with the LYFT sign in the window drives slowly past the house.

I wave my cell phone frantically at the driver.  He sees me and stops and backs up.  I open the door and hop in, ready to apologize abjectly for keeping him waiting.

But wait.  My driver is apologizing. It seems he drove past the house because he didn’t see the address.

I was very gracious.  Assured him I wouldn’t hold 30 second against him.

It was a short ride but a pleasant one.

         One more thing.  I still demand strict observance of deadlines.  Except sometimes. Like this month’s Blog.  


Thank you for understanding.

Darling I am Growing Wiser

I never planned on being old.  I took it for granted that I would die before my 60th birthday…no, scratch that…I planned on dying at 58 because my mother died at 58 and I knew I would never live to be older than my Mother. How or why I arrived at that particular bit of  wisdom I haven’t understood since I turned 59.

I turned 60 and I was convinced that I had miscalculated.  What I was not convinced of is that there was the possibility of sticking around to 93  Yet here I am, seemingly living up to everyone else’s opinion that I would “out live us all.” People actually applaud my cleverness in living this long when really,, all I have done is not die.

There is a rumor that “with age comes wisdom” I believe it.  Unfortunately the thing I have learned most frequently is that an awful lot of the things I congratulated myself on were wrong.

Now who wants to learn that at 93?  Certainly not I.

I DO realize that I am a lot luckier than an awful lot of people. For instance I DO know that that particular sentence is really poor. It is not a number of awful people…numerous would be better or a large number would suffice…but I knew that before I hit 93 so that is a bad example.

Let’s start again.

I spent a great deal of my life using the phrase “People are no damn good,” as my mantra. I am now going to admit that I was – well – exaggerating, and the proof, unbelievably, frequently lies in the behavior of millennials.

It’s my damn cell phone. We, my cell phone and I, are not very frequently in sync.

Just recently I sold my car and began a life of Ubering or Lyfting All by itself, giving up driving is a blow to the heart…an admission that you are, if not old, at least getting there.

Then you add the cell phone. You can’t have one without the other.

My daughter was patience personified trying to teach me the ins and out of summoning a car, and after every lesson I felt sure I knew what to do. But no. Son John and his extremely patient wife, Eileen, offered to make the calls for me, but I was determined to overcome.

And I Have.

Here is a perfect example of wisdom and aging. These days when I go shopping and need to summon a car to pick me up – and for some unfathomable reason I cannot connect with my cloud, I casually but confidently, hold out the phone to any available young person and say…

“I need to call Uber. Can you do that for me?”

The young person smiles. And conjures my Uber. The young person does not ignore me, nor, shockingly, turn to stone in the process. More importantly, I do not turn to stone in the process.

Being able to ask for help is a certain sign that you are – finally – growing wise.uber

Don’t Even Think About It!

I am, on the whole, a good patient.  I have a high tolerance for pain and enough

of my mind left that I can participate in my own care. So, when my doctor says to me , “Betty, you need to get more exercise,” –  I am willing to try exercise.

Something I must admit I have avoided with amazing success up to this point.

But, what to do?  

“Join a gym,”  friends say, which I could  but never would  do.

One well-meaning friend suggested golf. ³ “You get to spend some healthful time out doors, the walking is good for you, and it¹s immediate

gratification whacking that ball and watching it arch through the air to land on the green so far, far away.” I would happily join in that kind of euphoria, but it ain’t gonna happen. The one time a friend took me to a practice green so that we could enjoy this wondrous experience together, I was so bad that people around us stopped practicing their own swings in order to watch me miss that damn ball.  Finally one of the spectators came over and suggested to my companion that he should take me home because nobody could get any practice in. They were mesmerized.

I used to be a rather fine horsewoman...rodeo riding and all, but these days no stable will let me near even one of their more benign horses.  I might fall and break. Disney won¹t let me on his toys for the same reasons. 

Okay, so the question still remains: what to do?

Walking is good.  Everyone agrees to that it seems.  My doctor certainly thought it was my best option. “You can control your own pace and distance. You get to admire the blue skies and breathe deeply of the fresh air,” he said.

But wait!

Fresh air?  This is California.  Southern California! Remember fire and ashes in the air and the dreadful heat?

I point this out to the doctor and I can see him rethinking that advice. But he seems to have his heart set on this walking-thing. He quickly adds,:

“Just don¹t go out until the fires are under better control. And until the record setting heat has gone. AND – don¹t go out in the noonday sun.”

And I, always ready with a song title, fill in the rest of that line with Only Mad Dogs and Englishmen Go Out in the Noon-day Sun.”

However, my doctor, like many of my readers, is much too young to remember that classic bit of music frivolity by Noel Coward. He looks a bit disconcerted and makes a hurried note on his computer.  He tries to explain to me what he means but at the same time, I am busily explaining Noel Coward, so I didn¹t listen. We blink at each other and he tries again.

“The best place until the air clears,” he says, “Is probably in your own home.”

 He asks if I have good air conditioning and I assured him that I do.Š

BUT…”I begin.Š“He doesn’t listen for the “but” part.  He takes a deep breath and hurries on “Why don¹t you just map out a path that takes you all the way around the house and through all the rooms.  Do it for about a half hour, stopping for a drink of water when you think you need hydrating.”

He looks so relieved at having arrived at this master stroke that I don’t have the heart to explain my Tiny House to him. But the fact is I have already mapped out the exercise room available to me within the four walls of my own T.H.

I can take 17 steps north and 17 steps south.,. so, in order to achieve the 10,000 steps I have heard real enthusiasts mention as a healthful daily goal, I would have to make

Oh good lord, I don¹t even want to think about it! 

So I won¹t.