It started about three months ago.  I was walking through Northridge Mall when I noticed a rather dispirited woman of ­ I’m guessing here about 50. She’d watch as people approached her area, then, rather apologetically I thought, approach her selected victim and begin her conversation.  Mostly the Chosen Ones listened for just a few moments, then shake their heads “NO” and move on.

It only took a few minutes to realize that she was doing a survey of some sort and wasn’t great at it. Maybe it was the hang-dog look or the built-in apology that did it, but no one was accepting that woman’s invitation to an interview. Having never learned to mind my own business, I headed toward her. She caught my eye and smiled, then asked me if I’d mind answering a few question for a survey on god only knows what.  I never heard that part. But I hastened to assure her that I would be delighted to take her survey. So we sat at a nearby table, obviously put there for just that purpose and she showed me a three page questionnaire.  It was more than I’d planned for but ­ well, I DID volunteer so I would stay the course.  And I did.

For 20 really boring minutes I answered questions about family, friends, style choices, food fetishes etc.  And then she asked me to accompany her into the office behind us where there would be a short film playing. UGH!  But sure. First she said, I would have to sign some papers.  “You know,” she said, “you agree to speak on the subject at hand and,” here she giggled a bit nervously and said “you know, like promise not to sue or anything.” “Sure,” I said again.  “What do you want me to sign?” She handed me the form.  I read it, then read it. “I’m sorry,” I said.  “But I’m too old.”  She looked alarmed, then embarrassed. “You’re over 75?” she said. “Way over,” I said and handed the papers back to her.

There were apologies exchanged on both sides.  I apologized for wasting her time and she for wasting mine. I smiled at her, she smiled at me and I turned to leave.  I mean, after all, it wasn’t her fault I was old.  But then it wasn’t mine either.  I think it has to do with better living through chemistry, right? Here, in this wonderful country we have devoted billions and billions of dollars to the study and development of ways to keep people alive way beyond the current expectations.  And we are wildly successful at it. BUT….BUT?  Yes. But what is it we are supposed to DO with all this extra time. AH! There’s the rub. By this time I was depressing myself so I decided to make a small detour to a nearby restaurant where I knew there was a full bar.  Not that I needed a full bar. I wasn’t THAT depressed.  But one nice cold margarita ­ no salt please ­ would be good company right now. So now I am at the bar.  The drink is doing its part to cheer me up but I seem to be digging myself into deeper and deeper holes. Does any designer consider the ³mature² market when designing clothes?  No on I’ve seen.  Women’s dresses are short and perky, great look for a 17 year old.  And according to Vanity Fair, men are going in for the slim – straight leg pants that do nothing to flatter any but the models chosen to show them off. There isn’t an extra inch for that beer belly that just seems to happen to most guys.

So obviously Fashion isn’t my world anymore, but how about entertainment? I like funny movies.  But I need one that doesn’t represent itself as “A great new raunchy fun fest ­ not for sensitive ears.” Okay guys, my ears are not that sensitive, but if you can’t come up with a joke that doesn’t consider  four letter words as the world’s best joke line, then it’s not for me and not for a whole lot of people apparently according to what’s happening in theaters today ­ as in THEY ARE NOT FULL! Now here’s the thing.  I don’t expect a world to age with me.  I firmly believe that kids need  their own entertainment and clothes and strange games that require no interaction with others.  I’m not asking anyone to rethink fashion or fast foods. But there IS a very large market out there, made up of men and women over 60, who have money to spend and brains that still function and ideas that have yet to be explored. I think there are jobs that older people can fill and music that we can dance to and sing along wit, and, with any luck at all, lyrics that matter enough that the vocalists will remember them because they are clever, or romantic or amusing.  Just think of that concept.  Singing words that mean something. And that you sing without reading from a Smart phone as you sing them. All of these things are pushing at me.  It is something I noticed many years ago but not until after I had outgrown being so much smarter than all the men and women who were older than I was at the time. In our rush to be forever young, we forgot to figure out what to do with folks who aren’t  And, as far as I can see, we continue to invent new ways to make it worse.

Plastic Surgery is a source of worry ­ and some amusement ­ to me.  I remember the first time I noticed this particular effect.  I was in a room with three young women.  I’d guess median age was about 30.  Luckily they had all dyed their hair different colors so I could tell them apart, but they all had the same doctor so their noses matched.  They all had DDD breasts above 20 inch waists.  They all had floppy hairdos which each of them managed to toss with exactly the same motion. I watched them in some confusion and then I realized what was bugging me. They were all the same person and we only really need one. If that. Joan Rivers was famous for things she’d had remodeled, someone once said that her face was stretched so tight that when she sat down her mouth opened.  I think that might have been an exaggeration.   Also believe it might was Joan who said it. The thing is, we need to get over thinking that there is an option.  People are going to age.  Their talents and abilities are going to change.  But if we are gong to continue to make life beyond a hundred a daily occurrence, then let’s start giving some thought to what we are going to do with us elders, stead of turning us in to liabilities. No man or woman who has grown accustomed to doing things for him or herself is going to rejoice in the role of dependent.  Nor do we, on the whole, think that moving in to another woman’s home is a splendid solution to much of anything.

Oh, right here’s one more thing.  Auto insurance.  I think it should be illegal for companies to charge by years.  I believe that, after age 75, older drives should be tested each year to make sure their reflexes are still quick, that they can see well enough to identify other moving objects. That sort of thing.  Not a written test.  Instead, one where they go one on one with a qualified instructor.  If they fail, they fail, but if they pass, I believe older drivers should receive

the same rates as anyone on the road.

There’s more, but I’m guessing you’ve got the point by now.  If not…

WAIT A FEW YEARS, IT’LL COME TO YOU

I have faced Facebook with its prying question: “What’s on your mind?” and I have come up with very little. But this morning, I am rather totally involved in a question that has haunted me through a great deal of my very, very, very long life.

HOW THE HELL DO YOU PEEL A HARD COOKED EGG WITHOUT PITTING DEEP HOLES IN THE WHITE?

I have read up on this subject frequently. I have followed several hundred suggestions from friends, relatives and people I believe thought up their answers just to watch me go crazy

Okay, why do I care this much about eggs, you may ask. And I will tell you that I am very well thought of at parties where you bring something for the table. I make really fine hard cooked eggs and they are beautiful every single time.

But it is never as easy as it looks.

I have been told that eggs that are a little bit older are more amenable to giving up their skin. So I drive to Ralph’s and search for the oldest eggs I can find. Let me hurry to assure any Ralph devotees that they are perfectly safe, none of those cartons are anywhere near a “buy by this date” notice.

Anyway, I drive home with my eggs, heat them to perfection and start to peel them . Like all eggs, these are deceptive. The first few simply slide out of their skin and you proceed , totally disarmed, to try another – which fights you tooth and nail or cluck and feather.. No more Mr. Nice Egg. No more sliding.. It is a disaster. That slimy film that fits so tightly around the egg is not about to give up easily. The eggs have joined a protest, and, until you’ve seen eggs united to frustrate the chef you have not seen a real protest.

However, guests are waiting to admire your presentation so you stiffen your resolve, go buy more eggs and start over. Sooner or later you WILL accomplish the perfect egg.

Just not today.

Frustrated, you talk to a friend who suggests that somehow or other you managed to confuse old with young. Very young eggs you are told, are eager to give up their shell for your pleasure.

Never one to doubt a friend, you go back to Ralph’s in search of the freshest eggs. To be certain you get the youngest additions, you go right up to the staff person who is filling out the egg section and he hands you a carton marked JUMBO and assures you they are exactly what you need. And how come he’s so sure of that? HIS MOTHER TOLD HIM SO, and she never had ANY problem.

I hope to avoid that helpful young man because I don’t want to be the one to tell him HIS MOTHER LIED!

Since these monumental failures, I have tried peeling the eggs while running hot water over them, but some Girl Scout type got on my back because I was wasting water. “Besides,” she said, “It’s while they are under COLD water.” I stopped immediately, not because she said to, but rather because it didn’t work. Frankly, I would have drained a whole damn reservoir if it had.

Not one to accept defeat gracefully,  I consulted my favorite Guru and mighty philosopher, my nephew, Dom Bonaduce and he said, “If at first you don’t succeed, do something easier. “

I looked at the bowl filled with yet to be shelled eggs. I sighed, picked up one and started over. But this time with the idea of something simpler. Egg Salad! You can chip the living daylights out of the whites and no one will know that wasn’t your original plan.

Regarde! The beginning of a new, easier career. Queen of the Egg Salad on Toast Points. With or without pimentos.

There is a learning curve to living in a Tiny House…and it is STEEP!

The first step of course is to get rid of everything you’re pretty sure you can live without.

The second step is harder. Get rid of all those those things you thought just might be good to have around.

When you realize you still don’t have enough room, you move on, with gritted teeth to step three – parting with a some of the things you love but are pretty sure you can no longer house.

Step four involves changing your mind, going to the thrift store where you donated all those things and buying back what you can.

After a few months of trial and error – and returning things a second time to the thrift store – you have the amount of things that will fit comfortably in your tiny house. I managed to part with huge chunks of my past – talk about your broad strokes – but I did save a statue of Thumper, of Bambi fame, which now adorns my mantlepiece. (Are you more surprised that I have a mantlepiece in 330 square feet or the fact that I saved a mass-produced figurine?) The little rabbit beloved to my mother. He looks damn good for  75! The real estate he takes up lost to sentimental value.

But other than Thumper, I have been Herculean in decluttering!

Now it’s time for more rules. For example: DON’T STOCK UP ON STUFF. I mean, just because you can save five bucks by buying 27 roles of paper towels because they are cheaper that way instead of buying four roles you really have space for. (“for which you have space.” I know. What’s even more depressing, you can’t buy chicken legs when they are marked down to 77 cents a pound because your apartment-sized refrigerator has a mighty small freezer space in which to store the pieces marked “for future use.” So by the time you get around to the extras, the chicken has developed a strange and incredibly ugly smell so you not only have throw out the extra chicken, you also have to empty the fridge and use a lot of bleach to change the fetid stench. Is that the right use of the word fetid? Yes, it is. I looked it up and the dictionary says “An extremely unpleasant odor.” That is very definitely what I meant to say. Not only that, four weeks later the smell is still hanging on. But I do think that my bottle of bleach and I are gaining on it.

My daughter and I have created a new mantra. Not that we have learned to live by it, but it goes something like this: If a spoon comes to visit, a spoon has to leave. There is no room for replacement parts if you are not going to toss the thing you are replacing.

Now here’s a killer. You need a lot of patience to live in a Tiny House because you keep knocking things on to the floor. This is particularly true when you are cooking. Remember that extra spoon I mentioned you should do without? Well, forks and spoons and knives all seem determined to fall from the edge of the kitchen sink which is where you put things while trying to develop something special for the night’s dinner. Picking things off the floor has become my cardio.

Despite all those minor irritants, Tiny Houses have many wonderful qualities. You really are hard pressed to loose anything in a Tiny House. After all, we are talking 330 square feet of space or there about. You can scout the entire area in little more than 15 minutes and after that you have to accept that you’ve lost it. Or, more likely, you threw it out to make room for something new.

It IS a fact that, no matter how hard you try, Tiny Houses must be kept neatly organized because anything you put down anywhere but in its assigned space looks messy. But you learn really fast that, even if the place looks like it has been hit by a flood, you can return it to pristine beauty in about a minute and a half.
However, I believe that the motivating factor for anyone deciding to live the life of a Tiny House person might well be the fact that when you want to be alone. You can.  There’s absolutely no place to put a guest.

Last week, watching a rerun of my favorite sit-com “The Big Bang Theory”, Sheldon said, “My sister was enjoying her life wrong.”

As funny as it was, that line hit home. I was surprised at how big a laugh it got. There were obviously a lot of other people out there feeling judgmental about how their sisters led their lives.

‘way back at the beginning of this Blog thing, I wrote about my sister and how embarrassing I found the fact that at nine years, she still believed in Santa Claus, while I, at age six, already had figured out the hard truth. I’d also figured out that she lived in Fantasy Land. Happily. It made me crazy.

I demanded she face the hard cold fact that we were not getting a new table and chair set for our tea parties but that the old set was sitting in the cellar waiting to be painted.

She had to admit I was right because I dragged her into the basement to look at the old set. She cried. I was – not happy exactly – more like smug – because I was right about something for a change.

It was many years before it occurred to me to wonder why it was so important to me that she be less emotional and more logical in her thinking. I spent our entire childhood trying to get her to face reality (as I saw it). But chipping away at that sunny disposition was a thankless task. Luckily, I wasn’t looking for thanks, so I kept at it.

One of my most successful campaigns to lead Jackie into the land of reason occurred when we went to visit a friend of hers.

Brenda was a very, very erudite woman. A fact she pointed out to you on many – any – possible occasions. She could recite chapter and verse from any book she’d read. And it seemed to me she’d read them all. She did NOT however seem to really understand any of them. I found her amazingly boring and I wanted Jackie to admit I was correct!

I finally won the day. Jackie admitted Brenda was a bore in spite of her “book learning.”

But this time I wasn’t so secure. I couldn’t explain to me just why I wanted to dent Jackie’s happy world filled with folks she liked and fantasies she still enjoyed.

I never really convinced her to look at life as I did. So, I guess I failed. But I’m glad I did. I can still hear her say every spring, “The flowers are coming up” and during the holidays, “Betty, let’s go look at the Christmas lights” with as much enthusiasm as if she hadn’t seen them all the year before.

I never changed Jackie. She changed me.

Merry Christmas.

A few weeks before I disappeared into the dreary role of invalid, I had an unusual – and to me personally – a damned annoying, encounter.

I was finished with my songs and chatter at Oil Can Harry’s.  Both went well and were, happily, well received.  I did what I always do when my good buddy, Wayne Moore, is in the house: I walked off stage. Wayne was waiting, as he always did, to escort me to my table.  I took his arm and off we went, chatting easily about how much fun we both get out of performing or some such thing.  Wayne smiled, pulled out the chair for me.  I thanked him and we both went on with the night…happy that the show went well, and how much we both love being a part of it.

However, all was not well with at least one woman in the crowded room.

I didn’t see her coming.

“What’s with him?” she said.  “Doesn’t he think you can make it back to the table on your own?”

I didn’t even try to answer her.  Wouldn’t, couldn’t, even if she’d stayed long enough to hear what I would have told her.

So, it took me about eight months to get back into fighting shape (strictly vocal of course) but I want to invite you to listen in while I explain to her how much she is missing by dragging all that discontent along everywhere she goes.

I imagine that most of you are aware of the tale of the woman who moved into a new neighborhood.  She asked one of the new neighbors if it was a friendly town and the neighbor answered with a question:”   “Were the people you left behind friendly or not?”

“Oh, they were dreadful.  So full of themselves!  I don’t think I met one worthwhile person in 10 years.”

“I’m sorry,”  the new neighbor sighed, “But I think you will find the same kind of folks here.”

“I knew it! “ the questioner said with a resigned sigh, with only a touch of self righteousness…”It’s the same everywhere!”

The point?  IT’S ALL IN THE ATTITUDE.

If you go out looking for a neighborhood full of dreadful folks, I can pretty much guarantee that that is what you will find.  But if you set out to “Spread joy up to the maximum”, your chances of being greeted with a smile and maybe a home cooked dinner will be improved one thousand percent.

My point?  Well, just that you have to believe in yourself first.

I don’t think I am one of the great singers in the world.  As a matter of fact, I’m not the best singer at Oil Can’s.  But I sing well and I’m happy with that.

Am I the consummate performer, singer, song writer, actor that Wayne is?  Nope.  But that has been his primary drive for most of his – maybe even all of his – life.  But as a dilettante, I’m pretty damned good.

Where this unhappy woman sees condescension, I see tribute, and I relish it.

Now before anyone mentions the uneven field and the glass ceiling, I am not denying that it exists, but really, the ceiling is cracked now and the field has lost a lot of its slope.

The idea that every nice gesture hides a nasty anti-female accusation is much more insulting to the woman than to the man.  The male population is mightily confused by just what their role should be…….

A bit earlier in this everlasting battle of the sexes, my son Anthony had an experience that soured him on “doing the polite thing” for quite a while.

He was walking home one evening when the woman walking ahead of him suddenly dropped a load of papers she was carrying.  She stopped, probably swore quietly, and began picking them up.

Anthony, naturally, stopped to help her.

Did she smile and say thank  you?  Nope. Did she acknowledge his intentions at all?

You bet.

She stomped on his hand and yelled at him.  “I CAN DO IT MYSELF!”

Anthony came home, nursing a bruised right hand and a really bad attitude.  “I WILL NEVER…NOT EVER…TRY TO DO SOMETHING TO HELP A WOMAN AGAIN.”

And we all lost a little ground.

He was just being nice.

So is Wayne when he walks me to the table, and the fact is, that lovely gesture brings me joy.

Accept NICE for what it is.  Take along the idea that you are worth being nice to.

And you are capable of being nice in return.

Nobody can convince you of your lack of worth faster than you.

I’m slowly figuring out the blogging world – and one great blogging concept is The Guest Blogger. As soon as I heard about this, I know I wanted one.

Presenting my grandson, Dominic – my first GUEST BLOGGER!

Disgraced and Victorious—by Dominic Bonaduce

Among the many qualities that define the college experience, there are two that usually resonate louder than most within the average college student: it is a time made up of limited responsibility…and infinite freedom, a triumph of our upbringing that my friend Steve and I celebrated routinely.

Like many weekends during my college years, Steve and I found ourselves in Philadelphia visiting my uncle and enjoying the cornucopia of cheesesteaks and cheap (relative to DC) drinks. On one such occasion, we were joined by my 86-year-old Grandmother – “Grammy” as she is known to my family, my friends and me.

There was an unspoken competition during those halcyon days concerning whose grandmother was ‘cooler’. Steve and I were no strangers to recognizing and taking advantage of opportunities, and we saw my Grandmother’s visit as one. What better way to settle the debate over ‘whose grandmother is cooler’ than a night on the town with Grammy.

We followed the typical structure of a ‘night out’. We ate some greasy food, pre-gamed (Where you imbibe a little before you go out to ease the stress on your wallet and bar tab), and then set off. The night was off to a great start. We even ran into some folks we knew from DC and invited them with us to join in the adventure – this might have been a bit of a self-serving gesture. We needed witnesses to corroborate that my grandmother was cooler than [yours]. This is where things started to take a turn…

We were used to people not returning calls or confirming plans so we started off by going with our compatriots to a few local spots while we waited for Grammy to call. Around midnight I began to think she wasn’t going to call. Maybe she was tired and wanted to stay in? She was 86 after all. We decided to turn it up a notch and go to a few more spots.

At 1 AM I receive a text message: “Knock; 225 S 12th St, Philadelphia, PA 19107. I’ll be there in 20.” I handed the phone to Steve. We exchanged glances as if to say: “are we really doing this?” Bars in DC close at 2 so we were already thinking about winding down. We consult the group and after very little deliberation, off we went to Knock where we would join my grandmother and her large group of friends.

We approach the door at 225 S 12th Street and are greeted by a nice bouncer – rare in these areas. He took my ID and said, “Oh, you must be Betty’s grandson. Right this way” and we were taken back into a private area of the lounge. It was absolutely packed with who I now refer to as my 30 Philadelphia Gay Uncles – turns out we were in the aptly named Gayborhood of Philadelphia. Grammy was nowhere to be seen. I glanced ahead and as the crowd shifted, a small seated figure at the head of the room appeared. Grammy seemed to have been holding court as everyone had just finished greeting her and singing her praises.

It was late and we had already been out since 6 – as, apparently had Grammy –  that evening. We needed to slow down. We took our places at one of the lounge table adjacent to my grandmother and started chatting with her friends. We each took turns getting up and singing, entertaining Grammy and her subjects. “You make me feel so young” was my choice that evening and the humor and irony behind it didn’t escape me. Finally one of my Grandmother’s friends noticed our cups “ranneth” dry and the four of us were approached by a congruent number of gentlemen who wanted to buy us drinks. My communication skills intact, I was able to  order Crown Royal for my grandmother, Jonny Walker for me and Steve. My two friends ordered Apple-tinis. The room went silent. The hammers on the piano seemed to strike all at once letting out a dissonant chord that seemed to reflect the opinion of everyone in the room.

“Appletinis?!” shouted one of my grandmother’s friends. “you ordered drinks gayer than we are!”

The night went on for another hour or so and Grammy seemed to be getting tired. I wondered if I should get a cab back to the house for the three of us (Grammy, Steve, and myself). A sense of relief came over me and I signaled to Steve that it was about time to wrap up the night. I asked Grammy, “are you okay? should we head home?”

Her response: “No, no, I’m just tired of this bar. Lets go somewhere else”. At that point I knew that my greatest fears had come to fruition. Not only was my grandmother cooler than everyone else’s, but she was cooler than me. I knew my limits. I was spent, but my grandmother was able to vocalize this quicker than I was. “You and Steve should probably head home. You’re not looking well, dear.”

The rest is a blur. The next thing I remember: it is 8 AM and someone is knocking on our door.

“Wake up!” my grandmother shouted through the door. “We’re going to brunch.” I woke up, threw up, threw something at Steve, and we headed to City Tavern – the historical restaurant known for its pewter goblets, plates, and beer (produced from recipes from Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, and Franklin).

“Do you want one of these beers? Our founding fathers made these!” Grammy said.

We declined as we were a little fragile to say the least. The idea of more made my stomach lurch. My droopy sleep deprived eyes said it all.

I had the coolest grandmother.

I sat back down at the table and prepared to salute Steve with a shaky victorious toast. But what drink to choose? There was a flight of beers – one from each founding father – waiting for me.

Let’s start at the very beginning…a very good place to start. It seems that everywhere you go these days, people are talking about Tiny Houses And there is no doubt about it, they are fascinating.

I am rapidly becoming an authority on Tiny Houses…not by reading or watching House Hunters, but by doing. I, with the connivance of some outstanding friends, am walking the walk and talking the talk.

I am living in my own Tiny House. Admittedly the T.H. is not quite ready for me yet, and I, I don’t hesitate to tell you, am not yet ready for it.. but I have moved in – ready or not!

First things first. You need a place to PUT the Tiny House and that can be touchy. States have all kinds of reservations about the best way to regulate them…Learn them BEFORE you buy one.

If you are exceedingly lucky, and sometimes I am, you will find that you have a collection of amazing friends and family who are willing to work their collective butts off to put things to right.

David Traub and Jay Winger have been on my BMF list for a lot of years, and man did they ever step up for this! I’m now sharing hearth and home!

My collective family joyfully accepted the offer of wildly practical help and began the actual work of choosing the size and style of home we wanted.

You want to know about Tiny Houses? I’ll tell you about Tiny Houses.

They are VERY small!

More than that, they are GREAT disciplinarians, and I feel that every young person, starting out on his/her own, should take a course in how to live in one.

What it comes down to is this: There are two ways to deal with everything. You either put it where it is assigned, or you throw it out. There is no room for your casual “Oh, I’ll put that away later.”

Unless you learn that lesson early on, you will never accomplish happy living in a Tiny House. A thing goes where it is supposed to go or it is taking up space assigned to something else.

People who have actually LIVED on a boat, tell me that Tiny House living is like that. If you have three people living on a boat, you don’t take on four forks for example. You only need three. And you don’t buy anything new unless you plan to throw something out.

I hear you howl and I feel your pain. But you haven’t learned about Tiny House pain until you discover the kind you get from hitting your head on a cabinet you’ve hung too close to the floor – or the sink – or perhaps, the bathroom facilities.

For reasons totally aesthetic – meaning not practical – I hung the medicine chest right opposite the toilet.

DON’T DO THAT!

Every other time I got up I banged my head, I had a bad headache all the time! Practicality finally won out. But let me win that battle for you. FACT: Your head is more important than aesthetics.

Here’s another bit of information you will need – everything is also something else.   Prize example? Your dining table. That is also your desk and your prep surface. So when you finally decide that you are capable of feeding two friends at dinner at one time, you must first clear off the computer which resides rather smugly on the table. My large screen computer lost an uneven battle with a laptop simply because it took up too much room – and required a large, separate keyboard.

Daughter Celia, who is the expert on Tiny Houses, due to her stint as a field producer on Tiny House Hunters, tells me that the secret for success in Tiny House Living consists in large part in your ability to work the outside into your plans. To that end, she is shopping the internet for ways to store some of my larger cooking utensils in the garden without calling attention to them.   That means things like the Foreman Grille and the “cooks everything” electric pressure cooker and the juicer and the blender and…well, all the gadgetry you couldn’t resist and must now find a home or be put up on Craig’s list.

One of the wonderful things about Tiny House Living is that the American marketplace is ready for you. Stores are devoting entire sections to all kinds of wonderfully imaginative items that will simplify your life. For the first time in my life, I have made a plan to go to IKEA.

Lisa, a former neighbor and a friend, tells me IKEA has room after room already made up to help get the best, most efficient use of a Tiny House. Tomorrow, we will go check that out.

Meanwhile, there must be something like 25 boxes still sitting around the house, taking up space that isn’t there,

I am attacking the problem mentally, and thus far all that has accomplished is another headache. Somebody pass the aspirin.

Where there is this kind of activity, there must be pictures. So here are just a few. At least one before I moved in and a few several days later. Progress has been made – just not enough.

Next month a complete unveiling…I hope. Trust. Think. Come on. It COULD happen.

One thing about packing to move…you find all kinds of things that you never knew were lost – a favorite piece of jewelry, a photograph or two, a letter that you wrote to thank someone and never sent.

Things like that.

Some of the memories are lovely.  Pictures of the kids when they were tiny babies for example. And for a moment you feel like a bad mother because you can’t tell the boy from the girl.  Then again, most babies look a lot like Winston Churchill so instead of berating yourself for not knowing one from the other, you can find joy in the fact that they are beautiful and don’t look anything like the great man.

But some of the memories are not joy-filled.  Like a letter I received from my sister Jackie – who died a bit over nine years ago.  She had a heart problem and I got an emergency call from Philadelphia that she was going in to the hospital for a “procedure.”  Nobody said just what the  “procedure” was, but they suggested I come immediately…So I booked a ride on the next available plane.

The letter was her thank you to me for showing up so promptly and staying with her through the whole thing – which turned out to be merely the placing of a stent.  Of course, when it’s your own heart, there really is no such word as merely. But it was over and done fairly quickly, even though it had to be redone in a few days. Ultimately  It DID work.

Anyway. The sad thing was that she wrote so eloquently.  Nothing maudlin, no drama.  Just a beautifully phrased letter of appreciation.

The sadder thing?  I never reciprocated in kind.  I planned to.  I meant to write and tell her how having a sister was a great thing.  That whatever inconvenience she worried about me enduring in her behalf was more than worth it.

I didn’t say anything like that.  Actually, I didn’t write at all.  I didn’t call and tell her I loved having her for my sister.  That life was better for me because she was in it.  After all, she was only 67 wasn’t she?   We had plenty of time.

And then we didn’t.

A few years later, Jackie was coming home from a movie…a very funny movie according to Lee, her friend of many years who was with her.

“We were laughing about one particular scene when all of a sudden she said that her hand felt funny…”It’s tingling.’ she said.”

Lee swung the car around and headed immediately to the closest hospital…but it was too late. A massive stroke killed her. And I didn’t get to say all those things I was gong to say…later.

I don’t know why I don’t learn that lesson.  I didn’t say beautiful things to my Mother before she died either.  Not because I didn’t love her – very, very much, but because I just don’t do that.

And now I wonder why.

I cherish the letter I have from Jackie where she tells me how much it meant to her to have me there.  But I’m looking for the reason I never gave that kind of thing back to her.

It wasn’t that I didn’t’ know she wanted to hear it.  I did.  But I‘m just not very good at saying it.  If I could make a funny line out of it, I’d give it a shot, but just telling someone she is important in my life comes hard to me.

I think I might frame the letter.  Maybe if I post it where I can see it, I’ll remember to tell people I love that I do, indeed, love and cherish them.

But probably not.  Just putting it on paper feels like I’m writing someone else’s line in a not very good play.

WORD OF THE MONTH

PROCRASTINATE: To dally, dawdle or defer.

Now those are nice, harmless words.  But toward the end of the list in the Thesaurus come put off, stall and  vacillate.  And each of those is an accusation.

Moral of the story.  Stop finding reasons not to—just say it. Write it. Sing it.  But let your people know.

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Funny story about procrastinating.  In Philadelphia there was actually a club know as The Procrastinators Club.  Its members actually sent a letter to the President of France during my lifetime, decrying the shoddy work that caused the Liberty Bell to crack.

I love that.

Progress report on my Tiny House.  I went to see my soon to be home today.  It is incredible.  It’s hard to believe that David is able to show this much imagination is that small space.  But the biggest thing he has accomplished is to make it feel – not small at all.  He has added extra windows and extra large double glass doors and skylights so that it is bright and airy looking and feeling.

Everything does double and triple duty. And nothing looks crowded. It’s going to be wonderful for boy and me.

The Blog and I are moving!  In the meantime, enjoy this picture of one of my favorite things: this little squirrel was center stage – or rather center table – at my surprise birthday party in Big Bear two years ago. Since then he’s had a place of honor on the coffee table in my apartment.. Even though I’m moving to a tiny house, he’ll be coming with me. Somethings are too precious to part with – both literally and figuratively. See you next month. I suspect I’ll have lots to say!A very rare species.  A squirrel I’d invite home.

DISORGANIZED? MOI?

I have read just about every article on “How to Get Organized.” I have tried most of them – however fleetingly – and declared most of them to be worthless.                                 Now at the age of 91, I have decided that when all else fails one has to depend on ones own abilities. Long pause here while I deal with the fact that, organizationally speaking, I HAVE NO ORGANIZATIONAL ABILITIES!

I have, however, been able to pin down the main difficulty. I am too easily distracted.   I have noticed this particularly as I am trying to pack up things in my apartment to get ready to move into my wonderfully planned new Tiny House. And yes, you may certainly come visit once I move in, but only one of you at a time.

There it is. Right there. I got distracted. I was about to discuss the problems of packing up but my mind went to my exciting new journey into a Tiny House. That led me to invite you all to come visit. That lead to mentioning that you should all come alone because I don’t like crowds in small spaces., and then on to the worrying about what I should plan to feed any of you who decide to take me up on my invitation. I mean, after all, a Tiny House can’t hold dinner for eight.

SEE?

At this particular moment the phone rang and I am totally incapable of not answering a phone. Even when I know it is someone I’d rather not speak to, I answer the phone. It’s just the polite thing to do…and everyone knows how important doing the right, polite thing to do is to me and… But let’s start again. I AM disorganized. I realize it. But apparently the first part of the problem is learning to concentrate on one thing at a time…dealing with it…

Wait. That phone call. It was my neighbor reminding me that she brought me some home made cupcakes a week or so ago and I never returned her plate. I have to do that.   Hold on. I’ll be right back.

I’m back. My neighbor met me in the hall. Apparently she thought when I said “I’ll be right there” that I meant immediately. Of course that was an approximation. But anyway… She’d just colored her hair. It is a rather involved process so we had to discuss it for a few minutes…But now I’m back. Again.

Organization.   Right.

I organized stuff once upon a time. It was right after my divorce. I took a job – and god knows how or why anyone would hire me for it – as a secretary.

Aside from me, everyone in the office seemed to know what they were doing. THEY were organized. I was mostly bored. So I set out to fix me. I had four guys I was to assist. I gave each of them a color. Ed was Orange, Mac was Blue, Ted was Purple and George was brown. I didn’t really like George and brown is one of my least favorite colors.

They began to invite folks from other offices to come view our colorful files. “See?” They would say. “All that stuff in the Orange file is mine…” They were proud and so was I. Until the time came when they were beginning to look for things I’d filed.

I gave notice and left – not just the job – but the town…actually, the whole state. I went back to Philadelphia where no one could find me because I used my pre marriage name. Steck.

Now that’s another funny story. Here in California the initials aka (Also Known As) are very familiar. Almost everyone has one…or used to before foreign names became acceptable as compared to Rock and Troy and Todd. But in Philadelphia aka was strange.  I was at the bank, opening up new accounts in my new, old home town and I listed myself as Elizabeth Bonaduce aka Betty Steck. The checker looked at the application and then at me. She stared a moment then excused herself. She joined another lady who looked at the application, then at me. It became her job to confront me. “This aka,” she said. “What is that? And the antsy teller broke in. “What are you, some kind of criminal?”

Now what was I talking about? Oh. Right. Organization. But you can see what happens. It isn’t my fault. Life just keeps interrupting me. My original plan was to ask you all for tips on how you organize your worlds. What is it you do that’s different. Or maybe what do you do that’s the same every time.

Every time you walk in the door, do you remember to hang up the keys right were they are supposed to hang? I find that every once in a while I forget to do that, and then, when I go to look, and they aren’t where I knew they were going to be, I have no idea where to even START looking.

One strange thing that I am really organized about is toilet paper. I do not like toilet paper that is hung wrong. And that means, in my world, that the roll goes over the top and then down. I even go so far as to rehang toilet paper in public bathrooms. Why do I care? I haven’t a clue, but for some reason, THIS is important to me.

Organization? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe we can deal with it next time if I can get myself together by then. Meantime,

HERE IS THE WORD OF THE MONTH:

OLIGARCHY: A small group of people having control of a country, organization or institution. Example: the ruling oligarchy of military men around a president.

And here’s a little note of interest – or, perhaps, a note of little interest . It took me a while to find the proper definition because I was spelling OLIGARCHY with a e not an i. Now I see the need for dictionarians (okay, I made that up. ) but if there were a word like that, I think they should organize a way to look up misspelled words. Otherwise how does anyone know where the correct spelling is hiding?