It’s Sunday and I graded many, many papers.  I have a class of 30 this year. Grading stacks of 30 papers is a lot more time consuming than grading 18 papers. During the past few days, almost all my students have been turning in papers. It’s called “Field Trip on Friday” syndrome.

     I was checking off homework assignments on Thursday. I discovered there were two students who had turned in no homework all week. I was annoyed. I told them they had to turn in all their work or they wouldn’t be going on the fieldtrip to the Reno Air Races.

    One of the students looked very upset. I told the child, “There’s no reason to be upset. If you did your work, as you say, and left it home, all you have to do is bring it all in tomorrow.  If you lied to me and you lost it, or never did it at all, then, you probably should be mad at yourself.”

     Come Friday, one of the student (slackers) brought the homework in, the other one didn’t. So that kid spent the day with a teacher who wasn’t going on the field trip. Apparently this motivation technique worked because almost all the kids in my class brought in the homework the next day. So now I have tons of extra papers to grade. (Well, not extra, not really.)

     I’m just not used to 30 kids in a class. I know lots of teachers in my school district have more kids in their classes than that. And, when I was a kid in elementary school, I usually was in classes of 30 students. And, I learned everything I was supposed to learn. So I should probably quit whining and be glad I have a job.

     The air races were hot and tiring. I’m sure my students slept well that night. The best part was sitting in the stands (not walking around) watching the Blue Angels. It was so cool watching them fly in diamond formation, with each plane’s wings only eighteen inches from the one next to it.

    So, after the extreme exertion of the air races, I had a peaceful, relaxing weekend. Yesterday I just watched all the shows, I had recorded on the DVR.

     Today, I’m watching the ID channel. (Investigation Discovery) They mostly show old episodes of 48 Hours. I try to figure out of the defendant was found guilty before the end of the show. I look at what the accused criminal is wearing when he or she is being interviewed. I try to discern if the person is wearing a prison jumpsuit or just a regular shirt. Of course they all seem guilty. And, they all say they didn’t do it.

     There was this doctor, a Harvard grad, who had a variety of sexual addictions. His wife did not share his enthusiasm for porn and swinging, although he said they were happy and he was indulging his fantasies to “save” the marriage.  He was accused of killing his wife on their morning walk. Nobody saw him do it, but…

• His hands had no blood on them although his sleeves and clothing did…indicating he wore gloves….a definite sign of premeditation.
• They found a bloody glove…in a storm drain next to his minivan.
• Someone in his family had bought a hammer shortly before the murder. (He said it was to go with the nails they had bought.)
• There was both his blood and her blood on his clothing. (He said their German Shepherd bumped into his face and gave him a bloody nose and somehow his late wife got a bloody nose, too…I once got a bloody lip from my dog Daisy and her over zealous playing with her tire toy…but, bloody noses for both of them?)
• He did a lot of crying while testifying, but with no tears. He drooled a little, though.

     I know, he sounds guilty and that’s what the jury found him. I’d say he probably started out on his criminal path by telling his fourth grade teacher he did his homework but left it at home…but you don’t graduate from Harvard by not doing your homework. So maybe my students need to start doing their homework so they can go to Harvard and become criminal masterminds....but...this guy.. was he really a criminal mastermind? Look at the shoddy criminal work...he should have burned the glove in his fireplace.

The photo is Juanita, the one-eyed (born that way) kitten...and really has nothing to do with this entry, except, I like it and it's cute.

I get up around seven

Get outta bed around nine

And I don’t worry about nothin’

Cause worryin’s a waste of time.

    One day, Sandy and I were listening to Mr. Brownstone, Guns n’ Roses’ paean to  heroin addiction.

    Sandy questioned the lyrics, “How can someone get up at seven and not get out of bed until nine?”

     “Maybe he gets up at seven, walks across the room and gets his heroin and accoutrements, which he left on his dresser the night before,” and returns to his bed.”

      “Walking across the room to your dresser hardly counts as getting up. The bathroom’s farther away from the dresser and getting up and using the bathroom hardly counts as getting up.”

    The show usually starts around seven

   We get on stage around nine

Get on the bus about eleven

Sippin’ a drink and feeling fine.

     “Aha! See, in this song everything happens in two-hour increments. The show starts at seven—meaning the opening act and Guns n’ Roses gets on stage around nine”

      “Opening acts usually suck—I wouldn’t want to wait two hours to hear the main act….what do they do back stage while they’re waiting to go on?”

      “Probably more heroin.  And Axl Rose was kind of a temperamental lead singer….he quit the band and made his fans wait ten years for his next album—which, I have on good authority was horrible. So maybe a two-hour wait wasn’t unreasonable.”  YOWZA!

___________________________________________________

     I had a busy week—what with school starting.  I still managed to have a PET scan and a CT scan.  PET scans are the things I dread the most.  Not because they are bothersome in themselves, but you have a list of crazy, arbitrary instruction you have to follow. 

     1. For twenty-four hours, you can only have protein.  (Seriously)  And, apparently, it can only be animal protein. Since I am a vegetarian, I have to eat plain omelettes.

2. For six hours before the scan, you can only have water. (This makes me hungry and very cranky.)

3. For twenty-four hours, you can’t do anything that in any way resembles exercise.  It’s like they are trying to fatten you up like a Christmas Turkey.

4. The scan takes two hours. They don't actually scan you for two hours--you have to lie down in a bed for one hour.  No reading, no iPod--and if you bring yourself, like I do, you can not be sedated...so it's just plain boring!

    The first time I had a PET scan, and they told me this, I wanted to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

     Then when you get there, they grill you on what you’ve eaten. (At this point you wish they would grill something for you to eat!) I decided to stop at my favorite-restaurant-near-a hospital, Dish Café.  My scan was at 1:15 and I wouldn’t be done until 3:30. Dish Café closes at 2:30 so I got my food to go and was planning to eat it after the scan. Then I remembered that I had to drink some water so I ordered a water to go.  They obliged me—a huge plastic cup of water with a slice of lemon and a dome lid….

    When I got to the scan, the nurse was dismayed—didn’t I know that lemons have natural sugar in them and it could mess up my blood sugar for the test? Luckily, the blood test proved I was still good to go for the scan despite drinking lemon-tainted water.

    A CT scan is better except you have to drink ‘contrast fluid’ so your innards will contrast for the scan, I assume.  It's like drinking  vanilla and metal flavored cream.

      Anyway, I’m getting hungry.  In honor of the rib cookoff this weekend, I’m going to Raley’s to get some Morningstar Riblets.  I make them in the microwave and put them on an onion bun. Then, I put a pickle slice and some fresh onion on the sandwich.  Voila!  My version of the McRib sandwich at McDonalds (which they don’t have anymore.) 

Saturday and Sunday were my last weekend of summer.  Yesterday was a day of blessed relief, weather-wise. It only got up in the 70’s.  Do you know how wonderful it is to be able to sit in your own house and not break a sweat?

Thursday was a big day for me. I finally, finally got my varicose veins removed.  This is a huge deal for me. When the nurse saw what vein would be removed, she said, “That’s impressive.”

The process was impressive to me.  A nurse asked me a bunch of questions…mainly concerning what drugs I was on. (Legal, prescription drugs—I wasn’t acting suspiciously or anything.) The first gown I was wearing was just a scoche too small...and it didn’t have any ties.

My surgeon, who wanted to do an ultrasound on my legs bellowed to his staff, “Get Gail a bigger gown!”

Of course I said, “That’s Miss Smith to you!” (What do you think? I wanted to say that…I was paying enough for this surgery!)

After the ultrasound, I went to the surgery room. The nurse wanted to start an IV in the back of my hand or at my elbow.  “I have a port”, I said hopefully.  But no, the nurse didn’t have the proper needle to access the purple power port.

So there I was…on the operating table.  Wide awake with a needle sticking out of my arm.  Meanwhile the doc was working on my leg. He injected the vein with a heated needle, causing it to shut down.  Then, with a tiny hook, he pulled up the rest of the vein and tied it off at one-inch intervals.  It wasn’t painful, except for once. Then it felt like burning and being stabbed.

“Ow Ow OW!” I protested.

The nurses told me the doctor wouldn’t do that again, and he didn’t.

  I am now willing to wear shorts and short skirts everywhere. (Especially in Bikram yoga. I’m going to buy at least one pair of the overpriced yoga shorts they sell in the studio. And then I’m going to have trouble with Tree Pose-one sweaty leg, will slide down the other.)
 I’m a little nervous because the TV show, What Not To Wear  has a rule: No miniskirts over age 35. C’mon Stacy and Clinton, Pleeeeease?

But, I don’t want to go out in public in a short skirt and watch people mentally calculating, trying to figure out my age.

I went to Old Navy and bought several pairs of shorts. It made me curious as to why I can try on a pair of size 10 khaki shorts and have them fit perfectly and then I put on a pair of size 10 plaid shorts from the same store and they are tight. Anyway, I bought a pair of plaid non-flannel pajama bottoms that are just fantastic. I’ll post a picture of the plaid pattern above this entry. (Yep, I already took it.) The pj bottoms have gold threads woven through…kind of disco like.

Sandy has been working around the house for the last month. She’s been washing, sweeping, mopping, cleaning out closets, etc. Basically, when you’re around her, you expect little mice to start singing, “Cinderelly, Cinderelly!” She did these added chores so I would buy her the DVD’s of the entire Gilmore Girls series.

Well, payday was Saturday and we set out to Borders.  It must have been meant to be because a few days before that, I got an email coupon from Borders for 40% off any DVD boxed set.  Hurray! The entire set, which came in a case reminiscent of Barbie cases from the 60’s cost $260….I got over $100 off.  And now we can watch Gilmore Girls any time we want.  We’re no longer tied to ABC .Family’s schedule.

The other advantage is that Sandy goes to her father’s house every week. He has her watch something he likes…such as Babylon 5 or one of the many incarnations of Star Trek. Now she has ammunition…she can make him watch Gilmore Girls.

Trying to bore my ex-husband will probably backfire, though—he’ll probably end up liking GG.  It did have exceptionally snappy dialog and amusing cultural references.  She made him watch Pushing Daisies and he ended up liking that.

Tonight I’m going to make doughnuts.  Sandy is having one of her crazy teenage parties on Saturday. (Where am I going with this? Patience, Grasshopper.) They are going to watch several musicals on DVD. I got a Vegetarian Times magazine, which has recipes for vegan doughnuts. I got a doughnut pan from my friend. (It came from her grandmother who will never make doughnuts.  Nor will my friend ever make doughnuts. My friend’s husband didn’t know there were doughnut recipes in which doughnuts were baked, not fried. Now you know everything about the origins of my doughnut pan.)

I shopped for doughnut ingredients at Raley’s. Now, these are supposed to be vegan doughnuts…I’m not a vegan, but hell, I’ll try the recipe. The recipe called for soy milk, which is easy enough to find.  But then, it also has En-r-g egg replacement. I couldn’t find this at Raley’s.  So what do I do? I guess I’ll have to put an actual egg in the doughnuts and call them “Almost Vegan Doughnuts” or Dairy Free Doughnuts

Anyway, Sandy suggested I make a batch of the doughnuts ahead of time, to see how they come out. Now, I know she wants me to get the kinks out of the recipe and this is not a blatant attempt to get me to make doughnuts for her own consumption. (Yeah, right)

So I’m going to leave Starbucks, where I do most of my writing. (I tried to write at home yesterday, and I just couldn’t get anything done!) I’m going to Q-Doba for my latest Mexican food craving, then, I’m going home to make doughnuts.

Tomorrow is the first day back to school for teachers. I’m supposed to be there by 9:00 and bring a breakfast item. It will probably be doughnuts. (Or a carton of juice of the doughnuts don’t work out or Sandy eats them all.)

Happy 2009-2010 School Year!

     It’s been a week and I can honestly say I have no buyer’s remorse regarding the kittens.  Juanita and Donovan are chasing each other all over the house. Juanita climbs up to the computer desk and walks over the keyboard. (I have to watch her…I don’t want her inadvertently downloading any child pornography!) Donovan likes to chase a string. Life is good. Daisy is surprised that a cat doesn’t not regard her with fear. (That would be the incredible One-Eyed Juanita.)

     I have changed my internet services from the local cable company to A T & T.  The reason is that I can go to Starbucks and use their wifi services. I did have the “Charter Bundle”, but I decided I wanted to shed the land line, since I never answered the phone when it rang anyway. But, I still wanted the Charter Cable services—and I wanted to add a DVR to my account because, well, you just can’t watch too many “encore presentations”  of Gilmore Girls.

    I kept procrastinating this big move, because I knew this would be a monumental task of coordinating services.  And, frankly, I just didn’t feel up to it.

     So, I called A T & T to install my internet. (Actually I spoke, in person, to the guy that works at the A T & T store, while we upgraded Sandy’s cell phone—more on that later.)  The guy looked up my address and told me yes, I could get their super high speed internet in my neighborhood.  I was happy because I didn’t want their crappy low speed internet even if it cost less. (My brother tells me that it doesn’t cost them any more to give you high speed internet.  I believe him, because my late mother always said about any gimmick, “They’re just doing that so they can charge more.”  Ah, yes, it’s good to have cynicism modeled to you early in life.)

     They guy at the A T & T store told me a tech would be at my house on Friday between 8 and 10 am.  That went along my yoga schedule, so I said sure.  Do you know the tech came the night before to set it up? He worked in my back yard, complained about the trees not being trimmed and possibly being electrified by the  super high speed A T & T cables. I tried to act concerned when he told me all this, but my thoughts were greedy. (GIVE ME MY FAST INTERNET!) I was afraid he’d want me to get the trees trimmed and I remembered how hard it was to get the landlord to fix our bathroom with the tiles falling off the wall and the possible mold growing between the walls.  But after complaining a little, he went about his work and left and never came back the next day.

    I set up my A T & T modem myself and am enjoying A T & T internet.  Sandy has taken it upon herself to watch every episode of Bones , so we are definitely using the streaming video.

     Now the tale of my cable TV and internet unbundling goes sour.  Every main character needs a foil.  A T & T’s foil is Charter Communications.

     I called Charter Cable and told them what I was planning to do.  I said I wanted a DVR.  Silly me, I assumed that that would entail a Charter Cable employee somewhere flipping a switch. But, no, I needed a special cable box.  They suggested I bring the cable box to their office and exchange it.  That way I wouldn’t have to wait for a tech to come out to my house.  This seemed a good and sensible idea to me.  Charter Communications is notorious for scheduling their appointments far in the future. So after my internet was safely taken over by  A T & T, I took my cable box and drove all the way across town to the Charter Communications office. 

     I waited in line briefly. People were being helped.  Some were turning in cable boxes.  One man was angry because he swore he paid his bill but apparently he had no proof of it.  (People! They’re not going to believe you paid your bill just because you said so. They can’t deposit the words ‘I paid my bill’ in the bank. You need a receipt or something.  Especially when you look like a lowlife.)

    When it was my turn, I stated that I was changing my services and I would like to trade in this lovely black cable box for a lovely black DVR box.

    The lady was courteous. She didn’t say, “Now just wait a minute there Missy—just what is your angle?” But she did have bad news…They had no DVR boxes.  I must admit I was a little skeptical.  After all there were stacks and stacks of cable boxes on the back counter. I did not believe that one of them wasn’t a DVR.

    I decided to make the best of this bad outcome.  I left the cable box with them…I’d have to go for about 12 hours without channels above 75.  No Discovery ID. for me in the living room.  See, a tech was going to come to my house the next morning between 10am and noon.  I believed them. (As Paul McCartney sings, “That was your first mistake….)

    Since I was in the traffic ridden south part of Reno, I decided to pick up dinner at Whole Foods on the way home.

      The next day, Charter Communications was a no call no show. I even remembered to tell them to call my cell phone number instead of my now-defunct land line. I just thought they were running late.

     So I called.  I’ve learned something about trying to reach someone from Charter Communications on the phone. You get that automated dimwit but you need to keep pressing 0 so you can talk to a live person.  I talked to a lady named Bernicia.  I explained the situation. The first thing she said was a tech will be out on the 20^th.

     I was outraged. She didn’t ask if that date was ok. She didn’t even tell me she was sorry that nobody showed up or that nobody was going to show up. One of the reasons I eschew internet dating is that I hate being stood up and now my cable company rejects me? I I started having a major fit.  I’m a little ashamed to admit that tears were involved.

     So here’s why it was my fault (?) that a week after ordering it, I am without a DVR box and don’t have a stack of Eureka episodes to watch.

I told them I’d pick up the DVR box.  If they don’t have a DVR box in the office, a tech can’t come and bring me one the next day.  If I’d arranged for the tech to come out and install the DVR box, well, I’d probably have to wait until the 20^th anyway. I know—the excuse sounds flimsy and illogical.

    Anyway, I’m having varicose vein surgery on the 20^th.  I hate how Charter Communications assumes that any date they pull out of a hat would be fine.

So…a technician is coming on Saturday the 22^nd. Hopefully he or she will have DVR box in hand and a smile on his face.  (Actually I don’t care about the smile.  Smiling customer service people are highly overrated.  As long as he does his job and doesn’t complain about my unkempt trees, I’m good.)

     ___________________________________

     Since I’m having my varicose veins removed, I decided to celebrate by buying myself shorts to wear. I went to the Legends Shopping Center in Sparks.  I wanted to pick up my special Fekkai shampoo that makes my mousy hair glossy.  (heh heh Fekkai…sounds dirty). They have this shampoo—no—let’s call it what it is—hair nectar-- at Bath and Body Works.

    I looked around for a likely store that might sell some attractive shorts an in-shape 50 year old woman might wear.  I tried the Guess Outlet Store.

Guess sells all their pants by waist measurement, not sizes someone would recognize.  I wear a size 8/10.  So I tried on a size 31.  They actually fit perfectly with minimal muffin-toppage.  But I can’t trust that.  Things shrink in the wash.  Or the dryer.  I aspire to let things ‘air dry’ after washing, but I always forget. Do you think that the Guess Outlet Store had any shorts in a size 32? No! It was like trying to find a DVR box at the Charter Communications office.  The good thing is they played The Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated over the  p.a. system.

     And, lastly, Sandy’s brand new cell phone mysteriously stopped working. So we boxed it up and took it to the A T & T office. Her screen was all messed up. It was mostly black, but had some colorful stripes on the side. I didn’t examine the phone closely or I would have seen the tiny crack on the side, where she had accidently rammed it with a shopping cart. This was when she was with her father. (I don’t really know if that’s indicative a larger problem or not.  Probably not.)

     So, I was a little embarrassed when the A T & T guy pointed out the damage to me.  I expected him to call me Little Missy or something, but he was too young.  He signed us up for cell phone insurance and told us to make a claim in three days.  I tell you A T & T is awesome!

      Today, Sandy and I decided to go to the Humane Society to look at kittens. We’ve toyed with the idea of getting another kitten. We have Stormy, who really is an awesome cat. She has a few habits that I find a little annoying, but we still like her. She wants to sit on my chest, while I’m in bed and she purrs loudly while her fluffy fur detaches it self from her hide, hair by hair.  Each hair floats in the air and goes up my nose.

     We also have a dog named Daisy. Daisy has some unusual habits also. For example, while I’m lounging on my bed, she’ll be lounging on her dog bed in the corner. I will eventually want to get up and leave the room. I sit up from lounge position. (which isn’t a yoga pose, but should be) I put one foot on the floor. What I didn’t know was that Daisy was observing me. Before my foot touches the floor, Daisy is off the dog bed and racing down the hall. One of these times, I’m going to fake her out and get back on my bed right away just to see how long until she realizes I’m not standing behind her in the living room. Everything Daisy does, she puts her whole heart into. She doesn’t just walk down our hall, she bounds down the hall, full throttle. Unbridled Enthusiasm should be her middle name.

     So we decided to add a kitten to the mix. When we got to the Humane Society, we were amazed by how many cats they had there. The whole lobby was filled with cats in cages. And there were cages of cats all the way down the main hall. At the end of the hall there is an overweight dog named Macy who wouldn’t stop barking.

    Since the shelter is chock-a-block full of frisky felines, they offered us a deal—two for one! Well, I can’t resist a sale. So, we looked around. They showed us a little girl cat name Meena.  She only had one eye—she was born that way. Meena is a sleek little gray tabby with stripes on her back and spots on her belly.  She was super friendly. Sandy held her and it was instant love.

    I found the next one…a gray and white male named Donovan. We had them together in one of the little rooms where you get to know your prospective pet. Little One-eye was so playful. She was all over Donovan. Donovan was unsure at first…Playing? What is this thing she’s doing? But we were impressed by how she piqued his interest with her pouncing and climbing all over him. They’re innocent kittens for crying out loud, get your minds out of the gutter!

     The folks at the humane society were so excited that we wanted two kittens. In less then an hour, they were ours.

      I told Sandy, the male’s name had to remain Donovan.  I’m kind of a 60’s freak and I have a lot of Donovan songs on my iPod…Catch the Wind, Season of the Witch, Wear Your Love Like Heaven.  Ok, you get the picture. I thought Donovan=male folk singer from the 60’s…maybe I could think of a female folk singer…Marianne Faithful? Cher? (I know she was more of a pop singer, which is why I didn’t consider that name for long.) Joni Mitchell (No, I have a friend named Joni, and I don’t know how she’d feel if there was a one-eyed cat with the same name. “Joni ran into the wall last night.  She just has no depth perception.” Rumors would get started. Well, I suppose there could be Cat Joni and Human Joni! And there it was-a cool Gilmore Girls reference.)

    So maybe the answer would be in one of Donovan’s songs. There were a few women mentioned in his songs..maybe they were his girlfriends or something.  There was a Lalena—I read this book years ago about the child of hippies-Little Miss Strange. Her name was Lalena.  Then, I thought of the song There is a Mountain.---He sings about Juanita….Sandy agreed that that would be a great name for the cat formerly known as Meena.

     So now, after blogging in Starbucks, I’m going over to Raley’s to buy kitten chow and cat bowls.

     With that handy little segue, I’m going to tell the story about Toaster Strudels.  Sandy and I watch a lot of TV these days.  Apparently, the demographic for the shows we watch includes people who eat toaster strudels. (Didn’t Gretchen Wiener’s father from Mean Girls invent Toaster Strudels?) We’ve never tried Toaster Strudels before. So when I went to Raley’s yesterday, (there’s the segue you may think I forgot about), I bought a box of Toaster Strudels.  Was I underwhelmed! This morning I was eating one while in my bedroom. (Yes I eat in there. ) Daisy was in the living room curled up on the love seat. I accidently dropped the empty frosting packet on the floor. I heard the rumbling sound from the living room and then Daisy scrambling down the hall. (Daisy thinks there is competition for food, but there really isn’t.) She arrived in my bedroom in no time flat, nosing around for the errant frosting packet. (Ha, I’d already picked it up.) Hmm Toaster Strudels! The outer crust isn’t very sweet the filling is glurpy. (That is a word I made up…It means viscous and unappetizing.)

     Finally, if you are a guy wanting to post a picture on a dating web site, take a new picture of yourself. Don’t post one of you with your old girlfriend/wife with her picture cropped out. Women can tell you didn’t make an effort in this department. I looked at one and thought. He looks happy. I wonder if I could make him look this happy. (Unless you have that look on your face that says ‘helllllp meeeeeee’. That could generate a little sympathy, at least) Also, know that most men don’t have an extra hand, complete with an acrylic French tip manicure coming out of their shoulder.  I mean come on…you were with a girl who got French manicures ---so unoriginal.  I bet she had a tramp stamp tattoo, also.

     And that, is it for today...

    Every day, while returning home from yoga class, I see this sign near the Grand Sierra Resort on 395 North.  It’s one of those signs that is made up  of a multitude of turning panels, so it changes. There are three views of this sign and one that infuriates me. I’m sure it’s an ad for a casino. The ‘headline’ says “Stimulus Package”. The picture is a woman clad in a black bikini. Except her face isn’t in the picture. Normally, I don’t care about ads featuring scantily clad women. I’ve come to expect that sort of thing. But come on, she had no head! Is that what makes her especially stimulating? (And yes, I get the play on words—a poke at the Obama administration) A headless, nearly naked woman, will never nag. *Sigh* (For perfect alliteration, I probably should have said nogginless…noggin-free?)

   When I'm taking my well-worn route home from yoga class,  I always am excited to see which entertainers are coming to Reno. Then, I go online to see how much tickets are to see my fave washed-up artists and nearly fall out of my chair.($200 per ticket to see Blondie? The price is high but I’m holding on… to my money.) 

     Recently, I noticed that British TV psychic, Lisa Williams is coming to town and doing what? I don’t think she sings or plays an instrument.  If she did, she would do covers from deceased artist who would have told her to play the songs.

     “I ran into Jimi Hendrix the other day. See, my neighbors have this garage band thing going on, and Jimi was hovering above the guitar player. He was clasping his head with his hands and moaning with agony as they mangled their way through ‘Foxy Lady’. Oh, and he told me I should play “Hey Joe” for you all because he wants you to know that shooting your old lady because you caught her with another man is not the answer.”

     And that brings me to my theory that your dead relatives are not hovering around you trying to give you advice and waiting for a psychic to tell you what they think.  When I shed my mortal coil, I fear that if I hung around Sandy and a psychic offered to do a reading, this would happen.

Psychic: I’m getting a message from a mother figure. Her name begins with ‘G’.

Sandy: (rolling her eyes) That’s my mom. What does she want now?

Psychic: She says to watch out for that black wolf. [did I mention she wants to be a wolf biologist?}  He has shifty eyes.

Sandy: Tell her they all have shifty eyes. They are wolves. Look, ask her if she has any ideas for my next research article for Wolf Journal.

Psychic: (after a pause) No.

Sandy: Tell her that Jane Goodall’s mother was much more helpful. (rolling her eyes again)

Your children can even embarrass you after you’re dead.

     And speaking of wolves (awesome segue, I know!) , I’ve been reading profiles on the unnamed dating web site. All I can say is, come on guys. You can type up your profile text in a word processing program, then copy and paste it in the profile window.  Basic computing skills have become another one of my requirements.  Spell Check is your friend, guys. Also, I like it (and I assume other women do too) when it looks like you actually put some thought into what you write.

      Here are some examples:

I like fishing&golfing&and,boating. (But apparently you don’t like the space bar, do you?)

     One gentleman started off with this statement: “I have no tattoos or body piercings.” (I thought, how refreshing that he’s proud of his body unblemished by holes and markings. Should I write to him and tell him that one date with me and he’ll want my name tattooed on his left butt cheek?)

      Finally: "The exceptional thing about me is that I’m friendly". (Maybe you should look up exceptional.  If you could juggle knives while playing the harmonica, that would be exceptional. I’ve met so many friendly people, I tend not to trust them.)

     I have paraphrased these statements, used slightly different words, because I kind of admire people who put their hearts out there. But I also think that some guys think women are so desperate that they just hurriedly write anything in their profile and expect women to flock to them. Perhaps they underestimate how many intelligent and  sentient women are out there.

         Baskin Robbins’ ‘Ice cream and cake and cake’ ad campaign proved quite tenacious. When I finished blogging last time, I was on a mission.  I just wanted ice cream cake. At that point, it didn’t have to be Baskin Robbins. My definition: a layer of cake, a layer of ice cream, and whatever type of frosting they put on their cakes-apparently one that can be frozen, then thaw and be just as awesome.

     So, I left Starbucks, made a left turn and went to Marbleslab Creamery.I studied what was in their freezer.  OMG! These cakes were small-almost Easy Bake Oven size, and cost $20-$30!  This was not for a big occasion-just for my daughter and me. I was a bit annoyed, because the young girls who worked at Marbleslab, did not share my dismay at how expensive their teeny cakes were. 

I asked, “Can’t we just get a slice?” (Of course not.)

I knew of two more places that sell ice cream cakes.  One was Dairy Queen, near Sparks High School, and the other was Baskin Robbins.

      I stopped home to pick up Sandy. We headed to Dairy Queen.

      “There’s a show I want to watch tonight” Sandy said. Translation: Despite the fact that we are getting delicious ice cream cake, we also need to be home so I can watch my very- educational- but- probably- boring -to -most- people -TV program on The Science Channel.

       “Oh?” I said.

      “Yes, it’s called Wild Russia. It’s about the wildlife that lives in Russia.  It probably has wolves in it.” (My daughter is absolutely crazy about wolves.)

      “I have this vision of the wolves with their paws folded in front of them, doing that Russian Dance-wearing those hats. Or a kind of “Fiddler on the Roof” for wolves.”

         “Mom, you’re not as funny as you think you are.” But she was smiling when she said it.

        Ice cream cakes were just as expensive at Dairy Queen and I tend not to trust the ice cream because it’s soft serve and I don’t think that lends itself to an ice cream cake.

      Our third stop on this so far ill-fated mission was to Baskin Robbins.  There is a new B-R in Sparks and, it even has a drive-thru. So, we went there.

      Now, when we first moved to our neighborhood, and for several years after that, we had a neighbor named Paula and her daughter, Jenna.   Sandy was 5 and Jenna was 7.  They were best friends for a long time, but Jenna has moved.  Sandy and Jenna still text each other. 

     Jenna once worked at the Baskin Robbins in northwest Reno.  Sandy and I went in there and Jenna gave us free ice cream. (Of course I don’t think you should get free food from your friends who work in a restaurant. And I promptly asked to see the manager about the preferential treatment----not!)

     While we were in line, to pay (way too much) for our ice cream cake, I turned to Sandy and said, “Too bad Jenna doesn’t work here.” I was kind of reeling from the cost of our tiny ice cream cake, although, I don’t think Jenna would have given us a $20 ice cream cake for free.

     Turns out I didn’t look closely at the cashier. Because, it was Jenna!  Her hair was blondish-an apparent attempt to give up the Goth look she’d been sporting.

     Sandy just about freaked out—I bet she thinks I’m magic now. (Are you kidding me? She’s fifteen.  The only special power I have, according to her, is the power to ask her stupid questions I should already know the answer to. Oh yeah, and I have a valid driver’s license.)

     Jenna transferred to the Sparks Baskin Robbins. She told us she didn’t like the other Baskin Robbins.  The extremely crappy thing they did at the northwest Reno Baskin Robbins was fire a young woman who had a daughter to support and a boyfriend with no job. I wanted to tell Jenna that just because someone managed to hook up with a slacker and reproduce doesn’t mean they are owed a job. But I don’t want to corrupt an idealistic teenager with my cynicism.  Not right after a joyful reunion, anyway.

     And the ice cream cake?  A layer of Devil’s food cake, a layer of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and some of that awesome frosting that stands up to frequent freezings and thawings. Yum! ICE CREAM and CAKE and CAKE!