Kevin went to the doctor today. He has a great relationship with his physician, a man who, coincidentally, happens to live in our little ‘hood. He’s a DO, a doctor of osteopathic medicine which means he advocates a whole-person approach to care. He’s a good guy, and I might have chosen him myself except for two things: it’s a little odd to see your doctor every day as well as at homeowner’s association meetings, and I also prefer female doctors, for all specialties.

It’s been hot here, the June-furnace has been blasting now for several weeks. We get this every year right before the monsoons hit. It’s been brutal. Last Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, we recorded 120º up here on the hill, a temperature I feel pretty good touting because it comes directly from our own personal weather station. It’s also been windy, a continuous hot breath that offers a grand total of zero relief. Mostly we stay in the house. We urge Riley to pee quickly when he has to go out. 

With the heat comes fire, plague and pestilence. We’ve had brush fires burn, thankfully none close enough to threaten us, just close enough to smell and see the smoke. We haven’t had plague or pestilence, also thankfully because that would be bad. We have, however, had our fair share of creatures and by creatures, I mean bugs. We have been over-run with box elders, tiny flying beetles. They’re outside, but they’re disgusting. We’ve seen snakes. There have been toads. Also the lizards have been prolific. 

Kevin’s doctor, who lives in the house just below us, swims every morning before he leaves for work. He was entertaining Kevin with tales of not going into the pool because it was occupied by a toad, and that he draws the line at sharing his pool with creatures. He has had box elders and toads sticking to his windows. He has had pack rats eating the wiring to his lighting and poor equipment, and ground squirrels and rabbits oh my. Scorpions and lizards and cicadas. 

“Basically half of everything ever talked about in the bible,” he joked. 

Kevin laughed. When he told me the story, I laughed, too. Because it’s funny. It also happens to ring a little too true.

The start of this summer has been hotter than usual, drier and windier. That heat has brought out the bugs in droves. Bugs that cling to the side of the house, that climb the windows, that die and congregate in piles of black carcasses on the portico and the deck. They look, at first glance, like raisins, only infinitely less appetizing. 

Toads, bigger than usual, descend upon the house at night. They haunt the top step leading down to the front door, sitting there until the dog sees them and begins to whine and squeal. Let me at ‘em. As if that’s going to happen. These toads are poisonous to dogs.

The heat speaks for itself. The winds are wicked and wild. 

There is no water, no rain in the forecast. Only sun as far as the weather report can see. It is biblical. This is how polite society ends, pulling its hair out because it can’t get rid of the annoying bugs, having to co-exist with Colorado river toads, and never being allowed outside because of spontaneous combustion, with your ashes blown away by 20 mph winds with gusts up to 50.

Welcome to the apocalypse, desert edition. It’s about as religious as I get, and while I’m not into the bugs or the toads or the heat or the wind, I am very much into the storms that follow. May they come soon and wash away our sins.

Kevin has a 1992 Range Rover Classic. Along with his Gold Wing, it’s his mechanical pride and joy. We bought it in July of 2016 after months of searching. He needed a truck, but didn’t want a traditional pick-up. He wanted something that was enclosed so that if he had to haul things a long way, those things wouldn’t be subjected to the harsh elements of the Sonoran desert. That meant an SUV but one that was big enough. He also tends to like classics. Yes, they’re more temperamental in some ways, but in others, they’re also easier to fix since they’re not completely governed by electronics.

Before we got married, he had a 1992 Toyota Land Cruiser. It looked like an SUV but at the time, which was before the rush of sport utility vehicles, it was classified as a station wagon. He had always loved the look. Big, boxy, square. The interior was fairly utilitarian but it was comfortable. It was also in phenomenal shape. He put brush guards on the front and it was a head turner. It also had leaf spring shocks making it a very rough ride. I got to the point where I didn’t particularly enjoy riding in it. That’s when we bought our first Land Rover, a Discovery Series II. In Land Rover forums and when buying parts at places like Atlantic British, people call them Discos. 

My current vehicle is my second Land Rover Range Rover, this time a Sport. The first Range Rover we had was a fabulous car. Truck, the mechanics called it. Not like a truck I’d ever ridden in. It had heated seats, dual climate control, the ability to raise and lower the vehicle depending on what was needed. It rode on air shocks. It was red. Unfortunately, this particular model of Range Rover, designated a P38 by Land Rover, had a fatal engine sleeve flaw. Eventually we had a choice to make: rebuild the engine, or buy a new car. That was in 2012. 

I loved my first Range Rover. It was big, comfortable, flawless on the exterior and interior, and had a bitchin’ sound system to boot. When we had to get rid of it, I was not happy. We had fallen in love with the Range Rover Sport when they first came out in 2005, so we decided to get one. Kevin: “Don’t you even want to look at something else?” Me: “No.” 

Not only did we not look at something else, we bought another red one.

There is a review about the Range Rover that basically describes it as a limousine that can climb a tree That’s fairly accurate. They’re built for off-roading, for traversing mountains and streams. My beloved Sport does none of those things. I’m a typical limousine SUV owner. I love the bigness, love the luxury. Use very few of the off-road capabilities. I baby this car. I don’t like it used to haul things. 

So when we moved and Kevin decided he needed a truck, we looked at old Land Cruisers again, and settled on an old Range Rover, the models before the P38. We looked here in Arizona, even driving up to the norther part of the state to test drive a couple. Our budget was $5000. The trucks we test drove were in appalling shape. Then we found one on Craig’s List in Chino Hills. It was a 1992, with 188,000 miles on it. For $3500. Also, it was red. We talked to the guy, looked at the pics, and decided that it just might be perfect. Kevin flew to Ontario, Ubered to the guy’s house, test drove it, bought it for $3000, and drove it home that night. 

He loves it. I love it. We both love that it can haul whatever he needs to haul, without having to employ the use of my beloved Sport. They’re both beautiful trucks.

This morning, we were outside, with two of the garage doors open. I started to laugh. Red Rover in stall three; Red Rover in stall one. And there in the center, the most beautiful red “rover” we have, our beloved Riley Boo. And he’s always worth celebrating.

In places like Sudan and Phoenix – which this week have been scarily similar in temperature readings – violent, oppressive winds whip up giant walls of dust. In Arizona, these walls are created from the winds that rush out of a collapsing thunderstorm, with the cold air that’s in front of the storm rushing down at such an incredible rate that it picks up massive amounts of dust and sand. Eventually, as it builds, these walls – which can grow as high as 3000 feet and stretch as far as 100 miles wide – will completely block the sun. On July 5, 2011, Phoenix recorded a dust storm over 5000 feet tall. We call them haboobs, from the Arabic word for “blown.”

When this dust settles, which it does eventually, it wreaks havoc on the air in general, and people and pets in particular.

We have never experienced a haboob and don’t want to. I’ve seen video and heard horror stories about what you’re supposed to do if you’re driving, how to shelter in place, blah blah blah dust. 

One of the first places we went when we moved to Tucson, before we’d even started building the house, was a wine tasting place called Wine Depot. It was an interesting establishment that served Old World wines from Germany, France and Spain. We were desperate for a place to go, having been so spoiled in California. We went on a Saturday, late afternoon. It was hot, and there weren’t many people there. The owner, who was German and his wife, who was Mexican, were both pouring wine. Soon enough, we were the only ones there and so we fell into conversation with the wife. 

We told her we had just moved to the desert, what our plans were. She asked where we were living and where we were building. She said to be prepared for the dust. The dust? we asked. It’s constant, she said shaking her head. You cannot escape it. 

She went on to tell us that if we had a dog, we needed to be careful it didn’t get mixed up with a Gila monster because, while not poisonous, they will bite and latch on, lock their jaws, and not let go. She told us of having to rush her dog to the vet with a Gila monster hanging off its neck. We laughed nervously. 

We haven’t experience the Gila-latch, but we have experienced the dust. Have we ever. It’s impossible to remove; impossible to get ahead of. You can dust using a rag and spray, and it doesn’t seem to matter.

Even the dust has dust. 

I dusted today. As I did, more appeared right behind where I had wiped my cloth. Miscellaneous and errant dog hairs also took up residence. It’s prolific, the dust, all-consuming. It makes the house look dirty even when, technically, it isn’t because I just dusted the other day. Thank dog I don’t have a lot of stuff. It would be impossible to keep it all clean. I’d no sooner get done dusting than I’d have to start all over. It would be an endless loop, a hopeless cycle, a horrible way to spend my days, the stuff of Stephen King novels. 

Kevin has the same issue with bugs. We’ve been inundated with box elders. Thousands of them cling to the house and the deck, dying slowly from the “kool-aid” that Orkin pours along the perimeter. Each day, he takes the power blower and blows them away. And as he walks away, ten more appear behind him.

Dust. Bugs. Haboobs.

Life in the desert in June.

Ben Franklin said: "We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid." This brilliance is something I think about nearly every day as I click through the news. I am forever amazed at how uninformed and willfully uneducated so many people remain, even in this age of instant information literally in your hand. I get push notices on my phone; breaking news alerts as they happen. I have my fitness tracker set up to also deliver whatever alerts my phone has received. They are tied together by Bluetooth.

The internet itself is a bastion of information. It matters not whether you lean left, right or stand fairly straight in the middle. It’s easy to find information about what you’re looking for. It’s easy to educate yourself. Main stream news happens to be my preference because I don’t always want dogma and the left slant. I know how I feel; I know which way my emotions and loyalties tilt. What I want is reporting, news. I crave the facts. Opinions are fine and I read those, too, but I don’t only read people who agree with me. I try to also sneak into enemy territory in order to get a glimpse into how they’re thinking and feeling. Sometimes I get a lot of good information there, too. I don’t always agree with it, but I can appreciate its clarity of thought. 

As Jack Ryan said in The Hunt for Red October, in Russian – “It is wise to study the ways of one’s adversary.” –and Captain Ramius answered, in English – “It is.” –  it’s important to know both sides in order to have a well-rounded opinion of your own. And to have the facts. Ben Franklin’s quote above offers incredible wisdom about the dumb and ill-informed. It also offers great truth. 

The Republicans have crafted a health care bill in total secret that will repeal Obamacare. This bothers me greatly, and not just because of the ripe hypocrisy of it all. It will directly affect me; ultimately it will affect everyone but the ridiculously rich. And most people refuse to see it. Ask people who will lose their Medicaid, whose premiums will skyrocket to nearly half of their yearly income, how they feel and they’ll say they’re worried. In the next breath, they say that the president will never do that. 

Meanwhile, he’s sitting behind his tiny desk with pen poised to wipe out millions of people with his seismographic signature. 

These, of course, are the same people who when interviewed on the street say they’re very much opposed to Obamacare but they like the benefits they receive from the Affordable Care Act.

That sound you hear is me, hitting my head against anything that is hard. It beggars belief that we are this ignorant as a country, that we are this purposefully uneducated about the things that will ultimately affect our lives. 

I have been busy writing to and calling my representative and my senators. I do not hold out much hope because their ideology clashes so completely with my own. They simply believe it’s not the government’s job to help those who can’t completely help themselves. To which I answer, then whose job is it?

I think, I feel, I help, I learn. Constantly. My question to others then, to quote President Andrew Shepherd in The American President, is: “Why don’t you, Bob?” Or Mitch, or John, or Rob, or Susan, or Lisa, or Jeff, or Dean, or [fill in another name here]. 

The day draws to a close, taking with it the exhausting heat we’ve been experiencing in the west. Tomorrow comes the release of this new bill. Tomorrow comes the further exploitation of the ignorant. Justin wants to somehow force people to become educated and I can’t seem to convince him that it’s not possible. But I admire his passion. I admire his hope. Because as Benjamin Franklin also said: “The doors of wisdom are never shut.” And that possibility is worth celebrating.

At any given time, the number of women in this country who are on a diet is somewhere around 50%. That’s according to the Judy Mahle Lutter book “The Bodywise Woman.” Others have estimated it to be half that much. Regardless, when you consider that there are some 126 million women, that’s a bunch. Up to 90% of teenagers diet regularly and even 50% of younger kids have tried a diet at some point. The numbers aren’t that hard to believe when you realize that, according the Marketdata, Americans spend somewhere between $46.3 billion and $100 billion each year on weight loss products. It’s probably because the Centers for Disease Control have told us that 62% of us are overweight or obese. Another 9 million kids are suffering from that particular malady as well.

I bring all of this up because I have no idea now to diet. I was a fat baby but after that, I was pretty slim. I went through high school thin, though never skinny. I had a brief flirtation with what it was like to gain wait when I was in college, which I blamed on dining hall food. That quickly got under control when I moved into an apartment and started working at a restaurant known for its pizza. I also catered for a restaurant known for its clambakes on the beach. I lived on pizza, lobster and alcohol, and was in great shape. I was also 21.

Another flirtation with minimal weight gain happened in my mid 20s. I’m not sure what was behind it but I remember feeling a little thicker than usual during one trip north to wine country. It didn’t last long, and I was fairly quickly back to normal. I was always able to eat and drink what I wanted without consequence. My blood pressure has been low, my cholesterol fine. I exercised a lot when I was younger. Everything worked well.

Then I turned 50. Suddenly nothing worked at all, including my ability to not gain weight and gain weight I have. Not a ton, but enough that it bugs me. Nothing fits me as well as it used to. I feel thick and dumpy. 

The problem I’m really having though is that because I never had a weight problem, I never learned how to diet. I don’t know how to navigate these new heavier waters. It’s foreign to me, and GPS is not working at all. And the fact is, I’m not actually a believer in diets. I think most people are too harsh on what they allow themselves to eat, and so they drop weight but then, because they’ve deprived themselves, they end up falling off their diet and gaining everything back plus. 

Moderation, it seems, is key. It worked for me in the past when I felt a little off. Cut back a bit and everything was/is fine. 

But did I mention about turning 50? Now the cutting back a bit doesn’t seem to work very well. I blame metabolism. I blame menopause. I blame age-rot. I blame the middle. As in my middle. 

The point is, I’m trying to diet in my own way, cutting back on what I eat, especially when it comes to carbs. And I love carbs. Oh, how I love carbohydrates. Pasta, bread, potatoes. Chips. I love to eat; I love to drink wine. But the middle can no longer be ignored. So this week, Kevin and I have decided – not to diet – but to eat healthier. Cut back on carbs. Eat more fruits and vegetables. Drink more water. 

We’re both determined to do something about our middles. 

Yesterday and today I made us smoothies in the morning. I poured orange juice into the blender, then added yogurt (strawberry yesterday, blueberry today), and fresh fruit (strawberries, bananas, blueberries). Blended. Poured. Tasty. For lunch today, I made salads. I always put raisins on my salads. I like the hint of sweet with the tang of salad dressing.

Then I saw on HealthPlus50 that three of the worst culprits for an expanding middle are … yogurt, raisins and orange juice. Still, I have to believe that yogurt, raisins and orange juice are still better that toast, bagels, or poptarts.

mmmmm. Poptarts. I think they come in blueberry, a perfect complement to my smoothies.

As a rule, heat doesn’t bother me. Unlike Bobbi, who despises hot more than anything, I prefer it to the alternative. Bobbi prefers cold. They keep their AC set in the 60s if memory serves. Poor Roy walks around in a parka. 

Southern California gets hot, especially in the San Fernando Valley. I remember days driving from Pasadena/Glendale, west toward either Calabasas (where we lived first) and later on, toward Oak Park. Both were out of the Valley but Calabasas was closer. Calabasas actually starts in the Valley and then rolls up and over the appropriately named Calabasas Grade. Woodland Hills comes right before Calabasas. Both are tucked up against the hill, so the heat gets stuck there. Does it ever. It wasn’t uncommon in the summer, under the late afternoon sun and hanging smog to see the temperature gauge on the car climb into the low 100s. I think the highest I ever saw it was 116º but I didn’t really believe it. I figured it was the heat of the asphalt and car engines that drove it up. 

Still, it was smoldering. 

It was hot. We like the heat. So naturally we moved into the inferno known as the Sonoran desert. It’s a fascinating place, where it freezes in the winter – and sometimes snows – and boils in the summer. We’re not in summer yet, technically. Evidently someone forgot to tell that to the weather gods, however. It was 113º here today up on the hill. Absolutely smothering, smoldering, sizzling heat. The kind of heat where you really can’t go out. The kind of heat that, when you take the dog out to pee, you become very impatient. No sniffing; no dawdling. Just pee and get the hell in the house. 

Several weeks ago, we bought an air conditioner for the garage. A portable one, with a big hose that can vent out one of the high windows. In order for it to reach said window, it has to be raised. Kevin has it sitting on one of his saw tables. This morning, I turned it on early. We did some planting down at the bottom of the road, then came back up the hill. We left the Classic outside in the driveway to bake and keep the garage cool. We had breakfast. We talked to Kevin’s brother and sister-in-law, we read the paper, we cleaned up the kitchen. And then he went out to do some garage clean-up. Our little AC unit kept the area decent. Not quite cool because it’s simply too big of an area and too small of a unit, but it wasn’t horrible. Especially given the outside temps. At one point, when I took Riley out to pee in his designated area which is out the man-door off the back of the garage, and then came back in, I was amazed at how much cooler it was in the garage. 

This afternoon as the sun was drifting down to the west, alighting the smoke of a fire that’s burning somewhere far away from us, we took stock of the weekend. We watched the desert fade into dusk and marveled as it flattened out.

The only word I could think to describe the day was simmering. Something cooking slowly. And yet still beautiful, even in its infinite harshness. Worth celebrating.  

I am not in the habit of taking advice from celebrities, having given up any kind of hero worship when I was in my teens. I can like certain types of music and the artists who sing it; ditto actors who are easy on the eyes and who do the kinds of films I like. In my professional life, I’ve encountered far too many celebrities who are so consumed with their own importance that they are nasty, horrible people. Nearly every project I have worked on with a celebrity client was awful, so much so that on the occasion that I get a call from someone’s representative, or even from a celeb themselves, I almost always turn it down. If I don’t, I charge more because I know it’s going to take years off my life. In my business, it’s called a PITA fee. Pain. In. The. Ass.

Many, many years ago, in the late 1980s, early 1990s, I worked with Sting and his wife Trudie Styler on the Rainforest Foundation Fund project. I found them both odd though not as difficult as others. I had never been a big fan of Sting when he was with The Police, but after he started his solo career with The Dream of the Blue Turtles, a jazz infused album, I quickly changed my tune. To this day, I remain a big fan of his music, including his odd Christmas album which isn’t really a Christmas album at all. Which might be exactly why I like it. It’s more atmospheric, with heavy Celtic influences. It remains a favorite, even though my husband doesn’t like it. Likes Sting, just not that album. 

Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I had USA Network on while I was on the elliptical. Often times they run Law & Order: SVU or NCIS all day long, one episode after another. It’s great mindless entertainment while I get some exercise. In the mornings, they have this feature called Talk Stoop with Cat Greenleaf. They’re short interviews between shows with top celebrities that are hot, that have the “buzz” for whatever reason. These interviews take place on a recreated city stoop, and almost always include her bulldog – currently a rescue named Steve – on the stoop with her and whomever. I don’t often pay a lot of attention but I do like the idea.

She had an interview with Sting the other day. I only saw the promo so I looked for it on YouTube. He talks about his new album, he talks about his kids and his “anthem or motto.” He jokes about “Keep Calm,” which is unfortunately a terribly overused British mantra. He talks about staying curious as an artist. And then he gets to relationships and he said something so simple, and so profound. “Be in love.” 

And perhaps even more importantly, “like the person” you’re in a relationship with. I found myself nodding along because it couldn’t be more true. Love is wonderful and necessary, but when that all-consuming, fiery love fades after a year or two, it becomes something truly remarkable. It becomes real and honest. To like the person you’re with, to laugh together, to enjoy the same television shows and movies and music. To like to do the same things and go the same places. To want to be with that person more than anyone else. To find them infinitely and continually fascinating. That’s what it’s all about.

I have that with Kevin. I am lucky, I am blessed. He makes me laugh, I make him laugh. After all these years, we are head over heels in like. It continues to be something to celebrate.

Kevin and Lorin as Willie Nelson and Cher. Halloween 2016

Dreams are fascinating, aren’t they? I am continually amazed at what the subconscious brain can do, the tales it can weave, the possibilities it can create, the horrors it can craft. I’m also amazed that what can seem so vivid and real and thrilling, can also evaporate in moments.

Such is the stuff of dreams.

I was watching Riley this afternoon. He was sleeping in my office as he so often is in the afternoon. His head was against the French door that leads out onto my deck. He likes to have his head against things when he sleeps, and if not his head, sometimes his whole body. His bed is in a corner of our bedroom. Two sides are against the wall. It’s how he likes it. I think it makes him feel safe.

I heard an odd noise and looked over at him. His eyes were fluttering, his tail kept raising and lowering. His back legs twitched and started, awkwardly. His front paws pawed the air. He sighed. He snarled. He hiccupped. He was dreaming. It lasted for only a few minutes – dogs never seem to dream for long. Then his feet stopped and his eyes opened. He sighed, then closed them again. Must have been a good one. 

Maguire didn’t dream a lot. Cooper was an avid dreamer but his dreams seemed to be more violent. He always seemed to be in distress, his feet moving so fast, as if he was trying to escape something. It broke our hearts to watch him sometimes, even though we understood it. He’d had a tough life before us. We don’t know all of the situations he was in, but we do know that he was passed around a lot, that no one wanted him until we did. Oh, did we want him.

Riley was surrendered. That’s what they call it in rescue land. Owners who no longer want their dogs for whatever reason turn them in rather than do something horrible. Too many people do too many horrible things to their pets, to their children, to other people. Riley was 15 months old when surrendered. He has issues, some of which we attribute to him being a golden retriever, some of which we attribute to things that happened to him in his first months of life. But he is coming around. And his dreams are rarely violent or scary. I like to think his dreams are of chasing deer across the desert, or rabbits, or lizards; of belly rubs; of cookies.

When Kevin and I woke up this morning, he looked at me with his morning eyes and proceeded to tell me about the dream loop he was caught up in that involved Gisele Bundchen. Now other wives might not appreciate being told first thing in the morning that their husband was dreaming of one of the world’s biggest (now retired) super models. Especially not when said wife’s hair is going all over the place and she hasn’t yet brushed her teeth. But I just laughed.

His dream about Gisele wasn’t what other men’s dreams of Gisele are. No, his dream had to do with a garden and whether she grew her own vegetables, if she dug her hands in the dirt, if Tom (Brady, her husband) helped. Over and over and over he dreamed and wondered and then Riley came over to his side of the bed. Time to get up, dad.

Where do these things come from? Who knows. But it sure is fun to dream a little dream and celebrate the fascinating weirdness of it all. Isn’t it?

If ever there was a metaphor for how I’ve been feeling lately, it’s this: today, we were without power. This happens occasionally, though not as often as you’d think given the strain on the power grid during the summer months. And it is definitely summer even though technically it doesn’t officially become summer for six more days. In mid-June in Southern Arizona summer simmers. Last year at this time we were in California, wine tasting. We drove home on Father’s Day during excessive heat warnings. As we went through Palm Springs, the temperature on the car and on my iPhone both topped out at 121º. One hundred. Twenty. One. Degrees.

Today, the mercury was hovering around 112º when suddenly the screen on my computer dimmed. I wondered what was going on. Since I work on a lap top, when the power goes out, my computer battery automatically takes over. It’s a seamless transition. It took just seconds for me to realize that the tiny green light on my power cord was off. Then I heard the microwave beep, the clocks in the bedroom fizzed, the overhead fan clicked and slowed. Finally, the internet said ‘see ya, bye.”

Fully knowing the answer I shouted the question anyway: “Did we just lose power?”

Kevin was already on his way across the house. I heard him say “yup. Gotta number for TEP?”

One of the great ironies of us having solar panels on our house, panels that capture more than enough energy to power our house, is that our solar inverters run on electricity. The second great irony is that in order to use the solar power we create, it has to first go to the electric company in order to be converted. 

So plenty of solar, no way to capture it, and the house slowly began to melt into the desert. Welcome to Thursday afternoon.

Power runs our lives all the time but during the blistering summer months it also keeps us alive. We wouldn’t have died without power for a couple of hours, even through tomorrow, but it would have become uncomfortable. We also have no water pressure. In order to maintain water pressure, we have a pump that works fabulously. As long as there’s power. 

Power is needed to cook and clean, to open and close the garage doors, to run the ceiling fans. It is desperately needed for air conditioning and water, for music and television, for the internet. It is necessary to light the night, to keep our phones and computers charged, to run our smoke detectors and our alarm system (though both do have battery backups). When you’re powerless, it’s an odd sensation. You don’t quite know what to do, how to act. You feel out of sorts, almost confused. You feel as if you have absolutely no control.

Mostly how I’ve been feeling since November 8, and definitely since January 20.

After about an hour, our power whirred back to life. The microwave beeped again, the light lit on my power connection, the overhead fan began to spin lazily. If only it were so easy to regain power as a citizen. If only it took just an hour.

Something to think about and hope for as we power forward.

Anger. Frustration. Confusion. Violence. Belligerence. Incompetence. Understanding. Hate. Love. Joy. Happiness. Sadness. Resilience. Resentment. Contempt. Acceptance. I am reminded of the words spoken by Rodney King so many years ago: “Can’t we all just get along?” Evidently not. I admit to hearing the news of today’s shooting and having mixed feelings. I am against guns and violence so my first feelings were of disgust. But then I thought how fortunate that those who required medical attention had health insurance. Good for them. I wondered, then, if being shot would qualify as a pre-existing condition.

I read the articles, I didn’t watch the news. Everyone always says the right things during times like this. Can’t we all just get along? And no one ever takes responsibility for their role in instigating and perpetuating and wink wink nod nod. Perhaps we could all get along if we didn’t demonize and excoriate and condemn and relentlessly criticize and cajole every person who doesn’t believe exactly as we do. Maybe. I am filled with doubtl.

I suffer from these feelings, too. I feel fear and loathing, not for my fellow citizens but for the government. A government of, by and for the people except it’s not. Except that it is. As Donald Rumsfeld so eloquently put it, and to paraphrase: You go to war with the government you have. Only he said army, not government. It’s one and the same these days. The word government can be interchanged with the words representatives, governors, politicians. 

Each day I grow ever more tired. Each day I try to put it all in the background as I concentrate on my work, my life, my good fortune. Each day, I fight the urge to succumb to it all. Each day, I am successful. So far. 

Then I begin to wonder: where does it all end? How much more can we take? Can’t we all just get along? 

My dog is where I find the most joy during the day. He is happy. He bounds through the house, he loves his toys. He lays on his back and joyfully holds his toy, his “guy,” up above him. He has no idea of the angst and turmoil and horror that each day brings. He doesn’t know that we have elected a complete buffoon as our leader. He would greet Herr Hair with the same energy and enthusiasm as he greets our friends. He just loves people. 

My dog is pure. Fun. Energetic. With a wicked sense of humor. Who likes to talk. Who loves to go for a walk and loves being on the deck over-looking the desert even more. Who curls up on the floor to nap. Who has a Martha Stewart bed in our bedroom (it was on sale at PetSmart) and another one in my office. Who alerts us to creatures crossing the driveway. Who has taught us to pay attention when he’s on high alert and looking up the hill because there are always deer descending or ascending.

Who has the life. So much so that in my next life, I’ve decided I’m going to be a dog, with good owners and a nice house, with lots to eat and too many toys from which to choose. In my next life, I’m going to not worry, not fuss, not lose sleep. In my next life, as a dog, I’m going to live in pure joy.