NOT THE CORRECT DAY AT ALL

Murphy's Law is defined as follows:

"Anything that can possibly go wrong, does."

Today, I woke up inspired to begin a healthier lifestyle.

I created a nice little poster yesterday to remind me to drink a bottle of water first when I felt hungry -- to recognize when I am bored instead of hungry -- cut back drastically on my Diet Coke habit -- and to save the chocolate for only special moments instead of constantly.

So what happened today?

I ate a healthy, reasonable breakfast, with TWO bottles of water.

But I forgot to take my medications until right before I have to drive into town at 9:20 a.m.

So I took them then.

And began to get sick-to-my-stomach on the drive in.

For those of you who do not know where I live,  my home is between the middle of No and Where. There is NOTHING close by. You cannot just run out to get a gallon of milk or a tank of gas -- for heaven's sake, the stupid MAIL box is almost two miles away.

So the only choice for any type of food/Pepto-Bismol/Alka-Seltzer is one lonely convenience store about half-way between home and the closest city limits.

Since the alternative was pulling over to the side of the road to vomit, I stopped there.

And as most if not all convenience stores, the chose of any sort of 'healthy' food is seriously, seriously limited.

So I got a slice of pizza.

Really, it was that, Twinkies or chewing tobacco.

STRIKE ONE.

Then for lunch, my second daughter, Joy, suggested going to Subway, which is where I normally get a healthy veggie sandwich.

And, er, yeah, THREE of their freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

STRIKE TWO.

Then my husband, who has finally caught on to the fact that I am not incredibly happy with him at the moment, surprised me by bringing how for dinner my FAVORITE meal - pizza.

With an extra order of bread-sticks.

STRIKE THREE AND YOU ARE OUT.








Oh, well, tomorrow is another day.



Isn't it?

GOD AND MR GOMEZ

Memories are what you choose to remember.

Some parts of my childhood are blank. Not blurred, or fuzzy, but like erased. I don't think I had horrible experiences that needed to be expunged - maybe just not enough RAM.

But certain parts are extremely clear.

For one, the relationship between myself, my father, and the Los Angeles Times.

It may be difficult for those of you younger than 50 to comprehend, but the daily newspaper used to be the main source of news. There was no Internet or Twitter or email - CNN didn't exist - for years there weren't any morning news shows.

But the morning paper, traditionally thrown in the bushes in front of your house by a young boy on a bicycle, would turn your fingers inky black while over breakfast you read about what the Russians were saying, what Washington was saying back, and the latest serial murderer being hunted in some metropolitan area.

The comics were only one sheet, but worth fighting with your older brother over who got to read first. "Dear Abby" was for grown-ups - horoscopes also.

And I would daily turn to the classifieds in the consistent (albeit irrational) delusion that someday under "Horses," the following advertisement would appear:

"Free beautiful, healthy 8 year old gelding to be given to 12 year old over 5'9" tall, as well as all tack and grooming supplies in addition to first seven years free boarding and feeding costs at local S.P. stable. Call 213-555-1212 immediately to arrange for transportation."

And something my dad and I also shared was the weekly column by Jack Smith.

It was always succinct, direct and usually droll. My dad just loved it, and since I loved my dad so much, of course I did also.

So why am I rambling on about this, and is this going anywhere?

Our book club is meeting at my house next week, which means I suggested the book for discussion.

It was "God and Mr. Gomez" by Jack Smith.

Reading the book for probably the 57th time, I am continually warmed by Smith's phrasing, descriptions and drollity (is that a word? should it be?).

And you know why?

It reminds me of my dad.

I miss him.

SCRUBBED VS. SUPERFICIAL

I have a neat-freak for a daughter.

But just one.

My second daughter has an apartment that makes a male college freshman's dorm room look immaculate by comparison.

We have a continual battle of things like taking out her trash... after TWO WEEKS of accumulation. She insists she can't vacuum her carpet.... because you can't SEE it under months and months of growth of pizza boxes, dirty laundry, papers...

Okay, let's get off that subject, I'm beginning to nauseate myself just by my own description.

But my other daughter is...

Well, let me just say that she is being driven slowly and irrevocably insane having to pick up after a husband, a two-year old and a four-year old... and a 53 year old when I come to visit.

My son-in-law is not a neat freak, but a PRECISION freak. His undergraduate degree is in mathematics, and he is all about measuring and right angles and spacing. He still is a normal male-type of slob - I mean, why pick up clothes that you are just going to put back on again in the morning, and stuff like that - but he also adds baggage (literally) to my oldest daughter's compulsion(s).

And I'm not at all certain where I stand.

Well, actually I do, I'm just not quite certain I wish to make it public.

I am neat about some things... I have to have the kitchen cleaned and the trash emptied before I go to bed. And I have to make my bed... at least before I can crawl back into it.

But a lot of things... ensuring that laundry ends up in the dryer instead of slowly growing mildew left in the washing machine - vacuuming the carpet when the overall color is being determined by the fur shred by my animals instead of the original dyed hue - dusting furniture and ledges instead of relying on our regular winds to blow everything clean when I leave the windows open...

Well, let's say that I do not allow myself to be distracted or encumbered by housework.

Ever.

And I am notorious for doing what I call "overall and sweeping brushstrokes" - which anyone who would like to be polite would call quick and dirty - and if you are honest, fast and of doubtful quality.

Over the past week, I have painted three interior doors some very... definite colors and striking contrasts.

They look marvelous... from a distance of at least fifteen feet.

Maybe just a little bit more.