The "thousand things" delusion

We've all seen them, the books like "One Thousand Places to See Before You Die," with variations "One Thousand Books to Read," "Pieces of Music," "Works of Art," etc, all before you shuffle off this mortal coil and theoretically miss your chance. Cool. At first glance it looks like folks might be giving a nod in the direction of their own mortality.

But first let's do the math. One thousand places. Unless you're independently wealthy, you have a day job, and you get the American average of 13 days paid vacation per year. So, at the outside you might get to 2, 3, or 4 of the must-see locations in a year, what with home repairs, the cost of gasoline and plane tickets, and taking the dog to the vet. One-thousand divided by 4 is 250. Anyone you know living to 250 years these days?

Far from actually coming up against the fact that this life and its opportunities are temporary, the Thousand Things genre feeds the illusion that we are immortal. It's definitely a young person's gig. No real choices necessary, it's all possible.

On the cusp of five and a half decades, I have been feeling strongly that the concepts of "choice" and "priority" are looming large. At the same time, thanks to the wonders of menopause, I've never felt more scattered. Goals have always given me trouble, with no faster way to wipe every thought from my mind than the dreaded questions "What's your five-year plan?" "Where would you like to be in 10 years?"

So here in the next month I will be working on my own version of a Thousand Things list, suitably modified to fit my station in life -- by that I mean, I'll be thinking hard about what's important to me, what's doable, and what I want to put my time, energy and passion into.

Thanks for reading. If you have some experience with setting and accomplishing goals, including what inner obstacles, if any, you overcame to do so, I'd be grateful to hear from you.

The dog who knew Santa

Aspen, the dog who's full of surprises, surprised us again this weekend. Frank happened to catch some of it on film.

A fundraiser, pet photos with Santa, held at a feed store to benefit the beleaguered county animal shelter on the coast. I'm paying for the photos, and Frank, Sturmz (his 15-year-old shepherd/husky mix), Beth (my 11-year-old "little" in the Big Sister program) and Aspen head back toward the Santa mash-up.


As Frank describes it, Aspen leaves Beth's side and dashes up to where Santa's sitting, waiting for the next visitor. She jumps up next to the jolly old elf and snuggles right in close. The photographer, who seemed ill-suited to the task and the chaos associated with it, stands with hand on hip, exuding impatience, wondering where her next real customer is.

Then I get there with the receipt and we descend on Santa en masse. For the first paid pic, Frank and I are snuggled next to Santa, Aspen sitting proudly in front of me, and Sturmz decides to show his butt to the camera -- no matter what. Sturmz' feet drop into the cracks between the straw bales, panicking him -- which he shows by wide-mouthed "heh-heh-heh" panting. Frank hauls him around several times, and each time Sturmz' tail is prominently featured. Santa, presumably having a bit of experience with the situation, finally grabs both dogs with a ho-ho-ho and a hug, and finally the flash goes off.The second paid pic features Beth and me with Santa and Aspen, and it goes off without a hitch. But then it's time for Aspen to say goodbye to Santa, and she just can't. Her immensely strong tail is wagging in circles, and it doesn't help that Santa knows exactly where to scratch her.

I imagine the initial recognition that Aspen showed for Santa as a variation on "It's a Wonderful Life," two incarnate angels comparing notes on their work here on earth. "How many bells have rung on your watch? Have trouble bringing anyone down off the railing?"

On the way out we meet James, an elegant retired greyhound, and Aspen is impressed.

The Daily Slug Toss: Some instruction

1) Locate the banana slug and pick it off the front door/window/wall/azalea plant

2) Grasp the slug with two fingers, not too firmly because the slime doesn't come off easily, and not too lightly because that will mess up the trajectory

3) As you either curse or say a prayer of gratitude for the fact that you are a bleeding heart/a Bhuddist/a wannabe/have a weak stomach

3a) Hurl the banana slug as far into the ivy/grass/redwood sprouts as possible

4) As you wipe the inevitable deposit of slime off your thumb and finger on a least visible part of your clothing/wall/door mat

4a) Search out the next traveler

5) Repeat as necessary

Other duties as assigned

After a numbing 2-hour meeting this morning, and after the hour-and-a-half drive back, it evolved that one of the social workers couldn't find a cleaner for a certain client's apartment, which is piling up with garbage. He's used to living outside, camping, being "free," but now he has a terminal illness and lives in Fort Bragg's only single-room occupancy building, and he lets the trash pile up. And he is in danger of being evicted. So my colleague went and bagged up unidentifiable items for an hour.

Just before I left for the day, another social worker stopped by my desk with a black plastic bag. "____'s clothes. You want to wash them or shall I throw them out?" Our friend with the previously-maggot-infested feet had gotten wet in the rain and she had given him dry clothes. I took the wet ones home.

Just this week Frank had reminded me of the verse in the New Testament about what we were supposed to do to help "the least of these" -- "...hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me drink..." to which I silently added today, "...dying and you cleaned my apartment, incontinent and you did my laundry."

We held our noses, but we did it. For today, that was enough.

Hazel's revenge

Hazel has been reminding me that Aspen has been getting ALL the attention, just for following a few stupid commands. "Whatever happened to the value of independent thinking?" she asked, none too rhetorically. So her day in the sun, or on the blog, has come, and not because I feel guilty. Just because she's such a diva