EASY RIDER

There are some things that you just don't do after turning 50.


Your bones are becoming 'brittle' (which used to be a cool kinda chocolate and nut candy deal that you spread out on a heavily buttered pan). 'Cracked pelvis' actually means something now.


You know more about fiber, irregularity and prunes than you ever wanted to, and worse yet, now you NEED to know it.

A regiment of daily aspirin is undertaken (doesn't that sound like it should be some kind of contact sport for the geriatric crowd - on horseback with armor). Your muscles now sag instead of bouncing back.


And, as my dad used to say, you read the obituaries just to be certain yours has not been published yet.


In other words, you ain't a youngster no more.


Sure, somethings you can get away with - in the Southwest where I live, our motorcycle 'gangs' are entirely grey-haired couples with flesh bulging out of the leather vests. Convertibles, which actually are sensible vehicles out here, are a standard for the mid-life crisis crowd.


But how many 'mature' individuals do you know that have gone sky-diving for the first time? Learn to pole vault? Walk barefoot over glowing coals? (although now I would love to do that - remind me to tell you about it sometime)


However, I am seriously considering getting a motorcycle to ride. At age 53.


My brother got a little tiny two-stroke Honda when I was 12, and of course taught me to ride it as soon as he could. And since I was 5'10" already, never got stopped or questioned and could ride it anywhere.... when I could talk my brother out of it and would promise to fill up the tank before I brought it home.


And it was a blast. Literally. Wind whipping through my hair (only sissies wore helmets back then), the asphalt disappearing under the wheels of the motorcycle.


Okay, okay, let's not call it a motorcycle. It was a bicycle with at least the concept of an engine on it. And to buzz up to the movie theatre or down to my best friend's house, it was just great.


Fast forward to this past year.

When gasoline prices began to hit the $3.00 for a gallon, the distance between us and the vaguest suggestion of civilized life (i.e. a store that sold something besides gasoline and highly caffeinated sodas) suddenly became to look costly.



About then I began to seriously consider going back to a motorcycle simply to save some money on cash. And I do admit, I like the idea of feeling the wind in my hair again... although I would wear a helmet each and every time I got on that bike.


Somehow, this is the only image that comes to mind.


And I'm not sure if its gonna work.

DESREVER DNEGEL

In the Greek version, Pandora opens a box that releases all the evil in the world, leaving only Hope behind.

My cat, Pandora, is hell-bent on reversing this myth.

Pandora was in a box of tiny kittens outside WalMart that a family were trying to find homes for. And they were all so precious and beautiful, it was impossible to resist.

However, I forgot one extremely important fact - anything you buy at WalMart is impossible to return.

Their 'customer service', if you apply the term loosely, seems to always have a drawn out line of people waiting in despair for the one clerk to refuse their return for an extended list of reasons:

- "It was purchased on a Tuesday; we can't take it"

- "You have to return this directly to the manufacturer in Egypt via registered certified mail that costs $12 per oz."

- "Your last name begins with a 'D', and today we can't accept returns from people whose last name begins with a 'D' "

(Sorry, got a little bit off track there - I've work at customer service at Target, and Target will take back ANYthing if you can show that you paid for it - you don't even have to have a receipt if you put it on a card of any sort - and I just don't like WalMart)

But I allowed my husband to talk me into taking one of kittens home. As we drove, he held this tiny black and white fur-ball literally in the palm of his hand.

My son came up with the name of Pandora, which sounded cute and appropriate at the time for this tiny girl.

Unfortunately, Pandora turned out to be a huge, dangerous BOY cat, the fact which we were blissfully ignorant of until I took her/him to the vet's to be neutered/fixed /spayed/whatever-the -politically-correct-name-is- today.

So I took in a girl kitty, and brought back a 'stale male' - didn't know they could do sex-change operations on cats, did you?

And I didn't realize how large he was until I took him into the vet's last year for something trivial and saw him next to other 'normal' sized cats - Pandora looks liked a medium sized cougar or a very small lion compared to them.

But Pandora has suddenly come up against resistance for the first time in his nine-plus years.

I am not letting him into my bedroom.

Since spending almost a year in San Diego sans cat, I finally realized that I am allergic to cats. So after washing all of my bedding, and keeping the bedroom day firmly shut, I breath much better at night now.

But it also means Pandora is unable to come into my room.

Battle-lines are being drawn.

He has taken to wandering around the area by my bedroom door, casually washing himself or streching out for a nap, looking for a moment when he can slip in unnoticed.

As I mentioned, he is a big cat, so he also tries laying against the door, batting at the doorknob, and when truly desperate, throws himself against it.

And when he does get in, does he go and hide under the bed? Steal into a corner so he won't be noticed?

No. This is Pandora we are taking about.

He curls up in royal splendor right in the middle of my bed so that when I finally find him, I will be able to bow down and worship him appropriately.

So the myth will be told differently from now on - all the evil will be back in the box/room with him, and Hope will be the one on the outside.

P.S. Read that title for this again - that's 'legend reversed'... reversed.

ABOVE AVERAGE

Americans rate themselves as better-than-average in just about everything.

We are taller, stronger, smarter and more intelligent than the average Joe. We own nicer cars, build better houses, have better fashion sense than most people. Our children are certainly brighter, quicker and healthier than the majority of the universe.

Also our grandchildren - except in in MY case, it is soo TRUE.

Do any of us think we are actually below average?

Have you ever thought, when the other driver on the freeway cuts you off changing lanes, "Wow, that guy is a such wonderful driver.! He seems to be in a hurry; I hope he gets there in time!"

Do we, when interrupted in the middle of a conversation with a friend, immediately say "Oh, please, go ahead and share your thoughts on this; you obviously have something important to add."

Well, can we say that withOUT dripping sarcasm?

Do we feel happy and light-hearted when the person ahead of us in the "Ten Items Or Less" line begins to unload 45 cases of Bud Lite? And when we finally get to the cashier, do we cheerfully comment, "That guy must be throwing a good party tonight!"

The answer, in care you are wondering, to all these questions is NO.

Why? Because our time/line position/speech/etc. is MORE IMPORTANT than the other person. Regardless! What we are saying is has greater value, where we are going is THE place, our time is incredibly valuable and we don't have an INSTANT to spare.

So letting you in ahead of me, slowing down so you can get to that traffic light first, allowing you to run off with the conversation... well, we just don't do it very often.

Because that would mean... well, maybe it is admitting that what WE are doing is... geeze... not the most important thing in the universe.

And isn't that called, er, humility?

I'm going to try to remember this next time I'm driving into town, or standing in line at the pharmacy, or talking to someone in the hallway at church.

Hope it helps.

WHEN WE ARE NAPPING

People always seem to be impressed with horses. They weigh up to half a ton, but can be guided by a child. A horse could easily overcome you and yet will respond to a human's correctly placed finger. They move with such grace and speed and still allow us to channel that energy into our recreational pursuits.

And I don't know why, but people unfamiliar with horses always seem to be awed by the fact that horses CAN sleep while standing up.

I am emphasizing that they can sleep that way, since the fastest reaction to any danger would be from a standing position.

Only if a horse feels comfortable, protected, in a stable environment (pun intended) and safe, he will lay down to sleep.

But it is not an extremely smooth, lithe movement on their part, either laying down or getting back up. Which is probably the main reason they don't like to be caught in the act.

Which leads me to today's post.

I have known my horse since he was just over a year, and have owned him since he was 18 months old. I have spoiled him silly, but also make certain he knows who is boss (i.e. ME). And he will do what I ask when I ask it.

My most important training device is, at best, a novel one - I scratch his stomach.

Najale (my horse) simply LOVES to have his stomach scratched, and will do almost ANYthing I ask if he knows I'm gonna rub his belly. I discovered this by sheer accident, and have capitalized on it every since.

So when I find Najale laying down in the pasture, I need to approach him slowly and cautiously, murmuring with a softened tone so he knows it's me. But he will remain on the ground and let me walk right up to him.

Because I might, I just might, scratch his belly.

And for this great favor, for even the remotest possibility of at least a RUB somewhere, this 900+ lb. horse, 16.2 hands high, of majestic breeding and bearing, will get on his back like a puppy for me.

I try not to giggle too loud, just to keep a sliver of his dignity intact. But normally, when I get back to the house, I HOWL for several minutes with sheer delight at the sight of this powerful, beautiful animal wiggling in the dirt just for a rub on his belly.

So please, don't let him know.

DOGS ON BLOGS

I love taking my dog, Murray, on walks. He grabs the nearest tennis ball (or the Frisbee, but only when he can't find a ball), lays it obediently before my path, and waits, almost shaking in anticipation, for me to kick it. He then bounds after it, and brings it back as fast as he can.

Delilah, on the other paw, must be on a leash all times she is outside. Greyhounds have only two speeds - racingfastblurofdogpassingby, and couchpotatoe. And they have one direction - straight ahead. No reverse available on these models.

When I take them both on a walk, however, they are completely unified on one particular thing - a bush, tree, tumbleweed, cactus... anything where another animal has urinated.

I used to think of dogs sniffing at each other's private parts as just disgusting, and would get impatient with my own dog sticking his nose literally up my ass.

But today, a huge light bulb went off over my head.

It's a dogs' blog.

"Wow, Ruckus met this little sweet bitch, and he thinks this may be the one! And Ragman had to have surgery - man, he already lost his nuts, how much else can they take from this poor guy?"

"Well, over here Hank says he almost caught two illegals last night; Border Patrol was just ahead of him. Geronimo has a crush on that little poodle, and WOW, it sounds like... oh, forget that, it's just a rabbit's pee."

We have gossip via the internet - canines have it through pee.

YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE YOURSELF

The adage "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" has been proven wrong every single day by the long-term relationship between my husband and myself.

We have been married for over thirty years now, and while I am from Los Angeles, Wilt is from somewhere beyond the galaxy of Andromeda.

We are talking about places that are BILLIONS and BILLIONS of light-years apart. Forget this neighboring planets thing.

We agreed on three things when we got married in 1978, and after thirty years together, we now agree on only two things (and no, they are not even the same as the original three). Our votes routinely cancel each other out, we go see movies separately, he watches TV in his room and I watch TV in the family room. Our orders at any restaurant are different; in fact, we usually don't like the same restaurants.

For these same thirty years, I have taken 4,233,987,103 deep breathes and repeated to myself, "You can't change anyone but yourself. You can't change anyone but yourself" 4,233,987,103 times.

Today I have a bit of an epiphany about this mantra that I have used for so long.

Somehow with the idea of "You can't change anyone", my freaky co-dependent mind silently (but STRONGLY) adds on "but if you can't change them, there is obviously some things that you can do, so the challenge is to find what you need to change or you need to change FOR them...

... and eventually it will all become right just like you want it."

It's pretty bad when you reach my age (53) and are just beginning to recognize that all those voices in your head are, really, just voices in your head.

They are not leading me onto a greater truth; they are misguiding me, and they are going to keep reminding me of failures, of disappointments, of past faults.

While camouflaged as 'learning from past mistakes,' 'keeping your guard up' and 'just keep on keeping on', they are making you make long, elaborate detours and keep you from recognizing a fundamental truth:

YOU CAN'T CHANGE ANYONE BUT YOURSELF

Wait a minute, didn't you just said that was wrong?

Nope - it's only wrong when those co-dependent voices add on the rest. When I start accepting the reality, the fact that other people (including my obviously extraterrestrial husband) are THE WAY THEY ARE, I can deal better with acceptance, with forgiveness, with understanding.

And, as I keep learning and relearning and relearning, this is the way to peace.

THY WILL BE DONE

I am feeling particularly sympathetic towards Heavenly Father this week.

That sounds pretty arrogant, doesn't it?

But God has children, and he has to deal with a whole lot more than I have. He gave them all a pretty good game plan.... if they would just shut up and FOLLOW it like good kids.

But we think, oh, yeah, we know better, and we definitely know more than God way up in heaven, so we'll just keep advising Him to do things the way that we want it.

When it's put that way, I feel a little bit silly about some of my prayers. And now that I have an offspring who acts that way towards me, and as always, it is much easier to recognize it when someone else is doing it.

Enlightenment comes when you accept God's will as your own. I've got a long, long way to go down that path, but being a parent can sometimes give you an advantage in perspective.