Thursday, August 28, 2014

Lost 80s

trip back to the  80s...

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Book Club

The Keillor Reader
Orphan Train
a couple of William Randolph Hearst books
A Homemade Life

Was there a book? Birthday cupcakes at Jaye's
Someday...Empty Mansions

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Singh Song Farm

Tempe is handing over the Rio Salado golf course to local farm guru Ken Singh. Can't wait!

Friday, August 15, 2014

What's The Pointe?

Shana called to get directions to The Pointe, the one at Squaw Peak (are we allowed to say that anymore?), to join Scott and his co-workers for his company's end-of-summer staycation and all I could think about was 16-year-old Shawn, dressed in brown pants, a beige shirt, nametag pinned on, hauling big conference tables around, setting up meetings, dinners, moving chairs, workin' for The Man, scoring us a free room sometimes (before staycation was a word), saving his money. He worked hard up there. I just finished Garrison Keillor's latest book. I kept hearing my dad's voice throughout, the voice of reason, the hard-working quiet so full of wit voice. He described one of his jobs, getting up at 4:00am for the 5 - 9 morning shift before school at a parking lot in snowy Minnesota, working his way through college, no free ride, no student loan debt. No whining, just an utter gratefulness and amazement to be at a university, surrounded by books and intelligence and caring teachers, a poor kid from the sticks. You can't do that anymore, no matter how many cars you park. Garrison had a ponytail back then. At The Pointe, Shawn had a big blonde streak dyed on the back of his head, oh, the 80s coolness. His manager shook his head and said, "No way," so before each shift, Shawn would squirt on some temporary hair dye. One time he pierced his ear and his dad wouldn't let him in the house until he took the earring out. Boundaries. Years ago I told my front office receptionist she couldn't wear her nose piercing at work (am I allowed to say that?), so as not to scare the older patients. There's nothing I can do about the tattoo with her son's name on her wrist. I heard the other day the best order, easiest way to do things in life is: college, job, marriage, baby. Agreed, but may be easier said than done. Heard on the same station yesterday a single mom in LA with three sons under ten, crying because the police killed yet another young man. What's the point? What if you're born to the wrong parents in the wrong neighborhood, or the right parents in the right neighborhood, can you still decide to get up at 4:00 in the morning to park cars so someday, maybe, way down the road, you may get to sleep in, make your own hours, take a Friday afternoon off every now and then and sit by the pool at a beautiful resort in a red one piece. And be grateful for that. Is that even possible?

Saturday, August 9, 2014


The gang's getting old. Friday night John's 50th, down 'n dirty at a neighborhood bar, surrounded by a bunch of fun Titans and titties (the cake).

Then Saturday, high up the hill, classy Liz, glowing beautifully in the 50 candles' candlelight.

I'm up next. May as well schedule the colonoscopy now.