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Saving Us From Ourselves, One Old Bag at a Time

Mar21

BagAs I woke up to the news this morning, I learned the Legislature of the State of Texas has decided to turn its attention from minor issues like education, the budget, and our water (and lack thereof) to tackle the seminal issue of Austin’s ban on single-use plastic bags.

Representative Drew Springer, R-Muenster, penned House Bill 2416 and refers to it as the “Shopping Bag Freedom Act.” If passed, it will outlaw bag bans like the one in Austin that went into effect March 1. Well, I say thank God someone is looking out for our personal freedom to pollute.

Other representatives pointed out retailers could have chosen to ban plastic bags voluntarily, eliminating the need to impose the ban on everyone. Good luck with that. I didn’t see any retailers rushing to do so before the city council’s ban.

I must state here that Bryan and I started using reusable bags several years ago, so the ban didn’t mean any great change in our lifestyle. We made the switch the first time we read that the bags, drifting across the landscape as litter like mass-produced tumbleweeds, end up in rivers, which carry them to the ocean. Once there, instead of obligingly sinking to the bottom and waiting to be encased in limestone, they float around doing excellent imitations of jellyfish. Many sea creatures, including endangered sea turtles, eat them, expecting a delicious meal of jellyfish sushi, and instead getting an intestinal blockage that leads to a slow and excrutiating death.

But then, who cares if another species in the food chain goes extinct? At least people won’t have to  remember to bring bags to the store or return plastic bags for recycling. That might take a full minute away from their fascinating lives watching “Operation Repo” and “Survivor.”

As I try to calm down, I’ll point out that the bag ban is not the first legislation we’ve had to accept to save us from ourselves. After all, builders were anxious to buy more expensive lead-free paint for their projects for the benefit of all those babies who ate it. The Food and Drug Administration, typical government pork, ignores the fact that manufacturers love listing their ingredients voluntarily, even if they are carcinogens. Besides, as an Amurrican, you have the God-given right not to buy and consume any product that’s harmful–IF you can find out about the dangers.

Seatbelt laws are unnecessary, because we need the right not only not to use them, but not to have them cluttering up our vehicles. So what if motor vehicle deaths immediately declined when the law was enacted? I’ll bet all those auto makers would have put seatbelts and airbags in their cars voluntarily anyway. Just another example of the government sticking its nose in where it doesn’t belong.

This country has a history of laws trying to save us from ourselves that is at least as long as our history of freedom of choice. When everyone in this country does what is most beneficial for himself and others around him, we can deep-six the laws that try to make us act like smart, responsible human beings.

That seems like an impossible task, especially on days when the Texas Legislature tries to derail a rare step in the right direction.

 

 

Cry Havoc! The Wars of Dog

Mar21

Taco collarNo doubt about it. We love our dogs. They are all rescues, co-opted mainly from various relatives who couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of them, and there’s not a pedigree in the bunch. They are all mixed breeds, although one, Angie, may be the product of inter-species dating.

Angie, the oldest at 16, has congestive heart disease and is going downhill. In less than a year she has gone from 3 out of 6 to 5 out of 6 on the Congestive Heart Failure scale, according to the vet, and this is one time when higher scores are not better.

Annie, at 15, seems to be doing well, except for missing a few teeth and several marbles. Her personal credo is: “I lick, therefore I am.”

Taco, who is supposed to be 4, is starting to show the wear and tear of a much older dog. His age is based on the unreliable memory of someone who inherited him from a tenant who didn’t want him anymore. His muzzle is beginning to show white, and he recently underwent dental surgery and removal of a growth on his paw. That screams, “Old Man!” to me.

So we’re running a nursing home for geriatric dogs once again. Bryan was handling the medications, a single pill for Angie along with the morning treats. He came down with his semi-annual, near-fatal allergy attack about the time everything changed and is just starting to get the hang of the new routine.

Here’s the schedule:

6:30 a.m. Pick up food, because one of Angie’s meds needs to be taken an hour before eating.  Tear Pill Pocket in half, putting half in a small container for later. Press small, white pill and 1/2 of diuretic into 1/2 Pill Pocket. (The diuretic is roughly the size of a newborn baby’s fingernail clipping.) Break large, new heart pill in half, saving half for later in the small Later container. Give meds to Angie and morning treats to all.

6:45 a.m. Take large dollop of bland chicken and rice soft dog food from fridge and microwave for 10 seconds. Add 1 dropper of foul-tasting antibiotic liquid and 1 tsp. of sugar free maple syrup. Mix well. Hold while Taco manages to lick up every crumb. He is blissfully unaware that this will end when he takes all of the medicine.

Late afternoon – Repeat.

Taco lost his bottom four front teeth due to decay, which is another reason I don’t think he’s the spring chicken he’s supposed to be. The lady at the vet’s cheerily told me it was a good thing he didn’t lose his front teeth, too, because then his tongue would hang out. A blessing, indeed.

On top of everything else, Taco has a hard plastic cone (sometimes known as a Renaissance collar) encircling his head to keep him from licking the stitches on his paw. He looks like an ice cream cone from “The Island of Dr. Moreau.” What’s more, he absolutely hates it and spends his time lying on his side, doing an excellent redition of the death act from “Camille.” He has mastered the art of the guilt trip and lays it on thick. This will go on until he gets his stitches out, sometime next week. I’m counting the days.

All of these visits to the vet and meds cost about the same as a down payment on a Volkswagen. It’s not that I really mind. As Bryan reminded me, “They are our children now.” I just wish we could claim them as dependents on our 1040.

I will never be without a dog. They are such good company, they love without agenda, and I apparently need something I can make neurotic without recriminations. Even if I have to live in a nursing home someday, I plan to bring my dogs along, in my mind–all of them–from Dixie and Penny, my childhood dogs, to Smokey, Tasha, and Tawny, our big dogs, to Angie and Annie, and Taco who lies about his age.

I hope I get a big room.

London, Paris, Las Vegas…Johnson City?

Mar8

QuiltI’m not admitting I’ve sold out to aging, but Bryan and I had an unusually fun weekend recently doing something I never thought I’d do. For my birthday, we drove to Johnson City to attend a fundraiser for their library.

I became aware of this function the weekend before when I attended a writers’ workshop at the library. There I met Leslie, one of the library ladies when she’s not selling ice to Eskimos. We talked while I waited for my folk to arrive, and she pointed out a gorgeous hand-made quilt they were raffling, several cellophane-wrapped baskets of goodies to be auctioned, and she mentioned the spaghetti dinner, Bingo, and silent auction the  following weekend. I bought some raffle tickets, because I really wanted that quilt, and went on to my workshop.

Bryan did the driving that morning, and we arrived early enough to eat breakfast at the Hill Country Cupboard, a Johnson City must. They advertise their chicken fried steaks – Nearly 3 Dozen Sold – but their breakfasts are really excellent, not the artery-clogging fare we expected. He dropped me off at the library before backtracking to Pedernales State Park to do some hiking.

Showing back up at the appointed time, he entertained himself looking at all the things I had checked out earlier. Leslie asked if he was Janet’s husband. I’m not sure why, since the whole class consisted of women about my age, and he said yes and introduced himself. She proceeded to tell him everything we had discussed earlier, filling him in on the fundraiser, and he was paying for two tickets to the spaghetti dinner when I met up with him.

Fast forward to the next weekend. We drove to Johnson City, found the Methodist Church where they were holding the fundraiser, and were welcomed by some really nice church ladies that looked exactly like the church ladies we both remembered from our childhoods. Dinner was tasty and organized as only church ladies and drill sergeants can.

Soon it was time for Bingo. The last time I played that game we covered the numbers with pinto beans. These cards, with their little sliding number covers, were strictly uptown. Bryan won a Bingo game and received a gift certificate for a local, highly-recommended barbecue joint, so we’ll be going back to Johnson City again real soon. I won nothing, including the quilt, but that was a close one. I had a moment of excitement when they drew and announced the winner was another Janet from Austin, but not me. Bryan also put in the winning bid on a watch at the silent auction, one of the few he didn’t already own. He couldn’t have been happier if he were twins! As he says, you can never have too many watches.

While driving back on Hill Country backroads as dark as the inside of a black cow, we talked about how much fun we’d had. We visited with some really nice people, ate good food, gambled, and played Bingo, all without having to set foot out of our home range. We also didn’t have to set foot in Vegas, something I try to avoid. I may be getting older, but I wouldn’t trade our Hill Country odyssey for a chi-chi dinner in a Houston uber-restaurant, which we used to enjoy so much in our younger days. We wore comfortable clothes, sensible shoes, and garnered many a story to pass on over the next few weeks–AND–it was for a wonderful cause, helping the Johnson City Library pay on their beautiful new building.

So if you get tired of Green Pastures, the Driskill Hotel, or even Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, consider spending your time and money in Johnson City, Texas. It’s definitely a place worth writing (home) about.

For as Long as Ye Both Can Stand It

Feb21

Bryan and I just celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. As veterans of divorce wars, we never take these milestones for granted. Sometime around our wedding date we enjoy a getaway, usually to the Gulf Coast. It’s my chance to see things you don’t find in Central Texas, and it’s Bryan’s chance to indulge his omnipresent craving for seafood. Since I don’t eat it, I never learned to cook it. His only chance to take the fishy edge off is an occasional dinner with our daughter, who learned to like seafood in spite of my genes.

Right after Christmas, Bryan starts asking what I want for our anniversary. Coming so soon after that gift-giving bacchanale, I seldom have any ideas left, and the situation is complicated by the fact our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, and my birthday fall uncomfortably close together. This year I decided to consult the experts. I checked the Hallmark website to find out what the official gift is for a 30th anniversary, like consulting Hoyle before shooting someone over a game of Texas Hold ‘Em gone bad.

First I learned we are dangerously close to the end of the list. After the 15th anniversary, the list no longer has individual years, rather they count by fives. I also discovered there are TWO lists, one traditional and one modern. For example, the traditional 30th anniversary gift is pearls; the modern gift is diamonds. That’s inflation for you.

I already have  enough jewelry, so I decided to make my own list, starting with the 30th anniversary just to cut to the chase. Based on my own personal experience and considering I had two knee surgeries in the past six weeks, I assigned Ace bandages as the traditional gift; for the modern gift, anesthetic. I got both earlier this month, and they fit perfectly.

So what will be appropriate five years from now, on our 35th anniversary? And if (not likely but possible) we’re still milling about on our 50th? Five years from now, I don’t see any drastic changes in our lives, except Bryan will be really old. For a traditional gift, maybe a monogrammed magnifying glass; from the modern list, an Acorn Chairlift that attaches to the car door.

On our 50th anniversary, Bryan will be pushing 90; I’ll be pulling 80. I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest we completely ignore the future technology and go traditional. I think Bryan and I should get matching tattoos, a little Shar Pei dog (a good choice at that age) inside a heart—with a pacemaker. I can hardly wait. Vive la amour!

 

Aging Ain’t for Wimps

Jan25

Getting ready for yet another knee surgery, I find myself pondering this whole getting older gig. There was a time when women grew old gracefully by remembering to lace up their corsets before going out of the house and keeping their periwinkle blue hair color touched up. Now, as part of the Age of the Active Senior, I’m expected to partake in activities formerly associated with Boot Camp.

I was part of that in-between generation, the one that started with the Old Morality and ended up with Charlie Sheen. I started out thinking athletics was no occupation for a lady, and I’m growing old in the No Pain, No Gain Era. All in all, aging today is not for wimps. That sweet, little old grandmother has been replaced by Grambo, an aging Amazon intent on toning her core, even though it’s located three inches lower than it was in her prime.

You’ll recognize her when you see her. She’s the old lady who pours her Shar Pei-like body into a bathing suit for senior water aerobics. She blasts past you power-walking laps inside the mall.  You hear her gaining on you as you climb Enchanted Rock, the scraping of her walker echoing around you.

Why is there no male counterpart for Grambos? There are a couple of reasons for this. First, women usually live longer than men, and nothing makes you want to live healthy like realizing you finally get to watch what you want on television. Also, I think men and women have a different aging processes. Women fall victim to gravity early on. Men age later than women, but then their bones dissolve, causing them to crumple up and eventually disappear.

We women secretly wait our whole lives for our golden years, because it means getting to say whatever we want, wear whatever strikes our fancy, and stop cooking three meals a day. (When your day includes four naps and going to bed for the night at 6:30, it’s hard to fit in more than one meal and a couple of snacks.) Men waste old age in a state of ever-increasing grumpiness. Women, however, even the sweet ones, become feisty, intent on making their marks on the world before they check out.

In the great Super Bowl of Life, the “Weaker Sex” wins. We get the gold in the Aging Olympics, with men taking the silver, bronze, or possibly the aluminum foil. Everyone has to age eventually, so those of you who aren’t there yet should heed my warning: Girls, woman up! Boys, get in touch with your feminine side and hang on! Aging ain’t for wimps; it takes guts to get old.

 

Channeling George Gobel

Jan14
Lonesome George Gobel

Lonesome George Gobel

Did you ever have one of those weeks when the last thing you wanted to do was write something funny? Well, actually that was the next-to-last thing. The last was being pregnant. Possibilities and impossibilities aside, I’ve just waded through a very unfunny week and come out the other side.

Author Karleen Koen asked our Writers Retreat class to describe what our writing muse would look like if we had one. George Gobel immediately leapt into my mind and wouldn’t leave. If I had a writer’s muse, he would definitely look like Lonesome George.

For those of you only recently able to drink legally, Gobel was a television comedian during the Golden Age of that medium. His show ran from 1954 to 1960, and after that he was a regular on Hollywood Squares, a game show for quick-witted celebrities. Easy-going to the point of semi-coma, George was short, ordinary-looking, and sported a brush-cut flat-top, out of style even then. His beatific countenance concealed a dry, wicked, and thoroughly skewed sense of humor.

One of his comedic foils was his wife, the never-seen “Spooky Old Alice.” They were married over fifty years, and they died the same year. He liked to pretend he was a hen-pecked husband, but it was clear he was just in love.

Some of his famous quotes are: “If it weren’t for electricity, we’d all be watching television by candlelight.” “If you build a better mousetrap, you will catch better mice.” “I’ve never been drunk, but often I’ve been overserved.” And the classic, “Did you ever get the feeling that the world is a tuxedo and you’re a pair of brown shoes?” George Gobel taught me an appreciation for things that bring a smile to your face fifty years after you hear them the first time. He also taught me ordinary is funny. The harder you have to work to make something funny, the less funny it is.

So Lonesome George and I are out here on this deserted island together. I tell him about my most recent knee surgery, #3. I tell him #4 may be in the near future. He says, “You know, I’m as much of a fan of bi-lateral symmetry as anyone, but it seems to me if you have to have two knees, there should be some way to sync them, like electronics. You get one knee operated on, knock it against the other one, and hey-presto, they’re exactly the same.”

I say, “But then wouldn’t my surgeon be forced to drive a Mercedes with only two wheels?”

“No problem,” he counters. “He just tells his friends it’s a Segway.”

Some women might want to be marooned on a desert island with Hugh Grant or Daniel Craig. I’ll take Lonesome George every time. He’s a-Musing.

 

High Resolutions

Dec29

Christmas is over and it’s time for me to deal with my annual will power outage. We still have to get through New Year’s, but except for blackeyed peas, it’s a non-fattening holiday. It’s no wonder most of my resolutions for the new year pertain to eating, or rather not eating, and losing weight accrued between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I have learned, however, to be realistic in making these resolutions, lest I stack up a pile of failures before the year even gets off the ground. Take it slow, take it easy, open one eye, a tentative toe in the water. Small victories are still posted in the win column. Here is my annual list of resolutions I think I can handle.

I will…

  1. …not buy bigger clothes, especially underwear. Being uncomfortable is great motivation to lose weight.
  2. …not wear baggy clothes, even if the tight ones make me look like the Michelin Man’s girlfriend.
  3. …reacquaint myself with the wonders of kale. Temporarily banished from my kitchen for the holidays, Big K  is back in town.
  4. …show people at least as much patience as I show my dogs.
  5. …call at least one friend per week to catch up, and not just monitor their lives voyeuristically on FaceBook.
  6. …dust something every day.
  7. …work to become a better writer by writing more and better.
  8. …remember to take my reusable bags into the grocery store with me every time.
  9. …check the care label in clothes before I buy them, and put back anything “dry clean only” or “hand wash, dry flat.”
  10. …stop rationalizing why I need to buy a new outfit, eat a doughnut, or watch one more episode of an NCIS marathon.

Some people may think I’ve lowered the bar a bit too much, but I say, “Baby steps, people!” If these resolutions work out this year, I’ll consider upping the ante next year, and the next, and the next. With any luck at all, I’ll pass on before I have to  do anything too strenuous, like climbing Mt. Everest or walking the entire Houston Galleria.

Feel free to use my resolutions or come up with your own. Be realistic, circumspect, and flexible. And by all means, let me know if you come up with some I can use next year.

Happy Holidays and Family Fruitcakes

Dec19

Christmas at the Zach

After my last blog, a plaintive rage against the negative aspects of the holidays, some of you may think I was born with a heart three sizes too small. I have great memories of the family Christmases of my childhood, and this time of year never fails to trigger my nostalgia.

Funny how my sharpest holiday memories revolve around the women in my family. As far as I could tell, the men were mere observers, invited guests who played little part in the preparations. They were generally affable, long-suffering sorts who lived on the outskirts of our lives. They worked hard, hunted, fished, and tried to stay out of the way of their womenfolk.

Likewise, children were expected to watch from a distance, do odd jobs when asked, and keep out from underfoot. The boys usually headed outside to run around and make noise, but for me and the other girls, the kitchen was a finishing school offering everything we needed to know to take over as the next generation of Southern women.

Firstly, everyone either had a nickname or was addressed with multiple names. Uncle Robert Edwin was Pete and Uncle Charlie was Jock. My cousins, John Howard, Merry Lynn and Janice Kay, remain thus to me, even if they prefer John, Merry, and Janice now. And then there was my Great-aunt Pobo. Her real name was Willie Polk, which she hated. As an adult she legally changed it to Pocahontas P., which she considered an improvement. One of the kids dubbed her Pobo and it stuck.

What is it about the southern latitudes that encourage quirkiness? Maybe it’s the heat and humidity, bringing it out in families the way it brings out mildew on bathroom tile. Movie makers and writers usually just perpetuate Southern stereotypes, with few capturing our essence. A transplanted Mid-westerner, who loved “Steel Magnolias,” was flabbergasted when I told her I was related to or went to school with every woman in that movie.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “What about the Shirley MacLaine character, Ouiser. Who do you know like her?”

“My Great-aunt Pobo and my husband’s Aunt Faynelle,” I answered without hesitation. “Every Southern family has one. Matter of fact, you’re lucky if there’s only one.”

I never knew any Tennessee Williams women. We didn’t have a Blanche Dubois or a Maggie the Cat in my family. They never stood around in their slips–that I knew of. Most of them wore corsets or enough Lycra to make their real shapes anyone’s guess. And they never “depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Most were tempered steel, wrapped in velvet. The rest were just plain steel.

Pobo tended to take out her dentures after eating and lay them on the table. My mother believed in parenting through paranoia, inventing terrifying superstitions for every occasion. My grandmother loved watching professional wrestling on television, waving her fists and yelling things she’d whack me for saying.

Women in my family had timidity bred out of them, and those who married in soon learned. You had to fight to get a word in, the noise level intimidating all but the most determined conversationalists. I never knew anyone in my family who was quiet or shy. If such a throwback existed, she would have gone unnoticed and unfed, fading away from starvation.

These women who filled my childhood are gone now, but I clearly see and hear them in my mind. They are bustling around the kitchen like tugboats in a busy harbor. Cackling laughter drifts through the house, following delicious holiday smells—ham, pickled peaches, mincemeat pie, and my mother’s “blonde” fruitcake. Made in a huge bowl I only saw at Christmas, it was chock-full of nuts and candied fruit, but not a drop of whiskey. Mama was raised Hardshell Methodist, a branch rarely found outside the South.

Above all, I hear their voices rising above the kitchen clatter:

“Did you notice how much weight Clarice has gained?”

“Notice? She looks like she’s being followed!”

“Now, y’all be nice. It’s Christmas!”

“I am being nice. Did I say a word about her hair color? Did I ask if she got it from the Ringling Brothers?”

I have a sudden craving for fruitcake.

 

Getting Prepositioned

Dec10

On the edge, under the gun, at wit’s end, around the bend, under pressure, over the top, beside oneself, near panic. When someone asks how you are this time of year, just grab yourself a preposition. A preposition shows location. With a few exceptions, it’s anything you can say about a table: on, under, beside, etc. We also use prepositions to describe the soon-to-be-declared crazy.

This time of year we rush around, finding just the right gifts for our loved ones, deeply engrossed in a buying-wrapping-giving orgy of activity. For me it’s always a time of excess in spending, cooking, and eating. There are no small revels, only small revelers. I spend enough on the big dinner to feed us for a month. We ingest enough calories to supply energy for an alpine forced march. And our post-holiday bills roughly equal the GNP of Uganda. It’s the American way.

Our holiday excess is an art form. Children’s letters to Santa read like inventory sheets for Toys R Us. But we still weep over reruns of “Little House on the Prairie” Christmas episodes, when the kids offer Ma the set of coasters they made for her with their own little hands. She caresses them as if golden—although actually made from buffalo chips–and tearfully declares this the best Christmas ever! There is a credibility gap between our fantasy of Christmas and the reality.

I really try to give what people want, or at least something they need. I only resort to summer sausage and cheese log assortments when buying for complete strangers. (This begs the question, why buy gifts for strangers, but it comes up every year.) I ask for suggestions, make lists, put down alternate ideas, and I buy with care. It makes for fewer surprises, but that’s not always a bad thing.

I pity the family members who have to buy for me. When asked, I always say I can’t think of a thing I need. I really am happy as I am, but that doesn’t help my family. And my tastes are so eclectic, only my daughter will take a flyer on something she thinks I’ll like.  This is why Husband Bryan considers Christmas shopping for me the Seventh Circle of Hell. Ever since the Opal Fiasco, he insists I make a list.

Early in our relationship, he bought me a beautiful opal ring and necklace. I smiled bravely, thanked him profusely, and tried not to feel doomed. You see, my mother, who had a superstition for every occasion, always said wearing opals was bad luck unless it was your birthstone. Although some people thought you could neutralize the curse if the opals were surrounded by diamonds, my mother pooh-poohed that as wishful thinking. To be on the safe side, she advised avoiding barehanded contact with an opal of any kind.

Trying not to look like I was raised by a Tennessee mountain witch (although not far from the truth), I smiled and donned the acursed gemstones. When they didn’t immediately sear my flesh, I thought perhaps I’d dodged a bullet and could wear my gifts in health and safety. This was not to be. After a year of the worst luck I’d had in my entire life, I broke the news to Bryan and permanently deposited his gifts in my jewelry box. He accepted the situation with the grace of a man who knows a no-win situation when he sees one.

From that time on, however, I never received another surprise gift from my husband. He gets my list and googles each gift to make sure it doesn’t come with an associated curse. He’s under the gun because of a wife who is around the bend, and I’m beside myself with holiday angst.  Getting those presents under the tree is a dangerous preposition.

Downtown Odyssey

Dec3

Some of my best adventures happen close to home. This past weekend turned out to be a keeper, having a great time and never getting more than 17 miles from home. I went downtown Saturday and Sunday, and I might as well have been in Paris—Texas or France.

The big hoo-hah parades on television during the holidays leave me flat, but I love going to downtown Austin to watch a display of Local Cool march by. Whether the Texas Independence parade in March or Chuy’s Christmas parade last Saturday, I appreciate the efforts of those who get out there and act goofy for the entertainment of others.

This year’s Chuy’s parade had an added incentive for me to drive downtown, walk farther than I should, and stand longer than I should, just to get a glimpse of my oldest granddaughter marching with Cheer Station.

A lady in front of me saw their banner and said, “Cheer Station?” I don’t know what that is.”

I immediately explained my connection, that it is where my “gkid”  takes cheer and tumbling lessons. The youngsters duly impressed the onlookers, hoisting small girls up in the air, managing to catch them before they hit terra firma. The lady I spoke to and all her relatives cheered like fiends and turned to smile encouragingly at me. I felt surprisingly validated, knowing they thought my granddaughter and her friends were terrific, too.

I chose my perch for the parade on Congress Avenue carefully. It was a short walk to St. David’s on 7th street, where I had agreed to meet my daughter at the Art from the Streets exhibit. We’ve been before, but this time was especially fun, as Megan interviewed artists and took pictures for a grad school project. After introducing herself to one of the exhibitors and explaining why she wanted to interview her, the lady exclaimed, “Oh, I love the paparazzi!”

I shopped while Megan worked, finding a couple of handmade necklaces I needed. I also bought two photographs by Sam Cole, one of Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend and one of iconic bluebonnets. I bought those for my husband’s office, which is decorated in Rustic Texan, especially when he’s at his desk. Megan and I ate lunch at Scholz Garten, and I headed home to rest up for Sunday.

Sunday found me back downtown to see “Santaland Diaries” at the Zach Scott Theatre. It has become something of a holiday tradition for us, and every year I laugh like a maniac, as if seeing it for the first time. Short-term memory loss has its benefits. This is the farewell season for Martin Burke, however, the genius actor responsible for much of its popularity. His almost one-man show was terrific as always, but I left wondering where I’d be this time next year. I can only hope Martin reconsiders and comes out of his retirement from this role. Cher does it all the time.

We usually lunch at Casa de Luz before going to a play, but in deference to friends from San Antonio who are deeply suspicious of vegetarian fare, we ate at Threadgill’s, which never fails to please omnivores, especially those raised in the South.

I was ready to rest up Sunday night, just as tired as if I’d taken in a Broadway show. At least I didn’t have to unpack. We who are fortunate enough to live in Austin have diamonds on our doorsteps, good times just waiting for us. I’ll meet you downtown.