Sonnet LIV

I bought it on clearance at Target
When shopping for light bulbs and Tide
Only $11.98 a clerk had marked it
So little money to cover my hide!

I wear it while eating my breakfast
And walking the dog 'round the block
I wear it while surfing on Netflix
And when searching for that long-lost sock.

Its stripes of sunsets and candle flames
Are weird, I can assure you of that
And when I am reflected in window panes
I look like a big tabby cat.

This friend of fuzz and fluff I will never betray
And if I get my wish, I will stay in it all day.

The Public Has a Right to Know

In the 1980s I worked for a newspaper in northern San Diego County. The Escondido Times-Advocate was a small paper but it was well-respected because some terrifically talented people worked there. Many were drawn by the magnetic editor Will Corbin, who was straight out of central casting. Once, when I misused "prodigal" in a story, he threw a dictionary at me. (OK, to me. But still). Another time I was crying in his office doorway because a story I had written about a corrupt public hospital official had resulted in her firing. He said "If you wanted to make friends you should have gone to work for Welcome Wagon" and slammed the door in my face. (OK, near my face. But still).

The T-A was an afternoon paper. Working for a PM meant getting up early to make the 10 a.m. deadline.

Early and I are not friends.

Will had been tipped that local dignitaries were in secret talks with the US Olympic Committee about locating a training center in Escondido. The city already had Lawrence Welk Village mobile home park and Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap. (Escondido, by the way, means "hidden" in Spanish.) But the training center would put Escondido on the map. The map of San Diego County.

I was assigned to attend a 7 a.m. meeting in downtown San Diego about the training center. The paper was holding a spot on A-1 for a story. It was a 45-minute drive from our apartment so I got up at 5 and got dressed and drove to a donut store for an extra large coffee and a cinnamon roll. I was extremely nervous. I did not want something thrown or slammed in my presence for failing to get the story.

I made it to the conference room just as the assorted government officials and chamber-of-commerce types were filing in. I marched in right behind them and sat down at the big table. Introductions began. There was a city councilman and a county supervisor and a car dealership owner and others of that sort.   I had the feeling they all knew each other and were just waiting to find out who I was. When they did, they didn't look happy. In fact, a nice-looking older woman said "Please leave now."

I couldn't believe my luck. I was getting kicked out of meeting! Every reporter longed to get kicked out of a meeting so you could make the speech about the public's right to know. The speech was printed on the back of these pocket-size press freedom primers we all carried around. Many reporters never got to make the speech their whole careers!

Excited, I stood up and cleared my throat. "I believe the public has a right to be represented at this public meeting!" I said, doing my best to imitate Jimmy Stewart in "Deadline USA." "The public has a right to know what's going on!"

It took less than 30 seconds for someone to politely point out that it wasn't a public meeting. I could tell they felt bad about bursting my self-righteous bubble. If anything came out of the discussion, they said, someone would definitely give me a call.

Outside, I ducked into a restroom. I was crestfallen and tired and I didn't want to have to call Will and tell him I was a flop.

I looked in the mirror.  My cheeks were coated with cinnamon and sugar from the donut. There was a coffee spill on my shirt.

I looked down. My fly was open.

They never built that Olympic training center in Escondido, which, to this day, remains hidden.

Zucchini and Tomatoes, Willow and Jaden

One of the nicest things about fall is that many backyard vegetable gardens are dead.

In the fall, I don't have to say "Stop giving me your zucchini and tomatoes."

I've never said "Stop giving me roses." But Generation Xers don't seem interested in growing cutting gardens. No, they want to grow food, which, as many Baby Boomers know, is readily available in restaurants.

The food-growing fixation is part of Gen X's larger DIY ethos. Other elements of the Gen X zeitgeist include reminiscing about "Friends," defending tattoos, wondering aloud about Melissa Joan Hart, and posting fuzzy photos from Dave Matthews concerts.

The DIY part is the most troubling because they can't just keep their tomatoes to themselves. They apparently need to share. Oh, what Sesame Street has wrought. (The Three Stooges. Now there's appropriate entertainment for pre-schoolers.)

I know, the tomatoes are a gift from the heart. But let's break it down.

Homegrown and handmade gifts really are the best.
Unless you consider the really great stuff sold in stores.
And cash.

I'm not big on shopping during the holidays. So it occurred to me that I could pretend to be a Gen Xer and make gifts this year to avoid the whole thing. Here are some projects I'm considering:

• An abstract watercolor symbolizing "organic" painted on a repurposed paper grocery bag
• A haiku ode to flannel written in crayon on a napkin
• A bust of Dave Matthews made of gluten-free muffin crumbs.

The best scenario would be a culture skip-over: We go right from Baby Boomers to Millennials. It will be like Pax Romana -- decades of the Will Smith family reigning over everything. As Jaden told the New York Times:  "Something that’s worth buying to me is like Final Cut Pro or Logic." 

The future is going to be great.

The Real Menace Next Door

Our front door swings open when the wind blows. So we always lock the deadbolt. One windy night we forgot. We went to sleep and woke up in the morning to find the front door wide open. The house was cold but everything was in its place. I thought: "How lucky that we live in a safe neighborhood!"

Those were the innocent days. The days of saying "Hello!" to strangers on the sidewalk. Of answering the knocks of Halloween trick-or-treaters. Of thinking that the noise in the distance when we're walking the dog is the rustling of leaves.

Those days are over.

Was our home burglarized? No. Was my car broken into? No. Well, actually I don't know because the interior of my car always looks like it's been ransacked (Note: Clean car this weekend). Was I (Jeebus forbid) assaulted? No! Unless you consider it an assault for yoga instructors to drop off schedules on the porch.

So what changed?

A few months ago, I signed up for Nextdoor.com, the online incarnation of neighborhood watch. My inbox today has 17 emails from Nextdoor.com. Twelve have the subject line "Arrest Made Saturday Night." Others are links to posts like "Suspicious person afoot," "Scary hang-up phone call" and "Did anyone else just hear gunshots?"

I know. Information is good. And criminals could be anywhere. But now I'm paranoid. I used to enjoy the view from my front window. Now I'm thinking: Is that a nice couple strolling to the restaurant on the corner for a date night? Or a pair of well-disguised serial killers? Are those adorable kids on Hello Kitty bikes circling around for exercise or searching for their next victim? Really, senior citizen? You expect me to believe that's a cane?

C'mon, grandma. I'm on Nextdoor.

Today I surfed the web for security cameras, trained Rottweilers, pepper spray and Harry Potter protection spells. Hardening the target, as my most recent email from the police department calls it.

My daughter asked -- begged, really -- that I stop logging onto Nextdoor.com, arguing that living in fear is no way to live. Ha! What's her angle!

Needless to say, I'm keeping an eye on her.

If You Stumble at Mere Believability, What are You Living For?

When I drive past a dead animal, I say a prayer. I ask God to take the soul of the animal up to Heaven to be cared for by my dogs Mac, Maggie and Halo.

It's weird, I know. It may be crazy. And where am I going that I'm driving past all these dead animals?

It's especially odd because I'm not sure there is a God or Heaven. There's no evidence, right? And, sorry folks, the stories in the Bible are just cautionary tales written by people who were worried about safe food handling and property rights. It's not like I don't know what's in the Bible. I had perfect attendance is Sunday school, spent summers in Vacation Bible School, was confirmed after hours in Lutheran catechism classes and sat through four years of Religion in Catholic high school. I know the words to the Lord's Prayer and the lyrics to "Sons of God" (OK, just the chorus).

But in all honesty, I can't say there was a single moment in church when I thought "I believe!" Mostly I was thinking: "That didn't happen." Creation, Garden of Eden, flood, pillars of  salt, wine, fish, walking on water…Whether I was 5 or 9 or 14 my reaction was the same: Nope.

But then. I also pray on airlines. I pray that God protects me. 

I pray to a Jesus that looks like the picture I decoupaged onto a piece of wood once in Sunday school for a Christmas present to my parents. Is it fear of dying that I pray? I don't  know.

I told Rocky about my secret praying tonight when we were sitting my the fire drinking beer.  We were talking about death. Ordinarily, I would talk about death with the kids. But they're off to college now.

Rocky didn't call 911 and report me as a 5150, so that was nice. He did look at me like the weirdo I am. In the end we both kind of shrugged. What is the point of discussing God and Heaven? 

You can be unsure about God and Heaven and secretly believe in God and Heaven. Or you can believe all the way. Or you can disbelieve. What difference does it make? You either have somewhere to go on Sunday mornings or you don't.

I prefer to sleep in.

Empty Nester Hobbies

I've been asked if I've taken up any hobbies now that I'm an empty nester. I have continued my hobbies from when Rose and Lily lived at home and added a few new ones:

• Judging people. I know there are those who think judging people is bad. I judge them as wrong. Also, I don't care what they think because I know they won't judge me.
• Talking to myself. If you see me in my car and my lips are moving, please know that do not own a Bluetooth device.
• Social media spying (NEW!). When the girls lived at home, I spied on them using traditional methods (secretly watching them from a window, reading notes found in pockets on laundry day, emailing their teachers, posing as a caring mother who "just wants to help you clean your room"). Now that they're gone, I'm forced to scour Facebook, Instagram and Twitter for clues. By the way, email me if you have anything good to share.
• Ignoring email from PETA, the Sierra Club, Move On, Organizing for Action, SumOfUs and the Human Rights Campaign. If you guys want me to read a message from you, send it from J.Crew with subject "Sale." See below for more information.
• Late-night online shopping. Do I really need the Jackie Cardigan in Winter Frost (aka white)? No. But it originally cost $78 and now it's down to $38. So it's like $40 in my pocket. Economics, people.
• Nagging the dog (NEW!). Without my constant reminders about homework, test dates, application deadlines and letters of recommendation, Beanie will never get into his first-choice college.
• Amateur meteorology (NEW!). I have become somewhat obsessed about the weather in Chicago and New York. I do my research (weather app on my phone) and work hard to provide forecast information to the citizens of Chicago and New York via text messages to Lily and Rose ("Are you wearing a coat? It's going to be COLD today!")

As you can see, I'm pretty busy. Thanks for asking.

Holiday Alienation

It's easy to feel like an alien in your own country during the holidays. So much happiness. So much good will. So much pumpkin.

It's an unpopular opinion, but I think pumpkin is yucky. According to my research, the Native Americans who introduced pumpkin as a food source were just joking. And here we are stuck with pumpkin pie as the national holiday dessert.

According to my other research, chocolate was also introduced to Europeans by native people. So why isn't chocolate pie a national holiday dessert?

You tell me.

Pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin cookies. All examples of perfectly good sugar and butter ruined by squash. Thanks vegans!

Milk isn't sacred. Coffee isn't sacred. They've ruined those two great tastes that taste great together with  the ubiquitous Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Hey I've got an idea! What about a Mushroom Paprika Latte? Or an Eggplant Provolone Latte? Makes just about as much sense.

There are two pumpkins in front of my house right now. They are decorations, as God intended. If you want to chew on one, come on over. And don't mind me. I'll be celebrating the true meaning of the season by eating a Toblerone, which in Wampanoag means "Thanksgiving."

Ghosts

I love our old house. It's filled with history and romance. And ghosts, of course.

So far, the ghosts seem more Casper than Poltergeist. They've never bothered anyone in any significant way. They just give you the creeps, which is what they're supposed to do. Hats off, ghosts. Well done.

This week, I opened up "grandma's room," the spare room where my mother stays when she visits. It's been closed since August, when Rosie left for college in New York. The problem with this room is that we call it "grandma's room." Why not "serial killer's room"?

Bean, our dog, followed me into the room. Then he looked into the middle distance, backed up, and started barking. He wouldn't come into the room after that.

This is proof of nothing. Bean is an 8-month-old dog. He has eaten cat poop. He licks himself. He understands very little English and speaks none.

Still, he saw a ghost.

I've seen ghosts in the hallway. I don't make a big deal about it and neither do they. It's like we're New Yorkers in an elevator. Trained obsolescence.

I've heard them. They mimic other people and call "Mom" when I'm napping. Is that Rose? Lily? Again, I ignore them -- just like I've always done with my real children when I'm napping -- and they drop it after one call. As pranksters, they lack stick-to-it-ness.

I have no intention of hiring ghostbusters, although I would like to meet Bill Murray. None of us mind the ghosts. They keep to the code of "seen but only very rarely heard." They don't fight for control of the remote. They've left the liquor cabinet alone. They are, in fact, better house guests than most living people.

Again, hats off. Or, sheets. Whatever.

10 Questions

I will always answer "yes" to the following five questions:

1.  Would you like to see the dessert menu?
2.  Another glass of wine?
3.  Is it cold in here?
4.  Should I just give the remote to you then?
5.  Mom, do you have time to talk?

And I will always answer "no" to the following five questions:

1.  Should we walk there instead?
2.  Should we ride our bikes?
3.  Do you want to get up early and go out to breakfast?
4.  Have you left your bags unattended at any time?
5.  Did you see that Adam Sandler movie?

Good Monuments To Look At

My father, Sgt. Frank Weeks, served with the 87th Infantry Division in World War II. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge and earned two Purple Hearts and the Bronze Star. His father, also Frank Weeks, had fought in the trenches of France as a doughboy during World War I. During his time in the service, my dad wrote home faithfully to his parents and sisters. These are excerpts from three letters.

December 24, 1944 (aboard ship)

Dear Folks,

We're finally on a ship and I haven't gotten seasick. But then the ocean hasn't been rough yet either. We only eat twice a day. There are PXs but you have to wait an awful long time before you can get in. Boy it sure is crowded here in the troop quarters but you get used to it after a while. There are movies etc. here on the ship but I haven't gone to any of them yet. There are rumors, but you don't know definitely where you are headed for. Couldn't tell you, though, even if we did. Most of the fellows nerves are sort of on edge and there are a lot of arguments but so far that's all they've been down here below decks. You can't tell day from night so you sure can catch up on your sleep.

Frank

January 5, 1945 (France)

My Dear Folks,

We're here in France, that much I can tell you. We came in through the same place you did, Dad, but I'm willing to bet you wouldn't recognize it. We came through England, but didn't see much of it. It's plenty damn cold here. To the civilians, everything seems to be pretty scarce, as you can get an average of 75 francs for a pack of cigarettes. About two and a half dollars in our money. We came here in old (word cut out by censors) and boy it sure is rough trying to sleep with about 40 others in them. France certainly has been bullet-riddled from one end to the other and I don't mean maybe. Mom, instead of sending me candy will you send me small cans of meat, fruit and stuff like that? The French money is all paper money and boy when we get paid we sure will have a lot of it.

It's harder here to find out what goes on concerning the war than it was in the states. We still can't write all that we would like to, and I've tried to make this as long as I could and I guess this is about all. Say hello to everybody and so long and don't worry about me.

Frank

May 16, 1945 (Germany)

Dear Folks,

Well here it is evening again and I haven't anything to do so I'll write a letter. What this place really is is a place for collecting displaced persons. They are then shipped in groups back to their homes. They are having a lot of Germans do the cleaning up around here now. Believe me, there is plenty of it to be done, as this place is really flat.

In this town there are still dead people under the rubble. So you can see what I meant when I said flat. Some American GIs who had been prisoners in Dresden said that in the first raid there 140,000 were killed. It is now called the city of the dead. I don't see how these cities can ever be rebuilt. They will make good monuments to look at before they start another war.

So with that I'll say so long.

Frank

Arctic Blast Sent Down by 'Bomb Cyclone'

A big storm is expected to hit the Midwest this week. In years past I would see headlines about Midwestern blizzards and shake my head. "Why would anyone live there?" I'd think. "That's nutty."

I'm a native Californian -- fourth generation on my mother's side. To me, rain is a drag. When it rains, I can't wear ballet flats. I have to carry an umbrella. And there's always the fear that a downspout will plug (although I'm not sure what the consequence of that is since it's never happened).

I know, I know. The drought. Rain is great. We need rain. Blah blah blah.

My daughter Lily is a student at The Theatre School at DePaul University in Chicago. At parent orientation in August, it was easy to spot the Californians in the crowd, and not just by the flip-flops.

First, during the security team's presentation, the Californians were the ones who let out a long loud gasp when campus police said they would arrest students caught smoking weed in the dorms. (One Denver mom openly laughed. She may have been high.)

Mostly, you could tell the Californians because during every panel on any subject they asked the presenters where to buy a coat.

It snowed in my hometown once when I was about 2. There are photos of me on this day. I'm not standing in the snow; I'm standing on newspapers spread over the snow. Why? I can only guess my parents were puzzled by the correct procedure to follow regarding children and, like, winter.

Lily, honey, I'm saving the newspapers. Check you mailbox.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?

Maria Shriver tweeted this last week: There are so many gifts in this life. And life coach Michael Feeley says that freedom of choice is one of our biggest. Do you agree?…

No, Maria, I do not agree with life coach Michael Feeley (partner: Jim Touchy). Freedom of choice is not one of life's biggest gifts. It's one of life's biggest time-wasters.

Dear Jeebus, do not send me down the bread aisle. Honey wheat. Wheat berry. Winter wheat. Country wheat. Butter-top wheat. Sourdough wheat. Seeded wheat. Whole-grain wheat. Organic whole-grain wheat.

It's not gluten that's killing people. It's Aisle 16.

Netflix is another example of freedom of choice gone horribly awry. Want to watch a documentary on the Khmer Rouge? No? What about a Carrot Top movie? "Battlefield Earth" or "Raging Bull"? How about "Derek"?

I interviewed Maria Shriver once for a USA Weekend cover story. I was unemployed and freelancing from Sacramento at the time. Arnold had just been elected governor. At my own expense, I flew down to dine with her at a trendy Montana Avenue cafe in Santa Monica.

She was very nice and she had a lot of hair and I realized that it wasn't her fault that she wasn't, like, a real person. During the interview, she made a joke about about shopping at Target. I didn't get the joke, which was, essentially "Imagine me shopping at Target! Ha ha ha!" Because I didn't get it, I said "Yeah, I love Target." Then she said: "Oh! Yeah, I love Target, too. My makeup artist has a line of cosmetics there."

After that, I chose to quit thinking of her as normal. I should have never presumed it, anyway. She's a friend of Oprah. She's a Kennedy. She dines at trendy Montana Avenue cafes.

So why do I follow her on Twitter?

It's my choice.

My Toes Are Exhausted

The nice thing about having flat feet is that they give me an excuse for not enlisting in the Army. If someone asks "Why don't you enlist in the Army?" I can say, with all honesty, "I have flat feet."

When I was a teenager, a podiatrist prescribed orthotics, or molded plastic shoe inserts that would prevent my feet from rolling inward on my collapsed arches. This would lessen the risk of future knee and hip pain, he said. I remember my mother nodding in silent agreement and putting the prescription in her purse.

We never bought the orthotics. We did drive over the specialty footwear shop recommended by the doctor. We did look at the orthotics. Turning them over in my hand I realized that orthotics would slip right out of the six-inch platform sandals I liked to wear. Hip pain or my my my my boogie shoes?

Thus began my love-hate relationship with orthopedic solutions to my fallen insoles.

About 10 years ago, a salesman at Fleet Feet recommended I wear "motion control" running shoes -- shoes styled after flat-bottom boats and roughly the same size. Motion control shoes are meant to stop feet from moving even when the rest of you is sailing right along. They are huge (think ottoman). They are white. They are ugly. I took them home.

Last weekend, I was again at Fleet Feet. As I browsed the neon and teal selections of regular running shoes meant for regular people I thought "Hips and knees be damned!" I ended up with a pair of really cute lime and fuchsia Asics. Today I tried them out for the first time, loping around the neighborhood.

As I neared the end of the first block, trying my best to think only about the Wombats song pumping through my earbuds, a terrible thought crept over my brain.

My feet are sliding around like Jell-O on a turntable. I employed my toes. I made them grab the shoe.

Now my toes are exhausted.

Thomas Edison Replica 1890 Light Bulb

Sometimes I wonder how Thomas Edison got to be such a big deal.

To explain: I'm not an exclusively green shopper. I don't faithfully buy local. But I am adamant about spending my money on period appropriate purchases.

Not this period, of course. Not 2014. No way. I'm dedicated to buying goods made from the period of 1890 to, say, 1955. If I can't find what I want from that era, I'll buy a reproduction. I have an oak ice box made in the 1890s, for example. What does one do with an oak ice box made in the 1890s? I'm working on that.

For years I have faithfully purchased the Thomas Edison Replica 1890 Light Bulb from the Rejuvenation website for the living room and dining room chandeliers. They are distinguishable from the 1893 Victorian Bulb by the carbon filament: The 1890 version has a single, looped filament. The 1893 model has a double-looped filament. I like the single looped because, when illuminated, the filament looks like an orange hoop earring inside glass case. Like the chandeliers are wearing jewelry. Cute!

But here's the thing: The bulbs emit almost no light. To see anything in my living room and dining room when the chandeliers are lit up, you have to turn on at least four table lamps. And then go find a flashlight.

The bulbs cost $18 each. The beautiful thin filaments break with alarming regularity. They must be dusted.

What was Thomas Edison thinking? One, the bulbs are clearly too expensive. Who pays $18 for a light bulb? Two, they don't fulfill the main purpose of a light bulb, which is to stop dark from happening.

Anyway, he also invented the phonograph and the motion picture. Those are big deals, right?

I mean, the  iPod is clearly better. And HD, c'mon.

But still.

Punctuation, Capitalization and Mental Health

One would think, logically, that spelling and grammar are the main indicators of mental health. But this is not so.

A sentence containing the misspelled word "judgement," for example, provides little insight into whether someone is compos mentis. Neither does ending a sentence is a preposition, although one would assume the contrary of.

The true indicators of whether a person is in control of their faculties are punctuation and capitalization.

Does the author of the email, Tweet or post suffer from hypomania? Look for run-on sentences. Five or more together in a single missive are quite telling.

This is why I believe that the period is a marker of sanity.

The exclamation mark, on the other hand, is suspect. One at the end of a particularly happy bon mot is fine. Two is OK. Three or more may point to some sort of delusional episode. Consider the craziness of the following sentence:

"I love camping!!!"

Capitalization can be used as a diagnostic tool as well. All caps points to anxiety disorder, as in a text I'm oft to receive that simply says "MOM STOP IT." No caps can be equally disturbing, as in the emails my husband sends that say things like "no i will not go with you to get a pedicure to relieve your fungus fears. don't ask me again."

Depression? Probably. Poor guy just doesn't have the energy to hit the shift key.

Please tune in later when I use sentence diagramming to solve global warming. PEACE OUT.

Alex From Target for State Controller

I'm what they call a Super Voter, someone who faithfully casts a ballot in every election. Presidential, midterms, local, special. I'm there, as anxious as the next person to earn respect and admiration not by working for it but by wearing an "I Voted" sticker.

I'm very proud of my record when it comes to voter turn out. I turn out.

I'm not so proud that sometimes -- OK, often -- I don't really know who or what I'm voting for or why.

Shall a judge keep his or her seat on a bench somewhere? Yes, I say, not knowing anything about the judge, the bench or even why such a thing appears on a ballot.

Yesterday, I felt strongly that Betty Yee should be state controller. But I'm not really sure what a controller does. When I worked at a high school, the controller helped manage student government's candy sales at lunch.

I also voted against Propositions 45 and 46, based on a theory that the proposition system itself is flawed: If the proposed law was such a good idea, wouldn't some power-grabbling legislator move it through the political process and ensure a great photo opp with the Governor? This theory allows me to read celebrity news and the horoscopes rather than informative stories about propositions.

By the way #alexfromtarget is totally cute in a Justin Beiber way. When will the media get off its collective duff and really dig into how the #alexfromtarget thing started? There's so much to learn about #alexfromtarget. I just want to know, like, everything.

The End of Pants

When my daughters predicted the end of pants, I scoffed. They were talking about females and pants. Women, they predicted, would throw over pants (jeans, cords, khakis, dress pants and the like) for leggings, dresses, skirts, sweats and pull-on basketball-type shorts. I had to disagree. Clearly, they didn't know their history. In the 1960s, girls fought for the right to wear pants to school. I was among them, proudly casting my vote for pants in the school-wide election. And pants in the workplace liberated women by giving them equal access to the kinds of freedoms enjoyed by pants-wearing men. Freedoms like sitting splayed-legged. Bending over without squatting. Putting your feet up on a desk. Maude wore pants. Bella Abzug wore probably wore pants. She definitely wore hats.

Pants are still sort of a dangerous choice for women. Think of poor Hillary Clinton, pilloried for her pants suits. Pants have to stay because pants are the great leveler, right? Women may make 77 cents on the dollar of what men make for the same jobs but, dammit, we can wear 100 percent of the same kind of pants. True, the whole fly/zipper arrangement wasn't made for us. And, true, you can sit with your legs apart in a maxi dress and be a whole lot more comfortable. But c'mon! Women stuck out their necks to give you the right to be uncomfortable and have a fly you really don't need. Exercise it!

But Rose and Lily were right, even as the two of them are now sporting ironic thrift shop "mom jeans" as part of the norm core fashion movement (whatever). Norm core aside, mainstream women are just not wearing pants. They're wearing yoga pants. They're wearing bike shorts. They're wearing Zumba capris. They're wearing track suits. They're wearing drop-crotch MC Hammer harem get ups. But not pants.

I should have seen the ath-leisure wave coming. I've watched a lot of TV in my lifetime, and no show (or movie, for that matter) about the future has people in pants. Lycra jumpsuits -- yes. They are worn on the starship Enterprise. Dresses? Check out Princess Leia. Weird feathered getups? Hunger Games. No one in the future wears pants and maybe we should all just stop wearing them now to get ready.

Of course, there is the problem of what to do with keys and spare change without pockets.

Landslide

In 1990 I traded in a crappy used Ford Capri for brand new Geo Prizm. I annointed it "The Prizz." The Prizm was GM's version of a Toyota Corolla, made in Fremont at the NUMMI plant, a joint venture between Toyota and GM. During a particularly broke period in college, I worked at the NUMMI plant as a tour guide. For two days.

The Prizm was not a great car. I bought the cheapest stock version. It had crank windows and upholstery that looked pried off Motel 6 chairs. But I loved the Prizz: It was the first car I bought without consulting my father, a former mechanic whose collection of Chilton auto repair manuals occupied half our family room growing up. My dad believed in buying cars based on "torque," some sort of scientific force that I understood less than I understood his love of canned smoked oysters. Torque fell into the category of "what?"

(Quick side note: My dad once showed me how to jump start a dying battery, an issue with my first car, a 1969 Mustang. In clipping on the cables, I came in contact with a corroded post. "Dad, I think I have battery acid on my hand." "Great, now wipe it on your pants." I did and watched in horror as the acid burned holes in the fabric and he laughed hysterically. That was my Dad!)

Halo was my dog in the way the Prizz was my car. By any standards, she wasn't a great dog. But she was mine. True, she belonged to the whole family. And as Rocky pointed out many times, she loved him more, and not just because he fed her. But she had my traits: She was fearful, she had a need to be adored and she was just as likely to bite you as to lick you.

RIP, my little darling. I'm playing "Landslide" in your honor because I think we both know that neurotic chicks rule.

The Wolf of Insignificance

The words came to me; I didn't seek them out. I was in an all-white room -- white floor, white walls, white ceiling -- when I heard a man's voice: "Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door."

This was at the Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco several years ago. I was touring an exhibit that used hidden speakers in a empty space to highlight the work of Jewish writers. The quote above, I learned later from Google, was written by Saul Bellow.

Those two sentences have stuck with me ever since. They came back to me again yesterday at a screening of "Birdman" at the Tower. A modern update on Bellow's comment came from Emma Stone's character, who tells her father, an aging actor: "You're not important. Get used to it."

The older we get the closer the wolf gets to the door.

Get used to it.

The Old Dog Barks Backwards

I hated my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Cappie. And she hated me. She told my mother at a parent-teacher conference that I was "just like the little girl with the little curl in the middle of her forehead: When she's good she's very good and when she's bad she's horrid."

Mrs. Cappie was a fan of poetry.

At some point during the year, Mrs. Cappie assigned the class to memorize and recite a poem. We were each responsible for finding our own gem to perform. I found Ogden Nash's "The Old Dog Barks Backwards":

The old dog barks backwards without getting up.
I can remember when he was a pup.

I don't remember her exact response, except that I was in trouble for picking so brief a composition. I was told to find another. So next I memorized Williams Carlos Williams' "This is Just to Say":

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving 
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

It was also too short. I must not have been the only student scouring the Loyola Elementary School library for haikus and Gertrude Stein tone poems ("pigeons on the grass alas") to cheat the system: Mrs. Cappie eventually scrapped the assignment and instead required the entire class to memorize Poe's "Eldorado," which we recited together as a unit.

I can still recite half of "Eldorado" -- not bad for a 44-year passing of time. But I rarely think of it. These days, I think a lot of Nash's lines. Our dog Halo is two months shy of 17. In her prime, she was a relentless hand licker, a shameless dinner-time beggar and a neighborhood terror from her ottoman perch by the front window. Now she sleeps almost all day and must be cajoled with praise and salty meat to eat even the smallest amount.

Still, I can remember when she was pup.