When I wear a mask, I’m operating under two premises.  I’m protecting you by covering my face in case I’m contagious.  Also, in my heart, I feel safer from you in case you sneeze in my face while exercising your God-given,Constitutional right to not wear a mask and risk my life.

One thing I think no one would argue (but I’m naive that way and of course someone will always argue): the issue about wearing or not wearing masks is really about something else.  And that something else may vary from person to person.  I’ve spent the last 6+ years moving around this country to various medical communities in an attempt to keep my husband alive.  So, yeah, I wear a mask. You probably have a different reason. But I will say that it’s ugly the way people have gone crazy on social media about the mask issue.  It hasn’t been pretty, folks, and it may be hard for some of us to look in the mirror when (if) this is over.

And speaking of the mirror, here’s where an eye mask would come in handy.  Today I looked down on my newly showered body, something that admittedly I have a lot more time to do, and saw my mother’s legs.  It was inevitable but I think I could’ve ignored it for a few more years were I not trapped in my home with a freezer full of drumsticks (the ice cream kind).  I can still get into all of my clothes but now they leave marks on my body.  I could weigh myself, something I NEVER do (it’s a policy of mine) but I don’t want “getting on the scale” to be listed as my cause of death.

Some people say that the world will never be the same.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  One way I think things could improve is by slowing down our acquisition of STUFF.  The irony here, of course, is the reality that the USPS and UPS folks are now my best friends.  But even as I purchase more so-called essentials online, I am filling my guest room with the detritus of my life.  The stuff falls into various categories but a big one is all the things I bought when I was working and had 72 people working for me so I gave big parties.  So the roaster/three dish warmer is leaving my cupboard, where it has sat silent and hulking since 2012.  Also heading to the animal rescue thrift store are the griddle, the large and small punch bowls, many serving plates, extra utensils, and candles, candles, candles.   I also don’t need the 36 plates and 36 wine glasses I bought for fundraising events.  And the vases. I REALLY don’t need the 100+ vases I’ve received or collected in case someone asks me to do the flowers for his/her wedding.  No one has asked me to do more than a flower arrangement since 2014.  And for that wedding I decorated a dozen ball jars with lace, burlap and pearls and bought four large vases and pitchers, all of which I still have. I have to admit that most of these things may still “spark joy” because I loved giving those big parties and helping friends with theirs.  Part of me wants to keep the plates in case Molly needs them again for her Christmas Eve party with her grandma who hates paper plates.  Grandma passed I don’t know how many years ago so I guess the plates can go. 

We live in a very large house built in 1958.  It’s not a mid-century gem with cool, carefully preserved  glass bricks, interesting room dividers, and plaster walls.  Rather it’s a ruthlessly redecorated and renovated ranch style home that was stripped of personality and “beiged” into a paneled, neutral nightmare in the late 1980’s.  So, many of things I’ve acquired or spent money on have fallen into the category of redecorating.  And if I hadn’t gone through an inexplicable “farmhouse” period, there would be fewer ball jars and bread boxes to donate.  Right now I’m having two plaid chairs recovered to fit in with the bohemian/mid-century style I aspire to but never achieve.  If I hadn’t already ordered fabric and paid for the reupholstering before the quarantine, I wouldn’t do it now.  I would donate those damn chairs or just cover them since Mike is unnaturally attached to them.  The most embarrassing thing about this purge is that this house has tons of storage and we have used it all. The second most embarrassing thing is that I know better than to load myself down with all…this…stuff.

When I was six my family moved from Spain, where my father was stationed, to Maryland.  None of my toys and prized possessions made the trip stateside.  Gone was the doll with the handmade bridal dress and trousseau, gone were the china dogs my dad brought home from the countries he flew to, gone was the tiny silver tea service a friend of my parents had brought me from Germany.  You might assume that this scarred me for life and maybe it did.  As a child I had no collections because I knew what happened when you collected things.  As a young adult I could put all of my possessions in my car and move in a day.  As a new teacher I emphatically resisted the lure of classroom decor, even as students repeatedly gave me macrame owls.  I finally put one up in my classroom just to ward off future owls. I once moved into a classroom with an entire wall of windows covered with macrame curtains (I guess that’s what they were).  I called the previous, now retired, teacher whose room it had been and asked if he wanted the “hideous macrame coverings.” Guess who made them? Yup, another moment in faux pas history. 

So, anyway, when did all this “travel light” philosophy go down the drain? Partly it was because of my students.  I would purchase stuff and put up bulletin boards in the summer and then I was done.  For the year.  My students, depending on their level of kindness, would either ask me if “anything was ever going to change” in my room or bring me things to put up on my walls.  But the main reason my resistance to acquiring things broke down was marrying a collector.

When I married Mike in 1995 I was already lugging around literal baggage from my deceased husband who (no exaggeration) saved everything he ever owned.  Mike seemed to be fairly unencumbered, but that turned out to be misleading.  Just like how he told me he wasn’t addicted to sports, but that’s another story.  Early in our marriage I found out how much Mike liked antique furniture and books.  Okay, I had antique bookcases so that was good.  But then the collecting started.  First Mike was interested in Art Deco because I had a lamp and a mirror he admired.  So he started collecting Art Deco clocks and then radios.  That expanded into any clock or old radio including large, floor models (we have three).  There have been other obsessions, I mean collections, but they all have one thing in common.  They never go away.  Even worse, I have been lured into participating.

We were visiting friends in Seattle and I purchased a beautiful blue and gold tea cup and saucer.  I casually mentioned that maybe (maybe is the operative word) I would get tea cups from places we visited.  It seemed like an innocent remark.  The following month was December and for Christmas Mike presented me with a large collection of antique tea cups and saucers in both traditional and demitasse sizes.  I think there were more than 20.  After that my sister foisted—I mean generously gave—me the cups my mother had foisted on her.  At that point I had 30+ cups and no place to display them.  Plus I didn’t want to display them.  I started a collection of tea things for the daughters of one of my friends and, among the teapots, cozies, and spoons, I managed to offload some of the cups.  But the majority of them are stored in a sideboard and never see the light of day.  

Today I find myself in house full of things that somebody else will hopefully like, use, and then pass on to another person, thereby extending the time before it arrives at the landfill.  And that is why my guest room is crammed with donations and why I will keep adding to the piles. I’m at the point where I don’t want anything unless I can eat it, drink it, or plant it.  And after 73 days of being in my house or yard, I am overwhelmed with a lifetime of buyer’s remorse.  When I take these things to the thrift store I will be happy to give and a little ashamed of all I have.  And I will be wearing a mask.

I’ve had bad experiences with decorators. Several years ago Mike and I hired a consultant to give us advice on dealing with the overwhelming beigeness of our then new home. We were doomed from the start. Turns out this very same decorator had guided the former owners of our house into neutral paradise about 15 years before. As we walked around the house she asked if we had known the previous owners who “had such great taste.” Uh, oh. She examined Mike’s collections of vintage and antique radios, clocks and books and cringed at the sight of the blue and pink floral sofa and love seat. (I was with her there, those Laura Ashley nightmares had come with Mike when I was too besotted to bar them from my house.) As we returned to the living room to hear her verdict, Mike “remembered “ he had forgotten to lock the door to the school and dashed out. Most of the rest of the visit is a blur but I do remember her saying that we had some interesting “things” and it was time to get some furniture. About the time she suggested putting up a half wall and creating a “receiving area,” I knew she had completely misread us. When I pointed out that wasn’t our style, she told me we didn’t have a style. Prophetic words as it turned out.

Nevertheless,I recently had an epiphany about my decorating style. Whenever I take one of those quizzes that’s supposed to identify your style I get something like “elegant beach cottage” or “casual eclectic traditional.” Real helpful. Recently I was sitting on one of the navy wingbacks admiring the new rug and how well it works with the gold leather couch and repurposed walnut mid-century coffee table and antique end table and burnished gold and glass display case. You see the problem. So I decided my style is bohemian, which seems to mean anything the hell you want it to mean. Pretty sure that people who acquire things just because they like them and then put them all together are bohemian. That’s my story/excuse. I guess the big question is why I care about having a style. I blame it on media. (I blame everything on media; it’s the one thing I have in common with he-who-shall-not-be-named.)

Everything from magazines to television to Amazon shows us what we should do. The more things there are to do, the more things we take on. A case in point: remember when you were a kid and company came to stay? I know my mom put clean sheets on the pull out couch for my aunt and uncle. As for the kids (at least 6), they slept on floors and were lucky if carpet was involved. There was a lot of cooking going on while the guests were sightseeing in D.C., but usually an aunt or uncle stayed around to help. My mom stressed because that was her personality but the whole event was so casual, so relaxed for everyone else. Now there are endless Pinterest boards and online articles about “getting ready for company” — entertaining could be a full time job. And let’s face it, nowadays we don’t have 8 people coming to visit; it’s usually a couple, right?

This whole “creating a comfortable, inviting space” for visitors has bled into parties. I admit my guilt here. I enjoy setting the table with my French tablecloth and napkins, white dishes, and crystal. Then I put (the piece de resistance) sprigs of lavender (that I grew) on each napkin. If I’m feeling really French, I’ll include lavender in the meal. Sometimes, usually around Christmas, I’m feeling very British so I make puddings (dessert) like millionaires shortbread and Victoria sponge. Actually I haven’t made a Victoria sponge (layer cake) yet but I’m addicted to the Great British Baking Show, so it’s just a matter of time.

All of the preceding, not very funny prose brings me—finally—to my point. The more we find examples of how other people do stuff better, the more we up our own games. This applies to virtually everything, including cooking, decorating, dressing, gardening, the list goes on. You can say it’s always been this way and that’s true. When Old Ma Smith tasted Old Ma Johnson’s superior cornbread, she was inspired. Maybe she just made better cornbread for her family, or if she was competitive maybe she entered her cornbread in the county fair, knocking Old Ma Johnson’s entry down to second place and losing a lifelong friend. Who knows? What is different today is that we are constantly bombarded with examples of improved whatever (see list above). In the past only friends and acquaintances motivated us in that particular way. And you know what? We didn’t have to work as hard as we do now.

When are people going to realize the cost of our “conveniences?” Let’s trace the evolution of the garage door that used to be pulled down by a rope, thereby providing a little upper body toning. The electric garage door opener ruined all that and led to all sorts of crimes and misdemeanors. Garage doors became fancy so the garage itself became another area that needed decor—color coordinated tool chests, shelves and cupboards, and perfectly clean, preferably painted, concrete floors. My poor husband would be happy to improve our garage. His dream would be a garage with finished, painted walls and ceiling, IKEA units and a work table that is perfectly empty with the exception of an artistically angled hammer. Unfortunately he’s married to me so practically the only garage amenity we have is the automatic opener that we can operate from our cars. Poor Mike. He has attempted to upgrade our un-sheet rocked walls and exposed rafter ceiling with standing cabinets (unpainted particle board, alas) and various rolling, metal tool chests. Currently he’s contemplating building a shed on the south end of the garage to provide the space to store the boxes, bikes, and camping equipment housed in the garage. He thinks this will make his garage “pretty.” It won’t. Sorry Mike, but the garage needs a complete makeover beginning with a Pinterest page followed by decisions about style and bringing in the guys from “Queer Eye” for the finishing touch. Since I’m always updating my so-called style inside the house, the garage is destined to remain functional rather than beautiful.

By the way, here’s an update on my official style. It’s Minimalist Mid-Century Traditional Bohemian. And if you don’t believe me, check out my Pinterest page.

Once in awhile, about every two to three years, my body screams stop and I listen. I tend to forget that my allergies can lay me out, moving from their usual spot in my sinuses and taking over muscle groups, temperature control, and digestive functions. This only occurs when I achieve the magic combination of fatigue, stress, dramatic changes in barometric pressure, and bad timing. So instead of hanging out at the hospital with Mike and providing relief from boredom, I’m in bed in the hotel room, under the covers because I’m cold, watching “Say yes to the dress” and weeping. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen this show—it’s my first time—but it is your typical, manipulative, formulaic, so-called reality show. There’s the bride, obviously, and among the cast of characters is a relative or friend who is opinionated and kind of snarky. For some reason everyone listens to Ms. Bitter Unmarried Sister or Mrs. Holds the Purse Strings, or Mrs. My Son is too Good for You so Try to Look Like a Princess . There are men at these showings but they fall into two categories: indulgent daddy and daddy who is appalled at the low cut dresses his little girl is trying on.

You may be wondering how it is that I’ve figured all this out. Well. Apparently this show is on for (at last count) 3 consecutive hours. The producers make a genuine effort to include (very) different kinds of brides. My favorite so far is the body builder who chose a dress to accent her arms and shoulders and orange tan. There have been many enhanced breasts, really scary, but I think if I take another decongestant I can stop the flashbacks.

Almost as horrifying as some of the dresses are the constantly repeated commercials. Dr. Pimple Popper heads the line up, with a veritable buffet of lumps that you never wanted to see. I’ve been forcing fluids so this commercial allows me to take bathroom breaks every 11 and a half minutes.

So why am I still watching this? It’s a cross between horrified fascination and waiting for the inevitable tear jerker element to surface. There’s often a sob story (dying relative, horribly burned relative) but what gets to me is when the bride finds THE DRESS. It’s not my fault; I’ve been conditioned to tear up during sentimental commercials. The first (manipulative) station break I can remember is the commercial where the soldier comes home from WWII and the whole family is having a hamburger at McDonald’s for some reason and then the returning hero shows up. Yes, McDonalds that opened in the 1960s, which, hello, is two decades after WWII ended. Did that knowledge stop me from tearing up? No way! It was a soldier and there was sad music playing. I was overcome with patriotism, sentiment, and irritation that I’m so easy.

Okay, I’ve had a surfeit of unreality and now I’m going to turn off the tv before there’s a news break, drink some more tea, and attempt to sleep sitting up.

Several hours later. My no-fail treatment for allergy attack (decongestant, nose spray, vitamin C, herbal tea, red vines, and mindless television) has worked and I should be fully recovered by tomorrow morning. Now that I can breathe, sleep seems like an option. I’m going to skip the two hour documentary on Ted Bundy (yikes), power down the electronics, turn off the lights and thank God for world class medical treatment.

Just spoke with Mike and he is counting down to his last two infusions. He called to see how I was feeling and to say good night. Did I marry the right man or what?!!

You’ve heard of reading for pleasure but how about reading for pain? From the time I could read I’ve used books to escape from emotional pain. Let me be clear that I wasn’t escaping from anything more toxic than being a middle child in suburban America during the innocent early sixties.

My mother was a great reader and gave me her old Judy Bolton mysteries to read after I’d devoured the insipid Nancy Drews and cloying Cherry Ames stories. (I’ve often wondered about the psychological impact on female America from reading about those perfect girls. Not good I’m sure.) Anyway, Judy Bolton was complicated and smart and a little bitchy but in a good way. Setting aside that I couldn’t fathom anyone getting engaged at 16 (Judy and her friends did that a lot), I loved the mysteries because they were gritty and real and consuming.

I used to say that my mother never restricted my reading choices but now I think she was too busy raising and worrying about us kids to monitor what I was reading. Like reading “The Carpetbaggers” and “Valley of the Dolls” before I’d reached puberty. Confusing to say the least but the narratives were great. Aristotle said that plot is what compels us to read, although he said it more eloquently and in Greek. Humans need to know what happens next. It’s that simple and that complicated. It’s why the worst, most puerile made for TV movie will capture us as we scroll through the channels. It’s why Mike watched the entire, saccharine “Mistletoe Inn” Hallmark movie the other night while I frosted sugar cookies and swore. I had deliberately saved a mediocre and manipulative Christmas movie to play while wrapping presents and abusing baked goods. I can’t use a good movie, say “Love Actually” or “The Bishop’s Wife,” because I get pulled into the film. The same principle applies when I save a book by a favorite author for uninterrupted enjoyment or choose a book I can stop reading when I know I’ll be busy.

Of course reading has caused me pain as well.

Recently I sprained my good ankle. Long story about the bad ankle, but this was the good ankle. I did it walking down the single step in my ranch style home. I’ve always been clumsy and add to it I bruise easily. And I’m unlucky. It takes a certain talent to injure yourself when frosting sugar cookies. Who knew that red food coloring would stain my fingers so easily? Who knew that scrubbing those fingers would tear my skin? Now I know. I blame all of this on reading because I sprained my ankle and cut my finger while listening to audio books. David Sedaris has a lot to answer for. But I digress.

I’ve never been able to control my thoughts, which are scattered in a way that is hard to describe. For instance, right now as I write this I’m calculating my time and mentally reworking the long list of pre-Christmas errands and chores. I’m not using my injured right index finger and I’m elevating my right ankle. In a few minutes I’ll dress in jeans (with pockets) so I can listen to an audio book with my currently charging phone in my pocket. Sweats (my pajamas) have no pockets— a definite oversight of the manufacturers. I’ll plug in to a Jane Austen mystery, pack up cookies to deliver and not think about the things I don’t want to think about. See? Easy.

I won’t think about having a lot to do and not enough time. I won’t castigate myself for hurting my ankle and being so far behind on preparations for two consecutive dinner parties. I won’t fret about the weird mini seizure my beloved Fiona had a few weeks ago. I won’t feel guilty about not sending biscotti to various friends and family members. I’ll shove down the constant, inchoate fear about Mike and his health. Instead I’ll listen to a mystery read by a British narrator. Mysteries and British literature are my favorite and Jane Austen is my favorite writer (I’m not a crier but I wept when I was in Bath at the Jane Austen museum.) So this book, set in the early 1800s with Jane Austen as the main character is me pulling out the big guns. It takes this to quell my worries, shut down my mind for a few minutes, and get me through the Christmas season.

Why does everything seem worse this time of year? Is it because it’s the end of a year of natural and unnatural disasters that I hope never to repeat? Or maybe the overlay of memories of childhood anticipation and pure joy dull adult experience. Objectively I can say this has been a tough year: international threats and national scandals, a nightmare medical diagnosis for a relative, the death of a beloved student, infernos, wind, floods, and he who must not be named but always is. I grow weary of tweets and insincere outrage. So tired of thinking and worrying. So I read.

It’s my drug; I admit it. With the advent of electronic readers I am never without a fix. In line at the pharmacy? Listen again to ”Holiday on Ice”—hysterical. I don’t care if people eye me nervously when I laugh out loud at (apparently) nothing. On a boring freeway? “Britt Marie Was Here” makes those miles enjoyable. Waiting for the love of your life to return from another medical procedure? Well, it takes a really good writer for that: Elizabeth George, Ann Patchett or Ian McKuen.

Another benefit of this particular addiction is that reading in public discourages people from engaging you in conversation. If you listen to a book while simultaneously knitting or playing solitaire on your device, you can be almost completely impervious to the real world. I recommend it.

As part of our odyssey in San Francisco, the little dog has had to adjust to life in the big city. This means expanding her willingness to pee on basically any outdoor surface. SF is a dog friendly city and it’s rare to walk anywhere without encountering canine friends. Fiona is not really a dog person. When our grand-dog Hudson is around she favors me with pained looks that clearly ask who let the dog in. On SF sidewalks she approaches other dogs with deceptive shyness, ducking her head and wagging her tail, but she doesn’t mean it. If another dog invades her space she growls in a way that sounds really mean and a little crazy. Most of the dogs we encounter look surprised, and dismiss Fiona with an expression of tolerance. Unless the other dog is small. Then it’s a case of diva meets diva and the metaphorical gloves are off the paws. After mutual mean girl growling and obligatory butt sniffing, the dogs back off, nod austerely and go their separate ways, confident each has cowed the other.

None of this acknowledges the stress that changing residences has on Fiona. Or me for that matter. For instance, grocery shopping is even less fun than usual. There’s nothing like driving around for 20+ minutes, finally finding a parking space, and then enduring the visual onslaught of shopping at Whole Foods. Somehow we left that fancy store without the bone-in, skin-on chicken I needed for a recipe or the saffron which came with an easy payment plan. Whole foods don’t carry no high fat, low class chicken, no indeed. This experience and the resulting cost at check out- $45 for half a pound of Spanish cheese, La Croix sparking water, a dozen tulips (only $6) and some olive bar olives– was not as traumatizing a the trip to the Safeway close to where Mike gets treatment. I’ve never been in a grocery store where the toothpaste and q-tips are under lock and key and require concierge-clerk services to access. We got out of there pretty quick and, as usual, without everything we needed. We had better luck at Trader Joe’s where parking was relatively easy and the presence of familiar items was soothing. The embargo on chicken with bones and skin continued but the saffron was affordable.

Basically every expedition that involves our car is stressful. And that brings me to parking in the underground garage at the flat we are renting for two months. This gorgeous three story Victorian was a single family home at the turn of the 20th century. Now it’s three spacious condominiums in a lovely, quiet and very clean street in lower Pacific Heights. Pacific Heights proper is for the uber rich baby boomers like Diane Feinstein and Nancy Pilosi and (in the past) romance writer Danielle Steele. I imagine our place once housed a wealthy businessman, his wife, seven children, four servants (cook, maid, nanny, and valet), and a poor relation or two who helped with the children. The area under street level probably initially held a carriage with horses stabled nearby. Whatever the original intent for the space was, it was never intended to house three vehicles. The first weekend I stayed here, Mike was in Redding so I rented Enterprise’s smallest compact (a Corolla) and wished a smart car or a meter made cart had been available. With a pounding heart I pulled in, next to the ubiquitous gray Prius ( they are literally everywhere) belonging to the second floor couple. Getting out involved moving the mirror on the neighbor’s car and edging out, pulling up (don’t hit the bike in front of you), turning the wheel slightly (don’t scrape the shelf of paint cans) and jockeying back and forth until finally behind the Mercedes owned by the couple on the top floor. Then all I had to do is back straight out. And not scrape the wall (so pull in both mirrors) or hit the bush just outside the garage or gun the engine too much to get up to street level and shoot across the sidewalk into the street. Every time I see someone backing out of a garage in SF I watch. All of them are narrow, dark, and scary and I see lots of people edging out as I do. The truly brave or crazy back into their garages. Insane.

So all of this shows me that contrary to my fantasy of myself as natural born city dweller, I’m truly a suburbanite. I guess playing in the dirt with the Spanish kids in Zaragoza when I was five didn’t really make me a savvy urbanite. Still, for years, this fantasy of being someone whose ideal milieu was the big city has persisted. And I admit I love mornings like this where I walk the Little Girl to the patisserie and leave her tied up outside while I purchase scones and croissants. Fiona, however, doesn’t enjoy waiting for me and seemed pretty anxious by the time the three people in front of me spent an inordinate amount of time deciding which pastry to buy. “That one, no the one to the right, I mean left,” etc. For a city nationally ranked 7th for worst (impatient speeders) drivers, there are certain rites where lallygagging is expected. This is a town where everyone is a gourmand so all food-based decisions are approached with solemnity and caution. It is not unusual to hear a server breaking down a dish into each ingredient and then assuring the patron that yes, the sauce can come on the side, the pasta will most certainly be al dente, and no meat product will come within hailing distance of the quinoa. In other words, everybody is Meg Ryan.

Nowadays, Fiona and I walk Mike to a UCSF facility 6 blocks away and watch him board the shuttle for Mission Bay where he will receive radiation therapy. The little dog does not like this and stands on her hind legs, straining to see Mike as he disappears. Fiona also doesn’t care for the wind, but she’s adjusting. We all are. And in a few more weeks this medical odyssey will be behind Mike and we can go home where the little dog can access her safe place under the bed.

I recently read, well listened to, a young adult novel that was kind of a mystery, kind of a coming out story and totally unbelievable. The 15 year old narrator had the vocabulary of an Austen scholar and the insight of a licensed therapist. Somehow the first person narrator was also omniscient and able to divine the thoughts of everyone around him and reveal them through dialogue. So I wondered if I could peek into Fiona’s mind and give voice to her thoughts as we once again move her to a totally different environment. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand that Mike’s treatment for prostate cancer at UCSF is why we temporarily live in a lovely Victorian flat in Pacific Heights.

Mike and I “moved” in last week and then he went home to Redding to sit on a scholarship committee and pick up the little dog. So on Sunday they arrived after what must’ve been a 5 hour journey with many potty stops and breaks for refreshment (coffee and dog treats). Fiona loves riding in the car and slides into a Zen state where the journey, not the destination, is the purpose. So she often arrives looking dazed. This time, as she gazed down the long hall, she also looked irritated.

Planting herself on one of the runners, Fiona made her displeasure known. And here is where the reason she blatantly prefers Mike becomes clear. I walked her, okay pulled her, down the hall still on her leash past the gorgeous living room and into our bedroom where I had thoughtfully placed her favorite blanket on the bed. She glared at me. Then I placed her on the end of another runner, went into the family room and called her from about 6 feet away (she could see me). Her frown deepened and her glare intensified. I cajoled, offering high value treats. Her upper lip curled. At this point Mike appeared and picked her up and carried her around showing her the amenities.

“See, Fiona, there’s a little back yard where you can be outside.” No response. “Your bed is here and we brought your favorite toys.” Please. ” How about a piece of cheese?” Now we’re talking.

Cheese is her favorite food and being carried around like a princess is acceptable. That of course accounts for her smug expression and her clear message to me: I win.

Pouting, whining and sulking commenced but eventually I got over it and started devising methods to help Fiona overcome her distaste for hardwood floors. When her transport (Mike) is out, she has to walk on her own. Her always suspicious Yorkie eyes narrow and she refuses to look at me when we pass. She has been known to sit by the front door for more than an hour waiting for someone she can manipulate. That someone being my softie husband. Most of the time he succumbs to her pathetic “I am a friendless and destitute dog being left behind with a madwoman” look and takes her with him.

But I have my ways. If I act like she’s invisible, Fiona will make her presence felt. The desirable method is sitting on or beside me and acting like a cute little dog. Unacceptable methods include moaning by the door and barking incessantly at a perceived problem. Sometimes she takes exception to something out of place like a grocery bag that shouldn’t, in her opinion, be on the counter. Barking and whining interspersed with meaningful looks and licking of lips indicate she is hungry. Sneaking down the hall and hanging silently around the front door is a sign she needs a potty break. Go figure. While these may not be deliberate choices designed to drive me crazy I have my doubts. But we are both adjusting to the change in our circumstances, some of us more gracefully than others….


Everything should be upbeat. We have the great flat in San Francisco–Pacific Heights for goodness sakes. We have the great physician at UCSF–he told us himself that his team is the best in the world. Everything at home is handled: mail, paper, plants, and upkeep (gardening, cleaning). Mike’s daughter is thrilled we will be in the city for two months. Max is planning to visit. It’s all good. Really.

And then: the reality of driving to yesterday UCSF for Mike’s radiation. The unease of living in a stranger’s home. Knowing that for the first time my damn peonies are producing flowers and I’m missing it. Wishing none of this was happening and knowing how fortunate we are to access these wonders—world class medical treatment, the support of family and friends, and the delights and distractions of my favorite city.

Sometimes I need to hunker down (briefly) in misery, to eat licorice and drink wine, preferably in bed. It’s not a wonderful combination but I will say that Chardonnay holds up best with soft, black licorice. Sometimes I need to read chick lit and not make dinner. Sometimes Mike and I need to wander around Noe Valley without purpose or plan, come back to the demanding little dog, and take naps, all three of us.

Tomorrow I will make Fiona walk a few miles even if it’s rainy or cold. I will cook tasty, nutritious meals. I will wash my hair and I will not make Mike watch The Voice with me.