Sharing the same living space for decade after decade, we developed similar tastes. Everything we had was sleek, modern, no frills. No curleques or floral prints or drapes with billowing valences.

But taking a look around today, I realized Linda doesn’t live here anymore. At least not that Linda who was part of that couple.

Today, I have an eye for “pretty” things. Things with softer designs and flowers and sweetness. Feminine things. The Mister wouldn’t recognize this place. Or maybe even this Linda.

The hard lines and sharp edges all seem so cold to my now. Is this because I am developing an old woman’s tastes? Will I soon be putting lavender sachets in my underwear drawer? Pancake make-up on my cheeks? A hankie in my cleavage?

Or is it that something within me has bloomed now that the Mister is gone. Something that would have always liked wild roses and pansies on my dishes. Sweet little bric-a-brac. Hummingbirds carved into my book shelves, painted chests, and flowery, fluffy bedding.

None of this was the Mister and me. But all of this is me now. It’s amazing what you can find of yourself in the middle of what you’ve lost.

I have the hots for the boy at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

If an age difference of four decades and change isn’t enough to give me cougar status I don’t know what is. Let me explain:

I am addicted to fast food fountain Diet Coke. Love the swill. When my attraction to the McDonald’s drive thru boy (MDTB) first began, I could have switched over to Burger King if the joint hadn’t gone belly-up. Fine dining like that is way too upscale for Dog Patch. So I am forced, I tell you, forced to traffic at Mickey D’s.

The kid’s a knock-out, a hunka hunka, a move-over-Clive-Owen. His eyes sparkle at me. His smile lifts my heart. I want to sing Some Enchanted Evening.

I am sure he pines for me on those days I don’t appear at his window onto the world.

And speaking of windows, I’d give a shiny new dime to the engineer who’d figure out how I could wedge my full-figured-gal form through the window of my RAV so I could pounce on MDTB through his drive-thru window. I could go inside to examine him more closely, but I am afraid my knees would knock or worse, I’d shake like a bowlful of jelly.

This morning his manager actually cautioned him to move along as he handed me my medium with straw. Our fingers met for the briefest of touches and then the moment was gone.

For the love of God, I’m begging you: I need an intervention. Send me to Jack in the Box. Or better yet, send me Clive Owen. I’ll make do here on the back nine.

PS. That lovely piece of art up there is called Snow King by Nancy Glazier. If you have about $500 smackers, you could send one to me. I’m sure it would help me lick my wounds just as well as Clive could.

But this weekend when Sis and I took a drive down the Oregon Coast, the weather was delightful. This photo is the sunset on the sand of Gleneden Beach:

This rock pile is loaded with Oregon slugs harbor seals:

And finally, this exciting discovery brought to you exclusively by the Back Nine! If you are interested in this year’s symposium there’s still time to sign up:

Happy Ending

This is a pix I took last summer of my dear friend and her daughter (I don’t know the thumb sucker in the center). If you can’t guess, yes, we were having fun.

Like half of corporate America, the daughter lost her job a while back. She had to make major changes involving selling her home and moving in with Mom and Dad. Much tension, much depression, but always love.

She did a smart thing. While waiting for the right job to come along, she took a “hobby job” for low pay, in a field that interests her. It was just a part time low level deal. But she flourished. Last week she was offered a full time job in the same “hobby” industry with a different company, to open a new operation here in Seattle.

Now, long time readers will know I’m no believer in happy endings. I’d apply for the Chief Thunderthud role, if that job were still open. But this is honest-to-goodness Happy Ending.

For those of you battling your way through these miserable times, good news does exist.  And the sun does shine even in Seattle.

Sad Endings

I admit I didn’t feel too sad about JD Salinger. But I just found out that Stuart Kaminsky died a while back, and Sis told me  Robert Parker died earlier this year. No more Lew Fonesca or Spenser. No more Hawk. Will Jesse Stone ever get over his addiction to his ex? Will Toby Peters ever find happiness? So many stories left untold.

I don’t agree with Stephen King that a character is just “a bag of bones.” It’s a crying shame. Good-by to you, my old friends. Thanks for the hours and hours of entertainment.

To Be Continued

Not sure about this story yet. It is almost a year since the Mister died, and I am thinking a lot about the ups and downs  for me: about moving from feeling like a widow to feeling like a single entity, and the differences between the two. I’m not ready to write that ending yet because I’m still thinking about it. But soon. In the meantime, sorry I have been such a slow-witted blogger lately. Thanks for sticking in with the back nine.

Am I the last person in America to hear about Better World Books?

It’s fabulous if you buy used books. Here’s the deal:

“Better World Books utilizes the value of the book to fund literacy initiatives locally, nationally and around the world. Know that your purchase will help us in our efforts to promote and support our literacy partners and their initiatives. Your order provides much needed funding that is instrumental to the efforts of those whose passion it is to provide the world’s least fortunate with the opportunities that literacy affords. We have over 2 million used and new books waiting for you to browse through, and our inventory is being updated all the time with additional titles. We offer free shipping within the US, and $3.97 for international orders.”

So, cheap books, free shipping, a good deed. High five from the back nine.

Here in Dog Patch, we may not have your fancy schmancy wine tastings and canapés. But our upscale establishments put on a spread that sure tickles us.

Why I don’t wear cosmetics: Yesterday I shopped/ate with friends. To get ready, I Neosporined my earrings so they won’t hurt my ears. I ladled cream with the consistency of lard all over my face to keep dry skin from peeling right off. I used extra strength lard on my cracked lips, rammed Vasoline up my nose to keep it from bleeding due to sinus issues, and finished with some damn potion that puffs up the wrinkles around my eyes. Also, I put stick’m in my hair so it spikes and I look just like Meg Ryan (honest to God, that’s what my hair dresser told me it would do). After all this just to face the day, who the hell has time for cosmetics?

I made my Sunday morning trek to Rite Aid, coupons clutched in hand. While shopping for sinus meds, I realized I started humming along to American Pie which the store was broadcasting. I heard Sis in the shampoo aisle, also humming along. Then a tenor maybe over in Dental Needs joined in. For a brief spell, Rite Aid rocked. And now that I have brought up Miss American Pie, the Chevy and that levee, I’m betting you’ll be humming it, too.

It must be hell to sell a recreational vehicle in this day and age. I consider this one of your cleverer marketing approaches.

About all they have left to try is “buy an RV because what the hell.”

But it is a fact of life. Sex is one of those things that, if you’re going to be a writer, you’re probably going to write about. After all, write what you know, right? Hehe.

I admit I’ve done some freelancing for my friend’s shady magazine. I sent him articles entitled, Don’t be a Boob About Breasts, Bad in Bed, and What You Can Learn from Girls with Nothing to Hide. But my tongue was so far in my cheek that I still have the bruise.

The stuff I’m doing now, well, I want it to sound real. And that is embarrassing to write. Your client or your sister-in-law might read it.

The last writer’s conference I went to even had a workshop in how to write about sex. Unfortunately I missed it. I imagine the instructor gave hints like, “Eat a dozen oysters, turn the lights down low, play soft music, now pound those keys.”

You have to learn to write about things you wouldn’t consider talking about. You begin with a blank screen. From there, probably each of you would develop your own techique.

• Maybe you would think about George Clooney. Or George Clooney, Clive Owen, and Johnny Depp. At that point, I’d probably have a coronary.

• Maybe you would think about a scene from a movie that really turned you on, and you’d just start writing. Kind of a screen play in reverse.

• Maybe you would think about the wild evening you had last night.

I myself begin by thinking about the location. If I know that my character is in a hotel vs her home, the shower vs the bathtub, a leather car seat vs an overstuffed sofa, a meadow vs the beach, then I guess that establishes the mood as well as the mode. Location becomes sound, scent and action. Of course, the location is never England where even the floors are uncomfortable.

It’s actually kind of fun. When you’re writing about it, everybody there can be having a good time. Nobody has bad breath or rug burns or flabby abs.

Go ahead. Give it a try. Just turn down the lights and the music, then pound those keys. You can skip the oysters if you want to.

Spring is soon to arrive here in the Pacific Northwest. This harbinger came knocking on our door earlier this week, demanding a pile of dog shit. Boy, did it come to the right place:

Now this is the kind of sale that can really get our hearts pumping here in Dog Patch:

Crime is rampant everywhere. Be on the look out for an armed masked man covered in biscotti crumbs:

At the time, I thought she mostly meant how she had changed, her body eroding away as it will surely happen to us all. But now, I see she also meant how the campfires themselves had changed.

I’ve always loved to travel, and have seen wondrous things. Stonehenge across a field of daisies. Machu Picchu at dawn. The Aurora Borealis from Big Sky country. Gannet colonies in New Zealand. Humpbacks and their calves off Cabo. I’m glad to have seen most of these things before the invention of the tour bus. These are some pretty dandy campfires.

My feet hurt and I hate the heat these days. High blood pressure and acid reflux. I no longer seek out beauty without giving a big dash of thought to my creature comforts.

So here’s what I want: I want the things I haven’t seen to come to me.

I would like to see the Taj Mahal without entering India. Victoria Falls without encountering Africa’s army of poor children. I want to take a photo of the Parthenon with no other tourists in the picture. I’ll never drive to Ayers Rock, so please bring it just outside my window.

You might say I could see pretty much all these things by just visiting Las Vegas for a night. But I want the real McCoy in living color.

You’re right. It’s pretty goddamn selfish on the back nine today, thank you so much for pointing it out. But to quote another writer lost to time, it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

“Absolutely! What a thrill! Glad to do it,” I replied.

#^)_$%^@$~$!, I thought.

I don’t believe any Fahrenheit temperature should be a single digit. Especially one with a minus sign in front of it. Who the hell has the clothes for that? Minnesotans, I guess. They have weird Lapland hats and fat coats that make them look like Weebles but they appear to be toasty and they don’t seem to fall down.

I definitely don’t have the proper wardrobe anymore, not since I left Chicago in 1994. If I could have found a down-filled burka here in Dog Patch it would have been just the ticket.

Instead, I hauled out stuff that hasn’t seen the light of day for 14 years. Boots that hurt then and hurt now. To a heavy and slightly dog earred jacket, I added fuzzy gloves and a scarf purchased at our only clothing store, the Fashion Bug. I topped off the ensemble with a black shawl borrowed from a friend. When ready to go, I looked sort of like an overweight Zorro. But I almost couldn’t move.

This is the kind of trip where you assume failure every step of the way. The airplane will ice and flutter to earth somewhere just outside Boise. Snow leopards will eat you if Yetis don’t find you first. At best, you will be permanently snow blind. At worst, you will be somewhere just outside Boise.

Oddly, Minnesotans are not fazed by all this white stuff. They all made it through the drifts to the morning meeting, cheery and no worse for wear than shiny eyes and rosy cheeks. Hardy Scandinavian stock, ya hey dere.

And it turns out it was a great meeting. No wonder people trudge through this kind of weather to get to this kind of ad agency to receive this kind of work. Even the airline was feeling the love. It automatically upgraded me to first both coming and going even though I have barely achieved the frequent flier level of Lead.

The only downer? My client has been promoted so I won’t get to work with him anymore. A new boss. Paranoia.

I’ll miss him and I guess I wish him well. But mostly? Rob, if you’re reading this I’d like to say, “#^)_$%^@$~$!”