Past Blogs

The evil letter arrived two weeks ago. “Spider Problems” it screamed in bold type. “We can exterminate every spider on your property, inside and out.”

Being an arachniphile, a spider lover, I was horrified. These folks were advocating spider genocide.

I must admit, however, that our resident spider population went into overdrive around mid-August. The entire outside of our house was wrapped in silk, and each morning we walked through webs when we exited any door. Furthermore, our resident Charlottes must have sensed impending doom and were busily wrapping up and sticking egg sacs everywhere. Clearly some action needed to be taken.

My husband proceeded to spend two weeks vacuuming the outside of our house with his shop vac. Then he gently sprayed every board and washed all the windows. Our home no longer looked like a cartoon drawn by Ed Koren in his famous fuzzy lines.

Last night I sat down to dinner and looked out the window at the Tooley Cafe. A silver glint caught  my eye. A lovely, plump, garden spider was gliding down from the eaves on its dragline.

All is well at our house. The web of life keeps spinning.

Gato did not get the birthday present of his dreams. That would have been a case of Sheba cat food cans or a lifetime supply of cat treats. No, Gato got a Slimball.

Our relationship with Gato goes back to October 1997 when he was born on our kitchen floor. He immediately pushed his siblings aside to get to mom’s milk. Any kitten who tried to get a turn got a star-shaped paw, claws out, in the face.

Gato’s aggressive approach to food continued after weaning. No other cat’s food dish was safe; his appetite was insatiable.

One day I made the mistake of setting a full grocery bag on the floor. When I looked up, an orange streak with a 6 pack of hamburger buns dangling from its mouth was whizzing by.

Despite repeated attempts at limiting Gato’s food, we were definitely being outmaneuvered. Then one portentous day, the vet looked at us and said, “Your cat looks like a head on a box. Drastic measures are needed.”

Gato got diet kibble, 1/2 measured cup a day, and was locked in a separate room to dine. He was not let out until the other cats had finished their food. Slowly and painfully for all, Gato lost ten pounds.

As every dieter knows, maintaining weight loss is a struggle. Enter the Slimball. This clever device is a ball within a ball covered with holes. The ball is filled with the cat’s kibble, and the size of the holes is adjusted. We set it on small.

When Gato unwrapped his present, he instantly knew that his food was being held hostage. He immediately flopped down on the floor and pushed the ball. One piece of food fell out. Without raising his body off the floor, Gato extended a paw and slid the kibble to his mouth. A physicist could not have devised less energy output for maximum food input. Gato has completely subverted the calorie burning aspects of  his Slimball, but he does eat more slowly.

If it weren’t a mangled metaphor, I would call our Gato a total chow hound. Happy birthday, Gato, and best wishes for a long and purry life.

When I was a teenager, a German exchange teacher came to our  high school for a year. Herr Busch arrived in America with his wife, teenage daughter and Volkswagen. His goal was to “teach us a little German” and travel the entire United States. He achieved both goals and a bit more.

On the first week of school, Mr Busch announced that since our schools were so far behind the German schools, his daughter, though in our classes, would be having a holiday for a year. “She already knows everything being taught here,” he declared. True or not, he doomed his daughter to a lonely year.

The following week Mr Busch arrived in the classroom waving a speeding ticket and declaring America’s traffic laws absurd. His citations piled up, and his VW began to acquire battle scars from daily combat duty against slow moving American traffic.

Flash forward thirty years. My husband and I are taking our first trip to Europe. We are going to Prague, the birthplace of my grandfather, and then plan on driving a triangle to Munich, Berlin and then back to Prague. Our tiny rental car is an anemic Opel.

All goes well until we hit the German autobahn where I promptly have a private panic attack. “You can’t drive on this,” my brain screams. Audis, Porsches, BMWs and Mercedes are whooshing past us at speeds of 100 to 120 mph. They dart sharply from lane to lane never reducing speed and clinging a foot from our rear bumper when waiting to resume life in the fast lane. Every one of these uber-drivers is male.

Since my spouse and I have an unspoken agreement to share driving on road trips, I forced myself to calm down, play fair and take my turns at the wheel. Fortunately, adrenalin and survival instinct kicked in. I learned the true meaning of rest stops: that’s where you pry your white knuckles off the steering wheel.

I recently returned to Germany, and driving remains an extreme sport. Driving 85 mph in an underpowered Renault Twingo, I was passed on the left by a Porsche going about 140 mph. Then the driver suddenly cut across the two right lanes to exit, never braking until he was halfway down the ramp.

I’ve been known to complain about the nitpicking enforcement of the speed laws by our State Patrol. I suggest we send some of our overzealous troopers to Germany where there is plenty of real work to be done. Herr Busch apparently was not an anomaly.

My husband adores another woman. Since the lady is 75 years old and lives in Italy, I do not feel threatened. In fact, I understand his infatuation. Being a lover of beauty myself, I must agree with my spouse… Sophia Loren is one of the world’s most beautiful women. How could I not love a woman who said, “Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.”

Sophia and my husband go back a long way. In our 46 years of happily wedded life, he’s made no attempt to conceal his awe of her perfection.

We do differ, however, on Sophia’s presence in our lives. A number of years ago I was out of town and came home to find  every movie that Ms. Loren had ever graced on our Netflicks movie queue. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I inquired. The answer was obviously “yes” as we waded through months of films.

Sophia’s parts in the earliest movies were, to put it generously, minimal. The quality of these films can be gleaned from the titles: Quo Vadis?, 1950, Woman of the Red Sea, 1952, Two Nights With Cleopatra, 1953, Attila, Scourge of God, 1953, Too Bad She’s Bad, 1954. When an Italian movie is bad, it is egregiously so. At least I could laugh while my spouse was being transfixed by this woman’s feminine charms.

As the years progressed, her films grew in quality. Who would have guessed that the twelve year old who had the nickname Stuzzicadenti,”toothpick”, would become a first rate actress and unrivaled diva?

Click here for a comprehensive view of this amazing woman.

Dedicated travelers come in two varieties: the first want to touch down everywhere on the globe, the second keep revisiting a select group of locales and seek to know them intimately. I fall into the second group. I love getting to the rental car counter and politely declining the proffered map. But no matter how many times I visit my favorite places, surprises, changes and discoveries await.

Albuquerque is a city for which I have much affection and familiarity. My visits number in the hundreds. Nevertheless, I recently had a unique experience.

Being an architect groupie, I was not unfamiliar with the name Bart Prince. This highly creative architect was born in Albuquerque in 1947.  I had seen many photos of his work but had never tracked down the homes. Unexpectedly finding myself with a few unscheduled hours in Albuquerque, I asked my waitress at the French Bakery if she knew where any of Bart Prince’s  houses were located. She did not know his name but did know the location of  “some crazy, really cool houses” in Nob Hill. Knowing that Prince had designed  homes in this area, I asked for specifics. Although lacking any knowledge of the compass points, the young lady did give good directions. “Take Carlisle two lights down to the university past Lomas and veer right. Hope you find them ,” she cheerfully added.

Minutes later we were standing in sheer delight in front of two adjacent Bart Prince homes. The style can only be described as the Jetsons meet Frank Lloyd Wright. These dwellings are like the ultimate tree houses. One was diagonally perched on the roof of an ordinary, old, adobe casita, an exuberantly successful adaptation.

Fortunately, there were no “For Sale” signs in sight. I would have been tempted.