Breaking Up is Hard to Do

"It's too tough boss," my prized fighter said.

"You've almost got this," I said massaging his shoulders.

"I'm not as good as I thought I was."

"Don't let it mess with your head."

"I'm tired."

"You can do this!" 

With some fights all you have to do is enter the ring and your opponent topples to the ground like a fallen oak tree. Other fights are battles with an enemy who won't stop fighting, won't stop attacking, won't stop being an aggressive jerk. Unfortunately, the fight at hand was not the former type. If it had been, this story would over by now. Nope, this fight belonged to the latter category, the hard, fight-to-the-death one. The only unknown was: who was going to die first? 

The fighters in the ring were formidable. In my corner was my protege and fighter--Mr. Wonderful--the best all-around Mixed Martial Artist, DIY destroyer. And I, I, was his manager, trainer and biggest fan. In the opposite corner was his formidable foe--The Slab. 

After breaking down the concrete and the sarcophagus walls, all that was left to destroy was The Slab. 

"I've got this," Mr. Wonderful said bouncing on the balls of his feet hungry to enter the ring.

"Thor's hammer will take care of The Slab," I said confidently passing the tool to my fighter. "In my day I used this to knock down the sarcophagus walls." Mr. Wonderful nodded, then putting his trust in me started swinging. He swung that hammer left, right and six times to Sunday but nothing worked. The Slab reflected each battering ram as if it had been a feather brushing against Half Dome.

The bell rang and Mr. Wonderful darted to his corner and hollered.
"It's not working!"
"I see that," I said because I had witnessed every deflection of The Slab's formidable nature.
"Now what?" my prized fighter shouted from the ring.
"The drill."
"I don't have a drill bit that big!"
"Size," I said wiping my fighter's face, "Is irrelevant. All that matters is what you do with the drill. Harness its power!" I said handing him the tool.

After finding a drill bit the size of the Statue of Liberty, Mr. Wonderful rammed the drill into The Slab. He brrr'ed, whrr'ed and qzvrr'ed throwing his muscular, massaged shoulders into this attack. His efforts were impressive, his strength was massive but there was one problem.

"It's not breaking!" Mr. Wonderful said when the bell rang. 

"I see that," I said because my eyesight was 20/20. Indeed, The Slab was a very worthy foe. "It's a lot stronger that the worst enemy I ever faced in the ring," I said reminiscing on the previous day when I single-handedly broke up the sarcophagus walls. Ah! The good old days. So much could change in a day!

"Now what?" my fighter said his words tinged with fear. I felt the fear too, a growing realization that after all we'd done to clean the clock of this opponent we'd still have to admit defeat. But as they say in MMA demolition: It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings and… we had't heard the aria yet.

"Use the jackhammer."

"The 25 pounder?" 

"The 75-pound jackhammer!" I said as Mr. Wonderful sagged against the ring's ropes. 

"That's a lot of jackhammer." 

Never was there a truer sentence. I'd discovered how heavy the tool was when I rented the thing from the home improvement store. I couldn't lift it into my car alone. In fact, I needed eight pudgy 20-Somethings to get it into my vehicle.

Ringside once again, I helped lower the 75 pounder to my fighter. 

"If this doesn't work," I said "Nothing will." I watched him hoist the blade between his feet while standing atop The Slab.

"So," he said wilting under the weight of the machine. "This is your last idea?"

"That's right, kid. Make it worth it. Or you'll end up on you tail back in Topeka, Kansas."

He nodded. I handed him earplugs. I pushed the power cord into the electrical socket. He squeezed the handles. The machine blasted, belting out a tune every fat lady loved. Using all his weight, Mr. Wonderful steered it into The Slab. The jackhammer's blade sunk into the concrete. It worked! Then it stopped.

"Keep going! It's working!" I said jumping up and down.
"It's heavy."
"I know. Exactly 75 pounds heavy." I saw the exhaustion in his body and face. "Show this opponent who's boss and make that machine sing," I said handing my fighter a glass of water. He guzzled it down, nodded and promptly made confetti of The Slab.

How the fat lady sang! There's nothing as beautiful as a fat lady singing. Except perhaps a pit in your backyard that is concrete-slab free.

"You beat The Slab!" I said dancing around Mr. Wonderful. My champ nodded then collapsed on the sofa. Tomorrow he'll tell this tale of how he beat The Slab but until then, I'll leave him be so he can hear the fat lady belting out that beautiful aria in his dreams.

Thor to the Rescue!

"More coffee?" I said noticing the empty cup on the breakfast table.
"Please," Mr. Wonderful said handing it to me.
"More bread?"
"Please."
"More procrastination?"
"PLEASE!"

It had gotten to this point in our lives. Mr. Wonderful, the ultimate DIY die-hard, was tired of DIY-ing. More correctly, he was tired of breaking up concrete having already devoted two days of his life to it and knowing he'd have to do at least one more but… he just didn't want to so he was looking for methods to stall, to put off the work, to play hooky.

I have to admit, I didn't blame him. The reason for the procrastination was that after breaking up all that concrete we'd found another concrete structure located under the previous concrete slab. This structure had four walls and was built as: 1) The dump bucket for the pool's original filter; 2) A support for the pool; or 3) A hiding place for pirate booty. Anyway you looked at it, the structure resembled a sarcophagus, you know, the thing they used to bury England's dead kings in.

"Maybe Richard III is buried in our backyard!" I said hoping to move my spouse to break the thing down.

"They already found him last year. Under a parking lot. In England," Mr. Wonderful said putting his feet up on the table and sipping his espresso. It's hard to trick a well-read spouse but I kept trying.

"Maybe pirates buried gold doubloons in our backyard! Arrr!" I said limping across the floor with a fake peg leg.

"I'm glad they used concrete bricks manufactured in the 20th century to hide their 18th century booty in," he said without looking at me. It's hard to trick a spouse who knows his history but I kept trying.

"Maybe I'll just do it myself," I said marching outside with a hammer.

"No way!" he said chasing after me.

After descending into the pit, I swung a hammer at the sarcophagus wall only to have my swing interrupted by Mr. Wonderful's arm. 

"I'll do this," he said.

"I got here first." We debated who would do the arm breaking hammer work and who would do the back breaking rubble removal work. What a toss up. He wouldn't hear of me hammering and instead insisted that I continued removing concrete chunks. Since the amount of rubble in our backyard rivaled that found in Dresden after World War II, I didn't argue. Like the sarcophagus, the rubble, too, had to go.  

As I removed wheelbarrows full of rubble, Mr. Wonderful swung at the sarcophagus's walls to no avail. The thing had been built to last and it was outlasting Mr. Wonderful's strength, stamina and interest. 

"Let's switch jobs," I said. Mr. Wonderful kinked an eyebrow. "I want to hammer," I said. "Please?" Finally we swapped tools. Gripping the hammer I swung it like Venus Williams at Wimbledon and BAM! Part of the wall broke off. I swung again. WHAP! More of the wall fell. Again, THWAP! And the walls tumbled down like Jericho. Mr. Wonderful paused to look at me with shock.

"You're good at building things," I said gritting my teeth. "And I'm good at breaking them."

"Don't let me stop you."

I swung again this time with a smile. There's a time to procrastinate and there's a time to channel your inner Thor. What comic book, fanboy geek doesn't want to pretend to be a Norse god making the world right by breaking things with a cool hammer? I confess to being one of those comic book, fanboy geeks. BLAM!

By the end of the day, the sarcophagus walls were gone as were my arm muscles. Ahhh, it's not hard pretending to be Thor if it'll help your spouse. POW!

A Painful Break Up

"You getting ready to work?" My 86 year-old neighbor said clutching his newspaper.

"Yes, Harold," I said spreading black plastic on the driveway.

"This job going to be a big one?"

"Yes, Harold."

"You have all the tools you need?"

"Yes, Harold."

"Can I watch?"

"No, Harold!"

Mr. Wonderful and I were embarking on the biggest DIY job we'd ever done on The House and the last thing I wanted was an audience. If Harold had offered to help us with the work, that would have been a different matter. But I didn't know how much weight his 86 year-old arms could carry, how much stress his 86 year-old heart could take and how much white wine his 86 year-old liver could digest. Yep, on this morning my spouse and I began with a glass of Chardonnay then promptly put on our boots and went to work.

We drank before noon because we believe in pleasure before pain. And oh boy, the pain was coming. In steps.

Since our entire backyard was covered in hard surfaces--concrete, brick, titanium--we'd decided to remove some of it, specifically the concrete slab which used to be the foundation for the pool's original filter. You know, the one the Ancient Egyptians installed. 

Here was our day:

Step #1 Went to The Home Depot to rent a circular saw with diamond tips.

Step #2  Back at The House Mr. Wonderful steered the saw, cutting through the concrete. He followed the straight lines we'd made with the sidewalk chalk. We're very high tech.

Step #3 Went back to The Home Depot to return the saw and and rent a jackhammer.

Step #4 The jackhammer weighed 25 pounds but felt like 160 pounds. It broke up the concrete successfully turning the formerly flat surface into a pile of rubble.

Step #5 Mr. Wonderful went back to The Home Depot to return the 25 pound jackhammer, meanwhile-- 

Step #6 I loaded concrete rubble into a wheelbarrow and dumped it on the black plastic in the driveway, meanwhile--

Step #7 Harold looked on with excitement wishing he could participate!

Step #8 I lifted out the last of the broken up concrete chunks and underneath discovered… more intact concrete. Arrgh!

Step #9 Mr. Wonderful returned to The House, saw the extra concrete that needed to be broken up then collapsed on a lounge chair. Arrgh!

Step #10 Harold wanted to get his hands dirty but couldn't. Arrgh!

Step #11 Mr. Wonderful's stiff arms were in pain, meanwhile--

Step #12 I experienced burning back pain, meanwhile--

Step #13 Harold felt massive mental anguish at not working our job.

I crawled to the fridge, retrieved the Chardonnay and despite our sweaty clothes and dirty boots, we drank the wine because it lessened our misery. Although Harold remained sore from being 86 years old and not toiling away. I grabbed a juice glass and poured our neighbor a splash of Chardonnay. He sniffed and drank it. The beverage helped him, too.

We survived an agony-filled DIY day. But realized we'd have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again. But then, that was tomorrow. Today we'd worked well and drunk Chardonnay. Yep, the pleasure eased the pain.

It...Begins

"It's clean," I said sweeping my arm across the backyard.

Mr. Wonderful shook his head. "It's hard." 

"It's good for clay pots."

"It's flat."

"I don't mind it."

"I do."

In this way Mr. Wonderful and I discussed another fixer upper job on our fixer upper House. More accurately, a fixer upper job on our pathetic "backyard", more accurately the jumble of concrete that composed said yard. It would have been easier to discuss if my spouse had smiled or laughed while debating this latest project. But he couldn't because we'd agreed on some things before we bought the place. During escrow we both knew: 1) Repairing The House would be a labor of love; 2) The House had good bones; 3) The backyard was a disaster.  

For everyone on the planet, a "backyard" consists of grass or dirt located behind one's house. That is, everyone's but ours, which was composed of various concrete slabs, brick walks and wiggly stone pathways. Judging by all the hard surfaces, the former owners either hated Mother Nature or they held stock in a stone company. Whatever their situation, it was clear that our backyard looked less like a fertile patch of Southern California goodness than a hard-surface landing strip for a 747s, 757s and the entire fleet of Space Shuttles. 

Nevertheless, removing all that concrete--what Mr. Wonderful wanted--would be a lot more expensive and back breaking than just leaving it where it lay--what me and my new manicure wanted. As a first time homeowner in Southern California, I didn't know anything about concrete-covered backyards because I'd never seen them before, but apparently out here they are as common as out-of-work actors. There must be a reason for it--the concrete, not the actors. Perhaps concrete provided unknown benefits to our yard, our pool, The House? I wanted to make sure we wouldn't be making a mistake before we dug it up and I broke a nail so I asked the experts.

"It's cheap," our 86 year-old neighbor said sweeping his driveway.

"Okay, Harold," I said leaning against the fence dividing our properties. "But is there any other positive to having a concrete backyard?"

"I said it was cheap, didn't I."

Somedays Harold was a talker and sometimes he wasn't. Today was one of the latter days.

I saw Jerry pruning his rose bushes so I bounded over to ask him if we should remove the concrete or leave it.

"You'll never have to pay a gardener," he said adjusting his San Francisco baseball cap.

"Besides money, is there any other reason to keep the concrete?"

"Removing it is hard work, you could bust the gas line, you could electrocute yourself, you could strangle yourself with PVC pipe. Should I keep going?"

I shook my head.

Born and raised in San Francisco's earthquake country, Jerry had a pessimistic side to him I'd never noticed before.

I caught a glimmer of Charles' car as it pulled into his driveway. When I flagged him down I saw his hair was windblown, his face tan, his teeth white as milk. To remove the concrete or not, that was my question.

"We have concrete in our backyard, too. And I hate it," he said with a laugh.

"Does it help your pool or house?"

He laughed some more.

"But would you spend the time and money to remove it?"

"If I had the time or money, sure!" He said slapping this thigh.

I'm a sucker for a good laugher. And Charles was one of the best.

That night after dinner, I agreed with Mr. Wonderful to remove concrete from our backyard. Not all of it, just some of it. Then I handed him a piece of sidewalk chalk and asked him to delineate what he wanted gone. After drawing all over our property, like the kid's book Harold and the Purple Crayon, I sat down in shock because there was so much remove.

"It's a lot," he nodded. "But when it's gone, imagine how great our backyard will be!" Then he laughed loudly, a warm smile spreading across his face.

Of course I said yes. I couldn't argue with that laugh. 

Acting Reality

"You two were busy last weekend," my 85 year-old neighbor said watering her geraniums.

"Norma, we went out, we celebrated, we laughed with friends!" I said as Mr. Wonderful and I set out the garbage bins. 

"Good," she said.

"It was great!"

"What will you do this weekend?"

"Work on the house," Mr. Wonderful said.

"… Oh."

Norma was born and bred in Hollywood but she was a terrible actress. She couldn't even pretend to hide her disappointment that after we'd had a DIY job-free weekend that we didn't want to make it a double header and play DIY hooky this weekend, too. Actually the DIY plans were Mr. Wonderful's. Personally I wasn't thrilled that we would be returning to the home improvement store--again--and getting sweaty, dirty and gross--again--for the benefit of The House--again. But I didn't let on to my spouse because unlike Norma I was (drum roll) an Ac-tor.  

Channeling Bette Davis, I found my motivation, flipped my hair back and tossed Norma a smile. "Yes, this weekend we're going to work on The House. Isn't that grand!" Then I waltzed to the curb pushing the stinky trash bin. Acting is all about putting on a brave face when the show must go on. At least that's what I learned from Lee Strasberg. Or was it Miss Piggy?

"Good morning neighbors!" a red-headed woman hollered from the street, her fluorescent power walking sneakers catching a flare from the morning sun. "Where were you last weekend?"

"Mary, we went out on the town to eat, drink and be merry!" I said with a grin Jennifer Lawrence would envy.   

"You didn't work on your house at all?"

"Nope!"

"But we will this weekend," Mr. Wonderful said.

"… Oh."

Mary was the nicest woman in the neighborhood. Correction, the nicest human being on the planet but even she could not pretend to be the good Christian woman she was and feign happiness that we would be working on the House--again--stirring up dust--again--drilling every hard surface we owned--again. The bible is full of Good Christian women but devoid of Academy Award winning actresses. Luckily I, the Ac-tor, was present to add the theatrical pizzazz.

"We left The House alone but, I do declare, we missed it so," I said dabbing my eyes with a tissue a la Vivien Leigh as 'Blanche DuBois'. "This weekend we won't spend it with the kindness of strangers but in the comfort of our beloved House." I couldn't let Mr. Wonderful question my motivation for the scene or my commitment to the DIY work on The House. And the Academy Award goes to moi!

Mary and my spouse looked at me as if I'd gone off my rocker--again. They clearly did not appreciate Tennessee Williams or the the-a-ter. What amateurs!

Climbing into our cars our 86 year old-neighbor waved us down.

"It was quiet here last weekend."

"Because, Harold, we spent the whole time on the town."

"… Oh." He rubbed his bald head. "What're you doing this weekend?"

"Working on The House," Mr. Wonderful said. 

"Sounds exciting," Harold said his eyes lighting up like sparklers on an August evening. "What're you going to do?" His enthusiasm for our DIY work was so genuine and so real it made me realize that: 1) Harold liked when we worked on The House. 2) Our DIY projects allowed Harold to vicariously experience home improvement. 3) Harold was a better actor than me. 

And the Academy Award goes to... Harold.

Always the bridesmaid never the bride. Sigh. It's a bummer being just an amateur.

On the Town!

Highlights of a weekend out of The House well spent!

We went to see the stand up comic, Dylan Moran, perform. He created and starred in one of my favorite shows, Black Books. Moran walked on stage with bags of cake, donuts and candy that Americans had given him for sustenance during his visit here. He ate none of it, and as he so wittily remarked, no one in skinny L.A. ate any of it either. Hilarious!

We went to the Ford Amphitheater to see Flamenco dance performed live under the stars. One word: Wow. 

I got to see my friends, catch up and laugh! It was glorious!

And it's only Sunday! We have another day of fun ahead! Yippee!

Getting Out

"It's Friday! I said thrusting open the curtains.

"Hmm," Mr. Wonderful said knotting his tie.

"It's the weekend!"

"Hmm."

"It's time for sun, fun and--"

"Another house project."

If Mr. Wonderful looked in the thesaurus--dot com or Roget's paper version--he would find the following entry: "Fun is a synonym for doing a DIY home improvement project during the weekend for 396 hours straight without food, water or oxygen". If anyone else on the planet looked up "fun" they'd discover that it means a "good time, enjoying, entertaining, lively, merry, or a pleasure-romp-whoopee!" (The exclamation point is part of that last word.)

But Mr. Wonderful is not like other people. He's a workaholic, which after a while gets very un-fun for his spouse. But I wasn't the only one who thought so.

Retrieving the morning paper from the driveway I found tucked underneath it a copy of the LA Weekly newspaper. Next door I saw my 86 year-old neighbor futzing with his flag.

"Harold, is this your LA Weekly?"

"It's yours now," he said adjusting the flag pole. "And it's not a 'paper' but a publication advertising things to do in Los Angeles."

"I don't want to take your newspaper."

"Take it. Read it."

"But--"

"You need it more than me." 

Harold needed younger knees, more hair and clean arteries but clearly he didn't need any suggestions on how to have fun out on the town. So this old slip-a-roo he did with the LA Weekly meant something more.

"Harold's sick of us working on the house," I said pouring my morning tea.

"That's his opinion," Mr. Wonderful said sipping his espresso.

"He thinks we should forget the House for one weekend and go out on the town for some sun and fun."

"Does he?"

I couldn't blame it all on Harold because I, too, wanted to do something besides another DIY project on The House. But before I could say another word Mr. Wonderful jumped in his car and went to work. As I climbed into my convertible I saw a Triple A magazine on the passenger seat. Next door I saw my 85 year-old neighbor trimming her petunias. 

"Norma, is this your AAA magazine?"

"Take it," she said under her sun hat. "It has a lot of ideas of fun things to do in our area."

"But--"

"You need it."

Over lunch I called my spouse. 

"Norma is sick of us working on the house."

"Is she?"

"Every weekend this summer we've been tinkering and making a lot of noise."

"And her point?"

I couldn't let Norma take the fall for this because I shared her frustration. How many concerts had we missed at the Hollywood Bowl? Shows at the Ford? And fun friends' karaoke birthday parties even when I was horrible at karaoke? The past few months my spouse and I had become antisocial, House workaholics. I'd forgotten the fun person I was because I had been consumed by the hungry Beast that was The House's never-ending DIY projects. 

But before I could say another word, Mr. Wonderful hung up to go into a meeting so I returned to my sandwich and opened my laptop. I googled shows, I checked my events on Facebook, I paged through the LA Weekly, scanned the Triple A magazine and watched cat videos on youtube and all of it was lively, merry fun! I was baaack!

Over a rice and steamed vegetable dinner I made an announcement.

"This weekend we're going to do fun things."

"Oh?" he said dishing up some veggies.

"I bought us tickets to a show at the Ford Amphitheater."

"Oh?"

"And a concert at the Bowl."
"Oh?"

"And we're going to a friend's birthday party."

"At a karaoke club?"

"At a bar," I kinked an eyebrow. "How does all that sound to you?" He looked up from his plate and smiled.

"Like fun."

Finally! Mr. Wonderful saw things my way--the fun way! Harold and Norma definitely would be happy to see us out of The House so they could have some peace and quiet. But that wouldn't compare to how I'd feel being out on the town with my spouse. This weekend's going to be a pleasure-romp-whoopee!

The Writing Life

Who to write? 

What to write? 

When to write?

Such challenging questions! Where do you begin writing? Honestly, I haven't a clue. What I mean to say is, I have no idea where every writer on the planet should begin writing. But I DO know where I should begin writing--with wine and a sense of humor. Since writing is so individualistic, I can only say what works--or doesn't work--for me. 

But since writing is done by so many perhaps some things I've discovered about my own writing journey can help you. Interested? To read more click here about my writing life.

Happy writing and reading! And thanks! 

--Alicia

The Check's in the Mail

"Hello neighbor, I don't believe we've met," I said to the older woman with the well coifed hair. 

"I know all my neighbors," she said pursing her lips and squinting her eyes.

"My husband and I are new on the block."

"Hmm."

"We live in the fifth house on the right."

"Hmm."

"The house with the palm trees."

"Hmm."

"With the trim--"

"Oh, the one with the garden!"

What busy lives we had that after living in The House for months we were still meeting our neighbors. Margaret told me me she was single, owned a fluffy tan cat named "Satin" and worked in an office where the motto these days was "the check's in the mail". She also lived on the other end of the street away from Mr. Wonderful and I. Which for all intents and purposes meant she could be living in New York, Shanghai or Timbuktu, considering how often I'd seen her. 

But that did not stop me from wanting to meet her. Besides she'd noticed our front garden so I liked her already.

Mr. Wonderful and I had transformed our front yard from a turfed putting green into a butterfly's paradise. We did it for the birds, the bees and because I was sick of spending my weekends mowing the lawn. But Margaret wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

"Your garden is beautiful," Stephen said pruning his fruit trees with shears.

"Look at your pomegranates,"I said stopping to admire the sweet orbs hanging from the tree's branches like Christmas ornaments.

"I'd take your garden over pomegranates any day," he said wacking off a branch with the swing of a samurai warrior.

Since his pomegranates were more edible than my lavender shrubs, I didn't rationally agree with him. But receiving compliments isn't rational. It's irrational, emotional and close to your ego--I mean, "heart". So I accepted his horticultural compliment with both hands and all of my ego. Besides he'd noticed our garden, which made me like him even more. 

Mr. Wonderful and I chose to make our garden a turf-free zone when we did because the city was offering a refund to residents who did the conversion. We followed all the rules, submitted our applications correctly and were approved by the program in Sacramento. But we still hadn't received our refund. I emailed around to follow up about this refund and was told the "check is in the mail", which I believe is what they call the oldest trick in the book.

"Your garden has grown a lot," our 86 year-old neighbor said walking across his barren lawn to our driveway.  

"Thanks, Harold," I said surprised at his compliment. "The plants have doubled in size since we planted them."

"What do you call those?" 

"Lantana," I said. "Do you want some?"

"Nope."

"Do you want to convert your turf to a garden?"

"Nope."

"Do you even like our garden?"

Silence.

"Norma's calling," he said walking toward his house.

Compliments are like refund checks: they don't come easy and you shouldn't go fishing for them. Yep, the check's in the mail.

The Book's Big Day!

"How was your day?" Mr. Wonderful said closing his car door.
"…yeah," I said meeting him on the driveway.
"Your wine book came out today, right?"
"…yeah."
"So was it good?"
"…yeah?"

I'm a writer. I've written millions of words in blog posts, articles and the comments sections of kitten youtube videos but on this day I was having a hard time finding words to describe how I felt about my wine book, Evolution of Wine Drinker, coming out. The technical term for this is "verbal writer's block", which I'd learned about in the magazine "Writer's Neuroses Monthly". WNM published studies about it detailing its harmful effects, which included writers: spending even more time alone, cursing Earnest Hemingway for making the writing life look so easy and failing to finish a single Sudoku puzzle without collapsing into tears. Two studies said that a number of writers suffered permanent verbal writer's block, specifically citing: Thomas Pynchon, J.D. Salinger and Snoopy of the "Peanuts" comic strip. 

However, Mr. Wonderful was not about to let me off the hook that easily. He pressed on.

"Did people like the book cover?" 
"I got some LOLs."
"That's great!" he said. "Did people like your book?"
"Some already bought and read it." 
"That's really great!"
"--and said they liked it."
"That's super great!" Mr. Wonderful said jumping up and down giving me high fives like a trainer to his boxer before the latter climbed into the ring. 

His enthusiasm was contagious. He was right, all these things were great but I'd just needed someone outside myself to say so.  As a writer I'd spent so much time alone, with my nose to the grindstone, working, that it was funny--funny "different" not funny "ha, ha "--to have my book out there and being read by other, real people. I hoped they enjoyed the book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Actually, now that he mentioned it--everything about the day was pretty darn fabulous! This news about my book was great!

"This calls for a celebration," he beamed. 
"We will drink wine tonight!" I said "I've been saving a 2008 bottle from Grgich Hills for a special occasion like this, and how fitting that this year the winning Napa winemaker is celebrating his 90th birthday!" Once the words starting coming they did not stop. Apparently my verbal writer's block had been a very temporary condition.

Maybe I'll write "Writer's Neuroses Monthly" and let them know how I conquered my verbal writer's block. But first I'll pop open the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and toast to today, to wine, to how funny life is!--not funny "different" but funny "Ha, Ha, HA!"


My book, Evolution of Wine Drinker, is now available.

Big Day Coming

"Tomorrow's the big day," I said setting the breakfast plates on the table. 

"Today is," Mr Wonderful said slicing the bread.

"No, tomorrow's the big day because that's when my book will be available on Amazon."

"But today the plumber's coming." 

It had devolved to this. I was excited about publishing a wine book of my own and my spouse was thrilled to have a stranger roam our property discussing water pipe widths. After several years of couplehood, clearly our interests had diverged. 

Actually one part of me couldn't blame Mr. Wonderful. It was my life--not his--that had been consumed by writing, editing and publishing this wine book, so naturally he'd have different thoughts about it, if he had any thoughts about it at all, which he clearly didn't. But the other part of me thought he'd gone off the deep end with the never-ending DIY project that is The House.

Case in point: this month for his birthday I bought Mr. Wonderful gifts so classy the Three Magi wished they'd given them to baby Jesus, plus I got reservations at a hard-to-get-into sushi restaurant and I made a special dessert. But all he wanted was a reliable plumber. Our interests had met at the altar but now were going in opposite directions. 

Maybe the problem was with me? After all we had bought this fixer-upper together and we had both promised to love, honor and DIY The House until death do us part. Mr. Wonderful was still doing exactly what he'd promised. Thus it must be me who had changed. Maybe I was replacing my enthusiasm for improving The House together with my husband with my happiness about writing a book.

Something had to change. Someone had to compromise or else--

The door bell rang. I let the plumber in and together Mr. Wonderful and I showed him the work we wanted done on The House. Actually I was standing there but the two men were doing all the talking. The plumber monologued about the benefits of using a 1 inch pipe over a 3/4 inch one, how great the pipes were on his last job and the beauty of natural gas. Then Mr. Wonderful explained where the pipes needed to go, how we'd pull the permit, and that his wife--me!--would dig the two foot deep trench for the pipes. The plumber smiled and promised us an estimate within the hour.  Mr. Wonderful beamed; he had fallen in love with this plumber. The love fest was so hot and heavy fireworks were going off in the background.

"That went well," Mr. Wonderful said closing the door on the workman. His big day with the plumber had been officially made.

Although I didn't do the talking during the plumbing chitchat love fest,  I was tasked with following up with the plumber. Before lunch there wasn't an estimate. So after lunch I called the plumber and left a message about needing the estimate. By 7:30 PM I'd left two more messages. Over dinner with Mr. Wonderful I told him the plumber had dropped out of phone contact and we did not have the promised estimate. 

"He didn't seem like that kind of... plumber," my spouse said disappointment dripping from his words. But was the disappointment from the plumber's inaction or his own naïve belief in a workman's promise? I'd say both.

We ate dinner silently. 

"Hey, don't you have a big day tomorrow?" he said with a sudden realization. "Something about a wine book being published?" I smiled. And boom! Our interests made a U-turn and met, just like old times. And there were fireworks. Big ones that lit up the night sky!

P.S. My book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, is now available on Amazon.com!

Dog Gone Names

"Harold's calling," Mr. Wonderful said holding the phone toward me.

"We never talk on the phone. Why is he calling?" I said unloading the dishwasher. 

"I don't know.
"Is everything okay with him? And Norma?"
"I don't know."
"It would be horrible if they had a problem--"
"Why don't you just ask him?"

When Mr. Wonderful and I first moved into The House we'd exchanged emails with our 86 year-old neighbor and his wife. A week later we exchanged phone numbers. When Harold asked for my Skype address, I put my foot down. Yet despite having several modes of communication, all of us just preferred to walk next door and ask each other a question. It was old fashioned but I liked it.

But now Harold was calling us. Calling me. For what? To arrange lunch? A movie date? A poker night?  

"Talk to him," Mr. Wonderful said passing me the phone. But before I could say "hello", Norma was knocking on our side door. What was going on with our neighbors? Did they have a quarrel? A fistfight? A mud wrestling match?

"The dog's loose," Norma said her panicky blue eyes the color of a stormy sea. 

"You got a dog? Congratulations," I said. She waved me quiet.

"It's the neighbors' dog. It's loose."

"Jerry's dog?"

"The other neighbors' dog."

This seemed rather fishy to me. Norma and Harold were older than our neighborhood. In fact they were here when the railroad came through, the Pony Express rode in and Columbus discovered America . Why didn't they know which neighbor's dog it was? 

"Harold's on the phone," I said showing her the phone.

"Hang up. You need to get the dog, it's running around in the street." 

I did as the lady ordered and trotted outside to see Jerry in his front yard of roses waving his arms toward Charles and Stephen's house. Across the street I saw Harold herding a black and white dog toward the house very unsuccessfully. 

"Hi Harold."

"This dog belongs to the neighbors," he said. "And they're not home."

"It's Gordo. Hi, Gordo!" The dog looked up at me with an open mouth that resembled a smile. "Gordo means "fat" in Spanish." 

Harold looked at the black and white fur ball and nodded. "He is fat. But what are their names?"

"Gordo's owners?" I furred my brow. "Charles and Stephen, of course."

While Harold nodded his head, I dialed Charles on my phone, told them about Gordo's escape then helped the little sausage return to the fold. Since they were about to enter a movie screening, Charles gave profuse thanks for saving their dog and their evening out.

With Gordo safe and the neighborhood back to normal I thought about Harold not knowing our neighbors' names. Harold's brain was as sharp as a buzz saw, so his lack of knowing their names was not an Alzheimer's blip, stoke blip or uh… whatever else they call memory loss thingys. Nope, it must mean something else. 

Charles and Stephen bought their house two years before us. And in our yard we had spoken to Charles and Stephen with Harold and Norma several times. Then it hit me. Perhaps the four of them had never had been properly introduced, the good old fashioned way, with names and handshakes. That seemed wrong in our neighborhood.

The next day I saw Charles and Stephen walking back from the store at the same time that Harold and Norma were taking down the flag for the day. I seized my chance.

"Harold, Norma, have you ever met Charles and Stephen?"
"No."
"They're Gordo's owners."

Harold and Norman stopped in their yard where Charles and Stephen met them with thanks, handshakes and smiles.

Yes, it was old fashioned but I sure liked it. 

Abdication Coronation

"What do you want to do when you abdicate?" I said grabbing two bottles of Stella Artois. 
"People don't abdicate," Mr. Wonderful said pouring the beer. "They retire." 

First the Pope. Then the Dutch Queen. Now the Belgian King. Everyone's doing it. And by "it" I mean abdicating. King Albert of Belgium abdicated yesterday from the Belgian throne citing his old age and saying that it was time for a younger generation to lead the country, namely his 53 year-old son Phillippe. I personally don't think 79 is old. When my grandmother was 90 she was still still kicking around causing trouble, which means my family's genes don't come with a high profile, well-paying job but they do go the distance in high heels.

"Why do they call it a 'coronation' when the new king didn't receive a crown on his head?" I said watching the computer screen's live feed of yesterday's coronation of King Phillippe.

"Belgium's monarchy is low key," Mr. Wonderful said sipping a beer. 

Low-key? This was the understatement of the year. Not only was the monarchy low-key but the entire country was so laid back you needed to take its pulse to see if it was still alive. 

"Doctor, Belgium's heartbeat is 35 beats a minute."

"It's alive--barely--but it's alive!"

Belgium's Constitutional Monarchy has a democratically-elected government, a Prime Minister and a booming industry in royal be-decked stethoscopes. Two years ago Belgium almost split into two countries--a northern Dutch-speaking apart and a southern French-speaking part. King Albert was widely regarded as single-handedly keeping the country from dividing and putting it on life support.

Sitting on the sofa watching the palace balcony where the new King Phillippe and his wife Queen Matilde and their four children were waving to the crowds, I said.

"You met Phillippe in Los Angeles last month. Maybe you should send him a congratulations gift?"

"What do you buy a king?" Mr. Wonderful said with a shrug.

As the head of the royal family of Belgium, Phillippe has a palace in Brussels, a palace in the countryside and his face on postage stamps. What else could a new king want?

Belgium is a bilingual country where 6 million people speak Dutch and 4.5 million people speak French. Many of the Dutch speakers would like to abolish the monarchy altogether and become a Republic, while the francophones want the country and its monarchy to stay just as it is. Maybe the best thing we can give King Phillippe and Queen Matilde is the confidence to lead a nearly-dead, laid-back country that makes great beer, chocolate and diamonds into further prosperity and stability.

Even though I'm a commoner who will never abdicate, confidence seems like a gift he and his queen could really use. Or maybe a good pair of high heels to kick up in when they're 90.

Veel Geluk! Et Bonne Chance!

Big News

Other people buy a new kitten, marry or get promoted. 

I adopted a five year-old persnickety cat, I'm already hitched and I have the same job. I like change and I'd like to change, but Change, well it's not too big on me. Yet.

But wait! Something is new! 

And I'm talking about it here!

Thanks for clicking, reading and for just being you!

--Alicia

Getting a Facelift

It wasn't pretty. When I looked closely I could see lines, cracks and a faded glow. Ugh. These were the warning signs that it was time for a facelift. Of my pool.

On the sly, I called several pool professionals for estimates of doing the work. They quoted me prices that would have paid for a German car. Brand new.

When the professionals failed me, I knew Mr. Wonderful and I would give up several of our weekends to home repair. Again.

I was hesitant about the work but Mr. Wonderful dove into this latest DIY project. While he drained the pool I noticed there was a spring in his step and he whistled while he worked, like one of Snow White's dwarves. Doc.

I realized I'd be assisting the doctor on this massive procedure, so I spent hours studying how to give a pool facelift. Then I re-studied it because a crucial step included "spraying the pool with acid". Acid?! 

It was long, hard and it stank. But we sucked out the bad and replaced it with new. Professionals. 

Here are the steps to our pool's facelift:

Drain the water:

Power wash the walls and pool bottom:

Acid wash the interior to remove any excess paint or dirt:

Compare the difference between the acid-washed wall (left) and the non acid-washed wall (right). Gross, right?

Drain the pool of the acid and water. Let the surfaces dry out completely, which in Los Angeles takes 2.6 seconds.

Tape off the tiles to prevent painting them:

Paint the surfaces of the pool:

Let the first coat of paint dry out completely:

Paint a second coat: 

Fill the bad boy up and jump in!

I'm glad it's done. The paint company said this work will last for 10-20 years. But after that we'll have to give our lady another facelift. Oh... yippee.

At last, our lady looks like new again. Brand new. I wonder if anyone will notice?

Le 14 Juillet

Today is the 14th of July or as they say in France--la baguette eiffel escargot. On this day in 1789 the French people broke into the draconian Bastille Prison to free its inmates--all seven of them--and in doing so started a movement that freed themselves from royalty, gold furniture and white powdered wigs.

In honor of French freedom and independence, today I will eat cake. Long live Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité! 

Happy Bastille Day!

Pool or Spa? That is the Question

"It's summer," I said grabbing my beach towel with a grin.

"Yep," Mr. Wonderful said pulling on his work boots.

"The sun is hot and the sky is blue."

"Yep." 

"A perfect day to swim in the pool."

"Nope."

Mr. Wonderful was an enigma. He worked at the studio, he worked on The House, he even worked eating ice cream. In fact he worked very hard eating ice cream. With all the rich words in the English language, only one word could describe him and I don't mean: determined, committed, stubborn, irascible, bullish, pig-headed, or un-freakin'-believable. Nope, the one word that described him was: workaholic. Now at the height of summer when we should be enjoying our pool, hosting barbecues and winning Pétanque championships he wanted to work on the pool. 

One word: workaholic.

Granted, when we bought The House the pool's paint was chipping so we knew from day one that we'd have to repaint it sometime. After starting with fixing up the master bedroom, we'd worked our way from inside the House out in concentric circles until now we were forced to repaint the pool by sheer geometry and lack of circles--concentric or otherwise--because it just needed it. The last time the pool had been painted was during the Civil War. In other words, when Harold was middle aged.

"I painted it back in '62," our 86 year-old neighbor said scratching his nearly bald pate. "Or was it '63?" 

"You painted the pool alone?" I said surprised Harold could do such a huge job solo.

"Hell no. I did it with my father-in-law. Painting it alone? Only workaholics do that." I saw Mr. Wonderful's ears prick up at that one word then I watched his brain gears spin.

Now as I wanted to swim and my spouse laced his work boots he made an announcement.

"I'm going to repaint the pool alone."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said swapping my beach towel for shoes.

"I mean it. I'll do it and you, go to the spa, get your nails done, do what you want." To be honest I paused to think about this. The pause stretched into minutes while I imagined booking an appointment at Burke-Williams and having 14 people scrub, wash, clean, and color me beautiful. I imagined resting in the wet Hammam spa like Cleopatra, then going into the dry Swedish spa like Thor--or maybe I was joining Thor in the dry spa? I pictured myself plunging into the hot tub and relaxing my aching muscles--

But how achey could they be if I were in the spa being fed red grapes and my spouse was repainting the pool alone?  

One word: guilty. 

It took my brain and conscience some time--16 hours, to be exact--but eventually I told him that of course I would not, could not go to the spa while he worked on the pool. I insisted that he and I would repaint the pool together. Like Scheherazade who told her husband a story every night to prolong her life one more day, I decided to toil with my workaholic husband to prolong my marriage one more day. 

One word: smart.

"So where do we start?" I said swapping my bikini for work clothes and my spa daydreams for a brush.

"Before painting we have to drain the pool," he said sinking a pocket-sized sub-pump into our watering hole.

"That will take days," I said looking from the tiny pump to our pacific pool.

"Which means we have time to go to the spa. Together," he said removing his work boots.

One word: brilliant! 

Cooling Off

"What do you want for breakfast?" Mr. Wonderful asked entering the kitchen.

"Just ice," I said standing under the spinning ceiling fan.

"You want coffee?" 

"Just ice."

"How about tea?"

"Just ice!"

Here are some facts about Southern California: 1) It's always sunny; 2) It never rains; 3) Sun block is considered clothing. Every day I see people walking around with shorty shorts and tiny tanks and lathered in sun block. See, they wear it like clothing. 

A SoCal fact you may not know is that lately it's been hot. I don't mean 85 degrees F hot. I mean, you have entered hell, your face is melting and your body is a huge puddle of oil. In other words, 105 on the thermometer and zero humidity.

To deal with the heat I've noticed each of our neighbors has his own method. Harold rushes out at 5:00 AM to get the paper and hoist his flag. Then he and Norma disappear into their house and sit in front of their air conditioner. All day. 

Charles and Stephen avoid their house altogether. In the morning they go to work and sit in their air conditioned offices, afterwards they eat dinner in an air-conditioned restaurant, they end the night at an air conditioned club where they dance like Burning Man participants until 3 AM.

As for me, I get in the pool and swim. Before work, after work, during work--day dreaming here. The pool is my heat refuge. 

Evidently I'm not the only one.

After my ice breakfast, Mr. Wonderful and I made the rounds we looked at: Our withering tomato crop; Our dry cacti; The lizard in our pool--

What?!

Sure enough a Southern California Alligator Lizard was floating in our swimming pool. 

"He's not moving," Mr. Wonderful said.

"Maybe he's dead."

"He's a lizard, they like water."

"He's from Southern California, he's never seen water!"

Mr. Wonderful grabbed the pool net and scooped the lizard out. He set the net with the lizard on the sun-warmed red bricks and we stepped back. Was it dead?

I inched closer and the animal opened its mouth and hissed at me. Actually it didn't hiss, but if it could have hissed, it would have been the biggest roar-hiss ever. Instead it just opened its toothless mouth. Was it trying to scare me? Was it trying to cool down? Did it want some of my ice?

Maybe not. We left it alone and went to work. When we came home the net was right where Mr. Wonderful had left it but the lizard was gone. 

Whew! The lizard hadn't died. The lizard was alive. And the lizard was back in its lizard home eating its own supply of lizard ice. Definitely.