Halloween Throwback

"Happy Halloween, Harold!" I said carrying bags of candy from my car.
"Is that today?" my 86 year-old neighbor said taking down his flag.
"What candy are you handing out?"
"None. I won't be home."
"You're going to a party?"
"No, I'll be home."
"But--"
"I hate Halloween."

Since moving to this suburban neighborhood in Southern California, I'd seen and heard a lot of unusual things but I could honestly say this was the first time I'd ever heard any human being say that they didn't like Halloween. How? Why? When I  was a kid I distinctly remembered one house on the block that handed out huge Hershey bars. Throughout the year I had no contact with that house or its residents but on Halloween, the lady of the house kindly asked what I was dressed as for Halloween.

"A pum'kin."
"And what a fine pumpkin you are," she said smiling and dropped the biggest chocolate bar I'd ever received into my bag.  Suddenly that house became the "chocolate bar house" and every year I went back to get another huge chocolate bar and share some nice words with the lady. That house, that lady, those chocolate bars made me love the 31st of October. Halloween was a holiday of costumes, practical jokes and free candy. How could anyone not like it?

"Harold, what's not to like about Halloween?"
"I hate the costumes, the practical jokes and handing out free candy," Harold said. Ahhh, just when I thought I knew my neighbor, he went off and surprised me. "The kids know to avoid our house."
"You can't avoid Halloween."
"Yes, I can," he said rolling up his flag and pulling down the blinds inside his house.

Harold may be a Halloween bah-humbug but his wasn't the only house on the block.

I saw Jerry sweeping his front steps.
"Getting ready for Halloween, Jerry?" I hollered.
"We've already had several groups of trick or treaters," he said adjusting his San Francisco baseball cap.
"It's still light out."
"The kids know we've got candy for them."

Which is how it should be on the 31st of October.

Inside The House I opened a bottle of wine and poured the candy I'd bought into a bowl. The candy bars stuck out of the bowl because I'd bought the biggest chocolate bars I could find in honor of the lady I knew from the Halloweens of my youth. I can't wait to ask kids what they're dressed as and give them free candy. For me, Halloween is about paying it back.

Happy Halloween!

Pumpkins!

"I got the pumpkins," I said lugging two orange gourds to the table.
"Okay," Mr Wonderful said looking up from his book.
"We're going to a carving party."
"Okay?"
"It's going to be fun!"
Silence.

As a kid, the best things about Halloween are dressing up and eating free candy. As an adult, the best things are: 1) Dressing up; 2) Eating free candy; and 3) Carving pumpkins!

Unfortunately, I was the only one in The House that thought so, which wasn't saying much since the only other person in the household was Mr. Wonderful.

"Remind me why people carve pumpkins," he said looking at the gourds as if they were foul-smelling skunks.
"It's tradition."
"Which doesn't make it right."
"Traditions are good."
"What about dressing in blackface?"

He did have a point. Some things that happened in the past should be left in the past. And people today should be smart enough to know what offensive things from the past should be forgotten and what good things from the past should be kept. Here's my short list: pumpkin carving should be remembered and celebrated.

Never having carved a pumpkin, Mr. Wonderful was not convinced. However through the power of promises of wine and free candy, I lured him to the carving party.

Our hostess provided homemade chili, carving tools and even patterns. She really outdid herself! While sipping wine and munching on candy, chips and salsa and that tasty chili, we hobnobbed with the other guests and learned that I had the most experience carving pumpkins. The reason was that my father had encouraged me to be good with a knife. Apparently he hoped I'd grow up to be a doctor, a surgeon or a ninja. Although I didn't choose a medical career, becoming a ninja is still a possibility.

Since I'd carved so many pumpkins in my day, I could carve the pumpkin of every person present in 6.6 seconds and bake the pumpkin seeds. I drew an outline on my orange globe and went to town on the carving. Meanwhile Mr. Wonderful cautiously picked up a pen and began to outline his pumpkin's face. While I cut delicate eyelashes into my pretty pumpkin's visage, he charged ahead carving his gourd with bold, Zorro-like strokes.

SWISH, SWISH, SWASH. I watched his face as he worked and it was covered in a broad smile.

"Let's see," I said before he spun his pumpkin toward us.
"Ooh!"
"Ahh!" Its fierce eyes, its toothy grin, everyone loved his carved pumpkin. In fact, his first try at carving was better than all the pumpkins I'd carved in my entire life--combined.  He was a natural with a knife.

As we left the party carrying our carved pumpkins I asked my spouse what he'd thought of the evening.
"It was fun," he said.
"Because it's a tradition worth keeping or you're actually a ninja in disguise?" He showed me the long blade of his knife and smiled.

My father would have been proud of him.

It's Over

I tried to make it work.

I failed.

It's finito.

Southern California is world famous for growing oranges, lemons and the budgets of blockbuster Hollywood movies but this summer it failed in the tomato department. I know what you're thinking: "Are my tax dollars paying for the Tomato Department," let me assure you that they most definitely are not. And even if they were--which they most assuredly are not--it would not have helped the pathetic red fruits in my backyard's garden patch. In fact, the entire bajillion-dollar budget of the federal government could not have helped any of my tomatoes. And that was before the government shut down.

This year was the worst six months of tomato growing on record--that is, on my record. There are some years that produce superior quality products, like: 1) Chevrolet's 1955 Bel Air; 2) Bordeaux's 1982 grapes; 3) Last year's tomatoes. But this year was horrible for tomatoes, or as the experts call it, "An icky, stinker year".

My summer tomatoes were small in size and smaller in number. For months, going out to the veggie patch to pick sun-ripened tomatoes was depressing. So I'd made a decision: I would rip out the tomatoes and not replant them or any other veggie or fruit. I was done with fruits and veggies. In the future, I would just plant perennials and natives. I cleared the garden bed in 6.1 seconds dumping the dead tomato plants in the greens bin. Jackson, my trusty helping cat, sat near me looking on with disinterest.

Staring at the empty garden bed the mystery of why the tomato plants failed fired my mind. Much like how a murder mystery would tickle the brain of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. A thought came to me. Perhaps the cause for the paltry pasta-sauce making produce was due to global warming? Yes, Watson! The planet's warmer temperatures had caused 1) Fires in Colorado; 2) The Super Storms of Sandy; and 3) Iceland's entire population to have golden, full-body tans. So perhaps global warming had prohibited tomato growth in my backyard? It was elementary! Although… tomatoes do love the sun, which is why they grow so well in SoCal, Italy and at the beach.

"Global warming was not to blame for my lack of tomatoes," I told my trusty helper. Jackson licked his paw.

Perhaps it was the lack of bees? Bees are pollinators who play a crucial role in fertilizing plants to produce the fruit, which ripens to feed every pasta lover on the planet. However an epidemic was sweeping farm country--and my backyard--where whole bee colonies were dying. Ah-ha, Watson! Fewer bees translated to fewer tomatoes. It was so elementary! However after significant research, it seemed that the bees have been dying off because of pesticide use. I didn't use any pesticides in my backyard, which meant:

"The lack of bees did not cause my lack of tomatoes," I announced to my trusty sidekick. Jackson rolled in the sun.

What other reason could explain the slim pickings in my tomato patch this summer?

"TCH, TCH!" A sharp sound echoed across the yard. I looked to the fence and there, perched on it like he owned the place was my ultimate nemesis: The Squirrel. And he looked very plump. Of course, Watson! That sneaky, no good rodent was the cause of my puny tomato pickings. His thicker body and serious weight gain was all thanks to the tomatoes he'd stolen and eaten since May! It's very elementary! I knew just what to do!

"Attack, Jackson!" I said willing my lazy kitty to action. But he didn't need my encouragement, he'd heard The Squirrel and was staring right at the portly rodent.

"TCH, TCH!" The Squirrel flicked its bushy tail, which only spurned Jackson on. Jackson bent his legs then slunk across the yard to the fence where our supreme nemesis perched. Jackson leaped into the rosemary bed. I saw the panic in The Squirrel's beady eyes. Jackson extended his forelegs up the fence with an audible "Ping, Ping, PING!" as his claws sprung out like Samurai swords. His sharp claws were just two feet from The Squirrel. As the rodent's eyes popped out of its head, he turned and scampered into the neighbor's tree far away from my trusty, clawed assistant. And what a trusty assistant! He was my Watson and I was his Holmes. He would keep The Squirrel at bay!

This year is over and it will go down as the worst year for tomatoes. But this fall I'm planting again: spinach, lettuce, broccoli, kale, onions, and chives to be ready for tomato planting next summer.

It's beginning.

The Accident

"A driver just hit my car," I said into the phone, my arm shaking.

"Tell me about your accident," the insurance agent said flatly as if she were asking for directions.

"It's not 'my' accident."

"Whose is it then?"

"She hit me."

"But it happened to you."

Here's what I know about car accidents: 1) Every accident is unique; 2) Every accident costs money; and 3) Every accident is a pain in the rear-end, posterior, derriere, seat and tuchis. And if you get rear-ended like I did, you can add "pain in the neck" to the list of ailments. Here are some new things I've learned about accidents: 1) Whip lash is no fun; 2) Talking to insurance companies, mechanics and doctors takes time; and 3) Women drivers. There, I said it.

The accident happened when I was stopped at a traffic light. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a white car approaching from behind. The white car didn't stop. Boom! It hit me. The other driver said she'd pay for the damages out of pocket. I believed her. Stupid me.

I went to the doctor for the pain in my neck. I took my car to body shops. I got estimates for the repairs. I called the woman who hit me and gave her the estimates because she said she'd pay. She refused to pay. Stupid me.

Luckily I'd called my insurance company who were great and handled things. I felt less stupid.

At work I told two female friends about the accident and the woman driver who refused to pay.

"Accidents are the worst," Monica said shaking her head. "When I hit that guy two years ago he was a jerk about it."

"You hit him?" 

"Yeah, he was foreign and cursed me out in Italian."

"Accidents bite the big one," Susan nodded. "Last year I backed into a guy in the parking garage."

"You hit him?"

"Yeah, and he went ballistic."

"Mercedes ballistic or BMW ballistic?"

"Porsche ballistic."

I didn't press my friends any further on their accidents because they did the right thing. They caused the accident and they paid for it.

Causing an accident is like being pregnant: you either are or you aren't. There's no middle ground. So it doesn't matter if you hit a Jaguar, a Ford or a dune buggy, if you caused an accident, you need to pay for it. 

So women--and men--drivers, when you're behind the wheel, do everyone a favor and don't text or talk on the phone. Just focus on driving. I bet then there would be fewer accidents on the road. 

And if not, I'll just curse in Italian.

Wine and Halloween!

If wine isn't part of your Halloween, then you need to make some new traditions! And if you need some suggestions, I have some here for wine and Halloween traditions!

Enjoy!

Waiting for Godot

"Where is he?" the plumber hollered at the fence.

"Not here," I said letting Michael into the backyard.

"I bet he won't come."

"We'll find out soon enough."

"Nothing to be done."

"Except… wait."

Ahhh, Waiting. It's an exercise in patience whether you're waiting for a pot to boil, a pay raise to happen or Santa Claus to bring you Barbie's Malibu Beach House, the Exclusive Pinktastic version.  But all that pales in comparison to waiting for the City Inspector to approve the work on your house.

It took several months of back-breaking work but after digging a trench, hiring plumbers and electricians to do the work, the day had now arrived when we'd learn if everything had been done correctly. I thought Michael's plumbing work was professional and Jeffrey's electrical work was stellar, but my opinions didn't matter if the City Inspector didn't think so. In home improvement the City Inspector is the judge, jury and king. And it's very good to be king.

Hoping to impress the Inspector, our plumber arrived first thing in the morning wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans to answer any questions the City Inspector might have about Michael's work. Only the plumber--not the electrician--was required to be present for the inspection. When I asked why this was Michael said there was a pecking order in home improvement inspections: The Inspector is the Emperor, the Electrician is the Empress and the Plumber is the Court Jester.

"That means you're funny," I said before Michael gave me a dirty look and retreated to his car to make phone calls, proving that Court Jesters don't necessarily have a sense of humor. After waiting three hours in his air-conditioned but still hot car, Michael marched up to The House.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm tired of waiting. I'm leaving."
"No!" I said thinking fast. "Can I get you something?"
"You have a phone charger?" Michael had made so many calls that his phone was dead. I handed him a battery charger and he stomped off to his car. Two hours later he reappeared.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm leaving."
"No! Uh, how about a drink?" I said filling a glass with ice water and handing it to him.
"I'm not thirsty" Michael sniffed. He'd been sitting in his car for five hours and it was 102 degrees Fahrenheit in my kitchen freezer, of course he was thirsty. And hard-headed and the antithesis of Court Jester funny.
"Drink it," I pushed the glass at him. Michael accepted the beverage and gulped its contents in 2.6 seconds. I refilled his glass then watched as he proceeded to drink enough water to fill Hoover Dam. Twice. But still, the Inspector did not come.

"Where is he?" Michael stamped his foot then retreated to his car to listen to music.

An hour later Michael pounded on the door.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm leaving now."
"No! Uh, how about lunch?"
"I'm not hungry," Michael growled. He'd been at our house for six hours waiting for the City Inspector, of course he was hungry. And stubborn and the dictionary definition of "not funny".
"I'll make smoothies," I said pouring fresh strawberries, yoghurt and juice into the blender. I whirred its contents at the exact moment Michael was shaking his head and protesting. I popped a straw into the glass and handed it to him. "Drink it."
He sipped some then stopped.
"This is good."
"I used Greek yoghurt."
"You went to Greece to buy this?" Michael asked with a slight upward tilt to his mouth.
"Specifically, Athens. There's a joint next to the Parthenon that sells yoghurt two for one."
"Ha-ha!" Michael said sporting a full smile. Maybe the Court Jester did have a funny bone after all?

In the shady backyard we sat at the table and cracked jokes. We devoured our smoothies and the refills. Michael said my avocado tree looked lame because good avocados can't be grown in Los Angeles. I protested. He said Mexico had the world's best avocados. For the honor of our countries' produce, I challenged him to an arm wrestling match. We were laughing, our forearms locked in battle, when a voice over us sounded:

"I don't want to interrupt you and your friend but I'm the Inspector." The 50-something man said peering down at us.
"We've been waiting for you all day!" Michael and I said in unison.

The City Inspector came! He approved all the work! The Court Jester was free to go!

"And I was having so much fun," Michael said kicking the dirt with his shoe. "So, I guess this is... good-bye." He lingered at the gate, reluctant to go. I thought about future jobs in The House.
"Do you do bathroom repairs?"
"All the time."
"I'll call you."
"You better," Michael said leaving with a smile.

Sometimes the waiting is the worst part, and sometimes, it's the part that makes everything worthwhile.

"Wine Changed My Life"

Wine smells good, tastes good and can change your life.

If you don't believe me about the changing-your-life part, check out this story about wine changing a guy's life.

Cheers!

The Electrical Princess

"The plumber's work is done," I said buttering my toast. 

"Yes," Mr. Wonderful said reaching for the ringing telephone. 

"And tomorrow the electrician comes to do his work."

"Yes?" he said into the phone.

"So by Monday night everything will be done!" 

"No," Mr Wonderful said handing me the phone.

The phone call brought bad news. But phone calls with good news never happen first thing in the morning unless you're 1) The grandmother-to-be of a new born baby (which I wasn't); 2) The winner of the Nobel Peace Prize (which I wasn't) or 3) Meryl Streep (which I wasn't... yet). 

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to the electrician who informed me he was canceling. Canceling the day before a scheduled work day! UGH.

"Why," I said choking on my toast. 

"My third-grade daughter is playing a princess in the school play tomorrow."

"But why," I said brushing crumbs from my face. 

"She's loves princesses?" the electrician said questioning his own excuse.

"But why now?"

"She had a great audition?"

His daughter's school play? What kind of excuse was that? Please. It wasn't like she'd never be in another school play again. These days kids have school plays every week in third grade. But the electrician didn't care that he was leaving me in the trench-laden lurch while he skipped off to the elementary school's cafeteria to see his princess play a princess. I wished he hadn't told me why he had to cancel. UGH.

So it was back to the drawing board for me in finding an electrician. Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest did not have to deal with finding an electrician. I searched Angie's list, the neighbors' lists and all the lists of my 6,000 Facebook friends. I dialed, emailed, texted, tweeted, Pinterested and Instagramed for an electrician. Finally, lo and behold, I found one!

Jeffrey came, saw the situation, gave me an estimate and left. On Tuesday, Jeffrey's men came, saw the work and left… to get more parts. Soon both electricians returned to the house and while the young one worked on the wiring, the older one left… to get more parts. Again.

I chatted with the young one who was so amiable and pleasant. When the older one came back to work on the job I chatted to him and he was even more amiable and more pleasant then… he left to get more parts. The older one spent more time "going to get more parts" than there were parts required to do all the work on our house. Into perpetuity.

The whole day was an endless stream of electricians coming and going. But by the close of business on Monday, the electrical work was done, it was professional and it looked stellar. I thanked both men profusely. They smiled and nodded.

That evening I called Jeffrey.

"Your men did a fabulous job on my House. Thank you," I said smiling into the phone.

"On your job," Jeffrey said "I miscalculated the parts, the labor and the work. It was the job from hell. Serious hell."  UGH. I wished he hadn't told me how hard the job was. My House is my joy. No one wants to think that the thing they love dearly--their House--is anything less than perfect. Suddenly I understood how the first electrician felt about his third-grade daughter performing in the school play. Whatever or whomever we love is our princess and others should respect our loved ones.

I called the first electrician and asked how his daughter did in the play.

"She was the perfect princess," he said beaming.

"Of course she was," I said. "Because she's yours."

Being the Bad Guy

"The plumber's back," Mr Wonderful said peering out the window and setting down his coffee cup.

"Good," I said emptying my tea cup.

"I'll be the bad guy."

"I'll be the bad guy."

"I said it first."

"I'm more diplomatic!" I said elbowing past Mr. Wonderful.

The hardest thing for DIY fixer uppers like Mr. Wonderful and I was letting someone else do the work on The House while we sat idly by. The short--and long--reason was: We didn't trust anyone to do the work as well as we knew we could. But the plumbing and electrical projects we needed had to be done by licensed, bonded professionals. So after we dug a formidable trench, we contracted a plumber who came, installed pipes and left. The only problem was said plumber did the work while leaving said pipes sticking out of our house like the bolts poking out of Frankenstein's neck. The short--and long--of it was: It wasn't pretty. So now Mr. Wonderful and I were debating who would to talk to the plumber about this Franken-house problem.

"Morning, Michael," I said waving to the plumber.

"Hi--" Michael said smiling.

"My wife wants to talk to you," Mr Wonderful said deferring to me. Ahhh, I married a wise man.

"What a beautiful morning," Michael said flashing his pearly whites. Note to self: everyone in L.A. has gorgeous teeth, including the plumbers.

"That's right, I want to talk to you," I said leaping between my spouse and the plumber.

"Your house is so beautiful," Michael said looking around. "When I was here yesterday I spent all day in the trench and attic that I didn't get to experience how nice it is here. It's really nice."

My anger faded. My heart melted. The plumber liked my House? I loved this plumber!

"Thank you," I said blushing as if he'd complimented me on my hair, eyes or stellar sense of humor. "You did excellent work," I added. Behind me I heard Mr. Wonderful roll his eyes. Without a doubt, he is the loudest roller of eyes I've ever known. 

"Okay, I'll be going then," Michael said turning on his heel and heading back to his truck.

"Wait," Mr Wonderful said in a slow, deep voice. My spouse's vocal chords were well suited for a radio announcer, a story-book reader or a hard-baller giving someone a big-time reprimand. Now I thought--now!--Michael's going to hear how unhappy we are with his work, see how it looked like a Frankenstein plumbing job, and know that it had to be redone like, yesterday. 

Unfortunately Michael was either a rebel or terribly hard of hearing because he kept walking. He walked away from Mr. Wonderful, away from me and toward the back gate which would give him total freedom from our wrath. Once he passed through that gate, we'd never get him back to fix this horrible pipe job. 

When suddenly, a miracle happened.

"Meow," Jackson said rubbing up against the offending pipes sticking out of the house wall. "Meow."

"Hello, pussy cat," Michael said bending down to pet our tuxedo feline. Jackson plopped down on his belly right in the plumber's path causing the workman to freeze. He looked at the pipes, coughed then said, "Why didn't you tell me I did a bad job right here?" 

"Ahhh. Well?" Mr. Wonderful and I said in unison and shrugged. Michael tsk-tsked us.

The short--and long--story is: Michael removed the pipes from sticking out of the facade of our House and relaid them so they were hidden and flush with the wall, just like we wanted. And they looked great.

Ahhh, Jackson. He had freed Mr. Wonderful and me from being the bad guy. Next time we need a hard-hitting complainer to talk to the contractors, we're going to the ultimate baddie: Jackson our tuxedo-wearing cat.

Good News x 3!

Life is hard.
Disappointments happen.
Plumbers cancel.

So when good news happens, we need to celebrate it! And today is a day of celebration times 3!

1) The paperback version of my book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, is now available at Amazon! Feeling the book's 3D heft in my hands, turning its paper pages and seeing its glossy cover have made this writing experience all the more wonderful. It's real now. Yippee!

2) A screenplay that I wrote made the Quarter-Finals of the Final Draft Big Break Screenplay Writing Competition! Who knows what will happen next but I'm pretty happy about the Quarter-Final results! Yippee x 2!

3) I found a plumber who will do the work in our backyard! Actually Mr. Wonderful talked to a friend who recommended this plumber, but no matter! After scouring the entire state for an available, affordable, reliable plumber, we've got one! Yippee x 3!

Good news is worth celebrating and I intend to celebrate all day long. HOORAY!

Have you got any good news you want to share?

Shrimp and Lemon Pasta--Recipe

You spoke and I heard you!

My readers either love shrimp and lemon pasta dinners a lot, or they have spouses who spring hungry mongrels on them with 20 minutes to cook. Either way, I'm happy to share this recipe of Shrimp and Lemon Pasta with you.

INGREDIENTS: feeds 4

Pasta; 16 ounces / or 450 grams (I like brown rice pasta but you can use traditional wheat pasta) 

Shrimp, peeled, tail off; 32 ounces/ or 900 grams (I like a healthy dose of shrimp in my dishes)

1/2 cup white white (Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon Blanc or whatever white wine you're drinking while cooking)

1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (Meyer lemons are delicious)

Parsley, chopped (I like the curly variety)

Cheese Parmigiano-Reggiano or Mozzarella, grated (for topping)

DIRECTIONS:

1) Bring a large pot of water to a boil on the stove top. Salt the pot (I use 2-3 shakes of my salt shaker). The salted water adds flavor to the pasta. When the water boils, pour dry pasta into pot and stir occasionally to ensure pasta cooks thoroughly.

2) I keep two bags of shrimp in my freezer at all times for last minute dinner occasions like this. Defrost shrimp in bowl of warm water. When room temperature, put shrimp into a frying pan with white white and cook over medium high heat. The shrimp will shrink absorbing some of the wine's flavors. That's a good thing.

3) Drain pasta. Add pasta directly to the shrimp in frying pan.

4) Add lemon juice to shrimp and pasta. Toss so shrimp and pasta are coated in lemon juice.

5) Dish into pasta bowls, cereal bowl or ice cream bowls, garnish with fresh parsley and grated cheese.

6) Serve. Voila!

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I do. If you make this recipe, let me know how it goes!

Bon Appetit!

Dinner on the Fly

"Hello?" I said holding the phone to my ear while juggling four bags of groceries. 

"Let's do dinner at home tonight," the deep voice of Mr. Wonderful said. 

"Sounds great."

"Brian and Chad will be joining us."

"Sounds busy--"

"We'll be there in 20 minutes."

Sounds crazy!

After a long week of work, meetings and extra phone calls to plumbers who could--then could not--do the job in our backyard trench, I was looking forward to a quiet, stress-free Friday night. Clearly Mr. Wonderful had other plans and they included his ravenous 30-something friends, Brian and Chad eating, and yours truly cooking. 

In Los Angeles everyone says "I'll be there in 20 minutes" but everyone knows they're lying. Going from point A in the city to Point B in 20 minutes is--to be blunt--impossible. In fact, getting from the Santa Monica Pier to the adjacent Santa Monica Beach takes 45 minutes, give or take an hour for parking. 

The only exception to this 20-minute rule was Mr. Wonderful driving from the work studio back home. For that one journey, the man had a knack for doing it in 20 minutes. Which meant I had exactly 20 minutes to prepare a meal for the hungry hordes. 

I acted in steps:

1) First, I put the groceries away, aka I dumped the bags into the fridge.

2) Then I counted the mouths to feed. We would be just four adults but three men's mouths equals nine women's mouths. Suddenly I was cooking for 10.

3) What fed a lot of people? Pasta, of course! Luckily I keep a stash of pasta on hand at all times. Tonight was no exception. Congratulated myself on being so organized.

4) Put pot of water on stove top to boil said pasta.

5) Searched pantry for pasta sauce. Found none. Cursed pasta sauce hoping it would magically appear in pantry if I cursed enough. (It didn't.) Cursed myself for being so unorganized. Remembered seeing eight tomatoes growing in the backyard that morning. Ran to veggie patch only to discover The Squirrel had eaten all eight of my tomatoes. Cursed The Squirrel for making my life harder and for eating enough tomatoes for 20!

6) Remembered I had a lemon shrimp pasta recipe. 

7) Defrosted shrimp, cut parsley, squeezed lemons. Cut finger. Cursed The Squirrel because all this was his fault.

8) Checked clock. I had five minutes until their arrival! Set table, uncorked wine, set out two bowls of nuts to nibble on.

9) Sprinted to closet, changed clothes--six times.

10) Dumped everything into pots and pans while using my left left foot to put on lipstick.

11) Mr. Wonderful walked through the front door with two famished friends in tow.

12) I dished up the food and the 10, I mean four, of us sat down at the table outside, under the stars.

Watching the men eat and hearing them marvel over the flavor of the food, warmed my heart. They raised their glasses and toasted to the cook. I smiled and thanked them before adding:

"Twenty minutes ago when my husband said he was bringing two friends home for dinner, I told him: 'that sounds… perfect'."

And it was.

Thursday Throwback

"Guess who this is?" I said pointing to the computer screen.
"Your friend Peggy--" Mr. Wonderful said looking at the picture.
"Anything else?"
"Kennedy, Peggy Kennedy."
"That was her name, yes, but what's she holding?"
"... Jackson?"

There it was in black, white, yellow, cyan and magenta: a picture of my dear friend with her little kitten that grew into our huge cat. Peggy had found him as a wee one on the "24" stages, adopted him and named him in honor of Jack Bauer.

How fun to have a picture of our eight year-old cat when he was so itty-bitty. Since our feline was now hitting middle age in cat years, we could look back at his early, youthful days in this picture and smile, mostly because this is one of the few photos I have where Jackson is not sleeping. But all that sleeping he did made sense. He was an old cat. Ahhh, yes, this kitten picture is perfect for Throwback Thursdays.

Then I looked closer. The picture was taken in October of 2007, which meant Jackson wasn't eight years-old, but was just now turning... six. Six! He was still so young, which meant all that sleeping he did was because he was still growing, like a hungry teenager with attitude!

When is Jackson going to college?

Trench Warfare

"How's it going down there?” I said standing on the edge of the pit. 

"Slowly," Mr. Wonderful said tossing soil with his shovel.

"The Army's best work is done slowly." 

"This is glacially slow."

"And you're doing a fine job, soldier."

Silence.

Wartime is loud but also, it is surprisingly full of silences: like those moments when soldiers get lost in their thoughts to contemplate life, death and when will all this interminable digging be finished?!

I knew something about war. As the general leading the work on this corner of the Western Front of California, I especially knew it was hard leading an army of one. Here I was on the edge of the empire trying to inspire a lone Doughboy to dig a trench. I tried various techniques. I told him the trenches would: 1) Be our defensive weapon; 2) Keep the enemy at bay and; 3) Serve as an electrical conduit for my clothes dryer, because every general needs a clothes dryer. Governments have toppled for much less. Ask the Romans.

The digging had started to remove concrete, graduated to deleting a sarcophagus and now had progressed to digging trenches to run from the main house to the guesthouse. The trenches had to be two feet deep and two feet wide in order to allow for new water pipes, gas pipes and electrical conduits. As we say in the Army, it wasn't KP duty.

"I can’t dig anymore,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing his shovel out of the pit. 

“You can’t or you won’t?” I said standing over him, firm in my boots.

“Both.”

“Winning the war means digging, soldier.”

Private First Class Wonderful crawled out of the pit and plopped on the ground. The soldier was exhausted. I jumped into the trench and seized the shovel. Enough talking about leading. I should just lead, by which I meant shovel.

The whole day I dug, burrowed, dredged, exhumed, hoed, mined, quarried, scooped, tilled and forked out, over and under until I had dirt in my ears, nose and throat. I flung the shovel out of the pit and climbed out.

"Looks good," Pfc. Wonderful said brushing the dirt from my uniform.

"Son," I said "That's how a general digs."

"Like a gerbil?" he said pointing to the dirt under my fingernails.

"Quiet or I'll demote you for insubordination!" Private Wonderful rolled his eyes. I would have demoted him, but the glass of water he handed me made me reconsider it.

With the trench finished the next step was up to me. I had to contact and secure a plumber to install the new gas and water pipes and delete the old ones. Compared to digging trenches, using a crank phone to dial a few workmen would be a breeze. Or as we say in the Army, it's totally KP duty, dude.

First, I dialed the plumber who'd done the inspection on The House when Pfc. Wonderful and I had moved ourselves into this farmhouse property among the countryside's fields, orchards and BMWs. The plumber said he didn't have time to get involved in the warzone.

Next, I checked Yelp.com where I learned by reading the consumer reviews that one plumber could be the best thing since sliced bread and the worst things since stale bread. It was as if every plumber was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; both an angel and a devil. War was hell enough without hiring a potential satan.

Then I went to Angie's List because that brigadier general knows how to organize an army of reviewers and keep them honest. The reviews were good, there were plenty of plumbers to choose from but they didn't call me back, not because they were rude but because they were so busy working for other generals up and down the Western Front.

I asked advice of a neighboring general, Gen. Harold Haroldus. He'd earned his stripes in the War of 1812 so, he'd seen his share of war zones, trenches and plumbers.
"Angie's list always worked for me," he said shuffling back to his barracks.

Drat! I already tried that! I looked around the campground and noticed Gen. Jerry Jeroldus. He'd tricked out his trenches with barbed wire, or were they rose bushes? No matter, the man was very clever, he must have an answer.

"I have a great plumber," he said adjusting his general's hat. "He replumbed my entire house."
"Tell me who," I said with pen, paper and ink pot in hand.
"He moved to Florida and bought a yacht. Evidently he made his huge fortune replumbing my house."

Drat! Were there no good plumbers left on the Western Front? I noticed General Charles Charleson surveying his camp. I marched over and asked him.

"I've got one. The best," Gen. Charleson said. I made note of the plumber's name, rank and serial number and called him up. The plumber came out to the property and agreed to to do the work for a fair price. Yes!

"See, soldier," I said to Pfc. Wonderful. "That's how we do things in the Army." Wonderful didn't hear me because he was on KP duty.

Book Teaser

Do you like teasers?
Do you like books?
Do you like wine?

Well, today's your lucky day because you can read a Teaser excerpt from a Book about Wine. Mine!

My book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, is being featured on this Writing about Writing website hosted by the lovely and talented Damyanti.

So grab a glass of wine and check it out!

Thanks and CHEERS!
--Alicia

The Big Dig

“I’ve got your shovel,” I said hoisting the tool.

“Okay,” Mr. Wonderful said lacing his boots.

“I’ve got my hammer and chisel.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got our pith helmets.”

Silence.

It was a new day on our expedition and I was thrilled because I love beginnings. Actually today’s project was not so much a new beginning as a continuation of what we’d been doing for several weeks. But that’s how it goes on archeological digs. Each expedition is composed of smaller expeditions, each “Big Dig” is comprised of smaller digs, and—as my esteemed fellow archeologists say—each clump of earth is made up of beaucoup muddy dirt balls. 

Luckily I was not digging alone. My trusty assistant, a bloke by the name of “Wonderful”, was working this dig with me. Actually he’d been working for me since I’d found him on a gig some years back and I kept him around because—as my esteemed fellow archeologists say—if you find a man who likes to work, make sure he never leaves you.  

Our Big Dig was located in the hinterlands of California, specifically, the Valley, specifically, the plot next to an ancient watering hole, in other words, my swimming pool. On this Big Dig we’d already discovered a sarcophagus, near impenetrable concrete and endless back pain. But it was a new day and I was thrilled to see what today’s digging would reveal!

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mr. Wonderful said grabbing a shovel. I hired the bloke for his brute strength but it didn’t stop him from having opinions. But as my esteemed fellow archeologists say about their assistants—opinions, shaminions.

Indeed all that mattered to me was history, ancient cultures and discovering the truth. So I grabbed my tools and got to work. While the Wonderful bloke did the digging I, armed with hammer and chisel, chipped away at the bricks to remove them and get to more dirt for us to dig more, which was more than exciting! Since the bricks had covered a significant portion of the dig site since ancient times, specifically, the 1950s, who knew what we’d discover!

“We won’t find anything,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing earth over his shoulder. 

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” I said just before I heard a clank. He stopped shoveling. We exchanged looks. “Keep digging!” I said diving into the hole he was excavating. His shovel pushed deeper. Perhaps it was an ancient relic? A piece of Native American pottery? A moneyball lottery jackpot?

Mr. Wonderful held up a shard. 

“A-Ha! Glass from an earlier tribe,” I said rubbing it clean of dirt.

“It’s broken glass.” 

“But look at its pattern,” I said lifting it to my eyes.

“It’s from a Coke bottle,” my assistant said with a shrug. I looked closer and recognized the distinctive Coca-Cola lettering, its cursive font, its 3D relief. It’s unfortunate when the assistant’s opinion is correct. I tossed the glass in the recycling bin.

But there was more digging to do as well as hammering and chiseling, and major back-paining so Mr. Wonderful and I pushed on. That’s the thing about archeology, you never know what the earth is hiding. You just have to keep working. So we did, only stopping when we heard a scrape.

“What’s that?” I said racing over to Mr. Wonderful’s hole. I thrust my arm into the soil and revealed a white shard of glass. “Look!” I said blowing the dirt off it. “A piece of pottery of an ancient Indian tribe!”

“It’s a shard of a jar.”

“Ancient peoples needed pottery—”

“It says ‘Pond’s’.” I looked carefully and noticed the distinctive white glass of the ancient cold cream container as well as the brand’s name. It’s horrible when the assistant’s opinion becomes fact. I tossed the junk into the recycling bin. 

Perhaps we weren’t finding significant archeological treasures because or our respective jobs? I convinced Mr. Wonderful to wield the hammer and chisel while I shoveled earth. While I knew discovering a Roman relic or a second King Tut’s tomb was out of the question in our California soil, I was confident we’d find something Indian. After all, Los Angeles had been home to indigenous people for centuries before Hollywood starlets showed up. In order to find their relics I just needed more time, more digging and a full bottle of Advil.

As I inserted the shovel in the soil I felt something firm. It wasn’t rock hard but it wasn’t pliable like the soil. I dropped to my knees and dug with my hands—like a ravenous gopher—pushing the earth left, right and out of the way. Then I saw it in the sunshine—lying before me—a brown Indian relic! 

“I knew an Indian element was here!” I said leaping to my feet.

“It’s ‘Indian’ alright,” my assistant said. “A toy Indian.” My digging had unearthed a plastic figurine of an Indian warrior. It stood two inches high and resembled the toy kids in the 1950s played Cowboys and Indians with. I didn’t like it, but my trusty assistant’s opinion was correct again. 

Today’s Big Dig revealed the truth about the ancient peoples of the 1950s alright: 1) They liked soda pop; 2) They cared for their skin; 3) They threw everything into holes they dug in the backyard. Which is exactly how we are today, except the latter feature has changed, I thought setting the toy Indian on the table. 

Pepe & Lucas

"What vibrant colors," I said watching the computer screen.

"Hmm," Mr. Wonderful said standing behind me with arms crossed.

"Super music."

"Hmm."

"I love the characters."

"Hmm."

"This is great!"

"Hmmmmmm."

I knew Mr. Wonderful was talented in the Home Improvement Department, the Drinking Wine Department and the Making Life Interesting for Me Department. But the animated short he co-directed about a mime and a clown, Pepe & Lucas, proved he had even more talents. Specifically directing, animating and storytelling. Somehow he didn't see things the same way. Perhaps this was due to the curse of the talented director, or the scourge of the clever animator, or the regular doubts every working artist on the planet suffers from. Luckily I was present to remind him of some important facts.

"This animated short film of yours made the long list for the Academy Awards this year," I said.

"Hmm.

"And it won the best animated CG short at the Houston Film Festival this year."

"Hmm."

"And it makes me laugh." 

He dropped his arms to look at me. "Now that's good to hear." Then he smiled.

Don't take my word for it. Here's a trailer for the short of Pepe & Lucas. 

Does it make you laugh?

P.S. I don't know when the full seven-minute animated short will be shown in theaters but at least we have the trailer to watch now!

Happy Labor Day!

It's Labor Day, which means it's a day for contemplating work, workers' rights and having a good old time!

Mr. Wonderful and I are celebrating all these things while attending a barbecue, driving the convertible in the sunshine and NOT working on The House! GLORIOUS!

Wishing you a labor-free Labor Day!

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.