The Great DC Dog Escape

Earlier this week, I brought our dogs, Mick (a ten-year-old Jack Russell Terrier) and Jasmine (a twelve-something Brittany) to our local Organic Pet Store, Bones & Scones (I kid you not!) for a new experience in doggy oral hygiene; non-anesthetic teeth cleaning.  The fact that this task was successfully accomplished without fuss or lost fingers is quite amazing.  The results, fantastic and the dent in my wallet, very minimal.  I know this from having spent at least twice the cost, per dog, for the traditional anesthesia-required procedure, the last time being at our former Veterinarian's office in Maryland.  I got into a conversation with the Pet Dentist (?) Doggy Hygientist (?)  We'll just call her Proprietor - about Mick & Jasmine's dental history, I mentioned the fairly unusual method for transporting our precious pups across the country.  Not by car, since neither I, nor my husband, had that kind of time and not on Commercial Air.  Oh HELL no to that!  Far too many horror stories for me.  No, nothing but the best for our four-legged children.  They flew on the pet equivalent of Private Aviation; Pet Airways!

If you're unfamiliar with this relatively new company, Pet Airways (www.petairways.com) is pretty much what the name implies.  It is an airline specifically for your pets, or as their tagline puts it Travel for your Best Friend.  Unlike commercial air carriers, in Pet Airways's own words Your Pet is not luggage. On the airlines, your pet is shipped in cargo. On Pet Airways, your pet travels in the main cabin, transported with care and love. It’s like Pet Daycare in the sky.  No, I receive no royalties for delivering such high praise to this company, just my undying gratitude for their existence and the superior service they provide.  At a cost.  What cost?  Let's just say I could've flown cross-country on a first-class ticket, purchased last-minute for roughly the same price.  But, come on!  These are our babies!  As my friend Milton often reports in his very humorous blog  Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park? (and I'm not collecting any royalties from him, either), there is very little we won't do for our dogs.


I've written it before and I'll write it again, there were many, many facets to my and my husband's move from Maryland to Palm Springs and I'll be writing about them.  Most of them, anyway.  It required the kind of careful planning and coordination usually reserved for those with Project Management Professional certification.  In my case, it was the certifiable-but-not-certified method that put my talent for over-thinking everything on overdrive.  It was especially challenging for me to keep my wits about me since out of sheer necessity, my husband and I were separated by 3,000 miles for the last four months prior to my departure from the Free State.  Of course, we had already set the date for my departure nearly three months before that!  This, despite no offers on our Maryland house and, as it would happen, pulling the listing for the winter.  No matter.  The date had been set for March 11, 2011 and the wheels were set in motion.  Especially those that involved the pups.  I had heard about Pet Airways from a segment on the Today Show months before and it stuck in my head.  After some internet research and a call to their extraordinarily helpful call center, I was enlightened to their process.  Flying small prop jets that can hold approximately 29 pets (all but reptiles and rabbits, BTW) depending on the size of the crates required, they fly westbound on Thursdays and arrive on the opposite coast on Fridays.  The only humans allowed on board are crew, who regularly check on the pawssengers (their word, not mine!)  In addition, to keep pet-stress to a minimum, they fly in two-hour hops across the country, stopping at (mostly) municipal airports where they have secure areas where your best friends are able to deplane, safely.  This is an overnight operation the progress of which you may follow online!  Perfect for the obsessive-compulsive pet parent.  I suppose it was a good thing that AirTran didn't offer in-flight internet on my cross-country flight or I'm sure I would've spent whatever the fee to check make sure that prop jet was on schedule...and still in the sky!


Pricing is based on the size of the Pet Airways-supplied crate you need, so they advise you to measure your pet carefully from floor to the top of their head.  First problem, trying to get Miss Jasmine to stand at attention long enough for a proper measurement is problematic at best.  Second, and of greater concern, perhaps as a rescue, our Jasmine is none too fond of being crated.  We learned this when we tried to crate-train her early on and she literally drooled a pool's worth from sheer anxiety! Despite this, I suspected (and was correct in assuming) that the distraction of the plane noise and other pawssengers would prevent any panic attacks, plus the kind folks at Pet Airways made sure to let her out at each stop.   However, according to their sizing guidelines, Jasmine (whom I eventually managed to correctly measure) was right on the cusp of the Extra-Large versus Giant crate. As is typical for me, I agonized over this dilemma for weeks until I finally called the Pet Airways folks (for about the tenth time since I'd made the reservation - 6 months ahead!) and, erring on the side of caution, reserved the Giant crate, which will hold a Great Dane!  Our girl would travel first class.  Me?  Steerage.


Again, there were multiple phases, work breakdown structures and milestones in the Great DC Escape Gantt Chart, but this particular tale involves (forgive the pun) the tail end of the project.  By flight time for dogs and human, my Subaru Outback had already been picked up for cross-country transport, a rental SUV obtained, Maryland home emptied and on it's way to escrow, an overnight hotel reserved for me, along with a one-way ticket from BWI to LAX and final overnight accommodations for Mick & Jasmine at their favorite Doggy Day/Night Care establishment, Sniffer's Doggie Depot of Rockville, MD.   Departure, minus 24 hours: Pups dropped off at Sniffer's, last minute items packed in suitcases, including important papers in carry-on luggage, and final farewells to neighbors, neighborhood and house before checking into the Best Western for the last overnight.  

Naturally, the weather predication for D- (as in Departure) day called for torrential rain - at least it wasn't snow and/or ice.  One last call to Pet Airways (who probably already had me on their wacko-dog-parent watch list) to be certain it would be OK to arrive at their lounge about 4 hours early to avoid floods and major traffic en route.  My stress level was so high already, my imagination on overdrive, one more pluck on my last gay nerve and I'd have cracked!  Of course, the final phase of the plan came off without a hitch, unless you count poor Jasmine getting so excited when I picked her up at Sniffer's that she misjudged the leap into the rental SUV and fell in a puddle!  No harm, no foul, just wet dog.  The Pet Airways folks couldn't have been nicer, even having us pose for departure shots in their lobby!  All that remained was to return the rental SUV, pick up the airport shuttle and await my flight.  Paranoid me, of course, arrived at the airport so early (3pm for an 8pm flight!), my bags couldn't even be checked.  Amazingly, they actually did arrive in Los Angeles and did not remain under the AirTran ticket counter in Baltimore.  After a happy reunion with my hubby, whom I hadn't seen since mid-January, we checked into the Sheraton LAX for a pleasant overnight before picking up the pups mid-afternoon on Friday.  And yes, the first thing I did when we checked in to the room was get online and check the puppy's flight progress!  They had just left Chicago Midway and were on their way to Omaha, where they would have a 5- hour layover for dinner and general decompressioni.  When we picked them up at Hawthorne Municipal Airport, just outside of LAX, they were a tad confused, but no worse for the wear.  To them, it was like doggy day care on steroids.  Just really, really loud! Two hours later, we arrived at our new Palm Springs home.  Mick was fascinated and Jasmine equally so, but a bit startled when she walked, not fell, but literally walked into the pool!  No, she doesn't have a Messiah complex, she'd just never seen a pool before.  But that, too, is another story for another time.

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Gettin' Giggy With It

No, the title is not a typo.  Yes, Giggy, not Jiggy. Quite honestly, I really don't know the reference to which Will Smith was referring when he sang that 90's hit Gettin' Jiggy With It, so I couldn't say whether I have been or ever shall be Jiggy.  Giggy, on the other hand, is derived from a phrase that my dear friend Jim either coined or appropriated - it matters not - that refers to a large percentage of us working folk in Palm Springs, CA.  In a nutshell, because of its very nature as a resort/retirement community, unless you work in the Health Care or Hospitality industry, you work gigs, often more than one at a time.  A very different career path than is offered in the corporate world.   While it used to be assumed that there was a certain comfort level in wrapping oneself in the secure blanket and comforting arms of a corporation, economic downturns and subsequent downsizing has morphed that security blanket into a gunnysack and those comforting arms into clubs that all but beat you up, stuff you inside, lift up your helpless body and hurl you to the gutter.  One possible exception would be if that corporation were actually a government agency.  In my experience, however, the security blanket of, in my case local government, remained a gunnysack, but those arms simply knotted up the top and tossed you into a corner to allow your soul to rot until retirement.  But not for me!

At the risk of repeating myself, and I suspect there will be a lot of that in subsequent posts, my husband and I planned our move west over a period of about six years.  We're big on planning.  Of course, as one of my favorite sayings goes, "If you want to make God laugh, make plans!"  Briefly, well as much brevity as I can muster, as a California native, my husband has been looking to return to his home state and family probably as long as we've been together, now over 12 years.  My east coast family has been whittled down over the years to an older sister and her multi-generational offspring (fancy way of saying son, daughter-in-law & grand kids) and a few cousins left in northern New Jersey.  A family trip to southern California in my pre-teen days, plus my love of all things theatrical, including film and TV, planted the seed of a dream to one day live there.  On our first trip to Palm Springs, we realized that this was where we wanted to live.  The various adventures leading up to our eventual relocation will fill several additional posts.  For now, suffice it to say for me, it required a quantum shift in employment lifestyle.  Hence, the gig(s).


For eleven years prior to our departure, I worked for the Information Technology department of the local county government in which we resided.  By the time of my hire in 2000, I had already accumulated over a decade of IT experience in several facets of the field.  By the time of my resignation, I had been pigeon-holed into a very small subset of the discipline, my Supervisor, while my greatest ally and fan, rarely if ever showed up for work and my skills were slowly sliding out of my ears.  The fact that I finagled a long-distance telework plan that allowed me to hold on to my (rather inflated) salary while living in Palm Springs for over three months past my move is indicative of the mind-numbing, apathy-to-an-art-form culture that I escaped.  At the same time, I was not immune to withdrawal symptoms from that very addictive drug known as getting paid lots to do little and still, nearly one year later, have my moments of panic and occasional regret.  But the mental hugging of myself while rocking in the corner is slowly subsiding.  

With the full support and encouragement of my husband , I embarked on an exciting, yet frightening adventure; gigging it.  I successfully dusted off the rust and dust of the last ten years of technical skills decay and started my own computer consulting business that is beginning to bear fruit.  In addition, I will soon be starting gig number two, Weight Watchers Group Leader.  Evidently, I convinced the powers that be that while my target weight, as determined by my physician, is roughly ten pounds shy of their proscribed top-range for my height and gender, my body mass index (BMI) is within an acceptable range.  The idea of working in a position where maintaining my weight within two pounds of my target goal is rather intimidating, but I reckon if the Pan Am stewardesses of the 1960s could do it, so can I. And I don't have to wear a girdle.  Gig number three is still in its infancy, but my plan is to launch a voice over career which by its very nature lends itself to a flexible work schedule and multiple gigs.  Aside from my Theater degree, I've been told on more than one occasion that I have a good voice.  In fact, a good friend of my husband's evidently used to call our house when she knew we wouldn't be home just to hear my recorded outgoing message!  OK, not resume-worthy, but still....


Gig number four?  Who knows?  First and foremost, I'm living the life I want to live in a community where I've bonded with like no other and with the man I love more than life itself.  I've come to accept and embrace the fact that unless you're independently wealthy, retired or in one of the very few industries that Palm Springs and its desert city neighbors offers, the best bet is to Get Giggy With It.


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Lily Tomlin And The Bitter End

Yesterday, March 16th, 2012, marked 33 years since the death of my father, Irv Lefkowitz.  Coincidentally, it was also the day that Lily Tomlin and her partner Jane Wagner, received their star on the Palm Springs Walk of Stars.  Theirs was the 345th star, so reported our local paper The Desert Sun.  For obvious reasons, I spent quite a bit of time, these last few days, thinking about my Dad. 

My memories of life with father are fairly clear, although I was barely an adult when he died, so I find it difficult to look back through teenage and earlier eyes.  And yes, he died.  He did not pass, nor pass away nor collect $200.  I have a distinct aversion to euphemisms for death. Perhaps it's borne of my Jewish upbringing, where death and dying are rarely soft-soaped.  Whatever.  I was always taught, from a young age, that death is a part of life.  My parents took me to my first funeral when I was eight years old and the "guest of honor" was my mother's only brother, who passed .. died at the age of 41, so there was plenty of whaling going on.  I didn't really know what to feel at the time, but for what it's worth, the experience definitely shaped me in positive ways for the funerals to follow, and there would be many.  I was what's referred to as a change-of-life baby.  Not an Oops by any means, but I did come in right under the wire, so to speak.  As a result, most of my relatives were older.  My Uncle Morty, may he rest in peace, being an exception.  My father, as well, but more on that later.  I was born relatively late in their lives, at least by late 1950's standards.  Today, a woman giving birth at 38 doesn't raise so much as an eyebrow hair, but growing up, I felt a bit out of place with both parents roughly 10 years older than my peers'.  The upshot, I suppose, is that dying relatives weren't as uncommon for me as for others, which gave me an odd leg-up on death and dying rituals.  Accordingly, I don't have an aversion to attending funerals.  I don't seek them out, but unlike some people I've known, I don't avoid them like the plague.  Among other reasons, I believe in the Golden Girls line, spoken by the late Estelle Getty as Sophia Petrillo "You go [to a funeral] to let the man upstairs know you have respect for life."  Naturally, I didn't always have the proper respect for life and death.  At 5 years old, my paternal grandmother died on Christmas Eve, ruining a family weekend trip to Long Island.  Boy, did that piss me off!  But, hello, I was 5.  I wasn't much better at 6 years old when they sent us home from grade school because President Kennedy had been assassinated.  This being decades before VCRs or cable there was nothing on TV for a week aside from funeral coverage.  On the flip side, I did learn later in life that being angry at someone's death is perfectly healthy and natural, so my bratty behavior was perfectly justified! I can hear my mother's guffaw from the great beyond even as I write this.


So how does Lily Tomlin tie into this tome?  It's one of the few very vivid movie-moment-memories of my youth and it stars my Dad.  Lily, alas, was a supporting character.  In 1979, Dad lost his battle with metastatic lung cancer about one week past his 59th birthday.  Unlike World War II or even the Korean Conflict, this battle lasted a mere 18 months, from diagnosis to grave.  As I mentioned, I was a few weeks shy of my 22nd birthday when he was taken from us (oh, that's just pithy!  Scratch that)  when he died so I was really just beginning to know him as an adult.  Memories of my past are funny and often fuzzy.  I used to blame it on too much combusted and/or ingested fun during college, but I've come to believe it's just the way I'm wired.  I try to live in the moment as much as possible and definitely look ahead much more than behind.  My former roommate Michael had a great saying that I've co-opted:  "It's OK to look back.  Just don't stare."  Sometimes, difficult words to live by.  But I digress.  Back to Lily.  Picture it.  New York City.  1971.  A beautiful peasant girl...  Oh, sorry.  Lapsing back into Golden Girls-speak!  It was 1971 and it was New York City.  My parents, maternal grandparents and I were waiting outside of the Imperial Theater on West 45th Street before a performance of the very UN-memorable musical Two By Two starring Danny Kaye.  The fact that this Danny Kaye vehicle was the musical adaptation of the Noah's Ark story has little bearing on this tale, except for the fact that said star had broken his foot in a performance a few weeks earlier, but trouper that he was, performed the part, traipsing his way across that stage, crutches and all.  At any rate, my dad, being the restless type, grew tired of waiting in front of the theater in the winter cold for the doors to open and decided he needed a cup of coffee from the shop down the block.  Why didn't I join him?  Well, I was a classic momma's boy who, as a not-aware-he-was-gay-early-teen, didn't relate well to my father.  We only started to find our true common ground shortly before he died.  At that age, though, it was fits and spurts.  This night turned out to become a good fit.  Meanwhile, not long after my Dad's escape, the theater doors opened and my family and I could take our seats in the warmth of the rear orchestra section.  Within minutes, my dad comes rushing in, practically screaming "I met Ernestine!!  I met Ernestine!!"  Again, this was 1971 and Rowen and Martin's Laugh-in was all the rage on prime time TV.  Many will remember that a relatively unknown comedienne was basically launching her career into orbit on that show with her magic bag of characters.  One of her most memorable, the sassy telephone operator, Ernestine.  It took me no time to put two and two together (and try to forget Two By Two, altogether) and realize that my Dad had just met Lily Tomlin!  Not only that, he sat at the coffee shop counter chatting her up.  What's more, he was chatting ME up!!  Me, the wanna-be-someday-actor whom my dad was clearly selling to her better than any cigar display he ever sold in his long career in that field.  What's more, since she was on her way to see the play Butterflies Are Free in the Booth Theater across the street from ours she ... walked ...back ...with ... him (!!) to meet me outside before her show let in.  If it seems odd  that a celebrity would accompany a strange man down a New York street to meet his talented son, remember, she wasn't quite a celebrity yet and this was 1971. The term stalker had yet been coined.  Plus, my Dad wasn't hard on the eyes and had a trusting face.  Didn't they say the same about Ted Bundy?  At any rate, I was about ready to climb over the back of my seat to get outside to see her, but my mother held me back.  I think that might have been the precise moment I ceased being a momma's boy.  Also, Lily's show, as ours, was just about to begin.  My hatred for Danny Kaye was about to begin, as well, since the new plan was to bolt out of the Imperial Theater the second the final curtain came down and make a beeline across West 45th Street to intercept Ms. Tomlin as she exited her theater.  Imagine my joy when Danny Kaye decided to extend the end of the night by ad-libbing his way through the final number, not missing a beat to break proscenium (come out of character) in order to call the audiences attention to his monumental dedication to the thea-tuh for performing in his hobbled condition!  Rumor has it, Mr. Kaye's constant ad-libbing during the run of that show cost him a Tony nomination.  Pity.  So much for the Great Race across limo and taxi roofs to catch Lily as she left the Booth Theater.  By the time we reached the sidewalk, the Booth's marquee was as dark as my mood and Ernestine had already left Ma Bell for the night,

Flash-forward 3 weeks.  Lily was performing her club act at a coffee house in Greenwich Village named The Bitter End.  I'm quite sure The Bitter met its End many moons ago, but at that time, it was going strong and known for not only its acts and coffee, but for these incredible ice cream desserts that were on their menu.  It figures that food is what I remember best about my youth!   At any rate, my folks got tickets for the three of us and off we trucked in from New Jersey to see her.   As if she'd remember my father from a hole in the wall!  They clearly had no issue with parents bringing their 14 year old to a venue where the performers were often a tad, shall we say, salty?!  I believe Joan Rivers performed there regularly and, possibly, the late Lenny Bruce.  I don't remember if they served alcohol, but that probably wouldn't have made a difference.  The drinking age back then in NYC was 18 and I probably could've passed.  I know I weighed more than a 21 year old!  Lily's show was amazing.  My best memory of it was that she not only performed her famous Ernestine in street clothes - this was a tiny little club - I will never forget (although I'm probably paraphrasing) one line in particular that she delivered to a disagreeable caller:   "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't get that last word?  Was that F as in Frank??"  You hear worse on TV today, but that never would've flown by NBC or any network censors at the time. And I was 14 and with my folks!  Lily was, and is, brilliant.  The most wonderful moment came after the show, sans curtain or follow-up act, when we actually managed to see her backstage.  More accurately, up a steep and very narrow staircase.  I still don't remember how we managed to up there, but when we reached the top, Lily took one look at my Dad, called him by name and gave him a big hug!!  I melted.  And yes, I got a big hug, too.  And a memory for life.


When it was announced that Lily and Jane were getting their star on my dad's yahrzeit (anniversary of death), the sheer coincidence had me briefly considering joining the masses in the hopes of seeing her in-person one more time and even reminding her of those events so many years ago.  The moment passed and I decided there was little point.  If the opportunity arose, would she remember out of courtesy?  On the off chance that she actually did remember my dad, would it sweeten my own memories of him or enhance my respect for her and her work?  Not possible.  If she just blew me off as one more stalkerazzi, would it sour my feelings?  Well, maybe hurt them for a bit, so why risk it?  She deserves her star,  she deserves her privacy and she deserves my respect and admiration.  And I deserve my happy memories intact.


So to my dad, I say, "I love you, I will always remember you and I will always miss you."

To Lily and Jane, I say, "Mazel Tov!"


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I Came [Here] Tonight Thinking I Was Beautiful, But What I Found Out Was That I'm Fat

For those readers who aren't quite as TV-addicted as me, the above title is a paraphrased quote from the series Designing Women.  Probably, one of my all time favorites, entitled They Shoot Fat Women, Don't They?  It originally aired on December 11, 1989 on CBS and was, by all accounts, the "Star Turn" (as in, featured moment) for one of the lead actors on the show, Delta Burke, who portrayed Suzanne Sugarbaker.  Suzanne, as fellow fans of the show will remember, was a former Miss Georgia and continued through life as though the tiara never left her perfectly coiffed head.  Meanwhile, back in the real world, Delta Burke had been putting on weight which, oddly enough, carried over to her on-air alter-ego. For some time before this episode aired, Delta Burke had been publicly ridiculed about her weight gain. The barbs were also directed toward her ability to continue to play Suzanne Sugarbaker.  I remember during that time, a local Washington, DC radio station (WRQX-FM, Q107, as it was known then) would periodically air Loony Tunes; parodies of well-known songs.  A huge favorite of mine, which they'd broadcast during the holidays and sung by an all-male chorus to the tune of Walking In A Winter Wonderland, was Walking 'Round In Women's Underwear.  To commemorate, or more accurately cruelly mock Ms. Burke's growing girth, they aired their version of the Tanya Tucker/Helen Reddy hit Delta Dawn, the Looney Tune title of which escapes me.  However, the lyrics included Delta Burke, You Can't Even Close Your Shirt have stayed with me for these past 20-something years.  To Delta's and the series Producers' credit, they took the proverbial Bull by the Horns, or in this case the Tiara by the Rhinestones, and used Delta's/Suzanne's weight gain as an opportunity to simultaneously call attention to world hunger and aptly demonize the notion that a former beauty queen who has put on a few pounds has lost not only her crown but her looks.  The monologue from which the quote is a part, was delivered as Suzanne accepts an award at her High School Reunion, for the Person Most Changed.  Indeed, her character has in more than just superficial ways.  I believe Delta Burke won an Emmy for that episode.  If so, rightly so.

So, how does this relate to me? Aside from my love of all things Sugarbaker (and Deveraux, Zbornak, Nylund & Petrillo - but that's for another blog entry), my weight odyssey was more of a reverse of Suzanne Sugarbaker's/Delta Burke's.  I was always a large person.  Oh Hell, let's just call a spade a spade.  I was fat.  Pretty much all of my life.  There was a brief period during my freshman year of college when I actually shed 54 pounds in less than a year, but that was not a healthy weight loss.  It was largely attributed to being away from home for the first time, having no other meal choices than nearly inedible cafeteria food and being 4-hours away from my own refrigerator.  The dormitory where I stayed didn't allow mini-fridges.  Of course, it was cold enough in Elmira, New York to place certain necessities, such as beer, on the window sill and keep them cold.  Well, frozen actually.  The other non-healthy aspect was there was virtually no exercise involved, aside from walking a rather small campus.  In early 2001, my husband & I decided we needed to look halfway decent for a gay cruise we had booked for February of 2002, so we joined Weight Watchers.  While we both experienced success, neither of us completely met our goal weight and commitment to exercise was sporadic.  I've since learned that setting a short-term goal (i.e., a cruise) is not best practice.  Indeed, once the ship docked, I descended, rather, ascended back to pre-Weight Watchers poundage.  A brief try at the Atkins Diet a few years later was a complete failure for me.  I refer to it as the Devil's Diet, since once I stopped the carbohydrate deprivation, I gained about three times as much as I lost!  My hubby also watched his cholesterol level spike on this plan, which was when the last fried pork rind hit the can.  I'll admit that it works form many, but not me.  I cannot be on any weight loss plan that begins with You can't eat [fill in the blank].  I will immediately crave whatever is contained in that blank and, thus, fail.  In July of 2010, Brian & I both decided it was time to give Weight Watchers another try.  By then, I had already established a fairly good workout routine, including a dance aerobics class that I loved.  Of course, if you eat more calories than you exercise away, guess what?  You don't lose weight!  By August of 2011, I had met my goal weight, which was 90 pounds less than when I started.  I often joke that losing the weight was part of our move-to-Palm-Springs-downsizing efforts.  In truth, I attribute my success at this round of Weight Watchers to both the plan itself, which morphs dramatically over the years as new weight loss discoveries are made, and the leader of our group in Silver Spring, Maryland.  She was absolutely inspiring.

Goal weight for Weight Watchers is determined either by Weight Watchers own range OR, and this is key, your physician's recommendation. My doctor at the time agreed that even the ranges listed on his computer system were a bit off, so he wrote a note, which is all Weight Watchers requires, to determine my goal weight.  As it happens, this number is 11 pounds greater than the top of the Weight Watchers range, based on my height and gender.  Once you reach goal and remain within 2 pounds plus or minus, you become a Lifetime member of Weight Watchers, get a little gold key and no longer have to pay to go to meetings.  You just need to weigh-in once per month.  As you approach your goal, the leaders and check-in folks at the Centers encourage you to apply to become one of them.  Being the ham that I am, I was far from non-participatory at the weekly meetings.  I was often the comic relief.  I had been told by more than one of my fellow members that I should become a Meeting Leader.

Flash forward a few months and roughly 2500 miles west.  I attended a few of the local Weight Watchers meetings which in the Palm Springs area, are held at either churches or hotel conference rooms.  The closest actual Center is 40 miles away.  It was at one of these meetings when I officially became a Lifetime member.  A happy milestone for me, but slightly bittersweet since I was unable to celebrate this success with my former Leader and members in Silver Spring.  Regardless, the little gold key I received to commemorate the achievement is worn around my neck nearly every day.  I then submitted my application to Weight Watchers in pursuit of employment as a Meeting Leader.  Although it took a bit of time to receive a response, I was eventually invited to attend an Informational Meeting as part of the screening process.  As I reported in my previous blog, my travels to and from this meeting were a scary, snowy mess!  However, I received a lot of good information, including the happy fact that an actual Weight Watchers Center is opening in Palm Springs within the next couple of weeks!  One that will be within biking distance of our house!  Good signs, indeed.  Then comes the gotcha'.  Since Weight Watchers is, after all, in the business of weight, employees are required to remain within 2 pounds of their goal weight, just like a Lifetime member.  If you opt to become a Receptionist (the person who checks you in, takes your money, sells products and....records your weight), your goal weight can be set by your doctor, just as mine was.  However, Meeting Leaders must remain within the actual Weight Watchers weight range! The Territory Manager who led the meeting told me she would check with her uppers to see if there is some flexibility with that rule since, as even she put it, "You look just fine the way you are."   Gosh.  Thanks.  I'm not willing to force additional weight loss that I'm uncomfortable with and that even my physician feels is not medically sound just to satisfy an arbitrary requirement for a very part-time job.  It's been over a week since the meeting and there's been no additional contact from the TM.  At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I was a more than a bit put off by their restriction and am not inclined to doggedly pursue the opportunity.

Well, I came there that night thinking I was at goal but found out I was fat.  OK, not fat, but suddenly and oddly out of range. And no, I did not come home, angrily pull a cheesecake from the freezer and sit down and eat the whole thing with two other Golden Girls.  But this is not Miami, I am neither golden nor a girl, and that reference is for another blog.

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It Snows in Southern California??

There's a song that croons "It Never Rains In Southern California".  As a full-time resident for coming up on my first year, I can attest that this title is a lie.  But snow??  Yes, yes, I've been told many times (and witnessed for myself) that it does, indeed, snow here, but as my Cali-native husband often remarks "Californians go to the snow.  It does not come to us!"  Furthermore, unlike the proverbial "Rain In Spain", the snow is not supposed to fall mainly in the plains - make that, the lower elevations of the Inland Empire of SoCal.  I just love that designation; Inland Empire.  It sounds so royal, as if it were actually ruled by an Emperor.  Perhaps one with no clothes?  Well, the fact is, there's no Emperor or royalty of any kind.  The area merely refers to the large swath of Southern California which includes Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley to which it is a part, and stretches across most (if not all) of Riverside County and perhaps even Imperial County to the south.  I'm still brushing up on my SoCal geography so I wouldn't swear to the latter.  My point is, the snow in this area is supposed to stay where it belongs, on the mountains and remain no closer than the 2,900 foot elevation.  What my hubby either neglected to inform me, or more likely, what I neglected to realize is, there are times when, like it or not, you must go to or through the snow.  So, imagine my surprise ... well, horror, actually, when I was driving my trusty 2008 Subaru Outback home from an Informational Interview, the subject of which will appear in a future post, an hour west of Palm Springs and noticed that the driving rain was suddenly turning white.  And fluffy.  And sticking to both median strips and palm trees!!  Palm trees covered with snow resemble an ugly monochromatic Truffula tree that even a Lorax would want to see chopped down.

So I'm driving along Interstate 10 (known  locally as simply "the ten") through an on-again, off-again rain storm when my eyes wander briefly to the trip computer outside temperature readout on my dash. At approximately 65-70mph, the numbers began their steady descent.  45...43...40...38...35.... uh, oh!  That "rain" was beginning to get mighty syrupy.  By the time the readout hit that magic number 32,  there was no mistaking it.  I was driving through what vaguely resembled the star-spray of hyper-drive engagement on the Millennium Falcon of "Star Wars" fame.  If only!  Now, Lord knows I've driven through worse weather in my many decades of driving on the East coast.  However, the nagging knowledge that the I-10 freeway has never and will never see a salt or sand truck was plucking at my nerves.  The obvious panic of my fellow drivers, most of whom were caught as off-guard as me, didn't improve the blood flow to my white knuckles in their death grip on my steering wheel.  And there's nothing quite so clenching as moving ever-so-carefully over to the far left lane to avoid the tsunami-spray of an 18-wheeler only to feel all four of your all-wheel-drive wheels lose contact with the road surface!  Hydroplaning on a delightful mix of pooled water and slush watching, in horror, as the mainly inclement-weather-driving-novices hit their brakes (!) mere yards ahead.  Somehow, I managed to move gracefully out of the slush lane without my car suddenly facing westbound on the eastbound side of "the ten."

As is typical of this part of the country, rife with micro-climates, within 15 miles and roughly 10 years of driving, the snow had abated, as did the rain.  By the time I reached the Palm Springs City Limits sign, the roads were devoid of moisture.  The same couldn't be said for my ..... you can fill in the blank.  I'll say "brow"!

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Not Precisely From DC Nor Currently Living In A Foreign Country

DC XPAT refers to me, an ex-patriot, as in former Washington, DC resident, who happily transplanted to the sunny desert of Palm Springs, California.  It is also my vanity license plate.  Granted, California is technically not a foreign country (as the "XPAT" moniker implies and I was abruptly reminded by a Facebook friend) and in reality, I moved from Silver Spring, Maryland, not DC.  For those not in the know, Silver Spring is a northern DC suburb.  In fairness, I felt that selecting MD XPAT as my license plate would give the incorrect impression that I'm some quack Physician who fled the country.  But having to clarify my actual address when visiting other areas has always been a pet peeve of mine for as long as I can remember.

I was raised in the New York City area.  Not New York itself, mind you, but the New York Metropolitan Area.  Specifically, Maplewood, New Jersey, a bedroom community approximately 15 miles due west of lower Manhattan.  On many an occasion, I would be asked where I'm from.  My answer would invariably be the New York City Area.  When pressed for clarification, I would somewhat sheepishly admit, "Well, actually northern New Jersey."  Call me vain, but I always felt that response more descriptive than just opening with "I'm from New Jersey." Between the tired "Saturday Night Live" Joe Piscopo bit "....Oh yeah?....What exit??" often echoed back to me the fact is, most of the state is either Metro New York or Metro Philadelphia.  My husband of 12+ years loves to point out that the 2000 census nearly eliminated New Jersey from the counts, merely dividing the populace between those two cities' metropolitan areas.  The idea was abandoned.  Once, when I made my true hometown confession to a native New Yorker, my response was actually challenged with "Really?  From what state were your license plates issued?!"  New Yorkers really can be true urban snobs.

In 1983, I moved to Maryland, the last of my family to do so.  My mother (may she rest in peace) dipped her proverbial toe in the Chesapeake when she attended the University of Maryland in the late 1930's, graduating with (and I kid you not) a Bachelor's of Science in Home Economics!  Today, it's a Textile major, I believe, but hey,  a BS, even in Home Ec., still ain't no BS <insert groan here>.  I suppose she forged the trail for my older sister, who attended UofMd in the early 1960s, but got her "Mrs. degree" in her Freshman year, instead - oh, she just HATES that term, so if she reads this...too bad, it's my blog and I'll write what I want!  Despite leaving the University at that time, she remained in Maryland and lives there to this day.  By the way, much to her credit and my admiration, she returned to UofMd and earned both her Bachelor's and Master's degrees many years later.  My mother returned to Maryland roughly a year after my Dad died in 1979.  I was the last holdout, the circumstances of which would fill more than one additional blog entry.  For now, suffice it to say that once again, I was not living in Washington, DC proper, but again a suburb with a different license plate than the city to which I would refer when asked about my place of residence.  "No, I don't actually live in Washington, DC....it's the DC area..!!"

In March of 2011, my husband and I relocated to Palm Springs, CA.  Not the neighboring desert cities of Rancho Mirage nor Cathedral City, but Palm Springs proper.  Again, the circumstances and details of this major migration will appear in subsequent blog entries.  For the first time in my 50+ years, when asked "Where in Palm Springs do you live?", I can answer proudly, without pause or shame, either our geographic location (South end versus North end) or our actual Palm Springs address.  And, hurray! The state on our license plates match our residence.  OK, they would still be California DMV-issued even if we'd opted to purchase in Cat City or Rancho (as the locals call them), but you get my point.