China Trade Route Hopping (and Hoping)

Hello, my love … and welcome to your new home in the Far East!

In reality you are a mere 16% of the way there. I am tracking the flight on a map (had to get it from another website) and you are 1,100 miles from NYC with 7,000 to go to touch down.

Bailey is looking over my shoulder and is pleased you are above her native Labrador. She asked me to inquire whether you can see black labs frolicking on the snow covered terrain, since she knows as a fact that all Labs love freezing weather, but I reminded her that you are in the middle section and most likely the shades are drawn so you and your fellow passengers can view movies and play backgammon with themselves en route.

It is suppertime here and I have thrown together a big salad Niçoise (sans potatoes and haricot verts but you get the picture). Bailey is staring at her bowl in the corner of the crate and trying to psychically alter the state of the kibble in hopes that it will magically convert to hamburger bits before her eyes. Bored, she steps back out onto the Kilim pillow and sighs. She has ventured up to your room in vain. Didn’t even take a rest on the calico patch floor cushion she knows is hers. We are both trying to adapt to your absence in our own ways.

I, on the other hand, have been busy Googling hotels and flights to Hong Kong, train schedules to Guangzhou (around US$60 RT for the 90 minute ride on the iron rooster with commuting Chinese proletariat no more), and my desired destination of Hanoi near the lake and as close to the Opera and all things French Vietnamese as possible. My armchair sojourn has been quite exhilarating. I feel that I am getting the lay of the land (your new land) from the comfort (for the time being) of the French rattan bistro chair in front of my aging Dell Latitude.

This is so much more efficient than waiting several months for sea-sodden letters describing the gateway to the East. Marco Polo has little on you, my intrepid son. We (that's the collective 'we') miss you. But, my darling (and this I mean with all my heart) you are off on the adventure of your lifetime. A modern-day post-colonialist with the very best of intentions, compassion, passion and an unimaginable zest for the new and unknown.

Welcome to your new home. May you flourish despite the tropical clime and sow seeds that will reap a bounty over your lifetime. I love you, Charlie.

Devotedly (and admittedly pea green with envy), your Mama sitting on the edge of the sea in an olden New England seafaring town yearning to join your adventure (if even from afar).

Cheers, my love, safe travels and Godspeed xoxo

Guest Post by Bailey: The Doodle Brothers

Earlier this week I was the guest of the faboo Doodle Brothers.

You know them. Mes cousines. Part Labrador (like me). Part poodle (oh la la). They don't shed. I do. Profusely. They don't smell. I do. Like a wet dog sometimes. Other times not so bad 'cause my Momma keeps me brushed and clean. Did I tell you I love my Momma? I do.

The salt and pepper of Labradoodles. The Oreo cookie my Momma likes to dunk at the island in Grandbobbie's kitchen.

My most favorite cousins ... except the other Bailey in Santa Cruz whom I know I'd adore if we ever met. But hey, my Momma has not sent me by aeroplane anywhere. And, for the record, I'd be so scared anyway. The car caravan from backwoods Georgia was enough to kill me. But that is another story.

Momma and Charlie took me for a RIDE. The best kind. It was all the way to the Boston suburbs. I knew something was up when she took off my pink buzz collar. She only does that when I go to Uncle Tom's Cabin, my kennel in Lyman, OR to see my favorite cousins, Fillmore and Truman. Having my boy, Charlie, there pushed the points up to nearly 100. Perfection!

You might think they are named for American presidents, but noooooooooo way. Fillmore is the rock palace in San Francisco where my Uncle Kenny's most favorite grateful dead played and played and played for days at a time in the 1960s. Truman is a Jim Carrey film. Not too sure about that one. Both names are hard to remember. But, hey, I don't need to. All I have to do is bow down and yip and it's play play play until this ol' lady tires out.

It was the bestest time. Running and drooling like it is 2004 when I was a pup. Auntie Robin had to put me and the baby, Tru, in the same crate so we'd settle down. This ol' lady still has some fire in her belly. Even though my titties hand to my knees from having too many litters too fast. That scoundrel Shadow was always making me do the nasty. But that was then.

This is now. I love the Doodle Brothers. They love me. Next time they are coming to visit in Maine. If my Momma invites them. I'll start working on her now. A girl has to dream her dreams.

Woof!

Of Mice and (Wo)Men

Here we are. Me and my baby sissor. That's Robin. Road trip. Kind of. Driving a law abiding 25 through the streets of Salem, Massachusetts in search of the Peabody-Essex Museum showcasing the most fantabulous collection of Chinese art and artifacts this side of Beijing's Forbidden City and Summer Palace.

When lo and behold out of the corner of my eye a grey image darts up the driver's side of the windshield. Robin is redirectioning her iPhone's GPS. But I know. Immediately. Like one knows the cries of her baby in the navy blue middle of the night ... and whether they signify a wet nappy, hunger or loneliness. That was a mouse.

A mouse? How?

Backstory: Yesterday Charlie and I drove our pewter Volvo V70 wagon the 90 minutes from the coast of Maine to the lovely 18th century saltbox colonial of my sweet sister and Ken for a farewell visit.

Parenthetically, before I go further and to further illustrate how I seem to be able to find the perfect partner for everyone sauf moi ... that's her husband. The result of my yenta-style match making in the early 1980s when Robin sauntered into downtown Boston to meet me for lunch. And right there amid the not-so-attractive metal desks of a dozen bank trainees in varying modes of pre-noon preparations (read: distractions) lightening bolts sparked.

On the itinerary is a day trip to Salem. Home of witches, pilgrims and Nathaniel Hawthorne. But since we have different end destinations ... Robin and Ken back to their home, us to Maine ... we are driving in two cars.

Ooops, I forgot to mention that they reside in the country. The leafy Boston exurbs. And that their dog food (kept annoyingly open in their three-car garage) attracted colonies of teeny mice over the winter. The country one. Brownish grey with oversized ears.

Back to the future: We are driving through the rambling streets of Salem. Robin fumbling nervously as I keep repeating obnoxiously "was that a mouse?"

Approaching the parking garage scary things roll through the crevices of my mind. What if it is a mouse and it jumps in the car while I reach through my window to grab the ticket from the automatic attendant? Or worse, suppose an entire family is nesting under the hood wreaking havoc in the insulation surrounding the engine? Even more disastrous, chewing cables and wires that will render the car inoperable at the worst possible moment?

My head swirls as I head up the ramp. Bravely I lower the driver's window. Just far enough to grab the ticket and hit the up button. No more than necessry. Safe. No mouse jumps in.

Oh ... did I mention that Bailey is curled up in the back of the car? She joined us to visit her canine cousins, the Doodle Brothers. An open sack of her kibble on the floor. Treats, too. Mouse bait. And, it is over eighty degrees outside. Windows must be opened a bit the sunroof slid back to let air circulate.

Up the ramp we drive. Floor 2. Robin is still fooling to align the GPS software with our new coordinates. I am sweating bullets. I slide the car into a space on the shady side of the garage. Steel myself and slowly open my car door. I peer up onto the roof.

There, clinging cartoon-like by every toe on its teensy feet to the edge just below my face, is one very scared large eared mouse. Petrified. Both of us.

I beg with my sister to put down her iPhone (we are at our destination for god's sake). Hand me something to swat the mouse off its perch. She grabs Bailey's leash. What am I? A circus act? Am I going to whip the frightened rodent into submission? No.

I spy the Maine atlas of road maps is peeking from the pocket behind my seat. My weapon! Grab that. Please. Tentatively (and I might add more freaked than our roof top passenger) she cracks her window. Barely. And shuts it so quickly that the map book gets stuck. Hurry. Pleeeeeeeze.

Hunter Alice. Armed with the clumsy, page flipping open atlas I sweep the roof of the car. The mouse darts from side to side and then falls into the channel on the hood between the wipers and the windshield. Eeeks. Is it going to go under the hood? In the dimly lit space I cannot see the color-coordinated mouse. Yikes.

I sweep the booklet one more time. With gusto. And purpose. Bingo! The mouse jumps to safety and scampers along the concrete and steel girders. Far far away from its transportation. Farther from its family and friends. Alone on an adventure in rugged Salem.

My heart pounds. I jump back in the driver's seat. Turn the key in the ignition firing up all cylinders post haste. And screech the car in reverse heading to another floor. God knows that I do not want to vacate my open-sunroofed vehicle. The mouse might just be thinking this is the mothership.

Gheesh!

Miss Bailey: I'm Takin' A Spin

Momma is running out to do errands. It has been months since I contributed to Lemons. You all must really miss me. And besides, I'm getting an itchy dewclaw.

For those of you who don't know me up close and personal, my puppy prep wasn't up to snuff. Not only did the Georgia farmers forget to snip my extra toenail, but they also forgot to remove my lady parts.

But that's another story. Shadow was a rascal. You already know all about that scoundrel. But I loved him.

The arrow points to my dewclaws. I have four of 'em. They hang daintily at the curve of my ankle. Never touching the ground. Sometimes one gets in my way when I'm scratching my nose. One time I made my eyeball reverse in the socket. Poked myself right in the eye. Momma choked me with a pill wrapped in hamburger every morning. I pretended I didn't like it. But I did. Nums. Raw hamburger is a real TREAT.

A dewclaw? Dew? I love traipsing around the wet grass in the yard. Morning dew. Oooh. The SMELLS. Gotta check out the night visitors scampering around. My entire leg gets wet from the dew. Momma makes me SIT so she can wipe off my paws before I slide across the kitchen floor. I can barely stop moving because all I really want is my BREAKFAST.

Oh oh. Here comes Momma. She wants me to go OUTSIDE. Now.

Momma, I'm only moving off this cushy pillow for a TREAT.

Dutch Treat

Today I am a happy camper. Despite the bum right knee. My special discovery makes even the pain of limping across my lawn bearable. Even the poopy chore of removing Bailey's toilette debris from the back yard. Out of the corner of my eye ... on the giant bed under the spruces and towering walnut tree was the most amazing surprise. Voilà!

Guess what is peeking up through that recently de-winterized, untangled plot? Where last weekend's four hour rake extravaganza removed dead fallen evergreen needles piled inches high, branches from the trees bordering my property and those gangly two-foot long yellowed ribbons from last summer's tiger lilies? In the blank space in front of the distinctive ruffled shoots emerging like clockwork that soon will sprout zillions of buds. Those large, showy reddish orange tiger lilies that grow like weeds in the New England sandy soil.

No. Not those. More special. To me anyway.

Tender green shoots barely 1/2 inch tall poking tentatively from the pine mulch. That's right! Variegated tulips striated with tinges of peach on fields of white the green vein reaching to the tip of their lovely fringed petals. Sole survivors of a red squirrel ravaged buffet feast.

I had failed miserably. Bulb planting 101, obviously not my forté in the sandy Maine soil where squirrels run amok. In that October a few years ago when 144 of the largest yellow jonquils and a dozen Green Wave Parrot tulips ordered direct from Holland were planted lovingly by my very own hands. Less than ten daffodils bloomed. Zero tulips. No feathery-petaled blooms which would slowly change to rosy pink, embraced with emerald-green arms. Nary a one. Utter failure.

Yes. I dug the hole with the requisite conical spade, twisted just so and gently dropped each bulb right side up seven inches below the ground. Added a bit of bone meal for nourishment and nutrition. And waited patiently for each of the past three summers for their glorious flowers. But hey. Those damn vermin. Munched on this delectable smorgasbord. Ruining my chances of having these most gorgeous fresh cut tulips accessorized my color-coordinated Brunschig et Fils decorated living room.

Treasured tulips were not to be. Not here. My garden, when I had even the tiniest plot of land, festooned with these delightful blossoms in early summer. Fresh flowers. A cutting bed of delights.

Frustration and disappointment mounted. Cognitive dissidence. Buyer's remorse. Each precious bulb a small fortune. A barren harvest. Unable to amortize the cost. Much less derive psychic income - pleasure. My very own tulipmania. Mad as a hatter. Obsessed. As frenzied as mid-17th century Dutch buying and selling tulip futures in the canal houses that lined the banks of Amsterdam. Poof. My investment gone awry.

But this year would be different. A sweet surprise when most needed to lift my sagging spirits. Vindicated. Those smarmy little buggers didn't have their way with my treasures after all.

Cheers to fresh cut tulips in my favorite Baccarat vase this summer!

In the Weeds

OK. Now I know why condos and coops are preferable to home ownership. I can hear the lawn mowers and hedge clippers from afar. Drifting in my windows generally interrupting my thoughts. Swarms of men armed with rakes and hoes and clippers and their ride-ons parked neatly on their open-back pickups.

These men migrate up from agrarian Latin America following the crops and the season. New England in the summers. The truck pulls up and like Barnum & Bailey Keystone Cops zillions emerge undaunted on the steamiest afternoon broiling in the hot sun. Straw hats and mesh tank tops. Or, in the pouring rain just to stay on schedule. Same outfit.

Condo dwellers don't need to make frequent shopping sprees to Home Depot or Lowes. No need to own yard tools. Or mulch. Or topsoil. Or seed. Absolutely no clutter. No need for a garage. A tool shed. Nada. Easy living. Just park my Volvo in the lot, smile and saunter up to the front door ... weather be damned.

But noooooooo. Not now. Coffers dwindling precipitously. My curb appeal needing to stay tidy. After all my antique village home is on walking tours and in plain view. Impecunious me. Where are the Honduran yard guys who came weekly in Connecticut? My yard never looked so good. Yes, Miss Alice, I add mulch here? Where you want the flowers, Miss Alice? I really should have appreciated them more. 'Cause this year and for the foreseeable future I am virtually on my own. And I haven't a clue. Not a master gardener like Bonnie on Storer Street. Not particularily fond of playing in the dirt to tidy the grounds. All one third of an acre. The Biddeford boys will still arrive weekly and back their John Deere off the ramp into my lawn but that is it. What's this arthritic, non-gardener to do?

But whoa nellie. Something happened. The sun is out. The temperatures in the high 60s. I grabbed my trusty outdoor implements. The few I have in the garage ... a snow shovel, a broom, a rake, a recycling bin and gloves with holes at the tips of a few fingers. Pointed myself reluctantly to the closest winter abused bed to dethatch, pull stray two foot high blades of grass with even longer root systems, rake last November's dried up oak leaves that fell after the others were whisked away. My thick chestnut hair tied in a scrunchy saved for cleaning tasks. Black sweats and last millennium's bright lime zipper front sweatshirt from the sale table at the GAP.

The strategist in me created a plan. Implementation my forté. Front yard Friday until 3 then a bath and my reward ... a movie at a real theatre! Back of the house today. Today was going to be a doozy. No movie. No nothing. Except I did stop a few times to play with Bailey who was so delighted to have her momma OUTSIDE. And to chat with neighbors with wheelbarrows, spades and hoes. I admit I was a bit jealous. My knee throbbed. Bailey loved it. I was in her turf for the better part of two days. TREATS in my pocket. And its done. Saved myself scads of $$$$ ... spent the better part of two days in the warm almost spring air ... and not near my 'fridge! The trifecta.

Amazing. I enjoyed the rhythm of making these beds sparkle. The hum of finishing an area and hobbling to the next. I actually accomplished a lot.

Am off to pour a large glass of Bordeaux. Boston Brigham and Women's Hospital noted in a medical journal this week that women who drink from time to time do not have a propensity to become obese. That and dark chocolate? I may even tackle the triangle behind the Chinese Chippendale teak bench tomorrow. It would be a lovely spot for forsythia.

Cheers!

Onederland

What is that white blur? A hobbitt? A brillig? An illusion? Nope there it goes again. A bunny! I see it is wearing a waistcoat. Not sure about trousers. Fairfield, Charlie's stuffed buddy with red felt overalls/no shirt, would be pleased.

Oh. There it goes. Darting in and out while I finish weeding behind the teak bench in the corner of my yard. A figment of my overactive imagination? Delusional from the über-diet I am following coupled with way too much yard work? I think not.

Bailey looks up from lapping water from the cement clam shell bird bath over by her bushes. The place where she cools down in the summer curling up on the damp pine mulch in the shady corner between the house and the back porch steps. She sees it too. Racing over to check for herself. The ruff of fur on her back standing at attention as she gallops in my direction. Delirious with sniffing. Bellowing as only she can do. Punctuating the neighborhood mid-day quiet with her yelps of excitement.

Whoosh. That speedy bastard must be wearing Nikes. Nikes and a colorful club-heart-spade-diamond waistcoat. Behind the bush. Under the car. Into the burn pile where I have been casting twigs, branches and last summer's now dry hosta spikes.

The perpetual Alice, I have been chasing the white rabbit for most of my life. That ... and yo-yo dieting oft appearing smaller than my normal self and in a spin of the head towering. Looming large. Literally and figuratively. Nonsensical adventures to most. But not me. Entirely logical in that life-in-chapters kind of way that defines my journey. Illustrating my ability to adapt regardless. Boredom propelling me to explore the unknown. But once. Just once. I'd like to have a talk-to with that rabbit, or whatever the madcap creature is who is in such a hurry darting about furiously upsetting the calm. Luring me. Hypnotizing, indeed. Distracting little bugger.

What the hell? Bailey and I discovered what seems like a rabbit den or a cave for some other species. Next to the Invisible Fence wire so she is barking but keeping a safe few feet away. Yes. The gaping holes between the roots of the 40 foot pine which along with its mates borders my yard. [Note to self: Have tree men check this out pronto so this graceful Maine evergreen doesn't topple onto my house in the next Nor'easter. That would be a bummer of major proportions.] The soggy ground giving way to a portal. [Better call the exterminator with the Have-a-Heart cage, too.]

Should I follow the white blur? I have been doing the math for this past week. Putting my strategy, my plans in perspective. The next steps on the highway c'est moi. Not sure it adds up. But, as queen of my very own (albeit tiny) kingdom, I will follow my heart. My head is sure to join us. The disembodied smile of Tikka, my neighbor's pewter cat with chartreuse eyes gazes through me. What if my head doesn't? It most assuredly should. Or, off with it altogether.

So its settled. Onward and upward. Confusion and doubt be gone with you. Too much introspection. I'm mad as a hatter. And fifty-nine times as zany. But I am baffled nonetheless. Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Tip your porcelain teacup to jabberwocky ... I'm off through the looking glass! And to devour that tray of pecan tarts cooling on the counter. Cheers!

Miss Bailey: Momma is Outta Here

Oh. Oh. I know something is up. Momma is carrying up those big black things with handles from the basement. Her things are everywhere. She has piles of stuff on the table. Oh boy. Wherever I look things are out of place. I am getting nervous. Oh, Momma, please don't go away.

Oh oh. I know she is going to leave me at that camp in the country. Where there are other dogs, but I can hear them bark. No fair. I can smell them and see them only when it is their turn to go out and TINK. I do like my people there. They are so nice and give me TREATS. Just not as many as Momma. And, there are fewer tummy rubs. But those little boys are fun to watch. They zoom around the barn on those funny looking machines with wheels beeping their squeaky horns and ringing some bells. Makes me go outside to my very own backyard.

Mostly I just zone out on my trampoline bed a few inches off the floor. Looking sad. Waiting for Momma. Every time my camp people come in I think Momma will be with them. I sniff and sniff but can't smell her sweet scent or hear her bracelets rattle. They make the same noise as the charms on my sundress collar. We sound alike, Momma and me. But we don't smell alike. Nope. I smell like a dog. Sometimes a wet dog. She always smells so good. I like to see if I can tell where she has been when she comes home. I can sometimes smell that bad boy Moby. But my favorite is when I can smell Grandbobbie or my Charlie. Gheesh. I wish she would take me when she sees them.

Oh oh. I can hear her shutting drawers and walking across the floor. I wanna go UPSTAIRS to lie in CHARLIE'S ROOM so I can be close. A big stack of laundry is on the bottom step blocking my way. Momma, please can I come UPSTAIRS. I am sulking now. Lying as close to the bottom step as I can get. My head on my front paws. I am so sad. Momma don't go.

Oh goody. Here she comes. And we are going for a WALK. I am wagging my tail so fast that I almost fall over. Ooops I do. I am so happy. I am smiling. Oh. Here she comes with my LEASH and a TREAT. I SIT and try to face her, but I really hate that thing. She slips it over my nose and neck. But sits. Momma? Are we going for a WALK? I lie down. She is putting on her clunky shoes and black sunglasses that make her look silly and chic at the same time. Momma, let's go. This is the best day ever. We are going OUTSIDE into the sunshine. I am going to see all my buddies. Sniff everywhere. TINK and sniff and wag my tail. Yep. I am such a happy girl. Maybe if I smile and show all my teeth and wag my tail and be so good she will not leave and take me to camp.

Cheers, Momma. Another TREAT, please!

Miss Bailey: Needles, Schmeedles ... Just give me a treat!

I am so excited this morning. First Momma added this nummy gooey egg to my BREAKFAST then tossed one of the big red beef bones for my dessert. What is going on? This is the bestest start to a wet wet wet drippy day. Extra taste treats in my shiny dish. Mmmmm. Nums. What could be better?

Yep. It is nasty outside. But I love it. More things to sniff while I tink. But so oh so much harder to do my morning toilette on the cold white snow. The biggest heaps in the yard are almost gone. No place to get a grip with my too long nails. Momma? We got to cut them down so I don't slide. Please! But hey, I love it. Absolutely love it when I come back INSIDE and you rub me all over with the fluffy towel so I don't puddle the slippery floor. You are such a wonderful Momma. I just cannot stop loving you and getting as close as possible. Please don't be mad if I bump into you. Can't you tell? I am smiling my most beautiful smile. My tail is wagging hard.

Now a RIDE? Whimpering with joy and running in circles. I cannot help myself. I am a dancing fool. Momma, do you really mean it? I am such a lucky girl. Yes! Oh goody. You are pulling the black braided leash off the bamboo umbrella rack. You mean it! My tail wags my entire body. Hurry Momma. Grab your keys so we can go before you change your mind. Oh wow. You just took off my hot pink buzz collar. You mean business. I am so excited. You are the best Momma ever. C'mon hurry. I can't get down the back steps fast enough. Sorry, Momma. Didn't mean to knock into you. But I am so excited. Oh there goes the garage door. Up up to the top. I see the silver car. We are going for a RIDE!

She stopped and is getting ready to get out. The sweet scents of other dogs mix into the air. I am going to push over to the door and just know she will take me, too. I know this place. My wagging tail makes me look like a fool. I am ecstatic and am going in circles in the pouring rain. My black braided leash tethering me to Momma. Her balance is off. I am tripping her. She wants me to tink. But I am too damned excited. That can wait. Yippee. We are going INSIDE.

I know this place. I love this place. Did I say I LOVE IT HERE? I do. There are three other pretty black Lab girls just like me. One even has a white beard so she must be related. Over there is a teeny baby golden fluff ball. One very silly looking dog wearing the funniest white hat around his head is coming over to sniff. I wag my entire butt. Momma is begging me to SIT. She has the strongest hold on my collar. I just can't help myself. I have to smell that bad boy's bottom. Oh they are calling my name: "Bailey, please bring your Momma." I don't want to leave. Not yet. I am whimpering and squealing under my breath. This is way too much fun for lonely me. Momma pulls me into the next room to SIT on the black pad.

Whew! I have kept my girlish figure. Even with all the TREATS I beg for. It is so worth it. Sixty-five pounds. Momma hands me another cookie. I am one lucky girl! Oh here is that nice man who kisses me on the head and rubs my belly. Whoa, Nellie. He is sticking that into my leg? I am bleeding. I want to faint. But he has a TREAT in his hand so I will be a good girl. I want that TREAT. Darn. Now he is squeezing my hips and reaching under for a grab. Hey, not there unless you are Shadow. Another stick between my shoulder blades. What the hell is going on? Oh nevermind. Another TREAT. Phew. He stands up. Rubs my head. Yay! A bone-shaped cracker from the drawer.

Now I want to get out of here ... fast. Really have to make that tink. Ooops. Can't help myself. The smells on the mat by the door are just too good to be true. And Momma is taking so long with the ladies and her purse. I squat low so they don't notice. But they do. Oh well. I feel so much better. Whew. Momma is not pleased. Not one bit. She tightens her grip. I never do that on the floor. Never. But, hey, what's a girl to do?

Cheers ... and an extra TREAT for my buddies still in the waiting room at the vet. I am one lucky girl.

Broadcast News

On a scale of one to ten today is an eight point five. An almost picture perfect February day. It is nearly fifty degrees outside. The sky cloudless and the color of lapis. Little snow remains from the storm earlier this week. Birds chirp. Squirrels race. I want to not wear my Barbour parka or a scarf on my walk through the awakening neighborhood! Bailey pulls firmly and often on her leash for sniffs in the muddy yards off the sidewalk. Defying tugs to the contrary from her Gentle Leader. I can almost see the purple crocus poking through the softer earth. Soon budding forsythia will emerge from the grey wintermelt. A fresh perspective.

Today's a day for news. Good news. That elevates the overall score to a nine point five. The judges have pushed it up a notch. Elated, I take a quick, graceful spin around the rink smiling. Arms waving to the exuberant crowd. Thunderous applause. I nod. My sparkles shining incandescent. More cheers. Celebrations of a connection from my career's prior life. New York City. The heady 1980s. MTV-laced innovations. Creative programming. Multiple media platforms intertwined, leveraging the message. Marshall McLuhan smiles. Professor Jeannet, too. This former SATC girl is back with a flip of my shoulder length chestnut hair.

Opportunity to make good where I left off. Telecommunications empires. Emerging technologies. Broadcast media building radio and television groups in the digital age. Viral marketing across networks pixilated. Bytes a buzz. Branding in the brave new e-economy. The confluence of broadcast, interactive and wireless media. A lift. The much needed vote of confidence in all that I was ... and all that I can be.

Am I worthy? Talented enough? Who knows? Who cares? Just let me bask in the moment. Go Team Allie. The A team! Competitors start your engines this girl is back.

Cheers ... and another olive please!

Miss Bailey: Hole in the Bowl

It snowed again. I am so glad. Love to tink and sniff the cold white powder. In fact I seek out the snow when only the tiniest patch remains in my outdoor coop. C'mon Momma. Hurry. Open the door so I can scamper down the back porch steps into the fluff outside. Oh baby. Here I go! It is so much easier to see the tracks when the ground is covered white. Squirrel trails circle around the barn. Ooowee. So many smells. Need to explore every nook and cranny. I am a happy girl. My tail just won't stop wagging.

Oh, did I forget to tell you? Bailey girl here. Momma let me have a spin this morning. She is the best person a dog could ever want. I am always as close to her feet as I can get. Even when her low, mean voice spits out MOVE. I cannot help myself. I have to be with her. She's my Momma after all.

Momma sometimes calls me Bailey Rose for her grandmother Rosie. Momma tells everyone who will listen that my titties hang to my knees. Just like Rosie's. Embarassing. But I know they wobble from having too many pups. Yep. Three times. I come from Georgia. I'm what you polite northerners call a harlot. A barnyard girl. Well darn if Shadow didn't place his front paws on my back and well ... you know. Rode me like a circus animal. I just loved him. Our babies were black as the night. But then they were all gone. Adopted. And there I was alone. My tummy full of even more baby puppums.

Oh here she comes with that big shovel to clear the drive. I am going to get as close as I can so she can toss some of the white stuff on my head. I love that. Oh nevermind. Mackinaw, the pretty yellow dog next door, is outside barking for me to come to my buzz zone for our morning chat. Momma, I'll be right back.

Hey. Where is she? I must have missed her while I was being neighborly with Mac. Poop. I want to go back inside where it is warm. The snow is making my feet freeze. And, I am hungry. Oh goodie. I am smiling big. Momma is coming up the driveway with the shovel and the blue plastic bin for last week's papers. She rubs my neck. My tail is wagging so much I nearly fall over. Can we go inside yet? Pleeze Momma?!

Goodie. I run under her feet as she climbs the wooden steps to the porch door. She loses her balance and steps on me. I almost let out a yelp, but want to go inside so bad. Pleeze Momma don't be mad. At the top of the stairs I sit down blocking the storm door. That way she will have to let me inside. Especially if I am a polite girl. Nope. She squeezes around me and vanishes into the warm kitchen. I want my breakfast.

Finally she lets me onto the cold porch with the screens to keep out the birds and bugs. We play the towel game while she clears the packed snow from between the pads. I smile and wag my tail so she knows how happy I am to be with her and on the way inside. I trip her again as we crowd through the door at the same time. The basket of popcorn under the microwave falls off. Ooops. I race past her slipping on the shiny floor, but rally in a jiffy and head to my crate. My dining room. I sit and stare at the corner like I always do so she will know I want something to eat. Breakfast or supper or a treat.

I smile and wait patiently staring at the corner of the floor in my kennel. Hint hint. My tail goes back and forth on the brown woven rug. Just like on a clock. Tick tock. Hurry Momma. Bring me my breakfast in the sparkly dish. Oh hurray. Here it is. I wolf it down. Fast. Then I look around the bowl. Some must have fallen out. I am still hungry. I move it with my feet looking. Searching. Hoping. This girl is still famished. Reluctantly I lie down staring constantly at the bowl. Maybe I'll be a lucky girl and Momma will add something else. Nope. All done. I let out a big sigh and fall asleep.

Cheers ... lamb-rice-chicken kibble all around. Until supper ...

Miss Bailey: Won't You Come Home?

Momma came downstairs from her bedroom this morning smelling all pretty. I wagged my tail and smiled so she would rub my ears and take the gookums out of the corners of my eyes. That sandy stuff that my too long nails just won't get. I love my Momma. So much. So much that I go everywhere in the house she does. Trip her sometimes. But she's my Momma and she loves me most of the time. I am so glad to see her. Wonder what we are going to do today.

Yay! Momma's pouring my food into the dish. I know. I can hear the clink when it hits the shiny bowl. Boring though. No variety. So I just sit in my crate and stare at the corner. Hint, hint. Right where my bowl should be. Hey, Momma, this girl's hungry. If I stare long enough she'll give me a TREAT. And ... if I am really lucky and stare until my eyes cross she hands me a slice of ham or a scoop of cottage cheese. Mmmmm. Nums.

Where is she? Oh there she goes. Momma just disappeared through the door to nowhere. Just vanishes. Okay. I hear the rattling in the place under the house ... and ... oh never mind ... here she is. Wag wag smile. Wow gotta move aside. She is carrying a basket the size of my bed. My tail just can't stop wagging this morning. Now I really have to tink. Oooh, but it feels so good when she scratches my neck. I can hold it a little bit longer. Oh. Okay. Here we go. Across that slippery ground where the big white things hold her treats. Not mine hers.

Oooh ... hurry Momma, I gotta tink. Bummer. My paws are not gripping this morning. I am stalled right before the door that we go through when we go for a RIDE. She helps me through. My tail wags and wags. Maybe, just maybe we are going to get in the car. Nope. The opening to the house where the car is hiding is not rolling up. Poop. No RIDE. Brrrr. It's freezing. Tears come to my eyes. I bop down the back stairs fast. Gotta make my morning tink and sniff around the yard. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I sniff as I tink. My most fun thing to do is finding the new scents on the bushes. A mouse must have run by the porch steps. I bump my nose. Mouse must be in the house. How does he get there? A new smell. I scamper to the snowbank next to the driveway. Yep. I thought so. That crazy yellow boy, Moby, from next door broke through his barrier fencing and popped over to play. Here's his stink by the garage. Phooey. Wish I had been OUTSIDE. I growled and barked as quiet as I could 'cause my Momma hates me to bellow even though she talks and talks and talks. But no. She didn't appear. That yellow boy is fun to chase. A real whipper-snapper. And, his butt smells pretty darn good if I say so myself.

Ooops. Careful. I am not paying attention. Definitely don't want to hear that scary shrill beep before the zap to my neck from my hot pink necklace. I have two. I am such a girl. The other Momma calls my sundress. Not sure what that means, but everyone rubs my neck and tells me how pretty I am. So I have two. I love my jewelry. But I am not fond of toys. The squeak startles me. And I get confused when that round thing rolls toward me. They all stand around waiting for me to pick the grimy thing up. No way. I'm a prissy girl. Unless I can chew it and swallow nothin' is going in my mouth. Not this girl.

Yippee. She's calling me to go for a WALK. I love my WALKS around the 'hood. Smells to sniff. Dogs to sniff. I am a sniffing machine. Oh oh. Oh darn. Momma's closing the door as soon as I got into the house. And, oh no, she's making that rattling noise in the hole to keep me inside. Poop. I have no idea whether she'll be gone for little bit or the whole day until it gets dark this afternoon.

At least she hid some TREATS. Yep. There's one by my water bowl. And, one under the collar of my stuffed Christmas bear with the very long body. I am starvin'. Just famished. But I am not going to eat the food in my bowl. Nope. Not yet. Let me root out some more TREATS. Groovy. She placed one under the corner of my smelly, cushy Kalim floor cushion. I love it when she does that. Oh! And there's my BREAKFAST. Won't eat it just yet. Momma might have forgotten to take me. She did say WALK. I don't want her to pop in and I have a mouth full of kibble. She might change her mind.

I'll just curl up in the sun and wait ... and wait ... and wait .. until my Momma comes home.

Cheers, Momma! Come back before tomorrow, please.

The Tax Man Cometh

Distractions. Lack of focus. Dread. My annual day-after ritual. Post birthday, that is. Those unavoidable, mandatory, all encompassing tax preparations. Time suck required. Now. I know. I know. April 15th is still months away. Early bird discount. The deep deuce if in my accountant's hands before Valentine's Day. His gift to me. Sealed with a kiss? Hardly.

So my gorgeous double banded mahogany dining table with acanthus carved pedestal legs has been requisitioned to serve as ground zero. Mission central. Morphed into a duty not befitting its stature. Piled high with reddish-brown pressboard accordion files, strewn with odd-sized bits of paper in all colors notes scribbled in red and marked with a circled 'T'. Like steer branded for slaughter. Receipts for meals eaten, flights flown, books read and medicine taken are commingled with assorted and sundry pens, pencils, paper clips, staplers and my trusty HP-12C. Difficult to navigate. A jumbled mess.

Post-It notes stick to the precious veneer labeling soon-to-be sections where category organization will take root. Charitable contributions, here. CCG company receipts from a deflating economy as clients bailed and deals unwound, there. An oversize Topsider shoe box for Charlie's giant boat shoes stuffed, the giant rubber band from Staples taut, containing a year's worth of American Express, MasterCard and utility bills paid up to the final moment -- when champagne corks popped and 2009 became a blurry memory.

Faced with the hum-drum minutia and the mind numbing organization of my tax stuff I have been a maelstrom of activity. A goddam marvel. A whirling dervish filing and arranging ancient bank statements tossed haphazardly on the shelf in the back of a downstairs closet into 3 inch black plastic binders preferring the painful finger pinch of the giant d-rings to my dining room table. Doing anything, but.

Procrastination as an art form. Perfected. Better to take an unpleasant stroll through the village neighborhood with Bailey in frigid 20 degree snowy wind than confront the quagmire in my dining room. All I want to do is skirt the piles and jolly-off.

I head straight to my ochre French Provencal kitchen to bake something scrumptious ... blueberry confections and a savory pumpkin soup. Who needs paper cuts from rummaging through the shoe box and accordion files holding receipt from last year? Or, arms elbow deep in a gaggle of papers? Not me. Not today.

Shaking my dry martini like a maraca, ice clinking like a steel drum ... I float away from the mundane task facing me tomorrow. Cheers!

Long Island Iced Tea

It's cold out there. Freezing. The wind is whipping swells across the bay. We are ready to board the commuter boat across winter waters to Long Island. Last stop of the line. Farthest island in Casco Bay. And its cold. Really cold. Blustery. Too cold for this fair weather adventurer. Even on a heated covered ferry. But that's where we are heading. Out onto the open Gulf of Maine. In January. My trusty black lab Bailey, my dear friend and me. LL Bean totes filled to the brim with weekend gear and doggy supplies. Banana bread and rosemary scones for our hosts. Salad fixings from the mainland. Nope. No grocery there.

We're not even taking the car. What a hoot. Bailey, the most timid, scared of the noise her own tail makes when it wag slaps the table, dog in New England. In New England for god's sake. Where the ubiquitous bandana clad Labrador bounds over beaches leaping into the air hankering for that errant frisbee sailing on high or a sopping wet tennis ball flailed at top notch speed into the surf skipping like a stone over the frothy waves sliding over the seaweed and kelp. No she is not the loopy, I'll do anything you want me to do retriever of TV ads and saccharine sweet movies.

Opposite. She doesn't give a ball a second glance. Never. Has no idea what to do with it. No over-eager retriever like Bosco and Chance her canine cousins in Massachusetts. Each filling a stretched out jowl with three tennis balls trying to stuff in the fourth. Not my Bailey. My darling rescue dog saved from a kill shelter in Georgia a few summers ago with a belly full of pups. My lab who hates loud noises and sticks and balloons. Bailey is a thinker. Won't step where angels fear to tread. Digs in her heels with an 'I dare you to make me' attitude not befitting a canine companion of the retriever brand. A scaredy cat really. Not one brave or adventuresome bone in her sixty-five pound body. Nary a one.

Bailey is way outside her comfort zone. She may as well be getting ready to board the space shuttle. Begrudgingly tugging at her leash as I coax her ever so slowly across the gang plank onto the boat bound for the out islands. Straining with all her might, the Gentle Leader starts to come unraveled. Wow. She's determined not to board. Her paws gripping the floor like Crazy Glue slinking like a Navy Seal under the bullet fire. Embarrassing. Very. Our bags unbalancing me like a fallen timber slung over one shoulder. Steady there. I need to get her to step over the lip onto the deck. Over the Styx. Treats strewn like Hansel and Gretel milestones along the gangway. C'mon Bailey. You can do it, sweetie.

One step at a time. Terror filled eyes. Hers and mine! She doesn't budge. We are holding up the line. Folks behind us are losing their patience. Hell, I am too. My dear friend swallows a belly laugh. I want to cry! Finally her feet come unglued and she hurls us toward the bench where we collapse in a heap, canvas tote bags littering the aisle. Relax, Bailey. Uncoil. Fold into the scent of the damp ocean air which you love so much. You did it. Phew! Can't believe we have to go through this again tomorrow on the way back! I am drained. Fried. My dear friend reaches into his canvas sack and pulls out a silver toned shaker beads of frost dripping. And two paper cups. I laugh knowingly. Our adventure has begun.

Come to me martini ... dry with three olives. Up. Cheers! Tomorrow is another day.