Suburban blues

Where is it written that houses have to float on a green shag carpet of grass? Aside from homeowners' covenants, that is?

I live in an old neighborhood with lots of big, shady oak trees. They're impressive, dignified -- and dark.  Grass won't grow underneath them. On the other hand, violets and moss love it there. Being a path-of-least-resistance sort of gardener, I tend to make peace with whatever actually wants to live in my yard and call it a day. So I have a back-yard "lawn" that blooms blue in the spring. What is the big deal? 

To hear my neighbors talk, you'd think I was harboring terrorists back there instead of  wildflowers. OK, the little rascals do tend to be a bit ... exuberant. But how far can they get, really, considering their borders are manned night and day by poison-wielding, hoe-toting Defenders of the Turf?

I think the world would be a better place all around if it had more shade, more violets and less poison. But apparently, that's just me.

Bastards!

The Yankees are dumping Cracker Jacks. Their COO Lonn Trost--the yutz--says, "Cracker Jack is just a brand name. We're selling a caramel crunch that's the same thing." Can you believe it? The same thing? I guess the Yankees and the Mets are the same freakin' thing too. After all, they're both BASEBALL TEAMS, right?

Jesus T. Christ. I never got over metal bats, and now this. A hit should go "Crack!" not "tink." Peanuts go with CRACKER JACKS. And while we're at it, I don't want to see Spiderman ads on the bases.

This is not pingpong, people. This is not synchronized swimming. This is baseball, and in baseball you do not mess with tradition. Let me hear you say Amen, brothers and sisters. Let me ya say AMEN.

Estrogen's lament

Five days ago I stopped taking hormone replacement therapy. Things are getting ugly.

I was on it for about ten years, and everything was going fine. But my gyno moved out of town, and now it's a trek through traffic to get there. Added to that, she's not in my insurance plan, so seeing her for an annual is several hundred bucks I don't really want to spend. And anyway, all the news about HRT is about how it's going to kill me. So, when the last prescription ran out I just gave it up.

For the first few days, nothing happened. I thought I was home free, that all this menopause nonsense was behind me. Then the hot flashes kicked in, followed closely by night sweats, insomnia, and the urge to smack people who annoy me. (OK, OK that urge was already there. But now I can barely control it.) I'm bursting into tears for no reason, which is really hard to explain to astonished onlookers. I'm taking some nice gentle herbals, but they're no match for the slavering demons that have possessed my body.

Here's the kicker: I have a big business deal next month, and I'm terrified that I'll break out in a flopsweat--or worse, tears--during a tense meeting. That would be the stony end, my friend, I guarantee it. I'm thinking I need to just suck up the expense and risk and get those damn patches back. Being female really bites sometimes.

And yes, I know this entry isn't entertaining you. Tough luck, bubba.

The speed of flight

You gotta check this out: It's the Chrysler 2005 Crossfire Roadster Ltd. convertible. I do believe this is the coolest little car I have ever seen.

I can picture myself behind the wheel, cruisin' down the coast with salt spray in my face, wind in my hair, and bugs in my teeth. One day, one golden day, I am trading in my Dodge minivan for this. Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah.

I learned to drive in a Chrysler--my grandfather's 1951 New Yorker Imperial. God, that car was something. Massive and brick-solid and blue, with real leather and heavy chrome. It had a pearl steering wheel, and a hood ornament with wings that begged to be caressed. Front fenders like big, beefy shoulders that could muscle aside anything in its path. I had to have wooden blocks strapped to the pedals just to reach them. And oh, the voice it had, deep and mysterious and powerful as my grandfather himself. I wonder what ever became of it. I hope it's still out there, somewhere, with someone who loves it.