When I was a child holidays, already fraught with trauma, were exacerbated by holiday-specific paraphernalia, that required extra attention. In the chaos of the vacuuming,, dusting, moving chairs, dressing up, mangers on the mantelpiece, holiday centerpieces of gourds we had to contend with the "good china" and my mother's silver.

The silver was kept in heavy wood boxes lined with fake velvet, and the plates went into padded holders, with zippers, and little circles of foam to place between each plate.

The good china was particularly onerous because only certain of the four of us children were allowed to wash (not me) and to carry it. To reduce the risk of a massive loss, I was permitted to carry two at one time, from the dining room to the kitchen, rather than the five melomite I usually balanced from the breakfast nook to the kitchen sink.

After every dinner party we dried and then placed the pieces of china, each one, between the foam rubber, zipped them in their cushioned bags and carried them (gingerly) back to storage. We dried the silver carefully as well, and there were some tension filled searches of the garbage cans on a few occasions, when there were empty slots in the heavy velvet lined silver case.

My mother died just about the same time my husband and I were splitting up. I felt so guilty about leaving, and was deeply conscious of how much he loved his house, so I left it to him, all of it. And all the contents. I was emptying my mother's house at the same time and it seemed far easier to fill my house with her remnants than to divest my ex-husband of his household.

I, of course, inherited the china. No one else was willing to take it. Perhaps the associated anxiety it triggered was too much for the rest. Although my son was then ten, a human tornado, leaving little unscathed in his wake, I rechristened the china the everyday china, and the silver became our every day silver, and we blessed our new house. I looked forward to a time when the china would all be nicked or cracked, and I could replace it with something that I didn't have to worry about.

My son is 22 now and, of course, we still have every piece of china, perfectly intact. The silver is still serving us, slightly tarnished, but not a one nicked by the garbage disposal. I guess it is good china, after all.

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Internet dating is, undeniably, the worst thing to come out of the tech era. The idea that you can know anything about anyone from a photo, or an e-mail, is inconceivable, so really you're just tossing together a certain predicted like-mindedness, with certain believed-required physical criteria, and expecting to hit it off.

My girlfriend says you have to meet 78 men before you will meet the right one, so just throw yourself out there.

Photographs are problematic. Sometimes it is clearly amazing that the person thought they bore any resemblance to the sent picture. Twice I have not been able to identify the person sitting in front of me waiting.

The issue of telling the truth is tricky too. If you lie about your age, then the first thing you have to overcome is that you're a liar. Whew! Doesn't seem to dissuade people though. If the reason you are new to town is because you are a resident at the drug rehab center, that's worth disclosing as well.

As bad as dating as dating at forty might be, it's got to be better than 20. Or thirteen!

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This cartoon was done a long time ago, and I'd have to say my views on things like visualization have changed quite a bit, experience having shown me not to be too skeptical. Sometimes it takes several (many) years for things to evolve and for change to be evident.

When the drought began in earnest, in 2006, I let my lawn die and gradually came up with an idea of fencing it in and creating a garden space. I spent a lot of time staring at the yellow lawn and then finally, a year ago,  had a fence built, with the idea of inviting in, not shutting out (except the deer of course, the whole reason for the fence) the outside world.

The City of Berkeley gives out free compost and mulch, and the nearby stables provide manure for free. My neighbor was tearing down her deck and we used the redwood to build boxes, six of them, across the no-longer-my-dead-lawn. In the side gardens, previously filled with ivy and horrid stringy firs of some sort, there are pole beans, climbing cucumber, peas and fruit trees espailled against the fence.

Thirty seven neighbors have joined an e-tree. Thus far, enthusiasm is stronger on a virtual level, though as many as twenty have shown up for a seed/plant/produce exchange. Six families have plots or certain plants occupying a corner in the garden, and there remains excess produce. It would seem in these leaner times that if we were to trade and operate within the smaller community of a no-carbon-footprint-neighborhood distance, we would all benefit. The neighborhood has an additional e-tree to exchange goods, find lost cats and announce earthquake meetings. Not driving, and resourcing within for goods and services seems like an excellent thing.

Sometimes in the evening when I am watering, which sometimes is a little excessive time-wise, I think about how I didn't concretely state or define the finished project, but in retrospect, it is almost identical to how I imagined it. I didn't have the a to z's, which fell into place as things progressed.

So I've decided that it just can't hurt to visualize that book contract, the dreamy, cerebral, emotionally-communicative man, the perfect job, your short-sale-bargain-with-a-view.

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My fear would be being in the Jeopardy semi-finals and forgetting to answer "in the form of a question."

I don't watch t.v., but if I happen to be around one and it's tuned to Jeopardy, I will be glued.

Of course my children love Jeopardy.

If we were to go on as a collective family, we might score well. It would be fortunate for me to have others to cover sports, opera, history, geography, religions and anything to do with popular culture.

Since Jeopardy continues to be an individual competition, this will not be my future.

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I remember once I was on a panel of cartoonists and someone asked, "So, are you all like really happy, life-of-the-party, joke-a-minute kind of people," and we all kind of looked at each other and the first person went on to describe her years on Prozac, the second outlined a humor-out-of-despair scenario, a third was most productive when distraught and I had to agree, if there were tears streaming down my face, it was probably going to be a good day for cartooning.

Being able to lose yourself in anything other than real life (and oil spills) feels like a luxury.

I had a friend who was a beginner in AA, at the time, and a variety of other programs having to do with other substances, and he would recite a lot of the adages, this cartoon caption, above,  being one of them.

Another friend has suggested collective prayer might be of help right now.   I think we better try everything.

The other phrase my AA friend  was always saying was, "The meaning will be revealed."

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Today I was stopped at a stop sign and an elderly couple who looked to have been married at least 58 years crossed the street, side by side.  At the corner  she stepped in front of him below the curve, and he above her on the sidewalk to wait for the light to change.   I watched as in the gentlest of motions, which made me think, "wow, isn't that something,, in love after fifty-eight years," he lifted his arms  to gently massage his wife's shoulders and laid them on her shoulders.

         Perhaps this was something he did so rarely in their married life that it startled her silly, but she became dislodged, and started to topple.  He grabbed her windbreaker then, and cupped her there.  Her knees didn't crumple and she didn't slide free of the jacket, and finally she righted herself.

         Standing then, next to him, she turned, facing him and me.

"Don't you ever do that again!  Don't you ever touch me again …" she hissed.  She was so shaken.   I didn't hear the rest.  I didn't know what to do.  Should I stop the car and get out explain.  Should I say,  I was witness to his intentions?

         Would he have the courage, later, to talk to her, or had a history of misunderstandings worn him down?  I hope he will not take her at her word, and never touch her again for fear of touching her incorrectly..  I hope that she, when her balance is recovered, will remember how he held tightly to her jacket, wisely let it form a little cape to cup her there while she regained her balance.  I hope that when she is bringing the fruit to the table she stops, and cradles his head in her arms, and makes sure he knows just how much she thanks her lucky stars she has a man who wants to rub her shoulders at the stoplight.

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Recently it seems I don't actually talk that often with my son, but we communicate almost every day on line, playing Scrabble.  If he didn't show up I'd be worried.  This is a new addiction, on my part, while he is too far away to sit down at the table and thrash it out. 

I think my Scrabble addiction will be coming to an end pretty soon, and I'll make my son cross over the bridge and have tea, and we will whip out the Scrabble board, and have a real contest of memory and strategy,  particularly after our intense on-line training experience.

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 All my life I've lived with nightmares.  I figured years of therapy would be the prescription, and barring that, I would live with them, until I read about the nightmare purger, or exorcist, or expunger, my words, not his.  He would say, "if you're going to spend so much of your life sleeping, why not enjoy it."  It had never in my life, since very, very young, occurred to me that sleep would necessarily be "enjoyable."  At best it was always risky. 

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For the second year, we're having vegan Thanksgiving. It's okay with me. My son's girlfriend, during a seven-hour drive to Los Angeles, explained to me how chickens are treated, no matter how "free" their range is, ending with being slaughtered. That, along with "My Year of Meats," (Ozeki) and Michael Polin, it's easy for me not to miss turkey. Others, however, are a little offended that the dietary desires of some would dictate the entire table (i.e., why can't we have vegan, carnivore, vegetarian, etc.). Even non-invitees have expressed their opinion re the seemingly dictatorial nature of the vegans, but celebrating a day of thanks by killing or abusing a beast doesn't seem like the morally higher ground. I don't mind someone else making me be a better person, if just for a day. I'm thankful to be having dinner with my son, so I'll eat whatever comes my way. We've lost one potential diner to a with-turkey-Thanksgiving at another house. I feel kind of sad about that, but perhaps as for the vegans, taking a stance about turkey has yet another meaning for our lost guest.

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