So imagine my surprise when, mixed in with my mail last Saturday, I found a large packet from a life insurance company. I almost tossed it into the recycling bin without opening it, but a second glance revealed that it had been mailed first class; a pitch to purchase life insurance was unlikely to have come via first class mail. Curious, I ripped it open and discovered that the New York Life Insurance Company was looking for my father’s heirs. He had purchased a life insurance policy that had never paid out—even when my stepmom died ten years ago.

Hallelujah, my ship had come in! Visions of paying off my mortgage and vacations abroad danced in my head. So I settled into my favorite chair to read the letter and see what kind of fortune was in store for my brother and me. But before I even finished the first paragraph, reality began to intrude. This was my father we were talking about, a man who lived life with gusto but never saved a dime in his entire life. It was hard to imagine that he would have spent the money to buy an insurance policy large enough to provide a benefit that would be considered extravagant by any measure.

Unfortunately, the letter didn’t reveal the amount of the policy’s benefit, and since it was Saturday, I couldn’t call to get any details. So I called my brother instead to let him know that there might be some bucks coming our way. We agreed that it probably wasn’t enough to land us in the lap of luxury, but even a few thousand would be nice.

First thing Monday morning I called New York Life. According to the letter, I had to establish my brother’s and my legitimacy as heirs by supplying a mountain of paperwork, most of which would involve fees to procure. The woman I talked to confirmed that this was the case, and she added a few other documents that the letter didn’t even mention.

As the fees began to mount, I asked her if the payout would be worth the effort and the fees.

“I can’t reveal the exact amount,” she said, “but if you name a figure, I can tell you if it’s higher or lower.”

Okay, now we were getting somewhere. “Is it higher than ten thousand?” I asked.

She laughed. Loudly. “No, it’s much, much lower than that.”

“Is it higher than one thousand?”

She chuckled again, and said, “No, you’re still too high.” My dream vacation sprouted wings and flew away.

“How about five hundred?”

“No.”

Utterly deflated, I still had to smile. That sounded more like my father. I did some quick addition and realized that the fees to secure certified copies of death certificates, gather notarized statements, and take care of court filings would undoubtedly exceed the tiny benefit, not to mention the time involved in gathering all the documents.

I thanked her for the information and told her I wouldn’t be pursuing it any further.

She laughed and said, “I understand completely.”

Just like that the dream was dead. I called my brother and we had a good laugh, figuring that our father probably bought a small policy when he married our stepmom, decades ago. At the time, it might have been enough to cremate him and give her a few extra bucks to tide her over, and I’m sure it was a generous gesture on his part. Sadly, time and inflation had rendered it virtually worthless.

So once again I’m back to the daily grind. I don’t have many bad days, thank goodness, but it would still be nice to have a windfall. How bad is my luck that my one chance turned out to be a net loss?

The next day, however, was a different story. I live inSan Diego, not far from theArizonacity where some bonehead made a critical error at a power station that pulled the electrical plug on nearly 5 million people. For twelve hours. 

Let me make it clear that I AM NOT COMPLAINING. There are people in the East who have endured an earthquake, a hurricane, biblical rains, flooding, and the loss of power for days and, in some cases, weeks. Our mini-crisis in S.D. was not even a blip on the radar compared to what those poor folks have been living through. So, again, these are not complaints—merely observations. 

The most important thing I observed was that being without Internet, TV, and landline has nothing on being without power. At first it was kind of fun. I joined my neighbors outside, where we chatted and commiserated. Michael barbecued hot dogs, and I fixed peanut butter sandwiches (which pair nicely with a crisp Pinot Grigio, I discovered). We helped Melanie climb over her balcony to break into her house because she didn’t have her keys; most of us enter through our garages instead of the front door. But after a few giggles, darkness settled in, we drifted back inside, and that’s when the novelty wore off. 

I quickly realized that my agenda of activities for the evening had only one item: light candles. Once said candles were ablaze, there wasn’t a damned thing to do. I stared out the window for a while, and it was nice to be able to clearly see the planets and stars for a change. I watched a couple of planes take off in the distance and learned later that they were flying empty, simply relocating to another airport. From time to time a car would drive by, always headed into the neighborhood instead of out. How odd to realize that there was no place to go to escape the darkness. 

Eventually I gave up and went to bed. 

A movie I saw years ago came to mind as I lay there wide awake: Poetic Justice, with Tupak Shakur and Janet Jackson. In the movie, Janet Jackson’s character lived in a hellaciously bad Los Angeles neighborhood. At night she would lie on her living room floor with all the lights out, listening to helicopters, sirens, and gunshots. I too could hear helicopters flying overhead and one siren after another. No gunshots, though, and I was grateful that my gravest danger was boredom. 

I finally drifted off to sleep, and when I woke up around 3:00 a.m., the power was back on. Life had returned to almost normal, and our power outage would quickly be forgotten. 

I wish there were a life lesson in here somewhere. Truth is, there’s really nothing I could have done differently, and that makes me uneasy. Being accustomed to the convenience of the Internet and TV is far different from complete dependence on power. I don’t think I’m ready to take the survivalist route: get a generator, stock up on non-perishable food and guns. But I would like to become just a tiny bit more independent of SDG&E. A flashlight that actually works might be a good start.

In the early morning hours one day last week, I was awakened by an attack in progress. I jumped out of bed and ran to my balcony to see if I could throw something at the coyote or do something—anything—to stop the attack. My neighbor Leilani had heard it too, and she blasted out of her front door with a flashlight. Between the two of us, we scared off the coyote, but a badly injured cat lay moaning on the sidewalk. Once I got downstairs and out the door, Leilani passed the flashlight to me to hold off two circling coyotes while she ran back in for a cat carrier. We gently nudged the cat into the carrier, and I took off for the emergency animal hospital, still in my jammies.

The next day was frantic with efforts to find the cat’s owner: signs posted all over the neighborhood, ads on Craigslist, and an APB to our community’s Yahoo group. The cat had been stabilized, but Leilani and I were traumatized, sorely in need of some medication of our own, preferably in the form of a martini.

Later that afternoon I got the sad call from the hospital. The kitty had not survived. In that instant, Leilani and I went from feeling like hero rescuers to abject failures. And as luck would have it, we found the owner shortly thereafter: a new neighbor whose cat had been frightened and run away. Her name was Cali, and we think she was coming back home when she was attacked. It was a grim and tearful weekend in the ‘hood.

In my rational mind, I know that the coyote was only doing what coyotes do. But it’s hard to stay rational when your heart is hurting.Cali was a spectacularly beautiful tortoiseshell cat, and her owner, Melanie, loved her deeply. It will take some time to recover from this, but Leilani and I have decided to be proactive. She now has an air gun stationed close to her front door, and I found a few big rocks to keep on my balcony. I also plucked the driver from my golf bag and put it by the front door. I can’t hit a golf ball with it, but I’ll bet I can drive a coyote an admirable distance.

How did we get here? What the heck happened to civil discourse and basic politeness? Do politicians whose sole objective has become re-election have an inkling of what they’re doing to the country they have promised to faithfully serve? Do they realize that their constituents are emulating their bad behavior? 

There was a time when I enjoyed a good, old-fashioned debate about issues—any issue. It didn’t matter what it was; let’s just get the conversation going, exchange ideas, and engage in some true intellectual dialogue. Not any longer. Whether the topic is politics, religion, health care, education, national defense—even sports—I’m not touching it. It’s just too dangerous these days because most people have their minds made up and are not willing to entertain any notion or idea that deviates from their heels-dug-in position. 

One of my students recently posted a piece of writing. The assignment was to choose a topic, research it, and write an article, making certain that it was without bias. I was critical of this student’s piece because she chose a hot-button issue and presented just one side of it. I suggested that if she wanted her writing to be taken seriously, she must examine all angles, even if only to debunk the ones she disagreed with. Her response? “There is no other side. I am correct, and you’re just afraid of the truth.” 

How can anyone respond to that kind of thinking? My favorite saying is from Saint Augustine: audi partem alteram, which when translated means hear the other side. There’s precious little of that going on today, and it makes me sad. I’m sad that the people we’ve elected to serve our interests have only their own interests at heart. I’m sad that safe conversational topics are pretty much limited to the Kardashians and Snooki. I’m sad that I had a student who was so offended by a legitimate critique of her work that her evaluation of my class showed big fat zeros across the board. And most of all, I’m sad that no one wants to hear the other side.

   What really baffles me is that the burden has shifted entirely to the men; they’re the ones who have to pony up all the goodies while the women get to bask in princess land for an entire day. How come the women don’t have to reciprocate? On second thought, maybe they do. The one thing the guys can be sure of is that after draining their bank account, at least they’ll get laid.

   Truth is, I don’t want to feel special on one prescribed day out the year. If I’m seeing someone who doesn’t spontaneously make me feel special at random times throughout the year, but really comes through on V-Day, he’s not the one for me.

   My BF is one of those guys who get it. The fancy dinners, the diamonds—he knows they’re lost on me. But when he’s at Staples and picks up a package of printer paper for me because he knows I probably need it, well, that melts my heart. And when we cook dinner together at my house, he insists—yes insists—on helping me clean up. If he’s having an especially busy week and we don’t have a lot of time together, he’ll drop by for a quick hug and bring me lunch in the bargain.

   These things all add up to romance for me. We do enjoy candlelit dinners from time to time, but we have them because we want to, not because it’s February 14.

   I really worry about couples who buy into the V-Day obligations. How can you force the warm and fuzzy feelings you’re supposed to have on Valentine’s Day? What if you just happen to be in a bad mood that day? And for the guys, what if their efforts fall short? Anything can screw it up: a B-list restaurant, amethysts instead of diamonds, failing to say the right words. Ugh! The pressure is ridiculous.

   I issued an edict to BF this year. Do nothing for Valentine’s Day, and I mean nothing. If he wants to spend the evening together, we might throw some burgers on the grill and share some Chronic (my new favorite wine, not the weed). Good conversation and a lot of laughter are my diamonds and roses.

   So tell me: am I a total Grinch, or am I on to something?

            Nevertheless, from as far back as I can remember, the family story has always been that we are direct descendants of Major General Nelson Appleton Miles. General Miles was a decorated Civil War hero, but his real accomplishments came from chasing Indians out of their territory. He drove Sitting Bull across the Canadian frontier, broke up Crazy Horse’s band, and summarily “took care of” the Sioux after they defeated Custer at Little Big Horn. Kind of like being related to Charlie Sheen. He was very good at what he did, but it’s hard to be proud of him. Still it’s as close as any of us will ever come to being related to a well-known figure.

            When I was nine years old, my family piled into the station wagon and drove across country to visit relatives in New York. Along the way, we made a stop in Washington DC to visit the Smithsonian. General Miles’s Civil War medals were on display, and we felt it was our filial duty to go see them. Frankly, it was impressive.

            Fast-forward a few decades. I was having a conversation with a friend who is an amateur genealogist and mentioned my notable great-great-grandfather. He chuckled a little and said, “Every person I’ve ever talked to who has a Miles in their family tree claims a direct bloodline to Nelson Miles.” He continued, “I have yet to find one who could substantiate it.”

            It made me wonder. I’d never thought to question my family; I assumed they were telling the truth. But amidst all the poison ivy is a whole mess of secrets, missing documents, and things we just don’t talk about. Was it possible that I’d been misled all those years?

            I resolved to get to the bottom of it. Among my mothers papers I found a huge batch of genealogical information. Jackpot! I made my way back from the current generation to where General Miles should have been. Sure enough, there was his name in the proper position as my great-great-grandfather—but it was crossed out and a different name was written above it in my mom’s handwriting.

             That alone was a pretty good indication that the family story was a myth. But to be sure, I went online and did a little research. What I found was clear evidence that there’s no way Nelson Miles could have been my great-great-grandfather. It’s possible that he’s a distant cousin, but I haven’t been able to verify it yet. And in truth, we’re probably all distant cousins to one another, so my claim to fame is officially meaningless.

            The real mystery is why my family has perpetuated this myth for so many generations. My mom’s papers had a date on them: 1984! So she knew the story wasn’t true for twenty-five years before taking it to her grave. In a way, that’s just like her. I doubt she had the heart to burst anyone’s bubble and figured it was a harmless deception. Surely, her father knew the truth, though, and it a way, it was just like him to play a practical joke that would extend for generations. I have a sneaky feeling he’s the one who started the family myth. Good one, Grampa! I wish he were still around so that we could have a great laugh together.

   Christmas décor was a big deal when I was growing up. On December 1, without fail, my dad and I would hang the outdoor lights. Before beginning, we’d have a serious discussion about the order in which we’d hang the colored lights. It was actually a pretty short conversation because there are only so many ways you can arrange red, green, blue, and yellow. But once we’d decided and as soon as it got dark, we’d head outside to do the deed. Inside, Mom would be baking cookies and fixing hot chocolate.

   Isn’t that as pretty as a Norman Rockwell painting? The association ended right there, however. The rest of the holiday season was typically marked by chaos, exhaustion, and at least one person barfing for one reason or another. But my dad and I never gave up on the dream.

   Christmas was a huge deal for my mom too. She loved all the bells and whistles. Even though the rest of us weren’t quite as enthusiastic, we humored her and went along with whatever she wanted to do. One year, Mom stood tiptoe on the arm of the sofa, reaching to put the star on top of the tree. She lost her balance, fell onto the sofa, and bounced off, landing on the floor and breaking her collarbone. Norman Rockwell we were not.

   Another year we all had the flu (lots of barfing). We gave it the old college try on Christmas morning, but a more bedraggled group of sad sacks you’d be hard-pressed to find. After some forced cheer while opening gifts, we all went back to bed.

   So this year I am determined to do my mom proud. I’ve run into a few hitches, though. I hauled box after box up from the garage, and the contents were grim. I have a vague memory of knocking over the box with the pretty glass ornaments sometime during the past few years. And sure enough, that box was nothing but shards.

   Undaunted, I opened the next box, the one I knew contained my collection of handcrafted bread-dough ornaments. Alas, an unidentified vermin had been snacking on them, and all that remained was dust and crumbs. Feeling a bit wounded, I opened a box whose contents I couldn’t remember. Ahh, yes—the fresh flowers year. A few years ago I decided to trim my tree with fresh flowers. I bought several dozen florist tubes—little plastic tubes with a rubber stopper on top. Fill it with water, shove a flower through the hole in the rubber stopper, position it on the tree, and you’ve got a Christmas tree worthy of Neiman Marcus.

   My tree was gorgeous, festooned with white stargazer lilies and red carnations, and it smelled heavenly. But what I didn’t foresee was that those freaking flowers would suck up every single drop of water in the tube—every damn day. I spent hours taking the tubes apart, refilling them, and repositioning them on the tree, only to have to do it again the next day. By the end of the first week, I took malicious joy in watching them wilt and die.

   Needless to say, the box with the florist tubes went directly in the trash.

   Next up was the miscellaneous box, the one that holds cute little odds and ends. The first thing I found was something I absolutely loved—at one time. It’s a gigantic stuffed, red-fabric Ho. As in ho, ho, ho. When I bought it, I thought it was campy and sophisticated, and I confidently hung it on my front door every year. I’m not so sure I want to hang Ho on my front door anymore.

   Inventory complete, my net usable hoard of decorations is an 18-inch, predecorated fiber-optic Christmas tree and a 6-inch Gumby Santa. Like I said, grim. After all these years, I’m essentially starting from scratch. So it’s off to the mall. I doubt if I’ll replace everything in one year, but I know Mom would want me to keep the tradition alive. I’ll do my best, but I’m steering clear of any antics that might result in broken bones.

   Yes, I am an arachnophobe. I don’t know where it stems from, but it’s deep-seated and unlikely to change. There’s not a whole lot that I’m afraid of, but for some unexplainable reason, spiders scare the bejeezus out of me.

   Phobias are a funny thing. Rarely is there a discernable origin, but we all seem to have one. John Madden, for example, is afraid of flying—so much so that he tools around the country in a tricked-out RV to avoid spending a few hours in white-knuckled fear. One of my friends is afraid of heights, a fact I didn’t discover until we were walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I was hanging over the side, trying to see as much as possible. When I turned around to say something to him, he was white-faced and as far away from the rail as he could get without stepping into oncoming traffic. Embarrassed, he muttered something about having a man-gina, but I noticed he never got any closer to the rail.

   I completely understand. Aside from a few deadly varieties, such as the black widow and the brown recluse, spiders really can’t cause humans a whole lotta harm. Doesn’t matter. I am just as fearful of a minuscule house spider as I am a black widow. If a Russian agent ever needed to get information out of me, it’d be a piece of cake. No need for waterboarding or needles under fingernails; just put a teeny-tiny spider on me and I’d talk. The beans would be spilled.

   While I was visiting friends once summer, their young daughter found a small spider in her bedroom. She immediately embarked on a mission to return it to nature. She gently picked it up, carried it down a flight of stairs, through several rooms, and out the back door, where she gave little spidey its freedom. I, on the other hand, had to lie down for a while.

  I recently saw an item in a catalogue, an electronic tarantula that you can program to climb walls and ceilings. Some kind of suction action keeps it from falling. Who in the freaking world would want that? I honestly would not be able to even touch it, and if anyone every gives it to me as a joke, you’ve been warned: our friendship will end at that moment.

   I know it’s possible to overcome phobias; psychiatrists and hypnotists have made a career out of helping people face their fears. I don’t care. I have no desire to be anywhere near a spider or, god forbid, touch one. I can live the rest of my life without that particular pleasure. I can see the wisdom in trying to overcome a fear that stops you from doing something, like flying. But communing with arachnids will not enhance my life.

   I read that no matter where in the world you are, you are no more than three feet away from a spider. That’s just great. One more thing to obsess about. As for my close encounter this morning, it took a toll. Because the daddy longlegs was blocking my usual exit route, I instead had to get out from the other end of the tub. This involved vaulting over the toilet, kicking my cute, decorative trash can so that it skittered across the bathroom floor, and landing in a heap, still dripping wet. The amount of time that elapsed between seeing the spider and landing on the floor was 1.2 seconds. Amazing what adrenalin can do.

   Ten hours later, I’m still a little shaky. I think a martini is in order. If I see another spider today, make that two martinis.

   Last week, however, was a strange one. We had a heat wave that sent the temperature soaring to 100 degrees, an obstacle my humble fan couldn’t overcome. Looking for relief, I hauled my laptop into the bathroom, set it up on top of the toilet, filled the tub with cold water, and worked from there. Amazingly, it actually worked out pretty well.

   Toward the end of the day, my phone rang. A sainted soul was offering to get me out of the heat and into a cool bar. Bath abandoned, I hustled into the coolest outfit I have (cool, that is, in terms of temperature, not something on the opposite end of the dork scale).

   What we didn’t anticipate was that most bars and restaurants in San Diego aren’t air conditioned unless they’re upscale. Neither of us was in the mood for upscale finery, so we headed for a bar/restaurant that recently opened in Point Loma. Because it was on the coast, we figured it had to be cool, right? Wrong! It was like walking into the fires of hell. Still, just being away from the oven of my house and having a cold glass of wine within reach made it worth toughing out. After the second glass of wine, I quit caring how hot it was. I was forever in my friend’s debt.

   A few days later, I woke up with a scratchy throat. Within a few hours I knew I was coming down with a cold. My friend called, and he too was sniffling and sneezing. We blamed the bartender, and evidently alcohol has a way of making me forget to be hygienically scrupulous when around people.

   So now here I am, with my first cold in more than five years. I’m not taking it well, and it’s a good thing I live alone. My whining is loud and annoying, and I’m very glad no one can hear it. Fortunately, it’s a mild cold, far from the worst I’ve ever had. But it’s still bad enough to make me keep thinking of my nearby bed and how good a nap would feel. Of course, this had to be the week of multiple deadlines, so I’m soldiering through. The end of the week is near, however, and I plan to reward myself with a good, long nap at some point. Even if the cold has run its course, it’ll still feel good.

   On my shopping list: a fresh supply of hand sanitizer.

Pocket Pond App

My favorite app is, naturally, GPS. I still manage to miss turns occasionally, but my faithful GPS app always rescues me eventually. And the Kindle app on my iPad has opened up the world of Amazon books. I haven’t purchased a print book in months, yet I’ve got a great stash of new books waiting to be read.

Still, there are some apps that haven’t been created yet that I’d pay a king’s ransom for. To wit:

• An app that will remove all spiders from my house. Forever.
• An app that will evaluate whatever outfit I’m wearing and report honestly about whether or not it makes my butt look big.
• An app that I can wave over those heinous plastic clamshell packages to instantly dissolve them.
• An app that will allow me a complete food pass twice a week so that I can eat whatever unhealthy, fat-laden, calorie-loaded treat I want with no repercussions. Maybe three times a week.
• An app that will instantly replace political commercials on TV with an image of bunnies hopping around in a meadow of wildflowers.
• An app that will give me five seconds warning about an impending gross-out scene during a television program—anything involving blood or exposed internal body parts.
• An app that will tell me I need to replace the batteries in my electric toothbrush before they die during the middle of a brush.
• An app that will evaluate ballot propositions and tell me what will really happen if they pass or fail.

So that’s my challenge to programmers everywhere. There’s money to be made here because there isn’t a female alive who wouldn’t pay a pretty penny for most, if not all, of these apps. Oh, there’s one more app I’d love. I want an app that gives me an instant, articulately perfect response for when someone says something obnoxious. I’m tired of coming up with it five hours later!