I’m living in a state of organized chaos.
 
The disarray is due to the home improvement projects that have been going on around here for a while.  Still, after looking at a timeline of the upgrades, I was stunned to see that we’ve been living this way for more than year. 
 
I’d be happier with the mess if that’s all there was to it.  
 
But every cause has an effect, and when it comes to remodeling our house, I’ve noticed that The Hubster and I are grouchier, and more annoyed with each other, than we were before this odyssey started.
 
This makes sense: who doesn’t get crabby when one’s stuff has to be packed away in boxes for an indeterminate amount of time?  Who isn’t annoyed when strangers stride into one’s home with rolls of masking tape, loud drills and stained
drop cloths?      
 
As it turns out, we’re like a lot of couples whose living quarters are in transition.
 
According to Iowa marriage counselor Don Gilbert, remodeling a home can be “the most stressful activity a married couple can engage in.”  Gilbert added that the undertaking brings out “all of the components that couples stress over—money, multiple decisions, and different preferences.”   Indeed, a survey by the home improvement website Houzz noted that more than half of the respondents reported that renovating was one of the most frustrating and taxing periods in their marriages.  
 
Needless to say, I didn’t read this before all of the work began.
 
Instead, I made the first project a big one.
 
I’d decided that my vintage linoleum and yellow cement floors needed to go. The cement was the most troublesome: it
​had been painted by someone who promised that she knew how to apply the right polish to give the gray surface an iridescent shine.  The work was done while I was away; when I returned home, the floor was flat yellow and the paint already peeling. 
 
This meant I was ready for a big change—even though furniture was shoved into the kitchen and yard; there was loud pounding for hours, and big trucks in our driveway.  But the end result was worth it: chocolate colored acrylic planks that I don’t have to clean on my hands and knees.

​Next was the outside of the house.  The once bright blue coat of paint had faded to half the original color (brushes hadn’t touched this exterior in more than 15 years), and the garage door wasn’t looking so hot either.  The latter was egged months ago, and no matter how often The Hubster cleaned it, the stains never completely came off.  Now there’s another door, and my house is a cheery yellow and white.   
 
There’s also a new driveway of snow white pebbles; screens on previously naked windows, and a stove that doesn’t need a match to light it.  The tilted wood fence is upright now, with a matching gate next to it. Faucets and a shower door
have been replaced, and new lighting, vents and grout are in the bathrooms.  At the moment, the entire interior is
​being painted.   
 
Life will be better by spring, when the last major upgrades should be done. The grimy kitchen cupboards will be sanded and repainted, and the wood floors in the office, hallway and living room will be polished back to their original shine.  
 
I’m finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
 
Meanwhile, The Hubster and I hope that we’ll make it out alive.
   

​I don’t have gray hair.
 
Put another way, I color my hair.  I feel younger and more confident doing so, and really, does anyone need to know that my once dark locks are now nearly all white?  
 
This color game isn’t new.  It first took root—pun intended—in my 30s, when I saw that my hair was turning the same yellowish, dirty white as my mother’s.  Just like me, she dyed her hair.  But unlike me, mom bought her color at the grocery store, and made her hair brunette at the kitchen table.  
 
I can still see one of her friends doing the deed—unwrapping flimsy plastic gloves that came with the dye package; assembling the concoction in a big yellow Pyrex bowl, and slathering the dark paste on my mom’s scalp.  Half an hour later, the stuff was rinsed out to reveal neither shine nor highlights, but a dull and even brown.  That was good enough.
 
I’m in a different circus tent.  
 
When I was on the road clowning, before there were any gray strands, my hair was curly and frosted, leaving tiny swirls of platinum blonde.  It gave me the funny appearance I wanted; it also meant that I didn’t need a wig.  Then, after
the discovery of my mom’s color peeking through my own head, I attempted a DIY henna look. That didn’t go well:
a boyfriend said it looked as if I poured red paint on my scalp.
 
Since then, I’ve gone to professionals.  My current colorist—who has trimmed and straightened my hair, too—is also a friend, which means I trust her. 
 
At an appointment a couple of years ago, I noticed that she’d given herself blue bang tips.  My first thought was that
this might be A Very Good Look for a clown, so, I decided to go for it.  Since then, I’ve had bright green bangs
(now cringe worthy because they’re front and center on my current passport photograph) and turquoise (which
​faded after a few weeks).  
 
Right now, I have three colors—the dark brown tint, which covers most of my hair, and on the bangs and a bit on each side of my face, magenta and violet. It’s another fun look, so I’m decided to keep it for a while. 
 
This, in spite of the fact that for the last couple of years, going gray has become the in thing to do. 
 
These women include my hairdresser, who ditched the blue, finding that she preferred a more unaffected look because it required less maintenance.  But she’s also more than 10 years younger than me, so it’s really a salt and pepper color.  The mayor of an adjacent town has also gone au natural, commenting on Facebook that “Every strand of silver is somehow one tiny step closer to becoming more me.”  Too, there are celebrities who have purposely made their hair gray, including Kelly Osbourne, Lady Gaga and Hilary Duff.
 
I’m not there yet.
 
Instead, I’m thankful that I can turn my hair any color, or combinations of color, that I want.  Heck, I may even go rainbow.  It might also mean that someday, I’ll opt for that festive yellow-white hue. 
 
But I doubt it.  

Social media keeps me sane, focused and determined.
 
Given that I’m a writer, and on a laptop every day, some folks may be surprised to learn that I used to have zero interest in social media.
 
The fact of the matter is that I was blissfully happy without any of it. 
 
Well into the 1990s, I read newspapers to see what was going on around the world.  For work, I carried around a narrow reporter’s notebook, and did my research at libraries, where I scrounged through reference books, microfiche
and magazines.
 
I didn’t learn how to email until 1998, when I accepted a job where the task was forced on me. I immediately took to it.
 
I loved email.  I no longer needed to send a letter to make contact, or even pick up a phone to communicate. I no longer worried about time differences.  Best of all, I could do interviews this way, which gave my subject time to formulate thoughtful responses to my questions
 
Still, old ways die hard.
 
Maybe that’s why I didn’t join Facebook until more than a decade later.
 
Even then, the site seemed to be a massive time thief; who cared about the cutest kitten, or how to make easy pizza crust?  But during one week in 2009, five folks I knew sent me invites to “friend” them. 
 
I took that as a sign, and took the plunge.  
 
Quickly, I figured out that Facebook was another way to not only do research, but to find new stories and clients.  I was also able to reconnect with folks from my past—a sixth grade classmate who always sat in the back of the room, where he incessantly sketched hot rods; a dear friend who helped me navigate New York City, and relatives I hadn’t seen in decades.
 
Almost as an afterthought, it also became a platform for trading opinions and links with like-minded people. 
 
Yet, I only got on Twitter three years ago. 

There was just one reason to do so: it was a way to promote this writing blog.  It still is, but also, I could “follow” folks whose opinions and expertise are those that I trust and admire. 
 
These persons—John Dean, Maggie Haberman and Michael Avenatti among them—have the background, resources and experience which, every day, are helping me navigate our troubling times. 
 
Their tweets often make me angry and sad, but sometimes, hopeful. That’s all okay, because I also see that millions of others feel the same, and like me, are working hard to effect change.  Just knowing this keeps me sane.
 
Right now, I don’t feel the need to join Instagram or Snapchat, sites that my 20-year-old daughter prefers. 
 
Maybe it’s because there’s enough information on Facebook and Twitter to keep me determined to fight as hard as I can for our country. 
 
Don’t misunderstand me: I’d love to get back to writing posts about puppies and recipes and vacations (and occasionally, I still do).  For now, though, I will keep up with news that, in these astonishing times, is often difficult to comprehend.  I’ll also continue to share and retweet important information, because the bottom line is that it’s my duty as
​an American.    
 
Thanks to social media, my activism has soared. 
 
For this, I am grateful. 

I’ve written a petition to remove Bill Cosby’s star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
 
No one can deny that Cosby was a brilliant comic, writer and social activist.
 
Now, Bill Cosby is also a convicted sex offender.  This new identity happened in a Pennsylvania courtroom two
months ago, when the once powerful entertainer was convicted of aggravated indecent assault against a former
Temple University employee named Andrea Constand. 
 
After the verdict came down, Cosby didn’t apologize.  Instead, he shouted expletives at the prosecutor.
 
Constand wasn’t Cosby’s only victim.  In fact, off-camera, the celebrity icon had long led a double life—drugging and then sexually attacking women for most of his career. Many were minors, and many were raped.  So far, more than 60 courageous women have come forward.
  
But who knew?  For most of us, Bill Cosby was the happily married father and funnyman who first caught our attention on the TV show I, Spy, playing globe-trotting espionage agent Scotty.  Over the next two decades, Cosby had other high-profile gigs—including shilling for Jell-O Pudding Pops; producing Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids cartoons, and writing for PBS’s The Electric Company.  He was also a passionate activist for education, especially literacy.  
 
Then came Bill Cosby’s greatest success. The Cosby Show was a mid-‘80s comedy that starred Cosby as sweater loving obstetrician/gynecologist Cliff Huxtable, who was also America’s Favorite Dad.  Looking back, could it be that the part Cosby created for himself was his own inside joke?
 
Indeed, Cosby’s role away from the studio—that of a serial rapist—was on full throttle.  
 
Barbara Bowman was an aspiring actress in 1985.  Bill Cosby had taken the naïve teenager under his wing, but rather than helping her with her career, assaulted her multiple times.  The last incident saw Cosby trying to unclip his belt buckle while Bowman furiously attempted to wrestle from his grasp.  Angered, he sent her home to Denver.  Bowman’s agent did nothing, and a lawyer accused Bowman of making it all up.  That feeling of futility kept Bowman from going to the police, but she did talk to the press, and kept talking, beginning in 2004. 
 
Yet it wasn’t until a decade later that the rumors went viral.  The turning point came in the summer of 2015, when a New York magazine cover featured 35 women who accused Cosby of sexual assault. 
 
Around this time, colleges started rescinding the degrees and memberships they had given Cosby over the years.  But it wasn’t until the guilty verdict that the biggest guns did the same. These institutions included Yale University; the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, and The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (which announced that Cosby’s reprehensible criminal actions completely overshadowed his remarkable career).
 
This is all terrific news.  And, I expect that after Cosby’s sentencing in the fall—which could land the 81-year-old up to 30 years in prison—more organizations will do the same.
 
Still, I felt an overwhelming desire to do something myself.
 
I spent a lot of years living and working in Hollywood, so it hit me: even now, Bill Cosby has a star on the Walk of Fame.  Embedded in the sidewalks of 15 blocks of Hollywood Boulevard and three blocks of Vine Street, the more than 2,600 stars are public monuments to achievement in the entertainment industry.  Those who live in the area might find the walk a bit hokey, but an astounding 10 million tourists visit it every year.  Many are families with young children.
 
Of course, some of the entertainers here are far from perfect.  Clark Gable may or may not have been involved in a fatal hit-and-run car accident; Charles Chaplin loved teenage girls (and married them), and Humphrey Bogart cheated on Lauren Bacall with his hairdresser. 
 
But Bill Cosby’s crimes—unchecked for so long, and involving so many victims—go way, way beyond the pale. 
 
Perhaps after seeing this petition, the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce (which manages the walk) will decide that it’s time to change its rule that even when there are rumors of misconduct, no one’s star can ever be removed.
 
But, the charges against Bill Cosby have now been proven in a court of law. 
 
The time has come to Do the Right Thing.   
 
I hope you’ll sign my petition.  Then, I hope you’ll pass it on. 
 
https://www.change.org/p/the-hollywood-chamber-of-commerce-remove-bill-cosby-star-now-from-the-hollywood-walk-of-fame
  

​When I make my spaghetti, all is right with the world.
 
I started refining the dish decades ago, after my mother wrote it down on a now stained and much used index card. 
 
But like most folks who are comfortable in an apron, her recipe was more of a suggestion than an instruction.  So, I’ve experimented and finessed with the ingredients and assemblage for a long time, which also means that the sauce is a little different every time.
 
Like many housewives of the 1950s on a budget, my mother’s recipe was both simple and cheap. 
 
The basic ingredients were a pound or so of hamburger, celery and an onion; tomato sauce and tomato paste, and some  green bell pepper (but only if there was some left over in the frig).  Water was added, along with a bit of cut up pepperoni, table salt and pepper, and dried spices (I knew nothing about fresh herbs until I was an adult). 
 
The sauce was spooned over whatever spaghetti noodles—pasta was a word no one had ever heard of—on sale.  And
given the times, it was topped with the only parmesan cheese any of us knew about, powdered and in a green
cardboard container.   
 
​It was delicious.
 
My jollying up begins with the meat.  I use ground chuck because it has a sweeter profile than plain hamburger meat, as well as more fat. I also buy three quarters of a pound of not-in-casing Italian sausage because that’s what The Hubster likes.  But sometimes I’ll substitute pepperoni, cut in thin nickel shapes, just as my mom liked to do.  However, I add more than she did, up to one heaping cup.
 
My mom only used one pot, which is where I make my initial big turn.
 
I do brown the chuck and sausage with a tiny bit of olive oil (if using pepperoni, that’s added later) in her Dutch oven. But once that’s going, I heat a large frying pan with more olive oil.  Setting the burner to medium, I’ll sauté one large chopped yellow onion, an entire chopped green bell pepper, three coarsely chopped stalks of celery, and 10 sliced, fresh mushrooms, all sprinkled with a bit of kosher salt.  I won’t completely cook this, so the flame goes off after five minutes.   

At this time, preheat the oven at 375 degrees, because another ingredient will go into the Dutch oven soon.   
 
Once the meat has cooked, the veggie mix and its juices are poured in. Then I’ll add a 15 ounce can of good tomato sauce and a six ounce can of tomato paste (I like Contadina).  Next I’ll fill the empty tomato sauce can with water, then put that water in the pot.  I’ll do this two more times, then add one small can of chopped black olives and if using pepperoni, that as well.  Stir completely while bringing the mixture to a slow boil. 
 
The oven should be up to temperature by now, so it’s time for roasted garlic.
 
Take one large garlic bulb and with a serrated knife, cut off the top, and even a little of the sides, to ensure that all of the cloves are showing a bit.  Place the bulb top up in tin foil with a bay leaf and a bit of olive oil, wrap well and put in the oven for 40 minutes or so.    
 
Once the sauce comes to a boil, turn the heat down so it’s barely bubbling.  Now is also the time to add fresh herbs: two heaping tablespoons each of chopped basil and oregano, and a little kosher salt.  Let it cook for about 45 minutes, then take the garlic bulb out to cool. 
 
Next, I add an ingredient that sounds odd, but works—a heaping tablespoon of honey.  It won’t make the sauce sweet, but does takes away any taste of acidity.  Squeezing the cooked garlic cloves into the pot also happens now.
 
Keep simmering for a few hours, making sure to stir and add water as needed.  It’s a good time for more salt to taste, too.  I’m also grating some fresh parmesan cheese about now. 
 
Once the sauce has bubbled for two and half hours, make your pasta. The Hubster and I like thin spaghetti cooked al dente.  My mom always poured cold water over the done pasta, but I won’t do this step because the sauce sticks much better without it.    
 
Five minutes before serving, I turn the burner off the pot and let it sit.  Then I put sauce and pasta together in a family style bowl.  But I always place the pot of sauce on the table, too, because some folks like extra.  The parmesan cheese sits next to both.
 
This sauce isn’t nearly as cost effective as my mom’s.  But it can be made for about $15—with plenty left over for another meal or a few lunches.  In fact, this recipe tastes even better the second and third time around. 
 
Someday, I hope my daughter will want to learn how to make my spaghetti.  
 
I can’t know how it will taste.
 
But I do know that a lot of room for improvisation—as it was for my mom and me—will be encouraged.     

I’m one degree of separation from Stormy Daniels.
 
How can this be?  
 
I live in a sleepy beach town hundreds of miles from Los Angeles.  I’m not involved with triple XXX rated
films, and I absolutely don’t compete in fancy pants horse shows.  (Until about eight weeks ago, Daniels had
managed to seamlessly blend these two disparate lives—the former in California, the latter in Texas—together.)  
 
Also, I’d never heard of Daniels’ uber-confident attorney Michael Avenatti, who’s as comfortable in a television
studio as in a courtroom.  And, he does a lot more than represent celebrities: last year, Avenatti was a lead attorney
in a high-profile lawsuit against Kimberly-Clark, and scored a whopping $454 million verdict for his clients.  
  
But I am friends with Lois Gibson.
 
For those not up on news of the day, Gibson is a seasoned forensic artist whose work is so remarkable that she has been listed for years in Guinness World Records as The World’s Most Successful Forensic Artist.  Indeed, Gibson’s drawings have helped catch more than 1,250 perps—and counting.
 
Unlike cop sketchers of yesteryear, who instructed shell-shocked victims to pick out chins, noses and other facial features from a book, then superimposed those characteristics onto a blank face, Gibson goes deeper.  
 
With her portable easel and a bright light shining above that stand, Gibson takes about an hour to complete one sketch, working with charcoals, pastels and chalk.  She also uses the same kind of durable paper that sidewalk artists prefer because it holds a lot of color, and can handle a lot of erasure marks, all without fading. 
 
But Gibson’s methods are mostly different because of her interview style.
 
Somehow, she is able to gently draw victims out, getting them to relive their horrific experiences in a safe place.  Maybe it’s because Gibson, too, has been a crime victim (in her 20s, she was assaulted by a stranger), so understands how to communicate with those she interviews. 
 
“I know how to unblock memories,” Gibson once told me.  “You’ve got to be really nice and happy and make the victim laugh.  I’m really good at that.  I make them feel better.  I tell them to relax.  It’s hypnosis without labeling it that.”  In addition, Gibson is hyper-aware of unspoken boundaries—it’s why she puts her easel between herself and the victim, and also makes sure she sits at least an arm’s distance away.
   
Last month, Gibson sketched the face of the man whom Stormy Daniels said threatened her in Las Vegas seven years ago.  The chilling incident occurred in broad daylight; Daniels’ baby daughter was strapped in her car seat a few feet away.  The reward to catch the thug stands at $131,000, and may go up.  
 
I knew nothing about Gibson and Daniels working together until Michael Avenatti posted a photo on Twitter.  In the picture, Gibson is at her easel, the light above the drawing, and Daniels (who Gibson calls Stephanie Clifford, Daniels’ legal name) is facing her. 
 
I sat up straight, then did a double-take in front of my laptop. 
 
“Wait, wait, WAIT,”  I said out loud. “That’s Lois.  I know her.  She’s my friend—and she’s with Stormy Daniels.” 
 
We met about 20 years ago, when I had another life in Southern California. 
 
I was a producer for the TV show Unsolved Mysteries, and one of my jobs was finding stories.  Facebook and Twitter didn’t exist and Google was just a few years old.  So I got leads by combing through reams of letters from viewers; nurturing my cop and reporter contacts, and reading true crime stories.  One day, I saw an article about Gibson, and cold called her. 
 
We worked for months on a segment, then became friends.  We even vacationed together on the Gulf Coast near Galveston, Gibson with her teenage daughter and me with my four-year-old. She did a pencil portrait of my daughter then, and I framed it.    
 
I’m hoping that Gibson’s sketch will be the lynchpin that nabs the man who threatened Daniels. 
 
Numbers don’t lie, and given Gibson’s astonishing record, I predict an arrest sooner than later.  For those wondering why Gibson hasn’t publicly talked about the drawing, she recently posted that expressing political views on social media is not conducive to her mental health, and as a forensic artist, “I guard my mental health.”  
 
But Gibson is passionate when it comes to promoting her profession.  To this end, she has done many other television interviews about her work, and also teaches a college level course for those interested in embarking on the same career.  
Gibson believes, as I do, that she has been given a special gift to catch, and help put away, the monsters of the world. 
 
I am honored to call her my friend.       

I’ve been transplanting succulents. 
 
To be more precise, cuttings of ice plant—a ground cover so resilient that it’s used to landscape nearly every freeway in Southern California. 
 
And, thanks to all of this digging and watering and messing around in the dirt, I now understand why millions of people are hooked on gardening.    
 
First, though, it’s important to note that working the land, no matter how minor, isn’t my thing.  I’d rather binge watch an HBO series; bake a carrot cake, or check out a thrift store. 
 
I’m doing this project because it’s necessary.
 
It began with a wild rose bush that had grown so bushy and unwieldy that it had to be extricated from the long fence which separates my back yard from the street.  Some wood in the fence also needed replacing, so a few new boards and a few coats of stain were also part of the sprucing up.  The folks I hired got rid of the thorny tangle of shrubbery, and fixed the fence, too.  They did a great job.  But to do so, they took out several feet of ice plant.  
 
What was left behind was a large expanse of barren, mostly sandy soil.  And, thanks to the wonderful rains we’ve been having, the latter needed to be filled in to prevent mini-mudslides cascading into the street. 
 
Given that there’s already a blanket of ice plant in the area a few feet below the fence, sticking in new cuttings from this existing field was the best way to keep this from happening.   
 
I figured that I’d need a few dozen of these nearly-impossible-to-kill plants to complete the task. 
 
But as my work progressed, I saw that at least 100 of these babies were going to be needed to completely fill in the area.  Because I also know that this can’t be done in a day, or let’s face it, even in a month, I’m taking it 15 or so cuttings at a time.
 
The job begins with snipping the tops off of established ice plants, then putting those fat and strong stems in a couple of vases. After I’ve looked at them for a few days, I decide that it’s time to give them the dirt they deserve. 
 
So I fill our big plastic watering can; grab a rusty spade, and head to the sand. I dig one hole for each stem, and pour water into the empty space.  Next I place the cutting in the opening, making sure to gently cover and pat the area around it with the dirt I’ve just dug up.  Finally, I water again—in theory, this ensures that every baby ice plant is off to a great start.
 
I’ve transplanted about 50 cuttings so far, and since all are doing well, I guess I’m doing something right.  And, it makes me smile to see these positive results immediately. That’s something that never happens after turning in an article to a picky editor, or researching a true crime story for a TV show that won’t air until months later. 
 
Besides getting extra exercise and sunlight, there are other unexpected advantages to digging in the dirt—and they’re significant ones.     
 
A 2010 Dutch study found that those who spent a half hour gardening were happier than the control group that read books inside for the same amount of time.  More important, these gardening folks had measurably lower cortisol levels: the hormone that, when elevated, has been linked to learning disabilities, heart disease and obesity. 
 
Other studies have concluded that regular gardening cuts the risk of heart attack and stroke; strengthens dexterity, and might improve our immune system.   
 
For me, the most important surprise is the research associated with the prevention of Alzheimer’s disease.  (My father died from this literally mind numbing illness, meaning I could be susceptible to it as well.  So, anything that can hasten or even halt this horrible affliction holds my interest.) 
 
A particular study that caught my eye was a long term one that tracked the lifestyles of about 3,000 seniors over the course of 16 years.  After analyzing the data, scientists concluded that daily gardening was the single largest risk reduction for dementia. More precisely, research here indicated that gardening every day cut the incidence of Alzheimer’s by 36 percent.  Another study found the number to be an astounding 47 percent. 
 
Thinking about it, this makes a lot of sense since gardening involves so many brain functions, including problem solving, learning and dexterity.
 
Baking a cake can wait.  I’m going outside, into the dirt.      

Long before hundreds of television channels, cheap air fares and the Internet, there was the View-Master.
 
A modern version of a stereoscope (a device first invented in the 1800s, it was used to look at early photos in 3D), this particular model was marketed to post World War II baby boomers, and their parents, as a way to see the wonders of the world without ever leaving home.
 
And, in the years before the phrase “educational toy” existed, it was that as well. 
 
Like millions of other 1950s households, we had a View-Master.
 
Dark brown and made of Bakelite, the device was lightweight; resembled a Brownie camera, and was nearly impossible to break.  Clicking its single lever down with my thumb, I spent many afternoons peering at the dozens of View-Master “reels” (actually, cardboard discs inserted into the top of the viewer, one at a time, which then rotated with each click) in our collection.   
 
Each disc had a set of 14 slides, all in life-like 3D. The colors were also spectacular because each picture had been shot with Kodachrome. Sometimes a disc told a story from beginning to end, like a Woody Woodpecker cartoon. More often, they were touristy images of exciting and exotic places—Natural Habitats of Africa; The Oregon Caves, and Garden Isle of Hawaii.   
 
I recently discovered our View-Master in my garage.   There were also 35 reels, most with a date of 1955, and each one was still carefully tucked in its own blue and white envelope.  Everything was manufactured by Sawyer’s of Portland, Oregon, whose owners introduced their creation at the 1939 World Fair in New York City, and patented the device that year. 
 
I’d forgotten that I’d found the same box before, in another garage at another house.  I wasn’t ready to give it up then.  This toy had been an important part of my childhood: it gave me the fuel that let me dream about corners of the world that I knew our family could never afford to see in person.
 
I’ve done a good bit of traveling since my little girl self sat in a cramped living room, enthralled with our View-Master. 
 
Journeys have included crisscrossing the country as a professional circus clown, which included driving to every gig in my Datsun 710 sedan.  In the rear seat directly behind me were my costumes, makeup and props.  Next to me, the front passenger seat had been torn out to make room for a long plywood board and air mattress.  In this way, the car doubled as my bed, and after I made curtains for the windows, it wasn’t half bad.   
 
There have been other far-flung escapades.  I can still recall strolling down the greenest of hills in Switzerland, right next to cows wearing leather collars with bells on them, clanging with every step they took.  I’ve seen old-fashioned windmills turning in The Netherlands, and gazed up at Mount Fuji in Japan.  I brought my tiny baby girl home from China, and spent time in the former Republic of Georgia making a documentary film.  This past February, I went to Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, one of the most beautiful bodies of water on the planet.   
 
Each of these adventures has given me a perspective on the world that has helped shape me into the curious and questioning reporter that I am today.
 
But now, it’s time to pack up the View-Master and the reels.   
 
They’ll be in good hands, going to a friend on the East Coast who collects vintage toys.  As it turns out, he hasn’t been to nearly as many places as I’ve been lucky enough to see. 
 
But maybe the View-Master will change that.    

​I miss cafeterias.
 
I don’t mean the ones in school lunchrooms, but those that used to be in just about every city across America in the 1950s and ‘60s.
 
I loved the food, of course.  But the next best thing was how I got the food—pointing to exactly what I wanted, with each choice then handed to me by a female worker (never a man) wearing a starched white uniform with sensible shoes. 

​The line itself was both precise and artistic.  
. 
After grabbing a tray, the first stop was looking at the tiny white bowls of salads, all propped up on a narrow island of crushed ice.  Should I get coleslaw, or cottage cheese with a maraschino cherry on top, or sliced peaches?  Usually, I’d pick my favorite—strawberry Jell-O cut in identical, sparkly cubes. 
 
Under heat lamps and in the center of the line were the entrees.  There was chicken pot pie, and roasted turkeys
and hams and roasts, all carved to order.  Alongside were steam tables, with sides including mashed potatoes,
fresh succotash and brown gravy.  Next came baked-that-day bread and rolls, and then, on a second bed of shaved
ice, juices and milk. After that were desserts—featuring tapioca and rice puddings topped with whipped cream,
and displayed in crystal cut glass parfait dishes.  Sitting alongside those were from-scratch slices of fruit pie,
and chocolate and vanilla cake, too.     
 
The last stop was the cashier’s station.  Here, my entire meal cost, at most, a few dollars.     
 
Where I grew up—in Long Beach, a coastal city about 25 miles from Los Angeles—not one of these places was part
of a chain. 
 
Instead, they were owned and managed by local families, and had names like Riley’s, Arnold’s, Crown and Royal.  Because they were not only cost efficient, but big and well-lit and noisy, lots of families ate there, too, giving off an ambiance of good cheer and wholesomeness.  
 
One exception was a small chain called Clifton’s, which in its heyday had eight locations.
 
The most famous of these was Brookdale, opened in 1935 in downtown Los Angeles.  The food was also great, and with a kitschy redwood forest theme, it was also the largest cafeteria in the world.  Here, guests could sit near a working waterfall that meandered through the entire dining area; animated toy raccoons and a giant stuffed bear holding a fishing pole sat on custom built perches above them.  During the Great Depression, and even later, customers who couldn’t afford a meal could eat at any Clifton's for free.   
 
With their homey food choices, lots of folks think that cafeterias took off in the Midwest. 

But California is where the cafeteria craze began.
 
It started in 1905, when a woman named Helen Mosher opened a small restaurant where customers selected their food at a long counter, and then carried their trays to a table.  She called her place the Cafeteria (the same name as a smorgasbord restaurant that had opened a decade earlier in Chicago); by the 1920s, there were so many similar establishments in Southern California that one writer dubbed Los Angeles “Sunny Cafeteria.”   
 
Brisk and breezy, they were marketed as the new and modern way to dine, a place where customers could choose as much, or as little, food as they wanted. And because the food sold on its looks, it was designed to be appealing.
 
As a kid, I never imagined that cafeterias might vanish by the time I became an adult.
 
In the last four decades, fast food conglomerates—big on advertising and cheap ingredients, small on fresh and healthy choices—have supplanted the mom and pop places that I had once taken for granted.  
 
Indeed, the cafeterias of today only provide food where people go to eat because they have to—schools, hospitals and prisons.   At best, the choices are bland and unappealing; at worst, they’re tasteless and made edible only because most of the food is packed with sodium and sugar.
 
I don’t know if the cafeterias I loved will ever come back.  
 
But I do know that I’ll never stop missing them.
  

Our dogs sleep with us.  Or rather, we sleep with our dogs.
 
Given that neither is teacup size—Sadie is 105 pounds and Hank is 75—this arrangement has its negatives.
 
For starters, our mattress is queen size, and like our dogs, neither The Hubster nor I are small. 
 
Sadie warms my side of the bed before I turn in.  But she always moves when I ask, settling in her big brown dog bed next to my nightstand.
 
Still, being a shepherd and The Hubster’s dog, Sadie wakes every few hours to nudge his arm or breathe on his face to make sure he’s okay.  And she doesn’t like anything getting too close to either of us.  That means barking when there are raccoons and possums and skunks outside, which has been known to happen every night for a full week.  She’s an early riser, too, typically 5 a.m., which is when I’m in my deepest sleep. 
 
Hank likes to jump on after we’ve settled in.  After licking my face, he settles into his sweet spot—on top of, or wrapped around, The Hubster’s legs.  He’s a happy hound who had a great puppy experience: not being separated from his mother too soon; daily runs through a vegetable garden, and cuddles by friends of the couple who fostered him.  Also, he was the only male in the litter, definitely an alpha dude, so it’s not his way to give up space.
 
Why do we put up with this? 
 
Because there are way more positives.
 
Most important, Hank and Sadie are family.  
 
With that in mind, we’re serious about pet ownership.  Our guys don’t wear plaid jackets or ribbons on their collars, but they eat premium food; have lots of space to run, and chew on soup bones (no splinters).   Of course, there are hugs and kisses and brushing and on-time visits to the vet.
 
And now, a new study has concluded what we people who sleep with dogs have long suspected.
 
Folks who take their dogs to bed with them feel more contented, secure and loved.    
 
The study was done at the Mayo Clinic and surveyed 40 adults, mostly women with an average age of 44 years old.  Each participant had one dog, and none had sleep disorders.   The findings in this research backed up an earlier Mayo study, which surveyed 150 patients, and concluded that sleeping with one’s dog makes for a better night’s sleep.
 
However, there’s a catch.
 
While all of these pet owners had their dogs in the bedroom with them, none of the animals slept on a bed. For those of us whose canines sleep next to us, researchers found that a good night’s rest is hard to come by—especially if the pet is large and stubborn like Hank.
 
We love our sleep, but we love Hank and Sadie more.  So for us, there’s only one option.  
 
Save up for a king size bed.