In Our Mothers’ Names

Each year as part of our Mother’s Day celebration, St. Alban’s parishioners donate bags of food in our mothers’ names. The Monday following Mother’s Day, we deliver these bags to our Tucson neighbors.

Today was the first time I participated in the delivery.

Willow's truck: Part of the 277-bag load

Willow was not available to make the trip, as she’s finishing up her last few hours of high school classes; but she loaned us her big, green truck. She told me there was “plenty of gas” to get from home to the church and then to South Tucson, however, the minute I got behind the wheel and turned down the country music, I noticed the gas needle in the red. 

It was the perfect illustration of the difference between a teenager’s interpretation of “plenty of gas” vs. a mother’s.  So, her truck donation proved to be a perk since I stopped and filled up the tank. (It should get her through the rest of her high school career).

We had a small army of volunteers at the church loading trucks and cars with canned and dry goods. In total we counted 277 bags. Then we paraded from our serene Foothills location, southwest to the Casa Maria Soup Kitchen at 352 E. 25^th Street.

Once we arrived, it took less than half the time to unload the bags as it did to load them. We had a lot of help.

Brian Flagg runs the Casa Maria operation, which consists of several small buildings each serving a purpose to help those in need. We literally filled one of the houses with our bags, and this house was across the street from the Señora de Guadalupe y Cocina Gratis. Other members of the Casa Maria staff live nearby, including Flagg, who opens his home to provide showers.

Flagg has a long history of social and community activism. When I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, I was bathed in his kindness and warmth. This is a man who clearly walks-the-walk.

St. Alban's Fr. Bruce with Brian Flagg of Casa Maria

Casa Maria serves 500-650 bag lunches plus soup, and also distributes 250 family bags per day. Flagg says they help to feed at least 1,000 per day. And by the way, he’s been at this for 30 years and pays himself $10/week.

According to the U.S. Border Beat newsletter, Casa Maria Catholic Worker House also provides medical aid and legal services, and offers United States citizenship classes in Spanish.

Willow only has a couple weeks left in Tucson before heading to her future in Wisconsin. She’s got a calendar full of activities leading up to graduation and more party and event invitations than we can count. But now that she’s got a truck full of gas, I hope we can find a few hours one morning to make it back to South Tucson to volunteer our time by the side of Brian Flagg. He said they need volunteers every morning between 8:30-10:00 a.m.

I believe exposing her to this operation would be the most valuable graduation gift I could give her.

Tucson Foodies: Have You Heard About Alfonso?

I’m not truly comfortable with the term “foodie;” however, since I’ve been one for the past 15 months or so, I suppose I should embrace it. Regardless, before I bury the lead and go off on a tangent, I will stress that today’s blog is about Alfonso Gourmet Olive Oil & Balsamics, located at St. Philips Plaza off River and Campbell in Tucson.

Alfonso is a one-of-a-kind shopping (and tasting) experience. And whether or not you're familiar with the term “foodie,” IF YOU COOK and you live in Tucson, pay attention: Do yourself a favor and visit this shop.

Tom Alfonso, owner, Alfonso Gourmet Olive Oil & Balsamics

I’ve been meaning to go to Alfonso for months, ever since my childhood friend, Cindy Ridings, recommended it. And today was the day. This olive oil and balsamic vinegar boutique is located across town—on a route I normally take for my weekend trips out of town to Phoenix. But generally speaking, it’s in the fertile, gourmet heart of Tucson. It’s not that far from the Tanque Verde Valley nor from anywhere in the beloved cowtown we call Tucson.

Today was the day because A: I made the time and couldn’t take the distressing news out of Boston another minute; and B: The owner, Tom Alfonso, at the prompting of Mrs. Ridings, generously offered to help support the Sabino Volleyball program with purchases made at his shop.

Give me a cause to support and I WILL make the trip.

In this case, however, I intend to become a regular customer of this special destination. Alfonso is one of those places that appeals to a multitude of senses—aka, MY, and I’ll bet YOUR foodie senses.

From the outside, St. Philips Plaza is classy and exclusive. Step into the Plaza and you’ll find the shop immediately, which is located next to the popular restaurant, Vivace. 

Enter Alfonso, and the subtle aromas of the oils and balsamics are immediately tempting. The backdrop colors—olive green, deep purple—reflect the bottled products and the sophisticated tasting apparatuses lining the walls. The shop is neither overcrowded nor stuffed with product, and I was immediately greeted and made to feel comfortable.

I told Mr. Alfonso I was a balsamics novice and therefore hoped to learn more about them. Within moments, he handed me a small cup of his traditional style balsamic, and upon tasting, I’m not kidding, my taste buds ZINGGED out of control. This is touted as his “finest grade,” aged 18 years and it pairs well with any of the oils in his collection. It made me want to taste samples of everything on the walls! And trust, there are PLENTY of varietals from which to choose, on both the balsamic side and the oil side of the display.

Ultimately I chose the  “TRADITIONAL Balsamic Vinegar” and the “Organic Tuscan Herb Infused Olive Oil.” I felt that was a good place to start. And I suspect I won’t wait long before I’m back for the “Tangerine Balsamic Vinegar.”

If you cook with olive oil (honestly, WHO DOESN’T?) and have any interest in balsamic vinegars for marinades, salad dressings, or as I learned today, so much more, Alfonso is a gift. And the staff will help you realize this.

4320 N. Campbell Avenue, Suite 40, Tucson, AZ   85718. 520-441-9081. Alfonsooliveoil.com

Oh My Buns!

The name of the new café at Park Place Mall, “O’My Buns!” stopped me in my tracks this afternoon. When I burst out laughing, my daughter didn’t know the reason for my absolute amusement other than the clever/funny name for a bakery/coffee shop.

“We’ve got to get a photo!” I said. She wasted no time whipping out her phone and snapped the shot. She then texted it to me and I, in turn, sent it to my four siblings. I knew I wouldn’t have to explain it and they, too, would also get a good laugh.

Yes, it’s an inside family joke that I’m about to let out of the oven.

Many, many years ago when a tri-level house in Brookfield, Illinois housed a family of seven—a World War II vet and his war bride, along with their five baby-boomer children—the dining room of this cozy home held family dinners every evening and Sunday afternoon/after church dinners with Grandma joining them. Actually, I don’t remember if the setting for my story was a typical Sunday afternoon or if it was something more formal or festive like a Thanksgiving dinner. I do know my mom had, as usual, taken care of the entire meal preparation.

After filling the hot tray and the Lazy Susan will all of her efforts she was the last to sit at the table. The main course had been placed in front of Daddy, who took care of carving and who set the mood of the meal. He ruled that table. No one, for example, was allowed to leave said table before Dad took his last bite.

Unfortunately for us—a group of antsy kids—he was a very slow eater.

Well into the meal that day, suddenly a look of panic covered our mother’s face. This, by the way, was a very demure woman of few words. She was quite petite and very proper, and always exhibited impeccable table manners. Something was obviously wrong.

I’m not sure if she smelled burning food or if she simply noticed an important omission on the table, but covered in panic, she stood up and shouted, “OH MY BUNS!” Immediately, she ran from the table and into the kitchen.

Shocked, we all looked at one another as if to say, “did that just happen?” In a moment, we all cried in unison: “OH MY BUNS!” And we giggled with laughter through the rest of the meal.  Even Dad thought it was very funny.

The tale of Mom’s burnt buns is one of those family stories we bring up with one another again and again. But we don’t need to go into the detail that I’ve just conveyed.  All any of us has to say to one another is “Oh my buns!” and it’s like our dear sweet mother is right there with us.

That’s exactly how I felt today when I saw the sign for the new café. It was just like a little heavenly hello.

And talk about heaven, of course, I had to buy one of their original coffee buns. It was large, cost about $2.50 and Willow and I split it. The verdict? It was the most delicious bun I’ve ever eaten. Light and flavorful, it was the tastiest treat I’ve had in a long, long time.

Check it out: O’My Buns, Park Place Mall, 5870 Broadway Blvd., Tucson. It’s located next to Claire’s, just inside the North movie theater entrance.

It’s Not Getting Easier

Twenty Years. The traditional symbols for 20-year wedding anniversaries are china and platinum. The gemstone is emerald, the flower is day lily.

We, however, are not celebrating 20 years of marriage. We passed that marker in 2009. We are celebrating 20 years of owning/ operating our business, Sandy Point Resort and Disc Golf Ranch. So, using the traditional symbols, perhaps it might be appropriate to take a china plate and throw it like a Frisbee toward a disc golf basket made of platinum. We could do it in the midst of a full-growth, emerald green summer shortly after the day lilies all around the property are in full bloom.

In spite of our 20 years at Sandy Point, we’ve only been going back-and-forth between the Northwoods and the desert for 15 years. We started this yo-yo lifestyle when expecting our youngest daughter, Camille, who will celebrate her 15^th birthday this summer. When she and her sister, Willow, were babies we definitely had an ideal plan for the ideal lifestyle. Yes, we moved twice per year; however, we had a solid six months in each location.

That was a time when people said we had “the best of both worlds,” and we nodded our heads in agreement. Now we nod our heads and grimace. How naïve were we to believe going back-and-forth would get easier instead of more difficult?

Let me illustrate just two items putting a damper on our best-of-both worlds scenario these days:

#1. Airlines are a business suffering in this economy like any other. We currently cannot find flights from Tucson to Rhinelander (45 minutes from our resort). The closest we could get at Christmas was Minneapolis/St. Paul (four hours from our resort). This May we can get to the Central Wisconsin Airport, which is an hour-and-a-half drive. We used to get flights for $300-something. Now they’re more like $700-something. Multiply that times three, and then figure the astronomical cost of gas for Mike to drive back three weeks ahead of us. Ouch.

#2. The Tucson Unified School District recently informed the community that the 2012-13 school year would begin on AUGUST 2. Smack dab in the middle of a Sonoran summer, our kids will be plucked from their Wisconsin lake-home paradise and dropped into the scorching desert to cut short their much-needed (and well-deserved) summer vacation. And we will lose 50% of our cleaning staff while facing an entire month of a full house at the resort. Mom and Pop can’t leave the mom-and-pop operation, so, I’m currently wondering, who is going to take care of our kids in Tucson while we’re trying to keep the business going?

Yes, indeed, it’s the best of both worlds. What an AWESOME plan we had 15 years ago. Even then, I don’t think anyone told us it would be easy. But I honestly didn’t believe it would get this hard.

A Miracle in Tucson

Tomorrow we face another Saturday in Tucson. What it means for my family is that we will be on soccer fields, just as we were last Saturday morning when the news spread through the crowd at a pace as fast and changeable as a soccer ball on a field during a competitive game.

The following are statements that were passed around on the day of the shootings by soccer spectators with cell phones and Internet devices in hand:


“There was a shooting at a Safeway at Ina and Oracle.”


“One gunman, sixteen down.”


“Gabrielle Giffords was shot.”


“Oh my God, she was shot through the head.”


“Sixteen or Nineteen people have been shot. Six are dead.”


“The gunman was a white guy, late teens—early 20s.”


“A friend in law enforcement just told me that Gabby is dead. He said to keep it under wraps. It’s not official.”


After our collective gasp, a couple players on the bench turned around (these were U-13 boys, for whom my daughter, Willow, was a ref).

“What happened?” they asked. “Who is she?”

“She’s our congresswoman. You know, in the U.S. House of Representatives?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve heard of her,” said one, as he cleared his forehead of sandy brown bangs and exposed a face full of freckles.

It was an intense game, tied at 1-1. The coach—aware of what was happening—did his best to keep his head, as well as the heads of his players, in the game. Meanwhile, a man to my right, who was wearing glasses and a khaki hat, stood up, walked over and showed me his Blackberry. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the writing on his miniature screen (no glasses), so I asked him to tell me what it said.

“Fox News and CNN just confirmed she’s dead.” (He didn’t want to say it out loud).

For the rest of the game, this is what we believed to be true. We believed our Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords, a woman for whom we voted and supported, and who attended our daughters’ junior high school—who had so many personal ties to friends in our community—was assassinated.

I was one of many who couldn’t contain tears. It was awful, awful news.

Of course, the details continued to change throughout the morning and the rest of the day. By the time the game was over and we were in our car and on our way to lunch, we had learned from the radio that Gabby was actually alive. Then we learned of the death of Judge Roll from a friend we ran into at the restaurant where we had lunch, who worked with the well-liked federal judge and considered him a friend.

I don’t remember where I was when I learned of nine year-old Christina Green, because when I heard that news, my mind definitely shut down. It was simply too painful to fathom, because at that moment, she became my daughter. She became Tucson’s daughter.

We, as a family AND as a community, were dazed and frightened as the hours/days passed and the facts unfolded. We wondered how we would explain this craziness to our children, who looked at us with beseeching eyes.

Putting myself in their position, I recalled a childhood day in 1968 when I heard the news of Robert Kennedy’s assassination. I was very young, however, I was old enough to know that shootings happened—and they happened OFTEN—because of President Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I was led to believe that THIS was what happened in the world. But in spite of other events as my life continued, the attempt on President Regan’s life, for example, and the still unfathomable terrorism of 9/11/2001, I had learned to use coping mechanisms (LIFE GOES ON) to keep getting up and going about our daily business.

And I learned, the older I became, that the easiest coping mechanism was to become complacent and even numb. But last Saturday, this mechanism was NOT acceptable.

This is why I collected my children from school early last Wednesday and stood in line for hours to see and listen to President Obama when he came to Tucson. I had the hopeful desire that somehow he could either explain this to us, or somehow make us feel better.


For those of you who watched his speech, President Obama, of course, couldn’t explain this senseless act of a clearly deranged young man. But I want to tell you all—particularly those of you who wonder WHY Tucson has made such a big deal of his presence here—HE MADE US FEEL BETTER. Our President was like the Dad we needed. He put his arms around us and told us “I’m sorry.” He let us know we were going to be okay and empowered us to go on, reminding us to be civil to one another.

And if you have a problem with that—if you want to unfriend me on Facebook or question my politics or even shake your head at me while attaching anything remotely political to my feelings about what happened in Tucson go ahead. But first, please read just a little bit more:

On Wednesday night, when President Obama told us, with her husband’s permission, that Gabby Giffords opened her eyes for the first time shortly after he and his wife, Michelle, left the hospital room . . . well, I for one, believed with all my heart that we were in the presence of a miracle.

Only days earlier, we’d heard she suffered a “through-and-through” gunshot to the head AND that she was dead. And on Wednesday night, we learned not only that she was alive, but also that she was on the road to recovery. We realize her doctors remain cautiously optimistic, however, they gave her a 101% chance of surviving. And here it is Friday night, and she’s still alive.

If this isn’t a miracle, I don’t know the meaning of the word.

So please be humble in the face of this miracle. Please set aside your political differences—even your BORING discussions and your blame fingers, your left vs. right rhetoric, your crosshairs and your righteousness. This isn’t about President Obama or Sarah Palin. This is about our neighbor, Gabrielle Giffords—a Bobcat alumna and former student of our daughters’ current teachers. And while we are truly sorry for all of the innocent lives lost, because life goes on, we rejoice in the life that was saved.

God bless you Gabby and we pray that you may fully recover, and help keep our hope—as a city AND a nation—alive.

Twelve at Twelve on January 12

Today is January 12, 2010 and if you live in Tucson, wherever you happen to be at 12 noon, city officials are asking that you stop, look around, and collect whatever trash you see . . . for twelve minutes.

There's no sign-up involved, no report required, just an eye for litter, two hands for collection, and a trash bag.

I have my own beautification project this morning—a hair appointment—which could have me sitting in the stylist's chair at 12 noon. If so, I promise to sweep up my follicles. If I'm finished, I'll be the blonder, more perfectly coiffed woman picking up the stuff I usually run past during my morning workout.

Twelve minutes at Twelve Noon Today. Let's help keep Tucson beautiful.

Flat Tire

“Good God! What the F--- was that?”

I was in the car alone—on my way to pick up the soccer carpool—when I hit a pothole the size of Montana. I only had two girls tonight, so I drove the sedan rather than the SUV-soccer-mobile. It was along my regular route to the high school, which I’ve driven a hundred times in the past few months.

I swear, that pothole came out of nowhere.

Was there an earthquake last night I didn’t feel? Did some construction vehicle drop a load in the middle of the road? What the hell causes a crater that large to appear so suddenly?

I want to make it very clear that I wasn’t the least bit distracted when driving. I wasn’t talking on the phone, texting or changing the radio station. In fact, I was in a pleasant mood, freshly showered after a double workout and an attitude readjustment after a day filled with angst. For once, no one had changed “my” radio station from NPR to the local Top 40 or the satellite Howard Stern show (gross-me-out!). I looked forward to seeing my daughter, hearing about her day, and talking about our Thanksgiving plans.

And then, just over a mile from home: Ka BLAM!

My front left tire hit this meteorite impact area, and it sounded like a TNT explosion. My car sounded off too. The dashboard lit up. Its first red alert indicated a “tire pressure” warning, which I momentarily read to mean: “Hey woman, you hit a pot hole that knocked the snot out of your tire.”

But I already knew that.

Ten seconds later, the alarm went off a second time. The bright red letters read: “Tire DAMAGE.” I pulled over immediately. I didn’t want to be the idiot who continued driving on a flat tire only to cause rim damage or whatever.

Instead, I became the idiot who didn’t know how to change her tire.

Heaven help me, I haven’t changed a tire since I was in college and driving a ’63 Dodge Dart, which was when I developed a revolving door supply of fifteen-dollar retreads. I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve been spoiled with a series of luxury, well-maintained cars. Okay, okay. Shut up! So I’ve driven my share of BMWs, Lexus and Mercedes. That’s not the point. The point is, I opened my trunk to find that jacks have changed!

Being the excellent student I’ve been my entire life, I resorted to the manual and learned how to do everything from locating the trap door in my new car to the spare tire to the tool kit, which impressively included protective canvas gloves. I unloaded everything, continued reading, and then uttered a helpless, “huh?”

Luckily, it was at this moment when a good Samaritan, a clean-cut, red-haired man named “Keith,” came along in a Lexus without a hood. He stopped and asked me the five most desired words to a sedan-driving damsel in distress: “Do you need a hand?”

Keith had never before seen a new-fangled jack like the one I presented, but with one look at my manual and an explanation as to why he was wearing greased-stained overalls with flowers embroidered upon them (he’d just finished installing a new motor on his Lexus and the overalls belonged to his wife); that man had my car jacked up and the spare tire in place in record time.

Long story short: the soccer girls were picked up shortly after practice and had no clue what it took to get them. Meanwhile, my husband, who was miles away in our other vehicle, stopped what he was doing to get to my side. Unfortunately for him, he arrived just as Keith finished the job. He was exhausted from dropping all his afternoon plans (and bless him for that), but I rationalized for both of us because of God sending Keith, who saved him from reading the manual and dealing with this foreign car jack. Keith, by the way, didn’t even bother to wear the kit-provided gloves to protect his hands from grease. I gave him a handshake anyway. Who wouldn’t?

I’m certain no one will rescue us from the expense of replacing that wide Michelin tire, which upon inspection, was definitely damaged by pothole impact. Insurance? Forget about it. Pima County? Huh! Doubt it.

Moral of the story: Tanque Verde Drivers Beware! Northbound Solider Trail Road in Tucson. North of Limberlost, south of Synder. Pot-hole. Butt-hole.

Runaway Brides: Fazio Fails.

Diana Jones, communication director for the Tanque Verde Valley group against the Fazio wedding business development on Tanque Verde Loop in Northeast Tucson (Pima County), reports today that the County Zoning Inspector decision once again denied the conditional use permit to this 'wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.'

BACKGROUND: John Fazio and his wife, Debi, purchased a three-acre property in a residentially-zoned area on the East side's Tanque Verde Loop. Their intent was to develop a church and obtain a conditional use permit to do so. This may have been permissible if it weren't for their track record of using two previous "non-profit" and tax-exempt operations for what ultimately appeared to be a cover for a lucrative wedding business operation. 

Fazio was quoted that the Tanque Verde Loop location, "Mesquite Grove Chapel," intended to host some 70 weddings per year. This did not sit well with the residents of this otherwise quiet, horse-friendly neighborhood. This, by the way, is the same neighborhood that successfully fought the Tanque Verde Unified School District's efforts to utilize the $12 million afforded by the Arizona State Facilities Board to build a high school in their midst, on a nearby, Loop-adjacent property formerly known as the MK Ranch. 

Not a group to be taken lightly.

 

The Tanque Verde Valley grows 'em SMART and ACTIVE, and through a vociferous community effort led by neighbor Diana Jones, efforts stopped the Fazios in their tracks not once, but twice.

Per Jones:

“After a (VERY) long Board of Adjustments hearing, the board voted to uphold the Chief Zoning Inspector's decision that Fazio's plan appeared to be more of a business than a church.

A BIG THANK YOU to everyone who wrote letters (about 50), attended (about 90), signed petitions (about 650), and donated in any form! I know everyone who supports us couldn't be there, and some who came couldn't stay for the 4 1/2 hours, but every one of you count!

Please join us this Saturday, June 13th @ 7 pm to hear Kevin's band play & visit with neighbors. More info to follow.

Your neighbor, Diana Jones”

Never underestimate the power of community organization. Congratulations to the Loop neighborhood. May your days continue to be filled with the peace of the Lord.

Showbiz Kidz Danz Bunco Fundraiser

Are you looking for a chance to win $1,000? This is a fun opportunity for bunco enthusiasts to play the game they enjoy, raise money for a talented group of kids, meet new people and have fun!

The nonprofit group ShowBiz Kidz Danz Booster Club is hosting a Bunco Championship in Tucson on Saturday, June 27 at 3:00 p.m. Entry fee is $25 and the grand prize for the dice-rolling champion is $1,000. There will be live entertainment, food and drinks available.

If you don’t know how to play bunco, organizer Kathy Renteria is offering a “Bunco Bootcamp” at 2:45. Since bunco is one of the easiest games to learn, boot camp won’t be a painful experience. If you can count to six, you can play bunco.

The event takes place at the Junior League, 2099 E. River Road, just east of the intersection of River and Campbell.

 

According to Renteria, ShowBiz Kidz Danz is a community dance program offering more than 40 classes in pom, hip-hop, ballet, jazz, technique, break dancing, lyrical, tap and competitive dance teams. "Moms" classes such as strength and conditioning, adult hip hop and “praise” dance classes are also available.

ShowBiz began in 2001 and currently has some 400 students. “The owner, Jennifer Barton, can name every single one of those 400 students,” says Renteria. Mrs. Barton is also the dance instructor at Marana High School and has over 19 years of teaching experience. She prides herself in offering quality instruction at a lower price and provides scholarships to those in need.

“It is our belief that all children who want to dance should have the opportunity,” says Renteria. “It's not just about dance. It's about lifelong friendships, the confidence that dancers build, teamwork, responsibility and dedication.”

Reminds me a bit of what it’s like to be part of a bunco group.

 

Showbiz Kidz Danz is located at 6906 Camino Martin, Tucson, AZ. It has two small lobbies and four rehearsal studios. The main dance studio features over 1,000 square feet of hardwood floors with 8-foot mirrors along one side. Other rooms are available for tap and ballet. There is also a small homework room for the students to study in between dance classes.

According to Renteria, the Bunco Championship fundraiser on June 27 will help with competition fees, costumes and traveling expenses for dancers. They travel to Phoenix and California for monthly competitions and are hoping to travel to Florida, Texas or Las Vegas for other competitions.

Vendor booths at the event include: Avon, Partylite Candles, Gold Canyon Candles, Lia Sophia Jewelry, Sashay Jewelry, Gift Basket Creations, Amparo's jewelry, Pampered Chef, Arbonne Health and Wellness, Natural Health Chair Massages and more.

For more information contact Kathy Renteria at kathyrenteria@comcast.net

Jewelry Show Open House Tonight

If you're anywhere near Tucson this evening, please stop by my dear friend, Salleé Gerbing's house, where all my newest designs will be on display and for sale at wholesale prices. Just in time for Mother's Day, find something for your mom, your girlfriend, your wife, yourself! Earring, Necklace and Bracelet designs feature copper, sterling and fine silver, and a variety of crystals and gemstones. Each piece is one of a kind!

Can't make it? Many pieces are available on our website: www.sandypointproshop.com. If you see something you like, call our toll free number 888-588-3233 and we'll answer any questions you may have. We ship anywhere! THANK YOU!

High School Romance Lives

My favorite 17-year-old, Chelsea, was on the receiving end of a very romantic gesture last night. According to her parents, who sent me the photo, “a boy with the initials A.D. used the backstop to ask Chelsea to the prom.”

Chelsea is a first class athlete at Cienega High School. She was captain of the soccer team and now is once again a star on the varsity softball team. At last night’s game, Mr. A.D. used 200 red plastic drinking cups to make his offer. And by the way, it was a foul ball that knocked off part of the A in his red cup artwork.

Her parents thought the whole thing was very “sweet” and obviously wanted to share the event since they sent the photo. However, they left out what I considered to be a very important detail.

Did she say “yes?”


I sent Chelsea a text to find out. She replied immediately, as she always does. “LOL, of course I did! I’m not that mean.” Apparently he's on the swim team, and in some of her classes. She also said he was cute.

Well, he sure had a cute way of asking her to this momentous event. I hope the actual date is as good.

Scattering Cats: The Nature of Team Sports

Last night’s basketball blowout, the worst tournament loss in the history of U of A men’s basketball (103-64 vs. top ranked Louisville) is front page news this morning in Tucson. We all know what happened. Did we really need to see it as a 72 pt. headline?

The truth is, about halfway through the second half, I could no longer watch. When you’re attached to a team, particularly a team that has faced a lot of obstacles and has continued to work hard, it’s simply too hard to watch them go down in a humiliating defeat. No one but their fans can appreciate the entire story.

Most teams have a core—a group of players who’ve been together for a year or so—who comprise the talent and make-up the heart of the team. Revolving door rosters, however, are the name of the game. Each passing year offers new opportunities to players who both stay in the game or opt out for other adventures. Coaches, on the other hand, are the true soul of the team. They tend to stick around and give players and fans someone with whom to identify.

The Wildcats lost their long-term coach, Lute Olson, to sudden retirement and then faced the season with an interim coach, Russ Pennell. Turmoil in the recruitment department ensued, and the team was given up for dead. Then they unexpectedly made it into the NCAA tournament. Even more unexpected was their rise to the Sweet 16. Praise was heaped upon the players and Pennel, and letters to the editor suggested hiring him permanently.

After this loss, who knows what will happen, but I can feel the jockeying for position for next year all the way on the far northeast side. And I’m hardly paying attention.


I feel the turmoil because a similar thing has happened to my daughter’s beleaguered soccer team, which ended its season last Sunday. Their last game wasn’t a blowout, but it was certainly a humiliating defeat that guaranteed this team would disintegrate. And all week, we’ve watched the players run off in different directions. Some are quitting soccer all together, some are testing the waters of other clubs, and some are going to a different age group. They are scattering like flies in a harsh desert wind.

No one really seems to care, except for their fans. We’d love to see the core—the group of players who’ve been together for four or more years—stay together but that’s not going to happen. Such is the nature of team sports.

It’s about time I learned this once and for all.

Chemtrails: Reading Between the Lines in the Sky

Lately we’ve noticed a significant number of what I thought were called “jet streams” crisscrossing the normally flawlessly blue skies of Tucson. It wasn’t until a YouTube user and local filmmaker by the name of Chris Haskell, commented on a video we posted about the local girl’s basketball team that we learned there’s a different name for these long lasting grid patterns in the sky.

“I hope they don't practice outside lately in Tucson!” he wrote. “The sky's have been filled with Chemtrails! Check it out! Google Chemtrails Tucson!”

We took Haskell’s suggestion and googled chemtrails, and at first I couldn’t stop reading. Now I can’t stop looking up at the sky.


First of all, there’s a difference between chemtrails, and “contrails,” referred to above as jet streams. Contrails are produced by high-flying jets and are made by water vapor during specific atmospheric conditions or when it’s cold enough to turn water vapor to ice. They last from a few seconds to a minute and then dissolve.

Chemtrails, on the other hand, occur during all weather conditions and are at varying altitudes. Like contrails, they are released from jets and start out as white lines. Soon, however, they plump up to look like clouds and they don’t evaporate. They can turn a cloudless Tucson day into a hazy, overcast day within hours.

Another feature of chemtrails is that they're often seen in “X”, “S”, or “tic-tac-toe” patterns.


So what is it that’s coming out of the back of these jets? Analysis has shown that chemtrail sprays include “powdered aluminum, barium, pathogens and even dried human blood cells.” They have been reported to contain chemicals for crop dusting and mosquito control. Some say it’s airplane fuel dumping in order to reduce weight before landing.

After reading dozens of articles on many of the countless websites dedicated to chemtrail awareness, I can’t seem to find one, definitive answer about what makes up a chemtrail and, more importantly, WHO is doing the spraying. There has been denial from government authorities, a failure to cover the topic by the mainstream media, a pattern of discrediting researchers, and a whole group of people labeled as crackpots and conspiracy theorists for simply trying to get information.

Because of the questioning public’s inability to get direct answers, many theories have arisen about the purpose of chemtrails. Are they about weather modification? Population control? Are they part of an inoculation program? Are they indeed harmful to our environment and our health?

Chris Haskell is currently filming a documentary about chemtrails over Tucson and is seeking individuals, particularly outdoor workers, who may have been affected by the hazardous elements released in chemtrail sprays. He claims the toxin barium is part of the chemical mix and barium “is known to cause multiple horrible effects on the human body.” Barium poisoning can cause muscle weakness, stomach irritation, kidney damage, and nervous system problems. Haskell further indicates that “the bodies of water all around Arizona have been tested and every one show extremely high levels of Barrium, aluminum, and many other dangerous items.”

People living in spray areas, which are worldwide, have reported unusual smells and tastes in the air on spray days, along with increased illnesses—or “chem-illnesses”—with flu-like symptoms. “Itchy eyes, abdominal pain, joint aches and pain, headaches, fatigue and respiratory illnesses; upper respiratory and blood infections, severe asthma attacks, dizziness, and an inability to get a deep breath,” have all been attributed to chemtrail spraying.


Now I’m no hypochondriac, nor am I, my husband or my children ever too sick to get out of bed and have a normal day. We have our share of allergies and tension headaches, and don’t attribute them to much more than seasonal growth or periodic professional/educational stress factors.

But for the past two days I haven’t stopped sneezing or feeling the urge to rub my eyes. And guess what? For the past two days, Tucson’s skies have been sprayed and sprayed and sprayed. (I’ve got the pictures to prove it. All photos published here were taken from my driveway yesterday, March 19, between noon and 6pm.)

Call me a crackpot, and excuse me while I look for a tissue to blow my nose, but now I want some answers about these lines in the sky.

Is It Time for a Rent Party?

The origin of the rent party dates back to 1920s Harlem, a corner of Manhattan approximately fifty blocks long and eight blocks wide. During this period in our nation’s history some 200,000 people of color migrated to Harlem from the West Indies, Africa and the southern United States. Some reports indicate that as many as 7,000 people lived in a single block.

One can imagine the living conditions were far from ideal. In a word, Harlem was a slum. But the difference between Harlem and say, a typical tenement area of that era, was that because of the high demand, rents were excessively high.

Tenants found two basic solutions to keep the roofs over their heads. The first was to take in boarders or “roomers,” packing the apartments with two and even three families. Often they slept in shifts.

The second was to have a rent party. Also known as a house party, someone had the idea to throw a party just before the rent was due and invite paying guests to enjoy food and music, and dance the night away. Parties were so crowded and the dancing so intense, these parties also became known as “shindigs.”

For an admission price of ten cents to a dollar, plus the cost of food and drink, the parties were an easy, inexpensive way to help out friends and have a good time to boot. Soon bands were hired and rent parties became the backbone of Harlem nightlife through the 1930s and into the 1940s.



Today we’re living through our nation’s biggest economic downturn since the Harlem Rent Party era. The Tanque Verde Valley doesn’t physically resemble Harlem in any way, however, the current socio-economic climate has some similarities.

An article in today’s paper with the subhead, “It was great while it lasted,” suggests Arizona’s economy needs a detox. “Population growth put thousands of Tucsonans to work this decade, building for actual or expected new residents. But now many of those workers are facing the downside of depending on growth.”

According to the foreclosure listing service RealtyTrac, some 96,000 properties in Arizona, mostly homes, are either scheduled for auction or are now bank-owned. This service also reports that Pima County has 7,137 properties that are either in the foreclosure process or have gone back to banks.

I’m witnessing friends lose their homes for a variety of reasons and silently pray each night that we won’t be next. We’ve been very lucky to have this desert oasis home, a refuge from the harsh winters of Northern Wisconsin and an escape from the business that runs us ragged. It’s been a wonderful place to raise our children. As far as they’re concerned, it’s their only home. Losing this place and moving back to Wisconsin for the remainder of their middle and high school years is simply unfathomable.

What’s our solution? Take in a boarder? Possibly. But then my husband wouldn’t have a place from which to operate the business that’s been getting the mortgage paid.

So, how about taking a page out of Harlem history. How about a rent party?

I’m not musically talented enough to entertain my friends at the piano, and most of my musician friends from the days of yore (days of the Dead?) live in other states. But there’s one talent I do possess and that’s jewelry. I design it, I make it, I sell it.

Our store is back in Wisconsin and our wayward webmaster has officially given up on getting our online shop to function properly, so I need to arrange a date and a display, and invite friends over to hopefully fulfill their jewelry wishes.

People still need birthday presents, anniversary gifts, mother’s day trinkets and just the right accompaniment for that special outfit, right?

To preview some of my newest work go to: Dream Life Designs Jewelry. Priced at the 1920s equivalent of ten cents to a dollar, you’ll have a good time looking and there won’t be any sore feet . . . or hangovers.

If The Walls Could Talk

How do you say good-bye to a house? How do you say good-bye to a place that is not only the home of a dear friend, but also the setting for so many memories that define life in a certain town at a certain stage of your life?

First of all, it’s far more than a house. It’s a landmark. From our valley there are very few spots from which it can’t be seen. It’s like true north on a compass—as true north as the Catalina foothills. And the woman who built it is as one-of-a-kind as the innovative design.

Sadly, today it must go on the market. I never thought I’d believe a house listed at $1.75 million was a bargain, but there are many things I find hard to stomach in today’s economy.

A genuine showcase with unrivaled views, I have faith that the right eye with the right checkbook will climb that hill, walk in and say “Wow,” just the way everyone who enters those doors has done for the past several years.


A group of women gathered today for what may be our last happy hour at this amazing house. Together we shared endless, unforgettable stories of the people we met there, the people with whom we laughed there, and the people who had close encounters with the cacti. We reminisced about white elephant gifts hurled down the driveway, high heels threatening to poke through leather cushions, hors d’oeurvres and fruit fights, boob flashes and a few rousing rounds of Chicken Shit Bingo (or was it bunko?)

Many of us watched this dwelling go from a plan in a challenging, raw desert setting to the work of art—the dream house—it became. We grew to count on it as the setting for our annual events, the house of all our best social memories. But alas, time passes, things change. Everything has a beginning, a middle and an end.

No one can say we didn’t appreciate it while it lasted. Now, however, it’s time to bury the saint, remove the black cock above the kitchen door and start a new chapter.


 Today may have been the last happy hour, but we foresee a  true last hurrah—perhaps a slumber party in the near future to  celebrate the accepted offer. It will be one last chance to admire  the view of our past. And our future.

 Buenos suerte Bonita.

Bunko: It's Not Your Mother's Bridge Club

The Alltel & Idiot Cocktail

We must be spending too much time on the road. In four days we’ve experienced three close calls, none of them our “fault.” The first two happened in the exact same spot on Tanque Verde Road, and at the exact same time of day. (We had back-to-back noon soccer games in Phoenix on both Saturday and Sunday.)

Heading out of town (going west) there’s a spot where drivers from Wrightstown Road merge from the left into three lanes of Tanque Verde Road. The proper way to merge is to stay in the far left lane prior to moving over to the middle or right lane. Right? Well, Idiot #1 never bothered to look if a car—OUR car—was in the middle lane, and as soon as his front tires hit TVR, he decided the middle place was the place he wanted to be. I sucked breath while Mike slammed breaks and Accident #1 didn’t happen. Idiot #2 did the same thing on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t as dramatic a merge move as Idiot #1, which means less swerving and a shorter horn blast coming from our car. Given the previous day’s experience, this time we were more prepared. Even though we avoided Accident #2, we were incredulous about the recurring events.

Hmmmmmmm . . . perhaps there’s a need for a YIELD sign on Wrightstown Road for drivers merging onto Tanque Verde Road? How about a bright YELLOW banner reading: STAY IN THE LEFT LANE IDIOT!

We were in the car for only a few miles today and had another close call. The kids were ready this morning in time to take the bus, but our teenager snubbed the idea. “I HATE the bus,” she announced. Whatever. She liked it last week. And trust me, she’ll like it again this week because unless we’re running late in the morning, there’s really no excuse to pass up a free ride to school. Nevertheless, it’s not a long trip to the schools and because raising our kids is our main job while we’re in Tucson, we’re happy to spend this time with them.

We dropped off Kid #1 at the junior high and made our way with Kid #2 to the elementary school. These are not usually high-density roads but during the before-the-bell hours, minivans and SUVs abound. We recognize many drivers and often wave to one another by holding up cups of coffee and offering “have-a-nice-day” smiles.

We didn’t know the SUV driver at the corner of Ft. Lowell and Melpomene with whom we nearly had a close encounter.

The accident would have been our responsibility if it had happened, but it wouldn’t have been our fault. Why? Grateful thanks to quick reflexes that it didn’t, and grateful thanks for the reminder that so many drivers are IDIOTS and to always remember the “Defensive Driver” chapter in our Driver’s Ed courses. So, I’ll call the driver of the big honkin SUV Idiot #3. If our vehicles had kissed, front end to front end, we would have told about how she seduced us into making that left turn in front of her.

Idiot #3 had her right turn signal flashing and was driving slowly enough to appear as though she actually meant to make a right turn onto the street where we sat at the STOP sign. Obviously because she didn’t turn, she either mistakenly flipped on the signal or more likely, she FORGOT to turn it off because she was ON THE PHONE!

Recently there was a study conducted at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City comparing drunk drivers to those who drive while using their cellular phones. The conclusion states: "... the impairments associated with using a cell phone while driving can be as profound as those associated with driving while drunk."

I'm guilty of driving under the influence of cell phone but I'm not one of those babes who has a phone glued to her ear every driving minute. We see some drivers on our morning commute who, without fail, have one hand on the steering wheel and one hand to an ear. Needless to say, they're NOT waving to us. They're not looking at us. They're not even considering us! I wonder, are they conducting business? Gossiping with their friends? Going over last minute history notes before their kids' first hour exams?

What I know for sure is they're causing a lot of accidents and near accidents. And if this accident had happened, I'm sure we'd be paying for a lot more than Idiot #3's phone bill. My husband, our driver, won’t soon take a turn signal for granted again. 

By the way, Idiot #3 definitely saw us, and boy did she give us a look! When I was done sucking in my breath and wiping spilled coffee off my jeans, I looked to the right to see the taillights ambling to the west, and noticed she had immediately turned off her signal. I imagine her thought was: “Whoops.” And I imagine her Alltel conversation was: “Some Idiot in a Mercedes nearly slammed into me.” (That, by the way, would make us Idiot #4.)

Tomorrow, the kids are definitely taking the bus.