They roam the enormous, broad avenues named after big movie stars in their huge, expensive cars as they go from bridge group to tennis date to luncheon to golf tournament. They wear white, and beige, and gold, and leopard print, and plaid pants, and matching jogging suits in vivid colors. Their jewelry is real, and very gaudy. Their skin is always brown, and wrinkled, because they've spent years getting the perfect tan while playing hearty outdoor sports or just laying by the pool reading the latest hardcover New York Times bestseller. They laugh easily and frequently. They love a good meal with friends out on someone's patio overlooking the golf course, or up at the clubhouse, or at a favorite restaurant. They have a steady stream of visitors: other snowbirds, relatives from colder climates, friends from their summer residences. I turn up myself once a year, happy for a sunny weekend, and marvel at the lifestyle. It will never be mine. I don't really want it, but more importantly, I haven't worked hard enough for it.

It was a fun visit, and I paid for my keep by being an onsite Tech Support person. I helped my folks with lots of confusing, non-intuitive computer questions, like how to find an application in order to launch it, and how to add URL bookmarks (trust me, AOL's bookmark system is not at all obvious). I explained what a browser is, and why it's important not to send .gif attachments of over 5 megs with email, and why a PC is different from a Mac. I set their clock to Pacific Standard Time, and helped them look for shareware versions of bridge and solitaire. I set up their scanner for them, but told them they'd have to sort out the fax application themselves as I didn't have a clue. I answered a lot of questions about how computers work.

It's not true, by the way, that they don't have working email as I postulated a week or so ago. They have the hang of email and are very busy communicating with church friends and various relatives. They just love e-greeting cards. I hope this phase passes quickly; I don't really want to go see another animated chicken telling me I'm the World's Greatest Big Sister even though I think it's very sweet of them to send it.

In between tech sessions we went out to eat a couple of times, and I met some of their friends (they have dozens so I'm always being introduced to a new set every visit), and we drove around looking at houses and yards just like we used to do when I was growing up, only with Mary Lou instead of Mom, and looking at three million dollar winter villas instead of affordable suburban homes. Dad told me about the trophy wives some of his golf buddies had recently acquired, disapproving and gently mocking at the same time.

I didn't see any movie or tv stars so I asked Dad if he'd seen June Allyson lately (they entertained her at their house once, along with her son Dick Powell Jr.). He hadn't, but later he mentioned he used to play tennis with Ralph Waite (the dad in the Waltons) when they had a place over at another condominium complex, so I am claiming that as my mandatory Famous Old Wrinkly Celebrity story for this trip.

Since it was the weekend of the Bob Hope Classic there were about a jillion golf guys in town wearing outlandish clothing and even more outlandish toupees. You should have seen all the fake hair. I saw a lot of fake boobs, too, and way too many scarily facelifted women with permanently surprised eyes and weirdly smooth cheeks. I'm always revolted by obvious cosmetic surgery. I'm usually revolted by golf clothing, come to think of it.

Saturday, Mary Lou and I did a bit of desultory shopping on Palm Desert's main drag and went into sticker shock at the prices in Sak's. The wares on display in Tiffany's windows were exceptionally trashy. The best place was a shop called The People's Pottery which had a really nice collection of ceramics and unusual jewelry. I bought John an present to make up for having forced him to take me to San Francisco International on a Friday night in the pouring rain. On Sunday I bought myself a very pretty Peruvian jewelry box, hand carved and hand painted, at the Palm Springs Street Fair which I go to every January when I'm in town. It's not, as we always dutifully remind ourselves, a flea market because that would be tacky. And really, it partakes of both a street fair and a flea market atmosphere which makes it worth a look-see once a year.

Now I'm home, dog tired and ready for my own bed.

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