As is completely typical of me, my neck went out of alignment on the first day of a long weekend when I knew for a fact my chiropractor would be out of town. I hit the Advil, took a hot shower, alternately froze and burned from the weird temperature fluctuations that always accompany one of these killer headaches, kept a pillow over my face to stop the hideously bright morning light from adding to my agony, stuffed my fingers in my ears to shut out the deafening sound of birds singing, and finally fell asleep at 8 a.m. for a couple of hours. I woke up feeling wobbly but able to look at the daylight without wincing.

Then Dixie had to be walked, and not just walked but taken in the car and brought to a favorite park so she could poop in tall, bushy grass. I don't know why she prefers it to normal grass. Perhaps she's reverting to the wild. It's probably something cave dogs did: get up, steal scraps of mammoth meat, rush out to find tall, bushy grass. Of course, when we got home the cats wanted to be fed. The ungrateful creatures, normally so enterprising at things like repeatedly attempting to open cupboard doors and causing them to slam shut over and over again at some ungodly hour of the night, can't be bothered to learn to knock over their bag of cat chow and feed themselves when I'm too tired or unwell to get up and do it for them. Knock it over, I mean. I'm pretty out of it before the first cup of coffee.

In fact, all I could manage Saturday was a half cup of coffee and a piece of toast. Eventually I felt nearly well enough to climb back in my car and trundle up to Glen Ellen in Sonoma County to visit the recuperating Robert Lichtman. Operating heavy machinery was undoubtedly a bad idea, but I drove slowly. I didn't have a choice. Traffic was bumper to bumper, and it took me an hour just to drive through San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge. Things didn't break up until San Rafael. I avoided traffic on the return trip by taking the Richmond Bridge across the north bay, then down I-880, the world's most dangerous freeway according to everyone who drives it, and the Dumbarton Bridge back across the south end of the water. In fact, I did a thorough job of circumnavigating the bay. I was gone a total of seven hours, so my day was shot in terms of loafing around and enjoying a day off.

It was, however, worth it to see Robert. He looks great, and had a lot of energy for someone who had recently broken three ribs and his pelvis. His lady friend Carol Carr was up there as well, and we caught up on the last 12 years worth of what we've been doing. It was slightly shocking for both of us to realize I hadn't seen her since her husband Terry died in 1987. It doesn't seem like that long ago to me, although 1987 certainly does when I think about the hairstyles I used to believe were flattering. At any rate, I think about Terry, who was a good friend of mine, often. At ElderMOO, we named the root character which holds all the parent objects (from which all other objects, rooms, mailing lists, etc. descend) after him. Each day when I log onto the MOO and check the activity statistics I see the name Terry Carr at the top of the list. It was a little strange to be talking about him with Carol after all this time.

I picked some cucumbers from the vines in Robert's tiny backyard, and admired his burgeoning tomato vines. On the way back I stopped at a fruit market and bought delectably fresh raspberries and peaches, and some locally roasted pistachios from the Central Valley. It was beautiful up in Sonoma. The hills were tawny gold, rolling like the muscles of a big cat stretching. Vineyards lined either side of the roadways, their dark green a pleasant contrast to the sun-scorched hillsides. I saw dozens of raptors riding the thermals overhead, turkey vultures and red-winged hawks and others I couldn't identify. The westering sun lit the city with a romantic rose-orange glow which I admired as I drove back home. I love the Bay Area so much. Its beauty is astonishing.

Of course, Dixie had to be walked again, and the cats fed again, and chores had to be done because one can only live in filth for so long before one finds one tearing one's hair out and speaking of oneself as though one were in a very bad novel. So I took a deep breath and took out the recycling. Did the laundry. Colored my hair (dark blonde, to match the hills of Sonoma). Baked individual cheesecakes for the party at Denise's. Took more Advil. By the time I collapsed into bed at midnight I felt perfectly well. It seemed a shame to waste it on sleep, but I knew it was my duty. The cats like me to go to bed around midnight so they can curl up next to me and go to sleep themselves, and I am nothing if not a slave to those door-slamming beasts with chow breath.

Boy, am I glad John doesn't go away very often. It's ever so exhausting.

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