Today I drove to Manna Grocery twice, which probably defeated the purpose of going at all since I was patronizing it for the good of the earth. A "health food" store, it's 3.5 miles from my house, 7 miles round trip. 7 x 2 = 14 miles = 1/2 gallon of gas = another $2.00 contribution to the foreign oil crisis. Oh well, "intentions" I reminded myself.

First thing this morning: purchasing tea in an effort to kill the coffee habit. Requirements: no caffeine, no black, no green, no acid. Even with all those limitations, there were still too many options. Where was my consultant? Would someone else please advise me on this because I had no interest in doing the required research? Why wasn't my naturopath on call? Too parched to deliberate any longer, I settled for what I knew: mint, but non-organic, because it was cheaper.

This afternoon, back again: purchasing epsom salt for muscular pain relief bath. Requirements: must say "epsom salt" on the packaging. Since I really didn't know what epsom salt was, deviating from the literal seemed risky. But no luck. There were too many choices with all the wrong labels. I needed my consultant again. The sea salt crystals looked like a convincing enough match, but they were overpriced. I refused to spend $6.00 on a container of only 2 cups of sea salt when an entire cup was required per bath. Were the other varieties any cheaper? Not really.

So I walked next door to Rite-Aid. Bath blasphemy! And then I hurried back into Manna. More consternation, changing body positions, and frustrated facial expressions. I had now attracted the attention of staff. "Are you finding everything okay?" "Yes," I grunted. I had to get out of there. And finally, individual-sized packets of some mineral variety looked manageable at $2.50 each. $2.50 wasn't bad, right? If I didn't buy more than one, no. But I bought five. Sigh. Buying in bulk was always such a commitment.

I caught the moon in my rearview mirror and nearly slapped Rita’s leg to get her attention. She had been telling me stories, some of which I had heard several times before, while occasionally drawing me out of my shell to share some of my own, in order to keep us both awake. She asked me if I agreed that the new headlights these days were blinding, especially on the SUVs, which hit you right at eye level. I responded, surprising myself with an unexpected blurt of irritation at the audacity of the car manufacturers, that yes, they were like looking straight into the sun, only blue blinding white.

The "Pink, Pink, Pink" song vied for attention in my head. And for a moment, I was the driver in that Volkswagon commercial as I leaned my head closer to the window to catch a star. Rita kept wondering what the big one was as it guided us for most of our journey. I thought it was a planet, but maybe it was just another new headlight reminding me that even the stars promised no way out.

My face felt flushed from the day’s sun, and I stretched and pretzeled, yearning to catch up on the routine body movement the long car ride was preventing. But I was as tired as I was restless, and the sky was still with me, keeping me on my course, just like it always did at the beach. Rita said she would like to take Rudy to my parents’ beach house in Gulf Shores sometime. And I imagined him down there–hiding in an old barrack at Ft. Morgan during one of the grown-ups’ annual New Year’s Eve parties–bottle rockets in hand, just as we had done every year when we were kids.

The moon was almost sherbet orange, soft, and a huge sight just over the horizon. Turning around repeatedly in my seat to get a full view was not much of a risk as the open, flat Texas highway lent itself to effortless knee driving. The first sight of it was more than just warm and inspiring. It was also unexpected company, something larger than us, reminding us that we were not in control here, nor alone.

Perhaps Rita’s stories drove the car home, if not the moon. But my awareness of the road and the wheel and the petal was lost to the periphery. I remembered how Mom and Dad used to sit in the front seat of our station wagon on the way home from the beach on nights like this. Sometimes I was the only one with them, sprawled out on the back seat, looking out the window upside down at the stars. If I leaned my head back far enough I could see nothing but sky. I was a part of the abyss for that moment–not a child–but floating in a possibility, mysterious more than exciting, quiet. Then when my neck started to strain, back into the world I would immerse myself just as I had left it, safe, listening to their voices in conversation.

My dog's name is Ginger. And I did not name her. On more than one occasion, my former landlord grimaced at the name's bimbo connotations, mentioning it was no big deal to change it. I didn't like her name either. But having just adopted her, I felt guilty about stripping her of her identity at 35 (5 human years x 7 dog years), even though her brawny physique was ill-suited for a Toy Dog's title. I mean she wasn't a puppy anymore, being snatched out of the litter by a capricious first-time mom wanting to try out her book of baby names. She was approaching mid-life and had earned the right to bitch about something. So it may as well have been her first name. But my landlord insisted that Rescue Dogs, orphans thrust into indiscrimination, will answer by any name to anyone who feeds them.

Nevertheless, Ginger remains Ginger. Although not exactly rescued, she still qualifies as a Rescue Dog. Her owner adopted her from Bark Avenue Pet Resort as a puppy, kept her for a couple of years, and then returned her. Perhaps she should be more appropriately called a Return Dog rather than a Rescue Dog. Ginger is a Shepherd mix. She's forty pounds fit with a shiny tan coat.

All through young adulthood, I idealized the notion of getting a dog. I thought it would make me happy and push me closer into domesticity. No kids, no house, no spouse. At least get a dog, I thought. I fantasized that my dog would curl up in my bed, eat my table scraps, or frolic in the yard all day long. But as reality would have it, Ginger sheds too much hair on my sheets, only begs for more when offered leftovers, and rolls around in the dirt as if it were an on-demand Swedish massage. So she's been banned from any and all pleasurable activities that result in more messes for me to clean up. I'm not sure if Ginger makes me any happier, but she does demand that I be accountable to something outside of myself. And for that, we have a special relationship.

Perhaps one of my most memorable moments as a new parent was during our first Christmas together when she managed to almost polish off the turkey that was sitting on top of the kitchen counter. Luckily, my niece witnessed the beginning of the massacre and we were able to salvage most of the flesh, gently rinsing off the questionable parts. My mother ensured that the event did not make its way into the dinner table conversation. And no one ever complained of food poisoning during their turkey comas to follow. Ginger still gobbles up the counter remains occasionally, but I have gotten better about remembering to move the sandwich fixings out of her reach after lunch.

I guess beyond the food theft, carpet stains and barking before noon, I've enjoyed my experience as a dog owner and been amazed by how loyal my dependent is. Wherever I go, Ginger's under foot. Ready to go on a ride. Ready to go on a walk. Ready to defend my honor to the yard guy. Why she does it, I just don't know. I really don't deserve that kind of treatment. But when I peak over the end of my bed each night, there she sleeps, close, unconditionally.

December 6, 2006

everyday i am grateful for the sun