Life Savor!

In the past few weeks we’ve had a constellation of events to celebrate. First Christmas, then our anniversary, then Valentine’s Day.

Christmas was with our precious friends in Knoxville, and what with packing and traveling, Robert and I sort of postponed actually giving each other anything. “The trip itself will be our gifts to each other.”  Yeah, right. How’s that workin’ for ya? Terrific but not unwrapable.

Our anniversary, December 26, was going to make up for it, though the actual gifting would be postponed till we could get home and make reservations for our celebration: a weekend at a B&B. Except somehow that kept slip-sliding away.

But Valentine’s Day was by-God gonna happen.

Since I love Internet sleuthing, I started scouting out B&Bs, coming back (as usual) to a darling cottage in Fort Worth. Except that it was $225 a night, 30 miles away, and we’d be in Fort Worth. I mean, Cowtown’s great as a destination for specific events, but I got discouraged at the prospect of still having to whomp up where to eat and what to see or do — besides the obvious and delicious prospect of the actual shacking up.

And gee, for that kind of money we could spend the night at some scrumptious hotel right here in Dallas, and have a piano bar and room service without ever going out. Good plan. I started a telephone search for just the right place to spend Saturday night the 13th, so we’d wake up on Valentine’s Day in each other’s arms in a bed not our own. Wooo. Sexy.

Except that hotel after hotel didn’t have room for us. I finally got the word from a helpful reservation guy that I might as well give up — the whole town would be full. Well sure, I said, since after all it’s Valentine’s weekend. No, that wasn’t the reason — it was the NBA playoffs.

No problem, we’d just celebrate a weekend early on the 6th, and we’d stay at the refurbished old Melrose, now spiffed up as the Warwick Melrose with attendant hikes in rates. Except we got bad colds, mine turned into bronchitis, and we had to postpone till the weekend after Valentine’s.

Which is why we spent LAST NIGHT! at the Melrose, with their recycled Valentine package of champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries, and a nice note from the general manager. We got nicely relaxed in the Library Bar, waited on by identical twin sisters, Amy and Jamie. Robert asked, How often do you get that “I guess I’ve had enough, I’m seeing double” routine? Answer: about three times a night.

We had a lovely room, a lovely time, even lovely attire. I especially enjoyed Robert’s red silk PJ bottoms, reserved for state occasions.

And where was little Buddy Bear while we were besporting ourselves in a posh hotel? Ah, he had his own shack-up. I’ll tell you about it next time.

Home now in our own bed, under our new red comforter, determined to do that hotel thing again. Robert’s birthday is in March …..

Cheers!

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Tags: celebrate, love, Relationships, romance, Sex

First, a disclaimer: I send sincere sympathy to people in the midwest, battling that vicious winter storm. I admire how you push on through, persevere through ice and snow and lost power.

Having said that, I’d like to tell you about another side of snow—the delight it brings to folks who seldom see it. Here in Dallas it snowed continuously for 18 hours, Wednesday night and all day Thursday, the most snowfall in Dallas history, officially 12.5 inches in 24 hours.

For us it was a helluva show,  truly amazing to look out and see all those fluffy flakes pouring down non-stop. Last night we turned on the back yard light, and it was a fairyland, even more than in the day. Gorgeous! Lace in the air, glitter on the bushes.

Robert got some great photos. Then last night he went out four times and shook several hundred pounds of snow from various trees, after we lost the major limbs on the already-compromised one that was cantilevered out over the driveway. My beloved old youpon is still leaning out over the drive instead of standing upright in the front yard. I hope it survives all this wondrousness. It is so tall after 27 years that its upper branches were unreachable for de-snowing.

Each time Robert strode out he wore his goofy-looking Peruvian wool cap with topknot and ear-flaps, plus a different jacket and gloves on each venture—they got soaked with the snow that fell on him when he shook the trees. Eventually he just schlepped out in his robe, and I’d meet him at the front door with a towel. This was not an ideal exercise for a guy with a 10-day-old stubborn cold, but hey, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

BuddyBear adores the snow, which is up to his belly. He does a kind of soaring hop to navigate it, and when he finally pees, it’s unmistakable. Yellow snow, doncha know.

It’s all starting to melt now, sliding off the roof and the trees (you go, Youpon!). Some fell from the big back-yard elm and plopped right in front of BB, but he was unconcerned. The ground snow is still up to his belly. He uses a hop-&-soar technique to navigate it, and he chooses the deepest parts, eschewing the thinning areas on the deck. He wants to play in the SNOW!! He’s having the time of his life, pure ecstasy in a 7-pound body. Then he comes inside to shake, so the garden room rug is a mite damp. And the puppy actually grins. I didn’t realize they could really do that.

Robert is now out clearing his car, as he has a couple of photo shoots scheduled today. I, on the other hand, have no clients till tomorrow, so I’ll continue to laze around in my robe and scarf and hang out with the Budster. Life is good, and ain’t it grand to know that!

For me, happiness is choosing to enjoy, even celebrate, small things. And then when a big one comes along, like a record-breaking snowfall on a day I can stay home, my cup runneth over.

Hoping you are the same.

Love, Roz

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Chapter Two of SQUIRREL! CHIMNEY!

Last night friend Barbara, the critter expert, suggested that we call Animal Control today and tell ‘em we have an agitated animal down our chimney and fear it might be rabid. They would then come and remove it. “That’s their job,” she said.

[With an aluminum pole and a noose????]

She also said it might well be a raccoon, and she should know. For many months she had them in her attic, finally had to scramble to catch sight of where in her flat roof they were getting in. When Robert said he didn’t think the opening in our chimney cap was large enought for a raccoon, she answer dryly, “You’d be surprised.”

Last evening he ingeniously blocked our fireplace opening with a big Foamcore piece, then a folded-up card table, then wooden braces. You’d have thought there was a giant fanged woolybooger in there, but mostly he did it to help me feel less nervous. Besides, neither of us wanted the animal to finally drop down into the ashes and then tear around the house, trailing soot and leaping from table to table, sofa to chairs, on our Persian rug.

This morning we banged on the damper and heard no sound in reply. So either RoBear’s Rope Trick worked, or the rodent is a sound sleeper or demised. After he pulls the rope up, R will come down off the roof, don a thick jacket and gloves (wishing he had a catcher’s mask), and move the barricade aside just a tad to peek in as he opens the damper. If nothing falls down it’ll be a glorious anticlimax to the whole melodrama. If something does fall down … well, I guess then we’ll slam the barricade back in place and call animal control.

Also anesthetize me and Buddy Bear.

Right now the pup is reluctantly taking a nap. (You’re putting me down now, Mom? At 11 in the morning? Sheesh!)

I’ll pause now to lurk at the top of the hall and peer nervously around the wall while Mighty Hunter does his thang.

Later:

Actually, I helped hold up a towel as Robert pulled open the damper. I thought my barely-slide-the-barricade-aside plan was better, but he’s the boss of this exercise. I had my shrieks at the ready but nothing fell out! The critter had indeed climbed back up the chimney, probably via the rope, and we imagine him saying to his mate, “Honey, I found a great warm place for our nest, but it didn’t work out. Now fix me a really stiff drink.”

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Right now we’re having the Drama of the Squirrel Down the Chimney, clawing at the flue. As Robert said, it’s like something out of Edgar Allan Poe, with long fingernails scritch scritch scritching at the underside of the coffin lid. Brrr!

Buddy Bear the YorkiePoo is heroic. He keeps telling me There’s something in the chimney, Mom! He barks and grrrrrs to punctuate his alarm, acts like he’s ready to take all his seven pounds into battle. Robert says No Way—a hysterical squirrel could tear the pup’s face off.

My liege lord has now gone to Lowe’s to buy a rope, which he will lower down the chimney so the squirrel can climb up and back to freedom. I suspect that he (Robert, not the squirrel) is actually enjoying this. He’s been humming the theme to Mighty Mouse. I’m anxious about his being up on the roof, especially at night, but he valiantly assured me that he’ll set up a tall light stand and one of his 1000-watt photo lights.

I should probably charge admission.

Meantime I’ll be cowering in the garden room or our bedroom, with Buddy beside me, because if the little bastard doesn’t shut up pretty soon I’ll shove him up the chimney. I mean, he’s been trying to catch a squirrel all his three years …

When Buddy first alerted me this afternoon, I put him down for a nap and then fled to the office to meet with my 5:30 client. But I called Robert and said, “I am terrified to go back in that house without you.” I mean, that frantic scrabbling of rodent claws on the metal damper is horrible—both scary and pitiful. I even lined up friends for all three of us to bunk with (GOOD friends!), till I realized how silly that was.

So now I’m hiding out with the TV on high volume. Robert just stuck his head in the bedroom door and said the rope is in place, but so still is the squirrel. If the little dude hasn’t exited by morning, Robert the Squirrel Hunter plans to pull the rope up, smear it with peanut butter to get the squirrel started, then lower it again. He currently has put a small flashlight just inside the chimney top, so the squirrel can Go To The Light.

Lord. I hope it’s a squirrel. It could actually be a very large rat! He recently found a dead one near our tightly closed trash bins, with its throat torn out. At first we thought Buddy had finally caught and killed something, which broke my heart, but an experienced pet owner said Naaaah, if the Budster had killed it, he’d be trotting around the yard showing it off. It was probably a cat.

But … a few years ago our next door neighbor Julie had a BOBcat on her back deck, tufted ears and all. She called animal control, and a young woman showed up holding an aluminum pole with a noose on the end of it. Julie eyed it and asked, “What’s your plan … for the bobcat to come stick its head in there?” Of course, it was long gone by then. At first I doubted Julie’s identification, but she is an extremely pragmatic woman, not at all given to hysteria like … well, it develops, like Moi. Besides, we read a couple of days later about a bobcat spotted only a few miles from here.

So I’ve got a scritching scrabbling large rodent in my chimney, a derring-do husband planning peanut butter treats, the possibility of a rat invasion from the creek, and the memory of a bobcat big enough to carry Buddy off.

I can’t have a drink on my new diet, so I guess I’ll take a couple of melatonins and try to think happy thoughts at bedtime. I can hear a sarcastic voice in my head saying, “Good luck with that, duckie.”

‘Night.

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As everyone in earshot knows, for two weeks I’ve been on the Every Other Day diet. You do a semi-fast on, say, Monday/Wednesday/Friday, and eat normally (!) on the other days. In two weeks I have lost six or seven pounds (my scales like to tease me) and gained considerable smugness.

I have also been the biggest bore in the world, laser-focused, OCD about it all. I’ve recorded every morsel, kept calorie counts, micromanaged a food journal. Then on two “UP” days I scarfed 500-calorie burgers, even curly fries, and felt triumphantly rebellious. It was like playing hooky, only tastier.

In short, I have regressed to adolescence.

I know you may be thinking, “So what else is new? You’re always uppity about something.” But this is a new kind of rebellion in which there really is a Perceived Authority to rebel against: FOOD. Lovely, naughty, seductive foods have had a hold on me for too long. Now I’M in charge! (I could say Large and in charge, but that’s too close for comfort).

Still, a couple of nights I flipped the bird to the diet and had two small glasses of red wine (75 calories each) and two chocolate truffles (50 calories each, they’re kind of dry and cocoa-ish). So, who or what was I rebelling against then? The food? The diet?

As my waist begins to assert itself, I’m encouraged. I just created a new blank journal, a table in which to record the next two weeks. Maybe I’ll get relaxed about it all, give up this intensity. I’m so not an obsessive person. Well, except when I’m writing a book, and I’ve already given that up.

Though if you haven’t read Put Your Big Girl Panties On and Deal With It &/or Sizzling Sex in 30 Days, please do. Like dieting, I’d hate to think I did all that and nobody cared.

That absolutely will not happen with dieting. Robert the Goodman is cheering me on, and we have a shack-up at an elegant hotel planned for two weeks from now. I want to look good in, and out of, my black teddy.

Calories will not be invited to that event. I may undo some of my good work, but I intend to eat and drink whatever I want. Damn the diet! Full speed ahead!

Till then, though, cottage cheese and blueberries are my friends.

Hoping you are the same … Roz

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Happy 2010! What a challenging decade we’ve just been through. As a friend wrote, “Happiness is the 00s in the rear-view mirror.” So, welcome to the shiny new-and-improved decade.

[Do you say two-thousand-&-ten or twenty-ten? I say twenty-ten because I used to say nineteen-eighty, etc., but I think I'm in the minority. If you vote strongly for either one, drop me a note at roz@coachroz.com and tell me your rationale. I'm open, either way.]

Why am I late in sending this New Year’s greeting? No excuse. Just lazing through the holidays and waiting for inspiration. It came this week in the form of an obituary about a woman I never heard of but would like to hold as a role model for living life out loud. I’m changing only her name.

“On January 4, 2010, at the age of 65, (Dottie Jackson Morrow) passed away. One who did not know Dottie might say she was laid to rest, but such a person would be wrong. Dottie did not rest in her earthly life, and there is no reason to believe that she has started now. … Rarely was Dottie not in the presence of friends, all of whom she considered family. She would meet random people in unlikely places, and she would nurture relationships that would last. If she liked you, she loved you, and she treated all her friends as best friends. … Dottie embraced life with a passion unattainable by most, and she did more living in her 65 years than most could do in 100.”

There was also a sentence about how she met and married her soul mate, but that’s not essential for living with gusto — it’s just a gorgeous added-value.

I was particularly intrigued that she would “meet people in unlikely places” and nurture relationships that would last. That is a delightful adventure, and it was very affirming to have it validated. At one of my birthday parties, friend David said, “Roz was with Robert at a concert, and she leaned over at intermission and said, ‘What’s a good-looking guy like you doing here alone?’ — and that’s how she picked me up. Is there anybody else here that Roz picked up?” And lots of hands went up. I was both embarrassed and tickled. I hadn’t realized how often I do that, just strike up a conversation with a stranger who can become a friend.

Think about it. How else, really, do we make friends? I mean, they are all strangers when we first meet, so unless a mutual friend introduces us, it’s kind of up to us to start the connection. What’s to lose? They weren’t our friend before we met, and worse-case scenario, they won’t be afterward. Of course, I’m assuming safe environment and prudent behavior.

Here’s what “Dottie’s” obit reminded me of. Decades ago, when I was in corporate America instead of a counseling practice, I would become close friends with another employee. We might lunch together a couple of times a week, maybe see a movie, certainly support each other when we were sure we could run the company better than its leaders. (Lord, I was SO young.) When one of us moved on, we swore we’d continue to see each other often, but we didn’t. And now I can’t even remember their names.

For years I’ve considered that a natural occurrence, that the trajectories of our lives just parted — but maybe if I’d nurtured those friendships the way Dottie did, I’d be richer in friendships than I am.

So in addition to the ritual I’m-gonna-lose-20-pounds resolution, this year I intend to stay better in touch with friends I seldom see but dearly treasure. I thank “Dottie” for reminding me, even from beyond her life, how sweet such relationships are.

Meantime, I can revel in the memory that I introduced David to one of my best girlfriends, and they’ve just celebrated their 26th anniversary. I’m so glad I picked him up, and I intend never to set him down. Now I want to get crackin’ on emailing or calling some others I’ve neglected. They are just too precious to let fade away.

Hoping you feel the same … Cheers!

Roz

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I just read back through my last three posts (a writer’s self-gratification…or not), and realize that they are all about vehicles. As a psychotherapist I ask myself whether there is a hidden significance therein. So far the answer has come back, Naaaah.

But the number of wheels is a recurring theme.

First, let’s eliminate any fantasy about unicycling. Not now, not ever.

Then we come to the Segway, the two-wheeled sci-fi-looking “personal transporter” that scared the living bejeebers out of me. That was a disappointment. I acted no-big-deal about it, but actually, I felt like a failure. A balance-impaired failure. That’s the truth, damn it.

Then I wrote about my beloved Austin Healey, with its four mag wheels, a mighty heart, a throbbing voice, and considerable sex appeal that enveloped me when I drove it. Hey, I was very very young back then. Then when I tried to climb back into my Healey days, I found they didn’t fit any more. Well, duh, no wonder.  I’m now in what I call Profound Middle Age, with way more sands in the bottom of my life’s hourglass than in the top. Physically too, come to think about it, though I’d rather not.

So there I was, a failure at space-age two-wheeled vehicles (balance too impaired to risk a bicycle) and gorgeous yesteryear four-wheeled ones.

Ah, but Fate had a gift for me, the three-wheeled scooter! Picture this. Two sturdy wheels in back and one in front, giving it a turning ratio similar to simply reversing direction when you walk. Capable of jogging speed. Bright light in front. Only a wimpy beep for a horn, but you could customize it with a klaxon bulb horn. The word REVO stamped into the floorboards, suggesting revolutionary overtones. Available in candy apple red.

Now as I look into the future and ponder how I’ll fare if my knees and ankles continue to mutiny, I see myself on a sassy scooter that’s narrow enough to go through almost any doorway, peppy enough to outdistance a fast-walking partner, and flamboyant enough to keep my spirits way up.

Back in west Texas when I was a girl, there was a cheerful saying: “Keep your dauber up!” I heard it all the time and thought it just meant, Keep smiling! Be of good cheer! When I found out it had a naughty, sly meaning I stopped using it.

I just this minute decided to dust it off.

So hey, friend, keep your dauber up! Whether it’s a scooter or a Harley, an outrageous haircut or spontaneous trip (I’m a believer in cruises), an impulsive decision to write your memoirs or to never again send out Christmas cards—whatever pumps you back up when you’re feeling deflated, go for it! Throttle open, and damn the number of wheels!

Love, Roz

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Tags: celebrate, go for it, middle age

Can you imagine being a kept woman in Las Vegas? Your every wish attended to, every whim indulged? Going to the head of every line? Playing blackjack with somebody else’s money? Going to the exact shows you’d most like to see, primo seats? Being told sternly that you are not permitted to buy so much as a lozenge … Sugar Daddy will get it for you?

That’s the fairytale time I just had, with one important edit: there was no Sugar Daddy, there was my Sugah Sistah, Carolyn, who gave us this remarkable adventure as a Christmas present to our sisterhood. (Sismas present?) She bought the airline tickets, show tickets, hotel room, a dozen taxis, all meals, little gifties I spotted and wanted. She even rented a scooter! so my slightly disabled ankles were given a few days off.

I felt bad when I backed over her toe with my little jitney, but otherwise I became magnificently adept at Scooting. Honey, that little vehicle had a turning ratio of less than three feet. It would slip between slot machine chairs like a hot knife through butter. With my right thumb on the Go lever and my left hand turning the speed dial, I was a magnificent menace.

It all began when I emailed her, back in November, about how I adore Terry Fator, the winner of America’s Got Talent. I said, “He’s the best ventriloquist, the best impressionist, and the best singer in the world.” The reason I added “singer” is that he perfectly becomes the voice of Nat King Cole, Natalie Cole, Kermit the Frog, Louie Armstrong, Garth Brooks, Elvis Presley, Vikki the Cougar, and Winston the Impersonating Turtle. Her response to my adoration was, “Well, let’s GO!” … and so we did, for the past three glorious days.

Terry Fator was as delightful as I’d thought he would be. His characters are just that—characters, not dummies.  He reacts to them as if they are alive, and he has a mic for each of them. Wonderful evening.

The next two days we Scooted through half a dozen wonderful hotels. Onto an undulating tram that linked the Mirage with Treasure Island. We lucked into special taxis that opened up and let down a ramp, and I Scooted up and stopped a quarter-inch behind the upfront seats. I mean, I got good at Scooting.

Last night Carolyn arranged for us to take a helicopter ride over the Strip. She told me just to be a little wan and not be surprised if I got extra special treatment. She’d told them how important it was that I got to sit up front, as “this may be our last trip together.” Turned out she was only somewhat overdramatic, as it looked for a while that we weren’t going to get me on board. The step is almost three feet off the tarmac, a hard pull for all us passengers. And then I did indeed get to sit Right. Up. Front. in the half-bubble of the nose. We saw the pyramid Luxor shoot its light beam a thousand feet into the air. The waters of the Bellagio did their adagio just as we flew by. The whole thing was Fantasy.

We ended the trip with last night’s performance of Mystere, one of several Cirque du Soleil shows in Las Vegas. A truly other-worldy experience … smoke, a thousand colors, spinning dancers, amazing acrobats and aerialists. A stage that divided, sank, reappeared and ascended elsewhere. A lithe ballet dancer (male) who was the Firebird throughout.

I wanna go back! I love Las Vegas. I thought I’d sneer cynically at its Disneylandishness, but I adored it. The Venetian hotel is a work of art, right down to replicas from St. Mark’s square, and indoor/outdoor gondolas with singing gondoliers. The rugs at the Encore are brilliant red, bordered with that wonderful color that is blue with a purple undertone, and butterflies woven into the center. Also in mosaics set ino the marble floors. At the Mirage, where we stayed, there is allegedly a volcano that erupts on the hour, but it was down for repairs. How other-wordly is that? “Sorry, but the volcano is down for repairs.” Or maybe it was maintenance.

Home again, I’ve still got air-quivers of Vegas. Ready to go do it again!

That’s how I spent my week. Thanks, Carolyn, for the most glorious Sismas gift.

Love, Scooter

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Tags: fantasy, Las Vegas, scooter, sisterhood

Post-Thanksgiving. Hallelujah! The usual: too much food, big crowd of inlaws and outlaws, much champagne and laughter.

An old friend blew into town pulling a teardrop trailer as a portable home. She has already lived all over the world, now all over the U.S. of A.  She and her husband follow wherever the weather or their whims call. I admire their gypsy spirit but don’t envy them. I love my little house with all its red-&-plum eccentricities; a week is the longest I like to be away from home.

But those two wanderers got me to thinking about the freest I have ever felt. It was in my spectacular silver-blue 1953 Austin Healey 100/4 sports car with navy blue top. Only convertible I’ve ever seen than looked like it was vroooming even when the top was up and the car at the curb.

And oh, what a thrill to drive. You’d slam that stick into the next gear and it would leap forward like a racehorse. Then, at cruising speed you’d flick a little switch and get another gear, electric overdrive. Want to blow past a car you’re passing? Flick the overdrive off, and now the car responded like a tiger with the most amazing, primal growl. Whew!

It had a few idiosyncracies, of course. Mainly it was the electrical system designed by Lucas “The Prince Of Darkness,” notoriously unreliable in all English sports cars of that era. I’d be tooling around town with the top down, huge Breakfast-at-Tiffany’s shades on, big lavender hat to keep my red-headed skin from burning, feeling SO glamorous, when the car would suddenly stop. The electric fuel pump had gone comatose again. Feeling considerably less stunning than before, I would grab the wrench I kept  handy, raise the boot to the rear engine, and bang on the pump till it leapt back into tick-tick-tick life. Then, back to the driver’s seat to resume glam.

The Healey had navy leather upholstery and isinglass side windows. In a heavy rain it was a tossup whether more water would slosh in from the sides or the top of the windshield. This was a drop-down windscreen, so elegant that I guess the factory figured a little leakage was a slim price to pay.

And of course it was very VERY low to the ground, the chassis being below the back axle. You didn’t so much get in as fall in, and climbing out required a lot of push. I once asked a famous driver how I could gracefully emerge from that car, and he grinned and said, “Wear cute panties.”

I used to drive competitively in homemade gymkhanas—an empty parking lot with traffic cones to navigate. I often won, though the bathtub Porsche was tough to beat.

Fast-forward a few decades to 2000. I reverted to youth and decided I had to have another Healey. I found one only an hour from home, and Robert and I drove over to see it. Miraculous! It was the identical twin to my beloved Healey of yore. Fabulous job of restoration. After stroking and adoring it for  while, I took it for a spin.

Thomas Wolfe was right. You can’t go home again. I discovered that the clutch gave me a semi-charleyhorse, the wheel was hard to turn, and the floor almost melted the bottom of my shoes. Ah yes, now I remembered: the heat transfer from the engine made the floorboards hot even in winter, and very very hot in the summer.

It’s great to return to yesteryear for a short visit, but as I drove back home in my Honda (with a stick shift!) I was serene in the knowledge that I didn’t, after all, want to live there even temporarily.

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Tags: Austin Healey, driving, sports cars

Hi, everybody!

Herewith an embarrassing report on my brief flirtation with Adventure. Extremely brief, as it turned out.

We’ve both been so bound up lately in projects, either finishing them or finding creative strategies to avoid them, that we were two quarts low on fun. Then in Friday’s Weekend Guide I saw an ad for Segway Tours, an hour and a half along the Katy Trail for bikers, walkers, joggers, and Segwayers. What an adventure that would be! Sightseeing as you glide on a Segway at a cool 12 MPH. Probably the last hurrah of fabulous Indian summer, 78 degrees, cloudless, mild breeze. Perfect.

What’s a Segway besides a cute spelling of segue, defined as a smooth, uninterrupted transition from one thing to another? Alas, for me the segue from solid ground to this space-age vehicle was neither smooth nor uninterrupted.

The Segway is a two-wheeled personal transporter—their copywriting, not mine. It has two big wheels with footpads in between, and an upright pole with handlebars. In a housing underneath there are five gyroscopes that make it work and stand it upright. In three years and over a thousand tours, they’ve had only four people fall off. I’d have felt a lot more comfortable if they’d said NO ONE had ever fallen off.

Our guide explained that you simply pull a handlebar left or right to make it go that way. OK, I thought, like reins on a horse; so far, so good. Oh, and you must always stand erect with slightly bent legs and elbows at your sides. You shift weight forward or backward to make it accelerate or slow/stop, but never bend your body in any direction. “You’ll get the hang of it in a few minutes. Let’s practice now.”

He steadied the Segway as I stepped aboard and immediately panicked. It felt like trying to balance yourself on a board atop a large ball. My balance can be kind of dodgy on flat ground, and this felt scary as hell to me. I said, “I can’t do this,” and stepped back off while he again steadied the device.

Frankly, I’d expected a smaller version of a golf cart. Ah, but they have FOUR wheels. Big difference.

Everybody else looked so cool, skimming around like they had personal hovercrafts. I envied them till I thought it through. An hour and a half of standing erect with slightly bent knees? I don’t think so.

[I had a flashback on learning to drive a car with a stick shift, saying in my head, "EASE out on the clutch, EASE down on the accelerator, use the hood ornament like a gunsight." Of course, eventually it became motor memory, so to speak. But that car had FOUR WHEELS.]

Robert was gliding around like a veteran, a big grin on his face under that helmet-over-gimme-cap. He was in heaven. He would have bailed with me out of gallantry, but when I said our fees at that point were non-returnable, he acquiesced to my leaving. I assured him I’d be fine on my own till he got back, and I high-tailed it back to the hotel lobby where the Segway Tours sign-up desk is. I had a lovely 90 minutes just hanging out, watching on TV the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile horse race at Santa Anita. The winning horse, by the way, is owned by Shaikh Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice-President and Prime Minister of the UAE and Ruler of Dubai. The rich get rich and the poor get children.

When Robert got back he said I was smart to bail. Everybody had achy backs and legs. He’s sweet that way. So we went out to dinner and had a margarita, then picked up Buddy from Happy Tails and went home.

That’s actually a happy ending. My main adventure is loving and laughing with my guys. And some day I’ll have my own version of a Segway—one of those motorized scooters like Bette Midler rides as Delores Delgado, the Toast of Chicago. Haven’t seen that video? It’s on YouTube and it’s a hoot.

Cheers!

Roz

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Tags: adventure, humor, panic, Segway