Monthly Archives: January 2017

Thursday Thoughts

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Hidden Pleasure
Bec and I went yesterday and saw Hidden Figures, the movie about African American women who were involved in the space program. O.M.G. It really was such a great movie, and so uplifting. I don’t 316421main_road2apollo-04_fullknow how it came out of Hollywood! I won’t tell you much because you probably already know the plot. But I will just highly recommend it, for many reasons. Afterwards, Bec and I went to have a Coke so that we could talk about the movie, which is the best thing about going to the movies with someone — talking about it afterwards. We both have such clear memories of the early space program. We recalled being glued to the television set as we watched those huge rocket ships take off. We were all familiar with the astronauts who helped make the U.S. space program a success. What a time it was in our country’s history. We both agreed that there is literally nothing that binds our country together now in the same way as the space program did back in the 1960s. But the movie isn’t really about the space program, but about the racial and gender inequality. It wasn’t preachy, just astounding and exhilerating, and the acting was tremendous. Everyone should take your children for many reasons. These were real-life heroes too.

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Neighborhood Dining
Bill and I met my brother and his wife for dinner last night. We had made plans to go to an Italian deli not too far from either their or our house, but that didn’t pan out for a variety of reasons. So instead we went to a neighborhood joint called Rosati’s, which is a chain around here that features pizza and pasta, and is Chicago-based. It’s in the same shopping center as our Basha’s store to which I walk nearly every day. As we walked home, Bill and I talked about how much we like having a neighborhood restaurant where you can go have a beer and a pizza or some meatballs and walk home again. It sort of feels like a small town. I am, however, going to have to try the Italian deli that didn’t work out last night, as I am on a never ending quest to find an Italian sub sandwich as good as the one about which I spoke in this blog post a few years ago.

Not My Mom and Dad
And as we sat there talking, somehow the conversation turned to sex, specifically, how old were we when we learned about it. Both Dave and Bill agreed that they learned about sex the old-fashioned way – from their friends. As a result, Dave admitted that he had some faulty information for quite some time. He didn’t specify what that info was, nor did I ask. I did admit, however, that I was a SOPHOMORE IN HIGH SCHOOL before I learned the facts of life. It was in religion class and one of the priests played a recorded album in which it was explained the specifics of where babies come from. I am only somewhat ashamed to admit that I WAS FULL-OUT STUNNED. Yes, my friends, I was, what?, 15 years old or so and I had no idea about the facts of life. Suffice it to say that my mother (may God rest her loving soul) was not nicknamed the Great Communicator, at least when it came to the facts of life. Now, let someone criticize her children or her football team, and she could communicate plenty well.

Weather
The weather forecasters are very excited because there is actual weather change in the forecast. While it’s true that it rarely gets below freezing in the Phoenix metro area even in December or January, northern AZ can have cold temperatures and a fair amount of snow. They were agog last night because snowfall in the neighborhood of a foot is expected north of Phoenix, and as low as 5,000 feet in altitude. Here in the valley, temps are expected to hover around highs of 58 or so throughout this week and next. It’s funny, because if I look at Denver’s temps and if it’s 58, I think, wow, they are having nice weather. However, if the temperature is 58 here, I am decked out in a sweater and wrapped in an afghan.

Ciao!

RIP

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Don’t bother me; I’m in mourning.

Oh, don’t worry. I’m not mourning the loss of a person I love. I don’t know anyone who has recently died. As far as I know, all of my loved ones are alive and kicking.

No, what I’m mourning is the loss of (sob) sushi.

The other morning Bill was reading the news as he does every morning from his iPad. If he runs into something he finds particularly interesting or something that he thinks I might find particularly interesting, he will relay to me basically the headline without even looking up from his reading.

That is, for example, how I found out about Broncos Coach Gary Kubiak resigning. A simple oh, that’s interesting; Kubiak is quitting the Broncos from Bill. There is a bombshell like this casually recited to me nearly every day. But none has hit me quite as hard as his recent oh, that’s interesting; you can get tapeworms from American salmon.

Wait, what? He looked up.

Yes, he went on. I guess salmon from Japan has always had the possibility of tapeworms, but now they have discovered tapeworm larvae in wild salmon from western United States.

Which is basically where American restaurants and grocery stores get all of its salmon. OMG. Tapeworms.

Instantly, flashbacks to an episode (oh hell, it might have been three or four episodes) of the television show House flashed through my mind. I could clearly remember the patient’s symptoms. I could scarcely forget the vivid shots of the GIGANTIC tapeworm in House’s patient’s stomach.

“What publication are you reading this in?” I asked him frantically, hoping with all my might it was from The Onion, or maybe something from Glenn Beck.

“USA Today,” he said. Rats. Not crazy enough to be wrong.

I have subsequently seen articles from CNN, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune…. I could go on and on. (Don’t say on and on. It reminds me of a tapeworm.)

I became agitated, and immediately began considering my personal stomach issues and how/if my symptoms are similar to those related to having a tapeworm. I quickly decided they weren’t for reasons I will spare you from reading. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t still happen.

If I continue eating salmon nigari sushi or spicy salmon rolls. Which I won’t. At least not until they figure out a way to eradicate tapeworm forever from salmon. Frankly, I may never eat fish again.

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Rest in Peace

Actually, the articles go on to say generally speaking, having a tapeworm isn’t that bad. YES IT IS. They also go on to say that if the fish is cooked thoroughly or frozen, the tapeworm larvae is killed. BUT IT’S STILL THERE. I DON’T WANT IT THERE, DEAD OR ALIVE.

Life as I know it has changed forever, or until someone figures out how to rid all salmon of tapeworm larvae. After all, if we can put a man on the moon…….

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

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Back when I was a little girl, television didn’t run nonstop like it does now. There were only a few networks – CBS, NBC, ABC, maybe a few local stations – and they signed on early in the morning, and signed off at midnight or so with a hearty playing of the National Anthem. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?

Anyway, because networks didn’t run on a 24-hour schedule, movies were uncommon on searchTV. The Wizard of Oz ran once a year, at which time I planted myself on the gray carpeted floor right in front of the TV without moving for the entire movie. Once Dad broke down and bought us our first color television, the moment when Dorothy woke to find Oz in technicolor glory was unbelievably COOL.

But when I was really little, the only time most movies were on TV was late at night, long after I was tucked into the double bed next to my sister Jen. However, when I was probably 11 or 12, Mom told me that I had to go to bed at the same time as Jen on Saturday night, which was probably around 10. But if I could stay awake until she fell sound asleep, and further, could sneak out of bed without waking her, I could get up and watch the late night movie. Game on! I can still vividly recall inching my way to the edge of the bed and oh-so-carefully rolling out as quiet as a churchmouse, praying that I didn’t hear, “Where are you going, Kris?”

220px-born_yesterdayIt was one of the times that I managed to stay awake that I was able to watch a movie that I remember that my mom loved called Born Yesterday, starring Judy Holliday. The single thing that I remember from that movie was a scene in which Holliday’s character, a ditzy blond named Billie (who ultimately turned out to be not so ditzy) is playing gin rummy with her rotten-to-the-core boyfriend, and she drives him completely crazy as she gets ready to play the game. She moves her cards around. She messes with her hair. She picks up every card he lays down, and moves her cards around some more. And of course she eventually says, “Gin.” It’s a completely ridiculously funny scene. I remember that my mom laughed and laughed and laughed as she watched that scene. To this day, when I am playing gin rummy and I start moving my cards to the correct position, I think about Born Yesterday. Enjoy this clip……

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AT2XX8zYaZA

Now, prepare for the arrival of the Get Off My Lawn Crabby Kris.

Having been duly warned, I think many of you will agree with me that movies just aren’t as fun as they used to be. I love the old movies like Born Yesterday, His Girl Friday, Roman Holiday, The African Queen, Rear Window, The Philadelphia Story and The Apartment (my all-time favorite).

Now that thanks to this recent blog post, you all know why Bill is a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild, let’s talk about movies today. The relationship between movies today and Bill’s participation in the Screen Actors’ Guild is, of course, that he gets to screen movies in which actors will be considered for SAG awards. The movies considered by SAG are often the same as those considered for other awards such as Golden Globe or Academy Awards. And what have I learned over the past number of years since he’s been screening movies? I have learned that the powers-that-be in Hollywood like some really sad and depressing movies. I mean slit-your-wrist depressing. Year after year, this seems to be true.

And the 2016 movies that we have watched thus far are no different. We saw Jackie, starring Natalie Portman, the story of Jackie Kennedy in the days following the assassination. And then we watched Manchester on the Sea, which about did me in. I considered sticking my head in a gas oven, but happily, our oven is electric.

They are both contenders for many awards this year, particularly Manchester on the Sea. But without giving away the plot, I will tell you that my reaction to Manchester was that it was a very believable, but a very sad movie. The acting was quite good. The story was realistic. As always, at its conclusion, Bill asked me what I thought. I told him that I believed every part of that movie. I believe that a teenager would act just as the teenager in the movie acted. I believe that a man who went through what Casey Affleck’s character went through would behave just as he did.

But here’s the thing. I don’t want to believe in my movie. I want my movie to take me away someplace unbelievable. I want to laugh at a ridiculous scene where a ditzy blond is playing gin rummy. I want to sing along with Gene Kelly in the rain. I want to hang off the bow of the Titanic with Kate Winslet. I don’t want to see President Kennedy’s brains splattered onto Natalie Portman’s pink suit or try to find meaning in my life after losing everyone I love.

The good news is that we have yet to see Hidden Figures and La-La Land. I am optimistic.

This post linked to Grammy’s Grid.

Reconcile

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11-castawayUnless you live on a deserted island where your only friend is a volleyball named Wilson, you know that this week Donald Trump becomes president. No matter your feelings about the president-elect, I think you will all agree with me that there has never been such a divided country – at least politically – and never so much anger and angst and anxiety and every other negatively-charged word that begins with A as there is over this election and the subsequent presidency.

The whole business has made me rather sad. For eight years I have listened to conservatives bashing Obama, and now I am listening to people talking about impeachment before the man is even sworn in as president. Can’t we all just take a breath and remember that we are the United States of America?

Perhaps this is why the Mass yesterday satisfied my troubled soul so soundly. It wasn’t the scripture readings, though they always give me comfort. How can one not be comforted by the prophet Isaiah reminding us that God will never forsake us, and that he will make us all a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.

But our priest elected to concentrate on reconciliation rather than the preachings of the weekend’s scripture readings.

Spreading his hands wide as he addressed the congregation, he told us, “You are the Body of Christ. This church is only a building. Sometimes it is full of people and sometimes it is completely empty. But it doesn’t matter, because at the end of the day, YOU are the Body of Christ.”

I loved what he said, and for a variety of reasons. I have mentioned before that I am saddened by the fact that some of the people that I love have left church, and that only some of my grandchildren are baptized. But I think God, via the words of Fr. O’Neill, was reminding me that it isn’t the building that’s important, but what we believe and how we live our lives as the Body of Christ that matters most. Church simply feeds us, or at least feeds me.

But Fr. O’Neill went on to talk about reconciliation of the people in our country. Have your beliefs, he said, but love one another.

And this is the Eucharistic Prayer (which is recited at every Catholic Mass just prior to the Consecration of the Eucharist) that he chose for our gathering….

It is truly right and just that we should give you thanks and praise, O God, almighty Father, for all you do in this world, through our Lord Jesus Christ.

For though the human race is divided by dissension and discord, yet we know that by testing us you change our hearts to prepare them for reconciliation.

Even more, by your Spirit you move human hearts that enemies may speak to each other again, adversaries may join hands, and peoples seek to meet together.

By the working of your power it comes about, O Lord, that hatred is overcome by love, revenge gives way to forgiveness, and discord is changed to mutual respect.

And that’s all I’ll say about that!

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Pooping Pom Poms

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Yesterday morning I arose early as usual. I was just putting on coffee when I heard my cell phone make the noise indicating I had a text message. I looked at the clock. It was exactly 6 o’clock. So here’s how my brain works: I thought to myself, there is no good to come from an early morning text message. And the fact that it’s exactly 6 o’clock tells me that someone was waiting until what they considered a reasonable hour given my early morning proclivities. So the text is undoubtedly going to bear bad news. I seriously concluded my thought process thusly: I am going to finish making the coffee because the rest of my day is going to be spent responding in some manner to whatever the text says and whomever the text is from.

Isn’t it hard to be me?

As it turns out, the text was from my daughter-in-law Lauren, or at least from her cell phone. Here is what the text said, verbatim:

Merlin eate my pompom on 1-13-2016 can you make me a new one. Thanks.

So, Merlin is the dog……

joseph-micah-merlin

And for Christmas, I made a stocking cap for Joseph that included what most people call a pom-pom, but we grew up calling a boobly…..

joseph-stocking-cap-2016

I quickly surmised that the message was from Joseph, and that Merlin-the-Very-Naughty-Dog had gotten a hold of his hat and ate the boobly. Suddenly the message was no longer scary, but instead resulted in me grinning. I especially liked the part where he gave the specific date of the incident, indicating that he will perhaps be a police officer some day, even though he got the year wrong; after all, he’s only 7.

And I have started working on a replacement boobly! Keep it away from Merlin. A dog can only eat so much yarn.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Go Set a Watchman

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urlIf you are a reader, and unless you have been living on Mars for the past couple of years, you know that Go Set a Watchman is a novel written by Harper Lee, best known for her amazing To Kill a Mockingbird. The controversy surrounding the book almost erases the value of this novel. While the publisher advertises it as a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird, the reality is that it was the first novel submitted by Harper Lee long before Mockingbird. The publisher to whom she submitted the novel apparently told her it wasn’t ready for prime time and sent her back to the drawing board.

In Go Set a Watchman, a grown-up Scout, who goes by her given name Jean Louise, returns home to Maycomb, AL, from her current residence in New York City, to visit her aging father Atticus. Losing her mother at a young age, she has long hero-worshiped her father, and has tried to model her life after him.

Not long after arriving in Maycomb, after she finds an anti-Negro pamphlet among his things, she follows her father and a young man who she may – or may not – marry named Hank to a citizen’s council meeting where the speaker – who is introduced by Atticus – is a blatant racist who calls for the crowd to stop the rise of Negroes. Jean Louise is horrified, and spends the rest of the novel trying to make sense of what she has learned about her father.

According to what I’ve read, the publishers to whom the author originally submitted the story advised her to work further on the story, telling her that the most interesting parts of the book are the flashback scenes in which Jean Louise remembers growing up in Maycomb. Thus, you have To Kill a Mockingbird.

I had to remind myself throughout the book that it was written BEFORE To Kill a Mockingbird, as Jean Marie’s memories include things that are actually integral to her subsequent classic. For example, she recalls Atticus handling the legal case for a black man wrongly and unjustly accused of raping a white girl. Sound familiar?

The book really is more a series of vignettes up to the point in which Jean Louise confronts her father. That scene, along with a couple scenes featuring Atticus’ brother, make up the bulk of the novel, and really are the only parts of the book that make one think.

It’s difficult to imagine the world in the south back in the 1950s and before. Being so far removed, both in time and geographically, it was a wake-up call to be reminded that the Civil War had taken place less than a hundred years previous to the days around the Dred Scott decision. It was fresh in many people’s memory. Another point made by Jean Louise’s uncle that is remarkable is that only about 5 percent of the southerners who lived and fought and died in the Civil War actually owned slaves. For them, it really was a fight for states’ rights.

Sure, it was confusing and disappointing to see Atticus, but all-in-all, it wasn’t shocking.

The book would create fabulous discussion for a book group. I’m certain it already has.

Here is a link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

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Can You Hear Me Now?
Sometimes I embrace technology; sometimes I want to throw my cell phone/iPad/laptop computer right out the window. Nevertheless, overall, I know technology has improved our lives. Still, my heart sinks when my cell phone rings, and, upon answering it, I get that dreaded quiet lull indicating a computer-generated voice will pipe up. The other day when my telephone rang, my phone showed it was a call from my primary care doctor’s office. That’s never good. But that dreaded lull came on just before a cheerful computer-generated voice said, “Hello. We are trying to reach Kristine McLain. Have we reached the right number?” “Yes,” I said firmly and clearly. “Is this Kristine McLain?” said the nonhuman voice. “Yes,” I yelled again. After several more attempts, I finally convinced the computer I was who they wanted. “Our records indicate you have not had your annual mammogram,” said the voice. “Is this true?” “No,” I yelled into the phone. “If this is not true,” said the voice, “please indicate verbally when you last had your mammogram by telling us the month and year.” So I said, “December 2016.” “You said December 2015. Is this correct?” “No,” I yelled into the phone. “If this is not correct, please tell us the month and year of your last mammogram,” said the voice. “December 2016,” I repeated, loudly enough that Bill looked in from outside where he was doing yard work to see with whom I was arguing. “You said December 2015. Is this correct?” And so on, until after three identical attempts, at which time the voice said, “It appears we are having trouble communicating. We will call you at a later time,” and disconnected. I considered calling my doctor back to talk to a human, but know full well that the place at which I had my recent mammogram had sent her my results. Unfortunately, no one told the computer. This odd encounter once again reminded me that I will not drive or ride in a driverless car until technology has succeeded in inventing a workable automated phone system.

All Hat and No Cows
Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I went to Jimmy John’s for lunch (his favorite). We decided we weren’t in the mood to go back to our house, so we decided to visit a place we’ve driven by many, many times, and each time we have said we should stop just for the fun of it, but never have. You will be surprised when I tell you it was a business called Tractor Supply Co. “I went to one of these kinds of stores once a long time ago, and got a bucket,” Bill said. And apparently he was in the market for a bucket once again. It was about what you would expect. Lots of tools, lots of animal feed, the makings for chicken coops, a small display of ranch clothes, and a large selection of buckets. Bill happily chose one, after taking a bit of time to decide between the black bucket and the red bucket. Hey, I’m not going to complain. I do the same thing at a kitchen supply store. For the record, he picked black. And he told me that his rancher friends would say that we were all hat and no cows. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing, though admittedly he made me laugh.

Speaking Sharply
Last year very shortly after we arrived, Maggie’s husband Mark came to our house packing his knife sharpener. He commenced that day to sharpen all of our knives, much to my delight. So I began nagging him almost upon our arrival this year to once again sharpen our knives. His heart was willing from the get-go, but circumstances never allowed it to happen. Happily, day before yesterday, he and Austin appeared at our door with the knife sharpener. Maybe 10 minutes and a lot of whirring noises later, my knives were sharp and ready to go. He’s very kind to do this for his mother-in-law and his wife’s old auntie. Of course, it might have helped some that I threatened to stab him in the heart with my dull knife if he didn’t help me out soon.

Speaking of Love
While looking for something else altogether, I stumbled upon this old photo of the McLains when they were considerably younger. My heart just melted when I looked at it, and it melts every time I look at it again. I think I mostly love how Alastair has his head on Addie’s shoulder. Today? Wouldn’t happen….

camping-mclains

Elementary, Dear Watson
 I got hooked a few years ago on the PBS mystery series Sherlock (not to be confused with CBS’s Elementary). I’m pretty sure that a lot of the reason I was so taken was because I’m quite frankly very smitten with Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal of the famous detective. Smitten. Who uses that word anymore? Anyway, I don’t particularly think the actor is terribly good looking in any other role in which I’ve seen him; however, as the sherlock-1600x720great detective, he is simply dreamy. Dreamy. Who uses that word anymore? With the exception of one show that aired last January, PBS’s Sherlock has taken quite a break. So while I’m recording the program, I haven’t watched any of the new episodes yet. Instead, I am watching the old ones on Netflix to get caught up and back into the swing of things. And I had forgotten just how BIZARRE the show is. Bill watches bits and pieces and looks at me like what the….?  I might be getting too old for the program, but then there’s Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock. Dreamy.

Ciao.

Germodian Poliswerian

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The Nebraska town in which I was born and spent the first 18 years of my life could pretty much have been dreamed up by Willa Cather. Almost everybody had jobs that related in some respect to farming. They raised crops themselves. They sold farm implements. They provided clothing for farmers. They worked on farmers’ teeth or broken bones. They gave vaccinations to farm animals. They sold bread and donuts to farmers. Don’t get me wrong; we didn’t walk around with pieces of hay sticking out of our mouths. Well, to be honest, some of us did, but my point is that we weren’t all a bunch of hicks. It’s just that our community relied on farming. That was probably true of most communities throughout the Midwest back when I was a child.

What’s more, we were all white. I’m pretty sure I’m right when I say that no one that lived in my community back in the 50s and 60s was what we would today call a person of color. The rumor I always heard was that there was a city ordinance that prohibited a non-Caucasian person to live in my town. I’m pretty sure that was an urban myth because it would seem to me that even back then (when dinosaurs roamed the earth) that would have been, if not against federal law, at least against moral law. But whether or not that was true, what is certain is that the community consisted of only Caucasians.  By the way, that is no longer true. There is certainly a significant Hispanic population as evidenced by the fact that there are actually restaurants featuring Mexican food, and I’m not talking about the Taco John that opened about the same time I left for college.

My mother’s parents were both Polish, a Siemek married a Micek. My father was Swiss, a first generation American. When my parents got married in 1947, it wasn’t uncommon for people of one nationality to marry another from that same nationality as required by their parents. Mom and Dad always said that their parents never blinked an eye about a person of Polish descent marrying a person of Swiss descent. Perhaps my paternal grandparents were so happy to be Americans that it didn’t matter who my dad married. After all, the United States was the great melting pot.

What I do know, however, is that as children and teenagers, my friends and I were very cognizant of our nationality, and identified each other by our heritage. I had friends who were Irish, and Dutch, and Czechoslovakian and Polish. It was something that, for reasons I can’t quite explain, really mattered to us. I always was proud that I could limit my ancestry to two nationalities. Others were a bit more, well, watered down.

In some ways, it makes me sad that our kids are losing their sense of historical background in this melting pot. Court tells his children they are – take a deep breath – Germodian Poliswerian. For the record, this is a term he invented to include all of their backgrounds – German, Cambodian, Polish, Swiss, and Hungarian.

I love that my mother prepared Polish meals, although she never identified them as such. For example, she called it cabbage meatballs, but now I realize they are golobki. We ate kielbasa and soft boiled eggs for our Easter breakfast, and now I know that it was a Polish tradition. My grandmother often made a pie that we cleverly called Grammie’s Swiss Apple Pie. Upon further investigation recently, I learned that her pie is a typical food served in Switzerland, and it’s called apfelwahe. I featured her recipe in one of my blog posts.

My grandkids are very interested in their ancestry, and that makes me happy. As people from one generation beget people from another generation, the heritage gets more and more convoluted. While our McLain grandkids identify heavily with their Scottish ancestry (thanks in large part to the time their father spent in Scotland while in college, his wedding attire of a kilt, and his hiring of a bagpiper who “piped in the haggis” for one of the kids’ multicultural nights at school), they are in fact aware that they also have a lot of Polish and some English and even a little dab of Serbian in their blood. Joseph and Micah also have some Polish blood, and some English, Irish and French.

As for Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole, they are Germodian Poliswerian. But they are half Cambodian, and I’m so happy that their maternal grandmother – who came to the United States from Cambodia in the early 1980s – prepares them Cambodian food and I assume will teach them Cambodian customs, as will their mother. It’s true that right now they won’t eat the food. But they will some day, and they will maybe even learn to prepare it themselves. I hope so.

Barely related to my post, here are new photos of two of my own descendants…..

micah-cole-1-17

This post linked to Grammy’s Grid.

Won’t Ya Be My Neighbor?

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A couple of years ago I wrote a blog post about our next door neighbor here in AZ. It might be important for you to read (or reread) the blog post in order to understand why I’m so focused on my new neighbor. Here is the link to that post. I’ll wait.

Okay. Are you back?

Anyhoo, the couple about whom that post was written sold their house at the end of December, and have moved elsewhere. (By the way, I have never been able to confirm or refute whether she chose the lifestyle he did. In the six years since we bought this house, I only spoke to her on one occasion, and it was about the bird nest in our tree. She was fully clothed. Nevertheless, the fact that I only saw her once in six years speaks volumes, doesn’t it?) Odd as it sounds, I was kind of sad. All-in-all, they had been good neighbors. Yes, it’s true that if their garage door was open, it was important – essential, really – that one had to avert one’s eyes or be strongly at risk of seeing something that would haunt you well into the next day. I’m as serious as a heart attack, I promise.

But they had our telephone number, and the telephone number of my niece Maggie and her husband Mark. On more than one occasion, circumstances warranted a phone call from our neighbor to Mark. The most recent was when our sprinkler system blew up. It was nice to know that someone sort of kept an eye on our house in the long months when none of us are here. His attire (or lack thereof) mattered not in that case.

But they moved on. He and I chatted when Bill and I were here in November. It was right after the house had been sold and shortly before they were going to move. Most importantly, he was fully clothed.

“Where are you guys moving to?” I asked him.

“Well, we’re not certain where we’ll settle eventually, but we will rent an apartment until we find a suitable 55-plus neighborhood in which to live,” he answered.

As my grandkids would chant, “Dum, dum, duuuuuuum.”

The code word, my friends, is suitable.

I admit that I immediately went inside and began googling Fifty Plus Nudist Communities in AZ. I came up with exactly zero, and luckily have not started receiving links to porn sites from Google. That’s actually quite a surprise when you think about it. I went into Joann’s Crafts Sunday and bought some yarn. In the store. Not online. And since then, I’ve been getting Google ads for the brand and color of yarn that I purchased IN THE STORE. It’s creepy, but I digress.

The house was sold to an older woman whose name is Patsy, but who I always, ALWAYS call Doris. I don’t really know why. I don’t even know a Doris. My best guess is that it’s because she reminds me of Doris Roberts, the actor who played the mother on a program I almost never watched called Everybody Loves Raymond, and who was one of the many Famous People Who Died in 2016.

800px-dorisrobertsapr2011-2

Doris Roberts, not Patsy

Doris – I mean Patsy — seems nice. She was living in a townhome and climbing all of the steps became problematic, and so she purchased the nice little ranch next door. I have already seen her at least three times as much as I ever saw our neighbor’s wife. What’s more, she has been clothed every time. It’s true she is wearing the standard Arizona Senior Citizen Uniform of beige capris and a polyester button-down shirt, but that’s okay, because that’s what I wear also.

The barely-adult granddaughter who shares the house with her has caused us no consternation as of yet. It’s true she drives a Mustang with a big and loud engine that roars into life at 7:30 each morning when she leaves for work, but that’s fine with me. I’m long awake, and thrilled that she isn’t naked. It’s the little things.

The yippy dog might grow on me, just as might I grow on him.

And Then There Was Beavis and Butt-head

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Sometime not too long after Bill and I were married, he came home from a day at the Capitol where he lobbied our General Assembly for 30 years and said, “I think I want to get involved in acting.”

Now, if he said that to me today, after being married to him for neigh on 25 years, I wouldn’t blink an eye. “Acting. Oh, yeah. That’s nice. Could you pass me the salt?” I would respond. Assuming, that is, that I wanted the salt. But you get my point. After 25 years of marriage, nothing Bill McLain does or says really astounds me.

But at that point, I likely responded with something like, “Acting? Acting? Why on earth would you want to do something like that?”

When Bill was a kid, his mother apparently signed him up for just about any kind of lessons you could give a kid. The reason she did this I assume is because he is only 15 months younger than his sister Kathy, and I think the two of them were quite naughty as children and, having completely opposite personalities, fought unceasingly. His mother’s answer: divide and conquer. As a result, he took piano lessons, trumpet lessons, singing lessons, acting lessons, tennis lessons. If there was a lesson to be had, Bill took them. At the end, however, the only lessons that really captured him were the acting lessons. So much so, in fact, that he seriously considered going into the entertainment industry when he approached adulthood. His father quickly put an end to that line of thinking, thoroughly discouraging him from something so impractical. And when I say thoroughly discouraging him, I mean saying something like if you do such a stupid thing, you can pay for college yourself.

But I think a hankering to act was always there. Nevertheless, he went to college, became a lawyer, married, had three kids, and never became an actor. Never, that is, until sometime shortly after we were married. When he came home and said, “I think I want to get involved in acting.”

His friend John had already appeared in a couple of films or television shows that were produced in Colorado. With John’s help, Bill took some acting classes, had some head shots taken, signed with an agency, and sat back to wait for the calls to start coming in.

By the way, the reason I’m telling you this story is that in a blog post last week, I offhandedly mentioned that Bill was a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild. I seriously thought that everyone who knew Bill knew this about him, as he loves to tell stories about his experiences. However, several people mentioned that they were unaware of this fact and were curious.

But back to Bill’s acting career (tongue firmly placed in cheek).

Much to my surprise, calls really did start coming in. Not anything major, mind you. But he was an extra in a number of films, mostly Perry Mason made-for-television movies. He once played a police officer who had to step over the dead body of a person played by Geraldo Rivera. Despite the fact that you only saw Bill from the bottom of his neck down to the top of his legs, he can (and does) honestly say, “I was in a movie with Geraldo Rivera.”

He never actually had any major film roles, but, being Bill McLain, he did frequently have the opportunity to meet and talk with a number of actors. They would be out smoking a cigarette or catching a breath of fresh Colorado air and he would join them to shoot the breeze.

In order to be a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild (SAG), however, you have to have a speaking role and thereby become a union member. That happened to Bill when he auditioned for and was awarded the main role in a commercial for the Colorado Lottery. He played a husband who, at the beginning of the commercial, was asked what he would do if he won the lottery. He responds that he would take his wife out to dinner. At the end of the commercial, you see Bill and a female actor sitting at a Rockies game and he says, upon cashing in a winning lottery ticket, the following words to an unseen hot dog vendor: Two dogs here!

Two things happened following that commercial: 1. Our niece Maggie got mad at him for being with a so-called “wife” who wasn’t me (true story); and 2. He became a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild.

Once that happened, both he and John, in their inevitable manner, became very involved in SAG, eventually becoming president and vice president of the local chapter of SAG. The main benefit of this role, as far as I could ever see, was being able to meet Mickey Mouse at a SAG convention held in Orlando. That, and being able to screen movies early which will likely be contenders for SAG awards (which are often the Academy Award nominees as well). You don’t have to be an officer to screen these movies; all SAG members screen the movies and vote.

And there you have it folks – the acting career of Bill McLain, who now lives a quiet life in Mesa, AZ and Denver, CO.

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By the way, for the small number of you who haven’t heard this story, I will share it with you. At one point in his career, he played a role in a music video for a group called Ugly Kid Joe, whose biggest hit was the love ballad (I Hate) Everything About You. You can take a gander. He’s the man in the blue polo shirt pushing the lawn mower that you see 36 seconds in, 44 seconds in, and 1 minute and 50 seconds in…

https://youtu.be/z7ApyIDhaaA

His proudest moment was when the music video was featured on Beavis and Butt-head.

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And that’s all I’ll say about that.

This post linked to Grand Social.