Mango, where are you?

I haven't heard from you in weeks! Are you having secret meetings with Alonzo again? You can tell me, I won't mention it to a soul I know, only perfect strangers, as we agreed.

But, I'm dying to tell you about the odd phone call from my plastic surgeon. He wanted to know what I was doing at the Institute. I told him I was a specimen.

Well, what could I say? You remember we ran into him and his wife at the Southside Grill last month - you know, after the funeral. He was stunned, I can't say why. But I'm certain he was staring at my neck! No one has touched my face since he did my eyes six years ago, the genius - guess he's just checking. Damn I should have worn a turtle neck, but it was 75 degrees in the shade and with those hot flashes, well, it would have been unbearable. And it is a bit scary, these little enhancements - you remember the actress from M.A.S.H. who looked like the front row of a runaway roller coaster? She used to be such a beauty. In all fairness I think it has relaxed into normalcy now, but can I hide out for a few years????? Not going to do that. I guess if we all start wearing those Hong Kong surgical masks, it won't matter.

Anyway, ping me, I'm looking at the scissors and need a distraction.

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So, Carlotta, how are you holding up?

Remind me to send you that recipe for getting rid of those things we talked about.

But I must say, it hasn't been quite right here these last few weeks. February took its toll on my typically gentle spirit. Perhaps it's all that spray varnish in a closed room. Or the spiking hot flashes. Maybe the dreary weather, the gray skies.

Ok, (as you've known all along) - it's the squirrels. We are at war. They are chewing on the new tender palm trees, and look more like rats everyday. I run out and hiss at them, throw stuff. Cisco shoots at them with an air rifle, which doesn't do much either. But he feels better. Unless he hits one, then it makes him queasy. He did get one in the leg last spring and you could spot him since he limped til he died on the carport under the Durango about 6 months later. It wasn't the bum leg. I think they finally started eating those little rat bites I put out with a nice peanut butter sauce. They must have hidden them for their fall treats. We got two that way. But it hasn't made a dent in the population . . . little buggers. I'll get some more of that stuff. Oh, it's almost lunch. Cisco will be home soon, and it's looking like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with Tecate, yum!

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Yes, Lorena, it's me again. I've been thinking about your invitation for us to come live on your farm in rural Missouri, but as tempting as that sounds, Cisco has allergies and I'm not sure my tender thumbs could hold up to all that milking. So, here's the alternate plan, and thank you for your kindness just the same:

We will retire in some distant place (San Miguel or its cousin) and while away the years doing artsy things . . . with servants, Tecate and lime.

I will instantly become conversant in Spanish and wear exotic flowers in my hair. He will wear gaucho pants and riding boots, I'll paint on his Latin moustache.

Ah . . . We will be interviewed and marked as gently quirky by some wide-eyed newsmagazine journalist with incredibly white teeth and empty head.

We smile knowingly and pass along our benevolent vibrations.