Thursday was our last day in the desert, and my last day of email probation. I was itching to get back home and sort through the thousands of emails that I had received over the past two weeks.
My husband, Randy, played golf at Indian Canyons Golf Resort while I picked up email, did a much-needed meditation, and worked on this diary of events. Since tomorrow is our last day in the desert, I laid out all 13 pieces of luggage we had bought and bought, and started trying to put the puzzle together. I tried several different arrangements before I was able to determine what bags would go inside the other in order to get us through the airport without a glitch. I packed as much of our blessings as I could, but I noticed that our beach towels, Randy's Corona beach hat and my Indian dress were missing. I looked the place over. I know we had them in Del Mar, but I was in the office picking up my email when Randy packed our bags. He picked me up in the motel lobby and even though I thought I should probably ask to go through the room with my eagle eyes before we left, I did not want to second guess my husband's abilities to gather a few things and put them in a suitcase. I'm sure that is where we left them.
I went downtown for my reflexology appointment at Rosanna's. I never knew a foot rub could feel so good. I was in heaven for thirty minutes. Now that I know you do not have to die to go there, I may schedule foot rubs on a weekly basis once I return home. God knows I'll need it when we get back to the remodeling mess we left in progress. We read about a restaurant that has a piano bar and great food. The ad boasted that the locals hang out there so we decided to give it a try. After all, we've lived here for two weeks-we're part of the scenery. I'll call this place the Metamucil Manor.
After enjoying a great meal, we joined the fun around the grand piano in the lounge where an Elvis impersonator was all Shook Up about something. A scan around the room suggested the locals were age-eligible for monthly checks from the Social Security Administration. I was impressed that these elders were so lively and young at heart. Sure, they had a little help from Depends, but they loved the nightlife and knew how to boogie without dropping their dentures.
Under-aged gold diggers swarmed the place looking for a man to keep them securely wrapped in the lap of luxury. One 36-year-old had found her mine all mine and was wearing a shiny rock to prove that her daughter-like qualities had paid off and earned her the diamond carat. Put that thing away before somebody gets hurt. I smoked as I flashed my plain silver wedding band. No diamond, no jewel of any kind, just …. I was not wearing it! I think I left it on the nightstand at the condo.
Botox and plastic held most things in place. Young, linear eyes and perky implanted boobs on old skin is simply out of place and gives new mean to aging gracefully. A 60-year-old with a face-lift is still a 60-year old everywhere else. With varying degrees of rheumatism, the mommas and the poppas shuffled to the music and giggled to rhythm of their own pacemakers. Being the youngest in the room, offered me the chance to get a first hand look at what I might be doing after I retire. It's like trying before you buy, or dying your hair blue one strand at a time.
We left the Geritol gigolos before the piano man started singing Last Dance, Last Chance for Love. Although we would have enjoyed watching the bidding, hair-pulling and bitching as the young fillies thread their blankets over their newfound lover, we had a plane to catch in the morning and still had to finish packing and eat the rest of the olives.