Musings on the Afterlife, as in -- Is there one and how shall I pack?

Do I know more dead people now than alive?  Is that what it eventually comes to?  Is there a café up there where all my relatives and friends who’ve died before me gather to read whatever they damn well please, now – no pressure to finish House of Mirth.

Are you transformed when you die to your best-looking, neatest appearance?

Will anybody whisper, “why doesn’t she do something with her hair?’  Or will I suddenly have a discernable part?  When you die, does your hair revert to its original color? Or is there a way-station where I can get a touch up for my roots?

Is there a desk to check in?  Is everything included?  Are some extras – like a harp –

part of the basic plan?  Can I use miles?

Will the Sunnis and Shiites still be fighting?  What about the Palestinians and the Jews? Or will we all finally get along? 

What about people who were no longer speaking to me on earth?  What’s the etiquette on that? 

Does my Curves membership automatically transfer up?  What about my magazine subscriptions that renew until you notify them otherwise.  How long until they stop badgering my heirs?

Are couples still married in heaven?  The vows say, “Until Death do you Part.”  Should I assume that this will make my marriage null and void and that if my dear husband precedes me that I shouldn’t get all huffy if he’s met someone new?  And in that case, do I still have a chance with Paul Newman/

When people say, “you can’t take it with you,” will we learn that Republicans have a actually found a way? And does take it with you refer as well to opinions, beliefs, superstitions and prejudices?  Is evolution accepted?  Or from day one, is creationism all that heaven allows?

Are there calories in heaven?

Adventures in Driving at Home in Connecticut.

I back out of my drive.

My armpits gush like twin faucets so old and broken they can no longer be turned off.   My hands clutch the steering wheel – the palms thick with swamp life. The overpowering fear I have of driving a car again makes me a breeding ground for bacteria. 

If penicillin hadn’t already been discovered, I’m sure I ooze the microbes that made Fleming famous, if only he swabbed me first. 

I have traveled around the world and back. And yet, before I even journey out of sight of my house, I am a gibbering, whimpering petrie dish.  

Yes! Without a map or a guidebook,  I’ve found a Dunkin’ Donut!  

Oh, it's easy to be a fearless traveler in Burma or Nepal.  Who could lose sight of  the Shwedagon Pagoda or Mt. Everest?   On the other hand, how does anyone find a landmark in Milford, Connecticut?  Every block has a mall, a donut shop, a gas station and a deli! It all looks the same to me.

My over-size polka-dot drink glass is too large for the car's cup holder, so I lodge my iced decaf between my thighs and head for the highway. 

Now stealthily onto I-95.  My heart hides in my stomach -- I can feel it beating against the steering wheel.   It hopes that even if I have a heart attack, somehow secluded and cushioned by my belly, it will survive.

All the people on the road this morning are unaware that I am driving again.   Worse,  if I am not super alert, I can upend the futures of generations of strangers with one bad lane change.  

It is not just that I am living in a new town -- even an unfamiliar new state.   The Audi is also a new for me. Besides, except for a couple of practice forays I have not driven any car for eight months.  

Partly it's that I'm mending a  badly broken wrist from a fall in Mexico.  In fact, I am on my way to hand therapy now.   Jed, my husband, who has driven me twice a week for months is away for two days.

Gaining confidence, I speed up,  passing exit  25  -- ready to turn swiftly onto 25A.  What?  There is no 25A.  I am at exit 24.  I've passed my exit.  Not to worry, I will simply get off at the next exit, zip around and re-enter I-95 North,  get off at  25A and figure out where I am from there.

First part executed perfectly.  I am off I-95 and ready to turn left.   Except instead of the turn signal I touch the windshield wipers and suddenly they are all going at once, front and back.   

I manage to quiet the front wipers --  the back wipers keep up a noisy Charleston as I drive.

Up the North ramp, windshield wipers dancing on my back window as I look for 25A, but there is no 25A exit.   When I exit, I recognize nothing.  

My tuchas is on fire!

Oh, no!  I must have accidentally switched on the seat warmer because my ass is burning and I am shifting around in my seat like a fried egg on a griddle.  The good news is I can grab my iced coffee and reach around to chill my backside.

Then just as I am about to give up forever I spot the turn in next door to Hand Therapy!

Despite detailed directions home,  the 25 minute drive takes me slightly less than two hours.  I am tempted to say that only Lewis and Clark in surveying their territory may have covered more of an expanse of land than I did that afternoon.   As a byproduct, I can probably provide a fairly accurate census of three counties by adding up every man, woman, and child I stopped for directions.  When I arrive home I re-read my direction and realize I was supposed to take exit 27A not 25A. 

The next morning, after an hour’s drive to meet my friends Linda and Judy in a town or two over from me,  Judy finds the switch to turn off the seat warmer. No wonder I am burning up, she says.  During this week’s  2-day 94 degree heat wave,  I have somehow set the heat on high instead of turning on the air--conditioner.

Funny!  The heat never bothered me in India.

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What happens when the traveler decides to stay home?

This blog had a simple premise.

I like to travel and I like to eat.

Combining the two in one blog seemed the perfect combo a few

back when I started this blog..

But then something happened I never anticipated.

My husband and I fell in love with a house!

So instead of packing our bags and leaving for the airport,

we packed our stuff in boxes and moved to Connecticut!

A house!  A basement!  A yard!  A garden!  Two driveways!

Ours.  All ours!  And no passports!  Well, there is the mortgage.

So just as I used to pore over travel magazines and Kayak for deals,

I am poring over garden brochures and wall color swatches.

Of course,  I’m still taking trips – but mostly now it’s traipsing to Loew’s and Home Depot.

Who can fathom the human mind and why it changes direction?

Ah!  But tasting!  That hasn't changed. Only right now it's mostly produce we grow ourselves

in our Straw Bale garden.  But, that's for another post!