When my friend MW made plans to retire in May, she started talking about a Bucket List. This talk accelerated over the summer to the point where she now has a Major Bucket List (MBL) and a Quirky Bucket List (QBL).

(I can’t help but wonder if taking fuchsia-colored panties in a reusable shopping bag to The Purity might have been on one of these lists.)

To give you an idea of the quality of her desires, her MBL includes the Cotati Accordion Festival.

In the past week, I was able to assist MW in knocking off two of her QBL items—a visit to the International Sea Glass Museum (on Saturday) and a night of Bingo at Portuguese Hall (on Tuesday).

Contrary to the impression given by the International Sea Glass Museum website, it is not a cornball dork-fest. It is a labor of love designed by owner Capt. Cass Forrington and a monument to treasures found at Glass Beach over a period of decades.

Bingo wasn’t entirely dorky either. It was—yes, I’ll say it—fun. Lots of fun!

Joining MW and me on this adventure was her 88-year old mother Doris, and friends Charlie, Kathleen, Kathleen’s daughter Christina, and Carrie.

I must give special thanks to Carrie. She arrived early and saved a row of seats. When I entered the hall holding a 20-dollar bill and a glazed expression, she took the money out of my hand, bought a stack of Bingo cards, and handed me the change.

The hall was set up in rows, which didn’t allow for much jabber among friends. The Bingo crowd seemed familiar with one another, which made the atmosphere akin to spending a quiet evening at home. The four women who ran the event helped make our group of newbies feel welcome.

The games were scheduled to begin at 7:00, and Carrie said they usually went until 9:30. Some of us weren’t sure we could manage to stay alert for that long. As it turned out, time clipped by and before we knew it, we were surprised by a half-time snack break which included sandwiches, chips, ice cream and coffee. The second half of the evening went by as swiftly as the first.

Carrie brought extra daubers to share with the group. She sat next to me and patiently explained how to play each game. Toward the end of the evening, she occasionally hit my dauber with hers to keep me awake.

I wish I could say I was happy when people yelled Bingo! and won a jackpot, but I was not. I was genuinely bitter. (Hey—you go to Bingo and spend $15 and tell me you don’t want to win big money and don’t resent those who do.)

I now have to add “Develop good Bingo sportsmanship” to my self-improvement list.

I wasn’t bitter the entire night. Two winners who incited happiness were part of our group—the fiercely competitive 88-year old Doris won two rounds worth $48 each, and 21-year old Christina won the final blackout of $103.

Each time a member of our group won, we whooped and clapped. The regulars looked on with pity. We obviously did not know how to comport ourselves at Bingo.

I did manage to win a drawing and receive a coupon good for $10 off a buy-in for the next time I go to Bingo. (A buy-in is when you give Carrie $20, let her negotiate your stack of Bingo paperwork and give you $5 change.)

I haven’t asked MW what exploits remain on her QBL, but if the experiences that await are anything as fascinating as the International Sea Glass Museum and as fun as Bingo Night at Portuguese Hall, I hope she invites me to tag along.

My 14.75-year old dog Wilson and I sometimes pretend we’re detectives. Because we dress as ninjas—or more likely because we’re past a certain age of loveliness—we saunter unnoticed through the streets of Fort Bragg.

Over the past several months, I fancy that I’ve become quite the savvy gumshoe. I can identify a number of street drug dealers and people who live in their vehicles. Sadly, I recently learned that those are the only two things I’m good at detecting.

Last Monday afternoon, I was startled out of concentrating on my day job by a pounding on the door. Through the top leaded glass quarter panel, I saw a young waif of a woman standing on the porch.

She wore a backpack and held a three-ring binder to her chest. “Hello, my name is __________ and I’m from Europe.” A light blue bicycle was parked outside the gate.

In mere seconds, several things raced through my investigative brain:

• Europe? Who says they’re from Europe? People are more likely to specify that they’re from a particular country.
• A few months ago, the Fort Bragg Advocate News reported that a young fellow went door to door and claimed to be a local College of the Redwoods student raising money to study abroad. When an older gentleman invited him into his home, the fellow ripped off cash and valuables and ran away.
• She’s probably faking her French accent.
• She’s going to try to rip me off.

“You need to leave.” I slammed the door and called the police.

The dispatcher asked what the young woman wanted.

“I don’t know.”

“Was she selling something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she threaten you?”

“No.”

By this time I was a bit embarrassed. (I’ve been accused of overreacting to more than one situation during the course of my lifetime.)

I was asked to describe her. (Apparently “waif-like” isn’t sufficient for the police.) And the color of her jacket? Holy crap—purple? Let’s say purple.

I was asked which direction she went. Oh my God—I did not know!

After I hung up the phone, I was ashamed that I’d failed to fulfill my civic duty. I should have grabbed the European, put her in a choke hold while dialing 911, and held her until the police arrived. At the very least, I should have been able to describe her.

Wilson and I were forced to redeem our reputations.

I dressed him up, grabbed my cell phone, went out the front gate, and saw her bicycle parked in front of a house up the street. As if to confirm that there is a Higher Power, a police car pulled up to the intersection. (That pesky Higher Power seems to enjoy playing this trick on me.)

I madly waved and gestured, “Over here! Come here!” My armpits were gathering moisture.

I bent to speak to the officer and was struck by his youthful appearance. He looked like he’d recently received his driver’s permit. I introduced myself as The Concerned Citizen Who Had Made The Call To Dispatch.

“There’s her bike!” I pointed. “You can zoom over there and nab her right now!”

He asked a series of questions: what did she want, what did she look like, what was the color of her jacket? In an effort to appear credible—but certainly without intending to—I may have made up some details. He respectfully listened.

 “Even I can mimic a French accent.” I tried to say this with French inflection but it came out sounding like Hillbilly British.

As he wasted time questioning me, I feared the European would emerge from the house and sprint away. Wilson and I would have to run across the street and tackle her.

I worried that Wilson might not be up for it (he is awfully old). The entire ordeal moved me dangerously close to requiring a sedative.

Finally, the officer smiled and said, “So you told her to go kick some rocks down the road.” (Where did the City of Fort Bragg find this guy? He’s too darned cute.)

He assured me he’d check it out. Wilson and I wanted to stand on the sidewalk and gawk, but felt we’d spent our vigilante chips for the day.

When we returned from our walk, the bicycle was gone.

I later spoke with a neighbor who said that the European had knocked on their door stating she needed help with a map.

HA! I’ll bet! Go talk to Google, sister!

First there was the fake College of the Redwoods student claiming plans to study abroad (probably in Europe). Now it’s the fake European. I must develop a plan to bring future trespassers to justice.

First, I’ll stop opening my door to strangers. When one does arrive on my porch, I’ll grab my cell phone and take a picture of him/her through the leaded glass window. When I call dispatch, I’ll refer to the photo while being questioned for details.

The police will declare, “Man, does that broad ever have an eye for detail. We should make her an honorary detective.”

I’ll readily accept—but only if Wilson is given the same offer.

Much to my dismay, super helpful postal clerk Chris retired without asking me. For years, she was the only clerk for the first hour after the post office opened each morning. Since not many people realize it opens at 8:30, I skedaddle down there around that time whenever I need assistance.

Last week, I had to mail a package to my granddaughter and discovered Unpleasant Clerk had taken Chris’s place.

Unpleasant Clerk and I have a bit of a history. In the rare times she’s agreeable, I suspect she’s under video surveillance by her supervisor. Her attempts to be nice are so unnatural that they make me squirm.

One busy afternoon a few years ago, an octogenarian woman was in front of me in line. She held a package that was about four-by-six inches. She must have had some bad past life karma because she was next up when Unpleasant Clerk became available. With gentle sweetness, the woman explained that she didn’t have the proper tape to seal the top flap of the package and asked if the clerk would tape it for her. She even said please.

Unpleasant Clerk gave her a look of passing a constipated turd, gestured to the back wall of postal paraphernalia, and said, “You need to go over there and get some strapping tape.”

The woman turned to walk towards the wall.

Unpleasant Clerk said, “You need to take your package and go to the back of the line.” By this time the line was eight people deep.

The woman looked defeated, but graciously accepted her fate.

I was next in line for Unpleasant Clerk. I wanted to say something really nasty, but at the time I was reading Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth and learning how anger is the result of the ego rising to defend. I shoved my ego behind me. Otherwise it would have punched her in the face.

I got home and ranted to my husband Gary about the clerk’s despicable behavior until he begged me to stop. Unsatisfied, I called our local postmaster. I attempted to report the incident with as little theatrics as possible, the bottom line being I didn’t understand why Unpleasant Clerk could not have used six inches of tape to help that old woman.

The postmaster patiently listened and said, “Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

“But we’re only talking about a few inches. Certainly each employee is allowed to use some discretion.”

“Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

By this time, my ego had grown powerful enough to stage a military coup in a third world country. I went online and filed a formal complaint with the US Postal Service. Their response? “Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

I went back to Tolle’s book for comfort. I gave my ego permission to stop trying to change Unpleasant Clerk and the entire United States Postal Service. Exhausted, I took a nap.

Since that time, I have used each interaction with Unpleasant Clerk as a challenge in keeping the cork on the hot vial of hatred I hold in my liver towards her. I issue pleasantries. If not reciprocated—hey, look at me, I’m still breathing normally. I compliment her hair and jewelry. If she doesn’t shimmy with appreciation, my life is unchanged. I try my best to role model humanitarian behavior.

Last week’s package for my granddaughter contained a decorative pillow. Unpleasant Clerk asked the requisite questions about liquids, perishables, explosives, and rattled off a couple of prices. I was thinking a pillow should cost no more than five or six bucks to mail. Conflicting with that thought were quotes of $12.99 and $15.99.

My mind went, “What the hell? Did I hear that right?” My mouth went, “I’m sorry, but what are those prices?”

And she said—are you ready for this?—she looked like a bulldog standing guard at a property line and said, “I already told you.”

I stared at her, wondering if she allotted herself a finite number of words each day. Did she carefully meter her morning words to avoid becoming speechless by afternoon?

My ego bored holes into her retinas and forced her to break eye contact. “I know you already told me. I merely asked you to tell me again.”

She did. I paid, went home, and ranted to Gary until he begged me to stop.

I thought about calling the postmaster or filing an online complaint. Given that my last attempts were unsuccessful, I decided a better solution is to stop going to the post office in the early morning. That way, I increase my chances of interacting with another clerk and can save my ego’s energy for trying to figure out why so many people in Fort Bragg have gardens growing in the cracks of their sidewalks.