Ready to Roll

• Having sampled so many Southern California adventures and lazed my way through a winter where the worst weather was strong wind and occasional rainfall, I’ve come to the usual conclusion: people are what make a place special.
  

• Saturday night, after a leisurely farewell dinner at a family-run, yummy home-made pasta restaurant, the “usual gang” sojourned to Sandy’s candle-lit patio for a late-evening happy hour. Sandy, a “six and sixer” snowbird with homes on both ends, had already jammed her car three-quarters full with the “stuff” she needs for the summer months in West Vancouver.
  

• Sunday morning, Donna and Tom invited me to the Elks Club for a farewell buffet breakfast, no doubt the finest in Hemet. Being an Elk is all about helping your neighbours and Tom lives that credo in spades. Sunday afternoon when I started road-prepping, he initially offered to install my new windshield wipers – heading for BC, I need the finest money can buy. By the time Tom was done, my oil, brake and other fluids were all checked and topped up and he had hauled his compressor down the street to top up my tires. On a daily basis, Tom has cruised by on his rickety red bicycle and recycled his newspaper by delivering it to my door. (Thank you, Tom!)

• When it came time to load my scooter onto the hitch behind MineRVa’s back bumper, Gary was quick to offer his help – which really means he did it with minimal help from me. (Thanks, Gary!)

• Yesterday, it was a farewell pancake breakfast with Carol and a farewell Texas barbeque dinner at Donna and Tom’s. In between, farewell hugs and last-minute waves abounded as 55 snowbird rigs jockeyed for position at the departure gate.

• While every moment of my 97 days in residence at Golden Village has been thoroughly enjoyable, I am eagerly anticipating racking up the northbound miles (ooops, time to shift back to kilometers) zooming along the I-5, heading home to Victoria.

• This morning I am up early, have showered, dressed, brushed my teeth, and fixed some coffee and snacks for the road. Momentarily, I will dump my black and grey water tanks, disconnect the water supply, cablevision, the shoreline power and do all the last minute checks to ensure MineRVA is road-ready.

• Signing off from the Golden Village in Hemet, California!

The Snowbird Exodus

• I was up extra early this morning. I've got travelling on my mind. Three more days and I will join the exodus of snowbirds from the Golden Village. My route options are all mapped out, including a list of highway exits that have gas stations, McDonald's, RV parks and, just in case the weather is really crappy, roadside hotels. While I do plan to spend a few nights at truck stops relying on my batteries and on-board water supply, I assure you I won't be ending a long day’s drive by scrambling outside in the rain to dump my tanks or hook up the fresh water, sewer and electrical connections. With the weather continuing to be as crazy as it is, simple rain would be a bonus. (Mental note: get new windshield wipers.)

• Punctuated by last-minute happy hours, hugs, handshakes and variations on the phrases “keep in touch”, “see you next year” and “travel safe”, many snowbirds have already started their northbound migration. Yesterday there was a line-up at the clubhouse of folks wanting to settle their accounts and get assigned to the departure “pull-through” sites that will allow hooking up their towed vehicles before bed-time in anticipation of a next day early-morning departure. Those headed for non-coastal provinces and states are having their rigs winterized before leaving Southern California since they are headed into the lingering nastiness of what is now being labeled “this historic winter".

• Tornadoes, winter blizzards, the volcano eruption in Alaska and record-breaking floods are plaguing the US and Canada. There have been reports of several small earthquakes here in Southern California but nothing I've felt. The predicted return of the Santa Ana winds that force motorhomes off the road has failed to materialize. Although the days here are getting warmer, the desert climate means a drop of twenty to thirty degrees at night. Early morning furnace blasts continue but by 9 a.m. the furnace is off, the windows are open and the fans are doing their best to stave off the escalating heat of the day.

• As if on cue to signal the end of the snowbird season, spectacularly scented orange blossoms on the tree outside my door have surrounded the last piece of hanging fruit.

• Another countdown is on as I anticipate the next phase of my own historic journey.

Reviewing the Situation

• Once upon a time when I was pondering a decision that might have been easily made by others a dear friend said to me, “It must be hell going through life as an analyst.” I consider that a compliment of the highest order!

• Consistent with that characterization, my trip planning process about ‘what comes next’ started with creating an array of spreadsheets, worksheets, and action plans that consolidate carefully researched data from the weather channel, websites, maps, and guidebooks, advice from family, friends and fellow travelers, and, most importantly, the wealth of dreams that whirl and swirl in the cauldron of my mind.

• I put on my rosy red thinking cap and after giving due consideration to pros, cons and cost/benefit analyses, I broadened, narrowed and redirected the options and finally distilled all of the foregoing into a sensible, practical and logical decision: With my mind on my driving, my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road ahead … I will leave Golden Village next week, homeward bound to spend a month in Victoria before hitting the road again for my tour of western Canada.

• With the dregs of this unseasonal winter continuing to torment the US and Canada, the 10-day weather forecast for most destinations on my wanna-go-there list is snow, rain, sleet, sub-zero temperatures, high winds, and/or possible flooding . That, combined with the killer exchange rate between the Canadian loonie and the US greenback, made it easy to conclude that I do not want to drive a thousand miles through deserts, mountains and flatlands just for the sake of saying I did it.

• For those unfamiliar with the rules, Canada’s medicare only allows a citizen to spend 6 out of 12 consecutive months outside the country. By returning to Canada before my must-cross-the-border deadline, I will essentially have time-in-the-bank for a further jaunt back into the US before my journey ends in September.

• To date, my trip has been a dream fulfilled. Fully decompressed from the stress and pressure of the workplace, I have travelled to exciting places, connected with kindred spirits, searched my soul, and even made friends with dogs. Having made the decision to return to Victoria, even for a few weeks, I am now excited about getting on the road.

A Wunnerful, Wunnerful Day!

• I was up at the crack of dawn this morning for a road trip with my friend Sandy. She spends 6 months each year here in Golden Village and the other 6 months living (in a manufactured home) under the Lion’s Gate Bridge in West Vancouver. She laughingly calls herself “the troll”.

• Thankfully Sandy has spent enough winters in Southern California that she knows the winding route of highways, byways and interstates required to travel the 61 miles from Hemet, on the desert, to Carlsbad, on the coast. (The rolling Pacific Ocean waves crashing onto a beach were a familiar and welcome sight!)
  

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• A perfect place to commemorate the first day of spring, the Carlsbad Flower Fields cover 52 acres of which 50 are dedicated to ranunculus and two to other specialty flowers; sweet peas, orchids, poinsettias and the like. Only about 2% of the flowers are sold, the rest are allowed to complete the growth cycle and each year six to eight million bulbs are harvested for sale at garden centres everywhere.

• Sandy and I accepted the challenge of navigating a sweet pea maze. She had plenty of time to relax on a bench outside the exit while I wandered and wandered and wandered, completely lost, but thoroughly enjoying the rich scent and brilliant colours.

• Another 30 miles on highways, byways and interstates, with the geography changing from ocean beaches to desert rocks to the lush green hillsides and valley nestling the Lawrence Welk Resort in Escondido. Born in a sod house on a tiny farm in North Dakota, leaving home with a fourth grade education, and achieving little success with band names like “The Hotsy Totsy Boys” and “The Honolulu Fruit Orchestra”, he attached his own name to the band and the rest, as they say is history. Parlaying his interest in music into a 41 year run of champagne music and a bubbles on television and making wise investments in real estate and music publishing, the old accordion squeezer became the second wealthiest entertainer in Hollywood (the wealthiest being Bob Hope). I shamelessly admit to having watched and enjoyed the show, back in the day, and even now I occasionally sway along to the sticky-sweet dance maneuvers of Cissy and Bobby re-runs.

• Although the maestro’s plan was to develop an orange grove in the desert, the investment was diverted to the first class golf course and resort, an escape destination for the Hollywood crowd seeking a break from Tinseltown. The small museum and musical theatre are open to lesser mortals such as yours truly and the troll.

• Today’s musical fare was “The Scarlet Pimpernel”, a lavishly costumed, orchestra-accompanied production about a dashing English aristocrat who risks his life to enter France and save innocents from the guillotine. I don’t know how the play was interpreted on the Broadway stage but at the Welk Resort, the hero and his associates avoid detection by pretending to be gay. While I found the mincing and limp-wristed affect to be highly amusing, I’m not so sure about the busload of grey-haired veterans who were also in the audience.

• “A one and a two and … adios, au revoir, auf wiedersehen!”

The Dr Phil Report

• It seems every day has its own reason for traffic chaos in Los Angeles.
  

• On March 17^th the excuse du jour was the traditional St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Accordingly, the tour bus lunch’n’browse stop was diverted from the Farmers’ Market to Olivera Street. Known as the birthplace of LA, the street is a traditional Mexican style plaza where shoppers elbow their way through crowded narrow passageways between small vendor stalls. Crammed with colourful piñatas, hanging puppets in white peasant garb, Mexican pottery, serapes, mounted bull horns, oversized sombreros, and a life-size stuffed donkey, Olivera Street replicates a real Mexican tourist trap except that the prices are all fixed. As I munched a hot dog and slurped a Coke at the entrance to the plaza, I watched St. Patrick’s Day-costumed wanderers and listened to high school bands tuning up for the parade.

• On March 18^th, the traffic crush was justifiable and forgivable, heralding the arrival of President Barack Obama. I was so excited just knowing Barack and I were in the same city! This time the tour bus did make it to Farmers Market, a noisy maze of novelty vendors and food sellers much like Granville Island in Vancouver or The Forks in Winnipeg.
  

• In a 90-minute process between arrival at the studio and show-time, Dr. Phil attendees were funneled through security check points including a purse search and metal detector, and then a series of three holding stations before entering the sound stage. The first stop was an outdoor hallway lined with wooden benches topped with long dusty cushions. Young, good looking Dr. Phil greeters, dressed in blue blazers, white shirts with ties and tan pants moved up and down the line, enthusiastically chatting up the audience and ensuring that a pen was passed along and everyone signed the mandatory pink-sheet waivers that had been received at the entrance gate. The full-page, small-type document waives all rights of claim against Dr. Phil, the studio and their respective distributers, partners, joint venturers, successors, heirs, representatives, assigns, affiliates, licencees, agents, officers, directors, shareholders, employees and attorneys. The document also stipulates waiver of compensation for use of any recorded image, accepts that there is no warrantee for any gift received, and acknowledges that advice provided by Dr. Phil is not to be relied upon. I'm quite certain I was the only attendee to insist on fully reading the document before scrawling a signature across the bottom.
  

• The second waiting spot was another line of cushioned benches where the audience was segregated into groups, depending on the colour of ticket that signified the level (or not) of VIP status. The final waiting room consisted of rows of padded chairs surrounded on all four sides by thick, royal blue velvet curtains. After receiving further instructions from a fellow who provided a history of the studio (built to house RKO Pictures and later the production site for “I Love Lucy") the audience was at last ushered into the sound stage.

• Although the sound stage is small and there are no bad seats, audience placement was carefully choreographed with VIPs and the young’n’ beautiful occupying the front row and all seats likely to be caught on camera. Although relegated to the back row on both days, I was close enough to see all the on-stage action as well as read Dr. Phil’s teleprompter.

• In the final warm-up before the show, a chubby, harried looking assistant aptly named Chunky B further warmed up the audience. Racing frantically from side-to-side Chunky encouraged the audience to clap and cheer for Dr. Phil, cupping hand to ear in an "I can't hear you" gesture, and handing out prize coupons which entitle the six recipients to each receive a free book. At Chunky’s behest the crowd did a 30-second on-the-spot dance to a blast of rock music and in the heat of that frenzy, Chunky exited stage right as Dr. Phil appeared at the back of the set.

• The excited frenzy hit a brick wall upon hearing the topics for the two shows being taped. The first was about how the foster home system is failing children and the second was a boo-hoo episode about getting alimony for the hapless ex-wife and children of flamboyant billionaire basketball player and legendary bad-boy, Dennis Rodman.

• Dr. Phil looked exactly like his pictures; paunchy, balding, ordinary. He didn't appear to be overly made-up and only once during the two show-shoots did a make-up artist dash on-stage to dust his balding head with anti-reflective powder. On the other hand, Dr. Phil’s wife Robin, who sits in her designated, extra-padded audience chair during every show, looked ever so Barbie-doll-cute in her form-fitting designer clothes and spike-heeled platform Jimmy Chu shoes. At every opportunity, a hair stylist sprang into action, fluffing Robin’s bangs with a brush and immediately thereafter Robin reached up and gave her bangs a good flick with her hand.

• Each taping of the Dr. Phil show lasted about 75 minutes. During each of several commercial breaks all the furniture was wheeled off-stage and a different arrangement whisked into place. At the same time, the audience immediately in front of the stage and surrounding Robin was re-arranged. If necessary to fill blanks or create the right ambiance, seats were filled with the youthful ushers who quickly removed ties and jackets and sprang into hand-clapping action.
  

• After Dr. Phil’s good-bye wave and standard admonishment to "get real about your life", he made his signature hand-holding exit with Robin and, although neither seemed to notice, they passed within inches of my back-row seat. The audience was kept in place and clapping for the length of time it takes to roll the credits. In accordance with VIP priority, folks were then quickly ushered out of the studio, past a table flogging Dr. Phil coffee cups, and back onto the street. (Yes, I bought one.)
  

• Each of the 75 minute tapings provided ample fodder for laughter and chatter on the three-hour return trip to Hemet. No one seemed particularly concerned that the audience was given no idea of when, or if, the shows we "helped create" (so said Chunky B) will air.

• Early next week I will re-donate my Dr. Phil audience outfit to the Hemet thrift shop from whence it was purchased. Can anyone guess what my new favourite tee-shirt is?

The Dr. Phil Tour Drama

• Whatever excitement and drama awaited me at the Dr. Phil show it was outdone in spades by events on the tour bus. I had a window seat and a pleasant older woman named Roberta, a local California resident, had the aisle. After a brief chat I turned to look out the window while she read the paper. When I looked back she appeared to be having a nap (operative words: ‘appeared to be’). The eyes in Roberta's suddenly pasty face opened slightly and she weakly whispered she was feeling faint. As I rummaged in my backpack for a water bottle, the look of concern on my face was enough to alert Donna, sitting across the aisle, that something was very wrong.

• Thankfully Donna’s emergency response training and instincts kicked in. In less than a minute, as Donna's capable fingers were searching for Roberta's pulse, the bus pulled over and a 911 operator was dispatching an ambulance. I felt – and was – quite helpless, trapped between Roberta and the window and I confess my concern turned selfish when she mumbled that she felt like throwing up. Again, thankfully, Roberta had emergency information readily available in her purse; a list of medications, a medical insurance card and an emergency contact name who was readily reached to advise our tour guide that Roberta hadn’t been feeling well the previous evening and had a history of heart trouble.
  

• Roberta’s skin became hot and clammy with sweat and her shallow ragged breathing was suddenly punctuated by a short snore; a sound known to signal heart failure. Roberta stopped breathing and no pulse could be found. I don’t know exactly what miracle Donna performed but after a few seconds - that seemed so much longer - the shallow ragged breathing started again.

• The ambulance attendants were quick to check Roberta’s vital signs and remove her from the tour bus. (We later learned that she had suffered cardiac arrest.) As my own heart continued its jackhammer pounding and I silently returned to gazing out the window, I knew that no wake-up call Dr. Phil might be offering his audience was going to match the one Roberta had just delivered.

• To be continued ……

Top O’The Morning!

• With a name like Murphy, it is often assumed that my family history is Irish. Well, it is not; at least not on the Murphy side. Long ago my Murphy forefathers fled the Emerald Isle for Scotland, apparently on the lam following a boxing match where a certain Murphy’s opponent died after a thorough thrashing. I don’t know how many generations of Murphys were born in Scotland before my Grampa who, born in Dundee, had the good sense to marry my Nannie and faithfully stick to all customs Scottish. While my cousin Patrick and I rightfully adhere to the Scottish heritage, my traitorous Irish-leaning cousins Vince and Michael O have yet to accept the challenge of proving any family roots beyond Scotland. On the other hand, my Mother’s family name is O’Laughlin and there’s no doubt the clan will all be a’wearin the green for the celebratin’ o’ this great day.

• Enough about my family heritage! The exciting news is that here in the US of A, St. Patrick is celebrated for a full week and, so far, I’ve had two days of singing and dancing and feasting and merry-making in his honour.

• As a Canadian I’ve only known St. Patrick’s culinary preference to consist of Irish stew and soda bread. Here in the States, corned beef and cabbage is favoured and this week the local restaurants are featuring variations for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Regardless of the menu, the common element is beer: green and plentiful!

• On Sunday, I was treated to a corned beef and cabbage dinner for which I have a particular fondness, associated with my O’Laughlin roots.

• Today (Monday) was “spud night” down at the Golden Village clubhouse. Baked potatoes, butter and sour cream are provided and everyone brings a complimentary potluck dish to share with a table of eight. Slouches like me bring simple fare like grated cheese or bacon bits while the keeners bring items like swiss steak, fruit salad or crock-pots full of chili. Fortunately, my friends are keeners so there’s no doubt I got the best of the deal!

• After the eating and a round of toasts to things like friendship and retirement, a rather talented singer set up his karaoke machine. He didn’t get too far into his repertoire before we were singing along and getting a serious workout as we did the wave, the twist and all manner of do-wopping and be-bopping. A nice feature of the wild life of the over 60 crowd is that the partying starts around 4 pm and by 8 pm I was home, showered, and contemplating the luxury of crawling into bed.

• I considered ending this post with the Irish toast “may the road rise to meet you”, however, for me that phrase evokes visions of going face-first over the handlebars of a bicycle rather than a wish for good luck. In keeping with my Murphy heritage (Scotland forever), I offer instead this humble wish: “May all your days be happy ones”.

• P.S. Tomorrow, March 17, I’ll be spending the day with Dr. Phillip Calvin McGraw. I wonder if he has an ancestor who died in a boxing match?

Exploring Old Towns

• I managed two more day trips this week: Temecula and Riverside. At the centre of each is an “Old Town” that reflects the cowboy or Spanish heritage of days gone by.

• Temecula, in the old days, was on the route of the Butterfield Overland Mail semi-weekly stage coach service between St. Louis and the west coast. The 1832 mile trip averaged 22 to 25 days. Today, Butterfield’s sits at the centre of a several block strip of old and made-to-look-old clapboard buildings, wagons and water towers. The old-west themed murals and dusty brown buildings make it easy to imagine rootin-tootin cowboys sauntering the streets, the exciting arrival of stagecoaches, bar room brawls and shoot-outs at the old corral. It was nice to see Old Town, however, the real mission of the Temecula trip was to stop by Trader Joe’s and stock up on Two Buck Chuck.

• Riverside, in the old days, was the destination of choice for wealthy folks who flocked to California in search of a warmer winter climate and the opportunity to invest in the area’s profitable citrus industry. By the 1890’s Riverside was the richest city per capita in the United States. The Mission Inn hotel was established to meet the dire need for a grand resort. Although an adobe boarding house in its early days, the hotel is now a sprawling Spanish-looking structure enhanced with layers of wrought iron balconies, mullioned glass windows, hanging flowers and grounds adorned with 400 antique bells, many of which are set in structures to represent the California Missions.

• In the lobby hang portraits of the 10 US Presidents who have frequented the Mission Inn. Richard Nixon got married there and John F. Kennedy was known to swill Cosmopolitans in the Presidential Lounge. In his portrait, it looks like JFK could have used a size larger suit. Strictly by coincidence, I too swilled a Cosmopolitan in the Mission Inn courtyard, luxuriating over a Sex and the City type lunch with three girlfriends. Although we touched briefly on the subject of “why men are the way they are” we didn’t reach any enlightening conclusions.

• Between day trips this week, I spent a great deal of time developing various options for my route back to Canada. The days are flying by and MineRVa and I will soon be homeward bound.

• In the meantime…..it's Saturday night. Happy Hour anyone?

Hooray for Hollywood!

• I couldn’t say “count me in” fast enough when Tom and Donna invited me on a day trip to The City of Angels. First we swept through the Orange County airport to pick up Tom’s tall sister Toni a tour guide from Texas. (Try saying that three times fast!) Having previously toured Los Angeles, Toni wanted only to visit the elaborate J. Paul Getty Museum that houses European paintings, drawings, sculpture, illuminated manuscripts, decorative arts, and photographs. After a two hour drive to get there, we were shooed out of the JPG parking lot with the abrupt advisory: “The museum is closed on Mondays.”
  

• With time on our hands and no particular place to go, Tom responded to Toni’s suggestion of an impromptu Hollywood tour with a sharp left turn onto Sunset Boulevard. As if challenged to prove the theory ‘there is one born every minute’, I was quick to hand over $10 to a somewhat scruffy boulevard vendor whose ragged homemade cardboard sign offered a Map of Movie Star Homes. Peppered with several hundred red stars, the map provided further information for only 86 stars with many footnoted as “former home” or “deceased” in case there is any doubt that Elvis Presley doesn’t live there any more.

• The nice part about the older residences is that many are unfenced and fully visible from the curb. For the most part, however, one can only guess about which star might live behind a given pair of ornate gates and high walls.

• The estate at 10236 Charing Cross Road was an exception. Built in the late 1920s and now the setting for many of Hollywood’s most outrageous parties, ours was not the only vehicle to stop for a photo op. The gates to the Playboy Mansion did not swing open in welcome nor were they readily attended by the advertised “armed response” of security guards. Hefner’s pad boasts the only private zoo in Los Angeles, featuring in addition to the trademark bunnies more than a hundred species of birds including flamingos and peacocks that freely roam the grounds.

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• The stretch of Rodeo Drive that sports the world’s most expensive shops and boutiques is actually only three blocks long. I guess the movie stars who so famously frequent Gucci, Cartier, Dior and Luis Vuitton were busy doing other things because there were no paparazzi jamming the sidewalks and no familiar faces. We had to be satisfied with watching a chauffer stand in wait beside a limousine outside the Armani store and the opportunity to snap a few photos of a blinding yellow Lamborghini.

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• Four tall silver ladies supporting the word Hollywood (appropriately named The Four Ladies Statue) ushered us onto the less chic Hollywood Boulevard where tourists and their dollars are welcomed.

• Rubber-necking our way along Hollywood, we circled back to Sunset Boulevard where, in the shadow of the copper domed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, dozens of tourists crawled the sidewalk matching their hands to concrete handprints of movie stars.

• Tom slowed the vehicle so I could hop out at the Kodak Theatre complex which features a peephole view of the 50 foot Hollywood sign on the distant hillside.

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• Not being much of a movie buff, the only famous stars I recognized in the world of fantasy and whim known as Hollywood were Spider Man and Homer Simpson.

• T’was a wonderful day! I am so fortunate to have made friends with the adventuresome duo, Donna and Tom. They too are leaving Golden Village at the end of March and, like me, they are committed to having as much fun as possible before their departure.

Errata

A Golden Village wine aficionado quickly responded to yesterday's post to advise me that the true price of "Two Buck Chuck" is $1.99 and Wal-Mart's house wine is actually called "Oak Leaf". Having consumed copious amount of each of these brands, my aficionado friend highly endorses both.

Odds and Ends

• Carol and Gary Martin and their Golden Retrievers arrived from Victoria this week. Although I've made so many new friends at Golden Village, it was especially exciting to see familiar faces from home, even if two of them are dogs.
  

• Generally I don't get along well with dogs. I don't dislike all dogs but I sure don't like ones that are big enough to push me down since most are hellbent on doing just that. The Martins' goldens are definitely in the big-enough category and I braced myself as they unleashed the hounds. Amazingly, the dogs seemed quite content to ignore me. Could it be that the relaxation of the past four months has so drastically altered my aura?
  

• To my delight, Carol brought a stash of Hawkins Cheezies, one of many Canadian treasures not available in the US. I can't help but lament the paltry selection of junk food and candy in a country where even the smallest grocery stores feature a full row of beer, liquor and wine. The most popular wines are "Two Buck Chuck" available only at a gourmet store and "Golden Leaf" a Wal-Mart owned brand that sells for $1.97.

• With the days of March racing by, there is now a mere three weeks until I will be driving through the Golden Village exit gate. Six weeks thereafter is my deadline for crossing the border back into Canada. I don't yet have a travel plan but have started considering the endless options; e.g., Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming and the Dakotas or coastal California, Oregon and Washington. Be sure to cry me a river for having to face such a tough decision!

• For as incredibly relaxed and laid back as my life is right now, the thought of 'going back to work' is like a blinking light in my peripheral vision. This is especially true as snowbird friends plan their departures and talk about next year; who's coming back, how long they will stay, and locking in this year's rates by booking space now.
  

• With time now flying by, I've decided I won't commit my remaining Golden Village days to the art group or the writing group or any other activity that I could make time for at home. Instead I will be focusing on socializing and my California do-list that includes Hemet's art gallery, museum and old-town antique and thrift shops - all exploration musts.
  

• My schedule also includes two trips to the Dr. Phil Show. Who knew there would be such a strict code of conduct for the audience? Clothing must be business casual, pantsuits or blazers. No white, no beige, no elaborate patterns or jeans. No talking to Dr. Phil or asking for autographs. Cameras, cell phones and other electronic devices are confiscated for the duration of the program. Audience wannabes must produce photo i.d., submit to a security check and walk through an airport style electronic body scanner before being allowed to enter the studio. Sheesh, I suspect it might be easier to get into the White House!