I Told You So

I try to avoid saying, "I told you so." I don't necessarily need other people to know that I was right; I can just be glad that I was.

Sometimes, though, I feel a distinct urge to point it out - mostly when I think others were condescending, especially if they missed something that I thought was obvious.

The subject of bottled water is one of those subjects that prompts me to say, "I told you so."

I was a young adult when bottled water started to gain popularity. Some people laughed at the very idea. "They're selling water! Who'd be stupid enough to buy water?"

Of course, the way to counter that is to convince people that the cleanest, most available water in history is tainted. When I'd ask people why they bought bottled water, they'd tell me how it was filtered, from special springs, so much cleaner than tap water.

I never really understood people who were total water snobs.

I horrified my assistant director once, when I was in a murder mystery. The theater was small, and the only water fountain was in the audience area. The performers shared restrooms with the audience (their door was at the east end of the hallway, and ours was at the west end), so we couldn't use them during intermission. We also couldn't use them, unless it was an emergency, during the last half hour before the show started. I had a water bottle, and I frequently refilled it from the restroom sink, the only sink in the theater.

One night, my water was empty just after the show started. I never like to be without water. Since I couldn't go to the water fountain, and didn't have time to go to the restroom before I had to be onstage, I asked the assistant director, who doubled as the backstage manager, to fill it for me, so that it would be waiting during intermission. "I can't go out to the fountain," she said. "The show's started."

"Yeah, I know. Just go to the restroom."

"The restroom?" The horror in her voice was clear.

"Yeah. That's what I do."

"You don't want to drink restroom water!"

"It's not from the toilet or anything."

"Don't you want to wait until intermission, when I can go to the fountain?"

"No, I don't. I want it waiting here when I come offstage."

The conversation did not go any better as it continued. She was scandalized. She finally browbeat me into waiting until intermission, because she was sure that I'd "feel better" if I had water from the fountain. I was sure that I'd feel better if my water was waiting for me, but I didn't want to keep arguing.

I told a friend about the incident weeks later. "What, does she think that there's a special pipe just for the fountain, one that comes straight from the Alps, and all the other pipes come from the sewer?"

My friend was on the AD's side. "But restrooms are dirty."

"Water straight out of the faucet is dirty?"

"Well, you know, there's germs all over the bathroom."

"Have you ever heard of anyone getting sick by brushing their teeth in their bathroom? It doesn't happen. And even if surfaces were germy, are those germs going up inside the faucet? Because that's the only place that the water touches before it goes in my cup or water bottle." Yeah, germs will multiply where they land, but how are they gonna land inside the faucet?

She looked uncomfortable. "The fountain's water is refrigerated."

Three decades after its introduction, we were pretty clear that bottled water often was tap water, and people talked about convenience, or how it was better for you than soda, but that was not the case in the mid 1980s. Back then, I also ran up against a figurative brick wall when discussing the disposal of millions of plastic bottles.

"Can't people just carry a Thermos, and refill it?" I asked a significant number of people. (Note: a Thermos was an insulated, portable liquid container, originally made from metal with a glass insulating layer. Later, they were made of plastic, with foam insulation. They always had a lid that doubled as a cup, with a little, teacup style handle. Generations of men took them to work, and kids took them to school.) This virtually always resulted in an explanation of how special and filtered bottled water was. You apparently couldn't just pack tap water.

"What about all the waste?" I said. "You can go through dozens of disposable bottles, or refill one."

"You can recycle the single use ones," people would sniff at me, condescendingly thinking what a hick I was.

"Sure, you can. But how many people will?"

"Most of them, I'm sure."

And you know what? Most people didn't, and don't. For at least 15 years, the alarm has been raised - "The Earth is drowning in discarded plastic! Plastic bottles alone could circle the Earth's equator multiple times!" Estimates are that there will soon be more plastic than fish in the ocean.

You can now buy the widest assortment of portable liquid containers ever available: tall, short, insulated, non-insulated, with spouts, with straws, rigid sides, soft sides. They're in just about every store. Fountains often have a spot specifically designed for refilling water bottles.

And yet, we drown in discarded, unrecycled, single use plastic.

I told you so, back in the 80s.

When You've Gotta Go

There used to be a Pepto Bismol commercial that started with a nervous man saying, "I'm here to talk to you about... diarrhea. Don't change the channel!" That's kind of how I feel right now. I'm going to talk about public restrooms. Please don't leave.

I'm going to let you know, too, right up front, that I'm going to be talking about how other countries do this better than we do.

On the one hand, I tend to dislike and dismiss people who whine that this or that place is better than here - wherever here is. It's pretentious, and begs the question, "Then why aren't you there?"

On the other hand, something that's far more annoying, and damaging, is clinging to an idea or practice that doesn't work, just because it's "ours," and "this is how we do things here." The inability to assess, learn from, and implement new ideas is crippling, personally and societally.

So let's talk about how other countries handle public restrooms better than we do.

Let's start with the name. We call these rooms "restrooms," but there's no resting being done in them. It's a ridiculous, inaccurate euphemism, because we're apparently too embarrassed to discuss the fact that we have bodily functions. It makes us, collectively, look like we're children.

I remember the first time I heard the term "restroom." I was a child, and I was in a restaurant with my family. We didn't eat out often, so this was not an ordinary occurrence; I wasn't used to the way things worked. My mother got up and left the table, which puzzled me, especially when she didn't come right back.

"Where's Mom?" I asked Dad.

"She's in the restroom."

A whole room for resting? That sounded great. As a kid I didn't take naps (I make up for that now), but I've always been easily exhausted by crowds, noise, excessive human interaction (even when it's positive and fun), so it was easy for me to imagine that Mom had just reached the point that she needed a room in soothing blues and greens, with soft music, chaises and cold compresses. I mean, who doesn't? But at a restaurant? In the middle of lunch?

"Could I go, too?"

"Do you have to?"

"Well, I don't have to, but I could."

I was so disappointed. The "restroom" was a tiny room with two toilet stalls and a sink, in faded white paint. No potted plants, no gentle flower fragrance, no resting. Just cramped toilet stalls in gunmetal gray.

We make fun of other countries' euphemisms - oh, those silly British and their "water closets." Hey, it's a tiny room with plumbing - "water closet" is a far more accurate description than "restroom."

Most other countries get it right - if you need to tend to your bodily elimination functions, you ask for the toilets, or look for the sign that says "toilet." Straightforward, no childish snickering, the way humans should act.

The other obvious way in which other countries get it right is their stall doors and walls. Last year, we took a trip that took us across 8 countries, and do you know what every non-US nation had? Actual doors and walls in their stalls, as in up to the ceiling, down to the floor, doors that close fully. Genius!

The most obvious advantage is that they didn't have to close the facilities for cleaning, no matter what sex the janitor was. My children mock my bladder, and tell me that I have the bladder of a two year old, because I need toilet facilities frequently. I tell them that they can talk to me after their bladder has been squashed by repeated pregnancies, as well as fibroids up to the size of a cantaloupe. But the thing is, I have been deeply inconvenienced on numerous occasions by really needing a restroom, and having it closed for cleaning. AUGH! The first time I was in a public restroom while a man was cleaning it, I was surprised and then delighted. It was fantastic! He didn't have to wait for me, and I didn't have to wait for him! Woo hoo!

Another plus is the added privacy. I remember being seriously stressed when I was in a fast food restaurant during a road trip, in one of those towns that is two hours or more from the next town, so the facilities are packed. We were in year 5 of an extensive drought, with reservoirs and rivers dry, and serious water rationing in place. A woman using the toilet insisted that those of us waiting run the faucets in the sink, so that we couldn't hear what she was doing. I wanted to scream, "We KNOW what you're doing! Especially if the sound of water will muffle it! We're all here to do the exact same thing! There's only two real purposes for this room! If you're doing something not intended, please find somewhere else to do it!" But I didn't. I just watched the water run down the drain as my blood pressure rose. There is no reason to waste finite resources because you are embarrassed by ordinary bodily functions. Solid walls and doors will let those people avoid the waste.

That leads me to a third advantage - it's not soundproof, but it's a whole lot harder to hear or smell what your neighbor is doing, which should make both of you more comfortable. And no more worrying about how awkward the open row of urinals is.

Yet another advantage, in my opinion, is that it should also end the need for sex segregated facilities. If I, and everyone else, are in our own room, there's no reason for us to worry about who's in the next room. No more worrying about the fact that the line in the ladies' room is always longer than the line in the men's room. No more stressing about which restroom transgender people should use. (Having spent their lives with enclosed facilities, Europeans probably think that Americans sound silly arguing about that.)

I really have little patience for the reasons people have given me to not like full doors and walls.

One is, "But I also want to arrange my clothes, and fix my hair and makeup." Fix your clothes behind the door, and quit worrying that fixing your hair and makeup are acts that you must hide from others. Seriously.

"You don't want things totally enclosed like that, because child molestation and sexual assaults will go up!" Wow; if you seriously believe that the only reason people are not assaulting others is the gaps in stall walls, you have a view of humanity that deeply concerns me. You are also advocating a society in which it is impossible, and inadvisable, to have any privacy in public, and I am not a fan. You're also overlooking the fact that many public restrooms, in places like parks, end up closed or with restricted hours because of frequent prostitution taking place there, with the gaps in the stalls. I'm not making this up; it happens in my area more often than I want to think about. Trashy behavior does not depend on walls.

Plus, many foreign restrooms have a small fee for usage, and with that, they often pay attendants. There will be far fewer shenanigans of any kind with watchful eyes in place. (It also means that the rooms are comparatively spotless and well stocked.)

"But the construction will cost more." I don't think that cancels out the plusses, but if you do, again, usage fees. Plus, drywall is cheap, and doesn't have to be custom manufactured.

Yes, finding coins in order to pee can be annoying, but obviously, there are advantages. And, you can install card readers, like those on parking meters.

The only thing other countries don't do better: water fountains next to the restrooms. The only time I have ever been more dehydrated on a vacation than I was this last trip, I required medical attention. Water, people! Free water! You have the plumbing already in place! Most of the restroom sinks were even too shallow for me to refill my water bottle in them.

There you have it: the recipe for perfect public toilet facilities. Listen up, America!

Don't Look

My son is a naturally, consistently considerate person. I've come to count on him, because I can.

I've shared before an instance in which he helped me manage one of my worst fears, deep, dark water (in "Water, Water Everywhere").

I started sending my family into the rooms ahead of me. "Come back and tell me if there's anything I have to avoid." They always came back and said, "It's fine," until we neared the end of the exhibit.

The doorway showed a narrow room, almost like a hallway, that turned to the right. There was a wall, about waist high, on the right hand side. "Go check it out," I told my son. I've never been there, but I hear that in the Holocaust museum in Washington DC, exhibits that might be too disturbing for young children are behind waist high walls. The room gave me the willies.

He came back with wide eyes. "I can't even tell you about it. Just close your eyes and I'll guide you through."

Closing my eyes was too awful; it was pitch dark, with the ship moving and the creaking, groaning sounds on the tape getting louder. My blood pressure went up. "I'll look straight down at the ground, OK?"

"OK. Just don't look up."

...Heart attack averted. Thank you, Son. I am ridiculously grateful for his handling of the situation.

When we went to see "Life of Pi," I had to leave the theater when the storm that would sink the ship hit. Even looking away didn't help; I could hear it. It was too awful. I went out into the lobby, used the restroom, and came back. The ship had sunk by that point, but the life raft was still caught in the nighttime storm. I still couldn't watch. I stood in the back, near the door and away from the screen. My husband came looking for me and said, "It's OK. We're above water."

"Nope. Too dark," I said. "I'll come back when day breaks." When the storm stopped and the sun came up, I could go back to my seat.

When we went to see "Unbroken," I knew that there would be a plane crash in the water. It was in the previews; everyone knew. I wondered if I'd have to leave the theater again. I tried to brace myself. Still, that plane hit the water, and I yelped, leaning back in my seat. I leaned forward and looked straight down at the floor.

I tried to guess by the sound and the light level if it was safe to look up. When I did, and we were above water, but inside the plane. Louie, the main character, was tangled in something and trying to pull free. I looked back down; the next time I tried to sneak a glance, the plane was entirely underwater and sinking. I made a strangling sound.

My son was next to me. "Don't look," he said. He reached out and put his hand on me, so I'd know when it was safe. I looked down at the floor.

"Don't look," he cautioned a moment later. I just knew that somebody had to be trapped in that plane. I kept looking down. The hand stayed on me.

Finally, the hand gave me a squeeze. "OK," he said. He gave me a pat. "You can look now."

It was such a simple thing, but it meant so much, that reassuring hand and the voice - "Don't look." It felt safe.

Knowing that someone's looking out for you, and making sure you're OK, mitigating the fear, is a huge thing.

Yep. We raised a pretty terrific human.

We Have Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

"This is the bravest thing I have ever done," I said to my son. He looked at me skeptically, to see if I was being sarcastic or ironic or blatantly exaggerated; I was, after all, standing on a cruise ship. I was not joking; I meant it.

I like the explanation that Will Smith's character delivers in the movie "After Earth" about fear. "Do not misunderstand me. Danger is very real, but fear is a choice." Bravery, we know, is not the absence of fear, but the ability to work through it or past it.

Everyone likes to believe that their own fears are reasonable, and everyone else's fears are silly. I will readily admit this in myself. My fear is water - specifically, being trapped underwater and drowning. Dark water, deep water and submerged manmade objects intensify these fears. I feel the same way about this as the explanation of fear of heights from the TV show "The Big Bang Theory" - "Fear of heights is irrational and silly. Fear of falling, however, is prudent and evolutionary." Water can kill you.

I am not afraid of spiders, snakes or germs. I realize that under some circumstances, these things can kill you, but most times, they do not. If you put a person inside a sealed box of venomous snakes or spiders, it would be possible to avoid being bitten for an extended period of time. If you are still and don't startle them, chances are that they'll leave you alone. Even if you are bitten, chances are that you won't die. Germs don't care how calm you are, but a reasonably healthy person can fight off most germs automatically, without even knowing they're there. That's the entire job of the immune system. If you put a person in a sealed box full of water, on the other hand, they will die. Not "might" or "could," not "under the right circumstances," not "if you thrash or frighten it," but "WILL, " within a matter of minutes. They will die.

I try to be sympathetic and nonjudgmental when dealing with others and their fears. Still, I sometimes find myself being impatient when the fear is not life and death. For instance, I know that the fear of public speaking usually ranks higher than the fear of death for most people, but I cannot imagine why. I don't understand fear of rodents, or fear of insects. I know someone whose biggest fear is public humiliation; that barely makes my radar. I mean, everyone will face public humiliation many times in their lives. I certainly have, and I'm not dead yet. Sometimes, I'll watch someone struggling to avoid situations they think might be embarrassing, and I'll find myself barking, "Will it be fatal?" I mean, if the answer is "No," how bad can it be? One of the first things I tell my theater or speech students is, "Don't be afraid to look silly. You'll look worse trying to avoid it than you will doing anything else."

I manage to keep my fear reasonably in check. I swim, I go on boats, I once went in an actual submarine with viewing windows. Go, me.

On the other hand, darkness outdoors has never frightened me, ever, even filled with animal howls and bats. It's soothing, it's gorgeous. Indoor darkness, though, can be entirely unnerving, because it looks too close to being in a sunken ship. Not rational, but hey, there it is. So, although I recognize that my fear manifests itself in exaggerated ways - for instance, being unable to look at certain photos or film footage - I find it to be a perfectly reasonable fear.

My son wanted to go on a cruise for his high school graduation. We're only 4 hours drive from the Pacific, and he wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise. We chose one from Disney; we love anything Disney.

Then my husband found a transatlantic Disney cruise - 14 days for less money than the 7 day Alaskan cruise. Plus, we'd get to see Europe. Sounds like an easy choice, right?

And it was an easy choice, for the rest of my family. For me, not so much.

Ten of the fourteen days would be spent entirely at sea. Not just any sea, not my calm, placid Pacific, but THE NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN. That just sounded like days of seasickness followed by death, hours away from any help.

Before I do anything, I have to ask, "What could potentially go wrong? Could I live with that?" If the answer is "Yes," I do it. If it's "No," well, I don't. Any time I leave my house, I am aware that I could be hit by a car, contract a disease, be robbed - all sorts of stuff could happen. Things could happen in my house. I know the risk is there, and I accept it.

Don't try to tell me that that's the "wrong" way to look at things. I don't tell you how to live your life. You know how everyone always says, "Live each day like it's your last. Some day, it will be"? It's true. The last time I saw my dad, my mom, friends and relatives who have passed away, it was an ordinary day. Tomorrow, anyone I know might be gone. Tomorrow, I might be gone. The only guarantee is that I'm here now. None of us will leave here alive. Live like you were dying, my friend.

Death and I made our peace years ago. When he comes for me, I will greet him as an old friend.

I have, of course, put in requests with the Almighty. I would rather be shot to death in a burning building than have my death have anything to do with water. I have also requested that I not die in a flaming ball of shrapnel falling from 30,000 feet. The Good Lord is not obligated to honor these requests, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

(My husband, on the other hand, has to be almost positive that nothing bad could possibly happen, or he is paralyzed. If he considers what might go wrong, he will be unable to make any choice at all. He is therefore, from my perspective, frequently caught off guard and left floundering. "This shouldn't have happened!" he'll say. "How could this possibly have happened?" He has no plan of action at the ready, because he never considered the possibility that he would need it. I have contingency plans for my contingency plans.)

So, in order to sail off into the Atlantic Ocean for days on end, I had to say to myself, "Am I OK with four of my seven family members, including me, drowning at sea on this trip?" Answering "yes" to that is a difficult thing to achieve.

People tried to be helpful, but they didn't "get" it. They'd say things like, "Just stay indoors. Don't look at the water." I knew they meant well, but I wanted to say, "Oh, yeah - then I'll totally forget that it exists." I'm not a toddler. I know that things exist outside of my sight. Plus, if the ship sinks, being trapped indoors is far more terrifying than being on deck. During the emergency drill, they don't tell you, "Run into an interior space and you'll be fine." No, they teach you to go out on deck to the lifeboats. Being indoors does not mean being safe - in fact, it usually means the opposite.

"It's a cruise! It'll be fun!" they said. I know that; it doesn't help.

Think of it this way - what is your very worst fear? Your "Dear God, PLEASE don't let it be" fear, the one that will wake you up in a cold sweat. I'll use my daughter's as an example; hers is needles.

She avoids medical care until it's critical, and even then the worst part of any procedure is the needle. When she had surgery, they kept trying to talk to her about the procedure itself, how safe it was, how comfortable she would be, how necessary this was. She didn't care about any of that. She only cared that the anesthesia would be administered by IV, and that thought made her frantic and combative.

So, let's think about medical needles - how often will you need one? Vaccinations, surgery, blood tests, dental anesthesia - let's say a few minutes a year on average, for 30 to 60 seconds at a time. Most people will be exposed to them less than that. I had surgery this year, and enough blood drawn that my veins are scarring from it, and all told (including the surgery itself) it probably added up to 4 or 5 hours, over 365 days.

Now, imagine being stuck by needles every minute of every day for two solid weeks. That's 168 consecutive hours, or 10,080 consecutive minutes.

If you're afraid of public speaking, imagine being onstage with a microphone for 10,080 solid minutes.

That's the equivalent of what I was facing.

And I did it.

Yes. I did it, with a smile. And I had fun!

There were a few distressing moments, like walking out onto a lower deck at 10:30 at night during a storm, looking out at waves that seemed 10 to 12 feet high in the rain and blackness and saying, "If we have to get into the lifeboats tonight, I will die of a heart attack before I'm ever off the ship. I just thought you should know."

Yes, indeed, I had fun. Here's me, my husband and our host:

I warned people: I will now be insufferable. I am congratulating myself. I am very proud.

I don't expect people to congratulate me. In fact, I expect eyerolling: "Yes, yes, you handled a luxury experience. You. Are. Incredible. I am in awe." Still, I am feeling pretty bulletproof.

One of my kids noticed that I wasn't stressed at all while facing something that usually ties me in mental knots. I just smiled and said, "Fourteen days at sea."

Bring. It. On. I can handle anything. I am Chuck freaking Norris.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

     We have finally hired professionals to do some long overdue work on our house - trust me, there will be essays, with photos, devoted to all those details. Right now, though, I want to talk about my garden.

     I knew that my plants would be trampled by workmen. They were putting stucco on the house, which necessitated scaffolding, which was up for weeks, and a lot of foot traffic right next to the house. It was important enough that I was willing to sacrifice everything in the two beds next to the house. I didn't even plant my vegetable beds this year, since they're against the back of the house.

     I was right - those two beds were trampled almost to oblivion. My yucca and two worse-for-wear chamomile plants survived. There's no trace of my daylilies or of my yellow and gold lantana. My lamb's ears survived, but they're pretty matted down.

     I knew it was coming, so it wasn't excruciating to let go. It's sad, and I'm hoping that some roots survived to send up new shoots. If not, OK. I just planted some annuals, including portulaca, one of my favorites, so it doesn't look too naked.

     I was not prepared for the wear and tear on the rest of my yard.

     Before I say this, don't get me wrong. The work these men did on my home is beautiful. I am very glad; I would have the work done again if given a chance for a do-over. We're happy, the neighbors are happy, and as far as I know, the workmen are happy.

     But for crying out loud, is it that tough to walk on the paths? We have a lot of gravel, since my husband and I are both allergic to grass. We also have quartzite flagstone, surrounded by pebbles. You'd think that walking on, and piling your materials on, gravel and flagstone would be easy. We're not going to whine that your lumber is killing our lawn - we don't have one.

     Why, then, did wood end up in the flower bed, tossed right on top of my shrubs? SHRUBS - I mean, they're tall, they're lumpy - how convenient can it be to set your stuff on top of them? Now my shrubs are matted and broken.

     I don't know what these shrubs are; they're something that tolerate poor soil and low water and produce lots of blue flowers that attract bees. I bought them because they were on end of season clearance years ago, 2 for $5. (I bought 4.) Still, I love them, and they're clearly not a walkway.

     Areas that were clearly flower beds, filled with blooming things and edged in stone, became thoroughfares. I'm not talking "occasionally stepped in," I'm talking "the main walkway through the yard." My phlox are trampled into the ground.

     Some of my flagstones were broken, I'm assuming while bearing the weight of the scaffold. I'm OK with that. They're not set in concrete or in any pattern, so it's easy to move them around a bit and make it look OK.

     There's gobs of dripped and dropped cement all over everything, though. The workmen cleaned up a lot, I cleaned up a lot, and you can still find it in my flower beds, on my gravel and on my rocks. On the rocks is the worst - you can leave it, or you can expend considerable energy chipping it off. I'm peeling the cement and the plasticized final color coat of stucco off of my spiky yucca leaves.

     Still, there is much to be happy about in my garden.

     My entire theory of landscaping is to make it totally neglect proof. I'm not talking "benign neglect," I'm talking about, "I haven't even thought about you for weeks" neglect. I love masses of flowers (my favorite colors are purple, lavender, blue and white) spilling out of overcrowded beds. I love succulents, vines, veggies and trees. I do not, however, want to baby anything. I hand water once a week; it takes between 15 and 30 minutes. If something can't survive that, I don't want it.

     I know that there are places where you can plant anything, and expect Mother Nature to provide all the water it needs. I do not live in one of those places. I live in the high mountain desert, with snow and low temperatures in the winter and blistering heat and lack of rain in the summer.

     I have four different colors of bearded iris. I love how they look, I love how they smell, but most of all, I love that neglect makes them actually happy. I once had some in between two outbuildings, and I didn't water them for literally a year; they bloomed and multiplied happily.

     In the last house my daughter rented, the landlord wanted a nice looking yard, and my daughter wanted to avoid yard work. I got permission to plant things, and put transplanted iris from my yard in her front yard. My daughter hasn't lived there for years, and the house spent more than a year vacant. We still drive by occasionally, dropping my son off at work. Now, with new owners, little remains of much of the original landscaping. The lawn is gone, the tree is gone, even some of the weeds are gone. Most of the yard is dead. The iris are thriving. Even when the house was vacant, there they were, a bigger and bigger mass, flowering like there was no tomorrow. Their exuberance makes me happy.

     In my yard, we also have grapevines that we frequently have to cut back, Virginia Creeper that is spreading and raspberry bushes that are multiplying. We have fruit and shade trees. I do not water any of them, ever.

     Besides the iris, I have two kinds of sedum, a succulent called "hen and chicks," something blue that I got as a hand-me-down transplant, lilies, daylilies, lamb's ears, honeysuckle, roses, a burning bush, chamomile, phlox, yucca, those shrubs, lavender, several kinds of bulbs, a butterfly bush, yarrow, some corkscrew-looking plant whose name I don't know (the tag said "donkey tails), euonymous bushes, creeping myrtle, two kinds of mums, and strawberries. All those get watered once a week. I chose most not because I adore them, but because they're tough and look great in rough conditions. (My soil, for instance, is not great.)

     I did not count on my hoses being removed from my house during the stuccoing. I also did not count on having limited access to my yard, even away from the house. I am not about to try to cart out a watering can for my entire yard, even if I could reach it all. Nothing got a drop of water for over a solid month. Of course, it's summer, with temperatures in the 90s and 100s.

     Everything looks great. Except for the stuff that was crushed (and I pruned those), you'd never know that anything less than ideal had happened. Even strawberries that had only been transplanted three weeks before the process began are happy. Even the crushed stuff, inclding my poor phlox, is blooming. Not every plant, but certainly every variety that's normally in bloom right now.

     Success! I have mastered the neglect proof landscape! There is, alas, no trample proof landscape.

     To thank everything for looking so great with no water, I watered as soon as the stucco hardened and the hoses could be reattached.