The Cranky Cow

The Economics of Boo-ty

2012-11-26T19:59:00.002-08:00

(Apologies for running two holidays behind)

The first time I ever fell asleep in class was during high school economics my senior year. I’d like to say I fell asleep because I was staying up late working or even going out with my friends (I won’t even try to say it was because of studying). It was also the first time I ever earned a D in a class. When my parents asked about the grade, my response was the same as most students’ whose grades were slipping, “The teacher is boring.”

Of course, that earned me narrowed eyes and a big, “So what?”

I loved school and learning. “Dull” was one thing – a teacher who lacked a dynamic personality - but that had never stopped me from learning before. Then I realized “boring” meant that I couldn’t relate my life to anything that the teacher was describing. I can still hear the teacher saying, “Guns and butter….”

How (or why) would butter be made in a gun factory or vice-versa? And wouldn’t there be metal shards in the first batch of butter? That would be dangerous. How long did it take to clean the equipment to make it safe for making butter? Were the first batch of guns slippery?

And then everything would fade to black and the unicorns and rainbows would appear and all was right once more.

“How can you not understand economics?” my dad asked.

I had run two “businesses” prior to my senior year – first the quail raising fiasco with my neighbor throughout middle school and in my sophomore year when I served as vice president of marketing for Junior Achievement (where we actually decided on a product, made it, and sold it, not just filling out a workbook, which is what happens today). I knew about cost effectiveness, the difference between gross and net, the importance of pleasing stockholders as well as keeping worker morale high (all members of JA were paid) among other concepts, although without the terminology.

But there was a simpler way for the teacher to relate economics to all students: Halloween booty.

While costumes were important, as every child knows, a significant part of Halloween is about candy, not just quantity, but also quality.

It starts with market research. This is done the day before Halloween, an informal survey among fellow students. With a neighborhood school, everyone knew where their classmates lived and most of us were within walking distance. “What kind of Halloween are you guys giving out?” Chocolate earned high marks, taffy, low. Pixie sticks and Smarties were flexible depending on one’s taste. A sufficient number of chocolates warranted adding that street to the route. There was also some research done on the fly as one group left a house when another approached. “What are they giving out?” “BUTTERFINGERS!” Yes! Or (sigh) “Neccos.” Ugh. Pass.

Business Plan: Having a plan was key. How long would trick-or-treating last? What routes would maximize quantity and quality? What size of bag would allow for a good take, but not look too greedy not to mention be comfortable to carry with its weighted load. Plastic pumpkins cut up hands, and we wanted payment to be as painless as possible.

Sales: For safety (and fun), no one went trick-or-treating alone. But the number in the group, along with the type of costume needed to be considered. A large disorganized group allowed for occasional double dipping, but could also result in team members being overlooked. If costumes were too threatening, the homeowner would want to be done with the transaction quicker. Small talk or gimmicks (singing or other performance) were worthwhile at places with high value candy.

The trick-or-treating business did not end once we returned back home.

Gross Profit: Candy was counted and sorted. Any open candy was tossed, naturally.

Then negotiations began.

Supply and Demand: Fortunately, my sister and I had differing tastes in candy. She preferred tart and powdery whereas I preferred chocolate with something (Butterfingers, Krackles, $100,000 Bars) and caramel (Milk Duds, Sugar Daddies, and caramel squares). Some items were an equal exchange - Bit O’Honey for Pixi Stix. And then there were the disposables – Specials, Neccos, and 3 Musketeers. Depending on the trend, there might be more tart than chocolate, potentially giving my sister the advantage.

Pricing: While tart wasn’t my favorite flavor, was I willing to sacrifice quantity for quality? Mid-value candy (butterscotch, Jolly Ranchers, plain milk chocolate and lollypops) gave a little more flexibility. Full size candy bars and Dip Sticks were gold.

Taxes: As with the monetary world, a portion of the Halloween booty went to the governing forces. My dad didn’t have a sweet tooth, but my mother had some favorites. At the time, since neither my sister nor I liked dark chocolate, all the Specials would go to my mother. She could have the 3 Musketeers as well. However, sometimes those didn’t suffice and taxes were raised. My mother would ask for our Snickers. My sister didn’t mind, but I liked caramel, so it became an issue of negotiating Mr. Goodbars and Baby Ruths, again decreasing quantity, but increasing quality.

Budgeting: My mother rarely bought candy and when she did, it was usually a box of See’s. My sister and I were allowed to keep our candy, eating as much or as little as we pleased whenever we liked (although, there was The Great Disaster when our dachshund found my stash and devoured all but a single Tootsie Roll that bore a piercing the diameter of his tooth). It was considered a high achievement to still have candy when Thanksgiving arrived, and it never tasted sweeter than when the other sibling had squandered their portion.

Disposable Goods: My sister and I got so good at “budgeting,” that some candy turned sticky and gooey before we could finish it. We learned which candies kept (bubble gum) and which went “bad”(hard candy) and organized our consumption to accommodate expiration dates.
I took economics again in college, dreading the moment. However, my professor used a variety of illustrations, including a Broadway musical song, to explain terms and concepts. I didn’t fall asleep and surprisingly, I had the highest grade in the class. Sweet.

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

2012-10-23T15:24:00.000-07:00

Despite being a native Angeleno, I’m not enthralled with cars or driving. I wasn’t eager to get my driver’s license; I didn’t beg to get a car; I rarely volunteer to drive the carpool, and I don’t know where the drive-thru fast food places are. Because I like to observe, I much prefer public transport, or, better yet, safety and comfy shoes permitting, walking. While driving, one is required to be vigilant rather than observant, but I tend to slide from the former into the latter, which isn’t safe and I realize that.

It doesn’t matter so much if I’m caught in traffic on the 405. Being vigilant, I notice the driver to my right is shaving with an electric razor. But then I observe how he shakes out the razor and start wondering if his car is coated with a fine prickly silver dust of razor stubble and if so, how thick is it? It’s kind of gross, but how much grosser than, say, dog hair, which isn’t as prickly but probably stinks a little and - -

HONK!

I dutifully pull up the half car length that appeared during my observation/wonderings.

And then I become aware that the driver to my left is reading a book, and of course I start wondering what kind of book he could be reading. It must be pretty intriguing since he can’t put it down long enough to drive where he’s going. At least I’m not reading, and I feel a little better about myself, but he’s so interested in the book that I’m a little jealous. Maybe he’s reading an assignment, but he’s too old to be a student. No, that’s stereotyping. He could be a - -

HONK!

I’m careful as I nudge my way forward because the driver in front of me is applying make-up. She’s curling her eyelashes and I have to wonder if she’s ever been startled and accidentally pinched off her lashes. Then she applies mascara and I obsess about rear ending her because just a little bump could cause her to jab her eye and I think if I bumped her just a tiny bit, that would teach her a lesson about how dangerous that is. But then I imagine her eye on a mascara wand looking something like a Halloween Charm Pop and that freaks me out. What would she do and how would the other drivers around her act, because for sure they’d notice a woman with an “eyeball pop,” wouldn’t they?

HONK!

My family is aware of my tendencies. Safety and practicality were always top priority.

The first car I drove was the family’s silver station wagon, a 1968 Chevy Impala.

“It’s heavy and safe,” my mother declared.

It was a behemoth of steel. Once, while my sister and I slept soundly in the far back, we awoke to a thump and the sound of breaking glass. We’d been rear-ended. My father cursed, stomped on the parking brake, and went out to inspect the damage. It was raining and my sister and I, hands and noses flattened against the back window, strained to see into the watery night. The other car had broken headlights and a drooping front bumper. My dad grumbled something, got back in the car and we drove off. The next morning, I hurried out to see the damage to our car, hoping it would enhance the tale of Our Car Crash. But the effect was lost when I saw that the only damage sustained was the tiny bent step, a palm-sized, rubber topped protrusion. My sister made the first and only dent in the car 11 years later, when she took out the cement block wall in the high school senior parking lot.

My next car was also “safe and reliable,” a Honda Accord that my parents purchased from a family friend the year before I graduated college. The only thrill about it was that it was a stick shift. My sister eagerly taught me how to drive it. Oddly, it was my future husband who had taught her how to drive stick. I brought the car with me to Baton Rouge, where it was totaled on a rainy day when, ironically, I was rear ended. However, I had run into the car in front of me first while sharing my observations with my passengers (who weren’t harmed).

My mother made me promise to buy something “safe and reliable.” I did. I drove that car to Washington, D.C. and then over the Chesapeake Bridge. My vigilance slipped into the observation and I realized that at some point, between the “bridge” becoming a tunnel, there was water level. I panicked. What would happen if a big ship came by, creating a giant wake? Wouldn’t the tunnels flood? I pulled over in one of the observation areas, and my then boyfriend took over driving duties while I scanned the bay for giant ships and rolled down the windows, planning to get out of the car before the water in the tunnels peaked.

It wasn’t until I got tenure as a high school teacher, that I decided I would finally get a car that I wanted, one that I might actually enjoy driving. I saw a convertible 1997 Toyota Celica. My husband slid in next to me and his head scrubbed the ceiling. I pictured his bald spot getting larger with the chafing.

“If you like it, honey, get it. It’s your car,” my husband said.

But I was already picturing him driving it.

There was a Mitsubishi Eclipse parked next to the Celica. We tried that. My husband’s head cleared.

“Why would you go do something stupid like buy a convertible? The roofs tear and leak in the rain,” my dad snorted.

“Because it’s fun,” I said, at least as “fun” as a mode of transportation could be.

I like the car because it gives me some variety (top up or down?), and it’s pretty. I thought that having a smaller car would make me more vigilant, but it doesn’t. My husband was afraid to drive it since we wouldn’t be able to afford the insurance if he got a speeding ticket. The car doesn’t have many miles on it, considering its age.

When the Eclipse started rattling, my husband said it was time for something new. I’ve kept the car for 12 years partially because it meant no car payments, but also because I didn’t see what difference a newer car would make. But he was right. We needed something that would allow us to transport the dogs. I’ve never liked SUVs, so that left “cross-overs” or station wagons. I checked out the Prius V. It wasn’t stylish but it was reliable and safe. But the gadgetry concerned me. Would my exterior observations be drawn into the interior? Then I saw the gas mileage: 42 miles to the gallon compared to 24. Sold.

It’s just dawned on me. I’m back to a silver station wagon.

“Let’s take your car, honey,” my husband said as we prepared for a weekend trip.

“Sure, but you drive,” I said.

Turnabout is Fair Play

2012-10-11T09:09:00.002-07:00

Read about Kristina Wojtaszek's inspiration for "Cinder" here.

Wowee Zowee!

2012-10-10T11:49:00.004-07:00

My first author interview!! (click on it)

It's Heeeeeere!

2012-09-24T17:46:00.002-07:00

Specter Spectacular: 13 Ghostly Tales has arrived in the virtual world! Kindle users click here. Paperback version gets released tomorrow for all you bibliophiliacs!

Find out if it is "Safe Upon the Shore!"

Body of Evidence

2012-09-04T17:42:00.001-07:00

“You’re a happy eater and a sad eater. That’s not good.”

- A friend

Let me clarify, my friend wasn’t speaking to me, but she could’ve been and in my case she could’ve added “stress-eater,” “celebratory eater,” and gourmande. Food and I have a love-hate thing. No, it’s more like food “just isn’t that into me.” Although, it is way into me, especially around my belly - a good couple of few inches thick at that. And so, it’s on to The Salad Days.

I hate salad.

O.k., not really. Plenty of people have witnessed me ordering a salad and eating it with a fair amount of pleasure. There are even some salads that I crave (gasp!) – the salad niçoise at the now gone Left Bank for example or the seafood cobb salad at Marmalade Café (sans bacon). So, it’s not salad itself that I hate, but what the Salad Days represent: penance, order, rationality.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Perhaps it’s another sign of our times that the very phrase that has historically meant a time of abundance and wild abandonment has come to mean a period of asceticism and temperance. How is it that fresh and nutritionally rich food is considered a penance? How is it that I scoff at this permitted unlimited indulgence, which rewards me with better health and appearance?

The penance isn’t so much because I’ve gained weight, although that is a problem since even my “fat clothes” are getting a bit snug. If I’d over-indulged in martinis and raw oysters, white chocolate macadamia nut cheesecake, Irish mussels, or lobster boils, that would be fine. I love those foods. But I can’t remember what I’ve been scarfing down for the past few months, and that for me is the bigger problem.

I’m not a control freak, because if I were, I wouldn’t be in this situation. And I’m not completely out of control, because if I were my situation wouldn’t matter. My problem is that I want to be a control freak but it, or rather I, go pear shaped and now I’m trying to run damage control. Welcome to the mind of a bulimic.

Bulimia isn’t just gorging and purging. Bulimics don’t eat everything anywhere, that would be pica and in the eating disorder hierarchy, people with pica are the bottom rung. For the record, anorexics are the top wrung, ethereal creatures that have complete control over the basics of life. They’ve got attitudes. They mock those of us on the lower rungs. They keep to their delusions. They don’t waiver between the two worlds.

Bulimics blur the line of rationality. They think each step of the process through, but not all at once. They know the laws of association – that eating certain foods recreates emotional memories. Like the first puff of a cigarette, the first bite triggers emotional memory, but then it disappears and that pleasure of the first bite is followed by a neutral second, third, fourth, five thousandth bite. Then it’s time to chase the emotional fulfillment with the next food that has a similar association. And then the next.

The problem arises when, unlike alcoholic drunkenness, “sobriety” returns instantaneously. It’s like having the cheesecake goggles ripped off my face, knowing that “magic food” is not the solution to the problem. Then damage control kicks in: the purge. There’s actually two kinds of purges: the kind to alleviate gastric pressure – which happens while still on a glassy-eyed bender and then the second, which is a pathetic attempt to undo what’s been done – not the consumption of calories so much as an attempt to turn the clock back to rationality. It’s part of denial. We don’t want anyone to know that we’re subject to bouts of irrational thinking and we’ll go to great lengths to hide it.

Claims of “chapped hands” explain teeth chaffed knuckles, excessive love of citrus explains acid erosion of gums and teeth. Mouthwash and perfume hide the scent of vomit, but when barf spatters force a change clothes or worse, the need to wash one’s hair, there is panic. Showering after a meal and changing clothes raises questions. People will know about those Lost Hours. “Pure” bulimics (as opposed to anorexic-bulimics) tend to be overweight. The shame of the weight is not so much body image as the fashion magazines and feminists would like us to believe. Excess weight is seen as the record of how many moments of irrationality we’ve experienced over a period of time.

Several years ago, I thought I’d take the bulimia by the horns. I realized that no matter how much salad I ate, I could lose weight. I looked great. I had more energy. I started doing things I enjoyed again like writing, dancing, and going to concerts. With such good memories, I was hoping that salad would become my “go to” comfort food.

It’s not. Long running habits are difficult to break, especially when my comfort foods factor so strongly in society’s moments of celebration and conviviality. This only reinforces their emotional connection for me.

I don’t purge anymore. The damage it poses to my health are worse than the shame of irrational food consumption. Besides, I have many irrational behaviors, so what difference does one more make?

The Salad Days are here. It’s time to embrace them.

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

2012-08-11T21:30:00.001-07:00

Murder most foul... or crustacean, in this case

It’s been a difficult few months. My husband suffered the brunt of what has happened. I’ve only been support. So, when my birthday arrived, my husband gave me a look of exhaustion and futility.

“No worries,” I assured him.

Even so, having a birthday is a perfect excuse for a celebration, an invitation to luxuriate in happiness with those around us. And we needed to celebrate, not for me, but to remind ourselves that life goes on.

“Hey, I have a crazy idea,” I said, calling him from the downtown parking lot.

“Uh-huh,” he replied warily, knowing few of my ideas aren’t crazy.

“What if we have lobster for dinner?”

“Lobster?” There’s a hint of despair in his voice and I suspect he’s checking his wallet.

“Not going out,” I assure him. “What if we cook it? The live ones at the Asian market weren’t that expensive ….”

There’s a long pause from both of us. It’s understood.

“O.k.,” he says, tacitly agreeing to the unspeakable.

I go to the market. The tank is over-crowded, stress inducing, intolerable. I finger which lobsters will be “freed.” I carry them to the car and debate whether I should put them in the trunk or the cabin with me. I opt for the cabin since it has air conditioning but as I drive home, I imagine them tearing their way out, charging me, claws snapping as I swerve into oncoming traffic.

“Where are they?” my husband asks, lowering his voice and looking around the kitchen after I arrive.

“In the fridge,” I say.

We exchange looks.

If it were done when t’is done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.

I hurry to my computer to look up how to cook lobster. I know they should be boiled or steamed. But, what I’m really looking for isn’t cooking time, but dying time. When I was a child, my mother bought live crabs from the wharf, thinking it would be cheaper to cook them at home. I remember the horror of hearing the crabs hit the top of the pot, the lid popping off as they tried to climb out, my mother panicking as my dad cursed and grabbed the crabs, throwing them back into the pot and holding the lid down as they shrieked. He assured me it was just steam escaping their shells.

The Lobster Institute must encounter many people similar to me, although their responses are a bit elusive. When asked “Do lobsters feel pain?” they equate their neurological system to that of insects. A crafty move. I don’t consider pain when I squash invading spiders or fleas. But when asked specifically about the “movement of lobsters in a boiling pot,” they say that it is “a reflex action to any sudden stimulus.” A reflex which continues for over a minute? While a lobster can’t “process pain,” it can feel it and its reflex action is to get the #$%^ out of the situation.

Boiling appears to be the “fastest” death, although what is done before putting the lobsters into the pot makes all the difference. “Hypnosis” actually doubles the time it takes for the lobster to die. Slow heating in salt water also increases the amount of “activity.” However, chilling the lobsters (putting them on ice or in the freezer) not only delays the reaction to pain, but by the time they feel it, they’re almost dead.

I inform my husband. He rushes to the freezer and makes space. We put the lobster into it. I make martinis.

I prepare the water and set it to boil. I make a salad; chop up potatoes and corn to add to the pot. My husband paces, glancing at the pot through the glass lid.

“Is it time?” he asks.

The water is at a rolling boil.

“Yes.”

He opens the freezer and rips open the bags.

“Wait,” I say, “let me get the camera.”

He’s appalled.

Out, out, damned spot. Darn, I think it's butter.

I film him putting in the first lobster and stop filming so that I can put mine in, but before I can do it, he puts the other one in and shuts the lid. He glances at me, then stares at back at the pot, holding his breath.

There’s not a sound.

He heaves a sigh of relief.

“I have done the deed.”

All hail, Thane of Concord.

Power Tools

2012-06-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

Weekend warriors grab your palm sander!

I get a thrill out of using power tools. It seems cliché, but it’s only been in the last ten years or so that women have really embraced getting involved with the more “heavy” home improvement projects and my age group was at the tip of this wave. It’s not the tool so much as the power it implies.

With women regularly seen in the military, sports, as anchorwomen, doctors and lawyers, we forget that this has all happened in recent history, within two generations. Although the Women’s Liberation movement was in the 60s, my mother and the mothers of my friends rarely had a career before they got married and less so afterwards. Despite this, our mothers were the first generation to experience divorce with increasing regularity. If they themselves weren’t suddenly single, they certainly knew people who were.

While divorcees were pushed into low paying jobs and working long hours, our mothers sought to arm us with education, skills and the confidence to stand on our own, carve our place in the world and survive, or better yet, thrive without needing a man. The thing is, they weren’t entirely sure how to do it.

I remember a light in one of the ceiling fixtures blowing out and my mom sucking her teeth and saying, “Daddy will have to fix that when he comes home.”

I’m not sure if my father had to do it because changing a light bulb was considered a man’s job, because of my mom’s diminutive height (she is only five feet even), or because of the inconvenience of having to go into the garage to lug the ladder into the house. Still, it angered me that we’d have to wait helpless in dimness for someone to do something that couldn’t possibly be more difficult than changing a light bulb in a lamp.

So, I did it.

Not a huge feat, but I felt a small sense of victory while ignoring my mom’s cries to not electrocute myself.

Another time my mother returned from coffee with another mother. My mother’s eyes were bright, “Mrs. S showed me her garage. There were all kinds of big saws and tools. I told her, ‘You’re lucky to have such a handy husband.’ Do you know what she said to me?”

My sister and I shook our heads.

“She said, ‘Those are my tools.’” A smile of admiration and wonder spread across my mother’s face.

She told us how Mrs. S built a doll house to Barbie scale and furnished, painted, and tiled it as well. And then she worked on her own house.

My mother was in awe.

Entry into the “boy’s world” was seen as the key to independence and security. Almost all the girls joined a soccer team. We didn’t all stay, but we got a taste of a contact sport. Unfortunately for me, most of the contact was with the ball to my face. “Tom Boy,” a formerly derogatory term for lesbians, suddenly became a badge of honor. Girls started playing all variety of sports, excelling in math and science, and swearing like sailors. They took auto and wood shop classes.

One of my closest friends is the boy I grew up with from across the street. Together we learned how to build a tree house, a go cart, and an aviary. I learned the names and how to use a variety of tools, and because my friend’s father was an engineer, he was able to explain the whys and wherefores of how things worked and ought to be built.

And then one day, my mom saw me using a jig saw.

There was a mix of pride and horror in her face. “Stop that! You’ll cut off a finger!”

“I’ll have nine more,” I argued in snarky adolescence.

“You can’t be a pianist and brain surgeon with only nine fingers,” my mother retorted.

To which my friend, despite his best efforts at suppression, snickered and started to laugh uncontrollably.

I know the laughter was meant for my mother’s ridiculous fantasy of my future, but in it I also heard the soft click of a door closing between the male and female world.

I think that independence frightened some of our mothers. To quote Rocky Horror, “we tasted blood and wanted more, more, more.” While they wanted us to have prosperous careers as doctors, lawyers, or computer programmers, they didn’t expect us to question other female stereotypes.

The past had Nora Helmer, Marlo Thomas, Mary Tyler Moore, and Golda Meier. The 80s kicked ass. We were Madonna and Annie Lennox, Ellen Rip1ey and Sarah Connor, women who had guns and “guns.” Connie Chung and Tricia Toyota became anchor women. Bitch was a compliment and never paired with “my.”

We weren’t afraid to live on our own or travel alone to foreign lands. We moved to different cities, states, or even countries not to follow someone, but because we wanted to explore something different.

The finished project.

While starting my own business, I felt frazzled and insecure. I figured part of it was due to the disarray of my “office.” I decided to put in built in bookshelves and cabinets to help organize the chaos.

“We can’t afford to hire anyone,” my husband reminded me.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

I am woman. Hear me drill.

Good-bye, Kitty

2012-06-14T14:57:00.002-07:00

The cat's away. What shall we play?

Let me first make clear that I love my husband. He’s witty, intelligent, and easy on the eyes. He helps with housework, tolerates and, at times even encourages, my idiosyncrasies, and loves the dogs. He is excellent company and a wonderful companion.

Still ….

When familial or work duty calls for him to be out of town, I feel a slight thrill. While the cat’s away, the mouse shall play. The house will be mine. All mine. Mwahaha.

Like an adolescent who discovers her parents are leaving her behind on a long weekend, I start crafting devious ideas. Grand Plans. It’s not like I’m planning a raid on the liquor cabinet or advertising “Party at My Place!” on Facebook … although I suppose in a middle-aged way, I am. I have visions of inviting my girlfriends over for a slumber party where we revel in martinis, cheesecake, and period piece movies with men in boots and breeches and the next morning we’ll go out for brunch or stuff our faces with Entemann’s cheese-filled coffee cake. Woohoo.

Yes, I dream big.

But that’s not quite how it pans out.

First off, it’s just too much work. I’d have to clean the house twice (once before the guests and again afterwards). And where would everyone sleep? My friends are beyond the sleeping bag on the floor days, not to mention the almost impossible to remove film of dog hair and questionable stains on the living room carpet. There is the couch and the bed, but is it appropriate to ask friends to double up? Then there’s the matter of which t.v. to use. My office is too small with very little seating and my husband’s office, with its full-sized couch, has the t.v. awkwardly placed for group viewing. I suppose we could all gather on the bed upstairs, although that’s a little too Valley of the Dolls for me.

So, party of one it is.

I plan a menu of all the foods I love but my husband dislikes: smoked salmon, dressed up ramen noodles, arugula. I intend to get a slice of cheesecake for dessert, but I usually wind up with white cake. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the frosting, although I’m not particularly fond of frosting. It’s probably the vibrant colors. Sometimes, I’ll get Mango Lemonade to mix with vodka for pre-dinner cocktails but I usually forget about it until long after dinner, and by then it’s too late for an aperitif.

I can’t remember how to get the dvd player to work on my husband’s office, and the one time that I did, I couldn’t remember the code to get into the Amazon Prime streaming account. That leaves watching one of the boots and breeches dvds that I own or checking out the free movies On Demand.

Sadly, even those plans fall through.

I usually wind up on my computer, writing and taking occasional jaunts onto YouTube to find obscure 80s music videos, to which I dance and sing loudly, which scares one dog but encourages the other to join in the fun. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a movie that’s been broken up into ten fifteen minute sections, which is becoming a rarity since YouTube has been cracking down on copyright violations.

I usually clean the house, playing swing music or musicals on the stereo, which is silly since I can’t hear it over the whine of the vacuum cleaner or when I leave the living room. But it’s being able to do so that counts. I’ll do “major laundry” which means I’ll throw the slip covers into the wash.

Truth be told, I don’t do anything that differently from when my husband is home. But there’s a definite luxury in not having to ask what someone else wants to have for dinner, working on my own schedule, and not bothering to tone down my more annoying habits. I leave the bathroom door open when I’m using it, which is important since the dogs feel compelled to check-in on me, something they don’t do when my husband is home. Maybe that’s how they interpret my husband’s request that they “take care of the mommy.” If so, I have very responsible dogs who take their job seriously.

Of course, there are times when I leave town and my husband will be left alone.

“What are you going to do while I’m away?” I’ll ask.

He frowns and shrugs. “Enjoy a little peace and quiet,” he says with a wry smile.

“Don’t you want to hang out with your friends?”

“Sounds good,” he admits. “Maybe I’ll catch a disaster film on t.v. … Nah, I’ll probably just sleep.”

I’m pretty sure he will.

Such are the plans of mice and men.

A Person of Color

2012-05-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

Making the rainbow connection.

Just say it. It’s only two words.

“Swiss Coffee,” I say, trying not to sound morose or resigned.

Swiss Coffee sounds like the canned sugary instant beverage that came out in the eighties, but it’s not. It’s a paint color. A bland, commercial paint color only mildly less dull than Navajo White, which is like saying it’s Hellman’s rather than Best Food’s mayonnaise.

Our tenants moved out of our house and, after seven years, it needs a bit of freshening up before the next tenants can move into it. The thing is, because the previous tenants were family and it was a quick switch as we moved up North, the colors were the ones I’d originally selected when we first moved into the house.

I use “colors” loosely, but I don’t really know another term to express the situation.

Let’s start from the beginning:

I blame my mother. That’s how it always starts, isn’t it? Despite my mother’s dreams of me becoming a concert pianist/brain surgeon, she encouraged creativity. During rainy days or moments of “boredom,” my mother would challenge my sister’s and my artistic visions. She’d put on music and ask us to draw what it made us feel like. She’d cut open brown bags and have us draw on them, sometimes together, sometimes on our own. She gave us round pieces of paper or other odd shapes so that we’d learn how to organize space.

So, when I grumbled about the dullness of my room, my mother suggested that I paint a mural on the wall. I was giddy with the idea. I sketched out horses in a pasture with a hill and trees. I painted them with acrylic paints. I was pleased.

"Why did you make them so small?” my mother asked.

The painting was more like a frieze than a mural. Still, I liked what I’d painted and didn’t want to cover it to re-do it, although I liked the idea of doing something life-size. When my dad cleaned out the garage, I painted a saloon scene that took up the entire wall. It was primarily figures and the bar. It still didn’t fill the space.

I repainted my bedroom, this time blue, a royal blue so bright that it radiated into the hallway and my mother asked me to keep my door shut to contain it. I liked the glow. It reminded me of television light. When I left for college, my mother put up wallpaper on one wall. She’s a huge fan of wallpaper. But when she painted the other walls, she painted them a soft green, rather than white, a huge difference for her. I like to think I inspired her.

Several years later, I moved into half a duplex with my then boyfriend. There was peeling grass weave wallpaper on the bathroom walls. My rabbit chewed on the frayed edges. I removed the wallpaper and decided to try a faux finish, which was just starting to become trendy. I did a golden yellow for a fresco look. And, as with every fresco, there should be angels, so I painted them as well. When I gave notice, the landlord made a remark about the angels. I informed him that I’d painted over them in a pale blue, but he kept my deposit anyway.

My husband started out as a “white walls” guy, but the townhouse he bought had every wall covered with blue, orange, and/or peach eighties wallpaper. The highlight was the second master bedroom with a paper of blue, green, and orange paint spatters. I removed the paper, but because of the damage done to the walls, a French wash was a necessity. I did a combination of moss greens. He liked it. Then I painted the tiny washroom downstairs a deep jade green. Once the mirror and artwork were in place, he liked that as well. Then I painted vines in the kitchen, “hiding” mice and bugs among the leaves. The living/dining area became honey brown, which naturally requires a swarm of gold bees.

When we decided to sell, I’d watched enough HGTV to know I had to “vanilla” everything. We hired a painter who made everything Swiss Coffee. It didn’t bother me at that time, probably because I was ready to move on to another house, one with a yard for the Uber Hund.

Black lacquer and gold ginko leaves
have no place in a vanilla world.

The house we bought, the one that later housed the tenants, was a 50s modern and we both fell in love with it. I saw an Asian theme. I painted the trim black in imitation of shoji screens. The living area I painted to resemble, ironically, grass weave wall paper. The bedroom looked like gold leaf, the bathroom glowed with a metallic mix, and the kitchen got black and white stripes with red washed cabinets. It became a Tony Duquette japonais fantasy.

And then we moved again.

While I wanted to move to the Bay Area, I couldn’t bear to part with the Southern California house. I loved the openness of the house, how it overlooked the Japanese garden I’d created, the quirkiness of my paintings. It had become extremely personalized.

Perhaps that’s why I’m reticent about making this house “vanilla.” I’m still attached to it. It’s still “ours.” My sister suggested a compromise, “Decorator’s White,” the current “hot” neutral in the design world. While it was neutral and “white,” it was too austere. I needed something warm, familiar, comforting and sweet. Something that anyone could enjoy.

I needed Swiss Coffee. So, maybe it isn’t so different from the instant beverage.

Cutting the Cord

2012-05-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

"Where are they?"

Like many people, my husband and I are looking for ways to cut back on expenses. One of the luxuries we’ve been examining is the cable bill. What started out as a “reasonable” price has ballooned into ludicrous amounts, inching its way up like a kudzu vine. So, when my husband asked what I thought about it, I cried out, “Cut it!”

He looked at me, frowned, blinked a few times and shook his head. Yes, I am the very same woman who upon waking and heading downstairs, beelines to the t.v., turning it on even before starting the coffee. The same woman who turns on the t.v. upon entering an empty room. The same woman who sets the sleep timer on the t.v. so that it’s the last sound she hears.

And now, without a moment’s hesitation, I’ve told my husband to cut it.

It’s like a junkie telling their supplier they’re done.

O.k., not quite. I didn’t tell him to toss the t.v., I just said to get rid of cable. But really, what is there on “regular” t.v.?

On the other hand, what is there on cable?

Oddly, there aren’t many shows that I feel compelled to watch. I like Grimm, but I’m not shattered if I miss an episode. The shows in which I do have any sort of “dedicated interest” tend to be “short term” – shows that run maybe a dozen weeks, and then finish. Project Runway and Downton Abbey were my recent shows. I used to watch Top Chef and Dancing with the Stars, but I didn’t like the drama on Top Chef and Kate Goslin bores me so I quit both shows.

Then, what the heck am I watching all those many hours that the television is on? Frankly, I haven’t the faintest idea. Most of the time it’s just on for noise. Granted, in the morning it’s the news. Not serious news. I don’t want to be smacked in the face with a sledgehammer first thing in the morning. There’s something lulling about hearing, “Lindsey Lohan blah, blah, blah and in other news, yet another suicide bomber has destroyed a school that also served as a home for invalids, nursery, and animal shelter, killing dozens of women, children, disabled people, infants, elderly, and several kittens and puppies. Oh, how sad. But now, pastel jeans. Are they the new black?” If there’s something that’s caught my interest, I’ll either look for more information online or I’ll turn on NPR.

Even when I actually want to watch t.v., I spend more time looking for something to watch than actually watching anything. Ninety percent of the time, I end up watching one of the Law and Order shows, just because it’s the lesser of the many evils and that Dick Wolf is a clever monkey with all his ridiculous twist and turns of plot. I used to resort to HGTV until it became the House Hunters channel. The Food Network is turning into the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives channel, which isn’t awful, but does make me hungry for something drippy and greasy. Whether I’m channel surfing 30 channels or 200 channels, it doesn’t make much difference, even if I throw in free On Demand.

In addition, what I’ve discovered - and indeed I know I’m quite late to this “discovery” - is that pretty much any show I want to watch is usually available online. To my great horror, I watched the entire first two seasons of the BBC version of Being Human in two sittings. Yes, I know. What a time suck – especially considering how this season started. I also watched 2 full seasons of the BBC version of Shameless (quite good, and not just because that little biscuit James McAvoy is in it), both seasons of Downton Abbey (which I started watching on t.v., but then grew impatient), missed episodes of Dancing with the Stars (when I was still watching it), and movies and documentaries galore. Whew.

There’s also our dvd players which can stream YouTube, Amazon, Hulu, Vudu, and Netflix, although I really can’t go back to Netflix after the snarky letter I wrote when they doubled their prices even after they’d lost streaming rights to Sony productions. And there’s pay-per-view, of course.

So, my enthusiastic call for dumping cable really isn’t that big of a sacrifice. We’ll be reduced to channels 1-30, meaning I can still watch the “news” and public television, but will have to watch everything else online, which is fine because the t.v. is behind me when I work at the computer and I’m getting neck and shoulder pains from twisting.

This just in: it looks like our cable has been granted a reprieve. With all the trading and bargaining for internet access, phone lines, security systems, and cable television, my husband has negotiated a price that will allow us to keep channels one to 100. HGTV, TNT, Food Network, USA and History Channel live.

I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I was looking forward to bragging about a life without cable. Sure, I can choose not to watch t.v., but now I figure if we’re paying for it, I should watch it.

Hm. E! channel. Ice Loves Coco. Surprisingly, not as awful as one might imagine ….

Picture This

2012-04-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

Having a GREAT hair day in Dublin!

After a friend posted gorgeous photographs from her trip to Alaska, she stated that she was eager to see my photographs of our recent trip to Dublin. The thing is, there’s only about a dozen or so, and that includes the photos of a bound pork leg and wax figures of Bob Geldof and Liam Neesom, pictures that serve no purpose except for momentary amusement. I’m awful about taking pictures. I generally don’t like being in photographs but I’m also bad about recording events with photography.

It’s not that I don’t want to remember moments or locations, but at the times when I should be “preserving the moment,” I’m usually so wrapped up in participating that I forget. For example, while we visited the Dead Zoo (an excellent name for the Dublin Natural History museum), there were various scientists posted throughout the museum offering hands on displays. One scientist brought giant bugs. While I wasn’t about to hold the tarantula, I did hold the giant millipede. Later, it occurred to me that people usually photograph moments like that. I’m not sure if it’s to celebrate bravery or just to preserve an encounter with a rare creature. Of course, it was too late at that point. Still, I’m not likely to forget the sensation of a foot long creature’s hundreds of legs creeping along my hands and arms. But later, I photographed a shop display of meerkat figurines dressed in various costumes. They weren’t even taxidermied meerkats, but they were cute.

Generally, there are three items I deem photo-worthy: architecture, plants, and animals. People rarely make an intentional appearance. My husband only appears in one photograph from our trip. I don’t appear in any. There is, however, a photograph of a knife and fork burnt into a tabletop at Avoca, something I thought would be an interesting idea should I decide to re-do our kitchen in Irish country chic. There’s also a photograph of the front counter for the same reason. Somewhere, there’s a similar photo of Balthazar’s counter in New York, also as inspiration should I ever get around to redoing our kitchen. But there aren’t any pictures of us on any of our New York visits, although I’m pretty sure I was there.

Another reason why I don’t take many photographs is that I don’t know what to do with them afterwards. I’m not big on hanging personal photographs on the wall. I have some photo albums, but the last time I organized my photos in an album was for our first trip to Ireland 15 years ago. Even with digital technology, out of roughly 200 photos, I’ve only bothered to print maybe 10 images and of those, only perhaps 5 are framed, three of which were from my sister’s wedding.

I do like photographs, per se. I post a photograph almost daily on my private FaceBook page that I call “Beauty of the Day,” which mostly consists of flowers and leaves that I encounter while walking my dogs, some of which appear in the Gallery portion of this blog. I view my photographs as a form of artistic expression, like painting or music rather than a way to record a memory. And then there are the occasional forays into “photo as proof,” as if Photoshop doesn’t exist. But I’ve pretty much given up on photos of a personal nature. Even photos with friends. I’m incredibly un-photogenic. Back in the day when one actually had still photos taken of their wedding, my sister raved about our photographer because he was able to get at least a few photos with my mouth shut and both of my eyes open. In group photos, I’ve taken to positioning myself on the ends so that I’m easily cropped out, thereby preserving the moment and esthetic appeal for the rest of the group. Thank goodness for video still shots. That’s how I manage the self-portraits taken for this blog. I film five or ten minutes of footage, and no joking, I go through it frame by frame to get what appears “in print” – and sometimes things don’t appear, which are the entries without portraits.

I think part of the reason why many people take photographs is to share them with the next generation, to prove to them that indeed we were young at one point and led a rather interesting life pre-parenthood. It’s one of the things we missed with my mother. Her family destroyed their family photos because they feared repercussions during World War II, so I’ve never seen my mother as a child. The oldest photo we have of her was taken in her 20s, when she was a model, and she looked hot. But when she regales tales of her childhood, I can only imagine what she and the places looked like. My nephews and nieces have grown up seeing photographs of their parents at all ages and laugh about their fashion choices and how they’ve lived their lives. But my husband and I don’t have children so photographic documentation is mostly for our own amusement and nostalgia, and even so, we never look through old photo albums together.

Meerkats in Dublin - at least they're not as creepy
as the tea party kittens in Potter's Museum of Curiosities.

Still, I’ve one upped an idea from Nicholas Sparks’ sappy story, The Notebook. I’ve started putting together scrapbooks of pretty pictures cut out from magazines and postcards. I figure, if I ever get Alzheimer’s or other form of dementia, my husband or maybe even my nieces and nephews could just grab one of those scrapbooks as fits their fancy for the day. We can flip through the pages together in the convalescent home and they can tell me about my life as one of King Henry VIII’s wives, or how I lived as a courtesan in the demimonde of 19^th Century Paris. I also have one as a noted member of The Algonquin Table. How would I know the difference? It certainly would make for an intriguing past, and no one would have to worry about getting the story “right,” not to mention the pictures are lovely. Why not? Over time our memories of the origins of actual photos fade anyway, and frankly a picture of the Tower of London, where I awaited my execution makes much more sense than a photo of a meerkat figurine display in Dublin shop.

Bag of Illusions

2012-04-22T19:18:00.003-07:00

Travel is a great way to tweak first and only impressions.

“I’m going to Ireland for work,” my husband announces.

I can’t help it. My lower lip automatically protrudes and I glower.

You don’t even like Guinness or Smithwicks, or steamed mussels or jigs or - -

“Want to come along?” he asks.

I’m just about to scream “yes,” but then I realize I’m tight on cash and I have appointments. My car needs some repair work and we don’t have a dog sitter who lives close by anymore. Such is the price of modern married finances. Separate is not equal – although it keeps spending arguments to a minimum.

My lip starts to quiver.

“I figure since it’s our 15 year anniversary, we can relive our honeymoon,” he continues. “It can be our anniversary gift.”

Gift?

My lip pops back in and the glower turns into a grin. My husband laughs.

“I guess that means, ‘yes?’”

YES!!

(Good thing I got the passport renewed!)

I find a dog sitter.

I pull up the old edition of what needs to be done, emergency contacts, and maps. Much has changed over the couple years since we last traveled together. I’m adding, adjusting … and deleting. My finger pauses, hovering over the delete button each time it’s something that relates to Uber Hund. I feel guilty about erasing him, declaring him irrelevant. Is it foolish that I save the old copy?

I clean house like a madwoman. Nothing makes me realize my lax cleaning habits more than having guests over, and having someone living in our house while we’re gone makes me even more aware. I even vacuum the box springs.

I get the Euros. I haven’t seen them before. I spread them out and my husband and I study the various denominations. We hold them up to the light, looking for “secret” watermarks. We gripe about how dull our monochrome money is, despite the portraits getting their facelifts. I still have Irish coin from when we went to Ireland for our honeymoon. I kept it in hopes we’d go back someday. Who knew they’d completely change currency? They’ll make nice charms.

Now the fun part.

I look up things to do in Dublin, make a list and add restaurants. I probably won’t go to any of them, preferring to be inspired by serendipity, but it provides a good starting point.

And then, there’s the “travel wardrobe.” My husband doesn’t understand, but I’m pretty sure most women do. It’s like preparing for the first day of school. A fresh travel wardrobe is about making a good impression, putting a best foot forward, creating a fantasy.

“You’re not going to see these people again, in fact, you’re not even going to really be meeting anyone at all,” my husband says.

There's more to Ireland than Guinness and craic. At least,
that's what people tell me.

“True, but that makes it all the more important to make a good impression,” I say.

In a strange way, because I know I won’t be seeing any of these people again, a vacation wardrobe grants creative leeway in my sartorial selection. Vacation attire (not to be confused with “resort wear”) allows me to project a fantasy image of who I would like to be during that time – someone who doesn’t have to worry about muddy paws, potential dog bites, and dog treat bags.

I check the weather for Dublin. Not surprisingly, it’s cold and rainy.

I opt for the spending-the-week-at-the-country-manor look: sweaters, boots, my overcoat, scarves, tweed and cashmere. I don’t want to scream tourist, but it’s not like I can blend with the native population any way. Still, I’ve traveled enough to know that tennis shoes, especially white tennis shoes, baseball caps and shorts are typically American. I can also spot German tourists, especially male German tourists.

“What you should do is pack really old stuff,” my husband says. “That way you can throw it out after you’ve worn it so it you’ll have more room in your luggage for souvenirs on the way back.”

I stare at him. It makes complete sense, but it’s a disturbing image. Somehow, borderline homeless never figured into the wardrobe fantasy.

That’s really what vacation is about, isn’t it? Fantasy? It’s not just the clothing, but the lifestyle as well, staying in hotels, eating out, exploring, living a life of leisure. In a way, vacations also give our imagination a break. That’s what makes vacations magical. They make our dreams reality.

A House Is Not a Home

2012-04-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

Not every man's home is a castle.

“We need to move,” my husband said as he walked into the kitchen for his morning coffee.

I’d like to think he’s saying this because he’s done something slightly shady, and we need to leave town before some dangerous (but not really dangerous) people figure out our whereabouts. Or maybe because Chevron has discovered vast amounts of black gold under our house and is willing to pay three times as much as what we’d paid for the house, just to keep up appearances rather than slant drilling a couple miles away. But I know that’s not the case. He’s got itchy feet.

“You know we lived in the townhouse for 4 years, the other house for 5 years, and this house for almost six and a half years,” he offers as explanation.

What makes it weird is that even though we’ve lived in this house the longest, it’s felt the least like “home.” In fact, each residence has felt decreasingly like “home” even though we’ve been living in them increasingly longer.

Perhaps it’s a California mentality. I watch shows like “House Hunters,” and marvel that there are young couples looking at houses that they anticipate being their first and only house, or “forever home” as we say in the animal rescue world. They talk about attributes that will be great for raising their children (of which they have none), how rooms will be adjustable as the children grow and how the couple will be able to sit on the porch in their rockers watching their grandkids. The house they purchase is often over 2,000 square feet with a good sized yard and nice school district. Even with professional couples earning double incomes, the first property most coastal Californians wind up purchasing is a townhome or condo, which they anticipate selling and moving up as the market improves and the family expands. It’s just not possible for young people to buy “forever homes” on their first real estate venture. Although, for many couples, their first purchase becomes their unintentional final purchase, especially when the real estate market takes a dive, as it did recently.

I like exploring new places, but in my mind, I’m counting down to The One, the “gentleman’s farm” where I can have a horse, some chickens and room for my dogs to play and bark without annoying our neighbors and our neighbors don’t annoy us. It needs to be close enough to a major city for my husband to find work and to keep me amused. “Major city” for both of us translates to San Francisco, New York City, Boston, possibly Chicago or Seattle/Vancouver. We’re “done” with Los Angeles. We understand that’s a tall order and we’re willing to bide our time. We try not to ask ourselves if there will be enough time to get there.

As a child, I moved once, when I was six months old, from the Marine Base to the house where my mother currently lives. After I left for college, the moving bug struck, and I haven’t remained at one residence for any more than the six and a half years we’ve been here. Still, I’ve always “nested,” decorated everything from my dorm room to the houses in a manner that made me comfortable and expressed my taste at the moment, trying to make each place feel like home. But the “decorating” and the settling were never complete. In the back of my mind, I was and am always thinking about what if I have to move? With the houses, it’s a question of resale value. We can’t afford to put in the personal quirks that would make things more enjoyable for us, the things that made us look in disbelief and wonder “what were they thinking?” when we were looking at other people’s former “forever homes.”

But I’m getting older and tired of living in limbo. I’m relating to my father’s stance that “The only way I’m leaving this house is in a pine box,” although there still isn’t anything that ties me to this particular house. So I guess that means I’m not really “there.”

The idea of permanency doesn’t appeal to my husband. He doesn’t form the same connections that I do to co-workers, community, or abode. I don’t know that he wants outside connections. He moved several times as a child and adolescent and likes the idea of novelty and illusiveness. Since we’ve been together, he’s seen each place as a mini-life, an opportunity to slip into a new and different lifestyle. I suspect, in his perfect housing world, he’d be one of those people who buys houses completely furnished, designer perfect, but having the personality of the house, rather than of the people who live there. He’d remain for a couple years, then sell, furnishings intact, and move on to the next new thing. Kind of like really grand hotel rooms.

Being "under water" isn't as fun without the singing crab.

It’s all moot now. We’re so far underwater that we can’t afford to move. We can’t even afford to rent out the house. That makes the house strangely uncomfortable, as if it’s holding us hostage. In retaliation, we have a grudge against it. We’re slow to do things to make the house more pleasant because we keep hoping we’ll escape soon. And every time something goes wrong with it (and since it’s an old house, many things go wrong), there’s a feeling that it’s acting out of spite.

Then again …

We are in an ideal proximity to a major city (and our favorite one). This portion of the city where we live is zoned for chickens (including roosters) as well as horses, although we don’t currently have sufficient yard space. However, the property behind us is owned by an elderly couple. The house itself is the right size, with the right number and arrangement of rooms, despite its quirks.

So, maybe the house isn’t holding us captive, so much as biding its time. Maybe it’s like the storyline of several romantic tales. Maybe this house is just patiently waiting, while offering all the best it has. Maybe it knows that someday, we’ll realize we’ve been living in the perfect home all along.

A Public Health Announcement

2012-04-02T14:44:00.002-07:00

You are not alone.

Do you frequently find yourself running into walls, chairs, tables, or footboards? Are your shoulders, hips, buttocks and knees constantly riddled with bruises and you can’t remember why?

It’s not your fault.

You might have Floating Eyeball Syndrome (FES).

FES is the inability to recognize the existence of one’s body beyond the immediate viewing area. Common signs of FES are the inability to negotiate corners, raise one head under objects, or walk more than three blocks without personal injury.

The symptoms of FES should not be ignored as they can be potentially fatal. People with FES have been known to die by hitting low hanging objects at high speed or falling off curbs into traffic.

People with FES should not operate heavy or light machinery, ride bicycles or any other wheeled object, or brandish sharp utensils. Wearing headphones, hats, or sunglasses can exacerbate FES and it is highly recommended that people with FES not be given cell phones, especially text capable cell phones, as they can significantly increase the fatality rate of people with FES.

If you don’t have FES, but you know someone who does, the following is recommended:

· Step loudly or announce your presence before rounding corners or approaching an FES person from behind to prevent injury to yourself or to the person suffering from FES.

· Do not open cabinet doors above people with FES or allow people with FES to reach for objects under tables or cabinets. It is especially hazardous if you call out the person’s name while they are in these positions.

· Keep cats and other small animals away from people with FES as significant damage can occur to both, such as squishing, tripping, and asphyxiation by sitting.

While there are some documented cases of FES resolving on its own, it is predominantly a chronic illness and should be treated as such. With proper care and attention, people with FES have been known to live relatively normal lives, albeit with occasional setbacks, such as periods of sudden black-outs, cuts, and contusions generally associated with collisions with stationary objects.

While it might be tempting to wrap people with FES in significant quantities of foam rubber or to at least convince them to wear helmets, it would be more helpful to provide FES sufferers with devices that create awareness beyond the eyeballs. A recent study suggests that implanting antennas all over the body of those with FES, not unlike those on caterpillars, holds much promise. These antennas would emit sounds as objects near the FES sufferer. The FES sufferer would then be alerted that danger was approaching, encouraging slower movement and caution. There is much research yet to be done, but the current results are hopeful.

Finally, keep in mind that people with FES want to be treated like everyone else, with sensitivity and caring. If you see someone you suspect might have FES, clear the path for them and offer them your hand (slowly) in friendship. They will appreciate your effort.

If you have FES, you are not alone.

How do I know this? Because, I have Floating Eyeball Syndrome. It’s time that FES sufferers stand, very carefully, and be counted.

Here Comes the Rain, Again

2012-03-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

The only thing better than rain is post-rain.

I love rain. I love the sound of it on the roof and windows, on leaves and overhangs. I love the feel of it, warm or icy cold as it dribbles down the inside of my collar, trickling along the part in my hair. I love the smell of ozone that accompanies it. I love gauging its intensity by watching the ripples on puddles or the distance I can see through it.

As a native Southern Californian, rain was a novelty, a miraculous moment when moisture fell from the sky, rather than from a spigot. The media perpetuated this feeling of awe and mystery, sending rookie reporters wearing slickers and hip waders into dry stream beds and drainage ditches in preparation for Storm Watch. Television shows were interrupted to announce if precipitation was sighted, perhaps even felt, just in case we weren’t aware of the sensation or maybe it was to prevent panic, a la Chicken Little.

In preparation for the “rainy season,” such as it was, my mother kept my sister and I well stocked on rain coats, umbrellas, and rain boots. Rain coats were frequently left unbuttoned. Umbrellas were just as frequently lost as used for rain gauges (upside down), or better yet as sails. It was always much more entertaining to position an umbrella to catch the wind rather than to fend off moisture.

I love rain boots. Part of it is the equestrienne aspect of wearing any boots. The first pair of rain boots I remember were yellow with rabbits on the sole. I walked backwards so that I could see the imprints. Being naturally clumsy, this almost tripled my trip rate, which wasn’t a complete tragedy, because if I’d fallen forward, I’d actually have gotten wet, my raincoat being unbuttoned. One time at school, a friend and I wandered to the back end of the field where there was a rather large puddle. Wanting to show off the advantage of boots rather than shoes, I waded along the length of the puddle. About five steps in, I found myself thigh deep in water with knee high boots. The weird sensation of body temperature water pulsing out of my boots as I walked back to class was equal to the initial horror and thrill of feeling the cold water rush into them.

My first thunderstorm was during a road trip to visit my grandmother. I hadn’t seen lightning or heard thunder before and the Grand Canyon provided a spectacular introduction. Despite being frightened of fireworks and popping balloons, I was enthralled by thunder. The rumble and crack made my body vibrate, my hair stand on end. My father taught my sister and me how to figure out if a storm was coming or going. We continued to encounter storms and watched lightning bolts twisting through the sky as we crossed the Great Plains.

Frolicking post-rain in front of my Baton Rouge apartment.

My first summer in Baton Rouge, it rained every day at 4pm, flooding the streets knee deep as two to three inches of water gushed from the sky in roughly an hour. It was astounding. And warm. There was no point in using an umbrella or raincoat. Because the rain was so predictable, it was easy to hunker down somewhere, preferably The Chimes with a platter of cheese fries and an Abita, and watch the rain. On the other hand, feeling that amount of rain wash over me was incredible.

The storms weren’t without danger. There were almost weekly reports of students getting struck by lightning as they crossed the Parade grounds of LSU – fortunately no one was killed. Once a bolt of lightning hit a transformer across the street from where I was standing. I can still hear the whirring buzzing noise as the bolt came down and feel the electricity that coursed through the ground and air afterwards. Terrifying, but wonderfully exciting.

Although during our first year in Northern California there was tremendous flooding, the rain has progressively dwindled in amounts over the past few years. When it does rain, I try to enjoy it. Our current dogs don’t seem to mind it. On days of heavier rain, I go through a raincoat for each dog. I can’t understand why raincoats are “water resistant” rather than water proof. We go to the creek to check the water level. If I miss the peak flow, I look for the tell-tale signs of bent grass or debris line and then marvel at how quickly the level drops. If it rains at night, I go upstairs to listen to the rain on the skylight.

Maybe my love of rain is because it forces me to take a moment, to put ordinary life on hold, to resign myself to Mother Nature’s will. I don’t like to drive in the rain, so I’ll come up with any number of excuses to avoid it. At the moment, I’m in a position that allows me to do so. With our washer and dryer on the porch, laundry is put on hold. Once the dogs are walked, I can usually stay at home.

Mother Nature, I surrender.

There are worse thing than a comfy chair, a good book, and a hot beverage, while listening to the susurrus of the rain.

The Rituals of Everyday Life

2012-03-19T22:19:00.002-07:00

I had a dream there were
clouds in my coffee ....

My daily life is composed of a series of micro rituals, little events that I perform every day. I don’t think they’re compulsive behaviors. A compulsive behavior suggests doing something out of need, whereas in my case, I actually enjoy the events, not for magical purpose, just because they make my day pleasant.

The dogs know the rituals as well. When I stir in the morning, I let The Rockstar out of his crate so he can snuggle on the bed until it’s time to “really” get up. Right before we do get up, I do a big wake up stretch, which is a cue to the dogs to creep up to the top of the bed where I distribute kisses, belly rubs and scritches. Their fur is soft and I can tell the position in which they’ve slept because they’re warmer on that part of their body. I like the way they smell at that time, a little dusty and they even have morning breath, which isn’t as awful as it sounds. We all stretch again, they shake off and step off the bed. They glance back at me, tails softly wagging and an open mouthed smile, eager for the day to begin.

“Think there’ll be squirrels today?” they seem to ask.

I’m pretty sure there will be - which makes every day a banner day for them.

The next ritual is coffee, dark roasted and fragrant. Once it’s made it, I pour it into one of my favorite mugs. It’s actually a “hand me down” from my sister, pretty, mustard w/ orange flowers on it. I really like the tulip shape, which is funny considering it has poppies on it. It’s footed. It reminds me of my sister, her exquisite taste and generosity. I pour the coffee, then the half and half. I like half and half rather than milk because it makes beautiful cloud patterns, so I never stir it. I pour and watch the billows drift and merge until the coffee turns light, and then I drink it, wrapping my hands around the curves of the mug rather than using the handle because I like to feel the shape of the mug and the warmth on my hands.

I put on my make-up. I’m reminded of my mother and it makes me smile. I’m looking more like her as I get older. I put on foundation, powder, eyebrows, and I see myself echoing her gestures, but with modern tools. I use brushes whereas she uses puffs and sponges. When I’m done, I look a little less like her, but not intentionally. I just don’t use black liner or red lipstick for daily wear.

"Ready?"

The Rockstar and I take our walk. We’re both environmentally oriented, he with scents, me with sights. I wait when he finds particularly interesting smells, and he waits while I take pictures. When either of us are finished we look at each other, smile/wag, as if to ask, “ready?” and then we continue. If we go one route, The Rockstar slows as we round the corner and then looks at me. He knows that’s where I’ll pause to look at the mountains, if it’s a clear day. When we go by a particular fence, I’ll slow because I know he likes to look for squirrels there. When we cross the street, we pause so he can sniff the long grass and I can gaze across the street at the field where there are deer sometimes. We continue through the park looking for squirrels and other interesting things. When we do find something, we exchange excited looks.

“Did you see THAT?”

I like that even though we’re different species, we both share in those moments and enjoy each other’s reactions and company.

At night, after dinner, the Wee One likes to snuggle. When he sees my husband go to the couch to watch t.v., the Wee One literally leaps onto the couch with him, which can result in some painful landings since the Wee One weighs sixty-five pounds. The Wee One starts out on my husband’s chest, then usually winds up on his back between my husband and the couch, mouth open, dream growling as Baby Cujo. It’s one of the high points of Wee One’s day. Both my husband and the Wee One are wiggle worms, so it’s nice to see the two of them quiet and cuddled together.

At the end of the night, we all, husband and dogs, go upstairs and everyone piles onto the bed to watch a little more t.v., get scritches, and talk and laugh. I like all of us there together on that big bed. I still see the hole where the Uber Hundus would’ve been, but we’re all there. I like doing the mental roll call, seeing that we’re all together safe and sound, our little family, snug as bugs in a rug. It’s a good place to be when the zombie invasion happens. Everyone is comfy. Everyone is loved.

And tomorrow it starts over again.

All Growed Up

2012-03-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

Letting the "wild" out.

My husband will be eligible for AARP next year.

What?

Yeah, I know. That’s what I thought. Because, if he’s that old, I’m not far behind. So, how does that work?

For the longest time, I’ve been waiting for the adult in me to kick in, like some sort of magical switch. I keep expecting to suddenly become somber, serious, eager to wake at the crack of dawn, clean house, and eat and prepare balanced hot meals. It hasn’t happened yet, and assuming that I’m not living into my late nineties, I’m on that slippery downward slope to the grave. I remember my mom at my age. I’m definitely not my mom, although I’m starting to look like her. My “mature adult” switch must have a short.

There are certain things I started doing upon reaching “majority” and leaving the shelter of my parents’ home, things which are probably not the best examples of adulthood, but that I still practice:

1. Ice cream is good at any time, including breakfast: I have a fondness for coffee and sweets for breakfast. On those moments when we have pie or cake in the house, why not eat them a la mode? It seems almost un-American to do otherwise. But I didn’t start it. My sister made the breakthrough move when she put sherbet in half a cantaloupe. Brilliant! I just cut out the fruit part.

2. Listening to new music: O.k., maybe I’m not as alternative as I think I am. I don’t listen to rap, mostly because I’m no longer an angry youth, just a bitter middle-aged woman. I’m more inclined to say “Quit your bitching and get a job” than “Down with The Man.” It’s probably because I married The Man, or at least that’s what the homeless in Berkeley say whenever we walk by. I’m still open to music that has a good beat and that I can dance to, which is pretty broad considering how I dance.

3. Wearing funky colored toe nail polish: Most of the time my toes are covered anyway, so why not green, blue, hound’s-tooth, or leopard? I figure if someone’s bored enough to be looking at my feet, why not give them something worthwhile to ogle?

Even as a kid, I was responsible about work, taking care of animals, and following social protocol (at least to the best of my abilities). I started working at 12, babysitting five days a week for a neighbor, and I’ve been a productive member of society until now. I pay my bills on time, and all that, but in many ways, I still feel like I did while I was 16, and I’m not sure if that’s because the changes came gradually or if I really am that immature.

Sometimes, it just takes one picture to show ALL the wrongs.

Still, there are a couple “adult” ideals that I’ve adopted:

1. No shorts. I’ve given up on shorts except as morning loungewear. I’ve always hated the sensation of the back of my legs sticking to a chair. I’ve never had great legs, so it’s not a huge adjustment to go to linen slacks, sundresses, or maxi-dresses. Because I wear slacks or jeans for the majority of the year, my legs seldom see the sun anyways, so in shorts they become a beacon for squid and moths.

2. Keep hair no longer than just past shoulder length. I start out putting it in a ponytail, but when it gets much longer, there’s the temptation to venture into Heidi or medieval braids. I’ll save that for my grande dame years. I go back and forth on dying. Usually I just do a temporary rinse in conventional colors when I’m bored. It saves me the effort of maintaining the roots and I’m kind of curious to see how the grey grows out. So far, it’s favoring my right side. I’m hoping it’ll pan out into a Cruella de Ville look.

3. Keep the liquor cabinet stocked. You never know when guests show up, and I’d like to be able to offer them whichever poison is most to their liking. I’m also always prepared for a party, or any particularly hard day that falls my way.

Still, I wonder if this is how my mom felt when she was my age. Maybe it’s different because she had two kids. Then again, my mom now looks to us for advice and guidance since my dad passed away. So, maybe I am more mature than I think I am.

If not, I have an excuse. It’s all in my head.

No, literally. More specifically, in my mouth. I still have one of my “baby teeth.” My dentists were amused at first, now they’re amazed. So, until it’s gone, I’m still a kid. At least that’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

Against All Odds

2012-03-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

Do you believe?

I don’t know why I did it. I don’t generally buy lottery tickets. I think it was the combination of hearing “$135 million,” having to go outside into the rain again to do the laundry, and feeling a bit morose.

Why the (insert expletive of choice) not? What’s the worst that could happen?

I could be a buck poorer … or five.

My father used to buy five dollars’ worth of lotto tickets every week and my sister plays on occasion.

“You can’t win, if you don’t play,” she tells me.

“Yeah, but it’s not enough,” I argue, when the total is under $10 million.

“Whaddya mean ‘not enough?’” my sister says and already there’s a fed up resignation in her tone.

“Well, if I won, I’d want the immediate pay-off, and that would cut the winnings in half. Then there’s the taxes, so it’s cut in half again, and after that, there’s the taxes on the income drawn from the interest. Really, I can’t do what I want with what’s left, so what’s the point?” I say. “I’d be frustrated.”

My sister stares at me through narrowed, disbelieving eyes. “So, if I offered you (1/4 of the winnings), you’d refuse,” my sister says, hands on hips.

“No,” I say. “Because it wouldn’t cost me a dollar and I’d be sure to get it.”

This is usually followed by my sister giving an exasperated exclamation and some comment about my flawed intellect.

Still.

I hopped into the car and drove to the local convenience store specifically to buy a lotto ticket.

I’ve never been a gambler on games of chance. Several years ago, my husband and I went to Las Vegas. He’d never been and I hadn’t been since my parents took my sister and I back in the 70s, which is almost like not having been.

It was hot. The place we stayed had several gigantic pools – and every one of them was full to choking. I’m not a poolside lounger, especially not in 100 degree plus weather. So, instead we roamed The Strip, checking out the various hotels and casinos.

Like my dogs, I’m sound sensitive, particularly to high pitched sounds. The electronic whirring, whistling, and chiming from the slot machines were deterrents rather than enticements. I couldn’t leave the casinos fast enough. But, it was Vegas.

I don’t know how to play craps, and I’m weak at blackjack and poker, so I wasn’t about to join those tables. Having watched “Lost in America,” both my husband and I are weary of roulette. So, for me, that only leaves the dreaded slots.

“Here,” my husband said handing me a cup of nickels.

“I can’t,” I said.

My husband sighed. “It’s only a dollar,” he assured me and then left to try his hand with Lady Luck.

I put in a nickel and pulled the arm. Nothing. I did it again. Same results. Third time a charm? Nope.

I took the remaining nickels and put them towards a cup of coffee, spending a good quarter hour watching the clouds of cream billow and musing to myself as I sipped it. Definitely, a better use of my money … or rather my husband’s money.

It’s not the money itself, since I’ve willingly spent a dollar for a fortune telling fish, silly songs, and other odd items. I don’t even necessarily expect a large return for a dollar. It is only a dollar, after all. But I do expect a dollar’s worth of effort on the seller’s behalf and a one armed bandit puts in no effort at all. On the other hand, I’ve entered contests that were free without hesitation. It’s the combination of cost and chance that causes me angst.

Maybe the problem is that I lack faith in games of chance. Maybe, like Tinkerbell, one needs to believe in order for luck or the possibility of luck to exist. What makes everything odder is that I would pay to go to Loch Ness to look for the monster, and I’d gladly pay more than a dollar, which suggests that to me, the potential for the existence of Nessie is greater than me winning any game of chance. Is it any wonder that my sister rolls her eyes at me?

So, when I arrived at the convenience store, I realized that there were multiple lotteries running and I had no idea which one I’d planned to play, further antagonizing me with the futility of the situation. But, I prevailed, purchased five Quick Pick numbers.

“You bought a lottery ticket?” my husband asked in amazement.

“It’s $135 million,” I informed him. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a shake of his head and retreated into his office.

I promptly forgot to check the numbers later that night.

I caught the news the next day and it mentioned that the winner was in another state.

Oh, well. I guess it’s too late to start clapping and believe.

Dirty Pleasures

2012-02-27T17:53:00.000-08:00

Who knows what mysteries the canister holds?

I’ll be the first to admit that housekeeping is not at the top of my skills list. It’s not that my mother was a slob by any stretch. She taught my sister and me to vacuum and dust. We tidied the yard and always had clean clothes. How I came to this point is my own doing.

O.k., our house isn’t so bad that we warrant an episode on Hoarders or Clean House. I clean the kitchen after every use, I do laundry a couple times a week, and the bathroom gets a once over about as often, but it could be better. Vacuuming and dusting are way down on the list, below scrubbing the toilet, although higher than ironing – which is a whole other matter and why I tend to wear knits or items that need dry cleaning.

I think it’s the futility of it. Having had multiple dogs in the household for the last twenty or so years, I’ve come to accept that dog hair and dander will be present regardless of how much I wash and groom the dogs or how much I vacuum and dust. My husband and I have come to accept that it’s a fair exchange: a furry, dusty house in exchange for canine companionship. There’s a lint roller by the door and each of us has one in his/her car.

Even so, there comes a point when the situation is so appalling that even I can’t tolerate it any longer. The dusting is still tedious and my allergies don’t make it any easier, but when it comes to vacuuming, there’s an excitement, or perhaps something more akin to morbid curiosity that spurs me on. Our vacuum cleaner is bagless which allows me to quantify our level of filth.

Despite the claim that our vacuum will “never lose suction,” it does when the catch canister becomes too full, which on some occasions happens quite quickly. This requires me to keep a close eye on the “full” marker so I’m not wasting time pushing a functionless vacuum. I poke the “on” button, and watch as a tornado of dust and fur forms and builds in the canister. It’s simultaneously amazing and disconcerting.

In my defense, our carpets are rather a dust color to start with, of that mysterious pile that’s not as long as shag, but not looped like berber either, and it’s got its share of stains. So fur and dust sort of disappear. Still, I know it isn’t really an excuse for letting vacuum sessions lapse as frequently as I do. But seeing the dirt and hair accumulating in the canister discourages rather than encourages me to vacuum more frequently.

If I only have to empty the canister once, I almost view the session as a waste of time and effort. But having to empty the canister multiple times, especially if it’s just one room, confirms that it was indeed time for a thorough cleaning. My husband has caught on with the fascination as well.

The typical end of cleaning conversation goes something like this:

“Whew! Done!”

“Thank you. How many canisters?”

“Seven (or some other appalling number)!”

“Wow! That’s disgusting.”

“I know. It’s a good thing I vacuumed.”

Now if the number of full canisters was one or two, it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting (or repulsive) and the other spouse would likely have little appreciation for the effort or timing. But when the number rises above, say five canisters, that is considered a feat, even a fortunate event, since apparently we’ve been walking around on five canisters of filth unbeknownst to us.

Gratitude and kudos for a job well done is usually expressed with a glass of wine or a martini, which serves as further reinforcement for procrastination.

I suppose a similar fascination is why I enjoy doing laundry. There’s that moment of anticipation as I empty the lint trap between loads. I know lint isn’t really “dirt,” but it still feels like I’ve accomplished something, that somehow I’ve improved our cleanliness situation. Dog bedding laundry day is especially exciting. The amount of fur pulled from the trap on those days can almost be thrilling, momentarily inspiring me to make dog fur sweaters.

How can my dogs not be bald?

I suppose at some point we could phase in wirehairs, poodles or doodles as our next dogs, or better yet hairless, to eliminate the shedding. But I like the feel of longer hair on dogs, and we don’t need to trim or shave them. Sure, with bigger dogs, we’ve gone from dust mice to dust bunnies, and I’m sure dust ponies on occasion. Now that the Uber Hund is gone and we don’t have to worry about his footing, we could get rid of the carpets and go to wood or tile floors, which would keep the dust and dirt from becoming imbedded.

Still, there are those moments when I almost regret cleaning, strange moments that strike me when I’m off guard. I moved the couch and found a small cloud of the Uber Hund’s distinct reddish gold fur. He’d been dead a little over a month and I’d put away all his other things. But there it was, a little bit of him still tumbling around, a silent reminder. I thought about leaving it there, but before I could push the couch back, the vacuum sucked up the fur ball and it disappeared in the whir of other bits of hair and debris.

Six canisters. A good haul.

My husband and I raised a glass and toasted to the little cloud of Uber Hund.

Big Box Wonderland

2012-02-20T18:50:00.000-08:00

An alternate universe in a Big Box

“I think we need a new faucet,” my husband sighs, looking at an unidentifiable, supposedly faucet part. “I can’t go to - - “

“I’ll go,” I volunteer, visions of faucets and nuts and bolts and piping running through my head.

“But I can go if you - -“

“Nope,” I say quickly. “I’ll do it.”

At first my husband seems a little perturbed but I’m grinning, not rolling my eyes.

“Ah,” he says. “You’re going to look for sheep things.”

I have an on-going desire to make lawn sheep.

“No, I just like to look,” I say.

“For what?” he asks, but he knows.

I just like to look. Well, and maybe fantasize a little.

I’m not a handywoman, per se, although I do have my own tool chest and I did just take apart the stopper in my sink so I could better clean out the drain. Oh, and I built the shelves in my office. But my fascination with hardware stores isn’t practical, it’s creative.

Growing up, there weren’t the big box hardware/supply stores. There was the neighborhood hardware store, Rea’s, an odd mix of small appliances, giftware, and the little pieces that one forgets, loses, or breaks during home repair projects. Most of the people who went to Rea’s, my father included, entered in a dark mood, stomping or impatiently striding, muttering a string a curse words as they sorted through bolts and washers in the palms of their work dirtied hands. I didn’t go to Rea’s with my father. Since it was in the closest shopping center, I would go with my mother to look at the collection of tiny ceramic animals. I was particularly fascinated with the cocker spaniel series, but I’d also look at the horses (not as good as the Breyer series), the miniscule ceramic mice, and peruse the other creatures. It was like a glossy, humane pet shop.

My real fascination with hardware/supply stores happened when I went with my friend and his dad to the lumber yard to get the supplies to build an aviary. It was out of our isolated community, which made it an adventure in itself. Then I entered the warehouse which smelled of sawdust and there were stacks of timber and plywood and particle board. There was also cement board, drywall, and chicken wire. These were the ingredients for an aviary, a tree house, a real house, a mansion.

I was in awe.

This is where one acquired the materials to make Significant Things, Big Things, things that were more substantial than pottery or beaded jewelry. I could walk into things built from these materials. I could stand or ride or climb on things built from these materials. I could lose a finger building these things.

That was exciting.

When the big box hardware/supply stores finally arrived, it was an entirely new experience. I ignored the cabinetry, carpet and bath sections. I wandered up and down the aisles spellbound by shiny metals, interesting tubing, tubs of mysterious substances. I intentionally ignored the pricing labels. I didn’t want to know what these things were, their true purpose. I just wanted to enjoy the shapes and textures, my mind arranging them into supernatural creatures or surreal structures.

It changed a little when I became a homeowner. Going to the big box stores was like going on a quest not for redecorating, but for repairing material. I learned about joint compound, various caulks, and types of piping. But, still I paused in front of interesting objects.

Oooh! Shiny Mylar arms and legs for robots, like something from the older Dr. Who shows.

Wire crowns? Dog bone sculpture?

“Why are you looking at air ducts?” my husband asked, having found me after I’d meandered off on my own.

We’ve purchased cabinets and sinks, flooring and gallons of paint, shelving and sprinkler parts along with all the implements that go with them. On one hand, I gained knowledge of home maintenance. On the other hand, the mystery faded. It was like learning that a lover’s intriguing scar was caused by a trip on the sidewalk.

I started making trips to the hardware store on my own to preserve my innocence. I’d get what we needed, then lose track of time as I wandered the warren of aisles, hurrying away when a sales assistant approached me. With their brightly colored aprons, they reminded me of the cards sent out by the Red Queen.

Either through education or clearly marked boxes I can’t speculate any more. I know about saw blades, the screens for florescent light boxes, and copper piping. I stood in the faucet aisle staring at the dozens of different kitchen faucets, debating if brushed nickel was outdated or not.

What does it matter? Get the best price for the most durable.

“Where. Are. We. Go. Ing,” a metallic voice beckoned from one of the aisles.

I glanced over and saw a young girl waving the corrugated tubing on her arms. She lowered her arms and the tubes unfolded like a Mylar caterpillar. She smiled up at her dad.

I grinned. The magic returned. How could I remain callous in Wonderland?

What Is This Thing Called "Love"

2012-02-13T18:42:00.000-08:00

This time, I start it:

“If UPS rings the doorbell at midnight, it’s for me.”

“What?” my husband says, although he’s eyeing me suspiciously.

“Yeah, I’ve ordered the whole Twilight box set so we can watch it for Valentine’s Day, and it comes out at midnight tonight,” I inform him knowing just how anti-sparkly vampire he is.

“Cool, I just ordered you the genuine pink cubic zirconia ring that spins and plays music,” he counters. “Nothing says, Happy Valentine’s Day better that Salt n’ Peppa.”

“Fantastic!” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I’ll wear it when we watch the bed-breaking scene.”

My husband’s face goes blank. “Bed breaking scene?”

“Yeah, when Bella and Edward finally ‘get together,’ it’s so intense, he breaks the bed,”

I explain.

“Vampires must buy cheap beds,” my husband says. “At $4,000, I’m not breaking our bed.”

“Does this mean I have to return the glitter make-up I bought for you?”

O.k., so maybe we’re a bit jaded after being married for almost 15 years. But there’s also something insidious about holidays created by the greeting card industry (Mother and Father’s Day were also card created holidays). While Valentine’s Day is a Saint’s Feast Day(St. Valentine, of course), we as a nation don’t celebrate any other Saint to the same level. Like Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration of our immigrant ancestral roots and St. Nicholas isn’t celebrated so much as portrayed as a facilitator for Christmas. Perhaps they need better agents.

Greeting cards have done a bang up job promoting Valentine’s Day, enough so that some people actually feel anxious and depressed when the holiday passes them by, that it breaks our heart to see Charlie Brown waiting for that Valentine from the Little Red-Haired Girl, and that there’s a whole film about the trials and tribulations of the day. The card industry, and by extension the floral, candy and jewelry industry have so ingrained into our social psyche the importance of recognizing love and affection on Valentine’s Day that grade school students are told to give EVERYONE a Valentine lest any child feel unloved. Children are gullible and fragile, adults should be less so.

It’s interesting too, that the Valentine’s ads are targeted towards men giving women gifts. Don’t men want to feel the Valentine’s love as well? Don’t they like chocolate and jewelry? Lingerie is a bit touchier, although I don’t think men call it “lingerie.”

I once gave my husband a pair of silk boxers with hearts on them for Valentine’s Day. I think it kind of spooked him, seeing the flimsy material flutter as he released it from the box.

“Try them on,” I suggested with a bit of a leer.

He did, but he didn’t look happy about it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It feels weird,” he said.

“What do you mean, weird?”

He frowned. “They’re all slippery and slide-y,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s kind of sexy, isn’t it?” I said. “Kind of like these?” I said.

By the look of horror on his face, it was probably a mistake that I pulled out a pair of silk tap panties I had from my lingerie drawer. That was the last time I saw those boxers.

Of course, there is the subliminal message for men in the Valentine’s Day ads, “Give your wife/girlfriend our x, and she’ll be very happy.” But, I guess without the nudge and wink, some men still weren’t getting the message. A recent floral delivery ad pretty much spelled it out, showing a sultry woman getting suggestively dressed, and then stating, “Gentlemen, it’s simple. Give and you shall ‘receive’.” It doesn’t get any less subtle than that on regular t.v. It would be interesting to see if Valentine’s Day sales increased after the ad aired, a cluster of men saying, “Ohhhhhh! I get it!”

It’s not that I’m totally against the idea of Valentine’s Day. The way our lives are these days, it’s easy to get wrapped up in deadlines, financial woes, and the daily drudge. So, it is nice to get a little nudge to remind us to touch base with our loved ones, to take some time out to recognize our partners, family, and friends who love us with all of our quirks and idiosyncrasies.

Appreciation doesn't mean chocolate,
although chocolate is always appreciated.

“No gifts, o.k.?” my husband and I say almost simultaneously.

We both have giftphobia.

We’ll exchange cards. We won’t go out since restaurants tend to be over crowded for the occasion, with service below par and food suffering as well. I’ll make my husband’s favorite dinner and pick up dessert. Wine will be involved, perhaps even cocktails. We’ll snuggle on the couch with the pups, watching some silly romantic comedy on t.v. At some point, laughing at the ridiculousness of the film, we’ll catch each other’s eye, thankful that we’re loved and not just for the day.

In honor of Benny Hill, “What is this thing called, love?”

How Is the Aria up There?

2012-02-06T23:25:00.000-08:00

La donna è mobile....

I miss having season tickets to the opera. Yes, I could buy tickets to individual performances, but time slips by and I forget to order the tickets or my husband and I can’t coordinate a date that suits us both. With season tickets, like a gym membership, you make time for the performances since you’ve already paid for them and the dates are pre-set. But unlike a gym membership, you’re only obligated to make one appearance a month and there’s no sweating.

I know. The Opera sounds snooty, but it’s changed over the last 20 years. Nowadays, most opera companies have super titles of the lyrics (or at least the gist of them) projected over the stage. And whether through fashion or intent, many of the younger opera singers, particularly the women, are increasingly more attractive. There was a notable gasp when Anna Netrebko, a stunning soprano, opened her scene in Samuel Barber’s Antony and Cleopatra, in a milk bath that glowed and showed off her naked figure. What? Sex at the opera? Yes, not since the Bible has so much sex, violence and intrigue been publicly ignored or forgotten. Carmen, La Traviata, La Bohème, and Abduction from the Seraglio all involve women of dubious reputations, and Don Giovanni and Tales of Hoffman are stories that glorify what the young folks would now call “pimp masters.” My husband and I attended a production of Faust so lewd that several audience members left the performance in prudish horror.

Lest you have visions top hats and capes in our season ticket days, let me clarify that our seats were in the upper balcony, made even more affordable since they were for performances during the middle of the week. The upper balcony occupants were predominantly elderly with some college students and a smattering of people in between. And like any hinter zone, be it theater or sport, it contained the most devout fans. There wasn’t any face painting, but some people sang along during the more popular arias. This isn’t as rude as it sounds. While opera is performed without microphones, historically opera audiences were a rowdy lot, which is why opera singers know a variety of ways to project their voices. There is even a technique where the voice exits the body quietly, but expands and actually seems to drift once released. It’s an incredible experience. When this technique was used, we in the hinter zone sat at the edge of our seats, waiting for the waft of sound to float our way. When it finally did, an operatic “touch down,” we leapt to our feet in an enthusiastic standing ovation. It was one of the rare times during a performance that the performer intentionally acknowledged the cheap seats.

The frugality of our section presented interesting situations. The couple who sat behind us brought along a “carry-on” suitcase that they tended to rest on my husband’s shoulders. The case held the elderly husband’s oxygen tank and a seemingly infinite supply of crinkly wrapped sucking candy for his wife. Rather than keeping the bag unzipped or unwrapping several candies in advance, every performance was marked by series of “zip,” crinkle, “zip,” crinkle, crinkle, crinkle . Sometimes the woman dropped the candy mid-crinkle, which prompted “oh, dear,” followed by some fumbling as she felt for the candy, a resigned sigh, and then “zip,” crinkle, “zip,” crinkle, crinkle, crinkle ….

Some people brought their own cocktails even though the theater served beverages both before the performance and during intermission. This wasn’t an issue until someone accidentally kicked the bottle, which happened on a fairly regular basis. Our balcony seats were severely raked, so it was a noisy and perilous journey as the bottle rolled and hopped down each row. The usher would rush over and try to catch the bottle’s movement in the glare of his or her flashlight. We all held our breath, hoping the bottle wouldn’t jump the low rail, perhaps killing someone below thereby confirming that we were indeed the rabble. Once the bottle stopped, the usher would collar it by its neck and stomp back up the stairs in a huff.

Babies love the opera ... sort of.

And then there was the baby. I’m all for early exposure to live performance, but taking an infant to a non-Italian opera was daring. Taking one to an opera about a child molester (PeterGrimes. Did I mention opera could be tawdry?) was cruel. Rightfully, the child burst into tears and was inconsolable during the scene when yet another child was brought into Peter Grimes’ care, only to meet a horrible and violent death. The baby’s cries were loud enough to draw the performers’ attention to our little aerie. I think we all leaned back a little and sank into our seats. After the performance, we saw the couple carrying their sleeping baby. “Our baby loves the opera,” they said to anyone who looked in their direction.

The baby incident prompted my husband and I to splurge on seats in the Founder’s Circle the following season. Along with our tickets, we were also issued an invitation to the Founder’s Room and given the opportunity to place orders for refreshments before the performance to circumvent any waiting in line at intermission. When we took our seats, we noticed the sea of black ties, furs, and silvered hair. During the performance, no one sang or even hummed along. The gentleman next to me snored.

From our new seats, we saw the singer’s faces and enjoyed the sets without seeing the framing. All the super titles were visible and the performers seemed to be singing directly to us. It was opera as it was meant to be. I sat grinning as a stunning version of an aria drew to a close and I jumped up to give a standing ovation. My husband gently tugged my skirt. Everyone else in our section remained seated and only politely clapped. I sat back down, trying to keep my restraint for the duration of the show.

Somewhere up above us, a bottle dropped and rolled.

Eat like the Dead

2012-01-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

Nature trumps molecular gastronomy.

I remember the first time I had a pomegranate. The outside reminded me of a woody pink pear. I watched as my mother put the dull looking fruit on the cutting board and sliced it into quarters. The juice was magenta, my favorite Crayola color. My mother handed me two slices.

“This is messy,” she said. “Eat it outside with your sister. Don’t swallow the seeds.”

I motioned to my sister to follow me into the backyard.

“Don’t drip on the carpet,” my mother called after us. “It’ll stain!”

My sister and I hurried into the backyard and examined this new treat. The beautiful pink was faint. It didn’t look like an apple or pear inside. It looked a little like a giant version of the pulp inside of a grapefruit. Or pink corn. The rows upon rows of cut white seeds surrounded by dark pink made the kernels look like targets. My sister and I each picked one out.

It was tart, bitter, and astringent.

“Don’t eat the seeds,” I warned my sister.

Both of us spat the seeds out over the short wall into the iceplant. We picked and spat, picked and spat, not quite sure what to make of the fruit except that it was a great deal of effort for a very small pay-off. But it did allow us to spit, so that was a plus as were the magenta stains on our fingers.

My sister and I both looked at the ghostly rinds. The fruit looked bigger than the yield. I went back into the house.

“Mom, we’re done …?” I said holding out the remainder.

My mom looked at us in puzzlement.

“Already?” she asked.

My sister and I were both voracious eaters. I shrugged and looked back at her. She stared at the fruit.

“No,” she said, as she took the fruit and held it out for me to see. “There’s more.”

She peeled off the creamy membrane. The pomegranate looked very different uncut. It looked like a pavé of jewels.

“Oooooh,” I gasped as I showed my sister who ‘ooh”-ed as well.

Both of us grinned and ran outside again. I didn’t want to eat the pomegranate. I wanted

to admire it. I picked out a seed and held it up to the sun. I could see the white seed deep inside, but the fruit around it reminded me of a garnet ring my mother had, which I always admired. I put the seed on my finger.

“Look at my beautiful ring,” I said in my snootiest voice.

“I have fancy earrings,” my sister said in an equally snooty voice as she held two seeds to her ears.

We put the fruit into our mouths. I felt the crunch as I bit down. We were eating garnets, rubies, pink sapphires. My sister and I laughed maniacally at the decadence. We strutted around the yard, balancing the kernels on our wrists and fingers then ate the “gems,” disdainfully spitting out the pale remains, only to pull out more.

“If you put them on your tongue and push it on the top of your mouth, they pop,” my sister informed me giddily.

I followed my sister’s suggestion and felt the burst of tart bitterness. We tried to see how many kernels we could fit in our mouths at once. I peeled off another layer of membrane and raked my teeth against the fruit, feeling the juice drip down my chin, onto my shirt. Mother had warned that it would stain, but I wore the magenta like a badge.

“Look, there’s more,” I said as I peeled away another membrane and we both admired the fruit all over again.

We tucked the kernels between our lips and teeth and grimaced at each other, unaware that jeweled grills would actually become a trend 15 years into the future. We laughed at the gaudy and somewhat gruesome effect. The gems also looked like droplets of blood. We pretended to be vampires.

And then it was over.

“We’re done!” my sister and I announced with wide smiles, showing the thin rinds to my mother.

She rolled her eyes at the spatters and stains all over us and our clothes.

“Did you like it?” she asked us.

My sister and I both nodded eagerly but then wrinkled our noses.

“But it doesn’t taste so good,” we both agreed. “It’s sour and makes our tongues feel funny.”

My mom laughed. “Then why do you like it?”

Tree-ripened pomegranates split open,
revealing the gems inside.

My sister and I looked at my mom incredulously.

“Because it’s like eating rubies,” we said, stating the obvious.

“Ah,” my mom said with a nod.

In sixth grade, we read the myth about Persephone and Demeter. Persephone, Demeter’s daughter was kidnapped by Hades and taken into the underworld to be his wife. She’s told that as long as she doesn’t eat the Food of the Dead, she’ll be able to escape.

“The Food of the Dead was the pomegranate,” the teacher said. “When it’s ripe, the tree is completely bare, so that it looks dead, except for the fruit.”

“She’ll totally eat it,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself.

I smiled at the memory. Who could possibly resist the joyful hedonism of eating jewels?

Sarong, Farewell

2012-01-22T14:55:00.000-08:00

Island vacations are great ... depending on the island.

“We should go on a cruise,” my husband announces.

“Yeeeeahhhhh, no,” I respond.

My husband can see I’m already a little green around the gills. Despite several successful trips on the Catalina ferry many, many, years ago, my last couple seafaring journeys resulted in me orally chumming the sharks.

“You could wear those ear patch things,” he says.

I hate being nauseous and the thought of being potentially nauseous for days is not an alluring thought.

“My sister says they totally work,” my husband assures me.

O.k. It’s not like he’s going to book a cruise today, so I’ll play along.

“Where would you want to go?” I ask.

“Well, what about the Caribbean ...?”

My nose wrinkles.

“Or the Bahamas?” he suggests, but already his shoulders are drooping. “Greece?” he adds meekly to my ever more crinkling face. “Alright then, where would you want to go?”

“The Baltic?” I suggest, and his face drops. “Alaska?”

“Those places are freezing,” he says, as if I didn’t know.

As if he didn’t know.

I hate hot weather and by hot, I mean anything over seventy degrees Fahrenheit. I’d like to say it’s a hormonal thing, but I’ve never enjoyed sunbathing nor fantasized about tropical vacations. I always preferred temperate or cold climates, although snow is not a necessity. I like to think it’s in my blood. None of my ethnic genes drops below 34^th parallel, which isn’t as cold as I thought (who knew Hiroshima and Los Angeles were at the same latitude? The axis threw me off.), but still it’s out of the tropics. And it doesn’t matter if it’s a “dry heat” or not. Hot is hot. It’s just a question of whether I feel like I’m melting or if my skin is shriveling away like an overdone turkey.

My general rule is that I can always add more clothing when it’s cold. I only briefly experienced “seriously” cold weather (0°F at the airport in Toronto), so I can’t attest to the cold weather lifestyle. But as far as heat goes, I can only take so much off, and once the weather hits eighty, I’m at that limit. The day we moved into our current home, it was 114°F and it stayed that way for two weeks. I was beside myself, especially when the rolling black outs hit. Uber Hundus and I spent the days confined to one room, the portable air conditioner turned up to 11. We moved to Northern California for cooler weather. Who knew one little tunnel could make such a huge difference? Granted, the winters were colder here than in San Francisco, but I’d compromise for cooler summers. Thankfully, global warming has done that and the last two summers didn’t see any days over 105°F, and even the hottest days were scattered. Sorry, polar bears.

It's not just the rolls of "belly fat" that are making me frown.

A more temperate climate is probably why I enjoy the coast. I like the ocean at winter, when the water turns cold iron grey and the strand is nearly deserted except for the hardcore surfers. Growing up, it was the rolling fog and distant moan of fog horns that lured me to the beach, not the scent of coconut oil and fried corn dogs. Beach communities, especially port cities, tend to be a little more tolerant of eccentricities as well, perhaps because they’re accustomed to the variety of people and items that the sea trade brings. That’s important to someone who looks like an outsider in most areas.

I did actually vacation in Hawaii once, on a paid holiday with my husband. That’s when I confirmed my suspicions. While my husband laid out by the water sucking down various umbrella drinks and taking the occasional stroll into the bath temperature ocean, I sought refuge in the jungle, hoping it was cooler, momentarily forgetting that the lack of sea breeze meant swarms of mosquitos would be there to greet me. I returned reeking of DEET applied too late to prevent the multitude of bites on my legs. From then on, it was hopping from shop to shop, hoping to find air conditioning among the Maui dirt dyed t-shirts.

That was enough for me. Having grown up among palm trees and sandy beaches, it didn’t seem like much of an escape to go somewhere else with palm trees and sandy beaches, especially if there's also added heat. I did, however, fall madly in love with coconut syrup. Tropical food is delicious. I’d just rather have it imported.

That doesn’t mean island vacations are off the list. I’ve visited Newfoundland three times and loved every minute of it. I’m dying to explore Nova Scotia, especially during the Celtic Colors. I love Ireland and the UK. I look forward to visiting Iceland and its ponies one day. The Shetlands would be interesting for the same reason. There’s even the scattered islands that help make up Denmark. Locally, I’d like to see the Farallons. In my fantasy life, we’d spend half the year in New Zealand, strategically timed so that I could live in perpetual fall and winter.

Yes, I’m definitely an Island Girl. It’s just that on my islands, sarongs are so wrong.