Envy of the sleep
As a life-long insomniac, I am used to being the only awake individual in the house. Growing up I shared a room with my two sisters and would often read long into the night, holding a flashlight under the covers while my sisters snored from the darkened corners of our room.
I adore both Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) but in one way they drive me crazy -- the can both, apparently, fall asleep at will.
Husband has been known to fall asleep mid-conversation. We'll be in bed, chatting quietly about life. He'll say something. I'll respond. And his response to my comment is a gentle snore. It typically takes him all of five minutes to fall asleep. I hate that about him.
Cipher, like most cats, has a well-developed nap instinct. And when she falls, she falls deep. She can get into these amazingly liquid positions where you can tell she hasn't a stressed bone in her body. In fact, it looks like she has no bones at all. At the moment Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just in our comfy bed. Cipher is asleep on the chair across the room from me, lying full-length will paws forward (think of Superman flying) and dreaming little kitty dreams of birds and mice.
And me? I'm settling in for another all-nighter. Two hours sleep last night (or rather this morning), and anticipating about the same tonight. But I have books. Movies. Ice cream. All the necessities. And I'm OK with that -- but I do envy Husband and Cipher. Damn their sleepiness.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Summer Musical
There was never much to do in Silver Creek in the summertime. Growing up, I mean. It was, and is, hardly a hotbed of excitement and without school the days tended to be a bit dull.
When I was in high school the first week of summer was always heaven. Sleeping until noon. Reading whatever I wanted, rather than what I had to. Endless TV, root beer popsicles, and hanging out. But by the second and third week I was usually so bored that I actually cleaned my room.
But between my freshman and sophomore years the high school instituted the summer musical program. It was actually a summer school class, for which we got three whole credits. But it lasted all day, was insanely fun, and resulted in two whole performances of a badly produced, directed, and choreographed musical that the entire town went to.
The choice was South Pacific. All the sailors were 15 and hearing them sing “Nothing Like a Dame” was nothing like a sailor. All the nurses were taller than the sailors. Our male lead was a tenor instead of a baritone, which made all the duets sound like two female cats competing over the sexiest tom in town. And the female lead weighed close to 220.
The “uniforms” were salvaged from local thrift shops or made by local moms and made the US Navy look like a ragtag bunch of munchkins. The pit orchestra had no string section and fourteen trumpets. Every overture sounded like a fanfare. People kept expecting royalty to show up.
But it was so much fun we didn’t care.
Silver Creek High has an impressive auditorium, allowing for huge sets and lighting. Of course we had neither, but we had the space for them. And when not plunging head-first into rehearsals, we’d all sit on the stage painting flats and making a huge cardboard cannon of which we were so insanely proud that it was in the background of every scene – even the interiors.
We’d throw open the huge doors big enough to drive a truck through and let the warm wind blow across the stage while we sang our little hearts out to the hard work of our one and only rehearsal pianist. Mr. Lang, the choir director, stepped up to take the helm. The fact that he had no dance experience at all made the choreography consist of lots of walking aimlessly around the stage and making huge arm gestures as if everyone was directing everyone else to a different part of the island.
Rehearsals started every morning at 10 am and we’d all show up early because we were so darned bored. Since it was technically a class, we’d have to line up on the stage while Mr. Lang took role, then he’d actually leave – go have breakfast at Missy’s Diner – and leave us with the run of the place. We’d play tag in the curtains, do each other’s faces with outlandish paint in the make-up room, and eat our PB&Js. Then Mr. Lang would stroll back in at about 1 and we’d finally get some work done. Until 3. Then he’d leave again. But still we hung on. The custodians finally kicked us out at about 5. You’d never seen such a dedicated cast. Nobody wanted to leave.
There were romances, with the kind of instant, desperate passion only horny 16 year olds can achieve. There were huge, teary fights worthy of any Opera diva. And there was absolutely no talent whatsoever.
Actually, that isn’t true. The girl who plays Bloody Mary (who sings the lovely “Bali Hai”) really had a gorgeous voice. Her name was Rebecca Su and she was the shiest girl ever. She never talked to anyone and the only reason anybody knew she could sing is because she had a horrid stage mother who paid for punch sold at intermission in exchange for her daughter getting a solo. Rebecca, poor thing, would sit in the fourth row reading Harlequin romances and not speaking to a sole until called upon to burst forth with her song. Then the stage would resound with the one good voice in the cast, before she’d leave and go back to “Love’s Captive”. We all tried to be friends with her, but she never friended back.
At the end of the summer, giddy with anticipation, we opened on Friday and closed on Saturday. Every bored mother and father, and every reluctant sibling in town had to go to one of the performances. There was, of course, thunderous applause from indulgent parents and a town starving for anything to do in the heat of a boring summer.
And then it was over. The place we could go. The something we could do. And we went back to our sleeping until noons and our root beer popsicles.
To this day, whenever South Pacific is on TV, I’ll watch it and think of our 15 year old sailors and overweight nurses. And wonder how the hell we got away with anybody left in the audience at the end of the show.
It’s a pretty good indication of city-wide boredom when a town will sit through such dribble because it’s better than nothing. Ah…show business.
There was never much to do in Silver Creek in the summertime. Growing up, I mean. It was, and is, hardly a hotbed of excitement and without school the days tended to be a bit dull.
When I was in high school the first week of summer was always heaven. Sleeping until noon. Reading whatever I wanted, rather than what I had to. Endless TV, root beer popsicles, and hanging out. But by the second and third week I was usually so bored that I actually cleaned my room.
But between my freshman and sophomore years the high school instituted the summer musical program. It was actually a summer school class, for which we got three whole credits. But it lasted all day, was insanely fun, and resulted in two whole performances of a badly produced, directed, and choreographed musical that the entire town went to.
The choice was South Pacific. All the sailors were 15 and hearing them sing “Nothing Like a Dame” was nothing like a sailor. All the nurses were taller than the sailors. Our male lead was a tenor instead of a baritone, which made all the duets sound like two female cats competing over the sexiest tom in town. And the female lead weighed close to 220.
The “uniforms” were salvaged from local thrift shops or made by local moms and made the US Navy look like a ragtag bunch of munchkins. The pit orchestra had no string section and fourteen trumpets. Every overture sounded like a fanfare. People kept expecting royalty to show up.
But it was so much fun we didn’t care.
Silver Creek High has an impressive auditorium, allowing for huge sets and lighting. Of course we had neither, but we had the space for them. And when not plunging head-first into rehearsals, we’d all sit on the stage painting flats and making a huge cardboard cannon of which we were so insanely proud that it was in the background of every scene – even the interiors.
We’d throw open the huge doors big enough to drive a truck through and let the warm wind blow across the stage while we sang our little hearts out to the hard work of our one and only rehearsal pianist. Mr. Lang, the choir director, stepped up to take the helm. The fact that he had no dance experience at all made the choreography consist of lots of walking aimlessly around the stage and making huge arm gestures as if everyone was directing everyone else to a different part of the island.
Rehearsals started every morning at 10 am and we’d all show up early because we were so darned bored. Since it was technically a class, we’d have to line up on the stage while Mr. Lang took role, then he’d actually leave – go have breakfast at Missy’s Diner – and leave us with the run of the place. We’d play tag in the curtains, do each other’s faces with outlandish paint in the make-up room, and eat our PB&Js. Then Mr. Lang would stroll back in at about 1 and we’d finally get some work done. Until 3. Then he’d leave again. But still we hung on. The custodians finally kicked us out at about 5. You’d never seen such a dedicated cast. Nobody wanted to leave.
There were romances, with the kind of instant, desperate passion only horny 16 year olds can achieve. There were huge, teary fights worthy of any Opera diva. And there was absolutely no talent whatsoever.
Actually, that isn’t true. The girl who plays Bloody Mary (who sings the lovely “Bali Hai”) really had a gorgeous voice. Her name was Rebecca Su and she was the shiest girl ever. She never talked to anyone and the only reason anybody knew she could sing is because she had a horrid stage mother who paid for punch sold at intermission in exchange for her daughter getting a solo. Rebecca, poor thing, would sit in the fourth row reading Harlequin romances and not speaking to a sole until called upon to burst forth with her song. Then the stage would resound with the one good voice in the cast, before she’d leave and go back to “Love’s Captive”. We all tried to be friends with her, but she never friended back.
At the end of the summer, giddy with anticipation, we opened on Friday and closed on Saturday. Every bored mother and father, and every reluctant sibling in town had to go to one of the performances. There was, of course, thunderous applause from indulgent parents and a town starving for anything to do in the heat of a boring summer.
And then it was over. The place we could go. The something we could do. And we went back to our sleeping until noons and our root beer popsicles.
To this day, whenever South Pacific is on TV, I’ll watch it and think of our 15 year old sailors and overweight nurses. And wonder how the hell we got away with anybody left in the audience at the end of the show.
It’s a pretty good indication of city-wide boredom when a town will sit through such dribble because it’s better than nothing. Ah…show business.
Bad movies and good wine
Last night Husband and I polished off a bottle of wonderful Pinor Noir. Byron Winery, 2008, Central Coast. We neither of us drink that much so we both got delightfully sozzled. The occasion? Twilight
The horrible teen angst/vampire flick was recommended to me by two separate people with the same caveat. Get drunk first and you'll find it hilarious. They were right. It was one of the most truly awful movies I've ever seen but, under the influence of wine, so funny that at times we were laughing so hard we had to rewind to hear the wooden dialogue.
Husband and I are the last people in the US (with the exception of my family) to join Netflix and the opportunity to watch pretty much any movie we want has filled us with a heady sense of freedom. Plus we get unlimited streaming of thousands of films through our Wii, so it's heaven. We've watched the good (All About Eve) the bad (early Doctor Who episodes wich seemed like the prelude to several Monty Python sketches) and the ugly (Twilight). It's heaven.
We're both huge movie fans. In fact, our mutual love of old movies is one of the things that we first bonded over. Having instant access to movies for every mood is proving to be wonderful -- and getting in the way of housework, grocery shopping, and generally getting out of the house. Who wants to clean the shower when you can watch your own Gregory Peck film festival?
But every so often, you just have to reach for the cheese. The films you know are awful. We both love the classic making fun of movies show Mystery Science Theater 3000 and when we get together for something terrible, like last night's monstrosity, we crack each other up with our own version of MST3K. Husband is a hilarious guy and I've been known to be pretty funny myself at times, so when we get on a roll mocking a movie, we can truly hit some home runs.
Of course, it's hard to not be funny when you've got material like Twilight to work with. Wooden acting. Atrocious script. Hilarious plot. That, combined with good wine, is a recipe for a great way to spend a Saturday night.
Last night Husband and I polished off a bottle of wonderful Pinor Noir. Byron Winery, 2008, Central Coast. We neither of us drink that much so we both got delightfully sozzled. The occasion? Twilight
The horrible teen angst/vampire flick was recommended to me by two separate people with the same caveat. Get drunk first and you'll find it hilarious. They were right. It was one of the most truly awful movies I've ever seen but, under the influence of wine, so funny that at times we were laughing so hard we had to rewind to hear the wooden dialogue.
Husband and I are the last people in the US (with the exception of my family) to join Netflix and the opportunity to watch pretty much any movie we want has filled us with a heady sense of freedom. Plus we get unlimited streaming of thousands of films through our Wii, so it's heaven. We've watched the good (All About Eve) the bad (early Doctor Who episodes wich seemed like the prelude to several Monty Python sketches) and the ugly (Twilight). It's heaven.
We're both huge movie fans. In fact, our mutual love of old movies is one of the things that we first bonded over. Having instant access to movies for every mood is proving to be wonderful -- and getting in the way of housework, grocery shopping, and generally getting out of the house. Who wants to clean the shower when you can watch your own Gregory Peck film festival?
But every so often, you just have to reach for the cheese. The films you know are awful. We both love the classic making fun of movies show Mystery Science Theater 3000 and when we get together for something terrible, like last night's monstrosity, we crack each other up with our own version of MST3K. Husband is a hilarious guy and I've been known to be pretty funny myself at times, so when we get on a roll mocking a movie, we can truly hit some home runs.
Of course, it's hard to not be funny when you've got material like Twilight to work with. Wooden acting. Atrocious script. Hilarious plot. That, combined with good wine, is a recipe for a great way to spend a Saturday night.
Monday, July 12, 2010
From the Kitten Nursery
I've been quite remiss in keeping you posted on my hum-drum life. Sorry. Sometimes I just get in a mood where I either I don't want to write or have nothing to say. Actually, I usually have nothing to say I just typically overcome that and foist myself on an unsuspecting world.
I've just come back from kitten duty. The cutie above is named Milky Way. The whole litter is named after candy. There's Snickers, Mars, Dove, and Hershey. But this little one is my favorite.
It was an extra-long day at the nursery. In spite of the fact that on Monday we have plenty of volunteers, it's a long haul for me. There are a number of, shall we say, completely useless people there. Which means I do most of the world. The cage cleaning. The laundry. The dish washing. Taking out the garbage and so on. I was there for nearly three hours and only fed two kittens. The rest of the time I was busy doing all the details. I don't mind, but I was jealous of everyone else spending time cuddling the kitties.
I've been quite remiss in keeping you posted on my hum-drum life. Sorry. Sometimes I just get in a mood where I either I don't want to write or have nothing to say. Actually, I usually have nothing to say I just typically overcome that and foist myself on an unsuspecting world.
I've just come back from kitten duty. The cutie above is named Milky Way. The whole litter is named after candy. There's Snickers, Mars, Dove, and Hershey. But this little one is my favorite.
It was an extra-long day at the nursery. In spite of the fact that on Monday we have plenty of volunteers, it's a long haul for me. There are a number of, shall we say, completely useless people there. Which means I do most of the world. The cage cleaning. The laundry. The dish washing. Taking out the garbage and so on. I was there for nearly three hours and only fed two kittens. The rest of the time I was busy doing all the details. I don't mind, but I was jealous of everyone else spending time cuddling the kitties.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Photo of the day: The Explorer
This is the adventurer of the litter. The one who wanted to know what was over ever edge, behind every obstacle. While hher littermates where content to be fed and have a nice play, this girl wanted nothing more than to explore. She walked the length of the table, climbed up shoulders and stood on heads, she even jumped onto the counter and tried to make a dash for the door. Luckily we're bigger than she.
This is the adventurer of the litter. The one who wanted to know what was over ever edge, behind every obstacle. While hher littermates where content to be fed and have a nice play, this girl wanted nothing more than to explore. She walked the length of the table, climbed up shoulders and stood on heads, she even jumped onto the counter and tried to make a dash for the door. Luckily we're bigger than she.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Dress Appropriately And Don't Drop the Cat on Its Head
I had a new experience today. I helped train a new cat volunteer.
Usually new cat volunteers are trained by the staff in our behavior department. But for a variety of reasons they asked if I would step in today to give a show a new TLCer the ropes. It was harder than I thought.
There are so many common sense rules that I forget are actually rules that I had to force myself to recite to her. For instance, you shouldn't have to be told (let alone twice) that if there are two cats in a cage and you are only taking one cat out, you need to close the door after your first cat is out or else the other one will escape. No. Really. It will. Close the door. Yes, that's it.
And hold the cat like you've held a cat before. This woman has three of her own and yet when she plucked first kitty out of her cage she seemed to have no idea how to pick it up or hold it. A showed her, but you'd think she'd have had some experience with her own animals.
But for the most part, it went well. I think I covered all of the rules (dress code, where we keep supplies, how to log in and out, how to deal with vet issues, etc.) and she seemed to enjoy the process. I did too, but I'll stick with hanging with the cats....far more fun.
It's just weird how often I find myself shaking my head at the utter lack of common sense some people seem to possess. Things that you can't imagine ever having to be explained have to be spelled out in detail. In the nursery, for instance, I have to keep reminding the Monday crew that you have to wear gloves when handling the kittens, and you have to change gloves between litters. This is rule #1. And yet every week I see them reaching, gloveless, for a cat and have to remind them. Then I see them not changing gloves and moving on to the next litter and having to ask "have you changed gloves?" This should not need to happen more than once. It's hardly like we're overloaded with rules in the nursery, and yet this basic procedure seems to be a hard concept to grasp.
The other thing I've noticed lately is how few people notice how their actions affect others. The best place to witness this is in the grocery store. How often have you seen someone stop their cart in the middle of the aisle and stand there, blocking the way when someone is obviously trying to pass them. It's no more trouble to pull your cart to the side so people can pass but no, they stop in the exact center so there's no going around. Or they'll pause at the end of the aisle, blocking the way in, and you have to politely wait while they pour over the complete ingredient list for bread. Drives me crazy.
Is common sense a dying trait? Or do people just not think anymore? I always think about what I do and how it might get in the way of others. I'm not saying I'm exceptionally considerate, but I do want to minimize my impact on others. It seems like pulling my shopping cart out of the way is an easy thing to do. And basic things like "gee, if there are a whole bunch of kittens in this cage and I only want one I should keep the door closed" really shouldn't take much thought. Sadly, it does.
In other news, were going out to Dim Sum this weekend with friends. Have you ever had the pleasure?
For those unfamiliar, Dim Sum is a type of Chinese food where small portions are served from carts that go around the restaurant. You don't order from a menu. They just wheel things by and ask if you want some. One of the best Dim Sum places in the entire SF Bay Area is within walking distance of our house, and yet Husband has never been. We're really looking forward to it. It's a great experience to go with lots of people because you end up with plates all over the table and find yourself tasting things you can't believe you just ate. Chicken feet? Sure, why not? I mean when else am I going to get the chance to eat chicken feet? And the wonderful thing about Dim Sum is that these small tasting plates mean you don't end up with an entire order of something you hate. You eat one, your friends each eat one and you've had the experience. Then it's on to the next cart and the next bit of mystery. Plus these are some of my favorite people ever, so there will be much laughter and good comradeship. I can't wait.
I had a new experience today. I helped train a new cat volunteer.
Usually new cat volunteers are trained by the staff in our behavior department. But for a variety of reasons they asked if I would step in today to give a show a new TLCer the ropes. It was harder than I thought.
There are so many common sense rules that I forget are actually rules that I had to force myself to recite to her. For instance, you shouldn't have to be told (let alone twice) that if there are two cats in a cage and you are only taking one cat out, you need to close the door after your first cat is out or else the other one will escape. No. Really. It will. Close the door. Yes, that's it.
And hold the cat like you've held a cat before. This woman has three of her own and yet when she plucked first kitty out of her cage she seemed to have no idea how to pick it up or hold it. A showed her, but you'd think she'd have had some experience with her own animals.
But for the most part, it went well. I think I covered all of the rules (dress code, where we keep supplies, how to log in and out, how to deal with vet issues, etc.) and she seemed to enjoy the process. I did too, but I'll stick with hanging with the cats....far more fun.
It's just weird how often I find myself shaking my head at the utter lack of common sense some people seem to possess. Things that you can't imagine ever having to be explained have to be spelled out in detail. In the nursery, for instance, I have to keep reminding the Monday crew that you have to wear gloves when handling the kittens, and you have to change gloves between litters. This is rule #1. And yet every week I see them reaching, gloveless, for a cat and have to remind them. Then I see them not changing gloves and moving on to the next litter and having to ask "have you changed gloves?" This should not need to happen more than once. It's hardly like we're overloaded with rules in the nursery, and yet this basic procedure seems to be a hard concept to grasp.
The other thing I've noticed lately is how few people notice how their actions affect others. The best place to witness this is in the grocery store. How often have you seen someone stop their cart in the middle of the aisle and stand there, blocking the way when someone is obviously trying to pass them. It's no more trouble to pull your cart to the side so people can pass but no, they stop in the exact center so there's no going around. Or they'll pause at the end of the aisle, blocking the way in, and you have to politely wait while they pour over the complete ingredient list for bread. Drives me crazy.
Is common sense a dying trait? Or do people just not think anymore? I always think about what I do and how it might get in the way of others. I'm not saying I'm exceptionally considerate, but I do want to minimize my impact on others. It seems like pulling my shopping cart out of the way is an easy thing to do. And basic things like "gee, if there are a whole bunch of kittens in this cage and I only want one I should keep the door closed" really shouldn't take much thought. Sadly, it does.
In other news, were going out to Dim Sum this weekend with friends. Have you ever had the pleasure?
For those unfamiliar, Dim Sum is a type of Chinese food where small portions are served from carts that go around the restaurant. You don't order from a menu. They just wheel things by and ask if you want some. One of the best Dim Sum places in the entire SF Bay Area is within walking distance of our house, and yet Husband has never been. We're really looking forward to it. It's a great experience to go with lots of people because you end up with plates all over the table and find yourself tasting things you can't believe you just ate. Chicken feet? Sure, why not? I mean when else am I going to get the chance to eat chicken feet? And the wonderful thing about Dim Sum is that these small tasting plates mean you don't end up with an entire order of something you hate. You eat one, your friends each eat one and you've had the experience. Then it's on to the next cart and the next bit of mystery. Plus these are some of my favorite people ever, so there will be much laughter and good comradeship. I can't wait.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Seven Years...No Itch
Today marks seven years since Husband and I tied the knot at Ye Olde Wedding(e) Chapel in Lake Tahoe. We'd been together for three and, unlike most couples, it was the man that wanted to marry and the woman that had cold feet. But we were going up anyway and some friends were teasing that we were planning to come back married. We weren't...until they suggested it. So on Friday we decided to get married and on Sunday we did.
We had two guests, our witnesses and dear friends the Foreigner and the DJ. The Foreigner, who is a beautiful and stylish woman, will never forgive me for not telling her that she was going to be in our wedding. She was mortified to have worn jeans to the event. I tried to comfort her by the fact that the bride was wearing jeans, but the Foreigner remained appalled. She still does.
The chapel where we married was right off Highway 50, in the heart of South Lake Tahoe. Highly unromantic. We had our choice of indoor (which featured dark panelling and fake flowers and looked like a funeral parlor) or outside, with the traffic noise and the veritable zoo of plastic animals. We chose outside. Our one and only wedding picture shows us standing under the pine trees, a large plastic deer looking over our shoulders. It's priceless.
We then had the requisite post-wedding margaritas at a Mexican bar and went hiking. Our friends went home, we went to Safeway and bought an ugly sheet cake...because you gotta have cake at a wedding. Then we danced to "our" song ("A Kiss to Build a Dream On," the Louis Armstrong version). And we went to bed. Whereupon the night became a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie as both Husband and I spent what seemed like the entire night trying to get Ninja Fly From Hell to leave us alone. We threw pillows at it. We chased it with rolled up magazines. We tried to spay it with hair spray (hey, it was all we could find at the cabin) and eventually I think it just died of boredom.
Who says romance is dead?
Thanks for a great seven years, Husband. Here's to 70 more.
Today marks seven years since Husband and I tied the knot at Ye Olde Wedding(e) Chapel in Lake Tahoe. We'd been together for three and, unlike most couples, it was the man that wanted to marry and the woman that had cold feet. But we were going up anyway and some friends were teasing that we were planning to come back married. We weren't...until they suggested it. So on Friday we decided to get married and on Sunday we did.
We had two guests, our witnesses and dear friends the Foreigner and the DJ. The Foreigner, who is a beautiful and stylish woman, will never forgive me for not telling her that she was going to be in our wedding. She was mortified to have worn jeans to the event. I tried to comfort her by the fact that the bride was wearing jeans, but the Foreigner remained appalled. She still does.
The chapel where we married was right off Highway 50, in the heart of South Lake Tahoe. Highly unromantic. We had our choice of indoor (which featured dark panelling and fake flowers and looked like a funeral parlor) or outside, with the traffic noise and the veritable zoo of plastic animals. We chose outside. Our one and only wedding picture shows us standing under the pine trees, a large plastic deer looking over our shoulders. It's priceless.
We then had the requisite post-wedding margaritas at a Mexican bar and went hiking. Our friends went home, we went to Safeway and bought an ugly sheet cake...because you gotta have cake at a wedding. Then we danced to "our" song ("A Kiss to Build a Dream On," the Louis Armstrong version). And we went to bed. Whereupon the night became a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie as both Husband and I spent what seemed like the entire night trying to get Ninja Fly From Hell to leave us alone. We threw pillows at it. We chased it with rolled up magazines. We tried to spay it with hair spray (hey, it was all we could find at the cabin) and eventually I think it just died of boredom.
Who says romance is dead?
Thanks for a great seven years, Husband. Here's to 70 more.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Cool vs. Crotch
Here's today's random rant...
Husband and I tried to watch the Tony Awards tonight. We gave up. Well, I did, anyway, when Catherine Zeta-Jones channelled Nora Desmond while singing "Send in the Clowns." I hate that song, even when it's sung well. When it's sung badly, it defies the Geneva Convention.
Anyway, for reasons I cannot fathom...the band Green Day was part of the opening number. And it made me wonder out loud something that has puzzled me for years.
Why is it jazz bass players look perfectly hip playing their bass while holding it in a normal position while rock musicians think they have to sling it down over their crotch in order to be cool? In reality, they look ridiculous. This Green Day guy....his bass was so low it was actually hitting his knee. It was slung at the absolute limit of his reach and it was so silly looking that I just started laughing. I mean nothing against masturbation, but if that's what you want to be doing -- please don't sling an instrument over your penis and pretend to be playing music, OK?
Here's today's random rant...
Husband and I tried to watch the Tony Awards tonight. We gave up. Well, I did, anyway, when Catherine Zeta-Jones channelled Nora Desmond while singing "Send in the Clowns." I hate that song, even when it's sung well. When it's sung badly, it defies the Geneva Convention.
Anyway, for reasons I cannot fathom...the band Green Day was part of the opening number. And it made me wonder out loud something that has puzzled me for years.
Why is it jazz bass players look perfectly hip playing their bass while holding it in a normal position while rock musicians think they have to sling it down over their crotch in order to be cool? In reality, they look ridiculous. This Green Day guy....his bass was so low it was actually hitting his knee. It was slung at the absolute limit of his reach and it was so silly looking that I just started laughing. I mean nothing against masturbation, but if that's what you want to be doing -- please don't sling an instrument over your penis and pretend to be playing music, OK?
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Sister Cities
When it comes to historical importance, Silver Creek has none. We couldn’t even borrow any glory.
For a while in the 70s and 80s it was a big thing to become a sister city with someplace distant and/or impressive. Santa Pura, which is just to the south of Silver Creek, is sister city with some ancient village in China. In their central park they have a red pagoda as a sort of gazebo. It’s painted with fierce gold dragons and fat chrysanthemum blooms. Rather lovely, really, especially in the spring when the area around it is rich with irises and tulips.
To the north we have Lombards, which has as its sister city a distinguished Flemish town with an unpronounceable name. To show its fondness, the village gave to the town a gorgeous suit of armor worn by some medieval soldier with a truly historic codpiece. The armor is a marvelous piece of workmanship with bronzed vines and a truly panic-inducing helmet with tiny eye slits. There’s even a shield with a strutting red rooster prancing on a field of blue and white chevrons. The armor has pride of place in Lombards library and is actually something of a tourist attraction, being one of the finest pieces of Flemish armory in the U.S.
And then there’s Silver Creek and its sister city…Hoboken, New Jersey. God help us. Yup, that’s the best we could do. The gift from our sister city? A framed black and white photograph of three members of the Hoboken City Council shaking hands with three members of the Silver Creek City Council. Two of the three New Jerseyians later disappeared under mysterious circumstances and one was associated with that grim phrase, “dental records.”
We also had an autographed photo of Frank Sinatra inscribed “to the Hoboken of California.” God, what a phrase! An we had Sinatra’s movie camera. Or at least what purported to be. We knew because there was a blue and white Dyno label with “Sinatra” on it. There was no film, just an old Super 8 camera and case with his name. I always loved the label….like if he didn’t put his name on it, Joey Bishop would steal it without permission.
Hoboken…we couldn’t do better than Hoboken?
The only even vaguely historical item we had in town was three old bells that hung in an 8-foot high mock church steeple. The bells were said to commemorate Father Junipero Serra’s journey to bring smallpox and Catholicism to the pagans.
With typical modern scorn for anything worthwhile, this fake steeple, ended up in the parking lot of the Silver Creek McDonald’s. The McDonald’s people got tired of drunken kids trying to ring the bells, so they put a chain link fence around it, which looked incredibly hideous. So they asked the city to move it to the park.
And, in the half mile between McDonald’s and the park, the bells disappeared. That pretty much sums up Silver Creek. It’s the kind of place where three 100 lb bells can vanish in an afternoon and nobody thinks to notice until a year later when someone actually asks in a City Council meeting “hey, whatever happened to those bells?”
When it comes to historical importance, Silver Creek has none. We couldn’t even borrow any glory.
For a while in the 70s and 80s it was a big thing to become a sister city with someplace distant and/or impressive. Santa Pura, which is just to the south of Silver Creek, is sister city with some ancient village in China. In their central park they have a red pagoda as a sort of gazebo. It’s painted with fierce gold dragons and fat chrysanthemum blooms. Rather lovely, really, especially in the spring when the area around it is rich with irises and tulips.
To the north we have Lombards, which has as its sister city a distinguished Flemish town with an unpronounceable name. To show its fondness, the village gave to the town a gorgeous suit of armor worn by some medieval soldier with a truly historic codpiece. The armor is a marvelous piece of workmanship with bronzed vines and a truly panic-inducing helmet with tiny eye slits. There’s even a shield with a strutting red rooster prancing on a field of blue and white chevrons. The armor has pride of place in Lombards library and is actually something of a tourist attraction, being one of the finest pieces of Flemish armory in the U.S.
And then there’s Silver Creek and its sister city…Hoboken, New Jersey. God help us. Yup, that’s the best we could do. The gift from our sister city? A framed black and white photograph of three members of the Hoboken City Council shaking hands with three members of the Silver Creek City Council. Two of the three New Jerseyians later disappeared under mysterious circumstances and one was associated with that grim phrase, “dental records.”
We also had an autographed photo of Frank Sinatra inscribed “to the Hoboken of California.” God, what a phrase! An we had Sinatra’s movie camera. Or at least what purported to be. We knew because there was a blue and white Dyno label with “Sinatra” on it. There was no film, just an old Super 8 camera and case with his name. I always loved the label….like if he didn’t put his name on it, Joey Bishop would steal it without permission.
Hoboken…we couldn’t do better than Hoboken?
The only even vaguely historical item we had in town was three old bells that hung in an 8-foot high mock church steeple. The bells were said to commemorate Father Junipero Serra’s journey to bring smallpox and Catholicism to the pagans.
With typical modern scorn for anything worthwhile, this fake steeple, ended up in the parking lot of the Silver Creek McDonald’s. The McDonald’s people got tired of drunken kids trying to ring the bells, so they put a chain link fence around it, which looked incredibly hideous. So they asked the city to move it to the park.
And, in the half mile between McDonald’s and the park, the bells disappeared. That pretty much sums up Silver Creek. It’s the kind of place where three 100 lb bells can vanish in an afternoon and nobody thinks to notice until a year later when someone actually asks in a City Council meeting “hey, whatever happened to those bells?”
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Rufus and Mr. Goldman
Rumor had it Rufus was part bear, part German shepherd. His actual parentage was a mystery known only to god. Equally mysterious was where he came from. He showed up as a huge puppy one day, sleeping on the steps of city hall. When someone tried to pick him up, he gleefully decided it was a huge game and ran away, disappearing for a few days and then showing up again in the park.
From then on, he belonged to the town and the town belonged to him.
Everybody loved Rufus, even dog-haters, and he happily lived wherever he wanted. Any open door was an invitation and it wasn’t uncommon to look up and see him walking into your house. Half the businesses in town had bowls of water or food either on the sidewalk or just inside the door.
Rufus would frequently adopt people or businesses for a while. He’d decide to live at one house for a few weeks and then suddenly his gypsy would kick in and he’d be off somewhere else.
The Silver Creek Police Department, oddly enough, seemed to be his unofficial home. They set up a doghouse in the garage and that was his default shelter on rainy nights or when he decided he’d like to rough it rather than sleep on someone’s sofa. It always amused me that the never took him to the shelter or tried to reign him in. They let him come and go like the rest of the town. And occasionally they took him for a ride. The most un-K9 cop of them all. He’d sit in the passenger seat, head out the window, tongue hanging out, barking joyfully.
Rufus remained the town dog for about three years when he adopted Mr. Goldman.
Mr. Goldman was a locksmith who lived next door to my best friend, Sean. Rufus lived with Sean’s family for a week and then wandered out the door and into Mr. Goldman’s house. Like most of the city Mr. G welcomed Rufus with a fond scratch on the head and some leftover meatloaf. It must have been some great meatloaf, because Rufus never left.
All of Silver Creek, including Mr. G, expected Rufus to decamp after a week or so, but it never happened. Every time Mr. G let Rufus out he’d think it would be to move on, and yet Rufus stayed. And stayed.
After three months, Mr. G bought a collar.
After six months, Mr. G got Rufus a license.
It still wasn’t uncommon to see Rufus trotting down the street as though he owned it. But now it was in tandem with Mr. G.
And Rufus never left. He stayed with Mr. Goldman for the rest of his 12 years and when he died, the whole town held a memorial for the brown shaggy dog that everyone loved.
There’s still a plaque with a photo of Rufus on the wall of the Silver Creek Police Department.
Rumor had it Rufus was part bear, part German shepherd. His actual parentage was a mystery known only to god. Equally mysterious was where he came from. He showed up as a huge puppy one day, sleeping on the steps of city hall. When someone tried to pick him up, he gleefully decided it was a huge game and ran away, disappearing for a few days and then showing up again in the park.
From then on, he belonged to the town and the town belonged to him.
Everybody loved Rufus, even dog-haters, and he happily lived wherever he wanted. Any open door was an invitation and it wasn’t uncommon to look up and see him walking into your house. Half the businesses in town had bowls of water or food either on the sidewalk or just inside the door.
Rufus would frequently adopt people or businesses for a while. He’d decide to live at one house for a few weeks and then suddenly his gypsy would kick in and he’d be off somewhere else.
The Silver Creek Police Department, oddly enough, seemed to be his unofficial home. They set up a doghouse in the garage and that was his default shelter on rainy nights or when he decided he’d like to rough it rather than sleep on someone’s sofa. It always amused me that the never took him to the shelter or tried to reign him in. They let him come and go like the rest of the town. And occasionally they took him for a ride. The most un-K9 cop of them all. He’d sit in the passenger seat, head out the window, tongue hanging out, barking joyfully.
Rufus remained the town dog for about three years when he adopted Mr. Goldman.
Mr. Goldman was a locksmith who lived next door to my best friend, Sean. Rufus lived with Sean’s family for a week and then wandered out the door and into Mr. Goldman’s house. Like most of the city Mr. G welcomed Rufus with a fond scratch on the head and some leftover meatloaf. It must have been some great meatloaf, because Rufus never left.
All of Silver Creek, including Mr. G, expected Rufus to decamp after a week or so, but it never happened. Every time Mr. G let Rufus out he’d think it would be to move on, and yet Rufus stayed. And stayed.
After three months, Mr. G bought a collar.
After six months, Mr. G got Rufus a license.
It still wasn’t uncommon to see Rufus trotting down the street as though he owned it. But now it was in tandem with Mr. G.
And Rufus never left. He stayed with Mr. Goldman for the rest of his 12 years and when he died, the whole town held a memorial for the brown shaggy dog that everyone loved.
There’s still a plaque with a photo of Rufus on the wall of the Silver Creek Police Department.
Photo of the day; The Newcomers
Just brought into the shelter yesterday and still trying to figure out how things work. But kittens are very resilient. After an hour or so of coaxing and cuddling these two and their their siblings were happily being fed and having a good play. Extra cute, these guys. They'll find homes fast.
Just brought into the shelter yesterday and still trying to figure out how things work. But kittens are very resilient. After an hour or so of coaxing and cuddling these two and their their siblings were happily being fed and having a good play. Extra cute, these guys. They'll find homes fast.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Useless...
Useless. That pretty much describes the Monday lunch shift at the kitten nursery.
Now I don't want to insult the people who are kind enough to give their time to help these little kittens get a start in life, but oh my god these people are dumb. And hey, being a bitch is part of my charm.
Suspect #1. She's been with us since the beginning. And every shift she asks the most basic questions. "Where do we keep the litter?" Um...in that big bin labeled "cat litter." You know....where it has been kept since we opened. She cannot seem to recall from week-to-week where we keep things, what the procedure is, and in what order we do our jobs. She has the common sense of a gnat on Crack. She'll take kittens out of random kennels and put them back in the wrong places. (We work on one kennel at a time.) She got lost going to the sink (you have to leave the nursery and go down the hall to the first door on the right.) She'll just look at her watch and leave. No goodbye, just up and leave. Doesn't matter that we're not done. Apparently her busy life is more important.
Suspect #2 and Suspect #3. Started yesterday. A mother-son duo who are so dribbling useless as to actually cause extra work.
#2 is the son. 13-years old, and the shiest kid I've ever met. I have total sympathy for him. It's not easy to be 13 with a squeaky voice and no self-confidence. And you're thrown into a new situation. But hey....here's a tip. When you're thrown into a new situation and someone is trying to teach you the ropes (that would be me) LISTENING IS GOOD. This kid was looking around the room and seemed to be paying no attention to anything I said. A suspicion born out by the fact that, after I was done, he had no idea what to do.
This would not be surprising, but mom insisted that volunteering at the nursery was his idea! Really? Than grab a damned kitten you useless thruck. I think he's afraid of hurting the kittens, to the point where he's just afraid to touch them at all. I showed him how it was done. I showed him no fewer than nine times. You have to be a bit insistent with kittens, they're not just going to sit there all cooperative with their mouths open. You have to grab them by the scruff of their neck, sort of pull their heads back, put the syringe in from above and, with the softest of pressure, push the food into their mouths. They will try to get away. They will squirm. They will make "I am being tortured" noises. You must have no mercy. You are aided in this ruthlessness by the fact that you are bigger than they and you will always win.
Unless you are Suspect #2 in which case the kitten will blink and you will instantly let go, let it run to the other side of the table, and you will make no attempt to retrieve it. When told to try again he will make a vague movement in the direction of the kitten and whisper (in a voice so soft that his nose probably couldn't hear it) "come here kitten." The shift leader, swallowing both swears and a laugh, will gently explain that kittens don't do the whole "come here" thing and he must reach out and pick it up. And he will reach out with his hand hovering about six inches away, and seem terrified about getting any closer.
This kid was there for two and a half hours and did not successfully feed a single cat.
Mom (Suspect #3) was no help at all. You'd think with a total stranger (me) trying and obviously failing to instruct her kid in the fine art of kitten care she might pitch in now and then with advice, help, even motherly encouragement. You'd think wrong. Mom said nothing. She, too, was being instructed and apparently she learned one lesson that I don't recall teaching. And that lessons is; take an entire hour to feed one kitten 12 ccs of food.
Yup. One kitten. One hour. In the time it took the two of them to either feed or be completely intimidated by one kitten, I single-handedly feed 6 kittens, cleaned 2 cages, restocked our towels, took out the trash, did the dishes, and consulted with a vet tech one one cat with an eye infection. And still they sat, the two of them, useless.
I've tried patience. I've tried explaining. But the bottom line is that my shift is populated by idiots that make my job so much harder. I can't trust them to do anything without me watching them like a hawk. They pay no attention to our safety rules and would happily mix up kittens from different litters without me stopping them. (This happened four times yesterday.) I've showed everyone where to get towels and supplies and when I ask them to get some, they ask me to show them again. I'll ask them to clean the scales between weighing litters, and they'll use hand sanitizer rather than the spray that I've showed them how to use.
It would actually be faster for me to do the entire shift alone than to be saddled with theses losers.
Useless. That pretty much describes the Monday lunch shift at the kitten nursery.
Now I don't want to insult the people who are kind enough to give their time to help these little kittens get a start in life, but oh my god these people are dumb. And hey, being a bitch is part of my charm.
Suspect #1. She's been with us since the beginning. And every shift she asks the most basic questions. "Where do we keep the litter?" Um...in that big bin labeled "cat litter." You know....where it has been kept since we opened. She cannot seem to recall from week-to-week where we keep things, what the procedure is, and in what order we do our jobs. She has the common sense of a gnat on Crack. She'll take kittens out of random kennels and put them back in the wrong places. (We work on one kennel at a time.) She got lost going to the sink (you have to leave the nursery and go down the hall to the first door on the right.) She'll just look at her watch and leave. No goodbye, just up and leave. Doesn't matter that we're not done. Apparently her busy life is more important.
Suspect #2 and Suspect #3. Started yesterday. A mother-son duo who are so dribbling useless as to actually cause extra work.
#2 is the son. 13-years old, and the shiest kid I've ever met. I have total sympathy for him. It's not easy to be 13 with a squeaky voice and no self-confidence. And you're thrown into a new situation. But hey....here's a tip. When you're thrown into a new situation and someone is trying to teach you the ropes (that would be me) LISTENING IS GOOD. This kid was looking around the room and seemed to be paying no attention to anything I said. A suspicion born out by the fact that, after I was done, he had no idea what to do.
This would not be surprising, but mom insisted that volunteering at the nursery was his idea! Really? Than grab a damned kitten you useless thruck. I think he's afraid of hurting the kittens, to the point where he's just afraid to touch them at all. I showed him how it was done. I showed him no fewer than nine times. You have to be a bit insistent with kittens, they're not just going to sit there all cooperative with their mouths open. You have to grab them by the scruff of their neck, sort of pull their heads back, put the syringe in from above and, with the softest of pressure, push the food into their mouths. They will try to get away. They will squirm. They will make "I am being tortured" noises. You must have no mercy. You are aided in this ruthlessness by the fact that you are bigger than they and you will always win.
Unless you are Suspect #2 in which case the kitten will blink and you will instantly let go, let it run to the other side of the table, and you will make no attempt to retrieve it. When told to try again he will make a vague movement in the direction of the kitten and whisper (in a voice so soft that his nose probably couldn't hear it) "come here kitten." The shift leader, swallowing both swears and a laugh, will gently explain that kittens don't do the whole "come here" thing and he must reach out and pick it up. And he will reach out with his hand hovering about six inches away, and seem terrified about getting any closer.
This kid was there for two and a half hours and did not successfully feed a single cat.
Mom (Suspect #3) was no help at all. You'd think with a total stranger (me) trying and obviously failing to instruct her kid in the fine art of kitten care she might pitch in now and then with advice, help, even motherly encouragement. You'd think wrong. Mom said nothing. She, too, was being instructed and apparently she learned one lesson that I don't recall teaching. And that lessons is; take an entire hour to feed one kitten 12 ccs of food.
Yup. One kitten. One hour. In the time it took the two of them to either feed or be completely intimidated by one kitten, I single-handedly feed 6 kittens, cleaned 2 cages, restocked our towels, took out the trash, did the dishes, and consulted with a vet tech one one cat with an eye infection. And still they sat, the two of them, useless.
I've tried patience. I've tried explaining. But the bottom line is that my shift is populated by idiots that make my job so much harder. I can't trust them to do anything without me watching them like a hawk. They pay no attention to our safety rules and would happily mix up kittens from different litters without me stopping them. (This happened four times yesterday.) I've showed everyone where to get towels and supplies and when I ask them to get some, they ask me to show them again. I'll ask them to clean the scales between weighing litters, and they'll use hand sanitizer rather than the spray that I've showed them how to use.
It would actually be faster for me to do the entire shift alone than to be saddled with theses losers.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Good and the Bad
Today I came home from kitten duty in a raring good mood. Exhausted. Covered in kitten food. Starving. But so happy that I spend my day helping abandoned kittens get strong until they can find their forever homes.
I pull into the garage and grab the mail, and instantly my mood plummets. Not just sours....it drops about 50 points on the 1-100 scale. I got a jury duty summons, a car registration renewal, and a $3000 hospital bill. In the immortal words of Husband "oy and vey." Yes, oy and vey indeed.
It's amazing how quickly a few pieces of mail can change a day, isn't it? OK, the car registration is not so bad. But jury duty, which I realize is an obligation of citizenship, is a pain in the ass. And the $3000 bill came from out of the blue. I went into the ER in January with a 3-day migraine and they kept me in for 48-hours because I was dehydrated and that affected my heart rate. Thankfully we have health insurance, which took care of the majority of the exorbitant bill....but it was months ago and I hadn't heard anything from the hospital so I thought we were OK. No, we aren't. We owe $3300 -- a huge expenditure we weren't counting on. Sigh...
Mood are funny things. Sometimes you'll get the blues for no reason at all. Sometimes you'll wake up in a gorgeous mood and have no idea why. And then there are little things that turn around a mood. A random phone call from an old friend can take the worst day and make it spectacular. And I can be running around singing a favorite tune and then hear some bad news and suddenly that favorite tune goes out of the mind.
Of course when the random things don't happen, you can always take steps to turn your mood around. For me, it's music. Music is unbeatable when it comes to either enhancing or altering a mood. There are some songs that I find it impossible to be sad to. Put them on, crank them up, and I'm dancing -- regardless of whatever trouble it is that I'm trying to forget. A glass of wine. A hot bath. A long walk by the bay or up in the foothills. And old favorite movie, a bowl of popcorn, and me and Husband snuggling on the sofa. Indulging in some chocolate or ice cream. Putting in extra time with the cats.
So the remedy for the jury duty/registration/hospital bill triumvirate of gloom? Bread and cheese. Stephen Fry cracking me up with clips from his show QI on youtube. And just now, some shortbread cookies. Yes, I'm indulging in nutritional mood enhancers but, you know what, I don't care. I feel better now.
Today I came home from kitten duty in a raring good mood. Exhausted. Covered in kitten food. Starving. But so happy that I spend my day helping abandoned kittens get strong until they can find their forever homes.
I pull into the garage and grab the mail, and instantly my mood plummets. Not just sours....it drops about 50 points on the 1-100 scale. I got a jury duty summons, a car registration renewal, and a $3000 hospital bill. In the immortal words of Husband "oy and vey." Yes, oy and vey indeed.
It's amazing how quickly a few pieces of mail can change a day, isn't it? OK, the car registration is not so bad. But jury duty, which I realize is an obligation of citizenship, is a pain in the ass. And the $3000 bill came from out of the blue. I went into the ER in January with a 3-day migraine and they kept me in for 48-hours because I was dehydrated and that affected my heart rate. Thankfully we have health insurance, which took care of the majority of the exorbitant bill....but it was months ago and I hadn't heard anything from the hospital so I thought we were OK. No, we aren't. We owe $3300 -- a huge expenditure we weren't counting on. Sigh...
Mood are funny things. Sometimes you'll get the blues for no reason at all. Sometimes you'll wake up in a gorgeous mood and have no idea why. And then there are little things that turn around a mood. A random phone call from an old friend can take the worst day and make it spectacular. And I can be running around singing a favorite tune and then hear some bad news and suddenly that favorite tune goes out of the mind.
Of course when the random things don't happen, you can always take steps to turn your mood around. For me, it's music. Music is unbeatable when it comes to either enhancing or altering a mood. There are some songs that I find it impossible to be sad to. Put them on, crank them up, and I'm dancing -- regardless of whatever trouble it is that I'm trying to forget. A glass of wine. A hot bath. A long walk by the bay or up in the foothills. And old favorite movie, a bowl of popcorn, and me and Husband snuggling on the sofa. Indulging in some chocolate or ice cream. Putting in extra time with the cats.
So the remedy for the jury duty/registration/hospital bill triumvirate of gloom? Bread and cheese. Stephen Fry cracking me up with clips from his show QI on youtube. And just now, some shortbread cookies. Yes, I'm indulging in nutritional mood enhancers but, you know what, I don't care. I feel better now.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Things that make me smile
- Flannel jammies on a cold night
- When you see a good deed being passed on. Like letting someone merge into traffic in front of you and then they let someone in
- The serendipity that comes when you think of a favorite song and then you hear it on the radio
- San Francisco sourdough french bread....in any context
- The way Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) greets us when we come home
- Seeing old couples holding hands
- Finding I Love Lucy on at 3 am
- Getting actual mail from a friend, not just bills in the post
- The way the house smells when I'm baking cookies
- Finding a new author with lots of books and working your way through the canon because they're all so good
- Coming home to find a package on the front porch
- Knowing that no matter what happens during the day, it'll all be better when Husband comes home and we're back together
- Having listeners call during my show to say they're enjoying the music
- The way little kids can get away with staring at people in a manner than adults can't get away with
- Hearing someone laugh wholeheartedly
- Seeing a cop on the freeway when you're not speeding and you don't have that moment of panic that goes with noting a highway patrol car in your rearview mirror
- Not having to worry about what to make for dinner
- Knowing total strangers are reading this and thinking about what makes them smile
- Flannel jammies on a cold night
- When you see a good deed being passed on. Like letting someone merge into traffic in front of you and then they let someone in
- The serendipity that comes when you think of a favorite song and then you hear it on the radio
- San Francisco sourdough french bread....in any context
- The way Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) greets us when we come home
- Seeing old couples holding hands
- Finding I Love Lucy on at 3 am
- Getting actual mail from a friend, not just bills in the post
- The way the house smells when I'm baking cookies
- Finding a new author with lots of books and working your way through the canon because they're all so good
- Coming home to find a package on the front porch
- Knowing that no matter what happens during the day, it'll all be better when Husband comes home and we're back together
- Having listeners call during my show to say they're enjoying the music
- The way little kids can get away with staring at people in a manner than adults can't get away with
- Hearing someone laugh wholeheartedly
- Seeing a cop on the freeway when you're not speeding and you don't have that moment of panic that goes with noting a highway patrol car in your rearview mirror
- Not having to worry about what to make for dinner
- Knowing total strangers are reading this and thinking about what makes them smile
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Fortuneteller
Sometimes I think the oddest thing about Minerva Gosgold was her name. I was never sure if she grew into the name or the name was what defined her. But I suppose if you’re saddled with a name like Minerva you have no choice but to grow up to be a fortuneteller.
A professional psychic was something of an anomaly in Sliver Creek. It was, and is, too prosaic a town for palm reading or crystal balls. It was considered a bit strange to read your horoscope. But Minerva somehow managed to make a living from her tiny shop on Ascot Street, sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a Chinese deli with chickens hanging in the window. When you walked down the street you got an interesting blend of starch, incense, and hot sauce.
Minerva was an interesting mix of contradictions. She had short hair and long legs. She had a big noise and small eyes. She was a psychic and also, most unexpectedly, a Catholic. Whenever Our Lady of Angels had a spaghetti dinner or bingo night, Minerva was first on the list of volunteers. She proclaimed this duality by always wearing both a crucifix and ankh pendant and she saw no strangeness in going to confession every week and then spending her afternoons reading other people’s auras.
Minerva’s family was riotously normal – the only unique thing in their lives being the name of their daughter. For a couple named Mary and Ralph, the name Minerva seemed so unexpected. I don’t believe anyone ever had the nerve to ask them why, and Minerva never said, so the origin of her name always remained something of a mystery. For a while during my childhood the Gosgolds lived directly behind our house. We shared a back fence and occasionally we’d find one of their cats lazing on our back lawn. I remember going into their house for some reason and being intrigued by the orange shag carpeting and autographed picture of Rudolph Valentino.
Nobody could ever understand how Minerva made a living as she never seemed to have customers and I don’t recall anyone ever going into her shop. But she made enough to stay in business and was even president of the Silver Creek Chamber of Commerce for a time.
Her shop looked the part with a purple bead curtain in the door that clacked in the breeze. And that curiously charming dichotomy of faith was illustrated by a giant neon eye in the window, with a poster of the Virgin of Guadalupe underneath. Truthfully that poster always freaked me out as the Virgin was surrounded by disembodied cherub heads with wings. No bodies, just heads with wings. To this day thinking of that poster gives me the creeps.
Minerva certainly looked ever inch a fortuneteller in flowing caftans and long crystal earrings. But then, on Sunday’s, she became a proper Catholic woman in a dark dress with a scarf and a garish set of bright green rosary beads that she held even when no rosary was being said. And in spite of having no musical talent whatsoever she was an enthusiastic alto in the congregation, usually singing just a few seconds ahead of everyone else and reducing those nearby to giggles.
Yet it was hard to make fun of her because for all her eccentricities she was a sweet and kind woman who always had a smile and frequently had hard butterscotch candies that she’d slip to the kids. She was also quite sincere in who she was. Being a psychic was just part of who she was, like being left-handed and tall. She never talked about it. Never said proclaimed that she believed she could tell the future and predict fortunes – she just was.
After her parents died she lived alone with two cats. A Persian and a Russian blue. Abdullah and Leopold the Great. Leopold was, of course, the Persian and Abdullah the Russian. She never dated, although she had many dear friends. But no man was ever seen to cross the threshold of her tidy house on Locust Avenue.
When she was in her 50s, Minerva went to the wedding of a distant cousin and came back with a fianc̩. He was a retired high school teacher named Herbert Hayes and he was obviously besotted with his exotic Minerva. Within the month they were married at Our Lady of Angels and they really did live happily ever after РMinerva telling fortunes and Herbert painting Napoleonic soldiers.
I remember a beaming Minerva at the wedding and overheard her saying to a friend that when it came to Herbert “she never could have predicted it.”
Sometimes I think the oddest thing about Minerva Gosgold was her name. I was never sure if she grew into the name or the name was what defined her. But I suppose if you’re saddled with a name like Minerva you have no choice but to grow up to be a fortuneteller.
A professional psychic was something of an anomaly in Sliver Creek. It was, and is, too prosaic a town for palm reading or crystal balls. It was considered a bit strange to read your horoscope. But Minerva somehow managed to make a living from her tiny shop on Ascot Street, sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a Chinese deli with chickens hanging in the window. When you walked down the street you got an interesting blend of starch, incense, and hot sauce.
Minerva was an interesting mix of contradictions. She had short hair and long legs. She had a big noise and small eyes. She was a psychic and also, most unexpectedly, a Catholic. Whenever Our Lady of Angels had a spaghetti dinner or bingo night, Minerva was first on the list of volunteers. She proclaimed this duality by always wearing both a crucifix and ankh pendant and she saw no strangeness in going to confession every week and then spending her afternoons reading other people’s auras.
Minerva’s family was riotously normal – the only unique thing in their lives being the name of their daughter. For a couple named Mary and Ralph, the name Minerva seemed so unexpected. I don’t believe anyone ever had the nerve to ask them why, and Minerva never said, so the origin of her name always remained something of a mystery. For a while during my childhood the Gosgolds lived directly behind our house. We shared a back fence and occasionally we’d find one of their cats lazing on our back lawn. I remember going into their house for some reason and being intrigued by the orange shag carpeting and autographed picture of Rudolph Valentino.
Nobody could ever understand how Minerva made a living as she never seemed to have customers and I don’t recall anyone ever going into her shop. But she made enough to stay in business and was even president of the Silver Creek Chamber of Commerce for a time.
Her shop looked the part with a purple bead curtain in the door that clacked in the breeze. And that curiously charming dichotomy of faith was illustrated by a giant neon eye in the window, with a poster of the Virgin of Guadalupe underneath. Truthfully that poster always freaked me out as the Virgin was surrounded by disembodied cherub heads with wings. No bodies, just heads with wings. To this day thinking of that poster gives me the creeps.
Minerva certainly looked ever inch a fortuneteller in flowing caftans and long crystal earrings. But then, on Sunday’s, she became a proper Catholic woman in a dark dress with a scarf and a garish set of bright green rosary beads that she held even when no rosary was being said. And in spite of having no musical talent whatsoever she was an enthusiastic alto in the congregation, usually singing just a few seconds ahead of everyone else and reducing those nearby to giggles.
Yet it was hard to make fun of her because for all her eccentricities she was a sweet and kind woman who always had a smile and frequently had hard butterscotch candies that she’d slip to the kids. She was also quite sincere in who she was. Being a psychic was just part of who she was, like being left-handed and tall. She never talked about it. Never said proclaimed that she believed she could tell the future and predict fortunes – she just was.
After her parents died she lived alone with two cats. A Persian and a Russian blue. Abdullah and Leopold the Great. Leopold was, of course, the Persian and Abdullah the Russian. She never dated, although she had many dear friends. But no man was ever seen to cross the threshold of her tidy house on Locust Avenue.
When she was in her 50s, Minerva went to the wedding of a distant cousin and came back with a fianc̩. He was a retired high school teacher named Herbert Hayes and he was obviously besotted with his exotic Minerva. Within the month they were married at Our Lady of Angels and they really did live happily ever after РMinerva telling fortunes and Herbert painting Napoleonic soldiers.
I remember a beaming Minerva at the wedding and overheard her saying to a friend that when it came to Herbert “she never could have predicted it.”
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Remember when...?
...green was a color, not a movement
...you had to get off the sofa to change the channels
...when you dialed a phone you actually had to "dial" the phone
...MTV played music videos, not reality shows
...there was no MTV
...movies had plots, not special effects
...James Bond was the only guy on earth with a phone in his car
...you had to go actual miles to get coffee
...in order to get money you had to actually go into the bank
...sitcoms were funny
...you'd actually heard of the people on the covers of magazines
Yeah, I'm getting old.
...green was a color, not a movement
...you had to get off the sofa to change the channels
...when you dialed a phone you actually had to "dial" the phone
...MTV played music videos, not reality shows
...there was no MTV
...movies had plots, not special effects
...James Bond was the only guy on earth with a phone in his car
...you had to go actual miles to get coffee
...in order to get money you had to actually go into the bank
...sitcoms were funny
...you'd actually heard of the people on the covers of magazines
Yeah, I'm getting old.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Photo of the day: The Snack Shack
It's been raining a lot lately. So when I feed the feral cats in our backyard I don't put food in the open dish. I put it in our little cat house. Here it is, open for business. It keeps the food dry, which the kitties appreciate, plus it's just dang cute. (Thanks to my beloved ex-husband for making it.)
It's been raining a lot lately. So when I feed the feral cats in our backyard I don't put food in the open dish. I put it in our little cat house. Here it is, open for business. It keeps the food dry, which the kitties appreciate, plus it's just dang cute. (Thanks to my beloved ex-husband for making it.)
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Gotcha
What is your captured movie? The one film that can always snare you in when you see it on TV. You're flipping the channels or searching the guide and suddenly BAM there is it. That one film you can always watch -- no matter how late you tun into the film. You'll watch. Oh you know you will.
You've seen in probably a dozen or more times and yet it still calls to you. For some people their Captured Movie is a a fairly recent production usually preceded by the phrase "cult following," I can't tell you the number of people I know for whom The Big Lebowsky has reached iconic standing.
For me? I prefer the classics. I am physically incapable of turning off Casablanca. I don't care where it is in the movie or where I am in life. If it's. I'm hooked. Same for Singing in the Rain, Charade, and The Philadelphia Story.
I can quote the dialogue word for word (much to the annoyance of my friends) and pratcically get giddy when I see these old favorites on TV. So what films have the same effect on you? Please tell me I'm not along in my movie loyalty.
What is your captured movie? The one film that can always snare you in when you see it on TV. You're flipping the channels or searching the guide and suddenly BAM there is it. That one film you can always watch -- no matter how late you tun into the film. You'll watch. Oh you know you will.
You've seen in probably a dozen or more times and yet it still calls to you. For some people their Captured Movie is a a fairly recent production usually preceded by the phrase "cult following," I can't tell you the number of people I know for whom The Big Lebowsky has reached iconic standing.
For me? I prefer the classics. I am physically incapable of turning off Casablanca. I don't care where it is in the movie or where I am in life. If it's. I'm hooked. Same for Singing in the Rain, Charade, and The Philadelphia Story.
I can quote the dialogue word for word (much to the annoyance of my friends) and pratcically get giddy when I see these old favorites on TV. So what films have the same effect on you? Please tell me I'm not along in my movie loyalty.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Thank you. Go away.
Being a volunteer and being surrounded by other volunteers is an interesting experience. Sometimes I feel like I'm working harder now for no money than I ever worked for a paycheck. I get no benefits. No boost to the bank account. I get paid in purrs and those moments when a cat that normally bites you finally calms down and lets you get near.
The other payoff is being around the other people at the shelter.
There's a certain kind of kindness that is common in people who give of their time. And I don't mean that to sound egotistical, it's just an observation. My fellow volunteers are all in it for the same reasons. Because we love animals and because we want to help them. There are some retired people happy to be able to do what they love now that their working career is over. Some people on various forms of disability who struggle with the physical demands of the job but do it anyway. There are part-time workers and college students with a desire to do something worthwhile with their free time. Even a few full-time workers who find the time to do something good.
I'm kind of the weird one. The voluntarily unemployed. But then again not everyone is as lucky to have someone like Husband who is willing to support me both financially and emotionally.
The odd thing is that not everyone is likable. You find that you want to like them, because they're doing good, but it's impossible to like everyone and there are as many annoying people in volunteerism as anywhere else. There are some people who, when I seem them come in, I sort of say to myself "oh no....X is here." On the one hand you applaud them for their social conscience. On the other hand you want to turn and run because of their bad oral hygiene or boring stories. Thank you for giving of your time but if I have to hear about your freakishly adorable granddaughter one more time I'm going to zarf.
As with paying jobs, you don't get to pick your co-workers. And sometimes you just have to make the best of it. While most of the time we're going one-on-one with the animals, there are times when circumstances force you to team up. If someone asks you to help them socialize a bonded pair, for instance, you can hardly say "not even for the sake of these needy cats will I voluntarily put myself alone in a room with you and your iPhone full of pictures of Vermont." So you go. And you do your best to nod and say "yes, lovely tree....a lot like the last 15 trees" and you try to get their focus on the cats. And when it fails and you realize you're stuck there for 20 minutes, you wonder if it would be more bearable if you were getting paid for it.
God I love my job.
Being a volunteer and being surrounded by other volunteers is an interesting experience. Sometimes I feel like I'm working harder now for no money than I ever worked for a paycheck. I get no benefits. No boost to the bank account. I get paid in purrs and those moments when a cat that normally bites you finally calms down and lets you get near.
The other payoff is being around the other people at the shelter.
There's a certain kind of kindness that is common in people who give of their time. And I don't mean that to sound egotistical, it's just an observation. My fellow volunteers are all in it for the same reasons. Because we love animals and because we want to help them. There are some retired people happy to be able to do what they love now that their working career is over. Some people on various forms of disability who struggle with the physical demands of the job but do it anyway. There are part-time workers and college students with a desire to do something worthwhile with their free time. Even a few full-time workers who find the time to do something good.
I'm kind of the weird one. The voluntarily unemployed. But then again not everyone is as lucky to have someone like Husband who is willing to support me both financially and emotionally.
The odd thing is that not everyone is likable. You find that you want to like them, because they're doing good, but it's impossible to like everyone and there are as many annoying people in volunteerism as anywhere else. There are some people who, when I seem them come in, I sort of say to myself "oh no....X is here." On the one hand you applaud them for their social conscience. On the other hand you want to turn and run because of their bad oral hygiene or boring stories. Thank you for giving of your time but if I have to hear about your freakishly adorable granddaughter one more time I'm going to zarf.
As with paying jobs, you don't get to pick your co-workers. And sometimes you just have to make the best of it. While most of the time we're going one-on-one with the animals, there are times when circumstances force you to team up. If someone asks you to help them socialize a bonded pair, for instance, you can hardly say "not even for the sake of these needy cats will I voluntarily put myself alone in a room with you and your iPhone full of pictures of Vermont." So you go. And you do your best to nod and say "yes, lovely tree....a lot like the last 15 trees" and you try to get their focus on the cats. And when it fails and you realize you're stuck there for 20 minutes, you wonder if it would be more bearable if you were getting paid for it.
God I love my job.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Good Cat/Bad Cat
Cats are endlessly fascinating. And endlessly mysterious.
There are some cats that I've worked with for ages who, for one reason or another, will suddenly take a dislike to me and turn the visit into a Vaudeville sketch. We go from play and purring to something resembling one of those crazy Italian acrobatic acts where everyone is tripping over everyone else. You can almost hear the crazy music in the background.
It's like one day Cat X will say "oh, it's that nice lady with the catnip. I will sit in her lap to make her think I like her." And a few days later Cat X will say "I must assert my superiority over the two-footed creature. I shall unleash the claws of hell."
Of course the opposite happens as well. Some kitty notorious for it's gang signs and long rap sheet will greet me like something out of Bambi and little bluebirds will appear as the kitty will lean into me for affection.
Today I had both happen. One of the cats that is usually sweet, loving, and gentle was in no mood for attention today. Maybe it was kitty PMS. Maybe she had a flashback to Nam. Whatever the cause, I opened her cage and instead of being greeted with the expected welcoming meow and a stretch before walking over to me, she did her perfect imitation of a Halloween cut-out and gave forth with a hiss like a steam engine. I tried talking quietly to her, trying to calm her down, but she was having none of it. After about five minutes, I gave up. I knew it was best to leave her alone to try another day.
Later I approached, with understandable caution, a red cat noted for scratching and biting. This time I opened the cage and he came right to me. He leaned his head into my hand and instantly started purring. Naturally I looked around for the hidden camera, expecting at any moment for the cat to have its "a ha!" moment when he turned with fangs bared and divested me of two fingers.
But nope. No such thing. He was like an advertisement for Adopt-a-Cat. He was loving. He was playful. He purred. He snuggled into my chest like it was an ad for fabric softener. We had a long and lovely visit and when it was over, he licked my hand as if to say "thank you, human, you have made my day."
Cats. Go figure.
Cats are endlessly fascinating. And endlessly mysterious.
There are some cats that I've worked with for ages who, for one reason or another, will suddenly take a dislike to me and turn the visit into a Vaudeville sketch. We go from play and purring to something resembling one of those crazy Italian acrobatic acts where everyone is tripping over everyone else. You can almost hear the crazy music in the background.
It's like one day Cat X will say "oh, it's that nice lady with the catnip. I will sit in her lap to make her think I like her." And a few days later Cat X will say "I must assert my superiority over the two-footed creature. I shall unleash the claws of hell."
Of course the opposite happens as well. Some kitty notorious for it's gang signs and long rap sheet will greet me like something out of Bambi and little bluebirds will appear as the kitty will lean into me for affection.
Today I had both happen. One of the cats that is usually sweet, loving, and gentle was in no mood for attention today. Maybe it was kitty PMS. Maybe she had a flashback to Nam. Whatever the cause, I opened her cage and instead of being greeted with the expected welcoming meow and a stretch before walking over to me, she did her perfect imitation of a Halloween cut-out and gave forth with a hiss like a steam engine. I tried talking quietly to her, trying to calm her down, but she was having none of it. After about five minutes, I gave up. I knew it was best to leave her alone to try another day.
Later I approached, with understandable caution, a red cat noted for scratching and biting. This time I opened the cage and he came right to me. He leaned his head into my hand and instantly started purring. Naturally I looked around for the hidden camera, expecting at any moment for the cat to have its "a ha!" moment when he turned with fangs bared and divested me of two fingers.
But nope. No such thing. He was like an advertisement for Adopt-a-Cat. He was loving. He was playful. He purred. He snuggled into my chest like it was an ad for fabric softener. We had a long and lovely visit and when it was over, he licked my hand as if to say "thank you, human, you have made my day."
Cats. Go figure.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Mother(less) Day
I am not a mother and I don't want to be.
I'd be a lousy mom. I'd be miserable and stressed and make the kid that way. I'd never sleep. I'd neglect Husband (whom I adore beyond words). I'd eat my young.
And yet everyone expects every woman to want kids.
Nope. No way. God forbid.
I have some wonderful friends who are wonderful mothers. And I stand in open-mouthed amazement at them because I couldn't do it. Nor do I have any desire to do so. Never did. Never played with baby dolls as a girl. Never wanted to hold anybody's baby. Hell, I didn't talk to my own nephew until he got into high school and could hold an intelligent conversation.
And yet rather than being applauded for recognizing that motherhood would be a disastrous choice for all concerned -- society views women who are childless by choice as being somehow selfish. People...it's not like the species is in any danger of dying out. Considering how many abused and neglected children there are in the world, it would probably be a better thing if more people decided never to breed.
So I'll reserve what little maternal instincts I have for Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and the cats at the shelter. And while I won't have breakfast in bed or a homemade cup with "world's greatest mom" on it -- I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that I have made absolutely, positively, the best decision to never, ever have kids.
I am not a mother and I don't want to be.
I'd be a lousy mom. I'd be miserable and stressed and make the kid that way. I'd never sleep. I'd neglect Husband (whom I adore beyond words). I'd eat my young.
And yet everyone expects every woman to want kids.
Nope. No way. God forbid.
I have some wonderful friends who are wonderful mothers. And I stand in open-mouthed amazement at them because I couldn't do it. Nor do I have any desire to do so. Never did. Never played with baby dolls as a girl. Never wanted to hold anybody's baby. Hell, I didn't talk to my own nephew until he got into high school and could hold an intelligent conversation.
And yet rather than being applauded for recognizing that motherhood would be a disastrous choice for all concerned -- society views women who are childless by choice as being somehow selfish. People...it's not like the species is in any danger of dying out. Considering how many abused and neglected children there are in the world, it would probably be a better thing if more people decided never to breed.
So I'll reserve what little maternal instincts I have for Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and the cats at the shelter. And while I won't have breakfast in bed or a homemade cup with "world's greatest mom" on it -- I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that I have made absolutely, positively, the best decision to never, ever have kids.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Photo of the day: Escape from San Francisco
It's odd what draws people together.
Husband and I have a great deal in common. Old movies. Good music. Love of animals. And, as I discovered in a random conversation today, an appreciation for (of all things) fire escapes.
I love their odd perspectives and how their necessity makes them both visible and yet somehow easy to overlook.
This one from an SF coffee house/apartment building I was at with an old friend.
It's odd what draws people together.
Husband and I have a great deal in common. Old movies. Good music. Love of animals. And, as I discovered in a random conversation today, an appreciation for (of all things) fire escapes.
I love their odd perspectives and how their necessity makes them both visible and yet somehow easy to overlook.
This one from an SF coffee house/apartment building I was at with an old friend.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: French for a Day
Mrs. Clemence Chabot was quite possibly the sweetest woman ever born. She came to Silver Creek as a war bride. The first war. Jean Chabot was born and raised in Silver Creek to French parents and grew up speaking the language. When WWI started he enlisted and, due to his fluency, ended up in Paris working for the war office.
He told the story over and over. One day he was enjoying the sunshine in Parc Monceau when suddenly his life appeared. She was wearing a lavender dress and he said at first he mistook her for one of the flowers. He fell in love before they’d even spoken.
It was the luckiest day of his life, he said, and she felt the same. Within two months they were married and six months later she came back with him to Silver Creek, knowing no one and leaving all she knew behind.
I remember asking her once if she weren’t scared to leave her county and come to a strange place. She replied that of course she was scared, but with her beloved Jean holding her hand she knew everything would be fine.
Jean always promised that one day he’d take her back to Paris but he never did. Life and time took over. The chances slipped away until one day they were facing their 60th anniversary and Clemence was too fragile for the trip.
She was a lovely woman. Ladylike and petite with that enviable quality of beauty only French women can achieve. And she loved life. I’m told that from her first day in town she was enchanted with Silver Creek. I have no idea why. After a lifetime in the City of Lights, Silver Creek must have been boring as hell. And yet she was charmed. And the city was charmed right back.
In her adorable broken English, that never seemed to get any better, she chatted to everyone and embraced the world. The Chabot house was always sparkling and warm and her garden was the envy of the town. Every spring it burst out in color and scent and every winter it became a Christmas card.
Clemence and Jean never had any children and yet they never seemed to feel as if it were just the two of them. Children naturally flocked to Clemence and she reciprocated with homemade lemonade that she called “Citron Presse,” which made it seem very cosmopolitan. And she was generous with hugs to anyone who stood still long enough.
Jean and Clemence were good friends with Jacques and Emile, who lived across the street from us. They would gather once a week to play piquet and gossip in French. It was from Emile that we learned how bad Jean felt about not being able to take his war bride back to Paris for a visit. And so Jean, the most besotted man I’ve ever known, decided to bring Paris to her.
It’s a rare thing for an entire town to come together for something other than a disaster but for one beautiful day Silver Creek united in the call of romance.
The 60th anniversary celebration took two months and a great deal of whispering to plan. The amazing thing about it was that Clemence never caught on and was well and truly surprised.
Jean enlisted all of his friends, who enlisted friends, and the idea was so completely enchanting that the whole town wanted in on the scheme. It was Christmas, Halloween, and Valentine’s Day all in one.
Anyone in town who could speak French gave secret lessons in the language so that everyone could say a little something. Even just a bon jour. Men got out their father’s or grandfather’s doughboy uniforms and women worked for weeks to create as authentic an 1918 dress as possible. Tricolors were ordered and Grover Park was transformed into as Parisian a space as possible.
On the morning of the day everyone was ready. As planned, Jean took Clemence for a walk downtown, saying nothing to her about what was happening. From the first moment it was magic. People who had known the for years, but had only spoken in English, stopped to say bon jour or wish them a joyeux anniversaire. Men in WWI uniforms or dapper suites walked arm-in-arm with silk clad women with hats and gloves. Mr. Martin, who taught French at Silver Creek High and had a warm tenor, sang bal musette tunes at the entrance to the park.
Slowly Clemence caught on and her smile could have lit up the city of lights itself. Everyone from the most hard-boiled plumber to the most romantic of matrons got into the spirit of things and slowly joined the procession to Grover Park.
Jean lead Clemence to the center of the park which was brilliant with daffodils and tulips, planted specially for the occasion and all done overnight by an army of love-struck volunteers. Eventually nearly a hundred people gathered around the couple, Jean beaming like the cat with the cream and Clemence a beautiful mixture of laughter and tears.
Father Sheehy, not the sweetest of men, surprised everyone by spending weeks perfecting the Our Father in French and once the town had gathered he raised his hands and blessed the couple. He then said, “you may now kiss the bride.”
And then, as arranged, the town slipped away. Nobody said anything to indicate that it was at all unusual that we were all French for an hour. That was part of the charm, the unacknowledged whimsy of it all. As the two kissed people went on their way, as if it were any other morning in Paris, 1918.
Mrs. Clemence Chabot was quite possibly the sweetest woman ever born. She came to Silver Creek as a war bride. The first war. Jean Chabot was born and raised in Silver Creek to French parents and grew up speaking the language. When WWI started he enlisted and, due to his fluency, ended up in Paris working for the war office.
He told the story over and over. One day he was enjoying the sunshine in Parc Monceau when suddenly his life appeared. She was wearing a lavender dress and he said at first he mistook her for one of the flowers. He fell in love before they’d even spoken.
It was the luckiest day of his life, he said, and she felt the same. Within two months they were married and six months later she came back with him to Silver Creek, knowing no one and leaving all she knew behind.
I remember asking her once if she weren’t scared to leave her county and come to a strange place. She replied that of course she was scared, but with her beloved Jean holding her hand she knew everything would be fine.
Jean always promised that one day he’d take her back to Paris but he never did. Life and time took over. The chances slipped away until one day they were facing their 60th anniversary and Clemence was too fragile for the trip.
She was a lovely woman. Ladylike and petite with that enviable quality of beauty only French women can achieve. And she loved life. I’m told that from her first day in town she was enchanted with Silver Creek. I have no idea why. After a lifetime in the City of Lights, Silver Creek must have been boring as hell. And yet she was charmed. And the city was charmed right back.
In her adorable broken English, that never seemed to get any better, she chatted to everyone and embraced the world. The Chabot house was always sparkling and warm and her garden was the envy of the town. Every spring it burst out in color and scent and every winter it became a Christmas card.
Clemence and Jean never had any children and yet they never seemed to feel as if it were just the two of them. Children naturally flocked to Clemence and she reciprocated with homemade lemonade that she called “Citron Presse,” which made it seem very cosmopolitan. And she was generous with hugs to anyone who stood still long enough.
Jean and Clemence were good friends with Jacques and Emile, who lived across the street from us. They would gather once a week to play piquet and gossip in French. It was from Emile that we learned how bad Jean felt about not being able to take his war bride back to Paris for a visit. And so Jean, the most besotted man I’ve ever known, decided to bring Paris to her.
It’s a rare thing for an entire town to come together for something other than a disaster but for one beautiful day Silver Creek united in the call of romance.
The 60th anniversary celebration took two months and a great deal of whispering to plan. The amazing thing about it was that Clemence never caught on and was well and truly surprised.
Jean enlisted all of his friends, who enlisted friends, and the idea was so completely enchanting that the whole town wanted in on the scheme. It was Christmas, Halloween, and Valentine’s Day all in one.
Anyone in town who could speak French gave secret lessons in the language so that everyone could say a little something. Even just a bon jour. Men got out their father’s or grandfather’s doughboy uniforms and women worked for weeks to create as authentic an 1918 dress as possible. Tricolors were ordered and Grover Park was transformed into as Parisian a space as possible.
On the morning of the day everyone was ready. As planned, Jean took Clemence for a walk downtown, saying nothing to her about what was happening. From the first moment it was magic. People who had known the for years, but had only spoken in English, stopped to say bon jour or wish them a joyeux anniversaire. Men in WWI uniforms or dapper suites walked arm-in-arm with silk clad women with hats and gloves. Mr. Martin, who taught French at Silver Creek High and had a warm tenor, sang bal musette tunes at the entrance to the park.
Slowly Clemence caught on and her smile could have lit up the city of lights itself. Everyone from the most hard-boiled plumber to the most romantic of matrons got into the spirit of things and slowly joined the procession to Grover Park.
Jean lead Clemence to the center of the park which was brilliant with daffodils and tulips, planted specially for the occasion and all done overnight by an army of love-struck volunteers. Eventually nearly a hundred people gathered around the couple, Jean beaming like the cat with the cream and Clemence a beautiful mixture of laughter and tears.
Father Sheehy, not the sweetest of men, surprised everyone by spending weeks perfecting the Our Father in French and once the town had gathered he raised his hands and blessed the couple. He then said, “you may now kiss the bride.”
And then, as arranged, the town slipped away. Nobody said anything to indicate that it was at all unusual that we were all French for an hour. That was part of the charm, the unacknowledged whimsy of it all. As the two kissed people went on their way, as if it were any other morning in Paris, 1918.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
The May/Jaws Jinx
Now I am not a superstitious person. Except for two things: The month of May and the movie "Jaws." Put the two together, and it instils fill into my tiny heart.
Almost everyone who was every important to me has died in May:
My best friend/brother. His partner. My father. My grandmother. All of them in in may.
Now here comes the weird bit.
I watch watching Jaws when I got the news about my father. A few years later Jaws was on again when I got news that my grandmother was dying. And years after that, same movie, the call came telling me I needed to take steps to have my best friends moved into hospice care.
So now I am officially freaked out. Jaws is on....right now! I just saw it in the channel listings. And while I don't know anyone on the critical list, I'm still careful. I don't ever turn it on. EVER. And if it passes by accidentally I will zoom past it with indecent hast to mitigate the infection.
If someone dare to may makes a casual conversation in May about how they're allergies are really acting up or their overdue for a doctor's appointment. I practically bundle them off to ER just to be certain,
I'm not in the least paranoid about anything else. But you take the movie and this month together and became a walking bag of nerves until June when I can breathe at last, But until then, if you love me, turn offJaws, watch your step, and take your vitimins because I just cant take another blow to my conscience.
Now I am not a superstitious person. Except for two things: The month of May and the movie "Jaws." Put the two together, and it instils fill into my tiny heart.
Almost everyone who was every important to me has died in May:
My best friend/brother. His partner. My father. My grandmother. All of them in in may.
Now here comes the weird bit.
I watch watching Jaws when I got the news about my father. A few years later Jaws was on again when I got news that my grandmother was dying. And years after that, same movie, the call came telling me I needed to take steps to have my best friends moved into hospice care.
So now I am officially freaked out. Jaws is on....right now! I just saw it in the channel listings. And while I don't know anyone on the critical list, I'm still careful. I don't ever turn it on. EVER. And if it passes by accidentally I will zoom past it with indecent hast to mitigate the infection.
If someone dare to may makes a casual conversation in May about how they're allergies are really acting up or their overdue for a doctor's appointment. I practically bundle them off to ER just to be certain,
I'm not in the least paranoid about anything else. But you take the movie and this month together and became a walking bag of nerves until June when I can breathe at last, But until then, if you love me, turn offJaws, watch your step, and take your vitimins because I just cant take another blow to my conscience.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Photo of the day: And On Your Right...
This particular flotilla of ducks (actually, I think they're scaups) reminded me of a tour group. The leader in the front pointing out the interesting bits and the crowd keeping up, looking around them with cameras at the ready. Only I was the only one with a camera.
This particular flotilla of ducks (actually, I think they're scaups) reminded me of a tour group. The leader in the front pointing out the interesting bits and the crowd keeping up, looking around them with cameras at the ready. Only I was the only one with a camera.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Hemlock Viper
When we were in high school the popular make-out spot was up along Tyler Ridge Road, along the reservoir. There you could actually get away from lights to the point where you could see stars – that is if the windows weren’t too fogged up.
But it was also a popular space to just go and “be.” The spot seemed to be the sole province of the high school. We’d go up there after school with ice cream to look at the water and dream about the future. We’d go up there at night in groups to star gaze, tell stories, or drink wine we’d stolen from our folks.
Now it’s closed off to traffic and a walking trail, but back then it was a quiet spot, perfect for doing things you didn’t want your parents to see. Not necessarily “wrong” things like making out with Mike Columbo or trying your first cigarette (for the record, I didn’t like either of these two activities), but also perfectly innocent things, like talking.
Sometimes I think that we use our brains more between the ages of 17 and 20 that we do any other time of our lives. Forget college, or the rigors of the work world. But those last few year of high school and those first few years of university are when you tackle the problems of the world. Politics. Religion. Equality. You debate the responsibilities of citizenship and the importance of arts. You find yourself discussing all the serious topics of life with such gravity that you’re convinced your generation will be the one to save the world.
At that age, we were the future. And we were determined to make our mark. But you don’t want adults to hear you, because they’d only laugh. So you go up to Tyler Ridge Road with your best friends and you talk about how you’re never going to take things for granted and how you will spend a year in Africa helping them end starvation. And you eat an entire package of Oreos doing so and come away convinced you are a magnificent person.
One night I was there with the two people I was closest with in the entire world, my friends Sean Logan and Carmen Martinez. We were in the midst of an early fall heat wave. It was a Saturday evening, one of those delicious nights where the sun seems reluctant to set and it’s light until nearly nine. We were high school seniors, with all the answers to every question in the universe, plus a large vegetarian pizza and a 6-pack of Coke.
One of the reasons why Tyler Ridge is now closed to cars is because of the wildlife. There’s a lot of it up there. Deer. Raccoons. Skunks. Squirrels boing-boinged through the leaves and possums skulked shyly among the eucalyptus. And then there were the snakes. None of them poisonous, mind you, but there. And many people, including Sean and Carmen, have a horror of these critters.
Well on the night in question I was sitting opposite the two of them when I noticed their eyes straying from me to something about five feet to my right. Sean actually screamed. Carmen, if I recall correctly, started reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish. “Oh God,” I thought, “it’s the Zodiac killer!”
Nervously I look over my shoulder….and see absolutely nothing. “What?” I ask as they continue to stare past me. Then I follow their gaze and saw The Snake That Ate Silver Creek.
The creature couldn’t have been more than six inches long, but Sean and Carmen reacted as if a giant boa constrictor with three heads had just slithered out of its den and was about to swallow one of us whole. I honestly thought they were kidding, so I started laughing. But no, they weren’t kidding…they were honestly terrified.
I knew what it was, a striped racer. These are dark, slender snakes with a white racing stripe down their backs. Perfectly harmless and, in fact, now endangered in California. At this point it had done nothing more than appear out of the leaf cover and make for the road and was at least 10 feet from them. We were more in danger of heartburn from devouring a large Cimino’s Pizza than we were from this poor little guy. But to my friends it was as if Cerebus had come from the underworld to slay us.
Apparently stunned into stupidity by our visitor, Sean and Carmen sat immobile for a minute starring in horrified wonder before suddenly remembering that they, unlike the snakes, had legs. So they collected their legs and ran. This just made me laugh all the harder because it was such a cartoon reaction.
“Hey!” I called after them, “come back, it’s harmless.”
“How do you know?” Sean asked. “You’re not Marlon Perkins.” But he stopped running anyway.
I walked over to the snake and picked him up. Sean screamed again.
“Put it down before it bites you!” yelled Carmen.
“Uh oh…” I said.
“What? What is it?” Sean called out in concern.
“Well, I thought it was just a harmless racer, but it’s not. The markings are wrong. I just picked up….” I paused dramatically while I thought up a name. “…a Hemlock Viper!”
This time Carmen screamed.
By now the little guy had wound himself around my hand, not too alarmed and pretty sure I wasn’t going to eat him. He was actually very cute.
Sean asked if he’d bitten me. Carmen asked if they should go for the cops. Not even my desire to tease them could survive the question. The cops? She thinks I’m holding on to a poisonous snake and her idea is to have it arrested? My sense of the absurd won over my sense of evil and I had started to laugh again. I put down our visitor and he went back to the leaves, no doubt eager to tell his pals about his adventures.
My two friends came back slowly, cautiously. And when they were close enough to gang up on me, they did.
The phrase “Hemlock viper” remained in our personal lexicon as a shorthand trigger to a wonderful memory.
When we were in high school the popular make-out spot was up along Tyler Ridge Road, along the reservoir. There you could actually get away from lights to the point where you could see stars – that is if the windows weren’t too fogged up.
But it was also a popular space to just go and “be.” The spot seemed to be the sole province of the high school. We’d go up there after school with ice cream to look at the water and dream about the future. We’d go up there at night in groups to star gaze, tell stories, or drink wine we’d stolen from our folks.
Now it’s closed off to traffic and a walking trail, but back then it was a quiet spot, perfect for doing things you didn’t want your parents to see. Not necessarily “wrong” things like making out with Mike Columbo or trying your first cigarette (for the record, I didn’t like either of these two activities), but also perfectly innocent things, like talking.
Sometimes I think that we use our brains more between the ages of 17 and 20 that we do any other time of our lives. Forget college, or the rigors of the work world. But those last few year of high school and those first few years of university are when you tackle the problems of the world. Politics. Religion. Equality. You debate the responsibilities of citizenship and the importance of arts. You find yourself discussing all the serious topics of life with such gravity that you’re convinced your generation will be the one to save the world.
At that age, we were the future. And we were determined to make our mark. But you don’t want adults to hear you, because they’d only laugh. So you go up to Tyler Ridge Road with your best friends and you talk about how you’re never going to take things for granted and how you will spend a year in Africa helping them end starvation. And you eat an entire package of Oreos doing so and come away convinced you are a magnificent person.
One night I was there with the two people I was closest with in the entire world, my friends Sean Logan and Carmen Martinez. We were in the midst of an early fall heat wave. It was a Saturday evening, one of those delicious nights where the sun seems reluctant to set and it’s light until nearly nine. We were high school seniors, with all the answers to every question in the universe, plus a large vegetarian pizza and a 6-pack of Coke.
One of the reasons why Tyler Ridge is now closed to cars is because of the wildlife. There’s a lot of it up there. Deer. Raccoons. Skunks. Squirrels boing-boinged through the leaves and possums skulked shyly among the eucalyptus. And then there were the snakes. None of them poisonous, mind you, but there. And many people, including Sean and Carmen, have a horror of these critters.
Well on the night in question I was sitting opposite the two of them when I noticed their eyes straying from me to something about five feet to my right. Sean actually screamed. Carmen, if I recall correctly, started reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish. “Oh God,” I thought, “it’s the Zodiac killer!”
Nervously I look over my shoulder….and see absolutely nothing. “What?” I ask as they continue to stare past me. Then I follow their gaze and saw The Snake That Ate Silver Creek.
The creature couldn’t have been more than six inches long, but Sean and Carmen reacted as if a giant boa constrictor with three heads had just slithered out of its den and was about to swallow one of us whole. I honestly thought they were kidding, so I started laughing. But no, they weren’t kidding…they were honestly terrified.
I knew what it was, a striped racer. These are dark, slender snakes with a white racing stripe down their backs. Perfectly harmless and, in fact, now endangered in California. At this point it had done nothing more than appear out of the leaf cover and make for the road and was at least 10 feet from them. We were more in danger of heartburn from devouring a large Cimino’s Pizza than we were from this poor little guy. But to my friends it was as if Cerebus had come from the underworld to slay us.
Apparently stunned into stupidity by our visitor, Sean and Carmen sat immobile for a minute starring in horrified wonder before suddenly remembering that they, unlike the snakes, had legs. So they collected their legs and ran. This just made me laugh all the harder because it was such a cartoon reaction.
“Hey!” I called after them, “come back, it’s harmless.”
“How do you know?” Sean asked. “You’re not Marlon Perkins.” But he stopped running anyway.
I walked over to the snake and picked him up. Sean screamed again.
“Put it down before it bites you!” yelled Carmen.
“Uh oh…” I said.
“What? What is it?” Sean called out in concern.
“Well, I thought it was just a harmless racer, but it’s not. The markings are wrong. I just picked up….” I paused dramatically while I thought up a name. “…a Hemlock Viper!”
This time Carmen screamed.
By now the little guy had wound himself around my hand, not too alarmed and pretty sure I wasn’t going to eat him. He was actually very cute.
Sean asked if he’d bitten me. Carmen asked if they should go for the cops. Not even my desire to tease them could survive the question. The cops? She thinks I’m holding on to a poisonous snake and her idea is to have it arrested? My sense of the absurd won over my sense of evil and I had started to laugh again. I put down our visitor and he went back to the leaves, no doubt eager to tell his pals about his adventures.
My two friends came back slowly, cautiously. And when they were close enough to gang up on me, they did.
The phrase “Hemlock viper” remained in our personal lexicon as a shorthand trigger to a wonderful memory.
The Death of Job Satisfaction
I know that many people are dissatisfied with their jobs. I know I was at my last one, and that's why I quit. One thing that's been stuck in my head lately is the idea that people are unhappy at their workplace because nobody really has anything they can take pride in any more. Bear with me here...
It used to be at the end of the workday you'd have something to show for it. A roof put on a house. 500 shirt collars sewn on. 300 cars down the assembly line. An entire acre plowed.
But today there's very little tangible at the end of the work day. Most people I know work in the high tech community of Silicon Valley, where I worked myself for over a decade. And after your average 9 or 10 hour day, what do you have to show for it? Nothing, really. Another day's progress towards a project that will take a year to see light of day and be obsolete the day after it debuts. The delivery of words on a web page that will only be in existence for 24-hours. Four meetings for projects that may never come off.
People today don't have job satisfaction because, in many ways, there's no satisfaction to be had. You can't head home for the night thinking proudly of the engine you built or the supplies you delivered. Nothing is done in a day anymore. Everything people do is now tiny pieces of big puzzles. And (keeping the analogy going) you don't even get to put the puzzle together yourself. You work on the piece, pass it on, and someone else gets to tap it into place. So even the joy of getting that one piece in is denied to you.
I know many people still work the jobs where they can clock out and see the fruits of their labors. There are still people on assembly lines or construction sites. Still people who drive trucks and install kitchen cabinets. But for a huge chunk of the population, work now means just one day in an endless series of days.
No wonder people are unhappy.
I know that many people are dissatisfied with their jobs. I know I was at my last one, and that's why I quit. One thing that's been stuck in my head lately is the idea that people are unhappy at their workplace because nobody really has anything they can take pride in any more. Bear with me here...
It used to be at the end of the workday you'd have something to show for it. A roof put on a house. 500 shirt collars sewn on. 300 cars down the assembly line. An entire acre plowed.
But today there's very little tangible at the end of the work day. Most people I know work in the high tech community of Silicon Valley, where I worked myself for over a decade. And after your average 9 or 10 hour day, what do you have to show for it? Nothing, really. Another day's progress towards a project that will take a year to see light of day and be obsolete the day after it debuts. The delivery of words on a web page that will only be in existence for 24-hours. Four meetings for projects that may never come off.
People today don't have job satisfaction because, in many ways, there's no satisfaction to be had. You can't head home for the night thinking proudly of the engine you built or the supplies you delivered. Nothing is done in a day anymore. Everything people do is now tiny pieces of big puzzles. And (keeping the analogy going) you don't even get to put the puzzle together yourself. You work on the piece, pass it on, and someone else gets to tap it into place. So even the joy of getting that one piece in is denied to you.
I know many people still work the jobs where they can clock out and see the fruits of their labors. There are still people on assembly lines or construction sites. Still people who drive trucks and install kitchen cabinets. But for a huge chunk of the population, work now means just one day in an endless series of days.
No wonder people are unhappy.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hello. I'm Lost
Have any of you seen Lost? I haven't. It has a hugely loyal cult following in spite of the fact that it makes absolutely no fucking sense at all. Husband watched it. Stopped watching it. Watched it again. He gave up when he lost the will to follow it anymore. Then they dragged him back in. He still doesn't understand it, but he's going along with it.
What cracks me up is hearing people try to summarize it. They've watched it non-stop, try to make sense of all the nonsense, try to predict how it will all end, and end up proving that nobody understands it. So I thought, since I've never seen anything more than 5 minutes of the show at a time, I thought I'd try to summarize what the show is all about.
So hereby I give you Decca's Guide to Getting Lost:
- There was a plane crash.
- There was an island.
- There was a handsome doctor guy who is either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is this hot con woman chick who is either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is a bad guy who may or may not be either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is a fat guy who is always good.
- There is a Middle Eastern/Israeli/Indian spy guy who is either....well, you know.
- There is a formerly crippled bald guy who seems to change personas every scene. And who may or may not be god/satan/or a pillar of smoke/his own father.
- The island has a hatch with cryptic stuff inside, like a count-down machine and a completely different plane of existence.
- The aforesaid plane of existence seems to have also experienced a crash.
- In addition to polar bears and palm trees, this island comes complete with other communities, torture cells, and endless supplies of flashbacks, flashfowards, flashsideways, flashdowns, and flashups.
- It is apparently not a good idea to either have a kid or be a kid on this island.
- It is also, apparently, not a good idea to be Korean.
- Laws of time, relativity, space and logic are not observed on the island. According to the island any of us could be leading any number of parallel lives at any place and any time in our own special way.
- On the island it is extremely important that you notice every single person you come across in your day because the fact that the woman who works at Starbucks looks exactly like the woman who sat in Row 47b is a clue to who you are and what is going on around you.
The funny thing about all this is that I don't make any less sense in this synopsis than one written by anyone who is loyal to the show. No....really!
Have any of you seen Lost? I haven't. It has a hugely loyal cult following in spite of the fact that it makes absolutely no fucking sense at all. Husband watched it. Stopped watching it. Watched it again. He gave up when he lost the will to follow it anymore. Then they dragged him back in. He still doesn't understand it, but he's going along with it.
What cracks me up is hearing people try to summarize it. They've watched it non-stop, try to make sense of all the nonsense, try to predict how it will all end, and end up proving that nobody understands it. So I thought, since I've never seen anything more than 5 minutes of the show at a time, I thought I'd try to summarize what the show is all about.
So hereby I give you Decca's Guide to Getting Lost:
- There was a plane crash.
- There was an island.
- There was a handsome doctor guy who is either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is this hot con woman chick who is either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is a bad guy who may or may not be either good or bad, depending upon the episode.
- There is a fat guy who is always good.
- There is a Middle Eastern/Israeli/Indian spy guy who is either....well, you know.
- There is a formerly crippled bald guy who seems to change personas every scene. And who may or may not be god/satan/or a pillar of smoke/his own father.
- The island has a hatch with cryptic stuff inside, like a count-down machine and a completely different plane of existence.
- The aforesaid plane of existence seems to have also experienced a crash.
- In addition to polar bears and palm trees, this island comes complete with other communities, torture cells, and endless supplies of flashbacks, flashfowards, flashsideways, flashdowns, and flashups.
- It is apparently not a good idea to either have a kid or be a kid on this island.
- It is also, apparently, not a good idea to be Korean.
- Laws of time, relativity, space and logic are not observed on the island. According to the island any of us could be leading any number of parallel lives at any place and any time in our own special way.
- On the island it is extremely important that you notice every single person you come across in your day because the fact that the woman who works at Starbucks looks exactly like the woman who sat in Row 47b is a clue to who you are and what is going on around you.
The funny thing about all this is that I don't make any less sense in this synopsis than one written by anyone who is loyal to the show. No....really!
What the...?
So I went to Amazon today. On my home page was one of those "based upon your viewing history you might also be interested in..." notices. And I saw this. (Go check it out....I'll wait.)
So what in the hell did I look at on Amazon that made them think that item was something that might interest me? I've never bought books on medicine. True, I did buy some vitamins, but that's the only health product I've ever gotten from Amazon. Books and music, that's my stuff. Maybe DVDs. But none of that should have given them the idea that I wanted the mystery item.
Odd as it was, it made my day.
So I went to Amazon today. On my home page was one of those "based upon your viewing history you might also be interested in..." notices. And I saw this. (Go check it out....I'll wait.)
So what in the hell did I look at on Amazon that made them think that item was something that might interest me? I've never bought books on medicine. True, I did buy some vitamins, but that's the only health product I've ever gotten from Amazon. Books and music, that's my stuff. Maybe DVDs. But none of that should have given them the idea that I wanted the mystery item.
Odd as it was, it made my day.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Photo of the day: Gears
When you look at modern bicycles...if you look at modern bicycles...they've evolved ages since the days of the old Penny Farthing. They are engineering marvels. All those gears and spokes. All the shifting and aerodynamics.
I don't have a bike, though I wish I did. Not a fancy racing bike, just a little something to ride in the sunshine. But I liked the symmetry of this shot.
When you look at modern bicycles...if you look at modern bicycles...they've evolved ages since the days of the old Penny Farthing. They are engineering marvels. All those gears and spokes. All the shifting and aerodynamics.
I don't have a bike, though I wish I did. Not a fancy racing bike, just a little something to ride in the sunshine. But I liked the symmetry of this shot.
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