Pants Party

Did I mention that our girls (from the last post - the ones who left on Monday afternoon) came back on Wednesday night? It seems we are such *lovely hosts and the cats are sooo cute** that they just couldn't wait to come back - which was great fun, if not the optimal way in which to get work done in a timely manner. The fact we have a friend who looks more than a bit like this
surely, had nothing to do with it. Right?
(Usher, for those of you who may have been in, say, Ulan Bator lately)

*Hardly - the extent of lovely host-ism went only as far as bedding, towels, bathroom basket, vague gestures made towards fridge, facilities, and reminders to jiggle the @)#*@# handle after flushing (so much more fun than fixing the commode, no?), etc.
**True, despite one half of the duo having allergies.

Thursday, I took them on my 'Santa Barbara highlights' tour - through Coast Village Road, up the back ridge of the Montecito hills for the views and to gawp at all the mansions, down and through Summerland, and along Cabrillo Boulevard (look kids! the Zoo! the Bird Refuge!) and up State Street for some shopping. Tourism is big here for reasons I sometimes forget as we zoom from hither to yon on our little track of daily life. We stopped by Pierre Lafond for a late lunch and...bam!...I'm in direct violation of Maggie's #1 rule. (By the way, stop over and say congratulations to Maggie, if you haven't already. She's got a new man in her life - he's short and pink and Mighty cute, if you'll pardon the pun.)


We meandered through downtown for hours, savoring the luxury of an unusually warm February night and each other's company. Somewhere in the evening, we hit up Reference (Official home of the $2.00, two-wear tank top and those pants that looked cute, one time, from the right angle. Sort of.) because, well, because it was there, beckoning to us with pulsating music, bright lights and $10.00 pants.

I grabbed a few things and headed for the dressing rooms, not intending to actually purchase anything in my eternal(ly thwarted) quest to buy higher-quality items, less often. In the dressing room, I discovered that my favorite (good) jeans had somehow ripped in a bad place - not the seam, rendering them both unrepairable and dangerous to continue wearing. There may have been muttered curses - Scott bought these, my favorite nice jeans, only a few months ago. I've not jumped on the skinny pants bandwagon primarily because in order to wear skinny pants without looking absurdly large-bottomed in them, one should have skinny legs and narrow hips, not square/sturdy "birthin'" hips and thighs that while strong, are far to large for the leg below them. Happily, I ended up with some great black (what else?) wide-leg linen pants for and a couple of cute long t-shirts for just over thirty bucks. Helluva way to end up with a new outfit.

We ended up back at our house, where Scott started working his dj mojo and a shower calmed my frazzled nerve endings. By the time I got out of the shower and dressed, a plan had hatched. I rang up a couple of friends and sat back to watch what happened - we don't watch reality tv* so I decided to make our own entertainment. Note that Helen had specifically requested to meet someone who, 'looks like Usha' (Usher with a cute Brit accent) and that our friends' name had come up in conversation several times.
*No judgement there, there's plenty to ridicule in the list of the regular shows we watch - I confess to 24, Ugly Betty, Grey's Anatomy and Lost plus the Lakers. The others are just to embarassing to admit (think Dr. 90210). Thank goodness we have the ti-faux and don't have tv on 24/7.

Scott and Alisha were in the living room, working out music and lyrics (no, haven't seen it, waiting for the dvd so I can fast-forward when Hugh starts dancing) to some song out on guitar when we got a tap on the door. She pulled the edge of my door curtain aside, saw who it was and, according to Scott, used Roy Sheiders' tone from Jaws, "Usher's here", backed slowly away from the door, and dashed to our bedroom to tell Helen and I the news. Suffice it to say that things went swimmingly well from there till, well, early in the morning. A little party- and I had just the new pants to wear to it.

Overheard at the Magic Kingdom

Overheard on Mainstreet, USA (Disneyland) tonight (while waiting for firework show to start):

Brat Kids (who were probably over-tired and hopped up on sugar): "We don't waaaaannnna watch the stupid fireworks. Why can't we go onnn a riiiiide?"

Harried Dad (who had dragged his kids' ungrateful little asses around all day long and was bound and determined to have a good time, dammit): "Stop complaining, for the luvvagaaahhd."

Brat Kids (bickering): "But WHY can't we just go ride a RIDE? We wanna go on -----"

Harried Dad: "Stop. Complaining. If I had wanted to hear complaining, I'd have brought your mother along."

For the record: They stopped complaining and bickering when the fireworks started.....but started back up about two minutes later.

Oh Look! A new post!

I'd like to say my dearth of posting is a direct result of my general sloth and malaise, but in truth, I've just been to busy having fun. And working. Mostly working, but let's not talk about that, o.k.? I'd like to celebrate, because this is my 300th post here. Three hundred posts. Yeah! Party hats and noisemakers for everyone.

Wednesday I had a meeting at one of my favorite locations - Scott doesn't like it because it's harder for him to set up and play there, but I love the club. Rich with details, great bar, lots of "inclusives" (meaning: You get tables and linens, china, flatware and staff) and lovely gardens that are close by several churches and parks, it's one of my favorite venues. Add to that a great catering and event staff, a grand piano and a continual program of upgrades and you've got a very happy planner. Any rate, I was invited to stay on after a meeting and enjoy a port class. Port may be my new favorite drink - it pairs well with all of my favorite things: Chocolates, cheese (especially blue) nuts and fruit. Stored right, it also ages and values extraordinarily well - how many twelve to twenty year old bottles of wine can you find for $20-40? And any "class" that involves sitting by a fire and sampling eighty-year old spirits? Yes, please.

Thursday was the kick-off of the Santa Barbara Film Festival, which we were pretty excited about for this year. Since we have a personal connection, we were thrilled to hear that the big kick-off film was Factory Girl. I was busy with work all day, but through the kindness of one of my many awesome vendors, we got some of the coveted passes to the big after-party. That, my friends, is the sort of thing that never happens to me.

I ran over to get in line to buy tickets (officially the most money I've ever paid for a film: $35!)
and struck up a conversation with a nice bunch of people as we were shuffled back, forth, back again, and around in the opening night, paparazzi-filled, red-carpeted frenzy. For some reason, I had a running loop of this little chant in my head: "I see London, I see France, I see lots of cheek implants." (My alternate version: "I see blood, I see gore, it's not cold enough for that fur you wore.")

Any rate, we peons got seated and watched a drum team/dance troupe (maybe the reason for the price hike?) perform. The president of the film festival came out and gave a little speech, than invited the director (George Hickenlooper) up to say a few words. I was surprised, since the film had also premiered in L.A., so we weren't expecting it when he invited Sienna Miller (sadly, yes, she was wearing one of Susan Somers' dresses from Three's Company) and Guy Pearce up onstage. We were even more thrilled when our friend Mike came up (go Mike, go!). Sienna said a few words and they took a bow and the film started. I won't bore you with my rookie review of the picture - suffice it to say that we were impressed with all the performances, if it did seem a bit scattered and dark. I've read a couple of the Edie biographies, and a movie about her life could absolutely never be rainbows and butterflies. Despite (or perhaps because of?) her undeniable beauty, charisma and wealth, she seemed drawn towards anything and anyone who paid the least bit of attention to her.

We ran home and changed (Scott: new shirt, good to go. Me: four different outfits, mumbled expletives against all the blue cheese and chocolate from Wednesday) and headed to the party. Not just any party, either - The opening night party to be at, held in Paseo Nuevo. Note for The Fam: Here is the bit where you should go and do Something Else. For those of you who haven't been to Santa Barbara, Paseo is our downtown mall - the entire thing is outdoors

and has multiple openings to different streets. They'd blocked off all but one of them and were ushering everyone in and handing out the wristbands. A special tip for everyone: If you ever go to a party and the security admonishes you, 'have fun! get faded!" on your way in, I hereby challenge you to try and not follow their directive. In my experience, the best way to do this would be just to turn right back around and head for home. Ahem. A few brilliant minds had apparently decided it would be a good idea to strategically place about ten different drink stations (vs. four appetizer stations....for your reference, this is not a good ratio) around the perimeters and the band in the middle.

One of the great things about any good-sized event here (for me) is that I can almost always count on running into someone I knew in school, know from work, or know via a friend. This time, I ran into a friend I hadn't seen since high school, shooting high society and hoi polloi alike. Remembering that his brother and girlfriend used to live two houses over from me, I asked how they were - naturally, said brother is now married with a sprog, annnnnd I suddenly remembered how thirsty I'd become before The Question came up. Drinks and conversation with friends (Mike and his new wife among them) and everything was great - until I realized it was after one. We headed home, only to end up with an impromptu jam session that lasted till three thanks to Scott....so much for early to bed, right? Good thing I didn't have anything pressing to do until later the following afternoon! We don't go out very often, and I am never a guest at a party of any sort, so this was extra-special for me....The rare night where we both get a chance to just enjoy whatever happens, talk to people, not scan the crowd or a schedule for the next thing to tick off the list. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Self-Humiliation 101; Or OMG! GUESS WHO I MET!

How to Embarass Yourself in Public:

• Walk to and from post office for work, fresh air, chance to wear tank top in January, making Important phone calls en route and thereby distracting self from normal things like walking and listening to iPod.
• Forget to visit store dut to stupid Important phone calls, double back in mid-block.
  
• Stop to pet a really cute dog. Pet the dog and coo over her for a minute before looking up at her owner, as is your (bad) habit, because you are a hopeless fool for dogs and the cats won't let you have one.
• Realize the dog is not only adorable in that smiley, snorfling way that all bulldogs have, but that she looks....very, very familiar.
  
• Squeal, "HeeeEEEY! I know you! You're COOKIE!", instead of introducing yourself to the dog's owner like a normal person would.
  
• Attempt (and utterly fail) to have a proper conversation, due to your inner monologue squealing like a twelve year old at a Justin Timberlake concert. (Inner monologue: "Sweet cracker sandwich! It's Mrs. Kennedy from Fussy and I'm wearing these weird pants and a sweater that looks like it died and went to Knotts' Berry Farm, via hell")
  
• Think to yourself what lovely skin she has, resolve to bathe in sunblock from now on.
• Babble on about what a fan you are of her site, totally hold her up in her quest for vitamins and Important Fussy Duties.
  
• Realize that you have now done exactly what you commented about to her in the past: Patted and cooed over her dog and than ran on at the mouth.
  
• Thank heavens for her lovely personality, damn self for sucky "how we met" anecdote. Decide never to leave the house again, or at least never to pet another dog, because next time, it could be Chuck.
• Complete Cycle of Dork by calling friend and blogging about the whole incident.
  

(expletive) Happens

Three fairly pointless items, which are related to the parts where you are welcome to imagine us running amok in our house in classic slapstick fashion.

Thing #1: Maytag blue cheese atop a slab of home-made corn bread is really, really good - this may not be news to any of you, but the contrast between the lightly sweet corn flavor and the pleasantly pungent blue is deee-licious!

Thing #2: I've just now started to watch Desperate Housewives...so far, I can only see it as 'what might have happened if the girls from Sex in the City move to the 'burbs.' Am somewhat confused about the little gardener boy (Jon? John?) calling the chick whos' lawn he's trimming, (go ahead and take it like that, yes, do) "Mrs. Solis". I'm pretty sure the whole Mr./Mrs. bit goes out the window once you've seen each others' O face.

Thing #3: I'm hopelessly in love with those disposable toilet scrubby things - I know they're terrible for the environment and in penance, vow to cloth diaper Jimmy (really, you need to read that link, because... Jonniker! awesome! funny! all posts titled after songs!) for a good couple of months in penance for my sins. So, onto the reason why I'm Throwing in the Towel(s):

Our house is almost eighty years old; thankfully the plumbing has been redone - I'm not sure exactly when. Since we moved in to 'our' portion of the house six years ago, I've noticed a few little quirks, but the house works. So what if that one cabinet never, ever stays shut? Who cares if half the windows won't stay up? This is character - and folks pay dearly for it, all the time. And our habit of running into the bathroom* after everyone who visits it to jiggle the handle? It's got nothing to do with the fact that unless we (Scott) do(es) the jiggling, the toilet will run. Forever and ever, until the toilet overfloweth, causing havoc and yuckiness. Naturally, this cranky commode has its' own special rules list, as follows: 1. No large bits of paper, foreign bodies, or overly heavy thoughts. 2. No multiple flushing, and thou shalt jiggle ye olde handle twice; not three, not one, but two times. Or it shall run like this woman.

In case you were wondering, it is completely impervious to plumbers (see Thing #2) We've had two or three come out, wave their tools over it and pronounce it fixed, and leave. Much like a car, it behaves well in front of professionals and rebels a week or two later. Earlier today, I was taking advantage of the fact I work from home, spiffed up our ever-cranky commode (see Thing #3) carefully jiggled the handle, and hopped in the shower. A few minutes later, I was rinsing the margarita scented lather out of my hair. After being up till four last night, I was probably thinking about some silly plotline of Thing #2 when I heard the sound of...water. Water, gently lapping up against the shores of...? I poked my head out, jiggled the handle and FREAKED. OUT. As it turns out, that gentle sound of water splat! slash!ing around...was the (expletive) toilet running over. Way, way, way over. Onto the...tile. Soaking the bathmat, sleekly undulating out onto the hall carpet, curving around a doorway and into our office. They say water seeks a its own level, but I say, water seeks the electronics.

I lept from the shower, yanked my towel and the others onto the floor. I yelled for Scott, who rushed in and started shouting questions about the condition of the water and what the hell was I doing, how this happened and who knows what. Somehow, we managed to a) use every single available, freshly-washed towel in the house and b) still not soak up the Lake Titicaca that was seeping into my carpet pad. After a lot of hullaballo, mayhem, trauma and laundry (still not all done, thanks) we finally managed to make sense of things. My newfound love for Thing#3 and general bad sense of timing likely combined and clogged the drain. As is usual for me on Days Like These, I had a bunch of other things to do, most of which was managed. All of which led to the necessary invention of Thing #1. Mmmmmm blue cheeeeeeeeese on cornbread.

*Actual size of my bathroom:

The Walk

What can I say? The Walk was beyond awesome - a little tip to all of you (cough, cough, youknowwhoyouare) who missed it. I am sorry to report that: you MISSED it! Here, though, I've got a short re-cap:

8:45-9:15 - I lie in bed, text messaging my friend Jen and encouraging her to come with us, despite her being unprepared. Contemplate warmth of bed, cats, husband, ceiling, going back to sleep. Pray for continued sun, warmth. Realize I'm too excited and that my phone will continue to ring if I don't get out of bed, already.

9:20-45 - Winch sleepy husband from bed, into shower, out of shower, into clothing. Run around frantically slinging candy, cashews, fluids and assorted clothing items into strange hot dog shaped bag (said bag will later chafe my shoulders and leg into rosy sore areas). Bark orders to clean out car at sleepy, fresh-showered husband.

10:00-45- Carpool with friends, friends' kids, friends' kids' friends and other arrangements of those words to the beach. Some people start walking, I am immediately too hot and strip to a bathing suit and small dress over top. Send drivers back to bus station in multiple cars, they carpool back to the beach, the Walk Begins in earnest.

11:00 - Everyone is walking, sun shining, birds chirping, waves hissing as the tide goes down. All is right with the world.

11:05 - First (and only!) casualty - our man Chad (aka Pokey Little Puppy #1) splits his chin on a rock. Fortunately, we've got a paramedic and a Band-Aid on hand, and the 23 pounds of candy in my satchel is put to immediate use for it's intended purpose: Bribery of Crying Children.

11:30 - We pass Butterfly Beach, arrange to meet up with another couple of friends at the next beach. The next beach, Miramar, looks like this, but better. It's about 70 degrees. I love my friends. Noticing the children trolling for shells approximately a half-mile behind us, Christie and I begin a cachophany of fruitless phrases that probably sound totally hysterical to passersby.


(Cheery, upbeat Mary Poppins tone) "Chaaad! Beeeelllla! Come oooonnnn! We've gotta go!"
(Firm but fun, no-nonsense voice) "Ok soldiers, pick up the pace rightthisminute. Tides' comin' up, you betta' march, you little round butts!"
(No longer joking tone) "CHAAAAAAAD! BEEEEEELLLLLLLAAAA! COME OOOONNNNNN! THE TIDE IS GOING UP AND I AM NOT CARRYING YOU."
(Under my breath) "That's it. No cand-" Two round-eyed children appear by my side, as if by magic and beg for Sour Patch Kids.

11:45 - Meet our friends, sit for the first of a series of group pictures that I don't have (yet), due to my sad lack of a proper digital camera. Rejoice over good timing, mourn loss of camera, demand emails from everyone. Peruse beach houses, make plans to rent one some summer when we can spend 12-30,000 a week for accommodations. Laugh. Tell kids to pick up the pace again, or no can-. Two round-eyed children appear by my side, as if by magic and beg for Skittles.

12:00 - Pass beach home belonging to the CEO of Coca-Cola's and sigh wistfully, because like most of the homes we'll pass, this one is only occasionally occupied. Remark on fast pace and good time. Sling "small" child onto back. "Small" in this case = refers to someone weighing in at 45 to 50 pounds.

12:40-1:15 - We're (almost) halfway there....time for lunch and a nice, cold celebratory beer. Side note - our stop was in Summerland, where we met and were married in June 2000. I send my family a celebratory picture message.

(We lost three girls here, but one of them had made the trip before, and there were Good Reasons.)

1:20 - Pass unofficial Nude Beach, thankfully empty of the usual leathery old hippies in desperate need of clothing. (Have you noticed that the only ones who seem to go around sans clothing are those who really, really need them?) Comment again on remarkable good timing, abundance of dog walkers. Sling "small" child onto her fathers' back, distribute candy.

2:15 - Animals observed thus far: baby seal, snowy plovers, Great Blue Heron, egrets, sandpipers, starfish and other sea creatures of all kinds, dolphins, Pokey Little Puppies. Fear good time made is being held up by Pokey Little Puppies.

(Cheery, upbeat Mary Poppins tone) "Chaaad! Beeeelllla! Come oooonnnn! We've gotta go!"
(Firm but fun, no-nonsense voice) "Ok soldiers, pick up the pace rightthisminute. Tides' comin' up, you betta' march, you little round butts!"
(No longer joking tone) "CHAAAAAAAD! BEEEEEELLLLLLLAAAA! COME OOOONNNNNN! THE TIDE IS GOING UP AND I AM NOT CARRYING YOU."
(Under my breath) "That's it. No cand-" Two round-eyed children appear by my side, as if by magic and beg for Sour Patch Kids.

2:20 - Younger kid (P.L.P. #2) being carried, despite our threats. Older kid (P.L.P. #1) begins attempts to walk without stepping on the soles of his feet.

2:45 - Having traded the pack for a lighter load, I sling P.L.P. #1 onto my back and send a silent thanks heavenward that there is no one walking behind me.

3:20 - We round Padaro Lane point, cross a small river, and come out on the other side.

3:30 - We DID it! We're in Carp - and in record time! Last time, we didn't make it until 5 pm - for now, the weather is good and everyone is in great spirits. Our appetites weren't hurt, either - and we enjoy another celebratory beer on a patio while we wait for the bus.

5:30 - Say it with me: Pizza Guru .... mmmm Piiiiiiiizzzzzaaa Guuuuurrruuuuu. Three words: Tandoori Chicken Pizza. Pizza with steak. Vegan, vegetarian, whole wheat crust - as well as good ole' fashioned pepperoni, sausage and the like.

7:30 - Kicking back in a hot tub, drinking a Cape Cod. Does life get any better than this?

Hope to see y'all next year.

P.S. Have massages scheduled for Friday.

Non Plussed....Live Blogging into 2007

Wow, we are the very pinnacle of excitement over here, aren't we? What with the heater hissing away, a glass of wine, two cats and the Lake- Hey! I can hear you starting to snore. Scott treated us to a lovely surprise yesterday - a flat screen t.v.! It's a considerable upgrade from the behemoth he's had for the last fourteen years or so. With the addition of a new, smaller corner unit for our living room, we'll be good to go. Oh, hey...the ball just dropped. Poor Dick Clark can...barely...count...down... the seconds. That Rihanna chick didn't even make the smallest of token efforts to lip-sync to her own song...she just kept flapping her thighs as though her hoo-ha was on fire and her hands were tied behind her back. It seemed to be one of her two dance moves; the other one was shaking her pelvis in a semi-rhythmic fashion. Le siiigh.

I sure hope the incredible excitement of this evening wasn't a foreshadowing of events for this year! In case it was, I apologize in advance and promise to just go ahead and not make any more blahhhhhhhhhg entries if I've got nothing interesting to say. According to my recent statistics, the people who come here arrive in search of a few things:

Primary among them are the story of the real-life Edie, for whom our Edie is named.
The other big draw seems to be Scotts' ongoing acquaintance with Paul Walker, who he hasn't seen lately, by the way. If you're a newcomer, read the above link - he's a totally nice guy, by all accounts. Side note for drooling fans: In my brief perusal, yes, he really is that attractive. You know, if you like that sort of tall, lean, blond, chiseled cheek-boned, piercing blue-eyed thing.
(Yawwwns, stretches, rolls eyes)
Here, I give you a random picture and a list of top ways people come here. I'm out!

• wifedom stories - I do one video post, and there it is, all over Google. Strange.
  
• mike post edie sedgwick's husband - Edie Reference #1
  
• bottle of wine and thou hemingway - Romantic, if possibly violent. In a Clean, Well-Lit Place, perhaps?
  
• spanish thing that goes over the n - I think it's called the ene.
  
• cheddar cheese blops - I don't recall using "blops" as a word.
  
• dollars stitches removed hawaii hand - I think stiches might cost more than a buck, even in Hawaii, bra.
  
• how to make lemon ruskies - Lemonade + vodka + ice. Problem solved.
  
• lisa kudrow boobs cleavage - I've never noticed, are they nice?
  
• smooshy peas recipes - This is not the place for recipes. Peas are good when firm.
  
• edie sedgwick & michael post. Again!
  
• gray's anatomy green coat katherine hiegl - I don't remember this coat, and I watch the show all the time.
  
• edie sedgwick michael post/michael post and edie sedgwick - Abloodygain
  
• soft sweater anesthesia - I have no words here.
  
• sightspeed blog mac timeout - techies, unite! (and while you're at it, you might want to go somewhere with better coding)
  

L.A. Story

LOCK. LOCK. Our car doors have a nice, authoritative sound, comforting when you're (I'm) sitting alone in the car on a busy, if a bit seedy, part of downtown Woodland Hills. Never comfortable in the L.A. region - and I'll be honest, for me, anywhere south of Oxnard is more or less La-la land...it all sort of blends together in one, big blob of traffic, ugly billboards and people who go 95 while on the phone, smoking and always without signaling. Not my favorite place, in short. Back to lock, lock.., though -

LOCK. LOCK. I leaned back in my seat and pressed the button for my friend/assistant to see what was going on at home. Outside, the wind was gusting in the near-darkness, and many of the daytime shops were closed or closing. A Bic'd headed, heavy-set pasty guy in tattered jeans and too many piercings/tattoos for civility was pulling the bars shut across a record shop and lingering, taking digital pictures (security? memories? his blaaahhhhg? MySpace?). He didn't return my smile, or perhaps he didn't see me. I could see Scott picking through the merchandise (knives, but he is not one of those crazy knife guys, I swear) in the store to my right, the whole storefront reinforced glass walls.

As I started my conversation, a scrawny woman, maybe in her fifties, maybe younger but beaten down with age, approached the car. Clad in a too-thin sweatshirt, she started for my window. I gave a quick half-smile, ready to shake my head no, I didn't have any money/cigarettes/matches/whatever. She rapped thickened, dirty knuckles on my window and said, "Ess thees chyours?" in an accent I couldn't place. Expecting a ploy to get me to open my door, I tilted my head toward the window, still on the phone, didn't see anything, and gave a half-shake of my head. Adding to my concern, I could see a larger, indistinct figure hovering nearby her, only a shape backlit by the bright store. With my keys and purse clearly on my lap, I was not about to just open the door and bend over some unknown mystery item. Uhh-uhh. Riiiight, I thought, I'll just bend my head over, they'll crack me on the head, and...well, this is L.A., or close enough, home of a thousand ploys to separate an unsuspecting person and their money, or car, or worse.

"Look, I've gotta go, there's some lady talking to me through my window, callyoubackinasec, OK?", I said. (Fortunately, Christie is used to my auctioneer-paced delivery and signed off quickly.)

"Eesss thees chourrs?" I couldn't see anything, and I could see Scott coming out the door of the store. Thank goodness. I hate dealing with homeless people asking me for money and stuff, it always leaves me feeling angry and sickened, as well as ashamed for feeling that way. 'Hurry up, hurry up,' I thought, 'She's about to hold up some awful thing and ask me for-'

"Eet's money, did you drop money?" She was holding a twenty dollar bill. Shame and relief flooded my system completely, a Slurpee headache in July. Scott had stepped out of the car, his wallet full of cash I hadn't used at the dentist. Somehow it had fallen, not on his side of the car, out into traffic and away with the wind, but near the tire on my side.

"Oh my gosh, yes, thank you so much! I really appreciate it, that was so kind!", I said, rolling down the window and opening the door to retrieve it. She smiled, shuffled off with her companion in the cold wind, happy to help, clearly expecting nothing for her good deed. Scott had by this time crossed the pavement, seen her hand me the $20, and pulled his wallet out and inspected the contents. He pulled the car forward and I scooped up the other $40, precisely what he'd dropped.

Sixty dollars isn't much money these days. Sixty dollars probably could have bought her something she wanted or needed, certainly a good dinner or a little treat. We would have argued over who/how it was lost, spent an irritable evening, maybe needled each other in the next day or so about it, but it would have been more an annoyance than a serious problem. On the other hand, a reminder about expecting more bad than good from people was priceless. Especially in the middle of a busy street, on a windy evening in L.A.. Los Angeles, a city full of con artists, criminals, homeless, drug addicts, desperate out-of-work actors, musicians, producers, plastic surgeons, artists, families, elderly, students, hippies, people, human beings.

Fingerholds

Scene: Semi-Uncomfortable Family Dinner, circa 1995

The Players: Dad, Mom, Dad's parents- Seated at 'adults table'. Three grand-girls, aged fifteen, ten and eight(ish) seated at bar that faces the adults' table, partially shielded by wall of indoor foliage. All three girls would be perfectly capable of sitting at said table, but are sequestered at bar for strategic fetch and carry purposes.

The Background: My family is nothing, if not dramatic. My mother likes to blame this on our Norwegian blood, but her, ahem, emphatic gesturing and ability to "discuss" things until throwing yourself from the nearest window/moving vehicle/bridge/tall building sounds like a good option was surely not a gift bestowed upon her by Loki after her conception of me and marriage to my dad. Actually, with regard to the emphatic gesturing: She once threw herself on the floor and rolled around on the carpet to emphasize her point. In front of people who we knew only slightly, via their daughters' marriage to a friend of ours. Scott was there, he can totally vouch for me on this one and was at least as mortified as I was. Thank the heavens they were as cool as their daughter. No, there isn't any more to this story. Seriously. I think we went eight shades of red and tugged her to her feet.

Back to my story, though - or any rate my preface to this story, lest I seem insensitive to a few touchy issues - Please note the following:
-Two of the principal players of this story have passed away, and are much missed - but not held as saintly, perfect creatures, just flawed, loveable people.
-No, I don't think alcoholism is a funny disease, in and of itself.
-My sisters and I have been re-enacting this story since it the week it happened. Every time, it makes my mother laugh so hard she gasps for oxygen like a freshly-landed bass and wipes tears out of her eyes, if she doesn't actually end up rolling around on the ground.

North-eastern Oregon, just after dusk, summertime. The six of us sat at stiff-spined attention, carefully using our napkins, best manners, and (for the adults) tougue-biting skills. My grandmother had undoubtedly labored over the dinner all afternoon with her arthritic joints and the dogs (a German Shepard and Miniature Schnauser) underfoot. She'd also undoubtedly been drinking since she started cooking, and was fairly 'well-done' herself by the time we were ready to eat. I remember my mother trying to help her without seeming like she was intruding or taking over. This was the kitchen of the woman who had in all likelihood, introduced fresh-frozen Maine lobster and the salad bar to rural Montana in the 1950's. We three girls tread carefully, setting the table and bar as quickly and quietly as possible, while trying our best not to notice when she stumbled, blaming the sleeping dog three feet away. "CheyANNe! You big galut!"

Finally we sat down, prayed, and started the age-old ritual of, "Can you please pass the...thanks.....oh! and the....yeah - MMmmmmMMMM that is goood!" with a few stilted attempts at conversation. I don't remember what we were eating, but I do remember that it tasted good - and that even if it hadn't, we would have sang the chefs' praises to high heaven. I had been feeling a tad bit miffed that I was still stuck at the kids' table, but as the meal and the attempts at conversation progressed, I said another quick prayer of thanks - this time for my seating assignment. My grandma, never the most cheerful of people, had reached the morose, snappy stage of intoxication, and my parents and grandfathers' attempts at engaging her were met with monosyllables or barked answers at best. Finally they gave up, and talked amongst themselves, my grandfather laughing too heartily at something that wasn't terribly funny, my parents' voices far more solicitous than we ever heard them.

I heard the beginning of a slight titter to my right as one of my sisters started to laugh, and shot her the Older Sister "Death Ray" glare, quieting her instantly. All of the sudden my grandma snatched her paper napkin and let out a perfectly ennunciated, monster sneeze.

"AHH-AHH-CHOOO!" (followed by copious nose-blowing, gesundheits all around) "Esscuse me, I'bm sorry," she said, and folding her napkin into a new configuration. My parents looked askance, my grandfather asked for the - "AHH-AHH-CHOOO!" (followed by copious nose-blowing, same apology, re-re-folding of said napkin). I Death-Ray'd another smirk and kept eating, eyes studiously on my plate. Two seconds later:

"AHH-AHH-CHOOO!" (napkin unfolded), "ThhhhhhHHHHPPPPPBBBBB!..I'bm sorry, I cadn't helb it." (napkin folded, tucked into sleeve) My parents tried their best to cover their plates without appearing to ... cover their plates.
"Mom, why don't you.." my dad began,
"AHH-AHH-CHOOO!" (napkin unfolded, shaken out), "ThhhhhhHHHHPPPPPBBBBB!" She tried to get up, but thuD!ded back to her seat, hampered by the thick carpet and her wheeled dining room chair. My grandfather began to silently shake with laughter. I turned to the side, holding my hand out with four fingers extended and the Death Ray in my eyes. My sisters' eyes widened, they nodded, and we started the Sneeze Countdown - Four fingers out.

"AHH-AHH-CHOOO!" (napkin unfolded, shaken out, visibly dampened and slightly shredded), "ThhhhhhHHHHPPPPPBBBBB!", I'bm sorry, I cadn't helb it." (napkin wadded into a tatty ball, tucked into sleeve). Five fingers.
"Ahh, mom, fortheluvva-" my dad began again, only to be interupted by another huge, "AHH-AHH-CHOOO! - I'bm sorry, I cadn't helb it." (napkin now a sad damp idea, untucked from sleeve and re-tucked into top of blouse) My mother, her face tight with supressed laughter, pushed herself ever soo slightly away from the table. Six fingers.
"AHH-AHHHHH-CHOOOOOO!" My mother passed another paper napkin to my grandfather. "Mom, why don't you go in the -" Seven.

"AHH-AHH-CHOOO! Eight fingers. ThhhhhhHHHHPPPPPBBBBB!, Thangks, Linda - I cadn't helb - AHH-AHH-CHOOO!", Nine. My dads' face reddened with laughter, and my grandpa let out a gasp of laughter. "Thadt's nodt funny - AaaAAAH-CHOOOOOO!" Ten fingers, or sneezes, it turns out, was the precise number of times my grandmother needed to voraciously, messily sneeze before our family completely and utterly collapsed into hysterical, eye-wiping laughter.

And scene.

Soupy logic

I will not write about my yard anymore. I will not write about my yard anymore. I will not..... wait, just one more, little tiny thing: I'd like to say that I laid every single last one of my own bricks and pavers the last couple of days - and was totally happy to do so. Something about making squares and rectangles fit together in gentle, arcing curves is therapeutic -like playing with Legos for grown-ups, if Legos could smash your digits when you slam them together too hard. In a completely different vein, so to speak; Zack Braff will never, ever cease to remind me of an ex-boyfriend of mine, but with dark hair. No wonder Scott hates Scrubs so much - naturally, I love the show, more for the absurd, mean things that the characters do to each other than for Braffs' lovely blue eyes and quirky sense of humour.

Last night Scott wasn't feeling very well, so we cut out of our meeting early and headed to Shintori to get him the time-honored remedy for "not feeling well/the chills": Miso soup, steamed edamame and cloves (sounds strange, but it's really warming), rice and the Super Shintori roll, sans gobo - Gobo, by the way, are bitter little half-pickled carrots, in case you were curious. We've been coming to this little hideaway since June 5th, 2000 - the day after we got married. The prices are great, the service is good, you're encouraged to write on the paper lanterns over the tables, and they give you Hershey's Hugs and Kisses with the bill.

Oddly enough, all the while we've come here, I've sipped at the miso, (topped with crispy little bits of tempura) picked at the teriaki, and not. eaten. one. bite. of. sushi. Yes, I admit it: I hate sushi, sashimi, unagi, nigiri, seaweed salad - anything vaguely like Japanese food. My throat literally closes, my stomach turns over and says, "Uhhhh...I'll pass, thanks, mate", and my toes start tapping involuntarily in a 'let's get out of here fast' pattern. I like seafood, I like rice, and I like eating healthy, pretty food - but sushi and the like have been a bust since January of 2000.

You see, my ex, we'll call him X, loved sushi, Japanese culture, slightly Asian-looking women - I mean, come on, he seriously wanted to have a kid and name it (him, naturally) Ronin ...Ronin! Actually, the three of us (Scott, X and I) used to go get sushi and drinks with our other friends way back in the day. By 'in the day', I mean, 'before I came to my senses and realized I really loved Scott, my friend, the guy who had always been in my corner, and married him, thank heavens'. In the fantasyland that was his early twenties, X thought that despite our differences, we would eventually figure everything out and get married. Thereafter, I would stop wanting to travel all the time and become consumed with keeping up with the fashion trends, and learn to make sushi. Funny, no?

Somewhere down the line, I was somehow supposed to want to have a baby with someone who had pre-selected his sons' name on the basis of a bad Robert De Niro movie. Also, I was supposed to get away with gaining twenty pounds or less while carrying his baby. I'm no geneticist, but I'm pretty sure that the spawn of a large-framed, six foot two Finnish man (with cousins and uncles in the seven foot tall zone) and I would probably not have resulted in one of those cute little stick-on bellies. I sincerely wish him the best, and hope that sometime in the last seven years, he grew a clue, a sense of reality, and some compassion. Although I haven't missed him for one single instant since I dumped him (and walked out the door, leaving the poor guy a sobbing wreck)*, my loathing for Japanese food has continued unchecked.
*Probably the single most brutal thing I've done to...anyone. Mean, but not undeserved.

None of this is meant as a cautionary tale - perhaps when X fled Santa Barbara (my turf, and those friends of his here? They were mine first - and still are, every last one of them) for L.A., he met a beautiful, fashion-obsessed Asian girl who wanted nothing more than to steam his rice, roll his sushi, keep up with Cosmo and blissfully carry his giant, label-toting kid for a full eight months, whereopon she opted for an elective C-section so as not to gain too much weight. Come to think, L.A. was probably the perfect place for that to happen. Hmmmmm. At any rate, there you have it - Why I Don't Eat Sushi anymore, in 2,000 words or less.

The Weather Outside is Frightful...

Despite the eternal (commercial) promise of holiday cheer, the opportunities that poeple say colder weather brings to gather round some great communal hearth, I find winter to be the most cold, cruel and depressing time of year. Now wait, before you say, "oh gaahhhhhd what a wanker....she lives in sunny southern California, fortheluvvapete", I spoke with my mom this afternoon. Their part of Colorado is getting a dumping of snow. The cold I speak of is more metaphorical than physical - sure, today my walk was a little nippy, but a sweatshirt and a cute hat were more than enough to deal with the chilly breeze.

After my unsuccessful post office mission, I ducked into Starbucks (damn you, Starbucks and your crack-laced peppermint hot chocolate) for a minute to get out of the chill. Mistake number one, right? Information-starved students and their friends had used up all the available real estate in the chair-rental market, a pair of elderly people were reviewing their Christmas purchases, and I had apparently not been demanding enough when I asked for real crockery, please. Finally they left, and I could stop faux-browsing amongst the coffee paraphanalia and Starbucks bloody Christmas ornaments. I sat down, both relieved and dismayed at being the only non-hipster there - not because I want to fit in, but because everyone else was so very happy to do so. My imagination flashed forward and saw this same bunch queing up to buy the Starbucks "Christmas 2026" CD/MP3/? with their bratty spawn in tow.

Thankfully Scott called me to come meet him at the grocery store before I regressed back to high school days and laced my cocoa with peppermint shnapps (hi Mom! don't worry, it was just for added flavor, I promise....you should try it sometime!). Unfortunately, the market was chock-ablock with bad Christmas music and people who could only do the following:
a) Ignore their children and discuss the merits of different cake batters, while said children repeatedly stated, "I have to go pee really bad, I'm gonna peee my paaAAAnts!"
b) loudly decry the evil margarine empire for labeling their spread, "Buttery" when lo, it is comprised of a mix that is (according to my sister) one molecule different than plastic.
c) Stare creepily at me.

Wherefore art thou, summer?

There's no place like home

We made it! Home! I have no words, so how about a nice re-cap?

Friday: Morning meetings, peppermint hot chocolate* from Starbucks (*aka "crack in a cup"), laundry, hit the road in the late afternoon. Late night dinner and drinks with friends, crash up at Scotts' uncle's house.

Saturday: Breakfast at Rosine's, a cruise through Wharf #2 in Monterey with Uncle, hideous crampage, laughing through pain at a group of seagulls battling a sea lion for a huge chunk of...something that looked a bit too much like a giant chunk sashimi for me to analyze it over-much. Hit the road, stop over to see Her Cheek-ness (our neice) and company.

Saturday p.m.: Stop in the city at a friends' cool store, purchase adorable "Ugly Doll" for Her Cheek-ness, make it to Berkeley with voracious appetites for crepes a la Nutella. Joyfully re-unite with the SightSpeed guy and lovely SightSpeed Wife, adorable (and hardily recovering) Raisin. Husbands sample stout, sample more stout. Husband whispers that I'd better help him sample stout, or he will be asleep before party guests arrive. Dutifully assist, have a nice walk downtown for some last-minute items (I just now realize that I've left grilled chicken curry in your fridge, Pete...you're welcome to it!) and Thai. Guests arrive, descend to basement for dance party, drinks.

Sunday: Lounge, take Raisin on a long, wet, squirrel-mocking/vanquishing walk, eat in.cred.i.ble. breakfast/brunch in Berkeley - I actually covered all the breakfast carbohydrate items: Waffle, biscuit*, delectable grilled potatoes (*Crack as flour-y pastry) in one meal. Lament over not coming up/down more often, reminisce, catch up on old Bay area friends (Scotts') and family (mine), promise to get together soon. Hope fervently this comes true and it doesn't take another long time to actually fulfill promises. Hit the road, back to Her Cheek-ness and family, visit Egyptian antiquities museum. Follow amazing museum experience with an incredible dinner (the Suffering Bastard is my new favorite mixed drink, no, not because of the name) courtesy of generous family at Trader Vic's. Attempt to not fawn absurdly over the baby. Fail spectacularly and end up in a game of clapping and peekabooing with said baby, end evening with her sleeping on my chest.

Monday: Skip breakfast in lieu of extended clapping game session with neice and husband in bed & Starbucks. Follow this with mall expedition, purchase one pair tights, one tiny chocolate brown stocking cap with blue/orange argyle detail that makes neice look like a tiny, round-cheeked snowboarder. Attempt not to squeeze her thighs, fail. Enjoy downtown San Jose and Blowfish resturant, family. Visit Japanese-style gardens where portions of Memoirs of a Geisha were filmed, tote baby over hill and dale as tiny workout/lame attempt to make up for the food and hot chocolate that have been inhaled in the last three days. Tear selves away from family and head home. Write incredibly boring blog entry, pet cats, drink champagne.

Pass the antibacterial gel

I'm going to go ahead and predict that three people are going to post on December first. Damned overachievers. I will likely not be joining their illustrious ranks, because I am a Slacker and also plan on spending the day examining the backs of my eyelids, on the beach, or at a movie. My one-year blog-aversary is on Sunday, and I plan to briefly hit 'Publish', and continue hanging out with the SightSpeed guy and his wife, eating at some fabulous Bay area eatery/drinking wine/wishing I still had a camera so I could post pictures of us in the City together.

Today I joined Christie and her family and our friend Jen for blueberry pancakes at Sambo's
(because we like potentially offensive stereotypes with our morning tea, clearly.) After a thouroughly syrup-soaked time, we headed up State Street, browsing all the way along the few open stores, en route to a pleasant nowhere. The big people exchanged eye-rolls and looks of frustration as the little ones squabbled over who got to push-push-push-push the crosswalk button, who got to hold Mommie's/Maya's hand, and anything else they could think of.

I am not a germ-phobe, but the something about the sight of Bella doing the little kid, 'let's run my hands over EVERY single surface I go past, la-la-la-la' made my stomach twist, curl and revolt. Christie laughed, rolled her eyes (good moms are able to do this) and said, "Yeeeeaaaah....I try to keep her from touching everything, but I figure what the heck, she's going to get filthy by the end of the day, so...whatamIgonnado?"

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore, so I pulled her into a bar - yes, I am hereby admitting it, I brought a four-year old child into a bar. Again, I am a) unfit for parenting b) headed to ruin. Thankfully, the nice English lady who was pulling taps for the early afternoon drinkers was happy to let us into the facilities. I pulled myself down to her height, looked into her little cornflower-blue eyes, and said, "Ok, now look. at. my. face and listen to me, ok?"
"Oh-oh-o.k."
"What color are your hands?"
"Graaayyyy."
"You're right. They're GRAY. GRAY with DIRT. Let's wash them, now, ok?"
"OOOK!"
"And no. more. touching stuff, ok?"
"OK!" (Considerable enthusiasm for washing shown)
"Thank you - you're being a very, very, good girl."

Five minutes later: "Stop. touching. the. g.d. walls, fortheluvapete! GAAAAAAAH!" This was the point at which we decided that Jen, Scott and I would be touring up to see the top ridges of our mountains. We stopped at Cold Springs Tavern for a beer, and ended up at Harry's for their turkey dinner. Guess who met us there? The gray-handed monster(s) - and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Close but no champers

At about three today, we got a knock at the door - honestly, I am never terribly pleased to get those unless a) I'm expecting a friend b) I've had the house detailed. Sadly, neither one of these were true.

It was the Cottage Hospital project manager, coming by to bring us a little box of Sees' candy as a condolence for the last few months of dirt, noise, lewd stares and traffic detours we've been through. Nice gesture, to be sure...but really not sufficient considering the vast irritation it has been.

As if mere chocolates were apology enough. Now if only they'd had a bottle of bubbly and the keys to the apartment we could move into while this mess was going on. I walked back into my house and continued ripping the plaster off the top of my bathroom. The Great Flush-Down project of 2006 is not....going...well. More later.

Shameful Saturday

I am not a creature of extreme restraint. That being said, I try and bite my tongue around most people - for one, it is the Mature thing to do and also, it's better for business. Today, however I did two things that while I'm not proud of, per se, I feel a little bit OK about. Item Number One: Made a rather rapid exit from a large gathering of people, because I didn't want to be harassed, questioned, bothered, accosted or quizzed or queried about....anything. I just walked out, dropped my cute new shades over my eyes, and made a beeline for our car and checked my voice mail.

Item Number Two: Made a comment that sounded exactly like an innocent question, but was really a poison-laced barb of disgust to an old acquaintance. Laughed about it, felt no remorse about being a (tiny) bit mean. It was a perfect example of why it is a Bad Idea to mistreat my friends. Ever.

Item Number Three: You may not have been reading here way back in the day, but allow me to re-cap: I have a seventy-six year old home. It was built before television, computers, the Slinky, seamless stockings, or the atomic bomb even existed. While it has charming features (darling original built-in bar, cute kick moldings, funky windows), it does NOT boast a spacious bathroom. Or even a small bathroom.

No, no...my bathroom is precisely six feet by six feet (aka The Size of a Postage Stamp), and retains the original, hideous, peach (shudder) tile. Unfortunately, when the previous owners decided to add on to our house (or convert the garage that the owners prior to them had added on, I'm not sure) they caused one hideous problem: There are no outside windows to my bathroom. To 'solve' the problem, they installed a weeeeeak fan and a skylight. The fan turns on with the light switch, but has the approximate power and suction of an asthmatic dog doing Lamaze. As you can imagine, these are the ideal breeding grounds for all kinds of ickies - which means bleach is a frequent visitor at our house.

Sooooo...all of this leads up to Item Number Four (hideous shame): Up until yesterday, I had only put one coat of Redi-Strip on the walls, and done only minimal sanding. Since there are seventy six years' worth of paint on the walls, the first coat only served to make the top five coats of paint kind of sit up and say, "I'm sorry, did you nudge me? Hmmmm?". As of Friday afternoon, I slathered a couple of (partial) walls and the ceiling in a nice, thick slurry of pale green Redi-Strip, felt a little hiiiigh, and went over to Christie and Jeremy's' house to have a shower, a chicken plate from La Super Rica and a glass of wine. So by avoiding showering (again with the shame) this morning, we were able to let the stripping solution do the job they are meant to.

I arrived home this evening, full of frustration (see: Item Number One) and mean elation (see: Item Number Two) and found a perfect outlet for both feelings: Chipping seventy-six years' worth of paint off one panel of the back of my bathroom door.

Item Number Three: Whoever owned my house had really, truly, awful taste. The original owners must have been color-blind...the sixth or seventh layer of paint down from our current outer layer put down dark pea-green paint. Horrible, ugly, pea-green, that the next painter(s) sought to conceal with a 'flesh' coral-pink. Whoever bought it from them painted over in a crappy "neutral" color, added an aggravating mirrored-tile closet* to my 'bedroom;, and demolished my fireplace. The people who got it from them did the add-on (effectively) causing the mildew issue I currently have and added a skylight that ensures that the advance of satelite technology will allow me to Google Earth myself in the shower...I hold them all in contempt.
*I refer to this closet as the "bad 70's porn" closet. Trust me when I say there is nothing, nothing, more frightening than seeing your own reflection in the mirror on waking.

Heaven help whoever buys this place from us.....because I have PLANS for this place.

Disney-induced flashback

As you read this, I will likely be cavorting around Main Street, overpaying for "Cajun" food, or actively avoiding Its' a Small World (aka the fifth circle of hell) and definitely not missing any of these rides:

Scott has just informed me he will be wearing shorts, black socks/sandals, a fanny pack, zinc oxide on his nose and a 'big dumb hat'. I replied, "So...you're going as someone's dad?" Apparently, since he hasn't BEEN there since (?) the 80's, he's going to be attired the same as last time - that way, Mickey will recognize him.

1. Pirates of the Carribean. Even though it's been remodeled in similar fashion to the Swiss Family Robinson tree house (now known as the Tarzan house), the Submarine Ride (coming soon with Finding Nemo stuff), this one will never get old for me.
   
2. The Jungle Boat - Everyone loves a mechanical hippo.
   
3. Indiana Jones - Scott has never been on this. Score!
   
4. Mr. Toads' Wild Ride - Hopefully Scott will let me finish reading him the Wind in the Willows after this. Also used by my sisters and I in reference to my dads' driving.
   
5. Space Mountain - Fast, smooth and .... dark. The cool entryway is a bonus.
   
6. Pinocchio's Daring Journey - I think its a rule that couple must kiss inside the whale.
   
7. The Tiki Room - I never miss this one. Ever. Everyone sing with me now, "In the tiki-tiki-tiki-tiki-tiKI Room..."
   
8. Alice in Wonderland - This is/was my favorite Disney movie and one of my favorite books as a kid, so hardly a surprise. Who wouldn't want to ride in a caterpillar?
   
9. Splash Mountain - Hardly anyone under 30 remembers the movie Song of the South (never came out on video due to its' controversial stereotypes) - but this ride does a great job of bringing the spirit of the movie out.
   
10. Thunder Mountain - What's not to love?
    

As a So. Cal kid, I didn't go to Disneyland "a lot", by comparison to some - I vividly remember the first time I went, circa 1985 or 6. A (brave!) friend of my parents voluntarily offered to take me and a bunch of other kids. To Disneyland. Without our parents. Seriously - I cannot imagine dragging a bunch of 6-8 year olds around, through the lines (this was before the internet, weather forecasting, cell phones, or that cool thing they do now so you don't have to wait in line for..ev..ver), to the bathrooms, over hill and dale. At least not without a couple of Prozac. Can you? She actually had the presence of mind to take a bunch of pictures and make me a little scrapbook, complete with stubs from all the different lands*. I still have it - and the memories of a very generous friend.

Fast forward a few years - I'd been to Kauii with my grandparents and was going through a bit of an island-fever obsession (from which I have never fully recovered). This time, I got to go to the Magic Kingdom with my friend Dani and her family. Dani and I got the brilliant idea to speak in what must have been an incredibly irritating "accent" all day long. The 'accent' consisted of a mixture of Pig Latin (iG-pay atin-lay), and outrageously bad "French", "Hawaiian"/"islander" phrases. Naturally, this was a bit limiting to our conversation and resulted in sentences like this, "Zeees es zee ost-may magnifique ide-ray, we 'ave got nut-ting ike-lay it on de islaaands. Ya mon." We actually stayed "in character" all day long, which amused us greatly in the long, hot lines.

Can you picture this? Imagine two girls, aged nine or ten. One has cornsilk blonde hair, big blue eyes and (I'm guessing) an outfit that featured the Scotty dog motif, a cute accent piece and LA gear high tops on. She's lightly tanned and has the amazing capacity to make the other girl laugh till she cries, blush, or say, "SShHHHH! Your MOM could be LISTENING!". The other one is dark brown (siigh, those were the days) with long sun-streaked brown hair, probably scrunchied into a ponytail, wearing black stretch pants with white socks, Keds, and a sweatshirt or a fanny pack around her waist. The fanny pack (ugh, I can't believe I'm even typing that word!) probably holds $37.50, twenty of which her parents gave her and the rest she saved or worked for.

They are newly conscious of their increasing need for brassieres, and boys are interesting, but not entirely consuming, although both of them are (and will remain for some years into the future) deeply enamored of tantalizingly almost-unavailable older lads. Out of their six years of school, they've been in the same class for four years running. Teachers quickly learn that when they are seated together, they have the amazing capacity to a) finish their work b) completely distract/crack up everyone around them. Consequently, they are generally seated on opposite sides of the room, which makes them experts at telegraphing humour through other students or across the room.

Their mothers couldn't be more different creatures, which makes their frequent visits to each others' houses always interesting. One lives between the awe of a "cool" older sister and a bratty/cute baby brother, the other with weight of being an older sister twice over. They vascillate between being willing 'assistants' and hoping to be cool enough to tag along with the older kid(s) in one house and being the bossy, intolerant older siblings at the other. Frequently their games include wild flights of fancy, assumed characters and costume changes - and just as frequently, they spend hours talking about anything from school yard gossip to bemoaning their strict parents' often-changing rules.

They do not have play dates, cell phones, mini-adult clothing, computers, a stressful routine of soccer/cheer/gymnastics/chess/French practice, or more than a few dollars to spend at a time. Their mothers are perfectly confident in sending them over to each others' houses on foot, unattended. Sometimes they meet at a park between their houses, climb a tree, eat a little candy and watch the clouds drift around. In short, they were a pair of kids. Not innocent, not perfect, not all bubblegum and daisies, certainly not the angelic image portrayed in some movies...but essentially, mostly kids.

Where did all the kids go? Every ten year old I know is just a short teenager. I don't think any of them would be caught dead doing a Hawaiian/French/islander/Pig Latin accent....and I don't think they're having as much fun as we did.

To see where I may be:

- Main Street USA

- Adventureland

- Critter Country

- New Tomorrowland

- Fantasyland

- Frontierland

- Mickey's Toontown

- New Orleans Square

Beach Day

Ok, I've got...exactly one hour before I default on my NaBloPoMo commitment. Here, a quick retrospective of my afternoon the other day:

Thursday afternoon, Christy and I decide to run down to the beach because it's been so. incredibly beautiful lately - hot, some warm winds, and those incredibly deep blue skies, even in California. We had her kids, so we figured it'd be easiest to go to East Beach and have a good long walk along the water's edge.

As we got down along the sand, I caught a snoot-full of the tang of rotting flesh - just the thing to set off the salty breeze of the ocean, right? I was unfortunately cursed with an extremely heightened sense of smell, and so ended up thisclose to vomiting by the time Christie could even smell it. Gaaaag. Again may I note what a very bad pregnoid I'd make.

Since their family had spent the two days prior at Disneyland, little Bella was a bit tired. Being in a state of 'without nap', she suddenly turned into a pre-menstrual sixteen year old on the night before prom. In a word, completely unmanageable, unbribeable, intractable, and enough to drive most anyone up the bloody wall. She refused to follow along with us, had to pee more than an incompetent basset hound after a pitcher of iced tea, and cried at the drop of a hat. Not the most fun, really.

I tried carrying her, but the child is huge, has been since birth, and it just isn't practical. I tried schlepping her across my hip and letting her dangle off, Africa-style, but that wasn't doing it either. We tried suggesting projects, cajoling her, making her laugh, telling her to stop crying now...and nothing worked. Around a mile and a half later, we happened on a young dad, his toddling daughter, and their cute dog.

The dog, a cute Sheltie mix, wanted to play Fetch with log-sized sticks. Trying to explain the cause and effect of throwing a four-foot stick for a dog to a crabby four year old was not my most successful undertaking. Of course we ended up with a scraped arm, more tears and very hurt feelings. I called in the big guns (mini Butterfinger and fake crying) and it seemed to cheer her up for a minute or two. May I stress the phrase "a minute or two" here...minutes later, she was about to turn on the waterworks. I heaved a huge sigh, gave up and told her very sternly that she had now 'broken her promise to me" by crying, and that I would not "play with her again" if she acted like that. In the end, I had the kids take turns jumping on me, piggyback style, and then we'd run down the beach, chasing each other and screaming with laughter.

I was so glad to go home to the silence of our house, exhausted and ready for a martini.

Like a Pop Tart

Well, the votes are in... and it turns out an overwhelming majority of my readers would most like to hear about:

A gory car incident....yesssss! The good old falling out of the car stories it is, you crazy kids. Ooook...where to start...ah yes, 'twas a warm day, circa 1987 or so, and the three of us were wee snippets of girls, aged seven, three and a few months past one. Our parents had stolen a rare afternoon at the beach together. No doubt they spent it, not feeding each other strawberries and champagne and whispering sweet nothings in each others' ears, but doing some kind of sport-type activity. The trio of us were entrusted to the loving and competent hands of our babysitter, Broccolli - her name is Brooke, but put it this way: Scott refers to her as Broccolli to this day. She had only been driving for a few months - our parents insisted that she wait for a while and prove that she was a safe driver. Which, for the record, she was.

Since Broccolli was the Worlds' Best Babysitter, she took us to see a re-release of Snow White and treated us to some manner of fast food, a rare treat for kids raised by recovering hippies. Now remember, this was nineteen years ago, and we had only taken a short trip, so Pamby wasn't in a carseat, she was just buckled in the back of the big Buick, across the car from me. I remember drowsing in the backseat, full of Chicken McNuggets and the songs of Snow White.

We were cruising down the 101 freeway, going over a knot of traffic and a hill. I remember hearing Brooke say, "Amy, you have to buckle back up, right now", and glaring across the car at my bratty little sister who was ruining my reverie. Luckily for all of us, Brooke pulled off the freeway and onto a frontage road with a bit of dirt running next to it. Otherwise, this would probably be a sad reminder instead of a cautionary tale. Just as she was about to stop, little Pamby reached for the door handle and....didn't let go. The huge heavy door swung open, taking her with it much faster than I can tell it.

She flew a few feet in the soft dirt, punched a hole in her lip, and scraped her elbows, knees and stomach up a little bit. Aside from her crying, my crying because I was sure I'd be in trouble for letting her fall out of the car, plus afraid her lip was going to fall off, and the hysterical screechings of a middle-aged woman who had seen the whole thing happen, Brooke kept very calm. We bundled Pamby back in the car and zoomed (carefully) off to her house, where we cleaned her off and pondered What To Do.

This being back in the days before cell phones, pagers and instant contact with everyone, my parents were still at the beach. In a brilliant stroke of inspiration, intuition, whatever you want to call it, my mom decided they needed to leave where they were right away, and find a phone. This was not normal behavior for my parents; my mom isn't a worrywart, my dad would be loathe to leave the beach, say, before dark. When they didn't reach us at home via payphone (hey, remember payphones? I think there are about three left in Santa Barbara), they called Brooke's house and rushed over.

Pamby got a few stiches from a plastic surgeon, some band-aids, and some extra coddling from everyone. It would take about thirteen years for her little blue scars to fade, but we'll have the memories of a screaming middle-aged woman to last forever.

About the other time she fell out of the car: I wasn't there, but the brief explanation is thus:
Kids in parents' van, driving in a remote area. One kid (guess whooooo?) wasn't buckled up and was seated on the floor. Driver (kids' sister) hits a rough patch of country road, loses control and rolls the van several times, causing the door to pop open and ejecting said kid into the road. By yet another miracle, she didn't get propelled into a tree, wall, another car, or over a Colorado mountain cliff. She did break her collarbone into a number of peices, but was otherwise unharmed. The van, a recent purchase of my parents, perished immediately. Police had to triangulate their cell phone signals to find them (Reason number 2,452 I will Never Move To a Mountain State, or inland, or many places, for that matter: Mountains.), and she later had two surgeries in relation to her collarbone.

Here's the (final) kicker of that one: No one told me anything about it until a month later, when they mentioned, "the accident", in passing. Casually, as though I knew all about it ....because I didn't live with them, and therefore deserved to be puunished by the careful witholding of vital information. Please read that last sentence with a heavy dose of "I'm joking! gaaaaaahd!" on top, ok? Seriously though....if you flew out of a car like so much toast from a toaster, wouldn't you think to pick up the phone and call your sister?

Since we're going down Memory Lane this week...

I was reading Emily's recent entry and it made me think about a few things; the principles of inertia for one, and how (much more) stressful and pressurized parenting has become in the last ten or fifteen years. Mrs. Kennedy (now parenting the darling Jackson in my hometown) readily admits it, Heather's most recent post at AlphaMom talks about how "the bar has been raised in imperceptible increments, for such a long time, that much of the time we don't even realize that we are holding ourselves to standards our mothers never had to meet" - which, in turn, can cause some people (Heather included) to be depressed. Wait, wait... I have a point to make here, I promise.

So I got to thinking about what things were like for my sisters and I growing up...and I came to a few conclusions, the primary of which was this: Despite the "mistakes*" our young parents made, we had a lot of fun, a lot more fun than loads of kids do anymore. I'm really happy they forged ahead and made a family of five where they might have just left off after me. Given the facts that I woke up every hour until I was two, walked and spoke in complete sentences far too early (imagine a year and a half old child stomping her tiny foot on the ground and saying, "Oh S##T! in irritation, in front of your conservative new friends...) and also had an irrational fear of strange things like snails...I'm amazed that my mom had the bravery to give procreation another round, on purpose. She maintains that they had my first sister to keep me from being, in her words, a complete and total raving brat. My second sister followed a mere twenty months later and, like me, was a big surprise.
*I'm not saying they made mistakes, but they might be judged harshly for things they routinely did with us if it were now. You know, like how I was allowed to run around stark naked everywhere without SPF 200 covering every inch of my tender baby flesh (which tanned quite nicely, thankyouverymuch) things like that.

Take the fact that my father used to routinely allow a whole pack of kids to ride in the back of his pick-up truck. I'm talking, ten, twelve kids in the bed, and two or three in the front with him. We'd all pile in and rattle off down the road to the beach or a softball game or on a hike, not a care in the world between us. One day we were en route to go on a hike and had our usual gang of kids, plus a loveable (if a bit thick in the head) boxer named Max with us. Being a dog, he was placed in the bed of the truck with about ten of us kids. Being a dog, he happily hung his head over the side and slurped up the warm summer air. Being a rather dumb dog, he decided to push his thickly muscled chest up to and over the edge of the truck.

"Nat, grab his leash tighter, he's going to jump out of the.." SWOOP. In a flash of tawny fur, he was out, rolling across the pavement with a smattering of yelping cries.
"AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE! DaaaaAAAaaaaaaaaD!" (chorus of ten kids screaming in terror) By some miracle, Max managed to escape with only a few cuts and scratches that we bandaged at a friends' house and was perfectly able to go on our hike. Other times, I remember him letting us ride laying down on top of his toolbox, lying down.

I don't know one parent that would allow any of that kind of nonsense to go on with their sprogs... for that matter, I don't know that I'd allow some of that. But what do we have to show for it? The fattest, least interested in learning, most neurotic, over-stressed, unhealthy generation of children yet. As a Have-Not, I can only watch and report from the sidelines, not smug, but cushioned, by my blissful ignorance. That and sit back in my rocker on the porch, reminiscing about the good old days.