Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Simply, Thank You

Mother's Day. It's one of those recognized days that fell by the wayside for me in 1983 when my mother passed away. I dutifully bought cards for my mothers-in-law (because although I've only had one husband, I had two MILs simultaneously) but never looked forward to it, never made a big whoop-di-do.  Never. . .until I had my own kids.  Mother's Day took on a new meaning; an appreciation and excitement because my kids were so proud of their gifts.  What could be better than a mayonnaise jar full of "daisies" - the sunshine yellow dandelions teeming in our yard? Or the rock that one child, with a red Sharpie, meticulously wrote:
Happy mothers day mom
My kids made Mother's Day beautiful again. But in all of this, I've learned that the loss of my mom at such a young age profoundly affected how I look at mothering in general. And, I've learned that all (and I'm sure someone will argue this but I'm not participating) women are mothers whether they have children, or are sisters or friends.  We mother each other.  And because I've come to realize that I am searching for the mother in everyone I meet, probably to fill a continual empty space, I've gleaned some nuggets of advice that I carry with me.

To Lydia- Who, when I was lamenting the misfortune of someone with whom I had a dicey relationship with and feeling guilt about having unkind thoughts about them just prior to their misfortune (I know, long sentence, try to keep up), pointedly asked, "What makes you think you have that much power in the world to think a thought in your brain could cause someone else misfortune?  You're not that important!"

To Melissa- Who, when I was in a moment of frenzy between double-booked commitments, reminded me to remember that, "The important things get done."  It's simple as that and makes perfect sense.  Think about it.

She also is the one who wisely recommended that when you use a paper towel to open the public restroom door to exit, if you must, throw the paper towel on the floor when you leave. If there isn't a trash can by the door, there will be one there soon enough.  She's right.

To Lou- Who taught me that an open mind is essential for growth and that standing in judgment of others is a dangerous place to stand.  How did she do this?  By the way she raised her kids, honored her calling (she is a gifted teacher who STILL teaches into her 80s) with truly needy kids in her basement after school, every day, fostered kids whose racial make-up was a direct contrast to our lily white neighborhood and lives her life in a luminescent peace.  So effective is she that she has no idea how important she is to me.

To Judy - My mom's best friend whose fight with cancer preceded my mom by 5 years but, I believe prepared us all to face it with humor.  And of course, she knew the value of "lemonade" - the code word for vodka laced beverages enjoyed in the afternoon by both Sally and Judy as they melted into fits of giggles and private jokes.

There are more - a book full, actually.  My kids resuscitated Mother's Day for me and taught me to enjoy it but, there are myriad women every day who rescue me.  Happy Mother's Day to all of you and those I've yet to meet!





Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Friendly Driver's Education Reminder

There is something that has been bothering me for the last year.  I've allowed it to burrow in my craw, sometimes I am able to quiet the irritation, other times it consumes me.  I thought, at first, it might be something related to the age demographic were I now live, but on further study can confirm this affliction is equal across the age board and isn't unique to California. I don't know when or how, but somewhere, somehow, people seem to have forgotten how to drive.

I didn't notice it so much back in the Midwest.  I learned to drive in Michigan where the driving experience is the essence of the economy.  In Michigan, traffic moves, albeit on the worst infrastructure in road maintenance I've ever seen (with the exception of one 18 mile stretch of mountain road in rural North Carolina - but that's another story that involves banjo music.)

In Illinois, the majority of my driving was also rural with the exception of jaunts to Chicago where slow traffic is the result of a lot of people trying to get somewhere at the same time - Chicago drivers drive with purpose.

So, out here, in California, I have been plagued with angst because the drivers seem to not have learned basic driving sense.  The Smith System has 5 principals for safe driving.  They are as follows:
1.   Aim High 
Focus on what is in front of you and way ahead
2.   The Big Picture
“Be aware of your surroundings at all times” 
4.   Leave Yourself an Out
The fourth principle of the Smith System states to leave yourself a way out
5.   Make Sure They See You 
 As a driver, make sure that other drivers can see you and anticipate your move. 
I agree with these but I think there are even MORE IMPORTANT tenets that should be followed. 

1) PUSH THE PEDAL PEOPLE. I swear that when I get in the car and start driving, I will come upon the casual driver who is traveling in the left lane on a 55mph road and they are doing a steady 42mph.  No faster, no slower. It happens every single time and usually within 5 minutes of leaving the house. Which brings me to my next tenet. . .

2) STAY OUT OF THE LEFT LANE IF YOU ARE NOT FAST MOVING TRAFFIC. When did people start forgetting this?  People seem to choose a lane when they leave the house and stay in that lane for the entire duration of their trip whether they are going 5 miles or 50. There is nothing more aggravating than getting going up to the speed limit only to be slowed because the persons in the middle or left lane are meandering down the road 10 miles under the speed limit without a purpose. And because they chose this lane when they left, they are intent on staying in it until they arrive at the destination.

3) STAY AWAY FROM SURROUNDING CARS.  There is this annoying trait where drivers feel that they need to drive right next to you or, even worse, in your blind spot.  This is not for a moment or two but, because they refuse to change lane, lasts for miles and miles.  I'd try to speed up to shake them but I'll be stopped by someone in front of me who won't PUSH THE GAS. And now?  I'm boxed in and the tunnel visioned drivers round me aren't paying attention to any of my signals that I want to move over.  Heck, the guy next to me has no clue my signals are on because he's still in my blind spot and apparently he can't read lips. . . although that may be a good thing.

 It's simple folks: DRIVE WITH A PURPOSE!

I'm not suggesting speeding, or crazy lane changing, I'm just asking people drive with a purpose, be self aware and stay the hell out of my way.  Simple, right?

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Does She or Doesn't She? There is NO Question!

When I started this blog a few years back, it was because I lived in a small town in the midwest.  Ordinary, everyday people made unordinary things happen and most often, they were pretty funny.  Thus; My Life in a Nutshell.

Well, since then, I have moved. . . bugged out of the midwestern small town and headed west to the desert of California.  It's taken some time but we are finally finding the rythmn here and in that; new material.  It's not the same comfy little nutshell, in fact, it's a whole other kind of nut out here.

Moondoggy retired in September 2013, a planned for, anticipated event that we anxiously awaited and we moved to an "Active Adult" community in the land of sun and movie stars. We call it the "Old Folks Home" (thank you, Carol for that moniker!). It is about the same size as the town we moved from so the nuances aren't much different.  The same rules for living apply: Don't speak - and I do mean literally "speak", disparagingly about someone because that person might be in a club, in a class or Bridge partners with the person with whom you speak.  Pass judgment on others but keep your mouth shut - unless it's just too obvious not to comment on, which, apparently, Moondoggy does.  Constantly. Retirement, has given him way too much time on his hands (I say I married him for better or worse, but not 24/7 and have lobbied for him to find a part-time job - if nothing else so I can have my solitary writing time back) and his judgement filter has been shut off (of course, I hear that happens when you get old.) Case in point?  Plastic surgery.

Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to cosmetic surgery as a tool for eternal youth unless said surgeries are obvious and, well, bad.  Bee stung lips, of which I have never been a fan, can quickly look like the red waxy lips from our youth that we got at halloween. . . only not that good prompting Moondoggy to comment out of the side of his mouth into my ear, "Geez, Botox much?" . . . I think he meant Restylane. Eyes lifted halfway up the forehead, eyebrows in a constant state of shock and, tight, high cheeks bones that betray a crepey neck waddle are plentiful fodder for discussion and here at the old folks home - heck even just in the valley in general, we've seen our share. Someone needs to tell these people, and by the way, I'm not just talking women here (see Kenny Rogers), that it's not a good look.  In fact, I propose cosmetic surgeons employee a impartial third party to assess whether potential patients should be getting some of the procedures they desire and I have the perfect person for the job, too.  That aside, don't you think if some stranger stood in front of you and told you the truth about how you look or how the surgery would make you look, many people might opt out?  So to the last whose I age I know to be 83 but has a face pulled so high that I am tempted to peek under her hair to see the scars. . .would you like to speak to my husband?


Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Policeman is our Friend. . .Part Two

It takes a little over a year for someone who moves to a new state to be plotted back on the grid.  It comes in the form of jury duty and Moondoggy is definitely back on the radar.  Living where we do, with a high density of retirees, this area is ripe for the picking.

Jury duty here is a week long obligation. . .or one trial, whichever is more painful.   Moondoggy received his notice and was scheduled to call in on a Sunday evening to see if he needed to appear at the courthouse the next day or remain on call the whole week and stay within an hour of the courthouse. The first call was a reprieve and an admonishment to call again the next evening.  This continued all week until Thursday when the recording directed him to call in again Friday morning by 10:30.  Waiting around, he made the call at the appointed time and was then directed to appear immediately.  Begrudgingly, he showed up within the hour and was then directed to wait an hour and half until the lawyers and judge returned from lunch. Upon their return, the judge gave an overview of the trial, a DUI case and named the defendant as well as the arresting officers.  And that's when Moondoggy's ears perked.  The arresting officer's name rang a bell. . .and from what he could see, the guy looked vaguely familiar.  It was him, the motorcycle cop who had brazenly pulled Moondoggy over, on his bicycle several months ago and issued the $300 ticket.  The incident had been festering in Moondoggy's craw for months - the giver of the "chicken shit" ticket now a reviled legend. It was so bad that all I had to do was make a joke about stop signs and I could raise Moondoggy's hackles beginning a tirade that could last for hours. And there he was, in the same courtroom with the enemy. The enemy needed him.

By about 1:30, the beginning of jury selection began, seating all but 2 jurors by 3:00.  Moondoggy thought he was in the clear until they dismissed the rest of the group and decided to pick the last 2 jurors from the remaining group. . . of which Moondoggy was one.  Then, it was time for a small break.  By now, he is seething.

At 3:45,  they only need one more juror and they really want to get this jury empaneled and go home for the weekend. Moondoggy is called for questioning.  Normally, he is the first one to believe that someone who drives drunk should be prosecuted - a prosecuting attorney's dream. In most cases, that might be the reason he would have difficultly being impartial.  But when the judge asked him, "Is there any reason you might have difficulty being impartial," the weight of the stress of a week of being on jury call, the now four and half hours spent waiting for them to get this jury set on Friday afternoon (which meant that he would be obligated into the next week) and the trifecta of the resurging anger over the bike ticket inspired his response. "Yes, in fact, there is, your Honor.  I believe the arresting officer - Officer M- there, is the same officer who pulled me over and wrote me a ticket. . . while riding my bike."  The judge, who had been shuffling papers, looked up and suppressed a smile."Your bike?"

"Yes, my bike.  He said I blew a stop sign in a residential area." The titters and giggles started in earnest, first with the empaneled jury and then moved on to the attorneys and the judge.  "It wasn't a pleasant experience," Moondoggy continued, "$300 worth of unpleasant, actually."

The judge pulled it together and asked, "And you would have difficulty remaining impartial?"

"Yes, I believe I would."

It took about 3 seconds for the judge to dismiss him with the blessing of both attorneys who were still cracking up.  Moondoggy exited the courtroom but not without stopping for an extra long gaze at the cop who was now the butt of a courtroom joke.  Moondoggy just smiled. Karma comes full circle.  Now we just have to wait wait for karma to deal with the cyclists. 

Sunday, November 30, 2014

The Officer Is Your Friend. . .Unless He Hates You

Something happened last spring that changed my view of an activity I enjoy.  I hate it when that happens.  Moondoggy and I enjoy biking.  Biking is big out here (it's a year round sport, thank you, Mother Nature) and on any given day it is not unusual to see several pelotons of biking enthusiasts in their matching spandex, whirring en masse down the roads along the dedicated bike lanes and there are bike lanes everywhere here. I am not of that ilk - spandex on me is a fashion NEVER and my bike is not a road bike per se.  It is an upright, old-fashioned handle bar model and I sit atop and calmly tool down the road - think Wicked Witch the West.  I am not a threat on a bike and road bikers generally tolerate my presence.  Moondoggy, however, is far more avid and has been for years (he's ridden the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon to Washington state and up many local mountains, here) and he used to wear the spandex but, no more.  The bikers here, the spandex wearing, group riding die-hards, have a bad reputation and neither of us could figure out why until two things happened.

I know it's a problem in other places because I Googled it (Why are bikers such assholes), but here, especially, the large groups of people on bikes, have an attitude that pisses off drivers and pedestrians alike and I've heard complaints from people about "those" bikers early on. They want and have road rights (Ok), they want safety (Of course) but they also want to choose which road laws they have to obey and they do so on a whim.  Case in point, I was once at a stop light where the dedicated bike path ended about 25 feet before the intersection.  The biker (and his 20 matching friends), instead of waiting behind whatever car they came up behind - like cars do, decided to ride between the curb and the car to get to the intersection and turn right.  He (and his 20 friends) were indignant, furious even that I had not (nor had the five cars behind me) left 3 feet on the right so he could get by.  He decided to stop directly in front of my car and say so, "Bitch, you HAVE to give me 3 feet."  Um, no, I don't.  I have to give you 3 feet if you are RIDING on the road and there is no path and I come upon you and decide to pass. . .then, I have to give you 3 feet.  That is the law.  Otherwise, YOU, you little biker prick with all your biker prick friends, have to follow road law and get behind me (VC21650). And now, I get why regular people hate bikers. Apparently cops do, too.

Fast forward to last Spring.  Moondoggy was out on a lengthy ride that takes him through a residential area where the pelotons like to go.  He rode up a long hill, made it to the top and then turned to ride down, a time to enjoy the spoils of having pedaled up.  He is a lone rider.  He likes it that way. And as he is cruising down, wind in his hairs when along the path he hears a loud siren and it's coming up right behind him.  It's a motorcycle cop, lights strobing, and Moondoggy's getting pulled over and ticketed.  Why?  "Because we've had complaints from residents about bikers not stopping at the stop signs." People are slowing, taking in the scene as they drive by, this motorcycle cop with full on siren and lights flashing like it's a major bust, just sitting on the bike path as he lectures my gray haired husband.  Moondoggy looks back - there was a T intersection with a 3 way stop.  There was no sign on the bike path, no road on his side that intersected where he was riding and he had ridden through but, technically, had he been driving a car, it would have been a blown stop sign.  Ergo - ticket.  And while the motorcycle cop is writing out his $300 ticket (a moving violation on your license by the way), a whirring peloton whizzes by, ON THE ROAD, blowing by not one, not two but THREE stop signs (4 way stops, I might add where there is real cross traffic).  Moondoggy points out the mass violation to which Motorcycle cop responds, "I'm just one man, sir." The cop was as much of a prick as the bikers are and he (we) are left with a very bad taste in our mouth about both bikers and cops. Moondoggy has carried that anger about being caught in between the ongoing battle between cyclists and local cops not sure which he hates more when Karma stepped in recently and showed him that yes, there is an upside to anger.
. . .to be continued.


Tuesday, October 28, 2014

When Halloween Goes Global


My sister called the other day to share her latest assessment of life, as we do with each other from time to, when she stumbled upon a subject so glorious I just could not let it go. And because it would be poor form to not give credit to the genius who conceived this gem, I have to give a shout out to my sister’s highly revered
hairdresser – Tammy.

There was this costume party coming up and a group of women were discussing what to wear when Tammy suggested they all dress as GIRL SCOUTS! Not just any girl scout mind you, but as COUGAR GIRL SCOUTS! They would all wear their
uniforms with enough cleavage and bra showing to have no mistaking the intent. They would wear a sash that contained different levels of achievement badges (the “Walk of Shame” badge, the “Triple Play” badge and, of course, “Proper Condom
Application” badge) and carry canteens filled with. . .wait for it. . .  Cosmopolitans! Their troop number? 69!

When I heard this, I howled. But, I could not just enjoy the laugh for the moment because the scope of this is priceless. Let’s drop the “girl” part, because face it, none of us look 10 anymore. Let’s call ourselves Cougar Scouts. And let’s forgo the traditional scout uniform and get a little creative. I, myself, have always coveted the
white patent leather go-go boots from the early ‘70’s so I think they should be the official footwear. I also like a cute tennis skirt with built in panties, after all, we may be cougar’s but we are not easy so it will take some fancy talking to get to the goodies. Any color is acceptable but it must be paired with a black tank top. I mean
we are hot – temperature hot that is, and we are NOT going to be burdened by unnecessary layering. Besides, black is slimming. To accessorize the ensemble, we need a belt – animal print of course, a matching wristlet to carry lipstick, compact and cab fare. Good scouts do carry canteens and they should be filled at all times
with the beverage of choice (mine is red wine) and instead of binoculars, I suggest blinged-out cheater glasses. If you really want to carry something more binocularly, how about a View Master with a picture wheel of gorgeous men? Brownies wore
beanies, Girl Scouts wore berets, Cougar Scouts will wear a scarf as a headband (with or without a Hollywood Bump It and fake hair) and, of course, a tiara for formal meetings. Meetings will be established by each troop with an annual meeting in either Florida or California on alternate years with an optional spa visit mid year.
We could sing altered camp song's:

Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble too and fro
Can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie 'em in a bow Can you throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier Do your boobs hang low-
Ok - now in rounds. . .

Forget Halloween, I see this as a national club with troops not only in every state, but every town across the U.S. This could be huge! But what about troop dues, you ask? There aren't any. Hell, we already paid ‘em!

Friday, October 17, 2014

No Beach, No Cocktail, Then it Must be China

Visiting China is a many layered cultural immersion.  It is not a vacation.  I've drawn this distinction in the past - there are vacations (lolling on the beach, cocktails, cabanas) and then there are trips (National parks, rafting, Europe, - anything that involves learning and thinking beyond whether I want to swim in the pool or the ocean.) China is a trip and I mean in that in all of it's layered meaning.

When you arrive, you hit the ground running and you don't stop until crawling into bed for the day. Our first tour day began with a western breakfast at the hotel (and thank goodness for them - I'll explain in another post) and BAM we were headed to Tianenman Square followed by the Forbidden City, The Summer Palace of the Dragon Lady and finally, the Pearl Market before heading back to the hotel with enough time to change, go to dinner and then to the Peking Opera. To sum up the sights, all I can say is 1987 Student Uprising is not a topic of discussion and watch The Last Emperor (you will see the Forbidden city AND get a feel for the Dragon Lady).  What I really want to tell you is about the Opera because THAT was a trip.

We had VIP seating which meant we had a table upfront and we were served snacks and beer.  Our tour guide told us the opera was an old tradition and truly a cultural experience.  Then , he said he'd meet us at the door when it was over. . .he wasn't staying and now I know why.  Our opera was made up of 3 stories that had nothing to do with each other.  There was, for clarity, an electronic sign on one side of the stage that ran the dialogue and song (and I use that term loosely) in English and Chinese.  The second story, perhaps the most memorable was about a girl trying to catch up to her lover who was on a boat going down the river.  She hires a man of questionable character to taker her down the river after him and then spends 10 minutes singing, screaming and yelling for him to go faster so she can catch her lover.  That's it.  That and the instrumental.  Between the music and singing, I felt like this assault on my ears was akin to watching what happens in my brain when too many glasses of wine produce a hangover.  Here is a Link - you only need to watch the first minute - minute and a half to get the idea. It is no wonder our guide decided to find something else to do while we enjoyed the cultural experience.

Having a guide is beneficial for a number of reasons but, his ability to tell us in-depth history was a boon. . .until we realized not everything he (not just him - other guides we had, too) said seemed to stand to reason. It first occurred on our tour through a historic Hutong - a neighborhood that has remained untouched and is now preserved.  We walked past a charming mail box and he stopped us and said, "That is the oldest post box in China."  Many of us drank the koolaid but Moondoggy looked at the box and pointed to where above the slot it said LETTER in English, "But John," he said, "It says 'Letter'." To which our tour guide quickly changed the subject.

In Xian we saw the famous Terra Cotta Warriors.  There is nothing I can say to describe the magnitude of these clay men.  There are thousands.  They all have different faces.  It is simply overwhelming.  Our guide in Xian (along with John) was CiCi.  CiCi lived in Xian all of her life and was eager to share her city.  On the way to the warriors she told us the story of their discovery:

A farmer was digging a well when at about six feet down, he unearthed a head.  He thought he had dug up the devil and he was frightened.  So, he called the government knowing they would know what to do.  And they did.  They moved him out and built him a new home and started excavating. . . then, because this farmer now had nothing to do. . .they gave him a job. 


He is at the gift shop everyday to meet people (but no pictures unless you pay) and autograph a book about the warriors and their history.  So, we met the farmer and bought the book and had him sign it.  I mean, how many times do you get THAT opportunity?  We even bought the new updated version.  We know this because there was a yellow burst in the upper left hand corner that said "NEW".

Days later as we cruised the Yangtze River, we took an excursion up stream on the Shennong.  It was beautiful, hilly, lush and green.  Monkeys scurried along the river's edge and farmers worked their land.  There were soaring cliffs and caves along the route and high in the crags from time to time were coffins - yes the kind that hold dead people.  These coffins were perched in the crags balanced on two pieces of bamboo.  They were, our guide said, two thousand years old.  Well, looking at the coffins and the bamboo supporting them, it just didn't stand to reason so Moondoggy asked, "So those coffins have been up there for 2000 years?"  The stream guide replied, "They weigh 500 pounds and have been up there for 2000 years.   No one knows how they got them up there but it is believed being up there allowed them to be closer to God."  Which is another interesting anomaly because most Chinese are Buddhist or Taoists so. . . .  There is a picture attached of the coffin.  I'll let you be the judge - does it look like it has survived 2000 years of time, weather and seismic movement?

When we returned home, we got together with our neighbors, who had been to China in the early 2000s, to compare the experience.  At one point, during a discussion of the Terra Cotta Warriors, our neighbor disappeared and returned with a book she bought and yep. that's right, had signed by the farmer who discovered the first warrior.  

Her book, too, had the yellow burst in the upper left hand corner and the word "NEW" splashed across it.  Moreover, when we compared signatures - they were different.  Makes me wonder how many "farmers" they have and how many shifts of autograph sessions they hold? 

Because this was a trip and not a vacation (remember - no beach and no cocktail) what did I learn?  Don't believe anything you hear and only half of what you see.