Hanging out in middle school is like traveling to a foreign country you didn’t really want to visit. The culture is mysterious, the language is strange, and the people dress funny.
And as I learned recently under the pulsating strobe lights of the Marco Forster sixth grade sock hop, they don’t dance like us either.
If you are like me, you haven’t been to a sixth grade dance since…well, sixth grade. I bet you haven’t missed it either. Back in August, I ticked “Chaperone Dances” on the PTA volunteer form. How hard could that be? It’s not like I had to bake anything.
One nice lady clued me in on the golden rule: NO bumping and grinding. If I were to see any B&G infractions, I was to separate the culprits posthaste. I immediately felt comfortable since I figured this would be no different than a Friday night at Renaissance Cafe.
It was kind of dark without the fluorescent lights, which was worrisome. How was I going to spot illicit body contact if I couldn’t see anything? The music thumped, thumped, thumped as background to a maniacal bouncing DJ with knees like duelie shocks. He was busy whipping the kids into a frenzy by throwing cheap Mardi Gras type necklaces into the crowd. I leaned against the wall, smug in my lack of desire for plastic beads.
Then he shouted, “This is for all you M&M fans!” I perked up. I thought he was going to throw candy next and maybe I should be chaperoning closer to the stage. After all I am a big M&M fan. Snickers, too. But he didn’t throw anything. He and the students just bounced along to rap music. Then I got it: Eminem, the musician. Oh.
So far, no dirty dancing. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see anyone actually dancing with another person. The best way I can describe the scene is a massive bouncing throng following Tigger the DJ, or whatever his name was, like he was the pied piper.
“You guys know how to swing?” Tigger screamed. I quietly snorted in disbelief. I can’t even swing. How could they? But the crowd roared an enthusiastic “Yeah!” Does swing involve physical contact? Should I prepare to tear apart true lovers? The music started. I soon realized what swing means to eleven-year-olds: take your partner by the hand, and swing them around as hard as you can. Unceremoniously let them go. With luck, each partner goes catapulting off into the crowd hoping to knock into as many dancers as possible.
So that was what they meant by bumping. Now I understood.
Then Tigger played a slow song. For about twenty seconds, there was a mass “deer in the headlights” reaction. E very kid on the dance floor wanted to bail. One brave couple on the periphery attempted a very stilted waltz. A boy on stage started waving his hands over his head. Every sixth grader immediately followed suit until it looked like the stands at an Angels game. We were all relieved to have something to do.
After the fourth song sung by someone impersonating Minnie Mouse on helium, I realized the only grinding I’d be encountering was the grinding on my eardrums. This was music? I didn’t know these songs. I couldn’t dance to this stuff. Even my kid had deserted me, off bouncing with her friends somewhere, I thought morosely.
Tigger must have picked up on my funk. “Now I’m gonna take you back to 1985!” The crowd cheered. But I knew now that every hurrah simply means, “I’m not in math class!” Still, I was heartened. Finally, at the very end, some real music. Who would it be? Springsteen? The Stones? Lynard Skynard? Fleetwood Mac?
Turns out it was a new song called, believe it or not, “Back to 1985.” Figures. I slumped against the wall. Quickly, I straightened up and pasted on a smile for my daughter who was finally headed my way after ninety minutes of relentlessly avoiding my chaperoning.
I knew I must look like a harbor in the storm to her. She was probably tired, hungry, and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of her first school dance. I bent down to hug her and she shouted words of comfort.
“Don’t forget, Mom. You owe me ten bucks.” The techno pop was blaring so loud; I had trouble hearing her. I’m sure she was telling me how much she loved me.
Ah, music to my ears.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I Never Used To Think I Was A Disaster Waiting To Happen
I never used to think I was a disaster waiting to happen. When we bought our house in Dana Point, I figured we had finally found paradise. There were a few “disclaimers” mixed in the escrow papers, silly warnings about wildlife and other dangers. Lose sleep over a rash of raccoons, a preponderance of opossums? Not me.
Then Hurricane Katrina slammed New Orleans. Before that, the tsunami roared through Asia. I started thinking about the reality of my little coastal paradise: earthquake zone, flood zone, tsunami zone, wildfire zone, and nuclear meltdown zone, not to mention an uncomfortably close proximity to terrorist targets. It’s a Disaster Zone Convergence. I live smack dab in the middle of what I now can only call “The Bermuda Shorts Triangle.”
Without a plan or a paddle.
I googled “disaster preparedness” and then corralled my husband. “I need cash. Give me small bills, everything you’ve got.”
“Is this a stick up?” he answered. I explain patiently that cash is king in a major disaster, so we need to stockpile. Credit and ATM cards may not work if the power is out. He was silent for a long moment, probably contemplating the horrors of being stuck penniless. Finally he said, “Tell me again the downside of you with no credit cards.”
This was not going in the right direction. “We also need to come up with an evacuation route. My cousin in Houston only got 40 miles in 16 hours. Freeways won’t work. I-5 is out. PCH will be a nightmare. I think we should steal a boat.”
“Why don’t we just buy one?”
He’s wanted a sailboat since the moment we moved here--exactly as long as I’ve refused to buy a boat. My disaster plan may need to a few tweaks. I skip ahead to step 3.
Stock up on shelf-stable food. That seemed like an important one to me since I do love to eat. I headed to my local big box retailer, the one that gives you a forklift to haul around your groceries. Shelf-stable…shelf-stable. Then I spotted the perfect end-of-the-world food: dried beans. Fifty pounds of beans is awfully heavy, especially when the little buggers shift.
I got my beans home after a small tussle with the trunk of my car, which reminded me I need an emergency car kit too. Somehow that bag of beans looked a whole lot bigger in my pantry than in the store. The pantry door only stuck out an inch. Hardly noticeable.
My husband walked in. “What’s wrong with the pantry?” Although somewhat annoying in the kitchen, he’s good to have in a disaster. Not only is he handy (he can build us a shelter from palm fronds), he knows how and where to shut off the gas. He swung open the cabinet door, dislodging my beans. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him they were shifty little guys.
“Beans?”
I explained the whole bit about the necessity of emergency provisions. I stressed the phrase “shelf-stable” hoping to impress him with my new encyclopedic knowledge of
disaster planning. Besides, weren’t beans packed with protein?
He practically snorted. “I’ve never seen you eat a bean unless it’s refried, much less cook one.”
I smugly reply that, worst-case scenario, I will be eating tasty beans while he will be licking the paste off old wallpaper. He responded that he would just lay in a personal supply of Hostess Twinkies since they were full of preservatives.
That was below the belt.
It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him for his Swiss Army knife.
Then Hurricane Katrina slammed New Orleans. Before that, the tsunami roared through Asia. I started thinking about the reality of my little coastal paradise: earthquake zone, flood zone, tsunami zone, wildfire zone, and nuclear meltdown zone, not to mention an uncomfortably close proximity to terrorist targets. It’s a Disaster Zone Convergence. I live smack dab in the middle of what I now can only call “The Bermuda Shorts Triangle.”
Without a plan or a paddle.
I googled “disaster preparedness” and then corralled my husband. “I need cash. Give me small bills, everything you’ve got.”
“Is this a stick up?” he answered. I explain patiently that cash is king in a major disaster, so we need to stockpile. Credit and ATM cards may not work if the power is out. He was silent for a long moment, probably contemplating the horrors of being stuck penniless. Finally he said, “Tell me again the downside of you with no credit cards.”
This was not going in the right direction. “We also need to come up with an evacuation route. My cousin in Houston only got 40 miles in 16 hours. Freeways won’t work. I-5 is out. PCH will be a nightmare. I think we should steal a boat.”
“Why don’t we just buy one?”
He’s wanted a sailboat since the moment we moved here--exactly as long as I’ve refused to buy a boat. My disaster plan may need to a few tweaks. I skip ahead to step 3.
Stock up on shelf-stable food. That seemed like an important one to me since I do love to eat. I headed to my local big box retailer, the one that gives you a forklift to haul around your groceries. Shelf-stable…shelf-stable. Then I spotted the perfect end-of-the-world food: dried beans. Fifty pounds of beans is awfully heavy, especially when the little buggers shift.
I got my beans home after a small tussle with the trunk of my car, which reminded me I need an emergency car kit too. Somehow that bag of beans looked a whole lot bigger in my pantry than in the store. The pantry door only stuck out an inch. Hardly noticeable.
My husband walked in. “What’s wrong with the pantry?” Although somewhat annoying in the kitchen, he’s good to have in a disaster. Not only is he handy (he can build us a shelter from palm fronds), he knows how and where to shut off the gas. He swung open the cabinet door, dislodging my beans. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him they were shifty little guys.
“Beans?”
I explained the whole bit about the necessity of emergency provisions. I stressed the phrase “shelf-stable” hoping to impress him with my new encyclopedic knowledge of
disaster planning. Besides, weren’t beans packed with protein?
He practically snorted. “I’ve never seen you eat a bean unless it’s refried, much less cook one.”
I smugly reply that, worst-case scenario, I will be eating tasty beans while he will be licking the paste off old wallpaper. He responded that he would just lay in a personal supply of Hostess Twinkies since they were full of preservatives.
That was below the belt.
It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him for his Swiss Army knife.
I'm Always Thinking Of Home
No matter where I visit, I am always thinking of Dana Point and how we compare. It’s my civic duty to participate in our grand sprucing-up scheme. I love makeovers, and I’ve got plenty of tips.
First, I advocate stealing.
Please don’t go rip off a lighthouse or something. I’m talking about ideas. Let’s take other cities successes and make them our own. We need a distinctive style, one that sets us apart from, say, San Clemente or Laguna Beach. We’ve dabbled in “Cape Cod,” thrown in a splash of “Aloha,” and said “Ole!” to some Spanish.
But today, as I write this column from the Nashville airport, I smacked myself upside the head when I realized the answer was right before my eyes. Dana Point could use a dose of “Redneck Style.”
I am here for the wedding of my niece Andrea to her beloved Tommy and a visit with my favorite brother, Bob Totty a.k.a. “Tennessee Thunder” on the drag racing circuit. I used this time to infiltrate the Redneck camp and learn their ways. They never suspected a thing. A few even asked, “Are y’all fixin’ to write about us?”
You better believe it. There’s a lot we can learn. Here’s how to tell if we’re a redneck:
Redneck Family Style—the definition of family to a redneck is simple. If you’re here, you’re family. Since everyone you meet is most likely a cousin, it’s best to treat them right nice right from the start. Tommy taught me that when I went to shake his hand. He looked at me like I was a three-headed goat, “I don’t know where y’alls from, but we hug women here.” Dana Point men, take note.
Redneck Redevelopment Agency—rednecks know to put their money where it counts, on the fun stuff. Life begins when the factory shift ends. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that Gary’s big ol’ RV with its sixteen slideouts was larger than his house. Y’all got to budget for the toys.
Redneck Tourism Board—there is no redneck tourism board because you aren’t a tourist. Y’all are family, remember? You don’t worry about pedestrian-friendly ‘cuz everybody drives a pick-up everywhere. No one walks. How are you going to carry your cooler full of beer?
I asked the clerk at the motel if I could walk to shops. She said, “There’s a Wal-Mart over yonder, but I wouldn’t walk.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is this a bad neighborhood?”
“Nah,” she said. “I’m just lazy, is all.” So I paid six bucks for a block-long cab-ride where I was informed by the chain-smokin’lady cab driver that I looked exactly like her bartender friend Patsy ‘cept she wears make-up and has more on the upper deck. It bugged me because I was wearing make-up. Another lesson: rednecks are brutally honest.
Redneck Sports—rednecks love their football with a passion and intensity that borders on insane. In California, we create 12-step programs for addictions like this. The University of Tennessee’s team colors are bright orange and white. This in no way derails anyone from painting entire rooms of their homes, you got it, bright orange and white. What rednecks know is that football is the great equalizer, turning strangers into friends—or enemies—depending on what team you support. Maybe it’s time to get out there and root for our Dolphins…
Redneck Names—rednecks don’t call anyone “dude” especially not girls, which is sort of refreshing. Y’all might be called “Boy” or “Girl” and it might be the equivalent to a slap in the face or an arm slung around a shoulder depending on the tone of voice. Rednecks respect their elders. Parents are often called “Daddy” and “Momma” no matter how old their children. I am “Miss Jody” to the kids even though I am married. The security guard at the airport just called me “Missy.” That’s because I’m family.
Rednecks are also partial to double names, names that end in “y” and nicknames. So don’t be worried that “Animal” can crush beer cans with his forehead. He probably can, but then he’ll offer you a cold one from the bed of his Ford F-150. My family has carried Robert E. Lee’s name down through the generations. It doesn’t seem to matter that the South lost the war; it’s enough that they are Southern.
So Dana Point, let’s treat strangers like family, have a little fun, show some respect, and never forget to say, “Y’all come back now, y’hear?”
First, I advocate stealing.
Please don’t go rip off a lighthouse or something. I’m talking about ideas. Let’s take other cities successes and make them our own. We need a distinctive style, one that sets us apart from, say, San Clemente or Laguna Beach. We’ve dabbled in “Cape Cod,” thrown in a splash of “Aloha,” and said “Ole!” to some Spanish.
But today, as I write this column from the Nashville airport, I smacked myself upside the head when I realized the answer was right before my eyes. Dana Point could use a dose of “Redneck Style.”
I am here for the wedding of my niece Andrea to her beloved Tommy and a visit with my favorite brother, Bob Totty a.k.a. “Tennessee Thunder” on the drag racing circuit. I used this time to infiltrate the Redneck camp and learn their ways. They never suspected a thing. A few even asked, “Are y’all fixin’ to write about us?”
You better believe it. There’s a lot we can learn. Here’s how to tell if we’re a redneck:
Redneck Family Style—the definition of family to a redneck is simple. If you’re here, you’re family. Since everyone you meet is most likely a cousin, it’s best to treat them right nice right from the start. Tommy taught me that when I went to shake his hand. He looked at me like I was a three-headed goat, “I don’t know where y’alls from, but we hug women here.” Dana Point men, take note.
Redneck Redevelopment Agency—rednecks know to put their money where it counts, on the fun stuff. Life begins when the factory shift ends. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that Gary’s big ol’ RV with its sixteen slideouts was larger than his house. Y’all got to budget for the toys.
Redneck Tourism Board—there is no redneck tourism board because you aren’t a tourist. Y’all are family, remember? You don’t worry about pedestrian-friendly ‘cuz everybody drives a pick-up everywhere. No one walks. How are you going to carry your cooler full of beer?
I asked the clerk at the motel if I could walk to shops. She said, “There’s a Wal-Mart over yonder, but I wouldn’t walk.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is this a bad neighborhood?”
“Nah,” she said. “I’m just lazy, is all.” So I paid six bucks for a block-long cab-ride where I was informed by the chain-smokin’lady cab driver that I looked exactly like her bartender friend Patsy ‘cept she wears make-up and has more on the upper deck. It bugged me because I was wearing make-up. Another lesson: rednecks are brutally honest.
Redneck Sports—rednecks love their football with a passion and intensity that borders on insane. In California, we create 12-step programs for addictions like this. The University of Tennessee’s team colors are bright orange and white. This in no way derails anyone from painting entire rooms of their homes, you got it, bright orange and white. What rednecks know is that football is the great equalizer, turning strangers into friends—or enemies—depending on what team you support. Maybe it’s time to get out there and root for our Dolphins…
Redneck Names—rednecks don’t call anyone “dude” especially not girls, which is sort of refreshing. Y’all might be called “Boy” or “Girl” and it might be the equivalent to a slap in the face or an arm slung around a shoulder depending on the tone of voice. Rednecks respect their elders. Parents are often called “Daddy” and “Momma” no matter how old their children. I am “Miss Jody” to the kids even though I am married. The security guard at the airport just called me “Missy.” That’s because I’m family.
Rednecks are also partial to double names, names that end in “y” and nicknames. So don’t be worried that “Animal” can crush beer cans with his forehead. He probably can, but then he’ll offer you a cold one from the bed of his Ford F-150. My family has carried Robert E. Lee’s name down through the generations. It doesn’t seem to matter that the South lost the war; it’s enough that they are Southern.
So Dana Point, let’s treat strangers like family, have a little fun, show some respect, and never forget to say, “Y’all come back now, y’hear?”
Mother's Day Do's and Don'ts
Mother’s Day is Sunday May 8. I had my first child on a Sunday May 8, which also happened to be Mother’s Day. I wish I could say I planned it that way, but babies show up when they darn well feel like it. All I could control was the pushing. Here’s the problem: once you get a baby for Mother’s Day, it’s hard for any future gift to compare. That’s my family’s dilemma. What are they going to get mom? I Googled what moms really, really want and really, really don’t want. Use this limited information to get on mom’s good side this weekend and make your slacker siblings look like ingrates by comparison. Even better, if you can get them to work off the “don’t want” list because you told them it’s what mom asked for. It will be beautiful. First, get her a card. Ninety three percent of all moms like to get a Mother’s Day card from their children. On time, I might add. One hundred percent of that ninety-three percent will declare it is the most precious gift they could ever receive, and they plan on keeping it forever. I’m not sure the percentage of moms who are lying. But I know the ninety-three percent figure is true because it came directly from a survey funded by Hallmark. No vested interest there. But if you are in the market for a Mother’s Day card, pick something nice, even though you prefer the one with the fart joke because it reminds you of your brother. I will go so far as to say moms love homemade cards even better than store bought. Write your own message about a specific memory of mom, not just “You rock, Ma!” You can also use the opportunity to disparage your siblings. Something along the lines of “You must have breathed a sigh of relief when I was born. Finally a good-looking one!” She’ll make it a keeper for sure. I recently received a homemade card with an alien floating above the message, “I love you to the farist panit.” All you moms out there will be able to decipher the kindergarten code as easily as you can read a rectal thermometer. Try to beat that, Hallmark. My Google search informed me moms do NOT want breakfast in bed. I was shocked. You mean I wasn’t the only mom who dreaded the breakfast in bed tradition? I thought it was my own shameful secret. Good mommies love stuff like this, right? Not me. I hate that feeling of being stuck in bed like a pinned butterfly while ominous crashes, bumps, and howls emanate from the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast seeps under the door. Thinking about the cleanup in my future is exhausting enough to send me to my bed—if I weren’t already in it. Finally, the beaming little faces appear bedside. They jockey for best tray-holding position, knocking the orange juice all over the newspaper. But still no one will give up hold. The hot oatmeal is now a cold, congealed lump big enough to clog the disposal. I think about saving it for Father’s Day and then sticking it down the drain. Payback, daddy, for encouraging this fiasco. It’s good for a guy to feel needed on his special day, too. We just need him under the sink with a wrench. Enough daydreaming. The cold yogurt is now warm. A group decision determined the yogurt be scooped into a lovely china bowl and decorated with blueberries. I know this because I can see the newsprint ink in the finger holes where the berries are now buried like pirate’s treasure. Yummy! Everyone piles on the bed to watch me eat. There’s no getting out of this. I peel a squishy banana. “Can I have a bite?” “I want a bite too!” “I get the first bite since it was my idea!” The squabbling begins anew. Where is my husband? He is in the kitchen savoring a peaceful breakfast alone. So where was I? Oh yeah, the Mother’s Day list. What does she want? If she lives with you, she wants a break. No offense. Just for a while and maybe with a spa treatment thrown in for good measure. If she doesn’t live with you, then she wants to see you - without feeding you or doing your laundry. Get a spa treatment together… Whatever you do, make it clear to your sibs you have always been mom’s favorite.
Slow Down, This Ain't The Mainland
SLOW DOWN. THIS AIN'T THE MAINLAND. The faded sticker on the back of therusty pickup in front of our rental car was easy to read since we werehanging about three feet off the poor guy's bumper. Yeah, we weretailgating. But he was doing about 40 mph, and my husband and I were in ahurry to start our relaxing Hawaiian vacation. After all, we had a hundredand one things to do on Maui and only ten days to do it in.Two local guys with skin the color of koa wood lounged on sand chairs in thecargo bed of the truck. Trade winds rather than vehicle speed must haveaccounted for their blowing hair. Clearly, they were not late for work. Aswe passed on the left, the young men made hand signals at us. Fingers wereextended.I was shocked.It wasn't middle fingers like I'd expect on the 405, but a friendly wave ofthumbs and pinkies. Even after our aggressive driving stunt, we had justbeen welcomed to the island aloha style. I turned to my husband and said, "Idon't think we're in Orange County anymore."We smiled at our new buddies and waved back awkwardly, instantly hooked onMaui.Our first couple trips were typical hotel/air packages. The big resorts werebeautiful, plush, and exotic yet I wanted less manicured, more mess. Nomanufactured Hollywood version of palm swaying romance would satisfy me; Iwanted it real. Could the island be experienced in a more authentic way? Was"Old Maui" alive but buried under golf courses and tourist traps? And mostimportantly, could I find it before my plane left Kahalui? Yes, yes, and yes.Vintage aloha still exists on Maui, even flourishes. Leave Whalers'Village--or Little South Coast Plaza as I call it-behind and you'll discovertraces of the true and gentle island spirit. If you want a vacation thatbypasses Molokini cruises and timeshare presentations, here are some small,jewel-like treasures to uncover:For the story of the islands in dance, skip the "Las Vegas" luaus massiveenough to herd in mainlanders like cattle, or rather "cash cows." Forget themetallic grass skirts, the lame one-liners, the let's put a coconut bra onsome fat guy from Iowa and make him do the "Hukilau."Instead, go see hula at the Lahaina Cannery Mall. There are several shows aweek and it is free. The local hula schools perform in full costume forfamilies, friends, and visitors. Don't expect slickly professional,especially from the children or keiki. Do expect a graceful and beguilinghomage to native heritage.Some things just seem to go with Hawaii. Imagine a south sea paradisewithout Kodachrome sunsets, tropical drinks garnished with flowers andpineapple, or my favorite hot weather Hawaiian treat-shave ice. It'sunthinkable. I know one man who bicycles ten miles each way every day forLorraine's Shave Ice on Hwy 30 in the tiny hamlet of Kahakuloa (open summeronly).Ask Lorraine to show the kids her "pet crocodile," actually areptilian-shaped mountain while you slurp your guava shave ice with a scoopof ice cream in the bottom. Don't leave without picking up a jar of her home made passion fruit jelly. Spicy and sophisticated, it makes a far morememorable souvenir than another blue box of macadamia nuts.I know your mother told you to never pick up hitchhikers, but things aredifferent on Maui. So don't tell her. Thumbing a ride is as common as skimboarding. Everyone we have picked up has been grateful for the ride andrepaid us by sharing wonderful stories as well as tips on off-the-guidebooksplaces to eat, see, or visit. One surfer recommended the Bamboo Forest onthe Pipiwai Trail in Southeast Maui, a scenic hike we'd never heard of.So what's the best beach on Maui? It depends on what you want. Ho'okipa isspectacular for windsurfer watching and always worth the stop, but the wateris way too rough for swimming. Sunbathing is out too unless you don't mindbeing wind-whipped by your own hair.My favorite beach is Napili Bay. A medium-sized cove of golden sand, gentlesurf, and great snorkeling, Napili is just south of Kapalua. Ringed bylow-rise condos and the Napili Kai Beach Resort, this sunny family beach isa worthy and affordable place to park your suitcases. Napili grows on you.Many families come back year after year. For some it's a decades-oldtradition.You can tease out bits of old Hawaii even in the middle of touristactivities. One of our favorite things to do is stroll the Boardwalk atKa'anapali anytime after sunset. Elegant statues and stone carvings line thetiki-torch path. Walk towards Lahaina, past the Marriott until you reach therope hammocks strung between the palms. Big enough and private enough forlovers or several giggling children stacked on top of one another, thehammocks afford glorious views of blistering stars though whispering fronds.Waves crash just feet away, and if you are really lucky, the moon mightshine a path straight across the channel to Moloka'i. Mmmm.rock a while. It's pure Maui bliss.Another tour bus destination is the Sugar Cane Train out of Lahaina. Sure it's hokey. But if you stop first at the tiny hole-in-the-wall bakery a fewhundred feet shy of the train station and pick up some crusty French breador danishes and wash it down onboard with some ice-cold coconut milk stillin the husk, then you've elevated the experience. A tip-sit in the back carfacing the rear. You get to look at pretty scenery instead of the backs ofJapanese tourists.Leis are a vital component of Hawaiian culture, layered with meaning. AuntieNani teaches the art, history, and customs of lei making at the shops atKapalua. She brings along fresh-picked plumeria and other local flowers aswell as biting commentary and an occasional swear word. Local color and alei you made yourself for only two bucks. I bet that's not what you expectfrom one of the most exclusive resorts in West Maui.I know you are on vacation, but go to church anyway. You won't regret it.Kahana Door of Faith, a tiny church on Lower Honoapiilani Road in Kahana,has a Sunday service filled with island gospel music complete with ukaleles,hula, and prayer. Don't dress up; it's come as you are. Barefoot childrenmeander in and out while the aunties in their colorful muumuus occasionallyscoop them up for kisses. The congregation embraced me-and I mean thatliterally-and then invited to share in a celebratory feast afterward. Isampled delicacies both foreign and delightful.So if you too are in pursuit of the spirit of "Old Maui," look first to herpeople. Ask the gap-toothed wizened old fisherman on a stretch of emptybeach about his catch, talk to the bodysurfing kids resting long enough tochow down on raw Top Ramen, or strike up a conversation with a lady sellingmangos from a rickety stand in front of a home with a corrugated metal roof.Then you too will be living aloha.
Some People Like Getting Riled Up
Some people like being riled up. It makes them feel alive. I think I may be one of those people. The nice thing about residing in the Capistrano Unified School District is the apparently unlimited supply of Things for Parents to Agonize Over.
This is a perfect fit for me because I would hate to run out of opportunities for worry. I’m the kind of person who believes my air-travel anxiety actually helps keep the plane safely in the clouds. Thus, the perpetual nail-biting panic the school district keeps me in is actually a blessing in disguise. Capo USD frees me up from stressing over even bigger problems like possible tsunamis or nuclear meltdowns or a Diedrich’s Drive-Thru.
I got a letter in the mail recently that was addressed to “To the Parents of…” I hate those letters. They never say anything I want to hear. I’m always afraid it will start off with something like “A case of Ebola has been noted in your child’s classroom…” Usually the bad news is so sugar-coated, it takes me a couple of days to realize I should be steaming.
Here are some of the topics of previous letters. Since I didn’t save them in my Creative Memories Scrapbook, please forgive me for paraphrasing:
· We are moving the first day of school to the end of August. Not only does the change improve our test scores and make us look better, it will totally blow a hole in your time-share week on Maui. Too bad for you.
· We are starting the school day ten minutes earlier, obstensively to free up the buses. Now we get the little rugrats while they are nice and sleepy and you get them back squirrelly. Plus you need to get up earlier anyway.
· We can’t pay for 3rd grade class-size reduction this year—so you get to. And we can’t pay for it next year either, or ever again. So dredge up a million bucks or so from your change jar or down the seat of your car or in the bottom of the washing machine and hand it over nice and easy-like. And nobody will get hurt.
· We may have to close an elementary school because there aren’t enough little kids probably due to the fact that they all go to the elementary school we built right next door. But we reserve the right to change our minds as often as we wish. So maybe we won’t close the school. Maybe we were just testing you to see if you read our letters.
The latest letter went something like this:
Good news! We found enough money to build a brand stinkin’ new high school! Scheduled to open in 2006, we may even decide to keep it open. Or maybe not.
San Juan Hills High School is set in the pristine hills of San Juan Capistrano and conveniently located next to the dump, so you can drop off your freshman and your old fridgidare in the same trip! A shining testament to secondary education, San Juan Hills will relieve the tremendous pressure of overcrowding at our other high schools, even the one you thought your kid was going to attend. Yes, maybe, by the way, your precious cargo will be schlepping hideously heavy backpacks up and down the sparkling new corridors of SJHS. So get over it already!
This latest news really bummed me out. Could it be ol’ Dana Hills High won’t be in our family’s future after all? Huh? I haven’t really gotten my middle-school mojo going and now I’ve got to skip ahead and worry about high school?
I’m not equipped to do that. I’ve got to obsess about middle school first. Just thinking about sixth grade gives me a temperature. We all know the rumors. And look how often they turn out to be true? Take Brad and Jennifer. Am I right? Didn’t the National Enquirer call that one in December?
That’s why I listen to rumors. Forget the facts. Forget the mom who says her kid loves middle school. Yeah, sure. She may just be covering up her little pre-adolescent’s stint in Rehab for all I know.
Our kids walk in the middle school door looking like Shirley Temple on the Good Ship Lollipop and walk out Britney Spears: tattooed in ultra low-rise jeans, carrying a silly little dog, and hanging with boys who belt their pants below their butts.
I’m scared, really scared. And it feels so right.
This is a perfect fit for me because I would hate to run out of opportunities for worry. I’m the kind of person who believes my air-travel anxiety actually helps keep the plane safely in the clouds. Thus, the perpetual nail-biting panic the school district keeps me in is actually a blessing in disguise. Capo USD frees me up from stressing over even bigger problems like possible tsunamis or nuclear meltdowns or a Diedrich’s Drive-Thru.
I got a letter in the mail recently that was addressed to “To the Parents of…” I hate those letters. They never say anything I want to hear. I’m always afraid it will start off with something like “A case of Ebola has been noted in your child’s classroom…” Usually the bad news is so sugar-coated, it takes me a couple of days to realize I should be steaming.
Here are some of the topics of previous letters. Since I didn’t save them in my Creative Memories Scrapbook, please forgive me for paraphrasing:
· We are moving the first day of school to the end of August. Not only does the change improve our test scores and make us look better, it will totally blow a hole in your time-share week on Maui. Too bad for you.
· We are starting the school day ten minutes earlier, obstensively to free up the buses. Now we get the little rugrats while they are nice and sleepy and you get them back squirrelly. Plus you need to get up earlier anyway.
· We can’t pay for 3rd grade class-size reduction this year—so you get to. And we can’t pay for it next year either, or ever again. So dredge up a million bucks or so from your change jar or down the seat of your car or in the bottom of the washing machine and hand it over nice and easy-like. And nobody will get hurt.
· We may have to close an elementary school because there aren’t enough little kids probably due to the fact that they all go to the elementary school we built right next door. But we reserve the right to change our minds as often as we wish. So maybe we won’t close the school. Maybe we were just testing you to see if you read our letters.
The latest letter went something like this:
Good news! We found enough money to build a brand stinkin’ new high school! Scheduled to open in 2006, we may even decide to keep it open. Or maybe not.
San Juan Hills High School is set in the pristine hills of San Juan Capistrano and conveniently located next to the dump, so you can drop off your freshman and your old fridgidare in the same trip! A shining testament to secondary education, San Juan Hills will relieve the tremendous pressure of overcrowding at our other high schools, even the one you thought your kid was going to attend. Yes, maybe, by the way, your precious cargo will be schlepping hideously heavy backpacks up and down the sparkling new corridors of SJHS. So get over it already!
This latest news really bummed me out. Could it be ol’ Dana Hills High won’t be in our family’s future after all? Huh? I haven’t really gotten my middle-school mojo going and now I’ve got to skip ahead and worry about high school?
I’m not equipped to do that. I’ve got to obsess about middle school first. Just thinking about sixth grade gives me a temperature. We all know the rumors. And look how often they turn out to be true? Take Brad and Jennifer. Am I right? Didn’t the National Enquirer call that one in December?
That’s why I listen to rumors. Forget the facts. Forget the mom who says her kid loves middle school. Yeah, sure. She may just be covering up her little pre-adolescent’s stint in Rehab for all I know.
Our kids walk in the middle school door looking like Shirley Temple on the Good Ship Lollipop and walk out Britney Spears: tattooed in ultra low-rise jeans, carrying a silly little dog, and hanging with boys who belt their pants below their butts.
I’m scared, really scared. And it feels so right.
It's A Jungle Out There
Tell me the truth. How are you doing on the Resolution? You know which one I mean. I make it every year when I look in the mirror on New Year’s morning. My face says I partied like it was 1999 when the reality was I fell asleep at nine p.m. Unfortunately, the rest of me matches my face.
It’s time for desperate measures. It’s a New Year, a time for fresh starts, for getting serious. It’s time to Get In Shape. At least I have a lifetime membership to the local gym, whether I want it or not.
The average new member lasts only thirty-two days before quitting. I promise myself that won’t be me. 2005 is going to be different. 2004 and 2003 were going to be different too, but this time is…uh, different.
Some backstory: I bought my membership for the enormous sum of $300 when I was 21. At the time, I was punching a timeclock and barely making rent. My dad ranted at my financial stupidity. He predicted they’d shortly be out of business and I’d be both gym-less and too broke to pay my phone bill.
He also predicted John Travolta would never make it beyond “Welcome Back, Kotter.”
Got any more good advice, Pops? Actually, he was right about the gym. I went a few times, then quit for years on end. That should have been the end of the story. But a big chain bought out my gym. A couple of years ago, they had the gall to build a fitness center right on the way to my kids’ school.
Talk about guilt. Every time I sat at the intersection of Golden Lantern and Del Avion, I felt like sweating. It was almost enough to make me gas it through the yellows, but I’m not eligible for traffic school for another fourteen months.
So here I am at the gym.
I am learning there is a reason the words “jungle” and “gym” go together. You may already know this, but I was frankly shocked to discover there are the posted gym rules and then there are the “real” rules—the rules of the jungle. In case you are just starting back like me, here is the lay of the land:
Gym Rule: There is a 20-minute maximum time limit on all cardio equipment if people are waiting.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Treadmill Mine! Elliptical Mine! Stairmaster Mine!
If you want to fit in, follow jungle rule. It requires strength or stealth. Most gym monkeys use stealth. To stop your cardio LCD clock from booting you to the back of the line and making you late for work, artfully drape your towel to obscure the entire display. Wear headphones to avoid pesky loudspeaker reminders and never make eye contact with the poor slobs who are wishing for you to pull a hamstring so they can get your spot.
Gym Rule: The floor must be free of all personal articles.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Free weights mine! Exercise ball mine! Space on floor mine!
Again in order to fit in, follow jungle rule. Claim as much territory as possible with your personal possessions. Plop a sweatshirt and a newspaper on an open Precor and go soak in the spa to loosen up for your workout. Your equipment will be waiting for you when you are ready. Or save a spot for your pal with a bottle of water and set of keys. If anyone complains, and almost no one will, simply protest loudly that you or your friend were only going to be a minute.
Gym Rule: Please do not monopolize or linger on equipment.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan, King of the Jungle! TV mine! Abs bench mine! Make good bed! Tarzan hot! Tarzan sexy! Tarzan walk around naked in locker room! Tarzan make you not know where to look!
Jungle rule means never having to say you are sorry. If you don’t like what everyone is watching on TV, grab the remote. Take cuts when you can. It’s invigorating. It’s good to start the day with assertiveness. An excellent warm-up for the road rage you’ll encounter on I-5 as you head to the office in just a few more reps. After all, it’s a jungle out there, and you are prepared.
Happy New Year and good luck with the resolutions. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym. If you get there before me, save me a spot on the Lifecycle.
It’s time for desperate measures. It’s a New Year, a time for fresh starts, for getting serious. It’s time to Get In Shape. At least I have a lifetime membership to the local gym, whether I want it or not.
The average new member lasts only thirty-two days before quitting. I promise myself that won’t be me. 2005 is going to be different. 2004 and 2003 were going to be different too, but this time is…uh, different.
Some backstory: I bought my membership for the enormous sum of $300 when I was 21. At the time, I was punching a timeclock and barely making rent. My dad ranted at my financial stupidity. He predicted they’d shortly be out of business and I’d be both gym-less and too broke to pay my phone bill.
He also predicted John Travolta would never make it beyond “Welcome Back, Kotter.”
Got any more good advice, Pops? Actually, he was right about the gym. I went a few times, then quit for years on end. That should have been the end of the story. But a big chain bought out my gym. A couple of years ago, they had the gall to build a fitness center right on the way to my kids’ school.
Talk about guilt. Every time I sat at the intersection of Golden Lantern and Del Avion, I felt like sweating. It was almost enough to make me gas it through the yellows, but I’m not eligible for traffic school for another fourteen months.
So here I am at the gym.
I am learning there is a reason the words “jungle” and “gym” go together. You may already know this, but I was frankly shocked to discover there are the posted gym rules and then there are the “real” rules—the rules of the jungle. In case you are just starting back like me, here is the lay of the land:
Gym Rule: There is a 20-minute maximum time limit on all cardio equipment if people are waiting.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Treadmill Mine! Elliptical Mine! Stairmaster Mine!
If you want to fit in, follow jungle rule. It requires strength or stealth. Most gym monkeys use stealth. To stop your cardio LCD clock from booting you to the back of the line and making you late for work, artfully drape your towel to obscure the entire display. Wear headphones to avoid pesky loudspeaker reminders and never make eye contact with the poor slobs who are wishing for you to pull a hamstring so they can get your spot.
Gym Rule: The floor must be free of all personal articles.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Free weights mine! Exercise ball mine! Space on floor mine!
Again in order to fit in, follow jungle rule. Claim as much territory as possible with your personal possessions. Plop a sweatshirt and a newspaper on an open Precor and go soak in the spa to loosen up for your workout. Your equipment will be waiting for you when you are ready. Or save a spot for your pal with a bottle of water and set of keys. If anyone complains, and almost no one will, simply protest loudly that you or your friend were only going to be a minute.
Gym Rule: Please do not monopolize or linger on equipment.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan, King of the Jungle! TV mine! Abs bench mine! Make good bed! Tarzan hot! Tarzan sexy! Tarzan walk around naked in locker room! Tarzan make you not know where to look!
Jungle rule means never having to say you are sorry. If you don’t like what everyone is watching on TV, grab the remote. Take cuts when you can. It’s invigorating. It’s good to start the day with assertiveness. An excellent warm-up for the road rage you’ll encounter on I-5 as you head to the office in just a few more reps. After all, it’s a jungle out there, and you are prepared.
Happy New Year and good luck with the resolutions. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym. If you get there before me, save me a spot on the Lifecycle.
Car Geeks Are Taking Over
One of the most endearing qualities of Dana Point is our willingness to duke it out over so many issues. Hotbed words used to be limited to sex, politics, and religion. Not anymore, at least not here. If you want to be in the cross hairs, just whisper “time share” or “mobile home park” or even “cars.”
That’s right. Wheels, baby.
You are probably thinking I’m going to start talking about the proposed car museum/dealership. You’d be right. But I have nothing to say about the size of the building, the zoning, the effect on town center ambiance and all that stuff that usually makes us spit and roll up our sleeves.
Nope, I want to talk about car geeks. Excuse me, auto enthusiasts. Because that’s what cars, especially old cars, rare cars, fast cars, and famous cars attract, and we need to be prepared.
No, not in Dana Point, you protest. That would never happen. We are a surf town. But it has already started. And I’m not talking about the annual Woody show down at Doheny. Nope, the car geeks are congregating at Gelson’s on Saturday mornings. Check it out for yourself. Although car geeks often blend in with the rest of the population, they are not hard to spot if you know what to look for:
Car geeks have extremely clean cars which they wash themselves. They will tell you car washes will scratch the paint with their harsh brushes, but the truth is this is a weekly opportunity to run their hands and very soft cloths all over the car’s body. It’s a love thing, I presume. These guys--and yes, they are almost always guys—protect their cars with car covers…in the garage and protect their mats with more car mats. Go figure.
If you are going to have any kind of relationship with a car geek, you’d better know the rules up front. There are always a lot of them and that certain moral zeal behind the words can be quite frightening. Rule # 1 is no eating in the shrine, I mean car. Ever. Even if you are really, really hungry. And don’t ask why they park at the far side of every parking lot. Door dings, dingdong. The upside is these guys will never door-ding you, even if you drive an AMC Pacer. I’ll have to save the other 998 rules for later.
Check for glassy eyes and open mouths usually immediately following the raising of a shiny hood. The geeks flock closer, admiring the pure animal magnetism of a really big engine. Voices are hushed and reverent. On special occasions, they will start the engine and the roaring, rumbling symphony begins. Rule of thumb: LOUD, dude. A few well-placed revs and a peel-out is always a nice finishing touch.
The true enthusiast is never far from his polishing rag. Pesky fingerprints leave an oily residue that mars the pristine depth of a showroom quality paint job. If his car has ever been mentioned in a publication, even if it is Car Trader, you can be sure a copy is in the glovebox. Like I said, the guy is a geek.
At the same time, the auto enthusiast is very much a snob. His head is filled with obscure and useless data not unlike a sports nut. He can tell at a glance if those are the right tires, if the side mirrors are stock, and don’t ever try to slide a kit car past him with real tags. He will sneer in contempt.
So all Corvettes are alike? No difference between a ’57 and a ’58. HA! Count the headlights, friend. A 70 Mustang is pure muscle while a 74 is just a wannabe. Look to surfers for the next hot car. Brady Bunch station wagons like the Country Squire is one pick for the next cool ride.
The important thing to remember about car geeks is they can never have enough interesting cars, either in their garage or in their town. A 3500 square foot garage attached to a 900 square foot is frankly appealing.
Car rallies at Gelson’s. Brilliant. Concours at Heritage Park? Even better. If Long Beach can put on a Grand Prix, then who’s to say Formula 1 won’t work in Dana Point? Or turn the Del Prado/ PCH split into an oval track and call it the DP 500. The possibilities are endless.
So if we all turn into car geeks, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
That’s right. Wheels, baby.
You are probably thinking I’m going to start talking about the proposed car museum/dealership. You’d be right. But I have nothing to say about the size of the building, the zoning, the effect on town center ambiance and all that stuff that usually makes us spit and roll up our sleeves.
Nope, I want to talk about car geeks. Excuse me, auto enthusiasts. Because that’s what cars, especially old cars, rare cars, fast cars, and famous cars attract, and we need to be prepared.
No, not in Dana Point, you protest. That would never happen. We are a surf town. But it has already started. And I’m not talking about the annual Woody show down at Doheny. Nope, the car geeks are congregating at Gelson’s on Saturday mornings. Check it out for yourself. Although car geeks often blend in with the rest of the population, they are not hard to spot if you know what to look for:
Car geeks have extremely clean cars which they wash themselves. They will tell you car washes will scratch the paint with their harsh brushes, but the truth is this is a weekly opportunity to run their hands and very soft cloths all over the car’s body. It’s a love thing, I presume. These guys--and yes, they are almost always guys—protect their cars with car covers…in the garage and protect their mats with more car mats. Go figure.
If you are going to have any kind of relationship with a car geek, you’d better know the rules up front. There are always a lot of them and that certain moral zeal behind the words can be quite frightening. Rule # 1 is no eating in the shrine, I mean car. Ever. Even if you are really, really hungry. And don’t ask why they park at the far side of every parking lot. Door dings, dingdong. The upside is these guys will never door-ding you, even if you drive an AMC Pacer. I’ll have to save the other 998 rules for later.
Check for glassy eyes and open mouths usually immediately following the raising of a shiny hood. The geeks flock closer, admiring the pure animal magnetism of a really big engine. Voices are hushed and reverent. On special occasions, they will start the engine and the roaring, rumbling symphony begins. Rule of thumb: LOUD, dude. A few well-placed revs and a peel-out is always a nice finishing touch.
The true enthusiast is never far from his polishing rag. Pesky fingerprints leave an oily residue that mars the pristine depth of a showroom quality paint job. If his car has ever been mentioned in a publication, even if it is Car Trader, you can be sure a copy is in the glovebox. Like I said, the guy is a geek.
At the same time, the auto enthusiast is very much a snob. His head is filled with obscure and useless data not unlike a sports nut. He can tell at a glance if those are the right tires, if the side mirrors are stock, and don’t ever try to slide a kit car past him with real tags. He will sneer in contempt.
So all Corvettes are alike? No difference between a ’57 and a ’58. HA! Count the headlights, friend. A 70 Mustang is pure muscle while a 74 is just a wannabe. Look to surfers for the next hot car. Brady Bunch station wagons like the Country Squire is one pick for the next cool ride.
The important thing to remember about car geeks is they can never have enough interesting cars, either in their garage or in their town. A 3500 square foot garage attached to a 900 square foot is frankly appealing.
Car rallies at Gelson’s. Brilliant. Concours at Heritage Park? Even better. If Long Beach can put on a Grand Prix, then who’s to say Formula 1 won’t work in Dana Point? Or turn the Del Prado/ PCH split into an oval track and call it the DP 500. The possibilities are endless.
So if we all turn into car geeks, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Some People Get All The Luck
Some people have all the luck. You know that mysterious person who won the big $36 million Lotto jackpot about a mile from where I live? Well, it wasn’t me. I never win anything.
I take that back. I did get a bottle cap once where I won $10 off a purchase of $50 or more at FootLocker. But my luck has changed. Even my fortune cookie at Peking Dragon was promising this time. Usually it says something like “You are rich in friends” which is nice, but rich in cash is good too. But this time I got “A thrilling event is in your immediate future.” Yahoo! Even my husband perked up at that message.
What I didn’t realize was my thrilling event turned out to be a flu shot.
There was a time--say a month ago--when getting a flu shot was like changing the battery in your smoke detector. A hassle, a nuisance, but no big deal, you do it. Now, getting a flu shot if you are under the age of 65 is like winning the lottery. Lucky me!
I casually got a flu shot from my kids’ pediatrician. I happened to be there, the office had plenty, double the shipment of last year, and—prick—I was vaccinated. Of course this happened about three minutes before the breaking news hit the major networks. The flu shot supply had suddenly dropped out of “supply and demand” and there I was, sitting pretty with a Donald Duck Band-Aid on my arm.
Of course with enormous good fortune comes enormous guilt. They don’t tell you that part on the Lotto billboard. You become a “Have” in a world of “Have-Nots.” The first inkling of the psychic price I would pay came in a testy phone call from my mother.
Let me backtrack for a moment and warn you that my mother recently had a bit of a tussle with a curb and the curb won. So now she is in two casts and a wheelchair and feeling, shall we say, a shade irritable. It doesn’t help that my dad keeps finding all the chocolate bars I’ve been slipping to in her People magazines and putting them up on very high shelves.
So she starts right in on me. How does it feel to be the only able bodied young adult in America to bamboozle a flu shot?
Good, actually.
But I say nothing, instead letting her rant about trying to find a flu shot or a ticket for a flu shot or a rumor of a ticket for a flu shot. Finally, it’s decided that Costco and a three-hour line is mom and dad’s best bet.
I say brightly, “At least you have a comfy chair to sit in and you get to go to Costco. How good is that?”
The silence was piercing. I tried to back pedal by reminding mom that she could blow off Costco. After all, she really didn’t need to worry about catching the flu since her injuries would keep her safely ensconced at home for the next six weeks, far from friends, and fun, and germs.
She must have broken her sense of humor along with her foot and her wrist because she didn’t even laugh. I decided I’d better not to ask her to pick up a rotisserie chicken for me.
A couple days later, we are back at the pediatrician’s office. The doctor enters the room, pins me with her piercing stare and I sort of squirm uncomfortably. I don’t think today would be a good day to ask for a flu shot. She says only four words: “You are so lucky.”
Yeah, I know. Lucky me.
I take that back. I did get a bottle cap once where I won $10 off a purchase of $50 or more at FootLocker. But my luck has changed. Even my fortune cookie at Peking Dragon was promising this time. Usually it says something like “You are rich in friends” which is nice, but rich in cash is good too. But this time I got “A thrilling event is in your immediate future.” Yahoo! Even my husband perked up at that message.
What I didn’t realize was my thrilling event turned out to be a flu shot.
There was a time--say a month ago--when getting a flu shot was like changing the battery in your smoke detector. A hassle, a nuisance, but no big deal, you do it. Now, getting a flu shot if you are under the age of 65 is like winning the lottery. Lucky me!
I casually got a flu shot from my kids’ pediatrician. I happened to be there, the office had plenty, double the shipment of last year, and—prick—I was vaccinated. Of course this happened about three minutes before the breaking news hit the major networks. The flu shot supply had suddenly dropped out of “supply and demand” and there I was, sitting pretty with a Donald Duck Band-Aid on my arm.
Of course with enormous good fortune comes enormous guilt. They don’t tell you that part on the Lotto billboard. You become a “Have” in a world of “Have-Nots.” The first inkling of the psychic price I would pay came in a testy phone call from my mother.
Let me backtrack for a moment and warn you that my mother recently had a bit of a tussle with a curb and the curb won. So now she is in two casts and a wheelchair and feeling, shall we say, a shade irritable. It doesn’t help that my dad keeps finding all the chocolate bars I’ve been slipping to in her People magazines and putting them up on very high shelves.
So she starts right in on me. How does it feel to be the only able bodied young adult in America to bamboozle a flu shot?
Good, actually.
But I say nothing, instead letting her rant about trying to find a flu shot or a ticket for a flu shot or a rumor of a ticket for a flu shot. Finally, it’s decided that Costco and a three-hour line is mom and dad’s best bet.
I say brightly, “At least you have a comfy chair to sit in and you get to go to Costco. How good is that?”
The silence was piercing. I tried to back pedal by reminding mom that she could blow off Costco. After all, she really didn’t need to worry about catching the flu since her injuries would keep her safely ensconced at home for the next six weeks, far from friends, and fun, and germs.
She must have broken her sense of humor along with her foot and her wrist because she didn’t even laugh. I decided I’d better not to ask her to pick up a rotisserie chicken for me.
A couple days later, we are back at the pediatrician’s office. The doctor enters the room, pins me with her piercing stare and I sort of squirm uncomfortably. I don’t think today would be a good day to ask for a flu shot. She says only four words: “You are so lucky.”
Yeah, I know. Lucky me.
All I Wanted Was A Little R & R
All I wanted was a little R & R this summer. Rest and Remodeling. Nothing more than a simple project completed well before school was back in session. The kids and I would spend our days at the beach while simultaneously revamping our house. I knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into.
After all, I watch HGTV.
The look I was going for was “Montage Spa and Resort” without spending $450 bucks a night for the privilege. Amid a flurry of pages torn from home magazines, I patiently explained to my husband it was mostly a matter of adding a dash of wainscoting and molding to give the house that luxurious built-in feel.
He was dubious, but he didn’t say no. So I started bidding out the job before he could come up with a hundred excellent reasons to leave well enough alone. I promised to do the hard work; he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.
I imagined the construction workers. They would be powerfully muscled and wearing only jeans, boots, and leather tool belts. I would have plenty of fresh squeezed lemonade on hand. After working all day, maybe we’d indulge in a little touch football in the cul-de-sac. That’s how it works on “Trading Spaces.”
Now I am thinking they fake all that for tv.
Nothing has worked out how I envisioned. It is now September and I can show you plenty of Before pictures but not a single After. I have an uprooted toilet on either side of me as I write, but no floor to speak of. There may be ancient civilizations buried under the drywall dust on top of my fridge and still not a single worker has initiated an impromptu football game.
I hate to admit this is out of control. It was sort of like a late night eating binge where it all begins as “just one bite.” Initially we were just going to remove ugly wallpaper.
But what to do once the paper was down? We’d have to texture the walls. Then paint. And if we were going to paint and have the house torn up anyway maybe we should go ahead and replace the perfectly serviceable floor with something a bit nicer. And if we do the floor, we’d need new baseboard to go with the wainscoting. Of course the windows need to tie into the wainscoting so we better trim them out and replace the slider while doing the floor. So the list got longer.
Not a single thing was easy. Turns out the wallpaper was practically tattooed to the walls. The Removal Guy complained bitterly that his fingers were bleeding by the end of the day. I guessed that meant football was out.
When the three-day job was going on nine, he hit me up for another thousand bucks. Do I look employed to you, I wondered? I very politely declined his request. He very politely declined to paint my ceiling. I politely shoved the bid under his nose and pointed to the words “paint ceiling.”
He said that only meant the family room. I asked if he included paintbrushes in his estimate and it is safe to say things deteriorated from there.
Strangers were manhandling all of our valuable stuff. Every item cracked, dinged or damaged was conveniently “already broken” when brought to their attention. The kitchen was taped off. There was nowhere to sit. Everywhere we stepped, we tracked wallpaper glue goop. This was not love; this was war.
At least I had a husband who understood how upset I was feeling. I knew he would be able to smooth out these little “communication issues” for me. Our marriage was way strong enough to handle a little home improvement.
Surprisingly, his response was less than enthusiastic. Something to the effect of “you got us into this, not me.” When we “discussed” the escalating costs, I was afraid he might slip a disc. Even the “housing bubble” card did little to appease him.
Like a soldier, I trudged on. I signed a contract with Koala Flooring down by Costco and crossed my fingers. My tile demo was a 17-day nightmare, but they never asked for an extra dime. I was cheered. They gave me carpet remnants to cover the subfloor while awaiting my new hardwood. I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I’m thinking the guys at Koala may even be up for a game of touch football.
After all, I watch HGTV.
The look I was going for was “Montage Spa and Resort” without spending $450 bucks a night for the privilege. Amid a flurry of pages torn from home magazines, I patiently explained to my husband it was mostly a matter of adding a dash of wainscoting and molding to give the house that luxurious built-in feel.
He was dubious, but he didn’t say no. So I started bidding out the job before he could come up with a hundred excellent reasons to leave well enough alone. I promised to do the hard work; he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.
I imagined the construction workers. They would be powerfully muscled and wearing only jeans, boots, and leather tool belts. I would have plenty of fresh squeezed lemonade on hand. After working all day, maybe we’d indulge in a little touch football in the cul-de-sac. That’s how it works on “Trading Spaces.”
Now I am thinking they fake all that for tv.
Nothing has worked out how I envisioned. It is now September and I can show you plenty of Before pictures but not a single After. I have an uprooted toilet on either side of me as I write, but no floor to speak of. There may be ancient civilizations buried under the drywall dust on top of my fridge and still not a single worker has initiated an impromptu football game.
I hate to admit this is out of control. It was sort of like a late night eating binge where it all begins as “just one bite.” Initially we were just going to remove ugly wallpaper.
But what to do once the paper was down? We’d have to texture the walls. Then paint. And if we were going to paint and have the house torn up anyway maybe we should go ahead and replace the perfectly serviceable floor with something a bit nicer. And if we do the floor, we’d need new baseboard to go with the wainscoting. Of course the windows need to tie into the wainscoting so we better trim them out and replace the slider while doing the floor. So the list got longer.
Not a single thing was easy. Turns out the wallpaper was practically tattooed to the walls. The Removal Guy complained bitterly that his fingers were bleeding by the end of the day. I guessed that meant football was out.
When the three-day job was going on nine, he hit me up for another thousand bucks. Do I look employed to you, I wondered? I very politely declined his request. He very politely declined to paint my ceiling. I politely shoved the bid under his nose and pointed to the words “paint ceiling.”
He said that only meant the family room. I asked if he included paintbrushes in his estimate and it is safe to say things deteriorated from there.
Strangers were manhandling all of our valuable stuff. Every item cracked, dinged or damaged was conveniently “already broken” when brought to their attention. The kitchen was taped off. There was nowhere to sit. Everywhere we stepped, we tracked wallpaper glue goop. This was not love; this was war.
At least I had a husband who understood how upset I was feeling. I knew he would be able to smooth out these little “communication issues” for me. Our marriage was way strong enough to handle a little home improvement.
Surprisingly, his response was less than enthusiastic. Something to the effect of “you got us into this, not me.” When we “discussed” the escalating costs, I was afraid he might slip a disc. Even the “housing bubble” card did little to appease him.
Like a soldier, I trudged on. I signed a contract with Koala Flooring down by Costco and crossed my fingers. My tile demo was a 17-day nightmare, but they never asked for an extra dime. I was cheered. They gave me carpet remnants to cover the subfloor while awaiting my new hardwood. I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I’m thinking the guys at Koala may even be up for a game of touch football.
It's Always Nice To Be Included
It’s always nice to be included. It makes me feel special to be asked to the party. This time my “invitation” came in the form of a public notice from the City of Dana Point. I’ve been invited to contribute my opinion on the closure of the DP Marina Mobile Home Estates. Since I don’t get out much, it is an honor to accept any invitation that comes my way.
Pretty much the notice says the new owners’ intent is to “retire all existing mobile home park operations, ultimately leaving the site vacant and unoccupied.” The buildings would all be locked up and mobile homes not relocated will be abandoned. The pool will be drained, fenced off, and utilities disconnected.
Gee, I can’t wait to have another closed up fenced-off festering eyesore at the intersection of PCH and Del Obispo. Right now the liquor store is barred and vacant while the Villa is nothing more than a dirt lot fenced with a chain link “billboard” for every political poster and city banner around.
On the other side of the street the weedy Gas Company property is boarded over and abandoned. What’s left? Only the traffic-jamming Union 76 Station and Denny’s, the grand slam crown jewel of Dana Point. Forgive me if I’m underwhelmed.
I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to sense a pattern of neglect. I don’t care if you live in Monarch Beach or Capo Beach or plain ol’ 92629. Curb appeal counts--and not just for houses. This is our town and the gateway that defines Dana Point is simply butt-ugly. Why on earth would we want to make it worse?
I may be kind of paranoid but giving up control to a developer who can’t or won’t show us his cards makes me downright nervous. I assume anyone with millions to spend must have some inkling of what they want to do with the money.
The creation of a long-term vagrant-attracting run-down ghost town at the heart of our city will only make us vulnerable to less than acceptable proposals down the road, simply to get something built. Then we end up with a ten-story monster hotel that fills the city coffers with bed tax funds but has the beauty and style of Folsom …or the Fountains. Take your pick.
I know what you are thinking. Jody, you look like such a nice person. How did you get to be so cynical, so distrustful of developers? They are people too, just like politicians and lawyers.
Hmmm. I don’t know. I’m just a shy and quiet stay-at-home mom who mainly wants to get the bubble gum out of the carpet, but I keep getting interrupted by these other sticky issues.
So here’s what I think: Since the new owners of the park say they do not yet know what they are planning to put on the site, why be in such a hurry to turn nine acres into a vacant wound? Why not let the residents continue living there until there is an approved plan in place? It would give people a cushion to plan their futures, the owners will have continued income from the rents, and Dana Point won’t have one more visual dump.
Suppose the owners really are telling the truth and they haven’t yet narrowed their plans, then this plot of land could sit vacant for years. So if they don’t know, let’s WAIT to close the park until they make up their minds.
If they do know exactly what they want, then let’s WAIT until they tell us. Then we can decide if the use is better than the current one. At one point they said they were entertaining the idea of a mobile home park. What a coincidence! I know a bunch of people who are in need of a new one.
What about our city leaders? I’m confident they are not silly enough to approve this closure without a full understanding of the planned use for the space.
But if the city agrees that closure of the park is acceptable, then why not insist that all structures, roads, etc are removed and the whole place covered with grass, attractively fenced and maintained…well, like a park?
The most neighborly thing to do is to support our mobile home park friends in their homes for as long as possible. If the city refuses, then at least make the Park look park-like.
And maybe throw a party. My calendar is clear.
Pretty much the notice says the new owners’ intent is to “retire all existing mobile home park operations, ultimately leaving the site vacant and unoccupied.” The buildings would all be locked up and mobile homes not relocated will be abandoned. The pool will be drained, fenced off, and utilities disconnected.
Gee, I can’t wait to have another closed up fenced-off festering eyesore at the intersection of PCH and Del Obispo. Right now the liquor store is barred and vacant while the Villa is nothing more than a dirt lot fenced with a chain link “billboard” for every political poster and city banner around.
On the other side of the street the weedy Gas Company property is boarded over and abandoned. What’s left? Only the traffic-jamming Union 76 Station and Denny’s, the grand slam crown jewel of Dana Point. Forgive me if I’m underwhelmed.
I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to sense a pattern of neglect. I don’t care if you live in Monarch Beach or Capo Beach or plain ol’ 92629. Curb appeal counts--and not just for houses. This is our town and the gateway that defines Dana Point is simply butt-ugly. Why on earth would we want to make it worse?
I may be kind of paranoid but giving up control to a developer who can’t or won’t show us his cards makes me downright nervous. I assume anyone with millions to spend must have some inkling of what they want to do with the money.
The creation of a long-term vagrant-attracting run-down ghost town at the heart of our city will only make us vulnerable to less than acceptable proposals down the road, simply to get something built. Then we end up with a ten-story monster hotel that fills the city coffers with bed tax funds but has the beauty and style of Folsom …or the Fountains. Take your pick.
I know what you are thinking. Jody, you look like such a nice person. How did you get to be so cynical, so distrustful of developers? They are people too, just like politicians and lawyers.
Hmmm. I don’t know. I’m just a shy and quiet stay-at-home mom who mainly wants to get the bubble gum out of the carpet, but I keep getting interrupted by these other sticky issues.
So here’s what I think: Since the new owners of the park say they do not yet know what they are planning to put on the site, why be in such a hurry to turn nine acres into a vacant wound? Why not let the residents continue living there until there is an approved plan in place? It would give people a cushion to plan their futures, the owners will have continued income from the rents, and Dana Point won’t have one more visual dump.
Suppose the owners really are telling the truth and they haven’t yet narrowed their plans, then this plot of land could sit vacant for years. So if they don’t know, let’s WAIT to close the park until they make up their minds.
If they do know exactly what they want, then let’s WAIT until they tell us. Then we can decide if the use is better than the current one. At one point they said they were entertaining the idea of a mobile home park. What a coincidence! I know a bunch of people who are in need of a new one.
What about our city leaders? I’m confident they are not silly enough to approve this closure without a full understanding of the planned use for the space.
But if the city agrees that closure of the park is acceptable, then why not insist that all structures, roads, etc are removed and the whole place covered with grass, attractively fenced and maintained…well, like a park?
The most neighborly thing to do is to support our mobile home park friends in their homes for as long as possible. If the city refuses, then at least make the Park look park-like.
And maybe throw a party. My calendar is clear.
It's Always Nice To Be Included
It’s always nice to be included. It makes me feel special to be asked to the party. This time my “invitation” came in the form of a public notice from the City of Dana Point. I’ve been invited to contribute my opinion on the closure of the DP Marina Mobile Home Estates. Since I don’t get out much, it is an honor to accept any invitation that comes my way.
Pretty much the notice says the new owners’ intent is to “retire all existing mobile home park operations, ultimately leaving the site vacant and unoccupied.” The buildings would all be locked up and mobile homes not relocated will be abandoned. The pool will be drained, fenced off, and utilities disconnected.
Gee, I can’t wait to have another closed up fenced-off festering eyesore at the intersection of PCH and Del Obispo. Right now the liquor store is barred and vacant while the Villa is nothing more than a dirt lot fenced with a chain link “billboard” for every political poster and city banner around.
On the other side of the street the weedy Gas Company property is boarded over and abandoned. What’s left? Only the traffic-jamming Union 76 Station and Denny’s, the grand slam crown jewel of Dana Point. Forgive me if I’m underwhelmed.
I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to sense a pattern of neglect. I don’t care if you live in Monarch Beach or Capo Beach or plain ol’ 92629. Curb appeal counts--and not just for houses. This is our town and the gateway that defines Dana Point is simply butt-ugly. Why on earth would we want to make it worse?
I may be kind of paranoid but giving up control to a developer who can’t or won’t show us his cards makes me downright nervous. I assume anyone with millions to spend must have some inkling of what they want to do with the money.
The creation of a long-term vagrant-attracting run-down ghost town at the heart of our city will only make us vulnerable to less than acceptable proposals down the road, simply to get something built. Then we end up with a ten-story monster hotel that fills the city coffers with bed tax funds but has the beauty and style of Folsom …or the Fountains. Take your pick.
I know what you are thinking. Jody, you look like such a nice person. How did you get to be so cynical, so distrustful of developers? They are people too, just like politicians and lawyers.
Hmmm. I don’t know. I’m just a shy and quiet stay-at-home mom who mainly wants to get the bubble gum out of the carpet, but I keep getting interrupted by these other sticky issues.
So here’s what I think: Since the new owners of the park say they do not yet know what they are planning to put on the site, why be in such a hurry to turn nine acres into a vacant wound? Why not let the residents continue living there until there is an approved plan in place? It would give people a cushion to plan their futures, the owners will have continued income from the rents, and Dana Point won’t have one more visual dump.
Suppose the owners really are telling the truth and they haven’t yet narrowed their plans, then this plot of land could sit vacant for years. So if they don’t know, let’s WAIT to close the park until they make up their minds.
If they do know exactly what they want, then let’s WAIT until they tell us. Then we can decide if the use is better than the current one. At one point they said they were entertaining the idea of a mobile home park. What a coincidence! I know a bunch of people who are in need of a new one.
What about our city leaders? I’m confident they are not silly enough to approve this closure without a full understanding of the planned use for the space.
But if the city agrees that closure of the park is acceptable, then why not insist that all structures, roads, etc are removed and the whole place covered with grass, attractively fenced and maintained…well, like a park?
The most neighborly thing to do is to support our mobile home park friends in their homes for as long as possible. If the city refuses, then at least make the Park look park-like.
And maybe throw a party. My calendar is clear.
Pretty much the notice says the new owners’ intent is to “retire all existing mobile home park operations, ultimately leaving the site vacant and unoccupied.” The buildings would all be locked up and mobile homes not relocated will be abandoned. The pool will be drained, fenced off, and utilities disconnected.
Gee, I can’t wait to have another closed up fenced-off festering eyesore at the intersection of PCH and Del Obispo. Right now the liquor store is barred and vacant while the Villa is nothing more than a dirt lot fenced with a chain link “billboard” for every political poster and city banner around.
On the other side of the street the weedy Gas Company property is boarded over and abandoned. What’s left? Only the traffic-jamming Union 76 Station and Denny’s, the grand slam crown jewel of Dana Point. Forgive me if I’m underwhelmed.
I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to sense a pattern of neglect. I don’t care if you live in Monarch Beach or Capo Beach or plain ol’ 92629. Curb appeal counts--and not just for houses. This is our town and the gateway that defines Dana Point is simply butt-ugly. Why on earth would we want to make it worse?
I may be kind of paranoid but giving up control to a developer who can’t or won’t show us his cards makes me downright nervous. I assume anyone with millions to spend must have some inkling of what they want to do with the money.
The creation of a long-term vagrant-attracting run-down ghost town at the heart of our city will only make us vulnerable to less than acceptable proposals down the road, simply to get something built. Then we end up with a ten-story monster hotel that fills the city coffers with bed tax funds but has the beauty and style of Folsom …or the Fountains. Take your pick.
I know what you are thinking. Jody, you look like such a nice person. How did you get to be so cynical, so distrustful of developers? They are people too, just like politicians and lawyers.
Hmmm. I don’t know. I’m just a shy and quiet stay-at-home mom who mainly wants to get the bubble gum out of the carpet, but I keep getting interrupted by these other sticky issues.
So here’s what I think: Since the new owners of the park say they do not yet know what they are planning to put on the site, why be in such a hurry to turn nine acres into a vacant wound? Why not let the residents continue living there until there is an approved plan in place? It would give people a cushion to plan their futures, the owners will have continued income from the rents, and Dana Point won’t have one more visual dump.
Suppose the owners really are telling the truth and they haven’t yet narrowed their plans, then this plot of land could sit vacant for years. So if they don’t know, let’s WAIT to close the park until they make up their minds.
If they do know exactly what they want, then let’s WAIT until they tell us. Then we can decide if the use is better than the current one. At one point they said they were entertaining the idea of a mobile home park. What a coincidence! I know a bunch of people who are in need of a new one.
What about our city leaders? I’m confident they are not silly enough to approve this closure without a full understanding of the planned use for the space.
But if the city agrees that closure of the park is acceptable, then why not insist that all structures, roads, etc are removed and the whole place covered with grass, attractively fenced and maintained…well, like a park?
The most neighborly thing to do is to support our mobile home park friends in their homes for as long as possible. If the city refuses, then at least make the Park look park-like.
And maybe throw a party. My calendar is clear.
What You Do With a Drunken Sailor
What do you do with a drunken sailor early in the morning? That’s a good question. I admit to no personal experience with drunken sailors at any time of day. My fourth grade daughter, however, can tell you exactly what to do with a drunken sailor. Her father and I weren’t sure we wanted to know this information. But we were very interested in where she picked it up. Turns out it was nothing to worry about; she’d been hanging around a scurvy bunch of louts down at the harbor aboard the tallship Pilgrim. I’ll let her tell you about it in her own words. Shave his belly with a rusty razor. "It is a tradition to have fourth graders spend the night on the Pilgrim, (a replica of) the ship Richard Henry Dana, (our city’s namesake) sailed aboard from Boston to California. "I think our trip will be exciting. I’m aware that there are many rules and punishments if you break them. I will try to do everything right, follow the captain’s orders, and not suck an onion. "I feel prepared to meet and serve the captain, although I am not sure I am going to like my job as a rigger." I can’t believe she wrote that. All these years I’ve been threatening her with time-outs and the old count-to-three routine, only to find out a simple onion will have her offering to serve the captain. She sure as heck has never offered to serve around this brig. Put him in the bilge and make him drink it. "When I went on the Pilgrim, I had a lot of fun, but it was hard work. "I took the scurvy test, which is where you have to lift a barrel on top of an onion on the quarterdeck railing without knocking it off or damaging the rail." As a mom who didn’t volunteer to chaperone this voyage, I really enjoyed the displays of harsh discipline and threats of abuse from the captain to his charges. In fact, I was feeling rather smug. A whole night of "Boot Camp on a Boat" and my kid would surely have a new appreciation for her cushy life on land. Put him in the longboat ‘til he’s sober. "The bathroom is called the head and to clean it is ‘special duty.’ "Some of the rules are no putting your hands in your pockets, no saying ‘ok,’ and no talking back. ‘Aye Captain’ means you understand the captain’s orders." I am glad she is getting an education in cleaning bathrooms. If she grows up to be a cleaning lady, she will earn more money than her teacher earns. Parents had to write letters to our children to be read on board. I warned her about sailors who swear and crew smelling of whiskey, not to mention bedbugs, lice, weevils, and rats. Last I suggested that in a headwind, she steer clear of shipmates peeing off the bow. Put him in the back of the paddy wagon. "Everyone was on watch at night. There were four different watches. The worst is the 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. Nasty Watch and the 4 to 6 a.m. Dog Watch. I was on the Dog Watch. "There wasn’t anything to see, so the captain let us make stuff up in our logs. You only get three to five hours of sleep." I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about my child, cold and lonely on deck, with only the stars and the sea for company. I imagined the foghorn blowing mournfully as tendrils of mist formed shapes of serpents and monsters and such. I knew she had to be missing home very, very much during that dogged Dog Watch. I smiled, cozy under my down comforter, and went back to sleep. Put him in the hold with the captain’s daughter. "In the morning, you scrub the deck. The cook is nice but the first mate is very strict. This 4 th grade tradition is an experience of a lifetime." So I picked her up at school the next afternoon, meaning I waited in the car. She struggled down the sidewalk; her bulging Hefty bag of gear had somehow taken a fatal gash. Every few feet, she stopped to redistribute the load. I rolled down the passenger window to help her out and she heaved it all in as easily as a dried cowhide. Nonchalantly I asked how it went. Her answer was music to my ears: "Boy, am I glad to see you." That’s what you do with a drunken sailor early in the morning.
Tooth Fairy Keeps It's Own Schedule
Fourth of July has come and gone. Doheny, Salt Creek, the harbor and the Strand are only moderately crowded instead of being filled with sand-buried bodies. I was really happy when the day was done because July 5 meant the holiday hoopla was over at our house until the Halloween costume frenzy kicks into overdrive Oct. 1. Birthdays. Check. Anniversary. Check. Mom and Dad’s days. Double check. Only I forgot about the Tooth Fairy. Tonight at 8:52 PST we had an incident. No emergency crew was needed though I’d rate the gore, blood, and gaping socket PG-13. My youngest was enthralled. That is why I am writing this at 11 p.m. while I wait for the Tooth Fairy to arrive. I have it on good authority that she often blows off Dana Point for the more lucrative gold-filled baby teeth in Laguna Niguel. I’m afraid if I FALL ASLEEP before she gets here, I MAY NOT WAKE UP to let her in. (My "caps lock" button is not stuck, I am speaking in code.) So here we are together, you and I, waiting for the big event. Yawn. Personally, I’d like to yank the teeth out of the idiot who came up with the tooth fairy gig. What an evil means of torturing people whose only mistake was procreating with abandon. I have enough trouble remembering every day tasks such as, say, taking vitamins; much less these sporadic and always inconvenient middle-of-the-night exchanges of teeth for cash. If it were up to me, I’d set it up so the kids saved up their teeth until a night when I’m up late anyway, and then trade them in all at once. Let’s make it Dec. 31 st. That’s the only night I can guarantee to drink enough caffeine to make it to midnight. Even better, forget the cash business. Who carries actual money anyway? How about a gift card for a manicure/pedicure for the child’s hardworking mother? After all, isn’t a brand spanking new permanent tooth gift enough? It wouldn’t be like what happened two weeks ago, when the tooth fairy stood up my gappy-mouthed, grinning 7-year-old daughter. She worked that tooth for days. I found blood on the white towels, her white pillowcase, and the sleeve of my white shirt. I don’t know how she managed to dangle it by the root for so long, flinging blood hither and yon. But finally it was out, set free like a small white bird in a big sky. Go forth in the world little tooth and conquer! Somehow it ended up down the drain. I’d explain how that happened except I didn’t quite get all the pertinent details through the sobs. I briefly considered the old bait-and-switch routine. I’ve got an assortment of baby teeth in a very high drawer stuffed with nail polish and crayoned love letters. I figured I might just be able to pull off the switch. Something like, "Look sweetie! A daddy-long-legs in the bathtub!" As her head swivels I drop the replacement next to the faucet. It probably would have worked if this hadn’t been my middle child, the naturally suspicious one. You know the kid. She’d say, "This can’t be my tooth. It’s not big enough. Why are my teeth always the smallest? It’s not fairrr..." So I had her write a letter of explanation to the tooth fairy – sort of like what the insurance company does when it refuses to pay for the care and maintenance of same said teeth. She wrote her letter and I felt gratified that I was making her practice her printing in the summer and thought how that might please her new schoolteacher. She tucked it under her pillow and promptly fell asleep at 8:55 p.m. I fell into bed and was asleep at 8: 57 p.m., on a Friday night no less. Wouldn’t you know, that stinkin’ Tooth Fairy never bothered to give me a kick in the bum or any other warning that I still had one more to-do on my to-do list. I woke up to sunshine and a 7-year-old face grinning at me, one large hole in her smile. My heart sunk as I remembered what I’d forgotten. But she was smiling? I didn’t get it. "Did the tooth fairy come?" I asked in vain hope. "Nope." She was laughing, not crying. "I was hoping she wouldn’t come last night." Really? I felt relief wash through me. "Yeah, mama. That means tonight I’ll get double the money." So that’s why I’m staying up late tonight. I can’t afford to.
Boy, oh Boy do Teachers Love June
Boy, oh boy do teachers love June. Any teacher who claims not to know exactly how many days until summer vacation is a BIG FAT LIAR. I know this because I am a teacher.
Because I am a teacher, albeit an unemployed one, I have certain strengths. One of them is the ability to recognize excellent teaching when I see it. You see, a classroom is a lot like a restaurant. A tremendous amount of work makes it all look effortless. But I can see the hidden work, and I appreciate it.
In our midst, there is a woman who is a true and gifted teacher. Her name is Susan Walter. If you meet her, you may as well just kiss her feet because she is a jewel.
She’s a local, first Capo Beach and now the “Bible Belt.” Her varied career includes a stint as a Disneyland mermaid and teaching Special Education. Now she runs the Kindergarten Readiness program through the City of San Juan Capistrano.
I first met Mrs. Walter out at the old Dance Hall on Adelanto. It was the oddest thing, like a time warp. Right in the middle of town was an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse. Everyone learned together. Older kids show the younger ones the ropes, and it worked beautifully. I signed up on the spot.
I’m picky and unreasonable, I know, but I can’t help it. I want a teacher to love my child. And if my kid loves her teacher, then I want that teacher to stick around. Mrs. Walter does. Her team, Sue Ferrari and Karen Feitler are equally loving and committed.
Not only does she love children, she teaches them too. They know their letters and numbers, colors and days of the week. They can write their names, line up, keep their hands to themselves, and share. They know the pledge of allegiance and the difference between “criss-cross applesauce” and “crazy, mixed-up day.” Most of all, they know what to expect when they get to kindergarten and they are ready.
We parents have learned a lot too. We have learned that if the theme of Sharing Day is the letter “R,” then there’s got to be an “R” object in the glove box, or trunk, or under the seat. We have learned to trust Mrs. Walter when she says the gut-wrenching display of tears is all a big act. In a classroom where parents are always welcome, we have learned how to reach out to each other in support and friendship.
There are other perks to this program that aren’t listed in the city program catalog. For example, Mrs. Walter is a fabulous concierge. If you are traveling anywhere in the world, Mrs. Walter has been there and knows a great restaurant. She can do Paris on a hundred bucks—including airfare—and if you beg, she might take you along.
Crying is an accepted part of life at Kindergarten Readiness. No one is teased for tears or a tantrum. In fact a hug and a kind word come naturally to these teachers. They even do the same for our kids…
I do have to warn you that Mrs. Walter has told a stretcher or two in her day. She has the kids convinced she grew up with dinosaurs. She regales them with childhood tales or pterodactyl rides and brontosaurus slides. What parent can compete with experience like that?
She also believes in leprechauns. Every time we drive down Camino Capistrano, my kids still point to the bridge they call home. And I sure am glad the little green fellows don’t trash my place the way they hit that classroom on St Patrick’s Day. Little Green footprints and chocolate coins scattered everywhere. On my!
Guess who cleans it all up? Preschoolers. Plus they clean up every day. Plus they wash their hands after using the restroom. Plus they wait for everyone to be served before they eat. Plus they play nicely and take turns.
But it only works at school.
Mrs. Walter is a miracle but not a miracle worker. As soon as my child gets home, she has “forgotten” how to pick up anything off the floor. But Mrs. Walter says we’ll get there, so I am confident.
I adore Mrs. Walter, Mrs. Ferrari, and Mrs. Feitler so much that I have requested my child be held back for just one more year. The funny thing is my baby is ready for kindergarten.
But I am not.
Because I am a teacher, albeit an unemployed one, I have certain strengths. One of them is the ability to recognize excellent teaching when I see it. You see, a classroom is a lot like a restaurant. A tremendous amount of work makes it all look effortless. But I can see the hidden work, and I appreciate it.
In our midst, there is a woman who is a true and gifted teacher. Her name is Susan Walter. If you meet her, you may as well just kiss her feet because she is a jewel.
She’s a local, first Capo Beach and now the “Bible Belt.” Her varied career includes a stint as a Disneyland mermaid and teaching Special Education. Now she runs the Kindergarten Readiness program through the City of San Juan Capistrano.
I first met Mrs. Walter out at the old Dance Hall on Adelanto. It was the oddest thing, like a time warp. Right in the middle of town was an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse. Everyone learned together. Older kids show the younger ones the ropes, and it worked beautifully. I signed up on the spot.
I’m picky and unreasonable, I know, but I can’t help it. I want a teacher to love my child. And if my kid loves her teacher, then I want that teacher to stick around. Mrs. Walter does. Her team, Sue Ferrari and Karen Feitler are equally loving and committed.
Not only does she love children, she teaches them too. They know their letters and numbers, colors and days of the week. They can write their names, line up, keep their hands to themselves, and share. They know the pledge of allegiance and the difference between “criss-cross applesauce” and “crazy, mixed-up day.” Most of all, they know what to expect when they get to kindergarten and they are ready.
We parents have learned a lot too. We have learned that if the theme of Sharing Day is the letter “R,” then there’s got to be an “R” object in the glove box, or trunk, or under the seat. We have learned to trust Mrs. Walter when she says the gut-wrenching display of tears is all a big act. In a classroom where parents are always welcome, we have learned how to reach out to each other in support and friendship.
There are other perks to this program that aren’t listed in the city program catalog. For example, Mrs. Walter is a fabulous concierge. If you are traveling anywhere in the world, Mrs. Walter has been there and knows a great restaurant. She can do Paris on a hundred bucks—including airfare—and if you beg, she might take you along.
Crying is an accepted part of life at Kindergarten Readiness. No one is teased for tears or a tantrum. In fact a hug and a kind word come naturally to these teachers. They even do the same for our kids…
I do have to warn you that Mrs. Walter has told a stretcher or two in her day. She has the kids convinced she grew up with dinosaurs. She regales them with childhood tales or pterodactyl rides and brontosaurus slides. What parent can compete with experience like that?
She also believes in leprechauns. Every time we drive down Camino Capistrano, my kids still point to the bridge they call home. And I sure am glad the little green fellows don’t trash my place the way they hit that classroom on St Patrick’s Day. Little Green footprints and chocolate coins scattered everywhere. On my!
Guess who cleans it all up? Preschoolers. Plus they clean up every day. Plus they wash their hands after using the restroom. Plus they wait for everyone to be served before they eat. Plus they play nicely and take turns.
But it only works at school.
Mrs. Walter is a miracle but not a miracle worker. As soon as my child gets home, she has “forgotten” how to pick up anything off the floor. But Mrs. Walter says we’ll get there, so I am confident.
I adore Mrs. Walter, Mrs. Ferrari, and Mrs. Feitler so much that I have requested my child be held back for just one more year. The funny thing is my baby is ready for kindergarten.
But I am not.
Resolutions for My Town
Resolutions are a tricky business, easy to make and easier to break. I am the worst. Instead of accomplishing a bit of spit-and-polish, I aim for the major overhaul and fail miserably—and annually. I bet I am the only no-show member at 24-Hour Fitness who has a lifetime membership. How’s that for good intentions?
But hey, I’m still all for self-improvement, my own and everybody else’s. Since I’m quitting resolutions until at least January 2004, I will have to focus my need to improve elsewhere, and what do you know? There’s a big fat coastal city right outside my front door in need of a New Year’s suggestion or two. Here are mine:
1. From now on, let’s be really, really careful when it comes to NAMES. We should arm ourselves with the knowledge that we must have very bad name karma or perhaps our feng shui on the harbor revitalization is inharmonious. I hope the word “Dana Point” doesn’t add up to some unlucky number. Maybe we should switch to “Laguna Point” just to be safe. It would make things easier for our local hotels. I don’t know the answer, but this has been a cesspool of a problem in the past. Some possible ground rules: Don’t pay for any new names, even if there is a boat attached. If the rest of this town is as memory-impaired as I, they won’t remember the name anyway. By the same token, don’t pay to banish old ones. Don’t offend, embarrass and humiliate citizens for being…top-drawer citizens. Stick with what we can pronounce—you know, Spanish, as in Capistrano by the Sea, not Bal Harbour. It’s not unlike naming children. Think it through.
2. Don’t rile the natives. Live and let live and all that jazz. Don’t go hauling off people’s homes just because they have wheels under them. The homes may be mobile but the people are rooted. Leave them be. We’ve already lost a nearby historic structure only to be replaced by a chain link fence and pipe dreams of a big-talking developer. Do we really want to clear a big plot of land so Home Depot can give us a closer look?
3. Poop happens. At least when it comes to dogs. It’s time to put some fangs in our dog excrement ordinances and get those piles off our pavement and parks, and shoes, and kids’ hands…My theory is that 95% of the petrifying poop comes from 5% of the dogs. Those sweet, innocent dogs belong to chronic pigs, not people. Book em’ Dano.
4. Focus on what’s important. Now that we have confirmed by satellite the exact stats on each and every one of the 10,000 trees in Dana Point, we can monitor them closely. Who knows when some undesirable seed may drift in on a Santa Ana wind? Do we want an explosion of illegal saplings all fighting for a tiny plot of our soil? It’s sickening. We better start on the blades of grass next.
5. Promote and protect local business. I have taken this to heart, spreading my husband’s hard earned dollars around Dana Point with the zeal of a missionary (for which I get no thanks from him.) I cannot do my job when concrete barricades bar me for months at a time from making left turns on PCH. How can the mom and pops survive street strangulation? They deserve better.
6. Combine our smallpox vaccine and radiation pill and make them available at the freeway onramp signal at Stonehill and the 5 so we can all wait in a familiar line. Better yet, we can hire the homeless entrenched at our ready-for-my-makeover harbor entrance intersection and have them pass out the “terrorist protection” to stuck motorists idling all the way out over the bridge.
7. Instead of spending $250,000 on one bathroom at Creekside Park, spend $25,000 each on ten bathrooms at strategic points at the harbor. Better yet, just buy each DP family a membership to Dana West or DP yacht clubs, so we can access the sparkling clean boater facilities (and park our cars too).
8. Most of all, let’s think—twice--before we act. Instead of doing damage control caused by the ripples of our wake, let’s just slow down the boat.
So maybe Dana Point will fulfill all my resolutions for 2003. Then this town can follow my husband’s lead and refuse to make resolutions. As he reminds me every January, “Why mess with perfection?”
But hey, I’m still all for self-improvement, my own and everybody else’s. Since I’m quitting resolutions until at least January 2004, I will have to focus my need to improve elsewhere, and what do you know? There’s a big fat coastal city right outside my front door in need of a New Year’s suggestion or two. Here are mine:
1. From now on, let’s be really, really careful when it comes to NAMES. We should arm ourselves with the knowledge that we must have very bad name karma or perhaps our feng shui on the harbor revitalization is inharmonious. I hope the word “Dana Point” doesn’t add up to some unlucky number. Maybe we should switch to “Laguna Point” just to be safe. It would make things easier for our local hotels. I don’t know the answer, but this has been a cesspool of a problem in the past. Some possible ground rules: Don’t pay for any new names, even if there is a boat attached. If the rest of this town is as memory-impaired as I, they won’t remember the name anyway. By the same token, don’t pay to banish old ones. Don’t offend, embarrass and humiliate citizens for being…top-drawer citizens. Stick with what we can pronounce—you know, Spanish, as in Capistrano by the Sea, not Bal Harbour. It’s not unlike naming children. Think it through.
2. Don’t rile the natives. Live and let live and all that jazz. Don’t go hauling off people’s homes just because they have wheels under them. The homes may be mobile but the people are rooted. Leave them be. We’ve already lost a nearby historic structure only to be replaced by a chain link fence and pipe dreams of a big-talking developer. Do we really want to clear a big plot of land so Home Depot can give us a closer look?
3. Poop happens. At least when it comes to dogs. It’s time to put some fangs in our dog excrement ordinances and get those piles off our pavement and parks, and shoes, and kids’ hands…My theory is that 95% of the petrifying poop comes from 5% of the dogs. Those sweet, innocent dogs belong to chronic pigs, not people. Book em’ Dano.
4. Focus on what’s important. Now that we have confirmed by satellite the exact stats on each and every one of the 10,000 trees in Dana Point, we can monitor them closely. Who knows when some undesirable seed may drift in on a Santa Ana wind? Do we want an explosion of illegal saplings all fighting for a tiny plot of our soil? It’s sickening. We better start on the blades of grass next.
5. Promote and protect local business. I have taken this to heart, spreading my husband’s hard earned dollars around Dana Point with the zeal of a missionary (for which I get no thanks from him.) I cannot do my job when concrete barricades bar me for months at a time from making left turns on PCH. How can the mom and pops survive street strangulation? They deserve better.
6. Combine our smallpox vaccine and radiation pill and make them available at the freeway onramp signal at Stonehill and the 5 so we can all wait in a familiar line. Better yet, we can hire the homeless entrenched at our ready-for-my-makeover harbor entrance intersection and have them pass out the “terrorist protection” to stuck motorists idling all the way out over the bridge.
7. Instead of spending $250,000 on one bathroom at Creekside Park, spend $25,000 each on ten bathrooms at strategic points at the harbor. Better yet, just buy each DP family a membership to Dana West or DP yacht clubs, so we can access the sparkling clean boater facilities (and park our cars too).
8. Most of all, let’s think—twice--before we act. Instead of doing damage control caused by the ripples of our wake, let’s just slow down the boat.
So maybe Dana Point will fulfill all my resolutions for 2003. Then this town can follow my husband’s lead and refuse to make resolutions. As he reminds me every January, “Why mess with perfection?”
Christmas Memories
What gets you in the spirit of the season? If you are like me, it’s memories that bring back unexpected and treasured glimpses of childhood when Christmas was no less than sheer magic and wonder.
I was born and raised in Southern California, and I don’t ever recall experiencing a snowy holiday. That doesn’t stop me from feeling nostalgic though whenever I hear Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” I loved that song as a child and still do.
Our “good” stereo was in the living room and took up almost as much space as the sofa. But the lack of floor space didn’t stop my sisters and me from singing and dancing to our several Christmas LPs. Or we’d go in our bedroom and play them over and over, scratches and all, on our little vinyl-covered record player that snapped shut like a tackle box.
We didn’t just love Bing. We loved all the holiday songs and we knew every word: Steve Lawrence and Edie Gormet singing “Let It Snow,” Jo Stafford belting out “I Love the Winter Weather,” even Alvin and the Chipmunks squeaking “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” For us, the music fulfilled our Currier & Ives fantasy of how Christmas really should be.
Of course, we loved the Christmas specials on television too. I’m so glad they are still in the rotation so my children can share my memories and I can watch shamelessly. Even though most of those old shows are hopelessly dated, there is so much retro charm in the simplicity of the stories and production. If you've seen both the original Rudolph special with its stop-action puppetry and minimalist sets and the recent Rudolph 2 computer-animated sequel, you know exactly what I mean. Improved isn’t always better. Back in the days before DVDs and VCRs, we anxiously awaited Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown, and Santa Claus is coming to Town.
In 1968, Pacific Coast Highway was the only way to get from San Diego to Disneyland, which was all I cared about as far as destinations went. No malls, just endless orange groves. For my family, shopping was a monthly excursion in the station wagon to Fedmart, an occasional outing to White Front, and heavy reliance on the Sears catalog. Let me tell you, there was nothing more wonderful than getting the Christmas Wish Book in the mail.
It was perfectly titled. Wish Book. That’s what it was for us kids. It was never about how much stuff you could get, but all about how much you could want! We pored over that catalog, fought over it, hid it and made lists, salivated for all those wonderful toys right there on the page. I wanted patent leather GoGo boots, troll dolls, a pogo stick and an Easybake oven with all those mixes. Then I could make my own cookies and cakes and eat them whenever I wanted.
Granny Grace would send us each $5 and we would devour the catalog again trying to find the most perfect toy. I don’t think we ever considered pooling our bonanza and choosing one very expensive $15 item. Either it was beyond our wildest imagination or the idea of sharing with siblings simply too abhorrent to consider.
Although Santa was frequently in our thoughts, we did know Christmas was really about baby Jesus. After all, mom’s prized Christmas decoration was a small nativity set. The stable was made of cardboard with tabs fitting into slots to create a three-sided structure. We carefully arranged the bits of straw. Dad would insert a little nightlight bulb in a hole in the top of the back wall and plug it in. Star of Wonder! We loved that part. Then we helped unwrap the painted clay figures from their crumpled tissue beds and place them around the manger. Surprisingly to us, mom let us play with the nativity—arranging and rearranging the figures while embellishing the story—for hours on end.
Those days are now much further away than a White Christmas, but that is part of their beauty. The family memories, a few homemade ornaments we made from salt dough and paint, paper, glue and glitter, and some fading photographs are all that’s left. My sisters and I would sing the lyrics to “Toyland” never comprehending the meaning of the words:
Toyland, Toyland. Good little girl and boy land,
Once you leave its borders
You can never return again.
Merry Christmas from my family to yours this holiday season.
I was born and raised in Southern California, and I don’t ever recall experiencing a snowy holiday. That doesn’t stop me from feeling nostalgic though whenever I hear Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” I loved that song as a child and still do.
Our “good” stereo was in the living room and took up almost as much space as the sofa. But the lack of floor space didn’t stop my sisters and me from singing and dancing to our several Christmas LPs. Or we’d go in our bedroom and play them over and over, scratches and all, on our little vinyl-covered record player that snapped shut like a tackle box.
We didn’t just love Bing. We loved all the holiday songs and we knew every word: Steve Lawrence and Edie Gormet singing “Let It Snow,” Jo Stafford belting out “I Love the Winter Weather,” even Alvin and the Chipmunks squeaking “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” For us, the music fulfilled our Currier & Ives fantasy of how Christmas really should be.
Of course, we loved the Christmas specials on television too. I’m so glad they are still in the rotation so my children can share my memories and I can watch shamelessly. Even though most of those old shows are hopelessly dated, there is so much retro charm in the simplicity of the stories and production. If you've seen both the original Rudolph special with its stop-action puppetry and minimalist sets and the recent Rudolph 2 computer-animated sequel, you know exactly what I mean. Improved isn’t always better. Back in the days before DVDs and VCRs, we anxiously awaited Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown, and Santa Claus is coming to Town.
In 1968, Pacific Coast Highway was the only way to get from San Diego to Disneyland, which was all I cared about as far as destinations went. No malls, just endless orange groves. For my family, shopping was a monthly excursion in the station wagon to Fedmart, an occasional outing to White Front, and heavy reliance on the Sears catalog. Let me tell you, there was nothing more wonderful than getting the Christmas Wish Book in the mail.
It was perfectly titled. Wish Book. That’s what it was for us kids. It was never about how much stuff you could get, but all about how much you could want! We pored over that catalog, fought over it, hid it and made lists, salivated for all those wonderful toys right there on the page. I wanted patent leather GoGo boots, troll dolls, a pogo stick and an Easybake oven with all those mixes. Then I could make my own cookies and cakes and eat them whenever I wanted.
Granny Grace would send us each $5 and we would devour the catalog again trying to find the most perfect toy. I don’t think we ever considered pooling our bonanza and choosing one very expensive $15 item. Either it was beyond our wildest imagination or the idea of sharing with siblings simply too abhorrent to consider.
Although Santa was frequently in our thoughts, we did know Christmas was really about baby Jesus. After all, mom’s prized Christmas decoration was a small nativity set. The stable was made of cardboard with tabs fitting into slots to create a three-sided structure. We carefully arranged the bits of straw. Dad would insert a little nightlight bulb in a hole in the top of the back wall and plug it in. Star of Wonder! We loved that part. Then we helped unwrap the painted clay figures from their crumpled tissue beds and place them around the manger. Surprisingly to us, mom let us play with the nativity—arranging and rearranging the figures while embellishing the story—for hours on end.
Those days are now much further away than a White Christmas, but that is part of their beauty. The family memories, a few homemade ornaments we made from salt dough and paint, paper, glue and glitter, and some fading photographs are all that’s left. My sisters and I would sing the lyrics to “Toyland” never comprehending the meaning of the words:
Toyland, Toyland. Good little girl and boy land,
Once you leave its borders
You can never return again.
Merry Christmas from my family to yours this holiday season.
What a Little Payne!
You don't know me.
At least I hope you wouldn't recognize me around Dana Point. It's nothing nefarious. I'm not bouncing checks at Rite Aid or dodging speed traps at the "Senior Center." OK, I do dodge the speed traps, but that is strictly a matter of principle.
No, I hope you can't put a name to my face because usually I am involved in some humiliating situation involving small children, namely my own.
And if all of you knew it was me, I might have to move to San Clemente and start fresh.
I only tell you this, not to suffer further embarrassment, but so you will understand that there were extenuating circumstances in each and every incident, and I can explain. I hope.
The most recent transgression occurred on a simple family outing to the harbor.
In hindsight, what I should have done was ditch the offspring for a quick beer at Turk's. There would have been nuclear family fallout, but at least my face wouldn't be immortalized on surveillance tape at a nearby gift shop.
Anyway, I want you to know straight out if you hear this story from anyone else — I categorically deny it.
The shop was Hot Lava (note to shop owner: I'm really, really sorry!) which specializes in very cool tropical gifts and art and has a forgiving aloha spirit.
My husband and I were distracted — I mean, very impressed — by the bamboo fountains and retro Hawaiian art and not paying enough attention to the three little adorable Payne children.
I had warned them before entering the store, "We keep our hands to ourselves. No touching!" And they were being pretty good, at least good enough that my kid radar was at a low hum, so I turned my back to admire the hibiscus window stickers.
Big mistake on my part. I don't recollect their devoted dad's excuse.
"Mama, look at me!" I turn around and see child No. 3, a toddler who shall remain anonymous to protect her from the long arm of the law and a short stint in Baby Jail, down on all fours sucking the — umm — mammary gland of a $650 wooden mermaid sculpture.
I kid you not.
If you watch the tape closely, you will see me standing there, glued to the sisal rug, mouth hanging open, afraid everyone else is looking too.
In her little nasal voice, she shouts triumphantly, "Look at me! I'm nursing a mermaid!" Thank God that exquisite work of art (and a great buy too!) was next to the exit. You've never seen a family of five make such good time to Baby Beach.
Earlier that week you may have spotted me at Ganahl's Lumber.
It was busy, mostly men. I was there with Little Angel No. 3 to buy switchplates for electrical outlets.
I wasn't sure if it was my imagination, but I seemed to be getting more than my fair share of looks from all the guys. I was really starting to like this store. Let's face it, I'd hit the big 4-0 this year and this little bit of reassurance was welcome amid the rapid decline.
It was only when I got home did I discover Stealth Cherub had stuck 47 free address labels all over the back of my shirt while I had been gabbing on the phone to my sister earlier that morning. No wonder she'd been so quiet.
So to the guys at the lumber store — thanks for not bursting my bubble.
As I write this, a pattern emerges with that big-eyed child. I thank God she is so darn cute or I am sure the kind ladies at the Chocolate Soldier would have not been so accommodating about the "shoplifting" incident last year.
It appeared innocent enough; baby sits in stroller while mom buys chocolate stash to sustain herself during long days home alone with small children.
While mom digs for cash, Klepto-baby grabs Beanie Baby Duck in yellow raincoat and stuffs under blanket. No one suspects a thing. Baby delightedly says, "Duck!" but since she is virtually unintelligible, we all ignore what sounds like a very bad word.
She waits until we get to the Pilgrim to show off her booty. It's a long walk back to make restitution and apologize profusely. She, of course, shows no remorse at all.
So I'm grateful for many things: grateful you don't know me, grateful I haven't been permanently banned from local shops and very grateful I have no more room for any more humiliating stories.
At least I hope you wouldn't recognize me around Dana Point. It's nothing nefarious. I'm not bouncing checks at Rite Aid or dodging speed traps at the "Senior Center." OK, I do dodge the speed traps, but that is strictly a matter of principle.
No, I hope you can't put a name to my face because usually I am involved in some humiliating situation involving small children, namely my own.
And if all of you knew it was me, I might have to move to San Clemente and start fresh.
I only tell you this, not to suffer further embarrassment, but so you will understand that there were extenuating circumstances in each and every incident, and I can explain. I hope.
The most recent transgression occurred on a simple family outing to the harbor.
In hindsight, what I should have done was ditch the offspring for a quick beer at Turk's. There would have been nuclear family fallout, but at least my face wouldn't be immortalized on surveillance tape at a nearby gift shop.
Anyway, I want you to know straight out if you hear this story from anyone else — I categorically deny it.
The shop was Hot Lava (note to shop owner: I'm really, really sorry!) which specializes in very cool tropical gifts and art and has a forgiving aloha spirit.
My husband and I were distracted — I mean, very impressed — by the bamboo fountains and retro Hawaiian art and not paying enough attention to the three little adorable Payne children.
I had warned them before entering the store, "We keep our hands to ourselves. No touching!" And they were being pretty good, at least good enough that my kid radar was at a low hum, so I turned my back to admire the hibiscus window stickers.
Big mistake on my part. I don't recollect their devoted dad's excuse.
"Mama, look at me!" I turn around and see child No. 3, a toddler who shall remain anonymous to protect her from the long arm of the law and a short stint in Baby Jail, down on all fours sucking the — umm — mammary gland of a $650 wooden mermaid sculpture.
I kid you not.
If you watch the tape closely, you will see me standing there, glued to the sisal rug, mouth hanging open, afraid everyone else is looking too.
In her little nasal voice, she shouts triumphantly, "Look at me! I'm nursing a mermaid!" Thank God that exquisite work of art (and a great buy too!) was next to the exit. You've never seen a family of five make such good time to Baby Beach.
Earlier that week you may have spotted me at Ganahl's Lumber.
It was busy, mostly men. I was there with Little Angel No. 3 to buy switchplates for electrical outlets.
I wasn't sure if it was my imagination, but I seemed to be getting more than my fair share of looks from all the guys. I was really starting to like this store. Let's face it, I'd hit the big 4-0 this year and this little bit of reassurance was welcome amid the rapid decline.
It was only when I got home did I discover Stealth Cherub had stuck 47 free address labels all over the back of my shirt while I had been gabbing on the phone to my sister earlier that morning. No wonder she'd been so quiet.
So to the guys at the lumber store — thanks for not bursting my bubble.
As I write this, a pattern emerges with that big-eyed child. I thank God she is so darn cute or I am sure the kind ladies at the Chocolate Soldier would have not been so accommodating about the "shoplifting" incident last year.
It appeared innocent enough; baby sits in stroller while mom buys chocolate stash to sustain herself during long days home alone with small children.
While mom digs for cash, Klepto-baby grabs Beanie Baby Duck in yellow raincoat and stuffs under blanket. No one suspects a thing. Baby delightedly says, "Duck!" but since she is virtually unintelligible, we all ignore what sounds like a very bad word.
She waits until we get to the Pilgrim to show off her booty. It's a long walk back to make restitution and apologize profusely. She, of course, shows no remorse at all.
So I'm grateful for many things: grateful you don't know me, grateful I haven't been permanently banned from local shops and very grateful I have no more room for any more humiliating stories.
Our Town Through Visitor's Eyes
It's late summer time in So Cal and the signs of the season have been with us for weeks: bonfires on the beach, surfboards propped up against the lifeguard towers and the spectacular Fourth of July celebrations this year.
And now, if you're like my family, it's time for the "incoming" — as in guests. Sometimes to really see ourselves, we need to look through new eyes.
There are no fresher eyes than visiting relatives on the doorstep, suitcases and sunscreen in hand. I learned a lot about Dana Point this week — and I thought I knew everything.
So here's the newly revised tourist handbook for our fair city and beyond:Y'all have the best amusement parks. When they first mentioned coming out here, my immediate response was "I don't do Disneyland in August." That didn't faze 'em a bit, and they went without me. They showed up the next day sunburned and thrilled, marveling at the lack of humidity. The kids saw Mickey, the parents didn't have to walk a week to see every "land" and the lines for rides didn't even need sun canopies. Plus, Fastpass is as good as grits. I thought they were joking. I was wrong.
Y'all don't have any mosquitoes. I guess we don't. We've got ants and sand fleas and psycho seagulls that steal your lunch out of your hand and poop on your head, but no "skeeters" to speak of. In fact the relatives were amazed we could go out in the backyard in the evening and not need a screen room.
Y'all so friendly until you get behind the wheel. Ain't that the truth? We love our aloha style but we sure drop the aloha spirit where Del Prado narrows from three lanes to two. So if you see a stranded rental car trying to merge over by Ralphs, it's my relatives and they are very nice people. So cut 'em some slack, okay?
Y'all don't water your driveways. I was so surprised there are parts of this country that are so hot, then so wet, that driveways buckle and foundations crack without regular moisture. I can't imagine installing a sprinkler system to water concrete. I told them, here in California we just call our cracked foundations "construction defect" and sue.
Y'all sure like some funny beer. And we are pretty uptight about smoking too, unless it is marijuana and it's part of your spiritual experience. Then we're cool. The cousins looked a little surprised when we stopped at the grocery store for a couple of six-packs to drink out in the Jacuzzi (see above — no mosquitoes). We grabbed the Miller Lite for the guests and I was trying to decide on a Japanese beer. A young guy with long stringy hair, no shirt or shoes, and a full quota of tattoos and piercings generously described the qualities of each exotic brand so I could make an informed decision. I love living here.
Y'all sure have a lot of stuff flying around. The flying billboards were entertaining the first dozen times, but even they got annoyed. The blimp, the parasails, the military helicopters and the kites all got a thumbs-up. But they did admit our beaches weren't as restful as they envisioned. Of course it probably didn't help when a giant wave at Salt Creek threatened to drag their kid to sea and my quick-witted husband had to fish her out.
Y'all have an extra sweater? What? This is August. This is California. When the low clouds burn off, it will be hot — maybe even 75 degrees. People all over the Inland Empire are green with envy this very minute. It is impossible to be cold in paradise. Here in Southern California, everything is a state of mind. Grab one of those beers no one can pronounce, jump in the Jacuzzi, and thank God for our natural abundance: several local professional sports teams, all the strawberries you can eat, and a right turn on red lights allowed. What more could anyone ask for?
Y'all ever been to a "crawfish" boil? It's been awhile — but I do remember there is an art to popping off the little heads and sucking out the innards. And I remember the gumbo I ate on that swamp tour. The best I can offer here is our bike trail under Pacific Coast Highway and some carne asada from Olamendi's. At least they'll like the food.
All y'all need to come back and see us sometime. Frankly, you southern kin made me see my own home in new and delightful ways. If that's an invitation to visit, y'all better make up a bed.
And now, if you're like my family, it's time for the "incoming" — as in guests. Sometimes to really see ourselves, we need to look through new eyes.
There are no fresher eyes than visiting relatives on the doorstep, suitcases and sunscreen in hand. I learned a lot about Dana Point this week — and I thought I knew everything.
So here's the newly revised tourist handbook for our fair city and beyond:Y'all have the best amusement parks. When they first mentioned coming out here, my immediate response was "I don't do Disneyland in August." That didn't faze 'em a bit, and they went without me. They showed up the next day sunburned and thrilled, marveling at the lack of humidity. The kids saw Mickey, the parents didn't have to walk a week to see every "land" and the lines for rides didn't even need sun canopies. Plus, Fastpass is as good as grits. I thought they were joking. I was wrong.
Y'all don't have any mosquitoes. I guess we don't. We've got ants and sand fleas and psycho seagulls that steal your lunch out of your hand and poop on your head, but no "skeeters" to speak of. In fact the relatives were amazed we could go out in the backyard in the evening and not need a screen room.
Y'all so friendly until you get behind the wheel. Ain't that the truth? We love our aloha style but we sure drop the aloha spirit where Del Prado narrows from three lanes to two. So if you see a stranded rental car trying to merge over by Ralphs, it's my relatives and they are very nice people. So cut 'em some slack, okay?
Y'all don't water your driveways. I was so surprised there are parts of this country that are so hot, then so wet, that driveways buckle and foundations crack without regular moisture. I can't imagine installing a sprinkler system to water concrete. I told them, here in California we just call our cracked foundations "construction defect" and sue.
Y'all sure like some funny beer. And we are pretty uptight about smoking too, unless it is marijuana and it's part of your spiritual experience. Then we're cool. The cousins looked a little surprised when we stopped at the grocery store for a couple of six-packs to drink out in the Jacuzzi (see above — no mosquitoes). We grabbed the Miller Lite for the guests and I was trying to decide on a Japanese beer. A young guy with long stringy hair, no shirt or shoes, and a full quota of tattoos and piercings generously described the qualities of each exotic brand so I could make an informed decision. I love living here.
Y'all sure have a lot of stuff flying around. The flying billboards were entertaining the first dozen times, but even they got annoyed. The blimp, the parasails, the military helicopters and the kites all got a thumbs-up. But they did admit our beaches weren't as restful as they envisioned. Of course it probably didn't help when a giant wave at Salt Creek threatened to drag their kid to sea and my quick-witted husband had to fish her out.
Y'all have an extra sweater? What? This is August. This is California. When the low clouds burn off, it will be hot — maybe even 75 degrees. People all over the Inland Empire are green with envy this very minute. It is impossible to be cold in paradise. Here in Southern California, everything is a state of mind. Grab one of those beers no one can pronounce, jump in the Jacuzzi, and thank God for our natural abundance: several local professional sports teams, all the strawberries you can eat, and a right turn on red lights allowed. What more could anyone ask for?
Y'all ever been to a "crawfish" boil? It's been awhile — but I do remember there is an art to popping off the little heads and sucking out the innards. And I remember the gumbo I ate on that swamp tour. The best I can offer here is our bike trail under Pacific Coast Highway and some carne asada from Olamendi's. At least they'll like the food.
All y'all need to come back and see us sometime. Frankly, you southern kin made me see my own home in new and delightful ways. If that's an invitation to visit, y'all better make up a bed.
Advice Grads Never Ask For
Hey you Dolphins, Class of ’02! The ink is still wet on that freshly minted diploma, the lei you wore with your cap and gown is still fragrant, and you are on the verge of –the real world. Not the TV show “The Real World” but the real real world. So what are you going to do about it? Maybe college is in your future, or work, or just some nice sets and a few rays down at Doheny. It’s the question you are thoroughly sick of by commencement: So what are your plans exactly, hotshot senior?
Those of us who have lived long enough to see a reunion or two are back here watching you, loving you, holding our breath with hope and trepidation, aching for your rousing success. Can you do it? Yes, you can. But before you take that quantum leap into vast unknown, a word of advice—or a whole column:
1. Aim for the stars! So you want fame, fortune, and your own reality TV show? Excellent choice. Simply use your God-given talent, ambition, intelligence, and hard work and you will find your star, although it may be in a different galaxy than you first plotted. So buckle up, buckle down and enjoy the journey.
2. Failure is your friend. Get to know it intimately, at least once. But fail because you tried every stinkin’ way to make something work, not because you didn’t try at all. Experience a few fabulous, flamboyant failures. They will be invaluable prep for success as well as the stuff of fond memories and great stories when you are old, gray…and 45.
3. Speaking of old, you want to be in this for the long haul, so pace yourself. Envision yourself as the Timex that keeps on ticking, the thumping Energizer bunny, the million miles Mercedes. So you don’t have to cram in every adventure and double every dare today. Trust me, there really will be time for everything, so leave a few things to look forward to.
4. Like Babies. Infants are way too fun to waste on someone who isn’t up to the 24/7 commitment. And if you already know more than you ever thought you would about Huggies and the Wiggles, then now is the time to shoulder the responsibility and put parenting first. That means fathers, too. If this doesn’t apply to you, then party on…
5. And see the world while you are at it or at least some part of it that thinks oranges and strawberries are exotic fruits. You may not like what you see in other people and places, and they may not think much of you, but you will be forever changed by the experience. If you are lucky, the curtain of race, religion, and nationality may drop to give you a glimpse of the humanity that binds us.
6. If you are brave enough, turn off the TV. Commit to your own authentic experience. Dare to feel soaring joy and ripping pain. It means you are alive. Resist the temptation to dull it, alter it, or enhance it with drugs or alcohol…
7. Because you pay for everything in life. There are no freebies. Your body will remember for decades what your mind shrugged off yesterday. Don’t rely on the miracle of modern medicine to put you back together again. It may not happen in your lifetime.
8. Another thing. Wear clean underwear. Not because you might be in a car accident. Unfortunately, with these new low-slung jeans you all have on, the rest of us have to look at your drawers.
9. Respect is something that’s earned, not given. Reputation is something that’s easy to maintain, hard to repair. Notoriety is not only fleeting; it’s unsatisfying. So make your mark in this world in a way that allows you to sleep peacefully.
10. Be thankful. Thank a teacher who helped you get to this exalted place, and do it in writing. (Use a spellchecker so you both look good.) Thank your parents and then thank them again by making them proud of the fine young adult you have become. Be thankful for what you have instead of whining about what you want. Be thankful you are smart enough to have learned at a young age that life is not fair and blame gets you nowhere. Thank God you live in a country so rich in opportunity for a member of the Dana Hills High School Class of 2002.
Those of us who have lived long enough to see a reunion or two are back here watching you, loving you, holding our breath with hope and trepidation, aching for your rousing success. Can you do it? Yes, you can. But before you take that quantum leap into vast unknown, a word of advice—or a whole column:
1. Aim for the stars! So you want fame, fortune, and your own reality TV show? Excellent choice. Simply use your God-given talent, ambition, intelligence, and hard work and you will find your star, although it may be in a different galaxy than you first plotted. So buckle up, buckle down and enjoy the journey.
2. Failure is your friend. Get to know it intimately, at least once. But fail because you tried every stinkin’ way to make something work, not because you didn’t try at all. Experience a few fabulous, flamboyant failures. They will be invaluable prep for success as well as the stuff of fond memories and great stories when you are old, gray…and 45.
3. Speaking of old, you want to be in this for the long haul, so pace yourself. Envision yourself as the Timex that keeps on ticking, the thumping Energizer bunny, the million miles Mercedes. So you don’t have to cram in every adventure and double every dare today. Trust me, there really will be time for everything, so leave a few things to look forward to.
4. Like Babies. Infants are way too fun to waste on someone who isn’t up to the 24/7 commitment. And if you already know more than you ever thought you would about Huggies and the Wiggles, then now is the time to shoulder the responsibility and put parenting first. That means fathers, too. If this doesn’t apply to you, then party on…
5. And see the world while you are at it or at least some part of it that thinks oranges and strawberries are exotic fruits. You may not like what you see in other people and places, and they may not think much of you, but you will be forever changed by the experience. If you are lucky, the curtain of race, religion, and nationality may drop to give you a glimpse of the humanity that binds us.
6. If you are brave enough, turn off the TV. Commit to your own authentic experience. Dare to feel soaring joy and ripping pain. It means you are alive. Resist the temptation to dull it, alter it, or enhance it with drugs or alcohol…
7. Because you pay for everything in life. There are no freebies. Your body will remember for decades what your mind shrugged off yesterday. Don’t rely on the miracle of modern medicine to put you back together again. It may not happen in your lifetime.
8. Another thing. Wear clean underwear. Not because you might be in a car accident. Unfortunately, with these new low-slung jeans you all have on, the rest of us have to look at your drawers.
9. Respect is something that’s earned, not given. Reputation is something that’s easy to maintain, hard to repair. Notoriety is not only fleeting; it’s unsatisfying. So make your mark in this world in a way that allows you to sleep peacefully.
10. Be thankful. Thank a teacher who helped you get to this exalted place, and do it in writing. (Use a spellchecker so you both look good.) Thank your parents and then thank them again by making them proud of the fine young adult you have become. Be thankful for what you have instead of whining about what you want. Be thankful you are smart enough to have learned at a young age that life is not fair and blame gets you nowhere. Thank God you live in a country so rich in opportunity for a member of the Dana Hills High School Class of 2002.
Memories of Mrs. MacDonald
February 27, 2002
I received a flyer in the mail yesterday and it caught my eye because it contained the word “Bonsall.” I read the lush descriptions of million dollar plus “Majestic Tuscan Estates” nestled amid equestrian centers and golf courses, convenient to shopping, entertainment and dining, and wondered—what has happened to my childhood home?
Then I looked closely at the foldout photo of the panoramic view and I found my Bonsall, right where it was supposed to be, when I spotted Eva MacDonald’s towering eucalyptus. Even now it is a landmark, a beacon for me to find my way back home. And I’d like to think up a steep dirt drive off Lilac Road, there is still a little yellow clapboard house sitting under that huge tree. And Mrs. MacDonald is home…and she is happy.
In my fantasy, Mrs. MacDonald, whom I have known since Patty wore pinafores, patent leather shoes, and fat ringlets in her hair, is puttering around, shooing the dogs, and fretting about one of those mammoth eucalyptus branches falling on the roof. She would be wearing a cotton print dress with tiny flowers that buttoned or zipped up the front, and maybe an apron, but definitely sensible shoes.
She is busy. When she isn’t working in the cafeteria at Bonsall School, she is teaching us kids how to sew, or hurrying Patty along, or listening to a ball game on the radio as she whips up a batch of cookies. When the phone rings, she stops to listen for their distinctive buzz—a party line, a septic tank, a well, or a pack of coyotes are all a part of country life. She enjoys walking down that steep drive to get her newspaper, and she even claims to like the ruts and potholes. Every once in a while I see her riding in that powder blue El Camino, Mr. MacDonald at the wheel, a jaunty hat atop his head.
She is loved. Even though an exasperated “Honest to Pete, Patty” occasionally crosses her lips, she adores her daughter. She listens to Patty, gives sound advice, and then listens some more. She creates a safe haven for Patty, for me, and for all those who let the screen door slam behind them as they step through the sun porch to sit a spell at that little Formica kitchen table.
She is sweet. Mrs. MacDonald loves babies and chocolate, baseball and flowers. She is quick to smile, quick to make a little joke, and quick to hug. She mothers us all a little, and we let her because it makes us feel so good. I can’t think of a soul who doesn’t love Mrs. MacDonald except for possibly my dog—who once bit her on the rear—and after that she still petted him.
She is Bonsall, the Bonsall of my heart. She is a place where everyone knows your name, where your post office box number is in the single digits, and where you can find peace in the sunrise over Mt San Jacinto or in the shadows across the San Luis Rey valley. She is the Bonsall of my youth, when there was time to split open a pomegranate, suck out the seeds without regard to the permanent stains on your hands or clothes. She is the Bonsall of my spirit, where material things are simple, where standing firm on your own little plot of land is good enough, and love is what matters in the end.
Mrs. MacDonald’s last wish was to visit her beloved Bonsall one final time. My wish, for her, is that she is there now.
I received a flyer in the mail yesterday and it caught my eye because it contained the word “Bonsall.” I read the lush descriptions of million dollar plus “Majestic Tuscan Estates” nestled amid equestrian centers and golf courses, convenient to shopping, entertainment and dining, and wondered—what has happened to my childhood home?
Then I looked closely at the foldout photo of the panoramic view and I found my Bonsall, right where it was supposed to be, when I spotted Eva MacDonald’s towering eucalyptus. Even now it is a landmark, a beacon for me to find my way back home. And I’d like to think up a steep dirt drive off Lilac Road, there is still a little yellow clapboard house sitting under that huge tree. And Mrs. MacDonald is home…and she is happy.
In my fantasy, Mrs. MacDonald, whom I have known since Patty wore pinafores, patent leather shoes, and fat ringlets in her hair, is puttering around, shooing the dogs, and fretting about one of those mammoth eucalyptus branches falling on the roof. She would be wearing a cotton print dress with tiny flowers that buttoned or zipped up the front, and maybe an apron, but definitely sensible shoes.
She is busy. When she isn’t working in the cafeteria at Bonsall School, she is teaching us kids how to sew, or hurrying Patty along, or listening to a ball game on the radio as she whips up a batch of cookies. When the phone rings, she stops to listen for their distinctive buzz—a party line, a septic tank, a well, or a pack of coyotes are all a part of country life. She enjoys walking down that steep drive to get her newspaper, and she even claims to like the ruts and potholes. Every once in a while I see her riding in that powder blue El Camino, Mr. MacDonald at the wheel, a jaunty hat atop his head.
She is loved. Even though an exasperated “Honest to Pete, Patty” occasionally crosses her lips, she adores her daughter. She listens to Patty, gives sound advice, and then listens some more. She creates a safe haven for Patty, for me, and for all those who let the screen door slam behind them as they step through the sun porch to sit a spell at that little Formica kitchen table.
She is sweet. Mrs. MacDonald loves babies and chocolate, baseball and flowers. She is quick to smile, quick to make a little joke, and quick to hug. She mothers us all a little, and we let her because it makes us feel so good. I can’t think of a soul who doesn’t love Mrs. MacDonald except for possibly my dog—who once bit her on the rear—and after that she still petted him.
She is Bonsall, the Bonsall of my heart. She is a place where everyone knows your name, where your post office box number is in the single digits, and where you can find peace in the sunrise over Mt San Jacinto or in the shadows across the San Luis Rey valley. She is the Bonsall of my youth, when there was time to split open a pomegranate, suck out the seeds without regard to the permanent stains on your hands or clothes. She is the Bonsall of my spirit, where material things are simple, where standing firm on your own little plot of land is good enough, and love is what matters in the end.
Mrs. MacDonald’s last wish was to visit her beloved Bonsall one final time. My wish, for her, is that she is there now.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Sweet Move
Moving is such sweet sorrow. I just can’t think of the sweet part right now. My parents are moving to Laguna Woods, formerly known as Leisure World, and I am helping.
Some people say that Laguna Woods is where you go to die. They are wrong. It is actually the MOVE to Laguna Woods that kills you.
I haven’t moved in thirteen years. I’ve tried hard to block it out, but there is a lot of stuff I am now remembering. Flashbacks. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Call it what you want. It still makes my back hurt.
For example, as soon as you stack your precious belongings in the middle of the living room floor, it looks exactly like the junk pile that is supposed to go to Goodwill. That is why I moved a whole vanload of cast-offs to the new place, only to have to schlep them back again.
Another thing I remember is how hard it is for some people to throw things out. Their junk is like a litter of unwanted kittens in search of a new home.
You must be on guard at all times from unwanted gifts.
Unfortunately, I forgot to warn my husband about my mother.
I saw him carrying an iron umbrella stand into our house. Then I watched him carry it out to our overstuffed garage when it wouldn’t fit our umbrella. Currently, it is right next to my car door. I’m waiting for either a nasty door ding or impalement, whichever comes first.
I told my mom thanks for the useless umbrella stand. She was shocked it didn’t fit. After all, it was restaurant-quality. An ugly idea formed in my brain.
“Mom, you didn’t steal the umbrella stand from a restaurant, did you?”
She got all offended. “No! Someone else stole it and threw it in the bushes. That’s where I found it.”
I’m going to be impaled on stolen property. If it happens on the “Big” moving day, you’ll know I did it on purpose.
I asked her if she had boxes. She told me her plan for scouting out the produce departments at Albertson’s and Smart & Final. At least she didn’t say anything about dumpsters.
We kids paid for moving boxes. She ordered a whole bunch. We were relieved until they arrived. They were all 12 inches by 12 inches. My mom was pleased that nothing would be too heavy.
We got our first load to Gate 278 of Laguna Woods. My mom handed me a laminated card. “Now cover this number with your thumb. Don’t roll down your window. Just smile and wave and act like you belong but keep driving. No matter what.”
This sounded a lot to me like we were sneaking in.
What kind of place was this? I envisioned being shot for phony papers. It made me nervous, but we made it through. The sentry was 120 years old and thankfully blind to the sweat on my brow.
We were in! I was elated until I realized there is only one way out…
Some people say that Laguna Woods is where you go to die. They are wrong. It is actually the MOVE to Laguna Woods that kills you.
I haven’t moved in thirteen years. I’ve tried hard to block it out, but there is a lot of stuff I am now remembering. Flashbacks. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Call it what you want. It still makes my back hurt.
For example, as soon as you stack your precious belongings in the middle of the living room floor, it looks exactly like the junk pile that is supposed to go to Goodwill. That is why I moved a whole vanload of cast-offs to the new place, only to have to schlep them back again.
Another thing I remember is how hard it is for some people to throw things out. Their junk is like a litter of unwanted kittens in search of a new home.
You must be on guard at all times from unwanted gifts.
Unfortunately, I forgot to warn my husband about my mother.
I saw him carrying an iron umbrella stand into our house. Then I watched him carry it out to our overstuffed garage when it wouldn’t fit our umbrella. Currently, it is right next to my car door. I’m waiting for either a nasty door ding or impalement, whichever comes first.
I told my mom thanks for the useless umbrella stand. She was shocked it didn’t fit. After all, it was restaurant-quality. An ugly idea formed in my brain.
“Mom, you didn’t steal the umbrella stand from a restaurant, did you?”
She got all offended. “No! Someone else stole it and threw it in the bushes. That’s where I found it.”
I’m going to be impaled on stolen property. If it happens on the “Big” moving day, you’ll know I did it on purpose.
I asked her if she had boxes. She told me her plan for scouting out the produce departments at Albertson’s and Smart & Final. At least she didn’t say anything about dumpsters.
We kids paid for moving boxes. She ordered a whole bunch. We were relieved until they arrived. They were all 12 inches by 12 inches. My mom was pleased that nothing would be too heavy.
We got our first load to Gate 278 of Laguna Woods. My mom handed me a laminated card. “Now cover this number with your thumb. Don’t roll down your window. Just smile and wave and act like you belong but keep driving. No matter what.”
This sounded a lot to me like we were sneaking in.
What kind of place was this? I envisioned being shot for phony papers. It made me nervous, but we made it through. The sentry was 120 years old and thankfully blind to the sweat on my brow.
We were in! I was elated until I realized there is only one way out…
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