Annie's Rants

She's Comin' Home This Christmas Day

2010-12-19T12:53:00.000-08:00

I was listening to Trans-Siberian Orchestra in my Christmas mix the other day and for the first time caught the lyrics to "She's Comin' Home This Christmas Day".

Now, I know the song was written about a man who has lost his woman. He messed up Big Time in some way and she left his sorry ass. But somehow he's been forgiven and she's coming back to him at last. And on Christmas Day.

So he's getting out the tree and decking those halls and celebrating with great joy.

But as I listened, I thought about my Mom. And my Nana. And how wonderfully awesome it would be if they could come home for Christmas.

My mom would not have cared for Trans-Siberian Orchestra, by the way. I remember when we used to play hard rock or even soft rock music for her and at the end ask, "Did you like that, Mom?", and she'd always answer very carefully, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, "Well..."(slight pause) "it had a good beat!"

That was my mom. Always wanted to be positive. Even if she didn't like something, she didn't want to come right out and say so. Too polite for that.

One of my favorite memories of Mom and newer music was once in the car when I was driving us to go shopping. Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing" came on the radio:

And when I get that feeling
I want Sexual Healing
Sexual Healing, oh baby
Makes me feel so fine
Helps to relieve my mind
Sexual Healing baby, is good for me
Sexual Healing is something that's good for me

"What on earth is that man singing?" Shock in her voice.

I glanced over at Mom; her expression was a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"He's singing, 'sexual healing', Mom. It's the name of the song."

She grew more confused.

"They can say that on the radio?" Stunned.

Suppressing a laugh, I said, "Well, yeah, mom, they can say the word 'sexual' on the radio.. And it's a positive song, really, I think if you listened closely to it, you'd rather like it."

Marvin sang, Come take control, just grab a hold
Of my body and mind soon we'll be making it
Honey, oh we're feeling fine
You're my medicine open up and let me in

Mom breathed something like, "well...I never!"

Mom never really grew past the 40's when it came to music. Frank Sinatra was a little too wild for mom sometimes.

I think Trans-Siberian Orchestra would just blown her mind. Hard rock Christmas music. She wouldn't have understood it at all. She probably would have plastered a big fake grin on her face while she waited painfully for it to be over.

Nana was deaf in one ear from a childhood accident (don't ever stick bobby-pins in your ear, kids) and so was mercifully immune to music she didn't care for. She smiled all the time, no matter what music was playing; she was just damn happy to be with the family and having her Once A Year Beer in her hand.

Mom and Nana, unlike the rest of the family, were practically teetotalers. Sometimes at a family gathering they'd have one beer. And there was always a big discussion about it.

Nana to my mom: "Are you having a beer?"

Mom: "I was thinking about it...what do you think?"

Nana: "Well...maybe. Are you?"

Mom: "Well, now...I'm not sure. What do you think?"

Nana, giggling: "Maybe we could have just one...what do you think?"

Mom: "Well, now...just one couldn't hurt, could it?"

Nana: "I don't know, what do you th-"

At this point, either one of my brothers or I would hand them two beers.

"Here, have one. They're nice and cold." They'd always respond like giddy schoolgirls, like they were doing something naughty as they sipped delicately at their bottle.

One year, with complete and utter abandon, they had two beers. It was as if the world had come to an end.

"Shall we have another?" "I don't know, are you?" "Oh MY! Should we?" "I don't know! Do you think we should?"

So we got them two more beers and they were so shocked, they were speechless at the sinfulness of it: TWO BEERS!

My Nana finally stammered out, "Mercy!"

That was her word, "mercy", for whenever something was so mind-boggling, she couldn't wrap her head around it.

They were awfully cute.

And I miss them. I miss them most at Christmas time.

I wish you were here, Mom and Nana. I wish you could see how your family has grown. I wish you could see the new little ones, how you'd love them, how much you both loved babies. How you'd hold baby Sara and bring out her gorgeous smiles and coos. How you'd love seeing Lucy dancing about on her sturdy little legs, laughing.

How I miss you both.

Merry Christmas, wherever you are.

I wish I could say, "She's Comin' Home this Christmas Day".

Pizza Hell

2010-12-14T19:26:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me well knows I dislike pizza. And yes, before you ask, let me reiterate I've eaten pizza before. Many, many, WAY too many times over my entire life.

I started out disliking pizza because I can't stand marinara sauce or most things tomato-y. And, until fairly recently in American culture, pizza without marinara sauce didn't exist. These new razzle-dazzle pizzas brushed with olive oil or encrusted with tofu, or goat cheese (3 kinds!) that you can order today in fancier pizza restaurants just weren't around back when I was growing up.

Pizza was a slab of round dough, covered with bright red tomato sauce, then layered with mounds of cheese and/or various types of salty processed meat.

And I *loathed* it.

So when the Alternative Pizzas began showing up over the last 10 years or so (artichoke heart and pineapple pizza! WHEE), I thought, hey, maybe I'll finally find a pizza I like.

But I didn't. No matter how innocuous they made the pizza, I still couldn't stomach it.

Part of the problem is, I'm just not that fond of bread or anything remotely like bread. Don't get me wrong, I really love the stuff we layer *inside* sammiches. But you'll never hear me say,

"Man, I'd just LOVE to get sum BREAD in mah belly!".

Oh no. You're never going to hear those words leave my mouth. Now, you might hear me say, "Man, I'd just LOVE to get me sum POTATOES in mah belly."

In fact, I've been known to actually say those very words. And frequently, too.

But bread? Nope. As a matter of fact when eating a burger or a subway sandwich, I usually end up taking a few bites, then surreptitiously pull out the innards and eat all the yummy insides without the yucky floofy bread parts. I even rip the bread up a bit when in public and leave it scattered about on my plate, to make it look like I ate more of the bread than I did and thus avoid offending the sensibilities of all you bread lovers out there.

Then there's the salt issue. I'm not a big fan of salt. And pizza is incredibly salty. Whenever I'm cooking and I ask someone to taste my sauce or soup, they invariably suggest I add more salt. No matter how much salt I've already used, they always suggest more. For all you salt-heads out there, I salute you but I do not share your passion for the whitest of the seasonings.

No. No, I do not.

Plus, aesthetically speaking, I do not care for the way pizza tends to glisten. Have you noticed that? It...glistens. So shiny. Almost...obscene, in a way.

This is typically the point where I'm given an incredulous look and asked with disgust if I'm a Communist.

Oh please, that's just not true. Although, to give credit where credit is due, on paper Communism seems pretty cool. Everyone shares, just like in Kindergarten, one for all and all for one, just one big happy family together. But even I know that if you dig a little bit more into the reality of how Communism actually works it fails miserably as a viable form of government.

Unless you're one of the lucky few in the upper echelon class. In the society where there are no *cough* class *cough* divisions. *ahem*

So, no, I'm not a Commie just because I don't like Pizza. I'm a loyal American, I love our capitalism, I love being a mindless consumer, I love our freedom, I love being able to say, "Fuck YOU, American Government!" if I want to and not be dragged off to jail for being a dangerous political agitator.

stops and looks around

Well, I *think* I can still say that.

If this blog goes silent after this post, I guess we'll all know why.

So yes, I love being an American and I particularly love American food. I love fried chicken, steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, french fries, ham, scalloped potatoes, bacon, eggs-over-easy, fried potatoes, apple pie, hash brown potatoes, ice cream, baby red potatoes roasted with rosemary and olive oil, fruit salad, twice-baked potatoes, au gratin potatoes, potato soup, POTATO SALAD...OM NOM NOM NOM!

And I love international foods too, because I'm the kind of American who actually realizes there are *other countries* in the world outside America. Yes, yes, there are Americans like me who understand other countries exist, I know because I'm one of them. Rare though we are.

I love Japanese food, Chinese food, Italian food, Mexican food, Thai food, German, Indian, Spanish, and even French food. Even British food! I love a good shepherd's pie.

But no pizza.

However, this is a Pizza Loving World I live in and I accept that. I do. I know I'm in a very small minority group that is often eyed with suspicion. I'm a lot like that Goth kid back in high school; clothing and hair dyed black, wearing uber macro eye makeup, sitting in the back of the room picking sullenly at my dark purple fingernails during History class and hoping everyone was being suitably impressed by my obvious angst.

Definitely the odd one out when it comes to pizza.

Except, for me it's not by choice. I really wish I loved pizza too; it would make my life much easier.

I'm a fitter-inner; I don't like being the outcast.

But it's okay, really; not only have I come to terms with being different, but I support my Pizza Loving Friends and Family. Over the years, I've even ordered pizza for dinner when we've had people over. For one thing, it's the only food around here that is delivered cheaply and BONUS! Nobody has to cook. I love watching people enjoy their food, even if it's food I don't care for. I simply order a salad and/or pasta dish for me and everyone else can snarf up as much pizza as they want. Nommers.

So I never make a fuss when someone says they want to go to a pizza place. Although usually someone else in the family brings it up; "But Mom/Annie doesn't like pizza."

Oy.

And I'm forced to explain once again that it's okay we are going to a pizza place, that I can find something else to eat there, really, it's not a big deal, please stop saying "we can go somewhere else if you want to, Annie" because that makes me feel bad.

I don't mind watching other people eat pizza; I just don't want any of it myself.

The other night we ended up at a pizza place for a family get-together and there were 9 of us there. Family, Happiness, Goodness YAY. Everyone ordered their nasty pizzas, with some meatball sandwiches on the side to boot (shudder, shudder) and I ordered my usual pasta with mushrooms, garlic and white sauce.

Our waitress brought "breadsticks" before the main course arrived; which were basically naked pizza crusts with cups of marinara sauce to dip them in. Rather horrifying for me but the platter was plunked down in the middle of the table and I was on the end, so I didn't have to look too closely at it.

So we're all talking and laughing, having a great time. Good times all around.

Then the pizzas came. Not on the flat platters that go down on the table as God intended platters to do but perched up on high on these pedestal platters that raised the pizzas up in the air.

So we could all get a super close-up shot of all that cheese and meat and shininess.

And the waitress plopped one tall platter of greasy pizza right in front of me.

I mean, like right under my nose.

Gulping, I feebly shoved the platter a little bit away and tried not to look at it.

Everyone else oohed and ahhed at the enormous amounts of glistening (except me) and everyone else started grabbing and passing around slices (except me) and everyone else began to devour their food and meatball sammiches (except me).

I kinda sat there in shock, trying to look at something other than the pizza. Which was seriously freaking me out.

My pasta didn't come. Several minutes went by while I waited and tried not to look at anything and my pasta still didn't come.

Just as I was about to hail our waitress, she showed up with a bowl, shoving it onto the table in front of me, right under the high-top platter of pizza. In fact, my bowl of pasta was actually shadowed, literally, by the pizza tower.

I looked down at my shadowed pathetic pasta and as usual they had gone overboard with the white sauce so it was swimming in a little soup of its own.

Not only had they completely drowned the pasta with goo, but they had also snuck in some freshly cut tomatoes.

Those sneaky pizza people and their tomato-fetish.

Because of the platter covering my plate, I had some difficulty getting my fork from the bowl of ~~soup~~ pasta up to my mouth without bumping the bottom of the giant pizza tray but I managed it for a while. Then eventually gave up.

The horror...the horror...

Ring Around the Rosies

2010-12-10T15:02:00.000-08:00

The other day when LuBear stayed with us while Jason and Laura moved to their new house, I remembered the old game "Ring Around the Rosies". Although I can't imagine anyone reading who doesn't know this ancient children's game, it goes like this; you hold hands and walk slowly in a circle while chanting the following:

Ring around the rosies
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes,
We all...fall...DOWN!

When you say "down", everyone falls down. Little kids love this game because it's fast, it's simple and they can do it before they can sing it.

Taking Lucy's hands in mine, I began to sing and go in a circle and Lucy walked along with me.

However, as the end of the game loomed, it slowly dawned on me that, 1) I was going to have to fall down on a hardwood floor, 2) the last time I played this game I was (*ahem!*) several pounds lighter than I am now, and 3) I'm 54, not 20 months old.

When I fall down nowadays, or get down on the floor for any reason, I'm definitely concerned about the process of getting back up again.

And did I mention my knees have been shot since my 20's, due to riding/jumping and/or jogging on cement too much?

Yeah.

So when the big moment came and it was time to "fall down", I sort of lurched over awkwardly and tried to collapse onto the floor gently without doing too much damage. Even though I tried to use my hands as much as possible to absorb the shock, I still ended up wincing as my knees hit the unyielding wood. LuBear eagerly followed suit, flinging herself with abandon onto the hard floor, giggling happily.

At only 20 months when she falls, intentional or not, she practically bounces off the floor, she's that flexible and light.

Her Nana? Not so much.

Which brings me to another flaw in bringing up this game. One of Lucy's favorite words is "again".

"Again!" she squealed.

Oh good god.

"Again?" I asked, hoping against hope maybe I heard her wrong.

"AGAIN! AGAIN!" Lucy clapped her hands excitedly.

Great.

So around we went again, this time with Lucy pulling on me with all her strength, trying to fall early in anticipation the way kids always do.

Oy.

When we reached the end, I let go of her hands and gleefully she plopped onto the ground without a care in the world, waiting with a huge grin for Nana to join her.

Nana groaned while she did her unintended imitation of a walrus sunning itself on the beach.

"AGAIN!" Lucy shrieked.

Nana tried to smile.

"What about 'e i e i o'?" I asked, trying to divert her to another favorite, "Old MacDonald Had A Farm" which has the wonderful benefit of no physical challenges.

"AGAIN!"

OY.

We had to play Ring Around the Rosies at least 8 more times, my knees getting more and more upset about it, 'til Nana finally had to say "no more, Lu" which brought on an instant barrage of noisy protests.

"AaaaAAAAAAAaaAAAAAAAA, AGAIN AGAIN!" she screamed, tears rolling down her face.

But although one of the worst things in the world for Nana is seeing little LuBear crying her heart out, Nana and her crackling sore knees were all done.

Thus goes the story of Nana's Epic Fail at Teh Ring Around the Rosies.

(By the way, in case anyone is interested, I found out that, although Daws teased me about teaching an innocent young child a rhyme that actually refers to the Black Plague, there is no basis to that old rumor and some version of "Ring Around the Something" where you fall down at the end is very old and present in most cultures worldwide. Who knew?!?)

Load...That...Washer

2010-12-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

"Owwww! DAMN!"

"What happened, Annie?"

"I sliced my thumb open with a steak knife while loading the dishwasher!"

Wincing, I stuck my poor bleeding thumb under the kitchen faucet, rinsing the blood away and still muttering little "ow ow ow ow's" under my breath.

"Lemme see." Daws examined my thumb and made sympathetic noises.

"Want me to get you a bandaid, babe?"

"No...I have to finish rinsing and loading."

Even I didn't buy my overly-exaggerated martyred tone. But Daws chose to indulge me.

"I'll finish, Annie, you go sit down."

Making a few feeble protests, mostly for show, I caved almost immediately and went to sit on a bar stool.

Daws started to slide the packed dishwasher racks in when he stopped, exclaiming, "What kind of mentally challenged individual loaded this washer?"

Actually, he said, "What kind of retard loaded this washer?" but that's un-PC, so I changed it.

"What's wrong with the way I loaded it?" Bristling.

Giving a short, rather condescending laugh, he shook his head and started the washer up, saying, "I'll show you how to load properly next time I do it."

Are you friggin' KIDDING ME? Daws, I've watched the way you load the dishwasher and it's WRONG! All WRONG!

In fact, ALL of you reading this probably load your dishwashers the wrong way. Honestly. I've seen other people's dishwasher-loading skillz and it's pretty ugly out there.

This should be a new reality show. Contestants load a dishwasher, then a panel of qualified judges come by and rate everyone on how well they did.

Why not?

They have a reality show on *haircuts* for god's sake. Why not household chores?

New reality show: "Fill! That! Fridge!" Contestants are given random groceries and told to pack a refrigerator. They are judged on speed, creativity and practicality. Think of the drama! What if your groceries contained items you'd never packed a fridge with before!? What if you broke an egg? Ran out of time? Insanity! Mayhem! Entertainment galore!

I'd SO WATCH THAT SHOW!

I'm writing Mark Burnett about it right now, right this second.

Make a fortune.

Oscars

2010-03-07T10:06:00.000-08:00

One sentence reviews of the 2010 Academy Award Best Picture Nominees (WARNING! Semi-Spoilers):

The Hurt Locker - New Hotdog shows up in Iraq breaking all the rules, existing crew is hostile to New Hotdoggger, several obvious bait-and-switches by the Bad Guys, stereotypical scene of clueless liberal soldier gettin' what's comin' to 'im, war is bad, war changes people, all with nonstop nauseating shaky cam Cinéma vérité pretentiousness.

Inglourious Basterds - Quentin Tarantino reboots World War II as a surreal western starring Brad Pitt who miraculously doesn't act like Brad Pitt, one of the most Evil Nazi SS characters EVAR is introduced and best opening movie scene on record.

Precious - Poor, abused black teenager overcomes wrenching poverty and ignorance, shockingly good acting jobs by all involved, even Mariah Carey can apparently act (YES YOU HEARD ME, MARIAH CAREY CAN ACT! And very well!) and you'll bawl like a baby at the end. (my choice for Best Pic, although I don't think it will win)

An Education - Overly educated young British girl loses her virginity, almost to a banana, in the early 60's and is labeled a whore for this by Emma Thompson, but prevails despite it all.

The Blind Side - Sandra Bullock and a cast of nobody else I know gets involved in the life of a young black boy from the ghetto and everyone in her family is so nice and so perfect you'll cry and wish someone rich had adopted you when you were a teenager, too.

Up - An old man ties balloons to his house and flies away with a young Boy Scout; adventures ensue but not pervy ones, as the previous statement seems to suggest, just really really boring ones.

Up In The Air - George Clooney posturing and mugging as himself while flying all over the country firing people, gets involved with a woman who pwns him, tries to teach people life is meaningless and the movie ends rather flatly and pompously, as if the message was, "Hey, did you know the economy sucks right now?" and you're supposed to react, "GEE WOW REALLY? WHO KNEW??"

District 9 - Aliens come to Earth, spewing vomit and disgusting fluids everywhere and are treated badly in return, shaky cam in full effect to give that "gritty realism" directors love so much these days, broad comparisons to apartheid and racism drawn, mockumentary style a'la Borat, and blah blah blah, zzzzzzzz....so very boring.

Avatar - White men of European descent can always do everything better than the indigenous tribes they've come to conquer; taking over their leadership positions, impregnating their women and even becoming their species, too, if necessary because White Men of European Descent are just that good at it.

UPDATE! We just now watched the final contender, A Serious Man, hours before the Oscars:

"American Beauty" meets "A Beautiful Mind" meets "The Burbs" but for Jews instead of Goyim (not that there's anything wrong with that).

You're Doing It Wrong

2010-01-20T12:23:00.000-08:00

It's strange finding myself on the other side of parenting; the grandparenting side.

I'm not raising the little one this time around; she has two awesome parents for that.

Now I'm in the position of being the "older generation". And I'm telling you, I'm amazed my kids even made it to adulthood. For one thing, child car seats didn't have to be specially fitted into our cars; we just stuck them on the seat and strapped the seat belt around them. As a matter of fact, when I went home from the hospital with Newborn Baby Laura, I held her in my lap the whole way; we didn't even HAVE a car seat yet. Although it was on the list of Things We Needed For The Baby When We Could Afford It.

And food. I don't remember exactly when I started giving the kids solids but it seems to me it was pretty early on. Oatmeal, I believe, at 4 months or so. Eventually I would grind up whatever was grindable from what we were eating and spoon it into their mouths. As they learned how to grasp, I'd chop up foods we ate and put it on their highchair tray. And we'd all eat together.

When Laura was around 7 months, she choked on a piece of bacon that I hadn't cut up quite small enough, or maybe it was just the taste of fatty, processed pork that set her off. Grabbing her up out of her high chair, I gave her a little mini-baby-Heimlich maneuver.

No doubt that is the exact opposite of what one should do for choking babies in 2010 but in 1978 it worked and the piece of bacon flew spectacularly across the room.

Then we both cried.

For a long time after that, the only pig-oriented food Laura got was cut-up bologna or hotdogs.

What? It was OSCAR MEYER, SHUT UP!

So I thought nothing of sharing my fried egg sandwich with Lucy the other day when we were taking care of her. She's 9 months old now, going on 10, and she likes to nom on whatever the people around her are nomming on. This is a good thing, babies thrive on this, it's tribal, it's natural.

"EH!" she says when we are eating, reaching out her little hand. Of course I'm going to oblige her, right?

So Lucy and I nommed companionably on my fried egg sandwich together; I'd take a bite, then I'd give her a Lucy-sized bite. She especially loved the runny eggy part, so I gave her as much as she wanted. She loved it.

C'mon, what is simpler than an egg? It's a classic. Imminently NOM-ABLE! And whole wheat bread! A staple food for multiple generations of human beings! Right?

Egg sammich! It's totally made for babies!

Imagine how floored I was the other day when the five of us were at a pizza place for lunch and I tried to give Lucy a piece of my bread roll only to hear...

"Mom, what are you doing?" Laura's tone was definitely disapproving.

Uh-oh...

"Giving Lucy a piece of bread?" I froze, bread fragment in my hand all ready to go, Lucy's mouth open and waiting like a baby bird, ready for some yummy pizza-place roll-action.

"No, Mom, she can't have bread yet." Laura stared at me, incredulous that her mother could be so clueless about the Evils of Bread when it comes to babies.

Dropping the tidbit back onto my plate, I threw a beseeching look at Dawson. Because everyone who knows me can read everything I'm thinking all over my face and I knew that Laura was going to find out...

"Mom...?"

"What?" Keeping my voice bright and casual, struggling to keep the guilty tone out.

"Mom...did you already give her bread before this?"

"Well..." Trying not to wince.

"MOM!"

"Well...um....yes and no. Technically, it was toast."

Laura shook her head, amused and slightly annoyed, both. "She's not supposed to have wheat yet, in case she's allergic."

"It was just a little bit," I lied, "Just a smidgen of my fried egg sandwich."

"WHAT?! You gave her egg, too?? She's not supposed to have egg yet, either, Mom. Not until she's a year old."

"Oh...." Again I looked over at Daws, hoping he'd back me up, but he put up his hands and shook his head silently with a, "You're on your own, babe" husbandly shrug.

Great.

We all looked at Lucy who by now was pointing at her mouth frantically, pantomiming that she wanted more bread, Nana.

Okay, not really. But it might have helped if she had.

"But she really liked it, Laura," I said weakly.

Laura glared, then smiled and sighed.

Honestly, I never thought I'd feel so out of the loop. So I raised two kids, so what, what do I know? Apparently not much. We gave our kids eggs and bread and obviously bacon, or whatever we were eating and only now, all these years later, do I realize it's a miracle they lived through my pathetic parenting skills.

We all stopped at Stark's on our way home for some Happy Hour goodness. Since I hate pizza and had only had a roll and a small salad, I ordered a meatloaf slider. Only $1.50 but that's $1.50 packed full of pure happiness and WIN.

As we chatted and laughed together, I kept giving Lucy little bites of my meatloaf slider, relieved she wasn't allergic to bread after all and a potentially disastrous situation had been narrowly averted...

"MOM...?!"

"What?" God, it was the same tone she'd had at the pizza place.

"What are you feeding her?"

"....meatloaf slider?" I said in a small voice.

"SHE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEF YET, MOM!"

Oh. Jeez...

We all looked at Lucy, happily chewing and smacking over the meatloaf.

"But Laura...she likes it."

Laura shook her head and sighed. Again.

Oy. Poor Nana just can't get a break.

Is Your Cat Plotting To Kill You?

2009-12-03T09:55:00.001-08:00

First read this:

How To Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting To Kill You

Then take the test; apparently my cats have been plotting my demise for years!

What do your test results say?

Two Vignettes

2009-11-30T11:45:00.000-08:00

LuBear

Saturday lunch at Rossos restaurant I was the first to notice Laura pushing Lucy through the restaurant doors in the monstrous stroller all parents seem to have today. A combo of stroller, car-seat, drink holder, purse holder, diaper-bag-holder and all-around mobile-baby-carrier, this thing is about as sturdy as a tank and almost as maneuverable. As Laura performed the universal "mommy-hand-and-foot-plant" against one door so she could shove Lucy's super-sonic-state-of-the-art-stroller inside, I gave them both a big smile and waved excitedly. Roseanne, my sister visiting from NYC and Daws turned around, smiling and waving too.

And Little LuBear waved back at us. Except...she didn't wave like an almost-8-month old baby waves, but regally. Solemnly. As if she was "Queen Elizabeth Baby". Or "Jackie O Baby". Accepting our homage as her rightful due. Laura pushed her pram closer to us (yeah, I said pram, it sounds more regal, like everything Brit; even "loo" sounds more regal than our American "toilet"), Lucy kept waving her little hand slowly back and forth. For all the world like a monarch sitting perched on a parade float surrounded by throngs of admirers; her slight, mysterious Mona Lisa smile firmly in place.

Once she was parked at our table and greetings were exchanged, I was sure LuBear was going to give a speech on how to cope with the current economy, or perhaps say a few words about the deplorable Tiger Woods situation but apparently her natural discretion and good manners won out and she ended up politely drinking her bottle instead; nodding and winking at us with glee as we pulled in turn at our wine glasses.

Okay, I made the last part up.

But I wouldn't put it past her.

*****************************
The Ubiquitous Cat Story

The other night while the Hubs and I were quietly watching TV, we both heard an odd, disturbing sound:

"OooOOooOO...OooOOooOOOOOoo...". Looking at each other in confusion, Daws paused the DVR and we heard it again, louder this time.

"Whoooo...OOOOO...OOoOOoOOOO...OooOOwhoooOOOoo..."

Ghostly moans. Right out of an old horror flick or when you were kids and turned all the lights out, trying to scare each other.

All the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I broke into a cold sweat. Daws' eyes were popping and we slowly looked all around us, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Suddenly we realized it was coming from our fireplace hearth, where our two three-year old black-n-white cats, The Boyz, The Bruthers, were curled up sleeping on their cat beds. It's their favorite place to be, especially when the fireplace, or "Hot Wall", as they like to refer to it, is burning.

At first I wondered if it was some kind of air flow coming down through the vents of the fireplace making the strange sounds but as I moved closer to check it out, it was clear that our little Jakie was making the noise:

Unlike the picture above, Jakie had fallen asleep with the front of his entire face mashed tightly up against the side of his bed. In his feline cat-dream, he was apparently "raowing" about something that had upset him. But because his nose and mouth were all squished up, his muffled cries came out as this gawd-awful, spooky weird "ooOOooOOoo" sound.

Reaching out, I gently stroked his head and he started up in sheer terror, obviously still in the throes of his dream/nightmare (perhaps the Hot Wall had turned off forever? Or his brother Woody was trying to mount him again in his periodic incestuous confusion? Who knows?) Glaring about wildly, trying to bridge the consciousness between Sleep-Jakie and Awake-Jakie, at first he tried to sprint away but I stopped him; still petting and talking to him, trying to calm him down. One front leg shot out against the tile surrounding the fireplace; vainly trying to get a grip on the smooth surface, clawing uselessly at nothing.

"Now, now, Jakie...it's all right...it's all right."

Jakie licked his lips and his eyes bulged but gradually he settled down enough so that I could allow him to sit up. As he did so, he looked up at me more than bit dazed and shook himself all over.

"Wow.." he seemed to be saying, "That was one crazy dream, Mommy!"

Tell me about it. It scared the hell out of us, too.

I just wish we knew the details. I think it would probably make a great movie.

"Attack of the Giant Mouse"
"Global Warming Causes 'Hot Wall' To Burn Out Forever"
"My Brother and His Issues; Dude, I'm Not Gay and Neither Are You, Besides We Were Both Fixed, WTF?"

Just Another Day In Paradise

2009-03-16T17:10:00.000-07:00

Every so often, my son Ryan calls me on his way out to a job to chit-chat over the phone. I don't flatter myself that he's calling so much because he finds his mom's company and wit so fabulously scintillating (although it's true, I'm pretty amazing) but it's more because he's driving and he's bored.

Problem is, Ryan mostly calls me up to complain about all the bad drivers on the road.

"So, what are you doing, Mom?"

"Not much, finishing up in the kitchen before I start my day in the office; you?"

"Oh, I'm driving up to-HEY! YOU! MORON! Try using a blinker, eh? Idiot..." Ryan continues to mutter over the failures and foibles of our fellow human beings' ineffectual driving skills and I wait while he recovers.

"Uh, what were you saying, Mom?"

"Oh we were talking about where you are going now."

"Up north. One of our customers are having a problem with...what the...oh for cryin' out...UH...DO YOU MIND?!! Oh my GOD!"

I continue rinsing out the coffee pot and wiping off the counters; long ago I stopped thinking Ryan was talking to me when he goes off on a rant. Besides, after being a road-rep for years, I can appreciate what he is saying.

"Yeah, that's right, buddy...it's called MERGE; learn it, do it, LIVE IT. GOD! Where do you people learn to drive? HONESTLY! Are you in that much of a hurry? IS IT THAT IMPORTANT YOU RUN EVERYONE OFF THE ROAD? Oh yeah, you're gonna win the freeway race. Idiot! Um, well...what were you saying, Mom?"

"You were telling me you're going up north on a job..."

"OH RIGHT! Okay, yeah, so I'm headed up north to work on this job because the customer..."

That's pretty much how it goes, with funny stories and some philosophical discussions wedged in between the bad driver rants because we share the same sense of humor and similar interests, until I have to start my work day or until Ryan gets to his worksite.

The other morning as Ryan was alternately chatting with me or raving at other drivers and I was finishing up the kitchen, I noticed our Woody Cat bursting in through the cat door and diving under our kitchen table.

And...and...and...he had something large and dark in his mouth.

Oh my god.

Ryan's words faded into the background as a roaring started up in my head, drowning out anything he was saying.

Maybe it's just a piece of bark, Annie, remember that time he brought in a piece of bark? And you were scared at first? Then we laughed and laughed, so funny, so very funny. Yeah, it's just bark, that's what it is. Or a little bird. A dead one. Yup, it's probably a tiny little harmless dead bird, nothing scary, nothing scary, nothing...scar-

As Woody dropped the thing in his mouth onto the rug under the kitchen table all became dreadfully, horrifyingly clear.

A rat. A big, brown, huge, dark, brown, large friggin' RAT! On my kitchen FLOOR! And the tail ALONE was the same size as the body so altogether it was at least good FOOT LONG in size! Maybe even a YARD LONG!

"RAAAAAAT" I screamed over my headset mic into poor Ryan's ear. "A RAT, oh my GOD, Woody brought a rat in the house, there's a RAT IN THE HOUSE!" As I kept screaming and leaping around uselessly, I could hear Ryan echoing my words. "A rat? Woody got a rat? Is it alive, Mom?"

I didn't want to know. As loud as I could, I screamed at Woody to take it outside. Don't laugh, sometimes this works. He'll come in with some kind of prey in his mouth and Daws and I will scream at him so loudly to take it out, he runs back out again and we lock the cat door after him.

"GET OUUUUUT! WOODY GET OUUUUUT! OUUUUUUT! TAKE IT OUUUUUT!" I screamed so loud that my voice was hoarse for hours afterwards. You know, I have no clue what our neighbors think must be going on when the cats bring in vermin because I've done a LOT of screaming off and on over the years but so far the cops haven't been called in.

Yet.

Woody stood there, seemingly confused for a moment, eyes shifting about.

Why is Mommy yelling at me?

Then, grabbing the rat again, he took off. YAY! He's taking it out!

Alas, he ran in the direction of the den. Going towards our bedroom.

"NOOOOOO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "NOOOOOOO WOODYYYYYYY!"

Ryan was trying to say something in my ear but I couldn't hear a word he said over all the uproar.

"Ryan, there's a rat in the house, gotta go." Ripping the headset off and dropping the phone on the counter, I bolted after Woody and cut him off at the pass, right before the hallway to the back of the house. I kept screaming at him to "take it out/take it out/take it out" but Woody still appeared perplexed.

Wat? R u talking to me?

For an animal that is renowned for unequaled hearing ability, he was singularly unimpressed with all the noise I was making.

See, this is where I needed a Penised One in the house. I have a vadge, okay? I HAVE A VADGE! I do not take the garbage cans out to the curb, I don't change the tire when it goes flat, I don't take apart the coffee grinder to find out why it doesn't grind anymore, I don't answer the front door late at night and I DO NOT handle trophy vermin that may show up in the house.

The Penised Ones do all that.

Problem was...there were no penised ones around at the moment. I was unpenised.

On my own. Me and my vadge. Screwed. And NOT in the good way.

By this time, I could see that at least it was dead. I knew this because it looked as if something or someone (and I'm not naming names here, but I believe it was a fat spoiled B&W cat who has a penchant for bringing disgusting things in the house) had spent a considerable amount of time gnawing off most of the rat's face.

Lovely.

Woody ran under the dining table in his haste to get away from the crazy human. No doubt thinking, "My GOD, will that hooman woman never stop screaming? What is her problem? IZ GIFT! IZ GIFT FOR HER!"

Again, I stomped and screamed and yelled and shook the heavy wooden chairs and to my relief, Woody took off again and this time in the right direction; towards the back door.

Thank god,, I thought. Then he stopped again under the kitchen table by the cat door and, dropping the rat, walked away nonchalantly. "What rat?" he seemed to be saying. "I see no rat; there's a rat? Wasn't me, I didn't do it, you can't prove anything."

Oh
My
God

Feebly, I tried to yell and knock the bar stools together as impetus, but Woody was officially disinterested in the rat. Not his problem. Not his issue. Unconcerned, he walked off a short distance and began to wash himself, starting behind one ear and carefully working his way around to his blood-thirsty, pain-in-the-ass face.

Great.

Briefly, it crossed my mind that I could call Daws to come home and dispose of it for me. Yeah, he could leave his office and drive all the way here, get rid of the rat while I hid and then he could drive allll the way back to work again, he could, he really could...

But I knew I couldn't ask him to do that.

So, gathering myself together and "penising-up", I marched down the hall to get Daws' gloves that he uses for such purposes. Then I opened up the back door to the garage where we keep the outside cans, propping it with a doorstop so I wouldn't have to fumble about with the rat in my (shudder, shudder, shudder) hands. Stomping back down the hall, I stopped in the kitchen, spun off the biggest wad of papertowels you've ever seen in your life and, taking a deep breath, faced the dead rat.

Carefully looking off to one side, I covered it with the mammoth papertowel wad and lifted it all up.

Ew. EW EW EW!

Its tail stuck out stiffly beyond the papertowels in rigor mortis as I hurriedly carried the corpse towards the garage.

EW EW EW EW!

I was only shaking a little as I raised the trash can lid and dumped the carcass in, towels and all, letting the lid fall back with a crash .

Now, Annie, that wasn't so bad, now was it?

Yes, it was, it was horrible, horrible...

Come now, you know it wasn't, c'mon...

SHUT UP COMMON SENSE, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?

No need to get huffy, fine, then...

Walking back into the house, I put Daws' gloves away where he keeps them, then grabbed several wet-wipes to wipe up any areas I thought the rat had touched, threw those away, then washed my hands with warm water and soap for ~~several hours~~ a few minutes, then walked into my office.

Sitting down at my computer I noticed the grapevine via The Boy had been full at work as there were pop-up messages from various people.

Kela's chat: "I heard from Ryan you had a rat! Oh poor Annie!"
Daws' chat: "What's all this about a rat?"
Laura's chat: "Get over it, I'm extremely pregnant, you don't even know."
Yvette's chat: "zzzzzzZZZZzzz"

After I finished doing a status update on Facebook, everybody knew about my ordeal. Old friends from high school, forgotten friends from my 20's, my extended family, my non-extended family...everybody knew.

But they didn't know the full horror of the experience.

Until now.

I Never Thought

2008-07-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

When you left me
All those years ago
I never thought
I'd see you again

Never thought I'd see your clear blue eyes again
Or watch your lips curve into a smile
Never again would I see your face
That I'd once loved so well

When you left me
I thought, "that's it"
We're over
Gone forever

I was angry
I was sad
Most of all, I felt terribly hurt
And abandoned

But I was wrong
When I thought
I'd never see you again
I finally did
Just the other day:

Now I see you in my mirror.

Happy Birthday Mom

I still miss you
Every
Single
Day

Having A Wonderful Time, Wish You Were Here

2008-05-16T15:35:00.001-07:00

This is a re-post from a blog entry I did on my first blog back in 2003. Thought I'd post some of those old blog entries I did just for grins. Enjoy!

August 26th, 2003

Laura, my darling daughter, just got a new convertible a few weeks ago; a 2002 Chrysler Sebring. The day she bought it, she and I had a blast driving down to Petaluma, about a half-hour drive. And I thought...you know, that's fun! That is a fun car! Playing music really loud on the awesome stereo system and letting my hair blow everywhere, not a care in the world.

So when she invited me to come to Napa with her last Sunday, I eagerly accepted. The weather was lovely and besides, since Dawson was doing website work I had nothing better to do. Since my skin is alabaster-creamy-white (although some may call it
"climbed-out-from-under-a-rock-wormlike-pasty-white"), I brought along a sun hat, sun block and a scarf to wrap about my lovely shoulders (read: I have enough freckles in that area and I damn well don't want any more; they're starting to remind me suspiciously of age-spots). Fully prepared, we set off.

As soon as Laura pulled away from the curb, my light blond hair, which I'd lovingly spent an hour on, applying various expensive products, blow-drying and curling, etc...blew all over the place. I have the straightest hair in the world, it's baby-fine and it simply will NOT stay put. Ever. Even the slightest breeze ruffles it. Unless I put enough hairspray on it to give it that shellacked "helmet-head" look that so many newscasters enjoy.

Even if I'd used a truckload of hairspray, it wouldn't have helped this situation. But what did I care? Cat Stevens was playing loudly, the sun was out, we’re in a silver convertible, Wine Country Northern Cal is so damn beautiful that people flock from all over the world just to gaze at it, so what’s the problem?

No problem. Screw the hair. We were having a great time.

I'm humming and enjoying the ride, despite the hair blowing wildly from beneath my hat. Life is good. Then I slowly noticed my left eye tearing up. I had sunglasses on, of course, (de rigueur for my baby-blue eyes which can’t see a thing in bright light) yet…that eye was really starting to burn. I realized that some sun block must've gotten in it, so I tried to wipe gently at the eye area. But I still had sun block on my hands, so I only made it worse. But no problem, right? I'm still in a God-kissed area of the world, we're in a new convertible, good tunes are blasting, the sun is out, NO PROBLEM!

Sure, I had to squint at the scenery with my one good eye and could only really see in those rare moments when my hair wasn't flipping wildly all over my face, so it was all kind of a green and blue blur going by, but still...

We were having a great time!

We came over the grade above Napa Valley and it certainly takes your breath away. Sweeping vistas of purplish mountains far off in the background, with miles of neat vineyards in the foreground, all interspersed with oak trees and wildlife. Like a scene out of a Disney documentary.

Although it was a bit disturbing to notice it was approximately 20 degrees hotter here in Napa county than it had been in good ol' Sonoma county. Which must have made it about 100 degrees with no protection between lily-white me and that suddenly fiercely burning yellow ball in the sky. But that’s okay, because blasts of hot'wind on my face is a good thing, right? Because, DAMN, we're outside, we’re in a convertible, life is just ducky.

Besides, I had my hat, scarf, sun block, etc...I had it COVERED!

As we continued on, I squinted at the name of the small town we were going through and saw it was "Rutherford". "Ah-ha!" I said to Laura, "I've had Rutherford wine before; it's very good, let's stop there"...so Laura kept both her eyes and I kept my one good one glued to the winery signs, looking for Rutherford Vineyards. Then Laura, cruising along at 80-plus mph, saw the sign: "There is IS!" she shouted. Sure enough, there was a big sign on the left. But we were going too fast to make the turn.

Laura slammed on the brakes like a movie stuntman and made a hard-left into the driveway, bouncing over the railroad tracks and barely missing the telephone pole that stood on the RH side, causing me to watch my life briefly pass before my eyes.

But No Problem. We were having a GREAT time!

We pulled up and got out, me staggering a bit from our close call with death, Laura smiling and laughing and looking fabulous despite the 100 degree heat and wind from the ride. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d just walked out of a wind-tunnel, and my eye had swollen completely shut.

Then I realized with a sinking feeling as we walked into the winery that I didn't have my business cards with me. You see, I get a discount by being in the industry. This was bad, because now I'd have to do my "song-and-dance" routine by explaining who I was so we could avoid paying the tasting fees.

So, with one eye squinting and my hair sticking out all over my head, I introduced myself as being sales director of a neighboring winery, etc., blah blah, and "here we are to try your wonderful wines!"

None of which went over nearly as well as it usually does. No doubt due to the fact I kept turning my head to one side like a parrot while addressing him so I could see, and trying in vain to smooth my hair by running my fingers fetchingly through it. Which always seems to work so well for women in the movies with mussed hair, but always turns out to be a complete disaster for me.

After a barrage of questions, while I clawed at my hair and fixed him with my good eye, he seemed satisfied that I wasn't trying to pull one over on him by pretending I was something I wasn't, (and with my appearance, who could blame him?) so he poured us some Sauvignon Blanc. Which was heavenly.

In fact, I could have stayed in the cool dim winery with the lovely oak barrels and the dark wooden walls with the nice tinted windows where you could barely tell there was any hot sun at all, not to mention basking in the most wonderful invention of mankind, airconditioning, and just sip Sauvignon Blanc in there all day long.

But, alas...my daughter had other ideas, namely food and a restaurant, so I bought two bottles of their crisp, chilled Sauvignon Blanc for Dawson and myself later and we left.

I girded myself for battle once again, donning the hat, the sun block, the scarf, the sunglasses, etc., and off we went. My eye, which had started to recover in the oasis of the winery, started swelling up again. But no problem.

We were having a great time. Damn it.

Finally, we got to Calistoga and pulled in front of a Mexican restaurant we’d eaten at before. The windows opened up over the sidewalk by our table, so we sat and watched the world go by while munching on nachos, fish tacos, and a very fine bottle of chilled white wine. It IS Calistoga, after all, soo, yes...even the Mexican restaurants have a superb wine list. I was actually enjoying myself as long as I avoided looking at my reflection in the window with my crappy hair and Quasimodo-like face.

Once again, I slowly started to recover out of the relentless sun and felt much better. But my daughter had other plans; she needed to go, let's go! Want to check out this other restaurant in Mark West Springs! See the baby giraffe at Safari West!

CONVERTIBLE GOODNESS!

So back into the now-dreaded convertible we went. Glumly, I pulled on my war-gear and the torture began. I was starting to appreciate what it must be like to be in the desert blasting along in a military jeep.

Still...who am I to complain? And as far as Laura was concerned, we were having a great time.

But even hardened war campaigners must eventually get tired. And I’d run out of steam. The next hotel she dragged me to, the Hilton, the bar stood beckoning. Quiet, dark and cool. So soothing...no wind, no sun, and the Giants were playing. Look, it’s TV! I'd forgotten what it looked like...so nice and colorful and oh, joy, my eye was getting back to normal. But no, Laura wanted to sit on the deck and look at...traffic. Sigh...

I begged her to take me home and she took pity. Off we went. But then, oh NO! She wanted to stop at Paradise Ridge winery where her friend’s wedding is going to be held next year. Since Laura is a bridesmaid, she just had to check this place out! Right Mom?

Right, I whimpered.

Again, it was nice and cool and dark in the tasting room and they had the best view we’d seen all day. So as we were standing there, trying their whites and reds, a gust of wind/air conditioning blew over a wine glass that was on the gift shelf across the way from us. Glass exploded all over the stone floor.

Ever helpful, I went to pick up some of the smaller pieces I could see near us, not wanting myself or my lovely daughter to step on them. Then this insane woman came bustling out and ordered me to stop doing it. "Stop that!" she demanded. "I’m the CATERER!"

Which made no sense to me. Now, if she’d said, "I’m the JANITOR" I could understand her territorial loftiness...but since when had caterers become broken-glass experts? Which, after raising two kids and their gazillion friends at our house, I certifiably was.

I drew myself up and looked sternly at her with my one eye. "But I'm the MOM" I retorted.

Which didn’t fly.

I mean, would you trust a woman with one eye and Phyllis Diller hair to pick up broken glass? Probably not...

I allowed myself to get shooed away from picking up the glass. If that woman only knew how many pieces of glass I’ve picked up, vacuumed, swept, she wouldn’t have dismissed my services so lightly.

So finally, finally...armed with another bottle from Paradise Ridge, this time a Pinot for Dawson, who likes reds, we headed home. We pulled up into my blessed home driveway and I rolled weakly out of the car. Laura popped her trunk and skipped over to it, handing me only one of my Sauvignon Blanc bottles. "I'm taking the other one for tonight with my boyfriend!" she informed me brightly, as she drove away. "I’ll pay you for it later, okay mom? LOVE YOU MOM! Hey, I had a GREAT time!"

I feebly tried to protest her astonishing theft of my wine but my heart just wasn’t in it. I was dead tired and felt strangely woozy, that had nothing to do with the wine. I felt like I’d run a marathon and had come in a dismal last. Too much sun...too much "fun".

Dawson greeted me as I staggered into the house, asking if I'd enjoyed myself. I was too tired to answer so he took a clue and put on "Sex And The City" to cheer me up. The next thing I know, I was pulling my face up from the couch where I’d fallen asleep. "Wha' happened?" I asked blearily. "You fell asleep really hard," he said. "In fact, you’ve been asleep for TWO HOURS, babe!"

Had I? I blinked at the clock...all of 8:30...must be time for bed.

So off I toddled to bed. "It's only 8:30!" Dawson protested.

I didn't care. I slept like the dead and didn't wake up until morning.

But really...we had a GREAT time!

Originally posted by Annie August 23, 2003

Laura's Shower and the Great MOB Dress Hunt Still Goes On

2008-05-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

No time for a "real" post but I thought I'd link to the pictures and videos from the shower. Oh and lazy Woody-Cat too!

Still no dress for the wedding and yes, I am starting to really worry. I have a backup but it's not really what I, or Laura, would like. Still...a dress is coming today; if that doesn't work, I'll have to hit the stores again and if I still can't find something, I guess I'll be forced to hit the bridal stores. Which I don't want to do because they are SUCH a rip-off.

So wish me luck.

Here is an example of a cat sleeping a lot:

Lazy Woody

And here are some movies of the shower:

Video of House/Guests Before Laura Arrived

More Video of Party Before Laura Arrived

Laura Arrives and there is a Media Frenzy

Aaand here is a approx. 5 minute video of the entire "panty" game:

Panty Game

Aaaaand some still shots from the party:

Still Shots from the Shower

Laura blogged about her shower too; check out my links to the right for Laura's blog.

Oh and Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there! This is my favorite Mother's Day clip, enjoy:

Mother's Day Funny

ARgh

2008-04-30T11:20:00.001-07:00

So I racked my stupid knee against my stupid desk yesterday afternoon and today the knee is !@#%#!@#! up. I remember hitting it and saying "ow!" loudly but it's not like it bothered me after that. I went on with my day, no problem. Forgot I'd even done it at all.

Until I woke up this morning and tried to, you know, walk on the damn thing.

ARgh! I have to lose five million pounds in four weeks! This ain't helpin' matters! NO! It's not!

In other news, the UPS man in his cute little brown suit has been fetching Mother of the Bride dresses to my door regularly but I've yet to find anything remotely suitable. How in the world do what looks like perfectly respectable looking "Mother of the Bride" dresses in the online ads translate into "Skanky Ho For Sale" dresses when I put them on?

The dress that was the front runner arrived yesterday but when I put it on and looked in the mirror, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. When I went down the hall to show Daws, his eyes bugged out.

"How much?" he quipped.

And he didn't mean the dress.

*sighs*

And going out to the stores has not proven fruitful either. I think today's dress designers are all on crack; that's how messed up dress designs and patterns are today, I swear! I keep bumping into other Mothers of the Bride/Groom; we recognize one another immediately by our hollow eyes and sickly expressions.

One woman held up a revolting looking dress and hastily dropped it again, as if she'd touched a snake.

Horrible out there. Just...awful.

We're all thinking, "I spent four thousand dollars in gas to drive the 20 minutes out here and for this crap?"

Oh well. More dresses on the way. Keep your fingers crossed.

The UPS guy has a workout coming.

Ah, the Mind and Its Wonders

2008-04-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, Daws and I tackled an honest to god hike in Jack London Park. I packed a healthy meal to eat at the Wolf House, with organic peanut butter sandwiches, fresh fruit and raw almonds. And of course, water. Lots and lots of water was needed. Especially since it was mostly downhill on the way there but you know what that means, right?

Yeah, it was uphill allll the way back.

While resting at the Wolf House and munching on our food, I climbed up into a tree (if you check the Picasa pic, this was SO NOT a big climb, ahahah!) and Daws took my picture. As I was getting back down, I saw something shiny and silver on the ground. Leaning over to pick it up, I could see it was a coin. Rubbing at the surface, I could just make out a buffalo on it.

"Daws, I just found a buffalo nickel!"

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I found it on the ground, I can't see how old it is..."

"Let me see it." Dawson also rubbed at the surface and held it up but he couldn't tell either.

"Maybe it's worth a lot of money," he mused.

"Maybe...how cool would that be?"

Now, we know nothing about coins, zero. All we know is that some people are nutty about them and collect them. I know about collectors from having been a sales rep selling collectibles like worthless beanie-type toys so I knew that sometimes people pay outrageous amounts of money for the most mundane things; like antiques or stamps or...yes, even old coins.

Excitedly, I stuck the little coin in my pack and off we started for the climb back to the parking lot. As we toiled our way up the trail, gasping a lot and stopping to rest often, my mind whirled.

It's probably really old...going back to Jack London's day...maybe Jack London even HELD IT! Maybe it's worth a hundred dollars!, I thought to myself. Or two hundred...what if it's two hundred dollars!

As we neared the end of the trail, it became even steeper. Sweat poured down my face and the amount of money we'd get from that coin increased along with my efforts. I could see Daws huffing and puffing in front of me, almost sprinting up the trail in an effort to reach the end.

Maybe...just maybe it will be $1,000! I mean, it's possible! I had to stop and pant, a bit dizzy and my dizziness caused the coin's value to expand into $10,000, $50,000 and finally an astronomical amount that I'm too embarrassed to even post here.

Finally we reached the top and, gulping reflexively for breath like goldfish outside their tank, sprawled on the benches thoughtfully placed there for out of shape sluggos like us. As we recovered, I thought about all the things we could do with the money this coin would bring us. Thumb our noses at the IRS. Buy an outrageously expensive Mother of the Bride dress. Take a real vacation to somewhere warm with a beach.

Buy a new car!

My GOD, maybe A NEW HOUSE!

The possibilites seemed endless.

The way to our car was thankfully downhill and in no time we were on our way home.

The moment I got in the door, I ran to my computer and took the coin out. Using a magnifying glass, I peered at both sides looking for a date and rubbing at the dirt. There! I spotted it:

2005

Wha?? Two thousand...WAH!?

Who the !@#@%$#!@ made buffalo head nickels in 2005????

Tossing the now valueless coin onto my desk in disgust, I sighed deeply as all my grandiose schemes vanished in a mist of avarice and too much imagination.

Don't you hate it when fantasy money just bleeds away like that?

The Great Dress Hunt

2008-04-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Laura, Heidi and I drove down to Petaluma for Laura's wedding dress fitting. Afterwards the plan was to continue driving South 101 to the Corte Madera mall. Where potentially all things are possible:

Cure for cancer.
A form of cheap, non-oil based fuel for our cars.
Maybe even finding a Matron of Honor and Mother of the Bride dress less than two months before my daughter's wedding.

The wedding dress fitting went beautifully; yes there are some corrections to be made but the bustling and the hemline looked gorgeous. I even teared up a bit at the sight of my little girl in her fabulous dress. She's so beautiful; I cannot WAIT until everyone gets to see her on the Big Day!

Then it was off to the Corte Madera mall. One of those malls where Shopping is a Religion. A Way of Life. Fountains and flowers and expensive looking shops. Obviously you're there to have a good time. Money? Pah! It's only plastic, spend it! A plethora of fashionably thin women were browsing the shops or sitting on cute little benches chatting with their friends, all wearing fashionably bug-eyed sunglasses paired with requisite overly large purses worth hundreds of dollars slung fashionably yet casually over one bony shoulder.

Now, Laura and Heidi are naturally beautiful young women and looked lovely in this beautiful setting. However, I couldn't help but compare myself to the other women I saw in my age group. Immediately I felt frumpy. I don't have a fashionably sculpted body, whether through surgery or pilates, so I cannot wear fashionably sculpted clothes made for such uber-perfect bodies. Plus, what had seemed to be okay attire for a Santa Rosa mall shopping spree; my black skirt, low-heeled black pumps and long-sleeved green top with the Neru collar, seemed dreadfully out of place in this rarefied setting.

I felt like a dinosaur. Dressed in clothes from (*gasp*) a year ago. Maybe more. Frumpy McFrumperson.

Trying to stop comparing myself with the women who clearly are in a completely different zip code than I am financially speaking and in every other way, I concentrated on why we were there and it wasn't to compare myself to other people. As we pushed through the doors to Nordstrom's, Laura announced, "Today we are finding you a dress!"

Damn straight we are, I thought to myself. Surely, in this Shopping Center for the Gods, this heavenly store equipped with a baby grand piano and a live piano player playing it rather than subject their sensitive customers to icky canned music, surely in a place like this, they will have oodles of dresses, dresses galore! It's spring, for god's sake; they'll have dresses on the floor, on the ceiling, dresses scattered EVERYWHERE and in all the colors of the rainbow!

Right?

Spring!
Wheee!
DRESSES!

To our dismay this wasn't the case. Nordstrom's, what I've always thought of as a veritable women's Mecca of fashion, had approximately three whole dresses that came anywhere close to the styles we needed stuck way in the back. Heidi found a beautiful dress out of the three in yellow and tried it on while Laura and I browsed the paltry collection of dresses left that might possibly fit me.

Laura thought perhaps a pink/rose chiffon dress we saw might look good and, on the hangar at least, I thought it might work out well too.

So I tried it on.

Mistake. Big, big mistake. See, I have decided that my stomach, which has begun to stick out most alarmingly these last few years, is really a giant fibroid. I have dubbed my fibroid friend "Ami", after that chick from Survivor I cannot stand.

Ami makes finding clothes that fit me rather difficult.

Ami actually makes me look pregnant. Rather incongruous at 52 years of age.

I hate Ami.

Pulling the dress over my head, I looked in the mirror and found to my horror that I'd morphed into a disheveled, rose-colored lump with pasty white arms and legs. My skin washed out so much that the dark circles under my eyes made me look like Frankenstein. And Ami, the little snot, made her presence known by bulging out in that rude, pushy way she has.

"Hi, I'm AMI! Remember me? Mwha-ha-ha-ha!"

Hurriedly ripping off the dress before the mirror shattered itself in seppuku-like protest, I scrambled back into my black skirt and green top which, if not fashionable, at least erased the image of that Pink Easter Egg Monstrosity I had just witnessed.

"Come out and let me see," Laura called through the door.

Oh no; no no no. Not on your life, not ever. shudder, shudder.

Putting the now-hideous dress back on the rack, we left Nordstrom's and thought we'd peruse through the rest of the mall, making our way down to Macy's on the other end. Right away I realized my shoe selection that morning had not been the best decision I'd ever made because my feet, unused to heels these days, began howling with pain. As I ~~painfully limped~~ ambled along with Laura and Heidi, checking out the stores and customers in them, I kept catching brief glimpses of myself reflected in the store windows. As always, I was shocked at how different I look in store windows than I think I look in my mind. Who was that chunky looking woman? Surely not me! Alas, it was me because there was Laura and Heidi also reflected walking next to me, albeit slender and not roly-poly.

As we continued down the beautiful mall with all the beautiful people and the even more beautiful sales clerks, I could feel myself expanding wider and wider as we passed an endless stream of slinky, stylish, skinny women; all wearing outrageously large sunglasses and enormous purses.

My sunglasses shrank to microscopic size in comparison and my purse, which I used to think was large enough and stylish enough by today's standards, turned into a tiny clutch-bag. By the time we reached Macy's, my body had ballooned up into a Giant Weeble Woman. Instead of walking, I was now waddling back and forth in my Weebleness, careening past terrified customers who plastered themselves against the walls lest they get trampled, tottering pathetically on my low-heeled shoes which now felt like knives stabbing into my ~~bleeding stumps~~ feet.

In fact, I had become so massively bloated by this point that I had to stand sideways just so I could fit on the escalator.

I had become a freak of nature; a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon on the loose. Right there in Macy's.

The Macy's dress collection was no better than Nordstrom's so, finally getting the hint that our Great Dress Hunt in the super-duper, richy-mc-rich-rich mall had turned into a bust, we trudged back to Heidi's car and came back home again.

The closer we got to Santa Rosa, the more my Weeble body shrunk until by the time we reached Monti's Restaurant, I felt myself again and not the Fat Woman at the Circus I had been in Marin County. Ami had once again been banished to the back recesses of my ego where she usually resides, my sunglasses worked just fine, my purse was cute again and things didn't seem so bad anymore.

Taking a table outside in the sun, we ordered and devoured salads and fries.

We relaxed, we chatted and fussed over Bella, Heidi's sweet little pug-dogger. The shopping trip may have not been the best experience ever but the socialization afterwards was just awesome and I basked in the presence of two of my favorite people in the world.

Good to be home again.

Although I still need a dress.

If only I could leave Ami at home. For good.

But I'm afraid she won't go for that.

The bitch.

I've Been, er...Busy. Yeah. That's Right

2008-03-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

I know, I open up a blog and then I don't update it frequently. Well, we've been busy. After all, I do have that book I'm writing that I never started. Hey, shut up; I have a title. That's the hardest part, as everyone knows.

Yes,, I'm working on the outline. In my head. While watching "American Idol". And "Survivor". And while reading the latest Stephanie Meyer novel.

I said, shut up!

Then there's my camera hobby I'm supposed to be utilizing.

And all those classes I'm taking...

Okay, so I'm not taking any classes; that was a fib.

I'd like to take some classes. Maybe. But that would entail, you know...actually going to said-classes and I don't know about that...sounds like I'd have to get up and move about and drive and park and...tsk tsk, a lot of work, all that.

So I leave you with another amazing Cat Video starring our Woody. I do admire our Woody; he SO has his priorities straight.

Now, now...no complaining about the fluffiness of this post. I did have an entire rant about war and what is it good for, etc., very serious, sad and quite dark but I decided to unload my Worldly Political thoughts onto my poor Dawson instead. So you can count yourself very very lucky.

And thank Daws for taking the bullet for ya all.

Enjoy. And have a great weekend!

(If you cannot see the video on your computer, try going here directly:
Woody Vid

Let Me Show You It

2008-02-21T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's no surprise to those who know us well that we are rather embarrassingly obsessed with our cats. In particular the two kittens we got almost two years ago now, Jake and Elwood ("Woody" for short).

Hey, since grandkids have yet to be forthcoming, what else are we supposed to be weird about? (Hint, HINT!)

And for those who don't know us, all you have to do is look at the picture on top of this blog and you'd probably figure it out.

We even have a little cat door installed in the back door so they can come and go as they please because I didn't sign up to be their Personal Cat Butler. And no litter box, either, since the entire Great Outdoors is a giant sandbox in their eyes. It's great; I highly recommend pet doors.

Except for one teensy weensy little problem; they can go out, yes, but other things can come in.

Like neighborhood cats.

Who occasionally show up long after we've gone to bed to chow down on our cats' hard-earned food and hang out on our cats' lovingly purchased and clawed-up furniture whilst Daws and I snooze away, oblivious to the invasion. Much like many governments across the world, our cats are not feeling the love for their Feline Brethren; oh no. No, they do not want to share their spoiled lifestyle with anyone else, thank you very much. Whenever Outsider Cats get all Socialist on them, holding up little protest signs like, "Share the wealth!" and "We All Look Grey At Night!" etc., our cats say, "Screw you; we've got it made and too bad you don't."

The World would not benefit from taking lessons from cats on Sharing. No.

Unfortunately, establishing kitty territory is not a quiet process and invariably leads to a lot of caterwauling and crashing about as our cats' continually kickass on Stranger Socialist Kitties. Last night around 3am, a gawd-awful screaming erupted from the kitchen, causing me to shoot straight up out of the covers and land on my feet next to our bed before my poor, sleepy brain had even registered what was going on.

Brain: "Huh? Hey, what happened to my covers?!"
Body: "Intruder Alert! Flight or fight response NOW IN EFFECT!"

Within ~~minutes~~ seconds my bewildered brain had caught up with my Ready for Battle body and I rushed down the hall to "help" fend off invaders. Leaving my Daws behind in bed with his beloved earplugs, blissfully unaware of the assault.

Of course, once the Human Female made an appearance, the intruder kitty gave up and bolted outside through the cat door. Unfortunately, our entire Kitty Tribe bolted right after it; Luna, Jiggy, Jake and Woody all charged through the door after the cat and the horrible squawling began again but louder this time and close to our neighbors' houses.

Great. *sighs*

Since I sleep naked (shut up!) and had not stopped to put anything on before rushing into the fray, I ran over to our couch and, grabbing the big blue/red comforter we use as a throw during the winter, wrapped it around me and off I sprinted to break things up.

By this time our cats had chased the stranger cat onto the top of the fence between our yard and our neighbor's yard. They stood collected below, necks craned up, growling menacingly up at the intruder but I couldn't help but notice they were also sneaking little glances back at me to make sure I was backing them up in case the enemy decided to (gulp!) retaliate. Yeah.

You got "heart", dudes. Tell me.

Hissing and clapping my hands at the cat as quietly as I could so as not to piss off our poor neighbors any further, I finally scared it enough so it took off. Our cats definitely gave off an air of, "Yeah, that's right; we showed HIM! YEAH BOYZ! My Peeps!"

Wearily, I trudged back into the house, bare feet muddied and freezing, stopping by the bathroom to clean up before I joined my still soundly sleeping Daws back in our cozy, toasty bed.

Now, you'd think that that would be the end of it but oh no! No, our cats are NERDS. They insist on re-enacting such events and over again. Like the time they brought in a mouse and lost it in the house somewhere; for days afterwards, they would pantomime carrying it in, chasing it, catching it, throwing it up in the air several times, then losing it altogether, then searching for it in vain.

This is done is a comically dramatic fashion and always for our benefit. I know, because if we leave the room, they follow us to make sure we're still watching.

Which is fine during the day but not so wonderful at night.

Just as I began that blessedly floaty, luxurious, sweet sinking back into lullabyeland, I was jolted rudely awake by the sound of small elephants thundering down our hall as Woody noisily chased Jake up onto our bed. Jake poised on the bedframe, clearly pretending he was the intruder cat and Woody crouched below, obviously playing the part of the Family Hero Cat. They mock-glared at each other for several mock-tense minutes until Jake sprang off the bed to chase Woody down the hall, for all the world sounding like two giant sumo-wrestlers instead of two graceful felines. Even Luna and Jiggy got into the scene; darting back and forth between the two others, leaping about, mock-growling and re-enacting the Big Battle over and over again.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

This went on for two hours, while I squinched my eyes tight and tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

"Look how it went!" they seemed to be saying gleefully. "Mom! MOM! LOOK HOW IT WENT! It was like this....*pow*! And like that! WHAM! Look at us! We're AWESOMERS!"

Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Please...go to sleep. Please, you're cats, you're stealthy and all that. Show some stealth. Please, I beg of you.

Not a chance.

Since I kept ignoring them, or trying to, they finally resorted to jumping up on my nightstand so they could knock stuff off.

"BLAM!" There went a book.

"CRASH!" There went my lamp.

I hissed and clapped at them to no avail; too damn tired to get up and fetch the squirt-bottle to squirt their naughty asses.

Then they got behind our bed headstand and started crying and rummaging about, "Meow! MEOW! MEEEEOOOOWWWW!"

Oh
My
God

Needless to say, I got very little sleep last night. Right now, the brain is fuzzy and the body is tired. My Daws, however, woke up stretching and smiling brightly at 7am, saying he slept like a rock.

Sorry to say this news was met with a little grumpiness on my part.

Bad kitties. BAD BAD KITTIES! Laura got us a great picture for Christmas that shows a pair of cartoon cats with sunglasses saying, "They stayed up late! They trashed the house! And they didn't even care! They were...BAD KITTIES!".

THAT WUZ OUR KITTIES LAST NIGHT!

BAD BAD BAD!

Tonight the little cat door will be CLOSED!

Isn't It Romantic

2008-02-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

The title refers to one of my favorite piano pieces, "Isn't It Romantic" from the movie Hannah and Her Sisters. I placed the mp3 in my Music Box widget which is located on the RH side of this blog below the archives (look over there ------>), so you can take a listen. (Yes, I know the widget is all screwed up looking, I'm working on that, but in the meantime you can still play it)

That song always makes me feel a little nostalgic for the Good Old Days...I don't know why but there is definitely a poignant longing in the way he plays this very beautiful song. I have probably listened to this song a bazillion times but I never tire of hearing it.

The song matched last night's experience at Stark's restaurant. I did take a little movie of the place with my cell phone but it was so dark in there, hardly anything can be seen. It's simply a gorgeous restaurant, a real labor of love by the owners, very 30's or 20's feeling. A tribute to the era before WWII, before the stock crash, before we lost that sense of late 1800's opulent luxury we once took for granted and hardly ever see today, especially here on the West Coast. Rich, dark hues everywhere within to match the incredibly rich, but delicious, food.

Heidi greeted us and showed us to our table. Apparently we were lucky to get it as patrons had been fighting over our table not ten minutes before we arrived, despite the large "RESERVED" sign clearly displayed. The joint was hopping, there was that great "buzz" inside fun restaurants have; people milling about at the bar, or sitting at cozy tables for two, or grouped in the leather booths. Laughing, chatting, sharing food and drink, celebrating the evening while music fitting both the occasion and the style of the place played gently in the background.

I was a little disappointed that there was not a live piano player sitting at the baby grand but I got over it once Heidi brought us our drinks. Daws had his usual Jack and Coke but I went for something new Heidi had recommended; a "Sidecar". Friends, have you heard of this "Sidecar" drink? If not, order one next time you're out; you won't regret it. Heaven, ambrosia in a glass! I kid you not! Orange and cognac, god knows what else, served in a martini glass rimmed with sugar.

A girly-girl drink. I was surprised it didn't have an umbrella sticking out of it.

Drinks in hand, sitting side-by-side against the booth side of our table, watching the scene, we felt very decadent indeed.

I'd dropped by earlier in the day at VJB winery near Kenwood to pick up a bottle of Sangiovese Cab blend for Dawson since he's such a Sangiovese Hound. Heidi opened the bottle to let it breathe while we sipped our cocktails. (Yes, you can bring wine as long as you pay the $20 corkage fee.)

Daws ordered Lobster soup as a starter and invited me to share with him. OMG! It was fabulous. Although I had said I'd only have a few bites, gradually I started spooning more and more until finally I growled at Daws threateningly and yanked the entire bowl away from him, tipping it up to my chin and chugging it all down before he could ~~take it away from me~~ eat it all.

Okay, not really.

But I wanted to. Oh yes.

Then we opened our cards to each other. Dawson's made me crack up:

(Note: There was also copious mushy stuff written by my husband for me on the LH side of the card but I'm not sharing that you guys since One: you'll make fun of us and Two: it's none of your beeswax what he said to me privately. Not that you lot want to know, anyway. So there.)

My card to him had cats on it too. SURPRISE! Yes, yes...in case you didn't know before now, we are a tad "cat obsessive". Okay, let me amend that:

We're just obsessively nerdy altogether. In almost every way. But that's okay, that's why we match each other so well!

Daws ordered the New York Strip for him and the Kobe Beef for me. We debated being sensible and sharing a side dish but succumbed to the temptation of getting our own, so I got the Potatoes Gratin Fennel and Daws got the Mac-n-Cheese.

It was all fantastic. Heidi poured wine and we ate and drank and shared bites of each other's foods and drank and ate and drank some more, and...hooo boy. We tried to slow down but it was all so good and far too soon my body said, "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME OR WHAT?" So I had to stop. Heidi is so sweet; when we asked if she could please box the rest of the food to take home, she looked concerned lest we feel faint from malnutrition.

"You really didn't eat that much, you know," she said with a puzzled look. "Are you sure you don't want to finish?" We just stared back at her with owl eyes, feebly waving at the food.

"Please...take...it...away...too...much...of...a...good...thing."

You know, I honestly never ever thought I would be in a position where I didn't want more wine. But I didn't. That's how full I felt. Yeah. Enough to make one weep.

So of course, Dawson ordered coffee to help "perk us up". Hey, that makes sense! COFFEE! My savior! At Stark's, the coffee is brought in individual silver carafes and poured by your server; you're not allowed to touch the coffee urns yourselves. A good thing as I found out after Heidi left; those suckers are HOT! OW! Yes, I'm still a little kid inside sometimes..."now, whatever you do, don't touch that..."

wait for them to leave

touch touch TOUCH! "Nyah! NYAH! You can't tell me anything, I'll do WHATEVER I WANT TO!"

Ow. :(

Yeah, I'm the customer who, when the wait-person cautions, "these plates are HOT; don't touch!", I touch it once they leave. (How hot can it be? I wonder to myself...AUGH! That's really friggin' HOT!)

Yeah...I was never a particularly bright child.

Of course, you cannot have coffee without a dessert, right? I said, RIGHT? Right-o. One cannot possibly.

So of course we ordered the creme brulee and oh good god! I think that was the hit of the night. Srsly. Perfectly browned, so the crust was yummy tap-able and they had used salt of all things for a wonderfully dichotic flavor! The salt was the perfect counterpoint to the sweet and washed down with the hot coffee...superb.

Kudos to Chef!

As we got up, hugged Heidi and thanked her for such a wonderful experience and ~~rolled ourselves Weeblestyle to stuff our bloated bodies into our car~~ left the restaurant, sated, happy and filled with bonhomie for each other and the entire world, we agreed it had been a magical night.

Then we drove home, walked in the door, collapsed into a heap together on the couch in True Heart-of-America Couch Potato fashion and watched "Survivor"; our bodies still a tad overwhelmed by the massive amounts of food and drink, then stumbled blearily off to bed.

Where I dreamed incessantly that I'd insanely agreed to go on Laura's canoe trip in May. I kept saying to everyone, "No! No, I can't go, I have no bathing suit, no, I can't go, no, I have my CAMERA, no, I can't do it, no no no I DON'T WANT TO..."

But nobody listened.

Typical.

Here's the vid I took, remember, it's really dark so don't expect much:

"But-But,There Were Rules!"

2008-02-14T11:51:00.000-08:00

Looky here!

Yeah, Daws was b-a-a-d since this was a "no presents" holiday.

But who am I kidding, when has that ever stopped us before?

We are born Consumers with a capital "C".

I'll be blogging tomorrow about our romantic evening tonight, perhaps with more pictures and movies!

LUCKY YOU!

Welcome!

2008-02-13T12:12:00.000-08:00

So I've decided to start writing a family-friends blog again. The first time Daws and I had a blog like this, back in 2002, barely anyone knew what a blog was. "B-b-bllllog? What does that mean? A journal? Oh...well, why would anyone want to read that? Oh, you geeky nerds, you, with your crazy ideas!"

Riiiight. So due to an utter lack of understanding of why anyone would want to keep an online diary 5 years ago our readership was a tad...well, let's just say, "skimpy". Plus you had to know a certain amount of HTML in order to set up blogs, as well as having some kind of private domain to host it with and nobody knew how to set up those mysterious "comment" thingies, so it was kinda a pain in the ass back then. Fun though it was.

How times have changed.

Anyway, since some people have ~~abandoned us forever for Australia~~ moved, sibs are scattered to the four winds, our "kids" are grown and either married or in the process of getting married and our lives have all become far more complicated and busy over the years, I figured this would be a good way to stay in touch and keep those we love so well updated on our thrill-a-second lives here at Chez Rambo, NorCal Style.

Tomorrow is V-Day and my gift to Dawson is a reservation at Stark's Steakhouse. Yes, yes, THE Stark Steakhouse! The newest star in the restaurant firmament of Sonoma County. How did we get reservations on possibly the most difficult day in the year to get reservations, you ask? HA! Connections, of course...connections. By the way, this will be our 9th Valentine's Day as a couple madly in love; can you believe it's been NINE YEARS? Yeah, that set you back a bit, didn't it? YAY US!

May your Valentine's Day be wondrous, filled with love and if you don't celebrate this sweetest of all the holidays...for god's sake, what's the matter with you? SHEESH! Pump some money into this wheezing feeble joke of an economy we currently have and BUY something for someone you love! Anyone, anything! Even if it's a candy bar, c'mon...be an AMERICAN!

Save Capitalism! Buy something! Spread that money around!

But be sure to vote Obama.