Will Work for Food
I’m happy to report that the second attempt at training classes for Miss Abbie is going much better than our first.
There are several reasons for this:
- She’s a little bit older and wiser
- Her new class is at her favorite place on earth, dog day care
- She goes to day care, then has class, so she’s nicely tired and can pay attention
- There is no Horst to tell me that she needs to be yanked around by the neck
- The new trainer uses positive reinforcement methods, and Abbie really, really loves a snackie
So I’m happy to report that she is a GOOD girl who can SIT and DOWN and WAIT pretty well. Next we’ll work on those things for me.
Conversations with Mom #281: Voice Mail
I’m shopping at Target when I hear my phone go off in my purse.
Putting down my package of lightbulbs and my AA batteries and my furry slippers, I root around, but don’t get to it before it stops ringing. It says it was mom.
I call her back.
Busy.
Call back again.
Busy.
Wait a minute, call back again.
Busy.
“SHUT UP MOM!” I say, holding my phone and staring at the screen, willing her to cut her voicemail short, even though I know that will never happen.
The Target employee gives me the side-eye, obviously thinking I’m some kind of monster to talk to my mom that way.
Finally I get through.
Suebob: Hi, Mom.
Mom: Susie? Is that you? I just called you!
Suebob: I know, Mom. That’s what my phone told me.
Mom: Did you listen to your recording?
Suebob: No, I didn’t listen to the voicemail.
Mom: Oh, I left you a message.
Suebob: I know that, but I called you back instead.
Mom: You should listen to the message.
Suebob: You could tell me what you said on the message.
Mom: You should have listened to it, then called me back.
Suebob: Well, here I am.
Mom: I don’t know why I leave messages.
Suebob: In case I can’t get to the phone right away?
Mom: Well, you should listen to it.
Suebob: Why, did you sing or something?
Mom: Haha, oh, no, but I told you something.
Suebob: You could tell me that same thing right now.
Mom: Well, I already left it on the recording.
Suebob: JUST TELL ME ALREADY.
Mom: You don’t have to yell!
PS Yes, I am doing it. A post a day for a month. Maybe.
Praying for Grace
I never liked when Madonna wore rosaries as jewelry, and I don’t like when people wear malas, the Hindu or Buddhist prayer beads, as necklaces or bracelets. It just seems disrespectful to their use as a prayer tool. It’s only my opinion, but it’s why, when I took my mala on my trip with me this week, that it was in the pocket of my purse, not hanging around my neck.
I had a 9 a.m. flight out of Santa Barbara. I noticed on the drive in to the airport that it was a little foggy. Ok, it was really foggy. I couldn’t see the road very well for a bit, and as I got to the airport, it didn’t clear up.
The flight that was supposed to leave an hour before mine was still on the ground when my flight was supposed to begin boarding. My flight was delayed a little and then a lot. I tried to maintain the illusion I would catch my 10:40 flight out of Los Angeles, but that hope receded as the fog did not.
I went to stand in line to try and rebook my flight. Aside: why does it take 15 minutes to rebook each person? It only takes five minutes to book the flight online initially. But whatever.
At this point, I need to mention that the floor at the Santa Barbara airport is polished concrete, very new and shiny and smooth. The reason for me telling you this will become clear in a moment.
Praying for patience as I stood in the long immoveable line, I slid my hand into the pocket of my purse and gripped my mala. I don’t know what happened then. The mala, which had seemed perfectly intact at the beginning of the day, now just…exploded. About 40 of the 108 little green stone prayer beads slid off the string and went bouncing and caroming off at every angle, making this surprisingly loud clattering sound in the relative quiet of the airport.
Everyone turned to look at me. Every single person. I stood there, stock still, holding the now-empty mala string in my hand, disbelieving what had just happened.
The myriad little beads had created a field of ball-bearing like dangerous obstacles to any hapless traveler who wanted to walk down that concourse. I might as well just have flung a box of banana peels onto the concrete.
I leaned over to try and pick up the mala beads, promptly causing more beads to jump from my open purse pocket.
Apologizing and explaining, I bent to pick up the beads, which were surrounding me for at least 15 feet in every direction. Just when I thought I had found them all, this man in line began pointing out the ones I had missed. He had a tone in his voice that suggested I might be part of a secret Al-Qaeda plot to bring down airport travelers with stone beads instead of other weapons.
Why does this stuff happen to me? Why can I not just pray like a normal person, with peaceful, calming thoughts and no spreading of danger to my fellow travelers?
So that was the beginning of my trip. At the other end was reaching my hand into my purse and pulling it out, all bloody-handprint style. Whaaaat?
Yes, as I had been walking around Indianapolis, apparently the cap to my red lipstick had come off. With every step, the thing was drawing greasy red marks on every item in my purse. When I grabbed my now be-reddened wallet, I got the full palm of colorful goo.
I rescued some items by wiping them down, but others were too far gone for me to salvage. Goodbye, rare red Tic Tacs box. Goodbye, granola bar. Goodbye, nail clippers. My thumbs won’t be the same without you.
So I don’t have a mala anymore, but if I did I tell you what I’d pray for. I’d pray for grace. I need it.
Fall Back
I actually got to see a little fall this week in Indy! That never happens here!
People were talking online the other day about the worst holiday. Opinions varied, of course, from Valentine’s Day for its sappy manufacturedness to Christmas because OMG does Christmas ever end?
My personal vote would go to Fourth of July. Not only does it mess with the possibility of me getting a hotel room near the beach on my birthday, but the combination of drunks and explosives strikes terror in my heart.
Someone said “Can’t we just have a Blank Day, with no expectation that we do anything or go anywhere? A real day off.”
“Yes! Yes!” I thought. I tend to put a lot of pressure on myself to constantly check things off my to-do list, and that list is never-ending. Even on vacation, I’m strategizing about how to pack more into a day.
After this week’s travels, I hit the wall. It was enough to make me take the idea of Blank Day seriously. I went to bed about 10 pm last night and got up close to 8 this morning. Then I let myself have no obligations. I did walk the dog and go to Farmer’s Market, but only because I really wanted to. When I saw Ish on Main Street, I let myself plop down in a chair beside him and yammer on until he had to leave.
Other than that, I have been fotzing around the house all day. I got stuff done, but in a random fashion, starting and stopping whenever I felt like it, not pushing for anything. A friend may stop by later. That’s all I’ve got.
This is my new favorite holiday. Happy Blank Day!
Thank You for a pleasant trip
A
Hampton Inn. Somewhere. I don’t really know.
THIS IS NOT A SPONSORED POST.
I love traveling, don’t get me wrong, but I have often tried to figure out just what the heck is so wearying about sitting on my butt for large parts of the day until I get somewhere I want to be.
It’s the decisions. Travel is like solving a puzzle, a giant puzzle, where the clues are every single thing around me all day long. In normal life, we are on automatic much of the time, pushing the same buttons, opening the same doors. In travel, it’s all new.
Until I get to my destination, I’m bedeviled by a thousand little unfamiliar things, each one pecking at my available store of energy like a chicken pecking at a pile of corn kernels. Peck peck peck until my energy is gone and I feel like I can’t take one more step.
It’s all silly stuff, but it adds up:
- Does the credit card magnetic strip face you, or face away (American Airlines faces away, United faces you. Or maybe the other way round).
- Where do I go now that they made a last-minute gate change?
- Which line do I stand in? Shoes on or off? Laptops where?
- Which pocket is that thing in now?
By the end of 12 or 14 hours, I’m ready to collapse, even though my most strenuous activity has been lifting my luggage onto the scale thing to see how close to overweight my suitcase is.
This is why the Hampton Inns are brilliant. I discovered them earlier this year. I stayed in one in Green Bay, Wisconsin, then the next night in Joliet, Illinois. Here’s what I noticed: they were almost identical. The way the front desk looked, the free breakfast service, the room decor, even the pool area – they were alike in both places.
This week I made an emergency stop at another Hampton Inn near O’Hare airport, checking in sans luggage, which was “in transit.” After a flight delay, a missed connection, 2 1/2 hours of marching around LAX trying to find a new way to get to my destination and arriving to find no luggage, I was on my last piece of chicken corn.
On my person, I had my purse, my work laptop, and a “spa pack” given to me by the American Airlines employees after I told them about my missing luggage.
The luxurious spa pack contained a tiny deodorant stick, a razor, a weird folding plastic brush/comb combo thing, a painfully sharp toothbrush, and toothpaste that tasted like minty congealed lead paint. (I thought “Really, American Airlines? You couldn’t spend four cents more and buy actual brand-name toothpaste instead of toxic waste paste?”)
I checked in at 10 pm, after leaving my home that morning at 7 am and expecting to be in Indiana, but ending up in Chicago.
But you know what? That Hampton was just like the other two I had stayed in during my July trip. Instantly, I could relax a bit. I knew how everything worked and where everything was and even what it would look like.
It’s like McDonald’s. That Big Mac is not the most expensive gourmet hamburger you’ll ever get, but it’s definitely going to be like the last 100 Big Macs you had, and you can count on that. It’s good AND consistent, and it’s the consistency you crave. That feeling of familiarity, of knowing my way around the Hampton, was like a balm to my overtired traveler brain.
The Hampton is clean and comfortable and has everything you need – free Wifi, free parking, free breakfast buffet – even ear plugs provided in my room.
So thank you, Hampton Inns. I love you. You may not be the Ritz, but you’ve been exactly what I needed when I needed it. I’m sure I will see you again sometime soon. I’m a fan.
Peace in the Neighborhood
Every morning when I leave the house for the first time, I touch my hamsa (the photo is my hamsa) and say a prayer. It’s my only consistent spiritual practice, and actually, it’s two prayers – first, the Prayer for Protection from Unity:
The light of God surrounds us,
The love of God enfolds us,
The power of God protects us.
Wherever we are, God is,
and all is well.
I follow it with the words of a sage, Pops Staples, from one of his songs:
Thank you, God, for another day.
Help my brother along the way,
and please
bring peace to the neighborhood.
I don’t know why I picked those two prayers. The Prayer for Protection ends every church service at Unity. The Pops Staples song was from a CD of Curt’s that he left when he moved out.
That song caught in my memory as a prayer and stayed, especially that last line, which has been much on my mind lately. This week, three people have been shot in the neighborhood. Two did not survive. Only one was someone I knew a little.
I woke one morning to a brief item on the local newspaper website. It said a man had been shot and seriously wounded two blocks from my house.
I took Abbie on our usual walk route, which goes down that block. She smells everything, of course – she’s a dog. At one point I looked down to see her sniffing a puddle of dark red on the sidewalk and my heart squinched up in my chest. I knew – that’s where it happened. Right there, a man’s blood at my feet.
I was at first angry that someone didn’t clean it up, but then I thought, who would? If someone you knew got shot, who could go out and scrub up their blood as if it was just something dirty to be gotten rid of? Who could do that? So there it was.
That morning, the street suddenly seemed like another country, like a place I had never seen before, though I have walked down the block each day for years. The street sounds seemed quieter, but a weird energy flowed by in a rush. I looked and saw knots of neighbors pulled together in groups, whispering, jaws tight.
The next day I walked down the same street again. It’s Abbie’s path, and I didn’t know what else to do. I heard one of the men on that street saying to another, “They decided to stop life support.” I didn’t find out until the next day that the man who was shot – probably by gang members – was the manager of one of the many recovery homes in that area, and he was a man I had said hello to and who had said hello to me and Abbie.
His name was Zack Lee and he was killed in a gang shooting. That’s easy to shrug off – oh, another gang shooting, as if it isn’t real people involved. But from all reports he wasn’t a gang member – he was 43 years old, and was out running an errand for a friend.
I wonder what he was doing, how it went down – did he know those people? Had they had words before? Did he tell them to stop hanging out in his driveway? How quickly was that line crossed, from them noticing him to deciding to take his life?
Now Abbie and I walk by the sidewalk memorial – first there were dozens of candles, and programs from his memorial, and flowers. The flowers faded and were replaced. A framed photo and a note from his mother came and went.
Someone cleaned the blood off the sidewalk, but the candles spilled red wax, so that spot on the sidewalk will always bear a stain. Maybe that’s good, a marker – someone was killed here, someone who was just alive, someone who didn’t have to die. His name was Zack.
Please bring peace to the neighborhood.
My Weigh-In Outfit
After about a year off, I went back to Weight Watchers because I had gained about 8 pounds since the summer. Not a huge amount of weight, but enough to make me realize I had better get a grip on it.
I was reluctant to go back, because Weight Watchers makes me a little insane.
It’s not just me – ask anybody who is a WW member if they have nutty weight-related behaviors, and they’ll probably admit they do. Things like:
- Having a special weigh-in outfit that is made of the lightest substances known to man
- Only weighing in if you haven’t eaten
- Not drinking any liquids for a few hours before you go
- Only weighing in if you have….erm, relieved yourself beforehand
- Going to the earliest meeting in the day so you don’t have any food in your stomach
Do I need to point out that none of these things help you lose weight? They help you have less weight on the scale at that moment.
I indulged in a little nutso-behavior myself as a way to welcome myself back.
Last week, I weighed in wearing – gasp – hiking shoes! Most people either weigh in shoeless or in some micro-thin flip flops. If they could get away with wearing those cheap foam thongs they give you after a pedicure, they’d probably do that. My hiking shoes were a definite anomaly, being large, crusty clodhoppers.
I did it because I wanted to “lose weight” this week no matter what. I just wanted to give myself the mental lift – even knowing it was based on a lie – of seeing the scale record a loss, merely due to the fact that I was wearing lighter shoes this week.
When I weighed in, I had lost five pounds. Obviously I did better than just shoe weight. (For the record, my shoes weigh 2.3 pounds. I just checked. SEE? CRAZY! Sane people do not weigh their shoes, for the record.)
WW Desk Lady: WOW! Five pounds! That’s great!
Suebob: I wore much heavier shoes last week.
WW Desk Lady: Still! You did great!
Suebob: I was sick all week. I felt terrible and ate mostly soup.
WW Desk Lady: (beaming) Well, you did great!
See what I mean? This is my issue with Weight Watchers – it’s all about the scale. I guess I should expect that, “Weight” being their first name and all.
In a sane world, the lady would have said “Oh, you poor dear! We really don’t want people losing weight because of illness!”
I’m designing a sane weight loss plan in my head. What would that look like?
Instead of walking in to see a scale the first thing, your counselor would ask you:
“How do you feel?” Not “How do you feel about how you ate?” because that’s an emotional minefield. But “How do you feel overall – do you feel physically and mentally healthy?”
They would also want to know:
- What kind of exercise did you do? Did you enjoy it? Is it something you want to keep doing, or do you need to find something else? Are your friends and family part of your exercise? Can you make them part of it?
- Did you eat good food, or highly processed crap? Do you think what you ate supported your health?
- Do you feel strong? Do you feel capable? Do you have things you can’t do now that you would like to – like playing with your grandkids, or hiking up to see a beautiful sunset? How do you plan to get to that point?
- Are there things in your life that aren’t working that impact how well you eat and how much? Do you want to work on those things?
And then, at the end of the meeting, if you wanted to, you could weigh yourself. With all your clothes on – because that’s how sane people walk around every day.
Random Ramblings of a Lunatic
I
I had to find a photo for this where I look properly demented. That did not take long.
Randomness:
I almost got hit twice within two minutes by two silver Mercedes sedans on the LA freeways. They both just changed lanes into me and I had to do some fancy brake and steering work to avoid getting hit. Dear Mercedes Drivers: I exist! I occupy space! Please take that into account as you move about the city.
***
The guy who wandered on foot out into a major intersection tonight was not that lucky. I came upon him when he was lying in the road. In my lane. Yeah, that will wake you right up. One minute you’re checking to see if the light is changing and then…Hey! There’s someone lying in the road in front of my car!
He had just gotten hit and was face down in the road. He was a big giant guy with long braided hair. The person who hit him had fled the scene, leaving just some car parts (side-view mirror and another piece of plastic) in their wake.
I stopped my car and put my flashers on and got out of my car. Two people were already on the phone and a bunch of us ran over as he began to move. Everyone was yelling “Don’t move, don’t move,” but he was either under the influence or was irrational because of his injuries, because he would not listen and kept rolling over and trying to sit up.
It was total chaos. Traffic was backing up, it was getting dark and people were screaming “Oh my God, Oh my God!” . A blonde lady on her phone kept yelling, for some unknown reason, that her husband was a police officer.
Fortunately, the closest fire station was only about 200 yards away, so the EMTs were there in just minutes. I waited til they got the man surrounded with their bodies and then traffic cones. The firemen began directing traffic. I couldn’t do anything else – and all I had done was to keep anyone else from running the guy over by blocking him off with my car. I skedaddled, shaking a bit. I’m not so good in emergencies. They seemed so calm – another day at the office for them.
****
I have to get some training for this dog to stop her from jumping on children. How do I do that? Are there volunteer children who will make those squealing noises that get her so riled up?
She knocked two toddlers down at the dog park today. I don’t understand why people don’t protect their kids. One guy said, about his daughter, “It was her fault. She didn’t try hard enough to defend herself.” Abbie probably weighed as much as the girl did. Abbie knocked her over and then gave her face a thorough licking before I got her off. She’s just being friendly, but terrifyingly friendly. Gah. I was so mad and disheartened by the whole thing.
****
I am on day four of a sinus headache and sore throat. Fall allergies. It has been windy like crazy lately. Claritin D just barely cuts it. I have moved on to Afrin. The big guns. Pray I don’t become an addict.
****
That’s all. Goodnight.
File under: things that could only happen to me
Had I been in Mexico, the nice bathroom attendant would have directed me to the right place, after handing me two squares of toilet tissue and my 1 peso (10 cents) ticket. I don’t know why they give you a ticket. They stand right there and watch you go in, and no one ever takes the ticket.
After a long and pleasant meal at a restaurant with the dear Glennia, I got up to go to the bathroom.
As I was sitting in the stall, another person walked in, and instead of using the only other stall, stood at the mirror. I glanced through the crack in the stall.
It was a man.
Oh no, I thought. I’m in the men’s restroom. Again.
This had happened before, at a concert. The band announced a break and I dashed into the restroom before the crowd could show up. I was in a stall. When I came out, I was facing the backs of about 8 men using a trough urinal – something I hadn’t seen when I ran in because I was so determined to beat the other people.
Oops. Hi, guys! Nice to see you!
So here I was again, wondering what to do. Why, WHY didn’t I check the sign on the way in to see if it truly was the ladies’ room?
The man stood at the mirror FOREVER. I don’t think I saw a urinal on the way in. Why didn’t he go to the other stall? I wondered and waited, annoyed that he wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk out and run right into him. Then he’d know I was a woman in the men’s restroom. I could not face him.
Finally, FINALLY he left.
The reason he didn’t use the other stall was that the door was broken off and leaned up against the toilet. He was waiting for me because he had no where else to go. No urinal in sight.
As I walked out the door, I checked the sign. I was indeed in the ladies room. HE was in the wrong place. Hmph. What the heck was HIS problem?
Then as I sat down, I saw “him” sitting at the next table. “He” was just a woman with very short hair, jeans and a plaid cowboy shirt.
So I sat there on the toilet and prevented another woman from using the restroom for about 10 minutes. She probably left because she assumed I was massively constipated and she feared the eventual outcome. And you know what? I’ll bet she was too afraid to ever go back in. She probably went to the Starbucks down the street.
I have a skill.
Update
I used to swim with a woman named Mimi, whose husband, Tim, was a winemaker. He even named his winery, Clos Mimi (apparently now no longer in business) after her.
One day Mimi reported to me that Tim had gone to a wine auction to sell some of his wine. While she was in the bathroom, he bid on and won half a case of wine.
For $1200.
She was none too pleased.
“It’s an investment,” Tim told her.
“Tim, it’s a BEVERAGE!” she yelled back.
****
It’s been just about six months since I quit drinking.
After living in wine country pretty much my whole life and working at several wine label printers and getting to know winemakers, I bought into the wine mystique. Wine was special, wine was magical.
Wine has endless different flavor profiles. I don’t believe for a minute that most of the people who have ever said wine has black currant flavors know what a black currant tastes like, but wine is complex and interesting.
You know what else is complex and interesting? Everything. Everything that has a flavor. People who describe bland things as “vanilla” have never slowed down and tasted the true lovely mystery of the orchid bean.
If you pay attention, asparagus has a layered flavor. And lima beans. And bread.
It is just that, as a culture, we have decided that wine is something worth noticing. And it is. But so is everything else.
After six months of not drinking, I have stepped back far enough to see Mimi’s point. Looking at it from here, wine IS just a beverage.
Suebob's Red Stapler 