Do Not Let Her Near the Children
I’m not only not a parent, I’m a terrible aunt, too. No, I’m not being falsely humble. I’ve never been involved in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives much. That doesn’t stop me from playing the aunt card, though. When people bug me about not having kids, I say “I have 8 nieces and nephews and 18 great-nieces and nephews.” That shuts them up because they’re stunned by the sheer numbers.
But yeah. If you want someone to babysit or remember birthdays, I’m probably not your person. The last child I watched was a toddler who got within 6 inches of the top of a flight of stairs while I went to check on something in the kitchen. Thank God for an alert houseguest who snatched the babe from certain death.
The other day took the cake, though. When we were moving mom to her new place, I gave my nephew and his 2 girls, ages 12 and 8, a ride back to their car.
I put the radio on Radio Disney, because of course – kids love that stuff, right? Wrong!
The older girl objected, saying that it wasn’t a good station, she didn’t like the songs. I was pushing radio buttons and got to the Electronic Area station on Sirius XM, which she, oddly, loved, so I left the song on for her.
You know how electronic dance songs are. 20 minutes long, no lyrics, same thing over and over til you want to run away sobbing. Or is that just me?
ANYWAY, the song I left on did have one line of lyrics. One line, but that one brief moment was quite enough to push me out of the Aunt of the Year competition, disqualified immediately, no return of my entry fees, get out, there’s the door.
Even more impressive, the ONE lyric line in the song has just two words. One of those words is safe for children. The other? Is not.
Those words? “Riverside, MotherF***er.”
I have a skill.
Take a Number
I have Siri on my iPhone, of course – it’s a built-in feature. The theory is that you can talk to the helpful virtual assistant instead of spending your time typing and correcting on a tiny miniature keyboard that you can’t see with your glasses on if you are over 40 years old.
The operant word in that last paragraph, of course, is “theory.”
The other day, I tried to record a dental appointment in my calendar.
Suebob (presses button): Appointment
Siri: I show thirteen appointments in your calendar.
Suebob: New appointment.
Siri: Did you mean “nude appointment”?
Suebob: Oh, hell no.
Siri: I’m sorry, I did not understand what you meant by “Oh hell no.”
Suebob: MAKE appointMENT.
Siri: I found the following listings for “meant” on the web.
Suebob: Calendar
Siri: Here is your calendar for today.
Suebob: Make appointment.
Siri: I’d be happy to put an appointment on your calendar.
Suebob: THANK YOU
Siri: On what date should I put your appointment for Thank You?
Suebob: [Begins squinting and typing on tiny screen]
I’m Calling Her Lassie from Now On
Abbie watching a video of Anastacia Campbell’s dog howling
Abbie Lynn woke me up at 4:30 this morning. That’s pretty unusual: she’s a good sleeper. She always sleeps through the night. Half the time she doesn’t even get up when I get up, but keeps snoozing on the couch until it is time for walkies.
I opened the front door to let her out and it hit me: a face full of smoke, weird-smelling, strong smoke. It wasn’t the terrifying smell of wildfire consuming sage and dried brown late-summer grass, but a more complex smell like a trash fire.
Aside: I’m old enough to remember when we burned our trash in the back yard, in a small brick oven thing called an “incinerator.” Certain days of the week were set aside for trash burning, and the whole neighborhood was hazy and smelly that day.
Back to this morning. It still smelled like trash fire, but a big one, not like a garbage can on fire. I thought about what to do. I couldn’t see a fire, though the sky was a bit glowy, but the smoke was thickening and growing more choking as the minutes passed.
The internet came to the rescue. I looked up our local fire department website, remembering it from my newspaper days. A market and bargain store about 8 blocks away were going up in smoke.
So Abbie didn’t exactly save my life, but she alerted me to danger, and that’s pretty good for a pup who doesn’t know not to eat cat poop.
My dog has turned into Lassie, which is about the pinnacle of my life so far. My dog is a hero! Lassie was my favorite show as a kid, next to Flipper, because the only thing cooler than a danger-alerting dog with a gorgeous hairstyle is a danger-spotting dolphin, am I right?
Good girl. I rewarded her by giving her an extra day at dog day care, which might as well be Dog Disneyland multiplied by Dog Super Bowl for as much as she loves it.
****
We got my mom moved into assisted living today. Glory freaking hallelujah. It’s about time. I have been having regular heart attacks at some of the close calls she has had at home cooking and trying to do other things around the house, like the time I came in about 5 minutes after she had set her bamboo steamer on fire by leaving it too close to the stove burner element.
You’d think moving out of her home of 40 years would be cause for some reflection, a little ritual, a toast or something, but we are Not That Kind of People. We are so bad about anything emotional or potentially emotional. We dumped the last quarter-carton of milk out, locked the doors, walked out, and didn’t talk about it at all, even though the whole family had a massive Chinese lunch together.
So goodbye house. 41 years. Lots of memories. Onward.
One Year Ago
A year ago today, I said goodbye to Goldie, the best dog in the world. The tears I shed that day, and in the days leading up to it, and the days following it would fill a milk carton, a big one, not the kind from the corner convenience store that you get when you forget to buy real milk at the grocery store.
ANYWAY…that was a bad week. And some bad months following it. I spent the winter not knowing how I would ever be happy without that sweet, sweet hound in my life.
Now I have another Best Dog in the World. She’s as different from Goldie as two dogs can be. Goldie lost her mind with happiness whenever I came home. Abbie is like a cat – she glowers at me a little, makes ME approach her and then she gives me a little wag to let me know all is forgiven.
Goldie loved hunting and running. Abbie loves people and wrestling with other dogs. Goldie didn’t like other dogs playing with her. Abbie lives for it.
It’s funny, how we can’t imagine what life is going to be like until it gets here. I’m glad to have had Goldie, who filled 10 years of my life with joy. But I’m also glad to have had the experience of choosing a new dog and letting my heart open in different ways than I had thought possible.
Goldie will always be the First Best Dog, sweet as a sugar cookie, as the exMrStapler used to say. She trained me to be a good dog person. And for that, I am forever grateful. I hope heaven has lots of quick bunnies and no cactus to get in the way of a good long chase.
With Friends Like These
I like my friend Bruce for all the usual reasons one might like a friend. He’s funny, charming, smart, kind, and interesting. When we get started talking, we have a hard time stopping.
He’s always learning a new language – I think Hungarian is the latest, probably spurred by meeting a beautiful Hungarian woman somewhere (if I know Bruce, and I think I do!) .
Given the right venue – the presence of a Spanish-speaking woman – he will burst out in song, usually “Guantanamera” or “Cuando Calienta el Sol.” Those get the ladies, every single time. Bruce knows how to work a room. He is a massive flirt.
We met in Toastmasters a long time ago and, even though we’re not in the same club anymore, we still exchange calls and mail and occasionally meet for coffee.
Bruce is also 85 years old, something that once led my mom to question if he was my Sugar Daddy. (Yes, Mom, after a life of hard work, study and independence, I’m casting my ethics aside to fake affection for a guy with money. Mmm hmm.)
What I love about him being 85 is that he gives me such hope for the future. I want to grow up to be as cool as Bruce. If I’m as witty, smart and on the ball at 85 as he is, I will count my lucky stars, and the numbers will be very, very high.
For Bruce’s part, he’s aiming to be 101 years old. Or did he say 110? In either case, I hope I get to enjoy his company for many more years.
Bruce on the right, with another friend at Toastmasters.
I tried to break my blog
When I woke up the other morning sobbing about the state of my blog, I knew I had to do something.
When I got back to my old WordPress site and looked at the header, I started grinning. I knew I had to come back home, where I felt comfortable and happy.
I have a few tweaks to make, but for now I’m just relieved to be blogging again.
Thank you for your patience. Unlike Abbie, who just wants to go for a walk and who is willing to stand on my head to force me to go.
Mom 2.0 Mop-Up
Because we see things that others don’t.
Of course the Mom 2.0 Summit was about more than staying in expensive hotels and getting manicures, as much as I have made it sound like it was.
The Summit is advertised as:
AN OPEN CONVERSATION BETWEEN MOMS + MARKETERS + MEDIA
Social Media Influencers. Industry Leaders. Leading Brands.
True. All that is true. But here’s what is even more true for me: we are social media influencers because we are creative. All of our influence wouldn’t amount to a bucket of well-chewed tennis balls (my dog is much on my mind lately) if we weren’t primarily creative. The productive output of a creative mind always comes first. That’s what draws people in.
It is by putting ourselves and our ideas and our fancies to work that we gain influence, not by declaring ourselves as influencers, though there are plenty of people who think that’s how it works.
I also think that’s where a lot of the jealousy comes in – the idea that we don’t deserve the attention or accolades because we don’t really do anything – we’re just bloggers, just nerds noodling away at little creative projects. So it’s ok to go on vicious gossip sites and trash bloggers because who are they, anyway?
(I posted one photo of Cecily K of Uppercase Woman and started to notice a huge traffic spike. Someone had linked it up on a blogger gossip site. I went over and could only read a couple comments before I was so mad I had to walk around the block to calm myself. I have no insults bad enough for the people that contribute to those sites, but in case you are one of those people – you suck. You’re hurting real people, and you should take up knitting instead).
I was walking with Schmutzie to breakfast and the person walking with us asked about what she did, and Schmutzie said she has a blog, and oh, Five Star Friday, and Grace in Small Things, and the Canadian Blogging Awards, and is an enthusiastic iPhoneographer and does web design and and and…
And I know Schmutzie is kind of a creative superstar, but everywhere I looked, it was the same. People started a blog and sooner or later, all kinds of creative strings and streams started flowing in and out and the next thing you know, they were appearing on the Today show or becoming Editor in Chief at Disney Interactive or whatever magnificent thing came their way because they were creative which is no small thing.
Later that same night, I relaxed on my hotel bed as Schmutzie snortled on hers with her laptop, cranking out a hilarious and spot-on blog post about why she isn’t following people back on Twitter.
That’s the thing about being creative. Once you get started, you can’t stop. You get addicted.
The thrill of bringing something into the world that no one had thought of before – and which the world didn’t even know it needed – it’s a thrill ride like nothing else.
So while the marketers and PR people of the world think we’re building our brands and wielding our influence – and maybe we are (especially people who are way more focused and smart than I am), but first and always, we are creators.
The brand-building talk comes in handy, though, because there are times when it is just easier to talk about the business of blogging than to try and explain what it is to live a creative life.
We do what we do because it is who we are, right down to the very core, right down to the brilliant blog post wedged between a day of seminars, networking, brainstorming and that night’s Kentucky Derby-themed party.
You can pretend for a while. You can fill your blog with sponsored content and links and blurbs about how clever and influential you are. But unless you have the real juicy juice to back it up – the creative energy that you funnel from the universe around you by leaving yourself wide and honest and clean and by taking leaps and chances – it’s all for naught.
It’s a fearsome and wonderful thing, this creative life, and one we’re not entirely in charge of. We’re holding the tiger by the tail because we know it’s going to take us somewhere. And that’s about all we know.
So I guess if you asked me what I was doing at Mom 2.0, I’d have to say I was luxuriating in the Ritz and hanging out with friends, but I was also soaking in the glorious sparkling pool of creative humanity, enjoying, filling up, and feeling happy and juicy again.
My Plans for Abercrombie and Fitch
Did you see what Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries said? Check out this article.
“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” he told the site. “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. Those companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla. You don’t alienate anybody, but you don’t excite anybody, either,” he told Salon.
Please take note that this guy is no looker himself. He’s, in fact, kind of a Shrek-like figure. I wouldn’t say that about his looks if he were building wells in developing countries, but he’s selling an image here, so I figure he’s fair game.
Here’s my plan to help Abercrombie & Fitch. And by “help,” I mean “destroy their annoying, overpriced brand.”
- Hire some friends my age to wear their clothing. I know they don’t sell anything larger than size 10 pants, but if my friends have fit four tired children into a minivan after a day at Disneyland, they can fit their lumpen frames into size 10 pants. Top that with a tight t-shirt and you have middle aged magnificence.
- Hang out at strategic locations. Mall, high school ride pickup line, skate park.
That’s it. It won’t take long. Once the word spreads that frizzy-haired 50-somethings are wearing A&F, the brand will tank faster than Justin Bieber trying to sing opera.
Then Mr. Jeffries will have two choices: either make clothes for normal people, or get another business, maybe something in plastic surgery. He could be his own first customer.
Everyone Has Their Own Version of Brave
My awesome Mom 2.0 Summit roommate, Elan, came all the way from Saskatchewan (which one lady we talked to didn’t actually know was a real place) to talk about being our own true authentic selves, about coming out of our shells to proudly claim who we are and what we want. She had seven minutes on stage in front of a ballroom full of people to cover her subject.
Elan is pretty scared about public speaking, but she did it anyway. She knows if you want to grow, you have to face your fears.
I faced one of my fears at Mom 2.0, too. It’s probably not as common a fear as public speaking, but I don’t have a fear of public speaking, thanks to Toastmasters. Insert ad here: TRY TOASTMASTERS, HONESTLY, IT’S GREAT.
What I can’t do – or what I couldn’t do before Thursday – was get a manicure. What the what? That’s a STUPID fear.
I know. But just because it is stupid doesn’t mean I can’t be afraid of it.
Me, right before the manicure
I didn’t grow up with any guidance on how to be girly. My mom never told me one single thing about how to dress or be pretty. I never got hints or lessons on hair and makeup and clothes. Into that vacuum of information, the deluge of 1970s feminism fell.
I was left with the idea that taking pains to be beautiful was somewhere between vain, stupid, and traitorous to the cause of Womanhood.
I never did much to rectify that situation on my own, either. I always feel like it is embarrassing to be seen trying to be pretty, with the result that I usually look either sloppy or…oh, let’s just leave it at sloppy.
So to walk in a nail salon and let a tiny, stunning Vietnamese woman have her way with my snaggletooth nails was just EXACTLY like Elan spilling her guts on stage.
Ok, maybe not exactly the same thing, but I was truly afraid. It took all I had to suck it up and walk in that terrifying door, heart bumping in my chest. I paused in the parking lot, checking my phone, hoping for an important message that would require my attention.
Finally, I walked into the Mystery Palace of Womanhood. Just as I feared, the manicurist was horrified by my claws.
Then I got even braver, because she talked me into having MY EYEBROWS WAXED AS WELL.
I KNOW, right? When I got done, I was all I am Woman, Hear My Eyebrows.
So I stand before you, proud to claim what I am – no longer a manicure virgin. I fear no nail salon!
It did take her a while to get rid of all those snaggleteeth, though.
Voila. Turned out nice.
First off, I never thought I’d find myself in a hotel that has a basic room rate of $525. I have written before about how I love a cheap suburban motel that offers free breakfast because I was raised by my dad to be a skinflint of the highest order.
When I saw the Mom 2.0 Summit was at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel this year with a special conference rate of less than half the rack rate, I got out my credit card and signed up.
I got myself a roommate, too (Schmutzie!), so I ended up paying about what I would have paid for a noisy motel on the highway somewhere, and instead got to stay, for once, at a real five-star resort.
If you don’t make a habit of staying at the Ritz (and I had certainly never imagined that I would), you might be wondering what $525 per night (at least – the suites go up to $2,750) buys you. Well, let me tell you in my own super special helpful bullet point list.
$525 per night gets you:
- A property so beautiful that it causes a weird little ache behind your breastbone, because it is too much beauty for your eyes to ever absorb all at once, so your heart has to expand to take it all in. When I checked in, the desk had this giant travel poster-type photo behind it. Except it wasn’t a travel poster and it wasn’t a photo. It was a giant screen with a live feed of the beach view from the hotel itself, complete with glassy green waves dotted with surfers.
Isabel Kallman and Georgia Getz relaxing on the lawn furniture
- A staff that will really do everything they can to make you happy. No really. Really. If you’re used to customer service in the everyday world, prepare to have your socks knocked off – and then washed, pressed, and returned to you wrapped in tissue paper tied with a bow, because that’s just how they would do it there. If you ask someone for directions, they will walk you where you need to go. The staff will call you by name. They will clean up your room not once, but twice per day. They will hand you towels, pick up after you, make messes disappear and ensure you are happier than you have been since your mom wrapped you in a sun-warmed towel after you got out of a cold swimming pool when you were four. (If you asked, they would probably even do that, too, but please don’t. It’s kinda creepy. And their pool is heated to 88 degrees, so you’ll be nice and toasty when you get out anyway).
- A staff that is way better looking than you. No insult, but they are. The person who brings your mojito or iced tea will be as beautiful as the location, which is stunning. Memorize their names, because someday when they pick up an Oscar, you can muse “And to think, he was the towel boy at the Ritz when I met him.”
- Food that doesn’t taste like hotel food. It’s expensive, but it also makes your tastebuds stand up and applaud. We had little trays of sea salt chocolate cookies delivered to our rooms one night that had Schmutzie and me counting them so that we didn’t have to have a fistfight over the last one. Even the coffee bar has pastries made by a real pastry chef (Opera Cake!), and fabulous steel-cut oatmeal and Peet’s Coffee. It’s $5 per cup, but you get free refills all day long.
- An experience you won’t ever forget, unless you’re some kind of crazy rich person who does this sort of thing all the time. This is a Destination resort with the capital D. If you want to make someone you love feel very special, a stay at a hotel like this is a good way to do it.
The pool area. One of them. Sigh.
Gym with a view
The only problem with the Ritz (as I now like to call it, since we’re on a first-name basis) is that is is almost TOO good. Every corner of the place is so beautiful that you want to chop yourself up like a starfish so you can be everywhere at once. The pool area is lush, tropical and fully staffed, so that next icy drink is just 2 minutes away. The beds are so soft and comfy that you feel like you’re floating on the wings of tiny angels. The third-floor outdoor bar has a view that would have made Ansel Adams weep. AND YOU WANT TO BE EVERYWHERE AT ONCE BUT YOU CAN’T, ARGH! That’s a good problem to have.
Sunset at the outdoor bar
Two thumbs up. The Hilton Garden Inn will never be quite the same.
Suebob's Red Stapler 