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.
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.
