The roommate dilemma: the thought of living with strangers makes my stomach hurt. Coming home and having some stranger in my kitchen, cooking their vegan kale tofu lactose and gluten free chili and chanting to the healing spirits is hard to envision. Reading through some of the "room wanted" posts on craigslist is a bit frightening. Honestly, here are some bits I have encountered:
I like to study and craft medicinal potions, create dreamcatchers from foraged forest treasures, practice yoga, dance ecstatically, etc
I have been unhealthy, and that's why I don't have money. I owe my dad a lot of money, so he doesn't want to help me financially.
..... having surgery for nerve damage during this time.
Need a place to live and grow medical marijuana as soon as I get my license to grow and sell.
I have a clay oven-ehem- "clay oven" (aka toaster oven), which I use to bake my polymer clay dolls and creature sculptures.
I am a face painter, a sparkly illustrated faery lady.
I could go on but I won't. Yes, there are some normal sounding people out there too, but I just don't think I can do the whole roommate thing. Plus, I would need at least two of them, two total strangers, most of them arriving with pets in tow, all of them as strange and eccentric as I am. Imagine sitting down to watch "Sons of Anarchy" with a faery lady who lists, as the most influential movies in her life "The Neverending Story" and "The Last Unicorn." Seriously, I could not make that up.
I talk all day long, it's part of my job, talking to guests. In person and on the phone, blah, blah, blah. When I come home I say 'hello' to the dogs, walk them and then enjoy the fact that I don't have to converse with them. I like it that way. I read all the time. All. The. Time. I read way more than I watch TV and thus I talk way less than I watch TV. (Well, to be truthful, I often talk to the TV but we don't need to discuss that. I also sometimes talk to the book I am reading. Ditto on that.) If I need conversation, I pick up the phone and call someone. Every week or so I meet up with a friend and that satisfies my social needs for a few days.
But, but, but...... with the rental market out there as dismal as a diaper in a dumpster, I may have to take in borders. Or become one myself. It's a thought that gives me shivers. I suppose I should start fashioning dreamcatchers out of found objects and see if can nab that perfect roommate before the faery lady spirits her away. Just as soon as my plans to grow medical marijuana in your backyard have solidifed....
.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
It's not that I don't know how to pack....
......I just was hoping not to have to do so quite so soon. But it seems I will be looking for a new place to live; Jenn is moving out May 1st, moving in with her girlfriend. That part is good, they are good for each other and it will put Jenn closer to her work and I think they will be happy together for quite a while. (I could stay here and get some roommates but seriously? That's a subject for another night.)
But moving? Again? This will be the 7th place I have lived in since October 2010. That's less than 5 years; 7 places in less than 5 years is a lot of moving. Well, it means going through my closet again and my dresser drawers and paring down, tossing out, giving away. Again.
And the rental market is crappy right now for renters. Good for landlords, bad for renters. $900 for a 250 square foot studio, no kidding. Of course, I could go up to Lake County which I think is the poorest county in California right now. Lots of rentals up there. Landlords with no teeth, living in trailers with strange smells leaking out. So much meth, so little time. I will avoid Lake County.
I have come to really like Santa Rosa. After living for more than 20 years in Inverness, where there are no real neighborhoods, just lots of random homes, lots of acreage, beautiful hiking trails, one lane roads that are safe to walk on, I have come to like the conformity of this little burg. My neighborhood right now was built in the 1950's and all the houses, about 150 of them, all look similar. There is something comforting about walking the dogs through these streets, seeing some of the same people on a regular basis, having people smile and me and the dogs and wave. The 'hood I lived in two years ago was older, small bungalow homes and sort-of-Craftsman style homes but the same feel. There are well-established rose bushes, beautiful trees and lots of squirrels in Santa Rosa. Lots of homeless people as well, some we see on a regular basis, who say hello to the dogs and say good morning to me.
I like my Santa Rosa streets. I know where it's easy to steal a Meyer lemon or two, where I can let the dogs off their leashes early in the morning to run free, where people put out boxes with free fruit in the summer because they have too many apples, plums, pears, zucchini. (It's odd.... no one ever puts out boxes of home-grown tomatoes.) There are restaurants I love, Spinster Sisters, Willi's Wine Bar, Ike's Sandwiches, even Canaveri's funky family Italian deli where most of the pasta is over-cooked but where you can get the perfect canoli, every time. I love the library, the rec hall where I can take Tai Chi classes, the SR Junior College Culinary cafe where you can get a great lunch for 8 bucks. I have my favorite Chinese, Puerto Rican, French, Italian, Vietnamese, Mexican, American and Indian restaurants. There are farmers markets, a great Thai market, a really funky Asian food store which scares me a little every time I go in to get random Asian spicy sauces. My favorite pedicure place is here, where the owner is planning on Jenn and I coming to Vietnam with her to cater her nephew's wedding. (And honestly, if it happens, we will go.)
In short, Santa Rosa works for me and it is sad to think that I might not find another place to live here. Yes, it's too early to entertain that sort of negative thought but that thought creeps along the edges of my consciousness too often.
Ah well, life is just a big friggin journey, isn't it? We sometimes get to pick what happens but mostly it happens while we are still trying to pick the right thing. It just happens. We are just along for the cosmic ride.
So now I am collecting packing boxes and eyeing things on my shelves to see if I really want to haul them to yet one other place. I am envisioning a huge yard sale in mid April, selling china, platters, glasses, clothes, books, and who knows what else. Heck, it's better than moving it all one more time. And maybe that 250 sq foot studio isn't a bad idea; at least it would limit what I owned and it would make the move pretty simple. Right now, with the exception of two pieces of furniture, everything I own I can carry out on my own. I consider that an accomplishment. But still, the 7th place in less than 5 years is exhausting in so many ways.
and so it goes....
.
But moving? Again? This will be the 7th place I have lived in since October 2010. That's less than 5 years; 7 places in less than 5 years is a lot of moving. Well, it means going through my closet again and my dresser drawers and paring down, tossing out, giving away. Again.
And the rental market is crappy right now for renters. Good for landlords, bad for renters. $900 for a 250 square foot studio, no kidding. Of course, I could go up to Lake County which I think is the poorest county in California right now. Lots of rentals up there. Landlords with no teeth, living in trailers with strange smells leaking out. So much meth, so little time. I will avoid Lake County.
I have come to really like Santa Rosa. After living for more than 20 years in Inverness, where there are no real neighborhoods, just lots of random homes, lots of acreage, beautiful hiking trails, one lane roads that are safe to walk on, I have come to like the conformity of this little burg. My neighborhood right now was built in the 1950's and all the houses, about 150 of them, all look similar. There is something comforting about walking the dogs through these streets, seeing some of the same people on a regular basis, having people smile and me and the dogs and wave. The 'hood I lived in two years ago was older, small bungalow homes and sort-of-Craftsman style homes but the same feel. There are well-established rose bushes, beautiful trees and lots of squirrels in Santa Rosa. Lots of homeless people as well, some we see on a regular basis, who say hello to the dogs and say good morning to me.
I like my Santa Rosa streets. I know where it's easy to steal a Meyer lemon or two, where I can let the dogs off their leashes early in the morning to run free, where people put out boxes with free fruit in the summer because they have too many apples, plums, pears, zucchini. (It's odd.... no one ever puts out boxes of home-grown tomatoes.) There are restaurants I love, Spinster Sisters, Willi's Wine Bar, Ike's Sandwiches, even Canaveri's funky family Italian deli where most of the pasta is over-cooked but where you can get the perfect canoli, every time. I love the library, the rec hall where I can take Tai Chi classes, the SR Junior College Culinary cafe where you can get a great lunch for 8 bucks. I have my favorite Chinese, Puerto Rican, French, Italian, Vietnamese, Mexican, American and Indian restaurants. There are farmers markets, a great Thai market, a really funky Asian food store which scares me a little every time I go in to get random Asian spicy sauces. My favorite pedicure place is here, where the owner is planning on Jenn and I coming to Vietnam with her to cater her nephew's wedding. (And honestly, if it happens, we will go.)
In short, Santa Rosa works for me and it is sad to think that I might not find another place to live here. Yes, it's too early to entertain that sort of negative thought but that thought creeps along the edges of my consciousness too often.
Ah well, life is just a big friggin journey, isn't it? We sometimes get to pick what happens but mostly it happens while we are still trying to pick the right thing. It just happens. We are just along for the cosmic ride.
So now I am collecting packing boxes and eyeing things on my shelves to see if I really want to haul them to yet one other place. I am envisioning a huge yard sale in mid April, selling china, platters, glasses, clothes, books, and who knows what else. Heck, it's better than moving it all one more time. And maybe that 250 sq foot studio isn't a bad idea; at least it would limit what I owned and it would make the move pretty simple. Right now, with the exception of two pieces of furniture, everything I own I can carry out on my own. I consider that an accomplishment. But still, the 7th place in less than 5 years is exhausting in so many ways.
and so it goes....
.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
"Mozart in the Jungle" "Transparent" "Whiplash"
If you have a ROKU device and thus you are watching streaming TV ( as opposed to steaming TV) you should check out the Amazon channel. Two excellent shows. One is "Mozart in the Jungle", a one season show about young adults making their way through music school in New York. Well done, well written, well acted.
And I am sure most of you have watched "Transparent" with Jeffrey Tambor. One of the best things on TV in a long time. There is too much to say about it other than how good it is.
Lastly, you can now rent "Whiplash" on Amazon.com and stream it to your TV. It was one of the best films I saw last year. J.K. Simmons won all kinds of awards as the music teacher, but the movie is much more than just his character. Seriously, I started applauding in the theater when it was over, and you know I am usually too cynical to do that. So, do yourself a favor and watch it. It's tough. Don't give up. It has one of the best movie endings ever, in a hard-working kind of way.
.
And I am sure most of you have watched "Transparent" with Jeffrey Tambor. One of the best things on TV in a long time. There is too much to say about it other than how good it is.
Lastly, you can now rent "Whiplash" on Amazon.com and stream it to your TV. It was one of the best films I saw last year. J.K. Simmons won all kinds of awards as the music teacher, but the movie is much more than just his character. Seriously, I started applauding in the theater when it was over, and you know I am usually too cynical to do that. So, do yourself a favor and watch it. It's tough. Don't give up. It has one of the best movie endings ever, in a hard-working kind of way.
.
"Being Mortal" by Atul Gawande
There are more than 40 million people in the US over the age of 50, and that's just one statistic. There are millions of us Baby Boomers who are hitting retirement age right now. Millions more will hit that age very soon and many who will be 75 or 80 or 85 in no time. Do you ever think about that? About what you are going to do when you can no longer live alone? About the changes your body will be going through and why? Not just the physical changes but the psychological ones as well, and the changes to your mental capacities and perception and balance and the whole gigantic ball of wax? It's rather daunting, actually.
Read this book: "Being Mortal" by Atul Gawande. It's an eye-opener. He takes a good, hard look at the options of all of us in this age demographic and tells us what's coming up. Gawande recounts stories of people he meets, their paths into old age, what happens to their bodies, minds, housing situations, all of it. Surprisingly, it's not the terrible doomsday scenario that you think it might be. Well, it could be that but he presents things in such a fashion that you feel hopeful, that you might be able to get old and come to a decent end without too much suffering and, more importantly, without too much humiliation. But it takes some planning and a huge amount of thought.
This book made me think a lot about dying. Not in the fatalistic way but in the "oh, this is the next Big Thing" sort of way. Dying doesn't scare me. Not being prepared for a slow descent into death does. But we have the power (and the ability right now) to make sure we are prepared and that it isn't scary. We just need to plan, do some work and think about it a lot.
Just read the book. Buy it. Read it and pass it on. Seriously, you will thank me. It's a great meditation on getting old and dealing with it. Hell, we are all going to die and we are getting closer and closer to it. Let's go into that dark goodnight confident and unafraid. And prepared.
And get out there and get that blood moving! It's the only thing that helps the brain not die. And the heart. Well, the liver and pancreas and kidneys, too. And lungs. And the skin.
Anyone want to start the investigation into small communal living? People are creating small communities of 12 -20 people, small cottages built around a central gathering place, common gardens, sharing meals or living mostly independant. There are new ways for older folks to live that are much better than moving into a "retirement home" of 100 + people who all eat at the same time and have structured "activities." Better ways of living are out there. We just need to find them. Now. Not when we are 90.
.
Read this book: "Being Mortal" by Atul Gawande. It's an eye-opener. He takes a good, hard look at the options of all of us in this age demographic and tells us what's coming up. Gawande recounts stories of people he meets, their paths into old age, what happens to their bodies, minds, housing situations, all of it. Surprisingly, it's not the terrible doomsday scenario that you think it might be. Well, it could be that but he presents things in such a fashion that you feel hopeful, that you might be able to get old and come to a decent end without too much suffering and, more importantly, without too much humiliation. But it takes some planning and a huge amount of thought.
This book made me think a lot about dying. Not in the fatalistic way but in the "oh, this is the next Big Thing" sort of way. Dying doesn't scare me. Not being prepared for a slow descent into death does. But we have the power (and the ability right now) to make sure we are prepared and that it isn't scary. We just need to plan, do some work and think about it a lot.
Just read the book. Buy it. Read it and pass it on. Seriously, you will thank me. It's a great meditation on getting old and dealing with it. Hell, we are all going to die and we are getting closer and closer to it. Let's go into that dark goodnight confident and unafraid. And prepared.
And get out there and get that blood moving! It's the only thing that helps the brain not die. And the heart. Well, the liver and pancreas and kidneys, too. And lungs. And the skin.
Anyone want to start the investigation into small communal living? People are creating small communities of 12 -20 people, small cottages built around a central gathering place, common gardens, sharing meals or living mostly independant. There are new ways for older folks to live that are much better than moving into a "retirement home" of 100 + people who all eat at the same time and have structured "activities." Better ways of living are out there. We just need to find them. Now. Not when we are 90.
.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Oh, just go home. (But I don't say that.)
Sunday morning, 10:45 am.
Guest walks into the lobby, up to the front desk.
Me: Good morning.
Him: I am here to check in.
Me: Your name. ..... Yes, I see you are coming in today but check in isn't until much later. You're a little early.
Him: I need to get into my room now.
Me: Sir, check out isn't until 11:30, the guests from last night are still in the room.
Him: Well, then put me in another room, I need to get into the room now.
Me: Sir, that isn't going to be possible.
Him: WHAT? I am here, I want my room now.
Me: Well, it is occupied right now. And I don't have any rooms you can go into.
Him: This is ridiculous, I need to use the room.
Me: I am sorry, but that's not possible right now.
Him: Where can I get something to eat?
Me: Here are the closest places, right in the village......
Him: OK, I will be back in 20 minutes and I need the room then.
Me: The room will not be ready then.
Him: I will be back then. I need the room now.
Me: The room will not be ready before 2:00.
Him: WHAT? I need the room now.
Me: The room is not going to be ready for a while. Would you like a cup of coffee?
Him: No I don't want coffee. I want to get into my room now.
Me: I don't know what else to tell you. The room is not ready.
Him: Do you have a bathroom I can use?
Me: Sure, at the end of the dining room.
Twenty minutes goes by. Seriously, he is in the bathroom for twenty minutes. He comes back to the front desk.
Him: How long until my room is ready.
Me: Three hours. (By this time I am blunt and unfriendly.)
Him: I'll be back then.
Me: Great. See you then, have a lovely day. (I smile.)
Now, if this guy just had to use the bathroom, that would have been fine, it happens all the time. But it was as if he had a dead body in the car that he wanted to put in a bathtub and cut up. The urgency about getting into his room was so over the top that I was beginning to worry about his motives. I watched him walk to his car and drive away. There was no one else in the car with him. At least not that I could see. Without X-ray vision, I couldn't see if there was actually a body in the trunk. There could have been. There could have been a box of bunnies in the trunk or a man dressed in a shark costume, I have no idea, but this guy was manic about getting into his room RIGHT THEN!
I was on the desk until 3:00, he had not returned by then and the next morning I was not on the front desk so I did not get any resolution to the above speculation. Housekeeping found no blood in the bathtub of his room and no discarded shark costume, no bunnies, nothing.
Oh, the joys of dealing with the public.
.
Guest walks into the lobby, up to the front desk.
Me: Good morning.
Him: I am here to check in.
Me: Your name. ..... Yes, I see you are coming in today but check in isn't until much later. You're a little early.
Him: I need to get into my room now.
Me: Sir, check out isn't until 11:30, the guests from last night are still in the room.
Him: Well, then put me in another room, I need to get into the room now.
Me: Sir, that isn't going to be possible.
Him: WHAT? I am here, I want my room now.
Me: Well, it is occupied right now. And I don't have any rooms you can go into.
Him: This is ridiculous, I need to use the room.
Me: I am sorry, but that's not possible right now.
Him: Where can I get something to eat?
Me: Here are the closest places, right in the village......
Him: OK, I will be back in 20 minutes and I need the room then.
Me: The room will not be ready then.
Him: I will be back then. I need the room now.
Me: The room will not be ready before 2:00.
Him: WHAT? I need the room now.
Me: The room is not going to be ready for a while. Would you like a cup of coffee?
Him: No I don't want coffee. I want to get into my room now.
Me: I don't know what else to tell you. The room is not ready.
Him: Do you have a bathroom I can use?
Me: Sure, at the end of the dining room.
Twenty minutes goes by. Seriously, he is in the bathroom for twenty minutes. He comes back to the front desk.
Him: How long until my room is ready.
Me: Three hours. (By this time I am blunt and unfriendly.)
Him: I'll be back then.
Me: Great. See you then, have a lovely day. (I smile.)
Now, if this guy just had to use the bathroom, that would have been fine, it happens all the time. But it was as if he had a dead body in the car that he wanted to put in a bathtub and cut up. The urgency about getting into his room was so over the top that I was beginning to worry about his motives. I watched him walk to his car and drive away. There was no one else in the car with him. At least not that I could see. Without X-ray vision, I couldn't see if there was actually a body in the trunk. There could have been. There could have been a box of bunnies in the trunk or a man dressed in a shark costume, I have no idea, but this guy was manic about getting into his room RIGHT THEN!
I was on the desk until 3:00, he had not returned by then and the next morning I was not on the front desk so I did not get any resolution to the above speculation. Housekeeping found no blood in the bathtub of his room and no discarded shark costume, no bunnies, nothing.
Oh, the joys of dealing with the public.
.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Alert! More coming!
I made a deal with a demanding bitch that I write more often and get all of my writings organized. So, thanks to that bitch my daughter, you will be hearing (reading) me more in the next two months. That's the plan, anyway, so be on alert. Read on! Tell your friends! Or not. But just for the few of you out there who read this, please keep on reading.
xo
xo
Lying my way through Lent
Growing up, we Catholics were too Lent-oriented. (Not me, but you know, the real ones.) Lent was like a test that you simply had to pass. If you failed, you were dissing the trials and tribulations of Jesus, and no one would go to Heaven if that happened. The point of Lent then was to Give Up Something. The nuns suggested all kinds of things: candy, soda, TV, sex, drugs. (Hmm, maybe not the last two, at least not in 6th grade, but maybe.....) So we had to pick what we were Giving Up and the humiliating part of it (because Catholics were 100% into humiliating each other) was that you had to stand up in class and tell everyone what you were Giving Up. Shit. The options for a 6th grader were so limited and yet one wanted to be creative, original and saintly! What should it be? Candy seemed too easy. Our house never had soda, so I could easily go with that one and suffer zero, but that wasn't the Jesus way, so nix on that. TV? Not in our house, see above. (We didn't really have a lot of TV.) Chocolate? The Sunday Comics? Long stem roses? Almonds? Clean underwear? The library? Alcohol? (Oh, yes, standing up in class and announcing that you were Giving Up beer would be so, so fun but so, so unfortunate. So no on that one.)
So, obviously you lied. You thought and thought and came up with something to Give Up even though that thing might have never crossed your doorstep. The problem with this scenario is that the lie had to last 6 friggin weeks! (In our family we took Sunday's off from Lent. I don't know if other families did that, but ours did and that's when my Dad was happy, coming back from Sunday Mass, eating a jolly big breakfast, reading the entertaining Sunday newspaper, drinking several beers. We were all relieved.) But I digress.
Keeping a lie alive for 6 weeks is very difficult when you are 10 or 11 or 12 years old. (As we all know, it gets a lot easier the older you get. Keeping a lie alive for years is now possible. If only we had that talent back then.) You have to create a kind of infrastructure of the lie, a back story, a reason why you would Give Up that thing. It couldn't be something like ..... hot dogs because you sometimes had those for dinner. It would never be Fried Chicken because that was the only thing my mother cooked that was edible. What could it be?
I don't remember all of my wise 11 year old choices but I remember one: I Gave Up listening to music on the radio. Of course, I rarely listened to music on radio, not having one in my room but I told Jesus that it was the thought that counted. I did have a small record player and a very small collection of very small 45's, which I would never give up no matter how much Jesus had to suffer through Chubby Checker and the Righteous Brothers. But not listening to music on the radio was perfect! Everyone loved the radio! Everyone, especially the Nun, would think I was a total saint and that I really, really loved Jesus! Foolproof.
In our house the radio was pretty much used for listening to Dodger Games. Since I didn't give up baseball on the radio, I was home safe. In school we had to stand up once a week, usually on Monday, and tell if we had let our sacrifice lapse. (Why is it that Catholics use the word "lapse" more than any other organized group?) I could always say "no" to that regime, I was alway 100% NOT listening to music on the radio. It worked! For the six weeks of Lent, I lied every week and no one ever knew.
And honestly, even at the age of 10 or 11 or 12, I had no guilt about it all. Give something up? My family was poor. We had so little to get, there was simply not much to actually Give Up. I knew Jesus wouldn't care. I also knew that Jesus was paying no attention to my 6th grade class. I sort of intuited that Jesus was paying no attention to much on earth. So lying my way through Lent wasn't a big risk, redemption-wise.
And hey, it earned me points with the Nuns! That translated into good grades. It was an early lesson in "agree with me and you will be saved."
I think about all this now because it is now Lent Time. I know that there is a new paradigm about Lent, it's now What You Will Do instead of What You Will Give Up. But I bet there are still kids trying to figure out what to do to satisfy a requirement that should no longer exist. What I say to those 11 year old kids is this: Give Up Smoking! Give Up Hardboiled Eggs! Volunteer at a Maximum Security Prison! Teach an Alien to read! Pick something so out there that no one can call you on it.
And eat all the chocolate you want. I am sure Jesus, who I am pretty sure is the guy who bags my groceries, would approve.
.
So, obviously you lied. You thought and thought and came up with something to Give Up even though that thing might have never crossed your doorstep. The problem with this scenario is that the lie had to last 6 friggin weeks! (In our family we took Sunday's off from Lent. I don't know if other families did that, but ours did and that's when my Dad was happy, coming back from Sunday Mass, eating a jolly big breakfast, reading the entertaining Sunday newspaper, drinking several beers. We were all relieved.) But I digress.
Keeping a lie alive for 6 weeks is very difficult when you are 10 or 11 or 12 years old. (As we all know, it gets a lot easier the older you get. Keeping a lie alive for years is now possible. If only we had that talent back then.) You have to create a kind of infrastructure of the lie, a back story, a reason why you would Give Up that thing. It couldn't be something like ..... hot dogs because you sometimes had those for dinner. It would never be Fried Chicken because that was the only thing my mother cooked that was edible. What could it be?
I don't remember all of my wise 11 year old choices but I remember one: I Gave Up listening to music on the radio. Of course, I rarely listened to music on radio, not having one in my room but I told Jesus that it was the thought that counted. I did have a small record player and a very small collection of very small 45's, which I would never give up no matter how much Jesus had to suffer through Chubby Checker and the Righteous Brothers. But not listening to music on the radio was perfect! Everyone loved the radio! Everyone, especially the Nun, would think I was a total saint and that I really, really loved Jesus! Foolproof.
In our house the radio was pretty much used for listening to Dodger Games. Since I didn't give up baseball on the radio, I was home safe. In school we had to stand up once a week, usually on Monday, and tell if we had let our sacrifice lapse. (Why is it that Catholics use the word "lapse" more than any other organized group?) I could always say "no" to that regime, I was alway 100% NOT listening to music on the radio. It worked! For the six weeks of Lent, I lied every week and no one ever knew.
And honestly, even at the age of 10 or 11 or 12, I had no guilt about it all. Give something up? My family was poor. We had so little to get, there was simply not much to actually Give Up. I knew Jesus wouldn't care. I also knew that Jesus was paying no attention to my 6th grade class. I sort of intuited that Jesus was paying no attention to much on earth. So lying my way through Lent wasn't a big risk, redemption-wise.
And hey, it earned me points with the Nuns! That translated into good grades. It was an early lesson in "agree with me and you will be saved."
I think about all this now because it is now Lent Time. I know that there is a new paradigm about Lent, it's now What You Will Do instead of What You Will Give Up. But I bet there are still kids trying to figure out what to do to satisfy a requirement that should no longer exist. What I say to those 11 year old kids is this: Give Up Smoking! Give Up Hardboiled Eggs! Volunteer at a Maximum Security Prison! Teach an Alien to read! Pick something so out there that no one can call you on it.
And eat all the chocolate you want. I am sure Jesus, who I am pretty sure is the guy who bags my groceries, would approve.
.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Dining with my son
Every four weeks or so I meet Gabe somewhere around Novato for dinner. It's sort of a half-way point for both of us, although Novato isn't known for its great dining options. Seriously, we have met at Rickey's several times and if you have never been there, well, don't hurry. Or maybe you should hurry because places like Rickey's won't be around forever. Perhaps at one time it was "fine dining" but now it's more like "just something to eat." But they have a nice 12 year old Macallum Scotch and so it ain't all bad.
Last night we met on Grant Street, the heart of commerce in Novato, if Novato actually has a heart. Finnegan's touts itself as an Irish Bar. One would expect pub food, shamrocks, Irish fighting ballads. (Yes, that's a bit of a contradiction but some of those old Irish ballads are about beating the crap out of someone, so there you go.) You would not expect something called "Irish Nachos" but indeed, they were on the menu and we had to have them. A combo of waffle-cut french fries, some pulled pork, cheese, some other stuff. They were very bad for you so we ate all of them. And the entertainment of the evening was a lone guitar player doing covers of Elton John songs. Last I knew, Elton was not Irish, but he is a changeable guy so maybe he has gone over to the land of the green.
But the point is to have dinner and drinks with Gabe. We talk about everything: our pets, friends, work, food, travel, the vagaries of life, poverty, politics, happiness, getting old. Everything else, too, we never run out of things to chat about. And usually we have neat shots of good whiskey, either from Kentucky or Scotland or Ireland. Just two shots, we are conscious of the fact we have to drive home.
Last night, after the above mentioned Irish Nachos, we walked down Grant for a while and then back up, passing a really seedy looking bar dropped in the middle of the block. The other businesses on the block were seriously aiming for "upscale." A pseudo-Italian trattoria, a very high-end toy store, a furniture store selling nothing but kids sleep furniture (what an odd niche market that is), clothing stores, housewares, you name it. And then this dive bar. We both like dive bars (well, he is my son after all) and we both appreciated the bar's gutsy grasp on that little piece of high-priced real estate. So we went in for one last Bushmill's. Gordon Lightfoot was singing about the Edmund Fitzgerald, an almost-homeless man scooted over so we could sit at the bar, the bartender was nowhere to be found for about three minutes, I was the only female in the place, and it was perfect.
There is something about hanging out with your kids when they are no longer kids but successful adults. The relationship is so intense and yet so easy. It's one of the most powerful, concentrated feelings I have ever experienced but it is also so ethereal and almost ghostly. It has the strength of a hundred spider webs but seems almost that lacy and fine. Impossible to describe and I don't know if other parents have the same feeling, but it's rather unique.
I am not sure we will visit Finnegan's again but there is more dinner and whiskey in our future, of that I am certain.
.
Last night we met on Grant Street, the heart of commerce in Novato, if Novato actually has a heart. Finnegan's touts itself as an Irish Bar. One would expect pub food, shamrocks, Irish fighting ballads. (Yes, that's a bit of a contradiction but some of those old Irish ballads are about beating the crap out of someone, so there you go.) You would not expect something called "Irish Nachos" but indeed, they were on the menu and we had to have them. A combo of waffle-cut french fries, some pulled pork, cheese, some other stuff. They were very bad for you so we ate all of them. And the entertainment of the evening was a lone guitar player doing covers of Elton John songs. Last I knew, Elton was not Irish, but he is a changeable guy so maybe he has gone over to the land of the green.
But the point is to have dinner and drinks with Gabe. We talk about everything: our pets, friends, work, food, travel, the vagaries of life, poverty, politics, happiness, getting old. Everything else, too, we never run out of things to chat about. And usually we have neat shots of good whiskey, either from Kentucky or Scotland or Ireland. Just two shots, we are conscious of the fact we have to drive home.
Last night, after the above mentioned Irish Nachos, we walked down Grant for a while and then back up, passing a really seedy looking bar dropped in the middle of the block. The other businesses on the block were seriously aiming for "upscale." A pseudo-Italian trattoria, a very high-end toy store, a furniture store selling nothing but kids sleep furniture (what an odd niche market that is), clothing stores, housewares, you name it. And then this dive bar. We both like dive bars (well, he is my son after all) and we both appreciated the bar's gutsy grasp on that little piece of high-priced real estate. So we went in for one last Bushmill's. Gordon Lightfoot was singing about the Edmund Fitzgerald, an almost-homeless man scooted over so we could sit at the bar, the bartender was nowhere to be found for about three minutes, I was the only female in the place, and it was perfect.
There is something about hanging out with your kids when they are no longer kids but successful adults. The relationship is so intense and yet so easy. It's one of the most powerful, concentrated feelings I have ever experienced but it is also so ethereal and almost ghostly. It has the strength of a hundred spider webs but seems almost that lacy and fine. Impossible to describe and I don't know if other parents have the same feeling, but it's rather unique.
I am not sure we will visit Finnegan's again but there is more dinner and whiskey in our future, of that I am certain.
.
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