By this time of the year, in the fall, after dealing with hotel guests for ten months straight, answering their inane intelligent questions, printing out maps that they won't look at because they have GPS and GPS is ALWAYS correct, after spouting the same litany of words and instructions for the ten thousandth time about the hot tub and the air conditioning controls and the hours for breakfast and on and on and on, I have very little energy for anything mentally taxing. I read a lot of Robert Parker books because they keep me entertained but need little brain power.
"Fates and Furies" is no Spencer novel. It is a very well-written novel, one that is aggressively intelligent, intriguing, well paced and makes the reader work a bit. The language is dense at times, lyrical at other times. The characters are clearly drawn and true to their created ways but a little shadowy at the same time. The story is basically of a relationship between Lotto and Mathilde, a relationship that is strong but flawed, passionate but realistically tempered. The book is in two parts, the "Fates" and the "Furies" and each part looks at their relationship from a different slant. Things that are revealed in part two change the reader's perception of things that happened in part one.
It would almost be worth buying this book, and you know I say that very rarely. I can see reading it again in a year or two. Listen to this: But there were tiny miracles to rouse her. A rosewater macaroon in the brass mailbox, in a waxed paper envelope. One blue hydrangea like a head of cabbage on the doorstep. Cold, wrinkled hands pressed to her cheeks, passing on the stairs. Bright lights in the dark.
Or this: Of course, there was also the worse reason, a darker one that he turned from quickly every time he brushed up against it, a tarry fury that he ignored so long that, by now, it had become too enormous to contemplate.
Once this book grabbed me, I didn't want to put it down. It's that kind of a novel. Check it out.
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Quick post, more to follow: people my age are writing books about dealing with their aging parents. But I have yet to read a book that actually presents the truth, the down and dirty details about dealing with our really old parents. Most of the current books are all touch-feely about the entire situation, sugar-coating the nasty bits, glossing over the poop and the pee and the bruises and the crying and the resistance.
It's not that I want to write the Really True Book about putting one's parent in a "place" but maybe that book needs to be written.
More to follow, it's been a long day and another one looms tomorrow.
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Driving home tonight from Petaluma, it was just at that moment when the sun had set and the clouds were still pinkish. And off to the left of the freeway those clouds were amazingly structural. In one way, you could see them as large teeth, complete with roots. Wide at the top, narrowing down to the root structure. But as a former English teacher, with all those grammar rules embedded in my psyche, I saw those clouds as punctuation symbols.
Those clouds formed huge exclamation symbols and huge semicolons. Those clouds formed gigantic parenthesis and they formed amazing commas and apostrophes. Those clouds were pinkish when I first found them, and so seemed cherubic almost. But after driving just a mile or two that pinkish glow faded away and gave way to a dark, gloomy gray color. Those punctuation marks, those huge colons and apostrophes, now in dark gray, almost looked better, more usable, more appropriate. They looked much more like symbols of grammar and less like ethereal clouds.
I liked seeing a sky of punctuation marks, it isn't often you see that sort of thing in the sky. I might have been the only person on the freeway at that moment who thought of those clouds in that way. That fact makes me oddly happy.
!@?"#:
It is certainly not difficult to find mediocre food in any suburb, or in any city. What is difficult is to find decent food (or perhaps mediocre to some people's standards) at a really fair price. Tonight Tom and I visited our new favorite food mall in Petaluma. This food mall, which is actually just a strip mall anchored on one end by an Orchard Supply place and on the other by IHOP and Burger King, has, in one long row, 8 businesses. In order: an Indian restaurant, a Vietnamese restaurant, a smoke shop with quite a selection of pipes, an eyeglass store, a Chinese Donut shop (come on, Chinese donuts, that is so intriguing), an empty storefront, a flower shop ("mixed bouquets for $9.99") and an Italian restaurant. Quite the ethnic variety, especially if that empty place had housed a Mexican restaurant, that would have rounded out the food choices quite nicely.
We ate at the Indian place three weeks ago and it was quite fine and the tab was about $25 for each of us, including tax and tip. We were sort of aiming for the Vietnamese place this time but their entire front window was covered with those plastic laminated photos of the food and even the photos looked sad and anemic. We passed on that. The Chinese donut place was closed, unfortunately. They only do Chinese donuts at breakfast and Chinese other treats at lunch and nothing for dinner. By default, we chose the Italian place.
It should have been called EyeTalyan. It was that sort of American-Italian blend that tastes fine at Original Joe's or Joe's of Westlake or San Rafael Joe's. In a concrete strip mall in Petaluma, not so good. (But my glass of Sangiovese wine was, I must say, a very healthy pour and quite delicious.) Salad: boring. Bread: boring. Tom's Lasagna of the Day: boring. My linguine with clams: boring.
(Sad. Honestly, my Italian mother-in-law taught me how to make good linguine and clams using canned clams, but you need garlic and lots of parsley and pepper. Salt is nice too. This had lots of clams but no flavor.)
And this meal cost us each $35, including tax and tip! That's $10 more than our allotted limit! And it wasn't worth it! We have eaten cheaper at Dempsey's and it was better and it wasn't in a strip mall. (That is not to disparage Dempsey's. I love Dempsey's but the reason I mention it is because it's a couple of steps above these strip mall places and yet you can get a really good meal for under $12.00 if you know what to order.)
So, our search continues. We are on a quest to find good, solid, decent food in the north bay for $25 all inclusive. We are sure there are food options awaiting us and we will find them. Onward.
Seriously, if you were roped into reading this posting by that title, I apologize right now. There is little to say, you can just click that little back arrow and leave it alone. Oh, wait, before you do, oh...... OK, you are gone. Well, too bad for you, loser, quitter, giver-upper. You are missing a blog post that could out-blog any blogger in blogdom. Or probably not but you won't know that because you already left the building! HA!
When you do a blog like this, there is a list of all the postings you have ever written, of course, like a very sad bibliography of your blogging life, which even saying that phrase "blogging life" is sort of creepy. But, hey, back to the list. I never look at it, the list, but just now I scrolled through a couple of years of posts because I didn't want to re-use a posting title. (Oh, the horror of that! Really, who would even notice? I wouldn't have, and so you would never have known either, right? Duh.)
But here is the REALLY GREAT THING that I discovered: in that list it tells you how many people have read each blog post. Usually when I glance at it (it comes up when you start to write a new blog post) it will show that maybe 4 people read a particular blog or 6 or 9. I don't care, really, I write for myself. But today, as I scrolled down the list, looking for that title I was thinking of using, I saw a couple of postings that had 63 or 71 or 73 viewers! What is that about! Who are these goofheads who read this stuff? And why? None of those multiple-viewer posts had anything in common, so I was elated and then stymied. And that's where I am now with it, so we are moving on.
The Mom thing: (feel free to skip ahead.) Mom lives in an independent living place, has her own apartment but they provide two meals a day, of which she partakes. (She has never cooked a meal in her kitchen. Barely heats up anything in the microwave.) But she has fallen a lot lately and thus we worry about her and thus we have been looking for a board-and-care home for her.
Now, I don't know if you all out there know about all the differences between retirement homes, board-and-care, assisted living, blah, blah. Unless you have an old person to deal with, you don't need to know. (Well, that's not true... you, reader, need to know FOR YOURSELF! Yes, you will get old, you will need either the Black Pill or care. Think about it and learn.) Assisted living is too expensive (and too huge and impersonal) for us to use. Board-and-care are homes set up to deal with old peeps who can sort of get around but need more monitoring than independent living. We visited many (previous posts will attest) and Mom visited some with us and most she hated. I hated them as well. Lovely new home, sterile, cold, inmates residents were silently staring into their own souls, no communication. My mother needs attention like a squirrel needs nuts, so silent and sterile wasn't going to cut it.
But last Friday I saw a few that would work and today one of my brothers took Mom to the one I liked and !!! Mom actually liked it! The owner hugged her as she walked in (always the way to win an old lady's heart) and it is nice and bright and homey. Mom is moving in within the week.
We siblings are relieved.
OK, enough of that.
Can we say enough about the rain today? We cannot. It seems odd to have water falling out of the sky but we are lifting our faces up to it and laughing like kids. It feels good. No, it won't last but on my way home from work today, the weather people were reporting, with such joy and hope in their radio voices, that the rain was falling directly on the Valley Fire. I haven't checked the updates of that fire but we all hope it helps. Seriously.
There is a wonderful Carl Sandburg poem that I say to myself when fires are close. It's the only poem I know by heart: Fire and Ice.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction
Ice is also great
And would suffice.
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First, a few books: "Coming of Age at the End of Days" by Alice LaPlante, a story of a young girl who gets involved in a kind of cult about the End of Days. Sort of a coming of age story, as the title tells us. It's a fast read but I wouldn't go out of my way to get it unless you saw it on the library shelf. Parts are good, the last third was better than the first two thirds, but hey, I finished it, so that says something.
"The New Neighbor" by Leah Stewart. Sort of the same thing (fast read, no need to put it on your list unless you see it on the shelf) but less cultist creepy. Two women who are neighbors forge a shaky friendship but there is something about each one that remains a secret. The reader eventually finds out those secrets but really, you don't care that much for either character, so why bother.
Second, update about Mom. (I know most of you don't even know her but it is cathartic for me to write about it.) I spent my day off, Friday, in Sacramento, in 108 degree heat, looking at board-and-care places for Mom. She is simply too unstable to stay where she is (an independent living place) and so she needs to be somewhere less independent. The places I visited were, for the most part, quite nice. Very friendly managers, immaculate, engaged residents who didn't have that 100 yard stare. But it is so frightening for Mom, and why wouldn't it be? At 95 she will be moved out of her home and put somewhere else with strangers, and she gets to have very little say in it all. No one would like that. It was a difficult day and a difficult conversation with Mom.
Third, yesterday I spent 7 hours grilling burgers, dogs, chicken and portobellos over mesquite wood out at Duncan Mills (near Jenner) for the Gay Rodeo. Yes, there is such a thing. It wasn't as hot as it could have been and, while very exhausting and dirty, it was fun. It's always fun hanging out with gay men and women. Odd conversation abounded. There were discussions about boobs (lesbians were in favor, men not so much), about penises (men and me were in favor, lesbians not so much), about gay men's facial hair (me not in favor, no one else cared). There were hot words exchanged about grilling techniques and at the same time cool praise for the same techniques. Beer was consumed. It was quite fun although I smelled like a smoked brisket by the end of the day. All for the cause of a fund-raiser, and I am always up for that.
I think that is all for now. I just consumed a delicious tequila sour (tequila, simple syrup, meyer lemon juice) and I think I will have another. Late shift tomorrow, I can sleep in a bit, maybe until 7:00 am!
over and out.
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About thirty years ago, I took Gabe bowling for his birthday, along with a couple of his friends. They didn't know how to bowl, of course, being 7 or 8 years old, but it was fun. I think that was the last time I went bowling, until last Wednesday night. Needless to say, I was a bit rusty. Gutter balls? Yep, more than a few. But I had a couple of spares and one strike, so it wasn't total humiliation.
I am not usually a fan of getting together with the people I work with after work hours. There aren't usually connections worth savoring and my off-hours are mine, not to be shared with co-workers. But fates conspired and this bowling evening was set up and six of us met to bowl, two others to watch. Bottom line, it was a blast! We barely talked about work, a good thing. We discovered that one of us (the blond with the bad back) was a cracker-jack bowler, at one point getting 4 strikes in a row. We all had different styles of bowling, from commando-attack style to ballerina-style (from the youngest of the guys.) Most of us just tried to get the ball down the lane without bouncing it or without falling down or making an ass out of ourselves on every frame.
The first game, I came in second. Second to last, that is. The next game I came in last. Did I care? Absolutely not, not one tiny bit. Oh sure, it would have been miraculous to have bowled double my score but I was there for the fun, not the win. The eight of us laughed for almost three hours, sipping on good beer, picking the pepperoni off of mediocre pizza, cheering for strikes and spares, commiserating over gutter balls. Conversation blew through many topics: television and movies we loved and hated, books we were reading, politics, restaurants we recently visited, stories from our past, thoughts of the future.
Alas, it was a school night and we all had to get up early the next morning and work so we headed home a bit after 9:00. Everyone concurred: we'll do something else together again. (Some were promoting miniature golf as the next outing but since I hate that game, I am pushing for a game of pool, or even more bowling.) Co-workers or not, sometimes you just need to get out of the sandbox and take a ride on the slide.
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We last left Mr. Tiny Head as he rolled his ice chest away from me, his pounds and pounds of brisket safe and cold. But that was not to be the end of our brief encounter.
The following morning, Sunday last, I waited for all the hotel guests to come to breakfast. It's one of the many things I do in the morning. I greet them, I ask what room they are in and I show them to a table and explain the breakfast procedure. (I sort of gag along the way, but I try to hide that from them, the delicate flowers that they are.)
In walks Mr. Tiny Head! By himself, although I know he is with someone, so I ask "Are you waiting for friends or....?" He answers "Yes, my wife and her sister. We are friends of the bride you know."
Me: "Would you like to grab a table and wait there?"
MRH: "No, I will sit here in this chair." And he sits down on the lobby chair and starts talking about his father and his grandfather and meanwhile I am trying to deal with other guests and make all the appropriate noises at the same time.
After a few minutes, I turn my head and he is gone! Quite stealthy is Mr. Tiny Head. Minutes go by. More minutes. And then I see him return and he is followed by what looks like a collection of those little Russian dolls, the wooden ones that are carved and nest into each other. The first one must be his wife. She is about a half foot shorter than MTH and quite wide but she also has a very, very small head! It's amazing! She is followed by another woman, about 4 inches shorter, then another one, 4 inches shorter still and on and on. There were 6 of these dolls, the last one being about 50 inches tall...... (about 6 inches shorter than me) and they all looked sort of alike!
It did not seem possible that they all stayed at the hotel unless they indeed nested inside each other all night long like Russian dolls. (Hey, stranger things could happen.) I had to ask "So, what rooms are you staying in?" (I sort of knew the answer in advance but I still had to ask.)
"Oh, only four of us are staying here, the rest just came to visit but we will all have breakfast and we are going to move all these tables (4 of them) together so we can all visit with each other and, honey, can you bring us some coffee?"
Me: "Umm, we aren't actually a restaurant and while you are welcome to the granola and yogurt on the sideboard, only the four of you staying here can have breakfast. And no, sorry, you cannot move the tables. There are other guests to consider."
Pause. A long pause. Some shuffling of eyes. Some pursing of lips. Silent waving of hands. Finally, Ms. Tiny Head says "Oh, chile, that will be fine, we'll just all share whatever you give us." (Realize, please, that I am probably 15 years older than her, so being called "chile" was a little odd.)
I said OK and left the dining room. They squished 6 people at a 4-top and the other 6 (they had other friends I have not mentioned) sat at another 4-top on the other side of the dining room area. They ate a lot of granola and yogurt and shared the main course and, of course, with that many people, made a mess of the table. (But many people do, which is another topic for another time. How can grown up people spill so much food on a table in such a short time? And does no one clean up after oneself anymore? Baffling.)
When they all filed out, like circus clowns, they did say thank you and all that. But it was such a strange thing and so many of them ate for free that it almost seemed like a huge intrusion. Whatever.
Mr. and Mrs. Tiny Head and their nesting doll friends came and went. Their adventure was over. The cast of characters that checked in after them brought new depression delights that plague amuse me still.
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There was an article in the Sunday Santa Rosa Press Democrat newspaper about this new phenomenon that is sweeping the nation called "babywearing." Seriously. It is the radical (albeit ancient) practice of tying your baby to your body with rags and old towels. No, that's not correct. You tie the kid to you with Hermes scarves and hand-woven fabrics that cost more than $200 for a piece of material that your kid is going to throw up on. (Or you, the parent, might once you realize how much this "trend" is costing you.)
Now, don't get me wrong, I have no problems with carrying your kid next to you, wrapped in a sling device. It frees your arms to do other things like stock up on Lululemon tank tops (at $77 each) or reach for those organic $8.99 per pound tomatoes at your local farmers market. Women, mostly, have been carrying their babies like this for decades, but those women were using whatever fabric was at hand. The new generation of baby makers and babywearers would probably gag at the idea of using "whatever fabric was at hand." That could mean anything, like a sheet or a curtain or something that had no actual value.
Just the name makes me cringe: babywearing. Like your baby is the new accessory. What is next? I know for certain that kitten and puppy wearing are already taking place. (Cooper has been whining that he wants me to wear him. I have explained to him that, yes, I would be happy to wear him. AS A PIECE OF TANNED HIDE! He did not like that idea.)
With so many people walking around with their phones in their faces, it will be very soon that we see the younger generation (pre-babywearers) with designer slings for their phones and iPads. That way the device is always at hand but their hands are momentarily free to pick up that $30 bottle of hand-crafted beer that they just read about on said device. We could call them "padwearers" but that sounds too .... distasteful. We might call them "Applewearers" or "androidwearers" but maybe we should just call them sheep.
If the above sounds like an old lady rant, I assure you I am not that old. Snuggle your babies, yes. But there are sites and stores and commerce devoted to this trendy thing and I fear it's simply another person's way to make money off the rich young baby producers. It's not new, kids. What's new is your obsession with yourselves. Hug your babies. Give up the accouterments.
But hey, just my opinion. I could be wrong.
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