Check out youtube.com and plug in the above song title. It's nothing big, just an old folk song from Ireland, but a few lines in the song have been calling me lately. You can listen to Joan Baez or Van Morrison or Loudon Wainright III or Paddy Reilly perform it, they are all good. What is it that makes a song dig deep into our heart, into our spirit and latch on like a lizard to our psyche and not let go? I heard this song for the first time 20 years ago, listened to it often then. And after that, zip, it was gone. Two weeks ago, the lines came back to me in a sudden flash: ... these childhood places bring sad reflections of happy days spent so long ago. My girlhood friends and my own relations have all passed on like the melting snow. But I'll spend my days in endless roving, soft is the grass and my bed is free.
It goes on, of course, and if you listen to it you might like it, you might not. But again, some songs stick in the gut of our psyche and they have the ability to haunt us relentlessly. "Carrickfergus" is one for me. Another is "Hallelujah" written by Leonard Cohen, which stuns me every time. But then most of his songs take the listener to another level. He makes popular lyrics seem like a dinner at Denny's. Maybe there's a god above but all I've ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who out-drew you. Tell me that doesn't burn.
My lovely daughter and I drove to Sacra-tomato today to take Gramma out to lunch. We had a good time, it's so much easier with a third person and since Gramma loves Jenn so much, it makes the day so much nicer. We made Mom laugh a lot, she had a nice little lunch and she got to go home with a cookie and Jenn and I had four hours in the car to chat. We used that time wisely.
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Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Friday, March 25, 2016
Books, money, crime, food and fools in paradise.....
I have a friend who quit her job here in Santa Rosa a month ago and returned to her home base in New Zealand with the desire to work the grape harvest and learn about making wine. (The fact that she lived in California wine country but wanted to return home to learn about wine making deserves a round of applause here. In my opinion, of course.) We email back and forth a bit and she did get hired on as a seasonal vineyard worker and has managed to cobble together a place to live (hostel) and transport to work (shuttle) and computer connections (spotty). I find it so admirable that a young woman would just toss her cards in the air, store her belongings and set out to answer a calling she has, on her own, with no set plan other than to just do it.
It's things like the above and things like accidentally coming across an obit of someone I knew from SF, things like finding out that friends of my daughter were killed mysteriously, like realizing there aren't that many more years in my life to get to do what I want...... it's all this and more that has dropped me into a vat of introspection. And I am not terribly happy with what I am finding in that vat. Sometimes, introspection sucks.
But I digress. A book: The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth McKenzie is well worth checking out of the library or borrowing from a book-buying friend. It's a look at marriage and careers and relatives and nature but through a rather crazy pair of glasses. There are squirrels in this novel that possess quiet insight (very quiet) into human lives, there are large pharmaceutical companies that have no insight into anything except profit (big surprise), there are people who believe in those squirrels and those companies and yet, there's a lot more. McKenzie is a cool, funny, breezy writer that takes you along for the ride in the swanky convertible down the tree-lined boulevard but you gradually realize that the convertible is really an old, lime-green Gremlin and that the boulevard is not just full of broken dreams but full of chipped teeth and severed doll heads as well. In other words, things are never what they seem. In other words, reality is hard and harsh and often not what one wants. However, reality is what we have. It is the thing of marriage and relationships and love and squirrels.
You can read the book in two or three days, it does move quite nicely, and it will make you laugh and cry and acknowledge the craziness and idiosyncratic ways of life. And along the way you will meet some squirrels. It's a good read, one you will enjoy.
More on crime and fools in paradise later. It's time for some food now. We will call it lunch.
.
It's things like the above and things like accidentally coming across an obit of someone I knew from SF, things like finding out that friends of my daughter were killed mysteriously, like realizing there aren't that many more years in my life to get to do what I want...... it's all this and more that has dropped me into a vat of introspection. And I am not terribly happy with what I am finding in that vat. Sometimes, introspection sucks.
But I digress. A book: The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth McKenzie is well worth checking out of the library or borrowing from a book-buying friend. It's a look at marriage and careers and relatives and nature but through a rather crazy pair of glasses. There are squirrels in this novel that possess quiet insight (very quiet) into human lives, there are large pharmaceutical companies that have no insight into anything except profit (big surprise), there are people who believe in those squirrels and those companies and yet, there's a lot more. McKenzie is a cool, funny, breezy writer that takes you along for the ride in the swanky convertible down the tree-lined boulevard but you gradually realize that the convertible is really an old, lime-green Gremlin and that the boulevard is not just full of broken dreams but full of chipped teeth and severed doll heads as well. In other words, things are never what they seem. In other words, reality is hard and harsh and often not what one wants. However, reality is what we have. It is the thing of marriage and relationships and love and squirrels.
You can read the book in two or three days, it does move quite nicely, and it will make you laugh and cry and acknowledge the craziness and idiosyncratic ways of life. And along the way you will meet some squirrels. It's a good read, one you will enjoy.
More on crime and fools in paradise later. It's time for some food now. We will call it lunch.
.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Go on, beat that dead horse
Is there a nice way to say to someone "please, please, please stop shuffling around the house like a 98 year old woman in house slippers?" The noise is making me crazy, the constant shuffle, shuffle, swish, swish, rub, rub of slippers of some sort on the wood floor. The sound carries all through the house like whispers from a witch and I have visions of setting fire to all footwear in the house except mine. And there is certainly a huge pile of footwear in the small hallway by the garage door, at least a dozen pair of shoes and flip-flops and boots and those infernal slippers. Oh please, pick up your frigging feet! Step, step, step. My mom with her 95 year old tired and hurting legs shuffles less than what I hear all day in my house.
And no, it isn't little Cooper shuffling.
And could we stop with the boiling of the cabbage? The smell gets on my bath towel and in my hair and it's like a fog that creeps under the door, greenish and smelly and pervasive. I don't actually think it's just cabbage, it's something else that smells like cabbage combined with skunk weed and fetid socks or rancid small dead birds with woolen feathers because it has that boiled wet gym-sock-wet-wool-cabbage smell. Gag-orama.
Bleah. That's all I can say. Bleah. Wretch. Bleah.
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And no, it isn't little Cooper shuffling.
And could we stop with the boiling of the cabbage? The smell gets on my bath towel and in my hair and it's like a fog that creeps under the door, greenish and smelly and pervasive. I don't actually think it's just cabbage, it's something else that smells like cabbage combined with skunk weed and fetid socks or rancid small dead birds with woolen feathers because it has that boiled wet gym-sock-wet-wool-cabbage smell. Gag-orama.
Bleah. That's all I can say. Bleah. Wretch. Bleah.
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Saturday, March 19, 2016
But she's only a dream.
Sometimes you simply need to watch a movie that has nothing to do with your life or times. A movie made in the 1940's, when men wore their pants belted high and their ties even higher. Women wore skirts below their knees and had morals even lower. (Well, that's just rhetoric, but I will let it stand.) Sometimes you need to watch a movie in black and white with a soundtrack out of drama school. And tonight was one of those nights.
The movie "Laura" is a great example of film noir: plots, sub-plots, handsome leading men, damaged women, murder, mayhem, subterfuge, betrayal, lots of cigarettes and booze and dramatic dialogue. 90 minutes of another era. Streaming free on Netflix. It's a bit talky for the first half but well worth checking out. Otto Preminger directed it, Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews star. Make some popcorn or just open that bottle of red and sit back and get transported to another era, thanks to film.
The movie "Laura" is a great example of film noir: plots, sub-plots, handsome leading men, damaged women, murder, mayhem, subterfuge, betrayal, lots of cigarettes and booze and dramatic dialogue. 90 minutes of another era. Streaming free on Netflix. It's a bit talky for the first half but well worth checking out. Otto Preminger directed it, Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews star. Make some popcorn or just open that bottle of red and sit back and get transported to another era, thanks to film.
We would want something else, but what?
Getting old is on my mind a lot lately. Not getting old for myself, I still think of 65 as "young middle age" of course. But I just read the book "When Breath Becomes Air" by Paul Kalanithi, written mostly by Paul who was a neurosurgeon who died very young from lung cancer. It is different than "Being Mortal" by Atul Gawande because one is about a young doctor dying and the other is about all of us dying. However, there's the connection: dying.
I drove to Sacramento on Monday to see my Very Old Mother, as I do every other week. Usually I dash out there in the morning, take her out for coffee and a muffin and dash back to get to work on time. (This is when molecular transport would really be handy, just saying to Dr. Spock et al.) This past Monday I took the day off from work so I could have more time. We hung out in her tiny room for a short while and then drove around, aimlessly, until about 4:00. We then went to a very casual restaurant that she likes for a very early dinner. It was empty (a good thing) and we got a nice booth (a good thing because those tables are bolted to the floor and thus do not wobble when an Old Person has to use them to leverage herself up. This is something of importance.) Mom's walker was easily stashed next to the table, something that would not be possible if the restaurant was busy.
We ordered sweet potato fries because Mom loves them and they were perfect. We split a teriyaki salmon dish with rice and sauteed veggies, farmed salmon for sure, but it was good. And we had a glass of Simi Sauv Blanc, a very nice white wine. Mom gets no wine unless someone takes her to dinner, so she was very pleased. She is so small now that it was difficult for her to maneuver the tall glass, so we put a straw in it and that was fine. The restaurant was very quiet, the service was very nice and we had a good time. When we left, 90 minutes later, Mom was very happy and very relaxed and that was good.
We all will die someday. Some of us will die young, too young, like my friend Martha. Some of us will linger long, too long, like my Mom. Some of us might be lucky to time out appropriately. The two books mentioned above are Must Reads for everyone over the age of 30 because they are clear about dying and about living until you die. I know I beat this drum often, perhaps too often, but there comes an age when you must acknowledge mortality even if it isn't staring you in the face. It is peeking around the corner, or we are peeking at it from around that corner, but it is there.
There is so much to say about this and I will revisit this topic again because I am still alive. Meanwhile, have some sweet potato fries. Laugh. Enjoy that glass or wine or that bowl of ice cream or that day at the beach. It's all too short.
We all know that.
.
I drove to Sacramento on Monday to see my Very Old Mother, as I do every other week. Usually I dash out there in the morning, take her out for coffee and a muffin and dash back to get to work on time. (This is when molecular transport would really be handy, just saying to Dr. Spock et al.) This past Monday I took the day off from work so I could have more time. We hung out in her tiny room for a short while and then drove around, aimlessly, until about 4:00. We then went to a very casual restaurant that she likes for a very early dinner. It was empty (a good thing) and we got a nice booth (a good thing because those tables are bolted to the floor and thus do not wobble when an Old Person has to use them to leverage herself up. This is something of importance.) Mom's walker was easily stashed next to the table, something that would not be possible if the restaurant was busy.
We ordered sweet potato fries because Mom loves them and they were perfect. We split a teriyaki salmon dish with rice and sauteed veggies, farmed salmon for sure, but it was good. And we had a glass of Simi Sauv Blanc, a very nice white wine. Mom gets no wine unless someone takes her to dinner, so she was very pleased. She is so small now that it was difficult for her to maneuver the tall glass, so we put a straw in it and that was fine. The restaurant was very quiet, the service was very nice and we had a good time. When we left, 90 minutes later, Mom was very happy and very relaxed and that was good.
We all will die someday. Some of us will die young, too young, like my friend Martha. Some of us will linger long, too long, like my Mom. Some of us might be lucky to time out appropriately. The two books mentioned above are Must Reads for everyone over the age of 30 because they are clear about dying and about living until you die. I know I beat this drum often, perhaps too often, but there comes an age when you must acknowledge mortality even if it isn't staring you in the face. It is peeking around the corner, or we are peeking at it from around that corner, but it is there.
There is so much to say about this and I will revisit this topic again because I am still alive. Meanwhile, have some sweet potato fries. Laugh. Enjoy that glass or wine or that bowl of ice cream or that day at the beach. It's all too short.
We all know that.
.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Miniature baseball players: like the real thing only so much smaller
When my first "grandchild" (quotes because he isn't really but he is in my heart) was three months old, I started watching him two days a week. He was the third cutest baby I had ever seen, although he won the contest for Baby with the Biggest Head. I watched Sam for about a year, I think, on Mondays and Tuesdays and I regret almost every day that I didn't stick around and watch him for another six or eight months. That was a dumb decision, but hey, whatever.
Now Sam is six years old. Sam is now playing on a miniature little league team. Sam has a uniform and a bat and everything that a baseball player needs except that wad of chewing tobacco, thank god. Sam is growing up.
Watching the team of very small baseball players is both amusing and frightening. Amusing, self explanatory. Frightening because they were so small not that long ago and if they can now be six years old, how long will it be until they are twelve and then sixteen and then twenty? A couple of years, add a few months, a couple more years and they will be in college! That is simply daunting and scary, at least to me.
I have adjusted, sort of, to my kids being grown-ups. I have not yet adjusted to Sam being six years old. And in beginning little league (it's so little that I can't even use capital letters for it) and sort of not wanting to hug me but being OK with Hi-5's and all of that growing up stuff.
It's OK, of course. The next Wednesday evening game is in two weeks and I will be there. Sam will swing and hit a ball and we will all cheer. Soon after that he will be over five feet tall and driving and shaving and picking out a major in college and talking about moving to Wyoming or New York and he will be more than six feet tall and I hope I am around for all of that.
And I haven't even mentioned his brother Henry! Two years younger than Sam and oh, man. What adventures await those boys and Stacey and Ben! Life. What a trip.
Live it. It's all we can do.
.
Now Sam is six years old. Sam is now playing on a miniature little league team. Sam has a uniform and a bat and everything that a baseball player needs except that wad of chewing tobacco, thank god. Sam is growing up.
Watching the team of very small baseball players is both amusing and frightening. Amusing, self explanatory. Frightening because they were so small not that long ago and if they can now be six years old, how long will it be until they are twelve and then sixteen and then twenty? A couple of years, add a few months, a couple more years and they will be in college! That is simply daunting and scary, at least to me.
I have adjusted, sort of, to my kids being grown-ups. I have not yet adjusted to Sam being six years old. And in beginning little league (it's so little that I can't even use capital letters for it) and sort of not wanting to hug me but being OK with Hi-5's and all of that growing up stuff.
It's OK, of course. The next Wednesday evening game is in two weeks and I will be there. Sam will swing and hit a ball and we will all cheer. Soon after that he will be over five feet tall and driving and shaving and picking out a major in college and talking about moving to Wyoming or New York and he will be more than six feet tall and I hope I am around for all of that.
And I haven't even mentioned his brother Henry! Two years younger than Sam and oh, man. What adventures await those boys and Stacey and Ben! Life. What a trip.
Live it. It's all we can do.
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Sunday, March 13, 2016
Spikes in my ears, shards in my eyes
I know, it is as if (4 very short words in a row there, how cool is that!) all I do is complain about my job. Hell, maybe that IS all I do. I can't tell because the job is pretty much all I do, six days a week, so if I complain too much, well, too bad. It's cathartic, getting the angst outside of me and into the world where others, like you few readers, can deal with it for the two minutes it takes to read this. Or, like not feeding little Marta, you can turn the page. Metaphorically speaking, of course. (That's from those ads showing a tiny, sad, refugee girl with the caption: "You can feed little Marta or you can turn the page." We all turn the page.) You might be turning that page right now but you would then miss out on this incredible blog posting!
Today, at the hotel front desk, I had a moment where all I heard was the litany that I never want to hear again. Every guest who came in for breakfast had a trite, familiar, lame-ass phrase that I wanted to shove back in their mouth with the comment "Do not ever say that to the Front Desk Staff again!" Here is a partial list. For some there is a commentary. For others, no commentary is necessary.
1. When is this rain going to stop? Never. Does never work for you?
2. Is it going to rain tomorrow? Who the fuck do you think I am, weather.com?
3. Do you have an umbrella I can borrow? How much space in your gigantic suitcase, in which you could carry a load of circus dwarfs, would a small umbrella have taken up?
4. Do you have decaf coffee? I believe it's in the pot that says DECAF but I could be wrong.
5. Can we get an espresso? Do I have a Starbucks tag on my shirt? No, drink what we have or go away.
6. But you had that espresso machine out yesterday, can't we use that now? No. And please do not ask the follow-up question about "why not?" because I will then need to scald your tongue with this hand-held flame thrower I am currently holding.
7. Are you the owner?
8. What kind of trees are those?
9. How old are those trees?
10. How old is this hotel?
11. Do you live here? Actually, yes, I live in those 100 year old oak trees that I do not own.
12. Where is the hot tub? Oh my god, are you blind?
13. Can we have a late check-out?
14. Can we check in early? This is normally asked by people either showing up at 10:00 am or calling at 9:00 am. The answer is always NO.
15. Can we have more towels? You haven't even gone to your room yet, what the fuck are you planning on doing in there?
16. Is there Wi-Fi? What does that mean? I have no knowledge of a Why Fy? Who are you? What year is this?
17. Do you have cable? Do you mean jumper cables?
18. Are these bags of chips free?
19. Can I get more bags of chips?
20. What time is checkout? Right now. Just get the fuck out of here, now. No chips, no cable, no hot tub, just leave.
Now, some people might think the above is an exaggeration but I assure you it is not. I didn't list the Best Questions Ever because those are completely unbelievable. I share two of those with you right now, just so you might feel my pain.
1. Are the eggs gluten free?
2. Is this orange juice synthetic?
I have answered yes and no to both of those questions as the situation warranted. I have also served gluten rich toast to people who asked for gluten free toast after watching them devour two regular muffins, an order of challah french toast and several pastries made with puff pastry dough. I have lied about the bacon we serve, explaining that it is, indeed, from free-range pigs that have been fed only a diet of acorns and carrots. (Kidding about that one, actually. Well, sort of.) I have lied and told guests that no, the restaurants in town are not very good and for a good meal they should drive to Napa, only an hour away. And that "locavore" was short for "loca in la vorella" meaning crazy in the village.
This is the hospitality industry. Hospitality means being close to a hospital so that anyone who accidentally gets stuck in the eye with a fork does not have a long way to travel for help. God knows I ain't helping them, not with a fork sticking in their eye. Yuck.
.
Today, at the hotel front desk, I had a moment where all I heard was the litany that I never want to hear again. Every guest who came in for breakfast had a trite, familiar, lame-ass phrase that I wanted to shove back in their mouth with the comment "Do not ever say that to the Front Desk Staff again!" Here is a partial list. For some there is a commentary. For others, no commentary is necessary.
1. When is this rain going to stop? Never. Does never work for you?
2. Is it going to rain tomorrow? Who the fuck do you think I am, weather.com?
3. Do you have an umbrella I can borrow? How much space in your gigantic suitcase, in which you could carry a load of circus dwarfs, would a small umbrella have taken up?
4. Do you have decaf coffee? I believe it's in the pot that says DECAF but I could be wrong.
5. Can we get an espresso? Do I have a Starbucks tag on my shirt? No, drink what we have or go away.
6. But you had that espresso machine out yesterday, can't we use that now? No. And please do not ask the follow-up question about "why not?" because I will then need to scald your tongue with this hand-held flame thrower I am currently holding.
7. Are you the owner?
8. What kind of trees are those?
9. How old are those trees?
10. How old is this hotel?
11. Do you live here? Actually, yes, I live in those 100 year old oak trees that I do not own.
12. Where is the hot tub? Oh my god, are you blind?
13. Can we have a late check-out?
14. Can we check in early? This is normally asked by people either showing up at 10:00 am or calling at 9:00 am. The answer is always NO.
15. Can we have more towels? You haven't even gone to your room yet, what the fuck are you planning on doing in there?
16. Is there Wi-Fi? What does that mean? I have no knowledge of a Why Fy? Who are you? What year is this?
17. Do you have cable? Do you mean jumper cables?
18. Are these bags of chips free?
19. Can I get more bags of chips?
20. What time is checkout? Right now. Just get the fuck out of here, now. No chips, no cable, no hot tub, just leave.
Now, some people might think the above is an exaggeration but I assure you it is not. I didn't list the Best Questions Ever because those are completely unbelievable. I share two of those with you right now, just so you might feel my pain.
1. Are the eggs gluten free?
2. Is this orange juice synthetic?
I have answered yes and no to both of those questions as the situation warranted. I have also served gluten rich toast to people who asked for gluten free toast after watching them devour two regular muffins, an order of challah french toast and several pastries made with puff pastry dough. I have lied about the bacon we serve, explaining that it is, indeed, from free-range pigs that have been fed only a diet of acorns and carrots. (Kidding about that one, actually. Well, sort of.) I have lied and told guests that no, the restaurants in town are not very good and for a good meal they should drive to Napa, only an hour away. And that "locavore" was short for "loca in la vorella" meaning crazy in the village.
This is the hospitality industry. Hospitality means being close to a hospital so that anyone who accidentally gets stuck in the eye with a fork does not have a long way to travel for help. God knows I ain't helping them, not with a fork sticking in their eye. Yuck.
.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Walking wet
Same website, two different grids. One says 100% rain for the next two days. One says 40% chance of rain tonight and 35% chance of rain over the next 24 hours. Is it any wonder we are conflicted? Bring the umbrella, yes, but the raincoat? Nope. And the temps are in the 60's, who needs all those wrapping things that buzz around your neck like a swarm of bees? It isn't that cold and it isn't that wet. A fellow worker at the hotel today asked "don't you have a coat?" and I answered "No." I had an umbrella, it wasn't cold and the bundling up thing seems stupid. If it's below 60, a coat: yes. If it's above 65 (as it was today) a coat: no.
But back to the rain. It would be a gift if it rained for the entire month of March. Some of us would welcome that gift with open arms and we would thank whoever gave us that gift. I am waiting to see if that's in my/our future and I hope it is. Rain, yes! Bring it on! We are so far from our monthly quotas, we need all the help we can get.
Water falling from the sky is nice. Revel in it. It's water, after all, not a bad thing. Stop complaining. Start smiling at it.
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But back to the rain. It would be a gift if it rained for the entire month of March. Some of us would welcome that gift with open arms and we would thank whoever gave us that gift. I am waiting to see if that's in my/our future and I hope it is. Rain, yes! Bring it on! We are so far from our monthly quotas, we need all the help we can get.
Water falling from the sky is nice. Revel in it. It's water, after all, not a bad thing. Stop complaining. Start smiling at it.
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Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Sleepwalking with Weapons
Can anyone rationally explain the power that Donald Trump has over so many voters? I can almost understand SOME people voting for him, some that aren't very smart, might be unemployed, have been "screwed by the system" and/or hate non-white people but how many of those people can there be? And how can women actually support him since he is such a misogynistic pig? Not only is this entire Trump phenomenon very, very frightening but it is also very, very discouraging, depressing and maddening. I personally cannot even look at the man. I didn't think there would be another politician I would despise more than George W. Bush but Bush looks like cotton candy next to the cesspool of Trump.
I could go on and on but I would be preaching to the choir. No one I know, no one who reads this blog would ever support that candidate. Yes, I might know a Republican or two and yes, I do know some Bernie supporters, but a Trump-ite? No. Never. I know no such people.
We must convince everyone we know to vote Democrat, no matter who the candidate. Even if you don't like the Dem candidate, keep in mind that one of the main reasons to vote is to get Supreme Court justices that are fair minded. With a snake like Trump in the White House, that will never happen and we will be living with that until we are dead. Our children and grandchildren will bear those consequences.
Makes me need a drink to get that ugly taste out of my mouth when I just think the name Trump. No wonder it rhymes with Dump.
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