Trust me, have I ever steered you wrong? No. I don't know why I got this book out of the library, but it must have been from reading a review. It's good. It is really good. It starts out slowly but you get into it and you like the very few characters that populate the book and you are a tiny bit sad that it ends.
The Grand Tour by Adam O'Fallon Price. An ostensibly simple story about a guy who wrote a book and is on a book tour to promote that book. But it takes detours and wrong roads and paths that lead nowhere and yet it ends up where it should. It got me in the first two pages with this description of getting off a plane: He frankensteined it through the cabin and up the long jet bridge and emerged into the fluorescence of the shabbiest boarding gate he'd ever seen. Several ceiling panels were half rotten with brown water stains and one was missing entirely, providing a nice view of the filth-caked girders above. A darkened McDonald's brooded to itself across the empty room.
Who hasn't experienced that sort of dismal greeting in a small, crappy airport? I know I have.
The book just gets better as it goes on, as Richard tries really hard to respect the book tour but he usually just gets drunk and is sad about that but he does the tour anyway, with his strange driver, Vance. More good sentences: The nice part about being young wasn't really being young; it was not being old. So true.
Maybe the trick was to just allow yourself to want things. To accept the wanting without attempting to gratify it. Fighting the want did no good, because it was impossible to make yourself not want things. Furthermore, fighting the want somehow promoted it, legitimized it, made the desire for booze or women or whatever else terribly strong and potent.
I could go on and quote page and page and page. This is a really good book. It has pain and hope and very, very small atoms of joy and so much is unresolved at the end. And I want to tell you the last sentence but I won't. Suffice it to say that you should get this book out of the library or if you find a copy on the discount table or at the used book store, buy it. Or buy it at full price and tell me you did, and will share that price with you. If you don't like it, I will buy it from you.
It isn't a Great Novel but, for me, it is a Really Good Novel. The test of that for me is this: do I want to read this book instead of watching TV? Yes, Yes, Yes was my answer for three nights.
"...and just for the moment he tried to forget himself and become part of the over-whelming life that surrounded him."
If you read it, let me know what you think.
.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Being thankful and cranky at the same time
It is a lovely time to drive through Sonoma Valley, all the vines are turning colors, the air smells grapey and rich, the sun is low, the light in the sky is soft and at the same time almost metallic in its crispness. Now if we could just get rid of all the tourists, it would be even better.
This time of year is for counting one's blessings and thanking loved ones for that great pumpkin pie they made or that really nice bottle of whiskey they shared with you or for the fact that one has heat and a roof and a dog and food and a car and enough money in the bank to take off for ten days and go to New York. These things are gifts, just look at the front page of the New York Times or any good newspaper (or even any bad one) and see how the rest of the world is doing, and no matter how you are doing, you are doing better than most. Say "thank you." To everyone and to no one.
And yet, those holiday guests at the hotel, really, come on, give it up. Go to your room and watch TV. DO NOT STAND IN THE LOBBY AND TELL ME YOUR POLITICAL BELIEFS. DO NOT INSINUATE THAT TEA HAS GLUTEN. DO NOT ASK ME TO MAKE YOU A LATTE. The list is almost endless, actually, I could go on and on but I won't. But holidays are the worst for this sort of idiotic potato-brained discourse and the sense of entitlement that comes with people who have potatoes where their frontal lobes should be. "I have a potato instead of a brain, therefore you should agree with everything I say and anticipate my dissatisfaction with the bottles of soap in my shower." I want to smash that potato and fry it in hot lard.
And yet, in three days I will be on a large flying object jetting my way to NYC, city of art, music, bars, food, shopping, drinking, walking, watching, imbibing, snacking, listening, sipping and sleeping. In our neighborhood are dozens of places to eat, drink, read, walk, shop and simply have a good time. A couple of miles from our 'hood are more of the same. By this time of the year I am really tired, not just of the job but of the lack of diversity in my life, the lack of anything but the repetitious process of getting up, getting out, working, coming home, going to bed. Over and over, rinse and repeat. Being in a Major US City will be fun and entertaining, adventurous and exciting. Bring it on!
Can't wait. Will report in. I don't know how much I can write on my tiny little Smart phone, but I might be able to send photos. Tune in.
.
This time of year is for counting one's blessings and thanking loved ones for that great pumpkin pie they made or that really nice bottle of whiskey they shared with you or for the fact that one has heat and a roof and a dog and food and a car and enough money in the bank to take off for ten days and go to New York. These things are gifts, just look at the front page of the New York Times or any good newspaper (or even any bad one) and see how the rest of the world is doing, and no matter how you are doing, you are doing better than most. Say "thank you." To everyone and to no one.
And yet, those holiday guests at the hotel, really, come on, give it up. Go to your room and watch TV. DO NOT STAND IN THE LOBBY AND TELL ME YOUR POLITICAL BELIEFS. DO NOT INSINUATE THAT TEA HAS GLUTEN. DO NOT ASK ME TO MAKE YOU A LATTE. The list is almost endless, actually, I could go on and on but I won't. But holidays are the worst for this sort of idiotic potato-brained discourse and the sense of entitlement that comes with people who have potatoes where their frontal lobes should be. "I have a potato instead of a brain, therefore you should agree with everything I say and anticipate my dissatisfaction with the bottles of soap in my shower." I want to smash that potato and fry it in hot lard.
And yet, in three days I will be on a large flying object jetting my way to NYC, city of art, music, bars, food, shopping, drinking, walking, watching, imbibing, snacking, listening, sipping and sleeping. In our neighborhood are dozens of places to eat, drink, read, walk, shop and simply have a good time. A couple of miles from our 'hood are more of the same. By this time of the year I am really tired, not just of the job but of the lack of diversity in my life, the lack of anything but the repetitious process of getting up, getting out, working, coming home, going to bed. Over and over, rinse and repeat. Being in a Major US City will be fun and entertaining, adventurous and exciting. Bring it on!
Can't wait. Will report in. I don't know how much I can write on my tiny little Smart phone, but I might be able to send photos. Tune in.
.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Leonard Cohen, gone.
As a teenager, music was everything. We danced to it, we made out to it, we listened to it all alone, via a turntable, in our rooms at night, we sometimes had sex to it and we loved it. The music of that time was ours. It pissed our parents off, it united us as a generation. As a teenager, some of the music of that time defined us: Jefferson Airplane, the Stones, Joni Mitchell, Cream, and of course, the Beatles. (yay) And so many more groups and individuals, too many to mention: Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby Stills Nash and Young, the Doors, even Neil Diamond.
But the songwriters of those times were few. Paul Simon, of course, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, many more, but Leonard Cohen, although he was never a "star," was such a poet and an amazing songwriter. "Suzanne", sung by Judy Collins, was a standard in 1968. "...and the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor and she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers, there are heroes in the seaweed..."
We all know "Hallelujah" but google Leonard Cohen singing it, to watch his face while he sings takes the song to a different level. And "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye" which has been covered by dozens of artists. And "Famous Blue Raincoat" (I see you there with a rose in your teeth, one more thin gypsy to feed..... What can I tell you, what can I possibly say? I guess that I miss you, I guess that I forgive you, I'm glad that you stood in my way.) or "Bird on a Wire" and "First We Take Manhattan" and I could go on and on. A poet. A gentleman, it seems, and, to me, an icon of his times. And of my times.
Leonard Cohen was interviewed in October and you can read it here: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/10/17/leonard-cohen-makes-it-darker
But the songwriters of those times were few. Paul Simon, of course, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, many more, but Leonard Cohen, although he was never a "star," was such a poet and an amazing songwriter. "Suzanne", sung by Judy Collins, was a standard in 1968. "...and the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor and she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers, there are heroes in the seaweed..."
We all know "Hallelujah" but google Leonard Cohen singing it, to watch his face while he sings takes the song to a different level. And "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye" which has been covered by dozens of artists. And "Famous Blue Raincoat" (I see you there with a rose in your teeth, one more thin gypsy to feed..... What can I tell you, what can I possibly say? I guess that I miss you, I guess that I forgive you, I'm glad that you stood in my way.) or "Bird on a Wire" and "First We Take Manhattan" and I could go on and on. A poet. A gentleman, it seems, and, to me, an icon of his times. And of my times.
Leonard Cohen was interviewed in October and you can read it here: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/10/17/leonard-cohen-makes-it-darker
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
OK, if you must buy chicken broth, read this.
OK, I know I preach the Gospel of Homemade Chicken Broth too often, and it no doubt makes readers seek other religions opinions. So here's an article I read just yesterday in an old Cooks Illustrated I got from my friend Margaret who was giving away books and magazines. If you must buy the broth, get the Swansons. Regular, not organic.
https://www.cooksillustrated.com/taste_tests/590-chicken-broth
The article also touts the benefits of that concentrated stuff, which I haven't tried. But the Swansons might be the answer to your lame prayers if you don't have the guts to make your own broth. (Shaming never works, I know, but I had to try.)
Still, if you call me, I will come to your house and make the chicken broth for you. Seriously. Just tell me when. It might be my new cottage industry, going from home to home, doing show-and-tell with chickens and veggies and water. It could work. Or not.
.
https://www.cooksillustrated.com/taste_tests/590-chicken-broth
The article also touts the benefits of that concentrated stuff, which I haven't tried. But the Swansons might be the answer to your lame prayers if you don't have the guts to make your own broth. (Shaming never works, I know, but I had to try.)
Still, if you call me, I will come to your house and make the chicken broth for you. Seriously. Just tell me when. It might be my new cottage industry, going from home to home, doing show-and-tell with chickens and veggies and water. It could work. Or not.
.
Soup, delicious soup
First you have to make homemade chicken stock. That's a given, don't even bother with that stuff in the boxes or in cans. It won't turn out the same, I guarantee. Chicken stock is so easy and thus you should always have some in your freezer. Don't argue. Just do it. When those really good chickens are on sale for about two bucks a pound, buy two. One whole one goes in the stock pot, take the wings and backbone off the other one and put those in the pot, too. Add the water, and the other stuff you need for stock, let it cook for 4 hours. Throw everything away (unless you have a dog, the dog will like some of the chicken but it really has no nutritional value after cooking for 4 hours.) Then you have the rest of the second chicken to cook and the stock will go into quart deli containers, into your freezer. Voila! C'est simple.
Then you can make this:
http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017981-golden-leek-and-potato-soup
It is delicious. As it says, it is more leeks than potatoes, which is fine with me. But a couple things to note: it takes at least 30 minutes to caramelize the leeks, so factor that in, and you should use half olive oil and half butter to saute them because it gives it a lot more richness. I didn't have all the fresh herbs so I chopped up some fresh parsley and sauteed that with the leeks and I scrunched up some dried thyme when I added the potatoes and broth and it was fine. I used Yukon Gold potatoes and I did roughly peel them because I hate it when you make soup or stew and the peelings separate from the potato and float around like flat air mattresses in the soup and they have no point. But that's just me. I did stir in some cream (half and half would work as well) because it seemed to need it. (Well, because I needed it, actually.) Not a lot but some.
It was so good. And it reheats so well, so make accordingly. Leeks are one of the overlooked onions, in my opinion, and this shows them well.
You could, of course, crumble a little crisp bacon on the top of each serving if you had it, but it needs nothing except a nice piece of toast and some crisp white wine. But then, what doesn't? Enjoy.
.
Then you can make this:
http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017981-golden-leek-and-potato-soup
It is delicious. As it says, it is more leeks than potatoes, which is fine with me. But a couple things to note: it takes at least 30 minutes to caramelize the leeks, so factor that in, and you should use half olive oil and half butter to saute them because it gives it a lot more richness. I didn't have all the fresh herbs so I chopped up some fresh parsley and sauteed that with the leeks and I scrunched up some dried thyme when I added the potatoes and broth and it was fine. I used Yukon Gold potatoes and I did roughly peel them because I hate it when you make soup or stew and the peelings separate from the potato and float around like flat air mattresses in the soup and they have no point. But that's just me. I did stir in some cream (half and half would work as well) because it seemed to need it. (Well, because I needed it, actually.) Not a lot but some.
It was so good. And it reheats so well, so make accordingly. Leeks are one of the overlooked onions, in my opinion, and this shows them well.
You could, of course, crumble a little crisp bacon on the top of each serving if you had it, but it needs nothing except a nice piece of toast and some crisp white wine. But then, what doesn't? Enjoy.
.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Comfort food from the freezer from 2 years ago, and still good!
When I moved three months ago, I brought with me, from the freezer, a deli container labeled "Turkey Gravy Nov. 22" and no other details. On Wednesday afternoon I took it out of the freezer and put it in a pan of cold water to thaw. I had no recollection of what it was, when it was or why it was. Once it was partly thawed, I realized it wasn't turkey gravy but a pork sausage gravy. In 2014 I made biscuits and gravy for Christmas morning (I remember that clearly) and I am pretty sure this was the gravy I made for those biscuits. I could be wrong, but I am fairly certain I didn't make it last year. (My kids could tell me differently.) Two years in the freezer and it survived.
Heated up, it tasted great! I thinned it out with a bit of hot water and a bit of cream. I added some salt, pepper and red pepper flakes and tasted it again. Disco! It was delicious. I had no biscuits (too bad) but I toasted some sourdough bread and poured that pork sausage gravy over that toast and it was the best comforting food ever! To counterbalance the carbs I sauteed a lot of spinach with garlic and lemon and the combination of that with the sausage gravy over toast was delicious.
There is something about cooking one's favorite stuff that makes the world seem, momentarily, less obnoxious. Less mean and less frightening. And I am in that mode. More to follow, with a great soup and etc, etc.
peace. strength. love.
Heated up, it tasted great! I thinned it out with a bit of hot water and a bit of cream. I added some salt, pepper and red pepper flakes and tasted it again. Disco! It was delicious. I had no biscuits (too bad) but I toasted some sourdough bread and poured that pork sausage gravy over that toast and it was the best comforting food ever! To counterbalance the carbs I sauteed a lot of spinach with garlic and lemon and the combination of that with the sausage gravy over toast was delicious.
There is something about cooking one's favorite stuff that makes the world seem, momentarily, less obnoxious. Less mean and less frightening. And I am in that mode. More to follow, with a great soup and etc, etc.
peace. strength. love.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Comfort food you can buy for less than $5, but only now
I am happy to say that I don't buy a lot of crap food but I am also happy to say that I LOVE ice cream and sometimes buy it. Right now, in this season of .... autumn? Winter? whatever, you can find Haagen Dazs Peppermint Bark Ice Cream and you should go out right now and find it. Now. Stop reading this, go out and get some.
You open the lid and it looks like plain vanilla ice cream with bits of stuff. Fine, a lot of ice cream looks like that. But let it set out for about 5 minutes. Then scoop some out with a small spoon and eat it. The white part that looks like plain vanilla ice cream is rich and creamy (the label says it's white chocolate ice cream, could be, but whatever it is, it's really good) and then there are the bits. Tiny, crunchy bits of peppermint candy and some chunks of chocolate peppermint bark. It sounds ordinary. It is not ordinary.
This is not the kind of ice cream you put in a bowl. (Hmm, other than plain vanilla ice cream, and only so you can pour homemade butterscotch sauce on it, which is here, and I have told you this before, please pay attention: https://smittenkitchen.com/2009/12/ridiculously-easy-butterscotch-sauce/) there is no need to put any ice cream in a bowl.) This is the kind of ice cream you either sit on the couch with a mate and share (well, one person will be more piggy than the other, that's a given) and you will both make those little piglet noises as you eat the entire pint, or you eat it alone, standing in the kitchen, a trashy novel on the kitchen counter, lights down low, just eating slowly and reading your novel until you look at the pint of ice cream and realize you have consumed more than half of it and you are not even one tiny bit guilty.
That's the kind of ice cream it is. Trust me. Find it, buy it. It will be gone by Christmas. A lot of things could be gone by Christmas, so we need to take pleasure in what we can, as soon as we can.
Tomorrow the tale of the Thanksgiving Gravy from last year, found in my freezer and it's amazing restorative qualities. Plus an excellent recipe for soup. Tune in. Don't be late.
.
You open the lid and it looks like plain vanilla ice cream with bits of stuff. Fine, a lot of ice cream looks like that. But let it set out for about 5 minutes. Then scoop some out with a small spoon and eat it. The white part that looks like plain vanilla ice cream is rich and creamy (the label says it's white chocolate ice cream, could be, but whatever it is, it's really good) and then there are the bits. Tiny, crunchy bits of peppermint candy and some chunks of chocolate peppermint bark. It sounds ordinary. It is not ordinary.
This is not the kind of ice cream you put in a bowl. (Hmm, other than plain vanilla ice cream, and only so you can pour homemade butterscotch sauce on it, which is here, and I have told you this before, please pay attention: https://smittenkitchen.com/2009/12/ridiculously-easy-butterscotch-sauce/) there is no need to put any ice cream in a bowl.) This is the kind of ice cream you either sit on the couch with a mate and share (well, one person will be more piggy than the other, that's a given) and you will both make those little piglet noises as you eat the entire pint, or you eat it alone, standing in the kitchen, a trashy novel on the kitchen counter, lights down low, just eating slowly and reading your novel until you look at the pint of ice cream and realize you have consumed more than half of it and you are not even one tiny bit guilty.
That's the kind of ice cream it is. Trust me. Find it, buy it. It will be gone by Christmas. A lot of things could be gone by Christmas, so we need to take pleasure in what we can, as soon as we can.
Tomorrow the tale of the Thanksgiving Gravy from last year, found in my freezer and it's amazing restorative qualities. Plus an excellent recipe for soup. Tune in. Don't be late.
.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
French class, a lesson for you all in swearing.
It was suggested by a friend that I share this lesson with my blog readers and therefore, here it is. (C'est ici.) It could be appropriate right now, we all need new and better ways to swear. I still adhere to the "fuck, fuck, fuck" lexicon but there is also some joy in "cocksucking mother fucker" but perhaps I have gone too far for some. If that insults any reader, then you simply don't know me that well.
OK, our lesson for the evening: the word "putain" (french) is used in many different ways, as a swear word or as a word of crappiness, or a word of frustration or even as a word of exclamation. It is pronounced like "poo tah" with a nasal, guttural sound at the end, like an "n" got caught in the back of your throat. In Spanish "puta" means whore, and in French it is pronounced sort of like that but more in the nose. From French it translates into something like "fuck" or "crappy whore" but the French use it like we use "holy shit." Example: "Holy shit, that's an amazing outfit." Or "Holy shit, I so totally have to pee." Or "Holy shit, who are those assbags who voted for Trump?" So the French would use "putain" (accent on the second syllable) instead of "holy shit."
Plus, it's a great swear word all on its own, like Fuck. When you take your car in for some repair work and you get the estimate of what it is going to cost you, or when you go to the grocery store looking for a pint of Hagen Dazs Peppermint Bark ice cream (highly recommended, by the way) and there is none, or you get in the shower and there is no hot water, that's when you can use "putain." You can say out loudly or you can say it under your breath or you can say it in a sad voice, instead of saying "fuck this stupid auto repair shop" or "I hate this stupid market and their lame-ass selection of ice cream" or any other times when fuck would work but you don't want to say that F-word. (Why anyone would not want to say fuck is beyond me, unless, of course, you have small children around, and that's when "putain" is so, so valuable.)
It will eventually make you happy to say it because not many people know what it means. You can be in the line at DMV and instead of saying "fuck fuck, fuck" over and over in a soft voice, you can say "merde, putain, merde, putain" several times (merde means "shit" BTW) and feel OK that you got to swear but offended fewer people. (I, of course, never care if the word "fuck" offends people but I am a crappy person, we all know that. Merde.)
OK, I think that's the end of the French lesson for this evening. Next we will learn about the Passe Compose verbs and how in foreign languages every noun has a gender and the article, the adjective, the verb, the adverb all have to agree with that gender. In French, cars are feminine (la voiture) while the tires (les pneus) on that car are masculine. Your head is feminine (even if you are a man) but ears on that head are masculine (even if you are a female.) And on and on.
Have a lovely day. Soon, I might take this French lesson into the next realm, explaining about rats and president-elects and how they are virtually the same thing.
.
OK, our lesson for the evening: the word "putain" (french) is used in many different ways, as a swear word or as a word of crappiness, or a word of frustration or even as a word of exclamation. It is pronounced like "poo tah" with a nasal, guttural sound at the end, like an "n" got caught in the back of your throat. In Spanish "puta" means whore, and in French it is pronounced sort of like that but more in the nose. From French it translates into something like "fuck" or "crappy whore" but the French use it like we use "holy shit." Example: "Holy shit, that's an amazing outfit." Or "Holy shit, I so totally have to pee." Or "Holy shit, who are those assbags who voted for Trump?" So the French would use "putain" (accent on the second syllable) instead of "holy shit."
Plus, it's a great swear word all on its own, like Fuck. When you take your car in for some repair work and you get the estimate of what it is going to cost you, or when you go to the grocery store looking for a pint of Hagen Dazs Peppermint Bark ice cream (highly recommended, by the way) and there is none, or you get in the shower and there is no hot water, that's when you can use "putain." You can say out loudly or you can say it under your breath or you can say it in a sad voice, instead of saying "fuck this stupid auto repair shop" or "I hate this stupid market and their lame-ass selection of ice cream" or any other times when fuck would work but you don't want to say that F-word. (Why anyone would not want to say fuck is beyond me, unless, of course, you have small children around, and that's when "putain" is so, so valuable.)
It will eventually make you happy to say it because not many people know what it means. You can be in the line at DMV and instead of saying "fuck fuck, fuck" over and over in a soft voice, you can say "merde, putain, merde, putain" several times (merde means "shit" BTW) and feel OK that you got to swear but offended fewer people. (I, of course, never care if the word "fuck" offends people but I am a crappy person, we all know that. Merde.)
OK, I think that's the end of the French lesson for this evening. Next we will learn about the Passe Compose verbs and how in foreign languages every noun has a gender and the article, the adjective, the verb, the adverb all have to agree with that gender. In French, cars are feminine (la voiture) while the tires (les pneus) on that car are masculine. Your head is feminine (even if you are a man) but ears on that head are masculine (even if you are a female.) And on and on.
Have a lovely day. Soon, I might take this French lesson into the next realm, explaining about rats and president-elects and how they are virtually the same thing.
.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
The next day isn't any better
I drove home last night from Inverness because I couldn't listen to the returns for one more minute. I needed the comfort of my own small place, the solace of my bed and the numbness a glass of good bourbon brings. This morning seemed too quiet here in liberal Santa Rosa. I talked to a neighbor or two while walking the dog, no one was happy, all were dismayed and depressed. I talked to my brother Steve a couple of times, we were of the same mind and of the same temperament, which meant pretty shitty. I talked to no one today who was happy except a very cute and very happy three month old. He listened and smiled. That helped.
The protests that are taking place also help. We need to be aware of what is happening out there and we need to be involved. We need to make sure this reign of terror does not last more than the requisite four years. We need to take a stand and make it count.
That sounds idealistic but just watching growing crowds in various cities tonight makes it clear that the unhappiness starts now. Let's use that unhappiness and the energy it can create to stop this madman in his first term. There is a lot on the line here, a lot of rights that can be mitigated or even taken away. We all need to make sure this newly elected asshole president gets as little time in the White House as possible.
More to follow, you can bet on that.
.
Monday, November 7, 2016
Tomorrow: scary times, election results, champagne and resolution
Every election for the last three or four I have spent with my Gemini friends in Inverness. (There are four of us women who all have birthdays within a few days of each other, all Geminis, so there are always virtually 8 people in the room when there are only four in reality.) When I lived out there, we had dinners every month or so. Now we meet in Petaluma every couple of months, but elections are special so I am on my way out there after work tomorrow.
In the meantime, I cannot watch any more of this stupid election bullshit. Stop the madness, I say! Rip that orange rug off the head of that neo-Nazi misogynist and feed his face to the wolves! (They will eat anything.) Tomorrow, waiting for election results will no doubt mean many trips to the bathroom, upset stomach will prevail. Until they call this thing, there will be no peace. And even after the pundits/newspeople/commentators call it, Orange Hair person will protest it and it might not be over for another month or so. ACK!!!
But tomorrow at this time I will be with three other women, we will be drinking champagne and eating trailer trash snacks (like Beer Nuts, artichoke and jalapeno dip, bad potato chips) and hanging on every newscast. We hope by 9:00 we will have an election consensus and can go to bed slightly tipsy and less afraid. But if not, we will be awake until the powers that be grant one of the candidates the sword of Damocles. If it is our pick, we will smile and go to sleep. If it is the Orange Haired Monster, we will make plans to move to Mexico, just so we can breach the new wall with all the other misfits and refugees from the real American republic. If the Orange Hair Monster wins, this country will no longer be ours and any allegiance we have to it will be gone.
If you haven't, please vote tomorrow. But if you are reading this, you already have or you will tomorrow. Thank you.
.
In the meantime, I cannot watch any more of this stupid election bullshit. Stop the madness, I say! Rip that orange rug off the head of that neo-Nazi misogynist and feed his face to the wolves! (They will eat anything.) Tomorrow, waiting for election results will no doubt mean many trips to the bathroom, upset stomach will prevail. Until they call this thing, there will be no peace. And even after the pundits/newspeople/commentators call it, Orange Hair person will protest it and it might not be over for another month or so. ACK!!!
But tomorrow at this time I will be with three other women, we will be drinking champagne and eating trailer trash snacks (like Beer Nuts, artichoke and jalapeno dip, bad potato chips) and hanging on every newscast. We hope by 9:00 we will have an election consensus and can go to bed slightly tipsy and less afraid. But if not, we will be awake until the powers that be grant one of the candidates the sword of Damocles. If it is our pick, we will smile and go to sleep. If it is the Orange Haired Monster, we will make plans to move to Mexico, just so we can breach the new wall with all the other misfits and refugees from the real American republic. If the Orange Hair Monster wins, this country will no longer be ours and any allegiance we have to it will be gone.
If you haven't, please vote tomorrow. But if you are reading this, you already have or you will tomorrow. Thank you.
.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
900 miles later...... a good road trip
Last Thursday I drove to Ashland, Oregon for a three night rendezvous with John and Diane and a much needed break in my normal life. It had been a while since I was out of town for more than a night or two, and a longer while since I was out of town farther than 20 miles from my home.
The drive up was so, so nice. I took a different route, one that I had not driven previously, and that was good. (Although, as we all know, road trips are such a part of me that even driving down Hwy 5 is, at times, great fun for me. If it's at dawn. In the winter.) It takes less than 6 hours to go from Santa Rosa to Ashland, so there's none of that weariness that comes from an 8-9 hour road trip. Just as your butt starts to get numb, the trip is ending.
We rented a little "Romeo and Juliette" duo apartment, a nice size one bedroom apartment on the top with a lovely deck overlooking the valley and a tiny studio on street level, perfect for one person. Two blocks into town, three to the theaters, trees were changing colors, the rain was gentle all weekend, the temps were moderate, perfect Oregon weather. We saw two plays, ate some nice meals, drank some lovely wine and simply relaxed and enjoyed each other's company. On Sunday I drove from Ashland to Sacramento, took Mom out to dinner, got her liquored up, convinced her to rob a bank with me and my sister Kate, it went well and we made a speedy getaway. I had already secured a really nice hotel room for a really cheap price on Priceline and so the night was a total success. Good dinner, good booze, good job eluding the police, good stay in a good hotel. Win-win-win.
I work a lot, I will be working a lot for the next ten years or until I fall over. Getting out of town is becoming increasingly important to me. Yes, it costs money that I could save for my impending old age but without the out-of-town breaks I would go nuts. Unlike friends and siblings, I have no retirement account to take me to my grave. Since I will end up in that grave eventually, as we all will, it seems fitting that along the way I enjoy whatever money I make by doing what I like. When the money runs out, well, then I will stop taking trips and figure out the next move. Until then, every two or three months I am taking a week off and going somewhere. The work will continue but so will the fun. There are so many banks to rob and so little time.
Because really, who doesn't like to watch their 96 year old mother drink a tasty Manhattan and enthusiastically agree to be the point man for a night of crime? Makes life worth living.
.
The drive up was so, so nice. I took a different route, one that I had not driven previously, and that was good. (Although, as we all know, road trips are such a part of me that even driving down Hwy 5 is, at times, great fun for me. If it's at dawn. In the winter.) It takes less than 6 hours to go from Santa Rosa to Ashland, so there's none of that weariness that comes from an 8-9 hour road trip. Just as your butt starts to get numb, the trip is ending.
We rented a little "Romeo and Juliette" duo apartment, a nice size one bedroom apartment on the top with a lovely deck overlooking the valley and a tiny studio on street level, perfect for one person. Two blocks into town, three to the theaters, trees were changing colors, the rain was gentle all weekend, the temps were moderate, perfect Oregon weather. We saw two plays, ate some nice meals, drank some lovely wine and simply relaxed and enjoyed each other's company. On Sunday I drove from Ashland to Sacramento, took Mom out to dinner, got her liquored up, convinced her to rob a bank with me and my sister Kate, it went well and we made a speedy getaway. I had already secured a really nice hotel room for a really cheap price on Priceline and so the night was a total success. Good dinner, good booze, good job eluding the police, good stay in a good hotel. Win-win-win.
I work a lot, I will be working a lot for the next ten years or until I fall over. Getting out of town is becoming increasingly important to me. Yes, it costs money that I could save for my impending old age but without the out-of-town breaks I would go nuts. Unlike friends and siblings, I have no retirement account to take me to my grave. Since I will end up in that grave eventually, as we all will, it seems fitting that along the way I enjoy whatever money I make by doing what I like. When the money runs out, well, then I will stop taking trips and figure out the next move. Until then, every two or three months I am taking a week off and going somewhere. The work will continue but so will the fun. There are so many banks to rob and so little time.
Because really, who doesn't like to watch their 96 year old mother drink a tasty Manhattan and enthusiastically agree to be the point man for a night of crime? Makes life worth living.
.
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