In memory of Elvis.
I'll always love you.
17 years old.
Died March 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Amanita Muscaria
Never eat an amanita!
(Saying is courtesy of my son's wonderful teachers at Family Network Preschool in Live Oak/Santa Cruz, CA. Thanks for turning me on! :)
(Saying is courtesy of my son's wonderful teachers at Family Network Preschool in Live Oak/Santa Cruz, CA. Thanks for turning me on! :)
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Fancy Glass
I beg of you. Anyone reading this out there who is a chef and lives in the New York tri-state area and wants to relocate please come to Santa Cruz, CA. Pleeeeeese. There are lots of people here who want to shower you with money if you can serve delicious food, professionally, in a warm and inviting atmosphere. You must come to Santa Cruz County and try our restaurant food to truly understand. I now know why the people here are such good cooks themselves and just stay home to buy local and eat local.
I have had pasta primavera served that used melted velveeta cheese. When mussels or clams are served, we are expected to use our table fork. One of our "fine" restaurants wants us to use our meat knives to cut the cheese. When requested to put my cab. in a proper red glass, I am told I want "the fancy glass." The other day it was "the big glass."
Etiquette? Please. Some examples: owner chefs are grumpy and they are allowed out of the kitchen, pot smoke seeps from the kitchen into the dining room, and posing waiters are de rigour for us desperate "hoi polloi" in search of just a simple dinner out.
Help!
I have had pasta primavera served that used melted velveeta cheese. When mussels or clams are served, we are expected to use our table fork. One of our "fine" restaurants wants us to use our meat knives to cut the cheese. When requested to put my cab. in a proper red glass, I am told I want "the fancy glass." The other day it was "the big glass."
Etiquette? Please. Some examples: owner chefs are grumpy and they are allowed out of the kitchen, pot smoke seeps from the kitchen into the dining room, and posing waiters are de rigour for us desperate "hoi polloi" in search of just a simple dinner out.
Help!
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Part II The Car Seat
The curbside baggage guy at Southwest tagged our bags and got us our boarding passes. My husband handed him a $5 bill and asked for $1 back. As soon as he did that, the tide of this so far courteous exchange turned. The guy said no problem and handed $1 back and promptly placed my giant suitcase on the scales. Two pounds over the weight limit. That will be an additional $25, please.
Now another guy gets involved to help my nonplussed husband fork over the $25. I get huffy. I inform anyone who is listening that we are not paying $25 for two pounds over. Surely there must be some wiggle room since both my young son and I are using the same suitcase. No, he informs us. That's why every person is allowed to have two suitcases. I'm starting to get hot now. My son can't carry two suitcases, and I can't carry his two suitcases. We are already lugging a car seat, two suitcases, one carry-on bag, a computer and a five-year-old. No van would stop to pick us up if they saw four suitcases, a car seat and all the minutia dragging behind us. Have mercy.
The guy says I could try repacking the suitcase. Fine. "Give me Ring Ding," I tell Mark - just because he happens to be standing there. I open the giant suitcase and grope along the top searching for George's buckwheat and lavender rabbit. I find him and open Mark's suitcase and put him in. I realize Ring Ding doesn't weigh two pounds and will have to start unloading lots of clothes: adorable little jammies with rabbits in race cars, puppies opening presents, rocket ships blasting off into space, tiny shirts, tiny pants. Everyone in the baggage line stares as I self consiously and hurriedly share our choice of apparel with the entire world.
The baggage guy says I have to move our luggage out of the way. I pick up my 52 pound suitcase from a sitting squat position and toss it to the side. No problem. What's he complaining about? I lug 40 pounds around on a regular basis and I don't even toss or drop it. I carry it on my hip sort of like a backpacker carries a backpack. It's part of the equipment. I go up steps. It goes up steps. I go down steps. It goes down steps. It's called my child.
I finish my organizing, zip everything up and wheel the monster suitcase back to the scales. Without a word he places it on the scales. It weighs 48 pounds. My satisfaction is short lived as I realize this guy really does not like me now and he has the suitcases. Will they be going to Fiji today or perchance they might just sit at San Jose airport a little to the side in the shadows of the baggage basement forever? I don't budge until I see him physically place the suitcases on the converyor belt. He does and adds the car seat as well. "Okay, let's go," I tell George. "It's all in." And off I go to the next gauntlet: security. Oh the airlines and the stories I could tell. But, I will stick with this one.
We arrive in Reno and collect our luggage. Everything is there. My anxiety fades. The world is whole again. The sun is shining. The air is warm. The baggage guy is out of my life. Let's have some fun! We get our rental car and drag all our stuff, like toilet paper dragging from the sole of a shoe, to the car. I put the car seat in the car and ask George to get in it. I try to fasten the restraining straps and can't figure out how to do it. Something isn't right. I look closer and see that one strap of George's car seat has been neatly cut all the way across. I am shocked. I was expecting maybe something like poop in the suitcase but nothing like this.
So, as all parents know, you can't go anywhere without a car seat. We are stuck at the airport. He got me. So, we take the car seat out of the car and head to customer service. They are apologetic, loan us a car seat so we can go to a store to buy a new one, and pay for the new car seat.
I remember fingering the cut strap like somehow I would understand the person who would do something like that. I keep touching the cut strap, its smooth yet tough fabric gliding through my gentle fingers. The clean cut so decisive and violent to me. I feel for the children of the world.
Now another guy gets involved to help my nonplussed husband fork over the $25. I get huffy. I inform anyone who is listening that we are not paying $25 for two pounds over. Surely there must be some wiggle room since both my young son and I are using the same suitcase. No, he informs us. That's why every person is allowed to have two suitcases. I'm starting to get hot now. My son can't carry two suitcases, and I can't carry his two suitcases. We are already lugging a car seat, two suitcases, one carry-on bag, a computer and a five-year-old. No van would stop to pick us up if they saw four suitcases, a car seat and all the minutia dragging behind us. Have mercy.
The guy says I could try repacking the suitcase. Fine. "Give me Ring Ding," I tell Mark - just because he happens to be standing there. I open the giant suitcase and grope along the top searching for George's buckwheat and lavender rabbit. I find him and open Mark's suitcase and put him in. I realize Ring Ding doesn't weigh two pounds and will have to start unloading lots of clothes: adorable little jammies with rabbits in race cars, puppies opening presents, rocket ships blasting off into space, tiny shirts, tiny pants. Everyone in the baggage line stares as I self consiously and hurriedly share our choice of apparel with the entire world.
The baggage guy says I have to move our luggage out of the way. I pick up my 52 pound suitcase from a sitting squat position and toss it to the side. No problem. What's he complaining about? I lug 40 pounds around on a regular basis and I don't even toss or drop it. I carry it on my hip sort of like a backpacker carries a backpack. It's part of the equipment. I go up steps. It goes up steps. I go down steps. It goes down steps. It's called my child.
I finish my organizing, zip everything up and wheel the monster suitcase back to the scales. Without a word he places it on the scales. It weighs 48 pounds. My satisfaction is short lived as I realize this guy really does not like me now and he has the suitcases. Will they be going to Fiji today or perchance they might just sit at San Jose airport a little to the side in the shadows of the baggage basement forever? I don't budge until I see him physically place the suitcases on the converyor belt. He does and adds the car seat as well. "Okay, let's go," I tell George. "It's all in." And off I go to the next gauntlet: security. Oh the airlines and the stories I could tell. But, I will stick with this one.
We arrive in Reno and collect our luggage. Everything is there. My anxiety fades. The world is whole again. The sun is shining. The air is warm. The baggage guy is out of my life. Let's have some fun! We get our rental car and drag all our stuff, like toilet paper dragging from the sole of a shoe, to the car. I put the car seat in the car and ask George to get in it. I try to fasten the restraining straps and can't figure out how to do it. Something isn't right. I look closer and see that one strap of George's car seat has been neatly cut all the way across. I am shocked. I was expecting maybe something like poop in the suitcase but nothing like this.
So, as all parents know, you can't go anywhere without a car seat. We are stuck at the airport. He got me. So, we take the car seat out of the car and head to customer service. They are apologetic, loan us a car seat so we can go to a store to buy a new one, and pay for the new car seat.
I remember fingering the cut strap like somehow I would understand the person who would do something like that. I keep touching the cut strap, its smooth yet tough fabric gliding through my gentle fingers. The clean cut so decisive and violent to me. I feel for the children of the world.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
My Summer Vacation
Part I: The Mile High Club
Anyone considering joining this club please read this entry. This is how not to go about it. I have it from a knowledgeable source that it should only be tried in business class on international flights and on almost empty red eyes.
This particular debacle happened on board a packed flight in coach going to Salt Lake City, UT from Cleveland, Ohio (read kids, lots of kids and seniors on board).
Enjoy....
I first noticed him as we stood in line waiting in the aisle to take our seats. His girlfriend/wife was stuck with a heavy suitcase, and my husband offered to help her carry it. She declined. But this man, her boyfriend/husband turned around to look back. He gave her a big, wet, deep sloppy kiss - not unlike a cat rubbing against a piece of furniture marking it as his. I was immediately repulsed by him. His look, the kiss - everything about him was gross. The fact that this woman had to be subject to his attention aroused my sympathy for her. I tried not to stare.
The line moved along, and we all took our seats. The couple was two rows in front of us. About an hour into our flight, the man stood up. He was in the aisle seat. As he stood there in the aisle, he surveyed the rows behind him. He looked at my son, and then he looked over at me and, alas, he caught my eye. Ick. Ick. Ick. And then he did it again. He leaned over and gave another hideously long kiss to her. It went on a long time. When he stopped and stood up he looked flushed. I really felt bad for the woman now. What? Whenever this man wants to he can make her do his bidding?
O.K. This guy was definitely on my radar and now I covertly watched everything he did. And I managed to watch, from beginning to end, how "Mr. Bumbles" and "Miss Pillows" carried out their doomed plan to get a "quicky" on the plane.
Step 1:
Miss Pillows gets up to go to the bathroom. As she walks by, she nonchalantly smoothes her polyester dress down over her knee length spandex leotards.
There is no line for the bathroom so she steps in.
Step 2:
Mr. Bumbles gets out of his seat to go to the bathroom.
There is no line but there is trouble. Some other people get up and follow him to the bathroom. He lets people go ahead. Smart...don't want to be seen going into an occupied bathroom.
Miss Pillows still in her bathroom. People keep coming. Must be the beverages. There is a line now. They sure could use the bathroom Miss Pillows is in. Coach is down to one lavatory now.
I start timing the situation. Ten minutes goes by. Mr. Bumbles decides he has to go to the bathroom so he actually enters the empty one.
(My neck is aching now from looking backward so much.)
Step 3:
Just do it. My heart is beating with excitement as I know the moment of truth is about to happen. Everybody is gone. Miss Pillows is still in her compartment. Mr. Bumbles exits his potty and knocks on her potty door. He goes in. They are in there for awhile. In that time, a line has started again. This time, there is a teenage boy, a mother with her toddler in tow, a senior woman, and a woman in line. A dad with a baby comes up but leaves because it's taking too long. The teenage boy goes in the one empty bathroom and stays there a long time. The heat is on because nobody is leavng.
This is just so classic, and I am giddy with what will happen. They can't leave the bathroom.
I read body language. The women are talking. What's taking so long?
Finally, the teenager leaves and the mom with the child enters. That leaves the woman and the senior woman. This is where the quicky in coach plan collapses. Miss Pillows finally opens the door and tries to quickly close it behind her. The woman waiting for the bathroom lunges for the handle but has the door yanked out of her hand. The door slams shut. The woman literally grasps the door handle with both hands and starts yanking on it hard. The door is shaking but it won't open. She looks at the senior woman - obviously not grasping the situation - in cofusion. Finally, Mr. Bumbles gives up and comes out about a minute later. The woman makes a big silent O with her mouth and then covers it with her hand. He smiles sheepishly. The senior woman stares and then the fall-out starts.
Needless to say, Mr. Bumbles is truly disgusting now. He is sweaty. He takes his seat. Miss Pillows' shaking hand adjusts a stray strand of hair.
Now the woman is talking to the flight crew. She is pointing. They are talking. The back of the plane, where the woman sits, is craning to see who all did what. There are smiles.
And finally, the senior woman. It turns out she was seated directly across the aisle, one row back from him. She took her seat next to her husband and started to talk. She nodded in his direction. Her husband, all 6'2" of him, sat and openly looked at Mr. Bumble. The husband's face alternated between amusement, contemplation and disgust.
It was all very exciting. I was disappointed that it all ended. But, I was happy that I actually got to witness such an event as entry into the Mile High Club. I still felt very sorry for her. Her shaking hand seemd so fragile. But, at least he went away. He satisfied himself and kept low the rest of the time.
Anyone considering joining this club please read this entry. This is how not to go about it. I have it from a knowledgeable source that it should only be tried in business class on international flights and on almost empty red eyes.
This particular debacle happened on board a packed flight in coach going to Salt Lake City, UT from Cleveland, Ohio (read kids, lots of kids and seniors on board).
Enjoy....
I first noticed him as we stood in line waiting in the aisle to take our seats. His girlfriend/wife was stuck with a heavy suitcase, and my husband offered to help her carry it. She declined. But this man, her boyfriend/husband turned around to look back. He gave her a big, wet, deep sloppy kiss - not unlike a cat rubbing against a piece of furniture marking it as his. I was immediately repulsed by him. His look, the kiss - everything about him was gross. The fact that this woman had to be subject to his attention aroused my sympathy for her. I tried not to stare.
The line moved along, and we all took our seats. The couple was two rows in front of us. About an hour into our flight, the man stood up. He was in the aisle seat. As he stood there in the aisle, he surveyed the rows behind him. He looked at my son, and then he looked over at me and, alas, he caught my eye. Ick. Ick. Ick. And then he did it again. He leaned over and gave another hideously long kiss to her. It went on a long time. When he stopped and stood up he looked flushed. I really felt bad for the woman now. What? Whenever this man wants to he can make her do his bidding?
O.K. This guy was definitely on my radar and now I covertly watched everything he did. And I managed to watch, from beginning to end, how "Mr. Bumbles" and "Miss Pillows" carried out their doomed plan to get a "quicky" on the plane.
Step 1:
Miss Pillows gets up to go to the bathroom. As she walks by, she nonchalantly smoothes her polyester dress down over her knee length spandex leotards.
There is no line for the bathroom so she steps in.
Step 2:
Mr. Bumbles gets out of his seat to go to the bathroom.
There is no line but there is trouble. Some other people get up and follow him to the bathroom. He lets people go ahead. Smart...don't want to be seen going into an occupied bathroom.
Miss Pillows still in her bathroom. People keep coming. Must be the beverages. There is a line now. They sure could use the bathroom Miss Pillows is in. Coach is down to one lavatory now.
I start timing the situation. Ten minutes goes by. Mr. Bumbles decides he has to go to the bathroom so he actually enters the empty one.
(My neck is aching now from looking backward so much.)
Step 3:
Just do it. My heart is beating with excitement as I know the moment of truth is about to happen. Everybody is gone. Miss Pillows is still in her compartment. Mr. Bumbles exits his potty and knocks on her potty door. He goes in. They are in there for awhile. In that time, a line has started again. This time, there is a teenage boy, a mother with her toddler in tow, a senior woman, and a woman in line. A dad with a baby comes up but leaves because it's taking too long. The teenage boy goes in the one empty bathroom and stays there a long time. The heat is on because nobody is leavng.
This is just so classic, and I am giddy with what will happen. They can't leave the bathroom.
I read body language. The women are talking. What's taking so long?
Finally, the teenager leaves and the mom with the child enters. That leaves the woman and the senior woman. This is where the quicky in coach plan collapses. Miss Pillows finally opens the door and tries to quickly close it behind her. The woman waiting for the bathroom lunges for the handle but has the door yanked out of her hand. The door slams shut. The woman literally grasps the door handle with both hands and starts yanking on it hard. The door is shaking but it won't open. She looks at the senior woman - obviously not grasping the situation - in cofusion. Finally, Mr. Bumbles gives up and comes out about a minute later. The woman makes a big silent O with her mouth and then covers it with her hand. He smiles sheepishly. The senior woman stares and then the fall-out starts.
Needless to say, Mr. Bumbles is truly disgusting now. He is sweaty. He takes his seat. Miss Pillows' shaking hand adjusts a stray strand of hair.
Now the woman is talking to the flight crew. She is pointing. They are talking. The back of the plane, where the woman sits, is craning to see who all did what. There are smiles.
And finally, the senior woman. It turns out she was seated directly across the aisle, one row back from him. She took her seat next to her husband and started to talk. She nodded in his direction. Her husband, all 6'2" of him, sat and openly looked at Mr. Bumble. The husband's face alternated between amusement, contemplation and disgust.
It was all very exciting. I was disappointed that it all ended. But, I was happy that I actually got to witness such an event as entry into the Mile High Club. I still felt very sorry for her. Her shaking hand seemd so fragile. But, at least he went away. He satisfied himself and kept low the rest of the time.
Friday, June 8, 2007
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