sunny side up

trashed

When I was in the third grade, I had a tremendous crush on a little boy named Darryl Gates.  (No, not the former Chief of the LAPD).  He had dirty blond hair and happy brown eyes.  I distinctly remember him in an orange shirt with brown lowrider Levi's cords (which were the fashion at the time).  Now, if there was one thing about Darryl Gates that was a tad off-putting, it was that he was reaaaaaally puny.  Given that I was probably--at best--between the third and fifth percentiles for height in my age group, you might think I was in no position to complain.  However, Darryl was even punier than me. If you have ever met me in person, you will understand how very remarkably puny he must have been. 

And yet.  The way Darryl's cowlick made his stick-straight dirty blond hair flop over to one side more than compensated for the puny.  Also, he was a pretty good athlete.  Since I was generously inclined to overlook his size, the only real obstacle to a meaningful relationship with Darryl Gates was the fact that he never paid one bit of attention to me.  Of course, this could only mean that he was shy, something I found even more appealing.  (But see The Case of Danny Harris, another boy in the same class with a different approach whom I did not find appealing.)

One day in class, Mrs. Terranova asked Darryl to walk down to the P.E. closet to get some balls for a dodgeball game.  This request demonstrated that Mrs. Terranova also thought highly of my Darryl--maybe she was also attracted to the cowlick?--because only the special ones were chosen to complete tasks requiring independence outside the classroom.  (I once got asked to go fetch the piano for music class. I was wheeling it down the hall back to homeroom and really got my momentum up,  so much so that when I tried to 'round the corner I accidentally tipped it over to the tune (if you will) of $300 worth of broken.  Oops. They never asked me to do that again.)

Darryl left the class to go get the balls for P.E. 

After about five minutes, Mrs. Terranova began to wonder where Darryl was, as did I. The P.E. closet was only down the hall, after all.  So the class lined up in formation and Mrs. Terranova marched us down the hall, hoping to pick up Darryl along the way.  As we approached the corner we could hear the faintest little "Help.  Help." coming from the closet, as if from the mouth of a Who down in Whoville.

Since I was at the front of the line, when Mrs. Terranova opened the door I could see Darryl's feet sticking out of the giant trash can-sized box that held the red balls.  Apparently he had leaned in to grab a few and got stuck between the balls somehow in an upside down position.  Had I not known any better, I would have thought he was foraging for trash. 

Many, many years later--the other day in fact--Bell was out in the backyard pulling weeds and cutting roses and doing whatever you people who garden do.  It was a bazillion degrees out in that hot sun but he was working like the farm boy he was destined to be.  He had big green-waste receptacle was in front of him, tilted toward him for easy access.  I came out to the backyard to say "hi" as he was leaning forward to put clippings in the receptacle.  He lost his balance and fell completely inside, head first.  One minute he was about to kiss me "hello," the next he's showing me the soles of his shoes.  Then Kai, who witnessed the debacle from the sunroom, yelled out, "Whaddya doin' out there Dad, dumpster diving? Ha ha!" It was a beautiful moment.

So for the last few days, everytime I get the image of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, or indeed, every time I see anyone bend over in a vulnerable position it makes me think of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, and this makes me smile really big.  That is one reason why I am still head over heels in love with him. 

temperature rising

This morning as I drove to the gym, an indicator light on my instrument panel went off (well, other than the engine light that's been on for two weeks now because my mechanic told me it was probably just randomly misfiring, so I've learned to ignore it).  Then I got the red "STOP IMMEDIATELY. Check coolant" warning.  I turned around and went back up the hill, hoping my car wouldn't just break then and there because it's about 700 degrees outside today and I didn't feel like walking the rest of the way home.  Once safely home, I checked my car manual (after I found the right one, that is. For some reason my car came with a thick pile of various manuals offering different bits of fascinating information about my car.)  I popped the hood and looked at the coolant overflow tank.  Much to my surprise, it was filled waaaaaaaaay below the minimum required for the efficient operation of my engine.  And yet, this was the first warning I'd had.  (Or was it?  Maybe my mechanic's idea of an engine warning light "misfire" is actually an actual warning.  Remind me to take that up with him tomorrow.)

Anywho, point is the coolant is very low.  So of course I decide to go buy more to refill the tank, an easy enough task, yes?

No.

The first auto parts store did not have the type indicated in my trusty manual.  "Good luck finding that," the chubby greasy man told me as I walked out the door.  I decided to call another auto parts store before I drove there. 

Me: I need coolant for my VW.  Do you have G12?
Kragen Auto Supply: Coolant?
Me: Yes, you know--so the engine doesn't overheat?
Kragen: Ohhhh, you mean anti-freeze?
Me: Yes, but around here we need it to cool, not not freeze.
Kragen: We have that.
Me: Do you have G12?
Kragen: Er, what color is it?
Me: Orangey-red.
Kragen: Oooh! We have that!
Me: But is it G12?  My manual says not to mix what's in there with anything else.
Kragen: Hold on.  [Puts down phone. I hear footsteps back and forth.]  Hello? Yea, it doesn't say anything about G12 but it says it can be used on VWs. 
Me: [Imagining my car exploding on my way to work] Nah.  I'll try elsewhere.
Kragen: But we have the orangey-red one.  We have it.
Me: Thanks. [click]

I call the VW dealership but since their Service & Parts department is closed, they won't sell me any super-special coolant.  I will have to wait until Monday morning.  When Bell hears this he  picks up the phone to take issue with the dealer, a move which rather surprised me for its impulsiveness, touch of righteousness, and sheer futility. It's the kind of thing I would have done if VW had put out a recall on a car part, the replacement of which would have required me to leave the car with them all day, then told me I would have to pay for a car rental myself.  Hey wait--they did do that to me, and my righteous indignation was completely lost on them. The VW sales dealer was kind enough to suggest auto supply stores if I really needed coolant today.  Everyone's a  comedian.

Next we hit the Auto Zone on the off-chance that we had just been checking the wrong auto supply stores. This may come as a surprise to you, but they don't carry G12. Ah, but there is always EZ Lube.  The very name suggests EZness, and at this point I just wanted things to be EZ.  I needed EZ.  I called them before going there, just to be sure.  When I said I needed G12 for my VW, a woman said she'd go take a look.  It was a very long look, and perhaps she left the store to continue her search because I was on hold for a spell when a guy finally picked up the line.  I told him I was waiting for someone to find coolant for my VW, specifically G12.  Did they have that?

"We have coolant for VWs," he said.  But of course, he did not answer the question. If I learned anything taking depositions, it was how to listen when an adversary's witness answers a question.

"Is it G12?" 

" . . .Welllllll, it's for VWs. We use it on VWs all the time.  . ."

Not so EZ after all.

So now I have to wait until tomorrow morning to drop both kids off at school (with the one car that has sufficient coolant), then drive north to buy the g-damn G12, then head south for an hour and fifteen minute commute to work (assuming no traffic), for which I'll be late, which means I have to reschedule some appointments.

Sigh.

At this point I could use a little coolant bath myself.

taking it to the next level

I spent last weekend in San Francisco for my high school reunion (thoughts about which I shall try to post later).   On our way to Zeum (which, btw, so. cool.) we stopped by the Sony store at the doomed Metreon--an "entertainment mall" originally owned by Sony.  As you might imagine, the Sony store prominently features its products at little demo stations all over the store.  Kai and Jade were all over it like a hot rash.  The first demo station we visited involved some dude and his horse in a medieval setting.  Presumably gamers were supposed to get the armed warrior onto his horse so he could ride across the hills to meet his enemy.  Oh, how my two gaming amateurs tried to figure out how to mount the horse while the animal just looked around and occasionally tapped a hoof on the ground.  Jade finally gave up and ran off to another game, and that's when Kai took control.  Instead of trying to get the guy to mount, however, he made the warrior slash and stab at his horse.  He figured out those movements pretty quickly.

"Whoa, buddy. It looks like you're hurting your horse.  You're not supposed to fight the horse; you're supposed to ride it out to fight your enemy. I mean, if you can ever get on it."

"No, I'm twying to stab it.  It's funnier."

Er, oh-kay.  Is this what they mean when they say video games cause violence?

I backed away slowly. No longer interested in watching Kai slay Black Beauty, I looked around for Jade, who was with my best friend from law school. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this fair maiden, with a lovable toothless grin and a little mustache above that toothless grin.

For those living lives of leisure, San Francisco is a very livable city.  Apparently this is true of people at both ends of the income spectrum.  The homeless in San Francisco have always had it pretty good compared to homeless elsewhere. But now?  Now they have it so damn good. The whole time we were in the Sony store, this happy homeless woman stayed glued to the video demo, all her worldly possessions strewn about her feet.  Did she beg for money? No.  Did she ask for a place to sleep? A warm shower and shave? Negative.  All she really wanted was to make it to the next level.

alright already! i'll tell you.

My Internets friend Fringes tagged me for a meme a while back. I don't often do memes, in part because like Fringes I'm a "don't tell me what to do" kind of gal.  But she asked so nicely, and she claims she's dying to know my answers. Dying. I can't have her blood on my hands, so here goes:

List three books you've always meant to read but haven't gotten around to.
1.  I've been meaning to read "Two Lucky People" by Milton and Rose Friedman ever since it came out three years ago.  I finally started it last fall, but I only made it up to the point where our amorous protagonists have married and moved to Washington, D.C. (1941-43).  Part of the problem I have not a lot of trouble putting this one down is that while the two are exceptionally clear and brilliant writers, let's face it, they're economists (with all due respect for my economist friends, especially those of you with flair for a good story). (Glen.) The writing, especially Milton's, tends toward a strict recounting of details remembered.  The real stumbling block, however, is the size of the damn book. At 589 pages in hardback (excluding appendix and index) this is no five-and-dime novella I can throw in my purse to read during my downtime.  At best, I used to lug it to the gym in my perfectly-sized Puma bowling bag for the days I was on the Elliptical Edge.  These days, however, I'm only on The Edge once or twice a week since I prefer to get my cardio by running outside or doing sprint training on the treadmill.  Just as standing on a docked boat can make me vomit, trying to read while doing 45-second speed drills will surely put me over the edge. 

It's hard not to love Milton Friedman if you have any affiliation with the University of Chicago; I had met him even before I attended the U of C.  I was at the time a freshly minted college grad working for a think tank in San Francisco when our organization held a dinner in Dr. Friedman's honor.  Several years later, about fifteen years ago, I was again working in San Francisco when I ran into the Drs. Friedman at a University of Chicago alumni affair.  They passed me on the escalator up to the ballroom, he in a tuxedo, she in a fetching dress.  When the band fired up, Milton escorted Rose to the dance floor and the two cut up a rug for much of the evening. They looked so happy and lively and perfectly suited to each other; it made me hope that someday that would be Bell and me (perhaps sans Nobel prize or, sadly, a bitchin' pad on Nob Hill)--a couple not worn down by their years together but built up and invigorated by them.

On a side note, as I was flipping through my copy of this book (borrowed from my brother), I discovered that my mom must have also read it. Apparently she scribbled in the margins of a passage about Milton's visit to a Chinese hotel for communist leaders the words, "Typical Commie Hypocrites!  Effete Elitists!"  Effete Elitists? That is pure poetry, my friends. And you wonder where I get it.

2. "The Creators," by Daniel Boorstin.  I went through a Daniel Boorstin phase sometime after college, voraciously devouring his excellent series "The Americans" (covering the founding of the country and the people who peopled it), and "The Discoverers" (not surprisingly, a history of famous discoverers and their discoveries).  During my Boorstin-o-philia I picked up "The Creators" at a used bookstore and had every intention of diving right in.  Events took a surprising turn when I suddenly entered into a biographies-of-famous-anarchists phase (I am easily distracted by bright shiny rebelliousness), which biographies contained many fewer pages than the whopping "Creators."  Anarchy prevailed, as did convenience, and I never picked up "The Creators" except to pack it up each time we moved. 

3. And speaking of creators, one of these days I'm gonna plop into a comfy chair with a cup of joe and read the Bible. It speaks ill of my upbringing that I don't know more about The Good Book than I do since I was raised Catholic by an immigrant whose Catholicism runs deep and a former nun who then left the Church when I was about 11, explored some kind of pentecostal speaking-in-tongues sect that met in a basement every Wednesday night (and freaked me the hell out) and embraced Zionist Judaism.  Sure, I attended First Communion classes but all I got was this fantastic picture.  Yeah, I grew up going to church every week but it was all about seeing and being seen, baby.   And also because church held the promise of Krispy Kreme Donuts.  I'll sit through this, Lord, but please come through on the old-fashioned glazed today.

As an adult, I've never had the endurance necessary to sit down and read the whole thing front to back.  I'm not interested in studying the Bible with a group or taking a class on it like some people do--I just want to read it, front to back, not unlike the time Jade stood at her bookshelf for 10 days and read the Scholastic Children's Encyclopedia when she was but five years old. Or the time she attempted to read the Scholastic Dictionary front to back until she learned that it could also be used to look up words.  In other words, I'm not trying to understand the Bible's nuances, I'm  just looking for some good material.  Is that bad?

Share two books that changed your life.

1.  Some of you will sneer when I name "The Fountainhead," and to those who do I invite you to bite me because here I am pouring my heart out to you and you judge. 

A friend of mine gave it to me in college (of course! When else does anyone read The Fountainhead?)* It's no literary masterpiece, I'll grant, but from the moment Howard Roark laughed and stood naked on the edge of the cliff, I was hooked.  This book gave voice to my irrepressible individualist leanings, leanings it seems I was born with and no one could dispel me of no matter how hard they try.  Of course "The Fountainhead" is really just a gateway drug book for "Atlas Shrugged" and, for some, other more serious ventures into objectivist philosophy.  (It's perhaps no surprise then that my first copy of "The Fountainhead" was a freebie.)  Potential readers should perhaps be warned of the dangers and approach "The Fountainhead" with caution. Or not.

2. This one might throw the lot of you, but Ann Louise Gittleman's "Before the Change: Taking Charge of Your Perimenopause" really really did change my life.  Now, before you go getting all freaked out by hearing the word "menopause," let me just say that until I read this book I assumed that it was this thing that happened one day when a woman gets to be in her fifties. It's a thing our moms go through.  Turns out, however, that a woman's body starts changing and gearing up for this big change as early as 35, and these changes affect her entire system. And! It's not just the sex hormones (progesterone, estrogen), but all those other ones we handily ignore (e.g., serotonin, adrenalin, insulin) that go screwy in response to both this gearing up and other factors  like diet and vitamin/mineral deficiencies.  Then one day a gal finds herself suffering depression, anxiety, irritability, lack of energy, insomnia, night sweats, and the inability to get rid of love handles and belly fat no matter how hard she seemingly tries.  Or, in my case, lots of other freaky  thangs happened that were very clearly tied to hormone imbalances. 

As some of you know, I experienced these mysterious bodily changes and went to many a doctor, none of whom did a damn thing to solve the mystery.  It was my own medical Googling that led me to Gittleman's book, and I have not had midnight twitchings, visual light shows and distortions, random heart palpitations, insomnia, over-the-top reactions to caffeine, or unfounded irritability since then.  "Before the Change" talks about how our hormones, they are a-changin'. But all is not lost.  There are effective natural (i.e., nonmedicated) ways to bring things back in balance so that you aren't standing at the kitchen counter one day, unable to control your wildly palpitating heart and thinking you are experiencing a heart attack.

If you are a woman between the ages of 35 and 50, or you think one day you will be, or you know someone that fits this description, you ought to read this book. Over the last couple of years, I probably talked to eleventy thousand women in this age range about various symptoms and all thought they were the only ones experiencing them.  And, I kid you not, every single one of them said, in describing their symptoms, "I feel like I'm going crazy," It made me wonder how it was that all these women experience most of the same core symptoms and are told by their doctors that it's just anxiety and/or depression--nothing a little pill won't take care of.  Is it a mere coincidence that this age range is experiencing so much "anxiety" and "depression"? I haven't looked at the statistics, but it makes me wonder whether a high proportion of anti-depressants are distributed to women between the ages of 35 and 50;  I also wonder if, back in the old days, the women institutionalized for "hysteria" mostly fell within this age range.  (If any of you have the answer, please tell me in the comments.)

So yeah, this book changed my life because it helped me understand what is going on systemically and to see how many wildly different symptoms are related. It confirmed that I need to be proactive in keeping my hormones in check.  You all know how I have embraced vitamin B, but have I told you about my best friend magnesium (and how, despite blood tests showing that my magnesium was low, no doctor figured out that maybe a magnesium supplement would do the trick)?  "Before the Change" changed my life in other ways: it opened a dialogue with other women who had heretofore felt alone and crazy with their symptoms.  It helped me recognize the suffering woman (she's usually trying to strangle bunnies and spit on Girl Scouts), and to reach out to her (you men have me to thank). 

God, that was so serious.

Recommend the ONE book you have been talking about since the very first day you read it.

Well, that would be Gittleman's book, and not only have I not really stopped talking about it, I've been buying it in bulk and handing it out to distressed women everywhere.  Sometimes I don't even know them very well but I see that look in their eyes, that cry for help.  I consider this an act of community service.  Some do-gooders work the soup kitchen on Thanksgiving; others knit blankets for orphaned babies.  Still others fly around the word to repair cleft palates. Me? I hand out Gittleman's book.  I believe it's my calling. Don't tell me I'm not goin' to heaven.

[Damn! This meme has been like writing three blog posts.  I'm good for the rest of the week.]

_________

*I have this friend who is really smart, graduated from high school at 16 and went off to Yale (I realize this makes her a slacker compared to our mutual friend, the indefatigable Eugene, who dropped out of high school at twelve so he could start college, graduating at 15.  But still.)  She once spoke of the time her father introduced her to Ayn Rand when she was 11.  I asked her in my deadpan but joking way whether she and Rand discussed Rand's work.  She replied, in a deadpan but not-joking way, "Well, I had only read "The Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged" at that point; I hadn't read "Philosophy: Who Needs It?" or "An Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology" yet."  Before she was 11, people!  I am totally getting Jade "The Fountainhead" for her upcoming 10th birthday.

girl, interrupted

A few weeks ago at California Adventure Jade alllllllmost rode the Mulholland Madness rollercoaster, but then she backed out at the very last minute. Nay, the very last second. She expressed her doubts after we had been waiting in line, just as we were settling into our car.  "It'll be fun! Don't worry," I assured her.  "Remember how you didn't want to go on the river rafting ride and now it's 'your most favorite ride. EVER.'?" 

Jade: No. No. No. No. I don't want to go on this.

She happened to say this just as the Mulholland Madness Safety Assistant walked by to make sure we were safely pinned to our seats. Everyone else was strapped in and ready to go.

MMSA [to Jade]: What's the matter?

Jade: I don't want to go on this ride.

Me: Ohhhh, she'll be fine. She's fine! [In my head: Move along, sir.]

MMSA: Ma'am, we can't make her ride if she doesn't want to.

Jade: I don't want to!

Me: [INHAAAAAAAAAALE.  EXHAAAAAAAAAALE. INNNNHAAAAAAAALE.  EXXXXXHAAAAAAALE.] Okaaaaaaaaay.   Everybody out!

Kai [from the seat behind us]: Wha? Why? What's going on?

Me: Chop chop! People are waiting!

***

I herded them off the ride and down the stairs while the lucky ones got to remain in their seats and ride the ride.  Was I bitter that I wound up sitting on a bench sandwiched between my two crying kids on a blistering hot and crowded day?  Benched, while my friend and her daughter enjoyed the Mulholland Madness? Oh come on, you know me better than that.

As we sat there waiting while everyone else had all the fun, Jade and I talked about facing fears. I don't mind that she is afraid of roller coasters, I understand that. One of the reasons I don't enjoy amusement parks much these days is because Jade doesn't like riding the rides (except for the Teacups) and I always have to sit out with her because Hello? perverts frequent amusement parks looking for little girls who sit alone while their parents are on the rides.  Jade is perfectly happy to just walk around and look at everything, but I am not so happy to shell out all that money on a sightseeing tour.  I mean, take a picture, it lasts longer!  (And costs less).  Sooo, the only reason we ended up at California Adventure in the first place was that my dear friend Deb was in town from Virginia with one of her daughters, and they really really wanted to go.

I was pleasantly surprised when Jade told me she actually wanted to try the sissy* rollercoaster; I think she must have been feeling pretty confident after surrendering to the Grizzly River Run earlier in the day, only to discover she had a HUGE EFFING BLAST.  Alas, at the last minute, piling into Mulholland Madness, she let her fear overwhelm her.

I told her that everyone has fears, and sometimes in order to conquer them you have to go to that place inside where you store up your guts, and you have to call on those guts to power you through the fear.  Take a deep breath, dig deep, all that stuff.  That was essentially the message.

A little while later we sat frying eggs on the concrete while we waited for the High School Musical traveling parade,** and Jade asked, "Were you really going to take me to a mental hospital?"

Me: Huh?

Jade: You said I would have to go to a mental hospital.

Me: What? When? I never said that.

Jade: Yes you did.  You said that when I let my fear overwhelm me I would need to "go to that place." I thought that "that place" was a mental hospital.

Poor kid!  For about twenty minutes she probably thought that when we got home she would have to pack a suitcase and say goodbye, and she wouldn't even get to turn in her book report. I'm glad we cleared that one up.

On the bright side, it forced her reflect on how to deal with her fears and to make an effort to try harder whenever she's outside her comfort zone.  That's more like the kind of commitment I had in mind. 

_____

*Compared to its awesome cousin, California Screamin'

**Someone please shoot me and put me out of my misery.

clothes encounters

Earlier this year Kai turned five, and since then he has taken charge of picking out his outfits. When left to his own devices, you can see he is a force to be reckoned with.  He discovered some old clip-on ties in his repertoire, accessories I purchased at a thrift store for various costumes. He now dons them with some regularity (on weekends, in particular), clipping them to the neck of his t-shirts or button downs or, in some cases, with no shirt at all.  As Bell has observed, "He's the only kid at the park who wears a tie."

This photo was taken after Kai had already removed his favorite weekend clip-on, which he had attached to point where this (very small) Brooks Brothers blazer buttons up.  He took off the tie so that he and his little buddy could unearth dinosaur fossils without obstruction.  A man can't chisel and hammer and brush with his tie in the way.  The blazer, by the way, was part of his old Halloween costume (two and a 1/2 years, ten pounds, and about eight inches ago). Tell me, ladies, how can you resist the charms?

One day he emerged from his room in this get-up.  "Wow!" I exclaimed. Because what else is there to say? Just. Wow.

"Don't I look like a teenager?" he asked most sincerely.  I told him I didn't know any teenage boys who wear ties, much less clip-ons, and lesser still clip-ons that attach that far down on the shirt.  I've never actually seen a teenager with a NASCAR hat from the local Albertsons bakery department, as the locals are all about the beanie and the jaunty fedora.  But that's okay!  Because damn, Kai looks good.  I'm not the only one to say so--whenever he is out and about in one of his outfits, he always seems to attract comments from young and old alike.  I think he is especially encouraged by the teenagers and young men who encounter him and say things like, "Dude! Lookin' good!" or "Hey man, like your tie.  You look cool!"  And the thing is, they are not mocking him, they are amused and charmed and always kind.

Who's got style?  Who's got flash? Uh-huh, you know it. 

Tha's what I'm talkin' about.