I've just about had it with the banks boohooing and blubbering as they have the rest of us in their grinchy mitts. I've a good mind to take my money and stuff it in my Beautyrest where at least I can see it, under my own terms without a slew of legal mumbo jumbo where I suspect I'm about to be hoodwinked into an agreement that will later be headlined somewhere as "She Should Have Known Better - Victim Pleads Ignorance, Court Says No Excuse".
I recently decided over the phone to have overdraft protection for two accounts from my savings account. This seems responsible and reasonable, does it not? To the bank, however, this was an opportunity to Sell Me Services, for which I would also be, ahem, cough cough, charged. I received in the mail, an envelope the size of a phone book for a metropolis. It included two booklets, three pamphlets and eleven (YES I KNOW) addendum slips to the booklets, a two page legal size application form, a form about automatic payments, a cover letter and all that was missing was a request for a pint of my precious O neg blood. God knows they aren't spreading the wealth, but they're sure spending plenty of cash on legal a--covering. That's OUR cash by the way folks.
Well, I am about to take the package and shove it - probably into my bag first, then onto the desk of some hapless clerk at the bank and spend the next hour getting it all sorted out. OR, perhaps I'll just take all my money out of the bank and sleep on it. I haven't decided yet, but the shoving has a strong appeal at this very moment.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
George at 84, Every Woman's Dream Guy
Today I was invited to a lunch honoring George, who at 84 years old still loves teaching in the classroom and who gets so emotional when he talks about his love of life, he bursts into tears. It happened twice today and each time, he won the heart of every woman present, around thirty of us. Women are just suckers for a man who has the guts or heart, whichever organ may be involved (I'm not going there with you) to stand up in public and break into grateful sobs. For a woman, this has serious meaning, guys take note. If you ask us to explain it, you're wasting your time because we can't. That's because it's a chick thing, this response we cannot control, like when a child is in trouble or a tall handsome guy stops in mid sentence as his face turns a little pink and his voice catches with emotion. That's the guy who's going home with the prom queen. Irresistable.
His wife is a peach of a lady and protective. Nobody would dream of messing with him or her. In public, he stood up and shared a haiku he'd written for her: My wife in her new party dress, I am in love again. Not a dry eye. We might not want George, as he's taken already, but we all want one just like him.
My son tells me what a turn on it is for some women that he's a guy who knows about tools and how to use them (I'm not going there either). Same with knowing how to dance, he reports, not exactly with a smug leer, but certainly an air of confidence.
The ideal man, then, is a man who cries openly, writes love poems to his wife and reads them in public, knows all about tools and how to use them and is a good leader on the dance floor. It's not asking too much guys. It's not so much about the size of your bank account any longer as women these days are willing to provide well for themselves. It's all about feelings and skills. If you're a man who isn't having success with women, just check for these three basics and take classes if necessary.
I could easily tell you about turnoffs, but today's advice is about turn ons and I'd rather be on a date with an 84 year old like George than some jerk like the Donald, any day. Comments welcome.
His wife is a peach of a lady and protective. Nobody would dream of messing with him or her. In public, he stood up and shared a haiku he'd written for her: My wife in her new party dress, I am in love again. Not a dry eye. We might not want George, as he's taken already, but we all want one just like him.
My son tells me what a turn on it is for some women that he's a guy who knows about tools and how to use them (I'm not going there either). Same with knowing how to dance, he reports, not exactly with a smug leer, but certainly an air of confidence.
The ideal man, then, is a man who cries openly, writes love poems to his wife and reads them in public, knows all about tools and how to use them and is a good leader on the dance floor. It's not asking too much guys. It's not so much about the size of your bank account any longer as women these days are willing to provide well for themselves. It's all about feelings and skills. If you're a man who isn't having success with women, just check for these three basics and take classes if necessary.
I could easily tell you about turnoffs, but today's advice is about turn ons and I'd rather be on a date with an 84 year old like George than some jerk like the Donald, any day. Comments welcome.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Night Market
We're addicted to grapes in lieu of the fermented juice thereof, having already consumed our lifetime's fair share years ago. It's high season for red flames and other varieties of the darling sweet globules piled high at the local farmers' markets right now. In search of a sweet fix, I went to the last night market of the season in downtown San Rafael where along with fresh produce, the atmosphere thrums with rock and blues bands in two different locations and the odd solo artist, which tonight was a silver bearded gent sawing jauntily on a fiddle next to a donut stand.
I turned when I heard a friend's familiar accent, admonishing her son for demanding donuts since he's already struggling with his weight. Meanwhile the boy's aunt and uncle, standing nearby, offered me their warm bags of the mini fried dough babies drenched in honey. I don't bother going into the whole celiac disease business, it's just a bore, so instead I say something like, "Thanks, I love them but they don't love me back". I could just as easily say a simple no thanks, but that wouldn't be me.
There's a band rocking hard and sweet, surrounded by a huge crowd and I am shocked to discover the players look about twelve years old. There's also an older guy in a hat singing at the mike who turns out to be a friend I haven't seen in a while and who's the father of the genius guitar player. In the break we hug, he brags and I slip a fiver into the tip jar. A two year old with a blond pony tail leaps out of her stroller and cavorts near the band as her hip, slick and cool looking grandma grooves close by.
A man and woman dance separately, not a couple but matched in their courage for strutting their stuff in front of the crowd. She lifts her arms and legs high then patters a few tiny steps, then back to the crane like swooping arms. He's wearing a hat, is tall and thin with pants too short and does a series of quick hops then a twirl. They look like people who might need to take their meds seriously or else.
The market place is where we suburban condo dwellers get to see a little street action in our relatively crime free county, just north of the Golden Gate, without having to actually rub shoulders with potentially scary characters in the city. I love being a part of it all and am sad tonight is the last time until late spring next year. I'll miss seeing the families and hearing Spanish, Thai, Chinese, Farsi and Vietnamese all around, reminding me that the world is a huge place and what a miracle it is that we can sometimes all get along so easily when food and music bring us together. I was struck by the simple truth the old fiddle player displayed on a bumper sticker stuck to his instrument case: No Farms, No Food. I slipped him a couple of dollars and he winked his thanks as I slung my haul of grapes over my shoulder and loped over to the boy band for a few final moments of a Stones' tune, whooping my appreciation and just glad to be alive.
I turned when I heard a friend's familiar accent, admonishing her son for demanding donuts since he's already struggling with his weight. Meanwhile the boy's aunt and uncle, standing nearby, offered me their warm bags of the mini fried dough babies drenched in honey. I don't bother going into the whole celiac disease business, it's just a bore, so instead I say something like, "Thanks, I love them but they don't love me back". I could just as easily say a simple no thanks, but that wouldn't be me.
There's a band rocking hard and sweet, surrounded by a huge crowd and I am shocked to discover the players look about twelve years old. There's also an older guy in a hat singing at the mike who turns out to be a friend I haven't seen in a while and who's the father of the genius guitar player. In the break we hug, he brags and I slip a fiver into the tip jar. A two year old with a blond pony tail leaps out of her stroller and cavorts near the band as her hip, slick and cool looking grandma grooves close by.
A man and woman dance separately, not a couple but matched in their courage for strutting their stuff in front of the crowd. She lifts her arms and legs high then patters a few tiny steps, then back to the crane like swooping arms. He's wearing a hat, is tall and thin with pants too short and does a series of quick hops then a twirl. They look like people who might need to take their meds seriously or else.
The market place is where we suburban condo dwellers get to see a little street action in our relatively crime free county, just north of the Golden Gate, without having to actually rub shoulders with potentially scary characters in the city. I love being a part of it all and am sad tonight is the last time until late spring next year. I'll miss seeing the families and hearing Spanish, Thai, Chinese, Farsi and Vietnamese all around, reminding me that the world is a huge place and what a miracle it is that we can sometimes all get along so easily when food and music bring us together. I was struck by the simple truth the old fiddle player displayed on a bumper sticker stuck to his instrument case: No Farms, No Food. I slipped him a couple of dollars and he winked his thanks as I slung my haul of grapes over my shoulder and loped over to the boy band for a few final moments of a Stones' tune, whooping my appreciation and just glad to be alive.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Fall, another f-word
I started calling the autumn season, fall, after living in America. Something to do with leaves falling rather than empires, a novel idea. In my youth I remember the seasons in Britain were rarely dependably tied to calendars. It was either warm and wet or cold and wet, usually the latter. When going outside, we carried coats over our arms, knowing that just because it was sunny when we left the house in the morning, there could just as easily be an arctic chill by lunchtime. It was just a matter of wait and see, but be prepared, like a nation of scouts.
As children we learned nursery rhymes about the weather and seasons that were no consolation whatsoever, like this: "The cold wind will blow and we shall have snow and what will the robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in the barn to keep himself warm and hide his head under his wing, poor thing." The only robins I saw were rouged up cartoons on Christmas cards and we were short on barns around our flat in London, so not much to relate to really. Yet here I am sixty odd years later, stuck with this daft ditty that has not enriched my life one iota. Perhaps it will leave me in peace now that it's out in the open.
What I do adore about autumn is not unique, everyone else says the same: the blaze of reds and gaudy golds as the trees prepare to hunker down for the winds and storms that have the robins all aflutter; the nips of chilly air, teasing us through the final blast of Indian summer, reminding us the heat will not be around much longer. Lovely as all this may appear, for some reason it sends me into a sort of panic. I wonder if my peasant roots are kicking in to remind me that I'd better bring in the hay and put up some fruit, none of which I've bothered to actually do, ever, of course. Something primal gnaws at me as the season changes for the cooler. But worse, I'm also irritated about exactly what to wear and when to switch out the wardrobe from flimsies to cozies. Same with the bed linens. It's a dithery situation. Wearing white after Labor Day and far beyond is fine with me.
It's the time I realize how much I miss having a fireplace, another primal response I'm sure, with the smell of woodsmoke, with its blue haze in late afternoons when the light draws down. Smoke from fires is now called pollution and prosecution threatens. While I've been spared addiction to cigarette smoking, incense and fires still beckon powerfully. I borrow fireside time with a couple of friends who still use fireplaces in winter and nothing delights me so much as dozing on a sofa at the fireside hearth, with the snap of sparks, hiss of resin, and the rattle of disintegrated logs settling into the glowing red firebed.
The flaming of leaves and logs, finishing up the work in the fields - all so romantic, unless one is actually toiling, raking, harvesting, chopping, stacking the cords and sweeping up the hearth. As I age, the thought of physical toil becomes more unappealing by the hour but toil we must or we weaken further - pardon me as I stifle the whine that's trying to sneak in here. In truth, the closest I've come to actually toiling in fields was at girl scout summer camp where we pitched tents with old wooden stakes and pegs, wielding wooden mallets, putting up hessian screens around the earthen dugout latrines. A troop of preteens under the care and command of our Guide Captain, a bucktoothed mustachioed woman of military stride and tone, we accomplished erecting our own basic shelter for a week in the wilderness of a rented field and I felt secure and happy.
Closer to home and far from field latrines, my closet and its contents await further instructions. The limp and tired out summer togs are screaming, no no, not the cold dark dungeons yet, and the heavy shouldered coats are shaking off their summer hibernation, flapping their sleeves hopefully whenever a wind rattles the door. It's a battle every fall and nobody's the clear winner until Thanksgiving.
As children we learned nursery rhymes about the weather and seasons that were no consolation whatsoever, like this: "The cold wind will blow and we shall have snow and what will the robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in the barn to keep himself warm and hide his head under his wing, poor thing." The only robins I saw were rouged up cartoons on Christmas cards and we were short on barns around our flat in London, so not much to relate to really. Yet here I am sixty odd years later, stuck with this daft ditty that has not enriched my life one iota. Perhaps it will leave me in peace now that it's out in the open.
What I do adore about autumn is not unique, everyone else says the same: the blaze of reds and gaudy golds as the trees prepare to hunker down for the winds and storms that have the robins all aflutter; the nips of chilly air, teasing us through the final blast of Indian summer, reminding us the heat will not be around much longer. Lovely as all this may appear, for some reason it sends me into a sort of panic. I wonder if my peasant roots are kicking in to remind me that I'd better bring in the hay and put up some fruit, none of which I've bothered to actually do, ever, of course. Something primal gnaws at me as the season changes for the cooler. But worse, I'm also irritated about exactly what to wear and when to switch out the wardrobe from flimsies to cozies. Same with the bed linens. It's a dithery situation. Wearing white after Labor Day and far beyond is fine with me.
It's the time I realize how much I miss having a fireplace, another primal response I'm sure, with the smell of woodsmoke, with its blue haze in late afternoons when the light draws down. Smoke from fires is now called pollution and prosecution threatens. While I've been spared addiction to cigarette smoking, incense and fires still beckon powerfully. I borrow fireside time with a couple of friends who still use fireplaces in winter and nothing delights me so much as dozing on a sofa at the fireside hearth, with the snap of sparks, hiss of resin, and the rattle of disintegrated logs settling into the glowing red firebed.
The flaming of leaves and logs, finishing up the work in the fields - all so romantic, unless one is actually toiling, raking, harvesting, chopping, stacking the cords and sweeping up the hearth. As I age, the thought of physical toil becomes more unappealing by the hour but toil we must or we weaken further - pardon me as I stifle the whine that's trying to sneak in here. In truth, the closest I've come to actually toiling in fields was at girl scout summer camp where we pitched tents with old wooden stakes and pegs, wielding wooden mallets, putting up hessian screens around the earthen dugout latrines. A troop of preteens under the care and command of our Guide Captain, a bucktoothed mustachioed woman of military stride and tone, we accomplished erecting our own basic shelter for a week in the wilderness of a rented field and I felt secure and happy.
Closer to home and far from field latrines, my closet and its contents await further instructions. The limp and tired out summer togs are screaming, no no, not the cold dark dungeons yet, and the heavy shouldered coats are shaking off their summer hibernation, flapping their sleeves hopefully whenever a wind rattles the door. It's a battle every fall and nobody's the clear winner until Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Side Effects on Mom
My daughter has just gone home after spending a couple of nights with us. She's unsteady on her feet and feels lousy. Today we increased the 7am dose by a small amount, of one of her seizure drugs. Two hours later she complained of dizziness and after eating breakfast, threw it all up.
The dilemma has repeated itself over the years of whether to report it now to the doctor, only to be told to keep at it until her body adjusts or to just watch and wait. I'm tempted often to call the doctor and tell him to come over and let him watch and wait with her, holding back her hair as she vomits, passing the kleenex, helping her rinse out her mouth - not really major nursing but distressing enough, especially if it's happening to your baby regardless of age. It also takes time, it takes love, it takes faith and I feel stretched in all three.
I hate the side effects as much as she does, knowing that her body is trying to throw off something it thinks is toxic, and no doubt it is. Feeling helpless and hopeless doesn't improve the quality of life and I don't want to indulge in a bowl of pity. She's the one with the condition, not I. She's the one I love and want to see well and happy and all I can do is clip back her hair, rub her back as she's heaving over the porcelain throne, tell her she'll feel better soon, then try my best to believe it.
The dilemma has repeated itself over the years of whether to report it now to the doctor, only to be told to keep at it until her body adjusts or to just watch and wait. I'm tempted often to call the doctor and tell him to come over and let him watch and wait with her, holding back her hair as she vomits, passing the kleenex, helping her rinse out her mouth - not really major nursing but distressing enough, especially if it's happening to your baby regardless of age. It also takes time, it takes love, it takes faith and I feel stretched in all three.
I hate the side effects as much as she does, knowing that her body is trying to throw off something it thinks is toxic, and no doubt it is. Feeling helpless and hopeless doesn't improve the quality of life and I don't want to indulge in a bowl of pity. She's the one with the condition, not I. She's the one I love and want to see well and happy and all I can do is clip back her hair, rub her back as she's heaving over the porcelain throne, tell her she'll feel better soon, then try my best to believe it.
Friday, September 10, 2010
9/11 Memorial Day Eve
Today is the day before what is now an annual memorial day for the tragedy of terrorist attacks on US soil on September 11th, 2001. I'm preparing for all the emotions and thoughts that go with it. Our church (Unity in Marin) is hosting an all day Peace Symposium with speakers and a Kids Peace Camp for which peace is the focus, not revenge. Mother Theresa was reported to have said she wouldn't go to any anti war march but she would go to a peace march. It is a matter of what one stands for rather than against.
As with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, most of us remember where we were when we got news of the attack. I was in the kitchen fiddling with dishes and breakfast when my husband rushed in with the dog after their walk. He'd heard the news on the car radio and said something about a terrorist attack in New York. I dismissed his anxiety in my usual offhand way, presuming the media had hyped up something that wasn't really all that bad. "Americans !" I thought, and rolled my eyes at their sense of drama about little things, having no idea what he was really talking about. He turned on the tv and I sauntered in just as the second plane flew into the Twin Towers. We froze, unable to move or speak. Like so many millions, were glued, spellbound in horror as events unfolded onscreen.
It is a blur now how the rest of the day proceeded but I recall speaking to my mother in London, both of us in tears. She said how very, very sorry she was for the American people because they have never had to endure an attack on their own soil, unlike other countries. She was remembering the years of war when Americans helped abroad but at home, apart from Pearl Harbor, the citizenry were unaffected in their own beds. I was surprised and moved at her compassion as she's never been especially pro American and during the McCarthy witchhunt era, she was just the opposite. Yet, here she was now, changed by tragedy, as we all inevitably are.
Whatever emerges on Saturday either between Rev Jones from Florida with his proposed or postponed Koran bonfire and the Imam whose vision for an Interfaith Center near Ground Zero, who may or may not meet with him, and all the other events, planned or unplanned, one thing is cleara. We all want the same. We want peace, we want it now. We want freedom, we want it now, and we don't want others telling us what peace and freedom should look like. Political, religious and territorial disputes are all manmade horrors. May peace prevail, always.
Peace begins at home. May yours be filled with peace, on purpose, today and every day.
As with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, most of us remember where we were when we got news of the attack. I was in the kitchen fiddling with dishes and breakfast when my husband rushed in with the dog after their walk. He'd heard the news on the car radio and said something about a terrorist attack in New York. I dismissed his anxiety in my usual offhand way, presuming the media had hyped up something that wasn't really all that bad. "Americans !" I thought, and rolled my eyes at their sense of drama about little things, having no idea what he was really talking about. He turned on the tv and I sauntered in just as the second plane flew into the Twin Towers. We froze, unable to move or speak. Like so many millions, were glued, spellbound in horror as events unfolded onscreen.
It is a blur now how the rest of the day proceeded but I recall speaking to my mother in London, both of us in tears. She said how very, very sorry she was for the American people because they have never had to endure an attack on their own soil, unlike other countries. She was remembering the years of war when Americans helped abroad but at home, apart from Pearl Harbor, the citizenry were unaffected in their own beds. I was surprised and moved at her compassion as she's never been especially pro American and during the McCarthy witchhunt era, she was just the opposite. Yet, here she was now, changed by tragedy, as we all inevitably are.
Whatever emerges on Saturday either between Rev Jones from Florida with his proposed or postponed Koran bonfire and the Imam whose vision for an Interfaith Center near Ground Zero, who may or may not meet with him, and all the other events, planned or unplanned, one thing is cleara. We all want the same. We want peace, we want it now. We want freedom, we want it now, and we don't want others telling us what peace and freedom should look like. Political, religious and territorial disputes are all manmade horrors. May peace prevail, always.
Peace begins at home. May yours be filled with peace, on purpose, today and every day.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Trading Troozers, Freedom of the Kilt
Labor Day weekend 2010, four of us joined the thousands who flocked to the 145th Annual Scottish Highland Gathering and Games, in Pleasanton, California. We sweated and shivered alternately, according to the weather whim of the moment, but mostly we soaked in the wild and whacky scene, to the steady drone of bagpipes and smart drumming of competing bands from around the country.
I was giggling, gawking and omigodding as I tried to imagine my darling parents' comments had they been with me. Shaved heids (say heed, for head), tattoos, dirks (daggers) and swords of all kinds, from wooden toy ones to the steely sheathed ones, tartan and plaid galore swirled around us in a heady mix of Celtic bravado and California pagent-cult.
Along with the freedom of cross-cultural life in the USA, I celebrated the sight of young and old men alike dropping their pants in favor of wearing free swinging kilts. You could practically hear the collective sigh of cooling crotches above the cheerful ring of the sales register at the Utilikilts booth (www.utilikilts.com). Their slogan is simply "We Sell Freedom". Aye, and the lassies love a lad in a kilt let me tell ye. In the opinion of many of us, a more manly garb would be hard to find. The guys at Utilikilts (have the right idea combining the traditional kilt skirt design with army fatigue fabric in camoflage colors, adding pockets big enough to holster a wallet or a drill (guessing on this one) thus completely de-wimping the girlie-man fears some guys might have at the thought of having their johnnies going commando in a skirt.
I'm plotting a way to get my son to embrace the liberated loins notion, but with little hope, sad to say. The fact that the original role of gentleman-tough, James Bond, was played by Irish-Scot Glaswegian, Sean Connery, is unlikely to cut the mustard with him. He's more likely to google Sean's info and find out he's never had a fling with the kiltish thing and gleefully report the sad finding to me. A mother can only hope.
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