Airborne Dreams

I found this cool video online about an Indian engineer who has made a part of the air travel experience possible for local poor children. It brought up such an upswell of emotions for me. I had my own airborne dreams as a child and I saw myself in the faces of those Indian children.
Growing up in a rural area in Jamaica, we didn't have a lot of luxuries and the idea of flying on an airplane seemed beyond the reach of most oridinary people. Everytime we heard an airplane we'd rush outside to stare at it, with the naked eye or with our "spyer"--a surveyors scope that served as a telescope. We'd take turns staring at the miniature craft, imagining what it must be like to be way up there, free and flying. That was one way we got closer to the flying experience.
Another closer encounter with airplanes was through our infrequent visits to the airport to send off or pick up lucky relatives or friends enroute to " foreign". All the relatives, and always one village elder along for the ride, would cram into a festive motorcade, a caravan of jalopies with luggage hanging off the roof, for the hour- long trip along the potentially treacherous winding roads to "Palisados" Once at the airport, the non-travellers trooped up to the waving gallery--an open air deck looking out to the runway. When my own mother left Jamaica in 1978, I remember pressing my face into the chainlink fence, waving frantically as she disappeared up the stairs into the mysterious magical vehicle that was Evergreen Airlines. I could only imagine was as luxurious interior she was encountering. I was desperately sad but there was status to be gained from having a relative who had been on a plane and a so close a relative living abroad. Four years later it was my turn to take that ride. Funny I hardly remember the experience as it was so sad to be leaving my native country forever. I remember though waving frantically from the stairs to the people on the waving gallery--those whom I knew and others I didn't--it's like the grand marshall in a parade--you don't discriminate with the wave.
Nowadays air travel has become more of a bother than the marvel that it truly is. But every now and then, mid flight I catch myself thinking of what a wondrous thing it is for us earthbound creatures to be way up here. And sometimes I get excited by the cute little silverware and plates and the kitschy goodness that is inflight service (yes quite rare these days).

Chris-mus a come!

Christmas in Jamaica was sweet! It was about anticipation, not of gifts but just of Christmas--the pure joy of Christmas. Sweet, cool winter Christmas in the tropics.
As a child, Christmas took so long to come. It was an eternity--as long summer holidays. One way my sibs and I could tell that Christmas season was nearing, was by the white blooms on the "macca" (acacia) trees just on the ridge beyond our house. Whenever we saw those blooms we knew Christmas was just around the corner. Another way we could tell was by the sprucing up that began around the house. Christmas meant that we'd spring clean and paint the house in all new colors. I recall one Christmas we painted the house "duck egg blue." I think it was the last Christmas before my mother emigrated from the island. That blue didn't turn out quite like she wanted. It was the color in our house for all the years till we finally left and followed her "to foreign."
The slow approach of Christmas gave my father time to find and cure a nice ham leg. My aunties got the fruit drunk for the cake and pudding. And by the time Christmas eve rolled around, we kids would be knee deep in chores to make the house look good. Christmas Eve was for us, "Grand Market Night." In a place where most shops were closed by five and everything was scarce, Christmas Eve was the only time stores were opened late and stocked with stuff that was hard to get year round--stuff like dolls and all and sundry plastic toy goods made in China. (This was before lead was a care). Instead of presents, we kids traipsed around to the aunties and uncles with upturned palms into which would generously fall, the unheard of sums of $10s and $20s to fuel our Grand Market night shopping frenzy. We'd be our own Santa on this heady night. I never believed in Santa. It made no sense to me that this guy would traipse around dressed in furs, with reindeer and a sleigh. He'd be terribly hot there in Jamaica. Besides, we didn't have a chimney!
Christmas morning was filled with the smells of ham, cake and "new plastic toy" fumes. Oh yes and chocolate. Cadbury's Fruit and Nut! Pure olfactory joy. Church was involved and then a mighty feast of chicken or roast beef and "rice and peas." No turkey and stuffing for us. Not an island thing. A feast washed down with sweet, rum laced sorrel made from the dried fruit of the hibiscus plant. And a slice of black Jamaican fruit cake, laced with rum-drunk fruit.
Christmas was also the time for the annual school pageant of songs and plays. I loved getting the lead. I remember one year I wasn't chosen for the lead but went home and memorised it as if I were the understudy. Call it voodoo or wishful thinking, but the next day,Lanya Smith fell ill and there I was prepared with all the lines.
Christmas of my childhood was sweet indeed. I have no memories of gifts, just the anticipation of that lovely day upon which an entire year seemed wait! I miss those days of simplicity and joy!
~~~
Click here to see what other J'cans miss about Christmas a "yaad" now dat dem deh abroad!
http://www.jamaicans.com/culture/christmas/MissJAatChristmas.shtml

Weathering LA

It's been raining in LA recently. Big news here. We're in a drought so any little bit of water is welcomed. With the rain comes the cold. And with the cold come the Angelenos who dress as if it were still a lovely summer day. It's the SoCal uniform-- Flip flops and surf shorts, no matter what. Even in the summer time when the difference between day and night temperatures is dramatic, people bop around town as if they were in balmy Miami.
I chalk it up to the fact that Angelenos are hopeful--at least when it comes to the weather. They like the idea of their weather identity--sunny and 70--even when it's not the case. For example, half the time during the month of June we are socked in by the gloom of that "coastal eddy" aka FOG. It usually clears up by mid afternoon but till it does, it can be pretty chilly. Yet, you still see people traipsing around in their flimsy clothes. People dress for the weather they hope for, not for the wather outside the door. It's gonna clear up is what they say to themselves. Even in the midst of the worst el-Nino rains, or the worst Artic storms, Angelenos leave the house without their brollies or wellies...it's gonna clear up. And they are usually right!

If you didn't know what your age was

Today is my birthday. Though a whole year older today than I was last year on this same day, I am only a day older than I was yesterday. It's a much better way of handling the numbers once you get to where my numbers are. And no, I am not going to say my age, even though I look good for my age. Which is another clue as to just how advanced I am.
Years ago I met this little old lady who was homeless and living in her car. She was a petite Polish lady--a very spry 76 years. Her name was Kristina. I helped her out with some car repairs and while we waited for the work to be done we grabbed lunch at a nearby diner. She said when she looks in the mirror who wonders who that old person looking back her is. She said she felt like that young, happy 20-something woman she used to be and still feels like inside.
I know what she means. My age and how I feel can't be reconciled in the number.
Someone once told me that someone famous asked: what would you do if you didn't know what your age was. Maybe it was Satchel Paige, maybe not. But the point is not to get hung up on the number.
My birthday challenge for this year is to practice patience and all that it implies in all aspect of my life.
I am grateful for the years and the experie

Thanks for the Pilgrims

Face it America, we have become a profligate nation, full of self-indulgent, self-absorbed, unreflective, religiously intolerant fatties! I hope the Pilgrims, God rest their souls, are turning over in their graves at what they have wrought. The spirit of their journey to Plymouth Rock undoubtedly gave to this nation and all those who fell upon her shores--either by choice or chains--a sense of creative innovation and self-reinvention. For years, these traits, have served America well, if not so much her native peoples. But "too much of a good thing is good for nothing." As we spread out from Plymouth Rock, cutting, burning, slashing and paving our way into a post-industrial-modern-digital future, we became blinded and bloated by our prosperity. We shed temperance and good sense for continuous re-invention and progress. Now we stand at the tipping point of self-destruction. We have laid the foundation for an unsustainable lifestyle and an unliveable environment. Our future, like our vast oceans now smothered by indispensable and indestructible plastic, is being choked by the output our own history and behaviour. In our race to the future, we failed to see how we were undoing its very foundation today.
So on this Thanksgiving day, I think about how those Indians saved those Pilgrims from starvation and certain death. And what did those Pilgrims and their offspring do to return the favour? Just look at what we've done to this planet and you will have your answer.

Rhymes with Mountain & Fountain

It's Plantain. It's delicious. Fried, baked, boiled, broiled, mashed or microwaved.
It's NOT a banana, people! And for God's sake and mine, please learn how to say it right. It's not Plan-Tayn. Do you go around saying "what a beautiful Foun-tayn? sheesh!
If you want that nice sweet plantain taste, you are going to have to let the skin turn black. the blacker the better. I know in the USA where spots on fruits or fruits with dark skin tends to turn folks off, this is hard to take. But if you want nice sweet plantains you are gonna have to let it get dark. It always tripped me out that Americans eat bananas when there are still green streaks on the peel. I wonder who sold you that bill of goods? A nice full flavoured banana, like a plantain needs to have the sugars develop and that means getting a few brown spots, and black blotches for the plaintains. Of course you can twice-fry a green plantain--yummy with salt. Slice them thin or thick (smash them between frying). But if you want to enjoy them in their full sugar flavour, you gotta get past this perfect waxy store fruit look. Get the dark, spotty blotchy plantains. I can tell when a fried plantain is going to be sweet, just by looking. If the color is pale yellow and doesn't have a nice caramel glaze, you are going to have a mouthful of starchy yuck. So many people think they know what plaintains (rhymes with mountains) are supposed to taste like but until you get yourself some made by someone who's not afraid of dark skinned fruit, you are sadly mistaken.

Electronic Birth Contol

My petite pregger pal is clearly trying to keep me from blithely wandering into motherhood. This one scared the Uterus out of me. She sent this email to a select group of her friends. Consider it "electronic birth control."

Hi girls, So I am going to be one of those women that tells it to my dearest friends straight up. This way you are in for NO surprises when this happens. Sorry this is early in the morning, so don’t read on an empty stomach.When I envision a smiling baby it does help to cheer me up..i get there by trying to chat OM. .it actually works for about 3 mins, and then I have to pee..which takes about 10mins to do (by the time I heave my body up). It’s bad enough that the baby is SO on top of my bladder that I have to pee frequently, but I got diagnosed with another bladder infection. So, during the 3 sec intervals of my life when I’m actually NOT peeing, I am now spending it feeling like I have to pee, along with all the fun burning as well. Add 2 more horse pills to my daily 7 pills, and I’m at a total of 9 pills..half of which you take with food, the other half you take 2hours after food. Huh? It’s all very confusing and I’m convinced I’m going to have a jello baby. My morning always starts off with a bloody nose, and last night ended with me on the floor, waiting for indigestion to pass. Indigestion! Me! Ms Whole grain, green veggie, 3 pieces of fruit a day! I avg about 3-4 hours of sleep, and I get sooooooo happy when it happens. Usually the sciatica, groin, contractions, or pee wakes me up. [my hubby] has given up completing his repeated question “ Honey, are you okay?”…now he just shortens it when he hears me move, “Hon?” then…Snore.
And here’s the bestest part…at week 34 (where I am)…they encourage you start massaging your perineum. Perineum you say? Oh, the fun area right at the end of your vagina and btwn your anus..the area that RIPS or TEARS when you are having a kid shoot out of you. Massaging is a misnomer. You are supposed to lay 2 fingers down on the ring of the perineum and push back and forth so it stretches. imagine a U shape and your fingers are at the round part of the U and you are to increase the pressure there for a couple of minutes, daily, for the following weeks till labor. This is all to avoid the dreaded episiotomy…you know, when the dr has to sew you up because you ripped at that special part. The theory is (as many midwives and drs attest) that a bit of pain each day will help keep the episiotomy at bay. ...To further humiliate yourself, you must remember that you can not see past your belly at this point, so never mind finding your perineum on your own. This is when I truly do envy long armed women.Anyway, because of my bladder infection and (let’s not forgetting contracting uterus), I am not to do the perineum massage yet. Basically nothing but toilet paper is allowed near my parts at this delicate time. I’ve been getting contractions since week 29..but the ones this week have been really strong. The right side of my belly becomes completely raised, totally lopsided in sight and feel. It’s really trippy..and the insides tighten up, exactly like a menstrual cramp but you can SEE it as well as feel it. Some contractions have lasted about 3-4 mins. Dr says it’s ok as long as I don’t get 5 qty in an hour.. Keep in mind, all the above is completely individual to me.. I mean, I had 2 great trimesters, and some women have 180 days of vomiting..so it’s all about perspective. And yes, I’ve had to pee for real and for fake, like 18 times while writing this. I know I got myself into this and I’m totally happy about the baby..I don’t want the baby to come out early..but I so want the pregnancy to end. Please remember to guilt the baby for me..please!

Baby Belly

My very pregnant friend recently shared proofs from an "expecting" photo shoot. She wanted my opinion on which ones to print. I scrolled through page after page of a beautiful, happy, fecund woman in her biological prime. "Wow." I thought. "Look at That Belly." Click, click, click. Picture after picture scrolling by, I stopped seeing her smiling happy face and could only see THAT BELLY. Something came over me and I suddenly FREAKED OUT! Utterly and completely. I was a bit shocked and ashamed by my reaction to seeing her belly. To me, it seemed like my petite friend, usually a scant 90 lbs sopping wet, had been consumed, yes! consumed, by this enormous protrusion. I began to hallucinate that my dear friend had been invaded by some kind of alien life form. Sure, I see *clothed* pregnant women of all sizes all the time, but here was my friend, no bigger than a mite in the full flesh. Very full flesh. Given that I hadn't seen my friend since the early days when her belly looked like she'd just eaten too many beans, I was now overcome by her fulsomeness (is that a word?). Gassy belly bloat I can handle. This? Nnn-nnn! I realised it was about me and not her. I was freaking out about the fact that I have been freaking out about whether I should get on the mommy-train. At my age, things, I fear, are not as elastic. What if there is not snapback for me?So for someone on the fertility fence, the pictures were a bucket of cold water--make that two buckets! Set my feet right back down on to the solid ground of barreness!

Zucchini Farewell

At certain times of the year, it's never hard to find someone who is trying to get rid of bushels and bushels of zucchini! Since it grows like a weed, many backyard gardeners plant it to make themselves feel green-thumbish. But do you ever wonder why they end up giving away so much of their bountiful crop? I suspect that it's not all about generosity!
Take me, for example, if I had a bumper mango crop, you can bet I’d find a way to consume every last one of them—mango pie, mango juice, mango sorbet, mango soup, mango tea, mango lotion—you get the picture. I love mangoes so I’d eat me some mangoes till I dropped from mango-itis.
Not so with the zucchini. Face it. Zucchini is to vegetables as "Wonder Bread is to real bread. Bland, bland, bland. At least you can slap some peanut butter on the white bread and have something good stuck to the roof of your mouth. Can't say that about a zucchini! Among the zillions of recipes for zucchini this and zucchini that, I've yet to find one that makes it taste like a damn thing. It's the cardboard of vegetables--tasteless. I don’t have a lot of time to cook so if I am going to chop or grate, dice or slice, fry or bake something, it better end up tasting like something. The saddest thing? With a name like Zucchini, you’d expect it to be more. I wish I could appeal to the VRC—Vegetable Renaming Council to reassign the name of Zucchini to some worthier vegetable--like Kale. I keep buying zucchini and it keeps rotting in my fridge alongside the hope that someday I can make something great with it. So today I say, no more. Arrivederci Zucchini!

Relative Bonds

Word came late Sunday that a rather young cousin had died unexpectedly. My reaction was remarkable for being unremarkable. I didn't know this cousin very well. He was the son of a less than favored uncle whose death some years ago, stirred nothing in me. I shan't discuss the reasons for my antipathy toward that uncle except to say, if you mistreat on my mother, you've made an enemy of me.
In recent days, before I heard of the death, I'd been thinking about the bonds of relativity. I was annoyed that a relative with whom I had no personal relationship had taken it upon himself to print my wedding pictures (damn online albums) and sent them off to yet another relative. I thought: "how dare he usurp my experience." I thought of my numerous cousins and how little I knew them--even the ones I had been close to as a child.
Some years ago I had planned to organise a family reunion in the old country but ultimately scrapped it. I decided I was happy with the relatives I knew--happy in the "better the devil you know" sense of happy. I didn't need any more relatives I decided. The ones I had were enough trouble.
By the time Monday rolled around, I'd forgotten that the poor chap was dead. Talking to my sister today she said she felt terribly guilty that she felt less for the cousin than she did for her ailing, incontinent, 20 year-old cat, now near death. "I'd feel sadder if Kitty had died," she said. "Me too," I replied.

Yammer, Yammer, Yammer

I love my cell phone as much as the next person. I can send pictures to my blog and it's the key to a world of information available by text. Simply marvelous. How did we ever live without them?
But people do me a favour and don't bother to answer your phone if you are in the crapper! Go ahead, admit it. You've been in the loo and have done your best so that you don't transmit the strain or the plop. Forgive the scatalogical inferences. I bring it up just to make the point that the addiction is real. I firmly believe that people can no longer just be alone with themselves, walking down the street, looking at the sky. Every moment has to be connected. If you are not onthe phone with someone then you are no one. Scary thought that.
Recently I watched a teen, out on a lovely whale watching excursion with her family, stare cross-eyed at her mobile, texting and being texted. Sounds like a new state of being,doesn't it? It is! I think we are about to see a new generation of younger people developing serious eye issue. People will evolve with eyes even more closely spaced--in direct proportion to the miniaturization of the devices.
It makes me just a little sad, I suppose, the the cell phone is so present in all our lives, mine included. Sometimes I just like to have a moment to myself and leave the cell phone in the closet.

Green House

I just toured the WiredHome(+Living Homes) House showcasing the latest in eco-friendly architecture, technology and design. It's fabulous. Well decorated. Nice afternoon sun. And now I know why they call it Green. You're gonna need a lot of Greenbacks to park your fancy hydrogen fuel cell Beemer in that 4 car garage! It clocks in at just over $4m or in kinder terms $1000 per squre foot. Anybody have a subprime?
The house is set on a tiny plot--mostly slope in the uber-pricey Brentwood section of LA--the third B of the tony triumvrate of Bel Air & Beverly Hills. For that kind of money, I think I am going to need a little more land.
All the earth-friendly decor and fixtures are supposed to save resources but apparently not your financial ones. I did a little online virtual shopping and trust! you'll be burning serious green to trick the place out like they have it now. I checked, the house doesn't come furnished! I guess going green is really only for those who already got green!

Sour Puss

Call it "blogger karma." No sooner do I write about expiration date labels on food, than I get a mouthful of sour milk. I opened a brand new carton today and poured it liberally on my toasty honey "O"s in my favourite out-sized blue mug (perfect for chugging the sweet milk residue after the cereal is all gone--yumm-mee). I took a few mindless spoonfuls while chatting on the phone with my sis about, what else? --my blog. I barely registered that the "O"s tasted not quite so honeyed. I hang up the phone and one bite later it hit me. Ugh! The milk had gone off. I'd only just bought it two or three days before so, cheesed off, I checked the bloody date stamp on the box. October 30. What was this? A Halloween trick? My next thought: what would the girls at the office say? I told you so? Sure! If I had chucked the milk on the 31st, I would have been safe! But, I am holding my ground. That milk had to have been bad from the get go. I normally get another week or more past that "sell by" or "use by" date. So now I am off to the store for a treat--my money back or a new box of milk!

Too Real Halloween

On the building site of the latest mini-mansion to invade the neighborhood, I noticed that the construction workers had decorated for Halloween. It's not unusual in this part of the 90210 adjacent to see the spooky signs of the season. So what that the workers don't live there? They get to whistle while they work! Their decorations were very simple. Rough-hewn plywood grave markers with epitaphs written in black ink--stuck into a pile of dirt. Very effective! It wasn't until I took a closer look that I noticed what was written on the headstones. A little too real in this LA gang-land! I just hope they weren't real homies!

Anthony

10-26-07

Gun Down

(Hmm....Maybe I ought to dig up that pile of dirt)

"The Blinkin' Stick"

Via telephone, I am attempting to teaching my mom, who is 3,000 miles away, how to use the Internet. This is a woman who, prior to buying her laptop a few weeks ago, had NEVER even touched a typewriter keyboard in her life. Talk about a quantum leap from the the pencil age into the "post-future"! It's been an education for both of us, though I can only speak for myself.
We've gotten terribly frustrated with each other and have come close to slamming down the phone. She's a perfectionist and really hard on herself. (So that's where I get it). She thinks she's stupid but I think she's brave. She becomes frustrated easily, as do I. She's smarter than she knows because not everyone could follow directions over the phone to navigate an interface that is completely new and alien. Until a month or so ago, she didn't know from a dialog box. She calls the cursor "the blinkin' stick,"no pun intended on her part or mine. Just days ago, I received from her the "first email (she) sent without any help." I wanted to cry with joy and pride, but I don't do that sort of thing, so I didn't. She even reads my blog. So in case she reads this, she will know that as crotchety and impatient as I am, I do enjoy the privilege of being with her on her discovery of the vast digital-scape. It's not nearly as much as she has done for me in this life!

20% off and on and off again

The coupons kept coming so I kept going to the big box-store bonanza, that triple-B chain, renown for their endless coupons and generous, "bring it back, no questions asked" return policy. Bad policy if you ask me, a recovering boomerang shopper! Thanks to loving pressure from my husband and belle-mere,* I have been avoiding, for the most part, whiling away hours combing through aisles looking for round trip bargains on buyer's remorse! But the coupons keep coming and to throw them away feels, to this penny-pincher, like burning money! God grant me the serenity...
So yesterday I fell off the wagon, and proceeded to push it through those narrow Triple B aisles, crammed with boxes of must-have gadgets stacked strategically to fall right into your eager hands at the slightest bump. "Oh, what luck. I needed that!" you say to yourself, mesmerised by the mysterious sweet smell permeating the store. I can blame my brief relapse on two wedding gift cards and a long held store-credit. Free money and a dozen coupons--what's a tiny lapse? Oh, only about $100 extra! And yes! I wound up back there the next day, boomeranging a fancy knife set and a exchanging one gadget. The lapse wasn't all bad since the return allowed me to recoup much of the extra $100 I'd spent. Further, the blame really falls on the store's liberal return policy which benefited the previous owner of the apple gadget which I was then forced to return. My new gadget, as it turned out, was a pre-owned boomerang--missing the instruction booklet and encrusted with some gross brown crud. Though, now armed with a truly new apple slicer/corer/peeler gadget, I wonder just how often will I be cranking it up?
(*french makes mother-in-law sound much better!)

The Grass is Greener...Fractionally

Now for the latest dispatch from that beleaguered patch of grass in the no-man's land between my neighbor's place and mine. You may remember from a previous post that the poor dear was brutally mowed in half? Now it's been "done like a kipper" in the latest round of the gardener's lackluster attempts at horticultural rejuvenation. Again, it seems like the gardener wanted to respect the boundaries while spreading the fertilizer, but from the looks of it, he was having a spot of trouble with the fractions. No King Solomon that one.

Seems to me that if they just leave the grass alone it will grow and you won't need all that fertiliser. It's like over plucking your eyebrows then having to pencil the bloody thing back in.

Future Human

I read an article in the Daily Mail about the possible evolutionary future of humans. Turns out we may evolve over the next thousand years into two distinct species: the beautiful and the ugly people, with the latter, genetic have-nots, working to keep the former happy. A prediction, according to the article, in the vein of H.G. Wells' novel "Time Machine."

"In the 1895 book, the human race has evolved into two distinct species, the highly intelligent and wealthy Eloi and the frightening, animalistic Morlock who are destined to work underground to keep the Eloi happy."

Hmmm. Sounds to me like we are already there, economically, if not genetically. China, India, Pakistan, Indonesia, Micronesia, Dubai, Walmart, Free Trade Zones, cheap labour...anyone? But take heart, the prediction may have a silver lining. The scientist says once we hit our species peak, our heavy reliance on advanced technology will have set us on a course of devolution that will eventually do in the species--at least the pretty ones (and that's assuming the degraded enviroment doesn't do it first). Perhaps, finally, the poor uglies will catch a break! But wait! If it is true that the "meek(read:have-nots) shall inherit the earth," then it makes sense why the current "haves" are doing their darndest to muck up that inheritance. The ugly can't win!

"Zoo-do"

Today I attended a free composting class offered by the city of Los Angeles in lovely Griffith Park. I went with high hopes about my future in composting. I had my heart set on buying a fancy backyard composter, which the city subsidizes. Instead I settled for a simple Rubbermaid(tm) container with holes drilled in the lid and sides. Here begins my adventure in vermicomposting. A bit gross--worm poop and all, but as my landlord gets a bit picky about what I do in the back yard, I shall have to secret my clandestine garbage eaters under the sink.
I also came away with some free compost, which, they proudly say, contains "Zoo-do" courtesy of the unhappy elephants in the nearby LA Zoo! I can't wait to transplant my olive and mulberry trees--maybe the pachyderm poop will plump the harvest. Who knew what the city sanitation department could do?
However, the big takeaway for the day was yet another reminder of why I so dislike attending workshops and seminars with the general public. People aren't all terribly sharp. There are people(like bloggers I suppose) who like to hear themselves talk. People, there is such a thing as a stupid question! It's that question about the thing the instructor just addressed, but which you missed since you were too busy on the cell phone, or because you were chatting to your seat mate, or because you showed up thirty minutes late. I suppose I should give people credit for coming to get free "zoo-do" compost and and appearing to want to do something good for their little patch of planet!

N.O.W.?

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has offspring on her mind, so every month she has to think about NOW or, no ovulation wasted. Unless you are a sweaty teen aged couple writhing in the back of a pimped-up SUV on Mulholland Drive, getting pregnant is a bloody lot of hard work. By the time you get to a certain age, the age at which you should have enough sense to not be writhing in the back of an SUV, you'll wish you had been a teen aged fool with shiny, teen aged fresh eggs. When recreation turns into procreation, it's all business and face it, only one person has to really enjoy it!
I think going the clinical route may not be a bad idea. I like the clean, shiny futuristic feel of it all. Extract, inject, insert, implant. Tidy. Neat. Efficient. Practical. Not at all like that goal-oriented intercourse which probably feels just like it sounds. Yuck! Sure, you can try to put lipstick on that pig with some smooth jazz and candlelight, but it just ain't the back of that steamed up SUV on Mulholland.

Sir Penis

The other night I saw Ian McKellen's penis. His business--hanging-- right there, where men's businesses tend to hang. Well, not quite really, because not all men hang it all out on the stage in the middle of a peformance of King Lear. But there it was. I knew it was coming as I'd heard him on a radio interview a few days prior discussing how he'd modified the scene when on tour in some less tolerant country than our beloved America.
But even as prepared as I was, and given that it was probably natural that the crazy old king would have stripped down to the all together, I just didn't really want to see that old man in the all together there, under the bright lights with so many other people there, watching, being shocked themselves. And there he was, a crazy old king, struggling to rip off his clothes, like madmen tend to do on skidrow, half in and half out, stuck. But it felt a bit all too real. I wasn't sure where Lear ended and McKellen began. Good acting, I suppose.
There was a collective gasp which, as much as I'd like to say was for the nudity, was more likely a reaction to the, ehem, size of the thing. Rather large it was, and mind you, I am being entirely British in my restraint here!
The presentation of the large member certainly perked things up momentarily in a production clocking in at a torturous 3.5 hours. I could barely keep my eyelids up and my ears were making chop suey of ye Olde English, accents and all. Producers really ought to rethink the wisdom of staging such productions in darkened theatres at week's end after 7pm. In the sopoforic dimness, a stage penis can only do so much.

Best if used by...

Recently I was having a chat with a couple of my officemates about when was the right time to chuck things of out of the fridge or the pantry. One of them had brought in a bag full of some granola bars to share with the office because the date stamp on the foil package was beyond the present date and she was afraid that they had gone off. Egad! I have never heard of an expired granola bar. Aren't they precisely the kind of food you should keep in your car or emergency kits for earthquakes, fires and floods precisely because they do not expire? I think this whole expiration date thing is the creation of lawyers and marketers.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't think that some foods and medicines have a shelf life. I do. When milk in my fridge gets sour and lumpy or the bread is sprouting legs, I toss it, usually. (unless , of course, I can manag to coax one last bit of French toast out of it).
Pardon me! When did corporations decide that my senses weren't good enough to figure out that the colony growing in my fridge was no longer good for me? I understand that their lawyers are trying to protect them from fools who gladly consume their months old fridge colonies, but there has to be a limit. Of course I understand that it is a useful tool to aid people, but now it seems that to me that people have surrendered their sense to the date stamp! I don't agree that you should keep that leftover chicken in the fridge for weeks. However, one can make reasonable judgements . My officemate admitted to pouring out milk simply because it was a day past due. Of course the milk folks love that because they get to sell you another litre of milk.
Ka-ching!
I can't abide by this excess! Not in a world of hunger and want. Waste is excess. Excess is selfish! My two office mates, along with a good chunk of America are being duped! Man! that corporate propaganda got kick!

The Tomato Holocaust

It is officially the end of tomatomania.This is all that remains of my beautiful tomato plants. They are all shriveled and barren. A few of the dried up stalks have several little hard nubbins which will never come into their full potential as luscious tomatoes. At least I did enjoy that one little harvest.

I admit that I left them alone unattneded in the merciless heat of August as I cavorted my way in, around, under the Indian Ocean. I left the sprinkler on. I asked a friend to stop by. It was just not enough. The attention I lavished upon them at the start of my planting and in the midst of harvesting gradually faded and now all that remains are these pathetic stragglers--hanging on for dear life. They know they are destined for the compost heap.

I have already recycled a few of the pots. Now I am trying to grow a pineapple bush/tree/plant/whatever. We shall see how it fares. It seems to be sprouting a few roots. I am pushing the limits of my pale green thumb.

©2007.

all rights reserved

Let Grass Grow

Gardeners Gone Wild or the Wisdom of King Solomon?

One of the peculiar things about Los Angeles, is that it is not the slow the creep of sunlight that rousts one from peaceful slumber, rather, it is a ceaseless buzz of lawn mowers, edge-trimmers and grass-blowers. Any resident lucky enough to own or rent a patch of grass seems to be engaged in a constant battle against it. And in this war they have enlisted their foot soldiers-- eager gardeners who show up on every block at the crack of dawn to trim and snip and cut lawns already well trimmed and groomed. I ask you, what do these people have against grass?

I love the smell of fresh cut grass, but these over trimmed LA lawns remind me of a some of the overdone plastic people roaming the streets. It just ain't natural. And the lawn offensive can sometime illustrate just how divided life is in this balkanised city.

This little patch of green straddles a space between my neighbor's and my place. My landlord is a bit more lax about his gardening and so, by neighborhood standard, our patch of yard is a jungle. So here is this tiny swatch of grass, stuck in a liminal space--neither here nor there--in between. In the war on grass, no territory is safe. Neutrality is weakness. Sides must be taken, lines must be drawn. Divisions must be made clear!

Did the soldier of garden who wrought this abomination even take a moment to ponder the aesthetic consequences, or call on King Solomon for guidance? Alas, it is clear he yielded to the purr of his gas-powered mower and the call of the next lawn waiting to be stripped of its green!

©2007. all rights reserved

Teething Trouble

I've been going to the same dentist for years but haven't had a regular hygienist. I would get cleaned by anyone and everyone. It was never pleasant but I was easy. I thought that is what cleanings should feel like--until I fell into Marsha's chair. It was hygiene heaven. She made my mouth marvel. She was gentle and careful and thorough. She made great suggestions. It was my first time with her and I felt cheated for all these years that I had been missing out on that level of care. When I booked my return visit, I made a special request for Marsha! I was finally excited for a cleaning in nearly 18 years of dental visits.
Wanting to be sure that I would be treated to Marsha's ministrations, I called my dentist's office the day before my cleaning to confirm my time with Marsha. I was looking forward to my teeth spa. I was not prepared for the news. Masha was gone. Retired. She'd taken her gentle hands and generous smile and left. What I felt was beyond disappointment. My teeth felt grief and a deep loss of a fleeting but profound love! I had to fight my selfishness. After all, Marsha was an older lady who had suffered from some serious medical problems. She left to take it easier. But here I was, thinking about myself,crushed and devastated!
Reluctantly, practically, I had to agree to be seen by their temp. Who's ever heard of such a thing. This should have been a red flag! What's wrong with this woman that she can't find full time anywhere?
I found out once I was reclined, mouth agape under the bright lights. "Oh Marsha" was all I could moan silently. If I had one shot at the fountain of youth, I would have gladly baptised Marsha to bring her back to full youth and health.
I didn't trust this girl--and that's what she was. Barely in her twenties and scrawny. Didn't look life her life experience would fill a bucket. That lack of experience showed up as she proceeded to attack my plaque! Stab, stab, jab, jab. She acted as if she were in a heavy weight bout with a boxer and not engaged in the delicate business of caring for my teeth. I thought for a minute she thought my gums were a voodoo doll and she was getting revenge on a nameless enemy.
By the end of the ordeal, I could hardly speak. She did a good job but the ends did not justify the means. I am due for another cleaning soon but I refuse to be back in her chair. I didn't complain that day, but if I have to face her the next time, you can bet I will have a thing or two to say.
©2007. all rights reserved

It's for the birds

A few days ago, my husband called me very excitedly, whispering into the telephone. At first I thought something was wrong with him and I almost hung up and dialled 911.
Here is what he was whispering about. He was witness to the moment when a baby bird that had been incubated and hatched on the rafter above our deck, became fully fledged.
For weeks we had been watching two birds, each one taking turns to care for the other or sit on the egg. One would bring a grasshopper for the other, or bring an additional twig to shore up the nest. Life in it's simple form right in the middle of a busy city.
We were honored that these birds chose our deck, peeling paint and all, to bring their chick into the world. We hope that they felt safe and welcome here. We hope they will come back.
This is the moment just before they flew off into the wilds of the city. I am pleased to report they have already returned to visit.

©2007. all rights reserved

Tomatomania

This is my first crop of tomatoes. Beautiful, aren't they? A few varieties of heirlooms and hyrids. Lemon Boys, Japanese Trifle Black, Black Brandywine, Encanted, San Marzano and a few others. The Lemon Boys are actually quite lemony. They are, as Martha Stewart would say, "a good thing." And rather delicious. Here they are in their full glory.

I planted them toward the end of April after having stocked up at a $3 seedling sale. It was a great deal I thought--$18 for six plus five free ones. What I didn't calculate however were the other costs. As I didn't have a proper garden I had to buy pots and potting soil and organic plant food, and the tomato stakes. So rightly we are looking here at nearly $100 worth of tomatoes. Not that I am quibbling about the money, mind you, but I reckon these plants better maximise their yield and give over bushels and bushels.

I am rather surprised that they have done so well considering I have never felt particularly blessed with a green thumb. In fact I have been nursing a low thumb esteem as my mother is rather the master gardener and my middle sister seems to have followed in her footsteps.
I have killed quite a few cactus in my time. But this tomato crop has boosted my confidence a bit in the garden department.

In truth, this is my second successful harvest. The first one was nearly 30 years ago, when as as little girl, I threw some left-over corn kernels in the ground. I was delighted at the results. They grew and flourished. I don't remember if I ate the corn or not. I only remember that shortly after they had broken through the earth, my mother had our garden-boy/yard helper, Errol, transplant them into her green house filled with anthurium. Sadly, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in June of 1976, on my sister's birthday, Errol met a sad end in the water reservoir where only the brave boys swam. Even the best swimmer in the village could not save him. It would be years before we recovered from the shock, and many more before I set foot at the site.

It's been many summers since and now again. My tomatoes are in full fruit and so I delight in the wonder of the ability to grow things, to be a steward for some living thing and to enjoy the literal fruits of my labour.

©2007. all rights reserved

Newly Wed Words

“My husband.” These are two very recent additions to my personal vocabulary. And oddly enough now, somewhat to my chagrin, I find myself actually liking the sound of it. Really liking the sound of it. I catch myself saying things like, “my husband" this and “my" husband that blah, blah, blah.
Prior to becoming a newlywed, I was always irked when I overheard other women saying “my husband” this or “my husband” that. The only thing I found more annoying was redundant name hyphenators. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Mary Smith-Johnson”.” Need I say more?
Somehow though, after the “I do” something unexpected happened to me. Understand that my husb, this is a man I have known for nearly 20 years. We dated for 10 years, lived together for four years. He’s the same man whom I am always asking to pick up his socks or take out the trash. He’s the man I wanted to marry, although not in the “hope chest- filling”, "white-gowned veiled girl invested in the pricey, accessory-laden idea of wedding day as the most perfect day in a life" way. I wanted a marriage, but not a “wedding” wedding.
Since I was the un-bride, I thought I could be the un-wife. My response to questions of “how’s married life?” has been nonchalant. I tell people the only difference is now I can say “Husband, pick up your socks.” Indeed, for the most part, life is the same, but there is something different. I like to accord him his new title. And when he says “my wife” it makes me smile inside. It’s a promotion of sorts. As "wife and husband", we now have new social positions even in this post modern society where marriage has been reduced to a personal contract rather than a vital part of the social fabric. Inside me there still lives a cynical, sarcastic, independent urban creature who cringes at the thought that by relishing being married, I have bought into staid middle class values. But inside me is a woman who is proud and happy to be "wife."
©2007. all rights reserved

Left turns on the Left Coast

Why I hate making left turns in Los Angeles:
1. There are not enough left turn arrow signals.

2. In all but a few locations where there are left turn arrow signals, the light only stays green long enough to let two or three cars through

3. Invariably, left turners keep packing into the short turn lane, blocking the thru traffic and causing unnecessary delays for people behind them. Isn't it way faster to just go thru the intersection, pull a "u-ey" and turn right instead of waiting for the interminable light?

4. Even when you do get the green arrow to turn left, two or three cars trying to turn left from the other direction who had missed their green arrow, use up precious seconds of your already short light, thus causing you to miss the light and have to encroach on the green arrow of the other intersection. It's an endless cycle, like the previous run on sentence.

5. People who use their time at red lights searching for crap in their car or applying makeup. Red light time ought to be spent with one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes waiting for the opportunity to zip zip zip left! Don't doom me to another light cycle!

6. That particular driver (and it is with great restraint that I don' t say moron driver, as I am trying to keep my thoughts lofty and be a better human being than I currently am) who finds it necessary to traverse oh so very slowly and carefully across the intersection as they turn left. What? Do they think they are going to have a spontaneous roll over if they go faster than 25 miles an hour?

7. Drivers who don't advance enough into the intersection to allow more than one car to get through the light.

8. Pedestrians crossing against the light and drivers courteous enough to allow them to get through!!

9. Left turn signals that are separate from the main signals. Once the arrow goes red, you can't go, even if the straight ahead traffic light is green and there is no oncoming traffic.

10. Incorporated left turn arrows that allow turners to go once the oncoming lane is clear. This encourages drivers to keep going even after the main light is red. This in turns eats up time of the opposing left turners and straight ahead traffic.

11. That bloody moody left turn signal at turn from Sunset east to La Brea north that doesn't always turn green. It's all about hitting the right sweet spot at the intersection. Too far in or too far back and Aaargh !

12 Buses, trucks and the fool who has to immediately turn right (and slowly) into the starbucks at the corner. Hell-oooow. There are people trying to make a left turn here.

There's simply nothing favourable about left turns in this city. It's rather ironic that it's even called the left coast.

©2007. all rights reserved

Life in the Fast Lane

It’s not just that the traffic in LA is bad. It’s not just that there are mattresses, rakes, nails, bags of clothes and lumber cast about the freeway lanes. It’s not just that so many people are bad, discourteous drivers who don’t use their turn signals. It’s not just that this city and the freeways have really poor signage that leads one in circles. It’s not just that the roads are pitted and cracked and uneven. It’s a whole host of reasons that make the driving experience demoralizing and dehumanizing and soul killing. But the bane of my Los Angeles driving experience, is drivers who either refuse to or don’t know that they are obligated to get out of the way when I come barreling down behind them in the fast lane.
People, the fast lane serves a singular purpose—to allow people to pass other cars going more slowly. That means, if you see a car fast approaching you, get outta the lane. It's not a lane in which you are allowed to park yourselves, oblivious to the fact that I need to get by. It doesn't mean you get to stay in there to pass "one more car."
If I am close enough behind to your car to see your thoughtless reflection in your rear-view mirror, then you are not going fast enought and you need to change lanes. By all means feel free to slip in behind me so we can continue the do-si-do. It does not mean that you get to sit there and "punish" me for going too fast. That's what I imagine a lot of people do...in that very unique American way of doing things.
I liken the slow-down in the fast lane to the unacknowledged class struggle in this country. As long as we are all zipping along in the same boat, or climbing up the ladder, it's all hunky-dory. But the minute I want to pass you, move ahead, get by, then no more "mr. nice guy." People just don't want to let others get ahead. It's as if the guy ahead of me wants to punish me for having a bit more pep in my step. It's that all-American, thumb your nose at the big guy. It's part of our psychological makeup to like to see people climb to the top only to pull them down. (Okay. Perhaps that is a bit of a stretch.)
Listen up LA driver and fast lane hoggers: Take a page from the Europeans. Go right and get the **** out of the way!
©2007. all rights reserved

Ribbon Rage

Enough with the ribbons already. Back in the day, the red AIDS ribbon was a wonderful beacon for action during the dark times when diagnosis meant death. Sadly though, in a "post triple cocktail" era, the red ribbon has been hijacked and co-opted and quite simply done to death.

The folded ribbon as a symbol of anything meaningful or anything I should care about is DEAD. Whenever I see a pink ribbon for breast cancer, or a yellow one for troop support or a purple one for whatever the hell purple ones are for, well, I just don't even see them. How can I? I have been blined by the meaningless array of color ribbons plastered on every car, truck, bicycle, tricylcle, wagon, scooter and refrigerator thanks to the bloody magnet and bumper-sticker people. Have a cause? Have a thought? Get a ribbon. ugh!

Do we really need a patriotic flag ribbon proclaiming your home-country loyalty? Is a polka dotted ribbon for your annoying child's Montessori school fundraiser really necessary?( ...don't get me started on those self-congratulatory bumper stickers schools give out to parents to boast about their kids. Spare me your pride please!)

And while I am at it, how about we get rid of those ubiquitous rubber wristbands popularised by Lance Armstrong's worthy foundation? Unfortunately, that symbol died for me when movie marketers created green wristbands to promote their cinematic tour-de-force "Chicken Little".

Let's face it. We live in a consumer driven world where the successful marketing of a meaningful message invariably morphs into cheap "made in China tchotckhes" that get hawked at every corner so some guy can make a buck. Sure I'd like to be the next person to hit upon the next "red ribbon" or "yellow rubber bracelet" for some good cause, but to tell you the sad commercial truth, I probably want to be the guy with a factory in China, ready to churn out the multicolor counterfeits and rake in the dough.

©2007. all rights reserved