Frank Gore Follows Me On Twitter

SF 49er Running Back, Frank Gore, follows me on Twitter.

I only say this because it's true.  Okay, I really don't know what "Twitter" is all about.  And never mind that I am not a huge football fan.  (Okay, I used to be, but that was back in the Joe Montana, Steve Young era, not now.)

Still, I am happy to see that Frank has the good taste to follow me.  The thing is, this has caused great agitation between me and my husband Alex.

Alex is really jealous.  He is a die-hard 49er fan.  He adores Frank Gore.  Alex watches every play of every game and totally loves the game.  (I'm a baseball girl myself.)  Every time Gore makes a great play, I simply call out to Alex.  "Honey!  Frank Gore follows me on Twitter!"

Alex tries (and fails) to be very casual over this.  He is seething with jealousy!  I have tried to assure him that it must be some kind of a fluke.  Maybe there are two Frank Gores?  Maybe it's not really THE Frank Gore?  (It is.)  Well, who knows!  I am sort of cute.

I like Frank just fine.  But I'm not really that much of a football fan, and I have now idea why he follows me on Twitter.  But I might venture a guess or two if pressed.

But I won't do that here.  Let's just say, "Honey, Frank Gore follows me on Twitter" and be done with it!

Things That Make Me Go Ugh

I hate it when I get these things.

First off, I have to put the damn notice someplace where I can't miss it.  (They seem to arrive about a month ahead of the actually date you have to deal with.)  In my house, that can be tricky.

My dog Zoe grabs things off of tables and counter tops and eats them.  My husband puts things "somewhere safe" (meaning somewhere where the item will never be seen again in this lifetime).  I write reminders all over calendars, but then I don't look at the calendar for weeks at a time.  My bad.

Remembering to check in after 5:00 PM the evening before the summons is also hinky.  Don't these people realize that 5:00 PM is the cocktail hour?  After two Bombay Sapphire martinis, I can't read the "juror number group" they are going to ask me for.  Why can't they put the time at say 4:00 PM?  I seldom hit the sauce before 5:00.

I called the number at 5:00 PM the night before.  I was told to appear at the courthouse in Oakland  at 9:00 AM the next morning.  Double Damn!  We have a nice little courthouse right here in Alameda.  Why can't they just send me there?  We actually have a pretty low crime rate in Alameda.  I think that we have had 4 murders in 25 years or something like that.  You guys read the headlines.  Oakland has murders (plural) every hour, plus a wide assortment of robbers, rapists, arsonists, bad actors and gangsters.  And why is it that police departments and courthouses are all located where gangster-looking and acting people hang out?

Also, I may have mentioned before I don't get up before 9:00 AM because most people die early in the morning according to a study I saw referenced someplace.  If it's my time, I'd just as soon be in bed when it happens.  There is no dignity in dying right on the damn kitchen floor with coffee spilled all around you.  So, in other words, the Jury system wants me to risk my very life over this.

I got to the courthouse relatively and surprisingly unscathed.  There is a long line out the door.  I was worried sick I was going to be late.  A Sheriff was telling everybody to take off all of their jewelry, belts, and stick them in the plastic bucket with purses, wallets, phones, lighters, lipsticks, compacts, keys and pocket change.  Folks, I have a lot of jewelry.  I need help taking it off.  Realizing this was an absolute problem, I asked the Sheriff to assist me taking off my bracelets with tricky clasps.  He advised me to just walk through the metal detector with my arms raised.  Whew!

I made it just in time not to be late.  After checking in, I sat in a plastic bucket seat for an hour while people straggled into the large room.  Nobody talked.  The man next to me slept.  When he woke up, I asked him how he got his shoes so shiny.  The man told me he polished them himself.  I said "Wow!"  Then he went back to sleep.

After an hour, the person in charge read off a long list of names and told those people to go upstairs to Courtroom Number 5.  I sat in that plastic chair for another half hour before we were told we could leave.

And what's with all the plastic stuff in courthouses?  Plastic buckets?  Plastic chairs?

I hate jury duty.

There's A Man In My Tree

Actually, there's more than one man in my tree.

People who know me well would not be surprised because having a man or two in my tree is generally my idea of a fun time.

Our big old oak tree needed her skirt lifted and a haircut to let the light in.  She was becoming a tad gloomy.  At 80 years old or so, I understand how that can happen. Her leaves were growing so low that they tangled in my hair as I walked up the path to my house.

Getting her skirt lifted has made her feel downright perky again.  The sun started peeking through her branches as they cut her back a bit.  Plus, she's no longer growing into the upper floor of our home.   

She was tended to this afternoon by 8 handsome young Mexican men.  They sang to her, gently trimmed her up nice and pretty, and took the dead branches off of her.  They disposed of all of her debris in a very respectful way.

After their loving tending, the guys stood across the street to admire her with big smiles on their faces.  As they cleaned up, I could hear some serenading in Spanish.

I took the young men out a bucket full of ice cold beers.  Their big smiles at my "tip" made my heart sing.

Deal With It

The holidays burn me out.

It wasn't always this way.  I used to love to get the tree, pull out the ornaments, buy and lovingly wrap the gifts, cook the meals, make the eggnog, and go into a busy frenzy.

No more.  It's expensive.  It's exhausting.  It's emotionally draining.  For the first time ever, this year I have decided that each of my 6 grand children will get a $50 gift card from us.  They can do whatever they want with it.

I thought about going ahead and shopping for my youngest granddaughter, Abbey Rose.  She's still young enough to appreciate frilly and fabulous dresses.  This year she will purchase her own.  The twinge of guilt I feel over this is overshadowed by the twinge of delight I feel in not having to go to a big store and wander while I look frantically for something that "they will really like".  Nor will I have to lean over the kitchen table with rolls and rolls of wrapping paper, ribbons, and tape while I try unsuccessfully to make things look beautiful as I do my amateur wrap job.

I've pretty much decided that my son and his wife and my daughter and her husband will get bottles of Silver Oak Cabernet.  They all appreciate fine red wines.  The handful of friends we exchange gifts with will get nice bottles of wine also.  My cleaning woman and her daughter will get cash gifts.  In the past, I have gone to considerable lengths to purchase designer leather goods (bags) only to have them returned to me with the explanation that the recipient prefers the counterfeit bags to the real thing.

That leaves shopping for my husband Alex and our two dogs, Harry and Zoe.  Harry and Zoe are easy.  New collars and new chew toys will do just fine for them.  Alex's gifts may require a trip to a store.  He's a clothes horse and a techie.  I can find clothes he likes.  For the tech toys, I will leave him to his own devices.  I enjoy shopping for Alex because  I know what he likes and wants. 

I will host about 3 or 4  holiday dinners.  But rather than dinners for 12 people or more , I will limit them to a maximum of 6 people so that I don't have to open up the dining room table. 

Now that I have sorted this out for myself mentally, I feel less stressed.  (Yeah, I feel a little guilty, but you know what!  I'll get over it!)

A Navajo Tacos Thanksgiving

I don't like turkey.

My husband Alex doesn't like turkey.  My kids and grandkids don't like turkey.  I don't like "dressing".  I don't like mashed potatoes.  I don't like pumpkin pie.  And I hate green bean casseroles.

Alex is Navajo and he has "issues" with celebrating this particular holiday.  Oh he's thankful enough, but the problem is, white guys came and took the Indians land and killed off huge portions of their population.  (Sometimes Alex just can't take the tommy hawk out of his pocket.)

So this year, we are drinking margaritas and tequila shots and Corona beers.  Then we are dining on home-made tamales, Navajo tacos, rice and beans. (Navajo tacos require Navajo  fry bread and I have the recipe for Alex to make.  He's the Navajo, not me.)

I have no idea if this dinner will be successful or not.  But I look at the bright side, if we drink enough, we won't know one way or the other.

My son and his wife and their 4 kids are not going to join us.  They think what we are doing is just too extreme.  My daughter and her Persian family love the idea of a turkey-less Thanksgiving, as my daughter shares my view that handling those big naked birds is disgusting.  I hate reaching inside the thing to pull out those nasty innards.  A cooked turkey does not upset me, but a dead naked turkey turns my stomach.

We will play some Native American flute music by "Tree" Cody, Alex's uncle.  I can probably also round up some Mexican music. And we will do the Mexican Hat Dance. 

Next year we may have a "Turkey Day".  I will find Turkish recipes and traditional Turkish costumes.  I have one of those funny little round hats already so I figure I can't go too far wrong.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Fear of Going Down

Anyone who know me figures out before long that I cannot get on an escalator going down without some drama.

I wasn't always this way.  Years ago, one of my husbands had very little patience with hinky women.  My ex-husband, (let's call him Bob -  heck, his name was Bob come to think of it), was very annoyed when I turned out to be afraid of horses, afraid of heights and terrified of cauliflower. 

We went to dinner one night at the Carnelian Room, a gorgeous high rise restaurant with an amazing view in San Francisco.    We were joined by a number of Bob's executive type colleagues and cohorts.  I was having a marvelous time after a number of cocktails and some wine.  Because my husband and the other people at the gathering were all quite a bit older than I, booze was needed to help with my social anxiety.  I remember I was seated next to the president of the Burlington Northern Railroad and I told him I liked their pantyhose.

It got late and we got ready to leave.  We walked over to the escalator and I came to screeching halt.

"I cannot get on that thing!" I said in a total panic.  My sensitive husband told me not to be ridiculous and grabbed my arm to pull me on the metal moving stairs.  I screamed bloody murder. 

People came rushing out to see what was wrong.  By this time, I was getting hysterical.  I begged the waiter to let me use the stairs or the elevator, on to just let me sleep there.  (Actually, I  may have asked him to let me live there.)

My husband Bob was burning with anger and humiliation.  Here I was a cute young trophy wife and I was behaving like a bat shit crazy woman.  When he couldn't get me on the escalator even with brute force, the Carnelian Room manager said he could have the escalator turned off so I could walk down the stairs.  At last!  Something I could do.

There is still something about a descending escalator that scares me, but I sometimes can do it.  I have been known to ask total strangers if I could hold their hand or their arm until I get on.  If there is an elevator or stairs I can use, I'll use them.

I still am afraid of horses and heights and I don't eat cauliflower or even look at it.  And most importantly, I have learned to never ever again marry anyone named Bob.

Lucky Stars

I don't believe in luck.

I believe in choices and decisions that change our lives one way or another. 

I've made bad choices and good choices and I've lived with the consequences of both.  My bad choices have sometimes been doozies, but I always was able to get back on a good path.

My good choices included going to college in my 30's and making some smart life and financial decisions.  I realized early on  that going to school in and of itself would not totally change the fact that I have limited talents and abilities, but a college education would enhance my potential for success.  With apologies to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, most of us need that piece of paper.

My worst choices have included taking  jobs I knew I was going to hate, and marrying for a powerful combination of lust and greed.  (Who knew?)  I  got my head out of my ass and realized a prince was not the solution to my career and financial  issues.  I needed to do somethings for myself if I wanted a better life. Most of the time, I have been "lucky" and made decisions that worked out fine.

I know people who think they are unlucky.  An old friend of mine divorced a low-down, cheating, lying husband and promptly thereafter married a heroin addict.  She thinks she has had such bad luck.  This woman also didn't file tax returns for years and it just about ruined her financially..  To complete the money disaster, the same woman built up credit card debt to over $60,000 and she had to declare bankruptcy twice.  Bad luck?

Another woman I know married a very wealthy, quite a bit older  man.  She lived with him in a miserable relationship for over 20 years.  He died and she inherited a lot of money.  Even with the money this woman is unhappy and would not consider herself "lucky" at all.  The 20 plus years of being unhappy took a serious toll on her.

A friend of mine got sick of the "rat race" of corporate employment so he dropped out.  This guy has an adequate "nest egg" and he can live within his means.  My friend lives frugally and has very little interest in material possessions.  He does use money for travel and experiences.  It works fine for him.  I'd say he's pretty lucky.

My husband Alex joined the Navy when he was 18.  While continuing his military service as a Reservist, and working full time as an aircraft mechanic, Alex went to college at night and got a degree in Computer Science.  For 20 years, Alex has been working in a field he loves and being very well rewarded for it.  He considers himself a lucky person.

I have to ask the question, "What's luck got to do with it?"