Mission Bay CG
San Diego, CA
With all the snow and the water leak and the dryer isn’t working either, I did what any same woman would do once she reached dry land. I went shopping.
There is a mall nearby in San Diego, and of course any woman reading this will understand the lure. You men, just try to imagine. Think football game and you’ll get the idea.
In this mall is a Bed Bath & Beyond, one of the most wonderful stores in the world, a browser’s delight, an impulse purchaser’s dream. (And I needed that electric duster, Bernie! Truly I did.)
I reined in my raging impulses, however, and prepared to exit the store with only a few items, when I passed by one of those kiosks with the video of an exciting new product. As shown on TV! OMG. I paused and watched as six ugly models with disgusting hair became swans with the application of this fabulous hair thingy with the rolling hot barrel and hairbrush combo designed to straighten and smooth your hair in just one minute.
And it was only $99. Wow. A beauty bargain if I ever saw one. I looked in the TV monitor and saw the reflection of my fuzzy unkempt hair and lusted after this remarkable revolution. I was the target market all right. I could have been the pinspot inside of the bullseye that every arrow wants to pierce. I wanted that thing. I still can’t think of its name, but I sure wanted it.
My fuzzy hair and I left the store without the miracle product. Given that I had never spent more than $30 for any kind of hair dryer, hair comb, brush, straightener or curler, I thought $99 a mite excessive. Like all those TV products, it would come down from the pricing stratosphere in time.
But this kind of lust doesn’t go away, even in a cold shower. The mind is a terrible thing.
I thought. I equivocated. I longed. I lusted. I caved. I reasoned that the one box of stuff that didn’t make it from the old coach to the new one was my box of “product” --and I’m not making a grammatical error here; that is indeed what they are called. (And why it didn’t make it boggles the mind, since we were parked next to each other in the parking lot and all we had to do was transfer stuff out one door and into the other, but that’s obviously another story.)
Here’s my logic: Sixteen bottles of shampoo, conditioner and hair spray, one ordinary dryer, one high speed dryer, one flatiron, two curling irons – that had to add up to $100, right? I’d actually be saving a dollar if I bought this new revolutionary gotta-have-it.
So two days later, I went back and bought it.
It worked like a dream, turning my curly mess into smooth straight locks in ten seconds flat. And no wonder. The barrel of the roller must have been 212 degrees. That baby was smokin’ – or maybe that was my hair. In any event, it delivered. I began to feel better about the $99. Although I didn’t save the dollar, since there’s tax in California.
Then Saturday morning, preparing for a lovely outing to Old Town San Diego, I decided to get straight. I turned on the juice, heated up my straightener, applied it to my errant locks, and promptly burned the left side of my face. Ow. Owowow. I splashed on cold water, finished my hair and pulled it over the burn, now turning bright red and becoming sort of incredibly painful.
The hair-over-the-face trick didn’t work and John soon became aware that I looked like an abused wife and started to ask questions. Not to worry, I said.
The good thing about Old Town is that they believe in cactus, and among the plantings were several that looked to my New York eyes like they might be aloe. I broke off a piece of the nearest cactus, squeezing the juice onto the burn and smiling triumphantly.
Then the left side of my face turned day-glo yellow. I realized I could have been applying yucca or saguaro juice to a third-degree burn and turning my face a clownish tint for the rest of my life. John said nothing except, "You missed the burn." I moved the jelly over an inch and covered the sore part I hadn't wanted to touch. Now the entire cheek was yellow. I got some strange looks in the old style cantina we visited for lunch. Maybe they liked my hair.
Two days later, I still have the burn mark. It still hurts, but my hair is still straight, so there’s comfort in that. The yellow has faded around the burn mark, but the burn itself still glows iridescent. And I still haven’t looked up an aloe plant on Google Images.
Why bother. I have that leaf in the refrigerator and I’m thinking it might make a good eye shadow, and that’s another $6.50 I would have saved. I am so thrifty I just can’t believe myself.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Happy Birthday Sis
Dear Sue,
Your birthday card sits stamped and soggy on my dashboard, the victim of an unexpected six inches of snow and hail that hit us hard in Julian California.
Who knew this effing place was in the mountains and there would be an effing snow storm that left us stranded ! Oh, yeah, now I remember. It was free. Never trust anything free.
This was a new "upscale" campground and all we had to do was listen to a 90-minute lecture. We left the desert, the flooded, soggy, gritty, dirty desert with its four days of rain and climbed steadily upwards in the rain, until the rain turned to hail and we turned to each other with one of those "uh-oh" looks. By the time we reached the campground, it was hailing so hard it was painful.
And the "resort" was unoccupied. Nobody home. Of course it was. It was a GD snowstorm and they weren't going to get stuck in it. We pulled in and got ourselves up to the highest point, the lowest having flooded so bad, all the new picnic tables were now under water. We hunkered down for the night. Thank you God for a generator and a tank full of fresh water. A knock on the door brought us upright.
"You're parked in the construction workers' parking lot," said a genial sort, a worker type.
And here we stay.
"Everybody's gone." We know, we know. But we're here for the night and we'll get out in the morning.
We had franks and beans and Kraft dinner. Comfort food. Played cards, then went to bed. The bus rocked us to sleep in the thousand-mile-an-hour winds.
The next morning we awoke to six inches of snow. Oh Lordy. I couldn't put the slides in because the snow on them was cemented into place. Our ladder is only four feet tall, so John scouted up a bigger ladder and got up to brush it off with the only things we had available: the sponge mop and the spatula. I held the ladder. Every bit of snow he brushed off landed smack on my head. He was in that "crutzarackaracka" mood like the Dad in "A Christmas Story" and I was laughing my ass off, only to myself because he definitely would not have looked kindly on my amusement. He was wet, cold and his supposedly waterproof raincoat was dripping red dye everywhere. He swore he was bleeding. It must have felt that way. His efforts were heroic.
I held the ladder, wore snow and chuckled in silence.
Of course I had to take pictures. Here's me with seven layers of clothes on, including two fleeces and two scarves. If John was the father in "A Christmas Story," I was the little brother who fell down in the snow and couldn't get up.
Meanwhile, the door to the coach stayed open, and snow came in and soaked your card. That's all right; it was a dorky card anyway. I'll send it as soon as it dries.
Meantime, I hope you have a most wonderful birthday. I certainly will enjoy it. I'm warmer and drier in San Diego, and thinking of you. I love you to the stars. Sorry about the card.
Love
Betty
Your birthday card sits stamped and soggy on my dashboard, the victim of an unexpected six inches of snow and hail that hit us hard in Julian California.
Who knew this effing place was in the mountains and there would be an effing snow storm that left us stranded ! Oh, yeah, now I remember. It was free. Never trust anything free.
This was a new "upscale" campground and all we had to do was listen to a 90-minute lecture. We left the desert, the flooded, soggy, gritty, dirty desert with its four days of rain and climbed steadily upwards in the rain, until the rain turned to hail and we turned to each other with one of those "uh-oh" looks. By the time we reached the campground, it was hailing so hard it was painful.
And the "resort" was unoccupied. Nobody home. Of course it was. It was a GD snowstorm and they weren't going to get stuck in it. We pulled in and got ourselves up to the highest point, the lowest having flooded so bad, all the new picnic tables were now under water. We hunkered down for the night. Thank you God for a generator and a tank full of fresh water. A knock on the door brought us upright.
"You're parked in the construction workers' parking lot," said a genial sort, a worker type.
And here we stay.
"Everybody's gone." We know, we know. But we're here for the night and we'll get out in the morning.
We had franks and beans and Kraft dinner. Comfort food. Played cards, then went to bed. The bus rocked us to sleep in the thousand-mile-an-hour winds.
The next morning we awoke to six inches of snow. Oh Lordy. I couldn't put the slides in because the snow on them was cemented into place. Our ladder is only four feet tall, so John scouted up a bigger ladder and got up to brush it off with the only things we had available: the sponge mop and the spatula. I held the ladder. Every bit of snow he brushed off landed smack on my head. He was in that "crutzarackaracka" mood like the Dad in "A Christmas Story" and I was laughing my ass off, only to myself because he definitely would not have looked kindly on my amusement. He was wet, cold and his supposedly waterproof raincoat was dripping red dye everywhere. He swore he was bleeding. It must have felt that way. His efforts were heroic.
I held the ladder, wore snow and chuckled in silence.
Of course I had to take pictures. Here's me with seven layers of clothes on, including two fleeces and two scarves. If John was the father in "A Christmas Story," I was the little brother who fell down in the snow and couldn't get up.
Meanwhile, the door to the coach stayed open, and snow came in and soaked your card. That's all right; it was a dorky card anyway. I'll send it as soon as it dries.
Meantime, I hope you have a most wonderful birthday. I certainly will enjoy it. I'm warmer and drier in San Diego, and thinking of you. I love you to the stars. Sorry about the card.
Love
Betty
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
My Private Collection
Chula Vista, CA
We went to the San Diego Zoo today. We've been before with the kids, but we decided to go to the zoo, because when we got to Sea World, our original destination, it was $17 to park and $69 per adult to get in. For $155 Shamu would have had to cook me a meal and serve me a martini on one of his flippers. No thanks.
So instead we headed for the zoo, where we sat on our butts and rode the trolley, then took the sky ride, then called it a day. It was a great decision.
I'm starting a collection of favorite sayings, mis-speaks and funny observations, and thinking this would make a great little book. So if you'd like to add a few of your own favs, just send them to me and I'll credit you if they ever end up between the covers.
All of these except one were first-hand comments, and by regular people who just happen to say what they said at a particular time and place and I never forgot them. So, in no particular order:
Whatever comes, I eat.
Frank DeVito
There's a man cremated for every woman.
Stu Kuby
She's so loose mints on the desk.
Mary Reynolds
There ain't no 28 cent pig.
Anon. Overheard on the street
Never little in de lake.
Anon. Advice given to my children by an old black woman.
Little: litter
It's cold. Better put on your thermos.
Lottie
I had an atomic pregnancy.
Thelma
I'm going to get some of that Paramus for my bathroom.
Thelma
Your chirren been actin up.
Lottie
Them teeth needs a toof broth.
Sidney
Koran Tabu
Baby named after favorite book and favorite perfume
Thelma's grandson
You do too know the gas station man: You say his name every time.
Philip Regular
Jeff, Age 4
Mom! A chocolate policeman!
Jeff, Age 4
I don't like that wicky wacky woo.
Jeff, Age 3, at the car wash
You're not the boss of me
Jonathan, Age 6, to his Aunt
She's all Monet Jewelry, beige hose, white hat.
Mary Reynolds, describing an uptight co-worker
Why can't I see that movie? It is sex and violins?
Jonathan, Age 8
And finally, the one I didn't hear myself but I made it my mantra:
If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.
Katherine Hepburn
There are more to collect, mostly from my own childhood. I haven't included shobbi, but that's a blog for another day.
Love
Betty
We went to the San Diego Zoo today. We've been before with the kids, but we decided to go to the zoo, because when we got to Sea World, our original destination, it was $17 to park and $69 per adult to get in. For $155 Shamu would have had to cook me a meal and serve me a martini on one of his flippers. No thanks.
So instead we headed for the zoo, where we sat on our butts and rode the trolley, then took the sky ride, then called it a day. It was a great decision.
I'm starting a collection of favorite sayings, mis-speaks and funny observations, and thinking this would make a great little book. So if you'd like to add a few of your own favs, just send them to me and I'll credit you if they ever end up between the covers.
All of these except one were first-hand comments, and by regular people who just happen to say what they said at a particular time and place and I never forgot them. So, in no particular order:
Whatever comes, I eat.
Frank DeVito
There's a man cremated for every woman.
Stu Kuby
She's so loose mints on the desk.
Mary Reynolds
There ain't no 28 cent pig.
Anon. Overheard on the street
Never little in de lake.
Anon. Advice given to my children by an old black woman.
Little: litter
It's cold. Better put on your thermos.
Lottie
I had an atomic pregnancy.
Thelma
I'm going to get some of that Paramus for my bathroom.
Thelma
Your chirren been actin up.
Lottie
Them teeth needs a toof broth.
Sidney
Koran Tabu
Baby named after favorite book and favorite perfume
Thelma's grandson
You do too know the gas station man: You say his name every time.
Philip Regular
Jeff, Age 4
Mom! A chocolate policeman!
Jeff, Age 4
I don't like that wicky wacky woo.
Jeff, Age 3, at the car wash
You're not the boss of me
Jonathan, Age 6, to his Aunt
She's all Monet Jewelry, beige hose, white hat.
Mary Reynolds, describing an uptight co-worker
Why can't I see that movie? It is sex and violins?
Jonathan, Age 8
And finally, the one I didn't hear myself but I made it my mantra:
If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.
Katherine Hepburn
There are more to collect, mostly from my own childhood. I haven't included shobbi, but that's a blog for another day.
Love
Betty
Want a Cup of Coffee?
Chula Vista, CA
Outside of San Diego
Outside of San Diego
“What?” he said, grunting and looking surprised.
“Coffee,” I said.
“What about it?” he answered.
“Do you want some?” I replied.
“No, why?” he answered testily, looking up from his computer.
Uh-oh. Here was my fork in the road. I could go the good wife route and tell him I was sorry for bothering him and to never mind. Or, I could go the Betty route and respond with slight pique, “Why do you want coffee? I don’t know. Maybe you’d like some. Then again, maybe I can wash the pot.”
“I’m busy,” he said. “I can’t think about that now.”
Oh I’m sorry. I’ll just try and figure out when you are not doing something, or thinking about something, and then I’ll ask. Like when you’re sleeping, that’s when I’ll ask.
The other day I asked him a question and he refused to answer me because he was busy turning a key in a lock. Now that required real concentration and deep mental commitment.
I guess the point is, we women whose lives revolve around multi-tasking, find this point of difference in the species quite amusing.
Imagine. You’re doing the laundry, separating the darks from the lights, choosing the cycle, filling the soap dispenser, when little Fauntleroy comes in to confess that he had tossed one of Daddy’s forbidden darts and it somehow landed in Abercrombie’s hair, and there’s blood coming down his face in rivers and you better come quick.
"Can’t you see I’m busy here?" Go tell Daddy.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy New Bus, er, Year.
San Francisco
December 30
The big news is, we have jumped the stick, bought the bullet, closed our eyes and bungee jumped ourselves into a new, bigger, better and way too expensive coach to replace our Beaver and make our current lives so much more worthwhile. It has better brakes, better acceleration and a stronger, more reliable chassis. It also has granite counter tops, a ceramic slate floor with the most adorable little black squares, almond leather all around with black piping, a breakfast banquette and a super duper oven, plus washer and dryer, bigger shower and electric toilet. But I am not one to be swayed by the decor of a thing, as you well know.
Are you LOL yet?
Here's the really LOL part. We bought this baby in Newport Beach CA, the very day I wrote my family and said that I was in financial straits and couldn't afford the big Christmas checks I like to write for all the kids. It was a coincidence, but a poor one, so I haven't told anybody in my family about this ridiculous purchase. I haven't written about this because they read the blog religiously and would then question my sanity, if not my penury, or my stinginess.
Rest easy, dear one, for I did send the original amount. Guilt? Yes, definitely. But they're great kids and I reasoned that this could be the last hurrah for us. When we start working at Walmart, we'll cheap out, but until then ...
So that's why I haven't written in the blog until today. Plus:
The new bus, a Country Coach, was to be prepped and ready on my return from a quick trip to NY for a business reunion of 200 former Young & Rubicam employees.
That meant I had to pack up the Beaver before I left. Turns out, the new bus wasn't ready on time for our trip north to San Francisco for Christmas with our son, so John unpacked a lot of stuff and stored our other stuff in the new coach -- including some Christmas presents that Jeff never got.
Oh, men. Amen. We went to SF in the Beaver. I spent the next two weeks in the clothes I went to NY with, plus a few odd odds and ends I'd left on hangers. Nevertheless, Christmas with Jeff was fabulous as always.
The Monday after Christmas, John flew to Vegas (are you following this?) to pick up the new coach out of state (and save taxes.) Then he drove back the same day, arriving here in SF at 2:30 in the morning.
Tuesday we got up at the crack of civilization, and proceeded to throw everything from the Beaver into the new coach. We had to be done by noon because the salesman was driving the Beaver back to Newport Beach, where a buyer was waiting. This is one hell of a salesman, let me tell you, and it didn't hurt that he was totally cute and a real ladies' man. We both liked him immensely. And John's not gay, as far as I know.
Today we spent the day trying to stuff fifteen pounds of doo-doo into a ten pound bag. We mostly rearranged things and found that organization does make quite a difference. Right now, instead of a movie, we are going to Bed Bath and Better Write a Big Check for all the storage items, soap dishes, etc that we cannot live without. Then we'll have a quick dinner out, and flop into bed to get ready for the New Year.
My hair isn't exactly blonde to the roots, my nails are like claws so I keep making typos, and I have no idea what to wear to dinner tomorrow night -- perhaps something from the New York trip? -- but all is (almost) put away and I can see that we made the new almond tile floor kind of muddy -- but hey, I can see the floor! It's pretty. Call me Pollyanna, but I'm happy. Poor. But happy.
December 30
The big news is, we have jumped the stick, bought the bullet, closed our eyes and bungee jumped ourselves into a new, bigger, better and way too expensive coach to replace our Beaver and make our current lives so much more worthwhile. It has better brakes, better acceleration and a stronger, more reliable chassis. It also has granite counter tops, a ceramic slate floor with the most adorable little black squares, almond leather all around with black piping, a breakfast banquette and a super duper oven, plus washer and dryer, bigger shower and electric toilet. But I am not one to be swayed by the decor of a thing, as you well know.
Are you LOL yet?
Here's the really LOL part. We bought this baby in Newport Beach CA, the very day I wrote my family and said that I was in financial straits and couldn't afford the big Christmas checks I like to write for all the kids. It was a coincidence, but a poor one, so I haven't told anybody in my family about this ridiculous purchase. I haven't written about this because they read the blog religiously and would then question my sanity, if not my penury, or my stinginess.
Rest easy, dear one, for I did send the original amount. Guilt? Yes, definitely. But they're great kids and I reasoned that this could be the last hurrah for us. When we start working at Walmart, we'll cheap out, but until then ...
So that's why I haven't written in the blog until today. Plus:
The new bus, a Country Coach, was to be prepped and ready on my return from a quick trip to NY for a business reunion of 200 former Young & Rubicam employees.
That meant I had to pack up the Beaver before I left. Turns out, the new bus wasn't ready on time for our trip north to San Francisco for Christmas with our son, so John unpacked a lot of stuff and stored our other stuff in the new coach -- including some Christmas presents that Jeff never got.
Oh, men. Amen. We went to SF in the Beaver. I spent the next two weeks in the clothes I went to NY with, plus a few odd odds and ends I'd left on hangers. Nevertheless, Christmas with Jeff was fabulous as always.
The Monday after Christmas, John flew to Vegas (are you following this?) to pick up the new coach out of state (and save taxes.) Then he drove back the same day, arriving here in SF at 2:30 in the morning.
Tuesday we got up at the crack of civilization, and proceeded to throw everything from the Beaver into the new coach. We had to be done by noon because the salesman was driving the Beaver back to Newport Beach, where a buyer was waiting. This is one hell of a salesman, let me tell you, and it didn't hurt that he was totally cute and a real ladies' man. We both liked him immensely. And John's not gay, as far as I know.
Today we spent the day trying to stuff fifteen pounds of doo-doo into a ten pound bag. We mostly rearranged things and found that organization does make quite a difference. Right now, instead of a movie, we are going to Bed Bath and Better Write a Big Check for all the storage items, soap dishes, etc that we cannot live without. Then we'll have a quick dinner out, and flop into bed to get ready for the New Year.
My hair isn't exactly blonde to the roots, my nails are like claws so I keep making typos, and I have no idea what to wear to dinner tomorrow night -- perhaps something from the New York trip? -- but all is (almost) put away and I can see that we made the new almond tile floor kind of muddy -- but hey, I can see the floor! It's pretty. Call me Pollyanna, but I'm happy. Poor. But happy.
Manual Labor
January 1 2010
Happy New Year
Our new coach came with a plastic file cabinet full of manuals tucked into file folders, in alphabetical order, no less. My husband is a reader of manuals. He’s already half way through the two-inch thick book that came with the coach. Last night he plopped the instructions for the washing machine and dryer on the table where I was sitting.
Hey, fella! I’m busy heah. I’m playing a video game, so don’t interrupt my losing streak.
Now I wasn’t going to read any damn manual. My mother taught me how to beat my clothes on a rock when I was just a little child. When machines came along, she taught me how not to get my arm caught in the wringer and that was it. I didn’t get caught, but my brother did, which is why he has a dry, but very flat, arm today. But I digress.
Let’s just say I’ve been using washing machines for a long time. They’re pretty much the same – you toss the clothes in, dump in some soap, turn a dial and push a button. Kaboom, clean clothes. Dryers, same thing.
So why did I go out to dinner in a damp sweater last night?
I washed successfully, but the dryer is stacked on top of the washing machine and the dials are impossible to read from my lowly and shrinking height. I just guessed and pushed the button. Ten minutes later, the machine beeped. My wet sweater was now air-fluffed. Wet but fluffy. I tried again and forty minutes later my sweater was ready for really damp ironing.
I’ll cut to the chase here. That dryer has more damn cycles that a pms-ing woman and I never did find the one that simply dries things. So as the time to leave arrived, I pulled out the sweater, which by now was still wet around the collar where the material was thicker. It was kind of cold and icky, but as it turns out, the restaurant was kind of warm, so things worked out after all.
The manuals are still on the table, but it’s New Years Day, and I have a video game to play. My brother-in-law just jumped way past me and my son is closing in. I can’t let this happen, so I guess I’ll read those manuals another day. God knows when I'll get to the microwave one.
Betty
Happy New Year
Our new coach came with a plastic file cabinet full of manuals tucked into file folders, in alphabetical order, no less. My husband is a reader of manuals. He’s already half way through the two-inch thick book that came with the coach. Last night he plopped the instructions for the washing machine and dryer on the table where I was sitting.
Hey, fella! I’m busy heah. I’m playing a video game, so don’t interrupt my losing streak.
Now I wasn’t going to read any damn manual. My mother taught me how to beat my clothes on a rock when I was just a little child. When machines came along, she taught me how not to get my arm caught in the wringer and that was it. I didn’t get caught, but my brother did, which is why he has a dry, but very flat, arm today. But I digress.
Let’s just say I’ve been using washing machines for a long time. They’re pretty much the same – you toss the clothes in, dump in some soap, turn a dial and push a button. Kaboom, clean clothes. Dryers, same thing.
So why did I go out to dinner in a damp sweater last night?
I washed successfully, but the dryer is stacked on top of the washing machine and the dials are impossible to read from my lowly and shrinking height. I just guessed and pushed the button. Ten minutes later, the machine beeped. My wet sweater was now air-fluffed. Wet but fluffy. I tried again and forty minutes later my sweater was ready for really damp ironing.
I’ll cut to the chase here. That dryer has more damn cycles that a pms-ing woman and I never did find the one that simply dries things. So as the time to leave arrived, I pulled out the sweater, which by now was still wet around the collar where the material was thicker. It was kind of cold and icky, but as it turns out, the restaurant was kind of warm, so things worked out after all.
The manuals are still on the table, but it’s New Years Day, and I have a video game to play. My brother-in-law just jumped way past me and my son is closing in. I can’t let this happen, so I guess I’ll read those manuals another day. God knows when I'll get to the microwave one.
Betty
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
