Complicated Math

I was at the store yesterday and purchased something for $5.37. I gave the young girl a $10 bill. She looked to be high school age. Long enough to have several years of basic math under her belt. She rang up the order before she realized that I had also given her the .37 cents. She looked crestfallen when she realized that the change due on the register was no longer valid. She turned to the other clerk (who also looked to be in his high school years) with desperation in her eyes.

He told her she would have to use the calculator since she had already rung up the purchase.

Use the calculator?? I say again…Use The Calculator (note the use of capital, exclamatory, disbelief letters).

She stared at the open till in what appeared to be a look of complete brain freeze or maybe she was saying a hopeful prayer that the correct change would magically leap into her hands. I stared at the till with her. This I have to see. Tick tock. No change was floating up. That was disappointing.

An older lady…obviously the supervisor…came over and asked what the problem was. The girl told her the dilemma. The lady quickly pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me. Gosh, she didn’t even bother with the calculator. She must be some kind of financial wizard or something.

I do not consider myself to be a math whiz. I have ten fingers that I use frequently for higher math problems, and use my calculator for really big numbers. But I didn’t think $10.37 minus $5.37 was a college trick math question!

Am I worried that these people will someday be in charge of my social security payments? You bet your cash register I am!

The Flying Wambeezee Sisters

If you don’t have a sister or two, you’ve missed something. Having three sisters is even better…in a snippy, tormenting and creative sort of way. And I mean that in the best sense of course.

I have three sisters. One thing I can tell you about family life with sisters is that it is much like the old saying for business: shit rolls downhill. Tormenting started with my oldest sister, who passed it to the next one, who occasionally got me in trouble with my parents then laughed at me behind their back, and it ended with me working the family tradition on my youngest sister Susan. By the time little Susie came along, my bag of tricks was full.

I invented an act which I named the Flying Wambeezees. My little sister was the Flying part of the Wambeezee act. Cool. I would lie on the bed and she would sit on my feet as I elevated them toward the ceiling. I could spin her around and around with the greatest of ease. She was so limber…like a flying Gumby Baby Doll Sister. I could bend her any which way and she gave it her best to stay aloft on my platform feet. Her little face would harden with concentration and determination to keep each pose as she bumped up and down, around and around. Oh sure, she had the occasional tumble now and again, but that didn’t deter her from getting back on the Wambeezee feet for another spin. One thing about Susan, she didn’t let a few knocks hold her back from flying through the air.

We had a lot of fun perfecting our act until the door opened one day and my mother appeared. Mothers ruin a good circus performance. She apparently was shocked that we even had a circus act. I imagine she was worried that we might run off and join a carnival like our Great Uncle Orson did. He rarely came home for a visit and sent postcards to his mother every few years that said “Doing Fine. Hope you are well”. A man of few words. Mom probably saw herself holding a handful of cheap postcards from her wayward carnie daughters and wondering where she had gone wrong. Our budding career came to an end. The Wambeezee Sisters are just a fond family memory now that gets retold in sad tones of what could have been.

My older sisters played house--with the oldest as the mother, her friend as the father and my sister Mary as the dog. You weren’t expecting that were you? We weren’t ready to add more children to our household. Pets are easier to keep than children. Sometimes my sister-dog pulled the sled in winter. If you don’t have a real dog, a sister will do just as well for most everything.

In turn, I played the dog (or horse) and Susan played the dutiful owner. Dogs and horses got the treats. See my ploy? I could always count on Susan to slip into the kitchen and climb up to find the treats. And who did Mom blame when she caught poor Susan pilfering food before dinner? Not me. No one suspects the family dog/horse.

My best games were Betsy Hand Puppet and Raging Bull. Betsy was actually my hand that I made into a flattened fist and then used my thumb and curled forefinger to create a mouth. Betsy had a history. She sadly wept it to poor Susan each time she came to life.

Besty came from a broken home with parents who flung her out into the streets as they could not abide her ugly little hand face. She had little food (hence another way to get good treats), and slept in dirty boxes at night. At other times, Betsy was an orphan who was constantly looking for her parents or someone (like Susan) who could be her parent and love her unconditionally. Pretty sad huh? And Susan, like the little gullible moppet that she was, believed every word. She was putty in my blubbering Betsy hand.

Raging Bull entailed the sudden and unexpected ability to turn myself from a sweet sister into a maniacal child-eating bull that chased Susan in a potentially body stomping snorting rage until she hopped up on the sofa and cowered in the corner. The sofa was the “safe” place. As long as she was there, Raging Bull couldn’t stomp her. Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just your sister. See me? La la la why don’t you come down and we’ll play a game. Or maybe I’ll read you this really good book. Susan loved books. Susan ALWAYS took the bait. What a sucker.

Off the sofa she came. One step, two steps toward me. Me the sister. Poof. Me the Raging Bull. Scared that little Susan more times than I can count. What fun.

I still can’t believe how my sister could suspend belief in all logical reality to envision a hand as a person or me as a killer bull. I must have some incredible acting ability.

I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about convincing Susan that she was adopted or that she would turn from a girl into a boy and we would have to send her to the boy’s military academy down the road.

Sisters. Aren’t they fun?

A Relative Theory of Genealogy

Last year I decided to put together a genealogy book for my sisters for Christmas. In my inexperienced naïve sort of way, I thought that a year ought to be enough to print out all the pictures in my Mom’s albums/boxes/envelopes and research the family lines. Do you know how many people it took to create you? More than a village I can guarantee.

Although I had enough to fill several binders and a large photo album when I gave the gift, I still have a few errant relatives who refuse to be found. I was thinking about one in particular this morning during my work commute trip on BART. Having momentarily closed my eyes, I sunk into a sleepy lethargy brought on my allergy medication and thought about ways to find Fidelia McClelland. And completely missed my stop. I did wake up to watch it go by. How pleasant.

Stupid allergies. Darn missing relatives.

Maybe I need to move to Arizona. Or is that just for your lungs? Well maybe I need to go to the Caribbean or somewhere lovely and beautiful with the relaxing sound of the water and colorful birds flying overhead. Then poverty would set in and I’d have to go out in a leaky boat each day to bring in some fish to sell to the loud and irritating touristas just so I could eat and keep patches on my boat and canvas tent, which I would have to live in as I would have no money for an actual house. I’m getting a headache just thinking about how sad my life would become in the Caribbean.

My family names range from fruit to sea life with names such as Apple, Bacon and Fish. I see why I like food so much. It’s in the very core of my DNA.

I also noticed that several of my family lines changed the spelling of their name. Probably from family tiffs that created ill-will and new spellings. Or, as my husband keeps suggesting, horse thieves who needed a new identity, but weren’t smart enough to change their name completely. Appel became Apple, Fyshe became Fish, and De Scoville became Scovil/Scoville/Scovel (they couldn’t really make up their mind about the best spelling so moved letters now and again to see if it made a difference to their fortune).

I started to wonder about these people from the distant past. What were they like? Would a person named Mehitable be someone who wore sensible shoes and swung an axe with the same verve and power as she kneaded bread? I like that name. Mehitable. It screams strength, courage and no-nonsense attire. The name rolls off your tongue like a sweetmeat. I don’t know what a sweetmeat is, but anything starting with the word sweet must be good.

And why did the De Scoville people continue to change their name…even among brothers and sisters? I thought it prudent to make up my own version of the family stories. Here goes…

It was said that at one time, the name de Scoville wrought fear in the hearts of the peasants. However, after many years of gambling the family fortune, they realized that the “de” in the name simply sounded stupid and illiterate, a mild form of ebonics actually, as most people misprounced it “duh”, most likely in defiance of the snooty rulers. Many of their descendents began dropping letters in the name, probably sold for liqueur, as they were also fond of The Drink. Eventually, only one shabby “l” in the name was left as that was all they could afford. At times, due to the need for attention, some of the family changed the “i” to an “e”, (Scovil became Scovel) thinking this would shroud them in mystery. Unfortunately, most people thought them to be silly and tried to avoid them altogether. It was at this time that many of the Scovel people began to gain weight; the penchant for which was passed down to their offspring. The “e” was changed back to an “i”, but the weight issue proved too strong for any vowel to overcome.

Now that I’m on a roll, I believe I’ll make up a few more stories about my relatives. Although the last names are true, the first names have been changed to protect whatever is left of innocent relatives…

I love Slim Hargis. A snake-like figure of a man with whipcord reactions in a gun fight. Jake Hargis, his brother was a good-time guy who made all the women fall in love with him by an arch of a darkly sardonic eyebrow. If you’ve never seen a sardonic eyebrow, consider yourself cheated in life. Brullee Hargis was from the French side of the family and turned a mean pancake when he had a mind to.

And then there were the Keith people. That name speaks of rusted shells of buggies without wheels on the front lawn and a sagging sofa on the front porch that has stains from food fights and animal incontinence. No, you can have that name. I’ll stick with the sturdy Hargis’s. We are people who like potatoes and after dinner desserts.

The McClelland clan were known for their pies and clever insurance scams. They wore oddly colored plaid socks and wool skirts, and preferred high rocky places with crevices to hide from their enemy. It was rumored that they were a bit “fey”, although no one really knew what the word meant.

Ah yes, the Jackson family. A slippery bunch of people who pegged a varied assortment of nicknames on their kin in an attempt to garner fear from their neighbors. Stonewall Jackson was the leader of this group of relatives who hoped his nickname would instill some sense of an impenetrable character, but instead came to be known as a stubborn man who was contrary on every turn, thereby stonewalling any good efforts of his fellow officers.

There are more stories to be sure, but I think I’d better stop before one of my relatives lifts a sardonic eyebrow and makes me forfeit my membership card in Romance Writers of America.

The Pressure of Being a Spa Novice

Just saying the word “spa” conjures up thoughts of leisurely relaxation and high class pampering. You think about rich people going to a spa. Poor people get plug-in shiatsu neck massagers, which despite the advertising claims to be the exact technique of a masseuse, you will notice pretty quickly that the rotating balls in the unit only massage in one place on your neck thereby causing deep friction burns when left too long. It’s not really the same at all is it?

A few years ago, my son gave me a gift certificate to go to a spa that had just opened up. It's an elite place on the second floor above Tommy Bahama's and a hotel. Shopping and pampering. What could be better for any woman?

The spa is an upscale bit of quiet enticement. You walk into a large lobby with a huge rounded counter, wood floors, and shelves with body products. No chairs. This is, after all, just the lobby.

A young girl welcomed me, checked me in, gave me my locker key, the said to wait for my "escort". Another young girl (no old people for spa duty I notice) walked out and took me into the inner sanctum of tranquility. Another huge room...still not to the spa yet mind you...awaits beyond the big doors. On the right are shelves of products, on the left is a sitting area around a fireplace, straight ahead/left is the women's quarters, while right is the men's quarter's.

Walking into the women's quarters you will find the "waiting area". Not an ordinary waiting room I must say. There are recliners. Yes, real recliners with afghans and a light overhead if you should like to read while you're waiting, or turn the light out for a bit of a snooze.

Through the doors I looked up to a very large Jacuzzi (bring your swimsuit!), a steam room, a sauna, showers, any product of your choice to use on your hair and body, shavers, shaving cream, hair dryers and water containers in several places with cucumber, orange, and apple slices, bowls of fruit, special wash clothes soaked in something herbal that smelled good for when you came out of the sauna. I have reached the core of Nervana!

I was given my locker, and as I slipped into the robe, I was struck with the sad fact that the robe...she ain't a goin' around my body. Nope. The "one size fits all" label isn’t even close to my version of "all". I'm never in the "all" category. The label should read: All…except you fatty woman. I hate the person who invented that label.

I pile my clothes back on, and go in search of assistance for a bigger “all” robe. Found the help girl, who gave me a bigger "one size fits all" robe. She probably snuck it from the men's side. But it at least wraps around my body. With a few feet to spare. I hope it makes me look thinner.

Since I had a half an hour to spare, I decided to try all the spa amenities. Drank some fruity water, sniffed some products and inched my way toward the sauna. Spa and sauna. All good things start with an “S”.

Good Lord in Heaven... it's hot in there! Dry heat. Woof.

Just because it's there, I dip a ladle into the water bucket and splash it over the coals just to see what it would do. It gets hotter in the room. Is that possible? I feel very snooty and knowledgeable using the water dipper. I plop myself down on the bench in my ponderous robe. La la la. What does one do when they're all alone and burning up I wonder?

Just relax...let your mind go...think about...I'm thinking about the heat. It's gagging me. Dry heat...no sweat on my body, but my hair feels like it's 150 degrees to the touch. Is that good for hair follicles I wonder?

I notice that there's a lot of worry going on in my head in this place of relaxation. That can't be good.

I walked around in an aimless search for something to occupy me like the other ladies. The steam room (another “S” word). Yes, why not try steam. Much better than the sauna and will make my skin glow like a beacon of rich spa life. But do you wear your robe into the steam room? I'm a rube. I don't know the spa rules. What if I go in there in my robe, and sweat like a pig, then they come get me for the massage and I'm dripping? Won't they suggest I should have used "spa etiquette" and worn something else? And maybe they'll ask that I shower and wash the sweat off, then I'll miss my massage time and they'll tsk tsk and say I should have known better, so now all they'll give me is a quick slap and say my time's up.

Shouldn’t they give you a questionnaire when you come to a spa? Check the correct answer:
Are you a size “all” or would you prefer a bed spread to cover you?
Do you have any idea how to use our spa features, or are you here on a gift certificate and will most likely never return?

I notice a lady about to go into the steam room. She has a towel on under her robe. Aha! I went back to my locker and got my towel, opened my tent-robe, and adjusted the towel around me.

Not even close to covering me up. Oh great. What do I have to ask for? A bath sheet?

Forget the stupid steam room. I hate sweating anyway. I'll keep my lousy toxins.

I ended up in the recliners. What else? Nothing fits, I might as well be the person I really am...a sitter in a room with moderate temperature. Wonder what time it is. Wonder if they'll find me when it's time for my massage. I think I've got another 20 minutes until my appointed time. But there's no clock here. I decide that fretting about whether I'll be found or not is pointless in a place where you're supposed to relax. I flip back in the recliner and look at my plastic shoes. They're slightly too small for my feet. One size fits all. Shouldn't they tell you up front where the bigger clothing items are?

Oh well, I close my eyes and think about ... wonder when they're going to come get me. Oh for heaven's sake.

Finally, a soft little far off voice whispered my name. Wouldn't want to disturb the other resting persons. My masseuse has come! She took me down and around several darkened corridors. It was like going to the harem. Boy, this place is BIG! Ahhhh, we reach the appointed room.

There was soft music and ... something else. Hammering. Now that's disturbing. What sort of treatment would that be? That person must have some SERIOUS knots in their back! I'll have to check the brochure and see what that session would be called...carpenter's revenge? I mention this to the masseuse. She says the darn building owners had some odd bits of work left to do, but were not supposed to be doing it during massage hours. Guess they forgot the massage hours. They don't know the spa rules either. Very distracting.

The massage was pretty good. Except for the table, which didn’t seem as wide as it should be. Now really…I’m not that big! One size fits all table? Don’t they have extensions for REAL women?

The masseuse elbowed the knots out of me....hard. It was called a Swedish massage, and you know how the Swedes are when it comes to knots! As usual, the 90 minutes (which she said was actually an 80 minute massage) went very quickly. Oddly enough, when I got up and shuffled back to my locker, my right ankle hurt. Great. What's that about? The spa broke one of my body parts.

Spa. What a silly sanctuary for svelte-only socialites.

Me…I’ve got a plug-in shiatsu massager.

An Adventure to Remember

Last summer I started looking at homes for sale in the country. My husband and I think we would make great retired country squires. Actually, I won’t be able to retire until I’m about 80, so I’m beginning to suspect that country living would be folly for me to consider at that age. It doesn’t deter me in the least from dreaming about it and making up lovely stories of how my life would be if I lived in the country (minus the snakes and other creepy critters, which although they abound in the country…they will abound in someone else’s yard).

I love adventures into the unknown. I found a subdivision of modular homes in Somerset and thought, given the low price, it would be fun to visit. I even called a realtor and set up an appointment. I’m excited. I got my sister excited. Even my husband seemed excited to look at something semi-affordable in California. And from the looks of the photos on the website, it would be just the type of living we have been dreaming about!

My sister Mary stayed overnight so we could get an early start. We happily, merrily, gaily set off for Placerville. I checked the weather on Yahoo…only 99 degrees. No problem. We've got air conditioning after all. La la la we all muse, what happy little wanderers we are. We'll check out some of the area. Who knows what sights we might catch?

La la la won't this be fun. Somerset. What a beautiful name.

We zoomed along and hit Folsom. Good heavens. They've razed the area of all vegetation and built homes. Lots of homes. A mini overly-congested Bay Area…with heat. 103 degree heat inching towards 104. Interesting. The air conditioner … has fainted. Seems extreme heat puts the air conditioner into a snit. Fine. Who needs ya anyway? I brought cold water and cold packs in a cooler. I prepare for any situation when I set out on my adventures.

La la la. We get to Placerville. 105 degrees and inching higher. My la's were a little on the droopy side.

Turned south on highway 49. What an adventure we're having! We're headed toward country life and relaxed fresh air living.

Road gets windy. Road stays windy. Only more so. Round and round we go. One of us is very quiet now. Did I tell you my sister gets car sick? Perhaps I forgot to mention that in my excitement over this epic tale of a great adventure.

"Uh Mary?" She sounds a little…weak. Like the air conditioner. Uh oh. “Mary”, I say. “You okay?” “Not really”, she says faintly, anti-carsick wrist bands notwithstanding.

We pulled over and I switched places with her. She got one of the cold packs and puts it on her head.

Oh la. Look at the fun we're having now.

Only 10 more miles of switchbacks to go.

It's 106 degrees.

But I've got Mary's yummy bag of cookies in the backseat. I always seem to wind up near the food. I have good karma.

I have no more La la's in me now. 106 degree heat and no air conditioning sucked them right out of me. And I think my husband and Mary said something about "stuff a cookie in it" when I tried to sing the praises of the country landscape.

We finally get to the subdivision. Mary slides out of the car. Looks a little bent and weak as though she can't stand up straight. I don't think that's a look of recovery.

Outside of the house looks pretty good. Realtor was there and we went inside. Hmmm. Moderately okay. Too bad the air conditioning wasn't working in the house. What is it with heat and air conditioners??

Mary still looks bent and weak. Sits on a stool and puts her head down. I dawdle as long as I possibly can to give her time to recover. But Lord that house is hot inside!

I wonder if we have to go back on the same road. That could be a big problem.

I hate this house and the area now. I think it killed Mary. I'm pretty sure my family will blame me.

We drive around the subdivision just to take a little look. Uh no. Not at all what I had expected. Not at all a place where I'd want to live…or die. And it's miles and miles...and windy miles before you can get to a darn grocery store. Know what I mean??

Somerset. What a lousy name.

The kindly realtor gave us a different (straighter) way to drive to get out. Whew. Only mildly curvy…which is only mildly better for Mary.

It’s still 106 degrees. I guess that's good for the vineyards that are all through this valley. But still bad for the darned air conditioner. Did I mention that?

We stopped in Plymouth, hoping for a nice little restaurant and a bathroom. Restaurant for Sid who is getting on the peckish side, and the bathroom for Mary who can only sit with her head down and mumble incoherently about the dangers of following me on my adventures.

The suggestion to go to the pizza restaurant only made her roll her eyes heavenward. I think she might have asked God to smite me down.

There are no more restaurants in town. But there is a public bathroom. A brick thing with bars at the top. Interesting how they turned an old jail into a bathroom…that doesn't have toilet paper.

And it's still 106 degrees.

After doing our duty, we sat down on big rocks that lined the outside of the jail/toilet. Hung our heads and talked about how much we hated the country and modular homes. And heat and small crappy towns. And names like Somerset, Placerville, Folsom and Plymouth.

The town of Plymouth is bereft of any charm, beauty, or good living. I think the jailhouse/toilet sans paper should say it all.

And it's 106 degrees.

We pile/slink/dribble back to the car and head for Jackson. I don't recall there being any real good restaurants there, but food is food I guess. And Mary just wants someplace cool to sit. Still. Very still. No movement, no curves, no roundabouts. Just quiet, motionless, cool sitting.

Oh la, it's just 104 degrees now.

Fortunately, we hit Sutter's Creek first. They have at least one decent restaurant that Sid and I have eaten at before. Whew.

We had a leisurely lunch, asked the waiter about a "straight" way to go home. Mary drank 7-up and ate little salted crackers. Slowly. Sid and I had sandwiches. We also ate very slowly to give everyone time to cool off and Mary time to get her stomach in driving order. We agreed again that we hate the area and its killer roads and killer weather. It's unanimous then. We have the grateful outlook of survivors after a major disaster.

We found a better way to get home so as not to upset fragile Mary any further.

It's hovering between 103 and 104.

A major traffic jam has my husband saying some foul words. I hope they don't blame me for the adventure gone wrong.

I've still got the cookies in the back seat.

At 102 degrees, the air conditioner starts to work again. See how happy we are for small things? My La la's have returned, Mary's hungry and the traffic starts to move.

My adventure made everyone grateful to be home in 80 degree weather.

See how good I am at putting life into perspective for everyone?

The Beauty of San Francisco

I am lucky enough to live close to San Francisco, a city that continues to amaze me with its beauty, history and wealth of entertainment choices. On Sunday, my sons took me to the city for a special Mother’s Day treat.

We had lunch at the Ferry Building on the wharf, which houses stalls of specialty food companies and several restaurants. On the backside, you can eat outside and enjoy the view of the Bay Bridge, Angel’s Island, and Alcatraz. Sleek sailboats cut through the water with billowing sails, tilting like a crazy carnival ride as they zigzag across the headwinds (that’s called tacking matey). I’ve been on a sailboat that tacked. I almost tacked. I went from a sitting position to a near-standing position in my seat as the boat turned. I think I screamed.

You can’t imagine the beauty of San Francisco at night when you’re sitting in a sailboat on calm waters. It’s a postcard of lights, tall buildings, and a landscape that looks like a Dow Jones chart with its up and down curve of hills.

We hiked up to the cable car and rode the line past China Town to Grace Cathedral. The ground for the Cathedral was donated by the Crocker family. The Railroad Barons were big folk in San Francisco. I’d like to be thought of as a Railroad Baroness. It sounds regal and working class at the same time. Snooty and humble. People wouldn’t know what to make of me.

Jumping back on the cable car, we went to the Haas-Lilienthal House on Franklin Street. This is a beautiful Queen Anne style home built in 1886 that has a delightful and educational tour that is well worth the time and minimal cost (discounts with AAA). Our docent, Albert Moore, was the best! I couldn’t stump him with any of my questions, which ranged from the beautiful architecture to why Victorians had so many windows in a house if they were just going to cover all of them with heavy velvet drapes. I can’t imagine living in a darkened cave of a house without seeking some sunshine! Apparently Victorian rules of modesty overrode the need for light. I’ll bet the women had beautiful skin. No sun spots for them!

We hopped back on the trolley and went to Fisherman’s wharf, but decided that we should go see Koit Tower instead since dinner reservations were at 6. I said the fateful words…"Let’s walk”. It looked about 6 easy blocks on the map. What the map didn’t show was the angle of the blocks…straight up. Holy Hills Batman! I think I started walking at some weird slant to the ground. I told my son that this was his diabolical version of a Mom’s March.

And then the wind started to blow. My youngest son chanted The Little Engine That Could mantra…I think I can, I think I can. I wanted to laugh but didn’t have enough breath to spare.

A large flock of squawking parrots flew overhead as we stood taking in the view of the city below Koit Tower. Most people don’t know about the feral parrot population in San Francisco. You wouldn’t normally think these birds would find the city to their liking, but I guess the abundance of good restaurant food and high rent high rise buildings and trees make perfect grounds for the flocks. They must be Railroad Baron sort of birds.

We took the elevator up inside the tower and then walked up more steps to get to the top. Nice 360 degree view if you can breathe long enough to enjoy it.

What goes up must come down. We walked down the steepest hills I’ve ever seen to get to the restaurant. People who live there must be the most fit in the world. I’ll bet the 24-Hour Fitness centers in San Francisco don’t bother with cardio equipment. They probably point to a hill and say “hike that”. I can’t imagine how people who live there can carry bags of groceries up those hills, then walk up several flights of stairs just to get into their house/apartment. I’d have the grocery store deliver. I’m a flatland wimp. I was hoping I wouldn’t trip and go rolling down the street like some human beach ball. Also hoped my knees would hold up as brakes. Tricky to negotiate those hills…very tricky.

We had dinner at Manga Rosa, a Brazilian restaurant in North Beach with a casual décor and music that leaned heavily into techno thumping rather than The Girl from Ipanima. Boom ta boom ta boom. The cheese bread (little biscuits with cheese running through it) and the warm spinach salad with grilled pears were delicious. I had a good feeling about the rest of the dinner. I ordered Red Snapper with herb rice, black beans, and a fried banana. Weird combination huh? Oh those Brazilians! The fish had some sort of sauce on it that made my head sweat and my lips sting. And it didn’t taste good either. I scraped as much off of the fish as I could. That didn’t help. The fish tasted like…stinky fish feet. The rice was awful, the fried banana was like a squishy liquid banana with fried batter around it, and the black beans weren’t that great. Apparently the waiter overheard my comments as he came over and asked if I liked the dinner. Does my sweaty head and tingling, numbing lips look like I’m enjoying the meal? He was very nice and comped us for my dinner. He asked if I’d like to order something else. Not on your life…I would have said that, but thought better of it since he was a very attentive waiter. I ordered coffee instead. I like strong coffee. Sure hoped they had some good Brazilian coffee. Juan Valdez and all that. The coffee I was served could have pealed paint off your car. Watch me run up those hills now!

San Francisco is romantic beyond belief with her modern skyscrapers as a backdrop to the rows of old Victorian homes, clanging cable cars, street people playing violins, guitars, and drums. It is fresh and young, old and historic. It smells of fish and warm bread by the wharf, and a mixture of heavenly gourmet delights in North Beach. Bring your camera, comfortable shoes, a jacket, and someone you love. You won’t be disappointed!

Mother’s Day is Coming!!

Why my sons are the best:

1. They don’t snip at me over the slightest thing. I hate to tell you what my three sisters and I are like when we’re together. You need big scissors for all the snipping that goes on! Not me, of course. I'm really nice.
2. I’m pretty sure my sons don’t talk about me behind my back, unless, of course, it’s in glowing terms and thankful phrases.
3. They don’t pout or go into moody fits of pique.
4. They come up with the greatest gifts (and I’m not the easiest person to buy for).
5. They like spending time with me.
   

The very best gift of love they give to me is their time. I’ve asked them to take me to San Francisco for Mother’s Day. It seems like such a simple request, but our world has become so busy, hectic, and filled with schedules and “To Do” lists, that taking one day to give to another is very special indeed.

Happy Mother’s Day! I wish you a day filled with love and surprises.

What’s Wrong with Romance?

I recently attended a marketing class at San Francisco State University. The teacher asked us to talk about our interests. She started with me. I quickly debated with myself on whether I should divulge my secret passion of romance writing.

Why are we afraid to admit we like romance novels? It isn’t as though we go to adult book stores to pick up our reading material!

I decided I didn’t care what other people thought and said I was writing a romance novel, which apparently came out sounding like I said “I eat dirt”. I could almost hear the collective brains thinking, “She’s one of those fluffly-slippered-bon-bon-eating saps. Why do they let people like that enroll in college? Poor dear. ”

The girl next to me said, “Nothing personal, but I would NEVER read one of THOSE books.” Apparently Gone With the Wind and Pride and Prejudice aren’t in her library. Poor dear.
One of the young men said he only read technical books. As God is my witness, I have technical books in my library too! So there. Microsoft Vista for Dummies is sitting right beside me as I type this. It’s a really big book too (When you migrate to Vista…you will also need a big book). So is Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos (a funny, poignant book that is cleverly written and a great read). The two seem to be getting along quite well together.

Every genre has badly written books. Does romance have more, or is it just the subject matter that makes so many people smirk at the category? Romance novels have a huge market. Are we an underground society of readers?

I worry about people who don’t read about romance. That’s probably the reason for so many divorces.

Were it not for love and romance, life would be dull. You can’t fill your soul with technical manuals. And maybe if they wrote technical manuals with a touch of romance, they’d get a wider readership and probably more of us would understand the complex notion they were trying to get us to learn! I can just see the job description for the technical writers: Must have experience with quick verbal banter that creates an air of sexual tension between the computer and the reader. I bet that would narrow the field of potential applicants!