An Adventure in Sonoma

My sister Mary and I decided we deserved a small vacation. Mary hasn’t traveled all that much in her life, so she considers anything beyond 30 miles a first-rate getaway. I decided it would be fun to go to Sonoma for a day of shopping, which then extended into a two day affair as my son lives in Sebastopol and if you can’t use your children and their fine home for a free night of food and lodging, well, I’d say you raised the wrong children.

In my quest for the perfect weekend adventure, I created a binder complete with directions to some possible fun places to visit. I’m very organized when it comes to adventures as I tend to want to pack in as much fun as I can.

I downloaded a Sherlock Holmes mystery and an Agatha Christie Miss Marples mystery to my iPod. I like to make sure we are prepared for any eventuality, one of which would be the need to listen to a good murder mystery in case we were stuck in traffic somewhere.

Let me begin this travel odyssey by saying the weather this past week-end was what you might imagine for California and the wine country. Perfect!

We drove to Yountville as our first stop and found some wonderful clothing stores with very unique and very pricey clothing. We had lunch at Pacific Blues Café and sat at a table on the outside porch overlooking the mountains and complimented ourselves on having such an excellent vacation. It was fit for two chicks on the lam from their daily responsibilities of life! We were almost a Thelma and Louise, except we had no intention of driving off a cliff.

We then drove to Healdsburg where we discovered they were having a big event for their 150 year anniversary. It was fairly warm (read hot) and we only found one shop that had some clothing we found interesting. I found a necklace I liked, but the $250 price tag made it far less appealing than I had originally thought. Everyone had a glass of wine in their hand…naturally since it is the wine country. If you love wine, you will find these art/wine festivals a dream come true. If wine isn’t of interest, you’ll find these festivals something like one big outdoor bar. It’s oddly interesting.

We had paused on a street corner where a sweet shop was handing out chocolate bars. Never one to be shy in taking free candy, I grabbed that chocolate delight but quick. We went back to the car where I started up the air conditioning, unwrapped the chocolate, and took a quick bite…it was slightly on the soft and melting side, so I thought I should eat as much of it as I could before it became chocolate soup, which although wouldn’t be bad, would be horribly difficult to eat and would display bad manners to just lick it off the wrapping. And besides, I didn’t have any handiwipes with me.

We tried finding the local Indian casino, being two women who are fond of putting coins in the slot machines, but only managed to find the corporate offices. Not really the same at all for our purposes. I then found a place, quite by accident, called The Gardner. The sign for the store was located in a slightly difficult place to see when driving by, which made turning in time for the driveway a little on the chance-y side. I managed to turn into “a” driveway, which didn’t lead to the garden center at all, and in fact, I couldn’t actually see any other cars parked at the garden center, so decided it wasn’t worth the work to backtrack and find my way into the correct driveway. Mary and I are prone to quick decisions when it comes to stopping at stores. The store has to be quite appealing before we consider any minor hassle getting to it as a worthwhile endeavor.

We then decided to go to Guerneville, so got on the freeway and took the Guerneville exit and drove. And drove. And drove some more. Lots of countryside and wineries, but no signs for our destination. And we drove. Sheesh. We finally came to a sign which said Sebastopol one way and Guerneville straight ahead. We weren’t sure that we should continue on our quest, since goodness only knows how many more hours it would take us. We were probably right around the bend from the town, but being cautious vacationers, we decided to go directly to my son’s house. He and his partner David had, after all, stayed home in order to take us to dinner.

We went to a nice restaurant called The Bistro, which is owned and run by the chef and his wife. The food was quite good and we were even lucky enough to have the chef come out and talk with us.

Back at the house, we were lucky enough to witness two shooting stars. Jonathan brought out his telescope and gave us a mini-lesson in astronomy. We even saw a satellite zooming across the sky! I hadn’t realized they go so fast. I feel pretty “astro physicist” now…in a very small sort of ignorant way. The night sky was humbling. You don’t get to see such an awe inspiring sight when you live in the city. We obliterate such beauty with our lights. But in the country…oh my. The vastness of the space and the diamond chest of stars make you want to learn more. And buy a telescope!

Now if you think this was the end of the evening’s entertainment, you’d be kidding yourself. My son’s partner, David, is a world-class organist. I mean that both complimentary and factually. He has played all over the world and knows the organists in many of the large churches. I wish I knew people. I live vicariously through Jonathan and David. They know lots of interesting people.

I really do have to get out more.

They have a room in their house that is devoted to a newly rebuilt organ…with a lot of pipes! It reminds me of a mini-chapel. I wonder if it sounds spooky at night when he’s playing…like the Phantom of the Opera. We were treated to a mini-concert, which was quite an honor. Thanks David!

On Sunday we drove to Tiberon where the sailboats were out in full force. Tiburon, like any California area that has a great view and hills, has homes dug into the hillside and squeezed closely together. Land is gold when it comes to those spectacular views! You will find bike riders galore, lots of people with their dogs, and fragrant aromas of good food from the restaurants. Bring your camera and your appetite. Dogs and bikes are optional.

Mary and I have decided that a quarterly vacation is in order. We forget how near we are to so many unique areas. We also forget that taking time out just to look at the beauty of nature around us is imperative to our mental health.

I thought about visiting Jonathan and David every week, which could turn into a demand for a “Mom’s quarters”. He said the gate code that you have to punch to get into his area has changed and he can’t seem to find the new number. I think that sounds very fishy. Won’t he be surprised when the moving van pulls up with a “few” of my personal belongings!

Life’s Little Sign Posts

Have you ever had one of those days where everything seems to go wrong? Little things just pile one on top of the other. And you think to yourself that if you had only paid attention to the little Sign that precluded the misadventurous day, you would have gone directly back to bed and avoided the whole mess altogether so that you could start fresh the next day.

On Thursday I noticed—midday—that my socks didn’t match. Had I realized that this was the first in a growing line of clothing issues, I would have taken the next day off work and stayed in bed. But of course as a skeptical person, this “posh and drivel” about warning Signs eluded me.

On Friday, my socks seemed to match when I left home, but I noticed after getting to work that they in fact did not. Similar, but not exact. At least they were the same color, if not the same pattern. The right sock kept bunching around my ankle in annoying wrinkles. And although they were both complete socks in the morning, they acquired holes in both toes by lunch time. I know this because I was wearing peep toe shoes. And if you think no one looks at your socks, try wearing peep toe shoes with your toes peeping out of your socks. You’ll find that a lot of people in fact do notice your feet.

I also realized that the trousers I was wearing had two spots on one leg. Oh right. These were the pants I meant to take to the cleaners, but forgot. If you think no one notices small spots on your pants, try wearing pants with spots. You’ll find that a lot of people notice your pants. The same people who notice your holey socks.

It was dark when I got dressed.

And my knee started hurting for no known reason. And my new shoes rubbed a hole in my toe (but not the toe that was poking through the sock).

See what I mean about Signs? I should have taken the cosmic hint on Thursday and stayed home.

My husband had a friend who was given a Sign, but chose to ignore it. The results were far worse than my clothing issues. I hope you use this story as an example of why you should not ignore the small Signs in life.

Hal wanted a camper. He wanted it more than anything else. He finally found an ad for a used camper that fit the bill. He and my husband went to look at said camper, which was located in a run down trailer park.

The camper was in pretty good shape, but looked as if it had not been used for some time. The old guy showed them this and that, passed a lot of gas (with no shame about it), and then told them that his wife had died in it one morning several years ago while cooking him some bacon and eggs at their campsite.

Signs. You can feel the dark cloud of it creeping along your spine, worrying at your brain that this event shouldn’t be taken lightly. On the way home they made jokes about the camper probably being haunted. You shouldn’t joke about the Signs.

The men decided a camping trip was in order to make full use of this wonderful camper.

Do you feel the first trembling of fear? Don’t you want to reach into your computer and drag those two fools back from the brink of disaster? Too late my friend. They did not heed the Sign.

With camper and boat in tow, they left with happy thoughts of a whole week of camping and dreams of catching a zillion trout. Since the primitive camping area was on the west side of the lake opposite the blacktop and dirt boat launching ramp, they immediately proceeded across the dam to see if their favorite spot was available. Since it was a Monday, the place was practically deserted and their spot was indeed available. They pulled off the logging road, shut off the old red Ford’s engine, whipped out the folding chairs, Hal got a beer, my husband Sid got an iced tea, and they sat down to contemplate their next move.

After spending some time congratulating themselves for being fine fellows who are smart enough to go camping in the first place, they decided that it was time to head back across the dam to the boat ramp to launch the boat. So, leaving their two folding chairs to mark their spot, they headed out for the boat launch.

As the boat, trailer, truck, camper, and Hal went whizzing past Sid, he happened to glance at the stern of the boat and realized that the plug was still out. He yelled at Hal and waved his arms. Hal stopped the boat about a foot shy of the water avoiding the probability of the boat sinking to the bottom of the lake.

Once in the water, Sid started the boat motor and commenced to cross the lake. Hal drove the truck and trailer back to their campsite where he could get another beer and climb down the rocks to the water’s edge so that Sid would know where to park the boat.

Unfortunately, when Hal hit the campsite he noticed that oddly enough, there were no camp chairs where camp chairs ought to be. Who would do such a thing? They recalled that as they were heading for the boat ramp they had seen a man and a woman coming in on a motorcycle.
My husband fumed as he sat on a hard firewood stump. Hal sat on the tailgate of his truck fiddling with his camera that would no longer take pictures for some unknown reason.

Oh the Signs. They were mounting like age spots on a sunbather.

Sid’s behind couldn’t take sitting on the hard stump any longer and he jumped up marching off to go in search of his chair with Hal beside him.

They found the chairs in the campsite of the motorcyclists. The woman assured them that they were just looking after them until the owners showed up as they didn’t want anyone to steal the wonderful chairs. What kindly people they were.

Sid and Hal finally got back to camp, stowed the chairs in the camper (which they locked), and took to the high seas for some fishing.

Sid thought they were moving sort of slow, to which Hal noted that they had been dragging the anchor for a quarter of a mile.

Sid cast his line for some serious fishing, but unfortunately cast the front half of his fishing rod into the lake. Hal didn’t laugh, but Sid thought that pretending not to laugh was a lot worse than actually laughing out loud.

The Signs were practically slapping them upside the head to be noticed, which they didn't, so had to incur some further mishaps.

The camper had an electric water pump. A very nice feature unless you are so enamored of your new camper’s feature that you overuse the nice feature. Get my drift?

Now that they were completely out of water, they were forced to go to the picnic facility on the opposite side of the lake. They found a faucet with threads, but Hal’s hose was only four feet long. The only way to get the camper close enough to the building was to drive up over the concrete walkway, which if caught by the ranger, might mean expulsion from this great camping adventure. Fortunately, they were able to fill the water tank without notice.

The booty from this trip was one small fish that happened to run into Hal’s lure.

Now you’d think this would be the end of the story, but you’d be wrong. As I said before, these two men did not pay attention to the Signs. Hal did not unload his camper and let it sit for a month to let the Bad Cosmic Signs dissipate. Oh no. He kept the camper on the truck and drove the truck to town.

He forced the Sign into The Holy Big One.

Sid called Hal a few days after the Great Camping Adventure and asked if he had purchased a longer hose for water shortage situations. Hal said no as he did not have the camper any longer. Now what on earth could Hal have done with his beloved camper?

He had driven downtown one afternoon as he needed to stop at Grand Auto. The parking lot was full, so he drove around to the street in back of the store and was just about to pass a Grand Auto semi truck that was parked at the curb. He caught the right front corner of the camper on the left rear corner of the semi trailer and in his words, “The damn thing jumped out of the back of the truck, landed upright on the street and disintegrated.”

I trust that when small things start happening to you, you will remember this story and keep the vision of holy socks and a shattered camper in the middle of the street in your memory when you call work to tell them you won’t be in.

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?