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!

Avert Your Eyes

So there I was getting ready for work Friday morning…slathering my face with beauty creams and curling my chicken-plucked-night-hair, when my husband came to the doorway and said the washing machine must be having problems as my youngest son had unplugged it. And he didn’t leave a note as to the issue before he left for work. But my son did leave all the lights on and his alarm kept going off making annoying beeping noises until I found the correct button to punch to turn it off instead of continually smacking the snooze button.

And why do men ask you to look at household mechanical devices with issues, but not cars or other manly things with issues? They never say, “Oh honey, the fuel injection system seems to be clogged, you'd better come out here and take a look at it”. Are the mechanics of a washing machine somehow in the female domain, thereby making us an expert by default on any failure issues? I’m confused on the logic of it all.

I went out to the garage, which as I said seems silly since I am in no way a mechanic and can only stare blankly at objects which are not functioning in a normal manner. There wasn’t any sign of water spilling out on the floor, so that blew the extent of my “things to check list”. I considered using my Mad Mommy face and demand the agitator, or whatever malfunctioning part was to blame for the malaise of the washing machine, cease and desist any further flagrant non-working rebellious actions. It was only a momentary consideration that I promptly dismissed as a waste of a good mean mommy face.

My husband started it up to see what would happen. Nothing, but what should happen when you start a washing machine. We’re both confused at this point.

I went back in the house, gathered my things up and before I departed for work, my husband said he thought he knew what the problem was…or wasn’t in this case. My son unplugged the washer to use the smoothie maker for his morning protein drink. He makes them in the garage so the sound doesn’t wake us. Obviously he forgot to re-plug the washing machine back in.

Feeling lots better about the future of our home devices, I sailed to work in my new car with a slight feeling that something was amiss…like maybe I forgot something important. You know that feeling when you’re missing earrings or your watch? La la la I arrived at work with my music beating out a happy tune. Got out of the car and started to walk down the stairs. Oh…NOW I remember what I forgot. That would be my eye shadow. Crap.

When I got to my desk to put on the eye shadow, I looked in the mirror and realized I had also forgotten to put on lipstick, base makeup and blush. I was, in short, a pasty-faced women who displayed the “before” look of a makeup ad for women who really…really…need some products troweled on their face.

I’m blaming my son, my husband and the washing machine. The whole affair threw me off my pace so I didn’t put my game face on for the day.

Avert your eyes everyone I’m hideous!

Thank goodness, like every smart working woman, I keep emergency makeup in my desk drawer. Whew. I’m only half-hideous now.

War Tales of Buying a Car

When you think about going to a car dealer to buy a new or used car, do you:
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?

My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.

Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.

At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.

I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.

The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”

My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.

Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.

The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!

I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.

That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.

We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.

Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.

Confessions of a Massage Junkie

I love a good massage. I love the feeling of complete relaxation as someone else works out the knots and tangles of my stressed muscles. I love it so much that I usually don’t say anything when the masseuse muscles an elbow a little too hard into my back. I have a high tolerance to pain that battles with my love of massage.

I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.

I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.

I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.

I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.

There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.

Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.

Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.

The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!

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!