World's Oldest Spy

There is a big hill I drive down on my way home from work. Most days, I see an elderly man walking up the hill. What makes him memorable is the fact that his legs are sort of wonky - kind of reverse-bowl legs. He walks with the aid of one of those canes with little feet... uphill. Amazing! This man has shoulder-length white hair and wears a baseball hat. Recently, when it’s been hot and sunny, he’s been wearing a visor backwards. One of the first times I encountered this man, his hat had either “FBI” or “CIA” written on it. Was he the world’s oldest spy? Obviously, he is a strong individual. No way would I make it up this hill. There is no sidewalk where he walks. Parts are lumpy grass next to a little ravine. Other parts are dirt or a skinny strip of asphalt. The hill is very steep. I would have to rest a bunch of times, but this man trudges along without stopping. He must be used to it, but still... I’m impressed. Recently I noticed Old Spy Guy was carrying something rolled up, with handles. It looked like a yoga mat. Could it be??? I tried to picture him in a yoga class. Could he do the Downward Dog pose? He could probably teach the class, wonky legs and all. I would love to know where he is going when he is hiking up the big hill. The first three days this week, I didn’t see him. I started to worry. Was he lying in the little ravine halfway up the hill? Was he out doing spy stuff, perhaps in some exotic foreign country? Maybe his cane is really some sort of James Bond combination grenade launcher/coffee maker. There could be a blade in his backwards visor. And what about that rolled up mat? A magic carpet would be cool, but that’s definitely not spy equipment. I know... it’s a yoga mat, and Old Spy Guy is probably just an impressive, determined man on a mission. Wherever he is heading, he has my admiration. Still think he’s a spy, though.

To The Rescue

My mother passed away 20 years ago last week. In her honor, I have retrieved a Mom story from the archives of my brain. Enjoy...

Mom was parked in the elementary school parking lot one afternoon. She saw a little Black boy playing in a parked car. Suddenly, the car started to move, driving past a darkened carport. Mom thought the little boy was in a runaway car, and jumped out of her car and ran toward it. She wasn’t sure how she was going to stop the car, but knew she had to try something. By this time, the car was moving past the school, which was tan brick. It was then she realized the car was being driven by a Black woman, whose skin had blended in with the dark background of the carport. I’m not sure how my mom gracefully ended her rescue mission, or if she just kept running (like it was her plan all along). That is similar to what I did twenty-seven years ago when I was six months pregnant with my son. At the time, we lived on a hill in San Francisco. Across the street, cars were parked parallel to each other, all the way down to the bottom of the hill. I came out to go to work one morning and saw a man bending over to get into my car. Without thinking, I yelled “Hey, get away from there!” in my very best From-The-Bowels-Of-Hell voice. Then, I ran down the hill, my maternity dress straining against my belly. As I got closer to my car, I realized the man was getting into the car next to mine. Not wanting to explain why I was yelling and running like I was on fire, I turned the corner and just kept running. The man looked startled, and a bit scared. I’ve always wondered if anyone was watching this unfold. It could have been a YouTube moment, had YouTube been invented back then.

Are We Bewitched?

Remember the 1960’s TV show “Bewitched”? Samantha, a witch, was married to a regular human named Darren, who worked for an advertising agency. Wackiness ensued when Samantha’s spells and goofy relatives encroached on daily life. Every time, Samantha saved Darren’s job by explaining that the weird happenings were part of Darren’s current ad proposal. Every damn time. This week I encountered my own version of sneaky and strange marketing techniques. I was pumping gas at a 7-11 convenience store. When my gas tank was full, a display printed on the gas pump screen - “CUP HOLDER IS LONELY”. Wow! The gas pump was talking to me. Really, that’s what it seemed like. I felt really special and almost wanted to chat with Pumpy. There was a real connection. I wanted to discuss the last episode of “The Closer” and maybe take the pump shoe shopping. I did not, however, want a drink. Does this stuff ever work? Does someone not know they are thirsty until the gas pump tells them? Seems like a stretch. Another ad technique happens every weekend over Seattle. A little airplane tows a banner featuring the Geico gecko, back and forth in the sky for hours. Geico ads on TV are prolific. I enjoy them. They are funny and clever. But do they really need to bombard us with ads overhead? Is it possible to hide from them? I can’t imagine someone playing frisbee at the park, seeing the Geico banner in the sky, and deciding to drop everything and sign up... right now. Hey, maybe the Geico gecko is real, and he knows how to pilot an airplane. Maybe he was also inside the 7-11 gas pump, typing cute messages to unsuspecting customers (me). Or perhaps I’ve veered into “Bewitched” territory.

Brazilian Haiku

When Helen Reddy sang “I am woman, hear me roar...”, she must have just gotten a Brazilian wax. I know from my daughter’s experience, not my own, that this beauty procedure is really painful. I get my eyebrows and mustache... er lip waxed. My nether-regions, however, are not part of the package. My lady parts aren’t going to Brazil or anywhere else exotic. I can’t imagine what I’d do with someone working away DOWN THERE. It would be too embarrassing. I have had two foot massages in my life and in both instances I spent the entire time apologizing for my toes. So instead of getting a Brazilian wax, I have decided to resurrect my Haiku skills from 8th grade, and wax poetic:

Bald is beautiful
My vajayjay is angry
Misses her hairdo

Waxed on and waxed off
Cooter is shiny and new
Brazil has no trees

Worst pain in the world
Kind of like being skinned alive
childbirth piece of cake

Trapped In The Family Truckster

My husband is a real Renaissance man when it comes to music. He will listen to all music except rap and heavy metal (he’ll listen to Gregorian chants, and he isn’t even Catholic). He downloads entire CDs on his iPod, which by now must hold a gajillion songs. I, on the other hand, am extremely selective when choosing what makes it onto my iPod. My music is mostly Motown, disco, and songs from the 70’s. I’m very picky about my music, which creates a problem when I drive Rick’s car. His car radio (if you can call it that) is too high-tech for me. It has one dial and no buttons. It is linked to Rick’s iPod and I have no clue how to control anything but the volume. So, driving his car is a challenge - Do I listen to the mysterious clanking sound coming from underneath the car, or brave potluck coming out of the music thingy? Here is the random sampling that I listened to while driving Rick’s car today: 

  -  John Denver
  -  children singing in Spanish (Huh?)
  -  some kind of Hillbilly music (Is my redneck aversion showing?)
  -  something classical (I have to turn the volume way up, then forget to turn it down)
  -  more Hillbilly music (I think my ears are starting to bleed)
  -  something in a foreign language (my high school Spanish is not helping)
  -  jazz
  -  something with talking and banjos (pictures in my head are making my eyes bleed)
  -  more jazz, with a lot of doobeedoobeedoodoowopwop
  -  starts out sounding like disco (yay!) then evolves into mandolins and whistling
  -  Stevie Wonder (back when he was Little Stevie Wonder) 

  -  Paul Hardcastle (NOW we’re talking!)

This broad range of music drove me nuts. God bless Rick and his appreciation for all music (except rap and heavy metal). Next time I will opt for the mystery noise under the car.

Ants In My Pants

Today is day 4 of Shark Week. Big deal. I don’t really care about predators in the ocean right now. I am having creature issues in my own house. For the last year I have had an ant problem in my kitchen. I have tried to figure out where they are coming in the house, to no avail. I took everything out of the cupboards on the exterior wall side of my kitchen, but didn’t find a hole, doorway, or tiny ant loading dock. I tried some natural ways to either thwart them or hopefully make them pack up their little insect luggage and leave. First I tried vinegar in a squirt bottle. I swear vinegar is the main component in ALL natural remedies for every problem. In the case of ants, vinegar is supposed to erase their trail. Since it didn’t work for me, I must have trailblazing genius ants with GPS. They found their old trail just fine. A clerk at Fred Meyer told me to sprinkle cornstarch around. The ants supposedly will walk through the cornstarch, and track it back to the queen. They can’t digest it, so the cornstarch eventually kills them. I went through all my cupboards and sprinkled cornstarch along the edges and corners. I also put it around the edges of my counter tops. I’m not sure what effect it had, but it didn’t make the ants go away, get the sniffles, or die. What it did do was make a mess and gives the appearance that slovenly people live here. The ant population in my kitchen has actually dwindled a bit. They are still there onesy-twosey. Now I mostly wipe them into the sink and turn on the water. Yesterday, I found myself yelling “Woo Hoo!!!” as a little guy zoomed around the drain before disappearing. I thought I would give him a really nice sendoff for his water-slide ride to the Great Beyond. Then again, since it’s Shark Week, who knows what is lurking down my pipes...

Shark Week

This Sunday marks the start of the Discovery Channel’s 25th year of Shark Week. I just don’t get it. 25 years... who knew? Twenty five years ago, I was pregnant with my daughter, Molly. I had also just attended my 15th high school reunion. Little did I know that while all this exciting stuff was happening, Shark Week was being born. I have always been terrified by sharks. I’m not sure why. I grew up in Utah. You can’t get more land locked than that. I seriously doubt there have been many shark attacks there. Still, that didn’t ease my fears. In 1975, I saw the movie “Jaws” as a sneak preview. Because it was a sneak, I didn’t know anything about the movie ahead of time. Boy, was I in for a surprise! After that, I didn’t want to flush the toilet for fear of a great white shark attack in my bathroom. Any liquid was suspect. I remember being repulsed by a can of clam chowder soup - too close to the sea I guess. I admit I haven’t watched any of the Shark Week shows, nor do I intend to. That being said...WTF??? On commercials, you see sharks jumping out of the water, multiple rows of pointy teeth exposed, eyes dead. Sooo creepy! I assume the Shark Week shows include guys who go underwater in cages to be with the sharks. They deserve to be eaten. Seriously! As much as I dislike sharks, putting food in a cage in front of them is just plain mean. So, I have an alternative to Shark Week. How about featuring other animals for a week, animals that are not predators who can rip a person apart and eat them? All you crocs and alligators out there need not apply. There could be Raccoon Sunday, Hedgehog Monday, Duckbill Platypus Tuesday, Otter Wednesday, Lop-Eared Bunny Thursday, Hummingbird Friday, and Kitten & Puppy Saturday. A week of nice and cuddly couldn’t hurt, right? A Cutesy Animal Week would counteract Shark Week. Sounds like a plan to me.