What I’ve Learned About Myself from Women’s Conferences

Saturday, July 27th, 2013

eeeeeI think the one 100% true thing I’ve confirmed about myself at (my third) BlogHer is that I’m not much of a “vagina joiner”.

That sounds like some kind of an infomercial product, but it’s the most succinct way can describe how events like this make me feel. Look, I love women. Believe me, I love women. Poetically, philosophically, physically, some other “p” word… broads are good stuff.

But I’m just not one of those “touchy-feely, kumbaya, sign my yearbook, let’s braid each other’s hair, soft focus sisters of the woodlands” types. I never have been. The very idea of sitting in a room and discussing how to “be authentic” makes me want to drink. So you’ll probably find me in the hotel bar.

I think women are amazing people. But when you put a lot of them together in a hotel lobby, it’s not unlike what I’d imagine dolphins on a casino floor sound like — shrill shrieks of superlative excitement over a slot machine-like din of chatter and air kisses.

I respect women. I appreciate that this is the jam of thousands of women here at BlogHer. That’s why so many people are here — to “network”, to meet people, to socialize, be inspired, empowered and potentially sync up the cycle of every woman on the internet. And I totally, totally get that.

It’s just not for me.

Does that mean I don’t want to talk to you, meet you, hang out with you? Do I not want to be inspired, empowered? AM I NOT ENTERTAINED?

No, it mostly just means I don’t want to drop my business card in a fishbowl and listen to your schpiel on heavy flows and wide-set vaginas. Different strokes.

Memories of a Piano Bar Baby

Monday, June 24th, 2013

There was a restaurant I used to go to as a kid called The Cotton Patch. It was in Point Loma on Midway, cattycorner to the main Post Office, for those in the know — next door to the Aaron Brothers that has been there since I can remember.

As a family, we must have visited The Cotton Patch at least once or twice a week from 1979 to somewhere in the mid-eighties. The restaurant was essentially a steak house, known for their prime rib, but also their frog legs (for some reason). It was nice, though I wouldn’t say fancy. While they had cloth napkins and (I think) tablecloths, they also had complimentary cornbread shaped like actual corn and plastic bears filled with honey on every table, to my chubby 7 or 8-year-old delight.

I spent a lot of time hanging out at the hostess stand. Much like I am now, I made friends pretty easily. I have always been able to talk to anyone and been wise beyond my years (some might have said precocious), and spent a great deal of my childhood as an only child surrounded by adults. So, it was pretty easy to make friends with the middle-aged, but very, very nice blonde hostess we saw there often. I can’t remember her name anymore — I want to say Sheila, maybe? —  though I seem to recall something going sour between her and my father sometime after my mom died. I’d rather not speculate too much on that.

I spent most of my time at The Cotton Patch, when I wasn’t stuffing corn-shaped cornbread in my face, playing the tabletop Miss Pac-Man machine they had in the lobby. I got pretty good at it and it kept me occupied and out of my parents’ hair.  My dad would get me a roll over quarters and I’d play for hours while they sat in the lounge, sipping Benedictine and listening to the jazz pianist by the stone fireplace.

Sometimes my dad would get up and sing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”.  If I ran out of quarters, he would let me give the piano player a generous tip in the giant tip snifter set at the end of the piano.  Often, Dad would ask me to request “My Funny Valentine”… my mom and dad’s song. The pianist would even sometimes let me sit next to him while he played standards I strangely knew the words to and I would sing along quietly, so as not to bother the adults. Adults, I might add, who thought it was charming and not at all that odd for an eight-year-old to be in a bar, let alone know all the words to “Autumn Leaves”.

We stopped going to The Cotton Patch in the mid-to-late-eighties, if I recall correctly, after my mom died. My last memory of being in there was when the piano bar guy played “My Funny Valentine” and my dad gave me some money, asking me to tell him to never play that again.

I’m not totally sure what happened to The Cotton Patch. I heard it caught on fire, but I can’t find any information about that. It’s a De ja Vu Showgirls strip club now, which kind of makes me laugh, a little sadly, whenever I drive past the now-hot pink stucco building. Though whenever I do, I still can’t help but think of my parents and of corn-shaped cornbread, frog legs and “My Funny Valentine”.

Categories: Life, thoughts

Mine Reads “Mrs. Roper”

Wednesday, June 12th, 2013

So, our property has this online social network that allows management to alert us to new events on property, announcements, if we have a package in the office and we can submit maintenance requests through it, as well. But each unit has their own profile, and you can add a photo, your birthday, your interests, etc and display your profile in the “My Neighbors” listing, like a phone book.

UH, NO THANKS. It’s apartment living, I’d like some semblance of privacy. I love where we live and I’ll happily smile and nod at a neighbor or wave or coo at their dog, but I don’t need to know that Kenneth and Oliver in Building 5 are wine enthusiasts in matching shirts who indulge in weekend thrifting when they’re not handcrafting leather jewelry (though I’ve probably seen them at Mo’s). I’m glad to see most of my fellow neighbors eschewed profile photos or even listing their profile altogether.

Unless you’re UPS, no one who sees me in my towel turban watering the plants on my patio needs to know my full name.

Categories: Life, neighbors

Generally, You Don’t See That Kind of Behavior From a Major Appliance.

Monday, May 13th, 2013

I’m beginning to think that the appliances in our new place are possessed. What’s funny is that here, I find it kind of quirky and charming (and fixable), yet in our last apartment, the same sounds would have sent me into a rant about how much that building sucks and should be condemned. Funny what a change in venue can do to your perspective.

Anyway, it started with the refrigerator — about a week ago, it started making a loud whirring sound when it ran, much louder than it had previously. It wasn’t every time, but I made a mental note of it. We also have some issue where our ice machine ice all smells like onions, regardless of the presence of an onion in the fridge or freezer, but I think that can be fixed by replacing the water line, not a root vegetable exorcism.

So the fridge started making the sound more frequently, until the heat over the weekend really kicked into overdrive. When it kicks on, it sounds like one of those riding lawnmowers is idling outside the kitchen window. Nothing so loud it’s unbearable, but definitely not a good sound. I assume maintenance will replace the fridge or fix what’s wrong with it. At least it’s not putting off onion-scented exhaust.

We usually keep our windows open. After two years in Las Vegas, where we lived like mole rats with the blinds and windows shut, A/C almost year-round, and after 6 months in dank mausoleum that was our last apartment, we were ready for some fresh air and sunshine. But when the sun went down last night and it was still 82 in our apartment, with every window open, every fan at top speed, we caved in and battened down the hatches for some glorious air conditioning.

I noticed it last night and dismissed it, but today, as I’m alone in the apartment, I really notice that the A/C sounds like people talking. It stops when it goes off, of course, so I assume it’s the sound of the air ducts vibrating or bowing in and out as the air is forced through it. Or perhaps it’s the sound of condensation dripping against the ductwork… or both. But it still is kind of creepy. Amusing, but creepy. It’s like people are talking behind a closed bathroom door, having a conversation, as if it someone is talking about you behind your back.

It also makes a high pitched squeal as it starts up, which reminds me of the timing belt on Judy,  my old ’95 Chevy Cavalier, so I’m guessing it’s a motor thing. I’ll report that noise, along with the fridge mower noise and hopefully both can be resolved without having to get that Dead Files chick in here.

If I start tweeting about the end of days, though, you might want to look into it…

Categories: domestica, Life

Successfully Suck It: An Infographic Review

Saturday, May 11th, 2013

The Success Indicator

The Success Indicator (found on Pinterest)

Infographics like this irk me. Who made this woman queen of who is and isn’t successful? Yes, many of the traits, characteristics and habits on the opposing sides are obvious — in essence: be positive, share your knowledge, don’t be an asshole and you can be successful. That’s not entirely true — I know some really positive, happy people who do nothing but lift others up, yet they aren’t necessarily successful. Of course, that depends on how you define success. The purpose of this infographic and the cheesy marketing book behind it has to do with becoming financially liberated, so I’m guessing they’re talking career and monetary success.

But also, it states really stupid things. Apparently, in order to be successful, you must “keep a journal”. Really? I’ve blogged on and off for 10 years, but I dislike most forms of journaling. I feel like, for me, it’s too “soft focus” and touchy-feely. I feel like I’m just talking to myself and I can do that without writing it down. And, apparently, unsuccessful people SAY they journal, but don’t. How the hell does she know? Who says they journal but don’t? In that case, they’d be unsuccessful because they’re a liar, not because they don’t journal.

Also, according to this broad, only unsuccessful people watch TV every day.  I’m really not a fan of the “I don’t watch TV” attitude that’s arisen in the last decade or so. Like it’s super uncool to watch TV, so therefore, you must be some slovenly, non-intellectual, unsuccessful lump.

Look, I admit, I watch some TV. Some may even say a lot of TV. I watch a couple/few hours every night, often while engaging in other things (like quality bunny time or tidying up or reading feeds or whatever). Sure, some of it is total trash-detachment television: fluff, mindless, ridiculous nothingness. It’s how I unwind. But a lot of it is smart programming: PBS, Science Channel, History (when they’re not showing Swamp People and shows about roadkill truckers or whatever). So the next person who gives me a snide “Oh, we don’t even own a TV” can sit on it, for all I care. Do what you want, don’t own a TV, don’t watch TV, only watch Dr. Who on Netflix, do whatever you want. But don’t condescend to me about it, hipster.

This infographic lady also says that successful people read every day. Mike would probably disagree with this one (he dislikes most leisure reading, it’s just not his bag), but I’m inclined to agree. I think it doesn’t necessarily matter what you read, it’s just important to read — to gain knowledge — and most of us do that every day, be it via blogs or HuffPo or something more high-brow. In the Internet Age, I think people are hard-pressed not to read every day. But her implication is that if you don’t throw your TV out the window and read Chaucer every night, you’re a sad, unsuccessful schmo.

I call bullshit. Besides, how successful can you be if you have time to sit around making infographics all day? Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot she doesn’t have a TV

Categories: Life, thoughts