This writer's blogs can now be found at http://www.itspronouncedfawn.com
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
What I'm Learning About Sand
Although I lived very close to the shores of Lake Michigan (like Oprah) I managed to stay off the sand for the last twenty-five years. When I came out here to California, it didn't take me long to realize many of the things there are to know about sand.
1. When you're at the beach and get up to go, don't pick up the towel you were sitting on and shake the sand off it if you've been sitting right in front of a big guy with a bull dog. You'll apologize and he'll accept, but the lower lip attached to the big ugly teeth on the dog will twitch and you'll want to try to find your keys in the sand a little more quickly than you are.
2. Bringing a shallow bowl to put the dogs thermos bottled water in is just stupid. You'll dump out the sandy water and then try to wipe out the rest of the sand with the towel you brought along which is now full of...sand. Better to get your dog a beer can hat with the tube that goes right down the side of the head to the mouth.
3. Wearing running shoes and white sox as you walk down to the beach leaves you with shoes and sox full of sand that you haul around like a toddler with a full diaper. When you get home, you forget you have sand in your shoes so you take them off on the carpet which you then have to vaccuum. You still have sand on your feet so you have to sit on the edge of the tub and rinse them off. The sand doesn't go down the drain so you have to wash out the tub. Wear flip-flops.
4. It will never come out of your car completely.
5. If you think sitting on a towel is going to keep sand out of your underpants, you're wrong.
1. When you're at the beach and get up to go, don't pick up the towel you were sitting on and shake the sand off it if you've been sitting right in front of a big guy with a bull dog. You'll apologize and he'll accept, but the lower lip attached to the big ugly teeth on the dog will twitch and you'll want to try to find your keys in the sand a little more quickly than you are.
2. Bringing a shallow bowl to put the dogs thermos bottled water in is just stupid. You'll dump out the sandy water and then try to wipe out the rest of the sand with the towel you brought along which is now full of...sand. Better to get your dog a beer can hat with the tube that goes right down the side of the head to the mouth.
3. Wearing running shoes and white sox as you walk down to the beach leaves you with shoes and sox full of sand that you haul around like a toddler with a full diaper. When you get home, you forget you have sand in your shoes so you take them off on the carpet which you then have to vaccuum. You still have sand on your feet so you have to sit on the edge of the tub and rinse them off. The sand doesn't go down the drain so you have to wash out the tub. Wear flip-flops.
4. It will never come out of your car completely.
5. If you think sitting on a towel is going to keep sand out of your underpants, you're wrong.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Auto Pilot
Driving in California is a little different than back home in Wisconsin. I lived in a school zone, so my ususal speed was between 10 and 30mph. That's driveway speed here. There are so many apartment complexes with only one way in and out that there are fewer intersections, lights and crosswalks. That makes possible speed limits of 45-55mph just to get to Home Depot and the corner CVS. So if you move here, practice clamping down on the accelerator without your dog flying into the front seat.
You should also know that motorcycles can drive anywhere they want to. They are not considered the same as cars, like in some places, but more like teenagers on bicycles. Cycles can drive between stopped cars in a traffic jam, or slalom happily past you. If you're not used to looking directly next to yourself when you change lanes, you'll want to start. You may be sharing that lane with some kid on his way to the beach. Look out.
Something they definitely have right is the ability to do U-turns at most intersections. For people like me who are often going in completely the wrong direction, it's a timesaver. Way to go, California! Get with it, rest of the country.
Speaking of going the wrong way, GPS devices cannot be placed on the front windshield so when you cross the border, snap it off and stick it on the side or in your lap or something. Don't talk on the phone while you're doing that, though. Talking on the phone while driving is not allowed. It took me a little bit to get used to that. Ignoring a ringing phone is tough, especially when you you're sitting there alone. Some people loop tiny little devices on their ears, but I haven't worked that out yet. Maybe some nine year old will teach me how.
Speaking also of the GPS. After driving cross country with the lady with the British accent, I can tell you she's hard to dump. I tried changing it up for California so I activated the American man. I couldn't drive more than 15 minutes, I felt so dirty. Somewhere in that box was the little Brit wondering why I dumped her. His voice was not soothing and he sounded a little agitated and agressive. When I didn't turn the way the lady Brit told me, she sounded annoyed but very patiently said "recalculating" when I disobeyed her command. She's back with me again suction cupped onto the side window. If you want to play a good practical joke on someone with a Garmin, change the voice that it's set on. Guaranteed, the brake lights will come on after a couple blocks as they pull over to change it back. Good times.
You can't play "Beat the Pedestrian" like we do back home. You have to stop for walkers, so change your mindset. If you think of every pedestrian as your grandma, it helps. Unless of course you don't like your grandma.
So before you leave on your quest to the west, get to know the rules of the road. Oh, one more thing. People don't honk a lot here. The silence is noticeable, the patience beyond my understanding. If you want to stick out like a sore thumb, scream and wave your arms while your honking at someone to go. Chill, dude. You're in California.
You should also know that motorcycles can drive anywhere they want to. They are not considered the same as cars, like in some places, but more like teenagers on bicycles. Cycles can drive between stopped cars in a traffic jam, or slalom happily past you. If you're not used to looking directly next to yourself when you change lanes, you'll want to start. You may be sharing that lane with some kid on his way to the beach. Look out.
Something they definitely have right is the ability to do U-turns at most intersections. For people like me who are often going in completely the wrong direction, it's a timesaver. Way to go, California! Get with it, rest of the country.
Speaking of going the wrong way, GPS devices cannot be placed on the front windshield so when you cross the border, snap it off and stick it on the side or in your lap or something. Don't talk on the phone while you're doing that, though. Talking on the phone while driving is not allowed. It took me a little bit to get used to that. Ignoring a ringing phone is tough, especially when you you're sitting there alone. Some people loop tiny little devices on their ears, but I haven't worked that out yet. Maybe some nine year old will teach me how.
Speaking also of the GPS. After driving cross country with the lady with the British accent, I can tell you she's hard to dump. I tried changing it up for California so I activated the American man. I couldn't drive more than 15 minutes, I felt so dirty. Somewhere in that box was the little Brit wondering why I dumped her. His voice was not soothing and he sounded a little agitated and agressive. When I didn't turn the way the lady Brit told me, she sounded annoyed but very patiently said "recalculating" when I disobeyed her command. She's back with me again suction cupped onto the side window. If you want to play a good practical joke on someone with a Garmin, change the voice that it's set on. Guaranteed, the brake lights will come on after a couple blocks as they pull over to change it back. Good times.
You can't play "Beat the Pedestrian" like we do back home. You have to stop for walkers, so change your mindset. If you think of every pedestrian as your grandma, it helps. Unless of course you don't like your grandma.
So before you leave on your quest to the west, get to know the rules of the road. Oh, one more thing. People don't honk a lot here. The silence is noticeable, the patience beyond my understanding. If you want to stick out like a sore thumb, scream and wave your arms while your honking at someone to go. Chill, dude. You're in California.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Live and Learn
Now that I've been in my apartment for a month, there are some things I will think about next time I'm looking for a place to live. This is the nicest home I've had, though. I actually lived without a dishwasher, disposal, lighted closet or "people". Now I have people to take care of everything. Water drains from the dishwasher onto the kitchen floor, I call someone. Window missing a screen? Fixed in an hour. For someone who doesn't like leaving the house the apartment life is wonderful.
Speaking of the kitchen floor--I'm picking up tips for us boomers as I go along. Take your pills in a room with a dark floor. When I dropped pills in my old house with the white floor, I could crawl around there for hours trying to find the estrogen before the beagle got it. Now with a dark fake wood floor, picking pills off the floor is easy. It's easier for the dog too, so move with purpose.
Big mirrors are used a lot in apartments here. They pull in the light, make the place seem bigger and unfortunately remind you had a C-section twenty-five years ago, have tributary leg maps and like glaciers, some slow but trackable downward movement. Having to begin and end each day looking at yourself across an entire wall of reminder can be depressing; talk about your wailing wall. Boomer hint: cover them with mourning cloth and have another glass of wine. If you can't pound nails into the walls, just put a little table outside your bedroom and take your glasses off before you enter the reality zone. What you can't see won't hurt you, unless it's that little spiky dog toy you just stepped on.
Speaking of the kitchen floor--I'm picking up tips for us boomers as I go along. Take your pills in a room with a dark floor. When I dropped pills in my old house with the white floor, I could crawl around there for hours trying to find the estrogen before the beagle got it. Now with a dark fake wood floor, picking pills off the floor is easy. It's easier for the dog too, so move with purpose.
Big mirrors are used a lot in apartments here. They pull in the light, make the place seem bigger and unfortunately remind you had a C-section twenty-five years ago, have tributary leg maps and like glaciers, some slow but trackable downward movement. Having to begin and end each day looking at yourself across an entire wall of reminder can be depressing; talk about your wailing wall. Boomer hint: cover them with mourning cloth and have another glass of wine. If you can't pound nails into the walls, just put a little table outside your bedroom and take your glasses off before you enter the reality zone. What you can't see won't hurt you, unless it's that little spiky dog toy you just stepped on.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Death by Pita
The few times I visited southern California before moving here, it struck me how few flying bugs there were. Coming from Packerland, we're used to sharing our homes with ants, wasps, bees, spiders, mosquitoes, dragonflies and endless numbers of flies. But not down here, here seemed like paradise. Leaving the patio door completely open extended the living room, brought in the fresh air, and welcomed rather than fought nature.
Now that I'm here I realize there are at least two flies in California. They are freeloaders and constant irritants to my poor old dog. She is doing her best trying to catch them in her mouth but its been a rather pathetic and sad exercise. I felt really bad for her, so I started going after them myself, although not with my mouth. We both looked ridiculous. I would swat at them with a pillow until I started breaking things. She would take over and snap her floppy old jowls in the air, then look at me as if to apologize. At her age, she shouldn't have to apologize. Since I threw all the Wisconsin fly swatters away thinking I wouldn't need them anymore, I had to go makeshift. The obvious choice was the plastic handled pancake flipper, mistakenly called the spatula back home. The noise and wreckage caused by the slamming metal brought this idea to a quick end. Besides, this was just too easy for the flies, who looped around in front of us, wearing hideous grins of superiority. I don't know how they know, but flies can tell what you're thinking if you're out to kill them. My arm barely moves and off they go, rolling around in the air holding their laughing stomachs with their six little spindly legs.
I stand defeated at the counter and see a plastic bagged piece of bread laying there. It's just the right size--bigger than a fly. One Pita, a yardstick and four feet of duct tape later, I've created the perfect killing machine. Pita on a stick. Normally I would be one to try to coax insects out of the house rather than squish them, but they were taking their toll on my now rather OCD-ish old dog. She was losing it. She'd snap her jaws together, then look at me, snap, look, snap, look, snap, look. Unless we sat in complete darkness, she was on call. I had to end the humiliation. So how did my death by Pita experiment turn out?
I taped the two dead California flies to the sliding patio door so any of their little friends with big ideas could see the fate awaiting them.
We come from hunting country.
Now that I'm here I realize there are at least two flies in California. They are freeloaders and constant irritants to my poor old dog. She is doing her best trying to catch them in her mouth but its been a rather pathetic and sad exercise. I felt really bad for her, so I started going after them myself, although not with my mouth. We both looked ridiculous. I would swat at them with a pillow until I started breaking things. She would take over and snap her floppy old jowls in the air, then look at me as if to apologize. At her age, she shouldn't have to apologize. Since I threw all the Wisconsin fly swatters away thinking I wouldn't need them anymore, I had to go makeshift. The obvious choice was the plastic handled pancake flipper, mistakenly called the spatula back home. The noise and wreckage caused by the slamming metal brought this idea to a quick end. Besides, this was just too easy for the flies, who looped around in front of us, wearing hideous grins of superiority. I don't know how they know, but flies can tell what you're thinking if you're out to kill them. My arm barely moves and off they go, rolling around in the air holding their laughing stomachs with their six little spindly legs.
I stand defeated at the counter and see a plastic bagged piece of bread laying there. It's just the right size--bigger than a fly. One Pita, a yardstick and four feet of duct tape later, I've created the perfect killing machine. Pita on a stick. Normally I would be one to try to coax insects out of the house rather than squish them, but they were taking their toll on my now rather OCD-ish old dog. She was losing it. She'd snap her jaws together, then look at me, snap, look, snap, look, snap, look. Unless we sat in complete darkness, she was on call. I had to end the humiliation. So how did my death by Pita experiment turn out?
I taped the two dead California flies to the sliding patio door so any of their little friends with big ideas could see the fate awaiting them.
We come from hunting country.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Breathe It All In
There are some little things that are really different here than back in the midwest. The first smell of outdoor California every morning, at least out my door has become an aroma-therapudic way to start the day. Maybe it's because the groundskeepers are constantly cutting and trimming that such sweet smell is ubiquitous, but it is fresh, green and tropical with hints of Eucalyptus. It doesn't really match the smell of wet leaves, wet dog and mud, but it's a close second.
Another difference is the grass. The texture is different. The grass here seems very astroturf-ish to me--the stuff Brett Favre used to not be able to play on. Each blade is thicker and it feels rougher on bare feet. It does make picking up after the dog easier though, so that's a plus. The grass sort of holds things up so dropping your keys, phone or change doesn't have to mark the beginning of twenty-three minutes on your hands and knees hoping to catch a glimpse of something shiny.
One last point for today...people out here don't honk their horns the way people in more challenging climes do. I am amazed at how patient people have been with me going 30mph down streets that are marked 55. I wait for my Garmin lady to tell me which way to turn and people just wait. It's eerily quiet on the roads, and people's arms aren't flailing around as they shout like lunatics through windows rolled up.
Probably the Eucalyptus.
Another difference is the grass. The texture is different. The grass here seems very astroturf-ish to me--the stuff Brett Favre used to not be able to play on. Each blade is thicker and it feels rougher on bare feet. It does make picking up after the dog easier though, so that's a plus. The grass sort of holds things up so dropping your keys, phone or change doesn't have to mark the beginning of twenty-three minutes on your hands and knees hoping to catch a glimpse of something shiny.
One last point for today...people out here don't honk their horns the way people in more challenging climes do. I am amazed at how patient people have been with me going 30mph down streets that are marked 55. I wait for my Garmin lady to tell me which way to turn and people just wait. It's eerily quiet on the roads, and people's arms aren't flailing around as they shout like lunatics through windows rolled up.
Probably the Eucalyptus.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A Big Gulp of Salt Water
Moving from the midwest to Southern California takes a little bit of adjustment. If any of you are planning to move here, there are ways to prepare yourself for the change.
1. Get your teeth whitened. Fake white has become the new normal here, especially if you're over 50. It's the white picket fence around the possibility that someone will believe you when you say in your profile that looks don't matter.
2. For the first month or so, wear a hat in the house, especially if you lived in a house without a sliding patio door. After hitting my head twice going after the dog, I finally figured out to do everything with my arms out.
3. Learn how to do at least one thing in water.
4. When you go to the beach, if you wear jeans and tennis shoes and a big wave washes toward you, the bottom of your pants will get soaked and everyone will know you're a transplant.
5. Cat is pronounced caht here.
6. Dogs are welcome everywhere and can really be conversation starters. If you don't have one, borrow one. The weirder looking the better.
7. If you live in an apartment, get used to the fact that someone is always working on the trees or the grass or the bushes. The sound of power is one you'll have to learn to ignore. Before you move here, sleep for a week to the sound of a dentist drill and you'll adapt much more easily.
8. Before you move here, get rid of your black car. It has to be white unless all the windows are tinted so dark that nobody can see you.
Chew on these for awhile and I'll have another set soon. All in all, it's been a great move on my part but I'm still virgin. If a haiku, I'd be about the third syllable. Or should I say:
My life as haiku
Three moves into the journey
Of seventeen parts
So much to learn...
1. Get your teeth whitened. Fake white has become the new normal here, especially if you're over 50. It's the white picket fence around the possibility that someone will believe you when you say in your profile that looks don't matter.
2. For the first month or so, wear a hat in the house, especially if you lived in a house without a sliding patio door. After hitting my head twice going after the dog, I finally figured out to do everything with my arms out.
3. Learn how to do at least one thing in water.
4. When you go to the beach, if you wear jeans and tennis shoes and a big wave washes toward you, the bottom of your pants will get soaked and everyone will know you're a transplant.
5. Cat is pronounced caht here.
6. Dogs are welcome everywhere and can really be conversation starters. If you don't have one, borrow one. The weirder looking the better.
7. If you live in an apartment, get used to the fact that someone is always working on the trees or the grass or the bushes. The sound of power is one you'll have to learn to ignore. Before you move here, sleep for a week to the sound of a dentist drill and you'll adapt much more easily.
8. Before you move here, get rid of your black car. It has to be white unless all the windows are tinted so dark that nobody can see you.
Chew on these for awhile and I'll have another set soon. All in all, it's been a great move on my part but I'm still virgin. If a haiku, I'd be about the third syllable. Or should I say:
My life as haiku
Three moves into the journey
Of seventeen parts
So much to learn...
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