Hair Day

On Saturday I went to see my hairdresser. It was a clandestine trip. We parked two blocks away, put on our masks, I looked like a pirate in my red bandana, hair blowing in the wind, and walked to the salon. It was in darkness. My hairdresser had shut the blinds so nobody could see in, he also had the lights turned off. He gave us the secret knock – three and a half raps on the door, like in the movies. He opened up, and we squeezed in. He was wearing a mask and looked thinner than before the quarantine.

“An operation like this requires a drink and a piano,” Alf said.

“And your wife is Ingrid Bergman,” my hairdresser said.

“Of all the salons around here, we walk into yours,” Alf said.

“Play it again, Sam.” My hairdresser turned up the music on his computer.

“We’ll always have Carmel,” I said.

“Here’s looking at you, kid. What do you want done to your hair?” he said.

“Whatever you want, since this is what every hairdresser wants to hear,” I said.

“Ingrid, this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

“And when you’re done, work on my head, we must look good for our transit back home,” Alf said.

Calvin says, “I’ll round up the usual suspects and walk off into the sunset.” 

 

 

Veer Right

I stood on the platform before the sun came up, waiting for the train. I looked up and saw a V formation of six pelicans. They were way off course. They belonged near the ocean, not this far inland. I concluded their GPS got muddled and they ended up at the subway station instead. Maybe they were going to go home that way. Once in San Francisco the way to the ocean was much closer. They could hop on the cable car and be at the wharf in minutes to the delight of all the tourists.

They continued to make several loops around the station in silence. Pelicans don’t honk like geese. They’re the introverts of the sky.

I kept following them with my eyes, wondering where they would touch down. All the station had to offer was a large cement parking lot, and miles of train tracks with a dangerous third rail that could kill you. I had visions of charred pelican and burned feathers. Not a pretty sight. Landing on cement wouldn’t be much prettier either. That would be a rough landing with scraped feet.

I thought of calling the firefighters to come rescue them. To pull their ladders into the sky and bring each one down to safety. But that wouldn’t work. They’d think me a crazy woman. I don’t know why. They’ve rescued a few of my cats up a tree.

Then just before the train arrived I saw them change course, come in lower and disappear behind a line of trees to the quacking of ducks at a nearby pond. Those ducks gave them their landing coordinates and saved me from a morning of drama.

Calvin says, “You should have called. I would have positioned myself in the middle of the parking lot and howled them down.”

The Cure for Social Media Boredom

Have you noticed the changes that are happening on social media these days? It’s no longer a place to hang out with friends and family. It’s more like a shopping bazaar. Every other post is for leadership workshops, coaching lessons, weight loss programs, dog training.

Lately there are tons of courses for writing a book. It seems, according to the marketers, everybody should write a book. We have a story in all of us, they say, and it must come out. It’s the new therapy. Regurgitate your life on the page and press publish.

Except it’s boring. Have you noticed that? Read some memoirs. You can distill the essence to angst, depravity and survival. That seems to sell. Stories that are hilarious, unique or good for the soul people won’t read.

I can speculate why the negative sells. People like drama. The more hideous the better. Check out your favorite reality TV show. The human tendency to be brutal is inherent in all us.

But I prefer a good story that ends in laughter. It’s time to flood social media with those. Anyone want to join me?

Calvin says, “I will. I’ll write some scratch & sniff posts.”

 

 

 

That Ridiculous List

I hate New Year’s resolutions, so here are some of mine to hopefully make you laugh, because as we all know nobody lives up to this ridiculous list.

1. Flush the guilt down the toilet. What has it done for you this year?
2. Only spend time with people who add richness to your life. Flush the others, along with the guilt, down the toilet.
3. Do more writing. Get that book written.
4. Consider walking an extra mile every evening. Only one a day isn’t doing it.
5. Speak up more. Slap down those boundaries.
6. Forget being nice. Where has it gotten you?
7. Try authentic on for size. You might like it better.
8. Remember some people use words as weapons. Don’t show up for the fight.
9. Let me know how #8 works for you. Share your bulletproof vest.
10. Fear rules most of us. Turn it on its head. Revel in being alive today.
11. Don’t buy that puppy to keep you warm on so many levels. A good chocolate souffle will do the same without the vet bills.
12. Invite more people into your home. It’s where to know them better.
13. Listen more. Look for the extraordinary in them.
14. Affirm others. They’re starving for it. One trait, that’s all it takes.
15. Yank those weeds from the garden. I mean your heart.

Calvin says, “A chocolate souffle, eh? Well then, I’ll find another home where my warm body and doggie breath will be adored.” 

 

 

Chaos on Parade

We’ve had two weeks of President Trump and the country is upside down in turmoil, or so the media tells us. Now the speculation is whether Melania will be joining her husband in the White House or keeping to her high-rise luxurious surroundings in New York. Either place she can’t go very far anymore without a Secret Service detail following her every step. Where’s the fun in that? She might as well immigrate to the White House where the action is. I hope she emerges as one of the best First Ladies we’ve had in years because she’s certainly going to turn heads wherever she goes.  

Now there’s talk of California wanting to secede and become its own country. Sort of what England has done with the EU. Except are we ready for Hollywood to run the place? You don’t think they’ll keep Sacramento as the state capitol do you, when they have studio lots galore where they can set up a throne for the president? And who would be president? Arnold Schwarzenegger? At least he had a real run at politics as governor. Martin Sheen? I suppose he could refer back to his fake experience as president in the West Wing. I know. Tony Robbins. He’s so popular and has helped so many lost souls regain their emotional equilibrium that he’d win by a landslide. Besides, how long can Tony keep walking over live coals and bellowing, “You can do it!” He needs a new gig.

Calvin says, “I like the sound of citizen of California. I’d get a beagle green card and better food.” 

 

 

Down the Hall

Things started off with a cliffhanger as I prepared to oversee a food event for 60 people.

The food distribution truck showed up two and a half hours late and parked a block away instead of in front of the house like they usually do. Then the driver came to the front gate, a Hispanic dude, and saw the six steps leading to the front door and announced, “I don’t do stairs.”
“What?” I said incredulously.
“I don’t do stairs,” he said a second time. “It’s against company policy.”
“Really? You guys have been doing stairs for 20 years with us.”
He whipped out his cell phone, took a picture of those nasty stairs, and said, “I’ve just sent this off to my supervisor for instructions.” Then he disappeared around the corner to sit in his truck.

I called my rep. “I’ll fix this and get back to you,” he said.
I waited.
No driver.
No rep.
No food.
No answers.

I called my rep again.

“I’ll call my manager,” he said.

The driver came back to the gate. “If we don’t solve this I’ll have to take the food back to the warehouse.”

By now the chef, two friends, a co-worker and I were on the street staring the dude down in a gunslinger showdown.

Suddenly my rep appeared out of the ether. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said out of breath. A short, wiry guy with consternation all over his face. I showed him the tables set and ready and the kitchen.

I showed him those nasty stairs.

Meanwhile the dude had disappeared and returned with his first load of boxes. About 25 of them. At street level.

We had no choice but to make an assembly line sandbag style and run boxes from the street, up the nasty stairs, down the long hall, and into the kitchen.

It took us almost an hour to check every box against the order sheet. The dude was now in the kitchen helping us identify the boxes. The rep stood there with  jaw open.

We finished checking the last item, signed the sheet, and the dude disappeared around the corner.

The rep said he’d make sure this wouldn’t happen again.

You bet. Because you’d just lost a customer of 20 years, dude.

Calvin says, “Cut the dude some slack. If you hauled boxes all day, everyday of the week, you’d be a dragon lady throwing your rights around, too.” 

A Good Address

“The bird spooked my dog and she hid in the closet the rest of the day. When will you be taking it home?” Sonia said to Heather at lunch today.

“I should ask my husband. He doesn’t know yet.”

Hurry,” Sonia said.  

Sonia lives in a Victorian house with her husband and dog one block away from the office. A yellow cockatiel landed on the doorstep last week. It had no identification or passport. It was shivering. Nora, one of the residents, found him and brought him indoors. She bought a cage, food and toys. The bird is thriving in the kitchen with the noise of cooking and the residents talking to it everyday. At night it shares Nora’s bedroom. By the end of the month it should be talking in full sentences.

“Tonight,” Heather said.

“Call me,” Sonia said.

If Heather does take it, it will have a swanky life in Tiburon with a view of water and trees to look at, but nobody to talk to. Heather and her husband work all day.

I’m hoping it stays in the Victorian with its fans who already enjoy it’s company. Sonia will just have to teach her dog bird-speak.

Calvin says, “That Burmese Mountain dog is all drama. She needs to get over herself.” 

Not Yet, Maybe Later

One of my favorite authors is coming out with a new book.

It’s called Scary Close by Donald Miller.

Apparently it’s about intimacy.

I find that comical. Don is single, or was. He recently married at 42. And his book is about what it’s like to live with another person after so many years of being a self-proclaimed hermit. Well, writers are hermits. That’s part of their DNA. You can’t write while you’re carrying on at a party, or watching a movie, or attending church. You can’t write while having a conversation with your spouse either.

I’ll bet his wife is an extrovert dragging him into public places with friends and family and ruining his writing time.

I think he should have waited at least 7 years to write it. He’s still in the honeymoon stage of married life. Nothing he says now is going to be true later. But it’s too late. He didn’t consult me.

I loved his Author’s Note:

“Somebody told me we will never feel loved until we drop the act, until we’re willing to show our true selves to the people around us.

“When I heard that I knew it was true. I’d spent a good bit of my life as an actor, getting people to clap—but the applause only made me want more applause. I didn’t act in a theater or anything. I’m talking about real life.

“The thought of not acting pressed on me like a terror. Can we really trust people to love us just as we are?

“Nobody steps onto a stage and gets a standing ovation for being human. You have to sing or dance or something.

“I think that’s the difference between being loved and making people clap, though. Love can’t be earned, it can only be given. And it can only be exchanged by people who are completely true with each other. I shouldn’t pretend to be an expert, though. I didn’t get married until I was forty-two, which is how long it took me to risk being myself with another human being.

“Here are two things I found taking the long road, though:

“Applause is a quick fix. And love is an acquired taste.”

Calvin says, “Oh no, why can’t he leave well enough alone. Intimacy is a well loved bone by the fire.”

 

 

A Reality Ride Home

Last week’s subway train was late pulling into the station. The crowd shoving to get on board reminded me of a stampede of cows racing down a hillside before an earthquake hit. A few stations later, a commotion between two people began at the back of the car.

“Don’t touch me!” a woman yelled to a man who had pushed his way onto the car.

“I didn’t touch you!” he screamed back.   

“Yes you did! Don’t you touch me!” she bellowed back.

Their voices intensified as we traveled through the tunnel to the next station. At this point everyone was straining their necks watching them.

A reality show was unfolding before us.

Next the name calling began, followed by obscene language, and then tempers erupted.

I didn’t want to be witness to a homicide. I prayed. I asked God to calm them down. He did, but it only lasted until the next subway station. Then both parties detonated again.

“Don’t you remember they taught  you in kindergarten to keep your hands off of other people? Did you learn that?” the woman said.

The man said nothing. He drew a knife.  The woman screamed even louder.

The subway was now parked at the station.  Seconds later the police showed up and stepped on board. They handcuffed both parties and escorted them out of the station.

The rest of the ride home was in eerie silence.

Calvin says, “What they need are sniffer dogs to ferret out eruptions like they do drugs at airports. I’m game. I’ve had lots of practice.”  

 

The Olympics Are Over. Now What?

The Olympics are over. I’m going to miss them.

It was something to look forward to every night. Especially the weekends when television programs are notoriously bad.

Television producers should take note of the Olympic events: they had drama, tension, suspense, tears, and happiness, all under fifteen minutes. The gamut of human emotions was on display for the world to see and react to. There were successes and failures. Highs and lows. Every event had its moment. And as a spectator, you lived through them with the athletes.

London did a smashing job as host. Granted it cost them $14.5 billion to pull it off.

I always ask where does a host country get that kind of money when they can’t seem to do a very good job of taking care of their domestic affairs?

And here I thought Europe was in a financial crisis with the euro. Apparently not in London.

Did Queen Elizabeth use some of her stashed cash under her mattress at Balmoral Castle?

Did Prince Phillip sell a few gold bricks?

Maybe the newlyweds the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge sold some of their wedding loot.

The question of where the money came from eludes me completely.

But the bigger question that stumps me is this: what is London going to do now with the new stadiums, race courses, and buildings that were build specifically for the Olympics? Who pays for their upkeep?

Calvin says, “I spotted the Queen in her bloomers warming up for a game of beach volleyball at the Horse Guards Parade.”