You live, you learn

I had a morning coffee break with Karin yesterday, during which I brought her up-to-date on the status of my Aunt's health. (Declining as expected, with significantly crappy days and other "fairly stable" ones.)

At some point during our 90 minutes together, I mentioned my Aunt was educated as both a surgeon and a lawyer, and Karin stopped me. "Ya' know what I think is kind of amazing ?", she asked. "Nope, tell me" I responded as I slurped my mocha. "I think that my learning this after us being friends for no less than 30 years is rather unbelievable. Most friends, I would guess, never know about such things regarding their friends' various relatives." She waited for a beat or two. "But with us ... I mean, we really HAVE known each other since we were 5. Most folks would probably find it kind of strange that I'm *still* learning things about your family at all ... but, because I've known you since we were 5, I also know that there are probably things that I'll learn about you when we're 70."

As she said this, I recognized it not as a complaint, but as an observation. Though we grew up together, our families, homes, and informal educations were vastly different. She made an active decision to be more outgoing sometime during junior high school, right around the time I started to become even more protective of myself. Knowing her, as I do, she'll never ask for the details that I occasionally drop off about things and knowing me, as she does, she knows that I'll share details only when I'm comfortible in doing so. We each know this is not done in judgement - it's just how we both are.

We've never discussed, in depth anyway, our political, religious, or financial differences, which I'm certain we have. There was a time when we listened to the same radio stations, watched similar shows or movies, read the same authors, etc. Now we share quizzical facial expressions - she when I make a Two And A Half Men reference, me when she knows the lyrics to a song on Radio Disney.

Happily we still have - and always will have - enough common ground for the foundation of our friendship. She is my (and I am her) "oldest friend" ... to which she always says "not 'old' as in 'age'" and I always laugh with a response like "mmmhmm - you're outta the will, Junior". Plus, we don't live in the past, though we do share it, and we continue to learn from it ... which makes for a more interesting future anyway.

Do you remember?

I'm not one of those folks that feel they must write everyday, which is why I don't. I've had occasional musings during the silence, but nothing that I felt I needed to jot down.

Mostly, I started writing journals (which is what we called these things when paper was involved) as a way to remember stuff - some significant items, some quirky things - oh, but especially from my growing-fuzzier-all-the-time childhood years. Without going into details, I had a pretty significant injury at the age of 15, which resulted in my lack of ability to adequately recall the passage of time, a diminished ability to balance, and a loss of hearing. (As a child, I was a very limber gymnist who thought nothing of jumping onto a balance beam. As an adult, I find new ways to give myself bruises, mostly by cutting a corner too close and walking into a wall. I review my limbs at night to discover what left a mark and what didn't. Most times I don't remember how I "earned" the bruise in the first place.)

My friends - those that have known me since forever ago - laugh along with me when I say things like "the other day" because we both know that means 1983 - or it could mean yesterday. I try to tie actions in my life with where I was living, what grade I was in, where I was working ... things that I know I can figure out without actually having to do too much research. I envy those that can say "oh, yeah, well in 1978, I was finishing the 4th grade" just off the tops of their heads. I will never be that person. (And yes, I had to count backwards from my high school graduation to figure out if I was in the 4th grade in 1978.)

I know where I was when I heard that President Reagan had been shot at (having lunch at my junior high school), but aside from saying "it was the 80s" (which I associate with being "the Reagan years"), I couldn't tell you what grade I was in. (I just looked it up and am pleased to confirm that the incident occured on a Monday around what was likely lunchtime on the West Coast.) Later that year, as Christmas approached, I'd ask my mom why anyone would want to hurt the quiet man who played guitar and sang, and would spend that weekend listening as the radio played nothing but Beatles music.

I can name all of my teachers from Kindergarten through the 6th grade ... Mrs. Denzer, Miss Proctor, Miss Levy, who had to leave early in the year after she broke her back - so she was replaced by Mrs. Shell, Mrs. Smith, Miss Hayden, and then - for 5th and 6th grade, classes rotated between Mr. LeBlanc Mr. Devine, Mr. Russell, and Miss Hill ... but I can name VERY few of my junior high teachers, and my first two years of high school are equally fuzzy ('tho I can tell you, while thumbing through my yearbooks, if I was ever in their classes or not). Without looking at my resume, I presume that I spent a LOT of time at my past places of employment, and am shocked to see that it was only 3 years at that one company, and just as amazed that it WAS a whole 3 years at another.

Why am I bringing all this up? Well honestly, it's a cry for help. Ya' see, I have this bruise on my left leg that is a total mystery ...

Even with a Trojan, Beavers can cause messes

At 5:45pm this evening, as I was unwinding from a busy day, I plopped myself in front of "the idiot box" and said "ok - do your thing" to the black screen. Happily, I was rewarded not just with football ... but with college football. Actually, not just college football, but USC vs. Oregon State. Color me *very*happily*satifsifed.

Because you see ... I am a Trojan gal.

(insert obvious joke here)

Oh sure I know ... "University of Spoiled Children" and all the other crap you can say ... I've heard it all. But I just don't care. I love watching these kids play, I love watching these kids win, and most of all, I really love watching the crowd shots, especially when it's a home game. All those moms in the stadium just TRYING to smile in spite of their recent Botox shots, the dads showing off their recent hair plugs ... there's more silicon in those stands than Michael Dell and Bill Gates ever dreamed of.

The only bummers were (1) this wasn't a home game, and (B) I was a few minutes early, which means it was pre-game yammer time. The first reporter was interviewing various USC players, briefly, to ask what their strategy would be, how they felt, etc. These man-children were pumped and ready to go.

At that point, another reporter started interviewing various Oregon fans. I noticed that all the folks being asked questions were women, which I felt was a little odd considering this was a home game. I mean, there musta been plenty of chances to talk to Oregon players but *shrug* ... it was at this point that both teams took to the field.

The broadcast was still showing the faces of the women that had just been interviewed, and the reporter said "...and as you can see, there are Beavers all over the field now."

Which is when I did an honest-to-God spit-take.

And that is why this entry is titled as it is. I'm sure I'll have to say some extra "Our Fathers" this weekend ...

Robert Steinberg

I remember Scharffenberger as a tiny little (but awesome) winery in the Anderson Valley.

I remember snorting in disbelief when I learned that John Scharffenberger was moving from grapes to beans.

I remember rolling my eyes when I dug a little deeper and saw that John's partner in this "chocolate adventure" was a doctor - with no real experience in the food industry.

And

I remember when I slowed down and actually tasted quality, small-batch chocolate for the first time in my life. (This is a big deal - because I consume HUGE amounts of chocolate each year, mostly in powdered form. It seems that I go nowhere if there isn't a mug of hot chocolate nearby.)

Robert Steinberg - David Lebovitz

The joke, it seems, was on me.

Not only was Robert Steinberg a good, caring, well-respected doctor, but he was a quality-concerned, caring, well-respected chocolatier, too.

I hope he doesn't take my scoffing too hard. If he makes me wash dishes before I get my mug of hot chocolate in heaven, I'll know why. But at least I know there will be GOOD chocolate to be had up there.

Flame on

There are those people in the world that may believe I'm difficult to please when it comes to small tokens of appreciation (read "gifts"). Either due to my taste in music, or reading materials, or my viewing habits for television or usual focus in films, possibly my fashion decisions or specific purchases I've made in the past ... I have a reputation that says I am hard to buy for.

It's just not true. I'm EASY to buy for, but I will admit that I'll usually beat ya' to it.

Case in point: The most desirable man on television today

has announced the release date of his Christmas DVD ... but don't bother getting it for me - I ordered it already.

Speaking of waiting patiently...

I've been waiting patiently for a local professional artist to do a VERY silly thing for me. Waiting and waiting and waiting, actually. My life got in the way for a while, and then his kinda took over all his time but today, after a long wait, I've handed things over to him.

What kind of artist am I talking about here? Well, he is a master craftsman who works with the nice folks at Mavericks, does a LOT of work in Southern CA up and down the coastline, and his artistry can literally stop traffic.

I don't know if any of the folks that read my mind dribble here spend much time at classic car shows, but the people that own these rolling classics don't just hand over their keys to anyone when it comes to getting their paint. One builds a reputation by taking their time, and caring about their work. You do a good job on one person's 1956 convertible, and soon their neighbor, who has a sweet little '34 hot rod wants to book your talents.


Pretty soon, after you've done a little custom work on one tasty little chopped coupe to have it look like a car that was driven by three long-bearded rockers, the local movie artist who worked on that film where the creepy space monster takes over the world pulls into your driveway with a special request for THEIR sweet little '34 hot rod.


Now before anyone worries that I've gone and done something silly to Jake (like getting Tigger painted onto the doors, the way my father added Goofy to his pickup truck), ya' can relax. I'd never do anything THAT nutsy ...

... but I will say that this is my KitchenAid prior to handing it over for paint-work.

The untied way to fly.

I will never understand why people don't speak up when they don't feel they're being treated properly.

We all know - at least, those that travel know - that most airlines now charge for checking a bag. I've only had a bag go missing once - in Chicago in February for a business trip. It was completely the fault of the airline and the bag arrived 24 hours later. It was an inconvienence, but there was an easy-enough work around. I was in downtown Chicago ... if I needed anything, I had Miracle Mile at my fingertips.

I've just had the pleasure of paying a service charge to have an airline misplace my bag. As a customer, I played completely by their rules. I showed up more than an hour prior to departure. The bag in question was under their weight limit. I paid their small fee without comment because I was expecting it. The flight I was on was by no means full and it was non-stop. So when I was still waiting for my bag more than 45 minutes after landing, I was unpleased.

The ground crew at my destination was kind enough about the situation. They filed a report for me, gave me a target time, had my contact info and I told them they could just drop the bag off sans signature. I wasn't out for blood. I just wanted my stuff. It was a bummer, but it wasn't the end of my world.

The first target for bag arrival time came and went, with no one calling me as originally promised. Same with the second target time. When I called after the third target time had wooooshed by, I was still very courtious to the individual on the phone. This wasn't their fault, after all. They were the ones who were helping me. I did, however, warn them on the outset that I was unamused.

(You see - I believe if you give someone a target, especially a target that is a range, you should live up to it. I didn't suggest a time for the bag to arrive after all. This was their target. All I wanted them to do was honor it. That seems reasonable, right?)

The fourth target breezed by sans bag or anyone calling me and I was on the phone when the bag was found ... sitting all by itself on the deck I'd just been sadly glancing upon.

So it should come as no surprise that I had a few things to discuss when the airline sent me a "how was your trip" survey. I followed it up with a call to the customer service line today. In a few short minutes, I was told that the fee I had paid wasn't going to be refunded. After all, as the person on the phone told me, everyone else who had checked a bag had paid the same fee.

"Yes, that is true - but those people actually received their bag upon landing, right?" was my response.

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by an offer for a voucher at nearly double the baggage fee for the trouble the airline had caused me.

Score one for the customer.

It's not NICE to fool with Mother Nature

It should surprise no one that I've been a weather-junkie all weekend. My laptop has refreshed on the National Hurricane Center's url so many times that I only need to type the letter "n" for a URL and it appears for me. (Cool site, by the way so I may as well share it here ... http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/)

Gustav has come to to shore and moved inland as I write this. He came roaring into the Gulf waters, taking advantage of the jittery nerves surrounding the anniversary of his older sister Katrina and, thankfully, turned out to "only" be a Category 2 at best. (Strange world when one can say "Oh - well the winds were *only* between 96 and 110 mph" and have that be POSITIVE news.) He has provided MANY interesting shots for me, 'tho. And while I realize that I already *have* my own "Hurricane Blog" set up (I'll get to that), I wanted to share a few of these images.

What we have here is the ever-appropriately named Bay-Waveland Yacht Club in Bay St. Louis. Waveland used to be a REALLY nice place, or so I've been told. I only know it as a place where the mayor lived in the park for more than a year and held meetings in his tent. Katrina eliminated Waveland. I don't mean "wow - she trashed it and golly it sure was a mess" - I mean she made it go away. There was not ONE upright structure in Waveland after Katrina roared through ... not even a utility pole. Professional broadcasters who were covering damage were at a loss to get the point across that Waveland no longer existed. (A book I have on Katrina starts one paragraph with "But Waveland ... where was Waveland?") The Yacht Club was rebuilt on raised pillars and while this looks like a total loss to most people, it is a screaming success. So chalk one up to the good guys.


This is Highway 90. From "Camp Cockroach" in Gulfport (the nickname for the base camp we used), ya' drive down Pass Road, make a right onto Veteran's Blvd and it dead ends onto 90. Make a left and go about 4 miles until you are "in town" (shortly after Mary Mahoney's on your left). Anyway - This is Highway 90 - or more accurately this is half of Highway 90. Ya' see that barrier there on the right? That's where the other lanes should be, and then after that should be a fairly large strip of beach and THEN water. That patch of grass to the right is the median in the middle of the highway, not a sidewalk. But again - this is a win. I see upright poles in the middle of the road and I see trees still standing and my GOD I see land at the left where housing starts to appear. This is a HUGE win. The score is 2 to nuttin.

Ok this kinda sucks. This is the view of 90 from St. John Avenue. The GOOD news is that you can see the street slopes downwards towards the highway and that the street itself is not flooded. This means that there's a 33% chance that the town is not dealing with standing water. It's only 33% because Biloxi has three sides of water. In fact, the Back Bay was almost crueler to Biloxi during Katrina from the "backwash" to the Gulf. We can't claim this as a win on our side because 90 is a main access to a LOT of this area and until it is cleared, not much will be happening. Mother Nature scores 1 here.

The Hard Rock Hotel was 2 weeks away from opening when Katrina hit. They had MAJOR damage, and their icon - this guitar - was a shell. I won't get into what gambling does for this area, but without these businesses, this area NEVER would have made as much progress as it did. In the interest of keeping things in perspective, the vans we were using while I was there easily drove underneath that tiny little parking area to the left. So this is a shitload of water that needs to go away. On the other hand, the structure itself is upright (which wasn't always the case) and the hotel structure itself - from this VERY limited angle - appears to be fairly intact. This means that recovery crews will have places to sleep and clean up. This means that jobs will happen. This means that money will continue and so - only because of ALL that water in front - I'm gonna call this a draw. Otherwise it'd be a point for us - but I'll be generous.

Oh wait - I just saw something. So ya' see that beige structure to the right there in the Hard Rock shot? That's the Beau Rivage Casino and Hotel. Casinos in this area used to have to be on barges - no gambling was allowed on land - so hotels were on solid ground, but not the gambling itself. That immediately stopped when the "Casino Magic" Barge came ashore during Katrina and landed on top of the Beau Rivage. Wanna know what THAT looks like?

And THAT is why Katrina is still the mother of all storms. Gustav was just her crabby little brother.

I have completed blogging the first week of my experiences in Biloxi at my "other blog", called "Bigger Words Than 'Thank You'". It is embarrassing to say these are from 2006, but I will NOT wait until Hanna to post Week 2. I hope you enjoy Week 1.