Foolery

Hmmmm . . .

Going to Virginia in a matter of days. CHESAPEAKE BAY BLOGFEST 2009! I'm so excited. The to-do list is suddenly huge.

Pack my carry-on bag.

Lose fifteen . . . hundred pounds.

Get my hair cut.

Get a tan.

Put the cat out.

Become interesting.

Learn French.

Learn English.

Stop saying "vuh-CAY-shun" like Marge Simpson, or so I'm told by He Who Sleeps ALONE.

Practice my chit-chat, smalltalk and prattle.

Learn how to fake being a From Here, so I won't be pegged as the Come Here I am.

Work out the details with Miss Meg, who will be my travel buddy.

Get some sleep.

The Events of the Day As Seen Through the Eyes of One Twitterer

I watched in fascination today as this man, a stranger to me, seemed to come undone on Twitter, as it became clear to the world that Michael Jackson was gone, not coming back. I don't know this Twitterer. All I know about him is that he has an extensive military background. I would not have pegged him as someone who would get his legs kicked out from beneath him by this news, but I would have been wrong.

The following Tweets appeared this afternoon on Twitter amid a sea of OMGs and RIPs and sales pitches and nervous jocularity, in a period of about two hours. The only thing omitted from this man's Tweets are identifying links.

Michael Jackson rushed to hospital http://bit.ly/1WsqG

Pop icon Michael Jackson has been rushed to L.A. hospital in cardiac arrest, according to CNN affiliate KTLA.

If someone does not get attention within 3 to 5 minutes for a cardiac arrest, they mostly likely will not live. It is not a heart attack

Michael Jackson... I am patiently waiting for further confirmed news.

Michael Jackson... has died.

Michael Jackson was always that young Michael Jackson. I cannot fathom this. This is such bad news. I am very upset.

I cannot believe Michael Jackson has died.

He had changed 100s of millions. 100,000,000+ people. Even after his gloomy days in trial, he had already influenced enough.

Michael was 50.

I am devastated. 

 

Come In Here, Dear Boy, Have a Cigar, You're Gonna Go Far

This, to most people, is a fold-down arm rest.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

In the cars of my childhood there were always two arm rests which folded down independently, and which we called The Two Things. When The Two Things were folded down together they formed a nifty little platform from which to launch small children through the windshield, or, more commonly, a comfy place for my little brother to ride. This was in 1971 and there was no seat belt for a passenger of The Two Things.

(I was sure I'd told you this story before, but maybe not.)

My brother Mantel Man, the one who grew up to climb Mt. Whitney and hike the Himalayas, the very same brother who had a career as a Navy bombardier/navigator pulling Gs in a plane that sometimes flew upside down -- THAT Mantel Man -- was prone to carsickness as a little fellow.

I know. But wait, it gets better.

The only way he kept his nausea at bay on long car trips was by watching the road from the front seat, between my two parents, one of whom was smoking a cigar.* There rode Little Mantel Man, perched on The Two Things, watching the road, breathing cigar smoke and trying not to barf.

Only it was the motion sickness that tended to make Little Mantel Man green, and not the cigar smoke. I sat in the back seat mostly unaffected by the curvy mountain roads of the Coast Range or the Sierras, but green around the gills from the White Owls or Tiparillos that Dad smoked only on car trips.



(Photo stolen from these guys)

Not Little Mantel Man. He liked the noxious smoke.

Yes he did.

And he pestered our dad to let him have a puff. Dad, of course, said NO, because Little Mantel Man? He was only FOUR on the day this story took place. NO you may not have a puff. NO you may not have your own cigar. NO.

Until . . .

Oh, all right, Fella, this should put a stop to this nonsense! Here.

And Dad handed his stogie to Little Mantel Man.

Who liked it, of course.

And continued to puff on this stogie as we cruised along, Mom becoming more and more agitated with the backfired lesson as the minutes dragged on and Little Mantel Man smoked that stogie. And smoked it and smoked it.

And cars passed and stared at us. Stared at the skinny 4-year-old with the so-large head, enthroned on The Two Things like a little prince and puffing away at a White Owl cigar stub. Did they even notice the woozy 5-year-old secondhand smoke victim in the back seat? Doubtful.

The thing that put an end to this disastrous attempt to outsmart a child -- the last straw for Mom -- was the car whose passengers glared fiercely at us as they passed.

In 1969 some of the passing cars might have given my parents a thumbs up for bucking The Man and letting their kid smoke out.

In 1979 those people would have flipped my parents off.

In 1989 they would have used their huge car phones to call the police to report child abuse.

In 1999 they might have taken a shot at us in a fit of drive-by road rage

. . . but in 2009 they'd be on their iPhones to CNN and YouTube with video footage.

My how the world has changed.

Please don't let your 4-year-olds smoke cigars. And if you do, just make sure you're the fastest car on the road so no one can pass you and glare at you. Thank you for your time. This has been a public service message from Foolery.


*Hint: not Mom.

"The Talk" Approacheth

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Here's another meaningful conversation from Casa Foolery -- this one happened tonight as I washed dishes.

SMEDLEY, AGE 8 1/2: Mama, Sparky said something really gross when we were playing Barbies, and I don't want to tell you.

ME, AGE 43 11/12 AND GETTING OLDER BY THE SECOND: Okay.

SMEDLEY, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A PAUSE: Oh, all right, I'll tell you. Sparky took a girl Barbie and a boy Barbie [that'd be Ken for those of you scoring at home, and I do hope you are] and she took their clothes off and she made them kiss and she made them say, "Let's have sex."

ME, STILL AGE 43 11/12 BUT FEELING LIKE NEANDERTHAL OR CRO MAGNON MAN OR CHER OR SOMETHING: Okay ["Okay" is the standard Foolery response that works equally poorly on kids and parents]. So maybe if that kind of play makes you feel uncomfortable, you should ask her not to play that way?

[Wait for it . . .]

SMEDLEY: I DID! [You saw that coming, didn't you?] She said, "Well, Mommy and Daddy had sex once, so it's okay!"

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

[I'll just let that sink in a little more.]

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

ME, TRYING NOT TO DROP A SOAPY GLASS OR ONE OF LIFE'S MOST IMPORTANT MOMENTS, OR BOTH: Honey, it's okay to be curious about sex and all that stuff [no, for real, I really did! I KNOW, can you believe it?! And here Chas and I had sex ONLY THE ONE TIME AND ALL, and I'm qualified to give her "The Talk"?!] but I'd rather that you didn't play Barbies that way. Other kids might think that you girls are . . . not so nice, and we know that that isn't true [suddenly remembering using the word HARLOT in front of Smedley the other day, for some reason -- "Mama, what's a harlot?"]. Instead, if you or Sparky have questions about sex, you could come ask me [or Daddy! Yes, DADDY! Good idea!] right then, how about that?

SMEDLEY, DOUBTFULLY: Okay . . . I'll go tell her . . . Mama?

ME, AGE 207: Yes?

SMEDLEY: Are you SURE you're ready to talk to Sparky about it, right now?

ME: Yes. [NO! NO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO!!!!!] I'm sure.



But they weren't ready for The Talk either, apparently. Def-Con alert back to yellow. After relating this story to Chas, who giggled especially hard at the implication that he was a one-hit wonder with two children, he added this gem, from earlier today.

SMEDLEY: Daddy, does Mama know you're fixed?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

A Foolery "Thanks For Sharing" Moment

Spotted a very special license plate frame on my commute:

I'D RATHER BE

HAVING AN ORGASM

This lady probably has lots of special guys follow her home making her FANTASTIC offers.  Sooooo . . . anyone spot any good ones lately? Vanity plates? Bumper stickers? Do tell.

A Visit From the Chicken Fairy

Ring ring

FOOLERY:  Hello?

MOM:  Hi, it's me. Um . . . we're gonna bring those chickens over to you, to put in your coop.

FOOLERY:  Okay . . . so, in the morning.

MOM [PAUSE]:  Right now.

FOOLERY:  Right NOW?! It's after nine; it's DARK.

MOM:  Well, that's why. Your dad can catch 'em in the dark.

FOOLERY:  Oh. Okay. But is the coop even prepared for chickens?

MOM:  Yes, he already went over to your yard and fussed with it. It's ready.

FOOLERY:  Oh. Okay.

*click*


Ring ring

FOOLERY:  Hello?

GUBBY:  Heyyyyyyyyy!

FOOLERY:  Hi Gub . . . can't talk long; I've got chickens coming over.

GUBBY [LONG PAUSE]:  I need a permanent microphone and video camera installed at your place . . . WHAT?!

FOOLERY:  Mom just called, and they're bringing chickens over.

GUBBY, IN BETWEEN FITS OF HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER:  In the dark?!

FOOLERY:  That's what I said! Yes, in the dark, because they can easily catch the chickens when they're roosting. Oh -- they're coming. I see the garage light on. They must be loading up the Murano.

GUBBY:  Well, your dad's dog Jim traveled in a Lincoln Towne Car -- the chickens must not rate, I guess.

FOOLERY:  Yeah, they're forced to ride in a Nissan. Okay, they're almost here. I gotta go -- the Chicken Fairy just arrived.


*click*


Ring ring

GUBBY:  Hello?

FOOLERY:  Hi, it's me. So we have chickens now.

GUBBY:  WHY?!

FOOLERY:  I dunno. It's Dad, of course. All I know is, on Sparky's birthday Dad announced that the six new baby chicks he got were for Sparky's birthday.

GUBBY:  Why?!

FOOLERY:  Because she didn't have any, of course. In Dad's world a lack of chickens is a need for chickens.  Never mind that HE doesn't have any chickens anymore. "But Dad," I said, "I don't have the chicken coop ready!" "Don't worry," he said, "They're not old enough yet. I'll keep them here, in the rabbit hutch," he said. That was two weeks ago. I guess they're old enough now. Look, I gotta go, but I'll keep you posted if there are any new chicken developments.

*     *     *     *     *

So we have six pullets (that's farm speak for underage hens) who are locked in for the summer, until they're big enough to be let out and not eaten by ravenous scavenging cats, owls, or rat terriers. This winter, eggs! Yippee! And half of the birds are aurecanas, which lay pastel-colored eggs.

Yes, these truly are the phone conversations of my life. If you have any questions as to why I am the way I am, please reread the above text. You must not have been paying good attention.

Any of y'all need any chickens? Dad can fire up the Nissan.

BULL . . . pucky

(Photo stolen from ShanghaiChew on Flickr)

Week two of summer vacation is here. I really need to send thank you notes to the girls' teachers, who are a credit to our education system.

We are so very lucky to have the school that we have, which is a jewel. Involved parents, fantastic teachers, and a very wholesome environment. I discuss this with the girls' grandparents quite a bit, and often when I talk with my father about his own elementary education, the following story comes up.

Dad grew up in Berkeley, California, before and during World War II, when Berkeley was known for the excellence of its schools and for little else. Even so, he remembers little about his teachers or his school days . . . except this incident, which comes up often in conversation.

David's (my dad) second grade (or thereabouts) teacher very unfairly asked her pupils if they had ever heard their parents swear. This was hugely unwise and would get her fired today, but in about 1942 people were a tad preoccupied with a war or something.

When it was little David's turn to answer, he told the teacher, "My father never swears, but one time? I heard my mother say 'bullshit.'"

My poor grandma, when she later heard the story, was horrified. She was not a woman to swear, but obviously she did at least once. She was quite pregnant with her third child in June for little David's birthday, and she made her husband, my quiet grandfather, take the day off to bring cupcakes into the classroom that day because she refused to show her face.

In later years she was able to recognize the humor of the situation, which is part of why I loved her.

ReTweet at the Gaia Hotel in Anderson: Twuly a Tweat*

Another weekend has come to an end -- frenetic, fun and scheduled to the hilt. I think back to last weekend fondly, as if it were someone else's life. We didn't actually get out of town, did we? Yes, we did.

We drove an hour north to Anderson, California, at the top end of California's Great North Valley.  The Gaia Hotel has been open less than a year but seems well-established and popular, judging by the number of cars in the parking lot in the morning.

The first thing you notice about the property is its environmentally-friendly landscaping: no lawns. The grasses, plants, succulents and flowers were sensible planting choices for our water-starved environment, and very attractive. This eco-friendly approach to landscaping is in harmony with the small boutique hotel chain's philosophy of environmental sustainability and conservation. And you couldn't tell that even one tree had been removed for construction, nestled as the hotel is among valley oaks, evergreens and cottonwoods.



Upon checking in we were asked to relinquish any communication devices. No, this isn't the Soviet Union -- this is the Retweet with Broughton* vacation package that challenges guests to unplug from their electronic temptations -- like texting, e-mail, internet and voice mail; you've heard of these? -- and simply enjoy their families and the many activities at their fingertips. For this sacrifice guests receive a deep discount on their stay (this summer special lasts through August but must be booked in June).

"What?! Give up my internet? Impossible! I'm an addict, you know."



Actually, it was quite possible, since I have a desktop computer, which is tough to stuff into my purse. And hey, deep discount, right? Unplug me!

Knowing that I couldn't have any communication devices with me while partaking in my Digital Detox, I left my phone at home.



(Photo stolen from gsherman on Flickr)

We didn't bother bringing our blackberries; everyone knows that blackberries aren't in season until mid-July.

The kids were enthralled with the room, which overlooked a large koi pond with fountains.



I was enthralled with the bed linens, but that's just me.



A walk around the grounds meant a visit with the swans -- yes, swans, four of them. They kept making the heart-shaped necks even when there were no paparazzi present.

We strolled by the pool but didn't go in; we've been having unseasonably cool weather for June. Next time, though, look out. Cannonball.



Next time we visit -- and I believe we will again -- we'll try the exercise room, which should be good for a blog entertaining write-up, and maybe even a front page newspaper accident report.

Before we checked out we strolled into the hotel's own Woodside Grill for the continental breakfast buffet. It was just what you want with kids: easy, delicious, and FREE. Even so, the service was excellent and two very friendly servers made sure we had everything we needed. In fact, I'd say that the best thing about our stay was the way we were treated: as if we mattered, as if we would likely become return customers and even old friends. I'm serious. From the moment we checked in the staff were  top-notch -- efficient, warm and relaxed. I can say that with authority as I have spent my life in customer service, and you don't see good service very often, let alone GREAT service. Way too go, Gaia Hotel employees, and thank you!

Our stay was too short, but we are heavily-scheduled people. I hated to get back to my fast-paced internet-connected world, but I had recharged my batteries and was ready to plug back into the grid.



And I had to get to the grocery store; I was kind of craving blackberries, for some reason.

*     *     *     *     *

*In case you're wondering about the word "ReTweet," it's a play on words stemming from the popular on-line social networking service Twitter. I'm not Twying to Twick you.

For photos from our visit to the spectacular Sundial Bridge in Redding, just minutes from the Gaia Hotel, visit my "locals only" blog Reasonably Educated Bumpkins.

For more information about the Gaia Hotel or the "digital detox" vacation packages available at Broughton Hotels, please click the links. I worked hard to put them there. I hope they work. The end.

Parenthood Is Not For Wimps

(AP photo courtesy of Richard Mudrinich stolen from these guys)

If you had told me that at about 11:00 p.m. I'd be standing on a window sill no wider than a credit card -- hugging my living room window frame and trying not to fall through the glass or to wake the sleeping wasps in the nest I had just discovered in the eaves a foot above my head -- in order to convince my yowling elderly cat to climb down onto my shoulder so I could help him off the roof, since he refused to step into the basket I proffered 20 minutes before . . . if you had told me that, plus the fact that not five minutes later I would be stripping a bed and giving a grumpy child a shower, I wouldn't have believed you.

Parenthood is not for wimps.

A New Bob the Drip -- Er, DROP -- Ad

Still working on my Gaia Hotel story. Because it's after midnight and I'm stupid in a stupor, let me share with you the latest animated TV commercial for our client Mt. Shasta Spring Water.

Each spring my very talented coworker Robb creates one computer-generated animated spot starring Mt. Shasta Spring Water's mascot, or spokesdrop, Bob. This year's spot is called "Bob Rocks," and I'm happy to say I got to do the voiceover for the girl drop. No, that isn't me singing, and No, my speaking voice doesn't sound like that -- it's been pitched up two whole notches to sound more Munchkin-like.




Cool, huh? I love working with Robb on these. In the past I have written the script, but this year it was more free-form. Robb and I bounced ideas off of each other and tweaked the "story" until it became what you see here. Lots of fun for me to be a part of it all, but the talent is all Robb.

And should you need any animation, e-mail me!