5 Minutes, 5 Broken Rules

Posted on February 1, 2013 by Kate

For decades, the Mendocino Coast Parks and Recreation District struggled to raise money to build a community center to replace their 100-year old pool and rec center in Fort Bragg. As time went by, the donations continuously proved inadequate to the rising cost of construction.

About 10 years ago, a local resident had a brilliant idea. A man by the name of Cornelius Vander Starr had grown up in Fort Bragg during the early 1900’s and went on to form an insurance company that grew into AIG.

That’s right—A–I-freakin’-G!

When Cornelius died in 1968, his estate created a foundation now worth bazillions of dollars. The aforementioned brilliant local, phoned the Starr Foundation and asked if they would be interested in helping fund community center in Cornelius’s hometown.

They did. And so did a few others—like local Harry Spath who lived like he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, yet left a million dollars to MCPRD when he died.

The CV Starr Community Center opened in 2009. It is so beautiful, so unlike much of the beloved funky construction in Fort Bragg that some residents complain that it’s too nice for our little town.

I attended the opening ceremonies with some young friends and, yes, dared to put on my 20-year old sagging swim suit to join them in the pool on opening day. (Fortunately, no photo available.)

A few months later, I bought a new swim suit and took a water aerobics class. Most of the participants were at least 20 years older than me and bitched continuously about the coldness of the water and difficulty of the moves.

Despite the entertainment of listening to prickly, grousing elders and the thrill of feeling comparatively youthful, I determined water aerobics classes were not for me.

One afternoon, I headed for the pool to do my own workout. Little did I know I was about to break a number of rules.

The locker rooms of the aquatic center exit directly in front of the Olympic size lap pool. I was delighted to find it empty—in contrast to the large number of people in the play pool. Only three swimming lanes were designated, which left a huge empty space that looked perfect for the workout I had planned.

I entered the lap pool via the gently sloping stairs and had submerged to my waist when a lifeguard appeared.

“Excuse me, you can only be in this pool if you’re going to use the lap lanes.”

I smiled into the face of a teenager who is a lifeguard only because his unreasonable parents insisted he get a job for the summer. “I thought I’d exercise here because it’s so crowded in the other pool.”

“You can’t.” (Broken Rule #1.)

“Ok.”

“Did you shower before you got into the pool?”

“Do what?”

“You have to shower over there before you get into the pool.” (Broken Rule #2.)

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

As I showered, I noticed the “lazy river” was running. I had heard that walking against the current is great exercise. I slipped into the river. Trying to dodge kids who slammed into me added to the adventure. I had traversed about half way when I heard, “Excuse me.”

I looked into the pimply face of another bitter teen. “If you want to be in here, you can’t go against the current.”

I smiled. “But I want to get a workout.”

“You can’t do that now.”

“When can I?”

“Noon to 1:00 and 5:30 to 6:30.” (Broken Rule #3.)

I floated to the narrow bridge that separates the river from the play pool. This bridge is partially submerged in water and allows the lifeguards to pace back and forth, prison guard style. I flopped like a harbor seal onto the bridge.

“Excuse me.”

Stomach suspended on the tile, I looked up at the lifeguard.

“You’re not supposed to be on this.” (Broken Rule #4.)

I quickly slipped into the play pool. “Sorry.”

I spotted the foam rubber “weights” that I’d used during water aerobics class on the deck area on the far side of the pool.

I swam to the side, climbed the ladder to exit the pool (legally, I presume since no said, “Excuse me”), took two weights, and jumped back into the water.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use those unless you’re taking a class.” (Broken Rule #5.)

By saying, “I don’t think…” instead of the more powerful “You’re not supposed to…” this new lifeguard created a loophole. I explained that I only wanted to use the equipment for 15 minutes and I would put them right back.

I promised.

She hesitated.

“Would you mind asking someone if it’s okay?”

She agreed and left the area.

Two boys—about ten years old—swam towards me. “Where’d you get those?”

I held the weights to my chest. “They’re for adults only.” I had a vested interest in making up my own rule. I didn’t want to jeopardize my ability to use the weights if the child population started raiding the bins.

A male lifeguard replaced the female who had moved to supervise the empty lap pool. I turned my back on her replacement and kept the weights submerged while I completed my workout.

Like shopping at The Purity, swimming at the CV Starr Community Center is a must do. However, unlike The Purity, there are rules of conduct that need to be obeyed. Before you take your first aquatic voyage, I encourage you to review my five broken rules in order to save yourself from teenage lifeguard angst.

Tip Top Pick Up

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Kate

Before I turned 21, taverns were easier places to score a night of drinking with my fake ID than an upscale establishment. But the depressing feng shui always offset the thrill of getting away with breaking the law. After I became of legal drinking age, I avoided taverns.

So it was after much persuasion that I agreed to accompany my underage son to the Tip Top Lounge on a Saturday afternoon a few years ago to buy a tee-shirt for his college girlfriend. My mother came along for the adventure.

The bartender told Harrison that he had to stand outside the door. My mother went with him. The bartender disappeared into a back room to fetch a box of shirts.

As I waited, I surveyed the patrons. Sitting about three feet to my right was a gentleman in his sixties who was dapper in the way of someone who frequents a tavern in the middle of the afternoon: Grecian formula hair slicked into a pompadour, his once handsome face creased with wrinkles that only alcohol, cigarettes, and hard living can provide.

He was staring at me, so what was I to do but smile and say, “Hey.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Your mom and kid dropping you off?”

It had been years since I’d been hit on, but I remembered the difference between a flattering hit and a I’d-better-set-this-guy-straight-that-I’m-not-a-whore hit.

A spit of gagged air escaped my mouth followed by a loud “No!”

What type of woman do you think I am? Oh, yeah, my mom and kid frequently drive me to bars in the middle of the day and drop me off. And after I get drunk enough, I find a nice looking man like you to take me home. Don’t talk to me!

The bartender returned with the tee-shirts. I held up a few for Harrison to inspect. He chose one quickly and handed me the money. I paid the bartender and turned to leave. The pickup artist bid me farewell. I was only too happy to tell him the same.

In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so offended. The guy thought I was hot—or at least worthy of spending time sitting next to him on a bar stool on a Saturday afternoon at the Tip Top Lounge in Fort Bragg. Granted, he was drinking, but perhaps it was still early enough in the day that he only had a buzz on; he hadn’t hit blind drunk.

I should have been honored. In the past 15 years, I can count on one hand—make that one finger—the number of times a guy has made a pass at me. The only hoots I get on the street are either directed at my dog or my sporty 2010 red Honda Civic.

Maybe I would have felt differently about garnering the gentleman’s attention if it hadn’t happened in a tavern. Maybe I would have felt better about it if it had happened at The Purity.

Green Chain

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Kate

By 1993, we’d lived in Fort Bragg for a year. I worked part-time as an investment advisor through the local branches of a major bank. My clients were semi-happy when the stock market was up, and extremely unhappy when it was down. My children were in preschool and grade school. My husband was beginning to experience eyesight problems, the result of the diabetes he’d had from childhood. We both knew his days of being the breadwinner were numbered.

We’d acquired a golden retriever who liked to chew our possessions and two cats who liked to shred our furniture. I maintained a second job as domestic servant to my family. I pretended to handle life with ease, but most of the time I was a stressed out mess.

So what did I do?

I joined the Leadership Mendocino program. On the surface, this might sound insane, but in reality, Leadership Mendocino gave me one entire day off each month for eight solid months.

The third Friday of the month, people treated me as if I was important. I was offered snacks, lunch, and snacks again. The classes were held in a variety of locations throughout the county and opened my mind to issues from natural resources to law enforcement. I met interesting people from diverse backgrounds. Ginny Rorby became a wonderful friend who continues to nurture my secret desire to write.

One of the highlights of that year was when our class got to tour the sawmill at Georgia Pacific. The mill played a vital role in this community’s economic health for over 100 years. The original was built in 1885 as the Fort Bragg Sawmill. It was renamed Union Lumber Company in 1893. Georgia Pacific bought the operation in 1973, and ran it for 29 years before closing down in August 2002.

Each member of our group was handed a hard hat, safety goggles and earplugs. I was excited. I had been a city girl all my life. I did not know how trees were harvested and processed into lumber. The only things I knew about the Georgia Pacific operation were: (1) the noise from the sawmill which could be heard throughout town, (2) the noon whistle that blew each day, and (3) the smokestack’s white plume that told how hard and which way the wind blew.

As our group neared the sawmill, I physically felt the noise—like coming upon a living, breathing dragon. It gave me shivers.

Inside, I was surprised by the high tech appearance of the operation. The catwalks brought to mind the boiler room of a freight ship. Two cutting operations ran side by side. A log appeared on a conveyor belt and was grabbed by a mechanical arm. A red laser beam guided a huge saw that sliced it like butter.

Similar to this, but not as illuminated as this.

Each cutting operation was controlled by an operator who sat in what looked like the cockpit of a wheat combine. The darkness surprised me. It would be depressing to work in such sensory deprivation. The heavy duty ear protection made it impossible to exchange quips and gossip with co-workers. I wouldn’t want to be a cutting operator.

One occupation did strike me as potentially inviting. Outside, I asked our guide, “What’s that job where guys pull lumber off the conveyor belt and stack it?”

“The green chain,” he replied.

The green chain beckoned me. If I worked the green chain, my only concern for eight hours each day would be to pick up the next board and stack it. I could hum endless loops of Beatles’ and Rolling Stones’ songs. If someone yelled at me, I’d point to my ear protection and apologize while thinking, Thank God I can’t hear you, bitch. Best of all, I could possibly drink in the mornings before work instead of having to wait until after work.

Working the green chain became my meditation. Whenever life got overwhelming, I closed my eyes, imagined myself dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and a hooded sweatshirt. I picked up a board and stacked it, picked up a board and stacked it . . . . My heart chakra would eventually open, allowing me to carry on.

Mother’s Little Helper

Posted on January 11, 2013 by Kate

The experience of mucking out the garage qualified me to help my friend, Marcia, with the process of sorting through the cavernous workshop her father had built 30 years before his death. Her 87-year old mother, Doris, had sold the property and was being forced to downsize.

I arrived on a Saturday morning to find Doris sitting on a plastic molded chair in the middle of a warehouse of boxes, lumber, furniture, tools, model airplanes, and building materials. In front of her was an open box from which she pulled a wrapped object.

Marcia was chucking cardboard, lumber, sheets of plastic, and various whatnot outside the open roll top doors while her husband, Jerry, sorted and stacked.

“Look at this,” Doris said, holding a clear glass serving bowl.

Marcia whispered, “She admires everything she unwraps. This is going to take forever.” Louder, she said, “What do you want to do with it, Mother? Keep it or put it in the garage sale?”

“I certainly don’t want to give it away,” Doris said. “This is crystal.”

I silently lusted after the bowl. I have an obsession for bowls and chairs. If left untethered, my house would be filled with them.

Doris pondered the bowl’s beauty for a few moments before holding it out to me. “Would you like it?”

I felt guilty—as if by telepathy I’d hypnotized her into the offering. I thanked her and snatched it away before she could change her mind.

Before I continue, I must make a disclaimer similar to the one I was forced into when I had teenagers. Until I was a parent of that age group, I judged others by the behavior of their teens. After my kids became that age, I had to mix a bitter cocktail of my ignorant words and chug it, thus ending those days of judgment.

Current Disclaimer: A person who finds 85 cans of paint hoarded in her garage cannot judge the contents of another person’s storage area.

That being said, here are some of the interesting things Doris discovered in her boxes:

Ten three-ring binders holding sheets of poetry. Over several decades, whenever she found a poem she liked, she’d type it and store it in a binder. She rarely read the poems again. She took comfort in knowing she had them saved for posterity.

Four large recipe boxes filled with 3×5 cards of typed recipes. The largest box was marked, Recipes I Haven’t Tried Yet.

Two boxes labeled Cat Books. She held up one book and said, “If anyone gets a new cat or dog, I have a book to help with names.” The title: Dog and Cat Names. (Fun fact: her cat’s name is Kitty.)

Dozens of wire hangers embellished with crochet. Doris admitted she has far more of these than she had clothes to hang them on, but she was unwilling to part with a single one.

The best find of the day was when Doris opened a box containing at least 15 spiral notebooks. She placed her fingertips to her lips and giggled. I was intrigued. What had this pure, dearest of ladies uncovered to embarrass her?

We’d already discovered a 1939 edition of “Marriage and Sex” that she’d purchased shortly before her marriage. This hadn’t raised a blush to her cheeks.

Marcia and I anxiously looked over her shoulder as she opened one of the notebooks. There, in perfect penmanship, on narrow line after line, margin to margin, front and back of each page was—

“When you kids were young, I started copying the Bible.” She giggled and reddened, her darkest secret revealed.

Marcia howled with laughter. “I didn’t know you were doing that.”

“She didn’t drink or smoke,” I said. “What else was she supposed to do to stay sane with three kids running around?”

She made it to II Samuel and by the looks of it (15 notebooks) it took her a very long time.

Young mothers, take note. There are other ways to relax while raising young children besides sucking vodka through the straw of a juice box (“No, honey, the Berry Blast is mine; you get the strawberry.”), smoking pot behind a bush in the back yard, or saying you’re taking a vitamin when it’s really the dog’s pain medication.

Buy some spiral notebooks and start copying the Bible. It worked for Doris.

Plastic Bag Passion

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Kate

The man in front of me at The Purity is asked by the clerk if he’d like to buy a grocery bag.

“Damnit! I left mine in the car!”

The clerk says, “It’s only 10 cents.”

“Damnit! Shit!”

The clerk remains silent.

“Okay, I’ll buy the goddamned bag!”

On December 10^th, the Fort Bragg Advocate News posted on their Facebook page:

Starting today, Monday, the City of Fort Bragg’s carryout bag ordinance will prohibit supermarkets and large drug stores — Safeway, Harvest Market, Purity, CVS, and both Rite Aid stores — from providing plastic bags at the check stand and will require a minimum 10 cent charge for paper bags. Only “carryout” bags given out at the check stand are affected by the ordinance. Smaller bags for produce, bread, prescriptions and other items aren’t restricted and may still be plastic.

The 60 comments from passionate community members are roughly divided into half who support the ban and half who do not. The folks who support it can be summed up by the following two:

I LOVE LOVE LOVE that the area I live in is proactive about the environment. Our future generations depend on our actions to provide a healthy planet for them. This is one small action that will make a HUGE impact for the children & the earth we reside on.

After seeing a perfect photo opportunity on the Pudding Creek trestle a couple months ago, ruined by 2 of those controversial plastic bags pasted against the cliff by wind and weeds, I did the HAPPY DANCE when I heard they were going to be outlawed. I’m going to put on my big girl grownup pants and bring my own dang bags or pay .10 for forgetting.

There are a variety of theories espoused by those against the ordinance:

The Conspiracy Theory:

this is the LAMEST law ever…. why restrict one type of plastic bag and not another? sounds like a profiteering conspiracy….

Big Brother strikes again!

The Stupid Yuppie Scum Theory:

Stupid scum yuppies from the Bay Area moved up the coast and ruined it ,,, this is just another one of their stunts!!

Rebuttal: I’m “a local and not a bay area yuppie” and I’m 100% for this law. A plastic bag might be gone in anywhere from 10 to 100 years (estimates vary), but scientists report they never fully decompose. Americans only recycle 0.6 percent of the 100 billion plastic bags they take home from stores every year; the rest end up in landfills or as litter. Landfills are few and far between, making the costs of transporting our garbage more expensive all the time. And then there is the carbon pumped into the atmosphere from trucks moving garbage long distances. And as the Advocate stated there is a destructive impact on the environment, particularly wildlife and fisheries.

Rebuttal to rebuttal: I rest my case ,, the people that have a problem with what I said are NOT LOCALS!!!! I don’t like plastic bags either ,, my big problem is all the people making the decisions on the Mendocino Coast Have NO right to say anything!!! If you don’t like what was out nice logging and fishing community then GET OUT!!!

The Pet Waste Management Theory:

How will we take care of cat poop? I’m so stressed!

The First Amendment Right Theory:

I have to repeat this every time in these same tired arguments: get rid of all your foolish bags — plastic, paper, and cloth. Get yourself a BOX! You can get one at the store. You can bring one from home. I’ll give you as many as you want. The box can hold more than the bag. It’s easy to carry. It won’t tip, rip, or drip. Get a BOX!!! And another benefit of the box: you won’t have to go on like an idiot arguing this lame culture war over bags. Yeah, you. I said shut up!

Rebuttal: This is America, and no we don’t have to shut up.

The Germ Theory:

I would be concerned about the increase in germs coming into the store. Do the baggers touch peoples bags from home? Maybe they should start wearing latex gloves that have to be disposed of.

Great idea? Make sure that you wash your reusable cloth bags after each use to protect yourself from contamination, food poisoning, illness and death.

Can you imagine all the germs and bacteria all those cloth bags have in them.

Rebuttal: what about the germs on your mustache? your breath? keyboard, your chair? Did you wipe of that soda can before you drank out of it? Germs???? THEY ARE UNAVOIDABLE! Bring your own bags

The I Can’t Classify These Theories:

Well, that will save the world!

For decades it has been trees vs oceans. Oceans are winning currently. And recycling is a sham. Reusable is the best for the environment, but having to bring your own when you are a volume shopper is absurd. Wal-Mart has it right, stores like Safeway should pay attention!

I think it is only a get-rich scam. If people who wanted to bring their own bags would have done so to begin with, the plastic wouldn’t have been a big problem, it sounds like. I’ve hated it since Wal-Mart enacted it in Ukiah (only to line their pockets even more because who remembers to bring in the millions of bags we’ve been forced to buy floating around in the back of the car now), and I’ve boycotted Lo Bucks in Willits because I am SICK of their paper bags ripping as I’m trying to carry my bags up the driveway.

what’s not to love about half-measures? I mean, we cant starve the Great Pacific Garbage Patch floating out there…it might sink or something….we have to feed it little bags.

And the Theorist who waxes poetic:

Plastic bags are a byproduct of making gasoline !
Now what to do with it?
Burn it as waste!
Thanks to all your tree hunger
Al gore lovin
Obama freak
Assholes

Taaka Goes Home for the Holidays

Posted on December 21, 2012 by Kate

The Christmas season wouldn’t be complete without a special Taaka visit home to The Purity.

Spreading cheer among some of my favorite things.

If you haven’t tried Alden’s Vanilla Ice Cream, you must.

Gary’s favorite section.

Look! The Purity has coffee beans you can grind yourself!

If you don’t want to grind your own coffee, pour yourself a ready-made cup.

Uh-oh, where’s the rest of Taaka’s family?

Haaka Taaka Christmas

Posted on December 14, 2012 by Kate

Since the discovery of Taaka Vodka at The Purity, Gary, Wilson, Little Mister, and I have created a new Christmas tradition. It’s a game called “Where’s Taaka?” We take turns hiding and searching for the Taaka bottle among the holiday decorations.

Little Mister gets so excited that he has to be sedated.

In the spirit of holiday generosity, I invite you to play along.(Warning: The game gets progressively more challenging when Taaka dons a disguise)

Some might ask what they can expect to receive if they discover all the Taaka locations.

Nothing.

Happy Holidays!

O Christmas Tree(s)

Posted on December 12, 2012 by Kate

A man storms into a local bar, brandishing a gun and shouting threats. He leaves without harming anyone and is soon captured by the police. The Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook post on this incident receives 8 comments.

That same day, the Advocate News posts a picture of the annual town Christmas tree installation. This post gets 87 comments.

City workers install the first tree.
Tony Reed photo.

Apparently, a group of school children raised money to purchase this year’s town tree. Shortly after it was installed, a private citizen made arrangements to buy and erect a replacement.

I’ve taken the liberty to summarize the Facebook comments into the following categories:

1. Lovers of the first tree.

I liked the Giant Ornaments. It makes the tree feel better.

2. Haters of the first tree.

I have lived in this town my whole life I was really disappointed when I drove through town and seen a tree they could fit in my living room the big one is much better

3. Lovers of the second tree.

There was nothing wrong with the first tree just as there is nothing wrong with the citizens of this community wanting one bigger….. While the way that was brought about could most certainly have been handled more sensitively I don’t think there was anything wrong with wanting to upgrade. The new tree is indeed beautiful and more closely resembles the trees of past.

4. Haters of the gentleman who used his own time and money (and recruited volunteers) to supply and decorate a new, larger tree.

The local non-profit was a charter school, and now the students get to drive through town knowing that their tree wasn’t good enough for Mr. Mihos – I guess size matters more to him than hurting their feelings. I mentioned this to Mr. Mihos when I stopped at the new tree this afternoon, and both he and his wife were quite rude to me. I guess some folks don’t get the true meaning of the holidays.

You know the City gets a tree out off being nice… The City does not have to get a tree and do this for the people of Fort Bragg. In fact, if you, the people, Want a better tree, then how about you the people pay an extra 5 cents a year in tax to pay for it… An Mijos and his bros think they are soooo cool for “Showing” the City how it is done… The City workers do this on thier own time to server you the public… Don’t ask for more services then you are willing to pay for!

Meh a ******** by any other name is still a ******* And I do know what I am talking about…. Let’s not compare brainpans. [Note: I am definitely adding the term “brainpan” to my repertoire.]

5. Supporters of the gentleman who used his own time and money (and recruited volunteers) to supply and decorate a new, larger tree.

I would like to say that Mr. Michael Mihos is my cousin. Never would he intend to hurt anyone’s feelings. Certainly not those of a child. Fortunately, children are very resilient, and in seeing the much nicer and very much larger tree that my cousin played a part in obtaining – they (like all other children) will only be focused on how beautiful it is.

6. Supporters of the notion that no matter how ugly a thing is, if it’s made by or purchased with funds raised by children, it should stand on the lawn of the Guest House Museum in Fort Bragg, California.

I think being supportive of a local school and it’s students is something to be proud of!

7. Haters of those who hurt the feelings of the children who raised money to buy the first tree.

The tree was donated, purchased from a non profit in the spirit of giving and friendship. It hurts my heart that this has been turned into an attention ploy. Not everything is about looks, and not everything should be an opportunity for attention seeking.

8. Haters of those who hate those who hurt the feelings of the children who raised money to buy the first tree.

Im sure the 1st thing those kids are thinking about is the tree that is put up in town….I doubt it!!!! Kids dont dwell on things like that all they’re thinking about is what they want for xmas, so its obvious to me that Niki & Linda are bothered by this not the kids!

9. Haters of Niki & Linda.

Dearest Niki and Lynda…. it seems you are fighting an uphill battle…. and it will remain uphill because as most implants or non born and bred locals you have missed the point in it’s entirety…. There was no premeditated thought in the replacement of the tree…. only the Christmas spirit at it’s best….So buck up and have a Merry Christmas.

10. Supporters of teaching children a basic rule of capitalism.

The poor children, the poor children, the children need to understand that they should have raised more Capitol to donate a larger tree….

11. Haters of proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Oh yea small town drama that’s why I live in the city in sted of fighting over a tree why don’t someone spencer a toy drive or something

12. Supporters of moving away after graduating from high school.

HaHaHa Same old FB.. Retarded ass people with nothing better to do then fight over a damn Tree.. This is why I could not wait to get out of Fort Bragg when I graduated in 95. How is it that some of you have nothing better to do with your day then bitch and moan about the size of a tree. My 4 year old son has more sense than this. All I can do is shake my head in disbelief that these are adults posting and not a bunch of High School Kids. No I take that back, Middle School Kids, I bet the High School Kids have more sense than this. This must be one of the most outlandish arguments I have ever seen. I think the tree looks great everyone, if you can’t have a big tree in a logging town where can you have a big tree? Seems as though Fort Bragg is just the same as it was when I was in High School, everyone in everybody else’s business.

13. And finally, my favorite, spoken with the eloquence of a true woodsman:

Personally, in my forester days I couldn’t give a fuck about the size of the tree.

Second & final(?) tree of the 2012 Christmas season.

Tour de le Purete

Posted on December 5, 2012 by Kate

If you live here and have never shopped at The Purity, shame on you.

You need to know what you’re missing.

When you walk into the store, head to the right. Look up at the back wall.

The welcome sign is above my favorite section of the store—the place where the Cyrus O’Leary’s chocolate cream pies are kept. Buy one. (Caution: Do not read the nutrition label.) Eat it. Go bonkers with delight.

Also toward the back of the store is—

You can gather here gather between 8:00-8:15am with those who ran out of beer overnight and again between the hours of 4:00-6:00pm with those who need to refresh their evening inventory.

Think all The Purity has are chocolate cream pies, beer and Taaka Vodka? Think again. They also have—

Just look at all these healthy cereal choices.

These cookies are gluten free and truly delicious. The WOW on the package is what you’ll say after you eat the first one.

I haven’t tried these, but don’t they look good? Buy them and tell me what you think.

Thought only your high-end stores carry fancy-dancy crackers?

You probably don’t even know you can buy cup of coffee at The Purity. It’s not Starbucks or the Mendocino Cookie Company, but it’s good coffee. (I confess I’ve never tried it, but it’s at The Purity so it has to be good.)

You might want to explore shopping at night. I love The Purity after dark because it’s so mysteriously beautiful. I can sneak in and buy a chocolate cream pie while wearing pajamas. If I run into anybody I know, chances are they’re also wearing pajamas.

The Purity is open until 8:00pm Monday-Saturday; 7:00pm on Sunday.

Shed that cloak of shame. Go to The Purity now. I promise you’ll love it.

Dena & Carrie

Posted on November 28, 2012 by Kate

If left to my own motivation at this stage in life—late-50’s, children grown, empty nesting—I would not clean my home. Okay, okay . . . I probably would, but I wouldn’t be happy about it.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a diva who grew up with housekeepers. (Actually, I did grow up with a housekeeper—my mother, but she could get snippy and call me things like lazy and ungrateful.)

I’m a professional woman with a demanding job who likes to spend her precious free time doing things (anything) other than cleaning the house.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been able to afford the luxury of hiring someone to clean our home every two weeks. Not just any someone, but two noteworthy women: Dena and Carrie.

If Dena were to write a tell-all book about us, I imagine it would end with: “They were a disaster before me.”

She’d be right.

It was Dena who took me into the living room one day, pointed to the disarray of the television/video gaming area, ripped the veil of denial from my face, and asked, “Doesn’t this bother you?”

“Now that you mention it—”

“You need to buy an entertainment center and get this crap organized.”

Two weeks later, an entertainment center was purchased, installed, and proudly shown to Dena.

“It’s about freaking time!”

When our vacuum cleaner started its slow death, I encouraged Dena to squeeze a few more rounds out of it. A month later, she stuck her head in my home office and said, “Buy a new freaking vacuum cleaner.” I waited until the day before she arrived. When she came through the door, I announced, “I bought a freaking vacuum cleaner.” She said, “It’s about freaking time!”

A few weeks before our son left for college, Dena volunteered to help him organize his bedroom and pack. A week later, she walked up the stairs, saw the expanse of clutter covering his floor, and yelled, “I’m going to freaking kill him!” (Unlike us, she did not cry when he left home.)

When Harrison came home for his winter break from college, she said, “I hope your dorm room is cleaner than your bedroom was when you lived here.” He said, “It’s not.”

She shook her head in disgust as our teenager got off the sofa, walked across the room and wrapped her in a hug. “I’ve missed you, Dena.”

When she grew tired of trying to shape us up, she moved to Lake County. Before leaving, she introduced us to Carrie.

If Carrie ever decides to write a tell-all book about us, I hope she’ll end it with: “I’ve seen worse.” (Since we’ve never allowed her access to the garage, this is likely true.)

Unlike Dena, Carrie doesn’t seem to mind that we neglect things. This is good in the sense that we know she won’t scold us into dealing with it; and bad because apparently we only take action when scolded.

A stack of knitting projects grows under an end table. The upstairs remains a storage unit for much of our kids’ stuff (they have been gone from home for five and eight years.) My sewing room is a mess of tossed fabric. A do-it-yourself bathroom project is going into its second year of non-completion. And what’s that bag of stuff sitting next to the fireplace?

Dena would not have tolerated any of this.

For years, we happily looked forward to the arrival of either of our housekeepers every two weeks. Last year, something terrible happened: Carrie took a full time job at a local restaurant.

I was despondent. I didn’t want to hire another housekeeper. I wanted Dena or Carrie. Three weeks went by. Our world turned to a dull shade of gray as dust grew to a measurable thickness on every surface, and dog hair swirled like flakes in a snow globe. Finally, we put on our N100 Disposable Respirator Masks (available at Matson Building Materials) and started cleaning.

For 10 months, cleaning day was cause for Gary and me to whine and snipe at each other. Then Carrie called to say she wanted to supplement her income and asked if we still needed a housekeeper. I would have thrown confetti and popped champagne, but I would have had to clean it up.

[A note to Carrie’s family: You can take down the Missing Person fliers. She’s doing fine living in a soundproof room in our attic. She’s allowed out once every two weeks to clean the house. We can’t take a chance on her leaving us again.]

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Fort Bragg California