Category Archives: Self-Help

Plastic Bag Passion

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

images“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 10th, 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 !images
Now what to do with it?
Burn it as waste!
Thanks to all your tree hunger
Al gore lovin
Obama freak
Assholes

Neighborhood Watch

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In the past couple of months, I’ve initiated a special weekend event with Wilson called the Homeless Dog Walk. I often see homeless people with well-behaved dogs heeling at their sides without a leash. For years, I’ve been envious of this feat. While I have been successful in training dogs to heel, I’ve never managed to do so without a tether.

I figured that after 14 years and 5,000 miles, Wilson can behave himself off leash for at least 10 minutes. (I bring along a leash in case he ignores me and wanders off.) The first few times, he was nervous— hesitant to leave the yard and turning back home as we ventured down the alley behind our house.

He now looks forward to this taste of freedom. He also maintains a fairly consistent heel. When he starts to wander a few feet away, I simply touch his back to get his attention. I don’t yell because he’s mostly deaf and I don’t want people to think I’m a dog abuser.

The Homeless Dog Walk meanders around the back streets of the neighborhood. This area is so quiet that street hockey teams could play all day with little vehicular interruption.

Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, says “The walk should be like prayer.” And so it is with the Homeless Dog Walk. I savor each one, knowing it could be the last in the life Wilson and I have shared.

This past Sunday, we got to the end of the alley to find a neighbor trimming a bush inside his fenced yard. Wilson heard the snap of the hedge shears and drifted across the street toward the sound. I trotted after and herded him onto the sidewalk.

(Fun fact: this particular man has lived here about five years. Each time I see him, I smile and say hello. Each time he looks straight at me and turns away. Fortunately I don’t see him that often, but when I do, I continue to smile and say “Hey.” Perhaps he finds this torture. I enjoy torturing him with neighborly cheer.)

Mr. Neighbor said, “Looks like he could use a leash.”

I was pleased that after all these years, he finally acknowledged me. My friendliness had broken him down.

I smiled brightly and chuckled. “He’s 14 and I take him out a couple of times a week for a few minutes. It’s his little treat.”

Mr. Neighbor did not return my smile. “There’s a leash law. You need to put him on a leash.”

“He’s 14 and it’s just a short walk.”

“THE LEASH LAW APPLIES TO EVERYONE!” He turned a dark tomato red and sprouted black horns.

I put the leash on Wilson. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

And then he said in a tone conjured by 13-year old girls when speaking to their mothers, “It’s a good thing you’re so special.” The word special was said with such heat that I swear he blistered his tongue.

I was stunned. I wanted to—let’s just say the hair on top of my head burst into flames and a number of acts of physical violence flashed through my mind.

The sharp blades of his hedge shears glinted in the late afternoon sun. Staring me down with his raging eyes, he clapped them shut and pointed them at me.

I locked eyes with the insane.

Regular readers will know I’m capable of running, but my poor old dog is not. I don’t normally take my pepper spray or shotgun on these walks. And God forbid I’d have my cell phone.

What to do? What to do?

I dropped my eyes, turned away, and slowly led Wilson up the street—all the while keeping my ears alert for the click of a gate latch and the soundtrack from the Psycho shower scene.

I engaged in deep breathing exercises (good juju in, bad juju out) until my hands stopped shaking. A block away, I removed Wilson’s leash. I refused to allow this Napoleonic man to ruin our sweet walk.

Maybe Mr. Psycho is the Neighborhood Watch Captain or self-proclaimed Dictator of the Hood. Kudos to him for keeping the area safe from jaywalkers, sidewalk bicycle riders, and mid-century women taking their geriatric dogs on short walks without a leash.

I sleep better at night knowing he’s on the job.

Solution Architect

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While shopping at The Purity recently, someone (who shall remain nameless, but is my only family member currently residing in Fort Bragg) called me a control freak because I suggested that he shouldn’t buy a bag of pork rinds to satisfy his whining need for a snack. “They’re not good for you and they smell like farts.”

This is the one-millionth time I’ve been labeled as such (I have a clicker on my belt) and I’m still not entirely certain what it means. I looked up the definition on Wikipedia: “In terms of personality-type theory, control freaks are very much the Type A personality” blah, blah, blah.

As a Type A personality, I get a great deal accomplished and successfully spur others into action (that is, until they stomp their feet in the middle of The Purity and start crying and calling me names).

My belief is, if you’re going to tell me your problem, you’re asking me to take control and find a solution. Otherwise, why would you tell me? Why would I listen? At a recent appointment, my therapist gently suggested that this approach is devoid of compassion. Sometimes people need to talk or do things without hearing my opinion.

Driving home, I was formulating a plan to fire my therapist when my son called.

I told him, “A member of our family (who shall remain nameless, but is the only one besides me who currently resides in Fort Bragg) called me a control freak.”

“I dialed the wrong number,” he responded. “I meant to call the Solution Architect on my project.” Demonstrating another stroke of brilliance, he hung up.

Solution Architect? I was intrigued.

According to Wikipedia, “A Solution Architect is a very experienced architect with cross-domain, cross-functional and cross-industry expertise.”

What a perfect way to describe my skill set: very experienced at inflicting my opinion on the way others should run their lives with all of my cross-blah, blah, blah expertise.

On the website www.glassdoor.com, there is no job listing or salary compensation for Control Freak. However, the median salary for a Solution Architect in the San Francisco Bay Area is $108,000.

  • 24-hours in a day minus 8 hours for sleep = 16 hours x 365 days = 5,840 Solution Architect hours/year.
  • $108,000 divided by 5,840 hours = $18.49/hour
  • That’s $18.49/hour more than I make as a Control Freak.

As a newly-minted Solution Architect, I will no longer dispense advice for free. The billing clock starts when the whining starts.

But I thought about my therapist’s words and another idea entered my cross-functional brain. When people share their problems, I can shut my mouth—actually keep my opinions to myself.

This will be difficult and require scientific intervention.

I began to formulate a compassionate-pose lipstick that contains glue and doesn’t cause cancer in laboratory rats.

When someone starts to tell me their problem, I’ll take the tube out of my purse, dab a bit on my top and bottom lips, and smack them together in a kindhearted smile. This will prevent me from uttering anything more than “Um-huh.”

But the lip glue development is proving difficult. Lucy, my newest lab rat, isn’t fond of lipstick. Yesterday, after I boiled up another experimental batch, I showed her its deep fuchsia hue and she ran off. When I finally caught her, she bit me several times as I applied it to her lips.

After completing my first round of rabies shots, and waiting to see if Lucy developed cancer, I realized I should heed my therapist’s advice. After all:

(1) My belt clicker doesn’t count past one million.

(2) My friends haven’t paid their Solution Architect invoices and have stopped inviting me to coffee.

(3) Lucy’s getting quite randy. (Fun fact: Webster’s Dictionary defines the term as “a coarse, vulgar, quarrelsome woman.”) She struts about the maze with her pink lips like she owns the place. It’s time to return her to the wild where she can wreak havoc on her own kind.

When you see my lips turning blue while being pressed together between a thumb and forefinger, know that I’m sincerely trying to stifle my control freak tendencies and keep my opinions to myself. Um-huh, I really am.

I Want Some of That

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It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve just had my taxes done (the only day my preparer and I could find in common). I’m self-employed and fairly accurate when it comes to estimating my liability, but was shocked to learn I owe hundreds of extra dollars.

I’d forgotten that our youngest had graduated from college in June 2011, gotten a good paying job (damn her!), and we aren’t entitled to those juicy tax credits. I’m pretty much hating life when Wilson reminds me it’s time for our walk.

It’s Fort Bragg. It’s Sunday. It’s Easter. It’s 3:30. You could lob cannon fire down any street in town and no one would be harmed. I’m looking forward to a peaceful outing with my dog.

We head west on Fir Street. At the Episcopal Church, we encounter a couple walking south along Franklin. The woman looks like a gypsy—black peasant top rolling off her shoulders, poufy black skirt hanging in layers. Bracelets—lots of bracelets. Black hair pulled into a sloppy bun to reveal a neck tattoo. The man is handsome under a grizzled layer of thick tanned skin and dusty clothes.

“HAPPY EASTER,” the woman shouts.

I owe hundreds of dollars in taxes. This is not a happy Easter. However, I do my best to return her greeting.

“This is my dad.” Her laugh is a cackle.

His chuckle is more of a growl. If a lion could laugh, this is what it would sound like.

I take a long, hard look at them. I suppose he could be her father if he was five years old at the time of conception.

He gives her a sexy glare.

She swishes her skirt and offers a saucy flip of her head. She cackles again.

Barf.

They take up position behind Wilson and me as we walk south on Franklin. She tells the world, “I feel great . . . just great! This is the happiest Easter ever!”

She’s euphoric, the kind of euphoric I get when I combine the Barefoot Contessa’s Outrageous Brownies with Alden’s Organic Vanilla Ice Cream and a cup of strong coffee.

I wonder about her menu for euphoria. I want that happiest Easter ever feeling to unravel the tangled knot of IRS debt squeezing my heart and lungs, reducing my breath to shallow gasps. I want euphoria now.

A social worker once told me that some women in this town trade sex for drugs. I wonder….

They are walking from the railroad tracks that run through the north end of town, past the cemetery and into the wilderness. One doesn’t have to go far to be in total isolation. All manner of whatnot goes on in that area, the details of which I don’t want to know. There are concealed places that might be ideal for trading sex for drugs or drugs for sex.

I turn my head and take another look at the Grizzly Guy….

Nope.

I’ll stop by The Purity and pick up Alden’s Organic Ice Cream and make the brownies when I get home.

Nuns Packing Heat

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It’s one of the top five phone calls a parent dreads:

It’s 5:30 am and it’s my daughter. “We had an intruder in our house at 4:00 this morning.”

It’s 5:30 am and I am unable to decode what she just said.

“Jenny woke up and saw a man standing over her.”

Decode successful…. JesusChristGodAlmighty!!! My blood goes to instant boil, but because my daughter has told me many times over the years that I have a tendency to overreact, I keep my mouth shut and let her tell the story.

Her roommate woke to find a man standing over the bed. She screamed. Fortunately, the man ran out of the house. They called the police who came and took a report. The police just left.

I’m shaking and want to throw up. I want to go on a verbal rampage of disgust and horror, a tirade about how young women are prey in our society. Instead, I ask my daughter if she’s okay. She’s emotionally shaken and will take the day off work, but she’s physically unharmed. I express gratitude for her safety and praise for the way she handled the situation. I invite her to call whenever she needs me. I tell her I love her.

My 23-year old daughter is capable of taking care of herself. But this doesn’t stop me from wanting to grab a shotgun, jump in the car, drive the eight hours to her house, sit on her front porch every night, and shoot anyone who walks by.

How does Gary handle this news? Over the decades, we’ve developed into quite the yin and yang. Whenever I’m a raging maniac, he stays calm, and vice versa. He points out the positives of the ordeal: no one was physically harmed, the police are investigating, blah, blah, blah….

Shut the hell up. Where’s the shotgun?

I do not believe that women need to be coupled with men for protection. I was exposed to the women’s lib movement in the ‘70s and went so far as to keep my maiden name when married at the age of 21. Over the next 25 years, I was so radical that I cooked, cleaned, did laundry and grocery shopping while also engaged in full time employment. It wasn’t until I was too tired to continue that I stopped doing nearly all domestic chores.

In my defense, women’s lib did little to restructure the early imprinting my tender mind received in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. Men worked and made money to support the household. Their only domestic requirement was to mow the lawn on Saturdays. That is, until their sons grew old enough to run the lawn mower, releasing Dad to his uninterrupted weekend beer fest, while Mom cooked, cleaned, did laundry, grocery shopping, and made sure the kids were raised before divorcing Dad.

I want my daughter to be strong and independent. I hope she eventually finds a mate she loves and respects and who loves and respects her in return. I want her to pair with someone who will share the weight of what it means to run a household. In the meantime, I want her to be safe from sick bastards who feel entitled to walk into her house under the cover of darkness.

Therefore, I am embarking on a campaign where our society returns to the social values of the ‘50s when it was unacceptable for women to live on their own. “You’re not married; you’re not leaving this house.”

When living with a 20-something, sexually frustrated female becomes too burdensome, we will ship them off to boarding houses run by nuns. Residents will be required to check in and out. Weekday curfew will be 10pm; midnight on weekends. No alcohol or drugs allowed.

The nuns will be trained in the military style of sharpshooting and will pack guns at all times.

It doesn’t matter if the girls like it. Parents and nuns will love it.

Guy on a Bench – Part 1

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He’s in his mid-30’s and pleasant looking. He sits on the bus stop bench at the corner of Redwood and McPherson. Whenever Wilson (my 13-year old dog) and I walk by, our interaction usually goes like this:

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“Have a good one.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

This time, my “How’re you doing?” is responded with “Not so good.”

I stop. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the same old thing day after day.”

I imagine it is. He sits on this bench nearly all day every day.

“People either accost me for money or ask if I want to buy drugs. I tell them no, but they keep harassing me. I don’t know what to do about it. There’s no solution.”

I can think of one: Stop sitting on this bench nearly all day every day.

“I guess I’ll have to eventually get the cops involved.”

“That might help.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

My advice to stop sitting on that bench becomes a metaphor for handling my own troubles.

I don’t know what to do about the five extra pounds I can’t seem to shake.

But my body aches after I work out.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: stretch for 10-15 minutes after each workout.

I don’t have time to do that, so let’s change the subject.

When Gary goes on a whistling marathon, I want to yell at him.

But then I won’t lose these five pounds.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: work out more.

But then my body will ache all the time.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: then stretch more.

This all seems like too much trouble.

  • Keep sitting on your stupid bench and shut the hell up!

You shut up!

No, you shut up!

And so it goes.

My friend and I continue to sit on our respective benches.