Purified

Posted on January 30, 2015 by Kate

It’s the end of the workday and I’m thinking ahead to tomorrow. I remember drinking the last of the almond milk with my morning snack.

I hate to admit shortcomings, but confess I have some quirky rituals surrounding food. For example, I must have a latte and a treat around ten o’clock each workday morning or I get more than a little fussy.

Another food ritual involves the refrigerator. It must contain only the bare necessities. I become disturbed when it gets packed during the holidays or when we have visiting guests. The requirement to eat all that food is overwhelming. I feel the need to quickly rotate food in and out like a cafeteria vending machine. My comfort zone lies in seeing the glow of the light bulb through the empty spaces of glass shelves.

So I’m out of almond milk and won’t have time to buy any in the morning to prevent a guaranteed no-latte-meltdown at ten.

Time to hit The Purity.

The almond and other faux milks are located opposite the entrance on the far wall of the store. It’s five pm with a rush of people who need to replenish their cache of bread, cereal, and beer.

As I leave the car, I brace myself to navigate the obstacle course of dawdling old people, candy-begging children, short-tempered mothers, and itchy alcoholics.

Just inside the entrance I encounter a man standing behind a card table wedged between the doors and a refrigerator case.

Hark! What is this?

My first thought is that he’s a petition signature gatherer. In Fort Bragg, there are always controversial issues that spur people to erect tables and ask for your autograph.

But this guy is offering samples of soup. In 22 years of being a Purity patron, I’ve never encountered a food tasting.

His name is Dan and he owns Mendocino Soups. As I toss back a shot of Thai Fish Stew, he explains that each variety is gluten free and made from organic ingredients. It’s super yummy. I grab a quart jar from his table and head for the almond milk.

After going through the checkout line, I walk towards the door. A scruffy-looking young fella wearing a black hoodie topped by a worn jean jacket and draped with an impressive number of heavy metal chains enters the store. Trailing behind is a mid-size black pit bull mix.

The fella pauses to give Dan an inquisitive look. Dan offers a sample which is declined as the fella moves past. Dan then says, “I don’t think your dog is allowed in the store.”

By this time the fella is about five feet away, heading towards Beer Corner. He turns his head, cocks it slightly, and narrows his eyes with a look of you’re not the boss of me. “I know the owners,” he says and continues on, the dog by his side.

Dan chuckles and shakes his head.

He’s been Purified.

Lucy & the Luxating Patella

Posted on December 5, 2014 by Kate

At 17 months, our puppy Lucy was diagnosed with Luxating patella, a genetic condition that sounds like a fancy hi-tech washing machine but actually refers to a displaced knee cap. It can vary from mild to severe. Her case was severe.

Surgery after-care included keeping her confined either to the living room or her crate for eight weeks. She could only go outside to potty and only if on a leash.

We were sent home with three types of drugs—from mild sedation to the doggy equivalent of oxycodone. After witnessing the dramatic way the oxy pill relaxed her, we named it after a local street drug dealer. (Don’t ask me how I know him, I just do. In my wanderings around the streets of Fort Bragg, I see things.)

In the event you ever find yourself dealing with this type of surgery, let me offer a few survival tips:

Diagnosis: Your puppy is an orthopedic wreck. You need to subject her to a horrendous surgery and lengthy recovery. Cry and whine to anyone who will listen. When they respond with sympathy, pretend that you’re handling the situation with courage and grace.

In reality, you’re a wienie. The universe knows this and accepts you unconditionally.

You hate the universe.

Life sucks.

Surgery Day: Do not waste a moment worrying about the outcome. It will all go well. Enjoy your time away from your dog. It will be your last moments of peace for the next two months.

Rearrange the furniture in your living room. Everything that can conceivably be jumped on has to be blocked. By the time I finished, our living room looked like the morning after a drunken frat party—overturned ottomans, dining chairs blocking sofa access, an air mattress leaned against the front windowsills.

After Surgery: This is the worst. You dropped off your happy girl in the morning. Late afternoon, you pick up a drugged, confused puppy with no hair on her right leg and a sutured gash along the side of her knee.

When Lucy saw me in the waiting room, she cried and dropped to her side on the doormat. Vet tech Phil crouched down, petted her, and cooed as she involuntarily pooped on the mat. It was heartbreaking. He carried her to the car where she leaned against my husband Gary in the back seat and screamed out her bad-awful-horrible experience on the ride home.

Let her watch as much Judge Judy as she wants.

The First Night: Sleep on the floor on an air mattress next to her. No matter how many times she tries to climb onto the mattress and cuddle (i.e., force you off), maintain that this is your space by saying, “No. Leave it.”

Wake up out of a deep sleep to find that you’ve rolled onto the floor and the dog is sleeping comfortably on the air mattress. Curl up on her doggy bed and finish out the night.

Days 2-29: Life as you knew it has come to an end. Your puppy’s mobility is restricted to being in a room under your supervision or confined to her crate. Each time she has to potty, take her out on a leash and coax her to get her business done so you can go back inside. As she gets better, she’ll realize these are her only outside moments and will procrastinate as she sniffs the entire yard. This becomes even more fun when it’s raining.

Begin to longingly eye her drugs.

Day 29: After four weeks of sleeping on her doggy bed, move back to your own bed upstairs.

Days 29-55: Each night, gently coax your puppy into her crate. (Lucy required a tractor pull to get her out from under an end table.) It helps to use candy as a bribe.

Don’t tell me that candy is bad for a dog. You’ll earn that right when you’re in the midst of an eight-week stint of recuperating puppy lock-up.

(Lucy’s “candy” was Canine Carryouts. After purchasing, I discovered the second ingredient—after chicken—is corn syrup and the thirteenth ingredient—before beef—is sugar. Ingredient number nine is something called animal digest. Yummy!)

After four weeks, you’ll be told to stop the pain killers. (This applies to the dog, not you.) However, in a couple weeks, she’ll start feeling a whole lot better. She’ll think she’s training for the circus as she races around the living room. Slip her a half Doggie Oxy in the evening so you can have some quiet television time. (Don’t tell the vet.)

She’ll also start spending many more hours in her crate. At six weeks, you won’t allow any misstep to harm that fragile knee.

Vet techs DeeDee and Phil help Lucy celebrate her recovery.

Day 56: Take your puppy to the vet for x-rays. When she shows them to you, say “Oh. Hum. Aw,” like you understand what you’re looking at. When she says, “She’s good to go,” blubber your thanks. At the car, instead of lifting your puppy, let her jump in.

When you get home, take her on a short walk. Watch her trot down the alley, tail held high, like it was only yesterday—not several weeks ago—that she sniffed along this path.

You and your spouse have risen from wienies to survivors.

You love the universe.

Life is good.

Go inside and undo the wreck of your living room.

Adventures at Sea

Posted on October 31, 2014 by Kate

Two weeks before Labor Day weekend, my son Harrison and his fiancé Kasi asked to reserve space on a charter boat. I’m not a fan of ocean-voyaging (I tend to get seasick), but enjoy my kids’ company so decided to be adventurous and go. I booked us on the Telstar for Sunday afternoon of that weekend.

Somehow the reservations got messed up and I learned on Sunday morning that we’d been scheduled for the previous day’s excursion. (I could go into all kinds of explanations for why it wasn’t my fault—but it probably was.)

On Sunday morning, I spoke with Randy, the owner of the Telstar, and he suggested I call his nephew Richard, who owns the Trek II, and ask if he had any slots for that afternoon.

The benefits of living in a small town were about to kick in.

Richard and Harrison had gone from grade school through high school together. Richard said that the Trek II was out and would not do an afternoon trip. However, his brother Brandon would take out the smaller boat—the Ambush—if we could get six people.

Harrison called his friend Nick who was visiting from Sacramento with his wife Elizabeth and asked if they wanted to go. They agreed.

I called Richard and said we had five. He said to be at the boat by 12:30.

It was a perfect day—warm with a slight breeze. In addition to our five, three other people showed up. We glided through the jetty and marveled at the gently rolling sea. Kasi was giddy. Harrison was happy. I was glad that I’d fortified myself with Sea Bands and Bonine.

We stopped at our first site and my head began to wobble. I caught the first fish—too small, a throwback. We stayed there for a bit before moving to another spot. I caught a second—a keeper. It would be my last.

By this time, my brain had shrunk a good two inches and turned into a lead ball inside my head. With each dip of the boat, it slammed against my temples. I tried to ignore it. Mind over matter—it would go away.

Harrison was the first to lose his breakfast over the back of the boat. Kasi was next.

I continued to drop my line in the water, determined to get more fish. An hour later, the constant slamming inside my head forced me to sit. I started to cough, lurched to the side of the boat and—yes, you know what happened.

The wind picked up and the waves grew. I put my jacket on and wondered how rough it had to become before the captain called it a day. I sat, crossed my arms against the cold and imagined the comfort death might bring.

The cockpit looked warm. I stumbled inside to sit on a padded bench. Far from bringing relief, my stomach went into a tumble and I raced outside to—well, you know. Let’s just say there are certain things, like bacon, that I won’t be able to eat for a long time—if ever. I was amazed to discover that the dark green vitamin in the GNC Women’s Ultra Mega 50 Plus VitaPack stays fully intact in the stomach hours after swallowing.

The others continued to land fish and have a good time. Kasi and Harrison didn’t feel well, but kept fishing.

Throughout the trip, one passenger guzzled cans of beer from his cooler. He even ate a sandwich. I envied his lack of seasickness until he opened a bag of Doritos and then had to stifle a desire to push him overboard.

After four hours (but what seemed like a day and a half), the captain announced we were heading in. We were just outside of Mendocino. He warned that we would travel against the wind and it would get “kind of rough.”

It was the wildest roller coaster ride ever. If I hadn’t been sick, I would have been terrified.

Waves crashed against the side of the boat as it ran parallel to the coastline. I imagined what we looked like from shore—one moment visible and the next moment vanished into the valley of a wave. At one point, the captain suddenly slowed the engine to allow the boat to surf over two back-to-back gigantic waves. From the deck, I hoped he’d radioed a distress signal to the Coast Guard.

When we finally rolled through the jetty and onto the calm river, I tried to smile and claim I had a good time. When I got home, I pitched the Sea Bands and Bonine into the trash and silently vowed to never, ever go out on the ocean again.

In the future, I’ll content myself with listening to jaunty seafaring songs like this—

Space Talk

Posted on October 3, 2014 by Kate

Each week, the Fort Bragg Advocate News posts a question on their Facebook page. The responses are published in the week’s edition of the paper, which comes out on Thursday. Most questions, such as “What is your favorite Paul Bunyan Days memory?” and “What is the most important issue to you at the local and/or state level?” receive only a handful of responses.

But questions about whether our town should have a Dollar Store or the morality of taking down the town Christmas tree donated by Montessori students and replacing it with Paul Bunyan-type tree generate a flurry of passionate replies.

This past week’s question, “What do you think about the new Taco Bell that’s going to be built on the southeast corner of Cypress and Main?” spawned over 100 replies. I now share my favorites. (Spelling and punctuation have not been altered.)

Critics who question the nutritional value of the menu.
I think it’s GREAT! I’m exercising my RIGHT to eat unhealthy food…….I served MY country so that we ALL can eat whatever we want, where we want and how much we want! Can’t wait for the EXTRA BIG Baja Blast soda to be here in town!!!!!!!!
They have an Extra Big Blast Soda? With Bacon I hope!
fast food aside; imagine if you went into north coast brewery and after ordering the waitress asks “would you like to supesize that”? “oh, yess i want a 64oz red seal ale…”
Dogs don’t eat that stuff! I would hope we’d support our locally owned Mexican restaurants who serve healthier versions and thus encourage Taco Bell to leave as quickly as they arrive.
REBUTTAL: hey now!! our dogs will eat it…. if we buy it and smother it in bacon…

Critics who make me smile.
Will it have drive through meth like that last one did?
And mmmmm… How appetizing for those hands to be preparing those meals. Just divine!
Speaking of cops, at least all the junkies will be in a central, convenient location
we live next to a world class coffee roasting company but allowed a starbucks to inhabit the old taco bell building… they made that heap of junk look pretty nice and seem to attract the “desert coffee” clients and tourists…
Rebuttal: seriously…what is desert coffee?
Rebuttal to Rebuttal: the foofie creamy triple choco blahblahblah….

Critics of taco prices.
We have I think 9.00 tacos here in Gualala because they are organic give me a break it’s a taco
Rebuttal: Can walk away from taco bell with a lot of food for $9.00
Rebuttal to Rebuttal: …and walkk straight to a toilet….

Fight! Fight!
No no no… We’re just living under rocks! Tweaker need jobs, too!
Rebuttals: Sure, Debbie, I live under a rock. If that makes you feel better lol.
     Are you living under a rock? The locals who LIVE here and depend on actually working jobs to make a living… If *you’re* motivated, one can get into management – more money and more benefits. Of course – one has to actually *want* to WORK…
      Debbie is right, and Erica needs to go to collage and stay off the Progressive propaganda pages found on the internet.
      Gosh, Crystal, maybe you need to find a COLLAGE under your rock, too.
      Erica Ann sounds like she’s just newly moved here and still has the ‘Bay Area” or So Cal mentality…
    Naw she is just Millionaire I bet who has never had to actually look for work in a town that was killed by out of touch progressives.
It will give jobs to which locals? Hello. The jobs it will give will benefit no one. It’s sick. About as sick as consumption of it will make everyone who eats there.
Rebuttals: You do live under a rock.
      What a doomsayer and bunker nut!

Supporters of a fast food combo.
Hope is is a combo with a KFC
Rebuttal: Now we’re talking.

Outside agitation.
yuck! we don’t live here, but plan to someday. One of the reasons we love Ft. Bragg is because of so few corporate chains.
Rebuttals: Dear Sherry. Ft. Bragg doesn’t need you here. As the other posters who actually do live here mentioned some variety/options will be appreciated in OUR Community.
Sherry is just the kind of person we do need here to keep FB a nice place to live. There are plenty of people here with your perspective, Sherry. Welcome to Fort Bragg!
Interesting that most of the “anti establishment” nut jobs are not the people born in Fort Bragg but those who are transplants. Theres enough of these lunatics ruining the town, they don’t need more. But here’s a suggestion. If Fort Bragg has too many chains for your taste, you could always move to Mendo or Caspar. I’m sure you’ll be more then happy there.
Sherry’s Rebuttals: First, thank you Toni Rizzo. Second, “Dear” Diver Doug, you sound like a real peach , third, I thought this was a place to express opinions, not be attacked. I didn’t know that there was such a “us v. them” attitude in this community. Why are you all being jerks just because I expressed an OPINION?oh, and if you all hate it sooo much, why don’t YOU move?

My favorite: I just can’t believe how many are acting as though it’s like the falling of the Berlin Wall. It’s a frickin Taco Bell.

(Be sure to watch the “Fast Food Folk Song” below. It’s awesome!)

911

Posted on September 19, 2014 by Kate

It was one of those Sundays when three in the afternoon seemed like an appropriate time to get into my pajamas. I was worn out from a weekend of visitors and frivolity—but pajamas at three o’clock? I could have distracted myself by writing a blog post, taking the dog for a walk, jogging, or making a quilt square. But I didn’t want to do any of those things. I wanted to curl up on the sofa and watch hours of mindless television.

So I did.

About six o’clock, I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water and looked out the window.

“There’s a big black cat in our yard,” I shouted to my husband Gary who was in the living room.

“Wait a second—it’s a dog.”

“What?” Gary cried in alarm.

In an attempt to disguise my jammies, I put on a jacket and went outside.

The Scottish terrier responded to my cooing and trotted over, tail wagging and head down. I sat to pet him and looked around to determine how he’d gotten in our yard. The front and back gates were closed and he was too small to jump the fence. Maybe he squeezed through the wrought iron front gate. Could he have flattened to the thickness of a pancake and slipped through the back gate?

The irony of a dog dumped in our yard and having a puppy ~~dumped on~~ given to us a year ago did not escape me. But this one we would not keep. Oh no, we would not.

I went inside and dialed 911.

“I’d like to report a stray dog in our yard.”

“Ma’am that is not an emergency.”

“It is to me.”

“All of our officers are involved in responding to crimes and arresting people.”

I made a mental note to check the online booking logs the following day to verify she was telling the truth. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

She sighed. “Give me your address and when an officer is free, I’ll send one out.”

Wait—doesn’t 911 automatically know your address? It was a bit disconcerting to be asked for mine.

I gave her the information, thanked her for her help, and let her return to the business of dispatching officers to major crimes. I went back outside to comfort the little lost dog.

A minute later, the phone rang. It was the dispatcher. “Is it a black dog?”

“Yes.”

“About a half hour ago there was a report of a missing black dog. May I call the people and give them your address?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A few minutes later a car pulled up in front of our house, a woman got out, entered the yard and yes indeed it was her dog.

His name is Simon and he lives around the block. In preparation for giving him a bath, she’d removed his collar. Then she remembered she’d forgotten to put out the garbage and recycling bins. As she was doing this, he managed to scoot out the gate without her knowledge.

She cuddled him to her and I gave him one last pet. She headed to her car, stopped and turned. “I forgot to ask if you’d like a reward.”

I chuckled. “That’s so kind of you, but no thanks. My reward was being able to spend time with your sweet puppy.”

An even greater reward was finding the owner so he wouldn’t end up being our sweet puppy.

I went back to the sofa.

Two days later, a large bouquet of flowers was delivered to our house with a note: “Thank you for harboring our little ‘angel’ Simon.” Amy & Tony O’Neill.

Yelp!

Posted on August 22, 2014 by Kate

For twenty-two years, we’ve lived next door to the Mendocino Coast’s only mortuary. We’re often asked, “Doesn’t it bother you?” No, it does not. (Read my guest blog post “Neighbors.”)

In addition to the mortuary business, there are two apartments on the property—the one directly above the main building is rented to a full-time tenant; the other, above the alley garage, is unoccupied.

In recent years, the owners allow friends to occasionally stay in the vacant apartment. If they rented it for money, it could get listed on Yelp and subject to reviews, which might pose a problem.

My husband Gary is in the habit of waking early. I know the term “early” is open to interpretation. To some people, 6:00 a.m. is early, to others eight. I think we can all agree that three or four o’clock in the morning is damned early. By the time I get going—usually five-thirty or six, Gary is in mid-morning mode and delighted to have company.

I enter the kitchen to, “Good morning! How are ya?”

I groan, stumble to the coffeemaker, pour a cup and search out the nearest dark space.

Our dog Lucy is a slow riser, but usually ready to go outside by six-thirty. Today, she announces to the world that she does not like the vehicle parked in the normally empty space across the alley. Gary yells at her to stop barking while he carries a container to the alley and dumps cans and glass into the large recycle bin.

I pour a second cup of coffee and sigh.

Overall, the apartment above the mortuary garage is a great place to stay. It’s within walking distance to downtown and a short drive to the beach. It’s quiet on the east side, but not so much on the west.

If it was subject to Yelp reviews, I imagine they would read like this:

This is a wonderful place except for the cat that clawed at the front door in an apparent effort to seek asylum. We believe he’s demonic. We will never stay here again. Laine R., Oakland CA

We were awakened at daybreak by what we thought was a homeless meth addict flinging things while hollering in the alley. Trembling with fear, we peeked around the curtains to find the man next door dumping cans and glass into the recycle bin and yelling at someone named Lucy. We will never stay here again. Kasi H., San Francisco CA

We found the apartment well-appointed and roomy. But as we moved our luggage from the car, an albino animal with a brown patch over one eye barked incessantly from the house across the alley. Efforts to ignore it only made the howling louder. As we approached the gate to get a better look, it let out a puddle of pee and rolled in it. Each time we went to or left our car, the creature yowled. We will never stay here again. Jenn H., Kirkland, WA

When we arrived at nine o’clock at night, all was quiet and peaceful. Little did we know this was because the inhabitants across the alley were asleep. At the crack of dawn, we were startled awake by the baying of a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog and a man yelling, “Leave Little Mister alone!” What kind of freaks are these people? We will never stay here again. H. Riley, San Francisco CA

Kris S. (who refused to disclose the identity of his city)

The Day the Earth Stood Still

Posted on August 15, 2014 by Kate

Two weeks ago, all internet and a lot of telephone service along the Mendocino Coast was interrupted when an auto accident on Comptche-Ukiah Road resulted in a pole struck and slammed to the ground. Apparently that pole supported a bunch of microwave ovens—or whatever it is that allows us to electronically connect with the greater world.

Twenty miles away on that Sunday evening, the scene in this house was reminiscent of clips from the 1971 movie “The Panic in Needle Park.”

I hate to admit it, but my husband Gary and I feel we have a God-given right to trouble-free internet access. (I was once told you’re only as sick as your secrets—so there you have it.) In fits of rage, we unplugged the modem, plugged it in, cursed the red light, and called friends to ask if they had service. Oddly, everyone’s phone was busy.

A radio broadcast revealed what had happened and sparked some very serious questions: Who was the driver of the car? Was he drunk? He must have been drunk. I’ll bet he was drunk.

Why are the various contraptions that provide internet, cell phone and bundled services (internet/television/cell and landline phones) on one measly pole? I suggest three poles: one for this, one for that, and one for this and that. Doesn’t this make far more sense than having everything attached to something that can be toppled and freak out an entire community of internet addicts?

After I learned that the services that connect us to the outside world are actually provided through a fancy cable, I had more questions: Why can’t the cable be buried like in civilized communities? Why must it hang from a series of polls that subject it to the perils of wind, storms and careless drivers? Why does AT&T hate us?

AT&T’s ugly building in Fort Bragg

Each time I pay my landline phone bill, I grumble at forking out money for something I rarely use. Now I’m grateful. Unlike many who were knocked out of all communication, my landline continued to function. But it was useless for calling my bundled-service friends and it couldn’t access Facebook.

Without use of the internet, my business came to a grinding halt. (Despite the millions I make from writing this blog, it is not enough to support my lavish lifestyle.) On Monday morning, I was unable to follow the financial markets and check on the latest charitable works of the Kardashians. I was forced to file stacks of paperwork, clear off my desk, and vacuum my office. I plucked my eyebrows, waxed my mustache, and painted a spare bedroom.

It was only ten o’clock.

I went downtown to soothe myself with a treat from the fabulous French bakery, A Sweet Affair. Thank goodness her ovens had not been affected. I went to Feet First to buy a pair of running shoes. I’d once read that runners should refresh their shoes every so many miles. I figured I’d finally fallen into the so many miles category. I put them on and ran home to eat my pastries.

By Tuesday, I wished I’d purchased more than one cupcake (okay, I’d bought two) to sustain me through the bleak hours ahead. (A Sweet Affair is closed on Tuesdays.)

I went downtown, stood on the corner of Laurel and Franklin Streets, and hollered that I had a working landline at my house for rent at $50 per call. Before I even closed one deal, I was arrested. The cop let me go after I allowed him to use the phone for free.

That afternoon, I studied Lucy and wondered what she would look like with eyebrows. Despite my efforts to conceal the eyebrow pencil, she spotted it and ran into my office. I noticed the red light on the modem was gone. After 48 hours it must have burned out.

I turned on my computer and clicked the icon thingy that gets me on the internet and—thank the powers that be—I was one with the world once again. I spent hours checking email, Facebook, and—believe it or not—even Twitter.

And the Kardashians? After each was fitted with a designer wardrobe, they flew to Israel to negotiate a successful peace agreement with Palestine. Afterwards, they were spotted at Fashion Week in Tel Aviv.

Seven Things Smarter Than Me

Posted on August 6, 2014 by Kate

1. My Honda Civic. It has a warning light that looks like a like a horseshoe with an exclamation point in the center. The first time it came on, I panicked. Over the years, I’ve driven my share of crap cars that did odd things like overheat, not start, or get flat tires without warning.

Turns out this light is my car’s way of communicating that one or more of my tires is under pressurized.

Wow.

(I’ll spare you my issues with the car’s Bluetooth—just know that it mocked me to the point of wanting to beat it with a hammer.)

2. The Square. As a board member for the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference, I recently (make that a year ago) volunteered to set the organization up with the Square for processing credit card transactions. With a week to spare, I ordered it and attempted to download the app on my iPad2.

The app would not download because my crazy old iPad2 had an outdated operating system. It needed iOS6.0 or better. I tried several times and was denied. I Googled it and followed some lying blogger’s instructions.

It seems the outdated iPad2 cannot be updated and the Square is useless on my machine. I hate them both.

3. iTunes. On those rare occasions when I download music, it adds songs I didn’t request.

There are a few delightful surprises like “Sugar” by Imperial Teen. I love that song. I also adore “One Moment to Another” by Jon Dee Graham and “San Francisco” by Secondhand Jive. Who are these artists who help me push through the barfing sensation when I jog? I must meet them all.

On the flip side, there’s a song that I do not like—a country-rock tune about “sweet Mary Lou was left standing at the altar.” I don’t want it, but don’t know the title so can’t get rid of it. Fortunately, I know how to skip it on my iNano (or whatever it’s called).

4. Twitter. I Tweet and Follow, but I don’t often go to the site because I’m busy! I believe the point of Twitter is to allow busy people access to short messages and decide whether to spend their precious time reading links.

I wonder how it makes sense to follow 100 Twitterer’s when I don’t have time to even glance at their daily Tweets? I’ve got the shakes right now—I truly do.

5. iPhone. I had a non-smart phone for years before recently getting an iPhone. This prompted iPhone cultists to ask if I loved it, if I didn’t think it was the coolest thing ever, and so forth.

I guess.

I didn’t use it much until I discovered that I could download games like Sudoku and crossword puzzles.

Okay, so I’ll admit I like being able to access Facebook and the ability to take pictures. I recently discovered Instagram, which is fun. Early on I was able to get emails until one day I couldn’t. The phone asked for my password and after I typed it, told me I was stupid. I tried again and again.

I asked my kids for assistance. They gave me instructions in what sounded like Norwegian, and when I started to cry, they advised: “Google it.”

I followed Google’s step-by-step instructions. They didn’t work. On a trip to San Francisco, I stopped by an Apple Store. A friendly employee tapped about the screen, handed it back, and looked away while I typed in my supposed email password which—yes, you are correct—did not work. I tried again and again before starting to cry. He offered a goofy smile and shrugged his shoulders. (My only consolation is that my iPhone is smarter than him, too.)

As I left the store, I stared down my phone and hissed, “I don’t care if I can’t access email on you. I’ve lived a reasonably happy existence for decades without it and will carry on just fine you smarty pants bastard.”

6. Self-checkout Counters. The screen asks, “Do you have a bag?” I only have two items and don’t need a bag. But if I answer No, will I be charged for one? So I answer Yes and the woman inside the machine tells me to place my bag in the loading area. But I don’t have a bag and there’s no place on the screen to change my mind.

What to do? What to do?

Mumble curse words as I leave and wait in the Express Lane while playing a crossword puzzle on my smarty pants phone.

One afternoon I went into our very busy Safeway and heard an alarm blaring at the self-checkout stand. A man who looked like Jerry Garcia yelled, “Help me! Help me!” as he shook his arms over his head. I felt a deep connection.

7. Smart TV/Roku. If my husband ever leaves me before switching the Smart TV from the Roku to television mode, I’ll never be able to watch television again.

I’m certain I’ll add more to this list as I continue through life. My hope is that it will force me to become a better person by learning humility—and maybe discover the title of that song about how sweet Mary Lou was left standing at the altar.

A Ballsy Idea

Posted on July 25, 2014 by Kate

It’s not often that two people get into a fight over a giant bra ball. In fact, my research suggests it’s happened only once in the history of mankind.

Ron Nicolino

Emily Duffy

The kerfuffle started in the mid-1990’s when San Francisco Bay Area artist Ron Nicolino began collecting bras for “Bras Across the Grand Canyon,” a performance art piece to condemn sexism. Alas, the feds would not approve the venture, and he was left with tens of thousands of bras that had been donated by women from all over the world.

What to do? What to do?

He took his plight to the San Francisco Chronicle, which published his desire to donate the bras to a worthy cause. Emily Duffy, another Bay Area artist, answered the call and offered to take a few hundred. She would use them to make a car bra for her “Vain Van.” But Nicolino wasn’t interested in giving away just a few—he wanted to unload his entire inventory.

I know what you’re thinking—right there should have been a sign that trouble was on the horizon.

Later, Duffy claimed that during their initial phone conversation, it was her idea to create a Giant Bra Ball. Nicolino claimed the idea was his. After all, most of his bras were already wrapped around a giant spool. A spool is a ball-like form, right?

Nicolino apparently didn’t get any warm fuzzies during his conversation with Duffy or from her subsequent letter where she proposed they collaborate on making a ball. He started rolling his bras toot-sweet.

At the time, Duffy had only 10 bras. How could she possibly compete with his collection of 20-60,000? (The estimates vary widely.) I’m thinking—but do not know—that Nicolino grossly misjudged her tenacity. Within weeks, she emailed a bunch of friends and quickly procured 15,000 bras.

The Giant Bra Ball War was on!

They each retained a lawyer. From that moment on, they never referred to each other by name. Duffy called Nicolino “the other artist” and he called her “the individual.” Duffy’s lawyer sent a cease and desist letter. Nicolino’s lawyer fired back a claim that a copyright cannot be held on a concept of sculpture.

I don’t know about Emily Duffy, but I do know that Nicolino hauled his Giant Bra Ball to the Mendocino 4th of July Parade in 2001. At the time I was still adjusting—after nine years—to living on the Mendocino Coast and was shocked by the number of women who reached inside their shirts to unhinge their bras and toss them onto the back of the flatbed towed behind his 1963 pink Cadillac. I would later regret not having been brave enough to rip off my bra to donate to the 14,000 or so hooked together to form the five-foot diameter ball.

When I happened upon Nicolino after the parade, he gallantly posed for a picture with his creation. (His smile was tempting, but I retained my bra.)

For some years—although I am unable to determine how many—Nicolino towed his Giant Bra Ball in parades and parked it outside the Pier 23 Café in San Francisco.

Nicolino died on July 7, 2009 at the age of 69, three weeks after being diagnosed with cancer. A few years previously, he’d moved to La Conner, Washington, and started a casket-making business. At the time of his death, he was working on his own casket, which featured a clown face. An artist friend finished it for him.

After he died, his mother hoped that some organization would take the 1,600-pound bra ball.

Alas, in all my research and email inquiries to strangers, I am unable to find out what happened to Nicolino’s Giant Bra Ball. Duffy’s ended up in the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, Maryland.

It’s unclear whether Nicolino took his Giant Bra Ball with him to La Conner. Given his mother’s wish that someone take possession of it, I imagine the ball stayed—like my son’s international Starbucks mug collection—in her garage.

More Sidewalk Crack Gardens

Posted on July 18, 2014 by Kate

I don’t know about the rest of California, but the drought is having a devastating effect on the sidewalk crack gardens of Fort Bragg.

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Small Town