Stone Grill Restaurant in Sacramento

It was good. Better than good. The meat, Kobe beef, was tender and flavorful. This restaurant, which is either a chain or a franchise, has a gimmick of sorts which almost works. It's called the Stone Grill because they serve your protein on a stone that has been heated to 700plus F. degrees. The heat from the stone, which lasts a llllooonnnggg time, then cooks the protein and you eat it right from the stone. A new kind of do-it-yourself, I guess.

You order your steak or seafood or fish--in our case, it was a couple of NY strips and an order of scallops--and it arrives in front of you raw on the stone. The stone is set into a platter, which is obviously heatproof since the food is already sizzling. The platter includes a section on each side, one for the cooked potatoes and one for the raw veggies.

Up to this point, life is good and the food is wonderful. The aroma of sizzling Kobe beef, just imagine...are you drooling yet? You cut off a perfect piece of steak. Well, perfect if you like your beef rare. Which I do. So perfect for me; never mind about you. Pop it in your mouth--ooooohhh, hot hot hot. Too hot for my delicate mucous membranes. Okay, we can work around that, cut another piece and blow on it. Better, but still uncomfortably hot. Meanwhile, the rest of your steak is still sizzling away. So if you do like it rare--well, them days are gone for this piece of beef. I didn't finish my steak--I never do, should you be buying me dinner--and it was a lovely pinkish medium when I ate it at home for lunch today. However, if I had eaten the whole thing at the restaurant, by the time I finished it would have been shoe leather.

Meanwhile, over at the giant scallops stone, they're sizzling away and getting a nice carmelized crust on them. Grab them now, because in another thirty seconds or so they're going to be OVERCOOKED. Fish, seafood is funny that way; any chef will tell you that cooking it to the right consistency requires a delicate hand. I know this, so I take my scallops off the stone and plunk them in my potato area. Where they sit for a while...and get lost among the fingerlings.

And then there are those lonely raw veggies. I don't know about you, but I don't care for asparagus and mushrooms grilled dry.

So here's the thing. They've not taken this idea far enough. They're assuming everyone has (a) an asbestos mouth, and (b) eats faster than a truck driver on speed. Those of us who dine at leisure--well, we must resign ourselves to overcooked, and therefore tough, food.

One of my dinner companions, the lovely Nanny Goats In Panties (wearing black slacks for all of you who are curious) suggested the one should cut up one's meat all at once, as if one were feeding the two year old, and fling it onto the side where the veggies are. One should. Our host, Mr. Mudpuppy, did not complain. Nor did he eat his mashed potatoes, which left all the more for me--nah nah nah. I can, therefore, recommend the steak and mashed potatoes. And fling--or eat fast.

The Newly Single Woman Flies Solo

Traveling by myself has never been a big deal to me. I know it is for lots of women; my sister, the inveterate world traveler, for one, cannot get on a plane by herself. But our mother liked me better, or well enough, that is, to pass on to me her zeal for meeting life's challenges as and when they came. So having company on a trip has never been an issue for me. I did Paris on my own and London, and New York more times than I can count. It isn't the doing of the destination that's new to me these days; it's getting to the airport by myself.

In the past, D would drive me, and pick me up: sort of my personal limo service, as it were. He would nag me (incessantly) about leaving on time and query me (querulously) about whether I had packed everything, YES EVERYTHING, I needed. He would then get me to the airport on time without getting lost and deliver me and my luggage to the curbside checkin of whatever airline I was flying. Coming home, the procedure played out in reverse. I would call him from the plane once it landed, and he would drive up to fetch me and my luggage from the same curb at which he'd left me. He hauled the luggage; I lounged in the front seat and regaled him with tales of my trip. Or not, depending on his level of interest. Which was most often, not.

That all changed on my trip to Las Vegas last weekend. It was the first time I've had to haul my luggage and my ass to and from the airport alone. Without any help. Just me and my laptop and my luggage and my purse left to our own devices in that complex known as the Sacramento International Airport (and no, that's not an oxymoron).

I researched and then assessed the cost of having a shuttle pick me up versus driving myself and parking at the airport. The former would certainly be easier, but the latter would be cheaper--by a relatively wide margin of dollars, I might add. So Friday morning, I dropped Molly off at Kritter Kamp, loaded my bags into the trunk and wended my way up Interstate 5 to the airport. I was, I must say, quite proud of myself. I noted that this was a first for me, and that I had handled it successfully. I did all the adult things: left when I said I would, didn't get lost, arrived on time, parked close to the tram stop and carefully marked my parking space number on the lot ticket. I so was proud of myself for having done that--so mature am I, considering that I regularly lose my car in the Target parking lot. Then, as the final mark of my maturity, I carefully placed said ticket in my wallet, so that it would be readily, easily, and handily available when I got back on Monday.

Which it was--readily, easily, and handily available, that is. I pulled it out of my wallet as I sat on the tram taking me back to the long term parking lot. God, I am so mature, so together, so--ready to see my dog and my own bed. I automatically reached into my bag to get my car keys. They were in there, of course, exactly where I had put them when I left the car on Friday. Except I couldn't actually remember which bag I'd put them in: my laptop bag...or my purse...or my suitcase. I started fishing around in each and every one of the twenty or so zippered compartments on the bags. Then I fished around some more. Then I emptied out my purse. Then I fished around some more. All this time, the tram is taking me closer and closer to the parking lot, and then suddenly we're at my spot. And there's my car, exactly where I left it. But my keys? I realize that I have absolutely no memory of them and I can't remember even seeing them during my time in Las Vegas.

This was going to be very interesting. Indeed.

My luggage and I descended from the tram and approached my car. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. In fact, I wasn't sure what I could do. There was a little burble of not-quite-panic, but let's call it discomfort. Then I noticed that--could it be? was my driver's side door really unlocked? Ohhhhnooooooo......... Ohhhhhhyyyeesssss...... I got to the car, opened the door and--

--there on the floor by the gas pedal were my keys. In a flash I knew what had happened: I was so intent on putting the parking lot ticket in a safe place and so proud of my having done the whole trip to the airport by myself, that after I got my luggage out of the trunk, I merely closed it and left. With my keys hanging in the lock of the trunk.

So, kind generous wonderful human being who came along later and saw them dangling there. Honorable person who did exactly the right thing by leaving them where I would easily see them. I don't know if you were a fellow traveler or a Lot C parking attendant, but you are, for me, the hero of Sacramento International Airport.

It's The Economy, Stupid!

While I have been neglecting you, I have been attending to my house. Here's the story behind the headline (and oh, parenthetically, forgive me if I'm repeating myself...). My fact finding trip to LA revealed these two facts.

1. Regarding my career as a Marriage and Family Therapist: The internship in LA would/will be a fantastic opportunity and I am still jazzed about it. Basically, they train you and mentor you and guide you and etc. etc. you in creating a private practice. Bbuuuttttt, it doesn't pay for the first three months. And then it pays a portion of the fees you take in from your clients. And you pretty much have to find the clients, which is indeed a major part of building a practice and you get lots of support, etc. etc., but it takes time. And the current economy is not one in which people, even in LA, are lining up to see their therapists. "Let's see, shall I put gas in my car or pay my shrink?" So we're talking three months without any income and then however long with however limited income.
   
2. My foray into the rental market in LA revealed, as I've told you, the fact that I've passed the point in life where I'm willing to suck it up lifestyle-wise. That being the case, I would have to pay about twice what I could get for renting my house to lease a "do-able" place in LA. Ah, but you over the in the corner, waving your hand wildly: Why, you ask, don't I just sell my house? As Husband #1 used to say, "Good question, Batman." (Isn't it funny the things that stick with you decades after a relationship is over?) And the answer is that I live smack in the middle of the most depressed housing market in the United States. If I could sell my house, it would mean pricing it to compete with all the foreclosures, which (a) would mean a HUGE loss, and (b) wouldn't be enough to buy a place in LA.
   

So you do the math. No income plus major outlay for rent equals gross spending of capital--or as I have come to think of it, major money down the toilet.

Having done the math myself, I came to the conclusion that I must stay put until the market evens out. I have to be able to take enough out of my house to buy a condo in LA. That's not an unheard of exchange of real estate; I just need to have patience. And surprisingly, having made that decision, I am feeling quote hopeful--about, I dunno, my life or something. Which just goes to show you--something. Or not, as the case may be.

Los Angeles, San Jose, or Elk Grove - Take Three

So back to our regularly scheduled programming. I'm so sorry to have interrupted it and with such NASTINESS. I can tell by the abundance of comments that you all were just quivering over the MMA Championships. But now you must stopped shaking and come along with me again to The Grand Decision: Should I stay in Elk Grove? move to San Jose? return to LA?

Thus far, we've covered the pros of staying in Elk Grove. Please, as you're considering this, do not make the mistake of thinking this is a choice to stay in Sacramento. That--moving to Sacramento--is a whole other option, but I think we're overloaded enough as it is.

So--what I like about the idea of moving back to LA:
1. I still have friends there, people who do not [necessarily] think I'm weird or too much.
2. I've made some new blogging friends there, which is more than I can say for here (sorry Margaret, but you moved, remember...sorry Steph, but we only communicate on the computer).
3. My family is there. This, however, is not totally positive. All of you who have wonderful, best friend relationships with your sister can go dunk your heads. Mine is fraught with angst, trauma, and drama. In fact, the first time I left LA, it was to move away from her, and I didn't return until I felt relatively certain that I could maintain some boundaries. She is, one might say, a lot of work. But my niece and her family are there too, and I've built good relationships with her kids.
4. I know the city, can scoot around on the surface streets, up and down the canyons like the wind (yes, I realize that scoot and wind are not exactly compatible, but whatever...)
5. I did my MA in Psych there, so all of my internship/job contacts are in SoCal. That's been a real problem for me up here.
6. LaLa Land is, as we all know, home to the greatest density of shrinks and shrinkees and in country. Thus, the opportunities for an internship position down there are considerable. And this, remember people, is what I must do to make money.
7. I feel like LA is My City in a way that it would take [how much, too much] time for me to feel about another place.
8. My doctors, dentists, and hair stylist are there. Not to mention my synagogue, Temple Israel of Hollywood, where I can worship with Leonard Nimoy in the sanctuary where Eddie Fisher and Liz Taylor were married. And my hospital, Cedars Sinai, which I love because every door has a mezzuzah on it and the gift shop sells Seder plates and menorahs.
9. I could go back to California Graduate Institute and work on my PhD, which is--yes--something I vowed I wouldn't do, but that was only when D was breathing down my neck. The fact is that I like being in school. There's an order to it that I need, I guess. I like the rhythms of the term, the excitement at the beginning, the slogging through the middle, and the push to the glory of the end. At which time I get a grade and that's like a little gold star to me.

Tomorrow I'll do Why I Would Even Consider San Jose as well as The Problems with Elk Grove and LA. Please do say tuned. And don't be so silent....

The MMA Championship Fights

I just watched them. Can you believe that? If I didn't know that it was me in front of the television, I wouldn't believe it either. BLOOD SPORTS! Bah! Nasty!

But I got curious because:

• My stepson had aspirations to be an MMA fighter at one time, so I wanted to see what attracted him and what I could have expected if I was to be ringside (cageside?) cheering him on. Thankfully, he's moved on to fly fishing, where only the fish feel pain and then only until he throws them back. Which he always does. And then if wants to eat fish, he has to go to the market and buy it like the rest of us non-fisherpersons. Go figure.
• The defending champion was billed as The Sacramento Kid, which seemed to fit nicely into my own on-and-off aspirations to be a part of this town.

So I watched. The champion kept his belt, but not before five or was it six grueling rounds. There seem to be no holds barred in MMA fighting. The challenger got knocked in the nuts and both fighters had ears that were beyond cauliflower. In boxing , the ref breaks up the clinches. In MMA fights, he doesn't and the two guys just hold on, twisted in on each other like pretzels, so that who knows who's arms or legs are flailing in the air or whaling away. It was quite shocking, actually. Like street-fighting legitimized.

And yet, there was an odd tone of civility about it. Everyone said and then resaid and then emphasized again that these guys RESPECT each other. NO TRASH TALKING. Many hugs and you're wonderfuls at the end. The challenger introduced his fiance when it was over. The champion rehugged the challenger. This was very confusing, especially since my experience watching fights is Friday Night Boxing, which for a time was the date night of choice for D and me. Watching boxing, I'm always hyper-aware of the class issues involved. How else can these poor schlubs crawl out of the underclass? What other talents could they possibly be encouraged to develop?

I suffered no such angst tonight because I don't know if it's true for all MMA fighters, but these boys tonight? They're college graduates. As is my stepson. As are some other MMA aficionados I know. What's that about, huh? Is this Fight Club come to life?

Los Angeles, San Jose, or Elk Grove - Take Two

Here's what I like about living in Elk Grove, which is a suburb to the south of Sacramento.

1. It smells like the country. Last thing at night, when I take Molly out, if the wind is blowing my way, I can smell cows. That should surprise no one, since the dairies are still just up the road Not all of them; actually very few survived the land grab that has turned farms into housing tracts in the past five or so years. The Machados, for example, sold their dairy and now they have a little park with swings and a slide and I think there's a basketball hoop as well named in their honor. As a proud member of the Board of the Franklin Reserve Neighborhood Association, I attended the ceremonial cutting of the ribbon at Machado Park. It is a lovely little site (have I said little enough?), a splotch of grassy green in the middle of hundreds and hundreds and hundreds (have I said hundreds enough?) beige houses. The green is a welcome sight because so many of those beige houses are fronted by dead lawns and wind-whipped For Sale Bank Owned signs. But I digress: what I actually started out to say was that I couldn't stop myself from asking the current Mr. Machado what his grandfather would think to see what had happened to his dairy. I got no response. Still, when I go outside my beige house in the evening, I can often smell cows, and that pleases me.
2. When I actually leave Elk Grove to journey into the nether reaches of Sacramento, the freeway I take is picturesque beyond belief. Sacramento is the City of Trees, so they say. Not to mention creeks and rivers and the odd pond or two. Driving along Interstate 5 is often breathtakingly beautiful and how many city freeways can that be said of? This is not insignificant if you consider the stress levels that most freeway driving produces. When I'm driving on 5 and I take in the scenery, I can feel myself getting calmer. This, I imagine, can only add to my years of life, not to mention its current quality. No small thing, right?
3. I like that this area is still in a state of becoming, as opposed to LA, say, which is darn near finished. I feel as if the Sacramento area, which includes Elk Grove, is waking up, getting with the program, feelin' alive. That I'm here now means that I have the opportunity to be a part of creating the area. I've become involved in organizations in a way that I couldn't have in LA. Here, if a job needs doing and I say I'll do it, it's mine. In LA, I would still be passing the pretzels.
4. I like my house. It's mine. All mine. I can do with it whatever I want. Even if it is beige. Hey, I could paint it some other color. Or glue bits and pieces of broken crockery to the outside lintels. Or grow morning glories up one side and down the other. Okay, I tried that already, and for some reason the morning glories were not amenable. Despite my nicking the seed casing and soaking them in water, the little creeps did not sprout. The same thing happened with the moonflowers that I planted in along the back fence (the one I share, should you be interested, with DeathChic(k) who recently fed her morning glory seeds to her daughter, but that's her story, not mine.) However, all manner of other things do grow in my garden, and I love that. It is a veritable wealth of flora, etc. etc. etc. Roses, roses, roses like you've never seen or smelled before. And a huge peach tree that bears luscious white Freestone peaches in great number. A Meyer lemon tree, as well, which was so prolific that I ended up freezing a good number of lemons just to throw down my garbage disposal when it needs a bit of deodorizing.
5. Speaking of garbage disposals as we were, here's another thing I like about living here: my kitchen.
6. And I like the fact that there are seasons in Northern California. As a Pennsylvania girl, born and bred, I was offended by the puny little drop in temps to 62 degrees that passes for winter in Los Angeles. I like my Winters robust, requiring the wearing of many layers and the laying of many fires. I love that the trees do get Fall colors up here, and they bud out in Spring. We will not speak of that other season, because this is a list of all that I like about living here.
7. I like the fact that despite the enormous growth that overtook Elk Grove, nature will out and much of the landscape is returning to fields. Along with the things I planted in my garden, the wild flowers and grasses that were in what was formerly pasture are insistent on claiming the land as theirs.
8. I like that I'm just 10 minutes or so from the Delta which is, as well, wild and free.
9. I like that my backyard faces West, so that every single evening I get a sunset that is a Kodak moment.
Next I'll do what I like about LA. Or should I do what I don't like about Elk Grove/Sacramento. And what about San Jose? What's with San Jose anyway; why is it even in this headline? Ahhhh, tune in tomorrow for Take Three.

Los Angeles, San Jose, or Elk Grove

The subtitle for this post could be, "To move or not to move; that is the question." Not exactly Shakespearean, perhaps, but vexing all the same to me. The other day Karen of MidLife's A Trip posted a piece on Choices on MidLifeBloggers. It spoke to me because I've got this whole where shall I live thing going on.

When D left, much of my reason for living in Northern California slithered out the door as well. We moved up here because he hated LA. I didn't; I loved it. But dutiful wife that I was (so sayeth I!), I went along with the selling of the LA house and the buying of the Elk Grove house and the subsequent moving of much shit and a few good things to our brand-spanking new Elk Grove house, where we were supposed to live--tra la!--happily ever after.

I don't want to rehash the whole thing, but suffice to say the happy part was very short-lived. For him and for me. I never feel like one of The Gang anywhere I go, but up here in what is basically a suburb of Sacramento (which, forgive me, should really be considered be suburb of the Bay Area), I am that proverbial Sore Thumb.

However, I am a determined Sore Thumb and so I have, over the past almost three years, worked hard to make a place for myself here. And I have not been unsuccessful. Thus, when D left and everyone thought I'd hightail it immediately back to LA, I didn't. I bravely stayed put. I earnestly believed I was DOING RIGHT by make a new life for myself here, in my house, with my stuff. Then the housing market tanked and my new house was right in the middle of the implosion. Now it seemed important to me not to sell my house at a significant loss. So I've kept on keeping on.

Except that along with the housing market, the economy has now tanked and my house just sitting here minding its own business has lost considerable, VERY CONSIDERABLE value. That's equity, people. And speaking of same, that's what I'm living on, basically, 'cause the job, she is not coming. I'm starting to get a wee bit concerned. (I'm also starting to sniff Molly's dog food to see if I could actually eat it if I had to.) The fact is, I need to be earning money, and while I did cash my first BlogHer check the other day (hooray!), it wouldn't keep Molly herself in dogfood for a month. So what to do, what to do, what to do....

I'm not just telling your all this to entertain you (you're laughing at my misfortune, are you?). Rather, I'm telling you all this because in the next couple of days, I'm going to lay out the pros and cons of moving and not moving. I'm doing it because I believe your collective wisdom is exactly what I need right now. So will you please come along for the ride? It will be a short one, and while there's no prize at the end (okay, I could come up with something if you insist), you will have the tremendous satisfaction of knowing you've helped a pal along the way.

Lobbying, byJane

Today I went to the Capitol to lobby some legislators about some stuff. I was part of a largish (as opposed to smallish) group and ultimately I was one of four who saw three different Assemblymembers. Well, make that one Assemblymember and two Aides to Assemblymembers--who they refer to as "The Member," as in "Let's go to The Member's office." No one else seemed to think that was strange, but it struck me as hilarious. Probably because when I think of The Member, I see a humongously large penis. I did not laugh, however; nor did I share my thoughts with anyone--until now.

My part in this play was quite small, and I believe I acquited myself if not admirably, then at least satisfactorily. My fellow lobbyisters were a tad more involved than I: to say that I really didn't give a shit pretty much sums it up. They, on the other hand, were VERY SERIOUS.

Okay, here's the thing about me. Maybe it's my stage in life (mid-midlife) or maybe it's that I survived a catastrophic illness, but really, I can't get myself too worked up over a lot of stuff that others take VERY SERIOUSLY. That doesn't mean I don't take life seriously; I do. But I tend not to get overinvested in things I can't change, which includes most things that aren't under my direct control. Which includes most things.

What do you take seriously? And what of those things do you actually, really, truly have some say in?

Seems Like Old Times

Tonight I went to a Reception (big R) for a group of Knesset members who are visiting the California Legislature. It was held at a nice restaurant, Spartaro's if you want to be specific, with valet parking and an open bar. I used to do this sort of thing all the time in Los Angeles. I had my dress up clothes--Tahari suits if you want to be specific--and once or twice a week I was out and about at this meeting or that reception. It was mostly part of my role as a Director of the British-American Chamber of Commerce, which was due in no small measure to my relationship with the Executive Director of the BACC. That is, I went to these things as his date, but soon enough my winning ways and stellar intelligence had won me an appointment to the Board. My fellow Directors were the President of this bank and the CEO of that, the head of Rolls Royce in the Western States and...well, you get the point.

My life in the years after I left the Board of the Chamber were a little lacking in glamour, albeit long in love. Getting dressed up then meant a clean pair of Wranglers, which was the only brand that a country girl or guy could wear. Boot cut, of course, and none of this sissy stone washed crap. Just jeans and a shirt and a belt and boots--.

I've moved on from that as well. My wardrobe is less, shall we say, regulated by the sartorial demands of the dominant culture (just slingin' the lit crit talk--because I Can). Tonight was the first time in a long time that I was out and about as in those Cocktail Party days in LA. My Tahari suits have gone the way of the rest of my size 10 wardrobe, but in honor of them I bought myself a pair of Tahari shoes (when did they start making shoes?) I've been lusting after some Really High Heels and these must be five inches at least. (Actually, this photo doesn't do them justice, but it's late, and it'll have to do.) I started out to write a post about the Knesset reception. I mean, Knesset! Israeli Parliament! Think of the political stories I could tell. Instead I'm doing a fashion report. Where's my sense of seizing the moment, of working the world? In the back of my closet, I guess.

Facing West - late winter, 2007

This is what I saw looking out my back door last April and early May. They were all taken a few minutes before or a few minutes after six p.m.

Interview With A Blogger: Me!

Herein forthwith follows the interview that Whoorl dreamt up for me as part of Citizen of the Month's Interview challenge. Whoorl's questions are in purple, the choice of color being mine, for no reason whatsoever.

If you were forced to blog about one (and only one) subject, what would it be?
ME! I know what Whoorl's trying to do, get me to focus on that one thing that stands between me and success: my inability to focus on one topic. But I can't. Don't you think I want to? Nor can I, it seems, professionalize this blog. That was my intention, and I did, in pursuing it, pay lots of money to go to BlogHer. But whatever they were selling doesn't seem to have taken with me. Maybe I'm just not cool enough or young enough or or--maybe I just don't care enough. I dunno. I see people to-ing and fro-ing with their blogs and pitching for blog awards and doing all this stuff that seems so incredibly "high school" to me. I simply can't sustain it.

What is your beverage of choice?
It depends upon the time I am choosing. In the morning, I’m a coffee-drinkin’ girl. I like it strong, full-bodied and rich, tasting like coffee, dammit. Come afternoon, I switch to Diet Coke, out of the can. Come evening, I prefer l'eau de potato, Russian preferably, over rocks with a twist. Stoly...Grey Goose. Or a Gin Martini (is there any other kind?) straight up with 3 olives. What I don't like are frou frou drinks: all those Tinis they've created to give people something sweet and sickly to get them gassed. Sissies.

Tell me why Northern California is a lovely place to live.
Who said it was? Not me. I've lived all over--here, there, and everywhere--and what I've learned is that every place and no place is lovely to live in. I'm here because my SoonTBX wanted to move here. Okay, okay, I wasn't exactly tied up and shipped to Sacramento, but if it hadn't been for his gentle urging, which manifested as constant whining and complaining and a pervasively permanent bad mood, I would still be living in LA. And probably right now my roof would be leaking because they're having terrible rains down there and that's what my roof did when it rained. Instead I am up here, sealed in tight, warm and dry in this wasteland called Elk Grove. And my SoonTBX is living elsewhere. And his roof is leaking. Ha! Karma!

Who is your favorite author?
Doing the coursework for a PhD in English Lit sort of ruined reading novels for me. Once you learn how to deconstruct a text, there's no going back to just reading for pleasure. When I did my MA, I did it in Southern Lit, and then Faulkner was my favorite. When I started my PhD, I thought I'd be an "Austen scholar" (la-de-dah), but my professor was insane and that sadly tinged my doctoral work with intense nutsiness. I haven't read Austen since I didn't have to, and I'm certainly not watching Austen month on PBS. Jane would be appalled.

What would your friends say is your most charming quality? Most annoying?
Oh, jeeze, I haven't a clue what they'd say is my most charming quality. Truth be told, I don't think of myself as one who could ever be labeled charming. I don't crook my little finger when I drink tea and although my manners are passable, I don't think the Vanderbilt's will be inviting me to join the cotillion. I will say that when I saw the film Steel Magnolias, I recognized a quality in the Shirley McLaine character that made me say, "that's what I'm going to be like when I grow up." And I believe I am, for good or ill.

That I speaketh the truth, even when I probably shouldn't is probably my most annoying quality. And that I speak it as if my truth is The Truth can and does create some moments of angst for those around me. I'm working on that, though, because I really don't believe in an Essential Truth, so to sound as if I do is antithetical to...to...my truth.

In 2006, you mentioned wanting to "be more present in you life". Do you feel you have accomplished this goal?
I am more present in my life, but it's an ongoing goal which I don't believe one ever accomplishes. I'm just starting out with little baby steps and lots of backsliding and falling down and smashing my nose flat. But one of the ways in which I have gotten better relates to the first question. I'm somewhere in the middle of working my way through the bullshit of being A Blogger. I am trying to quell all urges to write to please an audience. I am trying to at the least be true to me in this thing I do.

Stormy Weather, tra la....

This is--or was--the gazebo in the backyard. It was a nice little gazebo. It gave good shade in the summer. RIP, little gazebo.

The Woes of Being a Woman...

...or, Have I Whined About My Hair Lately?

Seems to me that I did an entire blog post on my hair stylist/cutter/whatever they're calling themselves these days. But on checking back, I may have only done half a rant and then ran out of steam. Lucky you.

I will try to keep this terse and pithy.

Finding someone to cut one's hair is, as most women (and men too, if they're honest) will tell you a trauma fraught with wild hopes, much head nodding, followed by some head shaking, followed, at times, by the pitiful thought that It'll grow. Such has been my state over the last two years when I've lived away from LA, mecca of hair people who know what they're doing. I have traipsed from pillar to post, and now from long to short, trying to find a decent hair cutter. I have been to the Alpha and the Omega of Sacramento County hairdressers. The Alpha is not much, if any, better than the Omega. The Alpha, on the other hand, charges by the follicle.

Today I made my third trip to the Omega, SuperCuts. I had the same person as last time. We had a similar conversation, which has devolved to that same pitiful thought.

I would post a photo, but I'm too embarrassed. Let's put it this way: I look like a gym teacher. A transgendered gym teacher. Which, come to think of it, may be because my Omega hair cutter is a person of indeterminate gender.

Not that there's anything wrong with that....

Goodbye Delta, Farewell Dawn

I live, oh, about a mile from the river where the two humpback whales, now named (thank God, at last) Delta and Dawn, decided to swim to Sacramento, instead of San Francisco. I could have gone to see them any time of the day or night. I could have made three trips a day, with breaks to brush my teeth and get a little shut-eye.

I didn't. And I avoided all reporting on them, save the 30 second headline that told me where they were. This meant, of course, that I have not seen a newspaper or watched TV in the week or so that the whales have been in the Delta. Every once in a while, I'd catch a glimpse of one or the other breeching. Or hear one or the other of the reporters waxing eloquent on how majestic these creatures of God are. (Truly. That's how the TV reporters talk here. Especially the ones from the CBS affiliate.)

I would have like to see them, but I cannot bear the hoohah and hooplah that has surrounded these poor fish swimming in the wrong direction. It seems to me that it's more of a modern day public hanging or bear baiting.

Come one! come all! Step right up and see how even the most gigantic of beings is nothing before Mother Nature. Here you go, get your bottled water here and your whale T-shirt over there, sorry but I only have XLs left. Look at little Johnny over there, such an mini entrepreneur: he's selling lemonade. And over there, under the trees, big Johnny is selling dope.

Never mind that the levees aren't made to withstand the weight of ten thousand tourists tromping through. Never mind the expense to the county of crowd control and keeping ski-jets and speed boats from within 100 yards of the whales so as not to--ooops--frighten them even more. Scare them into beaching themselves--but, hey, Bubba, then we'd really get to see the whales up close. Behold the porcine mamas with tattoos on their asses, which I know about because their tank tops don't meet their short shorts, and there's a gap at the waist which exposes several spare tires and their butt cracks. Let's not forget the hairy daddys, who are either fifteen months pregnant or are in the final stages of liver disease, so enormously huge, so whale-like are their guts. And they too are wearing shorts shorts and tank tops that expose the full glory of their man-titties and underarm hair. And crosses. Why do such men always wear the full Jesus-on-the-crucifix around their necks? Goes so well with their Eat Me tattoos.

But why am I being so hard on these people? This is America, after all. Land of the free, etc. etc. What are our soldiers in Iraq fighting for if not the opportunity we all have to make asses of ourselves. To gawk. To make a buck off of anything one can. To do what we want to right now, when we want it, willy nilly of whether it's right or good or creates a danger for others. Because we're Americans, goddamit, and rampant self-interest is our birthright.

In Search of a Title which expresses the meaning of t his post...

...which is actually a compendium of topics, or--as I prefer to think of it--a bunch of shit that has occurred to me which I am sure you need to know.

• Award for the Dumbest Name of A Business: a local massage/spa type business called Massage Envy. This is not a massage parlor in some seedy backwater stripmall whose offerings are euphemisms for blow jobs and the like. Which is definitely what the name references for anyone in the Western world who has heard of penis envy. But maybe that's the problem. Maybe the owners are not of the Western world. A lot of the businesses in our area are small operations run by Asian immigrants grabbing onto the American dream, and that, at times, has led to some strange names for businesses. Like ChopSuey ChopSuey Bar. Or Get Your Hair Cut Beauty Shop. I imagine, when I come across such names, that the owners have translated from their own language to English and aren't comfortable enough (a euphemism of my own) with American vernacular to know that their well-thought-out business name is just, well, dumb. Or, as in the case of Massage Envy, is a really loaded piece of language, a word bomb of sorts.

• AP reported today that the CBS Evening News last week had its lowest audience since at least 1987. ABC's World News is, as Nielson likes to put it, the ratings winner. The AP report that the numbers "add to the sense that Charles Gibson is eclipsing Brian Williams as the nation's favorite network news anchor." My kneejerk construction of the results was--and listen to all of the pundits who fling their legs in the air with me--that Americans prefer an older male giving them their news. But then I thought of what Evening News I watch and why: ABC, because (and I'm about to shout now) I CANNOT STAND the local news leadins on my NBC and CBS affiliates. The NBC affiliate in Sacramento has a news reporter who has clearly gone to the Geraldo Rivera School of Journalism, and this would seem to be the same place that spawned the entire news-team of the CBS affiliate in Sacramento. They so offend me that I want to throw sharp objects at my flat screen television, and that has only ever happened before when Cheney is on the tube. I can't afford to kill my TV, so I simple refuse to watch these two local news programs. And I'm wondering if there are others in other cities who feel the same about their local news? Is there a Sense of The News vibe that is ordained by the networks? Is the local CBS news so inane because it is following in the Katie Couric happy news programming?

In the past I have called these kinds of posts "Potpourri", but really, that's pretty lame, not to mention dumb and etc. Some people call them "This and That", which is equally ditto, IMHO. I tag these posts as Yadayada, which really says it to me--but what about you? Can you come up with a snappy title for posts of this ilk? There is a prize in it for the best entry....

How To Make Me Mad...

I guess I don’t need any help in getting mad after all. This article in the Sacramento Bee did it for me. The subhead says it all, as far as I’m concerned. “Elk Grove officials aren’t enthused by Target, JCPenny at Promenade.” Neither are Elk Grove citizens, particularly this one.

The back story is this: Elk Grove has been dithering over a huge mall for some time now—probably since we started our surge to become the fastest growing city in the United States. The mall, to be over a million square feet, is sited at the east end of the city, where a nifty little exit to Highway 99 would enable the masses for miles around to visit.

The purpose, according to the city fathers (and mothers one would assume) is to put Elk Grove on the map, mall-wise. Right now, we have, it would seem, more than enough stores. In fact, one might say, I will say that Elk Grove is nothing but new houses and chain stores. However, a Real Mall with Real Stores is what is wanted. In other words, Nordstrom’s and Macy’s and, one would hope, Restoration Hardware and Williams Sonoma. Like they have in Arden or Roseville. And West Hollywood or Century City. Or Short Hills. Or Manhasset. (I’m not sure about those last two, but you get my point.) A Real Mall confers status and tax dollars. Right now, all of Elk Grove’s Real Mall tax dollars are going to Arden and Roseville—or internet shopping.

So the powers that be have broken ground, dug some trenches, and put in some re-bar. But they still haven’t decided (1) what the mall will look like, and (2) which will be the anchor stores. The argument re design devolves to Indoor or Outdoor. The absolutely latest, oh-my-gosh-we-gotta-have-it in mall design is Outdoor. As in LA’s The Grove, about which I have written lovingly in the past. Indoor is so, so Yesterday. I don’t have a hard and fast opinion on this one. I see the points of both sides—bad weather versus community gathering. It is the anchor stores issue that has me seeing red.

According to the Bee article, the developers of the mall, a Chicago-based (read, carpetbagger) company, are close to a deal on the two anchor stores. Not Nordstom’s. Not Macy’s. Target. And JC Penney.

Well, big whoop. And gee whiz. And close your ears if you don’t want to hear me spew a blue streak. !@#$%^&*()_!@#$%^&*()_!@#$%^&*()!

Now I bow to no one in my appreciation of Target. In fact, I would be sans wardrobe if it weren’t for Target, even now, as I write this. But—hear me—ELK GROVE ALREADY HAS A TARGET. In fact, we have two. And Penney’s? When we already have Kohl’s and Mervyns? How many low end department stores does one city need?????
According to the Bee article, a retail “consultant” from the Bay Area who “scouted” the Sacramento region thinks these stores are just fine for Elk Grove, and really we couldn’t handle more. “It’s a fairly moderate market, not the kind of place that, say Nordstrom would come into,” opined the scout, one Jeff Green of Mill Valley. “You have a lot of younger families who move there to get a little more house for their money, so there’s not a lot of disposable income compared to areas north and east.”

I don’t know where Mr. Green did his scouting (I suspect he included very moderate Galt and Lodi in the mix), but he certainly hasn’t gotten our demographics down. I don’t at the moment have the actual data to spew out, but these young families only account for one portion of Elk Grove residents. Some of us live in million dollar homes. Some of us have gardeners and swimming pools. Some of us, goddammit, have charge accounts at Nordstom!

My journalist’s nose is twitching: I wonder who pays Mr. Green’s bills. The Chicago developers? Penney’s? Fortunately for us, thus far, not the mayor of Elk Grove or one of the city councilmembers. They are reportedly “not happy” and they are saying that the anchor tenant issue could “hang the project up.”

I hope so. And meanwhile, I will continue to send the bulk of my tax dollars outside of Elk Grove.

Agricultural War Memorial

Or so this seems to me. We happened upon it driving through the Delta from Locke to home. I'd be more specific, but I don't know where the hell we were. Just that there was a big field with big old farm machinery in it and a few cows and it reminded me of Gettysburg.

IpsoSacto--natch...

A new link for me. This is a roundup of blogs in the greater (or lesser?) Sacramento area, including Stockton, Yolo, and Staten Island, I think. No, really, check it out

They've got a link to the Sacramento Bee's Blog Watch and--hey, y'all, my post on Roe v Wade made the list. I think you can vote if you go to the site, but I'm not sure why you'd want to, or what the prize is.

Speaking of my Roe v Wade post--thanks to all the commenters who had such nice things to say about the post. And to the one Anonymous, whose comment was that my post missed the point that there was a dead baby involved--no, dear, I think you missed the point.