50 Ways to Leave Your Lover...In the Year 1900

I read this piece for Writers on the Air. It's a little longer than my usual, but you can listen to it at www.writersontheair.com. Go to the August archives, and then the August 19 recordings.

     Great grandma Iva was a bad woman, and I don't mean in a cool, badass sort of way. She was just plain old mean. In fact, you could say she was a bully. Does anyone like a bully?

     This truth about Grandma Iva was difficult for me to accept, especially after I'd built up an image of her as a tough woman, an independent woman, a woman who wasn't about to take crap off of anybody.

     I knew nothing of Great Grandma Iva until one day, and out of the blue, my mom told me her. She was a woman, who, in the year 1900, dumped her husband and two children in the Nevada desert to hook up with another man. Boom! Just like that.

     As if that little bit of news wasn't wild enough, Mom said that Great grandma Iva had just met this man.

     Upon hearing this, my eyes widened. "That's scandalous, Mom." I was hooked. What would drive a woman with no property, no money, no status, not even the right to vote, to walk away from her sole source of security?

     The answer was juicier than I could have imagined. It was love, and before you go all starry eyed on me, let me explain. It wasn't Iva who was in love. It was Iva's husband. He'd fallen for another woman -- Iva's mother.

     Imagine this, if you will. You are a married woman, and your husband is in love with your mother.

     Okay. While you take a moment to shake off the willies, let me add that my mom had precious few details, and I needed details! There were a few facts, births, marriages, deaths, which leads me to how Grandma Iva had come to be in the Nevada desert in the first place.

     You see, Iva's father had been killed in the Spanish-American War, and his body was being interred at San Francisco's Presidio. So Iva, Iva's mama, Iva's husband, and their three children were en route from Michigan to San Francisco.

     When they made a stop in Lovelock, Nevada, the course of Iva's life changed forever. Hearing that much of the story, my imagination jumped into the driver's seat to fill in the rest. I wanted Iva to be the sort of person who, despite hardship and indignation, acted in the best interest of her family.

     In my mind, here's how  painted the scene in Lovelock, Nevada:

      "Wisps of dust danced at the edge of Iva's eyes. It rose to fill her nose and line her throat. If she hadn't been squatted near the wagon--jamming grimy clothes into a faded traveling bag--she wouldn't have believed it possible that God's great earth could be so dry and acrid. She brushed aside a loosened tendril from her sunburned face and squinted up at the sky, endless and blue. At the sound of booted footfalls, she quickened her movements.

     Frederick Collings boomed from the other side of the wagon. "Iva? Mrs. Collins? Where are you? Ah. Down in the dirt again, huh?"

     A familiar malted, boozy odor hit her nostrils and mingled with the dirt already there.

     "Ah. Go lay down, Mister." Iva began to order him, but stopped and softened her tone. "Why don't you sleep a while? The bedroll's made up in the wagon. I'll be making your supper soon."

     "Hurry up, then. A man shouldn't have to wait on a plate of beans from his wife."

     Iva Collings had quietly fumed as her husband's practice of one nip after supper turned into a lengthy stop in town on his way home. Now, he imbibed at midday. With each drink, his eyes darkened, his tongue turned to acid, and his fists became weapons."

     Okay, now. All of that is pure conjecture. I don't know of Great Grandma Iva just wanted out. Or if she had had enough of an angry drunken, mother-loving husband, and said, "Adios, Asshole." I like my made-up version of her much more than the clearer picture I got as I dug further into her past.

     First off, let's not forget that Great Grandma Iva left two, that's two, of her three children behind, and she never made contact with them again. I'm a parent, and believe me, there have been times I've wanted to leave my kids in the desert, but not really, not really and truly.

     Iva actually did that.

     My Aunt Amy and my mom confessed that Grandma Iva was not a sweet granny. She mocked her grandchildren, withheld food and love. She indiscriminately punished them with a curse and swat. She always carried candy in her apron, crunching it noisily but never shared.

     Petty complaints, perhaps, but my aunt remembers the slights 80 years later. It must have stung.

     Did I, initially, want to put my Grandma Iva in the best light? If so, do I want to portray myself in the best light?

     When I advocate for the Alzheimer's Association or donate to the river foundation, I hope I'm channeling Iva's best self, her independent streak and refusal to take crap off of anybody.

     But there are times I wonder if I'm channeling the worst in Iva.

     The other day when a grocery clerk aske me if I was finding everything okay, I snapped, "Why? Do I look lost to you?" That same day, when an SUV parked over the line, I left a note that said, "Hey earth hater! Thanks for parking your stupid huge car so close I can't open my door. Have a nice day."

     Times like those make me worry.

As a Wanna Be Writer, I'm One Unlucky Goob

This family is too well adjusted!

Warning: The following piece is tongue in cheek. So don't go nuts on me. Okay?

     Sometimes I wish I were an addict or an alcoholic, maybe a survivor of abuse. How about an anorexic? 

     Why can't I have a funny uncle or a creepy grandpa? How about a grandmother caught slipping rat poison into the neighbor's coffee? If my mother had really cared, she'd have had debilitating bouts of OCD. 

     I'd settle for a cliche. A sister who forges oxycontin prescriptions. It would be a lovely thing to hear from her--stoned out of her mind--at all hours and at the very worst times. 

     I imagine a beautiful world wherein a brother is jailed for embezzling the Girl Scout cookie fund, a daddy is locked up for gang activity. An in-law is running a stable of underaged prostitutes. 

     I long for childhood memories that are marked by chaos, gunplay, mind-altering substances, rabid dogs, and dozens of half, step and adopted crazies living under my roof.

     But, alas, I have none of this. I'm just unlucky that way. 

     I blame this bad fortune on my mother and father, who didn't drink, didn't fight, didn't take drugs, and didn't so much as run a stop sign. In other words, our family life was boring.

     Wasn't it Tolstoy who said, "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way?" Well, what does that tell you about the dull happy family from which I sprang?

     I'll tell you what is says. It says that no one wants to hear about it, a bunch of joy and cheerfulness.

     How am I supposed to be a writer or a storyteller or a plain ole interesting person when I've been saddled, through no fault of my own, with nothing but pleasant memories? Sadly, it's my destiny and the burden I must bear.

     Dad, if you'd been more like Pat Conroy's "Great Santini" and less like Father Knows Best, I'd be able to crank out tales of depravity faster than a tweaker on an 89-hour bender. Mom, if you'd been more like Joan Crawford's "Mommie Dearest," my writing life would have unfolded early and spectacularly.

     But you were always there, encouraging me, supporting me. Damn my bad luck.

Hey, NASA! I've Got the Right Stuff!

   

     It's been a very stressful year. God, I need to get away, give myself time to relax. There are so many options, though: hiking among flower-strewn meadows, a swim in a pristine mountain lake, or how about combing through a color-splashed tide pool?

    Meh. All nice, but for my money, I cannot think of anything that offers more in the way of blissful escape than to float around in the quiet seclusion of outer space.

     Yep. I've decided. I'm applying to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to become an astronaut!

     Okay, I know what you're thinking, but before you say, "Give it up, Earth Girl. NASA doesn't want your kind," let's take a look at their online application. You might be surprised to know that I do, in fact, have the right stuff.

    Here's what NASA wants and where I stand:

• Age: Although there's no age restriction, most astronauts are 26-46 years old. Yes. I'm pushing the outer limits here. But after a good, solid 10 hours of sleep, a thick coating of age-defying cream, and when seen in very dim light, I could pass for 52. I was told that once, and it's something that I cling to it like chewing gum to a shag rug. Let's check YES to Meets Age Requirement.

• College Degree: Any degree is okay, says NASA. It just so happens that a lot of astronauts are engineers, biologists, physicists, computer scientists. In other words, space is crawling with science geeks. It's high time NASA considered a more diverse team. With me on board, we'd have a lot more family fun time. After a rousing game of Charades or Trivia, I'd make sure my little charges ate their freeze-dried veggies and got tucked into their space bunks. I've definitely got the kind of experience NASA needs. This one gets a resounding YES.

• Medical Condition: The only thing it says is that I'd have to be free of any disease or physical limitation that would prevent me from participating. I am pretty healthy for someone who could pass for 52. Another big YES.

• Flying Experience: Not necessary, but they do look for someone who's been a jet pilot or has related experience. Related experience? I've got that in spades. Have you ever flown with toddlers? Well, I have, and let me tell you, there is nothing more demanding or that requires more focus and patience than sitting with a 6-month-old on a no-seats-assigned flight to San Diego. Flying experience? Give that one a YES.

• Salary: They pay between $64 and $144k per year. It's a bit skimpy, but what with the book deals, cross-marketing, and movie options, I might be able to make ends meet.

     For Christmas this year, I received an anti-gravity pen. You know, the kind that writes upside down. The packaging says that it's the same technology used in outer space. Tell you what, I'll send you a note next year postmarked Mars.

Kick in the Gut to Last Tango in Sacto

Where's My Keeper?

 

What you are about to read is a true story that I told at the TrueStory open mic night on April 23, 2015, in downtown Sacramento. I was so nervous, I chugged two glasses of water and then had to pee like a race horse. No one booed me off the stage, and some laughed and clapped. So I guess I did okay. Here goes.

     After 25 years of marriage, three houses, and two kids, the love of my life decided that he just didn't love me back.

     So we went our separate ways. I was pretty miserable, and I thought he was, too, until not long thereafter and before the ink was dry on the divorce papers, I got a call from him. He had news for me.

     "I'm getting married," he said. "I've fallen in love, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her."

     I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut! Rejected! Tossed like yesterday's trash! I wanted to yell, "Die, Fucker, die!" But I smiled and replied, "Oh. Kay. So. Congratulations."

     I have to admit that while my ex had been searching for Mrs. Right, I hadn't exactly been walking around in sack cloth and ashes. I wanted to meet someone, too, but I just couldn't find a keeper.

     One guy couldn't seem to remember if his name was Phil or Randy. Not a keeper.

     Another one confessed that he'd had every single hair on his body removed by means of electrolysis. Not a keeper.

     And there was the accountant who phoned me to say that I was too boring for him. Definitely not a keeper.

     I was about to give up when I met a nice, nearly normal, nice guy. We started going out. He loved music, live music. We went to a lot of concerts: jazz, Latin, blues, rock, you name it. At these events, people would always get up and dance.  "We want to do that, too." we thought. "We want to dance."

     The two of us signed up for group dance lessons. The first night, while waiting in the studio, I glanced at the registration table and then immediately turned back. "Don't look now," My voice was low. "But there's my ex-husband and his lovely fiance." They must have been there to practice their first dance as husband and wife. Oh, God.

     In my mind, this could only go one of two ways: 1. During the group lesson, the instructor shouts, "Everyone change partners!" and I end up in an unwanted tango embrace with my ex. Or 2. I flee the building immediately.

     "Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What're we going to do?" I was panicked.

     Without so much as a peek at the registration table, my nice, nearly normal, nice guy replied," I don't know about them, but I' came with you to dance with you, and that's what we're going to do."

     I'd found my keeper.

   

When In Drought, Squeeze Every Drop Out: 4 Water Saving Tips

Why?

Gov. Brown declared a drought disaster in California, (like it makes any difference, but it’s nice that he’s noticed), so now we’ve got to reduce our water usage by 20 percent. That’s a lot of percentage points, but if you’ve seen Folsom Lake or Oroville lately, well, we’ve got to think beyond the tired, old water-wise advice.

Wash full loads of clothes?  Repair leaky pipes?  Turn off the faucet while brushing your dentures? Amateur advice!

No Mo H2O

As a public service, I present to you four never-before-reveled tips to really save some water: 

• Replace your dog, cat or gerbil with a camel. Sorry, Fido. Sorry, Muffin. Sorry, Itchy. But you gulp down way too much H2O. A cuddly camel can not only go for weeks without water, but it also comes with its own water supply for your next shower.

• Cut in half the water level in those fancy aquariums that are de rigueur in every dentist’s waiting room. Why should salmon be the only fish that have to struggle upstream and die in less than a teaspoon of water? Your precious tetras and koi can just swim in the shallow end of the tank.

• Shower only once in your lifetime. That’s right. One time. Make it the day before your wedding like they did in the olden days. The good folks of the middle ages followed this practice, and they managed to repopulate the earth after the plague wiped out half of Europe. And as a bonus for you married folks: You don’t have to worry about a cheating spouse. Who’d want to get busy with old Stinky Pits over there?

• Pile your dishes, clothes, kids, and pet camel into the back of your pick-up truck and run the whole mess through the car wash. The average drive-through car wash uses 15 gallons of water. The average dish washer uses 6, and the average washing machine uses 25. A 10-minute camel wash uses 20 gallons. According to my calculations (and I took one semester of accounting 40 years ago), that’ll save you 51 gallons of water.  

Absurd times call for absurd measures. And what’s really absurd is that we have no say whatsoever in how wasteful the agricultural industrial complex is. 

No Love in the Kitchen This Christmas

Oh, No! I'm about the be chopped!

Forget the violence of video games, the viciousness of cyber comments, or just good old-fashioned war, oppression and mass murder. For real mayhem, tune into a television cooking show sometime. Now that’s brutality!



Cupcake Wars, Kitchen Crashers, Chopped, Cutthroat Kitchen and Hell’s Kitchen, these are cooking competitions to rival a cage fight. Chefs brawl, trash-talk, and vow to crush their cooking opponents.

Now that they’ve added Dinner Party Wars (no joke!), I feel compelled to speak out against such hostility during this, the most peace-filled, time of year and post the following homage to the holiday classic.

‘Twas the night before Food Wars,

And all through the house,

Not a Top Chef was pleasant, acting more like a louse.

The sharp blades were hung by the braised hens a-sneer,

In hopes that Miss Julia* soon would strike fear.

The rivals stood seething all sure they’d smack dread,

While visions of beat-downs danced in their head.

And Rachael’s just-folks, and Guy won’t shut up,
They all settled in for a shreddin’. Whassup!

More angry than Ramsey his minions they came,

And he spewed, and he shouted, and called them vile names:

“Now Dumb Shit, Now Dill Whip, Now Clueless, and Screw Up!

“On Loathsome, On Weakling, On Dim Wit, and Spew Up!

“Win the judge’s top score, win the judge’s top haul,

“Now, clean away, mop away, wipe away, all!”

And giving a nod, downed a bottle of wine.

They sprung to their stove, to their foes gave a finger,

And away they all cooked, staged like Jerry Springer.

But I heard them exclaim, ‘fore they put down their pans.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all tainted spam.

*In order of appearance:

• Julia Childs, renowned and beloved French chef.

• Rachael Ray, super bubbly television cook and kitchenware hustler.

• Guy Fieri, spiky-haired loudmouth of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

• Ramsey Gordon, television cook who verbally and emotionally abuses contestants.

• Jerry Springer, instigator of girl fights and revealer of paternity tests who is the definition of lowbrow television.

 

 

 

All I Can Remember Are the Rats



Three-and-a-half foot pit.

Yeah, sure I’d spent a week in California’s quiet high desert, only a stone’s throw from Mt. Lassen. I’d helped to painstakingly excavate three-and-a-half feet of dirt from an archaeology pit. I’d held in my hand gem-precious artifacts –smooth, cool obsidian points and perfect grinding stones. Awesome to behold.

I’d watched the sky immediately turn from playful white puffs to fearsome kingdom-come storm clouds. I’d listened to birds and bugs zip and buzz across the summer-yellow meadow. I’d discovered that a sage flower is really the sum of its zillion tiny blossoms. The stuff of poetry.

 Yes, I’d heard and seen all of these rare and beautiful things.



There's a rat incisor in my screen!

But now all I can remember are the rats –



common, pervasive, repulsive rats. Carriers of disease. Destroyers of car wiring. Rats skulked around the edges of my life during the week I spent last summer on an archaeology dig in Mapes Cow Camp near Susanville.

Unit #1, where I worked, was a beast, the energizer bunny of archaeology pits. All week it produced fine obsidian pieces, grinding rocks, and nice ranch-era metal, buttons and buckles.

Then weird things happened. Way down in the pit, beyond the turn of the last century, bits of plastic showed up. After some head-scratching, we determined that the plastic had been dragged down there by rats who’d created a little rodent love nest, which was confirmed when we found a yellowed rat tooth. Yuck.

And then, on my final day in Mapes, hot, tired, filthy, ready to head home, my car wouldn’t start, the victim of a rat invasion. Yeah, nice. They’d chewed at the insulation around hoses and wires, and even left behind their mobile nest on a ledge beneath my battery.

Hey, rats, way to ruin my romantic-high-desert-wind-swept-bigger-than-life notion of archaeology.

It's not all glamour out there.

What struck me about that week is that rats have always been among us. They refuse to live quiet, secluded life, but choose to skulk near human populations, making our lives a misery. And we’ve always battled them. We poison them, trap them, chop them in half with shovels, sic dogs on them, and puncture their eardrums with sound waves, but they live on and on and on nerve-damaged and deaf.

Why don’t more pleasant species, like butterflies or the polar bear, have the survival skills of these vermin? Why indeed. Read on.

 Rat facts that will make your lip curl in disgust:

·         They’re, of course, responsible for the plague and a number of deadly fevers.

·        They’ll eat grain, macaroni, pizza, scrambled eggs and their own feces for nutrition. Yes, their own feces!

·        They can survive a flush down the toilet and three days treading water.

·        They reproduce like the Brady Bunch and can pop out 2,000 rats each year.

Why, as a society, we’ve tried to make peace with rats by making them loveable is beyond me.

·         Mickey Mouse will slap you with a lawsuit if you as much as appliqué his image on a kitchen hand towel.

·         3 Blind Mice just play on our sympathy.

·         Tom and Jerry’s chases, poisonings, and head slams are adorable.

There’s really not a moral in here somewhere. Being sneaky and destructive pays, just look at Wall Street. Eeekk!