Call Me a Cab. I Can't Drive

I watched World’s Most Deadly Roads the other night on TV. These three American truckers arrive in India to test their behind-the-wheel wits against insanely narrow, one-way Himalayan roads. They’re overloaded with either leaky cans of jet fuel or scary-precious Buddha statues. I’m terrified and envious as they avoid head-ons and mile-high drop offs. It’s crazy.

These drivers are American-made, with American-sized trucker skills and swagger. They’re amazing.

I’m American made, too. But my driving skills could only be described as amazing, if you put finger quotes around the word, “amazing.” And then winked.
Everyone from Mr. Magoo to my 90-year-old father believes he’s a good driver, so I may be the only person in the world who’ll implore,

Call me a cab. I can’t drive!

After years of jumped curbs and misjudged parking spaces, I realized that I’m terrible behind the wheel. My van is so scratched and dented it looks like a Hurt Locker test vehicle.

Others have shared their not-so-flattering opinion of my skill. The first unsolicited comment came about 10 years ago. With my young son in the family wagon, I tried numerous times to pull into a tiny space in front of a barber shop -- in full view of a bunch of guys. After what felt like hours of blood, sweat and curses, I was happy with my success. Never mind we had to use the hatch back to climb out.

On the walk from the car, an older gentleman who witnessed my moves, yelled out,

Hey, lady! That’s the worst parking job I’ve ever seen!

And then he sniggered. I felt deflated, especially after I had just congratulated myself on a job well done.

The brutal truth of that man’s comment made me realize I don’t have the driving or parking chops to so much as offer advice to others on the road. Most likely, my parentage, my mental state and the source of my driver’s license are questioned.

I know these questions aren’t posed by inquiring minds. They’re angry because I just cut off someone during rush hour traffic or slowed to a crawl to read a road sign.

So when I say, “Call me a cab. I can’t drive,” it’s not because I’m a tipsy driver. It’s because I’m a terrible driver.

10 Ways I've Turned Into My Teenage Son

I’ve reached that “certain age,” the one in which my female body and brain have morphed into someone else, someone who is a flabbier, more dull-witted facsimile of my former fabulous self.

Right along with me, my son has also reached a “certain age,” one in which his male body and brain have changed.

During this period of transformation, nature has converged in a way that makes my 19-year-old and I closer in more ways than either of us would like to admit.
1. Facial Hair
He’s sprouted whiskers on his chin.
I pluck my upper lip.
2. Voice
His is that of a man now.
I’m mistaken for James Earl Jones when I answer the phone.
3. Sleep Habits
He’s up until 3 a.m.
I awaken during the wee hours and toss restlessly.
4. Fuzzy Thinking
He can’t figure out how to feed the dog and flush the toilet within the same four-hour period of time.
I can’t figure out how to cook and photo text my culinary creations at the same time.
5. Weight Gain
He’s grown into a handsome, well-muscled young man, as nature intended.
My gut and caboose have grown into unwanted and unattractive lumps as a joke played by nature.
6. Blemishes
Hormones have caused his skin to sprout the occasional blemish.
Hormones have caused my skin to sprout numerous brown spots.
7. Poor driving habits
He whizzes around corners and rolls through stop signs with wild abandon.
I cut off vehicles and straddle two parking spaces with the eyesight of a “mature” woman.
8. Desire for independence
He dreams of moving into his own place and making his own decisions.
I dream of moving to a tropical island and letting someone else figure things out.
9. Piques of anger
He gets frustrated and angry at navigating the world of auto insurance, college grant applications and IKEA assembly instructions.
I get frustrated and angry at the cost of auto insurance, that we can never seem to be poor enough to qualify for the really big grants and that Scandinavian symbology isn’t as easy as the Swedes think it is.
10. Likes Girls
He loves the opposite sex, and would rather be with his girlfriend.
I, too, would rather spend time with my girlfriends.

Whiskey and Smokes Are Comforting Constants

The coughing woke me up, probably due to the 40 buckets of dust I’d ingested the day before, but it was the urge to pee that kept me awake.

Heeding the call would mean I’d have to climb out of my cocoon of sleeping bags and blankets to stumble through a nighttime obstacle course of fire pits, picnic tables and tent stakes. I wasn’t sure which level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs would win out.

The travel alarm’s bleak news that I had at least four more hours until sun-up was the deciding factor.

Bears and Booze Occupy One's Mind
Thoughts about the coming day occupied my mind as I gingerly picked my way to the facilities, ever watchful for lions, tigers and bears (oh, my).

Today would probably be much like yesterday: Hours of meticulous digging, one trowel at a time, one bucket at a time, one screen at a time -- searching for the tiniest of evidence that this was the archaeological site of a 160-year-old liquor store set up along one of California’s emigrant trails.

Sorry to Disappoint, But . . .
Listen, if you expect me to be out on a dig for the Holy Grail, I’ll need a little help here. Do you have any idea what it would cost to finance such an adventure?

Meanwhile, Back Along the Emigrant Trail
An establishment set up for the sole purpose of selling booze and tobacco to weary travelers in California’s high Sierra doesn’t sound very romantic, but it’s all about perspective, my friend. When you love history, when you thrill at the sight of a rusty ox shoe, when you believe that the next shovelful of dirt will uncover the corroded box containing the bar-keeps diary, well, that’s romance at its best.

It’s all about possibility.

Romance, Schmomance. How’d I Get Here?
This was my third year as a volunteer archaeologist, specially trained in the fine art of shovel-n-bucket operation. About 25 other volunteers and I were here to help with archaeological research being conducted by the U.S. Forest Service. I’d wager to say that most of us have our own personal motives for a week of hard labor. Mine is to feed my need (remember Maslow?) to be a part of something bigger than my own small, everyday world.

Lynette, Girl Archaeologist, connects me to the string of time. Wow. Cosmic, man.

Anyway, Back At the Saloon
In the three years of uncovering the dig site, we’d found evidence of a “grog shop,” a temporary, crude structure set up to take advantage of fulfilling emigrant’s comfort needs (remember Maslow?). Bottle fragments, tobacco pipe pieces, coins, wagon bits n pieces, nails. It was all there, like puzzle pieces. They fit together to tell this story of daring, danger and the desire of humans who will endure all kinds of hardship in search of something better.

Some Things Never Change
Part of the story is that some things never change. One thousand years ago, 160 years ago, last week—humans have had a need for whiskey and smokes. Once the wagons are circled, the horses watered, the apples fried up, and the kids prayers done with, Maslow whispers in your ear: It’s time for whiskey and smokes.

These are the some of the constants that comfort us, found along the string of time.

Bloated and Stiff: Yoga Poses for the Rest of Us

It’s been a while since I last yoga-ed in public. I usually clear the living room before I groan along to a do-it-yourself DVD. Since I prefer to suffer in solitude, I haven’t been in the presence of too many real live yoga types.

Maybe that’s why it struck me one warm summer morning while engaged in 90 minutes of Yoga in the Park – yoga aficionados are an awful lot alike. Mostly women, they’re very thin, tall, lithe, and humorless. For obvious reasons, I don’t relate.

It’s a Zoo Out There
As we made our way through the animal kingdom – from the ubiquitous downward dog, to the cat, camel, dolphin and finally the dead bug, I cleared my mind. Instead of thinking about peace and tranquility, though, I imagined yoga poses for the non-spiritual and rigid among us.

The Flaming A-Hole
This pose is dedicated to all of the sanctimonious dill-weeds out there with whom we’ve had romantic liaisons, the ones who’ve quietly “moved on” and “wish us well.” Harrumph and bad karma, is all I have to say.

The Shredded Groin
Look out aging hippy pony-tail man! The Shredded Groin will take you low the instant that sensuous, serious cutie instructor walks by.

The Lumpy Leotard
Ladies, three kids and 50 years are difficult to hide in a yoga-tard. This pose will have you fold your arms over and press hard into your well-earned belly.

The Crusty Toenail
Let’s all agree to either wear socks or clean up the feet. As you bend yourself downward, take out your organic, hemp-woven emery board and begin exfoliation.

The Offensive Gas
It’s happened to the most controlled sphincter – a gas leak. Prevention is the best medicine when this pose sneaks up on you. Avoid cabbage, beans and oily Thai food 24 hours before each session.

I wish you peace, enlightenment and a great bod.

Namaste!

Photo credit: my son, Will

Dear God--Won't You Facebook Friend Me?

Why so elusive, god? You don’t e-mail, call, text, tweet, Skype, or friend me on Facebook. You’re all knowing, yet your messages are shrouded in mystery. On the rare occasion you do reach out, your point is oblique: a burning bush, a flood, plagues? Huh?

I understand that was back in the day. But nowadays, it’s even worse. Every once in a while, the National Inquirer reports that your likeness has shown up on a potato chip or on a tree trunk. What am I supposed to do with that?

What with social media, you really have no excuses. Most of us post the daily details of our lives on Facebook and in our blogs (ahem). But not you. No messages, no favorites, no photos, no farmville. I guess you’re busy, but how about a clear warning of impending doom? A simply stated e-mail message on August 28, 2005, would have been helpful.

To: New Orleans
From: The Almighty
Get out now, and take as much stuff with you as you can. A huge hurricane is coming on August 29, and your house will be full of water soon.

As a church-going Lutheran kid, I’d often ask why god let kids starve and why I didn’t get an answer to prayers.

A patient pastor or weary parent explained that god works in “mysterious ways,” ways I couldn’t possibly understand. And if I didn’t get a verbal reply from god, the answer was No.

Really? Is that all you’ve got?

I’m going to friend you on Facebook. It’s the most popular social medium for older, ahem, entities.

If I don’t hear back, I guess your answer is No.

Help! My Mind is Controlled by Vampires

It should have been just another breathtaking day in the Olympic rain forest. You better love the color green up here in the Pacific Northwest. Emerald glimmers around every bend and poses spectacularly on every hillside.

The air is so thick, grey-green moss thrives on nothing more than humidity and floating nutrients. Delicate, flowing robes of this Bryophyte drape branch, bush and bramble. And phone booth.

Hiking past misty waterfalls and along shadowed forest trails was the only thing on my agenda this day. So how’d I end up in Forks, Washington?

Where the Hell is Forks?
If you’re not one of the 3 billion teen girls and their loopy mothers who’ve gushed over Twilight Eclipse, Forks is the town in which the vampire book and movie series takes place. Tourists come here from out-of-town, out-of-state and out-of-country in search vampires.

Vampires aren’t real, so I’m told, but Forks is.

Half-way between nowhere and beyond the outer limits, this small of town of several thousand residents spreads unimpressively across the two lanes of Highway 101. The grange, a high school, a muffler shop, the shady acres trailer park, and a grocery sit back behind gravel-strewn parking lots. Faded structures too new to be quaint and too old to be vain are typical Forks.

A Fool and His Money Are Soon Parted
Not at all typical is that every enterprising citizen of Forks is cashing in on the vampire love-a-thon taking place in their very own backyard. Their motel offers a Twilight Zone suite, the coffee shop sells Bella brews, and a roadside stand hawks Twilight firewood for soft-headed, vampire-obsessed campers.

Because I’m continually baffled by the insatiable vampire craze (see my previous blog entry), I was astonished to have innocently stumbled onto Forks, the worldwide vampire epicenter.

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Human
My mother told me vampires aren’t real. She said they’re imaginary, a figment, an allegory for forbidden love—if you know what I mean. These pale-skinned, brooding creatures are known to possess both superior physical prowess and superior minds.

I thought I was on vacation. I thought I wanted to see the only bone fide rain forest in the 48 contiguous states. I thought I was drawn to this unique place because of its natural beauty.

I’m beginning to wonder now. Did vampires make me believe my travels to the Pacific Northwest were that simple?

What’s next? Fairies, leprechauns and unicorns? I think it may be time to book a trip to Ireland.

SUBJECT: Don’t Ask Me to Save the World. I Can’t Handle the Pressure.

TO: Sender of E-mail
FROM: Keeper of the Universe (that’s me, apparently)

Sweet poetry and guurl power mantras, even squirrels nursing pit bulls. These messages and photos arrive by e-mail on a regular basis.

Love Watermelon Hat, But . . .
Don’t get me wrong. I love receiving them and laugh or go all gooshy upon reading each one. So please continue sending the e-mail, Mom.

What I cringe at and can’t handle is the directive that I forward them on to my friends -- or enemies who need a swift kick in their dark souls.

Instructions to forward, say, a prayer to the dolphins or maybe a kid wearing a watermelon hat also inform me of the effect my action will have.

Sometimes the simple act of forwarding an e-mail will have a positive effect on my karma. Other times, pushing send can mean the difference between world peace and immediate annihilation.

This is me, here, folks. I’m a little unreliable. You should know better than to place such responsibility on my weak and sloping shoulders.

Here’s How It All Goes Down
And it gets worse. I’m told the more friends I forward the miracle of the two-legged dog to, the greater the outcome.

For example:
1 forward = A nice day for my dog Hunter.
2 forwards = Food and water for my dog and my neighbor’s cat--that keeps crapping in my azalea bush, by the way.
3 forwards = A shelter pet will find a loving home within the hour.

And so on, until we reach the magic number 10.

10 forwards = The evil, mocking hyena on those Prey & Predator PBS specials won’t catch the sweet, wobbly-legged newborn antelope.

I really do want to help out the world. I don’t have anything against animals, children, clean water, a soaring stock market, an end to hunger, or finding a way to stop Mel Gibson from opening his mouth.

I’ve Got a Personal Problem and a Solution
My problem is two-fold:
1. I run out of time. I generally read the e-mail long after the time limit has passed and believe the Tibetan monks will have to carry on their struggle to repair that amazing 1,000-year-old rock monastery without me.
2. I don’t have 10 friends. I’m not very popular. What can I say?

Solution Involves You, Dear Reader
Please forward this blog to 10 of your friends, and ask them to be my friend. If you do, you’ll lose 10 pounds, re- grow hair, become fluent in Italian, and prevent the melting of the polar ice caps.

It’s all up to you.

Sometimes a Dead Mouse Falls from the Ceiling: A Morality Tale

We mapped out three places to vacation, first stop being Washington’s Olympic Peninsula.

We secured lodging and decided on one must-do hike.

Other than that, we weren’t quite sure what we’d find along the way. We’re not exactly the great explorers of the 15th century, but we’re not ready for the AARP bus tour either.

Our first night found us in Port Angeles, WA, driving a rented SUV and hungry for seafood.

Spoiler Alert: If you’re ever in this port town and want delicious calamari, DO NOT EAT at Smuggler’s Landing.

A two-story warehouse restaurant on the waterfront looked local, good and cheap. Inside, the place was dark, dead quiet and empty – like maybe all of the customers were tied up in a back room. Dining tables and a blaring ESPN called us upstairs.

On tip-toes, we half-expected to find a crazed waiter waving a gun. Instead, a thump from directly behind, made me whirl and clutch my chest. There on the floor was a twitching, writhing mouse – fallen from the ceiling tiles.

A nerve-damaged rodent isn’t exactly a ringing restaurant endorsement – especially two feet from the kitchen.

I couldn’t help but wonder if all the customers had suffered the same fate –poisoned and tossed to the floor.

A waiter beckoned, but providence directed us away from certain food-borne illness and across the street to another place we’d rejected as too much of a Denny’s look alike.

Turns out, the Port Angeles Crab Shack was perfect: beautiful views, good food, local wine, and not a rat in sight.

Moral: Just try things and if they don’t work out, try something else. But for god’s sake, don’t just lie there and twitch.

Advice to Nouveau Poor . . . From Old Poverty

Huge investment returns. The home value explosion. Outrageous profit sharing.

I never cashed in on any of these, never had wealth, not even in boom times. My lifestyle (if that’s what you call a 10-year-old minivan and a trip to Target) hasn’t changed much over the decades.

But I’m one of the lucky ones. You see, I’m Old Poverty, and I have wisdom accumulated from years of hardship. Wisdom and advice I’m willing to share with those of you who find yourselves among the Nouveau Poor.

You sorry bastards: I’ve watched as you struggle to adjust downward. From multi-million dollar homes, sexy business deals and Cristal sipped from the bellies of super-models, you’ve been reduced to the suburbs, haggling at flea markets and gulping domestic beer.

Forget those tired money-saving tips--from dropping your latte habit to clipping coupons. Here are some fresh ideas to help you make ends meet.

Colonoscopy as Spa Treatment
At a certain age, your doctor will order a colonoscopy. Don’t dread it, love it. It’s really a lovely spa treatment paid for by your insurance premiums. You’ll begin the treatment bloated and tired, but emerge cleansed and relaxed. Nice.

Embrace the Inside-Out Look
Why limit yourself to showing only one side of your clothes? Here’s a cool and exciting angle—the other side. This turned-inside-out, two-fer trend saves money on clothes purchases and on laundry soap. Cha-ching.

DIY Dentistry
You can’t always count on insurance to pay for everything, like removing spare organs you might want to sell for quick cash. But you can jump on the DIY, or Do-It-Yourself, craze and perform your own expensive dental procedures at home, for FREE.

Don’t Call it (yawn) a Staycation. Call it a Faux Mexican Holiday.
A little imagination, a lot of iced-cold margaritas, perhaps a quick hit off of your sister-in-law’s medical mary-ja-wanna, and you’re sailing your way down to sunny Meheco. Add a hot, shade-less backyard, a lawn chair and a straw hat. Hola, Senor Vacation.

Your ticket to paradise begins here.

Put a Stake in It: Vampire Trend Just Won’t Die

Just when I thought America’s appetite for vampire blood had finally been satiated, along comes a new summer TV program, The Gates. It’s a show about vampires living in a gated community.

Played-out blood sucking subject aside, why would vampires feel the need to live in a safe and secure neighborhood anyway? It’s as backward as Tony Soprano refusing to remove his mattress tag for fear of jail time.

Maybe this new breed of gated vampires:
• Fear undesirables will break in and steal their organ music CD mix.
• Believe non-vampires won’t comply with CC&Rs forbidding garlic in household herb gardens.
• Worry that regular mortals will become suspicious when they celebrate another 225th birthday with a bounce-house party.

Many Americans are fascinated with vampires. I’m just puzzled at their staying power.

Here’s why I’d never make a good vampire:
• I’m damnably cheerful when it’s sunny.
• Collared capes don’t flatter my body type.
• I just spent thousands on painful orthodontic work, and I’m loath to waste it.
• UFC needs the blood more than I do.

My Grocer Knows More About Me Than the Feds Do

In a moment of subversive weakness, I filled in the "I am of Hawaiian descent" bubble on my census form. Once my little fib was in the mail and irretrievably on its way to D.C., I panicked and instructed my son to answer the door with a lilting "Aloha" if a census worker ever made a follow-up visit.

I have at least two friends who railed against filling out their census forms because of privacy issues, and there have been reports of violence against census workers.

Despite living in a world of Facebook, blogs and reality TV, some folks just don't want the government to know what they're up to. I really don't blame them, but . . .

Got news for you.

Safeway knows more about you than Uncle Sam ever will.

At the end of my last grocery transaction, the clerk handed me a receipt and a string of coupons.

I sheepishly accepted dollars-off for wine, hot pockets and hair coloring -- items I'd recently purchased. Apparently, Safeway knows me as a bleach blond booze-hound.

Long before black helicopters descend on my front lawn, Safeway's marketing team will text me: "Go w med blnd nxt time :)".