Category: pondering

Not sharp enough to know I was supposed to be humiliated

Ok, so I thought this was an odd title for an online article:

“How not to feel humiliated when dining alone”

Um. Why would I? I rather enjoy eating out alone.

Given the photo of the sad lonely brunette (she HAD to be a brunette, right?) that accompanies the article, I think reading between the lines, the title of the article is more like:

“You sad lonely dried up old maid. How terrible that you have to eat alone.”

Because *clearly* the target audience for this story isn’t guys. I don’t know that most guys would feel humiliated dining alone. They’d pull up a chair to the bar, order a beer and dive in. Isn’t all this fuss and kerfuffle a girl thing?

The story goes on to offer several suggestions for how that lonely gal can make it through such a harrowing experience as having to dine alone like reading a book or staring into her mobile device.

Please. Eating out alone is great. You don’t have to share your dessert, you can drink too many glasses of wine if you want, and you can burp at the table. What’s not to love about this experience?

And oh the people watching. So much to take in!

Plus, plenty of couples look miserable dining together. But they are not “humiliated” because they are not alone, so it’s ok? Bah!

I guess I sort of thought we were past the days when someone eating alone in a restaurant was a weird thing. So many people travel for business or just choose to spend time alone. In my book this is no longer odd.

And the conventional wisdom used to be that as a solo diner the wait staff wouldn’t serve you as well (one person means smaller tab means smaller tip) but I have found the opposite to be true. I think wait staff rather enjoy the ease of just one person at the table. No question where the entrée goes!

I’ve not ever felt slighted or mistreated when dining alone. It works just fine.

Sure, I’d rather have The Good Man there because, mainly, he makes any thing I do a lot more fun (he could make going to the dentist for a root canal a worthwhile adventure!). But if I’m away from him and I’m hungry, well, a girl’s gotta eat!

Honestly most of my girlfriends are the same way. Eating alone in a restaurant is no biggie.

Most girls half my age are twice as bold as me, so I don’t think they have issues either.

Who is this story really aimed at? As I read the comments, most of the ladies chiming in seem to agree with my point of view on this.

And seems most agree that the title of the article is just plain terrible.

I guess my message to the author is to simply quote the comment left by a reader named Melissa:

“Thanks for bashing my confidence in eating alone. I guess now when I take myself out to lunch to be awesome I have to feel HUMILIATED instead.”

So there!

Top Five Tough Jobs Made Doubly Sucky In This Storm

The wind is howling (tornado warnings in San Jose) and we’re getting 1-2 inches of rain each day and it’s *cold*.

In other words, it’s winter in the Bay Area.

During a brief break in the storm, I headed out today to run a couple errands.

While out and about I saw a CalTrans guy (called the highway department to the rest of the world) in full head to toe bright yellow heavy weather gear.

He was out there yanking leaves and branches out of the storm drains.

See, here in the Bay Area, we feature a lot of eucalyptus trees. They have these tree trunks that peel off long strips. We also have plenty of palm trees that will drop a huge frond at the slightest breeze.

Add some pine needles from all the redwoods, a heap of your garden variety debris, and you got yourself clogged storm drains that then back water up onto the streets. Hello flooding!

As I watched the guy wade into rushing water and pull out another tree branch, I thought…now that’s a sucky gig!

Further down the road I saw the trash guy doing his job, also wearing full bright yellow storm gear against the rain.

And I thought, wow, also sucky.

So I mentally put together my list…top five jobs that are already very tough to do, but are made, like, eleventy billion times worse in this crazy storm.

Here we go:

1. As mentioned…CalTrans employee. Especially the people who work out on the major highways unclogging drains, placing pylons around huge potholes, trying to drain flooded low spots on the highway, etc. You get the idea. Ugh.

2. Trash collector. Look, on a good day this is a rough gig. Now put stinky trash in the rain and with flooded roads and people not driving safely and hoo boy, isn’t THAT a nice day at work?

3. PG&E field response. Yeah, when the power goes out due to high winds, these are the people that strap on, once again, the bright yellow high weather gear. Then they get to climb a frapping ladder and hope that one, they don’t fall off, and two, that all the water doesn’t conduct a little extra electricity their way. And the yo-yo’s in all the warm houses get all pissed off when they have no power, so there’s some abuse in this job too. Truly, a thankless gig.

4. Bridge toll taker. Ok, so there you are in the storm of the year, inside a box roughly as big as an old fashioned phone booth attached to a suspension bridge that is engineered to sway. Riiight. The bridge is swaying there over the frosty waters of this inlet from the Pacific with no wind break. And oh by the way, you have to leave that big window open on the tool booth and reach your hand out there once every half minute to take money out of people’s hands. No freaking thank you.

Finally, bar none…

5. Tow truck driver. Sure, this weather makes them a lot of money, but they also have to deal with all manner of idiots. Ever hear of a “solo spin out”? I hadn’t until I moved here. This means one person losing control of their car and whipping around, usually ending up off the pavement (and hopefully not down an embankment).

When it goes right, it’s a “solo” problem. When it doesn’t go right, it’s a horrible, traffic clogging accident. And the tow truck guy has gotta strap on the bright yellow gear and then yank all those cars out of the way while the stopped traffic curses at him, the car owners harass him and the dispatch is calling him begging for his help at another spot.

Gah.

Just, really. Gah.

I can say I’m not man enough for that job. Oh but I love to hear stories from tow truck drivers. Those people have seen some stuff…whoooieee.

Anyhow, as I bunker down with the heat running and a warm cup of tea in hand, here’s a huge thanks to the CalTrans employees, trash collectors, PG&E technicians, toll collectors and tow truck drivers on this crazy blustery day.

Oh, and also the police and fire rescue who are working non-stop in this mess. And the EMT’s in all the emergency rooms, too.

Thank you for doing a mostly thankless job.

(clearly this guy only has to model and never has to use this gear because he is WAY too chipper in that outfit. I’ve never seen a grin like that on someone who really had to use that gear)

Why so glum, chum?

I spent most of the day yesterday feeling blue.

No, not from the frosty wind chilling my face.

Blue as in full out, deep down, all the way to the soles of my feet holiday depression.

This happens every year.

What I can’t seem to work out is why.

I started thinking, sifting through the memories, trying to figure out when the shift occurred.

As a kid, I loved Christmas. Even after I knew the truth about Santa, I still loved the holidays. To me, they were always filled with magic and a quiet happy peace.

My mom loved the Christmas holiday and always did her best to make it a nice time. Dad was always a cranky pants about any holiday, but crankiness aside, he would let the holiday be what it was.

He was never depressed about it, more like uptight over money and not much of a “ho ho ho” kind of guy.

So I can’t say it started as a kid.

In fact, I was all about the holidays all through childhood, into my teen years and through college.

I think, based on my not very scientific analysis of a jumbled brain full of memories, that the holiday blues came on in my twenties.

When I was out of school, living alone in a really wonderful apartment in Albuquerque with a knockout view of the Sandias.

I had a good job with a good check and really, a pretty good life. But I was alone, and the season, for some reason, made me really blue.

I recall, that year, drinking a bottle of not very good wine and laying *under* my Christmas tree. A night spent looking at the lights and trying to muster up some joy.

Sad. It was a great drunk, but it was an alone drunk. And I was depressed again and hungover in the morning. Ugh!

So, ok. One might understand how a lonely twenty something making her way in the world might feel a little down at the holidays.

But that doesn’t explain yesterday.

I then thought about all the bad holidays over the years. The Christmas seasons that weren’t so happy.

Like the December my dad’s lung disease took a turn for the worst, and Mom and I spent Christmas day in the hospital, having to make some really difficult choices.

But The Lazarus Dad recovered that year. Really, it was something of a Christmas miracle.

So, while yes, December often makes me think of that difficult time, I don’t think that is the root of the blues I’m feeling today.

All is well in my little world. I have a wonderful husband who is the best holiday gift I could ever ask for. I have great friends and family. A place to lay my head at night and food to eat. And a rasty feline who makes me laugh.

So what’s the boggle, then?

Maybe now, at age forty, I feel a little blue because December isn’t just the holiday season, but it ushers in the end of another year.

Another year ending where I wonder to myself where all the rest of the days have gone. I wonder what did I do to make the days count?

The end of December has become a time, I suppose, for assessing myself over the year. For grading my performance.

And sadly, every year, I seem to only be able to see where I was lacking. Missed opportunities. Places where if I’d tried a little harder I might have made something really great happen.

Oh, I know, there are a lot of things I did right this year. There are successes that I don’t actually see when I let the dark cloud take over.

This post isn’t a plea for reminders that I’m ok.

This post is more a letter to myself. A report card.

That reminds me all on my own that I’m ok.

Because I am.

But for some reason, every year about this time I have to take the tiger by the tail and ride the very dark ride for a while.

Here we go: whooooooa!

One thing that always cheers me is pictured below. It’s an ornament made by my kindergarten teacher. I couldn’t tell you her name, but I remember the day when she placed a personalized ornament into my grubby little hands.

There was my name! In glitter!

I still have it. It’s looking a little tattered these days, but it holds a place of honor on the tree.

I look at this silky blue ornament with silver glitter and try to remember that kindergarten Karen who still believed that reindeer would bring Santa to my roof.

That somehow he’d slip down the very narrow chimney on our free standing fireplace (remember these babies from the 1970’s?) and leave us lots of toys and goodies.

That the day would start with the smell of mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.

That we could open the gifts in our stockings first, but had to wait a while on presents under the tree.

That Christmas day was full of surprise and wonder and laughter.

If I can remember that kindergarten Karen, I might just be able to pull myself up and out of these blues.

Please have what and mistletoe?

I’m a confirmed child of the West. I’ve lived all my years well to the left of the state of Texas.

As such, that means that these concepts of “winter” and “Christmas” mean a little something different than they do in all the songs I’ve been listening to today.

Yes, I admit, I succumbed to Christmas music today.

Ever since I was a kid, while I did like the ol’ Christmas tunes, I pondered about how many of them didn’t apply. And it’s not just about the weather.

Let’s take a look:

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” Yes. But not here.

It was over 60 degrees today.

“Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh…”

Well. Again. No snow.

No horses dashing around much either.

“Frosty the Snowman.” Nope.

However, there used to be a house in Albuquerque that had a flocked tumbleweed snowman in their yard every year, so this is a maybe…

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”

I don’t even know what the hell that means.

Marshmallows roasting on an open fire? Yes please! With chocolate and graham cracker.

As an aside…to celebrate the anniversary of the day we met, The Good Man took me to stay in a Ritz Carlton Hotel at the beach. It is a beautiful and very high class establishment. One of the features of our room was a fire pit on the back porch, intended, I’m sure, to sit by, stay warm, and gaze romantically at the ocean.

To show just how classy we are, we cooked marshmallows over that fire pit…. One of the best nights of my life!

But I digress.

“Tis the season to be jolly…fa la la la, la la la la…”

Um. Huh? Cuz I’m looking around at all my fellow mankind and I can tell you that “jolly” is *not* what people are feeling this season.

“Fa la la la bite me” is more the mood out there.

“We three king of Orient are, sharing gifts we travel so far…” Well. Ahem. “Orient” isn’t really politically correct these days.

“We three kings of the Pacific Rim” or “We three kings of AsiaPac” is probably more appropriate.

“Silent night, holy night” Hmph. Silent, eh?

Not after I’ve had a couple glasses of holiday cheer. Nope, then it’s snoring night, drooling night. I sure can’t handle the booze anymore…

But when it comes to good old fashioned spiked egg nog, I’m helpless.

So for The Good Man, ain’t no silent.

“Silver bells, it’s Christmastime in the city.”

Ok. Sure. Those Salvation Army guys and gals are working the bells. I’ll give you that one. Check.

We got one.

I won’t EVEN go down the list from the Twelve Days of Christmas.

But if my true love gave me swans, French hens, partridges, milk maids, leaping lords and pretty much any of the items other than the five gold rings, we might have to have a little conversation about “did you keep the receipt.”

And that little drummer boy can take his pah-rumpa-pum-pum up with the judge because I’m calling in a noise complaint!

Which pretty much leaves us with “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.”

Fair enough!

I happen to like New York

This winter, the holiday season, has me profoundly missing New York.

Well sure, you might say, New York in December is beautiful!

And I’m sure you are right.

Only, I’ve not been to New York at the holidays.

I’ve been only once. And it was in May.

So how, you might ask, would you miss a season in a town where you’ve spent the sum total of ten days visiting?

Well.

I’d say, first of all, that maybe normal logic doesn’t apply to me.

But I’d go further.

Last night The Good Man was out at dinner with a friend from out of town, so I was on my own. Chilled to the bone from the freezing rain I went to my local grocer to find something ready-made to warm up (and yes, surprisingly, I wore a jacket on this jaunt. But only because of the rain. Otherwise I would have left it at home.)

I prowled the aisles of ready-made food looking for something to satisfy.

And my eyes landed on pre-packed containers of…

(Oh, my heart flutters just thinking of it)

Matzoh Ball Soup.

Here! In California!

I almost cried, I really did.

I know that I was baptized and raised Catholic, but I honestly believe there is a part of me that is fully Jewish. I’ve thought this for a while. Mainly, because I love Jewish food. Matzoh ball soup is only the beginning.

There is my deep and abiding love for chicken liver. Egads. It’s borderline obsessive.

And let’s talk schmaltz! If someone says something is schmaltzy, I’ll run toward it with a cracker! Delicious!

If it weren’t for that whole keeping meat and dairy separate, I might be kosher. But I need cheddah on my beef tacos, so that ends that.

But back to New York. I *loved* every minute I spent in New York. Every street block has a diner and every diner serves their version of the delicious healing chicken broth over a lump of matzoh-y goodness. Twenty four hours a day.

And I got to the point, after bowl upon bowl of the stuff, that I know my preferences.

Some serve a huge matzoh, some small. I prefer smaller.

Some matzohs are dense, some are lighter and almost fluffy. I like the lighter.

Some broth is heavily salted and with an onion flavor. Some lean toward bland. I like the salty onion infused broth.

Some broth has almost no other veggies included. Some have quite a few. I like no veggies, preferring to enjoy the broth as is.

But you can see, you get all kinds of variations depending on who is doing the cooking.

So as I paid for the soup last night, anticipating the chickeny healing goodness, I knew intuitively that it wouldn’t be good. It wouldn’t be right.

But, it was matzoh ball soup, and that was something.

See, you can look for yourself. It was ok, but it wasn’t right.

What’s with all the carrots!?!?

The matzohs were too big and too dense. I didn’t eat all of them (there were FIVE in the container!), preferring to slurp at the broth instead.

So while it wasn’t perfect, it was close enough to make me content.

Close enough to make me miss New York. I long to be back there, and not just because of the soup. The soup just reminded me.

I remember very clearly, as soon as I set foot on the island, my heart began to beat in time with the rhythm of the city. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.

As Cole Porter famously said (and in this version, Bobby Short sings), I happen to like New York.