Category: where I come from

I’m just an ol’ fashioned girl

Sort of, anyway.

I mean, over the weekend, in fact, last night, I had occasion to make dinner for my husband. I admit, there is something so *deeply* satisfying to cook for my man, and even more so when he took a first bite and made a yummy noise. Gets right to the heart of me!

Ok, so here’s another way I may be a bit stodgy. Ladies, listen in here… The weekend just past was Labor Day.

And we all know what that means, right?

Of course, no wearing white after Labor Day. We can wear it again come Easter.

There, I said it. I know, I know, that rule is out of date and there is such a thing as “winter white” and so on.

To me, this rule really applies to two items of clothing…pants and shoes.

A nice crisp white blouse with darker pants is fine.

But pair that with white shoes? *gasp*

My mother, who was, in her day, quite fashionable (don’t scoff dear mum, I have the photos to prove it!), taught me the no white after Labor Day rule.

But then she also gave me the handy carve out that, since we lived in New Mexico and the weather stayed warmer in New Mexico than, say, eastern climates, wearing white a little bit longer was acceptable.

But no, I took the rule entirely to heart. Nope, nada, ain’t gonna do it! Back in my college days living in the sorority house, I was one of *those* girls who would point and gasp in horror when one of my sisters dared to sport a pair of white heels in the month of September.

Really rude, I know.

Then again…who wears white heels? Seriously.

I seem to have zero trouble following my own rule because…I don’t own a pair of white pants. Really, there are only a very select group of women in this world who should be allowed to wear white pants. The rest of us can sit out this fashion, trust me.

And I’m pretty sure I don’t own any white shoes either, if you don’t count athletic shoes, which I don’t. (and mine aren’t white anyway)

Pretty much, in my middle years, I’m less and less inclined to get uptight about this rule.

And what kicked off this whole train of thought was an article in Time discussing the origin of the rule. Turns out the history is a bit fuzzy.

Ah well.

Really, in fashion, to each their own, right?

(I’m looking at you, Lady Gaga)

Saaaaaalaute!

So, there I was today, in bumper to bumper traffic, trying to get to work.

The Bay Bridge is closed this weekend for construction, so the traffic patterns in the Bay Area have gone all wonky.

My usual peaceful, easy commute was jammed up. Fine. A fact of life in a highly populated area.

As you may or may not know, in California, it’s legal for motorcycle riders to “split the lanes”, meaning, they can ride in that space between two cars, side by side in their respective lanes.

It took me quite some time to get used to this, but now, especially in a traffic slowdown, I’m quite alert. As a car driver it’s always best to stay the course when a motorcycle comes whipping down between lanes.

This morning, as I sat, fully stopped, I watched the usual parade of motorcycles split the lanes. A Harley rumbled by. A really sweet BMW bike glided through. A couple of those very speedy Japanese bikes that force the rider to stick his rear up (doesn’t seem right to go a 100mph with your ass higher than you head, but what do I know?).

And then, in my rearview, I saw this patchwork bike come wobbling along, looking like something out of the Road Warrior films.

Apparently mismatched parts had been collected from the junk pile. The thin tires looked better suited to off road than asphalt. The fender didn’t match the bumper. It made a sound like a monkey wrench caught in the spin cycle.

But the rider sat tall in the saddle. He was decked in leathers and fully in command of his vehicle, proudly guiding his bike through Bay Area traffic.

And as he passed by, I noted the New Mexico license plate bolted firmly to the back.

As he rode away, out of sight, I held hand to my heart and quietly hummed “O Fair New Mexico”.

“O Fair New Mexico, we love, we love you so….”

Thank you, New Mexico, for keeping it rasquache, even here in the Bay Area.

Oh so ready for the Labor Day Weekend. Happy and safe one, ya’ll!

My favorite time of the day…

Growing up in the high desert, I learned a lot about the cycles of the day. Especially the cycles of a good and hot day.

Living at over a mile in elevation, you can expect some really spectacularly hot days. One hundred degrees plus. Burn your leg on a hot seatbelt, sweat out your body weight, run through the sprinklers kind of heat. But you are rewarded at the end of the day by the cool that comes with sundown.

Living in the desert, you can expect some really spectacularly windy days. The kind that knock you down, dump over your trashcan and send it a mile away, tip patio furniture and blows the shingles off the roof. But you are rewarded at the end of the day by the calm that comes with sundown.

And you are rewarded, at the end of the day, by the fantastic pink melon and deep blue and yellow and purple and red colors that come with sundown in a dusty climate.

Where I come from, sunset is a show. It’s cooling and it’s calming and it’s a fine time to pour a glass of sun tea over ice and sit in a lawn chair and slap at mosquitoes and smile and remember just how great the summertime really is.

Today was a pretty hot day in the Bay Area. Not New Mexico hot, only in the low 90’s. But add a dash of humidity and it was a bit of a broiler.

There was an kerfuffle at a factory near where I work, so we were instructed not to go into work. Today I got to sit in my little rental home and watch the cycle of this day.

The morning was nice, clear, warm, but pleasant. Birds chattered at each other as they stole figs from our tree.

Noontime brought the heat. And the birds and animals sought cover. The Feline laid flat on the floor, making sure no limb touched any other limb.

By 3:00, it was oppressive.

By the time The Good Man got home from work, it was really pretty disgusting. A haze hung in the air with a lingering shimmering heat.

But…now it’s just past seven, and the sun is setting. The day is cooling.

That nasty haze is converting the sky from gacky gray to a pinkish blue.

Sundown hasn’t let me down yet.

(Unless you live in Phoenix. That place never cools off.)

Image removed at the request of the photographer, Glenn Hohnstreiter. You can view it on his webpage. Go take a look. You’ll be glad you did.


The Right Way. The Wrong Way. And my way.

I was raised by rather practical parents. No sissy girls in their house, no. We were up on the roof painting kid of girls. We were change the oil in the car girls. Yes. Self-sufficient, and often creative when it came to fixing troublesome issues.

If you’re country folk, the term “bailing wire and duct tape” is familiar to you. The concept being, with those two items, you can fix anything…MacGyver style.

I’m pretty proud of my redneck ways. Or as my Hispanic friends would call it, rasquache.

I pondered this again this morning as I admired my entomological prevention handiwork.

See, The Good Man and I are convinced our (rental) residence is, essentially, built on an anthill. Not mean like fire ant or anything. No, the annoying little black ants that I talked about in this post. (The Good Man has become a LOT less Zen about them, btw)

Their main port of entry is the kitchen, and since we’re not eager to spread poison around the same place where we prepare food, we’ve been trying a variety of natural remedies (most discovered through research on the interwebs).

So far, the application of soapy water works best. Kills ’em on the spot. But doesn’t really do much to prevent them. For that we try an orange oil product made for ants. It works…for a bit. But they come back, laughing.

Most sites I read said, “you have to find where they are coming in and seal that off.”

Trouble is, we live in an almost seventy year old house placed precariously on a hill in earthquake country, so there are lots of gaps and cracks and crevices those little sonsabitches can exploit.

So in the heat of battle one day, frustrated and exasperated, I reverted to my “duct tape and bailing wire” days and got out the masking tape.

Everywhere it looked like they were coming in was slapped over with tape. TGM kind of laughed at me. He was like “oooookay”.

But you know what? It worked. It didn’t *look* good, but we were without ants for quite sometime. Oh sweet relief!

We left the tape up for a while, then took it back down.

As those ants are wont to do, they found a new port of call in a new area, and began streaming in again. We applied soapy water and orange oil and fought the battle.

While going hand to six-legged combat, TGM said, “I’m going to spray this down with orange oil and then you do your masking tape thing, ok?”

And I did.

And, for the past couple weeks…ant free.

We harbor no illusions that we’re free of them. I’m sure they are just tormenting the neighbor right now (it’s a duplex).

They’ll be back. And we’ll be waiting with a good squirt of orange oil and a fresh roll of masking tape.

“TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!” (click if you don’t know the movie reference)