The ghost of Sacramento

Fresh off yesterday’s rant, I stopped at the gas station on Alhambra & P and met a ghost.

Not a real ghost, of course, but one of those crazed homeless guys that we’re seeing more of these days. It was hard to tell his age, but he didn’t look all that old. I guessed late 20s, early 30s, but some rough ones. Reddish hair, blue eyes, and skinny. He had an old blanket wrapped around him and that look that tells you something’s just not wired right. He was aggressively panhandling every driver at the station.

He headed toward me. Usually, I don’t give handouts on the street, but I sometimes waver. It’s not a hard and fast rule. If they get in my space, it pisses me off and I’ll usually tell them no. Other times, I give because I just want them to go away and stop bothering me. Sometimes, I’m just in a mood and I give because it just feels so shitty to be standing there in clean clothes with a shiny car and a cozy home. You know?

I pulled a dollar out of my wallet, and then stashed my purse out of sight under my car seat. I got out of the car to start pumping gas, the driver’s side door between me and him. He rapped on the window, holding out his other hand to show me a quarter. And then he just whimpered. I think he may have been trying to speak, but it just came out as wordless whimpering. It killed me. Just killed me.

Someone so lost that they can’t even make words any more?

I handed him a buck, which he took with filthy hands, and I noticed his very long, black-with-filth fingernails. He reeked. He immediately set off for the next car. I pumped gas and watched him do the rounds. Some people gave him change. One woman shouted, quite firmly, ”No. Now go away!”  He was a little threatening, invasive. Feral.

 What can you do for someone like that? It was hard to tell if it was mental illness, a serious drug problem, maybe even just an act. I don’t know. I grabbed a $10 bill out of my wallet. I’m not sure why. A song came out a few years ago, with a guy telling a story about meeting a beggar and not wanting to give him money because he’d just blow it on booze and smokes; then the singer says he realized he’d just blow it on booze and smokes himself, so he gave the guy the money after all. It was kind of like that.

He disappeared before I could give it to him. I circled the block, looking for the guy but didn’t find him. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have had the courage to step out of the car to hand it to him anyway.

What can you do for people like this? Are they beyond all hope? I have no idea. Sometimes I think so, but I don’t like that answer.

Why can’t we have a Stupidity Recession?

**Pottymouth Warning** Read at your own risk.

Seriously. There’s really quite an abundance of stupidity around, in good economic times and bad. So why is it that stupidity never seems to flag, lag, cease, or at least ease off a bit?

I received a “forwarded email” (read: chainletter spam freakout) from a “friend” (read: paranoid person). This chain email was filled with alarming and badly misused language about how “women in Sacramento” are being targeted for robberies by, get this, two “black women.” The perps are apparently packing knives and causing their own little crime wave throughout the city. The letter exclaims that it’s “TRUE!!!” and even KCRA reported it!!!

I hate shit like this. I really do. It seems like I get a forwarded email like this from a well-intentioned friend every six months or so. These emails are all the same: The message is that women need to be fearful. We need to fear going out in broad daylight as much as at night. We need to fear strangers. We need to fear other races. We need to fear each other.

These “claims” of truth are backed up by a link to a single robbery at the Downtown Plaza. None of the other claims in the letter are backed up by any news source. Not one.

Whoever wrote this letter had way too much zoloft that day and is in dire need of remedial English lessons. I’m also pissed at the people who keep circulating this crapola.

If I learned anything in Women’s Studies 101, it’s that we need to reject these faux warnings about what “women should fear” because they’re ultimately intended to “put us in our places”–which apparently for some is still hovering about in the kitchen, safely cooking up brisket for hubby.

I call bullshit.

Some fine examples:

If you don’t have money in your wallet, they still can disrupt your life by stealing your drivers licenses, social security cards, credit cards, and other important info that most women carry in there purses. And your Gucci or coach, or fendi, or other expensive purses that most women have.

Really? Gucci, Coach, Fendi? MOST women have these? Good lord, please don’t take my FENDI! Here, you can take my firstborn, but leave the designer handbag…

Here’s another screamer:

These women have been spotted at Target on Power Inn Road, Wal Mart on Florin, Elk Grove and Natomas, Dee Dee’s on Mack Road and the one on Stockton Blvd. Various food chains and grocery stores. Places that all women like to shop at.

Places that “all women” like to “shop at”? Yes, I consider shopping at Wal Mart a real treat. I usually take my Fendi handbag, stuffed full of my credit cards and spare cash. It’s hard to balance all that weight on my little bound feet, but somehow I manage.

And a personal favorite:

We are living in desperate times, and all kinds of desperate crimes are happening right under our noises.

Well, at least we’re not being quiet about it, apparently.

In the words of Jon Stewart, f**k you, whoever wrote this crap. The biggest crime here  is your felony abuse of spelling, grammar, and common sense.

My Inner Diva Will Not Be Attending Your Soiree

Do you ever just look at yourself in the mirror and wonder how you turned out to be such a misanthrope? I do.

I love the holidays as much as the next person. I’m even enjoying the crisp fall weather, instead of whimpering about it like I usually do every year. But this year, something else is different. As the party invitations start coming in, I find myself screaming “Bah-freaking-humbug” at nearly every one.

In particular, I have been having a violent reaction to any invitation that involves the word “diva.” You know the ones, the invites that offer a women-only party with shopping (!!!), spa treatments (!!!), and other girly crap (!!!).

Blech.

Who are these people? What is this blind devotion to consumerism and faux “pampering”? Is this a version of grown-up dress-up? I don’t want to rush out and buy something couture-y right now (if ever) and go prance around with a bunch of other chicks, trying to keep my tiara in place.

Not only do these events hold no attraction for me (obviously), they also gross me out from a simply practical standpoint. The product pushing. I mean, I realize everyone’s sales are down right now, but is “diva marketing” the way to go? Maybe it works. I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t attended a single one of these wanna-be-elitist-but-I’m-really-just-a-boring-suburban-middleclass-idiot-with-no-life-who-can’t-afford-this-crap-anyway events. (Need I specify they are being held in the ‘burbs? Probably not.)

Can someone call a moratorium on the overuse of the word “diva”? Because I’ve realized that my inner diva is a total bitch who doesn’t want to play with the other girls’ mommies’ dresses. Ya know?

The Graying of Gen-X

It’s so hard to be a Gen-Xer. The sammich generation between the bloated Boomers and the ever-so-hip “Millennials”. The generation that sums up its entire emotive range with whatever. The generation that is essentially considered a nonentity by every pollster and marketeer, but nonetheless brought with us an amazing range of music (hair bands to punk to Morrissey) and was the inspiration for a long string of movies like The Breakfast Club (or better…Heathers).

Not to mention, we whine with the best of ‘em.

Anyway, we’re all getting f*cking old. I ran into a guy from high school, who’s two years younger than me. He’s now managing a bank, balding, what’s left of his hair is gray, and he has (shudders!) a PAUNCH. A freaking middle-aged PAUNCH.

We used to be the cutting-edge ones, the cool kids, the face of a new generation. Now? My compatriots and I are widening at the midsections, fraying at the seams, and sagging a bit more each year. And yet, as has been the case all our lives, our petty concerns are ignored by the self-absorbed older crowd–they’re just worried about their stock investments and their cholesterol counts, and dismissed by the younger crowd–who are too busy doing something techy with their iPods to care.

Oy vey. It’s like my generation hasn’t even fully grown up–and now we’ve started getting OLD?

Ex-Boyfriend Week 2008 (It’s very similar to Shark Week)

It occurs annually and contains the stuff of your worst nightmares…

From my emails, I’m starting to gather that a majority of my readers (hi! love ya!) are female. This is cool with me. And I would love to hear if any of you have experienced this phenomenon. (Tater: Please do not read this post. You’re the bestest boyfriend ever!)

Every year, right about this time, I start getting calls and emails from various and sundry ex-boyfriends. Generally, it’s several over the course of about a week, and it happens with such predictable regularity, I have had to name it. It’s like freaking Halley’s Comet or something, sweeping through, a trail of (relationship) debris in its wake.

Since this year’s Ex-Boyfriend Week is approaching, I have found myself wondering “Who will it be this year?” and reflecting on past years’ Ex-Boyfriend Weeks. A few notable memories:

* The flyboy calls every year, like freaking clockwork. What do you expect from someone in the military, anyway? It’s like he’s sitting there, back in DC, thinking “It’s October…I’d better get in touch.” I dig the flyboy. We couldn’t have much less in common–he’s career military, a staunch Republican, and (now, not then, of course) a happy husband and father. Nonetheless, I get the annual call or email (if he can’t track down a phone number)–for the past 15 years. Oddly enough, I always feel this sort of kindredspiritness about him.

* The boyfriend from eighth grade tracked me down and emailed me last year. That was strange, since I hadn’t actually thought about him since eighth grade. I think this was less about nostalgia and more about trying to sell everyone he’s ever known this new health drink he’s into. It was just weird. Plus, all I remember about him is that he was a really disgusting sloppy kisser. Blech.

* The psycho stalker also called and emailed last year. AUGH! I moved out of the state, out of the country, and I STILL can’t lose the freak. I could not believe it–I’d successfully dodged him for several years, and then he caught up with me. He wanted to reminisce and tell me what an important person I’d been in his life. I did not return the phone call or email, of course, but reflected that his importance in my life was that he taught me the meaning of “Restraining Order.”

* The summer fling who dropped my sorry ass. Man…that one was entertaining. I *dug* the guy and told him, which of course made him run far, far away (I know, I totally broke Dating Rule #1). A year later, he calls to see if I’d like to get together for a glass of wine and…you know. Unfortunately for Summer Fling, the miraculous Tater was on scene by that time, so I had to turn down the offer.

* Snake Boy. I once drove to Davis (where he lived) to meet a girlfriend for dinner. Who did we run into? Snake himself. On a date. With someone else. He was a regular Ex-Boyfriend Week participant for many years after that. “I loooove you. You’re the only giiirrrll for meeee…” Whiner. Rich, handsome, successful lawyer whiner.

* The Electrician. One lonely cold winter, I took a walk on the blue-collar side, scandalizing my friends, family, and even myself (a little). He had a tattoo that was actually older than I am, frighteningly enough. The Electrician calls every year. Usually after a few shots of tequila. His current girlfriend, I’m sure, is never amused.

* The Accountant. Blonde and handsome. While we were dating, he confirmed my lifelong suspicion that blondes cannot be counted upon. One night we had a date, which he called to postpone. Since I was at loose ends, I went to Faces with a gay couple who were my friends. Guess who ALSO was at Faces, on a date, with a man, that night? Seriously, the look on his face that night was deserving of an Emmy.

The most notable participant in Ex-Boyfriend Week is my ex-fiancee (yes, long story). That one was actually a bit…wrenching. I’m long over it now, but I’m sure that one of these autumns, he will again find himself possessed by the indescribable (and unfathomable) urge to call me. I can’t explain it, they just do.

Why My Statcounter Freaks Me Out a Little…

Don’t get me wrong. I love me a little stat counter now and then, but sometimes I feel like I’d be better off not knowing who’s coming to visit. For example, WHY dear lord is the Department of Justice coming to see my blog? Why? Am I under investigation? Or is there just some lonely functionary who likes to take a quick peek now and then for entertainment? (Hello, lonely functionary!) Same goes for hits from DC. My god, if I see a hit from pentagon.mil, I am throwing in the towel, I am.

Blanket caveat (like that’ll work): I love America! I love my freedom of speech. Did I mention I love America?

Second annoying stat: The number one all-time-greatest post on my site? The one that says “tits” in the title. I’m so disappointed in mankind. I guess that’s my cue for increasing my site traffic: sex sells, baby. Oh, yeah. I’m totally going x-rated, gettin’ me a video cam, and selling pay per view — oh…hi boyfriend. Nevermind. (On that note: If you’re the guy who googles “sacramento tits” and checks my site like every other day, let me save you a little time. No, I am never going to post a shot of my tits. Not ever. As in, never. Now, go surf porn somewhere else.)

Okay, now that old business is taken care of, let’s move on to new business.

Several things have been freaking me out lately. Perhaps it’s just because I’m a delicate flower. I’m certainly not immune to the sort of nail-biting concern sparked by, say, the economy. I wonder daily how much is a created crisis versus a real one. In my more philosophical moments, I resign myself, saying I can simply live my life in the best way I know how, and not worry about the other stuff. In my less philosophical moments, I wonder if I should be stuffing cash in my mattress? Because I’ve clocked roughly the same amount of time in developing nations as your average Peace Corps volunteer, I have a different perspective on poverty and economic stress than the normal American. I’ve lived in places where the standard of living is so low, the fact that one has food and a roof is nearly a miracle. I’ve visited microscopic villages where the paved road stopped 10 miles before the town, and medical care was a day’s journey away. But the people who live in those places really seem more content than we do, at least sometimes. So I tell myself everything will be okay, and go to work everyday, still with that niggling worry in the back of my mind about what if the work dries up? Erk.

Anyway, what else is freaking me out lately? Tomato worms. Ookey. My poor little garden is on its last legs as the season starts to turn. Although it was fun, it’s kind of sad to watch the garden fading away. There are still dozens of tomatoes on my vines, but ones that have never ripened. In fact, my cherry tomato plant produced not one single ripe tomato. There’s one last eggplant nearly ripe. My watermelon plant produced one lovely, but tasteless, moon and stars watermelon. And even the cocozelle that single-plantedly churned out something like 892 pounds of squash, even it is fading away.

More Violence at State Fair: Unreported “Lark Hit and Run” Danger

I haven’t been to the State Fair in at least 5 years. But Sunday, I cajoled the boyfriend to go because I wanted to see the “Green Dream Expo” and the farming exhibits. Boyfriend, who was supposed to be catching up on work, was easily lured from his workly duties to come and slack with me.

We had a surprisingly good time. There was minimal thuggage. The huckstering was a bit overwhelming, but some of it was fun. We are still debating about whether the guy selling the worm composting bin was having a truly bad day or if that was just his go-for-the-pity schtick. (I say bad day, boyfriend says schtick.)

We decided to get a beer for the boyfriend and a margarita for me. The day was warm, and the thought of icy cold refreshment was appealing. Until we got the bill for $16. Yep, $8 each–for what was essentially a slushy and about 10 oz of beer. We should have known better. Driving home, we agreed that the high prices are probably a very effective, and deliberate, method for keeping the jerk factor low.

Just before us in line at the booze-booth, though, was a little old lady on a Lark. Buying booze. Now, I’d never really considered those things dangerous, but I had never faced one being driven by a schnockered old woman, either. Instead of reverse, our soused friend hit forward, using my sandal-clad foot as a braking mechanism. Let’s just say, it’s a fortunate thing I have some fairly good reaction times. Now, I’m all for being respectful toward one’s elders, but come on.  I couldn’t resist a snarky (yet G-rated) comment directed at her fleeing biker backside, something to the effect that she probably shouldn’t be drinking and driving.

Aside from being astounded that the Fair officials would allow such rampant violence to be perpetrated upon its unsuspecting patrons, though, the rest of the afternoon was a bit of alright. The BF and I checked out the farming area, which (if you’re a big dumb dorkasaurus like us) was pretty cool. We also hit the livestock pavilion to look at sheep. At my request, we skipped the pigs. Speaking of which, the old “Other White Meat” crew was down at the midway giving out pork samples and, apparently, trying desperately to get people to eat pork. Who knew? Are people not eating pork these days? Is there some sort of market glut of pork meat I’m unaware of?

Anyway, we left about 7 p.m.–feet sore, tummies full of some seriously poor nutritional choices (we *did* give the deep-fried White Castle burgers a miss)–and headed back to the relative safety of home so I could nurture my newfound Larkophobia. As we were leaving, the police presence was picking up noticeably–cops, sheriffs, cadets, I think pretty much anyone who wasn’t scheduled for duty elsewhere that night and maybe a few guys who they picked up hitchhiking and threw some uniforms on… But we had no trouble, and definitely appreciated seeing the Fair officials give such an obvious demonstration that they’re serious about dealing with the losers who want to ruin the Fair for everyone else.

So, yeah, no gunfire, but watch out for the old broads on the scooters. They’re vicious.

Becoming an “urban gardener”

 With more cocozelle coming out of my garden than I can eat, my first eggplant and bellpepper harvested, and impending tomatoes…I am starting to feel like an urban gardener. Seriously, though, what was I thinking all these years, going without a garden? Too much trouble, too much work, not enough time, and not enough knowledge. Vegetables have always been things that other people grew. The whole process seemed mysterious, arcane, and not just a little bit boring.

But if a complete novice like me can do this, anyone can. The wealth of information that’s out there is amazing. One of my tomato plants has leaf curl (no, not the roma!!! nooooo!). I googled “tomato leaf curl” and found encyclopedic information that allowed me to assess and diagnose the problem in under 15 minutes.

I stumbled across a great website the other day (while trying to figure out when to harvest my eggplant)…check it out:  

http://www.sacgardens.org/index.html

My garden started off in a little 8×8 plot, but I’ve had to pull up the fencing and let the garden spread out.  I’m okay with this–my lawn sucks anyway and I’d like to get rid of all of it.

Not to be all melodramatic here, but this experience is incredible. It’s such a simple act, growing vegetables. And I didn’t do it as a political statement, but in fact it is, and I’m starting to realize how much I have missed out on by not simply sticking a couple of seeds in a little bit of dirt.

It’s mediation, exercise, self-sufficiency, cost savings, and a sense of accomplishment that doesn’t suck–all rolled into one.

Can they be saved?

  

Newspapers being in trouble all over the country is not good news. Our local paper laying off staff last week also is not good news.

However, that doesn’t mean that I’m above making a snarky comment…or in this case, snarky graphic.

I read the Bee every morning with my coffee, have little panic attacks if I miss a day, and don’t hate it as much as, say, Joe Sac does, but I did have to laugh at the “scoop” comment on Sac Rag a couple of days ago. For whatever reason, I came up with this idea in the shower this morning.

Combine that with a slight case of hero worship for Jessica Hagy, and you have the above.

For more info about the decline of honey bees, click here.

For more info about the decline of the Sacramento Bee, click here.

 

Day 5: It’s all about my tits.

This is it…last day of the fast. That whole 10-day idea? Pshaw, I
say. That’s for extremist, zealot, raw-food, obsessive types. Five
days is puh-lenty if you ask me. I actually feel pretty darned good.
My head feels clear, my neck actually feels better than it has lately
(how? how? I have no idea.). I don’t think I’ve lost any weight,
though. How can you not eat for five days and *not* lose weight? Well,
except my tits, of course. So unfair. Anyway, this whole fasting thing
has been interesting–sometimes annoying, sometimes downright
gross–but interesting. Oh, but why the subject line?

Well, today I had my first mammogram. Yikes. Nothing like being hungry
*and* having your tits squashed. My rather-with-it doctor recommended it as a “baseline” for something to compare future mammograms against (which I actually thought was a fabulous idea from a health perspective–not so fabulous from the “Hey, I thought I didn’t have to do this til I hit 40″ perspective). It wasn’t that bad, though. They give you these little metal pasties to put on your nipples, so there was some fun involved. S**** took me to the clinic and provided moral support, which really she owed me because she ate PIE A LA MODE in front of my face last night. 

So, tonight, I “get” to cook up a vegetable stew thingy. I bought all
these interesting beans to put in it. Including adzuki
beans…whatever those are. Tonight I can have the broth, and tomorrow
I get to eat the vegetables. So terribly, terribly exciting, I know.
At least I’ve spared you all the really gross details. Perhaps,
someday, over a glass of wine, in hushed tones, I will share. I know
you can’t wait.

I am never willingly giving up eating again.

Click here to read Day 1. Click here for the whole diary.