To go where many notable others have gone before...

So J and I just spent a lovely weekend in Napa having mud treatments, eating some really incredible food, soaking in a jumbo-sized bathtub and, er, drinking some wine. When we arrived in the quaint little town of Calistoga, where our almost-too-good-to-be-true bed and breakfast (The Meadowlark Inn) was located, we noticed signs for "California's Old Faithful," taunting us to come and see this wonder of nature.

This confused the hell out of me, since I'd always thought that Old Faithful was in Yellowstone National Park which is not in California -- or at least the last time I visited it wasn't. But, granted, that was many years ago. So, as I pulled the Chevy Impala that National rent-a-car was trusting me with for the weekend (boy, you know that life is grand when your rent-a-car isn't as nice as your real car!) into the parking lot of our home for the weekend on the edge of the Petrified Forest, J tells me that she really wants to go and see the geyser before we leave.

I could go either way on that one. I'm not exactly a Geyser Gazer (yes, there is such a thing -- I know two actual Geyser Gazers -- and, yes, it's exactly as it sounds), but I'm not opposed to checking them out if I happen to already be where a geyser sees fit to erupt.

On our final day, Sunday, we discuss over breakfast the things we want to be sure and do before heading back to the Oakland Airport to return home. There are two items at the top of our agenda that pertain to Calistoga: find a shot glass for Kira (the only one in Calistoga that we could find said Morro Bay on it...Morro Bay???) and visit the geyser.

After following a really lousy map (why do rental car companies always have such horrible maps? is it that difficult to dispense a good map?), we pull into a mostly empty parking lot guarded by an enormous American flag and set forth toward a small building where we are met with a sign informing us that many notable people have seen the wonder of nature that is the geyser before us.

Right on cue, J turns to me and says, "I'm not gonna pay to see this thing."

We walk through the doors and I'm instantly distracted by a sleepy white cat laying amongst the geological info and paraphernalia messily scattered about. As I'm petting the cat and getting suckered in by the ticky-tacky tourist trinkets, J is handing her credit card to a boy behind a cash register that sits in front of a sign informing us that adult admissions are $8.

EACH!!!

In all fairness to "California's Old Faithful," we did score a $1-off AAA discount. This is where I started to get a really bad feeling about this stop. In all fairness to the town of Calistoga, this gift shop did have shot glasses, but they were plain clear glass with little metal crest/shield-things with itty bitty writing and something about the geyser crookedly glued on. J made a comment about the odd assortment of items in the shop and we proceeded to head out the back door where the geyser was "scheduled" to erupt in approximately 15 minutes.

As we walked a rocky path toward the clearing that housed the wonder of nature, there was a small pen to our right containing a handful of "fainting goats," as indicated by a nearby sign. We emerged onto a clearing where a Bedrock-ish pond held murky water with steam rolling across the top and a gathering of larger stones in the center that coughed out a little spew of geyser gush after about five minutes.

To our right was what looked to be a dried-up well with what appeared to be several oxidized coins at the bottom and a sign (so many signs...) ordering us to keep out. Several green plastic lawn chairs were situated around the pond and about ten other suckers, I mean tourists, wandered the grounds with an eye on "California's Old Faithful." Video and still cameras were poised, ready to photograph at any given moment the wonder of nature that was about to shock and awe. Two teenage girls to the right were being silly and talking loudly, giggling intermittently, while two women near them shushed them as if we were in the public library. Did the women fear that if we aren't all super-quiet, Old Faithful might not be so faithful after all?

Ten minutes and three or four more spews of practice geyser gush later, we all watch as the geyser reaches maybe twenty-five yards. An eight-year-old boy to my left nearly nods off while J and I stifle laughter.

No ooooohs, no ahhhhhhs, and the only shock on anyone's face was the realization that they'd just paid $8 for something they can permanently recreate in their own front yard by spending $20 at Target. As we pulled the trusty Impala out of the parking lot and onto the nearby road, we noticed another sign: "Caution: Speeding Cars."

Yeah, speeding to get the hell out of this tourist trap, I thought.

ode to Ulysses

I just learned that a canine friend of mine has passed on. Ulysses was an awesome and obedient dog who was good at catching flying popcorn kernals mid-air and understood the value of Prada. He was gentle and patient with me upon learning that I'm not exactly a dog person and kinda afraid of dogs. He liked to watch "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and I think he even knew some of the answers. He only slobbered on my backpack twice (but it came off). So I raise my glass to the recently departed Ulysses -- may doggy afterlife be everything you could ever wish for and more!

burn, baby, burn

On Saturday night, fortunately toward the end of my shift, I had the misfortune of picking up a plate that had been sitting on a burner.

Yes, on a burner.

I then proceeded to let out a "blood curdling" (my boss' words) stream of expletives that could be heard on table 28, quite possibly even table 28 in the restaurant across the street. I then rushed to the sink, basking in the comfort that was the ice cold water cascading over my throbbing, injured thumb. I yelled out to whoever would listen, "Will somebody please get me an Advil?" and requested that the remainder of my hot food somehow find its way out to the appropriate tables.

Meanwhile, my customers at my tables, being the not-so-very-understanding-creatures-that-they-were, became disgruntled at not seeing me in the vicinity tending to their immediate whims for at least seven minutes (hey, I understand, seven minutes can seem like an awfully long time when you want another martini).

To one table, I attempted to explain the discrepency, using phrases such as third-degree burn and severely injured. They then informed me that I "shouldn't tell people about that" because I'm "doing a fine job, despite the injury" and "you can't tell." Not exactly the sypathetic response I was hoping for. Despite having the fortitude of a mail carrier and carrying on with my duties through the injured-waiter-equivalent of sleet and snow, this table of seniors apparently never forgave me for my seven-minute absence and left a mere 12% gratuity as a token of their appreciation.

Now, three days later, my thumb still is completely numb and the skin has a reptilian feel and appearance. My doctor says it will heal (slowly) on its own and there is nothing I can do to facilitate that. And I can't help but wonder, if any of my impatient-with-me customers had injured themselves at work and had to take less than ten minutes away from their duties to tend to their injuries, would their customers be disgruntled with them and would their pay be docked? I'm thinking no. [/pity party]

In other, more positive, news, I am proud to say that I have joined the ranks of thousands (millions?) of other lesbian-Americans and am now the proud owner of a Subaru Outback. It's a 2002 model, shiny blue with charcoal grey interior and tinted windows, and only 38,000 miles. This car has road trip written all over it and I can't wait to take her on one -- even if it is just to Seattle and back again ad nauseum. Bottom line, all of my whining and bitching about how much I hated that Saturn has come to an immediate halt as the Saturn is no longer my problem.

My favorite Saturn-as-trade-in line: (upon the explanation that I am getting money toward the purchase of the new Subaru and the Saturn taken off of my hands) Kira: "is that legal?"

No zzzzzzzz and Sleater-Kinney sushi

I love insomnia. Actually, I don't love it, per se, but I do suspect that it is something akin to Linus and that damn blanket for me. Sometimes I just can not, for the life of me, make sleep happen. It just simply won't. Now is one of those times. Oddly, I think that the wandery, racing thoughts have something to do with it. Last night, for example, I was laying there thinking, amongst other things, "damn it, what the hell is Jerud's middle name?" And it was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite access it. Then it came to me. Burton. His middle name is Burton. And it's not that I really needed to know that, nor was I planning on using that information for anything, I just couldn't shut my mind down because I didn't know the answer to the question. I know what you're thinking. . . it's no wonder I can't sleep since there are so many questions that I don't know the answer to. Yeah, I know.

The other night, Kira and I got to go out for sushi. Not that that is so unusual, really, but this time we had actual reasons. I was feeling under the weather -ok, like total crap- and, despite my very good intentions of making the really yummy mac and cheese from Noble Rot, I just couldn't do it. Plus I was craving miso - or a good chicken matzoh ball soup, but that is a whole other rant. The other reason was to honor Kira's kick assedness on her project for her language arts class in which, on four separate categories with a possible five points each, she received six points for three of the categories and five on the other. Kira's awesome. So we're sitting there in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne (yes, we drove...I'm sick, remember?) drowning my pending ailment in soy bean curd broth and celebrating Kira's awesomeness and in walks Carrie Brownstein, guitarist for Sleater-Kinney. She's there to pick up some take out and, while looking quite adorable in her loose jeans and down puffy jacket, she pretty much blends in with all of the other Portlanders. Thing is, the only other time I've seen a member of Sleater-Kinney about town and not on stage was in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne about a year ago when we saw Janet Weiss, the drummer, dining there with some friends.

My newest issue of Vanity Fair arrived in yesterday's mail. The cover is their pre-Oscar pull-out showcasing ten Hollywood starlets. And with the exception of the three (3!) ethnic chicks, they are ALL BLONDS! wtf? Since I have not yet had a chance to read the accompanying article, the exact criteria for coverdom inclusion remains a mystery. Some of the celeblets are established household names (Uma Thurman and Claire Danes), whereas others are more up-and-coming (Ziyi Zhang and Sienna Miller). But why not a better balance with a brunette or two? How about Natalie Portman and Fairuza Balk? They wouldn't even have to throw out two blonds in order to squeeze the other two in - I mean, it's a pull-out cover, there's plenty-o-room! Perhaps I shall write them and address this oversight. OK, I know I never will, but I like to think that I might, that I'm inclined to.

J is making me watch The Bachelorette. Alright, so she's not making me, but if it weren't for her, I'd probably have never known that the show existed at all. Well, except when Meredith was on, but that's 'cause she's from Portland and I like knowing about things from Portland. So I'm on the couch studying and Jillynn informs me that this season's bachelorette is Jen, who was slated to marry Andrew Firestone and who has been on the cover of People magazine almost as many times in the past year as Johnny Depp has. "That's nice, honey," I tell J, as if I really don't give a shit. But this thing is a trainwreck and I can't sit in the same room and not watch it. As an added bonus, I invented a drinking game to accompany said program:

-take one drink every time someone speaks of "taking things to the next/another level"
-take two drinks every time the word "connection" is uttered
-take three drinks every time the phrase "the most ________rose ceremony EVER" is announced

I should turn all tv shows into drinking games!

oysters, muscadet and Christmas in February

Why even bother calling it a Christmas party when it's being held in February? Why bother calling it a Christmas party when some of the attendees do not even celebrate Christmas? Is it a Christmas party because we received gifts (bonuses)? Or is it a Christmas party because that's what everyone else does? And is it my imagination or were people a little awkward around each other? How is it that, during any given shift, we will typically blather incessantly to one another, the only lulls in conversation emerging on account of more pressing (work related) tasks arising, and -yet- when we are thrown a Christmas party in February, our conversations are forced and topics elude us? Is it because of the presence of the significant others? Is it because we are not wearing black? Is it because we are eating and drinking openly and not on the sly? Or is it just because?

Nonetheless, the "Oysters and Muscadet" event at Carafe was a most welcome departure. The muscadet was crisp and tasty, albeit white, as muscadets will be. The oysters were lovely and exquisite and I could have consumed another two flights. Instead, I had the pleasure of enjoying the increasingly difficult-to-obtain fois gras, which has become the foodie equivalent of the Salem Witch Trials. While I must admit to feeling an eensy bit conflicted over the PETA vs. fois gras (and those who love it, consume it, sell it) conflict because I can so often side with the environmentally-oriented peeps when they go up against the man, I'm afraid (this time) my inner foodie gets to win this round. This means that I can relax and enjoy my fois gras with pleasure, rather than guilt. (J even tried some!!! And liked it!! Yay J!)

because "Roger" from India says so

So, the day before yesterday, my router dies a slow and painful death. Not too traumatic in the grand scheme of things, but irritating and extraordinarily inconvenient nonetheless.

After merely waiting for my wireless connection to somehow magically re-emerge (you know, as magically as it departed - is that so much to ask?), turning all of the household computers off and then back on again, unplugging and replugging all of the various and sundry cords, all to no avail, I make that dreaded call to India to attempt to explain the situation to tech support. I render a serial number and I am put on hold.

And I hold.

And I hold.

And I hold.

I check in with Damion who, in addition to his starring roles as K's dad and quirky friend/ex-husband, is something of an emergency tech support hotline, and explain to him that I have gotten nowhere. Soon, though, he departs his paying job, dons his shining armor, and gallops over.

Then Damion is on the phone with "Roger," also in India, who is instructing him to plug and unplug, but in a different order than the previous pluggings and unpluggings and this time we wait for one minute before replugging, rather than a mere ten seconds.

When "Roger" has exhausted all of his possibilities and his script has no more pages, he informs Damion that my router must be mailed off to Memphis, Tennessee, for repair and that I will be sent an operable one in exchange. I am now sans router for the duration of time it takes for said dead router to travel east and its understudy to travel west.

I am thankful that I need not send my router to India for "Roger" to inspect personally. I am also thankful for the computer-savvy extraordinaire and readily available Damion, who was paid in microbeer and overly dry bar-b-que ribs for his efforts.

This morning in yoga we worked on a "headless headstand" -- this expression never fails to amuse me.