Archive for the ‘life in california’ Category

Elk Grove and Sacramento area folks:


2009
04.08

Here is the text of an e-mail I received from one of our city council members regarding the death of a soldier from Elk Grove. I was asked to disseminate as widely as possible:

Dear Fellow Elk Grove Citizen:

As all of you know, we lost one of our own with the death of Sgt. Bryan Hall who was killed in Iraq.  CCSD Fire Chief Steve Foster is coordinating a tribute as Sgt. Hall comes home and has asked that we help him get the message out into the community.

The CCSD Fire Department will transport Sgt. Hall on a fire engine from executive airport on Sunday morning. Chief Foster is asking that, we as fellow citizens, line Elk Grove Blvd. to pay tribute to Sgt. Hall. The procession will on the Elk Grove Blvd. near the fire station by 11:30 a.m. on Sunday, April 19th with a 50 vehicle procession. Chief Foster will be also be coordinating the flags that morning.

Please forward this email on to everyone on your email list and let’s do what we do best in Elk Grove, come together to honor one of our own.

Sincerely,
Connie Conley

If you are in Elk Grove or the greater Sacramento area, please join us tomorrow morning at 11:30 on EGB near Elk Grove-Florin Road for the procession to the Elk Grove Mortuary. This family has expressed an interest in having their son’s sacrifice acknowledged publicly and would be comforted by the hero’s welcome that both they and SSG Hall deserve.

I took photos. Then I hung myself.


2009
04.07

This morning my children bounced out of bed with so much energy there should have been an eight ball of coke behind it. Since I have been trapped in this house with these kids for a spring break that has dragged on for way too long already I glared at my darlings wearily and figured Screw it, we’re going out in public anyway.

Then we went to the state capitol.

I’m sorry if you were trying to have a conversation Mr. Yelling Into His Cell Phone. Apparently my son disrupted your ranting as he ran past you on his way through the ironically named “peace” garden.

Hello homeless man! Were you sleeping on that there bench? No longer! Meet my daughter, the one who has never met a stranger, as she awakens you with a hearty “HI! MY NAME’S SOPHIA! WHAT’S YOURS?!?! ARE YOU CAMPING MISTER?”

Hello Mr. State Trooper! I bet you were hoping that today might be the day the capitol building finally gets taken over by terrorists or that, at the bare minimum, someone gets mouthy enough for you to remind everyone that you do, in fact, carry a sidearm. You live for that stuff don’t you? Too bad! You get the Matulich Clan instead and while my children won’t do anything that would come close to justifying your sixteen hours of annual pepper spray training they will most certainly make you wish that I’d updated my birth control. It’s ok, admit it. I don’t look like I’m perpetually on the verge of tears for nothing.

…and that’s how we spent most of this morning. I tried to take photos on the grounds of the state capitol while my children tripped over homeless people and ran screaming into traffic. Once we got inside I tried my best to pawn them off on a few of the guided tour groups but the staff proved a little too adept at finding me – which made me realize that what this world needs most are incompetent docents.

Anyway. Here are the results of our little trek. And now I’m off to have a drink, or ten.

Rose sculpture at the capitol “peace” garden that was anything but so long as we were there.

Monument to Father Junipero Serra.

Fountain with palms.

Capitol dome.

State assembly floor.

As if there’s a difference.

Stairs.

State senate gallery.

California wine country


2009
02.16

There are times – usually twelve to eighteen hours out of the day – when I just want the hell out of California. Because – lack of snow and gorgeous weather notwithstanding - living here means spending an inordinate amount of time around people who are so busy clapping themselves on the back for being open-minded that they have failed to recognize Gavin Newsom for the self-aggrandizing douche bag that he is. Or who rail against wealthy people and large corporations even as they simultaneously covet the goods proffered by both.

Then there are times when the benefits of living here come very, very, very close to eclipsing the myopic din of blood oaths against capitalism. 

Yes, I’m talking about the benefits of living in wine country, where you can almost get drunk enough to make hippies tolerable. Yes, I have photos. Yes, I am hard up for material for a post. 

Wall with grapevines trailing up it.

Prickly pear and nopales cactus.

Winery door. 

Mission San Francisco Solano.

Holy water font at Mission San Francisco Solano.

Limantour beach.

Running on the beach.

Quiero cerveza!


2009
01.23

I have decided that 2009 is the year that I finally learn a foreign language. 

It’s an endeavor I have pursued on and off for a good chunk of my teen years and those adult years after 1998 when my college-related beer haze wore off. Up until now my attempts have basically gone something like this: Take a class or two. Study hard. Get an “A”. Skip a semester or two. Start back at the proverbial first square.

Anyway. Since my fat mouth and I have worn out our welcome with the English speaking world I figure it’s time I to get to work annoying foreigners. But which ones? I have several years of high school and college German under my belt but unless I wanted to start hanging around white supremacist types it’s a pretty useless language here in Northern California. I tried taking French seriously enough to finish a class once before I realized that it was even more useless than German and the people who speak it make the white supremacists look positively charming. Russian? Now THAT would be useful here in the Sacramento area but it’s been so long since I’ve taken a class that the only phrases I remember are “Good night”, “thank you” and “that is a house” or “that is my house” or “those are my wet leg warmers” because my ability to inflect correctly is hopeless.

So I’ve decided on Spanish. Not only is it crazy useful here in California, but it doesn’t involve reading The Turner Diaries or re-memorizing the Cyrillic alphabet.

I started about a month ago by digging out my old college texts and a set of cd’s I had purchased when I was still living in San Jose. Since then I have spent a couple of hours every day brushing up on basic vocabulary, feminine vs. masculine articles and conjugating various verbs. Today I hit the mother lode when I discovered several large stashes of old flash cards I had made while at DeAnza College. Eureka!

I grabbed the stack and settled onto the couch where I spent the better part of the afternoon staring hard at each card before flipping it into my lap and going on to the next one. I had made it through three separate piles before I came upon one that said “hockey”.

Q: There’s a Spanish word for hockey?

A: Well, kind of. El hockey. Being a cognate it’s hardly a truly Spanish word but seeing as how the coldest thing that comes to mind when I think of the Spanish speaking world is the ice in a margarita, los eruditos del espanol can most certainly be forgiven for not having their own original word for a game that involves a bunch of white people armed with sticks ice-skating ferociously after something the size of my fist.

Still, the fact that at some point in my prior education there was a need for me to create a flash card with the Spanish designation for “hockey” begged a question:

Does the Spanish-speaking world really need a word for hockey? Really?

And that question had a sister question: While I sit here and memorize words that I will never use in the event that I find myself lost in Mexico City, what would I prefer to be taught?

Which is how I came to write a list of words and phrases that I wish my Spanish teachers would have taught me but didn’t because even if they had wanted to they probably would have been fired:

How much is the ransom for my husband?

Even for a donkey that’s rather large.

Officer, I have no idea how those drugs got there.

Where is your nearest public restroom in which I can reasonably expect not to find small children pilfering the toilet paper and selling it back to me for $5 American?

I’d like a lawyer who speaks English please.

No! I don’t want any fucking chiclet already!

If I blow you will you let me out of jail? (No? What if I blow the donkey?)

You know? I think I have a good start to a pretty useful new phrase book even if I do say so myself.

…and all with a camera attached to my face.


2008
12.11

Well, I suppose the Christmas season is here once again which means that I’ve switched to an all-tequila-all-the-time diet in order to stave off the deletrious effects of all this holiday-related family togetherness.

…and since I’m already several doses in to my self-prescribed treatments I feel it only fair to spare you my drunken misspellings and horrible grammar and ply the interweb with photos of my offspring instead.

Like this photo, taken of my son when he ran into the living room yelling himself blue so that I would take a photo of him. Then he started showing off. Then he executed what I can only assume was supposed to be some suave, ninja-like move before falling flat on his back.

Good times. You know what kiddo? The only thing your prom date’s doing to like more than this is are all the photos I took when you were two and couldn’t keep your clothes on.

Had enough of my kids? Too bad. Here’s a photo of my daughter glaring at me as she digests roughly three times her body weight in turkey after Thanksgiving dinner.

She better hope she has my metabolism lest those eating habits drive her to Jenny Craig. Or bulimia.

Here is a Christmas tree. But it’s not my Christmas tree. You want to know how I know? It’s a real tree in real dirt with real pine needles that fall off when you shake it. My tree is some polymer job that never turns brown and requires frequenting dusting.

Also, this Christmas tree is now decorated, packaged and on its way to Afghanistan. Since my dad always took us up to Mokelumne Hill to cut down our own tree when I was a kid I felt it only fair that I make sure he has his own fresh tree over there in the land of goat herders and burqas.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without tamales, and this year kicked ass because this gringa was invited to help make several dozen of these heavenly pork-filled bodies.

Masa, which – after gobs of lard had been added – was most definitely Not Kosher.

One of the many piles of tamales which – after the pork had been added – was even less kosher. Dude, these tamales are so good that someone is most definitely getting deported.

Abusing the Cosumnes Fire Department


2008
12.01

At 3AM the morning after Thanksgiving day the smoke alarm in my home went off. Having never been one to waste an opportunity to punch my husband in the face, I responded to the brain liquefying WHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHA by jolting upright and smashing him in the jaw. Then, because I figured I could get away with it under the “she probably wasn’t technically awake” clause, I poked him in the eye and gave him a wedgie too.

After I was through injuring the man to whom I am legally and spiritually bound til’ death do us part (or at least until one of us scratches up the cash to retain a halfway decent divorce attorney), we both leaped out of bed to rescue our offspring and escape the hellfire that was most certainly engulfing our home as we slept.

Except that it turned out that there was no fire. The spousal unit and I conducted a quick inspection of our vast estate and turned up nothing more incendiary than an old gas can corked with a dirty rag atop a pile of newspaper next to the water heater. We shrugged. He went off to get the ladder. I stayed inside to calm a semi-hysterical toddler and a parakeet with a nervous disorder. Apparently our smoke alarm had gone off just for the hell of it.

Within five minutes everyone was back in bed.

Within ten minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within fifteen minutes we were in bed once again.

Within twenty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within forty minutes we were in bed once again, but with both eyes open and a ladder at the ready.

Within fifty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Within an hour we were searching the internet for the number to the White House because it became obvious that somehow, somewhere, the signal between our home and Gitmo had been confused and we were now being subjected to a program of sleep deprivation that had originally been intended for some prisoner named Husain.

This continued throughout the night and by 10AM the next morning both my husband and I were twitching. Our daughter had shut herself into a closet that didn’t have a smoke alarm inside. The parakeet was close to cardiac arrest. I decided to call the fire department.

Within ten minutes a fire engine was parked at the end of our driveway and several hunky  very professional young men in uniform were crowded into my kitchen, climbing ladders, inspecting wires and otherwise puzzling out the mystery of our wayward smoke alarms. Also, they were incredibly hot, er, thorough.

Dude! Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I wondered as a particularly well-toned member of the department bent over to retrieve a battery he had dropped. He stood up. I tossed another battery onto the floor.

After an hour of checking batteries and poking around the attic space, not a single problem was located.

“These alarms? Sometimes they’re just sensitive.” One of the guys said. “Give us a call if you have any more problems.” He flipped his card onto the counter and tipped us a wink before inviting my daughter to tour the fire engine parked out front. She played with the plastic souvenir helmet they gave her. I drooled. My husband ran inside and began dialing the phone.

“Hello, is this the Victoria’s Secret customer service line? Yeah, yeah… my wife and I are experiencing technical difficulties with one of your bras…”

Living nextdoor to me…


2008
11.07

…means that you probably have to pop a few more Xanax than the average person.

Have you ever wandered around your neighborhood after an election and thought to yourself, “I wish I had some use for all these leftover campaign signs.”

Well I don’t. I just pull ‘em out of the ground and stick ‘em on my neighbor’s lawn:

Please! Knock on my neighbor’s door at midnight to vote!

A south-facing view of their yard.

My, oh my! A fellow Libertarian? Well land sakes! Because you know that Barr-Root sign sure as hell wasn’t leftover from my yard.

…and one to grow on!

I must admit that I’m a little fearful of going to sleep tonight.

Hair on fire. Need more caffeine.


2008
11.06

Lately I’ve become busier and busier as nearly everyone in the greater Sacramento area has come to realize that I am congenitally incapable of uttering the word “no”. Not that I’d want to anyway since I really do enjoy making myself useful and I am very much in love with every single project that I’ve managed to smash my fingers into.

The problem is this whole twenty-four-hours-in-a-day thing. It disappoints. It is a woefully inadequate amount of time for me to accomplish everything I want to do. Like take photos. And go to school. And bathe my husband in GHB-laced pudding.

Which is why I’m considering a move to Mercury since a single Mercurian day is the equivalent to 59 earth days which should be long enough for me to knock out at least two-thirds of my to-do list if I cut out items like eating and parenting my offspring.

So! How about I skip this post and do my normal lazy thing and throw up more photos, brought to you courtesy of the field trip that I took with my funeral education peeps last Friday…

Here is a group photo of all of us, taken in front of Cristy Vault Company’s world headquarters in Colma, California. Know why I don’t have any photos taken inside Cristy Vault Company’s world headquarters? We all had non-disclosure agreements foisted upon us prior to our tour in which we signed away our right to tell the public that their vaults are constructed by a magical army of unicorns and leprechauns that sprinkle fairy dust everywhere. Pity. The leprechauns especially seemed to like having their picture taken.

This photo was taken in the Neptune Society’s columbarium. It is a pile of cards, notes and letters written to both the deceased and visiting survivors.

 

This is a photo of a companion niche with the remains of a Chinese couple inside. California is home to the largest Chinese population outside of China itself. Therefore it is never a surprise when you run into the various expressions of this expansive culture. This niche, like many others inside the columbarium, had food left outside of it in a nod to Chinese custom.

Here is one of the many rooms that surrounded the bottom two floors and were formed of floor-to-ceiling niches.

Another niche before which food had been left. The packaged stuff next to the persimmons was unidentifiable as anything other than fuzzy balls of mold.

For obvious reasons, a niche provides limited space in which a person’s life, personality and values can be summed up. It is always  interesting to me to see how people condense the essence of their loved one into ten words or less. The plate on this individual’s niche is inscribed quite simply with the words, “Gay and proud.”

An incense holder on the floor outside the niche of a Chinese man.

A statue of St. Ignatius stands inside the Church of St. Ignatius on the campus of the University of San Francisco. The campus is one of the west’s oldest Jesuit universities.

 A tribute to La Virgen de Guadalupe stands inside the Church of St. Ignatius on the University of San Francisco campus. The photograph really doesn’t do this display justice, as the flash destroyed the ambiance created by the candles that surround her. Kneelers can be seen in the extreme foreground.

Interior of the Church of St. Ignatius. Architectural proof that we Catholics are good for more than just lopping heads off and drinking. Woo hoo!

Candles sit before a statue of St. Ignatius. The lighting of candles and offering of prayers is probably one of the loveliest – and more misunderstood by non-Catholics – practices within the church.

Here is the cornerstone to the synagogue we visited – Temple Emanu-el in San Francisco, California. This tour turned out to be quite wonderful as it was led by a pair of Jewish women who were more than enthusiastic about showing us through a gorgeous building while sharing information about the history of their faith.

An outside view of the sanctuary of the synagogue taken from the interior of the courtyard that surrounds it. I was surprised by the presence of a metal detector and security guard outside the temple’s entrance, and we were informed during the tour that the courtyard surrounding the entrance to the sanctuary had been constructed as a need for security made itself more apparent.

Here is a photo of stained glass and a chandelier inside the main sanctuary of the synagogue.

A menorah stands above and to the front of the congregation in the main sanctuary.

 

Books sit atop one another next to the ark in the Temple Emanu-el.

A flower spray sits at a grave on the grounds of Cypress Lawn in Colma, California.

Monday and f-lists


2008
10.27

Well, if the contents of my inbox are any indication the call for f-lists went over very well. Especially for those who are pissed off at me, since I personally made all but four of the f-lists submitted, to which I say “I have broad shoulders, bring it on.”

Anyway, with today being a Monday and all and what with having two exams this week I don’t have a ton of time to post the f-lists right away. Therefore I’ll compile them in a post for Friday, so if there are more of you out there who’d like to give the internet an earful about those things you are sick of and never want to hear about again, leave a comment or e-mail me here.

…and now I’m going to post a bunch of photos from the weekend.Because I’m lazy like that.

A father and son paddle out in the surf at Lovers Point in Pacific Grove, California on October 26th, 2008.

A teenaged surfer hauls out of the water and heads over the rocks to the extreme end of Lovers Point where the larger waves are.

A mother and her son stop to take in the view from the Pacific Coast Highway where it winds through Monterey.

A sign designating the site of the Stanford-run Hopkins Marine Station.

Anchor Rock.

Bubble station at the JDRF walk in Pacific Grove on October 26th, 2008.

The fruit of a banana tree in my backyard.

A sign along the PCH during the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation’s annual fundraising walk.

Nerves? Frayed.


2008
10.22

Last night I violated one of my own rules for Polite Discourse When Alcohol Is Not A Factor And Therefore Cannot Be Blamed: I discussed politics with a classmate of mine.

Actually, I did not so much discuss politics as allowed myself to be drawn into a rather pointless and stupid political temper tantrum thrown by a classmate who has made a habit of painting all conservatives with the broad brush of bigotry.

For the sake of disclosure I believe it only fair to assert here that I genuinely like this classmate of mine. He’s a funny, witty and rather charming gentleman with a sparkling personality that I have enjoyed for the last couple of semesters.

It’s just that he’s also completely irrational, politically speaking.

You see, I identify myself as a conservative in the more classic sense that I believe the government that governs best governs least. For example, you want to smoke weed, shoot heroin, snort coke? Knock yourself out. Just don’t ask me to fork over cash to for the government to blow on healthcare or wiretapping. I’ll vote no on Proposition 8 and then turn around and fight efforts to nationalize our banking, healthcare and oil industries. I support Bob Barr, read Ayn Rand and aspire to be the female John Mackey.

So there I was last night, standing around all innocent-like when my classmate threw down the “all conservatives are homophobic bigots” gauntlet.

Consider my eyebrow raised.

Now, as a lifelong resident of California I’ve become accustomed to being compared to Hitler, called names that would make a trucker blush and accusations of being on the wrong side of various and sundry -isms for no more substantial a reason than not being liberal. In other words, living peaceably in California often involves me ignoring the shallow bumper sticker philosophies of certain individuals who believe that only registered Democrats hold a monopoly on virtue and compassion.

In fact, I have become so accustomed to this political environment that I have perfected a rather fun – if expensive – coping mechanism called “Let’s get together and blow $250 in Costco’s liquor aisle!”

Anyway. I don’t know what happened to me last night. Maybe I need to increase my zoloft intake or perhaps this election season has simply gone on too long but yesterday my frayed nerves finally snapped with an audible “ploink!” and instead of doing my usual thing and ignoring the ad hominem attack by my classmate I leapt into the rather large puddle of conversational dung with both feet and engaged him in what had to have been the single dumbest political discussion ever in the history of humankind. In fact, the discussion was so dumb that I was forced to use a run-on sentence right there to convey it’s dumbness.

At any rate, while I stood there arguing into the wind I was reminded of an e-mail sent to me by a fellow Libertarian who had relocated from San Francisco to El Dorado Hills for work. When I asked him how he was liking his new digs away from the knee-jerk histrionics of the bay area he replied, “I feel like I’ve traded one political hell for another. I moved from brainless knee-jerk liberalism to brainless knee-jerk conservatism. Sometimes my inner Howard Roark makes peeps and everyone stares at me like I’ve suggested eating babies for breakfast.”

Some days it just doesn’t pay to be a Libertarian.