Wasp Watch - "You can check in any time you want..."

With Jamie's help, I put up a Wasp Trap in the back, tied to the gutter and near the original Wasp Nest he found for me. Then, we put up a Wasp Trap in the front, off to the side of the house, also tied to the gutter.

This was all due to Dawn's suggestion when I said to her, I still see them out there.... They're massing...

Also at her suggestion, I put a ball of raw hamburger in each trap. This was in addition to the scented cotton ball we prepared for each.

The next day I ran out to get the paper, and was drawn to the trap. Five wasps were in there! Most were already dead, but one soul couldn't get out and was circling near the air holes at the top.

The back trap had nearly as much activity. However, in the four days they've been up, there's not nearly the activity in the back as in the front. As of this morning (August 25th), I counted at least 15 wasp bodies in the front! I think there're only 6 or 7 in the back. Wow!!

I will wait until winter is assuredly here, and throw the traps and their prey in the trash. Then, come spring, I will follow Val's advice and put the traps a bit farther away from the entrances to the house. That'll work for the back, but I'm not sure about the front, as I think they're attracted to the scents of the garbage cans. The cans are rather near the trap as it is now, making it perhaps even more effective.

But for now, until winter....Wasp Watch continues!!

Signs

There have been signs, rising up into my consciousness, telling me that I'm old. They're hard, getting harder, to ignore.

-- Whenever I shop at Safeway these days, and I finish payment, the helpful cashier always asks me, "Do you need help out?" The last time this happened, I looked balefully at the two plums and small carton of milk I had purchased, and said, almost spat, "No." I thought to myself, Do I look like I need help out?? "Thank you," I meekly said out loud to the cashier.

-- Two weeks ago, I noticed that my local Sizzler in San Leandro changed their age limit from 55 to 62 for their Senior meals. That means I can no longer order any of the Senior meals, which are really a good deal. Not only do you get the little steak with rice for less money than the regulars, you also get a free salad bar added on. But I'm not yet 62, so I stopped ordering it. (I think I slipped once, before I noticed the change, and ordered it by mistake; the difference was about 2 minutes. I left the difference in tip.) However, the cashiers are STILL giving me the senior meal! Without my asking for it! The mere mention of the words "Hibachi chicken" seems to get me the chicken, the rice, AND the salad bar plate! Not every time, but often.

-- Nobody questions me or sneers at me when I sit on the BART benches for seniors/disabled.

-- I still like Star Trek.

-- I went to a Temescal cafe the other day. Aaron and his new company's members were having a meeting. I stayed out of the meeting, waiting for it to be over, and sat comfortably at a table, reading my two newspapers. (Sports sections first, of course.) After about 15 minutes of reading about Chavez and company, and sipping my Earl Grey, I looked up and glanced around at the crowd. All were youngish, most 25 and younger. Three had computers, as the cafe advertised "Free Wi-Fi!" The cafe even boasts two stand-alone, humongous computers with internet connection, for a price. In fact, those godzillas nearly took up a quarter of the cafe. But I was the only one with a newspaper. The only one! Nobody in their twenties seems to read newspapers. While I get a lot of my news from the internet (mostly yahoo!), I still get a real external physical feeling of comfort from holding the pages of a full, long page filled with inky revelations.

Yes, there are some signs, staring me in the face. I try to counter such signs. I try to keep up my walking. I figure nobody can be old if they can walk 3 miles in one hour. I also try to keep up with the latest trends. I may not understand what they really are and what their real impact is, but at least I'll know about them.

I take comfort in all of that, but I'm still watching for signs.

A Stinging Revelation

Jamie came in one day from a moment on the deck to tell me that he had found a wasp's nest.

"No!!!" was my instinctive reaction.

I am not afraid of bugs. Cockroaches, ants, spiders. I don't care that much for them, mind you, but their mere presence doesn't elicit fear. Wasps, bees (and flying ants, truth be told) are different. Those little devils have given me some miserable days, dating back to my childhood years in Hayward and Coronado.

So, when Jamie told me about the hanging nest, right above the deck and next to my bedroom, I went through 30 seconds of panic. And then he said: "Oh, I can get a broom and a can of Raid and take care of it..."

"No!!!" was my instinctive reaction. Again.

I called an exterminator. For $180 for about 5 minutes work, the man on the other end of the phone told me apologetically, they'll take care of the problem. And avoid a trip to the hospital for helpful James.

The guy agreed with me when he showed up the next day. "Spray some Raid on that nest, and they'd go right for him," he said, shaking his head dolefully. Instead, he brought in a few simple tools and went at the nest. Standing on the raised platform leading from my bedroom to the deck, he sprayed the nest briefly with Wasp Freeze, a can, he said, that was available at Home Depot.

Then he poked the nest with a stick, it fell down onto the deck, and, with large, long rubber gloves, he loaded the nest and its remains into a box, a little cardboard coffin.

The nest was about 6 inches long, I'd say. You actually couldn't see it from the deck unless you got almost right up under it, as it was under the overhang. Oh, I took all the photos from inside the house. I did get close enough to see it all, standing on the deck looking up, but every time I did, I got the heebiejeebies. (Is that one word?)

The exterminator said it was a pretty big one. Oh?? I said, holding my panic down forcefully. He replied, "Well, yeah, except if you compare it to the one I found in some family's attic that one time. It was about 6-feet long. It had been growing there for years. They never went up there..." he reported, as his eyes glazed over, no doubt reliving those heroic days. "It took me a couple of days, but I got 'em," he said proudly.

He took the remains of the nest out to his truck, but on the way, he spotted more nests. Three of them. They were smaller, but they were there under the eves of the front of the house. He sprayed them, too, and dragged them down. Then, with his rubber gloves, he picked up the nests as well as the lifeless wasps that had fallen from the nest. "If I'm charging you this much for so little work, at least I can pick them up."

Gee, what a lucrative business. Five minutes or so, most of it spent on paperwork. Maybe I could....No!!! Geez. There's that panic rising up in me again. Especially with the image of a six-foot tall nest. Ouch!

A Retiree's Dilemma

Life is created from interesting choices.

Today I had a tough one, and until the moment came for me to leave, I didn't know what I was going to do.

A retiree's life is full of tough choices. Today, I had tickets to two events: an all-Mozart program by the San Francisco Symphony at 2 pm today (Thursday), or a day game at the Oakland Coliseum. I had only one ticket for each: I was going by myself. I never have a problem doing that.

I added up the points. The A's played the Cleveland Indians for the first time last night. It was a close 4-3 game, Indians, in the 3rd inning last night when I had to leave the Crogan's T.V. set to sit down and have dinner with Aaron and Molly. We talked baseball much of the night, so that was okay. I was DVR'ing the game, so I sat down with a half glass of wine to watch the rest when I got home at 11 pm, only to find that the Indians blew the A's out of the water for the rest of the game, scoring 9 runs in one of the later innings.

So, did I really want to watch the hit-happy Indians whomp up on the A's one more time? No, not really. And the weather report said it'll be overcast in the morning, just like yesterday. Yet, I looked out this morning, and saw a glimpse of sun...

The symphony looked good. I am reading a biography of Mozart these days, and since this is the 250th anniversary of Wolfie's birthday, the San Francisco Symphony has had notable Mozart-themed productions throughout 2006, and this was going to be a stellar one.

But I had another symphony performance on Sunday afternoon. I could afford to miss this one.

Whoops, that argument won't work, as I have another A's game on the weekend, too, this time on Saturday. It's Nick Swisher bobblehead day. Gotta grab a quick Torah study and get out to the Coliseum to collect my goateed bobblehead.

So, which one? Which one would you attend?

I didn't know what I was going to do until I was getting dressed this morning. I found myself slipping into my blue jeans, denim, NOT symphony clothes but definitely baseball gear. Okay, it's baseball. I looked around in wonderment. Yeah, this feels right.

As I headed into the stadium, I called on my cell phone to the symphony box office and donated back my ticket. That way, I get a tax deduction and the symphony gets to fill the seat.

As I settled into my seat in the perfect Section 126 on an overcast but pleasant day in Oakland, I saw first pitch. Kirk Saarloos, starting for injured Rich Harden, had a shaky beginning, but closed out the top of the 1st without a score from the Tribe. By the end of the bottom of the first, the A's led, 5 to nothing. Wow.

It was a great day for A's hitters and pitchers, with some creative defense thrown in by Bobby Crosby and error-free Mark Ellis. The final score was 14 - 3, Oakland Athletics. I had definitely made the right choice.

Sometimes the choices in life are tough, especially if you have two great possibilities in your day. May we all have those wonderful options in our lives, every day.

She'll Sing if She Wants to...

She leaned over her seat toward where I was sitting behind her and asked, “So, have you ever seen her before?”

We were sitting in the La Brava theatre on 24th Street in San Francisco, waiting for the Lesley Gore concert to start. I explained that I had seen Lesley once before – and I had just remembered this while eating in the café next door in the previous hour – in a singer-packed review about 30 years ago. She had sung about 3 songs, including two I’m sure she would perform again that night.

Lesley Gore started her career 44 years ago when she met 30-year-old Quincy Jones. One of the best parts of tonight’s concert was when she talked about those old days, when Q gave her advice (“always try to create something in the recording studio you can duplicate on stage later”) and took her to shows featuring the old-time great singers like Peggy Lee. Little did they know that the song they both produced that day, “It’s My Party,” would be number one in six weeks, and would start two legends.

Ann, the woman in the seat in row CC ahead of me, introduced me to Jim and his mother, who were sitting right next to me. Jim told me that he put his mother in the seat but that meant that his boyfriend, Mark, had to sit wayyy in the back. He said this wistfully as he waved to Mark. I took the opportunity to explain to Jim that my girlfriend couldn’t make it to the show, pointing to the jacket on the empty seat, and invited him to bring Mark down to sit next to him. I moved over as Jim excitedly waved Mark to come on down.

I’m not that unselfish, or altruistic. But Jim and Mark are “brothers,” in the Trish sense of the word, and Mark was a brother in the Pam sense. So it seemed like a good idea.

And I found myself sitting next to a too-young-to-remember-the-old-days enthusiastic fan who knew all of her new songs off her CD. He told me they were really good, and true enough, it turned out he was right.

When Lesley came on stage to warm applause, she explained that she would be interspersing the songs from her new album in with the oldies – no, not oldies, as she patiently and humorously explained to us, but rather, “classic hits.” I found, much to my amazement, that the new songs were memorable, with touching lyrics, and most were written by Ms. Gore herself.

If you can believe this, Lesley Gore is 60 years old. SIXTY! I actually thought she was older than that, as I remember buying some of her singles while my family visited Grandma in Pensacola one summer in the early '60's. The 45s were warped by the time I got them home from the sun-baked south, but that didn’t stop me from playing “Maybe I Know” over and over and over on the record player my Dad set up in my room.

Lesley’s voice is huskier, and all the songs seemed to be pitched a little too high for her. Several songs were slowed down, a fact I found disappointing in all but one instance. “Sunshine and Lollipops” was a not-very-good song with an even worse arrangement 30 years ago, and could only be helped by a new tempo and arrangement. But it was tough hearing favorite “Maybe I Know” even slightly different; it’s tough hearing change at work.

Her back-up group was acquired in a garage in San Diego, or so it seemed in the beginning of the set. The bass, drums and guitar overpowered her voice, making it difficult to hear the lyrics. (Of course, who needs the lyrics to “That’s the Way Boys Are,” as I could sing it in my sleep. And the lyrics aren’t exactly Leonard Cohen. But I would have liked to have heard the words of the new songs.) However, two-thirds of the way through the concert, somebody finally figured out the sound mix, and her voice came through stronger. It seems that only the guitar should’ve stayed in the garage; the other band members were adept enough to keep pace with these beloved songs.

I hate going into San Francisco. I hate driving into parts I don’t know. I hate looking for parking, and so went two hours early. I hate sitting next to strangers with whom I have nothing in common. But this experience was different. I got to visit a sliver, just for a moment, of my junior high school days when I was beginning to know and appreciate rock and roll, and feel the wonderfulness of that period of time in my life. I got to sit next to other true fans, some of whom actually lived during that same period. And I got to “meet” Lesley Gore, an idol from the early days. Still, it was a shock: she’s older with definite signs of age in her face, shorter than I imagined, hair differently styled, and just, well, different than the album covers. Change is disturbing.

I didn’t stay to actually meet her during her CD signing in the lobby. As I skipped past the hundreds lingering there, I felt a nice glow from the whole experience. I don’t want to be a few feet from her and face the changes. I’ll listen to the new songs when I get home. But then I’ll put on the old stuff, and feel “You Don’t Own Me” the way it was meant to be felt.

The All-You-Can Eat Buffet, Except....

“Alex, I’d like Kashrut for $100, please.”

“An interesting choice, Linda. All right. You’re looking at a delicious piece of albacore. Side by side on your plate is a small piece of sirloin steak. Can you enjoy your meal as an observant Jew?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “If fish and meat are eaten together as described, there would be a health danger.”

“Correct!” Exclaimed Alex. “You have the board.”

As the other contestants sneered at me, I picked “Kashrut for $200, please.”

“As you know, the higher you go in monetary amount, the more difficult the questions become.

“In order to kasher a steak knife, you rinse it in hot water. True or false?”

BWAHHHH!!

“Yes, Linda.”

“No. You have to stick it in the ground 10 times.”

“Hmmm….may we have the judges’ ruling on this? Yes, that would be acceptable. $200 to Linda.”

Kashrut is not an obsession, but it’s definitely an item of interest for me, especially around Pesach. I have learned that Passover is the most sacred of holidays. Things you used to get away with any other day of the year, including the High Holy Days, just won’t cut it during Pesach. For instance, if you’re going to purchase salt (without iodine, of course), it’s best to do it before the week of Passover.

If I thought jumping into Judaism was like landing on Mars, and the words are definitely Martian, the kosher issue puts it into another dimension for me. I can visit, but gosh, forces of nature just pull me back.

I’ve heard a lot of different reasons, rationalizations perhaps, for the reason for kosher. As near as I can figure out, it’s simply because such rules and restrictions set Jews apart from all others. This is our tribe, that’s yours. Some of these rules might have had a basis in health concerns, but not most and certainly not all. They just are.

“Alex, Kashrut for $300, please.”

“All right, let’s see how you do on this one. You’re on vacation in Italy. You’ve got a Slurpee on your right, and Rocky Road Ice Cream on your left. Is this kosher?”

BWAHHHH!!

“Yes, Linda, you of the fast fingers. What is your answer?”

“Alex, I eat slurpees and Rocky Road ice cream all the time. Of course they’re all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said with a sad look on his face. “That’s incorrect. If the slurpee is not from the U.S., it’s not kosher. And if the Rocky Road ice cream was made by Walgreen’s, it also is not kosher. That’s $300 from Linda, which gives her a total of Zero.”

Obviously I have a long way to go in understanding this kashrut thing. I thought it was such a simple thing until I went to a three-hour class on the subject, and discovered that three hours doesn’t even begin to cover the permutations. I had hoped to get some clarity on the issues involved: that was my basic goal. I succeeded somewhat.

This week I set about clearing out my kitchen of all hametz (leavened bread) materials. I thought the task would be easy. Crackers? Bread? Gone. But then I discovered that it also includes non-kosher wine. I don’t have any kosher wine. So I boxed up all the possibilities (including two bottles of nice champagne) and will store it in a place that I will not call my own for a week.

But I still have some questions about some of the things that are still in my house. I figure that this, my first year, is a great crucible.

Am I playing at this? I think I am just being Reform. I am trying the practices to see which ones make sense to me, which ones I can absorb and make a part of my identity. I think that’s the definition of Reform.

If there are any rabbis out there, or rabbis-to-be, and I’ve made any errors, please let me know. Oh, and while you’re at it, I have a few more questions for you about food supplements, bags of flour, and PopSecret popcorn, stuff that's still in my cupboard.

I never did get to Kashrut for $500. Too tough. And I doubt if I ever will.

Spring Training 2006: The Big Hurt Shows Up Big

On my 4th and last day of this short visit to Spring Training, I went to a terrific ballgame in spectacular seats at Phoenix Muni. I finally see what the other fans like about this stadium. It normally reminds me too much of McAfee (Oakland Coliseum) in that there’s too much foul territory, the players are too far away from the fans, etc. But today I was sitting in box seats in back of the Athletics’ dugout. Today I was up-close-and-personal to the field and the players.

And it was quite a game! Danny Haren was pitching for the A’s. His 2nd pitch was hit for a solid single, and every inning he seemed to have one man on base, causing Swisher to play close to the bag, but that was it. One homerun was the Rockies’ scoring, ‘cause that’s all they could get; they didn’t even come close to scoring again.

And we got to see Frank Thomas in an A’s uniform in his first official spring training game. Wow. I thought Vladimir Guerrero filled out a uniform. Marco Scutaro could fit inside one of Frank’s sleeves. This guy is the Hulk, and you can see why he’s called the Big Hurt.

After stretching a bit and running and chatting amiably with the other players, Frank casually walked over to the sideline where I was sitting and started signing autographs, just like that. Whoa!! All of a sudden, there were kids of all ages climbing over me to get to the fence. (I was one row back.) That wasn’t pleasant, but it was certainly understandable. The Hurt is here, he’s happy to be here, and he’s saying his first hello to the fans. Awesome.

And he didn’t disappoint on the field, either. His second at bat, he hit a shot so high, so fast, that I didn’t even see it clear the right-field fence. But it did. It certainly looked like his injuries were just memories.

This wasn’t a hitfest. It would seem the A’s are having problems hitting except that they’re making contact. And the split squad game yesterday was a 20-run rout in their favor – but this was the game I didn’t see, the one in Peoria. Eric Chavez is Oh-fer in his last 16 at bats. But he’s making good contact so I don’t think we should worry.

Nick Swisher hit a homerun, his second in two days. Jay Payton, who seems relegated to only part-time work, also hit a homerun. (I’m a real Payton fan. I think this guy breathes baseball, and has the talent to back up his swagger.) Those three runs were the only runs the A’s scored. The Rockies also scored their only run on the long ball. It was, outside of these homeruns, another pitchers’ duel, with both pitchers performing well.

I knew I had to leave early, but the game was running so fast that I was able to stay until the 7th inning. I found the rental car facility easily, driving down Van Buren all the way until 24th street, and then making a right. Took me right there. The plane ride, however, was the trip from (and to) hell. I’m thinking with all the time I invest in going to the airport, that shaves 3 hours off a 10-hour trip. I am thinking that, if I do this again next year, I’m driving. No more schlepping luggage to three different gates in an hour.

But before I leave, thanks to Candi again for organizing these trips for us. For spectacular seats. For her patience. After all, we seniors are rather grumpy at times, especially if we don’t get our beans.

Spring Training 2006: The Case of the Missing BBQ

Friday night, the game was at night at Phoenix Municipal. I got to the parking lot at 4:45 pm, 15 minutes before the gates to the park opened. I bought a new spring training hat in the shop (open from the outside). When the gates opened, I moseyed over to the BBQ, held in a fenced-off grassy area over by left field.

The folks at the BBQ were very friendly. We kind of had to be, as we all had to share the limited number of tables. As soon as others joined me, the gentleman with the old A’s cap in front of me immediately started in, telling me about the site where the Oakland Coliseum is today. “I worked for EBMUD back then. EBMUD sold that spot to the Oakland A’s back in 1966.” I don’t remember much about what he told me; there was so much noise around with the Boosters talking and the music from the live band next door, it was hard to hear. Something about the Coliseum’s lower levels being below 22 feet sea level.

The woman next to me – I’m guessing she was close to 80, as her husband will celebrate that mark in a year – told me she keeps score for every A’s game, even the away games. “I do it over the radio,” she said proudly. “Whenever my family wants to give me gifts, I tell them to give me score cards. You know, it takes 7 books to get through an entire year.”

When our table got up to go through the BBQ line, we were disappointed. They were out of beans. They were out of potato chips, mustard, catsup -- well, most things except for hot dogs and hamburgers. The seniors were starting to get angry (as angry as they get, murmurring in the crowd). The server when I was up there was murmurring, too -- about how much seniors eat. "The beans are all gone," he said, shaking his head and talking to nobody in particular. "These people -- they eat too many beans." Candi worked with the caterer, who promised to come up with more food in a hurry (but not beans, because, as we know, "the beans are all gone"). Finally the A's coordinator came up to talk with her. He explained to her that they hadn't expected to run out of food only halfway through the line. "Hey, these people can eat!" she told me later that she explained it all to him. "Have you ever seen my mother at a banquet? She brings her own doggie bag." She said she didn't want to piss off these people and lose the Boosters' $18 tickets and all the other perks they give us, so she tread lightly. The servers finally brought over all the brownies and grapes from the A's pre-game meal, but by then almost all of us had gone to the game. (The food was available from the A's because the players had to go to the game, too!)

I must admit that I left every game early, either because I was too hot, too tired, or I had to go to the airport (twice). Every time it looked like I was leaving, the people around me would frown and question me. While spring training urges a laidback attitude, apparently that doesn’t apply to attending the games. I would arrive two hours early before every game to be assured of parking and observe the players on the field as they loosened up, but I didn’t get any points for that among this tough crowd.

On this particular night (Friday), pitcher Barry Zito, the ace of the A's squad, did not look sharp. He gave up hit after hit. While it's hard to tell if Barry was working on something, it's tough not to be worried that Uncle Charlie (his nasty curveball) is suddenly hittable.


On Saturday morning, after my friend Val flew in to join me in one game for Spring Training, we drove to Hohokam for the A's vs. the Cubs. Hohokam Park is in Mesa, Arizona, a good 10 miles southeast of Phoenix. I’m sure there’s lots to see in Mesa, but when you’re standing in the stadium there, there doesn’t seem to be anything surrounding the place for miles. Just brownish-red mesas and blue skies. The park itself is 9 years old, has a little underground passageway behind the grandstand, a cool place to shop for souvenirs. And almost all the souvenirs were Cubs-related. LOTS of Cubbie fans strolling around. And you’d never know this was a spring training game, a game where not much mattered. The Cubs fans were out in their colors, and cheering on their team. The Cubs ended up winning this game, 1 – 0, in a pitching duel.

Rich Harden of the Oakland A’s looked particularly sharp, giving way in the fifth inning for Jay Witasick. Rich’s pitches were rarely even hit; very few balls had to be fielded. The A’s hitters couldn’t do much against the Cubs pitcher, flailing away at breaking ball pitches or trying to catch up to a steaming fastball.

I did get my first glimpse of Milton Bradley. Milton took his whacks, but ended up walking most of the time. That showed me that he wasn’t above the A’s philosophy, and as long as he could get on base, even in spring training when he’s working on his swing, he’d be satisfied. Marco Scutaro put in his first appearance since his injury (in the four days I have been in Phoenix), and looked fine. Bobby Kielty appears to be over his injury as well, and, although he didn’t get any hits, he did flag down a few tough fly balls.

Spring Training 2006: Watch Freddie Run

I mentioned that last night was a real treat for the Oakland A’s Booster Club, as we had Robert Buan and Freddie Bynum to talk to us. Robert, of course, is the silver-tongued announcer who gave away the cars last year and who runs Extra Innings after every A’s broadcast. He introduced player Freddie Bynum, and urged Freddie to answer his questions and ours.

Freddie grew up in North Carolina. He had no intention of going to college at all, figuring he’d join his father in factory work, but his grandmother offered him college. “I could go and not have to pay for anything. So….I went to college,” he said quietly as we all laughed. “While I was there, I discovered they had baseball. Might as well play as long as it’s there. I ended up paying for my years of school with scholarships.”

Freddie is a 26-year-old minor leaguer who has run out of options. If the A’s don’t pick him for The Show this time around, someone else can. And that would really hurt. Especially since Freddie isn’t making it easy for the Powers That Be to let him go. He’s batting close to .400 in the games he’s been in; it’s almost like the Athletics are trying to showcase this young player for other teams, or let him prove what he can prove.

Robert asked Freddie, “If the A’s picked you up, do you think you’d continue to steal bases? After all, they’ve had this philosophy for years which discourages base stealing.” Freddie thought a moment, and answered, “I’m thinking not.” When he heard a lot of disappointed groans, he continued that management wouldn’t want to leave the bases open for the A’s power hitters, as opposing pitchers would just walk them. But maybe at certain times he’d be allowed to steal, he mused.

This young man is out of North Carolina, soft spoken but full of confidence. “I don’t worry about what I can’t control,” he said more than once about what the A’s would do about his options. As he told the Boosters that night, “But I can tell you one thing. I’m going to try to take someone’s job.”

Looking at his production and the fact that a few of the regulars are injured (e.g., Kielty), I’m predicting right now that Bynum will be on the roster on April 2nd when the rosters have to be in. The A’s may not want to play Freddie full-time, but he’s lightning in a bottle, and I don’t think they’ll give him up for nary a whisper.

Spring Training 2006: The Super Halo & the Ample-Butt Women

It was an early wake-up to catch the flight to Phoenix. And the flight itself was rather miserable. It was pretty much sold out, and although I had an aisle seat, my neighbor was overweight and, once seated, she had no place to put appendages within that narrow America West seat. Luckily (for both of us, I think), I understand her predicament. We managed to overlap territory without much drama.

But the 6 am flight was a good way to go, as I could get in, rent my car at the new central facility, get lost a few times and then finally find the Embassy Suites, all before making my way to the ballpark. The hotel is only a few miles from the airport, but, I swear, it takes me at least half an hour to get to it.

I checked in early and headed out with ample directions to Temple Diablo Stadium. I have no idea why it’s called “Diablo” if it’s the home of the Angels. It’s a nice, small park, but the parking is still limited. I arrived at 11:45 for a 1 pm game, and I was shunted off to the third parking lot behind the outfield.

Tempe Diablo Stadium is the home of the Angels, and holds over 10,000 if you count the 2,500 on the lawn. This day all the seats were filled, but the lawn wasn’t quite. At $8 for my just-off-third-base seat, four rows from the fence, it seemed like a great deal.

By the time the game started, however, the sun had already started to cook the back of my neck. I had put sunscreen on before I left the hotel room, and put some more on in the 3rd inning, but I still felt hot. So I left the seat in the 5th and went to the covered area where the concessions were. “Seat?” Huh. They were marked numbers on a continuous bench. As the woman next to me couldn’t find area for her husband and son between us ample-butt women, she suggested I move to the end of the row. I got kind of stubborn – and how silly this seems now – as I didn’t want to be stuck if people showed up with those tickets. Nobody ever did, but the Boosters area did fill up a bit as that late bus pulled up. So her husband started a baseball conversation with his neighbor, and her son disappeared into the concession stands for several innings. And everything worked out.

It was weird to see Angels superstar Vladimir Guerrero show up, at least half an hour after the other Angels players had started working out. He’s twice as big as an ordinary player. I took several photos of him as he stretched on the sidelines and got ready to play. I saw our new shortstop Antonio Perez come up to talk to Vlad during this routine. When Vladdy made two rare errors in the outfield later on in the game, the 40’s-ish A’s fan next to me hooted and hollered. “How many millions per error is that?” he cackled, continuing to mispronounce “Vlad” as “Vald.” Those superstars are never going to get a break.

The A’s threw Triple A pitcher Danny Meyer out there, who went 5 innings. He looked just fine until the Angels hit back-to-back homeruns against him – one by Vladdy, a shot that cleared the entire stadium. The A’s bats looked pretty solid to me, but a Booster senior that evening remarked that the A’s went 4 innings without a hit and wondered when they were going to wake up. But spring training is a mixed bag, a mixture of veterans who are just loosening up and up-and-comers who are trying to impress, and you’re not going to get perfect games.

One of those up-and-comers is Freddie Bynum, an infielder who seems to be playing the outfield a lot. Freddie went 2 for 6 in today’s game of 10 innings, and stole two bases as well. Much to our delight, Freddie turned up at the Booster Banquet that night, introduced by Robert Buan, one of the A’s announcers. When I asked how he remained so consistent at the plate and what was his approach, he mumbled a bunch of usual rhetoric, but then finally threw in, “And I look for that fastball.” More about Freddie later.

I discovered that the Friday game is the only night game of the season at Phoenix Municipal. It’s preceded by a Booster Club BBQ by the left field at 5 pm. Since parking fills up quickly, it’ll be good to get out there early anyway. But I have no idea what I’m going to do in the afternoon. I had looked at the Giants game in Scottsdale, but it was sold out. I guess I’ll just try to stay cool.

The Coronation of George

I answered my cell phone in a hushed whisper. It was Rick, talking about George's retirement party, a usual topic these days. "What's that screaming in the background?" he asked. The musicians are warming up, I replied. I'm at the symphony.

I have tickets for a plethora of events this year at Davies Hall, the magnificent home of the San Francisco Symphony. Today was Mozart's Coronation Mass. It's Mozart's 250th birthday this year, you see. Except that he only lived to see year number 35. Amazing that his work has been revered for so long.

Mozart composed this Coronation Mass for Easter Sunday in 1779. Since it's widely known he tended to compose on schedule (meaning, he waited until the last minute before he would finish), it's likely he finished the work only days before it was scheduled to be performed in the Salzburg Cathedral.

According to the program notes (Playbill, March 2006), "most of Mozart's Masses are of the Missa brevis (Short Mass) variety." As he described to a friend in a letter in 1776, "A Mass with all its parts -- the Kyrie, the Gloria, the Credo, the Epistle sonata, the Offertory or motet, the Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei -- must not last longer than three-quarters of an hour; this applies even to the most solemn Mass said by the Archibishop himself."

Applause for guest conductor Martin Haselbock, and we get under way. As Haselbock throws his arms out in boomerang effect, the musicians start. And Perfection begins.

But even in such heavenly company the mind drifts. In true Joycean style, uncontrollable and without punctuation, thoughts hurtled about at the speed of light, faster than sound.

George's retirement party. God, he's asked millions. Everyone he's ever met, clearly anyone he ever worked with in 35 years. Our little restaurant room isn't large enough. The Coliseum wouldn't be large enough. I wonder if I can get out of town before anyone notices...

Kyrie eleison.
Gloria!
Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.

The 217-member choir shouts its praise to God in voluptuous harmony. I wonder why there are so many women in the choir. Couldn't they get any men?

George is driving us to drink. I won't drink at all during the party. I'll drink afterwards. I'll share a drink with Rick, or two or three. I sure hope our presentation is funny.

Credo! Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium.

The four guest soloists step up and begin. Three of them may just as well sit down and stare at the audience. The soprano voice of Cristine Brandes rises above the rest, hovers, and takes us on its angelic journey. She's incredible. I wonder if she speaks everyday Italian?

Maybe if we just have a cocktail party. But we have all that food. They have to sit down to eat the food. There aren't enough chairs. How are we going to squeeze...

Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in neccessitatibus nostris! Sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper.
Benedictus! Benedictus!

Some of those choir members are paid. Most are volunteers. I wonder which ones?

Agnus Dei! Qui tollis peccata mundi miserere nobis.

O Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.

I have witnessed, in my short life, some true perfect moments. This was one. I listened to Haydn just a moment ago, and he rarely took chances, risks, except in retirement. But Mozart lived for the risks, reached for the golden ring, each and every time. Everything he did was for the first time. And over 200 years later, we're still here, listening.

A full 45 minutes later, I applauded this exquisite performance by the San Francisco Symphony and its Choir. Five minutes later, I was walking towards BART, stepping deftly to avoid the three-foot tall women in my way, leaning on their canes and their bent-over men, as they move away from Davies Hall. The average age at these matinees is one click over The Golden Girls. They, like me, like to experience their music in the light of day.

A few moments in my life that have been Perfect. The Coronation Mass. A no-hitter. That chicken piccata at Francesco's. That retirement party for George.

Well, the last remains to be seen. In two short weeks. If we survive.

O Lamb of God....have mercy upon us....

Remodel Hell: One More Thing...

I'll bet contractors hate hearing that, "while you're in there, one more thing I'd like you to do is..."

I don't like doing that. I don't like adding on. First, it's pretty stupid, often happens after they've already sealed up the hole. Secondly, it's very expensive.

However....this time I had to do it. I discovered I didn't have enough outlets in the small (now smaller) middle room, so I asked Ernie if he could send his electrician (a different one than the last two times, please?) out to do the job. He said it would only take about two hours.

So Dave arrived this morning, asked me all kinds of questions I wasn't good in answering. And then he broke open the switch box (there goes the new plaster!! Groan...) to figure it all out. He looked at the crawl space under the house, re-emerged and said the job was probably going to take a day.

No, no, I said. I have a cleaning crew showing up in an hour. We had better re-schedule.

But Ernie drove up just then, came in, and showed him there was already a dedicated line to the new bathroom that he could feed off to supply electrical power to the new fourplex. So Dave rolled with it, smiled, and said, Hey, we'll be out of here in two hours!

Thank God for Ernie. Again. Ernie also told me he discussed it with Dave Martinez, the owner, and they decided they wouldn't charge me for the last go-round (not this one) with the electrician and the plasterer. Just materials. How nice is that?

So today it's finished....let me say that again...The two-month five-month remodel is FINISHED!!!

I gotta go now....I've got the cleaners coming in a few minutes! Cleaning up for the party on Sunday!!

WHOOPEEEEEE!!!!

Remodel Hell - The Final Inspection

We failed the last electrical inspection, or as Ernie said, "Two out of three ain't bad." It's bad when you still have one to go.

So a week later -- today -- we had another inspector come out. Ernie was running around buying breaker switches and bringing in a new smoke detector for the bedroom, showing up at 8:05 am to get a head start on it all, to clean up after the electrician. (That electrician showed up about an hour after Ernie left, last Tuesday, and spent less than half an hour....doing what, I don't know. He refused to ground the loose wires or put in the code-required breakers.) The inspector came while I was at the dentist's, but we did the hidden key thing, and he got in and let the inspector in for a good result.

So, that's it, right? Well.... No. Ernie was nice enough to notice that the plaster surrounding the old switchbox in the den is all broken up (because of the electrician pounding on it to break it free from the wall), and promised to send his plasterer out to pave it over. "It's too big a job for me and my tools," he said, apologetically.

I also mentioned that I need some more electrical sockets in the middle room, my new office. He said he'd try to get an electrician out there, if not tomorrow, then soon. We didn't want to confuse the electrical inspection by including a couple of new sockets! Oh, noooo.

But....WE PASSED INSPECTION!! WE PASSED INSPECTION!! So in my mind, this darned project is DONE!

The End of Remodel Hell Party is scheduled for Sunday!

Remodel Hell - Hell Hath No Fury like an Electrical Inspector

Ernie from Martinez Construction called me bright and early this morning to say that the building inspector was going to show up at about 10:30 at my place to sign off on everything: mechanical, plumbing, electrical. Ernie was coming over early so that he could make sure the old switch box would open (it had been plastered shut, which is why the electrician on Friday was pounding on it), and to mark the switches so that the inspector, and I, would know which went to which room.

The first thing he did after he pulled up in his '68 Cougar (his truck had broken down) was to try to get my gate to close. Aha! There was something wrong with it after all....it won't shut because the old fence wasn't anchored, and when the Honey Do carpenter tore the old fence down, there was an impediment to the newly installed gate. So he spent the first 20 minutes trying to sand it down so that it would close.


Then we tried all the switches in the old box inside the den. I would stand in the room with something on, like a hair dryer, and yell to him when it went off. We did this until we were down to 3 switches and just couldn't figure what they went to. Finally, we got two: one was for the microwave in the kitchen, which was installed with the kitchen remodel two years ago, and the other was for the air conditioning, which was installed around the same time. The third unnamed switch, however, was a puzzle. So while we pondered that, Ernie got on the phone to some other customer who had called, and I went to play on my computer....but it suddenly didn't work. I went into the office to check the wireless router, and it was off. The whole power cord was off. "Ernie," I said when he was off the phone, "did you leave a switch off? My whole four-plex in the office doesn't work." "Aha!" he said, and told me he had inadvertently left off the unnamed switch. That problem was solved.

But we ran into a whole new set of problems when the Inspector arrived. He yelled at Ernie several times for not having the gate open, or wasting his time in some other way. At the end, we failed the electrical inspection. He turned to me and said, "Ma'am, I'm going to sign you off on the plumbing and the mechanical, but there are still some problems to take care of on the electrical end. We want you safe, after all." He turned on the charm when he talked to me. Apparently he only yells at contractors.

Something about some wires not being grounded, and some wires that don't go anywhere that are loose in the box. Plus some no-fault adapters, or something like that, missing in the box. The walk-in closet's overhead light was four inches too close to the shelves, according to Mr. Inspector. And I was missing a smoke detector in the main bedroom.

So, the electrician is due out tomorrow morning. And the inspector has been rescheduled for next Tuesday.

As the inspector that day was leaving, he came back to me and said, "You know this neighborhood. Do you know where this address is?" His next stop. I brought him back in and did a mapquest find, and told him how to get here. He was very appreciative, and threw off a pleasant, "That's a real nice bathroom you got back there," in a slight drawl and a smile as he walked away. I wonder if we'll see him again next week.

While we were testing the electrical panel switches, I discovered, much to my surprise, that there's only one tiny outlet in the middle room, in what's to be my new office. Ouch! I can't do office work without outlets. So Ernie and I talked about that. There's more work to be done, as I'll need a fourplex against the wall where the desk will go, and outlets on the other two walls as well.

Ernie also mentioned that they should pave over the plaster the electrician boys destroyed when they had to break back into the panel box.

Let's see....work started in mid-October, I was thinking it would be done by Christmas... So a two-month job is now in its 5th month. Ouch.

Oh, I had my new taupe-colored, leather loveseat delivered today! Here's a photo. Things are falling into place. If I can ever get rid of the workmen traipsing in and out, just think what the place will look like!

My New Part-Time Job: Juror

$15 a day. Well, minus the discounted parking fee of $2.50 a day. Not bad.

I figured that, divided by the time I spent at the Hayward Courthouse -- a community which included the Hayward Police Station next door, plus the bailbondsmen and public defenders' office down the street -- I earned about $2 an hour. Not so good.

I was a juror for on-and-off two weeks at the Hayward Courthouse when The People decided to bring a case against a man who strolled into a Hayward bar and beat up his housemate about a year and a half ago.

I expected to be excused because of my prior enforcement background. Nope. I expected, at the very least, to be questioned about it. Nope. I disclosed a lot, but nothing happened. Well, the judge smiled. But that was it.

It was one of the most interesting points of my life, certainly of my retirement, serving on this jury. As several acquaintances and friends have said, you hope the jury experience confirms your faith in the system. This time it did.

Judge Brenda Harbin-Forte, an African-American judge in the Hayward courthouse, was fair, attentive and engaging. (I googled Judge Harbin-Forte, and she's 52 years old with an impressive professional history, all local within Oakland and Hayward.) She smiled all the time, and seemed quite approachable, even during the jury-selection phase. That phase seemed brutal.

There were about 6 people who asked to be excused in the first phase. She would listen to each and every one, listen to their reasons -- and I'm sure she's heard all of these reasons before -- and excused every one, save one. The one she didn't excuse was a 40's-ish woman Asian with limited English who raised her hand twice to be excused. Her excuse, her reason given not to serve, was that she was inexperienced in such matters and would have a hard time deciding any case. The judge explained to her that almost all of us were inexperienced but that we would find a way, and that reasoning would persuade her for a couple of minutes. And then she'd try again.

She was saved by The People, when the prosecuting attorney excused her. Actually, between the prosecutor and the defense attorney, most of the women randomly selected for the juror pool were set free.

But I continued to find the reasons rather interesting. A lot of entrepreneurs begged off, of course. One older African-American freely admitted he had gotten out of jury duty a full SEVEN times! And the judge stifled a laugh, and after a couple of questions, let him go while admonishing him that he might get caught one day on a trial that would take much longer than ours.

The guy next to me asked to be excused because of two reasons: there were very few in his office to do rescue work, and he had poison ivy. During a short recess, I told him that must be painful; he then lifted his long-sleeved shirt to show me the black scars on his arms, and this only a week after he contracted the poison ivy. I couldn't even imagine the layers of pain. Her Honor let him go.

So, finally, we 14 jurors (12 plus the two alternates) found ourselves together in a little room, sharing newspapers but little talk. We only began to talk during the deliberations.

But before the deliberations, we sure sat around a lot. The court was busy, as the judge had many cases to hear before we would even get into the room. Most days we'd sit in the jurors' room until about 10:45 or so, ring the bell once so they'd know we were all present -- and everyone was good about that -- then wait until we heard two rings in a row to signify we were to march into the juror box in the courtroom again. One day we didn't go in until 11:30 -- and this was because the judge had two matters to hear before we went in -- then we broke for lunch an hour later, then we didn't get back into the courtroom until 2 pm. But that was the day we heard closing arguments, then the judge's instructions, then started our deliberations -- and it was a long day.

I was totally impressed with the education level of the average juror. Most had at least a bachelor's degree, some had master's degrees, and we even had a CEO or two among us. And all of the jurors seemed to possess an uncanny ability to ferret out truth from fiction (or bullshit), or common sense.

The only discussion we had among us was mostly about definitions. What's great bodily injury? What's battery vs. assault? But that's about it. Within an hour we had our verdict. We had to stall the bailiff about ordering out for lunch because we knew we'd have a verdict within minutes.

It was a fascinating bout with the American justice system. Fascinating, interesting, compelling. I wouldn't mind spending more time with those people. We joked a lot, especially after we decided the verdict. I joked about our annual reunion, an event which will never happen, of course. And we were each eager to continue with our lives, picking up where we left off, going back to our routines.

But for one brief, shining moment, we represented American life at its best. And we were very proud to do so.

Remodel Hell - The Gate, the Light Switch and Two Construction Companies

I actually didn't think Honey Do would respond to my tirade on the gate/fence, but, sure enough, on Monday morning, Leslye left an unemotional answer and said Mike would check it out.

In the meantime, Ernie called to say that he, himself, was coming by to replace the light switch. I decided to leave him the hidden key and go on my hour-long walk. I had been neglecting my walks because of remodel hell, and decided enough is enough.

When I returned, I immediately went to the bedroom. Instead of the little limp toggle from before, the light switch worked -- yay!! I now have an overhead light in the master bedroom!

A half hour later, as I was ordering the first of the furniture that would go into the middle room -- now my office, a rather smallish one, to be sure -- the two Fence guys from Honey Do showed up, minus Mike. They rang the doorbell, but I was still on the phone, so I told them I'd be through in a couple of minutes. When I made it to the outside front lawn, they were fixing the latch on the gate -- the wrong gate.

I laughed, thanked them (as that latch had never worked right, put in by -- you guessed it! -- the same company a year ago) -- and pointed to the gate on the other side. At this point, I decided the gate works fine, and just asked them to pull out the two offending screws that could catch someone's clothing, or worse, as they went by. They did so, and were on their way.

So, what's left?

The permit process for the electrical line that was just hooked up -- Ernie scheduled that for this Thursday. I hope I'm done with jury duty by then!

And there's also a matter of staining the beautiful redwood fence. I forgot all about that. I think I'm going to do this one myself...

Remodel Hell - PG&E Redux

Ernie called me while I was in jury duty, and told me that PG&E had agreed to come out again, this time on Friday. He said they had to cancel the appointment because they were backed up but neglected to tell anybody. Thankfully on Friday I was off.

So I sat around on Friday, all day, just knowing they were going to show up just as the sun was going down. It wasn't that late when a truck with a lone driver pulled up in front of my house, facing backward. "Are you PG&E?" I said to the guy, completely missing the big letters on the cab of the truck. "Yep." He whipped out his cell phone and said, "I'm going to call Eddie." "You mean Ernie," I said, as I, too, whipped out my cell phone. "Yeah, right." He then said, "No answer." I agreed to keep calling Ernie, and I left a voicemail.


He said he'd do the work, and I nodded fiercely up and down. "You'll be without electricity..." and I replied, "Fine. Just do it. Please."

I finally reached Dan Martinez, and he said he'd get an electrician out there. "You can still have PG&E do their thing, and the electrician can arrive afterwards." About a half hour later. Great.

So the PG&E little cab was electrically hoisted into the air, he fooled with the new electrical wire springing out of the roof of the house for 15 minutes, then came back down and said I was done. He pointed out the new electrical box....you know, so they can bill me. He then asked me how long I'd been waiting for the service. "Six weeks," I said. It's actually been longer. He nodded. "Yep. We've been busy."

About 45 minutes after the PG&E guy had left, at about 4:30, two guys in another truck pulled up. The Electricians. They immediately disconnected the electricity. They had a really hard time, it seems, getting things to work. One was banging on the old fuse box while the other was in the attic, and they were yelling Spanish to one another while working. Two hours later, as I'm typing in the dark on my computer, one of them emerges to ask me, "Do you have something outside?" I had no idea what he was talking about. He asked again: "Do you have jacuzzi outside?" No, I answered. No jacuzzi, nothing electrical outside except for sensor lights. He disappeared again, saying over his shoulder, "I'm going to try to throw the breakers." Five minutes later, after waiting 2 hours in the dark, all the lights finally came back on.

But before they disappeared for good, I wanted to check everything. The T.V. worked. But the overhead light in the master bedroom did not. He pointed out that the power was on back there, but that the light switch, or at least half of it, appeared to be broken. After some discussion -- no, make that argument -- he said he could not fix the light switch. It wasn't what he was hired to do. So after they left, I called Ernie and actually got an answer at 6:30 at night. He agreed to send a guy out on Monday morning to fix the bleeping light switch.

Oh, and during the two hours of no electricity, I went outside to water -- it was lighter out there -- and noticed that the gate on the left side of the house wasn't latched. I tried to latch it, but the stable hook is a good four inches away from the end of the gate. That wasn't true a few days ago. I surmised that the guys who constructed the fence moved the latch. There were also a few stray nails and screws that seemed to be a hazard right next to the latch, just standing there in the wood. I angrily called Honey Do Remodel, knowing they wouldn't be answering so late, but left a message. Why would they move the latch and not even mention it? But then, with the help of Alberto the Landscaper, I discovered that you just have to lean on the remaining fence to get the gate to move to the proper spot. I felt kind of foolish after that phone call, but will call back and explain....and apologize. A little remodel hell frustration coming out.

So Remodel Hell continues. We're right at the end, I believe, but there are those few nagging problems. And, as we all know, when the crews go off and do other jobs, they're harder to bring back, which complicates the little nagging problems. Just these two left to fix, and I'll be done.

Oh -- and I really like the way the front looks now, with the flowers coming out during this February warm spell and the new fence. THIS is why I like remodeling: the after effect!!

Remodel Hell - The Fence

I booked a job with Honey Do to install a new redwood fence, add some insulation to my roof (a whole lotta insulation, as it turns out), and spray the roof over my den with a reflective material.

The new fence was needed because (1) I need a new fence, and (2) the situation is a little desperate since the gardener/landscaper Alberto tore the top off the front of the fence and then decided he couldn't finish the job at the price we had agreed upon. So the fence was collapsing.

After talking with the good neighbor, the one on the left north side, I proceeded with a pretty standard redwood fence. No gate, no fence on the driveway side, just like before. The object isn't to keep dogs in or people completely out. It's to discourage those walking by from straying onto the grass or dropping trash, and to give the illusion of privacy. It's about four feet high, just like before. But I never have to paint this one.

After a delay of about a month, Honey Do finally got their crew out to my residence....but they were short one guy. So the job has gone four days instead of the promised three. And it had to happen while I was at jury duty. But I left the hidden key behind so they could access the house for the last bit of insulation.

These pictures were taken yesterday morning before I left for the Hayward Courthouse. By the time I returned at 5 pm, the fence was finished. Nice job! Insulation continues today.

Remodel Hell - No PG&E

Two weeks ago, Ernie called me up to tell me that PG&E finally agreed to come to the house and hook up that additional electrical line. It would be on a Friday, February 3rd, a full 5 weeks after construction had been finished.

Ernie had related to me, time after time, about his difficulties in reaching them. He'd book an appointment time only to find out later that the computer didn't record the time. After getting the appointment time and have no one acknowledge his message or show up, he'd call and leave a voicemail, a vain attempt in trying to get to talk to a live person. He finally got an appointment for Friday.

Nobody showed up. Nobody called. At 4:45 pm, after sitting in the house all day, I finally called Ernie to tell him that there's only half an hour left until the sun goes down. I don't think they're coming. He verbally blew his stack.

A week later he called me to tell me that we're on again, this time for today, Friday, February 10th.

Every time I hear one of those friendly PG&E ads on the radio or on T.V., I just want to puke.

Splitting Hairs

I decided I wanted to get a really short haircut. How short? Short. A buzz cut.

Actually, I had decided this 'way before my retirement over two years ago. I didn't do it because, well, geez, there are a lot of reasons. I had to go to the symphony. I had to meet people. But the real reason was, I chickened out.

So when my girlfriend kept asking, "Ooooh, are you going to get that short haircut now?" I finally decided to go for it. I had admired short haircuts on some friends of mine, and, you know, no crushed look when you sleep on it wrong if it's really short. So, today I walked into the generic version of Supercuts and announced I was going to try an experiment.

I'm funny about haircuts. I don't mind spending a C-note on a nice meal. Or paying a lot of money for clothes that will last awhile. But I hate spending any money at all on something that's going to be gone -- or I should say, be back, as it will grow back -- in just a few weeks. I've heard a lot of women, including my friends, say they'd pay almost any amount of money if they could just be assured of a decent haircut, but not me. So every time I go into a cheap place like the one at the Payless strip mall, I take my hair life into my hands.

I had rehearsed what I was going to say. I knew that I'd be dealing with a language barrier, as the women who work at this place are ESL -- skillful with a razor, but not so skilled on figuring out what you want -- so, yes, a double risk here.

As soon as I walked in, one of the women practically yelled out, "Linda!" (I guess good tipping really does work.) I had to give my phone number, but the woman handling the computer couldn't find it. The other woman, the one who knows my name, helped her find me, and then the cashier woman asked me to follow her.

I knew we had a problem as soon as I said my rehearsed speech. "I would like to do something new," I said, trying to ease her into the situation. "I want it short. Very short. About an inch long, if that." So then she said to me, "Same length?" Ooops. No.

So I would speak to the 2nd woman, the woman who knows my name, and she would interpret for the first woman, the one with the scissors in her hand. It was an interesting triumvirate. She'd say something and we'd all laugh. I had no idea what they were saying.

After the first shave-through, I caught a glance of my head in the mirror and said, "Oooh." She immediately said, "All right?" I replied, "Yes!" more to reassure her. I was kind of in shock, but I didn't really get a good look. The 2nd woman with the better English skills walked by and said, "Very sexy!" Must be the first thing they teach you in hair grooming school.

So I didn't know what the result was. Until I strolled into Payless and caught a glimpse of me in one of their makeup mirrors.

Oh My God. I've never had my hair this short. Not even -- no, not even then. I guess when people mistake me for a man now, I'll have to lower my voice. My God.

You know the saying, he didn't have the brains God gave baby ducks? My hair looks like the fuzz from a baby duck. Without the brains God gave baby ducks.


I immediately bought some hair goo in Payless. Something to tame it. But there's nowhere for it to go, you know? It just lies there -- no, it doesn't lie, it's straight up, sorta.

The beauty of this experiment is that it will grow out. I think it will look just fine -- in the near future. I guess I can say, looking at it in a positive way, I finally got to do one of the things I've always wanted to do.