"Everyone needs a tagline. And I guess yours is cappuccino?"
That's what my boss said to me as I pulled out my cappuccino shirt and laughed about my recent purchase.
"You really do love it, don't you?" She added.
Still laughing I told her that I had also created business cards with a cappuccino image on them.
"It really is your tagline."
And then another co-worker chimed in.
"Why do you love it so much?"
That answer is easy. But it requires a story: It starts with falling in love with coffee.
I am not a totalitarian, you probably aren't either, but there are
times when our leftist minds linger on a fleeting thought that fatally
undermines our morality. This thought is induced, as I'm sure you are
aware, by an errant sock.
Stories have been written to explain
the missing sock. Some claim that gnomes are responsible. Others
suggest that socks may have just fallen behind the dryer. These tales
answer the ontological question: Why is my sock missing?
I am
far more concerned with the political and ethical implications of this
conversation. Namely, how should one judge a sock that is missing its
partner. The school of thought, which I tend to follow in my daily
life, is one of tolerance. I throw the singular sock in with rest. One
big socky family. Beautiful.
The other school, says with fascist efficiency: "This sock is not normal, eliminate it."
I am not now nor have I ever been a Girl Scout...mostly for the simple reason that I grew up on the upper west side of Manhattan and it just wasn’t a thing that we did. It wasn’t ever a viable option. I also felt that there would be only one reason to join and that that reason would designate me a traitor. I would not have joined to perform tasks to learn life skills or help humanity, I would have joined to have access to the greatest cookie in the world: The Thin Mint.
About 6 months ago, my boyfriend and I were meeting some friends of his for dinner and drinks at a local restaurant. We were laughing and drinking and having a great night out when he leaned over and apologized for being a bit delayed (he’d been working in Long Island on a restaurant mural and missed an earlier train). He said, “But I brought something to make it up to you.” and opened his bag to reveal the trademark green box.
Without missing a beat- barely even taking a breath- I grabbed my coat, threw money on the table and announced our immediate departure. I did it unconsciously. I could think of nothing but tearing open the plastic sleeve, eating everything inside and basking in the chocolate mint haze that I’m always left in, post cookie feast. I’m a simple girl.
So I’m playing tourist,
mooching off my galpal Corinne’s retired Redwood City, CA dream life.
Boy, has she ever set herself up well in her hometown, recently
redeveloped into a vacation paradise ideal for a freeloader
like me. Not only is her late
parents’ house, in which she grew up, replete with a view of verdant
hillsides and well-tended homes – and a
large garden full of a festival of fruits in rotating seasons of
ripeness – she’s got
the sensuous cuddle cat and the darling ditzy dog, and the
friendly, easy kind of community about which we all fantasize when
things start
to sloooow down.
Redwood City has Zydeco dancing for free with a great Cajun group in the renovated town square on Friday nights all summer, in a great contrast of stately buildings and Southern hoedown hick apparel. It features screenings and dance classes at the local community center every week all year long. People actually picnic in its parks. It’s got great walking areas, fine dining, funky shops with great one-of a-kind finds, a train station, and, holy shades of civilization, all the familiar franchises plus a Whole Foods with slightly different fare from local farms than the Los Angeles local branch.
They sell ostrich eggs.
You had the nice. Now here’s the not so nice. I recently wrote about finding peace, love, and deeper friendship through agriculture; specifically, growing tomatoes with my friend Mark. Peace, love and light through Heirlooms. It was a lovely piece. Upbeat and cheery, not too “come to the commune”. Just right for a lazy morning read over coffee.
That was before. Before death and destruction arrived. Before my nightly ritual of spraying Simple Green natural product detergent and decorating the chicken wire fencing with sheets of fabric softener got upped to saving the fort status. Before the arrival of …The Squirrel from Hell.
At first I thought my nemesis was a rat. A canyon rat. Can’t be helped here in the canyons there are actually hill mice (rats to my mind) and we do have to deal with them. So I set about dealing with this one, or two with all of the tools I could muster thanks to Google. SOS aka Brillo pads around every single crevice of my planter that I thought they could squeeze through, was my particular favorite.
The blue grey fat squares mixed nicely with the white sheets of fabric softener which I also was led to believe would do the trick. When our weekly housekeeper came and wondered where her supplies had disappeared to I casually said, forget laundry, forget the dishes, I‘ll take care of you come harvest time!