Stories

I’m a staunch advocate of the five-second rule. Even endorsing an extended 10, or 20 seconds in the instance of cleaner surfaces. But when it comes to the Venice Beach Boardwalk, I’m reluctant to trust the integrity of fallen foodstuffs; cautious of sand, stale urine, or general beach-funk.

At least that was my attitude when three pieces of pizza crashed to the ground.

I was with my brother, who was visiting from college. On his last day, he asked only to “sit somewhere and sip something.” Easily satisfied. We cruised to the beach. Found a bustling boardwalk. It was Sunday. It was slammed. Finding somewhere to sit where we could order something to sip proved more difficult than anticipated.

We finally spotted an opening in the back corner of the Candle Café patio. Swooped in on a recently vacated table. Vestiges of the previous patrons remained: A couple pint glasses, and a red ketchup squeeze-bottle forgotten on the floor under my chair. I picked up the orphaned ketchup bottle and placed it on the table. We ordered beers and pizza. Our table was wiped down. Except the ketchup bottle was left behind.

Sorry for the bad-pun headline, but I do love fresh thyme. Right about now I’m getting to use a lot of it, for two reasons. First, I’ve got several plants flourishing, both right outside the kitchen door and also along the edge of the vegetable garden. Secondly, I keep cutting bunches to sell at the farm stand, and no one buys it. So it goes.

Herbs are not a huge seller, even in the high months, but I stubbornly put them out there, just in case. Secretly, I just like to look at the pretty little bunches arranged in cute cups. Thyme and all the rest of the herbs cut fresh from the garden last a remarkably long time compared to store-bought herbs. (And despite how pretty they look at room temperature in a little container, they will keep even longer in the fridge in a sealed zip-top bag. Dry them well before storing.)

There are so many things wrong with Meg Whitman’s story that it’s difficult to know where to start. Meg Whitman was paying Nicky Diaz Santillan, her housekeeper, $23.00 an hour for 15 hours a week. Who pays their housekeeper $23.00 an hour. Answer (and I’ve researched this): Nobody. But wait, Nicky was, also her nanny. Assuming it was Monday to Friday, who has a nanny three hours a day?!! Answer: Nobody. Add into that, in addition to being a housekeeper/nanny, (i.e. domestic hyphenate), it was, also, part of Nicky’s job to sort the mail which clearly implies, she showed up, at least, five days a week.

Was the “fifteen hours” a way to avoid paying withholding tax, social security tax, unemployment tax, and, additionally, maintaining a worker’s compensation policy? Was it a ploy to pretend that Diaz Santillan was an independent contractor who “set her own hours”? A nanny doesn’t get to set their own hours and it’s very unusual that a housekeeper could do the same. But we don’t know. The facts aren’t out yet as to whether Ms. Whitman reported on a 1099 form or a W4 for Diaz Santillan. Although Meg Whitman has stated in many subsequent interviews, that she had a 1099 on file for Diaz Santillan (leading me to believe that my conjecture may be right.)

It doesn’t bother me that Meg Whitman hired a woman who had a problem with her immigration status. It bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t do anything to help her. The same way it bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t bother to even register to vote until she decided to run for office.

Oscar night approaches and something is missing. My kids. The nest is empty, and 364 days a year I’m fine with that. But not on Oscar night. Let me tell you why. Growing up, kids are like natural hostages. Until they get their driver’s license, they’re pretty much always there. And the night of the Academy Awards was no different. On that night in March (now February) my children, the two cats and I would gather in front of our living room or sometimes bedroom TV and take it all in. This was before we all had wide screens that now make the event seem like a private Oscar party. It was just a modest little TV. We’d sit in rapt attention and watch what to me was the most exciting part. Everyone’s magical entrance. The Red Carpet.

As each stunning actress made her way through the gauntlet of tedious interviews, I would ooh and aah at how beautiful she was. That’s when my kids would turn to me, me sitting there in my dirty sweats, my unkempt hair tied above in a twisted knot, no makeup, and assure me that I was even prettier!!! I’m not kidding. No matter who the actress was or how young and beautiful, my kids would yell, in unison, that I was MUCH prettier. “You’re MUCH prettier than her, mom!!” Don’t get me wrong, I know they were humoring me, I’m not delusional, but I bought it. And, I looked forward to it every year.

I grew up in Beverly Hills, but on the wrong side of the tracks, south of Wilshire. It wasn’t where the stars lived, even though our house was located only a half mile from the Hilton, the current site of the Oscar Nominees Luncheon and the Governor’s Ball. My father was a B-movie producer, but most people might grade his movies with a D. He was a joyful, glass-completely-full kind of guy, who was thankful for everyday of his life on this planet.