Ms. Rachow is currently being considered for a show on the Food Network called “The World’s Worst Cook.”
I confess I’m not the world’s greatest cook. My signature dish is something called can-o-soup. I also make excellent toast and spread peanut butter well, but apparently that isn’t fancy enough cuisine for my picky husband.
To save us both from malnutrition, he took over the cooking years ago. He plans menus, making sure he has the precise ingredients needed by doing all the food shopping himself. Thus I’ve hardly even seen the inside of a grocery store for 20 years.
Now my hubby has the flu, and not the kind where you call work pretending you swallowed a bucket of nails just because you need a couple days off. He’s got the real deal. His forehead is so hot he could sauté onions on it if he weren’t semiconscious.
“Put me out of my misery,” he begs.
In lieu of a whack with a giant mallet, I offer Tylenol and a cool cloth.
After 3 days, I realize we’re out of food. To save the UPS guy the shock of finding our skeletons, I leave to pick up oranges and chicken soup. How hard can that be?
My hubby rises from his coma to whimper, “No Brussels sprouts.”
I know he’d give more shopping tips if he could, but he barely has the strength of the wet rag covering his eyes.
As I pull into Trader Joe’s, I realize they’re holding a demolition derby in the parking lot. Or maybe late Thursday afternoon is simply when the craziest drivers like to shop.
Either way, there’s no parking. Then I see a space on the street. I zip across 4 lanes of traffic, slip into the opening, and then hoof it back, dodging the speeding cars like a pro. Easy as pie!
Just as I make it to the curb I realize I’ve forgotten the canvas bags in the car. I hope I can be forgiven this once, because I’m not going back.
Everything in the store looks yummy. I fill my cart, pull into the checkout line, negotiate the credit card machine, and made friends with Rico. “You want your oranges in a bag or box?” he asks.
“How should I know?”
I realize now I have more groceries than a mere mortal can carry, and I’ve read it’s against the law to take grocery carts off store property. I’m not keen on pushing the thing through traffic anyway, so I hang my purse around my neck and consolidate my purchases into 4 bulging bags. Somehow I manage to hold it all with 2 hands.
I envision having the paper rip open, spilling grocery guts all over the street. Why couldn’t I have remembered those indestructible canvas bags? For that matter, why did I have to buy 2 tubs of yogurt? A whole box of oranges?
Couldn't I have waited to park in the lot? Geeze, did I have no sense at all?
When traffic finally opens, I lumber across the street. My face is beaded with sweat, but the bags and I make it safely.
My hard-won groceries and I are in the car now, but before I take off, a woman in a black sports car pulls up to park in the space behind me. There isn't much room, but she has a cute car and high hopes. Finally she’s wedged in a few inches behind me. I signal for her to back up a smidge, but she’s preoccupied with worrying a zit on her chin. Apparently she’s pulled over to give herself a facial.
However, if she could get in her parking space, surely I can get out of mine. After an eternity of jaw-clenching maneuvers, I manage to pull out and head home.
As I put groceries away, I look out the window toward the mountains. Holy bananas flambé! There’s fire in the hills.
I’ve lived here enough to know if you can see the flames, it isn’t too soon to grab your photos and point your car downwind.
For us it’s a scary night of waiting, watching and altering our perspective on which things matter most. We get word of many friends having to evacuate, but we’re lucky enough to stay put. Through the night we hear more and more bad news.
My heart goes out to the people in our community who’ve lost so much. It’s hard to know exactly what to say or how best to help. But for starters, if you need someone to do grocery shopping, I’m now an expert.
First published in the Montecito Journal November 27, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Heavy Metal
Ms. Rachow dedicates this column to singer Grace Slick, writer Lewis Carroll, and, of course, Trainer Casey.
They’re playing classic rock today at the gym. This is the perfect music to accompany the punishing side-plank push-ups I’m doing. Obviously, this is not something I (or any sane person) would attempt without provocation. Therefore it should be no surprise that the young man watching me so intently is Trainer Casey Gutierrez.
“How many more?” I moan.
“Five,” he orders. It’s always five. When I can’t possibly do one more, that means I have only five more to go. “Mind over matter.”
After two years of steady workouts, the bad news is I haven’t yet transformed into the fabulously fit 25-year old I dream of becoming. The good news is I’m still slogging away.
Yes, I’ve had to learn to spell certain geological formations, such as p-l-a-t-e-a-u. But on many days, if I avoid looking too closely at the middle-aged woman in the mirror, I do feel young again. This is helpful because Trainer Casey hangs out on the lower end of twenty-something, and it takes all the young-at-heart spirit I can muster to keep our workout chat in the current century.
Casey played college football, and he looks the part. He also sounds like a football coach. “Come on. Push it. Get out the lead.”
Beads of sweat do the boogaloo on my brow. I have plenty of X-rated words to respond but it’s hard to say much when I’m on my back doing crunches while tossing a medicine ball up to Trainer Casey.
Now Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” plays. I warn myself not to sing along, but it’s impossible for a person of the rock generation to shut up during this song. “Remember what the dormouse said: Feed your he-ad…Feed your he-ad.”
“Hey, speaking of feeding your head, are you still keeping your food diary?” he asks.
“Yes, Trainer Casey.” I try my best to stay in 2008, but Grace Slick’s voice takes me back to my youth. I see her on stage. Her hair’s a cloud of frizz, and she wears beads and white leather and belts out Alice’s transformation. Ten feet tall to small. Suddenly I see new meaning in the song. Where can I get one of those magic pills that’ll make me fit and a few decades smaller?
Once I get going, I can’t seem to stop spouting ancient history. Damn it. I tell Trainer Casey all about Woodstock. And because Apollo 11 happened that same summer, I wax nostalgic about watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
Casey has me do lunges, and I say, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Moonwalking makes sweat drip from the end of my nose. I hate that.
Casey gives me hand weights and makes the motion of flying.
I lift my outstretched arms and try to make it look effortlessly wing-like. Ouch. “My favorite exercise,” I lie.
“Hey, that reminds me,” Casey says. He takes his iPhone out of his pocket. “Check this out.” He’s always showing me iPhotos of his dog, his girlfriends and his grand adventures. Today it’s a picture of him and another trainer. Both guys are bare-chested, but they have white feathery wings attached to their backs.
“Hubba-hubba,” I say. “You look heavenly.”
One of the sidebars of working as a personal trainer is you get asked to do beefcake gigs for charities. This time Casey and his pal were angels at a benefit for the Dream Foundation, an organization dedicated to fulfilling wishes for terminally ill adults.
“Those iPhones are amazing,” I say. “But I can remember when telephones were connected to the wall with a cord. It’s still hard to believe that a phone now slips easily into the pocket of your gym shorts. You’ve got Internet access and GPS. It’s a camera, and it’s a freaking photo album. Geeze, one of these days Dick Tracy is going to call and want his phone back.”
“Dick who?” Casey asks.
“Never mind.” I make my voice go all creaky like I’m a 100-year-old woman. “Dick was just somebody I used to know back in the good ol’ days.” I wipe my sweaty hands and reach up to the bars of the Gravitron. Pull-ups are impossible. I clench my jaw.
“Breathe,” he says. “Listen to your body.”
“If I listened to my body, I’d be home taking a nap right now.” Slowly I pull myself up.
And I remember what Trainer Casey said: Get out the le-ad. Get out the le-ad.
First published in the Montecito Journal October 30, 2008
They’re playing classic rock today at the gym. This is the perfect music to accompany the punishing side-plank push-ups I’m doing. Obviously, this is not something I (or any sane person) would attempt without provocation. Therefore it should be no surprise that the young man watching me so intently is Trainer Casey Gutierrez.
“How many more?” I moan.
“Five,” he orders. It’s always five. When I can’t possibly do one more, that means I have only five more to go. “Mind over matter.”
After two years of steady workouts, the bad news is I haven’t yet transformed into the fabulously fit 25-year old I dream of becoming. The good news is I’m still slogging away.
Yes, I’ve had to learn to spell certain geological formations, such as p-l-a-t-e-a-u. But on many days, if I avoid looking too closely at the middle-aged woman in the mirror, I do feel young again. This is helpful because Trainer Casey hangs out on the lower end of twenty-something, and it takes all the young-at-heart spirit I can muster to keep our workout chat in the current century.
Casey played college football, and he looks the part. He also sounds like a football coach. “Come on. Push it. Get out the lead.”
Beads of sweat do the boogaloo on my brow. I have plenty of X-rated words to respond but it’s hard to say much when I’m on my back doing crunches while tossing a medicine ball up to Trainer Casey.
Now Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” plays. I warn myself not to sing along, but it’s impossible for a person of the rock generation to shut up during this song. “Remember what the dormouse said: Feed your he-ad…Feed your he-ad.”
“Hey, speaking of feeding your head, are you still keeping your food diary?” he asks.
“Yes, Trainer Casey.” I try my best to stay in 2008, but Grace Slick’s voice takes me back to my youth. I see her on stage. Her hair’s a cloud of frizz, and she wears beads and white leather and belts out Alice’s transformation. Ten feet tall to small. Suddenly I see new meaning in the song. Where can I get one of those magic pills that’ll make me fit and a few decades smaller?
Once I get going, I can’t seem to stop spouting ancient history. Damn it. I tell Trainer Casey all about Woodstock. And because Apollo 11 happened that same summer, I wax nostalgic about watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
Casey has me do lunges, and I say, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Moonwalking makes sweat drip from the end of my nose. I hate that.
Casey gives me hand weights and makes the motion of flying.
I lift my outstretched arms and try to make it look effortlessly wing-like. Ouch. “My favorite exercise,” I lie.
“Hey, that reminds me,” Casey says. He takes his iPhone out of his pocket. “Check this out.” He’s always showing me iPhotos of his dog, his girlfriends and his grand adventures. Today it’s a picture of him and another trainer. Both guys are bare-chested, but they have white feathery wings attached to their backs.
“Hubba-hubba,” I say. “You look heavenly.”
One of the sidebars of working as a personal trainer is you get asked to do beefcake gigs for charities. This time Casey and his pal were angels at a benefit for the Dream Foundation, an organization dedicated to fulfilling wishes for terminally ill adults.
“Those iPhones are amazing,” I say. “But I can remember when telephones were connected to the wall with a cord. It’s still hard to believe that a phone now slips easily into the pocket of your gym shorts. You’ve got Internet access and GPS. It’s a camera, and it’s a freaking photo album. Geeze, one of these days Dick Tracy is going to call and want his phone back.”
“Dick who?” Casey asks.
“Never mind.” I make my voice go all creaky like I’m a 100-year-old woman. “Dick was just somebody I used to know back in the good ol’ days.” I wipe my sweaty hands and reach up to the bars of the Gravitron. Pull-ups are impossible. I clench my jaw.
“Breathe,” he says. “Listen to your body.”
“If I listened to my body, I’d be home taking a nap right now.” Slowly I pull myself up.
And I remember what Trainer Casey said: Get out the le-ad. Get out the le-ad.
First published in the Montecito Journal October 30, 2008
We'll Always Have Paris
Ms. Rachow says a do-it-yourself project is a great way to get stuck in the mud.
On our 28th anniversary, my husband brings home a beautiful orchid.
“For you, Sweetie Pie,” he says.
Originally, the wise elders who designated “silver” as the theme for the 25th and “gold” for the 50th didn’t bother to come up with themes for the in-between-er years. Perhaps they figured when people are married so long, they won’t bother celebrating every cotton-picking (2nd anniversary) year.
Then some marketing genius realized husbands could use a shopping list, and my hubby, the champion Googler, has done his research well. It’s official. Orchids are for the 28th.
The plant’s a beauty, but I’ve been dreaming of a romantic anniversary trip to Paris. A quick check of our travel fund tells me even an afternoon in Pomona would be a stretch.
Still, I’ve been married all these years to a man who does the vacuuming, puts the toilet seat down, and picks up his own socks…sometimes all in the same week. I can’t let our anniversary go by without doing something to show my appreciation.
“Honey, I’ve got a great idea to celebrate this year,” I say. “Let’s get rid of the lawn.”
My husband’s used to my hare-brained schemes, but he still does a double take at this idea. But then, after a moment to think, he smiles. “Ya think our mower’ll fit in the garbage can?”
The one chore he hates more than anything is cutting the grass. Sure, we could’ve long ago hired a mow-and-blow crew like all our neighbors, but my guy likes to do things himself, especially if he can save a couple of bucks. And now we’re going to save a ton, by xeriscaping the front yard ourselves. If we shrink the water bill, too, that’s all the better.
And besides, we’ll have beaucoup fun. Who needs to sip Bordeaux on the Champs-Élysées when you can stay home and get sweaty with your spouse?
Early the next morning, after fortifying ourselves with flakey croissants and a couple cups of French roast, we set to work removing a thousand square feet of sod. Shovel 16 tons, and what do you get? A huge pile of dirt and grass to haul away. Lucky for us, we have a low spot in the back that’s rapidly becoming the world’s largest compost pile. Lucky for me, I have a hubby who knows his way around a wheelbarrow.
We discover plenty under the sod besides dirt: Sixty-year old construction debris. Ants, worms and pill bugs. And roots, roots, roots. Who knew there could be so many roots in one front yard?
We dig deeper and discover a disturbing amount of mud, which means we have a sneaky leak in the soon-to-be redundant irrigation system. We excavate along the pipe to the soggy source, and we have a good start on the world’s largest mud pie.
While we work there’re plenty of passersby, joggers, dog walkers, and my favorites, the two ladies in floral frocks and floppy hats. The pair gives a running commentary on everything they see. “Wow, that’s a big job!” they say about us. We know they really mean, “Where’s your landscaping crew and your bulldozer?”
Obviously, they haven’t heard that when you put a steadfast Nebraskan (me) and a relentless French Canadian (him) together on a project, you get a hybrid brand of stubbornness that trumps power equipment and sheer manpower any day.
Yes, we sweat a lot. We groan over sore muscles. We empty a bottle of ibuprofen. But we make that lawn disappear.
Of course, once the grass is gone, we realize our 60-year-old shrubs need pruning. And once we have them looking tidy, we see our 60-year-old house needs painting. And while we’re looking at paint chips, we discover our 60-year-old driveway needs paving. This job is going to take a wee bit longer than we thought, but that’s always the way projects go, n’est-ce pas?
When we’re so tired we can’t move, we sit under the elm and eat Brie on crusty baguettes. We pretend we’re at a sidewalk café, watching our neighbors, the “Parisians,” stroll by. In our best French accents we discuss wheech of us has gotteen zee most feelthy zhat day.
Our future projects will cost us plenty. Our real trip to Paris will have to wait a few years. But for now we’re having fun. We’re getting dirty. And we already know how we’ll celebrate our 29th (painting) and 30th (paving) anniversaries.
How many couples can say zhat?
First published in the Montecito Journal October 2, 2008
On our 28th anniversary, my husband brings home a beautiful orchid.
“For you, Sweetie Pie,” he says.
Originally, the wise elders who designated “silver” as the theme for the 25th and “gold” for the 50th didn’t bother to come up with themes for the in-between-er years. Perhaps they figured when people are married so long, they won’t bother celebrating every cotton-picking (2nd anniversary) year.
Then some marketing genius realized husbands could use a shopping list, and my hubby, the champion Googler, has done his research well. It’s official. Orchids are for the 28th.
The plant’s a beauty, but I’ve been dreaming of a romantic anniversary trip to Paris. A quick check of our travel fund tells me even an afternoon in Pomona would be a stretch.
Still, I’ve been married all these years to a man who does the vacuuming, puts the toilet seat down, and picks up his own socks…sometimes all in the same week. I can’t let our anniversary go by without doing something to show my appreciation.
“Honey, I’ve got a great idea to celebrate this year,” I say. “Let’s get rid of the lawn.”
My husband’s used to my hare-brained schemes, but he still does a double take at this idea. But then, after a moment to think, he smiles. “Ya think our mower’ll fit in the garbage can?”
The one chore he hates more than anything is cutting the grass. Sure, we could’ve long ago hired a mow-and-blow crew like all our neighbors, but my guy likes to do things himself, especially if he can save a couple of bucks. And now we’re going to save a ton, by xeriscaping the front yard ourselves. If we shrink the water bill, too, that’s all the better.
And besides, we’ll have beaucoup fun. Who needs to sip Bordeaux on the Champs-Élysées when you can stay home and get sweaty with your spouse?
Early the next morning, after fortifying ourselves with flakey croissants and a couple cups of French roast, we set to work removing a thousand square feet of sod. Shovel 16 tons, and what do you get? A huge pile of dirt and grass to haul away. Lucky for us, we have a low spot in the back that’s rapidly becoming the world’s largest compost pile. Lucky for me, I have a hubby who knows his way around a wheelbarrow.
We discover plenty under the sod besides dirt: Sixty-year old construction debris. Ants, worms and pill bugs. And roots, roots, roots. Who knew there could be so many roots in one front yard?
We dig deeper and discover a disturbing amount of mud, which means we have a sneaky leak in the soon-to-be redundant irrigation system. We excavate along the pipe to the soggy source, and we have a good start on the world’s largest mud pie.
While we work there’re plenty of passersby, joggers, dog walkers, and my favorites, the two ladies in floral frocks and floppy hats. The pair gives a running commentary on everything they see. “Wow, that’s a big job!” they say about us. We know they really mean, “Where’s your landscaping crew and your bulldozer?”
Obviously, they haven’t heard that when you put a steadfast Nebraskan (me) and a relentless French Canadian (him) together on a project, you get a hybrid brand of stubbornness that trumps power equipment and sheer manpower any day.
Yes, we sweat a lot. We groan over sore muscles. We empty a bottle of ibuprofen. But we make that lawn disappear.
Of course, once the grass is gone, we realize our 60-year-old shrubs need pruning. And once we have them looking tidy, we see our 60-year-old house needs painting. And while we’re looking at paint chips, we discover our 60-year-old driveway needs paving. This job is going to take a wee bit longer than we thought, but that’s always the way projects go, n’est-ce pas?
When we’re so tired we can’t move, we sit under the elm and eat Brie on crusty baguettes. We pretend we’re at a sidewalk café, watching our neighbors, the “Parisians,” stroll by. In our best French accents we discuss wheech of us has gotteen zee most feelthy zhat day.
Our future projects will cost us plenty. Our real trip to Paris will have to wait a few years. But for now we’re having fun. We’re getting dirty. And we already know how we’ll celebrate our 29th (painting) and 30th (paving) anniversaries.
How many couples can say zhat?
First published in the Montecito Journal October 2, 2008
Pixies in the Back Yard
Ms. Rachow says, “Why journey all the way to Great Britain when you can build a little England right in your own back yard?”
Recently I spotted a great landscaping trick in one of those slick English magazines. The piece was titled “Sneaky Tips to Turn Your Back Yard into Sherwood Forest.”
I was already well on my way with plenty of trees and freewheeling shrubs. The challenge was that the neighbors behind us had built a solid fence and painted it mud brown. No matter how hard I squinted and thought of the woods, those boards still looked like the Gulag to me.
The article suggested the artful attachment of trimmed branches to camouflage flat-fence backdrops. Even my city slicker hubby, who thinks any landscaping problem can be solved with a few bags of concrete, thought the picture in the magazine looked charming. So we decided to give it a try.
Luckily I’d failed to prune our eugenia hedge for the past 10 years. When I cut it down to size, not only did I reveal a wonderful mountain view, I ended up with plenty of straight branches perfect for transforming brown boards into a forest.
I trimmed away the twigs and cut each branch to the exact height of the fence so as not to alert the neighbors to our subterfuge. I leaned the resulting rough-hewn poles against the boards, and voila, the result was so woodsy I half expected to see pixies moving in.
A few weeks later I happened to be at the opposite side of our suburban forest, and I noticed some rough-hewn poles lying willy-nilly in our other neighbors’ backyard. They were perfect to extend my woodsy theme, and I thought about asking if I could have them, when I realized those branches looked very familiar.
Someone had swiped my poles. And I thought I knew who -- the little pixie who lives next door and her best pixie pal. This pair are at the height of their architectural expression. Translation: they’d liberated my faux forest to construct their secret fort. Then, apparently, they’d been called away on other pixie matters, and the branches had been abandoned.
I did the only thing I could think to do...I stole the poles back, all 23 of them. I carried them the 150 feet back up the hill, still feeling a little unsure as to whether I'd done the right thing. At least this counter thievery saved me from having to go to the gym that day. And all’s well that ends well.
However, things are seldom over when you live next door to pixies. So it was that this afternoon I spotted the little ones shuttling back and forth, retrieving the poles I’d stolen from them. It’s amazing how fast pixies can scamper, even when carrying six-foot tree branches. They were like long-haired finches making a nest.
I crept closer and chanced to hear them chirp about building their secret place. Life doesn't get any better than eavesdropping on the plans of pixies.
Then along came the grandma who watches the girls many afternoons. “Maybe you two should stay on your own side of the fence,” she told them.
If the pixies were disappointed with this change of direction, they didn’t show it. They transitioned smoothly to the scheme of tricking their terrier, saying, “Walkies, Brillo! Walkies!” Of course, the dog is no fool. He knows when pixies say “walkies,” it really means “bath time.” But Brillo is nothing if not a good sport, and truth is he rather likes being washed by pixies.
That left me to decide whether I’d be a good sport and let stolen poles lie…or if I’d take them all back again. I certainly didn't want to dissuade the girls from careers as architects. But I did want my poles back.
Real life seldom offers a solution for a situation as sticky as this. Luckily I had a stash of recently trimmed tree branches that weren’t good for fence camouflage. But they’d do fine for making a pixie hideout.
So I began the exchange. Grandma caught me in the act, and we discussed my plan. Somewhere in the middle of our chat over the fence, the girls came out with the wet terrier wrapped like a baby.
When they saw me they wondered for a moment if they might be in trouble. When I explained I was bringing them more materials to build with, they said, “Oh, thank you. Can we help?”
As I said above, all’s well that ends well. But when you live next door to pixies, things are seldom over.
First published in the Montecito Journal September 4, 2008
Recently I spotted a great landscaping trick in one of those slick English magazines. The piece was titled “Sneaky Tips to Turn Your Back Yard into Sherwood Forest.”
I was already well on my way with plenty of trees and freewheeling shrubs. The challenge was that the neighbors behind us had built a solid fence and painted it mud brown. No matter how hard I squinted and thought of the woods, those boards still looked like the Gulag to me.
The article suggested the artful attachment of trimmed branches to camouflage flat-fence backdrops. Even my city slicker hubby, who thinks any landscaping problem can be solved with a few bags of concrete, thought the picture in the magazine looked charming. So we decided to give it a try.
Luckily I’d failed to prune our eugenia hedge for the past 10 years. When I cut it down to size, not only did I reveal a wonderful mountain view, I ended up with plenty of straight branches perfect for transforming brown boards into a forest.
I trimmed away the twigs and cut each branch to the exact height of the fence so as not to alert the neighbors to our subterfuge. I leaned the resulting rough-hewn poles against the boards, and voila, the result was so woodsy I half expected to see pixies moving in.
A few weeks later I happened to be at the opposite side of our suburban forest, and I noticed some rough-hewn poles lying willy-nilly in our other neighbors’ backyard. They were perfect to extend my woodsy theme, and I thought about asking if I could have them, when I realized those branches looked very familiar.
Someone had swiped my poles. And I thought I knew who -- the little pixie who lives next door and her best pixie pal. This pair are at the height of their architectural expression. Translation: they’d liberated my faux forest to construct their secret fort. Then, apparently, they’d been called away on other pixie matters, and the branches had been abandoned.
I did the only thing I could think to do...I stole the poles back, all 23 of them. I carried them the 150 feet back up the hill, still feeling a little unsure as to whether I'd done the right thing. At least this counter thievery saved me from having to go to the gym that day. And all’s well that ends well.
However, things are seldom over when you live next door to pixies. So it was that this afternoon I spotted the little ones shuttling back and forth, retrieving the poles I’d stolen from them. It’s amazing how fast pixies can scamper, even when carrying six-foot tree branches. They were like long-haired finches making a nest.
I crept closer and chanced to hear them chirp about building their secret place. Life doesn't get any better than eavesdropping on the plans of pixies.
Then along came the grandma who watches the girls many afternoons. “Maybe you two should stay on your own side of the fence,” she told them.
If the pixies were disappointed with this change of direction, they didn’t show it. They transitioned smoothly to the scheme of tricking their terrier, saying, “Walkies, Brillo! Walkies!” Of course, the dog is no fool. He knows when pixies say “walkies,” it really means “bath time.” But Brillo is nothing if not a good sport, and truth is he rather likes being washed by pixies.
That left me to decide whether I’d be a good sport and let stolen poles lie…or if I’d take them all back again. I certainly didn't want to dissuade the girls from careers as architects. But I did want my poles back.
Real life seldom offers a solution for a situation as sticky as this. Luckily I had a stash of recently trimmed tree branches that weren’t good for fence camouflage. But they’d do fine for making a pixie hideout.
So I began the exchange. Grandma caught me in the act, and we discussed my plan. Somewhere in the middle of our chat over the fence, the girls came out with the wet terrier wrapped like a baby.
When they saw me they wondered for a moment if they might be in trouble. When I explained I was bringing them more materials to build with, they said, “Oh, thank you. Can we help?”
As I said above, all’s well that ends well. But when you live next door to pixies, things are seldom over.
First published in the Montecito Journal September 4, 2008
Dog Days, Skunk Nights
Ms. Rachow has had a life-long affliction with four-legged creatures, and it has made her the woman she is today.
For most Santa Barbarans, the beginning of summer means a colorful parade of characters prancing down State Street.
For my hubby and me, Summer Solstice is marked by a black and white parade up our lane, when Pepe and all the LePews return to our backyard for the annual battle between our Jack Russell terriers and the supreme weapon, eau de skunk.
I’m on the phone when the first strike comes in. I detect the unmistakable scent of musk. When I see three terriers rubbing their faces on the grass, I know that instead of bedtime for my husband, and me it’s bath time for three terriers.
But I’m still trying to explain to the caller that I must hang up immediately due to a skunk emergency.
It’s a well-known fact that men’s noses aren’t as sharp as women’s and that explains why my husband is completely oblivious to the aromatic mine field we’re in. He’s calling the dogs in for the night.
I’m waving my arms to indicate the skunked terriers should STAY OUTSIDE until we’re ready to bathe them.
Finally, I’m off the phone and I yell, “Pepe’s back!”
My hubby screams, “Oh, $#&!” and we’re off and running.
Like the experienced dog-care professionals we are, my hubby and I know exactly what to do. My job is to get the shower going. My husband’s very long arms are perfect for carrying skunked terriers one by one to the tub.
Once all three dogs are enduring the indignity of perfumed shampoo, my husband says, “Remind me again why we have dogs.”
“Well, for one thing, we don’t need an alarm system. No burglar, or anyone else, can get within fifty feet of our abode without alerting the terrier early-warning system. Not even Girl Scouts selling cookies can get through.”
“True,” he says wistfully. He misses those cookies. “Also there’s the time we save cleaning. The dogs bring in so much dirt it’s pointless to try. And it’s a real conversation piece having potatoes growing in the living room.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. But I admit it’s handy to be considered eccentric. You can get away with all kinds of crazy stuff when people know you’re insane enough to live with a pack of terriers.
“And then there’s the fortune we save not going on vacations,” he adds.
My hubby and I haven’t been on a trip together for years. Kind friends all the time offer to dog sit for us, but about the time we begin with instructions on how to deal with the aftermath of a skunk attack, the volunteers quickly remember they have a family reunion exactly the same week we were planning to be gone.
“And think of how we have reduced our carbon footprint by not going anywhere,” I say. “The dogs have helped us save the planet.”
I have the showerhead on pulse-massage now, and the three wet dogs have gone from nervous to nirvana. They look beatific, as if they are personally responsible for our reduced consumption of fossil fuels.
“Don’t forget population control,” my husband says.
Admittedly, keeping up with terriers has reminded us over the years just how challenging it would be to keep up with toddlers. Sure, we would’ve liked to have had kids, but where would we have found the time? Besides, with an audience of terriers always chaperoning us…well, I’m sure you get the picture. It’s little wonder our only “offspring” to date are the four-legged kind.
It’s time now to swaddle the three soggy canines in towels and dry them a bit before they run through the house like atomic-powered windup toys.
“The dogs really have helped improve our coping skills,” I say. “With terriers, it’s always something. We get so much practice staying cool dealing with them that challenging events in the real life are a piece of cake.”
The dogs hear the word “cake” and immediately translate that to “treats.” In a moment they are all lined up at the biscuit jar, pretending to be obedient dogs deserving of rewards.
And that reminds me of one last advantage to having so many dogs. Every meal we save tidbits to share with them. It’s a simple but effect weight-loss secret.
Finally, the dogs are dry and calm, and it’s time for bed. Thanks to our canine pals, the world is a better place, my hubby and I are kinder people, and our whole neighborhood wears the heady aroma of skunk.
Life is good.
First published in the Montecito Journal August 7, 2008
For most Santa Barbarans, the beginning of summer means a colorful parade of characters prancing down State Street.
For my hubby and me, Summer Solstice is marked by a black and white parade up our lane, when Pepe and all the LePews return to our backyard for the annual battle between our Jack Russell terriers and the supreme weapon, eau de skunk.
I’m on the phone when the first strike comes in. I detect the unmistakable scent of musk. When I see three terriers rubbing their faces on the grass, I know that instead of bedtime for my husband, and me it’s bath time for three terriers.
But I’m still trying to explain to the caller that I must hang up immediately due to a skunk emergency.
It’s a well-known fact that men’s noses aren’t as sharp as women’s and that explains why my husband is completely oblivious to the aromatic mine field we’re in. He’s calling the dogs in for the night.
I’m waving my arms to indicate the skunked terriers should STAY OUTSIDE until we’re ready to bathe them.
Finally, I’m off the phone and I yell, “Pepe’s back!”
My hubby screams, “Oh, $#&!” and we’re off and running.
Like the experienced dog-care professionals we are, my hubby and I know exactly what to do. My job is to get the shower going. My husband’s very long arms are perfect for carrying skunked terriers one by one to the tub.
Once all three dogs are enduring the indignity of perfumed shampoo, my husband says, “Remind me again why we have dogs.”
“Well, for one thing, we don’t need an alarm system. No burglar, or anyone else, can get within fifty feet of our abode without alerting the terrier early-warning system. Not even Girl Scouts selling cookies can get through.”
“True,” he says wistfully. He misses those cookies. “Also there’s the time we save cleaning. The dogs bring in so much dirt it’s pointless to try. And it’s a real conversation piece having potatoes growing in the living room.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. But I admit it’s handy to be considered eccentric. You can get away with all kinds of crazy stuff when people know you’re insane enough to live with a pack of terriers.
“And then there’s the fortune we save not going on vacations,” he adds.
My hubby and I haven’t been on a trip together for years. Kind friends all the time offer to dog sit for us, but about the time we begin with instructions on how to deal with the aftermath of a skunk attack, the volunteers quickly remember they have a family reunion exactly the same week we were planning to be gone.
“And think of how we have reduced our carbon footprint by not going anywhere,” I say. “The dogs have helped us save the planet.”
I have the showerhead on pulse-massage now, and the three wet dogs have gone from nervous to nirvana. They look beatific, as if they are personally responsible for our reduced consumption of fossil fuels.
“Don’t forget population control,” my husband says.
Admittedly, keeping up with terriers has reminded us over the years just how challenging it would be to keep up with toddlers. Sure, we would’ve liked to have had kids, but where would we have found the time? Besides, with an audience of terriers always chaperoning us…well, I’m sure you get the picture. It’s little wonder our only “offspring” to date are the four-legged kind.
It’s time now to swaddle the three soggy canines in towels and dry them a bit before they run through the house like atomic-powered windup toys.
“The dogs really have helped improve our coping skills,” I say. “With terriers, it’s always something. We get so much practice staying cool dealing with them that challenging events in the real life are a piece of cake.”
The dogs hear the word “cake” and immediately translate that to “treats.” In a moment they are all lined up at the biscuit jar, pretending to be obedient dogs deserving of rewards.
And that reminds me of one last advantage to having so many dogs. Every meal we save tidbits to share with them. It’s a simple but effect weight-loss secret.
Finally, the dogs are dry and calm, and it’s time for bed. Thanks to our canine pals, the world is a better place, my hubby and I are kinder people, and our whole neighborhood wears the heady aroma of skunk.
Life is good.
First published in the Montecito Journal August 7, 2008
State of the Reunion
Ms. Rachow will be working at the 36th “reunion” of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, at Fess Parker’s DoubleTree Resort.
Ever have that terrible dream where it’s the night of your senior prom, and the guy (or gal) who was supposed to be your date tells you he’s (or she’s) going with some cute junior instead of with you, but it doesn’t matter anyway because your nose has a zit the size of Mount Rushmore?
Ever wanted to get sweet revenge on your entire life as a teenager?
Ever wondered exactly how to do that?
Two ways: One, become wildly successful, rich and drop-dead gorgeous, go to your class reunion and gloat. Or, two, do what I’m doing -- write a novel to avenge your adolescent honor with a character who does all of the above.
I survived high school in a small Nebraska town where I was not a cheerleader, not the class valedictorian, and not the star of the volleyball team.
I was the one who couldn’t wait to get the hell out and move to California. I was the one who decided to deal with lingering teenaged angst by writing the novel where things go my character’s way once in a while.
So is it any wonder that when my class organized our recent blankity-blank-ends-in-a-zero reunion, the committee left me off the list?
I wish I’d heard about the gathering in time to make the pilgrimage to see just how old everyone else looked, because a writer can always use more material.
And there’s always the chance old scores can be settled.
For example, before Ernie Witham went to his reunion in Laconia, New Hampshire, he wrote a humor piece for his old hometown paper, and his former classmates gave him the “Who Wudda Thunk It?” award.
Ernie will tell this story of sweet revenge in his humor workshop at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, beginning next week. There, writers from all over the world will gather to hone their skills and, in some cases, to find literary methods for sticking it to their former high school chums.
I’ve been a part of this great reunion of writers since it was held at old Miramar Hotel, back when those funky roofs were still bright blue. Back before Marcia Meier became conference director. Back so long ago that conference founder Barnaby Conrad still had a full head of hair.
One purpose of this writers conference is to learn about writing. Another is to see if you can go the entire week without sleeping.
Workshops begin at 9:00 AM, a civilized enough hour…that first day.
But the pirate workshops go late, and Shelly Lowenkopf’s continues into the wee hours. Then, after we diehards drag ourselves back to our computers, we work on rewrites and watch the sunrise.
By the second day, 9:00 AM is an ungodly hour.
Day three, it’s brutal. I see my nerves jangling in vivid Technicolor.
After that I figure, what the hell, sleep is for those sissies who show up at class reunions.
That mucho grande latte I just chug-a-lugged makes me cocky, and I’m sure my autobiographical novel about my high school years is just what the big time publishers are looking for.
On agents day I order triple espressos, and keep’em coming, because I want to be awake to make my pitch.
When it’s my turn, I tell a prospective New York agent about the scene I’ve written where my fifty-something character arrives at her class reunion looking thirty years younger and shockingly like Jennifer Lopez:
“When her former beau sees her sashay in, he can’t frigging believe he dumped her for that cute new girl so many year ago. Now, that cutie is a Kathy Bates look-alike with smudged makeup. The old boyfriend is just about to beg my heroine for the next dance, when George Clooney appears out of nowhere and leads her onto the dance floor. That year George and she lived in Buenos Aires perfecting their tango really pays off. What do you think?” I ask.
“The market’s flooded with high school memoirs,” the agent replies. “What else ya got?”
“How about tale of sweet revenge set at a writers conference?”
The agent tilts his head and raises one eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
Ever have that great dream where out of nowhere appears an acquiring editor who hands you a contract and a pen?
Ever wonder how to make that dream come true?
Two ways: One, have lots of talent and work hard. And two, have your “class reunion” every year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.
First published in the Montecito Journal June 12, 2008
Ever have that terrible dream where it’s the night of your senior prom, and the guy (or gal) who was supposed to be your date tells you he’s (or she’s) going with some cute junior instead of with you, but it doesn’t matter anyway because your nose has a zit the size of Mount Rushmore?
Ever wanted to get sweet revenge on your entire life as a teenager?
Ever wondered exactly how to do that?
Two ways: One, become wildly successful, rich and drop-dead gorgeous, go to your class reunion and gloat. Or, two, do what I’m doing -- write a novel to avenge your adolescent honor with a character who does all of the above.
I survived high school in a small Nebraska town where I was not a cheerleader, not the class valedictorian, and not the star of the volleyball team.
I was the one who couldn’t wait to get the hell out and move to California. I was the one who decided to deal with lingering teenaged angst by writing the novel where things go my character’s way once in a while.
So is it any wonder that when my class organized our recent blankity-blank-ends-in-a-zero reunion, the committee left me off the list?
I wish I’d heard about the gathering in time to make the pilgrimage to see just how old everyone else looked, because a writer can always use more material.
And there’s always the chance old scores can be settled.
For example, before Ernie Witham went to his reunion in Laconia, New Hampshire, he wrote a humor piece for his old hometown paper, and his former classmates gave him the “Who Wudda Thunk It?” award.
Ernie will tell this story of sweet revenge in his humor workshop at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, beginning next week. There, writers from all over the world will gather to hone their skills and, in some cases, to find literary methods for sticking it to their former high school chums.
I’ve been a part of this great reunion of writers since it was held at old Miramar Hotel, back when those funky roofs were still bright blue. Back before Marcia Meier became conference director. Back so long ago that conference founder Barnaby Conrad still had a full head of hair.
One purpose of this writers conference is to learn about writing. Another is to see if you can go the entire week without sleeping.
Workshops begin at 9:00 AM, a civilized enough hour…that first day.
But the pirate workshops go late, and Shelly Lowenkopf’s continues into the wee hours. Then, after we diehards drag ourselves back to our computers, we work on rewrites and watch the sunrise.
By the second day, 9:00 AM is an ungodly hour.
Day three, it’s brutal. I see my nerves jangling in vivid Technicolor.
After that I figure, what the hell, sleep is for those sissies who show up at class reunions.
That mucho grande latte I just chug-a-lugged makes me cocky, and I’m sure my autobiographical novel about my high school years is just what the big time publishers are looking for.
On agents day I order triple espressos, and keep’em coming, because I want to be awake to make my pitch.
When it’s my turn, I tell a prospective New York agent about the scene I’ve written where my fifty-something character arrives at her class reunion looking thirty years younger and shockingly like Jennifer Lopez:
“When her former beau sees her sashay in, he can’t frigging believe he dumped her for that cute new girl so many year ago. Now, that cutie is a Kathy Bates look-alike with smudged makeup. The old boyfriend is just about to beg my heroine for the next dance, when George Clooney appears out of nowhere and leads her onto the dance floor. That year George and she lived in Buenos Aires perfecting their tango really pays off. What do you think?” I ask.
“The market’s flooded with high school memoirs,” the agent replies. “What else ya got?”
“How about tale of sweet revenge set at a writers conference?”
The agent tilts his head and raises one eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
Ever have that great dream where out of nowhere appears an acquiring editor who hands you a contract and a pen?
Ever wonder how to make that dream come true?
Two ways: One, have lots of talent and work hard. And two, have your “class reunion” every year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.
First published in the Montecito Journal June 12, 2008
My Old Man's Fancy
Ms. Rachow says that having a father in his eighties might not kill her, but it does make her sweat a lot.
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When I was a teenager I figured the definition of “young man” was anyone still in high school. At 21, I upped the limit on romance to 30. And once I was old enough to get invitations from AARP, I decided to believe persistent rumors that there’s sex after 60.
And yet, my jaw still drops when I hear the message from my 80-year-old dad. His Midwestern voice lumbers, “Hello. This is your father in Nebraska. Just wanted to let you know, I’m getting married.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more – the fact that he’s suddenly engaged, or the idea that he allows for the possibility I have fathers in other states.
Only one week earlier we’d had a heart-to-heart about how lonely he was. I’d gingerly suggested he might try dating. But he never takes my advice, any more than I took his advice when I was a teenager. So how did he go from zero to betrothed in one week?
I call back to discover more about Dad’s pending matrimony. I hide my shock with what I hope are rational tones. “Who are you marrying?”
“ I don’t know much about her. We’ve only had one date.”
“This isn’t one of those shotgun weddings is it?”
“Hell no. Ha-ha.”
“So what’s the rush?”
“Well, once you get over the hill, you kinda pick up speed.”
It’s been a long time since Dad’s felt like making corny jokes. I’m glad for his good mood, but I want to shout, ARE YOU CRAZY?
I’ve learned the hard way, once I get up there on my high horse, it’s hard to get down gracefully. So I rein in my hyperventilation and say, “Congratulations.”
At his age, being head-over-heels could land him in a walker. So I grill him on everything he knows about this woman he’s fallen for, but I don’t get much.
Later, I discuss Dad’s news with a friend.
“Is she younger?” my friend asks.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. She’s only 74.”
“Mark my word. That woman’s after his money.”
“I’m not too worried. Dad doesn’t have that much money, and he has a darn tight grip on what he does have.”
However, truth is I am worried. When I was young and single, if I’d told my dad I’d decided to marry a guy I’d only dated once, he would’ve tried to shout some sense into me. So the next week I drive to Nebraska to see if I can return the favor.
Two days on the road gives me plenty of time for my fantasies to go wild. I’d read all those fairytales. Stepmothers are wicked. Dad’s wife-to-be might put poison in his dinner. She could push him down the basement steps. Surely she would make him take her on one of those fancy cruises, and while he was enjoying the ocean view, she’d invite him to sleep with the fishes.
I hate to spoil my vivid imagination with the truth, but when I finally meet my dad’s fiancé, I’m surprised to discover she’s a very nice lady. With relief I change her name from “Evil Stepmother” to Irene.
Immediately I see why they’re in such a hurry to get married. Irene and my dad can’t keep their hands off one another. If I’d exhibited such public displays of affection when I was a teenager, Dad would’ve grounded me until I was 50.
Not only is my elderly father like a young man in love again, he’s changed in other ways, too. He’s bought a cell phone. “Irene thought I should have one.”
And he has high-speed Internet access. “Irene thought it was time I got on e-mail, so I got the fast kind.”
And most amazingly of all, he’s eating tomatoes. Dad hadn’t eaten a tomato since 1944 when he was in Italy during WWII, and that’s all there was to eat. “Irene thinks tomatoes are good for me, so I say they’re the most delicious food in the whole wide world.”
Apparently, love awakens all the senses, with the possible exception of common sense. But what young man of any age needs common sense when his fancy has turned to love?
I’m pleased to say I needn’t have worried so much. Irene and Dad will soon celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.
And that faint munching sound you hear is me eating my words.
First published in the Montecito Journal May 15, 2008
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When I was a teenager I figured the definition of “young man” was anyone still in high school. At 21, I upped the limit on romance to 30. And once I was old enough to get invitations from AARP, I decided to believe persistent rumors that there’s sex after 60.
And yet, my jaw still drops when I hear the message from my 80-year-old dad. His Midwestern voice lumbers, “Hello. This is your father in Nebraska. Just wanted to let you know, I’m getting married.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more – the fact that he’s suddenly engaged, or the idea that he allows for the possibility I have fathers in other states.
Only one week earlier we’d had a heart-to-heart about how lonely he was. I’d gingerly suggested he might try dating. But he never takes my advice, any more than I took his advice when I was a teenager. So how did he go from zero to betrothed in one week?
I call back to discover more about Dad’s pending matrimony. I hide my shock with what I hope are rational tones. “Who are you marrying?”
“ I don’t know much about her. We’ve only had one date.”
“This isn’t one of those shotgun weddings is it?”
“Hell no. Ha-ha.”
“So what’s the rush?”
“Well, once you get over the hill, you kinda pick up speed.”
It’s been a long time since Dad’s felt like making corny jokes. I’m glad for his good mood, but I want to shout, ARE YOU CRAZY?
I’ve learned the hard way, once I get up there on my high horse, it’s hard to get down gracefully. So I rein in my hyperventilation and say, “Congratulations.”
At his age, being head-over-heels could land him in a walker. So I grill him on everything he knows about this woman he’s fallen for, but I don’t get much.
Later, I discuss Dad’s news with a friend.
“Is she younger?” my friend asks.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. She’s only 74.”
“Mark my word. That woman’s after his money.”
“I’m not too worried. Dad doesn’t have that much money, and he has a darn tight grip on what he does have.”
However, truth is I am worried. When I was young and single, if I’d told my dad I’d decided to marry a guy I’d only dated once, he would’ve tried to shout some sense into me. So the next week I drive to Nebraska to see if I can return the favor.
Two days on the road gives me plenty of time for my fantasies to go wild. I’d read all those fairytales. Stepmothers are wicked. Dad’s wife-to-be might put poison in his dinner. She could push him down the basement steps. Surely she would make him take her on one of those fancy cruises, and while he was enjoying the ocean view, she’d invite him to sleep with the fishes.
I hate to spoil my vivid imagination with the truth, but when I finally meet my dad’s fiancé, I’m surprised to discover she’s a very nice lady. With relief I change her name from “Evil Stepmother” to Irene.
Immediately I see why they’re in such a hurry to get married. Irene and my dad can’t keep their hands off one another. If I’d exhibited such public displays of affection when I was a teenager, Dad would’ve grounded me until I was 50.
Not only is my elderly father like a young man in love again, he’s changed in other ways, too. He’s bought a cell phone. “Irene thought I should have one.”
And he has high-speed Internet access. “Irene thought it was time I got on e-mail, so I got the fast kind.”
And most amazingly of all, he’s eating tomatoes. Dad hadn’t eaten a tomato since 1944 when he was in Italy during WWII, and that’s all there was to eat. “Irene thinks tomatoes are good for me, so I say they’re the most delicious food in the whole wide world.”
Apparently, love awakens all the senses, with the possible exception of common sense. But what young man of any age needs common sense when his fancy has turned to love?
I’m pleased to say I needn’t have worried so much. Irene and Dad will soon celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.
And that faint munching sound you hear is me eating my words.
First published in the Montecito Journal May 15, 2008
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