"Tough" Knows No Age!

I've never been terribly comfortable with the label "people watcher" so I never applied it to myself.  I do, however, sometimes notice things about human beings that makes it nearly impossible for me to focus on another detail of my life until I relay what I have seen to someone else.  OK, so I people watch.  As for the 'relaying it to someone else' part, well that is where you come in...and writing a blog is much cheaper than therapy.

Yesterday, in our local supermarket (which shall be named and promoted as soon as they start sponsoring my blog) I saw the toughest woman I have ever seen outside of a "Scared Straight: Female Lockdown" after school special.  I first noticed her hair.  It was slicked back but not plastered to her head.  It was something that I would have liked to achieve when we had 'fifties' spirit days in high school.  I was never able to get my hair to stay back like that without being all greasy and then looking like I needed to put tape around the middle of my glasses...the tape would, of course, be color coordinated to my pocket protector though.  This woman looked like she had been doing this same style so often that she just needed to scowl into the mirror and her hair would obediently move into place out of fear.  It looked like the kind of hair that Fonzie's mother would have.

That was actually the next thing I noticed, she was old enough to be Fonzie's mother!   I am horrible at guessing ages.  I would never presume to guess a lady's age.  But let me just say that this woman had witnessed a number of decades...perhaps a couple more than me.  That's as close as I am going to go since I don't want her to track me down and beat me up.  She also looked like she was outside quite a bit judging from the depth of her tan.  I suspect she works on the pit crew for a funny car.

The next thing I noticed were the tattoos that were poking out of the sleeves of her printed tee shirt.  I have nothing against tattoos.  I don't assign any particular feeling to a tattoo.  I have some very good friends who have gotten tattoos...yesterday!  In fact there are two designs that I would consider for my own body...if I weren't afraid of ten thousand needles.  I personally have no problem with them.  I will, sometimes, question the placement, or content of, certain tattoos.  You never want your kids to look at a tattoo and ask, "Daddy,  is that lady in the picture going to nurse that man?  He's not a baby!"  "Ooh, honey, look over here at the building!  Isn't that a nice building!?"

No this woman's 'tats' didn't appear to be inappropriate.  She also didn't have cartoon characters or swirly flowers.  This woman's tattoos looked like they were the tribal tattoos of the Maori, just not on her face.  The thick swirls poking out of her sleeve could, I suppose, be the tail of a unicorn, but I will tell you this, that would be one badass unicorn!  And it would have sharp teeth.  Something else about her tattoos, they were not the old purple-faded-into-oblivion unrecognizable blobs that are often seen on people of advanced age.  No, these were crisp and clear and looked like they could have just been done.

Overall this woman looked to be exceptionally tough.  She is the kind of woman who, if someone  ever tried to foolishly steal her purse, would be able to take care of herself.  In fact when the police finally arrived they would find her sitting atop the delirious punk, smoking an unfiltered Camel, rubbing her jaw and saying, "You got a pretty good punch kid."

So you get the idea.  Tough.  And yet...looks can be deceiving.  Just moments after I had made my observations and decided to let it go even though she had seventeen items in the 15 items or less line, she reached out and picked up a pack of gum. (eighteenth item, but who's counting)  What struck me was her choice of gum...this tougher than tough looking woman went straight for the Juicy Fruit.  Not only was it Juicy Fruit, it was the one that comes in a bright pink wrapper!  Talk about unexpected!  A woman like this should be chewing "Tar-O" The jet black gum, now with pieces of gravel for extra texture.  Nope, she picked up the bright pink package.  I was intrigued!  I leaned forward a little to see the next pack of bright pink gum to see if I was really seeing what I was seeing.  Then I saw it, "Sugar Free!"  


I'm sorry!  I don't care how tough you look, how cool your hair is, how fresh your tattoos are...you cannot be tough if you buy sugar free Juicy Fruit gum in a bright pink package!!!  So I stole her purse.  (just kidding)

A New Service

I've decided to branch out!  Our friend has asked us to write her a letter of recommendation to update her resume for being a teacher.  Here is what I came up with...

 To whom it may concern,

What can I say about Ren?  She is quite an actress!  For years now we believed that she had Tourettes Syndrome.  Turns out she was only trying to impress the teenage gang members she hires to work in her class.  Well, we thought they were gang members.  They were actually her accountability partners from her various “anonymous” meetings that she frequents. 

Ren is very smart!  How else would you describe someone who can get out of reckless abandonment and child endangerment charges?  Fourteen times! 

Ren is also very health conscious.  Very often during the day she will take naps at her desk next to her thermos of what she calls “liquid encouragement.”  The devotion to maintaining her well being by resting is impressive!  Having the kids do independent work with the addition of her snoring in the background is a very clever way of having the kids prepare for workplace annoyances!

Speaking of workplaces!  Ren has a regular industry happening in her room.  Having the sixth graders “recruit” the younger kids into making shoes, soccer balls, and designer purse knock-offs is wonderful!

HEre’s a Large Personal reason My Ecstatic choice is for you to hire her.  I have made these statements on my own under no coercion or duress…and I hope to see my family again soon.

Jeff Garrett

Just let me know if you would like me to write something up for your new job search.  Reasonable fees!

Spin A Yarn = Win!

I don't know if it's because I haven't written in a little while or that my Magic Eight Ball / blog idea generator is in the shop, but I am here today saying, "And now for something completely different!"  (Truth be told, it's probably because a friend of mine has been writing Monty Python references on Facebook all day.  Nevertheless, I am doing something today that I have never done before; a restaurant review.

Before I begin I should tell you, I am not a paid reviewer of restaurants.  I learned everything I know about cooking, and reviewing, from Ratatouille, the Disney movie.  I should also warn you that my blog for today is not for the faint of heart.  Vegetarians beware!  Sylvia is a Pisces.  I was born under the sign of Meat with Potatoes rising.  Carnivores of the world unite!

It all started when Sylvia checked something on Facebook.  I whipped out my smart phone and started chatting with her.  (I was about twelve feet away from her at the time)  She played along and with all of my charm, wit, and suaveness I won a date with my wife.  I think it was when I said that I "LIKE her, like her" that I sealed the deal.  The only question was, where to go?

Since it had been a while since I took Sylvia on a date to someplace that didn't involve ordering by talking into a clown's mouth, I decided to try someplace new.  There are three places in Fremont, that I know of, that have a reputation for being a cut above.  Only one, however, had just been on the TV show called Kitchen Nightmares.  I think the choice was clear, we went to the nightmare place.  Yes, Spin A Yarn in Fremont was where we ended up.  Sylvia and I have seen the show.  We know that they go in, assess how bad a place is, work to make it better, and all with explosive confrontations between the owners and the host of the show.  That is the formula for the show...we have no idea how their particular episode went.  We haven't seen it.  In fact, judging from the conversations around the room we were in, we were the only people in there who hadn't seen it.  I think our waiter may have been glad to have a table where the show wasn't the topic of conversation.

I was worried, with its new found fame and previous reputation, that we would have a hard time getting a seat. We got there about 7:30 and were given a choice of table or booth.  Not being able to make decisions easily we chose both.  I got a booth while Sylvia sat at a table nearby.  (Not really)  In our booth we noticed that it was nice and quiet, a change from where we typically go to eat, and a really welcome change since my ears have been bothering me lately and everyone seems to be talking as if they have hand towels stuffed in their mouths...but I digress.  We sat.  We talked.  It was great!

When I looked up the restaurant on Google this morning, to see what the actual name of the kitchen show was, I saw the beginnings of a review.  It had "$$" under price.  That is usually one "$" too many for a teacher who gets paid with bags of multi-colored elbow macaroni but what the heck, we splurged.  It isn't often that we get to sneak away, just the two of us, and I wanted it to be memorable.  Our waiter, whose name escapes me, was funny and personable and gave us time to make our selections.  After a while he came by and said, "The suspense is killing me!"  It's nice when people recognize that I am a goofball and give it right back to me.  Sylvia ordered the halibut on the waiter's suggestion and I had the...wait for it...Prime Rib!  You have to picture Homer Simpson drooling slightly, catching his breath, and saying "Prime rib" in order to get the full effect.  Both orders came to our table quickly, so quickly that we almost didn't have time to finish the bread and softened, salted butter spread they brought to our table, almost.  They brought the prime rib to us on a cart and sliced what I thought was a generous portion right there at the table.  Medium rare, perfect.  I asked if they had straight horseradish instead of the creamy sauce, to which the humorous waiter replied, "Don't toy with me sir."  He came back with a dish of horseradish and a plate...with another littler piece of prime rib on it saying, "The chef felt that he may have shorted you a little bit." and set it next to my already full plate.  I think the real reason was that I scared him by covering my plate with my arms and growling at him when he made a move toward me with the pepper mill...none for me thanks.

Eating this meal was a pleasure!  Everything was prepared well.  I even ate the green beans that came with the meal since they were fresh, seasoned well, and cooked but not turned into a soggy mushy mess.  Sylvia was impressed.  At least three people came over to see how everything was and/or if we needed anything else.  I felt like they were trying to impress me since I was an important food critic...I didn't want to disappoint them, so I became one here on my blog.  I wasn't able to finish all of my meal even with the, "Come on sir, you can do it!" prompting of the waiter.  We both turned down dessert but not before seriously considering sharing one.

As we were getting up to leave I asked our waiter if he could please be rude to me or do something else that would make me not want to come back since we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves but really couldn't afford to come back.  He told me that my request was odd since 'rude' just comes so natural to him.  We left, with perhaps a new favorite restaurant on our list.  We had a wonderful time and with our meals and a glass of wine each I think the $80 dollars we spent was well worth it.

If you are ever in Fremont and want to have a nice meal in a semi-famous place I would highly recommend Spin A Yarn.  Tell them Jeff, the guy that writes a blog, sent you.  Heck, bring him a copy of this, tell the owner that I talked you into going.  Tell him that he should thank me in a tangible way by giving us a free appetizer or something.  But mostly, enjoy your meal.

Darned Butterflies!

While breezing through the staff room at my school yesterday I overheard a snippet of a conversation and it reminded me of a story.  Of course, when I walked out of the room and saw a pole, a ball, a seagull, and a kid in a red shirt, it reminded me of several more stories...but I think I will tell you about the teacher conversation one first. Also, as an explanation, I "breeze through" my staff room not because I don't want to spend time with my wonderful colleagues, I have scheduled a small group of students to come to my room after school so I can help them catch up with the rest of the class.  That means I only have about ten minutes to try and shove some food down my neck before the second wave of learners marches in.  But I digress...

One of the teachers was talking about a horrible commute.  When you live in the bay area of California, you can have a horrible commute while trying to get to the store to buy stress reducing medicine to help you deal with your horrible commute.  This particular commute involved driving by a taxi-van that had somehow lost control, spun, and ended up blocking two lanes...on its roof!  She said there was no emergency vehicle present, there were no tow trucks, there was no warning on her smart phone/magic traffic eight ball telling her to avoid the area.  It had just happened!  It got her to thinking, if she hadn't changed her routine for leaving by that one or two minutes she would have been in exactly that place while the accident was happening.

I realize that there are all sorts of variables that make a statement like that not one hundred percent true.  Heck, according to Jurassic Park, if a butterfly beat its wings in Newark, there could be a monsoon in Indonesia.  (That is why I am writing to my legislature to have them ban butterflies...but I digress)  So there is nothing to say that my friend would have been definitely there at that spot, at that time, in that accident...but it could have happened.  And that was her point.  I get it.

My aunt tells a story about a time when she had a bad feeling about her husband and his drive to work.  Unlike me, they live in a rural town where three cars passing by is considered "rush hour."  They were excited when they, "finally made the big time" and their two major cross streets got a stoplight.  This was not a bustling hotbed of automobiles.  On one particular morning my aunt woke up with a sense that something would go wrong that day.  She went to my uncle and told him about it.  Being a no-nonsense kind of guy my uncle just dismissed this feeling and kept getting ready for work.  My aunt, not one to back down, pleaded with him to not go to work today.  (I am at a slight disadvantage since I wasn't there and am only telling this third hand)  He gave in to her insistence, sort of, and said that he would change his routine slightly (read the paper, eat a good breakfast, brush his teeth left handed...I don't know) and leave later than usual.  That seemed to placate her.  He would be later for work than he liked, but she wouldn't let it go.

You have probably figured out by now that my uncle was fine and that everyone went along on their merry way.  What you may not have figured out is that when my uncle finally did drive in to work he ended up driving past what turned out to be the worst accident that he had ever seen in their little slow-moving corner of the world.  I am certain there were injuries and my story embellishing memory wants to say that there was a fatality but I honestly cannot remember that far back.  You could read about the real story in my aunt's blog...if she had a blog.

So there you have it.  My aunt tells that story like it is proof that she would have lost her husband that day.  I don't know if that is exactly what was prevented but it certainly makes me go, "Hmmmm?"

Jump ahead to another encounter with my aunt when I was a teenager.  I was out in the garage, getting ready to go, and I realized that I didn't have my keys.  I mentally kicked myself and went back inside the house to grab them.  I ran to my room, grabbed them like I should have done when I started getting ready, and ran toward the open garage door.  As I went through the kitchen, the phone rang.  You see kids, way back when, it used to be where there was only one phone in the house and that phone was bolted to the wall.  If someone wanted to talk to you, you needed to be home.  I calculated the odds that it was someone who wanted to talk to my mom and not me.  I figured that it was Jean wanting to tell my mom about what to bring to the church pot-luck this weekend.  Whoever it was, it wasn't for me...I walked by...and then thought, "OK, but somebody owes me!"  I answered the phone.  It was my aunt...and she was hysterical!

My aunt was always a little on the, ahem, excitable side...but this was different.  She was sobbing.  I thought something had happened to my uncle.  I couldn't understand what the heck she was saying and I was a teenager so I wanted out.  She finally calmed down enough to say something like, "I'm glad I caught you."  Me?  Why would she want to talk to me?  Yes, it was really me.  Yes, I was fine.  Yes, there was nothing wrong in the house.  Me?  You wanted me?  She went on to tell me that she had had a horrible dream and woke up with a feeling that something terrible was going to happen to me.  (I'm sure I rolled my eyes)  She would not let it go.  She begged me to stay in the house today.  I half-heartedly agreed.  (yeah right)  This was a truly glorious day outside and I wanted to be out in it.  She then said, "Now Jeff.  You have never lied to me.  I want you to promise that you will not leave the house today.  If you promise I know you will keep that promise."  I was young, I was eager to go outside, I hadn't heard the story about my uncle at this point..."OK, I promise.  I will not leave the house today."

She burst into "thank you's" and "Thank God's" and hung up the phone.

I actually did leave the house that day.  I set my helmet down, I went out of the garage and rolled my motorcycle back inside, took off my leather jacket, and shut the door.  I have no idea what would have happened if I had continued my plan to ride that day.  I guess I'll never know...but I did see a butterfly flapping its wings like crazy out the window.

Just to say...

I am writing just to say that I cannot write.  No, it's not April fools again.  I am going to Arizona.  If you would like to follow what we are doing you could go to another of my blog's to join in the fun.  Thank you and I'm sure I will have loads to write about when I get back.

Thanks,
Jeff

Ganado 2012

What the Heck/Thanks!

I am sad/happy to report that I am being ripped off! I mean it's an honor but still, HEY!!

I have just learned, through the weirdest means that I have ever encountered, that my blog has been used to make a TV show about America....in Slovenia!  Without my knowledge!  Without my consent!  And most importantly, without compensating me for anything!  I started writing on March 31st, 2010, so I have been writing this blog for two years and a day!  I have never had anything so weird happen to me.

I know that in other countries there are very lax laws dealing with copyright and intellectual property.  There is some sort of loophole that says if the words aren't exactly the same, then it cannot be proven whose idea it is, but it seems to me like I should be compensated for this.  At least a little bit, right?  I suppose it would be OK to get paid in EUROs but they probably have some sort of automatic exchange rate device that should be able to directly deposit money to my account.

In fact, someone tried to tell me about this one month ago, but I thought it was an internet scam.  In perfect English I received an e-mail, "Hello, I want to inform you that I have been reading your writing for some time now.  I love how you always mention that there is a Slovenian reader out there somewhere.  That is me.  It makes me mad that I have seen a show here that loosely translates to, "Americans are Not Right in the Head" and the episodes very closely match what I read in your blog."

I tried to Google the show but I was unsuccessful so far.  He said to look up "Američani niso prav v glavo" There seems to be a language barrier.  I can't make heads or tails of anything that comes up and when I use the automatic translator option on Google there are a lot of sites but none of them are about TV shows. (Perhaps I am not right in the head...ha ha sniff)

I would love to get a lawyer and try to compel them to pay me for my ideas (which aren't so much ideas as stories about my family) but that isn't going to happen.  I am so broke that a lawyer is the last thing on my shopping list.  I just need to wait for that latest windfall from writing a blog to come in!  Then I can travel to Slovenia, meet the one guy who is reading my blog, and then stay in a fancy enough hotel to watch my life on a Slovenian sitcom.

I certainly have had a weird March this year.  All I can hope for is that my April doesn't begin as strangely.  I suppose I could wish the same for you too...so happy first of April everyone!

Grandpa = Rocker

When you read the title "Grandpa = Rocker" you may have pictured a gray haired old gentleman sitting on a front porch in the south, a small table with a glass of sweet tea, maybe an old red-bone hound laying at his feet.  Or, depending on where you are from, you may have pictured that same gentleman sitting by a window, overlooking the city, passing the time with the TV on but not noticing it at all.  You may have pictured those things, sure, but I am almost positive that you did not picture a sexagenarian blasting an eighties metal band on the radio when his grand kids came to visit!

You may think I am kidding, but that is what happened to me...sort of.

Well, first I think I should explain that Grandpa wasn't really 'blasting' the music.  It wasn't so much 'blasting' as it was softly playing in the background.  I equate my grandparent's house with music.  It was on all the time.  The only time the music wasn't playing was when the TV was on so Grandpa could watch golf in 'his' chair.  Their living room was set up very much like All in the Family, complete with his and her easy chairs...but my grandfather's did not make it into the Smithsonian like Archie Bunker's did.  When we played cards (a lot) the music was on.  When I read the stack of Reader's Digests to absorb all the 'Humor in Uniform', 'Laughter the Best Medicine' and 'All in a Day's Work' the music played.  When we ate, music.  When we came in from playing outside, music.  When we were hearing the benefits of having a refrigerator converted to be a keg cooler with built-in-tap out the side, music.  It was always playing.  On a few occasions we were even lucky enough to have Grandpa play us a few songs on his piano.  He was very talented at playing classical music.

You wouldn't have thought that someone like that would have listened to metal.  I'm here to tell you...it happened!  There is no denying it.  It is burned into my memory with an image that is like I looked at the sun too long.  To add to the things that didn't make sense about this choice of music, it was being played on a very old fashioned stereo.  Their ever-playing stereo was gigantic.  It was a piece of furniture.  It was a wooden case that had to be five feet wide.  The front panels on either side held decorative mesh that allowed the sound to come out the biggest speakers I had ever seen.  Although not quite as fancy as modern day, these speakers rivaled the size that kids put into their cars these days.  You know, the ones who rattle windows with muffled base and make it so you have to go straighten all your pictures.  The main unit and the electronics of the stereo (they called it a hi fi) were in the center of this giant wooden, and very well cared for, box.  The way you adjusted the station, volume, band, or any other option was to lift the top panel.

You could put a decorative vase off to one side on this cabinet.  You could put pictures on the other.  But you could not put anything on top of the middle since, to open it, you needed to be able to lift it up.  Well, you needed to be able to lift it up if you wanted to change anything...my grandpa's might have been nailed shut.  I looked inside a few times (when he was getting into it) and I could see that everything was built in.  This wasn't a giant cabinet that held a stereo...it was the stereo!  Everything was built in and when it died beyond the ability to repair it (you see kids...way back when, there were people who actually fixed things that were broken and didn't just buy new ones) this was the kind of cabinet that people took all the guts out of to make a place to store liquor.  I can neither confirm not deny that this cabinet suffered this fate at the hands of my family.  At this point in my story, the stereo was very much functional.

I remember we were there at their house for what was probably an annual visit.  No big occasion, just Mom going to see "her folks."  I was in the kitchen playing solitaire (There were always cards on the table.  If there was no partner to play gin or cribbage, you played solitaire) when I heard the music.  It was the instrumental music that was the soundtrack to their house.  I kept playing cards.  This piece was done by a harpist and it was the slow melodic instrumental elevator music that was ever-present.  At this point in the story it would have been hysterical if the radio station had been sold and the new owner wanted to not only change the format but punctuate the change by dragging the needle across the record and starting a new record that was designed to shock and amaze.  This is not what happened.  What did happen is that I started to recognize something in the music.  I remember that it was one of those times when there was something familiar but I just couldn't put my finger on it.  I rejected the notion that I was actually becoming familiar with this music.  It  was the early eighties!  I did NOT listen to this music and you could not get me to admit that I did...even at my grandparents' house.  And still...something made me listen to try to figure it out.

This is my version of harp music translated to the written word..."plunkplunk plunkplunkplunk...PLUNK plunkplunkplunk....plunkplunk PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK, PLUNK PLUNK PLUNNNNNK"

I kept listening.  So familiar.  I probably looked like the dog in the iconic RCA advertisement.  Quizzical look on my face.  Head cocked to the side.  I was probably holding a single card in the air frozen in time trying  to see if I could figure out what was up with this music.  And then it hit me.  I had heard this before.  In fact, I was blasting it out the windows of my 1974 VW Super Beetle as I cruised into the parking lot at school the week before.  The only difference was that my stereo, before it was stolen from my car, was tremendously powerful and I really was blasting it!  I thought the stereo and the car that I had lovingly transformed from a literal wreck into a showpiece were hot stuff!  There was no harp, however, playing on the stereo in my car though.

There, in the kitchen, I figured it out.  They had taken a song that I listened to and removed all the vocals.  They had taken away any hint of an electric instrument and replaced them all with a harp and a gentle piano accompaniment.  They had slowed it down to probably quarter-speed to turn one of my favorite songs, at that time, into something suitable for an elevator...or my grandparents' house.  So I sat there laughing hysterically not having the heart to tell them that they were, in fact, listening to Quiet Riot's "Come on Feel the Noize!"