Pearls and Lemons: My Town

Pearls and Lemons: My Town

Purse Dog

Purse dog. Don't leave home without it. I'm not sure when this happened, but it seems that dogs have ascended to eye level. I have a lifetime of living with dogs, but I've never seen them treated the way they are now. They are just too precious for words. No wonder Mitt Romney is in so much trouble for strapping his Irish Setter to the top of the car.

People are spending a fortune on their pets. Can we talk about accessories? Boots and jackets and hooded raincoats. Playpens and carriers festooned with glitter. You can get a cute collar with a charm from Coach for only $78. Cats have gotten precious, too. We have a cat boarding establishment near us with fireplaces. It costs extra to have a "Kitty Worshipper" sleep with your cat!

I grew up with big dogs. We had a series of German Shepherds: Dusky and Dusty, Freida and Schwartzie. Later on I had two Dobermans, Albert and Tiggy. For a short time my mother even had a Saint Bernard named "January". She could barely squeeze into the pumpkin orange Honda and did she ever drool.

We had numerous litters of puppies and all sorts of doggie adventures. One loved to roll in dead animals, another chased after the mailman. When we lived in Michigan we had a notorious chicken killer. Poor Freida was afraid of thunder and actually died of a heart attack during a thunder storm. We were away on vacation and she was at the kennel.

My mother is a dog lover through and through. Sometimes I even think she liked the dogs more than the kids. They were certainly easier to understand, if not train. They barked but didn't bite. They also didn't talk back. The kids weren't spoiled and neither were the canines. They did not sleep on beds or chairs. I don't even remember them having dog beds. For dinner we fed them Gravy Train with a little warm water. Dog feeding was one of our chores. I was fond of snacking on the kibble and remember being so small I would practically topple over into the fifty pound bag of food.

Those days (when pets and children knew their place) are long gone. Now people take their dogs everywhere. Shopping and on planes. They sit on public benches and on chairs at restaurants. People's precious pooches are so entitled they deserve a seat at the table. If you question someone they'll claim they have a "service" dog and god forbid you don't allow them access everywhere. What kind of service? Companion?

The biggest change I've noticed has been at the local shopping center which has become very upscale. Until recently dogs were not allowed on the premises. Now they are "welcome" everywhere but Nordstrom. Rules of "Petiquette" are posted. So, dogs no longer have to stay at home or in the car or left outside. They're in all the stores. I find it unnerving to be nudged by an Irish Wolfhound while checking out bras. These dogs really need to be in the lingerie department?

Of course it's not the dog (or the child). It's the owner. I was feeling bad about being such a hater when a couple things happened. I was walking to work on Valentine's Day in my new hot pink tights when a dog came tearing by me, splashed in a puddle and splattered me with mud spots. I was so pissed and turned to glare at the owner, but guess what? Rover was out on a solo jaunt. When I got to work there was an enormous pile of shit on the sidewalk in front of the store. Thank you again.

This all followed a weekend adventure. Eric and I were in the woods and came upon a wayward lab self-walking. He was such a good looking guy and obviously alone. Eric called the number on the tag to alert the owner to his pet's present whereabouts. No answer. No return call thanking Eric for his concern. Nothing but rude silence. Over the years I've tried to rescue numerous lost dogs and found it to be thankless and frustrating. It led me to this ruthless conclusion: people who can't keep track of their dogs are jerks.

I have observed that there are dog people and baby people. I am a baby person. I LOVE babies. Whenever I see one I want to make eye contact and get them to smile. I have to restrain myself from touching if it's not a baby I know. Eric is a dog lover. We stop and greet every dog - get a wag of the tail. Eric has to flirt with every leashed critter and I have to flirt with all the babies. It can be a process getting down the sidewalk sometimes. All the flirting and greeting, tail thumping and gummy smiles.

I have loved my dogs deeply. My heart has been broken when they died. They were like part of my family, but I didn't expect them to be part of your family. I don't love your dog. I may not even like them, but I absolutely adore your baby.

Photo: Toby the Purse Dog

As an antidote to going negative on the four legged friends, here's a cute piece written by Leslie Martin about Gina's dog, Boomer.


Once upon a time there was a little black and white border collie named Boomer. His parents called him Boomer because they thought it was a cute name and he was such a cute puppy. But Boomer didn’t like his name. All the other dogs called him Doomer Boomer and Boomer Sooner and made fun of him. The bulldog down the street, who was named Spike, said “What kind of dog is named Boomer? That’s not a name! That’s a sound! Ha! Ha! Boomer doesn’t even have a real name. It’s just a sound!” All the other dogs laughed and growled, “Yeah, a boom is a big noise. Hey Big Noise, how’s it going?” Boomer was so sad. He hung his head and tucked his tail and walked slowly back to his yard. I’ll show them he thought. I will become Mighty Bitey Boomer and then will see who makes fun of me and with that, Mighty Bitey Boomer was born.

Shop Talk

I've been minding the store at Moss & Daughters for over two months now. There is a bit of rhythm to the days, but no rhyme or reason. It's dead when you think it will be busy and busy when you expect it to be slow. The best day we've had so far was one of the 49er playoff days. That was one screaming Saturday. A woman bought enough gifts to last for a lifetime of weddings. Or maybe she's like Lucy who is attending eight weddings in two years - five of them as part of the bridal party. Waves of weddings. 

The last playoff day and, of course, the Stupid Bowl itself were really slow. There can be a morning lull or a morning rush and vice-versa. One day I sold nothing for the first four hours but ended up with a good day. Only four customers made purchases, and oddly enough, they were all in the store at the same time. Before and after - nothing. 

I have discovered a few ways to make sure we get busy. One method works every time. Try to close. When I  start bringing in all the outdoor items, the shop is so crowded you can barely move around. Inevitably, a customer will appear. Intent on buying something, they're oblivious as they step over baskets and around flower carts. More than once twenty-five percent of the day's business has been transacted after closing time. 

It's fascinating to see the way people shop. The most money is spent by customers who are in the store for the shortest period of time. The turbo shoppers. They'll cruise through the store with impressive efficiency, loading items onto the counter with barely a glance. Pay, bag it up and done. If you didn't have the charge receipt you might think it never happened. A shopping mirage.

Other types of customers are more work. Like the serial returner. There are the 24 hour approval junkies. They shop, make a choice and bring it back the next day. It could be an oil painting or a lamp. The same people keep going to different shops. They buy. They return. Most people are somewhere in between. They browse, they find something they like and then they buy it. Normal people.  

Some people don't buy. They just touch. One day a woman started at one end of the shop and worked her way through, compulsively touching everything within reach. I was so fascinated that I just watched her. At one point she turned and made a comment about it. She hoped it was okay that she was touching things. I smiled that fake "the customer is always right" smile and assured her it was fine. Of course she touched everything but bought nothing.

Other customers don't JUST touch, they rearrange. They'll pick something up and put it down in a slightly different place. And then there is the bull in the china shop. One lady had such a flowing poncho that she knocked over a glass piece and it broke. These things happen. You've seen those "you break it, you bought it" signs. It's not really true. You're not going to charge a customer for something they broke by accident. The store eats it.

I love to watch the couples. Our shop is a little feminine and can make certain men kind of squirmy. Manly men. I try to steer the guys across the way to the antique store where there's more to entertain them. It doesn't always work. Then they can really interfere with the shopping process by looking bored, sighing or overtly nixing every potential purchase. Some women deal with their guys directly. One lady sent her husband to wait in the car. Another one told him to wait outside, like a dog. I thought I heard her say, "sit" and "stay".

Other men are much more cooperative. They just whip out the charge card no matter what. It's all good. Wrap it up. We'll take it. She wants a candle that costs $120? She wants a large, paper mâché Rhinoceros? She wants it shipped to Los Angeles? Done. I love these guys. No muss. No fuss. Decisive, authoritative. No over thinking or buyer's remorse. That's the way to spend money.     

I don't expect all customers to make purchases. It's an experience. Sometimes you just want a little fantasy, an escape. A bit of inspiration. Sometimes you feel like crap and you just want someone to talk to for a few minutes. A lot of people are lonely and need to feel a human connection. Some customers are killing time. Others are breezing through and have no time. 

What surprises me most about my job isn't what I do. It's what I don't do. I don't use a computer. I don't read or write anything but sales slips. I rarely talk on the phone. I unpack shipments, price product, feed the fish and tend to the plants. I sweep the floor and tidy up. I see people I know. One of our customers was Lana and Allie's first grade teacher. Mostly, I chat with people. 

I don't worry about work when I go home. Nobody expects me to be on call 24/7 like when I sold real estate. It's peaceful and you can't beat the commute. Five minutes if I drive, ten by bike and twenty to walk. Every day is different. There's a lot going on with the restaurant - special events and photo shoots. Come by if you're ever in the neighborhood and we'll talk. Shop talk.    

Aloha Again

Trying to write while sitting on our balcony in Poipu Beach, Kauai, but the whales are just so darn distracting. Spouting, cavorting, doing belly flops. Every time I try to look away, they draw me back. Oh, look. There it is again. A spout. A fluke. Just magnificent. Eric swears he can smell the whales. He may have read Moby Dick one too many times.  

I absolutely love Hawaii. Mostly because my skin is happy here. And when my skin is happy, I'm happy. Over the years I've been to a couple other tropical places. Belize, the Yucatan. For me, Hawaii is better. You can drink the water. You can eat the food and brush your teeth without fear. It's part of our country. The currency and language are the same.  

You can also slip in and out of Hawaii without being witness to soul crushing poverty. I already feel bad about destitute people with no hope for the future. I don't need to see sad, skinny kids begging when I'm on my vacation. I'm worried that I can't really afford the trip in the first place. Maybe it was a poor financial decision on my part. Maybe those folks made similar poor financial decisions and look at them. See where I'm going with this? I may have a problem with over-empathizing.

Hawaii also has the "aloha spirit". Traditionally, "aloha" in the Hawaiian language meant affection, peace, compassion and mercy. Good stuff. Now it really means a welcoming culture. Locals seem so warm and kind to children, although it doesn't pay to generalize. Or mess with the wrong dudes. My step-brother, Peter, lost his life in a drug deal gone bad on Oahu. So not aloha.

A couple things about Hawaii just crack me up. The Haole couples with his and hers Hawaiian outfits. She's wearing the new dress in a loud, floral print and he's got on the male counterpart, also in bright colors. You've got to love the vacation impulse - to buy what you wouldn't be caught dead in later. Also the strange artwork and souvenirs one will purchase when traveling. We've all done it. Much of the tourist economy is based on it.

I also love the exercisers. You're in one of the most beautiful places on earth yet you work out on a treadmill, just like home. A treadmill? Why not bring along the millstone for around your neck? The power walkers are slightly better. All ear buds and fanny packs, they walk with grim determination, but at least they're outdoors. The ones who walk along the busy road in the mid-day sun really confuse me. People, you're in Hawaii. Go jump in the ocean and take a swim  

Tropical vacations have their own stresses. All the sun and swimming take a toll. I've had trips where each day I felt more tired than the day before. Happy, but a little exhausted. That may have been when the girls were young and they just never stopped. The requests all ran together. Mommycanwegotothebeachnow? Mommyletsgotothepool. And so on. The pace is pretty mellow with the two of us, though Hawaii does dictate a certain schedule. One MUST be up to see the sun rise. You also have to be in place for the setting sun. It's mandatory. You just don't want to miss it.    

There is a gentleness to the air here that is so soothing. You can see people, obviously in their final hours on the island, soaking it all in. Like they're trying to remember it - now wonderful it all feels. Hoping to take it home with them. I'm pretty sure there's a trick here. You remember it well enough to know you want to replicate the experience, but not well enough to internalize it. Why is it so difficult to really learn things - even simple stuff? Like how to breathe when you're feeling anxious. To put in your contacts before applying lotion.  

I love the rhythm of a beach vacation. The lazy hours with books and magazines. Lying on the sand just staring off towards the horizon. The smell of the sunscreen and all the layers of dried salt on my skin. The naps. When you shower at the end of the day you can inspect the tan lines and burned places and think about boat drinks and where to go for dinner. Repeat the next day.     

I'm so sad it's almost time to go home. It's been way too short. Oh well. It's not so great here, anyway. All the hours with nothing but leisure, no deadlines. The peace, the quiet. What's the fun in that? It's not even all that quiet. The waves constantly roaring in the background. Pounding pounding. So relaxing you can't even remember which day it is. Who needs it? And day after day sunrise, sunset. Sunrise, sunset.      

The Resume

Holidays 2011 are gone, 2012 has arrived and, as usual, nothing was the way we expected. Not necessarily better or worse - just different which is a sameness we can count on. 

The biggest surprise is that after looking for five months, numerous interviews, a few real disappointments and much frustration, I have gotten a job. At least for now, the search is off. Serendipity finally decided to get off her little fanny and give me some help. It is everything I had stated explicitly that I did not want. After twenty-five years waitressing and working in real estate, I wanted regular business hours. I didn't want to work while everyone else was enjoying their weekend. I didn't want to work with the public or stand on my feet all day. Baby, I've got it all and strangely enough, I like it.

One night in mid-December we walked by a brand new shop in a gorgeous, old space in downtown Mill Valley called El Paseo. It's all brick with a secret passageway and has a very European feel. This new shop is on one end of El Paseo. Eric looked through the window at the owners getting the store ready and told me I should work there. The next morning I checked Craigslist, as was my habit every day. There was an ad for help in the shop. I sent in my resume, they called me immediately and I was hired that day. I went from walking by to doing the job within a day. The first day I unpacked boxes and the next day we opened. As the first and only employee, I worked the next nine days straight. I worked Christmas Eve and the day after Christmas. 

My work experience is multi-faceted and the resume is interesting. Not everyone gets it. The woman who hired me got it. My first job was nanny to the musician, Beck, and his brother when they were young. After a couple years I also began to work for Starving Students moving company in Hollywood. I was sad about leaving the little boys, but Starving Students looked like it could be a way out of Los Angeles, and it was. My boyfriend and I moved to San Francisco and opened the very first franchise of the company which is still operating in thirty-three locations in ten states. I was nineteen and had a dozen guys working for me. 

Young and restless, we moved on from the moving business, although staying with it would have given me a lot of financial security. Oh well. I learned stained glass and did commissions for years. I turned twenty-one and began to waitress in nightclubs. I worked at the Palms in San Francisco and then moved to Mill Valley and discovered Sweetwater. 

I was a cocktail waitress through all three of my pregnancies, and eventually became assistant to Sweetwater's owner. Sometimes I counted the cash, sometimes I did promo or dealt with the bands. One night, when they were filming a BBC special, I had to vacate my desk so Bonnie Raitt could sit there and put on her makeup. I saw more live music than I ever needed. Leaving at night, when the kids were getting cozy in their jammies, was traumatic. I just wanted to be cozy, too. 

Eventually I did some catering for Comforts and served Paul and Linda McCartney out at Skywalker Ranch. Paul was very excited to learn that my mother had just performed his first classical piece with her chorus - the Liverpool Oratorio which they sang at Grace cathedral. He called Linda over to tell her and I had him sign the program for my mom. 

I began to do licensed home daycare so I could spend more time with Lucy. The plan backfired when she became jealous of the other kids taking my attention and using her toys. It was not enough to try to support myself and care for a toddler. I also went back to college at San Francisco State University. Two days at school, two days doing daycare, four nights waitressing and Saturday and Sunday mornings working at Mama's Royal Cafe. Some days I'd serve breakfast to the same people I'd given drinks to a couple hours before. None of us were feeling too happy about it. 

Monday I was off and would spend the whole day with Lucy. We'd go to Mama's and pick up my tips and have some breakfast. I really can't remember when I studied. When I remarried and had two more girls life became easier in ways and harder in others. I did a lot of volunteer work for the PTA and and was the girl scout cookie mom. Every March our house would be filled with cartons of cookies. Lucy found Strawberry Swim Team and we all became part of it for many years. I eventually became president of the team which was more work than actually working.         

Time marched along and college for Lucy was looming. She was a high achieving oldest child and worked so hard at her sports and academics. She deserved a great education, but finances were a problem. A friend owned her own real estate company and suggested I get my license and work with her. My commissions helped get Lucy through college and I met some wonderful people who became good friends. I met some nasty people I never wanted to see again. The economy changed, as did the culture of the business. Loyalty became a scarce commodity. 

I didn't enjoy the business of real estate even when I was making a bunch of money. I was good at the job, but not great at selling myself. I used everything I'd learned in my psychology classes and all the patience I'd acquired as a mother to deal with the difficult, demanding personalities. After thirteen years I wanted out. Hence, the need for the resume. I've had so many jobs and like to brag that, so far, I have never been fired. The hardest position I've ever had is not even listed on the CV. It's the job of raising my three daughters and they CAN'T fire me.  

The company I work for is wonderful. The store is called "Moss & Daughters" and it's part of the burgeoning Tyler Florence empire. Although the shop where I work isn't food related, it's owned by same people. It's charming and tasteful. There is a lot going on and it's exciting to be around. Their restaurant "El Paseo" was just named one of the top ten new restaurants in the San Francisco area. After the food reviewer had his three star meal he stopped by to check out the new store.

Going back to work has been a bit of a shock. I worry about having the discipline to write. I need to keep focused on the Boyle tennis court project, but for me, playing tennis is no longer a priority. It's a challenge to keep the home fires burning. Words with friends? Not so easy. But hey, it's another line on the resume.      

The Unbearable Rightness of Being

I recently attended a sporting event. I was with a friend and we both noticed a guy sitting on a folding chair in a half lotus position. We looked at each other and laughed. She asked, "Why the half lotus?" It seemed so absurd, but maybe I was envious because I don't bend like that. I tried yoga a couple times and thought I was going to snap in half. Sit however you want, yoga boy.  

The half lotus triggered a train of thought that's been brewing for weeks. It began when we were invited to a dinner. Several guests were vegetarians and they kept talking about their vegetarianism during the meal. It made me want to keep asking loudly for more meat, which was a bit childish. 

It took a while to identify my extreme reaction. I finally realized that the vegetarians think they're better than meat eaters. They can't just sit quietly and eat the salad. They have to proselytize the whole time. They aren't satisfied with their own choice. They have to try to make others uncomfortable about theirs. The truth is, they're not better because they don't eat meat. Yes, there are health benefits to eating less meat. Yes, there are environmental advantages. That doesn't mean you are bad if you're a meat eater. A lifetime battling anemia has taught me that red meat can sometimes be my friend. And I choose not to think about how the animals were killed. 

It's like having an abortion or wearing furs. If you don't believe in abortions, then don't have one. Don't make it so nobody else can. You're not better than someone who has an abortion. You're really not. You just disagree. If you don't want to wear animal furs, don't wear them, but get your red paint away from mine. I don't actually have any furs, but the girls have inherited some from their grandmother. The animals are already dead. Who is it helping to NOT wear them?

I'm as guilty as anybody about being on the soap box and I've spent way too much time trying to prove my rightness and that's just plain wrong. Someone once said I'd rather be right than happy. That isn't exactly true, but it's been true too often. If I believe in something it's such a temptation to try to have others follow along. It reinforces my rightness. Being right is a small "win" and let's face it - life is one big competition. Isn't it? Sometimes I just believe in my ideas and I feel obligated to spread them. After all, my great-grandparents were educational missionaries. If my relatives weren't ministers, they were teachers. Pontificating is kind of in the blood.

By definition, life is humbling. I have changed my mind about some grand concepts. God. Husbands. We marry with such certainty. Divorce brings much with it - including a fear of our own choices. How is it possible that what once seemed perfect can become unbearable?  I've believed in God, been an Atheist and been deeply uncertain. They can't all be right. It makes you understand the problem of the Arabs and Israelis better, doesn't it? Some people are never in doubt, but frequently wrong. Try not to confuse me with the facts.     

Our county is full of Prius-driving, liberal Democrats. A lot of us don't choose formal religion. I know people here who won't readily admit they're Republican or religious or God forbid, religious Republicans. Now that's liberal thinking. Although this might not be a stellar time to be a Republican, (think Cain, Bachman, Gingrich), freedom of religious and political expression is one of our national values. It's why my ancestor Captain John Partridge immigrated from England to Massachusetts in 1650. Over three hundred years later we're still fighting to maintain our freedoms. We live in a society that allows our choices. So have your abortion, wear your furs and get a burger and eat it, too. Use your rights while you still have them. I'm going to be practicing my yoga poses.       

PC Christmas

I know what it’s like to be a minority. I was six years old, in l964, when my parents were divorced. It took me until fourth grade to meet someone who would admit that they had parents who were not together. I was also a Unitarian. Through third grade my school was all Jewish except for one Catholic and me. When I changed districts, moving farther from New York City, the students were all Catholic except for one Jew (my friend whose parents were also divorced) and me, the sole Unitarian.

I always thought of Unitarianism as the non-religion or the religion for non-believers. My father was the Unitarian Minister in the local congregation. He’d been recruited from Michigan to build a church and a following. The congregants built the church with sweat equity - though simple and utilitarian, it still stands. It’s a gathering place for those who want to set aside the time for reflection and contemplation of spiritual matters. To meditate and think and to be inspired by the sermon. Unitarianism is like Buddhism in that you can get through an entire program without wincing over a reference to crucifixion, sinning or salvation. There is no extremism - it’s all moderates acting in moderation.

There could have been a bit more formality. I spent my entire childhood in Sunday school and never once read the Bible. My lack of religious education is appalling, but my civic awareness was magnificent. We hosted lefties and folkies and marched for civil rights and peace. Pete Seeger sang at our church and we kids sat cross-legged on the floor, enraptured.

My father built a following all right - of women. Handsome and charming, the deep voice and easy demeanor got them every time. He was a gifted thinker and writer and would compose his sermons in his head, often while in the shower. After the service, during coffee hour, the women would crowd around and hang on his every word. His libido and outsized ego were perfectly matched for the position of minister. Hurrying off to “counsel” a distressed congregant was just part of the job.

We celebrated Christmas at school and at home. We sang “Dreidel, Dreidel” for the Jewish kids and Christmas Carols for the rest of us, but there wasn’t the politically correct, hypersensitivity that we have today. We did not do anything for Kwanza. I hadn’t even heard of it until my kids were in elementary school and Christmas started being eroded in favor of fairness. When I was young we were allowed to celebrate what we wanted without feeling we were taking from someone else. I didn’t expect anyone to make me feel comfortable because I was a Unitarian or a child of divorce. We didn’t whine about things like that. There wasn’t the sense of entitlement-that others should make our lives better or easier.

My three daughters have the same muddled religious pedigree that I had. Sisters from different misters, one daughter is half Polish Jew and half WASP mix, although I’d have to say that, despite her penchant for bagels and lox, my half adhered more firmly. She recently met a slew of her Jewish relatives and became more aware of her inner WASP. Her sisters are first generation American on their father’s side (he was born in Sweden) and twelfth generation on mine. I took them to the Methodist Church for a little while, but backed out when they wanted to baptize the two younger girls one Sunday. Bar and Bat Mitzvah envy took hold and the youngest one decided to be Jewish. We had to have a Latke party and light the Menorah. Well, first we had to buy the Menorah. Fun for a while and good exposure for her older sister, the actual, non-official half Jew. Now they all refuse to go to church of any sort, which is fine, but they do love Christmas.

For the past few years I’ve really missed having people say “Merry Christmas” to me. They’ve been trained not to - it’s “Happy Holidays” up one side and down the other. I’m tired of it. Even when I am most obviously celebrating Christmas, people can’t or won’t say it. There is such a fear of offending. We do so much in our daily lives that’s offensive, yet this withholding of Merry Christmas has stuck. We were at the tree lot, paying for a Christmas tree, and the cashier wished us a Happy Holiday. It kind of got to me. I mean, really, if the folks where you buy your tree are afraid to wish you a Merry Christmas, then who will? I felt a little agitated about it and said something to Eric. We waited while a nice kid took the tree to the car and tied it on top, chatting away. Then he did the most amazing thing. He wished us Merry Christmas, and that was even before Eric gave him the tip.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.

Originally posted in December 2009.