Second Half

Corky got a bit over-excited on Christmas, and my son Jason caught it on video.

It’s been a day or two since you resolved to lose weight, work smarter and get more exercise.

Tell the truth, has your treadmill already returned to its pre-resolution function as a clothes rack?

My own percentage in keeping these yearly promises to myself resembles the Bush administration’s approval rating. Therefore, I hereby resolve to cross off my list every New Year’s resolution that I have failed to fulfill in the past. 

That’s right. If I have tried and failed at something, it’s not going on my 2009 list. Why stacks the odds against myself? The key to a happy life is realistic expectations, especially of oneself. 

Just like the U.S. education system, I’ve decided to dumb down my requirements so as to not adversely affect my own self-esteem. 

Here’s my “I can do this!” list for 2009:

1. I will take a shower every day even if I’m not planning to leave the house. If I take more than one shower a day in the summer, I won’t try to bank the extras and claim the credit in the winter when the bathroom is 46 degrees.
2. I will brush Mr. Bobo the Wonder Cat three times a week. I should do it every day, but I know I won’t and I don’t want to set myself up for failure. The payoff: there should be fifty percent fewer upchucked hairballs in 2009.
3. I will clean out my e-mail box every day. OK, twice a week. Um, how about I’ll keep the mailbox to under 200 messages? Yeah, that feels right.
4. I will transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer within 48 hours of the end of the spin cycle. 
5. Speaking of laundry, I will stop being mean to Keeper when he asks me if he has any clean underwear before he checks the dryer. Come on! Does he think I have a secret hiding place for his tighty whities? Oops, that just slipped out.
6. I will stop wasting my creativity by trying to think up different answers to the inevitable checkout line question, “Did you find everything you need?” I will limit myself to a yes, a yeah or a yep. They don’t want to hear me chirp, “I found things I didn’t know I needed!” 
7. I resolve to stop using my car as a storage unit. This does not mean, however, that I will clean the garage to make room for the extra stuff I haul around. That’s not realistic. How about I just resolve to not put anything ELSE in my backseat? Yeah, that feels about right.
8. I resolve to never again put potato peelings down the garbage disposal. Enough said.
9. I will try to curb my natural tendency toward obsession. I mean, who downloads the previous seasons of “30 Rock” and watches 35 episodes in a row? By the hammer of Thor!
10.  Lastly, I will lose 25 pounds. Hey, everybody needs an impossible dream.

There’s machismo, and then there’s stupidity.

Keeper Husband is the stoic type, seldom altering his routine for aches and pains. So when he complained of a soreness on his right side, instead of going to the doctor, as I suggested, he went to Coyote Point for firearms training.

As part of his job, he has to be certified on a Glock 40 so that he can protect himself from whatever armed and dangerous person would like to keep from being arrested. He was scheduled for three days of training and he was going to go, no matter what was happening in his gut.

So on the appointed day, he got dressed and drove himself to the firing range, where he stood in the rain and shot live rounds into a target.

At the end of the day, he drove home, limped in the door and collapsed into a chair, groaning with pain. I made him show me where it hurt, and there in his groin area was the unmistakeable lump of a hernia. Still, he refused to stay home.

The next two days were a repeat of the first, except that the groans had turned to screams and he had a permanent grimace.

Only when he had passed his firearms qualifications did he allow me to take him to the doctor. By then, he was in severe pain and we had to go to the emergency room. The ER doc confirmed my amateur diagnosis and suggested we get it fixed as soon as convenient.

A consultation with the surgeon on call led to an office visit the next day and the surgery scheduled for Tuesday, Dec. 23.

Sure, it was two days before Christmas, but why not get it fixed and be done with it?

We arrived at the hospital at the appointed time and he was tested, medicated and prepped.  They said the doctor would come find me in the waiting room when he was finished.

I paced for the next hour and a half, until the surgeon came around the corner and pulled me aside.

Yes, it was a hernia, he said. But there was something unusual, something he had never seen before. Keeper also had an inflamed appendix, which was sticking through the weak spot in his abdominal wall. The doc had to remove the appendix as well as repair the hernia. It was a two-for-one special.

When Keeper woke up in the recovery room, the doctor informed him that he had made the highlight reel of his surgical practice. 

You’d think he’d be thanking his lucky stars that he avoided a burst appendix and all the complications that might entail, but all he cared about were the bragging rights.

This column was written at his direction. Keeper would like everyone to know that he qualified on his weapon while suffering from a hernia AND appendicitis.

What a man.

If it comes in a green envelope with a drawing of a Christmas tree on it, is it a Christmas card? Don’t bet on it.

When we received a card that appeared to be hand addressed to “The Hanna Family” from Ed Begley Jr., I knew that Ed hadn’t personally addressed it. Ed’s a busy guy Besides, they have computers that do that. 

I must admit, my first thought was, “What mailing list did he buy and how do I get off of it?”

You remember Ed, don’t you? He was on “St. Elsewhere” and still does TV work as well as appearing in movies like “Best in Show” — one of my all-time favorites. Mostly, Ed is famous for being a Greenie who rides his bike to awards shows wearing a hemp tuxedo (OK, I made up the tuxedo part). He is, however, about as crunchy granola as you can get.

I was curious about what Ed’s holiday message might be. I guessed it was an expression of hope for our planet or a suggestion about how to recycle Christmas trees and wrapping paper. Maybe a plea for energy conservation or a wish for peace in the new year?

I opened the card, printed by GreenLife Greetings on recycled-content paper, and found…an ad. No greeting, no holiday wish. Just an ad for a gizmo that has saved Ed’s family from the evils of tap water, including the awful taste, the hair damage and the dry skin.

There was a picture of Ed, cuddling up to his five-foot-tall water purifier. The worst part? He was wearing shorts. Like the sight of Ed Begley’s hairy knees is going to make me buy something from him. Maybe I was supposed to notice his smooth skin, thanks to the pure water he bathes in, but I couldn’t get past his shorts and crummy t-shirt. Nobody wants to see that, Ed. If you’re going to hawk a product, at least dress up a little, huh?

It was the first greeting card I’ve ever received that has a no-postage-necessary reply card included. 

It got me thinking about celebrity endorsements, especially ones that are meant to appear personal — you know, like when you get a phone call from Martin Sheen around election time.

Usually the Hollywood pitch starts out like this: “Hi, this is Mona Movie Star, and I know that you’re concerned about the effects of global warming on our planet. I’m calling today to tell you that my friend, Holly Hillside, has all the answers, and when we elect her President, she’s going to save Earth from certain destruction and give each and every one of us a free water purifier with a 60-day guarantee. Your skin will be softer or you’ll get your vote back! Don’t forget to go to the polls next Tuesday!”

Here’s my plea for the holidays, election day, and all the year round: Hollywood, don’t pretend you know me or what I care about. Don’t assume I care about your personal preferences, either. Above all, don’t disguise a product pitch in a greeting card, or in a movie, for that matter. 

Peace.

You come out of Best Buy on a weekday afternoon around 3:00. You’re congratulating yourself on finding just the right speaker for your iPod Nano. You’re humming “Good King Wenceslaus” and making a grocery list in your head. You click open the lock on your car, put your purchase on the passenger seat, and sit behind the wheel.

You pause to find a scrap of paper to write down your grocery list, because the store is all of four blocks away, and you don’t want to forget to buy a jar of pimentos.

As you’re jotting down your list, you notice a white Toyota Corolla next to you. In the back seat is a sleeping child, a little girl who is about two or three. You say “awww” to yourself and look closer. There is no one in the car with her.

You get out of your car and peer into the back seat. Is there an older brother in there? Is the mother sitting in the back seat? No, there is no one.

You notice the windows are partially open. The doors are locked, although they could easily be opened by reaching through the window. On the front seat is the child’s work from pre-school, with her name at the top. 

Maybe you watch too many episodes of Law & Order, but nightmare scenarios start to play through your mind. With easy access to an unguarded child and armed with the knowledge of her name, a pervert could easily snatch the child.

You’re not a child abductor. You’re just a regular person who worries about other people’s business.

You scan the parking lot, looking for someone heading purposefully toward the Toyota. Surely the girl’s guardian is already on her way?

This precious little girl is in danger and whoever left her alone has broken the law. What do you do?

Here are some alternatives.

• Mind your own business.
• Stay with the child until the driver returns.
• Call the police.

Which one did you choose?

When I was faced with this decision last week, the voices in my head were having an argument that sounded like this:

Glinda: It’s my duty to make sure the child is safe.

Elvira: Hey, it’s San Carlos in daylight, not Bayview-Hunter’s Point at night!
 

G: How could anyone leave their child alone like that?

E: Listen, she probably just ran in to buy batteries and didn’t want to wake up the baby for a three-minute errand.
 

G: I should call the police.

E: It’s Christmas! They’ll probably arrest the mother for child endangerment and haul her off in handcuffs!

G: I should stay until they return and let them know what a terrible chance they took.
E: Yeah, some public shaming will set them straight!

In the end, I did none of the above. I waited for ten more minutes. Then I tore off the bottom of my grocery list and wrote a note on it. I slipped it through the window of the Toyota, onto the passenger seat. It landed on top of the girl’s colorful drawings and books.

The note, purposely succinct, read, “I could have kidnapped your child.”

I wish I’d called the police.

Do little girls still go horse crazy? I don’t mean that “My Little Pony” stuff. Horses are not supposed to be purple and have glitter all over them. You never saw Misty of Chincoteague in a pink feather boa. 

When I was a pre-teen I was crazy for plastic horseflesh. I had a collection of horses of various breeds and temperaments. My favorite was a black stallion, rearing up in a menacing pose. I knew he was a stallion (a male who had been left “intact”) because it said so on the package, not because he was anatomically correct. 

I spent many a happy hour arranging my horses in groups and talking to them. They all had names which were copies of the movie horses I knew and loved–Flicka, Misty, and Black Beauty. 

I could have told you the various characteristics of each breed–their coloring, their size, their native ability to pull a carriage, win a race, or round up cattle.

I knew how to feed a horse, how to groom him, and how to cool him down after a morning of galloping in the meadow.

If you had given me a pop quiz on the difference between English and Western saddles, I would have aced it. I could name all the parts of the saddle, tell you how place it and cinch it, and the best saddle soap to use.

The only thing I didn’t know about horses was what it felt like to ride one. My only equine encounter had been with a pony, and the meeting had become family legend. 

I was three or four years old. My parents took me and my sister for pony rides. My sister was five years older and game for anything. She jumped right on. I was too young to ride, but not too young to make a reasoned assessment of the danger. From the safety of my mother’s arms, I looked at the pony and declared, “This horsey won’t bite ME.” It was all bravado, of course. Or perhaps I was hoping it would bite my sister instead.

It would be eight more years until I finally put my foot in the stirrup and hoisted myself onto the back of a horse.

It was a weekend outing with a few other families, which I reluctantly attended when my parents told me I could bring my friend Lynne and that there were horses we could ride. 

As soon as the caravan pulled into McCormick’s Creek State Park (in southern Indiana) Lynne and I head for the horse barn and plunked down our money for a half-hour ride.

I mounted the horse I had chosen–a docile nag called Blossom-and got in line behind Lynne on her chestnut mare. We followed the guide along the path, never breaking out of a slow, plodding gait. Until it was time to head back to the barn.

When we looped back, Blossom perked up. Her head filled with thoughts of fresh hay and oats, she took off and trotted past the other horses, gathering speed as she grew closed to her quest. When the barn was in sight, she veered off the path and under some low-hanging branches. I was so surprised I forgot to duck. Blossom left me hanging from a branch, bleeding and embarrassed. The guide, a hunky college student named Steve, helped me down and tenderly bandaged me up.

It wasn’t exactly my fantasy of riding across the Yorkshire moors to meet my prince, but it was sufficient to switch my devotion from horses to boys. 

Later, I discovered that real live boys are as different from my Ken doll as Blossom was from my plastic Flicka.

But that’s another column.

I’ve freely admitted in this column that I’m addicted to home improvement shows. There isn’t a home makeover show I don’t like, except maybe “Deserving Design.” It just seems so cheesy to me. It reminds me of the old “Queen For a Day” show, where the contestant with the most pitiful story wins a new refrigerator. By all means, give someone in need a new kitchen appliance, but don’t exploit her misery for ratings, you know?

Anyway, a show I’ve recently discovered (or Tivo discovered for me) is “House Hunters” and its younger sister, “House Hunters International.” 

On these show, a homeowner is looking for a new house with certain amenities within a price range, and a real estate agent shows them three possibilities to choose from. The options are reviewed endlessly, as if the producers have judged the viewers to be slow learners. The audience is kept in suspense until the very end, when the buyer’s choice is revealed. Sometimes it is a surprise. Most of the time, I’ve stopped caring after the choices have been presented for the seventh time.

This week, I had a revelation while watching a family decide among three $600,000 houses with five bedrooms and four bathrooms: to Americans, there is no such thing as too big. The family in question had three children and a large dog and were cramped in their four-bedroom home and had been making do with kitchen countertops that were not granite and a pantry that was tragically small.

When the mother assessed the kitchen in a new 4,200-sq.-ft. house, she looked across the expanse of a huge drive-through, eat-in kitchen and pronounced it “too small.” This stay-at-home mother of three young children who admitted she seldom cooked, required an island so she could keep an eye on the kids while she heated up the take-out. 

The master bedroom of this mansion spanned two area codes, but it was, again, “kinda small.”

I can’t recall which mega-house the family chose, but I remember that it had a shower bigger than my bedroom. 

After watching this celebration of excess, I watched an episode of the international version. On this show, families in places like Budapest, Kingston, and Hong Kong look for new digs. Their “must-haves” vary with the locale. In Budapest, adequate hot water is a plus. In Kingston, an outdoor living space is a priority, and in Hong Kong, a kitchen with room for more than one person is a winner. 

The couple apartment-hunting in Budapest could have fit their entire place in the “tiny” kitchen rejected by the Americans. The places they saw were 400-700 sq. ft. Anything above 800 sq. ft. was a palace. A kitchen with a dishwasher drew sighs of ecstasy. Yet, the final scenes in both the domestic and international versions show satisfied homeowners happily ensconced in their new houses, regardless of the size.

Are we Americans spoiled? Do we have inflated expectations of our housing needs? Are we showoffs? Yes, yes, and yes.

Or maybe we need all that space to house our 60” plasma TVs.

It’s a bittersweet time of year for people who have lost loved ones. The holidays evoke special memories and make the loss seem even more poignant.

For example, December 9 is the anniversary of the founding of the Petrified Forest National Park and it makes me miss my first (or “Starter” husband).

Perhaps I’d better explain.

We were married the day after I graduated from the University of Arizona. Having majored in Anthropology and minored in Philosophy, marriage was my best career option. (Hey, it was 1973–that’s what we did back then). Besides, we were in love.

When the family were on their way back to Indiana (mine) and California (his), we set out in our old Dodge pickup truck for our honeymoon. The truck had a homemade camper in the back and we had supplied it with enough food for three days, including plenty of biscuits for our dog Roach (it was 1973, remember?)

Our destination was the Grand Canyon, which I had never seen. On the way, we planned a couple of stops in other well-known Arizona beauty spots.

The trouble began on our first stop, the famous Painted Desert. By the way, unless you hit the Painted Desert at sunrise or sunset, it looks nothing like the photos. The colors at midday were muted and the scenery got monotonous, especially at the posted speed limit of 15 MPH. 

Starter began to go a little faster. He did it gradually, so as not to alarm me, because although I cannot claim that I never speed, I have never had a speeding ticket, and it’s a point of honor with me.

When he hit 32 MPH, a National Park Service Security Officer appeared from behind a rock and pulled us over.

Asked to produce his license and registration, Starter discovered that he didn’t have his driver’s license. The officer said he would have to take him to the nearest town and book him. 

I pleaded with him (just the first of many times I would plead on Starter’s behalf) to show mercy. We were on our honeymoon, I said. Maybe it was the tears, or perhaps it was the sloppy kisses from Roach. The officer relented, wished us well, and sent us on our way.

If I was relieved at having beaten The Man (again…1973), Starter was defiant. 

In fact, our close call had left him so unbowed that when we entered the Petrified Forest, he stood beside an official sign warning visitors of the penalties for taking anything out of the forest and had me take a picture of him holding a piece of petrified wood that he would later stash in the camper. 

My good sense prevailed, and we dumped the souvenir before approaching the exit gate, where they surely would have found more than one illegal substance while searching our camper.

December 9 is the anniversary of the Petrified Forest. It is also the birthday of Starter husband, who died of cancer two years ago at the age of 58. When he was diagnosed, I was privileged to be invited by his wise and generous wife to take part in his care. In his final days, we once again became close and shared a laugh about our flirtation with the wrong side of the law.

 It was a gift I’m forever grateful for. 

Oprah has a lot of favorites, doesn’t she? The media darling has favorite books, favorite diets, and favorite experts. She’s a trend-setter, not because she has perfect taste, but because she has an enormous and exceedingly loyal fan base. Her magazine even has a regular feature called “The O List” that chronicles her favorite material objects, the ones her readers want to buy because they are Oprah-approved. 

Well, I don’t claim to be a trendsetter nor do I number my fans in the millions, but that won’t stop me from publishing my own inventory of favorite things. Let’s call it “The M List.” 

First, some criteria. To qualify for my list, a thing has to be beautiful or useful (preferably both), or just plain amusing. Cheap or free is good, too, although I’ll try to avoid Maria von Trapp items like raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.

For what it’s worth, here are my very favorite things, as of December 2008 (I tend to be fickle).

1. My Subaru Forester. Now that gas prices are down, I can once again appreciate my car’s superior visibility, perfect size and gizmos that do just what I need and no more. I’ll keep it until it falls apart, hopefully around the same time I do.
2. Our gas fireplace, the one with the remote control and thermostat. Nothing says “cozy” like lounging on the couch, pushing a button and having instant ambience (not to mention, warmth). It’s the greatest invention since gravity.
3. Dog clothes. So shoot me. I find a pooch in a designer outfit an instant crack-up. If it has a matching purse, I’m rolling on the floor. Maybe I need to get some grandchildren.
4. Fingerless mittens. I knit up a few pairs of these last winter and I will never be without them. I can keep my hands warm and still type–ta da!
5. Origami cranes. These fall into the “beautiful but useless” category. I just think they are ingenious and someday I’ll learn how to make one.
6. Sarcastic remarks. Some readers find me sarcastic. Go figure. I have one thing to say about that: you should hear what I DON’T say. My current favorite is, “Does your train of thought have a caboose?” I only say this to Keeper, in jest.
7. Crocs. I am so in love with my Crocs (which I own in pink, brown, khaki, black, and red) that I refuse to go anyplace that is not Croc-friendly. Thus, you will not see me at the opera anytime soon.
8. Project Runway. This reality show has cat fights galore, and that’s just the men.
9. Leather goods. If you see somebody at a department store surreptitiously sniffing the wallets, that’s me. No, I don’t have a fetish. I just love the feel and smell of fine leather goods. I’m always falling in love with a bag or a briefcase or an agenda cover. It would be a lot cheaper (and nicer to cows) if I had a thing for vinyl.
10.  Babies’ heads. I sniff these too, every chance i get. There’s nothing that smells as sweet, as fresh, or as innocent as a baby’s head right after his bath. OK, so it’s a little “whiskers on kittens” but it’s really intoxicating. Try it. You might want to get the parents’ permission first.

That’s it, folks - “The M List” for 2008. What are some of your favorite things? 

You know you’re in Chez Fancy Pants when you ask your server for a glass of water and he asks if “still” is OK. I figured he meant “tap water.” I’ve been drinking Hetch Hetchy water for 10 years and am none the worse for wear, so I nodded my consent.

Besides, I was afraid to ask for “moving” water. It would just betray my ignorance of fizzy, sparkling, fruity water, which is just Hetch Hetchy dressed up to go out.

We were at Foreign Cinema, that cool place in the Mission that shows artsy-fartsy films against the back wall to distract the diners form the fact that every oyster they swallow is another $2 on their MasterCard. 

The occasion was a celebration of the fact that my son Jason just became a grown-up: he signed a 30-year mortgage on a new condo a few blocks from Foreign Cinema and light years away from Plainfield, Indiana, where he grew up.

In Plainfield, when you order an appetizer, you are brought a plate of cheese and crackers by a young Caucasian person who is saving up for a new pickup truck.

At Foreign Cinema, all the servers appear to be either art students, actors, or philosophy students. They do not suffer fools gladly.

So, when I found unfamiliar items on the menu, I knew better than to ask. For your enlightenment, I offer the following definitions. (If you did not have to spend your formative years in the Midwest, it’s possible you know all the terms listed herein. If so, go ahead and feel superior. Fix yourself a little snack of heirloom crudites while the rest of us learn something.)

Fancy Foods Defined

Haricot vert: green beans

mache: corn salad

gremolata: condiment made of parsley, garlic and lemon peel

Manchego: Spanish cheese made of sheep’s milk

Gypsy Peppers & Crazy Carrots: vegetables that have hung out too long in the Haight

Opal Basil: I’m stumped on this one. Anyone? Anyone?

I ordered something with a French name that I was pretty sure was a ham and cheese sandwich. Keeper ordered a Dungeness Crab frittata, which we knew was an egg dish. 

When our orders arrived with another artfully chilled liter of still water, we were relieved to see we had guessed right and this time Chez Frou Frou had failed to stump the diners.

Then, in his own inimitable way, Keeper turned the tables and baffled the waiter.

Cutting into his scrambled eggs, he looked up at the hovering server and said, “I’ll have some wheat toast, please. Thanks.” 

The art student looked like he had been slapped with a filet of Northern halibut garnished with chanterelles.

“We don’t usually do that,” he stuttered, as if Keeper had asked him to dance naked on the table while juggling knives.

“I’ll see what we can do,” he added, scurrying off to consult with the chef.

Keeper was undaunted. “If you serve scrambled eggs, you’ve got to serve toast,” he said, not without a certain logic.

Eventually the server reappeared, proudly brandishing a slice of Italian bread that bore the distinctive stripes of a panini iron. 

Apparently, the kitchen at Foreign Cinema, while well-equipped with lemon zesters, shrimp deveiners, and mango pitters, does not have a toaster.