Never mind that in California, we barely got a winter. What’s on my to-do list for this summer?
Go to the beach
A must-do. We all like the beach, and I think Baguette would like to live there. Well, really, so would her parents.
Go to the pool
On it. Mr. Sandwich is taking Baguette during the week, and we made our first family visit today. Baguette wanted me to jump off the diving board–something I haven’t done in at least 35 years–and then couldn’t watch when I did. But we’re hoping that Baguette will regain last year’s love of swimming, which faded over the winter in spite of our best efforts to find a pool for her. So this will definitely be a part of our summer.
Learn to make a really good hamburger
Right now, I can make a really good hockey puck.
It’s a short list, but I think it’s a good one. What’s on yours?
Last month I got called for jury duty. It was not the first time. In fact, it was–by my count–the ninth time I have been called for jury duty.
I have never been selected for a jury.
The first time, I had moved out of the county. The second, I showed up, and all the cases that day were continued or dismissed–and eventually, so were we (dismissed, that is). The third time, they formed a jury before they got to me. The fourth time, the last juror picked was the guy sitting next to me.
At this point, it started to feel intentional.
The fifth time, the judge made the parties settle because, as he told us afterward, “I told them, ‘I am not going to impanel a jury over a $100 dispute about a dress.’”
The sixth time, the judge excused me because my mother was dying, and I had to travel out of state to be with her.
The seventh time, the judge excused me because I had plane tickets for travel that fell within the time span of the trial.
The eighth time, the parties settled while we sat out in the hallway.
This time, I showed up at the courthouse (the one that is closest to me, which anyone in Los Angeles will agree is a minor miracle in and of itself). I waited most of the day, went to lunch, came back, and was assigned to a case–this meant that I had to come back two days later.
After an excruciating day of voir dire, featuring a plaintiff’s attorney who really liked to hear himself talk, and a judge who had absolutely no sense of the passage of time, we were told to come back the following day. (Hey, at least I got to eat at Puro Sabor, which I’ve been wanting to do for years.)
So we did. And there was yet another excruciating day of voir dire. Eventually, they selected a jury, and I got to go home.
The frustrating thing is that I sat there for nothing. Because if I had been called to the box, they would have learned immediately that I could not serve due to a conflict of interest. That’s what happens when one of the parties to the lawsuit is your employer.
I don’t think the court and I have the same definition of “fortunate.”
I do want to go back to Puro Sabor, though. More lomo saltado, please!
Website: Google, because she knows how to spell it–and if Google could hear how cute their name sounds when she spells it, they’d create an ad campaign based on that.
She does have some flexibility within the broader categories of iPad, books, and plushes.
*I just came across a new product: Pirate’s Booty Macaroni and Cheese. Where can I buy it?
Trigger warning–the discussion linked to below is replete with people’s experiences that may bring up your own. Please be prepared; my goal is not to cause you more harm, but to educate those who need to think about it more.
With that in mind, please read the #YesAllWomen discussion on Twitter.
I’m among the fortunate, because I haven’t experienced many of the traumas discussed there.
And now we all need to take a minute and look at that sentence again, because here’s what that really means:
I’m lucky, because I haven’t been raped.
That shouldn’t be lucky. It just shouldn’t happen. People just shouldn’t rape. Mass murderers shouldn’t be excused because they felt so entitled to women–and so deprived of them by their own problems–that they decide to kill women.
Read the thread. Be horrified. Question how you’ve perceived some of the things people talk about, including mine:
Mr. Sandwich says no one has ever asked him to smile, unless he was having his picture taken. People don’t accost men on the street and tell them to smile. Why do they do that to women? We have the same thoughts, the same range of emotions, the same variety of daily experiences–we’re not necessarily smiling at the moment we pass by you, and that’s okay.
The “smile!” command is just the tip of the iceberg. But it is the tip of the iceberg. And that’s why–ever since I was in my 20s–I would respond to the command with a big, beaming smile.
And also I would flip that person off.
#YesAllWomen deals with this. Please pay attention to their stories.
After a rough night that was the aftermath of The Nap Debacle, we’ve had a really nice Mother’s Day: breakfast at my in-laws’ house, swimming at the Y, and dinner at In-n-Out, where for the first time Baguette said, “Try sandwich” and proceeded to remove the cheese from our burgers until we got her a grilled cheese sandwich of her own.
I hope all of you had a lovely day, whether you are mothers, have mothers, or have had had mothers. I’m in two of those groups, so I know today can be bittersweet in the same moment that it’s wonderful. But let’s focus on the wonderful as much as we can, shall we?
When I started my current job–well, not my current job, but my first job working for my current employer–I commuted by Big Blue Bus. And later, when we moved, I continued to commute by bus: briefly via Metro, and then by LADOT Commuter Express.
Each was its own experience. The Big Blue Bus was full of Westsiders–commuters and a handful of unruly middle school students (they got a lot more ruly after I wrote a letter to their principal, and why isn’t ruly a word?).
The Metro bus was a mix; the Orange Line was mostly commuters, and the bus to which I made a connection was largely people who worked in one form of manual labor or another.
Commuter Express was, as you might expect, a vehicle primarily for commuters. It covered the longest distance and made the fewest stops, and also it cost the most.
But it was the quickest bus route between home and work, and it kept me from having to do the driving myself. I got to sit down (always in the evening, and most of the time in the morning). I made friends who were on the same schedule. I got to read, and, if I wasn’t too tired, to write.
When we started riding Commuter Express, Mr. Sandwich and I commuted together. Once Baguette was born, though, we needed to stagger our schedules to accommodate day care dropoff and pickup. The bus became the only “me” time I could count on.
As time passed, I adjusted my riding patterns, changing my stop to be sure I got a seat–and, as more people began riding–a place to park my car. Baguette’s morning schedule changed, too, and more and more, I found myself parking the car at work.
Meanwhile, I was paying for a bus pass. But last month, I realized that it simply didn’t make financial sense to keep the bus pass. I was only riding once a week, and paying for parking on the other days. After some discussion and agonizing, I gave up my bus pass and bought a parking permit.
So, for the first time in eight years, I have ceased to be a bus commuter. It feels alien and strange. Commuting by bus was a big part of my identity; I feel a little as if I’ve failed. It’s a harder shift than changing my name when I got married, or than becoming a mother, even though all three of these things were at my instigation.
And even though I know that this, too, may change, I miss the bus.
For quite some time, Baguette has been enamored of the Maria the Cowgirl segment on one of her favorite Sesame Street episodes. So as her birthday approached, we decided that a cowgirl theme was appropriate for this year.
Mr. Sandwich and I are ostensibly of the philosophy that simple birthday parties are better. It’s not that we won’t rent a bouncer or a pony–we just won’t do that yet.
Turns out, though, that the two of us have a little Pinterest in us after all.
Get all your supplies at the General StoreOnce you’re properly provisioned, you can ride the range.If you don’t tie up your horse, it’ll wander all over town.In the Wild West, you want to pay attention to hazards.Obey the posted warnings.Keep your valuables safe.Make sure you reserve your room in advance.Quench your thirst at the Sarsaparilla Saloon.Everything changes when the railroad comes to town.Recruit your posse with an eye to skills.Make sure your sidekick will put up with a lot.And don’t forget to include a little potty humor.
Naturally, by the time the big day came, Baguette didn’t have the slightest interest in the theme.
I always imagined that, in an emergency, I’d grab the dog under one arm and Baguette under the other and make a leaping dash for safety.
Turns out that, in spite of how much I love her, I’ll leave the dog.
I took one look at Wicket, sitting calmly on Baguette’s plush lion chair, and sprinted for the bedroom and my girl–who was still asleep, and therefore not at all concerned. (Although this morning she needed her pacifier for the first time in months, so maybe she did feel it a bit.)
Fortunately, this wasn’t an emergency. Yes, we had an earthquake, but not one that will in any way disable the area. At this point, the USGS is saying it was 4.4 on the Richter Scale, and that means this wasn’t the Northridge quake, not by a long shot. And Wicket is totally blase about earthquakes; she’s not one of those dogs that goes tearing for the exit. (In fact, she followed me into the bedroom at nothing faster than her usual trot.) I’m not sure if that’s good for her or bad, but it does mean we don’t have to worry about her getting lost.
But if you want to know, in great detail, how you might stock up on disaster supplies, here are a few posts:
