Paul’s Neighborhood

I have a dog. She is kind of an unusual breed and quite striking-looking. When we walk around San Francisco - especially in crowded areas - we can't get more than five feet without someone wanting to stop us to exclaim over her appearance, touch her, and ask me questions (which I guess is better than them wanting to touch me and ask her questions). I thought I would answer these questions here.

• She's a Keeshond.
• Bliss.
• Girl.
• Keeshond.
• K-E-E-S-H-O-N-D.
  
• Eight years old. She'll be nine in September.
• I got her when she was four months old.
• Yes, she sheds a lot, especially when she "blows her coat" a couple of times a year.
• The cottony undercoat thins out (I show the person the undercoat at this point).
• I'm supposed to brush her weekly. I don't.
• It takes about an hour or so and requires four different instruments (comb, brush, undercoat rake, slicker brush).
• She doesn't really need to be bathed more than once a year.
• Yes, she has a tail. It's just curly and hides. We call it "retractable."
• About 30 pounds. Not much dog under all that fur.
• No, she's not a Chow mix.
• She does okay in the heat, as long as she's not out too long.
• No, I've never shaved her. The coat protects her from both heat and cold.
• Holland.
• Very friendly.
• Too smart for her own good.
• Yes, your son/daughter may pet her. She's great with kids.
• No, she's not a giant Pomeranian. But they're related.
• Yes, she barks. A lot.
• Yes, she's very happy. And a very good girl.

This is a true story. I did not write it. The names have been eliminated to protect the stupid.

On our way back from dropping [names] off at the airport, we stopped for lunch at Marie Callender's. We both ate a wonderful chicken salad with pecans, oranges, and gorgonzola cheese. Since they were running a 99 cent pie special, of course we were forced to have pie for dessert. [Name] ordered lemon meringue, and I ordered blueberry with cream.

 

As we were walking to the car, [name] glanced down and noticed a large glop on the front of his shirt. He complained about how he can't seem to eat anything without dropping some on himself. Then, he reached down and scooped the glop off of his shirt and popped it into his mouth, while I watched in amazement.

 

His eyes began to bug out immediately, and he gagged and coughed. When I asked him what was wrong, all he could manage was a strangled, "Bird poop!"

 

After a few minutes of hysterical laughing, I asked him why he would scoop ANYTHING off of his shirt and put it into his mouth - no less an anonymous goopy stain.

 

His reply was, "Well, I wanted to find out if it was blueberry or lemon."

 

I think that we need to watch him more closely in the future.

I have a few "before I die" goals. See the Aurora Borealis. Walk the Great Wall of China. Learn how to play a musical instrument.

The latter goal has been pursued in earnest since February. And, of course, the instrument of choice is the accordion.

The accordion makes me happy. I love the way it sounds. My favorite bands use the accordion: They Might Be Giants, Oingo Boingo, the Decemberists (and yes, "Weird Al" Yankovic). I guess some would say my obsession with TMBG prompted the accordion lessons, but I would argue that my love of the accordion prompted my obsession with TMBG.

I have never played an instrument. I took piano lessons when I was seven, sitting dutifully on that hard bench with my ancient piano teacher, Mrs. Little. Mrs. Little must have been 115 years old (though in reality she was probably about 60; everyone over 15 is "old" to a seven-year-old) and warbled when she kept time: "Onnneeeeee twoooooo threeeeee..."

Mrs. Little had no patience, which is an awesome trait for a music teacher. When she would get particularly frustrated with me, she would take my small hand and pound it on the keys, screeching, "NO! NO! NO!" And I, more humilated than hurt, would cry. If the sobbing would take place near the end of my lesson, Mrs. Little would bribe me with candy to shut up before my parents picked me up. The candy was circa 1953 "root beer barrels" kept in a sticky candy dish on her coffee table. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that ever ate those things. I never told my parents about this until I was much older; I think I felt sorry for her.

I don't remember how long I took piano lessons, but do remember I just wouldn't practice. I would get by in my lessons, playing by ear, but Mom got peeved about spending good, sparse money just to fight with me over practicing. After my defection, Mrs. Little called occasionally, warbling her request to have me come back. And for years after that, whenever we'd see someone playing piano on TV or if one of my friends would play our usually silent upright, Mom would shake her head regrettably and say, "See, Keri? If only you would have practiced..."

And now, thirty years later, I realize she was right. Because if I had practiced piano, the accordion would be a helluva lot easier to learn. When I first called the accordion teacher he asked me, "What instruments do you play?" "None!" I said. "Never...?" he asked, incredulous, "How did you escape piano lessons?" I told him about Mrs. Little. "Huh. So... Do you read music?" "Nope!" I could hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. He knew he had his work cut out for him.

I was so excited for my first lesson. We started from square one. How to take it out of the case. How to put it on. Right hand goes here. Left there. That little button releases the air. These are called bellows. These are bass keys. That little rhinestone? Middle "C." Staff, G clef, treble clef, four count. Here's your music and assignment; you can borrow the accordion.

It's difficult. I mean, really difficult. Trying to get my left hand to do one thing while my right hand does another and reading music at the same time? Insane. But I keep at it. I practice at least 30 minutes a day, five days a week. Sometimes more. I think my teacher knows I'm serious about learning; I'm honest and earnest. I tell him when I haven't practiced. We spar. He tells me my playing sounds like I'm "leaving a trail of dead bodies," I tell him he's a freaking showoff.

I love it. This time I'm learning for me, and when it clicks and I play a piece straight through without mistakes, it's the most amazing feeling ever. I got my very own accordion from eBay; it's beautiful. There are many accordions like it, but this one is mine.

Bring on your accordion jokes (yes, I've seen the Far Side and the bumper sticker that instructs me to go to jail). I don't care. It's my instrument. It makes me happy. And I'm doing something I've always wanted to do.

Doesn't get much better than that.

Revisiting the comic.

Have your socks ever tried to escape from your feet? Until recently, one sock or the other might work itself over my heel, but that was a far as it got. Then, I bought a three-pack of chenille socks from Costco. They came in three, pastel colors, were amazingly soft, and felt as if they would keep my feet nice and toasty. Having toasty feet was a goal that was difficult for me to achieve, so that possibility clinched the sale.

The first thing I discovered about the new socks is that I didn’t DARE wear them on our hardwood floors. Most socks have questionable traction on hard surfaces at best; these socks, with their super fluffy fibers, either sent you zapping across the floor until you hit the nearest solid object, or dropped you immediately on your butt, as your feet slid out from under you and up in the air. But, they kept my feet wonderfully toasty, so I just avoided the hardwood floors, or took the socks off temporarily.

My new socks and I were getting along famously.  Each morning I’d slide them on my feet, smile, and take a couple of seconds to run my hands over the socks’ soft fibers. They became my pet socks, and all was well…until one morning.

That morning, I needed to get the newspaper from our front yard. Frustrated that I couldn’t find my slippers, I decided to walk down our stone-and-cement steps wearing my new socks. It didn’t occur to me that there would be a problem. Although the surface of the steps was flat, it certainly wasn’t smooth like the hardwood floor. In fact, the cement surface was left deliberately rough to prevent it from becoming slippery when it was wet. It was, however, seeded with small, smooth pebble-like gravel to give the plain cement a more decorative look. It was that gravel, apparently, that encouraged my socks to attempt their getaway.

As I stepped on to the first cement platform, I could feel my socks begin to shift. The socks began to roll rapidly off of my feet in a snake-like motion. Each step felt as if I was walking on ice, or sliding on tiny ball bearings. Frantically trying to keep my balance, I managed to jump off of the walkway to the adjacent gravel bed. My socks, at this point, had traveled more than half way down on my foot, and covered only the arch of my foot and my toes.

Now, I had a problem; in order to get back up to the house, I must cross one cement step or another. Well, I thought, surely, now that I was aware of the socks’ tendency to slide, with extra care I should be able to make it safely back up the stairs. I pulled my socks back up, and planted one foot firmly on the closest step. The sock immediately rolled almost completely off of my foot and dumped me on my butt back in the gravel. At that point I gave up. Barefoot, I grabbed the newspaper and trudged back up the stairs to the house.

I do miss my wonderfully soft, pet socks that made my feet feel so toasty warm, but I have to say that they make one hell of a dust rag.

Love this. LOVE THIS.

A light snack before our late dinner.

My birthday is on Tuesday. Paul asked what I wanted, and I said, "DISNEYLAND!" So that poor, Disney-indifferent soul had arranged for a one-day, turnaround trip for Tuesday.

Well, then it turns out he's going to be in Southern California on Monday, and it seems silly to take a flight back that evening only to get up at the crack of dawn to haul my Mickey ass to Disneyland, so we decided to stay over Monday night, with me flying out after work and meeting him there.

Because I have an Annual Pass, I get discounts. I called the hotel and got a room at the Disneyland Hotel for $100 less than it would normally cost. AWESOME. One catch - I have to present my pass at check-in. I don't have my pass. It was stolen. I had planned on taking a flight from San Jose that gets me into Orange County at 8:45. Guest Services closes at 8:00. No problem, thought I, I'll just take the earlier flight and get there in time to get the pass. I gave the very nice and helpful reservation agent my Visa card, and made the nonrefundable reservation. The next earlier flight is at 4:45. DAMMIT. Too early. What happened to the 6:30 flight?!?

I tried calling the Annual Passholder hotline to talk to a real-live human to explain my plight. Surely, Disney being a customer service-type company will help me out, right? The hotline turned out to be a voicemail. Nothing more. Oh, but they promise to get back to you within 48 hours. WTF? How is that acceptable customer service?

Okay, fine. I get the general Disneyland phone number for human beings (thank you, MousePlanet) and get somebody. "Hi!" I said in my nicest voice. "I have a problem." I was explaining the situation regarding my stolen pass and my hotel reservation and she cut me off. "OKAY," she said, "You need to go to Guest Services and get a replacement pass." "No, I know that," I said, "but I'm not sure I can get there in time." "Well, that's the only thing you can do," she said. I paused, waiting a beat. Seriously? That was all the help she was going to offer? Not put me through to someone else who could help me? Get creative? Anything?

"Um... okay," I said, "Well, is it possible I could have the pass sent to the hotel?" "No." Again, nothing. No explanation. Whenever someone tells me just "No," I always respond, "Why not?" So I did. "Because we need to verify your photo and you need to pay the replacement fee." Fair enough. "Okay, what if I called Guest Services, gave them my barcode number and faxed my ID? They could send the card to the hotel, where I would verify with my ID and pay the money there."

"No," she said, impatient.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

"Why not?"

"Because. Because it's not - er, because it's not our policy."

Beat. Beat.

"Okay, so, you're just not going to help me with this at all, because it's not your policy?"

"Yes."

CLICK.

I hung up on her. I was so mad at that point I couldn't bring myself to be even a little civil. There was no helpfulness in her voice, no sympathy, no inkling that she even remotely wanted to help me. Even a, "Wow, I'm sorry you had your pass stolen. Gee, I'm not sure if there's anything we can do," would have gone a long way. I couldn't continue the conversation any further or even say "thank you" before I hung up on her. 

I know Disneyland "cast members" hate Annual Passholders. I get it. But maybe there's a reason why we sometimes act the way we do.

Disneyland: You're on notice.

I took a look at my TweetStats, and found my Twitter usage has exploded (much like everyone else's). What I found particularly interesting is my Tweet Cloud; it's more like my Life Cloud.

Take a look:

Some of the words in the cloud coincidentally make small phrases. Here are a few of my favorites:

"bring burrito"
"champagne check" (If read as, "Champagne? Check!")
"cool crap"
"did disneyland"
"finally finished"
"free friday fun"
"happy hate head" (I'm going to register that domain)
"home hooray!"
"jim juice"
"live long"
"omg oof"
"party paul"
"playing pretty"
"tmbg today"
"totally trying twitter"
"wine wish"
"www yay!"
"yes yoga"

Perfect to soak up all that wine we've been drinking today.