On the road, part two

Just woke up after a car nap. I love a good car nap and today is perfect—sunny and warm, a long drive home, and scenery that is lovely but repetitive, so I don’t feel I’m missing too much if I close my eyes. I have the laptop across my knees and one of Tim’s sweatshirts hanging in the window to reduce glare, so I am highway-blogging, which is not particularly glam, but better than sitting here eating jelly worms. There is a dwindling bag of jelly worms nesting between our seats.
After yesterday’s stroll round the picture-perfect Ferndale, we had lunch at Applebee’s, a rather good chain restaurant, not like anything in NZ, really. Tim, with his love of a bargain and a good honest feed, has developed a passion for Applebee’s and its celebrity chef, Tyler Somebody, who is often on the box talking up his latest flavor combos, such as chicken with salsa, which don’t sound particularly clever, and certainly not new, but taste fantastic all the same. There isn’t one in the city, so we keep an eye out as we drive new highways. Our first Applebee’s was in Kentucky. Yesterday, we hit the one in Eureka and it was just as good—and practically identical in appearance; the décor is Americana, with lots of road signs and pictures of Cadillacs and football helmets and such. Tim had a quesadilla burger with rosemary-parmesan fries; I had the Caesar salad topped with crispy garlic prawns. Could have fed a horse comfortably. And cheap as chips.
After that, we took a walk in the woods, getting up close and personal with more redwoods. I scared myself silly with thoughts of bears after a mysterious noise, a low, drawn-out keening, went unexplained. It was all very beautiful but I couldn’t wait to get back to the car. And then we drove to Fort Bragg, scene of one of my great childhood disappointments.
When I was about 11, one of my best friends from John Swett Elementary in Martinez, a girl I had managed to keep in touch with during a two-year stint in NZ, spent the weekend with my family. We drove up to Fort Bragg, a former military outpost, now white trash hangout (I’m horrid, I know), and caught the Skunk Train, an old steam engine that meanders through the redwoods to another nothing-much town, Willits. Dad was really excited about the train, and he had talked about it enough that I was too. Sadly, Alyson, a skinny blonde girl who often wore lavender jeans, which I thought were the coolest, was cold and miserable and unimpressed with all options laid before her. Basically, she was bored, which is about as bad as it got for middle class pre-teens in the 1980s. She didn’t like the train, she didn’t like the chile served in Styrofoam cups we ate at a pitstop along the way, she hated our charmless hotel, and she didn’t like my parents either. The years between 10 and 15 were particularly unattractive for me, so I suspect my clothes were pretty lame, and my hair dull, and my music taste dorky. Meanwhile, Alyson had the lavender jeans and a walkman. By the end of the weekend we were no longer friends. When we got home, I cried and cried.
Fort Bragg hasn’t improved much in 21 years. We ate pizza and went to bed.

Wicker, big hair and moustaches

Tom Selleck is the only man in the world who can pull off a moustache without looking like he belongs on the H.M.S. Pinafore. I loved Thomas Magnum, PI as a little girl, I loved Richard on Friends, and now I'm loving Magnum again, thanks to the forever-70s-and-80s universe that is satellite television.
We watched the first-ever episode of Magnum PI this week--a two-parter that explored his tortured past in Vietnam and his bizarre caretaker role on mystery writer Robin Master's oceanfront estate. I don't think I ever got his motivation as a kid; I just liked watching him tooling around in TC's helicopter and swatting away the girls with that who-am-I-kidding grin. Anyway, I think Selleck grew into his role--or perhaps I was a generous viewer, cos the acting was pretty crapola. But I was also a devotee of The A-Team and Dukes of Hazzard. It was all about the adventure for me.
I also studied the women in these programs for clues as to what adulthood held for me. Given that the ladies were pretty much there to scream, fall for the men's charms--often against their will--and look sexy, I didn't have a lot of scope. And because I also loved the more ambitious Wonder Woman--pilot, heroine and lingerie model--I was most interested in the sexy. I developed a passion for blue eye shadow, gold chains, big fluffy hair, plastic bangles, high-heeled sandals, and deep Coppertone tans. I envisioned womanhood as involving a lot of personal maintenance (manicures, aerobics, drinking diet shakes) and afternoons spent in an apartment with an ocean view, wicker furniture and framed 1920s advertising prints on the walls, waiting for Magnum or similar to turn up and give me something to do. As I "matured" in second and third grades, I wanted to be a secretary by day/lounge singer by night, so I could wear stilettos and file important documents from 9 to 5 then, after work, don false eyelashes and sparkly dresses and drink multicolored cocktails garnished with little umbrellas and fruit skewered on plastic swords.
Life turned out very differently, of course, and thank heavens for that. I still like paper, although I collect piles of it and lose it, rather than file it. I can't wear stilettos and blue eyeshadow has been out and in and out again, but with my coloring it's just not a realistic option. My hair won't fluff and it looks stupid big. I hate wicker and own not one lounge singer-style dress. Turns out I can't sing. But I still love Magnum and my heart still speeds just a little when I hear the theme song and watch TC's helicopter swoop down over the ocean off Oahu.
And I still like the 'tache

Kicking butt

It really is a year for unexpected experiences. I saw my first karate belt exam yesterday, and loved it! I didn't have high hopes, cos it seemed like it would be a long, drawn-out affair (which it was) and the only person I really wanted to see was my 17-year-old American niece, who was going for her black belt. But it was fascinating, watching people who had worked literally years for their five minutes in front of the big judge and either blew it from an overdose of nerves, or triumphed in spite of themselves. The students ranged from adora-tots in too-big suits to reeeally intense guys who, I sensed, might not have had much else going on in their lives--pure speculation, but I had three hours in which to entertain myself until our girl came out. Anyway, she was great: precise, clean movements, and when she got kicked in the stomach in the sparring section of the test, it made her mad enough to get aggressive in a black belt-appropriate way. So she got her belt. It's worth noting that earlier she had sat her SAT exams (for entrance to university) and later was going to her junior prom. She'd gone in for a pedi which she scratched doing kicks etc.
What's the deal with overachieving teens? I admire them--my other nieces, the NZ ones, are similarly confident wee powerhouses--but it sure makes you feel like a potato. I was a supremely unmotivated, lazy, miserable teen. I didn't want to do homework, or play sports, or develop any kind of useful/diverting hobbies. My favorite thing was to sit around with a book--well, that hasn't changed--and my second favorite thing was to make fun of striving girls who had better things to do with their time. I was militantly anti resume-shoring activities like volunteering at old folks' homes, or doing Duke of Edinburgh stages, or getting good at languages or musical instruments. Mostly, I thought the kids who were really into that stuff weren't exactly genuine--that they were ticking boxes that would prove useful later when they were job-hunting, and that their clubbiness was all about networking, which given that I went to boarding school is not actually far from the truth, I'd wager.
Anyway, I'm glad adolescence doesn't last more than seven years cos it's a bitch.
Today has been hot. We packed books, sunscreen, the New York Times, etc and headed for Chrissy Field, where there is a lovely beach, and sat in the sun reading, drinking lots of water, and meeting new dogs. A teeny poodle came up to say hello and her fur felt like cornsilk. I could have popped her in my pocket and run away with her.

Vodka and Lime

I was a pets-deprived kid. We moved a lot when I was growing up. A lot. From California to New Zealand and back again something like nine times before I made it to university and was able to stop the insanity. So I wasn’t allowed pets; I can remember the little speech I got each time I begged for a puppy. “It’s not fair to an animal to take it on, to care for it and love it, and then move away. It’s not responsible.” Given that I was an exceedingly responsible child, I would nod and cry a little bit and imagine a golden day when I would live with puppies and ducks and a cat and maybe a rooster. Just for kicks.
When I was nine someone left a goldfish on our doorstep in a plastic container with “Andy” written on the side in blue crayon. We were living in Martinez, California in one of those housing developments in which there are just four styles of home and they are repeated up and down the streets like a chess pattern. Our rented house was big – two stories, a guest bedroom with its own bath where my Great Aunt Winifred (former head matron at Green Lane Hospital in Auckland and a cheat at bridge) was ensconced for what felt like months, two living rooms, three bedrooms upstairs, two more bathrooms, and a little storage room off my bedroom where I kept dolls and art projects.
I loved this house; its ordinariness, its beige façade, the wet bar just inside the front door, the teeny little backyard with planter boxes and a slab of weed-free lawn, the way it blended in, was a stamp of validation. We may have behaved like a troupe of gypsies but, for the two years that we lived in that house, we disguised it pretty well.
Andy was handsome, a deep orange with a nicely shaped tail and a big O of a mouth. He lived on the kitchen bench. I fed him flakes every night before I went to bed, talked to him, watched him circle his bowl, tapped on the side to see if he was paying attention, and wished, wished, wished he were a puppy.
A boy up the road had a pet snake; his mother had to buy live mice from the pet store to feed it which I found barbaric but at the same time just the teeniest bit thrilling. Andy was so dull that I don’t even remember when he finally flipped onto his side and had to be flushed.
When I was at university I had a pair of rats. Pretty much everyone I have ever mentioned my rats to has been disgusted at the thought, but they were scrupulous about their grooming and I was scrupulous about cleaning their cages.
Houdini was white with grey patches and beady brown eyes. He had a bit of a temper problem and once bit my father on the nose, leaving a mark that was there until the day he died. Ruby was smaller, a pale ginger and white, with red eyes. Ruby was my favorite. I couldn’t help it. He would rush to the door of his cage when I walked into my room and wait for treats. He loved grapes and chunks of cheese and crackers but he was willing to try anything. I used to catch Dad feeding Ruby potato chips and bits of chocolate and nuts, treats he really shouldn’t have had everyday, but he was such a decent little guy you couldn’t help but want to shower him with riches.
When I took Ruby out of his cage, he would settle into my sleeve and take a bath, washing his face, and behind his ears, and pulling his snaky tail through his legs so he could check its appearance. He was tremendously tail-proud. Sometimes he would sit on my shoulder. When I was studying, I would shut the door of my room and he would run around sniffing books and jumping into shoes and, occasionally, chewing on electrical cords.
When Ruby developed cancerous tumors and started to slow down, at the age of 2, I was sad for weeks. He lost interest in treats, only wanted to be held when he came out of his cage, gave up his exploration of shoes and electrical cords. He died in my lap and Dad buried him behind our apartment, in a tea box lined with tissue. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
About a month ago, when my mother was visiting from New Zealand and we were Goodwill shopping, looking for furniture and other necessities, I found a small wire cage. It had a wheel, water bottle, ramp and food dish. I picked it up and while Tim didn’t recognize the look on my face, my mother did. It meant trouble. I wouldn’t put the cage down. Literally. I walked around that Goodwill shop in the Haight looking at small wooden tables and cooking pots with the cage in my arms and that look on my face. Next stop was a pet shop in Chinatown.
My intention was to get a nice little white mouse. Maybe two, so they could be friends. And then I saw the dwarves. I had never heard of dwarf hamsters but immediately fell in love. They are like ordinary hamsters in most respects except they are much smaller (about three inches long) and, according to the literature, they are highly social. My guys are Russian dwarves. They are grey and white with black stripes running down the middle of their backs and short white tails that are hardly tails at all but little nubbins. They are called Vodka and Lime and they loathe each other.
At first I thought their fighting was play – dwarf hamsters are known for their energetic horseplay. They “box”, which means they stand up on their hind legs and wave their little fists around and yip. It is hilarious to watch. But when Vodka and Lime fight it appears to be for keeps. Vodka clearly wants Lime dead. He bites him for real, and poor old Lime ends up cowering in a corner and showing his tummy in submission. It shakes his equilibrium. So, I had to buy another cage. It’s a great cage – there is a removable penthouse, tunnels and platforms to play on. Because Vodka is more energetic, he gets the fancy cage. Tim reckons I am rewarding him for bad behavior.
Lime has really developed since Vodka moved out. He is happy to be held, runs on his wheel all the time, and has gained weight. All good. Until yesterday the cages sat next to each other on one of the little wooden tables from Goodwill, cos I figured the little men would like to smell each other, even if they can’t be trusted to live together. Around lunchtime, Tim heard a commotion in the dwarf part of the lounge and found Lime cowering in his food dish (he likes to get right in there and sort through his seeds) in the corner of his cage and Vodka maniacally biting the bars of his own cage and reaching his paws through, trying to punch Lime. It was a bad scene. Tim called time out and put Vodka in the hot water cupboard for bad behavior. Lime buried himself in his wood chips and sulked. Crisis averted, but I’m pretty sure Voddy thought he was being rewarded with a trip to the day spa.