If you haven't eaten lunch yet....

You might want to check out the specials at World Cup on F street.



My lips are just....tingling.

Unmarked and Unnamed

At the edge of the Ukiah Valley Cemetery, there is what appears to be a large parking lot. Composed of dirt and gravel, it stretches nearly 100 yards before the ground breaks into well-cared for headstones placed carefully with flowers and memorabilia. Only it isn't a parking lot.


It is a mass grave where 433 people with disabilities have been buried. Buried and forgotten. Unmarked and unnamed.

On Monday, September 21, I was fortunate to be able to attend the seventh annual Day of Remembrance coordinated by the California Memorial Project. A collaboration between several California agencies, the purpose of the project is to remember and honor over 45,000 people who died and were buried in mass and unmarked graves in state hospitals and developmental centers.

Led by people with disabilities, a number of whom have lived in state institutions, the project is an enormous act of advocacy - they are reclaiming and healing their shared history by honoring those before them. They are achieving this by restoring the cemeteries at the state institutions, recording the stories of people who lived in them by decade, and documenting the history of the client/survivor movement in California.

After an opening ceremony at the mass grave site, we were led into the heart of the cemetery to another, much smaller, unmarked grave. People attending were then given the opportunity to share their stories and remembrances.

Some spoke with obvious pain about their own experiences of living in an institution. One woman was committed when she was fifteen because "in those days your parents didn't have to have a reason. They could just put you in there if they were tired of you." She talked about being abused by staff people and witnessing a murder. Others spoke about the horrific experiences of their family members.

Some read poems and others sang songs.

Undeserved confinement,
Someone's Grandpa
Sitting in a chair,
Watching birds sitting in a tree...
Lost lonely souls,
Souls not as lost as presumed,
Touched by the light of the universe.

One man said that he had survived over 140 shock therapy treatments. "One day I saw a little girl get killed right before my eyes. It wasn't right. I tried to talk to someone about it - to tell them it shouldn't have happened. I was mad. That was when they took me for my first shock treatment. After that, every time I spoke out about something - anything - I got another shock treatment. Before I went in the state hospital, I could read and write. I can't read and write anymore. "


"But I'm one of the lucky ones. I got out, and I'm still alive." He swept his arm in the air across the empty plot of land in front of us. A plot where 1660 people with disabilities had been cremated and buried. Buried and forgotten. Unmarked and unnamed.

Addicted to Veggies

My friend Sarahfae is a wonderful person. I'm not one of those bloggers who would enjoy being fired for talking smack about my job, so let's just say that Sarah is a scrumptious little dollop of chocolate cream cheese icing on a large ugly rotten-prune-filled cupcake. She is also a vegan and a raw foods enthusiast. But she's not one of those vegans. You know - the ones who look at you like you've just clubbed a baby seal if you use cow's milk in your latte. No, Sarah is different. She simply believes that eating a lot of fruit and veggies can change your health - and the world. And she's got a new blog to prove it.

From the Addicted to Veggies mission statement:

The real purpose of this blog is to learn through research, and share what we’ve learned with anyone who is interested about living a better life for themselves through eating more fruits and veggies.
In turn we plan to discuss the effects that these simple, healthy and positive choices have --- on our personal lives, the lives of animals, our precious local economy, as well as the big intimidating global picture.

Sarah is a genius at concocting deliciousness. She loves to take vintage cookbook recipes and turn them into whole new creations. Just look at this raw version of fried green tomatoes:



And this mango/orange/peach cobbler:



I am amazed at the things she makes without any cooking or baking whatsoever. Even this cake!



Her blog is full of wonderful recipes, tips, tricks and vivaciousness. And check out her banner photo. Totally snort-worthy. In more ways than one.

Welcome to the blogosphere, Sarah!

Sunday ponderings

So here I sit, wallowing in self-imposed blogging anxiety because I am supposed to be writing based on B. There are just too many possibilities....blood, breakfast, brains, bondage, bad choices, boots, breasts, bourbon, bitter, bicycle, bald, beg, burrito, bumpy....and the list goes on. So instead, I'm pondering some questions I have about these two photos taken with my terrible cell phone camera. Perhaps you can help.


Antibacterial gel with a convenient plastic hanger. Sign of the times....or sign of obsessive compulsive disorder?


A portrait with a squash for a hat. So bad it's good, or just so, so bad?


I lean toward the latter conclusion in both. You?

Alphabet: A History (A is for Art)

I am joining Charlotte's Web and City Wendy , among others, in Alphabet: A History, a blog effort to write one's way through the alphabet with a series of short memoir pieces, one for each letter.

A is for Art



Last Sunday, my cousin Nathan, Mark and I drove to the hills of Rio Dell to visit my Grandma Edith. Only a few months away from 90, she still lives alone on several acres of land in a house built as a show home by Pacific Lumber Company in 1932 and made entirely of redwood.

In the 1992 earthquake, the house fell off its foundation, and in the renovation, Gram took her one chance to have white walls instead of wood - to her, a sign of gentility that she had long yearned for.

On two of the white walls in the living room, she has displayed some oil and acrylic paintings by Nathan's mother, my aunt Teresa, an accomplished artist. One of the paintings is a detailed landscape. It features a mountain top with a Native American man sitting on a horse looking out over the valley below him. Filled with saturated earth tones, it's a peaceful and beautiful scene.

Grandma Edith gave a piece of the apple fritter we had brought her to the dog, licked her fingers and then spoke to Nathan as she pointed at the painting. "See that picture? Your mom painted it when she was a teenager. Isn't it pretty?"

Nathan nodded in agreement.

"She entered it in the Humboldt County Fair," Grandma continued, "and it won third prize. When I went to see it, I couldn't believe it only won third. 'Take me to the one that won first prize,' I said. So your mom led me over to the picture that had the blue ribbon on it. Do you know what won first prize?"

She scowled at all of us, almost accusingly. We stopped chewing our donuts and shook our heads back and forth in unison. We had no idea.

"A giant tit. That beautiful picture lost to a giant tit."

"Well, Grandma," Nathan reminded her, "it was 1974."

She ignored him.

"I never had a thing to do with the fair after that. They could call me up tomorrow and beg me for money because times are tough and they can't raise enough to have a fair this year, and I'd tell them to go to hell."

Maybe we should've gone to Curley's.....

Twelve gallons is a lot of blood. That's how much Mark (the boyfriend formerly known as Big Hands) donated over the last few years to receive a gift certificate for dinner at his choice of several local restaurants. He chose Moonstone Grill and invited me to go with him. Actually, I chose Moonstone Grill and invited myself if you want to get technical, but that's not important.

We arrived in the parking lot yesterday evening just in time to see a young woman dressed in white walking into the restaurant. I tried to replace the good luck with that that was forming inside my jaded mind with beautiful day for a wedding. It was so gorgeous on Moonstone Beach that I almost succeeded.


Inside we enjoyed the view as we began our meal with oysters and smoked albacore wontons. At the table directly across from us, a couple in their fifties was sitting with a couple in their seventies. As the older woman raised a glass of water to her lips, her hand shook badly, and a small stream spilled down her sleeve.

Imagining the blood bank issuing a Hometown Buffet gift certificate next time for ordering too lavishly, I went with the bigeye tuna instead of the abalone I really wanted. Mark had the filet mignon. We passed the time waiting for our food by checking everyone else's out.

The meal arrived at the table across from us. The older woman had ordered my second choice, the pasta with asparagus and mushrooms. The dish was served with, not a fork, but a gigantic spoon, and as soon as she started trying to eat with it, she began to have trouble. The spoon was too big for her mouth as well as her hand which was shaking so badly she couldn't hold the spoon steady. She couldn't get the slippery food to stay on it, and it kept sliding off onto the tablecloth. Soon there was a pile of mushrooms and noodles on the table beside her plate. She then began using the fingers of her left hand to try to pick up the food on the table and put it back on the spoon, which more often than not resulted in it falling right back off.

My throat ached as I sat there conflicted, trying not to stare. Should I walk over quietly and help cut her dinner? Should I slip her a fork? Should I say something to the waitress? In the end, I couldn't decide whether taking action would help or embarrass her further. I cowardly remained silent and cheered inside every time she succeeded in getting a tiny bit of mushroom or a small piece of noodle into her mouth.

The others at her table were either completely oblivious, wrapped up in their own food and conversation, or were avoiding the fact that perhaps their own frightening future was sitting before them, until suddenly the older woman's husband glanced over and saw the food that had accumulated on the tablecloth. He pulled her plate away from her and scowled. "Just look at the mess you've made." He pushed her plate back while shaking his head in disgust.

The younger woman looked up. "Maybe we should get her a fork." But nobody did. Eventually the older woman just stopped eating, although I was happy to note that even though she had to hold the glass with two hands, she continued to drink wine. She certainly needed alcohol with such assholes for dinner companions.

After a finish of cheesecake and creme brulee, we went for a much needed walk. Moonstone Beach was alive with energy. Laughter tumbled from one end of the beach to the other, and the sweet smell of pot smoke wafted from the bushes. As the sun started to set, we saw a large group of people, most of whom held cameras.

A stunning dark skinned woman in a silk wedding gown stood with her husband on top of a small sand dune. A bagpipe player stood a few feet away. Around them danced several women and one small girl wearing dresses of magenta. The vibrant hue against the dull gray of the sand made for a shocking, albeit quite lovely, contrast.

The newly wedded couple put their arms around each other. They smiled as the cameras erupted in loud manic clicks. And then they kissed. Surrounded by hot pink hope.

What will happen to them? I wondered.

Will their marriage be like mine, which would have been two years old this very weekend, but instead failed miserably nearly out of the gate?

Or will they stay together long after their laughter has disappeared, and his kindness is replaced by disgust because her hands have become weak and her dinner has turned wayward?

Or will they, sixty years from now, find themselves standing on a small sand dune on Moonstone Beach one evening while the sky turns pink above them? "I remember how beautiful you looked 60 years ago," he'll say. She'll look at him and grab his hand. "And I remember how awful those bagpipes your mother insisted on sounded, " she'll say. And then they'll laugh until the sky turns dark.

As if he could read my mind, Mark leaned over from behind me and pressed his warm cheek to mine. "Maybe they'll make it," he whispered. I leaned back against him and closed my eyes.

Indeed. Maybe they will.

Wondrous and amazing photo of Moonstone Beach at sunset is by Rambling Jack.

Champipple Therapy

My friend Renee is a licensed therapist. She spends her days listening to all kinds of people and helping them to fix their lives. She is also one of the most practical, down-to-earth and calm people I know. Nothing seems to faze her. If there's ever a gigantic code red disaster near me, I hope Renee's there too. All of these qualities make her really good at listening to her friends and giving them helpful advice.

A couple of days ago she and I were talking on the phone. I was rambling on about an influx from out-of-town family members this week and all of my concerns and anxieties revolving around the visits. The feelings of inadequacy. The apprehension about past transgressions. The embarrassment of now being twice divorced. Renee listened patiently to my stream of pure melodramatic angst, and then she gave her best therapeutic advice.

"Oh, just drink a lot. It's not like they'll think any less of you."

Genius. My worries dissolved, I decided to start right then. This recipe is brought to you thanks to Renee and her very wise counsel.

I give you: Champipple.



Champipple was a drink favored by Fred Sanford from the t.v. show Sanford and Son. He loved to mix his Ripple, which is super cheap fortified wine like Thunderbird, with various other drinks. Mix it with Cream Soda? You get Cripple. Mix it with Beaujolais? You get Beaujolipple. My favorite combination is a classy little number of Ripple mixed with Champagne, also known as Champipple.

These days I don't use Ripple anymore. That's just oh so there's-nothing-to-do-in-Fortuna-when-you're-a-teenager-so-let's-go-get-drunk-at-the-cemetery-and-make-out-with-boys-in-black-eyeliner, and I'm over those days. Mostly.

So instead I use a cheap red wine, usually leftover from a few nights ago and forgotten on the counter, and an even cheaper champagne.

First pour the champagne into a great big goblet, and then pour the wine on top. I like to use about 7/8 champagne and 1/8 red wine because I really just want a blush of color and a hint of merlot flavor. Big Hands prefers more of a half-and-half mixture because he's sophisticated that way.





Toast, sip, gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Repeat.

Proceed to making prank phone calls (Don't forget to hit *67 to block your number from caller i.d. first. It's not the 80's anymore, damn it.), doing the Thriller dance and making out at the cemetery of your choice. I highly recommend the one on Rohnerville Road.


Enjoy!