Coup de Grace

While U Wait

2009-06-19T18:56:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow dedicates this column to all my new friends on Facebook and all my old friends in the real world.

Some things in this life take forever. Waiting for that check that’s in the mail. Waiting for your kids to realize you did know a thing or two about life. Waiting for your spouse to say, “Honey, you’re absolutely right. What was I thinking?”

However, there’s nothing that takes as long as waiting for the first little green tomatoes to appear after your plants start blooming. If you’ve never grown tomatoes, and never plan to, keep reading anyway, because I’ll give tips on what to do while you wait for anything.

Tip # 1. While you wait, celebrate somebody’s birthday.

I was lucky enough that my friend Sally’s birthday, complete with chocolate cake and plenty of champagne, arrived on the day of the first tomato blossoms.

While I looked longingly at all the lovely red balloons around the party room, I recalled a certain twenty-first birthday when I thought being legal drinking age meant that I could handle an entire bottle of champagne. No matter what they tell you, hanging one foot over the edge of the bed doesn’t help. You will wait forever for the room to stop spinning.

At home after Sally’s party, I took my flashlight out to the garden to check on the plants. For all I knew, those little tomatoes might be sneaking out at night, like the toys in the nursery. But nada.

Tip # 2. While you wait, ask advice, and, if you’ve been invited to another party, go to it.

Seeking wise counsel, I emailed the tomato expert Jim Alexander. His plants already had lots of little tomatoes. “How long must I wait?”

“Three days,” he replied. “It is written.”

Jeez, I could write a doctoral thesis in the time it was going to take for those tomatoes to appear. That reminded me that my friend Nicole was having her “I Finally Got My PhD” party. Great timing. More celebrating while I waited.

I spent a few pleasant hours at that party. When asked to offer advice on life after a PhD, I told Nicole, “My grandmother always told me if life gives you cucumbers, make pickles.” At least cucumber plants don’t make you wait forever before the baby cukes appear.

Tip #3. While you wait, if you run out of parties to go to, kill more time by joining Facebook.

In the past when someone mentioned Facebook, I’ve always said, “Huh?” Normally I prefer real friends who throw actual parties with great food and conversation. But, suddenly, getting lost on-line seemed like a marvelous idea. I could have endless cyber friends with just a few clicks. So I signed up.

Ah…the wonderful feeling of being 100 percent anesthetized and more where that came from. I followed the very easy instructions (if I could do it, anyone can), and before you knew it, I was a part of the Facebook community. It seemed that everyone I knew was already there, having a grand ol’ party on-line without me.

So I asked someone to be my “friend” and got an instant yes. I asked another and another, and I keep asking, and the replies kept coming in. I checked every few minutes. If I didn’t have more friends yet, I invited others to be my friends. I was the belle of the Facebook ball.
The dogs wanted to go for a walk. “You guys have to wait,” I told them. “I’m checking to see if I have more friends yet.”

“Where are my clean socks?” my husband asked.

“I’ll check on the laundry as soon as I check the messages on my wall.”

Then there were photos to post, groups to join, and things to become a fan of.

After about eleven hours straight, I got poked. Back in the real world, I knew what that meant, but on Facebook I had to ask.

“Just meant I was thinking about you,” my new “friend” Lucy explained.

By then I had 45 new friends, but some of them already had hundreds of friends and I couldn’t rest until I caught up.

Suddenly the room was spinning like I’d had a whole bottle of champagne. I heard a voice somewhere out there in the real world. It sounded like my husband.

“Aren’t you going to water your tomatoes today?”

“Oh my God, I forgot.” I pushed away from my desk and headed outside.

And there it was…the first, little, precious, green tomato.

How long did I wait?

Exactly three days. It is written.

First published in the Montecito Journal June 18, 2009

Ring of Fire

2009-05-21T09:24:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow recommends Celebrity tomatoes and David Villa, the plumber. This column is dedicated to him and to all the other heroes in our community.

The first of May begins the annual tomato-growing race between fellow Journal columnist, Jim Alexander, and yours truly. Per usual, I’m late getting my tomatoes in the ground. It’s Cinco de Mayo before I have my pony-pack.

To make matters worse, the forecast is hot and windy. I figure I’ll water frequently, and the three-inch plants will be fine. I give each a splash of magic transplant solution. Then I hear the wop-wop-wop above. I wonder if the DEA is making sure those are really tomatoes.

Then I see the plume of smoke in the hills. Holy crap! It’s close. But I know the drill: Stack dog kennels by the door. Find purse, keys, cell phone. Get boxes of important papers and photos. Park the vehicles snout out. And then spend any available time left obsessing about what else to take in case of evacuation.

I watch the wind blow the fire away from us, giving plenty of time to pack more stuff: Three tubes of toothpaste, but no toothbrush. Six pairs of scissors. A dictionary. My penny jar containing at least three dollars.

I’m eying a stack of old New Yorkers when my husband gets home from work. We get offers of places to stay from Samarkand to Santa Maria. These people all know we’ll be arriving with four Jack Russells. It’ll be a true test of friendship.

Every half hour I climb a ladder in the back yard to see for myself that the fire’s still blowing the other way. I watch TV news. What they show on screen, I also see from my back yard.
We consult with neighbors. I pack eight bed pillows, two giant jars of ibuprofen, and a big bag of trail mix. And I fuss over those tomato plants. Fire or not, I’m determined to stay in the contest.

The wind keeps blowing away from us, and we still don’t have to leave. Over the next two days we hear tragic news of houses that have burned. And we get the great news that other friends’ homes have been saved. My legs are getting a great workout from going up and down the fire-observation ladder. And I keep giving those tomatoes water.

On Thursday the wind switches direction. The fire is now burning its way down our canyon. The police cars drive by, blaring GET OUT NOW. We decide to go to our friend Toni’s house. She has a spunky Havanese and two standard poodles, who I believe are up to the task of coping with our terriers.

I wonder what would be an appropriate hostess gift under these circumstances. I check the fridge and spot a big wedge of Jarlsberg. Toni is from Minnesota and loves any food that goes moo, so the cheese evacuates with us, too.

We spend the night watching the fire from her deck in Samarkand. It’s as if General William Tecumseh Sherman has come back from the dead. We wonder if there’ll be anything left of our “Atlanta” by morning.

When the sun rises, things look peaceful in our neighborhood. The officers guarding our block let us back in if we offer a good story. The lady from across the street wants to look for her cat. I say I need to water my tomatoes. They wave us in with our promises we’ll re-evacuate ASAP.

After another sleepless night away, we’re allowed to return for good. Home was never sweeter. Somehow in all the smoke and wind, the tomato plants are a foot tall.

We barely have time to give thanks for our blessings before we realize our 60-year-old plumbing has chosen this particular day to get blocked. We have a home but no toilets.

Normally a roto-rooter man would arrive within an hour and solve the problem. But half the plumbers in town are under evacuation themselves, and the other half are busy taking care of plumbing issues in the burn areas.

We finally get someone to show up that evening, but the guy is so exhausted from extra duty that he locks his keys in his van. Instead of snaking our mainline, he has to call a locksmith. As soon as he can get in, he takes off.

It’s the next afternoon before David Villa from Stewart’s can show up and be our hero.

There are signs all over town thanking firefighters for their valiant efforts in putting out the blaze. The sign in front of our house also says “God Bless the Plumbers.”

First published in the Montecito Journal May 21, 2009

Nailing It

2009-04-20T16:26:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow’s bucket list includes a romantic trip to the Grecian Isles. It does not include skydiving, bungee jumping or getting a Brazilian.

My pal Cricket and I are at lunch, and she says, “Wanna go get pedicures?”

Truth is, my toes have never been inside a nail salon. I’m from Nebraska, and while we might dance there until the Herefords come home, the only reason we’d consult a professional in regard to toes would be if an actual cow had stepped on someone’s foot and an x-ray was needed to see if any bones were broken.

However, I am a girl, and I do like colorful toenails. When sandal season looms, I buy a bottle of polish and have a do-it-yourself pedicure. At age eleven this was no big deal. Now, just a few decades later, it requires level-three yoga to get down there, but I can still do it.

Only problem is, every year it’s harder to stay within the lines. I know the cardinal rule is that the red is supposed to evenly cover the entire nail but not sneak onto the skin around it. Steady as my hand might be, I always manage to get some polish over the edge. It takes sixty seconds to paint it on and the whole rest of the week for the excess to wear off my skin.

Maybe Cricket and millions of other women have the right idea about hiring experts to do their nails. Now that getting a real pedicure is on today’s schedule my toes tingle with excitement.
Luckily there’s a nail salon just a block away. These places have been sprouting like Starbucks in recent years, probably due to the growing number of baby boomers who can no longer reach their own toes.

Inside, the first thing I notice is the aroma. I expect it to smell like chemicals, but I’m surprised that it also seems sort of yummy.

Cricket points at the menu board, indicating that I need to choose a flavor. Here the pedicures can be had in coconut, chocolate and peach. Chocolate might be the obvious choice, but we are not the kind of women who do what is expected. We both go for coconut.

I notice a sign that says “Pedi/Brazilian Combo, $55.” I know that “pedi” is short for pedicure, but have no idea what “Brazilian” might be. So as not to publicly reveal my ignorance, I make a mental note to ask Cricket later.

Now it’s time to pick our polish. The names of the O.P.I. colors are quite fruity: “Catherine the Grape,” “Going Ape-ricot,” and “Hey! Get in Lime.”

We’re directed to climb to our pedi-perches, roughly equivalent to climbing Mount Olympus. Our feet dip into fancy basins of warm water, and our toes are at the perfect level for the pedicurists to work their magic. However this is an awkward arrangement for the intimate conversation one has with a hairstylist.

We get soaked, scrubbed, sanded, massaged, trimmed, and polished. In the time it normally takes me to touch my toes, I have nails aglow with a color between cantaloupe and a Mediterranean sunset. I see why they call this “Melon of Troy.”

After allowing time for drying, the miracle worker below helps me on with my sandals. I empty my wallet, hoping the tip is adequate to express my appreciation for this transformation, and I bid my pedi-buddy, Cricket, adieu. While I attend to the rest of the day’s errands, I imagine all eyes are on my twinkling toes.

Since my feet are gorgeous, I figure the rest of me deserves some attention. I head for the gym. Today I dance through the lunges, squats and planks as if I have the feet of a goddess.

It’s not until I get home and change clothes that I realize gym shoes should never go anywhere near fresh polish. Nine nails have made it through unscathed, but one big toe looks as if I stuck it in melting orange sherbet.

I know I should march back to the nail salon for do-overs. This is exactly what Cricket would do. However I’m from Nebraska, the do-it-yourself capital of the world. So I buy a bottle of matching color and repaint the schmushed nail myself.

While I relax, waiting for the repair polish to dry, I remember I forgot to ask Cricket to explain “Brazilian.” So I query Google.

Probably I’m the last person living in coastal California who doesn’t know about this “revealing” procedure. Suffice it to say that if you wear board shorts and a tee to the beach, you don’t need it.

First published in the Montecito Journal April 23, 2009

Can You Dig It?

2009-04-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow’s extended play list now includes “Big Yellow Taxi,” Joni Mitchell’s song with the famous line: “Pave paradise and then dig it up.”

The month of March didn’t come in like a lion this year. Rather it arrived via notice that the water main under our street was being replaced.

The first day, workers (graffiti artists) marked where the cable, gas and water lines lay buried. Bright paint against black asphalt made it seem these guys knew what they were doing.

Temporary “no parking” signs went up, and kids on skateboards got busy knocking them down. They’d invented this sport a few months earlier when our street was resurfaced. The flawless boulevard was a sight to behold. One couldn’t help but hum “What a Wonderful World.”

Lowly peon that I am, I dared not entertain the thought that it might’ve been wiser to replace the water main first and then repave. My job as a good citizen was to get into the spirit of living on the movie set of Apocalypse Now.

The high-pitched whine of the asphalt saw heralded the next sunrise. Then, behind it came a yellow digging machine whose dinosaur head stood taller than our house. Kerchunk-kerchunk. It grabbed bites of asphalt and hard-packed soil as easily if it were chomping into a giant sheet cake and then dumped it all into the truck that rumbled alongside.

Given the chorus of bangs and beeps, I figured my dogs would go crazy. But they were blasé about the din. The floor shaking seemed to comfort them. Or maybe they’d perfected the art of astral travel and were really at the beach while appearing to sleep on the sofa.

Since I couldn’t concentrate on anything more complicated than reading my horoscope (Expect big change in your life today!) I decided to stand out front and watch. One workman stood within inches of T-Rex’s head, calmly shoveling up crumbs the big boy had missed.

When the crew took a lunch break, I ventured farther to peer into a trench deep enough to make me woozy, but there was still no sign of a water main. However, I spotted the Cox cable and wondered if the gash in the conduit would have any effect on reception.

Yes, folks, they’d severed the cable line. Not that a person really needs TV and Internet service. Still, I figured it’d be a good idea to call it in.

A fleet of Cox trucks joined the construction crew. I wondered if there’d be a fight in the street, but a smiling cable guy assured me, “Cables get cut all the time.” (Translation: job security.)

The digger kept chomping, and the machines cut and pulled up a giant anaconda of iron pipe that had to weigh tons. Then they laid beautiful, blue, indestructible plastic pipe in its place.
The machines rumbled on, beeping and filling the trench with fresh soil. I heard a sound like a news helicopter flying overhead and wondered if our street project had made CNN. Turns out it was just the earth tamping machine whop-whop-whopping away. They covered the compacted dirt with heavy steel plates until it could be paved.

Five AM the next morning I went out with a flashlight to see if the newspaper had come. I saw the mighty Mississippi rushing down our street. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the water main had broken above where they’d begun digging, and this project had just expanded.

The roar of the water under the steel plates was impressive, and the fresh dirt from the trench had already been deposited on the once beautifully landscaped yard down at the corner.

For a moment I enjoyed the idea of waterfront property. Then I dialed 911. The operator who answered wasn’t overly impressed with a “city works” call but said she’d let the department know.

Next time I call 911, I’ll be a bit more dramatic: “Tsunami…possible drowning victims…open trench the size of the Grand Canyon!”

Soon city works engineers joined the construction crew and cable guys. They shouted about needing female adaptors and male adaptors, and considering how these guys were all pretty cute, I found this talk very entertaining.

There were more days of whirring, whining, rumbling, beeping and kerchunking. Everything that broke got fixed. The new main was connected. All the remaining holes were filled, and the final paving job began. I knew things were winding down when the driver of the asphalt truck was able to get a lunch-hour nap.

The job ended a week early, and now the silence is deafening. True to tradition, March goes out like a lamb.

First published in the Montecito Journal March 26, 2009

Love is Strange

2009-04-20T16:22:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow’s play list includes “Love Me Do,” “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” and “All We Need is Love.”

My watch is older than Brad Pitt, so when the battery dies, I decide it’s time to go shopping. A new timepiece and a few other strategic purchases might help our economy get out of the tank. Seems to me it’s my patriotic duty to go out there and do what I can.

My husband, who’s also older than Brad Pitt, says, “I want to come along.”

I suspect he’s been feeling a little guilty about skipping the all the Valentine’s Day falderal this year. Or maybe he’s noticed I’ve been mentioning Brad Pitt quite a lot lately.

Perhaps it’s another one of those pitfalls of a sagging economy, but I’ve heard from several other women that their sweethearts also skipped the flowers this year. Not that we women need to be showered with gifts. The truth is a scribbled “Roses are Red” poem would do it for most of us.

In the car, I share these women’s stories with my spouse, so he won’t feel he’s the only man on earth who wishes Hallmark’s powerful tail didn’t try so hard to wag love’s dog.

He listens in silence, so I say, “What do you think a guy should do for his sweetheart on Valentine’s?”

“Is that a trick question?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

“Well, a man ought to buy his love roses, jewelry, chocolate, lingerie, a romantic card, and then take her out to fabulous dinner.”

“So what’s a woman supposed to do for her guy?” I ask.

“She should plan to make him a great dinner that will be ruined by his invitation to take her out. And then over dinner she needs to find some fault with each of his gifts for her. You know, the chocolate should have been dark, the lingerie should have been red, and so on.”

“Hmmm…I think I’m beginning to understand why you guys hate V-Day so much.”

We could dig deeper into why the violets are so blue, but we’ve arrived at the store. What marketing genius decided to put the watch display smack dab in the middle of the perfume department? The wallop of fragrance that hits us as we enter is like trying to shop while hugging my aunts Millie and Maude.

We can only hold our breath for so long. That might be plenty of time to pick a watch, however it isn’t nearly long enough to find a clerk. Apparently the way the store pays for these gigantic markdowns is by skipping the sales staff.

Between sneezes my husband says, “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe they have oxygen up there.”
I nod, and we head for the escalator. It’s been months since I shopped for clothes, and last time was a disaster. Then all the tops looked like maternity wear, and I wasn’t yet used to everyone walking around looking like an Octomom.

As I scan the racks, sizing up the possibilities, I pray the designers have finally come to their senses. I try to stay calm and think if I don’t expect much, I won’t be disappointed.

“Is it my imagination or is every other garment apple green?” I hold up a chunky jacket the color of a Granny Smith. “What do they expect us to do with this?” I don’t care who hears me.

“Darling, you’re making a scene.”

“Scene, schmene. Somebody has to stand up for good taste.”

“Let’s head over to the linens department,” he says in his most soothing voice. “I seem to remember our bath towels are getting a bit raggedy.” He nudges me toward house wares, and there we began the hunt for the perfect towels.

They say April’s the cruelest month, but I say it’s February. And not just because it begins with dragging that poor groundhog out of his cozy burrow. And not just because mid-February is fraught with high hopes of romance that are so often dashed when life doesn’t turn out to be the picture book we long for. The genuinely cruel part of February comes after all that, when we swim the murky waters of true love without a greeting card to show us the way.

We search high and low, but the right towel doesn’t come in the right color, and the one that is the right color isn’t the right towel.

“How can you tell the difference?” he asks.

“I can tell,” I say.

“And that’s exactly why I love you,” he says.

Love is strange, but it’s still a many splendored thing.

First published in the Montecito Journal February 26, 2009

Beach Pebble Blues

2009-04-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow, a bona fide member of the Rock ’n’ Roll Generation, has been rolling rocks her whole life.

When my husband and I bought our current home, we inherited a landscape featuring a few tons of beach pebbles.
I soon discovered these handsome rocks were challenging to walk on, so they’re idiotic for paths. Weeds love to grow in them, so they’re rotten for groundcover. Leaves tend to stick to them and can’t be raked away, so they become an eyesore around the base of trees.
The only thing I could figure to do was scoop them up into pots. Sisyphus rolled his rock up the mountain for eternity. I picked up my pebbles. Over the next several years I collected many stones, 9,500 pounds worth. Now what the heck was I supposed to do with a pile of rocks the size of a rhino?
“Call the trash company,” my husband suggested.
“I can’t just throw away my rocks,” I said.
“Well, then, call a shrink, because you have a serious attachment disorder.”
Maybe he was right. But surely there was something good we could do with all those beautiful stones.
I googled “beach pebbles” to see what they were worth.
“Holy schmoly. If we were to buy these rocks today from a discount supplier with free delivery, the bill would come to over $5000.”
“Let’s use the money-back gun,” my helpful husband said.
“The what?”
He shaped his hand into a pistol, pointed at the rocks and went POW. “The pebbles are supposed to disappear, and be replaced by a stack of cash.”
At that very moment, I had a vision of what to do with the rocks. “Remember when I wanted a fish pond and you said it was too much maintenance? What if we made a pond of pebbles instead?”
His expression was priceless, and I could read his every thought:
1. My wife has rocks for brains.
2. Divorce is expensive, but maybe easier than digging a lakebed.
3. What great guys’ toy I can get away with buying to make up for cooperating with yet another harebrained scheme?
So what if he thought I was loco? The important question was how big a hole did we need for a million rocks. It was a reverse game of guess the number of jellybeans in the giant jar.
I staked out an oval that was approximately 20 by 30 feet, because it looked right.
“The lakebed needs to be 6 inches deep,” I said.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Calculus,” I lied.
I dug, and he hauled away tons of dirt and enough roots to make Alex Haley rise from the dead and make another mini-series.
I knew we were getting somewhere when a great blue heron flew over to check on what we were doing. The bird must’ve thought we were building a koi pond.
After digging our way through 11 weekends, the hole was done.
“Can we start putting in pebbles?” my husband asked.
“Sure, as soon as we clean the dirt off them.”
After several years of sitting, each bucket of rocks had acquired leaves and mud, a whole ecosystem that included plenty of spiders. How could we just dump the whole kit and caboodle into our “pond” without tidying the rocks up?
My spouse had that look on his face again. Even if he hadn’t spoken, I’d have known what he was thinking.
“You wash the rocks,” he said. “I’m going for a long hike in the mountains.”
The secret to a happy marriage is knowing when it’s time to say, “See you later.”
And so it was that I discovered a whole new meaning for stonewashed jeans. No matter that I got soaking wet and splattered with mud. No matter that I wore my fingernails down to nubs. No matter if eensy-weensy spiders climbed up my waterspout. I had the fun of doing something that absolutely no other human on the planet would be crazy enough to do.
Three more weekends later (and with quite a bit more help from the man who surely will be nominated for sainthood) we not only had a beautiful pebble pond, but we’d reclaimed the space where all those old buckets of rocks had been.
“Looks great,” he said.
“So what’s next?” I asked.
Out of his pocket came a full-page sale ad for the big screens. The TV he’d circled was the size of a rhino.
The secret to a long marriage is to know when it’s time to rock ’n’ roll and when it’s time to go with the flow.
First published in the Montecito Journal January 29, 2009

'Tis the Season to be Jolly

2009-04-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow has had a life-long addiction to holiday shopping, but this year she has a bet on that she can go cold turkey. So far, so good.

Jolly, schmolly. Let’s get down to the true reason for the season:
Shopping.
And it’s not even about buying gifts anymore. It’s all about finding a bargain. We give lip service to more noble meanings, but I’ve yet to hear of anyone trampling a Wal-Mart employee for peace on earth and good will toward man.
In the past I’ve done my best to be queen of holiday cheer, only to become the empress of stress. Sound familiar?
And that’s exactly the reason why no one’s seen me in the stores this year.
Sorry if I’m personally responsible for the national economic crisis, but I’m forgoing the stampede this time around and staying home to troll the ancient Yuletide carol.
No one knows what that really means, but for me it’s going to be relaxing with plenty of holiday blend coffee so my caffeine-buzzed imagination can send me down a holly-decked memory lane. If that’s not the oxymoron of the season, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, they say this time of year is for the kids, so I’m going back to when I was one to see if I can discover a gentler kind of holiday.
The first Christmas I remember I was two and a half. My grandparents, who lived somewhere far, far away, arrived on Christmas Eve. I didn’t yet know these people, but I’d heard reports they were pals with Santa. That was good enough for me.
We decorated a fragrant fir tree with fragile glass bulbs I was soon forbidden to touch. Geez, how was I supposed to know you couldn’t bounce them like a regular ball?
“Once the tree is up,” Grandma explained, “that signals to Santa we’re ready for him to put the gifts under it. And, of course, he can’t arrive until all little girls have gone to sleep.”
It was a tough job, but I got the message. If reindeer hooves were going to click-click-click on our roof, it was all up to me.
The next morning I sat at the breakfast table, staring at a plate of miserable, cold scrambled eggs. That day my normally kind mother invented the stupid rule that no one could open presents until everyone had finished eating. So it was entirely my fault that we all had to sit there like nutcrackers waiting for our cue.
After what seemed like several centuries, Grandma intervened.
“For crying out loud, let the child open presents,” she said.
My mother nodded, and I zoomed to the living room where Santa had left considerable Yuletide treasure.
I opened the biggest gift first. Inside was a teddy bear who’d definitely donned his gay apparel in the form of rainbow plaid satin trousers. He had a molded plastic nose and I sealed our coming comradeship by giving his schnoz a friendly bite.
The second gift was a doll with blue eyes that opened and closed with a tick. She had lovely blond curls that I’d later hack off while playing beauty shop.
My very favorite gift was a pink brush, comb and mirror set. With it was a tiny tube of lipstick that smelled of sweet berries. O the great luck to be born a girl.
We were out of flashbulbs, so there are no photos of the day. I remember very few other things except those three gifts. I can’t see the faces of the people around me even when I squint.
I won’t be too hard on myself, since I was only two and hadn’t yet been instructed on keeping precious memories. However, if the Ghost of Christmas Past could take me back, I’d focus more on my grandmother because I didn’t get the opportunity to do it later.
A few months into the new year she died unexpectedly. Yes, cue the violins, because I never got the chance to thank her for rescuing me from the eternity of the breakfast table.
From family stories I learned she’d been the jolly old elf responsible for my favorite gifts that Christmas. I learned she liked her toast burnt and drank her coffee black. At a time when ladies didn’t smoke, she sneaked off behind the barn to have a cigarette. And she had a wicked sense of humor. (Yes, I am my grandma’s girl.)
Thanks to the magic of imagination, I see the roses in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. If that’s not the truest meaning of Christmas, I don’t know anything at all.
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
First published in the Montecito Journal December 25, 2008

Feeding a Fever

2008-12-01T09:26:00.000-08:00

Ms. Rachow is currently being considered for a show on the Food Network called “The World’s Worst Cook.”

I confess I’m not the world’s greatest cook. My signature dish is something called can-o-soup. I also make excellent toast and spread peanut butter well, but apparently that isn’t fancy enough cuisine for my picky husband.
To save us both from malnutrition, he took over the cooking years ago. He plans menus, making sure he has the precise ingredients needed by doing all the food shopping himself. Thus I’ve hardly even seen the inside of a grocery store for 20 years.
Now my hubby has the flu, and not the kind where you call work pretending you swallowed a bucket of nails just because you need a couple days off. He’s got the real deal. His forehead is so hot he could sauté onions on it if he weren’t semiconscious.
“Put me out of my misery,” he begs.
In lieu of a whack with a giant mallet, I offer Tylenol and a cool cloth.
After 3 days, I realize we’re out of food. To save the UPS guy the shock of finding our skeletons, I leave to pick up oranges and chicken soup. How hard can that be?
My hubby rises from his coma to whimper, “No Brussels sprouts.”
I know he’d give more shopping tips if he could, but he barely has the strength of the wet rag covering his eyes.
As I pull into Trader Joe’s, I realize they’re holding a demolition derby in the parking lot. Or maybe late Thursday afternoon is simply when the craziest drivers like to shop.
Either way, there’s no parking. Then I see a space on the street. I zip across 4 lanes of traffic, slip into the opening, and then hoof it back, dodging the speeding cars like a pro. Easy as pie!
Just as I make it to the curb I realize I’ve forgotten the canvas bags in the car. I hope I can be forgiven this once, because I’m not going back.
Everything in the store looks yummy. I fill my cart, pull into the checkout line, negotiate the credit card machine, and made friends with Rico. “You want your oranges in a bag or box?” he asks.
“How should I know?”
I realize now I have more groceries than a mere mortal can carry, and I’ve read it’s against the law to take grocery carts off store property. I’m not keen on pushing the thing through traffic anyway, so I hang my purse around my neck and consolidate my purchases into 4 bulging bags. Somehow I manage to hold it all with 2 hands.
I envision having the paper rip open, spilling grocery guts all over the street. Why couldn’t I have remembered those indestructible canvas bags? For that matter, why did I have to buy 2 tubs of yogurt? A whole box of oranges?
Couldn't I have waited to park in the lot? Geeze, did I have no sense at all?
When traffic finally opens, I lumber across the street. My face is beaded with sweat, but the bags and I make it safely.
My hard-won groceries and I are in the car now, but before I take off, a woman in a black sports car pulls up to park in the space behind me. There isn't much room, but she has a cute car and high hopes. Finally she’s wedged in a few inches behind me. I signal for her to back up a smidge, but she’s preoccupied with worrying a zit on her chin. Apparently she’s pulled over to give herself a facial.
However, if she could get in her parking space, surely I can get out of mine. After an eternity of jaw-clenching maneuvers, I manage to pull out and head home.
As I put groceries away, I look out the window toward the mountains. Holy bananas flambé! There’s fire in the hills.
I’ve lived here enough to know if you can see the flames, it isn’t too soon to grab your photos and point your car downwind.
For us it’s a scary night of waiting, watching and altering our perspective on which things matter most. We get word of many friends having to evacuate, but we’re lucky enough to stay put. Through the night we hear more and more bad news.
My heart goes out to the people in our community who’ve lost so much. It’s hard to know exactly what to say or how best to help. But for starters, if you need someone to do grocery shopping, I’m now an expert.
First published in the Montecito Journal November 27, 2008

Heavy Metal

2008-10-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow dedicates this column to singer Grace Slick, writer Lewis Carroll, and, of course, Trainer Casey.

They’re playing classic rock today at the gym. This is the perfect music to accompany the punishing side-plank push-ups I’m doing. Obviously, this is not something I (or any sane person) would attempt without provocation. Therefore it should be no surprise that the young man watching me so intently is Trainer Casey Gutierrez.
“How many more?” I moan.
“Five,” he orders. It’s always five. When I can’t possibly do one more, that means I have only five more to go. “Mind over matter.”
After two years of steady workouts, the bad news is I haven’t yet transformed into the fabulously fit 25-year old I dream of becoming. The good news is I’m still slogging away.
Yes, I’ve had to learn to spell certain geological formations, such as p-l-a-t-e-a-u. But on many days, if I avoid looking too closely at the middle-aged woman in the mirror, I do feel young again. This is helpful because Trainer Casey hangs out on the lower end of twenty-something, and it takes all the young-at-heart spirit I can muster to keep our workout chat in the current century.
Casey played college football, and he looks the part. He also sounds like a football coach. “Come on. Push it. Get out the lead.”
Beads of sweat do the boogaloo on my brow. I have plenty of X-rated words to respond but it’s hard to say much when I’m on my back doing crunches while tossing a medicine ball up to Trainer Casey.
Now Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” plays. I warn myself not to sing along, but it’s impossible for a person of the rock generation to shut up during this song. “Remember what the dormouse said: Feed your he-ad…Feed your he-ad.”
“Hey, speaking of feeding your head, are you still keeping your food diary?” he asks.
“Yes, Trainer Casey.” I try my best to stay in 2008, but Grace Slick’s voice takes me back to my youth. I see her on stage. Her hair’s a cloud of frizz, and she wears beads and white leather and belts out Alice’s transformation. Ten feet tall to small. Suddenly I see new meaning in the song. Where can I get one of those magic pills that’ll make me fit and a few decades smaller?
Once I get going, I can’t seem to stop spouting ancient history. Damn it. I tell Trainer Casey all about Woodstock. And because Apollo 11 happened that same summer, I wax nostalgic about watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
Casey has me do lunges, and I say, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Moonwalking makes sweat drip from the end of my nose. I hate that.
Casey gives me hand weights and makes the motion of flying.
I lift my outstretched arms and try to make it look effortlessly wing-like. Ouch. “My favorite exercise,” I lie.
“Hey, that reminds me,” Casey says. He takes his iPhone out of his pocket. “Check this out.” He’s always showing me iPhotos of his dog, his girlfriends and his grand adventures. Today it’s a picture of him and another trainer. Both guys are bare-chested, but they have white feathery wings attached to their backs.
“Hubba-hubba,” I say. “You look heavenly.”
One of the sidebars of working as a personal trainer is you get asked to do beefcake gigs for charities. This time Casey and his pal were angels at a benefit for the Dream Foundation, an organization dedicated to fulfilling wishes for terminally ill adults.
“Those iPhones are amazing,” I say. “But I can remember when telephones were connected to the wall with a cord. It’s still hard to believe that a phone now slips easily into the pocket of your gym shorts. You’ve got Internet access and GPS. It’s a camera, and it’s a freaking photo album. Geeze, one of these days Dick Tracy is going to call and want his phone back.”
“Dick who?” Casey asks.
“Never mind.” I make my voice go all creaky like I’m a 100-year-old woman. “Dick was just somebody I used to know back in the good ol’ days.” I wipe my sweaty hands and reach up to the bars of the Gravitron. Pull-ups are impossible. I clench my jaw.
“Breathe,” he says. “Listen to your body.”
“If I listened to my body, I’d be home taking a nap right now.” Slowly I pull myself up.
And I remember what Trainer Casey said: Get out the le-ad. Get out the le-ad.
First published in the Montecito Journal October 30, 2008

We'll Always Have Paris

2008-10-28T10:52:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow says a do-it-yourself project is a great way to get stuck in the mud.

On our 28th anniversary, my husband brings home a beautiful orchid.
“For you, Sweetie Pie,” he says.
Originally, the wise elders who designated “silver” as the theme for the 25th and “gold” for the 50th didn’t bother to come up with themes for the in-between-er years. Perhaps they figured when people are married so long, they won’t bother celebrating every cotton-picking (2nd anniversary) year.
Then some marketing genius realized husbands could use a shopping list, and my hubby, the champion Googler, has done his research well. It’s official. Orchids are for the 28th.
The plant’s a beauty, but I’ve been dreaming of a romantic anniversary trip to Paris. A quick check of our travel fund tells me even an afternoon in Pomona would be a stretch.
Still, I’ve been married all these years to a man who does the vacuuming, puts the toilet seat down, and picks up his own socks…sometimes all in the same week. I can’t let our anniversary go by without doing something to show my appreciation.
“Honey, I’ve got a great idea to celebrate this year,” I say. “Let’s get rid of the lawn.”
My husband’s used to my hare-brained schemes, but he still does a double take at this idea. But then, after a moment to think, he smiles. “Ya think our mower’ll fit in the garbage can?”
The one chore he hates more than anything is cutting the grass. Sure, we could’ve long ago hired a mow-and-blow crew like all our neighbors, but my guy likes to do things himself, especially if he can save a couple of bucks. And now we’re going to save a ton, by xeriscaping the front yard ourselves. If we shrink the water bill, too, that’s all the better.
And besides, we’ll have beaucoup fun. Who needs to sip Bordeaux on the Champs-Élysées when you can stay home and get sweaty with your spouse?
Early the next morning, after fortifying ourselves with flakey croissants and a couple cups of French roast, we set to work removing a thousand square feet of sod. Shovel 16 tons, and what do you get? A huge pile of dirt and grass to haul away. Lucky for us, we have a low spot in the back that’s rapidly becoming the world’s largest compost pile. Lucky for me, I have a hubby who knows his way around a wheelbarrow.
We discover plenty under the sod besides dirt: Sixty-year old construction debris. Ants, worms and pill bugs. And roots, roots, roots. Who knew there could be so many roots in one front yard?
We dig deeper and discover a disturbing amount of mud, which means we have a sneaky leak in the soon-to-be redundant irrigation system. We excavate along the pipe to the soggy source, and we have a good start on the world’s largest mud pie.
While we work there’re plenty of passersby, joggers, dog walkers, and my favorites, the two ladies in floral frocks and floppy hats. The pair gives a running commentary on everything they see. “Wow, that’s a big job!” they say about us. We know they really mean, “Where’s your landscaping crew and your bulldozer?”
Obviously, they haven’t heard that when you put a steadfast Nebraskan (me) and a relentless French Canadian (him) together on a project, you get a hybrid brand of stubbornness that trumps power equipment and sheer manpower any day.
Yes, we sweat a lot. We groan over sore muscles. We empty a bottle of ibuprofen. But we make that lawn disappear.
Of course, once the grass is gone, we realize our 60-year-old shrubs need pruning. And once we have them looking tidy, we see our 60-year-old house needs painting. And while we’re looking at paint chips, we discover our 60-year-old driveway needs paving. This job is going to take a wee bit longer than we thought, but that’s always the way projects go, n’est-ce pas?
When we’re so tired we can’t move, we sit under the elm and eat Brie on crusty baguettes. We pretend we’re at a sidewalk café, watching our neighbors, the “Parisians,” stroll by. In our best French accents we discuss wheech of us has gotteen zee most feelthy zhat day.
Our future projects will cost us plenty. Our real trip to Paris will have to wait a few years. But for now we’re having fun. We’re getting dirty. And we already know how we’ll celebrate our 29th (painting) and 30th (paving) anniversaries.
How many couples can say zhat?
First published in the Montecito Journal October 2, 2008

Pixies in the Back Yard

2008-10-28T10:49:00.001-07:00

Ms. Rachow says, “Why journey all the way to Great Britain when you can build a little England right in your own back yard?”

Recently I spotted a great landscaping trick in one of those slick English magazines. The piece was titled “Sneaky Tips to Turn Your Back Yard into Sherwood Forest.”
I was already well on my way with plenty of trees and freewheeling shrubs. The challenge was that the neighbors behind us had built a solid fence and painted it mud brown. No matter how hard I squinted and thought of the woods, those boards still looked like the Gulag to me.
The article suggested the artful attachment of trimmed branches to camouflage flat-fence backdrops. Even my city slicker hubby, who thinks any landscaping problem can be solved with a few bags of concrete, thought the picture in the magazine looked charming. So we decided to give it a try.
Luckily I’d failed to prune our eugenia hedge for the past 10 years. When I cut it down to size, not only did I reveal a wonderful mountain view, I ended up with plenty of straight branches perfect for transforming brown boards into a forest.
I trimmed away the twigs and cut each branch to the exact height of the fence so as not to alert the neighbors to our subterfuge. I leaned the resulting rough-hewn poles against the boards, and voila, the result was so woodsy I half expected to see pixies moving in.
A few weeks later I happened to be at the opposite side of our suburban forest, and I noticed some rough-hewn poles lying willy-nilly in our other neighbors’ backyard. They were perfect to extend my woodsy theme, and I thought about asking if I could have them, when I realized those branches looked very familiar.
Someone had swiped my poles. And I thought I knew who -- the little pixie who lives next door and her best pixie pal. This pair are at the height of their architectural expression. Translation: they’d liberated my faux forest to construct their secret fort. Then, apparently, they’d been called away on other pixie matters, and the branches had been abandoned.
I did the only thing I could think to do...I stole the poles back, all 23 of them. I carried them the 150 feet back up the hill, still feeling a little unsure as to whether I'd done the right thing. At least this counter thievery saved me from having to go to the gym that day. And all’s well that ends well.
However, things are seldom over when you live next door to pixies. So it was that this afternoon I spotted the little ones shuttling back and forth, retrieving the poles I’d stolen from them. It’s amazing how fast pixies can scamper, even when carrying six-foot tree branches. They were like long-haired finches making a nest.
I crept closer and chanced to hear them chirp about building their secret place. Life doesn't get any better than eavesdropping on the plans of pixies.
Then along came the grandma who watches the girls many afternoons. “Maybe you two should stay on your own side of the fence,” she told them.
If the pixies were disappointed with this change of direction, they didn’t show it. They transitioned smoothly to the scheme of tricking their terrier, saying, “Walkies, Brillo! Walkies!” Of course, the dog is no fool. He knows when pixies say “walkies,” it really means “bath time.” But Brillo is nothing if not a good sport, and truth is he rather likes being washed by pixies.
That left me to decide whether I’d be a good sport and let stolen poles lie…or if I’d take them all back again. I certainly didn't want to dissuade the girls from careers as architects. But I did want my poles back.
Real life seldom offers a solution for a situation as sticky as this. Luckily I had a stash of recently trimmed tree branches that weren’t good for fence camouflage. But they’d do fine for making a pixie hideout.
So I began the exchange. Grandma caught me in the act, and we discussed my plan. Somewhere in the middle of our chat over the fence, the girls came out with the wet terrier wrapped like a baby.
When they saw me they wondered for a moment if they might be in trouble. When I explained I was bringing them more materials to build with, they said, “Oh, thank you. Can we help?”
As I said above, all’s well that ends well. But when you live next door to pixies, things are seldom over.
First published in the Montecito Journal September 4, 2008

Dog Days, Skunk Nights

2008-10-28T10:43:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow has had a life-long affliction with four-legged creatures, and it has made her the woman she is today.

For most Santa Barbarans, the beginning of summer means a colorful parade of characters prancing down State Street.
For my hubby and me, Summer Solstice is marked by a black and white parade up our lane, when Pepe and all the LePews return to our backyard for the annual battle between our Jack Russell terriers and the supreme weapon, eau de skunk.
I’m on the phone when the first strike comes in. I detect the unmistakable scent of musk. When I see three terriers rubbing their faces on the grass, I know that instead of bedtime for my husband, and me it’s bath time for three terriers.
But I’m still trying to explain to the caller that I must hang up immediately due to a skunk emergency.
It’s a well-known fact that men’s noses aren’t as sharp as women’s and that explains why my husband is completely oblivious to the aromatic mine field we’re in. He’s calling the dogs in for the night.
I’m waving my arms to indicate the skunked terriers should STAY OUTSIDE until we’re ready to bathe them.
Finally, I’m off the phone and I yell, “Pepe’s back!”
My hubby screams, “Oh, $#&!” and we’re off and running.
Like the experienced dog-care professionals we are, my hubby and I know exactly what to do. My job is to get the shower going. My husband’s very long arms are perfect for carrying skunked terriers one by one to the tub.
Once all three dogs are enduring the indignity of perfumed shampoo, my husband says, “Remind me again why we have dogs.”
“Well, for one thing, we don’t need an alarm system. No burglar, or anyone else, can get within fifty feet of our abode without alerting the terrier early-warning system. Not even Girl Scouts selling cookies can get through.”
“True,” he says wistfully. He misses those cookies. “Also there’s the time we save cleaning. The dogs bring in so much dirt it’s pointless to try. And it’s a real conversation piece having potatoes growing in the living room.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. But I admit it’s handy to be considered eccentric. You can get away with all kinds of crazy stuff when people know you’re insane enough to live with a pack of terriers.
“And then there’s the fortune we save not going on vacations,” he adds.
My hubby and I haven’t been on a trip together for years. Kind friends all the time offer to dog sit for us, but about the time we begin with instructions on how to deal with the aftermath of a skunk attack, the volunteers quickly remember they have a family reunion exactly the same week we were planning to be gone.
“And think of how we have reduced our carbon footprint by not going anywhere,” I say. “The dogs have helped us save the planet.”
I have the showerhead on pulse-massage now, and the three wet dogs have gone from nervous to nirvana. They look beatific, as if they are personally responsible for our reduced consumption of fossil fuels.
“Don’t forget population control,” my husband says.
Admittedly, keeping up with terriers has reminded us over the years just how challenging it would be to keep up with toddlers. Sure, we would’ve liked to have had kids, but where would we have found the time? Besides, with an audience of terriers always chaperoning us…well, I’m sure you get the picture. It’s little wonder our only “offspring” to date are the four-legged kind.
It’s time now to swaddle the three soggy canines in towels and dry them a bit before they run through the house like atomic-powered windup toys.
“The dogs really have helped improve our coping skills,” I say. “With terriers, it’s always something. We get so much practice staying cool dealing with them that challenging events in the real life are a piece of cake.”
The dogs hear the word “cake” and immediately translate that to “treats.” In a moment they are all lined up at the biscuit jar, pretending to be obedient dogs deserving of rewards.
And that reminds me of one last advantage to having so many dogs. Every meal we save tidbits to share with them. It’s a simple but effect weight-loss secret.
Finally, the dogs are dry and calm, and it’s time for bed. Thanks to our canine pals, the world is a better place, my hubby and I are kinder people, and our whole neighborhood wears the heady aroma of skunk.
Life is good.
First published in the Montecito Journal August 7, 2008

State of the Reunion

2008-10-28T10:38:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow will be working at the 36th “reunion” of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, at Fess Parker’s DoubleTree Resort.

Ever have that terrible dream where it’s the night of your senior prom, and the guy (or gal) who was supposed to be your date tells you he’s (or she’s) going with some cute junior instead of with you, but it doesn’t matter anyway because your nose has a zit the size of Mount Rushmore?
Ever wanted to get sweet revenge on your entire life as a teenager?
Ever wondered exactly how to do that?
Two ways: One, become wildly successful, rich and drop-dead gorgeous, go to your class reunion and gloat. Or, two, do what I’m doing -- write a novel to avenge your adolescent honor with a character who does all of the above.
I survived high school in a small Nebraska town where I was not a cheerleader, not the class valedictorian, and not the star of the volleyball team.
I was the one who couldn’t wait to get the hell out and move to California. I was the one who decided to deal with lingering teenaged angst by writing the novel where things go my character’s way once in a while.
So is it any wonder that when my class organized our recent blankity-blank-ends-in-a-zero reunion, the committee left me off the list?
I wish I’d heard about the gathering in time to make the pilgrimage to see just how old everyone else looked, because a writer can always use more material.
And there’s always the chance old scores can be settled.
For example, before Ernie Witham went to his reunion in Laconia, New Hampshire, he wrote a humor piece for his old hometown paper, and his former classmates gave him the “Who Wudda Thunk It?” award.
Ernie will tell this story of sweet revenge in his humor workshop at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, beginning next week. There, writers from all over the world will gather to hone their skills and, in some cases, to find literary methods for sticking it to their former high school chums.
I’ve been a part of this great reunion of writers since it was held at old Miramar Hotel, back when those funky roofs were still bright blue. Back before Marcia Meier became conference director. Back so long ago that conference founder Barnaby Conrad still had a full head of hair.
One purpose of this writers conference is to learn about writing. Another is to see if you can go the entire week without sleeping.
Workshops begin at 9:00 AM, a civilized enough hour…that first day.
But the pirate workshops go late, and Shelly Lowenkopf’s continues into the wee hours. Then, after we diehards drag ourselves back to our computers, we work on rewrites and watch the sunrise.
By the second day, 9:00 AM is an ungodly hour.
Day three, it’s brutal. I see my nerves jangling in vivid Technicolor.
After that I figure, what the hell, sleep is for those sissies who show up at class reunions.
That mucho grande latte I just chug-a-lugged makes me cocky, and I’m sure my autobiographical novel about my high school years is just what the big time publishers are looking for.
On agents day I order triple espressos, and keep’em coming, because I want to be awake to make my pitch.
When it’s my turn, I tell a prospective New York agent about the scene I’ve written where my fifty-something character arrives at her class reunion looking thirty years younger and shockingly like Jennifer Lopez:
“When her former beau sees her sashay in, he can’t frigging believe he dumped her for that cute new girl so many year ago. Now, that cutie is a Kathy Bates look-alike with smudged makeup. The old boyfriend is just about to beg my heroine for the next dance, when George Clooney appears out of nowhere and leads her onto the dance floor. That year George and she lived in Buenos Aires perfecting their tango really pays off. What do you think?” I ask.
“The market’s flooded with high school memoirs,” the agent replies. “What else ya got?”
“How about tale of sweet revenge set at a writers conference?”
The agent tilts his head and raises one eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
Ever have that great dream where out of nowhere appears an acquiring editor who hands you a contract and a pen?
Ever wonder how to make that dream come true?
Two ways: One, have lots of talent and work hard. And two, have your “class reunion” every year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.
First published in the Montecito Journal June 12, 2008

My Old Man's Fancy

2008-10-28T10:34:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow says that having a father in his eighties might not kill her, but it does make her sweat a lot.

In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When I was a teenager I figured the definition of “young man” was anyone still in high school. At 21, I upped the limit on romance to 30. And once I was old enough to get invitations from AARP, I decided to believe persistent rumors that there’s sex after 60.
And yet, my jaw still drops when I hear the message from my 80-year-old dad. His Midwestern voice lumbers, “Hello. This is your father in Nebraska. Just wanted to let you know, I’m getting married.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more – the fact that he’s suddenly engaged, or the idea that he allows for the possibility I have fathers in other states.
Only one week earlier we’d had a heart-to-heart about how lonely he was. I’d gingerly suggested he might try dating. But he never takes my advice, any more than I took his advice when I was a teenager. So how did he go from zero to betrothed in one week?
I call back to discover more about Dad’s pending matrimony. I hide my shock with what I hope are rational tones. “Who are you marrying?”
“ I don’t know much about her. We’ve only had one date.”
“This isn’t one of those shotgun weddings is it?”
“Hell no. Ha-ha.”
“So what’s the rush?”
“Well, once you get over the hill, you kinda pick up speed.”
It’s been a long time since Dad’s felt like making corny jokes. I’m glad for his good mood, but I want to shout, ARE YOU CRAZY?
I’ve learned the hard way, once I get up there on my high horse, it’s hard to get down gracefully. So I rein in my hyperventilation and say, “Congratulations.”
At his age, being head-over-heels could land him in a walker. So I grill him on everything he knows about this woman he’s fallen for, but I don’t get much.
Later, I discuss Dad’s news with a friend.
“Is she younger?” my friend asks.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. She’s only 74.”
“Mark my word. That woman’s after his money.”
“I’m not too worried. Dad doesn’t have that much money, and he has a darn tight grip on what he does have.”
However, truth is I am worried. When I was young and single, if I’d told my dad I’d decided to marry a guy I’d only dated once, he would’ve tried to shout some sense into me. So the next week I drive to Nebraska to see if I can return the favor.
Two days on the road gives me plenty of time for my fantasies to go wild. I’d read all those fairytales. Stepmothers are wicked. Dad’s wife-to-be might put poison in his dinner. She could push him down the basement steps. Surely she would make him take her on one of those fancy cruises, and while he was enjoying the ocean view, she’d invite him to sleep with the fishes.
I hate to spoil my vivid imagination with the truth, but when I finally meet my dad’s fiancé, I’m surprised to discover she’s a very nice lady. With relief I change her name from “Evil Stepmother” to Irene.
Immediately I see why they’re in such a hurry to get married. Irene and my dad can’t keep their hands off one another. If I’d exhibited such public displays of affection when I was a teenager, Dad would’ve grounded me until I was 50.
Not only is my elderly father like a young man in love again, he’s changed in other ways, too. He’s bought a cell phone. “Irene thought I should have one.”
And he has high-speed Internet access. “Irene thought it was time I got on e-mail, so I got the fast kind.”
And most amazingly of all, he’s eating tomatoes. Dad hadn’t eaten a tomato since 1944 when he was in Italy during WWII, and that’s all there was to eat. “Irene thinks tomatoes are good for me, so I say they’re the most delicious food in the whole wide world.”
Apparently, love awakens all the senses, with the possible exception of common sense. But what young man of any age needs common sense when his fancy has turned to love?
I’m pleased to say I needn’t have worried so much. Irene and Dad will soon celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.
And that faint munching sound you hear is me eating my words.
First published in the Montecito Journal May 15, 2008

Let It Ride on the Lingerie

2008-10-28T10:25:00.000-07:00

Most of Ms. Rachow’s sophisticated style sense comes from what she learned as a kid in 4-H, but that doesn’t stop her from pointing out this isn’t fashion’s finest year.

My husband and I have forsaken our Friday night movie date to go clothes shopping. Now it’s finally dawning on him that all women’s tops this year are cut to make the wearers look preggers.
“This is hideous,” he says. He holds up what appears to be a maternity blouse designed by the same folks who gave us The Strip in Las Vegas.
If that weren’t bad enough, it seems some high roller of the fashion world must’ve lost a major bet and was thus forced to use millions of yards of garish synthetics in all colors too bright for the Crayola box.
Add an array of bold geometric prints, throw in a few mountains of metallic embroidery, and you have the fashion fiasco of 2008.
The last time clothing for women was this ugly was 1972, another year when designers across America felt that it’d be cute if all the ladies looked like pregnant cocktail waitresses.
If by some chance you’ve been spared seeing the spring line this year, save yourself the horror. But if you must have a taste of what’s out there, pretend the ’70s are back in all their polyester glory. Imagine every woman with child. Then dump Costco Rainbow Cake Icing over everything.
Normally, if I saw such a toxic spill in a department store, I’d call the style HAZMAT team and forget about buying new clothes until these heroes of good taste had tidied things up.
However, tonight my situation is desperate. Trainer James Kentro has been cracking the whip at the gym, so my last year’s wardrobe is sagging again. The time has come. Either I put on a red nose and get a gig as a clown, or I find smaller clothes.
“Leave it to me,” I say. “Finally I have a waist again, and it’s the same season some genius decided ‘Maternity Wear for All’ is the design slogan of the year.”
My husband is of a rare breed. There are a lot of guys who, when women’s apparel is mentioned, will develop an intense need to run to the hardware store for parts to fix that leaky faucet in the guest bathroom. This kind of man also deserves adoration and high praise.
But the kind of guy who is an automatic shoo-in for sainthood is the one who’ll go clothes shopping with his wife…and without a whimper.
I’m proud to say my husband is always ready to brave the boutiques with me. No doubt, much of his enthusiasm has to do with his desire to limit the damage on his credit card.
Nevertheless, he’s a talented shopper who dedicates himself to understanding my list of personal no-no’s. No pleats. No puckers. No plaid. No prints. No pastels. No polyester. He avoids everything with the letter “p” like a pro.
So we wade through this disaster area, betting we can find something that is wearable. However it looks hopeless, and our luckless shopping expedition is doing him in. The store has a fainting couch for wilting men. Mine is now reclining there with his forearm over his eyes.
Meanwhile, by wild chance, I discover an ordinary pair of jeans worth the gamble, and I head to the dressing room to try them on.
My husband prays I won’t come out looking like I have a baby on board, which would not be a good look at my age.
There’s another woman in the cubicle next to mine. She’s talking through the door to her husband who’s loyally waiting at the entrance to the changing area.
“How’s it going in there?” he asks.
“Well, the color of this top is awful, and it makes me look like I’m about to deliver twins,” she says.
“But otherwise it’s okay?” he asks in soothing tones, and I know this guy has plans to stay happily married forever.
I have the jeans on, and they don’t look bad, even in this store mirror. I come out to model and get the expert’s opinion.
“Do these make me look fat?” I ask.
“Darling, you look fabulous.” He already has his hand on his wallet.
This could be the against-the-odds perfect ending to our shopping gambit, but I feel like going for more. I decide to double down on the evening’s possibilities.
I raise one eyebrow. “Shall we hit the lingerie department?” I ask.
“Mmmmm...okay.” That’s definitely a frisky look in his eye.
I’m a lucky gal. And sainthood’s in his future, I tell you.
First published in the Montecito Journal April 17, 2008

Footloose at the Granada

2008-10-28T10:20:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow wants to point out that, when it comes to a glamorous night on the town, so much depends on the perfect footwear.

My friend Cricket’s husband is skiing with buddies. My guy’s in Las Vegas at the Grading and Excavation Expo.
We didn’t see why being without handsome escorts should stop us from gussying up and seeing what all the glitz is about at the Granada’s Grand Gala.
How often in a lifetime do you get that much alliteration in one historic event?
We’re a bit late to the opening reception. I won’t say which one of us had to get her toenails painted a fabulous scarlet with the theatrical name of “I’ve Read the Script!”
I will say the resulting pop of color sets off someone’s strappy heels, and this is the perfect way to step onto the red carpet.
As promised, there are plenty of fringed flappers and vintage vehicles decorating the street in front of the theater.
And just look at the people! There’re 1550 seats in the new Granada. Or maybe 1552, or 1553. But why quibble? The place’s wall-to-wall gorgeous, and we’re loving it.
For one heady moment I think I might’ve been transported back to my high school prom. I check my left shoulder. Nope, no corsage.
“Where’s the champagne?” Cricket asks.
We forge on through tuxes and gowns to the Founders Room where champagne flows like...um...like champagne at a grand gala.
A waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres hovers by. The size of these teeny treats makes me want to sing the theme to Thumbelina. However, the itsy-bitsy bites are delicious, and it’s easier to chat when my mouth isn’t so full.
We spot Susan Gulbransen, our mutual friend who’s one of the movers and shakers who hatched the grand idea of renovating a funky downtown movie theater into a world-class venue for the performing arts. If you go back to that conversation over coffee that started it all, she and her co-conspirators have been on this project for 11 years.
They’ve raised millions (52 and counting) and overseen the Granada’s resurrection with a kind of determination more commonly seen in Jack Russell terriers.
Cricket and I are among the mere mortals who stood by when the giant hole was excavated behind the Granada in order to build a parking structure to hold future theatergoers’ autos.
We watched while the back of the Granada was opened, as if the building had been bombed.
We took a tour a few months ago and tried to imagine how all that scaffolding and cement would ever be an elegant theater.
We drove by in the final days before the gala, when it seemed they’d never get done in time for the opening.
But they did, and now here we are toasting the magic of possibility. Gracias, gracias, to all the people who made this happen. The Granada is grand.
Now Cricket and I must test a critical aspect the theater -- the ladies room, which boasts twice the number of stalls as the nearby Arlington, and hooray! It make’s a difference. Nice tile, too.
Then it’s show time. In fact, the performance has begun by the moment we tiptoe in. The party atmosphere has suspended usual symphony etiquette, and people already seated are tolerant of those who mill in late. More gracias.
There’s been a lot of buzz about the Granada’s great acoustics. Centuries of knowledge went into this engineering experiment, but no one really knows how the theater will sound until there are humans in the seats and the orchestra plays.
Immediately it’s clear the architects of sound knew exactly what they were doing. It’s also evident that not everyone is completely over the bug that’s been going around town. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have coughers. And I’m one of them.
I pop a lozenge in my mouth, focus on yoga breathing, and pray. My eyes water, and the top of my head explodes, but somehow I manage to get the situation under control. We settle in for history to unfold before our eyes and ears.
The smorgasbord of a program includes opera, orchestra, a piano solo, ballet, flamenco, and chorus. Hey, there’s my neighbor, Debbie Stewart, in the front row of singers offering a taste of Carl Orf.
Our community has a new treasure in the Granada, which, as you might’ve read means “pomegranate” in Spanish. It also means “grenade,” a perfect word for the explosion of sights and sounds on opening night.
Now try to imagine the colors of toenail polish Cricket and I will try over the next 100 years.
First published in the Montecito Journal March 27, 2008

Putting on the Charity Feedbag

2008-10-28T10:07:00.001-07:00

Ms. Rachow has been taking a remedial course in how to be a lady and recently had the opportunity to try out her new skills.

The lot at the DoubleTree is packed. Already I’m sorry I wore my highest heels, because it’ll be a hike from Outer Mongolia where I found parking. Never mind, I tell myself. Walking on stilts is great exercise, and it’s all for a good cause.
I’m lunching with several hundred supporters of Girls Inc., the group dedicated to inspiring girls to be strong, smart and bold.
This is February, the month of St. Valentine’s Day, and many of the women are festooned in shades of red. I see a magenta hound’s-tooth jacket here, a scarlet lapel flower there, and lots of ruby red slippers everywhere. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Who knew the paparazzi would be out in full force? Or maybe it’s just that every human on the planet now comes equipped with a flashing digital camera ready to record all things large and small. I pray I don’t have something green stuck in my teeth.
It’s worth commemorating any day when several hundred Santa Barbara women get out of cozy sweatpants and into designer finery and their best bling-bling. If ya got it, today’s definitely the day to flaunt it.
I’m impressed there are so many men in the crowd. Like them, I’m wearing my basic dark suit (designer: Nordie’s store brand), the only outfit I own not appropriate for the gym or pruning roses.
I’m here especially because two of my pals, Susan Chiavelli and Susan Gulbransen, are the editors of More Letters from the Heart, Girl Incorporated’s new book of wisdom from exceptional women and girls. I realize that by day’s end I might be wiser for the experience, and that couldn’t hurt.
I promise myself to sit up straight, keep my elbows off the table. And no toothpicking! I usually dine with terriers, and they have no table manners whatsoever. I’ll have to dig deep to remember how to behave like a lady. But it’s all worth it for a good cause.
At the centers of the tables are stunning bouquets of perfect hot pink roses. Thousands of thorny bushes worked overtime to make this possible.
I take a sip of tea. When did they officially change all the iced tea in the world from orange pekoe to mango? No problem. For the girls of greater Santa Barbara, we’ll gladly drink fruit, even farkleberries.
Maybe because we all look so snazzy in our luncheon duds, the ladies at our table take our chatting upscale, as if impressionable children are monitoring us. It isn’t easy speaking so wisely.
The emcee calls for our attention, and simultaneously dozens of food servers in black suits (shockingly similar to the one I’m wearing) appear.
Gorgeous plates of food are dealt like playing cards. For me, it’s a challenge to get a meal for two on the table, but the hotel serving staff is elegantly efficient. Within minutes we all have medallions of pepper-crusted steak and sautéed baby vegetables before us.
There’s much hoopla from the dais to thank the volunteers for their hard work. So much clapping gives me a hearty appetite. However, there’s an odd rule at charity luncheons that no one is supposed to actually eat the lunch, no matter how beautifully presented it is.
I understand the no-eat custom at rubber chicken buffets, but the food today is yummy. I’m a charter member of the clean-your-plate club, so I savor every bite, thus losing lady-like points big time.
I do restrain myself from asking others, “Aren’t you going to eat that?” My terriers would be very sad to see all that steak going back to the kitchen, but there’ll be no doggie bags today.
A waiter whisks away my plate, thus relieving my embarrassment at having consumed lunch.
Soon there are elaborate desserts for all. Apparently, it’s not against any secret rule to eat the sweets. The ladies at my table have saved plenty of room for white chocolate cheesecake. Oh the things we do for a good cause.
Now where’s the coffee? Empty cups on the table make me hopeful. Finally java is poured, and it’s time to drink in wisdom from the speakers.
We’re encouraged to tell all girls to take risks and master challenges, the exact opposite of what so many of us heard growing up. There’s no age-limit to such excellent advice. What’s good for the gosling is good for the goose. It’s not easy becoming wiser, but it’s the least we can do for this good cause.
First published in the Montecito Journal February 21, 2008

Winter Wonderlands

2008-10-28T10:03:00.001-07:00

Ms. Rachow says that global warming came much too late to save her and her husband from childhoods in the snow.

My husband must be forgiven his love of snow. He grew up near the North Pole on that solid block of ice known as Canada. There a snowstorm meant the weather had warmed up and spring was on its way. That’s his story and he’s sticking with it.
I’m from the slightly warmer land of Nebraska where we had only ten months of blizzards each year.
One of the things we both love about winter in Santa Barbara is it’s semi-tropical…except for the occasional artistic sprinkling of white on the Santa Ynez Mountains.
I wouldn’t even know about this “decorator” snow, except when it arrives, my hubby drags me out of a cozy bed to ooh and aah the wonderful sight. I try to be pleased, but to me the perfect winter wonderland is beach sand and palm trees.
Once my hubby sees that snow glistening, he waxes nostalgic about how when he was a kid his mother bundled him up in a parka and sent him out on an iceberg to play with Wally, his pet walrus. At least that’s his story and he’s sticking with it.
Then I must counter with the story about the blizzard of ’69 when we lost Gramps. He went out to the barn to feed the cattle and didn’t come back. We figured he was frozen out there, and we’d find him in the spring. We were half right. Gramps didn’t freeze, but he did show up in May because it got too hot for him in Florida.
When my husband and I were kids, we didn’t dream of the idea of being able to move to a warmer climate. We figured we had no choice but to freeze in winter, and so we made good use of the ice and snow.
Inspired by the story of Frosty, I built a snowman and imagined if I did a good enough job, my Frosty would also come to life and dance around. Unfortunately, we had no silk hats in Nebraska. I had to settle for a lopsided pile of dirty snow wearing the straw hat I’d swiped from a scarecrow.
When my big brother caught me making this snowman he called me a sissy. “I’ll show you the proper use of snow,” he yelled. His snowball hit me square in the face. “And no running and crying ‘Mommy, Mommy,’ or there’s more where this one came from.”
My husband claims it was much too cold to make snowballs up there near the Arctic Circle. “But there were other dangers,” he says. “One time I sat on what I thought was a pile of ice. Turns out it was a polar bear. Wally saved me from being eaten. What a walrus!” That’s his story and he’s sticking with it.
One thing my husband and I had in common was sledding. In his case, Wally pulled his sled across the ice. And in Nebraska we zoomed down hills on wooden sleds with metal runners.
When I got my first sled, my brother warned me, “Don’t ever put your tongue on the frame.”
On my first day out, I kept thinking that a little touch with my tongue on the cold metal would feel very nice. As I trudged to the top of the hill, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. Just the tip. What could it hurt?
And before you could say “thupid wittle kid” my tongue was stuck. Super Glue doesn’t hold as tightly as my tongue was affixed to that frozen metal. I had to walk all the way home with that dang sled connected to my tongue, and I thill have a hint of a lisp to prove ith.
“Did you ever do anything dumb like that?” I ask my husband.
He sticks out his tongue and shows me his scar. “Yeth.”
Apparently in both Canada and Nebraska, living through childhood was a matter of the survival of the idiots.
Somehow we both survived our frostbitten youths and lived long enough to find our way to this little village by the sea where holiday lights sparkle in the palm trees. And, of course there’s a photo of a beloved walrus above our fireplace.
Once in a while we see that dusting of white on the mountains…but from a safe distance. A beautiful sight, yes, but when friends call to ask if we want to go make a snowman, we say, “Snow thanks.”
That’s our story and we’re sticking with it.
First published in the Montecito Journal January 24, 2008

Brillo’s Come As You Are Party

2008-10-28T09:56:00.001-07:00

Now that the weather’s turned cold, Ms. Rachow likes her coffee hot and her sleepwear cozy.

The sun is barely up on this chilly day, and I’ve just poured a cup of Peet’s French roast, when I hear bark, bark, bark, bark, bark…
This is not a sound anyone enjoys with morning coffee. For me it usually means my Jack Russells have dreamed up yet another stunt to prove their terrier natures. I steel myself to the fact my caffeine fix must wait.
However, I look around and see all my dogs ensconced in a heap on the sofa. Apparently, they’ve not had their morning coffee, either, and they’re putting their paws over their ears until a more decent hour.
“What’s wrong? Have you guys turned into beauty parlor dogs?”
The barking outside is now frantic. And this is definitely a terrier bark. I know the sound. It’s a dog calling for help. And if a terrier is calling, I must go. I take one little sip of my coffee and then head out the back door to see what I can do.
The first thing I realize is that the neighbor’s new terrier, Brillo, is doing the barking. It also occurs to me I’m wearing the baggy sweatpants I slept in. I start to count the hours since my tousled hair has seen a comb, but I cancel that calculation as soon as I see the neighbor girl on the other side of the fence, back where the hedge grows thick and wild.
She’s also in the outfit she slept in, and her pale hair’s a jumble of tresses and twigs. This is a look that’s considerably more charming on a ten-year-old than on a middle-aged woman like me.
But there’s no time to worry about fashion and grooming. Brillo’s after a rat, and the girl’s after Brillo.
“Shall I come over?” I shout.
It’s times like this I wish we had a gate between our yards, because, at my age, leaping a fence is more fantasy than possibility. Luckily, adrenaline’s erased my good sense, and up and over I go. I hear fabric rip, but it’s nothing that won’t make a good rag at day’s end.
The girl and I go to work bending the bushes to get to Brillo and his rat. About then the mom and the younger sister come outside. They’re still in their nighttime clothes, too, and they have mussed blond hair and sleepy eyes. To heck with proper attire, I think. This is definitely a come-as-you-are party.
“What’s happening?” the mom asks.
For a moment I worry that I’ll be in trouble for fence jumping and shrubbery shredding.
“I think Brillo has some kind of animal cornered,” I say. I avoid the word “rat” because I know a lot of people don’t like to think that our south coast suburbia is a perfect haven for all kinds of wild creatures, including the ones with long skinny tails.
But the neighbor mom is not squeamish, and she’s happy to have help extracting Brillo from the brush. He barks with great gusto and seems to be welcoming us and taking it for granted we’ve all come to help exterminate that naughty rodent. “About time you got here,” he barks.
Having lived for years with Jack Russells, I know they’re born believing a terrier’s highest purpose is the assassination of vermin. Brillo’s a wire-haired Border terrier mix, and he indeed resembles a Brillo pad. Today he proves he’s pure terrier.
For a while it seems we’ll have no chance to penetrate the dense shrubs to nab this fearless hunter. But as we tear at the twigs, we manage to dislodge the rat. It scurries, and Brillo follows. The mom grabs his collar and scoops him into her arms. “What a face!” she says.
Brillo grins from ear to wiry ear. There’s never been a dog more pleased with himself.
This may be the first time he’s escaped his manicured yard to hunt. “It won’t be the last,” I assure my neighbors.
Brillo’s panting hard, but he’ll be ready in twenty minutes for his day job -- walking his girls to school.
As I head home, the sun shines bright, and it’s a beautiful day. My dogs are awake now, complaining bitterly that I went on an adventure without them.
My coffee’s gone cold, but I feel the warmth that comes from helping neighbors and a dog. And, in so doing, I’ve discovered the array of ridiculous sweatpants we girls all sleep in once the winter chill is in the air.
First published in the Montecito Journal November 29, 2007

Love At First Launch

2008-10-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow says the wife is always the last to know.

Recently my husband disappeared for a few hours and had a very guilty look on his face when he returned. So it was my wifely duty to give him the third degree.
Where had he been? Not shopping for a new car. Not rendezvousing with a secret lover. Not even hoisting a few cold ones at Schnookie’s Bar. Nope. My hubby was sneaking around with a kayak.
My response was WHAT?!?
This man has lived in a California beach town for all the years I’ve known him, and I’ve never once seen him get more than his ankles wet in the surf. And now, ocean kayaking?
Yes, and it’s love at first launch. When my husband’s infatuated, there’s no stopping him. Within a week he paddles as if training for the Olympic team. And now he wants me to join him -- a little ménage a mer.
A woman doesn’t get to her golden wedding anniversary by getting in the way of her hubby’s new loves. But I worry because of all that water in the ocean. It seems to me that if we’re venturing out to sea, it’d be smart to be able to swim.
That’s why we’re at this end-of-season swimsuit sale. I’m hoping to find something like the Wonder Woman bikini I had in high school, but I find there’s no such thing as a bikini in my double-digit size. And there must be a federal law banning colorful suits in any size above 6, because there’s no such thing as a red, white, blue, purple, green, orange or yellow swimsuit in my size either. I get to choose from one style in basic black. Luckily, black is exactly the color I want to match my brand-new, geeky, black swim goggles.
As a show of solidarity, my husband has also chosen trunks in solid black. My new swimsuit is about as conservative as one can get without returning to the swimming costumes from circa 1920. Nevertheless, other than technically covering my X-rated areas, there really is not a thing left to the imagination. If I were more of a drinker, a couple shots of tequila would make this whole endeavor a lot easier.
However, when I finally take the walk from the locker room to the pool, no one looks. Of course it is 10:45 on a Monday night, and the gym is deserted. So I might as well be naked because there’s no one to see me, except my husband, and his glasses are in his gym bag.
The last time either of us was in a pool, Nixon was still in office. Although we both knew how to splash around back then, swimming skills are not like riding a bicycle. You can forget how to swim. And I’m glad we’re discovering this fact in four feet of water at the gym, rather than at sea, capsizing our kayaks somewhere around the half-mile buoy.
In the pool we encounter the challenge of breathing while swimming. Even a newborn babe knows instinctively not to inhale water through the nose. But after thirty-some years of breathing on dry land, our noses do not respond well to the new directive to wait for our heads to be above the water.
Also there’s the issue of floating. According to recent caliper tests, we both still have sufficient layers of “buoyancy” to have survived the sinking of the Titanic without a lifeboat. Nevertheless, our bodies have forgotten the simple art of staying afloat.
And if that wasn’t enough, we discover that the swimming strokes we did so easily when we were kids require actual coordination. We don’t have it anymore, and that’s why we’re flopping around in the pool as if we just landed here from a planet in a galaxy without water.
We cough and sputter our way from one end of the pool to the other, vowing to keep at it for an hour. We gasp for air at the end of each lap. This is going to be a very long hour. We make thirty laps in sixty minutes, and there’s not a pretty one in the bunch.
The next morning I study my cottage cheese thighs in the mirror. Already they’re looking better, more like yogurt with a little fruit puree.
For the love of kayaking we learn to swim. And now, against all odds, we’re falling in love with swimming. Soon the Olympic committee will beg us to try out. Mark Spitz my word.
First published in the Montecito Journal November 1, 2007

The Landlubbers Club

2008-10-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow and her gym buddies long to take the plunge, but what if their hair gets wet?

My fully clothed buddies and I are in the pool area at the gym, breathing the heady aroma of chlorine. Normally we pretend there’s no pool because we don’t think of ourselves as swimmers. Translation: we don’t have the guts to scamper the twenty feet from the ladies locker room to the pool with our thighs showing.
However, our brave buddy Janis is taking the plunge. We’re here to cheer and be on hand to rescue her if she gets in trouble.
There’s not much chance of drowning, since this pool is four feet deep, and Janis is five-foot-ten.
She’s tastefully attired in what we used to call an old-lady suit with a skirt, but this little number is very flattering.
“From Victoria’s Secret,” Janis says as she inches her willowy body into the pool. She looks terrific.
“Is that one of those miracle suits?” I ask.
Janis is already under water.
“They’re supposed to make you look ten pounds thinner by squishing your middle with girdle fabric. Only problem, if you have flab like I do, it has to go somewhere.”
“Thus the cunning, camouflaging skirt,” Linda says. “The real miracle is how you’re supposed to breathe with your middle in a vice.”
“I have a suit with a comfortable shelf bra,” Toni says. “But my shelving doesn’t match the shelf anymore.”
“I want to get one of those tankini tops with boy surfer shorts. No need to wax or shave.”
“I wish I could shave off a few pounds,” Linda says.
“Don’t they call that liposuction?” Susan asks.
“I’m not so worried about a suit, but I hate getting my face in the water,” Linda says. “If I could swim without getting my head wet, I’d be the first one in the pool.”
“Yeah,” Susan says. “I took lessons in college but always got water up my nose.”
“You could try the backstroke.” Toni passed junior lifesaving as a teenager, so she knows all about swimming.
“What about nose plugs?” I ask.
“They seem like good idea,” Linda says. “My cousin was into synchronized swimming, and she bought nose plugs by the dozen. But since I don’t like to get my face wet, I never tried them.”
Janis stops to catch her breath. She’s wearing a gunmetal gray swim cap.
“Is that thing keeping your hair dry?”
“I hope so,” Janis says. “My aunt Beulah did water ballet until she was 90. She had a pink suit and a bathing cap with a pink rose on top. It kept her hair dry.”
“Remember those flower-head caps from the ’60s?” Susan asks.
We do. And we want them back.
“That settles it,” Toni says. “I’m taking up water ballet. I don’t care if my toes won’t point. I want a pink swim cap with a rose.”
“Before you put your cap on you’re supposed to wet your hair with regular water and conditioner,” Susan says. “That way the chlorine doesn’t have a chance.”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble,” I say. “But then my entire hair-care arsenal consists of one bottle of Trader Joe’s shampoo. I hear chlorine gives your hair extra body.”
“It makes frizz,” Toni says. “And if you have light hair like me, it’ll turn it green.”
“Since I don’t plan on getting wet above the neck, I don’t need to worry,” Linda says.
“You could keep your head above water with pool exercises,” I say. “I hear they’re really great for the arms and legs.”
“What about the waist?” Toni asks. She tries to stick her flat stomach out.
“If you want a waist, you’re going to have to get some hips,” Susan says.
Toni’s as skinny as when she was in high school, but we like her anyway.
Janis swims back to our end of the pool. “My heart’s pounding. This is great exercise.”
We see this is true, but we’re not yet quite ready to take the plunge.
“What about the Jacuzzi,” Susan suggests. “Couldn’t we bubble in there after Pilates and then just kick our legs a little while we watch Janis swim?”
“We could do that without nose plugs or bathing caps,” I say.
“I’ll bring the bonbons and movie magazines,” Linda offers.
Susan says, “I’ll bring a thermos of pink martinis.”
“They’ll match my new pink swim cap,” Toni says.
Janis finishes her laps and climbs out of the pool. “Wow, the steps are steeper than when I got in.”
She’s dripping water everywhere, and she’s our hero.
First published in the Montecito Journal October 4, 2007

What Do Men Really Want?

2008-10-28T09:41:00.001-07:00

In the past year Ms. Rachow has studied Pilates, yoga and the Gravitron, hoping to unlock the great mysteries of life.

My husband and I are trying to celebrate his birthday at our formerly favorite restaurant. However, the salads never come, and the alleged chicken breasts on our plates leave us wondering what hummingbird gave its life to feed us. Apparently our waitress has taken a job at another restaurant, because she’s nowhere to be seen. Yet, we still have a great time, and I’m relieved because I’ve spent weeks contemplating how to make this guy happy on his special evening.
A husband’s birthday is the time of year a wife must face the fact that women are from Venus and men are on the Internet shopping for a watch with tiny dials that show all the times around the world.
He’s wearing his new watch tonight along with the handsome tan shirt I picked that brings out the green in his eyes. The band on his new watch looks as if it were made from a tire, but the price was like for the entire car, and I think worth every penny, considering the smile on his face.
“Let’s leave and find something more fun to do,” I say.
But first (since we’re so close to a post office) I suggest we get stamps.
That’s why we’re in a post office lobby on a Friday evening staring at a vending machine that resembles a time-travel contraption in an old sci-fi movie. It possesses as many mysterious buttons as on my hubby’s new watch, but he’s still no help in figuring out how to get the machine to sell us postage. The stamps mock us through their little plastic windows.
We’re about to walk away when simultaneously we say, “I wonder what this button does?” and voila, the machine lights up with bright red instructions on what to do next. Within seconds we get a stream of 2-cent stamps to roll out. Triumph! Not only have we managed to legitimize a half coil of obsolete 39-cent stamps, but we’re laughing as well. Who knew how much fun could be had at the post office?
“Now let’s go look at birthday cards,” I say. This year I want to save the $2.50 ($4.00 in Canada), because his habit is to look at the greeting, say thanks, and then pop his card in the trash. My idea is to browse together in the store and pick his favorite.
He decides on a card with photo of a pooch with a guilty look lying on a sofa. I wonder what this naughty dog has done.
“Happy birthday!” I say and then put it back for someone else to enjoy. Not only does my hubby get to momentarily receive a nice card, but with this efficient recycling, we also strike a teeny blow against global warming.
“So what now? A moonlight stroll on the beach?” he offers.
“Wouldn’t you rather go to the gym?”
He grins. Working out is exactly what he wants.
Everyone else in the world seems to think Friday evening is date night, so there’s no waiting for any of the exercise machines. We celebrate on side-by-side rowing machines. I’ve never figured out how to use all the electronic gizmos on the gym equipment, but I’m sure if we somehow manage to row all the way to Jakarta, one of the dials on my husband’s watch will tell us the time there.
I say, “It was exactly a year ago when you said, ‘Hey, my pants are a little snug. Why don’t we join a gym?’”
And he says, “Yeah, and you said since you understood the magic of the elastic waistband, you didn’t see why you needed to exercise.”
Still, the suggestion to begin a fitness program pushed mysterious buttons in my mind, and my brain flashed a bright red sign that I wasn’t going to ever return to the shape I had at 25 if I didn’t rediscover the fun in exercising.
This past year, we’ve had many sweaty but entertaining hours working out at the gym with trainer Dan VanVoorhis, who just happens to be an expert at being 25.
Alas, we haven’t discovered an actual time travel machine that will take us all the way back, but we’ve shaved a few years, and many bundles of larger clothing have traveled from our closets to the Salvation Army thrift store.
What men really want is still a mystery to me, but at least I have a whole year to study until my husband has yet another birthday.
First published in the Montecito Journal September 6, 2007

Cake for Ted Kooser

2008-10-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow usually likes to flash plastic at Jeannine’s and leave with a pink box containing a cake so sinful it forces guests to question the wisdom of low-carb diets.

Ted Kooser is living proof one can live in rural Nebraska, have a career as an insurance guy, and still win a Pulitzer. Recently I had the honor of chauffeuring this former U.S. Poet Laureate around town. I’d been chosen for two reasons: One, my speech has a Midwestern twang, so it was thought I’d be able converse with someone from the heartland. Two, my car was clean.
Turns out Ted Kooser inspired me to bake.
The last time I’d made a cake was 29 years before -- a three-layer, devils-food, the kind of birthday confection that might’ve directed me toward a career as a pastry chef. Or I could’ve retired from baking, aglow with the knowledge I’d made that one perfect cake. Fate quickly made the decision for me. Moments after the guests licked the last chocolaty butter-cream from their forks, the earth moved.
I’d read that chocolate could improve one’s love life, but this was a G-rated birthday party, for criminy-sake. Nevertheless, the floor undulated, furniture toppled, and china crashed. Whew! That was some dang good cake.
It was also the August 13, 1978 Santa Barbara earthquake that derailed a freight train, knocked mobile homes askew, and emptied the UCSB library shelves of books, most likely including three by Ted Kooser.
I can’t be sure it was my cake that caused the earthquake, but my mama didn’t raise a stupid kid. It’s best not to take chances. No more baking for me.
I’d kept my vow all these years, and then along came Ted Kooser. Before we left the airport parking lot Ted said, “Gosh, your car’s so clean,” and we were onto the subject of dogs too fond of skunks and the many women who’d influenced our lives. Ted told a story about his thrifty mother, and that reminded me of my thrifty grandmother who made burnt sugar cake.
If Jeannine’s Bakery made such a thing, they’d call it “Cake Caramel” with a French accent. Back in Nebraska we understood caramel is nothing more than burnt sugar. And we knew better than to give a cake a fancy name, lest it draw the attention of the gods and cause some cataclysm.
I drove Ted Kooser safely to his gig at the poetry workshop put on by the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. Poets had come from all over the United States (and even a few from Canada) to hear this highly respected poet speak and give a master class on crafting poetry. While he dispensed considerable wisdom on polishing one’s writing, I decided I’d like to bake him a burnt sugar cake.
Alas, some things aren’t practical. Famous poets have planes to catch, and cake doesn’t travel well by mail. To get my mind off cake as we drove back to the airport, I asked what kind of music he liked.
Without missing a beat, Ted sang the old song, “When I was a lad, and old Shep was a pup, over hills and meadows we’d stray…”
There’s nothing like a baritone voice delivering a sad song about a faithful old dog to make a girl forget about cake…at least until I was in the middle of giving a talk on how to get your poetry published, and I held up Ted Kooser’s “The Poetry Home Repair Manual.” This book offers practical advice on how to write a publishable poem and happens to have a cover the same caramel color of burnt sugar cake.
That’s how I came to find myself stirring granules in a skillet today. With the flame revved, I watched the sugar clump before meltdown, and then grow darker, until I beheld a bubbling brew. I poured in boiling water. It sizzled. I added flour, eggs, vanilla, and, voila, I poured the golden batter into my grandmother’s speckled enamel tin.
The oven did its best, I’m sure, but when I took the cake out it was a half-inch high, about the same thickness as the book on writing poetry that’d inspired it. And nowhere on the Rumford baking powder can does it explain that leavening used in August 1978 for perfect devils-food won’t work well for making a cake in 2007.
A normal person would throw this flat thing out, but anybody who still uses her grandma’s pan is too thrifty to toss a perfectly good cake just because it didn’t rise. So I’ll use poetic license and dub this “Ted Kooser’s Burnt Sugar Torte.” It’s solid, and it’ll do fine in the mail.
First published in the Montecito Journal August 9, 2007

Dancing with Hookahs

2008-10-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

Ms. Rachow says “hookah” comes from the Urdu word for casket, but if you gotta go, you might as well go out in style.

“A hookah lounge? No way,” my husband says.
“I thought you loved Middle Eastern cuisine. I hear they have the best baba ghannouj between here and Beirut.”
The phrase “hookah lounge” does evoke the image of a dark and smoky place, where a girl might be kidnapped and whisked off to harem duty in one of those countries with a name pronounced as if a jalapeño is stuck to the roof of your mouth.
If I can get that kind of excitement without leaving my own little tourist Mecca by the sea, by golly, I want it. And where is the fun in life if you can’t prove your spouse wrong, wrong, wrong? It’s obvious my hubby isn’t about to go willingly to a hookah lounge. And I haven’t stayed married to the same guy since Jimmy Carter was President, without knowing when to stuff a pita in it and bide my time.
So a week later I ask my friend and her main-squeeze, if they’d like to double date and check out a great new restaurant. “It’s called Zaytoon,” I say, “which is Arabic for olive.” These are great friends who love olives and are ready to try anything. So we set a date. This time I carefully avoid mentioning “hookah lounge” to anyone.
We arrive at Zaytoon on a balmy summer evening and discover that the restaurant is tucked behind a hedge and the dining area is in the backyard of an old cottage. The restaurant sign is small and obscured by eugenia leaves. So far, so good. My husband still doesn’t suspect a thing.
My friend’s fiancé points at an inferno at the center of our table. “Hey, do we get to roast our own kebabs?”
The fire-bedecked tables are arranged around a fountain and a pond. I’m relieved to see the water because the flames are real.
There’s a lemon tree growing near our table. We can add fresh juice to the tabbouli as needed.
Our waitress, Latifa, is a lovely young woman who looks a lot like a Turkish friend of mine. “Where’d you get your accent?” I ask.
She gives me one of those who-wants-to-know looks. “I’m an American from Washington, D.C., and I don’t have an accent.” That’s her story and she’s sticking to it.
Hoping to smooth things over, I grab the wine list as if I know what I’m doing. Unfortunately my favorite wine phrase is “anything under $8.99.” So our friends order a bottle of red, the price of which would’ve covered a month’s rent when I was in college.
Drinking pricey wine makes me happy for three reasons. One, the wine’s so good even I can tell it’s excellent. Two, these friends are the kind of fair-is-fair people who will insist on paying for the wine, just because they ordered it. Three, after a few more sips I’m sure I’ll find the courage to ask about the hookah lounge, which is nowhere in sight.
We eat too much food, drink too much wine, and when it seems things just can’t get any better, a fabulous guitarist begins to play. I know as much about guitar music as I do about wine, but this sounds like flamingo…er…I mean flamenco. I wonder why they’d have Spanish music at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Maybe the Moorish influence? That must be it. The wine seems to be improving my education.
We’re already having more fun than seems possible, but I’m not leaving without getting an incriminating photo of my hubby having fun with a hookah.
When the waitress returns to see if we want coffee and dessert, I ask, “So where exactly is that hookah lounge?”
Latifa, with her exotic Washington, D.C. accent, is ready for us. She whips out the tobacco list -- $14.95 to smoke a bowlful of fruit-flavored tobacco. We get to pick the fruit, but even if we could decide between apricot and double apple, none of us smokes. However, we still want to see what it would be like. “Can we order a virgin hookah?” I ask.
Our waitress wrinkles her brow. “You want to smoke, but no tobacco? No problem.” She leaves and returns with a three-foot-tall contraption right out of Alice In Wonderland. Apparently, we’ve been in the hookah lounge all along.
My friend and I take virgin tokes, dancing in our chairs to the flamenco guitar, putting our right shoulders in, our right shoulders out, and doing something we like to call the hookah pookah.
First published in the Montecito Journal July 19, 2007

Commando Yoga

2008-10-28T09:22:00.001-07:00

Ms. Rachow says the body is but the outer covering of the mind, and it’s thus obliged to do whatever the mind tells it to do. She recommends that the mind tell the body to wear long pants to yoga.

Yoga is a Sanskrit word meaning to unite mind, body and spirit into a pretzel. The postures we learn in class have cute names. We get to be animals (frog, pigeon, camel), things (boat, bridge, chair), and stages of life (child, warrior, corpse). We learn how to create more space in our spines, and open all our joints. We practice standing like a tree, letting our branches gather energy, and then bringing it all to our hearts. However, the thing we do the most, the position that seems to best unite our disparate aspects, is sticking our butts in the air.
My gym buddies and I are in the back row again. While it’s true we can’t see the instructor from here, and we have to guess at when to move our spines between a cat arching its back and a happy puppy with its tail in the air, it’s also true no one has to look at our derrieres wagging when we’re in the back row. From here we also have an excellent view of everyone else’s puppy-dog poses. As soon as we shift to the down-dog position and lift our right legs, toes reaching for the ceiling, I clear my throat to get my all my friends’ attention. Then I softly hum our code:
I see London
I see France
I see the guy in front of us has no underpants.
Yes, it’s true. Monsieur Full Monty is there, right in front of us, wearing baggy black shorts sans undies. My take on this kind of accidental exposure is that it helps me exercise my upper lids when my eyes fly open. My gym buddies, in contrast, feel that guys should come properly attired to yoga class. Once they notice the complete European tour in front of them, they look the other way for the duration of the class.
After yoga I ask, “Do you think he knows?”
“Of course, he knows. How could you not know you forgot your underwear?”
I wasn’t so sure. This might be one of those big differences between men and women. When a woman “accidentally” forgets her briefs, she always remembers the quotation marks. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a man? Maybe our commando guy feels that if he’s wearing mid-thigh gym shorts, he’s covered. And if he didn’t make himself a human tripod with one leg raised to the heavens, he would be.
“If we were men and the ones going commando were attractive young women, we wouldn’t be complaining. Guys would enroll in every yoga class from Bakersfield to Bombay.”
“They should have a sign at the door reminding people of proper attire,” another friend says.
By now we’re in the women’s locker room and there’s female nudity all around us. We know there’s an unwritten rule you can’t talk about nudity if there are actual naked people present. So for the moment we stop yakking about the peek-a-boo guy in yoga class.
As soon as we get our things from our lockers, and we’re back in the world where everyone is dressed, I say, “We all know what the rules are. Back in the ’70s we used to go to the clothing optional beach. There were whole naked families, old people and babies, and everyone in between. We didn’t think anything about romping in the surf in our birthday suits. But we all knew that if we stopped at the grocery store on the way home, we should have our clothes on. Nobody needed a sign recommending proper attire.”
“Nobody except for our commando yoga guy.”
“Next time, why don’t you just tell him,” I suggest.
“Are you kidding? After what we’ve seen, I’d never be able to keep a straight face.”
The next evening I’m in yoga class again. This time I’ve talked my hubby into going. He’s wearing ankle-length yoga pants over his regular gym shorts, over his underwear. He’s heard all about the commando guy, and he’s not taking any chances. We place our mats in the back row behind three lovely young women wearing short shorts.
As we get into a cross-legged position for our opening meditation, I’m wondering if maybe there shouldn’t be a sign at the door. I catch my hubby’s eye. “Remember, Honey, the purpose of yoga is to unite mind, body and spirit.”
He sits up straighter, already creating extra space in his spine. I think he’s going to get a lot out of this class.
First published in the Montecito Journal June 14, 2007