Earlier this week I was involved in a slight fender bender on the north-bound 805 going to work. Traffic was at a crawl as usual when a woman behind me who was yakking on her cell phone (naturally), didn't see me slow down and rear ended me. She hit me with a fair amount of force, so it was with fear and trepidation that I got out to survey the damage. The only real visible sign of the collision was some scratches on my bumper and the right backup light popped out. As I examined the light later with Boni, turns out that the light bulb also popped out, but wasn't broken. We plugged the light bulb back in and it worked! We reattached the case into the bumper and you can't even tell I was hit.
Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to have a mechanic look at it on Tuesday. How much do you want to bet that he finds a broken whatchmacallit INSIDE the bumper that will cost at least $1,000 to fix? Anyone wanna take that bet?
On a lark yesterday, my friend Patrick and I decided that it was important that we stand in the most southwest corner of the USA and get our picture taken. Obviously this means that we were standing on the beach with the ocean lapping at our feet inches in front of the hideous border fence between California and Mexico. The United States side of the fence was completely deserted except for a few curious folks like ourselves and about half a dozen border patrol agents. This area was supposed to be a park, but the grass around the picnic tables was all dead and there were floodlights and cameras everywhere. It reminded me of that old WWII movie Stalag 17. Unfortunatley, our side is the side that looked like the prison. I could see through the fence into Mexico and see many shops, a pleasant park and a bullfighting arena within feet of the border line. While I looked longingly through the fence at the delicious restaurants and nice hotels in Tiajuana, I saw many faces looking back at me with equal longing at the vast expanse of nothingness I was standing on.
I felt a sadness in me as I looked at these people, milling around the fence, obviously waiting for the few hours until sunset when they would make their attempt at crossing the border. As I talked to Patrick about the recent protest groups here in San Diego that are doing their own border patrols, the anger Patrick displayed about our policies on illegal immigration began to bubble in me too.
You know what I thought of? I thought of President Reagan years ago in Berlin saying "Mr. Gorbachev, TEAR DOWN THIS WALL". In my heart I was saying the same thing. Somehow I doubt President Bush hears us, though...
Today is Day 4 of my New Year's resolution to exercise every day. So far so good, but I can feel a little bit of rebellion coming on with regards to these "good for me" resolutions I promised to make and keep this year. The other two resolutions are to eat healthy and to cut out the Diet Coke. I'm doing a good job at eating healthy mainly because that is the only way Boni cooks and since I have hired him to wait on me hand and foot, I can't in good conscience complain about what he cooks can I? Whenever I whine about wanting a Diet Coke, however, I get no sympathy, just a stern look and a reminder that I've done really well to be "off the sauce" for a whole week now. I hate it when he's right.
I think it would be funny to tell my parents that Boni insists that Diet Coke is tantamount to a shot of whiskey. I wonder what he'd say if he knew that the former Bishop was harboring four 12-packs of "the sauce" in his garage. I'll let him continue to have his delusions about my father. They'll be blown asunder the first time he hears my Dad curse anyway.
Update: I fell off the wagon and had a shot of Diet Coke for lunch. I'll begin the 12-step process anew tomorrow. Just don't tell Boni, OK?
My grandmother passed away at this time last year and for some reason I've been keenly feeling her absence right now. I was tearing up the other day as I was driving down the road and as I frantically searched for a tissue to wipe my eyes, I remembered how my Grandma used to keep a tissue tucked in the front of her bra. That was enough to make me smile.
In the intervening years it has never crossed my mind to keep a supply of tissue in my bra, just in case, like my grandmother did. I no longer have to contemplate doing that because I now have a wonderful beau who is the gallant and old-fashioned type who always carries a clean handkerchief that he silently passes to me. He doesn't even bat an eye when I discreetly blow my nose in it and hand it back to him. THAT, my friends, is the definition of chivalry...
(Thanks to Beth for her blog entry that got me thinking about this)
I rationalize how much I like revisiting the past, however. Just because I reminisce I don't consider that to be an old behavior. Look at VH1. They are looking back in nostalgia at the '90's for crying out loud, and not the 1890's either. Is life coming at us so fast now that history becomes history that much sooner?
I have a friend who calls me up so we can watch the same TV programs via phone together (don't ask me why we don't just get in the car and go to each other's house, that would take all the fun out of it). He called me up last night and said "Quick. Turn on the History Channel." I was just in time to watch another amazing episode of "Modern Marvels". We marveled as we watched a farmer harvest his walnut crop from 2 months ago with this cool machine that shakes the tree trunks until the nuts fall off. You hear those footsteps? That's history sneaking up on you.
I think I stay young because I still find great pleasure in doing much of the fun things that I loved doing as a youth like bike riding, camping, and reading. Lots and lots of reading. And mainly what I call trashy novels. I love a good trashy novel. The trashier the better. I like being able to share my favorites with other people who like reading trashy novels too. Unfortunately, that usually relegates me to people my own age, as I find that today's young people haven't really discovered the joys of pulp fiction.
One of my 2006 goals is to write the great American (trashy) novel. My mind is cluttered with enough garbage that I'm sure I could do it. Wish me luck.
