Skipping Town

Andrew pointed me towards this hilarious YouTube video last night, which nicely portrays the UTTER RIDICULOUSNESS of Facebook. I was half-asleep when Andrew beckoned me to the computer with "You've got to see this video," a summons I usually dread because more often than not it's some kind of Will Farrell montage. (The perception of WF's "humor" is a truly irreconciliable difference between us but one, I'm mostly certain, will not ultimately jeapordize our marriage.) This time, however, I was wholly amused:

I came across an article today on one of my favorite themes: the evil/danger of social networking/computers/video games for kids (indeed, for us all, but I won’t digress). This article , from The Daily Mail, presents findings from a neuroscientist named Susan Greenfield, who asserts that social networking sites, including Facebook and Twitter, actually change childrens’ brains, harming them in all kinds of ways. The whole article was alarming and interesting, but what caught my attention was this troubling analogy: “‘I often wonder whether real conversation in real time may eventually give way to these sanitised and easier screen dialogues, in much the same way as killing, skinning and butchering an animal to eat has been replaced by the convenience of packages of meat on the supermarket shelf,’ she said.” This gave me pause. I see what she’s trying to say—that the real stuff of life, the real physicality of everyday existence, the butchering and skinning and talking face-to-face, is g

On Monday, I had another run-in with the police. I say “another” even though my other two run-ins (which should really be “run-ins”) are spread over the past three years. Nonetheless, three “run-ins”—two of which involved fugitives who’d given my address as their residence—seems notable. Anyway, when the police buzzed our apartment on Monday, I was certain it was going to be another fugitive, and then I was really going to have to start questioning my husband. This time, however, the detectives, as they called themselves, were seeking information about our downstairs neighbor, who’d just moved out two weeks ago. I barely knew her or the boyfriend that was always hanging around, and I don’t know where they moved, but I tried my best to remember what kind of car she drove and provided a detailed description of the boyfriend—“A skater-type.” They showed me surveillance camera pictures of a man I did not recognize, and a picture of the girl. “Can I ask what this is about?” I said. “It migh

I have to say I love my blog. I’ve kept it for over three years now, and it’s really served as a kind of catch-all journal, travelogue, life record, etc. Of interest to many people? Surely not. But of great interest to me. I may often rail against the internet (doom of humanity, thief of childhood, etc etc), but I do like blogging. Let me revise that. I do like blogging, but as much as I like it and have liked it and enjoy now and then revisiting stories from Spain and beyond, my enjoyment is tarnished by a fear of having the blog suddenly disappear. Who knows why this would happen—a crash at Blogger, a crash of the internet, it could be anything, and then it’s gone. Of course, I write all my posts in Word, so things wouldn’t be lost completely, but cutting and pasting hundreds of posts into some kind of single record would be annoying. Possible, but annoying. What I’m getting at is this: I like my blog, but what I really LOVE, in general, are hard copies of things. And I see now I’m n

This weekend, Andrew and I bundled up and flew to the Pacific Northwest for a Seattle exploration. First stop: the Museum of Glass, not in Seattle but in Tacoma, an easy bus ride from the airport. Tacoma is Dale Chihuly’s birthplace, and the Museum of Glass is connected to the downtown area by the Bridge of Glass—not a bridge made out of glass, as Andrew and I mistakenly believed, but an otherwise ordinary bridge made less ordinary by the presence of several Chihuly glass artworks. Two teal-colored rock-candy-like sculptures flank the entrance to the bridge; on the bridge itself is a glass-walled series of shelves holding Chihuly vessels, and an overhead sea of glass creatures and shapes. The focal point of the museum itself is the Hot Shop, a working glass studio with stadium seating, where guest artists give glassmaking demonstrations. We were lucky to be there during Lino Tagliapietra’s residency—a glass artist from Venice—and we could have watched him all day. We watched him create

Last night, Andrew and I made a dreaded trip to Truxel Road, an alarming and chaotic multi-plaza shopping area containing every big-box chain store imaginable. I may have written about Truxel before, but it bears repeating: the parking system is awful, clearly designed by a sadistic maniac, and we once saw a man walking across the parking lot carrying a snake. It is among the worst places on earth. Needless to say, we hate Truxel Road. However, I needed to go to Michael’s for a crafting item for something I’m making Andrew, and I needed paper from Staples. We expected to get these things. What we didn’t expect was to find ridiculous deals. Andrew got a pair of Asics sneakers for $17 at Famous Footwear, down from $60. And I got a brand-new laser printer for $25 at Staples, down from over $100. We spent the money we’d “saved” from our new purchases and went out to dinner (once we’d escaped Truxel Road with our haul). Those are Gabe’s-caliber deals, right here in NorCal.

I can’t complain about the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant nestled in a small shopping plaza on Broadway (yes, there’s a Broadway in Sacramento). The food is pretty cheap and really good, and fast—just twenty minutes or so if you call in your order for pickup. We ordered in last week and had the House Special Dinner B: hot and sour soup, fried prawns, cream cheese fried wantons, General Chicken, Beef in Hot Garlic Sauce, and pork-fried rice—all for just $11.50 per person. Nice.

I can’t complain about Zelda’s, a Sacramento restaurant institution. Though Sacramento has a variety of dining options, we’ve found that our favorite is not very glamorous: a pizza place. From the outside, with its impenetrable, windowless front and uninviting, industrial-strength door, Zelda’s appears to be a dive-y establishment, perhaps one we would not be welcome to enter. Inside, however, it couldn’t be friendlier, with a smallish bar area and lots of high-backed wooden booths, all very dimly lit save for some all-season Christmas lights. The deep-dish pizza at Zelda’s is unique, its crust almost pie-like—not greasy at all. We always order the Combination, with mushrooms, olives, peppers, sausage, and pepperoni, and a half-pitcher of Budweiser. Our total bill is always exactly $25. Can’t complain about that.

When you live in a place like Sacramento, you get your thrills where you can find them. This week, Andrew and I challenged ourselves to eat for an entire week without going to the grocery store, foraging for meals within our refrigerator and cupboards. It’s Friday, and we’ve done very well. Here’s the rundown: Late Sunday night, post-Super Bowl: leftover pizza from Saturday night at Zelda’s, our favorite pizza place. Monday: Lunch—sandwich (Andrew), remaining leftover chicken piccata and rice pilaf from last Thursday (me). Dinner—fettuccini with sautéed Swiss chard, walnuts, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes. Andrew also made a batch of blackberry muffins with blackberries we’ve had in our freezer since the summer. Tuesday: Lunch—sandwich (Andrew), leftover fettuccini (me). Dinner—egg salad sandwiches a la Alice Waters (scallions, capers, parsley, cayenne pepper). Wednesday: Lunch—leftover fettuccini. Dinner—chicken salad sandwiches a la Alice Waters (chicken, scallions, capers, celery, c

Two Wednesdays ago, Andrew called from work and said, “I just checked last night’s lottery numbers.” On any other day, this would have been of little importance. We play the California Mega Millions on Tuesdays and Fridays, counting on our shrewdly picked numbers to set us up, eventually, for life, and we’re pretty consistent in our luck: we usually get zero numbers. But on this particular Wednesday morning, the news was a little different: we’d forgotten to get our Mega Millions ticket for Tuesday. Andrew’s voice was grim, and my stomach dropped. “We got three numbers,” he said. Why are you telling me this? I screamed in my head. Out loud I asked quietly, “What would we have won?” Andrew waited a beat before breaking the news. “Four dollars,” he said finally, and I nearly shouted with relief. I tell this little anecdote because it seems our luck has changed; and Sunday night I won $100 on the Super Bowl. This is remarkable for a couple of reasons: first, because I’ve never before bet

On Saturday, Andrew and I drove out to Bodega Bay, a small coastal town about an hour and a half’s drive from Sacramento. We met Beth and Nate and the babies near the harbor, and had lunch at a crab shack overlooking the boats. It’s Dungeness crab season here, with signs all over the harbor advertising fresh crab for sale directly from the local fishermen. We sat outside in the sun—it was a lovely day, in the 60s—and had crab sandwiches, nothing but fresh crab and a little dressing on good rolls. After lunch, we headed to a nearby beach, nestled below a dramatic rocky coastline, with waves crashing over rocks in the surf. The beach was full of crab claws and mussel shells and saltwater-smoothed rocks and seaweed, but the babies seemed most interested in running at top speed toward the water, with Beth and Nate doing their best to keep their little shoes dry (they had less luck with their own shoes). Before Andrew and I left later that afternoon, we saw a crowd of people gathered on top