The General Situation

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

We just had a friend, P., and his two kids, stay with us for a night. Being around kids is always an adventure, since they're less predictable than adults. (Most adults, anyway.) The younger of the two, a sixth-grader, surprised us even more when, apropos of nothing, he told a joke at the dinner table. The gist was that two guys were playing a word-association game, and one would consistently respond, "Faggot." 

Adam and I were stunned into silence. The boy seems younger than his years, and I was positive he wasn't trying to provoke us. Indeed, after it became clear that he couldn't remember how the joke was supposed to go—there was no discernible punchline—P. asked him if he knew what "faggot" means. Nope. Just that it was an insult.

Later, I got a bit angry that such a teachable moment went untaught. Why didn't P. explain that the word is mean, inflammatory, and best avoided? But I didn't feel like it was my place to intervene.

The next morning, P. told us that he has recently gotten the impression that the boy might be gay. And with that, P.'s inaction made much more sense: I suspect that he was realizing he has to explain not just what the word "faggot" means, but also, by extension, the challenges that all gay people face—a heavy burden to place on narrow shoulders.

P.S. Adam often takes bad photos of me, but this one might be the worst.

French Fries for Breakfast

Last night, I dreamed that Adam and I were at a resort somewhere in Santa Barbara, when a fire broke out in the distance. Naturally, we were worried about our house, but we couldn't go investigate because the valet parking staff was nowhere to be found. You know you're a Southern Californian when....

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Me: [Blah blah blah about certain other people's horseshitty behavior.]

Mom: I’m proud of you for not losing control and smacking sense into them. Because, you know, patience and tolerance are not your main virtues.

Me: And where do you think I get that from?

Mom: Me!

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My birthday isn't till November, but you can always order it now and hold onto it.

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Like any sensible person, I despise the current president of the United States. Ever since he was elected, I've wondered how we can (figuratively!) hit him where it hurts. The man cares only about his own name and standing, so I propose that from now on, everyone opposed to his administration refer to the toilet and/or bathroom as the Trump. "Excuse me, can you direct me to the Trump?" "Man, I shouldn't have eaten that meatball sub. I need to use the Trump." "That was the nastiest public Trump I've seen in a long time." If enough of us do it, the brand name, such as it is, will be nothing more than a joke.

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While at a McDonald's the other day—it was a hunger emergency, and we were in San Luis Obispo—I was delighted by this monitor showing whose order was ready and whose was still getting prepared. Progress! But then I realized I had ordered at 10:29 a.m. instead of waiting one minute, when fries became available. I've said it before: Why doesn't McDonald's offer fries at breakfast?

Ankle Biters

Pardon the delay between posts. I've been.... Well, busy isn't the right word. Otherwise occupied? We had some houseguests, and then we went up to Paso Robles for a night. And of course we're always looking at houses. We used to see three or four or five at a time, but now, because we're based here, we see them as they come up—which has become a grind (and I say that as someone who generally loves looking at real estate and thinks our brokers are fun to be with). At least we get moments like this now and then.

For the first few days after the rattlesnake incident, snakes were all we could talk about, and by "we" I mean Adam. To be fair, he was the one who discovered it, inches from his bare foot, shaking its tail as a prelude to an attack.

Me: What should we have for dinner? I have the makings of a decent salad in the fridge.

Adam: I don't know. I guess we could have pasta.

Me: Do we have anything in the freezer?

Adam: I wonder what eats rattlesnakes.

Or this:

Me: My car made that funny grinding noise again. I think it may be the automatic warning system.

Adam: We should wear boots when we hike, because snakes tend to go for the ankle.

Today, we returned from looking at yet another house—some midcentury charm, but in an iffy location and overpriced more than usual—to find a package outside our door. "I ordered snake guards," said Adam, and I had visions of gaiters. Turns out he bought window screens so we can leave the door open without fear of anyone slithering in.

P.S. The drive up and back to Paso Robles was very pretty, and we took a fantastic hike. You can see some of the superbloom in the top of the second photo below; alas, the wind stopped us from getting all the way up there.

P.P.S. While on a boardwalk through dunes outside Pismo Beach, we came across this sign. I didn't even know such a thing existed. And, anyway, wouldn't a legless lizard be the same thing as a snake? "Nope," explains How Stuff Works. "They're two entirely different animals from separate evolutionary lines. Legless lizards evolved from the legged lizards with which most of us are familiar; legless snakes evolved from four-legged snakes that most of us have never seen." Let's hope these four-legged snakes can't jump....

What Is This Thing Called Glamour?

When I worked at Town & Country, people who left often got commemorative covers mocked up for them. Here was mine, from 1996.

Despite what appears to be a goatee, I think it proves that I used to be quite fun. Note the "20-Karat Gold Pants"; the "Looking Fabulous in Skintight Manmade Fabrics" (which must have been about a memorable pair of PVC pants); the reference to my clique; and of course the boa, artfully worn with a plaid flannel shirt. Very Marc Jacobs. I'm not sure why Babe Paley got dragged into this, although she was tremendous. As for "The Avant Gardener," it was a title that my friend/colleague Cheryl and I always hoped to use. And "Who's Sari Now?" was one we did slip into the magazine.

And then there was the one that the folks at Budget Travel made for me 12 years later.... I have to say, they nailed it.

We ran this cover (with a different face) because I was tired of how women—or maybe a straight couple—were always on the cover of travel magazines. Some readers loved it; others hated it. Hey, whatever makes them pay attention.... As for the cover lines (clockwise from the top left):

1. The magazine's official name was Arthur Frommer's Budget Travel, even long after he was pushed out. Not only did they make the magazine mine, they intentionally misspelled my name, in honor of people tending to get it wrong.

2. I assigned myself a feature about a long winter weekend in Europe, and then I went to the wrong airport. Luckily, the flight was delayed. Still, you have to remember, I was the editor of a travel magazine.

3. I didn't care for unnecessary brackets or parentheses. Still don't!

4. The "idonttravelcheap.com" URL in the lower right corner points out that in some ways I was an awkward fit for the topic.

5. The nipple-biting stingray was discussed here.

6. Regarding the white lines on the left side: I don't think Shawnda and I insulted many locals; I never actually got the trumpet player outside my office window deported; and I'm pretty sure we never determined whether the Pret girl was pregnant. Last but not least, I blogged tipsy once, about Las Vegas (and I was right about the city, if ill-advised to air my thoughts).

P.S. "Mexican Macho Bananas" sounds like a cover line for a different kind of magazine.

Snake's Alive!

I was just finishing a post-swim coffee when Adam called me at the café: "I think there's a snake in the kitchen. And it might be a rattlesnake." He had been standing by the coffee maker when he heard what he described as a hiss coming from under the cabinets. 

When I got home, Adam climbed up onto the island, inching toward the snake on his belly, so he could take a photo with his phone. You could make out eyes, but not much more—certainly not enough to determine whether it was a rattler. (And we had been Googling the relevant attributes.) I had the bright idea of using our real camera, including the flash.

I called Santa Barbara Animal Control, which said we're in the county's jurisdiction. Santa Barbara County Animal Control didn't open for another 45 minutes, so I left a message and Adam tried a pest-control company. They said to call Andy, the Wildlife Trapper. "I'll drop everything and be there in 20 minutes," he said. In the meantime, we were told to stand guard in case the snake decided to move somewhere else.

"That's a western rattlesnake," he said when he saw the photo. "I see five or six a year. They're extremely dangerous. If it bit you, you'd have about six hours to get treatment, but that's really painful and expensive. It costs like $100,000." We nodded along, even though it sounded like a fair amount, all in all. He explained that he was going to have to kill the snake, which he would hopefully do by shooting it in the head with a .22 caliber pellet rifle. "You have to be really sure it's dead," he said. "We eat them—"

"Oh, sure," Adam said. "It’s like eel at a Japanese restaurant!"

"—and once, after I killed one, I cut off the head and skinned it and put the meat in my bag and I could still feel it wiggling around in there." 

As he lined up his shot, the snake rattled its tail. (Adam can now say he knows what that sounds like.) Andy fired the gun. "Got it! There's blood everywhere." After Andy turned to tell us something, however, the snake disappeared somewhere inside the cabinetry.

"I'm 99.9% sure it's dead, but we don't want to leave a dead animal here," said Andy. "The smell will be terrible. I’ve done so many dead-animal removals and I can tell by the smell whether it's a possum or a rat. For some reason snakes and rabbits are the worst." I think Adam and I might've been willing to put up with the rotting corpse if we could just get confirmation that it was, in fact, a corpse.

Andy drilled a hole into the cabinet wall for a better look. There was plenty of blood, but no clear trail—and no way it could've come in this way. "I think this rattlesnake came in through an open door," said Andy, vindication for those of us who weren't happy about several doors being left open the evening before. Andy kept inspecting the cabinetry, looking for pockets where the snake could be hiding, and carving holes. "I don’t want to stick my hand in, for obvious reasons."

After two hours of being here—and quite a bit of light carpentry—Andy found the snake. He couldn't see all of it, but he could see the rattle. Judging from the six rings, the snake was six years old. Andy grabbed what he called his bat tongs, most recently used for a bat extraction, to pull the snake out.

"SHIT! HE'S STILL ALIVE! FUCKER!" Andy reared back. "Pardon my language. Man, that was close." As he had grabbed at the snake, it had somehow coiled around and come toward him. "Oh my lord," said Andy, clearly pumped full of fear and adrenalin. "That was close. I need my rifle." Adam handed him a hoe-like tool, to pin the snake down, and the rifle. Andy shot the snake again. And again. “Blew its brains out there, for sure." Ten seconds later, he seemed to rethink his position. "And because this sucker's been such a pain in the ass, he gets one more.” Bam!

The snake was around a foot-and-a-half long. After giving us the photo op, Andy took the snake out to behead it. He came back a little jittery. I asked if he was still reeling from the adrenalin. "It tried to get me again!" he said. "I carefully dumped it out of the garbage bag and onto the ground, and it lunged around to attack one last time."

I hate killing animals, but this was clearly an extenuating circumstance. Many, many thanks to Andy!

P.S. Post-snake, Adam and I went to lunch at a restaurant where you're given a buzzer after ordering, to notify you when the food is ready. We got our drinks from the machine, along with napkins and condiments, and as we were heading through the crowded outdoor area, Adam turned to me and said, "You have the vibrator, right?"