Built Like a Brick Shit House

The scene is very familiar.  A group of couples come over for a casual summer barbecue.  As the host you are responsible for the entrées, but your guests arrive carrying guacamole and chips, salad ingredients or dessert, or perhaps a couple bottles of wine.  After initial pleasantries, the group naturally splits in two, the men who wander outside and cluster around the barbecue, and the women who stand in the kitchen and prepare the salad and hors d’oeuvres.  The two groups will happily reconvene when dinner is served, but for 45 minutes or so, by tacit and mutual agreement, there are two separate but equal groups.  Continue reading

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Truth, Dissembling and Lying and the Wisdom to Know the Difference

Truth, Dissembling, Lying and the Wisdom to Know the Difference

Ever since I put my first shiny nickel into my pocket, walked into Woolworth’s and bought my first bag of M&Ms, I have been comfortably ensconced in the predictable world of a fixed-priced economy – an even playing field for consumer goods and services, based on the naïve concept that the price of something should reflect the manufacturing cost plus a profit margin.  I recognized that a few things that fell out of this paradigm.  Most notably the price of cars and large appliances were negotiable, but these opportunities were never aggressively pursued by my father, who was in charge of such large purchases.  My father grew up in family where bargaining, or more pejoratively dickering or haggling, were considered unseemly.  And if you left some money on the table at the car dealership, so be it, that was just one of the privileges of having enough wherewithall in the first place.

I don’t think that my father ever bargained for a car, he would walk in and pay list price.  Dad used to drive these big huge sedans – the kind of gas guzzling cars that don’t exist anymore – and one of them had something wrong with the pressure such that the side window would shatter on hot days when the air conditioning was running full blast.  After the first episode, the car dealer assured him that it was fixed, but a window shattered again.   This time it was on the driver’s side and even worse, my father was driving with a client.  The window exploded with a loud bang and shards of glass flew everywhere.  One stuck into Dad’s neck, producing a trickle of blood that oozed into his shirt collar.  The client yelled out, “My God, Ralph, you’ve been shot!” and it certainly sounded plausible.  Dad simply returned the car and bought a different car at a different dealership.  Even as a young teenager, I realized that my father’s inherited aversion to any type of bargaining was way over the top.  My basic premise was if you’re bloody and think that you’ve been shot, the car dealership should fawn all over you and give you the choice any car on the lot, no questions asked.  There’s bargaining and then there is being taken advantage of. Continue reading

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Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery: Conclusion

I started to walk across the lawn towards my car, but Henry spoke up again.  As I turned I saw his gun pointed at me.  “Simba, I really insist that you stop ignoring me.  I asked a simple question, and I don’t think that it’s too much to ask.  So I’ll say it again, and this time I want an answer.  Why was Sylvia here?”  This time he was pointing the gun at Simba.  I reached into my purse to feel Sam’s gun.  Continue reading

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Deuce Bitch

I played a lot of tennis growing up, in part because we had a tennis court in our back yard, but mostly because my mother was an avid player.  This was back in the sixties, in the days when women’s sports, competition and sweat were considered unseemly.  I  certainly didn’t have scads of lessons and my friends and I were mostly self taught through many pick-up games.   Susan Coleman and I were pretty decent players, but early on I also recognized the difference between being athletic and being an athlete.  Athletic describes God-given hand-eye coordination, speed, and/or anticipation, while the word athlete describes additional training, conditioning and competitiveness.  That type of commitment just wasn’t in me; the thought of simply working out was repulsive and I rarely cared if I won or lost, though I do think that Susan and I had some sort of vague rivalry.  Continue reading

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Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery: Chapter 49

Henry emerged from a side door and stood on the stone patio.  Sam and I were about 50 years away and down a small dip in the landscaping overlooking the canyon.  But even at this distance in the dark, I made out the unmistakable shape of a small hand gun.  Sam stopped moving toward the house, but stood up straight and said in a loud voice, “Henry, do you always bring a gun to a family reunion?  It is a somewhat unusual choice, don’t you think, but it seems to be the one thing that we have ever agreed on.  You see, I never come to a family reunion without a gun either.”  He reached into his pocket and now the two men  vaguely pointed a gun at each other.  I wonder if Henry had ever shot a gun.  I was sure that Sam had pulled a few triggers, but all bets were off since both men were wavering unsteadily in the moonlight. Continue reading

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Impulse Control

My husband might point out that one of my most economical and endearing traits is that I simply don’t shop.  Almost all of my clothes come from a trusted online catalog; I have a limited roster of clothes that are best described as a uniform of black pants, white top and a selection of cotton Henley shirts, or perhaps a linen jacket.  I can’t remember the last time I went to a mall to just look around, but when I do shop, I am all about the impulse buy.  My most consistent weakness is the craft fair, where I am a sucker for a bracelet or necklace made from beach stones.  Last summer I went to a large flea market with my friend Sally; the ostensible purpose was to find vintage board games, but I was eager to be surprised.  So I could hardly pass up the vendor who was selling very squishy, but IMG_0065nevertheless lifelike breasts.  Oddly he was only selling them as a trio, so for the low, low price of five dollars I was the proud owner of three squeeze-gook breasts.  Another time I went to an art fair with my friend Margot with no intention of buying anything and came back with a large primitive art piece that looks like a bird roost filled with misshapen clay birds.  Nick was a bit skeptical of this impulse, but hopefully he also remembers that I only get my hair cut every couple of years. Continue reading

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Podcast: Home Style Chunks

An exploration of human grade dogfood, culminating in a human taste test.

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Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery: Chapter 48

I walked out the gate and pondered my options, which turned out to be very limited.  Just didn’t seem right for a private eye to arrive at a potential crime scene in a cab.  But then I remembered that Mary had moved around here a couple of years ago.  It was her statement house, she said, to prove that she had arrived in Santa Teresa society.  I really wasn’t a good enough friend to call her at this hour, but with any luck, Nick Nichol would be with her, and he was somebody I could always call.  My purse was still in my stolen car, and with a sickening feeling, I realized that my gun was in there also – an unforgivable mistake, but fortunately, my cell phone was still clipped to my waistband.  My call to Nick went straight to voice mail, but it always did, since Nick never answered a call on the first try.  I think  it was a control issue, he always wanted to be the one to initiate a call on his schedule.  But I knew that he couldn’t resist the juicy message I left him.  Continue reading

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Things That I Have Given Up Trying to Understand

Rattling around in the back of my mind, organized into two categories, are lists of things that I just don’t understand.  One list consists of diverse items that I have accepted as enduring mysteries beyond my comprehension.  Electricity, for example – can’t seem to understand it, but that doesn’t stop me from turning the lights on and off.   Raw carrots are also on this list, specifically why I always get the hiccups when I eat them.  Then there is the issue of my chocolate chip cookies and why they come out differently every time. Sometimes they are beautifully fluffy.  Other times they are thin wafers, which can have their own crispy charm, unless, like last night, I have to pry them off the cookie sheet like a scab.   Continue reading

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Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery: Chapter 47

As I got back into my car, I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day.  I figured I would have a bite to eat, and then just sack out at Ralph and Fanny’s.  It really didn’t make any sense for me to cross town to my apartment, particularly if I had to head back into Cutter City tomorrow.  I was utterly exhausted, but at the same time experiencing the excitement of a breaking case, something that had not happened for a long time.  Cheating spouses were my bread and butter, and typically involved long, tedious stints of surveillance, punctuated by a few revealing photos.  Then there was the tearful meeting with aggrieved spouses, confirming what they already knew, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired me in the first place.  Runaways or skip traces could be more interesting, but mostly involved computer work, and if the runaway turned out up out of town, all I had to do was call the local authorities.  But this case was the liveliest I had in a long time.  I remember when my father got a hold of a breaking case – the pacing around, the endless cups of coffee, the sleepless nights, but most of all the excitement in being the only one to understand all of the pieces.  Sometimes the pieces would fall together on their own, and sometimes Dad was the master manipulator.  Occasionally, I would feel a little uncomfortable about Dad’s excitement, after all he was enjoying the misery of others, but now I understood it all.  I loved this case and all its moving parts.  I think that I was in command of more pieces of information of the intersection between the Todd’s, Murphy’s and Knox’s.  Well perhaps each of the individuals had more information than I did, but I don’t think that any of them – Sam, Simba, Henry – realized that I knew as much as I did, and that was a source of power.   I just had to make sure to use it carefully – using information to get information was one of Dad’s tips. Continue reading

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