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So Says the Mama

After almost nine years of living with the Mama, the Husband and I sometimes find ourselves saying one of the Mama's infamous phrases. The first few times, the Husband heard her say them, he asked me, "Why does she say that?" Like I would know. But, I did try my best to reason out why she might. Now that the phrases pop out of the Husband's mouth, he may be able to explain to me why she would say such a thing.  Here are two of our  favorite phrases of the Mama. Lots of people there? The Husband and I come home from a party, a hike in a park, a local function, a something. "Hello," we call out, as we enter the house. "Hello, hello." We usually have to say "Hello" a few times because the Mama doesn't answer right away, even if she happens to be in the living room, which is just a short hallway from the front door. When she doesn't answer, which, as the Husband says, is normally a grunt, I go searching for her. "We'

What I Would Do

If I were more ambitious, I would nudge myself to actually take the time do the following ten ... five ... three! things within the next...uhm...let's say five weeks. Sew the "bridle" for Molly the Cat. It's not really called a "bridle". I just can't remember the correct term right now. But, it's the thing to which you attach a leash. Yes, the Husband and I have visions of walking with Molly the Cat. So does the Mama. I've already bought the "ingredients" (again, I can't remember the correct term) for the project. If you're curious about my vague description, check this link . Okay, the bridle is a harness. Bridle sounds so much nicer. Pedal my bicycle to and from Tres Pinos. Every morning before breakfast, too. Tres Pinos is a cool, tiny village about five to seven miles away from the house, depending on what route I take. This would be a very huge commitment as well as a complete overhaul of my schedule. It would mean

Priorities

Yesterday, I was going to do our taxes. Instead, I took the Mama to the annual Easter BBQ fundraiser sponsored by the local Filipino American  club. Purchasing the chicken lunch is the Mama's way of "making" the Easter meal since she no longer has the stamina to do it herself. It's also her unspoken way of giving me a break from cooking. Well, that's what I like to think. Yesterday was a beautiful afternoon for a picnic. As the Mama likes to say, "Lot of people there." The lunch line was long, about 45 minutes long. I didn't mind standing in it at all, especially when I ended up talking with the guy behind me who turned out to be the nephew of Alice, a friend of my mom's from long, long time ago. What did he and I remember so well about Alice: Her cookies!  I also recall that it could be hot, hot, HOT outside, but so cool, cool, COOL inside her house. Dark, too. But, then that's what made it so cool. While I stood in line yakking awa

A New Daydream

This morning, I read that a local farm needs a driver to deliver CSA boxes to its distribution points in several cities. Only twice a week. Only 15 to 20 hours a week. $12 to $14/hour, depending on experience. I would love that job. Yes, I would. Those are not long hours at all. The pay is definitely a living wage and it would be a nice monetary supplement for this nonstarving writer.  The lifting and hauling? I may not be in the best of shape, but I can manage the up to 40 pounds per item. I truly believe that within a few weeks my strength and stamina would be greatly improved. I would be hauling boxes with the not-quite nonchalance I used to do when I was quite younger. (Hey, it's my daydream.) Besides, the Husband says he would do it with me. Just think, the farmer would get two for the cost of one. If only I didn't have this writing project right now. And, those other responsibilities that I can't walk away from for two days a week. I know my limits—and my

Time Out: What is This?

Let's play the guessing game. What do you think this is? Ah, you don't want to scroll down, do ya?  Easy, huh? A hidey-hole. Most certainly a huge one. Who else thinks this could be a portal to another dimension? Or, a place to hide treasures? Or....? Whoa! Would you believe this is an avocado tree? It's one of the oldest ones in California—more than 100 years old.  Just think of all the secrets that may have been hidden in that hidey-hole. If you're ever in Santa Cruz, California, you can check the tree out at the Santa Cruz State Historic Park .

Remembering Daddy

In 1975, he worked part-time "to earn pocket money and get a little bit of exercise". When I was 19, I visited the Philippines with Daddy. I saw where both Daddy and Mama came from—the barrio of Bactad in the province of Pangasinan. I, who was born in the United States, did not feel like I finally found home. Ten years later, I visited Hawaii for the first time. Immediately, I knew I was home. The smell. The feel. The taste. Hawaii was where Daddy lived for a quarter of his century. His youth, his coming into middle-age, his single life. There, in Hawaii, in the sugarcane fields, the streets of Honolulu. There, he lived away from family, independent and free. Daddy was one of the many young Filipino men who signed a three-year contract to work on Hawaiian plantations. His year to leave home was 1928. A young, handsome man of 23 years. What was it like for him? I cannot even begin to imagine. His plan was to go back home after his contract was up. But he had ma

Remembering. . .What?

Some days are better than others when it comes to my memory. Who am I kidding? It's really down to moments. Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was 17, I memorized all of Horton Hears a Who! by Dr. Seuss for a public-speaking competition. I recall stumbling once or twice. Maybe trice. Ah, I had a strong memory back then. My long-term memory is still rather good. I just related a tale from over 40 years ago, didn't I? It's the short-term memory. Sigh. The other day, I was telling the Husband how many states allow employers to pay their workers who receive tips far less than minimum wage, as long as the combination of their tips and hourly rate (let's say $2.13/hour) totals up to either the federal or state minimum wage, whichever is the higher amount in the state. Yes, I know. The Husband could not believe it either. I'm glad to say that California does not have that law. I told the Husband that I learned all this from research I had done the day before f

Huh?

You, liberals, want the government to give everything away for free. Huh? You want free sex and free rock-and-roll! Huh? Tickets to rock-and-roll shows cost too much for my budget. As for sex. Pay for it? You're kidding. Right? Ah, if only I had been more nimble minded to think of these answers not four decades ago, but just several weeks past. The funny thing was that the person who said it was not someone from an older generation. Unless, hmmm, I count my generation, which is now an older one.   A night out means wearing my dancing shoes and carrying my fancy old-lady purse, which was free. Oh, no!

Randomly Yours

Spring? Winter? I dunno. We're finally getting rain. Lots of rain. Plenty of rain. We may have a lousy apricot crop though. That's okay. We have several bags of frozen apricot form last year's harvest. Yesterday, the husband and I went out for a walk. After two days of being indoors, because of the lovely rain,  our bodies were shouting "Exercise, Pu-leese!" The rain had stopped. The sky was blue. The wind was strong. And, bitingly cold. I complained, of course. "You'll warm up. Walk fast," said the husband, stretching ahead of me. I kept my head down and let the wind zig and zag me as I walked. I pretended I was a kite. By the time we reached our goal, we were both game to go a further distance to return home. I'm glad we did. We would not have known that there was snow on the mountain range to the east. Nothing like all-of-a-sudden treats. Have a wonderful week, dear readers. It may look like white clouds just above the mountain

Growing Mushrooms

Last week, the husband and I bought a grow-your-own mushroom kit from Bertuccio's Market , one of our local produce stores. As you can see the kit is a very compact package. It's also very easy to take care of, as long as I remember to spritz the slits after breakfast and then again in the evening as the husband washes the dinner dishes. Five days later—so far, so good. Little bumps are starting to burst forth. The mushroom kit is produced by Back to the Roots , a company based in Oakland, California. According to the instructions, the kit should produce 1.5 pounds of oyster mushrooms. The first crop should appear in 10 days. After five days, I don't know about that. Maybe it means, the bumps will have grown into larger bumps and pushed their way through the bag. We've tried growing mushrooms before, with zilch results. But, then, that was because we let the magic dry out long before we paid attention to the package. Maybe this time, it'll be different. We a

10 Things I Did Not Know about Cats

Since Molly the Cat came into our lives, I did not know that: Cats snore. Cats sleep on their backs with their arms and legs splayed out. Yeah, just like a drunken person. Cats like to have something to eat after having been brushed. Cats don't necessarily know how nor inclined to say meow to their humans. Molly the Cat chirrups when she talks to us. Cats will wait until you clean up their litter box, then jump into it immediately and do their thing. I always thank Molly the Cat for doing it before I throw the poop bag away. Cats will suddenly race around the house after something that only they can see. They run so fast, you think you can see lines of action, such as those drawn in cartoons, extending from them as they shoot down the hallway and take the corner almost in mid air. Cats will pretend to wait for your permission to go explore that dark corner between the couches just to make you feel that you are the boss. Ha! Cats are even pickier eaters than the Mama. W

Forging Upward and Onward

A photo I shot in 1976 in San Benito County where I was born and grew up "You've come a long way," a fellow editor had said to me (out of the blue I might add) as three of us co-workers were eating lunch on a lovely Saturday afternoon (it could've been Sunday, but does it really matter)  many years ago. If I had been quick on my feet, or just less shy, I would've retorted, "You came further." She, after all, had migrated from Chicago to San Francisco, while my hometown was less than a 100 miles away. But, she wasn't talking about distance. She was referring to the fact that my parents were "uneducated" immigrants from an impoverished country who did not have a grasp on the English language, and who were only able to "achieve" farm jobs in the United States. As if all that would make a difference on their ability to do well in a new world or for their daughter to complete college and become a —gasp—professional. After al

In the Middle of the Night

Ping. She looked up from her bowl. As she swallowed her bite, she gazed at a shadow in front of her. She turned to inspect the world behind her. She slowly peered beyond me for the source of the sound, and, possibly, the shadow. Feeling safe, she went back to her nightly snack. Ping. She stopped in mid-bite and turned quickly again. Her head slightly moved as she scanned the room. I thought I saw a faint light scamper through the darkness of the nearby kitchen. I shivered. "Ah, Molly, you're scaring me." Molly the Cat did not reassure me. She didn't even acknowledge me. She took one last glance around the room, then turned and ate one more morsel of food. "I'm going to bed." I said, shaking off my spooky thoughts. Molly the Cat followed me down the hall. As I went left to go up the stairs, she went right into the dark kitchen to do whatever she does at night, while the rest of us sleep soundly, oblivious to her grand adventures—and to vis

Staying the Course

I've been dragging my fingers across the keyboard right now, and pressing the delete button a lot. I just don't feel like writing. So, why try, you may ask. It's not like my boss will scold me if I don't offer something up to the blog today. Well, yes, the boss will scold me. The boss is me. When I started Don't be a Hippie , I committed myself to publishing a post every Tuesday and Thursday. A job commitment is a commitment, regardless of whether it's to myself or to someone else for a fee. Blogging wasn't always like that for me. It was mostly comme çi, comme ça.  But, a few years ago, I went through a rather bad bout of what I shall just call writer's block. I used the delete button and stared at a blank computer screen more than quite a lot, and that's saying it mildly. The only way to keep that from happening again is for me to meet my self-imposed deadlines. It truly helped that I made myself do a daily post for one year on my Take 2

The Two of Us

Several years ago, a bicycle repair guy asked the Husband and me, "Do you do everything together?" "Almost," one of us, and possibly both, said. "Both your bikes had a broken spoke in the rear wheel at the same spot," said the bicycle repair guy, shaking his head in what seemed like disbelief that that was possible. The husband and I have been pretty much with each other 24/7 for the past 13 years. It works. We've started walking for exercise again. We each follow our own pace, which means the husband is usually hundreds of feet ahead of me. Every so often he circles back to see how I'm doing, especially when I've lagged behind because I've stopped to take photos. © 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved. 

In Passing

Last Thursday, I shared with you, dear readers, the beginning of my 30 years as a writer and editor. That was the upside of 30 years ago. The downside was the death of the Daddy, two weeks after I started my new job. The last time I saw him was the weekend before I started work. The parents were both happy—the Daddy, in particular—that I finally got a job. One, especially, that I was excited about. On the last evening of my visit, I was rummaging through my old bedroom closet for some stuff. I don't know how long the Daddy had stood at the bedroom door  watching me before I realized he was there. "Do you want something?" I asked. He smiled. "No," he said. I returned to my quest. He stood there for a few more seconds, then left. It was such a odd thing for him to do. When I was a small kid, every now and then I would wake to find the Daddy and the Mama looking at me. I always pretended I was asleep. "She's okay," the Daddy used to say,

Life is Good

On Saturday, the Husband, the Mama, and I took the plunge and adopted Missy Molly by Golly. She's about one-and-a-half years old, more or less. A mix of tortoiseshell and tabby, says the Husband. He told me why, but it went right through the ears. She definitely has a coat of many colors. That's good luck, according to the Mama. For the cat or for us, I don't know. Molly had lived in a foster home most of her life, so she already knows all the tricks about using the litter box. Yaay! She also has her shots and is spayed, defleaed, microchipped, and whatever else cats need to have done to them today. The foster mother told us that Molly is quite independent. That she prefers to hang around people than with cats and dogs, and that she can do well without other four-legged companions. All reasons for her to come home with us. Today is the third day of being with the highness, the Cat. She already greets each of us when she sees us, and is slowly becoming comfortable roa

Thirty Years Ago. . .

Some of the first books I wrote and edited at Janus Book Publishers . Thirty years ago, I began my first day at work in the publishing industry. It was actually my second day of employment, but the first day was a holiday. I still think that was (and is) definitely a great way to start a new job—and a new career. I had not planned to enter the publishing world . Back then, my goal was to get at least five years of teaching under my belt so I could eventually become a high school counselor or a curriculum developer in a school district. So, what happened? Simple. By the time I earned my teaching credential in social science, there were few teaching jobs. I was in another bout of unemployment when I saw the newspaper ad for an assistant editor position at a small educational publishing house. I figured it was a long chance, but heck, what did I have to lose. Throughout the whole job selection process, I had a good feeling about the job. I had to do a writing sample, and as I work

Any Day Can Be Christmas

Yesterday was like Christmas. After eight-and-a-half years, I finally opened some boxes marked KITCHEN that belong to the Husband and me. There was stuff I forgot we had. When we moved in with the Mama, most of our belongings stayed in storage. Last month, we consolidated two lockers into one and I decided to bring home some of the KITCHEN boxes. Until late yesterday afternoon, they'd been sitting in the garage. They would probably still be there if we didn't move boxes around to try to find a mouse carcass. Shudder . We did not find any mouse remains, but we did discover that something ate through the cat carrier—which we had bought to eventually take Mr. L. Gatto Cat to the veterinarian (and it's a good thing we didn't)—to get at the bag of cat litter that we'd stored in the carrier. Was the mouse disappointed when he finally reached the sand? "Do mice hibernate?" the Husband asked. "I don't know," I replied, watching him poke a

A Pink Sky to End the Year

It's not that I don't have something in mind to write about. I do. Lots. But, work words must be written first. So, for today, I give you photos of a pink sky on the last evening of 2011.  Until Monday, dear readers. The Husband and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. As we wandered we wondered if we would come across Mr. L. Gatto Cat in one of his favorite hang outs. We were quite surprised to see him hanging out on the fence when we got home. (This was two nights before he left our lives forever .) Such an amazing sky, don't you think? Hollister, California, that's where we live. Nope. I'm not talking about that silly store.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

It happens. A loved one gets too old to cut her (or his) toenails. That same elderly loved one who can still drag a nine-foot ladder across the backyard and prune a lemon tree, when no one is looking. In my case, that is the Mama. I could take the Mama down to a nail salon. But, the idea of a stranger touching one's toesies is creepy. And, you never know if the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money really changes her gloves after each customer. That protection is more for the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money than for the customers. Forget about trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there is the matter of the strong smell of chemicals. I've walked passed open doors of nail salons and been hit with a big wham of oppressive odors.  The stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money also wears a face mask, which makes me wonder why customers don't wear them either. Heaven knows what breathing in the toxins for even one minute does to your health. Of course, there is the

Working Out the Body Again

A strange thing happened on Monday afternoon. For a second day in a row, the Husband and I decided to go outside and get our bodies moving and make some sweat happen. But, that's not the strange thing that happened. The day before we pedaled our bicycles up and down. My choice. Monday was his choice. Walking. Sigh. I realized, again, on Monday that I don't really like walking long distances unless it's on a beach, in a park or wilderness, or on city streets lined with shop windows. I like to be distracted as I walk. Plod. plod. plod. The Husband is much taller than me, which means he has a long stride to my short plod. We both walk at our own pace. So, the husband is almost always ahead of me, but circles back when he gets to a corner. He gets more walking in that way, and I get a chance to be alone to  think or not to think about things. Okay, now this is when the strange thing happened. As I got to the second block, a wonder took hold of me. I wonder if I c

Mr. L. Gatto Cat: The End

The tale of Mr. Cat ends today.  For the earlier segments, please go here: 1. The prequel    2. Mr. Cat's first appearance   3. So says Mr. Cat    4. Seeking Mr. Cat It has almost been a month since Mr. Cat was part of our lives. In all, Mr. Cat was with us for six weeks, from just before Thanksgiving to right after New Year's Day. We really couldn't have asked for a better Christmas gift than his presence. Okay, I won't leave you hanging about the half-naked man with which I ended the story last Thursday . Unlike fictional stories that would introduce such a minor character, nothing happened. Short and simple, the true scene played out as such. "Is that your cat?" I asked, pointing to grey cat beneath the bushes. "Yes," he said, nonplussed, as if every morning he opened the door shirtless to answer an old lady about his cat. That cat which, by the way, quickly ran into his house. "Sorry," I said, thinking that I would not be riding

"Mr. Cat! Mr. Cat!!"

T his is the fourth installment of the tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat, "our" cat for a very brief while.  If you wish to read the earlier segments, please go here: The prequel Mr. Cat's first appearance So says Mr. Cat On the evening of January 2, Mr. L. Gatto Cat mewed loudly at the front door. It was only 8 p.m. He had left the house only a couple hours ago. "What are you doing here so early?" I asked as I opened the door. It was only luck that I happened to be walking by the door. Otherwise, I would not have heard him over the Mama's TV in the living room and the husband washing dishes in the kitchen. "Meow. Meow. Meow," Mr. Cat said, rubbing my legs, then rubbing the bottom of the door. He stood inside the door, looking out. "Do you want to come in or not?" I asked, holding the door open. "It's cold." "Meow." "In or out? Out or in? Make up your mind," I leaned over to pet him. "Meow." P

So Sayeth Mr. L. Gatto Cat. Perhaps.

Last week, I began the tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat, "our" cat for a very brief while.  Here are the links to  the prequel and Mr. Cat's first appearance . I was just minding my own business. In the late afternoon, I liked to hang out under the old lady's rose bushes to grab some of the last of the sun's bubbles before it scooted over the rooftops. The old lady had a very pleasant and tidy garden. No leaves to muss me up. No rocks to dig into my body. The plants and her house protected me from the wind. And, best of all, the birds flocked to the bird feeders on the tree in the middle of the yard. It was only right that I politely said "Thanks" whenever the old lady, the bushy-haired tall guy, or the younger old lady walked by. The guy always petted me and said kind things to me. I didn't get much of human talk until evening. As for the women—they ignored me. I think the old lady was hard  of hearing.  The younger old lady sometimes glanced at me

Mr. Cat Makes Himself Known

Although Mr. L. Gatto Cat was "our" cat for a very brief while, he made quite an impact in all of our lives—the Mama's, the Husband's, and mine. Click here if you would like to first read the prequel to the Tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat. "Hello. My name is Susie. I live up the street. Are you missing a cat?" It was a warm April evening. The husband and I were walking up and down our block, looking for the house where a young, friendly grey cat might belong. That morning, at breakfast time, the cat had sauntered up to our screen door and mewed as if to say, "Let me in." "Go away," I said through the screen door. "You don't belong here." "Meow, meow," it answered. A couple hours later, the husband went to fetch the mail. The  cat came out from under the rose bushes. He petted the cat. On the way back from the mailbox, the husband stopped and petted him again. Yes. I have been told that I married a man who wa

The Tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat: The Prequel

This is what the Husband, the Mama, and I wrote on our 2011 Christmas letter (Yep. We're that kind of people.): The gang of. . .<our address> has expanded to four. Mr. Cat, aka Mr. L. Gatto Cat, aka Mr. Lionel G. Cat adopted us around Thanksgiving Day. A stray budding YA kitty, he suckered us with his cuteness and friendliness. Mr. L. Gatto Cat left as suddenly as he arrived into our lives. It was almost like he had been on vacation and we had been his vacation destination. He was given a winter shelter. He was fed topnotch food—no grain fillers. And, he had attentive humans to pet and play with him when he was not sleeping. Mr. Cat cat slept a lot, I tell you what. I never knew that cats sleep so much. We had cats when I was a kid. Lots of cats. There were always at least three or four of them wandering outside in the backyard.  During the winter, they slept in the garage. Almost daily, they liked to slip into the house when anyone went through the door to the garage.

My Name is Death

This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom.  Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from

Five Things About the Mama

The Mama is the other significant character who will grace this blog from time to time. Here's a look into her nature. "They ask how old I am!" the Mama exclaims. Sometimes she says it out of the blue, a few hours after having come from a party. Or, it may come a day to two later, after she has finally let the question get to her. The question that she thinks is so rude to ask: "How old are you now?" Her standard answer, "I am 100 years old."After asking her age, they (the people who haven't seen her in awhile) then want to know how she stays so healthy (translation: not dead).  Her answer, which I'm really not sure she says so sincerely: "I eat rice. Rice does not make your face wrinkle." The Mama reads the newspaper daily, as well as listen to the evening news, and sometimes the noon news. "They showed Goodrich (Gingrich). He was crying," she said, with a note of of amusement. "I have never seen a politician cry

Stuff

Neither the Husband nor I are pack racks. Not much, that is. He still has one or two boxes of college textbooks, and I have a box, or two, of research from the mid-70s about Filipinos in the United States for a book idea that has been on the back burner since, well, at least 1979, the last time I was living full time in the hometown. I think we—the husband and I—have been very good about consolidating and downsizing our belongings since we moved in together way back when. I came with 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-me things that belonged to the deceased husband.  He, the Husband, came with his 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-him things that belonged to his deceased wife. I had lived in a one-bedroom apartment, while he had resided in a studio.  Together, we moved into a three-bedroom house with a big basement. Surprisingly, we had no problem filling in the space. Quickly,

The Man in My Life

A glorious 2012 to you, dear readers! Slowly, slowly, you shall meet the characters in my life—past and present. Today, I introduce the Husband. Some of you already know him from my previous blogs. We are perfectly imperfect together. Click here for an example, then come back to find out how we met. How We Met He, the future husband, was standing in my carport, as his friend, the son of my deceased husband, was circling the motorcycle that his father had given him. He, the future husband, wore a red plaid jacket over his jeans. His curly reddish blonde hair was just barely out of control. His beard was neatly full. He, the future husband, was staring at a black box the size of a TV remote control in his hand. I imagined him saying, "Beam me up, Scotty." I also thought, Pothead . And, so it began. Nearly 17 years ago. The Husband writes a blog about cartooning. You can check him out at Arrmac's Blog . © 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.