I Love Her, Watts & Watts

My wife has never met a light she doesn’t think should be left on.

There, I said it. To be fair, and to prove the old axiom that opposites attract, I can be more than obsessive when it comes to turning lights off. My dear wife and kids can easily recite many instances where I’ve left a room with them still in it and unthinkingly turned out the lights, leaving them in the dark.

How bad is my inner conservationist? Let’s just say I’ve even been known to turn off left-on lights in other peoples’ homes that I visit. Don’t hate me. It’s part of my DNA.

As the dutiful son of an electronics engineer – a painfully practical, frighteningly frugal man whose first words to us kids were, “Turn the light off!” (followed closely by “And shut the #@@%# door!!”) – the sight of a light left on in an unoccupied room raises my blood pressure and triggers a series of odd facial tics until it’s switched off. 

When our 2-year-old granddaughter visits, she loves to play with flashlights -- toddling around our house shining the beam at anything and everything. And yet, you should see my horrified reaction when I find (as I often do) the still-lit flashlight abandoned on the floor or carelessly tossed aside under a table -- draining the life out of the poor, defenseless AAs inside, like some small, furry critter left to wither and die all alone in a wilderness of dispair. I leap for it and quickly turn it off -- wondering how much power was lost. I'm telling you, it's a curse.   

That said, if I represent the “dark” side of energy conservation, my wife is a bright and shining beacon of brilliance. For instance, if you’ve ever seen the huge tunnel of high-intensity lights used by auto body shops to quick-dry new paint on a car, you have some idea of how much light my dear bride uses while getting ready for work every morning. Her alarm is set for 5 a.m. Edison adds an extra shift of personnel at 5:05. Coincidence? Hardly.

I keep a large, extra-thick pillow by the side of my bed for the sole purpose of covering my eyes when she fires up the stadium lights. Our neighbors installed black-out shades on the side of their house that faces ours. I swear you can see plants and flowers turning towards the light radiating from our house every morning. Planes on approach to LAX have been known to mistakenly divert towards our house.

And another thing. I have this goofy idea that you should walk into a dark (“dark” being the operative word) room, turn the light on, do your business, then turn the light switch off when you leave. Simple, right?

My wife and one or two of our kids not only seem to think that a light needs to be turned on whether or not daylight is streaming into the room, but should be left burning when you leave and go about your business elsewhere.

For example, in our dressing room (aka: the industrial paint drying chamber), there are four separate light switches. One for the light in our walk-in closet on one side of the dressing room, another for the overhead light fixture in the dressing room itself. There’s another switch for the bathroom on the opposite side of the dressing room, and finally, a switch for a row of brighter “makeup” lights directly over the mirror above our sink.

Being a guy, I walk in to brush my teeth or shave and, if it’s dark, I turn on the single overhead light. Period. If 75 watts isn’t enough to help me see where the sink is to rinse and spit, I’m in trouble. My wife, on the other hand, can walk into the room at high noon in August and – flip! flip! flip! flip!  All four switches are turned on in a nanosecond like a pilot preparing for takeoff in the cockpit of a 747. Even the light in the closet gets turned on. The closet with the door closed.

Hours later, long after she’s gone, I can walk through the dressing room to find the lights still on – fading the carpet and wallpaper with their wattage. And yet, somehow, no matter where she is, she’ll sense them moment I’ve turned them off. She has called me from her cell phone from wherever to inform me in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t finished doing whatever she was doing under all those megawatts of lightage and was coming back and don’t you dare turn them off!

Silly me. I should’ve known. I do know one thing, however. Whatever couch I sleep on tonight will likely be in a really, really dark room.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a version of my column first published yesterday, 5.24.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

From Sad to Mad in Two Blocks

I find myself driving along Foothill Blvd. (the main drag in my community) at least once or twice on any given day. No matter how often I pass by certain local landmarks, some of them always make me say either “Wow!” or “Wh-what?!?”

Like the still impressive architectural beauty of our new LA County Public Library on the corner of La Crescenta Ave. Wow! Or any of the never-been-used-and-most-likely-never-will-be bike racks that were installed last year for who knows what reason. Wh-what?!?

Driving past other Foothill features elicits different responses. For example, I can’t drive the two blocks between Ramsdell Ave. and Rosemont Ave. without first feeling sad, then mad. I’ll explain.

On the corner of Foothill and Ramsdell sits an empty building that was home to the once-thriving Dominick’s Restaurant – an institution in the Crescenta Valley since it opened back in 1956. For as long as I can remember, Dominick’s was the place to go for great pizza and to be served by two classic waitresses straight out of Italian restaurant Central Casting – the famous “Flo” and “Susie.”

What a pair. These two tireless ladies were as much a part of the Dominick’s experience as was the platters of pizza and mountains of spaghetti they served every day. Flo was known for her beehive hair-do and “Ya, ready? What’ll ya have, Hon?” waitress patter. She always wore pins/buttons on her blouse that said hilarious things like, “Tipping is not a city in China!” During the Christmas season, she’d hang small ornaments from her up-doo. Like I said,, classic. Her younger but no-less-experienced cohort, Susie,  was like everybody’s big sister and seemed able to deal with every kind of customer with the same grace and efficiency – from screaming, pasta-tossing toddlers to entire high school baseball teams.  

When our kids were young, we were beneficiaries of Susie’s abundant grace on several occasions. One of our young sons had the most ridiculously sensitive gag-reflex known to pediatric science which resulted in a propensity to – shall we say – launch his just-consumed dinner in an unforgettably fire-hose-like manner with nothing more than a few seconds of warning. On more than one occasion the dear lad painted the linoleum tiled floor of Dominick’s with a high pressure blast of ABC (already been chewed) pepperoni, mozzarella, tomato sauce and pizza dough despite our best efforts to grab him and run OJ Simpson-like out to the sidewalk before blast off.

And yet, not once were we banned from dining at Dominick’s, although we did practice self-imposed exile for several months after one particularly colorful and quantiful episode of exploding child. Passing by the now sadly empty building always reminds me of our many wonderful (if somewhat messy) family moments enjoyed there over the years.  

Driving east along Foothill, past Rosemont Ave. and across from the Ralphs grocery shopping center, my mood suddenly flips from sad to mad as a looming shadow blots out even the brightest, sunniest Southern California day. Looking to the right and into the gloom of the rising office building that once was the modest Plumb Crazy storefront, I can’t help wonder “Why is someone building a cruise ship on Foothill?” The metal framework of this monstrosity-in-progress rises from the sidewalk like the QE2 moored at the dock.

I can’t help but wonder who in city government approved such an out-of-place behemoth of a building that’s already a blight on the landscape of our fair city. And who is the developer responsible for inflicting this on our citizenry? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that he or she doesn’t live here. Nearby Montrose (a favorite for feature film shoots for its “small town” look) has its relatively new, über-ugly (and laughably, ironically vacant) medical office building on Verdugo Road to live with. Now we have our own skyline atrocity right here in La Crescenta. What a shame.

Passing by the construction site, I kinda wish I still had our young human-fire hose of a son around. I’d load that kid up with an extra-large, double pepperoni, double cheese, double sauce pizza and wash it down with a venti mocha Frappuccino (with extra whipped cream). Then I’d stand him in front of the new, soon-to-be office/retail/eyesore of a building and let him hurl away. I know we’d both feel much better.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a version of my column first published yesterday, 5.17.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

A Mother of a Day

Here’s a heads up to all fathers and sons reading this.* I have some news that could very well save your lives (or at least your marriages and/or otherwise important relationships with close relatives).

Ready? This Sunday is Mother’s Day. As in, a special day set aside each year by the powers that be (Hallmark and ProFlowers) to honor, acknowledge and otherwise heap thanks and praise upon the mothers in our lives. 

In my family we are blessed to have grandmas, step-grandmas, moms, step-moms, daughter-moms, daughter-in-law-moms and, well … I think that’s everybody. It’s going to be a busy Saturday at the card shop.

Over the years, my kids and I have tried to plan each Mother’s Day with its own unique and lasting memories. At least, I thought we had. A few minutes ago I asked my youngest son –  just home from college for the summer – what some of his fondest memories of past Mother’s Days might be. He put on his most studious, thoughtful and collegiate face and after a painfully quiet few moments said, “Uh, none really.”

Okay, then.

So anyway, in years past our family has gone out to dinner, made dinner at home, made brunch, had picnics at the beach, had picnics in the mountains and had picnics on the way to the beach or the mountains wherever the car happened to break down. We’ve gone hiking, gone biking, gone crazy – no wait, scratch that. We’ve gone to see a movie, taken long drives, stayed home and relaxed and enjoyed any number of other combinations of food, family and activities or non-activities, depending on Mom’s wishes for her special day.

When our kids were young, each occasion was more often than not accessorized in different ways with heartfelt, handwritten (and sometimes even readable!) notes from our loving progeny. Sometimes Mother’s Day even included gifts of handmade crafts including handprints in clay, grossly misshapen pencil holders and various and sundry useless (but priceless) gewgaws, doodads and dust catchers of every kind you’ll never find on Amazon.

And then, there was last year’s Mother’s Day. Readers may remember that last year at my house, our elegantly formal dinner in honor of Mom was interrupted quite dramatically by an uninvited guest of the rodent persuasion. Upon seeing the critter skitter along the floorboards in the room next to our dining room, quick-thinking Protector of Home and Hearth that I am, I calmly got up from dining table, folded my cloth napkin (I told you this was an elegant spread) and placed it on my now empty chair, grabbed the nearest wooden-handled broom – and summarily dispatched our mousy intruder to his untimely demise by swinging at the doomed thing repeatedly with all the focus and fury of Hank Aaron homer. Happy #%$*#@# Mother’s Day, Mickey!!

So alright, maybe it wasn’t exactly a sentimental memory for the mothers present at our table. But hey, it’s a memory. Hopefully this Sunday will be much less lethal and more serene for us all.

Okay, guys*. You’ve been warned. No excuses. Make me proud this Sunday. Go forth and honor that special lady – the mother of your children and/or your own mommy dearest. And while you’re at it – give thanks for moms everywhere. In addition to bringing you (and all of humanity, for that matter) into the world, the mere fact that they put up with messy rooms, missed curfews, stray puppies rescued and brought home, stray boyfriends/girlfriends rescued and brought home, tantrums (at all ages), mountains of dirty laundry and so much more makes them worthy of a special day of what I like to call the 3Rs: rest, recognition and reservations at the restaurant of their choosing.

Just make sure at the end of the day that you’ve left them grateful, highly impressed and if possible, even – close to tears at your all-out effort on their behalf. After all, Father’s Day will be here in only a month.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

* I’m directing these comments & thoughts primarily to guys because – in my experience – girls/women rarely have to be reminded of special occasions like Mother’s Day. Guys? Not so much.

Note: This is a version of my column first published yesterday, 5.10.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Grand Parenting

One of my favorite bumper stickers is the one that says “If I’d known grandkids were so much fun, I would have had them first,” which is similar to what author Gore Vidal advised: “Never have children, only grandchildren.” Good luck with that.

I’m in a grandparenting state of mind because this past Sunday was my wife’s and my day to care for our 22-month-old granddaughter, aka: the amazing Miss Bailey Brooke. At least once a month, we have the privilege of being with her from pre-dawn until dinner, bath and bedtime. As exhausting as a full day with the “monkey child” can be, we deeply treasure our Bailey days and look forward to her being old enough for sleepovers with Grandma and Grandpa.  

As I sat at our kitchen table last Sunday, watching the little stink butt snarf up her peanut-butter-smothered pancakes (it’s a Chase thing, you wouldn’t understand) and trading goofy looks back and forth across the table at each other, I wondered what it is about having a grandkid that’s so different from parenting your own children at the same age. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved raising our four kids. But what makes time spent with a grandkid such pure fun?

After breakfast, we played “grocery shopping” with a Bailey-sized cart. We went through sheets of colorful stickers, placing them all over her face, hands and arms – then transferring each of the stickers from her to me, then to Grandma, then back to her own silly self. I played my guitar and sang her old Roger Miller songs while she sat high up on the bench at our upright piano – her little fists and fingers pounding out a “melody” on the keys. She built tall towers with plastic blocks and repeatedly tested the patience of our dear old yellow lab by kissing him, laying on top of him and generally pestering him in ways only toddlers can pester. Such a good dog. We colored on sheets of paper. We rolled all over the living room on a big, squishy exercise ball. Then we colored some more. We played with stickers some more. Grandma even made a special batch of her super-secret-recipe homemade girlie-pink play dough – which was then pounded and pulled and smashed and poked and kneaded into all sorts of various creative shapes. We sat at the kitchen window and watched a pair of fat squirrels raiding the bird feeders in the backyard and laughed and yelled at the furry thieves until we were hoarse.

And the next hour we did it all again. And the next. Then, finally, it was nap time. But Bailey wasn’t sleepy, so Grandma and Grandpa didn’t nap. Sigh.

That’s pretty much how our exhaustingly busy day went until it was time to hand little Bailey back over to her home-from-a-long-nursing-shift mommy.

Later, as we collapsed on our couch, my wife and I got to talking about the difference between grandparenting and parenting and she said something exceptionally wise, “As a grandma, I can pick out the very best stuff from my memories of raising our kids – and I can do those things again with my grandkids.” And she does, indeed. Like her treasured storybook times during our painfully-infrequent visits with our other precious grandkids, “Kana,” “Nakoa” and “Anuhea.” (Can you tell they live in Hawaii?) Or making Saturday morning runs to the doughnut shop in our pajamas. 

To me, time spent with grandkids is uniquely special because I know first-hand how fast any given stage in their lives will pass. I remember vividly when my own kids were this young. Then I blinked (and worked and paid bills and stressed about my career and worked some more) and suddenly they were adults. Not fair! I wasn’t ready.

Another wonderful saying about grandparenting goes something like: “A grandmother is a mother who has a second chance.” Amen, and I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a version of my column first published yesterday, 5.3.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.