Category Archives: opinion

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EXTREME MAKEOVER: DRIVER’S LICENSE EDITION

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

DMV2

Trivia games on the screen at the MVD. Just like the movies – annoying.

I have a rather uneasy relationship with the Arizona Motor Vehicle Department. So when I got a letter from them last month I opened it with all the enthusiasm I usually reserve for the IRS.  Turns out they wanted me to come in to their delightful establishment to have a new picture taken for my driver’s license.  Again.  This will be the fourth picture I have had on my license.  It’s complicated.

Back in 1998 when we moved here from California I took one week off of work to get settled and attend to important things,  like finding the closest donut shop and, naturally, getting an Arizona driver’s license.  So on a very harried day, when the temperature was 108, I took my moist self and went to the MVD to pick up a driver’s handbook so I could study for the test.  Well, much to my surprise, the clerk told me there was no test. All I had to do is hand over my California license, fill out a form, take a picture and – VOILA! – I would be issued an Arizona license.  Valid, by  the way, until 2015.  Yep – no matter what age you are when you move to AZ, your license is good until you’re 65.  This goes a very long way in explaining why there are so many horrible drivers here.  No one knows what the rules are so we drive by the rules we learned in our former state with the fervent hope that  “STOP” is a universal sign.

Nick Nolte

This looks better than my picture.

The “picture” part of this venture was the sticking point – I was harried and sweaty.  Did I mention it was 108 that day?  Anyway, pressed for time, I went ahead and had my picture taken and received my new license on the spot.  The picture, to be kind, made me look like a deranged psychopath.  I want to be clear:  I understand that this was the MVD, not Annie Leibovitz’s studio. I didn’t expect air brushing and subtle lighting.  But I also didn’t expect to end up looking like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.  My eyes were bugged out, my hair looked like a goat ate it, and one half of my collar was up.  How bad was the picture?  Sales clerks who requested to look at my license when I cashed a check would squint down at the picture, look up at me, peruse the picture once more, and then say something akin to, “You must have been having a bad day.”  And these were people who wanted my business.  Finally, I could take it no more.  I decided to lie to the MVD and tell them I had lost my license and needed a new one.  I hoped that they didn’t have any sort of fancy technology that would allow them to simply re-issue it with the very same picture.  I was in luck, I was asked to have a new photo taken – HUZZAH!!  I made sure my hair was slicked down, eyes appropriately positioned and assumed a casual, carefree, I’m-on-vacation smile.  Unfortunately, I forgot to take into account that I had just returned from a business trip to Charlotte the night before.  So while my hair and smile looked okay, I pretty much looked like someone who was jet-lagged and had returned from Charlotte the night before.  I lived with that picture for another two years, strategically placing my thumb over my picture whenever I had to present it to anyone.

lindsay-lohan-drunk

I’m thinking she lost her license that night. Not by choice.

Finally, when I retired (and thus was well-rested), I decided to try one more time.  I was 51 years old and figured that I would have to live with this license for another 14 years.  It was well worth my time to get a new picture.  Besides, I was retired, what else did I have to do?  So I trudged into the MVD and, once again, told them that I had lost my purse and everything in it.   I fully expected them to grill me.  TWO licenses lost in three years?  Lindsay Lohan was a paragon of dependability compared to me.  But instead, the very nice clerk commiserated with me, agreeing that it was such a hassle to get everything replaced or re-issued.  I felt just a little bit bad.  But not that bad.  And my efforts were rewarded.  The picture turned out okay – no hair askew, no “crazy eyes”, no puffy face.  I was satisfied, although I admit that my standards had gotten quite low by this point.

So, fast forward to last month when I got the letter that they wanted, yet again, a new picture of me.  I find it fascinating that they still don’t care if I know the rules of the road but God forbid my picture is more than 12 years old.  Anyway, I braced myself and went down there last Tuesday.  I was told to show up right at 8 am or the wait could be over an hour.  Which meant that at 7 a.m. I was  flat-ironing my hair, curling my eyelashes, and telling myself that it was ridiculous to care this much about my driver’s license picture.  After filling out forms and waiting a paltry 45 minutes, I stood before the camera as I might stand before an execution squad.  The clerk snapped the picture and said, “Oh, that’s great” so my hopes were high.  After all, he  did this for a living.  His judgement must be finely tuned for this sort of thing.  Alas, it was not.  But I think I’ve used up the “dog ate my homework” lost license excuse so I’m stuck with this license for now.  Unlike everyone else in the Western World, I’m excited that I get to visit the MVD in just two years.  I’m starting my picture prep now.

 

Posted in opinion • travel

NIPOMO – FOREIGN OR DOMESTIC?

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Capt_Dana_Tree_Nipomo

Captain Dana Tree
Hopefully he didn’t hang people from it

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This week we’re doing the best thing you can do in Scottsdale in the summer.  Leave.  I can hardly contain my excitement.  If it weren’t so darn hot I’d do a dance, but blinking my eyes while lying in a heap on the couch will have to suffice.  For several summers now we have spent a few weeks in Nipomo.  If you’re typical of my friends you have just asked yourself – where in the heck is Nipomo?  I’ve had people guess that it’s some quaint village on the coast of Italy.  One person thought we were going to a remote city in Japan.  I have even discovered that if you write it in a blog, spell-checker doesn’t recognize “Nipomo”. Fact is, most people have no idea where it is and that’s what makes it so good.

Nipomo is a quaint coastal village and it is remote (sort of) set between Santa Maria and San Luis Obispo in the Central Coast of California.  We discovered it several years ago as we were driving on Highway 101 from San Francisco to Los Angeles.  There was a Trilogy development that had just opened in Nipomo that we wanted to check out.  For those of you unfamiliar, Trilogy is the name Shea Homes has given to all the “active adult” communities they’re building. Guess it sounds better than “old geezer housing”.   Being active and adult (okay, not always but at least sometimes) we wanted to see if it might be a place to live one day.

We told the sales person we had never heard of Nipomo and he said that it was once the answer to the “Jeopardy” question: “Where is the most consistent weather in the United States?”   Given that NO ONE I know in California has ever heard of Nipomo, much less contestants who might be on Jeopardy, I suspect that it was just one of the many lies that the salesman told that day.  But we were intrigued enough with the surroundings to come back the next summer and stay in the Blacklake Golf community and have done so most summers ever since.

Turns out that Nipomo was first settled by the Chumash Indians.  Ne-po-mah is the Chumash term for “foot of the hill”.  It probably should have been “footing the bill” given the success of their current day casino.  Rancho Nipomo was one of the first and largest of the Mexican land grants in San Luis Obispo County.  Modern day Nipomo was founded in 1837 when the Mexican governor granted William Dana, a Boston sea-captain, 38,000 acres in the area.  He married a woman from Santa Barbara and in 1839 they built the Dana Adobe, which served as an important stop for travelers between Mission San Luis Obispo and Mission Santa Barbara.  It also became the exchange point for mail going between Northern and Southern California, thus becoming the first regular mail route in California.  I wonder if they lost as much mail back then?  But I digress.

Migrant Mother

Migrant Mother

Nipomo became a large farming area and was a major stop for the Pacific Coast Railway from the 1880’s through the 1930’s.  Turns out that one of my favorite photographs (right)was taken in Nipomo:  “Migrant Mother” by Dorothea Lange .  Apparently during the Depression Ms. Lange worked for the Resettlement Administration and would travel the old US Highway 101 photographing migrant farm workers.  The name of the woman in the picture is Florence Owens Thompson.  In the 1950’s the current Highway 101 was built west of the old road.  Fittingly, the old highway was re-named Thompson Road.

Blacklake

Blacklake Golf Course
Odds are I’ll be in that trap

By the end of 1942, the train tracks had been removed for the war effort and Nipomo became just another small farming community.  Today, it is known for two things:  golf and Jocko’s steak house.  The golf is good, with 27 holes at Blacklake, 30 holes at Trilogy (including a fabulous 12 hole 3-par course) and a beautiful course in Arroyo Grande, just a mile from Nipomo.  Notice I said it was good – not great.  The Nipomo Chamber of Commerce describes the golf this way: “The prevalence of golf has led some to refer to Nipomo as a mini Pebble Beach, only with better weather.”  I think the “some” they’re referring to are a) members of said chamber and b) people who have never actually been to Pebble Beach.  But then again, in Nipomo you don’t pay $500 (plus cart and caddie) per round.  Nor do the golf courses in Nipomo require that you stay at their lovely Lodge for two nights at $700 per night in order to play there.    So all in all, it’s a good experience and you don’t have to take out a second mortgage to hit a little white ball.

Jocko’s Steak House is famous up and down the coast of California.  Even on a Tuesday night the line to get in wraps around the corner.  It’s so good that, well, I’ll just say this:  I don’t eat red meat and I make an exception once a year to eat at Jocko’s.  In fact, it is SO good that I will devote my next blog entirely to Jocko’s – assuming that I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest before I can write my review.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in opinion • travel

TO THE LAND OF OZ: Part Two – THE PARIS OF THE PLAINS

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

“Where the wind comes whistling down the plain” … Oscar Hammerstein. 

tornado

I swear this is what the wind felt like

Never let it be said that Mr. Hammerstein wasn’t the very essence of understatement.  Hays, Kansas was the next stop on our journey to Kansas City.  It is the largest city in western Kansas, boasting a population of over 20,000 hearty people and no Starbucks.  As we drove up to the hotel we made the “rookie” error of facing the car into the wind.  As it turns out, there was a tornado watch in effect.  I had to use both arms to push the car door open, and then attempt a quick exit before the door could swing back and crush me.  Welcome to Kansas.  Once in the lobby, my husband casually asked the clerk if the hotel had a storm shelter.  “Well, no,” she chirped, “everyone just crowds into the laundry room.”  My husband paled.  “So..”, he asked, “you must not have many guests staying here tonight.”  After a quick consult with her computer she looked up and said brightly, “Well, actually we’re almost full so if we do have a tornado some people will just have to take shelter under the stairwell.”  We slept with one eye open and one foot on the floor.  In the event of disaster we were going to be the first people wedged between the washer and dryer.

As we left Hays the next morning, bleary-eyed from our own “tornado watch” and no Starbucks, we were dismayed to see that the scenery had not improved overnight.  I could write about how very boring the drive was but then that would make for a pretty boring post.  Let me just leave it at this:  If ever you get the wild idea to drive through western Kansas – DON”T.

Luckily, 90 minutes down the road is the city of Salina, which not only HAS a Starbucks but is the demarkation point for where the terrain changes.  I don’t think those two things are related but you never know.  Within the space of a mile, suddenly the flat, dry plain became luscious, rolling  green hills.  As we made our way toward Kansas City the vistas became more beautiful, until we finally arrived at our destination – Leawood, Kansas – home to our newly-relocated family.

Wendy's Fountain

A typical neighborhood fountain

We set out immediately to get to know the area.  First of all, Kansas City is known as “the city of fountains”.  This picture (right) is on our daughter’s home street and is pretty typical of the neighborhood fountains.  Both my husband and I come from California and have seen some pretty fancy neighborhoods but we both agreed that we have never seen so many contiguous miles of beautiful homes.  These places were so big they would make Donald Trump happy.  There are parks everywhere and wide boulevards with medians filled with huge trees, colorful flowers and, yes, more fountains. No less a journalist than Edward R. Murrow once described Kansas City as “the Paris of the Plains”.  Alas, that was not due to its beauty or the meandering river that runs through the center of town.  He was referring to the fact that during the heyday of Prohibition, Kansas City had a  reputation for debauchery.  Thanks to its corrupt police commissioner, not a single citizen was convicted of manufacturing, transporting, selling or even possessing booze during the 13-year period when alcohol was banned nationwide.The wide-open party town attracted both the criminal and the creative, including jazz musicians who made the city one of the most exciting of the time. At the height of Kansas City’s heyday in the 1930s, there were more than 100 jazz clubs hosting performances and jam sessions that would launch the careers of musicians such as Count Basie and Charlie Parker.

Country_Club_Plaza_1_Kansas_City_MO

The Plaza – bring your credit card

 

Today things are a bit more sedate.  The crown jewel of the city is Country Club Plaza, or just “The Plaza”.  It was the first shopping center in the world designed to accommodate shoppers arriving by automobile.  It was patterned architecturally after Seville, Spain, with wide streets, tiled roofs and, you guessed it, more fountains.  Even the chain stores and restaurants somehow look better here, which shows you what a good city planner can wrestle from a monolithic corporation.  For example, the outside eating area of the Cheesecake Factory is in a cobble-stoned courtyard, planted with fabulous flowers and of course, the requisite fountain.  I think the beautiful surroundings might make you forget that you’re ingesting a 2,000 calorie salad.  There is every store imaginable on The Plaza but one that is truly unique to Kansas City is Hall’s.  As in Hallmark Cards, which happens to be headquartered in Kansas City.  Hall’s is so upscale that their motto ought to be “where you care to spend the very most”.  The influence of the Hallmark corporation is everywhere and suffice it to say that every gas station and grocery store have displays of Hallmark Cards that would make one of our local Gold Crown stores weep.

 

2013-06-08 11.42.27
Here we are with Jack Stack’s bull

 But the real reason to visit Kansas City is to eat some of its famous barbecue.  Our kids suggested that we go to Jack Stack BBQ, which has been in business for over 50years.  “Diet” and “BBQ” do not intersect at Jack Stack.  We started with their baked onion rings.  “Baked”  means low-cal, right?  I further deluded myself into ordering the baby back ribs, on the theory there wouldn’t be as much meat on them as a half-pound burger.  Delicious doesn’t begin to cover it. Instead of the greasy, drippy ribs I’m used to, these were succulent and fall-off-the-bone tender with a smokey flavor.  I would have licked the plate if there weren’t so many people around.  Hell, I would have licked the plate with so many people around but I thought setting a good example for our grandsons was paramount.  I discovered that Jack Stack has a mail order division that ships anywhere.  I think I’m in big trouble.

 

We left for home the following day, still longing to see more of KC, and with what can only be described as a “rib hangover”.  We’ll have to save further exploration for our next trip.  Which – make no mistake – we will do by plane.  We were thoroughly impressed by the city and its surroundings.  Although we have both traveled to most large U.S. cities for either business or pleasure, neither of us had ever heard of Kansas City as a place to visit.  As our son-on-law so accurately said, “Kansas City isn’t just below the radar, it isn’t even on the radar.”  Whatever the reason, we were happy to discover this charming, beautiful city. As Dorothy once said, “we’re not in Kansas anymore” and we’re sorry we’re not.

Posted in opinion • travel

TO THE LAND OF OZ: Part One – The Santa Fe Trail

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imageHopefully  by now you have read my brother’s fabulous account of his trip to the dark continent.  While you were reading about his encounters with wild animals, smiling people and beautiful sites, my husband and I, along with our faithful dog Dash, were about to embark on a trip to the dark continent of …..Kansas.

Earlier this year our daughter and family moved to Leawood, Kansas, which we thought was somewhere close to Antarctica.  We envisioned flat terrain and not a Starbucks in sight.  But, longing to see our grandsons, we decided to pack the dog in the car and drive the 1200 miles to their new home.  We are always up for a driving adventure and since we had not seen this part of the country we decided to make the most of all the sights along the way.

The first day we got as far as Santa Fe, New Mexico.  We have only been there once before and found it to be a charming city.  On that trip we walked the Square, bought art on Canyon Drive and ate at Geronimo’s and The Compound.  At night we returned to a lovely resort.  We found out the hard way that none of those things are possible when you travel with a dog.  This time we stayed at a LaQuinta Inn near the freeway.  Not even a new LQI.  This one closely resembled the Bates Motel.  And we soon discovered that finding a place to eat dinner with a dog in tow is tantamount to finding the Holy Grail. We consulted our “Traveling with Fido” resources but they offered imagesuch gourmet delights as McDonalds and Sonic Burger.  My husband batted his baby blue eyes at the hostess at the Olive Garden and she let us take the dog out to the patio to eat with us.  In 30 MPH winds.  And, sadly, we were thrilled.

The next morning we set out for the wide open spaces, with a goal to reach Hays, Kansas by nightfall.  We were excited to get off the interstate at Trinidad, CO. and begin to see the “real” countryside via “blue highways”. We talked about seeing the original Santa Fe Trail – Dodge City! – and reliving some of the scenes we saw on all those Westerns on TV in the 50’s.  We lasted 10 miles.

After numerous potholes, uneven pavement and several near-miss side-swipes, we decided that maybe our kidneys (and nerves) were too old for this trip.  I’m not certain, but I would almost swear that the dog whispered into my husband’s ear “Please get us back to an interstate”.  So after 75 miles heading east on the Santa Fe Trail, we made a sharp left turn and high-tailed it up towards Interstate 70.

We followed State Route 71 in Colorado through farmlands and small towns.  When one thinks of Colorado one normally thinks of mountain peaks and snow.  John Denver made a lot of money singing about that image“Rocky Mountain High”.  However, eastern Colorado looks a lot like the midwest.  Wheat and grain fields dot the country side.  You can see from the picture (right) that there is not a hill in sight.  I think Sara Palin can see her house from here.  We drove through lots of small towns along the way and we both felt as if we had been transported back to our childhoods, where Main Street was filled with small shops, a gas station and one market.  Most of the towns had one store where its citizens buy everything from a bow tie to shoes, from cradle to grave.  I’m quite sure the locals haven’t ever seen a J. Crew or Banana Republic and they appear to be getting along just fine.

Finally, blessedly, we reached Interstate 70 at Limon, CO.  Another McDonald’s and a gas station were the highlights but it looked like an oasis to us.   We continued east at 80 MPH and entered Kansas.

Our first clue that Kansas might be a bit boring was when we saw signs offering free coffee at the border station.  I suspect, now that I’ve driven through the state, that the wise officials in Kansas knew that without caffeine the countryside would lull drivers to sleep at the most inconvenient times – like when driving in the fast lane.  The only exciting “attraction” along the Interstate were the billboards every 10 miles touting the museum in Colby that housed rattlesnakes, coyotes and a five-legged cow.  Rattlesnakes and coyotes are a dime a dozen where we come from, but a five-legged cow?  Now THAT’S an attraction.  Unfortunately, we were at the end of our day, not to mention our wits, so a detour to Colby was out of the question,   But it did capture my interest so I looked it up when we got to our hotel and, sure enough, someone had posted a picture of it online.  So in the interest of satisfying everyone’s curiosity I’m re-posting it here.  imageWho would have guessed that the extra leg would be protruding from its neck?

I think I’m glad I didn’t see it in person.

 

Next time:  Kansas City, the Paris of the Plains.  Honest.

 

 

 

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THE MIGRATION OF THE SNOWBIRD

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SnowbirdBy Suzanne Sparrow Watson

 

Well, it’s that time of year again – the annual migration of the snowbirds has begun.  “Snowbirds” for those unfamiliar with the term, refer to all the people from colder climes that come here in the winter just so they can call home to their friends and brag that they’re not having to shovel sunshine.  There are so many people here from the Midwest that someone once said that the definition of diversity in Phoenix is when someone from Chicago moves in right next door to someone from Minneapolis.

 

A quick trip to the grocery store this morning made clear that the snowbirds are on the wane.  I did not have to swerve coming out of my neighborhood in order to miss some “high flying” snowbird with his top down, talking on a cell phone, and smoking a stogie.

 

Nor did I have to endure people turning left, no, then right, no, then left again because they didn’t have GPS in their car and can’t figure out our complicated street system.  (I will say that having streets that dead end and then pick up again three miles down the road is a tad bit confusing)car transport

 

And best of all, I breezed into the parking lot, found a space up close and was able to complete my shopping without having to stand in a long line of people stocking up on gin, cocktail napkins and sunscreen.  Rest assured, the most beautiful sight we see this time of year are all the car transport trucks heading out of town.

 

The bad part about the migration is that most of my friends are snowbirds.  They return this time of year to the mountains or the Midwest, carry on with their lives at home and leave the rest of us here to sweat out the summer.  Just as they have their unique moniker, those of us who stay here are affectionately known as the “summer sluts”.  At least I think that’s a term of affection.

 

In any event, last week a friend asked me if I actually looked forward to everyone leaving for the season.  Since she was “migrating” back to Chicago the next day, I did what I thought was right. I lied.  I told her it was awful here in the summer.  And, of course, I do miss my friends.  But the truth is, it’s kind of nice once everyone clears out.  We can get into any restaurant we choose at 7 p.m. on a Saturday night.  We can arrive 10 minutes before the opening of a blockbuster movie and still get a great seat.  Oh sure, you can fry an egg on the pavement in mid-August but  that’s a small price to pay to be the first in line at the Nordstrom Annual Pre-Season sale.

 

But the best reason to enjoy the snowbird migration?  No more dinner invitations.  We control our schedule – from now until November we will not be on a social merry-go-round.  We will only go out when we feel like it.  We will not have to get dressed up.  We can sit on our sofa, wearing Bermudas and a tank top, and download movies from Netflix.  We can munch on junk food.  We can drink beer and vodka tonics to keep cool.

 

Come to think of it, maybe I am a summer slut. white trash

Posted in Holiday observations • opinion

THROUGH MY MOTHER’S EYES

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

2013-05-05 07.34.18Sunday is Mother’s Day and as you loyal readers know, our mother passed away earlier this year.  So this is the first Mother’s Day that we will not have a mother to send flowers, cards and well-wishes to.   Last year my brother Bob and his wife Linda sent mom such a beautiful arrangement of flowers that mom commented to me that it was the best gift she had ever received.   Which only cemented my hunch that she always liked him best.

As anyone who knew her could attest, she was a driven and opinionated woman.  No misplaced hair or wrinkled shirt went unnoticed – or commented upon.  She was the first to point out that we had gained a few pounds.   Mom took great pride in her appearance, always wearing a perfectly coordinated outfit, matching shoes and oftentimes donning a rather large hat.  Her children, by contrast, are big fans of what I like to refer to as “soft clothes”.  Anything that has an elastic waistband or has been washed to within an inch of its life is just great with us.   In other words, we sometimes look like we were raised by wolves – a trait that bothered her no end.

My differences with her were many; we just seemed to view the world from opposite perspectives.  This was never more apparent than when she bought a new pair of reading glasses several years ago.  By this time I was watching her finances and reviewing her cash flow every three months.  So when she told me she had spent $500 on a pair of Versace glasses (see picture above) I just about keeled over.  I knew that she was already running low on money and couldn’t believe her extravagance.  “Why in the heck would you spend that kind of money?” I shouted into the phone.  She explained that they had little diamonds in them and that she just wanted something from a top designer.  I was furious.  But not as furious as I was six months later when she lost them.

And just to demonstrate how seriously she took my financial advice, she promptly spent another $500 to buy the very same pair again.  I was flabbergasted.  Here was a woman who saved aluminum foil remnants and took home doggie bags that went stale in her refrigerator just because she couldn’t “waste good money” by leaving food at a restaurant.  I thought she had lost her mind.

Turns out, she had only lost her memory.  A few weeks after she bought the second pair of glasses she discovered the first pair in the lost and found drawer at her church.

After she died we were cleaning out her apartment and I noticed that her reading glasses were on the nightstand.  I tucked them into my purse for safekeeping – I’d be darned if I was going to throw away a $500 pair of glasses!  I thought they would be a good reminder of her foolish spending.  When I got home I put them on top of my closet dresser, where I see them every day.

A few weeks ago I looked at them (with my $18 Costco reading glasses) and noticed that quite a few of the diamonds are missing.  Her vision was so poor that I’m sure she was blissfully unaware of their current shabby condition.  I began to see the glasses in a different light.  Maybe they aren’t  a reminder of her foolish spending but rather that when I am old,  I might also make some choices that others think inappropriate.    Maybe when I’m old, I too will want just one extravagant thing that makes me feel good, even when I can’t afford it.  Maybe when I get older I will begin to see things through my mother’s eyes.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll even buy very expensive reading glasses – twice.

Posted in opinion • travel

FINDING ‘HOTEL CALIFORNIA’

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by Bob Sparrow 

Eages

The Eagles

I recently watched a documentary on my favorite band, ‘History of the Eagles’ on the Showtime Channel. If you’re an Eagles’ fan this is a must see; even if you’re not, it’s still great music history.  So the first week of April as we headed out to Palm Desert for our 19th year of enjoying our timeshare, I was mixing my metaphors, dangling my modifiers and juxtaposing the reminiscing of the Eagles documentary and the looking forward to my hedonistic week in the lush environs of Palm Desert.  It created a strange concoction in my head – I present it forthwith.

                                                On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair

                                                Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air 

For the uninitiated, colitas is the small, sweet buds at the end of the cannabis plant that makes for what was colloquially known in the ‘70s as ‘good shit’.  This week we’ll enjoy the sweet smell of a good cabernet.

So I called up the captain, please bring me my wine

He said we haven’t had that spirit here since 1969

Hotel2

Marriott Desert Springs Hotel

It’s hard to think of the Eagles and not think of their biggest hit, ‘Hotel California’.  There have been many interpretations of the meaning of the lyrics of that song, the most common is that it’s an interpretation of the high life in Los Angeles.  So this week I’m loosely translating it to represent my decedent week in the desert where we eat at great restaurants, drink expensive wine and play luxurious golf courses.  Because it combines Life in the Fast Lane and a Peaceful Easy Feeling, I have concluded that the Marriott Desert Springs Hotel is my ‘Hotel California’.  The lyrics echoed in my head . . .

                                                                                                              Welcome to the Hotel California

                                                                                                          Such a lovely place, such a lovely face

                                                                                                        Plenty of room at the Hotel California

Any time of year, you can find it here.

Marriott mirror Yes, you can find it there in Palm Desert, but you may not want to find it ‘any time of year’; in the summer it’s not such a ‘lovely place’, but in early spring – awesome!

One of the great features of this timeshare is that it’s an hour and half’s drive from home; so no airports, delayed flights, missed connections or airplane food; and yet once you’re there you feel like you’re in a whole different world – perhaps because you are.

Some dance to remember

Some dance to forget

And there are some of us that have just forgotten how to dance altogether, but the images dancing in my head of desert nights, desert skies, desert flowers, desert sunsets silhouetting Mt. San Jacinto in the distance and billion stars in the sky are simply magnificent.

Relax said the nightman, you are programed to receive,

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave

Actually check-out is by 11:00 a.m. or you’re subject to late fees, but after a week of ‘Desert Decadence’, it’s time to go home.Hole #2

Hotel California ends with, if not the greatest, one of the greatest guitar riffs in rock and roll history, I’ll conclude with:

  1.  Find your Hotel California – ideally a few hours drive from your home, but in a totally different       world
  2. Listen to some Eagles music, if you don’t have any, GET SOME!
  3. Enjoy a week of indulgence; you’ve earned it . . . probably

Back home and the lyrics that are now echoing in my head are: My diet starts Monday!

 

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Posted in Blog Info / Up-dates • Family • opinion

THOUGHTS ON SPRING, ANGRY BIRDS AND BASEBALL

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Spring has sprung, the flowers has riz, I wonder where the birdies is?….Anonymous.

Soehrensia bruchii flowers 4 inch

Spring has definitely come to the desert.  As both my brother and I have mentioned in recent weeks (probably ad nauseam), the flowers in the desert are truly one of nature’s miracles.  They pop up almost overnight and bloom in magnificent colors – brilliant orange, pink, and yellow.    They signal the end of cold weather and the beginning of spring.  Of course, my brother has the advantage of viewing the beautiful flora here in the desert and then returning home to the wonderful climate of Orange County.  I, on the other hand, see the beautiful flowers and know that we will be enjoying springtime for a maximum of – to be on the generous side – 10 days.  Then, like someone has flipped the switch to a blast furnace, we begin our season of “dry heat”.  As I’ve often said when someone mentions that term – my microwave oven is also a dry heat but you don’t see me living in that, now do you?

The other sign that spring has come is that the birds start to fly about in great numbers.  They chirp endlessly – some sort of mating call I suppose.  If this year is any indication, we’re going to have a HUGE bird population in the next few months.  The most annoying birds are the woodpeckers who love the flashing on the roof that surrounds the fireplace chimneys.  Apparently woodpeckers must be related to roosters because at the most un-Godly hours in the morning they begin rat-a-tat-tatting on our roof.  Their constant pecking echos down the metal chimney flue to create the most startling sound known to man.  Or at least that’s how it seems at 4:30 in the morning.  This is such a problem that several men in the neighborhood have taken to shooting BB guns at them – a la the crazy father in “Steel Magnolias”.  There they are, outside before dawn, in all manner of undress, shooting at birds who are laughing their tail feathers off at the idiots trying to shoot them down.  2013-04-06 10.06.01

We unwittingly have found a way to exact revenge on all the birds.  A couple of years ago we installed a glass front door and sidelights, allowing a view to the backyard when standing at the front door.  The picture at right was taken at the door so you get the idea.   Birds, however, are not that smart. Somehow they have confused our house with a landing strip at Sky Harbor.  With the advent of spring, they are on a quest to fly right through our house. Consequently, it is not unusual to hear a loud “BAM!” and see the wingspan of a bird imprinted on our front door.  Before you even think about calling the SPCA , rest assured that no bird is injured in this process.  After they hit the door, they fly away stunned and most likely go home and take an Advil.  Usually by the end of spring word has gotten out in the bird community to stay away from the “trick” door at the Watson’s house.  But for the next few weeks we will be the pathway to hell for countless of our feathered friends.

Flowers and birds aside, the most telling sign that spring has sprung is that it’s baseball season again.  Somehow just hearing a game on the radio or on TV elicits fond memories of bygone days and gentler times.  I San_Francisco_Giants_logo_1977-1982know that people complain that the game is too slow or that the teams are composed of drug-addled, spoiled players.  But there is something nice about the timelessness of a baseball game. For me it brings back memories of our dad on a Saturday afternoon, chores done, relaxing in the back yard listening to Gil Hodges and Lon Simmons announce a Giants game.  Dad came by his love of the team honestly; his mother used to sit in her apartment sporting  a Giants cap, cheering them on through thick and thin.  I don’t think she ever missed a game – she transitioned from a huge radio in a wooden credenza, to portable radios, to television.  She never saw a Giants game in person until age 70, when our brother, Jack, treated her to a day at Candlestick.  He bought her a new cap, a hot dog, peanuts and a beer.  She was in Heaven – surely the highlight of her life.  And to this day we all love hearing Jack reminisce about that day.

So I’m glad that baseball season is here.  In full disclosure, I won’t actually watch a whole game until the playoffs.  My husband, who is an obnoxious Yankees fan, can’t sit through a whole game either.  But we have an entire summer ahead of us to catch snippets of games and root for our teams.  Ideally the Giants sweep the Yankees in the Series.  Such are the dreams of springtime.

P.S.  So many of you have written or inquired about Dana and we wanted to let you know that she is doing GREAT!  She is an amazing young woman who has a wonderful spirit.  She’ll be enjoying a few days in Palm Desert this week with family.  Nothing could be better for healing a heart.  Thanks so much for your kind thoughts and prayers during this time.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in opinion

LIVING IN THE AGE OF “TMI”

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Let Me Have SomeBy Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This year marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of a wonderful little book, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”, by Reverend Robert Fulghum.  For those of you too young – or too old – to remember, it included an essay proposing that the basic rules we learn as children teach us everything we need to get along as adults.   It contains a list of 16 suggestions for a better life, ostensibly gleaned from the copious notes   Fulghum took while still in elementary school.

I re-read his essay the other day and had to admit that there were some real gems on the list:  play fair, clean up your own mess, and a current favorite of mine  – take a nap every afternoon.  All in all, I think his essay has held up pretty well after 25 years.  With one notable exception.   Reverend Fulghum’s #1 piece of advice was “Share Everything”.

It would appear that this particular tidbit has been taken a bit too literally.  At some point between 1988 and now, it has become fashionable to SHARE EVERYTHING.  Been in a public place lately?  I’m betting that people on cell phones have “shared” lots of information with you.  I’ve heard conversations about cheating husbands, women who neglect their children, steamy dating details and so many medical updates I could write for Web MD.  Put a cell phone in someone’s hands in the public square and suddenly no detail is too intimate to share with the world.

Facebook is so enamored with the notion of sharing that it has a “Share” button, which makes it easy to delight our friends and family with an up-to-the-minute status of our activities.  Personally, I love seeing pictures of my friends and Facebook Sharetheir kids and animals.  I even enjoy vacation pictures.  But like everything else, some people have taken it to excess.  I’ve read about colonoscopies, induced labor and ear wax.  One particular bugaboo of mine is people who take pictures of their dinner plate at a restaurant and immediately post it on Facebook.  Frankly, I could care less that some chi-chi chef has curled radicchio around a terrine of goat’s liver.  I don’t even care about seeing a triple bacon cheeseburger, although that’s more to my liking.  Here’s my take – if I wanted to see food on a plate I’d subscribe to Gourmet magazine.

But the most flagrant offender of over-sharing  is Al Roker.  He recently released a book outlining his journey through gastric bypass surgery.   I have nothing against Mr. Roker or even gastric bypass, for that matter.  But in the course of an interview Mr. Roker cited a passage from his book about the White House dinner he attended shortly after his operation.  He then proceeded to tell the interviewer that – well, I won’t go into detail here but suffice it to say that he soiled his pants.

Talk about TMI!  Why in the hell would someone go on national TV and admit that?  I can tell you one thing based on personal experience:  you will never look at Al Roker in quite the same way again.

But back to Reverend Fulghum’s book.  The “share everything” bit notwithstanding, I do think there is a lot of common sense in his list and God knows that is something that is in short supply these days.  So in the interest of sharing and promoting common sense,  here is his list:

  • Share everything.
  • Play fair.
  • Don’t hit people.
  • Put things back where you found them.
  • Clean up your own mess.
  • Don’t take things that aren’t yours.
  • Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.
  • Wash your hands before you eat.
  • Flush.
  • Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
  • Live a balanced life – learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.
  • Take a nap every afternoon.
  • When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.
  • Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
  • Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup – they all die. So do we.
  • And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.

And while we’re thinking of sharing, why not share this blog with your friends and ask them to subscribe?  Thanks!

Posted in opinion

I’VE PEAKED IN MY OWN BACK YARD

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pINNACLE pEAKBy Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Like many people who live close to a landmark, I am completely clueless about the one near me, Pinnacle Peak. Which is particularly pathetic because I’ve lived at the base of it for 15 years. It serves as a beacon of sorts, providing a touchstone to remind us of just how far away we are from home when we travel around the Valley of the Sun. So, let’s just say hypothetically that one of us is lost and the other won’t ask for directions, we just look for “the Peak” and, voila!, we know which direction is home.

Normally the most attention I pay to it is when I’m playing golf and spot some adroit rock climbers who have scaled its summit. Usually they will wave to us golfers. We always wave back, admiring their gumption – and youth. I usually three-putt those greens due to the obvious distraction. Or at least that’s my story this month.

But curiosity got the best of me last week and I decided to do some research on the Peak in my backyard. The first thing that struck me is that the Peak is almost 3200 feet high. That’s the tip, where all those crazy rock climbers look down on all us crazy golfers. That may not seem high to those of you who live in the mountains, but to those of us in the desert, this is our Mount Whitney.

The area around Pinnacle Peak was originally used by the Hohokam Indians for hunting and food gathering. Later, settlers began to use the area for ranching and mining, and finally, the whole darn place was overrun by golf courses and homes. One vestige of the mining era is that the best cheeseburger in the world can be found Greaswood Flats, an old miners shack right across from the Peak.

Hiking-Pinnacle-PeakIn 1994 the city of Scottsdale decided to make Pinnacle Peak a park and built a trail so that everyone could enjoy its beauty. The trail is 3.5 miles roundtrip and will leave you begging for an iron lung on the way up. They conveniently have provided a bench at “Grandview”which they say is so you can sit and admire the the spectacular vista. Usually all I see are my shoelaces, since my head is buried between my knees in an effort to regain regular respiration – and some dignity. The trail only climbs 500 feet from the trailhead to the top, but the older I get the steeper it becomes. I see some young people run the entire trail which I think is highly suspicious and may require some drug testing.

If gasping for air isn’t enough to entice you, you might be attracted to the beautiful plants and animals that inhabit the area. You’re likely to see bobcats, Gila monsters and Diamondbacks – and not the ones with a bat in their hands. But if you do see them you don’t want to run too far off the trail or you might get stuck in a jumping cholla plant, a vicious cactus that does actually jump out and stab you with it’s fishhook spines.

I have promised myself that I will hike the trail more regularly this spring in the fervent hope that I will get in better shape. And, seriously, there is nothing more beautiful than the cactus flowers in the spring. If nothing else, I have found a practical use for the stopping point at “Grandview” – it is the perfect place from which to throw my golf clubs off into a deep, dark crevice, never to annoy me again.