A Grain of Salt

Loose

Hi Saltines. It's been a long couple of weeks 'round these parts, including way too many conversations about relative pronouns, a few forays into the ablative absolute, a bunch of feminist blogging, and research into brain nutrition. But I haven't gotten into a single fight with a mechanic, and I have gone to a hip hop dance class. So I think things are on the upswing.

But that's not what I wanted to write about right now. What I want to write about is "Say it Right," that song by Nelly Furtado that's on 94.9 all the time. I just downloaded it, and well, you know what? I think it's fantastic. And it's opened up a bigger question that I'm hoping someone out there will be able to help me answer: what is the deal with Nelly Furtado? Does she have a "genre"? I mean, this is the same person, presumably, who gave us that horrible "I'm like a bird" whiney song that played approximately 50 times a day a few years ago -- but then came back last year with "Promiscuous Girl." Along the way, "Turn off the light"? And now this new hip hop/dance-y song? And wasn't she some sort of Australian soap opera star at some point?

No, apparently not. (A quick wikipedia search just happened, during which time I realized I was talking about Natalie Imbruglia.) Turns out that Furtado is Canadian, born to Portugese parents, and seven days younger than I am (and I haven't even put out *one* album yet! for shame!). She apparently likes to experiment with different styles, once played in a Portugese marching band, and intends to come out with an album entirely in Spanish. Which makes me think I'm going to start getting her confused with Shakira.

But whatever. Back to my coffee.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

And on a perhaps related note . . .

As I walked around Berkeley this afternoon, trying to get some exercise on my way to the bank, I kept flashing back to a letter I got once from a girl I'd met in China. We didn't really know each other -- she'd just asked me for my address and then sent me a series of letters that all included pictures of herself posing next to ponds and fences -- but she liked to say my name as often as possible. "Oh, Catherine," her letters would start. "The weather is nice here. But what do you think, Catherine?" Et cetera.

The line that sticks out in my mind, though, was an enigmatic one. "Oh, Catherine," she wrote, apropos of nothing. "You are so fleshly."

On a day punctuated by girl scout cookies, that line has real resonance.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Girl Scout Samoas

. . . might actually be the world's perfect cookie. I never expected myself to say that.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Abandoned Weaners

This weekend was a big one, Saltines. I got to go to the Ano Nuevo national seashore to take a tour of one of the world's largest populations of elephant seals.

Actually, I'm making up the "world's largest population" bit. I actually don't know if it's one of the biggest populations or not -- but the point is that every winter, a huge number of elephant seals belly up to the beach at Ano Nuevo to mate and give birth, and this weekend Peter and I went to see them.

Anyone who thinks this sounds like a casual, spontaneous activity is wrong. Very wrong. The elephant seals are very popular, and you have to sign up for guided beach walks weeks in advance. This might seem crazy, considering the fact that there are about 15 walks a day, each of which can hold 20 people. But this is California, my friends, where apparently people take their elephant seal viewing quite seriously.

Point being, tickets are made available 56 days in advance. So at some point in January, after careful calcluations, I'd stayed up till midnight on a Friday to make reservations for an elephant walk in March. By morning, the tickets had sold out.

The first important thing to note was our tour group, which was made up entirely of girl scouts. Me, Peter, and about 15 girl scouts. Actually, that's not entirely true. There was also one Russian family -- a mother, father and daughter -- who got stuck on our tour because they'd missed the 11:45 walk that they'd originally signed up for. They tagged along in the back, the father occasionally wandering off onto stray sand dunes, much to the consternation of our docent, Liz.

The second important thing is that by this time of year, most of the adult elephant seals have headed back to the ocean, where they stay, never sleeping, for approximately 10 months (they're crazy, these seals). But while the adults are gone, their babies are not -- there were about 1200 of them scattered around the beach, resting in the hot March sun. But more importantly for our story, Saltines, these babies are not referred to as "pups." They are not called "baby seals." They are referred to as "weaners," and if you're as immature as apparently Peter and I are, this will entertain you for the entire 2 1/2 hour walk.

"Now, we have to step carefully," Liz told us, leading us toward the beach. "There are a lot of abandoned weaners out here."

"Now, that's a fat, nice looking weaner. But not all of them are so lucky. Sometimes a mother just leaves her weaner on the beach to fend for itself."

Et cetera, et cetera.

The 15 or so teenage girls we were walking with had no reaction to this weaner talk. Neither did the docent or, for that matter, the Russians. It was just us. Us and the weaners.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Oh No, That Bumper Didn't

Two quick bumper sightings:

-first, from Alaskan correspondent, Bonnie Sue: "Vegetarian: Eskimo word for 'bad hunter.'"

-and second, a vanity license plate border that said, "I'd rather be sacrificing virgins."
What does it mean? Unclear. But I love it.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Parking Violations, The Follow-Up

I don't know if anyone remembers this, but way back in October I got a $250 ticket for pausing in a bus zone. And when I say pause, I do mean "pause," not "park" as was suggested on the citation.

Anyway, I've been fighting it since October -- that is, fighting in the sense of requesting a hearing, not so that I could try to protest the fact that I was in a bus zone, but rather to try to plead forgiveness. (What can I say? I was inspired by Mark's coups with the NYC department of traffic violations.)

So I drove to San Leandro this morning -- yes, San Leandro -- imagining that I was about to enter a courtroom, complete with judge, where I'd have to look up at a stern, gavel-wielding man and plead my case. Instead, I was met by a kind, grandfatherly-looking reviewing officer who told me that every Wednesday morning, he comes into the office to hear people beg him to forgive them for parking in bus zones.

He asked me how I was, and I told him the truth -- pretty good, but frustrated because I'd just discovered that the light was out in the only public bathroom in the sherriff's office. It was too dark to see the toilet, and no one I asked had a flashlight (this is a police department, people. I thought flashlights were part of the job). He chuckled and led me into his office, where I made my case (asserting that I hadn't gotten within 200 feet of a bus stop since the violation, and that, in fact, I had stopped taking the bus altogether). I told him I was a freelance writer. I told him my boyfriend had just had shoulder surgery and I was dropping him off at the train because he couldn't ride his bike. In other words, I told him the truth.

He smiled benevolently and told me that unfortunately, he didn't get "jerks" in his office -- he got people coming in who had tickets b/c they had dropped loved ones off in bus stops. He then told me a story, which I didn't fully understand, about a guy who stopped in a bus stop and then was killed. Then he asked me if I had anything else to add to the case. No, not really.

He told me I'd get a decision by mail, and then walked me to the door -- en route, asking me how my writing was going, and confessing to having written a 150-page book of short stories that no one but his grandkids had read. Very, very sweet.

And then, Saltines, he offered to find me a flashlight. And he was successful. And I am now hoping that the thought of me wandering around the sherriff's office bathroom with a flashlight tucked under my chin is a funny enough image that he forgives my parking ticket. Fingers crossed.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

A Thank You Note I Never Expected To Receive

This is an odd one: today I got a handwritten note in the mail with no return address. I assumed it was a wedding "save-the-date" note from a friend that I didn't know was getting married. You know, logically.

But then I opened it up and saw that it said "Thank You" on it in script. What is someone thanking me for, I asked myself. I haven't done anything too thankworthy recently, at least that I'm aware of.

Then I notice that under the "Thank You" it says AAA -- and inside, there's a handwritten note that says, "Thank you for your cooperation, Nicole Jackson," right under my claim number for my recent bumper scrape. So yes, that's right, Triple A sends out thank you notes. Part of me thinks this is a brilliant scheme, effectively encouraging customer loyalty. But then a part of me is very confused. Like, what else would I have done, exactly? Yelled at Nicole? It's not like this is Cingular Wireless I'm talking about.

Anyway, for what it's worth, I thought Nicole was quite helpful, and I'm relieved that I don't have to pay anything. So thank you, too, Triple A.

That is, unless my rates go up. Then you're getting a different kind of note.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.