Ruth Yunker's Blog

TBT, aka Throwback Thursday

I love love love Throwback Thursday. I love old pictures from my past. I love old pictures from your past. I really do want to admire your grandmother’s wedding dress, or glory in your father’s old racing car, the one he crashed that time. And your mother never let him race again…or so she thought.

I love every old baby photo that is posted, especially if it is of you as a baby, or your mother as a baby. I love to see that old dog of yours when he was a puppy and still falling off the sidewalk. I love to see a photo of the sidewalk outside the house I lived in thirty years ago, and wonder why it took me so long to plant some daisies out there.

Or the photo of Bob’s Big Boy in San Gabriel, CA. where I spilled a milkshake all over my boyfriend’s brand new car, and he won’t admit it, but that was the beginning of the end. I took the picture before the spilling of the milkshake. And I wonder if Bob’s is even there anymore. In fact, are Bob’s Big Boys still around at all? They should be. They are where I learned to eat my onion rings with blue cheese dressing.

My two TBT photos here are of, first, the photo booth. Remember them? I hear they’re coming back. Well this is him and me when we were still, you know, madly in love. 1970. And the picture above is my father’s childhood home in Louisville, KY, taken in 1955. Apparently it was the talk of the neighborhood at Christmas when their outdoor Christmas lights went up. This gorgeous Victorian is still standing! And I spent many happy summer vacations there.

Gems from my past, for they are exactly that. And I am so very happy to look at your yours!

Throw Back Thursday, you rock!

 

The Hoodie Grows Up

So I read in the newspaper that the hoodie has grown up. As I am a hoodie lover and hadn’t realize the hoodie needed to grow up, I was shaken. Because inherently, a hoodie is not a creation that is suppose to grow up. Like surfers. Who wear a lot of hoodies. So do ballet dancers and yogis, but I digress. A hoodie is meant to remain young.

Hoodies are in fact, meant to be left alone. Ask any true hoodie wearer. They would be the ones who wear their hoodies instead of a raincoat (usually in Southern California) when it’s raining out. They wear their hoodies inside when they have a cold, while watching tv and eating ice cream and feeling sorry for themselves. They wear their hoodies to bed, and make no apologies. They wear their hoodies to school and the doctor and even if they are not on their way to yoga. Finally, they have a lot of hoodies. And I mean a lot.

I like fashion as much as the next woman who must have a new pair of shoes every other day. I understand that to remain au courant, to keep energy going, to keep the fickle fashionista involved with their work, The New must appear like clockwork.

But what on earth can they do to make the hoodie NEW? What can they do? I repeat again. What? They are like a Volkswagon Bug.

It is telling, in my mind, that this article in the newspaper did not have any photographs to go with their threat. No. In the end the article was just a sharp note pointing out that the hoodie was about to be ushered into a new era.

I would completely alarmed, except for that fact there were no photos. No examples of the “new” hoodie. So I take comfort in the fact the piece was probably just a scam to get anyone who read it to rush out and buy more hoodies while the real thing is still on the racks.

The Holiday Season Starts Today

I adore the beginning of the HOLIDAY SEASON. That swell of happiness. Like Pavlov’s dog, Christmas bells light up my life. Yours too, I’ll bet.

But by the time Christmas and New Year rolls around, I’m tired. I’m resentful. I’m ready to throw in the towel. Because we all know how hard the HOLIDAY SEASON actually is. The cooking, the shopping, the frayed nerves, the money…

I want that thrilling holiday season mood to last longer. I have tried pacing myself with all the work. I’ve tried cutting back on all the work. I’ve tried starting my season early. But I still arrive to the end of December vaguely embittered, and certainly without that first joie de vivre.

So this year I have another plan. I am starting my Christmas joie de vivre RIGHT NOW. What’s today? October 2.

Okay, today, in my world, October 2 is the beginning of the HOLIDAY SEASON!

This may prove a real boon, because today is soooo early, I don’t have to do a single thing about Christmas and Halloween and Thanksgiving and Hanukkah except soak in the red, green and gold sparkle vibes

I’m giving myself that feeling of snow in the air, that feeling of love is all around, that cream in the coffee is magic, and that from sleigh bells come miracles–

Two whole months early.

You want me to let you know how it turns out?

Or, maybe, just maybe, you’d like to try it out for yourself.

 

 

 

 

Plaid Is the New First Grade

September  is the sorrowful month of starting school. Seeing all those little kids letting go of summer bliss, standing on the corners waiting for buses, wearing  real clothes and heavy shoes…I could weep for them.

The horrible day I went to first grade, I wore plaid. My father was thrilled with this. He’s a Southerner by birth, doesn’t have a drop of Glasgow in him, and yet, the man loves plaid.

So there I was, first day of school, wearing a plaid dress, and some kind of tam. My mother added that touch. She was always a hat person, which in her case, worked because she too was a Southerner, and everyone knows about Southern belles and their chapeaux.

Personally, I was shattered to be sent off to school. And wearing that buffoonish plaid didn’t help.

This went on for years, this wearing of plaid. I was sent to Catholic schools, each of which had uniforms. To say my aversion to plaid has been cemented in my psyche, is to say I wouldn’t eat plaid if it was the last meal on earth.

I love fashion. But just last month or was it April, British Vogue informed me that plaid is the new first grade…I mean the new latest thing. They showed me pictures of plaid and fur. Plaid and lace. Plaid and chiffon. Plaid long. Plaid short. Plaid speaking up at world conferences. Plaid lolling about before the fire in Glasgow. Plaid glistening in the rain.

I have taken umbrage.

I love the British Vogue. And of course I want to show my utmost respect for the world of fashion. But the British Vogue doesn’t own me, see. I can do what I want, see.  No plaid for me, honey. No plaid will ever be draped on my body, even if I am being taken to the Kentucky Derby.

However, to be polite and show respect for all that is plaid in this great and vast world of ours, from the depth of my closet, I have hauled out my one and only plaid item of clothing.  I shudder, although my mannequin seems calm enough. But later this week, when I have lunch with my dear Pa, I just may wear it. To see his face light up. Yes, I just might.

 

 

Barcelona, I Hardly Know You

Musician, Barcelona

Barcelona, we've only just met, and I'm already on my way.  I'd prefer to stay awhile, maybe have to go to the grocery store to make a real meal to serve to friends to really feel like I'm getting to know you, but it's not to be.

I remember when rushing into a new town, frantically seeing all the famous sights, walking my legs off and staying in hotels was my idea of blissful travel.  Not now, I see.  I find I like to get there and stay awhile, like I do in Paris.   This trip has been a quick affair…and I just don't do those.

The place across the street

I was standing out on my balcony early the first morning I was here.  the place across the street was completely dark.  A lone woman came along.  I wondered why she was out by herself.  It was still dark.  Then she abruptly plunked herself down on a ledge, and sat there in a state of, I thought, dejection.  She rummage through her purse and came up with a Kleenex and blew her nose loudly.  I was transfixed.  Was she coming home from a too late night out and now was sitting there, slumped over because she was lost?  A truck came down the quiet street.  And stopped right in front of the place.  I could still see the woman, who didn't move.  So, my mind flew to fantasy gothic, and suddenly I was sure this truck was here to slurp the exhausted, disoriented woman up and hurl her into slavery.  It was too dark and quiet.

I was on alert.  What should I do?  I did have to admit the woman wasn't alarmed in anyway.  A man got out of the truck, and sure enough walked right up to the woman.  She didn't move.  He walked back to the truck, and then, striding down the empty sidewalk, coming from the other direction, appeared a man.  The boss.  I could just tell.  The woman still didn't move.  She wasn't going to put up any resistance.  She was just too tired.  Had given up hope?  Anything was better than the sordid life she was living now?

I couldn't believe the tragedy taking place before my very eyes.  Yes, the new man strode right up to the place, said something to the woman–

And bent down and opened the guard gate to what turned out to be–

A neighborhood restaurant.  The woman got up and hustled into the restaurant to begin setting up.  the man from the truck began unloading the daily supplies–

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Barcelona

The story tipped back into a good one just like that, and I, much relieved, went back to bed.

But so, I have only my first impressions of Barcelona.  Unlike the neighborhood restaurant, though, my first impressions have been very good.  Such a beautiful city.  I'd love to see more.  I'd love to sit and stay awhile.

And if this ever happens, I know even my positive first impressions today will change, and I will be privileged to know a completely different, more real and deep, Barcelona than the one I've just barely met.

I'll just have to come back.

 

To Be a Lemming at Montserrat

Montserrat, Barcelona

So, I'm a reluctant tourist at best.  Short attention span at best.

And best at being the tourist who has a companion leading the way.  So I don't have to think or plan or pay attention–

But here I am, exploring a new place, alone.  Which is how I like it, so as a tourist, I'm in a little bit of trouble.

Take yesterday and a nice little jaunt to Montserrat, an old monastery an hour and a half outside of Barcelona, up in the mountains.  I wanted to go for two reasons.  It has been hotter than hell here and I came with winter clothes.  So I thought mountains–it will be cooler.  But more importantly, I love monasteries, cloisters, in spite of the fact I was raised Catholic.  I love the aura of peace, age, and otherworldly.

The trip to Montserrat includes metro, train, and either 'spectacular scenic' cable car for the last bit, or 'scenic' rack train.  To put it simply, I am afraid of cable cars, so I had chosen the rack train.  My ticket included the rack train, not the cable.  The rack train even dropped you off in the monastery compound itself.  The cable route made you trudge up a hill.  Who could trudge after a death-defying ride in a car swinging over a vast abyss?   Who would want to?

The hour ride on the many-stops train was mind-bogglingly dull.  What can I say.  So that when we hit a stop that was for Montserrat, even though we got there fifteen minutes before my printed schedule said we were to arrive, I eagerly filed off the train following several other tourists.  It was only as I got out the door that I realized that many other tourists were remaining on the train.  As the slow realization dawned that this was the cable car stop, not the rack train stop, I turned in slow-motion panic to jump back on, the doors slammed shut and the train left.  I was standing with the crowd of tourists who had willingly chosen the dreaded cable car.

Montserrat, Barcelona

Lord, please don't let the cable car crash.  Please take away those visions of cable cars hanging akilter from their stupid cables.  Please dear lord, I'll never follow the crowd again.

After having to pony up more euros before even being allowed on the thing, somehow I was pushed to the front, right by the windows, for the best view in the house.  I don't know what this means, but I do know I didn't scream, faint, or have a panic attack induced by claustrophobia.  We reached the top alive, where I didn't fall to my knees and kiss the ground although I wanted to…and the day proceeded.

Where one minute later it seems I came upon a very important looking line.  It was important looking because it was very very long.  It was snaking its way towards the basilica, although there were people also going into the basilca without standing in this line.  But I stood there, reluctant now to leave it as there were now people behind me and god forbid I lose my place for–

That was just it, though.  I didn't know for what.  I was standing in a line only because these other people were, and they didn't look disconcerted by the line.  They looked purposeful.  Didn't I want the same thing they wanted?  A touch of panic touched the very edge of my consciousness.  'Lemming' floated in.  I was actually standing in a giant line and I didn't have a clue what the line was for?

I leapt out of that line.  And immediately was a free woman.  Maybe I didn't have someone leading me around.  Maybe on this kind of outing I would prefer to have someone leading me around.  But such was not the case, and so I got down to the job at hand which was exploring Montserrat to see what I would see.

Montserrat

I saw the Boys Choir, which sang like heaven…for all of ten minutes.  But what the hell.  It was ten minutes of heaven.

Montserrat is the home La Moreneta (the Black Madonna), and one can touch the statue.  That is what the line turned out to be for!  I watched them touch her up behind the knave as I waited for the Boys Choir, so I felt part of!

And then I strolled, browsed through their extensive gift shop, and then, yet one more time, I joined a group of tourists waiting for what I was sure was the correct train this time.

And it was.

Six Hours in Paris

Mr. Pids, Paris

On my way to Barcelona, I stopped in Paris to leave a suitcase at a friend's apartment.  I am sure this part of the plan was worth it.

So worth it because I met Mr. Pids.  He's nine months old, and is actually named Piddles, but I think this is one of those names based on premature impressions.  Mr. Pids is a fine young hound now.  He kept me company all afternoon as I tried to stave off jet lag long enough to get myself on the overnight train to Barcelona.  He napped with me.  He helped me pack and unpack various items of clothing.  I was desperately searching for something lightweight to wear, given the weather was unexpectedly Southern California like, and my all black ensemble had died on the vine.  He enthusiastically endorsed the idea of he and I going for a walk, but this was left to his owner to attend to, as I napped some more.  And woke up to find Mr. Pids back again, asleep right next to me.

I'm in love, what can I say.  I'll inform my friend of his name change when I get back to Paris.

Bumper to bumper

The driver who drove me from Charles de Gaulle to my friend's apartment was fluent in English, and talked all the way in.  It was bumper to bumper traffic because there were demonstrations, so there was plenty of time for chat.  This was pretty one-sided because I was basically catatonic from the twelve hour flight.

He was a new grandfather, he told me, via his daughter from his first wife.  As of two days ago.  His son called to tell him today was his (current) wife's birthday which he'd forgotten.  This got my attention.  I suggested he do something about it.  He asked me if I would be angry if my husband forgot my birthday.  I told him that I never had to be angry at either husband for forgetting my birthday because I always reminded them ahead of time.  To avoid that very situation.  So he said he never got angry. Well, only twice had he ever been angry and one of those times had been at his mother.  This was said with tight lipped grimness.  I said "Blame the mothers!"

On another topic, wine.  He told me, very kindly and with a mention of one or two he'd had which were decent,  the reason he didn't like Californian wines was because he felt the grapes got too much sun (as did the grapes in any hot country which produced wine).  I thought this was a fascinating theory.  But since my own drinking days are long over, I couldn't either argue with him or agree.  Maybe this theory makes sense, and is in fact a well known fact and no one ever talks about it.  In a minute I'll ask Facebook!

Train station, evening Paris

This man, Michel, came before Mr. Pids.  And the train station came next.  I hung around there that evening.  Time slowed.  People were waiting for a train upon which they intended to sleep.  It was quiet.  I had a croissant and Pellgrino. I paid fifty centimes to use the bathroom, but I couldn't haul my suitcase in there with me, but the attendant said she'd watch it, even though her body language said she might watch it walk away and fail to react…

Mr. Pids

Then, just like that, like always on a long, weird travel day, time travels in dips and bursts, I was in my bathrobe, being lulled to sleep in my bed on a train rumbling towards Barcelona, Spain.

I drifted off, thinking about Mr. Pids.

 

Six Hours In Paris

Mr. Pids, Paris

On my way to Barcelona, I stopped in Paris to leave a suitcase at a friend's apartment.  I am sure this part of the plan was worth it.

So worth it because I met Mr. Pids.  He's nine months old, and is actually named Piddles, but I think this is one of those names based on premature impressions.  Mr. Pids is a fine young hound now.  He kept me company all afternoon as I tried to stave off jet lag long enough to get myself on the overnight train to Barcelona.  He napped with me.  He helped me pack and unpack various items of clothing.  I was desperately searching for something lightweight to wear, given the weather was unexpectedly Southern California like, and my all black ensemble had died on the vine.  He enthusiastically endorsed the idea of he and I going for a walk, but this was left to his owner to attend to, as I napped some more.  And woke up to find Mr. Pids back again, asleep right next to me.

I'm in love, what can I say.  I'll inform my friend of his name change when I get back to Paris.

Bumper to bumper

The driver who drove me from Charles de Gaulle to my friend's apartment was fluent in English, and talked all the way in.  It was bumper to bumper traffic because there were demonstrations, so there was plenty of time for chat.  This was pretty one-sided because I was basically catatonic from the twelve hour flight.

He was a new grandfather, he told me, via his daughter from his first wife.  As of two days ago.  His son called to tell him today was his (current) wife's birthday which he'd forgotten.  This got my attention.  I suggested he do something about it.  He asked me if I would be angry if my husband forgot my birthday.  I told him that I never had to be angry at either husband for forgetting my birthday because I always reminded them ahead of time.  To avoid that very situation.  So he said he never got angry. Well, only twice had he ever been angry and one of those times had been at his mother.  This was said with tight lipped grimness.  I said "Blame the mothers!"

On another topic, wine.  He told me, very kindly and with a mention of one or two he'd had which were decent,  the reason he didn't like Californian wines was because he felt the grapes got too much sun (as did the grapes in any hot country which produced wine).  I thought this was a fascinating theory.  But since my own drinking days are long over, I couldn't either argue with him or agree.  Maybe this theory makes sense, and is in fact a well known fact and no one ever talks about it.  In a minute I'll ask Facebook!

Train station, evening Paris

This man, Michel, came before Mr. Pids.  And the train station came next.  I hung around there that evening.  Time slowed.  People were waiting for a train upon which they intended to sleep.  It was quiet.  I had a croissant and Pellgrino. I paid fifty centimes to use the bathroom, but I couldn't haul my suitcase in there with me, but the attendant said she'd watch it, even though her body language said she might watch it walk away and fail to react…

Mr. Pids

Then, just like that, like always on a long, weird travel day, time travels in dips and bursts, I was in my bathrobe, being lulled to sleep in my bed on a train rumbling towards Barcelona, Spain.

I drifted off, thinking about Mr. Pids.

 

Sunless in CA

Lifeguard Station

So this is called a marine layer, and all I know is that marine layers belong to June and December around these here parts, which happen to be Newport Beach, CA.  Marine layers DO NOT belong here in September which is the best month of the year for the beach because it gets nice and hot, minus all the summer crowds.  And it's sunny.  All day.

This marine layer has been hanging around since last May.  It hovers, denying the existence of sun, in fact proclaiming it is stronger than sun, until 4:30 pm.  At which point it dissipates for the evening.  We are then blessed with what Southern California does best–we are blessed with absolutely beautiful weather.  There's this sunny late afternoon that gently slides into our velvet blue and rose evenings, lingering just long enough for the evening chat out on the deck, terrace, porch or whatever other outdoor space the Southern Californian most definitely has.  The air is soft and sweet, not too hot, and definitely not too cold.  There's just enough moisture in the pure air to clear our heads–

 

SoCal evening light

There's never been an argument at this time of day in Southern California.  How could there be?  Anger would not fly in the face of such goodness and peace.

This marine layer though, just can't give it up in the daytime.  And last night I actually saw it rolling back in before the moon came up.  In fact I haven't seen the moon in awhile…because of this marine layer.

I hate you, marine layer.

You could be, and indeed, used to be, a somewhat welcomed respite from the non-stop sun.  You brought to the raucous beach scene a sense of dignity, if only for a little while.  Like an hour or two in the morning, in June.  Remember June?  When did you get greedy?  When did you decide to take over the coast of Southern California?  When did you decide to last all day, then five months?   Aren't you tired?  Don't you have anywhere else to go?  Aren't you, for god sake, bored?!

Bench

We're bored with you.

And just so you know, we ALL know that the sun is only a mile inland.  All it takes is a quick bike ride inland and we are out in the sun under blue skies.  And you are instantly a old news,  nothing but a bad dream, beaten up, used up, and a redundant memory.

You used to be somebody.   Don't you care?

 

Summer Addiction to HGTV

The Tulips Go With the Walls

I'm on vacation…a working vacation, but let's not split hairs.

There's a great big tv sitting opposite a great big couch, which is positioned dangerously close to my computer.  Because even though my back is to the couch and tv when I'm sitting at the computer, I feel their eyes on me, drawing me back to daytime tv.

This summer I discovered HGTV.  Who knew?!  Did you know?  All those fabulous shows?!  Omigod.  I've been in heaven.

It all started with those House Hunter shows.  The ones where these intensely hopeful couples end up with the place they never would have wanted in their wildest dreams, and absolutely loving it.

This is the show where I found out granite for the kitchen counter tops is the Louis Vuitton bag of kitchen counters. Couple after couple, especially the young ones who don't even know how to cook, walked into the fab kitchen, looked at the counters, and cried "Oh no, it's not granite."   I didn't even know there was such a thing as granite counters, okay?   But after seven weeks of House Hunters and Virgin Property Owners and International House Hunters, I do.  Thank god!

I'm in love with Candace.  Candace tells all while re-making these wrecks of rooms into absolutely gorgeous reflections of the owners' tastes.  Someone named Genevieve works this magic too.  I love her as well.  And David Bromstad who is in Miami and is fab with color…I'm in love with him too.

These Flowers Go With the Walls, Too

And don't get me started on this couple, the Novogratzs.  They are even more fab than all the others put together, and they cart around seven children to boot.  In fact those seven children kind of freak me out.  The Novogratzs obviously have no bounderies–which works really well in their designs.  This week they're doing an loft in something they call 'industrial comfy'.  Is that fab or what?!  I wish I could drag them into my house–

Which amazes me.  Until this summer addiction took hold, I honestly thought I knew what I was doing decorating my homes.  I would no more trust a decorator to mess with my taste than I would crawl across a freeway during rush hour.

That is, until this summer and Candace and Genvieve et al.  I've just rented a miniscule apartment as a pied a terre in Oregon near my daughter.  It's 450 square feet.  A non-existent kitchen.  Big windows.  I like arty urban with some bling and luxury thrown in, but it has to function primarily as my office, because it is meant to be a quiet retreat in which I can write without my SoCal life's daily distractions.  Until this summer, I had total confidence I could 'make it work'.  Now, sigh, I know that it's the Novogratz or Candace or David who could really make it work.  Excuse me…they could make it pop!  And I mean really pop!

Yellow and blue

I do know now that I must have this color called 'withered moss' (I kid you not) and another one called 'cucumber sandwiches'.  I know I want a staple gun, that I'd better make friends with a fabric store and spray paint, and that it's time to finally get all my old lamps re-wired.  Because now that my eyes have been opened, I realize I might fall over the perfect lamp shade anywhere.

Okay, gotta go now.  A Design Challenge re-run is on.  They're making kitchens.  They are making pale green kitchens and the design adviser, David Bromstad (from Miami, remember?) is telling them they need to step up their games, so immediately two of the kitchens have gone orange.  So now I know, see, that the orange kitchen is nervy.

Hey, my kitchen is orange.  Well not orange exactly.   But the wood floor and cabinets definitely have shades of orange in them.  And those orange wine glasses I have sitting on the shelf I bought for one Thanksgiving and never used again?  They've just taken on a new reason for being .  And there are some oranges out on the (tile, god forbid) counters from breakfast.  The color looks really good–

But wait!  Let me add some green limes and now, look at that, total POP!