May 17, 2013 |
Five Things Friday at Frankly, My Dear…
Two weeks ago I posted the first of what I hope to be a long running series, The Friday Five. Once or twice a month you can share Five Things about yourself.
With Memorial Day just around the corner bringing with it the start of summer, this week’s theme is about Travel. Have some amazing travel memories or a trip on your bucket list? Share them here. Be sure to check back often and encourage your friends to add their own Friday Five!
And now, the Mojo Friday Five Things: My Travel.
1. I love all things Italy. Even when I don’t know they’re Italian. I’m fundamentally drawn to Italian architecture, gardening, designs, flavors, color palettes and personalities. I talk a lot with my hands. I drink strong coffee. I’m loud and boisterous at times. The Godfather Trilogy will always be my favorite movie series. My ethnic heritage is a hodge-podge of all things Europe. I am perhaps, at best, 5% Italian, but that is the part I cling to. I’ve never been to Italy, but it is most definitely on my Bucket List.
My Favorite Coffee Mugs
2. I’m a little afraid of driving. Especially at night in unfamiliar places. [Case in point: Following Fabian.] I never used to be, but the older I get the harder it is for me to drive into unknown territory. I also have mini panic attacks when I’m away from Bedford Manor for more than two nights. I miss my cats too much. I worry about leaving the house empty. The only places I can go without worrying about my home is Disneyland and The Mission Inn. Okay, that’s not true. I can also drive to Las Vegas and sometimes the beach or mountains. I just need to drive more often. Like I used to. Because the world is just waiting for me to discover it!
Mob Moll.
3. I would love to live in New York for a year. I would love to stroll through Central Park in autumn, and see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live from the street. There’s a certain kind of cement magic when I’m surrounded by buildings towering over sidewalks. The sights, sounds, and smells of a big city are something I must experience.
4. I love watching travel shows. Aerial America and Skyview are just two of my favorites. I also love historical stories about travel: the Oregon Trail, how the Wright Brothers were the first to fly. These are all imagination takers that inspire and enthrall me.
5. I like to dress the part. When I’m at Disneyland, I wear capris and a fun Mickey sweatshirt. If I’m heading to the Mission Inn, I’m never without heels and perhaps my brown hat. Vegas calls for a bit more rugged look of jeans and my leather jacket.
Who I Am
Thanks for taking this journey with me. Here’s your extra bag of nuts: My dream is to be a writer/traveler like many of the great stories I read and movies I watch.
Be sure to catch all my travel reviews at Trekaroo!
TheRealMojo68
And now it’s your turn: What are your favorite travel stories? If you’ve written a Blog post about them, link it up below. If not, just list them in the comments.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
When I Get To New York
I Like Driving at Twilight
Destination: Mission Inn [“Tell ‘Em Tony Sent Ya”]
Destination: Grand Hotel, Mackinac Island, Michigan
Do You trekaroo?
I Want a Mr. Potato Head
She Wore a White Dress. And She Wore a Hat.
Mar 13, 2012 |
Yesterday was my last day at Disneyland. At least for a while. My annual pass expires in six days, and since I still don’t have one of those day-job-thing-a-ma-jig’s, I’m not renewing. Not yet.
So yesterday was my last day Disneyland. At least for a while.
Megan and I were finally able to go together. She drove. And I can happily say, I did not get us lost. She did. Or rather, her GPS did. We named the GPS Stella. Just ‘cuz we could. And while laughing about different voices a GPS could do, we missed an important direction along the lines of “In one mile, turn right.” Yep. We missed it. On the way to the Park. And Megan was driving. That made me rather happy (no offense, Meg!).
She says there’s a download application to have the GPS use different voices, and one of them is Yoda. So we started talking like GPS-Yoda: “Turn right, you will.” One of the features that kept us laughing is with the merging freeways, Stella would tell us, “Turn right, then stay left.” While the directions were appreciated, if you didn’t know how to interpret, it could have been pretty difficult. We imagined what would happen if we made a mistake and GPS-Yoda were guiding us. We could only imagine being told, “Stupid, you are!” So while we’re laughing at being told we’re stupid, we missed the whole “turn right” thing. Yup. That confirms it: Stupid, we are!
We hit some heavy fog on the way, which is rare for us. It was a little spooky, and lent itself to five minutes of telling ghost stories. Granted, the photo was taken as we’re moving down the freeway, but still… Creepy looking, isn’t it?
We made it into the Park, and this is where I sincerely apologize to Megan: she’s a die-hard roller coaster fan. I’m so not. With the altitude change and my lack of coordination, I get a little nauseous. So I don’t do rides like Space Mountain or the Matterhorn. She was relegated to the Kiddy Rides with me. And proudly announced it through the Parks: “The Kiddy Rides are just around the corner!” Yeah. Way to boost my ego, there, Meg!
I looked for the Engine Ears store so I could finally get my Mr. Potato Head, but they closed it down! No Mr. Potato Head anywhere. Talk about disappointment! But the rest of the day was a smash. We did the usual: Pirates of the Caribbean, Haunted Mansion, it’s a small world, Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters (I got a hideously great high score of 368,100; my best ever). We walked through some shops and attractions. I verified the heritage and family crest of my surname and almost bought a Narnian sword (okay, not really because it was almost $200… but a girl can dream!).
We ate some great Chicken Fusilli with garlic breadsticks. We talked about everything from our book series to Jimmy Hoffa to Man Stores to how young is too young for Disneyland?
I showed her one of my favorite spots: The Bench:
Here’s a close-up of the Plaque:
And then at the end of the day, I took this picture of us together. Awesome camera. But I’m still not very photogenic, especially after a day of intense walking.
Leaving the Park was harder than I thought it would be. I knew it would be hard, but I put it out of my head. Then we headed to the exit. And walked through. And it clicked: I’m not coming back any time soon. It was really bittersweet.
And so now I have a new goal: Find a job so I can renew my Pass. ASAP. And sell my writings. Sooner or later, one of these goals is gonna become a reality.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 26, 2012 |
Remember when we were kids, and we all had one of these, but each one was distinctly different? And no matter how many parts came in the box (which wasn’t too many, to be honest), we each had our favorite way of dressing them up?
I want a Mr. Potato Head.
My friend Lisa (affectionately known to me as “Schmoo”, from that late 70s- early 80s Scooby Doo sidekick) is always cautioning me to be careful when I say things like this. I don’t know what she’s worried about. Not enough people read this Blog (yet) to really inundate me with my material must-have’s. I’ve yet to receive any stuffed frogs or even a lottery ticket. Of course, it’s also come to my attention that I haven’t always blatantly said “I want…” So in case you missed the writing between the lines, I want stuffed frogs. Lottery tickets. Kitchen accessories by the boatload. Not that I expect others to provide for me. But if I won an endless gift card, these are the things I would spend some of it on. I’m just sayin’…
And, yes: I want a Mr. Potato Head. I want lots of them. Lots of pieces. Lots of manipulative little pieces to make him up however I want, because he won’t complain. Who could ask for a better man?
There’s a store in Disneyland’s California Adventure called Engine Ears Toys. For a flat fee you can purchase a container and stuff it as full as you like of Mr. Potato Head pieces and parts. As long as you can close the container properly, you can fill it with anything from the Mr. Potato Head open piece bins. It’s awesome. They have everything: basic parts, specialty pieces, and exclusive bits.
Every time I visit the Park, I’m so tempted to grab a bucket, a body, and start stuffing.
I think it would be fun for Nippers to have an office companion. One that would serve as an entry warning. If Mr. Potato Head looks angry, you can bet my writing isn’t going well. When Dot comes in to see how I’m doing, I can just point to his glasses and book and she’ll know I’m in the middle of something. During break time, I can have him sunning on the beach (hey, at least someone in this household deserves a decent tan!). When I’m on a roll, he’ll smile happily from his corner.
Of course, he’d get lonely so pretty soon I’d have to provide him with a Mrs. Potato Head. Now that would be fun. Lips. Eyeshadow. Flowers. Hats. Yeah. I could have a lot of fun with Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. [Would that be the Family “Potato Heads” or “Potatos Head”?]
And every time I went to Disneyland, I could add a few more new pieces to their wardrobes. Let’s face it, some spectacular outfits are now available. And what other creature do you know where you could replace an ear for an arm or an eye for a foot?
Remember all the giggles and laughs we used to have at our own sillyness? How many times our parents would roll their eyes at our creations? How our friends would manipulate their own to say, “Yours is good, but look at mine!”
I’d hide his pieces throughout the house and go on a Treasure Hunt. I’d use him for a piggy bank. I’d make him spy on Dot every now and then. He’d be the Mascot of the House. I can see it now: “Mr. Potato Head of Bedford Manor”.
Yeah.
I really want a Mr. Potato Head.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 11, 2012 |
It’s starting to become a serious joke in my family. I’m getting famous for getting lost on the Freeways of Southern California. I’ve sort of hinted at this here. But now that I’ve come clean about my latest adventure to my family, it’s time to share the story on the Blog for my public humiliation.
Last Thursday, my daughter and I headed down to Disneyland for one last hurrah before the end of winter break. Now, I’ve lived in SoCal for three decades. I’ve been driving to and from Disneyland almost just as long. It’s incredibly simple.
At least… it used to be…
I was feeling pretty confident last Thursday. After last month’s major car repairs and with a full tank of gas, I was secure in my transportation. We had a wonderful day. We met up with some friends. Rode some rides. Ate some dinner. Bought a souvenir. And then it was time to head home.
What you have to understand at this point, is the last two times I’ve driven home from Disneyland, I have at one point or another missed a turn and ended up misdirected. It even happened to my friend. I’m not the only one! But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one it happens to every time.
So this time, I looked very closely for the freeway signs. RIGHT LANE TURN ONLY. Awesome. I’ll turn right, get on the freeway, and make tracks for home. It’s also worth noting at this point, that my loving attentive daughter questioned this decision as she was aware we were on a different street than we usually first take out of the Park. She wasn’t as confident (or, as she says I was, “cocky”) about the route we were taking.
After a few minutes, I began to think I missed my first merge. I’m pretty sure I got on the wrong freeway. But it’s the 5-North, a very well known freeway, and I know I was in the general area so I didn’t worry. It was all part of my Daring to Be an Awesome Orange. Since it was, in fact, just a few hours earlier I chose to be an Orange, I honestly thought I was invincible.
Except that darned interchange that I was looking for never appeared. And I’m starting to remember that I don’t ever get directly on the 5-North straight out of the Park. There was supposed to be a different freeway first… wasn’t there? Maybe the 57 North? Maybe skip the I-5 altogether?
This thinking, and my driving, continued for another 15 – 20 minutes. I should turn around. I should head back. I should. But I didn’t. I was brave. And smart. And conquering. And invincible. (You just keep thinkin’ that, missy!)
So I kept driving.
And then I saw more freeway lanes. With more traffic. And taller buildings. With bigger billboards.
This is so not the way to the desert.
The buildings grew closer. The billboards grew neon lights in a foreign language.
I should definitely turn around now.
South is definitely where I want to head. If I can get on the 5-South, I’ll end up back near Disneyland and can easily, easily, find my way home from there, and only be about 45 minutes later than planned. I took what looked like a friendly exit off the I-5 and pulled into a gas station. I checked the GPS on my small cell phone screen. I had a vague idea where I was heading, but couldn’t make sense of the two-inch map I was looking at. With no small amount of vocal trembling, I asked directions to the I-5 South.
The ensuing language barrier led the conversation to be peppered with words like “What?” “Where?” “How far?” and more “uhmmm”‘s than I care to recall. Easy enough. I’ll get back on the 5-North and get off at the next exit.
This one was better. With a fake confident smile, I again asked my question. “You want to go west here then north.” (Heavy accent… I’m so not close to home…) I asked for left-or-right clarification. Please. I implored him: it’s dark outside and I don’t have celestial navigation. So please. Left. Or. Right. ??? “Yes.”
Ughh. I asked what street do I get on. That part was clear. So I got on the street and kept going. It should be here any minute now. Any minute… now… any. minute. NOW.
So not getting home in a timely manner.
Every time I thought I saw a stoplight and overpass indicating a potential on-ramp, it turned out to be just another street. Another dark, crowded, unknown street.
With no freeway entrance in sight I can’t even get back on the 5-North. Even though that was the wrong direction, at least it was (fairly) known territory. At this rate, I’ll end up at my brother’s house five hours north before I find my way back home.
I’m almost confident that although it felt like I had driven a good ten miles away from the freeway it probably was only inches, maybe a foot. Definitely not truly as bad as it felt. I was *gulp* almost confident of that.
Almost.
One more gas station. An ARCO. By this time, I had a pretty good idea of where I was. And the GPS confirmed it. But what does a two-inch cell phone screen map really know? Stupid piece of technology. Except it did show that I was just a mile away from a huge interchange. And when I say huge, I’m talking Paul Bunyun huge. There had to be a way to avoid that.
I walked to the clerk and meekly pleaded, “How do I get to the 5-South, please?”
He was wonderful. He was tender, and could tell I was lost, and offered compassion and directions. Good directions. He told me street names and distances and left-and-right navigation. And then he pointed behind me. “There is a tow truck driver. They know all the streets even better. Go ask him, he will help you.”
I looked. Into the shadows. Past the gas pumps where this incredibly large, full bodied-tattooed gangbanger looker of a guy stood smiling at me. He wore overalls with the name FABIAN stitched on them. His license plate was PEPE 13. 13! As if things couldn’t get any worse, let’s throw in a superstitious number, too. Well, I thought. I had a nice life…
I approached him with what little courage I had left, praying all the while with confidence that within 30 minutes I’ll know exactly where I am and be able to breathe better. But right now… ugh.
I explained that I was not only lost, but terribly lost and afraid of the upcoming freeway interchange. I asked for directions to get back toward Disneyland.
I was taken aback when his demeanor didn’t live up to his appearance. I guess that late at night, where I was, looking the way he looked, I expected someone rough. Vulgar. Difficult to understand and unwilling to help.
He was none of those. He immediately put me at ease with his attention, his smile, and his knowledge of safe streets.
But he’s a tow truck driver. He didn’t care where I came from. He wanted to get me to my destination. So when I explained that I’m looking for any safe freeway that will easily get me to the desert north of San Bernardino, he let out a slow, low whistle. Not kidding. Just like when someone gets bad news in a movie. And my already trembling legs bent a little more.
He said the only way back to the freeway was (in his words) “that really big joint freeway interchange just up the road.” I’d have to take this side road for a mile, get on the 5-North (again), find the 60-East, travel a bit to the 710-East then stay on there til I get to the 10-East. It sounded complicated.
And I was getting a bit dizzy from all that clean Los Angeles air.
I offered to pay him to tow me to the 710. Once I hit that, I knew my way. But freeway interchanges – huge freeway interchanges – in the dark? I think I’d rather not.
“Well,” he said. “First of all, relax. You’re fine. You’re out of the area -”
“I know,” I gulped.
“You’re not in the best part of town, but you’ll be fine. We’ll get you back on track in no time. You’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” I didn’t really know if I should believe him. I wondered if Daring to Be an Awesome Orange meant not ever showing fear, or just conquering it.
“Do you know where you are?” he sort of smiled, tilting his head. I don’t know why that comforted me, but it did.
“I have a general idea,” I said, holding up my worthless two-inch map.
“Yeah…” he nodded. Then said those words I was trying to avoid.
“You’re in East L.A.”
So he smiled again, reassured me again, and told me to follow him. We’ll stay in the slow lane. We’ll go slow in the slow lane. I don’t have to make any lane changes. Just follow him and he’ll get me where I need to get.
As soon as I agreed, he ushered me back into my car. “It’s not the worst neighborhood, but you don’t belong here.” I waited for his lead.
As promised, he led me carefully through the streets of East Los Angeles, onto the first freeway. It was then I noticed that his headlights were incredibly bright. They lit up the entire freeway sign. And then it dawned on me. He was using his Mag Flashlight from inside his cab to show me the signs so I knew where to go in case I lost him.
When we hit the second freeway interchange, it went just as smoothly. His MagLight lit up the sign. No cars got between us. There was no significantly merging traffic.
When we got to the 710 split, he took left and I took right. I turned my lights off and on twice in rapid appreciation and he lit up his siren lights for two seconds. In less than ten minutes, I was breathing easy back on the 10-East and I don’t know where he was.
It’s quite possible he was just an Angel in Disguise teaching me a lesson about appearances and trust with his Orange Lights.
Thank you Fabian, for guiding me home.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 7, 2012 |
I’ve seen a trend on blogs this year. Rather than people writing out a long list of unaccomplishable Resolutions, the notion is to pick three, just three, words that are what you want to make the next year about.
For instance, you might pick the word health. This would eliminate a handful of specific resolutions such as “I will exercise daily” and “I will eat better” and “I will lower my calorie intake” and “I will eat a salad every lunch”.
Or you might pick achievements. This would encompass all those resolutions about work, success, striving…
Even though I already wrote out my Resolutions list, having three main words sounded like a good idea.
The first word that came to mind was Dare. I was going for “be daring”, but that’s two words so I opted for just dare. For me, this means to not just step out of my comfort zone now and then. It means, even when I’m afraid to go ahead and do something. It means to be more adventurous, and there’s all kinds of ways to do that. Experiment with my recipes. Step out in faith when I can’t see the foundation. Do the things I’m nervous about doing. Try something new. Keep trying at something old until I get it. Don’t give up. Don’t falter. Keep trudging. Dare to be great. Dare to be wonderful. Dare to accomplish. Just dare to do it.
My second word is Orange. “What an odd word,” you say. Well, let me explain. First, my kitchen is orange. I love it. It’s a very bright, refreshing color. Orange has always been my favorite fruit and fragrance. It’s such a wonderful color, that California even has a City and County named after it! And in this wonderful Orange County is a miraculous little place called Disneyland, also extravagantly orange in its decorations. Oranges are full of vitamins and fragrant juice and taste wonderful. Oranges are the best. One of my favorite quotes comes from Frank Sinatra: “Orange is the happiest color.”
I had a hard time coming up with my third word. I wanted something like successful or accomplished but everyone’s definitions are different. And let’s face it, without having a day job how successfully accomplished can I be? It’s a great word to strive for, but I’m not so sure even I can call myself successful right now. I’m getting there, to be sure. But I still wanted a different word.
Enter Disneyland (again!). I have a favorite T-Shirt that I wear almost every time I go there. It’s a black princess T and has a big red name badge screened on front that says “HELLO… My Name Is AWESOME!” I love it. It’s fun to wear and yes, garners me some smiles as I walk by. I don’t wear it because I want that much attention. But it’s fun to hear others talk amongst themselves: “Did you see that T-Shirt?” “That’s so cool, I gotta get one!” It’s just a lot of fun.
Since we finished off winter break by another trip to The Happiest Place on Earth, I wore my “Awesome!” T-Shirt. And was impressed at the attention it gathered. More than the usual. I actually had people come up to me and start talking. It was, again, fun. I like talking to people. I like smiling and getting to know people. I like having fun. And that’s when it hit me: When I bought a juice and the cashier asked, “How many people have called you ‘Awesome’ today?” I said, “Not enough!” And I knew then and there that it had to be my third word. Awesome is exactly what I’m striving for in the year 2012.
Picking just three words to set for a yearly standard is no easy task. The fruits of your life will be different than mine. But whichever words you choose for 2012, be sure you Dare to be an Awesome Orange in life.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
