How (Not) To Be A Mother-in-Law

[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published December 9, 2024] ©2024

I was thinking about writing a guide on how to be a good mother-in-law but truthfully it can all be summed up in two words: “Shut. Up.” 

My long-time motto, to which I have, alas, faithfully failed to adhere, has always been “A closed mouth gathers no feet.”  As anyone who has read my column for a while might guess, letting an opinion go unvoiced is not my strong suit. 

But I really try hard with my two daughters-in-law who are truly the daughters I never had and whose good opinion is my utmost priority.  Having been a daughter-in-law twice myself, I vowed I would be a dream mother-in-law.  A friend of mine insists that’s an oxymoron.  But then, this is a woman whose bedroom sports a throw pillow embroidered “The only good in-law is a dead in-law.”  A tad harsh, I think.

I’ve learned a lot from both of my mothers-in-law.

My first mother-in-law only ever referred to me in the third person, even when I was there, and preferably without conjunctions, as in: “Ask the shiksa she wants dessert.”  These in-laws escaped from Russia in the dead of night with the clothes on their backs, enduring incredible hardships in their new land all so that their son the doctor, their phoenix rising out of immigrant ashes, could marry…me?    SO not part of the plan. 

Ironically, with the passage of time (and the raising of two sons), I have tremendous empathy for her position.  Now that I have adult sons, I know I would be devastated if either of them married someone I truly thought was wrong for him, regardless of the reason.  I wish she were alive today so I could tell her.   (She’d still probably tell me to drop dead, but I’d feel better saying it.)

My second mother-in-law (Olof’s mother) actually liked me.  And I adored her. My own mother died when I was 25 so Olof’s mother was truly a second mother to me.  Although fond of her son’s first wife, I think she wishes Olof and I had married the first time around. (So do my former in-laws.) 

The one thing I told both of my daughters-in-law from the get-go was that I was trying to learn their tastes so that if I got them a gift they didn’t like, they needed to say so. As a cautionary tale, I relayed the saga of a friend who, as a new bride, politely gushed over a hideous china tchotchke her mother-in-law gave her. She has continued to receive another one for every birthday and Christmas for the last 34 years.  Two years ago, her mother-in-law surprised her with a display case for them. 

Honestly, I knock myself out to stay on my daughters-in-laws’ good sides, and fortunately they are such sweethearts that they make it easy for me.  But occasionally, despite my best efforts, I’ve just screwed it up.  When my young grandkids were down visiting one time, I thought it would be really fun to take a bunch of cheapo on-sale hotdog buns down to our favorite sunset spot to feed the seagulls.  Now at the time of the year, the sun was setting at around 5:00, so it was just before dinner.  Neither of my daughters-in-laws are food fanatics but they quite reasonably prefer to maximize the nutritional value of whatever they happen to be feeding their kids.  So as you might guess, not a lot of white bread.

But as soon as we got down to the sunset place and each kid had a bag of hotdog buns in hand, they started eating them instead of tearing off pieces for the birds.  It was like, “Whoa! You don’t even have to chew this stuff! It’s nothing like the 12-grain cement blocks Mom feeds us!”

Mom quickly confiscated the buns and handed them pieces to throw but these went into mouths just as quickly, despite admonishments to the contrary. I could see my daughter-in-law’s jaw tightening.  This well-intentioned happy activity was tanking fast.  It was such a good idea!  Which so totally failed!  The kids were, of course, way too full of nutritionally-bankrupt processed flour product to eat dinner.  My daughter-in-law was totally nice about it.  But in my mind’s eye, I feared becoming fodder for her next dinner party. 

Sadly, I know women who really don’t like their daughters-in-law and have even engaged in the ultimate mother-in-law act of aggression, i.e. sending the grandchildren drum sets for Christmas.  I’m going to continue to be phenomenally grateful that I ended up with the daughters-in-law that I did.  But next time:  whole wheat buns.  After dinner.

 

Living In A "Dog House"

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published December 2, 2024] ©2024

After our beloved English bulldog Winston died suddenly of a heart attack in our living room in 2016, Olof and I were so flattened that we swore we'd never have another dog. It's too depressing when they die plus so insanely expensive when they get sick. Never mind we're getting old.

But a few months later, a local rescue agency with radar for mushballs asked us to foster a dog just for "one week,"  and before we knew it, we were suddenly the adoptive parents of Lily, a then-7-year-old 15-pound bichon-poodle with rotten teeth and breath so bad it could scorch your eyebrows. Lily has now been an essential member of the household for eight years.

Dogs, even perpetually sick ones, give you the relationships you can only dream of having with people. For example, they would never roll their eyes at you, especially knowing how totally annoyed it makes you.

Keeping our house safe for democracy has always been Lily's full-time job. It's pretty much always DEFCON 3 here with the garbage trucks on Mondays, the lawn mowing guy on Wednesday, and the pool guy with that big scary pole on Thursdays.

While Lily ultimately became fast friends with our treat-toting pool guy, she regards our lawn maintenance man as her mortal enemy. The second he shows up with his lawn mower, 17 pounds of enraged white fluff is hurling itself at our French doors. "He's stealing our grass! Again! And you let him!"   She is eager to sink her three remaining teeth into the side of his mower.

Like many dogs, Lily considers it her personal duty to defend us from faunish peril as well, including and especially tiny lizards. Our back doors are open pretty much year-round to let air in and Lily out, so it is not surprising that occasionally a small reptile makes a wrong turn and ends up in the house. Recently Lily saw one scurry from the hallway into the guest bath. An alien life form had breached the barricades and invaded her personal territory! Totally unacceptable! When I came to investigate her frantic barking, I found her standing at alert just outside the open bathroom door, one foot up in pointer position. This would make more sense if she were actually a pointer, rather than a bichon-poodle mix. But she wanted me to be clear that the intruder was still in there. "You will not go in there on my watch!"  she seemed to be saying. 

But go in there and rout it out herself? Heck no.

And while we're on the subject of bathrooms, it is not surprising that dogs would consider bathroom activities to be social events. From Lily's perspective, every time she makes a shadoobie, we're always standing right there, opaque bag at the ready. The fact that we don't seem to need bags ourselves is irrelevant; it's still a communal activity. If the bathroom door is not closed tightly, Lily will nose it open and join the occupant. In fact, she's fairly annoyed if you exclude her and will park herself just outside the door where you can easily trip over her and do a face plant into the armoire which would serve you right for being so anti-social.

Once inside the bathroom, she will join Olof as he stands in front of the commode. She assesses the proceedings with the laser focus of an Olympic figure skating judge. Artistic presentation? Meh. But given the added difficulty elements inherent in Olof s age, she is more than willing to bump up the score for technical merit.

If you're a dog, there are always new threats to the household. Who knew that the toilet plunger in the guest bath could have been taken over by malevolent forces? She snarls viciously at it to let it know that its behavior will not be tolerated. I will finally come in and hide the plunger in a closet (vanquished!) Lily is genuinely baffled that we seem to be clueless as to the dangers in our midst.

When Lily arrived, we acquired a new feeding station with high sides. However, she still manages to hurl the occasional piece of kibble out on to the floor and then drag it into the carpet in our bedroom where we step on it in our bare feet and say bad words.

One of her favorite activities is to stuff toys under the sofa and carry on until we fetch them for her.  (We are so trainable.)

As an older dog, she will suddenly need to go outside at 3 a.m. As in, this instant. I barely have time to slip on my shoes and get the door open. Given the coyote situation, I don't dare have her outside in the front yard without me. Sometimes our newspaper delivery guy will pull up and see me running around my front yard in my nightgown in the middle of the night. I'm not sure he realizes I'm with the dog. I tip him well at Christmas.

We, of course, continue to be under the spell of Lily's charms. She gets lots of rubs, toy tosses, and attention, which is, of course, her due. In her view, she is an insanely attractive animal (regardless of the cruel things people say about her prominent snaggle tooth), and she has perfected all manner of adorable faces on us. When she tilts her head to one side and lifts her paw, we are powerless against her. It makes us think she is genuinely sorry for puking on the rug.

But for all that, this is her house. She s running the show. And we're so appreciative she lets us live here.

 Lily, guard dog extraordinaire 

What I'm Thankful For This Thanksgiving

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published, November 25, 2024]  ©2024

My long-deceased parents were their own flawed people and certainly products of their times. My mother, a smoker, died at 54 from lung cancer. She never knew her grandchildren which was a huge loss for everyone, including and especially her.

My father, an ad executive in New York City (think "Mad Men"  although not Don Draper) probably would have lived longer were it not for the nightly dry martinis that were the norm in our commuter town as I was growing up. (There was a saying in the neighborhood: "The vermouth is just a formality.")

But as I have gotten older and had children and grandchildren of my own, I have had the opportunity to appreciate some of the incredible gifts my parents gave us. Top among them: they didn't hate. Whatever their prejudices might have been, we never heard them. They never referred to anyone by race or religion, and to this day, when I hear gratuitous (or even flat-out biased) references to people like this, it immediately stands out to me in a very sad way.

My father was a conservative Republican Catholic, my mother a third-generation feminist Protestant and a Democrat. (They met in an Honors Shakespeare class in college.) It made for a lot of lively dinner table conversation. It was up to you to make your case.

Interestingly, I am a fourth-generation feminist and Democrat married to a life-long Republican, although Olof and I have both voted across party lines on many occasions. My husband is still fervently hoping the Republican party will return to what he thinks of as its former glory. I, of course, think it never had one. But conversations are pretty lively at our dinner table too.

Both of my parents were avid community volunteers. My father ran the United Fund campaign in our area and we referred to ourselves as "United Fund orphans"  during the major fundraising season.

My mother s occupations, meanwhile, included teaching convicts at an area penitentiary, substitute teaching junior high (is there a parallel there?) and leading Brownies and Girl Scouts. But the one she was most passionate about was not only teaching ESL (English as a second language) but tutoring, on her own time, many of her students to pass the written driver s exam which in that era had to be taken in English. Given the lack of public transit in our area, a driver's license was essential to getting any kind of good job. Her efforts included teaching them to drive in our car. I think my mother could yell STOP! in eight languages.

Having immigrants regularly in our house meant that we kids got to learn about other cultures, and how differently, for example, other nationalities celebrated even the same holidays that we celebrated, never mind ones that we didn't. As thanks from her students, we were often gifted with delectable food from other lands.

It was largely from this immigrant influence that I was inspired to apply for a student exchange program to spend my senior year of high school in a foreign country which is, in fact, where I met my now-husband, Olof, who was a fellow student on the same program in Brazil.

Both Olof and I married people from different backgrounds the first time around, and while neither of those marriages lasted, he still misses his Indonesian wife s amazing cooking (except for kimchee, a word he doesn't want to hear out loud). I, meanwhile, can counsel people on how to make a Seder dinner for 20 and I still know all the holiday blessings by heart in Hebrew. Many favorite memories are associated with both.

In the early 1950s when my siblings and I were children, the second biggest fear in the U.S. after nuclear war was polio and with good reason. My siblings and I all contracted it in August of 1955, four months after the Salk vaccine was announced. (It took a year for the vaccine to get to our small town.) I can still remember my parents absolute terror during this time, especially after the little boy in the hospital bed next to my sister suddenly ended up in an iron lung. (This is a cylindrical prison that simulates breathing when polio has affected respiratory muscles.) I wish everyone could take a brief trip back in time to the jammed polio wards of that era.

As one who has dealt with the repercussions of polio, I feel entitled to say that if you are an anti-vaxxer, you are a moron. There is no reason for one single child to ever contract polio again.

Even what people now like to think of as normal (in that there was no way to prevent them then) childhood illnesses like measles, mumps, rubella ("German measles") and chicken pox are not without potentially permanent consequences. Like most of my generation, I had all of these illnesses. Even when there aren't long-term effects, these diseases inflict a lot of suffering.

And would it be OK to mention that while my mouth is more fillings than actual teeth, my kids have never had a cavity? My mother ended up with painful dentures, not even having the benefit of all the dentistry I had.

It s going to be a different world going forward. As the song goes, "You can t always get what you want."  The process is the process but I am often reminded of my own parents' philosophy, best summed up as: What you accept, you teach, not just regarding treatment toward yourself but toward the greater world.

So thanks, Mom and Dad. On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm truly grateful to you.

                                    My siblings and I all had polio in the 1950's. 

Iron lungs kept polio patients alive when the virus affected respiratory muscles.

Neighbors From Hell (And Heaven)

["Let Inga Tell You", La Jolla Light, published November 11, 2024] 2024

Every neighborhood seems to have its requisite nutcase. Over the years, I've done informal research on this subject by querying friends if they have at least one problem neighbor. I've never had anyone say no. In fact, I usually get a 20-minute diatribe on the wingnut who is terrorizing their particular block. Increasingly, ADUs and Airbnb party houses are mentioned as sources of conflict.

One of our highest priorities has always been getting along with the people who live around us. Fortunately, we've had nice neighbors over the years with the exception of two that we were really happy to see go. One died (but not soon enough) and the other moved (but not soon enough either). Two bad neighbors over several decades is actually pretty good. But even one difficult neighbor can wreak a lot of havoc. Sometimes it was hard to stick to our inviolable rule: No matter what, do not escalate. But we've entertained some very ugly fantasies about their cat.

The houses in my area are in close proximity so it doesn't take much noise for the entire block to hear it. Still, my husband and I consider most noise to be in the category of the music of life. Dogs, kids, parties, the occasional loud band. We often comment that not hearing these sounds would be the hardest part of ever moving to a retirement home in our old age.

Of course, even the music of life can occasionally get seriously out of tune. Chain saws on weekends. Or drums, ever. We also remind ourselves that for years, we were the noisiest family on the block. We had one of the few pools in the neighborhood then and multiple trees with tree forts, a veritable attractive nuisance. Everybody came to play.

But even so, our elderly retired school teacher neighbor next door never complained once in her 25 years there. We could never tell whether this was because she was just an incredibly sweet lady (she was) or because she was deaf. Actually, she was fairly deaf but we never wanted to explore whether our kids had contributed to it.

The first of our two terrible neighbors was one we encountered a year after we moved in. All of a sudden we were getting annoyingly regular notices from the La Jolla Town Council that a neighbor had complained we were not "maintaining our property."   We were puzzled as we took great pride in our place. Turns out that an elderly lady down the block felt our trees were blocking the breeze which she maintained her doctor had prescribed for her Raynaud's Syndrome. (My then-husband, a physician, said "WTF?") A minor detail was that we had no common property with this woman. But she felt that all trees from a five-house radius were blocking her breeze and if we wished to be good neighbors, my husband and I would cut down all the beautiful, mature trees on our property.

Anyway, we ultimately all formed a coalition against the nasty old bat, ironically bringing the neighbors together in heretofore unparalleled harmony. Ten years later when she died (see "not soon enough", above) there was a rousing chorus of "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead."

As for the second all-time terrible neighbor, she moved in while Olof and I were doing a two-year work assignment in Europe so we were mostly spared. But by the time we returned, the other neighbors were already trying to vote her off the island. Fortunately, sensing that people were sticking extra-sharp pins up the back sides of little effigies of her, she departed and is now allegedly making a new group of neighbors lives miserable.

I think it is only fair to point out that it is sometimes unclear who the resident lunatic on the block really is. Most of the jury duty cases I've been on involved neighbor disputes that could best be summarized as Lots of Adults Behaving Badly. That's been true on my own street as well, but fortunately with people who don't live on my end of the block.

Most recently, local social media has been commenting on whether it is legal to mount a motion-sensored camera with audio on a pole pointed directly into a neighbor's back yard and master bedroom window. I'm just so glad I don t live next door to the person who would do this. Even the mild-mannered Olof says he'd be tempted to disable this camera by whatever means necessary should someone decide to do this to us. Fortunately, they haven't.

In fact, after several decades in our current house, we are incredibly grateful that we've officially won the neighbor lottery. For many years now, we have been surrounded not only by good neighbors, but stupendously wonderful neighbors, people you can count on day or night who are the epitome of kindness and consideration and who, on top of that, are great friends. When Olof had his heart attack and head injury in 2018, my collective neighbors walked my dog four times a day and left me dinner and a bottle of wine in my fridge for when I came home from the hospital at night. If we wrote the perfect neighbor job description, we couldn't have done any better.

Just so they re clear: none of you should even think of moving.

 

Fighting The Good Fight For Your Itchy Dog

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published November 4, 2024] 2024

Both our beloved and much-missed English bulldog, Winston, and our current bichon-poodle mix, Lily, have battled non-stop allergies and skin issues. A neighbor whose dog suffered similar afflictions reported that when they moved to North County, their dog's constantly itchiness improved dramatically. Of course, they're now dealing with rattle snakes, but you can't have everything.

I wouldn't want to even calculate the hours I have spent dealing with itchy dogs.

Winston, in particular, was constantly fighting infections. The folds in his face, never mind the inside of his silky ears, needed to be cleaned daily. He had to stand in a medicated foot bath for ten minutes a day. I don't know if you (or certainly the vet who prescribed this insane regimen) ever tried this but dogs in general, and bulldogs in particular, are not inclined to stand still in a pool of water for even a tenth of that time.

English bulldogs, of course, are notorious for the myriad health problems that come with them from birth, particularly breathing problems but plenty of allergy problems as well. Our vet at the time said they had a slogan when she was doing her training: Buy a bulldog: Support a vet. For what we spent on Winston's care, we could have bought a whole new dog. Several new dogs, in fact. 

When Winston died suddenly of a heart attack in our living room at the age of eight, we were so bereft that we vowed we'd never get another dog. We made that clear to the rescue agency who begged us to do an emergency foster. One week max, they promised.

"I don't know,"  I said dubiously to the rescue lady on the phone. "How soon would you need us to take this dog?"   She replied: "Actually, I m in front of your house."

Lily had been relinquished to the County shelter ostensibly because of her thoroughly rotten teeth and infected gums. Seriously, this dog's breath was a 9 on the ickter scale. The County s medical in-take report was all of four words: "Nice dog. Terrible teeth."

We also discovered pretty quickly that Lily, like Winston, was allergic to our grass. A 7-year-old bichon-poodle mix, she was what Olof called a "foo-foo"  dog. Olof was absolutely not interested in a pet that required regular professional grooming. A chronically allergic, high-maintenance dog with bad teeth was definitely not the forever dog for us. Of course, we had no plans for another forever dog anyway.

In retrospect, that rescue agency recognized us for the mushballs that we were. We might as well have been wearing T-shirts that read "Will fall in love with any dog no matter how unsuitable."

And sure enough, Lily worked her way into our hearts almost immediately. This is what is known as a "failed foster."   The dog comes for a week and stays forever.

I informed our vet that we were adopting another allergy-afflicted dog that also had serious dental issues, so she could go ahead and put down the deposit on that Mercedes.

Lily's mouth cost us $1,500. She's had both knees replaced. There is no test or procedure for a human that you can't also do for a dog. In this case, minus any insurance. After the first ACL surgery, I looked into pet insurance. But it excluded ACL surgeries and pretty much all of the care she needed.

Like Winston, Lily's most chronic problem is constant itching. We've done all the treatments that have been advised, including Cytopoint shots (an immunological treatment), Apoquel (pricier than heroin), medicated shampoos, chlorhexadrine mousses, anti-flea treatments, pricey special diets at $6 per teeny weeny can, Chinese herbs, and even steroid sprays when she actually breaks the skin. I make all her totally organic food. A groomer gives her a full fluff every two weeks and we bathe her in between.

And yet, still she chews. Her feet and haunches are particularly favorite targets. Or maybe that's just because she can reach them.

Obviously, the summer season is worst when the warm humid air allows skin afflictions to flourish.

I bought special booties for her with Velcro ties but she manages to pull them off within minutes.

Making her wear a cone is a non-starter. She just goes berserk, even with the cloth ones.

Most recently, we heard about what are called "recovery suits:  for dogs that have just had surgery, or are constantly chewing on themselves, in lieu of the dreaded cones. Since we have already purchased everything else known to the doggy allergy world, we decided to try one. The one we got doesn't help with her feet but does cover the parts of her legs that she chews on. 

Hers is like a baby onesie, and in fact, when she's wearing it, you think you re looking at a baby with a dog's head. I don't dare let her be seen with it in public. You could just hear the whispers: "Do these people not realize that's a dog?" The suit is just one more desperate treatment in our anti-itch arsenal. There's only so much chlorhexadrine mousse you can put on a dog in one day.

Hopefully now that it's fall, her itching will abate somewhat. For our sakes as much as hers.

Lily manages to pull her booties off within minutes

Her expression says "I am totally embarrassed wearing this outfit!"

 

A Horror Story Of A Different Sort

[ Let Inga Tell You, La Jolla Light, published October 28, 2024] 2024

We have two manhole covers on the street on either side of our house. We have a lot of history with them, none of it good.

One of them tends to flood, as in fill up with water, which is puzzling when it hasn't rained in six months. It's yet more of the poltergeist that afflicts our address, along with our streetlight that doesn't exist, and the fact that our house and the two on either side of it have three different street names. Even GPS can't figure it out.

Alas, one of these manholes, in a design that to we non-technical types defies logic, contains the electrical circuits that power both our home and many of the neighbors. So when the manhole fills up with water, the circuits short out (duh), and a whole bunch of SD G&E trucks show up to pump it out and then re-wire. In the interim, there's no power.

Meanwhile, prior to Proposition 13's passage in 1976, city sewer lines received regular maintenance. But one of the budget cuts that occurred afterwards was that this line item was dropped from the city's budget.

Even we weren't aware of this until the morning of January 7, 1981. It was 7 a.m. and I was still in my nightgown, feeding 10-month-old Henry breakfast. My then-husband was off playing tennis. (Men are never home when you need them.) Rory, aged 3, was feeding Cheerios to the slugs on the patio. (Slugs really like Cheerios.) All of a sudden I felt an earthquake-like rumble followed by geysers of black gunge spewing from all the drains in the house -  toilets, sinks, showers, bathtub. They truly could make a horror movie out of this. Under the best of circumstances, I am not a morning person.

I raced outside to turn off the main water supply to the house, but nothing happened. Within minutes, water was several inches up the walls and overflowing the house. When the emergency plumber showed up, the first thing he said was, "I've already called the city. There's nothing I can do."

Through no fault of ours, there had been a trunk line block of the sewer line in front of our house. The force was so great that it had blown the manhole cover part way off. Since we were the last house before the blockage, the entire neighborhood's sewage came up through our house for almost two hours before the city emergency crews could clear it. The sheer force of the water ruptured our plumbing, and the flooding shorted out our telephone and electrical outlets. The city work crews (regular fixtures at our house for many weeks) put all the furniture up on blocks and came in with huge, noisy industrial fans to dry the place out. We all had to get gamma globulin shots against hepatitis. We found toilet paper in colors we never used. 

We were not the only people in San Diego to suffer this unfortunate turn of events, and suffice to say, routine sewer maintenance made it back into the budget. This, however, has been a mixed bag.

About six years ago, a neighbor (Neighbor A) developed a serious roach problem. The city had put some irrigation pipes on the set-back on their property which somehow seemed to have created a massive creepy underground colony of roaches who were regularly invading their home. The city finally came out and decided to clear the sewer lines (and hopefully the roaches) by blasting water at very high velocity from the manhole (the one without the electrical circuits) in front of the neighbor (Neighbor B) across the street from us.

It was an epic fail. Fortunately, no one was sitting on a commode in Neighbor B's house when a geyser of high-pressure water blew through their toilets all the way up to the ceiling creating, besides utter life-altering terror in the residents, a giant sewer-eal mess. It would have been the ultimate reverse bidet. The city was very nice about cleaning it all up but we're all pretty wary of those sewer maintenance trucks now.

We, fortunately, had never had any problems with sewage backflows when the sewer maintenance folks come out. Until now. When I saw them show up recently, I immediately texted my neighbors across the street to make sure their toilet seats were down. 

But the next morning, we were noticing a really bad smell coming from our guest bathroom, and quickly found the source: The bottom of our shower was filled with what looked (and smelled) like raw sewage. We got the emergency drain cleaner people out but they said the P-trap was totally impacted and we'd need real plumbers to replace it. 

Meanwhile, I was noticing on NextDoor that other people were posting frantic messages about similar occurrences. Three such messages: 

This morning we awoke to a loud noise and the water in all five of our toilets exploded . Fortunately, it was just clean water, but it was all over the floors and parts of the walls. Did this happen to anyone else?

And: This has happened to us twice when the city has come and cleaned a main drain. They happened to start the work in a manhole near our house so it was possible to figure it out.

And: This happened to us some years ago, but our toilets exploded with sewage, resulting in us having to move out of our house and have the hazmat people come in and clean up the mess [No, this wasn't even us!]

What could possibly be causing water or sewage to be spewing from toilets or drains?

Answer: You are almost certainly closest to the manholes where the crews were working. Your tax dollars at work, folks! (If we ever sell, would we be required to disclose these manhole covers, along with the phantom streetlight and the GPS-inaccessible address?)

As annoying (and expensive) as this all was, compared to the months-long renovation of our home back in January 1981, I'm just happy that they're coming out and maintaining these lines.

But could you maybe tone down the velocity on those hoses just a little?

January 7, 1981: Remembering the day in pictures

September 25, 2024:  Uh-oh

 

What I'd Do If I Won The Lottery

[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published October 14, 2024] ©2024

Everybody has a fantasy about what they’d do if they won the lottery. I’ve always been clear about mine: hire a live-in masseuse. I’d get a minimum of two massages a day of about four hours each. In fact, some days I wouldn’t even get off the table, especially if I could figure out a way to simultaneously get a straw into a glass of chardonnay.

People have very mixed feelings about massage. Some are creeped out by being rubbed with scented oil by total strangers. This is clearly a birth defect and I feel totally sorry for them.

I have other friends who, like me, absolutely love massage. My preferred masseur, of course, is my husband Olof who generously rubs my back if we’re watching TV together, racking up husband points like you wouldn’t believe. He insists he needs them in case of a sudden husband point conflagration which has occurred from time to time, especially when long-awaited plans were cancelled due to business travel. But he’s retired now so it shouldn’t be too hard to maintain a positive balance.

Not surprisingly, my favorite massagee is also Olof. Not a fan of “stranger” massage, he is only too happy to have a can of whipped cream slathered over—er, too much information. Anyway, as a single working parent for twelve years, I was financially ineligible for massage unless someone gifted me one. So I’m trying to make up for lost time.

My only hesitation at all about massage is that I feel a little bad that the masseuse is getting stuck with my increasingly-decrepit porcine proportions. Was I the fantasy she had when she went to massage school?  I think not.

Of course, we aged oinkers are often the folks with money for massages. Which I’m sure doesn’t keep massage people from hoping for some firmer flesh to manipulate. Several years ago, I went into a spa to get a massage gift certificate for my very athletic younger son. He’d been there before. That massage girl’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when I mentioned his name. I can assure you that nobody’s face lights up when they hear my name, except possibly to recall that I tip well. Considering my body, maybe it’s not well enough.

My extreme fondness for massage has made my husband wonder aloud if I were secretly adopted from a sensory-deprived Romanian orphanage. As a blue-eyed blond in a family of brown-eyed brunettes, it seemed plausible. Nope, I’m just a massage junkie, plain and simple. 

Sometimes it’s nice to do a massage just focusing on one area. I’ve never actually taken heroin (which probably won’t surprise anyone, especially with the easy availability of chardonnay) but I think head massage must be a similar high. Those endorphins just go crazy. I’d probably have my post-lottery live-in masseuse do at least one head and one foot massage a day too.

Not too long ago, I wandered into an Asian-run massage place whose brochure advertised their treatments as “better for your organ.” I couldn’t argue with such a charming endorsement and signed up for a reflexology foot massage. All our organs are alleged to have nerve endings in the foot so that pressing on certain areas can help diagnose problems elsewhere in the body. Of those 7000 nerve endings, 6,000 of mine seem to be perennially annoyed. The foot masseur pressed on one place that was excruciating painful. I flinched. “Hurt there, kidney no good,” he said. No good?  Maybe they were just having a bad day?  I mean, we’re talking kidneys here.

Noting a really sore spot during a foot massage at another place last year, I asked, “what organ is that?” The masseuse said “sinuses.” Geesh, that’s probably one of the three organs in my whole body that has consistently behaved (along with my kidneys).  So as a diagnostic tool, it may not work that well for me.  I’m thinking that in my case, maybe the pain in my feet might mean “need new shoes” or “lose weight, Lumpy!” Don’t really care. It just feels heavenly.

I guess if you’re going to have an addiction, massage isn’t the worse one you can have. But I really have to start buying lottery tickets.