50 for 50: 45 - Hockey Game with Laura

Laura is one of those people I met through another friend.  She's been Peggy's friend since ... forever, I guess ... and I got to know her when we were both bridesmaids at Peggy's wedding.  Somewhere around here, I have a photo of us in up-dos and dark blue gowns which sort of matched--

-- I was grateful to Peggy for those dresses, really.  I've been a bridesmaid quite a few times, but this was the easiest, dress-wise.  Rather than make us all wear the same dress, Peggy gave us a color and a "line" and let us all get whatever top and skirt combination worked for us.  And we were all of an age where we all knew what style worked for ourselves.  It was the total opposite of an episode of "Say Yes To The Dress" -- that show where the bride-to-be tries on dresses and is generally badgered by mom to get the princessy dress until she finally stands up for herself and says she wants the sexy mermaid, dammit.  For Peggy's wedding, the team of us attacked David's Bridal, tried on what worked, and ordered the damn dress.  Done, done, and done.  Something to be said for a bridal party where everyone is old enough to be confident in her style.

Shit.  Now I have to find that photo.

:::Jeopardy music here:::

Aha!

That's Laura in the middle (and me next to her, workin' the cleavage).  So, yeah, we go back at least as far as Peggy's wedding.  And Laura lives in Pasadena near me, so sometimes when Peggy would come up to the area, we'd all get together.  (Dumplings were frequently involved.  Frequently.)  And sometimes Laura and I would get together without Peggy.  Usually at theatre or other cultural-type events. 

For some reason, I associate Laura more with classical music and other events more on the snooty side of things.  So I was pleasantly surprised when she said she wanted to go to a hockey game for my 50 for 50.

Especially because I hadn't been to a hockey game since... I can't pin it down exactly, but I'm pretty sure it was before I knew how to drive.  The Kings played at the Forum; it was the pre-Gretsky era; and hockey fans were pretty much thugs -- getting drunk, cussing loudly, and waving big foam fingers in front of your face.

For this one, Laura and I went for semi-snooty seats.  Got "Premier level" (ooo) seats on discount from Goldstar.  This meant we were on the same level as the suites.  "VIP" entrance; much less crowded concourse; somewhat nicer food selections; wait-staff to take food/beverage orders at your seat....  Look, this is how snooty it was:  the ladies' room didn't have soap in a dispenser, but had bottles of soap AND lotion next to every sink.  Ooooo.

So we got there early, downed some upscale-ish stadium food, and found a nice table to sit at while we ate and chatted.  We'd peeked at our seats and it definitely seemed cold in there.  I'd brought a blanket (actually a Snuggie.  Shut up.) but Laura had forgotten.  We stopped by the little shop selling Kings crap and Laura looked at all the nice, warm sweatshirts for the low, low price of ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  (She settled for the nice, warm, L.A. Kings beach towel, which had the advantage of providing warmth while not requiring a second mortgage.)  We went in just as the game started.

It's the selfie!

It's the picture the nice usher took, so you can actually see the ice behind us!

Last time I'd been at Staples was for a Sparks game.  Totally different experience.  The Sparks game was underproduced and felt kind of amateurish (not the game itself -- all the stadium crap going on around it), while the stadium crap at the Kings game was super polished and professional and just SLICK.  And compared to the audience I'd had for that Kings game at the Forum -- also totally different experience.  This crowd was largely quiet -- nearly silent, even -- just really being into the game and only bursting into emotion when the Kings scored (or, alternatively, when a goal-scoring play was overturned on review -- there was a brief period of extremely negative emotion being shared).  But respectful and INVOLVED.

After the game began, Laura asked me whether one team or the other was expected to win this one.  I hadn't actually looked it up, but based on how the game was going, I thought it was fairly clear that the Kings were being outplayed by the Winnipeg Jets (who had managed twice as many shots on goal than the Kings had).  At least I was seeing some spiffy goaltending from Jonathan Quick.  Dude is, y'know, ... quick.

(At one point, the organist played the "Laverne & Shirley" theme song, and it took a second to process that's what he was playing, and then a half a second to process why.  And nobody said a word; we just let everyone else process it, and think fondly of Penny.)

And someone must've spiked the Kings' punch during the first intermission, because they picked up the damn pace in the second, and were dominant.  Faster play; many more shots on goal; actual goals scored.  Respectful and involved audience got a little dancy and politely celebratory.

I get a text from a friend during the second intermission, asking if I could pick up a special holiday ornament for him.  I ask Laura if she wants to go on an adventure with me, and we head on down to the main concourse level.

I'm glad we do this, both because it's good to compare the main level with the snooty premier level (main is more crowded and much more harshly lit) but also because Laura likes the ornaments and buys one for herself.

We need our tickets to get back to the premier level.  We knew this, and had confirmed that we had our tickets when we headed down, but somehow Laura lost hers.  And we need to basically go back up with just one ticket.  So I hold the printed out ticket in my hand, unfolded, to show to the woman guarding the door, while Laura is right next to me, with a non-ticket piece of paper folded in her hand, and we walk right in.  And I feel super guilty because I am INTENTIONALLY USING the fact that white women of a certain age just don't get questioned, but I freakin' do it anyway, because the third period is about to start.

Kings kind of lose their spark in the third, but it's ok, 'cause they win anyway.  YAY!  (At one point, they get a penalty for too many men on the ice, and it's just as the organist is starting to play Seven Nation Army, and I question whether the organist was playing Seven Nation Army because we had seven guys out there, and crack myself up at the thought.  Props to the organist, a second time.)

I come home and research the answer to Laura's question -- whether one team was expected to win that one.  Turns out the Kings are dead last in their division, while the Jets are leading theirs, so, I mean, yeah, this was a sweet, sweet upset victory.

Go Kings Go!

50 fo 50: 44 - Cat Cafe with Dany

Dany was one of the first people to sign up for a "50 for 50," and she selected Cat Cafe, and it took, like, two years to get this one done.  Which is a little surprising given that we both live in L.A., and there are a couple of cat cafes here.

But, y'know, THINGS kept getting in the way.  Dany and I met in the Drama Critics Circle, and while I don't review all that much anymore, she still does, so she'll be at the theatre on weekends -- and that's generally the only time I've got available.  (And, lately, she's been off learning to teach yoga.)

But we finally managed to make a reservation for the Cat Cafe -- Crumbs and Whiskers -- for this morning.

I read their waiver in advance.  It's a standard form.  You acknowledge that you know you're risking injury or death or ....

Death??!!

It's sitting on the floor, PLAYING WITH KITTENS, not skydiving.  It's the safest thing ever.  It's little balls of fluff!

And then, this morning, before I go, I decide it's time to clip Jasmine's claws, and she just slides one of her sharp little nails right into the flesh of my finger, nice and deep.  (Probably with malice aforethought.)  I get a band-aid, we have a Very Serious Conversation about Not Clawing Mommy and I rethink just how safe rolling on the floor with 25 kittens actually is.

Driving to the Cat Cafe, I think I'm going to be a little late -- I'm actually going to get there just about on time, but they have no damn parking, so I know I'll be driving up and down side streets looking for a free spot, and my parking karma is generally pretty shitty.  So I call Dany and give her my food order in advance.  (The Cat Cafe takes all your food and drink orders at the beginning, so if you want the "cafe" part of the experience, you've got to get there on time.)

I get there and, sure enough, parking karma is legit shitty, and I'm driving around for another 7 minutes or so, until a spot appears a few blocks from the cafe.  I pull in and race-walk over to the cafe, having to stop while some Damn Tourists stop for photos in front of some wall on the list of "Best Instagram Spots in L.A." (and I idly wonder how many of these folks are stealing parking spots from people who have actual business to conduct nearby.  Like, at the cat cafe.)

I get in the door and say, "throw me a waiver and cover me in kittens!"

It doesn't EXACTLY work that way.  They first need someone to tell me the rules of the place (no picking up cats, no feeding cats people food, no waking sleeping cats, and no stealing cats - but adopting is encouraged).  Dany is already there, petting a kitty.

It's basically a single room, scattered with cat baskets, big soft poufs to sit on, cat food stations, cat perches, cat toys, and cats.  I'm told there are about 28 of them. 

I am not, however, covered with cats, due to the somewhat annoying presence of Other Human Beings.  I ask the helpful staff member who replies that they let about 18 people in at any given time.  The helpful staff member groks my unspoken question (to wit: then why is there no cat on me RIGHT NOW?), picks up a cat from someplace (THEY are alllowed to pick them up) and plops said cat in my presence.  This repeats a few times -- every time I am catless, she brings one over.

Everyone is following the rules, but I am a bit bothered by the failure to follow what I believe is common courtesy.  I mean, I don't go for a cat when someone else is petting and/or interacting with said cat, but some of the other guests don't seem to care about that, and try to, y'know, steal a cat away from me with a sparkly toy or by petting the other end.

(I remain polite, though.  It's very hard to seethe when you're petting a cat.)

Dany doesn't like being photographed (like, at all) so she turned them down when they walked around with a Polaroid taking snaps.  I took mine, though.

The beverages and foods (ordered from a restaurant nearby -- there's Health Code rules that prevent the place full o' cats from actually preparing food) finally arrive -- at which point 28 kittens start trying to make 18 humans break Rule #2.  Heck, the kitty with Dany wanted to eat the cardboard box her croissant came in.

While we were there, I made a very important discovery.  Jasmine herself is a solo cat -- an alpha with no betas -- but, someday, I will find myself "between cats," and needing of a new feline companion.  And, given the fur situation (to wit: on everything I own, all the time), I was thinking my next cat would be a short-hair.

But, OMG, the long-hairs are sooooo much softer!  Petting them right next to each other made that choice pretty clear.  The super-duper softness you get from petting a long-haired kitty is more than compensation for the pain of when they jam their widdle claws in your finger.  (Affectionately.)

(Ow.)

50 for 50: 43 - Cosplay with Ali and Jonathan

It is super fitting that my 50 for 50 with Ali comes right after my 50 for 50 with Deb, because Ali was that law student who moved in to that condo below me and next-door to Deb, and was part of that same little circle of neighbors who were good friends for a number of years.

We shared good times and bad times and leaks and mold and incompetent management companies. And decorating for the holidays and our usual table at Yang Chow.  And pets and card games and Ali graduating law school and "Oh my God, Ashley bought a truck!" 

We shared each other's lives in the way that you do when you live so close that when you need to share your joy or your pain or your excitement, these folks are just a doorbell away.

And then we all moved away.

And the only thing Ali and I really share now is Marvel movies.  We've been going to Marvel movies together at Arclight Pasadena ever since we lived within walking distance of Arclight Pasadena.  (We even won a drawing for free "Captain America" crap when we saw the first "Captain America" -- she kept the cap and I kept the T-shirt and I fucking love that T-shirt.)  And neither one of us lives there any more and now Ali is "Ali and Jonathan" and we STILL meet up at Arclight Pasadena for the opening weekend of every Marvel movie.  And it's good that we still have this thing, because we had so many things before.  And it's even better that we have this thing with Jonathan, now, because it's good when things evolve.

(Also, Jonathan can fill me in on the comic universe, and doesn't get judgy about my ignorant questions -- like some comic nerds do.)

And before we saw ... musta been "Black Panther," we were grabbing some dinner and we talked about the 50 for 50, and they selected "Cosplay Somewhere."

And we thought LA Comic Con would be a good place to do this.

(Yes.  In the space of two years, I have gone from "no cons since the early 90s" to Comic Cons in three cities, plus D23.  I'm not entirely sure how this happened.)

A couple weeks ago, I asked if we were going to do a group costume.  Given the Marvel movie thing, I had assumed we'd do something in that direction.  (Besides, I have an Agent Carter costume in the closet.  I figured I could wear that, and Jonathan could be Cap, and Ali could be Black Widow.  And that would work, right?)  And Ali says she's doing "Punk Eleven" and Jonathan is doing Chief Hopper -- and all of a sudden I realize I am not going to get away with reusing Agent Carter but I'm gonna have to make myself a "Stranger Things" thing.  And I think that I really freakin' SHOULD, anyway, because if this 50 for 50 is intended to get the complete cosplay experience, maybe I ought to actually make something.

I consider a Barb (but where am I going to find a Trapper Keeper on such short notice?) or a Joyce... and when I'm thinking that Joyce really needs the alphabet wall, I start googling for pictures of the alphabet wall and --

-- I wish I could take credit for the idea, but someone had it before me, so thank you brilliant anonyous cosplayer who realized you could just DRESS UP AS THE DAMN WALL.  And once I discovered I could get a string of LED Christmas lights with a little pocket-sized battery pack, the whole thing ended up being within the very narrow range of Things I Could Do (or, more precisely, Should Be Able To Do), and when it was all said and done, this happened:

Yeah, you can't see the letters unless you're looking for them, and the Christmas lights don't show up great at this angle, either, but it worked well enough in person that people got it, and dug it, and we got many compliments on the group and I even got a handful on the dress itself.  (Some dude gave me a thumbs-up and called me Joyce.)

Here, this solo shot came out better:

My parents asked me why people actually cosplay.  I'm a little cautious getting too far into the psychology of this thing, because I'm still pretty new at it.  But I'll take a shot.  Setting aside the professionals who do this for, y'know, money and fame and stuff, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say people do it because it's fun. 

(That's why we did it, anyway.)

When we stopped for lunch (they have food trucks -- a great idea, but an insufficient number of trucks for the number of attendees), Jonathan observed that a bunch of the cosplay here involved people crossing gender lines, or being blind to race or ethnicity.  And while the three of us were definitely cosplaying within our gender and racial identity, I agree that part of the appeal of cosplay is the non-judgmental premise of it.  Which is to say, you don't "have" to cosplay your gender, race, age, body type, or disability status.  Cosplay whomever you want.  (Footnote:  Except blackface.  Don't use blackface.  Greenface OK.  Seriously, man, I saw a Shrek & Fiona.)  So, in addition to the "fun" part, cosplay just gives you an opportunity to be who you're not; or who you are deep down inside but nobody gets to see. 

And speaking from the experience of someone who has been to a surprising number (being as it is non-zero) of comic cons this year, I can now add that another thing cosplay does is identify you as a member of the Geek Community.  My Lyft driver dropped me about a block away from the convention center, and while I was walking over, I joined a bunch of other people walking over, and a few of them were in costume, too.  When I had walked to New York Comic Con, I followed the cosplayers in what I mentally called "the parade of the nerds" down to the convention center.  I joined the parade, but I wasn't in cosplay.  Today, I was.  In New York, I followed them, because they were my people and I knew they were going my way.  Here, my costume TOLD THEM that I was one of them.  Proud self-identification as a member of the clan.

Later in the afternoon, I split off from Ali and Jonathan (they went to some panels) and a couple people complimented me on the dress and a few asked for photos and I was flattered and smiled and said "of course," and they took the pictures and they said "thank you," and I said, "thank you," and that TOO was cool -- because I'm no supermodel and when has a stranger EVER wanted to take a picture of me?  And my favorite was when a father asked if he could take a picture of me with his two kids and I looked at them and was all, "Of course!" and it was kind of perfect so he offered to take one with my phone, too, which is why I have this now.

And I should probably note that I never Never NEVER let anyone else hold my phone.  Because it's my damn phone.  (And handing someone your phone while it's unlocked to take a picture risks that they're going to run off with your unlocked phone and THEN you're well and truly screwed, aren't you?)  But dude's kids were dressed up as Eleven and the Demogorgon and we are sharing this moment of both having put in time and money to go out in public dressed as characters from THE SAME DAMN SHOW and of course I'm going to trust him.

Cosplay is the secret handshake.  Except it isn't so secret.

50 for 50: 42 - New York with Deb

Deb used to be my neighbor.  My condo was above her family's, and over one, back on Euclid Street.  I can't recall when I actually first met her, although I have a vague recollection it had something to do with using a Blockbuster Video card to jimmy the door open.  (I kept a Blockbuster Video card long after Blockbuster Video just for that purpose.  Damn, those things were of the perfect size and flexibility.)  But I REALLY met Deb when the smoke alarm in the then-vacant unit next to hers and below mine WOULD NOT FUCKING STOP BEEPING.  It was a problem somewhat unique to our two units, and one night, when we couldn't take it any more, we called the police, who called the real estate agent who had the listing, and got SOMEONE to break in there and RIP THAT DAMN SMOKE DETECTOR OFF THE FUCKING WALL.  (Blockbuster card would not have worked; they'd set the deadbolt.)  We became friends; we ultimately became friends with the law student who eventually bought the unit with the offending detector, too.  We were a weird little bunch, demographically speaking -- I think I was closer in age to Deb and the law student was closer in age to Deb's daughter, but we all got along in various combinations.  Frequently over Chinese food at Yang Chow.  Sometimes watching "Pushing Daisies."  Often baking cookies.

(Ask her about the Unfortunate Apple Pie Incident.  Go on, ask her.)

She moved away.  Then I moved away.  Then she moved REALLY away.  Several states away.  We kept in touch with cheerful text messages, although the text messages which used to say "Neighbor!" now started with "Former Neighbor!"

We decided to meet in New York City.  This was a pretty cool idea because "Broadway" was on my list and "New York" was pretty much on hers.  Deb hadn't been in New York in (more or less) ever, so I was excited to use my vast knowledge (limited to a finite number of blocks in the theater district) to show her around the place.

We got in Tuesday night, and went to tea at a quaint little place called Alice's Tea Cup, which I'd always wanted to try.  (The tea selection looks like they've stolen a fraction of Chado's menu, but the sandwiches are thick and the scones obscenely large.)  Deb and I squealed over each other's new "looks" and got caught up and shoved way too much food in our faces.

For today, with one small, super annoying exception (I had to go pick up my badge for New York Comic Con because they sent it to my house too late), I pretty much left today to Deb.  It was hard because there was just SO MUCH she hadn't seen and wanted to see, but we ended up with ... well, we ended up with me putting, like, more than 18,000 steps on my step counter.

We started at the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, which is WAY more than a decommissioned aircraft carrier.  We started by touring the Growler, a Cold War era guided missile submarine.  It was super cool and I took a selfie in the torpedo room.

Then we went up to the flight deck of the Intrepid.

And then we walked over to the pavilion where they had parked Enterprise, because if you need a place to park your Space Shuttle, OF COURSE the deck of an aircraft carrier is the logical choice.

And once we'd finished with that, we had lunch and we talked about the Kavanaugh nomination and #metoo and racism and sexism and the right to identify however you damn well want and how to have legitimate, respectful dialogue with people on the other side and we solved all the world's problems so nothing to worry about there, you're welcome.

And THEN, we took a Lyft down to Lower Manhattan and did a walking tour that was one of those self-guided scavenger hunt thingies.  We got to see the Wall Street Bull and Fearless Girl; the Ground Zero site; City Hall; lots of parks; the Vietnam Memorial; Hamilton's grave at Trinity Church; anna bunch of public art.  It ended in Battery Park so Deb got to see the Statue of Liberty (albeit from a distance).  We named our team "Euclideans" (after our street), and we ended up scoring 9th out of something like 84 teams who've done this hunt.  Which was fine and good (except some construction prevented us from solving one of the clues, and I sent them an email because someone owes us 75 points and at least 10 minutes and no, I'm not competitive, SHUT UP).  And I'm glad Deb got to see some of the stuff she'd wanted to see, and I was glad I did too -- I'd always MEANT to catch up with Fearless Girl, but had never taken the time to go down there.

When we finished, we grabbed some Chinese food ("real Chinese food" having also been on her list) and saw "The Nap," which was a British farce played Way Too Slow.  (I was speculating that they'd intentionally slowed it down so American audiences would understand the Yorkshire accents, but slow farce is deadly.)  And that's pretty much enough time spent talking about that play.  We'll aim a bit higher tomorrow.

We came back to the hotel, enjoyed some leftovers from last night's tea for dessert, and crashed.

Bit of a day.

Not Quite a 50 for 50 -- Apple Picking in Oak Glen

Now, see, this one could have been a 50 for 50, in that "berry picking" was actually on the list.  But Jacob took it and it was sweet and fun, so this was just a bonus trip with a group of friends.  (The fact I've been trying to sneak in a 50 for 50 with them, and there aren't a whole lot of options left on the list, is the bit that gets me.  The fact that "Old Timey Photo" IS on the list -- and that Oak Glen has Old Timey Pretty Much Everything Else -- was frustrating.)

ANYWAY, this was actually Val's plan -- Val wants to do more fun stuff with friends in SoCal, and I totally get it.  I mean, in general, I get wanting to do more fun stuff.  But this seems sort of akin to my Project Buy Happiness of a decade ago -- when my job was super stressful and I was unable to sell the condo (because of the mold, and the association wasn't repairing it quickly, and the way the market was going, I was losing out on thousands of dollars with every delay, and, and, and...) and YEAH, I get it, when you're in a stressful unhappy place, you need to forcibly DO SHIT to bring yourself a little joy.  And Val wanted to road trip out to Oak Glen to pick apples, and I've never been out to Oak Glen, and the whole thing seemed like a fun idea.

And when the day actually rolled around, waking up early to drive out there seemed like a lot more of a pain in the ass, but I figured I had signed up for this and I might as well get my butt off the couch on a Saturday and do stuff with this group of people.  Most of whom were somewhere between "friend" and "friend of a friend," and all of whom seemed decent enough to get to know better.  Over fruit.

A coupla text messages later, I was carpooling out to Oak Glen with Val and her mom.  (I thought this might be a nice chance to learn something about her mom, but Val and I ended up dominating conversation on the road.  I'm going to find myself at New York Comic Con in a coupla weeks, and Val has done that Con quite a bit, so I was pumping her for info.)

We planned to meet up with some friends for brunch at Apple Annie's at 11:00 before moving on to the actual apple picking part of the day.  There were two main flaws with this plan:  (1)  no damn cell phone reception, so coordinating with the other folks was problematic; and (2)  they stopped serving breakfast at 11:00, and we're stuck with the lunch menu of sandwiches when we had all been in the "apple pancake" mindset.

Val's mom had reception, even though Val didn't.  (Insert here Val's mom stepping away for a moment and her phone locking.  Val gets the password on the first guess.  Insert here memories of me, at an internet cafe in Italy, needing Facebook for something, and not having a Facebook account, so breaking into my mom's account with a good first guess at her password and a just-barely-good-enough effort at the facial-recognition-of-her-friends thing.  Clearly, knowing your parents well enough to guess their passwords is a Thing.)  So we got enough text messages through on AT&T to get all of us together at a nice big table at Apple Annie's.

If you haven't been to Oak Glen (I hadn't), Apple Annie's gives you a pretty good indication of what you're in for.  The portions are massive.  Massive.  They have signs up about offering "free seconds" so you don't leave hungry, but most of us couldn't even finish our "firsts."  There was nothing healthy on the menu.  (It was the sort of place which might offer a "diet plate" of cottage cheese and fruit, but didn't.  But you COULD swap out your french fries for mashed potatoes and gravy.  The gravy looked really good.)  Yeah, massive portions and gravy, is what I'm saying.  The restroom is two single-stall units which are non-gender-specific.  Pretty sure this was a change in accordance with recent state law and not, like, an affirmative attempt to be open to their trans guests.

(Wikipedia tells me that, according to the 2010 census, there are 638 people who actually call Oak Glen home.  Of the 190 households, two are same-sex partnerships.)

The shops right around Apple Annie's include the bakery (pies were ordered), a General Store, a turquise shop, an Old Timey Candy Store, and a bunch of craft faire type tents selling jams, wood craft things (many crosses), tea towels with ducks or geese on them, and pretty much any fabric thing you might want with the logo of your favorite NFL team on it.  And a little tent selling interchangeable jewelry with an "as seen on Shark Tank" sign -- and I'm thinking, "You didn't get a deal on Shark Tank, did you?"  (They did not.)

I'd read that Oak Glen was pretty conservative.  One of the dudes who runs one of the farms tweeted some pretty racist, misogynistic crap in the context of being Pro-Trump.  Whereas one of the other guys, in trying to distance himself from the first guy, said that he keeps his politics to himself and prefers to just spread "a Christ-like love to all."  (Which is a nice sentiment, to be sure, but, as a Jew, I sort of notice when your statement of inclusiveness invokes Christ -- because we ALL love Jesus, right?  RIGHT??)  So, I mean, I was sort of expecting this to be a trip into MAGA-land.

Mostly, it wasn't.  I mean, sure, there was a bit more pro-military stuff than I generally see on a daily basis.  Ditto that baseline of Christianity.  (I didn't even see a small corner of products "for our Jewish friends.")  But, mostly, it was just that down-homey, big portions, extra gravy, General Store, we-love-football type of America.  Everyone asks how "you folks" are doing.  The woman who sells you your U-Pick apples is a bespectacled white older woman with red curls, who looks like Central Casting sent her after Oak Glen requested a "Grandma."  It's THAT America.

We drove over to Riley's Los Rios for apple pickin.  They also had a shop (and free hard cider tasting!) and a restaurant and hayrides and a corn maze.  But first, the restroom.  Separate building, men's room on one side, women on the other.  HUGE line for the women -- not just because women take longer, but because about half the women in line had kids in tow, and were cramming multiple people into those stalls.  The first stall had run out of toilet paper, and the women leaving that stall were all warning the people in line:  "There's no toilet paper in there, but you can use the seat covers."  And, at first, I thought this was part of the whole friendly spirit of the place -- warning people about the dangers of the situation and providing advice on how to deal with it.  But later, I was puzzled as to why NOBODY in any of the other stalls was sharing a little TP.  Seriously, man, each stall had two rolls in it -- like you couldn't spare one and share it with the stall that didn't have any?! 

Probably too close to socialism.

I digress.  (Frequently.)  Over at Los Rios, we tasted cider, checked out the shop to plan our purchases later in the day, and taste tested apples, so that we'd know which variety we'd want to pick.  Of course, the U-Pick for our favorite was across the street.  And up the hill.  (The closest were Red Delicious.  Who the hell eats Red Delicious anymore?)  We hiked over to the U-Pick area, got our little pickin' bags, and further hiked up to the Jonagolds.  (A cross between Jonathan and Golden Delicious.  Good for eatin'.)  The orchard was pretty well picked.  (I would've settled for Galas, because they were closer, but the trees were just covered with tiny little ones that weren't ripe yet.)  But I found a nice tree of Jonagolds and filled my bag from it.  I even ran into some friends who took the obligatory apple picking photo for me.

Then we all posed for the TRULY obligatory selfie.

Then we trudged back down the hill to pick some raspberries.  It was at this point that my knee started objecting.  Going uphill I just get winded, but going downhill, it puts too much pressure on my knee and there's actual pain and stuff.  (The fact that I CONSISTENTLY go uphill anyway, finding myself trapped in a place I can't easily get down from, is probably why I get along so well with cats.)  We also had to walk on the sloped dirt by the side of the road, in order to get out of the way of farm vehicles.  And at THIS point, I thought that maybe walking downhill on uneven surfaces was precisely the WORST thing I could do for the recently re-sprained ankle, and maybe I should have just bought the damn pre-bagged apples in the shop.  Because, seriously, we were paying MORE for the privilege of picking them ourselves, and after a half hour of this sort of fun, I'm pretty certain that whatever we (as a society) pay the (probably undocumented) people to stand out in the hot sun and do this for us is totally inadequate.

We stopped to pick raspberries on the way back.  They, too, had been pretty much picked over.  I was happy to just take a break in the downhill progress and walk along the relatively flat raspberry rows, but when I'd see, like, a single ripe red berry dangling from the bottom of a vine -- particularly if a bee was nearby -- I questioned whether it was worth bending down to get it.

I'm old, is what I'm saying.

I ended up with a smallish tray of raspberries.  When we were out there not finding too many berries, I wondered aloud to one of my friends exactly how few berries I'd have to have in my bag for them to say, "oh just take 'em" without charge.  Turns out I had precisely that amount of berries, and the nice grandma just let me take 'em.

Across from the weighing/paying station, they were selling kettle corn and Old Timey sodas.  (No fructose; sugar all the way!)  I downed a black cherry soda in the time it took to wait in line to weigh my apples -- Val had suggested I looked a little dehydrated and she was totally right on that.  32 ounces of sugary goodness took care of that problem right quick.

Back to the store to buy stuff.  (I got a big bottle of a dry-ish hard cider.  Who wants to get buzzed on apples with me?)  Snacked on some corn-on-the-cob at an outdoor table.  (Discovered that one of Val's friends is as skittish around bees as I am, which was kind of comforting because I'd thought grown-ups had to hide that.)  Then back to the bakery to pick up the pre-ordered pies, and the Old Timey candy shop.  I had planned on getting an apple cider float, but was too full of black cherry soda and corn-on-the-cob, so had to take a pass on that.  Looked nummy, though.

Came home, rinsed my berries and tasted them.  Oh, so sweet!  There is nothing like a fresh raspberry.  I mean, seriously, I buy berries all the damn time, and they're bigger and probably more colorful (and perhaps covered in pesticides), but these were so much better.  I understand why we paid more for the U-Pick fruit, now.  Fuck me, these berries were good.  I downed the bowl in record time, and super crashed on the couch.

50 for 50: 41 - Roll with it, with My Parents, part two

Oh yeah.  I'm a Junior Ranger now. 

I promise to only use my powers for good.  

In fact, the oath which I swore (with a surprising amount of solemnity) had me promise to share what I learned about National Parks with my friends and family, so this post isn't JUST a wrap-up of the canyon trip, it's me doing my Junior Ranger duty.  So there.

The morning started with breakfast in the hotel (which, unfortunately, had an answer to, "Really?  How can you screw up eggs?") and then Dad and I met our guide for our trip into Canyon De Chelly -- a local Navajo guy named Frank.  We got in Frank's truck, which had seen better days.  The windshield had several cracks across it, which had some beads of glue in them, and Frank admitted this had happened on prior rough trips into the canyon.  So it was with some trepidation that we set off -- I really had no idea what I was getting into.

A canyon, basically.  Conveniently, we entered at ... an entrance.  Which is to say, we didn't have to do any four-wheel drive action down the side or anything.  There was an opening between the canyon walls at what we'll call the shallow end, and we pretty much just drove across the flat and watched the canyon walls grow up around us.  Frank stopped at various sites in the canyon with historical significance.  There were a good deal of Anasazi ruins in there (I am simultaneously pleased that I already have familiarity with the term Anasazi and ashamed that it's from "The X-Files") and petroglyphs and stuff.  (Frank pointed out the petroglyphs by shining a light on them.  Well, by holding a broken-off rear-view mirror and catching the sun to direct it toward them.  It was a perfect, clever, low-cost solution.)  He also pointed out various rock formations which looked like animals (the turtle one totally looked like a turtle) and others that were just beautiful.  We got lectures on history and information about how Frank and his family lived (his family still lives in the canyon, growing crops) and horrible stories about what happened to the Navajo people during "Kit Carson time" and how some survived (and others did not) by hiding in the canyon. 

I got pictures.

It was a three-hour trip, which was just about enough, because you'll notice that there's no such thing as a road in the canyon, and we were bouncing along the lack-of-road with such enthusiasm that I was trying really hard NOT to watch the cracks across the windshield grow larger.

When we got back, we picked up mom at the hotel and went to Denny's for lunch (where we were reminded what food actually tastes like).  Then we went for a drive around the top of the canyon, stopping off at a couple of the outlooks.  (When we'd been at the bottom, we looked up at people on the outlooks at waved at them.  Now I waved from the other side.)  The coolest lookout is near Spider Rock, which is a free-standing spire where a couple canyons intersect.  We dug the Spider Rock lookout.

On our way back, we stopped at the Visitor Center.  This was our second National Park Visitor Center this trip (the other one being the Trading Post, yesterday).  The Park Ranger at the Trading Post told us about the Junior Ranger program -- and pointed out that most of the people filling out the forms there appeared to be grown-ups.  When we went into the Visitor Center at Canyon De Chelly, I pointed out to my dad the form you have to fill out to get the Canyon De Chelly Junior Ranger badge, and that it looked pretty cool.

Dad said he'd get me the Junior Ranger badge.

We walk in the Visitor Center and I see my dad talking with the Ranger about how he'd like to get he Junior Ranger badge for his adult daughter.  He may have even played the "birthday" card.

The ranger plays this totally straight, tells my father that there's no age limit to the Junior Ranger program, and gives us the worksheet that everyone has to fill out to become a Junior Ranger.

Dad picks up a pencil.  I offered to help, but he said this was on him.

I shit you not, people.  This is my Dad doing the Junior Ranger worksheet.

He was really working at it, too.  I mean, some of it was easy -- and we DID pick up quite a bit of knowledge on our tour that morning -- but there was a lot to it.  Eventually, the ranger said he'd done enough to earn his badge (and a Canyon De Chelly postcard, and a Junior Ranger pencil, and, as it turned out, a 15% discount on that thing I was about to buy while he was doing paperwork).  The had us both say the Junior Ranger oath, gave us the cherished badge, and then Dad proudly pinned it on me.

I cannot tell you how unexpected and totally adorable this whole thing was.  We went to some National Parks when I was a kid, but this was before the Junior Ranger Program.  Dad doing the Junior Ranger worksheet and getting the badge -- when I'm 50 and he's a bit more -- wasn't making up for anything lost, but just picking up on something we'd never had a chance to do before.  It was sweet, and memorialized our morning together, and, honestly, I don't know if I'll ever go to a National Park with my Dad again, but, now, this is OUR THING, and I didn't really expect to get a new thing with Dad for my 50 for 50.

50 for 50: 41 - Roll with it, with My Parents

No, I did not come to Arizona just so I could watch the damn Diamondbacks @ Dodgers game on TV.  It's just an added bonus.

Mom and Dad originally picked a different 50 for 50.  We were going to do a thing called the Pan Am Experience, which looks cool and fun and retro and TOTALLY discriminates against single people, because they only sell tickets in pairs, and if you haven't noticed there's only one of me, and Jasmine doesn't travel well.  This required a change in plans, but since Pan Am Experience INITIALLY led us on about the single ticket thing, I really didn't have much left on the list when I realized we would not, in fact, be dining in First Class on a plane that no longer exists, and I was all, "Screw it.  Let's road trip to one of those canyons you like."

So mom picked a canyon; I flew in last night; and this morning we got up bright and early (for me) and headed off on a five-hour drive into the Navajo Nation and --

-- I'm pretty sure I've never been on Navajo land before.  I've definitely been on tribal land.  As a tourist, I've done a lot of First Nations stuff in Canada and Alaska.  And even here in Arizona.  But I don't think I've been on Navajo land.  It's something you notice because the Navajo go on Daylight Savings while Arizona does not; so you're cruising down the highway and all of a sudden your phone takes note of a time change because you are In A Very Real Way not in Arizona anymore.

On the way, we stopped at a rest stop which claimed to pride itself on having the cleanest restrooms on the I-40.  Now, as it was the ONLY restroom break we had off the I-40, I can't really make any evaluation of the truth of that statement.  I can, however, report that IF these were, IN FACT, the cleanest restrooms on the I-40, the bar is not that high.

We grabbed some soft serve at what looked like the World's Smallest Burger King (wedged in the corner of the rest stop, it was somewhat misleadingly advertised as a Food Court -- dude, one fast food place does not make a food court) and got some soft serve ice cream.  Mom immediately commented that Cleanest Restrooms On The I-40 should, in fact, be the title of my 50-for-50.  I replied that we'd have to take the selfie.

Back on the road to the canyon, our first destination was a stop at the Hubbell Trading Post which is a National Historic Site, and the place was actually taken over by the National Park Service a number of years back.  It is very cool in that it is simultaneously still a legit functioning trading post and also a place with a visitors' center where you can learn about America's history with the Navajo people (hint: we don't come off too well in it).  One of the rangers gave us a quick tour of the Hubbell house, which was made all the more amusing by the fact that we had to wear them little protective booties over our shoes so as not to damage the Extremely Pricey Navajo rugs in there.  The IDEA of protective booties wasn't so funny -- it was the FACT that these booties came out of a big box of used, dirty booties, and if they managed to protect the rugs from any sort of dirt it was more from luck than actual, y'know, cleanliness.  Historic house was pretty cool, though.

When we got back to the Visitors' Center, we had a chat with a second ranger, who was himself Navajo.  (I was tipped off when he talked about the stuff Mr. Hubble had done for "us."  Damn, pronouns are helpful.)  Basically, after The Long Walk (about which America should be seriously ashamed), the Navajo returned to these lands, but there was nothing there.  Hubbell set up the trading post and enabled the Navajo people to get the raw supplies they needed to restart living off the land.  And 150 years later, there are still Navajo people bringing in rugs they have woven and trading them for standard General Store supplies.  (And then the rugs are turned around a sold to tourists.  Everybody wins.)

We continued on to our actual destination:  Canyon de Chelly.  The Navajo ranger at the trading post said he was also a ranger over here at the canyon, so we asked him if he had any recommendations.  He told us to drive out to a certain lookout at 7:30 tonight. 

Dinner (about which the less said the better -- except the Navajo Fry Bread, which was all kinds of yummy and proves that people are truly the same because every culture has its own version of tasty fried bread) took a bit longer than we'd thought.  We tried to make a run for the lookout by 7:30, but we weren't going to make it.  It looked seriously dark.  But when we happened to glance behind us, we saw what the ranger had been getting at -- a genuinely extraodinary sunset.  I'm not just talking colors here, but the way the sun was reflecting off the clouds made the sky look like a landscape.  Seriously.  It looked like ocean and land and horizon, even though it was all just sky, and it was fucking glorious.  I took a picture, but it so completely failed to capture it, I'm not even bothering to post it.  Trust me on this one:  you had to be there.

And... back to the hotel to get some sleep before the actual canyon tomorrow.

London Film and Comic Con

(This, too, is not a 50 for 50.  For reasons.  Mostly because "go to a Con" was already taken.)

So, about a year ago, Ellen (friend in Germany) and I agreed to meet in London at the London Film and Comic Con (LFCC) this year.  We bought three day passes and waited to see what guests were announced.  

Short form explanation on how LFCC works.  It's mostly photoshoots (for a fee) and autographs (also for a fee).  But the photoshoots can be booked in advance; the autographs you just have to line up for.  (Or, if the guest is busy, you pick up a "virtual queue" ticket, like a deli counter number, and wait for your turn to be called.)  Also, some guests give talks.  (Which are really just Q&A sessions with the audience.)  These are also for a fee, but way less than the photo or autograph.  The only way to get a guaranteed autograph is to buy a package including the autograph AND the photoshoot AND the talk in what they call a "Diamond Pass," which is Really Fucking Expensive.  OK, now you know.

So Ellen and I are waiting to see what guests get announced.  A few weeks before the con, the only ones I'm even vaguely interested in are Peter Capaldi and Val Kilmer.  I can't decide whether to buy the Capaldi photo shoot (and wear my Clara cosplay) or risk a Kilmer autograph line (hoping to get there early enough to get a low virtual queue number) and have him sign a printout of my bad review of him in that horrible Ten Commandments musical.  I decide on the Capaldi photoshoot.  I buy it in advance.

THEN they announce Matt Smith.  Shit, shit... fuck it, second photoshoot.

THEN they announce Sam Neill.  I am sorely tempted, but resist.  Until they announce a Sam Neill Jurassic Park Green Screen photo shoot.  (In front of the gates.  With a raptor.)  Well, you only live once.  (I may have to WORK an extra year past my planned retirement to pay for it all, but I'll only LIVE once.)  I order the Green Screen shoot.

They announce Peter Davison.  He is MUCH cheaper than everyone else, but I've already bought three photos already.  I resist the photoshoot.  I will try for an autograph.  I add up what I've spent and figure I won't be buying much crap on the LFCC floor.  (I read on LFCC message boards that some people have booked 13 photo shoots and 5 diamond passes and I am aghast.  Who ARE these people?)

As it happens, most of my stuff is on Sunday.  The Sam Neill Jurassic Park Green Screen in the morning, and the Capaldi and Smith photos in the afternoon.  Somewhere in all the photoshoot buying, I also ponied up for the David Duchovny talk, which turned out to be Saturday. 

Saturday morning, I turn on the internet and find out the Sam Neill Jurassic Park Green Screen Photo Shoot is cancelled.  Dammit.  I know some people are trading theirs in for a regular Sam Neill photoshoot, but I'm letting it go.  I show up Saturday afternoon, get my bearings, walk the hall, wait for the talk (which I have to leave early anyway, for theatre).  Saturday is the busiest day at LFCC.  Thousands and thousands of people are in this convention hall.  Tens of thousands.  I don't count them.

Saturday fucking afternoon, they get on the loudspeaker and announce they've added David Tennant as a guest for Sunday.

Tens of thousands of people whip out their cell phones and try to buy tickets.  (Some poor fools run to the Sales Desk.  I've been to the Sales Desk.  Don't even.)  I seem to have found a place for my Sam Neill Jurassic Park Photoshoot refund.  I order a photoshoot.  He sells out in record time, and I am very lucky to have the shoot.  We may have crashed the LFCC ticketing website.  (Or the cell phone reception tower nearest the convention hall.)

That night, back in my flat, I order the Peter Davison photoshoot, too.  What had started as a picture with Peter Capaldi while I'm showing off my Clara cosplay has turned into, "Hell, let's get pics with our four favorite Doctors."

And nothing started before 1:00 on Sunday.  But between 1:00 and 5:00, I had four photoshoots, two costume changes, a random one-hour comedy/video thing (which SHOCKINGLY didn't conflict with anything), one ACTUAL wardrobe malfunction (and a very nice lady sewing me back in), and Ellen had got there earlier and picked up a Peter Davison virtual queue ticket for me (number 324) which I was able to cash in while waiting for Matt Smith to come spectacularly late to his photoshoot, and when all was said and done, all of these happened:

(Yeah, photo of a photo.  Sorry about the glare  You gotta love his pose, though.  Truly.)

At the time, he looked like he was grinning.  I have come to the conclusion that a Tennant Grin and a Tennant Teeth-Clenching are very similar in appearance.

Every time someone came up for a photo, he was throwing a sideways "V" sign and getting people to throw it with him.  (Because he's cool and wearing a hoodie.)  AND watching this happen with two people in front of me, I had all of 30 seconds to come up with an alternative, so I asked him to throw this instead.  He obliged, although he had no clue what it was.  I told him it was "I love you" in American Sign Language, and both he and the crew guy seemed impressed, and now I shall taunt Jayne with the photo.

There is no way around it: this is a horrible photo of me.  (I pulled off my glasses at the last second and didn't push my hair back.  When I saw it, I decided to keep the specs on for the rest of the day.)  My G-d, that's a shit photo of me.  But I got it signed by Peter Davison and got to tell him that he was "my" Doctor.   So that was pretty fantastic.  :)

Not a 50 for 50

There are two reasons the Peaky Blinders pop-up ... sorry, sorry, make that Feasty Blinders (more on that little bit of not-fair-use later) is not a 50 for 50.  The first is that I went alone.  The second is that somebody has already claimed "cosplay someplace."  (I'm looking at you, Ali and Jonathan.)

But, damn, I want some sort of credit for walking the streets of London in my 1920s get-up.  Dudes, I RODE THE FUCKING UNDERGROUND while wearing a fascinator. 

And, honestly, I didn't "walk the streets" dressed like this.  I fucking strode.  First, because it's something of an empowering outfit; and second, because, fuck it, I know people are going to stare at me while I'm crossing Leicester Square, I might as well fucking own it.

I'm saying "fuck" a lot.  So did the Feasty Blinders.

So, yeah, Peaky Blinders pop-up.  I thought I read somewhere that it has nothing at all to do with the television program and is instead based on the real gang in Birmingham and...

... yeah.  And it's got all the characters that were invented for the TV program, and the fact that the show ends with the band playing a ten-minute of cover of "Red Right Hand" is PURELY coincidental.  Tonight was the last night of "Feasty Blinders" and I wouldn't at all be surprised if it was because of Cease & Desist letters.

You buy your ticket online and you aren't told of the location until a few days before the event.  Fuck that, I Googled.  (Well, honestly, no luck there, but I found it when I searched Twitter.)  A cabaret/club I could easily find.  OK then.  Had some issues ordering tickets because it was one of those rolling on-sales, so I couldn't buy tickets until they e-mailed me a code, and they didn't e-mail it to me until the middle of the night (because time zones) and long story slightly less long, I ended up with a shit restricted view ticket.  (I almost didn't buy it, but, at that point, I sort of bought it out of spite, if that makes sense.)

And then, Monday, I got the email with the location and it was a different damn club.  (Points to London for having at least two 1920s cabaret establishments, so the switch was easy.)  The good news is my shit rear stalls ticket turned into a balcony ticket.  The better news is I showed up in time to claim the best seat at my table -- right up against the railing, with a terrific view of the stage. 

I am sitting next to a British couple and I bring out the small talk.  They've ordered a bottle of Moet, so I ask if they're celebrating anything.  They explain that they're spending 6 months doing fun things to celebrate their 25 anniversary.  I understand immediately.  Boy, do I understand (says the woman with a two-year-long celebration of turning 50).  We chat and she discloses she's a HUGE fan of the TV show (no shit, lady), so we talk about that for a bit and we manage a good two hours (in between dinner courses and entertainment) before the husband asks if I'm thumbs-up or thumbs-down on Trump.  Honestly, in the current climate, I'm impressed it took that long to ask the American about her politics.

The entertainment is a band, doing swing-style covers of a lot of things you wouldn't expect swing-style covers of.  (Like, You Spin Me Round (Like a Record) or Time of the Season.)  There were a couple of burlesque dancers who we saw four freakin' times.  (I wondered if one was an understudy.  I wondered this because she kept looking at the other girl, while the other girl kept smiling and looking at the audience.)  And then there was the whole Peaky-- sorry, sorry, FEASTY Blinders thing.  Whereby the members of the Shelby family and Alfie Solomons were opening up the Eden Club they'd taken over from Mr. Sabini.  This was SO not Peaky Blinders, you could pin down exactly which season and episode it wasn't taken from.  There's fighting and cussing and the dude playing Tommy keeps saying "No fucking fighting," and everybody laughs because we know there's going to be fighting.

The 1920s attire wasn't mandatory, but nearly everyone played along.  (To the point where the people who didn't stood out.)  Props to the dude who went full-on shirt, waistcoat and cap... but accompanied it with shorts in deference to the weather.  (I only noticed him in the line for the bar; sitting as his table, he looked the same as everyone else but was probably more comfortable.)  And there was something very cool about it all.  People drinking and dancing at a club is something you see every day; but people being all dressed up in their '20s finery added some much-needed flair.

Look, when you get right down to it, the Peaky Blinders tie-in element was a little disappointing.  I'd bet they spent more time on the mediocre burlesque dancers than the Peaky storyline.  (And as soon as you say to yourself, "I wonder how they're going to end it," you instantly figure it out.)  But it did bring two important things to the table from the audience point of view.  First, it got us all dressed up so we were in the spirit of playing along.  And second, it got us all immediately on the side of the good and righteous Shelby brothers (and their nice, peace-loving friend, Mr. Solomons) against the evil Sabini.  We weren't 300 strangers in a club; we were all friends of the gang, come to have a good time in the city.

Or, as the band leader put it when he promised to play as long as we wanted to listen, "Let's get fucked!"

50 for 50: 35 (Take Two) - OK, Jump Out of an Airplane with Jayne

So, we pretty much had the road trip to Lompoc down to a science.

I've had plenty of times where I've taken a trip and wanted to repeat it to correct mistakes.  Hadn't actually WANTED to do Lompoc over again, but there were a couple ways in which we could improve on it.  Like the "hearing accessible" hotel room which wasn't.  (You have to call ahead for that.  You have to CALL AHEAD to tell them you need the pre-booked hearing accessible room actually set up to be hearing accessible.)  Or the crappy restaurant we went to for dinner.  And, of course, the whole wind-blowing-from-the-wrong-direction-so-we-can't-skydive thing.  Admittedly, we didn't have much control over that.  But the rest of it.  Oh yeah, we're improving on the original.

I called ahead for the hearing accessible room.  We got the same room as last time, but now they have attached one (1) sensor that turns the vibration of someone knocking on the door into a flashing light on the inside.  Which was great, except when we had to call down to have someone fix the (unrelated) broken bathroom door, they managed to knock the vibration/flashy light sensor off the front door.  We tried reattaching the damn thing, but then Jayne figured it would make way more sense on the door between us at night, where knocking might actually take place.  Improved.

I had googled or yelped or whatever for good restaurants in Lompoc.  (I don't mean to unnecessarily mock Lompoc, but seriously, there is no such thing as a GOOD restaurant in Lompoc.  You're grading on a curve here.)  There were two with high(ish) recommendations near us -- Eddie's Grill and a Mexican place named Floriano's.  We'll come back to this later.

As we were driving up, it dawned on me that I really truly wanted a massage that night.  That would be a Good Thing.  I got a ton of credits at Massage Envy, but there's no Lompoc branch.  (I, for one, am shocked.)  I google for the next best thing:  a cheap Asian Massage place.  I find a few; only one is open late:  Massage Yee.  I decide to broach the topic once we're at the hotel.  I admit that deciding to wait is a communication thing.  Given enough time, I can get my point across in ASL, but the sentence "Hey, do you like cheap Asian massage places?" is going to require too much fingerspelling, and I don't want Jayne to take her eyes off the road long enough to figure me out.

So we arrive; we check in; we get our FANTASTIC hearing accessible room with AWESOME door knocky sensor; we go down to the "manager's reception" to enjoy our free wine (it's ... wine); get a table; and I now take another look at the internet to get a good handle on the location of Massage Yee.

It is across the parking lot from the hotel.  I am not making this up; it's a LITERAL 2 minute walk.  And you know what's on the way?  Floriano's Mexican Restaurant.  I pitch a plan to Jayne; she's up for it.  I make an appointment at Massage Yee and we quickly down our wine.

Look, I know you're all here to read about the skydiving, but I feel obligated to point out that Massage Yee is terrific value for money, very nice on the customer service, and is either located in a former pediatrician's office or has a super-weird design aesthetic.  I mean, sure, there's a sign on the wall saying that they've got Zero Tolerance for Soliciting Prostitution, but I don't know how anyone could even think of sex with all the teddy bear decor.

When we finished, we walked over the Floriano's, which is a Restaurant And Butcher, and it took a good bit of studying the menu to find that one Veggie Burrito hiding there amongst the dead things, so that Jayne could have something to eat.  Tasty, though.  I downed a coupla tacos.

Cut to the next day.  Free breakfast happens.  (Better than the free wine, if you're keeping score.  We watching Spain lose to Russia in the World Cup.  I'd heard many different languages spoken in the Lompoc Embassy Suites, but the breakfast crowd was pretty much unanimously rooting for Spain.)  We drive to Skydive Santa Barbara.

First thing they have you do is fill out the multi-page waiver and watch the "no really, we have no insurance" video.  I mean, it's something like four pages that boils down to, "I won't sue you.  Or really, the small pile of my smoking remains won't sue you.  Even if it was totally your fault.  Totally."  The waiver says they have an "accident log" you can review, and see the types of accidents that happen here, and I was pretty sure there was no way in hell I wanted to read that accident log.  I was going to do this anyway, dammit.  Ignorance is bliss.  Or, at least, ignorance.  I signed the waiver.  It asks for your age.  This was, actually, the first time I had to write "50" on something.  Seemed suitable; this was the most bucket-listy thing I had.  Best to do it a few days after my actual birthday.

Once they approve your waivers and take your money, they send you to wait in the hangar.  There are a LOT of people in there.  A foosball table, a life-size Jenga set, and a single bathroom for what I can only imagine is an impressive quantity of nervous urination.  We ask how long our wait will be.  We're jumping in group 7 and they're on 3 right now.  They said it would be at least two hours.  They give us directions to the nearest Starbucks.  We tell them we'll be back in an hour.  We stop for the "Before" picture.

Now, I live my life on the general principle that a Starbucks break is always a good thing.  This one was a VERY good thing.  I was nervous and nauseous and just sitting quietly with a cup of tea was a good idea.  Jayne, who had jumped before, walked me through the whole experience.  Then she encouraged me to run through all the other things I've jumped off of, or other adventurey things I'd survived and adored.  I ran through it, even including the panic attack during the SCUBA certification.  The whole thing calmed me down.  After our hour, we drove back to the skydive place, ready to wait another hour.

Only to discover they'd been looking for us, and we were actually in the next group.  (We took a minute to queue up for the Last Toilet Break.)  We met our instructors.  Mine was Sarah.  She was nauseous too.  Seriously.  She pretty much introduced herself and then explained that she was a little nauseous 'cause of a med she was taking, but she's good and fine and it's no problem.  I said I was nauseous too, so no problem if we didn't do all the spins and turns.  She matter-of-factly informed me that she's a "sympathetic vomiter," so if I go, she goes, and we float back down to the landing zone both covered.  We decide to try to avoid this scenario.  She says a coupla things which give me confidence in her -- like that she's one of their most experienced instructors, and that her boyfriend works here and packed her chute (and they're doing quite well as a couple, thank you).  And that, yes, that accent I'm hearing is Australian.  Look, I know that Generalizations Based on National Origin are Bad.  Still, safely jumping out of an aircraft is just one of those things I expect Aussies to excel at.

I have a moment to see Jayne's instructor talking to her from behind; of course, she has no clue what he's saying.  I think this is probably one of those times that I ought to jump in and say something, so I point out that she's Deaf.  I am both a little concerned that he hadn't noticed, and a little impressed by how much he just adapted and didn't seem to care.

Sarah walks me over to the plane.  We get in, and she starts attaching my harness to hers.  I notice the plane has a bunch of duct tape around the door.  I comment that our plane is literally held together with duct tape.  Sarah thinks this is a fair description.  Oh well.  It isn't like I'm not strapped to a person with a parachute.  The "emergency exit" and the regular exit are pretty much the same thing.

Everyone piles in.  We're all paired up, except for the few non-tandem jumpers.  But we're all just sitting there in two long rows, facing the door.  I'm attached to Sarah; Sarah is seat-belted in.  She removes her seatbelt at about 1000 feet, because by then, there's only one way we're leaving this plane anyway.  At one point, she tells me I'll put my goggles on at 12,500 feet, and we're only at 8,000.  I tell her I probably don't need to know our altitude.

And here I'm pretty much going to just explain the four-minute video you'll see.  (I should put "learn to edit videos" on my 50 for 50 list.  Because I really want to edit this, but I tried three different apps and got errors or problems on them all.)  ANYWAY, a solo jumper goes out the door and just DISAPPEARS out of view underneath us.  And Jayne is next and we're after Jayne, and if you watch that video, you can very clearly make out me saying "Holy shit.  Holy shit.  Holy shit."

(Sarah said, "I'm an Aussie; we've heard 'em all.")

And out the damn door.

I am not saying "Holy shit," anymore.

I am not saying anything.

If you watch the video, it looks like I'm clenching my teeth in pain.  This is not what's happening.  During the freefall, we are moving so fast it feels like I'm having difficulty getting air into my lungs.  (I don't see how that can possibly be true.  I mean, it's ALL air.  In fact, the only thing that I can safely say is in my immediate vicinity IS air.  But I felt like I wasn't getting a really good breath going, and that's what you're seeing there.)

Also, your harness is spectacularly tight.  As well it fucking should be.  But, as soon as there is no longer aircraft underneath your ass, gravity is very interested in pulling you toward the planet at 9.8 m/s^2.  You immediately drop down, as much as you can, within your harness.  Result:  that strap which HAD BEEN right under your bra, now slides upward.  Bringing bra with it.  So, now you know what I mean when I cheerfully tell Sarah I had a wardrobe malfunction.  (There's one other bit where I say something while we're parachuting down.  You can't hear it.  Don't try to read my lips.  I had no idea the camera was on.)

Once she opens the chute, and your speed drops, she also loosens the harness a tad, and you can sort of lean back all comfy-like and watch the scenery go by.  She lets me drive a bit, and we do a long graceful turn to check things out, while she's amusingly narrating the sights of Lompoc.  ("There's NASA/SpaceX.  There's the federal penitentiary."  Thus ends the sights of Lompoc.)  There was ocean, too.  It was quite pretty when I'd realized we would not, in fact, vomit on each other.

I'd been a bit worried about the landing, but here, the wind gave us one.  We landed from the east, and the wind was blowing from the west, so it nicely kept the chute inflated and we just touched down.  I mean, we stood up and that was it -- no sliding (like some others did) and no "running it out" to keep the chute behind us.  We just landed, knees bent, standing there.

(OK, I lie.  I was bending my knees pretty far and there was a human being attached to my back.  She said, "You can stand up," and I said, "No, I can't," and one of the crew grabbed my arm and pulled me to vertical.  Fuck it; I'm 50 -- them young 'uns can give me a damn hand.)

A link to the video, in all its unedited glory:

I'm Jumping Out A Damn Plane

Back on the ground, we did our "After" picture.  Much more windblown, and I think I picked up a few more grey hairs.

Also, the amusing certificate:

Now, I was no longer nauseous.  I was excited and bouncy.  Jayne, however, had had a more twisty-turny ride, and wasn't feeling so great.  So we got the heck out of there (after filling out the "comment cards" which are conveniently in the form of Tip Envelopes) and stopped at the pharmacy to pick up an antiemetic.  Jayne wanted to just sit in the car and nap, and I figured I'd walk across the parking lot to ... why, it's Eddie's Grill, the OTHER recommended restaurant in Lompoc.  (I can sum Eddie's up by the pictures of classic cars on the walls and the TVs showing the American Flag Football League.)  Had a decent chicken sandwich, and was ready for the road trip back to L.A.

Oh, and when Jayne was in the pharmacy, I picked up this little souvenir of our trip to Lompoc.  Not anything particularly Lompoc- or skydive-related, but I'll remember the trip whenever I see her, and who DOESN'T want a Beanie Baby kitten that looks like Jasmine?  I figured I should have her peeking out of my purse like Paris Hilton does with that damn dog.

That's about it, really.  We rode back to LA -- another Starbucks stop was involved -- and even on the road, the skydive seemed so far away.  Did I really just jump out of an airplane?  I have a video that says I did (n.b., glad I uploaded it -- Jasmine excitedly batted the flash drive under the sofa as soon as I ejected it) and some memories of viewing California from airplane-height without the presence of an actual airplane.  I absently pet the little kitten Beanie in my purse, and thought a little bit about what a crazy wonderful world this place actually can be.