A Slice of Covert Racism

On a recent flight back home, I was sitting in my usual choice of an aisle seat mostly because I don’t like to crawl over strange legs when I need to use the restroom.

An older (older than me) woman crawled over me to take the window seat.

A young man was escorted to his seat directly across from me by a flight attendant who commented on his height and asked him how old he was as he was flying as an unaccompanied minor.

He was nine-years-old and about six feet tall.

Just a little boy in a man sized body.

I could feel his embarrassment as he was singled out for his height and I’m sure has had to endure a zillion comments about it.

He was very quiet, but seemed a little scared, so I chatted with him a bit, and he was very sweet. His dad was picking him up and he would be starting school in San Diego. He began to open up and just as I suspected, he was a little boy who didn’t really know how to deal with the fact that he looked like he was in high school.

The older woman next to me said, in a very heavy southern accent, “I should get his autograph now, he’s going to be famous.”

I didn’t respond to her right away because I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt or maybe I had misinterpreted what she was alluding to, but she repeated herself loud enough for the young man to hear, and I felt that I needed to do something.

I said, “What are you saying? That because he’s tall, his only life path is basketball?”

She looked at me and said, “Well, he’s tall…” and then her voice and thought faded.

I replied loud enough for anyone to hear, “Maybe he’s going to be a doctor. Or a professor. Or an artist or a writer. Just because someone has a physical trait doesn’t mean it’s a life sentence. He can and should do whatever touches his heart.”

The woman had so much ingrained covert racism built into her that she didn’t really know what to say, but a few minutes later she told me that she thought about it and agreed with me, so then we had a pleasant rest of the flight.

Did I change her?

Probably not, but the grateful smile I received from a nine-year-old made my day.

(And did I really need to mention that he was a six foot tall African American nine-year-old child or did you figure that out for yourselves?)

And then I saw this photo of Trump serving fast food to the Clemson team.
More covert or not so covert racism. Love Reggie Bush’s tweet.

Fog + Condors, and California’s Amazing Big Sur

Remember when I ran away from BlogHer14?
(Click HERE to read my sad tale.)

My tugboat man and I headed west to take the 101 back home to SoCal.

We stopped in Carmel for a lovely night to celebrate hub’s birthday, and thought we’d camp for a few nights as we travelled south.

It was obvious that everyone else had the same idea. No open campsites and no hotels meant we drove all the way home, sad and dejected, at 2:00 a.m.

Even though we didn’t camp anywhere and there was heavy fog, every so often the sun would peek through and I was able to snap some amazing pics.

Ultimate optimists, we’re giving it another try.

We figure that everyone is back to school and we should have a road less travelled. Hopefully. Fingers crossed.

Until we return with more pics, here’s some of my faves.

See you soon!

California Condors with attached radio collars. Too bad I couldn’t get closer pics but we could see the collars with tugboat man’s superior binoculars.

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Boats hidden on a hillside only seen if you hike down a secret trail (and I’ll never tell)…

bigsurboats bigsurboats2

Weird things hanging off a tree.bigsurcrazytreeFog…
bigsur12
bigsur8 bigsur4 And once in a while, the fog cleared…bigsurtripbigsurfog10bigsurfog9bigsurfog8bigsurfog7bigsurfog2bigsurfog4bigsurflower bigsufog4

Princess Rosebud And Her Tugboat Man

Nope, I don’t surf, but if I did, this is what I’d look like, and I’d be blonde, too!


Vintage-surfing princess rosebud

While he’s surfing, I’m cleaning the house and doing massive loads of his laundry that came home in the biggest black plastic garbage bag I’ve ever seen.

It’s so big, I could fit inside of it.

They have a washer/dryer on board; I suppose it’s much easier for him to stuff it in his suitcase and know that his live-in maid/laundress/cook will wash, dry, fold, and put it all away while he’s riding the wild surf. 

Or maybe it’s a primitive vestigial trait just like the way a kitty brings a dead rat home and lays it at your feet.

Yeah, it’s just like that.

His laundry = dead animal prize.

No problem, Tugboat Man, you worked hard and deserve a little R & R.  I saved my pilgrimage to South Coast Plaza for that perfect wedge ’til you came home so you could enjoy spending the day following me around the mall, too!

Payback and all that, right?

The perils of being a domestic goddess

Spring cleaning can be hazardous to your health…

kitchen windowThere I was in my full-on Cinderella mode, first scrubbing the hearth and then trudging upstairs to the kitchen, washing the window above the sink, crouching–squatting really–on the tile counter–stretching my right arm at an awkward angle across my body to reach the very top of the glass, at which point I accidentally knocked over a cup of cold tea near my feet which made the counter slippery as ice at a skating rink and I couldn’t stop myself before I slipped off and fell on the very hard tile floor. Gracefully, I might add, and with no real damage done but a lot of bruises and a slightly sprained wrist. I thought I was gonna have to email TheFurFiles to have her surgeon hubby fly in for an emergency operation!

Alls well that ends well. I’m finished with the heavy work and now it’s time to work on me: a little exfoliating and self-tanning and a mani-pedi and I’ll be ready for my tugboat man!