Requirements

At six-years-old I had only one simple requirement for my future husband–his last name needed to come before mine in the alphabet. You see they did everything alphabetically in grade school, and those of us in the lower half of the alphabet got stuck waiting. Waiting to go to lunch. Waiting to go to recess. Waiting to use the drinking fountain. Waiting to get a treat. And one day while waiting in yet another alphabetical line, I vowed that come Hell or high water I would marry up in the world, up in the alphabet that is.

And that's the one requirement that has stuck.

Over the years my list of requirements for my future husband has varied in length and content. This list has at some time or another specified his goals, likes, dislikes, political affiliation, religion, family background, age, eduction, etc. But the one requirement that I've never been able to remove or change is that very first one I ever made. It's silly, I know, but it's funny how frequently it sneaks up on me.

Once after starting up a conversation with an attractive, single man on an elevator, I actually had to hide my disappointment upon learning his last name started with a W. I even find myself having to justify going on a date with a Thompson or a Smith, almost like that 6-year-old who made that promise all those years ago is there passing judgment on my choices.

"So what if his last name is Zambonie? He's a good guy. He likes kids. He's responsible. He's funny. He treats me well. Besides we've only been out a few times. It's not like we are getting married."

While it is still technically on the list of requirements, it is also the first one I will ignore. I'm not about to tell a guy that I won't go out with him because of the FIRST LETTER of his last name. Many of my love interests and boyfriends have had last names between R – Z. However, when a relationship fizzles, it is often the first excuse that pops up. "It never would have worked anyway. I mean his last name started with a Y" or "I can do so much better than him. He was only in the P's. I'm should able to get at least an M."

Ludicrous, I know. Perhaps that's why I'm still single, unrealistic expectations. But it makes for a wonderful retort to that dreaded question, "So why are you still single?" The next time I receive such a uninvited inquiry, I will pause a moment, look thoughtful, and respond "I'm alphabetically picky" and walk away.

Thankful for Real

It's finally happened. No matter how many times I've faulted others for doing this very thing, I did it myself. I told someone that I'd love to hang out with him, even though we both knew we would never see each other again. It smacks of the sort of southern-California fake-ness that has bothered me since I moved here a year ago....

And that's why I found myself on my favorite beach today. Not the white sandy beach that is 5 block from my house, but a rocky beach 30 miles away in Palos Verdes.

It is my patch of real and has been for most of my time in California. It is a place where real people go; people who have not been tucked, lifted, or implanted. They go as families with their children and their unpampered, unpedigreed pups. And I obviously needed "real" reboot.

The beach is mostly mounds of smooth, multi-colored river stones; the only sand being right at the waters edge. You hear the waves crashing into the stony piles, followed by the rumbles of loose rocks tumbling down, coaxed away by the lingering slips of waves. While they are pulled away into the belly of the ocean, they will return some other day, by some other wave.

It's not easy to traverse this beach of rocks. You must step carefully or risk a twisted ankle or a fall. And it is not always beautiful, as these rocks trap trash and other discarded items, but it is real, so such things are accepted for what they are and then overlooked. Instead you focus on the flowering plants rooted in some invisible soil deep below.



Or the mosiac stone pictures of hearts, turtles, and swirls created by some previous visitor.


If you are fortunate to be there at low tide you can visit the tide pools filled with hermit crabs and anemone. There the children jump from rock to rock with squeals of excitement or disgust when they pick up a thick, black creature called a sea hair.

This beach is a restful place where families talk and walk; children laugh and play; and their dogs run free. But as always there came a time for me to leave, to return to the land of make believe, with the hope that my visit will help me stay real.

I hiked back up the steep trail to my car, and passed through the Donald Trump golf course that borders this mecca of mine. The golfers in their well-pressed attire seemed an odd sight after my time at the beach, but it would seem they were only following the rules.

My People

“They’re my people,” my friend said after speaking with a family across the park.
“Your people? Are they from Puerto Rico?”
“No, but they speak Spanish.”
“And that makes them your people?”
“Well, yeah.”

That got me thinking. Does everyone have people? I started listening to find out what others had to say about their people. Some claimed people simply because of skin color. Others claimed people based on their having the same religion or because they liked the same sports teams. I’m an English-speaking, Jesus-loving, white-American mutt. Who are my people? The majority of the U.S. population? If they are my people, then I was obviously adopted.

But there was something to what my friend said in the park that day, he and that family spoke the same language, which meant they understood each other. Perhaps that’s what it means to have people. Your people understand you because you speak the same language. Not a language like English, Spanish, or Zimbabwean, but a language laced with special terms, idioms, movement, and intent that can be immediately understood by those who speak the same language.

Of course that didn’t get me any closer to identifying who my people might be. There are plenty of English speakers, who I don’t understand in anyway shape or form. That goes for white people a well, so I started looking little deeper, and reflected on religion. I am a Mormon, and have been my whole life so I speak fluent Mormon, which is rich with special terms, turns of phrase, and customs. For instance one might hear at the beginning of church: “By way of announcements, please don’t forget the Relief Society activity at the Stake House this Saturday, and please let us know if you can bring a dish of funeral potatoes.” This does not mean a charity organization is bringing their own poisoned food to a restaurant. If you spoke Mormon, you would know this. But does speaking fluent Mormon, make them my people? I don’t know. While I do understand Mormons, I’m hesitant to say they are my people because I am not sure they always understand me.

So who are my people? Who speaks my same language? My people would understand why I randomly do somersaults. My people would laugh (and not be embarrassed) when I make a goofy face or feel the need to go bouncing around the room. My people would join in or at least hum along when I make up a song. My people would quote cartoons and storybooks and Disney movies. I guess that means my people are all about 4-years-old.

California Driving

I am officially California Legal

• California driver’s license – check
• California registered car – check
• Automatic transmission car – check
• Registered to vote – check
• Signed lease – check
• Own one or more of the following – roller blades, bike, surf board, boogie board – check

So I’ve finally done it. I became CA legal last month after getting 100% on the written driver's exam. Yes, California requires you take the $&%^# exam even if you took the exam when you were 16 in your home state, have a stellar driving record, and have been operating a passenger vehicle for over 10 years. Yeah, if that’s not a waste of taxpayer’s money I don’t know what is.

Please bear with me as a vent a little. For starters Let’s briefly discuss the inefficiency of the CA DMV. I had been informed by a few people I should make an appt before going, which I tried to do, but the soonest appt I could get was for 3 weeks out. Considering my license was expiring in a week, I thought it wise to forgo the appointment and just stand in line. To CA DMV’s credit, they have a nifty feature on their website where you can monitor the wait times for each location. When I saw the wait time for my location drop below 50 minutes (believe me this was a miracle) I dashed out the door.

I got to the DMV at 2:30 PM and waited, waited, and waited in a line that wrapped around the outside of the building. Just as my wait time neared an hour, and I was approaching the front of the line, one of the two (count them two) DMV employees assisting those standing in this monster of a line held up his finger, as if to say just a moment to the customer approaching his desk. This DMV employee then looked at his watch, picked up his coat, and walked out the door. Did someone come to fill in for him? No, of course not. Now there was just one person helping those standing in this line. It took another 15 minutes until I could approach the desk. The person working at the desk then looked at the form I had filled out, gave me a number, and told me to wait with the crowds of people inside the building. Yep, you heard me right. I had stood in line to get a number to stand in line. If I had had an appointment I could have skipped the first line and just gone directly to the second line, but can someone please explain the purpose of the first line?

The DMV employee also informed me that I would need to take the written test which they stop administering at 4:30 PM. It was 3:45 PM. I waited and waited and waited for my number. 3:57…….4:05…….4:22……4:28…….4:30……….. 4:32 and then my %*#^ number was called. I approached the counter and gave the woman my form and license fee. She told me she could take care of all the paperwork and take my picture, but I would have to come back on Monday for the test (fortunately I could skip both line 1 and 2). 2.5 hours wasted.

So I went back on Monday right as they opened, and went directly upstairs for the testing. There was one other person in line. We were informed that there was new computer system installed, and they were trying to figure it out. 20 minutes later I approached the desk, where the woman looked over my paperwork and handed me a test. As I sat down and started going through the it, I came across a humdinger of a question:

Smoking inside a vehicle when a person younger than 18 years of age is present is:

A: Legal, if it is your own child

B: Illegal at all times

C: Not restricted by law

Granted I had only glanced through the driver’s handbook, but I was fairly certain there had been no mention of the legality of smoking in the car period, so I answered C. I guessed correctly, but what the *%$#? Why would you test my knowledge of a non-law? What could possibly be the importance making sure of a driver knows that it is perfectly legal to smoke with a kid in the car?

Okay, fine, stupid test complete. So now I went and stood in a line of just me, myself, and I as the three DMV employees (count them three) behind the desk argued over who had the proper training and authority to operate the new camera for taking the picture of some dude who had just passed his test. After 10 minutes, they decided they only needed two people to argue about that, so one woman waved me over to go through my test. After congratulating me on my 100% score, she handed me a piece of paper that is to be my license for the next 2 weeks until my actual license arrives in the mail, and I walked out of the DMV. Thank you to the great state of California for wasting over 3 hours of my life.