I have to confess that I never had the slightest desire to move to the North Pole, at least not until this past week.
It felt like 187 degrees in my neighborhood, and the idea of living somewhere I’d need to put on mukluks and a parka just to get the mail suddenly seemed very appealing.
I don’t actually know how hot it was, because the weather app on my phone said it was 95, but my car thermometer said it was 108. That seemed to fall into the category of irreconcilable differences, so all I knew was that my delicious wickedness was melting, melting, just like the bad witch in “The Wizard of Oz.”
It also called into mind the fact that I’ve lived near the Pacific Ocean for 45 years now, and I don’t have a single close friend who has a boat or a backyard swimming pool. When I say “close friend,” I mean the kind you can call up and announce you’re coming over in an hour to swim. No invitation required.
Or the type of friend who will check the temperature and automatically think, “Gee, it’s a hot day, I’ll bet my good friend Marla would like me to get out the boat and take her for a ride. With popsicles and a pitcher of margaritas. Well, OK. Two pitchers of margaritas.”
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have to mention that I tend to get ridiculously seasick any time I’m out on the bay. I know people say you get over it, but I’m old as dirt now and I never have, so I think I can safely say it’s a permanent condition.
Back when I was young and cute and people invited me to go sailing with them for that reason, there was invariably that episode where I had a private and personal relationship with the back of the boat, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
When you’re prone to motion sickness, no one thinks of you as the life of the party. You’re the one sitting on the bench minding the backpacks, waiting for the people who are actually fun to stop screaming, shrieking and laughing as they hurl through space and time.
Roller coasters have always given me the heebie jeebies. Even the act of looking at them makes my skin crawl. The idea that anyone would voluntarily climb aboard that rocketing projectile is just something I’ve never been able to grasp, let alone that they would pay money for the experience.
Seriously, trying to cut across five lanes on the Harbor (110) Freeway through downtown L.A. at 5 p.m. on Friday is all the excitement I need, and I don’t even have to stand in line to do it. Interestingly, this does not make me motion sick, probably because of the intense concentration required.
When I was assigned some years back to cover Disneyland, people used to tell me how lucky I was. I got to go to the Magic Kingdom for free, any time I wanted! And get paid for it! As you’ve already grasped by now, though, because you’re highly intelligent people, is that it wasn’t as much a thrill as you might think.
Yes, it was a darn sight better gig than asking if you want fries with that at a drive-through. Or pouring concrete on a bridge. But was I going to be excited to try the new Matterhorn? Um, that’s OK. I’ll just sit here with my soda and people watch while you give it a try.
Speaking of boats (remember how we were?) I do love Pirates of the Cabbean because it’s old and slow, just like yours truly. And it’s a fabulous ride for a hot day, because it’s always cool under the park.
I know, you were thinking to yourselves, “I thought we were talking about the heat?” See how cleverly I brought it back around?
Meanwhile, while you read this, I’ m in Barcelona for a little bucket list vacation. I had to go: The airfare was only $314. So I’ll see you soon.
Reminder that I’m having a meetup at Curly Girl’s dive bar at noon on Monday, Sept. 30. Say hi, get your book signed, buy one, whatever. You don’t need to buy a drink. And, yes, the daughter will be there along with the portion of my granddaughter that’s still inside her. Poor Richard’s Cocktails, 6412 E. Stearns St. Long Beach. Yes, it’s a dive bar. But it’s clean. Curly Girl is a neat freak.
