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As anyone who has read my column for any length of time knows, I truly believe technology will be the death of me. Probably literally, when I can’t figure out how to call 9-1-1 on my cell phone as I’m having a heart attack. But I do have to admit that my iPhone has given me ways to interact with my young grandchildren that I wouldn’t have otherwise. “Interact” may be somewhat of an exaggeration in the case of the 4-year-old who has on occasion FaceTimed me eight times in a single day just so I’ll appear. As soon as I do, he chortles and hangs up. He just loves the power.
I’ve long since given up on New Year’s Resolutions, but for years I’ve kept a somewhat varying list of 10 Rules to Live By. At the end of the year, I look at it and give myself a grade. Some stuff should just get dropped from the list because I get an “F” every time. But where it’s health-oriented, I feel morally obligated to at least pretend I’m going to do better next year.
As a dog owner, it turns out there are worse things than your dog rolling in poop. And that’s your pet contracting a truly nasty bug or eating something in your yard that she really, really shouldn’t have, and inflicting massive intestinal mayhem all over your beds, furnishings and floors for two weeks.
Welcome to Auntie Inga’s Curmudgeon Hour. Grab your preferred beverage and sit down while I whine again about why life has just gotten too perplexing for me. Recently, for example, I wanted to attend a fundraiser only to discover when I went to buy a ticket online that the only type of payment accepted was PayPal. I e-mailed the agency in charge of the fundraiser whose solution was that they would help me set up a PayPal account. This was not what I had in mind.
Is it just my imagination, or do I spend an inordinate amount of time getting stuff fixed? Something is always broken, whether it’s a computer problem, a funny noise the car is making, a cracked sprinkler head, or an ice-maker that isn’t making ice. Even our security cameras decided to fog up for no known reason. Of course, I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of the stuff I’m getting fixed wouldn’t have needed fixing in my youth because it didn’t yet exist (like computers). Or didn’t exist at my house (like ice-makers, sprinkler heads and security cameras). There was a lot to be said for the era of manual typewriters, hand-washed dishes, ice cube trays, and a climate where it actually rains.
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I am lucky enough to have the legacy of parents who were truly kind people and never missed an opportunity to jump in where needed. So when Olof and I realized that a disabled friend with no local family desperately required assistance, we volunteered to help. And thus began the saga I call will Refrigerator Wars. It could easily be five columns but here’s the abridged version. -
A few days ago I went to buy my Christmas tree and couldn’t help but reflect on the ghosts of Christmas trees past. My first husband always insisted we get a small live tree, which we would then plant in the yard in what he considered a charming post-Christmas tradition. Folks: Do NOT try this at home! Little did we realize how much those suckers would grow — one to 40 feet! By the time my husband and I divorced, 10 years (and Christmas trees) later, anyone driving by would think our place was a tree farm with a driveway. (I knew I should have had a Christmas tree removal reimbursement clause in the divorce decree!)
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On May 21, 2015 a La Jolla Light article queried why 87 percent of people who live within a mile of public transit still drive to work. The answer: They need to actually get to work. A letter to the editor in The San Diego Union-Tribune made a related inquiry: Do supporters of mass transit use it? The answer: We’re trying. My husband and I are two of the biggest supporters of public transit but have concluded that San Diego just isn’t set up for it to be a successful mode of daily transport, unless you have endless time on your hands and don’t have to get to work by a specific time. If you have kids or are elderly, it isn’t for you either.
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One true upside to writing Let Inga Tell You for the last 10 years is the opportunity to learn from readers. We’ll get to my recent column about toilet paper in a moment, but first, I’d like to revisit my column from earlier in the year about my brand-new washing machine. It seems I am not the only person who is exasperated by the “smart” features installed in most new washers. “Balance” seems to be a particular problem across many brands (probably not all that surprising since one repair guy maintained they’re all made in the same factory in China).
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Last week I wrote about getting my driver license renewed and having to take the written test since I’m over 70. After some 40 practice exams (and 56 years of keen observation at the wheel), I think I can save readers a lot of trouble and just sum it all up in one all-encompassing test. Pass this and you’re good to go.
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DMV, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. The first time your license expires after you turn 70, you have to show up in person at the DMV regardless of how good a driving record you have. I guess they want to make sure you haven’t gone blind and that you still have enough synapses firing to pass the written test. I decided to get my Real ID at the same time.
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Some folks love to spend a leisurely Sunday morning strolling the stalls of a gourmet farmers market, scoping out seasonal offerings from local growers and purveyors, and feeling like part of the community. A couple of Sundays ago, I joined a group of intrepid foodies in a farmers market trip on steroids — an adventure that began in the state-of-the-art Studio Kitchen, San Diego headquarters of Specialty Produce, the glitterati of fruit and vegetable sellers. There, the first in a series of “Food as Medicine Cooking Classes” was launched by Chef Christina Ng, chair of the Berry Good Food Academy, a non-profit that embarks on benevolent food programs.
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Artist Cherry Sweig is bringing a collection of angels she “found” in Venice, Italy to her native La Jolla, hoping to inspire those who view them to look at, up, through, and into the images as she did. “Finding Venetian Angels” will debut with a reception 5:30-7:30 p.m. Friday, Feb. 28, 2020 at the St. James by-the-Sea Episcopal Church’s Gallery by-the-Sea. For the exhibit, Sweig produced a profound number of works inspired by her recent stay in Venice.
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Opinion / Letters to the Editor / Our Readers Write: The following are Letters to the Editor from recent issues of La Jolla Light as La Jollans speak out on local issues.
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About 200 people packed the La Jolla Community Center on Feb. 17 to witness a showdown between the six candidates for the March 3 San Diego Mayoral primary: Barbara Bry, Todd Gloria, Rich Riel, Scott Sherman, Gita Appelbaum Singh and Tasha Williamson. A showdown is not exactly what they got, however. A dozen questions were posed by Ann Kerr Bache, president of La Jolla Town Council (LJTC), which sponsored the 90-minute event. Then, pre-selected members of the audience got to ask a dozen more questions. Each candidate received only one minute to answer, with no opportunities to follow up or address one another head-to-head.
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Sixteen La Jolla Cub Scouts are now Boy Scouts, after a bridging ceremony that celebrated the work they’ve done to earn their new ranks. During the Blue and Gold Banquet, Feb. 12, 2020 at La Jolla Presbyterian Church, Scouts in Pack 4 and their families dined together on a potluck meal, applauded those who earned awards for fundraising through popcorn sales, watched as several of the boys were presented with the coveted Arrow of Light award and cheered for the newest Boy Scouts.
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From time to time, my husband has observed: “It must be really hard living inside your head.” Alas, this is often true. I wish brains could have an off switch where you could say, “OK, we’re done for today! Do not even THINK of contacting me again until at least 7 a.m.” But my brain just never wants to quit. Around 2 a.m. I wake up and start pondering both ponderables and imponderables. They just won’t go away no matter what tricks I use to get them to shut up.
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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. But a local rescue agency with radar for mushballs asked us to foster several dogs “just for a week,” and before we knew it, we were suddenly the adoptive parents of Lily, a 7-year-old 15-pound bichon-poodle with rotten teeth and breath so bad it could scorch your eyebrows. This was apparently why she had been relinquished by her former owner.
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I hope you’re paying attention because this is a serious subject. I’m talking toilet paper roll inflation. There was a time, and I’m talking like five years ago, that toilet paper rolls were pretty standard. This, of course, was because the toilet paper dispensers in most bathrooms were pretty standard, too. But then Double Rolls came along — twice as much toilet paper in one roll so you presumably only had to change it half as often, unless you had a toddler who liked to grab the end and run through the house with it. (I once had such a toddler.) Or in a moment of temporary insanity, you went for the street food in Tijuana. (No amount of toilet paper in the world will cover that.)
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In honor of the 10th anniversary of “Let Inga Tell You,” and having run out of pretty much anything else to say (not that this will stop me from writing the column), I have been mining my memories of Pleasantville High School Class of ’65 and our subsequent reunions in my last two columns. Try to contain your excitement. In order to get people to read past the first paragraph, I’ve been intentionally inserting the name of my Pulitzer-prize-winning classmate, Dave Barry.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: Well, after last week’s column, I haven’t heard from my high school classmate Dave Barry’s lawyer asking me to cease and desist writing about him, so I’m going to continue taking advantage of our extremely distant association to reminisce about the Pleasantville High School Class of 1965’s 40th and 50th reunions.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: Astonishingly, I am approaching the 10th anniversary of writing Let Inga Tell You, a gig I thought might last three months.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: While I feel that my engineer husband, Olof, and I are hugely compatible, the Venn diagram of our marriage often doesn’t have a lot of overlapping travel circles.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: Last week, I wrote about helping my neighbors rescue a young cat that had planted itself outside their sliding glass doors and meowed piteously for two days.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: I’ve written recently at how dismaying it is to see so many dogs and cats loose in my neighborhood without collars and tags — and as it turns out, without chips either.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: By all accounts, this has been a particularly bad rat year.
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LET INGA TELL YOU: After 32 years, Olof and I have changed sides of our bed.
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