Overeating: Usually But Not Absolutely Always Best

The mutual animosity was such on this most recent evening of grilling, I half-expected my building manager to pound on my door after her guests left, or to leave another mean note on my door, but she didn’t do either. I’m sure it did help a bit that Tom was there, too, though it would have been even better if I’d let him say what we wanted instead of me saying it.

The next morning, Saturday, I took the 70 (way better than the 80) via Marin City to Novato to visit my friend Carol Joy. Thoughts of grilling entered my mind over and over, which was fine: just something to note. “Thinking about grilling, thinking about grilling.”

I know (thanks to Al-Anon) that I can’t force a resolution to this problem, and that many aspects of it are out of my control. I also know that some ways of approaching things have a greater chance of success than others; unfortunately, I specialize in the latter. Fortunately, Tom has a natural grasp of the former—his emotional IQ is probably triple mine—so even though he probably won’t belabor the same points I would belabor—in fact, he probably won’t belabor anything as such—I am going to let him handle the next piece of communication, which will be with the landlord.

In sum, there was not a single thing I could do about the grilling problem while I was on the bus or in Marin City/Novato/Sausalito/San Rafael/Mill Valley/Tiburon/Belvedere, so I resolved to relax and enjoy myself, and I even resolved not to mention grilling to Carol Joy, since certain listeners, even those who may have given birth to me, are clearly sick of the topic. Can’t blame them. I didn’t quite succeed, but I made it until late Saturday night.

And I did indeed have a thoroughly good weekend, so grill you, griller. Carol Joy picked me up at the bus stop in Novato and took me to her house so I could drop my stuff off. Then we went to Sausalito and she treated me to a fabulous lunch at Paradise Bay. We sat by the big open windows and could have dropped our forks right into the water if we’d been so inclined. She told me some of her adventures living on houseboats long ago.

Then we went to a movie theater in San Rafael and saw How the Garcia Girls Spent Their Summer. I didn’t know much about it, but thought it might be a slick Hollywood film (not that I have a thing against those), but it was a slow-paced independent film that takes place in a nearly moribund town in the desert and makes the point that even the old, the fat, the grumpy and the limbless can love and be loved. Carol Joy and I both liked it.

She talked to her husband on her cell phone at some point and reported that he was shocked that we were planning to spend our day doing nothing but enjoying ourselves and not getting any exercise or doing anything worthwhile. She said she told him that we took a walk, but didn’t mention that it was just from the car door to the restaurant door.

Speaking of restaurants, after all that hard work watching the movie in the air-conditioned theater, it was time for dinner! We dined at Thai Smile in San Rafael, where I had a tasty version of pad see yew with tofu, and Thai iced coffee, and Carol Joy told me some stories about her trip to Thailand.

After a delectable dinner, what is better than an evening at the theater? We saw AlterTheater’s production of Hard Laughter, based on Anne Lamott’s novel, at The Wooden Duck, which is a furniture store in San Rafael. They set up folding chairs around three sides of a square, and overflow audience members just sit on the store’s furniture. We thought the ending was a bit anticlimactic, but the performances were quite good, and we enjoyed it overall.

Afterwards, we went back to Carol Joy’s and went to sleep. In the morning, we sat outside and watched the birds: red-headed woodpeckers, mourning doves, quail. Carol Joy said that soon after they moved in, she heard a rat-tat-tatting sound and couldn’t figure out what it was, and then she heard what sounded like Woody Woodpecker’s taunting little song, and then she realized the reason the cartoonists had made him sound like that, because that’s how woodpeckers really sound, though she said she has heard that call only a couple of times. We saw turkey vultures as we were leaving for our next entertainment, which was to drive around Belvedere, which you get to by going through Mill Valley and Tiburon first. Which is to say it’s not exactly on the freeway where just anybody could drive right by.

I had never heard of Belvedere until a month ago, but it’s apparently where James Hetfield lives. I told Carol Joy that if we happened to see him, I was going to throw the car door open and run over to him screaming, “I’m a huge fan! Oh, my god, this is the happiest day of my life!” Carol Joy joked that he would probably answer, “That is so sad.”

Belvedere is an island right next to Tiburon populated by the very rich. No commercial establishments allowed. I asked why people there are so rich, and Carol Joy said many of them are people whose families have money, people who have never had to work in their entire lives. It’s very densely built up, with tiny winding streets and houses right next to each other. It actually made me a little claustrophobic, and so, after weighing the various considerations, including my lack of a hundred million dollars, I have decided not to purchase there. We also didn’t see James Hetfield, but we did see an elderly gentleman to whom I waved a cheery wave. He looked at us like, “Who are you?” In some small places, people are quite friendly and will smile or wave at a stranger, but I guess not necessarily in small places full of the extremely wealthy.

We paused here and there to admire the views enjoyed by Belvederians, and they are very nice indeed. Also, Carol Joy said Belvedere has the best weather in the entire country: Bay Area weather minus fog. They see the fog drifting over the hills of other towns, but the fog does not assail them personally.

On to Tiburon for breakfast at the New Morning Café. A mean lady there deigned to pick up her purse when we wanted to share her bench, but didn’t look at us or otherwise acknowledge us. She was soon joined by a tiny girl who said to her, “Move over so we all can fit on the bench!” Just so, little girl.

While we were waiting for our names to be called, Carol Joy saw a guy having his picture taken with another guy and asked, “Is that Kirk Hammett?” It was not, but I believe it was actually Carlos Santana, who does live right around there.

When we were seated at a picnic table outdoors, I ordered three blueberry pancakes and plenty of extra butter, all of which I applied to the pancakes. I got full about two-thirds of the way through, but felt I couldn’t stop, since I had just been lecturing Carol Joy about the merits of overeating.

But then I thought, the cook doesn’t have any idea how hungry I was. My stomach is the only authority on how many blueberry pancakes I need, and I am sitting here forcing in blueberry pancakes so Carol Joy won’t be disappointed in my failure to overeat. And as soon as I saw that clearly, I effortlessly lowered my fork to the plate, and Carol Joy said, “If you're not going to finish that, I will,” and she did.

I said, “Your joints should be working very well afterwards, because I put an enormous amount of butter on those pancakes. If you’re not well lubricated, it’s not my fault.”

She said, “OK, that won’t be your fault, but if I have to have a triple bypass, that might be your fault.”

She took me back to the bus where I almost sat in the front seat, except that an old lady outside the bus tapped threateningly on the window with her cane and eyed the seat pointedly, so then I didn’t.

Wasn't that a lovely weekend?