Review of Sonoma Chicken Coop

In March the Huzby and I attended a little soiree for my sis-in-law, Amy, at the Sonoma Chicken Coop. I did a Yelp write-up to which the owner replied in full agreement. The place is a sociological wonder.

If you're interested in reading more reviews you can find me by clicking on this link to Yelp: http://www.yelp.com/user_details?userid=VrVBC9Sni1JluW9FlrAERA&ref=fb&post_type=review&ref=nf

Sonoma Chicken Coop  

Category: American (New)

 3/29/2010  

Food ~ 3 stars
Beer ~ 4 stars
Atmosphere on a Saturday night ~ 5 twinkling lights...or perhaps they were disco balls.

Mr. Grumpy and I were the token oldies-but-goodies attending my sister-in-law's birthday this weekend at the Campbell Sonoma Chicken Coop.

There is no better way to get a sense for how old and out of it you really are than hanging with a crowd about 20 years your junior. Carousing with youngsters is an excellent reality check. No doubt you're as young as you feel so long as you have no one young with whom to compare yourself. Luckily, the lighting was dim. Also luckily, everyone in our party was drinking fairly heavily.  We may have passed as being only a decade past the freshness date stamped on the dewy faces at our table. Regardless, we had a great time despite our soon-to-be-hardened arteries.

The people watching was most superb. Talk about a cross section of humanity! It was generally a more or less thirties kind of crowd but there also seemed to be some high school class of 70-something-or-others there as well. The cover band, Redwood, was fun and dance-inspiring allowing unsurpassed wildlife viewing. While the cougars danced with each other, the wolf pack watched and waited for a drunk or overly exerted feline to cull from the crush. Oh! And there was a bear there just coming to from his long hibernation. You may be familiar with this subspecies: Ursus Urbanus. They are prone to  effusive inebriation and inappropriate maulings of the glutteus maximus (si, il culo de mia). Was I outraged? No. Given said bear was not quite thirty, I chose to take a more humorous view of the groping. Good Lord. Does that cub realize I'm old enough to be his mother?

Basically the night was a Campbell version of Wild Kingdom meets The Dating Game. Great stuff and powerful story fodder.

Happy birthday Amy!

It's All About the Attitude

This is a review of "Attitudes," a clothing store in Calistoga. It is also an expose Tim's attitude, or perhaps the better phrase is madditude. Known as Mr. G. (Mr. Grumpy, a self-inflicted moniker), the Huzby, and my stylist, his mood is easily turned to the dark side by wardrobe infractions and/or me forgetting to put a specifically requested article of clothing in the luggage when we travel. In this review we discover footware is a fulcrum for Mr. G.'s mood swings. It begs the question: Does Prozac treat shoe fetishes?

(Pictures included below.)

Pre-post script:
1) Since the writing of this review I have instituted a new rule. From here on out if I have to wear sandals, so does Mr. G. You know what they say, "What's good for the goose is good for the gander."  Honk, honk.

2) Mr. G. owes Ozzie, the mad masticator of mayhem, a huge debt of gratitude.  During his puppyhood, The Oz opted to chew only one pair of shoes and it just so happened to be the offending pair described below. An accident? Doubtful.

So here goes...

My stylist/Huzby and I are headed to Calistoga for a one night stay at Solage. We're 20 minutes into the drive when he asks what shoes I brought to wear for dinner. To be clear, Mr. Grumpy has already specified what skirt and sweater I should wear and I have dutifully packed both.

"You're not planning to wear those horrible elf boots" Mr. Grumpy says while giving me the hairiest hairy eyeball he can give and still stay in his lane.

"Yes. And they're not elf boots. They're closed-toed heels. It's supposed to be pouring tonight." I cross my arms, battening down the hatches; I can see I'm in for a tirade.

Mr. G: "I hate those shoes. You said you were bringing the sandals I got you for Christmas."

ME: "Oh, right. Well I wasn't going to wear those to dinner. I was just going to wear them in the room. Anyway, I forgot the sandals. I'm not wearing sandals in the rain. "

Mr. G: "I HATE those shoes."

ME: "Well, hopefully it won't ruin the night. You're a big boy."

Mr. G: Glowering silence.

ME: "What do you want to do, turn around and go back for the sandals?"

Mr. G: "You KNOW I hate those shoes. I can't believe you forgot the sandals!"

ME: "Well it is what it is. If you really can't stand the shoes we can probably get something else in Calistoga."

Mr. G: "We'd better be able to find something. God! I HATE elf boots!"

Clearly--the pressure is on.

We get to Lincoln Ave., the main street in Calistoga and park. We've been told there is one shoe store in town--Bella Tootsie, which we find and the shoes in the window look promising. Unfortunately it closed at 3:00, ten minutes before we show up.

Sensing the possibility of a major fail on my part from which Mr. G may suffer irreversible upset, I grasp at the possibility that the clothing store we're passing--Attitudes--may sell shoes. We go inside and (There MUST be a God.) there is a small wall space devoted to shoes. Mr. G looks the 12 or 15 styles over and declares there is only one acceptable pair --sandals, naturally. Unfortunately they only have them in a 6 or a 10. Thinking the 6 is likely too small (usually I'm a 6.5 or 7), it's still the closest to my size. So I try them on, willing my feet to think small. Lo and behold, a Cinderella moment occurs. They fit exactly with no room to spare and on the very last strap hole. Not only that, they're comfortable! Not only that, they're on sale! Not only that, I notice a pair of elf boots (which I AM permitted to wear when we're not dining out) and try them on and they fit! (Size 6 again: Born brand must run slightly big.) Not only that, they're on sale, too! So, Mr. G springs for the sandals and I spring for the elf boots. End result: two very satisfied customers and one evening disaster averted.

It is, of course, pouring down rain when we WALK the block and a half to dinner (SolBar) under a shared umbrella. My feet are soaked when we get there, but we sit next to the fire and my feet and sandals are dry in about 10 minutes. I do a cursory inventory. I am the only fool in the place wearing sandals. The upside? Mr. Grumpy is looking pretty happy.

Thanks to Attitudes! You saved the evening! I thank you from the bottom of my toes.

The offending footware has been Ozzified and gone to the great shoe closet in the sky.

The new elf boots

The shoes that saved dinner--not exactly rainware.

Review of Hunter Douglas custom window coverings

How many weeks does it take to have window coverings for an entire house made to order?

Let's calculate, shall we?

Week 1:
The order and measurements are taken by the designer/contractor and submitted.

Week 2:
Another person comes out to REmeasure everything. This guy makes some changes to the game plan. Those shutters you wanted won't be quite what you were hoping for but they'll have to do. You are excited to think that in 3-4 more weeks (this is what your designer told you) you'll have your windows covered. You'll be able to take the sheets off the furniture and you won't have to look at the cat sunbathing on the blanket covering the dining room table. You'll be able to put down the area rugs and stop worrying about any old nosy-creepy-pervy persons peering in the windows at any old time of the day or night.

Week 3:
You assume, according to the new game plan, the order and measurements are now in the line-up at the factory. You envision American techno-know-how at its finest as they start carefully, ACCURATELY churning out your request. You really are looking forward to shades/shutters being installed so you'll have more temperature control. The afternoon sun is turning half your house into an EZ-Bake oven on a daily basis. You start to hallucinate a burnt chocolate chip cookie smell coming from that side of the house.

Weeks 4-7:
You've called what you consider to be a reasonable number of times and have been told Hunter Douglas is really backed up. "Yeah, but we were told 3-4 weeks." "Well, everyone's order is backed up right now, ma'am. Summer is when people order window coverings." You should be glad to hear this because it's an indicator that the economy must be on the upswing. But you've been living in a fishbowl for so long you've started to develop gill slits in your neck and you wonder if that bump on your spine is the beginnings of a dorsal fin. You have a momentary inspiration that fish flakes for dinner might be delicious. Crap, you think as you brush at the silvery scales on your arms. What could be taking so long?

Week 8:
Happiness! Bliss! Joy! The window coverings are installed! But wait. What's this? The main front shutter was made to only half height. It has to go back. Also one kitchen blind is too wide--that has to go back too. Still, MOST of the coverings are in and now you can at least reclaim the dining room table from the cat and sleep in the bedrooms without experiencing the blinding, morning sun bugle call. The gill slits, dorsal fin bump and fish flake craving disappear immediately. The scales take a few days more to drop away. Still, your living room remains swathed in sheets since you can't allow the uncovered window to cook the stuffing out of your sofa. The cat now bivouacs there.

Weeks 9-11:
You wonder how the hell long it can take to trim down a shade and remake a shutter. You think your order should really take priority since you've been waiting so long. Your fat cat has smooshed the back of your sofa cushions into unrecognizable blobs. You're tired of seeing what will someday be your beautiful living room covered in sheets. Your sofa has morphed into a couch-be-que from the afternoon sun. It's so hot in the afternoon even the cat evacuates the area.

Week 12:
The shade arrives. It's still a bit too wide so the installer has to remove the end caps from the bottom slat. You accept this as a reasonable solution because you can't stand the thought of sending the thing back and waiting ...AGAIN. You wonder how many spiders will decide to set up shop inside the hollow slat and how hard it can be to take the right measurements.  Oy! The sofa and surrounds continue to scorch in the front room.

Week 13-14:
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. When you call to ask about your shutter no one has any answers other than it's not ready. You know this already.

Week 15:
The shutter is installed. You are thrilled to have you living room looking presentable and the cat relocates. He is now king of the queen bed. You vow to never again use Hunter Douglas. You paid in advance and were not in any way compensated for the extraordinarily long wait. Nor did HD ever contact you to make an apology or explanation of why the process took so long.

Also:
~HD has their name plastered on all the pulls. You don't really want your home to be a blatant advertisement for their product but you have no choice.

~The shade in your study is also a cap too wide. You don't want to wait another 3-4 weeks so you take the caps off the ends of the bottom slat. Now that you look at it you see they already took the caps off the top slat. You think the spiders in your home will find that you provide a variety of comfortable and safe nesting environments. No doubt their babies will feel that way too. You hope that while the cat is sleeping on your bed he's dreaming of killing spiders. He's going to have to earn his keep.

~On the plus side, the window coverings do look very good. Don't you agree?

Imagine without the shutters how sun-blazed this room was:

SEARS APPLIANCE REPAIR--BEWARE!

For more Yelp reveiws:
http://www.yelp.com/user_details?userid=VrVBC9Sni1JluW9FlrAERA&ref=fb&post_type=review&ref=nf

This is what happened to me when I contacted Sears Appliance Repair. Don't let it happen to you.

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Sears."

"Sears Who?"

"Sears. You know. We sell populist items. Tools, clothes, furniture, appliances, things in catalogs, automotive stuff. Pretty much anything you could want as long as you don't read glossy magazines like, New Yorker, Gentlemen's Quarterly, Vanity Fair, Architectural Design, House Beautiful, Sunset, Dwell... You know--Anything that suggests good taste or whiffs of snootiness. 'Cuz then you'd be expecting WAY too much. Pay attention bitch: If you wanna buy your huzby some underwear, or buy yourself a lawnmower, WE DA MAN!"

"Uh.... Right.  Great. I'm hoping to get someone out here to repair our oven."

"Sure. We do that. We gotta service plan. It's a GREAT deal.

"Uh, huh. What else you got?"

"Oh. We got something that doesn't sound all that good and really wouldn't be right for you."

"Uh. Yeah. OK. How about we go with the service plan?"

"Great. You've made a WISE decision ma'am. Our soonest appointment is Friday afternoon from 1-5."

"Really? You don't have anything sooner?"

"1-5 Friday afternoon. That's the soonest ma'am."

"OK. All right. We need to get this thing fixed before our tenant moves in.  Let's do it."

"OK ma'am. Your credit card will be charged 279.00$ and a technician will be out on Friday."

"Geeze. Credit card charged already? Well, OK. Thank you."

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Not Sears.

Hello Missing Sears technician:
I was expecting you Friday between 1 and 5. I waited in my stupid interview skirt and lame-looking job-hunting heels. I snipped roses, watered ferns, made phone calls to friends, scrutinized the carpet cleaners' work, waited for my favorite neighbor to come home and offer me a beer, watched residents speed by never wondering why my car isn't parked in the driveway anymore but, gosh, there it is today.   I did my best to stay productive and occupied.  You never showed. At 5 o'clock on the dot (it IS Friday, let me remind you) I left our rental house and came home. Was I angry about my wasted afternoon? Yeah, you could say that.

I called.

Ring, ring.

Who's there?

Sears, not a person but an automated, push the right key service. It took a long wait to get a human on the line.

"Hello. I've been waiting for someone for the past  4 HOURS and no one showed up at the house!"

"I'm checking your request. I show the technician has left their last job 7 minutes ago. They are on their way to your house."

"Well I'm not there anymore. It's now 5:20. I don't live there. I waited all afternoon for your person to show up and at 5:00 I gave up and came home."

"They're on their way now ma'am. "

"Well no one's gonna be there.  I waited 4 hours. No one showed. I came home.  I want to reschedule."

"OK, ma'am. It's gonna cost you."

"WHAT? No one showed. I waited from 1-5 And NO ONE SHOWED!"

"If you look at your contract ma'am, you'll see that honoring the suggested time is not mentioned."

"I...WHAT? You said 1-5. I was there. No one showed up. It's Friday afternoon!"

"Sorry about that ma'am."

"I want to cancel my contract. I don't expect to be charged for this."

"There may be a charge since the technician showed up to your house. They checked in at 5:21. They arrived and no one was there."

"Right.  Because I'm now at my house.  I don't live at the other house anymore.  I don't expect to be charged for this. May I please speak to your manager?"

"You can speak to someone in customer care about canceling your agreement."

"But will I be charged? I want to be clear on this. May I speak to your manager?"

"No!"

"NO!? What's your name?"

"Sherry."

"What's your last name?"

"I don't have to tell you that. Would you like to talk to someone in customer care ma'am?"

"Yes."

"Please hold the line and I'll transfer you and thank you for choosing Sears."

Customer care cancelled the service agreement. The conversation was short, not sweet and ended with "Thank you for choosing Sears."

Trust me. I won't make that mistake again.

Sherry , I see you there slunk down behind your computer screen in your sucky cubicle dealing with crabby customers all day while you suck down diet Coke and watch the clock, counting the seconds until you punch out. That's your JOB, sweetie.  You signed up for it, sister. You may want to rethink your career. I don't think dealing with customers is your forte.

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Not me ever again calling you, Sears."

Chris Isaak Plays Rodney Strong

This is another Yelp reveiw I thought you might find amusing:

This is a review of Chris Isaak's performance at Rodney Strong Vineyards on August 29.

Before I get carried away let me just say this:
Why does anyone bother paying wads of dough to buy concert tix and then yack their way through the entire thing? Even if you do consider yourself a music critic (and apparently you do) why don't you just shut the hell up and let the rest of us decide if WE'RE enjoying it or not. Or walk out. No one paid to hear you flap your yap during a concert. Zip it, Zippy. I'm lookin' at YOU Mr. and Ms. Pinhead from Mill Valley/Tiburon.

So...

Rodney Strong is a terrific concert venue. It's not too large, engendering a feeling of intimacy. You never feel like the show is so far away that maybe you should check your email or see if someone responded to your desperate plea for attention on Facebook. Summer weather in Healdsburg is generally hospitable; we never needed the blanket we brought. There's good wine to drink. The occasional Monarch flutters by. No mosquitos. And the twilight brings the flitting of bats in the distance. I suppose if it were quiet enough you'd be able to hear the grapes ripen. But hey--it's a concert. No quiet allowed.

Mia Dyson was really good--another whiskey-voiced sister souljah in the ranks which include Bonnie Raitt, Lucinda Williams (God, if only she COULD sing!) Susan Tedeschi and their ilk. She played guitar and sang while Michael Lindsey drummed and backed up her vocals. Big, strong sound coming out of a gal on the the tinier side of average. Think of a 2010 Pat Benetar but with more oomph and less makeup and hair gel. She did a great version of Lucinda's "Can't Let Go" along with some other good stuff ending with a song called "Romeo". She packed a wallop in the 1/2 hour she was allotted. A great opener for Chris Isaak.

When CI and his band took the stage (right on time--no waiting--no hype) it was still light out. That hot pink, spangly suit seemed so out of place amidst the fields of vines and yet he got the joke by making fun of the suit and then one-upped himself later in the show by coming out in a mirrored job. Chris, I gotta tell you, your best look is that form-fitting black T-shirt with black jeans because let's face it, your form is still fine. Leave the jazzy suits for when you're old and doughy. In fact, if you want to rock it shirtless, I believe you could pull it off. Let me know and I'll be there to check it out.

                                                 (photo credits Tim Amato)

Chris is a generous performer. His pipes (falsetto still intact) sound just like they used to 20 years ago. He's chatty, witty, still pretty and seems to LOVE his job. Well, why not? Being adored by giddy, horney, middle-aged women can't be ALL bad. Right? I mean, unless you're Justin Bieber or the Jonas Brothers or Taylor Momsen. (No worries for Taylor. Most middle-aged women are just hoping their daughters turn out a little less, shall we say, rough around the edges? ::cough, cough::).

Chris and his band rocked it for a bit more than two hours. He even invited 3 women audience members on stage to dance during "Dancin'". Be aware ladies, you want the front seats and if you dance like a modern-day Salome, you too may be selected to shake your groove thang right up there on stage next to Rollie and Herschel. Hotties, you were lookin' good! Next time Chris, pick me, PICK ME!

And Chris, or perhaps you prefer, Mr. Isaak, if there's one thing I can suggest it's this:
Let your hair answer nature's call. We know you've got a LEAST a little bit of grey creeping in. Let it show. You've earned it and it only adds to your cred. Just take a deep breath and put the Grecian Formula down. It'll look good, trust me.

So yeah! The show was great and ended early enough that we got home in time to wind down and mosey on to bed around 10:30 so we weren't too wrecked to start out the week. Yeah, we're THAT old. In fact, I manage to stay in a state of denial about my age until I'm in the midst of a bunch of oldster rock fans. Then it suddenly hits me: I'M one of  THEM. How did this happen? The last time I felt so aged was a summer ago at the Boz Scaggs concert at Wente. I almost cannot admit to being there except I CAN say it wasn't my idea. I caved to group politics. Sigh. I AM old.

For more of my Yelp reviews:
http://www.yelp.com/user_details?userid=VrVBC9Sni1JluW9FlrAERA&ref=fb&post_type=review&ref=nf

A Visit to Domaine Carneros

Some may know that I post reviews on Yelp as Novato A. I am including this review because thought it was amusing and hope you feel the same. Mr. Grumpy is Tim's chosen name for himself. He is also known as my stylist and the Huzby.

Here we go:

When Mr. Grumpy feels he's been seeing WAY too much of me in my gardening attire (I'm an unshowered vision of filth in an oversized hat, mud-spotted sweats or shorts, grimy flip flops, soil-encrusted gloves, with earthy swipes on my face that have me looking like a destitute potato farmer.) he feels the need to have me scrub down and spruce up. Apparently there's only so much seeing your wife as a dirt farmer a man can tolerate.  So every now and then--about once a month--I fulfill my wifely duty by donning my stylist-chosen Barbie clothes, slipping into some short-distance only high heels, slapping on some mascara and off we go to Domaine Carneros.

DC is a quick and pretty 25 minute drive from our house.  Once there, and seated in the members only section (Why, yes, as a matter of fact, we are members.) with a glass of complimentary bubbly it's easy to forget about all the things that are nagging you for attention at home. Your son's college applications and entrance essays, the dogs waiting impatiently for you in the study and wondering what that nice wood arm on the futon tastes like, the newly planted foliage that's cooking to a crisp in the hot sun, the 3 full laundry baskets that aren't getting any cleaner because you forgot to put a load in before you left, looking for a new job because if you get too comfortable in your recently unemployed state it's going to be that much harder putting on the yoke and getting back on track--you know, the usual annoyances that get in the way of life except that is seems that's what life's all about sometimes--doesn't it? Anyway...You don't think about that stuff.

You think about the beautiful view. You think about the lovely sparkling wine or perhaps the wondrous Pinot Noir single clone you are privileged to be sipping. You think about how lucky you are to live so close to wine country and to have a husband who joins wine clubs and has decided Domaine Carneros will suffice to undo the blighted vision you provide in your gardening togs. You think about the fact that you're hungry and could have a delicious light lunch of the salmon plate or the cheese plate or both since there are, after all, two of you here. You think about how nice the weather is. You think it's a good thing the Huzby is driving back and not you because--whew!--you're feeling a wee bit buzzed right at the moment. You think it'll be nice to come back in about a month and do it all again.

Yup. And then when you get home instead of getting a load of laundry going, checking the job listings, watering your plantlings, nagging your son who's not around anyway because he's bagging groceries at Lucky, you decide you might just lie down for a bit of a nap. But before you do that, you definitely let the dogs out of the study because you don't want to have to replace yet, another arm on the futon.