I’d Like Much, Much More

I’ve been having some chest pains lately, obviously nothing to worry about, since I’m only nearly 46, a veritabobble little spring chicken, meaning it’s one hundred percent impossible that I could experience a heart attack, but I thought maybe I would assess my saturated fat intake, just in case. Yep, the Wholesome & Delicious Heaven Scent cookies have some, as do the Barbara’s Bakery Original Cheese Puffs, yum and yum, but it’s the pint (the basic unit) of ice cream, ingested on a regular basis, that weighs in at 44 grams of saturated fat. Is that a lot? It sounds like a lot.

While Tom and I were visiting Ann and Mac, I told him his moderate habits were making me look bad and that he should try to eliminate this noxious phrase from his vocabulary: “Thanks, I’ve had enough.”

I’ve tried a number of brands of t-shirts lately and none has been satisfactory. Both Eddie Bauer and Lands End t-shirts are bad right now; both are too big in my size (men’s XXL, for the not-so-form-fitting look). Going down a size would not solve the problem. The size is right; the cut is wrong.

So I’m heading once again down a path I trod unprofitably in the past, that of attempting to sew my own camp shirt. When I tried it before, it took a long, long time—much longer than to make baggy pants—and I think I wore the result only once. But that fabric was sort of a flannel. Maybe I’ll have better luck with cotton broadcloth, or whatever you call it.

The Master Seamster (my mother) is enthusiastic about this project and has offered some advice. I ordered a pattern this past week, and I already have a pile of cloth from my last trip to Stonemountain & Daughter, so I should be able to start soon.

Not long ago, my mother said it had suddenly dawned on her that my problem is that I'm turning into an old fart and that that's why I don’t want a cell phone and so forth. I could have told her that long ago.

This past week I called her to get a snippet of information for a form I was filling out and she said she was in the car, adding, "I'm not driving. I'm just rolling along."

"That's good," I said, "because it's dangerous to drive while talking on a cell phone."

"Oh, my! You sound like an old fuddy-duddy," she replied, and I believe that moment marked the completion of our role reversal. Once upon a time she was all grown up and I was a tiny kid and she told me not to carve on the table with a knife, or at least I assume she did, since I never do that.

But now we're both adults, and, as my mother said, we're now converging in age. One day, she said, we’ll be 80 and 102, though I think that's a bit optimistic on both counts. But if we make it, we'll both be the same thing: elderly.

Of course, my mother at 102 will probably be saying, "My robot housekeeper is down, but I've been reading the manual, and I think I've just about got it figured out," while I'll still be saying, "Why doesn't the damn pet store carry clay cat litter anymore??? If it was good enough for my grandfather ... "

Before we hung up, my mother said mournfully, "I can remember when you were cool and hip."

Last night Tom and I watched The Transporter, which stars Jason Statham as a driver who can be counted on by his criminal clients to keep his nose out of their affairs, until his discovers his cargo, inside a bag, is a young woman who is very much alive. We both liked it a lot.

Today I joined Bicycle Coalition members in a project to mark potholes and broken pavement with colorful stencils, to point out what bad repair many San Francisco streets are in, more of an issue for people on bikes than those in cars. My group of six people was congenial and worked together well. We were assigned to Polk St.

A TV camera crew followed us for a time, and so the astute viewer, watching the 6 o’clock news, would have caught about a seven-second segment on our operation and seen my very hand wielding a spray paint can—it was actually spray chalk, not permanent. Tom said he also saw a shot of all of me, but I missed that. I could only tell it was my hand because I recognized my new Pearl Izumi glove.

The wind was very ferocious today, making for strenuous and sometimes unpredictable cycling. As I have said before, I think high winds are going to get to be quite a factor as the climate changes. This week, a woman in San Francisco was killed when the wind blew part of a tree down onto her, and this morning I read online about a toddler in Chicago being blown, with his stroller, into Lake Michigan.

At Tom’s place, where I went to watch the news, the windows were rattling in the frames, making a tremendous racket, which he said he’d gotten used to. It was driving me crazy after 20 minutes, so during the sports I rushed downstairs to get some cardboard to fold up and stuff between the windows and the frames, which silenced the din.

Tom made us a tasty dinner of Cajun catfish and toasted sourdough. Back at home, I had to put cardboard in some of my own windows that had never needed it before.

A bit later, after I had a chat with Lisa M. on the phone, Tom came down and we watched The Transporter 2, directed by the person who had been the assistant director on the first one. We both agreed we liked the first one more. The music in the first one was also much better, by Stanley Clarke, the bassist and composer.

When I get up in the middle of the night to pee, though no one’s making him, Hammett always gets up, too, rushing into the bathroom to sit before me, rumpled and bleary—downright haggard—his expression unmistakably accusing.