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?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Listen, You Son of a Griller …
When I got home from Eugene’s last Sunday evening, I saw there had been, pardon the expression, grilling while I was out, so I screwed up my nerve and went to talk to the neighbors about trying the electric charcoal starter. Fortunately, the wife answered the door and she was really very nice, as always, and said they’d be happy to try the electric starter and that the building manager had mentioned she might try one, too. I was delighted, because it had been in the back of my mind that if the neighbors liked the electric thing OK, I would need to find some way of suggesting it to the building manager, thus risking one of our usual unpleasant interactions.
We had a brief heat wave here this week. It was 97 degrees on Thursday and still very warm in the evening. I left more windows than usual open when I went to sleep and was awakened at 4:30 a.m. by a man yelling obscenities at a woman who now and then yelled back, but he clearly had the upper hand. It was a horrible way to wake up.
Thursday was Bike to Work Day. By chance, I found myself riding down Market St. with the supervisor from my district, who, disappointingly, blew through every red light he came to, trailing a herd of constituents who all did the same. I stopped by a press conference at City Hall to hear the executive director of the Bike Coalition, Leah Shahum, speak, along with the various supervisors who’d ridden their bikes to work, and then I went on to my own place of employment.
I arrived to find a motorcycle blocking four bike parking spaces, but fortunately that building manager and her assistant sprang into action instantly and made it vanish. They figured out whose it was, had him move it, and told him never to park there again.
After work, I went to volunteer at an energizer station outside Rainbow Grocery, which was a fantastic spot to get new Bike Coalition members by mentioning the ten percent discount Rainbow offers SFBC members who bike to their store. We recruited thirteen new activists, I think.
This past Friday night I saw that the building manager was getting ready to grill, which marks the fourth week in a row we’ve had grilling. “Grill” and “grilling” are pretty much swear words at this point, as far as I’m concerned. Peeking out the window, I saw that she had the electric starter I’d given the neighbors, and it looked like she also had the pictorial instructions I’d printed out for them. I was delighted, and when I still didn’t smell anything after 30 minutes or so, I concluded it had worked perfectly.
Then my apartment completely filled with smoke, about as bad as it’s ever been. Tom came down and said his place was even worse than mine, and that all the hallways smelled strongly of smoke. Neighbors in the front of the building, nowhere near the backyard, said their place was also full of smoke.
Tom and I had planned to watch a DVD that evening, and I wasn’t sure whether it would be better to have the windows open, in hopes the smoke would blow through, or closed, to try to keep it out. Tom said he thought we’d be better off, in this case, with the windows closed, so I closed them, and in about three minutes, it was stifling hot as well as smoky, so we had to give up on the DVD idea and just leave the building.
We went to a café and stayed there until it closed, at 10 p.m. Tom said, “I think it’s reached the point where I’m going to have to weigh in,” which was great, because the building manager has framed this as a case of a single crackpot (myself) whose complaints are absolutely beyond the pale. We returned home hoping the charcoal would no longer be burning, but it was still going.
I told Tom we would need to go down to the backyard and request that the charcoal be put out so we could go to sleep; the actual cooking portion of the program was long over, and the building manager and her three guests were just enjoying the fumes at that point. I’d told Tom he was in charge of doing the talking, so he walked outside and greeted the building manager, who didn’t see me—yet—and answered him in a friendly manner: “Hi, how are you?”
I should have kept my trap shut and let Tom say, “Fine, but you know, it’s pretty smoky inside. We were wondering …” But of course I interrupted and answered her question, saying, “Smoky is how we are.”
She instantly got angry and said, “Linda, I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”
I said, “The entire building is full of smoke, and it’s really hot inside with all the windows closed to try to keep the smoke out.” She smiled in a most unpleasant way and shook her head, as if to express what an obvious loser I am (and that does seem to be the attitude of many grillers and smokers when ill effects to others are brought to their attention, according to my Internet research). Tom and I left, and she did put the charcoal out, and we retired to our respective apartments.
In the morning, I put on clothes that reeked of smoke and dried myself off after a shower using a towel that also reeked of smoke. This is not OK. I was hoping the electric charcoal starter would do the trick, but it didn’t. At all.
Fortunately, Tom said he is going to contact the landlord this time, and propose that we buy the building a propane grill. At this point, I would buy every last person in this building his or her own propane grill plus a handsome bookmark from the Levenger catalog if it would end the miserable experience of the charcoal grilling (particularly considering that it came on the heels of many, many lousy experiences with cigarette smoke).
If I thought it was just a horrible smell, I could probably deal with it, but I know it’s got yucky stuff in it that’s not good to breathe, plus there’s my little cat Hammett to think of. I can leave the building if it gets too bad, but he, practically speaking, can’t. Schlepping him from café to café in his box every time someone decides to grill is not really an option.
We had a brief heat wave here this week. It was 97 degrees on Thursday and still very warm in the evening. I left more windows than usual open when I went to sleep and was awakened at 4:30 a.m. by a man yelling obscenities at a woman who now and then yelled back, but he clearly had the upper hand. It was a horrible way to wake up.
Thursday was Bike to Work Day. By chance, I found myself riding down Market St. with the supervisor from my district, who, disappointingly, blew through every red light he came to, trailing a herd of constituents who all did the same. I stopped by a press conference at City Hall to hear the executive director of the Bike Coalition, Leah Shahum, speak, along with the various supervisors who’d ridden their bikes to work, and then I went on to my own place of employment.
I arrived to find a motorcycle blocking four bike parking spaces, but fortunately that building manager and her assistant sprang into action instantly and made it vanish. They figured out whose it was, had him move it, and told him never to park there again.
After work, I went to volunteer at an energizer station outside Rainbow Grocery, which was a fantastic spot to get new Bike Coalition members by mentioning the ten percent discount Rainbow offers SFBC members who bike to their store. We recruited thirteen new activists, I think.
This past Friday night I saw that the building manager was getting ready to grill, which marks the fourth week in a row we’ve had grilling. “Grill” and “grilling” are pretty much swear words at this point, as far as I’m concerned. Peeking out the window, I saw that she had the electric starter I’d given the neighbors, and it looked like she also had the pictorial instructions I’d printed out for them. I was delighted, and when I still didn’t smell anything after 30 minutes or so, I concluded it had worked perfectly.
Then my apartment completely filled with smoke, about as bad as it’s ever been. Tom came down and said his place was even worse than mine, and that all the hallways smelled strongly of smoke. Neighbors in the front of the building, nowhere near the backyard, said their place was also full of smoke.
Tom and I had planned to watch a DVD that evening, and I wasn’t sure whether it would be better to have the windows open, in hopes the smoke would blow through, or closed, to try to keep it out. Tom said he thought we’d be better off, in this case, with the windows closed, so I closed them, and in about three minutes, it was stifling hot as well as smoky, so we had to give up on the DVD idea and just leave the building.
We went to a café and stayed there until it closed, at 10 p.m. Tom said, “I think it’s reached the point where I’m going to have to weigh in,” which was great, because the building manager has framed this as a case of a single crackpot (myself) whose complaints are absolutely beyond the pale. We returned home hoping the charcoal would no longer be burning, but it was still going.
I told Tom we would need to go down to the backyard and request that the charcoal be put out so we could go to sleep; the actual cooking portion of the program was long over, and the building manager and her three guests were just enjoying the fumes at that point. I’d told Tom he was in charge of doing the talking, so he walked outside and greeted the building manager, who didn’t see me—yet—and answered him in a friendly manner: “Hi, how are you?”
I should have kept my trap shut and let Tom say, “Fine, but you know, it’s pretty smoky inside. We were wondering …” But of course I interrupted and answered her question, saying, “Smoky is how we are.”
She instantly got angry and said, “Linda, I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”
I said, “The entire building is full of smoke, and it’s really hot inside with all the windows closed to try to keep the smoke out.” She smiled in a most unpleasant way and shook her head, as if to express what an obvious loser I am (and that does seem to be the attitude of many grillers and smokers when ill effects to others are brought to their attention, according to my Internet research). Tom and I left, and she did put the charcoal out, and we retired to our respective apartments.
In the morning, I put on clothes that reeked of smoke and dried myself off after a shower using a towel that also reeked of smoke. This is not OK. I was hoping the electric charcoal starter would do the trick, but it didn’t. At all.
Fortunately, Tom said he is going to contact the landlord this time, and propose that we buy the building a propane grill. At this point, I would buy every last person in this building his or her own propane grill plus a handsome bookmark from the Levenger catalog if it would end the miserable experience of the charcoal grilling (particularly considering that it came on the heels of many, many lousy experiences with cigarette smoke).
If I thought it was just a horrible smell, I could probably deal with it, but I know it’s got yucky stuff in it that’s not good to breathe, plus there’s my little cat Hammett to think of. I can leave the building if it gets too bad, but he, practically speaking, can’t. Schlepping him from café to café in his box every time someone decides to grill is not really an option.
Uneasy Lies the Butt that Breaks the Throne
I am pleased to report that my caulking repair in the tub did hold perfectly. I was sure the thing was going to fall off the wall the next time I touched it, but it didn’t.
Wednesday a week and a half ago, I spent the evening, along with many other people, at the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition office stuffing bags to be handed out on Bike to Work Day at the various “energizer stations.” The following night I went to a Bike Coalition outreach training, which provided useful tips for trying to build our ranks, plus specific info we would need for BTWD.
Friday morning of that week, I was ensconced on the throne thinking the profound thoughts for which I am known, such as “Why don’t I ever see Kirk Hammett drive by in his car?”, when there was an ominous cracking sound. Sure enough, my wooden toilet seat had split. My first thought was that I would just replace it myself, so I wouldn’t have to deal with my uncivil building manager or the landlord, but I couldn't get it off, so I had to email my landlord after all.
In the course of getting out my big screwdriver—it was in my tool box, which has my blender and the mother lode of cheese puffs on top of it; it’s also behind both bicycles—I knocked over one of my bikes, scaring Hammett terribly. That’s his least favorite sound, and it caused him to take cover underneath the blankets on the bed, where he was still often to be found by the middle of the following week.
I was going to ask the landlord to let me know when “the person” would be coming to replace the toilet seat so I could clean the bathroom prior to that. “When is the person coming to replace the toilet seat?” is but one of the excellent things you get to say when you’re a renter. (When you stop being a renter, there is no longer “the person” but only your own self to do that, plus everything else, plus pay for it.) Then I decided that if it was that important to me not to have anyone see it had been months since I'd cleaned the bathroom, I should just for goodness’ sake clean it, so I did. While I was doing this (all before leaving for work that morning), I knocked something off the windowsill which broke the sink’s porcelain cold water tap, a lovely item that had probably been in place for decades.
So then I had to email the landlord again to tell her I’d broken her vintage fixture. A few minutes later, Tom came over and got the toilet seat off with no problem; I hadn't noticed there was a nut
underneath. If I only had looked a little harder—the story of my life—I would not have had to mention it to the landlord at all, I would not have cleaned the bathroom unnecessarily, I would not have scared the bejesus out of Hammett and I would not have broken the tap.
My coworker Emily agreed on the phone a bit later that it did sound like there were some lessons to be drawn from this experience.
The landlord said she would send along a handle and that maybe Tom could put it on, since plumbers cost $150 an hour. That seemed reasonable, and Tom even offered to go get the part himself. But after four trips to the hardware store with no luck, it was starting to strike me as a bit much, even though Tom, being himself, would probably have gone back to the hardware store ten more times, so I emailed the landlord to say we weren’t having much luck, and she said she’d see what she could find.
On Friday night a bit over a week ago, I saw The New World. The music stood out as being not very good, but the movie was kind of clever in that it gave me an experience similar to the lead character's. In fact, I’m still kind of waiting for Colin Farrell to come back.
On Saturday, I sewed a shirt, except for the buttons, buttonholes and pocket. It took me about eleven hours, and I think it’s way too big, but it was a good learning experience, so I will go ahead and finish it. I finally figured out that part of the reason my sewing machine has so many problems is the use of bobbins that are the wrong size. Prior to that, I was thinking it was time for a new machine, but now maybe all I need to do is get the zigzag fixed. It won’t zigzag any more. It used to.
My new driver’s license arrived in the mail, much sooner than I’d expected. I was quite pleased with the photo. I think it looks better than the previous one, from ten years ago, in which I look unformed. “Like an egg,” offered my mother. Just so. It wasn’t just my imagination that the new photo is good, either; the first person to see it—a clerk at Rainbow—said, “Nice photo.”
Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I sang my mother “Happy Mother’s Day” to the tune of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”: “Happy muh-huh-huther’s day-ay, happy happy mother’s day! Happy mother’s day, it’s mother’s day, ha-happy muh-huther’s day-ay …” The honoree attempted to interrupt this tribute at some point, thus jeopardizing her chances of a repeat performance next year—perhaps that was the point—but I sang on lustily.
After that I cooked lentil soup, and in the evening I went to Eugene’s.
Wednesday a week and a half ago, I spent the evening, along with many other people, at the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition office stuffing bags to be handed out on Bike to Work Day at the various “energizer stations.” The following night I went to a Bike Coalition outreach training, which provided useful tips for trying to build our ranks, plus specific info we would need for BTWD.
Friday morning of that week, I was ensconced on the throne thinking the profound thoughts for which I am known, such as “Why don’t I ever see Kirk Hammett drive by in his car?”, when there was an ominous cracking sound. Sure enough, my wooden toilet seat had split. My first thought was that I would just replace it myself, so I wouldn’t have to deal with my uncivil building manager or the landlord, but I couldn't get it off, so I had to email my landlord after all.
In the course of getting out my big screwdriver—it was in my tool box, which has my blender and the mother lode of cheese puffs on top of it; it’s also behind both bicycles—I knocked over one of my bikes, scaring Hammett terribly. That’s his least favorite sound, and it caused him to take cover underneath the blankets on the bed, where he was still often to be found by the middle of the following week.
I was going to ask the landlord to let me know when “the person” would be coming to replace the toilet seat so I could clean the bathroom prior to that. “When is the person coming to replace the toilet seat?” is but one of the excellent things you get to say when you’re a renter. (When you stop being a renter, there is no longer “the person” but only your own self to do that, plus everything else, plus pay for it.) Then I decided that if it was that important to me not to have anyone see it had been months since I'd cleaned the bathroom, I should just for goodness’ sake clean it, so I did. While I was doing this (all before leaving for work that morning), I knocked something off the windowsill which broke the sink’s porcelain cold water tap, a lovely item that had probably been in place for decades.
So then I had to email the landlord again to tell her I’d broken her vintage fixture. A few minutes later, Tom came over and got the toilet seat off with no problem; I hadn't noticed there was a nut
underneath. If I only had looked a little harder—the story of my life—I would not have had to mention it to the landlord at all, I would not have cleaned the bathroom unnecessarily, I would not have scared the bejesus out of Hammett and I would not have broken the tap.
My coworker Emily agreed on the phone a bit later that it did sound like there were some lessons to be drawn from this experience.
The landlord said she would send along a handle and that maybe Tom could put it on, since plumbers cost $150 an hour. That seemed reasonable, and Tom even offered to go get the part himself. But after four trips to the hardware store with no luck, it was starting to strike me as a bit much, even though Tom, being himself, would probably have gone back to the hardware store ten more times, so I emailed the landlord to say we weren’t having much luck, and she said she’d see what she could find.
On Friday night a bit over a week ago, I saw The New World. The music stood out as being not very good, but the movie was kind of clever in that it gave me an experience similar to the lead character's. In fact, I’m still kind of waiting for Colin Farrell to come back.
On Saturday, I sewed a shirt, except for the buttons, buttonholes and pocket. It took me about eleven hours, and I think it’s way too big, but it was a good learning experience, so I will go ahead and finish it. I finally figured out that part of the reason my sewing machine has so many problems is the use of bobbins that are the wrong size. Prior to that, I was thinking it was time for a new machine, but now maybe all I need to do is get the zigzag fixed. It won’t zigzag any more. It used to.
My new driver’s license arrived in the mail, much sooner than I’d expected. I was quite pleased with the photo. I think it looks better than the previous one, from ten years ago, in which I look unformed. “Like an egg,” offered my mother. Just so. It wasn’t just my imagination that the new photo is good, either; the first person to see it—a clerk at Rainbow—said, “Nice photo.”
Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I sang my mother “Happy Mother’s Day” to the tune of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”: “Happy muh-huh-huther’s day-ay, happy happy mother’s day! Happy mother’s day, it’s mother’s day, ha-happy muh-huther’s day-ay …” The honoree attempted to interrupt this tribute at some point, thus jeopardizing her chances of a repeat performance next year—perhaps that was the point—but I sang on lustily.
After that I cooked lentil soup, and in the evening I went to Eugene’s.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Seeking Persons Like Myself in Every Particular for Rewarding Social Adventures
I had a very nice week at work back in my old cozy nook.
Thursday night my book club met for the second time, after which I decided not to continue with it, for two reasons. One is that one guy who came to both meetings is an incorrigible interrupter, who several times launched into something completely unrelated to what I was saying, as if it had been dead silent before he started talking. I noticed that by the end of both meetings, I was reluctant to say anything at all for fear I’d be interrupted.
The other reason is that my reading time is very limited, so I’d rather spend it on books I know I want to read. It was slightly frustrating to plow through 600 pages of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle while three library books of my own sat temptingly on the shelf. (I’m now reading David Chadwick’s memoir Thank You and OK!: An American Zen Failure in Japan.)
I could probably have found some way to deal with the interrupter, but since I also don’t want to spend the time reading other people’s picks, that’s that.
It was a good experiment, though. I did make sure to specify that the meetings were going to be in my own neighborhood, which was smart. If I do this again, I’ll also specify women over 40 only, and that we’re only going to read books that happen to be on my list. Which is to say I’m probably not going to do this again.
Friday afternoon I went to the DMV to renew my driver license. I made an appointment online beforehand and it was amazingly fast. I was in and out in less than 30 minutes, while those who hadn’t made appointments sat unmoving in plastic chairs as if they’d been rooted there for decades, which maybe they had.
Then I went to Freewheel to have the collar, or whatever you call it, that holds my seat post at a certain height switched out in favor of one I hope will work better; i.e., that will not allow the seat to gradually lose altitude until I feel like I'm riding a kiddie cycle. That evening, Lisa and David and I had a nice long chat on the phone and got all caught up.
Last weekend, I think on Sunday, the neighbor who grilled outside my kitchen door grilled out back, and did omit the lighter fluid, but still managed to fill my place with smoke for a couple of hours. It smelled like he had burned paper to get the charcoal going. “Oh, well,” I thought, “it does beat the use of lighter fluid, and it probably won’t happen very often.”
This is the neighbor who hadn’t spoken to me for some weeks or months. I had been hoping he’d thaw—his wife had said he gets mad easily, but also gets over things fast—but it appeared such was not to be, so I had accepted it might be a long time, or never.
So I was pleased and surprised when I saw him on the front porch yesterday as I left to go grocery shopping and he said, “Hello, Linda!” as if we had never been out of touch. Unfortunately, after I got home, I realized it was yet another grilling day, less than a week after the last occasion.
Fortunately, I was cooking, and so could stay in the kitchen, away from the smoke, for the couple of hours it took to abate, and I put Hammett in the bathroom and he didn’t freak out. He’s more unflappable now that he’s a teenager. He used to get very upset, meowing in a panicked way, when he was detained in that manner, however briefly.
I decided I would have to speak to the neighbors—thank goodness the husband is speaking to me again, just in time for Round 967 of the Fume Wars, though I hope this time it won’t feel like a war at all. I would certainly like to leave the landlord and building manager out of it, and just discuss with them what we could do to have less smoke.
I know nothing about grilling, so I went online to read about the chimney starter, an alternative to lighter fluid. It looks like it still requires newspaper, but then I happened upon mention of the electric charcoal starter, including one model that gets rave reviews at Amazon and is only $15.
I ordered my neighbors one and am going to present it as a belated wedding gift, along with the glowing reviews from Amazon and see if they’d be willing to give it a whirl. I think it was the burning newspaper that smelled rather than the charcoal itself.
Last night I saw Eastern Promises, which, though I like Viggo Mortensen very much, I did not see in the theater because it looked way too violent. But I have a friend who eschews violent movies who said she really liked it, so I got it from Netflix and then had to close my eyes practically the whole time plus put my fingers in my ears plus say, “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” (I wonder how the sound designer knew just what fingers being cut off sounds like. Yucko.)
In addition, much of the plot eluded me, though, as my friend said when I called her up this morning to say I could not believe that was her idea of a movie with a tolerable level of violence, maybe that’s because my eyes were closed so much of the time. But Viggo certainly is pretty, I will say that, and his kiss with Naomi Watts had more chemistry than just about any other movie kiss I’ve ever seen.
My OXO Good Grips Smooth Edge can opener has somewhat given up the ghost. It’s one of those newfangled can openers that doesn’t produce any sharp edges. After only a year or less, it’s hit or miss as to whether it will actually open the can or not, and it turns out this type of can opener, not just OXO’s, is notorious for this. There is no way to replace the blade; you just have to toss out the whole thing.
OXO offered to send me a new one, but I said haughtily that I’m an environmentalist and don’t want to toss a can opener into the landfill every year. Then I went online to see what the best kind of can opener is, and it’s apparently the old workhorse the Swing-A-Way, which looked mightily like my old-fangled can opener because that is indeed what I have.
I believe I removed that can opener from my parents’ house when I moved to California nearly 26 years ago, and it still works fine. I went ahead and ordered another one, anyway, when I was ordering the electric charcoal starter, in case my old one fails after the Big One, or in case I want to lend a can opener to a neighbor, and because I have sort of a compulsive online shopping thing underway. (It's kind of mortifying. I'm trying to rein it in.)
Today I was going to do the 73-mile loop of the Grizzly Peak century, but I stayed up too late last night watching the DVD and then had trouble falling asleep (not because of the DVD, I don’t think, but because nothing makes it impossible to fall asleep like particularly needing a good night’s sleep), so when the alarm went off at 5:50 a.m., I called Tom and said I was going to stay home.
I told him I’d still pay him for the ride registration and my half of the rental car, so it has been a rather expensive day of sitting in my chair reading with my little cat on my lap. How amazing that the division of cells should have resulted in Hammett. That one gloopy little first cell could have been anything. How lucky that it was the starter cell for a soft and pliant cat.
Oh! Today I also did a caulking project I’ve been putting off. In the tub, there are metal cups that fit around the hot and cold water taps, plus around the push-pull thing you use to turn the shower off or on. The center cup had come loose, and I had obtained some caulk to fix it. Today I finally gave it a whirl, and had much trouble until I thought of calling Tom’s brother, Dan, who by all accounts is a genius in this realm.
Fortunately, he was in his apartment in Sacramento and gave me three key pieces of advice that allowed me to finish the project readily. It looks just as good as the other two, and I hope will turn out to be secure and not fall off the wall next time I pull the thing out to start the shower.
Thursday night my book club met for the second time, after which I decided not to continue with it, for two reasons. One is that one guy who came to both meetings is an incorrigible interrupter, who several times launched into something completely unrelated to what I was saying, as if it had been dead silent before he started talking. I noticed that by the end of both meetings, I was reluctant to say anything at all for fear I’d be interrupted.
The other reason is that my reading time is very limited, so I’d rather spend it on books I know I want to read. It was slightly frustrating to plow through 600 pages of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle while three library books of my own sat temptingly on the shelf. (I’m now reading David Chadwick’s memoir Thank You and OK!: An American Zen Failure in Japan.)
I could probably have found some way to deal with the interrupter, but since I also don’t want to spend the time reading other people’s picks, that’s that.
It was a good experiment, though. I did make sure to specify that the meetings were going to be in my own neighborhood, which was smart. If I do this again, I’ll also specify women over 40 only, and that we’re only going to read books that happen to be on my list. Which is to say I’m probably not going to do this again.
Friday afternoon I went to the DMV to renew my driver license. I made an appointment online beforehand and it was amazingly fast. I was in and out in less than 30 minutes, while those who hadn’t made appointments sat unmoving in plastic chairs as if they’d been rooted there for decades, which maybe they had.
Then I went to Freewheel to have the collar, or whatever you call it, that holds my seat post at a certain height switched out in favor of one I hope will work better; i.e., that will not allow the seat to gradually lose altitude until I feel like I'm riding a kiddie cycle. That evening, Lisa and David and I had a nice long chat on the phone and got all caught up.
Last weekend, I think on Sunday, the neighbor who grilled outside my kitchen door grilled out back, and did omit the lighter fluid, but still managed to fill my place with smoke for a couple of hours. It smelled like he had burned paper to get the charcoal going. “Oh, well,” I thought, “it does beat the use of lighter fluid, and it probably won’t happen very often.”
This is the neighbor who hadn’t spoken to me for some weeks or months. I had been hoping he’d thaw—his wife had said he gets mad easily, but also gets over things fast—but it appeared such was not to be, so I had accepted it might be a long time, or never.
So I was pleased and surprised when I saw him on the front porch yesterday as I left to go grocery shopping and he said, “Hello, Linda!” as if we had never been out of touch. Unfortunately, after I got home, I realized it was yet another grilling day, less than a week after the last occasion.
Fortunately, I was cooking, and so could stay in the kitchen, away from the smoke, for the couple of hours it took to abate, and I put Hammett in the bathroom and he didn’t freak out. He’s more unflappable now that he’s a teenager. He used to get very upset, meowing in a panicked way, when he was detained in that manner, however briefly.
I decided I would have to speak to the neighbors—thank goodness the husband is speaking to me again, just in time for Round 967 of the Fume Wars, though I hope this time it won’t feel like a war at all. I would certainly like to leave the landlord and building manager out of it, and just discuss with them what we could do to have less smoke.
I know nothing about grilling, so I went online to read about the chimney starter, an alternative to lighter fluid. It looks like it still requires newspaper, but then I happened upon mention of the electric charcoal starter, including one model that gets rave reviews at Amazon and is only $15.
I ordered my neighbors one and am going to present it as a belated wedding gift, along with the glowing reviews from Amazon and see if they’d be willing to give it a whirl. I think it was the burning newspaper that smelled rather than the charcoal itself.
Last night I saw Eastern Promises, which, though I like Viggo Mortensen very much, I did not see in the theater because it looked way too violent. But I have a friend who eschews violent movies who said she really liked it, so I got it from Netflix and then had to close my eyes practically the whole time plus put my fingers in my ears plus say, “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” (I wonder how the sound designer knew just what fingers being cut off sounds like. Yucko.)
In addition, much of the plot eluded me, though, as my friend said when I called her up this morning to say I could not believe that was her idea of a movie with a tolerable level of violence, maybe that’s because my eyes were closed so much of the time. But Viggo certainly is pretty, I will say that, and his kiss with Naomi Watts had more chemistry than just about any other movie kiss I’ve ever seen.
My OXO Good Grips Smooth Edge can opener has somewhat given up the ghost. It’s one of those newfangled can openers that doesn’t produce any sharp edges. After only a year or less, it’s hit or miss as to whether it will actually open the can or not, and it turns out this type of can opener, not just OXO’s, is notorious for this. There is no way to replace the blade; you just have to toss out the whole thing.
OXO offered to send me a new one, but I said haughtily that I’m an environmentalist and don’t want to toss a can opener into the landfill every year. Then I went online to see what the best kind of can opener is, and it’s apparently the old workhorse the Swing-A-Way, which looked mightily like my old-fangled can opener because that is indeed what I have.
I believe I removed that can opener from my parents’ house when I moved to California nearly 26 years ago, and it still works fine. I went ahead and ordered another one, anyway, when I was ordering the electric charcoal starter, in case my old one fails after the Big One, or in case I want to lend a can opener to a neighbor, and because I have sort of a compulsive online shopping thing underway. (It's kind of mortifying. I'm trying to rein it in.)
Today I was going to do the 73-mile loop of the Grizzly Peak century, but I stayed up too late last night watching the DVD and then had trouble falling asleep (not because of the DVD, I don’t think, but because nothing makes it impossible to fall asleep like particularly needing a good night’s sleep), so when the alarm went off at 5:50 a.m., I called Tom and said I was going to stay home.
I told him I’d still pay him for the ride registration and my half of the rental car, so it has been a rather expensive day of sitting in my chair reading with my little cat on my lap. How amazing that the division of cells should have resulted in Hammett. That one gloopy little first cell could have been anything. How lucky that it was the starter cell for a soft and pliant cat.
Oh! Today I also did a caulking project I’ve been putting off. In the tub, there are metal cups that fit around the hot and cold water taps, plus around the push-pull thing you use to turn the shower off or on. The center cup had come loose, and I had obtained some caulk to fix it. Today I finally gave it a whirl, and had much trouble until I thought of calling Tom’s brother, Dan, who by all accounts is a genius in this realm.
Fortunately, he was in his apartment in Sacramento and gave me three key pieces of advice that allowed me to finish the project readily. It looks just as good as the other two, and I hope will turn out to be secure and not fall off the wall next time I pull the thing out to start the shower.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Worst Kind of Suffering: Mine
This past Saturday, I sewed a pair of pants and hemmed pieces of cloth to cover two doors that have windows in them. My pants are normally very baggy and where’s-the-flood short; recently I made a new pattern, with the goal that the pants would be longer and narrower, but a bit fuller at the bottom, so I can more easily roll them up to my knees for cycling.
This first pair of pants using the new pattern certainly is longer, but making the bottom opening larger made the legs much baggier than before; I didn’t realize those two goals were contradictory. The legs of my new (green) pants look like two giant stovepipes reaching down to the floor.
I tried them on for Tom and he said, “We could probably both fit in there.”
“Can I leave the house in them?”
“Sure,” he said without hesitation, which meant, “If you can leave the house in your regular pants, you can certainly leave the house in those. Why ever not?”
Saturday evening, we saw Crank, which wasn’t very good, despite starring Jason Statham. It was full of cartoonish, overblown violence.
I had reported chest pains here not long ago. Tom said it was probably indigestion, and as soon as he said that, it went away. He was probably right.
Tom is like the oracle, the person I consult when I have exhausted all other avenues and want a simple, brief and correct answer from someone who is incapable of entertaining a suspicious or combative thought; i.e., someone who is the exact opposite of myself.
“Why is this guy making these horrible eating noises?”
“He probably has no idea he’s doing it.”
“How can he think that when I told him I can hear it?” Which you bet I did.
“He’s probably been doing it for decades and thinks people in other cubes can’t hear him.”
“What will I do?”
“Move to another cube.”
“I might not be able to.”
“Maybe get an iPod.”
He turned out to be right, of course.
When I got to work this morning, I found out I’d received permission to move back to my old cube. Here I must make a shameful confession: I was so angry at my loud eating coworker last week that by Friday I wasn’t speaking to him, though I’m not sure he even knew, since he didn’t have occasion to address me directly that day.
I tried to convince myself that it felt fine and that I could certainly maintain this resentment for the rest of my life. I’m sorry to say it was my actual intention never to speak to him again, even if I did end up being able to move to another cube.
Sunday night, Eugene was talking about how to deal with this kind of thing: to note objectively what is happening and observe our own reactions, instead of seeing the other person as the cause of misery, but he also mentioned remembering that other people are suffering, too, and that everyone is always doing the best he can.
I decided that if I got permission to move, that would be great, but if I didn’t, I was going to redouble my effort to be present with my own irritation, and to remember that my coworker is doing his best, and that he is suffering, too, though not necessarily from the exact same thing that’s making me suffer—his eating noises probably don’t bother him a bit—and of course, my suffering is considerably worse because it’s mine.
So when my coworker came in this morning, I made a point of calling out a hearty “good morning,” and he responded in like manner.
When I saw the email saying it was OK to move, I lickety-split piled a load of stuff onto my chair and rolled off with it. The coworker asked in amazement, “Where are you going?”
I told him that the singing, whistling, loud earphones and eating sounds were too much for me; that I like him, but that it’s hard to sit near him. He said, “Oh, maybe when I was eating an apple?”
It was considerably more than that, but I didn’t elaborate. He mentioned that he is having some problem with his teeth, and also said that he had been going over to the lunchroom to have some of his snacks, bless his little heart, and then I saw how incredibly wrong I was to think he’d been doing anything on purpose to get my goat.
But, at the same time, I’m really glad I told him what I didn’t like, because if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have found out that I was laboring under a giant misapprehension. It also felt great to be friends again—nurturing a resentment for another couple of days would have been miserable, let alone forever.
The lifelong resentment: such a beautiful idea, but so hard to execute.
At the end of a lovely day back in my good old ex-cube, I stopped by to say goodnight to the coworker and he said something about the eating, and I said I was positive he hadn’t meant any harm, and he said that, actually, it wasn’t him doing those bad things at all, and we agreed it had been his evil twin.
This first pair of pants using the new pattern certainly is longer, but making the bottom opening larger made the legs much baggier than before; I didn’t realize those two goals were contradictory. The legs of my new (green) pants look like two giant stovepipes reaching down to the floor.
I tried them on for Tom and he said, “We could probably both fit in there.”
“Can I leave the house in them?”
“Sure,” he said without hesitation, which meant, “If you can leave the house in your regular pants, you can certainly leave the house in those. Why ever not?”
Saturday evening, we saw Crank, which wasn’t very good, despite starring Jason Statham. It was full of cartoonish, overblown violence.
I had reported chest pains here not long ago. Tom said it was probably indigestion, and as soon as he said that, it went away. He was probably right.
Tom is like the oracle, the person I consult when I have exhausted all other avenues and want a simple, brief and correct answer from someone who is incapable of entertaining a suspicious or combative thought; i.e., someone who is the exact opposite of myself.
“Why is this guy making these horrible eating noises?”
“He probably has no idea he’s doing it.”
“How can he think that when I told him I can hear it?” Which you bet I did.
“He’s probably been doing it for decades and thinks people in other cubes can’t hear him.”
“What will I do?”
“Move to another cube.”
“I might not be able to.”
“Maybe get an iPod.”
He turned out to be right, of course.
When I got to work this morning, I found out I’d received permission to move back to my old cube. Here I must make a shameful confession: I was so angry at my loud eating coworker last week that by Friday I wasn’t speaking to him, though I’m not sure he even knew, since he didn’t have occasion to address me directly that day.
I tried to convince myself that it felt fine and that I could certainly maintain this resentment for the rest of my life. I’m sorry to say it was my actual intention never to speak to him again, even if I did end up being able to move to another cube.
Sunday night, Eugene was talking about how to deal with this kind of thing: to note objectively what is happening and observe our own reactions, instead of seeing the other person as the cause of misery, but he also mentioned remembering that other people are suffering, too, and that everyone is always doing the best he can.
I decided that if I got permission to move, that would be great, but if I didn’t, I was going to redouble my effort to be present with my own irritation, and to remember that my coworker is doing his best, and that he is suffering, too, though not necessarily from the exact same thing that’s making me suffer—his eating noises probably don’t bother him a bit—and of course, my suffering is considerably worse because it’s mine.
So when my coworker came in this morning, I made a point of calling out a hearty “good morning,” and he responded in like manner.
When I saw the email saying it was OK to move, I lickety-split piled a load of stuff onto my chair and rolled off with it. The coworker asked in amazement, “Where are you going?”
I told him that the singing, whistling, loud earphones and eating sounds were too much for me; that I like him, but that it’s hard to sit near him. He said, “Oh, maybe when I was eating an apple?”
It was considerably more than that, but I didn’t elaborate. He mentioned that he is having some problem with his teeth, and also said that he had been going over to the lunchroom to have some of his snacks, bless his little heart, and then I saw how incredibly wrong I was to think he’d been doing anything on purpose to get my goat.
But, at the same time, I’m really glad I told him what I didn’t like, because if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have found out that I was laboring under a giant misapprehension. It also felt great to be friends again—nurturing a resentment for another couple of days would have been miserable, let alone forever.
The lifelong resentment: such a beautiful idea, but so hard to execute.
At the end of a lovely day back in my good old ex-cube, I stopped by to say goodnight to the coworker and he said something about the eating, and I said I was positive he hadn’t meant any harm, and he said that, actually, it wasn’t him doing those bad things at all, and we agreed it had been his evil twin.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
See What a Simple Word of Encouragement Can Do
I woke up this morning thinking about my cube at work and then saw Stacie’s excellent comment on the same, so herewith, a few more thoughts on this subject. Ahem.
So, once upon a time, I sat in a really, really fantastic cube we’ll call Cube A. Then my boss at the time (a boss or two ago) decided he would like all of his people to sit closer to each other; this was back when there were people. Now there’s just me.
Thus I moved to Cube B, also a very nice cube, and the one I recently vacated. I’m not sure if that was an official move or what. At my company, a given group has to pay for the cubicles it’s using.
A couple of months ago, we heard from the Cube Organizer Lady, who I’ve never met, who was trying to sort out who owned what and who was sitting where. She told my boss that we didn’t own Cube B, but that my boss was actually still paying for Cube A.
“Fine,” said my boss. “We’ll take Cube A back, then.”
“No, no,” said the COL, “I’m going to transfer that officially to the group of the person who’s been sitting in it.”
“OK, then,” said my boss, “Please transfer the ownership of Cube B to me, since my person has been sitting in it for a year or two.”
“Oh, no can do. That’s our cube, because we are paying for it.”
Do you see the absolute wrongness of this? “If our person is sitting in the cube, it’s ours, regardless of who’s paying for it. On the other hand, if we’re paying for a cube, it’s also ours, regardless of who’s sitting in it.”
Unfortunately—and this should make it clear that all of my recent problems have been caused entirely by Emily—Emily was just then vacating Cube C, seemingly a desirable location, large and with a window. Ah! Simple solution! I would take Cube C.
Because of that, my boss allowed the COL to transfer the ownership of Cube A (really the best of the bunch) to the other group without a fight, and I physically vacated Cube B, thus substantially weakening my case for re-occupying it, though it’s only been a few weeks.
If it were up to me, I would go right back to the COL and say they can’t have it both ways. In fact, my boss did agree with this and even asked her boss to be ready to ride into battle, but just then, Emily departed, drat her.
Due to the amount of gossip that rightly and properly churns through my little group constantly, via phone and email since we’re all over the country, I know that my boss has lots of other vexing stuff to deal with, not to mention having to do her own job and live her own life, so I feel bad making an issue of this, which is why I particularly appreciated Stacie’s comment. I am right! Or, at least, my feelings are not unreasonable.
In case you’re wondering, Emily said the eating sounds didn’t bother her. If I could be like her in one way, that would be it. If I could be like her in two ways, I would be the type of person who sits quietly in my cube for six months and tries one thing after the other until I find a solution, as opposed to the type of person who works on something for ten seconds and then asks someone else, “Hey, ever seen something like this?”
I do have a theory about that: I think questions are my little way of ensuring I’m still connected to the human race and haven’t been completely abandoned. (Actually, I’m not sure I arrived at this theory on my own. I think my mother may have said something about this in past years, something like, “Questions are the way you relate” and “Jesus Christ, stop asking so many questions,” or words to that effect.)
Last night I dreamed of being in a completely empty house, because my housemates had all moved out, including my close friend Elea, without saying goodbye. I wandered the house calling, “Elea? Elea?” That’s pronounced “Ellie” but think “Elea.”
I was kind of excited about this dream, because I was thinking just last night, for the millionth time, about the purpose excess flesh serves in my life—flesh that is the result of food eaten that my body wasn’t hungry for. Jane and Carol recommend doing something they call the “thin fantasy,” in which you picture yourself smaller, see if there is any downside, and consider if you had that same problem in your childhood, and how you could help yourself with it now.
The goal here is not to be thin, but to sort out what is the most effective response to what and provide for oneself accordingly.
“You’re starving? Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” is a mismatch.
So is, “You’re upset? Have a cookie! Have the whole box!”
When I tried the thin fantasy last night, I got that the extra flesh is a way of signaling that I need help, that I need the attention of others: that I don’t want to be alone, or am scared of being abandoned. So that dream seemed like a sign that I’m on the right track in identifying the underlying anxieties.
J & C, as we Overcoming Overeating practitioners call them, recommend developing a relationship with an “inner caretaker,” who helps us think through things and provides consistent encouragement and affection. I’ve had pretty good luck with this, but often go months without consulting my inner caretaker, maybe because I gave her a really over-the-top gooey affectionate voice that no in my life has ever sounded like or will ever sound like.
I think I have a better one now, as of this week, one who sounds pretty much like myself.
So, once upon a time, I sat in a really, really fantastic cube we’ll call Cube A. Then my boss at the time (a boss or two ago) decided he would like all of his people to sit closer to each other; this was back when there were people. Now there’s just me.
Thus I moved to Cube B, also a very nice cube, and the one I recently vacated. I’m not sure if that was an official move or what. At my company, a given group has to pay for the cubicles it’s using.
A couple of months ago, we heard from the Cube Organizer Lady, who I’ve never met, who was trying to sort out who owned what and who was sitting where. She told my boss that we didn’t own Cube B, but that my boss was actually still paying for Cube A.
“Fine,” said my boss. “We’ll take Cube A back, then.”
“No, no,” said the COL, “I’m going to transfer that officially to the group of the person who’s been sitting in it.”
“OK, then,” said my boss, “Please transfer the ownership of Cube B to me, since my person has been sitting in it for a year or two.”
“Oh, no can do. That’s our cube, because we are paying for it.”
Do you see the absolute wrongness of this? “If our person is sitting in the cube, it’s ours, regardless of who’s paying for it. On the other hand, if we’re paying for a cube, it’s also ours, regardless of who’s sitting in it.”
Unfortunately—and this should make it clear that all of my recent problems have been caused entirely by Emily—Emily was just then vacating Cube C, seemingly a desirable location, large and with a window. Ah! Simple solution! I would take Cube C.
Because of that, my boss allowed the COL to transfer the ownership of Cube A (really the best of the bunch) to the other group without a fight, and I physically vacated Cube B, thus substantially weakening my case for re-occupying it, though it’s only been a few weeks.
If it were up to me, I would go right back to the COL and say they can’t have it both ways. In fact, my boss did agree with this and even asked her boss to be ready to ride into battle, but just then, Emily departed, drat her.
Due to the amount of gossip that rightly and properly churns through my little group constantly, via phone and email since we’re all over the country, I know that my boss has lots of other vexing stuff to deal with, not to mention having to do her own job and live her own life, so I feel bad making an issue of this, which is why I particularly appreciated Stacie’s comment. I am right! Or, at least, my feelings are not unreasonable.
In case you’re wondering, Emily said the eating sounds didn’t bother her. If I could be like her in one way, that would be it. If I could be like her in two ways, I would be the type of person who sits quietly in my cube for six months and tries one thing after the other until I find a solution, as opposed to the type of person who works on something for ten seconds and then asks someone else, “Hey, ever seen something like this?”
I do have a theory about that: I think questions are my little way of ensuring I’m still connected to the human race and haven’t been completely abandoned. (Actually, I’m not sure I arrived at this theory on my own. I think my mother may have said something about this in past years, something like, “Questions are the way you relate” and “Jesus Christ, stop asking so many questions,” or words to that effect.)
Last night I dreamed of being in a completely empty house, because my housemates had all moved out, including my close friend Elea, without saying goodbye. I wandered the house calling, “Elea? Elea?” That’s pronounced “Ellie” but think “Elea.”
I was kind of excited about this dream, because I was thinking just last night, for the millionth time, about the purpose excess flesh serves in my life—flesh that is the result of food eaten that my body wasn’t hungry for. Jane and Carol recommend doing something they call the “thin fantasy,” in which you picture yourself smaller, see if there is any downside, and consider if you had that same problem in your childhood, and how you could help yourself with it now.
The goal here is not to be thin, but to sort out what is the most effective response to what and provide for oneself accordingly.
“You’re starving? Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” is a mismatch.
So is, “You’re upset? Have a cookie! Have the whole box!”
When I tried the thin fantasy last night, I got that the extra flesh is a way of signaling that I need help, that I need the attention of others: that I don’t want to be alone, or am scared of being abandoned. So that dream seemed like a sign that I’m on the right track in identifying the underlying anxieties.
J & C, as we Overcoming Overeating practitioners call them, recommend developing a relationship with an “inner caretaker,” who helps us think through things and provides consistent encouragement and affection. I’ve had pretty good luck with this, but often go months without consulting my inner caretaker, maybe because I gave her a really over-the-top gooey affectionate voice that no in my life has ever sounded like or will ever sound like.
I think I have a better one now, as of this week, one who sounds pretty much like myself.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Why It’s Very Front-Page to Gossip Constantly
(Title courtesy of my wonderful thesaurus, which claims "front-page" is a synonym for "important," which I used a few titles ago.)
As mentioned, I’m hating Emily’s ex-cube for various reasons: it lacks privacy, it’s dark and chilly until 3:30 in the afternoon due to its western exposure, and, most of all, it is near the cube of someone who makes noise nonstop, including the particular noise that makes every nerve in my body twitch unpleasantly, which is eating noise, and we’ll leave it at that.
Now, how can you possibly—oh, I guess we won’t leave it at that—tell someone their slurping and tooth-sucking is driving you crazy? Emily Post would say there is in fact no way to do this, but I did actually try it, to no avail, and now it’s even worse because there’s the irritation of the sound itself, plus every single occurrence strikes me as an act of blatant disrespect—of naked defiance.
So, just weeks after sending my boss a million emails about cubicles, I’ve sent her several more begging to return to my previous cube. To recap, the previous cube was not being paid for by my group and the Cube Organizer Lady had said I would have to move out of it when the people who are paying for it want it back, but also said it would be fine if I wanted to sit there until then.
When Emily left, my taking her cube seemed like a tidy solution. Since it has turned out not to be so, it seemed to me I could just slide back into that old cube until we hear from the Cube Organizer Lady again, but my boss has asked for official permission, so we’ll see. (I came very close to just going back there without saying anything to my boss—I have buddies in the phone-number-switching department—but it would have been discovered sooner or later and caused an element of mistrust to slip into the boss-employee relationship.)
I visit my old cube every day to keep my spirits up and interrupt my old neighbor’s work so it will seem like the norm when I start doing it again every day, as is my fondest wish. Now, when Emily vacated her cube, my old neighbor’s team lead said he thought Emily’s cube would be a nice place for my old neighbor, as it is near the rest of her group.
So yesterday I said to my old neighbor something about how maybe she would like to sit in Emily’s cube, and she got almost angry: “Why would you think I would want that cube?”
“Why would you not?”
“For the same reasons you don’t like it!”
Now, she put in her time sitting near the guy who makes all the noise, but when I was getting ready to move over near him, not once did she say, “Oh, boy, you’re not going to enjoy sitting there.” And when I’ve visited in the past couple of weeks and said, “So-and-so is driving me crazy,” not once has she replied, “Yep, I know what you mean and I’m delighted to be away from him.”
Therefore I had no idea these sentiments extended beyond myself. I may gossip too much, but that right there is an example of way too little gossip.
I must now put in a plug for the Digital Zen Alarm Clock. My former alarm clock probably cost $10 twenty years ago and has served faithfully the whole time. Once, in a tantrum in my more volatile twenties, I tried to break it and couldn’t. Over the years, though, it has become more and more jarring to be awakened by its loud buzzing, so I started doing some research on other kinds of alarm clocks.
They have progressive auditory alarm clocks these days, whose alarms start out soft and get louder, but what I ended up with was the Digital Zen Alarm Clock, which costs about $100, which is kind of embarrassing, considering that more and more people are going hungry every day in other parts of the world; even here some rice purchases are currently limited. (Are we in the beginning of the end times?)
When the clock arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the cover was crooked. Inside, I saw a scuffed chime, long and skinny, atop a cheesy expanse of black plastic styled to look like wood. It looks like “wood.” The way it works is that a striker pops up through a little hole and hits the chime, so it’s an actual acoustic sound heard just once at the time you set it for, and then there is silence for three minutes and forty-eight seconds, during which you can finish your dream or say your affirmations or whatever.
The chime sounds again and then there is silence for two minutes and twenty-one seconds. The period between chimes gets shorter and shorter until it is sounding about every five seconds. It won’t do that forever, but I’m always entirely awake and feeling not at all groggy by the time it gets to the five-second interval, whereas I could and often did hit the snooze button on my old alarm clock every nine minutes until five in the afternoon!
Maybe it’s the placebo effect, but this thing is working exactly as advertised. The other day, I was actually able to finish my dream—about being fatally attracted to a completely unsuitable man, just as in real life—between the first and second chimes.
I was debating whether or not to return the clock for one whose craftsperson was experiencing more mindfulness. It seemed kind of wasteful, but in the end, I did exchange it, and was glad I did.
As mentioned, I’m hating Emily’s ex-cube for various reasons: it lacks privacy, it’s dark and chilly until 3:30 in the afternoon due to its western exposure, and, most of all, it is near the cube of someone who makes noise nonstop, including the particular noise that makes every nerve in my body twitch unpleasantly, which is eating noise, and we’ll leave it at that.
Now, how can you possibly—oh, I guess we won’t leave it at that—tell someone their slurping and tooth-sucking is driving you crazy? Emily Post would say there is in fact no way to do this, but I did actually try it, to no avail, and now it’s even worse because there’s the irritation of the sound itself, plus every single occurrence strikes me as an act of blatant disrespect—of naked defiance.
So, just weeks after sending my boss a million emails about cubicles, I’ve sent her several more begging to return to my previous cube. To recap, the previous cube was not being paid for by my group and the Cube Organizer Lady had said I would have to move out of it when the people who are paying for it want it back, but also said it would be fine if I wanted to sit there until then.
When Emily left, my taking her cube seemed like a tidy solution. Since it has turned out not to be so, it seemed to me I could just slide back into that old cube until we hear from the Cube Organizer Lady again, but my boss has asked for official permission, so we’ll see. (I came very close to just going back there without saying anything to my boss—I have buddies in the phone-number-switching department—but it would have been discovered sooner or later and caused an element of mistrust to slip into the boss-employee relationship.)
I visit my old cube every day to keep my spirits up and interrupt my old neighbor’s work so it will seem like the norm when I start doing it again every day, as is my fondest wish. Now, when Emily vacated her cube, my old neighbor’s team lead said he thought Emily’s cube would be a nice place for my old neighbor, as it is near the rest of her group.
So yesterday I said to my old neighbor something about how maybe she would like to sit in Emily’s cube, and she got almost angry: “Why would you think I would want that cube?”
“Why would you not?”
“For the same reasons you don’t like it!”
Now, she put in her time sitting near the guy who makes all the noise, but when I was getting ready to move over near him, not once did she say, “Oh, boy, you’re not going to enjoy sitting there.” And when I’ve visited in the past couple of weeks and said, “So-and-so is driving me crazy,” not once has she replied, “Yep, I know what you mean and I’m delighted to be away from him.”
Therefore I had no idea these sentiments extended beyond myself. I may gossip too much, but that right there is an example of way too little gossip.
I must now put in a plug for the Digital Zen Alarm Clock. My former alarm clock probably cost $10 twenty years ago and has served faithfully the whole time. Once, in a tantrum in my more volatile twenties, I tried to break it and couldn’t. Over the years, though, it has become more and more jarring to be awakened by its loud buzzing, so I started doing some research on other kinds of alarm clocks.
They have progressive auditory alarm clocks these days, whose alarms start out soft and get louder, but what I ended up with was the Digital Zen Alarm Clock, which costs about $100, which is kind of embarrassing, considering that more and more people are going hungry every day in other parts of the world; even here some rice purchases are currently limited. (Are we in the beginning of the end times?)
When the clock arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the cover was crooked. Inside, I saw a scuffed chime, long and skinny, atop a cheesy expanse of black plastic styled to look like wood. It looks like “wood.” The way it works is that a striker pops up through a little hole and hits the chime, so it’s an actual acoustic sound heard just once at the time you set it for, and then there is silence for three minutes and forty-eight seconds, during which you can finish your dream or say your affirmations or whatever.
The chime sounds again and then there is silence for two minutes and twenty-one seconds. The period between chimes gets shorter and shorter until it is sounding about every five seconds. It won’t do that forever, but I’m always entirely awake and feeling not at all groggy by the time it gets to the five-second interval, whereas I could and often did hit the snooze button on my old alarm clock every nine minutes until five in the afternoon!
Maybe it’s the placebo effect, but this thing is working exactly as advertised. The other day, I was actually able to finish my dream—about being fatally attracted to a completely unsuitable man, just as in real life—between the first and second chimes.
I was debating whether or not to return the clock for one whose craftsperson was experiencing more mindfulness. It seemed kind of wasteful, but in the end, I did exchange it, and was glad I did.
Burly
Last Sunday I went to Eugene’s sitting group. After we meditated, he shared with us the highlights of a discussion the Spirit Rock teachers had with another teacher whose name I didn’t catch. The other teacher talked about how students can plateau at various points, including when life seems easy and pleasant.
What you’re supposed to do in that case, according to this teacher, is strive to keep noticing impermanence.
While I was cooking earlier that day, Hammett sat down in a little patch of sun right where I normally stand to chop vegetables and looked contemplatively at the top of the stove until he evidently decided that whatever he was thinking of doing was likely to be discouraged or even to meet with censure.
On Monday I stopped by the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition office to pick up stuff for an SFBC table at my company’s Earth Day event. The event, the following day, was much smaller than last year’s, but I was gratified at the number of people who told me that they would like to bicycle to work, but there is nowhere to park, because that is the project I’m working on: secure bike parking.
I took their names for my fledgling network of company cyclists.
Wednesday evening found me back at the SFBC for Volunteer Night. A time or two before, I had seen S. with some small children, so I asked him if those had been his children. He said no. I said, “Oh, you must have just been sitting next to someone else’s kids.” S. said, “No—they were sitting next to me,” which I thought was funny.
I’ve been trying to identify a day on which I could do some sewing projects, which is like trying to pick a day to have dinner with a friend: Not that week, not that week, not that week. I finally decided just to do what I could weekday evenings, even though that means no reading, so on Thursday night I mended a pair of pants, hemmed a piece of cloth for draping over my sewing machine (I’ve been using a relative’s shredded towel for some years; I don’t even know how that item came into my possession), and began hemming a cherry-red piece of cloth I will hang inside a windowed closet door to protect the stuff in the closet from the curious gaze of myself.
Last night I saw the world's worst movie: London, which consists entirely of people snorting cocaine and screaming at each other. Jason Statham is in it, which is why I watched it, but he wasn't nearly as attractive as in the Transporter movies and the movies with "Job" in the title.
By the way, apparently there is a sequel to The Italian Job called The Brazilian Job, never yet released; I'm not sure if it was even made yet. That is something I must see.
Email exchange with Frank in Dublin which I subsequently forwarded to my parents, verbatim:
I wrote: I know you’ll be pleased to hear I have a sty. Unfortunately, it’s not large or painful, but it is red and unsightly, and has lingered for a few days so far.
Just trying to keep up the spirits of those in lands far away!
What’s new with you?
Frank: Ahhh, the old STY in the EYE!! Been there Atkins, been there. They are painful little buggers, they lie dormant for years and then when you least expect it................................BANG...........a giant snot-rag in your face. Memories.
Not much new on this side, did I tell you that I entered the L'Etape Du Tour this year? It is the cycling race where 8000 amateur cyclists from around the world can bike one stage of the Tour Du France. This year it's on stage 10. There is some very serious climbing in it!!! I have Wildflower in just over 2 weeks, can't wait for that. You know, I was thinking the other day, it's been over three and a half years since I left, and I have not returned to San Fran ONCE in that time. That's hugely unusual for me. I thought a bit about it, and eventually came to the conclusion that unless I am actually moving back there, I think it would hurt too much to go back. I really do miss the place. I miss the madmen on market street, the hussle and bussle of time square. My walk home up the streets to Pine. I miss the bay, the golden gate, I miss hearing that little tram as it struggled up Powell or California. And most of all I miss Trader Joes. What a place. Isn't it?
Tell me, what do you miss about dublin?
Linda [who has never been to Dublin]: Yes, you told me something about that race. It sounds incredible.
I’m going to do the 73-mile loop of the Grizzly Peak century in a couple of weeks. I think that is also hilly. I’m going to do it on my plain old commute bike plus fenders, because I haven’t been riding my Bianchi much, and therefore find it uncomfortable when I do.
Ah, good old Dublin. I miss the misty evenings, cool outside but warm and cozy inside with a pint or two and my mates. I miss those old characters sitting in the corner at the neighborhood pub. And, of course, Dublin in springtime! When the sun and flowers finally appear, it’s heaven.
You’ll be happy to hear my sty is stubbornly refusing to abate. It’s been exactly the same for four or five days now. Once in a while, it itches, and then I rub it vigorously, which is probably why it’s not going away. But really, I don’t think I’ve ever had one last more than a couple of days before.
Frank: You have the gift of chat Atkins, I can picture you now sitting in an old mans pub, sipping back a nice capari and soda, giving the finger to customers as they pass on through. 'Burly' they will mutter to themselves as they pass, referring to your inate ability to create as hostile an environment as possible. Little do these things worry Atkins, as she sits next to the fire vicourously scratching her left eye.
(End of exchange)
My father wrote back that he thought this was “highly chuckelacious.” (Note the crafty respelling of “chuckle” to make the extended form comprehensible. “Chuckleacious” wouldn’t have done the trick.)
On the phone, my mother said, “I don’t get it. What does burly mean?”
“Burly. You know what burly means. It means burly.”
“That’s not a definition! You can’t define a word by using the same word. If you look it up in the dictionary, it wouldn’t say ‘The definition of burly is burly.’ I mean, I know what burly means; it means big and strong, but he must have meant it in some other way.”
“No, that’s what he meant.”
“Why is that funny?”
“It’s funny because it’s not something people usually say about people. They might say, ‘Ooh, grumpy’ or ‘Friendly!’ but they don’t usually say ‘Burly.’”
“Was he saying he was burly?”
“No, he was saying people would say I was burly, as I sat there scratching my eye.”
There was a sincere-sounding gale of laughter—finally—and then a dry, “Yeah, a joke is always funnier if it requires several paragraphs of explanation.”
What you’re supposed to do in that case, according to this teacher, is strive to keep noticing impermanence.
While I was cooking earlier that day, Hammett sat down in a little patch of sun right where I normally stand to chop vegetables and looked contemplatively at the top of the stove until he evidently decided that whatever he was thinking of doing was likely to be discouraged or even to meet with censure.
On Monday I stopped by the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition office to pick up stuff for an SFBC table at my company’s Earth Day event. The event, the following day, was much smaller than last year’s, but I was gratified at the number of people who told me that they would like to bicycle to work, but there is nowhere to park, because that is the project I’m working on: secure bike parking.
I took their names for my fledgling network of company cyclists.
Wednesday evening found me back at the SFBC for Volunteer Night. A time or two before, I had seen S. with some small children, so I asked him if those had been his children. He said no. I said, “Oh, you must have just been sitting next to someone else’s kids.” S. said, “No—they were sitting next to me,” which I thought was funny.
I’ve been trying to identify a day on which I could do some sewing projects, which is like trying to pick a day to have dinner with a friend: Not that week, not that week, not that week. I finally decided just to do what I could weekday evenings, even though that means no reading, so on Thursday night I mended a pair of pants, hemmed a piece of cloth for draping over my sewing machine (I’ve been using a relative’s shredded towel for some years; I don’t even know how that item came into my possession), and began hemming a cherry-red piece of cloth I will hang inside a windowed closet door to protect the stuff in the closet from the curious gaze of myself.
Last night I saw the world's worst movie: London, which consists entirely of people snorting cocaine and screaming at each other. Jason Statham is in it, which is why I watched it, but he wasn't nearly as attractive as in the Transporter movies and the movies with "Job" in the title.
By the way, apparently there is a sequel to The Italian Job called The Brazilian Job, never yet released; I'm not sure if it was even made yet. That is something I must see.
Email exchange with Frank in Dublin which I subsequently forwarded to my parents, verbatim:
I wrote: I know you’ll be pleased to hear I have a sty. Unfortunately, it’s not large or painful, but it is red and unsightly, and has lingered for a few days so far.
Just trying to keep up the spirits of those in lands far away!
What’s new with you?
Frank: Ahhh, the old STY in the EYE!! Been there Atkins, been there. They are painful little buggers, they lie dormant for years and then when you least expect it................................BANG...........a giant snot-rag in your face. Memories.
Not much new on this side, did I tell you that I entered the L'Etape Du Tour this year? It is the cycling race where 8000 amateur cyclists from around the world can bike one stage of the Tour Du France. This year it's on stage 10. There is some very serious climbing in it!!! I have Wildflower in just over 2 weeks, can't wait for that. You know, I was thinking the other day, it's been over three and a half years since I left, and I have not returned to San Fran ONCE in that time. That's hugely unusual for me. I thought a bit about it, and eventually came to the conclusion that unless I am actually moving back there, I think it would hurt too much to go back. I really do miss the place. I miss the madmen on market street, the hussle and bussle of time square. My walk home up the streets to Pine. I miss the bay, the golden gate, I miss hearing that little tram as it struggled up Powell or California. And most of all I miss Trader Joes. What a place. Isn't it?
Tell me, what do you miss about dublin?
Linda [who has never been to Dublin]: Yes, you told me something about that race. It sounds incredible.
I’m going to do the 73-mile loop of the Grizzly Peak century in a couple of weeks. I think that is also hilly. I’m going to do it on my plain old commute bike plus fenders, because I haven’t been riding my Bianchi much, and therefore find it uncomfortable when I do.
Ah, good old Dublin. I miss the misty evenings, cool outside but warm and cozy inside with a pint or two and my mates. I miss those old characters sitting in the corner at the neighborhood pub. And, of course, Dublin in springtime! When the sun and flowers finally appear, it’s heaven.
You’ll be happy to hear my sty is stubbornly refusing to abate. It’s been exactly the same for four or five days now. Once in a while, it itches, and then I rub it vigorously, which is probably why it’s not going away. But really, I don’t think I’ve ever had one last more than a couple of days before.
Frank: You have the gift of chat Atkins, I can picture you now sitting in an old mans pub, sipping back a nice capari and soda, giving the finger to customers as they pass on through. 'Burly' they will mutter to themselves as they pass, referring to your inate ability to create as hostile an environment as possible. Little do these things worry Atkins, as she sits next to the fire vicourously scratching her left eye.
(End of exchange)
My father wrote back that he thought this was “highly chuckelacious.” (Note the crafty respelling of “chuckle” to make the extended form comprehensible. “Chuckleacious” wouldn’t have done the trick.)
On the phone, my mother said, “I don’t get it. What does burly mean?”
“Burly. You know what burly means. It means burly.”
“That’s not a definition! You can’t define a word by using the same word. If you look it up in the dictionary, it wouldn’t say ‘The definition of burly is burly.’ I mean, I know what burly means; it means big and strong, but he must have meant it in some other way.”
“No, that’s what he meant.”
“Why is that funny?”
“It’s funny because it’s not something people usually say about people. They might say, ‘Ooh, grumpy’ or ‘Friendly!’ but they don’t usually say ‘Burly.’”
“Was he saying he was burly?”
“No, he was saying people would say I was burly, as I sat there scratching my eye.”
There was a sincere-sounding gale of laughter—finally—and then a dry, “Yeah, a joke is always funnier if it requires several paragraphs of explanation.”
Saturday, April 19, 2008
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.
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.
Pictures from The Sea Ranch
Me and Sophie
Tom and Sophie
I actually meant to be gentlemanly and put Tom, the gentleman, first, but I haven't quite mastered photo uploading. Both photos by Ann.
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