Story time (Part 3)

Levi's has (or had?) an initiative as part of their "Work" campaign called Levi's Workshop: a physical workshop that would be set up in a city for a few months to do cool things, then shut down and moved on. We had one on Valencia for a while last summer. It was full of printing presses and things and it was sad to see it go. They invited Porchlight to collaborate with them to make a little book of stories about work. Alas, I was not included in the wee book, but I was invited to fill in for someone at the last minute for the storytelling performance. The story (about being fired by the Red Cross) as a whole was not recorded, but there is still evidence that it happened. And that I made this face:



There are bits of me onstage here (I mean, all of me was onstage, they just recorded moments):

There's only so much to say

I assume that people who write for clothing retailers and magazines and the like sometimes look at the blank page and think things like, "what else is there really to say about cardigans?"

Moments such as those lead to emails such as today's from Anthropologie. Subject heading: "That's the thing about dresses" Email: "They make our world go round."

?

Photographing the model next to a globe didn't do all that much to clarify the assertion.

Plus, there was cake

My birthday was on Friday and I felt very well celebrated. There was miniature golf and lunch and a handmade birthday crown. Then there was fancy pizza and Harry Potter in the balcony of the theatre where you're allowed to drink wine (I drank wine). But the very best thing of all was this.

I walked in with my two friends to find our seats. We were in a little row that was three seats together (enough for us), a little table, and one lone seat in which a man was already sitting. I put my birthday crown on the little table and saw him glance at it.

"It's my birthday!" I explained. (I'd been telling people all day in case they might be very excited.)
"It's my birthday!" he replied.
We shook hands very enthusiastically and then wished each other happy birthday for the first of several times.

And if that's not jolly, I don't know what is.

Life in a small dwelling

Sole: A Cautionary Tale.

Kitchen. Dinnertime: Yum! That smells delicious.

Bedroom. 8AM the following day: Dear god. What a revolting odor. Has someone sneaked a dead fish under my pillow?


Scene.

Equal opportunity

I went to the Sports Basement today (I know; I'm practically an Olympian) in my continued quest to find some kind of sweat pants that don't look like they were developed as an anatomical guide (seriously. yoga pants = too much information) and to replace my swimcap. There are various kinds of caps, each of which is helpfully on display with a little sign explaining its merits. The sign under the one I purchased said "Gentile on hair."

I'm not even entirely sure what that would entail, but, to be on the safe side, I borrowed a Sharpie from the clerk and now the Jews of San Francisco are free to swim with non-denominational caps.

Making a list, checking it twice

I mentioned that I had made this list of things I'd like to do and that I'd taken preliminary steps to do some of them. I am pleased to report we have moved to secondary steps.

On Tuesday, I went to the gym for my "fitness assessment" which actually was not as horrible nor as shameful as I anticipated. The trainer who conducted the test would strongly disagree, as attested by her look of pure horror when calculating the amount of my body that is comprised of fat. Apparently, a lot of it. I suggested to her that she might want to work on her poker face. She replied, "But these are not the numbers you want to see!" Uh...right. Exactly. Maybe she has never heard of a poker face. Anyway, my level of fitness is "fair" in most areas, which it really has no right to be. And my so-called "fitness age" is only three years more than my actual age, rather than being 15-20 years more than my actual age. Again, a miracle. While the trainer was very scowly about all this, I thought it would be more appropriate to be popping the champagne. Not that she'd approve of that.

Immediately following Fitness 2011, I went to my Italian class. Buon giorno. Come stai? Io sto bene. Grazie.

See? It's totally working already.

Yesterday, I actually went swimming in the serious bathing suit and hear this: I did not die. My spindly arms felt like they might snap off, but still. It was a beginning.

Then I ate vegetables.

I know. At this rate I may become a superhero.

Will she continue on the path of righteousness? Or will she spend the weekend eating chocolate cake in her nightgown? Stay tuned.

Story time (Part 2)

This is my favorite. (I originally mentioned it here). Plus, although orange, I look pretty good. Later evidence will show that this is not always the case.

Porchlight's 8th Anniversary Show, July 2010. The theme was "Magic 8 Ball." Video once again by Evan Karp, whom I do not know, but who I made laugh a couple of times.

Festivals and parades

If festivals and parades aren't your thing, then maybe you could do some dancing in your living room or have a quiet drink. The point is, celebrations are in order. My accursed neighbors with their crashy, screamy children are moving away by mid-August.

There are no words to describe the joy this brings me.

Say a prayer to the gods of tenancy that whoever the new neighbors are prove to be light-footed book-readers who enjoy silent contemplation of life's mysteries.

Thoughts from Tahoe

1. Smoking indoors is legal in some places. You will have forgotten this. It will not be pleasant to remember.

2. When you win on a slot machine, it will be completely unclear to you why even though the "pay line" is helpfully highlighted.

3. Lake Tahoe itself is primarily made of melted snow, which makes it very cold indeed. Nevertheless, it is unaccountably elating to swim in it. After taking the full underwater plunge, you may not laugh uncontrollably for five minutes, but I did.

4. It is possible for a bed to be too soft.

5. Miniature golf is pretty much always a good idea.

Go jump in a lake

The "I am going to" is silent.


Off to Tahoe, but I'll be back.

BART's new service

A slightly garbled announcement is broadcast over the BART speakers.

"A reminder that passengers with bicycles must use the stairs or the elevator. Thank you and enjoy the sunshine."

Meanwhile, two guys hoist their bikes over their heads and make their way up the stairs. "What did he say?" one guy asks the other, "Enjoy the french fries?"

Ow: redux

You know what's more fun than a mammogram? A second mammogram. Oh, yes. After I had written this, I got a call that the screening showed some abnormalities and that I needed to come in for additional imaging and was I free that afternoon? And so I cried. And cried and cried. I was weirdly never concerned that I might have breast cancer; I just didn't want another test--particularly two days after the awful one.

I bring this up merely for the record. Now hear this: Mammogram #2 turned out to be much more like I expected mammograms to be to begin with. That is, kind of weird, a bit painful, not something you'd want to do as a special treat, but not horrible. Perhaps it was the pad they used the second time? Perhaps it was because I was crying and they took it to heart? Perhaps Friday was just a more robust and hearty day for my boobs than Wednesday? I don't know, but I am relieved.

Additionally, I don't have cancer, which is pleasant.

And now, I'm going to the circus.


P.S. During the ultrasound part of the screening there were three doctors and a nurse in a very small, dim room with me. Each of them, with the exception of the nurse, took a turn um...sonograming. When the attending physician had taken the wheel, as it were, another doctor said to her, "Do you mind if I just show this fellow how the machine works while you conduct your exam?" Since he was the only man in the room I thought he was going to go out in the hall and come back with some random chap who was interested in sonogram machines. Only slowly did it dawn on me that the other young woman--still a med student-- was "the fellow."

Story time (Part 1)

I have been weirdly paranoid about putting images of myself on my own blog, but then, I am a person who was for a long time very distrustful about depositing checks directly into the ATM. This Safety First stance might have had some merit back in the days when there really were no images of me online, but those days are long since past. There are all sorts of unflattering photos of me onstage, as well as some nice wobbly videos available for the determined Googler, so why be coy?

Out there in public over the past few years, I have told stories at Porchlight, and the Mill Valley Public Library's First Friday series, as well as done a reading for the Literary Death Match. For my own benefit as much as yours, I decided it was time to gather the evidence.

The first story I told for Porchlight was in December 2008. The theme was "All that Glitters is Not Gold." There is no evidence that this ever happened (with this small exception), which, considering that it was a story about an ex of mine, is just as well.

The second story I told was in March 2010. The theme was "Danger!" or "Beware!" or something like that.

It went like this:



video taken by Mystery Videographer, Evan Karp.

First the mouse, then the girl, now the camp

People, I just joined a gym. Sorry. I should have broken it to you more gently. Are you okay?

For a brief moment many years ago, I had a quasi-regular thing going with swimming and then I discovered that I had way more in common with Netflix. So, as is the way in these matters, I broke up with kinda-fitness and devoted myself exclusively to movies. It was going really well until I recently almost had a heart attack walking up the stairs from the box office to the balcony of the symphony hall. Bad sign. I don't need to be an Olympian, but I do need to be able to get to the cheap seats without having an episode.

And so. My "I'm a real swimmer" no-frills bathing suit (in which my Netflix belly will be unattractively prominent) will once again be reunited with water. I haven't told it yet, but I think it's going to be pretty excited. I have no idea how this will go, but having access to a pool is a first step. Please cross your fingers for me. I have trouble with this sector of life.

This is one aspect of a larger project that could be entitled: Stop Thinking Endlessly about Things and Actually Do Them except that that is not a very catchy title. I am going to Camp Mighty in November and I am terribly excited about it. I am not much of a goal-setter or a big-dreamer or even a list-maker, but Mighty Girl said I had to make a list in order to go have cocktails with delightful people and so I did. I will probably put it up here eventually (although, frankly, some of it is none of your bee's wax). The remarkable thing is just writing things down and knowing that I'll be talking about them in a few months has made a difference. I'm trying to be better about the blog; I'm going to renew efforts to not let my body totally atrophy; I got a cookbook with some inspiring vegetarian recipes; I am even taking an Italian class starting on July 12. Good lord, I'm already crossing things off the list and the list has only existed for about two weeks. She might be on to something.

Presumably the self-actualization will not continue at this frenetic pace indefinitely, but for now, I admit it. I do feel mightier.

Tell me no secrets

If the enemy captures me and gives me a mammogram, I am going to tell them everything I know. Immediately. Even if it means they will kill your entire family. When I was living cheerfully in ignorance an hour ago, I would have thought your secrets were safe with me, but I am now living on the other side of the dark curtain of mammography and I know different.

If anyone tells you that a mammogram will cause "some discomfort," punch them in the face. If someone says, "It will hurt more than you can fucking believe and you will wonder how this ludicrously ham-fisted procedure is the best we can do in a time when the iPad exists" thank them for being the only honest person you have ever met.


I wish, like a private eye of yesteryear, I had a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer. Alas, I will have to wait until I get home to try to drown the memory.

Crank it up

From an NPR review of Gillian Welch's new album:

"Some of the territory is familiar: fear of the unknown, desperation, exhaustion."


Yee ha! Don't just stand there; ask me to dance.


*******

And then there's this from Netflix.

"More like Strictly Ballroom: Little Voice; Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Cosi; The Piano..."

Excuse me? Did you just say The Piano? The PIANO?
That's certainly a double feature just waiting to happen.

Love letters

I send Marja an email telling her I'd just received the most depressing email of my life. Subject heading: We miss you!
Sender: Linens N Things.

An hour later I get an email from Marja.
Subject heading: You're my soulmate
Email message in its entirety: Bev Mo


Proving once again, boys and girls, that life without Marja would be merely a hollow, meaningless trudge toward the grave.

Open letter

Dear gentlemen of the Mission,

Please shave.
There are some indications that you may be quite handsome, but how could anyone be sure?

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
A concerned citizen

By special request

I am deriving some small pleasure from turning up Tom Waits to (attempt to) drown out the much-loathed upstairs-dwelling kinder. Not as much pleasure as I would derive from learning of their imminent plans to attend boarding school in Switzerland, but since it is a bit of a straw-grasping scenario, I'll take whatever pleasure I can get.

Now then. It has happened once again. The conversation that goes like this:

Other person: you should have a blog.
Me (sheepishly): Um...I do have a blog. I just don't tell people about it much. And I'm really bad about updating it.
OP: ??? [general bafflement at what sort of purpose a secret blog with no actual writing on it would serve]

Anyway, I provided this latest individual with the blog address, thinking that I might get more praise out of him (after all, there are more than 300 posts that he's never read), but I have just received an email that includes this. I shall quote. Ahem.

My dear, you really need to pull it together in the next four days and get a new post up there so there is not a big goose egg for June.

The nerve.

So here I am. Folding under peer pressure. Though, to be fair, he also suggested yesterday that I should take a bong hit, and I declined, proving that I am still in possession of at least a bit of spine. (There was no bong present for the conversation. It was more a theoretical bong hit of the future. Possibly, though not necessarily, in Yemen. He has a lot of goals for me, apparently.)

It is Pride weekend and though my instinct was to basically avoid all Pride-related things and zones of the city, that's not to say I'm not proud. Also, I would like a drag queen to teach me to apply eye makeup, so that I too may be glamorous. If you happen to be a drag queen with some spare time, do get in touch.

I came home from my sunny expedition having purchased a remaindered Mollie Katzen cookbook--yet another attempt to jump start a legitimate interest in vegetables and/or cooking--and, in related news, a bunch of radishes, which I am tempted to affix to the front of my frock, corsage-style. However, wishing to wear vegetables is not quite the interest in them I was trying to generate, unless wearing vegetables promotes slimness and good health as much as eating vegetables. If so, stay tuned for some sort of fetching cloche fashioned from kale.

June is no longer a "big goose egg." I hope you are all satisfied.

Slipping

Interestingly, the fact that I am still wearing my nightgown at 2pm does not disquiet me in the least, whereas my realization just now that it is on inside out startled me considerably, suggesting as it does that Standards are not What They Once Were around here.