Split personality

I was stuck in traffic yesterday behind a large white Chevrolet pickup truck. On its tailgate it had a large sticker, presumably company provided, that said "Safety is my first goal" with an 800 number that other motorists could use to report that the driver was falling short of that goal or, maybe, to congratulate him on goal achievement. There was another sticker, however. A smaller one, nearer the actual bumper. This one had just two words: Death Ride.

Hmmm.

Branding

This morning on the radio there was a discussion of a nonprofit devoted to curing blindness in third world countries. And, despite this very clear context of BLINDNESS CURING, when they said "eye hospital," I heard "iHospital," which presumably would be Apple's new digital trauma center.

Triangulation

I am about to cross Haight Street. To my left, there is a dude standing in the middle of a vacant parking place pissing mightily onto Ashbury Street; in front of me is a guy blocking traffic and half the crosswalk with his giant SUV; to my right is a white guy with dreadlocks playing a banjo. No wonder the tourists flock to the neighborhood. It's a veritable vacation paradise.

Haiku for the Next Door Neighbors

The crying wakes me.
If I wanted a baby,
I would have my own.

The secret life of trees

Walking to work this morning, I pass a mother on a bike with her small daughter. Riding along on the sidewalk beside them is her larger son, on his own bike with training wheels. As I pass, I hear her say exasperatedly, "Well, that's right, Andrew. It's a good thing you were looking. Trees can jump out at you. That's why you have to keep your eyes open."


Later, I walk down a block where several trees have very recently been planted in the newly repaired sidewalk. In the small square of earth at the base of one sapling,there are three empty fifth bottles: two Hennessy and one Bacardi, and a pair of sparkly gold high heels.

Lessons:

1. Trees can jump out and grab you.
2. Trees, even very young trees, know how to party.

Pot Luck, Grab Bag, Miscellany, etc.

1. I know that I've mentioned this before, but I must mention it again or risk exploding with pent-up anger. The stompy, stompy neighbors. Oh how I weary of them. As I have already told you, there are but two men in my building, but between them they sound like a conquering army. Neither wears shoes in the house (thank goodness), so it is all the more difficult to imagine how they do it. It seems like it would be physically painful to bring one's feet down with such force without shoes. Seriously. It isn't so much that I hear them; I feel them. The man upstairs walks from room to room as though in a great fury and my chair trembles; my dishes rattle. Remember that this is Earthquakeville too, so that kind of thing can cause a great deal of anxiety. My next door neighbor is exactly the same, it's just that he isn't over my head. He shakes everything in my apartment when he is coming and going, since the hall to the building's front door runs alongside my living room. There are also three women in the building. But you'd never know it from listening.

2. My friends hosted an Obama party on Saturday, which was swell of them. They raised a good sum of money and gave us sausages and beer and it was also an almost unbelievably beautiful day. I was on 44th Avenue and I was wearing a sleeveless dress. If you are familiar with San Francisco, your mouth is now agape with astonishment. Sunny skies, lovely people, good cause, tasty snacks. So, all in all, very pleasant. However, once again I found myself in the role of The One Person With Neither Spouse Nor Child. Seriously, it was as though there was a rule that you couldn't come unless you bought a baby or toddler, but everyone was just too polite to tell me. It begins to be clear why none of my friends have managed to introduce me to my future spouse, whoever he may be. To do so, they would have to break up his current marriage. This makes me--well--sad, if you want to know the truth.

Later that evening, feeling lonely and blue, (I know. Believe me, I feel like an idiot admitting it in print, but it has been pretty pervasive lately. Pitiful? Yes. Also true.) I gave myself a stern lecture about actually Leaving the House and going Where There Are People. I cannot bring myself to go to a bar/club alone, so I went to a 10:15 movie. An Italian movie that proved to be quite melancholy, about the strain of financial problems on a marriage. A movie that THREE other people wanted to see that night. Woo hoo! Needless to say, after that I was no longer lonely or sad and when I exited the entirely deserted multiplex at midnight, there were rainbows of cheerfulness radiating from my heart.

3. Wristcutters: A Love Story. In the context of all that "I'm so sad" stuff, you may now be convinced that I am actually suicidal. Not so! It only sounds like that sort of movie. When really, with movies like this, why would anyone want to die? Think of everything you'd miss. I love this movie. I watched it twice. And yes, it certainly does have something to do with the fact that Tom Waits in it, and we know how I feel about Tom Waits, but I liked it even before his character showed up. So there.

Correspondence

In my email Junk folder there is one lone message.
It is from Norberto Joliet.
The subject heading is: When his wife is angry with you at night.


Is this spam specifically targeted at adulteresses? That is a niche market for sure. Thank you, Norberto. I don't even need to open your message for it to easily qualify as the most entertaining email I will receive today.

In Memorium

It is 4pm on a school day, which means almost everyone has left the building. On my way to the front desk, I briefly pass a deserted hallway that is lined on one side with lockers. On the floor in front of one locker is a cheap, grocery store bouquet comprised of red and white carnations.

Now, in all likelihood this is merely a tribute to one teen from another that has been accidently abandoned in the flurry of after-school activity. However, the placement of the bouquet and the poor quality of the flowers makes it look exactly like the beginning of one of those impromptu shrines that one sees on the roadside where someone has been killed in a car accident. Or...as though one of our students has perished in some unspeakable locker-related tragedy.

Spell Check

I am checking a work email, mostly because I have trouble spelling "acknowledgment" [in fact, I just spelled it wrong three times right this minute]. However, what spell check is upset by is "but many of you have--thanks." Have--thanks is just too much for it to accept. It offers these alternatives:

harvestman
haven't
handstands
hardstands
havens


Raise your hand if you knew that "harvestman" was a word. Okay, so there are three of you. Fine. How about "hardstands?" Right. That's what I thought. Nobody. Thanks, Microsoft.

We're the class of '88

In the last few days I have been on an internet date and gone to my twenty-year high school reunion. Prior to these events, I thought the former would be a fantastic success and the latter would be a depressing blow to my self esteem. Surprise! I got that backwards. The man I thought was perfect for me...um...didn't like me. So, back to the drawing board on that. Again. However, the reunion? The reunion was great.

First of all, let me just say that Tam High Class of 88 is looking good. Seriously. I kind of can't get over it. Yes, we look like adults. We are adults. But in no way do we look like scary, haggard, obese versions of our 18-year-old selves. There was no need for anxious nametag scanning. We are instantly recognizable. And frankly, pretty hot. Many of the people I graduated with were also my elementary school classmates and I found it truly moving to be there looking at the beautiful grownup versions of girls who were in my Girl Scout troop.

I feared that it would be Parade of Spouses and a veritable photo exhibit of offspring. I feared it would be all long-winded recounting of glamorous careers and recent large-scale propertry purchases. And that I would be all, "blah, blah single. Blah, blah secretary. Blah, blah rent control." Largely because that is my nearly constant inner monologue even when I'm alone. (Yeah. I know. I'm working on it: one resume update and one internet date at a time.) But you know what? It wasn't like that at all. Most people love their spouses so much that they spared them from the reunion altogether. Those who were there seemed to be happily in the spirit of things. And as for children? Maybe people were just happy to have a night off. Maybe it was enough to say their names and ages and then have another glass of wine and dance to another 80s cover.

I ended up wearing the thing that actually fits me, rather than the thing that only sort of fits me with the aid of miserable undergarments. No one hurt my feelings. No one was boastful and tiresome. Instead, I got some really high-quality hugs and was told by a dozen people that I was unchanged. We laughed a lot and sang along to every song and no one wanted it to be over, so we descended en masse on the town dive bar at about 12:45am. And it dawned on me that reunions are actually meant to be joyful. That's why the tradition lingers on. Not because every adult relishes being plagued by her high school insecurities. Oh. Well, that makes more sense. I wish someone would have told me sooner.

The only reunion stereotype that played out was that one guy who was a high school nerd is now a rocket scientist who is married to a stunningly beautiful woman who is? Yep. Also a rocket scientist. And you know what? That's my favorite reunion sterotype. I'm glad we didn't miss out on it.

Also, now that it's over and I am no longer determined to stuff myself into an ill-fitting dress, I hailed yesterday with a large plate of pancakes. Aahhh. The death of pretense is pretty tasty. Especially with maple syrup.

Musing

In the seven minutes of quiet after the first pushing of the snooze alarm this morning, this thought floated in:

If infected is to have a malady, why is defected not to be cured of it?

Ah, English. You wily creature, you.

Foresight

Occasionally, when I'm showing off for myself, I will get out a cookbook. But wait, there's more. I will then look through the cookbook and formulate plans for real meals I will consume in the future. I will then make a list of items necessary to create these meals of the future and I will go to the grocery store with the list and procure them. Now, this doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I'm always quite pleased with myself since the alternative is to sort of wander around aimlessly in Trader Joe's and come home with just chicken breasts, smoked turkey, and yogurt. Again.

Last week, I was all set to make red beans and rice, a recipe that involved multiple ingredients, including stalks of numerous fresh herbs. I know. I am a culinary genius. Step one of this process was to take a pound of red beans and soak them overnight in a pot of water. Which I did. Because I was Planning Ahead. In the morning I drained the water out and left the beans on the counter in their covered pot. Only it turns out that I wasn't home a lot that week and I didn't have time to cook something that requires two hours of simmering. So the beans just sat there in their pot. And that is how I learned what many elementary children already know from classroom science projects. Namely, if you leave wet beans in a covered pot for three days, they will do what they are designed to do: attempt to become bean plants. It is possible that beans that have sprouted are still edible, but when you open a pot and see a full pound of beans, each will a little tentacle bursting from it, they look a bit too much like aliens to be appetizing. Let's just say there should be plenty of bean plants sprouting from the compost bin soon.

Wha..?

Lately I have not been sleeping well. My bed at night seems to have become the Land of Thrashing and Itching. No matter how cold I am when I retire, I end up being weirdly sweaty-hot at some point in the wee hours. This is after a fair amount of existential mind racing and a heaping portion of allergy-induced mouth itching. It has not been good. I wake to the alarm feeling battered and depressed. Today is Sunday, which means that theoretically I was allowed to sleep as late as I wanted to this morning. And I did. It's just that even though I didn't get up until after 10:00, I still felt peevish and unrested.

I took a quasi-nap on the couch at about 12:30, but felt ridiculous and wasteful since the sun was out (rejoice! rejoice!), so I got up anad went out for a few hours to do errands. I came back, ate a late lunch, and felt...like a zombie. And so at 4:30, I decided to commit to a real nap. I shed my clothes and got in bed. And woke up about ten minutes ago. Which means that I was pretty much out cold for three hours. Oh. Oops. So I wasn't kind of sleepy so much as crazy tired. Now I know.

This means that my only real accomplishment of the day was getting a pedicure, which I realize is unimpressive. However, my toes are now emblazoned with a red laquer called "I'm Not Really a Waitress." In my case, I'm really, really not a waitress. And yet, I have every faith it will work equally well as "I'm Not Really a Secretary," which, in conjunction with my fresh haircut and red dress, should arm me well for my 20-year high school reunion next weekend. I'm hoping to project unmarried and childless as "glamorous" rather than "pitiable." And honestly? What with the flowers on my table, the champagne that accompanied my lunch, and the unscheduled three-hour nap, it actually does feel pretty glamorous.

My anthem

In other musical news, I saw Gentlemen Prefer Blondes last night at my beloved Castro Theatre. I had forgotten much of the movie, including the fact that Jane Russell sings this song which could basically be my personal anthem, particularly when applied to online dating in the Bay Area--the land of rugged outdoor pursuits. (Try to listen to the lyrics and ignore the obvious homosexuality of Jane's fellas, which, although I suppose that could be considered another San Francisco dating challenge, is frankly nothing compared to all the frenetic mountain biking.)

Thank you, Jane.

Drivin' and cryin'

I recently made a CD for a departing friend and apologized for the melancholy middle of the mix. The thing is though, that I always like the sad songs best. Plus, as I told him, departures are bittersweet and there's nothing wrong with a little driving and crying. It's an American tradition, I told him.

Then today, as if to prove me right,I got this from NPR. Thanks again, NPR. You're always there for me.

My favorite part is this:

Here's hoping that the specifics of "Casimir Pulaski Day" don't apply to your own tearful drive: In all likelihood, you're not a young man who falls in love at Bible Study and questions his faith after watching the object of his unconsummated love die of bone cancer. If you are? Wow, sorry to hear that. But either way, it isn't necessary to fully relate to Sufjan Stevens' ornate ballad: It just sounds like sadness, what with its solemn trumpet and its cooing mourners and, well, the fact that, in the song, someone dies of bone cancer. If you're sad, "Casimir Pulaski Day" isn't going to cheer you up; let's leave it at that.

Stephen Thompson, who wrote that description, is a stranger to me, but I wish he were my friend.

Cha-ching

Last night, I decided that it would behoove me to actually leave the house, so I took myself on a date. The time-honored classic: dinner and a movie. I had a salad, a cup of seafood stew, and a glass of water. I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona (which I enjoyed except for the specter of Woody Allen himself, whom I kept imagining filming the love scenes in the full throes of pervy voyeuristic delight). And now I think I may have to get a second job to cover the cost.

Soup
Salad
Movie
_______
$38.50

What? This is neither London nor Manhattan. San Francisco? I know you have pretensions of fanciness and that's fine. I too have pretensions of fanciness; you should see the number of entirely unnecessary dresses in my closet. But, still, $38.50? For shame, San Francisco. For shame.

Haunted

Last Saturday, I rented two movies at my local video shop, but I got a late start in my viewing and only had time to watch one before I had to go to sleep. On Sunday night, I stayed at my parent's house. Since the movies were due back on Monday, I had the foresight to bring the unseen movie, Introducing the Dwights, with me. After a fair amount of Olympic viewing and paternal snoring, my father went to bed and my mother and I begin gliding through the other million channels. "Hey." I suddenly remember, "I have this movie with me that's due tomorrow. Wanna watch it?" "Is it something I'll like?" my mother reasonably asks. "I think so," I tell her. "It's got Brenda Blethyn."

We watch about thirty minutes of Introducing the Dwights and it turns out that Brenda Blethyn is not enough. I hate the movie. My mother really hates the movie, particularly the part where a young woman, "a hussy," according to my mother, tries ungracefully and unsympathetically to seduce a young man who is clearly a virgin. I suggest we turn it off. My mother readily agrees.

On Monday morning, I return the movie to the video store. On Monday evening, I get two movies in the mail from Netflix. One of them proves to be Introducing the Dwights. Apparently, at some unremembered time when this feature was still in the theatres, I must have had a burning, yet thwarted, desire to see it. I mail it back to Netflix, unviewed.

Last night, sometime after midnight I check my email, just in case someone who lives in another, distant time zone might be trying to communicate with me. You just never know. There was one email. From Netflix. Typically, I don't even read the emails from Netflix, I like the element of surprise. Each little red envelope is like a present: What delight has the me of long ago selected for the me of today? However, after midnight with only one email, I can't help myself. I open it. It says, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have shipped your movies. Introducing the Dwights should arrive on Tuesday."

Dear me of the past:
You were mistaken. It's okay. Blame the marketing. I forgive you.

Dear Netflix,
Really, I've learned my lesson. Please. No more.

Dear Introducing the Dwights,
I will never watch all of you, no matter how you try to wear me down.

Love,
Kari

Compromise

What I really want is to get married and move and maybe buy a new sofa. However, since not one of those things seems likely any time soon,what with being single and poor and all, I've instead spent a rather startling amount on this room spray. Still, it is a lot less costly than a new residence or even a new sofa, so, really, if you think about it, it's a bargain.

Sure, in all significant ways, my life will be the same, but it will smell different. And who knows where that will lead? I'm open to possibility.

Request

Terms I find I do not enjoy:

Scrapbooking

Webinar

South paw


Let's never use them again, okay?

Disparities

I cannot help but be struck by the thought that a time in one's life when one is obliged to wear a girdle in order to fit into the majority of one's dresses should not simultaneously be a time when one has a sizable and almost awe-inspiringly tenacious whitehead on one's face.

And yet, life is full of interesting little disparities, is it not?