I have discovered that my iPod (that's right. Pod. Not phone. Not pad. You know about me and the dearth of "devices") no longer will allow me to get online. It offers me wireless accounts, it shows me bars, but it will not actually connect to anything. So much for that brilliant travel plan. Now I have to just swipe my friends' computers when I want to see if anyone is felling any important feelings on Facebook in my virtual absence.
Just now as I was logging in, Blogger presented me with a security screen that said, "It looks like you're logging in from an unusual location." I can't lie to you, Blogger. I am in Amherst, MA which is not unusual if, for instance, you are my friend who lives here and whose computer I have commandeered, but if you are me, it is unusual. Amherst is green and leafy and full of tidy, pleasing white houses with porches. It's hot, but not unbearably so. It is, as anticipated, summer. I find this very exciting, despite the numerous (and possibly extra poisonous?) mosquito bites. Last night the grownups drank gin and played Taboo (which is what I would do every night if I could). My friend tried to persuade us that "throw in the boot" is a British expression meaning "to die." It isn't. She was tired. So don't try to make yourself fit in in some pub by saying things like, "I want to spend everything I've got before I throw in the boot. After all, you can't take it with you." They'll probably say "Throw what in the boot?" And then you'll have this baffling exchange about the various meanings of "boot." It's better not to even go down that road.
Later today, we are going to Lake Wyola. Cara, who is seven, was incredulous that I have never been there. She seems to regard it as something of a personal failing that an adult who has the free will to go wherever I want whenever I want has not had the simple common sense to go there repeatedly. "You've never been to Lake Wyola? But it's the best place in the world!" So, in short, I'm going to the best place in the world this afternoon. I'm sorry not to be able to take you along. If it makes you feel any better, Ben, who is nine, thinks coming to Western Mass for one's vacation shows a remarkable lack of imagination if not, indeed, intelligence.
Before I came here (by train, ostensibly, but also by bus, due to some track work outside of Springfield. For your future reference, trains are more comfortable than buses.) I was in NY for one night. I flew into Newark and then waited for a shuttle bus into Manhattan. A shuttle bus that later proved to be run by a team of mostly mute, very rude people one of whom--hilariously, in my opinion--later solicited tips by muttering "tip, tip, tip" not quite under his breath. Here's a tip: don't be a total asshole and then expect me to hand you supplementary cash.
While waiting for the bus, I was approached by a tall, startlingly handsome (oh, the cheekbones!) young Asian man who wanted to verify that it was a bus into the city. His English was shaky. Since the bus personnel was clearly not going to be of any use, I adopted him. We sat next to each other on the bus and he informed me that he had never been out of China before, but, after one night in the city, he would be in Sarasota Springs for four months working with other international students.
We got off the bus at Port Authority and I planned to just hop in a taxi and head uptown, but then I looked around. There was, um, a lot going on. If I had just arrived from China, had never traveled in my life, had been on a plane for twelve hours, and then in customs in New Jersey for three, I would not want to be abandoned with a large suitcase in Times Square. After a couple of false starts, we made it down into the subway and I managed to sort out our Metrocards and we both succeeded in getting our suitcases through the turnstyle, which felt like something of a triumph. We rewarded each other for each accomplishment with radiant smiles.
I saw him to the top of the stairs at the downtown A, C, E, reviewed his itinerary with him once more, and shook his hand. He took mine in both of his and shook it warmly, while thanking me very much. I told him to have a great time and made my way to the 1. He stood at the top of the stairs and waved very solemnly for a long while as I walked away. It was a little bit heartbreaking, but I am confident he is now safely in Sarasota Springs with a bunch of new friends. After four months, I'm sure his English will be able to vanquish any number of non-communicative bus drivers.
I did eventually make it to W 86th and later, as though to reward me for my good Samaritanism, my cousin and I had milkshakes.
The end.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Vacation Eve
The first question is why does it take me so long to pack when I've just got one small suitcase? I have no idea. Presumably it is a mystery held alongside why it takes me so long to clean a rather modest one-bedroom apartment. Nevertheless, I think I've got everything in order at last. In the morning, I will arise at an hour I usually prefer to leave to its own devices and trundle off to the airport wishing I were less spindly and/or not afflicted with an escalator phobia. There is always more suitcase hoisting than I wish there were.
But then I'll arrive! In summer!
A colleague and I were talking today about how difficult it is to pack in San Francisco and simultaneously suspend your disbelief sufficiently to fully commit to the notion of heat. She confessed that it is impossible for her to pack to go anywhere without at least one wool sweater. I've got two in my bag."In the evening, the fog will roll in" becomes a state of mind. On Saturday I went with some friends to see Raiders of the Lost Arc in Dolores Park. Everyone takes a picnic and when it gets dark, they show the movie. I believe this is a common summertime activity all over the country if not, indeed, the world. The problem is that here it is freezing. The fog blows into Dolores Park with a vengeance of an evening. As all the revelers got off the bus, we could easily have been mistaken for Arctic explorers. In fact, the only time all year that I routinely wear my down jacket is for summer movies in Dolores Park. My colleague puzzled over why San Franciscans are doggedly determined to have these traditional outdoor summer events and I don't really know. We just don't want to be left out.
I am quite delighted to be included in a real way, though. In a leave-your-down-jacket-at-home kind of way. In a don't-forget-your-bathing-suit kind of way. Indeed, I am promised Pimm's cup and swimming in a lake. Also, I'll bet there will be significantly less pot smoke. Just in general. The hallmarks of the San Francisco outdoor gathering: you're freezing and you're either smoking pot yourself or getting a contact high because you are the only one who isn't. As we walked out of the park after approximately three and a half hours of freezing and inhaling, we passed through yet another pungent cloud, at which point my friend said, "Do you think there's any pot left to smoke in the world?"
This is entirely unrelated, but on my mind. A friend of mine called me from Paris today to tell me that he is moving to Brazil. He also told me the history of the potato in Ireland for some reason. That was novel. My French isn't what it once was, so it is with some relief that I tell you the word "famine" is essentially the same in both languages. If you don't know the word for famine, the whole Irish potato story loses a lot of its punch. The Brazil relocation is not unexpected; he has been splitting his time between the two places for years with the intention of moving permanently. I was still strangely blindsided by the news. I used to have a lot of friends in Paris, but he was the last of them--and the only vrai parisien, born and raised. For me the two of them, the city and the man, are inextricably linked and matter to me equally. Quite selfishly, I hate to think of him not being there. I'm not sure there's enough sunscreen in the world to get me to Brazil, but we'll see. Tu me manqueras, mon beau.
Bon. That's enough of that.
If I don't go to bed, I'm likely to miss my plane altogether and that won't do at all. Happy summer to you. Here's hoping yours doesn't require mittens.
But then I'll arrive! In summer!
A colleague and I were talking today about how difficult it is to pack in San Francisco and simultaneously suspend your disbelief sufficiently to fully commit to the notion of heat. She confessed that it is impossible for her to pack to go anywhere without at least one wool sweater. I've got two in my bag."In the evening, the fog will roll in" becomes a state of mind. On Saturday I went with some friends to see Raiders of the Lost Arc in Dolores Park. Everyone takes a picnic and when it gets dark, they show the movie. I believe this is a common summertime activity all over the country if not, indeed, the world. The problem is that here it is freezing. The fog blows into Dolores Park with a vengeance of an evening. As all the revelers got off the bus, we could easily have been mistaken for Arctic explorers. In fact, the only time all year that I routinely wear my down jacket is for summer movies in Dolores Park. My colleague puzzled over why San Franciscans are doggedly determined to have these traditional outdoor summer events and I don't really know. We just don't want to be left out.
I am quite delighted to be included in a real way, though. In a leave-your-down-jacket-at-home kind of way. In a don't-forget-your-bathing-suit kind of way. Indeed, I am promised Pimm's cup and swimming in a lake. Also, I'll bet there will be significantly less pot smoke. Just in general. The hallmarks of the San Francisco outdoor gathering: you're freezing and you're either smoking pot yourself or getting a contact high because you are the only one who isn't. As we walked out of the park after approximately three and a half hours of freezing and inhaling, we passed through yet another pungent cloud, at which point my friend said, "Do you think there's any pot left to smoke in the world?"
This is entirely unrelated, but on my mind. A friend of mine called me from Paris today to tell me that he is moving to Brazil. He also told me the history of the potato in Ireland for some reason. That was novel. My French isn't what it once was, so it is with some relief that I tell you the word "famine" is essentially the same in both languages. If you don't know the word for famine, the whole Irish potato story loses a lot of its punch. The Brazil relocation is not unexpected; he has been splitting his time between the two places for years with the intention of moving permanently. I was still strangely blindsided by the news. I used to have a lot of friends in Paris, but he was the last of them--and the only vrai parisien, born and raised. For me the two of them, the city and the man, are inextricably linked and matter to me equally. Quite selfishly, I hate to think of him not being there. I'm not sure there's enough sunscreen in the world to get me to Brazil, but we'll see. Tu me manqueras, mon beau.
Bon. That's enough of that.
If I don't go to bed, I'm likely to miss my plane altogether and that won't do at all. Happy summer to you. Here's hoping yours doesn't require mittens.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Title Schmitle
Hi. I'm still here. Sorry about that. Sometimes when I am Participating, I fail on the Chronicling. But right now I will chronicle up a storm in the hopes that it will tide you over since I am hitting the trail on Wednesday morning and, as you know, I've not got much in the way of wireless devices.
Last week, I saw three plays, which is a lot, even for me. The reading of Hapgood they did at ACT was delightful; and had a joke about a lemon I enjoyed. The next day I went to Berkeley Rep to see Dear Elizabeth, a play comprised entirely from letters between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, two poets I knew nothing about, which is unsurprising as I know nearly nothing about any poets (sorry, poets). It broke my heart. The actor playing Robert Lowell strikingly reminded me of an erstwhile friend of mine, so I took the whole play rather personally and felt a sense of loss that I cannot be certain is entirely contained in the script. Also, the water seemed extraneous. (Just because you can have water cascade over the stage doesn't mean you need do it constantly.) However, those things notwithstanding, it might break your heart too. Or perhaps it will attune you to those you love. Just after the play, when we were shuffling our tear-streaked selves out into the aisle, I heard this exchange from the white-haired couple (subscribers for over twenty years I heard them mention earlier) in the row behind mine.
She: Finishes her yawn with a little sing-song tone.
He: I love your voice. [Pause.] Maybe it's a sentimental thing to say, but I do love your voice.
She: I'm glad you do.
Lovely, no?
On Friday, I saw This is How it Goes at the Aurora. It made me uncomfortable. In a good way. I mean, not like I thought "wow! this is a great way to feel uncomfortable!" More like, "Damn. This is a pretty ballsy play. Did he just say the N word again? Yikes." Also, I have a crush on Gabe Marin. There. My secret's out. If you're reading this, Gabe Marin [sadly, you're not], I'll buy you a drink some Monday night. We've met. It won't be weird. Unless you're married, in which case, you're right, it will be weird.
On Thursday I drank a curious assortment of booze with my lovely friend Liz who (bad news) lives in Canada these days, but (good news) came to visit. We went to Novela which has only been open for about a week meaning that I am officially very cutting edge (let the record show). However, since I had only seen pictures of it online, empty and shown to attractive advantage, I had made up a whole story about how it would be that proved totally false. (Hey! Raise your hand if you just noticed an uncanny similarity to online dating.) They have this whole literary theme and I was imagining smallish and conversation-amenable, but it is largish, packed with post-work drinkers, and loud. Oh, so very loud. Why all the bass, Novela? You promised me books. Still, it's pretty.
They serve a variety of punches and, ideal for people like me who are indecisive, have them available by the flight of three. That is how I came to have rum and gin and cognac all in one sitting. Later, apparently feeling that we should drink more things, we ended up in Harry Denton's Starlight Room on the top floor of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I had never been up there, but that Liz, she gets around. Here is what it's like: a stranger's wedding with an impressive view and a no-host bar with expensive drinks. Curious. But if you want to do some awkward wedding-style dancing with a bunch of people of radically different ages, none of whom live here, the Starlight Room is the place for you. I think you should go with Liz because she can lip sync to a surprising number of hip-hop songs, and that will be fun for you, but, as I've mentioned, she (tragically) lives in Canada, so it might be hard to align your schedules.
Saturday featured a return to cold, damp fields, but there simply isn't time to tell you about that now. You can wait breathlessly for tomorrow. I don't mean that literally, of course. If you hold your breath until tomorrow, you won't make it to tomorrow and then we both lose.
Last week, I saw three plays, which is a lot, even for me. The reading of Hapgood they did at ACT was delightful; and had a joke about a lemon I enjoyed. The next day I went to Berkeley Rep to see Dear Elizabeth, a play comprised entirely from letters between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, two poets I knew nothing about, which is unsurprising as I know nearly nothing about any poets (sorry, poets). It broke my heart. The actor playing Robert Lowell strikingly reminded me of an erstwhile friend of mine, so I took the whole play rather personally and felt a sense of loss that I cannot be certain is entirely contained in the script. Also, the water seemed extraneous. (Just because you can have water cascade over the stage doesn't mean you need do it constantly.) However, those things notwithstanding, it might break your heart too. Or perhaps it will attune you to those you love. Just after the play, when we were shuffling our tear-streaked selves out into the aisle, I heard this exchange from the white-haired couple (subscribers for over twenty years I heard them mention earlier) in the row behind mine.
She: Finishes her yawn with a little sing-song tone.
He: I love your voice. [Pause.] Maybe it's a sentimental thing to say, but I do love your voice.
She: I'm glad you do.
Lovely, no?
On Friday, I saw This is How it Goes at the Aurora. It made me uncomfortable. In a good way. I mean, not like I thought "wow! this is a great way to feel uncomfortable!" More like, "Damn. This is a pretty ballsy play. Did he just say the N word again? Yikes." Also, I have a crush on Gabe Marin. There. My secret's out. If you're reading this, Gabe Marin [sadly, you're not], I'll buy you a drink some Monday night. We've met. It won't be weird. Unless you're married, in which case, you're right, it will be weird.
On Thursday I drank a curious assortment of booze with my lovely friend Liz who (bad news) lives in Canada these days, but (good news) came to visit. We went to Novela which has only been open for about a week meaning that I am officially very cutting edge (let the record show). However, since I had only seen pictures of it online, empty and shown to attractive advantage, I had made up a whole story about how it would be that proved totally false. (Hey! Raise your hand if you just noticed an uncanny similarity to online dating.) They have this whole literary theme and I was imagining smallish and conversation-amenable, but it is largish, packed with post-work drinkers, and loud. Oh, so very loud. Why all the bass, Novela? You promised me books. Still, it's pretty.
They serve a variety of punches and, ideal for people like me who are indecisive, have them available by the flight of three. That is how I came to have rum and gin and cognac all in one sitting. Later, apparently feeling that we should drink more things, we ended up in Harry Denton's Starlight Room on the top floor of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I had never been up there, but that Liz, she gets around. Here is what it's like: a stranger's wedding with an impressive view and a no-host bar with expensive drinks. Curious. But if you want to do some awkward wedding-style dancing with a bunch of people of radically different ages, none of whom live here, the Starlight Room is the place for you. I think you should go with Liz because she can lip sync to a surprising number of hip-hop songs, and that will be fun for you, but, as I've mentioned, she (tragically) lives in Canada, so it might be hard to align your schedules.
Saturday featured a return to cold, damp fields, but there simply isn't time to tell you about that now. You can wait breathlessly for tomorrow. I don't mean that literally, of course. If you hold your breath until tomorrow, you won't make it to tomorrow and then we both lose.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
You looking at me?
I heard on the radio this morning a story about a man who stole a phone from a woman at gunpoint and was later arrested when police used the phone's GPS tracking to locate him. Later, he appealed his conviction claiming that the use of the GPS infringed on his right to privacy. Are you filled with rage right now? Because I am filled with rage right now.
The good news: the court responded with the legal version of "you have got to be kidding me" and his conviction was upheld.
The bad news is that, first of all, there is a man who steals things from people while threatening to shoot them. (In fact, there are a lot of them. I would prefer there were none.) What's more, he thinks everyone should pretty much mind their own beeswax because stealing is kind of private.
The good news: the court responded with the legal version of "you have got to be kidding me" and his conviction was upheld.
The bad news is that, first of all, there is a man who steals things from people while threatening to shoot them. (In fact, there are a lot of them. I would prefer there were none.) What's more, he thinks everyone should pretty much mind their own beeswax because stealing is kind of private.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Cold, damp fields
I am home in my jammies (well, if you want hard-edged journalistic realism, I don't actually have jammies, but I am wearing assorted knitwear in which I slept and in which I would not leave the house unless there were some kind of emergency. In fact, now that I think about it, I didn't even wear sweatpants when I went to the emergency room at 4:30 in the morning back in October. There are Standards around here. A slightly hilarious assertion in that my desk is nearly entirely obscured by piles of detritus and, just a couple feet to my left, there is an armchair draped with several articles of clothing and a queen-sized duvet). Right. What was I saying? I'm at home. I'm not wearing real clothes. I have a headache and a thing that wants to be a sore throat that I am trying to beat back into submission with the dreaded pomegranate tea I drank by the gallon six months ago and wished never to see again.
Dammit.
I was so close to avoiding the last spate of high school viruses, but then there was this past weekend: A Festival of Fields. I think it pushed me one step closer to the viral chasm.
Field # 1: Graduation
I am in charge of graduation at the school where I work and I have been for years and years. Yet, even now, it fills me with anxiety. (On Friday before I left work, the strawberries had yet to be delivered. That night, I had a dream that I was teaching playwriting in someone's house and the phone rang and rang. When I finally answered it, it was a colleague who said, "I'm at the farmer's market. Should I just buy strawberries?" I opened my eyes. It was 4am. That kind of anxiety.) It seems to be part of a deeply cherished tradition that this event be held outdoors, despite the fact that when events are outdoors, you have no control over them. When I am in charge of events, I enjoy having control over them. You see the conflict. I would be so thrilled to hold this event in a place that already has seats and tables and parking. Such places do exist, I'm told, they are called "theatres." However, this is never to be.
This year, there was much talk of a heat wave. We have had extraordinarily hot graduations in the past and it's not pretty. People get all Lord of the Flies about it and come steal whole bottles of water for themselves that are meant to serve four; grandparents huddle under the food-prep tent; everyone gets dangerous sunburns. I was certain we would be facing a no-shade graduation and duly slathered myself with sunscreen, put on gauzy clothing, and put my parasol in the car. I put my apartment in Heat Wave Mode, opening the windows, but closing all the blinds, even those that are left open year round, modesty be damned. I have learned from experience that coming home hot and exhausted from cake-wrangling, walking into a stifling apartment is simply insulting. I left my neighborhood in bright sunshine, but when I arrived on site at 8am, the whole area was shrouded in fog. And so it remained for the subsequent six hours. If anything, it got colder as the day wore on. As did I, in my melange of inadequate fabrics.
A variety of other things went wrong, but I will spare you. The important things went well: the volunteers were aces; the flowers were pretty; the speeches were touching; and 90 students graduated from high school. As I was doing my last walk-through the field with a trash bag, I came across one of my newly-graduated playwrights whom I'd yet to congratulate. I gave her a hug and she said, "You're so cool." I wasn't feeling too cool at that particular moment, nor did I know she thought I was cool to begin with. It just about knocked me over. That, in a nutshell, is why I still work there.
I got home, took a shower, put on many woolen things, and drank a pot of tea while under a blanket, listening to the wind howl in the chimney. Heat wave! [Reportedly, it was 98 degrees in Marin.]
Field # 2: The Dipsea
Graduation always falls on the same weekend as the Dipsea, which wouldn't be such a big deal--after all, I don't run the Dipsea--but I am the sort who gets up at 10am on weekends, so two 6:45am's in a row makes me grouchy. Still, I got up at the appointed hour and was on the road to Stinson Beach by 7:15. I thought I had learned a valuable lesson and brought fog-sufficient clothing. I was unprepared for the level of dampness. It was the type of morning that the Golden Gate Bridge was invisible from a distance, and driving across it is a strange act of faith, since the only part you can see is that five feet ahead of your car. I had the windshield wipers on the whole way to the beach. And then I stood in a damp field for six hours. Call it a hobby.
What? Oh. Right. There was also a race. It went fine. My father maintained his time from the year before and finished in the top 100 as had been his goal. Also, 1,499 other less important people ran it.
Field # 3: High School Reunion
I left the Dipsea during the end of the awards ceremony where the people who are not my father were getting trophies so that I could be slightly ahead of the traffic on my way back over the mountain. I was certain that the fog would have long since burned off in Mill Valley and my last event of the day would be, if not hot, at least dry. Ha. Welcome to summer, suckers.
I stood there in the freezing wind under a couple of trees in Boyle Park with a gaggle attractive, cold adults whom I'd known as attractive, cold teenagers a great many years ago. Well, we weren't cold all the time, but there is a lot of fog in Mill Valley, so neither did we spend high school fending off heat exhaustion. Of course, I was cold nearly all the time because being cold nearly all the time is my superpower. That and crying. Look, no one is saying these are good or useful superpowers; I'm just letting you know that they're the ones I got. My mother fears I do not assert myself, so I assume during the doling out of powers I was saying, "Oh no, you go ahead." to everyone until there were just a couple left. Anyway, it was nice to see those grown-up kids, particularly the day after a high school graduation. I like them; they're still funny. As an added bonus, there were a lot of hugs, which are good when you're cold. Also, just good. I learned that I can still make my best friend laugh during serious moments. I haven't really kept in practice, so it's good to know it's a skill I can still draw on when the need arises. I was also invited to a BBQ in Brooklyn. Really, from a personal standpoint, quite a successful event. Nevertheless, I could only manage to stand in that field for about three hours before thawing was required.
When I got home, I fell asleep on the sofa at about 8:30 and slept for approximately 11 hours. I would have thought that 11 hours of blanket-wrapped slumber would have been sufficient to undo any ill effects of fifteen rather emotional hours in damp fields, but the headache says otherwise. More revolting tea is in order, I fear. And a nap.
Dammit.
I was so close to avoiding the last spate of high school viruses, but then there was this past weekend: A Festival of Fields. I think it pushed me one step closer to the viral chasm.
Field # 1: Graduation
I am in charge of graduation at the school where I work and I have been for years and years. Yet, even now, it fills me with anxiety. (On Friday before I left work, the strawberries had yet to be delivered. That night, I had a dream that I was teaching playwriting in someone's house and the phone rang and rang. When I finally answered it, it was a colleague who said, "I'm at the farmer's market. Should I just buy strawberries?" I opened my eyes. It was 4am. That kind of anxiety.) It seems to be part of a deeply cherished tradition that this event be held outdoors, despite the fact that when events are outdoors, you have no control over them. When I am in charge of events, I enjoy having control over them. You see the conflict. I would be so thrilled to hold this event in a place that already has seats and tables and parking. Such places do exist, I'm told, they are called "theatres." However, this is never to be.
This year, there was much talk of a heat wave. We have had extraordinarily hot graduations in the past and it's not pretty. People get all Lord of the Flies about it and come steal whole bottles of water for themselves that are meant to serve four; grandparents huddle under the food-prep tent; everyone gets dangerous sunburns. I was certain we would be facing a no-shade graduation and duly slathered myself with sunscreen, put on gauzy clothing, and put my parasol in the car. I put my apartment in Heat Wave Mode, opening the windows, but closing all the blinds, even those that are left open year round, modesty be damned. I have learned from experience that coming home hot and exhausted from cake-wrangling, walking into a stifling apartment is simply insulting. I left my neighborhood in bright sunshine, but when I arrived on site at 8am, the whole area was shrouded in fog. And so it remained for the subsequent six hours. If anything, it got colder as the day wore on. As did I, in my melange of inadequate fabrics.
A variety of other things went wrong, but I will spare you. The important things went well: the volunteers were aces; the flowers were pretty; the speeches were touching; and 90 students graduated from high school. As I was doing my last walk-through the field with a trash bag, I came across one of my newly-graduated playwrights whom I'd yet to congratulate. I gave her a hug and she said, "You're so cool." I wasn't feeling too cool at that particular moment, nor did I know she thought I was cool to begin with. It just about knocked me over. That, in a nutshell, is why I still work there.
I got home, took a shower, put on many woolen things, and drank a pot of tea while under a blanket, listening to the wind howl in the chimney. Heat wave! [Reportedly, it was 98 degrees in Marin.]
Field # 2: The Dipsea
Graduation always falls on the same weekend as the Dipsea, which wouldn't be such a big deal--after all, I don't run the Dipsea--but I am the sort who gets up at 10am on weekends, so two 6:45am's in a row makes me grouchy. Still, I got up at the appointed hour and was on the road to Stinson Beach by 7:15. I thought I had learned a valuable lesson and brought fog-sufficient clothing. I was unprepared for the level of dampness. It was the type of morning that the Golden Gate Bridge was invisible from a distance, and driving across it is a strange act of faith, since the only part you can see is that five feet ahead of your car. I had the windshield wipers on the whole way to the beach. And then I stood in a damp field for six hours. Call it a hobby.
What? Oh. Right. There was also a race. It went fine. My father maintained his time from the year before and finished in the top 100 as had been his goal. Also, 1,499 other less important people ran it.
Field # 3: High School Reunion
I left the Dipsea during the end of the awards ceremony where the people who are not my father were getting trophies so that I could be slightly ahead of the traffic on my way back over the mountain. I was certain that the fog would have long since burned off in Mill Valley and my last event of the day would be, if not hot, at least dry. Ha. Welcome to summer, suckers.
I stood there in the freezing wind under a couple of trees in Boyle Park with a gaggle attractive, cold adults whom I'd known as attractive, cold teenagers a great many years ago. Well, we weren't cold all the time, but there is a lot of fog in Mill Valley, so neither did we spend high school fending off heat exhaustion. Of course, I was cold nearly all the time because being cold nearly all the time is my superpower. That and crying. Look, no one is saying these are good or useful superpowers; I'm just letting you know that they're the ones I got. My mother fears I do not assert myself, so I assume during the doling out of powers I was saying, "Oh no, you go ahead." to everyone until there were just a couple left. Anyway, it was nice to see those grown-up kids, particularly the day after a high school graduation. I like them; they're still funny. As an added bonus, there were a lot of hugs, which are good when you're cold. Also, just good. I learned that I can still make my best friend laugh during serious moments. I haven't really kept in practice, so it's good to know it's a skill I can still draw on when the need arises. I was also invited to a BBQ in Brooklyn. Really, from a personal standpoint, quite a successful event. Nevertheless, I could only manage to stand in that field for about three hours before thawing was required.
When I got home, I fell asleep on the sofa at about 8:30 and slept for approximately 11 hours. I would have thought that 11 hours of blanket-wrapped slumber would have been sufficient to undo any ill effects of fifteen rather emotional hours in damp fields, but the headache says otherwise. More revolting tea is in order, I fear. And a nap.
Friday, June 07, 2013
School's out!
It is the last day of high school (again.) I never imagined I would see so many last days of high school, but here I am.
Last day of school.
Graduation tomorrow.
Then, on Sunday, a high school reunion because there was a time I did actually attend high school as a student myself.
I assume this is why I have an aggressive pimple on the end of my nose. My body probably thought we were having a whimsical adolescent-themed weekend and wanted to get into the spirit of the thing.
Last day of school.
Graduation tomorrow.
Then, on Sunday, a high school reunion because there was a time I did actually attend high school as a student myself.
I assume this is why I have an aggressive pimple on the end of my nose. My body probably thought we were having a whimsical adolescent-themed weekend and wanted to get into the spirit of the thing.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
All choked up
Today, a very small group of us gathered to present a gift to our afternoon crossing guard who is retiring. He is a very kind man, but because his English is very limited my conversations with him have likewise been limited to hello, goodbye, thank you, and comments on the weather. In China, I am told, he was an engineer.
As six of us stood around a table, smiling enthusiastically, gesturing at his present (which, naturally, I wrapped), he smiled back and said "thank you." Then he held up the "wait just a minute" finger, as he reached into his inside pocket. He pulled out a small, slightly crumpled piece of paper from which he read, with difficulty, a speech he had written, perhaps with the help of his wife. He said that his work had been a pleasure. That it was unforgettable. That the time he'd spent at the school had been during an important part of his life.
We clapped. By some miracle, I didn't cry. He smiled broadly and shook some hands, but indicated his watch and moved toward the door. He couldn't be loitering around; it was time to pick up his stop sign and head out to the crosswalk.
As six of us stood around a table, smiling enthusiastically, gesturing at his present (which, naturally, I wrapped), he smiled back and said "thank you." Then he held up the "wait just a minute" finger, as he reached into his inside pocket. He pulled out a small, slightly crumpled piece of paper from which he read, with difficulty, a speech he had written, perhaps with the help of his wife. He said that his work had been a pleasure. That it was unforgettable. That the time he'd spent at the school had been during an important part of his life.
We clapped. By some miracle, I didn't cry. He smiled broadly and shook some hands, but indicated his watch and moved toward the door. He couldn't be loitering around; it was time to pick up his stop sign and head out to the crosswalk.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Good news / bad news
I did forget to go to the school circus today, which disappoints me for obvious reasons. However, this morning, my urologist admired my necklace and laughed at my jokes, so I consider it pretty much a wash. He is a very nice man, my urologist. Plus, remember that pee story I never told you? Of course you don't. It's hard to keep track of stories that people are too lazy to actually recount. Sorry about that. I may yet tell you that story, since it's so entertaining. For now, let's just say that there was peeing and subsequent analysis and my numbers are (ready?) excellent. Excellent. Suck it, would-be kidney stones of the future.
While sitting in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I was reading my library book (and feeling quite pleased with myself for having remembered to bring it). It happens to be Drinking with Men, a title that has evoked comment at not one but two doctor's appointments this week.
"What are you reading?" he asks, entering the exam room. "Drinking with Men. A thing I feel I should be doing a great deal more of." Cue: general mirth. We discuss the test results; restraint vis à vis drinking black tea is (disappointingly) counseled. In summation, he says, "So keep drinking water, eating a low-salt diet, and drinking with men and you should be all set." I defy you to tell me a time your doctor told you you may not drink tea, but are free to frequent bars like a floozy. I plan to take him up on it. Conversely, my gynecologist did not give me the green light on drinking with men, but neither did she expressly forbid it. It is worth noting that the urologist has a significantly more robust sense of humor than the gynecologist. I don't know whether there are subsequently any conclusions to be drawn about their areas of medical expertise. I expect not. After all, two people is an awfully small sample size for even the most casual research project.
Later, I called ACT to tell them that I was going to let my subscription lapse because I just can't get excited about more than two of next season's seven plays. I am truly very sorry to let my beloved seats go after at least a decade of subscribing (that's at least 70 plays, not counting the many I saw before I was a subscriber, including A Christmas Carol when I was a little girl), but I don't have enough money to pay for plays I don't want to see.
Now then. When I share this news with subscription services, do I expect them to beg with me to stay? Do I insist that they keen and rend their garments? Of course not. But I did expect him to say, "Oh, you're such a long-time subscriber. We're sorry to see you go." Maybe that was an unreasonable expectation. I don't think so, particularly since my relationship with that theatre is probably considerably longer than his, but maybe. I definitely didn't expect him to sound, from the moment he answered the phone, as though I was greatly inconveniencing him by calling at all. I didn't expect him to be brusque and dismissive and exasperated. I hung up not just annoyed, but offended and actually kind of hurt. I ended up calling some poor woman in the Marketing/PR department to hear my grievance during which conversation I began sniveling. In short, a mean subscription man made me cry. Good lord. It's a wonder I make it though the day. I am ridiculous. However, the marketing lady was very sympathetic and said all the right things and I felt better. Humiliated by my own crybaby ways, of course, but better on the whole. Thanks, marketing lady! As for seats N 113-114, we've had a good run. I'll miss you guys.
While sitting in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I was reading my library book (and feeling quite pleased with myself for having remembered to bring it). It happens to be Drinking with Men, a title that has evoked comment at not one but two doctor's appointments this week.
"What are you reading?" he asks, entering the exam room. "Drinking with Men. A thing I feel I should be doing a great deal more of." Cue: general mirth. We discuss the test results; restraint vis à vis drinking black tea is (disappointingly) counseled. In summation, he says, "So keep drinking water, eating a low-salt diet, and drinking with men and you should be all set." I defy you to tell me a time your doctor told you you may not drink tea, but are free to frequent bars like a floozy. I plan to take him up on it. Conversely, my gynecologist did not give me the green light on drinking with men, but neither did she expressly forbid it. It is worth noting that the urologist has a significantly more robust sense of humor than the gynecologist. I don't know whether there are subsequently any conclusions to be drawn about their areas of medical expertise. I expect not. After all, two people is an awfully small sample size for even the most casual research project.
Later, I called ACT to tell them that I was going to let my subscription lapse because I just can't get excited about more than two of next season's seven plays. I am truly very sorry to let my beloved seats go after at least a decade of subscribing (that's at least 70 plays, not counting the many I saw before I was a subscriber, including A Christmas Carol when I was a little girl), but I don't have enough money to pay for plays I don't want to see.
Now then. When I share this news with subscription services, do I expect them to beg with me to stay? Do I insist that they keen and rend their garments? Of course not. But I did expect him to say, "Oh, you're such a long-time subscriber. We're sorry to see you go." Maybe that was an unreasonable expectation. I don't think so, particularly since my relationship with that theatre is probably considerably longer than his, but maybe. I definitely didn't expect him to sound, from the moment he answered the phone, as though I was greatly inconveniencing him by calling at all. I didn't expect him to be brusque and dismissive and exasperated. I hung up not just annoyed, but offended and actually kind of hurt. I ended up calling some poor woman in the Marketing/PR department to hear my grievance during which conversation I began sniveling. In short, a mean subscription man made me cry. Good lord. It's a wonder I make it though the day. I am ridiculous. However, the marketing lady was very sympathetic and said all the right things and I felt better. Humiliated by my own crybaby ways, of course, but better on the whole. Thanks, marketing lady! As for seats N 113-114, we've had a good run. I'll miss you guys.
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
Wrapping it up
On my way home, I was writing this in my head and I thought I'd say: it's not just that I can't drum up the necessary oomph to write, I can't even muster the determination to have my increasingly reptilian nails seen to by trained professionals. And while I can't qualify pedicures as relaxing, neither can I claim that they require a great deal of exertion on my part.
Then guess what? I narrated myself right to the nail salon. But not before I returned a book to the library. I am a DYNAMO.
As a special reward, the scary pain-inducing lady wasn't even there and now, thanks to the reasonably gentle lady, I write to you with unshameful toenails.
We are drawing another school year to a close, which is pleasant in a way, but also carries with it the stomach-knotting anxiety that is graduation. They are predicting a heat wave for Saturday, which, experience suggests, means that everyone's grandmas will be clamoring for shade under the food-prep canopy and rogue agents will steal whole bottles of water that were meant to serve at least four. It isn't pretty. Please cross your fingers that it turns out to be a pleasant 75 degrees with a light breeze and that people do not feel compelled to linger too long over their cake because, frankly, while we are proud of the Class of 2013, much as we have been proud of every class before them, we, the humble staff, are quite tired and would like to go home.
Aside from a cavalcade of events, the end of the year is punctuated by gift-giving. We are a generous institution. Many, actually most, of these gifts I select myself, which I don't mind. In fact, it is quite a lot of fun to buy presents for people with A) someone else's money, but B) no risk of incarceration. I am also the in-house gift-wrapper, which is as close as I get to crafting. Though I can't sew and tentative forays into paper flower construction and furniture painting have yielded, at best, modest results, I really enjoy wrapping presents. In fact, this is not the time to be humble: I'm good. I look forward to it as a respite from the springtime graduation anxiety, but this year was a veritable onslaught of occasion. This spring, I wrapped 26 presents.
Twenty-six.
Basically, I am Santa Claus now. Or an elf. No. Santa sounds better.
I will be putting that on my resume.
Then guess what? I narrated myself right to the nail salon. But not before I returned a book to the library. I am a DYNAMO.
As a special reward, the scary pain-inducing lady wasn't even there and now, thanks to the reasonably gentle lady, I write to you with unshameful toenails.
We are drawing another school year to a close, which is pleasant in a way, but also carries with it the stomach-knotting anxiety that is graduation. They are predicting a heat wave for Saturday, which, experience suggests, means that everyone's grandmas will be clamoring for shade under the food-prep canopy and rogue agents will steal whole bottles of water that were meant to serve at least four. It isn't pretty. Please cross your fingers that it turns out to be a pleasant 75 degrees with a light breeze and that people do not feel compelled to linger too long over their cake because, frankly, while we are proud of the Class of 2013, much as we have been proud of every class before them, we, the humble staff, are quite tired and would like to go home.
Aside from a cavalcade of events, the end of the year is punctuated by gift-giving. We are a generous institution. Many, actually most, of these gifts I select myself, which I don't mind. In fact, it is quite a lot of fun to buy presents for people with A) someone else's money, but B) no risk of incarceration. I am also the in-house gift-wrapper, which is as close as I get to crafting. Though I can't sew and tentative forays into paper flower construction and furniture painting have yielded, at best, modest results, I really enjoy wrapping presents. In fact, this is not the time to be humble: I'm good. I look forward to it as a respite from the springtime graduation anxiety, but this year was a veritable onslaught of occasion. This spring, I wrapped 26 presents.
Twenty-six.
Basically, I am Santa Claus now. Or an elf. No. Santa sounds better.
I will be putting that on my resume.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Connectivity and bonus puffery
Yesterday, I called AT&T to inquire why my bill was suddenly about $100. The answer was, as it always is, that I had been in a promotional period and it had ended. Mind you, these promotions are usually a year long, so one is lulled into a sense of certainty that the high bill one is paying every month will go no higher. Then BAM! Secret year anniversary is reached and you owe $100. Considering the number of movies I watch on Netflix in a given week, this is probably a bargain (thanks, internet), but that doesn't mean I can readily afford it.
That is how I came to have a very long conversation with Shanti, who wanted to know how she could make me feel like a valued customer. Shanti offered me a phone/internet package for half the cost of my current plan, however, it would require me to purchase a new phone and a new modem--neither of which I want. (This is where I admit that I don't have wireless internet in my house. This is where I further admit that I fear I will get cancer if I have a wireless modem directly under my bed [which is where it would have to be connected].) Shanti told me that in my new wireless world, I would be able to connect up to ten devices without lowering my speed. I was sorry to tell her that I have no devices, but on the bright side, I did make her laugh. I enjoy making customer service representatives laugh.
Ultimately, I agreed to have cancer-internet, but I will not agree to have their special phone, as I am quite attached to the (lousy, but very fetching) phone I already have. This compromise will bring my bill back down to the high rate I have already become accustomed to paying, but not the still lower rate I would pay were I willing to join the 21st Century.
However.
To pay what I was already paying, I must buy a modem that I do not want for $100. Shanti agrees that that is a high price. That is why she is pleased to offer me a $100 rewards card that I may use to offset this cost. Why, one wonders, can she simply not charge me to begin with? Mysterious are the ways of commerce. I was then given the option to have a technician come install the new cancer modem for a fee of $99. I declined. No problem. I am also able to install the cancer modem myself. For $49.
I think that bears repeating. I may opt to personally install the $100 modem that I do not want. For this privilege I will be charged $49.
Rather than making me feel like a valued customer, this makes me feel like an enraged prisoner. Those feelings seem very opposite to me. They might want to look into that.
In closing, Shanti reminded me not to text while driving. I told her that I was certain it would not surprise her to learn that texting while driving is not one of my personal shortcomings. That's what comes of having no devices. It makes me a bit of an oddball, yes, but it also significantly decreases the chances of my running you down in the street. Perhaps I should charge for that service. I'm thinking $49 is about right.
***
Friday bonus.
My favorite sentence from NPR yesterday: "Puffery is not actionable."
That is what keeps you from being able to sue your local diner for saying they serve "The World's Best Hamburger." I would like to think that the joint commons of sense and decency would keep you from suing anyone for that, but this is America, so we need a law. And, as luck would have it, "puffery" turns out to be a legal term. Hooray.
That is how I came to have a very long conversation with Shanti, who wanted to know how she could make me feel like a valued customer. Shanti offered me a phone/internet package for half the cost of my current plan, however, it would require me to purchase a new phone and a new modem--neither of which I want. (This is where I admit that I don't have wireless internet in my house. This is where I further admit that I fear I will get cancer if I have a wireless modem directly under my bed [which is where it would have to be connected].) Shanti told me that in my new wireless world, I would be able to connect up to ten devices without lowering my speed. I was sorry to tell her that I have no devices, but on the bright side, I did make her laugh. I enjoy making customer service representatives laugh.
Ultimately, I agreed to have cancer-internet, but I will not agree to have their special phone, as I am quite attached to the (lousy, but very fetching) phone I already have. This compromise will bring my bill back down to the high rate I have already become accustomed to paying, but not the still lower rate I would pay were I willing to join the 21st Century.
However.
To pay what I was already paying, I must buy a modem that I do not want for $100. Shanti agrees that that is a high price. That is why she is pleased to offer me a $100 rewards card that I may use to offset this cost. Why, one wonders, can she simply not charge me to begin with? Mysterious are the ways of commerce. I was then given the option to have a technician come install the new cancer modem for a fee of $99. I declined. No problem. I am also able to install the cancer modem myself. For $49.
I think that bears repeating. I may opt to personally install the $100 modem that I do not want. For this privilege I will be charged $49.
Rather than making me feel like a valued customer, this makes me feel like an enraged prisoner. Those feelings seem very opposite to me. They might want to look into that.
In closing, Shanti reminded me not to text while driving. I told her that I was certain it would not surprise her to learn that texting while driving is not one of my personal shortcomings. That's what comes of having no devices. It makes me a bit of an oddball, yes, but it also significantly decreases the chances of my running you down in the street. Perhaps I should charge for that service. I'm thinking $49 is about right.
***
Friday bonus.
My favorite sentence from NPR yesterday: "Puffery is not actionable."
That is what keeps you from being able to sue your local diner for saying they serve "The World's Best Hamburger." I would like to think that the joint commons of sense and decency would keep you from suing anyone for that, but this is America, so we need a law. And, as luck would have it, "puffery" turns out to be a legal term. Hooray.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
What's the word, Hummingbird?
Because my feet have been hurting (oh, how elderly I feel with the aching and the limping and such) I constructed today's ensemble from the shoes up. In this case, the Keds up.
And that, dear readers, is how--quite accidentally and rather unfortunately--I came to be dressed as though I plan to audition for the ingenue role in Bye Bye, Birdie immediately after work.
And that, dear readers, is how--quite accidentally and rather unfortunately--I came to be dressed as though I plan to audition for the ingenue role in Bye Bye, Birdie immediately after work.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
On triviality
On Sunday, I heard only a very brief snippet of City Arts and Lectures as my mother and I moved her car from an expensive parking meter (5 minutes for a quarter. How is this possible?) to an expensive parking garage. I don't even know who was being interviewed, but I have to assume she's an important Thinker of Our Time because that's who they invite. In any case, I rather wish I'd missed it altogether because I was only radio-adjacent long enough to hear her say, "Well, you don't read blogs the way you read...writing. Here's some advice for young writers [of whom, alas, I realize I am no longer one]. Just because something occurs to you, you don't have to write it down."
Ouch.
I don't even disagree. This is why I have not been successful in incorporating Twitter into my life. Yet I felt like a mean girl had sauntered up to me on the playground to tell me that only losers wear those dumb jeans--didn't I know? Which is to say, I felt embarrassed and deflated and I don't even know who she was.
For a long time, I didn't tell anyone at all that I had a blog because it seemed so incredibly trivial and self-indulgent. Also, I could not hate the word "blog" any more if I tried. I started it to encourage myself to write anything at all. I thought that the theoretical notion of an audience might help me show up. It didn't, not really, because I am inherently lazy and writing--even silly, brief writing--is harder than it looks. Also, writing for a theoretical audience is like the absurd suggestion that setting your clock ahead ten minutes will keep you from being late. That scheme seems to imply that you are not only tardy, but also an amnesiac who can go around changing your clocks and then entirely forgetting that you've done it. Both of these things are just you trying to outsmart you. Or, rather, me trying to outsmart me. I'm harder to fool than that, it turns out. This is why the advent of the Blog Bully was such a boon. One non-theoretical audience member. One person who is not me who cares whether I write anything or not. It is strangely powerful.
Sometimes I write things here that I consider capital W Writing, but mostly not. It's been a long time since I've devoted any energy to what I consider "real" writing and, lately, that work has been for performance more than for would-be publication. Meanwhile, if I weren't here, my writing would be limited exclusively to my personal correspondence (which, I'll have you know, is sparkling as all get-out) and, like the Italian verbs conjugations I briefly knew and promptly forgot, I might lose the knack altogether for lack of practice.
The reality is, in order to show up here with any kind of regularity, I am obliged, truly, to write anything that occurs to me. Indeed, I am always very relieved when something does occur to me.
Perhaps it doesn't count as writing, but I'm practicing. Thanks for standing by.
Ouch.
I don't even disagree. This is why I have not been successful in incorporating Twitter into my life. Yet I felt like a mean girl had sauntered up to me on the playground to tell me that only losers wear those dumb jeans--didn't I know? Which is to say, I felt embarrassed and deflated and I don't even know who she was.
For a long time, I didn't tell anyone at all that I had a blog because it seemed so incredibly trivial and self-indulgent. Also, I could not hate the word "blog" any more if I tried. I started it to encourage myself to write anything at all. I thought that the theoretical notion of an audience might help me show up. It didn't, not really, because I am inherently lazy and writing--even silly, brief writing--is harder than it looks. Also, writing for a theoretical audience is like the absurd suggestion that setting your clock ahead ten minutes will keep you from being late. That scheme seems to imply that you are not only tardy, but also an amnesiac who can go around changing your clocks and then entirely forgetting that you've done it. Both of these things are just you trying to outsmart you. Or, rather, me trying to outsmart me. I'm harder to fool than that, it turns out. This is why the advent of the Blog Bully was such a boon. One non-theoretical audience member. One person who is not me who cares whether I write anything or not. It is strangely powerful.
Sometimes I write things here that I consider capital W Writing, but mostly not. It's been a long time since I've devoted any energy to what I consider "real" writing and, lately, that work has been for performance more than for would-be publication. Meanwhile, if I weren't here, my writing would be limited exclusively to my personal correspondence (which, I'll have you know, is sparkling as all get-out) and, like the Italian verbs conjugations I briefly knew and promptly forgot, I might lose the knack altogether for lack of practice.
The reality is, in order to show up here with any kind of regularity, I am obliged, truly, to write anything that occurs to me. Indeed, I am always very relieved when something does occur to me.
Perhaps it doesn't count as writing, but I'm practicing. Thanks for standing by.
Friday, May 24, 2013
It's not easy being green
The end of the school year is a veritable frenzy of events and acknowledgements. It's all cakes and presents and details, details, details. I know it is only my imagination that I am in charge of all of these things, but it feels as though I am in charge of all of these things.
Today, with a start, I realized that I had not yet ordered the hundreds upon hundreds of service items required for graduation. Where there is cake and cider, there need also be plates and cups. For many years, we've been using compostable everything for this. The plates are made of grass; the cups are made of corn; the forks are made of potato. I don't know what the napkins are made of, but they are a very drab color, so they must be virtuous. I was given a price sheet from a different, slightly cheaper vendor this year and was all set to place an order when I noticed that they are in Brooklyn. When you are in San Francisco, having your compostable forks shipped all the way from Brooklyn is to miss a bit of the environmental point. (Mind you, it is also possible that only Brooklyn and San Francisco have ever encountered a compostable fork, which suggests we may be missing a far more daunting environmental point, but that's to ponder another day.)
Begrudgingly, I went back to our local green office supply vendor's baffling website and began the annual adventure of decoding their numerous product categories. After a longish time, I had managed to add the plates, cups, and forks to my shopping cart. But where, pray tell, are the napkins? They are not in kitchen/food service supplies. They are not in paper supplies. Indeed, they don't appear to be anywhere among the TWENTY-FOUR categories of products listed. Among these is the curious office supply option of Art&Nature/Wildlife Photography Gallery. I clicked on it. For all I knew, they were hiding the napkins in there. Nope. Here are the subcategories:
Images-Bears
Images-Birds and Owls
Images-Other Wildlife
Images-Sea Life
Images-Scenics
So, if you're having a party where you need plates, cups, forks, and [presumably recyclable] images of bears, you're in luck. I know just the place.
You need napkins? You're wrong. You don't need napkins. Anyway, we don't sell that kind of thing around here. Wipe the frosting on your skirt and move along.
Today, with a start, I realized that I had not yet ordered the hundreds upon hundreds of service items required for graduation. Where there is cake and cider, there need also be plates and cups. For many years, we've been using compostable everything for this. The plates are made of grass; the cups are made of corn; the forks are made of potato. I don't know what the napkins are made of, but they are a very drab color, so they must be virtuous. I was given a price sheet from a different, slightly cheaper vendor this year and was all set to place an order when I noticed that they are in Brooklyn. When you are in San Francisco, having your compostable forks shipped all the way from Brooklyn is to miss a bit of the environmental point. (Mind you, it is also possible that only Brooklyn and San Francisco have ever encountered a compostable fork, which suggests we may be missing a far more daunting environmental point, but that's to ponder another day.)
Begrudgingly, I went back to our local green office supply vendor's baffling website and began the annual adventure of decoding their numerous product categories. After a longish time, I had managed to add the plates, cups, and forks to my shopping cart. But where, pray tell, are the napkins? They are not in kitchen/food service supplies. They are not in paper supplies. Indeed, they don't appear to be anywhere among the TWENTY-FOUR categories of products listed. Among these is the curious office supply option of Art&Nature/Wildlife Photography Gallery. I clicked on it. For all I knew, they were hiding the napkins in there. Nope. Here are the subcategories:
Images-Bears
Images-Birds and Owls
Images-Other Wildlife
Images-Sea Life
Images-Scenics
So, if you're having a party where you need plates, cups, forks, and [presumably recyclable] images of bears, you're in luck. I know just the place.
You need napkins? You're wrong. You don't need napkins. Anyway, we don't sell that kind of thing around here. Wipe the frosting on your skirt and move along.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Take two
I just wrote a whole thing and then realized it wasn't true, so I erased deleted it (isn't it quaint how I still accidentally say things like "erase?") and now where are we? Nowheresville. Hmmm.
All right. I'll tell you this. I saw eight (for your future reference eight is actually more than enough. Eight is too many) student-written one acts yesterday. They went pretty well, in fact, but, what with the set changes, it was almost interminable.
One play has a sort of prologue courtship montage. You know the sort of thing. A voiceover narration and little glimpses of the couple picnicking, skating, driving in a convertible, attending a sporting event, etc. (What? I like romantic comedies. I'm not ashamed.) In the play, the montage is mostly achieved by the actors standing in front of various projected backdrops (for instance, "They went to a soccer game." Actors stand in front of projection of a stadium and say "Yay!") But there was also, "They attended the amateur wine-making festival." Projection of a vineyard. The actors move to a barrel stage right; the boy, almost twice the height of the girl, lifts her straight up and sets her the barrel. She begins stomping.
Theatrical gold.
All right. I'll tell you this. I saw eight (for your future reference eight is actually more than enough. Eight is too many) student-written one acts yesterday. They went pretty well, in fact, but, what with the set changes, it was almost interminable.
One play has a sort of prologue courtship montage. You know the sort of thing. A voiceover narration and little glimpses of the couple picnicking, skating, driving in a convertible, attending a sporting event, etc. (What? I like romantic comedies. I'm not ashamed.) In the play, the montage is mostly achieved by the actors standing in front of various projected backdrops (for instance, "They went to a soccer game." Actors stand in front of projection of a stadium and say "Yay!") But there was also, "They attended the amateur wine-making festival." Projection of a vineyard. The actors move to a barrel stage right; the boy, almost twice the height of the girl, lifts her straight up and sets her the barrel. She begins stomping.
Theatrical gold.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Consolation prize
A mother is leaving BiRite with her small son. He turns toward the left and she turns toward the right.
"Oh, no, honey. We're going to walk down Valencia. So, you won't see any streetcars, but you will see Google buses!"
*****
It occurs to me belatedly that this is only funny if you live in San Francisco and since I have a vast international readership (what? someone I know lives in Switzerland. Also, the blog "stats" [which I am compelled to put in quotes because I understand them not at all] suggest that I have readership in Russia? This seems very implausible, but the stats, they say so.) I will undertake to explain why this is funny, which, as you know, is the very best way to tell a joke.
Though "Google Bus" evokes images of something magical or, at the very least, whimsical (Is it like the psychedelic tour bus in The Muppet Movie? Is it like the night bus in Harry Potter? Is is some kind of amazing think tank on wheels?), there is really nothing all that fascinating about Google buses. They are very large (I believe they have two stories of seating). They are white. They are ALL OVER my neighborhood. And, their sole purpose is to transport Google employees to and from work. A corollary is to illustrate to the rest of San Francisco that half of the city's population is seemingly employed by Google. Those of us who do not work for Google can be um... a wee bit tetchy about the ubiquity of the exclusive cool-kid transport, (like here and here and here) but, now we know at least one toddler is super excited about them.
See?
Funny.
"Oh, no, honey. We're going to walk down Valencia. So, you won't see any streetcars, but you will see Google buses!"
*****
It occurs to me belatedly that this is only funny if you live in San Francisco and since I have a vast international readership (what? someone I know lives in Switzerland. Also, the blog "stats" [which I am compelled to put in quotes because I understand them not at all] suggest that I have readership in Russia? This seems very implausible, but the stats, they say so.) I will undertake to explain why this is funny, which, as you know, is the very best way to tell a joke.
Though "Google Bus" evokes images of something magical or, at the very least, whimsical (Is it like the psychedelic tour bus in The Muppet Movie? Is it like the night bus in Harry Potter? Is is some kind of amazing think tank on wheels?), there is really nothing all that fascinating about Google buses. They are very large (I believe they have two stories of seating). They are white. They are ALL OVER my neighborhood. And, their sole purpose is to transport Google employees to and from work. A corollary is to illustrate to the rest of San Francisco that half of the city's population is seemingly employed by Google. Those of us who do not work for Google can be um... a wee bit tetchy about the ubiquity of the exclusive cool-kid transport, (like here and here and here) but, now we know at least one toddler is super excited about them.
See?
Funny.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Photo album
I was going to have to resort to more stories about how I've been falling asleep on the sofa every night, then [usually] relocating to bed where I am subsequently unable to fall asleep. Is it really frustrating and kind of pathetic? Oh, yes. Is it an interesting story? Not at all.
Imagine my delight then when a friend posted this link on Facebook. You are spared! I don't usually cheat in this particular way, but these pictures are pretty amazing. I'm a little ashamed, but my favorite is young Joseph Stalin. I mean, c'mon. Just look at him. Why is no one ever inviting me to parties with young Joseph Stalin?
Imagine my delight then when a friend posted this link on Facebook. You are spared! I don't usually cheat in this particular way, but these pictures are pretty amazing. I'm a little ashamed, but my favorite is young Joseph Stalin. I mean, c'mon. Just look at him. Why is no one ever inviting me to parties with young Joseph Stalin?
Monday, May 20, 2013
Remember that time?
There are many conversations one might have with one's mother that are fairly universal. If I told you I had a conversation with my mother about my posture or about my marriage prospects or getting enough sleep, you might say, "Oh, lordy. My mother said just the same thing!"
The conversation we had yesterday wasn't one of those. All right, look. I was going to be too polite to say it, but here it is: the conversation we had yesterday makes my mom cooler than yours. Sorry about that.
Ladies and gentlemen, Aunt Dot.
The conversation we had yesterday wasn't one of those. All right, look. I was going to be too polite to say it, but here it is: the conversation we had yesterday makes my mom cooler than yours. Sorry about that.
Me: I saw this cool movie at the Roxie yesterday. It was an Othello adaptation, but set in the jazz world. Dave Brubeck and Charles Mingus are in it as themselves. They're just playing at a party.When she said jazz was interesting, she meant it. She knew a thing or two about music.
My mother: I told you about that time I went with Aunt Dot to hear Charles Mingus in the Village, right?
She listened really intently the whole time and said, "That's so interesting."
Ladies and gentlemen, Aunt Dot.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Is it summer yet?
I think it must be summer. For one thing, the tourists are out in full force. Even at the late-lunch hour of 2pm*, the Haight Street Market was overflowing with people ordering sandwiches in interesting accents; some lady mistakenly went in to browse in the shoe repair shop; and everyone is wearing brightly-colored sneakers and meandering slowly down the [filthy] sidewalk four abreast.
Also, I can't stop thinking about my vacation as though I needed to pack tonight when, in fact, it's a month away. A whole month! A month during which I will worry constantly about what shoes to pack. This has become my latest preoccupation though, sadly, it is largely irrelevant which shoes I pack because my feet seem to have deteriorated to the point where there is no such thing as a comfortable shoe. Every morning I wake up with aching ankles, which seems like a rather esoteric malady, but no less concerning for its exoticism. Yesterday I walked about four blocks and there is still residual throbbing nearly 24 hours later. Not good. Usually, I do a great deal more walking in New York than I do at home, but maybe not this time. Taxi drivers, things are looking good for you.
Tomorrow, in an act of reckless hope, I'm going to a foot clinic at a local pilates studio. In addition to the class fee, I have to buy a "foot kit" for $25 though I believe it is comprised of quite ordinary balls of various sizes (I'm thinking tennis ball, super ball, etc.) that I could get elsewhere for much less, but since I haven't actually seen them, can't. Sigh. The pilates people are very clear that "there will no foot kits for loan!" Slightly disappointing, but since we're supposed to be rubbing our bare, flawed feet all over them, it's probably just as well. What if I got someone else's foot cooties? Maybe someone else has leprosy or something. The last thing I need at this point is more to be wrong with my feet/ankles/knees/hips. It's already a festival of ow.
If the Rub Your Foot on a Ball cure doesn't work (an outcome that seems very likely), I think I'm going to hire four strapping men to carry me around on a litter. If I'm going to be infirm, I might as well be glamorous about it. Surely someone in this town has already constructed a litter for Burning Man or their burlesque show or something. I'll bet I can rent it cheap for the off season.
*I really shouldn't wait till 2pm to eat lunch, particularly since I seldom eat breakfast. When I get that hungry, I can't resist the sultry come-hither of the chocolate milkshake. I know this. As I greedily hoovered it in while waiting in the deli line for a more sensible lunch option, three tourists asked me where I got it. I do appreciate knowing that I'm not the only one afflicted with milkshake weakness. However, by the time I'd gotten my sandwich, the milkshake was gone and, unsurprisingly, I was (and am) no longer hungry. My sandwich, fully wrapped, is hurumphing beside me even as we speak.
I'll be honest, this week hasn't been so hot. It's been all falling asleep fully clothed on the sofa, unauthorized hotdogs and milkshakes, general slovenliness, and crazy leg-aching. I have high hopes for next week, though. See you there.
Also, I can't stop thinking about my vacation as though I needed to pack tonight when, in fact, it's a month away. A whole month! A month during which I will worry constantly about what shoes to pack. This has become my latest preoccupation though, sadly, it is largely irrelevant which shoes I pack because my feet seem to have deteriorated to the point where there is no such thing as a comfortable shoe. Every morning I wake up with aching ankles, which seems like a rather esoteric malady, but no less concerning for its exoticism. Yesterday I walked about four blocks and there is still residual throbbing nearly 24 hours later. Not good. Usually, I do a great deal more walking in New York than I do at home, but maybe not this time. Taxi drivers, things are looking good for you.
Tomorrow, in an act of reckless hope, I'm going to a foot clinic at a local pilates studio. In addition to the class fee, I have to buy a "foot kit" for $25 though I believe it is comprised of quite ordinary balls of various sizes (I'm thinking tennis ball, super ball, etc.) that I could get elsewhere for much less, but since I haven't actually seen them, can't. Sigh. The pilates people are very clear that "there will no foot kits for loan!" Slightly disappointing, but since we're supposed to be rubbing our bare, flawed feet all over them, it's probably just as well. What if I got someone else's foot cooties? Maybe someone else has leprosy or something. The last thing I need at this point is more to be wrong with my feet/ankles/knees/hips. It's already a festival of ow.
If the Rub Your Foot on a Ball cure doesn't work (an outcome that seems very likely), I think I'm going to hire four strapping men to carry me around on a litter. If I'm going to be infirm, I might as well be glamorous about it. Surely someone in this town has already constructed a litter for Burning Man or their burlesque show or something. I'll bet I can rent it cheap for the off season.
*I really shouldn't wait till 2pm to eat lunch, particularly since I seldom eat breakfast. When I get that hungry, I can't resist the sultry come-hither of the chocolate milkshake. I know this. As I greedily hoovered it in while waiting in the deli line for a more sensible lunch option, three tourists asked me where I got it. I do appreciate knowing that I'm not the only one afflicted with milkshake weakness. However, by the time I'd gotten my sandwich, the milkshake was gone and, unsurprisingly, I was (and am) no longer hungry. My sandwich, fully wrapped, is hurumphing beside me even as we speak.
I'll be honest, this week hasn't been so hot. It's been all falling asleep fully clothed on the sofa, unauthorized hotdogs and milkshakes, general slovenliness, and crazy leg-aching. I have high hopes for next week, though. See you there.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Slow learner
Why do I go and say things like "tomorrow I'll tell you a great story about pee" when I know I might not? And now I'm a big liar?
I'm not a completely pathological liar or anything. There really is a pee story in your future; I'm just busy of late and weirdly exhausted. (There's this thing happening where I stay up too late, then have trouble falling asleep, despite my enthusiasm for the project. In the morning, the Upstairs Baby wakes me an hour or more before my alarm [not cool, UB] so I put in earplugs and continue sleeping, but have vivid dreams about the Upstairs Baby. This has been happening every day for weeks. It's not restful, is what I'm saying.) Still, I didn't want to flake out completely. So here I am. Hi.
Last night I went to see All Through the Night at the Roxie. Have you ever seen a Humphrey Bogart movie that you never even knew existed? It's very exciting. It's a helluva picture. The one-liners don't quit. Plus, a bunch of hoods take down a bunch of Nazis in New York. One of them, of course, is Peter Lorre. It was my idea of a large evening.
On my way smilingly back to my car, some guy slightly ahead of me on the sidewalk, riding a scooter (the kind you stand on and push with your foot, not the kind the belle regazze putter through Rome on) said to me, "They were really letting that guy get into it." "Who?" I asked. "That drummer back there?" "No. The guy at that table. They were all leaning in and he was going, 'I mean, the universe is relative.'" He went on imitating the guy for a bit. "Usually I notice stuff like that," I told him. "But, I missed it." "I find the scooter is really good for that. I listen really intently--and then I'm gone." "Yeah. That sounds like a good eavesdropping strategy," I agreed. "Plus," he said, "I'm a stand up." He swung his scooter around. "I'm going to go back there and hear some more." And off he scooted into the night. If you frequent the comedy clubs, stay tuned for that bit. It'll knock 'em dead.
Tonight in an effort to Be a Grown Up, I addressed myself to the slowly expiring vegetables in the refrigerator. I sauteed a pound of mushrooms with some garlic and red pepper flakes. I steamed some asparagus and topped it with meyer lemon juice. I put on the water to boil for the pasta that would bring the whole thing together and...had no pasta in the pantry.
And so, as circumstances dictated, I had two hot dogs and a glass of cabernet.
Speaking of knockin' 'em dead, I am killing it over here--seven days a week, y'all.
Last night I went to see All Through the Night at the Roxie. Have you ever seen a Humphrey Bogart movie that you never even knew existed? It's very exciting. It's a helluva picture. The one-liners don't quit. Plus, a bunch of hoods take down a bunch of Nazis in New York. One of them, of course, is Peter Lorre. It was my idea of a large evening.
On my way smilingly back to my car, some guy slightly ahead of me on the sidewalk, riding a scooter (the kind you stand on and push with your foot, not the kind the belle regazze putter through Rome on) said to me, "They were really letting that guy get into it." "Who?" I asked. "That drummer back there?" "No. The guy at that table. They were all leaning in and he was going, 'I mean, the universe is relative.'" He went on imitating the guy for a bit. "Usually I notice stuff like that," I told him. "But, I missed it." "I find the scooter is really good for that. I listen really intently--and then I'm gone." "Yeah. That sounds like a good eavesdropping strategy," I agreed. "Plus," he said, "I'm a stand up." He swung his scooter around. "I'm going to go back there and hear some more." And off he scooted into the night. If you frequent the comedy clubs, stay tuned for that bit. It'll knock 'em dead.
Tonight in an effort to Be a Grown Up, I addressed myself to the slowly expiring vegetables in the refrigerator. I sauteed a pound of mushrooms with some garlic and red pepper flakes. I steamed some asparagus and topped it with meyer lemon juice. I put on the water to boil for the pasta that would bring the whole thing together and...had no pasta in the pantry.
And so, as circumstances dictated, I had two hot dogs and a glass of cabernet.
Speaking of knockin' 'em dead, I am killing it over here--seven days a week, y'all.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Promises, promises
Oh dear lord. Here it is Tuesday already, which means I'm a day behind on my entirely arbitrarily self-assigned blogging schedule. Egads!
The good news is that tomorrow I'll have a long story to tell you. It's about urine. You'll love it.
For now you'll have to content yourself with the knowledge that I saw the Blog Bully on Friday, which is always a delight, and we saw a really brilliant play, which, when it happens, is also always a delight. You know what else was delightful? The post-show gin I drank. On the whole, Friday really exceeded my expectations, which was fortunate since Pee Saturday wasn't that great.
Do you live around these parts? Are you amenable to Scots swearing a great deal? If so, you really ought to get yourself down to see Black Watch while it's playing at the Armory. It is theatre that takes full advantage of its own genre in a way that is very satisfying. By this I mean that the best plays could only be plays--not novels, not movies. They make full use of a theatrical vocabulary that requires a sort of collaboration between the audience and the performers to give it life. I realize that this sounds disgustingly pretentious while also being almost entirely unclear, which is not an ideal combination for any sentence, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
Short version: it's a great play. Go see it.
Now I'm off to the Roxie for a Noir double feature. Because, hey, I like movies too.
The good news is that tomorrow I'll have a long story to tell you. It's about urine. You'll love it.
For now you'll have to content yourself with the knowledge that I saw the Blog Bully on Friday, which is always a delight, and we saw a really brilliant play, which, when it happens, is also always a delight. You know what else was delightful? The post-show gin I drank. On the whole, Friday really exceeded my expectations, which was fortunate since Pee Saturday wasn't that great.
Do you live around these parts? Are you amenable to Scots swearing a great deal? If so, you really ought to get yourself down to see Black Watch while it's playing at the Armory. It is theatre that takes full advantage of its own genre in a way that is very satisfying. By this I mean that the best plays could only be plays--not novels, not movies. They make full use of a theatrical vocabulary that requires a sort of collaboration between the audience and the performers to give it life. I realize that this sounds disgustingly pretentious while also being almost entirely unclear, which is not an ideal combination for any sentence, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
Short version: it's a great play. Go see it.
Now I'm off to the Roxie for a Noir double feature. Because, hey, I like movies too.
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