I don't have a lot of memories of my dad. He died when I was seven years old, and before that, he was always at work. He was there, and I'm sure he loved us, but the personal narratives I have stored in my brain are few and far between. This is one of them.
I've always loved music. Most likely, it came from my mom and her family, a group of strikingly white haired great aunts and grandmother who probably could have formed their own singing group had they gotten along better.
I got music wherever I could get it. It started with a record player with the face of a cartoon character pasted on it. Then a Barbie record player. Both of them from a Sears catalogue. The played records, and that's what really mattered. I had disney records. Story on one side, songs on the other. My favorite songs were from The Jungle Book and Mary Poppins.
My Aunt was the source of my first great album. She'd left a pile of albums on her curb. Music she didn't want any more. I don't quite understand how one abandons music at the curb, but at six years old, I went through and took what I wanted. Among them, The Beatles - Revolver. I love that music today. Sometimes I still cry from Eleanor Rigby. For No One reminds me of my most dear adolescent boyfriend. Good Day Sunshine is remains an anthem for joy.
With music comes dancing. Like many, I danced much sooner than I walked. I can imagine my mother, 5 years younger than I am now, watching her new baby bobbling up and down at the knees and hips. Maybe a goofy drooly grin. I'm sure my mother loved it and encouraged it. Oddly, I wish I could have been there.
By the time I was six, I had become accustomed to listening to music in the morning in my room. Before school, on Saturday or Sunday mornings. And, by then, it was no secret in my family that I spent much of that time dancing. It's only for my mother's efforts I was not habitually late for school.
One Saturday morning I was in my room listening to music and dancing in front of my mirror. My door wasn't closed all the way, which wasn't unusual, except when I looked up into the vulnerable crack, there was my dad's face just beaming. His glasses, goatee, dark curly hair, big smile. Of course, I was a serious child who took herself seriously. My sense of humor ended where I began. The embarassment of being watched and enjoyed was just too much for me, and I burst into angry tears. Without a pause, my father pushed open the door, scooped me up and walked me around. Just held me. By then, my father had become truly entrenched in his work, and there wasn't much time for individual attention or affection. There's nothing I can say to describe the bliss I felt being held and comforted for those two minutes before he left for work. I was so loved. I remember the blue of the walls of the room. I remember getting a glimpse of what I looked like in my dad's arms, from the reflection in a wall mirror. My head on his shoulder, as if it happened every day.
When he put me down, I was left wanting more. So much so, he had to disentangle himself from me. At the time, I felt as if I had ruined the moment. Now I know I simply wanted more of a wonderful thing.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Well Dressed Man
On the bus to work yesterday morning, I was sitting facing the aisle. When the aisle starts to fill up with standing passengers, you tend to notice all their details. There's no window to mentally escape out of. You just stare at the wall of people, and hope no one's belly mashes you in the face after a particularly hard brake.
Yesterday, staring at the people wall, I noticed a guy. He wasn't particularly good looking, but he wasn't ugly either. He had smart glasses on, and one of those wool newspaper boy caps on. The kind Brad Pitt wears to the point of tedium. I looked at the rest of his outfit. His nicely worn satchel was the same warm tobacco color as his belt. His sweater - a thin wool with muted colored horizontal stripes - fit his trim figure perfectly, and was accented nicely by a simple clean button down underneath. His jeans were clearly a nice quality, deep blue, and straight legged. His shoes were not too pointy European, but not a bowler shoe either. In short, he was impeccibly, yet simply dressed. If a man of mine dressed like that, I'd be proud.
So, my well dressed friend got off the bus with me at Montgomery St. And then stood beside me as we waited for the light to change. I looked over at him one last time before I decided, YES, I should definitely tell him how impressed I am with his fashion choices. Wouldn't I be thrilled if someone did that for me? Stick their neck out on a Wednesday morning to spread positive sentiment? YES.
"I'm sorry, I just needed to tell you. Your outfit is SO well put together. It's just great."
"...giggle,ah,heh,giggle..."
and he walked away. He literally did not have a language driven response. On top of that, he walked away from me. I gave him a piece of cake, he gobbled it up with a big grin, and then walked away, still chewing, crumbs falling in large clusters from his mouth.
Let me be clear. I was not at all interested in this guy on the boy/girl level. But I DID think there might be the possibility of a "thank you" or a breezy conversation as we walked to our respective office buildings. There's just no accounting for people sometimes. It's ok. I hope I started his day out right.
Yesterday, staring at the people wall, I noticed a guy. He wasn't particularly good looking, but he wasn't ugly either. He had smart glasses on, and one of those wool newspaper boy caps on. The kind Brad Pitt wears to the point of tedium. I looked at the rest of his outfit. His nicely worn satchel was the same warm tobacco color as his belt. His sweater - a thin wool with muted colored horizontal stripes - fit his trim figure perfectly, and was accented nicely by a simple clean button down underneath. His jeans were clearly a nice quality, deep blue, and straight legged. His shoes were not too pointy European, but not a bowler shoe either. In short, he was impeccibly, yet simply dressed. If a man of mine dressed like that, I'd be proud.
So, my well dressed friend got off the bus with me at Montgomery St. And then stood beside me as we waited for the light to change. I looked over at him one last time before I decided, YES, I should definitely tell him how impressed I am with his fashion choices. Wouldn't I be thrilled if someone did that for me? Stick their neck out on a Wednesday morning to spread positive sentiment? YES.
"I'm sorry, I just needed to tell you. Your outfit is SO well put together. It's just great."
"...giggle,ah,heh,giggle..."
and he walked away. He literally did not have a language driven response. On top of that, he walked away from me. I gave him a piece of cake, he gobbled it up with a big grin, and then walked away, still chewing, crumbs falling in large clusters from his mouth.
Let me be clear. I was not at all interested in this guy on the boy/girl level. But I DID think there might be the possibility of a "thank you" or a breezy conversation as we walked to our respective office buildings. There's just no accounting for people sometimes. It's ok. I hope I started his day out right.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
2 Bad Things I Noticed Yesterday
Sometimes I think people wouldn't want to hear about this stuff. But then I realized it's good to expand. Is it good to expand? Maybe not always. But now, yes.
Of course, this all takes place on the bus on the way home yesterday.
1. ONE LEGGED LOOKOUT. Market Street is the big avenue leading to downtown. In Detroit, we would call it Woodward. It even runs at an angle rather than North/South or East/West just like home. When taking a bus downtown, probably half the lines will drop you off and pick you up on Market St, as does mine.
If you've been to San Francisco, you'll know we have an inexcusably large homeless population. And I'd say the majority of them are drug addicts for one reason or another. Some became homeless because of their habit. Some are self medicating a serious mental illness. I was friends with a woman who once watched a schizophrenic homeless man cross the street just to punch her in the face. We're talking seriously mentally ill people. Thank you Reagan.
Between 8th St and 5th St, you've got a LOT of action going on. Sometimes you look out the bus window, and it's like a scene from a movie. Devastated homeless, toothless addicts limping along, absolutely reeking of their own personal brand of desperation. It disgusts me at the same time I want to scoop up all these people to give them a bath for their insides as well as their outsides. I have friends who are outreach workers. I couldn't do what they do. I couldn't see this all day long without it seriously warping my head.
The first time I ever saw someone smoke crack was on Market St. For some reason many homeless feel free to do their thing on this major thoroughfare. There are little alcoves and entry ways in which to shove oneself in order to have a moment with their god, but none disguise what's going on.
Yesterday, from the bus, I saw a man do just that. Shoved face first into what I thought was barely an indent along an empty building front, I could see him hunching over a pipe with a lighter. A few feet away, I saw a woman on crutches with heavy baggy army clothes, a short punk hairstyle I associate with my childhood, peircings, and 1 and 1/2 legs. She was clearly associated with the crackie in the corner. She was clearly his lookout. Scanning up and down the street for a cop or an uptight citizen? She is one of many young people in this city I've seen with an amputated appendage. I remember explaining to my last boyfriend why they didn't have a full set of arms and legs. From my five years as a needle exchange volunteer, I knew these kids would shoot up using a dirty, barbed, old needle, and then get an infection. They'd let that infection go so long, their arm or leg (mostly legs for some reason) would become gangrenous. They'd show up at SF General to have the infection removed. That meant either an area of their body looked like someone took an ice cream scoop to the flesh beneath the skin, or they'd lost part of their arm or leg. And they hate those doctors over at SF General. They'd call them butchers when I'd ask about their freshly bandaged wounds. It seemed more like a natural resentment toward someone who took a peice of them. No matter how poisonous that peice may be.
This poor lost soul, balancing on her crutches with her 1 1/2 legs, her tough girl look, and whatever could be left of her dignity, watching out for her friend, helping him ride down the same path of self destruction.
2. SUN GAZER. Not 3 minutes later, the bus turned off onto McAllister St. That particular area has probably the worst and oldest homeless or semi homeless population. People living among rats and cockroaches, eating their meals out of corner stores, trying to stay as drunk as possible as long as possible. Fighting. Everyone is always fighting. Hurriedly frenetically crookedly striding from one corner to the next. Drug addicts have a particular sideways walk. One hip inevitably turns more forward than the other, while their arms swing wide and stiff. Especially meth addicts. More in women. And in a land where people stay young unnaturally long, there is nothing but age and exhaustion on these faces. No hope.
There is a residence hotel just off of Market, on McAllister, and when I pass on the bus, I take note of the people congregating in its lobby and on its sidewalk. Mostly, they're men, older black men, and maybe a bit more calm. They almost seem like they're in recovery. I never see a woman amongst them. Maybe this is a step up from most of the places in the neighborhood. But yesterday, there was a white man in his 30s standing outside the hotel. I looked into his upturned face, and noticed his eyes almost seemed to be in convulsions. Flittering but very hard. He was alone, and no one was taking any notice of him.
It was then I understood the angle of his face. He was staring directly at the sun. Unmoving. Eyelids convulsing. I could feel panick rising in my chest like a thermometer. He's going to burn out his eyes, I thought. For some reason, I looked around at the other people on the bus to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing. They were not. I felt as if I should yell out the bus window. "Stop staring at the sun God damnit!" Seriously. I didn't. WHY NOT? I can only assume it was my overdeveloped sense of propriety. I should have yelled. I should have yelled because no one else was yelling at that stupid fuck. What the hell was he on? Please tell me it wasn't some pathetic 60s throwback, and he was on acid. As if some other explanation would have been better. My god, just standing there in his dockers and sweater and clean shaved face. He looked completely normal in presentation. I watched so many people walk by him. Did they not notice? Or did they notice and understand he was not to be helped? Probably 1/2 a dozen people walked by while the bus was stopped in front of the hotel.
And then the bus jerked forward.
I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about him. I should have yelled. The self within myself was chiding me, I should have yelled.
Of course, this all takes place on the bus on the way home yesterday.
1. ONE LEGGED LOOKOUT. Market Street is the big avenue leading to downtown. In Detroit, we would call it Woodward. It even runs at an angle rather than North/South or East/West just like home. When taking a bus downtown, probably half the lines will drop you off and pick you up on Market St, as does mine.
If you've been to San Francisco, you'll know we have an inexcusably large homeless population. And I'd say the majority of them are drug addicts for one reason or another. Some became homeless because of their habit. Some are self medicating a serious mental illness. I was friends with a woman who once watched a schizophrenic homeless man cross the street just to punch her in the face. We're talking seriously mentally ill people. Thank you Reagan.
Between 8th St and 5th St, you've got a LOT of action going on. Sometimes you look out the bus window, and it's like a scene from a movie. Devastated homeless, toothless addicts limping along, absolutely reeking of their own personal brand of desperation. It disgusts me at the same time I want to scoop up all these people to give them a bath for their insides as well as their outsides. I have friends who are outreach workers. I couldn't do what they do. I couldn't see this all day long without it seriously warping my head.
The first time I ever saw someone smoke crack was on Market St. For some reason many homeless feel free to do their thing on this major thoroughfare. There are little alcoves and entry ways in which to shove oneself in order to have a moment with their god, but none disguise what's going on.
Yesterday, from the bus, I saw a man do just that. Shoved face first into what I thought was barely an indent along an empty building front, I could see him hunching over a pipe with a lighter. A few feet away, I saw a woman on crutches with heavy baggy army clothes, a short punk hairstyle I associate with my childhood, peircings, and 1 and 1/2 legs. She was clearly associated with the crackie in the corner. She was clearly his lookout. Scanning up and down the street for a cop or an uptight citizen? She is one of many young people in this city I've seen with an amputated appendage. I remember explaining to my last boyfriend why they didn't have a full set of arms and legs. From my five years as a needle exchange volunteer, I knew these kids would shoot up using a dirty, barbed, old needle, and then get an infection. They'd let that infection go so long, their arm or leg (mostly legs for some reason) would become gangrenous. They'd show up at SF General to have the infection removed. That meant either an area of their body looked like someone took an ice cream scoop to the flesh beneath the skin, or they'd lost part of their arm or leg. And they hate those doctors over at SF General. They'd call them butchers when I'd ask about their freshly bandaged wounds. It seemed more like a natural resentment toward someone who took a peice of them. No matter how poisonous that peice may be.
This poor lost soul, balancing on her crutches with her 1 1/2 legs, her tough girl look, and whatever could be left of her dignity, watching out for her friend, helping him ride down the same path of self destruction.
2. SUN GAZER. Not 3 minutes later, the bus turned off onto McAllister St. That particular area has probably the worst and oldest homeless or semi homeless population. People living among rats and cockroaches, eating their meals out of corner stores, trying to stay as drunk as possible as long as possible. Fighting. Everyone is always fighting. Hurriedly frenetically crookedly striding from one corner to the next. Drug addicts have a particular sideways walk. One hip inevitably turns more forward than the other, while their arms swing wide and stiff. Especially meth addicts. More in women. And in a land where people stay young unnaturally long, there is nothing but age and exhaustion on these faces. No hope.
There is a residence hotel just off of Market, on McAllister, and when I pass on the bus, I take note of the people congregating in its lobby and on its sidewalk. Mostly, they're men, older black men, and maybe a bit more calm. They almost seem like they're in recovery. I never see a woman amongst them. Maybe this is a step up from most of the places in the neighborhood. But yesterday, there was a white man in his 30s standing outside the hotel. I looked into his upturned face, and noticed his eyes almost seemed to be in convulsions. Flittering but very hard. He was alone, and no one was taking any notice of him.
It was then I understood the angle of his face. He was staring directly at the sun. Unmoving. Eyelids convulsing. I could feel panick rising in my chest like a thermometer. He's going to burn out his eyes, I thought. For some reason, I looked around at the other people on the bus to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing. They were not. I felt as if I should yell out the bus window. "Stop staring at the sun God damnit!" Seriously. I didn't. WHY NOT? I can only assume it was my overdeveloped sense of propriety. I should have yelled. I should have yelled because no one else was yelling at that stupid fuck. What the hell was he on? Please tell me it wasn't some pathetic 60s throwback, and he was on acid. As if some other explanation would have been better. My god, just standing there in his dockers and sweater and clean shaved face. He looked completely normal in presentation. I watched so many people walk by him. Did they not notice? Or did they notice and understand he was not to be helped? Probably 1/2 a dozen people walked by while the bus was stopped in front of the hotel.
And then the bus jerked forward.
I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about him. I should have yelled. The self within myself was chiding me, I should have yelled.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Weird things that happened to me yesterday
Everything listed happened yesterday after work. Up until that point, things were going swell.
1. EAST-WEST KNEES. On the bus home, a tiny guy sat next to me. Why is it guys on the smaller side insist on doing east-west knees? I understand sitting with legs akimbo, but NOT doing hip openers, pinning my leg with either the East or West wing in the process. This is RUDE as well as confusing. He was also short enough to use my lap as his elbow rest. That's what really got me. My solution was to wedge my large bag under and up, so that he'd be forced to move his appendages from my lap. When I got up, he gave me this smile as if to say, "Thanks for being an arm rest." I was roiling.
2. PURPLE VELVET. On the bus to yoga, I was sitting minding my business, AGAIN. This time I heard one stranger say to another stranger, "Purple is my favorite color." Yoinks? This is a perfectly normal statement for one friend to say to another, or a 5 year old to anyone, but not two strangers. My little antennae perked up, as I needed to hear what came next. "My NAME is Purple. Purple Velvet. I changed my name about ten years ago." Oh jesus God GOD! I couldn't see Purple Velvet, but I suspected she's awash in... purple. The other stranger, a kind faced woman I watched closely, reacted with restraint and a greater understanding of just how deep that particular rabbit hole went. Ms. Velvet then launched into a story about a woman who loved blue. Her whole house was blue. The way she said "blue" I could tell her face was pinched with mild disgust. When I got up this time, I looked down to see a small woman around 55 with tie dyed purple leggings, a floppy purple velvet hat with a large Renaissance Festival feather limply pinned to it's side. I couldn't really focus to see the rest of the outfit, as it would have caused an anxiety attack. There might have been a blazer of purple velvet as well
3. MY THERAPIST SAID. Between the bus and the yoga studio there are 2 blocks. On the first block, I approached a group of late teen early twenties skater boys. They were laughing and joking, and all of the sudden, I heard one of them say to the rest, "Well, that's what my therapist told me..." Of course, mental health is awesome, and it's good to know this 19 year old boy was looking after his. But in the history of my being, I've never known a 19 year old boy who could so confidently and comfortably utter that phrase. Bizarre? Yes. Generally Positive? Also, yes.
4. PICKLE JAR. I have a great love of good pickles. Not Vlasic or any other crappy name brand. I'm talking the big jar of pickles with the menorah and Hebrew on it. The kind where the large garlic chunks tempt you to fish them out once the pickles are gone. It's not uncommon for me to eat one every night after I get home from yoga. Last night, I dropped the damned jar. Pickle juice everywhere. I ate both remaining pickles as I felt a pickle without its brine is like a fish out of water. It could not survive for long. Before this incident, I had vowed to be as piggy in my apartment as I wanted to be, for the weekend was coming and when it came I would clean. In the meantime, I sopped up all the pickle juice and glass, quickly realizing the smell would only go away with a good mopping. Should I break my vow of slop? NO! Instead, I reasoned, I will not be at home tonight, as I will be attending a birthday party, which leaves just this morning and tomorrow morning to enjoy the vinegarry aroma, wafting to all corners of my small home.
It was a helluvah day...
1. EAST-WEST KNEES. On the bus home, a tiny guy sat next to me. Why is it guys on the smaller side insist on doing east-west knees? I understand sitting with legs akimbo, but NOT doing hip openers, pinning my leg with either the East or West wing in the process. This is RUDE as well as confusing. He was also short enough to use my lap as his elbow rest. That's what really got me. My solution was to wedge my large bag under and up, so that he'd be forced to move his appendages from my lap. When I got up, he gave me this smile as if to say, "Thanks for being an arm rest." I was roiling.
2. PURPLE VELVET. On the bus to yoga, I was sitting minding my business, AGAIN. This time I heard one stranger say to another stranger, "Purple is my favorite color." Yoinks? This is a perfectly normal statement for one friend to say to another, or a 5 year old to anyone, but not two strangers. My little antennae perked up, as I needed to hear what came next. "My NAME is Purple. Purple Velvet. I changed my name about ten years ago." Oh jesus God GOD! I couldn't see Purple Velvet, but I suspected she's awash in... purple. The other stranger, a kind faced woman I watched closely, reacted with restraint and a greater understanding of just how deep that particular rabbit hole went. Ms. Velvet then launched into a story about a woman who loved blue. Her whole house was blue. The way she said "blue" I could tell her face was pinched with mild disgust. When I got up this time, I looked down to see a small woman around 55 with tie dyed purple leggings, a floppy purple velvet hat with a large Renaissance Festival feather limply pinned to it's side. I couldn't really focus to see the rest of the outfit, as it would have caused an anxiety attack. There might have been a blazer of purple velvet as well
3. MY THERAPIST SAID. Between the bus and the yoga studio there are 2 blocks. On the first block, I approached a group of late teen early twenties skater boys. They were laughing and joking, and all of the sudden, I heard one of them say to the rest, "Well, that's what my therapist told me..." Of course, mental health is awesome, and it's good to know this 19 year old boy was looking after his. But in the history of my being, I've never known a 19 year old boy who could so confidently and comfortably utter that phrase. Bizarre? Yes. Generally Positive? Also, yes.
4. PICKLE JAR. I have a great love of good pickles. Not Vlasic or any other crappy name brand. I'm talking the big jar of pickles with the menorah and Hebrew on it. The kind where the large garlic chunks tempt you to fish them out once the pickles are gone. It's not uncommon for me to eat one every night after I get home from yoga. Last night, I dropped the damned jar. Pickle juice everywhere. I ate both remaining pickles as I felt a pickle without its brine is like a fish out of water. It could not survive for long. Before this incident, I had vowed to be as piggy in my apartment as I wanted to be, for the weekend was coming and when it came I would clean. In the meantime, I sopped up all the pickle juice and glass, quickly realizing the smell would only go away with a good mopping. Should I break my vow of slop? NO! Instead, I reasoned, I will not be at home tonight, as I will be attending a birthday party, which leaves just this morning and tomorrow morning to enjoy the vinegarry aroma, wafting to all corners of my small home.
It was a helluvah day...
Monday, March 2, 2009
Umbrella Etiquette
Say it's raining. Say you live in a city where most everyone walks on the sidewalks at some point or another in order to get to work. Say you don't really know how to use an umbrella under these circumstances. Here are just two tips.
1. Golf umbrellas. NO. If you can house a small family under the span of your umbrella, it is not appropriate for city sidewalks. Unless you're willing to share your shelter with someone who does not have an umbrella (you get extra points if it's a stranger you don't want to have sex with). If you're from Marin and you commute to the city, this is the umbrella you leave at home for inconsiderate walks in downtown San Anselmo. I don't care how nice your suit is, your umbrella is a menace.
2. Navigating. YES. Please do, when approached by other pedestrians, move your umbrella in any one of the following directions: Up, down, tilt left, tilt right. If you insist on a one-position umbrella, you will likely poke someone's eye out or snag their hair. You have snagged MY hair before. You've almost taken my sight as well.
Anyway, I know you will not heed these tips. I will see you on the sidewalk, approaching me without a care in the world until you catch some part of my person on your umbrella spokes and I come very close to giving you a quick jab to the kidney.
1. Golf umbrellas. NO. If you can house a small family under the span of your umbrella, it is not appropriate for city sidewalks. Unless you're willing to share your shelter with someone who does not have an umbrella (you get extra points if it's a stranger you don't want to have sex with). If you're from Marin and you commute to the city, this is the umbrella you leave at home for inconsiderate walks in downtown San Anselmo. I don't care how nice your suit is, your umbrella is a menace.
2. Navigating. YES. Please do, when approached by other pedestrians, move your umbrella in any one of the following directions: Up, down, tilt left, tilt right. If you insist on a one-position umbrella, you will likely poke someone's eye out or snag their hair. You have snagged MY hair before. You've almost taken my sight as well.
Anyway, I know you will not heed these tips. I will see you on the sidewalk, approaching me without a care in the world until you catch some part of my person on your umbrella spokes and I come very close to giving you a quick jab to the kidney.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Too Legal
I called a client who had some problems with the Terms and Conditions of our membership agreement. It's not all that uncommon, but from the edits sent to me, it looked like the client had crossed out entire sections, which is not so common.
When I got a hold of the client, I was told they were crossed out because those parts of the Terms and Conditions were "too legal".
too legal
When I got a hold of the client, I was told they were crossed out because those parts of the Terms and Conditions were "too legal".
too legal
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