We were strolling along a quaint boulevard in La Jolla. “Those!” I exclaimed. “Those are what I want!” He looked at me in disbelief. “Not a ring? Not a bracelet? Not a commemorative piece of jewelry?” “No. Those are what I want. Right there.”

He followed my finger to the red cowboy boots in the window of the western wear shop. It was our first wedding anniversary. They were the only thing that caught my eye that weekend.

He bought them for me, somewhat reluctantly, somehow feeling a piece of jewelry would better memorialize our first year of marriage spent together. Yet they are almost the only thing I took from our time together when I left. After six years, I packed a suitcase and moved in with a girlfriend, ready to put our life together behind me.

I still wear them, 10 years later. I love the way I feel when I wear them, the click, click, click of the heels presenting me as especially sassy, especially worthy of the strut I exhibit when in them.

Until now.

I noticed the heels were wearing down. I took them to the local shoe shop to have heel taps put on. Little did I know that they would not only replace the heel taps, but the entire heel. With a plastic substitute.

I no longer click when I walk. Instead I hear the thump, thump of a synthetic material. They’re still my red cowboy boots. And I still enjoy wearing them. But I don’t feel nearly as sassy.

Miss Teen Filipina

I’ve never been a big fan of beauty pageants. I’ve always felt they objectified women, and come on, don’t you have something better to spend your time doing? But when a respected co-worker told me her daughter was competing, and invited me to attend, I felt somewhat obligated. And besides, it could be fun…

Another co-worker and I met up beforehand for a pre-pageant drink. “This is going to be fun.” “Yeah, fun.”

And it was. All five hours of it.

The first part was truly enjoyable. The “Filipina dress” competition. The girls all looked lovely in their outfits, somewhat nervously parading across the stage, escorted by their awkward fathers.

The talent competition was next. Too many bad renditions of Christina Aguilera songs. Balanced by several moving songs sang in Tagalog.

Then the “Fitness Competition.” Read: euphemism for swimsuit competition.

More songs. More dances. Speeches by the sponsors. Appearances by last year’s winners. The evening gown competition.

“Are you up for a drink after this is over?” my colleague whispered.

“I’m up for several rounds of drinks….” I replied.

The top five contestants were announced. They came forward. They posed. They smiled. They postured.

Then it was time for the questions. You know. The questions. Where the appropriate answer is always, “World peace. I think we should strive for world peace.”

Except we noticed a format.

Each contestant would repeat the question, pause, answer, smile at the audience, then say, “Thank you.”

Which led us to spend the rest of the evening speaking in beauty pageant-ese. Sad, but true.

“R, if you could be any flavor of Johnny Rocket’s cola, which would it be?”

“L, if I could be any flavor of Johnny Rocket’s cola…. I would be…. lemon. Lemon, because I’m tart and sassy. (smile) Thank you.”

We’re Off To See The Wizard…

What better place to attend the Wizard of Oz Sing-A-Long than in San Francisco? In the Castro? On the big screen, where every queen wishes she were somewhere over the rainbow…

As I waited for the others to show up, I watched the moviegoers file in. Citizens of Oz, bedecked in every shade of green. Tiny Dorothys and Glendas, bedazed. Three little boys sporting overalls and slicked hair, members of the Lollipop Guild. A witch or two. Couples, Dorothy holding her Scarecrow’s hand. Glenda and the Wicked Witch of the East. Dorothy and Auntie Em.

It was magical watching Oz materialize on the big screen. Even more so because of the millions of tiny bubbles that floated through the theater as Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, drifted down to meet Dorothy. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. I felt the slickness of the bubbles explode on my bared skin. “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” the audience repeated in unison. Why did I like her when I was younger? Glenda is sickenly sweet annoying.

“Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road….” It was like singing karaoke with one thousand of your closest friends. All the memories of childhood flooded back. The terror each time the Wicked Witch of the West appeared on screen. Her evil laugh, her awful pointed nose. The fondness for the trio that accompanied Dorothy, the absolute fear when the flying monkeys set off to get them. The amazement at the horse of a different color; the triumph when Dorothy melted the witch (at last)!

As we left, we couldn’t help repeat, “There’s no place like home…” Especially when home is San Francisco.

It’s All Relative…

And if I lived in West Virginia, I’d probably be angry too. Actually, probably not. I’d appreciate the not-so-subtle play on words. I’d dismissively laugh at the inaccurate stereotype of kissing cousins in the Appalachian mountains. There are far more weighty issues to inspire anger. Laugh at all the others.

A Time For Everything…

A co-worker had the Weekly World News at her desk today, a tabloid I had never seen before, much less read. I flipped through it carelessly. On page 2, a large announcement: March 26 is wear your thong to work day. What will they think of next?

I See….

A blonde and a redhead were walking through the park. The redhead turns to the blonde and says, “Poor thing! Look at that dog with one eye.” The blonde covers one of her eyes and says, “Where?”

Eternal Sunshine…

We had planned to walk to the bridge, enjoying the sunny, Sunday afternoon, catching up on each other’s lives, enjoying each other’s company. But as we began our walk, the temperature dropped drastically, leaving us shivering and reconsidering our activity choice. We quickly changed course and headed to the local movie theater; we both wanted to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

108 minutes later, I sat numb. Sad. Depressed. Utterly despondent. Tired. I looked over at Tricia, wondering if she shared my emotions. She tossed her head and said, “At least we saved two dollars by coming to the matinee.”

I’ve had several hours to process the story, and can’t pinpoint why I’m still so sad. The basic plot is this: Joel and Clementine date, break up, and each have all memories of the other erased from their minds. During the process, however, Joel realizes he doesn’t want to lose all memories of Clementine. A struggle ensues.

It made me think of all my past relationships. Would I, had I the opportunity, choose to erase all memories of any of my past relationships? As bad, as painful, as some, as many, of those relationships have been, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even consider it. Even in the worst of my relationships, there were moments of tenderness, of intimacy, that I still cherish. And I wouldn’t choose to erase just the bad memories either, leaving me with just the good. I don’t want to forget the bad either. Maybe it’s the remembering of all of my memories that has made me sad. Or maybe it was witnessing all of the beautiful memories of Joel and Clementine vanish into oblivion.

The movie’s promo tagline is, “You can erase someone from your mind, getting them out of your heart is another story.” I think of all the people I’ve had relationships with, both male and female, that still occupy a territory of my heart, even though consciously they’re not in my life. Maybe that’s what I’m mourning.

“Sometimes I would rather that people take away years from my life than take away a moment.”

–Pearl Bailey

The phone rang; I didn’t recognize the number. As soon as I heard his voice, I burst into a smile. We talk every now and then, on average about once every six months. We dated many years ago then he moved back to Canada. We never really “broke up,” time and distance simply made it impossible to continue our relationship. After the cursory, “How are you?”s and “How have you been?”s we settled into the “What have you been up to?”s. This is the part that pains me when trying to communicate to those I only speak to on a random basis. How to capture the moments, those events, those special instances, that make up a life? I can say I traveled to London, but how to express the inspiration felt at the final curtain of Les Miserables, the empathy for those dead on stage? How to convey the elation of seeing multiple Picassos at the Tate Modern? I can say I received a promotion at work, but how to impart the surprise, the relief, the excitement I felt as my manager hugged me? As we spoke, I fell into the trap of trying to impart the “big picture” of life in San Francisco rather than focusing on those small moments that embody joy.

“Ronald McDonald Made Me Do It”

It pains me to think that Americans actually considered blaming the food industry for the obesity problem that plagues them. I am quite happy that the House of Representatives voted against the “Cheeseburger Bill.” I am somewhat dismayed that it was not unanimous. People, people, take responsibility for yourselves.

Flip Flop Girl

I never was a fan of the flip flops, until tonight. After my first pedicure of the spring season, my toes sparkling blood red, I decided to wear flip flops for the rest of the evening rather than risk a smeared toenail.

I walked through the park, warm breezes blowing, my skirt billowing in the wind. Flip, flop. Flip, flop, smacked the pink plastic against the soles of my feet.

In the grocery store, up and down the aisles, flip, flop. Flip, flop. Normally agitated by the throngs of after work shoppers, I didn’t seem to mind. My entire body had gone into beach mode. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

I walked home, up through Russian Hill. A group of older men gathered outside a house, smoking cigars. I crossed the street to avoid the smoke. I heard one of them muse, “That sound. That sound. It’s so mesmerizing – where is it coming from?” I felt heads turn as my hips sashayed. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

I walked over Nob Hill, through the quiet streets perfumed with wisteria. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey,” I heard a voice call from up above. “Hey, beauty! Hey…” I continued. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey, flower girl.” I looked down. I was indeed carrying a bouquet of calla lilies, but for some reason didn’t think the yeller was beckoning to me. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey, flip flop girl! Bella!” I turned around and smiled at the man waving from his third story window, before continuing down the hill. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

Not a care in the world, just me and my pink flip flops.