Gloomaway

My new favorite bath product from Origins. Just reading its label makes me smile. Gloomaway! Gloomaway! Be gone! All thoughts of malice!

Clean Sweep

My first memories are of my mother chiding me to clean up my room. I would argue, claiming my room was clean, albeit messy. I’m a stacks girl. I love to have multiple projects occurring simultaneously. You walk into my apartment and see a photo album project stacked here, piles of mending stacked there, letters to respond to stacked over there, magazines yet unread stacked here. I feel guilty each night when I return to my apartment, thinking I really should clean my apartment, just in case a friend were to drop by. I begin the task, then immediately am distracted. Maybe I should finish that book, so I can reshelve it. Maybe I should just read that article, so I can put the magazine in the recycling. That’s more efficient, isn’t it? Needless to say, I never really make any progress. My apartment still has piles everywhere.

My company is being sold. Most people have responded with utter chaos. Oh, my god. What will we do? Who will buy us? How will we survive? It doesn’t bother me. I’m comfortable with chaos. I’ve been able to continue my projects, actually more focused than ever, not worrying about the future. Until now. The email came out. Basically, clean your cube and dress nicely. The buyers are coming to visit.

I’m the type of worker who leaves all papers spread out on her desk when she leaves for the day because then I’ll know exactly where to begin when I arrive the next morning. I don’t really use my file folders until the project is completely finished.

I considered it somewhat serendipitous that the same day the “clean your cube, dress nicely” email arrived in my inbox, the link for this article did as well. I’m definitely not a man, but maybe I could take some pointers from him. I tried his technique tonight, and I’m sad to say, it didn’t work. “The average guy gets distracted so easily,” he explained. Yeah, I do too. My apartment still has piles, but two New Yorkers are in the recycling. I guess that could be considered progress. At least for me it is.

Mmmmm…

We were walking down Powell Street, heading towards Northstar Bar in North Beach. Chatting – how was your week? What’s been going on? Any new dates?

We smelled them first. Grill. Smoke. Meat. We each inhaled more deeply. No mistaking. Yes, meat. Grilled meat. Delicious, scrumptious, grilled meat. We passed by the tiny Weber grill. He said, “Hey, can I have a pork chop?”

The response. “Sure, here you go.”

We were reluctant.

They were giving away pork chops?

What was this?

“Really?” he asked. “You’re giving away pork chops?” Yes. Yes. Here. Take one. We do this every Saturday.

He took one, wrapped in foil. He tore a few bites off then offered it to me. Lime. Tequila. Heaven. I chewed, then turned for another bite. “So good. Mmm. So good,” was all I could say.

We walked in silence, savoring the exquisite taste of the pork chops. He tore the last bite from the bone, then looked at me before throwing away the foil in which it had been wrapped. We both nodded. A culinary delight. Found. On the streets of North Beach. Mmmmm.

Dreams

First, he called me saying he had a dream that we were on a train, barreling through the middle of nowhere. Fair enough. Not a strange dream. Could be interpreted in many ways. One of which being, we’re on The Amazing Race, traveling through the unknown.

A few days later he called again. “Do you have a minute?” “Sure,” I replied. “Okay, so last night, here’s what I dreamed. We were at the edge of a body of water. It was a swim challenge. We were discussing who should do it – you or me. I argued that I should do it, because you had done all the tasks so far and I looked like a wimp. You argued that you were a better swimmer. We argued, back and forth, back and forth. Next thing I know, you’ve dived into the water. ”

“Really? I did that?” I responded.

“Yeah. And I was so pissed. That’s so not teamwork.”

“Sorry,” I offered, feeling a little regret, yet knowing that’s what I would have done in real life.

“But then, I watched you swim. And I thought to myself, ‘Damn. She really is a better swimmer.’”

Them’s Some Fortunes…

We were invited to a birthday/Easter party where 7 people of the 15 invitees would be celebrating April birthdays. Emily arrived at my apartment; we were going to BART over together.

“We can’t just show up empty-handed. I mean, it is a birthday party after all. Even if it is for 7 people.”

“But it’s 7 people. It’s not like it’s just one person and the party is all for them. Do we really need to bring gifts?”

“I’d feel better if we brought at least a little something (this being said half an hour before we were scheduled to leave).”

“How about Easter baskets? That would be appropriate. Let’s go to Chinatown and pick some up on the way to BART.”

Minutes later, we wandered through Chinatown. Nary an Easter basket to be found. Emily sighed. “I’m not sure what I was thinking. I guess Chinatown really isn’t the best place to buy Easter presents.”

“Well, I’m sure we could find something – let’s go in here.”

We perused the tiny shop. “Hey! Let’s get red envelopes and put lottery tickets in them – combined with some Easter candy, that’s a fun gift!”

Emily piped up, “And here are fortune cookies! That’s fun, too!”

Within 45 minutes, we were on BART, headed to our destination, with all seven birthday/Easter gift bags packaged together, full of red envelopes, lottery tickets, fortune cookies, and Easter novelties. Emily handed me a fortune cookie. She smiled, “I got two extra – one for you and one for me.”

I love fortune cookies, just for the hope of what it might say. Emily read hers first, “Fat Fong say: 50 year old men are like bananas – the older they get the less firm they are.” We looked at each other in surprise. “What’s yours say?” she asked.

I broke my cookie open and munched on half of it as I read, “He who thinks with his head is smart – he who thinks with his other one is happy.”

We burst out laughing. Considering the recipients, the dirty fortune cookies were so apropos, even though they had been obtained by pure accident.

The Audition

We showed up at 7:50 am. The casting call didn’t officially begin until 10:00 am, but I was sure there would be a horde of people there. There wasn’t. We were team number 13 in line. Lucky 13, I whispered to Rob. We’re so on our way to a million dollars.

We compared our applications. As we each read our varying answers to the same questions, exclamations of “Unh Uh!” and “No way!” poured forth. At one point I tossed his application down and said, “That so did not happen that way.” If nothing else, it was hard evidence that there always really are two sides to a story.

We waited until our group was called. We handed the lady our applications, showed her our passports. She ushered us to a couch to wait. “What should we say?” I began. “Don’t look down, whatever you do, don’t look down, it makes you look like you have folds in your neck. Ugly,” he answered. “Okay, but we have to be chipper, enthusiastic,” I retorted. “But not too much, don’t go overboard,” he countered.

They called us in front of the camera. The screening lady asked us to answer 3 questions: What is your relationship? Why do you want to be on The Amazing Race? and How do you think your relationship will change if you are on the program?

We were doing fine until the third question. Rob looked at me, then in all earnestness told the camera, “You know, I’m more worried that we will actually get picked to be on the program, rather than we won’t make the cut. I’m not sure if I could spend 45 days with Lori…” His voice began to trail off, “Yeah, some days, you know, I really like Rob, but others, can’t stand him – yeah, not so much. We’d either be so tight, or not speaking at all by the end of the race. It’s that whole love/hate thing.”

The screening lady laughed, then thanked us. Call-backs, if they happen, will be in May. Stay tuned.

The Phone Call

I answered the phone.

“What’s your work email address?”

“Excuse me – couldn’t I get a hello? How’s your day going? Any pleasantries whatsoever?”

“Whatever. What’s your work email address?” he responded without emotion.

I told him and minutes later a notice for a casting call for The Amazing Race was in my inbox.

I read it quite enthusiastically. I have never seen the show, but have heard co-workers talk about it. Not being a fan of television, much less reality shows, I couldn’t imagine auditioning. But as I read the advertisement, it sounded like something I would want to be a part of. Teams of two, braving the elements, tackling stunts, deciphering clues, all the while racing around the world. This was my kind of show. With him on the phone, I read all the fine print, the eligibility rules (we qualified), and the application form, all 10 pages. A few questions were biographical, others addressed your relationship with your teammate, yet others your own personal desires and fears. Some I read out loud, “What’s the biggest disappointment you have experienced from your teammate? How are you and your teammate most alike? Most different? Hey, Rob, how are you going to answer those? Huh? What do you think? Can you commit to having this completed by Saturday morning? We’d better get there early, because I bet there are going to be a lot of people trying out. Rob, Rob…”

“Oh, my god. You are already so annoying me. There’s no way I could travel for 45 days with you.”

“But I’m the best chance you’ve got at winning a million dollars.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Okay, I’ll see you Saturday morning,” he said, before hanging up.

Looking Good

A colleague and I animatedly chatted on BART.

“How’s your new position going?” I inquired.

“What’s the flattest bike route to Golden Gate Park?” he asked.

“What are you doing for Easter?” I queried.

I noticed him staring past me, not really paying attention to the words I was speaking. I followed his gaze. There, across from us, a young girl tweezed the hairs from a large wart on her mother’s chin. The mother sat perfectly still, apparently not finding this behavior unusual in the least.

“Well,” he whispered, “I guess there’s never a bad time for good grooming.”

Oh, but there is. There so is.

Mission Magic

Emily and I realized we had been at the bar for hours, and we were not unexpectedly hungry. “We’re in the Mission, how hard can it be to find food?”

Famous last words.

Friday night. In the Mission. 11 pm. All restaurants closed.

We walked from restaurant to restaurant in disbelief. We’re in a major city and no food to be found. Incredible.

“Hey, what are you looking for?” he asked, momentarily breaking away from his cell phone plied next to his ear.

“Food. Any food. We’re starving.”

“Go in there. They serve food.”

“Now? It’s past 11.”

“Sure. No problem. Let’s go.” He snapped his cell phone closed and ushered us in.

Into a different world. The low ceiling sported thousands and thousands of tiny red Christmas lights, strung in an intricate web. Paper mache pinatas swung from the beat of the music. The dj. Spinning. Loud, loud Latino music, boom, boom, boom. Plastic balloons, dangling, sunshines, smiley faces, twisting and spinning. And the chatter. Not English. All Spanish. My brain shifted. I could understand this. I could. Concentrate.

Emily did the talking. She’s much more proficient in Spanish than I. They weren’t serving food. The kitchen had just closed. Not even the chance of a quesadilla. But our ambassador smiled. “No problema. Dos cervezas, para tu.”

We sat down, watching the couples on the dance floor twirl to salsa beats.

We contemplated our next move. Where should we go? We needed to eat.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his hand outstretched. I looked up. He was speaking to me. I offered my hand, he took it, leading me to the crowded dance floor. Partners seemed to part. We commanded the center of the floor. The next song began. He twirled me. He spun me. He held me close then pushed me far. The music stopped and we laughed. “Are you still a little hungry?” “No, I am a lotta hungry.”

He walked us to a tacqueria still open. We ordered tacos and burritos and I listened to him and Emily speak in Spanish. He eventually left, returning to the bar, while Emily and I returned home, exhausted by the evening’s activities. As I fell asleep I clung to the evening’s moment of Mission magic.

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.